Chrysalis: 1996-1997

CHRYS�IS the literary/art magazine of ferrum college 1996-1997

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Fzcrwn Cindy Rhinehart

Poen1y

Islands

Jessica Sleeth

Furtive Glances Going Home

Dawn McClenney Carrie Rowe Amy Bragg

10

5 22

Silence

6

My Lover's Bed

8

Imagine

Karen Hvidding

Washcloth

Mike Emberson

Cicada Van Gogh's Eyes OByron

Everett Kalafatis

First Love

Diane Hailey

Winter

Samantha Irish

Coin Toss

16 19

20 32

27

20 20 20

Cindy Rhinehart T.G.I.F. Lori Ward

Wounded Wine

Tiffany Gillend

Crafting Me

Heather Schulz

Inspired Battle

Marnie Potter

Courage

Lana Whited

Crocus

Susan Sautter

Goal

ART Rachel Carter Shauna Jeayne Glover Freda Nichols Day Niederhauser

21 21

25 28 31 34 36

cover 4

7, 18, 23, 24,38 9, 17

Heather Schulz

11, 30

Carole Goodman

15,33

Kristina Stump

26,29

TABLE OF CONTENTS (Corrected) Frcnon

Cindy Rhinehart Islands

PoeTRy

Jessica Sleeth Furtive Glances Going Home Dawn McClenney Silence Carrie Rowe My Lover's Bed Amy Bragg Imagine Karen Hvidding Washcloth Mike Emberson Cicada Van Gogh's Eyes OByron Everett Kalafatis First Love Diane Hailey Winter Samantha Irtsh Coin Toss Cindy Rhinehart T.G.I.F. Lori Ward Wounded Wine Tiffany Gillend Crafting Me Heather Schulz Inspired Battle Marnie Potter Courage Lana Whited Crocus Susan Sautter Goal ART Rachel Carter Shauna Jeayne Glover Freda Nichols

12 7 24 8 10 18 21 22 34 29 22 22 22 23 23 27 30 33 36 38 cover

6 9,20,25,26,40

Day Niederhauser

11, 19

Heather Schulz

13,32

Carole Goodman

17,35

Kristina Stump

28,31

6

CHRYSALIS

Furtive Glances Watch me.

Mirrors reflect haphazardly, Peripheral glance-who is she?

Do you like me?

- I'm not what I want to be.

Slighted beauty, Captive in a pretty shell.

Where's the pearl? Well­ Swing my hips, Kiss my lips, Crack your whips; Defiantly I comethe body-bag zips.

Secure in infirmity, I flaunt what I don't have.

Talk the talk, Walk the walk, Lock the lock, -And yet you're shocked?

Forget what you've heard: Voices grate and spoken word Is a hearty harbinger Of lost innocence.

Watch me.

Pull my strings.

But don't think for a moment that They bind my soul's wings.

-jessica sleeth

1997

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Silence A tree, with leaves purple in the summer breeze Whispering over a cold, hard bench, Lonely now. A testament of time gone by, Like the dead leaves scattered on the ground And the initials of two young lovers Carved into the bark, reflected in the water.

Once a place of whispered promises; Nothing's left but silence now.

Nothing's left but silence now.

The harsh wind blows, the tree shivers from the cold.

It is lonely without their touch; The two young lovers with bright foolish dreams, A reminder that love is not all that it seems.

Nothing's left but silence now; Nothing's left but silence.

Sometimes the blond-haired girl returns To touch the initials carved in bark.

She sits on the cold, hard bench and sobs.

Nothing's left but ...

-dawn mcclenney 8

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My Lover's Bed I lie entangled in my lover's bed-a black sea of silk sheets and white legs.

Listening to the rhythm of his breath, I can tell that he is rounding the corner of sleep, standing on the precipice of some great dream.

In the apartment I am surrounded by a shallow dark; Small clicks and creaks march in time to the wind's window beat.

A pungent mixture of dinners past, beers once drunk, and Marlboros still smoking hangs in the mystic air.

The apartment is slightly too warm.

-carrie rowe 10

CHRYSALIS

1997

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Islands

by Cindy Rhinehart

Wisdom is nice, but I don't always think knowledge is nice. I'm all the time finding out things I wish I didn't know. For in­ stance, I saw this documentary on Public Television about micro-organisms. Did you know people have mites on their eye­ lashes? They showed these bugs that looked like ticks, kind of, except they were magnified about a million times. The worst part is there's nothing you can do to get rid of them. In fact, there are all sorts of tiny, nasty insects crawling all over our bodies that you just can't see. That's the kind of thing I wish I didn't know.

Of course, I guess most people don't mind that kind of stuff, but it just kills me.

I have this quirk about cleanliness. I brush my teeth about ten times a day, I really do. Three years ago when I was thirteen, my best friend Jay and I hung out together all the time. I know it's kind of weird that I had a male best friend, but I was such a tomboy then. Anyway, we played basket­ ball every day after school, and I had a good time because he didn't have to prove to himself that he was better than me like most guys do. He was pretty smart too. I 12

hate stupid people, I really do. I'd say some­ thing like, "Hey, Jay, did you know we have dirty little bugs living in our eyelashes?" and he'd throw a few hoops with his eyes all squinty and I couldn't tell if he was thinking about what I'd said or trying to concentrate on his next shot. Then he'd say something like, "If there are bugs living on our eyelashes then we must seem like a universe to them.

I wonder if our universe is just like an eye­ lash bug to some huge being?" Jay was smart, I swear he was.

The thing is, one day I was at his house, and when I washed my hands in his bath­ room I saw that his toothbrush had all this dried up toothpaste caked on it-it really grossed me out. So I told him I had to go home since I hadn't brushed my teeth since lunch time which was the truth, but I really didn't want to stay and think about that dried up toothpaste on his brush. He said, "Karen, you sure do brush your teeth a lot.

I only brush mine oncet a day." My stom­ ach almost flew right out of my mouth.

Maybe I could have gotten over the part about his nasty teeth, but he said "oncet" and that was the kicker because it just

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sizzles my nerves when people can't talk right. It's not that I wasn't his friend or wasn't loyal to him, but after that, I kind of just kept to myself. I swear, I'm always finding out stuff about people that I wish I didn't know.

Take, for instance, Mr. Sarvis, my ninth grade earth science teacher. He was, at least I thought he was, this really cool man. He showed us slides of him and his wife when they first met. They had a pet wolf that he saved from a trap when it was a baby, and all three of them would travel around the country in the sixties in Mr. Sarvis's green punch bug.

Then one day he started talking about the big ban� and how the universe is ex­ panding. That was OK, but he used this awful analogy. He said he lived on a farm when he was a kid, and when they had too many kittens running around, he'd put them in a bag and throw them in his bath­ tub full of water. He said those kittens reminded him of the universe after the big bang because they were trying to run away from each other as they drowned. After that, all I could picture was him singing in the same shower where he had drowned the kittens. The more you know people the less you like them, I swear it.

So, sometimes when I'm trying to deal with people, I play these games in my mind. I act like I don't know they're a liar, or a hypocrite, or a big fake. It's like if I 14

can pretend to go along with them, and they don't realize I'm onto them, then I feel like I'm winning-I'm pretty slick sometimes, I swear it. You probably think I'm fake for pretending to believe people, but I don't go out of my way to meet them. Usually the people I have to pretend with are the ones who come to me.

Except my neighbor Shiela. She's about thirty-two years old, but she was kind of my confidante from the time I was a little girl until about a month ago. I used to go to her house pretty often; we'd eat dinner or watch TV, and she always loved to listen to me play the piano. I told her one time, how I don't understand why, for the most part, I'd rather be alone than with other people, yet I need to feel meaningful to somebody. She sort of sighed and said she feels that way pretty often. I think part of the reason we got along so well is because I'm a deep thinker-I'm mature for my age. Really, truly, I am.

One day, when I was feeling especially lonely, I went to Shiela's and I was playing "I am a Rock" by Simon and Garfunkel; Shiela was singing along: . . . I am an is land.

Don't talk of love, Well I have heard the word before.

You can tell what kind of mood I'm in when I play the piano. We ended up having this conversation about how people are ulCHRYSALIS

timately alone in the world. Shiela said she thinks that's mostly true, but she as­ sured me I could always count on her. I kind of laughed and said, "That's a sweet thing to say, but what am I to you?"

"Well, Karen," she said as she looked me in the eye, "I enjoy your company and piano playing. Besides, I am responsible for what I have tamed."

I didn't know what she meant by that until she told me about this children's book called The Little Prince. The Little Prince travels around to different planets and, when he comes to Earth, he tames a fox, and they become close friends. They are sad when it comes time for the Prince to leave, and the fox tells the Little Prince never to forget that "you are responsible, forever, for what you have tamed." Shiela was so thoughtful that she actually read me this story. She said she had tamed me, and like the Prince was to the fox, I was unique to her in all the world.

That same day she told me I should go to governor's school over the summer. I thought that was a swell idea because I am pretty good at the piano and I never have anything to do in the summertime, so I figured I'd give it a shot.

You'd have thought Shiela was pretty wise. She told me one time that I think about myself too much, and I would be happier if I focused my energy on other people. I can see why she would think that, 1997

but I wanted to explain that people always hurt me when I g;et close to them, and when you run away from people, you naturally run into yourself-not that that's much bet­ ter really. But then sometimes it's not worth discussing things, honestly it isn't. Any­ way, most people would be offended by someone telling them they're selfish, but I thought she might be right to an extent. In fact, the first thing I started doing to be less self-absorbed is I would cut her grass for her. It's not like she couldn't do it herself­ she has plenty of time since she lives alone and all. But I wanted to be nice, and it did make me feel meaningful doing something for someone.

Shiela and I were pretty tight until one evening in October. It was the last time her grass would need mowing for the year, and there was a bomb threat at school, but they let us walk home early since it was almost the end of the day anyway. I stopped by my house to get the mail, and I couldn't believe it-I got accepted to governor's school! You'd have thought I won the lot­ tery. I dropped my book bag and went run­ ning to Shiela's to tell her. God, was I ever excited.

I ran into her house without knocking, seeing as how I couldn't wait to tell her. And then, you're not going to believe this, but I walked in on her and my father. They weren't even in the bedroom-they were right there on the living room rug in front 15

of the piano. I ran outside and threw up in her yard. I had that same feeling as the night I saw the eyelash mites on television only it was magnified a trillion times. Ever since, I've been trying to play one of my mind games and tell myself it never happened, but it's hard to pretend to yourself, and this was em­ barrassing. Most people can't be trusted, but I thought Shiela was different, I really did.

The sickening part is, though, that all the things Shiela gave me that used to make me happy now make me sad. Take for instance this stuffed Little Prince she gave me. I used to love it because it reminded me of all the good times I had with Shiela. And York Pep­ permint Patties make me sad too because that was Shiela's favorite candy. You know, Mr. Sarvis's wife died of cancer the year af­ ter I had him -I wonder if wolves make him

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sad. I swear, the better you know people the more they hurt you.

I should have never gotten started, but I've been feeling a little peculiar so I just took a shower because sometimes that makes me feel better. But this time, my mind started play­ ing this game where it was pretending that I was one of those drowning kittens in a bag, and it seems crazy, but I actually started to believe I might drown. So I tried singing to block out all of this, but that one line that goes, "if I never loved I never would have cried . . . " (you know, from "I Am a Rock") kept playing over and over and over in my mind.

Anyway, my mom keeps nagging me to prac­ tice the piano, and I can't tell her this, but I don't think I'm going to governor's school this summer because every time I try to play the piano I think of them .

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Washcloth It is the tiny ringing the blare of set time that pushes the pajama-clad into showers.

The cubicled monasticism of washing night from the skin.

And some of us stand with head tilted, eyes closed to breathe steam to listen to the spray against tile to the sucking drain to prolong, yes Before the day sets the skin to flesh dusted with seconds-the minutes of hours like the film of sweat after nightmares how we wait for someone to come with the half-wrung washcloth.

- karen hvidding 1997

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Cicada Her wilted flesh-foliage ravished to bones by God's fury, the locusts' rage.

First Love

-mike emberson

Green sheets dressed my bed Years ago in youth when we slept Side by side.

-everett kalqfatis

Winter

Coin Toss

Winter's my perfect hiding place: The frigid solstice digs the hole; The world can see only my face.

-diane hailey

The moment of truth is here.

I'll say I want to be with you: Heads or tails.

-Samantha irish

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CHRYSALIS

T.G.I.F. Keg of laughs Bushel of snacks Two Sony speakers with extra bass Three dashes Creedence Four shots Crosby, Stills, Nash Five fifths spiced rum One dozen friends and A set of diced fun Simmer in dorm. Add incense to taste.

Let stand till Saturday morning.

-cindy rhinehart

Wounded Wine 2 cups of shattered memories 1 teaspoon of pain 1 cup of confusion a dash of doubt a sprinkle of jealousy Pour into a cold, empty glass.

Serve with 2 broken hearts.

-lori ward

1997

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Going Home Down by the old pasturePast the bottoms where creek cuts through Cow-grazed fields, A winding road takes me home.

Gravel and pavement under calloused feet, Breeze-breath sways willows in the heat.

"Walk slow," cicadas scream.

Welcome home.

Down by the old pasture­ Past green-gladed glen, Footworn path now overgrown.

The memory of childhood discovery, An innocent but melancholic recovery Of dreams floating uncaught in the grass.

Where echoes laugh.

Down by the old pastureWhile pond, lapping lazily, reflects the sky, A secret place I once called mine; Sinking slowly, sliding in naked wonder.

Nostalgic tears are drowned as I go ever under.

Never really home, I am Only welcomed.

-Jessica sleeth 24

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Crafting Me The happiness of my life is held in one little box.

It does not hold old photographs or remnants of a broken heart, not my childhood memories­ trophies, awards, or prizes.

Nor does it hold the torn blanky that kept me and Pooh Bear so warm.

Its contents may seem so strange, but they are special to me.

Plastic lace, seed beads, fishing line do not have meaning on their own; but when they are intertwined, they lead to my Savior's cross.

Items others may find useless are things that make me who I am!

- tiffany gillend

1997

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CHRYSALIS

OByron 0 Byron, does your spirit somewhere roam Over the Grecian hills and shores of foam, Where you died armed for sweet Liberty's sake?

Upon the four breezes does your muse stir, Through the pulsing tides your restless heart quake, Roaring with the oceans crash and thunder By a lovers' fireside vigil Under the midnight still?

Can you not rejoice at the Tuscan shores Like the children with their sand-castled moors By the emerald Mediterranean, Laughing as they do upon thoughts of death­ As poets basking in the golden sun, Revived in memory, spirit, and breath To the verse of Triton's fierce blow And the seagulls' shriek-echo?

No, boundless as your Promethean passion Are the waters spanning the horizon!

Wild and uncompromising as your wit: A harbor's tempest in might and glory Spun in Titanic forms of destructive fits!

0 Byron, must your soul still heave anxiously, Grasping, like a wave swelled with pride, At the mantle of the gods?

-mike emberson 1997

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Inspired Battle Each with a mission, wooden soldiers Line up and prepare for battle.

The company makes up a motley crew: The veterans, coarse and bristly, Stiff with age and experience; A few recruits, still fine and handsome.

They are anxious and ready As they await the coming fray; Few will ever be the same.

Behind the scenes the dying sleep: Strangled, half-spent tubes of paint, Warped forms almost gummed up shut.

They donate the most valuable part; Their sacrifice is life to all.

Their gifts are sky, daffodil, precious gems, And the crimson jewel of blood.

The surgeon's knife mixes them to make Flesh and tree, flower and wind.

General Easel stands proud and tall, Directing the scene below.

He's just a bit rickety from age, His uniform no longer clean, But splattered with the oil-colored souls Of artists, he towers over and above us all, And his seasoned eyes have seen Everything from the greatest of victories To inglorious flops.

The canvas is the battleground, Stark-naked white, a virgin field.

It soon will be the scene Of clashing colors and dueling hues, And dizzying paint-thinner fumes.

But although this battle will destroy The virgin beauty, her stain will be Her greater glory; this combat will end When she's a work of art.

- heather schulz

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CHRYSALIS

Courage The eyes that once danced now watch the sky for a sign of rain.

His once lush plains now blow with the wind, and he wonders where he'll find the corn to feed his cows.

His rough, calloused hands tremble as he shuts the gate to take the last cow to market.

He follows in the dusty cow paths etched in the land as deep as his heritage; Her brittle bones and frail, gaunt ribs can hardly maintain herself, much less a calf.

She has held on as long as she could.

Only dust is left.

His strong silhouette is still solid but he shakes inside when the only thing he knows how to do cracks in the heat of summer and is carried away with the breath of his God. -marnie potter

1997

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Van Gogh's Eyes The starry heavens Shine through your eyes, Your brain teeming in swirling gyres, Spiraling chains of sublime blues And dashes of yellow.

Frenzied strokes of celestial vision Your brush doth paintNot madness or vertigo, But hymns of Eternity's lost heaven, Angelic choruses Crowned with halos, Making their draping descension In Jacob's stony sleep.

-mike emberson

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Crocus How early sprang that lavender crocus by the front gate, oblivious to the calendar, to the thermometer, the weatherman, poking up its fragile head, a reminder that living is growing.

And how coldly came the frost, that one chilly morning we found the flower's head not bowed but broken, not art, but vegetation, a reminder that living is dying.

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A shame, we said, about that frost, about that flower's timing, if it had appeared some other while, some other where, a million choruses of ifs as if blooming were not living, as if we were not lucky that those blooms came early.

-lana whited

CHRYSALIS

Dr. Lana Whited s po em "Crocus" was wr ' itten following the abrupt deaths in Sprin 1996 g Qf Teresa Anglin and Eric Baker.

1997

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Goal I beat the last defender The goalie leaves the line Block out the smell of the wet grass My left knee's awful whine The chanting on the sidelines The goal before me now I focus on juking Cranking the ball In the upper 90 -susan sautter

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Chrysalis Staff '97: Editor-In-Chief

Mike Emberson

Art Coordinator

Day Niederhauser

Literary Editor

Cindy Rhinehart

Assistant Art Coordinator

Heather Schulz

Assistant Literary Editors

Karen Hvidding Jessica Sleeth

Advisor

Dan Gribbin

Special Thanks to: Rachel K. Denham Tina Hanlon John S. Hardt

Jason Mullins Jane Stogner Lana Whited