Chyrsalis: Fall 2022

Chrysalis

Literary and Arts Magazine

Staff

Abigail McGovern, Editor-in-Chief Celeste Burnett

Kristina Cossa Mary Grace Faulkner CJ Hughes Kenaz Moon Katherine Grimes, Advisor

Judges

Marlene Groth, Art Ray East, Photography Suzanne Barron, Prose Rachel Swyhart ‘18, Poetry

Ferrum College

Table of Contents

Red-Spotted Purple Butterfly by Katherine Grimes 1 Life Has Other Plans by Abigail McGovern 4 Sunny Skies by Madison Cline 5 Opposites Attract by Nicole Lynch 6

A Love Song for the End of the World by Abigail McGovern 7 Dragon Fly by Harley Steger 9 When We Were Together by Kiersten Jones 10 Soapy by Caroline King 10 Judith by Scout Lynch 11 Sunset in the Country by Ryan Gobble 12 Best Friends by Madison Cline 14 Best Friends by Marina Powell 15 Cute and Cuddly by Caroline King 15 La teoría del Big Bang by Madison Cline, Mackenzie Ensley, Sierra Helton 16 Still Standing Guard by Abigail McGovern 16

The Brittle Man by Marina Powell 18 Mandala by Kristina Cossa 18 Where I’m From by Kiersten Jones 19 Pour Mon État, Pour La France by Abigail McGovern 20 Altar of the Fatherland by Caroline King 23

The Abandoned House by Mary Grace Faulkner 24 Slone’s Mill, Formerly of Ferrum by Danny Adams 25 Silent Worship by Danny Adams 25 Overcast at Giant’s Causeway by Laurynn Hackett 26

Pain by Riley Church 27 pumpkin by Scout Lynch 28 The Bat House by Caroline King 28 Grief by Riley Church 29 GANGE by CJ Hughes 29 Mother Nature by Kenaz Moon 30 American Downfall by Anonymous 31 Fracture by Mary Grace Faulkner 32 Midwinter by Mary Grace Faulkner 33 Moonlit Beach by Kacey Whorley 34 glimmer by Scout Lynch 35 Forever Promise by Emily Arrington 35

Stormy Night by Nancy Brubaker 36 July, Again by Abigail McGovern 38 flag by Jonathan Taylor 38 El cuento del Ratoncito Pérez by Reagan Lawson, Marina Powell, Gage Shelton, Caroline Eames, Kayla Anderson 39

Workin’ Man Blues by Emma Brubaker 40 Fog by Kenaz Moon 40 Bear With Me by Caroline King 42 Scrappy by Caroline King 42

Eye of the Beholder by Kenaz Moon 45

An Autumn Day by Mary Grace Faulkner 46

Harvest by Laney Jo Patterson 47

Un día de verano by Aubrey Billings, Kayla Fedison, Sarah Crawford, Jaci Cullerr 48

Giant’s Causeway by Ryan Gobble 48

Final Stand by Marina Powell 50

The Golden Sunset by Kayleigh Franklin 53

Haunting of the Sale Theater by Kristina Cossa 54

Glensheen Manor by Kristina Cossa 55

Winnie Tall Grass Summer 2022 by Nancy Brubaker 56

The Joys of Christmas by Lily Allen 56 Look at My Flow by Ryan Gobble 56

Adventuring with a Hound by Emily Arrington 56

Elephant Profile by Carol Love 57 You Got a Tissue? by Carol Love 57

Peek-a-Boo Monkey by Carol Love 57

Stripes on Stripes by Carol Love 57

Oxpeckers with Giraffe by Carol Love 57 Hattie Bell by Jennifer Ayers-Bernard 58 Glenbeagh by Ryan Gobble 59

Raining in Sorrento by David “Chopper” Campbell 60 Colosseum by Kacey Whorley 60

Sleeping Behemouth by Madison Cline 62

A Blade’s Worth by Brian Fesperman 64

Veni, Vidi, Vici by Caroline King 66

A Widow’s Gambit by Marina Powell 67 Industrialization by Abigail McGovern 68

The Fallen Queen by Mary Grace Faulkner 70 Basilica di St. Peter by Emma Brubaker 71

The Depth of Competition by Gabriel Alvarez 72

The Field by Jacob Stephens 74 Autumn at Ferrum by Kenaz Moon 75

My Favorite Place by Celeste Burnett 76

Are You With Me? by Celeste Burnett 77

Where I’m From by Riley Church 78

The Mountains Are Calling by Emily Arrington 78

Their Final Ride by Caroline King 80

Happy Place by Riley Church 83

Altare della Patria by Kacey Whorley 84

The Palentine by Emma Brubaker 84

Students on Irish Rock Wall by Morgan Cofer 85 Morning in Galway by Laurynn Hackett 85 Biographies 86 Spring Flower by Kiana Somerville 88

Life Has Other Plans

By Abigail McGovern First Place Poetry

The world ends over and over again in a thousand little ways, and I know what it is to stare despair straight in the face. I’ve held my heart in the palm of my hands and offered up all of me and still couldn’t meet their demands. And life has other plans.

I’ve climbed up sheer mountainsides and walked the rocky winding path, and I’ve been laying breadcrumbs in hopes of making a map. I’ve been slaying the monsters and facing the ghosts, only to find it’s not so easy to conquer what scares us the most. And life has other plans.

We think we’re prepared for it all and still, like Icarus, we’re surprised by the fall. But if the ocean is my fate, then I’ll take the dive, I want to learn to live and not just to survive. And still, life has other plans.

But I’m tired of walking circles in the dark and striking the match uselessly hoping for a spark. I’ve counted my scars and come up the wiser, I might be tired, anxious, and broken but at least I am still a fighter.

So if life has other plans, well, then I am learning to embrace this life with both these scarred hands.

Sunny Skies by Madison Cline First Place Photography

Opposites Attract by Nicole Lynch First Place Art

A Love Song for the End of the World

By Abigail McGovern First Place Prose

You’re asleep next to me, the dark blue sheets twisted round your long limbs. The strange, amber-hewed light that filters through the half-closed blinds plays over the angles and curves of you. It catches on the line of your jaw, the point of your elbow, the slender curve of your wrist. I have always tried to tell you, you are a work of art. You always laugh and say you are not beautiful or interesting enough—although you are both. But that is not why.

It’s for the way you stir my soul. The way you love rainy days, because the rain “sounds like a song.” The way you dance around the kitchen when you cook. The way you find music and beauty in everything you touch.

I am not going to wake you up. Maybe you would rebuke me for this, but we have both already cried all our tears, said all our goodbyes and I love yous.

Of course, there is a part of me that wants to wake you up and hold you close and scream our rage to the reddening sky until our voices go hoarse and our lungs go out. But we already know that does nothing to slow the hands of time in its determined march forward, because already the days have fallen away until this, the very last one. And I do not want to disturb your peace.

The sky outside looks as if it is on fire.

Reds and oranges and yellows scattered in the worst kind of painting, the colors of a sunset lost control, spread as far as the eye can see. There is smoke, too, reaching towards that furious sky in winding tendrils and billowing plumes, different measures of rage and fear and desperation. The acrid smell of it is seeping through the cracks in the walls and window panes, singeing my nose.

There are screams too, reaching here from further away, like ghosts. Loud and bold shouts, ragged cries, whimpers. Anger. Fear. Sadness. Desperation.

I turn away from the window and I am not sorry for that, either. The time for heroics is past. It has long since been time for the final goodbyes.

And I digress.

Because the point of this is to say, you look unbelievable right now. Like fiction or a figment of my imagination, something I created to smooth over my jagged, flawed edges. Because, like a pebble tossed at sea, you have turned me into the best version I could be.

You always look unbelievable, you always just are.

Sweaty and red-faced after a workout (you always hated how splotchy your skin got, but it’s proof of working hard), dark hair sticking to your face. At night, in flannel pajama pants, hair sticking in every direction, a glass of red in hand. When you bought and baked and saved enough food to give some to the neighbors. To anyone who had less than us. When you ran outside when the sky first began to change colors as the end crept closer. You stood there barefoot in the grass and raged at the reddening sky. And you were unbelievable and remarkable and perfect even then.

Outside, tires just screeched across the road. A tremendous crash. There’s more smoke now, pouring out from somewhere down the street. There are tire tracks burned along our road. This is what happens when fear and the desire to flee take over.

And where could any of us go, anyway?

But the point is not to focus on every broken and breaking thing falling apart outside the window.

It’s to tell you every way that you have made me better, mended my cracks. Everything I cherish about you. And that is every little thing. The way your nose wrinkles when you laugh. The way you drink your coffee black, buy mugs that are chipped on purpose. The way you take my hand when you see how scared and angry I am.

How much love you are capable of. For everyone and everything around you. You always have been my rock against the hurricane winds of life. I should have told you sooner.

It’s getting very bright out there now, scarlet light creeping its

way through the partly closed blinds like blood spilling onto the wood floor. I can’t even turn my head to look. And—oh—you are awake now, watching me through partially lidded eyes. The light is shining off your long lashes. A lazy half-smile curls its way across your mouth like a stretching cat.

Even now, at the end of everything, you are only looking at me with love.

Come here, you say. And I do.

Because I just need you to know how grateful I am for you, how I cherish every single thing about you. How brilliant and bold and wonderful I think you are. And you are saying I know, I know, darling, I know.

But as the light gets brighter and more blinding, as the world narrows to your hand in mine, fingers intertwined, and our foreheads touching, breaths mingling into one . . . I just need to say . . . I have looked at you every day and never had the courage to tell you that I am so grateful. So let me take one last breath to say, I love—

Dragon Fly by Harley Steger

When We Were Together

By Kiersten Jones Second Place Poetry

The glimmer of emeralds filled up her eyes

Her hair was the color of tangerine She painted pictures of pink summer skies And added other colors in-between

Our love began on a cold winter night

We danced in the warmth of the springtime rain Butterflies in my stomach taking flight

The serotonin racing through my brain Her voice was as gentle as a calm breeze She ignited a fire in my soul She stole my vulnerable heart with such ease

I was ready to pay whatever toll

I felt my best when we were together As we know, good things don’t last forever

Soapy by Caroline King

Judith

Second Place Prose

By Scout Lynch

I could scream a thousand times but nobody would notice until I didn’t have a reason to scream anymore.

People are afraid to look because people are afraid to help. You cannot respond to a call that you are not willing to answer.

Yours was a call that I wish I hadn’t answered.

Judith resolved her pain with a sword and a friend. You are the Holofornes that I wish to behead.

They say that the pen is mightier than the sword.

I say that pens can’t cause hurt like I want them to.

They can’t take off a head in one swift motion.

They can’t even evoke the fear and the tears that I want to see from you.

The pen can heal. Can it heal me?

I want the sword to heal me the way that I should be healed. The sword can give me vengeance that will only satisfy me for a fleeting moment.

The pen can give me everlasting satisfaction hope courage strength meditation laughter healing.

The sword cannot give me that. I will scribble you out

Sunset in the Country

by Ryan Gobble Second Place Photography

Best Friends by Madison Cline Second Place Art

Best Friends

by Marina Powell

Cute and Cuddly by Caroline King

La teoría del Big Bang

by Madison Cline, Mackenzie Ensley, Sierra Helton

Éranse una vez, cavernícolas y dinosaurios. Los cavernícolas vivían en cuevas y los dinosaurios vivían afuera. Los cavernícolas y los dinosaurios podían comunicarse entre ellos. Ellos se hablaban cada día, y un día los dinosaurios no quisieron hablar con los cavernícolas porque un cavernícola llamado Brad siempre hostigaba a los dinosaurios. Brad siempre tiraba guijarros a los bebés de dinosaurios. Los cavernícolas le dijeron a Brad que parara, pero Brad no les hizo caso. Él provocó una guerra. Los dinosaurios decidieron formar un ejército en contra de los cavernícolas. Los cavernícolas estaban enojados porque los dinosaurios siempre los trataban mal. Los cavernícolas decidieron esperar para ver si los dinosaurios se calmarían, pero no se calmaron. Después de unos meses, los cavernícolas decidieron destruir a todos los dinosaurios porque ellos los hostigaban. Los cavernícolas crearon un plan para hacerse cargo de los dinosaurios. Los dinosaurios no se dieron cuenta de los guijarros venenosos en su comida, explotaron, y fallecieron. Esta es la historia de los orígenes de la teoría del Big Bang.

Translation: The Big Bang Theory

Once upon a time, there were cavemen and dinosaurs. The cavemen lived in caves, and dinosaurs lived outside. Cavemen and dinosaurs could communicate with each other. They talked to each other every day, and one day the dinosaurs didn’t want to talk to the cavemen because a caveman named Brad always harassed the dinosaurs. Brad was always throwing pebbles at the baby dinosaurs. The cavemen told Brad to stop, but Brad ignored them. He caused a war. The dinosaurs decided to form an army against the cavemen. The cavemen were angry because the dinosaurs always treated them badly. The cavemen decided to wait to see if the dinosaurs would calm down, but they didn’t. After a few months, the cavemen decided to destroy all the dinosaurs because they were harassing them. The cavemen created a plan to take care of the dinosaurs and put poisonous pebbles inside their food. The dinosaurs did not notice the poisonous pebbles in their food, so they exploded and died. And that is the story of the Big Bang theory.

Still Standing Guard by Abigail McGovern

The Brittle Man

By Marina Powell

This is what I am, and I will tell you how it happened. I was only ever made of glass. Surely they knew that when they threw the stones. I picked up every piece in the dark, crawling on twisted hands and knees. I fit each one together and I got back up. But now when I touch things, they bleed. Now when I try to move, sharp edges grate together. Now my eyes are hollow, and people don’t look at them because they are afraid of the dark. And when it rains, water slips in the cracks and fills the hollow parts with misery. And now when it’s sunny, the light reflects and is blinding. And now when I love, I only ever cut people.

I am the Brittle Man. I was only ever made of glass. But that is how it happened.

Mandala by Kristina Cossa

Where I’m From

Inspired by George Ella Lyon’s “Where I’m From”

By Kiersten Jones

I am from packed and unpacked boxes, from changes and new beginnings. I am from the mountains surrounding the valley, (Blue, calming, the air smells of morning mildew, the start of a new day.)

I am from late-night car rides, the backseat where I was cradled until my mother carried me to my bed.

I’m from chicken nuggets and landline phones, from CD collections and storybook pages. I’m from the ignored and the hard to love, from being seen and not heard. I’m from the numerous songs that my mother would sing with me, and I still find comfort in them today.

I’m from Aunt Mae and Papa Penn, Pepsi Cola and Swiss Cake Rolls. From the brother that I tragically lost to selfish cruelty, the mother who never healed her own gaping wounds. In the basement are just two boxes both stuffed to the brim, of heartbroken people who were familiar with love and loss.

I am from that familiar pain My heart was broken before I could grow I am now breaking free of that pattern.

Pour Mon État, Pour La France

By Abigail McGovern

In front of us, Compiègne burns. Smoke fills the air in dark plumes, hiding the city skyline, the sharp and acrid scent singeing my nostrils as well as my eyes. It does nothing to disguise the damage they have done or the horror they have wrought. I know the Oise River is but yards behind us, although I cannot hear its rippling over the sounds of the siege—I will never forget the ragged, desperate screams or the harsh sounds of gunfire splitting my eardrums.

The water is our salvation, the distant bank our safe harbor.

The other side of the river has never seemed so far away.

The English forces stand in the way of our entrance to the city. On the path ahead lies death, but the path behind, failure. They are another river in our way, a roaring current of gunpowder and death and rage between us and the aid the people need. We are being forced to retreat, ranks falling to pieces, in a desperate surge towards the river. The thunder of hooves and boots echoes the sound of my heart breaking as we leave the city behind.

A movement to my right catches my eye. My brother, Pierre, one hand wound tightly in the reins of his horse, blood and ash smeared on his face. Mon Dieu, he barely looks human. With his free hand, he waves frantically at me. I see the shape of my name on his lips, but the sound of his voice is snatched away, swallowed by the chaos around us.

I shake my head, trying to convey that I cannot hear, much less understand, but I cannot look away from the battle for long. An Englishman on a sleek stallion, its sides flecked with mud, blood, and foamy sweat, charges at the man next to me. There is no time to help before he has been torn from his horse, lost under the pounding hooves, the desperate feet. Something hot sprays my face, and the metallic taste of blood clings to my lips.

I cannot bear to look and yet I do anyway. He deserves to be honored.

I swing my sword at the Englishman and press my horse right up close to his. I do not miss.

The Englishmen are relentless. They are savage, tearing at our forces from every possible angle. They do not even spare the innocents in Compiègne, so why should I hope that they will spare any of us?

Aidez-nous, I think, looking up towards the sky. S’il vous plaît, aideznous.

The sound of my name pulls me back into the moment. My brother has fought his way over to me, drawing our horses up level with one another.

I tighten my grips on the reins to steady myself, twisting them around my wrists until the leather cuts into my palms. Then I follow Pierre’s gaze, looking in the direction of the right rear flank. The English surge toward us, knocking my men aside as if they are flies, sending them

scattering. They are leaving a trail of scarlet in their wake, and they bear down on the rest of the rear guard like wolves, angry jaws agape. We will never cross the river in time, before they cut us down too.

Maman used to say, Tu es courageuse, my daughter, tu es née courageuse. My God and les saints, they believe in me too. They guide my path, my sword. Leaving French people behind to die is not a part of their plan. This I can feel in my very soul.

I turn my horse around.

“Joan,” Pierre says, his voice cracking with alarm. His horse skitters back several steps in surprise at the sudden movement of my horse. “What are you doing?”

I hold my horse firm, even as she prances nervously beneath me, wanting to flee across the river and being pushed along by the tide of my retreating troops. I lift my sword towards the sky, saying a soft prayer under my breath. Just as I once asked Sainte Catherine for this blade, I now ask her for her guidance and for strength.

I ask any other saints who may be listening as well. “Holding the line,” I respond. Then I urge my horse forward. We press past the rest of the rear guard, battered by frantic flanks of fleeing horses. Several times, my horse loses her footing, slipping on the mixture of mud and blood beneath her hooves. And then we are facing the English forces, menacing and unfeeling in their armor. The firelight dances off the metal, ghastly reflections of the burning city. Hulking brutes, unfazed by the blood spattering them or the innocent lives they end.

Donne-Moi de la force, I ask the Heavens, before plunging into the fray.

It is a whirlwind of swords and the clanging of metal and gunsmoke. I cannot see beyond each soldier in front of me in the haze. I swing my sword, letting it guide me. I taste salt on my tongue and liquid runs into my eyes. It is either sweat or blood. I swing and slash, never looking behind me. I can only hope that it has been long enough for the rest of our men to cross the river.

A blast of weapons fire too near my horse sends a Frenchman tumbling to the ground like a rag doll. My horse rears back, her frantic whinny splitting the air. I only have one hand on the reins, the other gripping the hilt of my sword. The reins slip through my fingers. I reach forward frantically, but miss. It is two seconds of falling.

I hit the ground with a sickening splat.

Down here, the hooves sound like thunder, shaking my skull.

I stumble to my feet, boots slipping in the mud, in time to see my horse fleeing in a desperate bid to the river. I whisper a prayer that she makes it. This is, after all, not her battle.

The English are all around me now, a tide of them. They are leering at me.

I lift my sword in front of me, gripping the hilt with both hands. Now is not the time to be afraid.

“Joan!”

I startle, slipping a bit as I swing around. Pierre is behind me, still atop his horse, but when he sees my attention on him, he lets go of the reins and slides off.

“What are you doing?” I manage.

I had thought he would be safe across the river by now.

And my brave, foolish brother draws his sword too, even though we are at the steepest disadvantage. This distraction has cost me time. They are surrounding us now, weapons bristling.

“Standing with you,” he says simply, stepping up next to me.

He too, est très courageux.

So we both stand there with our swords lifted, even as they urge us to surrender. After all, what sort of soldier surrenders with their sword at their side? . . . . . . . . . .

They hold us now in a tower. Beneath us, Compiègne burns. The sound of the screams still reaches my ears, even from up here. I cannot bear to look, knowing that there is nothing more I can do to help. I have tried.

When I tried to flee, to return to the city, I did not make it past the moat before they found me. They dragged me out of the water and back in here. There are now bars on the windows.

Pierre tries to cheer me up, but what else is there to do? I cannot reach my people in the city beneath, cannot sleep for the screams and scent of smoke that still singes my nostrils. I hear the soldiers talking in the hallway, mocking me.

“Her King will not come for her,” one of them says. He has a voice like gravel. “He has already told our Duke as much.”

“And what sort of leader is he?” The other responds. He is the mocking one; it always sounds as if he is laughing.

There is word, too, that the Church would like to see me on trial. The English church, of course. They accuse me of heresy and I will not win. I am their villain. They took Sainte Catherine’s sword from me as well, as if it did not call to me. As if I was not guided to it.

But, mon Dieu, mes saintes, I have not failed you.

I cannot liberate Compiègne. I cannot save them all. But I have put the King back on his throne. I have fought for France. I have given them the strength to free Paris from the English. I have done all I have ever promised, all you have ever asked me to do.

My brother hears the murmurs as well. He reminds me that at least our men made it across the river—as many as possible, and each life matters.

It is true, they did. I hear the English soldiers cursing me for it, and I can see our forces camped just beyond the river. I must trust that they will continue on without me.

“Joan,” Pierre says one day, when the air seems to have changed. “Tu es très courageuse. Tu es notre espoir.”

When he says it, I see my mother’s eyes, hear her voice. I am, momentarily, at home.

When the soldiers come for me, I am standing in the center of the room, Pierre beside me. He still refuses to step away, and I hope he knows when I squeeze his hand that I am grateful.

“So this is how the Maid d’Orleans falls,” mocks one of the soldiers. And perhaps it is.

But I have followers, and we bring France hope. I have been a revolutionary, and I will be a martyr.

I do this pour mon Dieu, mes saints, ma famille, et mon État, pour la France.

Pour la France.

When I go with the soldiers, it is on my own two feet. I do not see Compiègne again, but at least I do not bow.

Altar of the Fatherland by Caroline King

The Abandoned House

by Mary Grace Faulkner

The woods are alive, wet with the darkening green feeling of oncoming rain. Ferns coil among the bushes, crouching at the feet of the massive vine-wrapped trees and slender young saplings. Insects whirr up from the black-spotted leaves of the bushes as we push through, Malachi and Silas ahead of me in single file. The air, thick and warm with humidity, brushes my skin and carries vibrant scents of moss, wood, sweat, plants to the sky and returns soaked with rain smell.

Ahead of us looms a ruined house, cracked door hanging open enough for a body to slide through, broken glass scattered on all sides. Inside, wide-spaced rafters crisscross the ceiling, but Malachi hauls open a door to the right, a tiny one that even I have to duck to cross through, and stomps up the steep, narrow stairs. Silas and I follow close behind.

“We think this is where the kids of the family lived, and that’s why the door is so short,” Malachi explains, turning at the top to look back at me creeping cautiously up the creaking, wheezing, cracking staircase. “Don’t worry—none of us have fallen through those yet.” He disappears, climbing up to the roof.

When it comes time to go back home, I slide off the tin roof, old and blotched with darker gray, into a tree growing directly beside. It’s drizzling now; the forest has become a darker, more vivid green, tree trunks going almost black. This tree is a patchwork of rain-darkened bark and pale blue lichen, slick and slippery as well, and my hands slide on the trunk. I’m falling backwards, falling towards a tangle of briars and broken glass, when the scene before my eyes shifts and I land on soft, damp moss, three feet away from those briars, on the other side of the tree, on the only spot free of broken bottles.

Breath knocked out, too stunned to blink, I feel the rain as it rushes out of the grey sky, spattering my eyes and face, little cold celebrations exploding on any uncovered skin. Leafy branches wave overhead in the breeze just turned chill, and voices echo from far away.

Slone’s Mill, Fomerly of Ferrum by Danny Adams

Silent Worship by Danny Adams

Overcast at Giant’s Causeway by Laurynn Hackett

Pain

by Riley Church

You walked in on my life and made me smile We had fun and made jokes for a while Now all that’s gone and you have changed All that love I had attained

pumpkin

By Scout Lynch

throw a cup into the ocean, is it overflowing with sea water or just surrounded by it? newborn babies know how to hold their breath underwater by instinct. i am older and unwise and i trust nothing. i thought that i could inhale. suffocated by water. but now, air is not as sweet as what i am surrounded by. you are an ocean. overflowing.

The Bat House

By Caroline King

By Riley Church

She couldn’t ever accept it Nothing had happened She could never ever admit Simply imagined

Hatred surges through her cold veins Face turning blood red Where her heart was, a hole remains Dark thoughts in her head She screamed and cried from her felt pain Missing her own laugh Thinking she can’t smile again Herself torn in half

Time had come and more time had gone What seemed like years passed She had to keep moving forward Would she ever last

She felt like a sea breeze of salt No pain no worries Her heart had locked like a steel vault She fell to her knees

GANGE

By CJ Hughes

Mother

by Kenaz Moon

Nature

American Downfall by Anonymous

Fracture

by Mary Grace Faulkner

Midwinter

by Mary Grace Faulkner

The rich scent of chili fills the air, meat and beans and chicken stock and tomatoes, all mixed into a thick stew laced with melting cheddar cheese. Cornbread, sitting joyful and golden in a cast-iron skillet resting on the stove, gives off its own aroma, thick and sweet and irresistible. Next to it, a big black pot of chili bubbles, and underneath, the open oven door allows soothing waves of heat to escape, radiating into the back and legs of the girl sitting before it. She is the closest of the family to the oven, as they are all gathered around the long kitchen table, feasting. Eight bowls of chili, eight spoons, and eight mugs of thick, creamy, yellow raw milk adorn the table, which is also scattered liberally with crumbs where the younger children sit.

The wind howls outside in the darkness; though it is barely past 5:30, the sun has long since gone to bed, and stars blanket the cold winter sky. Inside the house, though it is cool there as well, the open oven and the steaming chili and moist, warm cornbread combine to drive the cold from the family. .......

It is late night; the moon is high in the sky, reminiscent of Roald Dahl’s Witching Hour. It is midwinter, a crystal clear night, deep snow lying soft and heavy. The full moon and the countless multitude of stars spread throughout the sky cast a freezing cold light over the woods and creek and lonely pale house on a hill. The light is clear as ice, casting razor-sharp shadows of every drift and whorl of snow. One last breath of wind skitters and scrapes over the new-fallen snow, bearing few scents. One could imagine the musty fur scent of the dog sleeping in the yard, of the squirrels and mice and bears and foxes slumbering in the woods. But the only smell truly there is the faint scent of cedar, spicy, rich, and sweet, drifting up from the old hope chest under the blurred glass window. Silver light falls through, illuminating the grainy, smooth curves and curls in the cedar wood, dark and light swirled together, turning to silvery grey the red bricks of the chimney, crumbling soft at the corners, marked with black soot and blue crayon from the generations of children that lived there.

Moonlit Beach by Kacey Whorley

glimmer

by Scout Lynch

there is a light inside of me, sometimes it flickers but it will never go out. the light in me does not glow nearly as bright as the one in you. you passed your light to your daughter and she passed hers to me. your light has not gone out. tonight, your star in the sky will shine as brightly as the light that you brought into all of the lives that you touched. your purpose of brightening people’s lives is forever embodied in the sky.

Forever Promise by Emily Arrington

Stormy Night by Nancy Brubaker

July, Again

by Abigail McGovern

And so it’s July again, and the world is a held breath, swallowing its anger, swaddled in the thick heat. Gone are the raging storms, the rolling dark clouds, the clash of one season with another. And so it’s that time again, when the days are long but the hours are longer, stretched into decades of clear skies and white light. And I am lonely. And I am lacking in ambition, laziness tangled around lanky limbs. And so it’s July again and I am trying not to miss you. But we are all porch cats in the dappled shade, hiding from the sun’s rays and all they might have to say about us. So now it’s that time again and I am learning not to take for granted my sunny days. It’s July again and I am just waiting to exhale.

flag by Jonathan Taylor

El cuento del Ratoncito Pérez

by Reagan Lawson, Marina Powell, Gage Shelton, Caroline Eames, Kayla Anderson

Érase un niño llamado Jorge que perdió un diente antes de la noche. Él estaba demasiado emocionado para dormir. Él le dijo a su mamá, “Puede contarme un cuento antes de ir a mi cama?” Su mamá dijo, “Pues, qué cuento te gusta?” Él dijo, “Quiero oír un cuento nuevo.” Su madre pensó por un momento. Porque el niño había perdido un diente, su mamá decidió contarle un cuento del Ratoncito Pérez. Ratoncito Pérez era un ratón que tenía un trauma infantil debido a su abuelo. Los dientes de su abuelo se caían y él se los arrojaba. Así que cuando la rata creció, les tenía envidia a todos los niños cuyos abuelos tenían buenos dientes, porque los dientes de su abuelo eran horribles. Así que cuando los dientes de los niños se caían, él secuestraba a los niños para su ejército y usaba sus dientes para fabricar armas. Eventualmente, cuando los niños trataban de enfrentarse a él, se los comía con queso. La moraleja de la historia es: no puedes ir a dormir diez minutos después de perder un diente. El ratón recoge tus dientes. El ratón los lleva a su casa. El ratón los pone en una caja. Cuando tiene muchos dientes, él funde los dientes y hace armas con los dientes. Si sirves muy bien en su ejército, te da un cuchillo sacacorcho para sacar los dientes. Después de obtener los cuchillos, los da a los niños en su ejercito. Los cuchillos son ilegales y muy, muy peligrosos. Mientras tanto, el ejercito del Ratoncito Pérez crecía. El soldado más nuevo que el Ratoncito Pérez trajo estaba preparado para volverse contra él. El chico se enteró de que la única manera de detener al Ratoncito Pérez era usar su debilidad: Las cuchillas de dientes.Cuando su Madre salió del cuarto, Jorge se acostó en su cama, con su diente debajo de la almohada. Estaba muy intranquilo después de escuchar la historia de su madre, entonces Jorge cerró las ventanas y la puerta. Los muros parecían más cercanas que antes, pero Jorge intentaba dormir. Se durmió inquieto, con un ruido extraño, como si alguien estuviera raspando los muros… El ejército de niños se apoderó de él y lo mató con los dientes. Cuando Jorge se despertó en la mañana siguiente, su diente se había desaparecido. En cambio encontró dinero. Se sintió aliviado cuando descubrió que era solo una leyenda… o eso pensaba…

Workin’ Man Blues

by Emma Brubaker

I’ve got the workin’ man blues

Can’t win but to lose

I got the house

I got the girl  But that was then

And now I’ve got the workin man blues

Fog by Kenaz Moon

Bear with Me

by Caroline King

“911, what is - emergency?” a voice asked.

“Please, I need help!” Ron said faintly, “There’s been - my dog, pleaseclawed ol’ Scrap to death.”

“Ma’am, you are breaking - slow down,” the voice replied.

“I ‘bout could get better signal with two tin cans and a string,” Ron grumbled, “Send - first my dog, Scrap.”

Ron was right; there was never service up on the mountain. She dropped the phone and began crawling towards the kitchen. As she got closer, her vision began to clear, and in front of her was Scrap. He had been badly slashed and was panting heavily as he clung to life.

“Scrap, ol’ son. Why did you have to go after ‘em?” she questioned as tears began to fill her eyes. “I’d a been fine.”

The mangled hound looked up at Ron and let out a meek little whimper. Ron’s tears began to drip on his snout. She laid her head down on the hound’s throat.

. . . . .

A bright light began to burn away at Ron’s eyes as they peeled open. Her thin lips come together to create a sharp whistle.

“Ol’ son… Scrap, please… come… ol’ son,” she choked.

A tall sophisticated-looking man handed over a cup of water and a straw.

“Here, Ron, your throat’s gonna be pretty dry,” the man said.

Ron took a small sip and then a slightly larger one. She set the cup back down again before she prepared to speak.

“Where’s my dog?” she asked the man, “Why ain’t he here with me?”

“Ma’am, please, we need to focus on you right now,” said the man. “Please tell me what happened to you.”

“Damn, you! I ain’t worried about me. I want to see my dog,” she persisted.

The man walked out of the room and pulled an old tattered notepad from his pocket. He began to scratch down some notes:

--Still thinks she has a pet dog.

--Refuses to talk about last break (needs addressed) --Will sedate and see if anything changes in the next hour.

Ron’s head sunk back into pillows as the sedative pumped through her veins. In her head, she could see a younger version of herself running barefoot through the cattle field. At the edge of the field, where the creek meets the forest, there was a patch of honeysuckle. As a little girl, she would run down to that bush and taste some of the sweet nectar that the plant is famous for.

“Come on, ol’ son, I’m going to show you where to find the good stuff.”

That memory faded out as her mind began to create a new image. Ron was now in her mid-twenties, leaning against a wooden beam as she watched her father hammer away at a hot horseshoe.

“Daddy, what’d you think about them new calves back in the spring field?” Ron asked her father.

“They’s kind lookin’ ain’t they?” her father replied.

“They’re sure cute when they little,” Ron smiled, “But they damn sure mean when they get some meat on their bones.”

Her father let out a little chuckle and continued with his work. He had been a farrier for as long as she could remember. Ron had been on the farm from the time they brought her home until now. Her parents didn’t believe in public schooling because she could learn more working on the farm than from some old history teacher.

“Reckon we’ll have to get ‘em up and tag ‘em before the sun goes to sleep,” Ron said. “I’ll go saddle up Ace and head out to get ‘em.”

“Be careful and take Scrap with ya!” her father hollered, “He needs to start learnin’ how to work.”

She was already halfway to the stalls before he got out anything else. .......

“Ron, are you awake?”

The doctor straightened her glasses and gently tapped Ron’s shoulder.

“Ron, I need to ask you some questions about the berries that you ate in the mountain,” she continued.

Ron’s grey eyes opened and peered up towards the doctor.

“Where’m I at?” Ron asked.

“You are at Wilson Forest Medical Center, ma’am.”

“What’d you say? How’d I end up in this ol’ place?”

“Well, you ingested some berries on the mountain. Do you remember the berries, Ron?”

“Hellfire, how long have I been here for?”

“Well, you have been here for four weeks. However, you have been in and out of it for the majority of the time.”

The doctor was trying to be as delicate with the old woman as possible. This was the first time Ron had seemed coherent in a long time, so she wanted to see if she could get some answers.

“You say’n I ate berries and got sick or something?” Ron asked.

“Yes ma’am. You were found by a national forestry worker. She was checking the fire roads and found you out there.”

“There’s no way that I ate berries and ended up here. You must be telling a tall tale or someth’n,” Ron snapped.

“Ron, dear, we have been monitoring your health for a while. You were in pretty critical condition.”

“I’m gettin’ tired. Please leave me be.”

Ron’s eyes closed again as she dozed off to sleep. Ron began to twist and turn as her dreams ran away with her. The doctor continued to watch over her. Watching Ron’s movement worsen, she headed out of the room to the front desk.

“Could you please phone her therapist?” she asked the receptionist. “Yes ma’am.”

......

An enormous thud awoke Ron as it rattled down the wide hallway. As her eyes opened, her old thin lips came together to create a sharp whistle. She jumped out of bed and from the corner of the room came a large black

mutt-looking dog.

“Get down now, ol’ son!” Ron whispered.

The dog responded immediately, crouching down beside Ron’s pool of wiry grey hairs. Ron quickly reached up and under the right side of the bed, grabbing an old wooden shotgun.

“Whatever’s down ‘n my kitchen is gon be sorry!” Ron’s aged voice assured.

She poked her head out into the hallway, and saw the outline of a large black omnivore rustling around the refrigerator. She pulled her head back into the bedroom and reached the phone. The phone silently dialed until the voice of an elderly man answered.

“Ron… What’s tha matter?” asked the man.

“There’s a daggone black bear in my kitchen, Mr. Macy!,” replied Ron, “I ain’t quite sure how it wandered in here, but it needs get on outta my house.”

“Did you just wake up to em?” asked the man.

“Why else wouldn’t I’ve noticed a bear enter’n my home?” snapped Ron, “My ol’ dog didn’t even hear him comin.”

“Ron, please don’t do anything to anger that bear,” the man warned, “I’ll be right there to help ya!“

Ron hastily hung up the phone. She bent open the gun, sliding in two red cartridges.

“Scrap, ol’ son, imma fire this gun an try to scare him off,” Ron reassured. “Don’t go after him, no matter what.

......

Wamp! Wamp! Wamp!

Ron’s body began to pulsate in the small frame of her hospital bed.

“Help!” cried the nurse, “She is having a seizure!”

Two more night nurses rushed into the room. They began to restrain Ron’s arms.

“Page Dr. Stuart immediately,” a second nurse yelled. After only a minute, Ron’s body ceased all motion.

“We need to get her into the O.R. immediately,” said the leading nurse, “Tell Dr. Stuart to meet us there.”

The team quickly rushed Ron out of the room and headed for the third floor. Dr. Stuart had feared that this might happen to Ron and she knew that she and her team only had a short amount of time to open Ron up before it was too late.

“Make sure that her vitals are stable,” the doctor told the nurse, “I am going to scrub in and open her up immediately.”

......

“Ron, are you awake?”

The doctor straightened her glasses and gently tapped Ron’s shoulder. “Ron, you had a severe bleed in your brain. We were able to go in and stop the bleed, but you may still have some lingering effects. I need to ask you some questions to see how you are recovering.”

“What’r you talking all this nonsense to me for?” Ron grumbled, “And where’s my dog, Scrap?”

The doctor’s eyes widened.

“Ron, do you remember Scrap?” the doctor asked. “Of course I remember my own damn dog!” Ron snapped, “Where is he? I ain’t never been anywhere without ‘em!”

“Ron, your dog passed away several years ago. Do you remember that?”

“You are full of horse shit, lady! Me and ol’ Scrap just went walking yesterday.”

“Ron, you have been in Wilson Forest Medical Center for five weeks now.”

“You talkin’ some crazy things, lady,” Ron snapped.

“Ron, last week you asked me what happened. Remember, I told you about the berries and the lady who found you and brought you in here?”

“Ma’am, I ain’t never seen you in my life. I’d sure remember talking to an ol’ city slicker like you.”

“Ron, please, this is really important. Do you remember talking to…”

“I ain’t talked to no one but Mr. Macy and ol’ Scrap for years,” Ron interrupted. “I sure as hell ain’t talked to Jim the hotshot suit man or Lisa the accountant either. I done told you, all I want is to get my dog and go on home.”

“Ron, Mr. Macy does not exist and your dog passed away some years back.”

Tears began to fill Ron’s eyes.

“Ma’am, I’ll do anything that you want me… just… please let me see my ol’ son.”

The doctor could see the pain in Ron’s eyes. She felt guilty for pushing her so hard, but she knew Ron needed to face reality at some point.

“Ron, dear, please lay back and rest. You seem to still be pretty shaken up. I have all the information I need.”

“I do feel wore out. But, ma’am, please let me see Scrap soon.”

The doctor now had tears forming in her eyes. She didn’t answer Ron; instead, she just turned and left the room. Ron laid her head back and let her tears run down her weathered cheeks. She had never been away from her dog for more than a couple of hours and definitely had never slept without him next to her. Ron’s eyes grew heavy. She drifted off to sleep.

Eye of the Beholder by Kenaz Moon

An Autumn Day

by Mary Grace Faulkner

Birds chirp outside the kitchen window of the old white house, dancing merrily in the holly tree and pecking at the scarlet berries, shaking the limbs of gleaming dark leaves. Around the stumpy tree, the yard stretches down a hill scattered with autumn leaves, bikes, and various articles of children’s clothing.

Remnants of frost still sparkle pale, outlining the shade of the tall poplars and pines, not yet melted by the pale midmorning sun floating in the watery blue sky. But it is the singing of the birds that catches the ear of the girl leaning over the sink, hands plunged in steaming bubbly water, and she washes the dishes by touch now, head craned to see the birds, standing on tiptoe, shirt slowly darkening with the water dripping off the edge of the sink.

One piece of nature has come inside, or rather been brought inside by one of the girl’s brothers; doors banging shut behind him, untied shoelaces flapping on the floor, black-framed glasses askew, he had tenderly passed the flower, a pale green stem full of spiky white blossoms, to their mother. She filled a blue and brown stone jar barely larger than a thumb, marked with a cross, with water, and gently slid the flower in. The little jar sits on the windowsill now, its simple yet complex beauty contrasting the phone lying beside it with its plastic gray and blue cover.

The girl is the only one left downstairs. Most of her siblings have fled out to the yard on this Saturday morning; one sister is curled upstairs reading; and in the kitchen, the buttery sweet scent of Dutch Baby lingers from breakfast, powdered sugar outlining where the family’s bowls sat on the table. A gentle, rapid patting comes from behind the girl, audible through the phone’s chatter. A baby scuffles around the white corner cupboard, moving fast on hands and knees, tiny peach fuzz head lowered, and collides with the table leg. Unfazed, Jiminy finds his way to the sink and pulls himself up to the girl’s knee, begging for more powdered sugar.

Harvest by Laney Jo Patterson

Un día de verano

by Aubrey Billings, Kayla Fedison, Sarah Crawford, Jaci Culler

El aire frío no es más que un recuerdo lejano Ahora el aire caliente besa mi piel El sol no solo calienta mi cuerpo sino también mi corazón La arena es suave bajo mis pies

Oigo el océano que se encuentra con la tierra El caos del océano calma mi mente Cuando llega, el agua enfría mi cuerpo Veo peces siguiendo sus vidas diarias

Las conchas ruedan a la orilla El caos del mar empieza a calmarse Con mi tabla de surf en la mano Permanezco lejos de la orilla

Una ola grande surge Me preparo para montar mi tabla de surf Hacia la orilla

La ola se me lleva Me tira a través de las poderosas aguas Una vez más mis dedos de los pies tocan la arena

El sol seca mi piel No hay nada como un día de verano

Translation:

Cold air is just a distant memory Now hot air kisses my skin

The sun not only warms my body but also my heart

The sand is soft under my feet I hear the ocean meets the earth The chaos of the ocean soothes my mind When I arrive, the water cools my body I see fish going about their daily lives The shells roll to the shore

The chaos of the sea begins to calm down

With my surfboard in hand paddling away from the sand A big wave comes up

I get ready to ride my surfboard to the shore The wave grabs me pulls me through the mighty waters

Once again my toes touch the sand The sun dries my skin There’s nothing like a summer day

Giant’s Causeway by Ryan Gobble

FinalStand

by Marina Powell

I awoke in the night, filled to the bones with dread. Shadows flickered in my head, or maybe they weren’t in my head. I didn’t know. And maybe that’s why it tasted so strong.

Something creaked. If I listened close enough, it sounded like the boards were talking. I prayed to God they weren’t talking. I didn’t want to know what they muttered about in their bloodstained musings.

Oh God, a curse on my imaginative ears. A curse on those invisible souls that choke the sleep from a man.

I got up, not pulling on my shoes. I couldn’t see a thing, and my head spun deceptively. Was the ship listing, or was my head spinning?

It felt like Darkness had clapped his cold hands over my eyes, but I rubbed him off.

I could see the swinging shadows now. Empty hammocks strung up in the dark, moving as if ghosts slept there. I stumbled past them, found the ladder. My feet knew these rungs. I could picture them, every one. Those towards the top got hit with the salt spray and shards of sunlight that burned the youth from them.

Funny thought, that. Every man wanted to get to the top, if only in his dreams. But maybe you got damaged, all the way up there. Maybe the sun was more merciless with those standing at the helm.

But if he felt so, he never showed it. Not him, who haunted the shorelines even by day. Not him, who fought like ten of old Hornigold. Not him, who ran his own ships aground because he didn’t need a fleet to stop men’s hearts. Not him.

I pushed the hatch open and got onto deck, nodding to the sentinel. He surely didn’t want to be here, not when the rest of the men bedded on the shore, full of drink. Maybe I’d stayed because I feared. Don’t know what I had to be afraid of, besides those boards.

I’ve seen too many men die on those planks and I’ve seen their blood dry there. I don’t think their souls ever leave.

I peered into the night. Beyond the crow’s nest, the sky glowed pink. It was warm for November.

A gunshot ran out. I ducked, covering my head. The yelling began. “Sloops!” someone screeched.

That was when he jumped over my head and landed on the deck. The crash of his boots stopped my heart. He marched to the rail.

A sneer curled his lip, and his face was out of range of the rising sun. But surely they could see it. The black eyes. The great beard. Death incarnate.

He pivoted. His glare passed over me, traveling up to the poop deck like a gleaming blade.

“Take them.”

Several of the crew came up from belowdecks, on alert.

“Who are they?” a sailor asked.

The Captain’s stare was hard. He wasn’t taller than they were, but he looked it. Something about the set of his shoulders and the way the sun avoided his face …

“Shut up and get your boots on,” he said, “And get some men on the cannons.”

He never had to yell. Last week, I’d seen him shoot the first mate’s hands just because he got bored.

“If I don’t shoot someone once in a while I’ll forget who I am.”

The men scurried, not bothering to raise sail. No wind.

The Captain tilted his head.

“Come on, boy.”

I clambered onto the forecastle after him as he swung towards the nearest crewmate.

“Gun deck,” he said lightly, “Now.”

The man fled down the ladder.

“Guess who it is,” the man at the helm remarked.

“Maynard. I’ve heard the rumors.”

“Only two sloops,” the other man rasped, “But I’m thinking—”

“Curses be on me if I ever give or take quarter.”

No one argued. The ship turned, and the breeze stirred my hair— enough to make me anxious, not enough to raise sail.

The Captain’s mouth twisted, but he didn’t call for the flag. He needed no flag to win battles. The sun burned orange, sneaking up on us, and the two sloops rowed onward. We weren’t much bigger than they were. Not after he’d run the Revenge aground. A ‘downsizing’ he’d called it.

He must’ve sensed my nervousness. He grinned at me, taking several long fuses from his pocket. He slid the ends under his hat, then lit the match. Smoke rose into the air. Before long, it seemed his whole beard was alight with hellfire. It matched his eyes.

His face turned to the boats ahead. I bet many women wished men would look at them the way he looked at those boats. In his mind, they were already his.

It was oddly quiet, the waiting part. A faint voice came across the water. “Surrender,” it called, “You’ve been marked.”

All eyes turned to the Captain. I couldn’t see his face through the smoke that surrounded him, black like the name.

There was a long moment.

Then we fired on the first sloop.

Flame sprang up almost immediately. The other sloop turned starboard, trying to get us in range. Fire and smoke hung in the air. I heard screaming, yelling, barking, cursing.

The Captain took the helm, and the ship steady under his hand. The burning sloop lay in the shallows, a wounded animal. The other pursued, firing shot after shot. I heard metal rip through the hull, and the whole

ship shook, making us reel.

And then we ran aground.

Wood splintered, and I screamed a prayer in my head. The deck rocked as the Captain whirled.

“Hooks!” he bellowed.

Men swarmed onto the deck, seizing the ropes. I scrambled down and found one, holding the coil tight. It was still wet from the last storm.

As one, we threw. We swung hard, landing on the deck with the howling English. Our twenty outnumbered their fifteen.

The Captain descended onto the deck, a great black dragon, making for Maynard and his pressed coat. It was like a shark after a penguin. One was ugly and deadly; the other only thought he was.

I got engaged quick and managed to run an English sailor through. When he hit the deck, I imagined I heard the dull thud. There was a crack from behind, and I spun back to see mainsail lean into the foresail with an enormous crash. They both dropped. We’d have to take the ship we stood on, or there wouldn’t be an escape.

I caught a glimpse of the Captain’s smoky head, the flint eyes, and saw Maynard’s sword bend in half. Still, the enemy pressed us hard back.

I heard one shot ring out above the others. I turned and spotted a gaping hole in the Captain’s chest. Then I heard him bellow and saw the tip of his sword extend through the nearest man, his pistol smoking in one hand.

A second bullet slammed into him, but he gave Maynard that foxy grin and kept going. One of his wayward shots hit a nearby sailor and saved my abdomen from having a mighty hole in it. I backed into an ugly man who looked like his face had been smashed between two cannons. He was sort of thin-like, all pinched.

“Come on,” he coaxed, waving his sword, “You’re more afraid of an old privateer captain than you are of the law? How much do you fear him? More than execution? More than hell?” Pinchy demanded.

I didn’t answer as I got stuck in a new brawl. Our crew was being pressed back. It had to be an ambush. Maybe they’d hidden extra men belowdecks.

I spotted the captain as another bullet ripped into his shoulder. His beard smoked harder yet. He forced Maynard back, stabbing once, then twice, just barely missing each time. Then Pinchy jumped between them. The rest happened slow.

Pinchy slashed, one, two. I saw the blood spurt from the great black beard. Captain staggered, one, two; then his knees hit the boards and his blood did too. Pinchy hacked again. Next thing I knew, the head and the man weren’t one. Blood soaked the planks.

I’d seen too many people die on bloody wood. Too many men lost.

The Golden Sunset by Kayleigh Franklin

You never get over seeing regular people just like you drop to the deck all sunken in, all painted scarlet. But he was no ordinary person. This time the image burned my eyes.

Pinchy picked up the severed head, and the ship subsided as if its bloodlust was satisfied. Silence.

Smoke still coiled from the smiling head. They made us stand at the rail and watch when they threw his body into the sea.

Except it didn’t sink.

We watched it float, then arch away, in a perfect loop. Not a man spoke. The body kept circling the ship, sending every man’s spine into near collapse.

Then it floated out of the inlet, into the open sea. I never saw anything so peaceful.

Pinchy held the head, but he trembled as he handed it to Maynard. “All right,” he roared, “You’ll be pardoned if you talk. You’ve got men ashore. Give me names.”

Nobody spoke.

Pinchy walked up to me, leering. “Still afraid of old Blackbeard? He’s dead now, and you’ll all be gibbeted unless you talk. How afraid of a dead man can you be?”

The boards creaked beneath my bare feet. I was sure the souls of the dead hid in them. Including that of one fierce captain. I swallowed. “More than hell.”

Haunting of the Sale theater

by Kristina Cossa

Did you ever hear that a place was haunted and think someone was just trying to mess with you? That’s what I thought for so long –until I got to college. It was my freshman year, and I had decided on a Musical Theater major. I had always loved being on stage.

The theater building itself was said to be the oldest building on campus. The other students seemed nice. They told me all about their past experience and how there were a few ghosts around, one in the elevator and a little boy. I laughed and told them to stop joking with me.

“But we are not; this place really is haunted, Hannah,” a girl with red hair told me.

“Yeah, whatever, Lilly. Unless a ghost comes jumping out of a mirror, I won’t believe it,” I answered. I was raised in a religious household, so I knew that angels and demons were real, but ghosts were nothing but a work of fiction. “I’ll see you tomorrow at auditions. I call dibs on being Antigone.”

“That’s not how…,” Lilly began, but I cut her off.

“Thank you,” I said.

I walked towards the elevator with my backpack and pressed the button, waiting for it to reach the first floor. I heard a bunch of noises, and the doors opened. I walked inside and turned on my music. As a theater kid I loved musicals, so I turned on Into the Woods; however, the door wouldn’t close, and I heard giggling. It sounded like a little boy.

“Guys, this isn’t funny.”

The giggling continued, and I felt my skin grow cold as someone brushed against me. I screamed, thinking it was a bug or something, and heard giggling again. It was only then that the doors closed, and I saw a little boy standing in front of me for a split second. His shirt said one word: Edmund. I blinked, shaking my head, and the boy was gone. There was no way that was a ghost. The elevator went up, and I spent the next few minutes calming

my beating heart. The elevator got a little cold when it stopped, and I covered my arms and walked out of the elevator, but behind me I swore I heard giggling again. Spending five minutes in that old creaky elevator was worse than when I was left home alone for three hours as a toddler. I heard footsteps going down the stairs, and I was hoping it was another theater kid who had been pranking me this whole time. But when I walked over to the staircase, no one was there. I screamed like a five-year-old and ran out of the theater at full speed. All I could hear as I ran off was the sound of the elevator closing.

I regretted not listening to Lilly earlier, because this place was definitely haunted.

Glensheen Manor by Kristina Cossa

by Nancy Brubaker

Winnie Tall Grass Summer 2022

The Joys of Christmas by Lily Allen

Look at my Flow by Ryan Gobble

Adventuring with a Hound by Emily Arrington

You Got a Tissue? by Carol

Elephant Profile by Carol Love

Love

Peek-a-Boo Monkey by Carol Love Stripes on Stripes by Carol Love

Oxpeckers with Giraffe by Carol Love

Hattie Bell

by Jennifer Ayers-Bernard

There she stands at the old well, Her name was Hattie Bell. Her mind wanders as she winds the pail, Of faraway places and ships that sail. For she has known no other lands Than the one in which she now stands.

The wind blows a strand of hair across her face, She is so tired from the long day’s pace. She carries the heavy pails of water up the path, That will be used for washing dishes and later, a bath. So many times, she has climbed this hill. Her body is tired, yet she finds the will.

As she nears the porch, she can’t help but smile At the sight of her daughter putting rocks in a pile. And so she pauses from her next chore, To help her little one find some more. Together they play and build a house of rocks; They add a roof from an old cereal box.

It looked like a castle in the little girl’s mind, For the house they built was the only one of its kind. Eyes of crystal blue, they both shared; They spoke the same, and both were dark-haired. Mother and daughter, the two shared love, Stories of old and prayers to the one above.

And as the sun did set that day; More work to be done before she would lay. I watched her once again, softly trod, With buckets in hand on the moist green sod. She stood and gave thanks there by the well, This beautiful woman named Hattie Bell.

Glenbeagh by Ryan Gobble

Raining In Sorrento

by David “Chopper” Campbell

E D A

Walked along the ancient roads that once all led to Rome D A

Rutted stones from wagon wheels atop the catacombs E D A

Somewhere on the distant wind church bells mark the time D A E

Buskers squeeze accordions while others pantomime D

What can you do? A

Where can you go? E D A

On a lonely night when it’s raining in Sorrento? D

Café blinds are drawn, A

Doors are locked and closed E D A

What can you do when it’s raining in Sorrento?

Colosseum by Kacey Whorley

Wrestled with the shadows in the Colosseum sun

Where gladiators stained the sand with blood of the undone

From Ponte Fabricio where I had no key to throw Links of love without the lock as the Tiber raged below

What can you do?

Where can you go?

On a lonely night when it’s raining in Sorrento? Negronis flow like rivers

Across the patio

But what can you do when it’s raining in Sorrento?

The train pushed through the vineyards of the Tuscan countryside Castles cradled in the hills below the Apennines

He stole the bracelet from my wrist and screamed for figurines Beneath cathedral steps of stone in gilded Florentine

What can you do?

Where can you go?

On a lonely night when it’s raining in Sorrento? Saw the Hand of God And of Michelangelo But what can you do when it’s raining in Sorrento?

Stood among the ruins of the Forum and Pompeii Where bygone echoes rode on waves of scarlet cabernet The gypsies and the grifters both held their hands the same Saying they want nothing until nothing’s what remains

What can you do?

Where can you go?

On a lonely night when it’s raining in Sorrento?

Limoncello’s all run dry

Last train ran long ago

But what can you do when it’s raining in Sorrento?

Sleeping Behemoth

by Madison Cline

A Blade’s Worth

by Brian Fesperman

“This sword will one day belong to you, son.”

The young boy reached out eagerly, trying to grasp the hilt of the sword that his father was forging for him. His father smiled and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder, stopping himself from hammering at the molten metal as he knelt at his son’s level.

“It must be earned.”

As his father’s corpse lay inside their home, the older boy recalled this moment. Tears welled up in his eyes as he slung the leather strap over his shoulder and placed the blade in its scabbard. He stared at his father for a few quiet moments before being interrupted by the sounds of a crackling fire, screams, and heavy horse hooves. They clopped along the rough cobblestone streets in their town.

The boy was quick to hide behind a few bags of flour as a group of knights entered the home, double-checking to make sure that they had killed everyone in their raid of the peaceful village. The knight’s armor was pale white and showed hardly any signs of damage to the thick plate that he wore.

He removed his helmet and let his long blonde hair flow freely, his face perfectly sculpted. To describe his beauty, one must use every kind word in their language.

The imposing man cleared his throat and yelled into the home, “Surrender is an option! Step into the family room and your life will be spared! You do not have to die like your father!”

The room fell silent for a few moments; only the crackling of a fire could be heard. The man patiently waited for a response. After a few more moments that felt like an eternity, the man put his helmet back on and ordered the others to exit the home. He didn’t bother to check the home, as the fire would spread to it soon.

As the knights left the peaceful home they had brought ruin to, the boy took a peek over the bags of flour. He caught a

glimpse of one of their crests and noticed that they were part of the white hawk. The white hawk was an elite mercenary group that often carried out dirty work for the rich or lords of the land. In the public’s eye, they were seen as guardian angels, as they often donated food to the less fortunate and made pleasant company at the city’s local bars. Hidden from the public’s eye were the horrible atrocities they committed. These atrocities were committed to line their pockets with wealth that even a king might become jealous of. While eradicating villages, they left no survivors to tell the story of the horrifying acts perpetrated there. As the knights left, the murderer of his father remained to make sure that all of the buildings caught fire and were burnt down without survivors.

The boy saw this as an opportunity, quickly getting up and grabbing a rusted pan from his family’s kitchen rack. He had not expected the knight to be so quick as he wildly swung his sword to slash the boy with his blade. He was relentless and showed no remorse as he thrust the sword toward the cornered boy. A loud clang rang out throughout the home as the knight pierced through the center of the pan and drew blood from the boy’s cheek. The knight was careless, though, not realizing that in the process of this attack he had also bent the rusted metal around his blade. This made it nearly impossible to pull back out as long as the boy held onto the pan.

The boy finally saw his moment to fight back against the man who had slain his father. He pushed the sword to the side using the pan and drew his father’s perfectly crafted blade from its scabbard. He held it by the hilt tightly for a moment before piercing the knight’s chest with the blade. They both fell over and were unable to balance themselves with the sudden shifting in weight. The boy removed the sword from the dead knight’s chest, stepped out of the home, and walked to the river of the ruined town to clean the blade. In his mind, a straightforward question echoed. “Have I earned it?”

A Widow’s Gambit

by Marina Powell

I sit here and wait for them, They come in fives and fours and tens With finest suits and lifted nose And each one is a fool, you know.

They have a game, they play it long They wink their eyes, they sing their song Men like these you can’t outrun So I shall wait and let them come.

Then I will have them all come in They like to laugh, they like to win And so I tuck them into bed And turn my hourglass to red.

As they slumber, prideful rest I sink my teeth into their flesh Cruel you say? No, a cleanse Blood for shame and lustfulness.

When the dew is born again And the sun shines on the dead The line of sinners never ends And so I’ll play the game again.

Veni, Vidi, Vici by Caroline King

Industrialization

by Abigail McGovern

The Fallen Queen

by Mary Grace Faulkner

Resting, growing, growing from a miniscule pink bud, like a child in my mother’s stomach, curled into a tight spiral. Growing my creamy pink and white petals out, stretching, reaching up towards the life-giving sun, golden center rods bending and curving, holding the tiny pollens to raise more queens. Light showers down on my outspread limbs, a warm bath filling my living palace with strength. The sparkling dust and dying grass below only contrast my beauty. Scents of sizzling asphalt and fluffy old insulation only help my delicate perfume stand out all the stronger.

But a small, soft brown hand, filmed with that sparkling dust, plucks me and lifts me down, down under all my acolytes, shiny green leaves. The sun is hidden now but for the soft, quiet spots of her light that wend their ways through the corridors of my palace. It’s cool down here, cool and inhabited by two small people. This first little hand passes me to another, which rests me atop another castle, one built of damp, glittery dirt instead of living wood. Lower, perhaps—but here they adore me!

“Perfect,” the girl says, but her gaze drifts off me as she and the boy, the one who took me from my first throne, lock eyes, green and brown gazes fixed for a brief moment only, and attention is restored where it should be: to me, to building up the towers and battlements of my new palace. Through gaps in my old green servants, the sun glances at me again. She approves, sending beams to reflect off the chips of mica in the soil and light me up, making the curves of my pristine petals glow with warmth.

Basilica di St. Peter by Emma Brubaker

The Depth of Competition: A Story about Sports Psychology

by Gabriel Alvarez

Around four years ago now, I started to play tennis. This was thanks to the fact that I just quit practicing table tennis and I was searching for a new sport to fit into my life. My Grandfather, someone whom I could not love even more and one of the most important people in my life, recommended I should try tennis. At first, I saw it just as a hobby to have some fun from time to time. However, when I was getting close to my high school graduation date and starting to think about college and my future, I thought I could use the sport as a way to achieve my true goal: college graduation. But suddenly, I was feeling stuck in terms of progress and improvement. I did not realize there was an important factor I was ignoring all this time: the mental aspect of the game.

As the opposite of what the majority may think, sports and competition do not only consist of who “hits the ball harder, kicks the ball further or, is the strongest of them all,” and so on. When the competitive factor enters into the formula, sports can get extremely tough. This is not because you just need to “train harder” or something similar that would be the popular belief. Clearly, it does matter how much you train and the quality of your practices overall, but again, there is something more. Not everyone knows this, but the best players and athletes of all time are not at the top just because they “train hard.”

The first time I heard of Sport Psychology studies was around five months after I graduated from high school. Feeling “stuck,” as I described earlier, made me think of anything that I could be missing. I always had heard about how Rafael Nadal or Serena Williams was mentally undefeatable, an aspect that translated to never showing a bad attitude, never giving up, and always showing the opponent that they were never done on the court. I honestly did not feel that way too often, not to say never. Anxiety, nerves, frustration, anger, and even positive feelings like joy and excitement

had always invaded me in the court. How could those people not feel like that?

It was not that top athletes did not feel any emotion. It was the fact that they could control them; that is what truly will make the difference inside the game. As a consequence, I once sat down and started researching and thinking about what could help me, because, as non-players may think, those types of emotions do not disappear as much as one would like. I found my answer, or at least the beginning of it, in The Inner Game of Tennis, a book written by Timothy Gallwey that talks about different types of psychological strategies to achieve the best performance possible when doing many activities, not only tennis. It is interesting to read how the author would try to communicate and share his ideas through notso-complex vocabulary and general language. You could see how he wanted everyone to get his advice. I think it would be incredible to meet him in person one day if the chance is given.

As for the book itself, I got many examples, exercises, and tips that later on would help me to drastically improve my game. I think that anybody who correctly applies the tips will reach a state of mental concentration better than the person would have ever experienced. What usually happens is that the player starts to modify his nearly perfected techniques and movements previously trained and memorized by his body. In the specific scenario of a tennis player, frustration may cause you to hit the ball too hard, or too soft; however, every person is different and everyone can react differently. Once more, joy or excitement for being close to victory could cause you to start making strange movements or try to do unusual things that the player will seldom do in normal situations.

My case consisted that every time I played I would be too tense and have my muscles subjected to immense pressure and tension. I would usually practice really well and even exceed my own expectations, but when the match started I would recover that anxiety that later on would transform into pressure on my muscles. This would not let me achieve my best performance and ruin almost all my games, not to say all of them. Nevertheless, when I encountered The Inner Game, there was a special tip that helps a lot

even to this day: Keeping all of your attention on the seams of the ball. This may sound silly or too simple for many people, but the player notices the difference when applying this in the actual game. Thanks to the fact that I found that tip so useful and the entirety of the book was so interesting to me, weeks later, I could not believe that this book had caused such a strong butterfly effect that later I would be ending up majoring in Psychology in college when I did not even have an idea of what to choose months ago, before this event. In the end, you never know what could really change your life, how will it do it, and when. I now look back and think of how my life had a turn of 180 degrees with that book, when, in the beginning, I did not like to read that much, like many other people.

The Field by Jacob Stephens

Autumn at Ferrum by Kenaz Moon

My Favorite Place

by Celeste Burnett

A beautiful, tall, one-floor brick house is my favorite place in the world. The red brick house is my great-grandma’s house. Her house seemed to have something special about it that set it apart from all the rest. It is just the little things that made Grandma’s house so special to me. Everytime I came over, my grandma would be sitting in her chair against the wall, welcoming everyone in. My grandma hugged and kissed everyone on the cheek when we walked in and before we left.

In my grandma’s house, my family and I have made lots of memories like cookouts, Easter egg hunts, family dinners, game nights, Halloween haunted houses and so much more. My grandma always made sure that the legacy she was creating stayed together. She made her family strong and close. My grandma hosted affairs all the time. She loved seeing her family together and having fun. She would always take care of everyone else before herself. She never complained. She taught me many things in that house, like to always treat people the way you want to be treated, “Don’t judge anyone, that’s God’s job,” to always help people, and much more.

Her cookouts at her house were huge; they contained family, neighbors, friends, and the less fortunate. She would cook, and people would bring food and games. Also, old school music would be blaring across the neighborhood (which I loved). Sometimes we would have a water fight (which was the favorite) and other games.

Every Easter Sunday, my whole family would go to my grandma’s house to have dinner and an Easter egg hunt in the huge backyard and front yard. Then we would all go inside and eat all the eggs and candy until some of us became sick. Also, we would just talk and have fun.

Unfortunately about seven years ago, my grandma was diagnosed with stage four cancer. She fought it and was cured, but she was diagnosed with it again. The doctors were saying she wasn’t going to make it, but she fought cancer for six and half years. But her fight ended on January 5, 2019 at 3:40 am. She passed away in her house peacefully with her daughters, my mom, and me.

Before she passed away, she asked the family and me to keep her traditions going. Her legacy will always continue through her family and others that she had touched through her life. Her house will always be my favorite family because of all the memories and her love and the lessons I’ve learned.

Are you with me ?

As they closed your casket

Are you with me ?

As people tell me to think about the “good times” Are you with me? While listening to your music Are you with me? As I get ready for graduation Are you with me?

How will I make you proud?

Will you see me walk across the stage? Will I feel you beside me ?

When I look around, I see that you are with me.

Where I’m From

(Inspired by George Ella Lyon) by Riley Church

I am from the backroad’s end Where the dirt roads succumb to the forest trees

I am from the mountains that reach up high And the roots that reach down low below

I come from bad days and sad days Luckily there were some happy days

I am from the sound of cicadas in the summer Calming and peaceful

I am from the sweet smell of a spring breeze Light and floral, full of life

I come from the winter snowstorms

Cold and harsh to many but some still love me

I am from an annoying little sister From stealing my things and late night talks That love-hate relationship

I am from a goofy big little brother From play fights and football games

I am from great grandparents From long visits with cussing and laughing Crying when I realize I don’t have long left with them I am from a strong mother From a terrible and traumatizing past

I am from the broken home pieced with others and broken again From screaming, crying, lies, and fights

This is what life was like I am from slamming doors and aggressive names From walking out and a hung head of shame

I am from a grandmother who compared From “diet” this and “like your sister” that Wishing I was seen for me and not as a mini her I am from a father who abandoned From the one who puts me last

I am from my past From what was written for me Now, I write my future

The Mountains Are Calling by Emily Arrington

Their Final Ride

Happy Place by Riley Church

Altare della Patria by Kacey Whorley

The Palentine by Emma Brubaker

Students on an Irish Rock Wall by Morgan Cofer

Morning in Galway by Laurynn Hackett

Chrysalis Fall 2022 Biographies

Judges

Suzanne Barron is a nurse practitioner who holds a Master of Science degree. She is a published author of young adult fantasy, including the trilogy Wings of Time. She is also a wholehearted reader of everything from novels to cereal boxes.

Ray East was a graphic artist, art director, and photographer for NBC for 36 years and won an Emmy for his work. He lives in Charlottesville and photographs professional tennis and Special Olympics events. His mission is affordable housing for all.

Marlene Groth is a retired teacher and reading specialist. Using watercolor, oil, acrylics, and pastel chalk, she enjoys representing the rural life of her farm and people celebrating life. A member of Bald Knob Artists, she has won ribbons in all categories.

Rachel Nicole Swyhart, ’18, is a Ferrum College graduate who has several novels and a book of poetry currently in publication. She enjoys creating things for people to share.

Staff

Celeste Burnett is a senior whose dream is to become a passionate teacher and inspire young minds.

Kristina Cossa from Apex, NC, is a senior with a major in Liberal Studies and minors in English and Theater. She has loved acting and theater since she was a little girl. She writes stories, mostly short but some novel-length.

Mary Grace Faulkner is a junior History major from Ferrum. Her minor is English, and other interests are Japanese, martial arts, and reading.

M. Katherine Grimes is a professor of English and advisor to Chrysalis. She is editor of Critical Insights: The Outsiders and coeditor of Critical Insights: The Harry Potter Series. CJ Hughes from Martinsville is an Education major. He also plays football.

Abigail McGovern is a senior from Round Hill majoring in English with a creative writing emphasis and minoring in History and French. She is editor-in-chief of Chrysalis, co-president of Help Save the Next Girl, and a member of the Iron Blade staff. She is also a PAL tutor and a member of the Boone Honors Program.

Kenaz Moon Is a Media and Mass Communication major with a minor in Psychology. He is from Gretna.

Other Contributors

Danny Adams from Vinton is Ferrum’s night-time library reference 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.

Lily Allen has taken professional pictures for a little over a year and now has a photography business. She loves taking pictures and uses it as an escape from reality.

Gabriel Alvarez from Maracaibo, Venezuela, is majoring in Psychology with a Music Minor. He is on the tennis team and has a love for sports and music. His goal is to get a Master’s Degree in Sport Psychology.

Emily Arrington from Franklin County is a junior Agricultural Sciences major (Animal Science emphasis) with minors in Agribusiness and One Health. She hopes to teach animal science at the college level. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program.

Jennifer Ayers-Bernard is a faculty member in the music department. She also performs with her musical duo, HeartStrings, and in other music events. She began writing songs and poetry in elementary school and continues that practice when she has time.

Aubrey Billings from Roanoke is a member of the Boone Honors Program and the women’s soccer team. Her major is Health and Human Performance.

Emma Brubaker is a senior Chemistry and Ecotourism major with a French minor.

She is a member of the Boone Honors Program.

Nancy Brubaker is a veterinarian and associate professor of Animal Science, as well as program coordinator of the One Health minor.

David “Chopper” Campbell teaches English and Journalism. He is the author of the novel Beandawg Mountain and a member of the band Kerosene Willy.

Riley Church is Liberal Studies Major in her final year at Ferrum. She has minors in English, History, and Teacher Education and hopes to become a teacher.

Madison Cline from Christianburg is a junior majoring in Horticulture. She enjoys playing the piano, reading, writing, and gardening. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program.

Sarah Crawford is an Elementary Education major pursuing a Special Education endorsement. She is a member of the women’s soccer team and the Boone Honors Program. She loves watching musicals and Netflix series, and spending time with friends and family.

Caroline Eames is from Bassett. Her major is Pre-Professional Health Science.

Kayla Fedison from Roanoke is a member of the Boone Honors Program and the women’s soccer team.

Brian Fesperman is a freshman majoring in Psychology. He grew up in Manassas Park and enjoys writing.

Kayleigh Franklin from Franklin County is a Criminal Justice major with a minor in Forensic Investigation.

Ryan Gobble is an Agricultural Science major with an emphasis in Animal Science, a One Health minor, and an Educational Studies minor. He enjoys being with family and friends and spending time outdoors. He is a member of the Boone Honors Program.

Laurynn Hackett is president of the Ag Club and a member of the Chemistry Club, NSLS, and the Boone Honors Program. She enjoys reading, swimming, and playing with her pup.

Kiersten Jones from Roanoke is majoring in Music Business. She enjoys reading books, writing poetry, playing bass guitar, painting, singing, and researching true crime.

Caroline King is a senior majoring in Secondary Education: English Emphasis. She is currently teaching 7th grade English at Benjamin Franklin Middle School. She enjoys reading, writing, and photography.

Carol Love is the science department Laboratory Supervisor and also works on the Smith Mountain Lake Water Quality Project. She likes to paddle and hike.

Reagan Lawson from Claudville is majoring in Political Science, Social Work, and Psychology. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program.

Scout Lynch is an English major who aspires to be a published essayist, loves to write poetry, horror stories, and short stories; to create Dungeons and Dragons campaigns; and to share passion about a vegan lifestyle and liberation for all living creatures.

Laney Jo Patterson studies agriculture and has a farming business, Laney Jo’s Produce.

Marina Powell is a sophomore majoring in Music Business. She enjoys writing, art, and singing in the car. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program.

Gage Shelton is an Accounting major from Rocky Mount. He is a member of the Boone Honors Program.

Kiana Somerville is a junior majoring in Criminal Justice with an emphasis in Forensic Investigation.

Harley Steger from Mechanicsville is a senior majoring in Criminal Justice with an emphasis in forensic investigation. She enjoys photography, reading, board games, and spending time with family and friends. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program.

Jonathan Taylor is from Dinwiddie.

Kacey Whorley from Lynchburg is a Secondary Education major with an English emphasis and president of Ferrum’s branch of the English honor society Sigma Tau Delta.

Acknowledgements

The staff of Chrysalis wishes to thank the judges for sharing their time and expertise.

The staff also thanks Editor-in-Chief Abigail McGovern for all her good work on Chrysalis and congratulates her on her graduation!

Spring Flower by Kiana Somerville

Ferrum College Fall 2022