Chrysalis: Spring 2023

Chrysalis Literary and Arts Magazine

Chrysalis

Literary and Arts Magazine Staff

Marina Powell, Editor-in-Chief

Kristina Cossa, Assistant Editor

Riley Church

Kiersten Jones

Scout Lynch

Kenaz Moon

M.Katherine Grimes, Advisor

Judges

Ashley Balderson ‘15, Art

Brad Holley, Photography

Dan Smith, Prose

Raven Walker ‘17, Poetry

Ferrum College

Spring 2023

Am I Lucky Now? by Kiersten Jones

Cover Image: Night in Barcelona by Jess Bollinger

Structure of the Past

by Brianna Schenk First Place Art

Sunlight Through the Trees by Kristina Cossa

Sunny Side

by Scout Lynch First Place Prose

When I was 7 years old, my friend Elizabeth spent the night. We woke up early in the morning and decided to make eggs. Excitedly, we tiptoed around the small kitchen of my family’s Pikesville house. The stove was a flat top that, the year before, my father had burned his hand on when he ignored my mother’s advice not to touch the burner. He confidently told her, “This thing cools down almost immediately, Jackie! Don’t worry about it!” and pressed his hand down onto it before shrieking in pain. He had to keep his hand wrapped for a couple of weeks because that’s what happens when you don’t listen to your wife. You end up with a medium rare slab of meat attached to your wrist. After setting up, we cracked an egg into the pan and waited for it to cook. The egg white just stayed clear and slowly drooped and spread around the pan while the yolk meekly floated around in it. We decided the egg was a dud that couldn’t be cooked and dumped it out into the garbage. In high hopes, we cracked open another egg into the pan. Surely it would work this time. It didn’t, and we were absolutely baffled. Elizabeth and I went through half of the carton before realizing the eggs were not duds--we had just forgotten to turn the stove on. What a couple of little dinguses.

When I grew into my late teen and early adult years, I had a slew of failed romances. I figured I was a dud egg, not cooking or even sizzling properly, just slowly drooping around, until I deemed myself a failure and gave up. I cracked myself open so many times, with a dumb hopefulness that I can only blame on b-role romantic comedies and Disney movies. Why did that princess turn into such a crispy omelet when she met that man that was so perfect for her, while I was stuck cold and slimy on a cast iron that still had last week’s congealed bacon grease in it? It took me a very long time to finally realize: the stove just wasn’t on. It wasn’t my fault that I wasn’t bubbling into a sunny-side up masterpiece; the pan was cold. Cold pans don’t encourage you or make you feel special; they just stay cold. They stay cold and don’t let you know why. I thought I was such a flop, convinced it was my fault. How could an adult egg who cries at every Pixar movie they watch ever be worthy of being cooked? Eggs who have meltdowns in the middle of grocery stores because they heard too many sounds at once stay in a goopy pile on the stovetop of two forgetful 7-year olds.

Once I had my cold-pan epiphany, I started to love myself a lot more, protecting my flimsy shell and slapping away the grubby meathooks of any man who thought he could crack me open. Never again will I mistake an egg for a failure just because it’s not cooking up right, not because of any newfound wisdom, but because I don’t eat eggs anymore --I’m vegan.

Why I Cannot Get Out Of Bed

by Marina Powell

First Place Poetry

Sunshine climbs into my eyes Can’t ever reach into my mind I like it here all sad and warm The minor keys just feel like home

Call my friends and say I’m sick

You can’t explain a thing like this Better days left me alone The devils care but angels don’t

They only ever like me fake Charisma stapled to my face And when they laugh I cannot hear Too many people all too near

Every time that I succeed It’s just another death for me I can’t pretend they’ll try to stay I never loved me anyway

I don’t know why I’m built like this I can’t resist I can’t commit Hide and seek with normalcy Look at me--don’t look at me

And at last my heart I wrote All these truths I finally spoke But all of them have heard and read Still can’t recall a thing I said

And this is why Here in the end I just cannot Get out of Bed.

Morning Dew by Brianna Schenk

Ruins of Ostia

by Harley Steger

First Place Photography

The White Room

by Jazmin Scarberry Second Place Prose

Nature has placed mankind under the governance of two sovereign masters, pain and pleasure. Life does not care where people came from or who their parents were. It deals them a random hand of cards and that is what they get. Apparently, life had little sympathy for me and dealt me a shitty hand. I had a different sense about myself when I was younger, probably much more logical. No one thought that I would end up here, in a place like this, or maybe they did and failed to warn me. The room around me lacks color, almost justifying the empty feeling that hit me as soon as I stepped foot in there. I hear random screams throughout all hours of the day, all various tones coming from a voice to terrorize its company. I know women tend to be a bit on the crazy side, or at least the ones in my family are, but being here and seeing the insanity is something I never imagined.

I sit in a circle surrounded by people who are “just like me” according to my piece-of-shit husband. He never understood my mind or how it could become such a dark place in very little time. I hear my thoughts; they speak to me as clear as day. They never mutter or stutter. My thoughts tell me as it is and point me where to go. But this is not the case for most people, whose minds failed to reach their fullest potential. The minds of the people around me are various sorts of strange, much less advanced than my own. The woman directly to my right cut her hair down to one of the choppiest hairdos I have ever seen. I know that she cut her own hair because she was one of the first people I encountered here. While the nurses were checking me in and telling me no one was coming after me, she had somehow gotten a hold of scissors, chopped up her hair, and was running down the hall in my general direction. I did not even need the voices in my head to know what to do at that moment; I reared back my arm, punched a nurse in the nose with my fist, and took off running in the opposite direction.

The nurses were bewildered, standing there as though frozen in time. I used their fright as my attempt to get out of this hell hole; however, I failed miserably by turning the next corner in the long bright hall and smacking into a guard who was at least two times the size of my own body. The guard grabbed me by the back of my newly assigned residential robes and guided me to what I came to know as solitary. I sat in that freezing cold white room for the next 18 hours.

When my time in the white room was up, a nurse came to me with a cup of pills and clean clothes and then asked me questions about my childhood. This was by far one of the fishiest nurses at this place. She must be in on something much bigger than her coworkers. Every day she brings me pills and asks me about my day or who I would like to hurt. Many people here, nurses and residents, claim the small colorful pills are beneficial. They say the medicines are intended to calm my mind and ease the neverending stream of thoughts running through my head. But I know they are wrong about the purpose of these tiny beans; instead, their intentions are foul. The ones feeding them to me are searching for what makes my brain so different, so much better. The voices in my head keep me on my toes, making sure I do not share too much.

In the circle of familiar strangers, a nurse guides the conversation toward regrets. Regret is an emotion I do not empathize with. I do what my thoughts tell me; the voices in my head fill my desires, drowning any whispers of regret that try to slip through the gaps between the voices. Learning to disregard the cares of others has gotten me this far in life, so why should I worry now? I never share my deepest, darkest desires, unless told to act on them. I hear the room go quiet. Everyone is looking at me with questioning eyes. Do something, the voices tell me.

Tiger Lilies by Joshua Tyler Golden

Second Place Art

stress the little things

by Scout Lynch Second Place Poetry

I stress the little things. Shards of glass spreading across the floor or an ever growing puddle of red wine on the couch make me feel as though the world is going to end.

If plans change, so do I, but not for the better. It takes a half an hour of reassurance for me to understand that life will carry on and that in a week, this won’t even matter. The other day when my partner and I went to the Asian market, he watched me squeal with excitement over the thai basil that I found when I slid open the glass door to the produce refrigerator. “God, I wish I could feel the happiness that you do,” he said, admiring my joy.

This isn’t the first time he’s said this. He’s not the first person I’ve heard this from.

The delight I gain from the most mundane things fuels me through the roughest of days.

I have always stressed the little things but, God, do I howl at the moon for the little things too.

The passion I hold in this life is unmatched to any other.

My mother says I am a lot.

My coworker says I have big reactions. My partner says I am everything.

My cat runs away because he gets overwhelmed.

I stress the little things.

I’m just a little thing.

I feel things bigger than you.

Fall Is Always on My Mind

by Kiersten Jones Second Place Photography

Mason Hamer

Talking to Death

by Kristina Cossa

“Can I ask you something?” Ashyla asked. This was probably her worst idea ever, but Ashyla didn’t care; she had already walked right up to Death, who was sitting in a chair with his black robe and skeleton-like features. His demeanor changed, and he gripped tightly onto his scythe. Ashyla gulped but asked her question.

“What do you remember?” Silence followed after that, dead silence, ironically, as Death was shocked.

His red eyes faded away, leaving a look more human-like, and Ashyla asked her question again. “You should never ask me that,” he said. “I’m old, Ashyla, very old, so my memories are endless.”

“You know me?” she asked, blinking, but quickly laughed to hide her surprise. “Right, you know everything. You’re Death,” she continued. “Well, how old are you?” she asked.

“As old as the universe. Most likely older, for in order for there to be light there must be shadow,” he answered. Ashyla watched him slick his ‘hair’ back, despite not having any hair on his head, and she tilted her head. “You asked what I remembered for a reason. You are in grief?” Ashyla sank deeper into her skin. His tone was so cold it was like being stuck in a freezer. She was here because of grief, mostly, but there was another reason she had sought out Death.

“My grandfather lived a long life, but I’m not here to ask for him back. I know I can’t do that,” Ashyla responded. “I’ve seen how that can have consequences, so I came to ask you what you remembered.”

“Why?” Death asked.

“I’m interested in learning about the oldest horseman and what he knows,” Ashyla responded.

“Maybe I want some of that knowledge for myself,” Death’s red eyes returned, but Ashyla didn't flinch. She decided to spill her own little secret. Her eyes flashed a bright blue, and Death recognized her as a fallen angel.

“You shouldn't have come back, Azrael,” Death responded. She smiled and gently stroked the scythe Death had nearby before whispering in his ear.

“I get bored, brother.”

Translation:

TiMe

by Candela Pérez Castellanos

Words are easy to say that without deepening there is no way to feel. At the time it is not necessary to demand It is the one that I can hold on to. It is now when I can write, the present cannot rot. Past is unsecured memory, oblivious to knowing if it is my true pillar. Future can be imagined, an omelet without curdling. The present is and will be my place, my most honest altar. Full response cannot be established, my call said that time is pleasure. Fast or slow it can happen, Inability to understand your workshop. Is future death to darken?

Maybe I don’t know how long it will be to be born. Unable to understand your measure

Is death the end of life?

I can’t imagine my departure

Am I a deceased soul?

I can assure my experience happened, at present my soul is stretched out.

El Tiempo by Candela Pérez Castellanos

Hands by Riley Church

Hands

How they can feel

The sweet touch of a mother

Or the calloused caress of a father

The hold of a child

The suppression of one over a mouth

The marks they leave Finger painting by day

Bruising on thighs by night

The duality of hands

Hands

One With Nature

by Kenaz Moon

double exposed, overly happy by Scout Lynch

Calle de Alcalá con Vistas a El Retiro

by Candela Pérez Castellanos

I remember when…

For my grandparents

by Kristina Cossa

As I stand here today, I remember many things, and the impact you had on my life, despite not knowing what happened in the beginning. I remember being little and you spoiling gifts with me whenever you would visit.

I remember when you took me out for ice cream and didn’t tell my parents. I remember being excited to come see you at the lake and how sad I always was to leave.

I remember when you would make me smile when I felt sad.

I remember when you got excited that I got into music and how you always begged me to play.

I remember going to sleep and hearing “see you in the morning when the sun is shining."

And I remember waking up to smell your famous cinnamon rolls.

I remember always begging you to tell a story with me, even though we told so many that I can’t remember them all.

I remember sitting on your lap and calling you when I finally got a cellphone. I remember when I would ask you questions about strange things and you would always know what to say.

I remember how you would always say don’t forget whenever we talked on the phone.

I remember when you would tell me to have ‘sisu’ whenever I got discouraged. I remember asking for advice during my teen years about friends and how you disliked some of my teachers.

I remember how you supported me whenever I was performing or telling you about my dreams.

I remember how you would play jokes on me from a young age and I would always laugh.

I remember getting your letters and stories and wishing I could write like that. I remember becoming an adult and you saying how proud you are of me. I remember how you seemed ageless no matter how much time passed.

I remember how April 6th and January 6th suddenly became days where I was told you were gone.

I remember our goodbye and how you comforted me when I realized you were going to leave.

But most importantly I remember the most important thing. I remember that you loved me so much. I remember that you touched so many people with just the simplest of words, and I strive from this day forward to keep your memory alive by living my dream.

Walk Across the Bridge

by Kristina Cossa

Kindergarten Friends

by Riley Church

We went from strangers to best friends

From a world unknown to it resting in our hands

Endless possibilities with no destination Growing together in this unforgiving world

Not staying together but never straying far

The distance between got bigger Our ages got older

Such different directions for both of us Just wanting to get back to being Kindergarten friends

by Candela Pérez Castellanos

Music about You

Length of Many Colors by

Brianna Schenk

The Power of Sight

by Lily Allen

Shhh! Bootsey Is Sleepy

by Lana Whited

Buddy Talks to Mamacita, Who Is Deaf

by Lana Whited

by

by Riley Church

Boston Sunshine

Lindsey Foster

Peekaboo

Screaming Simba by Jazmin Scarberry

Old Age by Riley Church

Innocent Wonder by Riley Church

Tiny Tiger Pt 1 by Jazmin Scarberry

Tiny Tiger Pt. 2 by Jazmin Scarberry

Kittens of My Heart by Lana Whited

The Savoy Hotel

by Kristina Cossa

My long dark hair was a mess, and the brush kept getting stuck. This was what I got for staying up all night reading books in my best friend's library.

"Clara!" a voice called out. I turned slowly to see my younger friend Alex. Her long brown hair was sleek and shiny, unlike mine, which was full of knots. Her family had taken me in two years ago when my parents died in a fire. I was a college senior at the time, and since I didn't have anywhere to go, they took me in. The two of us had known each other forever.

She took me back to her house without a second thought, where her grandfather and her creepy butler lived. I always made jokes that she was rich, but she always dismissed that and told me the house was just in her family. "What's the hold-up?" she asked.

"I was reading Sherlock Holmes again," I answered.

"Girl, you really shouldn't spend all your time in the library. It's not healthy," she told me, "Are you okay?"

"You know, I wonder what's for breakfast. I hope it's pancakes," I changed the topic immediately. She looked at me with concern and decided to help me with my hair.

"Here, let me help," she said taking the brush and running it through my hair. It was painful when the brush got stuck in the knots, and for a second I was a little child again complaining about it. Alex didn't lecture me though. She just kept going on about we should spend time together. I adored my best friend, but I could tell she was just trying to get me out of the house so I wouldn't end up becoming a recluse.

"Girl, I'm really okay. It's just an escape for me," I explained.

"Yeah, and I'm not John Watson," she answered, finally finishing with my hair. "Finish up your look quick, Holmes, or you are going to be late for class." I laughed at her fake accent and promised to meet her downstairs.

After dressing in gray jeans, a black top, a chain necklace, and my black shoes, I went downstairs to meet up with Alex and her family. What followed was a day of classes and professors I either tuned out or enjoyed. It ended with a surprise celebration for me at my favorite restaurant. My birthday was coming up and Alex had arranged everything. She insisted on getting me a present. But while we were eating dinner, she took a sip of her water and suddenly froze.

"Alex, what's wrong?" another friend of ours, Marina, asked. Alex didn't answer, and she began coughing, I called out to her, and she fell out of her seat, hardly breathing.

"She needs help! Call 911!" I exclaimed, trying my best to help her. She had been poisoned. I recognized the signs from all my reading. I looked at the cup she had been drinking, but it looked like normal water. How could this have happened? None one had touched her food and no one else had gotten poisoned. It was all I could think sitting beside her crying for her to be okay. But eventually her throat went numb, her muscles froze, and she was dead. I wept hysterically at her death and promised that I

was going to find whoever poisoned her. First my family, and now my best friend. Someone was after me, and now they'd officially declared war.

The police were unable to find anything physically wrong with Alex when they did a medical scan on her. I crossed my arms and thought about how stupid the police officers were for thinking she had killed herself.

"The food showed no signs of being tampered with and the water was clean," the inspector said. Inspector Christopher had graying black hair, always dressed like a high schooler from the sixties, and had deep blue eyes. The old man was in his late sixties, and there was no person I hated more than him--other than the murderer. I needed to track them down.

"She didn't kill herself," I said, suddenly feeling quite brave. In almost two years I had hardly spoken to anyone besides Alex, but now all I wanted was to find whoever did this.

"You have something to say, Clara?" he asked. His partner Edward, a close friend of mine, shook his head, trying to stop me from saying anything. But despite my fondness for that dirty blonde hair and those green eyes, I spoke up anyway.

"I know what I saw!" I exclaimed, catching both men off guard. "She was murdered, just like my family was killed."

Calle de Alcalá

by Candela Pérez Castellanos

Tranquility

by Lily Allen

Ever So Slightly

by Kiersten Jones

I am slightly uneven But I am not rough I am slightly unstable But I sure am tough I am slightly untethered But I am not free I am slightly unraveled Yet I am still me

The Sky in the Shore by Marina Powell

Serenity by Riley Church

Don’t Preach to Me That College Is Only about Getting a Job

by John Kitterman

More life is buried. A lot more. Four billion years below and three score and ten above. Even the unconscious a drain connecting to immortal remains like this spirit cat on the couch dreaming of the first encounter when something like me rescued her from a starving henhouse. Thomas Jefferson pulling Sally Hemings aside in the garden after his wife died. Who dat in the dark? George Harrison dying at 58 with hundreds of millions of past lives pushing through the snake of his sitar. Books are open graves and paintings also portals between what was and will be. Not a paycheck but a Get-out-of-HellFree card. Take it from me: I’ve never had a job. Every minute just thrown here and barely awake. And any second now a green comet, coma of ice and dust, herald of chaos and yawning nothingness, will lash its gaseous tail and crash my bedroom window with the Stone Age

The News by Marina Powell

The Beautiful City of Bath by Jess Bollinger

Blue by Candela Pérez Castellanos

You Are Grace

by Jazmin Scarberry

Old Ferrum to Six Mile by Mason Hamer

Room 33

by Kristina Cossa

The note said to go to room 33, but I was hesitant to knock.

First of all, it was on the 13th floor, which made my heart quicken and sweat drip down my face. No other hotel I had been to had a 13th floor, as that number was unlucky. As a superstitious person, I kept checking for any signs of bad luck. The door didn’t have anything unusual about it other than its smell of spoiled milk and old wood.

“What happened in there?” I asked, covering my nose. The only response was what sounded like breathing, and I figured someone was inside. So gulping deeply, I knocked on the door. There were rumors that the room was cursed as the first person who got this room ended up going insane and was never seen again. Ever since then, whoever was unfortunate to get the room or stupid enough to check it out, was never the same again. I cursed under my breath for allowing my older brothers to talk me into this. They were always big on daring me to do things. I could have told them to shove it like I always did, but it was Halloween, and that time of year wasn’t easy for us. Two years ago on Halloween we lost our parents in a car accident. No one came to the door, so I knocked again, louder this time, and a bad taste was left in my mouth when I heard heavy footsteps coming to the door. My heart pounded in my ears. My grip on my bag tightened in case I needed to use it against whoever answered. The door creaked as it opened slowly and the smell of spoiled milk hit me again. Icy cold fingers grabbed me as I tried to run, and I screamed. This was it; I was going to lose my mind and disappear just like anyone else who came to this room. My screaming died down when I heard the familiar sound of laughter, and the male figure put me down. I leapt to tackle him, knowing it was my older brother.

“August, you jerk!” I exclaimed. He laughed and pushed me off him. While I had the urge to slap him and hate him forever for scaring me like this, it was fun experiencing a good scare after crying all day.

“Sorry, sis, but we couldn’t resist,” he responded, and I could see his twin in the room recording everything. “Alex and I know how much you like surprises.”

“I hate you both so much,” I said, crossing my arms, though I didn’t mean it. They were just messing with me, as all big brothers do. I sat next to Alex, and using sign language, I told him he got me good.

“By the way, Lilly, Happy Birthday!” August responded. Hearing that, I smiled for the first time that night.

Mi Familia en Coche by Candela Pérez Castellanos

“Who Is This Man” or “What Am I Doing Here”?

by Candela Pérez Castellanos

Suddenly, icy fingers grabbed my arm as I inched through the darkness that gave me goosebumps and made my heart beat faster. I did not want somebody to stop me because I needed to complete my mission. The hand moved fast and abruptly right before I ran away without turning my head around. The deep voice and the size of that hand made me think it was a man, but I had no clue what that person could be. CIA agent? Private agent? An old teammate? I was on a mission with no team, so I did not think it was someone who loved me, but rather the opposite. I kept moving: my jaw was making pressure; my arms’ moving coordinated with my legs; my breath was coming out from my mouth. The leaves in that forest, the wooden sticks, and all the different types of bugs were crashing my body and scratching my face. After 10 minutes, my legs were hurting and feeling weak. That is why my body stopped moving and hid in a little cave made by mud, leaves, plants, and trunks. The forest was darker in that place, and there was no evidence of human activity, at least in the past 5 days. The only sounds that could be noticed were the woods cracking due to the wind, leaves falling, and an owl being very loud. Suddenly, my body paralyzed; I no longer breathed; and my hands were covering my opened mouth. A black car parked two meters away, and a strong white man came out of it, or that is what the darkness let me perceive. His behavior was weird because there was no weapon in his hand to defend himself, and he did not bring bulletproof vest, either. But his body moving from one side to the other implied that he was looking for something. My muscles relaxed because the people who wanted to catch me wouldn’t look helpless. In that moment, when my hands did not form fists from the pressure and I did not have my teeth digging into my lips, my name came out of his mouth. How in the world could that person know my name? My forehead started to get wet and my hands were shaking. I moved my body backwards so that he did not realize I was there. But that move was actually worse: I heard steps coming in my direction and my name sounding all over the place, over and over. I did not hesitate to escape. I did not understand what that man was doing, but he was obviously going to destroy the plan I had.

My head dodged the top of the cave, and my hips moved fast. I did not know why, but that man over there looked concerned about me, and it was funny that I had no idea who he was. His eyes and mine made eye contact, and when my body started to moved my foot got stuck in a

rock. My left hand was bleeding, and I could barely feel my legs. Silence. Movement. A man . . .That man! My head felt a soft hand touching me, cautiously and lovingly. I tried to get my body to move. My mind was fighting so hard, but my system did not let me escape. I realized I was in a car. All my body was rebounding due to the rocks in the road. I was fighting so hard in my head to get out of there, but it was not working. The voice of that man echoed in my ears, so I focused on listening to him. He said, “You are home now, Maddie. I know you do not remember me. I am your husband, Jackson.” One of my eyebrows rose, and my eyes were wide open. Words kept coming out of his mouth, and none of them made sense. “You probably will not believe me, but you are Maddie, a smart, special, and intelligent girl who was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I love you.”

A Castle in Wales by Jess Bollinger

Dinner anD a Show

by Jazmin Scarberry

I picked up the binoculars and searched across the bridge. They were late. Thirty-minute delivery, my ass. It was 6:48 pm, and I had called Tommy’s Pizza over an hour ago. The binoculars remind me of a woman I used to see. She told me buying binoculars was a terrible waste of money for someone who never left the city. Personally, I think differently. The number of hours I’ve spent on my terrace looking into the windows of neighboring buildings is beginning to add up, but I am not complaining. How careless people are to leave their windows so widely open. Or perhaps their actions in front of the window are careless. There is no doubt in my mind that a part of their subconscious wants to be watched; it makes them feel important knowing someone out there sees them. The doorbell buzzes, interrupting my thoughts. I let the delivery man into the building and search for my wallet. Surely I have enough cash; I hate paying the fee for using my card; either way, it’s my money they’re getting. I have 18 dollars cash--sounds good enough. The delivery guy knocks on my door, and I quickly put on a shirt and go get my late pizza. When I open the door, my newspaper is still lying in front of the door from this morning and the delivery man is standing about two feet behind it. I pay him 15 dollars for the pizza and three for the tip, then grab my paper and head inside. The smell of pepperoni and cheese fills my nostrils. I grab an IPA from the fridge and head back to the terrace for dinner and a show.

Something I have always loved about the city is the lights. It is true what they say about New York; it is the city that never sleeps. It never really seems to be night unless I am lying in bed with my eyes closed. Even then I can hear occasional honks or music from neighbors. I sit down in a lawn chair I found behind the building when I was taking out my trash. It was a nice find. I eat my dinner in between lifting the IPA to my mouth and the binoculars to my eyes. I can see through dozens of windows at this time of evening. Everyone is home from their chaotic lives filled with affairs, unemployment, and drug use. I find myself looking into a window above a Chinese restaurant across the street. There is a man standing in front of a woman who is waving her hands in an angry manner. Women are such dramatic creatures. I feel sympathy for the man who probably came home to a moody girl. Her behavior seems childish to me. In the past, women have often shaken their hands at me like this. I am no stranger to an irrational woman.

by Candela Pérez Castellanos

Calle de Serrano

Momma

by Riley Church

From early mornings

To late nights

From sick stuffy noses

To sibling fights

You were always there

From scraped knees

To broken bones

From good days

To bad days

You were always there

From day care

To senior year

From the day we were born

To the day we say goodbye

You have been there

Blessed Karri by Brianna Schenk

Am I?

by Kiersten Jones

My head

Can I think?

Is it pounding?

Am I awake?

My heart

Can it feel?

Is it beating?

Am I real?

My lips

Can they speak?

Are they quivering?

Do I look weak?

My hands

Can they touch?

Are they trembling?

Am I too much?

My stare

Is it cold?

Am I just stupid?

Or am I bold?

February Sunset by Nancy Brubaker

COVID

by Madison Stephens

My head and body hurt A big square buzzing while my eyes are closed Everything is sore I feel like i cannot breathe Like something is squeezing me Until i die - but i don’t

Everything from my bed is all i need I’m there all-day

Feels like my depression but it’s not I can move, i want to Standing up makes me dizzy and Eating makes me sick.

No Shame in Being Pansexual

by Kristina Cossa

Free Roam by Brianna Schenk

Crimson Fall by Gabriel Álvarez

Plaza de Canalejas

by Candela Pérez Castellanos

The Universe Is Alive

by Kiersten Jones

Navigate

by Marina Powell

It feels better to look up at the stars when you cry, for they all blur together into a great catastrophe called art. They, too, want to be remembered sometimes. But I am not one of them, at least, I am not peaceful. I am the sun, rising for you, burning for you, and painting the sky with my great fall. Every day I make my path, with smoke in my wake and pain in my eyes. And yet the poets still write of the moon. So the stars will give comfort, then. They will sing their eternal song of child, child, sit a while. You do too much. And men will go on their damaged way, and they too will sing their song as they go: little girl, you are never enough. And perhaps this is why, age upon age, we long to follow the path of the stars.

Skyline by Kenaz Moon

mother

by Scout Lynch

a mother, exhausted from the child she just bore. she wails in her cell, writhing on the dirt floor tears stream down her face, they ripped her baby out of her and took it away. it’s theirs now, for their collection. what will become of it, she’s never found one. her breast milk flows out as heavily as her tears. another collection to be added to, the bucket is here. the tears on her face have not even dried when they impregnate her with another child, doomed to die and not yet born. this mother has too much to mourn. forced to live a life of creating life that expires, she prays for the day they slit her throat and roast her over the fire. this cycle continues, bringing pain to these givers of life, and we turn a blind eye so we can eat cheese and drink milk by the pint

War Horse by Lily Allen

Outrun the Durbin Rocket by Mason Hamer

I by Kenaz Moon

Daddy’s Eyes

by Harley Steger Rage

That is all I feel from you

The disgust crawls across your skin

As my image comes into view

My eyes are your prey

The eyes of a father who loved you

Until something changed, now worthless

You scream begging me to change

Yet still, I remain

Eyes that once ran like rivers of honey

And rivaled the gleam of topaz

Turned to mud and ruin

The weight of my eyes brings you to your knees

Years of lies, of hatred, of indifference

Pour out upon your face

Daddy’s eyes

Once a source of pride

Now only serve as the fuel of your ferocity

One day you will understand

That eyes may be windows to the soul

And we may be his daughter

But we are not our father

Trials of a Witch

by Riley Church

I awoke suddenly to the sounds of screaming outside. I leapt from my bed and made my way over to my window only to see a mob of people surrounding my neighbor’s home. I made my way towards the door quickly, throwing on my coat in the process. I swung the door open and made my way out of my front yard. Just ahead of me I could see my friend Elizabeth.“Elizabeth!” I shouted, “Elizabeth!”

Elizabeth turned to see me and made her way over to me. “My dear Ann,” she said, “You gave me a fright. I thought something was the matter.”

“Something is the matter,” I replied, “What is going on here?” I flung my hand up, gesturing to the large crowd beginning to surround my neighbor’s home.

“Did you not hear?” she whispered, “Sarah and Dorcus have been accused of witchcraft.”

I froze with my eyes widened. How could this have happened? “Who in their right mind would accuse them of such a thing?” I asked.

“Apparently Abigail Williams and Betty Parris claim they were bewitched by Samuel Parris’s slave woman, Tituba,” Elizabeth said in a hushed tone. “They got a confession out of her not too long ago, but she said there are other women in the village who have been conspiring with the devil and practicing witchcraft.”

The reverend looked them both up and down as if he were God himself judging them before sending them to their fate.

At that moment, a loud bang came from next door as the reverend yelled,“Sarah, answer this door this instant!” The door opened quickly, and a terrified Sarah and her young daughter Dorcas stood in the doorway.

“What is the meaning of all this?” she asked. “It is well past sunset and you lot are causing such a commotion out here that my poor Dorcus cannot sleep. Please, what is your business here at this hour?’’ your daughter have been accused of the worst crime,” he said, “You are both to be arrested and held in a cell until your fate is decided by a jury.”

“And what crime have we committed?” she shrieked. “Surely it is a misuderstanding.’’

“Witchcraft is the crime,” the reverend bellowed, as he made a grab for the child cowering behind her mother, “You have both been accused of bewitching children in the village and conspiring with the devil himself. ’’ Suddenly, two men grabbed Sarah and her daughter by their arms and dragged them out of their home. The only thing I heard over the crowd talking was Dorcus screaming in fear for her mother. I turned back to Elizabeth and said, “How could this have come about? What made those two girls accuse Tituba of witchcraft?”

“Well,” Elizabeth started, “a few days ago the two girls came home and felt ill. They were quite irritable, and were throwing such fits that something had to have been wrong with them.” She paused, looking around worriedly. The crowd has dissipated and followed the reverend towards the village cells where the two girls would surely be held. She

leaned in closer to me and said, “ The two girls had been hidden from the rest of us for a few days; I heard they had been locked in the attic of the Parris’s home. The doctor went there early yesterday morning and diagnosed them as being bewitched. The girls came right out and said Tituba’s name, instantly accusing her.” As if reading my mind, she continued answering the many questions I had. “Tituba confessed not long ago, but she told them she was not the only witch hiding among us. A group of the men had been watching over people all day to look for suspicious activity. According to someone, they saw Sarah and her daughter in the woods, alone, doing odd activities. People are saying they were performing a sacrifice or at least preparing for one.” I glanced back towards where they had taken the two girls. “These accusations are dangerous,” I said to myself, “If you will excuse me, I’ll be heading back inside. You should do so too, Elizabeth.” Turning to her, I waved goodbye and made my way to my bedroom, where I lay in silence until the sleep overtook my body.

I was awakened by the sound of roosters crowing outside my window. I got out of my bed and began to make a small meal for myself. While cooking, I couldn’t stop thinking about Sarah and Dorcus. “How could this have happened?” I asked myself, “They are such sweet girls. I don’t think I have even seen them harm a chicken, let alone other people.” As I finished making my food, my mind wandered. What would become of the two? Will there be a trial for them? If they are truly guilty then what will happen? Just as I was about to eat I heard a knock on the door. “One moment,” I shouted, and made my way towards the door. Upon opening it, I saw Eliza standing before me with her golden hair tied back in a neat bun and her eyes seeming to hide a secret in them. “Hello, Eliza, to what do I owe this pleasure?” I asked. “Good morning, Ann, I was just wanting to come over and ask if you perhaps...” she paused and seemed to lose her thoughts altogether.

“Eliza,” I said as I snapped in front of her face and she appeared to regain her composure.

“Sorry,” she said “I wanted to know if you would like to go find berries in the woods today with me. I would hate to go alone, given the news.”

I could tell that she had something more to say so I said “Of course, just let me grab a few things and we shall be on our way.”

I went to gather a small basket and put on my shoes then followed Eliza out the door and into the woods beyond the outskirts of the village. The morning sun had risen and gave us the perfect amount of warmth and sunlight to make our journey. “Eliza,” I said, “Why have you asked me to accompany you on this walk? Wouldn’t you rather have the company of the village boys?” Eliza looked around, appearing to be listening for something before she spoke, “I’m worried about what happened with Sarah and Dorcus,” she said swiftly in a hushed tone. My eyes widened as I grabbed her hand and pulled her farther into the woods.

“Look here, Eliza,” I held her face in my hands, “You need to forget about that night. Nothing bad happened.”

“But what if someone saw something and they thought we were...” I slapped her across the face before she could utter another word.

“No,” I said, “No one saw us and no one knows anything about me, you, Sarah, or Dorcus. Those accusations were false and made by someone who knows as much as a newborn fawn.”

I kept walking ahead of her and said “Now, are we going to pick some berries, or not?” The sun had set and the sunset lit my living room ablaze with its orange color. I picked up my sewing that needed to be finished just as there was a loud pounding on my door. I placed it down on the chair and slowly made my way to the door. My heartbeat was pounding in my ears and I felt my face begin to heat up. I knew there was danger on the other side of the door, so I made my way to the back of my home to the other door instead. When I opened it, I was instantly grabbed by two sets of hands and thrown to the ground before a sack was placed over my head.

“Unhand me,” I screamed. “Let me go this instant. What is going on?” I kicked and attempted to fight off whoever was holding me. I felt something hard hit my head, then everything went black. When I came to, I was sitting on a chair, it seemed. There was still a bag over my head but I could sense people watching me as well as people sitting next to me.

“People of Salem,” I heard the reverend speak, “these women have been accused of the highest crime and the biggest disgrace to our father in heaven.” I struggled hard against my restraints before I felt the sack ripped off my head. As my eyes adjusted I could see the village people surrounding me. I looked to my left and right and saw my friends. Sarah and Dorcas, Bridgett and Mary--however the one person I expected to see, Eliza, was not there. Looking back to the crowd I saw her, in the back, hidden under a dark cloak. She lifted her hood and disappeared into the dark of the night. “Here we have five witches,” the reverend continued. “Each one has been accused of bewitching the children of Salem. For this crime, the punishment is death.” The crowd cheered. It was then that I noticed we all had ropes around our necks.

Frantically, I looked back and forth. All I could hear were the cheers of the crowd and the screams of the women next to me.

“Stop!” I screamed with the power of a hundred men. I looked at the women around me and nodded. They all looked at me, teary-eyed and scared, then back to the gathering of people in front of us. We spoke in unison.

“We curse thee.

We curse your soil to be infertile.

We curse your faith to be in question.”

We heard screams coming from frightened people but did not stop.

“We curse your cattle, your sheep, your crops in the name of the dark one.”

It was then that the reverend began to hang us one by one. As the others fell, I kept repeating to myself,

“In the name of the dark one, I curse thee and this town from now till forever.”

I felt my body drop.

I was struggling for air. My eyes were burning, and I felt my chest light up with flames. I could not help myself. Then my veins turned cold as ice, and the world turned to darkness.

Center of Attention by Kristina Cossa

The Other Side

by Marina Powell

Prison: The Trip of a Lifetime

by Jazmin Scarberry

I’ll never forget the time that I went to jail. Now to most people, jail brings to mind orange suits, soap, 60s days in, and shitty food; however, in my case, I think of art, rummy, and the feeling of freedom. Do not get me wrong, I had my low times, especially when I got caught with the knife in my pocket. It took a lot to talk the guards out of sending me to another block. You may be curious as to how I, a young, middle-class, white woman, could find myself locked in state prison. I consider it now luck of the draw, but you probably would not. It takes a lot of courage and will to come out the way I did. Some take a single glance at a person in my shoes and think “glad it wasn’t me” and “they did it to themselves.” But people like me, people who have looked into the eyes of the corrupt, with a middle finger up, have a different outlook on life. We see people for who they are and notice the small things. We catch when they forget to scan an item or two at the self-checkout line, when they irregularly return the obligations of friendship, and how people look for connections that benefit them without considering what will happen to others. But these things are irrelevant to the story I am telling you now, and you likely would not understand if I continued.

I will tell you now, I have not a single intention of implying or noting my reason for arrest. This is by no means a letter of confession. Instead, consider it a message from someone much different from yourself. I ask you to listen, if you can possibly keep your mind off of anything but yourself. About three months into my stay at what I will call “Sunshine State Prison,” I stood working a shift folding uniforms in the laundry room. It was one of the few places in the prison that smelled halfway decent, so I found myself fond of any period of time I got to spend there. I enjoyed the smell of detergent in my nose and the warmth of the dryers on my skin. Not only did it make my nostrils happy, but it also offered a certain perk. As I would load the orange jumpsuits into the rumbling machines, I would check every single pocket of my inmates. The head guards repeatedly informed me to turn over any paraphernalia I found when searching the suits. I still think to this day how foolish they behaved. Who in their right mind would turn over anything of value in a place like that? I uncovered quite a few things in the pockets of my inmates that helped me make my short-lived stay at prison worthwhile.

I see no harm in telling you the things I found in the pockets of the ignorant. How foolish one must be to leave anything of value unguarded

in a place filled with criminals. One of the most notable things I discovered working in the laundry room was a disposable vape. This may not make sense to you, but that is because you haven’t lived as a 22-yearold woman in the 21st century. The things people will do for you to let them take a fat rip of nicotine are endless, especially in prison. Another thing I found was sewn into the back of a shirt pocket of an older inmate woman. It was a small sheet covered with about 40 or so yellow smiling faces. I considered the hiding technique quite smart, although the woman was stupid for letting it go. To the right people, this product could pass anyone’s time happily. But I think my most favorite thing I stumbled across while working in the laundry room was the extra socks. My feet could not stay warm, so each chance I got, I would take socks from the other inmates.

When I left Sunshine State Prison, I ended up somewhere much better than I would have imagined. Somewhere that makes the time slow down, and I can breathe for what feels like the first time. My last day in the hole provided for a lot of last-minute plan execution. You can only do so much prior to breaking out since you are usually being watched. That day when I worked in the laundry room, I slowly jammed a few machines with plastic spoons to occupy the two guards. While they were attempting to fix the machines I dropped the laundry from my hands and made a quick slip through the door to the hall. The trash room was right outside the laundry room and it had the perfect escape route--the trash chute. I picked the lock quietly and made my way into the room, shutting the door behind me with only a click. I jammed a chair under the knob and opened the trash chute. I knew from good sources the landing at the bottom would provide a soft cushion when I fell. When I hit the bags below the chute, I felt some sort of thick, brown liquid splash around me. After that, leaving the prison was a breeze. I hid in the dumpsters until the loading trucks came and left in the back of a truck bed. I vividly remember the smell of old food and soiled sheets fuming around me as I waited for a truck to come. Eventually, I found myself at some sort of gas station and hopped off hours down the road. From there I took clothes from a donation bin in a parking lot and put as much distance as I could between myself and Sunshine State Prison.

Icicles by Marina Powell

Maker

by Marina Powell

Movement now, Time to hide, Bloody teeth

And blackened eyes.

Crawling crawling

Over ceiling

Twitching limbs, Listening, feeling. But look, a tapestry

Under sun

Making lace

Where there was none

Fragile art

That falls at touch

Never fear for work undone.

Dewdrops dewdrops

Shimmer shine

Unafraid

In spite of size

Still creating

Never pride

Weaves anew

The hope that died.

The Dream of a Serenity

by Hannah Dix

The Blood Tree

by Marina Powell

Every day you paint your nails, To hide my blood beneath them. And because I will not cry, You think it doesn’t hurt.

I’m far too proud to scream, So the wind does it for me. Maybe my hands only shake, Because they long to hit you. But then your blood would mix with mine, And no—we are not one.

Burn my thorns then look for blooms, Roses, bloodlines, ashes.

Words come out, but only lies, Roots aren’t enough for love.

I’m the clock in the graveyard, Time is my brother now. So I wait inside a hollow tree, For one of us to die.

Last First Date

by Harley Steger

aS tall aS i can be

by Scout Lynch

tell me that i’m trash and i’ll jump in the disposal, i’ll blend into a sludge when i really should have told you. i said i needed help and jon threw me through a wall, i think that my friend was right about him after all. i got poured into the fire and you called me a liar. i’ve been screaming out to you for years. put your headphones on, i’m ripping out my hair and she threatened me with violence when i said i wished you’d care. you watched my mother birth me, now you’re watching your wife hurt me. she shoved my head under the water so my tears would look unreal. crocodile crocodile, tar me in my shame. boys are boys, her daughter’s young, and i’m the one to blame. seven loves and she accuses mine for you is eros. it’s storge but you can’t see me writhing underneath your house. she screamed “I AM AGAPE,” and covered me in dirt, but god is love and i am god and i should never hurt. i am quartered, scattered, spread out, and planted by the pound. she tried to sew my mouth shut but i made sure that i was sown into the ground.

she killed me but these limbs and trees will block the sun and son and ghost and i, she’s left behind under my shade and blocked out from the sky

Sky Glance by Gabriel Álvarez

Mist Closing In by Danny Adams

Draco

by Harley Steger

Kaiya watched as the flame danced across her fingertips. She had been hiding in the king’s forest for well over a year now. After all forms of magic had been outlawed, she and other wielders of magic were forced out of their homes or faced with death. Kaiya had seen it firsthand as her neighbor Lillian was burned at the stake for healing a dying soldier with magic. A few hours later, she was arrested and executed. Kaiya fled that night.

The trees groaned in protest against the strong winds of Blainwick Valley. Kaiya pulled her cloak tighter and spoke to the fire “strahes” and the fire grew. “Nice trick,” a low voice spoke, and Kaiya whipped towards the sound, placing a hand on her dagger. “No need for that,” the man said softly, “I’m not here to hurt you.” When Kaiya made no attempt to lower her guard the man sighed. “Who are you?” Kaiya demanded. As her eyes settled to the darkness, she could now make out his features. Curly black hair, pale skin, and his eyes. His eyes were the warmest she’d seen in years. She found herself becoming entranced and shook her head to regain her focus. “Adil,” the man introduced himself, bowing slightly. Adil approached her and Kaiya watched as his face became distorted with pain and he slumped to the ground. Unsure why, she rushed to his side and began searching for wounds. Adil’s skin was cool to the touch, and he was now barely conscious. Unable to find any wounds, Kaiya took his face in her hands and shouted, “What is wrong?” For unknown reasons, she felt compelled to help this stranger before her. The man let out a shaky breath and smiled. “I am dying, Kaiya Rees.”

Kaiya stepped back--how did he know her name? The man stood up slowly and grimaced. “Mind if I sit?” Without waiting for a response, he sat on one of the tree stumps nearby. Kaiya opened her mouth, but before she could speak the man waved his hand. “How I know your name is not important. What is important is that you are the one to save magic and bring it back to Aetas.” Surely he knew no one could save magic. Thousands had revolted when Elrond made his proclamation. Everyone who had been involved was hunted and killed.

Kaiya swallowed the rising guilt in her throat. She was meant to be among those ranks before she ran away. Lillian was more than a neighbor; she was Kaiya’s best friend. As she was being burned, Lillian stared at Kaiya with tears and her eyes and demanded Kaiya to live. “It’s not possible,” Kaiya said, “Magic will die within the century and there is

nothing to be done.”

“Come, and I will show you,” Adil waved her over and Kaiya obeyed, cursing herself for doing so. As she came into reach, Adil moved with inhuman speed and grabbed Kaiya, placing a hand on her forehead. She struggled against him, but Adil was unfazed and his grip grew tighter. Fear erupted from Kaiya as Adil began whispering in her ear, “strahes libturi infinos draco.” Kaiya screamed as her body fell to the ground, every inch of her burned. He had set her ablaze. Her vision blurred as she grabbed her dagger, slicing through the air. She collapsed; Adil looking down on her with pity, his words echoing through her head: strahes libturi infinos draco. “Call for me Kaiya Rees, and I will come.” His face disappeared as Kaiya slipped into unconsciousness.

The world blinked into view as Kaiya awoke. She chuckled at herself. Just a bad dream with a crazy man. She stood up and stretched. Then she looked down and saw the man, Adil, dead at her feet. No. Not her feet. Her claws? Kaiya quickly searched her body. Scales, yellow scales, and wings? When had she grown wings? The realization hit her. This was no dream, draco, damn it all. Kaiya rushed to the nearby lake. Her body uncontrolled, she felled trees and watched as animals scurried beneath her. She dug her claws into the sand as she approached the water and looked at her reflection. She had been transformed into a dragon.

Dragon Head

by Harley Steger

Fear

by Catherine Coffee

Step On Inside

By David “Chopper” Campbell

G Dm C Cm

Does the pain still hurt

Or have you found your peace

Do the horsemen still ride

When you take your sleep

The sands are shifting Right through the glass

And you say that each breath sometimes Could be your last

CH:

You don’t have to hold on Feel free to fly

If you want to untether

Those chains that can bind You don’t have to hold on Feel free to fly

When the chariot swings low Step on Inside

You told me you love me And I love you too I would if I could

But I can’t see you through

I see your footsteps

Alone in the sand

You’re too far beyond me

I can’t take your hand

CH:

You don’t have to hold on Feel free to fly

If you want to untether

Those chains that can bind You don’t have to hold on Feel free to fly

When the chariot swings low Step on Inside

When fear has the grip

Locked on in a vise

Caught right between Those living and died

There’s a road that we travel Till we fly with the dove And somehow unravel The mysteries of love

CH:

You don’t have to hold on Feel free to fly

If you want to untether

Those chains that can bind You don’t have to hold on Feel free to fly

When the chariot swings low Step on Inside

Found

By Riley Church

The summer rain had just stopped falling, and Evangeline decided it was a great time to finish her gardening.

She climbed out of her bed, disturbing her cat Artemis and said in her thick Southern accent “sorry, Hun, but I’ve gotta get this done. If it starts pourin' again, it’ll ruin the stuff in the garden.”

She put out her incense, put on her gardening apron, and placed her phone in her pocket. Shemade her way through the kitchen and picked up her basket on her way out the back door to her vibrantgarden.

Her garden was full of fruits, vegetables, herbs, and blossoming flowers that she loved to tend to. Living so far away from town made it difficult for her to get groceries, so a few years ago she decided to live off the land as much as possible. She had a deep connection to nature and enjoyed spending many hours wandering about the woods and appreciating the beauty of the nature surrounding her home.

Evangeline made her way to the first section of her garden, green beans, and began to search the vines for the ripest ones to pick to later put in jars for storage.

“These beans seem to be doin' well this year” she said to herself, “I’ll have to take a few to the farmers market to try an sell 'em.”

Just as she finished her sentence, she was startled by a loud clanging of metal behind her. She jumped around to see Artemis licking her paw in a nonchalant way next to a fallen water can.

“Artemis!” she yelled, “you done scared the hell outta me, damn cat.” Evangeline turned back to her plants and continued tossing beans into the basket.

After picking the last of the ripe beans she moved on to her tall corn stalks. As she began reaching up for the first ear of corn, she saw a child running through her backyard. It was a little boy with brown hair, pale skin, and freckles who couldn’t have been more than six years old.

Evangeline stepped around her plants and approached the boy with caution saying “where did you come from, Honey?” She searched for any sign of a parent, but saw no one else.

The little boy looked at her scared and said in a small voice, “I need help. I'm lost. I don't know where to go.”

She looked at him with pity and said, “I'll help you, Darlin’. Let's get you inside and I’ll make some calls.” She took his hand and led him inside.

Evangeline brought the boy into the kitchen and offered him a seat at her small table in the corner of the room. She made her way over to the refrigerator, pulled out a pitcher of sweet tea, and filled two glasses with the sugary liquid. She placed one cup in front of the child and kept the other for herself as she sat down across from him at the table.

“So, what’s your name, Sweetie?” she asked. The little boy stayed quiet, looking around nervously.

“I'm Evangeline,” she said, giving him a warm smile.

The little boy looked at her with large brown eyes and said, “M-my name is Jacob.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Jacob. Do you know your address or a phone number for your parents?” she asked. The little boy shook his head.

Evangeline rose from her chair and said, “I’m gonna call someone to come and help us. Okay, Honey? You sit right there and I’ll be right back.”

She walked out onto her porch and dialed 9-1-1. The phone rang three times before a woman answered the phone and said “9-1-1 what is your emergency?”

“It’s not exactly an emergency,” she said, “but a little boy just came runnin through my backyard outta nowhere. He says he’s lost but I don’t even know how the poor thang got all the way out here.”

“Is the boy hurt?” the dispatcher asked.

“I reckon he’s all right,” she replied. “He’s a bit dirty and scared but other than that he looks fine.”

“Okay ma’am, I’m gonna send out an officer to pick up the child, and then we will try to get him home.

What is your address?” the lady asked.

Evangeline told the woman her address, hung up the phone, and walked back inside to wait with Jacob. When she went into her kitchen, however, he was not where she had left him.

“Jacob,” she yelled, “where’d ya go honey?” She walked into her living room and found him sitting on the floor watching a cartoon.

3-D Pokemon Card

by Mason Hamer

“I like this one,” he said. She looked at the TV and saw he was watching Tom and Jerry reruns. She sat down in her chair and watched with him while they waited for the officer to show up.

Evangeline could hear a car coming up her dirt driveway. She stood up and peered out of her window to see a police car pulling in. She looked at Jacob and said, “I’ll be right back. You stay there, I need to talk to the officer.” Jacob nodded his head looking nervous and she left to go outside.

Evangeline stepped down off her front porch and walked towards the car. A tall officer with a gray mustache exited the vehicle and waved to her. “Evenin’ officer,” she said.

“Afternoon, ma’am” he replied, “I was told a little boy came to you sayin he was lost; is that right?”

She nodded her head and proceeded to say “yes, his name is Jacob. He doesn’t seem to be hurt at all, just scared. Follow me; he’s inside.”

Evangeline led him into the house and into the living room where she had left the child. However, when they got there, he was gone.

“Jacob,” she yelled, “where did you go this time?” She walked down the hallway and checked every room and closet but couldn't find him. She made her way back to the living room and said to the officer “I left him right here, I have idea where he could of gotten to.”

It was then that she looked past the officer towards her screen door and saw Jacob standing in the garden. “There he is!” she shouted.

The two made their way out the door. “Jacob!” Evangeline yelled, “I told you to stay inside.” Just as she was about to step off her porch, the boy took off into the woods.

Evangeline took off after him with the officer trailing behind her yelling “ma’am wait.” She kept running after the boy trying to keep up, but he seemed to keep disappearing among the tall trees.

“Ma'am!” yelled from behind her, “who are we chasing after?” he asked.

Evangeline looked at him and said “Jacob. I saw him take off this way. He must have gotten scared.”

The officer looked at her curiously and said, “You saw him run in this direction?”

She nodded, saying frantically, “Yes I did, he’s the little boy with that brown hair an freckles, and he looked plumb filthy. You didn’ see him?”

“Maybe he just ran off before I could get a good look at him,” he said. “Let’s keep going and see if we can find him. I’ll call for backup.” The officer turned away and talked to dispatch through his walkie-talkie.

Evangeline turned around and looked for any sign of the little boy. In the distance, just beyond an old magnolia tree, she could see him standing and staring at her. Without thinking, she ran towards him,hoping to catch up with him. When she was about halfway to him, he stepped around the other side of the tree slowly as if he were in a trance. Evangeline was starting to get tired of all the running, and hoped that when she rounded the side of the tree he would be waiting with an explanation. As she grew closer, she slowed herself down to a walk so she didn’t scare him.

She could hear the officer in the distance yell, “Ma’am, could you

please stop running off. I called for backup, and they’ll be here soon.”

Evangeline turned and shushed the man before he scared the boy off again. “He’s on the other side of the tree,” she whispered. “I don’t want him to run again.” The officer nodded to her and let her continue.

“Jacob” she said quietly, “this officer is here to help you get home, Sweetie. All we want to do is help and make sure you’re safe.” Evangeline slowly made her way to the side of the tree and began to smell something other than the magnolia blossoms in the tree branches above her.

As she rounded the side of the tree’s large trunk, she expected to see the boy curled up and cowering. However, when she looked at the ground where he should be, she saw the body of a small boy lying there. She screamed.

The officer pushed past her and looked down in shock. Evangeline was confused. The boy on the ground looked like Jacob. He had the same brown hair and freckles on his face, even the same clothes, but this boy was white and the flowers above her head and his cheeks were sunken in. His eyes were open, unseeing. The officer bent down to the body and felt for a pulse. “He’s dead and cold,” he said, “I would say he’s been here for a few days, maybe even weeks. Is this the boy you saw in your yard?”

“Yes,'' Evangeline said with a quivering voice, “he was just in my house watchin' cartoons.” She could feel the tears falling down her cheeks as she spoke.

The officer stood up and spoke to the dispatcher once more. “We're gonna need a coroner here, too. I’ll meet them at the driveway in a moment.”

As the officer was talking to dispatch, Evangeline crouched down by Jacob’s body and began to cry more. She picked up his hand and held it as she cried. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up, expecting to see the officer; however, it was Jacob standing there with a shiny mist surrounding him. He smiled at her and waved.

“Thank you for finding me,”he said.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered to him.

Jacob smiled and said, “Don’t be. I’m all right. I just wanted to make sure I was found.” He waved his little hand, and she waved back.

As he began to fade away, the last word that left him was a sweet whispered “Goodbye.”

By Danny Adams

Biographies

Judges

Ashley Balderson ’15, from Fredericksburg holds an Environmental Science degree from Ferrum College. She was a member of the Boone Honors Program and often won Chrysalis's art contest. She is a professional artist specializing in sculpture. Her work is available on Etsy at ArtfromAshley and on Facebook at Painted Dog Art.

Brad Holley is a professional photographer from Ferrum. He is best known for wedding pictures and portraits but also loves to take landscape and nature photos. His work has been featured in Ferrum College publications and social media.

Dan Smith of Roanoke is a veteran journalist and award-winning editor and photographer. A member of the Virginia Communications Hall of Fame and a former Virginia Business Journalist of the Year, he has won state, national and international awards for his work with newspapers, magazines, radio and the internet. He has written eight books; his most recent novel is NEWS!

Raven Walker ’17, graduated from Ferrum College with a major in English and minors in Russian and History. She was in the Boone Honors Program. She lives in Franklin County with her partner and son and works as a bookkeeper. She also writes short horror fiction and runs her small business, Moonshine Capital Candle Company.

Staff

Riley Church is a senior who enjoys reading, writing, photography, and hanging out with friends. She hopes to travel the world and experience new cultures.

Kristina Cossa from Apex, N.C., is a senior with a major in Liberal Studies and minors in English and Theater. She is assistant editor of Chrysalis and has been on the staff all eight semesters.

M. Katherine Grimes is professor of English, coordinator of the English program, and advisor to Chrysalis. She is editor of Critical Insights: The Outsiders and coeditor of Critical Insights: The Harry Potter Series.

Kiersten Jones from Roanoke is a Music Performance major and an English minor. She plays electric bass guitar.

Scout Lynch is an English major and member of the Boone Honors Program who finds passion in writing, baking, crafting, and anything animal-related.

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

Marina Powell is a sophomore from Rocky Mount. She is majoring in Music Business with an Art minor and enjoys writing, drawing, music, and strong coffee. She is editor-in-chief of Chrysalis.

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, an Animal Science major from Plattsburgh, N.Y., enjoys riding horses.

Gabriel Alvarez is a freshman from Maracaibo, Venezuela. He is majoring in Psychology with a minor in Music. His goal is to get a Ph.D. in Sport Psychology. He is on the tennis team, and he enjoys playing the piano.

Jess Bollinger is a senior in the Boone Honors Program. Last fall semester she studied in London, England to finish her History major. After college she hopes to join the Peace Corps to travel and help people around the world.

Nancy Brubaker ’94, is a veterinarian, associate professor of Animal Science, and program coordinator of the One Health minor.

David “Chopper” Campbell, assistant professor of English and journalism, is the author of the novel Beandawg Mountain and a member of the band Kerosene Willy. He, his wife, and their four children live in Ferrum.

Catherine Coffee is a senior Graphic Design major and History minor. She plays guitar and played trumpet in the Ferrum College Marching Band for three years. She currently works in digital art, as she plans to make it her career.

Hannah Dix is a Media and Communication major. She also enjoys painting.

Lindsey Foster is a Media and Communication major with minors in Spanish and Journalism. She is editor-in-chief of The Iron Blade, Ferrum's newspaper.

Joshua Tyler Golden from Richmond is a Criminal Justice major. He plays football as a long snapper and defensive lineman.

Mason Hamer likes fishing, mountains, building things, food, bikes, learning, being outside, chainsaws, and doing bad art. He hopes to be part of Ferrum’s 2023 spring graduating class.

John Kitterman, professor emeritus of English, teaches in the English and Boone Honors Programs. He is the author of the novels The Seam and Dreamland.

Nicole Lynch, who was born and raised in Franklin County, is a Social Work major with minors in Sociology and English. Her main hobby is painting.

Candela Pérez Castellanos is from Madrid, Spain. Her name means fire, light. Her major is Art, and her minor is Psychology. She likes playing basketball and expressing what she feels with creativity.

Jazmin Scarberry is from a small town in southwest Virginia. She will graduate in May with a Bachelor of the Arts in History and minors in Ecotourism and English. She enjoys yoga, painting, writing. and spending time in nature.

Brianna Schenk from Salem is majoring in Middle School Mathematical Education. She is creative and open to trying new crafty things. She hopes to master her art skills and to become successful.

Harley Steger from Mechanicsville is a senior Criminal Justice major with a Forensic Investigation emphasis. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program. She enjoys photography, reading, board games, and family and friends. Madison Stephens came to Ferrum College to become a teacher and help grow the new generation's minds.

Lana A. Whited is professor of English and director of the Boone Honors Program. Her latest book is Murder, in Fact. She is currently editing The Ivory Tower, Harry Potter, and Beyond and writing a novel.

Acknowledgments

The staff of Chrysalis thanks our judges for sharing their time and expertise.

We also appreciate The Iron Blade's letting us use its computers.

August

by Marina Powell

Ferrum College Spring 2023