Chrysalis: 1992

chrysalis

the literary/art magazine of ferrum college

Table of Contents Fiction

Anne Dickens The Girl on the Bus Scott Cser Frostbite Debbie Hall The Encounter Kristina Stump Soul Survivor

Poetry

Nolan Carroll When Emotion & Action Collide Natty Afternoons Wet Wax Anne Dickens Birds Artemis Tara Young The Mirror and Its Soul Madona Allgeier Magic Things

7 13 19 25

2 3 23 4 10 15 16

Christine Ullman Innocence Scott Nash Love and Fear James Davis Heart of Winter

29 30 33

Art

17 Madona Allgeier 32 JoAnn Crawford title page Ben Owen 6, 9, 11, 18, 21, 22, 26 Anne Dickens 1, 2, 3, 5, 12, 22, 27 Mike Newman and cover

Photography

Abbey Notes Christy M. Williams Cheryl St. Clair Kay Jarrell

24 28 31 34

drawing by 111ike11ewma11

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no/an carroll

When Emotion and Action Collide To feel you press against the small of my back ... your breath, so warm, smells of sta.le coffee,a taste of shellcake,a kiss on the cheek, a hug, and a smile .... I can only dream before leaving.

no/an carro/1

Natty Afternoons

Days of catching stitched rawhide in a cowskin glove are gone but he's still standing a distance from me shouting, his voice full of a father's encouragement. "Keep your eye on the ball." stand ready, watching the black spot whirling back toward the earth's atmosphere. My feet instinctively take several striding steps to where I can anticipate the object to fall.

Here it comes, here it comes, "I got it, I got it." CLUNK! I collapse to the ground, dreading the tender red goose egg that will grace my forehead.

illustrations this page and opposite by mike newman

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anne dickens

Birds Girls shimmy at the edge of the village the clink of glasses and sharp looks they climb the rocks and undulate crows bowing their crooked necks stomping the knee high plastic boots immodesty they never meant disdain or the forgetfulness of injury.

Sound so strange, so close, so free, the men approach.

Except for the cooing and nervous tittering.

The noise has all stopped Yes, I remember when they called them birds.

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illustration opposite by mike 11ewma11

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oil wash by anne dickens

The Girl on the Bus

by Anne Dickens

She looked far into the distance, so far that she thought she might escape this conversation. She turned to him.

"You just can't understand, can you? You are simply thinking about yourself and your wife."

He was so selfish. How could she ever have loved him?

"What are you talking about? What does my wife have to do with anything?" said the startled man in green to the very pregnant woman at his left. He had not bothered to look up from his paper to notice just how pregnant she was. At least nine months. It was probably due any day.

"You're a hypocrite. It's not in you, it's in me.

Twenty-four hours a d a y. It sees me do everything. It's always there spying on me.

Touching me. You don't have to feel it. You got off easy."

She hated him for having ignored her as if he did not know her. She was probably some barrio slut, to him. A good time and that was all. Well, she was a real person, and this child inside her was a real problem.

"I don't know what you're talking about, but please don't upset yourself in your condition."

She looked flushed and tired. He felt sorry for her. She looked a lot like his wife had before the birth of their daughter. He tried to return to his newspaper.

"I don't know. I know better than you. Where have you been? I tried to call, but the number was a fake. You said you loved me, loved us.

But you ...you deserted me."

Her voice was rising and straining. She could feel it in her throat, but she was so humiliated that he did not remember her. It had been only seven months.

The man in the green suit was getting angry.

Yes, she was pregnant, but it was not his fault.

He did not even know her. And to insinuate, in such a public place, that he had been unfaithful­ that was unforgivable.Yes, he had been tempted several times during his twelve-year marriage, and, yes, he had once or twice given i n to temptation. But it was not as if he was ever going to see those girls again. They meant nothing to him. He loved his wife. He turned again to his newspaper and tried to ignore her.

"Great! Ignore me. You can't run from me. I'm not some stupid tramp you can throw away when

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you're done with me!"

She was speaking rapidly and loudly, close to tears.

"Young woman! Can you please lower your voice? People are starting to stare."

The man in the green suit was speaking in a stern whisper. Some of the people on the bus were his neighbors and associates.

"I do not know you. I am sorry if the father of your child is irresponsible. But I can tell you that it has nothing to do with me."

"Nothing t o d o with you? It's your child, dammit! Maybe it's not what you wanted, but it is your child."

The woman had lowered her tone, but the anger was still there. Why couldn't he be like her father and be there for her and the baby. He wouldn't have to divorce his wife to be with her. He wasn't divorced when they made the baby. A child needs a father.

The man in the green suit tried to recall the face of the woman, the one he'd had a brief affair with over Christma s. That had been only a few months ago . The woman had definitely been more attractive than this one. And, besides, that woman had not even known about his wife. This woman was clearly emotionally distraught over the jerk who had done this to her, but it had nothing at all to do with him. He could certainly empathize with the young woman. He thought about his own daughter. What if some guy did this to her? But he would never let this happen to his baby.

"Excuse me, Miss, but this is my stop. I must be going."

The man in green left quickly, looking at no one.

He felt sad for the woman, but if you are not willing to take responsibility for your actions, it's your own fault.

The bus moved on slowly. The woman watched the man until his form vanished. She continued to look out the window. The baby was kicking again. She wanted to be far away from there, far from the pregnancy. Her father would be worried, but she had had to see the father of her child.

The man in green had a right to know about the impending arrival of his daughter.

A man in a uniform sat down in the seat next to her. She looked over at him, her eyes brimming with tears of joy and pain.

"I thought I'd never see you again," she said.

"Why didn't you write? I tried to write but you had been restationed. I've been looking for you.

I told Father that you'd be back . He'll be so happy to know you're back. He always liked you and I'm sure we can find a judge to marry us."

"I know you always wanted to give me a big wedding, but I don't care. I just want you. It's a boy, you know. You always wa nted a son.

Father's been really good to us. He said that if you didn't get back before the baby was born, he'd be the father. But you're here now. I love you .... I've missed you so much!"

The man in the uniform looked at her quizzically.

"Miss, have we met?

print by amie dickens

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anne dickens

Artemis

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She appeared to be royalty in exile self-imposed and implemented so quiet and concealed she never checked her makeup twice at least that is what I envisioned.

However now I was in her palace surrounded by her lies and games her mismatched socks and diamond rings still there lay the riddle the shell and shills of a candle self.

But this princess was from the street and knew the excesses of misfortune as I have known the swings but no one would ever guess she wore her crown so well.

Her voice was just as I had made so many days ago but the things she said and the things she knew were so far away from here.

To see her again after all this time the myth and her entourage still the beauty wrapped in blue but not the faithful one I had once made in her image.

The name which I had given her Artemis fell away as she finished all her story tales and princess drank the remains of her morning cereal right from the bowl.

oil painting by anne dickens oil painting on overleaf by mike newman

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Frostbite

by Scot Cser

The full moon escaped from behind a cover of clouds, and pale light fell on frozen, wind-swept ground. An elven face covered with frost looked up to the sky. Movement shuddered through the body, and eyes fluttered open, silver-grey eyes that pierced the cold darkness. The elf turned over on his belly, gasping for air.

Using his elbows for leverage, the elf struggled to his knees, his flop of brown hair covered with frost. He had the slender build of the elves and their sinuous yet powerful arms. As he stood, the wind n early knocked him over, and he remembered the fierceness of the mountain. No mountain was feared in the land of lllanis more than the Cragstone.

The village of Khatrath, near the foot of the mountain, had once been a great city until the beast arrived. The elves are a long-lived race, dying only by deep sorrow or by evil wounds.

Seven hundred years ago the dragon attacked the village and slaughtered most of its people, a dragon so fierce it was known for many hundreds of miles. Unlike the great worms that traveled on their bellies, this white dragon had huge, leathery wings. So the village had sent the young warrior Hadrim to defeat the beast, to cut out its eye and to bring that eye back to the villagers as proof that the beast had been slain.

The moon still shone with a silver light as the elf struggled up the mountain, trudging toward his

destiny unseen. A roar broke through the scream of the wind and snow. Hadrim halted. He concentrated and then a minute later his eyes glittered, then changed to a dull red, for he could now see objects by the heat they gave off in the infrared. And what he descried, high up in the winter sky, was dreadful-a gigantic winged creature, a horrid blob of pulsing, shimmering heat to dazzle his glowing eyes.

The elf unslung his pack, letting it fall to the ground. He knelt and opened the buckle of the pack, his hands shaking with fear. The rod he took out had at one end a wicked spearhead.

The elf extruded lengths of mithril out of the bottom end of the rod until it reached its full length of six feet. Then he stood and searched the dark sky.

From behind the cover of a mountain peak, the dragon came into view. Hadrim grasped the spear and knelt to pick up the pack, slinging it over his shoulder. As he ran in the direction he must go, his scream pierced the wind. It was a scream so filled with hate and fear that it reached the dragon's ears. Its fierce red eyes penetrated the darkness, for dragons, too, could cast their vision into the infrared. Like a tongue of lightning, the dragon darted downward, spiraling in on the tiny target.

Though Hadrim's body was weary from the ascent, he ran up the slope pierced with dragon 13

fear. Only the mindless action of running was his defense against the grip of fear. The tip of his spear glowed with a fiery light.

Then the dragon was in range, its red eyes visible to the elf. Hadrim cast a bolt of pure lightning, and the spear pierced the dragon's tender unde rbelly. The dragon howled at the burning wound in its white, leathery skin. Its cries echoed off the peak of Cragstone as it crashed into the frozen slope, shards of ice flying in all directions.

Hadrim unbuckled his sword, letting the belt fall to the ground. He ran toward the dragon's body that had made a ditch in the snow, but he could no longer see the dragon even with the sight. The dragon must have cast a spell of evil darkness, and Hadrim walked forward as the head of the beast swung into view. Hadrim stood before the beast. Crawling on its forelimbs, it lifted its head and roared. It swung a giant clawed arm at Hadrim's body.

Hadrim gripped the hilt of his mithril sword and swung just as the giant claw crashed into him.

The sword c ut through the dragon's wrist.

Hadrim was thrown bac k into the ro cky mountainside. He rolled away from the gaping jaws of the demon spawn. Bringing the sword up to bear, Hadrim rushe d through the crimson stained snow to attack the white belly of the beast.

The dragon roared as Hadrim plunged the longsword home, driving in the hilt till it reached the dragon's leathery hide. Hadrim pulled the sword from the dragon, and blood poured from

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the hideous wound, splashing onto the white snow.

The dragon opened its toothy maw and a blast of freezing air issued forth. This dragon breathed frost, not fire. "Tanar vie afalon!" the elf cried, and a barrier of light poured forth from the sword to protect him. The dragon roared as the blast of cold air harmlessly blew past the barrier. The roar of the dragon echoed in the winter air. As if Cragstone, the peak of evil, was bound to answer, it released its hold on the snow that clung on its white peaks. Waves of snow rushed downward, engulfing beast and elf alike.

Hadrim awoke to a blaze of morning sun.

Somehow he had escaped a snowy grave. But the dragon was nowhere to be seen. Hadrim stood and shook off the snow. In his right hand he still clutched his longsword. He pulled his frostbitten hand from the sword, tearing the flesh.

He ripped a piece of cloth from his tattered cloak and wrapped it around his hand. He gazed westward for a moment, and then he walked slowly toward the sunrise, a tear staining his ruddy cheek.

The dragon might well be dead, but Hadrim had no proof. The eyes of the dragon might well be staring at the eyes of eternity, buried beneath Hadrim under tons of snow. He would never know. And as a mark he carried the scar upon his hand, a reminder of dragon, mountain, and failure. So the elven warrior wandered far from his people, never to return.

Cragstone loomed ominous and cold and high.

tara young

The Mirror and Its Soul

I, I

There is a form, and it is standing in front of a mirror, A pale weak object looking into the depths of a streaked image.

How could this be true?

What once bore the face of smoothness and purity is now overlain with plain bleakness.

Hope for the glass to become clear again is still alive, but each day more streaks appear.

What once was, now is not.

All that will be cannot be seen.

If only this small tortured form could walk through the distant depths of its own image It could find solace for all of the confusion it is feeling.

It lives in the hope that one day all of the marks that constantly blur the path of light Will slowly disappear.

And in that large hope, life will go on.

And the image will remain

the same.

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madona allgeier

Magic Things Some say they never were, Others say they just can't be seen.

There are still others who don't say anything at all.

But me? I say people just don't Want to believe that magical things Are still alive, living with us, within us.

Maybe magic only exists within me, But I don't believe that.

Magic is in all of us.

We only have to look deeper than we do.

I say if you have the power to dream, The mysterious power of imagination, You can see the magic of modern day.

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It may not be as magnificent as when all believed, But if you have these powers, And all of us do, Unicorns, dragons, and pixies May become a not-so-unusual sight.

This won't happen, I'm afraid, in my lifetime, But maybe if I can pass These ideas on to others Someday the unicorns, dragons, and pixies Will be free from the Invisible cages That progress, and the lack of true Imagination, Have trapped them in.

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gouache paper collage by a1111e dickens

Encounter

by Debbie Hall

Robyn Willis and Sandra Evans had not seen each other in well over a year. But their long friendship made it possible for them to pick up a conversation as if they'd left it off the day before.

The two women had agreed to meet for dinner at a posh restaurant in town, and, as usual, Robin arrived first.

When Sandra finally arrived, she looked dazzling. Her blond hair was cut in the latest style, and she was dressed with simple elegance in an emerald green frock. "I got it on the trip," Sandra reported. A top magazine photographer, she'd spent the last year, off and on, in Europe, on a series of shoots for Vogue. She'd returned to the States a month before, but this was the first time their schedules had coincided.

Robyn took a long look at Sandra and realized how drab she looked by comparison. She was wearing her one good black dress.

Sandra was absolutely bubbling with excitement about a new man in her life. She'd met him a week before at a party for Vogue, and they'd clicked instantly.

"He told me he was in the process of dumping his old girlfriend," Sandra confided. "He said she held no excitement for him anymore. I, on the other hand, am a 'breath of of spring."'

Sandra went on about how gorgeous and rich this new man was. Robyn thought she would scream.

Not that Robyn wasn't happy for her friend. It was just that she had been dumped herself about two hours before, and Sandra's gushing was beginning to be more than she could endure.

Tom, the man she was no longer seeing, had informed Robyn that she was very nice and all, but he wanted more "flash and excitement" in his life. When they'd met that afternoon, Robyn had given him theater tickets as a birthday present­ scarce tickets that had cost her half her paycheck. Tom had walked out on her with those tickets in his pocket.

Robyn knew that romance was the one thing she did not want to discuss at dinner. All she could think about were those two front-row center seats that she and Tom would not be sitting in that night.

Sandra was still prattling on about Mr. Wonderful when the waiter came to take their order. Robyn noticed that Sandra ordered only salad.

"Aren't you hungry?" Robyn asked when the waiter had left.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Sandra said. "I 'II have 19

to leave a little early. Tom got tickets to see that new play opening tonight on the East Side. He's going to pick me up here on the way to the theater."

Robyn could feel the color draining from her face. "Tom" and "tickets." Those two words said it all. Sandra's new man was her Tom Mason.

Her ex-Tom Mason. And those tickets were the ones Robyn had sacrificed to put in his hands.

Robyn felt sick. She had secretly hoped that Tom would come back, that her phone might even ring later that night. Now she knew better.

Tom had found his "flash and excitement." He was using Robyn's birthday gift to impress her.

Sandra was so flushed with eagerness about Tom's arrival that she didn't seem to notice Robyn's change in mood. Before Robyn could pull herself together, Tom appeared, on the other side of the room, scanning the crowd of diners in search of Sandra. Robyn saw that Tom had spotted them, that he was making his way across the room. Her heart was a drumbeat, but she decided instantly that he would never know how hurt she was.

T he introductions were predictably awkward.

Neither Robyn nor Tom acknowledge prior

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knowledge of the other. Robyn fought to maintain her composure. Then Sandra suddenly excused herself to freshen up, and Tom sat down.

There was a long silence during which Robyn began to gather up her things. "I hope you'll enjoy the play," she said more loudly than she had intended, her voice quaking.

Tom seemed preoccupied for a moment. Then he asked, "Does Sandra know you gave me the tickets?"

T hat was Robyn's moment of liberation. Tom wasn't sorry for the way he had treated her. He was only looking out for himself and his precious evening on the town with Miss Fl ash & Excitement.

Robyn rose from her seat and turned to leave.

"Tell Sandra I couldn't wait," she called over her shoulder.

She had done it. She had maintained her poise and walked out . She had shown Tom that she was in control, that he would never hurt her again.

In the parking lot, Robyn found the key with some difficulty and slid into the familiar seat. She took a deep breath and slid the key into the ignition.

Then she locked the doors and began to cry.

no/an carroll

Wet Wax My face went tumbling and fell, my face went falling and tumbled, they'll never pick me up, never pick me up.

I'll crawl, crawl, crawl to sleep.

My head went spinning and fell, my head went falling and spun, I heard eyes flying in all directions whirling and whirling and whirling themselves into big, bold bright, beautiful, brilliant colors went splattering and plattering and chattering until their teeth just stopped chewing and their guts stopped churning.

oil painting opposite by mike newman

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Soul Survivor

by Kristina Stump

The sea was at peace as they awoke.

Disoriented, each looked about in disbelief. As far as they could see, their world was blue and green, highlighted with occasional touches of white. The sun, still low in the sky, was already hot on their flesh. Soon their clothes would feel scorched as well. As one vowed to resolve their plight, the other peacefully accepted the situation. Help would come.

Four days later, they had depleted what little food had been in the cooler. The beer lasted another two days. By the eighth day, they were eating raw fish. They had been luck y that morning when the shark, still an infant, had come to investigate.

On the twelfth day, they emerged from their fatigued slumber to the sound of a motor. But they could not determine its origin. The sun's glare upon the water produced a blinding white light and caused sharp pains in their eyes. They could not bear to look out over the water or up into the the sky for help. They retreated hopelessly back into a delirious yet merciful unconsciousness.

With the fourteenth day came a steady rain which refreshed their bodies and minds. They photo opposite by abbey notes

collected the rain in the cooler and hoped for their rescue. One slept easily, then. With water they would survive. That thought made the gnawing hunger bearable.

For the other, the painful emptiness refused to dissipate. Sleep would not come. Calculations on the odds of survival flowed in and out of mind as the waves carr ied the small boat ever westward into the setting sun. They had both been delirious from hunger. The water would help for only a short time. There was nothing left to eat. Only the buckles of their leather belts remained.

The water could last twice as long if there were only one in the boat. If one were to fall overboard, the other would be too weak to help.

Maybe another shark might hover too close for a minute too long. Or maybe a dolphin would jump out of the ocean and land in the boat. They had seen a few seagulls a day or two before. Maybe an injured bird would fall into the boat. Just sink your teeth into its neck and it would be over for the bird. It would be so easy. The bird's life for the occupants of the boat. All options must be examined.

As the other slept peacefully on, darkness fell.

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With the coming of darkness came anger. It grew and festered until exhaustion took over. That night all hope for survival seeped through a crack in the cooler out onto the wooden floor of the boat.

Each blamed the other for th eir loss. The boiling sun continued to drain their energy. On the fifteenth day, they would have killed each other if they had had the strength to move. Their cracked and blistered lips produced demonic visages that warily watched one another.

Two days passed, and they spoke not a word.

Even when rain came again the evening of that

26

second day, no sound passed between them.

One slept on peacefully as the other, revived yet feverish, struggled against the horrors of delirium.

The dying snake slithered menacingly toward the injured bird, sank its long fangs into the exposed and slender neck, and held on. The bird lingered for a moment, then ceased its useless fluttering.

On the eighteenth day, the cruiser pulled alongside the small boat. The crew averted their eyes and held their breath as the two bodies were removed, the faces of each frozen. One saw nothing. The other saw the nightmarish truth.

Neither soul survived.

gouache 011 paper by anne dickens

"

.

illustration by mike newman

)

27

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photo by christy m. williams

christine ullman

Innocence

She runs through her past ... through halls.

They're bleak, and narrow, and have no end.

Dark, shadowy images lurk the walls on each side of her.

They haunt her at every step, reminding her of who she was and of who she has become.

She cannot escape that fear ... of yesterday's face.

She's been searching desperately to discover what she has lost ... so long ago ...so far away ... when she was young.

But she can never find what her heart desires to capture once again, for once she let it go, it was gone forever, and could never be replaced.

The walls grow narrow each step she takes to pursue that lost treasure which slipped through her hands.

She comes to a pinhole and views a void in space.

Her treasure is floating ... outside her grasp.

She sees a mirror, and it reflects her life before she lost her treasure.

A child stares back at her.

She longs for the child inside her to resurrect life once more so she can grasp her treasure once again ...forevermore.

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scoff nash

Love and Fear I travel thousands of miles.

I have seen the sand of many beaches.

Sometimes I get angry and No one comes near me Except them. They are always there.

They come play with me No matter how cold it is No matter how bad the weather is.

No matter how big I am They come and ride me on their little boards.

I love to see them smile when we play.

They protect me from the bad people The people who pour chemicals in me.

They understand me better than anyone else.

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Often I hurt them and sometimes I kill them.

I weep because I love them. They are my friends.

They hold no grudges ... not ever.

They understand and they ask no questions.

They love me unconditionally and ask for no favors.

Even when I am in the worst of moods And no one else will even come near me They are there.

We are closer than any mother and child.

We have a bond, an understanding.

These are things that are rare in this world.

They call themselves surfers.

They call me a wave.

photo opposite by cheryl st. clair

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oil painting by joa1111 crawford

Heart of Winter

by James Davis

T he moon was deathly ill. He could barely penetrate the December branches, and only briefly could he muster the strength to flicker and skip across the stale, crusty snow. I sat and stared at the starless night. Starless because the moon wanted to be left alone. I felt sorry for the moon, for his only company was me.

Me who shared his starless night.

I wondered what pain the stars had caused him.

I told him of my pain, but he just more fiercely refused to illuminate my world. I cursed him under my frosty breath and sat quietly, looking at his full face, yet seeing hardly a glow.

I shivered but was not chilled. I could hear nothing, save for my own light breath and the far, far distant wail of a dying heart, weeping.

I began to weep, whether for him or with him I didn't know. I soon found that I had no more

tears. It began to snow, and I knew that the moon was now weeping for us both. I smiled at him, and he was silently snuffed out behind the clouds.

Ever-deepening chasms of loneliness opened inside. I ran but fell, the jagged ice cutting and scoring my face. I lay on my back and gazed sullenly at the dimly lit clouds. I felt the tears and blood on my cheeks.

To my surprise, my soul screamed out. But the words only echoed in my head. I closed my eyes to rest and found that rest came easily.

I woke not to a sound, but to an icy breath on my face. I looked and saw that the moon was setting and the pre-dawn sky was full of stars.

I smiled. The moon had hidden himself so that he could make peace with his stars. He was now leaving me to make peace with mine

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ch rysalis staff kelli main mike newman anne dickens scott cser james davis madona allgeier dan gribbin

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

additional thanks to:

photo by kay jarrell

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ed cornbleet lana whited katherine grimes tom rickard martha brandt bettye buckingham michelle washburn franklin photo collinsville printing