Magcloud Winter 2011_12 Issue Final

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AletheiaWritingMagazine.com Winter 2011/12 1

Winter 2011/12aletheCreativity for Christian TeensWRITING & ART MAGAZINE


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AletheiaWritingMagazine.com Winter 2011/122

www.AletheiaWritingMagazine.com

Creativity thats Conducive to your Faith

Aletheia: Greek word for truth.

Pronounced Ah-LAY-thei-uh (Ancient)

Ah-LEE-thei-uh (Modern)

A Word from the Editor

The Winter 2011/12 issue has arrived to cheer up your days as you eagerly

await the Spring!

We have a lot of wonderful stories, poems, and artwork to present you and

also some exciting changes as well.In this issue were pleased to host an interview with Christian fantasy author,

Bryan Davis. We know youll enjoy it and glean some meaningful insights.

This issue also brings us our rst historical ction short story, A Living

Cause. We hope youll be inspired by the story, and encouraged to write your

own tale of historical ction.

Congratulations to Anthony Otten of Kentuckyhes this issues Featured

Contributor for his reection, Spinning Yarns of Gold.

Moving forward,Aletheia will primarily be a digital publication. However,

subscriptions before January 30th, 2012 will still be honored in hard copy format,

and we may also offer a hard copy option on a per issue basis.

The change to digital will allow you to upload the magazine to your iPad,

iPhone, Kindle, Nook, etc. It will also allow us to experiment with interactive

possibilities, like using links or videos.In addition, we will begin moving towards more of a dual element in our

magazine, especially solidifying with the release of the Spring 2012 digital

issue: not only creative workby teens, but also creative workforteens, such asA

Forest Hymn, by William Cullen Bryant, and Yang Yu Tangs Gods Masterpiece,

both published in this issue. A magazine of both fuel andre; one that not only

expresses but also nurtures and cultivates.

We already have a bit of this cultivation with ourAncient Inkfeature and

our special interviews. But adding more material in addition to this content will

give our publication more variety, classical appreciation, and cultural backbone.

Along with the important changes mentioned above, we felt it long overdue

to change the name of the publication to Aletheia Writing & ArtMagazine. Story

artwork has played an important role in Aletheia from the beginning. Now we

want to broaden the magazines artistic scope to allow teens to submit stand-

alone artwork as well. We also have added anArtists Challenge to compliment

the Writers Challenge. Likewise, well be seeking to publish more works from

professional artists (like Yang) as part of the fuel that will inspire and nurture

the artistic imagination of teens.

Were very excited about our new direction and we hope you are too!

Yours in Christ,

Nicholas Muzekari

Find us on

No portion of this magazine

may be produced in any form

without written permission.

At Aletheia Writing Magazine,

we are excited about our

contributors and the articulation

of their Christian faith and

experiences in writing and art.

This magazine is geared toward

youth ages 13 to 19. Because

contributors ages vary, the

maturity level of situational

content may likewise vary.

Winter 2011/12

PUBLISHER/EDITOR

Nicholas Muzekari

COPY EDITOR

Suzanne Lichtenstein

SUBSCRIPTIONS/ADMIN.Stephanie Muzekari

EMAIL

[email protected]

WEBSITE

aletheiawritingmagazine.com

COVER ARTHeather GreenwoodAge 18, Puyallup, WA

aletheCreativity for Christian Teens.WRITING & ARTMAGAZINE


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Editors Note:

Since Aletheia Writing Magazine is for teens of varying ages, the maturity level of situational content will likewise vary.

The different concerns, interests and experiences reect different personalities and stages of development. At Aletheia,

we are excited about these young writers and the articulation of their Christian faith and experiences in writing.AletheiaWritingMagazine.com Winter 2011/12 3

CONTENTS

STORIES

4 A Living Cause25 wo Years Eve

31 Te Belmont

32 Pen and Paper

34 Love You Enough

14

SPECIAL FEATURE

BOOK REVIEWTe Nightmare ree

POEMS8 Last Song

8 In Searching I Have Found

9 Te Snowake9 When I Feel Like Writing

9 I Stand

17 Holding Onto Fears

17 Gods World

17 Gloria

18 Creator

18 wo Real Worlds19 Tunderstorm

FEATURES10 Glory to God for the Beauty of Nature

13 Writers Challenge

22 Featured Contributor

33 Artists Challenge

36

4

ancientINK

An Interview with Bryan Davis

The Craft ofChrisitan Fantasy

23

to Let You Go

20AForestHymn 37

SpinningYarns of GOLD


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I was born in Virginia in the year 1812, on a stormy winternight. I was told it was a miracle I wasnt born frozen solid. I wish

I had been though. I was told my mother almost fainted whenshe saw me, and it wasnt out of joy either. I was born deformed,a hunchback. I am a freak of nature, an outcast, and one whompeople consider deranged; strange why they think an imperfectbody means an imperfect mind. My mother refused to hold meat rst, horried at my deformities. She did take me up and feedme; she said she just wanted my crying to stop.

So there I was, a poor, helpless little creature, destined tobe neglected and abhorred. My Father was extremely disappointed.He, like every good man does, hid his emotions and moved on.He tried to avoid talking to me, or even being around me.

I was named Samuel Sharron, son of a rich Virginia planter.Te shame I brought upon my family by being a hunchback wasunbearable. As I grew older my parents stopped acknowledging meas their son. If asked if they had any children they would usuallyreply with, None worth mentioning.

In 1822, when I was ten years old, a brother was bornto me. He was perfect, no deformities. I remember going to seehim. I reached out to stroke his lovely cheek when a shriek splitthe air. Dont let the monster touch him, dont let it touch mybaby!

My Mother had yelled, yelled about her rstborn. I wasushered out and told to stay clear of my brother. His name wasRichard Sharron, named after my Father. I barely saw him for myentire time living in that house.

Te years went by, and I grew. My schooling was doneby a private tutor. At least my Father allowed me to learn. LearnI did, devouring everything put before me to learn. Literature,science, arithmetic, Latin and French were all taken with relish.If imperfect in body, my mind would be sound.

By the time I turned nineteen I assumed I had beenforgotten. I took my meals by myself and rarely left the safety ofmy room. I was wrong, my Father wanted me out. He thought meuseless and lazy. Te truth is he never let me help; much less did heever talk to me. He came into my room one day and, for all intentsand purposes, told me to leave. He said, Samuel, I know yournatural deformity has caused some problems with social standing.Tat is no excuse for you to sit, living o my hard-earned wealth.

He looked at me gravely, I believe you should go north, to tryto pursue a career. Law, maybe. He sighed and rubbed his chin.

Do you understand what I mean? he asked me.I nodded and looked away, my eyes lling with tears. I

was hurt. Te years of neglect I excused as my parents being busy,or even having forgotten me. Te fact that they remembered myexistence and chose to ignore it, to get rid of it, hurt me.

You, being the oldest, have a right to inheritance, andRichard to some also, he said. Ive decided to give Richard theestate. Youwell, Ill give you sucient money to live well on fora while, and Ill pay for whatever profession you want to enter.

He got up and left, leaving me to my self-pity. I lookedin the mirror. I was appalled by my own reection. My face was

pale from time indoors, my dark hair falling to my shoulders, bigclumsy handsand the hideous lump on my back. I was a monsterbeing cast upon the world. Who would hire a hunchback to do anormal mans job?

No matter my problem to nd work; I was given a goodsum of money to live for a while without it. I left a week later,taking some personal belongings and my slave, Jonah. I decidedto go to Philadelphia, maybe take up medicine. Jonah followedme, faithfully caring for my domestic needs. I was educated inpolitics and sometimes considered getting involved. Of coursethey wouldnt have accepted me. I did take up medicine, oftenstudying privately. After a few years I got sucient work, and wasknown as a good, reliable doctor. Business was steady enough toallow me to make a small fortune for myself. Of course I did notneed much, just food and books.

In the year 1843 my life changed drastically. Te anti-slavery radicals were pressing hard to free blacks in the north. Imust admit that I was against slavery myself, but hadnt thoughtabout freeing Jonah. He was more of a companion than a slave.Sometime in late March I did free him. Really he had no idea whatto do. He thanked me, then stood awkwardly holding the paper.

If its okay with you Mssr Samuel, he said handing meback the paper, Ill stay with you. I was relieved, because I didntknow how I was going to get on without him. Te relationshipbetween the two of us was strange compared to the average

relationship between slave and owner. I allowed him to eat at thetable with me, and many other things that arent allowed to slaves.Being a physician of some considerable skill by now, I

resolved to go out to a medical convention, which many of the topphysicians were attending. Tis would be a rare occasion: I hardly

went out, leaving only to see a patient. Te convention was beingheld in New York, so I hired a coach to take me. It arrived at mydoor; and after Jonah loaded the luggage, I got in. Jonah startedto do likewise. I had always allowed Jonah to ride with me.

Hey, yelled the driver at Jonah, what in the devil doyou think youre doing!

I looked at the man, Sir, I always allow him to join mein the coach.

Sorry, Sir, he replied rather gruy, I dont allow themdirty heathens in my coach.

Jonah got up outside the coach and said, Its okay, MssrSamuel; let us be going.

So we left but I was greatly disturbed in mind. I hadthus far considered Jonah my equal, but I was myself consideredless than others due to my dierences.

A few weeks later another event opened my eyes to theabolition cause. It was mid-December and a very cold; one couldbarely stir from bed. I had been called to a bad case of bronchitisand was returning back to my lodgings when a very disturbing

A Living Cause Oil Painting byRaymond DavisAge 16, Perkasie, PA

Ian HughesAge 16, Atascadero, CA



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scene met me. I was just down the street from my house; and asI rounded the corner, I saw a slave and his owner. Te slave washolding an umbrella over the mans head. Te man was lookingvery cross, and as I got closer I could hear bits of the mans words.

Where is the coach David? he asked very sternly.Te man said he wouldnt be sending any coach out

today, Sir; he said the weather was too bad, was the feeble reply:obviously he knew what was coming.

You stupid, lazy, ignorant boy! Now how shall we getto the party? We cant use my coach; the weather is far too bad,and I dont want to risk damaging the axles. Ten he took theumbrella out of the slaves hand and, folding it up, he started tobeat the poor boy about the head. I instinctively rushed forwardto help. Ten, remembering that I could do nothing but makethings worse, I crossed the street and continued home. I was veryheavy-hearted. I was even more so when I found that Jonah wasout, and the re was also. Having stirred up the embers and gota blaze going, I lit my pipe and fell to musing. I was a pacist bynature and did not like to see anybody attacked, especially whenno defense was available.

When Jonah arrived home, he made our dinner as I lit

another pipe and told him what I had earlier seen. He seemed tobe listening very intently. Not knowing much of the world, as Ilived as reclusively as possible, I expected him to respond as heusually did when I told him of the slave - owner relationships Iusually saw. He surprised me, though, with a response: Well, MssrSamuel, you seem to be very smpthetic with this poor negro boy.His situation is regrettably common. He paused and looked upat me. Do you know where I was while you were gone, Mssr,he asked.

I shook my head.I was at a club meeting, Mssr; they have the same

sympathy as you do. Maybe you could come with me next time Igo. Its not too far and not too long of a meeting, Mssr, he said.

I hesitated for the fact I would have to leave my homeand go into the company of men who might react negatively to mydeformities; yet my curiosity got the better of me; and I acceptedthe invitation. I had suspected Jonah might have been going toan abolition club, and now was sure.

About ve days later, I was beckoned by Jonah to leavemy abode and go to this club. We walked to the meeting aboutsix that night; it was bitterly cold and black. We reached a verylarge house, and Jonah knocked on the door. When a servant manopened the door, he saw Jonah and welcomed him in by name,looking though at me. Jonah assured him I was a friend, so we

went into the house, which was dimly lit; Jonah said it was because

the man had trouble with his eyes: the dim light was necessary toprevent headaches.We were led into a library, where there were four other

men in the room: three were white, and the other was a free black.Tey greeted Jonah as we entered, and then, after I was introduced,they welcomed me. I was shocked by the way they talked to meas if I was an equal, as if I wasnt deformed, as if I had knownthem for all of their lives. Te ice was broken and I enjoyed thecompany, which I cannot recall ever doing before. Te servantcame into the room a little while later and announced the arrivalof his master. I wish to keep his name a secret, for there are those

who would harm the gentleman, even though he was a very kindand pacistic person. Mr. Smith--that is what I shall refer to himas--greeted me and assured me I would be most welcome; whichI had no doubt of.

Ten business was under way. We each took a seat facingthe very large cushioned chair in which sat Mr. Smith. Tere

were a few small subjects of no importance discussed and then anawkward silence. I knew they were apprehensive of talking on the

subject which they had come to discuss, because of the unknownstranger in their midst.

Jonah cleared his throat and stood up. Excuse me,Mssrs, but I brought this gentleman here, and he knows I havebeen coming here. He has even oered me my freedom. I assureyou that he wont betray any of you. What is said here will stayhere. He looked at me earnestly.

I got up and said, I understand your apprehensionsat disclosing any information that could cause your persons orreputations to be at any harm in the company of a stranger. I assureyou, though: I will not speak of anything said here tonight, orany night--for I intend to come back, if that is acceptable to yougentlemen. I then told them of the awful scene I had witnessed

of the beating of the poor slave waiting in the rain on the streetcorner. I saw their jaws tighten and eyes blaze with a hatred ofsuch cruel an act.

Teir trust was gained; and business took its normal turn.I heard some fantastic stories of slaves being smuggled north toCanada, the sacrice of the men stealing slaves away from theoppressive southern farmers, the cunning actions of taking theslaves away under their very noses. I was more than inspired; I

was ready to give my life to a righteous cause, and this I believedto be a righteous cause. I began attending the meetings regularlyand began giving money to help. Tis was not enough for me;something was growing inside of me, a passion, a pure want to dosomething worthwhile. I think this caught my attention becausethe poor enslaved men and women were enslaved because they

were dierent like I was. For a while there wasnt much more Icould do but give money. I was at a loss to do anything else. Tesummer after I had joined this group a situation presented itselfin which I took action.

Mr. Smith asked a favor of me, one which I couldnt refuse.I went to his house at his request one hot June afternoon. Aftertea and small talk, he got down to what he really wanted of me. Idont remember the exact wording, for I was slightly dazed by theheat and by the words he uttered. I do know he asked me to gointo the eld. Tis is what I had wanted, this was my chance; andafter recovering myself, I readily accepted. He oered me money

to help, but I assured him I could aord to do it all myself. Hethen gave me details: I was to meet a man, Benjamin Wensler, atthe Virginian border. He would have with him a runaway slave.I was to dress the slave as my own and take with me fake papersof identication for the man. From there I would come back toPhiladelphia and take the slave to Mr. Smiths, where a safe passageto Canada would be procured. Not a moment was to be wasted.

As soon as I got back home I sent for Jonah to prepare my things;it seemed, though, that he was already informed of my journey,because he had already prepared my things for the trip. I set outthe next morning on the rst coach out of Philadelphia.



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I reached the meeting spot early and rented a roomat the roadside inn. At ten that night, there was a knock at thedoor, and a man entered without waiting for my response. It wasBenjamin Wensler. He bowed awkwardly then cleared his throatand signaled in another gure: this was the slave.

Mr. Sharron, I presume, said Mr. Wensler casually. Inodded in conrmation. Tis is Job. I assume you have yourinstructions already and take my leave, he said, again attempting

a bow; and then he left the room.I signaled for Job to sit, but he stood awkwardly holding

his hat in his hands.Its quite alright for you to sit down Job. I consider you

a creation of God; and therefore you have the same rights as I do.Please make yourself comfortable. He moved to the chair acrossfrom me and sat down. He was tall, about six feet, and was broadacross the chest. He had a scar across his temple--obviously someform of punishment that had left a permanent mark.

Are you hungry, I asked him.He looked rather nervously at me.Dont worry, Im here to help.I rang the bell for the waiter and ordered some food for

him, which he devoured after he was sure of everything being well.After he ate and changed into some of Jonahs clothing, whichhardly t him, we retired to sleep. I tried to get him to sleep in abed, but my entreaties were in vain; and he insisted on sleepingupon the oor.

Te next morning we got ready to go before the sun wasup. He played the part of my servant perfectly, which surprised mebecause he was a laborer. Once we got into the carriage and on our

way I saw him breathe a sigh of relief; once we crossed the Virginiaborder he smiled. All of his past tenseness and suspicion fell awayand he brightened up considerably. I entered into conversation withhim and learned his story. While he was a boy he was separatedfrom his mother and sold to a farmer in Virginia with his oldersister.

His owner was kind and treated his slaves very well; buthe went bankrupt and was forced to sell everything.

Ten Job was separated from his sister and sold to aneighboring farmer, one known for his cruelty to his slaves; hissister was sold to a South Carolina farmer. Job was instantly putto grueling work in the elds.

One day, the owner was patrolling his elds; and thosehe thought were working too slowly, he beat. Job was at this timefteen. He tried to defend a girl who was pregnant and couldntkeep up by pouring all of his cotton into her basket. He wascaught and beaten until he was nearly dead. Te next day he was

put back to work in the eld and was bannedd from water rationsfor the day. He had heard of slaves escaping up north and resolvedto try. He met an abolitionist when he was twenty, and the manpromised to help him. So, now, here he was.

We stopped for fresh horses. Te driver was taking a longtime so I beckoned to him from the window. I saw him speakingto a man who was staring at the carriage suspiciously. Job lookedout and then fell back. Tat man, he gasped, he buys cottonfrom my master, he will know me.

Instantly, yet casually, I drew the shade. Te driverreturned and we set o again; but both Job and I held our breath.

Not too long later, we heard hoof beats behind us. Ourdriver stopped and we could hear him talking to someone. I putmy hand on Jobs leg and gave him a reassuring smile, althoughI was dead nervous myself. A moment later the door opened andthe driver poked his head in, Sir, a constable to talk to you.I immediately alighted and faced the man we had seen when we

stopped, and also another man, the constable, looking glumly atme. How may I help you, sir? I asked.

Well sir, he said, this man has accused you of havingwith you a runaway slave.

I have only my personal slave with me. As you can see,I have a little disadvantage, which is why he rides inside with me,I replied.

Do you have traveling papers for him, sir? he asked.I pulled out some papers that had been arranged previously

and handed them to the man. Here you are sir.When he handed back the papers and apologized, I

got back in; and as we drove away, I could hear the other mancomplaining that they hadnt examined the slave. Job and I got on

splendidly, with no stops until we reached my house in Philadelphia.I had a very good nights sleep.

Te next day, I took Job to Mr. Smiths house to deliverhim over. I was met there by another member leaving, lookingushed and in quite a hurry. When we entered, Mr. Smith alsolooked a little ushed; but he brightened up when he saw us, andrejoiced at our success. Mr. Smith arranged for his servant to take

Job to the train station where he would meet a correspondent whowould help him get started in Canada. I said goodbye, and hethanked me heartily.

After they had left, Mr. Smith and I had tea while I toldhim everything; he enjoyed my success, and we talked on merrily.Our time was cut short by a knock at the door. Mr. Smith wentto answer the door and returned white-faced; he stuttered out,

You had better come out with me, chap. I went out to nd aconstable and several soldiers along with the member who had

just left. Tey dont know about Job, he whispered to me as wewent out. We were then assisted to a prison cell for the night.

Te next day Jonah came for me, apparently the memberwho had ratted on Mr. Smith had a personal dispute with himand cared nothing for me. Naturally, I went home in a fragilestate of mind. Mr. Smith was put on trial a couple of weeks laterand heavily ned. I went and saw him when he was released. He

was packing up and preparing to leave. Well, my friend, I haveresolved to leave, to move to Canada and assist up there, he said.

I had one last supper with him and then bid him farewell.I was discontented with the turn that events had taken. I had justbegun to do a good deed for human kind, and now I was at a losshow to continue. I sat and thought what I had done with my life;I wasnt satised with the amount done in the amount of time Ihad lived. Life is not yet over, and who knows what I might donext to help those unfairly judged by their fellow beings.



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That night I cried,

And you were there.

You stilled my storms,

You touched my hair.My heart cries out

I mean no harm.

Please come and fill

My empty arms.

My thoughts are tangled

And absurd.

You took my hand,

You said a word.

And like a bell

Rings through the night,

Your words of love

Have made me right.

Ive walked alone

For so long.

Cant hear a word;

I feel so wrong.Then like the dawn

Your song crept in.

Now slow but sure

Youve come within.

At my last breath

I sang a song

Of life so good,

So bright and strong.

Of those who heard,

Understood few.

That, my last song,

Was about you.

Yet as the darkness

Closes in

And stills my breath,

It shall not win.For there beyond

I see the light--

And in your arms

Ill stand tonight.

So my last song

Will linger not.

For those who heard

It, soon forgot.

Of whom I sang

On that last day:

Jesus my Lord

Has come today.

Last Song Olivia Michelle SmitAge 14, Ontario, Canada

There are not words enough to describe

The emptiness and hollownessOf a life that is not constant,

And a world that will not last.


The pain of being forgotten

When eyes that once knew can now

Stare right past, unrecognizing.


The constant fear of being broken,Realizing you are helpless

To defend against anything.


The fullness and the purpose

That comes from knowing that there is

A Home waiting for you.


The joy of being lovedBy He who does not forget

And does not break His promises.


The constant security of knowing that

He who died for you will protect you;

And you will not be forsaken.

The only purpose I can find is Jesus.

In Searching I Have Found Leah KmoskoAge 17, Maiden, NC



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Here I standBeneath your feet

Feet are bloody; feet are baredDo I recall the grace you shared?

Here I standBelow the CrossShadow looms in deaths own placeHow could I forget your face?

Here I standBehind the mob

I hear their cries; their eyes are wildAll together, hate Gods own childHow could I leave you behind?How could I betrayal nd?

I watch myself, my lies, ashamedHere you are, the King, defamedYou, my God, I kill and maim

Am I, myself, the most to blame?

I StandAndrew MeyerAge 17, Santa Barbara, CA

The Snowflake

Brilliant! My life (I fancy)Is like a flake of snow,Falling from a wintry skyTo the frosted earth below.

Whirling, dancing, leaping high;Sparkling, shimmring, blinding white;Drawing glances to itself,This snowflake makes a lovely sight.

Insignificant! The Lord of LifeWatches me, and knows this fact:My snowflake life, which I believeSo beautiful, so bright, is but an act.The truth is this: Though I mayGlitter and glimmerfor the world to see

My short existence, my tiny life, mustSoon hidden among other snowflakes be.

Meaningless! When spring returns,The snowflakes melt beneath the sun,And change into a rushing stream:No single flake preservednot one.For we snowflakes were not meantTo shimmer, to sparkle, to dance alone:

We are but a part of something largerA purpose of God, as yet unknown.

So let us wait, with joy, to see

What God will form us, together, to be.

Grace MertzAge 15, Saint Cloud, MN

When I feel like writing,Tis like a bubbling stream

Rising up inside me,Dancing with my dreams.

It trickles and ticklesAnd causes a thrill;

And all other thingsIn the world stand still.

It tiptoes into my heartBaing my soul with its wings;

Til at last it is born through my pen,Becoming a living thing!

When I feel like writing,God whispers in my ear;

And the wordsThat are born

Through the tip of my penAre mimes before Creations mirror.

When I Feel Like WritingDorothy Nyberg

Age 17, Jamestown, ND



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Glory to God

For the Beauty of Nature

Do you have a beautiful

nature photo to submit?

[email protected]

Michael LawtonAge 18, Waitakere, New Zealand

Christmas Tree Ice Crystal



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Red Maple LeafTrishia BrubakerAge 14, Denver, PA

Victoria ForbesAge 16, Lititz, PA

True-SpreadingBoxwood



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Fall 2011Writers Challenge Winner

rusting ouch

iny ngers wrap around one of mineAs we stroll side by sideHer gentle grip whispers volumes to meIt speaks of trust and love

And reminds me of my responsibilityIt warms my heartYet it scares meCan I nurture this precious baby?Can I teach her right from wrong?Will I be able to explain the love of Jesus?I gaze down into perfectly formed eyesRimmed with intricate lashesAnd know that the One who created usWill give me the grace and wisdom I need

o raise this little blessing for Him.

Alyssa LiljequistAge 18, Newberg, OR

Photo by Laura BylerAge 17, Salisbury, PA



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Writers Challenge

Send your essay to:

[email protected].

Type Writers Challenge Winter2011/12 in the subject line.

SUBMISSION DEADLINE:

April 15th, 2012

The winner will receive their workpublished, along with their photo, anda digital copy of the magazine to sharewith friends and family.

Up for the Challenge?

Choose an animal or insect in the natural

world and write an engaging 500 to 1000 word

descriptive essay about it, paying special

attention to its unique features, abilities,

and habits; sensory perception, hunting or

scavenging techniques, defensive mechanisms,

or any other fascinating characteristics about

it specifically or its impact on the eco-system

it inhabits. Bring the essay to a close with a

paragraph that glorifies the God of the Bible

who created such an awesome creature.

Glory to God for the Wonders of Creation



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When did you start writing fantasy?

My rst attempt wasnt fantasy, but that changed one night aboutfteen years ago when I had a dream about a boy who couldbreathe re. I told my eldest son about it, and he suggestedthat I write a fantasy novel based on the dream. He said thatif I wanted to speak to young people in our culture, fantasywas the way to go. After brainstorming with him for a coupleof hours, we came up with the fantasy concept of how a boycould breathe re, and that became the starting point for my

Dragons in our Midst series.

You once said that our youth need to see beyond theirphysical senses and learn to expand their mind to experiencethe spiritual. Why so, and how does fantasy help them dothis?

Te fantasy genre is a powerful way to show how faith works.Te apostle Paul tells us that our struggle is not against eshand blood, but against spiritual forces of wickedness in theheavenly places; but its very hard to learn this when we cantsee the enemy with our physical eyes.

We have to develop spiritual perception. Jesus often taught

with this fact in mind. He told of the rich man and Lazarus inthe afterlife, giving his hearers a glimpse into a place that theycouldnt see. o them, this was a fantasy story, for such a placecannot exist in their world. And Im sure the story provided alesson they would not soon forget.

Fantasy stories open our eyes to an unseen world and train ourminds to see beyond the visible. Tis is where our real battles arefought. Good fantasy will reveal the hidden powers of evil thatthreaten the heros life and upset his journey. Te evil powers arerarely easily seen, so the hero must seek a higher power to exposeand conquer them.

Christian fantasy focuses on how a hero nds victory when he

cant win by himself: he submits to the higher power in faith andobedience. In this way, fantasy paints pictures of the battles weght in a more memorable way than any other genre.

How does your Christian faith inuence your stories?

If not for my faith, I dont think I would have written my stories.I wrote them because of a passion I have for motivating youngpeople to become all that God wants them to be. I hope to instillfaith, courage, loyalty, hope, and, of course, love. I think toomany books accept moral mediocrity in characters, which likelyreects their view on the ability people have to walk in the light,

which might well reinforce a low-level view of Gods power inreaders. I hope to raise the spiritual bar and invite readers to stepup and believe in what God can do in their lives.

My faith permeates all that I do, so its natural for what I believeto come out in my stories. I believe in hope; so my stories, nomatter how bad things get for the characters, are never withouthope. I believe in love; so you will always see some of my charactersexhibit extraordinary love in their willingness to sacrice forothers. I believe in holiness; so you will see some of my charactersexhibit integrity no matter how terrible the temptation mightbe to do otherwise.

When writing stories, whats your general process? Do youcreate an outline, character sketches, etc.?

I dont outline at all. I am what some call a seat-of-the-pantswriter. I sit down and dream up the story as I write it. I havea basic idea for a character and a premise, and I go from there

without any character sketches. I think its more fun to go on theadventure with the characters than to know in advance whatsgoing to happen.

What is your most recent book and whats it about?

My most recent release is Diviner, book three in the Dragons

An Interview withBryan Davis

The Craft ofChrisitan Fantasy



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of Starlight series. Since so much has taken place in the rsttwo books, it would be almost impossible to explain this one.Te bottom line is that young heroes from a world of humanshave to liberate enslaved humans in a world of dragons. Danger,suspense, and self-sacrice abound as our heroes do what theymust to conquer the dragons of Starlight.

Do you have a favorite book or series youve written?

I have a hard time answering favorite questions, becausesometimes my favorites change, especially when I get emailsfrom readers who have been strongly impacted by a particularbook. At that moment, the book the reader mentions can quicklyrise in my favorites list. Because my favorites are inuenced byreader feedback, the three books that often rise to the top areCircles of Seven, Eye of the Oracle, and Te Bones of Makaidos.I get more emails about spiritual impact from these books thanfrom the others, though I get feedback about all of them.

Among the book series youve written, which has been the

most popular, and why do you think this is?

Te best-selling book has been Raising Dragons. Im sure onereason is that it has been out the longest. Also, it broke new groundin Christian ctiona fantasy for young Christian readers. Sinceit was such a new idea, many people picked it up to see what itwas all about, and people are still spreading the word about thistrailblazing series.

Have you received fan mail from readers whove either becomeChristian after reading your books, or have had their Christianfaith reignited?

I have received literally thousands of messages from readers,

ranging from simple encouragement in faith, to conversion toChrist, to renewals of faith, to prevention of depression andsuicide. Some of their testimonies have overwhelmed me andshown me that God had even bigger plans for these stories thanI had. God has denitely used them to slay many dragons in thelives of young people all over the world.

Given the broad spectrum of the fantasy genre and the varietyof themes and images within it, what are some questions teensor parents can ask to gauge if a fantasy story is conducive totheir Christian faith?

Do the fantasy or magical traits in a heroic gure come froma higher power or from a dark source? If they are from a higher

power, then it might be a symbol for the spiritual power we haveas Christians, or it could be that the power is innate, that is, thecharacter is born that way, which means that the power is endowedby God. If, however, the heros power is from a dark source, thisis a red ag for parents to beware of the storys content.

Are heroes and heroines moral? It isnt necessary for heroiccharacters to be awless. Tey can lack wisdom, be bumbling attimes, need to gain maturity; but we dont want heroes who areintentionally immoral.

Is there a clear demarcation between good and evil? If the author

blurs the lines between what is good and evil, then problems willlikely creep into the story.

Are good decisions rewarded? Do deception, disobedience, anddishonesty have consequences?

Are adults evil or stupid, or is there a realistic mix?

Is God good and powerful; or is He evil, weak, or capricious?

Does violence have a denable reason and justiable ends; or isit gratuitous, existing only for the sake of violence itself?

Once parents learn how to distinguish good fantasy from bad,then their concerns, or even their fearscan be eliminated:because they can feel equipped to hand their kids a great fantasybook, without any qualms, while still saying No to inappropriatebooks and giving solid reasons for rejecting them.

How long does it typically take you to write a submission-

ready manuscript?

It usually takes about four months for me to write and fully edita manuscript that will be ready to send to the publisher. I usually

LEFT: Davis with daughter Amanda preparing to visit a school in Maryland (a comical pose portraying Amandas desire to do the heavy

lifting). They travel together on promotional tours frequently, visiting schools and homeschool groups around the U. S. and Canada.



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spend about two months writing and two months editing.

Is it important for you to read other authors of fantasy? Whyor why not?

It is not important for me to read other fantasy authors. I see noreason to do so, and I dont want to subconsciously take the ideasof others, especially since I never have a problem with comingup with my own ideas.

Are you currently working on any projects?

At this moment, I am in the midst of a nationwide promotionaltour, so I am not writing. When the tour is nished, I will diveinto the second book in the Children of the Bard series.

You have seven children, all of whom were homeschooled. Doany of them like to write or want to become authors?

Amanda, ospring number ve, has written a novel called PreciselyTerminated. It came out only a couple of weeks ago, and we areon a promotional tour together. My eldest son, James, also lovesto write. Actually, all seven are capable writers, and I hope to seesome published works from at least a couple of them.

Yes, there has been some buzz about Amandas book. Canyou tell us more?

Precisely Terminated is futuristic dystopian adventure. Tis isthe rst young adult dystopian novel produced by a Christianpublisher, so she is blazing a new trail. Although she is twenty

years old now, she wrote this book as a teenager, which should helpencourage other teen authors as they pursue their writing goals.

Can you share with us a bit about your family life?

My wife, Susie, and I have been married nearly 31 years, andwe have seven children, ages 14 to 29, four girls and three boys.Te three youngest girls are still at home, a peaceful environmentin rural ennessee. We have devotions together mornings and

evenings, have school at home, and often play table-based gamesor go for long walks together.

Te two youngest are still in our homeschool, so a lot of learninggoes on during the day. I have a home oce where I write, but Idont lock myself in all day. I enjoy taking breaks to see how myloved ones are doing, and I often bounce ideas o them.

Since we have no television, our home is usually quiet, exceptwhen the two youngest girls are practicing piano. o me, ourfamily life is wonderful. We feel very blessed.

What advice can you give teens who are currently writing orwould like to write fantasy?

First, every writer, no matter what his age, needs to learn the craftof writing. Many young writers have great ideas but dont knowhow to start. Others start well but dont know how to nish astory. Many dont understand the nuts and bolts of style, such asconsistent point of view, show-dont-tell, and realistic motivation.Learning these writing tools is essential.

Also, its more important than ever to learn how the industry works.Te days of submitting unsolicited proposals or manuscriptsthrough the mail are nearly gone. Te smaller Christian publishersmight still give your proposal a read, but most publishers nowrequire an agent, or you have to meet the editor at a writersconference.

I highly recommend conferences. I connected with my publisherthrough one, and I teach at conferences frequently. Although theseconferences can be expensive, meeting editors and networking

with other authors is crucial, and they also provide the instructionin the craft of writing. Nearly every professional career requires asignicant nancial investment. Why would we expect professional

writing to be any dierent?

Bryan Davis is the author of

much loved contemporary/

fantasy books for young adults

and adults, including Dragons

in Our Midst, Oracles of Fire,

Dragons of Starlight, Tales ofStarlight, Echoes from the Edge

series, and many more.

Visit Bryans website:

www.daviscrossing.com



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HOLDING ON TO FEARSCeline Eldridge

Age 13, Penacook, NHThe stress was building up; heavy rocks being piled atop each other.

The weight felt unbearable; the thought of crumbling under pressure created

more stress than I thought I could handle.

Through the struggle of the pressure to hold onand to keep up what I had such a hard time doingwas a hand.It reached out for me, as if to help me escape the load of rocks. I hesitated. Could I trust the hand? Would it help me and then leave me? Or

would it pull back just as I went to grasp on?

So I reached outand grabbed it.

The hand pulled me out, and all the rocks went crashing down.

I felt happiness, and a peace I had never felt before!

I was sure I could trust the hand; so within a few more slow and steady steps, I felt ready to take on the next pile of rocks.

Flaring scarlet, dazzling gold

Blazes, waxes, glows...

Silver moonlight, hypnotizing

Dances, transforms, gleams...

Sparkling droplet, liquid jewel

Trembles, glistens, falls...

Rippling mirror, placid pool

Shimmers, whispers, drifts....

Birds like flames of grey and brownClouds like happy dreams.

Tranquil blossoms, fresh and sweet

Untamed hills in blues and greens.

Swooping branches, handsome tree

Rustles, bristles, groans...

Swirling zephyr, frisking free

Hastens, lingers, twirls...

Solid boulder, jet-black bone

Restrains, defies, glints...

Placid flower, gently grown

Quivers, brightens, dips...

This simple beauty; lovely worldIs nothing when compared

To the celestial dwelling place

Our Lord God has prepared.

GODS WORLDMirriam ParrishAge 16, Columbia, SC

I lift up my eyes,Yet I am afraid.

Afraid what I may see.So powerful is Your Glory,

Will my eyes cease to see?Will I no longer watch the ower grow?Or see the green of trees?But as I behold You,I no longer care:I can think of nothing but You.

Your eyes capture me,Tey hold me;I am surrounded by Your love.

I care not if my eyes no longer see,All I care for is You.

I would cease to speakIf only to hear Your voice.I would cease to moveIf I could just once walk beside You.

You are all I want.You are all I need.

Oh God Almighty,Who lives forever,Hallowed be Ty Name.

GLORIAS.K. WellsAge 16, Woodstock, GA



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Who first patterned the fires dance?

Each flickering fall captures your glance

Not simple molecules as some like to say

No way such beauty could be randomly displayedThe diaphanous patterns were crafted by loving hands

It was a thoughtful Creator who designed fires dance

Who painted the sunset in the sky?

No paintbrush I know could reach that high

Swirls of pink, purple, red, and gold

Did not come by chance as Ive been told

Rather a masterful God with an artists eye

Painted those colors in the sky

Who gave the mockingbird a voice to sing?

A voice to herald the new morning

There is no such thing as one-size-fits-allWhen it comes to the notes in each bird call

Only a skilled composer could ever bring

Musical harmony to the song His birds sing

Who dressed the trees in their colored robes?

Crimson leaves form regal clothes

Each leaf different, yet perfectly shaped

Impossible to spontaneously generate

Only the expert Tailor knows how to sew

Individual leaves into elegant robes

Who graced the mind with intelligent thought?

Chance would have had us think only as were taught

Our minds did not come by an impersonal force

They were not made from an unknowable source

Our Father in heaven carefully wrought

The vital facet of intelligent thought

CREATORAimee Lynch

Age 17, North Potomac, MD

Dark and gloomy grins arise

Fire burns the innocents aliveSmoke and death, unbearable smell

This is the world, a second hell

Bright and praise-filled voices sing

Water for parched tongues Hell bring

The fragrance of life our hearts to leaven

This is the world, a second heaven

Jordain Romain

Age 15, Lexington, KY

TWO REAL WORLDS

AletheiaWritingMagazine.com Winter 2011/1218 AletheiaWritingMagazine.com Winter 2011/1218


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ThunderstormHannah FloydAge 14, New Tripoli, PARolling in from the west,The skies go gray,

Like soot from a fallen humanity.A faint rumble,Like a giants hoarse grumble,And the clouds begin to cry.

They cry for the world,Which has fogged up their eyesWith a grief that only God knows.They cry for the loveThat humans once knew

Like second natureTo them it once came.

It flowed from one man to the nextLike the tears that the clouds now cryMaking puddles on roads

And streams into rivers;Making mud where the dirt once lay.

But now the storm has calmed,And the streams all have settled;A new life will spring to its feet.Out of the sorrow

And tears of a cloud,This slender-stemmed beauty of oldThe sign of peace and lovewill unfold,

Will come out of its slumberTo seeWhat times will come alive;What sun will arise;What spring has to offerTo Thee.

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AForest Hymnby William Cullen Bryant(1794 - 1878)

The groves were Gods rst temples. Ere man learned

To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,And spread the roof above them,ere he framed

The lofty vault, to gather and roll back

The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,

Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down,

And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks

And supplication. For his simple heart

Might not resist the sacred inuences,

Which, from the stilly twilight of the place,

And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven

Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound

Of the invisible breath that swayed at once

All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed

His spirit with the thought of boundless powerAnd inaccessible majesty. Ah, why

Should we, in the worlds riper years, neglect

Gods ancient sanctuaries, and adore

Only among the crowd, and under roofs,

That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least,

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,

Offer one hymnthrice happy, if it nd

Acceptance in His ear.

Father, thy hand

Hath reared these venerable columns, thou

Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down

Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose

All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun,

Budded, and shook their green leaves in the breeze,

And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow,

Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died

Among their branches, till, at last, they stood,

As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,

Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold

Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults,

These winding aisles, of human pomp and pride

Report not. No fantastic carvings show

The boast of our vain race to change the formOf thy fair works. But thou art herethou llst

The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds

That run along the summit of these trees

In music; thou art in the cooler breath

That from the inmost darkness of the place

Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground,

The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee.

Here is continual worship; Nature, here,

In the tranquility that thou dost love,

Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around,

From perch to perch, the solitary bird

Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs,

Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots

Of half the mighty forest, tells no taleOf all the good it does. Thou hast not left

Thyself without a witness, in these shades,

Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace

Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak

By whose immovable stem I stand and seem

Almost annihilatednot a prince,

In all that proud old world beyond the deep,

Eer wore his crown as lofty as he

Wears the green coronal of leaves with which

Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root

Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare

Of the broad sun. That delicate forest ower

With scented breath, and look so like a smile,

Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,

An emanation of the indwelling Life,

A visible token of the upholding Love,

That are the soul of this wide universe.



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My heart is awed within me when I think

Of the great miracle that still goes on,

In silence, round methe perpetual work

Of thy creation, nished, yet renewed

Forever. Written on thy works I read

The lesson of thy own eternity.

Lo! all grow old and diebut see again,How on the faltering footsteps of decay

Youth pressesever gay and beautiful youth

In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees

Wave not less proudly that their ancestors

Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost

One of earths charms: upon her bosom yet,

After the ight of untold centuries,

The freshness of her far beginning lies

And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate

Of his arch enemy Deathyea, seats himself

Upon the tyrants thronethe sepulchre,

And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe

Makes his own nourishment. For he came forthFrom thine own bosom, and shall have no end.

There have been holy men who hid themselves

Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave

Their lives to thought and prayer, till they

outlived

The generation born with them, nor seemed

Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks

Around them;and there have been holy men

Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus.

But let me often to these solitudes

Retire, and in thy presence reassure

My feeble virtue. Here its enemies,

The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink

And tremble and are still. Oh, God! when thou

Dost scare the world with falling thunderbolts, or ll,

With all the waters of the rmament,

The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods

And drowns the village; when, at thy call,

Uprises the great deep and throws himself

Upon the continent, and overwhelms

Its citieswho forgets not, at the sight

Of these tremendous tokens of thy power,

His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by?Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face

Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath

Of the mad unchained elements to teach

Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate,

In these calm shades, thy milder majesty,

And to the beautiful order of the works

Learn to conform the order of our lives.



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I am (undeservingly) blessed in a way few writers are: I have afamily and school who are unwaveringly supportive of creativity, especiallywritten work. Since my rst fantasy stories in elementary schooltales of kids entering a supernatural carnival, or an emperor ghtingthe inner temptation of greedI have never been at a loss for doggedencouragement to improve, grow, take risks. Tats what writing ought tobea haven where you can walk the tightrope and fall as many times asyou want.

Observation is my passion. I delight in detailsthe soupy

wash of headlights down a midnight street, the snick of an ice creamscooper. I delight in the familiar, the mundane, and how deliciouslystrange it all becomes when put into prose from the right perspective.Te novel I mention in Spinning Yarns of GoldAtonement, by IanMcEwanabsorbed me not just because of its attention to character,but to sensations. I dont believe a life is properly lived while staying inthe digital void of Facebook and witter. (I use neither.) Writers oughtto consciously let the worlds details seep into their sensestextures,shadows, impressions of smell and taste mixed with memory.

In my work I aim for a collision between the order of divine loveand the gritty particulars of a world that, at least on its surface, seemsto belong to luck. Of course, expressing Christian truth through ction

doesnt require that one character be a preacher, only that the presenceof God ll the books thoughts. Te concepts of inhuman love andsacrice are as inseparable from the Gospel as a rainbow from the sky: everyone in our country is familiar with, if nothing else,the Christian idea thatJesus died for my sins. Even as the Gospel is direly needed in our secular society, the technique of writingInvisible Christianitykindness, purity, humilityinto todays literature is invaluable for guiding others to salvation in a worldwhich increasingly wails and gnashes its teeth at the name of the only Lord capable of healing it. A lack of Christian art visible tothe public is the reason Jesus has become a staple of bumper stickers and political stump speecheswhen in fact, in a perfect world,I would venture to say that every human alive ought to go about their daily lives giving regard to nothing but what this Man hasdone. But the world doesnt care for thoughts like that.

Despite my saying that a novel doesnt require a preacher in it to convey Christianity, my current work is revising a novelwhose protagonist is exactly that, the pastor of an Appalachian church in 1933 during the Depression. He is gentle, anxious, volatilewhen his solitude is threatened, and desperately loyal to the nephew he has adoptedthings I think many humans honestly are intheir hidden selves, even those behind a shepherds mask. While writing his story I discovered I could discern his presence almost

spiritually, more than any other character or concept Id ever written. Te wonder of ction is delving through a mind you knowtotally, most of which will never be copied down.

I believe God has used the pastor to anchor me to peace. Revising the work, after all, has felt less like manipulation orstruggle and more like bringing a blurry photograph into focus, wiping away the dust, getting reacquainted with a family member;the feeling of labor bleeds away from the writing, and the work becomes a conversation more and more each time.

FEATUREDContributorAnthony Otten Age 17, Erlanger, KY



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Envy can be good teacher,especially for a writer. Indeed, it can dofor the aspiring scribbler what compassesdo for hikers in the wilderness. In themoment that a writer, smoldering with

jealousy, holds between his tremblingngers a page of someone elses brilliance,

an opportunity to discover his ownartistry opens up. Without recognizingit, he has caught the scent-trail of hismuse.

You know it the first timeit happens. In the coziness of yourreading nook, you sink tranquilly intoa noveland suddenly the writer reso a metaphor that dazzles like a ruby, asnatch of dialogue that seems to echo inthe hollow of your heart, a line of suchbold understatement that its simplicitycuts into your soul. You rush onward,

peeling through the pages as if skinningan onionon the one hand desperate toconsume every remaining morsel of story;on the other, desperate to believe no onecould write something so achingly good.

You nish. You clap the pagesshut and sigh. Ill never write like this.

I know the overwhelmingtemptation to say you could neverbe among the hallowed legions of

wordsmiths whose novels are the bricksbuilding up the bookstores aisle walls.But just as surely as a couples present

thoughts can aect the futures of unbornchildren, your desire and determinationto place gold on the page will inuence

what books will exist in the futureandwhich wont.

My rst ordeal with this kindof envy was with the author Ian McEwanearly in high school, when I read his

WWII literary novel, Atonement. Tesublime descriptions still make my neck

tinglethe leonine yellow of highsummer coming into the greenery, thechaotic swarm of impressions that assaulta young writers mind, the caged pantherthat is a torturous migraine headache.McEwan was a mage behind the page,skating invisibly through charactersthoughts and conjuring genius with aick of his pen. Tis is the way he seemedto me, at least; and the intimidation I felt

would have turned into despair if I hadnot realized a simple truth: No one canhold a pen in the womb. Every writer

begins as a novice.Since then, I have realized the

work of great writers does not exist todampen dreams, but to goad young

writers into accepting the challenge ofcreating something even better. Te keyto overcoming this envy is not to imitateyour favorites, but to let them guide you,admiring their accomplishments as proofof what you too can achieve with desire,hard work, and tenacity. All else willfollow, as long as every time you sit atyour desk and lick your lips nervously at

the thought of creation, you smile andremind yourself: You are about to spin ayarn of gold.

SpinningAnthony OttenAge 17, Erlanger, KYYarns of GOLD

Photo used with permission from Brooks Farm Yarn412 Old Red Oak Rd. Lancaster, X 75146brooksfarmyarn.com



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Jake! Wherewhat happened to you? Peter stoodback aghast, his face showing shock near terror.

I had an accident in town, Jake said.Peter brought Jake into the Living Room and made

him lie on the couch. Jakes head hurt like crazy.What happened to your arm? Peter asked from the

kitchen where he was making tea.I cut it, Jake said shortly. Where is everybody?

Teyre getting the reworks ready in the backyard,Peter said, handing him a steaming mug.Ill go tell them yourehere.

Peter walked out the back door, leaving Jake alone.It was very quiet except for the ticking of the clock and therefrigerator.

Te back door ew open.Jake, what happened? Alice asked hurrying to him.I had an accident in town. He sat up. She sat beside

him.What kind of oh, your arm! Is that blood? She

recoiled slightly.Yeah, just a small cut.

Te blood had dried black all over his forearm. Shelooked narrowly at him.

Te box? Alice asked.Nothing, said Jake quickly, ashing an uncomfortable

smile.Alice got up and grabbed a cloth from the kitchen,

wetting it with warm water. She brought it over and handed itto Jake, sitting down again. She tilted her head.

So your not going to tell me what happened?Id rather not. Jake washed his arm without looking

up.Well, whatever, she said, leaning back on the couch.

A whistling sound outside, followed by loud explosions, lit thewindows in ery red and green.

Ah, twelve oclock. Alice said. Happy New Year.

e Journal

Jan 13, 2011

I cannot believe this happened to me, of all people. Atrst I kept the button in my room, but after thinking about Joe(my little brother) or mom coming in and pushing the buttonout of curiosity, I decided the safest place was around my neckon a string. I have to guard it with my life; it isher life.

I havent prayed much before. But I pray now. I praythat I will live through next year, and Alice too. I pray that olddevil will die before this year is done. I am so exhausted.

March 20, 2011

I had a great day today. Tere was a piano competitionthat Ive been practicing for, and I won it! I am still kind of inshock. Tere were so many people there watching.

At the end of my performance I got up and bowed.

Te white lights almost blinded me as I looked out at the crowd.Ten out of the crowd, a single face shone out. It was Alice.She waved at me and (in retrospect I must have looked prettydumb doing this) I waved back. I dont care if I did look dumb.Shes worth anything.

June 1, 2011

Sometimes I wonder if that horrible old man was justa dream. But then I feel the cold metal of Alices life under myshirt.

I bet that man was completely faking the whole lethalcapsule thing. Ill bet hes just a power hungry control freak who

wants me to go through agony. He probably made this buttontransmit to a little LED light that he watches all the time tosee if Ill cave in. Well I wont! Ever. I can see the silly game hesplaying, and its ninety-nine to one that Ill live another ftyyears at least.

Lethal capsule in my bloodstream. Its impossible!

Aug 11, 2011

I had a terrible scare today. I dropped Alices life onthe oor on its head! I can still see it in slow motion, falling,falling to the concrete oor of the garage. It hit the oor witha terrible clatter. I was sure it went o, so I ran to the phoneand called her house. She answered.

Hello?Alice?Oh, hi, Jake,Alice, is that really you?Yes of course its me, silly. Who did you think it was?By then I was sure I had only switched on the LED

light. I asked her if she had ever had any weird cuts on her arm.At rst she wondered why I was asking strange questionsandthen she remembered one morning she had woken up with asmall cut on her right arm.

Aug 19, 2011

After dropping the cylinder on the oor I have cometo completely disregard the whole lethal capsule thing. I cantsay I ever really believed it.

I stopped carrying the cylinder around my neck, andfound a safe place for it in my closet where I keep it now.

Its in my hand now as I am writing. What if I did

push the button? Just to be sure?I cant. In the back of my mind, there is still that onepercent chance this is for real. Te suspense is awful.

Aug 21, 2011

What a scare!oday I went to the grocery store to get some stu for

my mom. I was in the cereal isle getting some Guerrilla Munch.I pulled two boxes o the shelf, and there, right behind them,was the sickly yellow face of Mavris.



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I screamed and staggered back, snatching my phonefrom my pocket. I began to dial 911 when the man let out acroak. I looked up to see him grinning broadly, holding up ablue cylinder next to his face.

Aug 30, 2011

I saw Alice today. We had a party at my house.

I havent seen her all summer, but for some reason Ididnt feel comfortable talking to her. It must be from seeingMavris in the grocery store.

We were all laughing and having a great time. I wassitting on the couch talking to my friend Peter, when Alicecame over and sat down next to me.

It brought back unpleasant memories. Washing driedblood o my arm. Questions. Staggering up to Peters house.Te letter, stars, pain, yellow face very close, running, running.I excused myself and moved into the other room. As I wasleaving, I looked back and was caught in Alices eyes.

She looked kind of hurt.I cannot explain it to her. But I wish she could

understand.

Sept 15, 2011

School has begun. Tere is a new boy there namedMyles. He is right about my age, tall, striking and bright. Butthere is something about him. I cant say exactly what it is abouthis personality I dont really like. He has the perfect makings tobe my best friend; but still, I dont know.

During lunch he came over and sat down next toAlice (he isnt shy), and started talking to her. When I went afterschool to talk with Alice myself, she was very cold and distant.Im trying to shrug it o.

I feel depressed.

October 5, 2011

Alice does not love me anymore.

October 29, 2011

I no longer care.

Dec 27, 2011

ears of hatred are splashing over this journal as I write.Yesterday I was in the company of my friends in a circle. Somehowthe subject of relationships came up. Myles remarked that Aliceand I used to be together. I must have got a bit red in theface, because everyone started to laugh. If I was red it was onlyfrom anger at Myles for mentioning so lightly what he hadhelped to ruin.

I stood aghast for a moment.I think he still likes me,Alice said laughing. I stared

at her in shock, how could she say that?Ten everyone laughed even harder.

I hold Alices life in my hands now. My thumb is overthe button, but I cannot press it.

e Second Eve

Te cold night air blew a chill over the deserted street.Jake walked slowly down the sidewalk, his hands deep in hispockets, his head bowed. He did not see the yellow hue of the

clouds. A neon Coors Lite sign in a bar window across the streetashed in the wet gutter. A car drove by with the windows rolleddown. Music played loudly, someone laughed, the car was gone.

Jakes heart was sinking into despair. Everything wasgoing wrong. His grades were bad, he couldnt stand Alice, hisbasketball team was doing terribly, and his friends didnt givehim the time of day anymore. Only his piano still went well.

Although, often the black and white keys seemed to mock himas he played alone.

Once again he was o to a New Years party at Petershouse. He was going to try to have a good time, but he wasntexpecting one.

Te tall bank building loomed beside him, the alley

yawned. A chill ran through Jakes veins as the memory of thenight one year ago ooded out of that alley.

He gazed into the darkness, which began to condenseinto a living form emerging towards him.

When Jake nally stopped running he was at Petershouse.

A large plum tree with gnarled arms reaching for thesky stood still in the front yard. Te windows of the houseglowed warm and inviting.

Jake hurried up the concrete walkway to the frontdoor and rang the doorbell. Tere was a silence. He rang thedoorbell once again. Te door ew open.

Jake! It was Peter, Cmon in Jake, your late!Jake entered, wiping his feet on the mat. Well, not

as late as last year, he said smiling.Yeah, thats rightthat was sure crazy. Everybodys in

here. Peter led Jake through the dark entryway into the brightuorescent kitchen where everyone was eating chips and salsa.

As they came in, Myles was telling a story about hisboat trip to Mexico. Myles was a great storyteller, and everyone

was listening as if spellbound.So I climbed up onto this big rock and waved my

shirt in the air. But my dad still didnt see me and kept sailingon around the island.

Jakes thoughts were far from the happy group as he

stared into the aming red salsa.One year ago.One year ago this very night he had been wounded

by Mavris. He was terried when he thought death struck hisshoulder. But most of all his very soul was agonized by thesentence given him: kill her or die.

It must be a fake.Jake glanced at the clock hanging above the stove.

10:30



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If what the old man said was true, he had one hourand a half left to live.

Whats the matter Jake? Did you just get here? Jaketurned to see Lizzy, a perhaps slightly over-friendly girl, lookingup at him.

Yeah, I just got here.Myles story was over, and the group was talking loudly.You look really depressedis anything wrong? Lizzy

said with genuine concern in her voice.No, Im ne. Really, he said, grabbing a paper plate

and piling it with chips, salsa and sour cream.Did you walk over? Lizzy asked.Yep, he said, scooping up a large heap of salsa on a

chip.What if it was true? What if he was wasting the nal

moments of his life eating chips?Its impossible, he told himself. Tere is no way I

can have a lethal capsule in me.And I had absolutely no idea who this person was!

And they would say the weirdest stu likeIt took Jake a minute to realize Lizzy was talking to

him and had been for quite awhile.Really? Tats weird, he said, after swallowing and

wiping his mouth.Yeah, and there is no way to block someone from your

phone, so I had my dad call the guy, and he nally stopped.She paused for a moment.

Huh, what was he doing? Jake asked.Lizzy gave him a strange look. I just told you, he was

texting my phone.Jake shifted from one foot to the other. Ohright,

sorry.Lizzy laughed and was suddenly engaged in another

story Myles was telling.Jake quietly went into the other room, which was lit

only by the tiny, twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. Hetouched the fragrant branches, and breathed in the sweet rsmell. Te tree stood calm, silent. omorrow it would be in aheap of recycled trees, dead. Teir fellows in the wood wouldstill give rest to the birds and shelter to the squirrels.

A light switched on, and in the sudden glare Jake sawthe yellow face of Mavris not an inch from the window. Hissmiling lips revealed a sharp set of ivory teeth.

Jake let out a yell, and recoiled from the window interror.

Whats wrong?! Peter, who had just turned on the

light, rushed to his side.Te face was gone as suddenly as it had appeared.Nothing, Jake said, looking up to see everyone staring

at him. He smiled.Uno? Myles held up the deck to Jake.No, thanks.Everybody sat in a circle on the oor as Myles dealt

out the cards.Jake sat down on the piano bench.It was real. He could see the face, close, like it was

yesterday.

Jake turned on the bench to face the group and stared atAlice. Her eyes sparkled and laughed in the groups conversation.For an instant they met, but quickly darted away again.

Jake pulled the cylinder from beneath his shirt. Heplaced his thumb on the button. Why should he care? He tuckedit back under his shirt, turned around and lifted the cover othe piano keys.

His ngers touched the cold ivory keys, resting on

them.Jakes hands pressed down, then slowly moved along,

lling the room with waves of glorious sound. His foot pumpedthe damper petal up and down. Te rich melodious musicooded the room.

Te Uno players fell silent as he played on and on.Finally his ngers slowed and then stopped.

His head bowed.Silence reigned.After a moment a ripple of applause ran through the

room.Jake just sat, his head still bowed over the piano.His friends went back to their game. Jake looked at

his watch.

11:35

Uno!Man! How did you lose your cards that fast?Wild to, uhred.A pause.I win!Tere was a chorus of No!s and Aw, man!s while

everyone put their cards in a pile.Good grief! Look at the time! said Myles, leaping

to his feet. We have to get the reworks ready.Jake got up, grabbed his shoes from the entryway, and

followed everyone to the back door. It was colder as Jake walkedinto the night air. He zipped up his coat and put on his hat.

What if he died?Myles came out of the house laden with mortars and

other reworks.Alright, so the idea is to set o as many reworks

as possible at exactly midnight. Myles set the reworks on alawn chair and lifted out two mortar tubes, which he set onthe ground.

Peter, you set those two up over there by the swingset. Myles handed Peter two more tubes with a few shells.

Te boys and Lizzy set up the mortar tubes. Jake stoodand shivered.He looked at his watch.

11:50

What if he really died in ten minutes? He should havesaid something nice to his little brother Joe. Something Joecould remember him by.

What about Alices cylinder?Someone would nd it around his neck! Out of



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curiosity alone they would push the button. Alice would diefor no reason.

Hey, Peter! he called.Yeah? Peter was tying some extra fuse to a large

mortar.Do you have a sharpie I could borrow? Jake rubbed

his gloves together in the freezing cold.Yeah, its in the drawer at the far end of the island

facing the window.Great. Jake walked to the back door and went in.

He entered the kitchen and rummaged around in the drawer.Finally he found the sharpie. He pulled the cap o

the sharpie and unslung the cylinder from around his neck.He was just about to put the pen to the metal, when

a hand reached down and grabbed it.Jake turned to see Myles looking at it with interest.What is it? A lighter or something?Myles thumb was on the button.His thumbnail began to whiten.Here was Jakes chance! Myles would push the button.

Myles would inadvertently kill Alice and save him.

No! thought Jake. His st shot out, striking Mylessquare in the jaw. He fell crashing to the ground, the cylinderclattering from his hand.

Jake quickly picked it up.DUDE! Myles screamed. What the...?! He

scrambled to his feet, his sts doubled.Im sorry. Jake said awkwardly.SORRY? For slugging me in the jaw? Whats wrong

with you? You dont just go around hitting people! Myles turnedand walked towards the door.

And one more thing. Myles turned back and walkedup to Jake, til their faces were only an inch apart. When I rstmet you, I thought you were a decent guy. But thats just over.

You keep away from me from now onand keep away fromAlice too. Myles left, muttering something under his breath.

Jake wrote: Do not push the button for any reason.Bury me with this around my neck. He slung the cylinderover his head.

11:58

Jakes pulse quickened in suspense. wo more minutesuntil the New Year. He walked through the back door.

Te stars twinkled far above the city. It was bitter cold.Myles was passing out lighters and matches to Peter,

Lizzy, and a few others.Jake stood deep in thought. Beads of sweat ran downhis face in the freezing cold. Finally, he resolutely walked up to

where Alice was standing watching the set up.Alice, he said. She turned and looked at him.Hey Jake, what is it? He wiped the sweat from his

brow.Alice, I just want you to know...Hey Alice, come help me light this one. Myles was

bending over a mortar, sliding a shell down the barrel.OK, Alice called to him. Well talk after, Jake, she

said running over to the launch area.Jake sighed. He felt like he was going to vomit. He

had never liked suspense and now....Alright, when the countdown gets to ve, light the

fuse. It should take exactly that long for the ame to reach theshell.

Myles looked at his watch. Tere was silence for amoment.

Alright, EN!Was this the end?NINE!Everyone joined in the countdown.EIGH!It still could be a fake. Te old man could be lying.SEVEN!Why? Why did it have to end like this? Why wasnt

this year the happiest one of his life? Why had everything gonewrong?

SIX!He could still push the button now. She was happy. It

would be quick.

FIVE!A sparkle of yellow light raced up the mortars. Tere

was a shrieking as everyone ran back for safety.FOUR!Tey all stood in front of him. Jake wanted to scream.

He wanted to stop time dead.HREE!O God, forgive me...WO!Have mercy on me.ONE!

A burst of aming shells rocketed majestically into the sky.Jake felt a sharp snap inside his chest. A burst of red

was followed by a terric bang. Another burst of red lled theair.

Jakes heart was gripped in terrible pain. He gasped,and fell stiy to the cold grass. Explosion after explosion lit thesky, silhouetting Alice where she stood next to Myles. Mylesleaned down and whispered something in her ear. She laughed.

Another bolt of pain shot through Jakes heart. He let out asharp cry and looked wildly about him.

Te earth was bathed in red. Te wet grass sparkled,and the sky ashed with a ery light.

Jake looked up at the bright explosions as pain seizedhis entire body. Ten the sky faded. Someone was bending over

him, kneeling by his side.Another burst of red lled the air.It was Alice. She was slowly fading away.

Somewhere, a light was beginning. He rose to face it.Te sky slowly warmed into the deepest, purest blue

Jake had ever seen. He laughed.Was that dawn breaking?



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31/40

...And let us run with endurance the race thatis set before us....

Hebrews 12:1-2

he horse beneath me is restless. I can feel hisanxiousness through his quivering skin, and my own bloodjumps with excitement. Its almost too much to bear. My earsbuzz with the breath of horses, the shifting of reins in jockeyshands, and the masses of people packed into stands.

Te gate in front of me holds all of the nervous energyback, restraining it. Other horses to my left and right are alsorestless. Tey know whats coming. Tey know the thrill thatwaits past these gates. All of the jockeys eye each other, tryingto gauge what we are made of, challenging each other to take

rst place. Daring one to outrun another.Te crowd around me is a single cry piercing through

my focused mind. Tey cheer me on, discourage me, and overallgive me more determination to do the best I can. I might notwin, but Ive made it this far, and now I have only one desire:to run. I just want to feel the adrenaline rush in my body, themovement of my horse beneath me, and to hear the sound ofhooves pounding against the track.

Only a few seconds are left before the gates will open.I settle my nerves and take a deep breath. My horse does theopposite; he paws at the ground and shakes his head. Hes ready.

Te bugle blares, signaling the beginning of the race.Te gates are thrown wide, making that glorious sound of metalswishing and chinking against itself. Te door to freedom isopen, beckoning me into the feverish thrill I know it holds.

And then, in that one moment as I give the cue andmy horse leaps forward, theres no me anymore. Teres nohorse. Our minds converge into one. Our bodies work in sync,shooting into the sea of churning horseesh. Te race is on.

All the horses and their jockeys round the rst curveas one churning mass. Legs grind the dirt. Chests heave withlabored breath. Eyes icker between opponents and the nextcurve ahead. Determination battles exhaustion. Jockeys pushtheir horses, easing to the inside and outside, passing each other.

We hold back. We stay behind, waiting for just theright moment. We know our strengths; we know our weaknesses;we know our limit. We subdue our will to y with the wind.We rein in our desire to run.

Slowly we ease forward through our challengers, careful

not to advance too much or too quickly. Mud covers our faces,our chests, and our legs. Sweat soaks usdripping down ourcheeks and necks, into our eyes, and onto the dust below. Heatfrom the sun glares down at us, daring us not to succumb tofatigue and exhaustion. It reminds us of cool water, of rest andsleep. But we cannot succumbnot to heat, not to thirst, notto exhaustion. We will succumb only to the hunger. Te hungerto run.

Its time, we think. Its time to make our move.We bunch our muscles and draw on every bit of stamina

and energy we have left. We reach out with our legs, grabbingthe ground and pulling ourselves forward with new speed.We give in to exhilarating power running unreservedly in our

bodies. We give in to the hunger. We give in to the desperateneed within our hearts.

And we run.

Sarah weed

Age 16, Havre de Grace, MD

Artwork byRebecca Herr

Age 17, Doylestown, PA

e Belmont



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I am alonealmost: Tere is also light, unimaginablelight; and there is darkness, unfathomable darkness; but thatis all. All my conscious fears and thoughts have been brushedaway like cobwebs.

I turn in a full circle, drinking in the wonder of thisplace. It is huge, gray, and wallednot a room, but not a forest.It is as if I stand in my own heartand its emptiness frightensme. As I turn, a twinkle of gold in the gray expanse catches myeye. I bend down and reach for it. My ngers brush cold metal;then they wrap themselves around the pen almost without myconsent. I raise it to eye level and admire its spotless gold andsilver plating and its sharp, able point, tipped by a shiveringbead of ink. Te ink dots my palm when I touch the pen to myhand. I watch it roll down my hand until it reaches the edge ofmy nger and drops, disappearing in the fog at my feet.

Something rustles behind me. I turn, and my fearspounce on me, seizing the opportunity while my mind is openand my heart is racing. I see something white ash; warily Iapproach.

A book lies open on the misty grounda book ofindescribable craftsmanship with wide, blank pages that ip

restlessly from cover to cover.I stop the pages turning with a tentative nger andclose the book. Te cover is a color I have never seenor maybeI have seen it before, in a dream. It scintillates faintly, as if lightis rippling in circles just below the covers surface. I take awaymy hand, and the pages force the book open and begin to ipback and forth, back and forth, again.

Te pen twirls restlessly in my ngers. Ten, almost asif it has sprung wings, it leaps from my hand to hit the turningpages. Tey come to a sudden stop as soon as the pen glanceso, and Im painfully aware of a dead silenceand of a jagged,unshapely line of fresh ink marring the spotless page. I give acry of dismay and kneel down, frantically trying to rub the ink

away and erase any record of my presence here. Tis book doesnot belong to me; somehow I have to make things right. Butthe ink will not erase; no, it only smears and spreads, turningthe page gray and ugly. Nothing can be done.

Te pages shiver suddenly, almost in anticipation, beforea blast of wind blows them into a frenzy. Te wind stings myeyes; but, to my surprise, it is warm and sweet, like the breathof a child. Te warmth engulfs the room, chasing away the mistclinging to the oor and the shadows lurking near the walls. Alight spins to the center of the room; then I freeze like a statueas a handlarge enough, it seems, to cup the whole world inits palmreaches out to me. Te ngers nd the forgotten penand lift it; and it shines all the brighter.

Now the ngers gently touch the pen to the page Ivedestroyed. I watch as the pen, by the power of the hand thatholds it, manipulates the blemish Ive created. Te ink rushesback together and grows darker, like a stain of blood on thepage. Ten the page smoothes, the line I made forms a word,and the word holds my gaze.

Finished

I stare at the book. So simple, so short. A great gustof the warm wind catches the cobwebs clinging in my mindthe fears, doubts and phantoms that have hounded me for so

longand carries them far, far awayas far away from me asthe east is from the west, or the sky is from the sea. And forthe rst time, I can breathereally breathe. Te wind lls mylungs, tasting sweeter than any air Ive tasted before; and witheach breath, I want to breathe it more.

Ten the hand reaches out for me, oering the pen. Ihesitate, but the hand stretches farther; so I take the pen withfaltering ngers. It is a hard thing to do, to take that bright andshining instrument into my unclean hands after it has been

wielded by the ngers before me; but the light increases as I do,as if someone is smiling at my decision.

Te hand recedes. I dont want it to go; I dont wantto be alone. But its presence stays, warming this place, warming

my heart. I look down at the book, at the pen in my hands. Mymind is wonderfully clear, and I know what I need to do. Withtrembling ngers I touch the pen to the pageand I begin to

write.

Pen and Paper

Elisabeth refsgarAge 17, Maple Shade, NJ



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Artists Challenge

Youve been hired to create a cross for

an upcoming Christian art festival. The

festival organizers want something

elaborate and unique, either in B&W

or color. The words Aberdeen

Christian Art Festival must be included

somewhere in the art scheme. The

artwork is to be submitted as a minimum

of 8x10.

The Cross

Send your essay to:

[email protected] Artists Challenge Winter

2011/12 in the subject line.

SUBMISSION DEADLINE:

April 15th, 2012

The winner will receive their workpublished, along with their photo, anda di

Magcloud Winter 2011_12 Issue Final

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Transcript of Magcloud Winter 2011_12 Issue Final