Chrysalis: 1991

chrysalis /

cover photo by thomas baer drawing opposite by Iara hicks

the literary & graphic arts magazine of ferrum college

Table of Contents Fiction Kristina Stump A Tale of Friendship Mike Dunavant Going Downtown

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Poetry Jessica Clark The Trivia Teacher Lisa Wilson Mother Nature the Artist Testing Clifton Kirk Primal Instincts Karen Gray Lament Rayne Foster A Trip on a Cold Night Anne Jones Toy Soldiers Becky Rhodes Morning Radio Lauren Sherwood Joe the Jock JI Lighthouse Crystal Shreves Be My Valentine Brian Chapman The Pier

3 4 30 7 9 13 14 15 18 23 19 20

Lisa Hayden Changes Michelle Blackmon Love Letter to Chaco Nicole Strach "Fore!" Said the Great White Shark Len Klein Sex

29 31 32 34

Art Thomas Baer Lora Hicks Eric Russell Frank Amos Kathy Kull Tonja Limburg Peter Kim Joey Stanley Chip Addison Nellie Kritter Mike Dunavant Michael Robertson

Cover Title Page 1 2 5 6, 27 8 14, 28, 30, 33 19 22 24 31

Photography Joe Lotts Scott Johnson Andrew Creasey Mike Dunavant Dana Swift

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jessica clark

The Trivia Teacher The trivia teacher is well prepared.

A student may question, but only when dared.

He knows the answers to all numbers squared.

Now that's enough to make you scared.

Don't look puzzled 'ti! he's out of sight.

Trivia teacher is always right.

Why do peacocks' tails become flared?

The ones who listen are the ones who cared.

Interest you? It might.

Trivia teacher is always right.

Another tidbit that he shared: Lines of children work better paired.

A single line might cause a fight.

Trivia teacher is always right.

The relevant information blared.

None of his students really cared.

They just shuffle and get uptight.

Trivia teacher is always right.

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lisa wilson

Mother Nature The Artist One day Mother Nature Dipped a brush In fiery colors of orange And pale blush She painted the sky

Someone stole the painting When she looked away It stretched from the mountains To the bay Now it was gone

Satisfied with her picture She took a break Time was getting Much too late It grew dark

The next day Mother Nature Gazed at the sky She blinked twice And rubbed her eye The painting reappeared

While Mother Nature Closed her eyes The painting disappeared To her surprise Where did it go?

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Much more beautiful Than she imagined It would be The sunset for miles Mother Nature smiled

airbrush by kathy kull

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clifton kirk

Primal Instincts To art friends Dave, Vida, Ed and Nan Through timeless memory recall, the Thursday night vigil.

Bohemes all.

We painted, danced and sang.

In the cave of desire, we bore our souls to the Great Spirit and warmed ourselves by primeval fires.

Converging at the apex of paint and cardboard, we stood naked on two-dimensional plains.

Seeking to save what was lost.

collage opposite by tonja limburg

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karen gray

Lament These long, elaborate sentences that tantalize thoughts, exploding the senses with every sight, sound, smell, experience within a hundred yards, filling the mind with colors, emotions, visions, articulating with perfection, explaining why or why not, leaving nothing to the imagination annoy me.

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A Tale of Friendship Once in the not-too-distant past, a man was running from the town collector. He was seeking refuge, when he turned off the road and disappeared into the forest. He collapsed under a tree and passed out. When he awoke, the one thing he had on his mind was acquiring money. And he said out loud in deep distress, "I must have money. Maybe I'll rob a bank."

"No need to do that," he heard a voice say, and he turned and looked anxiously about.

"Who's there?" he replied, trying to be brave.

"Just someone who can solve your problem. I often bend to help those in need."

The stranger was very pleased, gathered his courage and asked, "Where are you? I'd like to see my savior."

"You're looking at him. You may call me Will." And with that the gentle willow tree the stranger had rested beneath came forward and shook the stranger's hand.

At that moment the stranger was sure he was dreaming or that he had received a blow to the head. But Will assured the stranger that that was not the case. Reassured that his mind was intact, the stranger asked, "How can you help me. I need money, and that certainly doesn't grow on trees."

Will led the stranger to a clearing in the forest. The stranger could not believe his good fortune when he saw the tiny little tree in the center of the clearing. It sparkled brightly as the sun glinted off millions of shiny coins that had danced and dangled from its branches. The stranger was overcome with greed at the sight of all that money, and he thought, "If I had that tree for my own, I'd never have to worry about money again." With that thought in mind, the stranger ran to the tree and tore it from the ground. The willow cried out in horror at this treatment of his friend, but the stranger paid no mind as he ran away.

The willow tried to follow but he could not run very fast, and he was so upset he began to weep. He had to

by Kristina Stump slow to a walk because his weeping blinded him; but he did not stop. He had to find the money tree. He had to return her to her place before it was too late! As the willow passed through the forest other trees began to mock him, calling him 'Weeping Willow' but he paid them no mind and continued to cry. He followed the stranger into a small valley, but it had taken the willow a very long time to get there. As he came out of the forest, he saw in the distance a smal I house. He thought, "Perhaps someone there has seen my beloved friend."

When he reached the house, he was faced with more disappointment. It seemed no one had lived there for a very long time. As he looked around trying to decide what to do, he noticed a small tree growing to the side of the house. Oh, he was so happy. It was his precious tree, but it no longer glistened in the sun. Will approached the little tree. Money was overjoyed to see her friend, but Will thought she seemed sad. Money explained that she had not bloomed since the man had uprooted her. She told Will how the stranger had left her there when he could no longer get money from her.

Will suggested they return to Money's place in the forest.

He thought she would bloom again if she were home. But Money refused. She was sure she would die if uprooted again. "But you go back, Will. I'll be all right by myself," she told him.

"No, I can't leave you here. I'll stay with you. I hope my weeping won't bother you; I can't seem to stop."

Money said she would be pleased if he stayed and Will was glad. He cried tears of joy as he planted his roots.

Should you happen to visit that small valley sometime, you will find that Money and Will have grown close through the years and have maintained their altered traits.

And that is why Weeping Willows today really do weep and why money no longer grows on trees.

photo by joe lotts

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photo by scott Johnson

rayne foster

A Trip on a Cold Night A cold and windy night, I run alone.

The sharp wind burns my face.

When I arrive at my destination, I pull cold metal out of my pocket and slip it through the slot.

It swallows it, jingling as it goes down.

I press an illuminated plastic square and my choice is spit out.

I am content.

I am satisfied.

It is worth the trip.

13 ..

anne Jones

Toy Soldiers Toy soldiers set up in a row ready for war games and small chubby hands.

Charging across the carpet steel bodies crash.

Tiny bayonets stab and rifles flare.

Faces show no concern embraced in innocent hands.

Tossed in a box at the battle's end.

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drawing by joey stanley

becky rhodes

Morning Radio Temperatures in the 30's.

Ground war soon.

Giants win Super Bowl.

U.S. planes missing.

Beams from the sunrise burn my eyes.

The broadcast echoes in my ears.

Family and friends gone to fight.

A bomb hitting too close to home.

photo on following page by andrew creasey

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lauren sherwood

Joe the Jock II Joe the Jock's got a game today.

With all his equipment, he's ready to play.

The Nike Airs to help him jump, the high-tech Reebok Tennis Pump, his batting glove, his catcher's mitt, helmet and pads to take the hit, shin guards, knee pads, cleats and a racket, a brand new bat, if the ball's thrown he'll smack it!

What sort of game? Joe the Jock doesn't know.

But with all his stuff, he's ready to go!

I8

photo by mike dunavant

crystal shreves

Be My Valentine Hey Sweetcakes! Why in the world did you Slap me in my face last night?

One minute I had you just right. ..

Just where I wanted you ...

drawing by chip addison

The next thing I know, You are out that door Leaving me with a liplock on the dashboard!

Was that a "yes" or a "no"?

I can bench 200 pounds, And I have muscles out to here.

As you well know, dear, I am the most popular around.

I will never understand women; They want it and they don't.

Maybe they will and maybe they won't.

Look, I don't drive a lemon!

I give what you call Romance­ Flowers, candy and lots of lust.

I even try not to cuss.

What else could you possibly want?

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brian chapman

The Pier We met over there, you and I, over on that old wooden pier.

We faced one another, eye to eye, words spoken so softly that only the heavens could hear.

Then gazed across the still blue lake, to the gem-like stars no one could forsake.

The times we spent together, walking hand in hand on dusty trails, basking in the warmth of an amber sun.

Those days, they seemed to last forever.

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The nights we lit campfires, the beauty of your face revealed by the warm golden flames.

We sat quietly together, listening, while the wind blew like an angel's breath through the sparse green woods, and confronted our own desires.

I tried in vain to hold back time, but time must continue on.

You went back to your world, I back to mine, but you took something with you, you took my heart.

photo opposite by dana swift

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painting by nellie kritter

lauren sherwood

Lighthouse Think of a lighthouse.

The North Star, a brilliant shine in the night, Illuminating.

Draws people helplessly into the glow.

Offers direction, warmth, and the promise of a safe return.

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Going Downtown

by Mike Dunavant

The phone awoke the sleeping pilot. With a start, Navy Lt. Brent O'Reilly slowly lifted his hand to the receiver and answered the phone. There were three beeps.

"Mr. O'Reilly, pre-strike briefing is at twenty-two hundred." It was the A-6 Squadron Duty Officer, a Lieutenant Commander. "Yes sir," he managed. Then the line went dead.

Brent held the phone for a moment. This wou!d be his thirty-second mission into Iraq. The war was only two weeks old, and every day meant an extra amount of fear.

He reflected on that as he walked into the shower room and let the warm water soak his sleepy body.

All of the flak the Iraqis shot into the night sky was like a fireworks show. Spectacular! Though a professional, Brent was as excited as a school boy when he got picked for the opening night's raid over Baghdad. It would be his first real mission in the A-6E Intruder, and not to be a part of it was like not getting your ice cream. Brent was eager for his baptism of fire. His bubble burst, though, when he returned from the mission. Brent had seen his wingman and good friend take a hit in the wing by triple­ A (Anti-Aircraft Arti Ilery) and he was forced to eject. A few days later his face was shown on Iraqi television, for all the world to see, as Saddam Hussein paraded several captured allied pilots. Brent shuddered. The thought of being a POW sent ice-cold chills up his spine as he dried off with a towel.

drawing opposite by mike dunavant

Would his number come up that night? Dressed in his olive drab flight suit, Brent started to tie his boots but paused, remembering the images of war. Fireballs shooting past the cockpit, deafening explosions rattling the Intruder from the flak exploding around him. Not knowing if a SAM (Surface-to-Air Missile) would fly up his tailpipe at any second. He and his bombardier/navigator pressed the targets, laid the bombs right on the money, then beat feet for the safety of the carrier.

Brent walked into the ready-room for the pre-flight briefing. He settled into the highbacked leather chair next to his B/N. All eyes locked onto the monitor to hear the skipper brief. A reporter wrote, "You'd never find a cooler bunch," when he surveyed the pilots before the first raid.

The "pucker factor," as it's called, is how pilots rate the intensity of a particular mission. Tonight's mission was high. A repaired communications post in downtown Baghdad. If they were afraid, they didn't show it.

Real combat, though, is not like shooting down a Libyan MiG every once in a while or dropping bombs on terrorists. It's knowing that they'll be shooting at you and still being able to climb into that cockpit to meet it every day until your number comes up. It's a fear that ties your stomach into knots, makes you puke up your breakfast, and never goes away.

When the brief was over, Brent and his B/N went to the

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locker room and donned their forty pounds of flight gear.

Before Brent closed his locker door, he took one last look at the picture of his wife Anne holding their three-month­ old daughter Michelle, memorizing every feature and wondering if he'd ever see them again. Then he closed the door and spun the lock. Both checked out 9mm pistols from the ship's armory and proceeded up the stairs to the flight deck. The deck was awash in red I ight. Scores of sailors, mostly boys, raced across the deck preparing the planes for the oncoming strike.

The two aviators walked towards the parked Intruders along the deck's edge. When they reached their assigned Intruder, Number 507, Brent did a walk around of the aircraft. He checked the hydraulic couplings, fuel, weight of the aircraft and, finally, the ordnance. Each bomb had something written on it by the deck crew. One bomb read: "For all you do, this bomb's for you."

After strapping in, Brent looked over his shoulder and saw the other pilots strapping themselves in. He looked down to see the brown-shirted plane captain twirl his colored wand, signaling for a start up. Brent pressed the start-up button and advanced the throttles to idle. He then closed his eyes and ran his fingers across every switch and button, making sure everything was in its proper place.

Brent goosed the throttles forward and the Intruder began to move.

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The plane captain gave a thumbs up and saluted, pointing his wand towards the yellow shirts who directed the Intruder to the catapult. Brent guided the nose wheel tow bar into the catapult shuttle. Once it was in the groove, the CAT-crew attached the hold back bar and put the catapult into tension-so as not to tear the nose gear off the launching Intruder.

The CAT-captain gave the thirty second signal. The large metal plates, the Jet Blast Deflectors, rose up from the deck behind the aircraft to deflect the exhaust up and over the other Intruders waiting behind. Brent chanted the litany as he tested his surface controls: stick back, forward, left, right-rudders left and right. "Father, Son, Holy Spirit, AMEN!" The CAT-captain wound his yellow wand in the air. Brent pushed the throttles to the fire wall. The Intruder trembled under the power. His eyes ran over the instruments: RPMs were up, primary and stand-by gyro nominal, exhaust temperature good. Brent put his head back into the head rest and flipped on the external lights.

The CAT-captain swung his wand around, brought it down touching the deck and pointed it level, right down the bow. Brent could see in his mirrors the light on the tower go from yellow to green. The Air Boss had given the go for launch. Brent's eyes went from his mirrors to the darkness ahead, leading into the black, black night.

The catapult fired.

collage opposite by tonja /imburg

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watercolor by joey stanley

I: lisa hayden

Changes I wait forlorn as woods surrounding me.

I feel so empty with broken windows, splintering wood walls, caved-in roof.

I am ready to topple on my side like a house of cards.

Flowers, laughter, pattering of small feet.

Just memories whispering through cracks of my walls.

Rough, sticky blades of grass surround me; tangled and choking white daisies.

I hear the soil moaning beckoning me to join it.

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lisa wilson

Testing I'm placed on center stage One plugs me in Another holds on tight The bright lights are hot The room begins to vibrate Smoke fills the air The crowd cheers All eyes are fixed On the one who holds me The voice breathes in It's time to begin

drawing by joey stanley

michelle blackmon

Love Letter to Choco My Sweetness: How I long when next we meet to ease the covering off your sleek form and place your sweetness between my teeth.

Before your cylindrical form reaches my lips I shudder to think of such enormous pleasure and enormous sin.

Slowly I roll you around my tongue, with tenderness I nip at your sheath exposing your inner layer which lies creamy against my teeth.

I savor your many textures postponing the climactic moment.

You explode in my mouth making me hate to swallow desiring the moment to last.

As you slide down my throat, I am horrified how easily I succumb to your temptation ... 0 Henry!

drawing by michael robertson

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chrysalis staff editor-in-chief art editor fiction editor poetry editor editorial assistant editorial assistant editorial assistant sponsor

kristin clous tonja limburg dana swift kelli main chip addison brian chapman lynn hallman dan gribbin

in appreciation for their timely support the staff of chrysalis dedicates this issue to the freshman class of ferrum college

additional thanks to: ed cornbleet alan weltzien rachel denham gary evans john hardt

jane stogner al iantorno mike compson gary gibson the iron blade