Tag: Portfolio
#
by trogers5 on March 27, 2022
Poetry
Max Gilman ’25
“We use our math to create cattle. Shape this way and that, but eventually your lines will be nothing more than a man with a rifle and you, the fawn child.”
Wonder if this windowed world holds something more,
Peer through the dying streetlight, a window through old construction cranes,
Slowly does the sky fall to dust, rain ashy illness, the foreshadow of what I like to call,
The city of FALLEN livelihood, population deceased.
The people here are mad.
They hate fiction and all those vibrant colors,
So took a knife to the unicorn, they did, spilling its blood like a broken faucet,
The streets bore only blood,
Only blood,
And the unicorn’s corpse,
Continues to be plowed by the onlookers,
I swear I know some of these people— The
Folks who eat raw from Raining
Blood. Leaving the Only
Innocence left to decay, as livelihood—
Ceases
To collate an obelisk— For, nay, dedicated to the sanctum of wastelands, An
Unfailing effort roused by an— UNRIGHTEOUS
Humanity following an illusive ghost, a— “god”
I have this odd tingling in my chest,
I feel like a windy grassy plain,
Cratered by something magnificent
indented, like the unicorn…
I feel the tires of the citizens crush the corpse of the lovely unicorn,
because they hate fiction so…
The horse’s deformed body lays indented from our continuous wheels…
It’s tiring to drown daily with no swimming route,
So I plunge into the street puddles, hiding below the walking men,
And I notice this symmetry, these unholy monuments to perceived honor,
They cannot see me snarling in these puddles, the water muffles my voice,
But I will never forget this sight, these “righteous” squabblers, stepping over me,
—but I know the truth. They walk to work in their enclosure
They run home in their enclosure.
They eat from the ones inside the enclosure.
Maybe they’ll leave for a week, but I will see them again soon…
In this hell—
In this “Box.”
A box without lines, A box with lines, A box of lies
A box without lines, A box with lines, A box full of lies
A box with lines, A box with lines, A box of lies
A box with lines, A box with lines, A box of opened and disregarded FIBS.
There has to be something more,
There must be something more,
God Created Hell.
For people, Like you and I.
and he called it GOOD.
We were given shape, lines,
We were given dead fields and grim city structures,
We took our lines,
and spit on fiction
and ran knives through flesh
and we TOOK our lines,
We created a city (#)
We called it a # (a city)
It’s all hopeless, you see?
You haven’t even noticed yet,
have you?
Our “city” is a box.
The Boardwalk
by trogers5 on March 27, 2022
Portfolio
Toni Rendon ’24
The clack of her coal-black heels on the stone echoes through the empty street as the warm breeze passes through her bright blood-red sundress. Her dark, curly auburn hair glistens under the light of the streetlamps. The shadow she casts is her only company, forever growing and shrinking as she walks under the twinkling lights. The solid stone suddenly becomes shifting sand, forcing her to ditch the two inches the heels provided her. At the end of the sand path sits an old boardwalk, its wood traversed by countless feet over the decade, kept in pristine condition, overlooking the ocean. Its deep blue accents are brought alive by the light shining from the moon. The wood feels warm under her smooth foot, leaving her with an overwhelming sense of tranquility. Taking her time to enjoy the walk to her destination, its music reaches her ears before she even catches a glimpse. Around the corner, the carousel is the only thing operating tonight.
The lights fade from red to orange to yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. The animals carved from wood stand tall on the erect metal poles sticking out of the spinning platform, their paint worn where people have sat for ages. There, he is looking as dapper as ever in the black suit, white shirt, and red tie combo that she loves oh so much. His long chestnut hair has red hints from where the dye grew out; it’s box braided and pulled back neatly into a ponytail, two braids on either side of the head hang loose in the front because that’s his style. He sits upon the lion like the king he is, shoulders squared and ready to face anything the world throws at him. They lock eyes. His are pieces of lifeless porcelain sitting in his chiseled, caramel colored face.
“Emily, I’ve been waiting for you.” His rich voice echoes in her bones. It’s clear even as she loses sight of him as the carousel spins round and round. Each time he comes back into view, he’s perched atop the back of a different animal.
“You look beautiful tonight, are you meeting someone?” he asks with a sly smile from the back of an eagle poised to take flight.
“Yes, actually, I am. I think he’s running a bit late.” She pushes a lock of hair back into place behind her ear. He chuckles; it’s a soft rumble that erupts from his core, wrapping her in a warm feeling that she wishes could stay forever.
“Last time I checked, I’ve been waiting for you,” he replies, disappearing from her eyesight again only to reappear sitting in a chariot drawn by two stallions, one as white as freshly fallen snow and another as black as the vastness of eternity.
“Come here, Emily,” he says, beckoning her closer. “I saved you a spot right next to me.”
She starts to move forward, her feet moving on her own toward the man she loves. The thought of dancing forever with him the way the animals on the carousel go round and round entices her, welcomes her. But she hesitates ever so slightly, knowing that what could be shouldn’t always be.
“Victor, I can’t…” she says, her eyes beginning to moisten. “You know I want to, but I can’t. What about everyone else?”
“What about them?” he says, this time from the back of a snake carved to forever be poised in an attack position. “What have they done for you? They left you alone, they look at you crazy, like I’m not talking back whenever you talk to me.” His eyes are closed, teeth bared. It scares her to her core. She hates when he gets like this.
“Victor, calm down. It’s not their fault. I would look at me crazy, too.”
“It’s—it’s—it’s just unfair. It’s not your fault. You shouldn’t have to take the backlash just because I left.” Tears well up in the corners of his eyes. “I shouldn’t have left you behind. We should be going through this together.” This time he places his arms around her and pulls her in. “Emily, I—”
“Shut up, you’re ruining this for me,” she says, looking up at him.
Tears run down his blood-soaked face, the cuts on his face a reminder of the car crash that stopped him from showing up for dinner two years ago.
“Don’t cry, my dear,” she says. “It’ll be okay. We couldn’t have planned for this.” She wipes the tears from his face.
“I’m not crying, Emily; can’t you see the rain?” he whispers back as he fades into nothing, leaving her all alone.
About ten minutes pass before Emily erupts, crumbling and falling to the ground, her sobs penetrating the warm night air. Some time goes by before she decides to collect herself, standing up and dusting herself off. She looks out to the horizon, its light bathing her in hues of orange and pink.
“I’ll see you soon, Victor,” she whispers.
Goodwill
by trogers5 on March 27, 2022
Poetry
Fiona Clarke ’23
At Goodwill, a good find:
A second, or third, or fourth-hand lamp.
(“Where are you going to put that?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll find a place.”)
And so it was:
An old light in a new shape,
A new light in an old place.
So it was, was it not?
I once let out a cry, and asked that I be put under the ether,
Not wanting you to pay for it—
(“Pay for what?”
“I don’t know.”)
But I woke up, and I wised up, and I walked side by side with you,
’Til we stood on a new crack in the old road.
You put a quarter in the parking meter,
And said: “This will only take a minute,”
But we take no time; it falls through our fingers
And taps our shoulders as it passes us by.
A good find, this new lamp,
And where am I going to put this light?
It will make its place for itself,
This light that sinks and always rises,
With weight that grounds and still surprises,
Pours like wine upon me, and colors those empty spaces,
Quenches a thirst and reveals a greater hunger,
A light besides which other lights resemble bruises,
and, shining on those wounds, binds them up.
I once let out a cry: “Where am I going to put this lamp?”
But this crazed corkscrew light that is within me and about me
has made its place for itself.
Hungry Pantoum
by trogers5 on March 27, 2022
Poetry
Mariela Flores ’23
***TRIGGER WARNING: EATING DISORDER***
I empty myself out.
While the world concaves around me I center myself.
Scrapping what is left of me until I feel nothing––
moving inside of me.
I center myself in the feeling,
of sharp bones that rip through my skin.
Nothing moves inside of me,
only the echoes of a rumble I cannot hold.
Sharp bones rip through my dull skin,
I wear them like trophies proving I was good.
I want to muffle the echoing rumbles,
but my hands tire from digging deep inside myself.
I want them to see that I was good.
Their praise is enough for me to stay––
My hands are tired from digging inside myself again.
My skin is cracking from the force of myself again.
Their praise enough for me to stay this way.
Even with nothing moving inside of me.
Even with cracked skin itching red from my choices.
I empty myself out again, and again.
I empty myself out.
While the world concaves around me I center myself.
Scrapping what is left of me until I feel nothing––
moving inside of me.
I center myself in the feeling,
of sharp bones that rip through my skin.
Nothing moves inside of me,
only the echoes of a rumble I cannot hold.
Sharp bones rip through my dull skin,
I wear them like trophies proving I was good.
I want to muffle the echoing rumbles,
but my hands tire from digging deep inside myself.
I want them to see that I was good.
Their praise is enough for me to stay––
My hands are tired from digging inside myself again.
My skin is cracking from the force of myself again.
Their praise is enough for me to stay this way.
Even with nothing moving inside of me.
Even with cracked skin itching red by my choices.
I empty myself out again, and again.
Tiff and Earl
by trogers5 on March 27, 2022
Features
Dear Tiff and Earl,
This spring break, I booked a trip to the Bahamas and upon landing, found out I have COVID. What are some COVID-safe quarantine activities I can do while all my friends are on the beaches having fun?
Sincerely,
FOMSB (Fear of Missing Spring Break)
Dear FOMSB (Fear of Missing Spring Break),
If the past couple of years have taught us anything, it’s that we must learn to be resourceful and have fun on our own. However, since COVID-19 has forced us to do so for approximately 10% of our lives at this point, I’ve unfortunately exhausted all my good ideas. The best advice I can give you is to purchase a Disney+ subscription if you do not have one already and watch Phineas and Ferb for some inspiration. Those kids had 104 days of summer vacation and you only have 11 days of spring breakーI’m sure they have at least a week’s worth of COVID-safe shenanigans that you can try yourself. Alternatively, you can just watch the show for the heck of it and transport yourself to a time when life as we knew it wasn’t completely upended by a pandemic.
Good luck!
Earl
Dear FOMSB,
Quarantine activities, my eye. You’ve got to think outside the box. What I’m about to describe to you is something I love to do whether I’m sick or not. This is one of my favorite beach activities: what I like to call “the ostrich.” That’s right, dig your head in. Your nose and mouth will be SO covered, you couldn’t spread anything if you wanted to. All that sand will be great for your skin, and what protrudes of you will be tan. Sounds like my kind of spring break.
Cheers!
Tiff
I Forgot to Write my Cowl Article for this Week
by trogers5 on March 27, 2022
Creative Non-Fiction
Aidan Lerner ’22
I forgot to write my Cowl article for this week. Today is Sunday, and I am a little panicked. I pride myself on my ability to be responsible and to come through for the people who rely on me, whether it be in work or school. That is why I am very disappointed to report that I definitely did totally forget that there was an issue due this Saturday. Did I agree to write a half for this issue? You bet I did. What have I written so far? Exactly this much.
In my defense, I am a senior and this week was Spring break. The jet lag of going from the central to eastern time zone is absolutely brutal and you add daylight savings time! That is a nightmare combination. So, yes, I will shoulder most of the blame for forgetting to write this article, but let the record state that I have many, many excuses ready to go.
How about I outline some of the things I had planned to write about, had I not forgotten due to the unforeseen circumstances of not remembering. One thing I love about writing for The Cowl is that I truly do feel as if I can write about whatever I want in exactly the way I want. I have written about things that I consider fun and some things which I consider more serious. This week, I had planned to write about something more serious. I wanted to write about the complicated nature of morality and the online world.
Dear reader, now it is my privilege to take you into the kitchen so you can see how the cake gets baked. Here is how I would figure out how to write about such a heavy topic. First, I would figure out what exactly I am trying to accomplish with my piece. Generally, I find that it is either a first-person argument or some sort of allegorical anecdote. Normally, I use a fictionalized version of myself as the subject so that I can be a little sensational with what I say. In this case, I would probably do a combination of both.
I would start with the story of a Twitter account. The Tweeter is a hard worker and is always kind when you ask him a question. He is knowledgeable and passionate about the same subjects you are, and he adds a lot of entertainment to your life. You are one of his most consistent followers. One day, you find out that the man behind the account has been accused by people in his life of doing heinous things. What does that mean for you? Are you immoral for enjoying his content? Are you dumb for not seeing through his kind words?
Those are questions I would have asked in my article. Then, I would get personal with my narration.
As a self-declared writer, I often find that lying is frighteningly easy. In the era of texting, I feel as if I can spin any tale and people will believe it as long as I write it well enough. When all people see are the words I put on a page or a screen, I can make it so they see whatever version of me they would like. I can come off as gracious or rude, confident or nervous. The author of the words has all of the control.
Even the most honest writer would struggle to communicate who they are with just words. It is nearly impossible to give anything but a window into your true nature. Our anonymous Tweeter can be a source of joy online and a monster offline: different aspects of the same complex person. On the internet, no one is who they say they are because no one can say who they are. So, it is our duty to be careful and recognize that there is a lot beyond the words on the screen. If you think you know who someone truly is based on their online persona, you are wrong.
I would write something like that, and then I would wonder if it makes any sense. I would hope to myself that someone will read it and think about some of the questions I raised. Since we are outlining this together, I will spell out the conclusion I really hope readers draw. Will they wonder if I am telling them the truth? Who am I behind The Cowl? Did I really forget to write my Cowl article this week?
(I totally forgot. Ask my editors.)
MVP
by trogers5 on March 3, 2022
FriarTire
Kathryn Libertini ’23
I hear “So let me tell you guys why I chose Providence College” as I turn the corner in Slavin. My heart is pounding, not from the stairs, no, but from the pressure. Tonight’s game against Creighton decides if we win the Big East Championship. Coach Cooley met with me to discuss details, and the importance of a good crowd. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I sit through class knowing only the massive role I play in the game. I failed two exams this week alone. Eventually I beg my roommate to drop me off five hours early in her Toyota Corolla Sport before anyone else is at the Dunk. I use my all-access pass to get through the front—I haven’t used the student entrance in months. I want to be the first one on the court. I put on my uniform and hear people swarm the stands. I know it’s finally my time. I step court-side, hearing only cheering fans and DJ Finesse’s remix of “You Belong With Me.” I know it’s all for me. Suddenly I hear, “Hey, Friar Dom! Can I get a picture with my kid?” I bend down and give a thumbs up for the camera.
Tiff and Earl
by trogers5 on March 3, 2022
Features
Dear Tiff and Earl,
I’m a non-basketball student-athlete and I feel like we don’t get enough clout. Do I need to become the next Nate Watson on TikTok?
Sincerely,
A PC Second-Class Citizen
Dear Second-Class Citizen,
…there are non-basketball student athletes?
No cheers for you,
Tiff
Dear PC Second-Class Citizen,
Although I’m sure there are many ways that you could increase your clout, TikTok is an excellent place to start! However, instead of trying to become the next Nate Watson, you should set yourself apart and establish a unique brand. Here are a few suggestions to get you started: take videos of yourself talking to the PC squirrels, do Ray dinner reviews, or ask Dean Sears for a collab. I’m confident that you’ll win the hearts, views, and likes of Providence College soon enough.
Catch you on the ’Tok,
Earl
Listomania
by trogers5 on March 3, 2022
Features
Professor Red Flags I Wish I Noticed Earlier in the Semester:
- No syllabus week
- Small word counts for essays (only for English/Creative Writing majors)
- Long word counts for essays (for every other major)
- Asks for papers single-spaced
- Wants printed and digital copies
- No laptops allowed in class (they’re cutting into my online shopping time…)
- Printing out every handout for class
- Plugs their own journal articles
- Has group projects
- Cold-calls
- Gives oral exams
- Doesn’t reply to emails
- Emails too much
- Doesn’t let you use the bathroom
- Gets mad when someone uses the bathroom
- Not enough office hours
- Doesn’t take off their jacket
- Uses a chalkboard (and doesn’t mind the squeaking)
- “I don’t really give out As…”
- Doesn’t use Sakai
- Doesn’t learn anyone’s names
- Makes due dates midnight instead of 11:59 p.m.
Figure
by trogers5 on March 3, 2022
Portfolio
Kate Ward ’23
John was the only man in his figure drawing class. He had always gotten extra odd looks when there was a female life model coming into the studio to pose for them. Most of the time the models weren’t even nude, so he didn’t know why everyone still assumed he was looking at them in a certain way. However, walking into class today with his sketchpad and pencil case full of overpriced art supplies, he was surprised to see a young man standing there. He concluded they were around the same age.
The professor wasn’t there yet, but John took a seat and began to set up his easel.
“May I see your sketches?”
John looked up to find the model standing in front of him in nothing but briefs. “Sure.” He handed the book over. “It’s John, by the way.”
“Marco,” the other replied with a small smile as he flicked through the sketchbook, arriving at a portrait of a woman with darker hair and large gray eyes.
John set up his charcoal and pencils. “Nice to meet you.” Marco nodded and handed the book back, smoothing his hair back before sitting on the edge of the stage.
“How much are they paying you to be posing for two and a half hours for a bunch of college students?” John asked, looking through the wooden slats of the easel.
Marco laughed, freckles on his cheeks bunching up. “I wish they were paying me, but unfortunately I made this idiotic mistake of volunteering in order to launch some art students ahead in their careers.”
“That’s B.S.” John shook his head.“This is 101. You’re not launching anyone.”
Another laugh. “You’re right. Well, I’m here because it pays rent for my apartment. You’re the only one so far whose art is actually pretty good. You only draw women?”
“Well, my art better be good—it’s my second major,” John explained. “And I don’t just draw women, it’s just what the class…allows? I don’t know, women are what they can get their hands on.” He put the paper up on the easel as more of his classmates strolled in, some nursing a coffee or a severe hangover. The professor came in and began pointing out a few different poses for Marco to go through as warm-ups and then longer poses to hold. John started scribbling some rough outlines. He usually focused mainly on the larger parts of the body before adding detail, but he couldn’t get past detailing Marco’s face from his freckles to kind eyes.
“You know you’re supposed to do the face last, right?” A girl leaned over and tapped his page with the end of her charcoal stick.
John looked at her before wetting his thumb and smudging the charcoal into the background. He shook his head and kept going.
As the class wrapped up and John was again the one left packing up last, he approached Marco. “I wanted to show you the art from today.”
Marco pulled on sweatpants and a t-shirt. “Oh, please do.” He leaned forward as John flicked through. At one drawing, he stopped him. “Could I keep this? Or if you need to keep it, could you come over and do another?”
John paused, stunned into silence at the request. He cleared his throat and said quietly, “Um…I need to keep this one, but I would love to come over and do you—I mean, do this again.”
Marco laughed and wrote his address and number down on the corner of John’s page. “See you soon, then.”