Tag: Portfolio
If the World Was Ending
by Toni Rendon '24 on September 29, 2022
Portfolio Staff
Poetry
Black snow tumbles from the sky, clinging to the clothes on your back as you push against the ocean of people. Running from falling skyscrapers. The combination of screams, car beeps, and glass shattering echoes in your head, drowning out every thought except one.
Her.
Bloody fingers grasp photographs strewn across the floor. Covered by a sea of glass turned crimson from the deep cuts spoiling the white carpet. The symphony of catastrophe poured in through the windows, filling the lonely halls. These perfect fragments frozen in time blurred by blood and tears. Erasing years. Struggling to remember who used to stare back at you during those sleepless nights.
Her.
Is she okay or did she die when the bomb dropped? Did she make it out or is she trapped under debris, struggling to breathe? A bloody fingerprint hard for the scanner to read. Smudges on the screen, making it hard to comprehend. All you know is you have to send this text before the world ends. The words swimming in your head. On the last day, you find yourself with no regrets, just a heart in your chest still beating for someone else.
HER.
Severe Weather Warning
by Caitlin Bartley '24 on September 29, 2022
Portfolio Staff
Poetry
The dampness in my jeans makes them look bluer than they really are. The denim feels heavy, bunched up around my thighs, with a novel pressed against my lap, making the paper soggy along the edges. I know the pages will no longer be crisp and straight when they dry, but it’s a rental, so I don’t care. I want to go for a walk. The words in front of my face blur and become fuzzy blobs of black until they look like the scribbled-out garbage that litters my notebooks. I can hear Mom softly laughing from New York because she told me to pack the jacket. It was too large and made me look boxy. The stale flavor of coffee and zero-calorie sugar coats the back of my throat. The taste never leaves. I think I need a new prescription. My skin is clammy where a pair of twin-sized rips expose my knees. If I run my fingers through my hair, will it make the frizz better or worse? When I stand, my shoes make an awkward squeak because they are new and made of patent leather. They are also very wet. To my left, a girl with her laptop open looks up as the silence breaks, giving me a once-over and catching the culprit at the bottom of my feet. Sometimes, I like making noise. There are goosebumps spreading down my legs quicker than a college cold. Just caffeine for lunch again? I guess so. My jeans are still soaked, clinging to me like the coverlet I would grip when I was 5 and the cracks of thunder made the darkness in my room shake. The condensation from the cup leaves a lonely, watery ring on the table. It’s raining hard today.
“Spooky Season Inbound”
by Kathryn Libertini '23 on September 29, 2022
Portfolio Staff
FriarTire
To ghost or be ghosted? Perhaps we have all been in this situation. Regardless, the temperatures are beginning to drop, so read to find out easy ways to avoid the awkward moments of this upcoming cuffing season.
- Don’t text him.
- Like actually, don’t.
- Schedule a girls’ night with your roommates!
- Treat yourself to getting coffee downtown.
- Oh, he posted an Instagram story that his football team won? Don’t swipe up.
- Midterms are coming up; check in with professors and assignments.
- Pick up a new hobby.
- Remember! The “Movember” beard is temporary and doesn’t look that good.
- Try to adjust your routine as the days get shorter.
- Do not, I repeat, do not send or respond to a “Happy Birthday” or “Happy Holidays” message on any platform.
A Conversation with my Younger Self
by Anna Pomeroy '23 on September 29, 2022
Portfolio Staff
Poetry
I know it’s been a while,
It seems like we’re playing phone tag.
I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy.
Where we last left off
Your favorite show was Hannah Montana
And you considered chicken fingers and French fries to be the only existing foods.
You tried every sport,
But nothing really stuck.
It never seemed to phase you though,
Because “Your Favorite Hobby?” was always answered with
“Hanging with friends.”
Same people to this day.
They’re doing well at college and
It’s almost frightening that they sometimes know you
Better than you know yourself.
Still love the fall.
Always used to be filled with
Halloween costume magazine orders,
Apple cider donuts and
Trick or treating.
I think it’s the beauty of the memories that
Makes me still enjoy it
But now I have to go,
I’ve got things to do.
This goodbye shouldn’t make you cry,
I’ll always have you by my side.
The Art of Stargazing
by Meg Brodeur '24 on September 29, 2022
Portfolio Co-Editor
Poetry
It’s half past midnight when my best friend and I make our way to the beach and settle next to each other in the sand. To me, stargazing is the antithesis of anxiety. I’ve spent hours rewriting a single sentence. As a little kid, making a birthday card was an environmental hazard. I would remake the card over and over again because of the slightest imperfections. I’d cringe looking at a flower with any wilting petals. And if my ponytail had a single bump, I had to remake it before stepping outside. I tend to overthink and fret about most things, but that anxiety is significantly decreased when I’m taking in the expansiveness of our galaxy. There is no wrong way to stargaze, much like there is no wrong way to act with your best friend. It doesn’t matter whether you chat enthusiastically or share a peaceful silence if it is organic to your relationship. In life, we are often encouraged to engage in shallow pleasantries. But, with our eyes on the heavens and our toes in the sand, there is no need to force conversation. Rather, we can allow the natural flow of topics to come up without ample effort. It doesn’t feel like mourning, talking about the dead. It feels like honoring and expressing love for those we’ve loved who now live amongst the stars. Staring up at the night sky, it’s impossible not to recognize how insignificant our individual lives are. The vast expanse of infinite space cannot be stuffed into a Hallmark card or a Russell Stover commercial. It’s an experience that must be lived. Lying on the sand, I watch the starlight extinguish the dwindling embers of my worries.
Tiff and Earl
by The Cowl Editor on September 29, 2022
Features
Dear Tiff and Earl,
I’ve been training really hard, attempting to beat Dean Sears in the Friar 5K. Any advice to crush the best runner at PC in his own race?
Sincerely,
Future Marathon Runner
Yo Future Marathon Runner,
If you want to beat Dean Sears in the Friar 5K, you have to start adding fingertip pushups to your workout routine (Dean Sears does them often). Since your race is in a few days, I would suggest tapering and loading up on tons of carbs, and you’ll be good to go! With this advice, you’re sure to crush Saturday’s 5K!
Break a Leg!
Earl
Dear FMR,
An astute observer of Dean Sears would know that he runs with a lollipop in his mouth. This trick, my friend, is your golden ticket; researchers say this improves concentration, keeps blood sugar constant, and intimidates opponents. The real challenge is not whether you can beat Dean Sears with this tactic, but whether you can do it without impaling yourself…
Cheers!
Tiff
The Last of It
by Anna Pomeroy '23 on September 26, 2022
Portfolio Staff
Poetry
My last first day of classes,
My last move-in at PC,
My last summer before college,
Have all come and gone.
They slipped right past my eyes,
As I wiped away the everyday
Wear and tear of my mind’s mirror.
Like stained fingerprints,
Ones that can only be spotted from
the glare of a certain angle.
I can no longer let my memory defeat me.
I must move on, taking in every last bit of this year.
In front of me, a towering stance glares from the end of the road.
My last dance at PC,
My last day of classes,
My last time surrounded by most of these people—
I am fearful of those future endeavors.
Icebreakers
by Fiona Clarke '23 on September 26, 2022
Portfolio Staff
Creative Non-Fiction
“We played icebreakers—yes, hell had frozen over.”
What my sister once brilliantly said in eight words, I am about to say much more clumsily in five hundred. I’ve been around the PC block a few times, three to be exact, and I consider myself an icebreaker survivor. I’ve been on countless “speed dates,” all of which were chaperoned by student leaders sweating buckets over the shoulders of people who didn’t seem to be hitting it off, and none of which were followed by second dates (so sad). I’ve identified myself as every kind of kitchen utensil known to Gordon Ramsay. I’ve invented so many handshakes that as the sign of peace approaches during Mass, I am simply beside myself, terrified that the touch of a hand innocently outstretched in Christian charity will set me off, that while I squeeze with my right, I might slap with my left.
I’ve also had more than enough opportunities to observe that every time an icebreaker shows its ugly face, an almost identical pattern of behavior immediately unfolds. “Icebreakers are the worst!”—the cry goes up from the very agents of angst. “But they’re necessary!”—those same voices argue back, and then cheerfully begin to poke and prod the unfortunate participants into their pairs and lines and circles. It’s cool to hate icebreakers. So cool, in fact, that those who mandate and implement them also hate them, or at least pretend to. It’s cool to hate icebreakers, and yet, especially in college, or at least at Providence College, you’re lucky to go a week without getting tied into a human knot. But the fact that there even exists, outside of horror movies, something called “the human knot” should send a horde of little chills scurrying up, down, and all around the spine of anyone who has two grains of common sense to knock together. I’m not sure exactly what it means for our social clime that our best attempt to connect with other people looks like interlocking the clammy crooks of our elbows into other clammy crooks and making one writhing, giggling bundle of joints, like a living Hieronymous Bosch painting. I do know it means nothing good.
There is, as always, a possibility that I’m violently overreacting. “It’s just a game!” the cry goes up. “Relax! Have fun! Don’t take it so seriously!” But I am more than willing to die a bloody death on this hill. This fall I led a pre-orientation program for the Class of 2026 and witnessed a new generation of young adults getting the ice hacked off of them with the same rusty hatchets that were used on me at the beginning of my freshman year. Han Solo frozen in carbonite is about as cold and miserable as I am during icebreakers, but it’s almost worse to watch other people in the same situation. There has to be a way to get people talking and enjoying each other’s company without making them stand in a circle and yell ZIP ZOOP ZEEP at each other—and it’s not that I enjoy knowing no one to talk to, having nothing to do, nowhere to stand, nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide. But my problem remains: it’s a mystery to me why, as eighteen-, nineteen-, twenty-, twenty-one-, and twenty-two-year-olds we are still engaging in activities with names like “Move Your Butt.” And, worse and worse, it doesn’t seem like it gets better after college. To jog my own memory (read: fish out whatever ghastly icebreaker experiences I have banished to the murky depths of my mind), I did a quick google search of the word “icebreakers” and found that the second result is “50 Icebreaker Games for the Workplace in 2022.” God help us, everyone.
A Quick Note
by Kathryn Libertini '23 on September 26, 2022
Portfolio Staff
FriarTire
Dear First-Year Providence College Student,
If you are receiving this email, it is to inform you of a process you will otherwise be unfamiliar with as a new student. As I am sure you are aware, the dean of Student Affairs, , Dean Sears, is an extremely helpful, enthusiastic, and spirited member of the Providence College community. Perhaps by now, you have received one of his helpful, enthusiastic, and spirited emails which seek to appeal to a sense of school spirit and well-being. However, upon first glance, these emails may be intimidating, bewildering, or otherwise “out of pocket.” This email intends to address any exciting sentiment or confusion experienced.
FAQs:
Do I have to do exactly what Dean Sears instructs in his emails?
No, it is largely meant to be a rhetorical and enthusiastic approach toward the PC community.
Even if it is suggested to “Go forth now: imagine and do!”
Yes, you do not technically have to do that, it is merely a suggestion.
How about “going outside and shouting, ‘I Love God’”?
Seriously, these are just anecdotal recommendations from the school and the dean to encourage a sense of well-being among students.
Will there be an increase in emails around stressful periods in the semester?
Yes, in support of our students!
What should I expect if the basketball team is doing well?
Prepare yourself for the best emails yet.
If you have any other questions/concerns, please (do not) reach out!
Best,
Dean Sears’ (Tired) Email Manager
The Chasm
by Meg Brodeur '24 on September 26, 2022
Portfolio Co-Editor
Portfolio
Trigger Warning: mentions of suicide
An acidic taste stung the sores in my throat.
I squinted at the nickel bolt as it retracted itself into the chipped woodwork. I watched as my mother dragged herself over the threshold to join me in the dismal, musky study. She donned a modest, unembellished frock. It was the colorless shade of a bottomless chasm. I thought she looked horrible. And yet, my mother was so cruelly flawless that she made even misery look tasteful. I shrank, recalling my own homely reflection.
“What’s the matter?” my mother asked, planting herself next to me on the warped hardwood floor.
“Just tired,” I lied, savoring our mutual bitterness as it wafted through the air.
She hummed disapprovingly. Anticipating her callous response, the blood drained from my face. I knew those searing globs had stained my eyes a hideous shade of crimson. Looking away from me, she pointed her glare at the painting above the fireplace. The ostentatious family portrait featured a view of our waterside estate.
“That’s horrible, Lorraine. Lying is such a tacky habit.”
The pressure in the room had shifted again. I was unsure if my brain was swollen, or if my skull had decided to shrink. The pain was excruciating. I was briefly worried that the truth might humiliate my mother. Then I remembered how my parents would shove us out the back door if we had a meltdown. They claimed it nauseated them. “Crying is a selfish habit. It will not be tolerated in this household.” I remember thinking they were merciful because they allowed us back in the morning.
“I want to die.”
“Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”
I received a haunting premonition of a coffin being lowered into our family burial plot. It was sizable enough to hold two bodies.
She shut her eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“I didn’t raise you to be a suicidal wench…”
I stopped listening to her and thought of those full pill bottles, resting upstairs in the right-hand drawer of my bathroom vanity.