The Holston Journal

of

Table

Contents

Editorial Staff................................................................................pg. 5 Editor’s Note.................................................................................pg. 6 Some Reflections on King............................................................pg. 7

Dr. Craig McDonald Alumni Spotlight..........................................................................pg. 10

Olivia Underwood Photograph of King University...................................................pg. 14

Marianne Hull “Letter to Home”...........................................................................pg. 15

S. Megan Rogers “I’ve Wandered and I’ve Wondered”...........................................pg. 17

Jenny Tudor Nature Photograph.......................................................................pg. 18

Kyle Ellis “Morning Practice”.......................................................................pg. 19

Sarah Herreid “Dandelions”.................................................................................pg. 21

Gayle Wittig Photograph of a Dandelion.........................................................pg. 22

Abby Horne “On Fire”........................................................................................pg. 23

S. Megan Rogers “Dig”..............................................................................................pg. 24

James Laxton

Johnson City Photograph...........................................................pg. 34

Matthew Bryte “P.C. 104”......................................................................................pg. 35

Micah Crews “Through the Dark and Gloom”.................................................pg. 41

Grace Lawson Sunrise Photograph....................................................................pg. 43

Samantha Taylor “Season of Falling”......................................................................pg. 44

Mackenzie Anderson “On Grieving”..............................................................................pg. 45

S. Megan Rogers “Gender Gap”..............................................................................pg. 46

Courtney Harvey “Battle at Snider Honors House”..............................................pg. 53

Eric Coleman

Editorial Staff Editor-in-Chief:

Blakeleigh P. Mathes

Design Editor:

Michelle Surratt

Assistant Editors:

James Laxton and Lucas Gentry

Faculty Advisor:

Dr. Erin M. Kingsley

Editorial Board Members: Angela Karas Courtney Harvey Eric Coleman Jenny Tudor Kristi Graybeal Illustrator: Desmond Darko

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Editor’s Note Around this time a year ago, Dr. Erin Kingsley approached me about leading the charge to begin a literary journal on our campus. I was hesitant at first, knowing fully the amount of work it would require. Olivia Underwood, who helped lay the foundation for the journal, and Dr. Kingsley eventually convinced me to pursue a publication. The beginning of the year started with numerous unknowns. I did not know who was going to read the journal, who we could get to submit, and who was going to help with the publication. Luckily, the desire for a representative artifact of the arts brought forth a host of eager minds and willing participants.

Our journal strives to illustrate the powerful nature of community, and the world in which we live. The goal of The Holston was to illustrate the collaborative nature of our quaint community, but to also provide a platform for the unheard artistic voices. The arts belong in the forefront of our imaginations. The quality of submissions, the hand-drawn cover and page illustrations, and the brilliance of the design, demonstrates the importance of the arts to the King community.

This inaugural issue of The Holston is truly a culmination of dedication and hardwork. For me personally, I would not have been able to lead without an excellent group of individuals who supported me. To every member of the editorial board, I want to thank you for your support, work ethic, and a desire for the best. To Michelle Surratt, the publication would not be a publication without your design input and execution. To Dr. Erin Kingsley, thank you for pushing me to be my best and for refusing to take anything less.

I hope that the King community, far and wide, is proud of this publication and the continuation of artistic excellence. The Holston is a representation of all the things I have loved from my time at King. As I move forward to the next stage of my life, I will be able to look back at our publication with fondness and joy. In her book, Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies, Marilyn McEntrye says, “Listen into the silences where the best words begin.” As you read our journal, I hope it encourages you to enter into fellowship with the words, find comfort in language, and discover inspiration to challenge yourself to create a work of art.

Blakeleigh P. Mathes Editor-in-Chief

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Some Reflections on King Dr. Craig McDonald It’s always a dangerous thing to ask old persons about their memories. Inevitably, they will tell stories highlighting how great the old days were or, if those days were hard, how much they built character. So forgive me if my memories of King sound nostalgic. I can assure you that the old days were not always good, nor did my character always profit from whatever hardships came my way.

My most important memory or influence?

To identify one influence or one memory when I’ve been at a place for nearly 35 years is impossible. The influences of King are more the accumulation of single moments of influence and moments of joy (or pain) that color my memory of the place. A cavalcade of persons—students, staff, and fellow faculty members—parade before my mind’s eye. Some of the persons I’ve known are like the bricks in a building—solid and well-defined. Two are emblematic of many, many others.

The first president I served under was Dr. Donald Mitchell, who had been chosen to lead the college when it nearly disappeared in 1979. His was an inhuman task. There were about 270 students when I came in 1982, and the faculty was deeply and often bitterly divided between those who had been at the college prior to the dark days and those whom he had brought in to give the college a new start. The college was always strapped for money and salaries were appalling. But what I remember about Dr. Mitchell were his commitment to Christ; his sacrificial spirit; his scholarly, soft-spoken, gentlemanly demeanor; his vision for King as a place where the life of the mind and of the spirit might meet; and his ability to bring here those who felt the same way. I didn’t always agree with his decisions and often felt keen disappointment when the realities did not live up to the vision. In retrospect, I do regret very much my lack of maturity and my lack of wisdom in appreciating more fully the obstacles he faced and the man of character and faith he was. Dr. Mitchell characterizes my fellow faculty members who have shared this vision.

When asked what he teaches at King, Dr. Pat Flannagan replies: “Students.” I like that answer very much (although I would argue that Dr. Flannagan teaches music very well!). It brings me to the other “brick” in my memory, the one who is emblematic of my life with students: Andrew Mullins, a member of the Class of 2004. He had had cancer in high school and enjoyed a brief remission during his first semester at King, but died before the semester was out. Despite the residual pain he was in from chemotherapy and radiation—he could not even sit on the ground when we held class outside—he entered fully into the life of the class. I still see him watching Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost at the Abingdon Cinemall, sitting in my living room, or singing in Chapel; and even now I am humbled and

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inspired by his courage and his faith. He packed a great deal into that short life of his. He embodied all that I have admired in many students whom I have had the honor to sit with over these years: curiosity, a joy in learning, an appreciation for the life he had been given, in a word, “magnanimity”—a vast generosity of spirit.

Besides the bricks, however, there are those who are the mortar of King, those who are not the most obvious, who are seldom, if ever in front of others, but whose faithful, quiet influence on me and others has bound the place together in profound ways. There are and have been many in this category; and though there are many I could mention, I wanted to acknowledge a few of the “old timers” who remain and who make up a list of my unsung heroes: Jewel Bell, Betsy Rogers, Debbie Shaffer, P-Nut Rhymer, Leona Jennings, Donna Felty, and Betty Curtis.

What have I learned at King?

Perhaps it is less what I have learned than what I have come to desire: to enter more fully into God’s grace and to live a grace-filled life. I’ve been the recipient of many acts of grace—both great and small—throughout my life here at King. With age I find myself frequently moved to tears at the little moments: an act of selfless kindness; a class when the students truly become colleagues, a student’s finding her voice and plumbing the depths of her spirit. I have watched older students, like Tommy Bryant from about 20 years ago, taking younger ones, often on the margins, and nurturing them. I have prayed with colleagues or chatted over lunch or a cup of coffee. Through these times, I have experienced community and communion. The prayer from Lessons and Carols each Advent (my favorite chapel service) sums this experience up for me: And because this of all things would rejoice his heart, let us at this time remember in his name the poor and the helpless, the cold, the hungry and the oppressed; the sick in body and in mind and them that mourn; the lonely and the unloved; the aged and the little children; all who know not the Lord Jesus, or who love him not, or who by sin have grieved his heart of love. Lastly let us remember before God all those who rejoice with us, but upon another shore and in a greater light, that multitude which no man can number, whose hope was in the Word made flesh, and with whom, in this Lord Jesus, we for evermore are one.

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One word to sum up my experience of King: St. Paul in Romans 12:1-2 writes: I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.

What the Apostle sets forth as a vision for individuals is not a bad vision for a college. Perhaps the founders of King had those verses in mind when they formulated the motto Ecclesiae et litteris, “for Church and for learning.” Admittedly, it’s not one word to sum up King in my mind, but I don’t think it’s ever been improved upon.

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Alumni Spotlight Olivia Underwood What is your favorite memory from your time at King?

I must preface with a minor warning. I do rather poorly with these favorite/ greatest kinds of questions as I’ve been told I claim to far too many things as the most wonderful thing that exists or the loveliest thing I’ve ever read/seen etc. and I find that such questions call for far too much pressure. So, considering I have received my diploma and do not have to concern myself with a grade on this assignment, prepare your minds to be cheated, or stretched rather, from the bounds of these inquiries. Do pardon my rebellion.

If I could compile the thousands of moments lightly dusted over my four years at King that were the most profound, life-altering, joy-soaked of them all it causes my mind to flash like an old-fashioned film camera spinning at unnaturally high speeds. One scene fades into the next with violent laughter echoing from the foothills of Appalachia. As I string them all together, I see myself with a circle of dear friends as we pull ourselves into a hall to prepare a last-minute piece for Unplugged. I see incessantly snowing days that bear yet another e-mail that classes are canceled; but a dear professor who grants several class-deprived students the pleasure of gathering around a wooden table to pour their minds over Dorothy Sayers. The snow piles outside the door as the wonder piles upon our spirits. I see nonsensical pregame skits weaved into our locker room holding the weight of legacies upon legacies. I see teammates lining up to sing Love the Lord in each of their respective voice parts. I see the walls of my professor’s offices adorned with literature from other worlds closing in on us as the characters from these books joined us in these very rooms. I see late nights of throwing cares to the wind and bundling ourselves in worship as we sat cross-legged on the chapel stage and projected our voices heavenward. I see climbing the campus apple tree and picking its fruit and exploring the hidden spaces high and low of our old buildings with my treasured sister. I see star-strung nights with tearful breathless laughter in dorm rooms and prancing out of classrooms seeing everything more vibrantly than ever deemed possible. I see my dearest friend and me creeping onto our graduation stage the night before our ceremony and claiming promises while dancing them into existence as we peeled our fingers loose of the coming years. Even still, these memories do not brush the surface of how eminently rich this time was. It was exquisite with learning in the natural and tapping into the unseen. My favorite

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memories are not walking across a graduation stage, completing a monstrous assignment, beating our rivals in a fiercely-prepared-for match, or participating in any kind of these trophies of moments. Rather, my favorite memories have to do with the impassioned processes building up to these. If I drew anything from my time at King it is that the compilation of moments in this life are not just the anticipation of our heavenly arrival but that it is in this time we participate in the extravagance of our eternal glory.

Who has been the greatest influence on your journey?

In many forms, we—we being those of us who claim books as not only a part of us but much of what build up our insides—are grown by the books we eat. I was introduced to authors who spoke into my life at thunderous volumes in my time at King. They became my teachers and I invited them to sit with me at my table and dish upon my plate portions of themselves. But, while each of these adorned this oak of an altar there was a human whose dust I walked in and without him I very well may have sat before an entirely different spread. He is one who walks the oval with a particular stoop in his step which mirrors his humility. His benevolence is extended in secret and his wisdom pours forth in speech. He speaks of Shakespeare and C.S. Lewis as if they are dear companions and pulls the curious into his cloud of good. I have never known a friend or mentor in the light that I know and treasure Dr. McDonald in all his wizardly nature. To even brush shoulders with this Gandalf of a human is one of the greater honors I have ever encountered. But, to be welcomed into his presence and be called a friend was something of another world.

When I speak of him, and many souls with legs that walk the grounds of King, I am told that I sound as if I am describing storybook characters. There are moments I turn back and feel as if I have emerged directly from a torn page of a whimsical novel and I need no page number nor author’s note to direct me to the precise position of my belonging. Dr. McDonald, quite effortlessly, caused me to know this.

What has King helped you discover about yourself?

While King chiseled flake after flake of spiritual flesh from me and dug into many of my weakest points, one thing of distinct discovery that I will cling to for all of time is the power of my very own words. I had always had this love for words but never quite understood that my own had weight. I found that I have a responsibility as a steward of words. To be a caretaker of the ones I spin up in my mind or my mouth as well as the ones I take in and consume. I had always been taught this but had never given it such particular attention until, by many gracious

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individuals, I was practically funneled into a space that made this lesson inevitable.

I discovered this sensitivity to words that shook and broke me. I realize this is a human trait but what I also know is that many spend the entirety of their breaths without engaging in the intricacy of language. This doesn’t mean that our language has to be complex or eloquent but merely that we should pay mind to the delicacy of human spirit as well as the Spirit of God and know full well that there is weight in the letters we sew and sow. I learned that written words—both fictional and nonfictional—had, and have, this authority over me and that I personally lay claim to words. Every word written and spoken is impregnated with much more than its modest dictionary definition. And in all of this I know that the Living Word is that of the most profound weight. Have we not been left with words by Love himself? He has promised to his people the written and spoken and in these together proclaim the sovereignty of His kingdom. As Marilyn McEntryre says, “little phrases are places of divine encounter, epiphany, or unexpected guidance. I offer them with the prayer that they may add few threads to the rich weave of conversation among people who believe that the living Word is a place of habitation where we are called to enter, actively to respond, sometimes to wrestle, and to dwell in trust as the Spirit teaches us what we need to know.”

What are your current/future plans?

Currently, I am living in a small village in China where I am encountering my dream. I am working in a foster home for children with special needs and learning to yield to the Holy Spirit as He swirls up in His wild nature. I have long since imagined coming into such a space but this is indeed far far surpassing. I believe that there are whispers of a movement. It’s a mighty one and it’s sweeping across all the land. The Lord has peeled back scales on the eyes of my heart to cast vision in what it looks like for His kingdom to kiss the earth. This is not a thing of the past or a prophesy for the future but a work being established right now. I’m being swept up in it and the gravitational pull is extreme. My plans shatter with elegance unearthly as He scoops up the pieces and crafts them into something unimaginably good. My future plans are to kneel like the village harlot in Luke 7.

To break the glass bottle of my life over the ground and pour its contents on Jesus’s feet. To accumulate tears that I might mix them with the fragrance and rain upon his toes. To bow low so my hair can be what washes them and then to spend all of my days kissing the surface of where his sandals were once strapped. I can hardly plan further or deeper than this.

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If you could sum King up in one word, what would it be and why?

I sincerely dislike this question, but also find it to be comedic as it asks for one word and then an explanation which calls for several more words. Now I’m on board. I believe my word demands further explanation. I am finding more and more that when I cannot seem to express myself in terms of adjectives I must resort to nouns. I have an urge to do this with King as I have agonized over summing up this world in a solitary word. I have chosen the word bastille. I know that the image that first comes to mind is a prison but do allow me to fasten this into your understanding. A bastille is a prison but it can also be used in terms of a fortified tower, as of a castle; a small fortress; citadel and I am choosing to use all of these definitions to describe this home of mine. King unveiled to me just how imprisoned I am by the beauty of this world because of the earth that is, as Elizabeth Barret Browning would say, crammed with heaven. King is not confining but it is captivating. The grounds themselves leak with the dreams of those who have walked before us and the walls of each building are stacked with intellectual and preposterous conversations and discoveries that have been birthed in those spaces. King is formed of those who have inhabited it and it is their lives that cause me to know more potently the aroma of my heavenly Father. King took me captive because of the violently gentle works the Holy Spirit spun up as my feet sunk into its dirt. Not only was King lovely in its prison-like state but it was this castle of a tower in which I could take refuge. A fortress or a citadel is where one hides and deems safe and while I love adventure and danger often excites me, there is something about King that will always rest in my remembrance as a sanctuary.

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Marianne Hull is a current senior at King University from Costa Rica. She is a chemistry major with plans of becoming a chemical engineer. In addition to studying chemistry, Marianne is a member of the tennis team. When asked about the inspiration for her piece, Marianne posits, “I was talking to my best friend next to the lake. I looked up and realized how lucky I am to go to a school in such a nice place.�

Image by Marianne Hull

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Sara Megan Rogers is an alumnus of King from Soddy Daisy, TN. She graduated in 2016 with her degree in English and a minor in math. Currently, Megan is working at the St. Louis Public Library and is planning on pursuing a career as an author. She had many inspirations for her pieces in the journal.

The inspiration behind Rogers’ “A Letter to Home” is Mrs. Jewel Bell. Rogers explains, “For my senior internship, I decided to interview several people about the 1950’s. I chose Mrs. Jewel Bell as one of my participants. She agreed and was very open about her efforts during the Civil Rights movement in Bristol and how King made her feel welcome during that time. I was inspired by her hard work and love for our amazing university.”

Letter to Home Dear King, Love is what made it great. These kids made me an equal. Without them—oh, without them I wouldn’t have experienced so much. Without them including me in their activities, I wouldn’t have realized how excluded I really was. Without going to their annual ball, I wouldn’t have realized that I would have never seen the inside of a country club. If I hadn’t stayed to work at this university, I may not have ever realized that one day we were allowed in the balcony of the theater, and the next day we weren’t allowed in at all. You see, I tasted it. And it motivated me. I wanted everybody to taste it too. Equality. And that’s why I fought. It wasn’t because I was angry. I wanted to make a change.

If I’d never walked into that unemployment office, I would’ve never even known that I could make a difference. I would have been stuck at home doing PTA and all that crap instead of standing up for my rights and the rights of those who were being told that they didn’t have any. But these kids showed me. They loved me. They let me chaperone their ball. They allowed my husband and me to trail in after them into the ritziest places in the area. These kids are why I’m still here.

Sixty-three years later, president after president, through Civil Rights issues and my fight for equal opportunity, the love I saw from these kids was the one thing remained the same. They never treated me as though they thought they were any better. I’ve had many recognitions and awards for my work. But it was the children.

The children just simply made me really know what being a mother is. They would call me if they were locked out of their car or if they were in trouble in the middle of the night. I’d take care of them. I still take care of them.

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You see, Blacks were supposed to know their place. My problem always was I didn’t know what my place was. But these kids, they showed me that I was in the right place at the right time doing the right thing. And, oh, the changes I’ve seen. Some good, some bad. But one step forward and two steps back can still be progress. And no matter what, I still come back here. And they’ll all still love me. And I’ll still love them.

With Love.

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Jenny Tudor is a current freshman at King University from Decatur, TN. She is undecided on a major, but is leaning towards English or religious studies.

Her current plans include enjoying her time at King. Tudor says that the inspiration behind her poem was: “a lot of people have trouble finding their own form of peace and in this poem, I express that idea through my narrator.

The poem is showing, or expressing, that sometimes we just need that one thing that gives us hope.”

I’ve Wandered and I’ve Wondered I’ve wondered, And I’ve wandered.

I became lost, Innocence taken.

“Why, God!” A mother cried.

Little girl—scared.

Broken and afraid, She asks: “Who am I?” Hidden in the dark, Shadows everywhere.

“You are mine.”

A voice answers.

Tangled in this mess, She rushes forth, “Where can I find peace?”

A hand reaches out,

By His blood, she’s saved.

Right and wrong, She chooses truth.

I’ve wandered, And I’ve wondered.

I’ve been found.

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Kyle Ellis is a current King University sophomore from Coal Mountain, GA. When he is not studying neuroscience with Dr. Fitzanakis, Kyle is outside riding his bike as a member of the King cycling team. As for the inspiration behind his photograph, Kyle says simply, “Instagram likes.�

Image by Kyle Ellis

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Sarah Herreid is an alumnus of King from Johnson City, TN. Her current plans include becoming an English teacher or professor after taking some time off from school. She would also like to pursue writing at some point.

As for the inspiration behind her piece, Herreid posits, “As someone who practices yoga and who is also a Christian, I wanted to capture some of the emotions and feelings yoga can bring to its practitioners. I also wanted to show that yoga can be uplifting but not get in the way of religion. The two, yoga and religion, can coincide without getting in the way of each other.”

Morning Practice

Inhale. Exhale. Pause. Inhale. Exhale. Pause. Her breath flowed with her movements as she first stood up on the balls of her feet, swooped down, folding in half—folding into herself as if falling into her own darkness. In movement, she felt free. As she balanced on one foot, her leg and arms behind, she could pretend she was flying. A bird soaring in the sky, sailing for the heart of the sun. As she folded again and lifted herself into a handstand, she could be fearless, holding her entire body weight in space with the power of her arms. She continued to move and float, admiring the tattoos, bared and shameless, on her shoulders and leg: a phoenix for rebirth; a dragon for bravery; a Celtic knot for eternity. All earthly pretenses fell away until she resembled a being more like herself than any other she presented to the world. In these moments, she was no longer an anonymous sufferer in a sea of pain, or an animal trapped in the dreadful snare of life. She was an ethereal being shining in all her glory, neither male nor female, fair or dark, thin or heavy.

As dawn approached, lighting up the sky, she rested, allowing her body to settle down into the earth. In stillness, she felt relief. Her limbs, which stretched out away from her core and remained motionless, became heavy. Her heart slowed to a more gentle, less excited rate. Her eyes closed to shut out the world’s problems, allowing her to focus only on life and breathing. In repose her mind was at liberty to wander into forests of twilight, where the stars are beginning to appear through the branches of the trees that reach lovingly to the sky and claim their nourishment from the Earth. She could examine the feel of Earth, warm and alive, beneath

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her feet and the sight of exaltation in the hawk flying above her, with its wings outstretched as it glides lazily along the breeze. She could revel in the scent and quiet of the forest around her and feel wonder for the greater Being who created such beauty. All her worries and fears fell away during her reverie, and she felt more at peace with every breath. Inhale. Exhale. Pause. Inhale. Exhale. Pause.

Her allotted time ending, she rose and sat in tranquility. Her head held high to acknowledge the splendor of her now peaceful soul and her hands together in prayer at her heart in thanks for the chance of another day. She meditated a moment more on the meaning behind the word that sealed her practice, remembering its definition and the empowerment it brings, Namaste.

All too soon, she bore the burden of faรงade once again. The symbols she adored were covered, and the glow internalized to lie dormant once more. Despite the imperfections of the life she lead and the frustrations and detours that no doubt awaited her, she found a smile as she greeted the day.

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Gayle Wittig is a graduate of King University from Memphis, TN. She majored in English and graduated in December 2016. Currently, she has retired from her full-time job and is working as a part-time secretary. She is exploring other writing opportunities, including completing a novel. The inspiration for her poem was her granddaughter. Wittig explains, “I wrote this piece after watching my granddaughter’s glee at blowing dandelions and remembering that I did the same thing when I was a child.”

Dandelions Watching my granddaughter Picking her way through the overgrown yard Passing the purple, yellow, and blue flowers Stooping, reaching, teetering As she can barely grasp it A Dandelion She runs to me through the grass Her lips pursed Making a little humming noise Not watching where her feet take her Watching where the wind takes the seeds Of her Dandelion She hands me the half-full stem Smiling, beaming, laughing We blow on it together The wind helps us by taking away Our Dandelion A memory of my own childhood A happy memory Seeping, leaping, glowing In my mind Taking me back to a good time My forgotten Dandelion

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Abigail Horne is a current senior at King University from Blountville, TN. She will graduate spring 2017 with a degree in digital media art and design. After she departs from King, she will work for her church doing digital media and other design work. The inspiration behind her photograph was “focusing on the small, important details of life.�

Image by Abigail Horne

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About S. Megan Rogers’s piece, “On Fire”: “I was doing an exercise with my friend where one of us chose a word and then wrote a poem about that word.

The word ‘fire’ was chosen and I thought about the difficulties of coming from a divorced family. I felt like I was part of the fire brigade while I ran back and forth between my parents.”

On Fire Have you ever seen a house engulfed in flames?

I have.

Unfortunately, it was still left standing with the maximum amount of damage.

Embers remained and reignited time and time again.

It wasn’t really on fire, but it was enflamed.

This flicker did not die out

easily.

It was one that remained.

I was left to run Back and Forth.

Back and Forth. with a bucket of water to try and end the pain.

But the pain still remains in my chest…

I can’t breathe.

Can I go to sleep now?

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James Laxton is a current King University senior from Nashville, TN. During his time at King, he double majored in theatre and English. While he is undecided about his future plans, James still remains involved in the theatre department, acting in the productions. This spring James will make an appearance in The Good Doctor. His piece, Dig, was inspired by Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 144.”

Dig Setting: Middle-class house. Living room. Furniture.

At rise: James and John are staring at Daisy’s dead corpse. James is on his knees over her body sad but calm.

What happened man?

I...killed her.

What?

I had to.

JOHN: JAMES: JOHN: JAMES:

JOHN: Had to? You two were in love. There’s no way you would kill her.

JAMES: She was...too much competition.

Huh?

JOHN:

JAMES: She was getting better than me.

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At what?

JOHN:

JAMES: She started...taking prey without asking. She was out of control.

So, you guys hunted?

JOHN:

JAMES: You could say that. I had to put her down before she lost all control.

JOHN: Control? What are you talking about?

JAMES: She started killing without a plan, so I had to put her down. That’s what I do, John, I kill people. And so did Daisy. That’s how we met. We were trying to kill the same person for similar reasons, and sparks flew.

That’s not funny dude.

JOHN:

JAMES: So we started coordinating our attacks to where we could never have things lead back to us. She was a natural at it. It’s a real shame. She was perfect.

JOHN: You’re joking. You gotta be joking.

JAMES: It’s a huge comfort. Knowing that someone you love wants to do the same things you do.

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JOHN: So that’s what the smell from your basement is. Who do you got down there this time?

I don’t remember.

JAMES:

John exits. A scream is heard from backstage. John enters horrified.

JOHN: That’s the lady from the news!

JAMES: And the lawyer, and the cop, and the five witches. We just got rid of the priest... Oh wipe that look off your face. We didn’t eat them.

JOHN: How many people have you killed?

JAMES: I don’t know. We went through a phase where anyone who looked at us funny would be dead the next day. But then we started planning our attacks strategically.

If we couldn’t figure out a way to get away with it, we wouldn’t do it. And then we changed our attacks to people who needed to die. Some of it was mercy, and some of it was punishment. We were giving depressed people their rest during Christmas. Halloween, we went and demolished witches and all those cults who sacrifice babies and shit. We never killed any children though, that’s where we drew the line.

JOHN: I don’t believe this. You fooled all of us. How was I so blind?

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JAMES: Well, we tend to trust that our friends aren’t killers.

I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell you. I hate that you found out.

JOHN: You’re sick! You’re sick! What the f--k is wrong with you?

JAMES: Nothing. I was born this way. God, I can’t believe I just said that.

JOHN: You’re going to jail. You’re gonna be on national television and everyone is gonna see the monster. And you’ll be sentenced to death.

JAMES: Will I? That’s an interesting theory. But that would require you to call the police and rat me out.

JOHN: You shouldn’t have told me you killed her. All you had to do is frame it on someone else. But you told me the truth, so now I have to call the police.

JAMES: So, that’s the way it is, huh? Well, I’m not going to jail. And you, my friend, aren’t going to call anybody.

You are going to die.

JOHN: You’re not going to kill me. We’re too close. We’re brothers, Jimmy. You already killed your wife, are you really gonna kill your brother, too?

You’re not my brother.

JAMES:

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JOHN: Might as well be.... Hell, I don’t even know who you are anymore.

JAMES: Well, you never really knew me at all, did you?

No.

JOHN:

JAMES: No, you did not. But, in all fairness, you weren’t supposed to find out. You just showed up at the wrong time.

JOHN: Of course I did. It’s a cruel world.

JAMES: F--k the world. Humans are cruel. And I’m one of the worst. But in the meantime, I’m gonna spare you from having to explain this to everyone.

JOHN: Like I said, you’re not gonna kill me.

JAMES: I have to. You’ll be in pain the rest of your life because you know that your best friend and his wife were murderers.

James grabs John puts a knife to his throat just about to slice it. Blackout.

A knife slicing sound effect is heard in

the darkness. Lights come back up. James

lays John’s dead corpse parallel to Daisy’s.

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Rest easy now. You don’t have to live with it now.

You bastard.

What the--

DAISY: JAMES: Daisy rises.

DAISY: You killed me. You actually killed me.

JAMES: I thought I did. How the hell? What the f--k?

DAISY: Oh, shut up, I’m dead alright. I’m just repossessing my body to get a damn explanation from you. Why’d you have to go and kill me?

JAMES: I was just honoring our agreement. You kill me if I start losing control, and I kill you if you lose control. I didn’t want to do it, I swear.

DAISY: But, I wasn’t ready to die. And I don’t want to go to hell all by myself. I thought we were going down together, you know.

JAMES:

Hey... baby don’t cry.

Pulls her chin up.

DAISY: Can’t you just come with me?

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JAMES: I’m way ahead of you, sweetheart. The poison should be kicking in in a few minutes.

Poison?

DAISY:

JAMES: Yeah. I wasn’t gonna let you burn in hell without me.

DAISY: You poisoned yourself after you killed me but before John got here?

That’s right.

JAMES:

DAISY: I can’t believe you would do something like this for me.

That’s so sweet.

Well, believe it honey.

JAMES:

DAISY: It’s too bad John had to die. Poor guy, he always had bad timing.

JAMES: Yeah, I figured that after finding out that his best friend killed more people than Jack the Ripper, he would probably blow his brains out anyway. So I saved him the trouble.

You did the right thing.

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DAISY:

JAMES: I’m not sure about that. He may have been strong and fought through it. He may have finally found a girl that would be his life force or something. Kinda like you and me.

DAISY: You don’t know that.

JAMES: I shouldn’t have killed him, he was the closest thing I had to a brother. I should’ve just let him call the police. It wouldn’t have made any difference, I poisoned myself. What have I done? I killed my wife and my brother.

DAISY: You can’t think like that.

James leans his head on Daisy’s shoulder.

Oh honey.... You were always there for him when he broke. Imagine the moment when he realized that the one person who put him back together was the same person who was breaking him. I don’t know anybody strong enough to fight through that. Nobody would ever understand how he felt, and he would be alone in the world.... You saved him.

Daisy wipes the tears from his eyes.

JAMES: You’re right. I’m just gonna miss him. He never hurt a soul. And we took so many.

DAISY: We were terrible, weren’t we?

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Oh, we were the worst.

JAMES:

DAISY: But we never killed any children.

JAMES: That’s the one thing we can say. We did not kill any children.

DAISY: Can you imagine if we had a child?

JAMES: Oh, that thing would be the spawn of Satan. I can just see myself teaching our daughter how dispose of a body.

Or teaching a son how to gut a person so that they die a slow and painful death. I can see myself watching them torture their bullies with tears of joy in my eyes. I wouldn’t have to worry about a daughter being treated badly by a boy. She’d kill him and bring him over to the house so that we could get rid of the body. The boy and I would go hunt rednecks, while you and the girl would hunt down some feminists. Trick or treating would be at a whole new level. And then you and I would die old, knowing that we had each other and raised our kids to follow in our footsteps. And we would be the newest modern serial killer family. No one would know, we’d seem like an ordinary family. That’s what I wanted, a family tree of serial killers that never got caught because of their “family values.” That would be perfect, but some dreams are never meant to be. One dream did come true, though—I met the woman of my dreams, and that’s good enough for me.

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DAISY:

I love you.

JAMES: I love you too. You’re my chainsaw.

DAISY: And you’re my butcher’s knife.

They kiss.

We’re finally at the end. Finally going to face our punishment. Just happened sooner than planned.

JAMES: Everybody’s gotta die sometime...baby don’t cry.

He grabs her head gently with both hands to look her in the eye. They gaze into each other’s eyes. They kiss again. They lay down, next to John. A rock love ballad is played as the lights fade down.

THE END

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Matthew Bryte is a current senior at King University from Resitertown, MD. He lives in Piney Flats, TN and is majoring in accounting. For the future, Matthew is considering MBA programs at ETSU and King. In regards to his photograph, Bryte explains, “This was from a collection of night-time photography in Johnson City. It was taken from the top of a parking structure while it was raining. I wanted a picture with a lot of color at night.�

Image by Matthew Bryte

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Micah Crews is an alumnus of King from Bristol, VA. During his time at King, Crews was an English and theatre double major. He graduated with his B.A. in 1998, then obtained his MBA from King in 2003. Crews is a face one might still see around King’s main campus, as he is now the Chief Enrollment Officer and works closely with admissions. The inspiration behind his piece was Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles, and C.S. Lewis’ Space Trilogy.

P.C. 104 Arrival He hit hard. His chest smacked the hot metal grating driving all of the breath from his lungs. The downwash from the engines whipped dust, rock and debris all around him, cutting his skin and stinging his eyes. Rough hands grabbed him and dragged him off of the grating and out of way for the next deposit.

Another thump sounded behind him, dim in the cacophony of engine noise and tumult of air. He watched the gravel pass below him as he was dragged about a hundred yards away and dumped against a wall. The bonds on his wrists were cut.

He rolled into a sitting position.

“Just breathe, Preston,” he gasped, attempting to draw as much air into his lungs as possible. “Breathe.” His lungs burned. The air tasted acrid. Some from the engine exhaust, but not as much as back home. He gagged as he attempted to breathe again. The air tasted unclean and left a residue in the mouth and throat that made swallowing difficult. He dry heaved several times – nothing left in his stomach. The burn in his lungs persisted. He opened and closed his mouth attempting to generate some kind of liquid to dispel the burning sensation.

Preston looked at his hands. The brown skin was cracked, dried. His muscles ached as the pull of gravity reasserted itself on his frame. He wiped as much of the grime and dirt off of his face as possible. His vision cleared a little as the engine whine from above increased in volume and was suddenly pitched higher. He looked up to the see four large engines flare briefly as the Atmos drive kicked in and pushed the large vessel quickly back out of the atmosphere. The sound died away slowly. Preston leaned his head back against the wall. He was one of twenty men and women dumped in a line – dust-blown and gagging.

A man with a low, broad-brimmed hat, shaded goggles, and a gray dusty bandana tied tightly across mouth approached the line. He grabbed the first person in line and hauled them to their feet – a slightly-built woman. Once she was standing, she cleared her throat and tried to speak. The man backhanded her across the mouth. “No talkin’,” the inspector growled. He yanked her hair back exposing a large purple cross-shaped welt on the side of her neck. “Theft!” He

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shouted. He released her hair and shoved her toward a door. She trudged away, leaning heavily against the wall.

The next man in line was treated in a similar manner. He had a large M with three hash marks branded on his forehead. “Multiple Murder!” the inspector shouted. Time and again a new arrival was hauled up and their marked crime was announced. Finally, the inspector hefted Preston to his feet. The inspector grabbed Preston’s hair, pulled his head back, down, and side to side. Apparently displeased, he pulled his goggles down and glared at Preston’s face. “Plainface!” the inspector cried. He stepped back then drove both fists into the pit of Preston’s stomach. Preston doubled over in pain – collapsing to his knees. The inspector pulled out a large pistol from his belt and crashed the butt of the weapon across Preston’s head. The sunlight flared, then separated into flashing stars, supernovas, and galaxies, swirling around a spreading black hole which pulled all the light into it and enveloped Preston. As consciousness slipped away, a graveled voice growled, “Welcome to Penal Colony 104.”

Consciousness returned slowly. He first grew aware of pain – deep throbbing that matched the beat of his heart. Pain flashed through his body eliciting a groan to escape his lips. Something cool and damp dapped his forehead.

“Gently now. Gently.” A deep soothing voice spoke softly next to his ear. “Don’ fight it. Pain means yo’r still livin’.” Preston’s body stiffened.

“Who’s there?” He mumbled. His voice felt ragged in his throat.

“No one of note.” The deep voice returned with a chuckle. The soft laugh sounded more like the low rumble of a distant thunderstorm.

“Why are you helping me?” Preston focused on speaking as clearly as possible forming each word carefully.

“Well, som’on’ should. Don’ worry. They know I’m helpin’. They don’ care much at this point.” The low thunder laugh rumbled again.

“Why?” Preston attempted to open one eye.

“We had ourselves a little discussion. They sayeed that you should be put out a yo’r misery. I didn’t quite agree. It’s a simple as that.”

“Who are you?” Preston finally forced one eye open. All was blurry and dim.

Preston blinked again. Only one eye would open.

“A friend. That’s all.” The damp coolness continued to lave Preston’s forehead. Somewhere above him was shadow and an occasional flash of reflected light.

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“Thank you.” Preston gasped as another round of pain eddied through his body. The laving stopped briefly. Preston heard the slosh of water and the tinkle of water falling. The coolness returned.

“Don’ thank me yet. You still gotta get out a here.”

“Where am I? Still in the receiving plant?” Preston pressed his eye open and attempted to turn to the speaker.

“No. You’re in the Offhome City now. Well, if you can call it a city. The gov’nment calls this planet P.C. 104. I don’ know if’n it has another name. Since we’re off o’ our home, we calls this Offhome City. You bein’ a Plainface is gonna make it tough t’ live. But, you still gotta chance.”

Preston thought for a moment. “A Plainface. That’s a new one for me.

Never heard of it before. Whatever I did, I didn’t think it was all that criminal because they didn’t mark me.”

“I know. I’ve known some Plainfaces in my life. Good folks mostly. Stuck here because of the crazy back home. You see life differently. You talk about it differently. Different is bad. You’re stuck here now too. The Plainface is what marks you here. In this world a marked face is more of a badge of honor.

Plainfaces is the bad guys. Better make the most of it.” The low voice was soft and strong. Preston’s eye finally focused on the face above him. It was a large face, dark-skinned with large brown eyes. All his features seemed large. Including the brands and tattoos that covered his face. Preston could not see the detail in the dim light, but they were there.

A small disc hung around the man’s neck and caught and reflected the little bit of light in the room. Preston reached up to touch the disc without even a thought. “What’s that?”

“Nothin’ of note now. Don’ worry about it. I’ll tell you later.” Preston lay back, blinking to try and bring some focus to his vision. Soon, he slipped back into sleep, real sleep – not the unconscious mimicry of death but real sleep. He dreamt.

He remembered. He wept.

Preston awoke slowly this time. The air was hotter, closer, and it stank.

The bitter taste on his tongue was still there but not as prevalent. He was thirsty.

He opened his eyes and this time they both opened. The room was lighter, a good bit more. Slowly, Preston eased himself into a sitting position. He felt the room sway, plunge, and then return to balance. Blinking slowly to allow his equilibrium to find center, Preston gingerly put his hand to his head to begin the survey of the damage done. A large knot protruded from the side of his skull from which the

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ache throbbing flowed. The pain gave him a focus point. He closed his eyes and centered his mind on the pain. His mouth formed silent words. He focused the words toward the pain. Lashing the pain with the words which were commanding, demanding, and dominating. Preston felt the pain lessen.

“I heard tell of this, but never tho’ght to see’t.” Preston opened his eyes slowly and saw the immense hulk standing over him. The man’s low voice was filled with awe. “How d’ya do it?”

Preston smiled, “I asked. I was answered, and the injury obeyed.”

“That’s no’ somethin’ ya see ever’day.” The comment was almost a whisper.

The man reached out a hand tentatively to touch Preston’s head, stopped himself and then offered the hand to Preston. “Name’s Duncan.”

Preston took Duncan’s hand firmly and shook it. “Hello, Duncan. Thank you for your kindness.”

Duncan brushed off the comment as if it were a fly. “Just one man lookin’ out for another ‘un.” Duncan settled himself on a large stool next to the bed. He gingerly touched Preston’s head, turning it this way and that, gently prodding the flesh. Preston felt no pain. Duncan whistled lowly. “Are ya strong enough ta stand?”

Preston nodded, “I think so. We won’t know until we try.” Duncan gripped Preston’s arm as the two worked together. Preston leaned on the giant and found his legs wobbled slightly. “Seems like I’m still pretty weak.”

The low thunder laugh sounded again. “Gravity’s stronger here than back home. You’ll build the muscle or die tryin’.”

“That’s a comforting thought,” Preston said wryly.

“Well, that’s one way to know that you still got livin’ to do. Adapt and grow, son.” Duncan released Preston’s arm. Preston stood splay-legged with his arms out to steady himself. He slowly straightened, drawing his feet together. He reached his hands above his head and pushed upwards toward the ceiling. He moved through a series of slow stretches. Once it was apparent that he would collapse immediately, Duncan left the room and returned with steaming bowl.

“That smells great.” Preston breathed in more deeply and coughed lightly.

His stomach rumbled rudely in response.

“You’re just hungry.” Duncan chuckled. “It’s good for you, don’t ask what’s in it. Just enjoy it.”

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Preston sat back down on the bed, dripping with sweat from his brief exertion. The stew was lumpy with meat and vegetables of some description with a large hunk of brown bread protruding from the middle of the stew. He accepted the food gratefully. Preston bowed his head and murmured a few words. Duncan watched him carefully. Once the words were done, Preston looked up at the large man. “Thank you for your kindness and your hospitality. I appreciate it more than I can say. I don’t know that I can ever repay you.”

Duncan waived the comment aside with his large rough hands. “No need t’ thank me. I am just doin’ a kindness. Don’t need to be repaid. I do what I do because I choose to do it.”

Preston ate slowly with great relish. “Why do you choose to do it? It seems that it would be simpler to let a Plainface die in the street rather than to help him.

Simpler for you and less dangerous.”

His dinner companion shrugged. “It may seem simpler, but it ain’t. I got my own debt to pay. I choose to pay it in this way. I was helped once m’self. I didn’t deserve it. I can’t repay it. But, I can be thankful for it. I show this by helpin’ those who can’t help themselves.” Duncan lifted the small disc that hung around his neck. It gleamed and sent dancing lights bouncing across all corners of the small room. It was a plain disk of silver-colored metal. It was unadorned. Duncan fingered it, gently rubbing his fingers along the edge. He slipped from around his neck and held it out to Preston. For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Duncan looked grave. He watched Preston take the disc and examine it closely.

Silence hung in the room like heavy incense.

The large man sighed and smiled sadly. “I am no Plainface. But, one saved my life. The lady took pity on me and helped me when I was sick. She didn’t have to. She just did. No one else would. She told me stories about back home. She told me her story. She didn’t have to ask mine. Everyone knows mine.” He wiped his large hand across his face as if he were trying to erase the marks of his crimes.

“Mine are never far away. She told me about why the Plainface’s were so hated and kicked out of Homeworld. She told me that no matter what is on my face, I didn’t have to live with the stain of these crimes inside – if I didn’t want to.” Preston wiped away a tear from his face and watched Duncan closely.

“Did you meet him?” Preston asked in almost a whisper. Duncan’s head lifted, and an immense smile spread across his face as tears began to pour from his eyes.

“Yeah. I did.”

“Then you are more than my rescuer, you are my brother.” The two men

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stood and embraced. Brothers newly met. Brothers in hiding. Brothers weeping in shared joy and peace. Brothers celebrating unity and comradeship. No thank you needed. No words exchanged.

Duncan slipped the small disc around Preston’s neck. “Now, others will know. Not everyone, just the ones who are looking for the plain disc. You are one of us. We are all Plainfaces in our hearts.”

Preston left at dusk the following evening. His head still hurt from time to time, but he needed to keep moving. Plainfaces were hunted in Offhome City.

Duncan helped him prepare. The shared more conversations and tears, more celebrations and laughter. Duncan advised him to go east to the mountains. There was a gathering place for Plainfaces – hidden from view. A place called The Refuge.

As he walked out from the shadow of the buildings, Preston turned to see the large form of Duncan standing under the eaves of a house, his large hand lifted in farewell. Preston returned the gesture. He shook his head. Not farewell. Till we meet again.

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Grace Lawson is a current junior at King University from Duffield, VA. She plans on pursuing an English major with the hopes of becoming an author. In regard to her poem, Grace says, “The inspiration behind my piece is my life experiences and the often mysterious universe we live in.”

Through the Dark and Gloom Through the dark and gloom Through the empty halls The widened aisle draped in red The empty pew Filled with lonely souls On up to the altar A casket lays Draped In flowers With the scent of death A kind un-soul, Lays lifeless In a room full of dark.

Lonely and lifeless In light Candles light the way, Providing a dim sense of light.

There they gather to pay respects In times of solemn and honor The one they’ve lost With a solemn cry On the breast of desire Out the window In a tree blooming Of beauty and mercy

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Sits a crow black as night Lonely as a raven It doesn’t caw It doesn’t sigh It just sits staring At the one looking out the window As the air fills with dampness Fog begins to rise Air becomes cool Nothing stirs, Or even dares make a sound.

Just pure quiet.

Pure loneliness.

That somehow Makes the night hot.

It’s so spooky it sends a chill Down there’s and mine spine and I or them can’t even begin To cry Because we’re so enchanted By the fright of the spooky night The spooky night That will chill Even the shadows lurking Outside of these four walls That surround us and them Protecting us From The danger of the spooky night

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Samantha Taylor is a current senior at King University from Newcastle, England. She is a digital media art and design major with a minor in business administration. Following graduation, Samantha plans to pursue an MBA and hopes to become a fashion photographer. Samantha explains that the motivation for creating the image was: “My passion is photography. I work to recognize the beauty of things we don’t often see, and create images that people will not forget.”

Image by Samantha Taylor

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McKenzie Anderson is a senior online student at King University from Knoxville, TN. After graduation in spring 2017, McKenzie will pursue her M.A. at Southern New Hampshire University and hopes to obtain her Ph.D. from the University of Tennessee. Her inspiration behind her poem, “Season of Falling,” was her mother. Anderson explains, “My mother recently passed away unexpectedly, and from unforeseen circumstances. This poem was written, along with a compilation of others, as my way of dealing with grief and my journey of coming to terms with her death.”

Season of Falling As the weather grows colder, hearts begin to freeze and harden.

Grieve for those fallen, and all who are lost.

When the trees don colors, and leaves begin their descent, mourn for the loss, that alters perceptions.

Loved ones falling, fading fast, leaving the season, with or without reason.

As winter approaches world is irrevocably transformed leaving hearts frozen, haunted by memories of the season of falling.

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In regards to S. Megan Rogers’s piece, “On Grieving”: “My grandmother passed away in May 2015. When I arrived back to King that next fall, I was taking Creative Writing: Non-Fiction. That was my first creative writing class and this [poem] was the second piece I’d ever written. As I sat in Starbucks working on my homework, I remembered the peanut butter cookies my grandmother made before she died. I cried in Starbucks for about an hour while I typed this piece.”

On Grieving

I bit into one of the Really Good, Unbelievable Peanut Butter Cookies that my friends made for me. It wasn’t until someone used her recipe to make them that I started grieving her loss. I’ll never be able to have her cookies ever again. I can try to recreate them, but they will never be hers.

I’ve never been afraid of death. It’s always just been something that happens. We live, and then one day, we die. It’s part of life. Most people think that I’m insensitive about it and find my views offensive. Perhaps I am. Perhaps it is.

Her death was sudden. We didn’t expect it. For just a moment, she stepped into the shower to take a break from caring for my 94 year-old great-grandmother and to take care of herself. That one moment turned into one forever.

Bless my poor Nanny... she had to be alive for the death of her daughter.

Bless my great uncle... who saw his younger sister die before himself.

Bless my brother... he’s always taken death so hard.

Bless my father... who is covering up his pain with humor and the remodeling of her house.... Oh, how he would trade his inheritance if it meant he didn’t have to be an orphan again.

It’s the grief I see in others. The void I feel when I realize I’ll never taste her cookies again. The pain that no one seems to admit. The upcoming holidays, where our family will be separated because the beautiful lady who held it all together is now gone.

This is what makes it hard.

It’s the peace that she is finally happy again. The certainty that she is finally healthy again. The assurance that her body no longer aches. The knowing that she is reunited with my grandfather.

This is what reminds me... that life goes on.

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Courtney Harvey is a current freshman at King University from Nashville, TN. She is double majoring in English and psychology with a minor in French.

When asked about her piece, Courtney says, "I saw a Tumblr post that helped inspire my paper about the gender gap."

The Gender Gap

A college education is something that, previously, only men were able to obtain. On July 16th, 1840, Catherine Brewer became the first woman in the United States to earn a Bachelor’s degree (US News). Graduating from Wesleyan College, she marked a key moment in the ever-rising feminist movement. Since then, women increasingly enrolled in institutions of higher education. The increase in enrollment has caused a distinct gender gap. In recent years, many universities have focused on increasing diversity. Since more women enrolled, there has been a decline in the enrollment of men.

On average, the enrollment gender gap is sixty-percent women and fortypercent men (Bartlett n.p.). The number is even higher in traditionally AfricanAmerican schools, at seventy-percent women and thirty-percent men (Bartlett).

These numbers are astonishing considering the fact that university was once a privilege known only to men. The decline in enrollment is caused by men no longer being encouraged to pursue higher education, for most universities have focused on increasing their enrollment of women. As a whole, universities and other institutions of education need to spend more time making higher education seem more appealing to men, and make educational environments that are better suited to teach young men.

Since women have been regularly accepted and enrolled into institutions of higher education, they have continued to grow in enrollment. The increase in women’s enrollment was caused by increasing encouragement towards women to pursue higher education. A rise in feminist ideals contributed to the encouragement of women. Also, the increase in women’s enrollment was increased partially by accident. Many universities accidentally expanded their enrollment of women while trying to adhere to Title IX (Gose n.p.), which states that “no person in the United States shall, on the basis of sex, be excluded from participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any education program or activity receiving Federal financial assistance” (United States Department of Education). The legislation caused many schools to find ways to give fair academic scholarships to more students, regardless of their gender.

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In 1994, John S. Toll, the president of Washington College, made an attempt to comply with Title IX. He decided to give a $10,000 scholarship to any member of the National Honor Society who enrolled at Washington College. However, his actions came with an unintentional consequence. Because approximately twothirds of the National Honor Society at the time was women, Washington College began accepting more women than it was prepared to accept. Over the course of five years, the enrollment of women at the college in comparison to men jumped from fifty percent women and fifty percent men to fifty-eight percent women and only forty-two percent men (Gose n.p.). The jump was shocking to many, causing many to worry about the decrease in enrollment of men at the institution.

Women’s enrollment in colleges has also increased because of the way society has taken a feminist approach to higher education, encouraging women to pursue degrees that they could not have gotten in the past. In his article about the gender gap, Andrew Hacker states: [Women] have always had what it takes to be good students, and expanding opportunities over the last century have given them the chance to demonstrate that. More high-school girls than boys now take Advanced Placement tests, do A work, and are inducted into honor societies. As judged by the number taking the ACT, more girls are intending to head to college. Fewer are willing to be diffident about competing. (Hacker n.p.)

The feminist movement is constantly encouraging women to do anything and everything that men can do and is likely the biggest factor contributing to women’s increase in enrollment. Another factor could be that many women have taken to heart their history lessons in grade school about times when women were not allowed to pursue education at all. Many women today graciously accept opportunities they know many in the past were not allowed to take.

While many people may be quick to relate the decrease in men’s enrollment in institutions of higher education to the increase in women’s enrollment, there is much more than that contributed to the decline. The increase in women enrolling alone could alter the ratio, but few men are enrolling each year, causing the ratio to shift towards larger female enrollment. Men’s decline in application and enrollment in university is caused by a variety of factors, such as educational environments that do not suit their unique needs at young ages, a more “opportunistic” outlook on life, and stigmas against men being intellectual (Gose n.p.).

A primary issue that men face in educational pursuits begins much earlier.

Men begin facing issues as early as elementary school. Elementary schools are not

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meeting requirements to help young boys learn as well as they meet requirements to help young girls learn. Ben Gose cites Daniel J. Kindlon’s, a psychologist who graduated from Harvard University, argument that elementary schools use “educational methods that don’t meet [young boy’s] needs,” and he goes on to point out that, at that age, boys are more active than girls, yet they are “suffer[ing] from being told to sit still.” It is made more difficult for many young boys to pay attention to details in test questions or listen carefully in class due to the primarily “rote teaching styles and rigid authority structures” present in most of today’s schools (Hacker n.p.). The current educational environment interferes with a young boy’s ability to form a stable foundation for his future education. If a man struggles to form a solid stable educational foundation, he may be less willing to continue to pursue an education after high school, or possibly quit even before graduating. That is reflected in a survey cited by Jamilah Evelyn, stating: The survey looked at U.S. Education Department data that tracked more than 10,000 students nationally over several years. In 1988, those students were in eighth grade, and eighty-two percent of the female students said they expected to earn college degrees, while only seventy-eight percent of the male students said the same. Six years later, the same gap persisted: Fifty-five percent of the female students and fifty-one percent of the male students were enrolled in postsecondary institutions. (Evelyn n.p.)

While the gap is not very large there—only at four percent—it is essential to take into account the year of the survey: 1988. Seeing that it has been nearly thirty years since that survey, it is logical to conclude that the gap has likely widened due to changes in the educational system.

Another issue that men face is the fact that men account for three-quarters of students in elementary and secondary schools diagnosed with learning or emotional disabilities (Gose n.p.). With that many men diagnosed, it should be no surprise that women are having a higher success rate in grade school. Young boys need an elementary and secondary educational environment that better tends to their unique needs. Girls, on the other hand, appear to be getting what could be considered an unfair advantage at getting a good education over boys.

Another reason why men are less likely to pursue higher education is because they are more “opportunistic,” that is, many are more likely to accept jobs that offer a high pay without requirements for a college education. Ben Gose cited Zell Miller, a former Governor of Georgia, when he posed the question, “Who in his right mind would want to go into debt for the privilege of reading Beowulf when he can make $30,000 a year in air-conditioner maintenance right out of high school?”

His perspective shows that many men are more willing to pursue occupations that

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pay well without higher education requirements regardless of personal preference.

Most men are simply more attracted to vocational occupations than women are because of their opportunistic outlooks on life.

Another major issue that men face is backlash from their peers in middle and high school when they pursue intellectualism. Gose cited Catherine SteinerAdair, another Harvard psychologist, who brought up an issue concerning her fourteen-year-old son, who was in enrolled in a private school not a public school, facing bullying from jocks calling him a “brainiac.” She went on to say that “even the most child-focused schools face this anti-intellectualism.” The stigma against men being smart causes many young men to shy away from working as hard as many young women to make good grades and get a good education in grade school. If men were taught that it is not un-cool to be intellectual, it is much more likely that they would show more interest in pursuing higher education.

One factor that appears to play a major role in the gender gap is race.

Statistics already lean towards women overall, but they lean even further towards them at traditionally African-American colleges. Citing the report “Gender Equity in Higher Education: 2010,” Andrea Fuller states: The percentage of undergraduates at community and four-year colleges who were male hovered between forty-two percent and forty-four percent from the 1995-1996 academic year to 2007-2008. … Among undergraduates who were black or age twenty-five and older, even smaller proportions were male. (Fuller n.p.)

Traditionally African-American universities, such as Fisk and Clark Atlanta, report a seventy-percent female to thirty-percent male ratio. Some, such as Dillard University, report even lower numbers at seventy-four percent female and twentysix percent male (Bartlett n.p.). These numbers are astonishingly low compared to the overall average. The reasons behind why many African-American men do not pursue higher education is the same as the reasons why many white men do not.

Secondary educational systems focus more on cheering on their women than they do their men (Bartlett n.p.), and they continue to accommodate more women’s educational needs than men’s.

The gender gap also causes difficulties in romantic relationships. Gose states that “black female college graduates have long complained about the difficulty of finding a mate of the same race and education level—and white women may soon be able to empathize.” As the educational gender gap increases, the harder it is for a woman to find a partner with an equal education. Generally speaking, as a woman’s educational levels increase, so do her standards for her

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dates (Hacker n.p.). Many educated women want partners with whom they can have intellectual conversations;, however, because of the increasing gender gap, a number of those women are having to settle for less than that in their partners and leaving the intellectual conversations to have with their female friends. Hacker points out that ninety-percent of male presidents of colleges are married, but only fifty-seven percent of female presidents of colleges are married. He also cites the Census’ data on earnings, stating that “among Americans whose earnings exceed $100,000—predominantly a college-educated stratum—eighty-three percent of the men are currently married, but only fifty-eight percent of the women are” (Hacker n.p.). These numbers are depressing for many women pursuing, have pursued, or plan to pursue higher education who also want to have a partner with at least an equal amount of education to them.

These issues hindering men from getting their educations extend beyond grade school. Mark Baucerlein, citing the Department of Education, states that in 2004, women acquired 814,000 bachelor’s degrees, while men only acquired 586,000. The difference was predicted to be 316,000 in 2014. He proceeds to mention that men “fell way behind” women in earning master’s degrees, but they did earn more Ph.D.’s. While the earnings of Ph.D.’s were at the time 23,900 to men and 21,800 to women, it was predicted in 2014 women would earn 53,700 Ph.D.’s and men would only earn 47,300. The gaps between men’s and women’s degree earnings is wider than that of admissions, suggesting that a larger percentage of men drop out of college compared to women (Baucerlein n.p.).

Many men who drop out likely drop out for aforementioned reasons: educational environments that adhere more to women’s needs than men’s, preferring to enter a well-paying work field that does not require higher education, and social stigmas against men caring deeply about their educations. However, Baucerlein suggests a couple other possible reasons for the decline in men earning degrees: As [a National Endowment for the Arts] study and many others past and present show, boys read a lot less than girls do on their own. In the NEA study, … the book-reading gap between men and women ages 18 to 24 went from eight percent in 1992 to sixteen percent in 2002. And [a] study from the Association of American Publishers found that female college students work harder than males. (Baucerlein n.p.)

If men read less than women do, then that will negatively influence their ability to handle college-level work because many classes are reading-intensive. Reading provides women an advantage towards earning degrees, because they will be more likely to pass reading-intensive classes. Refraining from reading an assignment

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and relying partially on class discussions will put anyone behind in class. If men are reading less on their own, they will be left behind in coursework, causing them to be less likely to earn a degree.

The recent history of increasing diversity in schools has caused an increasingly large problem with men enrolling in and graduating from universities.

Many men are less willing to pursue higher education because they lack a stable educational foundation, they are generally more likely to accept jobs that pay well without any higher education requirements, they face social stigmas against men being intellectual, and they are statistically less likely to read in their free time than women. Race also plays a major role in the gender gap. The gender gap is wider in graduation rates than it is in enrollment rates. Men now only earn more Ph.D.’s than women do. For all of the previously stated reasons, men should be more encouraged to pursue higher education than they currently are. If higher education was seen as something useful, it is more likely that more men will enroll in universities. Without incentive, many men will continue to disregard higher education as something of importance, and the gender gap will continue to widen.

Women have been encouraged for decades to pursue their dreams through higher education. Women have “found there are opportunities for their talents and skills, and they are taking advantage of the openings� (Hacker n.p.). Institutions of higher education need to find a way to help men find this as well, or they will continue to face a major gender gap.

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Works Cited Bartlett, Kellie. “The Black Gender Gap at Colleges.” The Chronicle of Higher Education. 2004. http://www.chronicle.com/article/The-black-gender-gap- at/102666.

Baucerlein, Mark. “College Gender Gap: Grieve la Difference.” The Chronicle of

Higher Education. 2007. http://www.chronicle.com/blogs/brainstorm/

college-gender-gap-grieve- la-difference/5559 Evelyn, Jamilah. “Gender Gap in College May Be Traced to Attitudes During

Junior High, Researchers Say.” The Chronicle of Higher Education. 2002. http:// www.chronicle.com/article/Gender-Gap-in-College-May-Be/116422.

Fuller, Andrea. “Female Undergraduates Continue to Outnumber Men, but Gap

Holds Steady.” The Chronicle of Higher Education. 2010. http://www.chronicle. com/article/Female-Undergraduates-Continue/63726.

Gose, Ben. “Colleges Look for Better Ways to Reverse a Decline in Enrollment of Men.” The Chronicle of Higher Education. 1999. http://www.chronicle. com/article/Colleges-Look-for-Ways-to/22490.

Hacker, Andrew. “How the B.A. Gap Widens the Chasm Between Men and Women.” The Chronicle of Higher Education. Vol. 49, no. 41, 2003. http://www. chronicle.com/article/How-the-BA-Gap-Widens-the/32398.

“Historic Firsts in Women’s Education in the United States.” Usnews.com. U.S. News

and World History. 2009. https://www.usnews.com/education/

articles/2009/03/11/historic-firsts-in-womens-education-in-the-united- states.

United States Dept. of Education. Office for Civil Rights. “Title IX and Sex Discrimination.” US Department of Education. US Dept. of Education.

2015. https://www2.ed.gov/about/offices/list/ocr/docs/tix_dis.html.

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Eric Coleman is a current King University senior from Lebanon, VA. He is a double major in history and government. As for the future, Eric hopes to one day teach high school history and government, with the possibility of moving to the collegiate level. When asked about the inspiration behind his piece, Eric says, “I have fun conversations with my friends. We’re always having weird discussions about the most outlandish scenarios. This was simply one of them that I converted fully into a scene.”

Battle at the Honor’s House (This is not a piece of original work and it will not be traded or sold for profit. This parody is based on a scene from Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith by George Lucas) Cric Eoleman arrives alongside three other students, Lames Jaxton, Sosh Jlichting, and Gucas Lentry. The four space out, staring at the Supreme Professor Krin Eingsley.

EINGSLEY: Undergrad Eoleman. I take it Makeleigh Bathes has graduated, then. I must say, you’re here quite sooner than expected.

EOLEMAN: In the name of the Student Government of the University, you are under arrest, Supreme Professor.

The Undergrads ignite their lightsabers.

EINGSLEY: Are you threatening me, Undergrad?

EOLEMAN: The English Department will decide your fate.

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EINGSLEY (in anger): I AM the English Department!!

EOLEMAN: Not yet!

Eingsley stands, a lightsaber appearing in her hand.

EINGSLEY:

It’s failure, then.

Eingsly ignites her lightsaber and spins towards the undergrads. She quickly removes Gucas Lentry and Sosh Jlichting from the fight. The combat continues for a few brief moments until Lames Jaxton also falls before her power.

Intense combat continues between Eingsley and Eolemar, moving throughout the main classroom of the Honor’s House. Eingsley uses a force push to break a window and threaten to send Eolemar tumbling down to his “end.” He manages to stay in the fight.

Combat on the precipice of the window continues as Esmond Arko approaches.

Eingsley immediately “loses hold” of her lightsaber as Esmond Arko comes into view.

EOLEMAR: You are under arrest, Supreme Professor.

EINGSLEY: Esmond! I told you it would come to this. I was right.

The meninists are taking over!

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EOLEMAR: You progressive. The oppression of the third-wave feminists will never arrive. Your plot to gain control of the liberal arts is over…you have lost!

EINGSLEY: No! No! YOU ARE THE OPPRESSOR!!

Eingsley raises her hands and shoots force lightning at Eolemar, who blocks it with his lightsaber.

EINGSLEY: He is the traitor, Esmond!

EOLEMAR: She is the traitor! Stop her!

EINGSLEY: The undergrads are in revolt! They will betray you just as they are trying to betray me! You are not one of them, Esmond! Don’t let him stop me!!

Lightning attack continues. Eingsley is “weakening” gradually.

EINGSLEY:

I am your pathway to success. I can give you a grade you love, Esmond! You must choose! You must stop him!!

EOLEMAR: Don’t listen to him Esmond, ARRRRGGGGGHHHH! EINGSLEY: I am…too weak. I give up. I can’t…I can’t hold him off any longer…

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EOLEMAR: Liberal scum. I am going to end this once and for all!

ESMOND ARKO: You can’t attack her while she’s defenseless, Eolemar!

She must stand trial!

EOLEMAR: She has control of the curriculum and the class scheduling! She’s too dangerous to be left in control!

EINGSLEY: I’m too weak, please!

ESMOND: It’s not the undergrad way! She must succeed! I NEED MY GRADE!!

Eolemar raises his sword. He begins to bring it down.

EINGSLEY:

No. No, please, don’t!

Esmond steps forward to intercept, “disarming” Eolemar. Eingsley springs to life immediately, launching a new wave of lightning at a now defenseless Eolemar.

EINGSLEY: ULTIMATE THIRD-WAVE FEMINISM!!!

As Esmond watches in horror, Eolemar is sent flying out of the Honor’s House.

Esmond falls into a sitting position.

ESMOND: What have I done?

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EINGSLEY: Fulfilling your destiny. Become my apprentice. Learn to use the feminist agenda.

ESMOND: I will grade. attain way of

do whatever you demand. Just give me a good I can’t graduate without it. I want the power to a 4.0. I pledge myself to your teachings. To the Feminism.

EINGSLEY:

Good. A powerful feminist you will become. From this moment hence, you will be known as‌Darth Darko.

END

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The Holston is published by the English Department at King University, and we are always looking for submissions from staff, students, and alumni.

Please email your submissions at any time to: theholstonjournal123@gmail.com