Chrysalis: Fall 2018

Chrysalis

Literary and Arts Magazine

Fall 2018

Table of Contents Wild Beauty by Nancy Kathryn Shoaf Cover photo Iridescent by Heather Ellis 1 Table of Contents 2-3 Staff and judges 4 Coffee by Jonathan Taylor 4 Nothing Beats a Mother’s Love by M’bambi Mbungu 5 Father and Son: by AnnGardner Eubank 5 Puddled Leaf by Autumn Potkay 6-7 On the Train by Taylor Kent 8 The Lost Train by Abigael Germeroth 9 Travel Bowl by Ashlynn Willoughby 9 Extended Hands by Abigael Germeroth 10 Inspiration’s Slave by Heather Ellis 11 Candlelightbulb by Nasya Smith 11 Plight of the Rabbit by Matthew Boyd 12 Ink by Ashlynn Willoughby 13 Bunny by Jade Mitchell 13 Home by Logan Smith 14 Red Clay Passageway by Mallory Hall 14 Unforgettable Journey by Mallory Hall 15 To Have and to Hold by Melvin Macklin 16-19 Painted Sky by Kathryn Bonner 19 Speed of Light by Leya Deickman 20-21 A Musical Prayer by Jacques 22 Containing the Pain by Marie Mance 23 Logic’s “1-800-273-8255” by Destiny Crawley 24-26 Healing by Ryan Riggs 25 Eyes by Ashlynn Willoughby 26 Love Is Everything by M’bambi Mbungu 27 Simple Truths by Heather Ellis 27 Awakening Day / Miss Maude of Callaway, Virginia by Alyson Seidel 28 Cloudy Dreams by Autumn Potkay 28 Qualities of Time by Zach Beckner 29 Time Before Time by Ryan Riggs 29 Home Sweet Home by Chloe Fisher 30 Dog Days of Summer by AnnGardner Eubank 30 Liminal Spaces in the Norwegian Fjords by Allison Harl 31 Let’s Go on an Adventure by Nancy Kathryn Shoaf 31 Raíces by Addison Philpott 32 Flowers by Jade C. Jones 32 Yellow Heaven by Mary Stoudt 33 Anxiety by Meghann Hartman 34

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Spotted Skipper Vinyard by Autumn Potkay Metamorphosis by Tamiah Palmer The Sanitarium by Shela Muriel Time to Die by Nasya Smith Natural by Kathryn Bonner Random Red by Logan Smith “Protect You” Lying by Ryan Woods Not Broken, Just Bent by Alexandria Dixon On the Coast Line, Waiting for You by AnnGardner Eubank Blue Ridge by Michael Lyons Persevere for Passion by Haley Moore I see my path by Robert Ziehfreund My First Love by Leya Deickman Bee Happy by Nancy Kathryn Shoaf Home by Marie Mance Hidden Treasure by Mary Stoudt Angels in America by Marie Mance Breath by Chloe Fisher Farewell, Dear Friend by Heather Ellis Beach Day by Lynnea Dickerson The Line Where the Sky Meets the Sea by Kathryn Bonner What’s Up? by Nancy Kathryn Shoaf Friendly by Nancy Kathryn Shoaf Frosty by Mary Stoudt A Precious Gift by Heather Ellis Alone by Kathryn Bonner Untitled by Peter Khraish Consciousness by Michael Lyons Vamos by Abigael Germeroth The Hungry by Jade C. Jones Crash into Me by AnnGardner Eubank Machu Picchu Wonders by Mallory Hall 14 “not-so-secret” Secrets You Should Know About Me by Aaliyah Leake The Morning Drive by Jade Mitchell Fall is near, just listen by Autumn Potkay Crispy Colors of Autumn by Autumn Potkay Sour Patch Kid by Marie Mance Snow Day by Lynnea Dickerson Bubble Perspective by Allison Kurfees Fall’s Lake by Marissa Ruiz Biographies

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Chrysalis Staff Visual Art

Photography

AnnGardner Eubank, chair Nasya Smith Jade Mitchell

Autumn Potkay, chair Leya Deickman Zach Beckner

Poetry

Prose

Jacques Moore-Roberts, chair Precious Leonard Aaliyah Leake

Shela Muriel, chair Heather Ellis Marie Mance

Advisor: M. Katherine Grimes

Judges Visual Art: Joe Stanley Poetry: Sandra Ballard

Photography: Cynthia Herrick Prose: Emily DeLoach

Nothing Beats a Mother’s Love by M’bambi Mbungu First Place award, Visual Art

Father and Son:

by AnnGardner Eubank

Coffee by Jonathan Taylor

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Chrysalis Literary and Arts Magazine is designed and edited by students in the Creative Arts Practicum at Ferrum College. The class is open to all Ferrum students. Published each semester, the magazine contains prose, poetry, photography, and other visual artwork by students, faculty, and staff of the college. Judges from off campus, professionals in the fields they are judging and also often alumni, choose two works by students in each area to receive awards, which are granted by the college’s Integrated Programming Board. The staff thanks the judges for making difficult choices, the IPB for the awards, and the office of Sandy Pagans for assistance with publicity and other matters.

Chrysalis is printed by J. S. Printing in Birmingham, Alabama.

A writer’s inspiration, A scientist’s frustration.

Where artists go to be found, And musicians find their sound.

Calm, Cool, Collective, Yet Deep, Dark, and Destructive.

It’ll pull you under, Or set you free.

It’s the ocean’s greatest mystery.

First Place award, Poetry

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Puddled Leaf by Autumn Potkay First Place award, Photography

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On the Train

by Taylor Kent The pulse of the song sets a rhythm for our hearts. They thump in sync with the melody, a pair of heartbeats on the same track. Even with the passing seconds, each sharp tick distancing us from the past, a mile every minute, it still may as well be the very day we boarded. For it remains to be as familiar to me as the lines on the palm of your hand, soft crevasses of comfort. I sit straight and stiff and crane my neck to search, waiting for you to return. The seat beside me was once yours. I think it will always be yours.

When the sun hits the window just right, I swear I can still see your shadow, and the dust specks dance around like fairies. You are a compass that I myself repaired, taking you apart, piece by piece, to carefully remove clumped knots of uncertainty, love steering my shaking hands. Your arrow is rigid now, pointing straight and true to the havens of purpose.

I always thought it would lead you back to me, pulled by the forces of all things right and real. My hope is buried under stacks and layers of wrinkled logic, but it’s yet to die, its ink soaking through pages and, as always, spreading like a plague.

The Lost Train by Abigael Germeroth

Suddenly, the train goes black as we pass through a tunnel. I am surrounded by darkness, quick and fast and climbing all around me. I call out to you in fear, somehow still clinging to the airy fantasy that you’ll come to drown my worries in the oceans of your eyes. You never show though, and I’m reminded that it was you who chose this track to begin with, fully aware of each twist and turn that you knew would make me cringe.

You built your armor and wrote your role as the knight, planning each move and setting every trap I was to blindly fall into only for you to save me. When things got bad, I tried for my own sake to view you as the villain, but the black cape kept slipping from your shoulders. You land now somewhere in the middle, riding the line between good and evil.

When I look back on our story, its scribbled pages are brushed with bumps of bittersweet. But the song of my heart still rings out as true, its melody made by each chug and pull of the train as it pushes along still, today and forever, past the moon and the sun and stars…its destination unknown.

First Place award, Prose

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Travel Bowl by Ashlynn Willoughby

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Inspiration’s Slave

by Heather Ellis

Extended Hands by Abigael Germeroth

Second Place award, Photography

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There aren’t many things That change between my days At least not things that I think matter much I wake, I eat, I sleep These are the monotonies that are my life But between these there are jewels One gem, two gems A glimmer of fantasy Red gem, blue gem Romance or tragedy?

Every day, my mind finds a new craving I hear the sweet, satisfying call of Inspiration When she calls, I cannot help but answer her She is a demanding entity and I find I must write I must channel her energies into pen and paper Candlelightbulb Every letter, every word, every sentence

by Nasya Smith Every paragraph, every page, every chapter They weave together so flawlessly That is, when Inspiration is kind There are times when Inspiration twists and roils When she throws storms my way and shakes my core She beckons me write things I cannot write alone Things that stir and stew within until they fester While she watches me writhe in my mind While my partner in crime is lost to her call I cannot tell if Inspiration simply avoids her on purpose Or if my partner avoids Inspiration What I do know well is the silence The silence of a story awaiting its next piece The quiet breath I hold as I await to finish my scenes The silent persistence of Inspiration as she urges me on But I cannot go on!

I cannot alone finish What was started by two!

And so I find myself helpless in such circumstances The festering desperation to write going unanswered And the silence of my characters awaiting the focal point of their interests Rings in my ears almost as loud as it rings in theirs And all the while Inspiration mocks me, teases me, tortures me For whenever she beckons, I cannot help but bow These are the jewels and gems I find Between my eating, my sleeping, my living Whether they twinkle brightly like the stars above Or they shine harshly in my eyes Second Place award, Poetry

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Plight of The Rabbit

by Matthew Boyd In a forest in North Carolina, the orange glow of an ember appears, possibly the remnant of a camper’s fire. Soon the ember makes its way to a fallen tree, igniting a fire, spitting flames and giving progeny to new embers. The embers scatter across the forest, landing on trees and underbrush. The fire spreads until half of the forest is consumed in a blaze, torturing the animals with its fiery claws. In the chaos, the animals scatter and scream trying to escape the flames.

Within the commotion, a rabbit, whose coat is now grey with ashes, emerges from underneath some fallen branches and leaves that are not yet burned. The rabbit bolts and runs along with the other fleeing animals with a common goal in mind: “I must make it out of here.” As it runs, the rabbit is nearly trampled by a deer’s charging hooves, coming only mere inches away from the rabbit’s head.

The rabbit continues on, running towards its safe haven. The fire grows nearer and nearer; trees fall and turn to cinders, blasting dust and smoke into the rabbit’s eyes. Blinded, the rabbit trips over an upturned root and lands on its side.

On the ground the rabbit--tired, injured, and lungs filled with smoke-squeals in pain, just waiting for something to put it out of its misery. In what seems to be its final moment, the rabbit looks up, only to see the birds and beasts passing over it. The rabbit has only one thought now: “What do I do? If I get up I’ll get trampled. If I don’t get trampled, I still can’t run. But if I stay right here I’ll die in the fire.”The rabbit blinks, and in a mere instant the other animals are gone and the rabbit is left alone.

Struggling and in pain, the rabbit starts to lift itself back onto its unsteady feet. The rabbit takes a look around; the whole area is surrounded in a hellish blaze. Uneasiness flows through its body as it desperately searches for its way out.

As if it was a gift sent straight from heaven, an abandoned burrow could be seen not but six meters in the distance. The rabbit hobbles towards the cool, protective darkness of the burrow, with the uneasiness fading away with each centimeter it moves. The rabbit gathers its strength and stamina: “Four meters to go, three meters, two meters. I’m almost there!”

With safety in sight, the rabbit thinks its nightmare is finally over. But in a cruel twist of fate, the creaking and snapping sound of a falling tree echoes nearby. With little more than a warning, a burning trunk of a tree falls, blocking the burrow’s entrance. Completely trapped now, the rabbit once again falls to its side, surrounded by fire. Exhausted and in pain, the rabbit shivers from its foreseeable grim demise approaching closer and closer. It takes one final look at the world around it and closes its eyes, as if it is saying goodbye. It waits for the hot touch of flames and then the cool cradle of death.

But what’s this? The flames, they are dying down. Cool drops of water fall toward the burning earth. In shock, the rabbit remains in the world of the living and opens its eyes to confirm its own life. A mechanical whirling can be heard overhead, a large metal beast dropping water over the land. The machine brought rain, the machine put out the fire, the machine spared the rabbit’s life. With its life preserved and its nightmare finally ending, the rabbit rests its head and sighs a joyous relief.

Second Place award, Prose

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Ink by Ashlynn Willoughby Second Place award, Visual Art

Bunny by Jade Mitchell

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“Home”

by Logan Smith Everything is useless in this place you call a home, but I say this is a house for I am all alone.

Silently I will cut and shed these salty tears for I’ve been known to do this over the past few years.

Quiet it will be from morning until night cause that’s when the two of you will start to yell and fight.

I know I will regret this mistake tonight, but I’m no longer strong and I’m giving up this fight.

Anger, pain, and sorrow are the feelings I consume, when I sit and think this way in my empty room.

I do not wish to kill nor hurt the ones I love, but when it comes to me I pray to him above.

The pain is overwhelming but the sorrow goes away, this anger that I hold won’t last another day.

“Please help me learn to live the way you have planned, for I am all alone in this place you call ‘your land.’”

Unforgettable Journey by Mallory Hall Arequipa, Peru

Red Clay Passageway by Mallory Hall

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To Have and to Hold

By Melvin Macklin I have come to the gut-wrenching conclusion that some moment of our life— or the entirety of life itself—is one tragic irony.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson wrote, “‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” For me, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. I have discovered that the memory of someone you have loved and lost–when a loved one dies, or when we let love slip away–can linger like a tortuous flame. For me, this happened during the Vietnam War. I was a staff sergeant stationed in the southern part of Vietnam in its third largest city, Da Nang. Not long after I arrived there, my unit got a call for volunteers to go to the local orphanage to help the children. Two days later, a truck load of guys, including me, arrived at the children’s home.

As soon as walked into the courtyard, I spotted her. She saw me looking at her, and it was love at first sight. This tiny, frail, somewhat sad, yet hopeful little urchin stood with a group of her friends, looking out at me with bright, sparkling eyes. I motioned to her, and she burst from her group of playmates, came to me, and stood dead still as I looked down at her and she looked up at me.

I told her my name was Melvin, and she made me understand that her name was Tum (which in Vietnamese means “Little Pineapple”). I had difficulty pronouncing that seemingly simple word. I wanted to say “Tum” as in the American word “tomb.” It seemed like hours before I finally could twist my tongue and get the muscles in mouth to work together to even come close to the right pronunciation. After repeated attempts at Vietnamese phonetics, I managed to say “tome.”

Even that wasn’t truly on the mark, but she accepted my pronunciation. But Tum could not say my name. It was literally impossible for her. When she, as well as all other Vietnamese, including the adults, tried to say “Melvin,” it invariably came out wrong because the sound of the letter “e” followed by the letter “l,” and the sound of the letter “v” didn’t exist in their language. Tum decided that it was too hard to say my name and easier to just say “GI” or “You American” as most of the children did. I now feel joy when I recall that first experience of culture shock.

Also, like all the children at the orphanage, Tum had no relatives; three main reasons accounted for this: the war had killed their parents, their villages had been destroyed, or they were the offspring of American soldiers and Vietnamese girls and consequently had been shunned by Vietnamese society.

Children born to Vietnamese mothers and U.S. servicemen were known as Amerasians. Products of two cultures, they belonged to neither. Abandoned by their military fathers, many were also abandoned by their mothers at orphanage gates. Schoolmates bullied them and mocked the features that gave them the face of the enemy—round eyes and light skin, if their fathers were white, or dark skin and curly hair if their fathers were black. They were often called “Monkey eyed.”

They were also called “children of the dust” and swept aside like dust on the floor.

If they couldn’t find shelter, they became homeless street beggars.

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My buddies and I visited the facility whenever the Viet Cong were not around.

At the orphanage I gave English lessons to the children, fed babies, and changed diapers, as fewer than two dozen nuns were taking care of a hundred children or so.

I have never forgotten how the infants lay like corpses in their cribs. At the slightest sound of someone near their beds, the little ones would awaken, like Lazarus, struggling to pull themselves up and reach out their frail arms, crying to be picked up.

Tum was older, around six or seven. Even smaller than her friends, she seemed like a fragile China doll. Her face could melt one’s heart. We soon forged an unbreakable bond.

For a long time, Tum called me “GI.” When she knew we were coming, she stood by the gate waiting for me. If she was not there, as soon as we arrived, other children would call out “Tum, Tum!” Like a ball of lighting, Tum would run into my arms. Soon she began to say “Dah-Dah.” No matter how hard I tried to get her to say “Daddy,” it always came out “Dah-Dah.” At twenty-three, I had never really contemplated fatherhood, but I knew this beautiful child had been sent into my life for a purpose, and the idea of being a father became appealing. The fact that my Army buddies had begun to refer to me as “Papa” might have been a factor as well. Therefore, about four months of being part of each other’s lives, I told her I wanted to talk to her about something.

In the courtyard, I set Tum in a swing and asked her if she would like to come to America and be my daughter. Without hesitation, Tum responded with a loud, “OK, GI!” and sealed the deal with a hug and a kiss. Tears ran down my cheeks and onto hers. By this time her English was good enough that I could get her to understand that I would take the legal adoption steps to make our dream a reality—a relatively easy process since these children were unwanted by the Vietnamese. Tum had Amerasian features and deep tan skin.

One special moment I will carry to the grave. Tum loved to be held. One day when she reached to be picked up, she put her head on my shoulder and said, “Anh yêu em,” Vietnamese for “I love you.” How beautiful those words sounded!

I repeated the words to her and added, “Anh yêu em nhiều lắm”: “And I love you, too, very much.” Tum beamed like a ray of sunshine.

I sent my mother pictures of her soon-to-be granddaughter. My mother said that Tum was a somewhat “curious looking fella.” I wrote back: “Mom, she’s Vietnamese. They all look curious! Just like we look curious and different to them!”

And then came the loss—and a hurt that has plagued me for forty-nine years.

Out of nowhere, the event which would come to be known as the “TET Offensive” hit, and I never saw Tum again.

It was—and is still—for me, the death of my child, the loss of a daughter

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whose life I never had the chance to share, a daughter I have never forgotten, a daughter whose spirit I feel every day, a daughter for whom I still ache. Even after building my life and family here at home, Tum still sings in my heart. A parent who has suffered the loss of a child never suffers the loss of that child’s memory.

When I saw dead Vietnamese bodies lined up along the road sides, I understood that some forces had to be stopped at all cost: people who would slaughter innocents simply to gain a piece of land or a farmer’s livestock or rice supply. I wanted to get Tum away from these people as soon as possible.

When I witnessed the strife of that country and people trying to free themselves from communist oppression, I felt my presence in Vietnam was justified.

And when I stared into the sullen, empty faces, which at times seemed to give way to a slight flicker of hope amidst the stench of death, I sensed the need for assurance that the destruction visited upon their land would not be the final results etched in their minds and hearts. Like all people, they desired independence and peace. I also knew that, like the other children at that orphanage, Tum wanted something to call hers, somewhere to belong, someone to have and to hold.

The Tet Offensive was inhuman—and relentless. We lived through fourteen days and nights of unceasing bombardment of U.S. forces by the Vietcong and North Vietnamese militia. The brutality and the sheer evil of men’s souls became carved in my mind during that total chaos. The evil for me was that because all diplomatic relations had been cut off, towns and cities all over Vietnam were off-limits to American soldiers. We were never again allowed back into the cities.

We were not allowed to return to the orphanage. Orders had come down from the highest command center. For the first time during the war, I experienced true horror: the horror that I had no way to let Tum know what was happening.

Three years ago, I re-visited Da Nang with hope of finding my little girl. I knew that after four decades I was facing an impossibility. She would be in her early fifties. Even if I passed her on the street, how would I know her, or she me?

Something kept telling me: “You will know her. You will know her.”

After a week in Da Nang, I found the orphanage still standing. It had been renovated, and a new wing had been built. I found remnants of the old United States Marine base still standing, fragments of the military hangers from which American jet fighters and helicopters launched their assaults. I found everything I wanted to find except Tum. I wanted to see her, to look into her eyes and somehow try to explain to her why I could never get back to her, to apologize for leaving her so abruptly, without a word. I was never able to erase the one painful image in my mind: seeing her standing by the gate of the orphanage, waiting for me to appear.

Now, as I look back, I feel that I myself contributed to the tragedy of losing my little girl. I now understand my mistake was not fighting to get back to Tum. I had allowed time, bureaucratic red tape, and ignorance and stupidity on my part to keep us separated. I now realize that the minute I landed back in the United States, I should have immediately begun fighting with everything in me to return to Da Nang Orphanage and bring my daughter home, no matter what it took.

I plan to return to Vietnam again next summer. Perhaps I’ll take a summer

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residence there after retirement. But that’s not the main reason I want to return: I, like the practitioners of some Eastern philosophies, have always believed that death is not the end, but a beginning. The divine creator of all life has created an existence beyond our mortal state. Our bodies cease, but our lives—our souls, our essence—continue and carry over into a new plane. Because of this, I am able to hold to the dream that perhaps I will yet be able to find Tum and undo that tragic irony that has been, for me, so much of this life. And if it doesn’t happen while I walk this side of life, if I don’t see my “little pineapple” again in this existence, I am convinced I will find that darling, little wisp of an urchin in the next.

Painted Sky by Kathryn Bonner

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Speed of Light by Leya Deickman

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A Musical Prayer

by Jacques Life is just a battle between trials and tribulations, Mama told me I was blessed, it ain’t no limit to my greatness, Them bullets went around me, I can’t take this life for granted, Could’ve been dead in a casket, thank god I’m on a campus, Been a victim of that struggle ever since I was in pampers, Opportunities that I had I know I had to take advantage I just want to thank the lord for giving me all these second chances, Every time I go to school it’s like I’m running away from madness And the sadness, but it’s bad though, ‘Cause we got kids killing kids and they don’t have no intentions of stopping at all, It just doesn’t add up, Forever searching for an answer but we won’t find one, Maybe we’ll find it when the time comes, Maybe we’ll find it when the time comes.

I’M FROM THE 757 WHERE CEMETERIES EVERYWHERE, THEY DON’T KNOW A LOT ABOUT HEAVEN, BUT THEY’LL TAKE YOU THERE, ANYTIME ANYWHERE, ANYTIME ANYWHERE. I JUST WANT TO THANK GOD FOR GIVING ME ANOTHER DAY, I JUST WANT TO THANK GOD FOR GIVING ME THE STRENGTH SO I CAN PROPSER IN EVERY WAY, I JUST WANT TO THANK GOD FOR GIVING ME THE STRENGTH SO I CAN PROSPER IN EVERY WAY, AMEN… BACKWORDS LETTER My letter to you from my heart to your ears, I just want to make you feel what I feel, I want you to picture my words so you can see what I hear, And when you see it, make sure it’s clear.

Last night I had a dream it was the end of the world, And we were still here, We were still here.

End. Containing the Pain by Marie Mance

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Logic’s “1-800-273-8255”

by Destiny Crawley How does one song save the lives of millions? Rap music often talks about life before fame, how many women a man has slept with, childhood hardships, drugs, alcohol, and other controversial things. Some people react negatively to rap because of these topics, but others react positively because they can relate to the content. Rapper Sir Robert Bryson Hall II, who goes by the stage name “Logic,” has broken mainstream music stereotypes when he speaks to his fan base.

Logic’s song “1-800-273-8255” has saved lives without intending to, indicating hope for rap music’s ability to create positive change.

Logic writes music about his struggles with anxiety. He has been diagnosed with derealization, an anxiety-induced disorder with symptoms that include the sense of being out of one’s body (Berry). In an interview with Genius, Logic said, “Man, I wasn’t trying to save anybody’s life. And then it hit me, the power I have as an artist with a voice, I wasn’t trying to save your life, now what can happen if I actually did?” And Logic did just that. During a tour when he visited fans’ houses, shared meals with them, heard their stories, and played music, he decided to be deliberate in helping others (“Official Lyrics & Meaning”).

Logic realized that his struggles are “everyone’s struggles.” People deal with the same emotions, regardless of details, each day. A fan listening to Logic’s lyrics feels understood because their favorite artist has gone through similar experiences. As they listen, they realize that they are not alone. For example, Logic sings, “I don’t wanna be alive / I just wanna die today” (genius.com). People struggling with depression hear these lyrics and relate to how they too feel like giving up.

“Ain’t nobody calling my phone / Where you been? Where you at? What’s on your mind? / They say every life is precious but nobody care about mine” (genius. com). A person feeling suicidal can relate to these lyrics because they feel like life isn’t worth living and nobody cares about them anymore. These lyrics are for people who feel like the world has turned its back on them and it doesn’t matter if they die or live. Through these lyrics they feel that their cries for help are heard.

Logic’s fans also feel hopeful, as though there is a light at the end of the tunnel, because of his lyrics. Logic shares that while he felt hopeless at times, he found reasons to hope, just as we all can. For instance, these lyrics reassure hope: It’s the very first breath when your head’s been drownin’ under water and it’s the light that’s in the air when you’re there chest-to-chest with a lover It’s holding on though the road’s long seeing light in the dark, yeah, these things and when you stare at your reflection Finding hope in who it is I know that you’ll thank God you did. (genius.com) Alessia Cara, who is featured on this song, sings these words as the operator at the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. When the caller talks to the operator, they are reassured that it may be bad now, but it will get better. There’s going to be a significant other for them in the future, so they won’t feel so alone. The 24

lyrics state that certain feelings are temporary, and once they pass, life will be full of better memories. Logic discourages suicide through these lyrics and gives reasons to live life to the fullest.

Logic also uses his celebrity platform to tell his audience how to get help when they are feeling suicidal. In fact, the title of the song is the number for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255. Whenever the song is played, the Suicide Hotline receives exposure, and more calls are placed to the Lifeline.

This means more people are getting help and fewer are committing suicide. According to Billboard, on the day of the song’s release, Lifeline indicated that they “received the second-highest daily call volume ever at that time” (@Logic301).

The number of calls placed that day were 4,573, a 27 percent increase in volume.

The day following Logic’s performance at the MTV Music Awards on August 28, 2017, 5,041 calls were made to the Lifeline. The song continues to impact lives with a steady call rate of 50 percent higher than average (@Logic301).

One of the ways Logic’s song is changing lives is in the LGBT+ community.

Someone watching the video sees the real meaning behind the song. The video reenacts the struggle of two high school-aged gay men for acceptance from their fathers. In the first scene a man is holding his young son, feeding him, playing with him, and walking him to the school bus. As the video goes along, the same young African American child is on the playground, playing by himself and walking alone as if he were an outsider.

Time goes on, and the child is now in high school, running track and talking with his friends. The video shows him stopping in the hallway, shaking hands with a friend, who appears to be his lover. Later that day, the African American teen arrives home, where he is met by his father who slams a magazine with a shirtless male on the cover, a gay lifestyle magazine. The upset teen appears to run away after the conversation with his father. He vents to his friend as they sit under a bridge, where it seems they can be free.

The African American teen then goes to his lover’s house, where his family takes the teen into the house as they eat dinner. The next morning, the Caucasian father finds the boys sharing a bed. With hurt in his eyes, the African American teen leaves, escorted by his lover’s father, with all of his belongings.

There is a mix of emotions on the father’s face. The next day the boy walks alone with his head down, just as he did as a boy on the playground, clearly depressed. At track practice, he seems alone and withdrawn. After practice, he goes to his locker, where a prank awaits him. His coach notices how withdrawn he is from the team. The teen sleeps at school behind some boxes, and during one of Healing by Ryan Riggs his classes, his coach notices something is not 25

right. The coach offers the teen his lunch, then hugs him. The father comes to the school to talk with the coach while the teen is at home contemplating suicide.

The clearly emotional teen is grasping a handgun, debating whether he wants to end his life. He holds the gun to his head and to himself in the mirror. He runs, throws his book bag, and then realizes he needs to get help. He calls the Suicide Prevention Lifeline. Then the video features a wedding scene with the teen and his high school sweetheart with both sets of parents in attendance. The next scene shows the couple gazing at their child. The entire family looks happy.

This video, like the lyrics, is changing lives. It shows acceptance from family and society with time, thus a reason to hope. During the video, the teen actually calls the suicide hotline to get help. A gay teen who watches this video could relate to the feeling of being unaccepted because of their sexuality. A person who feels suicidal or depressed can find validation, hope, and a chance to live, as this video demonstrates, simply by reaching out for help.

In rap music in general, there is a stereotype that rappers only rap about certain things. Logic’s song has saved lives without his intentions to. He helps listeners feel heard and understood. Logic reminds them that there is light at the end of the tunnel of darkness. The title of the song is the number to the Suicide Prevention Hotline and is a means for listeners to get help. In the future, rap artists might continue to use their platform to help their fans get help when needed.

Works Cited @Logic301. “The most important song I’ve ever wrote,” 15 Nov. 2017, 3:19 pm. Tweet.

Berry, Peter A. “Logic Recounts Anxiety Attack that Put Him in the Hospital on ‘Tavis Smiley,’” XXL Magazine, 11 May 2017. Retrieved through www.xxlmag.com/news/2017/05/logic-anxiety-attack-hospital-tais-smiley/.

“Logic – 1-800-273-8255 ft, Alessia Cara, Khalid,” Uploaded to YouTube 17Aug. 2017

by LogicVEVO. Retrieved through www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kb24RrHIbFk. “Logic – ‘1-800-273-8255’ Official Lyrics & Meaning,” Uploaded to YouTube 27 Apr. 2011 by Genius. Retrieved through www.youtube.com/watch?v=SOJTg9cL5bM. “1-800-273-8255,” Genius, 2018. Retrieved through genius.com/Logic-1-800-2738255-lyrics.

Love Is Everything by M’bambi Mbungu

Simple Truths

by Heather Ellis

Eyes by Ashlynn Willoughby

26

Ice is cold Fire is hot Blood is red Grass is not

Pain hurts Love can too But lack of fear Has led me to you

Fish swim Dogs run Cows walk Plants need sun

Your hair is silk Your eyes are bright And if I’m your darkness Then you’re my light

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(left) Awakening Day / Miss Maude of Callaway, Virginia by Alyson Seidel

Qualities of Time

by Zach Beckner Time is knowledge, time is power Time’s a solvent, by the hours Time is healing, time’s a start And mends feelings of broken hearts Time is stressed, time is wasted There’s time regretted in wrong places Time’s unknown, time’s a mystery Time always shows one’s place in history Time is fast, time is slow It’s everlasting, until we go Time determines, time’s consistent Time’s for learning of one’s existence

Time Before Time by Ryan Riggs (left) Cloudy Dreams by Autumn Potkay

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Home Sweet Home

by Chloe Fisher Home is the place that brings you warmth and joy.

It’s the place you go when you’re upset and need comfort.

Home holds so many secrets and memories, It leads you forward when you need guidance, A place that you can think and sulk at the same time.

Home is not only four walls and bed.

It could be a room of puppies or a closet for handbags.

It could be the passenger seat of your best friend’s car after a cheap McDonalds meal.

Home doesn’t always have to be a place, either.

It could be two arms that hold you as you cry, Or it could be two brown eyes and a heartbeat.

Liminal Spaces in the Norwegian Fjords by Allison Harl

Dog Days of Summer by AnnGardner Eubank

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Let’s Go on an Adventure by Nancy Kathryn Shoaf

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Flowers

RaĂ­ces by Addison Philpott

by Jade C. Jones Colored petals. Soft, like cotton.

The thorns draw blood and tears.

Yet they pull my affections. They hinder me, comfort me, energize and drain me. One may think they are but stems with veiny, bell-shaped jewels. They grow as I do, they breathe, they consume. The beautiful, the fragile, the flowers.

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Yellow Heaven by Mary Stoudt

33

The Sanitarium

Anxiety

By Shela Muriel

by Meghann Hartman My lungs Crushing As my breathing becomes Unbearable As I feel the Pounds Of eyes upon my Broken body I dig my nails into my skin Breaking the surface Feeling the blood Seep down Through my fingers My stomach gets warm Spotted Skipper Vinyard by Autumn Potkay Twisting inside of me Tears capture my eyes I stop Frozen in my spot Imprisoned in my

by Tamiah Palmer Deadly thoughts Stop I rest silently in darkness, Think Listening to the outside world.

Breathe Space is limited, In Until one day everything changed.

Out Suddenly there was a break in the shell, In What is this?

And out Light shines through, I open my eyes Noticing that they And I make my way out.

Deceived me I don’t feel the same.

Realizing that I am not the same as I went in.

My mind has I feel lighter and free.

Yet again I begin to spread my wings,

Metamorphosis

Won

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And start into a new chapter of life.

The Andersons were moving to a beautiful blue house in Kentucky down a dirt path that led off the road. The feeling of being there without noisy neighbors fit them perfectly. They turned onto the path and followed it, passing trees and other plants until they reached the house. When they arrived, they saw an old well on the front lawn. The grass was growing in between the rocks, and the wooden bucket had rotted. Arriving in a bright blue Honda SUV were a mother, a father, and twin girls named Joan and Patricia. Although the sisters both had blonde hair and brown eyes, they had different personalities.

On the way to their new home, Joan decided to wear her hair up and wore blue pants and a tie-dyed shirt that was a little big, but that didn’t bother her. She tied it at the end to make sure it didn’t hang below her waist. Patricia wore a butterfly shirt, a pair of worn out jeans, and tennis shoes. She always carried a sketchbook.

Their mother wore a purple blouse with blue pants and a pair of pale pink flats.

Their father wore an orange shirt with black pants that he would only wear on weekends or during vacations.

Joan enjoyed exploring. She didn’t care where they were, whether at home or on vacation. She would be out and about carrying her trusty Lumix bridge camera.

Patricia wasn’t the type of person to explore, and she didn’t like that her new home was in the middle of the woods far from civilization. The whole trip there she did nothing but complain. Joan didn’t want to hear it, so she put earbuds in her ears to try to block out the sound.

“Why do we have to move here? We don’t have any neighbors, just a bunch of woods and an old well,” Patricia complained. The girls’ parents had been together for 13 years, and they’d gotten used to having twins around even though they sometimes mixed the girls up. Their father was in the driver’s seat, while their mother was sitting in the passenger’s seat. Like them, their petite mother had blonde hair and brown eyes. Their father was 6’1” with brown hair and brown eyes.

Just like her mother, Joan loved to explore. Their parents decided to move to Kentucky because New York City was loud. Joan and Patricia’s mother was a world-renowned author of “Where we went,” and to finish her latest novel, she wanted a place that was peaceful with no cars passing by late at night. When they decided to move out of the city, he needed to find a job in Kentucky.

Joan and Patricia had hoped that their father wouldn’t land a job because they didn’t want to leave their hometown and their friends behind.

“It’s not so bad; the house just needs to be fixed,” said their father “besides, you have places in Kentucky that you can explore, like the Waverly Hills Sanitarium.”

“What’s that?” asked Joan as she pulled out her earbuds.

“It was a hospital built in 1910 and opened in 1926 in hope of finding a cure for tuberculosis,” he said.

“Did they find one?” asked Joan.

“Not at the time,” answered her father.

35

“Then how did they treat it?” she questioned as she looked at him.

“The treatments were harsh, from cutting the victim open to ripping out a rib,” said her father.

“There will be plenty of time for that, but first you and your sister need to get your belongings and bring them inside. All right?” said their mother.

The girls nodded as their father pulled up in front of the house and put the car in park. One by one the family climbed out and went to the trunk. Their father opened it, and in the trunk of their car were boxes stuffed so close together that nothing fragile could be punctured. As the girls grabbed their boxes, they followed their mother to the front door, which she opened with a key. The minute the girls entered the house, they noticed how old and rustic it was. Rounding the corner, they found a flight of stairs that led into a dark hallway. The girls looked at each other with a nervous expression like they were expecting something.

Time to Die by Nasya Smith Nodding at each other, the girls walked up the stairs and entered the hallway.

Patricia quickly looked for a switch since she hated the dark. Feeling the walls, she eventually came across a light switch and flicked it on. The hallway went from dark to bright, and at one end of the hall they saw two bedrooms. Patricia sighed with relief and walked to the room on the right. Joan entered the room on the left. Setting their boxes down, they went to get their parents. Once all their boxes were in their rooms, they decided to go exploring.

Heading outside, they grabbed their bikes. Joan’s bike was hot pink and covered in flames. The black seat had a lightning symbol in the middle. Meanwhile, Patricia’s bike was bright red and covered in flowers, with a plain white seat.

Before Patricia got on her bike, she hesitated because she was unsure whether she should go with her sister.

“Ready?” asked Joan. Patricia looked at her sister.

“Um… No, I don’t like this,” replied Patricia.

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“Don’t tell me you’re scared, Patricia,” spoke Joan with mockery; “It’ll be fun.

Just give it a chance.” With that, the girls got on their bikes and started off. They weren’t sure how far the sanitarium was or how long it would take them to get there on bikes. The girls stopped at a fork in their path, one branch of which led to a concrete road, while the other led into the dark woods. “Looks like we’re lost,” said Patricia, jumping to conclusions. “Guess we’ll have to turn back.”

“Let’s go…” said Joan looking around, “. . . that way.” She pointed towards the woods and took off down the path. Terrified, Patricia followed her sister. They rode past trees and bushes, and it felt like the path was going on forever. Finally, they came to a stopping point in front of a large building that looked like it had been in the woods for decades. The windows were boarded up, and the place was worn down by rain and erosion. Weeds were growing all over the concrete. Patricia didn’t like the looks of it because she thought it gave off an eerie vibe.

“Okay, we’ve seen it. Can we go home now?” asked Patricia.

“How about we go inside?” suggested Joan.

“I don’t want to; it looks like it’s about to collapse. Please let’s head home.,” begged Patricia.

“No, we’ve come this far. It would be a waste of time to turn back now,” Joan said, so the girls set their bikes down by a tree and began making their way towards the building. Just then a stranger jumped out from behind the bushes, startling the girls.

“STAY AWAY!” said the stranger. He wore glasses, and his skin was disturbingly blue. His hair was yellow, and he wore a torn-up shirt and pants but no shoes or socks. “No one disturbs this place! Leave now and never return!”

The girls looked at each other, confused. Just as they turned around, the stranger vanished in the blink of an eye. Patricia gulped and began to shake. She grabbed her sister’s hand and held onto it, for dear life.

“Joan, please let’s go home, I don’t want to be here,” she said. Joan looked at Patricia with determination.

“No, we’re going inside. Some creepy old guy won’t chase me away. After all, what can we disturb?” asked Joan. Going into the sanitarium shouldn’t have fazed Patricia, but her fear was getting the best of her. The building looked as if it was going to collapse on top of them.

“Or we could listen to what that stranger said,” spoke Patricia.

“Seriously, Patricia? It’s sturdy, and if it collapses we can just run out as fast as possible. Come on; let’s go inside. I’m tired of standing out here,” replied Joan.

Together the girls walked inside, and as they entered the Sanitarium, the lights suddenly flickered on. The room was freezing; the paint on the walls seemed to be peeling off, and the building looked as if it was being renovated. Patricia stuck close to her sister as they started walking.

“Where are we going first?” asked Patricia.

“Let’s go find the morgue,” replied Joan.

“The morgue?!” said Patricia in a panicked voice. “But that’s where the bodies are kept when someone dies!”

“Of course it is, and we’re going to find it,” said Joan. The girls made their way down the hallway to the morgue. Just then, Patricia felt something grab her arm, making her scream in terror.

The End

37

Natural

by Kathryn Bonner Some people are born with talent, Naturals Some are not Naturals Some never will be Naturals I am not a Natural Nothing I have is Natural I’ve worked so hard for so long but I’ll never be a Natural Most of my friends are incredibly talented Naturals But it’s okay I’m not a Natural Random Red by Logan Smith I will still work in pursuit of being a Natural One day I hope to have a fraction of the ability of my friends who are Naturals What I lack in talent that is Natural I make up in passion and perseverance In those I am a Natural Believe it Naturally I will never stop until I am at the place I would be were I a Natural

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“Protect You” Lying

by Ryan Woods Dad: My best friend, my role model, my greatest supporter of all time, the best father anyone could ever ask for. He’s there when anyone needs him. He puts everyone before himself. He works so hard and never asks for anything in return.

He pushes me to be the best in anything I want to do and never lets me give up.

He has taught me an unimaginable number of lessons, but the most valuable is never to cry. He always said, “Life will always throw shit at you, but never show weakness. Never, ever cry.” But the man I thought would never leave me, betray me, or make me cry–he lied.

Dad was always a competitive person. Being the youngest of five children, he had to fight for attention. In his adolescent days, he played every sport imaginable and excelled in each one. In high school, he played football as a middle linebacker and served as a defensive team captain all four years. He also played basketball as a power forward and a center and acted as captain his junior and senior years. Although he excelled on the field and the court, it was not the same in the classroom. Because of low test scores, instead of going to the Division I football program at William and Mary on full scholarship, he committed to the Division III football program at Ferrum College. There, he excelled on the field and, with the help of a tutor, in the classroom, earning many awards. After changing his major three times, he graduated with a 3.7 grade point average in five years. He had his whole life ahead of him.

By the time he was 26, he had a wife, a one-year-old, and a life-changing diagnosis. But his family and friends only knew about two of the three. Can you guess which two? Dad went through three rounds of chemotherapy for stage two lung cancer over 18 months without telling his wife, family, or friends. By the time he was 30, he had a wife, a five-year-old, and a two-yearold and had been cancer free for a year. He never saw a point in telling his family and friends about his battle, so he kept it a secret. He hoped he would never have to face Not Broken, Just Bent by Alexandria Dixon

39

this reality again, let alone face it by himself again.

Mom learned of it a few years later when she found his anti-nausea medications during a move. But she, too, saw no point in alarming their loved ones. My family had many secrets, and this was one that not everyone needed to know–including me, until now, when the problem resurfaced a few weeks ago…

Mom told me that dad had been sick for the past few weeks, which was weird because Dad never got sick. She told me I should stay at school and not worry about coming home so that I wouldn’t get sick. I knew there was something wrong, but I just brushed it off and didn’t think about it. A few weeks later, Mom told me I needed to come home for a family meeting. I was scared because my family never had family meetings unless we were moving, someone was dying, or someone was dead. I went home the next day, and everyone was in the living room waiting for me. I was uneasy and nervous: my two least favorite feelings.

I didn’t cry. I just sat and listened, only hearing about every other word. “Stage 3”... “Lung Cancer”... “Chemo and surgery”... “Spreading.” That caught my attention. I didn’t know a lot about cancer, but I knew “spreading” was not good. The tumor had begun to spread from his lung to his throat, making it hard for him to breathe. But with chemotherapy and surgery, he would be fine. When I asked how long he had known about it, he said, “Well, four months.” I went back to school. I had never felt so betrayed. My best friend, who I thought would never betray me, had been lying to me for four months.

Dad had his first round of chemotherapy a few days ago. I went with him. He explained that the last thing he wanted in the world was to lie to me. He told me about the first time he got sick and how scared he was. I told him he didn’t need to be scared again because everyone had his back, just like he always has everyone else’s. And there, sitting in the treatment room with my best friend, I cried.

On the Coast Line, Waiting for You by AnnGardner Eubank

40

Blue Ridge by Michael Lyons

Persevere for Passion

42

In 2017 a study was conducted to see how many people worked in a field they loved A field they were passionate about How many people met this goal?

Eighty percent? Sixty percent? Twenty?

No, only nine percent of the people surveyed were actually passionate about their jobs Only nine percent of people woke up every day happy and content with the life they’ve made So why do so many of us fall short?

Because it’s easier to give up and settle for less Instead of being put in a place we don’t feel our best It’s easier to watch the stars from below Instead of trying to reach for the unknown It’s so much easier not to try ….why?

Not because we don’t have what it takes Not because we don’t have the resources with which we need to create But it’s because we fear We’re scared our best may not be good enough We’re afraid if we put our heart on our sleeves We will be rejected for who we were meant to Be As humans we live off passion We strive off passion We lick our fingers clean of passion The way you feel when a song comes on that makes you tap tap tap your toes And you feel as though you’re flying and you blossom like a rose Passion is indescribable but in lamest terms it makes us feel alive But too many of us are afraid to even try Well let me be the one to tell you life is hard And it’s not fair But just because times get difficult doesn’t mean you shouldn’t care We were created to live not just survive So when life gets you down I challenge you to thrive Just because we don’t have wings Doesn’t mean you can’t soar Because believe me when I say that’s what you were created for You have to know you can persevere And stop being ashamed and ruled by fear

by Haley Moore We can start a revolution for the next generation We can change the world with our determination The resources we have are supposed to be a salvation Used to help the world we began innovation I no longer will let people say my renovations and destination For my generation will forever be casted to damnation I will fight for what is right As we cry out like banshees in the night So what’s your passion?

Do you want to be a doctor ? Maybe an artist? A vet?

Your future may not be determined just yet Nevertheless the only one standing in the way of your success is you Will you persevere through the hard times you’re going through?

You have the ability and power to do what it takes to succeed So the real question is what life will you lead?

I see my path, but I don’t know where it leads. Not knowing where I’m going is what inspires me to travel it. By Robert Ziehfreund

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My First Love

By Leya Deickman Saturday, August 20 Daddy always told me I was too young to have a boyfriend, but my friends Jolene, Betty, and Maribelle have all had boyfriends since second grade. It was my turn to have a boyfriend–I mean I am a young lady now like Momma always tells me. I suppose young ladies should have a boyfriend, especially by third grade.

This year in Miss Singleton’s third grade class, I am gonna fall in love. I just have to find the right boy.

Monday, August 22 Momma said I look as pretty as a peach and she doesn’t say that often. Daddy told me not to talk to any boys and focus on my studies, but all I heard was “boys” and my smile got a big as granddaddy’s belly. I tried to hide it so Daddy wouldn’t see, so I scurried to the bus stop at the end of our dirt road. When I got on the bus, I sat right next to Betty and booger-pickin’ Angus. They were holdin’ hands already, so I decided to look out the window the whole ride. All I could think about was who was gonna be my first boyfriend and how much I didn’t want him to be like Angus.

When the bus stopped, I ran away from Betty and Angus. I found Jolene waitin’ for me in the classroom. Miss Singleton knew my Momma and Jolene’s momma, so she put our desks right next to each other. I told Jolene my plan to get a boyfriend and she was just as excited as me. After we sat down, I noticed a name on the desk right across from me. It said, “Colt.” We had never had a “Colt” in our class. I had the same classmates since we were in kindergarten. I waited for this “Colt” person, but he never showed up.

Tuesday, August 23 I rode the bus again this mornin’ but this time I stayed far away from Betty and Angus. Angus smelt like a wet dog today and I just couldn’t take it. When I got to class, I noticed somethin’ new. Miss Singleton was showin’ a new boy to his desk.

His desk was right across from mine. It was Colt. I sat down and instantly fell in love. Is this what love feels like? I turned to ask Jolene what love felt like, but she was too busy scribblin’ hearts for her and Chase. So I stared at Colt a little longer.

I noticed he has some straw in his hair, but it didn’t bother me none. He probably worked on a farm like me. He probably loved cows just like me. I would’ve stared at him longer, if Miss Singleton didn’t make me go to the board to answer a question. After that, it was time for recess. I knew Maribelle’s class had recess at the same time as my class, so I went to find her. Maribelle was on the swings. I ran up to her and asked her how she knew she was in love for the first time. She said somethin’ like “you’ll feel butterflies”–whatever that means. I knew I had to talk to Colt, but it was too late. It was time to go inside. So I wrote him a note: “Dear Colt, My name is Ella-Mae.” That’s all I could get out because I was so nervous, but I handed it to him. He opened it and wrote me back.

“Dear Colt, My name is Ella-Mae.” “Hi.”

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THAT’S ALL! He just wrote “hi.” Maybe he was shy. Just like me. See! We already had a lot of things in common. Before I knew it, it was time to go home. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to Colt before I had to get on the bus.

Wednesday, August 24 Betty asked me to sit with her on the bus this mornin’, but Angus was with her again so I decided to sit in the seat in front of theirs. Angus tried to get my attention, but I just pretended like I was asleep the whole way to school. I was really just thinkin’ ‘bout Colt. That hair of his and how much we had in common.

He hadn’t even said a word to me and I was in love. When I got to class, Jolene handed me a note from Colt: “Hi Ella-Mae your pretty” I blushed so hard I turned as red as a tomato. I smiled at Colt, but I waited until recess to talk to him. I was ready to tell him that I wanted him to be my boyfriend. I walked up to him and told him. He opened his arms and hugged me.

I thought about our future kids’ names, all the cows we would have on our farm, and even our first kiss. I didn’t want him to let go. All I could think about was this was my first love and it was perfect. Then he let go of me and smiled. I yelled out the loudest screech, like coyote attack screechin’. Colt was missin’ half his teeth and the ones he did have were stained yellow. Not only was Colt ugly, but what happened next was even worse. Angus ran up to Colt and said, “Ella! Meet my cousin Colt. I knew you would like him. He just moved here from Tennessee.”

That is when I realized Daddy was right: I should focus on my studies.

And I never spoke to Colt again.

Bee Happy by Nancy Kathryn Shoaf

45

Home

by Marie Mance All I see are specks. Specks of light that escape the heaviness of the nothingness around it. They are bouncing off surfaces that are naked to my eyes. I can hear my heart beating, maybe out of my chest, maybe out of my body. But when it escapes I have no doubt that light will fill the room from fire that ignites in it at this very moment. I look down at what I think are my hands. The light around them doesn’t help much, but I am sure now that they are. I move them, one to the left and one to the right.

I see it. I feel it. My only form of protection. My husband’s gun. Before this moment I never have touched it, held it, gripped it with my life because, well, this thing is what’s gonna get me out alive.

Rustling.

I hear rustling. To my right? To my left? No? I thought our other senses were supposed to kick in. As sight fails me, it appears that so does sound.

Rustling.

My gun is up. Yes, protect yourself. Like he showed you. Right foot, yes.

Left foot, good. I start to move in which direction? Well, that eludes me.

Stop. Gun to the left. I hear it. Shit! I hear it. How will I shoot if my body is leaking? I feel balls of discharge surfacing and over-surfacing. My grip is losing, and no additional light is making surface to my eyes. I’m just gonna wipe it off. My hand reaches the edge of my shirt.

Quick! Wipe the handle.

Rustling.

My gun is up. Steady it. Like he showed you.

Rustling.

It’s behind me now. I feel it. There are those senses kicking in. Its eyes, its dead eyes. Does it see me? If I turn, will I see it? Will I see the growl of hunger in its eyes? The thirst for my blood in its smile? Will I feel the height it has on me? Small and fragile I am, but large and bulky it is. Can I really take it? Of course you can! Damn! Take it. Just turn and shoot.

That’s all there is to it. Just turn and shoot.

I hear it. It’s moving. Not farther like it should be, but closer. I feel the heavy abyss of darkness closing around me. I’m shrinking, smaller and less important. My husband, my sweet love. How will I let him know to move on? If I lose this fight, how will I tell him to love again? I am lucky he is mine. He will always be mine, but his I am no more.

No, I can take him. I have to take him on. I will go home and cook that stew my husband loves. I will kiss him goodnight with the lust I had when we first met. Just turn and shoot. That’s all I have to do, turn and shoot.

Just turn and–BAMN! The light from the blast showers me with vision.

Before it goes out, I see it. And I did it. I see his face. I see the growl of shock. I see no thirst for blood. I no longer feel the overwhelming height of malice. I see a sweet face. One that I lay with. One that I wake with. A curl pattern from a head that I run my fingers through. I see the bronze gold in his eyes as they dim to nothingness. His body, which I caress,

46

hold, and comfort, falls limp to the ground. With him I fall. I reach for him to hold, to caress and to comfort one last time. I feel the leak I put there. His body drains of the hot thick juices that keep us all together. I can’t breathe. My breath is no longer in me. I don’t want to make it out anymore. There is nothing me for me to go home to. No one for me to cook stew for, or to kiss goodnight as I did the first time we met.

Rustling.

Hidden Treasure by Mary Stoudt I reach for the gun. I don’t know why. My only reason for living lies drowning in its blood before my eyes. I look at him, gun still up. I won’t leave his side; I’ll never leave his side again. I can feel my heart ache as it beats harder and faster.

Then there is light. Behind me it shines, casting a shadow on a face I’ll never see smile again. A face I can’t look away from. My face gets hot, and my hands begin to shake. The tears begin to fall, from my face to his.

Rustling.

It’s walking towards me. I turn with my gun in my hand and start shooting. But all I see is a ball of light. I shoot around it, eager to kill. But the light still shines. I stand slowly and walk towards it. Right foot, good.

Left foot, yes. I find it lying on a table. In the middle of the table, shining in the direction of my now dead husband. I pick it up and look around. I see the familiar bricks that surrounded me when the lights went out hours ago. I search for the door. Once I spot it, I slowly walk. My eyes roam from my husband to the door. I end up next to him again. No way in hell I’m not taking him with me. I grip the flashlight in one hand and his gun in my other, and I grab his shoulders. I begin to drag him in the direction of the door and then–Darkness.

One Mississippi Two Mississippi

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Three . . .

A light blasts me from every direction. It’s the brightest I’ve ever seen.

“That’s funny,” a voice says. It sends a chill down my arm, but a chill of relief. I wonder what that’s about.

To my left? Yes. It stands. A man in white. All white. I almost don’t see him because he easily blends into the background. His smile makes me feel safe. I’m thinking he’s an old friend, but I don’t recognize him. I don’t remember him. I don’t remember anything. A sudden rise of panic fills me. Why can I not remember who I am? Where was I a second ago? Wait.

Who am I? “Those are all excellent questions,” he says. “ones you will have the answers to in a bit.”

“Answers?” I say. Questions I do have. Millions of them. Like who the heck am I? “Yes, well follow me, and all your doubts will wash away; everything will be clear; you will know all you want to know.”

He waves his hand, and in the white haze, a bronzed kind of metal appears. As we walk towards it, it slowly begins to open.

“Please, ma’am; where are we?” I’m begging now. The suspense is killing me, yet I seem to be drawn to the object, large and powerful yet calming and easing. In the center is an outline of another man. Tall and full of power. I can see holes in both his hands, which I feel should frighten most, but to me everything feels like . . .

“Home.” He says. He grabs my hand, and we disappear.

48

Angels in America by Marie Mance

Breath by Chloe Fisher

Farewell, Dear Friend

by Heather Ellis

The snow was cold against my bare skin, but it fell softly with such grace. I felt my face burn as frost bit at it. I tightened my cloak and scarf around me, my breath clouding my vision with every exhale. The white sky stretched on endlessly as the flakes continued to fall; I glanced upwards.

The snow had only just begun, but the ground was already covered. My chest was as empty as the soundless air around me. I felt numb from the harsh cold, but I had also forced all emotion from my heart. It was a strong parallel, and I held onto the simple thoughts: breath, snow, cold, walk. Keep walking, my mind whispered to me.

I did. My legs were heavy from trudging, and weariness was beginning to cause them to shake, but I continued through the cold. The gardens about me were the same as I remembered, but they were empty all the same. Just a glance across the Garden courtyard sent a thousand memories playing before my eyes.

There was a pang in my chest at the sudden onslaught.

Soft brown eyes with the most interesting pattern, almost as if his iris had been made of tree roots in the earth. A muss of brown hair that had matched his eyes.

That teasing, cocky smile that always made me want to hit him, especially when he was training me, teaching me to be a better fighter.

A glance to the right where the Training Grounds gate lay triggered more memories, the sound of his lecturing, his laughter, his heartfelt advice. It almost sent a tear down my cheek. I fended off my warring emotions, though. Refusing to show them, I continued. I glanced out into the Zephyr streets, memories bombarding their way through my mind’s eye almost relentlessly. It nearly caused me to stagger. Such emotional weight… Instead of leaving the castle gates, I turned

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for the rest of the Gardens. I passed the rose garden, Rosaio, but the usually red blooms were dead and withered under the weight of the continuous snow.

I took my time making my way to the place I’d finally stop. The closer I got, the harder it was to keep my memories and emotions from consuming me. With heavy limbs, I trudged through the silent air. He had always loved training us, even in the Gardens where we weren’t allowed to train. It was one of his knacks.

He loved breaking rules. It was hard to find him without a mischievous glint in his eyes and sly smile on his face.

I glanced up from the print-less, pure snow ahead of me. The marble statue nestled in the soft powder was what I’d been looking for. I stared in dismal silence. A stone carved to look like the Queen in her current life stood with graceful wings relaxed on her back. She was facing another figure, one that was knelt on one knee. He also bore wings, his head bowed in towards his chest. His hand rested on his chest, fisted over his heart. I could practically hear the oath he was swearing. I will love you, I will love you always. I will protect you with everything I have. I’m yours to use however.

I hadn’t realized I was crying until I found my knees buckled beneath me. My bare hands shook with strong emotion as I fumbled to wipe the snow from the plaque that had been carved in dedication of the statue before me. Desperately, I wiped my eyes with my free hand. The tears were warm against my raw skin, and they stung as if to remind how long I’d been out here.

I read, “A sacrifice as noble as yours shall not be forgotten.”

Any wall I had had left after seeing the statue broke down then. My cries rang over the silence. I gripped my chest as it ached, anguish pouring through me, all-consuming. This was the second time I was letting go of any emotion that I’d held in after my dearest teacher’s death; the second time I’d let myself grieve. I couldn’t hold it in or perish it anymore. It was too strong, building up in me like a flow of water being blocked by a dam.

I clenched the ring around my neck, the last piece of my teacher I had left.

The tears fell easier when I did, and I found it comfort in the act of crying. With clumsy movements, I crawled to the statue’s base, pulling my cloak over my head and snuggling into it despite the cold stone that seemed to sap at my body heat.

I leaned against the base of the statue, allowing the cavity in my chest that I had fought so long and hard to keep empty to fill with mourning.

When would it end? I wasn’t sure. Would I ever be able to find peace? Probably not. But allowing myself to mourn was the first step in a long healing process.

Everyone had to start somewhere, and I would have to learn to face my emotions sooner rather than later. I had not been given the chance to grieve the entire year we had been on the run. I had been made to stay strong and remain the strong rock in the storm that had anchored us in place.

But he should’ve been here to help me. He had been my teacher, the guidance I needed, snuffed out far too soon for me to find my own way. In hindsight, I should’ve realized that it wasn’t his job to coddle me and carry me the entire way through my life, and that, in a sense, he had been there because his teaching lived on in me…

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Beach Day

By Lynnea Dickerson I remember my toes anchored in the warm sand and the sunrays dancing across my melanin infused skin. My pigtails swinging in the air as I tilt my head back and squeal in pure joy. With my tiny hands outstretched in the air, I wait for my parents’ grasp. One, two, three. I glide through the air as they swing me back and forth. One, two, three. My laughter fills the air around us while we walk back to the hotel. Me, happy and carefree.

One, two, black.

Dad comes back with food to find beer bottles scattered on the floor.

Mom’s sitting at the table sipping on another bottle. Dad gets angry.

Screaming. Glass shatters. Mom lunges for the broken glass. Dad lunges for Mom. I crawl beneath the bed and close my eyes. I try to remember my toes buried in the warm wet sand and the sun beating down on my face. The water lapping against my legs as the seagulls circle above. The sound of waves drowning out the noise around me. We happy, me happy.

One, two, three, black.

The Line Where the Sky Meets the Sea by Kathryn Bonner

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by Nancy Kathryn Shoaf

by Mary Stoudt

A Precious Gift

by Nancy Kathryn Shoaf

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by Heather Ellis

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Alone

By Kathryn Bonner Alone I sit, People all around me, And yet, I am Alone.

I sit, My best friend on the phone, And yet, I am Alone.

I sit, In my room, Fighting my own mind that screams, I am Alone.

Sometimes I win, And logic prevails, I remember how many people love me, I am not Alone.

Untitled by Peter Khraish

Vamos by Abigael Germeroth

55 Consciousness by Michael Lyons

The Hungry

by Jade C. Jones He haunts my dreams. I run but I am not fast enough. A billion tears I’ve cried. None of them have mattered. My scars are invisible. No one knows a pain so twisted. A fear of what may come.

Those I love I cannot protect from His insistent, disturbing hunger.

I am afraid to be happy, for He devours happiness. He sniffs it out like a hungry, rabid wolf. He sees my fear, my anguish, and He is elated, knowing I am trapped. The empty promises, lost minutes, bloody scars, these things swirl around me like the wind. A storm for which there is no shelter. A fire which cannot be extinguished.

Death is almost comforting. It is simple. Easy. Yet I fight. Small moments make larger fragments, and they construct what could be a dream. Perhaps these dreams, these little wonders, will manifest into a tangible piece of joy. Until then I wait. I remain. And ever still, He haunts my dreams.

Machu Picchu Wonders by Mallory Hall

The Hungry part 2 Persistent. He haunts me without end. I dreamed of closing this chapter. A way out.

The white light at the end. Yet here I stand, still haunted by his presence. I try to run; he follows. I cry; he laughs. I am bound, no matter the circumstance, to his insatiable appetite. He consumes everything. A fire, a storm, a wave of ravenous desire. Unable to please, unable to hide. I could leave this place, take refuge in the mountains, the forests. It means nothing. The forests cannot hide me. The mountains cannot stop my longing for happiness. A happiness that seems too far to reach. And yet I ache for it. More than anything. The feeling is almost stronger than my fear. But the fear, as he does, persists.

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Crash into Me by AnnGardner Eubank

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14 “not-so-secret” Secrets You Should Know About Me Before We Date

By Aaliyah Leake 1. I’m not that big on marshmallows, but that doesn’t stop me from scarfing down handfuls when given the opportunity.

2. I love orange juice, but I hate oranges.

3. I have a favorite sibling and I’m pretty sure they know who they are.

4. I’ve been known as nothing more than “light skin” my whole life. My family and friends call me this so much that I fear that they’ve forgotten my actual name, and it’s making me hate my skin even more now.

5. My body is squishy and soft and malleable, my stomach rolls over the lip of my jeans, and it makes me sick.

6. I’ve worn hoodies in hot weather just so I won’t have to show my arms.

7. I have the occasional episodes of bingeing, bulimia, and starvation in that order.

8. I thought about killing myself on multiple occasions just as people would commonly think about their plans for the day.

9. I’ve tried and, as you can see, it failed 10. I stare at decrepit buildings and envy them.

11. I’ve got scars in places where scars shouldn’t bloom.

12. Sometimes I forget how to breathe, or maybe I just choose not to.

13. I’ve been told how bad my memory is, but I have yet to forget how much I don’t matter, or how much I go unheard, or how much I love them, them being everybody.

14. My heart is a small thing. Shriveled up and dried out from previous devastations and dejections. I lost that feeling of a safe and warm love a long time ago and now only know the sharp, throbbing feeling of hate and loneliness. And I’m scared that I’ve become content with that.

But that doesn’t mean that I’m gonna stop loving you any less.

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The Morning Drive by Jade Mitchell

Fall is near, just listen

by Autumn Potkay Fall is near, can’t you see her colorful song?

As the leaves fall like feathers towards the vibrant green ground I wonder if the trees will make it through the cold winter safe and sound Beautiful colors and beautiful sights I can’t wait for her chilly warm nights Although I am sad that the trees lose their gorgeous green hair I’m glad that autumn will be falling through the air Fall is coming, won’t you look at her windblown song?

The way the leaves move in the air like they must know it all Swaying back and forth to the rhythm of her beat They move to the tempo as if they have their own feet Beautiful dances and beautiful tones I wonder if I can make her my own Fall is near, just watch her as she ignites I can’t believe it’s been a year since she’s been in the spotlight Fall is here, just watch her sing her song

Crispy Colors of Autumn by Autumn Potkay

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Sour Patch Kid by Marie Mance

by Allison Kurfees

Snow Day by Lynnea Dickerson Fall’s Lake by Marissa Ruiz

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Biographies

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Sandra Ballard is a professor of English at Appalachian State University and the editor of Appalachian Journal. She co-edited Listen Here: Women Writing in Appalachia and The Collected Short Stories of Harriette Simpson Arnow. She is the author of numerous essays and reviews of literary works by writers of the Appalachian South.

Zach Beckner is a junior from the Northern Virginia area majoring in mass media and communication with minor studies in journalism. He’s a captain on the wrestling team who enjoys quality time with friends and playing Fortnite. He aspires to be a major sports journalist/analyst after graduation.

Kathryn Bonner is working toward a B.F.A. in acting and directing with a minor in sociology. She is secretary and historian of Alpha Psi Omega, the Theatre Honor Society, as well as a member of Alpha Chi, the National Residence Hall Honorary, and the Boone Honors Program.

Matthew Boyd is a senior environmental science major who also studies recreation. He is originally from Council. He focuses primarily on the study of wildlife conservation as well as educating the public about the animals in nearby ecosystems.

Destiny Crawley is originally from Amherst County. She is a criminal justice major and hopes to work for the FBI. She also has a passion for music.

Emily P. DeLoach ‘96, from southern Virginia, graduated from Ferrum with a major in psychology and a minor in English, then worked in various jobs, from boardwalk train driver in Ocean City, Maryland, to missionary in eastern Russia, before becoming a Montessori teacher in the Hampton Roads area. She writes to give her characters a voice. Her first novel, Escaping the Mirror, is available on Amazon.

Leya Deickman is a junior English major from Fayetteville, North Carolina. She is a member of the women’s wrestling team and the Boone Honors Program. In her free time she enjoys playing with her son.

Lynnea Dickerson from Browns Summit, North Carolina, is a biology major and hopes to become a veterinarian. She enjoys writing, reading, sketching and working with animals.

Alexandria Dixon from the Yorktown area is a senior majoring in business administration with concentrations in Management and Finance and a minor in philosophy.

Heather Ellis from Hardy loves simple things: the smell of rain, the beauty of instruments working in unison, the click-clacks of keys, and the warmth of hugs, as well as the world building and fantastical realities that others have created in video games, books, movies, and shows. She lives many lives through the characters she writes and reads and plays.

AnnGardner Eubank from Corolla, North Carolina, is a junior political science major with minors in journalism and international studies. She is a member of the women’s volleyball team, the senate, and the Boone Honors Program. She is editor-in-chief of the school newspaper, The Iron Blade. After graduation she plans to work as an investigative journalist or a political analyst.

Chloe Fisher grew up with wild dreams in Franklin County. She enjoys cooler weather and bundling up with a warm blanket and cozy book. She spends her days reading, writing short stories, and imagining the most creative of futures.

Abigael Germeroth was born in Lynch Station. Her major is Mathematics, and her minor is Spanish. She is a player on the women’s soccer team, a resident assistant, a Boone Honors Program member and mentor, and a cultural ambassador. When she is not studying or playing soccer, she spends most of her time with her fiancé, her best friend.

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

Mallory Hall from Rocky Mount is involved in Delta Phi Epsilon and many clubs, including Panther Productions and Psychology Club. She enjoys being with her friends and family; her fiancé, Drew Meadows; and her young pit bull, Luna.

Allison Harl is Associate Professor English at Ferrum College, where she has taught for ten years. Dr. Harl grew up in Virginia Beach but always dreamed of living in the moun-

tains, one reason she has chosen to make her home in Ferrum. She loves adventure and enjoyed traveling in France, Norway, and Sweden with her nine-year-old son last summer.

Meghann Hartman is a Ferrum student from Hollins.

Cynthia Herrick is a travel and wildlife photographer who has been featured by National Geographic. She earned a B.S. in advertising design from the University of Maryland, College Park. As creative director for her advertising agency, Herrick Visual Communications, she integrates digital technology with illustration, graphic design, and photography.

She has produced marketing materials for numerous Baltimore-area organizations, and her photographs and illustrations have been published in children’s books.

Jade C. Jones from Appomattox is a senior with a major in biology and a minor in agriculture. Her interests include music, art, science and understanding how the world works.

She writes music, poetry, and prose, in an attempt to explain what is going on in her mind.

Taylor Kent is a senior Liberal Studies major from Hilton Head Island, South Carolina. A musician for most of her life, she enjoys writing songs as well as poetry. Upon graduating this December, she hopes to further her career as a singer-songwriter.

Peter Khraish is a photographer from Dubai. He is a member of Ferrum’s soccer team.

Alli Kurfees is a pre-professional health science major with an emphasis in pre-med. She is minoring in chemistry and biology. She has played the piano since fourth grade. She is a part of the Boone Honors Program, Delta Phi Epsilon, Minds-N-Medicine, and Panther Productions. She enjoys helping others and volunteering in the community.

Aaliyah Leake from Washington, D.C. is a writer of fiction and poetry.

Precious Leonard from Newport News is a Theatre Arts major.

Michael Lyons is from Wall, New Jersey. He is majoring in history and minoring in political science. He is a member of the men’s soccer team and the Boone Honors Program.

Melvin Macklin is associate professor of English. He teaches courses in composition, American Literature, African American Literature, and the Holocaust; he also serves students in the Writing Center. He holds a Ph.D. in Literary Studies from the University of Texas at Dallas with specialties in Holocaust Studies and African American Literature. A U.S. Army veteran, he was decorated for service in Vietnam.

Marie Mance from Oxon Hill, Maryland, is working toward a Bachelor of Fine Arts (BFA) with a major in acting and directing. She enjoys writing and sharing her ideas in many different ways. After college she plans to write and audition. Mance is a member of Alpha Psi Omega, a national theatre honor society.

M’bambi Mbungu is a freshman from the Democratic Republic of Congo. He started drawing in his junior year in high school and found that he had some gifts in art, so he practiced a lot and got better but is still learning. He really enjoys art as a hobby and hopes to create more beautiful pieces in the future.

Jade Mitchell is a freshman from Farmville. She was part of the yearbook committee at Prince Edward County High School. She is majoring in business management and hopes to become an entrepreneur after she graduates.

Haley Moore from Fredericksburg is a freshman theatre arts major. She loves cartoons and music and has a passion for writing. She loves writing poetry to make a change and wants to rekindle the human connection we so desperately need.

Jacques Moore-Roberts is an English major and business minor. He enjoys writing and recording music of all genres and making his family happy.

Shela Muriel is an English major who likes creating new stories. She also enjoys reading and listening to music.

Tamiah Palmer is a senior from Vernon Hill. Her major is environmental science, and her minor is agriculture with an emphasis in animal science. Her interests are cooking, baking, biking, reading, playing video games, and learning new languages.

Addison Philpott is a senior art major from Franklin County. Along with her art, she spends time involved in her sorority, Omega Gamma Omega. She is also a member of the varsity tennis team. After graduating, Addison plans to be either a tattoo artist or a graphic design artist.

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Autumn Potkay is a junior studying criminal justice with a minor in forensics. She is a part of the women’s wrestling team and Criminal Justice club. Autumn enjoys taking walks with her dog Buddy and taking photos. Her favorite thing about taking photos is trying to capture the picture and color in the same way that you can see it with your bare eyes. She enjoys the fall season because of its vibrant colors.

Ryan Riggs is a visual artist from Ohio who currently resides in Ferrum. He uses drafting pencils or oil paint to create detailed artwork of the natural world, using techniques he developed by studying the old masters and contemporary artists. Riggs also has experience as a carpenter and NCAA division 1 collegiate wrestler. He holds a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from Cleveland State University and a Master of Arts in Education from Heidelberg University. Riggs is Ferrum’s associate head men’s wrestling coach.

Marissa Ruiz from Wake Forest, North Carolina, is majoring in biology and minoring in horticulture. She is also a wrestler. She began painting as a sophomore in high school in Technical Theater classes, in which she designed and painted the sets and scenery for plays. She was head painter for the program her senior year. Her painting style and techniques are inspired by the legendary painter Bob Ross.

Alyson Seidel has been a staff member at Ferrum College for almost 11 years and currently serves as catering manager. She lives on a beautiful farm just over the mountain in Callaway and is passionate about doing her part to take care of nature, all creatures, and the well being of others.

Nancy Kathryn Shoaf from Davie County, North Carolina, is a sophomore majoring in environmental science with minors in agricultural science and history. She is a captain on the swim team and a member of the Boone Honors Program and several clubs. She enjoys hiking, baking, watching sports, fishing, playing the fiddle, and playing with her animals.

Logan Smith, also called Luna, is a sophomore working toward a horticulture degree. She loves poetry and plants, and writing is a way for her to express her true self.

Nasya Smith is a senior from Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Her major is media and communication with a minor in history. Her interests include drawing, reading, listening to music, and writing.

Joe Stanley ’93, is an artist in Roanoke who owns and operates Upcycled Gifts. Following his graduation from Ferrum College, he completed his master’s degree at New York University. With a background in fine arts and advertising, he has designed online and print materials for Fortune 100 clients, major league sport franchises, and national political candidates.

Mary Stoudt is a sophomore history major with a journalism minor. She is co-editor of The Iron Blade, a member of Lambda Sigma and Love Your Melon (a pediatric cancer organization), an Admissions Ambassador, and a writer for The Franklin News-Post.

Jonathan Taylor enjoys playing guitar and taking pictures. He says that he is the world’s biggest John Mayer fan!

Ashlynn Willoughby from Wilmington, North Carolina, is a sophomore business major minoring in art. She is a member of the volleyball team and hopes to coach the sport as well as eventually owning her own business after she graduates. She was on the Chrysalis staff last year and continues to make contributions to the publication with her artwork.

Ryan Woods is a sophomore from Roanoke. She is a health and human performance major with an emphasis in physical education and a minor in coaching. She enjoys watching sports and hanging out with friends.

Nina Young grew up in the small town of Patrick Springs. She transferred to Ferrum from Bluefield College. Her major is undecided, but she would love to see the music education program come back to Ferrum. Her other main interests are marching band, bowling, dancing, and fishing.

Robert Ziehfreund from Manassas is a senior and a health science major currently in the process of applying for physical therapy school. His lifelong passion has been wrestling, and he enjoys hiking and traveling the world.

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Chrysalis

Literary and Arts Magazine

Ferrum College Fall 2018