THE COLLEGE HILL INDEPENDENT


From the Editors V.30 N.2

by Lisa Borst & Kyle Giddon

published February 6, 2015


Last week, we listened to the warnings of the weathermen. Our mothers called us. We called our mothers. We stockpiled. We hoarded. Flashlights, blankets, hand-cranked radios. We even filled up a can of gasoline.

At first, as the snow accumulated, we huddled together for warmth. We read Finnegans Wake by candlelight. When that grew tiring, a few words later, we whittled sticks. We milked a cow. The snow battered from above. A group of cats howled at the windows. Outside, the hydrangeas fell. The cow died. Our faces blackened with charcoal and soot.

We grew lachrymose, and shared a Pinot Grigio. We liked the way it rolls off the tongue (when vocalized, and when drank). Running out of things to say to each other, we thought about all the people in the world existing without tongues. Then, we curated our Twitter presences. We carved arrowheads from whale bones. We inoculated ourselves from polio.

Needing shelter, we constructed elaborate forts out of the backlog of The College Hill Independent. We each had our own forts. We had passwords. We lay siege to each other’s forts. They had battlements. Then we took the revolver with us and scoured the countryside for food but came back emptyhanded. Outside we saw the shadow of a piper in the ashen waste but could not risk approaching. A sailcloth shuddered through the dunes.

By now, we have become accustomed to new colors, new geometries. The world around is all alight. –LB & KG