Cabin on the Cut revealed as silent memorial to architects

November 2009, if you’ll cast your minds back through time, is when we might have first noticed the eruption from the Cut of a small house-like structure. In the tranquility of smooth green grass, a cottage of odd aroma and form emerged partially from the ground, peeking out at the world around it.

Little did we know that this quiet structure was one of our last reminders of the previous year’s fallen architecture students, recently found in the Monongahela River. Police have reported that the groundwater pushed the bodies from the site into the river channels, where they were found with a look of disappointment and a final review clutched in their fists.

These students had fallen into a stressful vortex, described as a labyrinth of T-squares and coffee cups. The one surviving witness who fled the department, now hiding in Homewood and wishing to remain anonymous, relayed his experiences of escaping this swift and disastrous fate: “As I was kicking one of the plotters into working order the night before our review, I heard what I thought was a performance piece gone awry on the third floor.”

Unknown to this former student, the collective stress of CFA had formed a quantum spiritual-magnetic connection to a crypt that had been forgotten since the days of Andrew Carnegie, 300 feet under Carnegie Mellon’s Cut, resulting in a small yet disastrous tectonic plate shift.

“The poplar windows of our hall were ripped from the side of CFA, coincidentally forming the most beautiful semi-detached structure I could imagine, and as I sketched it with a segmented arch to impress that girl who sleeps next to me under our cluster tables, I watched her fly out of the conical intersect.... I never returned her protractor.”

Fortunately, our witness slammed his ribs between a fallen transom bar and a canyon of inefficiently used materials, saving his life. Were he not so lucky, his body, mind, and soul would have passed through a hellish obstacle course culminating in the deep soil of Pittsburgh’s watershed.

Let us all take a moment now to bask in the recent sunshine, showering an ominous glow and twinkling silent memorial on the metal stakes that still mark their point of departure from this plane.