“Rusty, where does this spatula go?” I held up a heat-weathered and browning object of undetermined age, perfect for flipping ham in a skillet. Rusty, a heat-weathered and browning object himself, unbent himself from lifting a rack of steaming dishes from the dishwasher with a groan. “What Hannah?” “Where does this go?” I repeated, waving Rusty’s magic ham-wand and

Still here a child of the mud and meadow With sunshine curls and eyes of darkest pine There’s one from whom our hopes and dreams will grow. With feet that dance unclad in hardship’s snow, And lips that choose on songs and smiles to dine Still here a child of the mud and meadow. Though fear may set

I’m looking back, As I oft do when thinking of you And I wonder, Are you remembering those times, too? If I asked you, what would you say? I’m looking back, I see the steaming cups of coffee, The silly grins, The gazebo, that park now empty-- Why are they how I feel inside? I’m looking back,

Faded doors, Faded lives. Hearts will always sacrifice The things we want, The things we need, And at the end, Our hearts impede This lie we live Of up and down And all around us lies are found, But it’s okay. We learn to breathe And in the end, We’ll lay down. He Will know what meant our

“That dress is much too heavy for you. Give it to me.” Deirdre snatched the violet silk gown from Cynthia’s arms. “But it’s mine. My father gave that to me.” Cynthia made to grab the dress back, but Deirdre held it further away. “Yes, and your father is a man. He has no clue about women’s fashion.

I was exhausted, but my excitement gave me an energy I had never known before. My eyes were glued to the silver shape that hung in the blackness like a diamond on black velvet beyond the round porthole I was looking through. It seemed like the humming thrusters that were propelling my shuttle into the docking position were taking forever.

LET ME OUT! June felt a screech rise from the back of her head. She pinched her eyes shut and shook her head irritably. Stacks of order forms and their meaningless words swam in front of her. “I can’t,” she hissed to herself. “Unfortunately, we’re stuck here, kiddo.” A folder slapped across the top of her cubicle. She

Written in collaboration with Dr. Benson. I used to have a grudge against my college dorm because of all the dorms on the Bob Jones University campus, it was the furthest away from the Dining Common. But eventually, good old J.Y. Smith won my heart and I was one day surprised to find I had become sentimental about it.

Daddy's little helper on the roof? Well, yeah. Ever since I was seven years old, I didn't have any brothers around the house. I was It. I helped Daddy build the fence, mow the yard, shock wire the fence for our dog, and pour concrete — including putting my hand and feet imprints, plus a signature. That Day, it was building

Thump da dum. Thump da dum. Thump da da dum. Repeat. Shrieking, chanting, wild cries in a guttural language. The popping and crackle of a roaring bonfire consuming logs like toothpicks. And through it all the incessant, rolling drum beat like a death toll: Thump da dum, thump da dum, thump da da dum. Noise. Chaos. Like rushing water in

“Who is she and what is she doing in my sight?” I tapped one finger against my gilded throne while rubbing my other hand across my stubble. It was just thick enough to add a sharp shadow to my face without being unkempt. My gaze was practiced perfection. A combination of condescension and indifference. “She was caught in the fields,

I would give you all the stars in my eyes. I would weave you silks from my hair, And build you palaces of my bones In the midst of forests grown from my blood. Grown beside oceans salted and churning with my tears. I would give you all the songs my fragile lungs carried with them, And all the fragrant

I’m not sure how long I’ve been at it— Walking aimlessly for miles, Straying further and further away From the oasis of your embrace. With no real reason to escape More than feeling ashamed For the things that I’ve done, The things that I said. And despite the hurt that I brought, The pain that I caused,

There’s something about the light crashing against the walls, or maybe it’s the way her sheets lie on the floor, the way scattered textbooks bleed into the carpet, the way her computer screen glints off her glasses, the way the silence covers everything, becomes everything. And yet there’s still something beyond the silence, a sound within soundless

A youngish man in an oilskin coat scratched his red beard and leaned on the railing of the lighthouse – his lighthouse, with black ivy crawling up the whitewashed sides. Dark clouds quilted the sky out across the ocean, and the waves chopped and slashed at the air like cleavers. A whistle rose in his throat; a haunting whistle that mixed

I sought the Lord, and He found me. How can I fear the rain? My foundation is secure.