Tag: Portfolio
Labels
by Taylor Rogers '24 on September 8, 2022
Portfolio Co-Editor
Poetry
An obnoxious yellow tag stands out on my black bathing suit,
The neon color disgusting me when I discover it;
My nails dig into the dirty label,
Trying but failing to rip it off,
As it stubbornly sticks to the dark suit.
Finally, I shed this label,
Yet I still feel the judging stares of others.
My bathing suit is clear of tags,
But not free from scrutiny,
As looks of disgust are continuously thrown my way.
Despite changing out of the sticky swimsuit,
Eyes still dig through my back,
Rendering my baby blue coverup pointless,
As their stares leave me naked,
Exposed to humanity’s harsh gaze.
Glancing in my mirror,
I try to find the answers to their stares.
Why do people keep staring at me?
I wonder, not noticing the bright label on my forehead,
Begging people to keep showering me with attention.
Tiff and Earl
by trogers5 on May 5, 2022
Features
Dear Tiff and Earl,
I just downloaded LinkedIn and I don’t know how to polish my resume. Please send help, so I don’t spend the rest of my life living in my mom’s basement.
Thank You In Advance,
Jobless Senior
Dear Jobless Senior,
Looks like someone didn’t take “Don’t wait, Slavin 108” to heart. You’ve had four years to take advantage of this ever-helpful, high-quality service, and now, with two weeks left before graduation, you have the audacity to ask me for advice? Better get used to those basement views, buddy.
Regards,
Earl
Dear Jobless Senior,
You are asking the wrong people. We don’t even get paid to give you advice. Luckily, I love my mom’s basement. I have trained the mice to scavenge three meals a day for me, and I am building a rocket to the moon. What more can you ask of life?
Cheers,
Tiff
Not a Goodbye
by trogers5 on May 5, 2022
Poetry
by Mariela Flores ‘23
This Poem is for my best friend.
A goodbye is near, it lingers in our air.
I feel the goodbye when we share a meal in a comfortable silence––
I feel the goodbye during late nights when all I want is to absorb any time
I have left with you.
It is dramatic to say my life will change when you are off
seeing, feeling, experiencing all new things,
you will have a new rhythm, a new song.
I will not know the words.
You will grow into the person I’ve always known you could be
and you will meet new people whom you will dance with
until your feet are tired, and your cheeks are flushed
with the feeling of this new life. And I will watch from afar.
This is not a bitter end. You are not going far.
But I will miss all the nights, mornings, evenings, minutes, days
hours, seconds, all the time we had together in this place that never quite felt
like home until I knew you were in it. Friend.
Here’s to you and all lines you’ve crossed.
Here’s to the cries, the fights, the feeling that kept you in bed
and the sun that took you out of it. Here’s to it all.
I will not say goodbye.
But I will say I miss you.
As
you
cross
the
stage
with your head held up high, I will smile.
And I will capture the moment and keep it pressed to the inside of
my mind. I miss you. The world is lucky to have you in it––
I am luckier to have known you for a lifetime, for a moment, for a time.
The Downfalls of Divination
by trogers5 on May 5, 2022
Poetry
by Caitlin Bartley ’24
Reading tea leaves,
our silly tradition.
Two cups of steaming earl grey,
brewed bitter,
growing cold because of your omission.
I am frozen in time,
entranced by mugs of milky tea,
unaware that the café is closing,
trapped in a space
between fate and reality.
And although we were never proclaimed,
I can still see a future,
one that doesn’t end with my heart maimed,
held together by one
flimsy suture.
I have a thirst for prophecy,
my doubts must be relieved.
You’ll find me here waiting
like a fool,
eager to read your stupid tea leaves.
Listomania
by trogers5 on May 5, 2022
Features
Seniors We Will Miss Next Year <3
- AJ Worsley
- Aidan Lerner
- Marelle Hipolito
- Grace O’Connor
- Maura Campbell
- Addison Wakelin
- Julia McCoy
- Madeline Morkin
- Madison Palmieri
- Liam Tormey
- Leo Hainline
- Lillie Hunter
- Brooke Rioux
- Colleen Joyce
- Angie Nguyen
- Nicole Patano
- All of them <3
There it Goes
by trogers5 on May 5, 2022
Portfolio
By: Kate Ward ‘23
The club was packed with bodies but Christa didn’t care much for anyone in the crowd. She frequented this club and was here even on its slower nights just to get a drink or two. She and the bartender had gotten quite close over the past couple of years.
“Ysabel!” Christa called to the bartender once she fought her way to the front to be pressed up against the bar.
The brunette turned her head and smiled, lifting the shaker over her shoulder as she prepared some fancy cocktail.
“Your usual?” Ysabel replied over the loud bass, her face lit up by the extreme strobe lights.
Christa nodded and wormed her way onto the barstool closest to her. She took out her phone, scrolling through various social media accounts before checking her texts; as usual, nothing. She pulled up Tinder, swiping idly. None of the women in this city caught her eye. More to the point, none of them caught her eye like Ysabel. Christa passed Ysabel her card while she took the drink with her other hand. “What time do you get off tonight?”
Ysabel swiped her card and passed it back. “Around three, so,” she looked at her watch. “three hours.”
“Would you like to come back to mine when you’re done?” Christa sipped her drink, a dirty shirley. Perfectly made as usual.
Ysabel glanced down at the glass she was coating with salt. “Will you be here until three?”
Christa laughed, clutching at her chest. “Are you doubting my ability to stay up? I’m hurt!”
Ysabel moved down the bar to give the frenzied drunks their drinks. “I’m not doubting, I’m just asking!”
The drunks down the bar swept the drinks towards them like a dragon bringing jewels closer to his horde. Christa liked to watch them; they were like the stingrays you could feed at the aquarium. Ysabel returned and started wiping down the bar. Christa pressed her, “so are you saying yes?”
“Christa, I don’t know, I kind of want to sleep in my own bed,” Ysabel sighed, taking a few more credit cards that had been slid her way.
Christa frowned. “But you sleep in your bed seven out of seven days of the week! Spice it up!”
Ysabel pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly. “Christa, I have a thing about not getting involved with customers.”
The words crashed over her like a ton of bricks, ruining her buzz. Christa took a long drink, the ice bumping her nose, reminding her that she had to reply at some point. She looked through the glass at the distorted image of Ysabel and lowered the glass. “I thought we were friends…I was wondering if we could hang out?”
Ysabel laughed coldly, “There was no way in hell you thought we were just friends. I know how you look at me Christa.”
Christa felt her cheeks and ears go red. “I-I don’t know what to say.”
“Tell me the truth. Are we just friends or do you think something else of me?” Ysabel packed the shaker full of ice.
Christa looked down into her drink, frowning, “I like you. Like-like you.”
“There it goes,” Ysabel murmured as she poured the drink.
“Take a chance,” Christa pleaded and finished her drink, shoving the glass towards the bartender.
“Don’t beg me,” Ysabel retorted, “I did like you too but then you kept coming back every night. It wasn’t special anymore.”
Christa’s heart cracked in two. “Okay. There it goes.” She slid off the barstool. “See you around.”
Ysabel watched her go. Though disappointed in herself and the younger woman leaving, she would not chase her. She couldn’t chase her.
The End of April: An Ode to Senior Year
by trogers5 on May 5, 2022
Creative Non-Fiction
AJ Worsley ’22
The end of April feels a lot like the end of the world when you’re in your final year of college. It’s not long until the student discounts fade away. Spotify returns to ten dollars a month. Unidays gets deleted from my phone. Netflix is…still raising their prices with no signs of implementing a student discount.
Graduation is just a month away. We picked up our cap and gowns last week and I lay in bed all day after. It never really feels like it’s going to end when it’s just beginning. You forget cap and gown pickup is even a thing when you’re a freshman and your orientation leaders are walking you from one building to the next showing you around the campus that very quickly became home.
It goes by even faster when over a year and a half was interrupted by a pandemic that led to your entire college experience being transitioned to Zoom, an app we’d all come to collectively hate.
The worst part of the end of April is the impending doom, the weight on your shoulders, the light that seems to be getting bigger because you’re getting closer to it. The worst part of the end of April is doing homework and overhearing a nearby group of friends talking about their acceptance to their dream grad school, and the rising juniors to your left talking about going abroad next year, or the rising seniors talking about their internships, all with futures and goals. And it’s a beautiful time but an envious one when you accept that your education here is ending. Whatever is next for all of us, PC will begin to feel like a childhood home we’ve all moved out of: a home we sometimes drive by and recollect the different drunken memories we shared at certain spots on campus.
The end of April is filled with attempts at soaking it all in to compensate for the Zoom year. It’s filled with little sleep and running on the highs of doing the worst assignments because these are the last assignments. Finals have a whole new meaning. It’s filled with “sure, I’ll go out tonight,” even though you don’t want to, because there are so few opportunities left to do so. This means going to McPhails and drinking on a Tuesday, not because you’re an alcoholic, but because there is a new sense of urgency to hanging out with your friends. This means attending every event you see advertised at the stairs near Dunkin’. It means 222 Nights turns into 22 Nights.
The weather is getting warmer and walking through campus feels like a treat again. The people are wearing shorts and t-shirts and overwhelming Canada Goose jackets are nowhere to be found. The lawns are a luscious vibrant green that can’t help but remind you that so much of your tuition goes into landscaping. The walkways feel different when you’re a senior and it’s April. You notice the cracks in every brick and you begin to appreciate them. But walking through campus at night is even more rewarding. The gooseneck lighting feels brighter. Students are practicing their sports. High school always ended when the sun was still up, but high school never felt like home. Club meetings are at seven and eight and no matter how busy I am, it’s impossible to forget May 22.
And it’s hard to say goodbye to a place you called home, even if it was just for four years. These walkways became my neighborhood, and nothing outside the stone walls along Eaton Street mattered. Every tree, every squirrel, every building on campus looks back at you this time. Your headphones play “Where’d All the Time Go?” by Dr. Dog and the statue of the Veritas flame urges you to look at it a little bit longer every day. And since the weather is getting warmer, perhaps grab a blanket and a laptop. Have a picnic on Slavin Lawn, alone or with some friends. Bring a camera. Document it. Document it all. You are living through your memories right now. Go to one last party even if it is your first because it is only too late once you’ve crossed the stage and moved the tassel to the left. The end of April means basketball season is over, and even though I’ll never watch a game from the student section again, “You Belong With Me” will play in my head any time I enter the Dunk. The loans will kick in soon and the student discounts will be long gone, but no amount of tuition could cover these memories, these people, this place. The end of April means writing one last piece for The Cowl.
Skateboard
by trogers5 on May 5, 2022
Creative Non-Fiction
Sarah McLaughlin ’23
I see it when I’m on the final set of stairs leading up to my building. It’s behind a bush, obviously intended as a hiding place, but the bush is thin and wiry with hardly any leaves, and there’s a yellow spotlight on the ground behind it, covered by a bit of mulch which likely obscured it during the day. But now it makes its presence known, and it lights up the skateboard like it’s the lead actor on a stage. Like it’s meant to be seen.
It’s plain and wooden and I guess that’s probably how skateboards usually are. It has bright orange wheels with blackened lines from use. I imagine they roll smoothly, soundlessly, especially against fresh pavement.
That’s my first thought. My second thought: I could steal it.
I’m not going to, obviously. But I could. No one is around, no one would see it. Someone just left it there. I could touch it, pick it up, take it into my building, and as long as its owner didn’t happen to be in the elevator, I’d get away scot-free.
The next morning, somebody would probably post online asking about it. They’d either be angry and cussing out whoever stole it or asking politely if anyone could keep an eye out. I wonder what type of person they are and how they’d respond. I wonder if it means a lot to them, and I wonder why they left it outside if it’s so important, and I wonder if it can’t fit in their bedroom in their apartment because they have a neat-freak roommate who doesn’t want something that touches the dirty pavement on the carpet, and I wonder why they wear a yellow beanie and a striped gray shirt that’s cuffed on the arm where they wear a bunch of thin leather bracelets and have short brown hair that sticks out of the bottom of their hat in soft spikes, because I don’t know who they are and I’m making all of this up in my head.
I pause for a second on the sidewalk and stare at it. But I don’t move any closer. I don’t touch it.
But I could steal it, and I considered it, even if I didn’t really, didn’t seriously, and as I walk away, that’s all I can think about. I think about how maybe if I had stolen it I’d keep it in my closet because not only do I not know how to skateboard, but I couldn’t just go around using a skateboard I had stolen, because what if it has some unique marking they’ll recognize, and I’ll get flagged down on my way to class and maybe beat up or at least questioned and then I’d be late. I think about how maybe I’d happen to know them without knowing it or meet them at some point in the future and then I’d invite them to hang out in my room and they’d see it and either they’d hate me or we’d end up having a moment of reflection about absurdity and fate.
Until the elevator startles me with its ding as it reaches the fifth floor—when did I get here?—I don’t think about how you would never steal a skateboard—I mean, you want to be a lawyer, for Christ’s sake—except maybe you’d think about it just like I did, and if you were having one of those nights where maybe you didn’t want to be a lawyer or you just didn’t know for sure anymore—maybe it was the seven hours of midterm cramming or maybe it was the philosophy lecture or maybe it was the red wine—maybe you would.
You’d take it and hold it ransom and maybe even post a picture of it on the message board with a smiley face or a snarky comment just to see what happens, and even if the owner was pissed off, they wouldn’t be for long because they’d come get it from you and offer you alcohol or drugs or even their yellow beanie and you’d laugh and they’d fall in love with you, and they wouldn’t even need to get it back because suddenly they’d have you instead; even if they didn’t, they’d have the thought of you, and I know all too well how that thought makes someone’s head spin and stomach churn faster than any orange wheels. Skateboarding seems like a rather solitary activity. They’d want to walk by your side, follow you as your heels click against the concrete, echoed by the expensive swish of your dress pants. They’d ask why you’re not just wearing sweats like the rest of campus, but they should know you’ve got some meeting or another, or at least you’re using one as an excuse, when in reality you just like the rush of power you feel when you strut into the classroom and get a once-over from your classmates. You want to shrug off a blazer and hang it on the back of a chair and take notes in a Moleskine with a weighted pen, the kind that you twist, not click or uncap.
Do you know the kinds of pens I like? The clicky ones. I like to click and unclick them subconsciously while I’m reading until my roommate gets annoyed and tells me to stop. I like to switch between different colors because I get bored of them, and I like the ones that come out thicker, because they never make that awful scratchy noise when they run dry.
I told you once. We were doing homework in the library, reading by dim lamp light in December. You wrote something in that grandiose scrawl of yours; you write like you don’t care how much space it takes up. Your pen ran out, and it scratched against the paper, and I didn’t just hear it from across the table but felt it; it sent a shiver through my body underneath my sweatshirt. You noticed and snorted with laughter, thinking it was from the cold. We got a dirty look from some poor kid trying to cram for finals. This was sophomore year: your hair was bleached blonde, you drank Coke instead of coffee, and you were wearing glasses instead of contacts because your eyes were irritated from strain. You thought your glasses made you look prudish (like your mother) and I tried to convince you otherwise, because glasses make everyone look better. This was sophomore year: I was taking Latin for some godforsaken reason, and if I had to conjugate one more verb I was going to defenestrate (fenestra, fenestrae, fenestrae, fenestram, fenestra) my textbook and then myself. You laughed at me because you thought I was cold, when in reality I was sweating, because there you were in your glasses, and the lamp light turned your skin shades of gold, and when I realized I was sweating I wondered if you could smell it.
The shiver was from the scratch of the pen. And when I told you so, you laughed again, even harder, and the kid probably gave us another look, but I don’t remember paying attention. You covered your mouth and closed your eyes, nearly doubling over as your shoulders trembled, but then you set your pen aside with a serene sort of smile and asked if I had a spare.
I unlock the door to my apartment and let it fall shut behind me.
Pink Popsicle
by trogers5 on May 5, 2022
Poetry
Grace O’Connor ‘22
The blue in her sparkly eyes hugged the green rim in the middle
She was careless, as her only fear was if her mom would hide her favorite rose dress from her
The cloth of her dress held infinite red roses, which she wore with a gleaming smile
Her smile could cure all the sadness around her
She was careless, as her only fear was if her mom would hide her favorite rose dress from her
In time the simplicity and warmth of life in a young eye start to fade
Her smile could cure all the sadness around her
Before the rose-colored glasses are removed and reality bleeds through
In time the simplicity and warmth of life in a young eye start to fade
She no longer was protected by her own oblivion, as the strength vulnerability isolated her
Before the rose-colored glasses are removed and reality bleeds through
Bliss is now only felt in artificial ways
She no longer was protected by her own oblivion, as the strength vulnerability isolated her
She carried the true torment of reality around with her
Bliss is now only felt in artificial ways
She now eyes the intangible old comfort from a distance, yearning for it day by day
Parasitic Hyacinth Flowers
by trogers5 on April 21, 2022
Portfolio
By Taylor Rogers ’24
Parasitic limbs curiously crawl into my brain, their furry legs hitting the organ ruthlessly, not caring about the potential dents and damage they could cause. Gradually, they begin their descent, digging a hole into my precious prefrontal cortex, not reacting as my mood shifts from confused to irritated. These annoying bugs work on creating one of many entrances, sliding down the moist caravan they call an entryway, strategically planning to infect my innocent cells with their toxic virus.
Unaware of the infection that is soon to attack my immune system, I sit outside, admiring the hyamith flowers gifted to me this past weekend from my grandmother, the baby blue color our favorite, as it reminds us of the bright sky on a sun-filled day. These buds are just growing, slowly increasing in size the same way the parasites overflow my cranial cavity. Like me, these buds urge to be out in the sun and observing the weather, so I break out a smile and take the precious flowers outside with me. My flowers and I sit on the swing my grandfather crafted for my grandmother, the white wood digging into my exposed legs, which are barely covered in a pair of jean shorts nearing their last tear. Wind blows in my hair, the sun smirks down at me, and my flowers peacefully sit on my lap. Boredly, I glance around the peaceful neighborhood, making eye contact with someone who currently trims their overgrown hedges.
Suddenly, a gunshot goes off in my brain, jarring pain attacking my head as the parasites within begin to cheer victoriously, watching as my hyacinth flowers drop to the ground like a grenade. They watch as a mysterious figure strides down the street confidently, bending down to collect the flowers as an explosion goes off in their host’s brain. In seconds, a hand clasps my own, pressing the flowers back into my outstretched fingers with a grin.
“Think you dropped these, it’s a shame. They’re stunning flowers.”
Curiously, the parasites watch my interaction with the stranger, a few pausing their digging while others grin, knowing this is the perfect chance to wreak their havoc. Quickly, they invade this cortex, twirling strands of brain that are slender like spaghetti and manipulating them to their will, creating a Prince Charming out of a being who is simply human.
Stunned, I reel back at my sudden romanticization of the simple action, confused where this feeling has come from. While I am no stranger to attraction, the hyacinth flowers that have been tainted by another are strange to me now, the bare minimum morphing into something completely foreign to me. The hyacinth has shifted, the stems gingerly reaching out to the stranger and invoking me to ask this human a question.
“Would you like one? I have plenty more inside, my grandmother brings them to me often.”
Apparently, the parasites quite like this reaction, as the pain in my head temporarily halts, as if allowing me to explore the feelings suddenly forced on my previously pure brain. Matching smiles rapidly form on the stranger’s face as well as my own, and our hands briefly collide as I hand them a sky blue bud. Above, the parasites continue to observe, deciding to gingerly adjust my nerves so my conversation with the new person can continue while they conjure unknown sensations and feelings.
“You know, you’re really pretty.”
Small gasps escape my lips as something bangs against my temporal lobe, the parasites above just as shocked as I am concerning the compliment. Instinctively, I put a hand up to my head and rub the infected area, the stranger kneeling on the dewy grass in concern.
“If I knew complimenting you would result in such an adverse way, I wouldn’t have told you the truth.”
While I would roll my eyes at most for saying this, the stranger’s words make me laugh, an off-pitched melody escaping my chapstick-stained lips as the parasites continue to harshly attack me. Gritting my teeth, I mold my face into a grin, my hands fiddling with the hyacinth that drew this new character to me.
“Sorry about that, I just get migraines sometimes. Especially, oddly enough,when I see attractive people.”
Unlike the person standing before me, the parasites fail to appreciate my joke, savagely continuing to fumble my nerves as emotions come and go, my face failing to reveal the war that wreaks havoc on my anxious body. My newly found lover laughs, the sound causing the birds around us to giggle, the sun to shine a little brighter, and the parasites within to halt their attack. Despite their pause, my feelings still rebelliously combust, passion’s painful flames engulfing any doubts or confusion that I might be confusing love with lust, as attraction to me has only been sexual and short-lived.
“Don’t worry about it, really. I’ll see you around, hopefully your migraine disappears the next time our paths collide.”
Before I can protest and force the stranger to stay, they have left with a permanent reminder of me, the hyacinth flower swinging between his fingers as I resume the similar motion on my own wooden seat. The parasites within my brain finally hatch their eggs, evoking strange sensations throughout my body and turning this insignificant encounter to one equated with a myth I had never believed: love at first sight.