We’ve had great participation in our writing challenge and very good entries. In the end we had three that squeaked past the others into the finals. So here are your 2015 Autumn Writing Challenge Finalists: R. J. Skaer, Lady Arin, and Katherine.

All that’s left is to select the winner. In this round you’ll choose from these entries and vote in the poll at the end of this post for one entry you think is best.

The entry receiving the most votes will be the winner, and the author will receive a $25 e-gift card from either Amazon or B&N. (In case of a tie, I’ll draw for the winner).

Voting will last until midnight (Pacific time), Sunday, October 11.

And now the finalist entries (presented in the order in which they were submitted):

From R. J. Skaer

Jennah knew how the government Supervisors worked since she’d been one last year, but that didn’t mean she had to comply. It only meant she knew the consequences if she didn’t. Not death—that would have been too barbaric, too crude. Rehabilitation.

One moment, one chance to make this choice. The tiny fetus’s thin arms and meager legs were moving more slowly now, in brief jerky movements that tore at her heart. She shouldn’t look. If she turned away now, if she forced her feet to move out of that sterile closet, away from the cold shine of the metal cart and its helpless burden, she’d be okay. Everything would be normal again.

It was a boy. She shouldn’t have noticed that, it only made it harder, and…his skin was cold to the touch—oh God—so very cold and soft. And his body was light, such a tiny burden in her arms, cool against her chest, the little head cradled against her arm. What was it they said, thirty-two weeks? A sob choked her.

“I’m sorry.” Her whisper was loud in that tiny space. No, there was no one behind her, no one to hear. The door was shut. She was trapped—no, safe—alone with her shame and her choice. “Please forgive me. Forgive us. I’m sorry, oh little guy, I’m so sorry!”

A tear fell on the little wizened face, and as if in response the infants’ lower lip trembled, then puckered and he gave a mewling cry.

“Don’t cry, please don’t cry.” She sounded like a little girl, her voice high-pitched and frightened. “I couldn’t help you. You need nurses and oxygen and everything—I don’t know the first thing about all that stuff. You’d be—you wouldn’t last a day no matter what I did.” He’d die anyways, and she’d still lose everything. The Supervisors knew all, they had eyes everywhere. She’d loose her position, her freedom, maybe herself; no one went in a rehabilitation center and came out the same. She’d be like Mrs. Jennings, glassy-eyed and soft-spoken, never without her icicle smile, the perfect citizen.

Jennah forced herself to slow her frenzied rocking of the tiny form in she held. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t. This was some other woman’s choice, and she had to respect that. This was freedom. If only she hadn’t come in here looking for another box of gloves, and found the cart with it’s gruesome burden…

What if her—her fetus—had been a boy? Would he have looked like this? She didn’t need to bear the burden for this strangers’ child too, the long years of silent grief that couldn’t be reasoned away, the piercing pain of every silent anniversary, the bitter hatred of her slim, barren body.

A whispering creak from came behind, a breath of cold air fingered her neck. Jennah spun to find Supervisor Hauksbee filling the doorway, blank shock on his florid face.

– – – – –

From Lady Arin

Jennah knew how the government Supervisors worked since she’d been one last year, but that didn’t mean she had to comply. Whatever force the law might still have behind it, it meant nothing in the sewers.

She had to admit, she felt a little sorry for the man. With his nice suit and neat hair, talking to a sewer runner had clearly not been his idea. He was making an admirable attempt to keep smiling, but from the way his nose kept wrinkling and his feet kept shifting, Jennah knew that his insides were wriggling like a mass of night worms.

“I’m not surfacing,” she said. “Not for all the berries in Green End.”

The Supervisor visibly wilted. “Please, it’s only a few questions. It won’t take long, I swear.”

She rocked on her heels, and gripped the wall next to her with a gloved hand. The whistling he couldn’t hear was getting louder, and if he had the authority to force her, he would have already used it. “No.” Unable to wait any longer, Jennah started to back down the tunnel. “And if you knew how little it would help, you wouldn’t ask.”

Last year, Jennah would have given him a supportive pat on the shoulder. Now, she wanted to laugh at the idea that he could learn anything from a runner. The Supervisory Office still wanted to believe in the world that had existed before the Crisis, and while Jennah couldn’t really blame them for it, she wanted nothing more to do with them.

The Supervisor was not following, so she turned and broke into an easy jog. Water sloshed over the tops of her boots and soaked the hems of her jeans, but the tunnels were relatively dry, and would stay so until the next eclipse. Almost automatically she closed her eyes. It was easier to hear the whistling that way.

When she first started hearing it a year ago, she had known instinctively there was no way she could explain it to her superiors. She had left for the sewers without even turning in her resignation. The runners had welcomed her. Even if they didn’t hear the same music she did, they understood. They had become runners for similar reasons.

The whistling reached its peak, and she halted abruptly. The tunnel to her left was unusually dark, even to her eyes, and she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen someone use it. She dug into her pockets, pulled out a piece of red chalk and drew three vertical marks on the entry arch: a warning sign. As she returned the chalk to her pocket, the whistling faded into silence.

Jennah remained where she was, staring into the void-like blackness of the tunnel. After a year of running to the whistling in her head, marking tunnels for the benefit of those who didn’t have their own warning system … maybe now was the time to find out what dangers she was protecting others from.

She pulled out a piece of white chalk and drew a triangle under the first mark, then entered the tunnel.

– – – – –

From Katherine

Jennah knew how the government Supervisors worked since she’d
been one last year, but that didn’t mean she had to comply. Resenting
the Supervisor’s intrusion into her home, she sat on one of the hard
folding chairs in her kitchen as the pinch-faced vulture sitting
across from her cited a complaint of theft.

“Why should I submit to a Veritest like some criminal when you
don’t have a warrant?”

“Kandar Systems claims you stole some property from them while
you were consulting on their gene repair technology,” the Supervisor
said. “I would hope a former Supervisor would have enough respect
for the government to cooperate.”

If she refused, and the woman registered her as noncompliant,
enforcers would come. Jennah pressed her lips together and held out
one hand in answer. The Supervisor pricked her finger with a syringe.

As the woman began the interrogation, Jennah started to sweat.

“Is your name Jennah Elise Taylor?”

“Yes.”

“Did you work with Kandar Systems as a consultant?”

“Yes.”

“Did you steal any physical or intellectual property belonging
to Kandar Systems?”

“No, I did not.”

The Supervisor asked a few more questions, and Jennah answered
them truthfully. The woman finally stood up, brushing imaginary dirt
off her pantsuit.

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Taylor.”

“Thank you for your service to the Commonwealth, Supervisor,”
Jennah responded with the required farewell.

She escorted the Supervisor to the front door and watched her
leave. Hopefully, the results from that test would buy her some time.

Jennah walked back to the kitchen and poured two more mugs of tea,
and fixed several sandwiches. She took the food downstairs, stepping
over the rickety eighth step.

Two children sat huddled in a corner, fear twisting their
expressions. With dark hair, honey-tan skin and brilliant blue eyes
shaded by long lashes, they were beautiful enough to draw attention
even without the wings that extended from their backs, or the
shimmering scales that patterned parts of their arms and shoulders.

Moving slowly, she knelt in front of them and sat the food down. “I’m sorry if you were scared,” she said, keeping her voice gentle. “I had to let her in or risk more scrutiny.”

“Will she come back?” Alisha asked, clutching her older brother’s arm.

“No. She believed me. Veritests are all but impossible to fake. As long as we are careful, they will not suspect me.”

“But you lied,” Evan pointed out. “You did steal property from Kandar.”

“No, I didn’t,” Jennah said.

They looked at her as if she’d said the moon was made from candy.

“You are children. Children are not property, and Kandar will never own you again.”

She half-expected disbelief; they had only escaped one week ago.

Instead, she got half-smiles and the first flares of hope.

– – – – –

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Should Christian stories evangelize?

Since I’m both a preacher and apologist on the one hand and a sci-fi author on the other, I get asked this question a lot. Typically, it’s a young Christian struggling to do the right thing with the gifts and talents God has given them. We’ve been given the Great Commission. The Bible also says to do everything we do as unto God Himself,¹ after all, which would certainly include how we enjoy our fiction as Christians. On this, we can all agree.

How exactly we carry out these Scriptural mandates as readers (and writers) is where we start to differ.

First and foremost, we have to decide what we mean by Christian fiction. This matter alone is hotly debated.

Christian fiction or fiction by Christians?

There are those that believe that there should be something distinctly Christian about our fiction (what we might call overt Christian fiction) and others who affirm that Christian fiction is simply fiction written by Christians (passive Christian fiction, if you will).

Some of those who hold to a passive view of Christian fiction claim that anything a Christian writes will necessarily be written from that Christian’s worldview; that is, the Christian’s worldview will necessarily shine through even if that material is not overtly Christian. After all, in the realm of nonfiction Christian literature, the book of Esther never once mentions God and yet it manages to convey His providence, right?

But in my experience, the idea of an intrinsic worldview in our fiction is more truism than truth. The person who holds to this view of Christian fiction tends to craft his writing in such a way that it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy; however, Christians can be utterly inconsistent and we’ve all read fiction that was so secular that we were surprised to later discover that the author was a Christian.

This brings up an important point: Christian fiction is as Christian as we make it to be. The Christian element is intentional. If we wish our fiction to be recognizably Christian in any sense of the word, we will have to want authors to write it so on purpose.

One the other hand, if your view of Christian fiction is simply a synonym for excellent craftsmanship, so be it. As a preacher, I would remiss if I didn’t point out that you certainly have a Biblical precedent for your position and, more importantly, the Bible says absolutely nothing about how to outline, write and edit fiction.

To draw a parallel, Christian comedian Tim Hawkins says that when he’s asked about Christian comedy, he responds, “I mean I’m a Christian and I do comedy, but Christian comedy doesn’t really make much sense to me. I mean, there’s no Christian plumbing.” This resonates with what Martin Luther said about Christian shoemakers: “The Christian shoemaker does his duty not by putting little crosses on the shoes, but by making good shoes, because God is interested in good craftsmanship.” John the Baptist gave similar advice to Roman soldiers and tax collectors.²

Prescriptive vs. descriptive

For those who wish to read overtly Christian fiction, we have the further question, also hotly debated, as to whether we ought to enjoy fiction that accurately describes Christians and the world we live in or fiction that is prescriptive of how things should be. Questions like, Should characters cuss? Should sex scenes be explicit or off-camera, so to speak? These days, the lines are generally drawn between authors adhering to CBA/EPCA publishing standards and those who don’t think authors should sanitize things quite to that extent.

The latter camp may safely point out that the Song of Solomon contains pretty graphic sexual references and the Bible is full of graphic violence throughout, particularly in the Old Testament. They can also support their bid for edgier Christian fiction by the fact that the Bible includes the gross character flaws of its human heroes. Granted, we’re dealing with fiction versus nonfiction here, but if Christians do not look to the Bible for a precedent, whence shall we look? Descriptive Christian fiction has the added benefit of telling stories of real people with real problems that a real Savior can remedy rather than what often comes across as a sanitized alternate universe where non-Christians live in a society where Christian morals are observed almost without fail.

Goober, Barney and Floyd conduct a seance in “The Andy Griffith Show.”

If I may be frank, we live in a reality where even Christians often fail to live that way. We certainly don’t live on “The Andy Griffith Show,” yet Christian books of the prescriptive type are written as if the Hayes Code were a requirement for Christian fiction. The protagonist tends to be a believer or gets saved somewhere in the book, typically with no learning curve. They also tend to include what I call plastics: characters who are role models or paragons of an ideal type of Christianity in much the same way and extent that Barbie dolls reflect an ideal type of the female physique. Real people have problems. Real Christians aren’t always able to quote exactly the right Scripture or give exactly the right argument at exactly the right moment. Real Bible believers have doubts from time to time. Even the most zealous Christians can have pet sins and vices. Bad things happen to good people. Even our best evangelistic efforts may be met with indifference rather than acceptance or rejection. The Psalms testify that the bad guys don’t always get their earthly comeuppance.

The reason for the plastic alternate Earths of prescriptive fiction is that Christian fiction of the CBA/EPCS stripe is intended for a Christian audience AT LEAST; that is, they hope that non-Christians read their books, but their primary audience are the folks who make up the bulk of their sales: Christians. Safe plastic worlds filled with plastic role model Christians are the least likely to offend Christians and relate experiences that might cause them to sin vicariously, as it were. That Aslan (as a type of Christ) was good but not safe is oft-quoted; what is not often discussed is that safe fiction does not necessarily equal good fiction, especially since good fiction challenges us in some way rather than catering to our ghettoism. Likewise, we may write Christian fiction that isn’t safe that is nonetheless good. God is not safe; why would He ask us to write safe fiction?

Evangelical vs. edifying

I’ve said all of that to say this:

The trouble with storytelling, as far as Christian fiction is concerned, is that all stories have a message. If an author has written a book well, there is a message or moral that every reader is supposed to come away with. For example, the message of Johnny Came Home is that who we are is not determined by our genetics or our upbringing but rather by our actions. Christians realize that stories have messages and morals so a lot of us insist that Christian fiction should deliver a Christian message. There’s a lot of Biblical precedent for this. Nathaniel told a story to illustrate King David’s guilt. Jesus taught in parables, which are essentially teaching stories.

The question then becomes whether these stories should deliver the Gospel or whether it’s OK to simply edify. I find it ironic that those who write prescriptive CBA/EPCA fiction tend to be the ones who insist that we need to use Christian fiction to evangelize. I find it ironic because plastics and CBA/EPCA fiction are better suited to edify the Church than to evangelize the lost. Follow me here: Prescriptive Christian fiction offers us an ideal of Christianity. It says, Look, here’s what a Christian ought to look like. Here’s how a Christian could effectively live and share their faith. See? You can do it too! The trouble with it is that it delivers role models in an unrealistic alternate Earth, making us wonder just how effective it is as a tool for edification. At best, it seems a better tool for the reinforcement of USAmerican evangelical cultural expectations. Propaganda for the stained-glass Sunday school version of Christianity that supposes Jesus turned water into grape juice and that the Song of Solomon is about our relationship with Christ.

Which brings up my biggest objection to prescriptive Christian fiction: If CBA/EPCA standards were applied to all Christian literature, it would condemn huge sections of the Bible. Think I’m overreacting? Read the last chapter of Judges and get back to me. Shouldn’t the moral standards of our Christian fiction at least be consistent with the revelation of the Christian Sourcebook? Granted, we wouldn’t read such passages to children, but we aren’t supposed to remain children. Prescriptive fiction is meant to provide Christian audiences with a safe alternative to secular fare so that they don’t have to exercise discernment much, if any at all. How is this a good thing for a church that exists amidst an increasingly non-Christian world?

Descriptive Christian fiction is potentially better suited to evangelize. It presents the world as it is, warts and all, just as the Bible does. When such a story connects those problems to the Solution, it has the chance to more effectively resonate with unbelievers. A real solution for real problems. The questions, I suppose, is whether non-Christians ever really read Christian fiction. In other words, are we just wasting our time? I’m really not sure how we can know that. One plants, another waters, but God gives the increase. One thing we can be sure of is that descriptive fiction is a better tool for edifying believers who live in the real world with all its real problems.

To preach or not to preach?

Of course, the question is not whether Christian fiction should edify, but whether it should evangelize?

We all have a mandate to evangelize; we are ambassadors for Christ. We are commanded to do everything as unto God. These points are indisputable fact. Nevertheless, we also realize that we do not overtly proselytize in everything we do. We do not feel compelled to spell out “Jesus Saves” in our alphabet soup. Despite all claims to the contrary, a cross or fish on your car does not evangelize so much as it advertises your brand: you’re a Christian. Don’t get me started on Christian breath mints.

As I noted at the beginning of this essay, there is a legitimate Biblical precedent in just doing a great job in your profession. Some folks think that’s not Christian enough. My response to that as a preacher is, “Who are you to judge another man’s servant? To God alone is a man justified.” This position is perfectly fine from a Biblical standpoint. Luckbane, the first book in my Otherworld series, follows this philosophy.

There is also a Biblical precedent for message-driven Christian fiction. Jesus did it, as did prophets of old. I did it in Johnny Came Home, which is essentially an action-packed book of descriptive apologetics fiction about superheroes trying to figure out where they came from while they save the world. The choice to write message-driven evangelistic fiction does not give us an excuse to produce inferior literature. Ephesians 6:7 and Colossians 3:23 still apply to authors who wish to evangelize through their fiction. If we’re going to read well-written Christian fiction, we need to eschew the CBA/EPCA model of prescriptive fiction in favor of a more realistic descriptive storytelling that accurately describes the world with all its problems, so that we can enjoy fiction that resonates with more readers and shows how the Gospel is relevant to those problems.

So should Christian fiction evangelize? It’s not Biblically imperative, but if you do, do it right.

Should Christian stories evangelize?

This is a crucial issue for anyone who loves stories but loves Jesus more, and wants to glorify Jesus through our enjoyment of stories or our making of stories.

During October our new SpecFaith series explores this issue.

On Thursdays, reviewer Austin Gunderson and writer E. Stephen Burnett host the conversation with interactive articles. On Fridays and Tuesdays, guest writers such as novelists and publishers offer their responses to the question.

We invite you to give your own answers to the #StoryEvangelism conversation.

Should Christian stories evangelize?

This is a crucial issue for anyone who loves stories but loves Jesus more, and wants to glorify Jesus through our enjoyment of stories or our making of stories.

During October our new SpecFaith series explores this issue.

On Thursdays, reviewer Austin Gunderson and writer E. Stephen Burnett host the conversation with interactive articles. On Fridays and Tuesdays, guest writers such as novelists and publishers offer their responses to the question.

We invite you to give your own answers to the #StoryEvangelism conversation.

Almost any discussion about “Christian fiction” or “Christian art” touches on this question:

Should Christian stories evangelize?

People also assume we know what we mean by terms such as “evangelize.”

Some act as though there is only one way to evangelize, such as the John 3:16 way, or by saying “God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life,” or some kind of direct appeal.

In fact these are good and effective evangelism methods in many ways, but not always.

Even if a Christian author were to say, “I want to make a story that evangelizes,” we ought to be a little uncertain—in a good way—about what sort of story that will end up being.

Instead the perception of the “Christian story that evangelizes” is almost uniform. (And there is a related issue about whether or not this perception is a fair representation of what novels Christian novelists are making and what novels Christian publishers are publishing.)

But first let me back up a bit. Let’s start with the title of this series:

“Should. Christian. Stories. Evangelize?”

Then let’s break down the title to help guide the series and resulting discussion.

1. ‘Should’

Here we’re exploring the realm of moral command. We do assume one truth: All Christians are called to evangelize in some way. That’s because all Christians are called in some way to follow Jesus’s famous call to His apostles in Matt. 28:

And Jesus came and said to [His disciples], “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”¹

This is a great and joyously non-optional command of Jesus to His people.

He says: I have this authority. Therefore you should do this.

His command goes to His disciples. But this is not a task that only certain special Christians do or trained professionals or ministers must carry out in our stead. It’s awkward, it’s often scary, and sometimes it’s downright horrifying, but Christians should do this.

Our only question is how and when and in what ways we must obey our Savior.

2. ‘Christian’

Yes, we’re talking about people who have repented of sins and received forgiveness of sin through Jesus Christ. Our action (in response to God’s first action) is not just for the sake of being good but for the sake of becoming more like Him, transformed from the inside-out, so that we can be with Him for all eternity.

We’re talking about people who, despite all their filthy habits and thoughts and impulses, hate sin or want to hate sin, and love Jesus or want to love Jesus more.

“Christ-ians” = “Jesus-like persons.”

Some will object: “Well then, why do you say ‘Christian fiction’? Only a person can be a ‘Christian’ proper. But a thing cannot be ‘Christian.’”

I understand and appreciate that argument. But I think it may ignore the truth that Christians have their part in a kind of redemption relay race.

The apostle Paul alludes to this in Romans 8 when he speaks of Christian individuals as the first-fruits of a greater, epic-scale redemption plan. Christ died first to save souls from damnation. His redemption is no less than that, but it is also greater.

Thus, by participating in the Great Commission, Christians also play a part in announcing the worldwide Kingdom of Heaven, a divine operation to restore the world to its original state of fully reflecting the glory of God. In a sense, we are working to “Christianize” the world, to make a “Christian” universe—the Kingdom. That means we may enjoy and make intentional “use” of certain cultural things, music, stories, etc., for “Christian” purposes. It also means we can have “Christian” songs, “Christian” ideas, “Christian” homes.²

Therefore I think it’s fine to refer to “Christian fiction.” More on that below.

3. ‘Stories’

The SpecFaith statement of faith says:

God can and does let His truth be echoed in His creation, for all truth is His truth and remains so even if it is found in a story that does not specifically credit Him.

That’s why we’re open to reviews and discussions about “secular” fantastical stories.

But SpecFaith’s staff explorers still have a heart for fantastical Christian fiction—that is, stories created by Christians that generally include specific and intentional Jesus-exalting images and themes.

Of course, because we’re speaking of fiction and yet nonfiction, that means things can get a little squishier. You could critique a sermon for being based on amusing anecdotes or shallow exegesis of the Bible while just having fun with the subject. But some genuinely Christian novels can do exactly these things, and rightly so.

Similarly, we might criticize a sermon for failing to end with the appropriate “altar call” and summons to repent and receive salvation in Christ³ But it would be wrong to expect a Christian novel to do the same thing, and then critique it as being subpar if it did not. (Most popular Christian movies don’t recognize this difference.)

4. ‘Evangelize?’

Finally we circle back to the first term and expand: What does “evangelize” mean?

Evangelism

evangel n. 1. The Christian gospel. 2. An evangelist.

[Middle English evaungel, from Late Latin vangelium, from Greek euangelion, good news, from euangelos, bringing good news eu-, eu- + angelos, messenger.]

The root of the word evangelism, evangel, is derived from the Greek word euangelion which is translated good news. From that same word, we derive the word gospel. We find also that many words we use in English are in reality synonymous — evangel(ism), gospel and good news all speak of the same thing and find their root in the same word. They speak of the act of spreading the gospel and to the content of the message that is given. This is an important point to note � they refer both to the method and the message.⁴

In short, “evangelism” is “gospel-izing.” Having been redeemed, Christians seek to help redeem. But contrary to some implications, “evangelism” does not simply mean “being a good person and/or helping people while using only possibly necessary words in case people ask you why and give you a clear opening.”

From what I can tell, “evangelism” proper is absolutely inseparable from the use of words. “Evangel” is all about the “euangelion,” the gospel/good news. Thus, you can’t “evangelize” without explicitly sharing this “good news.” You might be doing a good ministry, you might be doing the Lord’s work, you might be pleased Him 100 percent, but it may not be “evangelism.” And that’s okay. He has also called us to do other things. But I don’t think we should define “evangelism” as anything other than using words to communicate the good news of Jesus and the coming Kingdom.

And this is why we keep talking about this in relation to Christian fiction.

Why? Because Christian fiction is all about words. And Christians uniquely use words to proclaim the gospel. Why then would we do anything that uses words without taking the opportunity to share the gospel? Christians like that phrase, “taking the opportunity.” And conversely we’re trained to despair of missing an “opportunity” to evangelize. In some Christian circles that leads to personal or social pressures to “take the opportunity” whenever we have it—meaning, anytime we have any kind of Christian-made book.⁵

So that’s where we are. Now I’m curious about your thoughts on any of these definitions, and/or why Christians keep having the “should Christian fiction evangelize” discussion, and/or the spiritual/social pressures of “evangelism opportunities.” Perhaps we’ll also soon get back to sharing our own experiences with different types of evangelism, which may be different from the perception of what “evangelism” is among many Christians.

The opportunity to submit an entry to the 2015 Autumn Writing Challenge has now closed. We’ve received a good number of outstanding stories, some coming in over the weekend.

We want those “last minute” entries to have a fair shot at moving on to the finals, so please take time to read and give your feedback to those stories as well. Remember, to indicate which you like best (no limit), reply to the entries and insert YES plus the name of the contributor (while that may not be essential, it insures that your vote will be attributed correctly). Also, feel free to tell the authors what you like about their story or give them constructive criticism which might benefit them.

Then next week we’ll announce the three finalists and we’ll vote for a winner.

The drawback of a readers’ choice contest is that it might turn into a popularity contest, but on the other hand, we need reader feedback for the contest to be successful. The best answer, I think, is for Spec Faith visitors to connect with family, friends, and followers (our share buttons make this quite easy) and encourage their fair and unbiased feedback (as opposed to, “Vote for my favorite—you don’t really need to read any of the entries,” which I’ve seen from some other contests).

Thanks ahead of time for letting others know that we need their feedback.

And special thanks to each of the authors who shared their work with us. We have a selection of entertaining stories to choose from. What a nice predicament! To find the entries, follow one of the links in this article (such as this one). The entries are in the comments section of that post.

Photo credit: © Fedor Patrakov | Dreamstime Stock Photos

Not Just Another Fairy Tale, Book 1
By R. J. Anderson

Introduction

Forget everything you think you know about faeries. . . .

Creatures full of magic and whimsy?

Not in the Oakenwyld. Not anymore.
Deep inside the great Oak lies a dying faery realm, bursting with secrets instead of magic. Long ago the faeries mysteriously lost their magic. Robbed of their powers, they have become selfish and dull-witted. Now their numbers are dwindling and their very survival is at stake.

Only one young faery—Knife—is determined to find out where her people’s magic has gone and try to get it back. Unlike her sisters, Knife is fierce and independent. She’s not afraid of anything—not the vicious crows, the strict Faery Queen, or the fascinating humans living nearby. But when Knife disobeys the Faery Queen and befriends a human named Paul, her quest becomes more dangerous than she realizes.

Knife is a gripping tale of lost magic, high adventure, and surprising friendship in which the fate of an entire realm rests on the shoulders of one brave faery rebel.

Previously published in the US under the title Faery Rebels.

Excerpt

“I only want to go out for a little, little while,” the faery child pleaded. “Just below the window, on that branch. I won’t fly away and I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“Oh, Bryony, you know you can’t.” Wink’s voice came from the other side of the sewing table, muffled by a mouthful of pins. Her red hair had come free of its knot, falling in bedraggled ringlets, and her cheeks were pink with the room’s oppressive heat. “None of us can. It isn’t safe.”

“But the Gatherers go out all the time,” said Bryony. “And so does Thorn.”

“Thorn is the Queen’s Hunter,” Wink told her with unusual sternness, “and without her and the Gatherers we’d all starve. But they only go out when they have to, and they don’t stay out any longer than they have to, and you and I don’t have to, so there.”

Bryony jumped up and dragged a stool over to the window, hopping up in the seat for a better view. If she looked straight out there was nothing but leaves and branches. But if she craned her neck and peered all the way down, she could just se—

“Oh, Bryony, do sit down,” said Wink wearily. “You’re blocking all the fresh air.”

Bryony made a face and plopped back onto her seat, a wobbly construction of twigs and dried grass that felt as though it might come to pieces any minute. “But it’s hot in here,” she muttered. “And so ugly.” Like most of the other rooms inside the Oak, the apartment she shared with Wink was plain-walled, clumsily furnished, and cramped. Not like the garden she had glimpsed through the open window, its velvety stretch of lawn framed by shrubberies and dotted with bright flowers. That was beauty.

“Why don’t you go down to the kitchen?” said Wink distractedly, eyes fixed on the seam she was pinning. “I hear the Gatherers found a bees’ nest this morning—if you wipe dishes or sweep the floor a bit, they might let you have a piece of honeycomb.”

“I’m not hungry.” Besides, Mallow was in the kitchen, and no one would dare offer Bryony such a sweet bargain when the Chief Cook was around. Except perhaps Sorrel, who was old and kindly and more than a little absentminded—but Bryony had not seen Sorrel in days.

“Polish the looking glass, then,” said Wink.

Byrony perked up. The full-length mirror on its carved stand was the one lovely object in the room, a relic from the Days of Magic. It had belonged to the previous Seamstress, who was Bryony’s own egg-mother and namesake, and Bryony had spent many hours in front of it, whispering secrets to her own reflection. There were no other children in the Oak, so the white-haired girl in the mirror was the closest thing to a playmate she knew.

She rose and stepped toward the glass—but even as she moved, the window caught her eye again. Between the branches of the great Oak glowed dazzling gems of blue sky, and the leaves whispered promises of a breeze she longed to feel. A robin alighted on a nearby twig, cocking its heat at her, and Bryony felt a sudden urge to dive through the window and leap upon its back. Together they would soar far away from the Oak, to a place where she too could fly free . . .

With a flick of its wings, the robin vanished. Another chance missed, thought Bryony, and frustration swelled like a wasps’ nest inside her. “It’s not fair,” she burst out. “Why can’t we go Outside? Just because the Queen says it’s not safe—how does she know? She never leaves the Oak either!”

Wink snatched the last pin out of her mouth, looking shocked. “Of course she doesn’t leave the Oak! She’s the one who’s kept us all alive since the rest of us lost our magic. If it weren’t for her protection the Oak would sicken and die, and all sorts of horrible creatures would come crawling inside to gobble us up. She doesn’t dare go out, because if anything happens to her, it’d be the end for all of us!” Wink’s voice trembled on the last phrase, as though she could already see the disaster happening.

Bryony leaned on the windowsill, staring out at the sky. “It’s still not fair,” she muttered.

Her words were followed by a heavy pause, then a sigh from Wink. “I suppose you’re old enough to know,” she said. “I didn’t like to tell you before, but—”

“I already know about the Sundering,” interrupted Bryony, who had spend a whole afternoon dusting bookshelves to get the story from Campion, the Oak’s Librarian. “A long time ago someone put a curse on everyone in the Oak, so we couldn’t do magic any more. And everybody got confused and scared and a lot of faeries died. And then Queen Amaryllis came, only she wasn’t called Amaryllis yet and she wasn’t a queen, but I can’t remember that part—”

“Her name was Alder,” said Wink softly.

Bryony ignored the interruption. “And she still had her magic because she wasn’t in the Oak when the Sundering happened, so she had to become Queen because nobody else was clever or strong enough any more. And she made lots of different rules to try and keep people safe from the crows and foxes and things but they kept making silly mistakes and getting killed anyway, and finally she told everyone that it wasn’t safe to leave the Oak, ever.” She finished the last sentence in a single breath, and turned defiantly to look at Wink. “See, I told you I knew.”

“Oh . . . yes,” said Wink, flustered. “Well, I suppose—”

“Except that it’s still a stupid rule,” Bryony went on hotly, “because I’m not silly and I’m not going to be killed, so there!” With a flash of her wings, she hopped onto the windowsill.

“Bryony!” Wink shrieked. “Get down!”

But Bryony did not hesitate. Crouching on the window ledge, she studied the distance between herself and the nearest branch. Then, just before Wink’s flailing hands could seize her, she leaped.

Wings outspread, she landed neatly as a dragonfly. As she straightened up, flushed and proud, she was rewarded with a touch of summer breeze, lifting the sticky hair away from her forehead. It felt wonderful.

“Bryony, come back! No, wait. Stay right there, and I’ll get help—but no, I can’t leave you—oh, what shall I do?”

Wink fluttered back and forth by the open window. But she was clearly too frightened to climb out of it herself, which meant that Bryony could count on at least a few more minutes of freedom.

Eagerly the faery girl scrambled up the branch to its very tip. She wrapped her arms about a supple twig and hung there, enraptured. Below lay the garden she had always longed to explore: the barely tamed wildness of the rose hedge on the east, a stout line of privet to the west, the flower-stippled lawn, and in the distance the daunting bulk of the House.

There had been faeries in the Oak for more than four hundred years, Campion had said. That made the House a latecomer, and a rude one at that. No one had invited it to settle here, but its stony face, blank windows and arrogantly peaked roof did not allow questions, let alone argument. Rumor said that it was full of monsters, but Bryony had never seen one. Perhaps she would see a monster today?