(Short Story and Poetry Categories)

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Poetry Category

ACM’s T.S. Eliot Award for 1st Place

Goes to Nancy Hance for The King’s Garden

ACM’s John Donne Award for 2nd Place

Goes to Sarah Andersen for My Name

ACM’s George Herbert Award for 3rd Place

Goes to Nancy Hance for Beneath the Robe of Righteousness

Honorable Mentions:

The Francis Thompson Award:  Kristina Benham for Purpose
The Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Award:   Stephen Kingsley for The Call to Worship

19 and up category

The Athanatos Christian Ministries C.S. Lewis Award (1st Prize)

Goes to Graham Kell for his story, Swimming Blind

Author of Hitler, the Holocaust, and the Bible, Joseph Keysor, is proud to sponsor the GK Chesterton Award (2nd Prize)

Which goes to Elizabeth Chance for her story, His Scars for Mine

Three Third Prizes- Presented in Alphabetical Order by Last Name

Athanatos Christian Ministries presents the Fyodor Dostoyevsky Award (3rd Prize)

To Derek Elkins for Theophany.

ChristianManuscriptSubmission presents the Leo Tolstoy Award (3rd Prize)

Which goes to Wallace Heller for Angel’s Mercy

An Anonymous Sponsor presents the George MacDonald Award (3rd prize)

Which goes to Katherine Thompson for They Left us the Moon.

Honorable Mentions

The Dante Award: Goes to Kathleen Moulton for Unfinished Bridges
The William Shakespeare Award: Goes to Sally Bishop for Shattered Neon

The John Wycliffe Award

Not given this year.

High School Category

The Athanatos Online Apologetics Academy JRR Tolkien Award (1st Prize)

Goes to Jennifer van den Bogerd for The Rain Sequence.

The Confident Christianity Dorothy Sayer’s Award (2nd Prize)

Goes to Caroline Carmichael for Belleau Wood.

Third Prizes- Presented in Alphabetical Order by Last Name

The John Milton Award (3rd Prize)

Goes to Rebecca Chance for The Dissenters.

The William Blake Award (3rd Prize)

Goes to Cody Milner for The Viking

The Sojourner Leatherwork Flannery O’Connor Award (3rd Prize)

Goes to Myra Stull for The  Cabin

Honorable Mentions

The Graham Greene Award: Goes to Meghan Gorecki – Thus Far .
The Charles Williams Award: Goes to Hannah Lowie - The Call .

To contact any of these authors for any reason you may request their contact information through the contest administrators at director@athanatosministries.org.  Most of them have indicated that they are available for interview.  Anthony Horvath, the executive director of Athanatos Christian Ministries, which is the host of the contest, is also available for interviews.

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is proud to present the 2009

Leo Tolstoy Award

to

W.A. Heller

Lawton, OK

Third Place

(Category:  19 and up)

Bio:

Born in the Bronx, Wallace grew up in more places than he cares to recall. In the late 70s, he attended high school in Redondo Beach and spent the next decade on loading docks and in print shops, hoofing it around Chicago hawking typesetting and graphic design, while pursuing more than his share of dreams that didn’t pan out. In the 90s, he attended the City Colleges of Chicago and National-Louis University, then medical school in the Caribbean. While living in the West Indies, Wallace discovered something in this world but not of this world—the Christian faith as practiced in the traditions of the Church of the Province of the West Indies. As the first decade of the new century unfolded, he finished residency at Beth Israel Medical Center in New York City and relocated to the heartland. A practicing physician since 2002, Wallace aspires to attend seminary in the Anglican tradition. Nearly 50, Wallace has lived lots of places, seen lots of things, and met lots of people, all of which inform his observations and perspective.

His creative projects appear at www.lotcmedia.com.

To contact W. A. Heller you may seek his contact information through the contest administrators by sending an email to director@athanatosministries.org.

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SCROLL DOWN TO READ THE STORY

Angel’s Mercy

by W. A. Heller

The sweat clung to Christy’s back as she pushed the stroller against the curb and on to the sidewalk.  She and Angel were in a hurry; today was the day the man in the store said to call about the job.  They had gotten up early, but it made no difference.  The air outside their first floor apartment was as thick and still as the air inside.  The pavement they just crossed felt sticky and soft.  Before they left, Christy went through every pocket in every pair of jeans and the bottom of her purse–even her coat in the closet–but she was short on solid quarters.  Thank God her neighbor Teena could spare a few–Teena always came through, at least she always did what she could.  Christy put the quarters into a little sack and wrapped it tightly with a rubber band.  She slid the sack into the front pocket of her shorts where it made an uncomfortable lump, but she didn’t care.  All that mattered was that she had enough to use the pay phone and wash Angel’s clothes; he was on his last clean tee shirt.  He grew out of things so quickly now.  “We’ll go to the Thrift Shop next time mama gets her check,” she told Angel.  She called the second hand her “unique boutique”.  Most everything she owned came from there–clothes and toys especially.  They sold furniture too, but she had no way to carry that home.

Angel was too big for the stroller, but Christy couldn’t tug him along and carry the laundry at the same time.  She squeezed him into the seat and let him hold the bottle of detergent on his lap.  Pillowcases made good laundry bags she discovered; they didn’t tear like the plastic bags the stores gave out, and you could put one in the basket underneath the stroller’s seat and another behind the seat where there was space to store stuff.  You could even tie one to the bar that ran between the handles of the stroller.  Angel giggled and smiled and waved at the trucks that rumbled past.  He liked trucks more than anything–he told his mama that he was going to buy her a truck when he was big, so they didn’t have to walk everywhere.  To tell the truth, the trucks scared Christy.  A woman and her kids got hit in the crosswalk a few months ago.  The paper said a church was asking for donations to help the family send the bodies back to Mexico.

Highland Avenue was the main drag on this end of town; it even had a bus that passed every hour on the hour.  Eight blocks west stood a strip mall at the intersection of Route 21, the highway that led south, past the cement plant and out to Combi-brands where they made bacon and hot dogs.  A girl who worked there told Christy “you come home at night with bits of meat and grease in your hair.”  “A job was a job,” Christy thought.  “Besides,” she had heard, “if you worked there, you could take stuff home from time to time.”  Lever Brothers had a plant on this side of town as well.  If the wind was right, you could smell it a mile away.

Duds-N-Suds was the nearest laundromat to the Windmere Village apartments where she and Angel lived.  The apartments had a laundry room, but she avoided it–the machines were mostly broken, and Teena had been robbed there.  Teena said they shoved her around too like they wanted more than just the money.  She said they laughed when she started crying and they saw how scared she was.  Eight blocks turned into six, then four.  She made a game out of the obstacles that cluttered the sidewalk–telephone poles, fire hydrants, newspaper boxes, signposts.  She weaved around them like a police car on a chase; Angel said, “faster mama, faster” as he pretended to steer.  This side of town didn’t have those little dips in the curb at the cross streets, so every corner meant the same routine–look out for traffic, get the stroller off the curb without tipping over, cross the street, get the stroller on the next curb without tipping over, and keep going.  Christy hadn’t forgotten the time she was crossing the street when Angel was little.  It was rush hour and had started raining.  The bottom fell out of a shopping bag.  The groceries fell in a heap at her feet; cans rolled in all directions.  She tried to hold on to her son and pick it all up at the same time, but when the light turned, the traffic started coming.  They just drove right around her, laughing and honking and calling her names.  “Nobody ever gives a damn,” she concluded.  “Nobody gives you a break.”

Halfway there, she stopped to catch her breath.  Angel was squirming in his seat.  She really wanted this job; she could pay Teena to watch Angel.  They’d done that before, and it worked.  Teena had three of her own at home and never went anywhere.  She started pushing the stroller again.  She passed a liquor store, then “Break Out Now Bail Bonds–Open 24 Hours”, then “XXX Books and Novelties.”  She hated walking past that–it made her skin crawl.  Paco’s Tacos came next.  That’s where she met Angel’s dad.  It seemed so long ago–Angel was nearly four now.  She had stopped going to school the summer before she got pregnant and was just hanging out.  So much had changed so quickly.  Still, she didn’t feel like giving up.  Angel was the best thing that ever happened to her, and she knew it.  For once she had somebody who really loved her.

She crossed a parking lot littered with bits of broken glass that crackled and crunched under her feet.  Someone had smashed a quart bottle, maybe two.  “Why did people have to be so crazy?”  Someone else had dumped the ashtray from a car right there on the ground.  Crumpled paper bags sat by the curb and flattened empty cigarette packs dotted the asphalt.  The smell of sour milk came from behind the Mini Mart where the plastic crates were piled high next to the back door and the dumpster overflowed.  The occasional wad of fresh chewing gum competed with a multitude of blotches that stained the sidewalk separating the parking spaces from the storefronts.  A piece of cardboard from a package of Ding-Dongs attracted a colony of ants; a half finished Slurpee lay on its side beneath a sign that read “Put Litter In Its Place.”  Variety King was vacant now, but the kiddie ride remained outside the door.  Rocket-To-The-Moon it was called.  The last time they tried, it took the quarters but wouldn’t move.  Angel had started crying, but there was nothing she could do.  Now, it looked like someone had vandalized the coin box and cut the cord.  Angel said nothing as they walked past.

The front doors to the coin laundry were open wide, one held in place against the wall by a garbage can, the other by an ashtray on a stand.  “Shoot, no AC,” she said.  Angel looked up.  “Mama… milky, milky.”  He giggled and rubbed his belly.  Through the large windows she saw orange and yellow plastic chairs–those molded kind that were bolted together in a row.  She could see Mrs. Flores sitting on a chair in the back near the TV.  The door to the alley was open, but an iron gate with three huge padlocks prevented anyone from getting in.  You had to ask Mrs. Flores for the key to the bathroom; if she didn’t know you, she pretended not to understand English.  Mrs. Flores made sure no one stole anything, at least not while she was there.  She always treated Christy nicely–called her “mi hija”–and made a fuss over Angel.  “Papacito, ven con tu abuela,” she said.  Angel never acted up around Mrs. Flores.  He had known her forever.

Recessed into the walls, Loadstar dryers lined both sides of the store; most were missing the knob at the end of the lever that set the heat.  Back to back, two rows of yellow Speed Queen washers ran along the middle.  A few avocado-colored ones sat in a corner beneath the sign ”WORK CLOTHES ONLY”.  The change machine had duct tape covering the slot for dollar bills and “out of order” scrawled in black marker across the front.  From the looks of it, someone had tried to jimmy it open one time too many.  The ceiling had seen better days; water stains and warped panels surrounded light fixtures that hummed and flickered.  The tiles on the floor were worn and mismatched; a faded path led down each of the aisles and back to the starting point.  Tired looking signs appeared in several places.  “NO DYEING.”  “DO NOT SIT ON TABLES.”  “NO RUBBER OR PLASTIC ITEMS IN DRYERS.”  “DO NOT LEAVE CHILDREN UNATTENDED.”  Lint collected in corners and along the baseboard, even in the cracks in the paneling.  An old vending machine–the kind with the knobs that pull to release the product–was turned against the wall.  The air smelled like cigarettes and “Fresh Breeze” laundry detergent.  Chairs were sticky.  Linoleum peeled from the sides of the tables; cigarette burns marred the edges.  Christy learned the hard way–wipe the table before you set anything on it.  Someone drew a picture in the dust on the counter; someone else wrote his name.  Flies circled a half-full pail of empty cans.  Printed announcements and handwritten messages covered each other on the bulletin board.  “Work From Home–No Experience Necessary.”  ”Make $$Money$$ In Your Spare Time.”   “Furniture for sale.”  “Babysitting.”  In large letters a sign above the bulletin board read, “Visit our other locations!  Suds-ville.  Laundry Town.”  That sign cracked Christy up.  “If they’re anything like this, why bother?”

In one corner, an oscillating fan on a pole blew hot humid air across the room, competing with the noise from the traffic outside and the washers and dryers in use.  In the other corner, the TV blared.  “¡Ahorre, ahorre, ahorre!  South Blvd Flea Market.  A precios bajos–la mejor calidad. Abierto sábado y domingo. Venga a South Blvd Flea Market donde usted encontrará lo que más necesita.  Ropa nueva y usada, botas y botines, herramienta, discos de sus grupos favoritos, cosas de interés para toda la familia, y mucho, mucho mas.  South Blvd Flea Market–donde su dinero alcanzará!” Christy busied herself unloading the dirty laundry into two machines near the back of the store in sight of Mrs. Flores.  She felt safer that way. Angel liked to push the stroller around; only when mom gave him a look did he settle down or find something else to do.  He used to like it when she put him in one of the laundry carts and pushed him around the store, but lately he had outgrown that; he wanted to be the one doing all the pushing.   She was afraid he would wander outside; he did that once and made it down to the Rocket ride before she caught up to him.  He was becoming more independent, and that scared her.  He was supposed to go to preschool in the fall.  Just the thought of that made Christy feel uncertain and lonely.

The washers loaded and running, Christy started thinking about what she was going to say when she called about the job.  Those kinds of things made her nervous, and she was afraid she would sound stupid or silly.  She checked the number of quarters remaining.  Just enough to make a call and dry the clothes.  There won’t be any treats today.  There wasn’t enough for that.

Christy figured it would be better that Mrs. Flores watched Angel for a moment than to take him along while she used the phone.  Sometimes Mrs. Flores would let him pretend to sweep the floor.  She usually had something to play with in the pockets of her smock, sometimes even a sucker or some of that Mexican candy that was so sweet it made your teeth hurt.  Mrs. Flores was one of the few people Christy trusted.  Another was Teena.  Besides that there was a gym teacher back in junior high who had really been good to her, who listened and made her see that she could accomplish things if she tried, but that was years ago.  Sometimes she wished Mrs. Flores were her mom.

The pay phone in the laundry had been removed ages ago; the paint underneath was a different color.  There was a perfect outline of a phone around a hole in the wall with wires sticking out.  Christy knew there was a phone at the Mini-Mart and another across the street where the McCrory used to be.  “They can’t both be jammed or broken, can they?”  Christy had worked at the McCrory until they folded.  The job was a lifesaver.  Mom threw her out when she found out Christy was pregnant and found out who the father was.  Christy moved in with Angel’s dad, but that didn’t work.  The manager at the McCrory eventually made her a cashier, but she preferred working in the basement where they had the artificial flowers and the toys, the fish and canaries and parakeets.  She knew there was no going back, but if there was, that was the job she would like to have most.  It was quiet and peaceful and fun.

Christy led Angel over to Mrs. Flores.  “Be good, Little Man,” she told him.  “Do everything she tells you while mama goes and uses the phone.”  Angel found a toy truck and started playing with it, rolling it across the floor, making stops to pick up cargo and get gas.  “Vroom,” the truck rolled across the floor.  “Vroom, vroom,” it made a wide arc and collided with the wall.  “Vroom, vroom, vroom,” he gunned the engine and let it fly.  It disappeared down the aisle and out of sight.

Angel peered around the last washer in the row.  He had the aisle to himself except for a fat lady wearing slippers and a housedress who was sitting by the window, smoking and reading a magazine.  The sound of rushing water started and stopped like when mama filled the tub at home, and it was time for a bath.  Machines whirred and hummed; one shook back and forth violently as if trying to rid itself of something that had snuck up and grabbed it from behind.  Angel spied where the toy truck had rolled.  It was resting near the foot of the oscillating fan.  The pole that held the fan wobbled and shook as the machine atop it turned, the blades colliding with the wire housing and emitting a shrill rasp of metal on metal as the mechanism reached the end of each arc.  Angel liked things that moved and made noise.  The fan was taller than Angel and seemed to grow as he approached it; the machine behaved as if it had a will of its own.  Suddenly, Angel heard something that caused him to stop what he was doing.  Someone, somewhere told Angel “Don’t touch that” and Angel obeyed.  Angel wasn’t sure if he heard it in his head or in his heart.  He hadn’t heard this voice before, or, if he had, it hadn’t been in ages.  It was a voice he vaguely remembered if he remembered it at all, a voice from before Angel entered the world of things to touch or taste or pick up and carry home, a voice from before there was an Angel, yet he found it familiar and reassuring and compelling all the same.  “Come here.”  The voice from nowhere returned, neither loud nor angry nor impatient.  Just insistent.  He retrieved his truck and retreated down the aisle, driving his truck along the tops of the washers as he went.

Halfway down the aisle, he stopped, truck in hand, beside the obsolete vending machine facing the wall.  Cobwebs stretched from one foot to the other.  He heard the sound of metal creaking and scraping followed by several thumps and the crackle of something crisp.  “Take, eat,” the voice intoned.  Curious, he reached into the space between the front of the machine and the wall it faced and found the tray near the bottom.  In it was a bag of cheese puffs, Angel’s favorite.  The bag was open; he squealed with delight.  An old saw written in a dusty book gained new meaning.  “He rained down manna for the people to eat, he gave them the grain of heaven.  Men ate the bread of angels, he sent them all the food they could eat.”

Angel carried the truck in one hand and the snack in the other and climbed up on a plastic chair.  He feasted, and his belly was filled.  The empty bag fell to the floor behind him.  On the counter within reach, a little cardboard stand displayed church tracts printed on pastel shades of paper.  Pink.  Blue.  Yellow.  Green.  More curious than contrary, Angel grabbed a handful just as his mom reappeared, a look of frustration on her face and a tone of discouragement in her voice.  “Put those back.  How many times…” Christy’s voice trailed off.  The titles caught her attention as she took them from his hands.  “Where Will You Spend Eternity?”  “Probably right here,” she chuckled.  “A Love Like No Other.”  “Sounds like one of those Harlequin’s.”  The Thrift Shop had boxes and boxes of them, ten cents each, mostly with the covers torn off.  She liked to read them for fun.  Life, she realized, wasn’t really like that.  Not even close.  “God Wants You To Stay Married.”  “What a joke!  You have to get married first for that to even be a possibility.”  “In Case You Have An Appointment To Keep.”  She carefully put the tracts back in the box, all but that last one.  That one she folded and put in her pocket.

Christy was glad that Angel seemed content and hadn’t gotten into trouble while she was gone.  Mrs. Flores took good care of him.  Angel had his moments, and it would be lying if she said that she didn’t get overwhelmed.  She had learned a lot in the last four years.  She was glad he was here.  She wouldn’t have it any other way.  She wouldn’t change that for the world.

The orange powder on his face and fingers puzzled her though.  Mrs. Flores must have given him something.  For that she was grateful, but she felt let down about something else.  The man in the store wasn’t in today like he said he would be; they told her to call back another day.  Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after.  Nobody could say for sure.  Just call back another day.  Another day like today.  Every day was turning into a day like today.  Different in little ways but not by very much.  What was left of the quarters Christy used for the dryers; she folded the laundry when it was done and neatly filled the pillowcases.  With a clean washcloth, she wiped Angel’s fingers and mouth.  She squeezed Angel back into his seat and loaded the stroller.  She looked back at Mrs. Flores to wave good-bye and thank her for taking care of Angel, but Mrs. Flores was no longer there, and the TV was strangely silent.  Christy shrugged her shoulders and started out the door.  She had her Angel, and it was going to be a long walk home.

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