Chrysalis: Fall 2019 by Ferrum College

Chrysalis

Literary and Arts Magazine Ferrum College Fall 2019

Staff

Heather Ellis, Editor-in-Chief

Katherine Grimes, Advisor Photography and Visual Art Committee Chloe Fisher, Chair Kristina Cossa Poetry Committee Kathryn Bonner Abigail McGovern Jacques Moore-Roberts Prose Committee AnnGardner Eubank, Chair Shela Muriel

Judges

Jane Lillian Vance, Visual Art Mike Dunavant ‘93, Photography Amanda Cholko ‘14, Poetry Janine Latus, Prose

Museum Monarch by Mary Stoudt

Table of Contents Celestial Views by Anthony Wilson Jr. Cover Photo Museum Monarch by Mary Stoudt 1 Table of Contents 2-3 Another Begins by Kristina Cossa 2 Raven by Yujin Lee 3 A Never-Ending Cycle by Heather Ellis 4 Blue Skies by Amber Scott 5 Growth by Ashlynn Willoughby 6 Signed, A Silent Onlooker by Heather Ellis 7 Khale Mumnoon by Antavian Leary 8 The Little White House on the Hill by Chloe Fisher 9 Our Last Moments Before She Crossed The Rainbow Bridge by Jamie Gilbert 10 The Cycle by Brandon Mullins 10 The Third by Mark Anthony Camp II 11 Over the Rainbow by Shela Muriel 11 Us by Abigail McGovern 12 Hello October by Laurynn Hackett 13 Parking Lot Graveyard by Heather Ellis 14 Beach Road Forever by AnnGardner Eubank 14 “But once, we were here.” -The Last of the Mohicans filming locations, Chimney Rock State Park; Chimney Rock, NC by Jamie Gilbert 15 Bubble Waffle in Stratford-Upon-Avon by Kathryn Bonner 16 Selfish by Mark Anthony Camp II 16 Fresh Bread from Scratch by Kathryn Bonner 16 Lost by Nykeira Brower 17 Flower by Nykeira Brower 17 Sunset by the Falls by Marrissa Ruiz 18 Scream by Kathryn Bonner 19 Rays of Him by Chloe Fisher 20 “Angels” The Protector by Shela Muriel 21 When One Life Ends by Kristina Cossa 21 Outer Space by Abigail McGovern 22 Journey into the Conscience by Anthony Wilson Jr. 22-23 Blues by Ashlynn Willoughby 24-25 Betrothal to the Sea by Shela Muriel 24-27 Sirens by Chloe Fisher 27 Romsdalsfjord from Åndalsnes, Norway by Tina Hanlon 28-29 No Place Like You by AnnGardner Eubank 30 Mountain Oasis by Mary Stoudt 30 Biltmore Epiphany ( January 6, 2019) by Tina Hanlon 31 Daylight by AnnGardner Eubank 32 Five in the Morning by Kathryn Bonner 32 Sunset on an Ocean by Ethan Kummer 33 Gina and Martin Vibes by Jacques Moore-Roberts 33 The Calcutta Rickshaw Puller’s Lament by Rathin Basu 34 Just a Cloud in the Sky by AnnGardner Eubank 35 Chinatown by Dyamond J. Howell 35 Woodbridge’s Garden by Anthony Wilson Jr. 36 Shizukesa by Heather Ellis 36 Home by Kathryn Bonner 37

Another Begins by Kristina Cossa

Contents continued Sunset with Tobacco Barn by Nancy Brubaker 38-39 Picasso’s Shakespeare by Kathryn Bonner 40 Bookshelves by Abigail McGovern 40-41 Raven by Yujin Lee All the World’s a Stage at Shakespeare’s Globe in London, England by Jamie Gilbert 40 Incidental by Dyamond J. Howell 41 A Leafy Path by Shela Muriel 42 For Those We Protected by Heather Ellis 42-43 Leaves by Shela Muriel 43 If Only They Knew by Kathryn Bonner 44 Thunderstorms by Chloe Fisher 45 Stormwatch by Nancy Brubaker 44-45 “Not all those who wander are lost” --J. R. R. Tolkien, Lena the Blowing Rock State Park cat by Jamie Gilbert 46 Giddyup by AnnGardner Eubank 46 Pretty Little Lady by Heather Ellis 47 Ducks by Yujin Lee 47 Because by Chloe Fisher 48 Riptide by Chloe Fisher 48 When I Lie With You by Chloe Fisher 49 Nucleus by Chloe Fisher 49 Coffee by AnnGardner Eubank 50-51 Flowers in a Vase by Shela Muriel 51 The Beauty of Spring by Shela Muriel 52 It Comes and Goes in Waves by Heather Ellis 52 In Worst Moments by Suzannah Carter 53 Innocence by Mary Stoudt 53 The Window by Anthony Wilson Jr. 54 Envisioning by Nancy Brubaker 54 Puddled Reflection by Chloe Fisher 55 Everytime I Wonder by Chloe Fisher 56 The Lovers by Chloe Fisher 56 Growth by Tayler Kleemoff 57 Capital Reef, Utah by Ethan Kummer 58 Strong by Kathryn Bonner 58 Diligent to the End by Nancy Brubaker 59 Your Butterfly, My Bee by Kathryn Bonner 59 Lost in the Sauce by Aimee McLaughlin 59 Higher and Higher by Heather Ellis 60 The Great Escape by Heather Ellis 61 Southern Summer by AnnGardner Eubank 61 Graffiti by Chloe Fisher 62 Huntsman by Tayler Kleemoff 62 Sesshomaru is Prettier Than Me by Diamond Hudson 63 Xenomorph by Alexcia Harris 63 Underland by Chloe Fisher 64 Charlie the Elephant by Kathryn Bonner 65 Biographies 66-67 Sunset in Fog by Yujin Lee 66-67 Untitled by Diamond Hudson 68 Sunday Evening at Oslo Harbor Promenade by Tina Hanlon 68

A Never-Ending Cycle By Heather Ellis First Place Prose

I often visit that place we first met. While sitting there on our stone bench surrounded by green gardens, I mull over the curse of immortality for the many years you’ve been gone. Time is empty and cold, the wait for your return heavy in my chest. I remember your look of quiet agony as drew your last breath in the king’s castle. In the time between then and now each second has been a lifetime of its own. It is in these in-between lives when I fear you’ll never return. Do you remember the day I found you beside that blossom bush, your beauty so bright it put those bellflowers to shame? You sat amongst the flowers and fountains, but all I could see was your silken hair and silver-blue eyes in the dying twilight. I remember the sparkle in your eye when I asked to join you under the faint stars. It was as if the sky had rejoiced in our reunion as the twinkling lights began to fall around us in showers. Now you’ve returned, but this time it’s you who have found me sitting here on our bench, our roles having reversed. Your smile’s as warm as it was the day we danced together, and your eyes are as deep as they were the night that we made love. Your laugh is light and airy when I amuse you, your touch as delicate as the first time we held hands. Your face is different, and your hair has changed a bit, but your soul remembers mine. It knows I’ve been waiting for so long and now you’re finally here with me, and I can hold you and breathe again. But those years never last, ticking by like seconds until they’re past, and suddenly we’ve passed our time, and you’re gone again, and my breath leaves with you. Disheartened, I return to our gardens to wait again, as I always do, as I always have.

Blue Skies by Amber Scott First Place Photography

Growth by Ashlynn Willoughby First Place Visual Art

Signed, A Silent Onlooker By Heather Ellis First Place Poetry I see the way you cry When you’re alone in the bathroom After they’ve left you to be miserable After their words have cut you so deeply “Faggot!” “Little Bitch!” “You’re gay!” And they resound almost painfully Shaking your world to the core Shattering your confidence Because what you like is “wrong” What you like is sick I see the way you avert your gaze Whenever an attractive boy walks into the room Because you fear the cut of their words And you fear the rejection that comes so quickly All it took was one wrong move A single misplaced stroke of confidence It was the wrong place and the wrong time The wrong person and the wrong crowd And now their jeers haunt you And their hateful words still ache I wish you had chosen to speak to me instead Your confession would not have been in vain And I could’ve saved you the endless pain I wouldn’t have made you feel wrong Because honey I feel the same way And who is to say if we are wrong or not? That we’re messed up because we’re different? That our love is false because it’s not for a woman? I promise you It’s certainly not them

Khale Mumnoon by Antavian Leary Second Place Visual Art

The Little White House on the Hill By Chloe Fisher Second Place Poetry

The little white house on the hill Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s broken and breaking with the boards in the attic Cracking and grinding against the earth in the basement Aging with every year that passes on The beauty is slowly wiped to an uglier slate The panels fall crooked The stairs to the heart of the home fall open And the shutters quake with every faulty wind that dares to push it As the floorboards fall away And the walls begin to fall I notice that through it all The foundation stays the same And thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s when I realized I am just like the little white house on the hill My head is beginning to break with every lost memory in my mind The feet I stand on need support from the cane I call mine Every year I age another year older My skin begins to sag My soul is lost more and more every day And every horrible word said to me makes my bones and eyelids ache with worry As my body falls away and the bones begin to fall I realize I will always know my home With the help from my nurses who promise it with the little white pill

Our Last Momenets Before She Crossed The Rainbow Bridge by Jamie Gilbert Second Place Photography

The Cycle By Brandon Mullins My world is blind. All is blank, It gets lonely, to be quite frank. But what is this? A warm glow. Many brilliant, new eyes now show. A new passion. I feel glee. This shall not stay eternally. Just like that, gone. It all leaves. I can see how the world deceives.

And in the same way all begun, So, too, shall it all be made done. Right, Over the Rainbow by Shela Muriel

The Third By Mark Anthony Camp II The beauty of when... to now the hideous what if. The seed I didn’t notice, but in the dark, it still grew. The sun had shone its warmth while Mother Nature helped it sprout, in my ignorance I looked to the sun and was blinded to it. The petals started to burst and the beauty of it was silent to all, Mother Nature would have been proud but the petals I wanted to pluck. Surprising dark skies, heavy rain, and screaming winds, I looked out the window, but turned my back and slept through it. Dull skies went away, now I see why I should’ve appreciated Mother Nature’s beauty, but under my feet, I saw a damaged rose that was almost complete... The rose was so beautiful... how did I miss it ...how did I overlook it? The death so quiet, but so loud I’ll never forget…

By Abigail McGovern Second Place Prose

There once was a boy who saw all the beauty this world had to offer. He listened to how the cicadas called to each other in the trees, telling their stories in a language entirely their own. He heard the hawk’s cry of ecstasy as it soared through the skies, letting the world know how flying makes you feel alive. He saw that raindrops worked masterpieces on window panes and leaves, and wished that he could create something so fine. He dreamed with the stars in the sky at night, counting the specks of light as he stared back into time. He noticed how the world came alive after the sun slipped below the horizon, the way the frogs and the bugs and trees seemed to be whispering to each other their secrets. He saw all this and wanted to share the wonder the world provided. His mind was bursting with dreams, his tongue brimming with thoughts left unsaid. But he went unnoticed, unheard, because all humans walk this earth together, but all of them walk as though they are on parallel but separate tracks. This boy, he walked as though every living thing was spinning through this universe together, on one collective journey through the stars. So, though he tried to show them, they just couldn’t see. They were disgusted by the bugs they heard in the trees, and didn’t notice the hawk. Raindrops were just a nuisance, and they hid the stars with their harsh orange lights. They’re scared of the shadows and the things that come to life after dark. So the boy walked alone, his head down, noticing and noticing but unable to share. Until one day, as he was listening to the whispering wind, he heard it calling his name. You see that nothing on this planet is alone...I t told him, inviting him to walk into the trees. To some place where he’d feel a piece of it all. He hesitated, looking at all he was about to leave behind, and saw that all the people were walking with their eyes straight ahead, seeing only that which they wanted to. None of them saw him standing on the brink and none of them cared. So he turned and walked into the open arms of the forest, welcomed by all of life. No one ever did see him go, and no one ever did see him return. And though people wondered what had happened to the boy who wasn’t quite like them, they never looked, and kept their feet on their straight tracks. But if you were to walk into the forest with purpose in your mind, you would find him sitting among the trees, roots of his own grown deep into it all. He’d tell you that he could see the way sunlight dappled the oceans, and the sunsets over the savannahs. Hear every murmur of every babbling brook, and the birdsong in the canopy of the world. He was finally part of the cosmic story that connects us all and if you were to ask him for his advice, he’d tell you, “Close your eyes and listen. Because it’s not You. And me. It’s us.”

Hello October by Laurynn Hackett

PARKING LOT GRAVEYARD By Heather Ellis There was an overwhelming amount of tension during the weeks leading up to the end of this friendship. The parking lot that had been our haven became a battleground, each step carefully placed to avoid the minefields that were left from the arguments. We didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t linger there where the fresh exciting days of high school were their best. We didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t meet where thousands of snapshots were captured. We avoided that place where some of our most memorable conversations echoed, now landing on deaf ears. All that tension budded up like dew on cold glass, each of us falling to the table like droplets, never to reunite as one again. The gray parking lot was a sore spot now, a place with a bittersweet aftertaste. I wonder what it would be like to return there now, after the dust finally settled over that gray wasteland. Would it be refreshing now after so many years? Or would the place still feel like a graveyard, haunted by the ghosts of innocence we lost there?

Beach Road Forever by AnnGardner Eubank

But once, we were here.â&#x20AC;? -The Last of the Mohicans filming locations, Chimney Rock State Park; Chimney Rock, NC by Jamie Gilbert

Selfish By Mark Anthony Camp II The art of being selfish is so easy to gain, Always happy with my choices and my mind There is no harm in it. No one feels any pain. From the start, my parents try to break my selfish ways, And it actually works, until I find That toy I want and will not share it no matter what my parents would say. I will get an attitude if your ideas wouldn’t match my ways, Even though you were honest with me and kind. I really don’t care about my actions, I can’t keep them tame. I began to keep to myself and hoard money without shame, Even if the homeless man needed it more than I, I passed mad because he wants me to pity his pain. Even though my selfish ways sent you away. You told me why I was wrong and how you couldn’t love the same way, and with selfishness and pride I went into denial. When you left I felt a lot of pain. But I stuck with my guns which are my selfish ways.

Fresh Bread From Scratch by Kathryn Bonner

Above Left, Bubble Waffle in Stratford-Upon-Avon by Kathryn Bonner

Lost By Nykeira Brower I am lost but at peace I am not looking for a savior, but instead I am looking for me it feels like I am standing outside of the universe with shackles on my feet I know that’s where I want to be, almost at arm’s reach I can smell, feel the breeze of a new self-love, enlightenment, but there’s only one question what is stopping me? Spirits please talk to me help me spill this pain through ink I don’t want to hurt anymore these tears are draining me... I am tired can’t they see? someone whispered to me these are not tears of sadness these are tears of you breaking free these tears are the shedding feelings of an old me so let then flow into the world, water that dying soul then my love you will be free

Flower by Nykiera Brower

Scream By Kathryn Bonner

You say “scream” You say “get it all out” You say “you’ll feel better” I say “sure” I say “good idea” I say “I’ll try that” What I don’t say What you don’t know I’ve been doing that Out loud when I’m alone Silently when I’m with others No one hears me cry “I can’t keep doing this” No one hears me Scream

Sunset by the Falls by Marissa Ruiz

Rays of Him by Chloe Fisher

Angels ‘The Protector’ By Shela Muriel When you’re alone, you pray When you’re attacked, your angel appears Angels protect you from harm. All you have to do is pray. They shield you from danger They send you signs that they’re there By leaving a feather By showing you symbols By talking to you in your dreams Do not panic because help is always there Angels are meant to guide you They’re meant to protect you. Those are your angels

When One Life Ends by Kristina Cossa

Outer Space By Abigail McGovern You can outrun most things in this world, If you run far enough.

You can outrun the weight of gravity, Tethering you to pain.

You can outrun the noises  And the words

That sometimes overwhelm you. You can outrun that constant Electrical chatter.

You can even outrun breath, Reach the plane where

Your lungs can do nothing,

Because there’s nothing left to do. But you can’t outrun

The one thing you may want to the most. You can’t outrun the tragedy;

The speeding silver bite of death.  You can’t outrun the shouts and screams, And bloodstains.

Of human conflict. Because–

Even when nothing else can– A gun can still fire in space.

Journey into the Conscience by Anthony Wlison Jr

Betrothal to the Sea By Shela Muriel

Princess Oceana of Coranis swam in her mother’s garden with her servant and best friend, Cayman. Oceana was a beautiful princess with black hair and coral eyes, but she wasn’t like any other princess. Oceana had a thirst for adventure. She and Cayman would go to shipwrecks to see what they could find. Sometimes they would pretend they were fighting a battle. But as Oceana got older, her parents began drilling into her head that she needed to act more like a young merprincess and less like a merling. Princess Oceana did not enjoy that. But she knew that she could count on her servant and friend to take her away from all the royal business. While Cayman was Oceana’s best friend, he had started to have feelings for her. But he could never tell her because a servant being in love with the princess was not normal. The princess was supposed to marry a prince. As Cayman swam in the garden with Oceana, they saw a castle guard swim out to them. “Princess Oceana,” said the guard, a burly merman with a sword on his waist. “Yes?” asked Oceana. “Your parents wish to speak to you about your betrothal.” “What?!” exclaimed Oceana. “Don’t tell me Prince Llyr is here right now!” “Yes, princess, and he’s waiting for you with your parents.” “Fine,” said Oceana, as she turned toward Cayman. “Come on, Cayman, let’s get going. We can’t keep my parents waiting.” “Yes, your highness,” said Cayman as he bowed toward her. Cayman, the guard, and Oceana swam into the castle. As they entered the throne room, Oceana and Cayman saw a man about nineteen years old with sandy-colored hair and blue eyes. “Don’t tell me that’s him,” said Cayman. Oceana nodded and approached the merman in question. As Cayman watched her, he knew he was too late. If he had confessed his feelings, she might have given him a yes or said they were just friends. But something about Llyr made Cayman suspicious: this merman was too perfect. Cayman wondered if Llyr was hiding something. Following his gut instinct, he decided to find out if Llyr was who he said he was. Snapping out of his thoughts, Cayman swam over to Oceana and stayed by her side, keeping an eye on Llyr. “Oceana, this is Llyr. He will be your husband,” said Oceana’s father. “It’s nice to meet you, your grace,” said Llyr and kissed Oceana’s hand. “I am pleased your parents have chosen me as your future husband,” he continued. “After all, who wouldn’t love me? I am one of the best warriors in the land.” Oceana looked at her father with one eyebrow raised. Cayman frowned; this Llyr was full of himself. “Father, you can’t be serious,” said Oceana. “Oceana, think about it: this will help join our kingdoms together,” said her father. “Tonight there will be a feast, and in four days, you will marry into his family.” Oceana groaned in annoyance and swam straight to her room. She hated the idea of marrying someone she had only heard of. She didn’t have feelings for this merman, although she might have had he not bragged in front of her father. Cayman looked at the king, then swam back to Oceana. He had a feeling that Llyr was planning something and he was determined to find out. “Guards, please take Llyr and his servant to one of the rooms,” said the king. The guards bowed and obeyed. Later that night before the feast, Cayman was helping Oceana get ready, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Llyr.

“Cayman,” said Oceana politely. “Yes, your grace?” he said, snapping out of his thoughts. “Do you think I’ll be happy with a man like Llyr?” “I’m not sure. He seems like a good man, but if you think you’ll be happy with him then that’s your opinion,” said Cayman, as he brushed her hair. Oceana nodded. “That’s enough, Cayman. You may go,” she said. As Oceana began brushing her hair, Cayman took his a chance to spy on Llyr. He swam to Llyr’s chambers, where he stopped and listened. There were two voices: Llyr’s and the servant’s. “Tonight you’re going to get to know your bride-to-be, huh?” asked the servant. “Yes, but I don’t intend to keep her around as my wife after we’re married.” “How so?” asked the servant. “Ugh,” said Llyr in annoyance. “Do I really need to explain it to you again?!” “Sorry, sir.” “No, no, that’s fine,” he sighed. “As I already told you, I plan to marry her, and as soon as we put the rings on, I plan to kill her and claim her throne.” “How do you plan to do that, sire?” “How else do you think? With poison,” he said. “Her ring will be poisoned. The minute she puts it on her finger, it’ll be lights out for her.” “Smart plan, sire!” Cayman swam away and ran into a shelf, causing everything to come crashing down. Suddenly, the door to Llyr’s chambers opened, and Llyr saw Cayman. “May I help you?” asked Llyr. “Um, no not at all,” said Cayman. “I just came to ask if you needed anything.” “Aren’t you Oceana’s servant?” “Uh, yes, your grace,” said Cayman. “How long were you at the door?” “I didn’t hear anything, I swear.” Cayman turned and swam toward the kitchen, feeling eyes following him. He wondered how to tell the king and the princess of Llyr’s plan. He also wondered how to find proof that Llyr planned to poison Oceana. Llyr thought about Oceana’s servant fixing a shelf that he seemed to have run into. Cayman’s stuttering made Llyr think that the servant had heard his plan, so he needed to act quickly. He couldn’t risk his plan being ruined by a worthless servant. Llyr wasn’t sure how Oceana’s servant planned to tell the king and the princess. Then it occurred to him that no one would believe a servant, and he laughed. His servant asked, “Sire? What’s so funny?” “Nothing, Petroclys. Help me get ready for the feast tonight.” “Yes, sire.” Meanwhile, Cayman swam quickly to catch Oceana before something bad happened. “Oceana!” he said, out of breath. “What is it, Cayman?” “Your betrothal. He’s planning to kill you as soon as you are married.” “What?!” exclaimed Oceana. “How do you know this?” “I may have listened in on his conversation with his servant.” “Cayman!” scolded Oceana. “I told you never to do that!” “Sorry, I’m sorry! I just had a bad feeling about him.” Oceana shook her head but focused on the task at hand. She worried about how she was going to call Llyr out on the deception. She and Cayman needed proof to show her father that Llyr was not all he seemed to be. Blues by Ashlynn Willoughby

“If that’s true then we need to figure out how we’re going to reveal the truth to my father,” she said. “We can’t jump in and accuse him.” “Can’t we? I heard him say he was going to kill you!” “That’s not enough proof.” Cayman sighed; he couldn’t come up with a way to prove Llyr was guilty. It was harder for him than he had imagined. Suddenly he had an idea: maybe he could force the truth out of Llyr. But how could he do that? “Princess, I have an idea,” Cayman said. “What is it?” “I heard a story about a mermaid,” said Cayman “who lived outside of Coranis due to her religious practice.” “Which is what exactly?” “She practices witchcraft,” he continued. “She has a potion that can make anyone tell the truth. If we can get that potion and drop it in Llyr’s drink, then when he drinks it…” “He will tell the truth!” agreed Oceana. “How far a swim is it?” “It is two days away,” Oceana hadn’t expected that Cayman wouldn’t be back until the day of her wedding. She suddenly had an idea. “How about I go with you, so we can delay the wedding and the feast.” “Are you sure you want to do that, your highness?” asked Cayman. “I’m positive. I need to get away from here,” she said. “Besides, I don’t want you to go alone.” Cayman was taken aback by the idea that the girl he loved wanted to go with him on a journey. He realized that Oceana cared about him, unlike most merpeople, who see servants as more like animals who work for them. Taking a deep breath, Cayman nodded. “All right; let’s get going,” he said. The merpersons went to Oceana’s room to pack clothes and food. Then they set out, hoping they would be able to bring back the truth serum before the wedding. Meanwhile, Llyr and his servant prepared to meet the princess and the king for dinner. Llyr left his chambers and started to make his way toward Princess Oceana’s. Llyr knocked on Oceana’s door. After two knocks he impatiently turned the doorknob, pushed the door open, and entered the princess’s chambers, but they were completely empty; her bed was untouched. Angrily he went to find the princess. Two days later, Oceana and Cayman were swimming back to the castle hoping to arrive in time to use the elixir to prove to the king that Llyr wasn’t all he seemed to be. Oceana’s heart pounded. She didn’t know what to say to her father. “Oceana? Are you okay?” “Yeah, I’m fine, Cayman. We just need a plan to make Llyr tell the truth.” “Before the wedding,” said Cayman, “the servants bring the groom a drink.” “We can put the elixir in his drink, and one of the servants could bring it to him!” Oceana exclaimed. “That’s brilliant, Oceana!” said Cayman. “But who’s going to put it in his drink?” “That’s easy; you will,” said Oceana. “Wait, what?” replied Cayman. “You, Cayman,” said Oceana, “will put the elixir in his drink.” “Before we go in,” said Cayman, as he and Oceana stopped at the door, “there’s something I want to say,” “Can it wait?” asked Oceana. “No, it can’t!”

“Then what is it, Cayman?” “Oceana, we’ve known each other since we were merlings, but as we’ve gotten older, I’ve started to have feelings for you.” “Feelings? How?” “I love you, Oceana.” Oceana floated silently. Cayman thought that admitting his feelings was the stupidest thing he had ever done. “Never mind; I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” “Don’t worry about it, Cayman,” said Oceana “I love you, too.” Cayman and Oceana smiled shyly at one another., then swam through the gates of the castle. Oceana was greeted by a maid, who was surprised to see her. “Your grace?” said the maid. “Where have you been? The king is worried sick!” “I didn’t mean to worry him.” “Come, you need to get ready for the rehearsal dinner!” As Oceana and the maid swam away, Cayman realized that this was his chance to go through with the plan. He couldn’t believe it: Oceana truly did love him! Smiling, he swam toward the kitchen. Hiding in the corner, Cayman saw one of the chefs place a glass of kelp juice on a tray. Cayman secretly swam in and poured a few drops of the clear elixir into the glass; then he swam out of the kitchen to Oceana’s chambers. When everyone was gathered in the dining room, servants brought trays of food and drink. Cayman waited for Llyr to drink the kelp juice. “We are gathered to celebrate the union of my daughter,” said the king, raising his glass, “and Prince Llyr. I hope you two have a wonderful life together.” “Thank you, sire. I’m sure we will be happy together,” said Llyr, as he drank from his glass. Cayman and Oceana waited to see if the elixir would work. “So, Llyr, tell me,” continued the king, “what are your plans?” “Once we are married, I will kill Oceana and take the throne,” spouted Llyr. “What?!” the king exclaimed. Llyr realized everyone was staring at him. “Then I’ can rule this kingdom.” Llyr stopped. “Wait! What’s going on?!” “What’s going on,” said Cayman, “is that you had just admitted that you were planning to kill Oceana and take over the throne.” “Why you little...!” said Llyr, as the guards immediately grabbed him. “Guards! Take the prince to the dungeons!” ordered the king. “No! NO! I will get my revenge! I will!” yelled Llyr, as he was dragged away. Sirens by Chloe Fisher

Romsdalsfjord from Ã&#x2026;ndalsnes, Norway by Tina Hanlon

No Place like You By AnnGardner Eubank

I have seen New York’s lights twinkle, I have reached summits of the Himalayas. I have swam in the Ganges River, I have soaked in the Dominican sun. I have lived a life of travel, I’ve basked in this world’s most quixotic wonders. But no sight, No experience, No place can compare to what I see When I look to my left From the passenger seat. New York’s lights don’t light me up like your smile, No mountain sends me as high as you. No river is as deep as your eyes, And no sun as warm as your heart. I’ve wandered throughout this Earth, I’ve come to know the most fascinating beings. There’s endless roads drawn on the maps, With only one that always brings me back

Mountain Oasis by Mary Stoudt

Biltmore Epiphany ( January 6,2019) by Tina Hanlon

Daylight By AnnGardner Eubank I fell in love with you in the daylight which was something I had never done before. I used to think sparks like that could only fly at night. I’d never been so happy to not be right. I fell in love with the way you’d say my whole name. How unlike all the others before, you’d never try to tame. I fell in love with the tie-dyed sunsets in your eyes. How you’d call to wake me up before sunrise. I fell in love with the radio blasting. How your smile is a little crooked when you’re laughing. I fell in love from your passenger seat. With the rush of twenty-one summer blood racing through me. I fell in love in a summer daze caught up in a small town sunshine haze. I fell in love with you in the daylight and now I miss you the most on these cold nights.

32 Five in the Morning by Kathryn Bonner

Sunset on an Ocean by Ethan Kummer

Gina and Martin Vibes By Jacques Moore-Roberts Even when you’re alone you’re never alone, Even when you’re alone you’re never alone Please be patient until I get back home, I can be your peace and you’ll be my backbone, We together forever like Gina and Martin, Gina and Martin, Gina and Martin You’re my heart baby and I’m just being honest. 33

The Calcutta Rickshaw Puller’s Lament By Rathin Basu

You see merely a running man Pulling on a bi-wheeled van. In truth there’s more technique than that Physics, cantilever, and some math All of which I hardly know. ‘Tis my heart and head and wheels which tho’ tell me when all’s set to go – Where to hold the handle bars How far to lean for which passengers – Some forward to bear the weight And for little children just here is right. And when all’s in perfect harmony These wheels and legs–they fly in synchrony Till I no longer know where my flesh ends And where my wood and steel begins. There’s no me and it or it and me – We’re just one unity. We’ve stepped and rolled many a mile Since doing this for quite a while – Perhaps once around the world I reckon. I hear there’s a thing called marathon Where sane people run just for fun! Not pennies haggled over in the rain, In fiery heat, in dark, in growing pain. Just once I would so appreciate A ride, a lift, a levitate – Carried than incessantly carrying. Alas, I dreamt my wish came true Could smell the fire and smoke come through And hear the bells tinkling ring As ‘Hari Bol’* my last ride summoning. *Hari Bol – literally in Bengali, ‘Chant the name of God’ – a cry which accompanies a body in Calcutta, India, as it is borne to the cremation grounds.

Just a Cloud in the Sky by AnnGardner Eubank

Chinatown by Dyamond J. Howell

Woodbridge's Garden (“Where I’m From” poem influenced) By Anthony Wilson Jr. I’m from where neighborhoods are spread apart in a maze of avenues, streets, & boulevards, From strip malls and plazas to streetlights on just about every corner. Where you can hit up AMC Theatres and afterward walk down the sidewalk to Potomac Mills Where day and night cars run through the streets like raceways on the last lap. Where you can get just about any kind of food you want just blocks apart from each other, Hell, you take I-95 North you can get to D.C. in like 30 minutes, Just dodge the rush hour times, Unless you want to wait an extra hour or two. I’m from a place where people are like flowers that vary in the grounds they grow from Some grow in the best topsoil there is, A few with other flowers, & a few in their own separate pots. Others grow from dirt as tough as clay, and others through the concrete Where these flowers grow there’s the opportunity for sunshine if planted in the right spots Flowers in the premium topsoil usually have an edge up on the growth in the light The ones below either transform into weeds that drain the life of others, Or some don’t reach the light at all, getting fully consumed in darkness and withering away. However, a few pieces of sunshine find their way through, With a bit of nourishment and perseverance in the face of adversity, Hope for reaching the light becomes stronger, Along with increasing the chances for growth to see the rest of the world’s garden. A black rose with a few crumpled petals Reserved yet tolerant to being open, strong-willed, intellectual, ambitious with gifts not fully blossomed, An imperfect flower.

Shizukesa by Heather Ellis

Home By Kathryn Bonner A Home is not always a house A Home is not always a place Sometimes a Home is a person Sometimes a Home is multiple people Home can be a group of friends Home can be a family Home can be a Sisterhood Home can be a Theatre Troupe Home can simply be one person Some Homes stand for years, But eventually collapse Some Homes are amazing, But one must eventually move on from them Some Homes are temporary, But can be revisited And then thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s you A Home thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s permanent A Home that is always there No matter the time or distance A Home that gives me a strong foundation And I in return help maintain You are my Best Friend You are my Home.

Sunset with Tobacco Barn by Nancy Brubaker

Bookshelves

By Abigail McGovern

Bookshelves don’t just hold your oft-read or never read pieces of literature. They hold pieces of people. Without them, people would be lacking something. They would be missing the things that they hold dearest to them, bits of their souls–whether those be books or papers or trinkets. They are the guardians of all the things that make you, you. Don’t believe me? Take little Susannah. Her shelf buckles under the weight of stuffed bears, and cats, and rabbits whose frayed and patched fur speaks of many a night wrapped in a tight embrace, warding away nightmares. The books with dog-eared pages and battered spines tell stories of many generations of kisses goodnight and “I’ll always be here”s. The rocks lined up with care show attention to detail that the rest of us don’t see. Her shelf guards the beauty in the small things that are the most precious. Jonathan is too big for bedtime stories and “I love you.” His shelf holds action figures and comic books, all crisp and clean and new with the promise of a future in collecting and neglecting. It also carries a couple of battered spiralbound notebooks and a picture frame that prove that there’s more to people than

Incidental by Dyamond J. Howell

meets the eye, and “I love you” still exists, unspoken. Elaine is too old for make-pretend and pretty words; she’s trying to fight the pressure of partial-adulthood and pave herself a path to the future. Her shelf is stacked with binders and medical books and the weight of expectations. But the pictures show her love for all the girls she used to be, not just the one she is now. The works of fiction are shoved to the side but squeezed in as tightly as possible. Because you don’t leave old friends behind and she still believes in the power of a happily-ever-after. Jack and Jillian share a bookshelf. They’re too old for things unspoken, and they’re starting to forget. The photo albums keep them young, and the handdrawn pictures nestled next to the professional ones remind them of everything they’ve shared. The smartphone is almost never used, collecting dust in the corner, but they keep it to feel connected. And the copies of revolutionary works of science, literature, and medicine signed “For mom and dad, with love” prove that moving forward is just as important as looking back. Bookshelves hold all the things we need to remember, but wish we could forget. And all the things we’re starting to forget but want to remember. They carry all of our loves, and dreams, and stresses, and flaws. They hold who we were, who we are, and who we want to become. Bookshelves safeguard the very essence of humanity–the good and the bad, the beautiful and the ugly. If you don’t believe me now, then you never will. But that must mean that yours is empty. Top Left, Picasso’s Shakespeare by Kathryn Bonner Bottom Left, All the World’s a Stage at Shakespeare’s Globe in London, England by Jamie Gilbert

For Those We Protected By Heather Ellis It was the end of spring Pitter pattering feet across the floor I watched on as the children Small and innocent, radiating warmth Danced around in a flurry of tag-youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re-its They were carefree, free to do as they pleased Unaware of those that had been sacrificed In the name of their peaceful play time Unaware that we waged war That we raged against those that sought them out It was our honor to do so It was our job to do so We were to protect the future And so, no one complained But looked on with warm fondness It was during our autumn days That their summer was only just beginning While we slowly became aware of our mortality They were only just beginning to flourish To fall into the roles that they were born to take The darling princess to be protected The three rival driven boys fawning for her attention; The rugged boy from the mountains The fiery boy from the forest And the quiet boy raised in a tavern And of course, our own children The ones we had feared to have That is until the warâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s end Also joined them Their journey only just beginning

A Leafy Path by Shela Muriel

Our journey’s end was nearing But we didn’t seem to care We were old now, our bones frail The weakness in our limbs had grown But we had ensured our future We had protected the youth They would carry on our legacy They would protect our kingdom It was in their hands to guide now We could take our rests without fear We could make our peace in confidence The worlds’ fate no longer hung precariously The balance was no longer in danger With a final, wintry sigh, we bid our future farewell Promising to return one day in other lives

Leaves by Shela Muriel

If Only They Knew By Kathryn Bonner They wonder why I don’t reach out They wonder why I suffer in silence They wonder why I’m like this They don’t see They look upon those that are sick In ways that can’t be seen As if it can’t be all that bad They watch when those who seek help Have to go away to battle their own minds And chastise them for it So I try to get by Alone But I don’t win every battle And when I stumble I know I’ll be punished I know it’s not an excuse they’ll take No matter what They simply won’t care And they wonder why there’s stigma to break They wonder why so many fight a war alone If only they knew, If only they knew…

Thunderstorms By Chloe Fisher

My eyes get cloudier than the skies As the tears drip into my lap

Harder than the rain pings off my windshield

My heart aches as loud as the thunder that roars Through the valleys of clouds

Split open like wounds in my veins

That crack open like the lightning against the black sky

Stormwatch by Nancy Brubaker

“Not all those who wander are lost” --J. R. R. Tolkien, Lena the Blowing Rock State Park cat by Jamie Gilbert

Giddyup by AnnGardner Eubank

Lovely Little Lady by Heather Ellis

Ducks by Yuijin Lee

Because By Chloe Fisher I want to be the love that you lose so young in life but continue to think about in everything you see. I want you to curse the sky as the sun sets because all you can think of is how my eyes hold the same color of blue that fades from the sky every night. I want your heart to ache when the sun hits the lake in the evening because all you can see are your fingers running through the cascades of my orange hair that resemble the specks of sunlight glistening on the water. I want your fingers to tremble every morning as you make your coffee because adding too much milk ruins the flavor, yet you wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be able to find the ivory of my skin that you once got drunk on in your morning brew. I want you to hate the night sky because the stars donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t quite line up like the freckles you traced every night on my body before bed. I want your breath to quake every time you see the yellow petals of a sunflower because they remind you of the necklace he bought me for Christmas when you failed to get me anything. I want to be the love that you lost so young, but I want you to hurt when you think about me in everything you see.

Riptide by Chloe Fisher

When I Lie With You By Chloe Fisher And when I lie with you And our breaths fall in sync And our chests rise and fall And our hearts begin to beat I wonder if you think of me As I think of you

Nucleus by Chloe Fisher

Coffee By AnnGardner Eubank

“That’s quite a shame,” I always think to myself in the mornings as I look beyond my window’s sill above the kitchen sink with the light glow of the daisies in the sun’s rising glare. It’s a shame how much coffee this woman wastes. Coffee, as I’ve come to find out, is a universal commonality among common people. I’ve also come to find out that there’s no such thing as the common person. I’ve hiked through Asia and I’ve swam in the Caribbean Sea, with a whole lot in between. There’s so much I’ve seen, but the one thing is that everyone everywhere drinks coffee. If you look just a bit beyond the mug’s brim, you can start to unravel what makes the common person not so common. Each day when I wake up, whether it be rolling out of the sheets hung over at ten, the normal working mornings at seven, or mornings like today, around four, I do the same thing. I start to heat up the water. We’ve got one of those new age machines that brews at just the push of a button. The birds weren’t chirping, the wind wasn’t howling, but for some reason my mind and body were ready to rise before the sun. This is quite a shame. Morning after morning I see a coffee cup by the sink with maybe just a swig or two gone from its pour. Day in and day out that coffee brews but little is enjoyed. The mug that sits just left to the sink each morning belongs to my mother. Just yesterday she was saying how she had felt ill, but here she is, leaving her cup of coffee nearly all the way filled before heading to her work by 3:45. She wakes every day around three, which made sneaking in and out as an adolescent a bit trying at times, as one could imagine. But she wakes at three, showers, listens to background 24-hour news, gets ready for her day, all while her coffee brews. She truly is a wonder. She’s a master of her craft and is clearly disciplined. So disciplined, that while upstairs at any given time of the day one could find her bed perfectly made up to show-room standard. She makes sure to take the time each morning to make up her bed, but never allocates an extra minute or two to put more of a hurting on her coffee and see the morning for what it is—a new day, something different. If she just took an extra moment to inhale the calm of the sleeping morning, she wouldn’t waste so much damn coffee. As for my father, not sure how much of his coffee ends up being wasted, as he himself is just wasted. I’m sure he takes his morning cups with a splash of the poison remnant from the night before. I know he drinks his whiskey warm and neat, as his beloved Hemingway was known to do. I didn’t see his coffee mug habits in the mornings growing up, but knowing what I know, he probably drinks a cup more than needed, similar to his likely whiskey remnant from the night before. My brother drinks just enough, if I had to guess. Enough to keep him up and able. He began drinking coffee from a very early age. He always drank it straight up and black. For a while I thought he drank it that way to promote a sort of nuanced angst he was trying to portray. I think that’s what it was, just

an image to maintain. Until his late twenties when his coffee changed from an image to a reflection. He drank his coffee black. Perhaps that’s the one thing he managed to keep consistent in his life. Before he met his wife he drank his coffee black, and after she left him he drank it black. I’d suggest sugar to add so maybe he wouldn’t feel so numb, but the over processed and altered pre-packaged sweeteners wouldn’t do more than just mask the bitter taste. He drinks his coffee black. No frills and certainly no sugar or creamer. But maybe he’d enjoy adding some honey, not for the taste, but for his wounds to heal. Women just a few years my senior at coffee shops who chose a different path then me, staying home and running a home, typically all put in their orders in a similar fashion. Pumps of this, splash of that, skim milk, not whole, God forbit it be whole, yada yada. Taking as much flare as they can to the one thing they still hold somewhat of control over to brighten just some of their daily mundane. I always noticed my former flame took his with French vanilla. He’d drink his coffee in the car, always scorching hot. He was never patient enough for it to cool down. His head was always scorching hot and I’d patiently wait for him to cool down. But he’d drink his coffee in the car, speeding and rushing down bends and twists down Carolina’s Route 12. No matter how many times something is labeled with instructions to be cautious, as it’s hot and may burn, some flames miss the warnings and get burned. Just like his vanilla coffee and his former flame. My best friend adds a little creamer, but keeps it rather simple. If she were to give her order at a show, they may be surprised by the simplicity of what appears to be messy and chaotic. They may be surprised by the earthiness and appreciation for things as they are in their natural state. The boy who’s made his way to my driveway many days and nights this summer isn’t too much of a coffee drinker; at least that’s what I’ve noticed so far. He had a sip of some cold brew I had made for a friend once. It may have been iced down by the time he drank it, but I’m sure just like everything else this summer, it heated up quick. Many mornings this summer I’d wake up to a six a.m. phone call from him on his way to work. His natural energy every day was enough to get my mornings started. Better so than any caffeinated drink I could consume, hot or cold. But the summer has passed now, and I’m six hours away. I’ve had to start waking up to the sound of alarms again, and rising out of bed has never been harder. I’ve learned a lot about those I surround myself with after taking note of their coffee morning habits. A coffee mug in the morning can be rather revealing, so I’ve discovered, and that’s why I start my mornings with tea. Flowers in a Vase by Shela Muriel

The Beauty of Spring by Shela Muriel

It Comes and Goes in Waves by Heather Ellis

In Worst Moments By Suzannah Carter

2:00 am, at the station when I heard the call... Tones dropped I jumped out of my sleep I zipped up my BDUs, tied my boots On the way to the truck. Heard “ECHO” come across the radio Chaos erupted...a pediatric cardiac arrest WHERE’S THE PEDI BAG????? In a matter of minutes we pulled up to the scene–a scared, screaming mother Limp, lifeless baby thrown into our arms. “Help, please God!” Was that her? Was that me? I’m asked “Can you do this?”–hands steadily took over the Cyanotic, pale infant Baby boy needed an intraosseous infusion Chief drilled into his leg Twice unsuccessfully As compressions were performed, White clumpy vomit oozed from his nose and mouth Quickly suctioned to prevent aspiration I’m terrified and screaming on the inside The monitor failed to recognize a shockable rhythm. Two minutes? Two hours? Time for doctors to call time of death Now a mother must bury her angel and I go to the station to answer another call of duty. My first code, second call, May 2018 age 17

Innocence by Mary Stoudt

The Window by Anthony Wilson Jr.

Envisioning by Nacy Brubaker

Puddled Reflection by Chloe Fisher

Every Time, I Wonder By Chloe Fisher Every time you cross my mind, I wonder why I don’t get jitters and butterflies I wonder why the feeling in my stomach grows wary and the bottoms of my eyes get heavy with dew Every time I hear your name, I wonder why my ears ring rather than burn with blush I wonder why my nerves stand on end and my fingers get colder rather than sweaty Every time your name brightens my phone, I wonder why it doesn’t brighten my chest I wonder why your voice makes me feel weak rather than stronger Every time I think of the night you told me your love for me was endless, I wonder why my first thought was crying in the shower afterwards rather than how I felt the moment the words fell off your lips I wonder why I think of you every second of the day when I know it hurts rather than distract myself from the constant thought of you in the back of my mind Every time I form a smile at the thought of you, I wonder why it hurts so bad I wonder why I keep wanting you when you don’t want me back

Growth by Tayler Kleemoff Left, The Lovers by Chloe Fisher

Capital Reef, Utah by Ethan Kummer

Strong By Kathryn Bonner I am strong I am a pillar for my friends They need my support They need my love I will be there for them But All that pressure builds The pillar cracks I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let it show I must be there for them Only when I am alone I can let it all out, Fall to the ground and cry I am weak

Diligent til the End by Nancy Brubaker

Your Butterfly, My Bee By Kathryn Bonner

I found you when I was alone, The buzz of your laughter inviting, You took me in, Formed a chrysalis of love around me, Helped me to grow, To change into something better, Stronger. Now we are 2000 miles apart, And yet our bond remains strong, When you are weak I bring you pollen, As you bring to me in my weakness, Together we are unshakable, Unbreakable. No matter where we are, No matter what we do, I am your Butterfly. You are my Bee.

Lost in the Sauce by Aimee McLaughlin

Higher and Higher by Heather Ellis

The Great Escape By Heather Ellis Escape. By its dictionary definition, it is the breaking free of confinement or control. Reality, in some ways, is the cage that confines, and to be confined by reality at all times of the day is an exhausting affair, or so they say. Everyone in her family, on both sides, is in a constant state of escape. Her grandfather finds escape through the sticky sweet burn of whiskey. Her father finds escape at the bottom of a bottle, the sloshing of the piss-colored liquid often coating not only his throat but his floor. Her mother finds escape in her own mind-induced delusions while her grandmother numbs herself to the pain of reality, a quick sniff, snuff, snort before blinding bliss. Her aunts found escape in the needle before it took one of them forever, leaving two daughters that knew only one truth: reality sucks, and so the cycle starts again. This sickness, this addiction of constant escape has chased them each down, cornered them, and preyed upon them in its own ways. It has forced their hands, rendered them seemingly helpless–eat, sleep, wake, pain, escape. But to this predator, she stands her ground. She looks reality in the face, gleans what she must from it. She finds her escapes here, with ink and paper. She bleeds on parchment, she forges kingdoms, she creates worlds. She refuses to let escape have its way with her, not like it has with everyone else in her life. When reality becomes too heavy to bear, she pushes her burden onto paper. There is nothing better than the sweet release of writing. That is her escape. Would that it could’ve been theirs as well…

Southern Summer by AnnGardner Eubank

Graffiti By Chloe Fisher The graffiti washes off the boring brick building in the same manner as the blood washes from my thighs in the shower And then I wonder, Does the boring brick building feel the same sting of pain as I do when itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s massacred by those who donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t give a damn?

Huntsman by Tayler Kleemoff

Sesshomaru is Prettier than Me by Diamond Hudson

Xenomorph by Alexcia Harris

Underland by Chloe Fisher

Charlie the Elephant By Kathryn Bonner When I was six years old, I would have been any psychiatrist’s wet dream. See, during the writing time of my first grade class, I wrote a short story series called “Charlie the Elephant.” Impressive for a little kid, right? Well, years later, I realized that those stories, wait for it–subconsciously reflected what was happening in my life at the time. Who would have known children could be so introspective, even unintentionally? So who exactly was Charlie the Elephant, and what made this series so unique for a first grader’s work? Charlie the Elephant was a big brown elephant. He was brown because he got dirty playing in the mud and because I didn’t have a grey marker. His name was Charlie because I was about to become a big sister for the second time, and I wanted another brother and that was my favorite name for a boy. (Spoiler alert–I got a sister instead, which I was NOT happy with my parents about at the time.) The series wasn’t even meant to be a series; I just liked writing about Charlie, because Charlie was my friend. The first few ‘stories’ (which were all only a few sentences long) were about Charlie playing and having fun. Then came the story about how the other animals wouldn’t play with Charlie because he was the smallest elephant… which came right around the time I started being bullied about being short. Later, Charlie broke his foot and had to have a cast… just like I did when I broke my arm. The list goes on and on, but the most impactful of these little stories was when Charlie the Elephant died and became an Angel Elephant. I wrote this right after my maternal grandma, Tutu, passed away unexpectedly. There were a couple of stories about Charlie the Angel Elephant in Heaven, where there were playgrounds and giant sunflowers, just like in my dreams at night about Tutu. I was extremely close to my Tutu, and up until that point I had never experienced grief or loss that intense. Which is why, a few weeks later, I had a dream she came back to life that was so realistic that I ran down the hall shouting “Tutu’s back alive again!” over and over until my mom told me she wasn’t, and I had to experience her death all over again. In my next story, Charlie came back to life and “Charlie the Elephant” continued for most of the year of first grade. I don’t have all of them, but most of them just went on as before after that. When I first found all the papers that I had written and drawn about Charlie the Elephant, I just thought I had a big imagination for a six-year-old. It wasn’t until a few years later that I started to realize how much Charlie’s adventures reflected my own life. It would be fascinating to see a therapist analyze these stories in that light. But for now, I am grateful to Charlie. Charlie the Elephant was the greatest friend, playmate, and therapist a little girl could ever ask for.

Biographies Judges Amanda Cholko graduated from Ferrum College in 2014 with a major in English and minors in History and Russian. She chaired the poetry committee for Chrysalis. She has published multiple literary works and has an M.A. in Publishing with Creative Writing from Kingston University in England. She currently works for the public libraries in Chesapeake and Virginia Beach. Mike Dunavant is a 1993 Ferrum graduate with a degree in Photojournalism and History. He served two terms as editor-in-chief of The Iron Blade and spent ten years working in journalism. He is currently in his seventeenth year as an educator and instructional coach with Henrico County Public Schools. Janine Latus is author of the international bestseller If I Am Missing or Dead: A Sister’s Story of Love, Murder and Liberation. She is a long-time magazine writer, with credits in Oprah magazine, Parents, Fitness, Woman’s Day and many other publications. She is immediate past president of the American Society of Journalists and Authors. She is at work on her second book, about her year living as a nomad. Jane Lilian Vance is an internationally acclaimed artist whose recent exhibition The First Sixty Years showcases her large, detailed paintings of flora, fauna, and her humanitarian work and art projects in Zambia, Nepal, India, and Sri Lanka. Her Dalai Lamasanctioned painting was the subject of the a documentary A Gift for the Village. In 2018 she was keynote speaker at her alma mater, William & Mary, for the 100 Years of Women at the College celebration. Vance is Vice President of Help Save the Next Girl. You can see some of her work at http://www.janevance.com/index.php?id=galleries .

Staff Kathryn Bonner is a senior working toward a BFA in Acting and Directing. She is in the English honor society Sigma Tau Delta, the theatre honor society Alpha Psi Omega, and other national honor societies. She recently completed an internship studying William Shakespeare in Stratford-Upon-Avon, England. Kristina Cossa from Apex, NC, is an artist and writer. Her stories are often fantasy or realistic fiction, and her drawings represent life and death. Heather Ellis, editor-in-chief of Chrysalis, is an English major with an emphasis in Creative Writing. She is from Hardy. She loves to create worlds and scenarios that can touch people’s hearts. AnnGardner Eubank is a senior Political Science major with minors in Journalism and International Studies. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program, Alpha Chi National Honor Society, Lambda Sigma National Honor Society, and Sigma Tau Delta National English Honor Society, of which she is president. She has competed for the Women’s Volleyball Team. This is her third semester in Chrysalis, and she is editor-inchief for The Iron Blade. She plans to work in journalism after graduation. Chloe Fisher is a sophomore with an English major and a minor in Secondary Education. She plans to teach in Franklin County after college, and enjoys drawing, writing, and photography. M. Katherine Grimes is a Ferrum College professor of English and advisor to Chrysalis. Abigail McGovern is a freshman English major with a Creative Writing concentration and a History minor. She is a member of the Chrysalis staff, the Boone Honors Program, and the cross country team. Jacques Moore-Roberts is an English major with a Business minor. He is from Hampton and State College, PA. This is his fifth semester in Chrysalis. He plans to work in the technical writing and field and later on, own his own community center. Shela Muriel was born and raised in Greensboro, NC. She’s a sophomore majoring in English with an emphasis in Creative and Professional Writing and a minor in History. She enjoys writing stories and plans to travel around the world after graduating.

Other Contributors Rathin Basu is a faculty member in the Department of Business and Economics. He has been at Ferrum College since 1990 and is originally from India. Besides interacting with students, he likes to spend time reading, travelling, and listening to the stories of others. Nykeira Brower, who is called Keiwi (like the fruit or bird), is a senior from Roanoke. She plans to graduate with a bachelorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s degree in Social Work in May and become a substance abuse counselor or a probation officer. She is the second of seven children. She enjoys painting and writing poetry, but this is her first time actually publishing a poem. Nancy M. Brubaker is a 1994 graduate of Ferrum College. She holds a doctorate in Veterinary Medicine and is an associate professor of Animal Science. Mark Anthony Camp II, from Shelby, NC, is a senior majoring in Art with an emphasis in Graphic Design and minoring in Media and Communication. He plays football. His interests are drawing, writing, and reading books on self-development and philosophy. His hobbies are working out and meditating. Suzannah Carter is a first responder in Riner. She is a freshman. The poem she submitted was inspired by a call she responded to when she was 17 years old. Jamie Gilbert from Williamsburg is a senior graduating with a BFA in Musical Theatre with minors in Music and Religion. She enjoys nature hikes, spending time with her cat, and dinner dates with her boyfriend. Laurynn Hackett from Appomattox is an Agricultural Science major with an emphasis in Animal Science and minors in Chemistry and History. Her goal is to become a veterinary technician. She is in the Boone Honors Program. Tina L. Hanlon is Professor of English and creator of the web site AppLit. She traveled to Scandinavia in August to attend a childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s literature conference in Stockholm. Alexcia Harris is from Louisa County. She is majoring in English and minoring in Teacher Education. She loves drawing, playing her guitar, and skateboarding. Dyamond J. Howell graduated from Elon University with a BA in Cinema and TV Arts and a minor in Digital Art in May 2019. She was born an Army brat in Sierra Vista, AZ, but grew up in Warrenton, NC. Howell is now an Area Coordinator for Ferrum College. Diamond Hudson is a senior Media and Communication major. Tayler Kleemoff from Pelion, SC, is a junior and a member of the wrestling team. Ethan Kummer was born in Ukraine and adopted at 9 months, when he moved to Winston-Salem, NC. Every summer his family travels to Europe. On their tours he finds great moments to take pictures. He wants to be a photographer with his own business. Antavian Leary is a senior Philosophy major from Virginia Beach. He is a member of the wrestling team. Yujin Lee is an Education major from Seoul, South Korea, where she studies at Sejong University. She enjoys singing and taking landscape pictures. Aimee McLaughlin is a senior studying Criminal Justice. She hopes to work in juvenile corrections, to be able help reform young offenders. Brandon Mullins is a sophomore from Union Hall majoring in English and Spanish and minoring in Teacher Education. He enjoys reading, writing, world-building, and gaming. Marissa Ruiz is a sophomore from Wake Forest, NC, majoring in Biology. She is a wrestler. She started painting when she was sophomore in high school. Amber Scott from Stuart is a junior studying Elementary Education with minors in Music, Psychology, and Special Education. She has a small business, Amber Gayle Photography. She enjoys singing and playing piano. Mary Stoudt is majoring in History and minoring in Public History and Museum Studies. She is Junior Class president, vice crew captain for Love Your Melon, and news editor of The Iron Blade. She is involved in the sophomore honor society, Lambda Sigma; the English honor society, Sigma Tau Delta; and her sorority, Delta Phi Epsilon. Ashlynn Willoughby is a junior Business major from Wilmington, NC. She is on the volleyball team. Anthony Wilson, Jr., from Woodbridge is majoring in Art with an emphasis in Graphic Design and minoring in Business. He enjoys painting, trying new food places, working out, and playing video games. Sunset in Fog by Yujin Lee

Acknowledgements The staff of Chrysalis thanks the Integrated Programming Board of Ferrum College for funding contest prizes, Leya Deickman ‘19 and Ivy Rivero ‘19 for technical advice during layout, Catering Services and Facilities Services for refreshments and setup for the reading, and our judges for their expert assistance: Ferrum alumni Amanda Cholko ‘14 and Mike Dunavant ‘93, author Janine Latus, and artist Jane Lillian Vance. The magazine is printed by J&S Printing in Birmingham, Alabama.

Untitled by Diamond Hudson

Sunday Evening at Oslo Harbor Promenade by Tina Hanlon