Chrysalis Literary & Arts Magazine: Spring 2026

Chrysalis

Chrysalis

Literary and Arts Magazine

Staff

Mattie Green, editor-in-chief

Sydney Bisson

Noah Harris

Daniel Jackson

Maeve McCulloch

Katherine Grimes, advisor

Judges

Miranda Banks, Art

Beth Crow, Photography

Aaron Fagan, Poetry

John Hardt, Prose

Ferrum College Spring 2026

First Place Art

Matchmaker? Purgatory

by Maeve McCulloch First Place Poetry

Left.

Left.

Left.

Left.

99+ but none worth a dime.

“What’s your major?”

“You’re so far :(.”

“Got snap?”

99+ yet nothing good to say.

“Hookups?”

“FWB?”

99+ with no end in sight.

“You’re so hot.”

“You’re clearly a myth and a legend but I hope you’re not a man. I’d still be into you if you were.”

“You’re kinda built like elastigirl”

99+ so I settle for surface level.

Half Hearted Hello’s

Nearly Nothing Nice to Meet You’s

99+ with all leading to dead ends.

“Thank you for calling me.”

“I miss you too.”

“I promise.”

99+ and none of them are you.

by William Purdie

First Place Photography

Cracked

by Mattie Green First Place Prose

Scalding well water swirls in the scuffed basin, obscuring the dishes crusted from days of neglect. Under the bubbles, my skin flushes as I plunge my hands deeper into the mixture of softening food and soap. The farmhouse’s kitchen floorboards creak under heavy footsteps and suddenly I am not alone. I glance down at a pair of mud-caked boots. “Hello, Darryl.”

“What’r you doin’?”

My mouth screws up into a pucker on impulse. I quickly blow a loose strand of hair out of my eyes before replying, “The dishes.”

“A possum musta got in the coop. This was all that was left.” Darryl fishes a crusted egg out of his faded flannel pocket and offers it to me.

I use my thumbnail to pick at a stubborn bit of cheese clinging to a chipped plate before carefully responding, “Darryl, I’m doin’ dishes.”

“Well, go on. Take it. I don’t got all day.”

“I already said, I am doing the dishes.”

“Shell…”

My eyes fall back to the mud crumbling from his boots. As he shifts his weight side to side, the red clay is ground deeper into the wood grain of the warped floorboards.

“Darryl, I am behind.”

“Shell. Take it.” Darryl isn’t asking. I silently run a threadbare rag over a serrated steak knife.

“You make everything harder than it has to be,” Darryl mutters, all while stomping the tip of his steeltoed boot into the floor. A melody of dried muck flaking off leather harmonizes with the clinking of the cutlery in the enamel basin. The scratched knife I had been caressing with the worn rag clatters against the other dishes in the sink. For the first time, I stop scrubbing, white knuckles gripping the counter’s edge.

“Darryl…I…please don’t.” The water swirls in a calming spiral as my chest heaves. Tears well up in my eyes until Darryl, the egg, and the sink are a blur of domesticity. I? I make it all harder? All I do, and I make it harder? I take a shaky breath, and the next words pour out like a dam breaking, “Take it? Take it? All I do is take it. Well–Darryl! You want me to take it? Fine!” I snatch the crusted egg from Darryl’s calloused palm and smash it smack dab in the center of his forehead, shell bits and all.

Darryl’s eyes widen and then narrow as he sputters, “Well watch you do that–dammit, Shelly!” He swipes at his forehead then slings the watery egg whites onto the kitchen floor. I watch through blurry vision as the mud rehydrates the filth on contact. The floorboards start wicking up the moisture. Darryl slaps his hand against his jean-clad thigh. Soap swirls in the mixture in the sink.

“Well!? I swear to Gah- Shell!”

“I…I…I am just doing…dishes,” I manage to respond, feeling faint.

“Well–just–do dishes then,” Darryl spits out, then storms off, leaving only remnants of yolk and crumbling mud in his wake.

The front screen door slams, the rickety stoop creaks, and the sound of gravel crunching under heavy footfalls fades to silence. I blink rapidly and a tear falls into the basin, its ripples disturbing the quiet stillness of the cooling water. A moment passes. I stare mutely at a splintering cutting board, stained from our last supper. I run my pruney fingers over its knife nicks and gouges. Then, quietly, I do the dishes.

Tulips Bloom in Winter

by Daniel Jackson Second Place Poetry

hey i’ll admit your face doesn’t come as easily now so, hey when will your voice fade lost to time? a phantom in my room made a sound i swore was you what am i meant to do when memory is all that’s left when every detail comes flooding back please come back …come back so, i know you’ve been gone longer than i want to think and i don’t want to say goodbye again hey will you visit me when it’s my turn to lie down and finally close my eyes

Hall of Bulls

by Daniel Jackson Second Place Prose

For years, every story we had come across had been by word of mouth, between Lock Foot fighting off two Saber Tooth Cats and Long Beard’s tale of running away from an Angry Mammoth. Even now, stories are told by tongues, usually by our senior, Chip Snapper.

Even my name came from a story. I was the boy who always handled the firewood for years, charring my hands to be a burnt ash in color, thus, Black Hand.

As I listen to him rattle off yet again about the tales of Red Sun and Stone Ear, I sit by the fire, thinking.

I take a stick from the fire gently, making sure the embers don’t land on any fur pelts covering myself or those around me. I wander into a nearby cave that has been my sanctuary for some time. I gaze around myself, the walls seeming to stretch on endlessly. I doubt even Red Sun could throw a spear that could hit the end wall of this cave. I thought to myself for a fleeting moment, thinking of how much I could do with this cave.

Before I can think properly, I already hear them yelling my name. They’re always looking for Black Hand. I start to exit the cave, running my hand against the wall to feel the cool stone on my hands as the sun beats down on us from above.

I return to the fire, taking my seat and taking a bite out of the fresh mammoth meat from the hunt today. Everyone else always seems to really enjoy the hunt, but I’m always afraid. I only do my part by turning that fear into anger, and turning

that anger into force. But it always leaves me exhausted and needing to be dragged halfway back to the camp.

Once I finish eating, I lie down on the cool stone, as the sun disappears and the shinies in the sky take hold. I shut my eyes and rest until the sun comes back.

Once I get up, I walk back to the cave to think, and I see something: a long, black mark running across the side of the cave. At both ends lies each side of a hand. I slowly creep up to it, poking the line. It doesn’t move.

I stare at the line for a moment before I go back to the fire and grab the firewood I had yesterday. I rub the stick against my hand for a moment before placing my hand on the wall. I slowly pull my hand back, and in its place is a black handprint. I rush outside, eager to show everyone, but they’ve gone out for a hunt, it would seem. All but one of our spears are gone. I pay no mind. I’ve been left out of long hunting trips before. I go within the lines of the camp, picking up plants and rocks of different colors, and haul them back into the cave. I test different materials the rest of the day. From the different dirt colors and the small flowers and plants that bloom everywhere, there is a near endless supply of materials around me. After a couple of days, I have a good supply of everything. I make sure to leave some out, as to keep some way to keep my collection growing.

By now, I assume my tribe has perished in a hunt, given the days that have passed. If this was Chip Snapper, he would’ve added this to his story list. I stare down at the ground, solemly, before an idea pops into my head.

What if I put the story on the wall?

I start using what I have, making small figures of everyone.

Chip Snapper, Tree Tugger, Stone Rub, and myself. The next few weeks fly by. I hunt small creatures on my own, and struggle to defend myself from Terror Birds. The whole time, I document everything on the cave wall.

Months go by. I’ve had to resort to the small red balls in the bushes around me to survive. I keep the wall covered in my markings, covered in my stories to tell to the next generation. What seems like countless moons go by, and all the while the walls of the cave come to life with my work.

My hands ache and my arms barely work, but I complete my duty. I walk to the center of the cave around myself and look at the walls, now covered in images of people, animals, and everything in between.

For the first time, these stories aren’t only able to be heard. They can be seen.

by Sydney Bisson

The road is long but so am I, Built from grit that won’t say goodbye

Time

by Elizabeth Coleman

Time does not heal the way people promise. It exposes, it teaches, it tests. What survives time was always real. What fades was never meant to stay. And that is not loss— it is clarity

Dusk or Dawn by Noah Harris

Dream

by Sydney Bisson

The moon stays bright, the stars all gleam, nothing’s stronger than a dream.

A Sense of Place

by Sophia Fonseca

I bring a hand above my eyes for shade Against the dazzling white sandy landscape.

The shoreline introduces the teal Gulf, And dolphins dance, delighted in her waves.

The water rushes through shells under foot Like tiny bells tumbling into the surf.

Wind whispers over the sand like a fine Mist gently swirling sea oats on the dunes.

A light sheen of salt sparkles on my skin, A natural glitter in the sun’s embrace. Collective shadows race the empty beach: A squadron of brown pelicans fly high.

The humid coastal air flows in my lungs, Awakening my senses on the Cape.

Never reach for the light

by Daniel Jackson

I don’t give my mind a second chance to think about the repercussions of what I’m doing; the oxygen tanks rattle and crash against my back as I struggle to get into my wetsuit properly. I feel a hand on my shoulder, shaking lightly. “You can’t do this, man; it’s too dangerous. Stay on the boat until the sea settles,” says a gruff voice, right next to my ear. I grit my teeth, trying hard not to say anything to my captain, my best friend.

“My WIFE is down there somewhere, Mason. We aren’t leaving until I bring her back up.” I turn quickly, trying to push past him, but he brings me to a stop with an outstretched arm.

“You don’t know what’s out there on those seas, Torrian. I’m sorry, but we HAVE to go!” I shove past him once he speaks those words. My ears only pick the clattering of heavy rainfall on the deck of the boat after that. I know Mason is yelling at me, but I don’t care. I line myself up, sitting on the rail and falling backwards into the ocean before Mason has a chance to stop me.

I orient myself with the water, and I start swimming. She has to be alive; she HAS to be. I keep diving down, further and further, the light from the ship dimming with every passing moment. Then, suddenly, my thoughts come to a screeching halt. I can’t recall how long I’ve been swimming. I look around myself, and I see nothing. Even within the small area where my headlamp alights, it is pitch black. There is no sign of life; it’s as if I’ve been put out into space. The sheer pressure of the ocean I felt only moments before seems to vanish, and I know something’s wrong. This is not the ocean I’ve been diving in for decades. I make my choice, then and there: I have to resurface. I start paddling up. After a

few moments, I think I’m close. I can see the ship’s light beaming down at me, as if Mason knows I’ll be coming up soon. I freeze. Something isn’t right. Light… shouldn’t move like that. It’s…falling.

The whole ship is sinking, right next to where I swim. I look on in horror as it gets swallowed up by the bottomless pit of black below me. From the quick glance I get from it, the life raft is missing. I take a quick sigh of relief before panic sets in again. The need to get to the surface. I keep paddling for what feels like hours, but it all feels fruitless. Then, I see a light.

A small whisp of a light out in the distance…..it has to be a flashlight. I point my light back toward the light; it must be a rescue diver!

The light blinks. Dilates. Focuses.

I turn around and swim as fast as my body will let me. My lungs burn with each breath. I dare not look behind me, but I can hear it, hear the weight of the water it moves. Then, I see it, a faint blue light from the corner of my eye. I make a quick turn, just barely getting away from whatever that thing is, and end up in a cave system. Crystals line the edges, glowing that same soft blue color. It’s nothing like i’ve ever seen before. Whether it is my curiosity or something else, I start swimming down the cavern. Some sections on the side look much too tight and jagged to fit through, so I keep swimming forward, toward the glow. Then, in the back of my mind, I hear a voice.

“Closer…”

I look around for a moment, thinking someone is talking around me. When I look ahead once more, the glow has gotten stronger. One single crystal juts far beyond the rest of the crystals from the ceiling, giving off a massive amount of light. I swim toward it. As I get closer, I hear the voice again. “Touch the crystal, Torrian. Touch the crystal. Touch it. Touch it. TOUCH IT.”

I grab my head, shaking a little to try to get the voice to stop. I pat my head a few times, trying to focus, and I look down. My eyes lock on something right below the crystal. What I can only describe as a grouping of mushy, giant red tentacles waves underneath me. I take a better look and see them. An oxygen tank. A diving mask. A pair of neon green swim fins, all tangled within the red mass. I know who they belonged to without even having to think. I want to cry. I want to sit somewhere and get all the pain I’ve felt out of me, but I know I can’t. I turn around, swimming as fast as I can back through the cave system. But… the entrance is gone. What sits before me is a wall of crystals, all faintly glowing. Then, I feel it. The water is draining. I try to grab one of the crystals to secure myself and escape. My hand tightens against the crystal until it squishes in my palm, a slimy coating covering my fingers. It shifts in my hand. It’s pushing me back.

Angry

by Sarah Gallagher

Angry

Yes, I am angry

At life

At people

I am angry

For being forced to face dark truths

When I was far too young

For having to keep secrets that no child should ever have to keep

For being a scapegoat

The one who must stand tall and take all the blame

Or she is worthless

For being hated for walking away to find my peace

For being treated like I am a second choice

Disposable

Yes, I am angry

Haiku

by William Purdie

A ballad of cracks

As all pitchers turn their backs They all think, I lack

Until We Meet Again by

This is Just To Say

by Mattie Green

Inspired by William Carlos Williams

I have liberated the bunnies that were in your ICE box and which you were probably hoping would be forgotten

I don’t forgive you they were innocent so sweet and so pure

A Glutton’s Prayer

by Mattie Green

My pasta always told me That gluttony was a straight ruote to sin, And that when my earthly shell was no more, My soul will have had a farfalle from grace.

So please, heavenly pappardelle, Floured be thy name, Help me build a rotini, So that the temptation won’t leave An al dente in my resolve.

When I am tangled in the tines of life, Please help me elbow my way back to you, And while I fusilli, that these noodles are my enemy, I’m alfredo that this earthly flesh is weak. I know I knead your help to do the impasto-ble.

Please dough not abandon me, And keep me from coming to any carb. Ramen.

Who I Am

by Sydney Bisson

In the dark I learn to see Who I am and who I’ll be.

Fall

Through every fall I learn to stand, Stronger heart and steadier hand.

Before Everything Stopped by Bianca

Solórzano

September 2nd, 1783

War’s End

by Daniel Jackson

-General Hamilton Wilkerson’s Log

Firstly, we lost two men last night. Wiggins succumbed to hypothermia, and Bronswick was mauled by a bear. Despite this loss, we’ve made significant progress. We’ve pushed into a small town. From what I understand, it was called ‘Smyrna.’ I believe the name of ‘Wilkersonville’ will be a much better name. Those filthy Bluecoats have retreated from this town, and by the looks of our scouts, the whole area. We haven’t seen a single one in days. It surely means that we’ve succeeded in our efforts and taught those idiots not to pick a fight with the Empire!

September 3rd, 1783

-General Hamilton Wilkerson’s Log

It has been brought to my attention that the war has officially ended. We’ve lost.

Cinquain

by William Purdie

Mother

Protective, Formidable Loving, Unyielding, Sanctifying She loves her family

Unless by Mattie Green

One of my earliest memories was drooling on the couch, mouth gaping in focus as my mother repeatedly read The Lorax. I’m sure she may have found a different book far more novel, but I don’t think I was particularly receptive to her suggestions of reading something, anything else. By three, I was correcting her if she misspoke. “That’s not what it says, Momma,” and “You’re using the wrong voice.” I had committed the story to heart.

Eventually, my appetite grew to incorporate the deforestation fighting fairy’s of FernGully, Belle and her affection for Beast despite their differences, and The Secret Garden, where the most sacred sanctuary and relationships could be found in the most unexpected places. As a child, this evolved into me trying to save the unsavable, and mourning when I knew I was too late.

When I was about eight and playing among the pine trees, I found a blue butterfly with a broken wing. I coaxed it onto a leaf. Once I realized it wasn’t moving, I carried it delicately to my favorite tree, an especially tall, dark-barked pine. I buried the butterfly underneath the brittle, rust-colored pine needles, careful to mark its grave with twigs and gravel. It felt wrong to leave something so beautiful alone; the blessing it had been during life deserved more than abandonment.

A few years passed, and a friend and I were exploring a beach. Here we found a jellyfish that had been washed ashore. The water seemed to only come up close enough to kiss the creature cruelly before receding. We spent the better part of an hour using driftwood and abandoned sticks to delicately coax it towards the ocean’s edge. We worked to keep it wet. We wanted it to have a fighting chance. Eventually, we got it close

enough to the waves for the jellyfish to start being pulled gently back out to sea. Triumphant, we abandoned our sticks and wood and continued down the beach. We hadn’t walked far before we saw a father gleefully scoop the jellyfish into a bright red plastic bucket, depositing it on the sand at his children’s feet. They eagerly stabbed it through over and over before eventually leaving it pinned to the shoreline, baking in the sun. My friend and I walked in silence. On the way back, we paused at the jellyfish. It lay lifeless with footprints avoiding it on every side. “Why would anyone do that?”

Neither of us had a good answer. At thirty, I am still asking that same question on an almost daily basis. As I scroll through my feed, I come across a seemingly endless stream of depravity. The child I was at three, and at eight, and at eleven are all equally confused by how the world around us is unfolding. The child I was did not grow up reciting “and liberty and justice for all” to want anything less than just that for everyone.

I miss the ignorant optimism of my youth, an optimism that delicately cradled the promise of okay like a butterfly with a broken wing, unaware it will flutter no more. Standing here now, I see the fruit of the spirit rotting in the trees, while calls for strange fruit seem to grow ever louder. I sit on the couch with my mouth agape, reaching into the past for an answer I’ve never had. My thoughts

Future Present Past by Mattie Green

swirl into a Seussical rage as I can’t reach further into the past than my first awareness of my autonomy.

Enough is enough as elites huff and puff. They blow the houses down, but who can afford it? Not me or you or Jack and Jill or Adam and Eve, and don’t get me started on Adam and Steve. It’s a sin! they cry while they let children die. If the fruit of the spirit is not for feeding the least of these, then what is the point of the bees and the trees? The trees you are chopping as fast as you please. Enough, it’s too much! You’re extracting their “worth” and leaving nothing for those who inherit the Earth. The land of milk and honey is writhing with snakes as the greediest of these just takes and takes. The downfall of man sounds like Silent Spring coming, save for the explosion of rockets and the destroyers all running. It’s a race! To the moon, no, to Mars while we suffocate on Earth under smog-covered stars. We’re better than this, better

than hatred that fuels this fragmented division to be used as a tool. The tool that divides and splinters us merely until isolated alone we exist only fearfully. Anne, let me be perfectly Frank, I’m too old for this mess; I learned as a child not one is made less. And unless someone like us cares a whole awful lot, things aren’t going to get better, they’re not.

Whispers

by Sydney Bisson

The past still whispers late at night, But I keep walking towards the light

In Bloom

by Elizabeth Coleman

I am growing in ways that scare me. I no longer apologize for taking up space.

I refuse to shrink to fit expectations that were never made with my happiness in mind.

Growth is uncomfortable, but so was staying the same

Past Self

by Sarah Gallagher

I met my past self for coffee today

She showed up thirty minutes early

I showed up right on time

She was dressed up in tight clothes

Showing what she had

While I wore a baggy tee and jeans

She anxiously went and ordered a caramel iced coffee with too much cream and sugar

I walked up and struck a conversation with the barista

Ordering a London Fog

She looked nervous

Tugging her sleeves down and fidgeting with her hair

I sat back relaxed, watching cars pass by

She looks envious of me

I smile softly, peacefully

She asks if we ever got out of that relationship

I say “yes, we’re free”

She looks relieved

Almost like a weight has been lifted

I tell her I am proud of her for holding on

She cries as though she has not been told that before

We hug now

She finishes her coffee

I finish my tea

We part ways

I hope we can meet again for coffee soon

Mirror

by Sarah Gallagher

Looking into the reflective glass

A girl looks back at me

Younger, more insecure

Bags under her eyes

Those tired, broken eyes

Freshly chopped hair that ends right at her jawline

I blink

It’s me, the old me

A me I thought was gone

She looks back at me

Her eyes a look of tired shock

Almost as if to say

“You’re still here?

Brainstorm

by Daniel Jackson

My head slams down onto the desk, rattling the cup of water on the corner as it shifts ever closer to the edge. I take a long breath. I’ve been trying to think of anything to write for the last two hours, and I can’t find the spark I usually find. I’ve had ideas, but they always fall apart the moment I get to the second line of the writing. Yeah, write down another fit of depression and see how weird it sounds reading back. I realize quickly that it wasn’t going anywhere. I tap my forehead repeatedly, believing for a moment that I’ll hit a secret button that’ll kick my brain into creative overdrive. I look up, slowly, at the empty sheet on my screen. It’s taunting me. I twitch my eyelids. My cup decides that it does not want to endure the feeling of my suffering and plummets to the floor, water getting everywhere. I don’t even react for a second, only looking at the now vacant corner on my desk. With a long, arduous sigh, I get up, getting as much of the water up as I can with an old towel. Once I’m done, I start to reach out, to sit back into the chair of ineptitude. But I take a moment, my hand clutching the top of the chair. I take turns staring at the chair, then back to my laptop. Back and forth and back and forth. I throw my coat on, deciding to cool my head and step outside for a bit.

It’s quite cold outside. The moon is fighting to get through the clouds, but they keep it covered, becoming ever thicker as the wind moves more of the massive form around the dark night sky. I shiver a little, looking out to the woods, desperately looking for anything to write about. A fierce gust of wind blows, knocking my hood off from my head and freezing my ears. I quickly cover them, and something hits me. I take a deep breath, smiling, as I head back inside to my room. I shut my laptop, lying on my bed and closing my eyes for the night. Tomorrow is another day.

Where Light Touches by William Purdie

The Dark by Sydney

Bisson

Darkness

falls, but I remain, Holding hope inside the pain

The Ballad of Birch Hollow

by Mattie Green

Here I traveled growing weary, Searching with my eyes so bleary, Looking for a spot to merely, Make my short camp for a fortnight.

Suddenly circ’ling overhead, A feathered omen, wings outspread, Met my pale eye, I filled with dread, But then it soared into a light.

Intrigued I followed, yes I did, I quickly crept while staying hid, Having felt the Hollow forbid, Its secrets entering my sight.

Through thick brush I finally peered, The sight before me, truly weird, A swath of grass was newly cleared, Where mouse soldiers engaged in fight.

Small creatures came from near and far, And leered beneath the moon and star, Watching rodents act out their spar, While fighting mice gave all their might.

Eventually there came a whoosh, And creatures scurried into brush,

In awe I sat ‘til light’s first blush, Then fervently began to write.

While two weeks’ time I meant to stay, Birch Hollow had too much to say, For many moons instead I lay, The creatures’ keeper of their plight.

Mouse Soldier March

by Mattie Green

The night did arrive where rodents would strive, to secure their colony spot. Alone they must prove that it would behoove the collective if they stayed with the lot.

The youngest mouse fighter was quite a bit lighter than the others with which he’d compete. The summer brought drought, so he’d gone without, so his family could feast on buckwheat.

Rodent hoisted the shield he had plans to wield, donning gold gauntlets of grass. He swallowed his fear as dusk grew near and prayed for what would come to pass.

A kiss and a peck, arms flung ‘round fur neck, then mouse soldier began to embark. Mouse mother did cry, despite how she tried, for the outcome she feared would be dark.

Among the Undergrowth by Mattie Green

Without further a squeak, brave mouse crossed Black Creek traversing the fallen White Oak.

Attentive he trod over old fallen log careful lest he get a soak.

Once cross the felled tree, he hastily scurried to join the mouse fighter ranks. Entering the arena he wiped the patina of needle sword ‘cross his fur flank.

As larks sang overhead, our mouse filled with dread at the thought of what was to come. Cautiously he entered the space in the center and faced down a mouse round as a plum.

Without exchanging of words, they both drew their swords, the victor to be shortly determined.

But a talon-filled breeze and an untimely freeze, left only the plum mouse extermined.

Timeless

by Elizabeth Coleman

Some people don’t walk into your life— they recognize it. Like they’ve memorized your laughter in another lifetime. Time doesn’t matter when souls align. Weeks can feel like years, and years can disappear in a single conversation. You didn’t just find me. You reminded me.

I Tried Everything

by Elizabeth Coleman

I didn’t ask for a childhood that felt like walking through fire, or hands that stole my safety and left me with the blame.

I didn’t ask to become the kind of girl who learns to survive quietly, who laughs while hurting, who carries pain like it’s normal.

And I damn sure didn’t ask for the woman who called herself my mother to look at my truth and call it a lie. They say,

“Prove it.” Like trauma comes with paperwork. Like fear has a signature. Like my tears weren’t enough to count as evidence.

I tried to tell you. I tried to explain it in a thousand different ways.

Even recorded and sent it to you

I even tried to go on Steve Wilkos I was ready to stand in front of the world just to get the truth out, just to get my story heard, just to finally feel like somebody believed me.

But even when that didn’t happen, my truth didn’t disappear.

Because the truth doesn’t need a stage. It doesn’t need cameras. It doesn’t need applause to be real. What happened to me happened. And I shouldn’t have had to beg for the bare minimum to be protected, to be believed, to be held. Some people don’t believe survivors

because believing us means admitting they failed us.

So they choose denial. They choose comfort. They choose the lie that lets them sleep at night. But I don’t carry their guilt anymore. I am not a victim for your pity. Blush

I am not a story for your entertainment. I am not a rumor.

I am not a “maybe.”

I am the girl who lived and still learned how to love. I am the woman who was hurt and still chose to breathe.

And if you don’t believe me, that’s your burden to carry not mine. Because I didn’t break. I didn’t disappear. I didn’t become what they did to me.

I became proof.

I am the truth you tried to bury. I am the voice you tried to silence.

And I’m still here.

Not broken. Not defeated.

Not ashamed.

Still standing. Still breathing. Still surviving.

Roots

by Sydney Bisson

I bent like branches in the breeze, But roots held tight through memories

Kind-Hearted Woman

by David “Chopper” Campbell

Bm, A, G, D

Bm A

Where did all the hobos go G D

who used to ride the lines Bm

When the Big Rock Candy Mountain G D

Was the paradise in mind

Where did all the riders go

Whose land forgot the plow

When tin-cup saints and dust-road pilgrims

Moved from town to town

Chorus:

Somewhere there’s a kind-hearted woman

With a cartoon cat on the corner of her home

Hope to find that kind-hearted woman

And a riverbank where all the slow trains roll

Where did all the fence posts go

Lost in feet of dust

When Boes were hopping boxcars

And the rails withstood the rust

Where did all the jungles go

Whose fires glowed the tents burning on the edge of town out where the sidings bend

Chorus:

Somewhere there’s a kind-hearted woman

With a cartoon cat on the corner of her home

Hope to find that kind-hearted woman

And a riverbank where all the slow trains roll

Bridge: Em A

They say that you don’t catch a train, D G

You gotta let it take you

Em A D

Riding blinds to catch the high line west

Em A

When the bindle’s weighted down D G

And the Bulls just love to break you

Em A D

Shadows on the rail will tell the rest

Solo/jam

Where did all the chalkers go

Who wrote the riders’ code

A parallel America

The secrets of the road

Where did all the chalk that Washed away come lay to rest

Half a marker left on stone

Each day saying less

Chorus:

Somewhere there’s a kindhearted woman

With a cartoon cat on the corner of her home

Hope to find that kind-hearted woman

And a riverbank where all the slow trains roll

Biographies

Judges

Miranda Banks ’13 studied art at Ferrum and now has seven years of experience as an elementary and private art teacher; a decade of work as a professional artist painting landscapes, mixed media collages, crafts, and more; and a fervor for the arts and its enrichment of the human experience.

Beth Crow ’79 studied the arts at Ferrum, including photography, and earned a Master’s degree from Hollins University with a focus on photography. She and her late husband, former Ferrum College English professor Peter Crow, raised their children, Amy and Rob, in Ferrum. After twelve years teaching elementary school in Franklin County, she began serving as Episcopal Diocesan Youth Missioner in Southwestern Virginia and later in the Diocese of North Carolina. She now lives in Raleigh.

Aaron Fagan was educated at Hampshire College and Syracuse University. He is the author of five poetry collections, most recently Atom and Void (Princeton University Press, 2025). His poems have appeared in Granta, Harper’s, The New Republic, and The New York Review of Books, among others. Professionally, he has served the editorial staffs of Poetry and Scientific American; he currently works as senior editor for Gear Technology.

John Hardt enjoyed a career in higher education across more than four decades before his retirement in 2022, with most of the first half (1982-2002) in a variety of faculty and administrative roles at Ferrum College, where he came for a one-semester position and stayed twenty years.

Staff

Sydney Bisson from Sanford, North Carolina, is a freshman who balances academics with playing softball for the Ferrum Panthers. Being a student athlete pushes her to stay disciplined, work hard, and keep growing both on the field and in the classroom.

Mattie Green is an Appalachian artist, the editor-in-chief of Chrysalis, and the president of Arts & Media Club. She is graduating with her BS in Marketing and her BA in Graphic Design in May 2026. She is also the founder of Greenfinch Media & Graphics.

Katherine Grimes teaches English, coordinates the English program, chairs the School of Business and Technology, and serves as advisor to Chrysalis

Noah Harris from Appomattox is a istory major and a member of the wrestling team.

Daniel Jackson from Rocky Mount is a Biology and Environmental Science double major. He enjoys taking photographs of nature and likes writing about mental states. He hopes to write a collection of short stories.

Maeve McCulloch is a junior majoring in English, Psychology, and Political Science. She loves writing and values the arts. She was prompted to join Chrysalis due to the threat that AI and modern technology pose to the arts.

Other Contributors

Ashlee Brooke Adams, who goes by Brooke, is from Martinsville. She is majoring in Psychology and minoring in Criminal Justice. Some of her main interests are music, movies, art (specifically drawing), and hanging out with her friends.

Danny Adams is Assistant Director of Library and Archive Services and author of the books Dayworld: A Hole in Wednesday and Lest Camelot Fall, in addition to a number of short stories, poems, essays, and reviews.

Gabriel Alvarez is a Psychology major with minors in Business and Music. He is a tutor and a member of the tennis team.

Alex Amoyaw from Fredericksburg is studying Cybersecurity. He is a member of the Ferrum Football team.

Nancy Brubaker is associate professor of Animal Science and program coordinator of the One Health Minor. She is also a veterinarian.

Dave “Chopper” Campbell is assistant professor of English and Journalism, Journalism Program coordinator, and chair of the School of Arts and Humanities. He is also a member of the band Kerosene Willy.

Elizabeth Coleman is in her second year at Ferrum and loves having the opportunity to submit to Chrysalis.

Ashly Cutcliff, a junior from Dumfries, is studying Environmental Studies. She enjoys water color as a pastime; her love for it started in high school.

Hannah Dix is a senior Theatre major.

Sophia Fonseca is from Pembroke Pines, Florida, and holds a B.S. in Environmental Science from Florida State University. She loves to run, sing, and go on road trips. She began working at Ferrum as Work-Integrated Learning manager in October 2025.

Sarah Gallagher is a senior Music Performance major. She enjoys reading, writing, knitting, crocheting, and spending time with her dog. She also enjoys performing and playing instruments.

Stone Gibbs is a Media and Communication major. He DJs on the weekends and takes photos whenever he finds the inspiration.

Delia Heck is professor of Environmental Science and co-director of the Smith Mountain Lake Water Quality Monitoring Program.

Adrielle Malahi lives in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California. She is majoring in Horticulture and plans to become a farrier. She enjoys going out into nature and capturing its beauty.

Landon Marl is a sophomore from Sorrento, Florida, double majoring in Pre-Physical Therapy and Human Health and Performance with a minor in Coaching. He is on the baseball team. He and his family travel to countries around the world to SCUBA dive and do underwater photography.

Franklin Melton is a junior Media and Communication major and English minor who previously served on The Iron Blade. He is on the wrestling team.

Sasha Payne is a freshman from Dinwiddie County. She likes to do artwork as a small hobby, and she also likes to mud ride, fish, and care for animals.

William Austin Purdie was born and raised in Panama City, Florida. He is currently studying Health Sciences and plans to pursue a career in dentistry, with the goal of specializing in oral and maxillofacial surgery. He is on the baseball team.

Chloé Smith is a member of the cross-country and track teams. She enjoys expressing herself through art and feels that others can relate to certain art pieces, too.

Bianca Solórzano from Colombia likes unusual skies and everyday landscapes. She is on the tennis team.

Alison Vandervort is a Psychology major from Radford who loves art and nature.

Acknowledgements

The staff of Chrysalis thanks the judges for sharing their time and expertise and Jill Adams and Hannah Huffman for their help with this semester’s Open Mic Night and Reveal.

You can visit this and earlier Chrysalis magazines at https://www.ferrum.edu/campus-life/student-publications-andmedia-chrysalis/.

The staff and I are grateful for all your good work on the magazine, Mattie Green! Congratulations on your graduation!

Katherine Grimes

Ferrum College Spring 2026