CONTENTS Daylilies at Sunset Brothers on the Hill The Heart of the Beholder The Heart of a Child A Letter to the Marble Soldier Moving Mountains Owls Beauty Everywhere My Redeemer, Refiner, and Exceeding Great Reward Scissors The Beauty of a Grandmother The Sheepdog Starnes-Bolin Literary Award Winners English Professors of the Conrad Grebel School of the Humanities Special Thanks to Todd Starnes
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Yonah Literary Review / Truett McConnell University
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Yonah Literary Review / Truett McConnell University
Daylilies at Sunset / 1st Place - Art / By Julia Pittman
BROTHERS ON THE HILL a rock tree and then When that wasn’t
I threw at the another. enough,
I kicked the base of the tree until my toes were sore, but that still didn’t do it, so I pounded my fist into it over and over. Little pieces of bark flew off and my knuckles were so badly cut that my hand felt like I was holding it over a fire. The folded newspaper I’d stuffed inside my coat was poking into my ribs. I pulled it out and glanced at the headlines. JAPANESE BOMB PEARL HARBOR…1500 DEAD IN HAWAII, CONGRESS VOTES WAR I rolled the paper up into a funnel and wacked it back and forth against the tree until I couldn’t catch my breath. Then I threw it on the ground and leaned my head against the tree, closing my eyes. When I opened them and lifted my head, Johnny was leaning against another tree watching me. “You ’bout done?” I wiped my nose. I hadn’t noticed I’d been crying. “How long you been standin’ there?” I asked. “Long enough to know I should teach you how to punch.” He came closer and motioned at my bleeding hand. “You okay?” The cold air made my knuckles burn so I pulled my sleeve up over them and sat down heavily against the tree. “Nathan?” “I’m fine.” Johnny sat down next to me and, even if he was trying to hide it, a chuckle escaped. I wanted to hit him. “How’d you know where I was?” I wiped my nose with my shirt sleeve again and held my shaking hand against me hoping Johnny wouldn’t notice. “You always come out here when you wanna be alone—done it ever since you could walk, just about. Heck— they might as well name this tree after you.” Johnny was always joking about something. Mama said that he didn’t know how to take anything seriously, so maybe that’s why it was such a shock when he’d told me just minutes before that he was signing up for the war.
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By Kirsten Starling 1st Place - Fiction
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Johnny glanced at me and then sighed. The sun was getting low and we sat there under that pecan tree watching the orange North Carolina sky fade away. Johnny’s breath disappeared like smoke, evaporating every time he exhaled. “I don’t want you to go,” I said after a while. Hot tears were forming in my eyes again and I tried to shrink down in my collar so the wind wouldn’t chap my cheeks. “I know you don’t,” Johnny said. “But I gotta go.” “No, you ain’t gotta. You ain’t gotta go.” “Yeah I do, Nate.” He looked down at the ground. “Why? You ain’t got nothin’ to prove—there’s a lot of other men to go fight— why you gotta do it, huh? You’re just lookin’ for a way outta Surry County.” He shot me a look and I stopped. “That ain’t the reason I’m leavin’, and you know it.” “Then what for? You just that anxious to go and get blown up?” He shook his head and ran a hand over his face like Dad used to before he’d get ready to give a lecture. I wondered if Johnny knew just how much he looked like Dad. I wondered if he still missed him as much as I did. “You gotta understand something,” Johnny said. “I’m gonna go fight because it’s the right thing to do. I ain’t tryin’ to prove nothin’ or go get myself blown up, and I certainly ain’t tryin’ to leave you and Ma and Graham. This is just somethin’ I need to do.” I mumbled under my breath and picked up the newspaper I’d thrown on the ground. I slapped the cover and held it up in Johnny’s face. “This is what you gotta do?” His eyes flitted across the page—all the headlines about planes going down and bombs going off. And the dead. I wondered if he even dared to imagine what it’d be like if he was one of them. He took the paper from me, folded it over, and sat there quietly—just watching the sun sink down behind the mountains.
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By Kirsten Starling 1st Place - Fiction
“Dyin’ ain’t the worst thing in the world, Nathan.”
“That’s stupid. ’Course it is. And even if it’s not
the worst to you, but what about to everyone else you leave behind?”
Johnny nodded and a slight smile crept across his face.
“Well jeez, Nate—I ain’t dead yet.”
“Shut up—I’m serious.” I forced my hand to close and
I blew warm air through my fist, hoping to soothe the burning chill that had paralyzed my fingers.
“I’ll do my best to come back, Nathan. I swear, I will.”
“And what if you do come back? You ain’t never
gonna be the same again.”
“What are you talkin’ about?”
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“You won’t never be you again, Johnny. You
remember what Mama said about Grampa? She said that when he came home, he wasn’t never the same—said he never really laughed again. And that’s what’s gonna happen to you. You’re gonna go off and see a buncha people die and see your friends get shot, and if you make it, you’re gonna come back and never laugh again, and we ain’t never gonna be the same.”
Johnny sat quiet and chewed the inside of his
cheek, thinking. And then he said, “Yeah, you’re probably right.” I wasn’t expecting him to agree with me. “It would all be different,” he said. I pulled my knees up closer to me. The cold air showed no mercy. “I don’t want anything to change,” I said.
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“Things are always changing,” Johnny said. “They ain’t got to, though. You could stay here and nothin’ would have to change.” Johnny sighed long and heavy, and his breath formed another cloud. “Me stayin’ here ain’t gonna make the world stop turnin’. It’s gonna turn on no matter what I do.” He rolled the newspaper up and squeezed it tight. “So, I gotta do something while I’m here besides breathe in and out—I can’t just sit and do nothin’ knowing I could’ve been out there. Men ain’t made to sit still, Nathan.” The sun was down behind the mountains then, and a small sliver of light was peeking at us over the ridge, leaving only pink and deep purple behind. At that very moment, I realized I wasn’t mad anymore at Johnny. I was mad at myself. I couldn’t understand how he was so willing—so ready to do the right thing, and there I was—a stupid, selfish kid who couldn’t stand the thought of losing his brother. Johnny was going to risk his life for liberty and be all noble, and I was going to sit and cry under my pecan tree. And in that moment, I hated myself. I dug my foot into the dirt, hard. “I wanna come with you.” Johnny’s lips turned up just a little, but he shook his head. “You can’t.” “I could go, too. I could come with you and that way we’d still be brothers.” “Nathan, you can’t come with me. You’re too young.” “Well, you’re only eighteen. And I’m thirteen—not seven. I could fight. I whip your butt all the time.”
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By Kirsten Starling 1st Place - Fiction
Johnny snickered and shoved me. “Only ’cause I let you win.” I shoved him back and then he put me in a chokehold. I pushed against him until he let me loose and I tumbled over. He threw his head back laughing and then roughed up my hair when I sat upright. “I really could, Johnny,” I said, trying to be serious again. “I could hold my ground—you know I would.” He nodded. “I know you would. But you gotta hold this ground here.” He paused and looked back across the field towards our house. “Graham’s gonna need one of his brothers here. He needs someone to keep him out of trouble, so you gotta take care of him, okay? And Ma.” I looked at my feet because I couldn’t look at him. “I will.” “And when I get back, don’t you think I won’t notice if you been smokin’, you hear? Don’t you start that stuff ‘cause all your friends do it. You might can hide it from Mama, but I know. If I come back and find out you been smokin’, I’ll kill you.” “I ain’t gonna smoke.” “Good. And when that stupid junior-high dance rolls around, you better buck up and ask that girl—what’s her name? Maggie Stratford? You better ask her, ’cause I know you like her.” “I don’t like her.” I most certainly did like Maggie Stratford. “Shut up. I know you do,” Johnny said. I punched him in the arm without thinking and my hand throbbed in response. We sat there for a few minutes, both of us trying not to shiver in the dying daylight.
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“Johnny?” “Yeah.” “Will you promise me somethin’?” “Depends what it is,” he said. I sat for a moment and Johnny looked over at me, his face nearly hidden by the shadows of dusk creeping across the field. “What is it?” “Can you promise me that if you decide to die for someone, you die for someone real good? Someone who really deserves to live.” Johnny stared at me and the world was silent. Absolutely silent. And then he said, “When I leave, Nathan, I ain’t pickin’ who to die for and who not to. It ain’t like that. You choose it. There ain’t nothin’ in this world braver than dyin’ for someone.” And then he looked back out at the sky, and as the last of the color drained behind the mountains, we made our way back to the house with only a dim haze of crimson glowing in the distance.
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By Kirsten Starling 1st Place - Fiction
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THE HEART OF THE BEHOLDER
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By Hannah Paige Akins
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2nd Place - Fiction
“Andrew, tell me about them again.” Samantha leaned on the wooden picnic table, imprints forming on her elbows from its weather-worn surface. “About what? The ducks?” Andrew was turned from her, sitting on the other side of the table with his back resting against the top. He watched as a drake landed in the small pond, splashing one of the females. The hen gave him a sharp quack and glided away. “No silly! I’ve held a duck before. Their feathers are soft, and I sorta know what they look like. I want you to tell me about them. The colors.” Andrew turned to look Samantha in the eyes. Sunlight poured through the canopy of leaves above them, scattering splotches of light through her dirty blonde hair. Her eyes were open, but she didn’t look at him. She simply stared vacantly ahead. Sam had been born blind. She and Andrew met at Seattle University. Freshmen then, they had shared a math class together. The professor asked Andrew to help Sam get acquainted with the school grounds. I was an idiot, Andrew thought. At that time, he had no desire to help the “poor blind girl.” He had referred to Sam as such when venting to his girlfriend, Grace, about his day. Grace quickly reprimanded him and practically forced him to give the girl a chance. The first thing Sam did was make a joke about how she “couldn’t see the board,” and “must be going blind.” He and Sam had been friends ever since. Kubota Garden, a Japanese-style paradise tucked away in south Seattle, was the duo’s favorite retreat from campus. Here they’d had many a conversation about life. Sam was an old soul and wise beyond her years, but somehow still retained her childlike personality. Everything about her was a congenial contradiction. Andrew appreciated her unique take on the world. “I see. The colors, huh? Which one would you like first?”
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Sam smiled, dimples forming on her bunched-up cheeks. “Blue, please! It’s my favorite!” “Alrighty then. Let’s see… Blue is the sky after wind sweeps away storm clouds. It’s the water in Puget Sound, where the waves splash your face and leave a salty crust in their place. Blue is—." “Yeah, yeah, yeah. That’s beautiful and all, but I’ve heard it before. I wanna know what they sound like. What they smell like.” “Hmm, I guess I’ve never thought of them in that way before. I would say blue smells like crisp cool morning air and clean laundry. It sounds like raindrops trickling over rocks and into puddles. Blue can feel calming, or sad and a little lonely. It can represent many different emotions, depending on if it’s mixed with other colors.” Sam leaned back and sighed. “That sounds lovely. It makes sense that blue can be both comforting and sad. Sometimes I’m most calm when I’ve just cried. What about red?” It was a bit breezy today, and little ripples formed on the surface of the pond. The drake was persistent. Paddling his little webbed feet, he followed his current love-interest to the other side of the pond where they disappeared into a clump of reeds. “Red is the warmth of the sun and the feel of blood rushing to your cheeks when you blush. It’s anger and it’s passion. It’s the taste of strawberries and the smell of cinnamon. Red is the color of the leaves that you love to jump in when autumn comes. Red is the apple festivals where you drink cider that burns your throat while steam tickles your face.” “Those festivals were the best. I remember that one year when you tried to apple-bob and nearly drowned yourself!” Sam began to giggle, and a snort escaped her nose.
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By Hannah Paige Akins
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2nd Place - Fiction
Andrew smiled, leaned over the table, and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ve always loved that snort. It’s weird but adorable.” Sam swatted him away. “I’m not a baby! I’m your age for heaven’s sake! Now hurry up and tell me about green.” “Age has nothing to do with being a baby,” Andrew smirked. “Okay, okay. Green it is. It’s the grass beneath your bare feet that sticks between your toes. It tastes like grapes and sour gummy worms.” “Those are the best.” Sam’s face puckered up, “But they’re definitely tart.” “Do you want me to explain green or not?” “Continue on, my good sir.” “Green is trees in the spring when they begin to sprout fresh, new leaves. It smells like lawn clippings. It’s the strong flavor of spearmint gum which you chew constantly, and believe it or not, it’s the color of your shirt today.” “My roommate picked that out. She said it looked cute, but I haven’t seen it yet.” Andrew shook his head, his lips turning up slightly. “Oh Sam, what am I gonna do with you?” “Hopefully tell me what yellow is like.” “Well then, yellow is the color of the sun as it drifts towards its ocean grave. It’s that same sun when it emerges from the hills to the east too. It’s lemons and the taste of vanilla and cupcakes. It smells like honeysuckles and feels like a burst of energy after that morning coffee. I know you’ve never seen light before, but yellow is practically the brightest color. It screams ‘Look at me! I’m yellow!’” “Sounds very…loud. I don’t know if I’d like yellow very much.”
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“You’re right! Usually, people with a loud personality love yellow. Not a bad thing mind you, just different. What color next?” Andrew glanced over to his right. The rhododendrons were in full bloom in August. Deep violet flowers dotted the surrounding bushes. “Let’s do purple. Purple is a color that symbolizes royalty. It’s the color of calm and the smell of freshly cut lavender. Purple is found in sunsets along with yellow. It kind of smells like fruit too. Grapes and plums are purple, so I guess that’s what they taste like too.” A light brown ’83 Mercedes crunched into the gravel parking lot behind them. The door swung open and a woman in a white floral sundress stepped out. Grace. She waved. “Hey guys, come on! I’m hungry!” “Guess that’s our cue.” Andrew stood. His knees popped, a remnant of old high school football injuries. Sam still sat there, the wind tossing her hair about her face. “You know, many people pity me, but I don’t really mind being blind. Those who can see ignore the beauty around them—they take it for granted. But for me? Sounds, smells, and tastes are all I have. I don’t know what it means to see, but everything else I sense is so much more delightful because of it.” She shrugged. “Or maybe it’s just because I don’t know what I’m missing out on.”
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By Hannah Paige Akins
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2nd Place - Fiction
“No Sam, you’re right. You’ve helped me learn that beauty isn’t simply seen, it’s felt in the heart—in the soul.” Andrew held her hand and guided her to her feet. “And you, little lady, have the loveliest soul of them all.” As the old Mercedes rumbled away, a pair of wood ducks, their differences sorted out for now, swam out to the center of the pond. After preening himself, the drake shook and a single feather dislodged from his wing. As it drifted down to the water, it glistened in the midday sun. The feather shifted from bluegreen to a chroma of colors before it settled on the surface of the pond.
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The Heart of a Child “You have to be gentle, Liam,” the woman frowned at her son. “Max can’t play like he used to.” The little dog grunted as he slowly brought his worn ball back to the boy. Liam patted the dog’s head, sad that he couldn’t play with the dog like he once had. The fluffy terrier dropped his ball and sat down, breathing hard from chasing the ball down the hallway. “But he likes it,” Liam protested, noting Max’s crooked gray ears perking up as he picked up the ball. ` “I know,” his mother smiled softly. “It hurts his old bones. He’s too old to play now.”
By Jordan Turner
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3rd Place - Fiction
Too old to play? That sounded horrible. Liam didn’t like that at all and instantly felt a pang of guilt for trying to play fetch with the old dog. Max had been a part of the family long before Liam had arrived. Who would want to be too old to play? Shrugging, Liam dropped the ball and stood up. “Come on buddy, let’s go to my room!” The little boy took off. Like always, Max followed, his once bouncy gait now a crooked limp. Liam burst into his room, decorated with Legos and action figures. He launched himself onto his bed, shoving the blankets back and reaching for a stuffed animal. He looked at the doorway. Max wasn’t there. The boy’s brow creased and he was about to fetch his dog when Max walked slowly around the corner. He didn’t look like he wanted to play. “Want me to read to you?” Liam asked, bouncing off his bed and selecting a book from his shelf. “Come on!” he jumped back onto the bed, patting his lap for the dog to join him. Max did, huffing as he clambered onto the bed and into the boy’s lap. Liam patted the coarse fur, realizing for the first time that Max looked sad, with gray fur replacing the brown along his muzzle. His once round little belly looked gaunt, hips protruding and ribs showing through his wiry fur. Being old didn’t seem like it was any fun. Pushing the thought aside, he opened the storybook. “Once upon a time…” From the kitchen, Liam’s mother could hear him talking to the dog. She paid little attention as she looked through a cookbook, deciding what to have for supper. After some time, she realized she couldn’t hear Liam anymore. Carefully, she stood up and walked down the hallway, peeking around the corner into Liam’s room. The boy was stretched out and Max curled tightly at his side. You’re so good to him, Max. She remembered the day they adopted Liam and introduced him to the longtime family member. Please don’t leave us yet. ~~~
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A week had passed since Liam’s mom caught her son napping with Max. She bitterly remembered smiling at the scene and regretted not taking a photo. She sat in the car outside his school, waiting on him. No one was in the parking lot. It wasn’t time for school to be let out. She looked at the passenger seat, with her beloved little dog lying on the seat. Max looked up at her, his soft brown eyes betraying exhaustion. She felt her lip quiver and she reached towards him, stroking his back and feeling tears well in her eyes as her fingers ran over Max’s thin frame. A tear slipped down her cheek and she brushed it away. “I’m so sorry, Max,” she choked around the growing lump in her throat. Movement caught her eye and she saw Liam trotting towards the car, his bright orange backpack flopping over one shoulder. Liam opened the car door and tossed his backpack in. “Hi!” He smiled, climbing in and sitting in his car seat, looking down and adjusting his straps. His mother tried to smile, but she felt her lip quivering again and she ended up in a sob. “What’s wrong?” Liam looked up, alarm crossing his face. “Mom?” “It’s Max,” she murmured. “I had to get you because we have to take him to the vet. Do you remember what I told you about him?” Liam’s bright eyes faded as a frown crossed his face . He remembered. His mom explained that when dogs got too old, it wasn’t fair for them to keep suffering and the vet would make the pain go away. Despite his parents’ best attempts to hide the meaning, Liam knew what it meant. It meant Max would die. He looked at his mother’s face, her eyes puffy from crying. “He’s okay!” Liam lunged out of his car seat, clinging to the back of the passenger seat and looking at Max.
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By Jordan Turner
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3rd Place - Fiction
“No, he’s not,” his mother told him through tears. “He’s very sick,” she felt the corners of her mouth tug downwards as she remembered the violent seizure the dog had had that morning. She shifted the car into gear and set off for the vet. “I want to hold him when he...” Liam’s bottom lip trembled. He’d tried to hold back the tears but they were already streaming down his face. His father met them at the vet and they walked in together, his mother carrying Max. The nurses ushered them into a room quietly, saying little. The next few minutes felt like an eternity to Liam. His dad signed some papers and his mom hugged Max. His best friend looked sad and tired. He didn’t look scared or in pain. Liam stood by the wall, wringing his hands. The vet came in, wearing glasses and a long jacket. He nodded solemnly at the family and spoke quietly to Liam’s dad. Liam didn’t pay attention to what they said and just looked at Max. The little dog had been his first real friend. No one else had been there for him before he met his mom and dad and Max. Liam’s father told him to sit on the floor and the vet handed him a soft blue blanket. Liam spread it on his lap and his mother sat down beside him, passing Max into his lap. The dog looked up at Liam, his little tail thumping slowly. Liam’s lip trembled and the vet knelt beside him. I have to be strong, at least for Max, thought Liam, brushing away a tear that escaped his eye. He watched as the vet rubbed Max’s leg and pulled out a needle. He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a sob as the vet injected Max. He felt his mother’s arm around his shoulder and his father’s hand on his head. Max shifted in Liam’s lap and the little boy hugged the dog, alarmed that he would fall out of his lap. The old dog sighed, lying down and resting his head on Liam’s leg.
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“You’re such a good boy, Max,” his mother said, her voice cracking as she rubbed the dog’s head and wiped her eyes. His eyelids drooped and his tail thumped the blanket softly. Liam’s dad crouched, petting Max. Liam did the same, resting his hand on the frail ribcage. Max took steady breaths, his eyes closing. The family sat in silence, all holding each other in a vain attempt to comfort each other. Liam felt Max’s breathing get shallower and shallower until it stopped altogether. Liam let out a thin wail, knowing Max was gone. The vet said nothing and quietly exited the room, leaving them alone with Max. There was no holding back the tears, he let them stream freely down his reddened cheeks, closing his eyes and trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He sobbed, putting his face in his hands when his father carefully lifted Max from him and wrapped him in the blanket. The next few moments seemed surreal, followed by the next few days. Liam came home from school to a quiet house. No little dog ran down the hallway to greet him. His bed seemed so much bigger without a sleepy Max curled up at his side. Dinnertime was quiet, without Max’s nails clicking on the floor as he patrolled for scraps.
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By Jordan Turner
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3rd Place - Fiction
“I’m proud of you, son,” Liam’s dad told him on the third day. “Holding Max was a very brave thing to do.” Liam glanced outside into the backyard. He could see the fresh pile of dirt where they’d buried Max. “I know what it feels like to not be loved and I never wanted Max to feel like that, even when he was scared.” His mother whimpered and he looked at her, confused. “Don’t be sad, Mom,” he told her, offering her his hand. “Do you think we could adopt an old dog from the shelter?” With a quizzical look, his father responded. “An old dog?” “Yes,” Liam smiled. “Of all the kids at my shelter, you picked me and if you hadn’t, I wouldn’t be able to love Max. I want to love a dog that feels forgotten. One like me. Someone who doesn’t have a family.”
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A LETTER TO THE MARBLE SOLDIER
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It was the same sky that you’d seen that day. Even now when I look at the sky, I wonder about all the eyes that’ve scraped against it before. Like the stars that melted into the blue dawn of your last day, so you were when the roar came from that firmament. I’ve stood over the masses; I’ve walked the waters where you rest. Those marble names lined the walls, each one like a message: don’t forget me. I can’t forget you, not ever. You see, I’ve stood there on that white bridge— a pearl in and of itself. And I’ve sprinkled the flowers over your sleeping place, wishing to God that they were breaths He could give back. If those flower petals were pennies, and He would grant me favors, I would ask for every petal to be a breath for you. But I know. I know Death is an old acquaintance of yours, and sometimes Death is a mercy—not the worst of fates. I’m sure when the stars shine on your waters at night, those specks are numerous little ghosts—little pieces of memory, echoes in the dark lighting up your resting place. You were placed to protect, to guard, to stand watch within the harbor, and now the stars are your soldiers—they hover above you always.
By Kirsten Starling
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1st Place - Poetry
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Moving Mountains Inspired by Miss Michaelyn Loper “… For I assure you: If you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will tell this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you” Matthew 17:20
If I was told when life hit my ears, I still wouldn’t have been prepared. If I was put in a room with all my fears, I couldn’t possibly have been as scared As I was on that indescribable day When I was labeled “Cancer patient.”
If you told me that stage four is bad, I’d tell you that my God is good. If you told me cancer is incurable and sad, I’d tell you that my savior stood Up to death and conquered the grave And I believe He can do it again!
If I was to never cry again, I’d still be able to fill the ocean. If my body were made of tin, I’d probably be void of motion And covered in rust, only trying to say, “Could you find some oil for me?”
If you ask me to describe how I felt, I’d say overwhelmed by His steadfast love. If you ask me about the hand I was dealt, I’d say there’s nothing I can’t rise above When the Great Physician has come to stay In my heart, fighting off the darkness.
If I tell you part of the truth, I’d say I lost sight of my hope. If I tell you the rest, it’d be proof That I still held onto a rope That would help me to break away From the grip of depression.
If, is a question that I have met. The answer is locked, but God has the key. If you haven’t heard the news just yet, Then take a seat and prepare to believe. Diagnosed just over a year ago today, My last test came back and I’m cancer free!
If I told you I started to smile, You might find that a little odd. If I told you I had joy all the while, I’d also tell you of my amazing God, Who, even in my disarray, Has never failed to hold me tight.
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By Trey Royal
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2nd Place - Poetry
Owls / Second Place (tie) - Art / By Morgan Lomax
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Beauty Everywhere / 2nd Place (tie) - Art / By Rachel Nabwire
EXCEEDING GREAT REWARD
MY REDEEMER, REFINER, AND
By Anna Skudarnova
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In the loneliness, He meets me. In the quiet, He pursues me. When I’m stripped of everything that once was my identity: He loves me. He takes away all life’s crutches So that I learn to lean on Him. He makes me uncomfortable, To refine all my impurities. In my daily downfalls, He redeems! Is there anyone else like this? So powerful, yet merciful, So high and mighty, yet full of grace. He takes away the applause, admiration, and attention; He makes sure I know He is the only one looking, He whispers: I—I alone Am your Exceeding Great Reward.
3rd Place - Poetry
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SCISSORS
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By Alyssa Roberson
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1st Place - Nonfiction
I’ve never liked my hair. It’s the wrong color, and it’s frizzy when it rains, but against my will, Madison found it beautiful. On Monday, she went around telling everyone about her “noodle” counselor, referring to my mindless curls. Madison was blonde, nine years old, and shorter than all the other girls in my cabin, but somehow scrappier than any other elementary schooler I had ever met. It wasn’t the first time I had been given a camper with an unusual personality, but Madison woke up every morning ready to give the universe a hard time. During the daily services, she’d poke at my shoulder and whisper—referring to the resident pastor—things like, “that woman is wearing old man pants!” And during rest time, she drew little hearts and “poop emojis” on my forehead while I was visiting Imagination in my dreams. On Tuesday morning, I woke up to the sound of Madison screaming, “it’s time for you to be a gentle military man!” We had lost cabin cleaning the day before, so Madison had taken it upon herself to make sure we cleaned well enough for the Queen of England to eat off our floor. During lunch, my cocounselor complained that his arthritis was flaring up, so Maggie told the other campers that Dakota couldn’t sit down because his “at-chee-tus” was bothering him. At night, the fire in Madison’s dark eyes kindled wildly. She’d put on a pair of socks and convince her cabin mates to “ice skate” around the room with her. While her friends were in the shower, she would sit outside on the sink and ask them questions about their life or favorite subject in school. During breakfast on Wednesday, I overheard Madison say, “In conclusion, Thanos wasn’t a bad guy in The Avengers movie, but situationally, he was a bad guy.” Thursday afternoon, we took our creek hike. This activity looks just like it sounds. You splatter paint on one another, then jump in a gentle, murmuring stream and hike. Even though the July temperatures ranged from ninety-five to one hundred, you were cold, wet, and surrounded by enough snakes to give Indiana Jones a run for his money—a perfect event when handling the molding minds of impressionable fourth-graders.
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Halfway through the hike, Madison dramatically turned to me with tears in her eyes and whispered, “why am I so different?” As someone who’d struggled with the same thought, I broke down with her, and the camp photographer found us both sobbing, holding one another in the middle of the creek.
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By Alyssa Roberson
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1st Place - Nonfiction
The other counselor in my cabin told me some of her girls had called Madison “weird” the day before, which opened my eyes to Madison’s question and allowed our cabin to have a meeting on the dangers of bullying and how to treat others with respect during rest time. Madison cried the entire assembly, but after it was all over, she sat by me and whispered that the mean girls had apologized and asked for her forgiveness. Madison gave it to them willingly, without condition. Later that night, we went on our campout, and while we were waiting for our potatoes and chicken to cook thoroughly on the fire, Madison rewrote the entire song “Reckless Love” and entitled it “Simba Is Our Friend.” Her obsession with my stuffed animal Simba, a character from The Lion King, was not surprising, as every camper in my charge fell in love with the plushie I carried around as our “mascot” during the week, but she was personally determined to bring the animal to life. After teaching her song to the rest of our campers, they performed it in the field beside our campsite, with the lyrics: “Oh, he’s soft and fluffy, comfort buddy, Simba is our friend. Oh, and we do wish he was alive, Instead of just pretend. We didn’t earn him, we don’t deserve him, but he loves us all the same, Oh, he’s soft and fluffy, comfort buddy, Simba is our friend.” That same night, Madison and Carson, the most athletic boy in our group, tried to burn Simba in the campfire, so I’m unsure how deeply rooted her loyalty really was. When we were attempting to sleep in our wooden shelter, Madison sat up in her sleeping bag and announced, “this forest has too many sticks,” which prompted an hour-long discussion between my girls about the properties of the forest and the sticks within. Friday, Madison invented an entire world centered around a chicken, who she named Adam, and proceeded to embody her character for the rest of the day. But on the last day of camp, while we were waiting for chapel to start, my beloved girl took her safety scissors, initially intended for colorful bracelet-making activities, and sliced off most of my nearly waistlength hair. I was unprepared for such a drastic haircut, but, in the moment, there was nothing I could do. I put her scissors in my backpack, and we went to chapel as if nothing had happened, leaving my shorn hair on the steps of the chapel’s Path of Silence.
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I asked Madison two minutes before she left the camp to go home why she had cut my hair, and her answer is the reason I write children’s literature today. She solemnly answered, “at the beginning of the week, you told me that you loved me. People say that to me every day at school and stuff, but nobody ever means it. When I cut your hair, you didn’t get mad. That’s how I know you really love me.” We sat on the floor hugging and sobbing, waiting for her mother to pick her up. After gathering her things, she grabbed my wrist and said, “Promise me you’ll be back next year.” I promised her I would try, unaware that afternoon would be my last day as a camp counselor—forever. When she was gone, I went into my backroom and chopped off the rest of my uneven hair with the same scissors that had caused the makeover. I couldn’t help but laugh at my chinlength locks, as I hadn’t styled short hair in a long time, and the learning curve that followed was a unique experience of its own. Still, the individual garden that Madison had planted was already beginning to produce lyrical flowers that would later become my first novel. I don’t know if I’ll ever see Madison again, at least in this life, but I am positive that wherever she is today, she’s brightening someone’s morning with a smile and a captivating song.
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By Alyssa Roberson
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1st Place - Nonfiction
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THE BEAUTY OF A GRANDMOTHER Nestled in the Appalachian foothills of Northeast Georgia lies a sleepy yet vibrant closeknit community about two miles south of the little town of Baldwin. The descent down Highway 441 just below the Habersham/Banks County line, known to the local folks as Baldwin Mountain, offers a panoramic view of a lush, green, nature-rich landscape fed by the fresh, cool mountain creeks and streams from Lake Russell. The Hollingsworth community consists of many descendants from the “Old Country.” Daddy once told me of his cousin Bill asking my great-grandfather, Grandpa Sanford Stephens, where our family roots began. “The Old Country,” Grandpa replied. “Which Old Country?” Bill persisted. “I said the Old Country, son. Can’t chu hear good?” Because Daddy always said our people came primarily from England, my guess is that Grandpa Stephens was referring to our English heritage. My grandmother, Lena Stephens Smith, was the daughter of Great-Grandpa Stephens. She married Logan Sylvester Smith, my grandpa, on Christmas Day in 1910. Together they had six children - three girls and three boys. Daddy, George Clayton, was next to the last child just before Uncle Bruce. The Smiths lived off the bountiful harvest fed by the rich, bottom-land soils along Nancytown Creek. Cotton and corn were their primary cash crops. But of course, like most Hollingsworth families, their farm hosted a number of hogs as well as beef and dairy cattle to meet the family’s needs.
By Philip Mark Smith
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2nd Place - Nonfiction
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While farm life was rather difficult, at least from a 21st century point of view, it was normal living to our folks. They didn’t know times were “hard.” Survival required sunup to sundown taxing, laborious work and sacrifice. And money…there wasn’t much of that to go around in those days. And since money was hard to come by, local folks often traded a ham for a bushel of corn or even land for livestock. Bartering was used like cash to purchase goods and services. Grandpa Smith, for example, once traded a tract of land to Tom Ferguson, his neighbor, for a cow since she kept breaking through their adjoining fence. And Daddy spoke of an elderly lady in the community whose niece claimed her aunt could winter a family on $2.10. According to Daddy, during the Great Depression, the best cattle feed could be purchased for $2.00 and a pack of turnip seed for ten cents. Today, that will hardly get you a Coke and a pack of crackers. However, in the midst of Daddy’s stories of growing up on the family farm during the Great Depression days, the story that’s most compelling is a story of a life well lived; one colored with such beauty, truth, and redemption that I cannot help but periodically reflect on the goodness of its impact on my family. While Grandma Smith was a faithful follower of Christ, she was additionally the portrait of the model grandmother. For example, as a boy, I vividly recall her resting in her chair, legs covered with a colorful hand-woven afghan, that a relative had crocheted, while she read and studied her Bible. In fact, when I picture Grandma Smith, three images come to mind: her surprise when a pressure cooker of black-eyed peas blew the lid off and littered her kitchen from ceiling to floor, my helping her hand-grind fresh beef for her delicious hardy beef and vegetable stew, and her reclining in her chair next to a round side table (which I now
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have in my living room) and large picture window both adorned with African violets. She loved the beautiful velvety, deep-purple coloring of the flower. Since Grandma suffered on occasion from heartburn, her relief came from sipping on a Coke. And not just any Coke product. She insisted on the small 8 oz. green glass bottle since it had more “fizz” to help her burp and settle her stomach. But Grandma loved God’s Word and spent a great deal of time basking in its deep, rich truths. Despite the fact that I often witnessed Grandma reading her Bible through her thick-lensed eyeglasses, the worn pages and taped leather binding alone told the story of a frail little grandmother who spent countless hours soaking in the beauty and goodness of God’s Word. Nevertheless, the truthfilled book with rich stories of grace and redemption grasped her attention as she prayerfully, deliberately, and faithfully passed on these truths to her children and grandchildren. And it was this same commitment and unwavering love for the Lord that drove her faithfulness in walking with her six children down Harmony Church Road to the quaint little Baptist church every Sunday and Wednesday night. Grandpa Smith wasn’t much for church going...nor did he desire an automobile. However, for a brief time, he owned a Ford Model T until the brakes gave out coming down Baldwin Mountain. He immediately sold the car, returned to the familiar reins of a mule and wagon, and never owned another motorized vehicle. Daddy often spoke of his father’s mule-drawn wagon and the family’s trip home in the evenings after spring revival meetings with the light of a lit pine knot. He said the light reflected off the tombstones in the cemetery and looked like a white holy city. Other than that, I’m not sure Grandpa attended church regularly like Grandma.
By Philip Mark Smith
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2nd Place - Nonfiction
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Grandma knew this‌God’s Word would change the heart of her children. Thus, she demonstrated the importance of time alone with God. Just as the parched soil and summer fields of the Smith farm depended on the soaking baths of rain to yield healthy crops of corn and cotton, so does our parched souls rely on the truths of the Word to produce a beauty and goodness that yields a bounty of fruit in the lives of the believer.
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By Philip Mark Smith
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2nd Place - Nonfiction
Today, some of Grandma Smith’s descendants have served in full-time ministry as pastors and also foreign missionaries. My oldest brother is a linguist and has helped translate the Bible in various Spanish dialects and even collaborated in composing an alphabet system for a tribe in Guatemala who had no written language. Others faithfully serve as Christian educators, doctors, counselors, journalists, business men and women, and community leaders. Grandma knew something about the intrinsic truth and beauty and the inherent goodness of a life sacrificially given to Christ. While she never lived to see the number of her brood who would live out the gospel, she literally impacted the world in countries like Ecuador, Mexico, Guatemala, the Philippines, and Albania, to name a few, through the lives of her descendants. While the fertile soils of the Hollingsworth community produced much more than Grandma ever lived to witness, it wasn’t the corn and cotton on the Smith family farm that were instruments of success. Nor was it the many family hands that turned the soil with the mule-drawn plows or the calloused hands that picked cotton and corn. Although the knowledge of good farming practices paid dividends by feeding the hungry mouths of the Smith clan, it was the wisdom of a gentle, humble little grandmother whose devoted hands faithfully turned the pages of her Bible while God, in His faithfulness, patiently and mercifully turned the hearts of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Truth, beauty, goodness...these words best describe my sweet grandmother. Better yet, they describe the character of a triune God whose efficacious grace knows no bounds, whose presence enlightens the eyes of the unbeliever, and whose very words make the spiritually dead live again! He is the epitome of truth, beauty, and goodness. And His good work continues today through the gospel of Jesus that redeemed my grandmother, to the same Jesus made known to her family through her example. God’s looking not for those who display eloquence of speech nor those with grandiose qualifications. He is, however, looking for those who suffer not from idle hands, for ordinary people with renewed hearts (like that of my grandmother) to harvest the plenteous fields. For “she looks well to the ways of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness. Her children rise up and call her blessed…” (Proverbs 31: 27-28a, ESV).
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The Sheepdog 40
No matter what, I am going home today. Deputy Beival was en route to a nasty domestic call. He scanned his computer console. It was an ordinary, humid Sunday in mid-July, nothing special had happened. Power lines had been down, so he’d assisted in that. An elderly woman had been stranded on the side of the road, so he’d taken her home. A new incident had been flashing on his screen. Something about this call was different. It was dangerous. His wife had just called him, checking in on him and reminding him how much she loved him. Smiling to himself, he knew just how fortunate he was. I protect and defend. The citizens are my sheep. I am the sheepdog. He accelerated, racing to the unfolding scene. His computer was continuously updating him on the situation. A mother and child had been at the house of her boyfriend when things had turned sour. The woman explained to her boyfriend she was moving away and the man snapped. He pulled a firearm, shooting it inside the trailer before threatening the woman’s life. Shortly after, the woman’s mother had arrived after several calls to her phone had gone unanswered. They’d escaped uninjured, but the boyfriend remained uncooperative in his home.
By Jordan Turner
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3rd Place - Nonfiction
The scene was still as Deputy Beival pulled up, patrol cars lining the street. One car sat, driver’s door open, in front of an old trailer surrounded by trees. He parked down the street and hesitated, reaching for his patrol rifle. No...not today. Something told him the gun would only get in his way. He turned, leaving the gun in his car and hurrying towards the scene, nodding at his lieutenant and noting the other officers strategically placed, all straight-faced and armed with rifles. “You’re a negotiator, do what you can. Use the PA system in the car,” the lieutenant greeted him briskly. “Talk him out.” Deputy Beival nodded, creeping around the car to the driver’s side. The scene was tense, with the suspect inside, and officers lined up on the street. The summer breeze rustled the trees in anticipation. Sweat had already begun to form on his brow, the hot Georgia summer taking its toll as the sun beat down on the scene. Crouching between the patrol car’s open door and floorboard, Deputy Beival smiled to himself. Here he was, curled half in a car and hidden behind the door. This was nothing like those shows where officers stood at the front of police cars with a megaphone. No...this was real. “Sir, this is Deputy Jon Beival with Forsyth County Sheriff ’s Department, I need you to come on out.” Deputy Beival kept his voice steady as he spoke into the radio. No response. “Nothing bad has happened, sir, let’s talk. We just need to find out what’s going on.” Deputy Beival waited, straining his ears for a response. None came. “Sir, please, we just want to talk to you. Everything is going to be okay. You don’t need to be scared.” There was a pause, Deputy Beival heard nothing but the sound of his own breathing. Without warning, gunshots echoed from the worn trailer. Twigs snapped as the bullets blasted through trees. Deputy Beival flinched, ducking behind the dashboard as best he could when bullets began pinging off of the patrol car. The metallic crashes sent chills down his spine. Bullets were flying towards the officers at a rate too fast to count. It should be almost over, thought the deputy, waiting for the gunfire to cease. It didn’t. The shooter’s heavy rifle continued to pump out bullets, riddling the
patrol cars with holes. As more bullets smashed into the open door with a metallic clang, the officer cringed, all too aware at how close the bullets were to him. Suddenly, a searing pain stabbed through his legs, an unimaginable burning sensation. Letting out a pained grunt, he clenched his teeth, remaining silent. He looked down, dropping the microphone to the driver’s seat. Blood poured from his right leg, a gruesome mess just below his knee. He battled his instincts, which begged him to scream in pain and instead let his years of training kick in. He reached for a tourniquet on his belt, pulling it out and ripping it open. Blood was dripping from his other leg, also just below his knee. He winced as he moved, trying to force the tourniquet over his boot. With limited maneuverability, he slid from the door jam and crept towards the back of the car, hunching his shoulders as he edged down the side of the car, making himself as small as he could. I’m going to get hit again. There’s no way I won’t. The bullets continued to riddle the patrol car, zinging past him until he rounded the back of the car, unscathed. The pain was blinding as he met the eyes of the officer at the car’s rear. “I’ve been hit in the leg. My tourniquet is out, I got it opened up...help me get it over my boot,” Deputy Beival remained calm, knowing that he could trust the officer to help him. Seconds later, the tourniquet was tied on his right leg and the firing ceased. An eerie silence hung over the street and Deputy Beival took off, sprinting alongside his lieutenant, both racing for a car to get them to safety. Instinctually, Deputy Beival reached for the driver’s door, prepared to drive himself to the hospital. “Get in the back!” the lieutenant demanded, ushering him into the backseat. He promptly obeyed, knowing now was not the time to argue. One, two, three, four, Deputy Beival drew in a steady breath, holding it, and releasing it on the same steady beat. The intense summer sun mixed with the burning in his legs made the heat nearly unbearable. I am a sheepdog. I am a peacekeeper. I am going home. One, two, three four. He made a joke to his lieutenant, hoping to lighten the mood as the blue lights raced towards the hospital. He was going home to his wife that night. Nothing was going to stop him.
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Several weeks later, Deputy Beival, back on light duty, was loading groceries in the car with his wife. He’d made it home to her. And he intended to do that every day. His legs had been healing, the sharp, burning pain now a dull ache. They left the store together, chatting about dinner that night. After several moments of silence, she looked at him, a concerned frown on her face. “Do...do you have any depression? After everything?” Her voice was steady but her eyes betrayed worry. Deputy Beival pondered her question, his hand sliding towards the wound. “Actually…” he trailed off, his fingers brushing the indent of the wound, “I do.” He watched her face fall and he grinned. “There is a depression in my leg,” he quickly added, watching her worried expression turn to one of frustration. She reached over and slapped his arm. “That’s not funny!” she snapped, not trying to hide her laugh. Deputy Beival laughed with her, thinking back on the past weeks. To say he’d been supported was an understatement. Fellow officers had surrounded him at the hospital, followed by an astonishing outpouring of gratitude from the Forsyth County citizens. He smiled softly, knowing how fortunate he was to serve and protect the people in Forsyth. I’m not special. I just did my job. That was all. He and his wife had been well taken care of, with his brothers and sisters on the force nothing but a pillar of support. There was an unspoken bond with the other officers, a bond strong enough to be considered family. It was true, the bond was unbreakable. It was a beautiful thing, really, the strength he’d found within himself from the support of his comrades. Deputy Beival knew just how blessed he was. He was glad to be back on the job, never once doubting his return to duty. The events of a seemingly normal day on the job had nearly turned tragic for him. His smile faded. The shooter had not made it out of the scene, taking his own life after a six-hour standoff rather than confronting the police surrounding him. With a sigh, Deputy Beival pushed it aside. He made the choice, not me. I did my job. I did what I could. I made it home. That’s what a sheepdog does. Now I know... every day is Thanksgiving. He looked at his wife as they pulled into their driveway. He reached over and squeezed her hand, remembering the phone call from her just moments before he’d been shot. Yes, he was a sheepdog, but he knew that he had an even greater Shepherd.
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Dedicated to Deputy First Class Jon Beival of Forsyth County Sheriff ’s Office, who sustained injuries to both legs while responding to a domestic call on July 16, 2017.
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For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart. (Hebrews 4:12 ESV)
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Yonah Literary Review / Truett McConnell University
Starnes-Bolin Literary Prize Winners
Kirsten Starling 1st Place - Fiction 1st Place - Poetry
Alyssa Roberson 1st Place - Nonfiction
Julia Pittman 1st Place - Art
Hannah Paige Aikens 2nd Place - Fiction
Philip Mark Smith 2nd Place - Nonfiction
Trey Royal 2nd Place - Poetry
Rachel Nabwire 2nd Place (tie) - Art
Morgan Lomax 2nd Place (tie) - Art
Jordan Turner 3rd Place - Fiction 3rd Place - Nonfiction
Anna Skudarnova 3rd Place - Poetry
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ENGLISH PROFESSORS OF THE CONRAD GREBEL SCHOOL OF THE HUMANITIES
Walton Young Dr. Walton Young, senior professor of English, teaches creative writing (the short story and the novel), American literature survey courses, twentieth-century American literature, Southern literature, and Georgia literature. His novel A Gathering of Eagles, was published in 2011 and reprinted in 2013. His next novel, Days of Dust and Heat, was published in 2017. The sequel, Kinsman of the Gun, was published in 2019. His short story “To the Breath of the Night Wind” was a winner in the short story contest sponsored by the Dahlonega Literary Festival in 2005. It was published in Volume 1 of The Signature Series, Golden Short Stories. His short stories “To Hear the Call of the Bobwhite” and “Secret of the Cohullasee” were published in the O, Georgia! anthologies. His short story “Reggie” was published in the The GSU Review. In 2015, Dr. Young conducted a fiction-writing workshop at the Southern Literary Festival. In 2012, he was on a panel at the Dahlonega Literary Festival that discussed Appalachia in fact and fiction. His critical essay, “The Cup of Fury: The Preferred Title of Caroline Gordon’s None Shall Look Back was published in the Mississippi Quarterly. In addition, he has presented papers at conferences on the works of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Thomas Wolfe, and William Dean Howells. Dr. Young received his PhD in English with a major concentration in creative writing (fiction) from the University of Georgia. He is a member of Phi Beta Kappa, Phi Kappa Phi, and Sigma Tau Delta. He and his wife, Suzanne, live in Sautee-Nacoochee.
Connie Nunley Constance Means Nunley is in her thirty-second year teaching English at Truett McConnell. She has been Degree Coordinator and has taught almost every English course ever offered at Truett. Her creative writing courses have included a comprehensive course followed by spinoff courses in poetry and drama. Before Truett, she was the Associate Editor of Foxfire Press and helped interview for, write and edit The Foxfire Book of Woodstove Cookery. She also produced the press’s pamphlet newsletter, Hands On. Thereafter, she was the editor of White County News for three and a half years, writing weekly news and feature articles and editorials. She is a native of Clayton, Georgia, and a graduate of Converse College with a double major in English and Studio Art. While there, she wrote for the newspaper and the literary journal and won awards for both her features and poetry. She received her Master of Arts in English from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where she wrote feature articles for The Daily Tar Heel, and her Ph.D. in English from the University of Georgia while teaching at Truett McConnell. She lives with her husband, Bruce, in Hoschton, Georgia.
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Nan Allen Nan Corbitt Allen is the Degree Program Coordinator in the English Department at Truett McConnell University. She teaches English Composition, English Composition and Literature, Creative Nonfiction, Creative Writing for the Worship Arts (music), playwriting, and World Changers (Humanities). The Gospel Music Association has given her the Dove Award three times for her musical dramas written with her husband, Dennis. Their songs and dramas have been performed across the U.S. and around the world. Her first novel Asylum (2004, Moody Press) was the feature fiction selection for Crossings Book Club. Her first non-fiction book The Words We Sing (2010, Beacon Hill Press) is a refreshing look at words and phrases worshippers sing on Sundays but hardly use otherwise. Her second novel Watercolor Summer was released in 2011 by Deep River Press. Her fourth book, published by Broadman and Holman, Yuletide Blessings: Christmas Stories That Warm the Heart, released October, 2013. Her most recent book, Small Potatoes and Tuesdays @ the Piggly Wiggly: Discovering the Profound in the Mundane, won the Silver Scroll Award (nonfiction) from the Advanced Writers and Speakers Association in 2016. She is a member of and the university faculty sponsor of the English Honor Society Sigma Tau Delta. Nan was the 2019 recipient of Truett’s Faculty Excellence Award. Nan is a native of Geneva, Alabama, and a graduate of The University of Alabama in Communication. She was awarded the Master of Arts degree from Southern New Hampshire University. She and her husband live in the lovely hamlet of Cleveland, GA.
Cierra Winkler Associate Professor Cierra Winkler has taught English at Truett McConnell University since 2011. Her specialties include World Masterpieces, Christian Literature, and Advanced Grammar & Composition. She is blessed to be at Truett, where she can present composition and literature to her students from a Biblical perspective and share the power of story and rhetoric in God’s calling on our lives. Cierra holds an MA in English from the University of Alaska and BA in English from the University of North Georgia. In 2018, she won the Vulcan Materials Teaching Excellence Award, and is a member of Sigma Tau Delta, the International English Honor Society. She is currently pursuing an MFA in TV & Screenwriting from Stephens College in Columbia, Missouri and serves as an Intern in Screenwriting at Jim Henson Studios in Los Angeles, a low-residency program that introduces students to writing techniques and theory for television and film, the business of the film industry, and screenwriting history. Cierra also writes for The Skit Guys, a Christian comedy duo, who share the love of Christ in their performances at churches and venues across North America.
Yonah Literary Review / Truett McConnell University
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Special Thanks to Todd Starnes The Starnes-Bolin Literary Prize was given to the university by Todd Starnes who is a longtime, award-winning journalist and radio commentator. His daily radio presence has reached millions of listeners on hundreds of stations, and his syndicated column is also read by millions. He is a frequent contributor in major media, and social science researcher George Barna also included Starnes as one of the top media influencers for Evangelical Christians in the 2016 presidential election. Starnes has covered some of the biggest stories of the past decade--from presidential campaigns to the culture wars-interviewing an array of newsmakers and celebrities. His annual Christmas show became a national yuletide tradition featuring some of the biggest names in Contemporary Christian music. Starnes has authored five books--including The Deplorables' Guide to Making American Great Again and God Less America, a collection of essays documenting the war on religious liberty. Todd is the recipient of an Edward R. Murrow Award and the Associated Press Mark Twain Award for Storytelling. In 2014, he was awarded the National Religious Broadcaster’s Board of Directors Award. During his more than a decade at Fox News Channel, Starnes hosted one of the top radio programs on the network. He was also one of the network's most popular columnists. During his final year at Fox, he hosted "Starnes Country" on Fox Nation. He is also the recipient of First Liberty Institute's "Defender of the Faith" award, Vision America's "National Hero of the Faith" award, Bott Radio Network's "Watchman on the Wall" award and Pacific Justice Institute's "Light in Media Award." Starnes is a frequent speaker at churches, Christian conferences and Christian universities. He has delivered messages at the Ronald Reagan Ranch, the Billy Graham Training Center and the Family Research Council's Values Voter Summit.
Published by Truett McConnell University ISSN 2642-9160 ©Copyright 2020 by Multiple Contributors Specified Within All rights reserved. Except for “fair use” purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author or publisher. Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved. Scripture taken from the English Standard Version, copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
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