Tag: short story
Soulmate
by The Cowl Editor on February 8, 2018
Portfolio
by Jessica Polanco ’20
Twelve years later I still remember the first day we met. Starting that day, there were no battles I had to face alone ever again, no laughter not shared and no tears not collected and restored with faith and hope.
Since then, because of you, my days always had a bright star illuminating every experience and even though there were times when it rained and poured, under the sun, there were you with an umbrella dodging every drop. Your loyalty has shielded our friendship and my heart to make me feel like I’m not alone in this world.
12 years later I’ve grown to love everything about who you are. Two persons who are completely different are bound to learn how to love a garden that’s constantly growing with beautiful different flowers we never thought we’d lay eyes on. When the seasons were never in our favor and our skies were black and white, you lent me your stem to lean on and after a long day, it was surprisingly all my heart needed.
In the next 12 years, may the storms hydrate our flowers and our loyalty give strength to our friendship.
Aunque hamos pasado tormentas y hamos sentido que la conexión se has rodado en un hilito, eres un regalo del cielo y le doy la gracias al Mas Alto por esta amistad. Por ti has sentido un amor que le das alas a mi corazón cada mañana.
Although we’ve experienced storms, and we’ve felt that the connection has been dragged on a string, you are a gift from heaven and I thank the Most High for this friendship. Because of you, I have felt a love that gives wings to my heart every morning.
—For Ashley Alvarez
Doctor Love
by The Cowl Editor on February 8, 2018
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by Connor Zimmerman ’20
“I’m telling you it’s all about the confidence.” I nod my head in response, only half listening. Matt continues to talk at me, but it’s all white noise. I see my friend Jack in the distance, and to escape this hellish nightmare, I quickly call him over, “Hey Jack, c’mon over here.”
Jack reluctantly walks on over, and nods towards Matt. He says to us, “What’s up guys? Haven’t seen you in a little while.”
Matt quickly interjects, “I’m trying to explain what it takes to get a girl to like you.”
Rolling my eyes, I respond, “Okay, please continue explaining why I am going to die alone, while you are going to be living to an old age with a girl that is half yours.”
Matt angrily replies, “This is what I’m talking about. Who is going to want to date you when you do not have any confidence?”
Jack tries to slowly walk away, but if I must endure Matt’s pedantic rant I will not be alone. So, I say, “Jack, what are your thoughts?”
With a spiteful look he says, “I think you are both right. You got to have confidence, but you shouldn’t try to force anything that isn’t there.”
Matt, with his famous selective hearing replies, “See, man, even Jack agrees with me.”
Growing tired of Matt, I say to Jack, “Hey, I have to grab something from my dorm, want to come?”
He nods his head, and we begin to walk away from Matt, who says, “I’ll catch you guys after class and then we can talk some more.”
As we walk, Jack looks at me with a smirk and says, “So he was giving you the talk?”
I laugh as I say, “I’m guessing you have gotten the talk too then.” He nods his head in reply.
I continue on, “Classic Matt. He scores a date on Tinder, and he has to try and help us with our love lives now.”
Jack laughs and says, “Yeah he keeps calling himself Doctor Love.”
I shake my head, “Yeah he has been bragging about that to me too. Do you know what he told me? He said, ‘Don’t be afraid of the dumpster fires.’”
Jack laughs and says, “He told me that too, but odds are he has got himself a dumpster fire.”
I reply, “Yeah, Tinder is no place to find love.”
Journal Entry: January 3
by The Cowl Editor on February 8, 2018
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by Marisa Gonzalez ’18
The beginning of school is always the worst and not just for shadows. It’s the beginning of school, of course it’s going to be terrible, but luckily for me, this is when students are least awake and anything can come out of their mouths. Today’s juicy topic: Rachel is now dating Keith. Keith Upton is notorious for dating two girls at the same time and getting new ones each week. Now who in their right mind would want to date someone like that? Well, Rachel. Seeing as girls still go out with him can only mean one thing: go out with Keith and be the talk of the school. Well ta-da, Rachel. You did it. Now how do you feel?
“Keith was totally checking me out Friday and so I, like, talked to him. He said I was cute and Jessica was so last week. He then wrapped his arms around me and said, ‘I like ya perfume.’ Isn’t that adorable?” Rachel’s squeaky voice resonates throughout the room. Excuse me while I gag.
“Yeah, Ray, so great. I am so jealous. I wish Mike told me he liked my perfume. But no, he’s all, ‘So babe, ya still wearing that perfume?’ Ugh, what a jerk.” Totally. They continue babbling about how awesome Keith is, and I tune them out. I try to concentrate on you, Journal, but I can’t help it. My mind is wondering. Will anyone think I’m cute? Should I interact with these girls, maybe ask them to make me more noticeable. Wait! What am I saying? Talk to them? Please, I can do so much better. Who knows, I might end up liking Keith if I talk to them. Yuck!
What’s the deal with relationships anyway? It’s basically two people going goo goo over each other. What’s so great? Of course, I’m saying this and I haven’t been in a relationship. I don’t even have friends, well, other than you, Journal. And no, Arnold Kipper does not count as a boyfriend. He ate my glue in kindergarten. That’s all.
Oh boy! Another round of babbling. Sarah just came in. She’s dating Josh. She looks flustered. I wonder why. Oh, she’s coming closer. And, Journal she just sat down next to me. What do I do? Help. Ok, she wants to talk.
Five minutes later
Hey again. Man, that was weird. So here is what happened. Sarah sits down. Her hair is in a messy ponytail and she looks like she is about to vomit. She speaks. “Ugh. Like so gross.”
“What?” I ask. She sighs and shakes her head. “So Joshy.” Joshy? Another reason why I hate relationships. Silly pet names. “So Joshy was kinda drunk last night and his friends came over. Then they got drunk, and I was so mad. They were totally ignoring me, and I just got my hair done. It’s so like reddish-brown now, see?” I nod. “I know. It rocks. But no one noticed.” She sighs and sinks into the chair. “So, like, anyway, I had to be the driver and it was my dad’s car, and it’s, like, super new. But then stupid Joshy and his friends had to go and puke all over it! So, I like had to clean it up!” She sighs again.
Then she looks at me. She seems confused. Her eyes squint. “You’re not Rachel.” I laugh a little. “Um, no. She’s over there.” Sarah looks perplexed, then mad. She gets up, flips her new reddish-brown hair and walks to Rachel’s table. Oh, Journal. Being a shadow is so much fun. I can have a whole conversation with someone and they would never even notice it’s me! I should become a spy! And a spy needs no one. So, I don’t need a boyfriend. No way! They are simply too much trouble.
I can’t believe I’m talking about this. Stupid Rachel for talking about Keith. She started this madness. Must change the topic. Awesome. The bell! Class! Time for more of my shadow work. Stay tuned, Journal. Today is going to be great. I can feel it!
~Mal
The Contents of The Jar
by The Cowl Editor on February 8, 2018
Portfolio
by Marelle Hipolito ’21
There’s a jar in your room. It’s on your shelf, by the window. I hid it behind a few books, the ones that you kept only as decoration. I knew you wouldn’t think of giving them a second glance, so I kept the jar there. It’s on the far left. Do you see it now? It’s a clear jar, but you can’t see what’s inside because of the confetti. It has a silver top on it. If you pick it up, you might hear clinks from the things inside moving around. And now, you’re wondering what’s making those clinks. Well, open it up.
If you shake the contents out of the jar, you’ll find a keychain, a necklace, an earring. Just in case you don’t remember what any of these objects are, and what they mean, let me remind you.
For Halloween, we went to the arcade and ended up with buckets of tickets. We were about to pick a prize when you saw a little girl crying, since the prize she wanted cost many more tickets than what she had. You looked at me, and I already knew what you were thinking. After getting the little girl the crown she wanted, we traded in the last 10 tickets for a keychain, with a tiny red seven ball on the end. We let it sit on the bedside drawer, as a reminder of that night. But to me, it was a reminder of your kind heart.
That Christmas, you and your family went to Hawaii. When you came back and were about to give me my souvenir, I joked about it probably being a corny, stereotypical surfer necklace. You paused for a moment, then pulled out a surfer necklace and quietly gave it to me. I put it on the drawer alongside the keychain in hopes that you’d see that I appreciated it, but you were still sad and annoyed at me. We didn’t talk much for a few days after, until the basketball game, which, coincidentally enough, brings us to the earring.
Although you were still bitter about the necklace, you still came with me to my little sister’s championship basketball game. It was a close game but they won, and you were going to take me and my sister out to celebrate, until some drunk in the parking lot made a very derogatory remark about my sister as we walked by. Of course, as the hothead I am, I turned to you and said, “Hold my earrings.” And you did. You let me get a punch in, but when the guy was about to hit me back, you beat him to it. Then you, me, and my sister hauled ass into the car and left the parking lot before any cops came. As we were driving away, I asked you for my earrings back. You opened your hand, to show only one earring. We figured that the other one got lost when you punched the guy and decided not to head back for it. Even though I couldn’t really wear the earring anymore, I kept it on the bedside drawer, along with the keychain and necklace. It reminded me that you wanted me to fight my own battles, but also that you would fight them alongside me.
That February, you were offered a position as a sportswriter, your dream job since you were a little kid. We threw a huge house party, celebrating your dreams coming true. When we were cleaning up the confetti, you told me to not throw away all the confetti, but instead to keep it, for my party, for when I got my dream job as an archaeologist. I laughed, knowing it was a one-in-a-million chance. But I listened to what you said and put all the confetti in one bag, except for a handful, which I put in the mason jar. It was that night, when you pushed me to follow my own dreams, that I knew that I would love you forever.
Five months later, I was waiting for you to come home one night when I got a call. It was the vice president of the internship I had applied for, a three-year archaeological dig program in Greece. He was calling to congratulate me on my acceptance, on my dream coming true.
When I heard your keys in the door and you walk inside, I ran down the stairs and told you. Your reaction to the best news of my life…I’ll never forget it.
You didn’t hug me or say congratulations.
You didn’t smile or jump up and down, telling me that you knew I could do it, that I would have my dreams come true.
Instead, you quietly said, “But, I’m here. Our life is here. You can’t just leave.”
After all the love you gave me, all the beautiful moments and memories, I never would’ve thought that I would say, “But who would I be if I stayed?”
Looking back on it now, Jackson, I don’t regret leaving. Greece is a beautiful place, with beautiful sites and people. I’m growing to become the person I’ve always wanted become, and the person you’ve pushed me to be. Right now, my life is almost perfect. Almost.
I wish I could say that I wanted you to be here with me right now, but I don’t. I want you to keep following your dreams and become the great sportswriter you are meant to be. I hope one morning, I’ll read the newspaper on my way to an excavation site and see your name in the sports section. The way I see it, Jackson, we didn’t have a sad ending. Things didn’t go wrong, or bad. We just never finished our love story. It’s just there, hidden, unchanging unlike the rest of the world. You and me, we’re the contents of that jar.
Do me a favor. Put the keychain, the necklace, and the earring back in the jar with the confetti. Twist the silver cover back on top, and hide the jar back behind those three books you’re never going to read, on the far left of your shelf by the window. Keep it there.
And never open it again.
Prescribed
by The Cowl Editor on February 1, 2018
Portfolio
by Erin Lucey ’20
Buzz Buzz. My eyes snap open to begin another day. I am hopelessly exhausted, though I rarely take more than eight or nine steps a day at this point. The balloons tied to the foot of my depressing hospital bed rustle and sway as I try to sit up. Over the past five months, my condition has been quickly worsening. By now I am prescribed nothing but a cocktail of painkillers, all intended to maximize my comfort as I sit here and slowly die. They say my condition is rare, and that the “treatment I have chosen” seems best for my life situation overall. Because I am a minor I am fully out of the loop, left out of the meetings that discuss my fate and trapped here like a dog in a cage.
While I know that there is not much that can be done for my illness, I sometimes feel that these doctors aren’t even trying. Like, isn’t it their job to think of something to do even when there’s nothing? Allowing a previously normal and healthy 16-year-old to sit here and die must fill them with at least disappointment, maybe even guilt? I’ve been trying to get some sort of explanation from my parents of the reasons, options, or rights that I have, but they have this fierce desire to “protect” me from the truth, trying not to scare me by always changing the subject. Today, however, I know that my parents won’t be visiting until after 4 p.m., so I am allowing my curiosity and stubbornness to take over while I still have the energy to feel them.
The nurses accidentally left the binder of my file on the desk in the corner of my room last night, so today’s steps are dedicated to getting to the binder, reading all the med lingo about myself as a patient, and getting back to my bed. It’s now or never. After four long deep breaths, I sluggishly swing my legs to the side of my bed, and grabbing onto the railings and side table, I am standing. As I trudge my aching body over to the desk, I am filled with a wave of motivation, a hint of thrill for what I am about to see. When I finally make it to the desk, I feel like I could collapse right there, but I reject the fatigue and grip onto the table for support. I just need to know what exactly exempts me from any experimental treatments for this disease. I was so healthy five months ago!
Opening the binder fills me with excitement and anxiety, though the first page I see is enough to stop me from flipping any further. The sheet that sits at the top of my file is a waiver, signed boldly and clearly by both of my parents, distinctly restricting the doctors from providing me with any of the known, previously successful treatments for my condition.
Bowl
by The Cowl Editor on February 1, 2018
Portfolio
by Dawyn Henriquez ’19
“I needed this,” Don sighed, placing the pipe on the coffee table. The burnt-out bowl stared up at me from the mahogany— trees on trees. It smiled at me, an eccentric smoke signal coming from its glass lips. “Set me aflame,” it said. “Set me on fire so that I can reveal to you your past, present, and future,” it exclaimed. “Take that nondescript flame and pierce your dreams with my pungent sword,” it yelled.
“Yo, take one last hit Brain, you staring at that shit like it’s a badass shorty or somethin’,” Don said laughing.
“You don’t gotta tell me twice,” I chuckled and grabbed the bowl by its slender body and followed its demands.
“Y’all ever wish to make it out the hood and shit?” Lil Charlie asked from where he was laying on the floor with a shirt over his face.
“No shit, I’m sure we all do,” Don said.
“But nah, for real though. Like, have y’all ever thought about what we could do with the world? Like, if we applied ourselves up in school and shit.” He was sitting up then, looking at us with actual hope in his eyes.
Of course, Lil Charlie wasn’t spouting any thoughts that hadn’t ever crossed my mind. They didn’t call me Brain for no reason. The only issue was that, back then, we didn’t live in suburbia, or anywhere near what white people would call civilized. We lived in the slums, a couple of streets away from where brownstones cost over a million. The schools we were allowed to attend weren’t trained to get us out of the system, they were specifically geared to earmark us as outcasts in America’s chapters. We were pariahs and treated as such, if not worse, and Lil Charlie and I were just freshmen in high school.
“Be careful wishing for the world when you’ve never felt like you’ve fit into it,” I said.
“I know that, man. We been buried underneath the rubble of history on some bullshit since they laid down the groundwork for this shit. But we can rise up, we can beat them at their own game and sneak our way into the book if we play it right.” He always got like this when we smoked. He was the most optimistic kid I had ever met; honestly he had to be.
Back at home, Lil Charlie’s parents were addicted to that rock and valued it more than anything else. When he was six they tried selling him for a couple bucks, so they could re-up and stay high for a while. It didn’t work. The slingers on our corners just wanted their cash, and no drugged up homeless folk were going to convince them otherwise.
Oh, right, that’s another thing, Charles “Charlie” Williams was homeless, for the most part. He split his time between his parents’ under Tillman Bridge and my house.
“Word, that’s true, but I ain’t gonna become no Uncle Tom and sell my ass to no white man at an office,” Don stated with as much eloquence as he could muster. “If that’s the price of being one of them uppity folk with legit cash uptown, I rather stick to this game right here,” he finished as he nodded towards the outside where the corners reigned, and where the neighborhood slingers were stationed.
The room went silent for awhile after that. I listened to the wind pounding on the window, my paranoia making me believe that even nature was out to get us. The sun was fading fast, following the descent of reason in the room as rain began to fall.
“Damn bro, that’s some depressing shit,” Lil Charlie said, breaking the silence.
“Nah, that’s just the real my man. That’s just the real…” Don trailed off. I think he started talking about Reagan’s bullshit War on Drugs and how it was affecting his business, but all I can remember is the look on Charlie’s face.
His eyes were a bit sunken, defeat painted by a high mind. He was the youngest out of the three of us and, coincidentally, the most sensitive, so when he was sad there was no hiding it. He always had a constant pain about him, masked behind his wall of optimism, but in that moment his face was rich in melancholy, numbed indifference crowning his lips with death’s lilies. It seemed to me then that he was understanding, realizing, the heartache of being born where we born, coming to terms with the million unnatural shocks that our black bodies were heir to. Our world was one where cold winters turned into summer when hot bullets grazed the air we breathed, not one where hope can typically thrive.
“…but yeah y’all, that’s why the war on drugs is deadass a war on black people,” Don finished. “Y’all tryna hit the roof to chill real quick, though?”
“Yeah, for sure, c’mon Charlie.” And with that we left the apartment through the fire escape without any other words exchanged.
Don was seventeen then and had his own place from slinging. His God-fearing mother didn’t want anything to do with his drug money, or him for that matter, if he didn’t stop. Needless to say, he never did, he was too deep then, too connected, the game was in his blood and no amount of social dialysis could syphon it out of him.
On the roof, the blackened sky stretched ahead of us farther than any of us could see. High as I was I felt like I was at sea with the raindrops that pelted us, the drizzle becoming a small storm inside my head. Before that school year was over I dealt that rock for the first time. Don would die the winter that followed. And Lil Charlie, well, Charlie Williams, would be gone by the grace of God. But, in that moment, with cloud filled lungs, rain filled sky, and water gilded ground, we were drowning in air, coughing up silence.
Letter to You
by The Cowl Editor on January 25, 2018
Portfolio
by Kiley McMahon ’20
Dear You Who Shall Not Be Named,
As you kiss my soft lips and moan from tiredness, you check your text messages every five minutes to make sure that you are in the clear. You keep a photo of Elsa, Troy, and Chase stored in your wallet; they are so beautiful and grown-up-looking, just like you. You leave from my back door, and you run to your car down the street. As usual, you leave me alone as you rapidly pace from my humble abode to your lavish sportscar. I notice that you never once fail to fasten your belt strap and to zip your fly while you run as if you are a mad man. Years later, you tell me that you are in the process of going through a divorce. Still to this day, I wonder why I am one of the few chosen to fall for you—an unavailable man. I wonder how I am capable of breaking your family apart and for allowing your beautiful children to endure the divorce of their parents, something that I myself endured in my own childhood. Today, I cry myself to sleep as I wonder how I let you, the man whom I love so deeply, ruin my whole life.
About a year ago today, I went through my own divorce. My husband cheated on me with his ex-wife and their family is in the process of coming back together. I sit with tears running down my face and my emotions run wild. How am I capable of ruining your family and then of creating the same trauma for myself?
I now know how it feels, to have the man whom you love so deeply, fall for someone else. I have learned difficulty and today, I like to think of myself as a bigger and better person because of this insight gained through experience. I thank you with all of my heart for making me a stronger, better individual.
Thank you, You Who Shall Not Be Named.
Sincerely,
A stronger and better person.
Happiness is A Lie
by The Cowl Editor on January 25, 2018
Portfolio
by Jonathan Coppe ’18
Hatmakers in Chile don’t get a lot of break time. Child laborers in Nepal sometimes have to sift through piles of hypodermic needles.
It’s important not to read too slowly. Savoring words too much kind of ruins the overall effect. It’s like every time you get to a new word, you’re trying to reinvent the wheel, to draw out its meaning all alone, as if it were the only word on the page. But you can only catch a ball if you see it flying through the air first. Same thing with understanding words. Savoring the words makes the words into the story and the story into the words. No, the story is the story, and the words are the words (or the poem or the play or the…).
I’ve been doing that a lot with life lately. I go out to the bar every week. I’ve got a group of friends I read books with. (“Book club” sounds too much like something your grandmother might be a part of, so we’re just “a group of friends”). The occasional movie. Lectures if they’re available. A museum or concert or play when I have the time and money. I fill my life in various ways. I’m sort of realizing that I don’t enjoy it, though. What I do at those things doesn’t quite rise to the level of enjoyment.
The other night at the bar, Dave says to me, “Man, you’re always talking about stuff we could be doing. You never do half of it, which is its own issue, and I’m not complaining but sometimes I just think that even if you did do it, you’d just spend the whole time talking about more stuff you could do. And that’s kinda funny, but it’s also kind of a waste.”
We were all sitting together around a table, and I guess I was talking about taking up golf or something. I think I laughed it off and let somebody else take the floor. Eventually the conversation drifted to global poverty and the working conditions of the third world. I got the general impression of things listening with only half a mind, but at that point I had largely abandoned the conversation.
I felt a little offended at the idea that I was somehow a bore and amusing and depressing all at once. How could Dave sit there and tell me that in front of everybody? (Truthfully, I probably would have taken it worse if it were just him and me.) But, no, I saw that Dave wasn’t trying to mock me and it’s certainly not that he doesn’t like me, so the anger faded pretty quickly.
I guess I also realized that he’s right. I mean, he’s not really right, but he managed to help me realize something, which makes him about half-right. Last time I went to the theater, I found myself downright exhausted by the end of the play. I wasn’t rested or excited or cathartic. I was just tired. I think I went home and had to put on music to unwind. That didn’t have anything to do with the play, though. It was all me. I spent the whole play trying to feel something.
It’s not that I’m emo or depressed or something. Feelings are a regular part of my life. But I guess I was operating on the assumption that if I wasn’t consumed by intense passion and wonder and awe from the moment I stepped into the theater I was somehow doing it wrong, and because of that I realized that I missed out on the whole play. It didn’t do anything for me because I was trying so hard to make sure that it did.
And then I realized that that’s kind of been my whole life. I’m bored and frustrated because every time I do something I need it right then and there to make me feel totally alive. But it’s not that this thing or that thing is living. Living is the whole sentence—or the whole paragraph or book or—it’s all the words put together and their total effect. You live life more when you care less about whether you’re living life. Neurosis is savoring the words. Living is reading the whole sentence. I think I’m going to try to remember that the next time I go to the theater.
The Resurrection Project
by The Cowl Editor on January 25, 2018
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by Connor Zimmerman ’20
“What if you could take away your deepest regret?” I stand there looking at the billboard with the sun shining on a laughing couple at a picnic. I stop and look at this billboard every day. It’s basically become ingrained in my mind. Her perfect smile and his little laugh, images of a world so far removed from my own. Jealousy begins to grow within me as I prepare to finish my walk to the tavern in anger.
“You know, it really does work.” I turn around, surprised to see a brunette woman behind me.
I ask her, “What works?”
She smiles and says, “The Resurrection Procedure. I remember being miserable for a long time, about what I obviously cannot remember. But the second I did that procedure, I felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders.”
She begins to walk away. I’m about to chase after her, but I notice a clock hanging from a nearby store and I realize I’m late. So I begin to walk in the opposite direction.
I eventually come to McShane’s Tavern. I head to the back and see Jimmy and Matt at the regular booth. I toss my briefcase inside the booth and join them. With a half empty pitcher, I pour myself a glass of beer.
“Joey, perhaps you could settle this little debate between us,” Matt says.
Before he can finish that thought I blurt out, “I’m going to actually do it. I’m going to go through with the Resurrection Procedure.”
Silence permeates the booth, as both Matt and Jimmy take a long sip of their drinks. Jimmy is the first to speak, “You know, Joey, we realize you’ve had a rough couple of years, but I don’t think this is the answer.”
Matt jumps in and replies, “C’mon, Joey, those people never come out the same.”
I finish my drink and bang the glass on the table, “Well maybe I don’t want the same.”
Jimmy grabs my arm and says, “You had more good times with her than bad. Do you want to erase all of it?”
I shake him off and say, “The good doesn’t matter when its only the bad that I can think about.” I grab my briefcase and walk out.
The sun begins to shine through the clouds on my walk to the clinic the next day. I come to the building, a high-rise behemoth that has “Resurrection” written across it. Across the street is that same billboard with the laughing couple. I walk through the automatic doors and come to a room full of people running around. I walk over to the receptionist’s desk and get a clipboard with papers that need to be filled out.
Hours go by before I get taken into a room. Soon after I enter, the brunette woman whom I had seen the other day comes into the room in a white lab coat. She smiles and says, “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
I reply, “Well I would have come sooner if the waiting room wasn’t so busy.”
She laughs, “Yes, well, it is a popular procedure.” She takes my clipboard, and as she looks over the sheets she sits down near a computer.
She says, “Well, Mr. Richards, everything appears in order. So, tell me, what memory are we going to be removing today?”
My hands begin to shake as I say, “My wife.” She nods her head and begins to type into the computer. Stunned, I just sit there silently.
Finally, I work up the courage to say something. “You’re not going to tell me this is a bad idea or warn me or something?”
She looks up from her computer and says, “No, from your file you are clearly above the age to consent to this procedure. If you are having reservations, however…”
Images begin to flash before my eyes: our first date in a restaurant when I couldn’t stop sweating, our first night together where she couldn’t stop smiling, our wedding where we promised to always be together, but it ends the way it always does with her slamming the door on her way out and never coming back.
“Mr. Richards, are you listening to me?”
I look back towards the doctor and reply, “Sorry, what were you saying?”
She shakes her head and says, “Is this something you want to do? Because it can never be undone.”
I turn my head and look back at the billboard of the smiling couple, finally realizing how much the woman looks like my ex-wife. I begin to smile too.
Writer’s Block
by The Cowl Editor on January 18, 2018
Portfolio
by Marisa Gonzalez ’18
Maisy Brockwell sits at her computer, staring blankly at the screen. No words come to mind. No feelings or thoughts. Her mind is simply empty. How is she supposed to write a 20-page short story if she had nothing? To make matters worse, she is sitting in the common room of her apartment and her roommate has just come in and turned on Supernatural, the “Bloody Mary” episode. So now she has no story and was probably going to have nightmares. Just great!
“Hey Maisy, you look dead. You okay? Hello? Hey Maisy, are you alive? You’re not blinking. Hello?” Maisy’s roommate, Carla, waves her hand in her face causing Maisy to blink and slowly turn to Carla. “Oh! Man, you look like a zombie. How about you take a break and watch Supernatural with me? It’s a good episode. I promise.”
Carla attempts to smile but the blank face of her roommate freaks her out. She tries to start a conversation. “Um, Maisy, how are you feeling?”
Maisy slowly blinks and states, “Nothing.” She then turns back to her computer.
A shiver runs down Carla’s spine. She shakes her head and turns back to the TV in time to see Bloody Mary coming out of the mirror. A gasp escapes her and she quickly turns off the TV. Maybe Supernatural wasn’t such a good idea. Plus, her roommate might be possessed. She should probably handle that.
“Soooo, Maisy, whatcha doin’? Why are you staring at a blank screen? Hello?”
Carla tries another wave, but Maisy just continues to stare at the computer. Carla sighs and folds her arms across her chest. She tries a different approach.
“If you have become possessed then I am going to email the dean and get a new roommate. I may even get an A for the semester because my distress has caused me to lose focus on school work.”
She casts a side glance at her roommate. Maisy continues to be unresponsive. So, Carla continues to talk, “If you are possessed I must save you. Sam and Dean would most likely go for holy water, but we don’t have any, so I’ll probably go to the church and get some. Since its from the church it’ll be extra holy, so once it touches your skin you’re probably going to melt and I am going to have to pay the fine for the clean-up and I really don’t want to. You know I’m poor.”
No response. Carla huffs. “Fine, I’ll take your money. You won’t need it because you’ll be a pile of goo.” Nothing.
“Ahhhhhh!” Carla screams. “Okay! I have had it!” She grabs the computer and pulls it away.
Suddenly, Maisy comes to life. Her eyes fill with fire, her nose flares and her mouth curls. “How dare you!” she spits. “I was working on that! I need 20 pages. 20! And I have nothing. Nothing! And I will continue to have nothing if you don’t give me that back!”
Maisy lunges for the computer and Carla happily allows her to take it. She smiles stupidly and hugs Maisy. “You’re back!” Maisy tries to squirm out of the hug, but she suddenly stops as she feels a sense of release. Her mind fills. She feels emotions again. Now it is Maisy’s turn to smile stupidly.
When Carla releases her, Maisy takes a breath and says, “Thank you.” Carla grins and bows. “See, all you needed was to lose focus. You’re welcome. Now don’t stress. That story will not come to you if you think too hard. Breathe a little. I missed you. Possessed Maisy sucked.”
Maisy laughs and lets her mind go. She turns back to the computer, cracks her fingers and types, “The attractive baby carved a turkey in the dilapidated zoo almost a year ago to create a diversion.” She smiles, satisfied at her accomplishment, and shows Carla. Carla sighs and shakes her head. This is going to be a long night, but at least her roommate is not possessed.