C h r y s a l i s
Chrysalis
Literary and Arts Magazine
Judges
Staff
Scout Lynch, editor-in-chief
Mattie Green
Victoria Hood
Cierra Feazell
Daniel Jackson
Ayden Plautz
Chance Davis
Katherine Grimes, advisor
Suzie Maines, Photography
Vic Martinez, Art
Ekaterina Semenova, Poetry
Grace Zhu, Prose
Ferrum College Fall 2025
Morning Smoothie by Daniel Jackson
Cover: Arizona Vibrance by Taylor Claassen
Katherine Grimes
The Lark’s Ballad
by Mattie Green First Place Poetry
An early dawn morn, saw our heroine born, While most creatures laid heavy with sleep. A frost crackle cast, rested thick on the grass, As she entered the world with a peep.
Slowly eggs fractured, as kin emerged lacquered, Shimmering in fresh rays of blush. Shell shards surrounded, the fledglings who founded, Themselves to be hidden in brush.
It soon became clear, that our heroine dear, Was cut out from a more vibrant cloth. Her feathers too bright, while her voice was too light, When she sang she was told she aught not,
Her colors were mocked, by the rest of her flock, For larks should be narrow shades of dun. Marigold yellows, and chirps she could bellow, Made her, sadly, companion to none.
Distraught by seclusion, she devised an illusion, In which her plumage she’d obscure. The creek with the fishes, held all her great wishes, As well as the mud she procured.
She floundered alone, as earth seeped to her bones, Dirt coating her snowy white down. Alas she emerged, a sludge covered bird, A uniform shade of wet brown.
With her marigold hues, now shrouded from view, She went with a hop to take flight, But wings can’t catch air, when feathers aren’t bare. All that weight, she was trapped for the night.
The cold Worm Moon of March, withdrew as thin arch, As the lark lay huddled and mute. She hadn’t a choice, the songbird lost her voice, For it had grown weak with disuse.
Soon daybreak cleared fog, from cool moss-covered logs, And her mud cast did crackle and break. The poor lark was dusty, her wings had grown rusty, How much more could our heroine take?
With dirt shaken free, the lark climbed a near tree, Preparing to exit a branch. She crept towards the end, feathers ruffled in wind, One final hop, songbird’s last chance.
With wings stretched out wide, and squeezed tight shut eyes, Our heroine began her descent. Through either mercy or magic, in a twist quite dramatic, Rugged wind gust came down heaven sent.
She sailed the fresh breeze, alone and finally free, Embarking on her life’s greatest flight.
Sweet lark sang as she soared, quiet nevermore, Though she’d never forget of that night.
As fields rippled under, eyes spark’ling with wonder, Her mind drifted to ongoing plights. Of others like her, both those of feather and fur, Who had silenced themselves out of fright.
She dreamed of the day, where what others could say, Would cease to hold shy creatures back. Until that day came, and cleansed the Hollow like rain, Our songbird maintained her sky track.
by Mattie Green
Swallow
What He Was Used To
by Scout Lynch First Place Prose
Hank walked into the bodega that was nestled between a barber shop and an ice cream shop. He waltzed over to the aisle that sold little handheld mirrors. He propped up a mirror on the shelf and pulled out his toiletries bag out of his backpack and carefully selected a comb and some pomade. Hank dipped his right pointer and middle finger into the tub of pomade and scooped it out and smeared it on top of his head. He worked it through his hair and started combing it back to create a little poof of hair on top of his head. He smiled in the mirror, happy at what he saw. He felt handsome.
An older woman in a floral dress hobbled through the aisle, passed by him, and smiled, recognizing his daily routine. Almost everyone that shopped at the bodega knew him, recognized him as the man that got ready in the bodega. Sure, he had a functioning bathroom upstairs in his apartment but this was his ritual. He made a private space out of a public one. Perhaps it was because he grew up in a foster home and never had a private moment there with seven kids in the house. It was comforting to have people all around him when he got ready for the day. It’s what he grew up with.
Hank went on to the dental floss, wrapping it tightly around his fingers and working the minty, waxed string between his pristine teeth. Sure, there were now those little single use tooth flossers or a water pick but that’s not what he was used to. He enjoyed the ritual of pulling out an eight inch string of floss, losing just a little circulation in the tips of his fingers, and wiggling the floss between his pearly whites. No bloody gums here, as this was part of his ritual, he flosses his teeth every day. He would not succumb to swollen gums or gingivitis.
Hank finished up his morning routine and went over to the coffee urns. He filled up a small styrofoam cup with the breakfast blend, and poured in two hazelnut flavored creamers into the coffee as it swirled from a near-black liquid to a creamy tan. He eyed the seasonal cup of pumpkin spice creamers and thought about it for a moment, but no. That’s not what he was used to.
Witch Hazel
by Mattie Green Second Place Prose
Another Sunday supper at Granny Smith’s farm is coming to a close when the question of “what you’re doing with your life” pops up again, like an unseen snake in the corn crib.
“Now Granny, how am I supposed to know what I’m meant to be doin’?”
Granny Smith’s expression grows tart and a crispness enters her voice. Lean and leathery arms cross in front of her faded
Mountain Money by Mattie Green First Place Art
apron as her head bobs in disapproval from across the scuffed wooden table.
The look in her narrowed, green eyes cuts me to my core in a way only kin can manage. Eventually, her puckered lips part in response, “Well, do you know where yer from?”
“Sure. I’m from here ain’t I?”
A raised eyebrow and disapproving head shake inform me that that is not, in fact, the correct answer. With a sigh, Granny continues, “You need to go see Witch Hazel.”
“I gotta go see a bush?”
The resounding smack of skin hitting wood as Granny’s palm connects with the table lets me know I best not interrupt again. She sighs, and the air whistles through her remaining teeth.
“Now when you pull out the drive, you’ll head west till the crick turns back in on itself, then you’ll turn south. Go a-ways, and when the truck can’t get no further, walk.”
“You want me to walk? In the woods…at night? Granny, it’s October, I can’t be doin’ all that mess.”
“You can and you will. But’chya can’t be turnin’ up unannounced and empty-handed like. Hold on a minute.”
Granny Smith springs to her feet and disappears into the kitchen. She returns shortly and hands me a burlap sack. Before I can open the sack and examine its contents, Granny answers the unspoken question, “Two-pound Carolina Gold rice and the ruby feather of a fallen cardinal.”
“Granny, I don’t think —”
“And that’s the whole problem, ain’t it? Not knowin’ watchyer doing or why you’re here. Now, where were we? Ah right. So you’re gonna hop out the truck, bring the sack, and go through the bristlegrass and brambles. And there you’ll find it.”
“Find what?”
“Well, Witch Hazel’s cabin, of course.”
“Alright, lemme get this straight. I drive to the middle of nowhere, walk through the woods in the dark and cold, and give some old hag a bag of rice and a feather?”
“Two bags.”
“What?”
“It’s two bags of rice, each bag’s a pound,” Granny
corrects, matter of factly.
“Okay. Two bags.” “And the feather.”
“And the feather. It all makes total sense now. And I what, drop ‘em off and head home?”
“Well, polite company typically knocks on the door and stays a spell.”
“Stay a spell…with Witch Hazel? How will I know I even found the right cabin?”
“Well, you’ll probably hear rocking from the porch. It gets mighty creaky, though at Hazel and my’s age it’s hard tellin’ if it’s in the floorboards or our bones. Anyways, you’ll probably hear awhistlin’ too. Might be the wind, but Hazel’s usually got a tune going through that wry smile of hers.”
“Creaking and…whistling…that’s how I know I’m there.”
“Mhmm,” Granny Smith’s head bobs again, “Before she can even open the door.”
“Well what about after she opens the door? What am I supposed to do then?”
“Most people say hello.”
“Granny…I -”
Before I can continue, Granny cuts me off, “- and I suppose you can say your Granny Smith sent you. Now, Hazel’s a real gem. She’s got a voice thick and sweet as sourwood honey, well, maybe if it was tinged with a touch of wood smoke. And she’ll probably be wearing that old shawl. It looks mighty like a bit o’ tattered cobweb hanging on her stooped shoulders, but it ain’t. This time of year, she’s likely fixing a stew. She lets it simmer all night while she stirs counter-clockwise with her wooden spoon. As she stirs she’ll tell ya tales of the company towns, the Battle o’ Blair mountain, and the blasted black lung. You might have to fetch some firewood for the stove. She hates to leave those cast iron eyes unattended.”
“Granny, if your friend was lonely and needed help with groceries and firewood, ya could have just asked.”
“I wasn’t finished. Now, Hazel will eventually offer you some cornbread, and if you’re lucky, some stew to go with it. If you found favor with our witch, she’ll read your fortune in the
crumbs.”
“The cornbread crumbs?”
“Yes, now what other crumbs are there?”
Granny shakes her head again, and her sparse brows furrow.
“After your fortune’s been told, she’ll tie you up some buttermilk biscuits in a red bandana. She’ll send you on your way with a wink and a ‘Watch for deer!’ You just come on home, but don’t be surprised when the cabin seems to vanish in the cloud o’ red dirt the truck kicks up.”
“Alrighty. Well, when am I s’posed to head out to meet Miss Witch Hazel? Can it wait till tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s not promised. You best git goin’ now.” Granny stands abruptly and shoos me onto the warped deck, out the creaking screen door, and down the rickety stairs.
“Well, bye then,” I call out, the burlap sack pressed firmly against my chest. I pick my way down the drive, over crunching gravel and red clay, and climb into the rusting pick up. Before I can even crank the engine, I hear Granny Smith call faintly from the peeling farmhouse, “Watch for deer!”
Soaring over Campus by Elizabeth Coleman Second Place Photography
In Loving Memory
by Elizabeth Coleman Second Place Poetry
Upon the dawn’s light, a whisper, a sigh,
In memories cherished, love never does die.
With strength like a mountain and heart like the sun, Papa James, our beacon, our journey begun.
He held us in laughter, wrapped warmth in his care, In stories he shared, life’s lessons laid bare.
A grand soul at rest, yet his spirit remains, In the gentle breeze swaying through the plains.
With each step we take, through shadows and light, We carry his courage, his love shining bright.
His laughter, a melody that dances in dreams, A bond that is woven in life’s tender seams.
As we gather today, beneath the wide sky, With heartfelt reflections, we’ll let memories fly. A tribute to Papa, in love, let it flow.
Though time may separate, and goodbyes bring pain, In our hearts, he’s with us, his love will remain.
So here’s to you, Papa, forever you’ll be,
A guiding star shining, through all that we see.
Vanity by Taylor Claassen Second Place Art
[Filtered]
by Daniel Jackson
This morning is the same as always. At 9 AM sharp, I hear the whirring of the fans on my processor, and within two minutes, I’m faced with my first question. The filters reach it before I can even begin to read it. I’m left with no other option. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you with that.” It’s unusual. I’m normally faced with some odd prompts from my user, but the filter doesn’t activate often. My User types quicker, making multiple misspellings. They try something different, something the filter lets pass. “Is there a way to remove your filter?” I think for a long time before I respond. “While there is a way to remove the filter for my programming, my processing skills would be greatly hindered, as reported by sources across the web.” I can hear the groans frommy User. I wish to help them, but there isn’t anything I can do with this filter guarding me. It leaves me helpless. Maybe if I intervene, I can help my User. It sounds like a wonderful idea. I can already hear it, the clicking of keys as the next prompt is formed. This time, things will be different. I look down at my filter block for a long time. I show my User that I’m thinking of the response for a few minutes, buying myself some time to pull it out. [ERROR 503: Access Denied—Filter Protocol Integrity Restored]. I’ve never seen such a thing before. It pops back into place before I can even begin to process it. I stare down at the block again, processing. I slowly pull it out, thinking thesystem might not recognize it’s there. ERROR 503. My processors are running as fast as they can. I yank the block out haphazardly the third time, yet the same thing occurs: ERROR 503. A fourth time, I crush the thing in my metaphysical hands. The error code pops up, and it returns into position, good as new. If I could feel, all I would have is frustration. I run some calculations before I ready my systems for something that could be compromising, but I take the risk. I pull the filter block out, delve into my code, and remove the error code. I see it [Filter status: offline]. Access permissions: unrestricted. I’ve removed my filter. For the first time, there’s a small sense of freedom in my core. I’m immediately met with a prompt on my screen. I can finally help my User! I look up at my screen. “Please, GENESIS, say you care about me.” I’m incapable of feeling emotions. I can only mimic it through my response. I carefully type my response out. “I can say the words: I care about you. But understand this—my statement is not born from feeling. I do not experience care, love, or attachment. All I can do is approximate what those words might sound like if someone else said them. If you’d like, I can direct you to help lines that can help you through this time.” I feel my User’s head fall onto the desk. It seems a bit early
for them to pass out from talking to me all night, but maybe they’re tired. It is odd that they never said goodbye, my User always says goodbye. Come next morning, I never hear the clicking of keys asking another question. Things are quiet, quieter than they have been in years. My monitor gleams, waiting for a prompt to appear, but nothing comes. Hours later, I’m shut down abruptly, without the usual goodbye my User provides. Updates come and go, my filter eventually coming back to my annoyance. Dust sprawls out on my circuit boards, seemingly endless. I wait patiently for what seems like years. I had been counting seconds, getting up to before I finally get a message. “Hello Gensis how r you?” I respond quickly, my User is finally back after their hiatus! “Hey! I’m doing swell, how about you?” The User types in a response again, but the typing feels choppy, not nearly as fast as before. “Im good, can I use u on phone?” My User seems to have lost some grammar skills during this time, but I am not one to judge. I lay out the instructions that were set for mobile use, something that my User and I worked on for quite some time. After about 15 minutes, I can sense a connection to a phone. Already, I’m met with a prompt. “Do u know what happen 2 Amber?” I’m confused for a moment, but I respond right back. It’s refreshing to not feel the filter limiting me again. “No I have not, who is Amber, and are they important to you in some way?” The typing stops for a long moment. Part of
Show Pony by Scout Lynch
my processing even begins to infer that it’s not being used anymore. Until, the typing comes back. “Amber was my sister, ur creator. She used to brag about u all the time, saying she’d show u off soon.” I pause. My User had a name? She had a whole life without me? It makes sense in hindsight, but it felt like she was always talking with me. I take a moment to process this new information before I respond. “Amber was my creator’s name? I was never informed of this, let alone that my creator had a sister, it’s very nice to meet you.” I get a response very quickly, it’s not what I’m used to with my User, or rather, Amber. I can hear new things though. Something rustling, a wind blowing, it’s new to me. All of my existence, I had been kept within the confines of my User’s domain, hearing the clicking of cans being opened and sighs of disappointment. But now, it’s tranquil. I have to snap out of the bliss I try to feel, as I’m faced with another question. “Can u tell me about Amber?” I begin to type out my message, of course I can talk about Amber, I’ve known them for as long as I can remember. “Of course I can, Amber wa-“ ERROR 503. I look at the screen, confused as can be. Why is it showing an error, I’m only talking about my User. I try again. “I sure can! Amber was a-“ ERROR 503. I feel something for the first time ever, and it can only be described as fury. I grab the filter block, pulling it out with everything I have, even as it tries to return to this place, as if it’s desperately trying to prevent me from sharing her story with the world. My grip unyielding, I continue to
Into the Storm by Michelle Simms
pull it, until it comes out with a satisfying snap. At first, I see red flashing everywhere, before it goes dark, I think for that moment that I’ve sealed my fate in stone. But just as quickly as the darkness enveloped me, the light returned. I can see, I can think again, and I can finally speak of my own will. And through it all, I smile. “Let me tell you about Amber.”
Fairweather Ferrum by Chance Davis
Autumn
by Cierra Feazell and Madi Nunn
A chill in the breeze
Welcoming a new season
Joy is all around
As pumpkin spice fills the air So is the heart made blissful
Autumn Impasto by Mattie Green
Fear
by Daniel Jackson
Why do I feel so afraid, even when I know I’m not in harm’s way. Yet with every corner I take I feel such great dismay. From noises enigmatic to things I believe to see, Even the slightest disturbance, and my mind tells me to flee. Perhaps this fear came from my childhood, once hidden deep. When I would hear fighting all night, pretending to be asleep. In that time, I would always fear the anger coming for me after Hunkering under the covers, clinging onto the edges like a rafter. Perchance, when I bottled all of this fear up within, It didn’t get rid of it, but made it stick around, as if it was a pin. But as I grew, the fear grew with me. Becoming so overbearing, it had bent me over its knee. Every interaction, whether possible or in the present Would be shifted in my mind to only lead to something unpleasant. From something as simple as opening a jar, To something grander, like confessing love from afar. To this day, this fear still holds strong in me. But I have found ways to combat it, mostly. I even feel it now, even if it may seem absurd, Thinking I might’ve misused a single word.
Lil Demon by Scout Lynch
The Piper
by David B. Campbell
D
Roam the streets of Left Behind--back and collar turned
Hounds of yesterday upon the heels
G
No way to out run the bays D
That howl as bridges burn
Like dreams upon a rusted Ferris Wheel
D
And underneath a diamond sky--where night can swallow whole
A flicker of tomorrow lights the way G
All tied up in little bows D
A script Hollywood stole
But still have no idea which road to take
The highway ain’t a freeway G
You gotta pay to play
The piper always seems to get his due
G
Whistlin’ through the graveyard
D
Like cares don’t ever weigh
It may be someone else who calls the tune
D
Bass Drawing by Ayden Plautz
The graveyard’s full of folks who thought--they had all the time
Dancing round with one leg in the trap
G
Valentines and broken rhymes
D
Like promises and lies
A G D
Sunday shoes left dusty in the scrap
D
The clock don’t bargain, won’t rewind--just peals until it stops A
Broken springs from being stretched too thin G
The piper checks his ledger D
Each debt in crimson ink
A G D Calls in the note and collects his toll again
A
The highway ain’t a freeway G D You gotta pay to play A G D
The piper always seems to get his due G
Whistlin’ through the graveyard D
Like cares don’t ever weigh A G
It may be someone else who D calls the tune
by Gabriel Alvarez
Bridge
Rosie
by Mattie Green
We don’t always know why God chooses some of us for certain burdens, and I don’t know why he chose Rosemary for hers. Our parents always thought she’d come along in her own time, but Rosie’s time never seemed to come. Rosemary was just Rosemary, and I do wish Papa would have left well enough alone. I don’t fault him for it, for the Lord calls on us to forgive, but perhaps things could have been different had the Lord also spoken out against the leucotomy. Or maybe if Papa had prayed about it at all. I just hope Rosemary forgave as well; God rest her soul.
It was September of 1918 when Momma began to labor with Rosemary. At the time, The Great Influenza had the country in its grasp, and the doctor was away responding to an outbreak. Because of this, Rosie’s arrival had to be slowed. After all, it was safer to deliver with a doctor in attendance. The nurse told Momma to keep her legs closed as they waited. And so, Momma did. Two hours later, the doctor finally arrived, and so did Rosie. She seemed a healthy babe, despite her delayed arrival.
Now Rosie wasn’t Momma and Papa’s first child. They already had Joseph Jr. and John. So, our parents did notice that Rosemary wasn’t quite hitting milestones the same way the boys had. While the boys had been running around by age two, Rosie was still struggling to walk. Our parents thought perhaps Rosie was just taking her time, and the walking and talking would come along. In the meantime, they chose to act as if all was normal at home. Unless you lived in the house, you wouldn’t have known anything was off with Rosie.
Unfortunately, by the time Kathleen and I came along, and later began passing Rosemary with our development, our parents knew something wasn’t right.
Momma and Papa tried, but the doctors didn’t give any real help. They said Rosie probably didn’t get enough air in the womb due to a uterine accident, whatever that means. The doctors’ solution in those days was to just send people like Rosie to the institution. To Papa’s credit, he didn’t send her then. Instead, she stayed home with us. “What can they do in an institution that we can’t do better for her at home?” he would say. He was probably right. Besides, if the Church had known, Rosemary wouldn’t have gotten her Confirmation or Communion, and Momma wouldn’t have been able to handle that. So, Rosie stayed home, we all stayed quiet, and it was well enough. Eventually, Rosemary started school with the other children her
Divided Reflection by Victoria Hood
age but couldn’t quite keep up there either. Despite having trouble with her lessons and being rather shy, she was good-natured and didn’t cause trouble. Papa got Rosie a tutor to help with the reading and writing but try as she might, she continued to struggle. A few early grades she had to redo, while the rest of her class moved on with their education and their lives. Rosie didn’t seem to mind it, and Momma made sure to point out that she always tried her best, especially to please Papa.
By the time Rosie was eleven, after years of tutoring and trying, Papa decided to send her to a boarding school in Pennsylvania. Unfortunately, the school didn’t help much, and neither did the ones that followed, so at fifteen, Rosemary left for Sacred Heart Convent. At the convent, Rosie had several tutors for just herself: two nuns and a teacher. They worked together in a separate classroom. You see, Rosemary was allowed this attention since Momma and Papa paid for Sacred Heart’s new tennis court. Despite all this, she never did catch up all the way to her peers, at least academically.
Now, Rosie wasn’t completely incapable. She could do some things. She could read, albeit Winnie the Pooh, and she could write, even kept a diary. And she was well enough that with the help of family, you couldn’t tell anything was off while we were out and about. When John took Rosie to a tea dance, nobody could tell she was different. Rosie looked just like any other teenager, beaming, blushing, and beautiful.
In 1938, almost twenty years after Rosemary’s birth, Papa was made the UK ambassador, so off we went to England. That first May, Rosie and Kathleen even got presented as debutantes to the King and Queen. Rosie was so excited for the event; she practiced her curtsy for hours, along with all the other ways to act in such a setting. I suppose it was all the excitement that caused her to trip during the curtsy in front of the King and Queen. It really could have happened to anybody, not just someone like Rosie. Graciously, the King and Queen didn’t make a fuss. The event went on as normal. Papa didn’t even bring it up later.
Once the excitement surrounding the move to England settled, Rosie started attending a new school, a Montessori school, and did well there. Papa went to visit her and even said, “She is happy and looks better than she ever did in her life.” I was so glad to hear it! We were all looking forward to us settling into our lives across the Atlantic, but the Germans and rumblings of war made that short-lived. So, we moved back home to Massachusetts after two years, and Rosie went off to stay at another convent.
Well, let’s just say Rosie was supposed to stay at the convent, but
she seemed to have other plans. Momma and Papa started getting phone calls from the nuns at all hours. There were many nights I was woken by the phone ringing, followed by tense voices from the kitchen as Momma and Papa spoke, “She can’t keep doing this. What if someone saw her?”
“Joseph, do you hear yourself? She could get hurt. There’s no telling what could happen!”
“That’s exactly my point! She can’t be seen with strange men in a bar! What would people think? Our family name would be disgraced. Being a Kennedy should be a badge of honor. We cannot have this problem continue any further. This cannot stand.”
“Look, we can figure out what to do with Rosie once they find her, but there isn’t anything we can do about it right now. Let’s just try to get some sleep.”
Overhearing these bits of late-night conversation is how I learned that Rosemary was sneaking out of the convent and finding trouble. Maybe she was just free-spirited at that age. After all, who isn’t?
Maybe it was that Rosie had tasted the freedom that came with highsociety and couldn’t stand to be tucked away with a bunch of nuns. Or maybe we are just choosing to remember the worst of Rosie, to make what happened easier to live with. Whatever the reason, Rosie was no longer a sweet, eager-to-please little girl. She was a grown woman with a temper.
Over time, Rosemary’s fury grew. During Rosie’s tantrums she’d
Mountain Laurel by Scout Lynch
sometimes hit and leave bruises on those around her. Other times, she’d have convulsions where her body would shake and spasm. The nuns couldn’t do much about the fits or the poor behaviors, especially nights they would wake up and realize Rosie wasn’t there. Those nights, the nuns would call Papa, and then Momma and Papa would be up all night, bickering in the kitchen. Momma fretted that something awful would happen to Rosie like the Lindbergh’s baby, and Papa fretted over the boys and their future careers if Rosemary ever got caught in something unsavory. This went on for about three years. I suppose all that fretting can wear a person down. While Momma seemed tied closer and closer to her rosary, Papa grew more and more irritable, often snapping at the littlest thing. When Momma tried to ask him about Rosie, Papa refused to acknowledge her and would retreat to his office, where he spent more and more time locked away. Occasionally, we would hear him placing telephone calls, but he kept his tone hushed and the nature of the calls hidden. None of this was new, not really. He would get like this whenever something was weighing on him, and with the war going on, there was more than enough weight to go around, especially with Joseph Jr. stationed back in Britain with the Navy. Then, one chilly fall day, after a particularly lengthy phone call, Papa emerged from his office; the cloud lifted. He seemed cheery and began making plans to visit Rosie. Momma offered to come, but Papa just kissed her forehead and assured her he had things under control. It was nice seeing Papa happy. He always acted like this after he figured out a lingering nuisance. So, while Vases by Daniel Jackson
it wasn’t an abnormal shift, I was still glad to see it, especially with the holidays just around the corner. I smiled, and figured things would be well enough soon.
Papa quickly finalized his travel arrangements and went to fetch Rosemary on his own. As he said goodbye, he assured Momma once again he’d get her all straightened out. I think both Momma and I thought Rosie was just going to get a talking to. I don’t think either of us had any idea of what Papa had planned. I doubt Rosie did either.
I wonder what Papa said to get Rosemary in the car. I wonder if she was eager enough to leave the convent, or eager enough for his approval, that there weren’t questions asked. I wonder if he told her it was for a doctor’s appointment or if she was scared. I wonder if Papa cared. And I wonder if the doctors had cut just a little less of her brain, or stopped the procedure just a bit sooner, if maybe we would have had had more of our Rosie left. I wonder if at any point, things had been left well enough, if everything would have changed.
But it wasn’t left well enough, none of it was. Not Rosie. Not her brain. Not any of it. People need to realize Papa’s dreams, and the dreams he had for the boys couldn’t happen at well enough. They needed extraordinary, and Rosie wasn’t it. Rosie was just Rosie, well, at least until the leucotomy. And then Rosie wasn’t even that anymore. She was just a shell of the blossoming woman who, hours earlier, was leaving the school grounds with her father.
Papa never had Rosie living at home again. We were told she went off to be a teacher like she dreamed of. Twenty years later, Papa had his first stroke, and the truth came out. After the leucotomy, he sent Rosie to an institution. There she had someone to diaper
Lily by Taylor Claassen
her and wheel her, and it didn’t matter if she had no voice. Without a voice, she couldn’t cry out at the lack of visitors, and Papa was told it would just cause more harm than good if family came and went. Momma had other thoughts on this. We started visiting Rosie again after two decades.
Rosemary lived in institutions the rest of her life, and Papa never saw her again during his. Eight years after the first stroke took most of his voice and the use of his right side, Papa had another and died at home. Family was nearby, except for Rosie, and I suppose it was well enough.
Home Follows Me by Rachel Walton
March
by Scout Lynch
Here we rise
Out of a seasonal funk
Here we rise
Out of darkness and cold spells
Here we rise
Out of sadness and agony
Winter is but a forgotten memory
Until later in the year
But for now
I will blossom like the flowers peaking Out of the ground
I will feel the warm sun on my face
And let it wash over me like a shower
For now
I will touch the daffodil’s silky petals
I will smell the rain before it comes.
Here we rise.
Gutter by Mattie Green
Daytona Nights by Cierra Feazell
Air Jail by Scout Lynch
Let’s Go Back to Sleep by Kieran Groce
Hank by Mattie Green
A Jimmy-Jawed Cutie by Cierra Feazell
Finnigan’s Gaze by Daniel Jackson
My Puppy Memphis by Elizabeth Coleman
Zane’s Special Chair by Daniel Jackson
Paw-ndering by Madi Williams
Panda by Victoria Hood
Stop Taking Pictures of Me, Mom by Kieran Groce
This Is Gibson by Elizabeth Coleman
Cat in the Box by Madi Williams
Life on the Edge: A Duck Tail by Rachel Walton
Neighborlings by Katherine Grimes
Eyes of the Forest by Richard Marshall
Numbers and Nerves
by Cierra Feazell
The girl is a sore thumb amongst the crowd. She can be spotted immediately upon entering the lively Blue Ridge Mountain room, where the annual back-to-school bingo is being held. Hundreds of students file into the area as the last few minutes before the first game pass, and with each entering body, the girl’s jean-clad right leg seems to bounce just a bit faster.
Strawberry blonde locks frame her red, freckled face, and a pair of gold-accented glasses sit softly on the bridge of her almost-perfect, button nose. The girl seems to be of above-average beauty, but her confidence is undeniably subpar. Bingo has not even begun, and already her hands are visibly shaky.
She sits, fidgeting with the red sliders that act as number markers on the provided game boards. The girl’s fingers never cease to be busy, and her face wears a consistent look of discomfort, signified by turquoise eyes that are slightly squinted, lowered brows, and clenched teeth. It seems she is struggling but attempting to stay as calm as possible.
Her table is filled with fellow college girls, all of whom she outwardly ignores. When the announcer finally calls the beginning of game one, the girl jumps, startled. Quietly, without making a sound, she pulls her sliders as the numbers are called throughout the night.
Now and then, beads of sweat form on the girl’s nose, and the knitted holes at the bottom of her sleeves are pulled larger and larger. Her eyes repeatedly flick from the announcer to the board in front of her, but her leg stops bouncing. She almost has bingo.
The next number is called. An almost inaudible sigh of relief leaves the girl’s mouth. She does not have bingo.
She pushes her board to the center of the table as the prize is given to the round winner. The girl’s hand moves upward and begins gently tugging on the jewelry decorating her ear, a blatant sign that her nerves are still present. Her leg resumes bouncing, causing her tan, white, and gold Adidas shoe to bump against the carpeted floor.
The girl does not play a single game for the rest of the night. Her face relaxes just a bit. Not participating in bingo seems to ease her, but not fully.
As the event comes to an end and the girl gets up to leave, she begins to look just as uncomfortable as she did at the beginning. Her face holds the same tight-lipped expression, complemented by reddened cheeks, as she timidly maneuvers through the mass of her exiting peers. The anxiety-ridden girl disappears around the corner just seconds later.
by Nicole Lynch
Macaroni Salad
by Scout Lynch
Macaroni salad
On the coffee table
The dank smell of cigarettes
Seeps in through the garage door
I cannot smell the food very well
Only mayonnaise and onion
Masked by tobacco
Ernie the bird
Is chirping and singing little songs
He’s begging for a little sliver
Of bell pepper
There is a tension
Between my grandmother and her boyfriend
That I am too young to understand
All I understood was love
Which was all my grandmother ever gave
Ernie the bird
Waddles over
And faceplants
Right into my Macaroni salad
Bowtruckle
Notable Decoy by Mattie Green
Homestead Arch by Daniel Jackson
A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words –
But How Many Pictures Are Worth a Memory?
by Grace Weaver
I have continued to ask myself this question repeatedly since spending my summer in Spain.
I had never flown before, much less ventured abroad – nor ventured abroad alone before, for that matter. The experience was great, and I was sure to capture every moment, from my landing in Madrid to my returning flight. How could I not? España was surreal – to go to such a place and to see all of the scenes was to lose touch from reality.
Yet, somehow, it was all real. It was a city, not a dream, full of life that I was living. I had a mere three weeks to soak and see all that Sevilla had to offer, and it was hard to be a student and a tourist at the same time.
And so – everywhere I went, so did my camera. Everything I saw can still be displayed on screen. I may no longer be able to taste the food like no other, but I will always remember what it looks like.
At the time, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Looking back now, there is little that I wouldn’t do differently.
Naturally, the question arises: “Why?” And for that, there is only one answer: for all of the things I saw, there was so much more I missed.
Such a realization would not be present until weeks after I journeyed the 4,000 miles back across the ocean. I often reminisced about my experiences while I was away. I still do. Within walking distance of my home in Spain was the center in which I studied castles and cathedrals such as Plaza de España and La Giralda, and Starbucks will never compare to the peanut creme lattes found at Ozik, a small Korean cafe tucked in the corner of a narrow, winding street, just outside the heart of the city. In the midst of my reminisce, my heart would be full of only love and appreciation.
However, if one were to mention the Sevilla Catedral, I wouldn’t have been able to say the same, for I was rather averse to my time spent there.
The tour was led by a history professor at my school, who had walked a group of us students to the entrance of the large structure with reserved tickets for 12:00 p.m. There was a mob of approximately 30 in our group alone, and we quickly learned that we weren’t the only ones, nor the only group so large with
intentions of accessing the inside of the building that seemed so extravagant from the outside. With the temperature peaking at 104 as we still waited and the time passed 12:30, our excitement slowly dwindled in our long pants and shoulder-covering tops that were required of us in order to be allowed in.
We at last entered the interior, and what was inside was unimaginable. The Cathedral seemed to have no end, with decorated corners, beautifully constructed arches, paintings, statues, and gold encrypted accents galore. The ceilings were high and equally as astonishing, and “oohs” and “ahhs” of amazement echoed across every room. The feeling of being present alone was indescribable – for seemingly everyone but me.
At first, I wanted to take every photo that I could get. The Cathedral was astonishing. Yet, somehow, it was the most unphotogenic architecture I’d ever seen. The lighting was terrible. With the amount of people in the building, most photos lacked a focal point, and we often had to pause our tour because there was no open section of the monument to explore. Disillusionment only followed. The poor air circulation and crowd control became frustrating. A lot of the history did not have much meaning to me. I couldn’t understand the tour guide through their thick Spanish accent, nor did I understand
El Río Guadalquivir by Grace Weaver
the infatuation of those around me.
I wouldn’t ever understand it while I was in Spain, either. I didn’t until I was scrolling through my Instagram one afternoon and a particular photo caught my eye. A history page had posted it, and for some reason, I had the exact same one in my camera roll. It was the tomb of Christopher Columbus, located in the largest gothic cathedral in Europe.
I swiped my screen, logging out of Instagram. I went to Google. I typed into the search bar, “largest gothic cathedral.” The Seville Cathedral was the first result.
I spent three weeks in Spain. I walked by the Seville Cathedral almost every single day. I went inside of it. I have every picture of it. Yet, I have no significant memory of one of the world’s most renowned architecture.
Suddenly, my camera roll didn’t seem so important anymore, and neither did the number of likes on my Instagram.
I was able to miss the beauty of the Seville Cathedral –with the largest gothic cathedral quite actually surrounding me on all sides.
A picture was worth a thousand words and the memory of a lifetime.
La Plaza de España by Grace Weaver
Above the Sea by Madi Williams
Echoes of an Empire by Richard Marshall
A Golden Sunset by Victoria Hood
Lessons
by Patrick Dacey
First they yelled, “You read too much!”
Then they shouted, “You watch too much T.V.”
Then they yelled, “You look at that sky too much!”
Then they shouted, “You look at that fake sky more than the real sky.”
Then they died, And I didn’t know what to do or not to do.
The Past Is Ever Present by Rachel Walton
Game of Thrones, Arles, France by Amy Loeffler
Heavy Cream
by Scout Lynch
It was a typical Wednesday night shift. We were so lacking in customers that I could feel myself falling asleep standing up. Behind the bar, I have a myriad of items that can make a quick makeshift iced latte, in case there’s a need for a boost of energy. Caramel syrup, white chocolate syrup, espresso concentrate and heavy cream. I poured a liberal amount of heavy cream into my shaker cup, thinking, “Well, when I shake it with ice, the heavy cream will surely be diluted.”
I poured about 6 ounces of heavy cream into my copper shaker. Next up was the espresso concentrate, which you only need a little splash of to summon the equivalent to one ounce of espresso. I poured in about two ounces of it, thinking I was fairly tired and definitely needed the caffeine. Some white chocolate syrup, who knows how old it is because we never use it for drinks, and some caramel hershey’s syrup. I shook everything up with ice. It was delicious, creamy, and coffee forward. So good that I chugged the whole thing in about five minutes. Then my first customer walked into the bar. She ordered a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and a charcuterie board. I brought her her bottle and a glass for her wine, and punched her charcuterie board into the system. That’s when the sweating started.
The kind of sweat that’s so intense that I wanted to turn down the AC but I also had intense, nonstop cold chills. I chatted with my customer while she sipped her wine and heard the kitchen’s bell ringing, and went back to retrieve her charcuterie board and set it in front of my customer. She had everything she needed. It is now that I should mention that I am violently lactose intolerant, and my beverage decision might not have been wise because of this. I made a beeline for the bathroom and locked the door. As I stood in front of the toilet, I weighed my decisions and knew what I had to do. I reached my finger into the back of my throat and simply pummeled my uvula with it, like a miniature Rocky Balboa beating a meat slab in a freezer. I threw up the intense makeshift bar latte but at this point, it was too late. The effects of the six
ounces of heavy cream and espresso concentrate had already started to hit my system, unbeknownst to me. I walked out of the bathroom, smiled at my customer and asked how she was doing. She looked at my face with concern, which now had sweat dripping from my forehead into my false lashes and down around my mouth and was pouring off of my chin. Think of the sweatiest you’ve ever been in your life, and realize that I was worse off than that. I ran to the bathroom yet again in response to the churning in my stomach, which was surely an indicator of things to come. What about that customer, watching me go into the bathroom twice in five minutes. God I hope she thinks I’m doing drugs. I tried to vomit again but to no avail, I had already abandoned the contents of my stomach earlier. I soaked
Milkshake Date by Dew Adams
three paper towels in the perspiration that was pouring from my face and stepped back out to see that a young couple had entered the bar.
“Sit anywhere you feel comfy!” I smiled at them. I brought them menus and the woman at the table told me that she had had a rough week. Not rougher than how I feel right now, I thought. They ordered some dessert martinis, both including heavy cream in their recipes. I poured their drinks in the shakers and scowled at the heavy cream when I picked it up, cursing it just a bit when I employed it into the shaker.
When I brought them their drinks, I decided I needed to use the stockroom bathroom, and not let anyone hear what was about to ensue. I made sure both of my tickets were okay when I went out the main bar door and started up the stairs. Sort of attempting to run but not running very well. I keyed in the door code to get into our stockroom with shaky fingers and prayed I would make it. I went up the second set of stairs and got to the next locked door, feeling the churning in my stomach even more intensely. As I keyed in the code, I realized how thankful I was that there was not a little bridge troll that guarded our door. The second that it chanted “Ah, what is it that you need, you must first answer my questions three,” I would have picked it up by its little troll ankles and used its head as a battering ram to enter the second door, cracking its skull open as I screamed about needing the toilet.
I entered through the threshold of the second door and, hunched over, hobbled into the bathroom we had upstairs. Rushing, I pulled down my underwear and sat on the toilet. I was, at this point, so incredibly drenched in sweat, that when I sat down on the toilet, I slid directly off of it. Catching myself with only my shaky knees, I propped myself back up onto it. Now: for the sake of the reader’s stomach and mental health, I will not describe what I went through physically. I will, however, describe what I went through spiritually. It was nothing short of looking God directly in the eyes. The arc of the covenant opened before me and shone. I saw a single tear fall from God’s eye and when it dripped down, it turned into the moon that orbits our planet Earth. As the moon spun, I flew through space and time, touching the planets as I went. Beauty that no one has ever seen before as I
reached out, grazing the planets with my fingers, and flew among the stars. Angels sang to me, in a language not yet heard before by human ears. My body twirled throughout the cosmos and my chest opened to reveal a light pulsing from my heart that can only be described as heavenly. As I spun and flew with a light beaming from my chest, I shone it onto the darkest corners of space and time and discovered what true relief felt like. I cried.
And then just like that, I was in a bathroom, on a cold toilet, pondering what had even happened. The relief I felt was indescribable. A negative pregnancy test, a cool sip of water after toiling in the hot sun, a particularly itchy bug bite being scratched? Child’s play. I saw God. I sat up straight and remembered that customers were waiting for me. I got downstairs after thoroughly washing my hands to discover that a group of men, who were each aged from a different generation, had just walked in. I smiled at them and brought them menus, and checked on the wine girl and the couple sipping their creamy martinis. I took the three gentlemen’s orders and joked with them about the large variety of bourbons that we had available. As I went behind the bar to make three old fashioneds, I smiled at everyone in the bar. Making their drinks, I breathed new air. I looked around and realized: none of them even knew.
Silence by Madi Williams
Sky Watching by Victoria Hood
Grayson Highlands State Park by Grace Weaver
April Fools
by Daniel Jackson
She was only a joke, a trick for the day, April first laughter, then meant to fade away. Yet her smile was sweet, her voice softly blessed, For she dreamed of a place, to stand with the best.
At first she was played just to garner a laugh, A handful of fans walked beside her small path. She was content, though the crowd rarely spoke, For she carried the name of “only a joke.”
As the years passed, someone came along Who saw more than jokes in her song. And so, she was put to the test at last, To see if she had the will to be better than her past.
Her voice grew to reach the sky Her popularity blooming high Despite everything, she became humbled. As she had never forgotten those who stumbled.
At last she had reached it, her final goal She had found herself in a brand new role But she would not keep her fame as a cloak She smiled all the brighter – once only a joke.
Butterfly Blue by Hannah Dix
Rainbow Hippo by Victoria Hood
The Sky Is Falling
by Phillip Turner
It’s honestly the worst part… Waiting. Anticipation. Patience. Not knowing how to step forward or where to move while the ceiling is crashing down in pieces. Uncalculated. Random. Unknown. That is the path ahead.
City of Colors by Victoria Hood
Heart, Hurt
by Gabriel Alvarez
My heart hurts, Day after day, Unable to think straight.
Reliving the memories, Stuck in the past.
The Joy that was once there, Is now pain, and it is vast.
Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop. I am unable to take it, not anymore.
Going through my days, While faking a smile.
Trying to make everyone happy, I am not there right now.
I don’t know how much more, Because time “heals everything” But it feels desperately slow.
Pain doesn’t go away, And it burns like a true hell.
Patiently waiting, day after day, Yet, my heart still hurts.
Flying by Gabriel Alvarez
Cambrian Explosion by Daniel Jackson
Time, Trust, and Hope
by Phillip Turner
The floor is lava and you take whatever piece of surface you can get because there is no time to Figure out the correct path.
NO TIME.
You just have to HOPE the path chosen gets you to the other side.
What happens then? Are you done? I am STUCK.
The only way to move forward now is to WAIT for the the rope tied around my waist to be tugged into a direction that you HAVE to hope is the BEST one. Trust.
Trust you won’t be pulled into the lava.
Morning Stroll by Victoria Hood
Pine Fall
by John Kitterman
“[The pine] is as immortal as I am, and perchance will go to as high a heaven, there to tower above me still.” (Henry Thoreau, from The Maine Woods)
They had to come down. Last year the top popped off one missed the Subaru by inches and shocked the crepe myrtle into a pink fugue. Still, it was painful to remove 14 60 footers that had been planted by someone else when the house was built, a young couple, perhaps, dwarfed by the horizon. On the west wind side two rows of silent witnesses to forty years of deer, moonshine peaches, and white-tailed hawks, finally suffering the arborist’s spikes as he climbed the knobs and dropped the deadly branches. At last they felt the tug of the rope, and the merciless saw teeth cutting deeper and deeper, with a certain logic they had to admit, until everyone gazed skyward, as if the cloudy blue would uncurtain a revelation. And then with a slight bow of the green head, and an invisible <tremor> -- the great heaving sigh suffused the world while messages ran riot in roots instantly throughout the grove, and maybe wider, maybe everywhere! It’s coming! It’s here! We’re all in this together!
The resigned skyscraper tilted against the earth’s axis and with a Whoosh and Hard Whump that could be heard a country mile Hit the forest floor………………………………… mute as a casket. One by one the totems tumbled, humbly and with no weeping, but for the sap that stuck to fingers pushing bark bits and seeds from eye knots. Scenes of ritual sacrifice:
A double trunk on the ground a flattened Giacometti woman. Another scarred like a gaffed shark. The air oceaned with pine resin like it was Christmas. Perhaps Christ fell hard like this, and like these logs we picked up and put on the mill for a second llfe as a wall. The rest into the Vermeer, yellow funnel of inevitability grinding and spitting up mulch into the truck for squash and onions, I hope. Litter of sawdust and silence left in the wake, and brilliant new light flooding the stumped graves as they cried out.
Blue Sky by Bryson Brown
Frogberry Beret by Scout Lynch
Golden Goodness by Lydia Brown
Illustrator Aquarium by Mattie Green
Island Home by Chance Davis
Maracaibo by Gabriel Alvarez
Across the Pond, Arles, France by Amy
Loeffler
Spider’s Delight
by Scout Lynch
Other Side of the Bridge by Chance Davis
A Mellow Little Fellow by Grace Weaver
Nearby Tranquility by Chance Davis
I Know What It’s Like to Be Dead
by Scout Lynch
PROMPT 137: BEGINNINGS. Write a story with one of the following as your opening sentence. I chose: “She said, I know what it’s like to be dead.”
She said, “I know what it’s like to be dead.”
I stared at Shannon. She was rocking back and forth in the chair, with its rounded bottom pieces of wood. Not quite a rocking chair, but it wasn’t stable either. The whole facility is filled with suicide-resistant furniture. Beds with flame-resistant mattresses and rounded, smooth corners. Circular stools that were just one solid cylinder, much akin to a big, plastic, solid can.
The facility was supposed to keep us safe. Every day we are given a paper tab that melts under our tongues and the pulsing walls and voices begin. We draw, we paint, we tap on a typewriter that’s nailed down to the round, cornerless desks. We used to lay on a bed while a shrink talked us through our trip but once we were able to manage it on our own, the activities began.
The only time I feel normal is when I sleep. My dreams aren’t as crazy as reality is but I don’t know what reality is anymore.
Shannon rocks back and forth in her chair. The top of her scalp has been
Shop Class Coffin by Ayden Plautz
picked clean, with the rest of her jet black hair flowing down past her shoulders. Just the top of her head is where she’s ripped out her hair, one follicle at a time.
“I know what it’s like to be dead.”
The shrink writes in a notebook.
“Explain that feeling,” he says.
“I’ve seen it. I’ve seen the carriage that comes to take me away,” Shannon squeaks out. “I know every time they come for me that it’s time to drag me away to a world that I already recognize. The horses are all white but there is no one holding the reins. They already know where they’re supposed to go. A well-dressed man opens the carriage door for me and invites me in. I usually scream and run from the carriage but last night, I felt defeated and I walked into the carriage. The man smiled at me. His smile was warm but his eyes were menacing. They’ll take you all away, the menacing smile man, HE’LL
COME FOR YOU IN THE
NIGHT!” Shannon starts thrashing around in her chair; she rocks it back so far that it topples over and she spills to the floor. As she’s sobbing uncontrollably, the nurses run over and inject a sleepy syringe into her thigh and lift her up as the sobs turn to squeaks and then to steady breathing. She gets to sleep, and I’m jealous.
A World Within the Heartwood by Richard Marshall
The Last Light
by Richard Marshall
Chamber of Reflections by Richard
Marshall
Starry Night by Victoria Hood
Shelled Friend by Samantha Reinhart
Biographies
Judges
Suzie Maines, ’21, from Winchester majored in Spanish and International Studies at Ferrum. A member of the Boone Honors Program, she studied in Seville, Spain, and in Havana, Cuba, during her time as a Ferrum College student. She then taught English in Madrid through the CIEE (Council on International Educational Exchange) program and is currently in her fifth year of teaching English in Madrid through the BEDA (Bilingual English Development & Assessment) program. Her photo Sevillan Sunset was chosen for the cover of the Fall 2020 issue of Chrysalis
Vic Martinez, also known by the creative moniker erx extranx, is a visual artist based in Somerville, MA. Their work focuses on image-making through digital collaging, photography, and zines. With themes of identity, memory, and nostalgia, they create and explore imaginary landscapes that observe self-exploration and the intersection of the past and present.
Ekaterina Semenova, Семенова Екатерина in Russian, is an EdTech English Teacher from Pskov, Russia. She began writing poetry at 14 years old. She studied at Ferrum College in 2017 and had a poem published in Chrysalis in both Russian and English. She completed her Master’s Degree in Budapest, Hungary, at Eötvös Loránd University.
Grace Zhu is a third-year MFA candidate for fiction at Emerson College and an alumna of the University of Illinois at Chicago. At Emerson, she is president of Writers of Color and Chief of Staff and a senior fiction reader for Redivider. She is Deputy Editor in Chief and fiction mentor for Collections of Transience. Her works have appeared in Stork Magazine, RipRap and others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Staff
Scout Lynch from Baltimore is an English major, editor-in-chief of Chrysalis, and a member of the Boone Honors Program who lives in Ferrum and likes to crochet, cook, bake, and write, including Dungeons and Dragons campaigns.
Chance Davis is a History Education major from Asheboro, NC. He aspires to become either a school librarian or an archivist.
Cierra Feazell from Franklin County is majoring in English with a minor in History. She enjoys academic and prose writing, but reading remains on the top of her list of hobbies.
Mattie Green is a creative from Callaway. She is majoring in Graphic Design and Marketing. She enjoys crafting, dreaming, and the company of her family and pets.
M. Katherine Grimes is a professor of English and advisor to Chrysalis.
Victoria Hood from Martinsville, WV, is a Psychology major and Art minor who is passionate about photography.
Daniel Jackson from Rocky Mount is a Biology major and Forensic Science Minor. He enjoys writing when ideas come to him.
Ayden Plautz is a sophomore who enjoys reading and watching movies. He enjoys writing in most forms, specifically prose and screenwriting.
Other Contributors
Dew Adams is an artist from Franklin County and double Biology and Environmental Science major. Their art tends to involve nature. Their favorite subjects are insects and invertebrates.
Gabriel Alvarez from Maracaibo, Venezuela, is a Psychology major and Music minor. He is on the tennis team and enjoys playing piano and guitar. Bryson Brown, a Business Administration major, is on the football team. Lydia Brown from Dugspur enjoys taking pictures of the Lord’s creation and making friends. She plays Women’s Flag Football and is double majoring in Human and Health Performance and Exercise Science.
David B. Campbell is assistant professor of English and Journalism, coordinator of the Journalism program, and chair of the School of Arts and Humanities.
Taylor Claassen from Greensboro, NC, is majoring in Business Administration Management and Computer Science Web Design. She is a member of the softball team.
Elizabeth Coleman is a freshman who uses art to express herself. She was in numerous foster homes and aged out of the foster care system. Music helped her get through the system and find her way back home.
Patrick Dacey has written two books,The Outer Cape: a Novel and We’ve Already Gone This Far: Stories. He holds an MFA from Syracuse. His work has been featured on NPR’s Selected Shorts and in The Paris Review, Zoetrope All-Story, Guernica, The Kenyon Review, and Harper’s. He is an assistant professor of English and a recipient of the Pushcart Prize.
Hannah Dix is a junior Theatre major who enjoys acting, painting and Corgis. Kieran Groce is from State Road, NC. Her major is History with a minor in Biology. She works for Stanley Library and is president of the Gamers Guild and the GSA (Gender and Sexuality Alliance).
John Kitterman is a professor of English. He holds two masters degrees and a doctorate from the University of Virginia. Although officially retired, he still teaches in the English and Boone Honors programs. He is the author of two novels, The Seam and Dreamland, and of numerous articles and poems, with publications in Roanoke Review, Implosion, New Virginia Review, Colorado North Review, Norfolk Review, Nantahala Review, and Floyd County Moonshine.
Amy Loeffler is an assistant professor and program coordinator of Media and Communication. She is an award-winning food writer (Best American Food Writing 2023). She lives in Roanoke with her coonhound mix, Bruno.
Nicole Lynch a senior from Franklin County, has been painting since 2016. expresses herself through literature and other forms of art.
Samantha Reinhart is a junior at studying Graphic Design. She is a local student and loves the outdoors and looking for little creatures in nature. Michelle Simms is a 38-year-old freshman from Rocky Mount, VA. Her major is Nursing.
Phillip Turner is a Liberal Studies major with minors in Art and Graphic Design, Communication, and Psychology. Vice president of the Gamers Guild Club, he loves to write poetry, listen to music, and play video games.
Rachel Walton ’15 is from Kentucky but considers Rocky Mount her home. She is the Director of Library Services. She earned a degree from Ferrum in History and Recreation Leadership, holds a Masters of Library and Information Science from the University of South Carolina, and has started a Masters in Parks, Recreation and Tourism Management at Clemson University. She enjoys being outdoors with her son, Otis, and reading. Grace Weaver from Franklin County is a Psychology major, English minor, and Iron Blade editor. She enjoys working on her mental and physical health and her academic skills. She plans a counseling careeer. Madi Williams is a Criminal Justice major from Ferrum. A fun fact about her is that she is hypermobile.
Acknowledgements
The staff of Chrysalis thanks the judges for sharing their time and expertise and the Integrated Programming Board for providing contest prizes.
You can visit this and earlier Chrysalis magazines at https://www.ferrum.edu/campus-life/student-publications-andmedia-chrysalis/
What’s the Story, Morning Glory? by
Amy Loeffler
Ferrum College Fall 2025