Stop for a while on a narrow stretch of New England farmland. First, you notice the smell. The land still remembers being a dairy farm under your great-great-grandfather’s hands, and it offers up the smell of manure and meadow grass like a tour guide, whispering to close your eyes and let your imagination run free. After a moment of

Another wave crashed inside the boat, filling it with water. The ship was surging back and forth as the waves punched into it over and over. The wind screeched, and the thunder yelled. The men on the vessel were weary from fighting the sudden onslaught of vengeful weather. Their soaked clothes clung to their skin as they attempted to bail

Stop and breathe. The humanity in me struggles to learn lessons the first time around. Experience is a brutal, tireless instructor for life. Over and over, I find myself sprinting on the treadmill of activity, running endlessly without moving in any direction, seldom stopping to catch my breath and acknowledge the miles I’ve clocked. But I am not the

I hear myself breathing. My inhaling comes slow and steady, as does my exhaling. Each breath is perfectly paced, never coming too early or too late. I can tell just by watching my diaphragm rise and fall. As I turn my head, I see Mother and Father huddled together on the settee. Father tries to wrap his arms around her,

October 16, 1793 Paris, France Outwardly, I am calm and composed even as the rickety wooden cart jolts me over the cobblestones. I avert my gaze from the gleaming blade in the distance, turning to take in the sea of faces. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a little girl jumping up and down. I turn toward

Repose is a little child at play, Frolicking about in his yard all day. Repose is a child in bed at night, Asleep without fear until morning’s first light. Repose is a child in Father’s care: No trouble or terror can find him there. Repose is a child in Mother’s arms Who is safe, secure, and sheltered

When I rest– my mind still runs. It chases the everlasting sun. Ambitions are high. Dreams are flashing by. My heart beats fast at every thought of my past. Every mistake I made is pounding in my spirit’s shade. When I rest, I don’t drift against the wall. No– I don’t rest at all.

The arrival of something / so tender we look away and laugh. —Ralph Burns Spring arrives in tender swaths of light That brush the darkness from the sleeping trees, And drape the dogwood’s head with wreaths of white. The chill of winter trembles at the sight— Opened palms of pink undo the freeze And thaw the twigs with tender swaths

Like a ship crashing between waves, I’m tossed far from the shore– Resisting the urge to give up, But I can’t go on anymore. Like the uncontrollable tide, My enemies gather around me, Drowning me–doubts multiplied: “God does not deliver.” Lord, where can I fly? On whom can I rely? Like the sand shifting beneath the waves,

Laughter isn’t all that new— It’s been here for a while, Yet every time I’m struck by joy, I reinvent the smile. A friendly thought entreated me While lying in my bed: Upon my lap—much like a dog— A question plopped its head. If I could travel back in time To see some famous person, Who

In life’s great furnace, we’re put to the test, Our souls refined, our hearts held to the flame Yet Christian values guide us through each quest, And shape our character as we proclaim His grace and mercy—our guiding light. We walk with purpose, hand in hand, in stride, Embracing virtue, shining ever bright, Our faith in Christ—

I come to visit you each day, My dear and quiet friend, To watch you dance and play At the day’s gloriously golden end, And to watch the tall, dark rushes Bend in rhythm with your song— The music hushing the turmoil within— As the harmonizing wind hums along. I come again, my flowing friend, Amid life’s endless,

Honorable mention of the English Forum poetry division. A letter Born into existence Cascades into countless more with Decadent dexterity. Every sentence echoes a Feeling. Gladness. Boredom. Heartbreak. Pain. It’s sounds, Just syllables put together, but people Know what to call it. Language. Many small sounds meaning Nothing by themselves, but Opening up a whole thought when Put together.

Honorable mention of the English Forum poetry division. Carefully containing the quiet wildness of watercolors. Layering and layering to showcase acrylic’s plastic glow. Cheddar-textured oils glide tastefully across the canvas, Spreading the buttery scent over the sketch. Digging my hands into the sulfur smell of plasticine. Using my finger bones to ply the cold clay into a satisfying shape.

Honorable mention of the English Forum short fiction division. For the past few days, the parchment at my desk lay empty. I’d only managed one word in the top left corner: Ayaks. That wasn’t to say I hadn’t tried to write, but—well, I couldn’t seem to get my thoughts together. I would eventually. I inhaled,

Honorable mention of the English Forum creative nonfiction division. My father took me through the woods behind his childhood home. The air was crisp, customary for late March in the Indiana farmland. The wind droned its bass voice in my ears and made my hair twitch in all directions. I stood at the edge of the forest and lowered my

Winner of the English Forum poetry division. At the overlook, bright red paint Bursts against the dull rock face, Trickling down like blood oozing from An open wound. The mountains mourn. They miss their Native caretakers, those made to march Far away into the flatlands, if they were not first Killed among these hills. In their absence blight burned through

Winner of the English Forum creative nonfiction division. There they were again. I halted at my window when I noticed hundreds of flecks of white and pale pink outside, bright and delicate against the web of brown, bare tree branches which were still hibernating for the last few weeks of winter. For a few seconds, I gaped at the single,

In the silence of the sanctuary, The bread and juice still linger on my tongue— The blood and body of the Father’s only Son Nailed naked to a tree at Calvary. The punishment of death should have been mine— But the beaten back and the brow of briar Were placed upon the One with no wrong desire, Who seeks