Acrylic nails clicked against brass as the realtor passed the key to the wife, the polished metal glinting in the late morning sun. The young couple flushed excitedly and climbed the brick steps to their new home, a 1960s Colonial,with peeling white columns standing sentry on the porch. They had purchased a true fixer-upper with good bones, and as they danced from room to room, they giggled at the prospects of making it great once again.
The husband went to examine the home’s upper level, leaving the wife alone in the kitchen. As she stared out a grimy window, she dreamed of crisp cotton curtains snapping in the breeze and fresh apple pie cooling on the sill. Sadly, the flaky pie crust would need to wait. The wife exited the kitchen and ascended the stairs, brushing her hand up the length of the banister. Dust and paint chips coated her fingers.
The wife reached the upper landing and turned into the home’s west wing. She found her husband in the nearest room, grinning wildly. A wall previously assumed to be load bearing now appeared to only serve as a partition between rooms. They could likely remove the barrier and have far more freedom to design the master bedroom and nursery of their dreams. It was going to be perfect.
Wasting no time, the couple got to work. The wife began in the first room of the west wing. After all, how could she know what could be salvaged until she had scoured away the layers of grime and neglect? She ran a soapy rag over pastel-patterned wallpaper, working her way down. The wife labored on her knees in the nursery with a brush and bucket. A few hours passed, and a gleaming hardwood floor rewarded her efforts. Despite its age, there was hardly a scratch to be seen. The wife gleefully dismissed it. She assumed the room must have simply been used for storage, as the previous owners had no children of their own. The house had gone to the state some years prior following the death of the last owner, her husband having already departed.
About the time the wife unfurled from the floor, the husband ascended the stairs with the contractor. They entered the room, and the men discussed the wall. The wife stood back and listened, not wanting to impose. However, upon hearing that the wall was safe to remove on their own, as there were no pipes or electrical wiring contained within it, nothing to make a fuss about at all, the wife burst out exclaiming that she could get started right away. The men laughed and agreed that she should be able to manage the task on her own. Hurriedly, the wife went to fetch the sledgehammer. The men continued to examine the home and planned what would need torn down and demolished before it could be made great again.
The wife stood giddily in front of the wall. She paced its length, wondering where the best place would be to start destroying the barrier. As she paced, she noticed a worn spot underfoot. It almost looked
like scuffs from a chair. Or perhaps a person repeatedly returned to this spot and stood in front of the wall, checking their appearance in a mirror long ago removed. The afternoon light lay peacefully against the plaster, wrapping the edge of the room in a warm glow. Standing where one of the previous owners must have stood hundreds of times, the wife felt an assuredness. She raised the sledgehammer and struck. Plaster crumbled and wood groaned. She grinned and struck again. A larger chunk of plaster fell away, and a small fold of fabric peeked out from a cloud of dust, cradled between the wooden studs.
Delighted by the bit of history she had uncovered, the wife quickly fetched a claw hammer to further pry and widen the hole. As she worked, she dreamed of what the relic from the past would reveal. She smiled shyly at the thought of telling her future child the story of finding a time capsule hidden in their nursery. Before long, the hole was wide enough. The wife reached in and delicately removed the bundle. It was light and oddly shaped, a bit smaller than a loaf of bread. She kneeled and placed it gently on the floor, the early evening light highlighting the tattered fabric–perhaps an old skirt?
Carefully, the wife began unwrapping the bundle bit by bit. At last, the final fold was peeled back, and the wife dropped the fabric as if she had been burned. Recoiling, hand over mouth, she pushed herself away from the bundle. Tiny, empty eye sockets stared unseeingly at the ceiling. An apple-sized skull protruded from the discarded cloth. The wife gasped for breath, and the setting sunlight streamed through the streaked window.
The contractor and the husband eventually heard the wailing and returned to the nursery to find the wife sobbing on the floor, one hand covering her mouth, the other wrapped tightly around her abdomen. The men saw the remains in the fading light, encircled in plaster and plaid. The contractor went to phone the police. The husband reassured his wife senselessly that he would handle the wall from here. The wife stared mutely past him, her tears splattering the freshly scrubbed floors. Within the hour, an officer and the medical examiner arrived. The wife was ushered from the room, and the four men discussed the fragile remains, how long they had been there, and the inconvenience this would have on the renovation timeline. As the medical examiner deftly sealed the plaid bundle in a bright orange bag, the officer assured the husband that he was at no fault and was undoubtedly an innocent victim in all this. The husband nodded. The officer clapped the husband’s shoulder, snapped his notebook shut, and told him they had enough information. It was a different time when the house was built. Sometimes children didn’t make it, and grief made people do funny things. Not to worry, though; the city would dispose of it proper. And with that, the officer, the medical examiner, the contractor, and the bright orange bag left, leaving only bits of plaster, the hammers, and the husband in the nursery.
The wife reentered the room quietly. The couple stood in silence as the front door creaked open and clicked closed. Gravel crunched under tires as the patrol car pulled away. The husband glanced at his wife and
with a tired sigh left the nursery, retreating down the stairs. The wife’s eyes stung as her chest once again heaved. Anger pounded in her ribcage as she stared at the plaster scattered on the formerly polished floor. Her blurred gaze fell upon the sledgehammer, bathed innocently in rosy hues. She snatched it from the floor and swung hard, smashing it into the wall, again and again. Her hair grew damp and her cheeks flushed. The salt stung her eyes and further obscured her vision. The sledgehammer collided over and over with the plaster and splintering wood. She didn’t stop swinging until a metallic clatter interrupted her fervor. Wiping her brow, she stared blankly at the fallen object and crumbling plaster at her feet. She dropped the sledgehammer, stumbled to the nursery door, and slammed it shut behind her. In her wake, she left only the warped and rusted clothes hanger gleaming in the twilight.
I Spy with My Little Eye by Victoria Hood First Place Art
Drop by Mattie Green
First Place Photography
Middag Street
by Scout Lynch
Second Place Prose
Officer Hurley stepped into the woman’s hospital room. His nostrils flared upon entering as the smell of pennies hit him. The woman, known only as Jane Doe, lay in her hospital bed, unrecognizable from what she presumably once looked like. Her eyes were black and swollen, both orbital bones broken. Chunks of her hair had been ripped out, and only bloody pockets of skin sat where her chestnut hair once did. Her jaw was wired shut with bruising all around it. From the neck down, she was covered in a thin white blanket and was holding tightly to it. This woman had been through hell, and Officer Hurley knew he needed to figure out who put her through it.
“Hi, Jane. I know you didn’t want to speak to Officer Hannah earlier, but I thought I might have more luck. Do you think you can tell me your name?”
Jane Doe just stared at him.
“Okay,” Hurley said, “so you can’t really talk. How about we try this?” he said, pulling out a pad of paper and pen from his pocket. Jane pulled at her covers to insinuate that she intended on staying under that blanket.
“Alright,” he said, “too cold? Or you just don’t want to write? Do you not want us to find out who did this to you? Do you just not care?” Jane Doe’s eyes started to well up with tears. Her chest heaved up and down while she took short quick breaths, seeming to be holding herself back from sobbing. She reached her arms out for the pad of paper and pen, revealing restraint marks on her wrists and hideous scratch marks going up her arm.
“Jesus,” Hurley sighed. “Alright, just write down your name; that’s all I want right now.”
Jane Doe weakly grabbed the paper and pen. She took her time scrawling something out on the pad. When Hurley glanced at it, he frowned. Jane Doe didn’t write her name down; she had only written down what looked to be an address: 237 Middag Street.
“Jane–and I’m going to keep calling you that until you actually tell me your name–what is this? Does the guy who did this live here?”
Jane only stared.
“Fine. I guess I’ll go check it out.” He stomped out of the hospital room.
About twenty five minutes later, Hurley was standing outside of what was once a bar that was nestled between 235 and 239 Middag Street. He recognized it as a location that was a Pho restaurant before it was a bar, and an ice cream parlor before that. Whether it was the location or something else, the businesses that took up shop here never lasted long. He walked up to the front door, which was padlocked shut. He tried peering between the wooden planks
that the window was boarded up with, but with no luck. Eventually, he stepped sideways down the narrow alley that stood between 237 and 239, to the left of the closed-down bar. Shimmying past the dumpster, he squeezed out to where the back door was. He turned the handle: unlocked. As he stepped inside, the building seemed less dusty than he was expecting it to be, almost if it had been cleaned on a regular basis.
“Hello?” Hurley’s words echoed through the building. He was standing in the stock room of the old bar. He stepped through the door on the furthest wall from him, leading him behind the bar area. Almost too easily, Hurley noticed a brass ring, about six inches wide, sticking up from the floor behind the bar. He moved a non-slip mat away to reveal a wooden door attached to the brass ring. Hurley unsnapped the restraint on his holster and placed his right hand on his gun. With his left hand, he pulled on the brass ring, pulling the trap door up. There was a button to the left of where the door had opened. He nudged it with his foot, and the lights turned on to reveal a staircase where there had been pitch dark before.
“Let there be light,” Hurley said. As he descended the staircase, he kept his hand on his gun. Downstairs, there were shelves of unopened liquor bottles, some empty spare glasses, and boxes of decorations for different holidays labeled “HALLOWEEN,” “CHRISTMAS,” and “OKTOBERFEST.” He scanned the room, keeping his back to the shelves. It was not only quiet down here, but it smelled like Mrs. Meyer’s honeysuckle cleaning solution. CRASH! Glass shattered in the adjoining room. Hurley jumped and unholstered his gun, pointing it at the door where the sound came from.
“COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!” Hurley shakily yelled. There was no response. As he inched toward the door, there were sounds that can only be described as snakes slithering coming from the other room. Hurley kicked the door open. Pointing his gun and flashlight forward, he saw glimmers of a shiny, dark purple color. The room smelled dank and wet. Hurley either couldn’t comprehend what he was looking at, or he didn’t want to. As he was pondering what this thing was, a dark purple tentacle shot out of the darkness and grabbed Hurley by the ankle. He screamed as the slimy tentacle slithered up further around his leg, causing a mild burning sensation. BANG! BANG! Hurley fired his weapon twice in front of him, only for him to see in the light of his flashlight that the bullets slammed into a dark, slimy mass and were immediately absorbed. The tentacle yanked Hurley forward while he shrieked in pain and terror. BANG BANG BANG BANG! No use; the bullets were only absorbed again by this hulking mass. Between the screaming, there were crunches of Hurley’s bones and a final horrific crunch of his spine before the shrieking subsided.
Miles away, lying in her hospital bed, was a smiling Jane Doe.
by Ruthie Richardson
Golden Rays Through the Forest
Second Place Photography
Triple Moon by Mattie Green Second Place Art
Run
by Robyn Taylor
Second
Place Poetry
I run for my life, through the dark, through the pain, I run from the voices that call me by name. I run till my knees give out on the stone, Till my back starts to break, till I’m lost and alone.
The weight on my chest is too heavy to bear, A scream in my throat, but no one is there. The world rushes past, yet I’m standing still, Trapped in a cycle I can’t seem to kill.
I run from the echoes, the ghosts in my head, From whispers that tell me I’d be better off dead. But somewhere, somehow, a light still remains, A flicker of hope in the depths of my pain.
So I run, but not to the end I once knew, I run toward a dawn where the sky turns to blue.
Abandoned Jeep by Mattie Green
Change
by Elizabeth Coleman
Leaves turn gold and fall away, Seasons shift from night to day. Raindrops fall and rivers flow, Time moves on, and so must we go.
A whispered breeze, a brand new start, Change brings growth to every heart. Embrace the path, let worries cease, In every change there lies a peace.
Fall Foliage by Sarah Gallagher
Encased by Scout Lynch
Falling One Leaf at a Time by Gabriel Alvarez
Virginia by Amber Nichole Gillen
Nothing Like My Dad
by Scout Lynch
People always say that young girls grow up to be with someone who is just like their father. My partner, the person I have been with for over three years and who I fully intend on marrying, is calm. If we get into an argument, it does not last long. Jared had a good childhood, a normal childhood, and it shows. The weight of the trauma I hold is something that he helps me carry. It is a heavy load, and he does so patiently and without resentment. Jared has never once raised his voice at me. He has never once shown me an angry side of him. I think what I love the most about Jared is that he is nothing like my father. My father screams, picks fights, demands control, and openly sulks when he doesn’t get his way. My father would pile up food on my plate, much more than I could eat, and would demand that I finish all of it. My father piled up trauma on my plate, much more than I could handle, and demands that I forgive him for all of it.
Jared does not guilt me; he does not point out that I am a damaged person; he only helps me to heal. He loves me unconditionally. My father loves me conditionally. There are rules to earning my father’s love and always have been. Jared has no rules; all he asks for is my love and loyalty. He has never demanded anything from me. I have never known a love so sacred and so wholesome. I have never known the fear of a man the way I fear my father. I have dated men like my father in the past. They were loud, angry, and bitter, and they took from me. I have had pieces torn off of me, healed them back to the way they were, only for the freshly healed pieces to be ripped off again by a man just like my dad.
My dad is a decisive man; he would have his finger on the trigger constantly and fire off a decision as soon as a problem came to him. Jared is indecisive; he has a hard time making even small decisions, like what TV show we’ll watch. He’ll scroll through streaming services for an hour before deciding on what we will watch, but I don’t care because that hour sitting on the couch with him while he clicks buttons on the remote is an hour that I get to spend with him.
My dad has a great memory, almost scary good. He would remind me of every wrong I ever made. Jared is forgetful and has to put reminders in his phone to remember things, but I don’t mind his forgetfulness because he will always remember me. He has an alarm set on his phone on the nights that I come over; it is an alarm that reminds him to tell me to brush my teeth and take my nighttime medication before bed. When I was little, my dad was my sun, and my world revolved around him. When the love of that sun was withheld, I became a desolate planet, floating aimlessly through the universe. He would withhold love as if it were an object that could be taken away as a punishment. Jared does not withhold his love. We are two planets, orbiting through the cosmos together with nothing to revolve around but each other.
Blue Skies and Countrysides by Chip Grosvenor
Sketchy Cat by Nicholas Morgan
Starburst by Sarah Gallagher
Visitation
by Sarah Gallagher
You didn’t want to see me
No
It’s okay though
But
You could’ve told me
You could have given me a reason Instead
You pushed me away Ignored me
Went around and saw other people and ignored me Left me here
All alone
Questioning what the hell I did wrong
Spectrum of Shadows by Binx Green
Utah by Adi Malahi
I Remember
by Robyn Taylor
I remember your face, so bright, so clear, I remember your laugh, still ringing in my ear. I remember the call that shattered my chest, The moment I knew you’d found your rest.
I remember your mother, her voice so weak, Her sorrow spilling, too heavy to speak. I remember the flower I placed with care, A silent goodbye, a whispered prayer.
And when the last bloom was laid in its place, I felt my soul drift, lost in space. A part of me left on that cold, silent day, Gone with you, too far away.
Shamu Likes to Visit the Galapagos by Stan Jones
Intro: Em and D
Em D
Lost Cause
by David Cambell
I went to slay the dragon Em D
In the cross hairs of the night Em D
Bit the hand that fed the fire Em D
That burned with his delight Em D
You know I know I understand Em D
What’s cooking in your brain Em D
But I could never comprehend C D
The root of your refrain D
Lost Cause
Em
Scarlet sings the blues D
Lost Cause Em
Rewrite a page or two D
Lost Cause Em
No more julep afternoons C
You wager it’s so long ago, no one left today will know C D
And you can write the script Em D
For your Lost Cause
I heard you tell the children That you were not to blame
Played the victim card and told A tale that hid the shame
You took the men on horseback
From field to monument
Put the screws to thumb And made fear the sacrament
A Gift of God by Robyn Taylor
(For your) Lost Cause
Scarlet sings the blues Lost Cause
Rewrite a page or two Lost Cause
No more julep afternoons
You wager it’s so long ago, no one left today will know And you can write the script For your Lost Cause
Racing head-first right into A wall that’s made of stone And all the debutantes and belles Were left to stand alone
There’s whitewash on the fences
And there’s whitewash on the page
Scrapbook photos have been changed And gaslight shines the way
(For the) Lost Cause
Scarlet sings the blues Lost Cause
Rewrite a page or two Lost Cause
No more julep afternoons
You wager it’s so long ago, no one left today will know And you can write the script For your Lost Cause
Projects Rusting by Mattie Green
Snow Pup by Victoria Hood
Boodle by Scout Lynch
Hamilton by Sarah Gallagher
Perfect Relaxation by Nicholas Morgan
Memphis by Elizabeth Coleman
Brothers by Nicholas Morgan
Rylo by Gabriel Alvarez
Luna Bell by Elizabeth Coleman
The Purrfect Plant by Chip Grosvenor
Spotted Pup of Happiness
by Daniel Jackson
College Bunny
by Victoria (Bee) Stout Gibson by Elizabeth Coleman
Do I Really Have to Go to Class?—Galapagos
Sleeping Sugar by Samantha Reinhart
Levi Reading Checkers Book
March 2021 by Nancy Brubaker
Sea Lion by Stan Jones
Huatulco, Oaxaca, Mexico, Sunrise by Emilio Munguia
Garcia Rojas
Rim of the World: Yosemite by Adi Malahi
Promises
We made many
Promises
by Sarah Gallagher
Never to be broken
Or so I thought
We promised never to hurt each other I hurt you
But you chose to hurt me more than I had ever hurt you
You promised to never give me false hope
You broke that promise when you would lose sleep
To talk to me
Little old me who thought no one would ever love her
Thought that you loved me
But did you ever love me?
You promised to always be there for me
To never leave me
But now it’s like pulling teeth just to get you to talk to me
And I am here
All alone
You promised you would never use my past against me
Promised to never use my trauma to hurt me
But you did
You took the knife
You took that knife and plunged it
Right into my heart
Carving all the hurtful words
Words you once promised to never excavate
Hurtful things you promised never to say
All of it
You carved right into my heart
Carved to where I will never forget them
Crochet Flail
by Scout Lynch
Candy Skies by Victoria Hood
The Most Magical Place on Earth by Ashlee Cundiff
Lines of Power
Colorful Afternoon by Gabriel
Alvarez
by Alex Reed
I Am Made to Burn
by Kaylee Brooks
I am made to burn
I am made of hatred
I am made to burn from the inside out
It’s not unfathomable to burn it all
To terrorize and hurt
It’s not unfathomable to care
Or so I thought
That’s who I was
I don’t care if I’m alone
If I have no one
If I’m no one
In the end
I’ll burn like us all
The requirements for heaven are stricter than you thought
Tear me apart, see if I care
Does it matter if I burn
If we all do . . .
Late Night Oasis by Danny Adams
Oh, Sweet Self
by Mattie Green
Oh, sweet self, his hand should have never kept creeping up your thigh, especially after the first, and then the second “Stop.” and you shouldn’t have felt grateful, you made it to sixth grade before it happened.
Oh, sweet self, I’m sorry you learned that your softness was an invitation for unwelcome touch, and that callousness was the sole way to endure having a body, around teenage boys.
Oh, sweet self, I’m so sorry, that all the lessons you mastered which allowed you to survive, are now shackles at your feet instead of a suit of armor.
Oh, sweet self, if every time you spoke of a concern or a pain, and instead of dismissal were paid, well then maybe we’d be rich enough to finally be heard.
Oh, sweet self, your story and voice have always mattered, but you shouldn’t have to fight to share it.
Allowing others to see your scars, and your strength, should be their privilege. Not yours.
The Beauty of Life by Robyn Taylor
Clouded Mirror by Alex Reed
The Hotel Montez
by Ayden Plautz
The Hotel Montez had stood for a hundred years, being the oldest in the small city of Shafer, its walls marred, defined by what all hotels are, debauchery and death. Its walls have seen all, and they would see more of it coming, until its eventual demolition.
The construction had begun in the early 1900’s and continued with the deaths of three of its workers on the actual site. During the initial inception, when steel beams were being lifted and set into place, a steel beam fell, crushing these three men. They died instantly, and the families of these men were paid handsomely for their pain. In today’s money, they would have been given the equivalent of half a million dollars directly from the pocket of Mr. Montez in undefined envelopes, only marked by a simple signature on the appropriate line. This was, as Mr. Montez claimed, to stop a lawsuit. The construction finally continued, and eventually the hotel opened, finishing in 1924, instantly becoming a success for both the people of the upper class and the apparent mob scene that would travel from the city in order to conduct business meetings. Mr. Montez welcomed these men openly, as if they were families, and according to several reporters, they had been.
The hotel stood at nearly ten stories of steel beams and
Sunset Reflection by Victoria Hood
brick, spiraling up the sky. The history is wrought with an almost incredible number of tragedies, seemingly set in every room, each floor being the setting for some tragedy, murder, or rape, the lot as it mingled, haunted by its past in an almost apathetic manner, its windows illuminated eyes, another soul within, each a different story, all along too many to comfortably document. All hotels have their secrets, but this one does not hold them with a guarded shroud; it shows its events with an almost proud reverence, almost boastful in its stature.
The lobby was set in an “authentic Native American decor,” as instructed by its constructor, in order to pay tribute to the tribe that had once nested on the land the Hotel Montez now sat upon. Once a burial plot, it now held a work of modern architecture. It was honestly something that at the time seemed respectful, but over the years would be changed due to extensive complaints about the offensive statement such a thing showed. It was replaced by an almost passable gold and blue color scheme that almost fit the illustrious stature of the hotel, but didn’t capture the historical aspect nearly as well.
Its owner, Charlie Montez, was an entrepreneur who wanted to become a public figure. Except for a number of his dealings, there is almost nothing known about the man himself, besides his stay in the Montez after its completion. He stayed in the hotel for two decades before his death, and it had been an awful one, like the numerous others that happened within its walls.
The first tragedy officially stated had happened not even a year after the hotel’s opening. A guest by the name of Henrey Donner, an eccentric who was believed to be the next incarnation of Edgar Allan Poe and would revolutionize horror as we know it, had begun staying at the hotel. He had published three books and came to the Hotel Montez in order to work on his next, a fourth that was set in a hotel. Mr. Montez had reveled in this idea, insisting that the author should base the story in his very hotel, for what was effectively free lodging. Henrey Donner only had to pay for the food he ordered, and even that was discounted significantly.
Henrey Donner stayed in the hotel for a month, containing himself to his room and barely leaving or being seen, outside of a few scant appearances by some of the maids who had described him as “wiry and decrepit.” Mr. Montez was the last man who had seen him. He claimed that Donner had been fine, just appearing tired and like he was in desperate need of a shower.
Eventually other guests began to hear noises coming from the room, a scratching on the walls, like someone digging their way out, or maybe some kind of rat hiding within the walls.
After a day of nothing but continuous scratching, it stopped. The complaints of the guests were largely ignored in the rooms adjacent to Donner’s–that is, until there was a series of abnormally loud crashes followed by a void of silence. The room remained that way for the most part until the hotel staff decided to investigate it.
The room itself was in disarray, the floor covered in dust and plaster like a snow coating. The desk in the corner of the room was decimated, the typewriter propped in a hole in the desk, balancing somehow. Carvings covered the walls, words from the most recent chapter of whatever he had been writing, a masterful story which ended the novel and somehow showed the madness he had begun to exude, slowly turning more manic as he continued carving in the walls, becoming more frantic and insane. The typewriter had run out of paper, and instead of asking for more or finishing it through handwriting on his legal pad, he had begun to carve the words into the wall, initially with his nails until his fingers dug down to the bone. His fingernails were scattered on the floor, discarded from his hand throughout various points in the room, and when they were gone, out of sight, he had begun to claw deeper until his fingers began to bleed, and he would write in blood. Eventually the skin and muscle turned to bone, and he began to carve again, and when those broke, he proceeded to use the next finger. Each wall was coated with words, nothing but words, insane ramblings of what at first glance would have been nothing–until you examined the gouges, and the brilliant prose was revealed, and the story finished itself.
The man was dead, with the bones exposed in his fingers and the tips broken. With them he had smashed the typewriter against the table, splintering it and using the largest piece of it to stab himself. His neck was marked with wounds from a piece of wood he had taken from the table and proceeded to jab into his neck repeatedly. He tried three times, and on the third he struck his carotid and bled out.
The room was cleaned, but the carvings had been transcribed by his publisher and used in order to finish Donner’s work. What was left of the blood and grooves in the wall was covered by wallpaper that has stayed in the same place since its installation, and eventually turned into just another room, another story in the hotel’s sordid past.
In recent years, the story was told to other guests, the oldest of the multitude of stories of those wayward souls who stayed within its walls, victims of the various crimes. According to the guests that stayed in the adjacent rooms, there would be
the occasional scratching in the walls which seemed to be rats, trying to dig their way out of the wall.
Charlie Montez said during one of his brief and infrequent interviews, “The Hotel Montez is like most hotels. It is grandiose and fantastic and has such an immense amount of guests that some don’t check out. The guests that stay walk with those who don’t. They make themselves known among those who are able to check out, and they stay forever, within the Hotel Montez. I think that is why it’s so important, the hotel. It holds all those who are overtaken by its splendor forever. They are able to live within its walls. People can think that these stories are fictitious all they want. That doesn’t change anything. It all still happened, and they’ll be here, forever.”
The Montez’s less than illustrious past gained its notoriety, even beginning to be told as ghost stories to new guests who nicknamed the hotel “Murder Castle” due to the vicious deaths that seemed to haunt every room, every nook, every cranny, and, according to Mr. Montez himself, “They are waiting, wanting to come about. Waiting for their time to check out.”
The Shining Blankie by Scout Lynch
Yopp
Flower in Glass
by Kaylee Brooks
I had a flower in a glass case
Much like from that story
Of the beauty and the beast
I once had a love who brought this to me
It sits up high
Out of sight, out of mind
Though hidden in its box, it’s still mine
My love passed on
Leaving few things behind
A new love saw the very same thing and thought of me
Do I lie? Say that’s not me
Maybe I didn’t want that to be our story too
A golden kaleidoscope rose in a glass case
Surrounded by tiny strings of light
Do I let my new lover get me one too?
I don’t want a collection
Or maybe I do
But I definitely don’t want to lose you
Flower with Root by Heavenly-Ann
Elixir
by Scout Lynch
a glass of water might mean nothing to you it’s free at a restaurant it’s low effort but when your partner sees you on your third gin and tonic in an hour and brings you a water and says he made it just for you you drink it because you know a magic elixir when you see it.
Smoky Martini by Scout Lynch
Guardians of the Forest by Chip Grosvenor
If I could write a book of poems
by Kaylee Brooks
If I could write a book of poems
If anyone would break the spine
Would I be sold? Could passion be mine?
If I could prosper without fear
The inspiration would be endless
If my heart could say anything I’d listen, I’d sweat
If my heart could say its peace
It’d be strong, heartless, unapologetic
If I forgot where I’ve been, could I remember where to go?
If I wrote a book of poems, who would ever know?
Winter Window by Lana Whited
Breathe Out
by Dew Adams
Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. Amelia could barely remember the steps anymore. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. Every thought felt like it was covered in oak sap, oozing into her hands and covering her fingers. Other insects visited her frequently: a male mantis, a female mantis holding an egg case, and a young girl mantis who had the loveliest blue eyes. They would sit in her room, and the adult female would rest a hand on her shoulder talking about a mix of things. It hurt to remember what. The male would linger by the window and refused to look at her, fingers dancing and fidgeting with a ring on his arm. Sometimes a white moth or a large click beetle would walk in, speaking with the two adults in hushed tones, eyes occasionally glancing over to her, arms fidgeting, leaking tears, and shaking in place. The young one was her favorite, spending all her time doodling, passing off messily colored pages to her. Amelia always felt the colored parts. Whatever she used was always raised. Little bits of color caught on her fingers. Whatever she used left an odd smell on Amelia’s tongue, earthy with flicks of damp clay. Amelia covered the walls of the white room she was in with the drawings. She wasn’t sure what she was looking at half the time, but looking at the drawings made her feel something she hadn’t felt in a while.
Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. Amelia was broken out of her daze by a soft knocking on the door. She allowed her eyes to wander over, locking with the figure in the doorway. A dragonfly, a dragonfly as tall as the trees outside was crouching down into the doorway to enter the small room, footsteps silent as they padded over the tiled floor, steps lazy and slow, yet precise. It was looming over her like the moon looms over the endless sky with long, black fabric cloaking its body and only its white head able to be seen.
“It’s time to leave, Amelia.” He didn’t even open his mouth to speak.
His voice was as smooth and natural as the breeze. Amelia just blinked and tilted her head.
“Leave? Where will we go?” she questioned. The dragonfly paused, chest unmoving under his black cloak. “Somewhere better,” he answered, putting a hand on her shoulder. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. The sap in her brain felt lifted, his touch warming it to a liquid. Blinking a few more times, Amelia looked up at him, mind clear for the first time in what felt like years.
“Can I ask you a question?” she almost yelped, voice oozing with an urgency that made the dragonfly’s shoulders droop. His hand fell to his side as he wordlessly stared down at her. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. Each breath rattled her chest as she spoke.
“What do you remember?” she spilled out, the dragonfly tilting his head. Antenna quivering in the air, Amelia tutting softly “You know what I mean, what do you remember?” she questions again.
She sat up in bed, her back screaming in agony at the effort it took to sit up straight.
“Who were the three mantis that kept visiting me?” she asks, reaching out to gently grab the dragonfly’s slack hand. His shoulders firmed back up, sliding closer.
He sat on the side of her bed with a slow and graceful movement. His presence didn’t bother the mattresses below. He held her hand in two of his.
“Your family. Husband, daughter, and granddaughter,” he answered in a whisper.
Amelia’s eyes widened, a grin cracking over her thin exoskeleton as she spoke.
“I have a family?”
The dragonfly nodded, using one of his long arms to pluck one of the photos off the wall—a crudely rendered photograph of three adults and a child.
“The little one is Annabelle; she’s named after you,” the dragonfly started, tapping a finger on the smallest figure. “This is Henry, your husband. Married 40 years,” he continued, Amelia’s antenna shooting up in surprise.
“40 years? How…How did I not remember?” she asked, eyes as wide as the full Beetle by Heavenly-Ann Yopp
moon outside. The dragonfly just paused, letting her question die in the silence.
“This is Chartreuse, your daughter. But you and your husband just called her Chara,” he finished, offering her the photo.
Amelia gently took the photo into her arms, eyes watering, tears getting stuck in the cracks of her shell, dripping down and dotting the paper like stars.
Turning her head to the dragonfly, “Will I see them again?” she whispered out.
He nodded as he rose to his feet.
“Yes. Everyone does,” he answered, offering her a hand.
Gently Amelia took it, weak grasp in strong.
“Why couldn’t I remember?” she asked, blinking a few times as she stood.
She looked down in surprise as her once cracked and tattered exoskeleton was smooth again, 30 years younger than it looked before.
“You were sick,” he answered, gently hooking his arm with hers.
“Now let’s go, we have a long flight back home,” he said, guiding her out of the room.
Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. And then no more.
Huatulco, Oaxaca, Mexico, Sea by Emilio Munguia Garcia Rojas
Hallstatt in the Clouds by Sabrina Brutomeso
Drowning
by Robyn Taylor
When your ink runs dry, your hands start to shake, The words won’t come, your voice might break. Your heart shatters, the tears arise, Lost in silence, drowning cries.
An empty canvas, bare and wide, Emotions surge, but stay inside. So much to show, yet none remains, No ink, no words—just quiet pain.
Fish Out of Water by Victoria Hood
Still Water by Binx Green
Ludington, Michigan by Andrew L. Rider
Desperate
by Scout Lynch
Sandra was gripping the steering wheel. Every pair of headlights she saw in her rearview mirror made her clench every part of her body until the car would pass her in the left lane. Sandra had a mustache of sweat forming on her upper lip but didn’t dare to remove one of her hands from the steering wheel to wipe it off.
“Just a little further to go,” Sandra assured herself.
Sandra had her car in cruise control to make sure that she wouldn’t go above or below the speed limit. Just then, aglow in the headlights, a possum darted out in front of her car.
“NO!” Sandra screamed, and swerved out of the way just in time to not hit the little guy.
WOOP WOOP! Blue lights flashed behind her car.
“Oh, shoot,” Sandra mumbled.
Sandra pulled over to the side of the road and waited for the officer to approach her window.
The officer got out of his car and strutted over to the driver’s side window and tapped on it with his meaty hand. Sandra rolled it down.
“Had anything to drink tonight, ma’am? I saw you swerving.”
“No, officer, a possum ran in front of my car. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m gonna need to see your license and registration.”
Sandra slowly and shakily reached her hand over to her purse, which was on the passenger seat of her car. With trembling fingers, she unzipped it, pulled out her wallet, and slipped her license and registration out of it. The officer examined both and handed them back to her.
“Where are you coming from tonight?”
“Oh, my friend’s house.”
“Where are you heading?”
Sandra was heading towards the lake but didn’t want the officer to know that.
“Just back home.”
“Do you mind stepping out of the car and performing some field sobriety exercises?”
Sandra paused. She hadn’t had time to change her shoes. She changed all of her other clothing, just not the damn shoes.
“Officer, I swear I haven’t been drinking tonight. I really was just at a friend’s house. And I haven’t eaten anything all day and my blood sugar is really low. In fact, I feel like I’m about to pass out if I don’t eat something soon. I won’t be much good at your tests because I’m really, really shaking badly. You can even breathalize me but I swear I haven’t had a drop of alcohol.”
“Well, why haven’t you eaten anything today?”
Sandra licked her dry, cracking lips.
“My friend’s boyfriend, he left her today. That’s why I was over at her house; she really really needed a friend to come and help her get all of his stuff out of her place because he didn’t show up. I’ve been with her all day moving all his stuff into boxes and into a storage unit, and she was really upset and didn’t have food on her mind at all, so I didn’t get the chance to eat anything.”
Sandra’s shoulders trembled. She stared up at the officer, and his mustache was unmoving.
“Alright young lady, I understand. Go take care of what you need to, and try not to drive anymore until you’ve had something to eat. Can’t have you swerving on the road like that.”
Sandra smiled and rolled up her window. She waited for the officer to drive away before she pulled back onto the road. She took the exit for the lake and reflected on the day: Her friend Mindy calling her that morning and sobbing uncontrollably. Pulling up to her house to see Mindy’s two black eyes and bruised face. Sandra looked down at her blood soaked shoes and couldn’t believe the officer didn’t notice. She would deal with them later. She had a body to dump.
Field of Gold by Chip Grosvenor
Daunting Night
by Gabriel Alvarez
Whispers of Return
by Elizabeth Coleman
In shadows deep, where whispers roam, I wandered far from heart and home. Through winding paths and skies of gray, Each step I took, I lost my way.
But stars above began to gleam, A distant light, a tender dream. With every turn, the echoes called, A familiar warmth, where love enthralled.
Through tangled woods and rivers wide, I felt the pull, I could not hide. With every heartbeat, hope would grow, Guiding me back to the place I know.
And as the dawn breaks soft and clear, I find my way, my heart, my dear. For home is not just brick and stone, But where my spirit feels its own.
Mourning Mist by Binx Green
Paw-Shaped Hole in My Heart
by Victoria (Bee) Stout
Based on true events
Quiet sobs fill the room as she cries, tears slowly flowing down her cheeks. Her long brown hair that once was combed neatly is now all tangled from lack of care. The pillow beneath her head is damp from her days’ worth of tears. Another sob escapes her lips as she looks at the worn collar sitting on the nightstand that once was worn by her beloved dog.
It’s been four days since she has left her room, four days since she lost him in that dark hospital room. She missed him dearly; her dog was there for her since they were both young, and she feels like a piece of her soul is gone now that he’s gone. She wipes her tear-stained cheeks as she sits up to take a deep breath. Footsteps outside of her closed bedroom door could be heard as it creaks open just a bit.
“She hasn’t moved from that bed in days... She won’t eat or drink...,” says her father.
“Give her time, she’ll come around,” replied her mother as they leave her alone once again.
She closes her eyes as she thinks about her beloved dog once again, remembering what his fur felt like when it was stroked, his multi-colored eyes that she would never get to see again, his howls that would reach her ears whenever she got home from school.
She recalled many memories of her beloved pet, many sad but many happy. When she opens her eyes, she’s suddenly eight years old again, in the car with her parents and brothers. She looks out the window, and it takes her a minute to realize that she’s reliving her memories.
“Mama, where are we going?”
“To get our new dog; we just told you this.”
The car pulls up to a house that’s a little run down, and she hops out of the car with her family and goes to knock on the door. The door opens, and she’s greeted by a man that’s holding a leash connected to a pup, roughly four years old, her pup. She crouches down and opens her arms for the pup to jump into. The girl blinks and is back in her gloomy bedroom again, yet there’s a smile on the girl’s face. She sniffles but laughs as she thinks of that lovely memory.
She closes her eyes again, and now she’s cold, very cold. She opens her eyes to take in the sight around her, and there’s snow covering the ground and trees. She shakes snow out of her hair and attempts to pick herself up from the ground, only to be stuck. She tries to pull herself out of the thorn bush that she has somehow found herself in for a reason she can’t recall. She
frantically looks around for a way to escape, but all she sees is a blanket of snow surrounding her. Just as she begins to give up, she spots paw prints tainting the pure snow around her and is met with her beloved dog. He looks a bit older now than the last memory she had found herself in. She grabs ahold of his collar, and her beloved dog pulls her out of the snowy ditch and to safety. She blinks again.
She wipes another tear that dampens her cheek. She can remember that day like it was yesterday. Her mother had run her a hot bath after she and her dog had returned home. She could still remember being snuggled up in a blanket with her dog on her lap drinking hot cocoa. She missed those days the most. She missed when her dog would jump up onto her lap and fall asleep after a long day of playing. Near the end of his life, he was unable to jump up on his own, but she would still help him up just so he could rest on her like he used to. She closed her eyes one last time. She opens them to a dreadful white hospital room. She never wanted to relive this moment: The smell of the sterileness of the room, the little memorial table with a “Rainbow Bridge” sign in the middle of it and two wax burners to the side of it. Her father is sitting on the sofa next to her, her grandmother on his right and her brother on his left. She’s sitting on the floor with her friend comforting her as she tries to stay strong for the sake of her precious pup. She watches the nurse carry her dog in and allows him to walk to her. Her beloved dog is now much older. He became sickly in his older years, and she tried everything she could to save him, just like he had done for her. Alas, she couldn’t save him from the illness that plagued her beloved dog, but she could save him from the horrible pain he
Three Dogs are Better Than One by Victoria Hood
was in. She let her dog lie down in front of her as her family and friends gathered around them to say goodbye one last time. Silent tears streamed down her face as she comforted her dog through the whole procedure, and in a matter of minutes, her beloved dog and best friend was gone, but he was no longer suffering, and that alone was enough for her. Although she could not stop the sobbing, she knew she had made the right decision.
She opens her eyes and lets herself cry after that last memory, as it’s still a fresh wound, a wound that will never heal until the day they are reunited. A piece of her died that day, a piece that will remain missing. She has a hole in her heart, and she doesn’t know if it can ever be repaired.
She finally leaves her room, dreading facing the outside world again. But she’s suddenly knocked down by a puppy, a puppy that reminds her of her beloved dog. She looks at the puppy, seeing her dog in this pup. Her world brightens just a little. She remembers something someone had told her long ago:
“The next dog is always sent by the one who passed.”
And her world doesn’t seem as dreadful and bleak. Maybe a part of her will be found again. She knows it’ll take time, and she knows she’ll never fully heal, but she doesn’t want to. That part of her soul belongs to him. But as she pets this new puppy, she knows he’s still looking out for her, and for that she’s grateful.
In loving memory of Tank.
Ferrum’s Natural Wonder by Madison Cruz
Slanted Sunrise by Elizabeth Coleman
Grand Canyon Sunset by Sabrina Brutomeso
Septic Condemnation
by D. Bruckshaw Campbell
The rain spit on John Harrison as he trudged through the quagmire that was his back yard. The driving wind and November cold turned each drop into tiny pin pricks that cut into his skin. The burning scent of raw sewage hung in the air—weighted down by the heaviness of the storm.
Three days and the stench hadn’t subsided. Three days of putrid, fetid, rotting cesspool that clung to the hairs in his nose, permeated its way through the ventilation of his home, and left a
New York City by Amber Nichole Gillen
College
by Kaylee Brooks
College is a funny place
Lots of many funny faces
What should I do if I’m suddenly alone
My old life is suddenly gone
A close of a door
A close of a chapter
A close on a life
That felt like forever
Now I’m here
Surrounded and alone
In a hole in the mountain
Slowly accumulating credit card debt
taste on his tongue he couldn’t scrape off with a razor.
Days one and two were somewhat tolerable, but day three brought in critical mass with the rain. Brown puddles emerged in the yard—directly over the drain field—and it became clear what was happening: His septic tank was clogged, had backed up, and all that he and his wife, Leslie, were flushing away was returning in some bizarre, malodorous fecal form of zombie apoca-shits.
As he surveyed and strode through the field, the yard-turnedmud-turned-toilet squished under his footing and seeped over the edge of his shoes. His socks soaked up the squalid ooze like an amoebic sponge, and each step delivered a sucking squish that held onto his shoes like a vise.
When he finally trod back to the house, the shoes and socks stayed outside. In the rain.
A natural washing, he told himself as he stepped back inside. In reality, however, deep down, he knew the reason he took them off at the door was because if Leslie caught sight or wind of them in the house, her reaction would only increase the amount of stink in the air. Ordinarily, she’d stay glued to the TV, but those shoes in her foyer would give her cause to give John some attention.
“Well?” she asked.
Leslie was watching an episode of Real Housewives and didn’t look away from the screen when she spoke.
“Did you figure it out?” she asked.
“Pretty much, but it’s not anything I can fix,” he said.
“Well, you better do something,” she said. She picked up a can of Glade and spritzed the air in all directions. “We can’t live like this, John, you have to do something. Like today. Now.”
She still didn’t look at him.
“Ok. Ok,” he said.
He trudged over to the table and his laptop, shoulders slumped, head hung—like a dog with its tail between its legs—all the while mumbling something about the one that got away. And if he had it to do over. And the biggest mistake of his life—ever careful to not mutter louder than the volume of the TV.
He opened his laptop and did a quick Google search for local septic services. When he saw “We’re No. 1 at No. 2,” that did it for him, and he gave Royal Flush Septic Services a call.
A guy named Jesse answered on the other end, and John told him the whole story.
“Well,” Jesse said, slowly. He had a thick, country accent. “Sounds perty bad over thayur, and with all this here rain—hell, it ain’t gonna get much better no time soon.”
“Do you think it’s something you guys can take care of?” John asked.
“Well, I’ll tell ya. It ain’t so much of if we can do it as when.”
“You guys are pretty booked up?”
“’Till into the first part of next week.”
“Aw man,” John said. “I don’t know if I’ll still be married by then.”
“Oh, you got a wife?”
“Yes, and she’s not happy one bit.”
“I got one, too,” Jesse said. “In that case, I’ll be there in about an hour and a half. But I gotta tell ya. It’s gonna cost ya.”
“I figured as much,” John said.
About an hour and a half later, Jesse showed up in a truck and pulling a flatbed trailer, excavator perched on top. The rain was still coming in at angles, and the temperature had dipped about another five degrees. It was already close to dark, and in another half hour, it would be black. Cold, wet, and black. John met Jesse at the truck as he was getting out.
“Whew!” Jesse said as soon as the air hit his nose. “You wasn’t lyin’ about the stank. Damn!”
“I’m sorry,” John said. “But I really appreciate your being here.”
“I bet you do. Look, why doncha go inside and dry off. Ain’t no use both of us being soaked to the bone and having to smell this junk. I’ll let you know when I figure something out.”
John went back to the house—again leaving his shoes on the porch. As he walked past the living room, he could see the back of Leslie’s head just above the top of the couch. She was watching a taped episode of The Kardashians.
“Well?” she said.
She stayed glued to the screen.
“He’s working on it. He said he’ll let us know what he finds.”
John meandered to the back of the house, lay down on the bed and waited. Outside, the churning of the excavator and grinding of metal on rock was only slightly muffled by the thin walls of the pre-fab home. The driving rain continued to assault the metal roof and sounded like BBs on a pie tin. He put a damp cloth over his face to try and escape the infiltrated smell.
Fish by Heavenly-Ann Yopp
He had almost dozed off when a pounding on the front door roused him.
“John,” Leslie yelled. “John.”
He got to the front door right as a second wave of pounding began. When he opened it, the rain blew in with the cold November night.
“Damn, John!” Leslie yelled. “Close the door. Don’t let all that nastiness get in the house!!”
Leslie’s attention was being held hostage by a Netflix episode of Cup Cake Wars
John stepped out to meet Jesse and pulled the door shut behind him.
“Well—think I know what’s up,” Jesse said. “I ain’t gonna lie. I’ve seen a lot. You foller me? I mean I’ve seen a lot. But boy howdy--I ain’t never seen this.”
Jesse sloshed through the dark and mud and rain and filth and stench to where the excavator was parked. The diesel engine still grumbled, and in the headlights, John could see the sheets of rain still descending.
“You got a teenage son?” Jesse asked.
“No,” John said.
“Daughter?”
“No, we don’t have any kids.”
“Well look at this,” Jesse said.
Jesse turned on a high-powered flashlight and shined it in the freshly dug ditch. He had removed the top from the concrete distribution box that led to the drain field. He shined the light right in the box.
“What do you make of that?” Jesse asked.
John strained his eyes to look.
“What the hell is that?” he asked.
He peered through the rain and night, squinting hard and trying to make out what looked like deflated balloons. Maybe hundreds of them. They were clogging the pipes leading to the drain field. They were caked inside the distribution box. They were backing up the entire system and causing the waste to leach out of and flood the already-saturated ground. John repeated himself.
“What are those, Jesse?”
“Condoms,” Jesse said. “A whole butt-load of condoms. They’re everywhere in there. Prolly gonna have to replace the whole system. Didn’t nobody ever tell you that you cain’t flush those
through a septic tank?”
John looked at Jesse through the rain, scrunching his eyebrows in bewildered confusion.
“But I don’t use them,” he said.
Imponente by Sabrina Brutomeso
My Hair
by Scout Lynch
my hair holds all my power. my hair holds all my sad. my hair is what will keep me from feeling very bad. i cut it short, i keep it neat, i use it for my undefeat. i pray and pray and pray and pray for the day when i don’t have to chop it all away. and now i’ve found a person who keeps me very safe. they will help my hair grow long way down to my waist. i love you so, my hair holds you you keep it flowing out. until the day i grow it all, it’s just a little sprout.
Cactus Pincushions by Mattie Green
Blossoms by Heavenly-Ann Yopp
Importance of Childhood Play
by Ian Babey
Childhood play is important in shaping an individual’s social, emotional, and cognitive development. Family, culture, and environment also influences the way a child will play. Through play, a child learns problem-solving skills, creativity, and how to navigate social interaction.
Play allows one to learn about the world and oneself, influencing one’s personality, interests, skills and values. I believe that there is a bridge between childhood play and adult interests and behaviors. Early exposure to different types of play will develop future interests in varied activities like art, music, sciences, and sports. Some of these early interests will shape one’s hobbies or even become a career in adulthood.
For instance, a child who frequently used their imagination and played pretend might become an actor, artist, broadcaster or a writer. Someone who grew up enjoying solitary play may be very independent and self-reliant as an adult, and value personal interests and working alone. And a child who enjoyed organized sports growing up may value teamwork, dedication and collaboration in adulthood and look for hobbies and careers that value those same characteristics.
Even if you do not remember how you played as a child, your childhood play left a lifelong impression and shaped who you are today.
Dixon by Gabrielle Mendoza
Nancy’s Sweater
by Scout Lynch
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The ticking of the clock was almost deafening to Nancy. It was as if it was the only thing she could hear. Pencils scraped along paper. There was an occasional cough, sneeze, or head scratch. Nancy could feel the pressure of the clock. She was a horrible test taker. Being in the food industry, she thought her test-taking days were over. She skipped over the route of pursuing a higher education and had decided to go down the path of working as a line cook. She was gob smacked when her boss told her that she would have to take a test to become SERV safe certified.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
What temperature does chicken need to be cooked to? 160 degrees? Or was it 170 degrees? Is this a trick question? Sweat furrowed on her brow. Suddenly, her clothes felt itchy, tight. She regretted the sweater she wore. Even though it was twenty degrees outside, she felt like the room was 165 degrees. Is that how much you’re supposed to cook chicken to?
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Nancy could feel a mustache of perspiration forming on her upper lip. She looked around the room. Why was everyone so calm?
“Is any body else hot?” Nancy heard a cracking voice say, and she realized it was her own. Everyone in the room looked up at her and one by one went back to their tests. Now, Nancy’s sweater was suffocating her. She grabbed the bottom of it with both hands and thrusted it up over her head. How is this cotton shirt so itchy? She pulled that off as well. Now her pants, oh god, denim shouldn’t feel this way! Why was it so constricting? Nancy slipped off her boots and unzipped her jeans, she put her thumbs into the waistband and wriggled them off of her body.
Ah, relief. Nancy looked up, realizing everyone was now staring at her, only wearing her maroon sports bra and matching highwaisted panties. The instructor was saying something to her, but she could only hear the ticking of the clock.
Kansas City by Amber Nichole Gillen
Bridge by Adi Malahi
Stay
by Hannah Dix
I don’t want you to leave.
Place Setting with Vines by
Mattie Green
I want you to stay put and stand still and don’t go .
I can’t let you go
I love you too much, so much that the idea of forgetting you hurts/burns and make me so sick.
The thing that hurt the most is that I care for you so much That the thought of you with a another tears me apart inside.
I don’t want you to leave my life
You were the best thing that has happened to me in a while
You keep saying find somone better but the thing is
You’re what is best for me.
I don’t want someone else.
You’re the one I want.
You’re the one I want a future with, don’t you get it?
To capture a moment
You need momentum
You need to feel it
Moment
by Kaylee Brooks
How will I ever remember
The emptiness in my heart
You’re halfway across the country
I smell our empty bed
by Alex Reed
Sleep evades me
My eyes burn
I’ve cleaned everything It’s only been a day
I’m so cold
Because it’s you, not the blankets, That warms our bed
Velvet Blanket
Mi querida Argentina by Sabrina Brutomeso
Curve Ball
by Ian Babey
The crack of the bat when a ball gets hit and the sound of a glove popping from a throw have always been music to my ears. Baseball had become a way of life for me, part of my daily routine. Little did I know I was about to be thrown a curveball.
The orthopedist called. I had torn my hip labrum and would need surgery followed by a year of rehab. This news came three days before moving into my dorm for the new school year.
I am the baseball player who throws curveballs. Now I was thrown a curve. I knew this would be a slow and tedious process, but I was not ready to give up on the game or myself. So, how was I going to respond? What would my new daily routine look like?
The first two months post-surgery were the worst—very little physical activity was allowed. After six months of hobbling around on crutches, I was cleared for physical therapy. I was ready to get back to a more physical routine and start the hard work of recovery and playing again. I was going to do all I could to get back on the field. I started by learning how to best use my legs again. I began with bands to strengthen and test my range of motion. Soon, I was able to run and lift weights, but I had to learn new ways to workout due to my injury.
Physically, I was improving, but mentally, I was wrecked. The rehab process had drained my confidence and eroded my morale. Each day, I pushed myself to the limit, only to be held back by the therapy progression plan. I often wished I could do more to speed up my recovery, but I understood that pushing too hard was not always the answer.
The toughest part of this entire process was sitting in the dugout, watching my team practice, push themselves, and compete— without me. Even though I was working hard independently, doing everything I could, I could not shake the feeling of helplessness. All I wanted was to be back out there on the field with my teammates, competing alongside them.
Attending Important Avine Business
Underwater Angel by Scout Lynch
by Danny Adams
Double Rainbow by Scout Lynch
I Finally See through Your Eyes
by Kaylee Brooks
I finally see through your eyes
I guess I finally see the world
Through your eyes
Those dark, evil, wanting eyes
You never wanted me, only what you could get Or get away with You stared at me
Invaded my space
Broke my soul
And beat my sense of peace
I guess I finally see the world through your eyes
No one is truly real
Cause if they could be, wouldn’t I know?
I’m not that special to be an exception
Now, I see why you edged your way in
To slowly tear at pieces of me
Because no one really gives anything
Flower in Leaves
by Heavenly-Ann Yopp
Sailor’s Delight by Alex Reed
Journey to the End
by Kaylee Brooks
If we journeyed to the end
Would we fall off the world
You’re just as I met you
The most perfectest thing
I’d love to run my fingers through your hair
And see your sweet blushing face
If we journeyed to the end
I don’t think I’d care
So long as the journey
Didn’t leave you somewhere
A Snowy Day by Robyn Taylor
Spiral
by Sarah Gallagher
I am spinning like a top
Spiraling
My thoughts take over my mind
Sending my brain into a spiral
Everything is spiraling
Nonstop
Like a ride at the fair
I’m getting dizzy
I want off this ride
Is it almost over?
by Sarah Gallagher
Cotton Candy Skies
Soaring the Oceans by Gabriel Alvarez
Overflight by Danny Adams
Biographies
Judges
Shanda Boone-Hurdle ’95 from Portsmouth teaches English in Suffolk Public Schools and is a motivational speaker with her company, Incomparable Destiny. After earning her B.A. in English from Ferrum College, she earned an M.A. in English from Old Dominion University. She has published in the Virginia English Journal and written two books of poetry.
Audrey Flora ’02 graduated from Ferrum College in 2002 with a major in English. She is a former Day Treatment Counselor for Family Preservation Services and Family Liaison for Franklin County Public Schools. She enjoys reading, journaling, listening to music, dancing, laughing at humorous memes, spending time with grandchildren, birdwatching, and farm life.
Susan Virginia Mead is a native of Lexington. She majored in Art and Sociology at Agnes Scott and later helped found the Jacksonville Center, now the Floyd Center for the Arts. Dr. Mead has incorporated art and literature into nearly all the classes she has taught from pre-school to college—including 26 years of teaching Sociology at Ferrum College.
Kaitlin Roeper ’18 graduated from Ferrum College in 2018 with a major in Graphic Design and a minor in Marketing. At Ferrum she served as editor of The Iron Blade and Chrysalis. She is a Marketing Coordinator at LGA Partners, an architecture firm in Pittsburgh, her home town. She enjoys traveling and spending time with her family, including husband Ben and three cats.
Staff
Scout Lynch from Baltimore is an English major, the editor-in-chief of Chrysalis, and a member of the Boone Honors Program who lives in Ferrum and likes to crochet, cook, bake, and write, including Dungeons and Dragons campaigns.
Ian Babey is majoring in Recreational Leadership with minors in Business and Journalism. He is on the baseball team and hopes to go to a firefighting academy.
Cierra Feazell is an English major with a minor in History and also an English tutor. When she is not cheering, working, or in class, there is usually a book in her hand.
Mattie Green is a creative from Callaway. She is majoring in Graphic Design and Marketing. She enjoys crafting, dreaming, and the company of family and pets.
M. Katherine Grimes is a professor of English and advisor to Chrysalis
Victoria Hood from New Martinsville, WV, is a Psychology major and Art minor who is passionate about photography.
Ayden Plautz is a sophomore who enjoys reading and watching movies. He enjoys writing in most forms, specifically prose and screenwriting.
So This Is What Darwin Saw--Dad and I, Volcano by
Stan Jones
Other Contributors
Danny Adams from Vinton is Ferrum’s assistant director of Library and Archive Services. He has published three novels as well as stories and poems in magazines including Appalachian Heritage, Asimov’s Science Fiction, and Strange Horizons.
Dew Adams, a Biology major from Rocky Mount, likes to make invertebrates and lesser beloved animals the center of stories so they can share their love.
Gabriel Alvarez from Maracaibo, Venezuela, is a Psychology major and a Music minor. He is on the tennis team and enjoys playing piano and guitar.
Kaylee Brooks from Martinsville is studying History and Middle School Education. Before transferring to Ferrum, she won a poetry competition at Patrick & Henry Community College, where she is poet laureate.
Nancy Brubaker ’94 is an associate professor of Animal Science and program coordinator of the One Health minor. She is also a veterinarian.
Sabrina Brutomeso, a Fulbright Teaching Assistant from Buenos Aires, Argentina, teaches Spanish at Ferrum College. Back home, she teaches English as a Foreign Language.
David Bruckshaw Campbell is assistant professor of English and Journalism and coordinator of the Journalism program.
Elizabeth Coleman uses art to express herself. She was in numerous foster homes. Music helped her get through the system and find her way home.
Madison Cruz is a senior. She was a member of the Women’s Soccer Team, and she loves spending time in nature.
Ashlee Cundiff is a freshman Bio-Pre Med major. She is on the cheer team.
Hannah Dix is a junior Theatre major from Basset. She enjoys playing with her pets in her free time.
Sarah Gallagher enjoys reading, making music, and photography.
Amber Nichole Gillen from Phoenix, Arizona, is a Nursing major. She is also on Ferrum’s women’s soccer team.
Binx Green from Franklin County loves the Blue Ridge Mountains and all things related to horror and art.
Chip Grosvenor, from Ohio and Franklin County, is a History major and Political Science minor who enjoys traveling, photography, and drawing. Daniel Jackson from Newport News lives in Rocky Mount and has called many places home, most of them accompanied by his dog Rascal. Stan Jones teaches Chemistry. He holds a master’s degree from the University of Virginia and was an Institute of Chemical Education Fellow at The Catholic University of America.
Adi Malahi from California has been taking pictures since she was a child and always enjoys capturing a moment, especially with friends.
Gabrielle Mendoza is self-taught in photography. She enjoys capturing special moments in sports.
Nicholas Morgan is a Business major. He works in the mail room and likes to read and play video games.
Emilio Munguia Garcia Rojas from Metepec, Mexico, is a Business Administration major and Sports Management minor. He is on the tennis team.
Alex Reed is a senior majoring in Ecotourism and minoring in Environmental Sustainability. He enjoys all outdoors activities but likes hiking the most.
Samantha Reinhart is a sophomore studying Graphic Design. Often she is at the campus barn at Titmus playing with or assisting with baby goats.
Ruthie Richardson from Greensboro, NC, is a freshman majoring in Accounting. She is on the volleyball team and enjoys photography, going to the gym, editing pictures, and spending time with family.
Andrew L. Rider was born in Oregon but grew up in Franklin County. A dual-enrolled student, he enjoys traveling, reading, mountain biking, and camping.
Robyn Taylor, who is studying Education, loves photography.
Lana Whited is professor of English and Williams Distinguished Professor in the Humanities. She is editor of four books about fantasy literature and author of Murder, In Fact. Heavenly-Ann Yopp is majoring in Animal Science. Her hobbies include reading, writing, and drawing. She also enjoys working with animals.
Faint Rainbow over Arboretum by Heavenly-Ann Yopp
Alex Reed
Shining Through by Victoria Hood
Frozen in Time by
The staff of Chrysalis thanks the judges for sharing their time and expertise, the Integrated Programming Board for providing contest prizes, MarComm for publicity, QEP (Quality Enhancement Plan) for refreshments for the Reveal, and Jill Adams and The Iron Blade for their help with coffeehouses.
You can visit this and earlier Chrysalis magazines at https://www.ferrum.edu/campus-life/student-publicationsand-media-chrysalis/
