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

 

by Taylor Rogers '24 on October 20, 2022
Portfolio Co-Editor

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Content warning: mentions of self-harm

When I was around 6 years old, my mother asked me what my favorite color was for the first time. For some reason, she had concluded that after six years of dictating the color that would dot my room, clothing, and hair, it was finally my turn to choose one special shade around which to mold my personality. Instantly, I selected the color red, which had been the color of the stray tawny cat that would constantly watch over me as if I were one of her many kittens. Red clearly wasn’t the color my mother had expected me to say, but she waved it off, allowing me to rock the color elderly considered sinful, scandalous; the physical imitation of Satan himself. 

A few years later, I became more conscious of what the color red entailed, as I had gotten a nosebleed for the very first time. My favorite color began to trickle from my nose suddenly and stained the paper that previously was the scene of my frustrations with long division and lattice. I hadn’t registered just how drastic this color could be until the girl next to me screamed; her voice pierced my ears as I couldn’t help but wish someone would find a way to snap her mouth shut. My peers looked over at me, probably expecting an extreme reaction, but the red wasn’t something that phased me. Why would a simple color be cause for worry? I wondered as my teacher ushered me out of the room and insisted I use a tissue to quell the bleeding that clearly did not affect my present well-being. 

The first time I understood my grandmother’s aversion to the color red, I was sitting on a giant yellow school bus. Children noisily chattered about random activities as I found myself dreading being 13, wishing I was older, cooler, like my siblings were. On this ancient school bus that huffed and puffed, my friend explained to me another activity that made people huff and puff, calling these lewd actions the embodiment of sin itself. She called it the “devil’s tango,” explaining to me that our other friend had participated in the complex dance for the first time and claimed it was so fun, she had seen red by the end of it. That evening, I found myself curiously exploring this scandal, draping myself in Satan’s red cloak that matched my throw blanket as I immersed myself in the daring, terrifying world of my favorite color. 

Red leaves, that matched the lipstick I enjoyed when I was 16, fell from the sky as I contemplated creating my own sea of red in my bathtub. The tube of lipstick had rolled onto the bathroom floor, forgotten as I surveyed myself in the mirror. While the outside world was tranquil, I remember feeling anything but, as life had become nearly unbearable. Guilt had begun to eat me alive and caused my arms to quickly become an outlet for this unwarranted emotion as I began to blame myself for the problems between my mom and dad, between me and school. My spotless, stark-white bathroom had seemed like the perfect place to spill my favorite color, but I decided against it as I heard my mother’s voice call my name. 

The crimson color I let flow down my throat on a Wednesday night sits in my glass from Venice, against which I tap my painted nails. With age, my taste has remained consistent, as I lie in red sheets where I have, multiple times, committed the devil’s favorite dance. My book sits open, a few notes hastily written in the margins while The Weeknd’s music plays in the background, reminding me that the music I listened to at the ripe age of 14 wasn’t as bad as I had thought when I was 19. The book I read fails to engage me, and I find myself leaning toward my bedside table, deciding to immerse my nails in my favorite color yet again rather than the boring, angelic white that currently dots them. Each brushstroke further seals my fate as the spawn of Satan, making me grin as I thank 6-year-old me for her decision.

by Taylor Maguire '24 on October 20, 2022
Portfolio Staff

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“Hey Juno,” he says, walking up to me along a mahogany staircase.

Avery has little dimples and dark brown eyes with shaggy brown hair that just revealed a little scar that lingered along his forehead. He was a senior, the year above me. He wore his fraternity’s vintage letterman jacket from the 90s, jeans, and a pair of beat-up Reeboks.

“Avery,” I smile.

“Look who decided to come to the big Halloween Bash after all,” he says.

“It’s a little bro-y for me,” I reply.

“I know, Sigma Alpha is just like that. You look the sorority part with the bunny ears and all,” he says, referring to my bunny costume.

“Juno!” my friend Aurora calls. She’s by the pong table wearing a devil’s costume with glittery red horns. I watch as her boyfriend, Brad, shoots his arms into the air, yelling, “Let’s go boys!” His fluffy white angel wings move in sync with him. He looks over and smiles at me, waving me over. I ignore them both and turn back to Avery.

“And what’re you supposed to be for Halloween anyways?” I ask.

“A ghost.” He smiles.

“I thought we agreed to meet at the bar. You know, away from some of the freaks,” Aurora says, intruding the conversation with her cherry colored Go Go boots.

“Let me get you guys a drink,” he says. I nod and watch as he walks toward the bar.

“He’s a weirdo, Juno,” Aurora says when he’s out of earshot.

“He’s in the same frat as Brad,” I say.

“Brad says he’s a freak. He can’t even remember why they let him into Sigma Alpha in the first place,” she replies, tossing her hair behind her shoulders.

“Like you and Brad are so perfect,” I say, shooting her a look. Brad was the captain of the football team. But he also had a knack for roofying freshmen’s drinks while Aurora was out of town or at one of our sorority gigs. I brought it up to her once, but she hissed that I was just jealous and didn’t talk to me for a week.

“At least Brad doesn’t ruin the freshman rituals,” she says.

“Oh, you mean Avery doesn’t haze?” I ask.

“Whatever.” She sighed. “Juno, just consider dating someone normal.” 

Aurora was skinny, but not that pretty. Her dad made all her Cs magically transform into As after Blair University got a new library. Despite the bitchy persona Aurora curated for the college audience, she was a sweet person deep down. Just insecure and scared.

“Enjoy your freak. Don’t get surprised if he goes all Bundy on you later. Brad wants to talk to you, by the way,” she whispers as Avery returns.

“She doesn’t like me,” Avery says, handing me a red Solo cup.

“No, she just likes her boyfriend more,” I reply.

He nods. “Brad, you know him well?”

“Not particularly, but Aurora tells me all his dirty secrets,” I reply.

“Anything worth sharing?” he asks.

“Just that he wets the bed frequently,” I say. “Claims to have nightmares.”

“Nightmares—about what?”

“Ghosts like you,” I reply sarcastically.

“Hey, can I show you something upstairs?” he asks.

Suddenly another member of the frat, wearing 70s clothes, appears from thin air.

“Avery, it’s going to happen now,” he says.

“Just give me a second,” Avery says.

“We don’t need her,” the 70s boy hisses towards me. Confusion strikes me across the face, but I wave it off.

Avery ignores him and takes my hand, leaving him on the staircase. We walk into the room across the hall. The wall is lined with photographs of those who died in the frat while enrolled at the school. Framed in golden lining, an inscription reads, “forever lying in the arms of the brotherhood.” I look at each picture.

“He kinda looks like the kid in the 70s outfit downstairs,” I say, stopping at one portrait in particular right in the middle of the hallway.

Avery just studies my face but doesn’t say anything. Another kid wearing 50s clothing appears before me. He has slicked-back hair and a comb poking out of his pocket.

“Avery, it’s time.”

“Juno, I need to tell you something,” he says, ignoring him and taking my hand.

“This is bullshit; we don’t have time for this,” the 70s boy says, suddenly appearing to my right. I didn’t even hear him come up the stairs.

“Listen Bunny Ears, Brad comes from a long line of psycho killers. The Gordons. Each generation, hazing goes south under the leadership of a Gordon, and their family money covers it up. Every generation has a son, and every son attends Blair University and joins this frat. They kill an incoming freshman as a way to secure their wealth and power with the gods.”

“This prank isn’t cool, it’s fucked up,” I say, looking at Avery. Fear crawls up my arms and grips my shoulders.

“It’s not a prank Juno, it’s us,” Avery says. “The kids in these photos.”

“Can’t you see, we’re all dead,” the 50s boy says. “Avery, there was no point in bringing her up here. What’s she gonna do? Call the cops and tell them where our bodies are hidden?”

“Your bodies are in the house?” I say, horrified.

“We can show you if that’ll convince you,” the 70s boy says. “We’re mostly decayed, our flesh eaten by maggots.” He shuffles closer

“How do we know she isn’t with him? She’s in his book after all,” one of them says. He stands so close the vomit I thought was fake on his shirt wafts towards my nose.

A realization clicks in my brain. “I read about you. In the newspaper. You drank too much, slept on your back. Choked to death on your vomit.”

“That’s what the newscasters said, right? That’s what they read from the report?” 

Avery steps in between the two of us. “Stop,” he says to the kid in the 70s getup.

“How come you’re here if you’re dead?” I ask.

“Everyone who dies in this house can’t leave. If you don’t believe me, fine, but go down to the last portrait in the hall,” the 70s ghost replies without looking at me. 

I hear Avery sigh. I listen and head toward the open window. Avery’s own black and white photograph stands looking back at me. It was a photo of him with a fall scene as his backdrop.

“Avery Cunnings. You died in 1993. Fell down the stairs and knocked your head into the last step,” I whisper.

The 70s ghost sighs. “He was pushed, actually. By Brad’s father. An even bigger dick than Brad.” 

“So who is he going to kill next?” I ask.

“You, Juno,” Avery replies, “Your name was in his book.” 

“Why?”

“Any old freshman won’t satisfy the centennial ritual. He has to kill the thing he loves the most,” Avery says.

“But he loves Aurora,” I say.

“No, I don’t. I love you, Juno,” Brad’s voice says suddenly, filling the air with fear.

Everything goes dark.

by Max Gilman '25 on October 20, 2022
Portfolio Co-Editor

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Home was becoming more of a second abode to the two.

Alice and Sam would stumble in, late hours of the night,

Sighing as they brushed their teeth in an unwanted bathroom.

Laying beside an unloved lover,

Sinking further into cohesive blindness.

Drinking was of the hour, until Alice realized it was the only thing

Barely relating the two anymore,

Besides the damned leering house.

The couple eventually gave up on the drink,

Praising the name Alcoholics Anonymous.

Around then, time slowed to a push,

Allowing them ample space for conversation.

A rekindling began,

Though—

Their distance lingered like a stale, molding odor.

Maybe it had something to do with the house they bought,

A little brown-paneled, one-floor residence,

Quaint in sight, but pungent to the nostril,

Like a forest of elder trees,

Growing older, but never dying.

Still, it lurked in the neighborhood,

Odd, still, but breathing,

Almost amphibian.

An older couple, a sickly two who never left the home,

Raised a family there,

And died on the same day,

December 24th, 1989.

Maybe it had something to do with the house they bought,

Or maybe the two were doomed to a mural parting.

No matter,

Alice always thought it was such a shame,

“So close to Christmas!” she would always say,

“Think of the responders that night. It’s terrible.”

One night while throwing himself around the bed,

Sam noticed a wooden beam staring at him,

From above.

It watched him from the ceiling,

Staring, curious,

Almost preying upon his discomfort.

It turned and sneered with a laugh,

Viewing him in new displeasurable angles.

As Sam’s spine repulsed in shock,

Chains of grandiose dread grappled the unkept mind,

Ensnaring it.

He lay like a rug, stained with marks of whimpering terror,

Praying to a god he never believed in.

Eventually, winter stole daylight.

As snow fell, floated, plummeted,

A hole grew in the roof,

Pots froze and the oven ceased a flame,

Little creatures of the creek gathered bellow white ridden cabinets,

Hugging each other, warmly and generously.

As snow fell, floated, plummeted,

Two still silhouettes hugged death like a third lover,

On December 24th, 2003.

by Meg Brodeur '24 on October 20, 2022
Portfolio Co-Editor

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I have sunk into a patch of highly manicured terrain and am leisurely suffocating from the anthropogenic air. Dwelling around me is a plethora of frosty elements, embellishing my dull brittle bark with glimmering crystals. My rough skin serves as a protective barrier against the penetration of snow, sleet, and ice. However, my natural body struggles to contend with the manmade chunks of machinery that constantly zip past me. Thoughtlessly, they disrupt my meditative state and emit harmful fumes into the atmosphere. My roots confine me to a sedentary lifestyle and force me to remain in a perpetual state of observation. Watching from my post, I often notice a universal look of introspection in the eyes of faculty and students. Today, I watch as they scurry past me in a fray of rosy cheeks and frostbitten noses. Their potent anxiety strikes the air, evaporating the peaceful aura of this calm autumn morning. Like armor, I’m wrapped in thick, rough bark from my roots to the ends of my branches. My body is embedded with long vertical scars and islands of mossy refuge. The nooks and indentations along my trunk serve as places of reprieve for tiny woodland creatures. My branches are piers for vigilant birds and watch posts for protective avian mothers. And while all this life scurries around me in a frenzy, my own permanence swells. Unable to run for cover, I drown in the downpour of rain, crystallize in the wake of a blizzard, and split apart during hurricanes. However, the constant turbulence is not without reprieve, and the sunshine feels particularly warm when it’s drying up my leaves after a vicious storm. Lying at my base are twigs and branches that have fallen from my adapting body. I’m constantly losing and regaining pieces of myself to fit the mold of each passing season. Throughout autumn, my vibrant leaves are shed, leaving behind a skeleton held down by inviolable roots. As days become years, my roots stretch out farther and farther into the depths of the soil. Ropes of pliant, vascular tissue pull me towards the Earth’s core. Thus, the unassailable parts of my being remain unobservable to any above-ground onlooker.

by The Cowl Editor on October 20, 2022

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 Best Halloween Movies

• Halloweentown
• Hocus Pocus
• Coraline 
• The Nightmare Before Christmas 
• The Shining
• Beetlejuice
• Edward Scissorhands
• Leather Face
• Halloween 
• Sleepy Hollow
• Scream 
• The Corpse Bride 
• Nightmare on Elm Street 
• Frakenweenie

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