Chrysalis: Spring 2022

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Ferrum College

Chrysalis Literary and Arts Magazine

Abigail McGovern, Editor-in-Chief Kristina Cossa C.J. Hughes Shaylise Jones Caroline King Jacques Moore-Roberts Shela Muriel Will Poch Marina Powell Jasmine White Katherine Grimes, Advisor

Tom Nix, Art Mike Dunavant, Photography Cara Modisett, Poetry Joshua Bernard, Prose

Ferrum College Spring 2022 Cover Image: Thrice Welcome by Marina Powell

Table of Contents Thrice Welcome by Marina Powell Cover Reincarnated by Jacques Moore-Roberts 4 Darling, If I could... by Abigail McGovern 5 Movie Critic by Shaylise Jones 6 Ellis Island by Madison Cline 8 Urban Sunset by Madison Cline 8 The Old Tractor by Marina Powell 9 You Used to Be Seventeen by Casey Craddock 10 Window Panes by Abigail McGovern 11 Evening Haze by Laura Dymond 12 Needle in the Way by Scout Lynch 14 Alone by Jacques Moore-Roberts 15 16 Home by Laura Dymond The Sun Sign by Luis Felipe Marques 19 View of the Olde Farm by Shawn Haven 20 Wondering by Chelsea Zizzi 21 Ole Ferrum Skies by William Poch 21 Crane by Caroline King 22 Inlet Sunset by Caroline King 22 Moonlight Meadows by Kristina Cossa 23 Full Figure by Laura Dymond 24 D.C Days by Emma Brubaker 27 Sherbet Skies by Ebony Reeves 28 Stars for You 1 by Makenna Lemon 30 Stars for You 2 by Makenna Lemon 30 Starbound by Madison Cline 31 Life Cut Short by Shela Muriel 32 We Just Dance Along by D. Bruckshaw Campbell 33 Snow Camp by Lana Whited 36 Ice Storm by John Kitterman 37 The Last Rose by Marina Powell 38 Peace by Riley Church 40 Tiger Lily by Alyssa Hogan 41 The Wasp by Madison Cline 41 Untitled by Alyssa Hogan 41 A Big Slice of Heaven by Alyssa Hogan 42 More Cheese, Please by Shela Muriel 42 We’re Not Bad, Just a Little Mad by Kiersten Jones 43 Smile by William Poch 44 United as One by MacKenzie Ensley 44 Define Love by Kristina Cossa 45 Karma by Jacques Moore-Roberts 46 Natural Gold by Anna Tomlin 47 2

Choked by Caroline King 48 He Will Know No Shame by Casey Craddock 49 Gender Envy Casey Craddock 49 Lounge by Alyssa Hogan 50 Feeling Nutty by Laura Dymond 50 Pondering by Nancy Brubaker 50 A Little Kiss by Caroline King 51 Sitting in the Sun by MacKenzie Ensley 51 Don’t Look Down by MacKenzie Ensley 51 Turtle Tire by MacKenzie Ensley 51 Good Intentions by Jacques Moore-Roberts 52 Koi Pond Garden by Anna Tomlin 53 Blinded by the Light by MacKenzie Ensley 54 Dear Mother, Dear Father by Abigail McGovern 55 Tree of Illumination by Anna Tomlin 57 Without You by Caroline King 58 Brave New World by Ashley Minnick 59 Life’s Blessing by C.J Hughes 60 New Life by Madison Cline 60 I Am by Jasmine White 61 Soar by Caroline King 62 It’s Captain (Lessons from Jack) by Marina Powell 63 Mr. Krabs by Caroline King 64 It Will Be Wonderful by Jasmine White 65 Ancestral by Jacques Moore-Roberts 66 The Rookie Detective by Shela Muriel 68 Time Travelling by Emma Brubaker 71 Great Ball of Fire by Lana Whited 72 When I’m Breathing Fire by Abigail McGovern 74 Samantha, My Little Sister by Shela Muriel 75 Blue 180 Degree by Shaylise Jones 75 Love Yourself by Jacques Moore-Roberts 76 Ice Drops by MacKenzie Ensley 76 If You Have Not Loved by Casey Craddock 77 Reaching for the Stars by Lana Whited 77 Palomino Sunset by Nancy Brubaker 78 Where I’m From by Caroline King 79 Answer My Call by Kristina Cossa 80 Mushie by Emma Brubaker 80 A Lasting Nothingness by Braden Homsey 81 Forever Ferrum by Nancy Brubaker 82 Gordonia Iasianthus by Anna Tomlin 84

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Darling, if I could….

by Abigail McGovern First Place Prose I would bleed for you, darling, if I could. When we’re together, I hear the sadness whispered in your words, feel the weight of it when you touch me. I am no stranger to pain. To carrying lives, love, loss on my shoulders. For you, for sharing your secrets with me in the deepest shadows of night, naught but a flashlight beam between us….for you I would do the thing properly.

Skin under my nails, blood on my face, bruises on my knuckles. I would ride in on the white horse, sword swinging.

Stand between you and any enemy.

Darling, I would swallow your sorrows, or take the fatal blow.

But without hands, without a louder voice, all I can do is offer you another world to step into. A journey, an adventure. Or a moment of pause. My words are often written with woe, but just as often, they are filled with love and laughter too.

Still, I have neither fists nor sword nor blood. Really, I am nothing but pages and ink and binding.

Sometimes, darling, the world is dark and frightening. Often, the world is dark and frightening. And if I cannot be your soldier, then at least I can be your light. Your outlet. Your doorway to something new. I cannot offer you force, so I will offer you hope.

What is a novel anyway, if not a place to run?

Reincarnated by Jacques Moore-Roberts First place photography 4

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Movie Critic by Shaylise Jones First Place Art

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Ellis Island

by Madison Cline First Place Poetry The ceiling arched above their heads Echoing their grandest dreams.

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Urban Sunset by Madison Cline

The Old Tractor by Marina Powell Second place photography

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You Used to Be Seventeen

by Casey Craddock

by Abigail McGovern

Second Place Prose

Second Place Poetry

One day you’re 17, then you turn around and you’re 23 and your grandma is dead. You only talk to your brother every couple of months when you used to play games together every day. You haven’t talked to any of your high school friends since the day you graduated. You had big plans for when you finally got out of your hometown, but now that you’re out you see that nothing is different, yet everything has changed. The house your grandma grew up and lived in is for sale. The height markers you and your brother made are still carved in the door frame. Your beloved dog is old and grey now. No longer the pup she used to be. You look at a picture of yourself from when you were fifteen and wonder what did she have to be so sad about? You look in the mirror and see the grey hairs that she didn’t have, and you feel so much older, but still so inexperienced at the age of 23. You listen to the songs you used to love and find that you don’t remember the lyrics anymore. You only make two or three art pieces a year when you used to be so passionate about art. Your cousin that you ate lunch with everyday tried to end her life and you didn’t even know until your other cousin mentioned it in passing. You no longer look at your elderly family members in wonder. You look at them and wonder how long you have left with them. You used to laugh when they didn’t remember things. Now it sends ice through your veins. You used to be a hopeful little 17-year-old kid. You thought things would get better, because that’s what they told you, but they lied. You just get older, and everything changes.

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I am sorry that I am sometimes angry and often splintering and don’t always know what to do with my hands I have heard that people are window panes, that there’s more to see inside than from standing on the street But maybe that’s more of a metaphor about glass?

I am sorry that I like to keep my secrets close and my curtains closed and that sometimes I have sharp shards for a tongue I have heard that people are window panes because they’re sometimes reflecting you right on back So if I am a mirror too, am I really me or am I just reflecting you?

I am sorry for these poor metaphors but I am trying to find a word for these shaking hands and this anxious heart And if people are window panes then we are at least something that can be explained, and we can be at once holding back the wind and letting the light come streaming in I have heard that people are window panes because they’re sometimes reflecting you right on back So if I am a mirror too, am I really me or am I just reflecting you?

I am sorry for these poor metaphors but I am trying to find a word for these shaking hands and this anxious heart And if people are window panes then we are at least something that can be explained, and we can be at once holding back the wind and letting the light come streaming in 11

Needle In The Way

by Scout Lynch

I was sitting in my local dive bar. It was later on in the evening, in the middle of December. I was on a barstool with my back to the door, and each time it opened, it let in a gust of frigid winter air. If I wanted to be exposed to the cold, I would be sitting outside. The front door swung open for what felt like the hundredth time, and I turned around to glare down whoever walked in, as if they had purposefully opened it just to annoy me. I looked over my shoulder to see my friend Micah, who beelined for me as soon as he saw me.

“Are you okay? I’m so sorry. I saw the EMTs wheeling your husband out of your building this morning. Jesus, there was so much blood. Is he going to press charges against you?”

I turned around and leaned back, reflecting on the day I had. I don’t think I’ve had such a terrifying experience ever since.

That morning, I was awoken at 5 AM to my cell phone ringing, only to pick it up and see my soon-to-be-ex-husband Martin’s name illuminated on the screen. I hit the “reject call” button and went back to sleep. I was staying at a friend’s house, since Martin and I were going through a separation. When I woke up 3 hours later, I checked my phone and knew something was wrong: 18 unopened text messages, 11 missed phone calls, and one unheard voicemail. All from Martin. I rolled off of my friend’s bed and threw all my clothes on as quickly as I could.

“Scout?”

“Hey, I’m so sorry. I really have to go. Martin blew my phone up, and I think something’s wrong.”

“Do you need a ride or anything? I can get dressed and drive you home.”

“It’s ok, it’s only a few blocks away. I really appreciate it though.

I’ll text you.”

I didn’t mean to be curt, but I had to run. I had a feeling that something bad was waiting for me at home. I ran out the front door of my friend’s building. I was trying to look at my phone while I speedwalked down the street. The texts Martin had sent me were all misspelled 14

and confusing.

“Were are yuo?” “i gues you rlly don’t love me.” “please” “see what happens” “my sister hats you.” “i love you” “bitchh” “i;ll take you”.

I was a block away and decided to listen to the voicemail he left me at 5:40 in the morning. My stomach dropped when I heard it.

“Scout… I love you. It’s your fault. Goodbye.”

I don’t even remember running at that point; I could have sworn I was flying. I flung the building’s front door open and bolted down the hallway to the door leading into our apartment. The door wasn’t even locked. Our one-bedroom apartment, rented to us by a man who everyone in town knew to be a slumlord. Upon walking in through the front door of it, one could immediately feel the draft coming in through the cheap, thin windows. There were cracks in the ceiling and roach traps everywhere. The walls had been painted with multiple coats of cheap white paint, in an attempt to cover the yellow walls, stained by years of indoor smoking. The first room was the living room.

Empty. I held my breath as I walked towards our bedroom. I peeked my head into the door to see my dog on the floor, anxiously chewing on the case of a CD that a friend had lent me. My dog was still wearing her leash, and my Alone by Jacques Moore-Roberts

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eyes followed from where it was attached onto her harness. The leash led up to the bed, into Martin’s hand. He was lying on his back, with his mouth wide open. He looked like he passed out drunk.

“You asshole!” I yelled, “I thought you hurt yourself or something!”

He didn’t respond.

“Flapjack still has her leash on. Were you so drunk that you couldn’t even stay awake long enough to take her on the walk she was expecting?”

As I walked closer, I got more aggravated.

I stood over Martin. I looked at his face, hating every inch of it. He had curly brown hair and a scraggly beard. He was 26 but looked like he was in his mid-30s. His skin was weathered from years of alcoholism and heroin use.

I stared at him, wondering how I could ever have loved him enough to marry him.

“Get up. I want you out of here.

Now.” Home by Laura Dymond I was met with silence, no movement.

“This isn’t funny. Come on. Stop messing with me. You need to get up and leave.”

I grabbed Martin by the collar to shake him awake, and that’s when I noticed the needle sitting on the nightstand. His head rolled back and stayed there when I lifted him up by his shirt. In a panic, I slapped him 16

across the face, hard. He still wasn’t getting up.

“How about I call 911? Do you really want the cops in here? I’ll call 911! I mean it.”

My body temperature went up. I had a hot flash. My sense of balance disappeared and I fell forward, catching myself on Martin’s chest. Tears were welling up in my eyes, uncontrollable tears over this person I hated so much. I felt so weak. I pulled my phone out of my back pocket to call 911. My vision was blurred trying to see through my tears, as I frantically explained to the operator that I needed an ambulance.

Her words seemed so drowned out in my ears, her voice competing to be heard against the pounding of my heart. It was beating so loudly I could have sworn it was in my head. The lights in my bedroom were so bright, and my head hurt from trying to comprehend what was happening. The room was spinning and getting smaller, and I thought my chest was going to explode–and then everything stopped.

I couldn’t hear anything any more; it was like someone pressed mute on a remote. I looked down at Martin. Why did I care what happened to him? I stared at him, this man who had tormented me for the past 8 months. This man who isolated me from my friends, gaslit me, convinced me nobody else would ever love me, told me I was nothing without him. What if I did just that? Nothing? What if I was all he ever believed me to be: nothing. For once, he would be nothing without me.

The calm I had from my sudden numbness was quickly interrupted, as a geyser of blood-red vomit started spewing from Martin’s mouth. I screamed, and my soul connected back to my body. The first thought that hit me was, “Oh god, the smell.” The first thought that hit my dog was apparently, “SNACK TIME” because she ran up and started trying to eat it. With my right hand, I grabbed a handful of Martin’s hair to pull him upright so I could keep him from choking. With my left foot, I tried blocking my little 20-pound Boston Terrier from diving straight into it.

My left hand was still holding onto the phone, and I finally registered that the operator was telling me to crate my dog. I stuck Flapjack into her crate as cops burst through my front door.She was barking, but the cop nearest to me was barking questions at me even louder.

He was screaming at me for crying, telling me I needed to calm down, that I wasn’t helping. The EMTs rushed into the bedroom.

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“SIR, SIR, PLEASE STAY SEATED!” one of the EMTs yelled.

Martin had immediately started swinging on them when they hit him with a shot of narcan.

“It’s fine,” the loud cop said, almost laughing. “Junkies always wake up mad if you take their high away.”

I despised Martin more than anyone, but had to resist the urge to slap the officer for referring to him as a junkie. Martin was moving, though. He wasn’t dead. Was I relieved, or just a bit disappointed? I sat in the living room, trying to stay out of the way. I watched the EMTs emerge from my bedroom, wheeling out a sit-up stretcher. Martin was strapped into it, with blood red vomit splattered all over his chin and neck, as well as the front of his shirt. The EMTs told me which hospital they were taking him to, but I didn’t care. I had been through enough. I spent the rest of the day cleaning, stripping the sheets off of my bed, and tossing them into the garbage. I took Flapjack on a long walk. She really deserved it.

I ended my day going to Brendees, the dive bar where I knew I would always see at least one familiar face. This is what made Brendees such a safe haven for me: I could never truly be alone there. I sat and drank my rum and coke, which was way too generously poured by the bartender, who knew I had had a rough day. That’s when I saw my friend Micah walk through the front door. He told me he saw Martin, covered in what appeared to be blood, getting wheeled out of my apartment, which was surrounded by cop cars. When he asked me if Martin was going to press charges against me, I realized he thought I had hit my breaking point and beat the living snot out of him. I smiled at Micah.

“I sure hope not! Do you know how expensive lawyers are?”

Micah laughed. I’m not sure if he realized what had really happened, but he didn’t say anything else about it, and I didn’t dispute the idea of it either. He and I both knew I was tired of being terrified.

Maybe I was more terrified of what I could have become.

The Sun Sign by Luis Felipe Marques 18

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Wondering

by Chelsea Zizzi I walk around not knowing where to go; asking constantly for guidance and receiving none.

My only friend is the darkness at home where the abyss swallows me whole.

Mindless platitudes of those reaching out: “I am here, You are never alone.”

Yet haunting thoughts still consume— until there is nothing but a being unable to hold on.

Gasping for air although there is no water around.

We learn to sink, and sit at the sandy bottom where we were made to decay.

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View of the Olde Farm by Shawn Havens

Ole Ferrum Skies by William Poch

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Crane

by Caroline King Frantically snapping, Creek banks and murky waters, Cranes snatch their next meal.

Moonlight Meadows

by Kristina Cossa Most kids who were Selene’s age took their home and possessions for granted. They complained about what their parents had them eat, where they lived, or what their parents didn’t let them do. Selene wished she could at least experience just a taste of that normality because she was never allowed to complain about anything. Not the state of her house, the food placed on the table, and especially not how her family treated her. She let out a heavy sigh and blew her dark hair out of her face. The poor girl had run up to her room for an escape. School was once again a nightmare like always. But she never brought it up at home, because her life here was no better.

“I really hope that Dad does not make me cut my hair again,” she said to herself, not wanting to think about that. Her father had wanted a boy and was disappointed when she turned out to be a girl, so her father tried to always make Selene look like a boy. Someone knocked on her door, and the eleven-year-old jumped.

“Selene!” her half-brother Alex called out. “Mom and Dad said that they want to see you,” he continued and she gulped in fear. What did they want now?

“Okay, I’m coming,” she responded, getting off her bed and walking out the door. As she headed down the stairs she could smell whatever her stepmother had brought home. It smelled awful, but that outweighed her fear of going to face her guardians.

“Oh, hello, darling,” her stepmother said once she took notice of Selene.

“Hello, Stepmother,” Selene responded, a bit afraid to say anything else. Her stepmother told her to come over, and the girl obeyed without question. Kara was her name, and in Selene’s mind, she looked like a witch. Her long curly hair was like waves of auburn; her make-up looked like blood on her almost pale skin, and her eyes were like burning embers. Even the way she dressed made Selene think of the evil queen

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Inlet Sunset by Caroline King

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Full Figure by Laura Dymond from from Snow White.

“Selene, you know the rules; you will address her as ma’am,” her father scolded from his spot at the kitchen table.

“Yes sir,” Selena answered, sighing under her breath.

“Now get started on dinner and try not to burn anything,” Kara ordered. Selene only nodded when her stepmother handed her a grocery bag. Inside there were some potatoes, along with meat and sour milk.

No doubt it was what Selene had smelled earlier, but she said nothing as she got to work. As she was peeling the potatoes so she could mash them up, her father commented about her appearance.

“Your hair is too long. After dinner, I am going to cut it,” he said without a second thought.

“But Father, it’s not even past my shoulders,” she protested, but that only made her stepmother angry.

“Don’t talk back to your father now. Keep quiet!” Kara yelled.

Selene remained silent after that, and about an hour later dinner was finally done. Alex came running down immediately when his mother called for him, and Selene scoffed when the woman happily picked him up.

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“Mommy, I love you,” he said with a smile, and Kara kissed him on the head.

“Aww, baby, I love you as well,” she responded, and Selene hid her face. If that vile woman is capable of loving her son, why doesn’t she love me? the girl thought to herself. “Jack, is it okay if he sits with you?” Kara asked.

“Of course,” her husband responded, and Alex ran to his father.

“Hey, buddy, how are you?” Selene tuned everyone out as her halfbrother talked about his day. She was only interested in eating and getting back upstairs, not the words of a six-year-old. The milk was sour, and the meat wasn’t perfect, but at least it wasn’t undercooked. Selene remained mostly silent while everyone else spoke, that is until her father spoke directly to her. “So how are your grades, Selene?” he asked, and she paled a bit. If her grades were not good, then her father would lock her inside her room.

“I have nothing below an A, Dad,” she responded, being honest.

Despite everything she went through, Selene was incredibly bright and able to maintain straight A’s throughout her first year of middle school.

“Impressive,” Kara commented, “considering you hide in your room all the time.”

“I only go there to reflect on my day, ma’am,” Selene answered. The pre-teen didn’t feel like mentioning that’s where she cursed both of her guardians and thought about running away.

“Why not just tell us?” Jake asked, but Selene didn’t answer him.

She pushed her empty plate away and lied about being tired. “Fine; do the dishes and wait for me in your room; then you go to bed,” her father responded. Selene did what she was told, and before she knew it, her father was standing in her bedroom with a pair of scissors.

“Why can’t you just let me grow it out a bit?” Selene asked, despite knowing that her father would berate her for questioning him.

“Selene, we have talked about this a hundred times. I can’t let anyone know you’re a girl,” he told her. “As the oldest, it is your responsibility to continue the family business,” he continued. Selene sighed as she knew what was coming. Her father was referring to the 25

tech company he owned. Since she was the firstborn, it was her job to run it after he retired or died.

“I know, and people won’t approve of it being run by a woman,” she answered before he could finish.

“Exactly; now hold still and don’t forget to finish your project tomorrow,” he responded as he began cutting her brown hair. It took only a few minutes before she looked like a boy with slightly long hair.

“Excellent don’t you think, my boy?” he asked and she just nodded, because she hated that he did this to her, and how he tried to make her conceal who she was. “Now get some sleep. You have to wake up early too.”

“To make you and Kara breakfast, I know,” she responded and didn’t relax until he had left the room. It was then that she allowed herself to let tears fall, after these years of mistreatment. Her hope that one day things would improve had almost completely vanished. Her parents didn’t love her. So what was the point of waiting for someone else if she couldn’t be herself?

Miles away another girl was having similar feelings, though unlike Selene she lived with a very loving family. Diana was a shifter, meaning that she could transform from her animal form to a human form. Right now she was in her silvery wolf pup form, and she wasn’t allowed to change into human form. No one in her pack was since it was against the rules and would expose the secret of their kind and home. The Moonlight Meadows was home to all shifters ranging from small animals like a mouse to mythical creatures like a phoenix. Centuries ago they were at war with the humans. Now there were hardly any left, which is why Diane found herself guarding the hidden gate to it in the middle of the night.

“Why can’t I just be myself?” she asked.

D.C Days by Emma Brubaker

Sherbet Skies by Ebony Reeves

Star-bound

by Madison Cline

Stars for You 1 by Makenna Lemon

Stars for You 2 by Makenna Lemon 30

Your sweet voice carries my sorrows away In the coldest rain In the darkest night You tilt my chin up and show me the sun.

A caress of your cheek Your kiss on my brow Tonight we are one We are star-bound.

Drive me to the stars in your old pickup truck Speed like no one’s watching Bend the highway to the moon!

We’ll cackle and shriek as the ground falls away As the wind whips our hair and leaves tears in our eyes Until nothing is left but the silence of stars And the light of the crescent moon.

We can dangle our feet from its sliver of silver Skipping rocks across the cosmos The wise old oak will hold us tight Anchoring us with crooked fingers.

Let them call it reckless!

Let them say it is doomed from the beginning Doubt any of it is real For no one can perch on the moon without falling!

No destiny is stamped into the stars!

But I know better.

Let it end in tragedy By a fall from the heavens By hellfire and storm Let the tears bleed from my eyes!

Let my heart be ripped in two!

But I will never regret it Not for a moment Because I love you.

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We Just Dance Along

by D. Bruckshaw Campbell Written for a friend who was soon to pass…

C F At 50 treks around the sun, I turned to see what has become Am G And looked behind at the risk of tasting salt C F The wonder that I see behind unfolds as visions in my mind Dm G When I open up the door of my own vault F G And now there’s glass before my eyes, and constant hope that mirrors lie Am F G But still I wouldn’t trade the trails we blazed F G And somehow now we built all this, hand in hand, to follow bliss F G And traded hearts in ways that still amaze Chorus: F G C And the song plays on F G C We just dance along F G C Am We just dance along Dm Em C As the song plays on C F We hopped on a note and rode beyond a place that we all know

Life Cut Short by Shela Muriel 32

Am G And found a land where we could harmonize 33

C F In that place of no compare we cultivated family there Dm G And grew in ways I still can’t crystalize F G And there were times we stumbled round, lost the course and ran aground Am F G And shadows draped our eyes to what we knew F G But in that darker place we found a love that’s yet to come unwound F G And discovered light that still keeps shining through F G C And the song plays on F G C We just dance along F G C Am We just dance along Dm Em C As the song plays on C F The world has turned so many times, and we have sung so many rhymes Am G and spun the groove that kept dust from our shoes C F When you share the dance with me, our souls entwine eternally Dm G Of this I’m sure so please do not confuse F G I don’t know what is meant by truth except what’s here ‘fore me and you Am F G And winter’s on the heels of autumn’s life F G And when it’s time to end the toil, we’ll shuffle from this mortal coil F G There may be less in front than there is behind

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F G C And the song plays on F G C We just dance along F G C Am We just dance along Dm Em C As the song plays on C F Every song just passes through, ready to be heard anew Am G With different ears and eyes most every time C F We’ll muster up just one more chance, strike up the band, make the dance Dm G In a ferocious frenzy of delight F G And when our feet and legs say “no,” in our minds we’ll find the glow Am F G And dance before the flame like there’s no end F G And when it’s time to close our eyes, even then there’s no good-byes F G Suspended in the love of every friend F G C And the song plays on F G C We just dance along F G C Am We just dance along Dm Em C As the song plays on

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Ice Storm

by John Kitterman In the morning everything becomes a sign.

The gabled house is grim, a bearded ghost.

At 8 am, the pines in sequined dresses curtsey to needles and the forsythia sweep the ground before you.

The poor willow has lost her head, and there is a newlywed under the bridge muttering, “Touch it, and it will crack like a hunchback.”

Christmas tree farms are rows of gnarled dwarves buried upright under invisible weight.

One reckless cardinal bloodies the whole.

Fear rolls freely through the poised spectacle tempting you with its “everything is different.”

You are different.

It‘s not even spring yet all the seeds are crying, crying to be let out.

To break something.

In the house the wife is still abed.

She has no idea.

Soon she will get up to look for you, but you will not be there.

Snow Camp by Lana Whited

The Last Rose

by Marina Powell The man was old, older than old, and you could almost hear him creaking. He gripped a smudged red can and a faded lighter as he slammed the door behind him. The rosebushes crackled when he poured the liquid over them and went up in a whoosh of smoke, petals quickly fading grey. The man pulled his tattered hat over his ears, hunching his shoulders, and not just because of the autumn wind.

His steps sounded like hammer blows on the porch, and he slammed the door again. His worn jacket flapped once. The house was dark, but he knew every creaky board and rapid turn. Something was out of place.

Something was not right. On the windowsill, behind the curtains…there it was.

He pulled the white fabric back, squinting in the harsh light. A rose.

It sat in a jar, light shining through the water. Beside it sat a flowerpot, old and painted with quivery lines, filled with dry dirt.

“What?” the old man demanded.

His voice sounded like wind in the pines, like needles crunching underfoot.

“Good evening,” the rose returned in its musical tone. “She left me.

She left me for you, you see.”

A dark crevasse appeared in the man’s face, spreading into millions.

“I thought I got them all,” he said, and his branchy fingers curled tightly, “I don’t want you here.”

“May I suggest,” the rose said, “you put on your shoes, go up to the mountain, take in the view? Sometimes these things they change us, and when you return you find you’re more than you.”

The man wiped his nose, he put the can down. He stared at the floor, then put on his shoes.

“Maybe you’re right,” he muttered. “Maybe you’re right.”

The door slammed, and a gust of cool air ruffled the rose’s petals.

The man came back with a bang. Two shoes hit the floor like gunshots, and his face was wound tight.

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“Fool of a thing,” he murmured. “What could you know?”

“May I suggest you go again? Take in the view and feel the wind?

Sometimes you come back and you’re not who you’ve been,” said the rose, gazing out the window.

One swipe and the flowerpot was gone, and dirt poured out on the boards like blood. He stood still for a moment, like an oak tree against a summer storm.

“I hope you’re right,” came the dull tone, like the wind picking up before the thunder, “I hope you’re right.”

Then he put on his shoes and tied the laces. Dust flew into the air as he tied the final knot. The door banged like a cannon. When he came back, dishes shattered on the floor. The rose fell to the floor in a shower of clear glass and water; then the storm went silent. The sky had already gotten dark, and the bedroom door creaked shut.

The rose lay there, breathing in the night. His footsteps sounded again in the moonlight, and bedroom slippers patted their way forward.

The chair sighed as the man sat down, his figure stooped and curled.

“It’s not right,” he muttered to himself, spitting the words, “It’s not right.”

So the days passed, and the rose did not move. The rose watched the bedroom slippers making lines of agony on the old boards day after day.

The rose’s petals began to curl at the edges, and the single leaf laid its head on the floor. Then the bedroom slippers didn’t come out anymore, only darned socks that had seen too many work days. The muttering got worse, and the socks moved to the windowsill often, standing in place for hours. The rose understood as the night fell and the moon came out one last time.

“May I suggest,” the rose whispered, “you put on your shoes, go up to the mountain and look at the moon? Sometimes it takes one last try to find you.”

The man stared at the shoes in the corner. The socks disappeared behind a door, and the rose sighed. Another petal fell off, and the colors had gone grey. The rose took one last breath and accepted, giving in at 39

last. So the rose did not see the socks inch their way to the corner, scared, but hopeful. The rose did not see the broken, cracked hands pull on the shoes and shuffle timidly out of the room. The door did not slam this time, no, it whispered shut with a faint click.

The man went up to the mountain. He craned his neck upward and looked at the moon. His withered lungs took in air, and the man, he looked at the view. Then he bowed his shoulders, curled inward again, and headed home. The door did not slam as the shoes came back off, and crooked fingers with split nails picked up a dead rose. The socks shuffled to the windowsill, watching over the night, but there was no storm. The man stroked the petals and laid the rose to rest, whispering, “You were right.”

Tiger Lily by Alyssa Hogan

The Wasp

by Madison Cline love is a wasp with butterfly wings it flutters and buzzes caresses but stings be careful with whom you decide to trade rings for love is a wasp with butterfly wings

Peace by Riley Church

[Untitled] by Alyssa Hogan

We’re Not Bad, just a Little Mad

by Kiersten Jones The Mad Hatter has never been madder Green teacups waiting to be filled The White Rabbit has quite a bad habit Being on time, he was not skilled Rings of thick grey smoke would make Alice choke As she’s asked once more “Who are YOU?” The Blue Caterpillar looked down with a slight frown A Big Slice of Heaven

by Alyssa Hogan

And said “Dear Alice? Is it true?”

The Cheshire Cat who steals Hatter’s hat Is smiling down from a tall tree He says “We’re not bad, just a little mad” And Alice follows him for tea The evil Red Queen who has yet to be seen Her white roses are painted red Once Alice is found, she must stand her ground Or it’ll be “Off with her head!”

42

More Cheese, Please

by Shela Muriel

43

Smile

by Will Poch

Smile, all you make me do is smile You never make me feel hostile I haven’t felt this way in awhile I even dig your style You make my heart go wild All you’re gonna see when you look at me is smiles

Define Love

by Kristina Cossa Love by definition is something that can’t be seen or touched, it can only be felt.

In most media, it’s described as the most powerful thing in the world.

And in a way it is, but if that’s the case why is it so painful?

Why are hundreds of people’s relationships ending every day?

If marriage vows are meant to be sacred, why do some spouses end up cheating?

If love is not easily angered, why are some relationships violent or toxic?

If love is meant to be acceptable, why are some couples not accepted for being different?

If you never forget your first love, then why does heartbreak exist?

The thing about love is that it’s not a clear path.

Sometimes it’s rough.

Love isn’t something that can be avoided or forgotten, it’s a part of being human.

As painful as it can be, pain lets us know that we are alive.

Love is patient, love is kind and not easily angered.

One day it’s simply there alive inside your heart.

United as One by MacKenzie Ensley 44

45

Karma

by Jacques Moore-Roberts Your love is abnormal but beautiful, Your flaws are invisible, Your strengths make me stronger, I love your morals and principles.

I’ve never loved anyone before, so to me this is new.

If you’re grass on a cold morning, I’ll be your daily dew.

Loving you is what I’ll do daily, When one sense leaves the others get amazing, Treat your lover right or be with them no longer, There’s no better comeback for unfair love, Than the judgment from a woman named Karma.

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Natural Gold by Anna Tomlin

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Choked

by Caroline King How dare you? How dare you sit high on your throne and pretend like you don’t know? You think that you are so sweet and kind.

If only the rest of the world could see your true colors, then they would change their minds too. They wouldn’t stand around and talk about how creative your mind is or how happy you make other people. They would grind their teeth at the thought of what your true capabilities are. They wouldn’t joke around about that one time in front of everyone where you were rude and completely out of line. Instead, they would have grabbed you up by the neck as you did to me when I asked you if our friends could come over last Friday. They would tell you to shut your mouth before they shut it for you. Much like the words you told me yesterday when I tried to suggest a cheaper shopping option. I have thought long and hard about how it was possible for one to be so cruel, heartless, and distant. But then I remember that tonight I put my fist through the drywall. I told you that if you didn’t leave me alone at that moment, you would never make it out of our house alive. I told you that I have never sat on a throne and I completely know my worth. I know what I deserve and I know how you treat me. When I realized that I had become your punching bag, I knew that you needed to step down off that throne and speak with the common people. I do not know exactly what tomorrow looks like, but it sure doesn’t look like me waking up next to you and holding my breath so that I don’t make you angry. I am tired of walking on your scattered eggshells. Tomorrow isn’t going to be an outing with our friends in which you talk down to me the whole time.

Tomorrow looks bright for me. I will laugh and embellish in all the things that make the world such a beautiful place. I will be able to do this because tomorrow, I will be on my own for the first time in 11 years. Without you, I will be able to stand tall and be subtle with all my wisdom. Without you, I will be free to make my own choices. Without you, I will be able to live the life that I deserve.

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He Will Know No Shame by Casey Craddock

Gender envy

by Casey Craddock I want powerful femininity.

I want gentle masculinity.

I want a buzz cut the way women have them.

I want long hair the way men have it.

I desire to be shockingly femme.

I yearn to be undoubtedly masc, I admit.

Should I be both, neither, or either-or?

Should I just continue being what I’ve been before?

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A Little Kiss by Caroline King

Pondering by Nancy Brubaker

50

Sitting in the Sun by MacKenzie Ensley

Feeling Nutty by Laura Dymond

Don’t Look Down by MacKenzie Ensley

Lounge by Alyssa Hogan

Turtle Tire by MacKenzie Ensley

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51

Good Intentions

by Jacques Moore-Roberts My heart is only a frozen piece of time with your absence, I’m stuck inside a sunken place feeling abandoned, Yelling for help but I feel silenced by the world, Can I not be loved because of the design by my Lord?

I see love but does love see me?

Do we interact or does it watch me like TV? Who’s to say what? When nothing is said, Missed calls and text messages left unread, Miscommunication caused dysfunction again, Arguments over basic things because our relationship is not advanced, Clean my heart and make it pure, Come back to me and unfreeze time, If you say you love me please be sure, Because good intentions are hard to find.

Koi Pond Garden by Anna Tomlin 52

Dear Mother, Dear Father

by Abigail McGovern

*Inspired by Plato’s Allegory of the Cave* Dear Mother, dear Father, I thought the world was ending the first time I saw the sky. There was just so much. So much light, so much space. A color I don’t even have a name for. There is nothing like this where I grew up. It looked like the edge of collapse, like a hole in the world, and it opened something inside me too. At home, I had thought that sky meant shadow, meant ending, meant the boundaries of our world.

In the cave there is no such thing as space or movement. So I am glad to know the world is big enough to make me feel small. I want things I didn’t know were possible to want—to breathe, to grow.

I know that you think children should stay where they are put. And that you put us in the dark for a reason. But I cannot bring myself to say that I am sorry for leaving. For so long, we saw the world in two dimensions—flickering shadows and unsteady light. I thought that’s all there was. I thought that’s all I was.

Out here, I could see nothing at first. Because of everything I had missed, everything I had never known existed. I still don’t have names for all the things that exist out here—that live and grow and move—all the colors.

Rain.

I didn’t know that water could come from anything other than a cup or a bowl. The feeling of it against my skin…One day I will learn all of the words and I will find one big enough for that feeling.

And I saw a cat today. I have seen cats before, rippling across the cave walls, and I knew it when I saw its shape. But it….it leaps and bounds and plays. It is patterned with so many colors. And I am told they are all different from one another? Each its own thing. Every one of them will be….more…than all of the ones I ever thought I saw in the cave.

Why would you ever keep this from us?

Oh, you loved us, I know that. But only in the way you love things 54

Blinded by the Light by MacKenzie Ensley

55

that you fear will break if too roughly handled—held close to your chest, locked away. Mother, Father, you kept us from ourselves.

And I know this because while I knew we all sounded different, and thought different, I never thought of myself as something separate. We all looked the same, cut from the same cloth, shadows on the wall. We knew the same things and wanted the same things only because there was nothing to want. But now I have seen myself. And there was a self to see. I want to know what the others look like, what colors they like, what creatures.

I want to know who they are, but more than that, I want to give them the chance to know themselves.

You will say that you were protecting us. Because even in my short time up here, I have seen that the outside world can be brutal. There is blood and betrayal, corruption. War. Brother against brother, bodies in fields. But you were wrong. That does not outweigh the sight of the setting sun or the feel of wind in hair or what it is like to laugh with other people, to move freely, to choose who you want to be. To know that there is more than one thing to be.

I will always have scars from the chains, from your efforts to keep us in one place. In attempting to shield us from the darkness of this world, you have plunged us into the shadows of another. Like scars are the memories of pain, it seems to me that shadows are the memories of life.

I am sick to death of memories. I am ready for the moment.

I am afraid, yes. Of all that is new and all that is uncertain and how big the world really is. But, Mother and Father, unlike you I will not be bound by my fear.

I am imagining you making excuses. Begging me to come back, pleading with me to forget all that I have seen and all that I now know.

I will be back, you don’t have to worry about that. But I will never again be chained.

Never again step into the darkness, never again mistake a shadow on the wall for any real representation of life. That is not a life worth having.

When I come back, I am setting them free.

I am pulling the others into the light with me. One by one if I must.

Whatever it takes.

I can finally see.

So Mother, Father, brace yourselves for me.

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Tree of Illumination by Anna Tomlin

Without

by Caroline King I am sorry. I am so sorry that I could not meet your expectations. I am sorry that I was not what you expected me to be. We will never make it to the end; however, we have gone too far forward to return to the beginning. When we agreed that it just wasn’t working, I thought that it was going to be okay. That this separation would help me feel better. It did not and I was sad for a while. I am sorry that you saw, in me, what I could never be. You say you are too clingy, but maybe I am too distant. You say that I am too busy to have you, but maybe you are too pessimistic, unwilling to find time to spend with me. I am sorry that my words might hurt you. And I am sorry that you seem to be fine, while I am completely shattered.

Telling you this now is funny to me because you were the one that would always apologize for everything. I hated it. I am sorry that I hated it so much. I am sorry that when you expressed your feelings I backed down. A fight is what you needed and when you said “this is it, we aren’t working,” I should have said “hell no!” instead of “okay I understand.” But now I am done apologizing because you did wrong too. Right now, you may be too arrogant to see your wrongs, but I see them clearly. I no longer want to talk to you because you hurt me and, while I understand what you did, I need time to lick my wounds. So please, be angry with me if it makes you feel better. Post pictures with your so-called friends that I have never seen before. Talk bad about the way I ceased communication with you. Do whatever it takes to make yourself feel whole again.

Because, for me, all I needed to do was get rid of you to make myself whole.

Brave New World by Ashley Minnick 58

I Am

by Jasmine White Inspired by George Ella Lyon

Life’s Blessing by C J Hughes

I am from a womb that was made for two I am from a small town that many people in a big city never heard about I am from my sister doing all the talking but I’m always silent I am from never knowing enough but sometimes knowing too much I am from being different but wanting to be the same I am from where my skin color wasn’t accepted always trying to be enough I am from shattered glass and broken people who only know tragedy and pain I am from siblings taken too soon babies who now call heaven home I am from a place where kindness is rare a place where love is rare I am from a loving creator that made me in his image but I am not made to be perfect

New Life by Madison Cline 60

61

It’s Captain (Lessons from Jack)

by Marina Powell

What a man can do and what a man can’t Are the only two rules of this life.

I love those good moments, the best parts of me, And I wave as they pass me by.

Take what you can, steal what you can’t, Never give anything back.

I’m the worst? So you say, but you have heard of me, And it’s Captain, Captain Jack.

I’m not crazy ‘cause I know I am, But why is the rum gone again?

You will always remember today as the day— Wait! Stop! I’ve dropped me brain!

Ah, the pirate’s life is the best there is, With rum and jars of dirt.

Thank goodness I’m mad, because if I wasn’t, This would probably never work.

Rudder, mast, sails are what a ship needs, But not what a ship needs to be.

Freedom, mate, is that nature of it, And that’s what the Pearl is to me.

I wash my hands of this weirdness, close your eyes and pretend That it’s all just a very bad dream.

And there should be a ‘captain’ in there, somewhere, If ever you’re speaking to me.

That’s unhelpful, it seems that I have Again misplaced the rum.

Not everything is what it seems, Else where would the stories come from?

A wedding? I love those, especially when Drinks are served all around.

And silver and gold are not always, mate, the treasure that needs to be found.

I could leave it all and never return, Sail away on my one love, the sea.

Belay that belay that, me hearties, yo ho, And bring that horizon to me.

Don’t have regrets. I never do, Or else they’ll eat you away, And always remember, when or wherever, That it’s Captain Jack Sparrow, mate.

Soar by Caroline King

It Will Be Wonderful

by Jasmine White

I am worthy of love as deep and vast as the ocean, A love I can only see in my faraway dreams I am beautifully and wonderfully made in God’s image Not perfect but chosen I am created for a purpose So great my mind can’t quite comprehend it I am broken but not destroyed Because God said “No weapon formed against me will prosper” I am strong and courageous in a world full of suffering Healing from pain one should never know I am valuable More precious and beautiful than a ruby I am an overcomer of what the world meant to destroy me Abandonment, adversity, and affliction has nothing on my God I am light in the midst of darkness Who’s finally found the end of the tunnel I am worthy of love, unconditional and beautiful Someday I will receive this love and it will be wonderful

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Mr. Krabs by Caroline King

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Ancestral by Jacques Moore-Roberts

The Rookie Detective

by Shela Muriel In 1912 in Greenwich Village a young brown-haired blue-eyed twenty-year-old woman was walking through the streets late at night when she started to hear something hitting the wall in the dark alleyway of New York. She stopped in her tracks wondering what was there and investigated the dark alley hoping that she could see something move within the darkness.

“Hello?” said the girl as her voice shook with fear. “Is someone there?” Thinking that it was her imagination, she stepped away from the alley and continued to walk back to her house. Her feet were hitting the concrete at an increased speed; she was determined to get back to her house before anything bad would happen. She shouldn’t have been scared about what was going on around her. It could have been a rat or an alley cat; however as she turned the corner, she heard footsteps following her. Now terrified, the girl began to walk faster, her skirt blowing behind her as she was moving at a pace that would most surely make the skirt flow around her legs.

As the girl picked up her pace, she heard the footsteps that were following her. This time she had to get away from it as the footsteps seemed like it kept increasing every time she sped up. Eventually making it to her small apartment, she raced inside and slammed the door shut.

Locking it behind her, thinking that she was now safe, the girl sighed with relief and took off her wool sweater. Laying it on the nearest couch, she went to check on her cousin, Julian, to see if she had gone to sleep.

When she entered Julian’s room, she saw that Julian was curled in bed with the blanket covering her body. Smiling softly, the girl made her way to her room where she was going to get ready for the night and hoped that what she heard in the alleyway was all in her imagination.

As she was starting to undo her hair, she suddenly saw someone in her mirror. The girl cried out as she turned to see who it was.

“Hello, beautiful,” said the stranger, who had somehow gotten into 68

her bedroom. “You should not have protested; women should know where they stand within the society,” The stranger approached her with his knife in his hand. The girl tried to walk around him but he blocked her path. The man had a weapon in his hand that he could use to harm her; he could also harm her cousin, and she wasn’t about to let that happen. As she was about to run around him, he backed her against the wall and thrust the blade into her stomach.

The girl gasped as the color drained from her face and life left her eyes.

The man pulled the dagger out from the girl’s stomach, causing her to collapse on the floor, blood pooling out from the wound.

The very next day, Julian woke from her sleep and was surprised that her cousin hadn’t woken her up. She got out of bed and started getting ready for the day. Julian put on a white blouse with a poiret slit skirt, stockings, and one-inch heels. Believing that her cousin, Ivy, was still asleep, she made her way to Ivy’s room.

“Ivy?” she called out as she knocked on the door. When no one answered she knocked once again. “Ivy?” When her cousin didn’t answer, she pushed open the door and saw, to her horror, her cousin lying on the floor. Panic swelled throughout her body as she made her way over to Ivy. The minute she got to Ivy she saw that her dear cousin had been stabbed in the stomach. It did not look like the killer hesitated. Racing into the living room, Julian grabbed the phone and dialed the police thinking that they would help her figure out who murdered her cousin.

“Hello,” said the operator from the other side of the phone. “What’s the emergency?”

“Please! Send the police! Someone murdered my cousin!” screamed Julian, and she hung up the phone and she waited for a good ten minutes when the police arrived. Julian opened the door for them as they raced inside and entered the room in which Ivy had been murdered. The police made sure to bring out the dead body and make the room a crime scene. Julian sat outside on the curb as she was thinking back to what she had seen. Her cousin was killed, and it didn’t look like there was any evidence except for the fact that her cousin was holding the dagger 69

with her own hand. After a while of waiting, one of the police officers approached her.

“Ms. Walker,” said the officer.

“Yes sir?”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“I don’t know,” says Julian as she wiped away a tear. “I walked in and saw Ivy dead on her floor,” she continued. “She was murdered by someone.”

“No ma’am, what I believe happened was that she committed suicide,” “What?! That’s not possible. She was never depressed; she was always cheerful.”

“There’s no other way to say it, Miss; she had the knife in her hands and she just stabbed herself,” “No, you’re wrong,” says Julian as she started to become confident.

This officer was lying: there was no way her cousin would commit suicide. Julian knew better than that. She looked at the officer’s name badge which said ‘Officer Matthew.’ “Officer, I know my cousin was murdered, and I will figure out who did it,” “Why don’t you leave that to me?” said another man, who was wearing a trench coat as well as a suit and tie.

“Who are you?”

“Sorry,” says the man with brown hair as he held out his hand. “My name is Jefferson Stalin,” he continued “and l’m the detective that is in charge of this case.”

“You’re going to figure out who murdered my cousin?”

“Yes, we just need any information that you can hand us to help solve this mystery.”

“You can go ahead and search the house; some of her belongings should be there.”

Stalin nodded his head toward Julian in a polite manner as he entered the house searching for anything that could help them figure out what had happened to Ivy. However, Julian wasn’t about to sit around and let the men solve the mystery; she was going to solve it herself. If 70

anyone was going to solve this mystery, Julian was. She waited until the officers weren’t looking and started to search outside the apartment complex for any clues that could help with this mystery.

As Julian walked around the apartment complex she noticed something shiny out of the corner of her eye. Curiously, Julian made her way over to the alleyway that had a ladder leading up to Ivy’s room.

Bending down, Julian picked up the object and examined it. It was a silver lighter that was meant to light cigarettes. It didn’t make any sense, Ivy was never a smoker in her entire life. Now with more determinism, Julian felt confident enough to solve this mystery. All she had to do was find more clues that could lead her to her cousin’s killer. This time, she wasn’t going to back down without a fight.

End of excerpt from The Rookie Detective novel

Time Travelling by Emma Brubaker 71

Great Ball of Fire by Lana Whited

When I’m Breathing Fire

by Abigail McGovern Half my life I’ve spent with ashes coating my tongue, the result of a fire fizzled out, a life on the run.

Their bitter taste has muffled the words I meant to say and I’ve been choking them down, spitting them away.

But they’re still there, burning in my chest, fighting your rules with every single scorching breath.

So I’m striking a match against my ribcage now, Counting 1, 2, 3 The sparks are building in my throat, Evidence of the better, braver parts of me.

Sometimes I fear I’m still coughing up dusty remains, checking all your boxes and biting back pain.

But when I look over my shoulder, I see footprints in the ash, proof that I’m pushing forward, making a path.

I understand the poisonous urge to bury what frightens you in the debris, But at some point we both must face the lightning-struck destruction you’ve wrought inside of me.

So I’m striking a match against my ribcage now, Counting 1, 2, 3 The sparks are building in my throat, Evidence of the better, braver parts of me.

So when I’m breathing fire, babe will you look the other way?

Or will you finally have the courage to face what I finally have the courage to say?

Blue 180 Degrees by Shaylise Jones 74

Samantha, My Little Sister

by Shela Muriel Samantha, looking at you makes me smile.

You are someone to love with all my heart.

Being next to you is always worthwhile Though we argue, we can’t be drawn apart.

You are a joy that can’t be taken away.

You are a friend who helps me through hard times.

When you entered my life, you came to stay.

Your comforting words are worth more than dimes.

To me you are an angel in disguise.

You’re always giving through good times and bad.

Sisters are intelligent, kind, and wise.

You are the sweetest friend I ever had.

Having a sister is not just a trend.

It’s knowing I can turn to you, till the end.

Love Yourself

If You Have Not Loved, Then You Have Not Known God

by Jacques Moore-Roberts

by Casey Craddock

Love is a language that only an empathetic heart may understand.

Trust that my heart is genuine and stick to love’s plan.

I feel sweat trickling in the palm of love’s hands.

IF I DIE AND GO TO HEAVEN MY LOVE LIVES FOREVER IN GOD’S LAND. Who do you love? Or who caused your love to be shallow?

Your past has caused your future lovers’ chances to be narrow We all search for the one that makes our heart jump, But sometimes we need to crawl and walk in love before we run, But most importantly,

Do you know why God has cast me down?

Because I bowed to no crown?

Because I was feared all around?

Because I had a bond so profound?

Ah, that’s the very thing.

Thrown from heaven because I loved her more than anything.

LOVE YOURSELF BEFORE YOU LOVE ANYONE ELSE.

Ice Drops by MacKenzie Ensley Reaching for the Stars by Lana Whited

“Where I’m From”

by Caroline King

Inspired by George Ella Lyon’s “Where I’m From” I am from chickens roaming freely through the yard, and waking up in the mornings to a cow’s sweet moo.

I am from the wooded areas just outside of town limits.

I am from swimming in the deepest parts of the creek.

And cool summer nights lying under the stars, the smell of fresh-cut grass.

I am from swing sets and toys strung throughout the yard.

I am from tough times, easy ones as well.

I am from working hard to be remembered.

I am from “Quit your bitchin’ and get over here and help me,” Staying up late to make sure the cows calved safely.

I am from dad building me a custom car seat in the tractor, both heavily chipped from years of labor.

I am from everyone having a dog as a companion, a guard over his family.

I am from my neck of the woods, Palomino Sunset by Nancy Brubaker

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A place where I call home.

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Answer My Call

A Lasting Nothingness

by Braden Homsey

by Kristina Cossa I met you before the beginning of school and you were nice.

You were the funny kid and I was a bit shy, so we clicked instantly.

So, of course, we exchanged numbers and you answered whenever I called.

Months and years went by and we talked through texts, but getting you to call was hard.

We talked about each other and became close, at least I thought so.

They were messages left unread and calls left unanswered as time went on.

I kept my doubts to myself, but it kept happening, and so now I ask, will you answer my call?

This is a long-distance relationship after all.

I have been here before And yet my memory betrays me I have no sense Is this because I feel nothing or everything?

Am I alone?

I feel as though I have something to miss I don’t recall losing anything How long have I been here?

Has it been minutes?

Hours?

Maybe days?

I do not feel panicked I feel bliss Yes… Bliss No worries or cares No reason for why, how, or what If this is my reality then so be it I will make it last.

Mushie by Emma Brubaker

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Forever Ferrum by Nancy Brubaker

Forever Ferrum by Nancy Brubaker

BiBiographies Judges Joshua Bernard, ‘10, is a husband and father who writes fiction, articles, blogs, and website content and provides proofreading services. His Ferrum College degree is in Environmental Science, and he worked in wastewater for five years before turning to writing full time, freelancing on a variety of platforms. He is currently setting up a writing business, The Write Nerd, LLC. Mike Dunavant,’93, is a former Iron Blade editor-in-chief who majored in History and minored in Photojournalism. He worked 10 years as a journalist.

After 20 years of teaching history and instructional coaching in Henrico County Public Schools, he currently works as a project manager for the Virginia Department of Education in Richmond.

Cara Ellen Modisett, has taught English at Ferrum and advised Chrysalis and The Iron Blade. She has served as editor of Blue Ridge Country magazine and a producer and reporter for WVTF radio. Her work has been published in several magazines and journals. She holds degrees in music and English from James Madison University and an M.F.A. in creative nonfiction from Goucher College; she is currently a senior at Virginia Theological Seminary and a candidate for priesthood in the Episcopal Church.

Tom Nix from Rocky Mount is a professional artist and a collector of local art.

Before retirement he taught Spanish and led the drama program at Franklin County High School. He is former president of the Franklin Guild. He has also traveled extensively, especially to Spain.

Staff Kristina Cossa is currently a junior Liberal Studies major with minors in English and Theater. She has loved acting and theater since she was a child. She writes stories, mostly short but sometimes book-length novels.

M. Katherine Grimes is a professor of English and advisor to Chrysalis. She is editor of Critical Insights: The Ousiders and coeditor of Critical Insights: Harry Potter. She and her family live in Ferrum.

C J Hughes is an Education major from Martinsville. He plays football. He and his girlfriend are having a son in April.

Shaylise Jones from Buckingham County is a Studio Art major and a History minor. One of her art interests is colored pencils, often using one color for an entire picture. Another interest is pen, especially for portraits.

Caroline King is a senior Teacher Education major with an English emphasis.

She enjoys reading, writing, and photography. She is looking forward to discussing a variety of texts with her future students.

Abigail McGovern is a junior from Round Hill, majoring in English with a Creative Writing emphasis and minoring in History. She is co-president of Help Save the Next Girl and a member of the Boone Honors Program and the cross country and track and field teams. She is also a PAL Tutor.

Jacques Moore-Roberts is a senior English major with a Creative and Professional Writing emphasis. He loves to make music and has songs on streaming platforms under the profile “YBI Jacques.” He enjoys writing poetry about real situations to help people overcome trauma and mental health issues.

Shela Muriel is a senior from Greensboro, NC. She is a Creative and Professional Writing major with a minor in History. In her spare time when she isn’t reading or writing, she likes to go on walks and take pictures. She is currently writing an anthology collection and a debut novel.

Will Poch is a freshman Education major with an English minor. He hopes to 84

become an English teacher. He is on Ferrum’s baseball team.

Marina Powell is from Russia. She is a Music major and a member of the Boone Honors Program. She likes running, art, writing, rock music, and her dog.

Jasmine White is a junior majoring in Liberal Arts with emphases in English, Elementary Education, and History. She plans a career in education.

Other Contributors Emma Brubaker from Franklin County is majoring in Chemistry and Ecotourism. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program.

Nancy Brubaker, a 1994 Ferrum College graduate, is a veterinarian, Associate Professor of Animal Science, and Program Coordinator of the One Health Minor.

D. Bruckshaw Campbell is an assistant professor of English and Journalism and advisor to The Iron Blade. He graduated from the University of MissouriColumbia School of Journalism and earned an MFA in creative Writing from National University. He and his wife, Hope, have four children.

Madison Cline is a sophomore majoring in Horticulture. Her hometown is Christiansburg. She enjoys gardening, playing the piano, and reading.

Casey Craddock, an Animal Science major with a minor in Equine Science, works at Titmus Agricultural Center and is a member of the Equestrian team.

Laura Dymond is a senior from Woodbridge who is majoring in Environmental Science and hopes to one day be working in the forests that she loves.

Mackenzie Ensley is majoring in Music Performance, and minoring in Forensic Science. She likes to draw, take pictures, and play the violin and piano.

Shawn Havens from Glade Spring is majoring in Agriculture Science with a emphases in Horticulture and Crop Science. His hometown is Glade Spring, and his main interest is growing plants.

Braden Homsey is a senior Education major with an emphasis in the English language. He loves poetry, wrestling, and spending time with family and friends.

Kiersten Jones from Roanoke is majoring in Music Business. She enjoys reading books, writing poetry, playing music, painting, and baking treats.

John Kitterman, a semi-retired English professor now teaching as an adjunct at Ferrum College, enjoys writing poetry and fiction and talking about creativity.

Makenna Lemon from Bassett is majoring in Graphic Design with a minor in Media and Communication. Her interests include Marvel, quilting, and drawing.

Scout Lynch, who was raised in Baltimore and plans to declare a major in English and a minor in Business, loves vegan food, writing Dungeons and Dragons campaigns, and art and writing.

Luis Felipe Marques from Brazil is majoring in Business Administration with minors in Sports Management and Marketing. He is on the men’s soccer team, and he has an internship in Ferrum’s Athletic Department.

Ashley Minnick from Henry County is a senior in the Elementary Education program. She is involved in NSLS, Help Save the Next Girl, and Delta Phi Epsilon sorority. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program.

Ebony Reeves from Rustburg is an Environmental Science major with a goal to become a meteorologist.

Anna Tomlin from Virginia Beach is an Environmental Science major with a Biology minor. She plans to become a wildlife rehabilitator.

Lana Whited is a professor of English and director of the Boone Honors Program. She is the author of Murder, In Fact, editor of The Ivory Tower and Harry Potter and Critical Insights: The Hunger Games, and coeditor of Critical Insights: Harry Potter. She and her family live in Ferrum.

Chelsea Zizzi from Yorktown is a Chemistry major and an English minor who loves to play tennis and write poetry.

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

Gordonia Iasianthus by Anna Tomlin 86