Edited By: Lavanya Goswami
Disclaimer: This article is a fun piece written in good spirit. It is not an actual representation of how HCAU works.
Content Team Meeting
Anxiety glooms over every writer. They are huddled around the heads, wilted sunflowers desperate for sunshine in the winter. No one speaks.
The directors are ready to stab each member with ruby-red fountain pens. Would ink spurt out of them, to form words and stories for the HerCampus altar/website?
One of the heads hisses, “I swear to all that is holy, I will start cold-calling…”
There is a spilling of words as they tumble into each other like over-eager labrador puppies.
“I must write of this love that plagues me.”
“I can write if only I eat well, and I have not been eating well.”
“I want to write of the sun and the moon, and stars that a-twinkle.”
“I want to delve into a hypothesis justifying burning the whole world down.”
One writer sits silently. There is a lull as all turn to look at them.
“And what will you write?”, the heads ask.
The writer looks up. They’re five seconds away from crying. “My words…” she wails, “my words have disappeared!”
Chaos ensues.
It is less a writer’s room, and more a conspiracy of ravens.
***
Editorial Team Meeting
They are the sanest of the whole HerCampus lot – their numbers reflect this statement. Very few retain their sanity in this world. Though this sanity is questionable. There is something in their eyes, eerie owl eyes that suggest they have seen too much.
They are withered bare branches, their young leaves pecked to death by the writers.
They are a patient group. They pause, they deliberate, and more often than not, they miss trains.
A collective sigh is released. A synchronized dipping of tea bags in hot water commences, and hands-running-through-hair gestures are performed.
“Update?”, the chief editors ask.
“I need therapy with the rate they be trauma dumping.”
“Incorrect grammar”, the chief rebukes. The member bows their head in apology.
“Next?”
An editor’s voice trembles, “I have failed.”
The entire roomful of people stiffens.
“Failed…in what way?”
The editor swallows, “I used Grammarly.”
The chief editors glance at each other. Together they intone, “For this grave crime, you shall have to listen to Aqua’s Barbie Girl on repeat for three days.”
***
Events Team Meeting
Everyone has a clipboard. Sparkly is a must, pink is optional.
The department is a court of fairies, high on dreams and pixie dust. They are maniacal, an undercurrent of lightning runs through them. It is this energy that grants them the ability to do what they do.
They work at an insane pace, with insane objects.
“What is our motto?”, the heads shout.
“Good Taste!”
“Good Vibes!”
“Good Girls and Guys!, the entire group shouts.
“We really should work on a cheerleading routine,” a head mutters, scribbling on their clipboard.
“How’s the campus atmosphere?”
One of the members steps up, in a stand-at-ease position, “Going great, Sir. Collaborating with stalkers was a good idea; we know exactly what the student body does and wants.”
“Good, good. Did we get any new offers of collaboration?”
“In-house?”
The head nods and adds, “External ones too.”
One voice pipes, “In-house, Witches Food Cauldron continues to deny joining forces.”
The director’s visage grows ominous. “Our infiltration plans?”
“On-going. Results will be delivered within two weeks.”
The heads nod with enthusiasm. “External collaboration offers?”
“Salem Witches offered…”
The well-oiled fairie court rarely falters.
***
Media Team Meeting
They all lounge on uncomfortable study chairs. The classroom fans spin lazily. Each member’s hands move slowly, regularly – playing cat’s cradle, Candy Crush, or with human hearts.
There is a sleeping power in the air. If one pokes at it, it will rise and decimate the poker.
The directors’ eyes shine with awesome charisma.
“We need a plan.”
“A plan we need.”
“Needed by us is a plan.”
Are they weaving a spell?
The heads walk up to the whiteboard, with red markers in their hands.
“Open up an excel sheet please,” one soft voice says.
The lids of laptops flip open. There is a ferocious clicking of keys.
The entire group plans out a month-long strategy in an hour.
They are sirens adept at luring listeners to an unknown end.
***
Executive Board Meeting
Ten people sit in a semi-circle, their postures upright. There are no crystal balls in front of them. Yet, they know exactly what the future holds.
The eyes of the ravens are glinting. The owls await their prey. The fairies shimmer. The sirens grin. Over them all, preside two predators with glistening fangs.
One of them rumbles, “Are we satisfied with our Elite status?”
The group nods.
The other predator smirks, “The potion with Toofan’s hairballs has worked wonders,” they look at one of the fairies, “Good suggestion.”
Their shimmer grows stronger.
The two sovereigns rumble, “Our superiors have asked us to celebrate our establishment turning five. Ideas?”
A symphony plays out.