CHRYSALIS
literary & arts magazine
FERRUM COLLEGE spring 2016
CONTENTS
Donna, Ivy Rivero, Marker.....................................................................................Cover Wanda, Ivy Rivero, Marker.....................................................................................Cover Untitled, Jackson Barnes, Manipulated photography...................................Title page Dreamer, Myles Francisco...............................................................................................6 Snowy Night, Crystal Wright..........................................................................................7 Snowy Road, Kala Brubaker............................................................................................7 Winter on Campus, Katherine Sessor............................................................................8 Hear my voice, Sianna Burgos-Altman.......................................................................10 Old SocKKKets, James Wilson.....................................................................................11 Cinderella: Undergrad, Ivy Rivero...............................................................................12 Looking on the Bright Side, Jackson Barnes..............................................................13 Liminal Spaces, Raven Walker......................................................................................14 Study in Men, Rachel Swyhart......................................................................................16 Chasing Dreams, Tana Heath.......................................................................................17 Burning Skies, Galdina Prado.......................................................................................18 Home, Briana Marchese................................................................................................19 Window Pain, Taylor Scott...........................................................................................20 Looking for Love, Quimirr Heyward..........................................................................21 Temporary, Rachel Swyhart..........................................................................................22 Western Sky, Corey Smith.............................................................................................23 The Hills Are Alive, Emily Anderson..........................................................................23 Letter from a College Student, Jordyn Propst............................................................24 1912, Myles Francisco....................................................................................................26 IMG_3786, Ivy Rivero...................................................................................................26 Reaching Skyward, Kathleen Boxley............................................................................27 A Letter to My Father, Galdina Prado.........................................................................28 Lost Memories, Kiara Stewart......................................................................................29 Hidden Behind a Broken Smile, Galdina Prado........................................................29 Harvesting Nectar, Maegan Tate..................................................................................30 Sunshine, Myles Francisco............................................................................................30 Angel, Myles Francisco..................................................................................................31 Water Droplets, Maegan Tate.......................................................................................31 Hidden Mickey, Brett A. Cypress.................................................................................32 More than a Map Dot, Billie Quesenberry.................................................................34 Where I Am From, Maegan Tate.................................................................................35 At the Beginning, Rachel Swyhart...............................................................................36 Spring, Brett A. Cypress.................................................................................................39 Thoughts on Paper, Jesse Franklin...............................................................................40 Sweet Disposition, Kaitlin Roeper...............................................................................40 Cloudy City, Kaitlin Roeper..........................................................................................41 Make a Wish, Galdina Prado........................................................................................41 Under the Sea, Briana Marchese..................................................................................42 Life’s a Beach, Emily Anderson....................................................................................42
Sea Turtle, Kala Brubaker..............................................................................................43 Light the Way Home, Kathleen Boxley........................................................................43 the flat, Myles Francisco................................................................................................44 Nightmares of the King, Katherine Sessor..................................................................45 In Black & White, Heather Brown...............................................................................46 Lantern and Fruit Still-Life, Katherine Sessor............................................................47 Paul Walker, Tana Heath...............................................................................................48 One Like the Actor, Deniz Isik.....................................................................................49 loneliness, the lioness said, Michael Gresham...........................................................50 Alak the Elephant, Tana Heath.....................................................................................51 Accendo, Raven Walker.................................................................................................52 Up in the Trees, Kaitlin Roeper....................................................................................53 Forgiving Fog, Myles Francisco....................................................................................53 The Fall, Lorrie Ellis.......................................................................................................54 Brightwell’s Mill, Galdina Prado..................................................................................56 Mabry Mill, Maegan Tate..............................................................................................57 The Way I Do, Marybeth Bond....................................................................................58 Ruined Is the Path to Transformation, Jackson Barnes............................................58 I Am Extraordinary, Tyreke Washington....................................................................60 Betrayal, Galdina Prado.................................................................................................62 Vomiting, Ivy Rivero......................................................................................................63 What do you see?, Michaela Martinez........................................................................64 That Coiled Apparatus, Morgan Julian........................................................................65 Lost in Memory, Trenton Savage-Williams................................................................66 Tobio, Rachel Swyhart...................................................................................................66
editors
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Ivy Rivero ART & PHOTOGRAPHY Kaitlin Roeper POETRY Sianna Burgos-Altman PROSE Galdina Prado
staff
Emily Anderson Myles Francisco Mallory Hall Quimirr Heyward D’on Jones Morgan Julian
CREDITS advisor
Dr. M. Katherine Grimes
judges
ART Brian Hart ’14, Sandy Southard Kalamaris ’04 POETRY Julia Hayes, Whitney Scott ’11 PROSE David Campbell, Rol Walters PHOTOGRAPHY Brock Bakos ’01, Katie Porter Lauver ’08
Snowy Night
Crystal Wright
2nd Place Prose
Dreamer
Myles Francisco iPhone 6 1st Place Photography
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The bed creaks as I restlessly roll over for the twenty-third time in the past hour alone. Sighing explosively I turn onto my back and stare up at the ceiling as if it holds all the answers to the world, which of course it does not. It’s just a regular inn room ceiling. Shaking my head I sit up swiftly and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floor is cold beneath my bare feet, but I ignore it as I run a hand through my hair, tugging a little harsher than necessary. “Why? Dammit,” I mutter harshly. Once again my nights have been plagued by nightmares that refuse to relent. They vary nowadays. They no longer are solely about my brother and the murder of my clan. They feature the Teasen'anea betrayal, torturous darkness, and the deaths of the few people I hold dear. Yet those of my brother and my people’s destruction remain the most torturous. I rub my eyes hard when I feel the traitorous stinging behind my eyes. I refuse to cry. I am stronger than this. Groaning I stand and pace the room restlessly until Kane shifts in his bed with a whimper. Pausing mid stride I watch as he rolls over and whimpers again. I quietly move to sit on the edge of his bed. Reaching out I run my Background image: Snowy Road, Kala Brubaker, iPhone 6
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fingers through his hair, gently brushing it from his face while softly hushing him. Slowly his expression smooths out as he settles into a peaceful sleep once again. I smile softly as I stroke his hair once more before standing. I decide to go for a walk so as to not disturb his sleep with my restless movements. Perhaps the fresh air will do some good in soothing my own troubled mind. Exiting the room I quietly close the door behind me before padding down the hall. Passing Ash’s room I pause as I see that his door is open. Leaning in the door frame I see him seated at the small table in his room cleaning his sword. I raise my hand and softly knock it against the door frame. “Can't sleep?” I ask once he looks up. He shakes his head. “No. You?” I shake my head with a frown. “No.” He opens his mouth seemingly to ask something but seems to think twice about it and remains quiet. I watch him go through the motions of cleaning the massive blade for a few moments longer before the restlessness gets to me again. I shift, and he raises his eyes to look at me again. I tilt my head towards the stairs. “Walk with me?” I ask. He nods and sets his sword on the table before standing and grabbing a jacket from where it is draped over the chair. I turn and head for the stairs descending them and exiting the inn via the back door. Ash follows me silently. Once outside he falls into step beside me as I walk with no particular destination in mind. It is an ordinary cold, but not harshly so, winter night. I didn't bother to put on shoes, so the cobblestone street is cold and rough beneath my bare feet. I also didn't think to change out of the clothes that I slept in, so I am dressed in thin black pants and a worn dark gray tank top. I am naturally tolerant of the cold considering my affinity, but I will admit being outside dressed like this is a little chilly. I push my hands into my pockets and continue to walk. Ash's silent presence at my side as we occasionally brush shoulders is comforting and familiar. We don't talk, but then again this is one of those times we don't really need to. Just being in each other’s presence is enough. I tilt my head back and look up at the sky as we go. There is a blanket of clouds out, but the moon and stars shine through in enough places so that between them and the occasional lit building or lamp post there is enough light to see well. As I watch the stars, something cold lands on my nose. Blinking in surprise I look up again just as more white flakes begin to float from the sky. Snow. I smile widely in excitement. Pulling my hands from my pockets I
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move ahead and spread my arms wide as I move in a slow circle, head tilted back, eyes closed, as the gentle flakes land on my skin before melting. When I finish acting like a child, I feel mild embarrassment as I remember Ash is watching. I look over and see him standing back, arms crossed, watching me with a small smile. I duck my head, grumbling under my breath for a moment. “Come on. Don't just stare at me; let’s keep walking,” I mumble, shoving my hands back in my pockets and walking away. He joins me, and I know he is looking at me still, but I don't look at him. Soon we have walked to the edge of town, but I don't want to go back. As we had walked, the snow had picked up until it is a light flurry. Walking over to a bench I brush the snow from it and sit down. Ash joins me shortly, and I watch as the snow continues to fall, putting a white coat over everything. The cold, though, is beginning to get to me, and I start to shiver. “Rys,” Ash says in admonishment, “you are going to catch your death out here dressed as you are.” “No, I'm not,” I say shaking my head stubbornly. I want to keep watching it snow. “You're shivering,” he points out, and I bow my head, shoulders slumping. “I don't want to go back yet. I want to watch it snow,” I mutter softly. He doesn't say anything immediately as he proceeds to take off his jacket. Instead he puts his arm around me and pulls me onto his lap. I tense up at first, but once I feel the warmth he is radiating, I relax. Looking at him I see that he has partially shifted into his demon form, as that form has a higher body temperature than his human one. He then drapes his jacket over my legs, most specifically my bare feet. “There. Now you can watch the snow for a little longer,” he says. I smile and relax against him. Resting my head against his shoulder I turn my attention back to the falling snow that is steadily accumulating on the ground. “Thank you, Ash,” I murmur. “You're welcome, Rys. You're welcome,” he replies softly as he tightens his hold on me. My shivering ceases as I become pleasantly warm in his embrace. Soon with the warmth comes drowsiness. Before I know it, I have nodded off, watching the snow fall in the night, in Ash's arms, while sitting on a bench near the edge of town. For once that night my sleep is not tormented. It is filled with pleasant dreams of past snow falls and happier times.
Background image: Winter on Campus, Katherine Sessor, Samsung Galaxy S2
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Hear my voice Sianna Burgos-Altman 1st Place Poetry Hear my voice, As I make an approach, That the color of skin is not a choice, They laugh and joke that those over there resemble a roach, And without shame, They have judged the texture of their hair, Speaking against their name, All because their skin isn’t fair. Hear my voice, that their skin is not a symbol to dehumanize, the color of skin is not a choice, white privilege has left them unable to realize, that hate exists because of color. Hear my voice, that when they discriminate against you, it is OK to feel fire burn through your veins, but just remember that because white privilege’s vision is blurry, you are not plain, and black men and women are beautiful and worthy. Hear my voice. that with you, and you, and you, there is no other, so hear my voice, that we should not hate one another because of a color.
Old SocKKKets James Wilson
We used to pick cotton, now we pick fros Big did it, Pac did it, now we spit flows Reagan knew the black community was piss po So he showed how much they would make if they pitched blow/ Now the crime skyrocket & the private prison systems yield a high profit I see the face on the dollar in my pocket & realize we’re still plugged in to old sockets/ It’s ironic that 500 years later We finally taste freedom but forget to savor Cuz we’ll rob each other then make you meet your maker For a slave owner’s face on a piece of paper/
Word
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Getting rejected didn’t hurt half as bad as saying no to the boy who got down on one knee and was “willing to overlook” that I asked out his roommate My best friend asked me to have a threesome when I told him I like girls He got a black eye and a bloody nose I got wine drunk and smoked three and a half cigarettes
Cinderella: Undergrad
Ivy Rivero
2 Place Poetry nd
I spent four hours being social was kissed by five sets of lips
and was the only girl with her heels on when the parking lot cleared at eleven o’clock 12
Looking on the Bright Side Jackson Barnes iPhone 6 nd 2 Place Photography
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Liminal Spaces Raven Walker
1st Place Prose The water rushes up around him, cold and suffocating. He flails about, desperately clawing his way towards the light filtering down from above. The water slips through the scrabbling fingers, providing little leverage. His feet kick wildly, smacking into the stone walls around him, but doing nothing to propel him towards his destination. Despite his body’s advisement against it, he inhales sharply, too panicked to understand the implications of the action. The freezing liquid forces its way into his mouth and nose. It slips down his throat, burning an icy trail into his lungs and stomach. His lungs feel solid, like lumps of wood in his chest. There is no room for air around the water taking up residence there. His toes brush the floor beneath him, and his fingers brush the surface of the water above, but he cannot solidly reach either point. He dangles helplessly in the liquid suspension. He opens his mouth to cry out for help, but can force no air in or out of his body. There has not been any air since the last bubble escaped him upon entry into the water. The leaden weight of water has filled all the spaces, cracks and dimples and hollow crevices, inside him. There is no room for the light, weightless substance that could soothe the burning in his lungs. His fingers make contact with the cold wall of the well. He digs his fingertips into the cracks between the stones, trying to claw his way up. The rocks are slippery, and it is hard to find purchase. Once he does, his fingernails crack and chip and rip away from the nail beds, but the cool water numbs the sharp pains, the only favor it has done him thus far. The kicking of his feet becomes slow and lethargic, weakened by the lack of oxygen, but his bleeding fingers continue to dig uselessly at the walls. His vision has darkened. It is nearly impossible to see the light of his safe haven above him. Finally, his fingers give up their struggle, and his arms sink down around him, hovering in a lose circle about his waist. His head drops, too waterlogged for his neck to support any longer. His life does not flash before his eyes. He’d heard once that it would do that, when one was about to die. It isn’t true, though. At least not for him. His life trickles out slowly around him. Thoughts and scenes slip between
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hydrogen and oxygen, fusing to create a new substance: liquid memories. He watches through half-lidded eyes as his life diffuses through the space around him. His sister and my mother dance through water, weaving around him like nymphs, shiny golden hair tangling with the sunlight penetrating the darkness of the well. His past floats above him, drifting to the surface like bubbles of air; floating away and disappearing forever. Images of his home, small and cozy, nestled among the trees, smoke rolling from the chimney. His mother and sister baking in the kitchen while he stacks wood by the fireplace. Playing fetch with his dog before she got too old to run. His father taking him fishing. Swimming in the pond behind his house. His father leaving for work and never coming home. His mother telling him not to go near the well. Everything he’s ever known surrounds him. Eight years of memories, good and bad, drift away from him. He is frozen to the core, and he doesn’t know if it is because of the water or the realization that this is it. His life is going to be over momentarily. The light above him flickers out completely, his fluid thoughts no longer illuminated. His body is numb, finally weightless as he floats there. His lungs no longer burn for oxygen. His heart squeezes one last time, pushing suffocated blood sluggishly through his veins in one last half-cycle before stilling completely. The water calms, rippling delicately at the surface in the aftermath of the struggle. Above the watery tomb, the well bucket sways gently, side to side, creaking softly on its rusty pulley, playing a melancholy tune. His sister will come soon, bounding down the hill towards the well, curious as to her little brother’s whereabouts. And there she will find him, dangling limply in the grasp of his fluid assassin.
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Tana Heath Pencil 2nd Place Visual Art
Chasing Dreams
Rachel Swyhart Pencil 1st Place Visual Art
Study in Men
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Briana Marchese iPhone 6
Home
Galdina Prado iPhone 6
Burning Skies
Looking for Love Quimirr Heyward
First thing first I’d like to thank God for painting better pictures and every single one I buy. I used to roll up and just look up at the sky, like how am I gonna make it? Am I living just to die? Then my mother left and that's what really did the damage, left me with some problems that I still have yet to manage. But I still try to live it up in the meantime, because life is too short--you get content it’ll breeze by. But hey I thought love was something everybody get to have, I guess I won’t included because in the big race I finished last.
Window Pain
Taylor Scott Canon EOS 500D 20
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Temporary Rachel Swyhart
What use have I for permanence? What thing, calling attention to Its beauty, existence or otherwise, Can be claimed as such – permanent? To be born, then to be killed; The weapon is built, and then destroys Before being rendered obsolete. What is born, creates, and then dies.
Western Sky Corey Smith
The Hills Are Alive Emily Anderson Nikon CoolPix L820
I have known such exquisite pain I have kissed the most fragile cheek I have lifted the heaviest burdens With hands both tender and calloused. And all the men of which I know Between obsidian gazes And crystal blue, look upon my face Bursting with soft, beautiful stars. What use have I for permanence, When I myself am atoms of Shifting, shared, gathered dirt and water, As fleeting as the newest breath?
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Letter from a College Student Jordyn Propst I am here in a cafeteria eating food that is no doubt sub-par to my mother’s own home cooking. My friends aren't here because it's an awkward time between the two classes I have. I don't hate my college. I enjoy the sport I play, and I do have friends. I am pretty much the most normal person you would ever meet in many ways. My childhood was great; I have two loving parents, a loving family, and an awesome little brother. I'm not super rich or super poor. I'm not a great athlete, but I'm above average. I'm not a social butterfly, but I am not completely socially awkward. I am the epitome of mediocrity. I make good grades, mostly A's and B's with a rare C. I've learned a lot in college, not so much in class but about life and people. They say college isn't for everyone. If it wasn't for most jobs requiring a 4-year degree, I probably wouldn't be here. I would have done 2 years and found a good job somewhere doing something I love to do. I have found out that people at college are diverse and the same all at once. They are diverse in how they look and their interests, but the same in that the majority of them are not very good people. I have learned that our generation is a group of manipulators, befriending people not because they are good people but because of what they can do for said person. Alcohol is a serious problem for our generation. It isn't just enjoyed, it’s worshiped. Everywhere you turn there's another conversation or product for people to show how much they adore a drink and a lot of that particular drink. It's a problem that is viewed as something that isn't a problem at all. Seeing the same people passed out drunk at every social event shouldn't be a funny and normal thing. I have seen good stand-up people completely abandon their morals and values to chase alcohol and sadly, the friends it brings. College has been a huge source of adversity for me because I refuse to abandon my morals. College punishes those who don't conform to the norm of being immoral and heartless. Your weekends will not be spent with tons of friends but mostly alone. This doesn't mean you have more time or be bored though. I still have sports on the weekends. That's my escape, where nothing else matters. I might not get a pass or get to shoot as much as some of the guys who drink every weekend, but other than that my social choices don't matter that much on the court so that's a good thing. The biggest thing and most confusing thing I have found out in college is how society and college strive for us all to be individuals and the same all at once. Everywhere you see posters saying, “be your own you” and “Make up your own values and morals to live by.” Yet, when you look around 24
you see more and more girls and guys dressing the same, cussing at the same rate, drinking more and more, using the same phones, and buying the same accessories. Purchases aren't made to be cool, rather to avoid being uncool or different. Don't have beats, you're getting made fun of; don't have the latest Nikes, you're going to hear about it. It's not good for anyone, and I'm scared for the individuality of our generation. We are uniquely the same. Class isn't that great either. Much like the real world it's about who you know, and how much you're willing to kiss someone's butt. The most success often comes to the class pet who is already fairly successful or someone who knows the most people and can get access to old tests and class work. The latter never happens for me, and the first is rare. As much as colleges advertise help for students who are struggling in classes there isn't much. If you really need help in a class, prepare to be embarrassed or jump through hoops to improve marginally. Professors are more concerned with getting their next paycheck with as little effort as possible; they don't care that much on the whole. Of course there are exceptions and thank god for the exceptions for they have helped me greatly, but most simply are there to get paid. Nutrition at school varies. At mine it's not the worst but it could be much better. Nutrition is key to a healthy lifestyle and there is little emphasis on it. Things that don't go well together are served. Things that have some taste are often unhealthy and the healthy options are often not edible. There are not many options. Presentation of food is up to you. It's feed the hogs style. It's a lot of food put out mass production style. The presentation of food is almost as important as the taste. At a higher institution of learning, where your brain and body are being pushed to the limit most days, it's necessary to have good nutrition. It should be a happy part of the day to sit and eat good food, not filler for the time when your friend isn't trying to get you to come get wasted after. Being successful in college is probably one of the hardest things anyone with good morals or Christian values will ever have to achieve. I'm spending money to be essentially unhappy in hopes that one day the job and money I have will make it worth it. College has hardened my heart and soul, and I do not like it. It's hard to be away from your family, especially when those you love most are going through extremely hard times. When you miss your brother’s games and most of his crucial middle school years when you want to be there to make an impact for this purgatory between high school and the real world, it’s a tough pill to swallow. So, when you're in church or another place and see a college student home for a break or weekend, let them know you love them, that you are praying for them, and understand that they may be facing more adversity than you may know. 25
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Myles Francisco iPhone 6
IMG_3786
Ivy Rivero Nikon CoolPix S3000
Reaching Skyward Kathleen Boxley Canon Rebel
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A Letter to My Father
Lost Memories
Galdina Prado
Kiara Stewart
Dad, The woman I am today has grown to appreciate the little things you've done for me my entire life. Although I may not have told you this, I am very thankful. I know we've had our rough times when I was growing up, and I understand how much I really screwed that up. No matter how many hateful things I told you, you have always stayed in my life, and you took what I have thrown your way. You provided for me my every single want and never asked for anything in return. You were always by my bedside whenever I was sick, paid for my medicines, and bought me my first prom dress. I want to make you understand how important it is that I have my daddy's love and thank my God every day that he sent my guardian angel in the form of my father. I always tell people that we have the best relationship since I have started college, but we have always had a good relationship; I just made it harder. Most people never get the chance to have a father like mine, and as I sit here writing this I realize how selfish and ungrateful I really was. I remember looking at pictures of you and me when I was a child; in every single one you always had a smile, and it was no secret that I was my daddy's girl. I remember the story of Mexico when I jumped into a swimming hole and how you jumped in after me because nothing else mattered to you except saving your baby girl. As I fast forward to my 15th birthday, you, my daddy, were the only man that mattered on my arm because I knew that you gave me the purest form of love. When I was diagnosed with diabetes, you were there holding my hand comforting me with momma through all the pain I felt. Not once in my life have you ever failed to show anything but support and cheer me on along my wild and rampant path. You have only encouraged me to do my very best and to follow my heart, to do what I love because it makes me happy. You have never failed to provide for me when I was in need. I have thought and thought on how lucky I am that I can say I have a daddy that will hold my hand, kiss my cheek, wipe my tears, make me laugh, help me smile, be the one who walks me down the aisle. So thank you, daddy, for all that you have done, and if I hadn’t said it enough, DADDY, I LOVE YOU!
Love,
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Your little girl
I remember how we used to be All those times that you were proud of me You made me laugh, you made me smile It hasn’t been that way for awhile I know I’ve grown and so have you But the good times should’ve followed too Things had changed when I became a teen The signs of course I should have seen Now the distance has become clear Losing what’s left is what I fear I only ask that you show me some praise Daddy’s little girl could surely use it these days
Hidden Behind a Broken Smile Galdina Prado
I smile because I know it makes you happy The simplest lift at the corner of my lips I’d do it just to see you smile I’d put up with the pain for a while I wonder if you know that it’s not real It’s only a show A façade I put on So that you won’t wonder what you did wrong Truth be told it wasn’t you, only me I’m just not the type that can be happy It hurts to hide behind a fake smile But oh how much more it would hurt To see you break down That is why I hide behind the lie And smile All the while the twinkle dwindles in my eyes. 29
Above: Harvesting Nectar Maegan Tate Canon Rebel
Below: Sunshine Myles Francisco iPhone 6
Above: Angel Myles Francisco iPhone 6
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Below: Water Droplets Maegan Tate Canon Rebel
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Hidden Mickey Brett A. Cypress Mini Topiary
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More than a Map Dot Billie Quesenberry The strong love and passion I have for my hometown is because of the way that it gave life to my soul. I could have lived any number of different lives, and I probably would have been very happy in every one of them, had I not ever tasted the mountain lifestyle, which strikes a chord directly to my heart. I cannot place exactly why My love and passion is so strong for a mountain, the fields of dancing flowers spotted with cows, a single stoplight that guides the whole community. Although I am so rooted in my mountain town, I think it’s not so much the mountains that shaped me, but more of the simple, compassionate, people who inhabit them. My town is more than a map dot. It is my refuge; My hope; My soul; My future. Me.
Where I Am From… Maegan Tate I am from shot guns and compound bows, from Browning and Remington. I am from the smell of beans and taters on a Sunday afternoon. I am from the hay and cabbage fields that go on for miles. I am from hunters and farmers, from Pa Mason, and Pa Bill, and my daddy, Kevin. I am from opening Christmas presents on Christmas Eve, and Friday night football cheering on our Cavs. I am from the French Horns and the Mellophones, to practice then to performances. From “You can do it, sis!” and “Let’s play ball!” I am from Southern Baptist where every gathering has fried chicken. I’m from dirt roads and mountains, zucchini corn bread and banana pudding. I am from the cruising in the Wal-Mart parking lot, to the tailgating at Lowes. From the love stories that my Pa Mason shares about my Granny Georgie, oh how we miss her so much. To the worry of my aunt who has Multiple Sclerosis, what would I do without her. I am from the memories that lie in boxes and photo albums, that can be taken away but cannot be forgotten.
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At the Beginning Rachel Swyhart
A soft piece on the piano is playing; gentle, charming, and clear, the melody dances down the walls of his memory. It’s flashing before his eyes, showing only bits and pieces of the feelings that the heart often ties to musical notes. He is elated as the notes rise, his chest full of mourning doves taking flight, and he swells with passion. His pulse thunders. Lying swathed in sleep but not asleep quite yet, he can feel his body floating. His fingers are curled into the thick blanket to anchor him down. A sense of safety fills him from his top to his toes as he turns into a pile of blankets and vanishes underneath them. The music is so familiar – it’s like a mother’s touch, or the feeling of a bike vibrating over broken asphalt; something not easily forgotten has gone by the way side, and become vague and difficult to remember. He’s too tired now to think it through. Lazily, he allows his mind to run circles, hoping it’ll bump into the answer on its own. The pillow is heavy beneath his head. The music falls. The notes grow deeper, and icicles prickle his veins. A blue field. The grass is blue, the flowers are blue – the baby blue sky looming high overhead is cloudless and cold, reaching forever into the distance. He looks at the ground. He sticks his sneaker into the grass, but it only feels cold and thick, like normal grass does. His jeans keep his leg from getting wet with the condensation on the leaves. Shrugging his shoulders helps him loosen up. Why is he afraid of grass, anyway? It looks fine. As he starts walking into it, the path to the center of the field is something he feels more than sees. He stumbles over uneven ground that is hidden beneath the thick duvet of blue and follows the magnetic feeling in his gut. It leads him leaning a little towards the left, arching for the center. Lifting a pale hand, he grabs the front of his sweater, stopping its baggy collar from jumping around so much. His hair floats in a black halo around his head. His toe hits a thick, sharp jutting rock, and he pitches forward into the grass, rolling in slow-motion. When he opens his eyes, the dirt is parallel with him. It feels warmer down here. Scrapes sting his palms, but he wipes the grit out of them by knocking his hands together. He cranes his neck to look up, pushing the hair halo away from his eyes, and the sky ripples like water. It makes him wonder if it’s air or water that he’s breathing right now. When he sits up, his legs feel heavy. In the distance, a shiny, black, diamond-shaped tower juts up from the ground. His heart stammers. It’s the only building for miles – actually, it’s the only thing for miles besides a thick forest, which lines the field of blue, 36
and deep down he knows that’s where he’s supposed to get to. Is he… Is he late? At once, he recalls that he is very vital to what’s going on in that tower. A spike of panic and adrenaline tells him that yes, he is late, that they’ve been waiting for him for a while now. What’s he doing lagging around here? He groans; why does this always happen? An oath rolls off his lips. Swinging to his feet, he takes off towards the tower at top speed. His sweater flaps up and down. His thick sneakers slip and slide through the muddy patches, but he still he runs. He pumps his arms like an athlete. Deep in his heaving chest, his lungs burn, and his blood is like fire in his veins. Why isn’t the tower getting any closer? It’s so far away! He’s already late! A whistling sound filled his ears. It was annoying at first, but then it drew closer, and his alarm grew. It sounded like a torpedo jettisoned from a U-boat. The blip-blip behind his eyes must be radar – it was going haywire right now. ‘Proximity alarm,’ it said calmly, ‘projectile approaching at maximum velocity.’ When he whirled to see where the torpedo was coming from, it was already too close. Bubbles poured out of his mouth as he screamed. Only a muffled cry came out, though, and just as the broad nose of the torpedo was about to hit him right between the eyes, the world snapped back into place. He was so heavy! Groaning, he rolled over too far, and passed the side of the bed. He fell to the floor in a tumble of blankets and limbs. His knees banged the hardwood, and his head smacked the bedframe. His injuries screamed with ringing pain. The back of his head hurt so much that he saw stars, and when he regained his bearings, he realized that it was Monday. His deep, dark blue eyes darted to the window. The sun was high in the sky. “Oh, no!” He moaned piteously. He was late! He groaned; why does this always happen?! He threw himself into his dresser, shimmying to his feet. While he was throwing on clothes and brushing his teeth at the same time, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He froze. In the long, dirty mirror, a girl stared back at him. Her hair was thick and as black as night. Her eyes were his eyes. Those were his moles on her face, and she had his nose, too, but she was so small – so tiny, and so fragile looking. He must still be dreaming. The toothbrush slid along the rim of the cup as he tossed it in. His sneakers were already tied. Pulling on a burgundy beanie and his backpack, he started for the door… but he stopped. Something hurt in his chest. What was it, what was wrong with him? His whole body seemed to stiffen up all of a sudden. The blue bra he’d thrown on had worn-out underwire that dug into his sides. He needed to do laundry, right? Was that where all of his other bras were? Pushing his hand over his left breast, he felt how hard his heart was pounding. He felt, too, how soft the bra was beneath his thin shirt, and the 37
way his small breast filled it. Ok, why did his heart hurt? He frowned. His vision began to blur, and he realized with a jolt that he was crying. He looked down in shock. The tears drip-dropped onto his shoe laces as he scrambled for an explanation. His heart hurt, and now he was crying; did his heart hurt because he was crying? Touching his face, he felt how wet his cheeks had become. His face wrinkled up in pain. Ow, he thought. My heart… His chest convulsed, and a sob tore through his lips and genuinely made his ears ache. He couldn’t control the torrent of emotions welling up inside him. The girl in the mirror was wearing his clothes when he slowly turned back to look at her. He touched his face; she touched her face. He was struck by the thought that she looked just like he did when he cried. Her little red nose was running; her eyes were watery slits under her dark eyebrows, and the tormented twist of her mouth tore apart the beauty of her face. Suddenly, without warning, he slapped himself in the face so hard that it echoed through the half-empty dorm room. The stinging pain made his ears ring. No. He was awake right now. They were so similar that it scared him, she and he, and the closer he got to her, the more he began to realize that it wasn’t just his imagination. He reached out and touched the red hand print on her face. Then it hit him like a car collision; they had always been one and the same. The girl and he. She, this girl in the mirror… she was him.
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Spring
Brett A. Cypress Kusamono
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Thoughts on Paper
Above: Cloudy City Kaitlin Roeper iPhone 6
Below: Make a Wish
Galdina Prado FujiFilm
Jesse Franklin
I have an interest in seeing the world’s ARCHITECTURE… Rome, Ireland, Japan, everywhere really. I wish to travel around the world one day, see all of the crazy machinery and ART! Why not want to travel to places that INTEREST and INSPIRE you? My DREAM is to go many places, do many things, help and maybe even inspire people. TIME is not on our side; EVERY year that passes by is proof that LIFE is getting shorter. I know that it’s easier said than done to treat each day like it’s your last… but it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t TRY! Replace the word if with WHEN and make your DREAMS come true! They won’t come true if you never TRY! I want to see the monuments, hear the accents, and experience the CULTURES! I know that it may never come true… but hey, it will NEVER come true if you don’t at least TRY! A DREAM is a BEAUTIFUL thing… but if you never TRY then it will only ever be just that… a DREAM. I don’t know about any of you, but I CHOOSE to LIVE MY LIFE with hopes that one day this FANTASY of mine might come true. YOUR DESTINY… YOUR FATE… YOUR LIFE… SO LIVE IT! 40
Background image: Sweet Disposition, Kaitlin Roeper, iPhone 6
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Under the Sea
Life’s a Beach
Emily Anderson Nikon CoolPix L820
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Briana Marchese iPhone 6
Sea Turtle
Kala Brubaker iPhone 6
Light the Way Home Kathleen Boxley Canon Rebel
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Nightmares of the King Katherine Sessor Tell me, my King, tell me your nightmares Give me your secrets to be your apprentice I watch your pen bleed words upon the paper Each stroke sends shivers to my spine Let me take a stroll in your world. I’ll live in the Overlook Hotel Keep the pets dead in Pet Cemetery Be best friends with Carrie Plant flowers in Mort Rainey’s secret garden I’ll even help Ellan finish building Rose Red. Teach me, my King, teach me insanity The ink is drowning into my soul Diane has poisoned the birthday cake The zombies have devoured the whole campus Shadow demons slaughtered the sane The demonic relic has been found Tell me, Master King, reveal your nightmares. Your apprentice awaits your orders.
the flat
Myles Francisco iPhone 6 44
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In Black & White Heather Brown Collage
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Lantern and Fruit Still-Life Katherine Sessor Oil paint
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Paul Walker Tana Heath Pencil
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One Like the Actor Deniz Isik Charcoal
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loneliness, the lioness said Michael Gresham
there is a lady down the lane to whom god or loaded dice gave a raw deal said the doctors it’s something in her head they said something ain’t wired properly she may have difficulty adjusting so the other day she tries to kill herself calls social services threatens to swallow the medicine cabinet tracing graffiti on her wrist with the spray of a straight razor an ocean babbling vomiting forth and a fire truck arrives and an ambulance arrives and as they take her away she is screaming in absolute silence she don’t belong here, says a neighbor me— i think she’s a bit too honest for her own good please, i implore you skip the pills, skip the diagnoses and skip the damn platitudes, clawing at the cage
Alak the Elephant Tana Heath Marker and pen
listen to her— loneliness, the lioness said
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ACCENDO Raven Walker I cannot see and I cannot hear, but I can feel. I can feel the warmth of the sun kissing my glossy green needles tenderly. I can feel the wind gently brushing her fingers through my branches. I can feel the rain when it falls from above, washing away the sticky humidity of a hot day. I can feel moisture as it seeps into the ground around my roots, the thirsty fibers soaking it up greedily. I can feel the snow falling delicately around me, coating me in a fluffy, light blanket. I can feel the earth shake around and beneath me with each powerful clap of thunder. I can feel birds perched softly on my limbs and the prickly little claws of reptiles as they scale my trunk. I can feel the soft tickle of worms as they burrow through the soil around my roots. But today I feel something new, something I’ve never felt before. It’s hot, but not at all wonderful like the beautiful warmth of the sun. This heat hurts. This heat is torturously blistering, melting my pine needles and peeling away my bark. This heat is scary and not at all pleasant. The heat is suffocating, blanketing me, but not at all comforting like the cool wetness of the snow. My roots try desperately to drink, hoping for anything cold to soothe this burning, but the ground is dry. I feel pinecones drop from my scorched branches. Encased safely inside are my precious children, surrounded by their protective armor. I can only hope that they are safe. I hope that they are not feeling what I am feeling, that they do not have to suffer as I am suffering.
Up in the Trees Kaitlin Roeper iPhone 6
Forgiving Fog
Myles Francisco iPhone 6
The heat is finally gone, but my once sprawling branches are now burnt to charcoal nubs, and my fragile roots have shriveled.
I cannot see and I cannot hear, and soon I will no longer feel. ---
I cannot see and I cannot hear, but, for the first time, I can feel. I feel the soil give way around me as I break through to the surface. I feel the wind welcome me with gentle caresses as I emerge into the world for the first time. I feel the sun wrap me in a blanket of warmth. I feel my roots spread out beneath me, stretching and probing, searching for water. I feel the smooth scales of a small creature brush against me as it slithers by. I feel the soft mist of morning dew settling down on my delicate needles. I feel a curious insect touch me, perching upon me briefly before fluttering away. It all feels beautiful. I cannot see and I cannot hear, but I can feel the world around me as I stand here in my mother’s ashes. 52
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The Fall Lorrie Ellis
God created the world and all within Then he created Adam and Eve. The world was perfect and without sin But God would soon begin to grieve. His garden was perfect, His children were too. That thought may not be correct, as Satan, too soon, a sin would do. So God would feel reject. Adam enjoyed the companionship of Eve As days went on, the closer the two grew, The Serpent set out to deceive And he found Eve the easier of the two. As Eve was out early one morn, 54
She encountered the serpent, crafty and wild. Not heeding the words from the Lord that had warned, She ate of the tree and then smiled. She grabbed Adam’s hand and gave him a bite! The knowledge came forth in a rush! He quickly knew what they had done was not right Then he and Eve began to blush. They wore no clothes, and now they knew They sewed leaves together to provide cover, Then GOD called out, as if on cue, Asking, “ADAM, where are you and who told you that you were unclothed, with your lover?” “I am here, Lord, and that story is long, You see, this woman you gave me, she’s broken and sad.” “Sad, why? What have you done?” Adam’s reply, “we have done something very bad.” God knew they had taken from the tree Yes, God knew what they had done, He knew what their punishment must be, They were to be banished from the garden, sin had begun. In addition to banishment, God said to Eve, “This must be, I will greatly increase your pains with giving birth.” “Hey that’s not cool. Darn you Eve!” “And your desire will be for your husband, yet over you he will rule.” “And Adam, I’m not finished with you yet, Cursed is the ground because of you. This I promise you will regret, You will now work the ground for your food.” And to the serpent, “’Cursed are you above all; you will wish you were dead, You must crawl on your belly and eat dust all your days. You will strike the offspring’s heel and he will crush your head,” God pointed to the gate, and they left in a haze. The gate was closed, the garden was quiet. What happened to the animals? Where did they go? Sin was among us and them also. Were they released to the ends of the earth, While Adam and Eve started a new life with love Released to begin a new birth, While God watched on from above? This was the story of Adam and Eve, The garden they lived in, the trouble they brought. The serpent and how he deceived. The results of their sins and the lesson it taught . . . The story of Adam and Eve. 55
Brightwell’s Mill Galdina Prado FujiFilm
Mabry Mill
Maegan Tate Canon Rebel 56
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The Way I Do Marybeth Bond I
I have always thought there was this unspeakable beauty in abandoned places. There's this little house in the woods off 3rd, just past the crooked fence and the community garden. I used to stop by on my walk back from school sometimes, on days I knew you'd be home late. What little paint was left was peeling, shingles blown off in the wind, the front step caved in. That was its charm - its beauty was its brokenness. There was never anyone there but me, but the way the leaves settled or the sunlight hit the roof always spoke to me, and the closer I got to the house, the more aware I became of the weight of the air in the space around me, as if there were something present in it, calling my name. But all there was was emptiness. I didn't expect to feel that way about our home, even though when I returned I knew you were already gone. I called for you when I walked in, still half-expecting you to peek out of the kitchen and say “Well come here baby, give Mama some love!” But you didn't. It seemed as though this inconsolable weight could only be lifted by the comfort of you, but as I stood in the doorway of my childhood home, with its leaky roof and yellow daisies, I realized something. We didn't have much growing up, you and I. We didn't need it – you and I, that was enough. “The things inside you are the things you get to keep forever,” you'd say, so we made a life collecting beautiful memories. 3 hour hikes for 2 hour naps in the clearest, cleanest air; late night laughs about co-workers and school teachers who didn't understand, the way you did; Sunday mornings. The Sunday mornings when we'd go down to the boats were my favorite. We'd pack our dime store wicker basket chock-full of day-old bread for the birds and dayold cookies for us. We'd eat peanut butter sandwiches that stuck to the roof of your mouth when you took a bite too big and carrot sticks I very diligently cut lopsided every time. And we'd wave to the fishers and sit in the sun and blow bubbles into the wind. This scuffed hardwood floor and faded paint used to be my safe place, my protection from everything I had to do without you. Now all I have left here is memories.
There was a time when that was what I craved - memories. I couldn't get enough of them. When we'd seen all there was to see of small town Michigan, I wanted to see everything else God had created. And the longer I stayed, the smaller it felt. I broke your heart leaving, this I know; but coming back . . .well that broke mine. II I couldn’t escape you, hard as I tried; there were moments of unexplained loneliness, words spoken in anger, breaths trapped deep in my throat that would only release as fits of broken tears. I swore none of these rants belonged to you, that life without you was still an immeasurable adventure. But I look for you everywhere, because my heart will always belong to the one who unlocked my curiosity for the world. I came back because you left, found a man, settled down. I tried the life you wanted for me – all the choices I’d never make. I brought him here today. Showed him the boats. He didn’t understand the way I needed him to. I wanted him to throw himself into the wind, breathe saltwater into his bones and beg from the inside out to go, just as I had. I wanted him to lean his body out over the railing because he craved to be even inches closer to the adventure beyond. I wanted him to feel you here, the way I do. III I’ve always been captivated by the fall. It’s something about the way the air changes, almost imperceptibly at first, from the sultry playfulness of summer to an aching, curious wanderlust. The longing to retreat to the comfort of memories long lost conflicting with the charged freedom of change; a wistfulness that seems to categorize the entirety of autumn. Yes, autumn is my favorite. For in autumn, the blank space is all the earth needs to communicate. This too, with death. Few things in life are irreparable. Death, I was sure, was one of them. It is not. Background image: Ruined Is the Path to Transformation, Jackson Barnes, iPhone 6
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I Am Extraordinary Tyreke Washington
A pair of deep brown eyes filled with imagination, Eager to learn how to pursue his dreams. Born without a shred of restraint or moral; He meant no harm, he just couldn't help it. They saw him as a mistake, A stain upon human history. He yearned for acknowledgement, To feel as if he belonged in the world.
Finally he noticed small changes to the path he walked; The ground was more forgiving, as if to apologize for the walk. The air filled him with energy, as if to motivate him to continue; The surrounding darkness wavered just slightly from respect. More people followed him, to push him forward; Eager for the chance to join him in valiant victory. Insults turned into whispers of encouragement; True smiles replaced the old bitter frowns. He saw a light; it called for him as it has been waiting; He ran, quicker than any beast he faced before. He stopped just before the light to pay it respect; He finally spoke,�Hi, I’m someone meant to be extraordinary.�
He was labeled 'incapable of success,' Shunned by others, even his own kind. Loneliness...it's more painful than you think, Like standing in the dark with your back against the wall. Scared...But you don't dare move, Too afraid to plummet to your doom. So the boy decided to learn and grow, Until the darkness no longer paralyzed him. And on the way, others witnessed his triumph, Awestruck by his sheer willpower and determination. He walked into the dark with the glass floor under him; The thick air steadily became breathable enough to speak. But he chose not to speak, he in fact refused to; His gaze glued to whatever was in front of him. Nothing could stop or deter him from his course; He was more than determined, he was desperate. To conquer his trial, to free himself from his fate, He inadvertently had picked up others with him. They marched behind him, never in front or beside; The first to accomplish his trial should be him.
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Betrayal Galdina Prado
Vomiting Ivy Rivero
The fact that I can deaden my weight feigning sleep in the back seat so the stop light doesn’t throw me is fascinating “He raped her or whatever”
I know what it’s like to feel the sting of hurt Humiliated, betrayed, cut beyond healing It’s not something you can brush off Or put in a hideaway It’s large and overwhelming It ways on your shoulders A heavy burden to hold I have felt it from near I have felt it from afar Close within my circle But oh how so far Beyond the enemies’ line Beneath my friends’ feet The lies I’ve been told cut a wound deep The separation between my shoulder blades The burning sensation of splitting apart, The knife clatters to the ground The betrayal comes pouring out.
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For the fifth time this month he says to let the faucets drip so the pipes don’t freeze Heels on tile echo pages I can’t wear my favorite shirt the one that says “The Art of Getting High” anymore because since I quit doing drugs the only art that shirt has seen is your skin destroying me I am not a liar
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That Coiled Apparatus Morgan Julian I watched my heroes on stage, on screen, and everything in between Boldly grab that coiled apparatus Some for a great fee and others merely au gratis. They didn’t sing, they didn’t dance, and for the most part, they had just one chance. I only watched from a passing glance as they took their courageous stance In front of a crowd of guests. They had to entertain them with their best. For a time, I only observed and got my ego burned. I didn’t get what skill I thought I deserved, but that’s exactly when I learned. So I grabbed that coiled apparatus, without a second’s hiatus.
What do you see? Michaela Martinez Plaster
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And with it, the crowd I would own. And that was the day, I learned the power of a microphone.
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Lost in Memory
Trenton Savage-Williams Digital drawing
Tobio
Rachel Swyhart Marker
special thanks J.S. Printing Ferrum College Integrated Programming Board
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