Chrysalis Spring 2020: Literary and Arts Magazine

Chrysalis Literary and Arts Magazine

Ferrum College Spring 2020

Chrysalis

Literary and Arts Magazine

Staff Heather Ellis, Editor-in-Chief Joshua Adams Kathryn Bonner Kristina Cossa AnnGardner Eubank Chloe Fisher Marquis Lee Abigail McGovern Shela Muriel Katherine Grimes, Advisor

Judges Thomas Bowman ‘11, Art Amanda Cockrell, Prose Kenneth McCreedy, Photography Rita Sims Quillen, Poetry

In loving memory of retired Ferrum College Professor Carolyn Thomas and retired Ferrum College Dining Services employee Loretta McGhee

Ferrum College Spring 2020

Flap Like A Butterfly by Kristina Cossa

Table of Contents Sevillan Sunset by Susie Maines Cover Photo Flap Like a Butterfly by Kristina Cossa 1 Remember Me by Chloe Fisher 4 The Color of Love by Sarah Patton 5 Serpent by Chloe Fisher 6 Let’s Go Swimming by Katie Shoaf 7 The Last Night by Abigail McGovern 8-10 La Giralda by Suzie Maines 11 A Love Story by Abigail McGovern 12 Pine Cone by Laurynn Hackett 12 Three Words by Chloe Fisher 13 Glimpse of Glory by Miquella Snider 13 Times Like These by Suzie Maines 14-15 The Battle Every Kid Hates by Heather Ellis 16 A Stroll in Femø by Suzie Maines 17 Feeling a Little Gay by Haley Moore 18 Love by Jonathan Garcia 19 Magenta Madness by Miquella Snider 19 Quadrality by Brandon Mullins 20-21 Seasons by Mary Stoudt 20-21 My Heroes by Sarah Patton 22-23 God’s Canvas by Miquella Snider 22-23 Drip Drops of Dew by Chloe Fisher 24-25 Rain by Marquis Lee 24 The Umbrella by Heather Ellis 25 Imagine by Ryan Stilter 26 Late Night Fright by Shela Muriel 26 Where the Cat Wanders by Cameron McAfee 27 A Boxed Cat by Shela Muriel 27 The Clown Problem by Shela Muriel 28-31 Over Think by Marissa Ruiz 29 Man With Two Souls by Kristina Cossa 32-33 Subtle Belief by Chloe Fisher 32-33 A Story of Loneliness by Abigail McGovern 34-35 A Sight to See by Chloe Fisher 35 Remeber Those Small Things by Heather Ellis 36-37 Flowers at St Augustine’s Abbey by Jamie Gilbert 36 Cupcake Jungle by Mary Stoudt 37 Why Do You Lie? by Haley Moore 38 Drunk by Cameron McAfee 39 All the Things I Love by Mary Stoudt 39 A Tale of Two Places by Carl Childers 40 The Road Less Traveled by Mary Stoudt 40 Varadero Memories by Suzie Maines 41 Grandpa’s Last Wish by Cameron McAfee 41 The Faders by Haley Moore 42 There is Something in the Woods by Marquis Lee 43

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Deep Forest by Laurynn Hackett 43 Hello by Katie Shoaf 44 Baaad to the Bone by Mary Stoudt 44-45 Green Eyes by Katie Shoaf 45 Thrymr by Chloe Fisher 45 Spotted Eagle Ray by Luis Cevallos 46 Fear by Joshua Adams 46 Believe by Shela Muriel 47 Novella by Chloe Fisher 48 You by Joshua Adams 48 Paper by Marquis Lee 49 Inspiration by Suzie Maines 49 Fall of Pride by Brandon Mullins 50-52 Castle by Kristina Cossa 50 Stairway to Heaven by Miquella Snider 52 How I Live by Marquis Lee 53 Fever Dream by Haley Moore 53 Snowfall by Joshua Adams 53 The Guardian and Her Prince by Heather Ellis 54-56 Hogwarts is my Home. Oxford University, Oxford, England by Jamie Gilbert

55 Sea Turtle by Luis Cevallos 57 The Sweet Feeling of Death by Marquis Lee 57 Thoughts While Seeing Blue by Joshua Adams 58 Sharks by Luis Cevallos 58 Jelly by Mary Stoudt 59 Hidden Denizens by Brandon Mullins 59 The Origin of New Stars by Abigail McGovern 60 Wayfinders by Heather Ellis

61 Snapshots of Ellis Farm by Heather Ellis 61 A WEDOs Reunion by Marquis Lee 62 Sun Rays in the Corn Maze by Heather Ellis 62 Jump In by Katie Shoaf 62-63 Shared Memories with my Mom by Marquis Lee 63 Rey David by Suzie Maines 63 “May I Take Your Order?” by Miroslava Barrera 64-65 Entomophobia by Kevin Miguel Morales 65 Biographies 66-67

Home Is Where Your College Is by Heather Ellis 66-67 Acknowledgements 68 Bee Happy by Miquella Snider 68 Fallen Petals by Kristina Cossa 68

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Remember Me

By Chloe Fisher First Place Prose

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The ticking of the clock inches my heart rate up with every second that passes. She looks up at me with tears threatening to fall from her eyes. Deep hazel, a color not easy to forget, but the inevitable is always bound to happen.

I take her hand into mine. Her nails are painted a deep blue-black color, prominent against her pale skin. Her hair falls to shape her face, her soft cheeks turning pink as I trace my finger across her palm.

“It’s going to be okay,” my voice rolls from my throat, cracking. I bring my hand up to wipe the tear trailing across her skin. The black of her mascara stains down to her chin, and I kiss her forehead.

“I’m so scared,” she whispers. “I don’t want to forget you again.” Her eyes are hidden by the wet dew hanging from her lashes, and she brings her head into my chest and breathes in deeply.

“I’m not going to know the smell of mahogany reminds me of you.” Her voice breaks and her fists tighten on my shirt.

I place my hand on the back of her head, my fingers getting lost in the blonde strands. “But you’ll learn it again,” I reassure her and look at the clock.

“11:56,” my voice trembles.

She steps back and her hand reaches my jaw and her lips meet mine, wet and salty. I hold back the sting in my eyes.

“We’re going to be okay,” I whisper and she reaches for the camera.

She holds it up to face us, and I lean my head next to hers. We both smile weakly and there’s a flash before a small square ejects from the top of the camera.

She looks at it longingly before grabbing a pen and writing the date and time, her tears falling onto the pale film, the time caught in a moment, a memory that will soon be gone.

“11:58,” she whimpers, grabbing my hand, and the charms on her bracelet dangle against my skin. Each charm from each year we’ve spent next to one another. A roller skate, a picnic basket, a dog bone, sneakers, a pen. All small, silver, and shiny.

“I love you.” She looks at me, the white of her eyes tainted by red.

“I love you, too,” I whisper and a tear falls down my cheek.

“Kiss me again,” she asks, her hand going to the nape of my neck, and so I do.

Our lips meet for a second before the world becomes dark and everything feels numb. I wonder where I am and whose hand is in mine.

I take a step back and rub my eyes. Why are they wet? I look at my hands and feet and notice a pair in front of me.

I look up at her, and then at the clock, ticking so loudly it distracts me from her confused hazel eyes.

“12:01,” I think out loud.

Her eyes are cloudy and she’s wiping black from her cheeks. I wonder why she was crying.

I look down at the picture on the table next to us, developing in front of our

eyes, two people smiling next to each other, and I look around the room. Pictures cover the walls of the same two people.

I look back at the girl. The girl standing in front of me is the same in each of the pictures. The same deep hazel eyes, the same blonde, sheen hair.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she says to me, her voice quiet, and she holds out her hand. Her nails are painted a dark blue-black, and I can’t help but notice the contrast against her pale skin.

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” I remark, smiling a bit, and I notice how pretty she really is, even through the dark circles under her eyes.

“You smell familiar.” Her voice is almost raspy. “Like wood, mahogany, I think.”

My cheeks get warm, and I look at the charm bracelet on her wrist.

“Roller blades,” I mention. “It’s one of my favorite things to do,” I say before I can think about it. Before I can even realize that for myself.

She smiles a little and looks at the bracelet closely.

“Yeah, I don’t know why it’s on there,” she remarks. “I think it’s supposed to be something special.”

Her finger picks up the silver picnic basket next to it. “Picnics are one of my favorite things to do on a warm day.” Her brows furrow when she says it, and looks up to me. “I think.” She giggles.

“Yeah,” I smile at her and run my thumb down her cheek, turning it bright red.

“You want to go on a picnic tomorrow?” I ask before thinking.

“I’d love to.”

The Color of Love

By Sarah Patton First Place Photography

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Serpent by Chloe Fisher First Place Art

Let’s Go Swimming by Katie Shoaf7 Second Place Photography

The Last Night

By Abigail McGovern Second Place Prose The boy in love with the freak. That’s what I was to you, maybe what I still am. Because of this, you say you want me to tell you what she was really like. I could tell you about how she rarely laughed, but laughed with her entire soul when she did. I could tell you about her silver jewelry, her love for herbal remedies, or how every thin silver scar on her fingers told a story. How I loved every twisted puzzle piece of her, even the ones you deemed broken. I tried over and over again to tell you. But you don’t want to know what ‘she was really like.’

You’d already decided she was the freak, the crazy girl, the danger. You’d already decided to blame all the accidents and deaths on her. And nothing I could or have ever said will change your mind.

But you wanted the truth about that night. So instead I’ll tell you about her eyelashes, teardrops dangling from them like diamond earrings from a socialite’s ears. I’ll tell you about the mascara snaking tracks down her cheekbones, the blood spattered across her palm, and me. Standing alone in the woods, holding a silver charm bracelet and the pieces of a broken heart in my hands. I’ll tell it as true as I can, every word.

I was picking her up that night to go for a walk. That was almost all that we ever did. It was no secret that she was ‘unstable’; you all knew that. She frequently told me that she felt untethered, adrift in her own body. That was why she liked the walks; something about coexisting in the darkness gave her a sense of solidity and focus. It put things in perspective–made her feel real. And God knew she needed that, to stay rooted within herself. Her emotions were a sea that she sometimes got lost in. And when she got too lost, it could be dangerous.

I was more than happy to be the one to pull her back.

The front door of her house was painted black. It was a brick house, softened and eroded by time, covered with creeping tendrils of bright green ivy that never seemed to die. Then again, I’m not sure she wanted it to. It looked like the doorway to another world, and in some ways, it was. When she was feeling a bit more concentrated, she would bitterly joke that the black paint was a warning of the nightmare monster that lived inside. I wasn’t afraid of monsters, I’d tell her. It became a bit of a twisted joke of ours.

On that last night, I walked up to her house and knocked on that black door, same as always. Her mother opened the door, same as always. Her complexion was pallid, and there were dark smudges painted under her eyes from a lack of sleep. “Don’t go up there right now.” Her voice was hoarse and a little shaky. “She’s in a right state, having one of those fits.” Her eyes were flashing a bit, and I noticed she was holding a pan with still-sizzling food in one hand. The other kids were in the background clamoring for food. I never liked

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the resentment in her eyes when she looked at her oldest daughter. She hadn’t wanted to be what she was, and she couldn’t change it.

“All the more reason for her to have someone with her, then,” I said cooly.

I stepped inside past her and started up the stairs. She had caught at my arm, and looked at me with large eyes.

“She’s dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid,” I said, meaning it.

When I got upstairs, her door was cracked open. All the lights were off, even the small desk lamp in the corner, drowning the room in total darkness.

If I hadn’t known before, this should have been when I realized something was severely wrong. She hated the dark. It reminded her of everything she was afraid of, both in and outside of herself, I think.

I pushed her door open and called her name softly. At first, there was no response. Then, she whimpered my name, and I knew that meant she was hanging on by a thread. I could feel it. I flicked the light on. She was on the bed, knees pulled her to her chest, tucked away in a corner. I have never been able to accurately put into words how she looked when she wasn’t all here: her eyes so wide they seemed to swallow her whole face, her skin ghostly, her pupils dilated.

I never knew exactly what was wrong with her, and I still don’t. I’d seen enough horror movies to have my suspicions, but I never asked, because it never mattered to me; we’re all broken in some way. She was still beautiful, like a chipped porcelain plate or marble shot through with cracks.

So I walked over to her and took her shaking hands in mine. I pulled her to her feet and said firmly, “Let’s go.”

She was so far gone that she didn’t even say anything, just let me lead her out into the night. Her mother didn’t say a word to us as we walked right by. I always thought that her mother’s bitterness made things harder for her, and I firmly believe that it contributed to some of the events of that night. Her palms were bleeding and her jaw was clenched so hard I could almost hear her teeth cracking. She was trying to control herself, I could tell, so she wouldn’t hurt me or anyone else.

I held her tight and led her down our well-trodden and familiar path through the woods. The stars seemed dimmer than usual that night, though that may just be looking back. When whatever it was that gripped her finally subsided, she stopped us in a clearing and stared at me. The trees and plants seemed to lean away from us. This was the first moment that I can honestly say I ever felt unnerved by her. Her skin was still so pale that I could almost see the weak moonlight filtering through in, her veins were dark and pronounced around her temples, looking more like inked on lines that anything, and though her eyes had returned to their normal color, the pupils were still so large they almost absorbed anything else. She didn’t look human. It seemed the night could feel it too. The trees and plants seemed to lean away from us and even the insects stopped buzzing.

Still, though, I told myself that there was nothing to be afraid of–that good

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old motto of mine–that she wouldn’t hurt me. And I said in as clear and steady a voice I could manage, “It’s ok.”

But she shook her head, looked at me and said in a voice that managed to seem like an earthquake and nothing more than a whisper at the same time. “It’s not.” She spoke in a rush, urging me to understand. “It’s my fault. All of it is. I don’t belong here, I keep hurting people.” I started to protest, but she held up a hand.

“You don’t understand. I’m not like you. I never will be. The injuries, the death of that boy… . That was all me. I didn’t mean to, but I’ll never be able to stop it.” She stepped closer, squeezing my hands in her own. I didn’t dare pull away. I could feel it, then. Finally. That it was the last night I was ever going to spend with her.

Desperately, I said, “You don’t have to go!” But we both knew that it wasn’t true. Whatever she was, whoever she was, she was her own thing. Though I could see everything that made her amazing, we both knew that all of you never would.

“I have too much darkness,” she said, her voice still barely audible, even as she shattered my whole world. I could see it was tearing her apart, too. “I won’t be responsible for anyone else’s death. I’m going to make my final act my act.

Something I control, not the darkness.” She was crying, the tears were clinging to her lashes and running down her cheeks, leaving streaks that were both dark and silver in the moonlight. I had seen her all kinds of weak and strong, but I had never seen her break down like this. It seemed so raw, so unreal. And I think I was crying too.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

I have no real way to explain what happened next. It was like all the pain and fear of the past few weeks warped in one moment in the middle of that clearing. Condensed into one second. It felt as though everything was over, there was no hope. Like I was losing my mind. Or my heart. All I can say for sure is that everything went black.

When I could see again, she was gone. I have no idea how or why, or even when. I have no idea how much time passed or what exactly happened. All I know is that I was standing alone in that clearing, my hands still reached out, reaching for her. One of her silver charm bracelets was pooled in my outstretched hands, spattered with the blood she drew in her own internal battle.

She was a force of nature–a whirlwind, a hurricane. She was both dark and light and the shades and shadows in between. She shattered my heart, but she did it to save you. You called me here to crucify her, and though we all knew she was responsible, she also fought tooth and nail for you all, you sorry little people who never even gave her a chance. I walk the same paths we used to, every night, to honor her memory. We all have demons. Hers may have been stronger than those of most people, but at least she can say she battled it and won. What have you done?

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La Giralda by Suzie Maines

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A Love Story

By Abigail McGovern First Place Poetry There was a boy who was as mellow as the sunset, Bleeding his rays across the sky.

He spoke with soft words in every stage of upset And stayed quiet even when saying his goodbyes.

There was a girl who was the calm before the storm, Waiting with bated breath for an explosion.

But everyone knows rain does nothing to keep you warm, And she was no good at handling her emotions.

They both lived their lives in flashes of color, Their love illuminated by the light from within.

But sunset and lightning are not matched with each other And so their love was only paper-thin.

In the end, different forces of nature must go their separate ways, But even through everything, the memory of your first love always stays.

Pine Cone by Laurynn Hackett

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Three Words

By Chloe Fisher Second Place Poetry Three words are just three words until they’re all you can think about and they block out the rest of who you are, When your mind is as dry as the desert in a drought of inspiration and the sand is as quick as the memories that flood into your head as though it’s raining, and you wish the drip drops of water would do more than just wet your toes.

Three words are just three words until it feels like you’re drowning in the four minimalistic times he ever said them to you, Like an oasis in your mind, the memories pool in, and the sand pulls you down and chokes you, drowns you out like the drip drops of inspiration you wish you had.

And the sand is as rough as the paper it can be printed on, yet the paper that smooths your outside image, that makes you seem okay is the paper printed from the trees they chop you out of.

Though the smoothness of your exterior makes them think it’s okay to break you.

Because three words are an axe to your sanity, not strong enough to ruin the image of you on the outside, but strong enough to chop you down like the tree.

Because nobody can see the struggles when you’re choking on the splinters of just three words.

Because three words aren’t just three words when they’re all you can think about.

Glimpse of Glory by Miquella Snider

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Second Place Art Times Like These by Suzie Maines

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The Battle Every Kid Hates

By Heather Ellis I ran away once. It was somewhere between fourth and sixth grade. You know how time likes to skewer memories and make you forget how old you were when something happens unless the memory specifically points to your age.

It was in the middle of winter, and there was a snow about two inches on the ground and a thin sheet of ice from the freezing rain that fell afterwards. It had been one of those days that felt like a held breath. My grandmother had left for court early in the morning. I remember sitting impatiently for Mommaw to come back, the ice having finally stopped only to leave its crystalized mess hanging all over everything you could see for miles.

When my grandmother came in, her face was bunched up and contorted, a bunch of lines marring her usually smooth forehead, an expression that curled my stomach because Mommaw never looked so grim or put off.

“Your dad and Molly are going to be here soon,” she stated when she saw me by the window staring at her as she came through the back door. “You have to pack your things and go with them.”

I stood there for a long moment before asking, “Why?” “You have to stay with them.” I shook my head once. “Only for a little while.” I shook my head again and started crying.

The crying didn’t last long, and soon it was replaced by hot, angry tears and the rage a of little kid who hated change. I got dressed, grabbed my little Nintendo DS case with all my little game cartridges, Pokemon and Nintendogs, slipped on my pink sneakers, and grabbed my favorite blanket. When Mommaw came into the room, her eyes a little red and her cheeks a little damp, I looked her straight in the eye and said, “If they want to take me from you, they can try and find me.”

I didn’t get very far. I made it to the neighbor’s house where I sat beneath my favorite pine trees and ate ice off the pine needles, positive my hiding place would not be so easily found. While I sat and stewed, I thought of how much of a fit I was going to throw if they did find me, and how I would scorn them for taking me from a place I loved. I didn’t understand why they needed me to come stay with them all the time because I already spent the weekends with them.

They were just being greedy at that point.

An officer found me about ten minutes later, and I huffed in defeat, having no choice but to listen to him because even though I was a stubborn fighter, I had been taught to respect an officer of the law.

The following six months were a blur of custody battles that eventually ended in Mommaw winning me back. Still, six months to a little kid sure can seem like a long time.

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A Stroll in Femø by Suzie Maines

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Feeling a Little Gay

By Haley Moore I’m feeling a little gay No not in a happy way I’ve always been told it was wrong That in a Christian home is where I belong But I think I love her And I think she loves me too But what if I’m wrong And I’m just the one that’s confused But this could never be Because she’s free And I don’t want to lose my family I’m feeling a little gay But my heart breaks as I watch her drift away

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Love

By Jonathan Garcia

Magenta Madness by Miquella Snider

Love is Something I never had A foreign experience I’ve talked about it but the truth is I’ve never seen it I’ve never felt it But if love is real If she was real She’d be my sanctum The missing piece to the puzzle Alone I am just fine but with you, I am better Only problem is...I’ve never met someone quite like you You who I can relate to You who I can converse with You who just like me wants to experience every bit of life because we know on The other side of life is death and we don’t have time to wait We might not be perfect but that’s ok because that was never the goal Deeper than sex our connection transcends the spiritual Your growth motivates my growth We’re each other’s best teachers and students because just watching you grow is More satisfying than any orgasm ever was Maybe when time is right our paths will cross But then again...

I’ve never felt it I’ve never seen it I’ve talked about it but the truth is A foreign experience Something I never had Is love

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Quadrality

By Brandon Mullins Every year four flowers flourish

In winter, the Wind Flower wakes Its petals are white as the clouds The body, brittle as ice

Spring summons the Water Flower Whose form is elegant and flowing Petals blue as a pristine pond

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Summer finds the Flower of Fire Red with impassioned desire

First inheritor before Wind usurped Autumn attracts the Earthy Flower Strong and proud

Brown as its namesake

Each flower is ephemeral

But their beauty is eternal

Seasons by Mary Stoudt 21

My Heroes

By Sarah Patton

In the dead of the night, I wake to the smoke.

I scramble outside Trying hard not to choke.

What do I see, But my home set ablaze?

The night so clear Yet my mind is in a haze.

But wait, what’s that sound, Those sirens in my ear?

Riding in on his red chariot, Is my savior really here?

They arrive to the scene, Dressed head to toe.

I don’t need to explain For they already know.

They grab their hoses Showing no hesitation.

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I watch in silent splendor As they are my salvation.

The fire looks on in wonder As the men march towards its way.

“Surely they will know,” it thinks, “That I will win this day.”

The men stand their ground Hoses at the ready.

“Alright men!” the chief declares.

“Try to keep it steady!”

What a sight, what a sound As the water tackles the flames.

I swear if you looked close enough You could see the fire’s shame.

As the embers begin to die The battle comes to a close.

The men in gear cheer For they have defeated their mighty foe.

The men come over towards me To make sure I’m good to go.

For now, it is time for them To be someone else’s heroes.

God’s Canvas by Miquella Snider

Rain

By Marquis Lee When the sky opens Rain comes down

And the crops grow

When the rain comes down It yells TTT

As it hits the land down below

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The Umbrella

By Heather Ellis Don’t worry your little head, my friend I’m here to cover you Don’t worry your little head, my friend I’m here when the weather’s blue I spread my wings out wide and large To keep you dry all the way I spread my wings out wide and large To protect you night, evening, and day Drip, Drop…Pitter, Patter…

The sound I love to hear Drop, Drip…Patter, Pitter…

The sound that sounds when you keep me near Drip Drops of Dew by Chloe Fisher

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Imagine

By Ryan Stiltner Imagine, a place of dark A place that would leave a mark Of depression and sorrow That would last well beyond tomorrow A cold, frozen place Cold enough to numb the face Yet a small ember exists Deep within, it shall persist With enough power to light the room Yet pleasant enough to banish the gloom Yet when I focus upon its hue All I see within, is you

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Late Night Fright by Shela Muriel

Where the Cat Wanders

By Cameron McAfee

A Boxed Cat by Shela Murial

Where does that cat wander?

That cat who sits on the ledge watching over you She turns her back on those who give a friendly hand Hesitation loses her and she disappears from your gaze Faint whispers say that cat is seen elsewhere Where has the cat wandered?

Did fear cause her, has hunger overtaken her Curiosity overwhelms the cat who wanders Always a moment away but never in arms reach She walks her path, never the same Is she happy with where she wanders?

Why doesn’t she leave, what keeps her?

Satisfaction or dependence must be her reason That cat rejects all help yet stays in routine Her fur is matted and her body neglected Yet she still wanders Her existence questioned every day Life could be great for a cat who ceases to wander But she chooses her life as if no other option is presented My hand is here please take it She turns her back and with a whip of her tail runs to a hole She can’t be appreciated in a hole, I don’t know where she will go next The cat is lost again I hope to know the truth Of this life that seems so bleak and incomplete Why does the cat wander?

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The Clown Problem

By Shela Muriel Fifteen-year-old Charlie Elizabeth had to move in with her aunt when her parents had to work out a few problems back home. More like they were discussing divorce. She didn’t know how long it would take for her parents to decide what to do or whether either of them was going to take her in. She hoped, however, that she wasn’t going to be stuck with her Aunt Claire any longer than three months. The yellow taxicab pulled up to the front of an old run-down house. As the cab pulled into the driveway, Charlie stared at the house with worry. She hoped that this wasn’t her aunt’s house because she feared that it would collapse while she was asleep.

“Ma’am, is this your house?” asked the taxi driver.

“Yes, sir,” Charlie said unenthusiastically. “Why?” “Well, because,” said the man nervously, his eyes looking at the house as if something were looking through the window. “Because your Aunt Claire bought a house that has a lot of history.”

“What do you mean?” asked Charlie. “Do you mean that it’s historical like the Blandwood Mansion?”

“No, I mean its haunted history,” answered the driver. “I’ve said too much; get out immediately,” he finished rudely. Not wanting to make him mad, Charlie climbed out of the cab and grabbed her luggage. Nevertheless, she began thinking about what the taxi driver said. Shrugging her thoughts aside, she made her way toward the front door and knocked. Charlie waited for a good two minutes before she saw the doorknob turn and the door open; standing in front of her was her Aunt Claire. Her brown hair loosely fell down her shoulders.

“Charlie!” exclaimed Claire with the biggest smile on her face. She seemed excited that Charlie was staying with her. “What are you standing out there for?

Come in, come in!” Her aunt moved aside so that she could enter. The minute Charlie did, her aunt gave her a tight hug.

“Aunt Claire,” complained Charlie. “I can’t breathe!”

“Right,” says Aunt Claire pulling away. “Sorry about that. Why don’t you go find your room?”

With that, Aunt Claire walked into the kitchen, allowing Charlie to go down the hall in search of her room. As she found her room, she turned and saw a door with a skull doorknob. Raising an eyebrow, Charlie made her way over to the door and began to turn the knob, but it didn’t seem to budge. She tried looking through the keyhole, hoping to see something. As she looked, a pair of clown pants suddenly appeared in the keyhole followed by the sound of clown laughter, and not the cheerful kind either. It was more of a maniacal laugh that sent chills down your spine every time you heard it. As the thing in the locked

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Right, Over Think by Marissa Ruiz

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room began to get closer and closer, Charlie fell back, and at the same time, her aunt appeared at the door.

“What do you think you’re doing, Charlie?!” demanded her aunt.

“Aunt Claire, there’s something in the room!”

“Under no circumstances are you ever allowed to open this door!”

“But . . .,” protested Charlie.

“No!” interrupted her aunt. “This door needs to be locked at all times!”

“Why?” “It doesn’t matter!” said her aunt, raising her voice. Suddenly, though, as if she heard herself, her aunt calmed down. “Now come on,” she finished. “Let’s go. I’ve made dinner for you after your long journey.” Charlie and her aunt made their way to the kitchen, but Charlie couldn’t help but look back at the door. She wondered what was behind it, and why her aunt didn’t want her to open it. As they sat side by side at the kitchen table, Charlie began to eat away, although her curiosity was getting the best of her.

Hours later, at around midnight, Charlie was in the room she would stay in until her parents could work out their problems. She sat in her room engrossed in a book when she suddenly heard something out in the hallway. Hearing the floorboards creak softly, Charlie looked up from her book and made her way toward her bedroom door. Hesitation took hold as she reached for the doorknob.

As she was about to open the door, the footsteps started getting closer.

“Aunt Claire?” she called out. “Are you there?” No one answered, but the footsteps got closer and closer. Her heart pounded as she finally worked up the courage to open the door. Turning the knob to the right, Charlie opened the door and entered the hallway. The hall was dark, and the floorboards continuously creaked and groaned as if something was walking in the living room. Turning and grabbing her cellphone from her nightstand, she turned on the flashlight and walked toward the hall entrance.

“Hello?” No one answered. She walked closer to the hall entrance, and the minute she turned the corner she came face to face with a scary clown. It was on all fours and practically crawling toward her. Charlie screamed and quickly ran back to her room. As soon as she got inside, she turned and slammed the door shut, then locked it like it was going to keep the clown out of her room. Her heart was beating fast as she crouched against her door and looked through the crack underneath it. Her light was on, so she could see a shadow crossing by it.

“Charlie…” said a voice, which began to get higher. She covered her mouth, thinking that her breathing was going to give her away. “You can’t hide from me forever.” Biting her lower lip, Charlie tried her best to keep still until the shadow disappeared. Once it did, she let out a sigh of relief, stood up, and ran to her bed. Climbing under the covers, she quickly turned off her light and tried to go to sleep. Three hours later, around three in the morning, she had been in a deep sleep, but at the same time she kept tossing and turning repeatedly, and she couldn’t help but feel like she was being watched. Just go to sleep, Charlie, there’s nothing there, she thought to herself repeatedly. Don’t open your eyes. Don’t open your eyes.

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While she was trying to get her mind to calm down, her gut instinct had other ideas. There was this pit in her stomach, one that she could not get rid of. Nervously, she opened her eyes and screamed. Standing in the corner of her room was a humanlike figure, and it gave her goosebumps. She couldn’t move, nor speak; she was completely frozen in fear. As she tried to yell for her aunt to come to her room, the figure seemed to get closer. She stared at the figure, and the figure stared at her. Suddenly, she heard footsteps coming down the hall; she prayed that it was her aunt, and if it was, she was going to be excited that her aunt had saved her. Her bedroom door swung open and standing in the doorway was her Aunt Claire. But something was different about her; she looked like she was in a trance. Finally, Charlie was able to move and speak.

“Aunt Claire?!” she yelled. “What’s going on!”

“Join us, Charlie,” said her aunt in a raspy voice. “It’s not so bad, just join us!”

“No!” yelled Charlie as she got out of her bed and ran toward her bedroom door. Even though her aunt was in the way, she was able to duck under her aunt’s arm and to race out into the hallway. Behind her, Aunt Claire and the scary clown were chasing her. Running as fast as she could, Charlie ran to the front door and turned the knob, but it wouldn’t budge. Panic swelled in her throat as she tried to find another exit. Her aunt and the clown were closing in fast.

Then her eyes landed on an open window in the kitchen. Pushing off on her left foot, she ran toward the kitchen and jumped out of the window and into the backyard; she ran out of the backyard and went toward the front.

As she turned into the front yard, she saw her aunt and the crazed clown coming after her. Facing forward, she ran to the end of the street and turned left.

Thinking she was safe, she began to slow down as she ran farther and farther away from her pursuers. However, once she stopped, she felt an aluminum bat hit her in the head with a loud ping, and she collapsed on the ground.

“Ah!” she said as she awakened and shot bolt upright, hitting her head against her aunt’s head. The minute she looked at her aunt, she jumped in fright and backed away from her. “Don’t touch me!”

“Calm down, Charlie!” cried her aunt as she struggled to calm Charlie down. “You were just dreaming!”

“What?” asked Charlie as she became fully aware of her surroundings. “I was?”

“Yes, you sounded like you had a nightmare.”

“I did. I dreamed you kept a clown in a room, and it was coming after me,” Charlie continued. “And you were turned into a clown also!” Claire hugged Charlie tightly, trying to keep her calm. “Wait, if I was dreaming, did I also dream that I had arrived here?”

“No, sweetheart. That was real,” said her aunt. “You fell asleep last night reading a book.”

Finally, Charlie could rest knowing that she was safely in her aunt’s house and not running from crazy clowns that wanted her to join them. Maybe the remaining days she was going to be at her aunt’s house were going to be enjoyable now that she didn’t have to worry about something evil chasing after her. Or so she thought…

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Man With Two Souls

By Kristina Cossa Adam sat on a chair outside of the principal’s office. He had been asked to stay outside because his teacher believed he would only cause more havoc if he was in the room. He was trying his best not to cry as he listened to his mother, Emily, argue with his teacher, Rose’s mother, and the parents of the two boys who he had been bullying him and his best friend, Rose. He didn’t mean to lose control and attack them, but they had hurt Rose so much that she had started crying and those jerks didn’t even care at all, so he lost it.

“That child is a menace! He nearly killed my son!” the boy’s father yelled.

“He didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Emily said sadly.

“No, a child like that should be put in an asylum!”

“After all, what else can you expect from a devil’s child?” the father sarcastically asked in pure rage.

Emily slapped the man for insulting both her son and her now-deceased husband. “How dare you insult my husband and child!?” she asked furiously.

Adam couldn’t even see what was going on, but just hearing the words ‘devil’s child’ made him feel like crying. Adam never knew his father because he had died before Adam was born, but he knew for a fact that his father wasn’t a bad man.

“Everyone, please calm down,” the teacher said, trying to keep a fight from breaking out.

“Calm down? Look at my poor sons! That halfling must be punished!” the mother demanded.

“And what about your kids? They hurt my little girl! Adam was only defending her,” Rose’s mother asked angrily. Rose had been pushed by the two boys, and the impact had not only knocked her into a mud puddle but had also bruised her legs.

Adam covered his ears. He didn’t want to hear any more of the insults.

‘Don’t listen, don’t listen,’ he told himself over and over, but he could still hear the insults: “freak,” “devil child,” “monster,” “he doesn’t belong, he’s mad.”

‘Stop it please, I’m not bad,’ Adam thought to himself, now very close to bursting into tears.

Suddenly the door opened and the two boys came out with bandages on their heads. “Nice going, freak,” one of the boys said, sticking his tongue out at Adam.

Rose then came over and offered him a sad smile. “I thought you were very brave,” she told him, as Emily came out of the office looking quite upset.

“You’re lucky he didn’t expel you. He just gave you four weeks of detention,” Emily said, and with those words Adam couldn’t hold back the tears anymore.

“Oh honey,” she said hugging her son.

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“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to lose control. Maybe they’re right, mom, maybe I am evil… I don’t want to be evil,” he cried.

“Oh, no. honey, you’re not evil. You just lost your temper and made a bad decision.”

“But what if I can’t control myself next time...what if I...?” Adam asked, worried that he would lose himself to his second soul, Red Death, who had been snickering inside his head since the incident had ended.

“No, baby, that won’t ever happen.

I promise you,” Emily assured him, and after awhile Adam finally calmed down, much to Red Death’s annoyance, as he was hoping that he would be able to take control again because of Adam’s unstable emotions.

“Thanks for sticking up for me,” Rose said, unexpectedly kissing Adam on the cheek, causing both ten-yearolds to blush.

“Umm, you’re welcome, Petal.” Rose blushed even harder at the nickname, but their touching moment was interrupted by Rose’s mother.

“We should go, sweetheart. Your father’s waiting for us,” she said, escorting her daughter out the door.

“Come on, Adam, we need to pick up your sister and get home,” Emily said.

Subtle Belief by Chloe Fisher

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A Story of Loneliness

By Abigail McGovern Your house is big and empty. The walls bare, the shelves dusty, the floors reflecting the sound of silence back at you. Sometimes when you turn corners, echoes of laughter, of footsteps and shouts of joy jump out at you and surprise you, making you miss the life you raised within these walls. The family you raised within these walls. These moments are almost worse than the silence because all that’s left now is echoes and the ache in your aging bones. Families grow up and move out, move on, seeking their own paths to success. And that’s all you always wanted for them. But some days are harder than others.

When it’s the loneliest, you carry yourself out to the porch and sit in the creaky old rocky chair. You like to watch the ever-changing dance of life as it moves along–the sunrise spreading watercolors through the clouds, the grasshoppers jumping among the grass in the summer heat, children racing past.

Across the street, there’s one child in particular who takes special care to wave at you, visit you. She was eight when she first moved in.

She would draw with chalk on the driveway, leap over the bushes chasing her imaginary enemies who knows where. Sometimes she sits in the great old oak tree out front–the same one your children and their friends used to play in years and years ago–legs dangling over the branches. It was there that she first noticed you, drinking an evening cup of tea and watching the fireflies come out. She waved, and you waved back.

From then on there was something in your life louder than the echoes. Louder than loneliness, louder than silence.

She gave you silly drawings and listened to your stories. She crossed the street just to chat, or to play on the porch. She came in to watch movies, to help you with your puzzles. Her parents were glad to have a babysitter, and you were glad to have the company. You got to watch her grow, got to be a little less alone.

She caught tadpoles in the stream behind your house. She helped you make lemonade.

She started middle school, started wearing makeup, lost a little faith in herself.

When her house filled with shouts and endless fighting, she spent the night in the always-empty guest room. She watched movies with you and traded your stories for hers, eager to learn and eager to share. You helped with homework, baked cookies for after-school snacks, made lemonade. It was like having a child growing up at home again. Like having a family again.

She cried when her parents got divorced.

She started reading anything she could get her hands on. She asked you for your advice, and you were happy to help, with both the grief and books.

She started high school, started finding her voice, started watching the news with you. She was a fighter through and through and never ceased sharing her opinions with you. She was eager to learn, and you were happy to have the conversation.

You helped her apply for colleges, cheered for her when she danced in the street with an acceptance letter. Her parents weren’t home that day. You took her

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prom shopping, did her makeup, took photos of her and her date beaming with arms around each other. Her parents were nowhere to be found. You were the only one there at graduation with your camera ready, and when she hugged you with tears in her eyes, you realized it’d been a long time since you’d been so proud.

Later that summer, as loneliness started to creep into your bones again, in a way it hadn’t in years, you helped her pack her bags into her car. You asked her why she stuck you with all these years, why she spent all her youth keeping a boring aging person company all the time.

She looked at you like she had so many times over the years, all full of attitude.

“We make each other less lonely.” She said it like it was obvious and maybe it was– it had never occurred to you that her house was filled with silence too.

You hugged her and wished her good luck, told her you’d miss the sound of her voice. She promised to come back to visit soon. Something in her voice told you she would and even if she didn’t, your halls wouldn’t sound so empty anymore.

A Sight to See by Chloe Fisher

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Remember Those Small Things

By Heather Ellis The color pink after a gray day Because color is the only beacon in the dark The sound of instruments as they work tirelessly together Because yet another fight has left you scattered and alone The smell of Christmas, pine and stuffing and garland Because now the smell is just a memory, out of reach The taste of sweets after crying all day Because the person you loved wanted your best friend instead The silence after hearing “I love you, too.”

Because what better comfort is there besides a sister’s hug?

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Flowers at St. Augustine’s Abbey by Jamie Gilbert

The first pitter patter of rain as it descends upon the earth Because it smells like soil and water and life after death The quiet click of a keyboard after typing Because the stories you weave will one day thrive The way your cat just looks at you some days Because animals love us even when we can’t love ourselves The feeling of getting lost in another person’s writing Because sometimes that’s the only way to feel inspired yourself The all-consuming sound of music through headphones Because the silence of an end is too terribly loud to bear

Cupcake Jungle by Mary Stoudt

Exploring worlds and storylines crafted by others Because stories are not only bound to books alone The love of a friend when you so desperately need one Because sometimes family just doesn’t know what you need The sound of his voice when he tells you he’s so proud Because he was more of a father to you than your own dad The perfect unison of voice and song Because sometimes songs understand your feelings before you do The quiet thump of hearts beating together Because in the end, we only have each other Remember those small things When the darkness is too much to take

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Why Do You Lie?

By Haley Moore Why do you lie? Why do you say things that are meant to destroy?

This version you’ve made yourself is simply a decoy.

These lies weren’t yours to begin with, they were given to you Like labels even though they had no idea what you were going through What do they call you? What do they say?

These demonic echoes in your head day after day You are worthless I am worthless you say You are a failure I am a failure you think You are a waste of space I am a waste of space you believe No one will ever love you No one will ever love me you cry Broken and Hidden away But let me say in the midst of your dismay THIS IS BULLSHIT You were never meant to inhale the fire they spit The more lies you tell yourself the more you believe Then these lies become parts of yourself you can now perceive Push it away far away and these are the TRUTHS you must tell yourself Day after day You are amazing I am amazing you say You are beautiful beyond measure I am beautiful you think I love you I am loved you believe Stop the lies When they spit their venom close your eyes You never thought you could stand up and fight But gather your courage because it’s what’s right When you believe in you Trust when I say you are the only one who is going to pull you through Truth will set you free And fly because it’s who you’re meant to be Why do you let them lie?

Why?

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Drunk

By Cameron McAfee The day has been long and my mind aches What better way than destroying my body Friends all around what could go wrong?

So little time to condense the night The music is great and I know you Where do I go next after this?

Should I stay or follow the crowd?

Why can’t this bathroom be clean?

I found more to drink it’s a good thing I like it

Gosh I hate what bothers me Why can’t I find it?

It was right here I don’t like you please leave My friends are still here Why are they leaving?

The music has stopped Are we going home?

This walk is terrible That’s a bed Sleep

All the Things I Love by Mary Stoudt

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A Tale of Two Places

By Carl Childers I went from blacktop pavement to unmarked roads.

From street lights to dark nights and crickets chirping I went from a fenced-in back yard to twenty open acres of land I went from riding my bike around town finding great spots, dreaming I was in the X-games, to hiking through the woods looking for a place to build a blind.

I went from walking to friends’ houses to everything being a 20-minute drive From being able to yell down the street to my friends, to having to call and see what they were doing.

I went from DMX and 50 Cent, to Alan Jackson and Travis Tritt From stop drop shut ‘em down open up shop, to a modern day Bonnie and Clyde.

I went from fast talkers and sophisticated words, to long drawn-out vowels.

From Hey hun! To Hey y’all!

I went from head down, don’t talk to ‘em if you don’t know ‘em, To we don’t know any strangers round here I went from big city days to slow country nights, smelling oriental foods and hearing Spanish culture throughout town, To smelling rain and feeling the breeze pick up before it pours down.

It’s hard to say where I belong, It’s hard to show you where I’m from I come from two polar opposites And I wouldn’t change it for anything

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The Road Less Traveled by Mary Stoudt

Varadero Memories by Suzie Maines

Grandpa’s Last Wish

By Cameron McAfee Was your wish for my existence?

Was it to watch me crawl or walk?

Maybe it was to see me with your own eyes and hear me talk?

Did you wish for great grades?

Was your wish to see my graduation?

Was it to see your first great-grandchildren?

Was it to see the legacy you created?

Maybe to see how far your family went with the money you generated?

Was it to see us all happy?

Was it to know you left satisfied?

No I know the true answer It was to fish when we were both alive

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The Faders

By Haley Moore We like to pretend everything is fine Between the herbs and the wine

We make ourselves drunk with worry

But when the worry becomes too much we have to find ourselves in sex We have to find ourselves in a bottle or in a puff Why can’t we stop

Those who fade away reality don’t deserve to live in it

My momma always said if you can’t take the heat get out of the kitchen If you can’t face life then are you really even livin’?

They all say

I have to leave I have to get away

While the rest of us face the world and try to change it every day But with all the faders

The hard work is all for naught

Because for it to work we all have to work together Like a well-oiled machine Fighting forever

Two peas in a pod

Two birds of a feather

But we sit and wait for the fading to end Drink drink drink

Smoke smoke smoke Feel feel feel

Until nothing is even real

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There Is Something in the Woods

By Marquis Lee

When I look upon the mid-day sky I see an eye. It lies between two eyelids, on top blue and bottom yellow. I only had a few moments to see the sky. My mind is loud with the destruction, but quickly becomes silent when I hear the leaves on the ground being crushed. The sound was so loud but so soft that it made my mind focus on one destruction, death. What if it was an animal that crushed those leaves? I had a choice to make. Fight or flight? I decided to flee, my mind racing a hundred miles per hour as I thought of a wild beast ripping my organs out of me. My heart did not match the same beat as my mind–it beat faster than a turtle but slower than a hare. I do not dare take a deep breath or else the wild beast will find me. I see the bridge over the pond coming closer as I run further down the hill. Another destruction entered my head, Snake. My mind began to yell the word, Run! Run! I suddenly came to a halt, took one deep breath and began to walk. I would not have life place fear in my mind, my heart, nor my soul. I will not hide a confined place with my head between my legs as I suck on my thumb, hoping mommy would come to save me. No, if I should die, then let it be a horrific death, let it be a great battle between man and beast. If I should fall, whisper to those that you tell my tale to that I did not die a coward; I died with honor.

Deep Forest by Laurynn Hackett

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Hello by Katie Shoaf

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Thrymr by Chloe Fisher

Green Eyes by Katie Shoaf

Baaad to the Bone by Mary Stoudt

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Spotted Eagle Ray by Luis Cevallos

Fear

By Joshua Adams I’m scared, but not to love you, I’m scared of being let down like I have been, Of not being able to let go of what was past tense, But I have to, in order to love you, So I’m scared, but falling, And I don’t want to stand up, On this rollercoaster, with no safety gear, Hoping that my heart can withstand love.

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Believe

By Shela Muriel Everyone has different ideas

Some don’t know how to react When all seems lost

You think that there’s nothing you can do.

You try and you try

But nothing works.

However, it takes one thing,

One thing, to pull someone down.

But it also takes another to pull someone up It takes a group of people

Such as friends and family

To pull them from the dust But the most important thing is yourself.

Friends can only do so much Family can only do so much

But it’s up to you to pull yourself up.

As long as you don’t give up

As long as you believe in yourself Everything will be alright

Just stay strong and believe.

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Novella

By Chloe Fisher Learning to kiss you was like discovering a new novel.

Tracing the lines of your lips was like reading the blurb of the book, Understanding the foundation and backstory of your mouth.

The flick of your tongue against mine was like turning each page of the new story, Delving deeper into our new-come history.

The intensity of your hands on my hips caused my spine to bind, like folding the covers of the book back to understand the pieces that hold us together.

The rhythm of our breathing and the thuds of our hearts were during the climax of our story, unexpected and exciting.

And when you pull away, for just a second of breath, and our eyes meet, and we discover the world around us once again, The story calls our name and our bodies crave each other like the minds of readers obsessed with the outcome of their characters.

And as our lips meet once again and our breathing falls back together, your fingers lace into my hair like they lace through the pages.

You read me deeper than those who take me for granted, and you realize I’m your favorite story.

I am your novella.

You

By Joshua Adams

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I wish that I could tell you the way that I truly feel, Trying to hide the scars of wounds that took some time to heal, I try to find a description, but my Wi-Fi won’t work, And when I think of you, I smirk, Your smile, your lips, your smell, your touch, I’m amazed, astonished, and that’s why I stare so much, A gaze, a prolonged look, and you catch me, And I come up with some dumb remark that sounds catchy, Hoping that you don’t see the look in my eyes, Because if I’m being honest you caught me by surprise, And there’s more to this story I’m sure, But for now I’ll gaze a little more…

Paper

By Marquis Lee The creation of life and creativity Comes from destruction.

Trees are torn down, Homes lost, Wood burning, Pollution covers the sky.

At the end, there is Paper

Inspiration by Suzie Maines

Fall of Pride

By Brandon Mullins

A sea of white vapors billowed out from the circle of stone. The aged monk sat before the cairn of stones. Out from the vapors appeared a ghostly, serpentine creature with. . . legs? Wings? A dragon. It had to be. The ghostly creature coiled itself around the whole of the circle. The monk spoke to the dragon after they both were at rest: “O Sage-Beast, I fear that our world is failing. Filth marks the Three Domains. We aggress against each other to the point that we may completely raze it with one misstep. None of us knows how to correct this course.”

Hearing the monk’s plight, the spirit lowered its head to meet the man.

With a rumbling yet angelic voice, it invaded the monk’s mind.

There is but one reason that your world dies, monk: Pride. Innumerous multitudes of your kind—humanity—have fallen from grace. They are plagued by ever-increasing vainglory; they believe they can do anything, and they know none greater than themselves. Haughtily, they seek to equate themselves to the Heavens! That vanity will be man’s downfall—just as it was for us dragons.

The monk was taken aback by the spirit’s revelation. It was true that no dragon had been seen upon the face of the planet for countless ages. Some people believed them to be myth; others believed that dragons did exist, but then they went extinct. The monk himself thought the dragons to be myth at best, and yet there was one in front of him! At a loss for words, the monk resigned himself to quietness.

Do you want to know how the dragons’ own vanity led to their extinction, monk?

It is simple. For countless eons since before your kind was even a thought, it was we

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Castle by Kristina Cossa

who lorded over this world. We were larger than any mammoth that ever existed, and some of us even dwarfed the titan-whales of the sea! We had scales more beautiful than any cloth you could cut! Our wings were grander than any bird, bat, or even dinosaur!

But our real pride lay in our unique ability: We could exhale flame!

“So, the myth that dragons can breathe fire is true!” interjected the monk.

His excitement turned to sadness a moment later when he realized that he would never get to see that great skill in action.

Indeed, our power was great—so great, in fact, that we saw ourselves as gods incarnate! However, we would never try to declare ourselves on the same level as the Heavens; that was the limit. It was in our glory days that the first semblance of humanity appeared in our domain. We treated your kind with curiosity and amusement. “The gods beyond must have made new playthings,” we thought to ourselves. To us, you posed no danger. Our ultimate folly was placing ourselves far beyond your kind; we underestimated what you were able to do.

“Would this have anything to do with our discovery of fire?” inquired the monk. “That is my theory, anyway.”

Oh, that was just the beginning. When we saw you could craft fire with tools, our interest was piqued. We convened and talked about how to proceed with the humans.

Though you might have played with fire a little bit, we felt unthreatened still; after all, that fire could not be wielded so freely as ours. We continued to watch the development of humanity for many, many ages until the first empires began to emerge. Swords and torches were admittedly good tools that were invented, but our scales would be unperverted by such weapons.

The dragon spread its ghostly wings wide. It glared down upon the monk, whose heart felt as if it were being gripped by the infernal fist of a demon.

The ancient empires placed great reverence upon us. Perhaps they sought to garner our favor to preserve their own safety—a wise move, one could say. As humanity began constructing greater and greater tools of war—warships, catapults, ballistas— our confidence and security began to falter. We wondered if you would be bold enough to attack your lords. In a matter of centuries, your race had sown the seeds of hubris amongst your civilizations. Eventually, some among you indeed found yourselves bold enough to attack the “gods” themselves: us. Our fiery ire was horrible; we annihilated countless settlements to teach you a lesson.

“And then what?” the monk asked. “I should like to know how my ancestors responded to the dragons’ show of power. Did we retreat to ourselves and slowly rebuild strength?”

That may be what you would think, but you are wrong. Your ancestors were spurred by newfound hatred for our kind. They worked industriously to create new ways to subdue the dragons. It was clear that we had engaged in a clash of vanities: Humanity thought its technology great enough to obliterate what were tantamount to gods on Earth, and we thought humans to be nothing more than rebellious little pets.

Our losses to humanity were far greater than we could have anticipated, however; you kept adapting while we remained the same. Our own pride made us complacent and unwilling to work with humanity for a peaceful solution. We fought tooth and nail until we had expended the whole of ourselves.

“That was . . . quite a story,” said the monk to the dragon. The monk knelt down and prayed for the mighty beast and its ancestors. He sang a solemn dirge for the fallen, both beast and man. He felt truly sorry for both sides. Afterwards, the monk began to speak once more.

“I believe I know the aftermath of your story, Sage-Beast. When we had vanquished the closest thing to gods, we claimed ourselves the new gods of this world. Like you, we did not dare challenge the Heavens for years uncountable; however, we have been reaching that point slowly since recent centuries. Our vainglory is so great, in fact, that we vie for superiority between ourselves. We are

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incapable of setting aside our differences and living in harmony.”

That is correct. Humans are far more hubristic than we were because they place themselves above each other; we only placed ourselves above other species, not ourselves.

You wave around mass destruction casually, its threat an answer to your problems. We could have never imagined how weak you make us look in comparison now. And at the expense of its great power, humanity has been killing the world itself. Making your weapons, using them. . . both ruins this world in different ways. If this selfish path is continued, this world will be inherited by the none. You must set your kin on the path to unity and work for the benefit of this world.

“This revelation of yours, sage, is very disconcerting. I have lived long enough and studied our millennial histories to believe what you say to me. If I had not been graced to live the enlightened life of a monk, it is likely that I would have joined in this destructive path as well. Thank you for enlightening me further. It is my duty to help reform this world before we end it.”

With that, the dragon mustered enough power to send the nameless monk away to the mainland before disappearing into the Beyond. As he made his return, the monk contemplated his and his people’s place in the Grand Scheme.

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Stairway to Heaven By Miquella Snider

How I Live

By Marquis Lee I’m a mess I’m not at my best Life is putting me through a test I confess.

I confess that I am a mess I confess that I am not at my best I confess I confess I confess

Fever Dream

By Haley Moore

I had a fever dream last night Cold sweats and back aches Remind me of the things that await The things that sit outside of my warm bed Where my dreams run me away to neverland I had a fever dream last night That the world paused and stopped its fight That all the hate in the world fell apart That all the segregation of the world was no longer an art Separated Race, Religion, Sex, Money these things keep us evaporated I had a fever dream last night That we all held hands and dreamed of a brighter day As the world around us started to decay The birds sang Heaven’s bells rang We did it I say We figured it out, we know what is truly the meaning of life.

TO LOVE We were made with love We need love We scrape the bowls clean for love I had a fever dream last night That this was real I dreamt that the love we felt never ends I had a fever dream last night But I woke up And I opened my door to greet the world I’ve always known Maybe if I keep dreaming, it’ll change when I’m grown

Snowfall by Joshua Adams

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The Guardian and Her Prince

By Heather Ellis The fetid scent of blood had filled her nose for so long that she had grown used to its unwelcome intrusion. A thousand jeers and shouts rang over the battlefield, mixing with the sound of endless clacks and clinks of metal meeting metal. There was a chill in the air, one that was fleeting due to the battle sweat that the open field seeped. Even so, her rapid breaths came and went, puffs of warmed, white clouds dissipating as quickly as they appeared.

The battle had dragged on for too long. Exhaustion had crept into her limbs, but she remained vigilant. Nearby, her charge fought, sword plunging hilt-deep into the chest of a soldier before he jerked it out and spun around to face the next foe charging towards them.

Even so, the battle had dragged on for far, far too long. The prince of Marcydia trembled now as he awaited the next set of foes. A trickle of sweat fell from his brow, dragging any of the red flecks that it came into contact with down his face, staining his cheeks and chin with the blood from his fallen foes. A face too kind to be covered in blood, too kind to be grimacing with exhaustion as they fought on.

A flicker from the crowd beyond him caught her attention. Several yards ahead, she saw two soldiers charging towards his flank. She narrowed her gaze at them, moving forward with precise, measured steps before slicing through the soldiers. Their battle cries were cut short, morphing into gurgles of defeat. More followed the pair; they seemed to endlessly pursue her prince’s defenseless back.

With a sweeping strike, many fell. Twice as many ran forward to fill the emptied space.

But it was to be expected. He was the only male heir to the throne of a kingdom ravaged by war. She had been raised from birth to be his guardian, to protect him in times of strife and in public areas should he have business outside the castle. It was her duty to keep him from harm.

And here they both were, amidst of the clamoring battle. The least safe place for her prince. One misplaced step, one well-placed arrow and he would be taken from her. The thought made her gut twist, her heart clench, and her head swim simultaneously.

She had begged him, pleaded for him to remain away from this battle. But the prince was equal parts loyal and stubborn, and eventually his sense of duty had won over his sense of self-preservation.

A jarring blow to her shoulder jerked her attention back to the present. Pain erupted down her arm and she nearly dropped the sword she held as a groan rumbled from her chest without permission.

“Ilsynia!” Her focus remained on the enemy whose strike she hadn’t quite dodged despite the prince’s concerned call. She cut the soldier down forcefully before turning to deliver a swift kick to one that had crept up on her prince during his distraction.

“Don’t worry about me, Prince Sylas,” she huffed out, moving forward to the toppled-over figure and thrusting her sword into his chest. A flash about them lit the bloodied battlefield upon impact. She jerked the blade from the dying soldier as thunder grumbled above them, slowly rising into a roar.

She turned to face the prince, eyes blazing despite the tremble of pain-laced exhaustion aching through her limbs. His face was contorted with concern for her arm, but she shook her head once, gaze only softening for a moment. “It didn’t pierce the armor,” she reassured him, stepping around him to face another

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incoming threat, the fiery blaze returning to her eyes.

The dance continued endlessly, seconds stretching into minutes that felt like hours before finally, finally, she spun around to take another enemy down to find no more charging towards them.

Prince Sylas was panting, his sword coated in the same blood that had found itself splattered all over him. She scanned the area around him, searching for anyone else that would seek to do him harm. She relaxed only marginally when it appeared only soldiers of their ranks and those whom they were picking off remained. He turned to her, a smile lilting his lips a bit even as another rumble of thunder echoed across the quieting battlefield.

“We did well today,” he said. “Are you wounded?”

“Not seriously,” she replied, her heartbeat slowly easing, her body relaxing more. “We should get you to cover, highness—” Several feet behind Ilsynia, one of the still bodies leapt up, spear in hand.

Sylas only hesitated a moment before gripping his guardian’s armored shoulders and shoving her out of the way.

It happened fast; her face twisted with surprise and her heart leapt into her throat at the sudden contact before the world tumbled onto its side. A shrill shriek from behind her rang in her ears and then the awful, deafening sound of tearing flesh found her. She scrambled to right herself, her grip on her sword so tight she thought she’d break the handle.

She froze. Before her, the prince was pierced all the way through, the head of the spear jutting out from his back, glistening red. At the other end, a man in dark, burgundy cloth and armor held him there, trapped by the long pole. Her ears rang, her vision blurred, and the next thing she knew she was standing over

Hogwarts is my home. Oxford University, Oxford, England by Jamie Gilbert

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the soldier in red, his head having been lobbed off.

Plip. A droplet of water hit her face. She blinked, hand trembling, sword slipping from her grip as she turned to face Sylas. “Your highness,” she barely heard herself say as she rushed forward, catching the prince’s arm before he crumbled to the ground. “Why would you do that?!” she demanded, voice breaking halfway through her question.

“Get it out of me,” he panted, fingers weakly grasping at the intrusion.

“Y-yes, highness,” she said, determination to follow his orders pulling her from the throes of shock. She gripped the long pole gingerly. “I’m sorry, but it’s going to hurt.” He gritted his teeth and nodded once. She held her breath, bracing for the noise he would make when she jerked the bladed spear from him.

She hesitated only a moment before pulling it free quickly.

A scream roared from his chest at the motion and with it a spray of blood. It splattered across her face and neck, and her stomach churned violently in horror.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said quickly, tossing the spear and moving to support the young prince, whose legs seemed to turn to sand the instant the spear left him.

“It’s…not your fault,” he said as she settled him down carefully, supporting his weight. A trickle of red seeped from the corner of his mouth, and she shook her head. “Ilsynia…” She shook her head again, her breath trembling. “Thank you…for protecting me…all these years.”

“The medics are going to be here soon.” Hysteria bubbled in her chest.

“Don’t talk like this is the end. We’ll get you to the castle, and it’ll be fine, please.” It wasn’t to reassure him anymore but herself. There was too much blood.

He was too pale.

The prince moved his hand to rest on her arm, but he could barely lift it.

“Ilsynia…you can’t blame…yourself. It was my choice…” She shook her head again. Had it begun raining already? Her face was wet, her breaths coming faster now.

“Your highness, please,” she begged. “You can’t die!”

“I always liked it…when you called me Sylas instead,” he muttered, voice barely audible. “Won’t you call me…by my name…once more?” It was a breathy request, his eyes slipping closed after he spoke it.

Her heart felt like it would burst. Her head felt like it would implode. Her lungs felt too small. She pulled the prince forward, clinging to him despite his life blood that soaked her. She rested her head against his shoulder, arms wrapping around his back and keeping him against her. “Sylas,” she whispered, voice cracking as her fingers carded through hair that she had always wished she could play with. “I’m supposed to protect you!”

“We…protect what matters most to us…” She sucked in a breath because she felt like she was suffocating. She had always felt close to him. They were raised together. They trained together. They grew up together.

His head lulled to the side, weakness finally becoming too strong for him to fight. “I’m sorry but the thought…of life without you…was too much to bear.

I hope you will forgive...” She waited for the rest of his sentence, waited to hear the voice she had dreamt about for countless nights. But he was gone.

“Sylas!” The scream echoed across the silent battlefield. She squeezed him tight, his body seeming to weigh even more now that his soul had fled it. It was an embrace she had fantasized about for years. She would wait a hundred more for it if that meant he would remain by her side just a little longer.

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The Sweet Feeling of Death

By Marquis Lee Smoke. Not everyone does it. Most people who smoke are called smokers and those who don’t smoke usually ask them why they smoke. To answer that question, we must look at a different topic called death. People are scared of death and how they are going to die. Smoking can lead to cancer, so why do smokers do it? Because that feeling of being off, the feeling of being “not there,” the feeling of being up, it’s the feeling of dying just a little. That feeling can’t be found within life, only in smoke, dying feels good.

Sea Turtle by Luis Cevallos

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Thoughts While Seeing Blue

By Joshua Adams Hands on the wheel 10 and 2, Thoughts while seeing blue,

Have your license and registration on the dashboard, No sudden moves,

How do I portray this pain?

Fear that crawls down my spine like rain on a window pane, But this is America and the world we live in,

They try to figure us out, but we can’t give in,

Because quite frankly we don’t know ourselves, Our culture taken in every way,

But, I’ll roll up my window, put my car in drive, And save this conversation for another day.

Sharks by Luis Cevallos

Jelly by Mary Stoudt

Hidden Denizens

By Brandon Mullins My soul is concealed by a veil It refuses to reveal itself Only I have seen its true guises Sorrow drowns in murky depths Unable to move under crushing pressure Torrential skies add to the dilemma So it resigns itself to silence Rage is a shackled behemoth Its chains always quake frenetically The beast’s roars clash with Sorrow’s tempest Only the master’s will can check it Doubt and Pride always compete Their war is boundless To contain their power is a massive effort And they always escape, anyway

Happiness is ever an opportunist It always usurps the others The weakened are overpowered by it But even the strong sometimes falter One emotion may occasionally protrude Sorrow gasps for air Rage rends the veil Doubt wanders aimlessly Pride illuminates itself Happiness throws a party The soul allows them a brief catharsis Then the rebels are suppressed anew

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The Origin of New Stars

By Abigail McGovern Once, long ago, when the earth still sang and people were still willing to listen, there was a village tucked among the foothills of a distant and far-off country. This village was one of stone houses and dark windows, small gardens and tall fences.

Suspicion of others had begun to creep into their lives, poisoning their hearts and minds and making them distrustful of those around them.

And in this village, there lived a girl made of starshine. She was a daughter of the moon with a special connection to the sky and shone a little brighter than those around her, happily giving back all the light she received. This girl had a deeper connection with the world, the movements of the animals and the whispers of the wind than those around her. And though she felt an urge to share what she saw and felt with those around her, a desire to make the world better, many of the villagers would not listen. They did not trust her knowledge and did not like her connection.

And thus, this bright girl was ostracized, cut off from the rest of the townspeople.

Lonely and lost, the girl would wait for night to fall and silence to creep over the village. And then she would slip from her house and climb the highest hill around, leaving the dark village behind her and climbing up and up, into the clear expanse of stars, where the moon shone down on her like a spotlight. There, she lay in the grass as it collected dew and listened to the stories they spun back through time, singing her sorrows up to the moon.

One night as she climbed the hill, particularly negative words still stinging like the hot tears clinging to her cheeks, she lifted her voice up in desperation to the moon whose light she borrowed. “Why am I not good enough for them? Why, when all I want to do is share all I see?”

Dearest child, sang the moon in a voice that was all around her, in the moonlight on the grass and the shining reflection in the water. Once every human sang with the stories of the stars, whispered with the breeze in the trees, danced with the fireflies in the tall grass. But we’re getting harder to hear, and I can only give my gift to a precious few shining souls.

“How can I be shining when all I do is make people sad?”

Darling child, right now the world isn’t ready for your light, because they’ve lost theirs. But someday they will be and when they are, you’ll light up their world.

“How long will I have to wait? How long must I stay in a world that cannot bear to be around me?”

There is another way, if you will take it. A way to sing your stories so people will always hear them. So they will always dream of adventure in the mysterious corners of the earth, of the things they could be.

The girl looked up at the stars above her, painting their stories across the velvet dark skies and knew she wanted to be like them, a shining force that no one can ignore. So the moon wrapped the girl in a blanket of soft light and carried her up to the sky, where she would hang forever as a brilliant point of light.

A brand new star to join the others with stories to tell, the others whose light was ignored, dismissed. And she would always be there to watch over others like her, make sure they have the life they deserve, a life where people will see their light, listen to their connection and their stories. As long as she was watching over these new starlight children, they would never feel alone.

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Wayfinders by Heather Ellis

Snapshots of Ellis Farm

By Heather Ellis When I was five, a spider the size of my head crawled out from behind the old woodstove in the basement one evening when Dad and I were watching Vampire Hunter D. I screamed so loud that my ears rang for a minute or so after I had darted up the rickety basement stairs. I swore up and down I would never go downstairs again in my whole life – a vow I broke only a few weeks later when Poppaw told me there was ice cream down there in the freezer. Even so, the spider infestation warded me from loving the basement to my fullest despite the potential it had for adventure.

The living room – or the pink room as I call it – was a green-carpeted room with old, peeling wallpaper and family photographs that looked like they were taken hundreds of years prior but couldn’t possibly have lasted that long. There was a fireplace with wooden logs probably older than me that were never used with a pure white mantle just above where Carol, Poppaw’s girlfriend-not-girlfriend’s ashes sit in a green urn to this day. But the most distinct thing was the pink-furred furniture set scattered about the room. The pink room and its antique furniture always held my interest for some reason. Perhaps it was the fact that it looked like it had been preserved for a hundred and fifty years, imported directly from some Southern belle’s house right in the middle of the Civil War. Perhaps it was because I loved the color pink.

Another place of interest was the horse-field barn, a stark white, hay-filled barn with a loft that sagged under the weight of six teenagers when my friends and I decided to make it our regular place in our high school days. This continued until my uncle, who was the finicky, suburban dad sort, decided to sell his part of the farm he had inherited, tearing the lands my friends and I had called our own during our summer days into fragmented plots of “For Sale” and “No Trespassing” signs. I remember one day, in a fit of absolute fury, I ran over one of the signs placed in front of the horse-field and didn’t look back. The horse-field was the last to sell. The old barn’s structure grew weaker. The roof sagged more and more each time I returned home from college to visit, and soon the boards began to bow and snap, breaking into jagged teeth that still jut into the night.

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A Wedos Reunion by Marquis Lee

Jump In by Katie Shoaf

Sun Rays in the Corn Maze by Heather Ellis

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Shared Memories with my Mom by Marquis Lee Rey David by Suzie Maines

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“May I take your order?”

By Miroslava Barrera Thursday, 6:00p.m. It had only been an hour since my shift started, but it felt like a lot more than that. Thursdays are usually pretty busy at Cracker Barrel Old Country Store. I was having a really bad day. I did not want to be there. But that doesn’t really matter when your job involves constant guest interaction. Being a server means that the guests and their experiences are always a priority. I like my job, and when I have a bad day I try to not let it affect my service at work.

I was asking my manager for an aspirin since I had a headache when my coworker told me that I had a table. I grabbed my tray and headed out there. I introduced myself to the middle aged couple and asked how they were doing.

“Two waters with lemon,” they said. I made their drinks and headed back to their table.

“Are you guys ready to order?” I asked, and they proceeded to tell me their order.

After running their food I asked if they needed anything and walked away.

That could have been the end of that mediocre interaction. A meaningless interaction I wouldn’t remember today.

Soon I was hit by the lack of engagement that had taken place. I’ve always been the type of person that is intrigued by people’s stories. I find it so amusing how everyone that I wait on has a different story to tell. And that’s when I realized that I was letting my headache get in the way of me getting to know the people in front of me. So I decided to go out there and talk to them; otherwise, I was going to drown in “what if ’s.” What if they had a cool story? What if we have interests in common? What if they just got a puppy and wanted to show me a picture? So I went for it. I grabbed a water pitcher and went to check on them. As I was topping off their drinks I asked a go-to question of mine when I want to start a conversation. “Are you guys traveling?” The reason this question never fails at my job is because Cracker Barrel is known for being a place you stop to get food at when you’re away from home… We make you feel at home.

“Yes, actually,” he said, “we’ve been on the road for a couple months trying to visit all 50 states… that’s always been a goal of mine, so I asked my girlfriend to come with me.” And that’s when I thought to myself “Oh yeah… this is a good one.” The second he mentioned that I was filled with questions. I wanted to know every detail. Traveling is one of my favorite hobbies and being able to interact with someone with a story like that is nothing but breathtaking. Before I knew it my headache was gone. I started talking to them about my passion for traveling. They gave me some tips and places they thought I would love. He proceeded to tell me tons of stories about Alaska, Ohio… Maine! Who would have thought that Maine had some of the most beautiful national parks in the country? Now it is on the top of my list of places to visit.

I think it’s amazing how one question turned two people that sat in my section, ate, and left, into two people that inspired me and told me a story that I can relate to. I talked to them for about 25 minutes about places they could visit in Virginia and my experiences in states I’ve visited in the past. Later on, they mentioned it was time for them to hit the road. They thanked me for my great service, tipped me $20, and wished me the best of luck on my journey in the future. After they left, I couldn’t help but think about what the outcome would have been if I hadn’t asked that question. One single question turned an ordinary day into a day I remember to this day. A day that inspired me to always engage at work, school, and all places. You never know who really is standing in front of you unless you make an effort to find out. The most amazing experiences

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could be the ones you never see coming. I think that a lot of people forget that everyone has a story to tell. Ever since that day, I like to get to know the people that I wait on. It makes every day different and interesting. If I don’t engage with them, then all of my tables would be the same. Work is a great opportunity to meet new people and create new memories. I like to think of life as a library. A library where every person is a book on a shelf. Some books are about the same topics like history, science, romance, fishing, etc. But no book is the same. Every book has a different plot, a different climax… a different ending. That day made me realize that life is about reading all the books that you can. Maybe reading them will help us write our own book. Great authors base their work on someone else’s stories.

Entomophobia

By Kevin Miguel`Morales

Here I am Lying down on the couch on a Saturday night Peace Everything is nice and cozy Warm blankets and fuzzy socks I get up to make some chicken nuggets I turn the air conditioner on It gets colder I look around shivering, I go turn the air conditioner off, as it is too much bzz I react quickly and look around bzz There it is again I hear the oven telling me that my food is ready I go open it and rush to the couch I’m hoping it’s not what I think it is I lie down and cover myself as the warmth calms me down I look around and feel relieved Nothing in sight but the TV and my food in hand I take a bite off the warm tender nuggets Everything is at peace I feel something crawling on my arm The hairs on my body spike up My body temperature drops It gets cold real quick Goosebumps appear all over my body Around my neck, arms, and legs I look over and there it is bzz I freak out and smack it off me and jump off the couch I look around and hear it again I look down and there it is Dead Twitching on the floor Goosebumps cover my body I feel cold It feels like soft needles are covering my face I look at the stink bug in disgust How can something be so hideous?

So small, so tiny Yet so…terrifying

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Biographies Judges

Thomas Bowman ‘11 earned a bachelor’s degree from Ferrum with a major in Studio Art and a minor in History. He received the Rachel Denham Award and the President’s Choice Award for his art. He earned a master’s degree in 2D Fine Art from Radford University and now specializes in abstract illustration.

Amanda Cockrell is a novelist and the former director of the Graduate Programs in Children’s Literature at Hollins University. Her most recent books are The Wall at the Edge of the World, a historical novel forthcoming in May 2020, and the young adult novel What We Keep Is Not Always What Will Stay.

Kenneth McCreedy is a retired Ferrum College Associate Professor of Criminal Justice. He has been involved in photography for twenty-five yearsand has won numerous awards for his photographs. He has taught photography courses and has served as president of the Roanoke Camera Club. Some of his work is displayed in Franklin Hall.

Rita Sims Quillen is a poet, novelist, and musician. Her poetry collection Her Secret Dream was named Outstanding Poetry Book of the Year by the Appalachian Writer’s Association in 2008. In 2015, she won first place in the Gathering in the Gap songwriting contest. Her most recent work is Wayland, a novel.

Staff

Joshua Adams is a senior majoring in English and minoring in Religon.

Kathryn Bonner is a senior Acting and Directing major working toward her B.F.A. She is a member of the theatre honor society Alpha Psi Omega and the English honor society Sigma Tau Delta.

Kristina Cossa from Apex, NC, has been a writer since elementary school. Her stories are usually fantasy, mysteries, or realistic fiction. She is currently working on a book titled “The Man with Two Souls.”

Heather Ellis, editor-in-chief of Chrysalis, is an English major with an emphasis in Creative Writing.

She loves to create worlds and scenarios that can touch people’s hearts. She graduates in May. AnnGardner Eubank is a senior Political Science major with minors in Journalism and International Studies. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program, Alpha Chi Honor Society, Lambda Sigma Honor Society, and Sigma Tau Delta English Honor Society. She is editor-in-chief for The Iron Blade.

Chloe Fisher is a sophomore English major with a minor in Secondary Education. She enjoys drawing, writing, and photography. She plans to teach in Franklin County after graduating from Ferrum.

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

Marquis Lee is a senior working toward a B.F.A in Acting and Directing. He enjoys writing stories and poems and taking pictures. Some of his work can be found on Instagram @Kinngquise.

Abigail McGovern is a freshman majoring in English and minoring in History. She is a member of the

Home Is Where Your College Is by Heather Ellis

cross country team and enjoys reading and writing. She hopes to become a successful author.

Shela Muriel is a sophomore majoring in English and minoring in History. She’s from Greensboro, NC. She likes to write, read, draw and take pictures.

Other Contributors

Miroslava Barrera is a student at Northside High School in Roanoke.

Luis Cevallos is a sophomore from Guayaquil, Ecuador. He is a member the men’s soccer team.

Carl Childers, from Baltimore, MD, and Dinwiddie, plans to graduate in May with a major in Applied Criminology. He is a member of Mu Sigma Chi (MEX). He and his wife have two children.

Jonathan Garcia is a junior from The Bronx, NY, working towards a bachelor in criminal justice. He has also played baseball for Ferrum.

Jamie Gilbert from Williamsburg will graduate in May with a B.F.A. in Musical Theatre with minors in Music and Religion. She enjoys nature hikes and spending time with her cat and her boyfriend.

Laurynn Hackett from Appomattox is a freshman Agriculture major with an Animal Science emphasis and minors in One Health and History. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program.

Suzie Maines is a junior from Winchester. She is double majoring in Spanish and International Studies. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program and has studied in both Spain and Cuba.

Cameron McAfee is a senior Environmental Science major from Woodbridge. He likes the beach, Legos, and cats.

Haley Moore is a sophomore from Fredericksburg. She is a Theatre major and Biochemistry major. She says that she believes she is a ninja turtle and trains every day toward achieving that goal.

Kevin Miguel Morales is a student at Northside High School in Roanoke.

Brandon Mullins is a sophomore from Union Hall majoring in English with a minor in Teacher Education. He is a member of the Boone Honors Program. He likes to write about nature and morality.

Sarah Patton is a senior graduating in May. She is majoring in Computer Information Systems: Programming and Web Design and minoring in Business. She lives in Moneta.

Marissa Ruiz is a Biology major and Horticulture minor from Wake Forest, NC. She has been painting for five years.

Katie Shoaf, a junior from Davie County, NC, is an Environmental Science major and Agricultural Science minor. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program and captain of the women’s swim team.

Miquella Snider is a sophomore from Montross. Her major is Health and Human Performance.

Ryan Stiltner is from Patrick County. Majoring in Computer Information Systems with an emphasis in cybersecurity, he aspires to create his own company to protect users of the internet.

Mary Stoudt is a junior majoring in History and minoring in Public History.

She is involved in SGA, Rotaract, The Iron Blade, Love Your Melon, and several honor societies. She works at the Blue Ridge Institute.

Acknowledgements The Chrysalis staff thanks the Ferrum College Integrated Programming Board for funding the prize awards and our judges for their expert assistance: novelist Amanda Cockrell, photographer Kenneth McCreedy, artist Thomas Bowman ‘11, and writer Rita Sims Quillen.

The magazine is printed by J & S Printing in Birmingham, Alabama.

Bee Happy by Miquella Snider

“May I Take Your Order?” by Miroslava Barrera was the winner of the Ferrum College English Program’s 2020 high school prose contest.

“Entomophobia” by Kevin Miguel Morales was the winner of the Ferrum College English Program’s 2020 high school poetry contest.

Contest organizers were Senior Instructor of English Beth Dantonio and Chrysalis Editor-in-Chief Heather Ellis, who served with Lana A. Whited, Professor of English, as contest judges.

Fallen Petals by Kristina Cossa

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