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Chrysalis Literary & Arts Magazine Ferrum College Fall 2017

Editor-in-Chief: Kaitlin Roeper Advisor: M. Katherine Grimes

Section Editors Seleste Cowie, Poetry Sarah Shuford, Photography & Visual Arts Rachel Swyhart, Prose

Staff: Kathryn Bonner Lois Hope Brewer Alexis Hatcher Marquis Lee Precious Leonard Raven Walker Jasmine Williams Ashlynn Willoughby

Judges: Michael Chitwood, Poetry Whitney Scott, Poetry Dan Gribbin, Photography Taylor Scott, Photography Mary Bullington, Visual Arts Jamez Clements, Visual Arts Becky Mushko, Prose Crystal Shreves Naff, Prose

Table Of Contents Grand Tetons National Park, Wyoming, Sandy Pagans Leaves, Seleste Cowie Editors, Staff and Judges Pskov, Rachel Swyhart It’s Complicated, Anonymous The Tire Swing, Raven Walker Untitled, Ashlynn Willoughby Sally Sold Sea Shells, Raven Walker Bed of Rock, Jonathan Taylor Sandro, Rachel Swyhart The Crossing, Rachel Swyhart Daydream, Ashlynn Willoughby Otaku Life, Sync M. Angela and Kosmos, Rachel Swyhart Color Me Through Your Eyes, Ashlynn Willoughby Her, Naoka Eller Tranquility, Naoka Eller Pink Summer Flowers, Sarah Shuford Sunflower Sundaze, Anna Hayes “What If,” Sandy Pagans Many People Loved My Daddy, Christine Stinson Dancing Daisies, Nancy Kathryn Shoaf The Yellow Room, Anonymous Sneakers, Seleste Cowie Untitled, Quandel Johnson 12:43:51, Raven Walker Home, Kaitlin Roeper Center in the Square, Ashlynn Willoughby Please Tell Me, Xena Guzman Force of Nature, Rachel Swyhart Untitled, Quandel Johnson Auschwitz, Mary Stoudt Cleo, Rachel Swyhart Route 66, Sandy Pagans Untitled, Alexis Hatcher Farm Market Produce, Taylor Dudley You Tried and Succeeded!, Lois Hope Brewer Lights Will Guide You Home, Alyssa Herman Where I’m From, Sarah Shuford Homeward, Rachel Swyhart

Front Cover 3 3 6 6 7 9 10 10 11 12 12 14 15 15 16 16 16 17 17 18 18 19 20 20 21 22 22 24 25 25 26 27 30 31 32 33 34 34 35

Mamaâ€™s Tiger Lily, Jasmine Williams 36 Saturday, Raven Walker 36 Boopey, Rachel Swyhart 37 Lines, Ashlynn Willoughby 38 Semicolon, Kathryn Bonner 39 Seek, Ryan Riggs 40 Urban Jungle, Ryan Riggs 40 Untitled, Travin James 41 Untitled, Quandel Johnson 41 Forgotten Love, Seleste Cowie 42 Yellow Summer Flowers, Sarah Shuford 42 Wherever You Are, Kaitlin Roeper 43 This is Me!!!!, Rahquan Ross 43 Digby Beach, Nancy Kathryn Shoaf 44 Ocean City Sunrise, Jacob Knowles 45 Mountain Whale, Ryan Riggs 46 Untitled, Raven Walker 47 Santa Claus, Michaela Martinez 48 Childhood Dreams, Alyssa Herman 48 Collage, Ashley Wiles 49 I Am America, Kathryn Goettsch 49 Gentle Raptor, Taylor Dudley 50 Sleepy Conspiration, Nancy Kathryn Shoaf 50 Poptart, Keegan Sweeney 51 Baby Jane, Taylor Dudley 51 The Pencil, Raven Walker 52 Untitled, Raven Walker 54 Temptation, Anonymous 55 Invisible, Seleste Cowie 55 Golden Canadian Summer, Nancy Kathryn Shoaf 56 Gently, Rachel Swyhart 56 Pilgrimage to Canterbury, Kathryn Bonner 57 All of the Above, Quimir Heyward 58 Glitch, Zavion Thompson 58 Prep for Longing, Zavion Thompson 59 Smile, Logan Smith 59 Fixed Emotions, Alexis Venable 60 Untitled, Alexis Venable 60 Biographies 61 Untitled, Travin James Back Cover

Pskov, Rachel Swyhart First Place Photography

It's Complicated Anonymous First Place Poetry

I hate love with a passion. I hate love like wet socks. I hate love that lies. Disguising itself as happiness that doesnâ€™t last long enough. I hate love that you canâ€™t fight. The unconditional stuff. I hate love like thunderstorms. Like stink-bugs. Like earthworms. Like invasive ladybugs. I especially hate love that is complicated. Complicated like how I love love that makes you overthink. I love love like when it drizzles and there are no clouds to hide the sun and a bright sky. I love love like how cold the pool is when you first step in. I love love like the way the leaves move when the wind blows. I love love like waiting to see the first hummingbird of Spring, and the first Junebug of Summer. I hate love for having the power to not only take my breath away, but to take my entire heart too. I love love for allowing us into each otherâ€™s hearts, but I hate love for making it hurt so damn bad when you left.

The Tire Swing Raven Walker First Place Prose

The tire swing hung in our back yard for three years before Daddy cut it down. He hacked it down with a hand saw, limb and all, the year my sister died. The tire came off Daddy’s ’66 Chevelle. (The car’s old now, sitting in the barn behind my house, but it was almost brand new then). The tread was worn down to almost nothing, but Daddy said that was okay. Made it more aerodynamic, he said. We’d swing higher and faster, he told us. And we sure did swing fast and high. It was a good tire, and I couldn’t figure out why Daddy didn’t want to keep it on his car. Mama hated the tire swing almost as much as she hated the Chevelle. She’d watch us from the kitchen window, and if we went too high, she’d come get us and make us go inside. I fell off once and almost broke my arm, so Mama told Daddy that the swing had to go or she was. But me and Jacki loved that swing, and Daddy loved us, so he told Mama to pack her bags. She didn’t say much after that. She’d watch us from the window less and less, and we got braver and braver. The limb was a little high, but it was the strongest one, Daddy said, and the rope was a little short, but it was the only one Daddy could find at the time. Me and Jacki were too excited to wait, so Daddy said he’d find a longer piece eventually, but he never did. We had to climb on a milk crate to get on the swing. When Mama wasn’t looking (and she rarely did at the end), Jacki’d go as high as she could and squeeze through the hole in the tire to jump out. I was always too afraid to jump, and Jacki always called me a chicken. I was sick the day Jacki died. She wanted me to come swing with her, but there were blisters on my throat and the back of my tongue, and I just wanted to sleep all day. Jacki called me a baby, and I was okay with that. I never saw Jacki under that tree. I slept, with fevered dreams, through Mama’s screaming, the ambulances, the crying. (Mama told me many years later, when her hair and her mind had gone gray, that when she found Jacki, her head was twisted almost all the way around.) The day after the funeral is when Daddy cut the swing down. He threw the tire, limb, and rope all in a pile down by the creek and set them on fire. I cried the whole time, but I think Daddy cried harder. For a week after, every time I stepped out into the back yard, I could smell burning rubber. Mama and Daddy fought a lot after that. I’d lay in bed at night listening to Mama blame Daddy for putting up the swing and Daddy blame Mama for

not watching Jacki better. (I mostly just blamed Jacki for ruining everything.) After a while, the yelling stopped, but the sound of fists hitting flesh and glass breaking in the kitchen was worse. Then, Mama came and woke me up in the middle of the night. Her lip was bloody, and her knuckles were even more bruised than they had been at dinner. (We’d been eating off paper plates for a month because dishes were getting expensive.) We took two suitcases and the car and went to the only motel in town. The room smelled like mold and cigarettes, and I couldn’t sleep under the scratchy blanket. On the third morning, Mama said we were just gonna go home instead of running away. (She told me, right before she died, that she’d been hoping Daddy would come find us.) But instead of coming to find us, Daddy had tied one end of a rope to the left-over stump where the tire-swing limb used to be and the other end around his neck. The night we came home from his funeral, Mama set the whole tree on fire. I sat on our neighbor’s back porch in the same black dress I’d worn to Jacki’s funeral, watching the tree, then the yard, then the house burn. (The first time Mama accidentally called me Jacki, she told me that she hadn’t meant to burn the house down too, but that night on Mrs. Hudson’s porch, she’d been holding Jacki’s favorite purple sweater.)I graduated high school two towns over where Mama had used Daddy’s life insurance money to buy a little twobedroom house. After school, I got a job at the gas station and saved enough money to buy my own little house way back down a dirt road. The front porch is sagging, and the gaps in the boarded-up windows don’t do much to keep out the weather. (The tire was brand new when Old Henry flipped the tractor and his wife let me have it for ten dollars.) It’s not quite as aerodynamic as the old Chevelle tire, but it still goes fast and high if I kick off from the tree trunk and put my back into it. Sometimes, when I’m swinging high enough to see over the roof of the house, I let go and slide out of the tire. My hands and knees are scarred, and both of my ankles hurt whenever it’s cold or rainy, but for a few seconds while I’m flying through the air, I wonder if this great, weightless feeling is what Jacki felt right before she hit the ground for the last time. (Mama told me once, before she forgot that I wasn’t my sister, that life is kind of like gravity; you can try your best to get off the ground, but it’s just going to knock you back down, over and over again, until you’re eventually just too sick or too tired or too old to get back up. That tire swing, she said, was the worst thing that ever happened to her, but it was the best thing that could have happened to Jacki.)

Untitled, Ashlynn Willoughby First Place Visual Art

Sally Sold Sea Shells Raven Walker Second Place Poetry

Sally sold sea shells on the sea shore, Until the earth quaked for a minute, maybe more. The wave rose fifty feet, maybe fifty-four. Now Sally sells sea shells on the sea floor.

Bed of Rock, Jonathan Taylor Second Place Photography

Sandro, Rachel Swyhart Second Place Visual Art

The Crossing Rachel Swyhart Second Place Prose The Spiritual Entity Off the isolated Irish coastline, something dark and wraithlike thrashed about in the waves, fighting the strong current in a frantic endeavor to reach land. The water swirled around it like a tissue in a cyclone. Fighting, furious, the figure slashed the waves. They wrapped around it, watery hands clawing ravenously at its flesh. It landed one foot on the sandbar. With jerking movements it heaved itself through the crashing ocean, the hands falling away. When it finally reached the beach, it paused to catch its breath. Its head craned upwards. A sharp cliff rose at the end of the chilly beach, topped in thick green grass and towering far above the water. To the left a narrow strip of concrete wove a pathway to the top of the cliff. The human figure aimed loosely for the path, staggering across the sand. Its skin was as black as night, its eyes unseeing - like two marbles made of ice. They stood still in its sockets, yet still it seemed that it could see. With each step it took, the entire figure flickered in and out of sight like a bad TV channel. Each step caused the flicker to fade. Halfway up the narrow strip, clinging to the rocky cliff face, the figure became fully solid, and when it reached the top, it stood tall beneath the soft grey sky. All around it Ireland’s spring bosom opened wide. The day was cold and new, the sun just drifting beyond the horizon line behind thick cloud cover. All light was filtered, muted. The ground was a parking lot - an odd mix of ocean stones, sand, and pavement. A handful of houses dotted the horizon, and one narrow road snaked between the towering hills of grass and vanished into the distance. The wraith, expressionless, lifted its black head. A whiff of civilization filled its nose. Following it to the end of the parking lot, its unseeing eyes stared out at the world beyond. The Kindred Soul In the heart of the Brazen Head in central Dublin, gazing upwards with wonder-filled eyes, a young man stood plain and pale. With a vague smile on his face, an orderly appearance, and chestnut brown hair and eyes, he looked like something out of a forties magazine. The boy wasn’t entirely out of place in the oldest bar in Ireland; this city was a place for college kids and old men, and he seemed to be an odd combination of both. His body gave off a placid demeanor, apparently oblivious to everything around him. Suddenly, he was jostled by a passing waiter. “If you don’t buy anything, piss off, would you?” the waiter slewed in his thick Dublin accent. “Tá brón orm.” The young man’s lilt was Cork, and as he moved away the waiter gave him

Daydream, Ashlynn Willoughby

a funny look. They all learned Gaelic in grade school, but only the damned fools and book nerds remembered it. In a worse mood than before he’d spoken up, the waiter gathered the empty glasses on the outside tables and stormed back inside. Overlooking the Brazen Head, an apartment window had a window box brimming with lush marigolds. The cloudy sky gave no indication of sun for their faces. Spring was in full swing, and several apartments in the surrounding buildings also had flowers in their window boxes, but the marigold window was the only one ajar. The scent of fresh laundry came from within. As soon as the waiter’s back was turned, the plain young man leapt onto the side of the building. Muscles bulged in his slender limbs as they displayed immense strength far beyond someone of his stature – and he climbed three stories without breaking a sweat. He vaulted over the window box and through the window, landing as silently as a cat in the family kitchen. The Gargoyle From a shallow grave a hundred meters from Lia Fáil – the Stone of Destiny – a narrow slip of a girl in filthy stockings kicked her way out of the thick grass of Tara Hill. Her eyes flashed with fire. She had skin like a sun-kissed goddess, soft dark hair that rose from her head like a wild knot that was tangled with sticks and leaves, and the strongest straightest shoulders a girl could have. She could carry the whole of Ireland on those shoulders if she wanted to. She glanced at the heavens, and the clouds released a torrential downpour, bathing her filthy skin. Her eyes slid closed. The rain cleansed her of the earth and then followed her as she picked her way down the hill towards the tiny makeshift houses. A crowd of tourists rushed past her, up to their noses in funny hats, umbrellas, backpacks, and cameras. At the front of the group was a young local tour guide with short-cropped dark hair and thick eyebrows. His black eyes took notice of her through the rain. The girl ignored him. Her storm dissipated. When the sun broke through the clouds at last, she was the first thing its rays touched. It was a spotlight on nature. The sun crept across the grass and lit it emerald green, bringing with it a ripple of springtime wind. The leaves were shaken from the girl’s hair. The sticks fell at her feet. Stepping over them, she continued down the hill, refreshed. On her way past the tourist bus, she lifted a blue jacket from the tour guide’s seat and discarded her old clothes in exchange for it. It smelled like a healthy boy’s cologne. She zipped it up to her throat and lifted it to her nose to take a deep whiff. Old memories rose to the surface of her mind. Then, smiling, she stepped barefoot onto the road and began making her way to Dublin. At the top of the hill, the tour guide was nothing but a speck, watching.

Otaku Life Sync M.

Once it was an insult A degrading term, labeled on me Hung over my head, by someone who just didn’t understand Being told I have no life When in fact I lived though many. Existing on paper and screen In a way they became a part of me. I’ve lived through lives like no other, in unbelievable worlds. Worlds where Shinigami write in notebooks Mankind battles Angels using Mechs And Weapons and Meisters take souls. With $60 billion bounties dead or alive Ghouls and demons that roam dark alleys Mushi and Yokai that cannot be seen And Arbiters that judge souls. Death abounds in my worlds Characters that never stood a chance And when they die I either cheer or cry. Facing mindless giants Monsters that feed on blood And Parasites that take over brains. That’s only a small view into my life That they said I didn’t have. But the term has grown on me now And it suits my lifestyle well. Otaku, Otaku, an Otaku That’s what I am!

This poem was inspired by the fact that being an “otaku” for anime/manga was not a “popular” thing to be at my school, and as a result I was made fun of for it. The word otaku comes from Japanese culture (it was an insult), typically describing a person who is obsessed with aspects of popular culture leading to detrimental effects in a person’s social life. Currently the term now describes a new emerging branch of culture known as Otaku culture, being upgraded from an insult to a compliment.

Angela and Kosmos, Rachel Swyhart

Color Me Through Your Eyes, Ashlynn Willoughby

Her

Naoka Eller She’s a drop of honey in a cup of tea on a brisk summer morning. She’s the breeze slowly gliding through the trees on a fall afternoon. She’s the light gleaming from a campfire, gently kissing your skin. She’s the beauty behind every sunset sliding down the mountain before finally disappearing. She’s every wish you’ve made, every hope you’ve ever had, and every ounce of peace inside yourself. And that’s why everything makes sense with her.

Tranquility, Naoka Eller

Pink Summer Flowers, Sarah Shuford

Sunflower Sundaze, Anna Hayes

“What If” Sandy Pagans

What if we believed that our children and family members were borrowed? That the Lord has let us borrow them for an unspecified amount of time. Would we be more patient, more forgiving, more willing to say we were sorry? Would we dedicate ourselves to caring for these “borrowed” people and treating each moment with them as if it could be our last? Would our love for others look more Christ-like? What if we believed that our stuff was borrowed? That God could take back from us what He has allowed us to have at any point in time. Would we hold onto it as tightly as we do? Would we desire more stuff as desperately as we do? Would we be more willing to give it away to those who are without? What if we truly understood that it really isn’t “ours’ to begin with? What if we believed that our jobs/finances were borrowed? Would we understand that we are replaceable at our place of employment, that it would be able to go on without us? Our jobs are a gift. What if we understood that the money (no matter how much) we have is the Lord’s and not ours? Do we understand that the Lord who gives can take away?

Many People Loved My Daddy Christine Stinson

Many people loved my Daddy Good Lord knows, I loved him too Whiskey bottle killed my Daddy There was nothing I could do When I’s little, Daddy loved me, When I’s older, Daddy drank Watched my Daddy love his liquor Watched him suffer while he sank Daddy was my History, Showed me Culture, ran from Fate, Daddy showed me whiskey kills you Poison worse’n any snake Many people say they love me Good Lord knows, I love them too I won’t let that whiskey quicksand Do me like I seen it do

Dancing Daisies, Nancy Kathryn Shoaf

The Yellow Room Anonymous

I dream of a yellow room where the walls are covered with black faces Outside the window are Dogwoods And in the yard is a boy, or a man, with a key The key to success The key to my dreams The key to my heart And the key to the door that protects me from the outside Upstairs in a room surrounded by stars, Is a joy unlike the others The silence is both restful and loud enough to hear through the halls As I sit in the yellow room with black faces on the walls, I thank God I thank God for the Dogwoods, and the boy, and the stars, and the joy, and the silence, and the life He gave me before I found the room colored yellow, with black faces all over the walls

Sneakers, Seleste Cowie

Untitled, Quandel Johnson

12:43:51 Raven Walker

They have reservations for lunch, and they’re going to be late. The line at the bank is tediously long, and she’s been agitated since they walked in. Becky is rambling on beside her about people knowing that the bank closes at 1 on Saturdays and why would everyone wait until the last minute to come here? She gives all the necessary responses to ‘why does the bank close at 1 on Saturdays anyway?’ and ‘don’t all these people have anything better to do?’ But she doesn’t care about the useless conversation with Becky. Her feet hurt from the new shoes she’s breaking in (a please-keep-your-mouth-shut-Janette gift from Becky’s husband, as though she needs to be bribed), and the bank is stuffy and smells like body odor. She’s sure the hours of meticulously taming her curls will be ruined due to the humidity. There’s a kid crying somewhere in the line, and it’s grating on every single one of her nerves. She sees the ugly little girl with the freckles and the greasy hair put a ‘Position Closed’ sign in her window, but she doesn’t hear the people around her complaining or Becky cursing at the side of her face. She’s looking out the glass double doors where two men in ski masks are coming through the parking lot. Suddenly, she’s 18 again and she’s working as a bank teller in Chicago. She remembers the Friday afternoon that three men in ski masks came in. She thinks about the gorgeous white skirt and jacket that’d been ruined that day when she was forced to lie on the filthy floor. How jealous she’d been of Lori, who’d gotten to stuff the bags full of money and walked away at the end of the day with clean pants and no ruined shirt. She thinks about the new shoes she’s wearing and how the toes of them will surely be scuffed if she’s forced to the floor again today. The men with the guns are yelling at them, telling them all to shut up, even though nobody’s said anything. The guard gets pushed to the floor, forced into his own handcuffs, and she can’t help but notice how utterly useless he’s been. She stares down at her new shoes and really hopes she doesn’t have to get on the ground. The robbers are saying something to the man in line behind them. She can’t focus on what they’re saying because she’s sweating and she just knows she’s going to have terrible pit stains after this. One of the robbers shouts, and she jumps. The leather handles of her purse slide out of her damp palm, and it lands on the floor at her feet. Now she just knows that her sunglasses are broken. There’s a shot, and then the man’s on the ground and there’s a hole in his head, but she only looks at the stain spreading under her purse for a second, and then she’s staring at her shoes again. Becky is crying beside her, and her Gucci purse is ruined, and now they’re late for lunch. But at least her new shoes are okay.

Center in the Square, Ashlynn Willoughby

Home, Kaitlin Roeper

Please Tell Me

Xena Guzman

Please tell me why my hello means “come on over” Why my smile and my wave seem like a chance for you to get closer. Please tell me how my clothes somehow make me a tease and how the words Shaped throughout my mouth to you mean “take me please!” Please tell me why my walk seems to infatuate your mind. Are you later gonna blame me For the indecency in your eyes? How can I be a woman if you won’t let me be, How can I can I be a woman if your eyes, mind, and soul won’t set me free? I’m accused of being used because your yes became my no, I’m accused of being easy because I stopped you at hello. When I’m trying to be nice you mistake it for a flirt, and when I get angry your feelings Start to hurt. You think I’m playing games and playing hard to get, but all I’m really asking is For you to listen and digest. My body is mine to do as I please, simply because God didn’t make Us to fulfill your every need. We were pulled from your ribs, the part closest to your heart. We weren’t made because WE were lonely, we were made to help YOU in the dark. We aren’t pets, we aren’t things, we aren’t one-night adventures; we’re women, and we’re mothers, we’re sisters and pain Enders. Half the time we lie so you can gain success, half the time we suck it up so you can be at rest. We set your mind to be at ease, and do just like you ask So please tell me why our thank you is “hey, you got a nice ass!” When you overstep your boundaries, I get called out my name. Why is it when YOU Sleep around, I’m a ho at the end of the day? These double-standard rules make no sense at all. I’m just like please explain to me who the hell wrote them all! We’re tired of the names, we’re Tired of the lies, we’re tired of all your stupid shit–can’t you see it in our eyes! We don’t appreciate your rudeness, we don’t want your temporary fame, So how about the next time you see us you put some respect on our name.

Force of Nature Rachel Swyhart

Life is so wicked. On one hand women are treated like garbage and men think that the universe owes them everything, and people see responsibility as something for stupid people who aren’t smart enough to find their way out of it. And sometimes cruel people win and good people are defrocked in front of the whole world as heretics because in the end it’s easier to assume that they are evil than assess the root of why we put so much faith in evil itself But on the other hand … we’re made of stardust and salt water. We’re born reaching for the stars or diving into oceans of life and its meaning, and there is nothing more beautiful than self-awareness and peace, and family. I’m a mess. We’re all a mess. We waver through this life afraid to make mistakes or too stupid to see them coming, but deep down inside of us burns something insane, something frothing for competition and reverence and change, and that something makes us great. In my blood I can feel all my ancestors and the lives I’ve lived through them because sometimes I really can cook like an Italian and fight like an Irishman, and I’m smooth like a New Yorker but sweet and generous like a southern girl, and I can bang ‘em back like a Russian, feed ‘em like the Turks, play music like a Spaniard, write like an English poet, and mourn like a French lover because somewhere in me there’s a little piece of everyone I’ve ever met during my soul’s long stay on this planet. When I twirl in the kitchen, my feet remember what it was like to be on stage; my heart is drawn equally to the endlessness of the cosmos and the music of language. When I kiss a boy I have blessed him. When I love someone, they become a part of me. And when I sing, I know that God can hear me because it’s Him I’m singing for. But if you cross me, you, too, will realize why storms are named after people. Because I am not a girl and I’m not a human being. I’m a force of nature. And that’s so easy to forget. Untitled, Quandel Johnson

Auschwitz, Mary Stoudt

Cleo

Rachel Swyhart Dirty hands secured a hold on the crumbling concrete. Leaning all of his weight into it, a young man pivoted one leg on the edge of the window to hang over the street. He lifted a cigarette to his lips. In the fresh cold air, his glasses fogged. Smoke swirled around in his lungs. He coughed and choked, but still after a minute his lungs cleared and he took another drag. The sound of the soles of his shoes grinding concrete underfoot echoed into the open air. His eyes slid down to the street, the long plummet sending his head spiraling. He was feverish with anticipation and uneasy with vertigo. Jittering blood rushed to every inch of his body. He grinned into the smoke, and his body heaved. There was still dew on the swirling vines climbing down the building. Thick green leaves and flowering weeds clambered over one another for a drop of irradiated light to feed their hungry cells. The droplets on their faces were tinged yellow. The break of sunlight through the thick cloud cover fell over them in golden waves, and their chests puffed out with a deep sigh of happiness in the ruffle of the wind. Rubbing the condensation from his glasses, the young man soaked in the rays of sun alongside the swelling plants. The fingers of light faded away. Clouds consumed the sky once more, and the man took one last look at the dark silent buildings with their dust-covered windows and faded faces stretching forever in both directions before drawing himself back inside the parking complex. He turned and walked back the way heâ€™d come. Besides the bird song flickering around him, the only sound was his sharp footsteps rapping ancient asphalt. The path was worn. Litter, dirt, and weeds crowding around him closed his narrow way into a footpath leading from the wall that faced the street to a pile of debris mounded around the stairwell. He glided between two broken planks like a slip of paper. The sound of dripping water came from somewhere far above him as he eased down the stairwell in the dark with both hands trailing the walls, fingertips dragging along the uneven texture as he went, and he shivered as a droplet hit his neck and vanished beneath his collar. The ground floor was crowded with shattered cars and mounds of grass encroaching from the street. Flocks of pigeons flashed by. A tree grew from a crack in the sidewalk, towering into the sky. Even the foundation of the garage was infected with roots. But the young man did not go out into the waning day. Already heâ€™d been out to check his traps, to wash his face in the runoff, and to do any other number of things he did to survive in this strange place. He went now to another part of the garage itself. There a metal chair sat. It was placed, bolted to the ground, in the only area not congested with debris, and the young man finished his cigarette as he eased into it. His shoulders rolled, and he slouched. His lips pursed around the dead end of the cigarette butt. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he lifted his chin and allowed his mind to wander as he waited. When a blue screen floating in mid-air appeared before his eyes, like a halo of light in his world of horrors, he didnâ€™t even sit up. The brightness illuminated his

ebony skin until it resembled marble. His thick curling black hair took on the appearance of a glittering black bush alight with holy fire. Lazy eyes watched the loading bar fill up with digital water on the side panel, and, with a gentle tone, a blazing white face appeared. “Cleo,” the white voice said. “Status report.” “Cleopatra reporting in,” the young man – Cleo – replied, dripping with sarcasm. “Ass, normal. Otherwise, just a little tender after last night.” “Cleo, status report,” the white voice repeated without feeling or inflection. Cleo gave a deep sigh. He tossed the cigarette butt into a small trashcan alongside the chair. “Area perimeter finalized. No interference from other sectors. System glitches almost neutralized - water program needs to be reconsidered. It’s still showing bugs.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Besides that, sector health is increasing steadily.” A chime sounded. “Status report accepted. Estimated time of recovery for this area?” “Between 80-100 years, from present onwards.” Another chime. “Time of recovery accepted. Result falls within expected parameters.” “I thought so, too. Great minds and all that jazz.” The screen whirred gently. “Cleo,” the white voice said. “You will now please consider and state any pending urgencies or questions posed to our staff in the following five-minute recording. You will be given an interval of thirty seconds to decide on the proper response. Your message will be recorded after the following interval and audio signal.” A countdown popped up on screen. Suddenly, Cleo sat up. His black eyes unclouded and fixated on the center of the screen. He took a deep breath and held it until his chest ached. 30. 29. 28… Rubbing his hands on his thighs, Cleo licked his lips and quickly shook his head loose of the stupor it wallowed in. The humidity grew. He could feel the sun setting outside, crawling along his internal clock like a slug, leaving a trail of slimy unease in his chest. 10. 9. 8… The blue numbers pulsated as the countdown continued. Cleo took three deep breaths. … 3. 2. 1. Beep! “Hey!” Cleo laughed. “It’s me again, Donik. How are you?” His voice quivered uncomfortably in his throat. “Been a long time. Then again, I guess every time is a long time when you live like I do. Since now, uh… if my timing is right… it’s been almost 1,896 days since I saw another human – in person, of course, but… I ain’t gotta tell you that. We got magazines here, and I got a television with some VCR tapes, but they’re basically worthless. I haven’t got anybody to show it to. You know all this, but um, you know… I just like hearing the sound of my own voice. It’s not like I get to talk every day. You know.” Cleo got a flash of panic that his time was running out; he rubbed his face and leaned forward. “Donik, buddy, I uh… I love the cigarettes. Thank you, they’re perfect. You didn’t have to make them premium, I know you didn’t, but I… I appreciate it, man. That’s a solid thing you did for me. If you… if you could talk to them about getting us some face time, that’d be great. This isolation thing is old as shit. I’m

over it.” Cleo took a shuddering breath. “I wanna see somebody, Donik. Anybody would be nice, but I can only hope it’s somebody familiar when – if – it happens. Just… thanks. Thank you. I just wanted to let you know that I’m doing fine. Fine and well. Let me know how you are. I’d love to pull up a stool for you in the bar so we could chat, but… I sit there every night on my lonesome, and… for the life of me I can’t remember what it feels like to knock glasses together with somebody. Not anymore.” Another chuckle. “Come visit sometime. We can get a beer and talk.” Another chime sounded. Cleo’s heart sank. “Message recorded,” the white voice said. “Thank you for your input. Your message has been sent to your company attendant, Elder Donik. Your work for the recovery of Planet Earth is priceless. Your mission is vital to the survival of humanity. Continue your research in an orderly fashion, and please come back next month for your next report and query session.” With a flicker, the screen was gone. Cleo sat stiffly in that cold chair for a long time. The light faded. Mosquitos crowded the night air by the mouth of the garage, and the chorus of wild cries swelled. A coyote’s hungry howl pierced the uneasy symphony that sent shivers up and down Cleo’s spine. The cigarette box hung limp in his fingers. As he worked out the kinks in his back and rose to his feet, his scuffed boots made unnecessarily loud noises against the asphalt. His steps, too, were unbearably loud as he crossed the threshold of the garage and passed onto the broken sidewalk, headed home. Something heavy and scaly was writhing around Cleo’s insides. He hated that feeling. Soon, soon, he told himself. Dragging a hand down his face, he lifted a shotgun from behind a light post choked with bushes and kept up his steady pace, long legs making easy work of the dirt. It was a big city – and he was just one guy. Soon, soon… The lull of evening came on quickly. Each step made it harder and harder for Cleo’s legs to bear the weight of his feet. Shoes that were iron heavy grew more and more magnetized to the earth. No matter how much dirt he dragged through, how many miles of concrete lay between him and the Earth’s core, still he felt himself being dragged down into the depths. Soon, soon… he thought desperately. Half of the city was between him and the meeting point now; he wouldn’t be in that neck of the woods again until next month. Lifting his head, Cleo looked into the eyes of the rusted traffic lights with their three black faces always grinning, grinning back at him. He saw their vines, and he knew what lay behind those grins. Patting him on the back, the bushes of lilac nosed his shabby clothes with their purple petals and left drops of themselves among the detestable scents he carried with him. Grass bent out of his way as he stepped, flattened over time. Little footpaths just like that wound away in every direction. Today he didn’t follow any. Today, he was tired. So tired. He dragged his body when his muscles heaved and gave in. He swept through the narrow alleyways – one here, one there

– until he reached a little green door. Two broken steps down into the ground and he pushed against it, using his body weight to swing it open. It shut sharply behind him. A runway of ancient lights lit his way deeper into the earth as he followed the tunnel inside. The little room at the end of the hall was as black as pitch. Cleo closed the second door behind him, and more lights sprang on overhead. A narrow bedroom lay before him. Without the cool breeze swirling around in his lungs, suddenly he felt suffocated in his own skin. He pushed sweat off his brow. Peeling off his clothes as he went, he dropped them on the floor on his way to the bed, which squeaked loudly under his weight. He heaved a sigh. As much as his body wanted to sleep, there was something crawling around in his head – he couldn’t bear closing his eyes and being alone with it. His hair prickled with sweat. His heart thudded so slowly, so painfully in his chest, withholding the strength to get him up again. He got out of bed and down onto his knees.

Route 66, Sandy Pagans

Untitled Alexis Hatcher

I’m trying to find you. It’s almost like you’re hiding from me. I find little pieces of your complicated puzzle, But the hard part is putting you together. Who are you? When your friends aren’t around, Who’s that girl? When bae ain’t in your presence, Who are you? It’s in those lonesome moments before you fall asleep that you realize you were never awake. Birthed solo and leaving solo. For many centuries you’ve created who You are with someone else so much that you’ve seemed to lose your way of finding you alone. I dare you to find yourself. I dare you to be faithful to yourself Cuz if you don’t love yourself, no one will. Grasp the essence of your mind, let your body flow, Let your heart be whole and your spirit be overflown with self-love. If you don’t know yourself, How could anyone else get to know you? You’ll be like a ship without a sail, Stirring each direction but the one purposefully created for your life. Be alone some time. Enjoy your own company. For one day a beautiful face and soul Will recognize the beautiful face of your soul. And on that day, you’ll smile and Glisten on the inside, Because you know exactly who you are And someone finally so gets you.

Farm Market Produce, Taylor Dudley

You Tried and Succeeded! Lois Hope Brewer

BEST FRIEND tried to Rape me My BEST FRIEND tried to Rape me What was he thinking Nothing, he wasn’t thinking at all My

He thought that everything would stay the same He thought that nothing would change He thought that I didn’t

care

But I just didn’t bother to

He didn’t seem to notice that I was scared And at that moment was when I became deVIRGINized What he didn’t know Was that I wasn’t alone. He had tears rushing down his face While my daddy came to beat him out of hate Next thing you know all I see is red – from the all the out of me just running down my legs.

blood spilling

I’ve never seen my dad fight so hard for something that he People need to know their

ENOUGH. My

loved

limits and know when ENOUGH is

BEST FRIEND tried and SUCCEEDED to rape me.

Lights Will Guide You Home, Alyssa Herman

Where I’m From Sarah Shuford

I’m from the city From Chantilly to Washington D.C. Fairfax, Westfield All of the places that are close to me I’m from a townhouse, where the grass grows short Where you can see bunnies and squirrels, Skunks and mice I’m from adoption, and foster care With 3 siblings, my mom, and me being the middle child I’m from a diverse neighborhood, where my Hispanic brother fits in, Where he can speak Spanish with his friends, where everyone gets along Where all of my childhood friends were, now all gone I’m from high school football games, Standing with the “Purple Platoon” Cheering on the Chargers, covered in Purple and White Glitter With paint all over my body, singing “Chantilly Lace” With all of my high school friends, peers and acquaintances Where we are compared to “Friday Night Lights”

I’m from Northern Virginia, Close to D.C, but a place I am sick of A place I’ve known my whole entire life, But a place where I will be back soon

Homeward, Rachel Swyhart

Mama’s Tiger Lily, Jasmine Williams

Saturday Raven Walker

There’s a picture of Tahiti on the wall to your right. You’d worked here for nine years before you realized it was Tahiti. Your wife had brought home a travel magazine and pointed at a neat little row of bungalows extending out into clear blue water and said, “Let’s go to Tahiti.” You didn’t go, of course. You’ve never used a vacation day. You’ve never even called in sick. You’ve wanted to some days. This is one of those days. It’s a Saturday, and the bank is closing in 20 minutes. There’s a line of people woven through the velvet ropes, and they’re clearly agitated. There’s a chorus of irritated sighs when Shannon places the “Position Closed” sign in her window. She always saves her last 15-minute break for the very end of the day, and she takes it no matter what. You’ve never really liked her. The door opens behind you. The stupid, squeaky hinge draws your attention every time. You turn, and there’s a gun in your face. There are two men in ski masks, and they both have guns; you don’t. You have a baton and handcuffs. They’re yelling at everyone to shut up, and you start praying. You haven’t done that in 20 years, but it’s like riding a bike, Catherine says; you just have to go for it and you’ll remember how. One man holds a gun to the side of your neck while the other takes your handcuffs. As he cuffs you and forces you to your knees, you wonder, not for the first time, what you’re actually doing here. One of the men moves past you, further into the bank, and if you hadn’t been handcuffed you might have at least stuck your arm out and tripped him. But then he’d probably be angry, and you’d probably be dead, so better not. Pain explodes between your shoulder blades, and you topple forward, landing face down on the floor. Your first thought is about how filthy the carpet is, but then you realize how stupid a thought that is right now. You’ve got a beer gut from too many Sundays spent fishing and not enough time off for exercise. You feel like a turtle who’s been flipped onto his back, like you’re going to wobble here on the protruding dome of your stomach until somebody comes by and turns you back over. There’s a moment of panic, different from that which you felt with the gun pressed against your neck, where you’re sure you’re going to be trapped here with your face pressed against the stiff, musty carpet for the remainder of your life. And then it occurs to you that that might actually be true because you hear a shot and then a body hits the floor and you just know that you’re next. You know that, statistically, bank robbers don’t actually intend to shoot anyone. But this clearly isn’t statistically because you heard the shot and the thud and now there’s screaming and your face is still pushed into that awful, bristly blue carpet that you’ve stared at and hated almost every day for the last 29 years.

But then there are no more shots, and you’re not dead, and the panic wavers – just slightly, but enough for you to know that you could probably roll onto your side if you wanted to, or at least turn your head, but you don’t move. Instead, you lie there with your nose smooshed against wire-like threads, and you think about the calendar on your kitchen wall. This month’s kittens are in a basket. There are two of them: one white and one orange. You like the orange one best (it’s fluffier and has a purple bow around its neck), so you’ve been marking the days off with an orange marker. You bought the calendar at the beginning of the year. You circled December 23 several times in several different colors. You were supposed to retire in March, but you told them you’d stay until Christmas. You hear quick footsteps and see two pairs of scuffed Nikes run by in your peripheral and you think that it’s strange that they’re wearing Nikes with business suits. But, then again, you imagine it’s hard to run in dress shoes. Then there’s the squeaky hinge again, and the door bangs shut behind you. Relief drains the tension right out of you, and you’re not thinking about dying or the throb in your wrists or the carpet burn on your chin. You’re thinking about getting a fluffy orange kitten and spending Christmas in Tahiti.

Boopey, Rachel Swyhart

Lines, Ashlynn Willoughby

Semicolon Kathryn Bonner

A semicolon is used in a place Where a sentence could’ve ended With a period But continued. People say “They took their own life” Really? Whom did they take it from? Not from themselves – They aren’t around to miss it. It’s taken from the others The ones who love them The ones who are left behind The ones picking up the pieces That’s whom the life is taken from. Stay away from your life Don’t take it It is not your own. If your life is too much Then pass it off Let others help you carry it Let me help you carry it. But above all else, Do not take it from them. Your life is not yours to take. Place a semicolon, Not a period.

Seek, Ryan Riggs Urban Jungle, Ryan Rigggs

Untitled, Travin James Untitled, Quandel Johnson

Forgotten Love Seleste Cowie

Love is a word I told you I didnâ€™t take lightly and you preceded to tell me that you didnâ€™t either. When I told you I was falling hard, you told me you were falling harder. I started to feel that my own insecurities were just that. Insecurities. You told me that I had nothing to fear because I was the only one you wanted and you managed to manipulate me into believing you. Trusting you. But what about her? What about the girl you were with time and time again when you insisted it was nothing? Was she a pawn in your little game too? Or was it just me? Well congratulations because here I am, Standing here alone. I trusted you, Believed you, And most importantly, I loved you. And you let me down. Yellow Summer Flowers, Sarah Shuford

Wherever You Are, Kaitlin Roeper

This is Me!!!! Rahquan Ross

I’m so tired of this All I can do is this Because of this I am this I won’t be defined by this I am more than this And I can’t see myself being less than this

Digby Beach, Nancy Kathryn Shoaf

Ocean City Sunrise, Jacob Knowles

Mountain Whale, Ryan Riggs

Untitled, Raven Walker

Santa Claus Michaela Martinez

On a cool December day at the River Ridge Mall, Santa Claus made me not only believe in him, but also believe in everything. Every year (in December), my mom would take me to the mall to see Santa Claus. The line was always long, with the usual crying bundled-up kids. I was under the tree. My belief in Santa was slowly fading until that very day. I walked up to Santa and sat on his lap, and thatâ€™s when he told me something that made me believe heâ€™s real. He showed me a ring of old brass keys. He said that they were keys to his house, the workshop, and the stable for his reindeer. Then he pointed to the window high above us, and I saw a shadow move above the window. He said that his reindeer were up on the roof. I was shocked by this example of magic. In this moment, Santa truly made me believe in him, and he also made me believe in the possibility of a world full of mystical beings.

Childhood Dreams, Alyssa Herman

Collage, Ashley Wiles

I am America Kathryn Goettsch

I am a black man, yet you don’t treat me as such. I am the “faggot” who sits behind you, the one whom you make the butt of your jokes. I am undocumented, and you salute the flag with me, smiling. I am these people you stereotype, for I have the voice that you took from them. I have the voice that can say anything, but they are forced into their bubble. They fight through life, just trying to go unnoticed because when you see them, you stop and point, yet you don’t do that to me. I am these people, the ones who make America so great, and though you suppress their voice,

you will hear mine.

Gentle Raptor, Taylor Dudley

Sleepy Conspiration, Nancy Kathryn Shoaf

Poptart, Keegan Sweeney

Baby Jane, Taylor Dudley

The Pencil Raven Walker

The pencil hits the ground and bounces one, two, three times before coming to rest under a desk in the next row. Every impact is a gunshot, and you sit, frozen, waiting for the fire to end. Your knuckles go bloodless where your fingers grip the edge of the desk. You can feel the heat rising in your face. Your chest is tight. Your skin is stretched too thin over trembling muscles. You feel eyes crawling over every inch of your body, hear the shuffling of clothes and the shifting of bodies as people turn to look. Why you? Why your pencil? Why did this graphite grenade roll off your desk at that one, deafening moment of absolute silence? The scratch of calcium carbonate on slate, scoring out chalk-dust equations, has never been so welcome. You hope the screech of quadratic formulas pulls the eyes off you, to the blackboard, to their notebooks, to the wall, the ceiling, the floor. Anything that isn’t you and your too-small skin and your cramping fingers. You know the line of sweat over your top lip is shining in the fluorescent lights, and you know there’s a stray hair sticking up at the back of your head. You know that anybody looking at you can see every little flaw. They can see the pimple on your chin and the way your nose is just a little wide and a little crooked. They can see that your face is too round, your ears too big, the skin under your eyes too baggy. Your face is hot, and you know they can see that, too. The click and drag of chalk on stone continues, and you feel fewer and fewer eyes on you until no one cares about your oily forehead or your wayward pencil anymore. The tension slowly eases out of your body. Stiff fingers release the edges of the desk, leaving behind imprints lined in sweat. Your back hurts from your rigid, straight-spined posture, but you don’t dare move. Your notebook lies blank in front of you. The chalkboard is full of little white combinations of numbers and letters that you’ll never remember. You need a pencil. You need to write down these equations before they’re gone forever. You look at your pencil, under the desk in the next row, and it looks one hundred miles away. You could probably reach it if you slid down a little in your seat and stretched your leg, grappled a little with your toes. But you can already hear it: the scrape of chair legs against the floor, the slide of denim against plastic, the squeak of rubber against tile. Your shirt will probably ride up a little at the bottom, and everyone will see how pale and thick your sides are. And everyone will see because you know everyone will look.

You could ask the girl sitting above your pencil to hand it to you. She has a long, red braid and a dense smattering of freckles. She is entirely unintimidating, and you are absolutely terrified of her. (There’s a pen in your bag, you know, but zippers echo off cinderblock walls, and nylon rasps against shuffled textbooks. Not to mention the canon-click of spring-loaded ink cartridges.) So you sit silently, pencil-less, and convince yourself that the formulas aren’t bouncing off your forehead and flying off into space. You tell yourself that you won’t forget the little doodles that usually line the margins of your page (and later become part of comic strips no one will ever see, but you love anyway). But they’re flowing out over blank paper, where they can’t stick and instead roll away to the dark space under the bookshelves; little gray, bug-eyed men and women forgotten with the dust bunnies and candy wrappers. Witty dialogue lies forgotten with pen caps and scrap paper. You try to bore them into your prefrontal lobe and maybe, hopefully, they’ll make it into your cortex. You think you may be half way to remembering everything etched out on the blackboard, but the bell rings. An eraser comes down, and those calcite equations are smeared across sedimentary shale and gone, dusty little mathematical formulas captured inside felt and completely erased from your short-term memory. There’s a stampede of zippers and feet and sliding chairs around you, but you don’t move. And then you do, because people are looking at you, sitting there, pencil-less, in front of your empty notebook. You stand, making sure your shirt is adjusted and your pants aren’t sliding down. You shove your notebook into your bag. The girl with the braid and the freckles is standing above your pencil. Her dress is twisted, just a little, and her glasses are slipping down her nose, but she’s shoving books in her bag like none of it matters. You could go over, get your pencil, and ask to borrow her notes. It would be so easy. But you stand there at your desk (always in the last row, because sweaty elbows bumping into you make you feel sick, but you’re never out of the way fast enough) until you and the note-bearing pencil guardian are alone in the room. She turns to leave, and you can’t be the last one in the room, you just can’t, so you make for the door, leaving behind your potential salvation and your woodencased ruin.

Untitled, Raven Walker

Temptation Anonymous

Lust is a real thing. A genuine, corny, awkwardly nervous, sweet thing. And if your relationship with God is what tempts me most, then Lord forgive me. God is obviously using you in many ways, and I will not say it is He who tempts me, but test me He obviously will. Wanting to feel just your fingers, cheeks, warmth mixed with mine is both innocent and naughty, all in one. I lust after not just your physical. I crave to know what goes on in your head the most, for you are hard to read, and I am beyond curious. You are mighty and greater than yourself. You are a sign sent seven times over. You are a reminder that storms do end at some point—end somewhere. You are a lesson and a blessin’.

It is all the temptation.

Invisible Seleste Cowie Sometimes I feel invisible. Like you are looking right at me but aren’t actually seeing me. We play, we joke, we laugh, we cry, But when someone else comes along, all of that goes away. Like all those memories we once shared meant nothing. I know you see me, So why aren’t you looking at me? Why aren’t you hearing me? Acknowledging me? People often say that if they could pick any super power, they would pick invisibility. But what’s so fun about being invisible? Because standing right next to someone who doesn’t even know you’re there doesn’t seem fun to me. It just feels like I’ve trapped myself in a bundle of negative energy and I can’t get out. Well today, I’m breaking free And you will see me.

Golden Canadian Summer, Nancy Kathryn Shoaf

Gently Rachel Swyhart God I just want to be soft with you, I want to be weird and insane and serious, I want to take the world by storm with you, Lie with you, touch you softly In all the places where they hit you, Heal all the sore places, all the hard ones, And make you feel so much better, Like you make me feel, without even trying.

Pilgrimage to Canterbury, Kathryn Bonner

All Of The Above Quimir Heyward

The time he comes is when you really think he’s done with ya. The things I had to do to survive, see that’s what turned me into a man and made me realize to appreciate. The life that was destined for me, I pray to God please tell me when it’s ready for me. Because I do remember all the times when I was left alone with tears running down my eyes. Mom and Dad wont around and that’s what made it hurt, that made me feel I wont important. That’s what made it worse. In this pain I started smoking things to slow it down, thinking this would make my problems never come around. I stayed high every day just to get away, even stole from my aunt which hurts me to this very day. Looking at my other friends and all the things they had only made me feel embarrassed … I was feeling bad. To make it worse the time I started acting out, I was 16 when my aunty kicked me out the house. But I still love her, I don’t judge her. That’s the way it is. So much pain up in my heart, but I just had to live. I moved up in my mother’s house and I was raising hell, and my spirit was defeated, you could really tell. The very first night I seen a young man shot up, and within 48 hours I was locked up.

Glitch, Zavion Thompson

Prep For Longing, Zavion Thompson

Smile Logan Smith

You see that smile? Yeah it's fake. Last night she cried and laid awake, Wishing and hoping that maybe someday she'd have the nerve to run away. Verbally and physically extremely abused, her delicate soul has been mis-used. She blames herself and punishes too. All the pain she hides if only you knew. That smile she wears is a mask, you see, and that girl over there, well, it's me.

Fixed Emotions Alexis Venable

I broke myself trying to fix somebody else and was left to fix myself But I only made things worse because I was left with a broken heart My mind wasn’t thinking right. I should have known from the start that you weren’t being true to me And all I ever wanted was to give you my heart. Now I’m broken down, my bright soul is so dark My smile is shining bright because that one thing you love so much, I just so happened to leave my mark. Now that I’m free from the pain you caused My body, mind, and soul can grow like a tree All the crying, all the apologies I said are paused. My love and passion are now set free I can finally love myself again Oh yes now it’s all about me. People always tell me my body is a temple I’ll find love someday, love is simple My heart is still fragile so I need the next person to be gentle.

Untitled, Alexis Venable

Biographies Kathryn Bonner from Mechanicsville is working toward a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in Theatre Arts with an emphasis on Acting and Directing. She loves to perform and sing. She is a member of the Boone Honors Program and Alpha Psi Omega. Lois Hope Brewer from San Angelo, TX. Her major is Health and Human Performance. She loves to write poems, do hair and makeup, and take photographs. Magale Burris from Shelby, NC, is majoring in Business with an emphasis in Sports Management and minoring in Business Administration. He enjoys playing football and working out. Michael Chitwood’s poetry and fiction have appeared in The Atlantic Monthly, Poetry, The New Republic, Threepenny Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, Field, The Georgia Review and other journals. His books of poetry, essays, and short stories include Salt Works, Whet, The Weave Room, Gospel Road Going, From Whence, Still, Hitting Below the Bible Belt, Finishing Touches, and Living. His new poetry collection, Search & Rescue, is due out next spring. Jamez Clements graduated from Ferrum College in 2015 with a degree in Graphic Design and a minor in Philosophy. He taught at Loudoun Art, then worked with a nonprofit organization called City Year (AmeriCorps) in a low-income school in San Jose. He is enrolled in a teacher credential program at Loyola Marymount University. Seleste Cowie is a Theatre Arts major with an emphasis in Acting and Directing. She is a member of Improv and Sigma Tau Delta and president of Alpha Psi Omega. Taylor Dudley from Franklin County plans to major in Environmental Science or Agriculture with a specialty in Forestry and Wildlife. She loves swimming, playing with her sheep and pigs, and helping people. Naoka Eller from Saltville is a Health and Human Performance Major. Daniel Gribbin is a former Ferrum College English professor and former advisor of Chrysalis. He and his wife live in Florida, where Dr. Gribbin is a photographer, musician, and composer. His bird photography can be seen at www.danbirds.com. M. Katherine Grimes is an English professor at Ferrum College and advisor to Chrysalis. Xena Guzman is a Political Science major and Criminal Justice minor from Fairfax. She loves to read, write, and listen to music. She has played tennis for Ferrum. She hopes to become a criminal and entertainment lawyer. Alexis Hatcher from Richmond is majoring in Religion with a minor in Psychology. Her interests include Jesus, fashion, dance, poetry, art, nature, love, and wisdom. Alyssa Herman lives in Woodbridge and has a double major in History and Theatre Arts, with an emphasis in Acting and Directing. Her minor is Philosophy. Some of her hobbies are martial arts, photography, and hiking. Quimirr Heyward from Richmond is majoring in Media and Communication and minoring in Business. His interests are music, poetry, art, audio engineering and music production, reading, helping others, knowledge . . . and pretty women. Anna Hayes from Claudville is majoring in Agricultural Sciences with a Horticulture emphasis. She volunteers with the Patrick County 4-H program and the Red Bank Ruritan Club. She enjoys playing music, making art, gardening, playing video games, and playing with her cats. Travin James is a Computer Information Systems major from Richmond. Quandel Johnson is studying Graphic Design. A freelance photographer from Fredericksburg, he is currently producing a short film and working with friends on a magazine issue. Antavian Leary from Virginia Beach is majoring in both Philosophy and Psychology and minoring in Art. His interests are wrestling, sketching, and teaching. Marquis Lee from Sterling is majoring in both Media and Communication and Theatre Arts with an emphasis in Acting and Directing. Journalism is his a minor. He is a member of Lambda Sigma. He likes to watch horror movies. Jacob Knowles is majoring in Social Studies with a minor in Political Science. He enjoys reading, playing music, and traveling. Precious Leonard from Newport News is a Theatre Arts major with an emphasis in Acting and Directing. She likes to run lights for theatre productions and sing with Collegiates. Michaela Martinez from Altavista will graduate in December 2017 with a Mathematics major and an Art minor. She loves cats and working with clay on the pottery wheel. Jennifer Moser is an Art major from Gretna and might add a minor in Teacher Education. She loves drawing, classic rock music, and animals, especially cats. Devin Munn from Woodbridge is a Social Work major whose interests include photography, painting, drawing, and reading. Becky Mushko, a member of the Virginia Writers Club, taught English in Roanoke City Public Schools and at Ferrum College. Her work has appeared in A Cup of Comfort for Writers, the Anthology of

Appalachian Writers, and other publications. Her fiction includes Ferradiddledumday, Stuck, Patches on the Same Quilt, Miracle of the Concrete Jesus & other Stories, and Them That Go. Having won the Sherwood Anderson Short Story Contest and Lonesome Pine Short Story Contest many times, she is best known for wins in the Bulwer-Lytton Bad Fiction Contest. Her web site is http://www.beckymushko.com. Crystal Naff graduated summa cum laude from Ferrum College with a major in English. She has taught at Ferrum as well as in public schools and community colleges. An insurance sales agent at Chas Lunsford Sons, she lives with her husband and children in Callaway. She has served on the Franklin County School Board and volunteers with the International Heifer Project / World Hunger Auction, Relay for Life, Miss Virginia Organization, and public school activities. Sandy Pagans from Penhook is a Biology major and an academic secretary in the School of Arts and Humanities. Besides photography, her main interest is her grandsons. Ryan Riggs, who lives in Blue Ridge foothills, is a freelance illustrator with degrees in art from Cleveland State and Heidelberg Universities. He is also Ferrum’s head cross country coach and assistant men’s wrestling coach. Kaitlin Roeper from Pittsburgh is an Art major with an emphasis in Graphic Design. She is editor-in-chief of both Chrysalis and The Iron Blade. She likes to hang out with her cat, drink wine, watch Friends, and shop. Rahquan Ross from South Boston is working toward a degree in Pre-Professional Health Science with a Pre-med emphasis; he wants to become an obstetrician-gynecologist. His interests include playing sports and listening to music. Taylor Scott is a 2016 Ferrum College alumna. She majored in Studio Arts with an emphasis in Photography and minored in Psychology. She was president of Ferrum’s chapter of Kappa Pi and vice president of the Art Club. Taylor is a Customer Service Specialist for Vistar Eye Center in Roanoke. She is working on a photography blog/vlog recording her treks on the Appalachian Trail. Whitney Scott is a member of Ferrum College’s 2011 class. She wrote the first thesis in the Boone Honors Program and earned an English degree. She earned a Master of Arts in English and a certificate in Women’s and Gender Studies from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. She helps at-risk college students navigate the complexities of higher education. She is an avid reader and cat enthusiast. Nancy Kathryn Shoaf from Davie County, NC, is a freshman majoring in both Agricultural Science and History. She is on the swim team. She enjoys hiking, fishing, baking, playing the fiddle, and working with her dairy goats. Sarah Shuford from Chantilly is a Media and Communication major and a Journalism minor. She hopes to become a professional photographer. She is an R.A. and works at the YMCA. Logan Smith from Franklin County plans to major in Horticulture and minor in Business. She finds that poetry is a way for her to express herself. Christine Hall Stinson teaches accounting at Ferrum College. She also writes prose, poetry, and lyrics and plays music. Mary Stoudt is a Political Science major with a Journalism minor. She is involved in The Iron Blade, concert choir, and concert band. She enjoys spending time with friends, family, and kittens. Keegan Sweeney is a Political Science major from Spotsylvania. She likes to take pictures, play the piano and guitar, and bake. Rachel Swyhart from New Jersey is majoring in both English and Russian with a minor in Art. She spent the past year in Russia. She loves art, photography, writing, and music. Sync M. is an Environmental Science major from Council. His interests include reading manga and watching anime, playing Pokémon and Yu-Gi-Oh, and studying philosophy. Jonathan Taylor from Dinwiddie is a Health and Human Performance major with a Teaching emphasis. He wants to be a gym teacher. His hobbies include football, guitar, photography, and eating Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Zavion Thompson (Ink) from Richmond is majoring in both Art and Media and Communication. He is a photographer and a magician. Alexis Venable (Smiley), from Baltimore, is majoring in Health Science and loves poetry and art. Raven Walker from Franklin County is majoring in English and minoring in Russian and History. She enjoys reading, writing, hiking, and kayaking. Jasmine Williams from Richmond is a Theatre Arts major with an Acting and Directing focus. She is a member of Sister4Sister and Lambda Sigma Honor Society and secretary of Alpha Psi Omega Honor Society. Ashlynn Willoughby from Wilmington, NC, is a Liberal Arts major with minors in Teacher Education and Art. She is a member of the volleyball team and loves to travel.