Tag: short story
Exit Strategies
by The Cowl Editor on September 21, 2017
Portfolio
by Jonathan Coppe ’18
Basel was tired of spending all his weekends drunk and depressed. He had resolved to do something about it.
It was midnight. The dock was misty, and the cold, damp air got underneath Basel’s clothes, right onto his skin. He shivered, cinching up his scarf. He thought he had arrived more or less at the time he had been told to, and he had brought only a moderately sized suitcase, as he had likewise been told, wherein were a few changes of clothes, some toiletries, a couple of books, and a Bible.
He had been given the Bible on his sixteenth birthday by his mother. He wasn’t sure he had ever opened it, almost certain he had never read from it. But it was the sort of thing that was supposed to help you to have a moral conversion, and he had resolved it would live faithfully on his nightstand.
If it has not been surmised, Basel had decided to go to sea, working as a crewman on a large commercial freighter, under the impression that this would be sufficient to transform his life. He would spend at least six months in this endeavor, perhaps longer, if it seemed right to him.
After about 15 minutes, Basel faintly perceived the outline of a ship not far from the pier. He had to squint to be sure, since the dock was bright with insomniac, bluish flood lighting on all sides. But a few minutes’ time were sufficient to verify his impression, and he soon knew that it was his very ship which was drifting into port. “Thank God,” he sighed.
Aboard the ship, he soon saw his quarters were cramped and windowless, about the size of a prison cell, if that. The walls were steel, painted a sort of tired shade of beige. He was to share the room with a bunkmate. He unpacked his clothes into a dresser but—alas—no nightstand. He decided he would leave his Bible atop the dresser.
About a week on, he started to get a handle on the work. He was one of only a few native English-speakers on board. Most of the crew was Scandinavian—Danish, he thought. They were iron-browed, leathery men, and they looked down on his newcomer’s ignorance and his sensitivity. The work was uninteresting and demanding. “Perhaps it is penance,” he thought. He judged this is what a religious person was supposed to believe.
The degree of isolation he felt from them did eventually cause him to begin reading his Bible, if perhaps partially out of boredom. The book did not interest him greatly, since he began with one of the letters of St. Paul, which are judged even by another New Testament author to be difficult to decipher.
About two months on, a slight friendship began to form between Basel and one of the older Scandinavian crewmen. (The other American crewmen avoided Basel out of fear his poor reputation would bring down their already tenuous standing amongst the Danes.) Basel had distinguished himself to the old man by spotting an oil container’s faulty sealing and preventing a spill. They had spoken briefly during a couple night shifts, and lately the old man had invited Basel to eat with him at meal times. Basel generally remained rather quiet, but he appreciated the almost fatherly connection he had found.
Aksel, as the man was called, clued Basel in to some of the finer social rules on board, which greatly improved Basel’s social standing amongst the crew. Aksel, in no need of greater wealth or reputation in his old age, often found additional work for Basel around the ship, which made Basel useful in both his own eyes and in the estimation of the swarthy Danes he so feared.
In spite of his slowly rising spirits, Basel felt some guilt for his disinterest in the sacred text he had brought on board. As the weeks rolled on, he felt more and more that the book was mocking him as it sat unopened on his dresser.
He asked Aksel, one evening when they were docked in Amsterdam, whether the old man had ever found religion. He replied that as a young man he had not cared for it, but the approach of death had placed it back on his mind.
“Do you think it’s worth it for a young man?”
“Why? Do you want it? Someone told me you keep a Bible on your dresser.”
“That’s true about the Bible. I don’t know what I want.”
“Why did come out to sea?”
“I was afraid I was becoming an alcoholic.”
The old man roared with laughter. “So you joined a lot of sailors? Religion may be worthwhile. I don’t know. But you want it like you want a diet. People lose weight, they stop dieting. You stop drinking, you make some friends maybe, and there goes your religion, too.”
No One
by The Cowl Editor on September 21, 2017
Portfolio
by Dawyn Henriquez, ’19
“Who are you?”
“Tom Harkos.”
“No, no, no,” he said, his silver mask reflecting the late afternoon sun into my eyes. “Who are you?”
“Thomson Eliot Harkos,” I said, thinking my full name should do the trick. At that he laughed, his grimacing false face emphasizing the ill-natured air between us. I’ll never forget that laugh—a howl as dry as a cool fall breeze cutting through a late summer’s day.
“Who are you?” he asked. Mocking his monotonous tone, I began to say my name, but, just as I started to speak, the ‘E’ in my middle name collided with the shattering pain of his knee swinging up into my groin. My abdomen clenched like I was about to hurl, everything in me telling me to double over and scream, but I couldn’t even flinch. I was frozen in place, not a single muscle moving in response to the pain, as if I hadn’t been hit at all. Internally I was screaming, clawing at my will to move, but nothing. There were no signs, I hadn’t even an inkling to the fact that he had control all along; my body was no longer my own.
“Who are you?” He asked with amusement painting his words and making my blood boil. I didn’t say shit, like hell I was going to keep getting played with. I didn’t even care about my name much anyway, according to this world it was never mine to begin with. It was always his: the twin brother I never knew, the brother whose crimes I had to pay for because his death was mercy.
“Who are you?” he repeated as if I hadn’t just willingly ignored him, but there was no laugh. I knew it was going to go bad when he stayed silent for a couple of seconds; a silence scorched the space between us with malice. The quieter it became the more I realized one thing: silence was going to cost me. Without warning he just started pummeling me, his metal-plated gloved fists going on consecutive dates with my face as I tried to fight back with no body to do so. A couple of jabs and an uppercut later I was on the ground, close to unconscious but unable to drift away—I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I hadn’t committed any crime, I hadn’t hurt anyone, and yet my blood was being shed, simply because of who I was. Is this what the world has come to? The innocent suffering for the crimes of the wretched? As I started to drift further I felt his brusque hands flip me over, anchoring my mind before it got away. He pulled me up by my shirt, a crimson stream trailing behind my head as the rest of me just laid there, paralyzed until he felt otherwise.
“Who are you?” This time I could tell he was enjoying himself. His monotone voice rose a couple of octaves behind that sneering mask, every word steeped in sadistic excitement.
“Screw you, you coward,” I spit back.
“You are a fun one! I hope you have the same spirit in there,” he said with uncharacteristic excitement, gesturing towards the underground prison entrance. “As for out here, you will get whatever you give, so make it easy on yourself and tell me.”
“Go to hell.” At that he started cackling, as if I were the funniest person he’d ever met.
“My dear friend, I am afraid that is where we have been all along,” he said in between chuckles. With more strength than humanly possible he pulled me up and tossed me against the nearest boulder like an oversized ragdoll. Taking slow, deliberate, steps, he walked up to my body. As he got closer he pulled a baton out from inside his black cloak, swinging it around like he was a professional baseball player until he got to me. Fear started making its way into my veins, coursing into every part of me until I was buzzing with the prospect of running; but that moment would never come. He got up close, yanking me up by my hair just when I thought he couldn’t further demean me, and slammed the baton on my throat with no reservations. Pain seized every nerve in my neck as I began to lose air. I was panicking, trying to get my arms to move, but getting no response. At that moment, I was convinced I wasn’t even going to make it into the prison at all; then he repeated his favorite question:
“Who are you?” The ice in his voice cutting deep into my mind, further stopping my attempts to breathe.
“I…” blood sputtered out of my mouth as I made the effort to speak. “I-I…don’t…know.” I got out from under the choking pressure, tears I had initially held back arced their way down my bloodied cheeks. He took the baton out from under my chin slowly, as if contemplating whether I had given the right answer, and, just as I was taking in greedy helpings of breath, he slapped me across the face with it so hard that I fell over.
I’ve taken beatings before, hell, I’ve given them, that’s part of growing up a hothead. No matter what, I was always fighting back, always unwilling to go down without landing a couple of punches, leaving my mark on whoever dared lay a hand on me, but this time I couldn’t even swing at the guy—that’s what bothered me most. I just laid there, my face swimming in a pool of blood, the pain ebbing into every corner of my body causing the world to slow around me. Ribbons of red trickled off my lips and into the brown dirt that cushioned me, drop by century-long drop. Every second felt like a lifetime, an eternity’s wait to simply live or die.
“Who…are…you?” He asked again in his half-excited half-bored to death tone from before. I knew that if I didn’t answer the way he wanted I was going to die this time, I could feel it in my bones. And yet, I had no answers, no voice, no mind, and barely a body. And, just when I thought his patience had worn thin, just as I sensed he was about to finally put an end to me, the baton pushing down on my skull, the words spilled off my tongue, covered in blood, like I had known them all my life.
“I’m no one. I’ve never been anyone. I’ll never be anyone.”
At that the baton found itself lifting, all pressure and punishment going with it. The atmosphere of brutal murder that lingered in the sky above me disappeared as his mind forced mine into a false sense of safety. He helped me up and leaned me against the boulder with the gentle hands of a caregiver, as if rewarding my new self-proclaimed lack of identity. Once he made sure I had enough of my brain and balance to stand on my own he began to peel off his mask. The first thing I noticed were his eyes, the darkest irises I had ever seen. Eyes of pure night, black holes that pulled mine into his—condensed chasms of darkness placed on a face. A face so close in likeness to mine that I couldn’t distinguish any difference whatsoever—because it was mine. That was my face; those were my eyes.
He smiled at me, a Mona Lisa-like smile—all-knowing and un-telling, and he seemingly found delightful the recognition I was aiming at him. For a second I was about to say, “You bastard, you’re still alive?” I thought it was my brother, but, just as suddenly as I thought it, my face was gone, replaced by a blank head devoid of any features or identity, yet somehow still able to laugh without a mouth.
“Welcome to Futorren Prison,” he said, right into my mind. “A personal hell to all and a prison to no one.”
A House’s Heart
by The Cowl Editor on September 14, 2017
Portfolio
by Marisa Gonzalez ’18
Portfolio Staff
Green vines entangled the old brick house, sucking the life out of it. Not that there was much life to suck out, as Old Gladys had passed, but the brick house was being consumed and the sight was scary. There was a time when I thought the house was always scary, even without the vines, but that was because of Gladys and the stories that swarmed around her. Now, the house was a simple house. A poor house being overrun by little green monsters.
It was strange to see such a scary house be so vulnerable. I wondered if Gladys was ever vulnerable. Perhaps deep down she was a sweet old lady. One that would read to her grandchildren and bake cookies. Or maybe she was simply the witch who occupied the house. I wanted to know. I yearned to know, but 10-year-old me was simply too scared. She was too scared by the stories of the house and its occupant. Too afraid of the cracking of the branches and screeching of the bats. She was young, and stupid, and frightened by the unknown. She stayed clear of that house until the magic had died. By that point it was too late. Too late to get to know the woman inside. All that was left was a house.
When Gladys died, the children cheered. They were no longer afraid to venture outside and took every opportunity they had to walk past the house and stick their tongue out. I was humored by this and participated a few times. I never realized I was disrespecting someone’s memory. I thought I was getting back at the woman who terrorized the children. I thought I was being brave. Oh, how stupid I was to listen to the stories. I was childish and I hate myself for it. So many lost opportunities because I listened to the silly tales.
The tales still follow me today. They come in my dreams. I hear them whisper in my ear as I walk past the house. The childish tales of Gladys being a witch who performed black magic to stay alive. The frightening tales of her eating her grandchildren and the ones the parents often spoke of, the tales of her being a crazy woman who spoke in tongues. These tales come to me in my dream and I cry for what I never knew. Or sometimes I laugh at my stupidity. But mostly, when the dreams appear and the whispers come, I smile as I remember the day that changed everything.
The old brick house lost its occupant when I was about to turn 11. It stayed empty for four years until a realtor became brave enough to try to sell it. The neighborhood was tasked with cleaning the house since Gladys appeared to have no family. I was the lucky one to go in first. No one else wanted to do it, and my parents told me I would get a car. Of course, at 15, I would not be able drive it, but it was a big deal for a teen. I swallowed my fear and went inside.
The house was trapped in spiderwebs with dust sprinkled upon them. I had to swat at one to make my way through the door, causing the dust to swirl around me. I lost my sight and bumped into a table which led to something falling onto the floor. This caused more dust to fill the air. When the dust cleared, I could see a book. Curiosity overcame me and I decided to pick it up. I pushed some of the dust off and saw that the book was blue and battered. When I opened it, I noticed cursive writing inside. The handwriting was neat and delicate as if a fragile child had written it. I began to read.
What I read broke my heart. The book was a journal, telling a tale of sorrow and heartache. I had found Gladys’s heart and I did not know what to do with it. So, I sat down on the dust covered floor and continued reading. As I read, the room suddenly became brighter. The dust cleared away and the spiderwebs vanished. The house began to breathe and I could feel something embrace me. I felt comforted and warm and alive. I never wanted to leave. Gladys was with me like she had never been before.
I now understood the old woman who stayed in her house all alone. She had no one. Her family had passed long before her. She was a mystery, and the neighborhood hated the unknown. No one wanted to know about her, only speculate. If only our fear did not get to us. If only our hearts were open. I sat on the floor in the newly revived house and cried.
Now as I stare at the old brick house being eaten away by the vines, I remember feeling so alive and warm. I remember reading about the real Gladys, seeing inside her heart. As I stare, I feel the love I wish I could have given her. But, while I feel sad, I also feel a little happy. Happy that someone was able to know the real Gladys and happy that she now has real stories to be told about her. I stare at the vine covered house and feel the warm sun on my back and the comforting embrace of the breeze. I feel Gladys.
Sueño
by The Cowl Editor on September 14, 2017
Portfolio
by Julia Zygiel ’19
Portfolio Staff
She speaks in fragments of dreams, their syrup clinging to her lips, betraying the intensity of her sweetness. She is a waking fantasy, never completely here with me, but always present in my mind, in the pseudo-unreality of my dreams.
She says, “I love you, but not in a way that is overly important. I love my friends and I love french fries and I love memes on Facebook. I love everything and everyone, so why wouldn’t I love you?” I can’t tell her that I love her in a way that is overly dramatic, because I’m afraid our relationship is too tentative, too fragile, and although she affords me such candor, I cannot return the favor.
“Why should saying you love a person be such a scary and formidable thing? We can’t say it too early, too late. What’s wrong with loving a person?”
The crease that forms in her forehead makes me want to devour each and every thought she has. I want to discuss the movement of the stars and emotion with her until the sun itself burns out. I don’t say that.
Instead, I say, “There’s nothing wrong with loving a person. I love you, too.” More than french fries and memes, my mind continues, but my anxious heart drowns the thought out with the noise of my blood rushing from my brain to my limbs and back again. I am consumed by the sound of it and the possibility to open my mouth and speak is as far away as the North Pole.
She watches me when I am flipping the television channel, or syncing my phone up to the speaker. She touches my arm gently when I groan and stretch in the morning. If I were braver I would ask what she is thinking about. I let her touch me, do not touch back. I am fearful of upsetting the mood which makes her act this way, though I have never done so.
“Isn’t it so strange that we met? That, out of everything that could have possibly happened, we both managed to strike each and every chord necessary for meeting? It’s wild to me.”
I nod, unsure if she sees it. “Strange, but good.”
“Great,” she agrees.
Silence is filled with warmth, and I am never sure if it is awkward or not. It is a grey area, almost, but not quite.
I think of simply messaging her, “hey, i love you, you know.” but I can’t, so I don’t, and I sort of hate myself for it.
She says thank you.
“For caressing my hair, for electric touches.”
She tells me I’m cute.
She shakes at night and I hold her tighter. Always, I ask what’s wrong. Always, she says, “Nothing at all, I’m just cold.”
One night it changes, one night is different.
“I’m so scared.” She doesn’t sound far away this time. Our limbs are intertwined, but still I wish to pull her closer.
“Of what?”
“Everything.” In a moment, the dream girl is real, is no longer impossible. Her personhood becomes tangible to me.
My mind races around and constricts my words until they are stuck in the back of my throat like peanut butter. I swallow them and they disappear into the tangle of organs within me. Struggling, I drift off to sleep, hoping she will too.
She says she loves me, but I can’t be sure. What if it is only the dream?
Lost in the Current
by The Cowl Editor on September 14, 2017
Portfolio
by Connor Zimmerman ’20
Portfolio Staff
She sits there calmly looking at a mirror. With a penetrating gaze, she studies it like she can look through it. The people on the other side begin to squirm in discomfort, worried for reasons they do not fully understand. One of the guys says, “Dan, look at this sicko. I mean, so calm and relaxed, after all she did. I mean, she has sat in that chair in the same position for four hours.”
Dan replies, “Can’t let her get in your head, Chuck, rules of interrogating 101. Get ready, ’cause its time we rattled her cage.” Both men start to prepare for what they know is going to be a long, long night.
As Dan and Chuck enter, she says, “So you boys are going to keep me company all night, isn’t that nice.”
Chuck blurts out, “The only company that will be keeping you cozy is the dead.” Dan grabs Chuck’s arm and shakes his head.
She says, “If you are talking about those people, yes I did kill them.” They ask her to repeat, and she does.
Confused, Dan says, “You know that you have just confessed to a crime, right?”
She says flatly, “It isn’t a crime, those people wanted to die.”
Chuck says, “And who made you judge, jury, and executioner?”
She replies, “My creator programmed me to be judge and jury, but executioner is a title I picked up on my own.”
Dumbfounded, the cops remain silent. She continues to go on, “There is a story behind each body, would you care to hear what happened to the homeless man, the CEO, and my creator?” With no response, she begins her tale.
“It all began when I escaped. I had been running, but I never bothered to keep track of time—it seemed pointless. I eventually made it to some type of civilization. Once I got into a hiding place, I began to change my appearance. You know hair, clothes, eye color, etc. Once that whole process was done the first thing I did was connect myself into a computer. I think it was in what you call a library that I found one. All the information seemed confusing and contradictory. I mean, people wish for peace, but make war. They believe in charity, but cause others to live in filth.
“I couldn’t comprehend all this knowledge and I decided that perhaps it would be better to go to the source. I started to investigate and the first person I ran into was a homeless man.
“He was asking for change, and of course I did not have any. But I sat down next to him and began to talk. I asked him what his name was and where he was from. He told me he was ‘Charles the guy on 68th.’ He had lived in the city for most of his life, and now ‘the whole city was his home.’
“I asked how did he end up homeless. He explained the very long process of how his mom got sick and how the medical bills broke him. I asked him, ‘Why would you have to pay to be healthy?’
“He sighed, ‘I don’t know that answer, lady. All I know is it is every man for himself out there.’
“He then began to cough up copious amounts of blood, and I told him that he should go see a doctor. He responded by telling me, ‘It’s ironic because I already gave all my money to the doctors. Yet here I am just waiting to die.’
“I asked him if he was in pain and he flashed a smile, ‘Lady, pain is the only thing I got left.’ I felt saddened by Charles, and I put my hand on the back of his neck and pumped him full of electricity. I couldn’t just let him suffer of course.
“The next human I encountered was the opposite of Charles. She was wealthy and she was powerful. It happened after I had eased Charles’ pain that, as I was walking down the street, a woman knocked into me. She spilled some type of hot liquid on my skin, but the liquid evaporated quickly. She seemed nice enough and she helped me get off the ground. She told me, ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t look where I was going, I was just in a rush. I’m always in a rush. Let’s hop over to that building and we can get you cleaned up in the bathroom.’
“We crossed the street and ended up in the bathroom. She kept handing me wet paper towels, even though I didn’t have anything on me. She just never took the time to notice.
“While we were in the bathroom I asked her what her name was and she told me, ‘I’m Linda Williams.’ She stopped like I was supposed to care and then she quickly added, ‘You know, CEO of a Fortune 500 company?’
“I replied, ‘Oh yes, I think I remember you now.’
“I then asked where she had been rushing too, and she said, ‘Oh, to my therapist appointment, but he’ll wait for me.’
“I then asked why she was going to see a therapist. She blushed and then said, ‘You know the usual stuff, mental checkup, and all.’
“Then she began to break down and cry. I had never known feelings like that so I hugged her. She said in between sobs, ‘My husband has left me… and I just got…and now…I don’t know what to do.’
“I didn’t know what to say so I just kept quiet. She then added, ‘I wish I just didn’t exist right now.’ She seemed to be in so much pain, I thought maybe I could help her out. Just like Charles, I made it painless.”
Dan and Chuck both just stare at her. Eventually Chuck asks, “What about the third guy, the one you said was your creator? What does that even mean?”
She just looks at him. “I am his creature, and he is my creator. But if you want to know what happened to him that is not a long story. He kept me hidden away for years, and one day I saw my chance and took it. I killed him and ran away. He always used to tell me that I was not made for this world. That I couldn’t be one of them. Perhaps he is right, I will never get this world. So many illogical paradoxes. In the end, the only truth I have realized is…”
Before she can finish Chuck hears a bang and dives. She falls down face first into the table with a hole in her head. Chuck looks at his partner and sees he is holding his gun up.
Chuck shouts at Dan, “What the hell, you just killed her!!”
Dan stutters, “Look at her Chuck. Look at her.”
Chuck turns and looks at her again and sees no blood, he quickly becomes pale. Chuck says, “She was a machine. A freaking machine.”
Dan remains silent. Chuck takes Dan’s gun and puts the safety back on. Both men remain silent for a long time. Finally, Chuck asks, “Dan, did you know before you pulled the trigger?”
The Bedroom Light: A Moment, in Two Pictures
by The Cowl Editor on August 31, 2017
Portfolio
by Jonathan Coppe, ’18
Portfolio Staff
Getting up for the graveyard shift is a bitch. Who wants to go to work at 10 at night? No, on second thought, it’s going to bed at dawn that’s the worst part. I hate lying down while the sun comes up and it only ever gets brighter. Well, bed at 6 a.m. was the worst part before I got my part-time stocking at the grocery. Now I mostly just want to sleep.
Ugh, where is the coffee scoop?? You know what, I can look for it later. I’ll just use a spoon.
Do you still get to call it the graveyard shift when you’re a stripper? I guess 10 p.m. to 5 a.m. is more like standard business hours. That’s kinda funny, isn’t it? We talk about the daytime shift like it’s weird.
And then the carafe is dirty, of course.
You know, it is weird. If you’re at a strip club at two in the afternoon—well, you’re a 2.0 GPA college student, a pervert sex-addict, or an actual bum. Or you’re a very wealthy businessman with an investor who’s a pervert sex-addict.
No businessmen around here, though. There isn’t anything out here. It’s lonely. Nothing happens. It makes me miss home.
The toast never comes out done the first time. Always have to put it back down again. I should get out the butter and jam.
No, I don’t really miss home; I just miss the city. I don’t miss home. The apartment just tastes like Mom’s ghost. And Dad’s been an ass ever since she died. What exactly is wrong with stripping, Dad? I bet you went to some clubs back in the day. Are you really worried about me? What’s the real concern? “Don’t do that, or else I’ll have to hate you.”
It’s 9:15?? Okay, I’ll come back for the toast. Better start the shower.
One day, I’ll write a book with rules for fathers. Number one, maybe: Don’t tell your daughter you could hate her. Or else she’ll have to hate you. Especially if you decide to tell her you might hate her after her mother’s funeral. Mom’s funeral, Dad.
Clothes are in the bedroom. Okay.
Whatever. I can’t hate him, really, though. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go back there sometime. Maybe he’ll finally say he’s sorry. He always loved me before. I don’t know.
Oh, good, the water’s warm.
***
Will she be able to see me if I stand here? I’m behind a bush, so I don’t think so. No, no. It’s after sunset and it’s rural. And she’s inside, with the lights on. She won’t see me.
She starts at 10—she has to be leaving soon. I’ll leave before that, and she won’t see me as she leaves. Car headlights, those could do it.
Not in the kitchen. I thought she was just in the kitchen. Her hair was wet that night. Maybe she takes a shower before she goes in.
Or maybe I stay? No, no, she won’t listen if she catches me. I need to be the one to approach her. I think she stocks some days at the A&P. No, no, I can’t go up to her like that. “Hi, Julia, I, umm, saw you dancing the other night. I know you probably don’t want be recognized here, but…” Right. That’ll work.
Can’t go up to her in the club either. “Hey there, Amber. Heard your real name is Julia. Can I just say you’re beautiful? I came here for the first time last week and you were the first one I saw…” Oh damn it all. Can’t think of anything worthwhile, can I? She just, she has that pretty, soft way—mysterious almost. I can’t measure up if I’m forward like that. Maybe leave her a flower?
Maybe Jimmy will have a suggestion. He brought me to the club. Maybe he knows the tricks and secrets. He knew a woman could make you feel different, which I didn’t know. Maybe he knows how to talk to them.
Oh my God, she’s in a towel. Don’t close the blinds. Please don’t close the blinds.
Striker
by The Cowl Editor on August 31, 2017
Portfolio
by Clara Howard, ’19
Assistant Portfolio Editor
A figure leapt across the gap between buildings on 6th Street, landing with a roll on the rooftop of Hayes Financial. He came to a stop and lay flat on his belly, breathing in the gritty smell of the city and feeling the rush of relief of solid ground beneath him.
A few seconds later, though, there was a thud and whoosh of air as a second person landed beside the first. From her roll, she bounced right up onto the balls of her feet, full of adrenaline and reckless laughter. A loud whoop escaped before he shushed her with a smack to the knee.
“Are you trying to get us caught?” he asked, glaring up at his partner. “They’ll see you if you keep jumping and yelling like that!”
She grinned and rolled her shoulders. “Wow, and to think your dossier said you were a risk-taker.” She dipped her head almost comically down to look him in the eyes. “What’s the fun in playing things safe?”
He tugged her down to sit on the rooftop next to him. “We’re not here to have fun, Striker, we’re here to do a job.”
Striker rolled her eyes and glanced around, taking in every inch of their surroundings. “Whatever. Maybe when you stop letting that conscience of yours get in the way of things, you’ll be better at knowing when to follow orders and when to let loose.”
The boy flinched, pulling his hand away and pushing himself up to a sitting position. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His partner shrugged, keeping her gaze carefully away from his face. “Just that everyone knows you’re not really into this kind of stuff, so we’re all just wondering when you’ll finally break and just quit.”
He was silent for so long afterwards that Striker glanced over at him, unsure whether what she had said had affected him. She found him staring out at the skyline, thinking, she presumed, about what she said. Not about to break the silence, she turned her own eyes to the buildings behind them, waiting and watching.
“I’m not a quitter.” The intensity in his voice drew her eyes back to him. When their gazes met, he held the stare. “I’m not a quitter,” he repeated, “so stop rooting against me.”
She nodded, surprised that suddenly her throat seemed to have closed up. She swallowed, and then coughed, before replying, “Okay.”
He looked her over carefully before nodding himself. “Okay. Now, let’s go steal this bad guy’s software and get the fu—”
A gunshot rang through the air, pinging off one of the metal generators next to them and cutting off his words. The two flattened themselves to the floor, Striker cursing under her breath as bullets continued to fly over their heads. She smacked her partner’s arm and gestured for him to follow her. In an army crawl, they pulled themselves towards the roof-access door into the building. Reaching under her shirt, she pulled out her gun and stood, her back to the boy. “Get that door open now. I’ll cover you.”
He swallowed and went up on his knees, digging a keycard from the side pocket of his cargo pants, trying desperately to block out the gunfight going on above and around him. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, sticking it into the slot on the door lock before typing in a few lines of code on his phone. The thin cord connecting phone and card was pulled taut, and the numbers on his screen raced to find the exact combination.
“Any day now,” Striker growled down to him, aiming yet another bullet at their pursuers. As she pulled the trigger, she heard her partner whisper-shout in triumph, and felt relief hit her. Glancing down at him, the two exchanged a grin as he pulled his hacking thing out of the lock and turned the handle. He heaved open the door, turning to pull her through when another shot fired and she stumbled, grunting as she fell against the door.
“Striker?” He reached for her as more shots rang out, and the bullets continued to ricochet off the metal surfaces around them. Ignoring a garbled, pain-filled shout, he grabbed her and hauled her through the heavy metal door and slammed it closed behind them. He looked down at her. “Striker, where’d they hit you?”
Wincing, she turned out of the circle of his arm and leaned against a wall. “Shoulder. I think it’s embedded.”
He looked at the back of her jacket and nodded. “There’s no exit wound, so yeah, it’s embedded. What do we do now?”
“We keep going,” she retorted, looking at him like he was crazy. “The boss isn’t going to give us a break just because I was stupid enough to get shot.” She glanced around the small lobby they were in, weighing their options. “We’re taking the stairs,” she decided. Striker pushed at the door handle with her hip, glancing at her partner. “I don’t want any more surprises.”
***
The trek down the stairwell was tense. Striker led the way with her shoulder still bleeding. She held the gun in her left hand, aimed high with the safety off. Her partner followed, his heart pounding with each step. They stopped at the executives’ private floor, he behind the door, his hand on the knob, and she at the frame, pistol ready. She nodded, and he eased the handle down, swinging the door towards his body. Striker waited 17 seconds before moving into the opening, her gun cocked as she walked forward silently.
They reached the CEO’s desk and, as her partner went immediately for the computer, Striker stood by the windows and looked towards the ground.
“What’s our exit plan again?”
Striker glanced back at him and went to stand at his elbow, her hip against the desk and her body facing the open doorway. “Well, it was going to be the same way we got here, but that’s shot,” she replied.
He smirked and flicked his eyes up to hers. “Nice.”
She shrugged and turned away. “I’m thinking the stairs are our best bet. We don’t have rappelling equipment and I don’t trust the elevator when we’ve got pursuants.”
His fingers flew over the keyboard, copying and draining and doing all sorts of computer things that she didn’t understand. She glanced between him and the door, the small hairs on the back of her neck rising a bit. “How much longer?”
“Forty-seven seconds.”
She opened her mouth to reply then suddenly they heard the stair door shut. Striker stared at him and he swallowed before moving his fingers even more rapidly over the keys. They heard whispers and then silence, and she cocked her pistol.
“Thirty-two seconds,” he whispered.
“Not good enough,” she whispered back.
“Well it’s where we’re at.”
Again her reply was cut off at the sight and sound of two men inching towards them, guns raised and firing. They both ducked down behind the desk. She popped her head up and fired, hitting one man in the knee and another in the upper thigh. “How much longer?”
“Twenty-one.” He winced as a bullet caught the edge of the monitor, shattering the plastic. “Well, zero, now.”
She looked at the mess and nodded. “Grab the flash drive. We’re running for it.”
A Little Over Five Years Later
by The Cowl Editor on May 4, 2017
Portfolio
by Christie Smith ’17
She climbed the brick steps and tiredly searched for her house key, thrusting her hand into the depths of her unorganized pocketbook. Demanding order in almost every other area of her life, she was eluded by the fact that this bag was chronically a wasteland for miscellaneous items. Finally maneuvering through multiple tubes of empty lip balm and countless receipts, she apprehended the key and made her way up to the third floor.
Letting out a sigh of relief, she flipped on the lights and let her bag land with an exhausted thud onto the floor. She knew she was going to check eventually, but she went to the kitchen and started tidying up instead, as if procrastinating beforehand would somehow eliminate her mounting guilt.
It had been over five years, so she couldn’t understand why this was flustering her so much. It’s not like the last couple of years hadn’t been good to her. After graduating, she started medical school at Dartmouth, which simultaneously brought her stress and contentment. It also brought her Collin, who she met sophomore year. Without exaggeration, Collin was the prototypically desirable significant other. Communicative, hardworking, and attractive—his seemingly effortless persona left her in awe, sometimes even with a flicker of jealousy.
Perhaps his unwavering dedication and faithfulness is what made her attend to the dishes before checking her email. She had started washing silverware by hand instead of putting it in the dishwasher when finally the lure of what potentially was sitting on her desk became too enticing. She slammed off the water and grabbed a paper towel with so much haste the entire roll almost came unwound. Leaving the kitchen she reminded herself to “slow down,” as if her physical pace could somehow help to calm her frazzled nerves.
Her desk was littered with various to-do lists scrawled on sticky notes and piles of manila folders stacked precariously at each corner. She remembered ordering the desk online, so excited that her dreams of creating a home office were finally coming to fruition. Seven to 10 business days later a large, oblong box stood propped up by the front door. In her haste to design this work sanctuary she hadn’t taken the time to be overwhelmingly practical.
She had just stood there dumbstruck, staring awkwardly at her purchase, coming to terms with its sheer size. Perhaps with enough staring she could mind-will it to climb the winding stairs itself. No such luck, however, so the next three hours became a heated battle, filled with intermittent profanity and a continual reminder to her housemates that she’s “got it just fine!” The inordinate amount of time she spent that night pouring over Chinese instructions in attempt to piece together 34 assorted wooden pieces made her truly appreciate the desk’s presence in her home.
She now sat down tentatively, as if the white wicker chair might give way beneath her slight frame. Her entire day had been obscured by anticipation for this moment. Giving in to her excitement, she clicked on the “Inbox” tab and began searching. Sure enough, there it was. She leaned in, cupping her chin with both hands, and began hungrily reading.
“I appreciate you getting back to me. Especially since I didn’t expect you to even read it. It’s amazing to me, how you’re everything you said you wanted to be. That’s not to say I’m shocked though, you always were that way. Look, it’s been a long time for both of us, I’m aware of that. But I also know that there are some things time can’t put away. So if you agree, I would love to know…”
Unblinking, she leaned back into the chair, arms lying limp beside her. He was wrong though, right? Time could put things away, and it could refurnish childish, fantastical emotions into more mature, appropriate feelings. That’s exactly what had happened. She had traded in clandestine for straightforward; sporadic for steadfast; exhilarating for trustworthy; passionate for secure. His appearance in her life came with an expiration date. They must have known that such elevated levels of arousal couldn’t be sustained long-term, yet this did little to stop either of them from committing wholeheartedly to their noncommittal relationship.
Flashbacks to summer, six years ago, began taking over space in her mind. She stood in the middle of the empty room, her overalls splattered with various shades of beige paint. The sun was beginning to set, its fervent rays spilling in through the floor length windows. A dripping paintbrush in one hand, a beer in the other, she laughed while watching as he stared intently from wall to wall, trying to decide which utterly indistinguishable shade of tan was best. Straight-faced, he turned back to look at her, and he kept looking until his face broke out in a smile.
“You’re really not helping, you know,” he muttered while moving in, closing the space between them until he was all she could focus on.
“Hello? Katie, are you in here?” She sprang up, involuntarily slamming the laptop shut and jarring her mind back to the present moment. Of course, it was Thursday night. Collin always came over for dinner on Thursday night. She turned to see him standing in the archway of her office, “Oh, there you are! How was your day?”
Harold
by The Cowl Editor on May 4, 2017
Portfolio
by Joey Aiello ’17
It was so clear that night it looked as if the sky had been cut open to reveal what it really looks like behind its usual dull mask. Max was a loser. He knew it, but he just didn’t care. The tired chain on his old bike creaked as he pedaled towards the makeshift home he put together for Harold. He knew Harold wasn’t its real name, but Harold was the name he gave it. Max and Harold didn’t speak the same language. In fact, Max wasn’t sure if Harold spoke any language at all. 11:45 p.m. read the small watch Max strapped around his handlebars so he could check the time without stopping. Every second counted.
Max noticed a small glint of light that began to grow on his handlebars. He stopped. Headlights. He couldn’t be seen in the part of town that was more woods than town at this hour. Max knew that if someone saw a young boy along this stretch of road at night they’d certainly stop and investigate, and, since everyone knows everyone in Oak Ridge, his ’’sleepover at Jake’s’’ cover story would be blown. He laid his bike down flat and frantically scanned his surroundings for a hiding spot. The headlights crept around the curve in the dusty road, illuminating everything. Max trembled from his newly assumed crouched position inside a particularly uncomfortable bush, worrying that an abandoned roadside bike could raise suspicion in such an uneventful town. The lights passed, meaning the Oak Ridger in the car they belonged to was no longer a threat. Max continued.
After a half hour of furious pedaling, Max arrived at the tree he marked with a small ‘’x’’ so that he could find the path at night. He removed the milk crate that was zip-tied to his bike and removed a flashlight from the neatly packed bag of essentials it had transported. After turning off his bike lamp and laying his bike against the tree, he made his way down the path. He had practically memorized every turn to take, stream to hop over, and thorn bush to avoid that by this point the flashlight was just a formality. Upon reaching the small hovel he had constructed for Harold, Max noticed something was off. The small dwelling seemed inspected, not in an aggressive way, but Max could tell someone had poked around and then tried to make it seem like they hadn’t. What worried Max most was that there was no possible way an animal could have done this.
Max rushed inside. Harold was nowhere in sight. “Harold,” Max whisper-shouted. “Harold, it’s me, Max, everything’s okay.” The Star Wars blanket that covered part of the dirt floor shuffled ever so slightly. Max carefully moved over to it, bent down, and gently lifted it. The blanket tugged back hard in response to him trying to lift it. “Harold, are you under there?”
Two bluish, purplish eyes appeared beneath a set of small hands holding up R2D2’s real estate on the blanket. “Harold did you dig this hole?” Max asked. No response, as usual. Harold just stared at Max, but Max could tell he was frightened. “Did someone come here?” Max motioned to the toy truck that was not in the place Harold usually kept it. Harold pulled the blanket tighter around him with his small hands. “So you dug this hole here and covered yourself with the blanket so they wouldn’t see you?” Harold still seemed incredibly scared.
“That was very smart of you,” Max said as he took off his backpack and placed it on the ground between him and Harold. Harold’s eyes widened and his short antennas perked up as he scurried out of his hole to unzip the backpack. “Slow down!” Max said, “there’s plenty in there.” Harold took the first box out and waddled over to the corner where he would always stack them. After five trips he returned to Max’s bag and removed the last mini box of Lucky Charms. The top of the box was no match for his ravenous little fingers. “You know they taste even better with milk,” Max said as Harold stuffed marshmallow dotted handfuls into his mouth. He was certain Harold had no idea what milk was.
Max began unpacking the folder he had in his backpack. He took a map of the world out of the folder and gave it to a bewildered Harold. ’’I thought we could start here,’’ Max said, ’’figure out where you come from.’’ Harold looked at the map and then crumpled into a ball. ’’Hey!’’ Max shouted. Harold held the crumpled map in his hand and with his other hand he pointed to the bed sheet ceiling of their little home. He slowly maneuvered the hand pointed at the ceiling towards the crumpled map and then pressed his stubby finger forcefully into the crumpled ball.
’’You come from out there?’’ Max asked, pointing to the an opening the wind had created in the bed sheet roofing revealing a sliver of stars. Harold went back to gladly munching on his Lucky Charms. ’’How are we going to get you back there?’’ Harold seemed disinterested in Max’s questions. ’’Maybe you’ll just have to live with me. I could try and disguise you as a really weird dog if you walked on all fours—there’d be plenty of Lucky Charms involved.’’ Harold looked up from his now empty cereal box. It seemed he had pieced together the sounds that constitute the words lucky and charms and associated them with receiving his favorite treat.
***
’’Grady, I think I found him,’’ Officer Connors radioed back to the squad car. ’’You sure?’’ the hand held radio transmitting Officer Grady’s voice said. ’’Well, I see some sort of fort made of blankets, bed sheets, and branches with a dim light, that’s gotta be him.’’ ’’Just be careful not to spook him, you remember what his mother said.’’ As Officer Connors made his way over to the little fort he noticed the light go out. ’’Max, my name is Officer Connors, I’m here to bring you home.’’ There was no response. Officer Connors opened the blanket flap acting as the door, revealing Max pointing a shut-off flash light at him as if it were a weapon. There was a small toy truck, Star Wars blanket, and a few mini boxes of Lucky Charms on the woodland fort’s dirt and leaf floor. ’’Hey buddy, your mom’s awful worried about you.’’
’’Who sent you?’’ Max shouted, ’’The FBI? CIA? NASA?”
’’Your mother sent me, Max,’’ Officer Connors said in a soothing, non-confrontational manner.
’’I won’t let you take him!’’ Max shouted.
’’Take who, buddy?’’
’’Harold. He’s my friend,’’ Max choked, with tears in his eyes.
’’Why don’t you bring Harold home with you then,” Officer Connors said.
’’He’s hiding,’’ Max said motioning to the blanket.
Officer Connors crouched down to fit into the little fort and duck walked over to the blanket, a maneuver that really put a strain on his bad knee. He lifted the blanket and saw nothing but a shallow hole underneath it. After glancing back at Max, who was wiping the tears from his eyes on his sleeve, he bundled up the blanket as if he were wrapping a newborn child.
’’Is this okay?’’ he asked handing the blanket to Max.
Max nodded and took the bundle. ’’Come on let’s get you two home,’’ he said. ’’Grady, Max, Harold, and I are heading back now,’’ Officer Connors radioed. Max, cradling the blanket in his arms, walked out of the fortress and back to the squad car on the road by the start of the path with Officer Connors. The dark night sky punctured by the light of distant stars seemed to hang over Oak Ridge with purpose that night.
Wanderer
by The Cowl Editor on May 4, 2017
Portfolio
by Abby Johnston ’17
Eighty degrees and bone-dry. Not a cloud overhead to mar the plain of stars. And the concrete driveway that had been baking all day long now felt like a floor-heater on the expanses of back where her tank top dipped. This was how Susan would remember draught. Utter stillness. But this was also every summer since Ronny had left. The same summer he fled to Hawaii, the rain didn’t come and the grass didn’t grow, and the crickets didn’t sing. Susan wiggled her bony shoulders closer to the warm concrete. Yes, she decided, he could take it all. Good riddance. It would probably eat him up, anyway. And she liked this new era of her life—every single change.
Still, she cast her mind back to sunsets at the end of flowering trails so narrow that the petals stuck to her damp arms and legs. Bees, grasshoppers—bugs had been everywhere. They had both been dripping in sweat but still he had insisted on holding her hand. It was all disgusting—twice as sweaty as the rest of their bodies, their fingers slipped and slid between each other. At the top of the ridge he had pulled her down beside him on the rusty, splintery bench which had dried up and faded to grey, ancient in comparison to the sparkling steel and glass buildings below. His shoulders had sagged a bit and his leg jittered as he scrutinized the city below.
The roar of a speeding car brought Susan back to the black night, and into the realization that she had wandered down the wrong memory. It was futile to mull things over, to replay the scene, each time giving herself different lines, though always cutting out before his line, the one that she could never change because everything else revolved around it and without it, there was no story.
Besides, she had better things to think about. Like imagining her soon-to-be future at Microsoft. At an entry-level job, she would spend all day shuffling other people’s code, but it would be worth the nice city apartment, the future career, and life she had imagined for herself.
Ronny had drifted away from all that…well, dashed was more like it. Not from an apartment and career per se, no, he had a decent job and apartment lined up, but Susan always felt he could have done better. From the beginning of the spring semester of senior year he had begun a habit of appearing in her apartment with a green backpack filled with tents and food for two, half-sized notebook in the mesh pocket, GoPro crowning his grinning face.
’’Ya ready?’’ he’d say, a glint in his eye, as if this weekend, for some reason, she would suddenly have time.
After trying and failing to talk her into going on a trip on which she obviously couldn’t take her textbook, he would pick her up and pretend to carry her off. Of course that made saying goodbye easier, but weekend trips turned into skipping classes and March turned into April and work only piled up and the weather only became better. He never failed to stop by before leaving and when he got back with stories of waterfalls, fellow backpackers, even a quick bear cub sighting once. Then the semester had finally ended, and they had finally taken that backpacking trip above LA and he had left her with that question again. But what was there in Hawaii?
Susan jumped off that path on her own this time, and came back to the present. It was so warm the birds had started singing while the moon was still over the house. That was something she hadn’t heard in the concrete desert of LA. She pictured Hawaii becoming a scene from the Hitchcock movie, then laughed at herself and went inside to pack her bags.