(Short Story and Poetry Categories)

(scroll down and click on the names and titles to read their stories in full.  Discuss them on the forum)

Join our mailing list to be alerted of new developments!

Buy Anthology on Amazon.com

View Back Cover

Buy the Anthology from Publisher

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.

Join our mailing list to be alerted of new developments!

Dorothy Sayer’s Award

to

Caroline Carmichael

Chelsea, Alabama

Second Place

(category: High School)

Bio:

Caroline Carmichael is fifteen years old and lives in Chelsea, Alabama with her family. She is one of four sisters and loves music and writing. She fell in love with writing when she wrote her first poem in the third grade, and has written many poems and short stories since. Caroline has found her music and writing to be her favorite way of expressing her love for her Creator, as well as His own incredible love for His creation.

To contact Caroline Carmichael you may request her contact information through the contest administrators by sending an email to director@athanatosministries.org.

DISCUSS ON FORUM

Important Copyright Information

SCROLL DOWN TO READ THE STORY

A Miracle At Belleau Wood

By Caroline Carmichael

Copyright 2010.  All rights reserved.

“A Miracle At Belleau Wood” is inspired by a true story of the Christmas Truce at Belleau Wood, France, during World War I. A miracle took place that night, and this fictional story explores the very heart of the soldier who started it all.

It was minutes before midnight on December 25, 1918—a night I remember better than any other. Just as a snowflake will lodge itself in the crook of a tree branch, so will this date forever remain embedded in my memory—no, not merely my memory, but into my heart and into my very soul. One could say it marks a milestone in the life of this undeserving man—a man by the name of Anasvindo, meaning “strength of God”.

That special Christmas night my blue German eyes were opened. A veil lifted. It was like that feeling one experiences when one has searched diligently for something, only to find it directly beneath his nose. It was an inspiration, a hope—a realization that not all things happen when or as expected.

Life is full of surprises—gifts presented randomly to a loved one of the Creator’s as a little reminder of His ever-present goodness and faithfulness. Every person has received one in his or her lifetime, but very few are willing to recognize it and accept it for what it is. It is love; a love that surpasses all understanding; a love that exists, but most fail to see through their blinded perception of a cruel loveless world.  I was once among the blind, but this is the story of how I received my sight.  This is the story of my miracle at Belleau Wood.

*   *   *

I hated snow. For me, snow was a dark omen. I had nearly lost my life in a blizzard when I was a small boy, and it had done me little good since.

The year was 1918, and I was nineteen years old. It had been a difficult year. Winter was approaching quickly, and I dreaded the first snowfall. Trenches were colder than the usual uncomfortable chill, and rainy days were tripled in their misery.

I sat in shock on the hard earth, my hands trembling as they struggled to place the dirt-stained letter back in its envelope. The news of my mother’s death echoed painfully in my mind, and I wept, for I had not even known that she was sick. I gloomily awaited the gentle coolness of a snowflake that was sure to rest itself on my skin as I slowly tucked the envelope into my coat pocket. To my surprise, none came. I began a fast descent into a cold emotional solitude.

As the season dragged on, I thought of nothing else but my mother. I wallowed in grief and lost all interest in the things around me. Contrary to my optimistic nature, I became hollow and silent, rarely speaking at all.  Near the end of October, I caught pneumonia.  Great, I thought, it is like my life is cascading speedily down a snow bank. So where is the dreaded snow? I looked expectantly to the sky. No snow.

By December, I hardly possessed the physical and emotional strength to lift my gun, let alone pull the trigger. I was going to die. I wanted to die. My mother had been my inspiration, my hero, and my friend. And now she was gone. What else was there to live for? I had no one. Once again, my eyes grazed the sky for the ominous flurries.

I never gave up my search for the tiny crystals. They would come. I was sure of it. They were like the tiny pieces of my world every time it fell apart. God mocked my pain through winter and cold. Every snowflake I had ever known tasted of His laugher. I glared at the sky. “Bring it on!” I would cry to the heavens, my fist trembling in challenge. “Bring on the snowflakes!”  Then I would crumble brokenly to the ground.

Unwillingly, I began to notice improvement in my health. I foolishly fought against it, too miserable to recognize any value in myself. However, as most things had been in my life, I lost the battle and was soon back on my feet.

My days were filled with explosions and gunfire, and my nights were as day as the bombs and bullets illuminated the sky. People and noise surrounded me, but I heard and felt none of it. I was lost in my own pathetic world, absently working the bolt of my gun with a practiced hand.

There were times I remember looking through my gun’s sights into the faces of the men I was fighting. Some were older and others young like myself. Each held the same expression on his face: grim…hard…determined. Fear was never deliberately displayed on their faces, for most made an effort to keep such feelings hidden. But I could see it.  Like small sparks in their eyes, it shone clear and unprotected.

If one looked closely, one could see the tremor in another man’s fingers as he worked to pull the trigger—an action he knew would likely result in another man’s death. Nobody wanted to fight. But as most unwanted things in life are, it was necessary. Looking once more into the distraught faces of the men in the opposite trench, I would lift my barrel, take careful aim, and then dejectedly fire a round into the sky before sinking back down to the ground. Would the world ever know peace again? Would I ever know peace again?

Time dragged on. I was regaining more strength each day, though my heart felt as weak as could be. My buddies struggled to lift my spirits, reminding me each day that Christmas was drawing nearer and nearer.  They were not accustomed to seeing me so melancholy. They meant well, I knew, but what was the use of celebrating a holiday dedicated to the birth of the Son of a God who cared so little about me? What was there to be celebrated? This “loving” God had abandoned His own Son upon a cross! Where was the love in that?

On the night of December 24, visions of my mother overwhelmed my dreams. In my dream, she stood by my childhood bedside, her eyes closed and her face lifted to the sky in holy worship. Her lips moved in song, but no sound could be heard. Her entire body was bathed in glorious light and a robe of pure white silk enveloped her small frame.  Behind her, a staircase of gold and pearl led through the ceiling and into the heavens above.

I watched her silently singing. She seems…different, I remember thinking. There were no signs of stress and pain on her face. Her wrinkles had been smoothed away, and an angelic smile rested gracefully on her lips. Her thin gray hair had become beautiful waves of silky silver. She looked happy…peaceful.

I stared in wonder into her uplifted face. She ceased her singing.  I watched through curious eyes. She had not looked down at me yet. Suddenly, she knelt on her knees beside my bed, and bowed her head. Her lips began to move again, this time forming words. Still, no sound came. I rubbed at my ears. Had my hearing failed me? My fingers rapped nervously on the bed frame. I sighed. How can I hear the tapping of my fingers, but not the words of my mother? Confused and hurt, I leaned forward in my bed, my ears begging for sound to fill them.

I looked helplessly at my mother. She had lifted her head and was looking earnestly into my face. Her eyebrows furrowed in concern and sorrow. She stared silently into my eyes, a look of pure grief dimming the light on her face. She was saying something, desperately searching my face. I stared back confused. She lifted her head to the heavens, her mouth moving in a desperate prayer for guidance, and then she returned her attention to me. A single tear slipped down her cheek. A dagger of pain pierced my heart. I hated watching her swim in the grief that I knew I had somehow been the cause of, for it was evident that she grieved for more than the stopping of my ears.

She was still speaking, practically imploring. I stared into her face, striving with everything within me to decipher the silent words bouncing off her lips. I analyzed every movement in her face and every glint in her eyes. But I understood none of it.

She stopped speaking and stared down at me. She shook her head sadly. Raising her head, Mother looked to the heavens. As if acting on cue from an unseen and unheard command, she nodded, took one last affectionate look at me, and then turned to ascend the stairs behind her. I pleaded and cried out through my sobs for her to stop, begging her not to leave me here alone in the cold darkness.

She turned on the third step, and then stopped. Looking straight into my eyes, she spoke, and this time I heard her.

“Listen, Anasvindo,” she said, casting a longing into my heart as she spoke my name. “Listen and believe,” turning her back to me, she continued her ascent.

She never glanced back again, her full attention fixed above her. Her eyes were closed in a familiar way as if she listened to beautiful music.

A volcano of frustration and confusion erupted within me. “Listen to what? Believe what!” I cried out brokenly. But she had already disappeared. The darkness closed in around me.

I jerked awake to a strong hand gripping my shoulder. Rubbing my eyes, I thought about the dream. Listen, she had said, listen and believe…

“Merry Christmas, Son! Get up! We don’t want you sleeping away the holiday, now do we?” a gruff voice interrupted my mingled thoughts. I looked up into the face of Sergeant Schultz.

“No, Sir,” I mumbled disoriented as I stumbled to attention. He began to walk away. Suddenly, I realized what he had just said. “Christmas?” I blinked in surprise.

Chuckling, Sergeant Schultz turned back. “Yes, private. It is Christmas. I have just returned from a discussion with the Americans. We are declaring a Christmas Truce. There is to be absolutely no firing on either side for the rest of the day. Enjoy, lad!” He walked away.

Leaning against the moist wall of earth, I closed my eyes and sank to the ground. Christmas…how had I forgotten? Beside me, my friend Frederick chuckled at my reaction as he shuffled a deck of cards in his large calloused hands. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I thought of the dream.

My mother loved to sing, I remembered with… a smile.  I paused. When had I last done one of those? A week? A month? I could not remember. I giggled. A giggle? Really? I tried it again. I giggled. I tried it again, and the giggle bubbled over into a laugh. A laugh. Baffled, I shook my head. I had just laughed.

An old familiar sensation filled my heart. For the first time in what felt like years but had merely been a couple of months, I was experiencing true happiness. I laughed again, this time harder. Soon enough tears were streaming down my face, and my empty stomach was aching with a very endurable pain. A pain called laughter. A pain called joy.

Wiping my eyes, I heard a clutter and instinctively turned toward the sound. I didn’t stop laughing. I couldn’t stop laughing. Fredrick stared at me with wide eyes, his jaw hanging low. He didn’t even bother to retrieve his scattered cards from the muddy floor of the trench. He just stared. Surprised. Shocked. Then his jaw pulled itself back into place and the corners of his mouth lifted as he joined with relief in my laughter.

We were still lost to our laughter when some of our buddies found us. We were practically collapsed on one another in our hysterics. Why were we laughing again?

They stared at us strangely. Giving up, they shook their heads. “Merry Christmas, fellows,” one muttered as they walked away.

Holding his sides, Fredrick stared at me through teary eyes, “I knew you would come through.” He slapped my back and shuffled to his feet. I stared up at him in wonder.

“What made you so sure?” I could not help asking.

“I prayed.” He said simply. “The miracles of Christmas…” he sighed, looking up into the cloudy morning sky. Shaking his head in a strange awestruck manner, he returned his attention to me. “I tell you, Anasvindo, God never was One to forget to leave a present.” He chuckled and then left me to think on his words.

Night came quickly, and the darkness was like a veil as it descended over the horizon. It was nearing midnight and we crouched silently in our trenches, cautious of any surprise attacks under the cover of darkness. Indeed it was Christmas, but none of us wished to take any chances, for the day would soon be over and the Truce brought to an end. The merriment of the day was replaced with the tension of the night, and the eerie sound of an owl triggered a chill down my spine. Not a soul moved.  I searched the sky for snow. There was none.

I forced unpleasant memories away, and focused on the faces around me. Every eye searched another’s, fear and anxiety reflected in all. I had seen the same reflection too many times in my mother’s eyes to fail to recognize it elsewhere.  Mother… I winced at her memory. She had told me to listen and believe. But listen to what? Believe what?

I thought about Fredrick’s words. “I tell you, Anasvindo,” he had said, “God never was One to forget to leave a present.” I pondered these words, and almost hesitantly, I allowed them to take a place in my heart. I thought about God, and about my past few months in cold depression. I thought of how strange it was that I had never once laid eyes on snow during this difficult chapter in my life. The many times I had thought the chapter to come to an end and the book to a close, I was surprised when the pen was picked back up.

And then I understood. It dawned on me like a sudden brightness in a darkened room: I had never been abandoned. Not even in my mother’s death. Trials in my life flashed before my eyes, and I experienced a wonderful revelation. I had been wrong— entirely blinded to the Truth. God had been there through it all, helping me along even when I could not recognize Him at work or hear His quiet “I love you’s.” I had even challenged Him, daring God to make it snow. There had been no snowfall.

I remembered my dream the night before, and a random psalm I vaguely remember from my childhood brought itself back into my memory. I could almost hear my mother’s gentle caressing voice as she softly spoke the verse over me, “You dance over me while I am unaware. You sing all around, but I never hear a sound…” I smiled, enjoying the pleasant sensation in my heart as I did so. I repeated the words inwardly. My eyes widened in understanding. “Listen,” my mother had said, “Listen and believe.” The verse! I spoke the words softly to myself, “You sing all around, but I never hear a sound.”  I lowered my head in shame. God had been singing, and I had failed to hear it.

Looking around me into the night, I saw it. I examined my life through a whole new perspective, suddenly recognizing for the first time where God had stepped in and made what had been wrong and hurtful into something that had become wonderful. How could I have been so blind, so deaf to the music of the Creator?

I stared at the winter sky. God deserved something beautiful tonight. Perhaps there was something I could do, a gift I could present…

Ignoring my buddies’ bewildered glances, I placed my gun on the frozen earth and shakily stood to my feet. Fear and doubt built up within me as I stared past the trenches and into the night. I knew I was taking a dangerous chance in doing so. Although I could not see them, I felt the icy stare of hundreds of enemy rifles pointed in my direction. Raising my head to the sky, I drew a deep breath, and began to sing.

“Silent night, Holy night,” I struggled against the tremor in my voice and then continued, adding more strength to my voice. “All is calm, all is bright…” I almost stopped in fright when an American soldier stood in his trench and faced me. Swallowing the fear and doubt, I returned my attention to heaven. I was relieved when I watched the other man’s mouth open and join in the song in his own language.

“Round young virgin, mother and Child…” we sang. Together we watched in shared wonder as one by one men on both sides across the battlefield dropped their guns and stood to their feet to join in the hymn. A gruff boisterous voice from behind me belted “Holy Infant so tender and mild.” I glanced back and smiled into the happy face of Frederick. He grinned back, a gentle understanding twinkling in his eyes.

Something cold and fragile tickled my cheek. I looked up, and immediately burst into laughter. It was snowing! I smiled at the American soldier through the heavy flakes as the singing grew louder and louder. When one verse ended, we began another.

I remember pondering the simple glory of it all. We were in the middle of perhaps the worst war in history, and yet both sides of the fight were standing in musical harmony, belting a Christmas carol into the night. I looked into each face around me. A mixture of American, German, alto, and tenor soldiers stared back at me, a smile on each of their faces.  A wave of peace and contentment washed over the battlefield, and I closed my eyes, taking it all in. I knew it was God; my heart and everything else within me shouted the truth of it.

The trees rustled with a cool breeze, and the snow made a fresh layer upon the earth, ridding the battlefield of hostile blood and replacing it with new promise. Men sang around me, their voices lifted in harmony. As I listened, the doors of my heart opened wide, and then I knew. He was singing. God was singing, and I could hear it. He was singing a song of love, a lullaby to His children on the battlefield. Opening my eyes, I lifted my voice with the others, singing back to Him with all my heart, with all my soul, and with all my mind. I believed.

Inspired by Country Music artist Garth Brook’s song “Belleau Wood”

DISCUSS ON FORUM

(Comments are accepted but please reserve criticism and feedback to the forum)