Chrysalis: Fall 2020

Chrysalis

Literary and Arts Magazine

Ferrum College Autumn/Winter 2020

Chrysalis Literary and Arts Magazine Staff Chloe Fisher, Editor-in-Chief Abigail McGovern, Editor-in-Chief Emma Brubaker Kristina Cossa Ashley Dalton Caroline King Jacques Moore-Roberts Shela Muriel Antionette Payne Judges Kala Brubaker ‘16, Prose Marcia Horn, Poetry Ryan Osborne ‘11, Art Shameer Shah ‘06, Photography

Ferrum College Autumn/Winter 2020

The Beauty of Nature by Shela Muriel

Cover Photo: Single by Chloe Fisher, First Place Photography

Table of Contents Single by Chloe Fisher Cover Photo The Beauty of Nature by Shela Muriel 1 Falling Leaves by Abigail McGovern 4 First Glimpse of Fall by Suzie Maines 4 Love Hurts by Elina Baltins 5 Horse in Portugal by Ryan Gobble 6 A Song in the Dark by Abigail McGovern 7 Hidden Falls by Shela Muriel 8 In the Garden by Katie Shoaf 9 In the Regal Court by Brandon Mullins 11 Colorful Shapes by Shauna Garrison 11 Right Hand of the Divine by Casey Craddock 12 I Remember Too Much by Chloe Fisher 13 My Country, My Home by Helen Ogbole 14 Ancestry by Jacques Moore-Roberts 15 Mr. Al’s Steam Machines by Madison Cline 16 Old Farming Techniques by Kasie Smith 17 Urbanology by Abigail McGovern 18 You Are at Peace by Shela Muriel 19 Resting in Arlington by Ashley Dalton 19 New Life by Alyssa Hogan 20 My Letter to Him. by Helen Ogbole 22 Lake Sunset by Kristina Cossa 22 Wuthering Heights 2015 by Tina Hanlon 24 The Bells Refuse to Ring by D. Bruckshaw Campbell 26 Spring Blooms by Katie Shoaf 27 Painful Memories by Kristina Cossa 28 Two Kinds of Love by Caroline King 28 High? by Antionette Payne 30 Censorship by Elina Baltins 30 Let Me Go by Caroline King 31 Twinkle by Chloe Fisher 32 The Mountain Tells Her Story by Abigail McGovern 34 Views from 310 by Antionette Payne 34 Apple Tree Falls by Emma Brubaker 35 Spark of Joy by Brandon Mullins 36 Sunflower in the Wind by Laurynn Hackett 37 I Met You by Ashley Dalton 38 Almost Forgotten by Danny Adams 38 Farmland Sunset by Ashley Dalton 39 Disney Wonders by Emma Brubaker 40 2

Happy Birthday to Me by Alli Kurfees The Aftermath by Joshua Isangedighi A Rainy Drive by Caroline King Fragile but Beautiful by Kristina Cossa Alpha by Kristina Cossa In the Woods by Jacques Moore-Roberts Into the Unknown by Mary Stoudt Fall Pup by Kasie Smith Neighborhood Cat Reacts to 2020 by Danny Adams Ellie Mae by Ashley Dalton My Favorite View by Ryan Gobble Smell the Flowers by Laurynn Hackett Hank by Caroline King Huntress by Mary Stoudt Come Play by Katie Shoaf Tan Summer by Chloe Fisher Riverwalk by Kristina Cossa The Business of Disappearing by Abigail McGovern EPIPHANIE/Epiphany by Helen Ogbole Red Octopus by Elina Baltins Tenebrous Tendrils by Brandon Mullins Fear by Shela Muriel What You See by Shela Muriel Mountain Ranges by Ashley Dalton Abingdon at Dusk by Ryan Gobble I Command, I Command by Casey Craddock I Hate You by Chloe Fisher Brave by Elina Baltins With Your Girl Gaze by Casey Craddock Emotion by Ashley Dalton Summer in Aarhus by Suzie Maines Coast Waters by Elina Baltins Time Limit by Antionette Payne Good ‘Ole Boys by Chloe Fisher A Girl and Her Horse by Caroline King A Farmer and His Dog by Kasie Smith She is Beautiful by Caroline King Biographies Fall Into Ferrum by Alyssa Hogan Acknowledgements Look into the Big Beautiful Eyes of a Cow by Casey Craddock Parrot Named Joe by Elina Baltins

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Falling Leaves

By Abigail McGovern First Place Poetry Darling, aren’t you tired Of being twisted up in all these wires?

Tugged back and forth like marionette strings, Crackling electricity burning through your veins?

Follow me instead through the trees, Nothing but streaks of scarlet and gold floating on the breeze.

Hush, pause for the hum of the crickets— Dance cautious steps through the thorny thickets.

At the mountain’s peak, stop—and breathe.

Doesn’t this feel like finally being free?

Of course, I’ll understand If you’d rather keep your feet firmly on paved land.

But darling just remember, If you’re looking for me You’d better hurry.

By the time you’re ready to believe, I’ll already have vanished among the falling leaves.

First Glimpse of Fall

by Suzie Maines 4

Love Hurts by Elina Baltins First Place Art

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Horse in Portugal by Ryan Gobble Second Place Photography

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A Song in the Dark

By Abigail McGovern First Place Prose Your days are always the same step-by-step pattern, the same singular routine. You wake up with the rising sun, shower, walk the dog to try and keep you both in shape. Head to work, scarfing down a bagel in the car so you won’t be late. Spend an average of nine hours toiling in the kind of job where the walls are all the same shade of beige and they don’t give a damn what you have to say, just get the work done.

Afterward, you take care of the chores, eat some dinner, and hopefully have some time to yourself before you give in to exhaustion and get ready to do it all again the next morning.

Some evenings, if you have some spare time on your hands and a strong enough desire to break the routine and grasp for some meaning in life, you pick up your violin case and head to the park. You set the case down and play for a passing stranger’s dollar—a way to make extra cash, yes, but also a way to pour some of yourself into the world, to try to connect with the humanity of others, to make life mean something more than the routine you’re getting frustrated with. You don’t want the cash, you want the connection. You have always loved the magic music makes you feel, but you never managed to make that little drop of life reach others.

No one ever stops.

They drop a couple of dollars in and they keep walking. Everyone is too caught up in their own circular patterns that they don’t—or can’t—stop to try to tangle the threads. But one such evening, you notice something different. You notice her.

And you have never considered yourself a hopeless romantic, and you have never believed in love at first sight. But she is standing in the fading evening light, her eyes matching the dusky blue sky behind her.

And she is listening. She is listening to your music, dusty boots tapping in time, lips moving like she is writing the words to your song. The song that has never had any words.

So you take a chance, you talk to her. And you learn that music pulls at her soul the way it does yours. You learn that she is looking for connection too, looking for something more. She tells you that she sings, and you invite her to sing along with you. Her voice is slightly raspy, the way the ocean would sound if it could pour its power and knowledge out in words. You have never heard anything that goes so perfectly with the violin sound of your soul.

When you perform together, you feel free. As if all your ties to this busy, constant, monotonous world have been cut and you can finally be yourself. Nothing has ever sounded or felt more right.

And you are falling in love with her. Not just with her twilight eyes or dusty boots, not just with the gap between her two front teeth or the 7

holes in her jeans, or the freckles like constellations on her cheeks. Not just with her tidal-wave voice. But with the gleam in her eyes when she gets an idea, with the way she thinks about the world, with the lyrics she writes to go with your music—that somehow capture everything you have ever wanted to convey but have never been able to. You are falling in love with the way she dances like there’s no one watching, and how she looks at you like there isn’t anyone else in the world besides the two of you. You are falling in love with her reckless abandon and her thunderstorm spirit, with her love for adventures, the moments when she drags you down rain-soaked sidewalks with uneven stones, looking like a painting under the streetlights.

Hidden Falls by Shela Muriel

You would follow her anywhere, wouldn’t you? Down any path she asked you to, to any corner of the world, through any trial. You decide that if you feel like that, what choice is there but to get down on one knee and ask if the two of you could share every journey together.

Her whispered yes and the lightning joy in her eyes were more beautiful than any crescendo in any sonata you had ever heard.

And for a few fleeting months, there was no more monotony, no more endless cycle of grey days. There was a new routine. You and her, taking on the day together, music and laughter lighting the tasks that had once felt so daunting. The two of you swept the world away with the combined song of your souls.

But they always said that all good things must come to an end. And one wrong step had her falling away from you, slipping more quickly through your grasp the tighter you tried to hold on.

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You will never forget how her tune was cut off, her voice rising in a last syllable of panic before it happened, a canary in a coal mine and you too far away to reach her.

And with the falling of that last note, there was suddenly silence everywhere. Silence next to you, all around you, within that now-hollow space you had once called a heart. With no words to match its song, no lyrics to make it heard, your soul was silent for the first time you could remember. No music, not a single note, stirring inside it.

You tried once. At the funeral.

You tried to pick up your violin, to muster the song within you that had always spoken louder than you ever could. Before her, yours was a song of longing, a melancholy call to the world for someone to hear, to listen, to embrace something larger than the monotony. With her, it was a wild symphony that matched the drumbeat of your heart, a found, forgotten part of you that wanted to have adventures and to have them loudly. But without her, there was nothing worthwhile to say. Just a cracked, empty space inside you where that song had once welled.

So you set the violin aside, locking it away in its case where it gathered dust, just like your heart. And you wrapped yourself in silence, unable to bear what was missing and unable to bear what was ahead. And you fell.

You found her in your memory and followed that thread down and down, deeper and deeper until you found a place that you once would have run from. Dark and shattered and cold. And silent, so silent.

You had to forget your music, forget the light it once created, and wrap yourself so tightly in the silence that it smothered anything else.

And that’s where you found her, tucked away in the depths of this place, watching you with big sad eyes.

When you asked her why she looked so sad, when you had done your best to follow her path, and you had found her, you had found her, despite how far you had to go, she just said, “No one should ever have to walk a path of such silence; no soul can bear it.”

And when you asked what this silence was doing to her soul, she just shook her head again.

That was no answer, and you couldn’t bear the thought of the woman who had given words to the song of your soul alone down here, suffocating in the dark. So you grabbed her hand and tried to pull her with you back out of this shattered place to the world of life and color.

But it was infinitely harder to go up and up than it was to go down and down. And for every step you crawled higher, you felt your grip slipping, your chest tightening at the thought of going back to a world that expected you to be loud when you had become so, so quiet.

You don’t know how long you were down there in the dark, clawing for a way out with her In the Garden by Katie Shoaf

hand in yours, when she began to sing. You hadn’t realized how much silence sounded like fear, how much you felt the weight of its pain, until her voice cut through it. Singing the words she had written long ago to match your music.

And all of a sudden you could see her face. Not how it was now, cold and pale, but how it had been before. Her twilight eyes and the laughter brightening her face like a star. Singing, saying your name, smiling, looking like a painting under the streetlights. You held on to the sound of her voice and you went up and up, letting the song lift you. You began to see the light at the top of this pit.

You had almost convinced yourself that it would still be there when you reached the top, that she would be laughing beside you again. But when you found yourself standing on that threshold, you remembered what had caused the fall all along, remembered this was something not quite so easy to bring someone back from. And you looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time since the song had begun.

She was there behind you, cold, pale, and ghostly. Nothing like the thunderstorm soul you remembered. Your heart cracked and you felt yourself slipping at the prospect of leaving her behind. But she grabbed your arms and she held you there on threshold. “There are some roads you can only walk alone. Here is where we part.”

“What will happen to you?” you asked, your voice cracked and raspy. It had been so very long since you had had a reason to use it.

She gave you a smile that glowed every bit as brightly as the old, even in this vastly different face. “Remember how I sang our song, even in the dark. Remember how you got out.”

Then she pushed and you were falling. Not down, but out.

And when you emerged, blinking in sunlight that hadn’t reached you for so long, the world had not forgotten you. It welcomed you with open arms. And it was no longer so grey, nor so silent. It was the slow crescendo of birdsong in the early morning, learning to find its voice once more in the rising sun.

And when they all asked you how you were doing, you told them that you were doing what you should have done all along.

You picked up your violin from its discarded corner, brushed the dust off of the instrument and off of your soul. And you played the song you should have played all along. Her song, the song you shared.

And so you fell into a new routine.

You wake up with the rising sun, shower, walk the dog. And then you play. Play in the in-between moments, play in the park, play the song inside your soul even while you work. So that you can finally put yourself back together again. Heal. New and different, but finally, after these long months, whole.

So with her song inside you, you played and you would never stop playing again, not so long as there were people out there who needed to climb from the silence, needed a song in the dark to help them up to the light.

So you played for yourself, for her, and for them, and you always would.

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In the Regal Court

By Brandon Mullins Second Place Poetry A rook sat fixed to the walls, Observing the stolid queen strolling In a garden with as much grandeur as she.

Flanking her was a pair of knights, Whose eyes looked cautiously at the rook, Ready to jump into action at an instant.

Above them all stood the king, Possessing power that the others envied.

His guards stood at a distance, As the king welcomed the bishop, Who came bearing bad news.

Colorful Shapes by Shauna Garrison 11

The Right Hand of the Divine by Casey Craddock Second Place Art

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I remember too much

by Chloe Fisher Second Place Prose I remember too much, I remember too easily, too vividly. I remember that night so openly in my mind, over and over and over.

I remember you too much. I remember you said, “We can get dinner and a movie,” which consisted of getting Subway to go. I remember the movie being on your flat screen instead of in a theater. I remember you said, “It’s my grandma’s place,” but we were in a shed behind an empty house. I remember you said, “It’s my bedroom,” but the bed didn’t have sheets or pillows, and there was no bathroom to hide in.

I remember you said, “It won’t hurt to do it just once,” even when I said no. I remember trying to watch the stupid rom-com you put on the television to avoid the feeling of your fingertips inching past my ankles. I remember your clammy, cold palms pressing onto my leg, trying to slip under my jeans. I remember avoiding your eye contact and ignoring your persistency to undress me. I remember you towering over me in a split-second, your hands snaking up my body. I remember the feeling of nausea in the pit of my stomach, the taste of Subway making its way back up my throat. I remember you said, “I can wear protection,” and I remember not responding. I remember you said, “It’s just this one time.” I remember being too afraid to say anything. I remember the feeling of your weight on me, the feeling of your hands on my shoulder blades. I remember the feeling of being trapped on my stomach, the feeling of my lungs fighting for air. I remember being too afraid to push you off, too afraid to say stop. I was too afraid you would hurt me or wouldn’t take me home. I remember being too afraid to tell anyone, to admit that it felt like it was my fault. I remember the months that followed, telling myself that I could have stopped it. I could have kicked, screamed, I could have not gone with him at all. I could have not messaged him first only because he liked a picture on my Facebook. I remember not eating at Subway for almost an entire year, because the taste of it in my mouth took me back to that long, dreadful night. I remember I didn’t have sex for almost two years after.

Looking at myself in the mirror for too long would cause tears to well into my eyes. I remember my showers went from almost an hour to a brief ten minutes, because touching my own body brought emotional pain to me. I remember it all too much, I remember it all too easily, too vividly. I remember that night so openly in my mind, over and over and over. I remember you all too much.

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My Country, My Home.

By Helen Ogbole I must prepare.

A guest, A guest is coming.

A dear friend, A dear friend is almost here.

I depart from my bungalow and embark on the adventure that awaits me beyond those four walls.

I stroll on the deteriorating yet oddly satisfying pavement, humming my melodious tune as I take in my surroundings.

On my left are green pastures with abundant amounts of flocks and herds, grazing and moving freely across the fields.

Buildings of all shapes and sizes, filled with diverse urban and city delights grace my right view.

The sounds of vehicles and pedestrians moving in miscellaneous directions trying to get to their various destinations.

Truly the best of both worlds.

I finally reach my place of purpose.

The sound of market men and women aiming for their next sale, “Right here!” “Look at this ma!” “Over here,” The young and old conversing in their unique languages.

I breathe in the indescribable scents that surround the place.

Children running around, smiles all bright and faces so light, unaware of the problems that lie past the day, only focusing on the now and not on tomorrow.

Scorching yet tender sun, Clear yet full skies, Cool yet warm breeze, Feelings truly like none other.

I continue my sweet tune as I return back to my humble abode with numerous thoughts going through my head.

What form of edible glory should I present to my guest today?

Should I approach the traditional route Which brings back memories and the feeling of nostalgia as I recall my days in the kitchen as a young girl?

Or should I dabble in modern cuisine, Fusing different cultures in perfect harmony while still maintaining the feeling of home?

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After hasty decisions, the work begins.

Delicious meals prepared in cast iron pots, so rich with nutrients and flavorful spices, served on platters, ready to be devoured.

Drinks poured, Finally, ready for company.

Knock knock.

The moment is here, Showtime!

Knock knock!

The sound repeats itself and echoes throughout the narrow hallway.

I proceed to the door with glee and anxiety or, to better explain, nervous excitement.

I repeat an encouraging mantra in my head as I draw nearer to the wooden frame that separates us.

Pushing down on the handle, I open the door and announce: “Welcome to Nigeria,” smiling brightly as the sun.

“Welcome to my country, my home.”

Ancestry by Jacques Moore-Roberts

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Mr. Al’s Steam Machines

By Madison Cline

I remember when I was small, Skinning knees on cracked pavement Ratty hair and crooked teeth Shoes too tight for growing feet, Skipping to the old brick house next door.

I danced up the steep cement stairs, Gazing in fascination at the colorful stained glass door.

The glass was bent and bubbled with age.

A little eye in the corner stared at me, Warning me that the house was protected by ADT. It seemed very wise and all-knowing to me, Like the mysterious eyes on dollar bills.

I shuddered and rang the doorbell.

My brother stood behind me, waiting in anticipation.

The grimy lock turned in its socket.

“Who is it?” a thick German voice called.

“It’s Maddie and Evan, Mr. Al!” “Ah. Come in!”

“What?”

“Come in!”

We shuffled through the door and kicked off our shoes.

His house was full but empty.

It was crammed with knick knacks and photos Perfectly clean and shining, Full of memories and laughter But the rest of the dwelling was dusty and unused.

It looked as though no one had visited in ages.

It was like he was trying to relive memories from long ago...

Memories captured in paper and glass.

A picture of Mr. Al and his wife stood on the coffee table, Her glass birds still hung from the iron bars of the stairs And all of her possessions were untouched.

“Your Grandpap said you wanted to see the steam machines,” He said.

A big grin wrinkled his paper-thin skin, pale blue eyes gleaming.

He led us into his red-carpeted basement.

There were rows and rows of steam machines Some small enough to curl around your pinky finger And others too heavy for shelves to bear.

They filled every nook and cranny.

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They were shiny and dull Copper and steel Iron and brass.

Some were angular and rigid While others had smooth sleek tubes.

The tubes were like arteries connected to a hollow heart The wooden barrel waiting to be filled with life-giving water.

He chose a polished brass machine and heaved it into the air.

Its tubes twisted around like frozen metallic snakes.

“Let’s go out to the shed.”

We slid on our shoes and strode out the back door Treading through perfectly trimmed grass.

A little shed and old black table sat waiting for us And oil cloths and bottles littered the ground.

He carefully placed the machine onto the table And filled the little oak barrel with water.

The water bubbled and steam rushed through the tubes.

Gears turned, cogs spun, and the engine whistled like a teapot.

Our eyes shone with wonder at the sight.

He explained the workings in great detail, But I could hardly pay attention.

The remarkable machine astonished me.

I wanted to reach out and touch it, To feel the artificial life despite being burned.

Old Farming Techniques by Kasie Smith 17

Urbanology

By Abigail McGovern The study of a city, they say.

But there’s a city behind me That has always held power in its cracked concrete, Stood as a symbol of what it means to be free.

A city that makes the nation complete.

We might still be there on every street block A smile on round childhood faces, Reading the history written on the walls in paint and chalk.

Letting ourselves be swept to times and places Where people were brave like we wanted to be.

There’s a city behind me that has family written in sidewalk chalk Up and down every block, Colored footprints spreading our shared stories along the sidewalks.

We might still be there, among the pigeons and doves Bouncing past white buildings that held so many voices within But to us just represented familiar love, Not temples where they debated virtue and sin.

There’s a city behind me that’s painted red and blue.

A seat of power to fight over for everyone outside, But in my head it’s full of me and you And all of the stories of people who lived, dreamed, wished, and died.

It’s full of voices in many languages Blending together to create a song That spans human culture through the ages.

It’s full of people who march in the streets because they saw something wrong.

From the outside, this city looks like politics down to the letter.

A statistic, a demographic, a war-zone.

But from the inside it’s full of kids like we once were, Made of memories of a home.

So rather than the study of a city Maybe it should instead be The study of humanity Or the story of you and me.

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You Are at Peace

By Shela Muriel When I heard the news that you passed away I was a wreck.

My mother told me so many stories I just wanted you to live on.

But then I started seeing a butterfly.

This butterfly continued to appear for a week Every day I walked out, and it was there.

Even in the worst weather.

That’s when I realized you’re at peace.

Even though I really want you with me.

Thank you for everything.

I will make sure your legacy lives on.

Resting in Arlington by Ashley Dalton 19

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New Life by Alyssa Hogan 21

My Letter to Him

by Helen Ogbole Issue: Him Listen to me And listen well.

I think it’s sad.

I think it’s honestly sad when someone (you), with no standards and regards to simple human empathy (you), attempts, no actually decides, to manipulate (you) and cause misery towards someone for whatever reason it may be (you).

Why would you do that?

Why the heck would you think that is remotely ok?

Why do you feel the need to want to hurt someone simply because you are too afraid or chicken to say what you want and stick by it?

Why? You are childish, but I saw it as you being “young at heart.”

You are full of yourself, but I chose to call it “confidence.”

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Lake Sunset by Kristina Cossa

You are a liar, but I labeled it as “joking.”

You beat your chest and call yourself a man while hiding behind the balls of your boys.

You think you call the shots even though you play the game of cowardice to a T or in this case a K. You reach up plucking the laborious and sedulous fruit cultivated from women’s trees by twos since, in actuality, you can’t grow your own.

You stand tall with your 6’5 stilts, But I guess you are simply trying to compensate for inches of disappointment.

You are cocky as heck, But that is simply to make up for what you are missing on the inside.

You think you are an Adonis But your personality makes you a Zeus, Just less of the king and more of the asshole.

It’s crazy how you thought you won, You thought you were triumphant, You thought I would succumb to you and your charms, You thought you prevailed.

And, to be fair, for a moment you did.

Heck for a moment, I thought you did.

But in the end, we found out who the true champion was.

Simply look in the mirror and you tell me what, or in this case who, is missing.

But I will continue to strive.

I will not let you bring me down or make me feel bad about who I am.

I will not let you make me think I’M the reason when you, my friend, know the truth.

So I’mma keep my head up, Crown straight, Lips blood red and bold, Body confident due to being carved by the greatest artist Himself, Outfits banging as usual, Smile shining brighter than the sun and stars combined, And shower shoes looking extra fabulous and badass as I stroll through my domain.

Because as a person descended directly from royalty, The words of the unworthy don’t faze you.

No, instead they make you turn around and smirk as you allow your legacy and success to speak for themselves.

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Wuthering Heights 2015 by Tina Hanlon 25

The Bells Refuse to Ring

By D. Bruckshaw Campbell

Across the land are belfries and within them golden bells

And when they ring the light redeems for those who wade through hell

They watch over those who suffer and speak for voices mute And light they find for those still blind and clang a mighty truth And when the clapper sings the toll it ends the suffering But tonight there is no sound at all. The Bells refuse to ring.

And once perhaps in the Garden young with innocence abound Before they ate from the Tree of Hate and called the serpents round Once upon that magic time they walked on level ground And never saw the shadows come that crept on silent sound And when the serpent heads arose with teeth of Winter’s sting On that night the clappers froze. The Bells refused to ring.

And since that time of broken rhyme tongue-less have they hung And cast their eyes above the cries that unmask racism History’s own Liberty is cracked along its shell Its echoes slice the velvet night to sound the parity knell And underneath its tonnage where some aren’t free to sing Oppression’s weight crushes fate when the Bells refuse to ring.

And from the shores of promise to the shores of property Auctioned at the hand of whip to become commodity They shackled dreams and muffled screams and on their bodies climbed To lift themselves above the ones upon whose backs they thrived And through the pain of tears came hope of some humanity They pulled the rope but it only choked and the Bells refused to ring.

And then when men on horses rode to liberate the chained The promise of that freedom rang across the land ordained Force-fed oaths are powerless when hearts and minds abscess So laws they wrote to block the road of the pursuit of happiness They stifled change and then estranged those who were hungering The hooded knights turned back the lights as the Bells refuse to ring.

Although the howl of cannon fire was dead on bloodied ground The deviled deals they dealt were ways to keep the others bound They lifted Graven Images as idols to the past Warnings to the ones who dared to rise above the caste And though no chains were visible there was still the clamoring Hearts and lives still tethered while the Bells refused to ring.

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And then the soldiers homeward sailed—heroes one and all Some allowed to walk with pride while others made to crawl They stood upon a promise to claim their share by right In horror watched the pens erase their sacrificial fight Redlined and confined by risk and government decree While privileged others sprawled because the Bells refused to ring.

And now the unseen screw has turned again to limit station The tool of choice to quell the voice is mass incarceration From chains they came and to bondage gone again the circle spins And there’s a toll it takes for life that claims half of their men The value of the lives they waste to slay the uprising The slam of prison doors the sound when Bells refuse to ring.

Never have the cities gleamed undimmed by human tears No cries survive when falling on contented, deafened ears But now there is a rumble of a growing mutiny And now more listeners to hear the muzzled songs they sing And through awareness, marching, loving, and petitioning The golden light will shine on right and perhaps the Bells will ring.

Spring Blooms

by Katie Shoaf 27

Painful memories

By Kristina Cossa I still remember the first time we met and I thought we’re going to be friends forever.

You were charming, funny, intelligent and pretty good looking.

I still remember the first words you said to me and every conversation we had after.

However, I couldn’t resist your charm and I fell for you hard.

But I decided not to tell you, and when I finally did, I noticed you had changed.

I had a front row seat to your change from my funny and kind friend to a jerk I couldn’t stand.

To this day I can still recall our final argument and how we stopped talking after.

However, whenever I look back on all our memories both good and bad, I wonder: Could I have fixed things?

Two Kinds of Love by Caroline King 28

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High?

By Antionette Payne One puff to take the pain away Two puffs hoping it’ll stay Three puffs and now you’re out of body Mind starting to feel cloudy You pray this feeling will stay Clearly you’ve lost your way Taking in the smoke while your body’s on display Hoping it’ll take the pain away But that gas only lasts for a little while You’re gonna have to find your own will to smile And when you find it oh how happy you will be A genuine happiness that anyone can see Not that fixed smile you put on just to please One puff to take the pain away No amount of puffs will make it stay

Censorship by Elina Baltins 30

Let Me Go

by Caroline King

For so long you had complete control over me.

Every minute of every day, You were all I could think about.

When you would touch my cheek, It felt like I was being touched by an angel.

When you spoke to me, Your voice sounded so soft and sweet.

It was astonishing, The way I felt about you.

How could one person love someone so much, Only to have them feel nothing at all?

We spent many days and nights together, To me you were the one thing that mattered most.

Everytime we fought, I would be the first one to apologize.

Because for me, Losing you seemed to be the worst thing imaginable.

But you kept pushing me away, Time and time again you would show me that I was not worth your time.

Then one day, you pushed me too hard.

You left me broken.

I feel like I will never have hope again.

So here is my question for you, Did “I love you” mean the same to you as it did to me?

I no longer worship the ground that you walk on.

I no longer feel an emptiness without your presence.

I no longer sit and wait for you to call me.

This is not because I no longer love you, But because I no longer know what love is.

I no longer know how to act when someone smiles at me, Or when someone asks me to dinner.

You broke me and now I have lost my direction.

I know that the minute you call I will come running, Just like I always have.

If you want to go eat, I will happily pay for our meal.

If you want to go for a ride, I will spend my last dollar on gas.

Because I love you.

I just wish that you loved me enough to let me go.

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Twinkle by Chloe Fisher 33

The Mountain Tells Her Story

by Abigail McGovern When it began, she was already old, So old that she had felt endless cold, Had watched oceans rise and fall.

So old that she thought she had seen it all.

But then came something new, A surprise, one of few.

She watched curiously as the new creatures appeared, Began to build fires, then villages, then armies to handle their fear.

They called themselves humans and they were made of furiosity.

But they loved to explore, for they were also made of curiosity.

They built their homes in her shadow and saw her as something to worship.

And she loved them—their tenacity and refusal to forfeit.

So she watched over them as they grew more widespread, Watched them evolve and love and dream and fear and dread.

They went to war for things good and bad, And sometimes when there weren’t enough resources to be had.

They built machines and cities and told stories Of her, of nature, of their glories.

And for a time they loved her as she loved them, Relying on her strength and happy to have a friend.

But they grew greedy.

For ways to make life easier, they became needy.

When they learned how easily the stones inside her burned How ferocious they became, how they yearned.

So right through her middle they blew a hole And they went in searching for coal.

They betrayed her trust And she was heart-broken by their endless lust.

Views from 310 by Antionette Payne 34

But she did not lose faith and protected them still For she too had been once made of ire and boundless will.

And though it drove her to grief To see what those she loved did to the forests, rivers and reefs, She knew there was still time for them to change.

After all, she herself had taken an age.

Soon, they saw what they did to the earth and the skies, All of the creatures they left to die, And they were full of shame.

Then, once again, they began to call her name.

Gone were the ones full of lust.

Instead came new ones ready to trust That she would protect them as she had always done.

With them they brought seeds and animals and helping-hands and they began The process of regrowing, of fixing what had been broken.

All across her mountain-face, they created a protected place and many apologies were spoken.

Once again, she was green and full of life And once again she felt the love of those little creatures so full of strife.

She loved them still Even with their ire and boundless will And as long as there were those who felt nature’s call, She would continue to protect them all.

Apple Tree Falls by Emma Brubaker 35

Spark of Joy

by Brandon Mullins Powerful, brilliant blades of lightning ripped through the black mass. The raucous clashes of thunder reverberated overhead, rattling my bones. Between each quiver, time had little meaning.

This scintillating sphere of night demonstrated perfectly the primal, sometimes haunting, beauty of our world. It possessed a vague sense of order, yet it showed little restraint.

A strange surge of pleasure washed over me as the frigid rain bit my skin. My feet, though leaden with thick clumps of mud and grass, carried me valiantly through the open field. Making myself so vulnerable might have been thought foolhardy—even brainless— yet to live is inherently to risk. I hadn’t felt such exhilaration since running alongside the hounds in my youth.

Once I arrived at the lone house, I beat upon the door. After a moment, the cloth was lifted. An old lady—a distant acquaintance— studied me with her milky eye, hiding in the corner of the window.

“What’re you here for?” she asked, yelling gutturally over the rain.

“I’m here to see her—my friend,” I replied as water trickled down my face. “Is she all right? I don’t know what I’d do if she were to fall ill.” My words trembled with concern.

The old lady looked down a moment, then opened the door. I followed her in.

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s all right. She’s just lying in my bed, watching the TV,” the old lady replied. With weighted steps, she walked to the kitchen, grabbing a ladle from the counter. “You want anything to eat? I fixed some potato soup a little while ago.”

“Actually, I am a little hungry,” I said as I dried myself off.

“All right, I’ll dip some into a bowl,” she replied. “Go find your friend while I fix this up for you, okay? Best not keep her waiting.”

As I walked into the bedroom, the distinct, oddly-satisfying sweetness of antique décor penetrated my nose. Under a large, soft quilt was my friend, as expected. I approached her carefully, taking her gentle hand into my own. She directed her gaze to me. Weakly, she murmured, “W-Why did you come? Aren’t you worried that you’ll get sick?”

I returned a warm smile. “Your well-being is more important right now. I’ll be able to shrug off whatever happens to me.” I reached over to give her forehead a little flick. “More importantly, what were you doing that brought you here?”

The girl looked up at me, struggling to maintain eye contact.

She pulled something out from under the quilt. In her hand was a little box, wrapped in a pretty silver paper. Not wasting a second, the words flew out of her: 36

“I was actually on my way to see you. On the way, I tripped and fell into a big rain puddle. Luckily, this lady had been watching everything from the wind—” Crrrack! The sheer power of the sound rocked the entire house.

She shuddered before collecting herself. In that brief moment, I could feel heat emanating from her.

“—ow.”

“I’ll have to thank her for that, and for calling me.”

“Naw, naw. You don’t have to do that. I was only doing what any good person would,” a voice yelled from behind. The old lady herself waddled into the room, bowl in hand. I took the bowl and devoured its contents in mere seconds.

Urp! A weak belch had escaped my lips. My friend giggled, which brought a grin to my face. At the same time, the old lady also laughed, disturbingly sounding like a witch.

After we were done, my friend handed me the silver box. “Here. I wanted to give you this. Don’t open it until you get back home, though!”

“Well, he ain’t going home any time soon.” the grandma exclaimed. “This ain’t a hospital, you know! I can only do so much.”

I looked around the room before giving the lady a sidelong stare. “But where would we all even sleep?” I asked with a hint of nervousness. “We all can’t very well sleep in this one bed. It would feel especially weird for me, you know. . . being the guy here and all.”

She gave another cackle. “Oh, you! I’ll leave your”—the lady looked at my friend with a toothy grin—“friend, here, my bed for the night. You take the couch. I’ll make do.”

Frowning, my friend interjected. “Are you sure, ma’am? I’d be just fine sleeping somewhere else.”

“I insist!” the lady told her. “Trust me, you need that bed more than I do right now.” She gave us an assuring nod and started walking out. “I’ll be in the other room if you need me.” I looked at my friend one last time before heading for the couch. “Good night.”

She lunged for my arm like a hungry predator. Clasping it tightly, she commanded me to wait. “Please, don’t go yet. Can we talk just a little more?” She moved over to give me some space next to her.

I blinked at her for a moment before nodding silently. She released her grip and moved closer to the edge of the bed.

I moved to the other side, making sure to get comfortable. We would spend the rest of the stormy night chatting away.

Sunflower in the Wind

by Laurynn Hackett

I Met You

by Ashley Dalton I first met you sitting on the boardwalk.

You were crying, clutching onto a note from your brother.

I wonder, how did he do it?

You were upset, rightfully so. You both were really close.

Maybe I can fill that void for you.

I met you again on a Monday in a dingy bar.

It was hard to recognize you at first.

The lights were so dim I almost couldn’t make out your features. Almost.

Drinking on a weekday, I see; how irresponsible of you.

I expected better.

The last time we met was in your room.

You were sleeping even though it was 1 p.m. You should be at work.

Your boss will be really upset with you.

You look so peaceful, though, like you have not a care in the world.

But I know the truth.

I wonder, what will become of you?

Almost Forgotten by Danny Adams

Farmland Sunset by Ashley Dalton 39

Disney Wonders by Emma Brubaker 40

Happy Birthday to Me

by Alli Kurfees Nineteen days before I turned fourteen, My grandfather died. Sudden. Unexpected.

And my dad lost his job.

Happy birthday to me.

Twenty-two days before I turned seventeen, I lost my virginity to someone I thought I loved.

My family hated him.

The same year, I woke up wanting nobody to acknowledge my birthday.

Happy birthday to me.

On my nineteenth birthday, I supplied the fun And my boyfriend was “too busy” to see me.

The following day, I got accused of being disloyal to him.

I was not.

Happy birthday to me.

On my twentieth birthday, I was drunk before midnight.

People thought I turned twenty-one.

I was surrounded by friends.

Happy birthday to me.

On my twenty-first birthday, I went to eat with friends.

The waiter gave me free tequila shots.

I came back to flowers and balloons in my dorm.

And I actually said to myself, Happy birthday to me.

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The Aftermath

by Joshua Isangedighi 09/17/20XX I awoke to a nightmare.... My name is Sean Marshall; I am a 25-year-old programmer and the last survivor of the plague. I’m voice recording my thoughts and feelings to retain my sanity and maybe because, deep down, I hope that someone will find this and know they aren’t alone. My attempt to recall what happened before the plague began is difficult; trying to remember definitely gives me a very “pleasant” feeling like someone is repeatedly taking a sledgehammer to my head. What I can remember though is that the plague was a disease that blazed through the earth like wildfire to a forest, and staying true to my metaphor, I was the only tree left standing; the otherI trees, well, most of them, burned to ash, and as for the rest of them, they became the “Withered.” Now I know this may sound like your typical movie about zombies, but the Withered—they are zombies on steroids! They aren’t slow; they’re actually very fast, and they are stronger than your average circus strongman. They don’t smell like decaying flesh like most zombies would. In fact, they smell the same as a burger sizzling on the grill. In a weird way, it was kind of appetizing. The “Withered” seem to have consciousness and the ability to communicate because they seemed very coordinated. At least, that’s my little theory of them. But this is the first entry in my audio journal and a look into the story of my new life in this new world.

09/19/20XX As a new morning began as the sun rose, it brought warmth, but not a warmth that you would be familiar with. This warmth was becoming a burning sensation in my chest, but I chose to ignore it. I was starving and was in need of anything I could eat, so I decided to get some food.

Luckily the area that I resided in had a giant Costco, but it was 36 miles away from my current location, so I got in my car, a cherry red 1978 Pontiac Firebird with beautiful silver chrome rims, which was appropriate considering its name. This car is my only friend, and its name is Valentino. As I drove towards the freeway, I recalled a memory of my Father telling me about the Firebird. My Father was never a nice man. As a matter of fact, looking at him you could tell he had a face that was almost like staring into the jungle and seeing all your fears stare back. He had sunken eyes with a stern brow, a sharp jaw with the most clean-cut shaved beard you would have ever seen, and always had his shirt tucked in (and when I say always, I mean in every single shirt he wore). A military man since the age of 17, sometimes it made sense as to why it seemed that I was always a disappointment to him. He was not a nice man, but when it came to Valentino, he was an entirely different 42

man when he was with his car. I hated that car for the longest time; as his disappointment for me grew, so did his disdain. It was clear that we would never be close. That he would feed me, clothe me, and provide a home—those were the only things he was obliged to do, and he did his job perfectly. When I turned 14, his disdain turned to hate as it seemed I did not do “regular boy” activities like boxing with my friends and playing sports. That is exactly when he seemed to be fed up with me.

And when I left for the boarding school he shipped me off to, he never let me come back home. I did not see him again until my 24th birthday when he was on his death-bed and expressed his eternal hate and disappointment in me as his bastard son, but relunctantly, he did give me his car. As I recalled the origin of the car, I realized that I was almost about to miss the turn.

So I swerved into the lane and scavenged some food.

09/20/20XX As I was walking around Costco (where I took refuge), I saw two “Withered” with wooden poles that they used as weapons. My theory seemed to be coming true; they were gaining consciousness. I walked out with my father’s shotgun (which I had shot a handful of times). I walked close, and they stared and started to walk forward.

However, there was something odd, as I let the shots of the gun fly into one of them. The other one seemed to cry and ran at me with hatred in her face; I picked up the pole dropped by the one I had shot and quickly dispatched the A Rainy Drive by Caroline King other one. This was my first time killing anything alive, and I thought I should have at least felt some sympathy for the poor creatures, but I did not.

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10/24/20XX It’s my birthday… I’m spending it truly alone for the first time. I opened my computer to use it because I had found an unlimited wifi source and could scour the Internet. And I received an instant message from a lady named Alyssa saying she had found my voice recordings online, had a group of survivors, and that I should come and see her new civilization which was 2782 miles away. Needless to say, I drove as fast as a cheetah in the wild.

10/25/20XX After driving for a couple of hours I saw a gas station, and I looked at my car...I was having trouble remembering its name... was it Valentine or Romero? Anyway, I am headed to the survivors. I have not spoken to Alyssa since, but when I set up at my home for tonight, I will see if she has said anything more.

10/27/20XX I uh...uh woke up outside, and this is the fourth time, but I thought I was just sleepwalking, so I kept it to myself. I’ve been feeling weird; it’s probably from something that happened before the plague, but I cannot remember. I’m still very far away, about 2500 miles. As I was driving, I saw a little girl running right through the middle of the road; I hopped out the car whose name I still had yet to remember and ran, but when I got there, I saw no one. My eyes must have been deceiving me, so I got back in the car and kept driving.

10/30/20XX Only 500 miles left, but something I can’t explain is happening to me. I have been more hungry than I can even explain. No food is cutting it … every second I feel the need to eat; even my subconsciously doing things is getting worse. I saw some “Withered” yesterday, and the next thing I knew, I was covered in its guts. Maybe I got hit on the head or something because thinking about it hurts my head. I hope they have a doctor at the civilization. Maybe they can find out what’s wrong with me.

11/2/20XX I finally arrived at the beaten-down camp. The tents were unkempt, and it was losing me already. I didn’t know if I should stay. Looking at this place brought me a sense of uneasiness. I was ready to leave until I saw a beautiful lady with bewitching golden locks of hair and a face that could have easily made her a model. She caught the attention of everyone as she walked by, both male and female. She approached with something I had not seen on a face besides mine in a good while, a smile. Now, I know that a smile is trivial, but her smile was beautiful. It lit up the room in a way that I had never seen before. As she walked me through the camp, I couldn’t help but stare—she seemed to be kindhearted, a genuinely nice person, and

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she treated the kids in the camp as if they were her own. She was talking to me, but I was obviously not listening. From what I did hear, she seemed to be goofy (funny, but in a good way), and I tried to hit things off. That’s the end of this recording, (I don’t usually give endings but I’m in a good mood today).

11/10/20XX After my first date with Alyssa I went to my room and was truly and utterly happy. As I walked in, I saw the spectre of my father. Shirt tucked in and that scary face that I remember always being too afraid to talk to. He called me a bastard (per usual) and talked trash on Alyssa. He said (and I quote), “Why would a girl like her date a dork like you?” He proceeded to talk about me and his usual hate for me, which continued for days, and as the visions got worse, so did my mental health.

11/22/20XX Alyssa and I hit it off these past two weeks. It has been a beautiful two weeks, almost dream-like, so we both decided to go to sleep. When I woke up, I couldn’t believe what I had seen. I was standing in the middle of the camp with all my clothes drenched in blood. I ran to a couple of tents to see what had happened, and as I saw the bodies on the floor ripped apart throughout the camp, I was flooded with memories, When the plague happened, I was affected; slowly but surely I was turning into a “Withered.” The two “Withered” I killed were actually human, and all my visions and forgetfulness were me becoming one of the “Withered.”

I also remembered that right before we went to bed, Alyssa caught me arguing with my Father, and then I bit her in her neck (but a lot closer to her shoulder), then I left. I ran to make sure Alyssa was okay. The urge to eat the rest of the bodies was coming over me, but I fought it to find her and finally, I did. She was slumped over with a bite on her shoulder, which brought a tear to my eye. I had hurt my precious Alyssa, and it seemed like I had killed her. I couldn’t stand what I had become and decided to end it all, and so I grabbed the nearest knife and impaled myself in my heart, which was already aching from losing the girl I had come to love.

11/22/20XX I awoke to a nightmare... My name is Alyssa Paige. I am a 23-year-old teacher and the last survivor of the plague.

And the cycle continues. . . .

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Fragile but Beautiful by Kristina Cossa 47

Alpha

by Kristina Cossa

All her life, Lily had loved animals. She wasn’t sure where her love for animals came from, but she didn’t mind. In her free time, she would usually entertain herself by reading one of her many animal reference books or going to the library to borrow a zoology book to find out all she could. However, even though she loved them all, her all-time favorite animal was a wolf, everything from their silver shaggy fur to their keen sense of smell. Her classmates often teased her, claiming “while every other girl loved an actor or celebrity, Lily was in love with wolves.” ************* Living in the woods was rough. Even if you were a predator, there was always something bigger than you or after you. For wolves, it was sometimes cougars, but usually it was humans. A lone wolf mother had been separated from her pack after a group of hunters found their territory. Now this female wolf was alone, with only her young pup for company. Her baby was scared; she could sense it. She had to do something. She couldn’t protect her baby and catch prey by herself. She needed her pack to help her. A twig snapped, and the mother ordered her pup to hide in nearby bushes. He obeyed and stayed put while three men carrying guns came upon his mother. She lunged at them, making one of them fall to the ground and biting into his arms and legs. She bore her teeth at him, ready to attack again if he came anywhere near her baby.

“Ahh, it’s going to kill me! Use the gun already!” the man cried, and then a large bang! echoed through the woods. The pup flinched and hid deep into the bushes, terrified of the noise. But then everything went silent, as though time itself had stopped, until one of the hunters spoke.

“Nice work boys! You got her! This one will make a beautiful fur coat.”

“Are you kidding? She almost bit my leg off; I say we hang her head on my wall,” another hunter said, brushing the dirt and blood off his pants.

“We’ll talk about what to do with her later. Come on, you guys. We’ve still got some deer to find.” The hunters walked away, and the young pup waited for his mother to come and get him, but she never came. He sat in the bushes for hours and still his mother hadn’t come. He was getting cold and hungry. When the sun began to set, a strange sound came from outside, and the curious pup peeked out from the bushes to see a human with long blonde hair and blue eyes and dressed in strange clothes. Humans didn’t look anything like him or his mom. What was a human doing here?

Would this human try to hurt him? The human then noticed him, 48

and the pup fled back into the bush. But the human pulled the leaves away and looked at him, and the pup saw that the human was smaller than most humans he saw. Maybe like him, she was a pup.

“Hey, don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you,” she told him softly, and for some reason, he felt he could trust the human, so he ran into her arms. She laughed and scratched his ears, and he liked how that felt, so he howled.

“Don’t worry, Little Howler, I’ll take care of you,” the human said, holding the pup close to her. ************** “Lily, what is a wolf doing in our house?!” her mother asked as soon as she saw her daughter playing ball with a wolf pup.

“I found him all alone in the woods today. He has no pack, Mom, so I’m going to take care of him,” Lily explained as Little Howler bit the ball and accidentally made a hole in it.

“Lily he’s a wild animal; you know you can’t keep him,” her mother said, trying to reason with her daughter, but the only response she got was “If I don’t take care of Little Howler, he’ll die!” Lily cried, and Little Howler licked her face, attempting to cheer up his new Alpha.

Lily’s mother sighed and for a long moment just stared at her daughter. “Okay, he can stay, but not forever. You know that, Lily, don’t you?” her mother asked, and Lily nodded.

“Yes, I do,” she responded.

Over the the next year, Lily saw that her Little Howler wasn’t so little anymore. His sharp teeth had left hundreds of sheets shredded; his predatory nature sometimes got him into trouble, as he had chased a number of the neighbors’ pets, intending to eat them. He also made a mess wherever he went and tended to scare Lily’s family members. As much as she didn’t like it, it was time for her Little Howler to go back to the wild. That’s where he belonged; he was a wild animal, not a pet.

So, one evening after school, she walked with Little Howler through the woods, and after she noticed another wolf which she guessed was female, she reluctantly bent down, removed Little Howler’s collar and told him to go. He whined and nuzzled her. He didn’t want to leave his Alpha, he loved her so much. Lily teared up as she held him. “I don’t want you to leave either, but being with me isn’t the life you should have. You belong in the woods, being the top predator of the North. I will miss you, and I know you’ll miss me too, but maybe someday we’ll meet again,” Lily said sadly, and then she let her best friend go. He licked his Alpha’s face one last time and then ran off into the woods. Lily was understandably upset, but she learned an important lesson from this: not all animals are meant to be domesticated.

In the Woods by Jacques Moore-Roberts 49

Into the Unknown

by Mary Stoudt

Fall Pup by Kasie Smith

Neighborhood Cat Reacts to 2020

by Danny Adams

Ellie Mae by Ahsley Dalton My Favorite View by Ryan Gobble

Smell the Flowers by Laurynn Hackett

Hank by Caroline King

Huntress by Mary Stoudt

Come Play by Katie Shoaf

Tan Summer by Chloe Fisher

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Riverwalk by Kristina Cossa

The Business of Disappearing

By Abigail McGovern

There is a story, I’m sure you know it, of a girl who can make anyone disappear, even herself. In some of the stories, she has hair like a raven, eyes like starlight. In some, she has hair like starlight, eyes like the ocean. She is tall, she is short. She is cruel, and she is kind. But in all of them, if you are looking to start a new life, then she can get you one. I have grown up hearing these stories, grown up with a silver spoon held to my lips and silken sheets to sleep in.

I have always wondered why someone would be driven to escape from their lives when I have never known anything but comfort.

These stories have never been anything but fairytales.

Until now.

Now, I have been set to step into the family business, and you of all people know what that entails: a business made for cold metal and the sound of bullets, for hands that weigh money higher than human life. And suddenly, bedtime stories that I learned half-awake between those silken sheets are important once again. I want no part in a business that only sees paper green when it should see people, and I had never expected to have it. I need to disappear, and for that, I need a different kind of business. I need the woman whose business is disappearing.

But disappearing is harder these days, isn’t it? I can’t simply disappear into the shadows with a cloak over my head. I can’t spirit myself away in the middle of the night. I can’t simply snap my fingers and be gone, no matter how much I might wish to. I was chained to your cold metal life and I couldn’t slip away.

By now you’ll be wondering what happened next. If I can’t make myself disappear like a thief into the night, how will I find the ghost who could do it instead?

Well, I was asking myself the same question, but, as it turns out, it’s easy. She found me. It was all very cloak-and-dagger, very candlelight. Very thief disappearing into the night, if you will. She sent a letter, we met—I’m sure you wish I would tell you where, but I wouldn’t dare. I made it very clear, I had a deadline.

Be gone before my birthday or you would put metal in my hand and I would be forced to measure the weight of cold steel against the iciness of my heart. It was mere weeks before the date.

I couldn’t help but recap your other stories—those of the people she disappeared, and the people they left behind. Disappeared people become ghosts as well. They meant nothing to anyone but themselves and therefore stood for even less. And the people left behind, they were always either the broken ragdolls or the vengeful 53

gods. After all, there are only two types of situations to run from, the hopeless and the dangerous. Or at least that’s what you used to say, when you told me of how those brand new ghosts would either be broken too or dragged back in pieces. After all, running is selfish.

That’s what you used to say. It made them selfish. To trade (their) lives for (their) money. Remind me again, what is it you do? Only the things you trade were neither yours to give away nor to own.

I do not want to be cold through and through like you.

Bedtime stories are supposed to have happy endings, to send you safely off into sleep, not to make you more afraid of what lurks in the shadows. But fear was all I had, and I was drowning it.

However, she handled it all with quite a cool head. For a story.

It all turned out to be rather quick and easy. She handled it all, the money I would need, the name changes, the clandestine middleof-the-night antics. All I had to do was keep pretending for just a little longer that I wanted to be a murderer. All I had to do was keep spitting out poison-tainted words.

And you believed me when I just walked right out the door.

In fact, she wasn’t anything like those late-night tales led me to believe. She had neither black hair nor blonde, but rather one of the many shades in between.

She was neither tall nor short, but rather, average. She could have been anyone. The way you told the story, it was like she was made of something not human, something brighter and stronger. Like she was an imp come to lure people away.

But she wasn’t. She was just a person who wanted to help other people. I wonder if you ever really saw me as a person.

Or was I just another soul to corrupt, another fly to spin into your web of lies? Except you would have made me believe I was the spider. Then I would have been eaten just the same, with a frozen heart to show for it.

I think I am finally learning to understand what you failed to EPIPHANIE / Epiphany teach me with your stories. This

by Helen Ogbole woman, all those ghosts, and me?

54

We are all just people.

We are not magicians, ghosts, or thieves. And there is nothing wrong with wanting to live free.

I wish I had known that sooner. Before we grew older, before you stopped telling stories, before your heart froze all the way over.

It almost broke my heart that last night, leaving you behind. But it’s too late now. I cannot keep clinging to the people we once were.

They are the true ghosts.

So I lied to your face, and I slipped out the door into the night.

At that moment, when no one around me knew who I was, no one knew my secrets but the streetlights and the stars, disappearing was not as hard I thought it would be. There was no hood over my head, no candlelight, but I vanished under the cloak of darkness just the same. Things are always harder in the imagined, dreadful moments before we actually do them. It’s easy to change, once the changing actually starts. I wish you would learn that. Maybe we could have changed together.

But now I could be anywhere. I could be anyone. I could be the girl next to you in the coffee shop, earbuds in, fingers tapping away, not paying you any mind. Or I could be the woman who smiles at you in the grocery store like you share a secret, then pushes her cart right on past. I could be the stranger who ignores you when you pass in the street or the one who holds the door. Or I might not be there at all.

I might be in California, soaking up the sun. Or New York lost among the crowds. I might be in Paris, sampling wine and cheese; Greece among the history; Egypt, unearthing old stories. Or I might be somewhere else entirely, making my own.

But what I am not is invisible. Not selfish. And not cold. I am finally happy and finally free. And I hope that it scares you, that I could be anywhere, anyone. I hope that it scares you that I vanished so thoroughly, that I started over, happy. I have taken your bedtime stories to heart. I have become what you were always afraid of.

Someone who fought for others. I have joined the business of disappearing, of cutting chains, of setting people free.

Now there’s a girl, or maybe two, or maybe many, many more who have skin like alabaster or skin like ebony. Hair like fire or like the sun. Eyes like the sky, eyes like thunderclouds. Who come to you if you’re looking to start a new life, if you’re looking to be free.

I am going to be a bedtime story, not a monster under a bed. But I might be coming for you just the same.

With warmest regards from everywhere and nowhere, A not-so-invisible ghost.

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Red Octopus by Elina Baltins

Tenebrous Tendrils

by Brandon Mullins Umbral shapes writhe in the silver expanse, Millions of veiled threads unraveling, Each craving that golden splendor— A treasure given by the generous heavens, On which the verdant glut themselves— They greedily take it all, Not a scrap to be spared, Yet their profound hunger remains unsated.

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Fear

by Shela Muriel This year is something to be feared.

This year, people started getting sick, Not because of being away from home, but because of other things.

Some fear the end of the world, Some fear embarrassment.

Fear shouldn’t stop you from doing what you love.

Sure, there’s a virus, but what good does that do us if we freak out?

This is just what people want, They want hatred to rule them or they want death to come quicker.

However, fear should not get in the way of your normal life.

Hunkering down inside your bunker for warmth It doesn’t make you feel better.

It doesn’t do much to let it define you.

Fear should be one of the things that can make you step up your game.

Fear is normal, but overreacting is not the best option.

This is fear.

What You See by Shela Muriel 57

Mountain Ranges

by Ashley Dalton Blue ocean waves crash against my feet The velvet feeling of the wet sand meet Against the smooth surface of sea shells rise To form rows of a small little fleet.

All around there are people gathered about The air carries their cries and call out As some run around and play with glee Having fun while doing so, no doubt.

The air is crisp, the salty air fills my nose As I forget about my day-to-day woes Watching the seagulls and dolphins dance before me Leads me to not think about my foes.

Standing here witnessing the constant changes Makes me long for the stagnant granges Surrounding me with an everlasting forest I long to be back at my mountain ranges.

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I Command, I Command

by Casey Craddock

I Command, I Command, I Command…

I command my body to inhale, tell my alveoli to oxygenate my blood.

Those disobedient emotions are nipped in the bud.

I command my heart to pump my blood through my left ventricle.

Those wayward emotions and I are not identical.

I command my erythrocytes to circulate through my veins.

Those traitorous emotions leave me with bloodstains.

Abingdon at Dusk by Ryan Gobble

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I Hate You

By Chloe Fisher

I hate that I still remember little things about you, even in the early

hours of the morning. I hate that I can still remember the sound of your voice when you first woke up. I hate that I still remember the way you laughed, so obnoxiously at things that were insignificant. I hate that even after I have moved on, I still get flashbacks to the suffering I endured with you, as if it were PTSD. I hate that I remember a specifically placed freckle, right next to your left ear, I hate that I thought it was his freckle and his ear, I hate that the memory abruptly woke me up this morning as I was lying right next to him. The constant reminder that I had even the idea of a life with you makes me nauseous, even now that I’m planning a new life with him. I congratulate myself every day for leaving, for not marrying you like you had thought would happen. I thank the universe every day for taking the baby away from us, I thank my lucky stars every day that it was never you, because it will always be him.

Brave

by Elina Baltins 60

With Your Girl Gaze

by Casey Craddock

Emotion

by Ashley Dalton

Love doesn’t exist.

Without love there cannot be sorrow.

Although you seem to resist This notion, you feel every emotion.

Whether it be love, sorrow, or happiness You expressed all of them without fail.

You do not see the world as a mass of blackness Like I do.

Being with you has taught me so many things.

I never understood what you would feel.

But now, I think I can stretch my wings And finally grow into the angel you’ve created.

Now why am I the only one talking?

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Summer in Aarhus by Suzie Maines

Coast Waters by Elina Baltins

Time Limit

by Antionette Payne Someone once asked me, how long does it take to know you’re in love 5 years, 5 months, 5 minutes Or is it the person that decides the time limit There’s a connection that you feel when you know it’s real Like it’s easy to love knowing you don’t have to live in fear When you see them you just start smiling from ear to ear And those butterflies take off like you’ve been holding them in for years Now you pose questions like Are we moving too fast?

Do they like me the same?

All these thoughts are starting to put your heart to shame, and I get it But real love is different Real love has no time limit Whether 5 years, 5 months, 5 minutes You’ll enjoy every second you’re in it.

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Good ‘Ole Boys by Chloe Fisher

A Girl and Her Horse by Caroline King 64

A Farmer and His Dog by Kasie Smith

She is Beautiful by Caroline King 65

Autumn 2020 Biographies Judges Kala Brubaker, ‘17, was an English major and member of the Chrysalis staff at Ferrum College. She also studied in Kyrgyzstan and graduated with her Masters of Education from the College of William and Mary in 2018.

She has taught middle school English for three years. She resides in Henry with her significant other, their two dogs, and two cats.

Marcia Horn retired as Ferrum College Professor of English after 23 years.

She taught British Literature, Shakespeare, and Composition and tutored in the Writing Center. With the support of eight Ferrum professors, she founded a multidisciplinary course on the Holocaust and became its first coordinator.

Ryan Osborne, ‘11, a ceramic artist working in Northeast Ohio, earned his Master of Fine Arts in Ceramics from Kent State University in 2014 and his Bachelor of Arts in Studio Art from Ferrum College in 2011. His ceramic sculptures have been exhibited across the country. You can see images of his work at rtoceramics.com Shameer Shah, ‘06, is a Ferrum College alumnus and professional landscape photographer, video creator, and conservationist who lives in London, UK. His goal is to help us appreciate nature’s wonders by inspiring a connection between people and the outdoors. You can see many of his photographs at https://www.shameershah.com

Staff Emma Brubaker, a sophomore from Franklin County, is an Ecotourism and Chemistry major who hopes to become a park ranger. A member of the Boone Honors Program, she loves travelling and being outside.

Kristina Cossa, a sophomore from Apex, NC, has been a writer since elementary school and gets inspiration from nature, real-life events, and stories she heard as a little girl. Her stories are usually fantasy, mysteries, or realistic fiction. She is currently working on a book titled “The Man with Two Souls.”

Ashley Dalton is a senior majoring in English with an emphasis in Literature and minoring in Theatre Arts. She is from Ararat.

Chloe Fisher is a junior from Franklin County. She is majoring in English with a Secondary Education minor. She is a Resident Assistant. She enjoys writing and drawing and photography.

Katherine Grimes is a professor of English and advisor to Chrysalis.

Caroline King from Wytheville is a sophomore majoring in Teacher Education and minoring in English and Chemistry. She enjoys painting, taking pictures, and writing. She is on the golf and equestrian teams.

Abigail McGovern is a sophomore from Round Hill, majoring in English with a Creative Writing emphasis and minoring in History. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program, Help Save the Next Girl, and the cross country team.

She is also a PAL tutor.

Jacques Moore-Roberts is a junior from Hampton majoring in English with a Creative Writing emphasis.

Shela Muriel is a junior from Greensboro, NC. Her major is English with a Creative Writing emphasis, and her minor is History. She has written several novels and is working on two fan fiction works.

Antionette Payne from Newport News is a senior majoring in Media and Communication with a minor in Business. She is on the softball team.

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Fall into Ferrum by Alyssa Hogan

Other Contributors Danny Adams, who earned a degree in English from Roanoke College in 1998, has been the Reference Assistant at the Stanley Library since 2002.

After publishing three novels and numerous short stories and poems, he is now working on a narrative history of Ferrum College.

Elina Baltins is a senior majoring in Pre-Professional Health Sciences with a PreMed emphasis and minor in Psychology. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program. From Gambrills, Md., she now lives in Virginia’s Northern Neck.

D. Bruckshaw Campbell, adjunct instructor of English, graduated from the University of Missouri-Columbia School of Journalism and earned an MFA in Creative Writing from National University. He instructs Franklin County High School’s journalism program. He and his wife, Hope, have four children.

Madison Cline from Christiansburg is majoring in Agricultural Sciences.

She is a member of the Boone Honors Program, Marching Band, and the Agriculture Club. She enjoys gardening, reading, biking, and writing poems.

Madison Cogle, an Agricultural Sciences major with an Animal Science and Equine Studies emphasis, plans to become a veterinarian. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program. She is from Charles Town and Lewis County, WV. Casey Craddock is from Ridgeway. Her major is Agricultural Sciences with an emphasis in Animal Science, and her minor is Studio Arts.

Shauna Garrison from Standardsville is majoring in Art, her biggest passion.

She is on the swim team. She loves to listen to music and make new friends.

Ryan Gobble is a freshman Agricultural Education major from Abingdon, where he grew up on his family’s farm and developed his passion for agriculture education. He is a member of the Boone Honors Program.

Laurynn Hackett from Appomattox is an Animal Science major minoring in Horticulture and One Health. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program and vice president of the Ag Club. She loves to photograph her surroundings.

Tina L. Hanlon, Professor of English, has taught at Ferrum since 1992. She enjoys traveling to literary landmarks in England and other countries.

Alyssa Hogan, a junior from Roanoke, is a Social Work major.

Joshua Isangedighi is a freshman Computer Science major. He is a member of the lacrosse team. His hobbies include reading and writing and music.

Alli Kurfees from Jamestown, NC, is majoring in Pre-Professional Health Science with a Pre-Med emphasis. Her minors are Chemistry and Biology. She will graduate in December 2020, work in patient care, then apply to PA school.

Her interests include foreign cars, painting, playing piano, and crime shows.

Suzie Maines is a senior from Winchester. Her majors are Spanish and International Studies. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program.

Brandon Mullins is a junior from Union Hall majoring in English with a Teacher Education minor. He is a member of the Boone Honors Program. He enjoys reading and writing about nature, philosophy, and fantasy.

Helen Ogbole is a senior from Fairfax but grew up in Nigeria before moving back to the States five years ago. She is a Computer Information Systems major and Media and Communication minor.

Katie Shoaf is an Environmental Science major and Agricultural Science minor from Davie County, NC. A member of the Boone Honors Program, she is a captain of the women’s swim team and is involved with several organizations on campus.

Kasie Smith is a senior from South Hill. Her major is Agricultural Science with an emphasis in Animal Science, and her minor is One Health. She grew up on a dairy farm. She hopes to earn her DVM. Mary Stoudt is a senior majoring in History and minoring in Public History and Museum Studies. After graduation she hopes to earn her master’s and maybe even her PhD and work in a museum or university.

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Acknowledgements The staff of Chrysalis wishes to thank the Integrated Programming Board of Ferrum College for providing prizes for the first- and secondplace winners of our contests.

Look into the Big Beautiful Eyes of a Cow

by Casey Craddock

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

Parrot Named Joe

by Elina Baltins 68