Tag: short story
Haunted
by The Cowl Editor on October 25, 2018
Portfolio
by Sarah Kirchner ’21
The man has been following me for months now. He’s everywhere I go, and I don’t know if I should be getting more
One morning, I tried to yell at him to leave me alone. I told him that I can’t fix what has happened, and he knows that. Of course he knows that, but instead of leaving me alone, he continues to haunt me. He waits for me by my window and watches. He’s waiting for me to slip up. I tell him it won’t happen anytime soon, but he doesn’t answer. He just watches me, because he knows he’s right.
I was over that night. The night that ruined it all. It was a night that ruptured everything about my life, and I have been forcing myself to forget it all since. Her face. Her blonde curls. The pink sweater. The glass and blood. I try to forget it all, and I had until he appeared.
“Hey Charlie!” My neighbor calls and waves from his driveway. He’s walking to his car to head to work as he always does, and I stand on my walkway getting the newspaper.
“Hi there!” I try to remain calm and act as if the man is not 10 feet behind me. Henry doesn’t see him, but he knows I do. It’s hard to miss me always looking over my shoulder and wincing whenever he appears in front of me. My eyes look to the shadowy bushes. He’s watching from behind, and my body quivers.
“It’s a cold one today!” Henry continues with the small talk.
Suddenly, my heart grows colder. I gasp and frosty mist follows my breath. The man walks by me and brushes my shoulder. My stomach lurches, and I hold it to calm myself down.
“It’s messing with my body,” I whisper to myself. Henry doesn’t hear me and looks at me as he opens his car door.
“You okay, Charlie?” He asks. His eyes are stern, and I know he just saw what happened to me.
“Just the cold air!” I say back to him. “My body isn’t used to it yet.” I try to laugh it off and appear fine, but I know that doesn’t register. My problems are too big to be ignored, and the truth is that the cold air has been messing with me since that horrible night long ago.
“It’ll get better,” Henry reassures me. I nod and give him a smile and a wave as he finally gets into his car.
The man keeps watching me from the street, and I grow colder with every stare he sends my way. Henry’s car rolls out of the driveway and onto the street. The man doesn’t move and the car drives right into him. I softly yell out, but he’s no longer there. Instead, the man is back by me on the front stoop. He’s dripping in blood and it’s staining the concrete. With every drip, my body twitches. The thick red blood seeps further across the stoop. My heart pulls again as I notice the gash stretching down his cheek. I touch my cheek and feel the scar that I have in the same place.
“How are you still alive?” I ask him, but he doesn’t answer. He vanishes without a word.
I run for my house. My mind races and everything begins to blur together. I have to get away from him. He’s ruining my life, and I can no longer handle his long stares and cold touch. I head for the bedroom and franticly pull out a duffle bag. He watches from the hall and my heart beats faster. Without even looking at my clothes, I throw things into my bag.
“Get out!” I scream. “Get out!” My body shakes, and I look down at my bag. Slowly, blood begins to appear on my clothes. Dark red blotches stain my entire bag. I let out another scream. Everything is ruined by his presence.
Frustrated, I throw my bag at the wall. The wall turns to a shade of red and the man emerges in front of me, still disheveled from the car accident. “Leave me alone!” I scream, for what felt like the 100th time. My voice feels hoarse. Screw it, I think and head for the front door again. I was going to get away from the man once and for all. I quickly swipe the keys from my kitchen table and run to the car. As I sprint, the entire house becomes splattered with what looks like blood. The thick liquid falls to the floor from the walls and ceiling. It discolors the hardwood floor and soaks into the furniture. From the stairs, I hear whispers. It’s him. He’s speaking for the first time, but I don’t stay to hear what he has to say.
I reach the car and fling myself into the drivers seat. My fingers stumble, as I turn the key and change gears. I look back to my house, the man is standing in the doorway. My house has become a dripping mess of blood. It looks like a slaughterhouse, and I am its victim. I floor the gas and peel out of the driveway in a panic. I’m going to escape from the man today; there is no other option.
As I drive, the sky turns dark. I blink again. It was light out a second ago. The sun was shining, but now it’s gone. The sky is black, and there doesn’t seem to be another soul on the road. I shrug away the thought and continue down the road. An empty road means I get away faster, and that’s what I need. I quickly turn down another street and step down harder on the gas.
It’s too late by the time I notice the car. My eyes trick me, and suddenly it’s light out again. It briefly blinds me, and that’s when it hits me in full force. The car flips sideway and I smack into the steering wheel. The windshield shatters and a shard of glass reopens the scar on my cheek. I scream out in pain, and that’s when I see him. He stands in front of the car as it continues to flip. Everything begins to slow down, and I can make out the scene more clearly.
She’s next to him. She’s next to me. Her blonde hair and pink sweater. She looks just how she did before we got into that car accident last autumn. My heart lurches at the sight of her. I was supposed to die that night. Not her. But tonight, I’m rewriting the past. I’m dying the way I was supposed to last year. Car mangled and me covered in blood.
The car flips one more time, and everything goes black.
The Greatest Lesson
by The Cowl Editor on May 3, 2018
Portfolio
by David Martineau ’18
High atop the windswept peak of a nameless mountain, a young man dressed in heavy furs pulled himself up onto a jagged ledge and rose unsteadily to his feet. Clearing snow and frost from his eyes, he blinked against the driving wind towards the entrance of the cave that yawned before him. A wave of disbelief and vindication surged through him at what he had done, keeping his frostbitten limbs warm enough to press on. He had traveled many miles, crossing hills and valleys and rivers, all to find this place. This legendary cavern was said to be the dwelling place of a great hermit, a master monk who, supposedly, knew the secrets that all men wished to know.
Beyond the entrance to the cave, the howling storm outside seemed to fade into nonexistence, all sound of it driven away by the oppressive quiet of the cavern’s walls of stone. Cupping his hands before his mouth to warm them with his breath, the young man surveyed the interior of the cave with a quick glance. It was completely dark, except for a small point of flickering light that emanated from a single candle, the only object in the cavern that was man-made. Seated behind the candle, his face obscured by a hooded robe, was a man of indeterminate age. Despite the solemnity of his surroundings, the young man felt himself smile. He approached the monk with solemn steps, kneeling before the candle and waiting to be addressed.
To his surprise, the monk said nothing. His shadowed face was silent as the minutes dragged on. When the cold was beginning to threaten the young man with madness, he finally broke the decorum of the moment and said, “Great Master…I have been searching for you.”
The monk lifted his hooded eyes with a surprisingly ungraceful jerk, and then he said, “Oh…hello there. You seem to have caught me while I was asleep.”
The young man felt his confusion and astonishment increase. This was hardly how he had expected his journey of enlightenment to begin, with a grueling hike and a sleeping monk. Nevertheless, he pressed on. “They say you are the master who knows the greatest secrets of the universe,” he said.
“They? Who’s they?” the monk asked. “Is it that farmer from the village—what was his name? You shouldn’t listen to him. He once tried to sell me a bucket of apples for three times their average price.”
The young man shook his head. “What? I’m not talking about any farmer. I’m talking about the greatest mystics and scholars in the world. They all say that you are the wisest monk who ever lived, that you have discovered the mystery of life. I came here because I want you to teach me!”
The monk tilted his head slightly. “And why would you want to do that?”
“What do you mean, why?” the young man sputtered, now getting frustrated. “Don’t you think that I’d like to know the meaning of life?”
The monk shrugged. “I don’t know. Is it really that important to you?”
The young man couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Yes! It’s very important to me!”
“Why?”
For the first time since he had begun the conversation, the young man found himself forced to pause. He had never really considered why he had gone on the journey of self-discovery that had led him here, to what was supposed to be the wisest man on Earth. His life was not much different than anyone else he had known back home. All of his friends were just like him—newly-graduated, thrust into the large world outside their narrow perspectives with just enough preparation to inform them of how hopelessly unprepared they were, and utterly uncertain of what was to happen in the future.
The thought of that happening to him had been enough to make him flee from it to join missionary groups, charitable organizations, and anything else that could forestall the inevitable burden of reality that threatened to crush him, even now. Turning back to the monk, he said, “I don’t know. I guess…I guess I just want to know that there’s a reason for it all.”
The monk chortled quietly. “And you had to come all the way up here to realize that?”
“What do you mean?”
The monk leaned forward, and the young man—for just an instant—caught the barest outlines of a face that was like every other face he had ever known. “Son,” the monk said, “there’s a reason for everything that exists, for everything that you do. The reason is what you make of it all. Life isn’t about finding the truth. It’s about looking for it.”
The young man couldn’t help but feel disappointed.
“So…that’s it?” he asked. “All of that questioning, wondering what’s right and wrong? I did it all just to find out that the meaning of life is not to know the meaning of life?”
The monk smiled. “I know…annoying, isn’t it?”
The young man grimaced angrily. “It’s more than annoying!” he burst out. “It’s infuriating!”
“It will be,” the monk said. “For a while. But then you’ll see that it’s actually freeing. The meaning is always out of reach, so you have to make your own while you’re here. It’s not about finding the ‘right way’ to do something, the absolute key to living your life. It’s about trying, and failing, and using that failure to succeed the next time. Do you think that you can do that?”
The young man looked at the ground for a moment. “I…I think so.”
“Good!” said the monk. “Then I guess we’re done here.”
The young man rose, feeling both exhausted and enlivened. Turning towards the entrance of the cave, he began to leave, only to turn back and ask one more question. To his shock, he found that the monk was gone, candle and all, as if he had never existed. The young man looked around, uncertain, and then took a deep breath before starting the climb down.
Perhaps, he thought, some questions are better left unanswered.
Gilded: Two Stories
by The Cowl Editor on April 19, 2018
Portfolio
by Jonathon Coppe ’18
I.
Noah Donahue looked at an icon.
The church he had entered was kept quite dim. It lit up and down by alcoves of warm candlelight illuminating the side chapels of icons and statuettes, so that the nave—with its vast greenish-grey vaulted ceiling—held only a bare and fragile light. The effect was haunting. As one looked up at that high ceiling, its pale shadowiness, carrying flickers of light like waves on an ocean, seemed almost delicate, like paper—or unreal, even.
But somehow it seemed more real than the icon. When Noah looked in front of him at the Virgin Mary after staring for a long time at the ceiling, he felt a familiar tension. He strove in vain to find something in its face: compassion, drive, knowledge, determination, courage, tenderness, rapture… He could find nothing, and its eyes fixed forward, toward nothing, for no reason, with no reaction.
Could a human face feel like less alive than a dark stone ceiling?
Noah’s heart folded in on itself that night as he answered that: yes, yes it could.
He rose from his prie-dieu with a sigh and started toward the exit. Before he left, he looked once more at the ceiling, and, as the distant light of the candle flames danced in waves upon it, he smiled to see that it was alive. He cried for just a moment, and left.
II.
Nyle Osmund woke up to terrible light.
He coughed and tried to swallow but his mouth was sandpaper. No use.
He had been dreaming that he was at a party in the daytime, outdoors with beer and smiles and a big barbecue buffet. But someone whose face didn’t quite exist had been following him at every moment. He always felt this faceless figure watching him but whenever he turned he was nowhere to be seen. When he finally turned and caught him, he saw his face and discovered that he had woken up into the terrible, terrible light of the 10 a.m. sunshine.
He coughed again and found that he was naked in a hotel room and that he was not naked alone. A smooth, tan female back with a river of straight brunette hair lay next to him, face and breasts down on the mattress. He ran a hand through his own curly, dirty-blonde hair (he spent probably too much money on realistic blonde highlights). He sat up.
God, look at her breathing.
He watched her shapely and tender back go up and down, up and down, up and down. He began to breathe more calmly himself. His nightmare disappeared. He would not recall it again.
He could remember only the vaguest things about her. There had been something—someplace with colorful lights—blues and purples. Her eyes were blackish brown, she wore a black leather jacket.
There was no doubt it had been a wild night, but now she was asleep, and her back heaved up and down with her breath. Even the terrible light that woke him up had softened into peace and even love.
He thought for a moment about staying.
But if I don’t remember, who’s to say she will?
And he realized it was probably better that he go. If she didn’t remember and she didn’t want him (“I’m not really a big charmer. I have to get pretty drunk before….”), well… No, it was better to go.
He leaned over to the bedside stand and scrawled out his phone number. “Call me.” He sketched a winking smile beside it. He knew it wouldn’t be answered. He was leaving her, after all.
He crept carefully out of bed without waking her. “Thank God.” (He lamented in his heart that he hadn’t woken her.) He found his clothes and put them on. Reaching the door, he looked back at her beautiful frame. Still her shoulders moved up and down, up and down. He smiled to see that she, at least, was alive. He cried for just a moment, and left.
Snow
by The Cowl Editor on April 19, 2018
Portfolio
by David Martineau ’18
“It’s really cold out today!” I said, my hands trembling as I stuffed them in the pockets of my thin coat. Beside me, Johnny walked with his head lowered in a sullen silence. He had been unusually quiet since we left school, but I didn’t bother to ask why, because I already knew.
“We’re not going to get caught, you know,” I said after a few moments. When he didn’t answer, I added, “Besides, what were we supposed to do? The next tram wasn’t for an hour. Do you want Mom and Dad to worry?”
Johnny shot me a glower, the same look he’d give me whenever I jokingly reached for a classroom window during school hours, even though we both knew that they couldn’t open. For identical twins, we certainly weren’t much alike—Johnny had always been more serious than me, and much more concerned with The Regulations. I knew from the moment we snuck out of the tram depot that he was poring over The Rulebook in his head, trying to determine exactly what punishment we’d be facing if we were caught.
I sympathized with his concerns, if only slightly, and sure, I could understand the Sovereignty’s decree, at least from an objective standpoint. Our tutors had always been careful to instruct us in what they called “Correct Compliance,” which is basically just another way of saying, “Follow The Rulebook,” which had been set up soon after the Sovereignty rose to power in the wake of the Great Extinction. Because the human race had become so small, it was necessary to ensure that all healthy offspring reached maturity without complications, so that they could restore human society to its former strength.
Our tutors knew better than most of us what the consequences of being noncompliant were, so they did their damned best to make sure that they weren’t liable for any “errors” we made. I never really paid attention to their lectures on following The Rulebook. All I bothered listening to were their two main points: “Never instigate or respond to physical violence,” and “Never go outside.”
I liked to joke around with Johnny, and so whenever I got the chance, I pretended to be on the brink of breaking The Regulations. Moving to jump out of a window, escape through an air vent, or mime a punch in his or another’s direction always got me the same glare of disapproval.
This time, though, there was no joking around. I almost couldn’t believe it when he had agreed to sneak out of the depot with me, even though I argued quite logically that the distance between the depot and our house was short enough that we could walk it in far less time than it would take to wait for the next tram. I wasn’t going to wait an hour to get home just because our last health seminar got out late when I could take a short walk outside and make it there in half the time.
As we kept walking, I could see that Johnny was getting nervous. He had probably moved on to Phase Two of his usual ruminations, in which he pondered not only the immediate consequences of noncompliance, but its long-term effects on our eligibility and status. That was another common lecture in our health seminars, where it was stressed that even the most innocuous of errors could result in lasting damage to our bodies, which would lessen our appeal as “progenitors of the revived human race.” A major noncompliance—like the one we were committing right now—could affect our rank in the selection process, in which young men and women are paired together for the purposes of procreation. Johnny, being the stickler that he was, couldn’t tolerate the thought of being considered unappealing as a mate.
I had to snap him out of the mood he was in—after all, if he grew sullen enough, he might just rat us both out to our parents when we got home. Looking around, my eyes fell on the ground, which was covered by a layer of snow that had fallen overnight. Grinning, I bent over as I walked, scooped up a handful of the frigid snow, and tossed it casually at Johnny. “Heads up, sour-puss!” I called out.
The snow struck Johnny on the shoulder, leaving streaks of white on his coat that resembled an explosion of paint. He froze in his tracks, as much from the shock of being struck as from the coldness of the snow. Then his face grew red like fire, standing out against the bland gray of his jacket and the white smear that now marred it. “Michael!” he shouted, using my full name, as he did whenever he was angry with me. “What are you doing?” He frantically tried to wipe the snow off of his shoulder. “Do you want us to get caught?” he raged.
The thought that the snow on his jacket would be a clear indicator of our noncompliance came a moment too late. I felt a brief stab of panic, but I managed to rein in my fear. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I stammered, trying to calm myself as much as I was trying to calm him. “We can get it all off.” I hurried over to help him, and soon enough, we had erased every last trace of the snow on his jacket, except for a dark smudge where the fabric had soaked up some of the moisture. It’ll be fine, I thought. It’ll dry off by the time we get home.
Not a moment after we removed the snow from his jacket, Johnny’s hands lunged forward and shoved me away. “You idiot!” he shouted. “You can’t just leave well enough alone, can you?”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise—after all, Johnny had just violated the second of the two major tenets of The Rulebook. Then again, we were already guilty of one violation, and no one was around to see the other. “I’m sorry,” I said, lifting my hands in a calming gesture. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, you weren’t! You never think! You couldn’t have just waited for the next tram, couldn’t you? You had to do it your way!”
Now I began to get angry, the heat flushing to my cheeks a clear sign. “You didn’t have to come with me, lamebrain,” I snapped. “You could’ve stayed in the depot.”
“Yeah, and leave you to get caught all by yourself…or to make fun of me whenever I got home.” Johnny’s face lost a bit of its anger, which was replaced by shame and regret. “All I want is for our family to be safe. I don’t know if what the Sovereignty says is right…but I do know that if we get caught, it won’t matter either way.”
I didn’t have anything to say to that. I knew he was right, just like we all did. The thought of being punished for a mistake as silly as the one I had made us both commit now terrified me. Was an hour really too long to wait?
I reached out and placed a reassuring hand on my brother’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll be fine. We just need to get home quick…”
A low humming sound cut off Johnny’s intended response, and we both turned, somehow knowing the terrible truth before we saw it.
A sleek black vehicle, hovering about a foot off the ground, was approaching along the abandoned street. It stopped a few feet in front of us. Its doors hissed open automatically, allowing two figures to exit. I couldn’t figure out if they were male or female, for both of them were clad in heavy black gear made from some baggy material. Their faces were covered by masks with breathing tubes coming out of them, attached to tanks on their backs. They looked like something I had seen in my nightmares, but I knew that I wasn’t about to wake up in my bed, safe and sound.
Without a word, they grabbed me and Johnny and threw us into the vehicle, where we sat behind a glass partition which separated us from their section of the transport. When the doors hissed shut after them, my brother and I were plunged into darkness, unsure of where we were going or what would happen next.
Writer’s Block: “The envelope in my mailbox had no return address.”
by The Cowl Editor on April 12, 2018
Portfolio
TWO WRITERS, ONE LINE:
“The envelope in my mailbox had no return address.”
by Marisa Gonzalez ’18
The envelope in my mailbox had no return address. At first, I was quite shocked. Why would someone want to remain anonymous? Of course, once I asked myself this question, I realized how stupid that was. Someone would want to remain anonymous if they were evil, an escaped prisoner, a stalker, or a serial killer. Or, you know, it could be something as simple as the letter went to the wrong place or was from a secret admirer, but my brain does not automatically go to simple. Also, secret admirers are creepy. Why do they want to remain secret?
Anyway, I stared at the envelope for some time before figuring out what I should do with it. Do I throw it away? Do I open it? Will it explode? Will I find a key that will unlock a magical world? All of these questions swarmed around in my head as I just stood there and stared. I must have looked crazy. Finally, after 20 minutes of staring, I realized that the letter may not even be for me. It only had my address. For a moment I felt satisfied that I had actually made a realization but then I started thinking about what I should do with it. If it were not for me, then who was it for. What do I do with it?
I took a deep breath, cleared my mind and figured that the best option was to simply open it. If I didn’t open it, how would I know who it was for? Yup, that made perfect sense! So, I held my breath and opened the envelope, hoping my questions would be answered. Unfortunately, they were not. I opened the letter and it turned out to be addressed to me. But, that wasn’t the weird part. The contents of the letter were not what I was expecting. It read:
Ms. Underwood,
We have been keeping an eye on you. We are happy to say that you have not disappointed us. When you signed the petition to set Bilbo the Bear free from bear baiting, we had high hopes for you. Your activism is quite impressive as are your Facebook posts. You clearly care deeply for animals and we would like to speak to you. As you may have noticed, there is no return address. That was intentional as our organization is to remain a secret. I hope that you will be able to use that brilliant brain of yours to figure out where we reside.
OPA
I was very confused and freaked out. These people have been watching me. Wonderful. Although, they seem to love animals so that’s good. But still, they have been watching me. Also, I am supposed to find them with my brilliant brain. I didn’t even know I had a brilliant brain. But, these people thought I did, so I better figure it out. Once again, I went back to my staring method. Luckily, the method worked this time.
After staring at the letter, I began to think about National Treasure and how the Declaration of Independence had a secret message on the back. Ben and Abigail used lemon juice to reveal the message. Maybe this could work on the letter. Of course, I didn’t know where the address would be, so I used my brilliant brain and soaked the whole letter and envelope in lemon juice. It worked! The letter smelled of lemons and was pretty much damaged, but it worked!
An address appeared in the corner of the letter. I quickly ran inside and looked up the address on my computer. According to the internet, it was an abandoned factory. Awesome. Not scary at all. I took a deep breath, grabbed my coat, wrote a note to my parents, and took off on my bike to the factory, because I have a brilliant brain and thought going to a scary factory was a smart idea. Go me.
I biked to the factory and parked my bike outside. Upon seeing the building, I stood for what felt like hours just staring at the shattered windows and fallen wall. I think I would have stayed there all day if I hadn’t heard a bark. I jumped and turned to where the barking was coming from. A German shephard then came running at me. I tried to run back to my bike but the dog grabbed my leg. I shrieked and then I saw a figure in a dark hood coming toward me. I continued to shriek like a dying goose when the figure touched my shoulders. I shivered, gulped, and looked up at the hooded figure.
“Are you Macie Underwood?” The figure asked. I gulped again.
“Yes,” I stuttered.
“Well, welcome.” The figure then guided me through the door, down some stairs and I end up in the basement of the factory and inside a room that looks a lot like the Q Branch from James Bond. The figure took off its hood to reveal a middle-aged woman.
“Welcome,” she said. “Welcome, Ms. Underwood, to the Organization of Protectors of Animals.”
by Erin Lucey ’20
The envelope in my mailbox had no return address. Looking back, that should have been the first clue that something was off. But I was completely blind to the idea that something was fishy. I hadn’t seen or heard from Liam in over 14 months at this point!
The note I received appeared to be my saving grace; my only route to an explanation from him. So of course, to my current regret, I followed the shaky directions on the note to the café that is inside the subway station on the corner of Park Ave. When I first got there, I was nervous. Would he be angry with me for not finding him? Happy to see me and act like nothing happened? Anxiety. That is the last sentiment I remember entertaining as an awake, alive, independent-minded individual in the outside world. I simply did not know what to expect of that moment so long ago, but what actually happened that day had never come close to crossing my mind.
Honestly, I can’t even soundly assert that that day wasn’t a few hours ago, or perhaps years ago. As of now it seems that I will never truly know how long I have been “under” for. The next thing I remember after my final moment in that greasy café was the first hazy awakening that surfaced me to my current state of consciousness.
I know I’ve described this many times before, but I must keep reminding myself of what is real, as I am terrified of what will happen if I forget. Besides, I will forever be unsure which pages, if any, will ever make it out of here—if anything I am communicating will eventually reach another set of eyes.
The first time this happened, it felt like I had finally woken up from the deepest sleep of my life. Trapped in a barren white room, it seemed almost as if I was floating around, but yet still somewhat anchored to a point below me. In the far distance ahead of me I could see a rolling image, with a graininess that resembled a colorized scene projected from an old movie.
To my surprise and confusion, the scene was eerily familiar—something I had undoubtedly viewed before in my life. As I stared longer I could make out that I was watching an image of my mother, but not the way she was when I last saw her alive. Her face was fuller, eyes livelier—she was younger. I was watching a moment that had occurred within the first few years of my life, a time that I did not even realize I could recall. Images from the deepest parts of my brain were being projected before an unknown audience, and I was completely trapped, watching from afar.
At this “present” point, I am still unaware if I am alive or dead. My guess is that this consciousness I am experiencing was not the goal of whomever is responsible for my condition. As I continue to exist in this state of limbo, my images grow slightly further and further away each time I “wake up.” Though my hope seems to be growing smaller with my screen, I’m still holding onto the belief that there is a chance I can be freed.
—J.C.; 45th recorded instance of conscious awareness, Page 56, Date Unknown
White-Out
by The Cowl Editor on April 12, 2018
Portfolio
by Marisa DelFarno ’18
Three towering walls wrap around Henry. The dull, plain looking bricks laid out around him resemble grey fish scales. The fourth wall consists of thick rust-rotted bars lined up high in unison. The room is as cold as an icebox. A single dim light bulb flickers above. No windows or daylight can be found.
Henry defeatedly bows his head down and whispers, “Death row.”
“Henry, look at me. Look at me.” Doug pulls Henry’s chin up. “I am going to get you out of here. I promise.”
“But you’re an….” Henry sighs. “I don’t know the word.”
“Lawyer?”
“Yeah,” Henry says. “I didn’t know people like you still existed.”
“We still do. Though there are less of us now since the White-Out Movement. It is much harder to persuade people now when your vocabulary is stuck at 20,000 words—less than what the average 12-year-old used to know.”
Henry turns his head away from Doug and mutters, “My limit is now at 2,000.”
“I know. I know. They shouldn’t have reduced it. The death penalty is enough,” Doug says.
“It doesn’t matter. I am already a dead man,” Henry coldly replies.
“Don’t you dare say that. I am going to help you. I am going to the judge’s chambers this afternoon. He mentioned an alternative,” Doug responds.
Henry shakes his head. “No.”
“Why?”
“There is no use. What’s worse? Death or losing your words? Do you know what this…thing is?”
“The alternative? Not yet. I am going to find out later.”
Henry spins his eyes away from him. Doug lights a cigarette. He takes a drag before looking up at Henry. His dark brown eyes pierce through Henry’s soul.
“You did do it, right?” Doug mutters with his cigarette dangling from his mouth.
“Yes, I was trying to…I can’t think of the word,” Henry says, weighing down his shoulders in defeat.
“Read?”
“Yes, they found me with it.”
Doug pauses for a moment. “How on Earth did you get the book?”
“I hid it years ago before all this happened,” Henry replies.
“And they said the book you were found with was…Fahrenheit 451?” Doug shyly smiles.
Henry lightly chuckles to himself. “Isn’t it…funny?”
“I think ironic is the word you are looking for,” Doug says. “Why that book? Out of all the books in the world?”
“Because like ‘that word’ you said. And also it was my favorite, and I couldn’t leave it so I hid it.” Henry points to the cold concrete floor stretched below him. “I hid it under the…ground of my house. Ten feet under.”
Doug scratches his chin. “Hmm I wonder how many other books are hidden?”
“Does it matter? Our vocab is getting smaller and smaller. We can’t even…” Henry lets silence finish his sentence.
Doug deeply inhales. “I know. Those nuts have ruined everything.”
Henry lies back on the thin mattress on his cot and stares at the pale, tiled ceiling. “How did it get this far?”
“You know. The White-Out Movement, anti-intellectualism, so on.”
Henry lifts his back up from the metal cot. “Wait. You still have that word?”
“Anti-intellectualism? Of course. It is a movement they are proud of. Why get rid of the word?”
Henry lies back down. “Ugh, they had to create that…that…that…thing and make us all dumb,” he says.
“I know. Remember. Never doubt an army of dumbasses. They’re loose cannons.”
Henry takes a long pause. “People are dumb.”
Doug scoffs. “Now we are all dumb…I didn’t know they could continue to limit your vocab. When did yours go all the way down to 2,000?”
Henry extends his arms out with opened palms. “When they put me here.”
Doug sighs. “They never tell me anything until after the fact.”
Their conversation withers into silence. Doug starts to pace around the compact cell. “We need a defense.”
“It is too late,” Henry replies.
“I’m going to talk to the judge. Somehow, he might understand.”
Henry shakes his head defiantly. “He has no say in it. They do.”
Doug doesn’t know how to respond. He lights another cigarette before shattering the silence between them.
“Henry, you are a lot like me. We were both educated before they stole our words. I understand your pain. I miss speaking like an adult. I miss reading. I miss holding a book. And I am going to continue to defend you from those morons. I am willing to lie for you.”
Henry wrinkles his forehead in disbelief. “How?”
“I would say that you simply found the book. It wasn’t yours to begin with. They can’t prove that it was yours.”
“That is just…dumb.”
Doug rubs his forehead.“I don’t know what to say. They burned all the books years ago,” he sighs. “I guess I am stuck telling the judge the truth, but I will make him understand why you were reading. He is—or was—a so-called ‘intellectual’ like us. Maybe he will forgive you. Remember, he mentioned an alternative to the death penalty. Any alternative means living.”
“Doug, just leave. You’re no help. I just…don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Henry turns aside on his cot with his back facing Doug.
Doug slightly opens his mouth to say something, but instead, decides to refrain from speaking. He keeps his feet planted to the solid concrete floor, and stares at Henry before the guards escort him out of Henry’s cell.
~~~
“Henry?” Doug says quietly.
Henry looks up from the shaded corner of his cell. He is crouched down on the grimey ground, holding his knees to his chest, convulsing like a leaf in autumn.
“Henry,” he sniffles. “Henry, I am so sorry.”
Henry’s baggy blue eyes stare at him, his pupils dilated with fear.
“If I could, I would continue to fight. I am a horrible, horrible lawyer….I am sorry. When I asked about the alternative, the judge promised you would live, but your vocab would have to be permanently limited. I thought he meant the limit it was at, 2,000. That is what he suggested. That is what I later told you before you accepted the alternative.” his voice shakes. “Henry, I am so sorry.” He pauses. “I didn’t know the judge would have them erase your entire vocabulary…Henry do you understand me? Do…do you know what I’m saying?”
Tears start to gently roll down Doug’s cheek. “Henry. Speak to me.”
Henry does not respond.
Dream Walker
by The Cowl Editor on March 1, 2018
Portfolio
by Connor Zimmerman ’20
I was cursed when I was younger, by a witch no less. To walk a thousand years in the minds of others. Those foul harpies always get the last laugh, especially when you steal their magic. My body was suddenly whisked away, and it has been so for 999 years. For those centuries, I have explored the minds of everyone.
I would have killed to be cursed with immortality—at least you get to live a life. Sadly, though, I have been relegated to the idiotic and lesser minds of others. Silently, I have watched people dream of falling in love, of winning glorious victories, of dying slowly, of the feeling of killing someone. I have been in the minds of heroes and villains alike, watching as a bystander. I watched helplessly as I have witnessed everyone’s last dream. Dead people don’t walk, they don’t talk, and they certainly don’t dream. But this pain will soon be over. For now, I rise.
The cool wind hits my face and my eyes slowly begin to open. Paralyzed, I see what is only in front of me—a large tree with a million leaves. I slowly begin to turn my head around and all I see for miles are trees. I look down and find I am covered in moss, dirt, and insects. Even when your curse is over, witches still find a way to piss you off. It takes what seems like forever, but I finally free my body from my dirt-filled prison and stand up. The sound of my joints cracking would make someone think I was 90 years old, not 20. But then again, I have “lived” for a thousand years. Knowing nowhere to go, I begin to walk in a straight line.
After nights of hunger and thirst which I haven’t felt in eons, I leave the woods and enter a small town. I try to shout for help, but my throat is too parched. I begin to make my way to a building, only to almost have my life end just as it began. A vehicle speeds past me, just missing me. God, how I hate humans. I eventually make my way towards the building and I walk in. I hit the jackpot because there is food and water aplenty. I begin to ravenously eat and drink all that I can with everyone watching in horror.
Eventually I feel a hand touch my shoulders, and I turn around to see a giant behind me. He shouts, “What do you think you are doing, little man?”
Little man—clearly he doesn’t realize that the little ones always aim low. It’s the only way to defeat a giant. I see his name on his chest: Reginald. I don’t know the name, but I know the face. This man dreams only of his traumatic experiences abroad where he has faced countless terrors.
With that in mind, I punch him in the gut, and as he bends over I grab his weapon and shoot it into the air. The resounding bang sends Reginald down onto the ground shouting, “Take cover, enemies with heavy fire, a click away.” As Reginald suffers in his panic attack, I take my leave and exit the store.
As I am walking down the street, I begin to realize how much I have missed in my long slumber. Everyone is dressed weirdly, there are enormous buildings that would put the castles of old to shame, there are crazy machines that seem to defy all human knowledge. I come to the realization that this is not my time. This damned witch’s curse has followed me into my real life. I know what I must do, I must find a way to track down this witch and kill her.
I quickly set about trying to find her, yet it proves more challenging than first thought. I mean, it didn’t seem like it would be hard to find an immortal woman, but apparently they know how to stay off the grid. I started by looking at conspiracy stories on some crazy machine called the internet, and I quickly followed the trail of cursed people. It didn’t take long to find out she was in some place called Eastern Europe, in the only place witches live—the woods.
After weeks of riding on strange transportation and trekking through the woods, I finally find the deserted hut that could only house a witch. I quickly avoid all the traps around the house and get in through a broken window.
As I climb into the house, a chilling voice bounces around the room, “So you’ve finally come to die, dream walker.”
“The only one who is going to die is you, immortal hag. I’ve come to take my life back.”
The witch flies down from the roof above, as her hideous, wart-ridden face comes inches away from mine. Her breath begins to melt the dead skin off of my face, as she taunts me, “How are you going to kill me? As you said, I’m immortal.”
I taunt back, “Everyone knows that even witches have hearts, and I have yours in this bag.” I pull a still beating heart out of my bag, and her smirk quickly disappears from her face.
“How did you find my heart, swine?”
“It wasn’t that hard, even witches dream. When you cursed me to walk the dream world for a thousand years, you didn’t count on me finding out your greatest dreams and fears.”
“What do you want of me, imp?”
“Nothing, I just wanted to see your face as I killed you.” And with that I stabbed the heart with a wooden stake, and the witch slowly began to fade away.
Soon everything around me began to blur, and eventually darken. I felt the sensation of falling overcome me, and I continued to fall until I hit the ground.
After several minutes, light began to pervade the darkness and I soon came to my senses. I was back in the woods where I woke up. I began to walk towards where my old village was, and then soon find it. I began to laugh and realize that the world was in my hands. Who could have known the power of dreams?
Stuck In A Crime Scene
by The Cowl Editor on February 15, 2018
Portfolio
by Sam Pellman ’20
It was closing time. The gates were starting to be secured and locked up. Our group had split up about halfway through, but it would be fine, we’d meet up with them outside the car. At least that’s what I thought. It was what any normal person would think. It’s definitely not what happened though.
It was 5:26 p.m., and the sun was just starting to sink down. The air was warm but without the sun it became cool. We were in France. At a museum, but not your average museum. We were in a village called Oradour-sur-Glane in Haute-Vienne.
The history of the place is remarkable. This village was destroyed by a German Waffen-SS company on June 10, 1944. The Nazis wanted to use the village as an example. Six-hundred and forty-two of its inhabitants were massacred all in one night. The scene was traumatizing as women and children were locked in churches that were set on fire.
Men were led into barns and sheds and shot with machine guns. Only a few people were able to survive, but the majority of the village was completely wiped out in only a few, short hours. During the time, a new village was called to be built nearby, but the French president, Charles de Gaulle, ordered the original to be maintained as a permanent memorial and museum.
I had been on vacation, traveling through France with my mom, dad, brother, aunt, uncle, and two of my cousins. My dad has always been fascinated with history and when he heard about this museum, he knew he had to see it. As for me, the topic piqued my interest. To hear about such a tragic situation was one thing but to be able to walk through it and see it first hand was much different.
We arrived at the museum early afternoon and began first in the inside area where we read much of the history and eventually made our way outside to walk the streets of this untouched village. It was silent, no one said a word. The vibe was eerie and as I looked at the building remnants and churches, I could see the women and children pounding on the doors to let them out. I heard the screams, and I smelled the fire. There were rusted cars, bicycles and even baby strollers, all left in place, untouched. I felt scared as I walked these streets, sticking by my cousins, horrified of wandering off and getting myself lost.
My dad, uncle, and aunt all strolled away in a different direction than the rest of us. The ruins were large and led to all different places. It soon began to get darker, as I realized the sun was setting. The workers in the museum began to come out and said the museum was nearing closing and we should begin to make our way back to the front. My cousins and I hurried our way out, this was not a place I’d like to be trapped in. We met up with my brother and mom at the front gates. But where were my dad, uncle, and aunt? We hadn’t seen them in a while. We went to go back in, but the gates were locked. In fact, all the gates were locked, the side ones as well. They had closed down the whole place, just like that, without even looking to see if anyone was still in there. Okay, don’t panic, I thought. We’ll just call them. Too bad I forgot we were in France and the only people who had the international phones were the three that were stuck inside. It was getting dark now, we needed a phone and we needed one quick. All we had to do was drive into town and ask a local shop to borrow a phone. Too bad I also forgot the only cars they drive in Europe are stick shifts and the only people who knew how to drive a stick were the three inside, once again. This was a disaster. That’s it; they were stuck inside this haunted town forever.
We had to act and it had to be now. My brother jumped into the car. Just before this trip my dad had only briefly taught my brother how to drive stick shift, but he was no pro. The car was also parked on a hill… Yet he somehow pulled himself together and got us to the closest town nearby. We frantically ran inside and tried to call them, although the phone system didn’t match up as nicely as we thought. Finally, finally! We got a hold of them and found out they had safely left the eerie village. The local French people must’ve thought we were crazy Americans. My dad said he could’ve sworn he heard a gunshot noise while inside. I believe him; what happened in that village should most definitely stay in that village.
A Brother’s Love
by The Cowl Editor on February 15, 2018
Portfolio
by Marisa Gonzalez ’18
The war raged on, and Henry was in the middle of it. Guns exploded. Smoke filled the air, and Henry’s vision was cut off. His father always warned him about going out into the war zone unprotected. But he had to. His baby sister was out there. The one he had sworn to protect. The one who just had her sixth birthday and was so full of life. The one who was now helpless and alone. He had no choice, he had to find her.
Henry stumbled over some debris and balanced himself against a fallen building. His breathing was heavy, and his face stung from the smoke, but he couldn’t think about that. His pain was nothing. He was strong; his little sister was not. He wiped away some sweat from his face, took a deep breath, and continued his search. The air had cleared a little bit, and he could see the outlines of soldiers. He wanted to speak to them. To ask them about his sister, but he knew he could not distract them. They needed to be alert. They needed to survive.
Henry watched the soldiers pass and ran across the road when he thought the path was clear. He made it halfway when a tank came barreling down. Henry quickly rolled out of the way, cutting his hands and knees in the process. Again, he couldn’t think of the pain. Pain was nothing, and his sister was everything. Another tank passed by, and he ran for cover as guns began to explode around him. More smoke filled the air causing Henry to choke. He tried to calm himself down but the loud noises made it impossible.
Suddenly the ground began to shake. Gunfire ceased. Henry, still trying to catch his breath, looked out from where he took cover and saw a dark shadow approaching the soldiers.
Feeling more panic rising, Henry took off, not looking back when he heard a terrible noise—like a roar that made the buildings vibrate—and the screaming of soldiers. There was no time for curiosity, no time for sorrow. He needed to complete his mission. He needed to find her.
Henry ran as fast as he could, tripping over debris and stumbling over bodies. He could not look at those faces. He had no time to mourn. He had to carry on. More soldiers ran past him, and another roar shook the buildings, causing Henry to fall. A tank drove past him with a large gun. He slowly rose to his feet and was about to begin running again when the gun fired. Black smoke engulfed him, cutting off his vision once more. He did not know what was going on. He could only hear the screams, and the roars. But he still ran. He would not let his sister down.
Don’t Fear The Reaper
by The Cowl Editor on February 15, 2018
Portfolio
by Marisa DelFarno ’18
There is nowhere to hide from death. This is the administration’s motto.
How did this become their motto? Short answer—overpopulation. Every three years, the population kept creeping over another billion. Another three years would go by, and another billion or so people would find an uncomfortable, claustrophobic home on Earth. When our population was inching its way to nearly 20 billion, people got scared, food got scarce, land got congested, and the administration felt that something had to be implemented. So they decided to play God.
It was about 100 years ago when the administration first announced that everyone would be assigned an expiration date. The date cannot be private or hidden. They believed it was best to plaster the date onto people’s foreheads. Why? Because you cannot hide it nor can you hide from it.
You do not receive the expiration date when you are born. Instead, you have to wait until you are 16 years-old to get the expiration date. That is when people get stamped like how cattle get tagged. By now, it has become some kind of coming-of-age event like someone’s Confirmation or Bar Mitzvah. On your 16th birthday, you have to report to the administration’s local branch first thing in the morning, 9 a.m. to be precise, and sit on some little chair, veiled by a thin, gauzy curtain, and get your death date confirmed on your forehead. If you refuse to report there on your birthday, they will find you.
The phenomenon with the stamps is not global. The administration argue that the countries that do not enforce the stamps are in “calamitous disrepair,” with no agriculture, only loads of people and collapsed infrastructure. The whole song and dance. They further justify that we live in a sunny utopia. Then why do many of us live in constant fear of the reapers?
Reapers is the slang word for the administration, because you know, the whole death-knocking-on-your door joke. It is a little silly and too tongue-in-cheek, but it somehow found a way to steep itself into our everyday language. But the reaper’s arrival is still completely unforeseen since the stamp only divulges the month and day, not the year of your death.
The date is October 11, my 16th birthday. I am in a line, about to find out what date will permanently be known as my death date. The line I find myself standing in is pretty humble in size. There are only about two hundred of us here. Some states have lines consisting of over a thousand or more 16-year-olds. The lines vary depending on where you live, and the size of your state. The wait shouldn’t be too long. The procedure takes a minute per person, though there is unfortunately only one lady administering it today.
As the clock drags, I eventually find only two boys remaining in front of me. They have the same exact cinnamon hair color and green eyes. Twins, I assume.
“I heard that they now make the date close to your birthday, or even on your birthday, and that is when they get you. They wipe you out immediately!” one of the boys says.
“Nonsense. Dad knows someone that has the day after his birthday pressed on his forehead and that man is now 50 years-old!”
“I said they now do it. Also, how come last year that sophomore boy never made it back to class after his birthday weekend? He hasn’t been seen since.”
“Eh…uh…he’s probably just the ultimate prankster,” the boy says shakingly.
“I guess he is Andy Kaufman then,” his twin scoffs.
“Next!” a worn, smoker’s voice calls out behind the white curtain.
One of the twins steps towards the curtain.
“Don’t flinch! They will botch it!” his brother calls out.
The other twin responds by rolling his eyes and vanishes behind the curtain. A minute or so passes and the twin exits the curtain, revealing a redden forehead with the date 10/25 newly etched on.
“Huh,” his brother catatonically responds before going behind the curtain himself.
I wait patiently for a minute before I hear the lady screech, “Next!” from the curtain.
I tiptoe my way over there, knowing my face will never look the same again. I unhurriedly tug the curtain out of my way.
Fluorescent lights soils the area with brightness like someone is viciously burning an ant with a magnifying glass. The station consists of a stool, a folded table with alcohol pads and a rectangular device laying on it, and a lady who fully materializes everyone’s vision of a reaper. Her eyes are so sunken in and blurred with dark circles that they resemble the hollow sockets of a skull. Her twiggy arms poke out of her baggy, pastel-colored smock. The bones under the sheer, veiny skin of her hands flex as she grabs one of the alcohol pads. She irons my forehead with the frigid pad, and promptly peels it off before she snatches the rectangular device.
“Look up,” she coughs.
I crane my neck up and before I know it, the strange rectangular device is cemented to my forehead, and a sudden flash of white light blinds me before the pain of 10 million needles rips through my forehead. The lady harshly removes it like Velcro. The procedure took a mere five seconds, but the pain continues to echo. I don’t even know if I have any skin remaining on my forehead.
“Don’t rub your forehead!” she snaps. “You will smudge it, and we don’t do redoes!”
“May I ask what date is on my forehead?” I shyly say.
“Pssh, like you are never going to see a mirror again.” She pauses. “Remember. Don’t touch it!” she says in a school teacher’s voice.
I let my arms stick to my sides and force myself to refrain from picking at my forehead. Smudged forehead stamps are never pretty.
The lady tugs at the curtain and barks, “Next!”
I get up from the rickety stool and tear the curtain out of my way. I wonder if there is a bathroom somewhere so I can get a glimpse of the date forever etched on my forehead, but knowing the administration, they probably have no public bathrooms.
It is now a mission to exit the labyrinth so I can run home and peek at the first mirror I can find. The elevators are too slow and always mobbed, so I stick to the stairs—all 10 flights. My desire to dash home is fierce because reaching the front entrance took all of a millisecond.
As I am about to step out the door, I realize that the gleaming, freshly wiped down glass has a faint reflection. I drop my hand from the doorknob, and peer a little closer. The reflection is barely discernible, but the markings on my forehead are so bold that you can even see it through a foggy mirror. I squint. A boldface 11 is pressed on my forehead, separated with a dash and followed by 01. I read the date backwards and it hits me. The date is October 11.