The Holston Journal 2018

2017 - 2018

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Acknowledgements Major funding for The Holston provided by: The King University English Department The King University Student Government Association (SGA)

Special Thanks to: Dr. Erin M. Kingsley, Faculty Advisor for The Holston Dr. Kim Holloway, The Holston Board Member The King University English Department If you are a student, alumnus, or faculty member at King University and wish to submit to next year’s edition of The Holston, please email your submission in a Word document to: theholston@king.edu.

The Holston appreciates your patronage for the arts and welcomes your tax-deductible donation.

Please make checks payable to “King University” and write “The Holston” in the subject line.

Attn: Dr. Erin Kingsley Assistant Professor of English and The Holston Faculty Advisor King University 1350 King College Road Bristol, TN 37620

© 2018, Department of English, King University

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Table of Contents Editorial Staff……………………………………………………………………. pg. 5 Letter from the Editors………………………………………………………....... pg. 6 Faculty Spotlight: Reflections on King University……………………………… pg. 7 Dr. Katie VandeBrake Alumni Spotlight…………………………………………………………………. pg. 9 Grace Underwood “The Blue Door” ………………………………………………………………… pg. 19 Jordan Cunningham “Our Only Sanctuary” and “Is This Me?” ………………………………………...pg. 23 Jenny Tudor “An Adventure in India” ………………………………………………………… pg. 26 Lauren Castor “A Storyteller’s Dream” …………………………………………………………. pg. 28 Wyatt Burleson “The Waves” ……………………………………………………………………... pg. 35 Erica Seals “Broken Masks” ………………………………………………………………...... pg. 40 Wyatt Burleson “Maple’s Marvel” ………………………………………………………………… pg. 49 Ethan Harless “The Relationship Between Physical Activity and Depression”...............................pg. 53 Ryan Nelson “HELL” …………………………………………………………………………… pg. 57 Germaine LaRonde “Pain Rewritten” …………………………………………………………………... pg. 58 Kara Mitchell “Double Bow” ……………………………………………………………………... pg. 60 Laura Boggan “Malaysia” and “Indonesia” ………………………………………………….……..pg. 61

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Kirsti Graybeal “Marble Cathedral” ……………………………………………………………....…pg. 62 Abagail Ketron “Netherlands” and “King”……………………………………………………………pg. 63 Jacob Davis “Pine Warbler in Spring” ……………………………………………………………pg. 65 Rachel Mullins “Pretty in Pink” and “Into the Woods”………………………………………………pg. 66 Samantha Oplinger

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Editorial Staff Editors-in-Chief:

Angela Karas and Courtney Harvey

Design Editor:

Desmond Darko

Faculty Advisor:

Dr. Erin M. Kingsley

Editorial Board Members:

Desmond Darko Emily Jacobs Eric Coleman Jenny Tudor Jordan Cunningham Joshua Schlichting

Illustrator:

Keely Sage

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Letter from the Editors

Dear Reader of The Holston, For the second annual publication of The Holston, we wanted to find a universally applicable theme for fellow classmates and alumni. While Bristol, Tennessee may epitomize the concept of the quaint small town, students come from all over the globe to study at King University. Therefore, we elected to pursue globalization as our overarching theme; each piece, whether it be poetry, photography, or prose, represents an artistic endeavor that emerged from the submitter’s unique cultural point of view. We also recognize students have their own unique collegiate experience with the university – each education consists of a distinct series of events that cannot be replicated, from the specifics of the classes one takes to one’s social involvement.

While the means by which we characterize our undergraduate and graduate careers may differ, through the common medium of both the English language and, perhaps even more broadly, photography, we are able to form a collective narrative of our King University journeys.

We view this year’s edition as a publication that testifies to both the diversity and creative talent that characterizes the King community. It is our hope that you, as the reader, can relate your own experience and perspective of King University to the 2017-2018 publication of The Holston and enjoy the various submissions that comprise the subsequent pages. Of course, none of this would be possible without the help of our faculty advisor, Dr. Erin Kingsley, and, consequently, we would like to extend an additional word of thanks to her in our preface. Lastly, on behalf of everyone involved with The Holston, we thank you for your support of the arts in reading our journal.

Happy Reading!

The Holston Editors-in-Chief, Courtney Harvey and Angela Karas

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Faculty Spotlight – Dr. Katie Vande-Brake What is one of your most striking King-related memories?

My husband, three sons, and I came to King in the fall of 1979. We were very excited about working at a Christian college. I did not teach at King that first year; instead I substituted in Bristol, Tennessee, and Bristol, Virginia, City Schools. On days when I wasn’t substituting, I would walk down to the campus early in the morning from our house in Forest Hills with our two Dalmatians—Daisy and Zelda. In 1979 the baseball field was down the hill from Kline Gym and Liston Hall. I would let the dogs run on that field in the wet grass.

The thing that is such a poignant memory for me is walking up the hill in front of DeFriece Place, the dogs pulling hard on their leashes in anticipation of running free. I would get a rush of emotion and a sense of the promise of my new life at King College, a new place. I still get the same feeling whenever I walk up that hill—joy, energy, excitement, and exquisite delight at being part of an important endeavor at a college where spiritual formation, as well as intellectual formation, is an integral part of the mission and vision.

What have you learned during your time at King?

I have spent 38 years at King—that’s 50% of my life and 25% of the life of the institution. I would need to write a book to tell what I have learned. Here are a few things: 1. The hardest thing made me strong. In March of 1983 my husband, who taught philosophy, theology, Bible, and literature at King, was seriously injured in a motorcycle wreck. He suffered a traumatic brain injury, and that changed everything. He survived, barely. He has lived in a nursing home ever since with serious physical limitations and diminished memory and intellect. I became in an instant the breadwinner, the single mom, the caregiver, the sustainer of the family.

My sons were 16, 15, and 11 at the time of the accident. I saw them through high school, college, into marriage, and on to graduate school. I paid the bills; I kept the home fires burning. And, almost as a sideline, I taught at King. For many of those years the life lessons overshadowed any academic ones. My work was my safety and my sanity; without the sense of purpose work offered and caring relationships both at King and at First Presbyterian Church, I might not have survived.

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2. Going off to get my Ph.D. at age 57 was the best decision of my life. After all the boys were gone, I had no excuses. After a great experience at a summer workshop called CIWIC— Computers in Writing-Intensive Classrooms—I applied to the Rhetoric and Technical Communication doctoral program at Michigan Tech. I loved every minute of my time in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, even though it snowed 300 inches the first winter. I remember getting up each day and saying to myself, “I get to read and write all day today.” That was the best! We have to take risks, and grad school at 57 was a big risk.

3. There is great power in words. One of the things stressed in books that we used at King over the years as texts for the course that has become KING 1000 is the power of stating goals.

The books say, “If you articulate a goal and write it down, you are 85% more likely to reach that goal.”

When I was in high school, I always claimed I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. As my life played out at King and during my sojourn at Michigan Tech, I not only became a writer, but I published two books. The piece of academic writing that was my ticket into grad school became my first book (How They Shine: Melungeon Characters in the Fiction of Appalachia) and my ticket out of grad school, the dissertation, became the second (Through the Back Door: Melungeon Literacies and 21st Century Technologies). A person must be wise about stating a goal because a stated goal just might come true.

What is one word or phrase you would use to sum up your experience at King?

“Never a dull moment…”

Retirement is proving already to be a strange experience. People say “Congratulations on your retirement!,” but I cannot imagine why. It feels like a funeral. Right now, as I begin retirement, it seems more an ending than a beginning. I cannot remember a time since high school when I have not been under pressure to perform. I always have had more things to do than I have had time to do them, and I have loved running my life on high octane. And now, suddenly, empty hours ahead stretch into days, weeks, months, years. It’s probably one of those hard things that will teach me much.

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Alumni Spotlight

by Grace Underwood

A dear King friend once asked me what I thought the most beautiful thing in creation was.

Anyone who knows me understands my slight obsession with all things outdoors and how I become helplessly giddy every time a mountain peak is in view or the seasons shift and a colorsplashed leaf falls from a tired tree branch. I stumbled over my words in response and said something about those gracefilled mountains or glorysoaked leaves. Then I returned his question and he answered quickly and simply, “Its people.” His words profoundly resonated with me and left a ceaseless echo in my spirit.

Following my graduation at King, I had the great honor of traveling to eleven different countries across the span of eleven months with the World Race. I traveled alongside forty others (collectively called a “Squad”) who would split off into six different teams upon our arrival in each nation and spread out across different cities, towns, and remote villages. We partnered with different hosts, organizations, and ministries that are already bringing kingdom to these nations and extended our hands and hearts in various ways based on each country’s specific needs. I walked through the joy-seeking hills of Eastern Europe, roamed the endlessly giving space of Africa, and danced through the colorful streets of Southeast Asia. In each of these continents I became exponentially awestruck by the glory that was being spilled over these lands and the graces that are unraveling across the earth.

The first steps of my journey were across Novi Sad in the north of Serbia. It is a gem of a city that translates to “New Garden” and very quickly spoiled me with its wonder. My team was welcomed by an orange mirror hanging in the sky; the glow of the night, prophesying all the light that was to come. The breeze was as warm as the shaking of hands as we were greeted by the first of many kingdom-shaking hearts we would encounter. We collected our packs with all that belonged to each of us for the year and seven eager women piled into the back of our host’s van. We made it to a church where a group of young men were waiting to carry our things to an upper room we would call home for the next month.

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My team arrived just in time to serve at the church’s teenage summer camp. We had the joy of helping with various skills workshops such as soccer, acting, and photography, leading various games and activities, and sharing pieces of our stories. We learned a bit of Serbian from patient teachers, played lots of soccer four-square, made s’mores over fire-light, explored in the woods, danced wildly in the rain, and laughed until our bellies ached with joy. We worshipped together and prayed over students who were seeking to give Jesus a home in their hearts. These students immediately won us over and began to feel like little brothers and sisters.

At the close of camp, we helped create a labyrinth for the students to walk through the life and crucifixion of Jesus. I stood at the end of this decision-making maze and got to pray with those who recognized the Son as their savior. One spirited boy who we affectionately called “Chippy” came out of the labyrinth in tears, clearly touched by the presence he had just encountered. He knew a bit of English and finally found the words to say, “I feel God love me. Very, very much.”

In a rather dry corner of the earth, this is exactly what we experienced in this nation. The very presence of the Spirit dripping from its walls and the very love of the Father beaming through these youthful hearts.

As soon as camp was over, we continued pursuing the relationships that had formed during that week. We went out for ice cream, played games at the park, and baked over one hundred classic American chocolate-chip cookies. Two young girls took us around the entire city on foot to show us some of their most treasured spots. We were overwhelmed by the generous hospitality and countless dinner invitations we received during our stay from families of the students we befriended. Moments gathered at the table with these stunning hearts filled more than our tummies and left me feeling whole.

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Just weeks before I launched for the Race I volunteered at a camp in Texas for children who have special needs. It was a life-altering week filled with many gifts, one of which I found in a camper named Hana who completely captivated my heart. I found out that Hana was from Serbia, where I would be traveling in simply a matter of weeks. I later discovered that my team happened to be placed in the city her family lived. I was able to connect with her parents, but learned they would not arrive back in Novi Sad until the very end of our month there.

But I held onto hope that I would get to see Hana again.

In our last days in Novi Sad, Hana’s family finally returned home and I found myself in Hana’s very home. Minutes after my team arrived, another team from our Squad walked in who had met Hana’s family while they were serving at a camp in a completely different city in Serbia the week before. One dear heart who soon became a beloved friend had even been paired as Hana’s counselor. Suddenly, there were fourteen World Racers spread out across Hana’s living room floor with empty pizza boxes and coffee cups, and overflowing hearts, all because of this one precious little girl.

To my great joy, Hana’s mom asked me to babysit the following night before my team traveled on to Belgrade. The night was spent eating lots of ice cream, listening to Welcome to New York

by Taylor Swift and dancing in the living room. I went to sleep that night in the room next to Hana’s, only to be woken up a couple of hours later by the door bursting open, the lights flinging on, and Hana ripping the covers off of my bed. As many times as I tried to usher Hana back to her bed, this relentlessly continued for the remainder of the night. I had eventually fallen back asleep and woke up the next morning with sweet Hana in my arms. I was completely overwhelmed in this moment by the way I saw this dear one. I realized my eyes had been kissed to see this daughter of the Star-breather just as He sees her. And this is how He sees me. This was just the beginning of many, many beautiful things.

Our story continued on through Romania where our entire Squad of 41 crammed into the same mission home with creaky stairs, ice-cold showers, and many voices that filled this small space and somehow also began to fill space in my heart. We reached the Romanian people through evangelism, passing out Bibles, leading children’s ministry, and covering their nation in prayer.

My team was then chosen for a unique ministry called “Unsung Heroes” in Bulgaria, where we were sent to a city where no World Race team had ever been before, and our mission was to make contacts for the World Race to send future teams to. We drove in to Burgas without a host or a home, and without knowing a soul. But the Lord was Provider in innumerable ways that granted invitations for these hidden heroes to compose a new song in their stories. We left this

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nation with seven new host contacts, several powerful testimonies, and many dear friends.

Lastly, we served in Macedonia alongside a sweet couple who owned a cafe where Albanian Muslims would come to study English. In addition to being teachers, we also shared good news on the streets of Skopje and witnessed a proclaimed Atheist accept Jesus as his savior. The Balkans sent us on our way with a glittery snowfall on our last day in Skopje before we stepped into chronic summer for the rest of the year.

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Our next flight took us to Southwestern Africa where we would spend the next three months

journeying through Zambia, Botswana, and Namibia. We were welcomed into Zambia with fiercely warm wind that carried us to a bus where we piled in more humans than there were seats.

We lived at a YWAM base that month where we gardened, painted, helped lead a Vacation Bible School for orphaned children, and made sweet friends who were currently studying in the Discipleship Training School. We took bucket showers from water we retrieved from a well outside, and washed the red African dirt from our clothes by hand. Bug nets and mosquito spray were in full use as we tasted true pioneer living in this place.

Botswana marked the halfway point of my Race, and it was perhaps the weightiest of them all. Our home was secluded deep in the bush, three hours on a dirt road from the nearest ATM, a helicopter ride away from the nearest hospital, and 100 yards from a rather large and noisy hippopotamus. Our tents served as faithful homes that kept us (mostly) dry from the incessant rainfall. The nearest grocery store was three hours away on a

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dirt road from Seronga, so three girls ventured on one grocery shopping feat to feed 15 people for the entire month. Our dining room was a wooden picnic table that stood beneath our laundry hanging line, and we took showers that were exposed to the sky when there weren't centipedes or scorpions crawling around in them.

On days that it wasn’t raining, our ministry included evangelizing in the village where we often sighted more donkeys than humans. We also reached out to children by playing lots of limbo, singing songs and sharing Bible stories with a wide age range of kiddos who would show up beneath the covering trees. I was one of five women who had the honor of meeting a beautiful soul named One (“own-knee”). We would walk to her shop every day, pull up cinder blocks for seats, and sit with her to worship, study scripture, and share pieces of our stories together. Upon our last days in Botswana, we had the joy of washing and blessing her feet before we parted ways.

We had lots of time on our hands and no outside communication with the rest of the world, which provided sufficient space for worshipping, reading and praying in our hammocks, and some rather sandy runs. It also created space to sit in the present state of my vulnerable heart and nothing could have prepared me for the unraveling that this place would bring. It drew me to a heart posture that I had never before found myself in and brokenness I didn’t know I was clinging to began to undo me. Seronga became a sanctuary of sorts that allowed safety and freedom to feel things I didn’t realize I had been running from. With nowhere else to turn, I chose to press into the hard and holy things in order to pursue deeper healing. I experienced the invaluable meaning of community here as dear hearts embraced the exposure of the most fragile pieces of my heart with love more fierce than I had ever known.

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Our host family was an incredibly gracious gift from South Africa, Willie and Estelle, and their two daughters who were in their early twenties. The Booyse family was clothed in purity and hospitality. The doors to their home always remained open and they were givers and sharers of everything they had. Estelle cooked a big lunch for us every day with her blessed hands so that all 19 of us could gather around the incessantly-giving table and share our hearts over a tasty meal. Willie led his family and their ministry with ceaseless stature and grace. His heart was purely to share the love of Jesus with the people of this small village and he had such a deep grasp on the significance of even one soul who came to recognize His love. He sat us down upon our arrival and promised to love each of us as if we were his own daughters, and this is precisely what he did. His fatherly love extended to spaces only a father can fill.

When it came time to part ways from Seronga, I wasn’t feeling well and left early with a few others to be closer to sufficient medical care if necessary. Overcome with exhaustion, I was laying in the back of Willie’s truck waiting for our bus to arrive and getting absolutely eaten alive by merciless mosquitos. I think Willie noticed all of the scratching so he went to find some bug repellent and brought it to the back seat. I tried spraying it on my exposed skin from the helpless position I was in and Willie saw that I was struggling so he took the bottle back from me to cover my unreached legs. I was deeply moved in this seemingly small act of love from a tender father heart.

Willie recently suffered a heart attack that took him home to be with the Savior he loved so fiercely. His legacy however, will not soon pass from this world, but will forever live on in the streets of Seronga, and the countless hearts of those he profoundly touched.

We closed our African odyssey in Namibia where we taught in preschool classrooms, visited a Chinese church, served in a soup kitchen, and laid hands on new mammas and their precious babies that were just hours old. We also traveled to the bush to stay at a Romanian mission base where they have sought to reach the physical as well as spiritual needs of the Xun (sun) tribe. One evening we trekked into a remote village to show the Jesus film at their church. Come to find out, the church was a large covering tree that stood boldly in its worshipful wonder. A dream of mine was fulfilled as the night came to a close and we African danced by fire-light beneath the church, and with the church, under stars falling across the Milky Way. Africa effortlessly held the most captivating and celebratory skies I have ever beheld. It held many of my tears that watered the earth to beckon something new. It held the echoes of swelling laughter and wonder in the eyes of its hungry people.

We finally landed in our last continent where we served as English teachers at an international kindergarten in Changlun, Malaysia and ate the yummiest street food I’ve ever tasted! We partnered with a team of American missionaries in Bangkok, Thailand where we helped to

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promote their English classes which they used as a tool to share the gospel with nationals. We helped lead English clubs in the evenings and prayer marched around Hindu and Buddhist temples. We also interceded on behalf of a dear Thai friend who was interning with the church and who was the only believer in her family. After laying hands on our new friend and praying for opportunities for her to share the love of Jesus with her family, she traveled to her hometown for a short visit. She returned to Bangkok days later with news that her sister-in-love had chosen to receive Jesus in her heart. We watched testimonies like this one unfold that caused fierce rapids across hidden places. Then, Cambodia took us into a noisy village outside of Phnom Penh that was one of the spiritually heaviest places I’ve ever journeyed through. We served as teachers in a primary and secondary school where it felt as though the students didn’t care for our presence. But despite the spirit of confusion we battled here, we continued to fight to love these people. This nation awakened a new song of praise in my heart that I sang out with hope that the truth and light it carried would linger on in its streets.

Our last stop was in Da Nang, Vietnam, where we served in a cafe that a selfless Korean couple opened for university students to come and practice conversational English. Students would come order a cup of coffee or glass of juice and simply sit with us as we exchanged words and stories. We also led English club in the evenings at the cafe where we would choose discussion topics that would evoke meaningful conversation. I sat across from many beautiful hearts who shared valuable thoughts about the world and our purpose in it. I had the honor of reading a young, aspiring high school student’s scholarship application essays, who is well on her way to doing something great. We also made some spunky musician friends who taught us Vietnamese songs and took us on their motorbikes to feed us traditional Vietnamese food and show us their treasured city. It was a very relational and life-giving ministry where we felt as though we were simply getting to love on friends.

One of my dearest friends, McCrea, and I began to pray for someone upon our arrival in our last destination. We didn’t yet know who we were praying for, but we believed God had someone in mind. McCrea and I went for a run on our first morning in Da Nang, and then on a hunt to find a coffee shop where we prayed we would meet someone who we could pursue with the love of Jesus for the remainder of the month. It started raining in our search for an ATM when we stumbled upon a little coffee shop that was half inside and half outside. The walls were painted as if it was beneath the sea and the rainfall was pouring into the half of it. We saw a young girl sitting reading the newspaper and we got her attention to ask if she could tell us where the nearest bank was. Thankfully, she understood quite a bit of English and was able to offer us directions. After we confirmed that they served coffee in the currently empty cafe, we told her we would return shortly. Suca's bright and lovely spirit captured our hearts and we immediately claimed her as a friend. She told us she had recently made another traveling friend who had also stumbled upon her coffee shop while looking for an ATM and then returned to meet her. We knew Jesus was pursuing this young student and we could tell she was wildly searching.

We returned every day after our morning run to sit with Suca while we sipped on our Vietnamese coffee. Although our communication was limited, we trusted that we would be lightcarriers to her. We invited Suca to our English club at the cafe and she finally came one night, bearing so much hope with her. There was another young girl, whose name translated to Joy, who would come into the cafe that McCrea and I had also connected with. Suddenly, we were

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gathered with our two new friends at the table. I was overwhelmed by the love I had for these two women as I watched them greet one another in English and then continue communing in their native tongue.

Suca returned to the cafe a couple of days later for karaoke night and was thrilled for a chance to share her voice. Joy, on the other hand, was terrified at even the thought of being in front of other people and had only come with an audience purpose. Before we knew it, spirited Suca had convinced reluctant Joy to stand up and sing a Vietnamese song with her. I watched as our friends stood and lifted their voices together, wonder-struck by the glory that was escaping their spirits. Suca ended up sharing with us that Joy reminded her a lot of herself when she was younger and felt led to encourage Joy’s pursuit of deeper security and self-worth. It was such a gift to introduce these two dear hearts and witness them pour such stunning light and love into each other.

After what seemed simultaneously like eternity and no time at all, I found myself suddenly ascending the final summit of my eleven month pilgrimage. Through much thoughtful contemplation of this journey I have come to accept that I will be processing all that it held for perhaps the entirety of my life, and that its glory could never be fully encompassed in mere words. However, I have received eruptions of truth upon my reflection that has caused me to have even deeper revelations of God’s love, which have always been a result of the heaven-bringing hearts I encountered along the way.

I have now walked across the ancient ruins of Angkor Wat in Siem Reap, Cambodia, jumped from a 333 ft. bridge at Victoria Falls in Livingstone, Zambia, took a mud bath with elephants in Chiang Mai, Thailand, and climbed the tallest peak in IndoChina. Throughout this expedition of being immersed in eleven foreign cultures, I have been struck over and over again by the cascade of wonder that has flooded every crack and space of my heart. It has drenched me in matchless

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grace that spills over falls of surrender and jubilantly shouts the name of Jesus across the nations.

But nothing compares to the life-altering people I met and the ways they opened my eyes to the see the world, its people, and myself, the way the Creator of it all does.

Mountains bow down as they burst into song and trees clap their hands in worship, but I believe nothing on earth measures up to the sound of a child lifting his or her voice to muster a shout of praise in the ears of our heavenly Father. This cry of utter praise, whether it holds the height of joy or the depths of sorrow, has become the refrain of my heart that flips the mountains upside down and flings open the very gates of heaven. From the hearts that have so extraordinarily touched mine, I have uncovered a hidden mystery that has drawn me into a state of unequivocal reverence and love for my King Jesus.

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“The Blue Door”

by Jordan Cunningham Jordan Cunningham is a rising sophomore at King University majoring in English Writing and minoring in History. ______________________________________________________________________________ She was seven when she first noticed it. The door was strange, made of a different material than the rest of the house, though she did not know what. Its blue paint was peeling off in several places and cracked in many others. The brass of the knob had long since lost its shine.

A faint glow always seemed to be emanating from underneath the door and, on the one occasion that she had slid to the floor and peeked under it, she had seen shadows of figures moving about the room. Her parents told her she was only imagining it, that the door at the end of the secondfloor hallway didn’t exist. But she saw it every day. She saw it every time she left her room.

He was seven when he found the door carved into the bark of one of the largest trees in the forest. It was painted a vivid blue with a doorknob of cleanly polished brass. Curiously, he pulled the knob, twisting it this way and that, but it would not budge. Pressing his ear against it, he heard nothing but the groaning of the tree. How he wished he could open this strange door, if only to see what was on the other side. But he did need to get back. It would be dark soon, and his mother hated when he was in the forest at night. With a final try at the shiny brass knob, the boy turned and headed back towards home.

She was ten when her father left and her mother hugged her so tightly she couldn’t breathe. The poor girl had never seen her mother cry like that. It was two nights later that she felt a calling, felt something pulling her toward the blue door at the end of the hallway. She slid on her house shoes and wrapped her blanket around her shoulders before peeking out into the hall.

The glow beneath the door was brighter than she had ever seen it before. With careful steps, she made her way to the door, not entirely sure what to expect. Her tiny hand found the knob and started to turn it slowly. It was locked, so she gave a small shrug and went back to bed.

He was ten when the little girls in his town started to giggle and blush at him when he waved or smiled in their direction. It unnerved him a bit, so he tended to spend most of his time with friends playing in the forest. They never seemed to notice the blue door in the tree, though, and they would always poke fun at him for imagining it. That never stopped him from trying to open the door every chance that he got.

She was thirteen when the kids at school started calling her names. She woke up most mornings with a sickening headache and tear stains on her pillow. It did not take long for the comments to break her down. The blue door at the end of the hall became harder to find as the days went by. She was falling, slipping, silently begging for someone to help her. No one came.

The glow beneath the door faded to near extinction. She had never felt more alone.

He was thirteen when he realized that the world can be a cruel place to live. The older boys always sneered at him and the girls his age were always chasing after the local soldiers.

His friends found different friends and suddenly he was alone. More and more, the boy felt himself being drawn to the blue door hidden so deep within the forest. He spent most of his days there, sitting in front of the door, wondering when it had started to blend into the tree. It was a

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rather cool morning when he found himself standing in front of the blue door again, only to find that the door wasn’t blue anymore.

She was sixteen when she had both her first kiss and her first heartbreak. The only boy who had been kind to her, the only one willing to stand up for her against those who sought to put her down, had admitted his crush only a few weeks before her sixteenth birthday. They had started dating then, had even gone to see a couple movies in the time leading up to her birthday, but on the night of her “sweet” sixteen she had found him kissing one of the cheerleaders. They were supposed to meet for dinner that night, but he had ditched her for someone better.

Someone prettier. Someone more popular. Someone he saw as an equal. Her pillow was stained with tears again for the first time in months and the blue door at the end of the hallway vanished entirely.

He was sixteen when he realized that love wasn’t real. The girl he had called his, the one he had planned to marry, wouldn’t have run off with one of the soldiers if love truly did exist.

She wouldn’t have left him a meager note telling him not to come looking for her, that she was happier with a new man. With a better man. For the first time in years, the boy found himself standing in the depths of the forest, staring at the tree that had once held so much mystery and fascination, but now held only a dulled brass knob. With half a heart, he grasped the knob and twisted. It came off in his hand. The blue door he had once loved was now completely gone.

She was nineteen when the world came crashing down on her. Her mother had married an awful man with a rather large wallet and he had no qualms about reminding his step-daughter just how little she was worth to him. No college had accepted her. No company would hire her.

She had no friends or close relatives with which to socialize. She became withdrawn and rarely left her room anymore. It was late one night, when the thunder was shaking the foundation of the house and the lighting was illuminating all her nightmares, that she felt a tug in her chest she hadn’t felt for years. It roused her from a restless sleep, quietly calling her to the end of the hall.

So she rose, slipped her blanket around her shoulders, and padded barefoot down the hallway.

At the end was the strange blue door. The paint was peeling terribly and nearly all the wood beneath was exposed. The brass knob was dull and cold against her fingertips. Thunder boomed loudly outside, startling her and causing her to twist the knob. It gave…and the door swung open.

He was nineteen when his mother left him. She had fallen ill, a victim of the fever that had swept through their small village, but she had not recovered like the others had. It rained as he stood by her grave and watched as they lowered her into the ground. He was thankful for the rain, if only to mask the tears trailing down his face. It was sorrow that drove him to the forest the next day and habit that brought him to the tree. The tree where a vibrant blue door now waited. His numb fingers found the knob and he paused for a moment. The brass was warm beneath his fingers, even in the freezing winter air. He twisted…and the door swung open. …

The room behind the door is incredible. There are cozy chairs pulled near the quiet fire, blankets thrown over them lazily. A sturdy wooden table sits in the far corner and beautifully carved dining chairs are pushed around it. A large mountain of pillows and blankets sit in another corner, making a nest of sorts. Bookshelves line one wall with books crammed in and stacked wherever a place could be made for them. The boy and the girl stare at each other from opposite sides of the room, each having opened a blue door of their own. She is shocked to find something like this on the other side of a door on the second-floor hallway. He is elated that the door finally opened. With no regard to the girl across the room, he takes a step inside, gazing in

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awe at the wondrous beauty of this little hidden world. She steps inside as well, pulling the blanket closer to herself in an attempt to provide some sense of familiarity in the strange little world.

The two meet almost in the middle, both gravitating toward the warm fire and the comfortable chairs that wait there. They do not speak, do not even acknowledge the other as they sit quietly and listen to the crackling of the flames. The boy’s excitement starts to wane as he recalls the events that led him here in the first place. The girl’s cautiousness fades. It seems that the longer they sit there together, the better she starts to feel, though the mood he seems to be harboring becomes worse by the minute.

She doesn’t mean to break the silence, but she has become slightly worried about the odd stranger next to her, though more so for her own safety than the feelings of the stranger. It slips out, the gentle question of who he is and why he’s here, and the tension hangs in the air for several moments before he cracks.

He doesn’t know why he is telling his life story to a stranger. Or why everything he is telling her seems to portray him as a boy worthy only of pity. He hates that it makes him sound weak, but the tightness in his chest eases bit by bit as he tells the girl all the terrible things that happened to him. He tells her about his friends leaving him, about the only girl he ever loved running away with someone else, about the death of his mother. He tells her everything. And she listens.

When the boy finishes talking, he falls silent and stares into the fire for several long moments. She lets the silence hang between them for a while before she quietly begins her own tale. With exhaustion in her voice and pain marring her face, she tells the boy about the life she lived thus far. She tells him about her father leaving when she was young, about the boy who stole her heart and smashed it into pieces, and about the man her mother married and the cruel things she was told all her life. She tells him that she wondered for so long if there was something wrong with her, that she still wonders that sometimes, but that she came to terms with that awful reality. He has such a sad gaze as she unloads nearly a decade of pain into the quiet space between them, but he listens. …

The two meet regularly after that. It always seems that when one feels down, they both find themselves drawn back to the safety that the blue door provides. It’s been nearly a year that the boy and the girl have been meeting and conversing. In that time, something has been blooming between them. At first it is just a tiny bud of friendship, but it has soon spiraled into a startlingly obvious admiration. She starts to look forward to their time together, wondering day after day when they will get to meet in the hidden room again. He finds himself standing at the blue door more often than he would ever admit, hoping that she will be there and they can see each other again.

It is on a cold, stormy night that the two find themselves in the room behind the blue door. He arrives with a blinding smile, hanging his jacket by the fire to let it dry off. But when he turns to tell the girl hello, he finds that she sits at the table with her head in her hands, shoulders shaking gently. He runs to her side, kneeling down to see if she is alright. Tears stream down her face and her eyes are bloodshot. A muffled sob escapes her lips and he pulls her into his arms.

He doesn’t know what happened to her or why she is crying, but the fierce surge of anger that courses through him is startling. Never has he possessed such a strong urge to protect anything like he wants to protect this broken girl in his arms. In spite of his anger, he places a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

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That day was a particularly bad one for her. Her step-father pushed her down two flights of stairs and left her gasping in pain on the floor, all the while calling out cruel things as he stepped around her on his way to work. Her mother came home, saw her lying on the floor, and did nothing. It took every bit of her strength to pull herself back up those stairs, to crawl down the hallway to the sanctuary of the blue door. And now, with the boy’s arms wrapped protectively around her, she feels safer than she ever has in her life.

He hears her whispering against his chest, murmuring the details of whatever caused her to cry. He listens to every word and his heart breaks a little more as each one escapes her lips. He feels so angry at the man who was supposed to protect her but instead has caused her so much pain.

With gentle hands, he pulls her away from him and wipes the tears from her face.

“Stay with me,” he begs softly. Let me protect you. Let me show you that someone still cares.

Let me show that someone still loves you.

“Okay.”

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“Our Only Sanctuary” and “Is This Me?”

by Jenny Leighann Tudor King University sophomore Jenny Leighann Tudor is an English and Education double major with French and Theatre minors. She is intrigued by the world around her and the mysteries of life, which inspire the poetry she has submitted to The Holston. Jenny hopes to someday publish a full book series and pave the way for other writers to do the same. ______________________________________________________________________________ “Our Only Sanctuary” I keep wondering what happened to us.

Who are we now, And what have we done to ourselves?

In the here and now, We've lost our way, the very path that we carved out.

We were inseparable, But we didn't realize that it was only temporary.

Friendship wasn't our only sanctuary, And love became the solitude we would soon resent.

To think all our lives These feelings were trapped in what we didn't know yet.

Until they came bursting through, Taking over everything we knew.

But our timing, as always, was off.

We stumbled and we fell,

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But it was all too late.

All at the wrong moments in our lives.

On the forked road, You ran one way, And I stumbled the other.

Only now do our paths intertwine.

The distance offered new lives, and, in return, we grew further apart.

Our hearts, though, still beat to the same drums,

And our memories will serve as a bittersweet reminder of what once was And might never be again.

Our souls beg to dance once more, But our hearts are torn.

Making us who we are now.

Can't leave but can't stay.

This unseen force binds us together yet tears us apart.

Love and logic cannot exist as one When two dancing souls and beating hearts should be but are not.

_______________________________________________

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“Is This Me?”

The words spill out from my tongue, The emotions of some other “me.”

I don't remember who I am.

This identity is lost in space.

Questions of individuality, And the knowledge that change occurs, Forces me to step back.

Is this me, or isn't this?

Should I call for help, Or should I drown in this sea?

In my own miserable nothings, I Swim toward the faces I wear, Will I ever be able to find the real skin I possess?

Or will I forever be engraved in this horrid version Of some nightmarish alter ego?

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“An Adventure in India”

By Lauren M. Castor Lauren Castor, a graduating senior at King University, studies music and psychology. ______________________________________________________________________________

I was bitten by the travel bug at an early age and have not been able to shake the urge to go new places and see different things since then. I have also been blessed with parents who love to travel and understand that being thrust into unfamiliar situations and places gives a fresh perspective and appreciation for the luxuries we take for granted living in America. When my neighbors offered to take me to India with them, I jumped at the opportunity to visit somewhere no one in my family had previously traveled. Because of my lack of knowledge concerning India, I decided to do a bit of research on where I was going. I poured over travel blogs and “What-Not-To-Bring” articles. I quickly came to the realization that I was going to have to pack clothes that would be comfortable in over 100-degree weather, but were also conservative enough to cover most of my skin. For me, a vacation plan isn’t complete until I’ve completed hours of research and created several spreadsheets in order to be ready for anything and everything.

Traveling has always filled me with a sense of euphoria and disbelief; thoughts of “I can’t believe I’m actually here!” and “This can’t be real!” flood my mind. An image of Dorothy landing in Oz flashed through my mind as I stepped into the humid, heavily spiced air of Mumbai. I looked over the masses of people, realizing I most definitely wasn’t in the United States anymore.

While I have been given the opportunity to visit various churches across the U.S. and Western Europe, nothing could have prepared me for the ornate splendor of Indian temples. One morning, we woke up around four to journey to Pavagadh, a temple dedicated to the goddess Mahakali near Vadodara in Western India. We climbed over 2,000 stairs to reach the temple at the top of the mountain. There were moments I didn’t think I would make it to the top. Anyone who knows me understands that I am no athlete, and will usually choose a good book over hiking any day. But when we reached the top and went into the temple, I was in awe at the beauty. I wished I could have taken a picture; however, cameras weren’t allowed in their sacred spaces.

As we moved forward in the sizable line to the altar, a pit formed in my stomach when I realized everyone around me had brought an offering to the Goddess, Mahakali. I suddenly felt like a stereotypical, rude American who has no respect for anyone else’s beliefs and customs. I dragged myself closer and closer to the altar, hating the offensiveness of my empty hands. We knelt on soft cushions upon reaching the rail where the priest was standing and I folded my hands in prayer while I hung my head in shame, mentally apologizing to the Goddess and the priest. The orange hemline of a holy man’s robes came into my periphery and I looked up to see the priest standing in front of me with a bowl of kumkuma (a powder used for religious markings) in his hands. He gave me a knowing look as he blessed me with three lines of the red powder on my forehead. My eyes filled with tears as we left the sacred space and walked back into the sunlight.

Although I was an oblivious, inconsiderate American, I was shown a level of unconditional positive regard I never expected. I will carry my memories of visiting the temples of India for the

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rest of my life, and will strive to treat others with the level of respect the priest showed me that day.

We also took a three-day journey to Ambaji and Mount Abu. When we arrived in Ambaji, we climbed over 1,000 stairs to get to the main temple on Gabbar Hill, which was built around 1772 A.D. I also had the opportunity to visit the Ambaji Mata temple. It was indescribably beautiful. Everything there was constructed in marble and gold. It represents a sacred site for the Hindu people, for they believe the heart of Sati Devi (a Hindu goddess) rests there. On the second day of our trip, we went to Mount Abu in Rajasthan. We saw the Dilwada Jain temple, which is known for its stunning and intricate marble work. It was built in 1507 A.D. and was where the rulers of India lived until the British occupation. I also toured the Devrani Jethani temple, which was very differentiated from other religious sites I’d seen before. Some of it had been damaged over the years, but the basement area was still open. I had to crawl through some of the damaged areas to see scenes of the temple’s history painted on the walls in addition to the shrine.

Visiting India exposed me to a vastly different cultural intake, particularly due to the fact that it contrasts greatly from anywhere I had been previously. On my trips to Europe, I was constantly on the go, trying to soak up every bit of culture that I could. India was different. I still learned volumes about their culture, but I took time to revel in it. India taught me that life isn’t a race to see who can do the most in the least amount of time. I learned to enjoy every moment, to take time to sit on my porch and talk to my neighbors. The people I spent time with taught me that work not completed today was work meant for tomorrow. Going to a nation so different from anything I was familiar with changed me as a person and made me subsequently much more grateful to have the opportunity to experience new people and culture.

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“A Storyteller’s Dream”

by Wyatt Burleson Wyatt Burleson is currently a sophomore at King University. He is majoring in Biology and minoring in Mathematics. The inspiration for “A Storyteller’s Dream” comes from various other stories. Those stories can’t be named due to copyright reasons, but you’ve likely guessed them. ______________________________________________________________________________ Hello dear Reader, Let me tell you a story.

One night, a child dreamt of a forest, lush, beautiful, and green. The sun’s beams cut through the branches and the birds sang their songs. And there stood the dreaming child, standing on a dirt path leading to a ruin of a hut.

The hut’s presence shattered the peace and calm of the woods surrounding it. White paint began to peel away, revealing cracked, grey stone bricks beneath. Splintering pine struts were set to hold the falling walls. The roof had been shabbily made of sticks and straw, barely capable of keeping a single drop of rain from getting inside.

Filled with curiosity, the dreamer walked closer to the hut. The bird songs were dulled by the sound of steam engines and machinery. The small, oak door opened and the child heard a voice, followed by the quiet echoes of a thousand more, say, “Go in, dear child.”

Cautious, but still curious, the fool did as the voice bid, closing the door behind. Inside was a wondrous clutter. Hefty books floated in the air, a wooden train chugged along on a wooden track hooked to the walls of the entire hut, as well as an entire set of china moving on its own, preparing afternoon tea. The table was littered with piles of papers, with the tallest towering over the child. Such a living space could only be described as a madman’s home.

A brown barn owl wearing thick reading glasses sat on a newspaper, and would mumble to itself every now and then. The owl didn’t seem to notice the child until the klutz tripped and fell into the table, sending parchment everywhere. Upon hearing the clatter, the owl looked up from the newspaper and greeted, “Good evening, child. What's your name?”

The child popped up from the ground and answered, “I’m—” The owl flew to a board on the wall and appeared to read from a notepad, “You’re early is what you are, but that doesn't matter. He'll see you all the same.”

The “early” child asked, “Who?” The child was answered with the front door bursting open. From dust and wind, a scrawny, elderly man swirled into existence, wearing khaki shorts, a bright orange Hawaiian shirt, the dreaded sock and sandal combination, sunglasses, a lengthy white beard, and a comical excess of sunscreen on his nose. The peculiar elder addressed the owl, “Oh, you should’ve come to Fiji, dear friend. It was lovely, and—um… um… hmm….”

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He took off his glasses and pondered. After a minute or two, the man waved away the thought, “Ah, it doesn’t matter.” He turned to the child. “What does matter is our guest!”

Recognition flashed in the child’s eyes, “You’re—” The man raised a finger and continued the child’s thought, “A wizard.”

The wizard clapped his hands and, in a puff of smoke, his ghastly choice of style was replaced with a cloak and pointy hat with a pattern of a galaxy sewn into it, swirling around with every motion the magical madman made. In his hand was a staff with a star, just cold enough to touch and just hot enough to warm, embedded into the staff’s head. He continued, “And you are here to learn.”

“Learn?”

He bounced back towards the door. Shutting it, he turned back to the startled child, “Yes, learn. Come on, it’ll be fun!”

The voice and its thousand echoes whispered into the child’s ear, “No, it won’t.”

The child didn’t understand the dream. The child didn’t understand the voices. So, the poor soul nodded his head and muttered, “I … I guess.”

The giddy old man clapped his hands, clearly excited, “Excellent! Let’s begin!”

He smiled and knocked three times on the door with his staff. When he opened the door, blinding light filled the hut. Outside was… the forest… exactly as it was before….

The disappointed wizard slammed the door and muttered a curse under his breath. A shadow fell over the room, and the bricks began to shake. It was a pure miracle the hut didn’t fall onto their heads.

The owl flew into a panic and shouted at his friend, “Watch your language in front of the child!”

The wizard waved his hand dismissively, “Oh, just let me try this again.”

He smacked his staff into the door with a force hard enough to knock it open and reveal a place far different than a forest. Where once there were trees and dirt, there were metal walls and floors. The soft, blue glow of a laptop on a sleek desk took the place of the sun’s light amongst the branches. The comfort of the birds’ songs had been switched out by disco music on a continuous loop.

The mage waved the child in, “After you.”

The child stepped through the door and saw an man in a spacesuit coated with red dust seated at the desk. The poor man looked like he had been through hell and was still there. His beard was scratchy and unkempt. His eyes were bloodshot. He was barely wider than a lightpost.

When the astronaut saw the wizard enter behind the child, a huge grin appeared on his cracked lips. His voice was a bit cracked as he said, “Hey, what’s up?”

The wizard pushed his student forward, “I was hoping you might be able to teach this child a thing or two.”

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The cosmonaut chuckled, “About how to grow potatoes from shit? Or how to not go insane and imagine a magician in a pointy hat is standing in my bedroom?”

The pointy-hatted magician was nonchalant in saying, “Whatever you prefer.”

The astronaut smiled at the kid with those cracked lips of his. “Right, now I’m going to be honest with you, I think you guys are just the side effects of some vicodin-laced potatoes. So, I’m just gonna spout some bull into a camera and you can feel free to listen.”

The child’s response was simple, purely for the lack of anything else to say. “Okay.”

The damaged man spun his fancy space chair to the computer and hit a button. “Hey, this is Sol 401 and Ta-Da! I’m still alive. I would say it’s all because of my incredible botanist skills and perfect personality, not to mention my incredible sense of humor, but um… I couldn’t have done it without those geeks, FELLOW geeks down on Earth pointing their fancy, metaphorical pens at what I’ve messed up. If—no, when I get down there, I’ll get them all some video games or something.”

At that, he turned off the camera, smiled, and pointed at the screen. “Think anyone will ever watch that?”

The bodiless voice spoke in the child’s ear once more, “He’s scared. He’s the only one on this world. He has no one to talk to except a camera. He’s afraid of being alone, just like all of your kind.”

The child shrugged, ignoring the voice and answering the astronaut, “Maybe.”

The mage, after taking a moment to peer outside the Habitat at an upcoming storm of red dust, announced, “Thank you, but it’s for the best if we were to leave now.”

As he slammed his staff into the door, the stranded astronaut made a quick, desperate request, “Hey, next time you come back, could you please bring something other than disco music?”

His request was answered by a quickly slammed door. On the other side of the door was a beach. Were it not stained red by blood and littered with corpses, limbs, and organs, it would’ve been a lovely sight. The sunset would’ve completed the scene, had it not been hidden away by the square sails of countless ancient wooden ships.

A great city sat opposite the sea of ships. Its walls reached an unfathomable height, and showed no sign of wear. Its gates had been crafted of steel and stone, opened at the moment only to let soldiers drag their fallen friends in. Behind the child, the wizard declared in a far too gleeful voice, “Welcome to war!”

When the child looked back, the sorcerer relaxed in a sun chair, slurping through a bendy straw in a coconut, back in the tacky tourist garb the child had first seen the wizard in. He pointed to a spare chair beside him. “Take a seat. We got here just in time.”

The traumatized child sat down, more to take a minute to breathe than to relax. The wizard pointed ahead to a lone, statuesque, bronze-plated warrior marching to the gates of the city. The warlock told the child, “That’s the best warrior amongst the city’s attackers.” The gates

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began to open. “The fool leaving the city killed the warrior’s best friend in a successful defense of the city.”

Almost as soon as the defending soldier, clad in steel mail, stepped out of the gates, the attacking warrior began to destroy the soldier. Every one of warrior’s blows against the soldier’s shield left a dent. Every clash of their swords rang out, with only the defender’s blade chipping.

The slaughter ended with attacker’s blade in the defender’s neck.

But the victor of the bout didn’t stop at simply killing the defender. He signaled for a fellow attacker to bring out a chariot. Once they brought it forth, the warrior stabbed iron hooks into the soldier’s corpse and tied the hooks to the back of the chariot.

“Cruelty exists in all times. It exists on all sides,” whispered the voice.

The warrior began to ride around the city walls, the defender’s body being beaten and cut by every stone the chariot rode over. By the end of it, the soldier was just a mess of blood and skin. It didn’t even look human.

The wizard, unphased by what just occurred, told his pupil, “Come now. We’re done here.”

The kid asked, “What’s the point?”

“Of mutilating the soldier’s body. Well, the atta—” “Of bringing me here. What’s the point of all this? What am I supposed to learn from this?”

The mage went silent. The child saw something different in the wizard’s face. Where once there was excitement, a thirst to learn, now there was nothing. There was an emptiness.

He rose from his chair, his tourist outfit and the chair dissolving into sand. Back in his starry apparel, the wizard tapped his staff onto the sand. A door rose from the sand, and the mage grasped the handle. He spoke coldly, “Follow.”

The darkness from the open stole the sunset’s orange light. A bitter cold overwhelmed the pleasant warmth. When he saw the hesitation, the wizard shoved the fearful child into the room, “Go on, then.”

The child stood in a dark oaken room. The only source of light and warmth came from a writing desk, covered in scrolls. The terrible cold made the child’s teeth clatter and goosebumps rise. A hardened voice came from behind a desk, “Cold?”

A pale, calloused hand pulled the candle close the speaker to reveal a man with dark hair and pale skin. A few scars decorated his face, but he was rather fair to look at. He looked to the wizard with sad, dark eyes. “Hello again.”

The wizard smiled a favorable smile, “Have I missed anything?”

The cold man didn’t show the slightest bit of excitement as he said, “I’ve been elected commander.”

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The smile on the warlock’s face didn’t waver as he sat down in one of two chairs across from the newly appointed leader, “Good. That’s good.”

The commander didn’t agree. “Good? I’m gonna have everyone breathing down my neck, questioning everything I do. I’m supposed to lead murderers, rapists, and thieves to do something they have no desire to do.”

The mage’s smile didn’t fade. “And that’s different how?”

That made the leader smile slightly. “Fair enough.”

Then the wizard made a mistake, “How fares that valkyrie of yours? Is she still out there or did you—” What little smile had graced leader’s face left him. It was replaced by a grimace and a somber tone of speech. “Dead.”

The wizard’s smile died. He apologized as quickly as he could, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—” The wizard stopped talking when the leader stood up and walked to a window. The leader opened the shutters, allowing a sullen blue light to fill the room. He waved the child over, keeping his eyes outside. “C’mere.”

The frozen child joined the commander, growing colder and colder with each step towards the window. Outside was a miserable, dark fort. The facade was black from both paint and rot. The towers looked barely capable of standing. The men living there could be described the same way.

The only impressive feature the child could find was a great barrier of ice spanning the length of a country. It reached a height greater than the child could imagine. It was ready to repel the attacks of all who dared challenge it. It was a wonder to behold.

“Your kind will always try and find something to distract yourselves from the hell around you. I’ve always found that admirable.” The voice sounded genuine.

The leader told the child, “There’s some part of that wishes I stayed with the free folk… or died with them.” His dark-eyed gaze returned to the child. “Kid, you’re not the first one—” The door burst open. The wizard spun in his chair. “What in blue blazes!”

Beyond the door was nothing. Truly, there was nothing, just an abyss. Staring into it, the bitter cold of the room faded away, with no warmth to replace it. There was something mesmerizing about it, about its lack of everything. The fool stepped closer and closer to the abyss.

“Don’t go in….”

The wizard’s voice was silenced the moment the child stepped into the nothing. The child heard nothing. The child felt nothing. The child saw nothing. The child heard the voice.

The voice, echoed by a thousand more, spoke. “Afraid, child?”

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The child tried to find the voice’s speaker but found no one. The voice spoke again, “Maybe I should change the scenery.”

At the last word, the abyss melted away. The child stood on a cliff’s edge, overlooking a forest on fire….

No, it wasn’t on fire. The leaves were burning reds, scorching oranges, and blinding yellows. The bark was ashen. The grasses were long and golden. The flowers matched the leaves, occasionally sparking a bright blue. It was a peaceful fire.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The child was too awestruck to say anything except, “Yeah.”

“Its people have taken to calling it Magkin, and themselves the Kin Tribes. Each tribe has taken on a separate duty of survival and share their rewards with the other tribes. An admirable action.”

The fires of Magkin died, becoming an emerald green. The fiery trees grew into dark-barked pines with vibrant jade needles for leaves. The grasses were cut short and stained a dark green. The flowers grew into bushes, bearing red, blue, black, and white berries. Stone pathways snaked through the garden of a forest.

“The Branenites consider Branen a natural garden, and care for it as one. An interesting people, the Branenites. You’d be easily fooled into believing you had stepped into a fairy tale upon seeing the peculiar designs of their knights’ armors.”

All greenery rotted to nothing. The ground began to quake. A mountain of grey and black stone rose from the earth, cracking and breaking all around it. Its point stabbed the clouds above and cleaved through the ones that dared touch it.

“Within the Mountain of Keltern are caverns large enough to house a country. The Kelts’ country is not too different from your own. You might be able to relate to a few of them, maybe even befriend them.”

The mountain shook and shattered into the tiniest of pieces. As the rocks and pebbles fell, they dried and froze into sand and snow. The land melded into a desert, a tundra, and twisted forests. There was no rhyme nor reason to where one area began and the other end. The sand would blow into the tundra, freezing into snow. The snow would wisp into woods, growing into leaves. The leaves would fly into the woods, drying into sand.

“Fogol … is dead.”

The child was silent, so the voice said, “Dear Reader, I—” Damn it.

I’m sorry. I can’t do this.

I wish I could tell you I was a storyteller. I wish that I could tell you a story that would make you dull your pains, even for a moment. I wish I could do as those great stories of good kings and wise magicians, broken men and rising dead, enduring astronauts and inhospitable planets do and take you to a world you wish you could be in. I wish I could introduce you to 33

people you would love, despise, or even wish to be. But I can’t. I’m not a storyteller. I am a monster.

If I let you see me, you would see a man sculpted of black blood. The blood is constantly flowing, constantly in motion. Not a drop of it dare fall from the sculpt of my body. The blood simply flows, as if trapped behind a paper-thin layer of glass.

Chains are coiled around my bloody frame. They wrap around my arms, my legs, my torso, even my neck. It’d be wishful thinking to hope these chains are a hindrance to me. It’d be foolish, too.

I have no eyes, no ears, no nose, not even a mouth. My face is just a reflective pool of shadowy blood. And if you stared into the surface, you might think you could see scenes. You might see a wedding, a funeral, a trial, an execution. You might even see yourself, standing someplace, with someone. Or maybe you would see nothing but your own face in the reflective, black blood.

If I let you hear me, you would hear one voice followed by a thousand more. That one voice changes from ear to ear, the same voice never heard by more than one. Among the thousand echoing voices, you might even recognize a few. You might hear a family member, a friend, an enemy, maybe even someone you miss dearly.

But a dark visage and ominous voice hardly make me a monster. My actions do.

I made Magkin, Branen, and Keltern. I made their people. That world is my world. And do you know I will do to my world? I’ll destroy it. Magkin’s mock flame will be snuffed out beneath my heel. I will weed Branen’s roots from the earth. Keltern will be nothing more than rubble.

And the people? I will slaughter them. I’ve blinded myself to their tears. I’ve deafened myself to their cries. I refuse to let my heart stop me.

How I’ll do it is the worst part. I’ll make them do it themselves. I’ll push them to the edge and tell them to jump. I’ll whisper to them that their neighbor wants their head. I’ll feed their paranoia with lies and lies until it grows too unbearable to do nothing. It won’t be a hard task.

I lied to you, dear Reader. This isn’t my dream. It’s my nightmare. And you’ll hate me because of it. Just like I do.

I’m sorry, Adane

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“The Waves”

by Erica Seals Erica Seals is the King University Territory Manager and Enrollment Counselor. She received a Bachelor of Business Administration in 2013 and a Bachelor of Arts in Education in 2017, both from King University. On her inspiration for “The Waves,” Seals explains, “For me, reading is a way of life. Like riding the waves of an ocean, a good book can crash down on you and suck you under in a riptide. Or, it can softly lull you into contentment with its ebb and flow of truths. I tried to capture those feelings in my story, ‘The Waves.’” ______________________________________________________________________________

Ollie strolled into Chapters Bookstore, holding the door open for her dog Dixon to follow as she stepped in. She already had her heart set on the newest Kenra Noir novel, Falling for Fate, and was happily anticipating the moment she would hold the hardback in her hands. As the door banged shut, the shop owner, a half-deaf little man by the name of Neil, raised his eyes from the book he was reading and greeted Ollie warmly.

“Oh hello, darling,” he said in a raspy voice smiling at her. “Are you here to pick up Noir’s newest novel?”

“You know me too well, Neil,” she responded equally as warm. She loved the old shop owner. He was a sweet man with a deep love for books, with which she strongly related. Ollie frequented Chapters Bookstore more times than she could count in the last two years while attending school in New York. This was one of the few places she found peace and solace since moving from her small hometown in Montana to the Big Apple for school.

She walked over to the old man, stepping behind the counter to hug him, Dixon trotting behind her.

“How have you been, Neil? Read any good books lately?” she asked.

The old man chuckled. “Too many to count, my dear. There is never a short supply of good books to read.”

Neil grabbed a treat from his small stash on the counter and bent down to Dixon. Neil always had treats on hand for any cats or dogs his patrons might bring along with them. Dixon was grateful and quickly wolfed down the treat. Ollie walked back around the counter towards the New Release section of the bookstore, leaving Dixon to play with the old man. She skimmed the shelves, looking for the desired book and briefly reviewing the rest of the new release section.

“So, have you read Falling for Fate yet? Is it good?” she called back to Neil while she continued scanning.

35

“I have, and it is. Kenra Noir is a great author; she never disappoints.”

“Great! I can’t wait to read it. I’ve been avoiding my normal book club chat rooms all week now for fear I’d see spoilers. People are starting to ask where I am.”

“Well, I won’t say any more, then. I don’t want to give anything away.”

She smiled, knowing Neil would gladly talk about the book for hours if given the opportunity. She finally found the book she was looking for and picked it up off the shelf. Dixon trotted over to where she was standing among the bookshelves, having finished all the treats that Neil was willing to dole out. She continued farther into the shop, skimming the other shelves and picking up a few other books to take home.

Ollie noticed an old, brown, leather-bound book in the Young Adult Fiction section. The drab-looking book seemed extremely out of place beside the newer, more colorful books on the self. She grabbed the book and pulled it off the shelf, turning its front towards her so she could read the cover. The cover was blank, completely void of any markings. She flipped the book over and examined all sides. The leather felt ancient and soft to the touch. It was worn and starting to grow fuzzy at the corners from overuse, but seemed to be authentic leather. On the spine, Ollie could make out three horizontal ridges, at the top, middle, and bottom of the book’s spine, indicating the book was bound in the old-fashioned style, with thick strings binding the pages together instead of glue. Regardless, she found no title, description, or anything else to indicate what the book was called or what it was about. Her interest now piqued, she set down the stack of books she was holding on the nearest shelf and opened the mysterious old book.

Suddenly, everything went dark. It was as if Ollie had lost the ability to see. Her ears rang with the intense sense of absolute silence. At the same time, the ground dropped out from under her and she was floating; no, she was falling. She was plummeting and spinning out of control, her long hair whipping her face and wrapping around her neck. She lost her grip on the book and fell into nothingness, hearing the pages of the book flutter in the wind as it fell out of reach.

Unable to control her body, her arms and legs flailed violently. She was falling so fast she felt she couldn’t catch her breath. After just a moment—though it seemed like a lifetime—she could begin to make out a dull blue light coming from beneath her, getting closer as she continued to hurtle towards it. Ollie closed her eyes, now afraid, realizing she would likely hit the ground and knowing she was going too fast to survive the fall.

Unexpectedly, she felt herself suddenly submerged in freezing cold liquid. Her body slowed down against the tension of the liquid and she began to float. She opened her eyes and realized she was underwater. The water was crystal clear and bitter cold, chilling her whole body. She was then abruptly aware of her inability to breathe. Panic-stricken and disoriented, she immediately began to look around, searching for anything to save her. She twisted helplessly, unable to determine which way was up and would lead her to the surface of the water. She could feel her limbs and chest start to sting from the cold water, like a thousand tiny pinpricks all over

36

her body. Finally realizing she was upside down in the water, she righted herself and swam for a white light, assuming it was the top of the water. She kicked and reached for the light, feeling her lungs ache as she began to run out of oxygen. Her muscles protested from lack of oxygen and the unbelievably frigid temperature of the water. Finally, she burst from the water, gasping desperately for air. Her lungs filled as she took big gulping breaths. She looked around briefly and determined she was floating in a vast, seemingly endless blue ocean. Her eyes burned with the piercing white light from above. She bobbed in and out of the water for a split second, shielding her eyes from the glaringly bright light, trying to seek out land before she felt herself fall into complete darkness again.

This time, it was quick; one second she was weightless, floating in an abyss of black. The next, she was lying face down on a hard surface. She remained still for another second. She blinked, slowing moving her eyes to scan her surroundings. She recognized the mahogany hardwood flooring and the rows of neatly stacked books. She was back in the old bookstore.

Ollie dared not move, for fear the floor would drop out from under her once more. Then, she heard footsteps behind her.

“Oh!” she heard Neil exclaim. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Neil rushed to her, bending down by her side and placing his hand on her shoulder. She started to push herself up from the floor. Neil braced her arm with one hand and her back with the other as he slowly helped her into a sitting position. Dixon jumped into her lap and began to lick her face. She gently pushed him away.

“Are you okay, Ollie?” Neil asked kindly. “Did you faint?”

She looked up at him, confused. “I don’t know,” she replied.

“Well come now, let’s get you over to the couch,” he said as he helped her stand up.

“Easy now, take it slow. You don’t want to risk fainting again. When was the last time you ate?”

Ollie and Neil walked slowly to a couch placed in a small reading nook towards the back of his store. She sat down on the couch as Neil grabbed a magazine from the coffee table and began to fan her.

She smiled up at him, placing her hand on his to stop his fanning.

“I’m okay, really. I was just confused for a minute. I don’t remember fainting.” He stopped fanning and looked at her closely.

“Really,” she said again. “I’m fine. I’m probably just tired. Exam time. You know.”

“Shew, girl. You gave me quite a scare.” Neil stood up. “Let me get you some water, just sit tight for a minute.” He walked towards the back of the store and through a door leading into a small storage room.

37

Ollie let her head fall into her hands, rubbing her eyes, still plagued with confusion. She could remember falling into water. She could remember the feeling of her arms and legs freezing. Suddenly, she opened her eyes and grabbed a lock of hair from her shoulder, feeling it.

It was dry. She looked down at her clothes; also dry. Did she just imagine it all?

Ollie stood up and walked back to the bookshelf where she first found the old book. She looked around, searching for where she dropped the book when she fell. It was nowhere to be found. She bent down on her hands and knees and squinted under the bookshelves. Nothing. She stood back up and studied the bookshelf where she had first noticed the old volume. The space that had been originally occupied by the large leather book was now empty.

Dumbfounded, she straightened and grabbed the stack of books she had meant to purchase and began walking slowly back to the couch, still confused and beginning to wonder if she was indeed too stressed from school. She made a mental note to see the school nurse when exams were over. She reached the end of the row and heard something crinkle under her boot.

Quickly, she stepped back, afraid she was crushing something. She looked down and saw a piece of paper lying on the floor. She bent down to pick it up. It was ragged on one edge, where it had been torn from its book. The paper was yellow and discolored from age. It was thick and felt like parchment when she rubbed it between her thumb and fingers. Ollie scanned the page for any words written on it. Again, nothing. It was just like the book, old and blank. She stared at it a few seconds longer, puzzled.

Knowing this paper was somehow connected to the old book, she felt she needed to keep it. She folded it up and slipped it between the pages of one of the books she planned to buy, walking back to the couch. Neil brought her a glass of water, which she quickly gulped down.

Then, she paid for the books and left the store, reassuring Neil that she was fine to walk back home.

Arriving home to her meager studio apartment, she placed the books on her coffee table, temporarily forgetting about the odd sheet of paper folded between the pages of another book.

She fed Dixon and began to make dinner. She still had a weird feeling, and periodically thought about what she had experienced in the bookstore, but tried to put it out of her head. Her roommate came home shortly after and they ate together and chatted a little about the weekend.

Her roommate retired early, needing rest for a big exam the next morning, and Ollie followed suit, taking her stack of new books and going into her own room to decompress by reading before bed.

She dumped the stack of books on her desk and grabbed the Kenra Noir novel she was so eagerly awaiting to read. She climbed into bed with the new book and turned on her bedside light. She opened the book and began reading. A few pages in, she came across the old sheet of paper she had found in the bookstore. She pulled it out, unfolded it, and examined the sheet once more, still finding it blank. Still puzzled, she placed the paper on her night stand and continued her reading.

38

After a few chapters, Ollie felt herself getting tired. She was finishing up the page she had been reading and had decided to go to sleep after she was done with it when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She glanced in the direction of her nightstand, where she had noticed the small movement. There, on her nightstand, the previously blank sheet of paper was now covered in ink. She froze in disbelief. The page had filled with squiggly lines resembling small waves. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, but the waves stayed in place on the page. She sat up in bed and began to inspect the page more thoroughly. As she did so, the ink began to disappear, fading slowly from the corners of the sheet and working its way towards the middle. Each wavy line disappeared slowly, one by one, until all but one line was gone. She waited, assuming the final line would eventually disappear as well, but it stayed in place. Now, in the very center of the page, about two inches high, was a single line of waves.

Ollie slowly reached towards the sheet and picked it up gingerly from her bedside table.

She rubbed her index finger over the line of waves. She could feel the dimpled paper where the pen’s point had creased it. The ink did not disappear. She turned the page over and inspected the other side. Nothing else happened. The page now had a single line of caricature waves on it.

She continued to stare at the page when she felt a soft breeze blow through her hair. She looked towards her window, not remembering having opened it, but the window was gone. She looked around and found herself back in the seemingly endless ocean once more. She froze, panic beginning to build in her belly. Cautiously, she let her hand and the paper fall back down, feeling cool water meet her hand instead of the soft sheets of her bed. Ollie felt her body become weightless as the water softly cradled her. Finally, she relaxed. She looked up and felt the warmth of the sun shining down on her face. She smiled, and relaxing into the water, let the waves consume her.

39

“Broken Masks”

by Wyatt Burleson Wyatt Burleson is currently a sophomore at King University. He is majoring in Biology and minoring in Mathematics. The inspiration of “Broken Masks” comes from Wyatt’s middle and high school years. He never took steps towards the actions the characters do, but it was a rare day he wouldn’t think about how it would happen and what things would be like after. ______________________________________________________________________________

The outsider adjusts his mask for what must be the fifth time that hour. The flimsy thing always was a bit loose, but this is just ridiculous. He considered using duct tape to keep it steady one time, but that would have made it more of a pain to take off.

He takes a quick glance around the room. Everyone else’s mask fits perfectly. Their masks are perfectly conformed to their faces, never budging just like the professionals and their laws want.

The outsider wears a coal-black mask, differing from the normal free-mouth and freenose style of the majority. The masks around him consists of sports players, scientists, beauties, fortunates, and other adjectives that not only describe the masks, but the people wearing them, too. Because of this, the people were given names accurate to who they are. The rich, the judge, the healer, and the professor are just a few examples of this nomenclature.

The outsider feels more out of place than normal. He doesn’t know why he is at the party.

He was the outsider. He shouldn’t be there. Why did he bother coming in the first place?

“Outsider!”

The outsider recognizes the socialite’s voice and soon spots the vibrant reds and deep purples of the socialite’s mask squeezing through the crowd towards him. The socialite holds a drink in each hand, passing one to the outsider. The gesture is rather pointless as the outsider’s mouth is covered by his mask. The socialite throws his free arm around the outsider and begins to lead him through the mass of partiers and the smell of cheap booze.

The socialite welcomes the outsider, doing his best to be heard over the music and other people’s shouting voices. “Hey, thanks for coming! I know this isn’t really your – Hey, musician,” the socialite waves to a woman whose mask resembled a lyrical bridge and continues, “your thing.”

The outsider stares into the piss-colored liquid in his cup, agreeing completely, “Yeah.”

There is a brief pause as the socialite thinks of what to say. “Hey, um… Something’s come up… and I kinda-sorta need some help with it.”

The outsider observes his old friend. The socialite seems genuinely worried, a far departure from the cheerful, friendly mood he maintained for the past five or six years. The outsider inquires, “What’s wrong?”

The socialite’s eyes dart back and forth, spying for prying eyes and attentive ears. “Let’s go upstairs to my study.”

The socialite leads his friend through the dancers and drunks, eventually climbing the stairs to the study of his “small” mansion, as he had once called it. Inside the room is a couch, a desk, and a great many bookcases.

40

The socialite flips a switch, lighting up the room and his brightly-colored mask with it.

After adjusting his eyes to the brightness of the room, and the shine from the socialite’s mask, the outsider repeats, “What’s wrong?”

A mischievous smile graces the socialite’s lips as he holds up a hand. “Hold on. We need to wait for… someone to get here, first.”

“Who?” The socialite smiles, choosing to keep his little joke going. In his head, the outsider starts to run through a list of people who might be this mystery guest. It had to be someone both the outsider and the socialite knew. That narrowed the list down. It also had to be a friend of both of theirs. That cut down the list to a minute amount of people. It might also— The socialite interrupts the outsider’s train of thought. “How’s the beer?”

The outsider tries to turn his focus back to the real world. He looks at the untouched yellow in his cup. Even beneath his mask, he can smell the putrid fumes wafting off it. “I can’t say I enjoy the smell.”

The socialite chuckles. “Fair enough. Yeah, I just couldn’t find anywhere to buy the good stuff in bulk large enough for this party.”

The socialite crashes on the couch, and pointed to the crack on the outsider’s mask.

“How’s your head?”

The outsider sighs and glares at the socialite with a look that says, Not now. Probably never.

The socialite raises his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. I won’t mention it.”

The door to the study opens, letting in a woman with a blue Victorian-esque mask. The socialite waves. “Hey, actress.”

The actress waves back. “Socialite, you need to work on texting directions.”

The socialite’s mischievous smile returns as he points to the outsider. “Maybe I should’ve had him text you.”

She almost jumps when she sees the outsider’s dark mask. The outsider grins beneath it.

He greets her. “Hi.” She crosses her arms and shoots a look capable of making the confidence of many shatter, speaking with an almost mocking, disappointed tone. “Hi?” The outsider has known her long enough to know when she is messing with him, for the most part. He holds out the beer. “I got you a present.”

The actress’ angry facade breaks as she takes the cup. “Hi.” The outsider chuckles his agreement, and the socialite celebrates, “Hooray! A reunion!”

The actress laughs and asks the socialite, “What’s up?”

He gives an indifferent shrug. “Nothing much. Just been enjoying the weather. Enjoying life. Been trying to figure out how to get us all back together. Well, most of us… I guess.”

The actress smiles at the thought, but that isn’t what she asked. “That’s nice, but why did you need us? Your texts made it seem pretty urgent.”

The worrisome look the outsider saw earlier returns to the socialite. The socialite doesn’t say a word as he makes his way to his desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out a small, glass bottle of blue liquid. He asks, looking both of his friends in the eyes, “Do you know what this is?”

The outsider hasn’t a clue, but the actress has a guess. “Glue?”

The socialite nods gravely. “Yes.” His friends don’t understand. The outsider begins to question the socialite’s sanity. “So… you brought us here because of glue?”

41

The socialite pauses, chews at the corner of his lip, and nods his head. “Yes and no. This is glue for masks.”

A dark feeling fills the room. The outsider could’ve sworn the lights flickered and dimmed in that moment. The actress asks, “Why do you—how do you have that?”

The socialite sets the bottle of blue glue gently on the desk, as if it is an unpredictable, unstable bomb. He points downstairs, “I found it in the gallery, about an hour after the party started. It was a miracle no one was around. Gave me a lot of trouble trying to clean up the mess, though.”

The actress’ eyes don’t leave the bottle as she asks, “And what does this have to do with us?”

The socialite’s laugh is short and nervous. “Well, uh—I … I would like it very much if you two were to … help me find out who left this in my house.”

The outsider sees this coming a mile away. “Socialite, we’re not detectives.”

The actress agrees. “Isn’t this something the police should handle?”

The socialite grows awkward, another unfitting quality for him. “You know, I would call them, but … I’d rather not.”

The actress squints her eyes, trying to figure out what the socialite means. “Why?” The socialite begins fidgeting with the cap of the bottle. “Because… it’s a stupid law, and anyone who wants to use this is probably desperate and in need of help.”

His two friends couldn’t have agreed more. Their shared thoughts are why they are friends. Yet the actress asks, “Could you let us talk about this alone? Just for a minute?”

The socialite waves his hands in an “all-cool” manner. “That’s fine. That’s okay. Just tell me when you’ve made a decision.”

The socialite is about to leave, but adds, “Um, could you put the bottle in the second drawer when you’re done talking?”

With that, he leaves the room. The actress looks to the outsider, a sad, almost regretful smile on her face. The outsider can’t tell what it means, so he asks, “What’s that look for?”

She shakes her head, “Just… I’m sorry I didn’t call or anything. I was just going through a bit of a hell since we last saw each other.”

He can relate. “Same here, and don’t apologize. I was planning to call you, but by then it just felt a little late.”

In a drifting, thoughtful voice, she says, “Yeah.” She shakes herself, and rests her eyes on the crack on the forehead of the outsider’s mask. “Why haven’t you gotten that fixed yet?”

The outsider tries to joke. “It adds character. I mean, it really does sell the whole outsider persona, doesn’t it?”

Her smile becomes a little more real as she nods her head. “Yes, it certainly does. It also lessens your chances of actually meeting someone.”

“I’m not much of a people person anyway.”

“I think people have noticed.”

He grins beneath his dark mask. A slight shine blinds him, and he somehow just notices the large mass of silver around the actress’ wrist. “You still have the bracelet?”

She raises her arm, making the charms ring. “Yep. Yours is still here, too, somewhere….” She makes an attempt to look for it.

The outsider grins and jokes, “I’m just impressed you’re able to move your arm with all that metal on it.”

“And I’m impressed you’re able to deal with a huge crack in your head.”

42

The outsider gives up in their little banter battle, and asks, “So, what should we do?”

The actress clarifies, “About the glue?”

“Yeah.”

The actress thinks about it. She’s tempted to say they should leave, but her conscience convinces her otherwise. “We can’t let anyone know what we’re doing.”

“So, we’re helping?”

“Yeah.”

The socialite bursts through the door, making the outsider and actress jump in shock.

“Great! I found it in the gallery, so you two can start there.”

The actress, slightly amused by the socialite’s entrance, asks, “Aren’t you going to help us?”

The socialite’s voice is awkward as he responds, “Well, I would, but I’ve got a party to maintain. Besides, you two have got some catching up to do.”

The outsider mutters beneath his breath, “Good old socialite.”

The outsider and actress leave their friend to do his thing, and soon find the gallery.

Fortunately, it is mostly empty, with only a few people mingling and enjoying the art around them. The actress is designated as the informal interrogator and sets to work by talking to a couple, the man wearing a mask that seems like it could double for a medieval board game, and the woman wearing a mask that more or less looked like a normal face if not for a small trail of red falling from the nose. The actress asks them who had been in there, to which the man replies, “There was a guy with a bunch of words scribbled on his mask. He didn’t seem to be having much fun.”

The woman speaks a little bit slower than the man, but clearly. “Two women were here.

One with a red mask. One with a gold mask and blue star.”

The man in the board mask crosses his arms. His voice grows inquisitive. “Is something going on?”

The actress frowns and shakes her head. “No, I’m just looking for my sister. She wears a mask with black scales. If you see her, could you tell her I’m looking for her?”

Meanwhile, the outsider finds himself a nice corner to lean in and watch everything. To many, he is invisible. To the rest, he is avoided. These moments allow him to take in every detail, the obvious and the overlooked. For instance, he sees the thick layer of dust on the top of the painting frames. He sees the red cups of partiers past. He sees a small blue stain on the wall, close to the floor.

That isn’t much of a surprise, as the socialite said he found the glue there to begin with; however, the outsider does take notice of the fact the glue is already dry. Which by following tha— “Outsider?”

The actress snuck up on him, nearly making him leap out of his mask. She whispers, “There was a woman with a scarlet mask, a man with a scribbly mask, and a woman with a gold mask with a blue star on it.”

The actress sees the outsider’s eyes darken as she mentions the gold mask. He grumbles, “She’s here?”

“Seems so.”

After taking a few breaths, the outsider starts trudging out of the gallery. “Let’s go find them, then.”

43

They find two of them almost immediately. The woman with the scarlet mask is in the lounge, sitting in a cushioned chair. Not too far from her, the scribbly-masked man is leaning heavily against the bar. The actress thinks it best to approach the scarlet-masked woman first.

“I’ll swing by the bar and get us all a drink. How about you go start a conversation with her?”

Something is nagging at the back of the outsider’s head. When he looks at the scarlet-masked woman, her mask and clothing are warm and inviting, but her posture is closed and uneasy. She takes the occasional glance at the bar, the drinks in the hands of the revelers around her, and often scratches the inside of her elbows, as if there is a constant, insatiable itch.

The outsider disagrees with the actress. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

The actress makes a face made by parents when their children don’t do as they’re told and begins that speech he hated. “Outsider, you’ve really got to start—” The outsider shakes his head and stops her. “No, not that… Okay, that and I don’t think she needs a drink.”

The actress knows from experience not to drop the outsider’s advice immediately, so she merely shrugs and begins walking towards the scarlet-masked woman, telling the outsider, “Okay.”

As she approaches, the actress points to a nearby chair and asks, “Is this taken?”

There is a brief reluctance in the scarlet-masked woman’s face, but it is quickly erased and a warm smile takes shape. “Go ahead.”

As she sits down, the actress introduces herself. “I’m actress.”

The woman does the same. “Lover.”

There is something in the lover’s voice that hits a faint memory in the actress’ mind.

“Have we met before?”

The lover nods and points at the actress’ charm bracelet. “High school. You were getting all those charms and I contributed with a little, frilly heart.”

The actress looks over her bracelet and, sure enough, finds a little, frilly heart. “Oh!” The outsider stays his distance. He sees the lover slyly hide a small box in the shawl she allows to fall over her elbows as she points to the actress’ bracelet. What was it? Candy?

Cigarettes? Candy Cigarettes? Kinda miss those.

“Outsider!”

The amount of times people called his name that night was more than had ever done so in his entire life. The caller this time is a woman in a gold mask with a sapphire star over her left cheek. He puts on his most civil tone and greets her. “Star, how are you?”

The outsider remembers the last time they saw each other. The star was full of cheer and booze. This time, worry takes the place of cheer, a common theme among familiar faces that night, and the outsider can smell only a little bit of booze in the star’s breath. Her voice is slightly shaky, maybe even nervous. “Hey, um… could we talk?”

“About?”

She doesn’t seem willing to elaborate. “I just--could we just go somewhere and talk?”

The outsider’s eyes jump to the actress, then back to the star. He knows better than to trust the star. He still has the mark as a reminder. But… he is curious. Reluctantly, he nods.

“Okay.”

The actress doesn’t even notice the outsider leave. She is too busy trying to figure out how to ask, “So, are you….”

44

No matter how she means to say it, it sounds like it could be rude. Thankfully, the lover has heard the question many times before. The lover rests her hand on her slightly rotund belly, the shawl around her elbow falling away. “Found out last month.”

The actress’ eyes fall on a few purple spots on the inside of the lover’s elbow, and a scarlet trail leading from a dark vein down her arm. The marks of past needles are barely visible.

The actress does her best not to notice, not to make any sort of speculation. “That’s great to hear.”

As the actress continues conversation, the star leads the outsider to the dining room, which is, quite surprisingly, empty. This is surprising as the table, which is nearly as large as the room, is covered in kegs and heaping with platters of food.

The outsider is impressed by the socialite’s array, but cuts to the point, asking the star, “What did you want to talk about?”

The star darts straight for one of the kegs, filling a cup and downing it as quickly as she fills it. The outsider takes a small step back, experiencing a brief flashback to an unpleasant experience he doesn’t want to relive. He asks, keeping a safe distance, “Everything okay?”

The star looks into her cup and shakes her head. Her voice is hushed and weak, a far cry from what is normal for her. “I wanted to apologize.”

In the back of his head, the outsider has had a feeling she would want to talk about this.

She has no other business with him otherwise. “About last year?”

She gives him a few short nods. “Yes… We shouldn’t have done that to you. You weren’t doing anything wrong, and we were just a stupid, drunk group of idiots.”

The line sounds almost rehearsed, and she has blurted it out rather quickly. The outsider sees the star keep looking to the kegs and back to her cup. He jerks his thumb to the nearest keg.

“Need another?”

She makes a move towards them, but the outsider reaches out for her cup. She gives it to him, and he fills it up, handing back to her, saying, “Star, it’s fine.”

After taking a hefty gulp , the star’s voice is lower, tinged with disbelief . “Outsider, we cracked your mask!”

The outsider takes a brief moment to try and stay calm, trying to forget the moment he heard his mask break. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does! You had to live like that for a year! You can’t lie and say it’s fine or it doesn’t matter.” She sits down and waits for the outsider to say something, but he says nothing.

So, the star offers, “I could pay to have the professionals fix it. Would that help?”

The outsider thinks about it for the briefest of his seconds. He doesn’t want her help. He doesn’t need her help. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”

Star hasn’t expected that. Then again, she didn’t know what to expect. In the end, she stands up and whispers, “Okay… okay…” She leaves the room, whispering as a final parting, “Have fun.”

The outsider stay a while longer, trying to figure out a few things in his head. The only idea that keeps being repeated in his head, again and again, is how weird this night is.

Meanwhile, the actress is saying goodbye to the lover. “It was nice to see you again.”

The lover waves goodbye as she and her boyfriend, a man with a mask depicting scales of justice, stroll to the door. The actress never asked about the marks on the lover’s elbow, but it isn’t her concern anyway. She knows better than most there are some things in people’s lives best left alone.

45

She looks back to where she last saw the outsider, only to find nothingness instead. That isn’t much of a surprise, as he often disappeared without a word, so she turns her attention to the scribbly-masked man. He stares into glass of ice with a severe lack of alcohol.

Before the actress can think of a way to approach him, the scribbly-masked man stumbles away from the bar, almost into a few nearby party guests. His apology is slurred, barely understandable. “Saurwy…”

The actress watches as the scribbly-masked man bumps and shoves his way through the crowd and out of the room. She fiddles with the charms on her bracelet. Should she follow the drunk, or should she not? Hoping she isn’t making a mistake, the actress follows the drunk.

The scribbly-masked man appears to be making his way to the dining room. The actress doesn’t know what is in there, if anything is in there. That is, until the outsider opens the door, and the scribbly-masked man sees all the kegs inside.

The outsider sees a small light of excitement in the man’s eyes. He can also smell a heavy gale of alcohol as the scribbly-masked man breathes on him. “I’ss needsa drink.”

Unfortunately for the man, the concerned citizen in the outsider disagree, as the outsider steps in between the scribbly-masked man and the dining room. “I think you’ve had enough.”

The light in the scribbly-masked man’s eyes fades fast, and his voice is both slurred and angry. “Outtaway….”

The outsider puts a hand on the man’s shoulder and gives a light shove. “I think you need to go sit down and sleep. Maybe eat something, too. Try a peppermint.”

Then the scribbly-masked man does the stupid thing and throws a fist into the outsider’s mask. The outsider doesn’t really feel it, for his mask takes the brunt of the blow, but it is enough to make him slam his own fist into the man’s face. The scribbly-masked man certainly feels that, as well as the blood running from his nose.

The man mumbles gibberish under his breath, probably trying to call the outsider every three- to seven-letter word his foggy mind can remember. That, plus all the stares they are getting, makes the outsider feel a pang of guilt. He takes a deep breath and helps the scribblymasked man to his feet. Noticing actress in that moment, he asks her, “Do you know where the bathroom is?”

She is a bit stunned by what just happened, but she points to her right. “Down the hall, on the second right.”

The outsider follows her instructions and half-leads, half-drags, the scribbly-masked man to the bathroom. When inside, the man falls headfirst towards the toilet bowl and heaves and hurls out some nasty yellow-green slop, mixing in a little bit of nasal blood. The disgusting substance gets on the outsider’s hands, making him happy to find a sink so close to him.

When he reaches for the soap, he is surprised to see a spot of blue glue on the sink’s counter. What’s more, his surprise is heightened when he spies a familiar, small, silver tiger in the blue spot. The glue looks like it is trying to drag the tiger down to hell with slender blue tendrils.

The outsider pries it up, holding the small charm as gingerly as he can. It’s just like he remembered it, with the only signs of damage being the glue still clinging to it. He hides it in his hand and looks back at the scribbly-masked man, who’s still heaving and hurling. The outsider says, “Don’t tilt your head back. Drowning in a nosebleed is a bad way to go.”

The scribbly-masked man’s retching echoes in the toilet bowl. The outsider opens the door and finds the actress waiting outside. She looks over his mask and jokes, “It doesn’t look like the crack got any bigger, but how’s your face?”

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The outsider closes his eyes and doesn’t say anything about his mask. “I got you a present. Sorry if it looks like the one I gave you before.”

He opens his hand and shows her the blue-stained tiger. The jesting in her voice dies. It is replaced by regret. “Oh….”

The outsider lets the tiger fall into the actress’ open hand. “I think we need to talk.”

They are silent as they make their way through laughter and cheers, all the way to the socialite’s empty study. It is the quietest place in the whole house. Plus, it just feels right.

Someone needs to start talking, but neither do. Maybe the outsider should be questioning the actress, but he doesn’t know what to ask. Maybe the actress should be confessing to the outsider, but she doesn’t know what to say. So, they sit on the couch in silence for a few minutes, feeling like it is hours.

Eventually, he asks, “Where?”

She doesn’t understand. “What?”

“Your mask? Where’d it break?”

She turns her head and points to the side of her left eye. “Here.”

The outsider sees just the faintest web of shards. “What happened?”

The actress doesn’t want to say. She is too ashamed, but she needs to say it. “I tried to kill myself … but I guess I freaked out and tried to--tried to pull the gun away as soon as I pulled the trigger…. I don’t….”

She gives up halfway. The outsider is too dismayed to ask anything but “Why?” The actress doesn’t want to talk. “Outsider, I told you things have been hell, so could we leave it at that?”

The outsider doesn’t take the hint. “Things like what?”

“Everything! It’s all just been hell, and I have to keep lying and lying and lying to make things—to—” She gives up once more. She doesn’t know what to say. All her training and acting and lying fail her in that moment. She can barely understand what she even means, only what she did.

The outsider understands. It’s likely he understands better than anyone. “Last year, remember that game Star and Clown and those assholes did to me?”

The actress nods. “Yeah. They crack—” “They didn’t,” he interrupts. He traces the sharp edge in his forehead. “I got this the same way you got yours.”

The actress’ eyes widen with worry and surprise. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“The night after that game, back when Socialite and I were roommates, I tried to … do it, but socialite happened to get there in time to save my life … but not my forehead.”

“Outsider, this is serious.”

The outsider agrees, regretting the failed humor. “I know, and I’m not joking. Socialite wanted to get me some help, and to tell you, but I didn’t want that.”

The actress’ question still wasn’t answered. “But why?”

He shrugs, his signature defense mechanism. “Same reason I tried to put a bullet in my head. I’m the outsider. I’m supposed to be on my own. I’m supposed to be silent…. But that night was the breaking point.” He looks at her, a sullen look in his eyes. “I’m willing to bet you had one, too.”

She agrees totally, but refuses to say anything more than, “Yeah.”

The outsider has a guess, but wants to know. “What’s wrong with being the actress?”

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She doesn’t know where to begin, so she generalizes. “It feels like everything I do is fake, a lie. Even when I know it’s true, it doesn’t feel true. And … I’m just afraid it’ll get to the point where I can’t even tell what’s real and what’s fake anymore.”

The outsider can only think of one thing to say to that. “That sucks.”

The actress gives a small, agreeable laugh. “Yeah, it does.”

They share another silent moment together, both trying to deal with the sour mood that falls over them. The actress breaks the silence. “How do you deal with it?”

The outsider shakes his head. “I don’t. You?” Her reply is just as gloomy. “I can’t.”

Neither of them think of a thing to do. The outsider asks his friend, “Do you wanna leave?”

The actress nods and speaks softly, unsure of what else to say except, “Yeah.”

The party has not lessened while the two friends have been talking. If anything, it is a hell of a lot livelier now. The music is louder. The dancing is sloppier. The smell is nastier. Needless to say, it is the last place the two want to be.

They walk down the stairs, their sour moods a stark contrast to the excited atmosphere around them. The actress almost envies the partiers. Whatever troubles they suffer, they can let them go that night.

She sees a man, wearing a mask like a brown glass bottle, passed out in a chair. An unhealthy amount of bottles and cans and red cups lie in a pile at his feet. Oh yes, he left his pains behind the moment the bottle touched his lips a few years ago.

In the socialite’s living room, a woman with a gray mask with glasses built in sits alone.

She has a laptop in front of her, a folder overflowing with papers and packets on her left, and a pen in her teeth. Her fingers hammer the keys hard enough to hear through the bass of the music.

It is obvious she’d forgotten her worries before the party even began.

The actress looks to the outsider to see if he can see the same things, too. He can. He sees the alcoholic. He sees the laborer. He sees a man curling up into a ball in a remote corner. The man’s face is hidden by one of stone. The stone man wraps his arms around himself. His eyes are an ugly shade of red and glossed over by tears.

A girl in a mask like an art canvas fidgets in a chair not too far from the stone-faced man.

She stares off into nowhere. The edge of a large bruise peeks out from beneath her left sleeve. A fresh scar spans the length of her forearm. The blank-slated girl does all she can to stay still, to stay away from it all.

The outsider’s eyes meets those of the actress. The outsider can see a faint web of scars on the actress’ face, beneath the web of cracks in her mask. The actress can see a scar, matching the crack in the outsider’s mask, leading to brim of his eye.

The actress slips her hand into the outsider’s. They dare not speak to one another. They don’t want to do anything but leave. They need to leave.

The two squeeze through the crowd. The music and sounds of revelry are mute to their ears. They just keep their eyes on the door. They ignore the sick smell of beer and sweat and vomit. They just keep their eyes on the door. They don’t pay attention to the people asking where they are going. They just keep their eyes on the door.

Outside the door is nothing but a cold, dark, empty night. No music. No dancing. No smell. No people. No pain. No worries. Nothing.

And that’s fine. That’s fine.

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“Maple’s Marvel”

by Ethan Harless Ethan Harless, a 20-year-old Christian, hails from scenic Abingdon, Virginia. Some of his hobbies include writing, composing music, playing guitar, and playing video games — especially Nintendo games. Harless is enrolled in the online King Bachelor of Arts in English program, anticipating graduation late next year.

“Maple's Marvel” was originally written for an online Creative Writing class at Virginia Highlands Community College. There are actually three “Maple's Marvel” pieces, and Harless hopes someday this concept can be expanded into an entire novel. The following extract, therefore, would be a first chapter or prologue.

For a long time, Harless has been fascinated with fictional robot characters and how their computer minds would process the hardships and complications of life. Penelope is a sort of study on that topic. She tackles life with less emotional passion and more logical reasoning, but she isn't without the former thanks to her “emotion simulators.” Harless hopes you enjoy reading about her first minutes of life as much as he enjoyed writing about it – even more, if possible! ______________________________________________________________________________ It was a dream come true for Dr. Maple.

Yes, sir, Dr. Maple and his team finally did it. As the news reporters were banging on the door to get so much as a glimpse of the action, history was being made. Penelope was born.

Technically. Her body had been prepared for months. Her slender body type and average stature made her functional and noticeable, but kept her from being intimidating or “too perfect.” Her body was almost entirely like that of the average human female – at least, when it was covered with clothes. Like it was now. Maple was a scientist, not an artist. He kept his studies tasteful at all times.

Her hair draped down to her shoulders, a few auburn brown locks spread across her forehead. But her face was not quite like that of a normal human’s. Her eyes were larger and flatter, appearing to be more like a cartoon character’s than that of a human. Her nose was small and roundish, and her lips were small and thin, without much color. For the sake of time, knowledge, and money, he couldn’t give her a working voicebox, so he had to make software to do the work. Her lips, jaw, and tongue would sync up with each word to create the illusion that she was saying them manually. People would notice the robotic, quick motions her mouth would make, but it wasn’t what mattered. She wasn’t built to look exactly like a human. She was built to be a dream made reality. A social experiment.

She was sitting up now in an intricate monitoring system designed to appear as a hospital bed. In the small, dark room, lit up only by the glowing tile on a platform beneath the bed and the small spotlight above her, there she sat, nearly motionless. The microphones in the bed and bedframe detected nothing; the computer that was her brain was virtually noiseless. She looked around, doing as she was programmed, her only direct order to “control” her that her brain would give her. After doing so, she sat and did nothing, waiting for her creator to meet with her.

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Maple smiled. “Time to meet the new kid in town,” he chuckled. “Oh, you don’t have to come with me unless you just want to,” he smiled to his colleagues, grabbing a clipboard. “We’ll get along just fine.” With that, he opened the metallic door and headed down the swirling staircase towards the test room in which his marvel resided.

He couldn’t contain his excitement as he peeked through the door, letting light in and grinning like a child on Christmas morning. He walked calmly and slowly towards her. He wanted to run. He wanted to jump onto the platform, embrace the synthetic woman, and cry tears of joy. But he didn’t. He walked straight to the platform and stepped directly on it. As the machine made eye contact with him, he tried to suppress his grin, but failed. She was not smiling, but was not scowling; yet what a charming, feminine gaze! He had to smile, and so he did. With outstretched arms for show, raising his head in pride, he proudly proclaimed, “Penelope … welcome to life.”

Penelope smiled at the man. She was not necessarily programmed to do so, but she was programmed to know about thousands of subjects, including kindness. That kindness she recognized from her mental database procured a positive response from her emotion simulators; his welcome certainly made her feel welcome. According to her mental “database,” he was exhibiting feelings of pride, joy, and possibly even some kind of love. Such emotions are positive emotions, and a relation between him and her leading to such emotions must mean good things. Good is good. So she smiled. Her instructions ordered her to respond if certain criteria were met (and they were), so she responded with similar kindness in order to continue the “good” results. “Thank you. Are you my creator?”

“Ah, gratitude!” smiled the man, wiping a tear from his eye. “What a delightful, most touching response!” Collecting himself, he cleared his throat, wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, and looked down at Penelope. “Uh, in a sense, I am your creator. As you are no doubt aware, you are a machine … so that is, to an extent, a proper term. But there are many people watching us in a window way up there,” he pointed at the window as directing an inquisitive child, “who also had a big hand in your creation. But, er, I don’t really like the term ‘creator,’ as that seems to suggest we practically invented you. We did not create the human, nor did we conceive you entirely of our own imagination and idea. We’re not ‘playing God,’ here at this laboratory … which is why, upon looking in a mirror, you may notice you appear substantially different from other humans.

“Indeed, you exist, but you are not a biological creature. In fact, you are not, by definition, a living thing. You are but another machine in a world full of them already, yet uniquely equipped with the finest artificial intelligence we could create. In spite of the obvious fact you are not, technically, alive, you are able to make decisions, think rationally, and participate in many activities and functions humans already do. I advise you to use this gift to your advantage, and to make the world a better place. But … your life will ultimately be yours.

And I do use the term ‘life’ loosely, but I digress,” he finished, exhaling sharply.

Penelope stared at him as if she was simply trying to catch up. Blinking once and then once more, she looked up at the window again. Though unaware of it now, she would learn that Dr. Maple was a passionate man, and with passion came wordiness.

“Oh, and to answer your question briefly,” the doctor continued, earning Penelope’s gaze once more, “I suppose you could say I am your creator. Even your father, in a sense, although you technically have many fathers and mothers who brought you to life. But I would like it if you would just call me Dr. Maple,” he suggested, shifting nervously.

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“Dr. Maple…” she said slowly and hesitantly. Her voice was soft, but clearly synthetic. It did not, however, lack emotion, which was vitally important in conversation. Dr. Maple smiled again, pleased with the results so far. “I am curious, Dr. Maple,” she proceeded. “What shall I do now?”

“Well, I’m glad you’re so eager to start!” Dr. Maple laughed, his large belly quaking mirthfully. “First we need to give you a workout and make sure you’re in shape,” he elaborated, putting his hands on his hips. “I’ve already programmed you with the knowledge to be able to move, so I have confidence this test will turn out fine. Could you please stand up for me?” he asked, motioning with his hand to stand.

Hesitantly, she looked down at her legs. She shuffled around a little to make sure they worked, then slid to the side of the bed. She placed both legs to her side and gently placed them on the ground, tracing the path her feet made the entire time. Then, bracing herself, she pushed on the bed and stood up slowly. “Perfect balance,” Dr. Maple muttered.

“Perfect … perfect is the desired result, as usually desired in tests, is it not, Dr. Maple?”

Penelope smiled, happy merely at the thought she might have done well.

“Absolutely! But the test isn’t over yet!” the doctor smiled back. “Come on and step down from that platform,” he instructed, motioning again with his hands.

She walked confidently to the end of the platform and looked down to where the doctor was. It was only about a six-inch drop, but the floor was dark to the point where she could not see what was below. Cautiously, right foot first, she toed the ground to check if the black void below was solid. Satisfied, she shifted her weight, landing completely. Then she placed her left leg beside her right, standing safely on the floor. Looking at the doctor for some indication of how well she performed her task, she grew concerned at his puzzled look. “You are dissatisfied?”

“No, no, not exactly, just curious…” Maple began. “Why were you so hesitant to step down?”

“The ground you were standing on was certainly secure, and that was viable evidence to conclude I could step down,” she began, glancing at his feet again. “However, seeing that this is, as you said, a test, I wanted to be sure I could think outside the box and be prepared for any unexpected obstacles. It was too dark to see the floor, so I checked to make sure the floor was solid. It was not that I doubted you, Dr. Maple.”

The doctor wiped away another tear and smiled again. “How charming!” he remarked.

“You were even concerned for my feelings! It would seem you have reciprocated my kindness.

Yes, that is fine, Penelope, but…” he chuckled, scratching his balding head, “I think it is better to say this is an ‘examination.’ No tricks here.” Penelope smiled halfheartedly at his laughter, looking away from him. Maple detected what she was feeling and commented, “What you did was not bad! I think your carefulness was very wise. This miscommunication was on my part, and I apologize.”

Penelope smiled a genuine smile in return. “Thank you, Dr. Maple. What would you like me to do next?” Maple smiled and gestured — only gestured — for her to follow him. She analyzed her database for the translation for that gesture and, finding the answer, followed him.

The doctor looked back and smiled as Penelope fixed her gaze on him. She would occasionally look around, but only briefly before locking her eyes on him again. He would occasionally turn, stop, slow down, speed up … and eventually he broke into a leisurely run, being careful to stay near the spotlight so they both could see. She ran behind him, taking long strides, occasionally shortening the strides to adjust her speed. As he twisted and turned, he felt

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his heart skip suddenly and screeched to a halt. However, Penelope was too close turning in the open space and bumped into him, bringing them both to the ground.

The doctor coughed and slowly got up, but Penelope remained on the ground. She kept her gaze on the dark floor and frowned. Closing her eyes and bracing herself, knowing in her database people were punished for wrongdoings, she said, “I failed.”

“Do what?” Maple said as he regained his composure, looking at her.

“I failed,” she said again, with a sad, but matter-of-fact tone. “I failed to pass the examination. I know I did not pass it. I’m sorry to disappoint you. I know you worked very hard.” Her creator sniffled as he wiped two more tears from his eyes. Penelope heard this and looked up at her creator, partially in fear and partially in concern. “Please don’t cry, Dr. Maple.”

“Oh, my dear Penelope!” he laughed, wiping more tears. “You wonderful machine! You must not have noticed that I stopped very abruptly. You were so close behind me that there was no way you could have stopped in time!” He squatted down beside her and petted her hair gently.

“And you didn’t even blame me for it. Did you know I didn’t even program you this way on purpose? You are genuinely just this kind, from birth! That brings me so much hope!”

Penelope’s eyes widened slightly. “Hope?”

“Yes, hope! I admit, when I created you and compiled that extensive database of knowledge in your brain, I didn’t know how you would behave! But look at you: you’re so harmless and you want the best results … you’re a role model in your first five minutes of life!” he proudly proclaimed with outstretched arms. Penelope remained silent, looking away from him, unsure what to think. “My dear Penelope,” Dr. Maple continued, “you have passed this test … er, examination, with flying colors! Your physical body works just fine, and I have quite the faith that your psychological examination will yield similar results.”

“So…” Penelope said, figuring it all in her mind, “you’re not displeased with me, even though I may have caused you harm?”

“No, no harm done! I’m not angry with you in the least! Let’s walk together to the door, shall we?” he suggested, helping her up and leading her to the door. Through that door, Maple and his marvel would engage in many other tests and examinations. Before his team “powered her on,” he had been trembling with excitement coupled with anxiety. Hundreds of thoughts seemed to swirl in his mind: would she function properly? Would there be any accidents? Would she be friendly? After spending but five minutes with her, all anxiety was gone. She was functioning properly, and her friendliness more than made up for the single minor accident that took place.

Upon leaving the room, he found his coworkers whispering to him questions and comments of concern and anxiety. Fears of failure racked their hearts, brains, and souls as if the results so far were too good to be true. Though Dr. Maple was still trembling with excitement, his optimism began to waver. Over the hushed clamor, Penelope’s soft voice broke through.

“Excuse me,” she uttered, “but Dr. Maple appears to be shivering somewhat. My temperature receptors perceive the room is not very cold. Is he well?”

With that, hope was restored.

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“The Relationship Between Physical Activity and Depression”

by Ryan Nelson Ryan Nelson is in his third year at King University. He is double majoring in psychology and philosophy with a minor in security and intelligence studies. Ryan has been interested in the clinical side of psychology since the time he began his college career. He also plans to continue his education into this field after obtaining his bachelor's degree. This interest was also one of the primary motivators in choosing to review earlier research and write his paper regarding the relationship between depression and physical activity. ______________________________________________________________________________ Depression is currently one of the most common mental disorders, affecting millions of people every year. Many theories exist that seek to explain the cause of depression; however, no single theory that proves more correct than others. Several theories also exist on ways to prevent depression, and, like the theories of the cause, no single one emerges as definitively correct. One theory proposes that sedentary behavior increases an individual’s likelihood of developing depression; therefore, if true, it would mean that physical activity would be an effective preventative measure. There are several experiments that measure the effectiveness of physical activity as both a preventative measure and a therapeutic response, as well as testing the theory that sedentary behavior potentially increases one’s likelihood for depression.

There is strong evidence in favor of a strong positive correlation between physical activity and depression. This suggests that as an individual increases the amount of time they spend sedentary, the likelihood that they will develop depression, or at least related symptoms, also increases. The article “Sedentary Behavior and Depression Among Adults: A Review” suggests an abundance of much sedentary behavior, activities that only slightly raise one’s metabolic rate above the resting value, increases the likelihood of depression in adults. The article functions as a review of several other research articles that contain data concerning the correlation between sedentary behavior and depression. The information the authors found suggests that, overall, people who spend an above average amount of time sedentary have a higher risk of developing depressive symptoms. The behaviors used as an example in the article include watching television, computer use, and Internet surfing. Evidence in the article suggests that, when done in excess, the behaviors increase the likelihood of developing depression in adulthood (Teychenne, Ball, & Salmon, 2010). The authors of “Physical Activity and Depression in Young Adults” report a similar result. Their study focused on number of steps taken per day along with a self-report of physical activity. They found that people who were sedentary, defined as those who walked less than 5,000 steps per day, were 50% more likely to develop depression than people who walked at least 7,500 steps per day (McKercher, Schmidt, Sanderson, Patton, Dwyer, & Venn, 2009).

With sedentary behavior having a significant effect on the development of depression, it follows that the inverse would also be true. That being that not remaining sedentary, and partaking in physical activity will reduce the likelihood of developing depression and related symptoms. In the article “Physical activity and likelihood of depression in adults: A review” several sources are analyzed and compared with the purpose of compiling and organizing data 53

relating to the effect of physical activity on depression. The authors found that any amount of physical activity reduces the likelihood of depression; however, increasingly intense levels of activity tend to be increasingly effective in reducing the likelihood of depression. It was also found that different activities have varying effects, but most activities have some degree of effectiveness in reducing the likelihood of depression (Teychenne, Ball, & Salmon, 2008). The authors of the article “A cohort study of leisure time physical activity and depression” found a similar result. The research was focused on physical activity done specifically in leisure time.

They found that a higher level of physical activity was connected to a lower level of depression in women; however, while there appeared to be some difference in risk of depression in men who reported higher levels of physical activity, the results were not significant from a statistical standpoint (Mikkelsen, Tolstrup, Flachs, Mortensen, Schnohr, & Flensborg-Madsen, 2010).

Further research also shows that physical activity has positive effects on overall mental health. The authors of the article “The relation of Physical Activity and Exercise to Mental Health” look at the effects of physical activity on mental health in general. They analyze the effects of physical activity on mental health from a medical standpoint. They explain that physical activity can decrease alcohol abuse, depression, and stress, along with various other vices and stressors. All of which are symptoms or behaviors associated with depression. It can also improve things like mood, confidence, and emotional stability. These factors can reduce the likelihood of the onset of depression. The authors also say that physical activity is widely accepted as both a therapeutic response and a preventative measure for depression (Taylor, Sallis, & Needle, 1985). Another example of physical activity reducing the likelihood of depression is proposed in the experiment conducted by the authors of “Relationship between physical activity and depression and anxiety: A population study.” In their experiment, they surveyed 1,042 people. The survey included questions that assessed the participants’ level of depression as well as their level of physical activity. The results show that people who regularly take part in physical activity have a reduced risk of depression (De Mello, Lemos, Antunes, Bittencourt, Santos-Silva, & Tufik, 2013).

Research has also been done on more isolated populations. This has shown that while there is still a correlation between physical activity and the reduced likelihood of depression, the strength of the correlation differs with different populations. The article “Physical Activity and Depression in the Elderly” reviews several different experiments that focus on the idea that physical activity serves as an effective preventative measure against depression in elderly people.

They found a small correlation between physical activity and depressive symptoms. These results suggest that physical activity helps prevent depression among the elderly, but not as much as in younger adults (O’Connor, Aenchbacher, & Dishman, 1993). Studies with a focus on children have shown that in adolescents physical activity is effective in reducing depressive symptoms. The authors of “Physical Activity Intervention and Depression in Children and Adolescents” explain that physical activity may be an effective strategy to reduce symptoms related to depression, focusing on the relationship between physical activity and depression in children. They review several different studies that examine the relationship between physical activity and depression. The study showed that physical activity is effective in reducing depressive symptoms in young children and adolescents (Brown, Pearson, Braithwaite, Brown, & Biddle, 2013).

Studies also show that physical activity is an effective aid for other therapeutic responses against depression in all populations. Physical activity has shown to be a very effective 54

therapeutic aid to other treatments for depression. The authors of “Physical activity, exercise coping, and depression in a 10-year cohort study of depressed patients” performed an experiment aimed at studying the effects of physical activity on adults suffering from depression. The authors used a sample of 424 depressed adults from both genders and varying ages. The participants evaluated after one year, four years, and then ten years. The results of the research show that it is immensely beneficial to encourage patients suffering from depression to engage in physical activity because it will significantly reduce the likelihood of depression recurring. The activity will also provide an adequate solution to stress, certain medical conditions, and a coping mechanism for negative life events. The risks associated with moderate physical activity are also miniscule (Harris, Cronkite, & Moos, 2006).

The authors of “Physical Activity Intervention and Depression in Children and Adolescents” explain that physical activity may be an effective strategy to reduce symptoms related to depression, focusing on the relationship between physical activity and depression in children. They review several different studies that examine the relationship between physical activity and depression. The study showed that physical activity is effective in reducing depressive symptoms in young children and adolescents (Brown, Pearson, Braithwaite, Brown, & Biddle, 2013). The authors of the article “Effects of exercise and physical activity on depression” look at the effectiveness of physical activity as a therapeutic response for depression.

To gather data, they reviewed published research on the relationship between physical activity and depression. The evidence they found suggests that physical activity is a very effective therapeutic response in treating depression. They even go as far as to say exercise is as effective as more commonly used antidepressants (Dinas, Koutedakis, & Flouris, 2010).

Research shows that sedentary behavior is a potential contributor to depression, as well as depressive symptoms. Physical activity has also shown to be both an effective preventative measure and therapeutic response. There are several different experiments researching this subject that support these claims, and more are still being done. While there is evidence suggesting that physical activity does not have a positive effect on certain groups, it can still be regarded as an effective supplement to treatments and preventative measures. Therefore, It can be applied to the groups that it will be a benefit to.

References Brown, H. E., Pearson, N., Braithwaite, R. E., Brown, W. J., & Biddle, S. J. (2013). Physical Activity Interventions and Depression in Children and Adolescents. doi:10.1007/s40279012-0015-8 De Mello, M. T., Lemos, V. D., Antunes, H. K., Bittencourt, L., Santos-Silva, R., & Tufik, S. (2013). Relationship between physical activity and depression and anxiety symptoms: A population study. Journal of Affective Disorders, 149, 241-246.

Dinas, P. C., Koutedakis, Y., & Flouris, A. D. (n.d.). Effects of exercise and physical activity on depression. doi:10.1007/s11845-010-0633-9

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Harris, A. H., Cronkite, R., & Moos, R. (2006). Physical activity, exercise coping, and depression in a 10-year cohort study of depressed patients. Journal of Affective Disorders, 93, 79-85. doi:10.1016/j.jad.2006.02.013 McKercher, C. M., Schmidt, M. D., Sanderson, K. A., Patton, G. C., Dwyer, T., & Venn, A. J. (2009). Physical Activity and Depression in Young Adults. American Journal of Preventative Medicine, 36(2). doi:10.1016/j.amepre.2008.09.036 Mikkelsen, S. S., Tolstrup, J. S., Flachs, E. M., Mortensen, E. L., Schnohr, P., & FlensborgMadsen, T. (2010). A cohort study of leisure time physical activity and depression.

Preventive Medicine, 51, 471-475. doi:10.1016/j.ypmed.2010.09.008 O'Connor, P. J., Aenchbacher, L. E., III, & Dishman, R. K. (1993). Physical Activity and Depression in the Elderly. Journal of Aging and Physical Activity, 1, 34-58.

Strawbridge, W. J., Deleger, S., Roberts, R. E., & Kaplan, G. A. (2002). Physical Activity Reduces the Risk of Subsequent Depression for Older Adults. American Journal of Epidemiology, 156(4), 328-334. doi:10.1093/aje/kwf047 Taylor, B., Sallis, J. F., & Needle, R. (1985). The Relation of Physical Activity and Exercise to Mental Health. Public Health Reports, 100(2), 195-202. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/20056436 Teychenne, M., Ball, K., & Salmon, J. (2008). Physical activity and likelihood of depression in adults: A review. Preventative Medicine, 46, 397-411. doi:10.1016/j.ypmed.2008.01.009 Teychenne, M., Ball, K., & Salmon, J. (2010). Sedentary Behavior and Depression Among Adults: A Review . International Society of Behavioral Medicine. doi:10.1007/s12529010-9075-z

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“HELL”

by Germaine LaRonde Germaine LaRonde is a Digital Media Arts and Design major in the class of 2020. LaRonde says her inspiration for the poem derives from Dante’s The Divine Comedy and a challenge to write a short, “right to the point” genre of poem that allows readers to picture themselves within her words. “HELL” is a poem about sinners facing their consequences and living in one of the circles of hell, suffering alone. ______________________________________________________________________________

this is the price i pay surrounded by these crimson walls in this fiery bed

this is the price i pay creating my fate sitting in the room of inferno

this is the price i pay i am forced to acknowledge my sins and dwell in my sorrows alone.

this is the price i pay alone

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“Pain Rewritten”

by Kara Mitchell Kara Mitchell, from Johnson City, TN, is a mother to six children and a freshman at King who is currently deciding between a career in Respiratory Therapy or Nursing. Mitchell wrote this poem in memory of her beautiful and loving son, Orion. She describes the pain of losing him, saying, “He died suddenly in my arms, two weeks before his fifth birthday, from an acute asthma attack.

His autopsy report was very terrible to read. It was understandably very cold and impersonal, and still haunting at times to remember. This poem is something very near to my heart, that has helped me heal, and I'm happy to have the chance to share it. In loving memory of Orion Jude Mitchell, 6/16/11 – 5/31/16. Mommy loves you, little boy. Wait for me in paradise.” ______________________________________________________________________________

Thumbing through the pages of death; Remnants of childhood imagination presented bilaterally on left hand.

Tatooine dust from One Thousand victorious battles, noted on the soles of the feet.

Scalp hair holding One Million maternal kisses, is long, dark blonde, fine and curly, presented in normal growth and pattern.

Lungs weighing the average of combined inhaled awestruck moments, exacerbated by magic, wonder, and innocence.

The eyes beholding the pure and Holy radiance of God, normally formed, irides blue.

Effect of Death: eternal longing.

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“Pain Rewritten”

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“Double Bow”

by Laura Boggan Laura Boggan graduated from East Tennessee State University in 1992 with a degree in Marketing. Since 2008, she has been King University’s Associate Director of Communication.

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“Malaysia” and “Indonesia”

by Kirsti Graybeal Kirsti Graybeal is a rising junior majoring in Educational Studies. She took the following photos on the 2016-2017 King University school trip to Malaysia (first photo) and Indonesia (second photo).

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“Marble Cathedral�

by Abigail Ketron Abigail Ketron is a King University rising junior majoring in Biology and minoring in Biblical Studies.

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“Netherlands” and “King”

by Jacob W. Davis Jacob W. Davis is a graduating senior majoring in Business with a specialization in Sports Management. On the inspiration for his photo “King,” he says the following: “My inspiration for this photo was reflecting on a huge change in my life. I came to King University from Franklin, Massachusetts. When I spent the time to walk around the campus, I was able to reflect on the calmness of the scenery.”

For his second photo, “Netherlands,” he explains: “In December 2017, I traveled to Europe.

While in Europe, I visited an old friend, Freek Schoones, a graduate of the MBA program in 2017. We went to Amsterdam and I was able to capture a photo that will forever remind me of a trip of a lifetime to the Netherlands.” ______________________________________________________________________________ “Netherlands”

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“King”

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“Pine Warbler in Spring”

by Rachel Mullins Rachel Mullins is a junior at King University currently pursuing the Biology: Dual Pharmacy Track major, and she will be attending the Bill Gatton College of Pharmacy this coming fall. The dual track will allow her to return to King in the spring of 2019 to graduate with her class. Her photograph is entitled “Pine Warbler in Spring,” and she offers the following insight: “I really enjoy photography, and when I discovered this brightly colored bird in my flower box, I decided to snap a few photos of it.”

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“Pretty in Pink” and “Into the Woods”

by Samantha Oplinger Samantha Oplinger, class of 2020, is a Criminal Justice major with a minor in Psychology. She cites her father as her inspiration for taking up photography. ______________________________________________________________________________ “Pretty in Pink”

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“Into the Woods”

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