by Caitlin Bartley '24 on December 6, 2022
Portfolio Staff

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TW: Eating Disorder, Bulimia 

I resent Caitlin for her name. It means pure, from the Gaelic, and she wears it like her Catholic school uniform. Tights, white collared polo, and a pleated skirt. I hate that skirt; the way Caitlin rolls it so that she doesn’t look like a prude but keeps it right above the knee so that she doesn’t look like a slut. I don’t believe in organized religion, but I find my body in a church when Caitlin decides, reciting random words until they sound like the gibberish of prayer.

I pick my cuticles until my skin rips and wear my hair in frizzy braids while Caitlin paints her nails in a French manicure and spends too much money on a haircut. She speaks to give correct answers and affirmations while my thoughts are held captive behind her lips, firmly pressed together, making them thin and pale. If I were to purge my opinions, would it feel just like the first time Caitlin tried to purge her dinner, a slight burning in the throat followed by short-lived satisfaction? See, she doesn’t always have control over my impulses. Our impulses. One day, I will slowly erode her from the inside out. There’s no reality in which purity exists, Caitlin.

The honey-colored highlights she got at seventeen have finally grown out. “Nothing gold can stay.” I read her that poem when she went to college and got a C in chemistry, no longer the honors student that Mommy likes to brag about. Her hair is darker now and some days it falls out in clumps in the shower, clogging the drain. She goes to sleep with it wet and cold on her pillow and doesn’t run a brush through it in the morning. She stops using her name.

by The Cowl Editor on December 6, 2022

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Hey Tiff and Earl!

As much as I love my family, I’m really nervous to go home for Thanksgiving. My family is going to ask me a ton of questions about everything, and I really don’t know what I want to do with my future/life. Any advice to help me feel a little better?

Sincerely, 

Quarter Life Crisis Victim

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Hey QLCV, 

As cliché as this sounds, you still have plenty of time to think about what you want to do. People change their careers all the time, whether they’re 20 or 50! If you want to ease your family’s worries, you can always tell them you’re considering a few options like grad school or working after you finish your degree. Everyone’s path is different, and I’m sure you’ll find your niche eventually!

Best of Luck!

Earl

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Dear Victim,

My deepest sympathies, but it’s time to make up the lie of your life. Say you want to be a snake charmer in the CIA; say you’re the real Jerry Seinfield; say you want to donate all your organs and have porcine substitutes installed. Whatever it is, stick with it until everyone believes you. It’ll blow up in your face eventually, but that’s another Thanksgiving’s problem.

 

Sweet turkey dreams,

Tiff

by Max Gilman '25 on November 3, 2022
Portfolio Co-Editor

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Content warning: graphic violence 

A shovel exuding the earth,

Harking clouds, splattered in red–

Judging which lays beneath dirt,

God fearing pillar to man,

Searing skies with treacherous stares,

Branded children sway to a hurricane’s wind,

Barely fogging outlines of a justice driven structure.

Eventually the skies may clear,

My grandmother told me,

In an age far gone to most,

We won’t believe our eyes,

The day reality fades to fable…

The man had grown in age,

Of gray hair and monotone stance.

His life was theirs,

A man of faith,

A collar and ten charity bucks brimming back pocket,

Wheat fields ran like an old airplane strip,

Stretching to flatten the world,

Through trees-pine-green and a bit cold.

The man was weary toward the town nowadays,

He knew them sinners,

He knew them cold-like night air,

Brittle with secrets snakily steaming,

Confession occurred almost daily,

Daily,

Daily,

He heard how affairs were held,

From wives,

Daily,

Wives would come in fearing

The distance growing in their marriage

Daily,

The priest went home to contemplate

The state of his town,

The state of his people,

The sinners,

One day while conferring with a teen,

The priest’s judgment overtook logic,

Fuming at the child’s misdoings—

“A stolen Chevrolet truck and an old dude he barely left

Breathing, after whacking him several times with a brick,”

But-

“I am to forgive this devil?”

Thought the captious collared man,

So, insisted a visit to his woodsy abode,

Deep in forest by the town’s border,

Next to the pond that freezes around November,

There, the collared man gripped his shovel,

A divine right rushed through his veins—

“There is more penance in helping your neighbor than merely speaking a few words.”

So he told the lad,

“Help me dig out this weird root back here-“

A concerned mask stretched the length of the boy’s face,

Though he trusted the pastor,

His parents knew him and he was nice,

Then like a predatory instinct,

The pastor flung a shovel far into the boy’s skull,

Before the two reached the door,

Impaling and spilling red,

And spilling,

And spilling.

Spilling.

The clean up was the grueling part.

“Ten Hail Marys and an Our Father. Oh, and go apologize to that man, if you do end up seeing him again.”

Then the teen left the confession booth,

And the collared man sat uneasy,

Tainted like the sinner,

Dissatisfied, haunted by an acidic thought,

To be the sinner,

To be like “them.”

by Anna Pomeroy '23 on November 3, 2022
Portfolio Staff

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I found an envelope today. 

It was pretty bent out of shape. 

The stamps collected on top of one another, 

Adding a raised texture to the paper’s surface. 

The penciled-in cursive has faded over the years,

And there are small tears bordering the edges. 

Unopened, its surface has aged incredibly 

But the words sealed inside are still fresh. 

Someone wrote that letter with intention…

That intention, I may never know— 

But someone should have. 

The words that were sprawled on that piece of paper 

Attained emotion, 

Emotion that will never reach the receiving end. 

I should’ve opened it. 

It makes me wonder what it could’ve been.

A love letter, a friend reaching out, penpals globally distanced, 

Or condolences. 

While I may never know, just like the addressed won’t either, 

I think it’s nice to dream up a story.

by Taylor Maguire '24 on November 3, 2022
Portfolio Staff

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Creative Non-Fiction

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I once read a poem where the author described her heart as a monster that sat perched at the end of her bed, waiting to be torn to shreds by the hands of compassion. I see my own heart in the same way; something that craves to feel desperately loved, but instead bites the hands of those who dare feed it. I once dated someone who I wasn’t truly in love with for nine months. Sure, on paper they were attractive, even had a swarm of admirers kissing the floor they walked on. They paid for dinners, stuffed me up with validation for dessert. Kissed my face gently and told me they loved me, told me how beautiful I was.

But we didn’t have much in common besides the idle fact that we were incredibly lonely. Eventually, the curtains were pulled back, and over time it was revealed that they had a cold heart, an appetite for belittling, and a wishy-washy temper. I ignored how they would say the most vulgar things about their friends, only to leave at the drop of the hat to attend to them. I ignored how they’d tell me all the mean things their roommates would whisper about me in the dark. I ignored how they could never make me laugh in the same way my own friends did. I ignored the comments of the people closest to me when they’d warned how they thought the relationship was toxic. I ignored how miserable I was towards the end. I ignored it all, because I savored the warmth of their arms at night, believing it could save me from the demons that lurked in the cold winter mornings. But eventually being with them hurt more than without, so I amputated the infected limb the relationship became and moved on. Kissed other frogs. Dyed my hair. Bought a Halloween costume that showed a lot of skin. I often wonder why I pursued the relationship, why I stayed. The breakup wasn’t even this emotional Romeo-Juliet tragedy. It just became a norm within my life, like a little scar easily hidden by a CVS band-aid.

For now, I’ve shelved romance  between my old love for gymnastics and dusty childhood stuffed animals. It now lives amongst the other interests I’ve come to abandon from adolescence. I find myself full of the breadcrumbs of love in little things. I love Phoebe Bridgers because she writes songs about hating her father. I love art. I love Evan Peters because he’s hot. I love the show Fleabag. And I love my friends, even when we argue over dirty dishes. I still see my heart waiting, but now it lies cozy at the foot of my bed. It sleeps like a recently sober addict, no longer chasing after its next fix. Every once in a while it stirs from nightmares about the thing it used to crave so strongly, but it’s no longer starving for attention at the price of cruelty.

by The Cowl Editor on November 3, 2022

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Hey Tiff and Earl,

My girlfriend sent me the song High Infidelity from Taylor Swift’s new album Midnights (3am edition)telling me to listen to the lyrics carefully. I have done as she said, and still cannot figure out what my girlfriend is trying to tell me. All advice would be appreciated!

Sincerely, 

Not A Swiftie

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Hey Anti-Swiftie, 

I just listened to the song just for you, and I think your girlfriend might be cheating on you, bro. If I was you, I would cut her and her poor music taste out of your life and cheat right back on her with a hotter girl. Make your fellow city boys proud. 

Best of luck, 

Earl

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Dear NAS,

I won’t beat around the bush: sounds like your girlfriend had an affair with Taylor Swift. Tough cookies!

Sympathy, 

Tiff

by The Cowl Editor on November 3, 2022

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 Some Alternative Locations for SRW 

• Twin River Casino
• McPhail’s 
• The tents outside of Slavin
• Suites Lawn 
• Ray Treacy Track 
• Fennell Hall
• The Smith Center’s stage
• The Fennell tunnels 
• The Dunk 
• The fourth floor of Harkins
• The “deep quiet” section of the library

by Meg Brodeur '24 on November 3, 2022
Portfolio Co-Editor

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July, Age 16

The glossy water sways like liquid silk across an iridescent horizon. It’s only 9 a.m. and a temperate breeze flows off the Long Island Sound. Watercolors paint the sky in robin egg blue and white wisps of vapor clouds. It’s the summer before my junior year of high school, and my pulse is rushing from a morning jog. I wipe away the sweat from my brow, already dreading tomorrow’s run. I’ve always been a terrible runner. If it wasn’t for the impending volleyball season, I wouldn’t bother. Honestly, I feel a tinge of bitterness towards Mother Nature for skipping over me when handing out the running gene. My annoyance is fleeting, though. I’m consoled by the brisk water as I plunge into the sound and float in the gentle waves. I stand up and make my way to the sandbar, dragging my fingertips across the glassy surface. After a moment of tranquility, my thoughts are sent askew by another turbulent current. For the first time in my young life, I’ve been experiencing serious anxiety.

Home is the best place to be miserable. It’s where you feel most comfortable being vulnerable and honest. So, even though I’m exhausted, and my face is presumably the color of an overripe tomato, I’m strangely comfortable in my discomfort. Sneakers in hand, I walk back to our cottage, my calloused summer feet withstanding the jagged gravel road. With a messy bun on top of my head, I’m slightly concerned that an osprey might confuse my hair for a hospitable nest. The saltwater has been absorbed into my skin by the sticky, humid air. At home, I look in the closet and pick clothes from my relaxed summer attire. Gone are the frills of fall to spring fashion, replaced by oversized t-shirts, shorts, and flowy sundresses. I look in the mirror and recognize myself for the first time in months. My hair is up, there is no trace of makeup on my face and my skin is finally tan after months of looking like Casper the Friendly Ghost.

by Kate Ward '23 on October 20, 2022
Portfolio Co-Editor

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Something was tickling my cheek. I attempted to move my arm to brush the sensation away, but I couldn’t feel anything aside from my face. The tickling happened again. It was wet this time, sticky. It was quiet wherever I was—where was I? My eyes struggled and failed to open. There was a horrible tugging sensation when I tried and failed to open them once more. My heart was beating so I wasn’t dead; maybe there had been an accident and I was in some medical chamber healing. I could think—that was good. I tried to wiggle my toes like they tell you to do when coming out of Shavasana. Nothing. My heart began to thump harder, the vein on my neck threatening to give way. I tried my mouth and was met with failure and the same tugging that had affected my eyes. 

I could smell. I could smell to an extent. I inhaled sharply, nostrils wiggling like a rabbit’s. In the brief seconds before disaster. I could smell dampness, the earth. Then my nostrils were clogged, clogged with soil. My cheek twitched as the sensitive skin was graced with the presence of a worm. I was underground. I was buried alive. I screamed and screamed into the dirt but it seemed only I could hear it. I could hear nothing, no cars, no voices above me. My heart raced faster, panicked breathing sucking what oxygen remained out of my grave. 

I was choking, my tongue folding back against my throat as my head began to pound and ache. I coughed with a closed mouth, trying to break what I thought must be some kind of string that stitched my mouth and eyes closed. It was useless, there was little energy left in me anyway. If only I could see my arms and see what’s holding them down. I tried to wiggle my shoulders, nothing. The soil beside me gave way, a burst of red and orange lit up my eyelids as the sun shined in for a brief moment. 

“Mmm!” I grunted to the sky. 

In response there was a heavy thunk and the sound of sniffling as the dirt showered over who I assumed was the next victim of live burial. The person next to me was quiet, maybe this one was dead? I grunted at them again, trying to find some sign of life. Nothing. My head hurt, black dots speckled the inside of my eyelids, breathing became nonexistent. I was dying. I couldn’t remember if I was sick before this, or if I had been attacked by someone and this is where they dumped me. If I could cry I would be wailing, wailing like the lost spirit I was going to become. I wish I could remember something, my family, my pets, a prayer from Sunday School. I didn’t know if I was going to heaven or to hell or if I even believed in either of those, but at least I would be a good meal for the worms. 

by The Cowl Editor on October 20, 2022

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Hey Tiff and Earl, 

I think my roommate is attempting to sacrifice me so they can get all As on their midterms. They’ve been burning multiple candles in my room, claiming they suddenly want to become fluent in Latin, and told me they need to practice for some “ritual” that will happen in our room on October 31st. How do I ensure that I’ll make it through Halloween?

Thanks in advance,

Paranoid Roommate

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Lucky for you, the friars aren’t just fun guys who wear white and drink beer and hold funerals for fish. They’ll get the devil out of your room faster than you can say BOO. 

Prayers ,

Tiff 

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Yo Little Miss Paranoid, 

Honestly, this roommate situation sounds like something beyond Tiff and my expertise. If I were you, I’d hit up the Hocus Pocus witches to see if they can make your roommate disappear (and make sure you don’t get sacrificed). If that doesn’t work out, you can always email Kevin Hillery and ask if there’s any room in Fennell.

Best of luck!

Earl