Chrysalis Literary and Arts Magazine
Chrysalis
Literary and Arts Magazine
Staff
Scout Lynch, editor-in-chief
Katelyn Feiffer
Layla Freeman
Sarah Gallagher
Mattie Green
Victoria Hood
M. Katherine Grimes, advisor
Judges
Autumn Potkay Baranski, Photography
Elina Baltins, Art
Jamie Peters Campbell, Prose
Jim Minick, Poetry
Ferrum College
Fall 2024
Essence of Transformation by Victoria Hood
First Place Photography
Cover: Danger Berries by Cayden West
Do You Remember?
by Mattie Green First Place Prose
Do you remember the days when Mom wouldn’t have it in her to cook, and when life had been too much? You’d grab a shovel and a kid and go dig a hole in the patchy backyard. Another kid you’d send for fist-sized rocks to line the fire pit. Your oldest was always tasked with helping Mom prepare the frozen hotdog package. It swirled slowly in the kitchen sink as cool well water poured over ‘em. Do you remember kneeling over torn paper, kindling, and the dead sticks your kids so proudly brought you--all sizes so it’d burn steady? Do you remember how you’d hold up your hands to show us how big a marshmallow stick we needed, or how I’d always grab the fallen pine branches, straight and narrow and sticky long before the confections were speared and lit alight? Do you remember the aging lab mix, and how he would steal the gooey sweets held at jowl height, white sugar gluing whiskers to graying muzzle? Do you remember laughing? And staying out ‘til the sun started to set, the sky turning pink as cotton candy, and tree shadows growing steady on the ground? Do you remember Mom shooing y’all’s kids inside so she could scrub the red dirt from our knees and wash the campfire smoke from our hair? Do you remember how you’d pause, gaze up at the heavens, and extinguish what little bit of flame remained before joining us inside, closing the creaking cabin door behind you? Do you still have your memories on the other side, because they’re all I have left.
The Shape of the Heart
by Colton Johns First Place Poetry
I’m underwater but I’m still breathing fire
You were the clock that was ticking in my heart But every time there is silence There will be sound
We are taking a break from our favorite thing There are so many words in silence
Dragon by Sarah Gallagher First Place Art
Dear Medical Ringmaster
by Mattie Green Second Place Poetry
Dear Medical Ringmaster,
I pray your next patient, having survived the bone saw circus, beneath your sterile big top, is not the delicate Acrobat, balancing on a tightrope of politeness while you direct the steely spotlight on her fragile, broken frame.
I pray your next patient, having survived the scalpel side show, beneath your antiseptic canvas, is not the mournful Clown, juggling benefits of the doubt, while you stuff their bruised and bandaged body in a miniature car of shame.
I pray your next patient, having survived all the anesthetic acts, within your three-ring clinic, is not the Bearded Lady who freezes in your beam,stripped naked as if the humiliation of her existence is not enough.
Rather, I hope your next patient is the disgusted Lion, and they devour you. Whole.
Sincerely, The Acrobat, The Clown, and The Bearded Lady
Just Outside the Cabin Door
by Ayden Plautz Second Place Prose
I slammed the keys down, crashing against the paper with ferocity. Same as the things that made themselves heard from outside of the entrance to my domicile. Thrashing with more fierceness as the keys began to pick up speed and intensity, as I attempted to contain my focus. Them only faltering when the pounding became too much, forcing me to concede and pause for a moment, allowing me momentary peace from the seemingly perpetual onslaught.
I hear them outside my cabin. The writhing sightless things that had been plaguing me for however long it had been, I’ve lost track. They slammed themselves against my door with such intense ferocity that I had begun to worry that they would splinter the door. Splitting the wood, the rune that was the only salvation from the things sat just outside my view from the window, when I dared to take a peek through the curtains. I sat at my desk trying to block out the noise with the typewriter which made the spot its home ever since the beginning of my stay in this cursed place. I typed thoughtlessly, only stopping to reconfigure the cylinder. The keys clacked to drown out the noise, to make something, anything happen besides the obvious. Futility mingled with the horrors making themselves known outside. They were elongated things darted out of view at the slightest probing. They were impossibly fast, and it was completely futile to attempt to make out anything definite within the brief window of opportunity they seldom allotted before they scampered off in the shadows surrounding the woods. Darting in a flash of blackened skin and scale.
When night became day, and the sun began over the tree ridge. The beast scurried back to whichever hovel they inhabited. I made my way out, through the twisting woods that would be considered our shared homestead, both mine and theirs. I meandered my way through the property in order to prepare myself for the night. They will be back, performing the same display they always did, and I will do the same. A repetition of inevitability. Faced with the same fearful futility, the same unseen horrors I’m always faced with, just outside the cabin door.
The Time Being
by Mattie Green Second Place Art
The Witch’s Den
by Ayden Plautz
Through the mountains of Appalachia, through the rolling hills, deep within the hidden woods sits a band of witches, toned in a set of gilded familiarship. Into the roaming hills, I make my way, through the grasslands, through the trek of the woods. Along the woods and into the clearing, the witches grouped in a camp obscured from sight where the coven stood their ground, a searing fire burned in the center of camp, illuminating all the gaunt, wretched faces that stood around its helm.They cackled as I approached, lifeless in their conjoined melody, a cacophony of mingled cackling, as they encircled me, their encroaching forms stepping closer as I did the same, shapeless as their outlines were all but illuminated in the golden firelight.They named their price as they began to analyze me, seeking fortune as all men do, an unorthodox request. The completion began and their terms were set, severing above the joint where wedding band once sat, shooting pain, blood drip drip drip, falling to the ground in a shimmering glint within the dirt. The leader, as she appeared to be, exclaimed, “Your term is met. I hope it was worth it.”She cackled into the sky, the remaining of the coven standing idly, quiet and contemplative as I departed, trying to staunch the bleeding crimson from my left ring, as I returned to my freshly lonely abode, alone once again, not sure if the price was worth it, but only time would tell, once I returned from the witch's den.
Polyphemus by Scout Lynch
Jare-Bear
by Scout Lynch
Years before we met, my partner woke up in the middle of the night in the worst pain of his life. He woke up and immediately thought, “Oh, I’m dying.” The pain he was in was so intense that he could not drive himself to the hospital. However, he could not fathom the thought of waking up his roommates and burdening them with the task of driving him to the hospital. That would be rude. He called 911 and told them that he needed an ambulance but asked that they please not turn on their sirens or lights because that would wake his roommates up. That would be rude. The operator said that the paramedics were going to need to knock on the door. Oh no, no, that wouldn’t be necessary. The paramedics would be waking up the whole house with their cantankerous knocking. That would be rude. My partner assured the 911 operator that he would be out on the porch awaiting their arrival and he crawled to the front porch, much akin to a character in a Looney Tunes show while they desperately crawl through the desert in search of water. So there he was, lying on the porch, still in wretched pain. The ambulance arrived and as they were coming up the street, they flashed their lights. His first thought wasn’t “Thank God they’re here” but instead was, “Oh no, the lights are on. That’s going to wake people up.” That would be rude. So the paramedics came and put him on a stretcher and carried him to the ambulance. His pain was at an eleven out of ten. It turns out he had a kidney stone. A kidney stone! Dwelling in his kidney space without permission. How rude.
Crying Reward by Scout Lynch
The Heart of Carolina-God’s Country
by Zoey Piwowarczyk
I Am From
by Bralynn Beamesderfder
I am from Jacks Mountain
From The tall green corn to the potato Papa plows
I am from Where Rockydale blasts away from our home And Cornbread served with every meal Whose Branches hug you tight as you watch the golden wheat sweep the field
I am from Long hours in the middle of god’s creation From Just some well known country folk And from A few words is all you get From Dirty boots leaving dust on the floor
I am from A brick church with old hymns From Momma's sweet tea to Hilda's million dollar pickles From Priming tobacco fields
And from Old milk washes overalls Swimming in Pigg River swimming hole I am from
The moments That most people have never lived It’s a dying trade and it’s the way of life
They Come When It Rains.
by Ayden Plautz
It started to rain then. A fine superfluous misting of water surrounding the area within my view. That’s how it was at first, normally when we played outside, before the concaving clouds downcast a tsunami and forced us to find recluse into our respective homes. It was an almost peaceful feeling of finer water hitting my face, clean of contaminants and washing away the acrid scent of musty sweat that had, itself, previously coated my face. It felt reassuring almost as I rubbed my hand across the base of my forehead and yelled for the rest to stop and to go back to their homes. That was normally how it ended, the fun.
They each looked up, fear crossing their faces as the donning realization hit them and they began dispersing into their various sectors of the neighborhood, back to their respective domiciles leaving me as the last in the cul-de-sac to make my way home, to the farthest of the homes.
Crossing swiftly, skimming from sector to sector, through various well kempt fields to my home until it came into view in the back of Freddy Donevan’s home. I began to rush more expeditiously, practically galloping on my way back to safety. Mere yards away I saw them, the almost human things that made their way smiling grotesquely on their encroaching way looking for people who didn’t find their way fast enough. The things saw me, smiling broader, the smiling almost reaching their eyes as they lumbered, writhing in the rain. Their near amphibious bodies smashing against one another the way they always did, trying to reach me for whenever they did, and always, whenever they come with the rain.
Tranquility before Chaos by Victoria Hood
The Taverna
by David Campbell
Em Am
There’s a place across the bay, in the shadow of Pompeii
C7 B7 Em B7
High upon the cliffs of old Sorrento
Em Am
Where the music and the wine, and the people intertwine
C7 B7 Em B7
Along the alleyway Via Fuoro
Am Em
Tucked away on down the lane, past where artisans inlay
B7 Em B7
Lies the Taverna Napoletana
Em Am
A restaurant by day, and at night a cabaret
C7 B7 Em
Captained all by Ciro the Pirata
CH:
G C Em Am
Won’t you let me hear just one more song
B7 Em
Don’t know when I’ll be coming back this way
G C Em Am
The time between seems much too long
B7 C7 B7
Might put off moving on for one more day
A decade in the books, they come by hook and crook
And every night they hit a height of glory
Panuozzo by the slice, Peroni’s cold as ice
Everything that’s born will have a story
Each night when the moon comes up, Maria fills the waiting cups And taverngoers raise a glass in toast
And when the guitars play, fedoras and berets
Get tipped along the whole Amalfi Coast
Won’t you let me hear just one more song
Don’t know when I’ll be coming back this way
The time between seems much too long
Might put off moving on for one more day
Port-a-Potty
by Scout Lynch
i am trapped in an upright coffin that is filled with human waste. i am panicking in a room in an attempt to relieve myself. it is ninety degrees outside and the sun is beating down and making the smell more intense. i am trapped i am panicking i am hovering. if idle hands are what satan makes busy, i don’t know what wretched entity loves to work with the port-a-potty.
Sun Chaser by Mattie Green
Drained by Gage Shelton
My energy is a well. I need to draw from it to live. The more work I do, the thirstier I am, and the more I need to take. The lower it is, the more I hope for a cool summer rain to help refill it.
And this is how life should be. A cycle of drawing and refilling. But when the well starts to run dry, and a drought comes, What is left to draw from?
If I need the water for a big task, I cannot waste it on smaller ones. No water to bathe. None to clean my home. No, the water must be saved to gulp down frantically while continuing the work. I am exhausted & hot, and halfway through my day, my week, my year, When I go to take a drink from the well. But as I greedily open my cracked lips under the spout, A single drop crawls out, And I yearn for the cool mist that comes with a full well. So I survive on drips and drops of life and hope for rain, for a flood. But yet, the well remains dry, and I remain here, Drained.
Diptych in Green by Mattie Green
Waterfall Flow by Victoria Hood
Hallow Night
by
Ayden Plautz
Hallow night, hollow bright
The panging sensation of fright.
Buried in the obscure light,
Buried in the obsolescent sight.
To be bestowed upon those of ample age,
Of ample gain.
To be brought out
To those own delight.
Those who aren’t supposed to know
Must not show it.
Feast come the hollow night, so it does
Bring out the hallow sight.
When the Sun Cries
by Colton Johns
When the Sun Cries
The cries aren’t always the prettiest
The sugar isn’t always sweet
The weak aren’t always the weakest
Pain isn’t always physical
by Gabriel Alvarez
Orange Glow by Chip Grosvenor
Dark Glance
Noise Cancelling Human
by Gage Shelton
Life is loud, life is noisy, A constant barrage of sounds and things. I am stressed, I am busy, A nervous bundle of lists and tasks. He is there, he is caring, A shelter to wait and bear the storm.
I am calm, I am living In the comfort that comes from him at home.
Circles and Cells
by Mark Poore
Radcliffe Camera Encampment, Oxford University by Lana Whited
Onslaught
by Ayden Plautz
The yelling began, a quick bursting of rants and beratement as I shy away, trying to keep away, to keep into myself waiting for the end of her chanting. Her face distorting as I fought back tears, my eyes welling but unwilling to let them follow through. I stood, waiting for the beratement, the steps from my sister in the other room. I could hear her, trying to stay quiet as I stood, waiting, ignoring, desperate for the end to come.
I apologized, just wanted it to be over, hoping that would be the end, hoping that she would relent and let me correct the mistake, but she continued. My gaze not meeting hers, feeling like a child again in the state that I could not fix, even with effort on my part. I held my ground as she tired, relenting back to her room as I stood there a moment, scampering to finish the task she assigned, before she began with another onslaught.
United by Robyn Taylorr
Your Hill
by Kaylee Brooks
Here comes back my inspiration
Here come back my fear and shame
I’ve been down and out and afraid to miss you
I’ve been out and about in my ways
Maybe If I close my eyes I’ll breathe it in
Maybe if I focus hard, I’ll be back in a safer time
Only it all comes back
The moment I knew you were gone and I’m scared, I’m alone
If you’re not here than I am gone
It’s what I made myself believe
Let me pretend just make believe
If I called you now, If I called you, Maybe it would ring
If I messaged and didn’t delete
Could it be like our last call, could it be like our last moment
And when it comes back it brings that moment I knew you were gone
And their eyes settled on me
How the wind blew by gently
As if not to disturb my speech
Standing at your side
Alone on your empty hill
Wave Functions
by John Kitterman
The same shoreline, the same sandbar, the same walls of water chevroning across the horizon where that tanker was bound for Panama, Each should have been a Newtonian fact. But they weren’t. Einstein didn’t believe it. He didn’t believe that a brain Could not compute the arriving slideoff to lefts and rights Right down to the foam bubbles in the windspray. No AI either no matter how much the data, no matter How excited the electron wranglers at the NYSE. Al knew the math, but not the art of Sizing up ten thousand lineups by the tug of your groin on That looming miracle heading to your retina. How it was likely to Crash before you were ready and tumble you like That girl on the beach with one foot in the air. How it might get pulled up short by undertow and heave You and your ride skyward like a capering waterspout. Poor Al hardly had time for the beach after the patent office In Switzerland, the one place there was no sea. Because you have to grow up watching those curves That come out of nowhere, with a lover’s intensity. Out of chaos rumbling in the inner distance, That storm into your room unpredictably and demand Something you must be ready to give, Instinctively, without thinking. Because you sense God is on a beach somewhere on the other side rolling dice And laughing like a kid at the ripples.
Foreboding Horizon by Chip Grosvenor
Alone in the Water by Scout Lynch
The Armor of Obesity
by Mattie Green
Since 2019, my weight has decreased by approximately six or seven feral cats. Perhaps, if I had those cats to surround me today, people would think twice before jabbing their fingers into my ribs. I have lost the weight equivalent to 240 sticks of butter. If I had that butter now, I could grease what remains of me then slither away from the unwelcome touching I had hoped I left in the halls of my high school. I have lost the weight of one large, Lane cedar chest. If I had the chest, nestled at the foot of my bed, then maybe I could crawl inside my cedar coffin and hide from the hands of humanity. I have lost the weight of two solid gold bars. After being tickled by a grown man, just four weeks after having my pelvis reconstructed, I couldn’t help but think that my previous protective padding would have been far more valuable. I miss the armor of obesity. I foolishly assumed that a pandemic would have taught the public at large not to encroach on the space of strangers. Silly me. Silly little me also assumed that I could attend a funeral without family prodding and pinching my abdomen. The absolute audacity of wanting people to ask before grabbing and groping, as they insist they’re “just being friendly.” Perhaps I need to start wearing a “Not Friendly. Do Not Pet.” vest whenever I leave my house. I had thought the lessons of “look with your eyes, not with your hands” were for more than just children, but apparently, I was wrong. Oh, silly little me.
So, what’s a girl to do? Well, with the weight I have lost, I could replace it all with a five-pound paintball gun and 7,334 paintballs. I would have 7,334 opportunities to mark the perpetrators with splatters of orange, yellow, red, and green. I’d have 7,334 lessons in manners to meter out. I’d have 7,334 reasons to have my body to only myself and those I invite in, and hopefully, as a result, 7,334 more people in this world who would think twice before pinching, poking, tickling, or touching a stranger, but who’s counting?
Bedroom in Adobe by Mattie Green
Majesty
by Mark Poore
Elucidate
by Colton Johns
Gone
Vanished Void Gone
Vanished Void Gone
Everything I ever knew, gone
All the things I could have done Screen in hand, yes, I did believe you!
Oh, why must I believe you?
Because they told me to? Diploma in hand Why must I believe you? Because they told me to?
Gone, everything gone What now?
Vanished
Another day, another paycheck
Living No
Surviving
Another day
Stress loading faster than the Wi-Fi at an Apple Store
The Time Before the Midnight Sun
by Colton Johns
Sorry your smile is a shade of blue
Your face is showing
You try to cover it, but now we know
We know what you’ve been doing
We know you’ve been unscrewing the true shades of blue
Knowing you can’t handle the pain of what happened when we were young and dumb
But all this time you’ve been crying
All this time you’ve been dying
Sorry your smile is a shade of blue
All I know how to do is see you’re the shade of what you knew
The shades of blue
She may be smiling but don’t let that fool you
Look in her eyes
She’s breaking inside
Your scars
Your scars
Your scars, that’s all we see
But you think, think, think you're beneath
But you have been falling into pieces
Like beaches burning bounded to the town
Northern Lights Scuba Dive by Mark Poore
Luna
by Gabriel Alvarez
Yo anhelo ver la Luna, Por toda esa paz que brinda, Los recuerdos que trae, Las emociones que incita.
Una Luna llena es todo lo que pido, Porque evoca nostalgia, Y me recuerda a mis amigos.
Paz, amor, y felicidad, Son solo algunas cosas que puede crear, No hay palabras que logren explicar, Aquello que la Luna me hace pensar.
You’re Never Alone by
Robyn Taylor
by Gage Shelton
Two Ships
by Scout Lynch
two ships passing in the night. two humans missing each other on a college campus. you are in the chapel, i am in the library. you are a structure that is filled with holiness and art while i am an old, creaky building that provides shelter for books and an antisocial cat. rarely will our paths cross but you will forever be my friend.
Reflection of Dawn
Reach
by Gage Shelton
“Shoot for the stars,” we were told, Without ever being given a stool. So you reach to the sky, Stand on your tippy toes, And stretch as far as your arms will allow, Just to pull a muscle.
Over the Clouds by Gabriel Alvarez
Web by Mattie Green
Drop of Life by Cayden West
Seaside Ride by Katelyn Feiffer
Los Gatos
by Aiden Wade
Érase un gato que vivía en un pueblo de los suburbios de México. Simplemente se llamaba El Gato. Era un poco gordito y muy torpe. Tiende a ser reservado y alejado de otros gatos. Ellos no creen que sea muy macho. Le agradan sus dueños humanos, pero piensa que son demasiado tontos para pasar el rato con ellos. Un día, una nueva familia se mudó a la casa de al lado. Parecían muy elegantes y no se parecían en nada a sus otros vecinos. Ellos también tenían una gata. Se llamaba simplemente La Gata. A diferencia de El Gato, La Gata es muy elegante y refinada. Tiene ojos azules con pelaje blanco y esponjoso. Prefiere no hablar. Ella piensa que hablar es una pérdida de tiempo. Curiosamente, a diferencia de la mayoría de los gatos, a ella le gusta nadar. El Gato se interesó inmediatamente por La Gata. "¡Por fin! Pensó. “Alguien digno de ser mi aamigo.” El Gato se le acercó hasta La Gata e inmediatamente dijo: "No sé ustedes, pero yo odio este clima cálido. Preferiría vivir en Texas, que es más fresco". La Gata simplemente lo miró fijamente por un segundo y luego se alejó. Al principio, El Gato se sorprendió y luego pensó: "¡Ya entiendo! Debe hablar el español de España". El Gato se dio cuenta de que si ella no podía entender sus palabras, debía entendersus acciones. El Gato pensó qué hacer y luego se le ocurrió su primer plan. "Si quiero que ella sea mi amiga, debería mostrarle lo macho que soy. ¡Qué mejor manera de demostrarlo que capturar un ratón!"
Resulta que hay un ratón que vive al final de la calle. Sin embargo, lo que El Gato no sabía era que el ratón era muy fuerte. El ratón pasó a ser el mejor boxeador de todo México. Entonces El Gato retó al ratón frente a la casa de La Gata. Esto llamó la atención de La Gata quien salió afuera para ver qué estaba pasando. Decir que El Gato perdió sería quedarse corto. Lo único que le dolía más que su cuerpo era su orgullo. El siguiente plan de El Gato fue "pedir prestada" un poco de leche al camión de la leche. Planeaba darle la leche a La Gata. Sin embargo, tuvo sed en el camino y se bebió toda la leche. Terminó dándole simplemente una botella vacía. Luego, intenta darle algo de su comida favorita. Son anacardos. Sin embargo, él no sabe que ella es alérgica a los anacardos. Ella rechaza los anacardos para sorpresa de El Gato. El Gato decide que necesita un collar nuevo para impresionar a La Gata. Piensa que qué mejor collar para impresionar a La Gata que uno de los suyos. El Gato se cuela en la casa de La Gata y "toma prestado" uno de
Little Lion by Scout Lynch
sus collares. Al probarlo resulta que es demasiado pequeño. El collar se rompió. Entierra la evidencia. Después de todos estos intentos, El Gato estaba dispuesto a darse por vencido. En estado de tristeza, vio a La Gata jugando con un ovillo. Mientras juega, La Gata accidentalmente golpea el hilo en la piscina. El Gato, abrumado por un sentimiento de valentía, decide saltar al agua para salvar el ovillo. Sin embargo, El Gato olvidó que no sabe nadar. Rápidamente se hunde hasta el fondo. Con un suspiro, La Gata salta y salva al Gato y luego el ovillo. Resulta que La Gata es nadadora entrenada. Sus dueños le dieron lecciones. El Gato se llenó de gratitud y agradeció repetidamente a La Gata. La Gata dice: "No te preocupes. En lugar de eso, puedes jugar con mi ovillo de lana". Con lágrimas en los ojos, El Gato dice "¿Somos amigos ahora? La Gata simplemente responde "Sí". El Gato salta y grita de alegría. Luego dice: "Espera, ¿puedes hablar español mexicano todo este tiempo?" La Gata lo mira y simplemente pone los ojos en blanco.
El Fin
Just a Pretty Kitty by Hannah Dix
Bright-Eyed Boy by Sarah Gallagher
Zoomies by Scout Lynch
Perfume Apocalypse by Mattie Green
The Feast Awaits by Lana Whited
Monsters
by Sarah Gallagher
I fight monsters every single day
No, you cannot see them
But I can
They are in my head
In my heart
In my soul
No, you cannot see them
But I can I fight them
Every single day
These monsters
Some kind
Some evil
“Are you sure you’re not annoying them?”
“Stop talking. You talk too much.”
“Should you be wearing that dress?”
I fight these monsters
Every single day
Telling them to be quiet
Pushing on through my day
Steel Magnolia by Layla Freeman
Fairytale Bloom by Hannah Dix
Mountain Out of a Molehill
by Scout Lynch
The other night at work, a tall, bald man came barreling into the brewery that i work at. he approached a family, asked them a question, and then turned around and exited with the same amount of gusto that he had entered with. I approached the family and asked them what he wanted and the son, who looked to be no older than 18, was very excited to let me know that the man was “clearly on drugs.” he dumbed his voice down, lowered his eyelids, and faked a lisp to do an impression of the man, who apparently asked, “do you have a cigarette?” the family (a mother, a father, a daughter, and a son) all had a laugh about it.
I thought that was the end of it but every time I passed the table, I heard them making up a new detail about the man. the son said he had “white powder all under his nose.” I walked by the table at another point and heard the daughter say how his face was so red that it looked like a tomato. they all laughed as the son continually did an impression of the man, as the phrase “do you have a cigarette” evolved into “y’all got a smoke?” the family, clearly from out of town, relished in their retelling of the story and I imagined that they would be telling it for years to come. i’m certain that by the end of the night, their story had evolved into how a 7-foot-tall coke head demanded some money and a pack of cigarettes. perhaps the son or the father would pepper in an exaggeration of how one of them had to threaten to fight the tweaking giant to get him to leave their family alone. this family had one small, strange experience and happily made a mountain out of a molehill. I like to think that the man who asked for a cigarette is out there somewhere, telling a similarly exaggerated story about the posh, waspy family who turned their noses up at him and laughed him out of an establishment when he meagerly asked for a cigarette, because two can play at that game.
Trippet Rise Arts Center by Martha Haley-Bowling
Serpentine
by Scout Lynch
my heart is a serpentine staircase climbing up feels like it will never end. you can try to carry your furniture in here to move in but it is almost impossible to do without some help i have made it this way so that drunk people will stumble and give up. my father’s old knees will give out before he can reach the top. anyone who doesn’t want to put the effort in will simply give up. it is dizzying to get back down and both directions are difficult.
A Bee, See? by Mattie Green
My Garden Buddy by Margaret Bisnett
Reach by Cayden West
Speaking Ring
by Ayden Plautz
I waited for the noise to subside, to reorient itself, reveal itself to me and to bestow the information I sought. In circumvent, circulation swirling around me. Voices in my head, in my mind. From internal, switching ear to ear. Unseen unraveling.
The voice spiraled, warbling, spinning around my head, in my mind, its voice coming through every part of me, everything that made up my very being. Sequestering my mind, swaying from side to side, almost maddening, its voice coming through in a mouthless snickering, incessant chanting, “fair deal, fair deal” maddening as I stood in the impassive clearing, the speaking ring which sat in these woods, sat between circular stone ring, monoliths in their own right encircling around the center altar, a monolith in its own right.
I tried to hear its demands, but it only called, “Fair deal, fair deal” on and on in my mind, straining itself in the spiral of the spiritual hallow we sat, our deal commencing as the laughter, sardonic and insane, a lunatic’s cackle, began.
“Do you accept my terms?” I ask, my voice cracking, looking for the thing, the unseen force which inhabited my mind, and if its whims were met, my body.
Its onslaught continued, more manic, more insane as it vanished, suddenly my mind calming for a moment before the thunder started, crashing overhead, light breaking the treeline. Momentarily, briefly, I saw a figure by the altar standing in resolute silence, more still than I would have thought possible as the first sign of rain came. I looked in my hand, and when I saw it land upon my palm, the rain turned to blood. The deal was made.
I remember that night
That Night
by Sarah Gallagher
That night we first hung out
That night we stayed with each other
Hours on end that felt like minutes until it turned three a.m.
That night we bonded
Total strangers learning each other’s stories
Telling each other things you wouldn’t tell a stranger
Trusting each other with trauma that vastly affected us
That night I broke a promise to myself
I wouldn’t fall for you
Well
There we were I fell
Hard
The Moon by Layla Freeman
Purple Pain
Purple Pain
Purple Pain
by Kariyia Pickens
The words sounded so beautiful
But reigned so painful
Can you imagine such a song
With lyrics so tasteful
But yet so apologetic
With a background so hateful
You wouldn’t understand
What it meant to entertain a world that thrives off your pain
Not how Kings would do it
But a Prince would let it reign
My Purple rain
His purple pain
May the world he left behind
Pay homage to his fame
Purple Pain
Grousbeck Rainbow by Layla Freeman
A Sight to See by Chip Grosvenor
A Beautiful Stormy Day by Robyn Taylor
Me and My Worm Wife
by Django Burgess
I push through the dirt and I squirm through the soil. Carving my tunnels with each curve and coil.
Who’s that behind me? My little worm lover.
“I love being a worm with you,” I say without stutter.
“Thanks,” they reply, but it doesn’t feel right.
“Is something the matter?” I ask my worm wife.
“I think and I think, and now I am sad. I have a question, but you might get mad”
I say “Oh, please ask, so your feelings don’t worsen.”
“Would you still love me if I was a person?”
“Of course my dear!” I reassure.
“I would love you no matter what you were! But we are both worms and worms are great. I’ll love you forever, my soilmate.“
Butterfly by Sarah Gallagher
Sparkler
by Emily Bass
I have this feeling I can’t quite describe It’s like a shimmering star aflame in my chest It burns my hands when I try to smother it
I can’t help but say “It hurts! This feeling hurts!” Of course it hurts. I keep touching an open flame with my bare hands in an attempt to make it *go away*. But it won’t.
Its light escapes the crevices of my fingers. It hurts but I’m afraid to unclamp my hands What would my parents say if they saw this?
My friends?
Strangers?
But I can’t hide it. I can’t make it go out.
But I can live with the strange looks. The awkward starts and stops of conversation that people try to have when they see the skin of my hands chard and burned.
I don’t acknowledge it. I can’t. I-I shouldn’t … I can live like this. I can live like this, can’t I? I want to check. I want to look. I want to part my own hands and let go of this light. To let it shine out of my heart, to be known, to be acknowledged.
I know what this feeling is, but I dare not describe it. If I look I won’t be able to deny it. But I have to check. I have to. I can’t keep living like this. My fingers part, they’re trembling And suddenly I am blinded
I feel sick, I feel joy, I feel fear, I feel relief
This is a feeling I can’t describe But it burst out of me
It spits and it cracks The sparks burn my fingers
And it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
The
Rainbow Crossing by Danny Adams
Beauty of Quaintness by Chip Grosvenor
Pevensey Castle Moat by Lana Whited
The Stones of Time by Sarah Gallagher
I Hate the Way I Hate Myself
by Grace Weaver
I hate the way I hate my body, The way I try to starve myself.
I hate the way I hate my curves, Yet find them so beautiful on everyone else.
I hate the way I look at me - and sigh And sometimes even cry; When if others did the same, I would hug them, and ask why
I hate the way I feel so small, only when the world around me feels too big. And I just wish I could live my life so freely, Like those before me did.
I wish I could believe my mom When she says that beauty comes from the inside. But even if what were true, I still feel like my heart is shriveled and dried.
I hate the way I hurt my feelings, And wish to bottle them, Yet can’t lock them on a shelf.
But most importantly, most of all, I hate the way I hate myself.
Best Friend
by
Gabriel Alvarez
My Best friend is made of keys, He can speak many languages, And say many, many things.
He comforts me all the time, With either his company, Or his sweet voice and mind.
They say life is made of greys, However his black and white keys Are just enough for me.
Wherever I go, He always follows me, Call him Piano or Keyboard, My Best Friend he always will be. Serenity by
Sarah Gallagher
Stars out my Window by Emily Bass
Peace
by Sarah Gallagher
I found peace in music
In the soft and quiet
In the loud and fast
In the violence
Music is always there
Even when no one else cares
When the nights become too quiet to bear
When needing to laugh
When needing to cry
I found peace
Within the measures
Within the lines and spaces
Within these compositions
Peace is music
Songs of My Heart by Elizabeth Coleman
Aftermath by Gabriel Alvarez
Jazz it up!
by Emily Bass
I can’t dance.
I have two left feet, not only when dancing but with everything I do. I trip on nothing, I drop things that are firmly in my hand, I can’t chew gum and walk up stairs.
Damn you! This clumsiness was a gift from my parents! The point is I can’t dance.
I’m too clumsy and I’m not up to social code to be considered beautiful while dancing badly. And yet…
I dance anyways.
Bad songs. Good songs. Sad songs. Happy songs. If I like the beat I’m dancing. I dance walking to my car, I dance going into the store, I dance by myself in my room. It’s objectively terrible, but it’s also objectively fun. Dancing at my cousin's wedding. Dancing at my high school prom. Dancing in my sister’s kitchen.
I can feel my heart beating to the sound of the drums. My head is nodding to the lyrics. My hands are playing a fake guitar. And my uncoordinated feet are jazzing it up!
NYC Skyline by Layla Freeman
Trinity Cathedral by Layla Freeman
Why Surrealists Don’t Trust Anyone
by John Kitterman
Say, you’re in your underwear, Out in the garage, Coughing up a hairball, A benign growth, a pink potato, That looks like a tarantula, That looks like the Soviet Union coming out of your toilet, That looks like an alien, an illegal alien. Just say for example, for instance, Por exemplo, Poor little ole me, That just once you have to be at work the next morning At 7 am, let’s say, to install jetairliner door plugs. Let’s say that you didn’t sleep well last night, The moon was a codeine pill, The moon chased you into a dog’s armpit, A pit of vipers, of tarantulas, And you were walking in your sleep with a girl named Angie, Named Tiresias, named Hey, Get Offa My Cloud, That girl at work, that girl you met in a bar, That was crying over spilt milk, Over spilt testosterone, Over a banana spilt, Just say, por exemplo, That you forgot what happened That night in Tiajuana, in organic class, In your bathroom, your bed, Not everything, of course, Just one thing? One … tiny … little … thing? What might happen next?
God’s Gift by Serenity Sears
In the Beginning
by Mattie Green
In the beginning, some say, God created the heavens, and the earth.
And He saw that it was good.
Half a century ago, and some change, God knit my father, in my grandmother’s womb, and while doing so, dropped a stitch, or maybe a whole row, and decided to write, a death sentence in Dad’s DNA. And He saw that it was good. A quarter century ago, and some change, I was knit in the womb, of my mother. And God decided, I needed a brain, that sends lightning behind my eye, at the taste of chocolate, or a hint of rain.
And He saw that it was good.
And I suppose, I was marked absent, the day normal ball and socket joints, were distributed, to the rest of class. And, probably, He saw that it was good too. Some change ago, I made the trek,
to my father’s grave, on joints that shift, like sand with every step. And as I sat, on a stump, wet from a recent rain, with a face, still tender to the touch, I looked, at the brilliant shades of emerald in the trees, and the mosses sprawled along ground.
I listened, to a choir of creatures, harmonizing, with a rushing creek from across The Way.
And sitting with my Father, in the cemetery, I breathed in, the scent of wet earth, and fallen leaves.
And I saw that it was good.
Almost Meeting by Danny Adams
Cathedral by Sarah Gallagher
Quietly
by Mattie Green
I came to visit you today, and there you lay, so quietly. The summer breeze, it stayed at bay, but there you lay, so quietly.
A spider crawled on spindlelegs, and still you lay, so quietly
Birds chirped defense o’er nested eggs, and yet you lay, so quietly.
An ant sought out a picnic feast, and there you lay, so quietly A storm was brewing in the east, and there you stay, so quietly.
The thunder rolled and raindrops fell, unphased, you lay so quietly. With cracking voice, I bid farewell, and you remained, so quietly.
I crept my car through raging storm, and mourned you not so quietly. Then crawled in shrouded bed so warm, and here I lay, so quietly.
Those Last Hundred Feet Are a Doozy by Danny Adams
You Are Here by Lana Whited
Hey Dad
by Mattie Green
Sometimes, in the lulls of life, and in liminal spaces, my father shows up. Or maybe it’s a shadow, a presence just out of reach, stretching its legs, taking a stroll outside his grave, a supposed final resting place.
Sometimes, I speak to him, my voice cracking, wishing for an answer, but hearing only wind. Or maybe a hint of laughter.
Sometimes, I wonder if my grip on reality is loosening, like a rope unraveling through raw, worn hands. Or maybe he’s here, in the mundane of me becoming myself.
And so I choose to believe, the more comforting of my two options.
Elizabeth I by Lana Whited
The Tooth Fairy
by Scout Lynch
when I was little, my parents refused to lie to me. they told me about the idea of santa claus and the tooth fairy but they never let me believe in those entities. they told me to not spoil the belief that other kids have. i always knew my parents were the purchasers of our christmas gifts. the tooth fairy idea never mattered as much because I only ended up losing five teeth on my own. the roots of my teeth refused to dissolve. when I was eleven, I had to have seven baby teeth pulled at the same time and as time went on, I had more baby teeth pulled. my dad, post-divorce from my mother, never gave me money for the teeth that were pulled because he had to pay for them to be removed. finally, I had one baby molar left when I was fifteen. my stepmom had a bright idea, she said it was too expensive to get the tooth surgically removed and that we should get it out ourselves. they said if I could get it out on my own, they would pay me ten dollars. what a haul, I never got that much from the tooth fairy that I never believed in. I couldn’t get the molar out and one night my dad, frustrated, brought me into the bathroom. he pulled out a pair of pliers and said that in this moment, he wasn’t my dad, he was a doctor. he tried to rip my molar out with pliers but to no avail. i pushed him away and said it hurt. he then rescinded the offer of ten dollars, and said that I had to get the molar out before the end of the week, or he would try again with the pliers. they gave me a tube or orajel and a container of dental floss and told me to figure it out. not wanting to fall to the fate of the dreaded cold, metal pliers, I got to work. I numbed my gums to the best of my ability and doubled up the dental floss, and doubled it again. with the floss wrapped around my fingers, I worked it under my purple molar, as it only had one j-hooked root left on it. god, that orajel was a crock. it didn’t numb me at all but it was better than the pliers. once the floss was slipped under my lifeless molar, i yanked it up. in a glorious splattering of warm blood over my left cheek, my molar ceremoniously popped out. I stared at it in the sink, an opalescent purple and surrounded by crimson blood. it made a glorious “clink” sound when it left my jaw and hit the ceramic sink. staring at the blood and tooth, i saw the blood start to swirl around and realized I was crying. staring at the blood, spit, tears and dismembered molar, I wished the worst thing my dad ever did to me was lie about the tooth fairy existing.
My Face Is Not My Own
by Mattie Green
I peer into the speckled bathroom mirror, and my mother’s brows furrow, her dark eyes glowering back at me. Leaning, I shove my glasses up the bridge of my uncle’s nose.
My gaze lowers, and hand moves, to smear the crimson lipstick on my father’s lips sitting squarely in his jaw.
I rub a hand over the curve of shared chin, surprised by the lack of stubble.
My tongue slides along artificially straightened teeth. Gracefully, I remove a scarlet smudge, before deftly snapping the cap, back on the tube of tint.
I give a satisfied smirk, and my aunt nods back in approval.
Hidden in the Shadows by Lydia Webb
Angst by Mattie Green
A Story of Two Tassels
by Kaylee Brooks
Once upon a time
A story retold
There was a curtain
And on that curtain were two tassels
They were just like all the ones around them on that fabric slab
But for some reason they found themselves tangled in their own web
For years and years they stayed hung high above the human heads
Tightly hung together
Their strings a raw mess
One day a cat brushed against the bottom
A string fell loose from one of the small tassels
This tassel soon found it was easier to breathe
And to move around
So it slowly untangled itself from its friend
Who started to notice
And wanted no end
Finding itself colder than ever before it clung to the other
It refused the very last string
Feeling free and unbound
the other didn’t want to be tangled around
But it soon became the clear the last string
Would not be let loose
The first tried and tried
But alas gave up
What did it matter if it had all it could
Without the last string it’d never hang on its own
Why be free if I’m on a leash it thought
And it let the other slowly tangle themselves back together
And there they stay
Unhappily tangled
Forever to hang
Art is worth doing badly
Bad Art
by Emily Bass
If you asked me, I would say most things I do turn out mediocre. If you asked my family, they would say I’m wonderfully talented. If you asked my friends, they would say they’re proud of me. I love art because it usually tells a story. My favorite thing in the whole world are stories. But not every story is going to be the next best seller or put into history books as a world renowned classic. Not every story is an epic quest or a fulfilling adventure with a moral at the end. Sometimes a story has no end. Sometimes a story doesn’t even have a defined narrative. Sometimes a story is about the milk you spilled this morning.
I love art because I love people. I love human beings. People are strange, inconsistent, and in constant flux.
You hear a young teen read a dark and gloomy poem and say, “They’re just going through a phase!”
Well I have news for you, we’re all going through a phase! All the time and constantly!
So let art be bad! Even if you stutter, even if your voice shakes, even if you’re breathing too hard, you’re allowed to make bad art.
Art isn’t a contest, it’s expression.
Express yourself because you deserve it!
Express yourself because you’re allowed to! You can do whatever you want forever! It’s your life! It’s your one life! Do what you want and keep making bad art!
Summer's
Hannah Dix
View by
Living with Big and Small Intimacies
by Emily Bass
You’re gonna have to learn how to do it while you’re scared. What is it? Everything. It is everything.
I’m scared of loud noises. I’m scared of people talking in another room. I’m scared of breathing too much. I’m scared to talk about my future. I’m scared to talk about myself. I’m scared of people treating me differently. I’m scared of people. I’m scared of everything, all the time, all at once.
But I have to talk to people anyways. I have to live with others. I have to breathe. I have to live that future. I have to open up. I have to learn with people treating me differently because of who I am. I have to live all the time, everyday, one day at a time.
At some point in time you are going to be scared. But you’re going to have to keep going, even if you’re scared. You can’t deny it. You can’t ignore it. And you’re gonna feel it.
You have to live with yourself even if you’re scared. So keep dancing, keep writing, and living.
Lone Mushroom by Mattie Green
If We Were Just Us
by Grace Weaver
Can you imagine–how much easier it would beIf you could be you, And I could be me?
I wouldn’t have to hate you For the thinness of your thighs, And you wouldn’t have to hate me For the waves in my wet hair when it dries.
I could love you, as we both celebrate our highest highs. You could love me, As we held each other through cries. It wouldn’t be about who is better or worse, Or even just present there. We could be friends even, I mean, who cares about another’s attention or despair
If only we could dare to be ourselves, Oh how easy it would be! Without judgment, without compare-
For you to be you, And me to be me.
Nature of Butterfly and Flower by Hannah Dix
Peace of Mind by Victoria Hood
The Sanctuary by Gabriel Alvarez
Sunshine on Pisa by Chip Grosvenor
Biographies
Judges
Elina Baltins ’21 earned her master’s degree in biomedical sciences after graduating from Ferrum College and is currently a graduate research assistant at Fralin Biomedical Research Institute. She won first prize in Chrysalis’s art category in Fall 2020.
Autumn Potkay Baranski ’20 is a stay-at-home mom to a sweet boy and another child on the way. She won first prize in Chrysalis’s photography category in 2018 for a snowy photo of the trees and pond behind Clark and Dyer. She was also on the Chrysalis staff. She still loves taking photos, mostly of nature.
Jamie Peters Campbell ‘06 graduated from Ferrum College with a Bachelor of Arts in English and Professional Communications. She received the Eric Lee Baker Award for excellence in English. She currently works at the Department of Veterans Affairs and lives in Ferrum with her two children and two dogs.
Jim Minick has written or edited eight books, including the collection The Intimacy of Spoons: Poems, the novel Fire Is Your Water, and the nonfiction book Without Warning: The Tornado of Udall, Kansas. He has taught at Converse College, Augusta University, and Radford University. He recently spoke to Lana Whited’s creative writing class and gave a reading in the Panthers Den.
Staff
Scout Lynch from Baltimore is an English major, the editor-in-chief of Chrysalis, and a member of the Boone Honors Program who lives in Ferrum and likes to crochet, cook, bake, and write, including Dungeons and Dragons campaigns.
Katelyn Feiffer from Fredericksburg is majoring in Nursing and plans to pursue her doctorate. Her hobbies include anything outdoors, softball, and binge-watching movies.
Layla Freeman from Rocky Mount is a music performance major and theatre minor. She enjoys video games, collecting Squishmallows, and music.
Mattie Green is a creative from Callaway. She is majoring in Graphic Design and Marketing. She enjoys crafting, dreaming, and the company of her family and pets.
Sarah Gallagher is a sophomore at Ferrum and truly loves the arts. She is mainly on the musician side but also loves to write, take photos, and crochet.
M. Katherine Grimes is a professor of English and advisor to Chrysalis.
Victoria Hood from Martinsville, WV, is a Psychology major and Art minor who is passionate about photography.
Other Contributors
Danny Adams from Vinton is Ferrum’s night-time library assistant. He has published three novels as well as short stories and poems in magazines including Appalachian Heritage, Asimov’s Science Fiction, and Strange Horizons.
Gabriel Alvarez from Maracaibo, Venezuela, is a Psychology major and a Music minor. He is on the tennis team, and he enjoys playing piano and guitar.
Emily Bass is a Psychology major in her second year at Ferrum. She has recently been enjoying horror anthologies.
Bralynn Beamesderfer, a freshman from Franklin County, is studying Agriculture.
Margaret Bisnett from Rocky Mount is director of tutorial services and has worked at Ferrum since graduating from Virginia Tech in 2015. She has two children, William, 4, and Libby, 1.
Kaylee Brooks from Martinsville is currently studying History and Middle School Education. Before transferring to Ferrum as a junior, she won a poetry competition at Patrick & Henry Community College, where she is poet laureate. Django Burgess is a sophomore Theatre and Music double major. He is quite active in all things performance at Ferrum and pursues music outside of school with his band Sugarbush. He enjoys writing and creating things.
David Campbell is assistant professor of English and Journalism and coordinator of the Journalism program.
Elizabeth Coleman is a freshman who uses art to express herself. She was in numerous foster homes and aged out of the foster care system. Music helped her get through the system and find her way back home.
Hannah Dix is a junior Theatre major who enjoys acting and painting and Corgis.
Chip Grosvenor, who was born in Ohio but grew up in Franklin County, is a History major and Political Science minor who enjoys traveling, photography, and drawing.
Martha Haley-Bowling is a professor of Social Work and director of the Social Work Program.
Colton Johns is a freshman who is a musician but also enjoys writing.
John Kitterman is a retired professor of English who continues to teach classes. He has served as advisor to Chrysalis.
Kariyia Pickens is a Pre-Vet major from Rocky Mount.
Zoey Piwowarczyk from Huddleston is majoring in Pre-Veterinary Science and minoring in Equine Science. Her interests include working with animals, making art, and spending time with nature.
Ayden Plautz is a sophomore who enjoys reading and watching movies. He enjoys writing in most forms, specifically prose and screenwriting.
Mark Poore is Ferrum College’s vice president of Information Technology and chief information officer, as well as adjunct instructor of Business.
Serenity Sears from Culpeper is majoring in Business Administration with an emphasis in Management. She likes taking pictures of things that she finds beautiful and intriguing.
Gage Shelton from Franklin County is a senior majoring in Accounting. He is also involved in many activities in the performing arts programs.
Robyn Taylor, who is studying Education, loves photography.
Grace Weaver from Franklin County is a Psychology major, English minor, and assistant Iron Blade editor. She enjoys working on her mental and physical health and her academic skills, and she hopes to have a counseling career.
Lydia Webb from Fancy Gap says she grew up very religious with a passion for our legal and political system. She is an aspiring prosecutor for victims.
Cayden West from Hampton is undecided about her major but leaning towards Physical Therapy. She is a goalkeeper for the women’s lacrosse team and participates in a variety of other extracurricular activities.
Lana Whited is Williams Distinguished Teaching Professor in the Humanities and advisor to Help Save the Next Girl. She teaches English.
The staff of Chrysalis thanks the judges for sharing their time and expertise; the Integrated Programming Board for providing contest prizes; and Jill Adams, the Undead Poets Society, and The Iron Blade for their help with ths semester’s coffeehouses and the Night of Terror.
You can visit this and earlier Chrysalis magazines at https://www.ferrum.edu/campus-life/student-publications-andmedia-chrysalis/
Dark Side of the Garden by Victoria Hood
Ferrum College
Fall 2024