Tag: Portfolio
Tiff and Earl
by trogers5 on April 8, 2022
Portfolio
Dear Tiff and Earl,
I caught my crush and best friend making out in the broom closet at Black and White Ball this weekend. How do I emotionally recover?
Insincerely,
Heartbroken :(
Dear Heartbroken,
I must confess that your story, like a middle-aged man with Santa at the mall, does not sit right with me. Firstly, where even is this broom closet? How did anyone get the key to it? Are you perhaps in Physical Plant? How juicy! But secondly, you say you caught your best friend and crush in the broom closet…but what were YOU doing in the broom closet? Were you perhaps preparing to “make out” in the broom closet with a fourth party? I wonder…
Cheers,
Tiff
Dear Heartbroken :(,
Unfortunately, this is a tale as old as time. Fortunately, you live in the 21st century, at the same time as the music industry herself, Ms. (soon-to-be Dr.) Taylor Swift. What you’re going to want to do is put together a Tay-Tay playlist that captures this particular combination of heartbreak and betrayal. Here are this humble Swiftie’s suggestions: “Picture to Burn,” “Should’ve Said No,” “You’re Not Sorry,” “Better Than Revenge,” “All Too Well (10-minute version),” “Bad Blood,” “This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things,” “my tears ricochet,” and “it’s time to go.” Feel free to throw in Olivia Rodrigo’s “traitor” for good measure!
Happy wallowing,
Earl
Cracks in the Walls
by trogers5 on March 27, 2022
Portfolio
Caitlin Bartley ’24
Nostalgia likes to creep through the cracks in the walls
And seep its way into my pores to suffocate me in my sleep.
The air becomes thick with memory, a stifling heat
That makes my mind hazy with hallucinations.
When it enters my bloodstream, I slip into oblivion
And dream of a girl
That carries herself with the exuberance of a butterfly
Emerging from a chrysalis, showing off its wings.
Nostalgia is a callous chemical that injects ignorance into
My veins and gets me high. The withdrawal is overwhelming,
The chattering teeth,
The useless limbs pinned to the bathroom floor,
My head in a bowl purging lingering naiveté.
How stupid of me to forget
That the girl in the dream is now a woman trapped in a nightmare,
That sparkling trophies and shining report cards
Will fade on far away shelves, collecting permanent dust.
I cover my petal pink walls with
Layer upon layer of gray paint
To stop nostalgia from sneaking by again.
I trade in a butterfly for a moth and exist in a hollow cocoon.
#
by trogers5 on March 27, 2022
Portfolio
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
Portfolio
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
Portfolio
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
Portfolio
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
Portfolio
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
Portfolio
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