by The Cowl Editor on December 7, 2019

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Christmas

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by Sarah McLaughlin ’23

I found myself shopping for you in Barnes and Noble, of all places.

I never realized a bookstore could be such a shit show, but hey, I guess it’s Christmas Eve.

I’ve never been much of a reader; you know that. You’re the smart one. I just pay the bills.

Kidding. But, seriously, a PhD in English? Did you really think that was going to get you anywhere besides submerged inside a volcano of debt?

Anyway, I procrastinated all my shopping until the last minute, as usual. I was so sure that you were already done by now, especially with gifts for me, and I was freaking out. So I did what all respectable adults do in stressful situations and called my mom.

She advised me to make a list of your favorite things, stuff that you use all the time. First thing I thought of was a spatula. She almost hung up on me. Next I said sweaters, and she said you have enough of those. Also, I think that’s probably what she’s buying us, and she didn’t want me to steal her idea.

But that got me thinking—what don’t you have enough of? Money, sure, but I don’t think you’d appreciate me wrapping up my Christmas bonus and sticking it under the tree. Socks, maybe, because of those damn dryer goblins, but who wants to find socks in their stocking? And then it hit me like the one you whacked me with yesterday when I interrupted your reading. Books.

You’re always complaining that you don’t have enough good stuff to read—which is insane, considering you spent eight years learning about the pinnacles of literature—so I figured that would be a safe choice. All I’d have to do is check your shelf to make sure whatever I bought wasn’t already on it. Maybe chat with a librarian, too. But there was bound to be something on the New Releases table that would pique your interest.

Cookbooks caught my eye first—all shiny and glittery with big pictures of food on the covers—but I know I’d get more use out of one than you ever would. Sure, you like to cook, but more in an experimental sort of way. That’s why I’m in charge of dinner.

Then I saw some romance-y looking novels, and I was so, so tempted to snag the sauciest one I could find, because it’d surely get a good laugh out of us both when you unwrapped it, but I wanted to be a little more mature than that. Joke gifts were better saved for birthdays or Valentine’s Day.

It was after deciding this when I turned and spotted it. The reflectiveness of the gold- edged pages caught my eye; then I noticed the dark red leather binding and the shiny etching on the cover.

Okay, so the New Releases table wasn’t the place to look. Maybe I should’ve anticipated that you wouldn’t fancy anything loud and gaudy with enticing pictures on the front. But the children’s shelf was the last one I expected to end up perusing.

It was perfect, though. I knew it instantly. Standing there, gaping like a complete idiot, I reached out to grab it. I would’ve picked it up, too, had another hand not landed on it at the exact same time.

“Oh! Sorry.” Normally, I would’ve jumped away and carried on, but I couldn’t let go. I gripped the spine like I’d glued my fingers to it.

Great, I thought. I’m about to get myself into one of those Black Friday-type brawls. I’m gonna be on the evening news. I’m—

“Hey.”

I finally had the sense to turn and glance at whose hand it was.

I blinked twice. “What are you doing here?”

You smiled. “Shopping. And you?”

“Likewise.”

You nodded toward the book we both still held. “Looks like we had the same idea.” Then you looked back at me with a grin. “You know me too well.”

I bit my lip. “I’m sorry. I saved buying your gift for the last minute. I didn’t know what to get. But then I saw this, and I remembered how you said it was your—”

“Favorite book growing up,” you finished. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

You shake your head. “No need to be. Hey, look, I saved your gift for the last minute, too.”

“Really? You were going to buy this for me?”

You gesture with your free hand. “Well, yeah. You said you never read it, so…” I smiled. “Let’s buy it, then. For both of us.”

You nodded. “I like that idea. Less work.”

“It’s a win-win situation, really.”

So, together, we picked it up.

by The Cowl Editor on November 14, 2019

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Portfolio

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by Sarah McLaughlin ’23

I hear it as I push away the last needled branch that stands between me and the open clearing.

I’ve always been fascinated by frogs. When I was two years old, toddling around barefoot in my backyard, I saw one for the first time. Somehow, my chubby, little hands managed to corner it, pick it up, and hold it for a while. Either this frog was exceptionally well mannered or it was even more naive than I was.

In second grade, I kept one as a pet. I grabbed every relevant book in the library I could carry. I caught flies in jars and filled a mug with fresh water every morning to pour into the plastic terrarium my mom bought me for Christmas. Eventually, after sitting in front of it for a few hours one day, my chin resting on my folded arms on the kitchen table, I realized that it might not be having as much fun as I was—just squatting there, staring back at me, its white throat bobbing up and down, up and down. So I brought the terrarium out to the furthest corner of the backyard, opened the lid, and watched as it sat there for a few more minutes, black eyes unmoving, before deciding to jump out. It seemed so sudden, as if it were acting purely on a whim, but perhaps it had been pondering the pros and cons of its decision. Almost immediately, it blended right back in with the grass.

A few years later, we installed an in-ground pool. It attracted all sorts of creatures—squirrels, chipmunks, mice, birds. The birds were wise enough to take quick sips from the stone patio, but the other animals would often fall in the water, swim around in frantic confusion, and inevitably have to get scooped out by one of us with a net and released on the other side of the fence.

 The frogs, of course, ended up in there more often than anything else. Each summer morning, I’d walk out the back door, the patio cold and slick with dew underneath my bare feet, and I’d stand at one end, scanning for a tiny brown body with long legs pumping in a desperate breaststroke. If I saw one, I’d grab the net, dip it in the water, and chase the little guy around the perimeter until he finally ran out of breath. They never realize that you’re trying to save them.

When one of my friends found a mass of tadpole eggs in her pool, I couldn’t contain my jealousy. She knew me well, and she gave us half of them to raise ourselves. We brought a clear plastic tub of water to her house, and I held it on my lap on the ride home, now topped with a cluster of thirty or so tiny, marble-looking things. Each had a little black dot in the center that I knew—if all of those library books were correct—would somehow, within a few weeks, grow into a full-fledged frog. I could only imagine how awesome it would be to have dozens of new frogs all leaping out of the tub at once. Maybe, since I’d take such great care of them as they grew up, they’d let me hold them. Maybe a few would even hop right into my hands.

As their predicted hatch date grew closer, I spent more and more time laying outside on the patio, head resting on my arms, watching the eggs. It wasn’t until I awoke one morning to a shout from my mother downstairs that I saw them, though—tiny black dots, smaller than sunflower seeds, with wispy little tails that propelled them around the water without even creating a ripple in the surface.

There weren’t a lot of them, though, I quickly realized. Only a dozen or so had actually hatched—more than half of the eggs remained unmoving. When, after three days, they still showed no signs of life, my mother carefully scooped them out.

Nevertheless, my excitement heightened. I checked the tub every few hours for any signs of legs, even though I knew that first, they’d have to grow larger and more green.

Weeks passed, and the number of tiny bodies and tiny tails gradually dwindled. Legs began to sprout, but they didn’t even outnumber the original count of hatched eggs. Still, I watched them every day, waiting patiently for the moment when a fully-grown frog would swim to the surface.

And it did. One.

It looked so lonely in there all by itself. It swam in circles, bumping its webbed feet against the edge like the ones I fished out of the pool. So I lifted it out of the water, and before I could even move my arm away from the tub, it sprung from my hand and into the grass.

Stepping out of the cover of the trees, I plant my boots on the muddy shore. The pond—if you can even call it one—is small, shallow, and full of dead, bare tree trunks that stick out of the water like broken ribs, but it’s beautiful in its own way. The surface is motionless, like dark glass, the air quiet, not interrupted by even a cricket.

But I heard the splash. There’s not a single ripple in the water, but there must have been a moment ago. When I rustled the branch, something jumped.

It’s been a while since I’ve caught a frog. But maybe I don’t need to. Maybe just knowing that they’re still there—still hatching from eggs, still growing legs, still swimming, still jumping —maybe that’s enough.

by The Cowl Editor on November 1, 2019

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Features

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In 14 words or less “What Scares You the Most?” Go!

An email comes from the Bursar’s Office: tuition due by the first.
by Daniel Carrero ’23

The shower upstairs turns on, but I thought I was home alone…
by Sam Pellman ’20

Spider—crawls away, out of sight…lurks still in mind.
by Sarah McLaughlin ’23

To die alone and unloved.
by Elizabeth McGinn ’21

At night, you’re home alone. The power goes out. You hear a voice.
by Sarah Kirchner ’21

Neither graveyards, nor goblins, not even ghouls. Just my midterm grades from this school.
by Connor Zimmerman ’20

by The Cowl Editor on October 24, 2019

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Poetry

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by Sarah McLaughlin ’23

Tourists converge from Earth’s every corner to see
The piece of the past stored on this pebbled beach

All paths extending westward from the east
Meet here, the first of our nation’s vertices

It’s so special to so many, apparently
To view—The Rock—which began our history

They’ve never switched it out, supposedly
The first stone tread upon by pilgrim feet

It’s always tempting, every time you meet
Someone for whom it’s always been their dream

To stare down at this thing—a comical scene—
To make up some absurd conspiracy

“Now, I’m not saying it’s a government scheme,
But I think it was replaced in ’63.”

But then I decide instead to let them be
To let them stare—reverential and naive

We all have Rocks—things we cling to and esteem
And no local lark could break our make-believe.by

by The Cowl Editor on October 3, 2019

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Poetry

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by Sarah McLaughlin ’23

Wouldn’t it be great
To someday be
So famous
You’re signing passport books
And grocery receipts
Gathering a crowd
Outside of the White House?

Most famous place on earth
They’ve traveled so far
To see it
And they happen to catch you
Hold out a pen
Ask for your name

Because they don’t know it yet
Barely twenty
Standing there
Sore feet from stiff new heels
Carrying the mailbag
For the President

by The Cowl Editor on September 26, 2019

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Poetry

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by Sarah McLaughlin ’23

I slide my right foot in, it catches
A hole in the lining, my toe’s stuck inside

“Why don’t you just put them in the trash?”
I shake my head and smile, like it’s a nice joke

Thirteen years old, I picked them out
Thought they looked cool—black leather, gold eyelets

Sturdy, stiff, snug around both calves
Gave me half an inch, maybe, but it made all the difference

Laced up on the first crisp morning of fall
Carrying my steps ’til the first flower blooms

Weathered, worn, they don’t stand up straight
On their own anymore, need my ankles’ support

But the rubber soles, nearly flat, unseen
In return, still manage to hold up my feet

“Want to borrow some shoe polish?”
I turn away, pulling my double knot taut

Polish might cover the stains and scuffs
But only how bandages cover a cut

Laces’ ends frayed like roots of a tree
Clear plastic coating a distant memory

Socks always get wet, skin wrinkled and cold
Then they sit, stuffed with newspaper, by the front door

“Why don’t you want to buy a new pair?”
I look to the price tags, sometimes tempted for change

But each road, each floor, each path I’ve walked
They’ve held me up, half an inch, double knot, snug