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Cecily Rowe (fictional), wandering the halls of Skidmore College. Image courtesy of Meta AI.
Most students at Skidmore College have heard the whispers that a ghost haunts the campus. But few know her name—Cecily Rowe—and even fewer know why she remains here, wandering the corridors, unable to leave.
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An individual with his face covered, crouching by a gravestone. The rain falls around him. Image generated using Meta AI.
It was raining, of course. The kind of rain that doesn’t fall but sinks into you, deep into the marrow, until you feel as if your bones are heavy with it. The funeral procession moved in slow, stilted steps, a stream of black umbrellas bobbing like oil slicks under the bleak sky. I kept my distance, partly because I didn’t know the man well and partly because something wasn’t right.
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Glass Beach, California, during midday. Image courtesy of Medium.
You are a force like Victoria Falls,
Named for the Queen, yet more aptly,
Called Mosi-oa-Tunya, “The Smoke that Thunders.”
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Image courtesy of Emrah Jusufoski '28.
If you told me a year ago that I’d be getting my first real taste of Skidmore College through a summer academic institute, I’d have laughed. But here I am, fresh off the plane from North Macedonia, basking in the energy of this campus I’ve dreamed about for months. This article isn’t just a love letter to my future alma mater; it’s an exploration of what Skidmore represents.
Read morePhoto by Matthias Gellissen
He isn’t a mighty dragon that any myths depict, bravely fighting off adventurers to protect his treasure, nor a fearsome companion that I soar through the skies with. You won’t see him on the battlefield, roaring with enough strength to shake the earth; in fact, he’s the quietest member of my family, squeaking only in surprise in the 20 gallons of water he lives in. He’s a Spanish ribbed newt, which my 11-year-old self named Issac Newton, a birthday gift that excited me beyond belief. I was over the moon upon learning that he could live with me for 20 years, defending me against the great foes of boredom and homework; my mom was undeniably thrilled to hear that as well, the remark conveniently made after she’d signed the receipt.
Read morePretty Little Dead Thing—
Sky Creature Hit Ground,
you were always invincible to me,
above the Earth’s cruel touch,
but It has taken you.
Read moreHe isn’t a mighty dragon that any myths depict, bravely fighting off adventurers to protect his treasure, nor a fearsome companion that I soar through the skies with. You won’t see him on the battlefield, roaring with enough strength to shake the earth; in fact, he’s the quietest member of my family, squeaking only in surprise in the 20 gallons of water he lives in.
Read moreI’m a wanderer, a nomad of sorts
When I walk, you follow, and when I hurt, you hurt
If there were a path we went down
I wouldn’t look back or turn around
I’d go and know, you followed…
Read moreThey walk together hand-in-hand. He savors what they have. His best friend. Her pale skin glows in the moonlight.
She’s so striking.
Shaking the thought out of his mind, he turns to her,
“Tell me something.”
“I love you,” she lilts.
Read moreI’ve been breathing for a while. I can feel the wood against my back, and taste the air. But my heart hasn’t started beating. It’s an odd feeling. I can tell that time has passed, and I can tell that my consciousness has returned, but my internal clock is still broken and my life hasn’t come back.
Read moreI reach into the depths of my backpack and become engulfed by a sense of relief when I feel the sharp metal object. I begin to pull it out, or at least try to. The key gets tangled in the pages and pages of Greek grammar notes shoved into my backpack. It’s been two months and I still don’t know how to conjugate the verb “ειμαι.” The key finally makes its way up into the fresh air of Pangrati. As the cool key hits my sweaty hand, I realize that I cut my index finger…
Read moreShe doesn’t give the baby another look and leaves the room on swift feet, passing the maternity ward and not stopping till she exits the swiveling doors and collapses in the spiky grass outside the horrid walls that reek of death, even around life. There are light pink peonies, like the baby's hat, growing out of a small patch near a hospital garden sign. A monarch butterfly flaps its wings and floats in front of her and a gentle breeze wipes the tears from her face with a soothing whisper. It’s cruel how beautiful it is. As if nature itself refused to give her another look, to even regard her pain with a gray cloud or drop of rain. The flowers would keep growing; the flowers would keep living.
Read more“You wait until the day before finals to scream? kid i’m screaming every day #collegelife”
Read moreAugust 17, 2141, onboard the FES Daedalus. First Lieutenant Ziva Schaefer snapped out of her thoughts, still staring listlessly out the window of the craft into the intense darkness.
Read moreI looked for you.
You were not in the kitchen,
The ugly orange tiles lay there, lonely.
You weren’t in the dining room.
Read moreSummit is on the Garwood line; I don’t know why I need to double check every time. Summit is always on the Garwood line. Summit will always be on the Garwood line.
Read moreNovember is a month of transition. From breezy October to bitter December, from the beginning of fall to the heart of winter, from pumpkins to snowmen, anything can happen this month. So read on, if you dare, and let these horoscopes guide you through this confusing, chilly, and beautiful time.
Read moreI wish to exist in the soft sunlight
that hangs low between fall stricken trees.
To shutter with the yellow leaves
as a gentle wind rolls through the woods.
People always tell me I am a good writer. But, I am always unsure if anyone actually means it. I’ve lived with a disability for the past 21 and a half years and for most of my life, I’ve felt “good” at absolutely nothing.
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