2022 Contest Winners + Anthology Kickstarter

Thank you to everyone who read the finalists in this year’s Mormon Lit Blitz. We love sharing these pieces with you. Before we announce this year’s results, though, we have a special announcement.

Anthology Kickstarter Campaign

By popular request, we’ve committed to collect the stories, poems, and essays from past contests into print and ebook anthologies. Our first volume covered pieces published from 2012-2016. We’re now preparing to publish a second volume covering 2017-2021. This one makes Mormon literature history by including work by writers from each inhabited continent and literary work in translation. Visit our Kickstarter page to preorder copies now. And spread the word!

Mormon Lit Blitz cover

 

Now, on to the award results….

Audience Choice Award

In audience voting, the top four pieces are:

4th place: “Tower of Babel” by Darlene Young

3rd place: “Blood in the Garden” by Whitney Hemsath

2nd place: “O Homem e a Terra” by Siviano Stalon Fortes

and

1st place: “O Caixão de Nhô Jon Anton” by César Augusto Medina Fortes

Congratulations!

Judge’s Choice Award

Our guest judge this year was Christopher J. Blythe, who teaches Literature of the Latter-day Saints courses at Brigham Young University. For this year’s Judge’s Choice award, he selected…

The Fourth Ward Filibuster” by Kevin Klein.

Dr. Blythe’s statement on the award is as follows:

Kevin Klein’s “The Fourth Ward Filibuster” moved me. I won’t soon forget the image of a desperate Nigel LaBeouf magnifying his calling as ward organist one last time before his impending release. Klein’s story offers a hilarious take on one eccentric 30-something-year-old’s departure from a single adult ward. For those who approach or exceed the dozen year countdown, the idea of “aging out” of the singles ward is no joke. It can be traumatic. Surprisingly, it is vastly underexplored in Mormon lit. But the absurdity of Brother LaBeouf’s refusal to go quietly juxtaposed against the formalities of Latter-day Saint culture had me in hysterics. Klein described the ultimate shattering of sacrament meeting decorum: the protagonist resisting his release, a bishopric seeking for answers in the manual before being forced to take on the role of bouncers, and an entire congregation committing the ultimate act of transgression against Latter-day Saint reverence. (Read it – you’ll understand what I’m getting at.) Let’s hope Klein decides to bring us back into LaBeouf’s life with his begrudging attendance in the family ward. 

2022 Mormon Lit Blitz Voting

Each year, we award a small cash prize to an audience favorite piece from the Mormon Lit Blitz. To vote, look through the pieces and rank your favorite four. Then cast your vote here.

The finalists are:
Tower of Babel” by Darlene Young
Chickens without End” by Julia Jeffrey
2 Coats” by Jared Forsyth
Through a Glass” by Alixa Brobbey
Blood in the Garden” by Whitney Hemsath
Cristo en el huerto de Getsemaní” by Gabriel González Núñez
Grafted Branches” by Jeanine Bee
The Fourth Ward Filibuster” by Kevin Klein
Every Member a Missionary” by Selina Forsyth
O Caixão de Nhô Jon Anton” by César Augusto Medina Fortes
O Homem e a Terra” by Siviano Stalon Fortes
Leah at the Edges” by Merrijane Rice

Voting is open from Monday, June 13th until the end of the day on Sunday, June 19th. The winner of the $125 Grand Prize will be announced on Monday, June 20th. At that time, we’ll also announce a judge’s choice piece selected by Christopher J. Blythe, who teaches Literature of the Latter-day Saints at Brigham Young University.

Next Contest

This fall, we’ll be doing extra work to encourage Latter-day Saints around the world to submit pieces in their own language. Details about the contest will be coming shortly.

Book Mentoring Project

We love what people do with 1,000 words. If you enjoy the kind of literature you’ve read in the Mormon Lit Blitz, though, we hope you’ll also consider donating $5, $10, or $20 to support the eight authors currently in our book mentoring program.

 

“Leah at the Edges” by Merrijane Rice

If you measured my life
by low points and high,
all my loves and jealousies
recorded as scripture of extremes,

you’d miss times of stillness,
daily cycles when I fed
and clothed, cleansed
and smoothed out roughness.

You wouldn’t see the hours
I bore with wounds one can’t
ask friends to fast and pray for
because there is no cure for life,

no dramatic rescue for one
merely stuck in everyday mud.
But maybe you don’t need
to feel the weight of all this water

underneath each cresting wave.
Maybe there is truth enough
to glean from spare detail
and beauty enough at the edges

to sketch a face with tender eyes
that you can be pleased with,
as though you had returned
from a long journey
and seen the face of God.

“O homem e a terra” de Siviano Stalon Fortes

For the English translation, click here

Séculos de progressos
Mas também de retrocessos;
Séculos pintados com sangue,
Sem que ninguém se zangue.

Décadas subiram e ganharam o troféu,
E o homo sapiens revelou-se como réu,
pisando aquilo que lhe dá vida
E há muito tempo esquecida

O que temos feito?
A ambição sugou a seiva do existir,
Alimentou o seu defeito,
Vendeu pérolas sem resistir.

Gritos ecoam das profundezas,
Mas os ouvidos fingem nada ouvir,
E o lamentar das belezas
Avisa que, sem mudanças, tudo irá ruir.

“Man and the Earth” by Siviano Stalon Fortes 

Translated by Kent Larsen. For the original Portuguese, click here

Centuries of progression
but also of regression;
centuries painted with blood. Red.
Still, everyone kept a cool head…

Decades arose and gained the crown,
and mankind–that culprit–won renown
for stomping on all that lets life grow
and things forgotten long ago.

What have we done?
Ambition sucked up the sap of existence,
sniffed out a defect and fed it a ton,
sold its pearls without resistance.

Now cries echo from down in the deep
(ears claim not to hear them at all)
but in their lament, earth’s beauties weep
a warning: without changes, all will fall.

“O Caixão de Nhô Jon Anton” de César Augusto Medina Fortes

For the English translation, click here

Nhô Jon Anton nasceu no Mocho da Garça na ilha de Santo Antão e cedo emigrou para a Argentina a procura de uma vida melhor. Todos os anos, voltava para a sua terra natal, para matar as saudades e deixava sempre mais um filho. E entre eles, a Basília, Dalena, Luís, Valentin, Ervelina e outros.

Em 1955, nhô Jon Anton tinha juntado algum dinheiro na Argentina e resolveu regressar à sua terra.  Foi na Cabeça de Mocho da Garça que ele comprou uma casa e uma terrinha. Ele era visto sempre, nas corridas, durante as festas de São Pedro, montado no seu lindo cavalo, com umas botas de couro e o chicote na mão para comandar o cavalo. Era também um grande jogador de oril.

O tempo passou e ele envelheceu. Nhô Jon Anton foi viver com a filha Ervelina em Chã de Igreja, para poder ficar mais perto de um enfermeiro.

E em 1984, já com 84 anos, ele faleceu.

Nhá Ervelina chamou quatro homens de sua confiança, a saber, o carpinteiro João de Hipólito, os primos Autelindo (Kokin) e Aldevino, o professor Chichal e o coveiro Albertino, para uma missão mórbida de irem buscar o caixão de nhô Jon Anton na localidade de Mocho da Garça, onde ele residia anteriormente.

Nhô Jon Anton tinha o seu caixão feito há vários anos e tinha-o guardado na sua casa para quando ele morresse, que não fosse enterrado em qualquer caixão, feito indigente.

Lá partiu os bravos homens para a ingrata missão. O caminho era montanhoso, escuro e longo. E para manterem-se motivados, levaram uma garrafinha de grogue e umas lanternas.

Chegaram na zona de Mocho, entraram na casa de nhá Djodja e contaram o sucedido. O filho, Anton Joaquim, da varanda da casa, bradou:

– Ó ti Jon Corr.  Nhô Jon Anton já merrê na Chã de igreja.

E de lombo em lombo, foram gritando e repassando a mensagem até todo o vale do Mocho ficar a saber da morte de nhô Jon Anton. E começaram a ouvir algumas mulheres a chorar o filho ilustre do vale.

Os quatro homens foram guiados pelo António Joaquim até a casa do falecido para procurarem o caixão. Revistaram toda a casa e não encontraram nada. Depois de estarem exaustos, pararam no centro da casa, pensando onde o falecido teria guardado o raio do caixão.

António Joaquim virou a cara para o teto e viu o caixão pendurado numa tarimba. Riram à vontade.

António Joaquim, alto e forte como era, com braços talhados pelo trabalho de agricultura, segurou sozinho o caixão nos ombros galgou a Selada e de cara para a Chã de Igreja começaram a jornada de volta. Os outros homens, caminhavam ao lado, segurando o caixão para que não caísse. João e Autelindo, como fiéis cristãos, batizados na igreja desde pequenos, tementes a Deus, mas mesmo assim tinham muito medo e começaram logo a orar ao Pai Celestial pedindo que os livrasse e os protegesse do espírito de Nhô Jon Manel, para que ele não entrasse no seu caixão antes de chegarem em Chã de Igreja.

Já era quase meia-noite quando chegaram em Chã de Igreja. Subiram no terraço da casa de nhá Ervelina e Jon de Hipólito munido de um martelo e uns pregos, foi reparar o caixão que, estava quase esforrado por causa da humidade de tantos anos.

Autelindo parecia um poste, com uma vela na mão, iluminando o terraço, para que João de Hipólito concertasse o caixão. Aldevino e Chichal seguravam o caixão enquanto o Jon pregava. Autelindo, que era muito abusado, de vez em quando, deixava cair uns pingos da vela derretida, de propósito, em cima da sandália de plástico do professor Chichal, e que lentamente, deslizavam no meio dos dedos e aí é que queimavam na alma.

E Chichal gritava:

– Ó Kokin, mosse!! Se bô n’era fí de cmade Maria de Vinha me tava dzebe um cosa. Mdjôre bô vitá!

E os outros riam à vontade.

Autelindo deixou cair os pingos da vela vezes sem conta, nos pés de Chichal, a madrugada toda. E Chichal cada vez que isso acontecia, gritava muitos palavrões.

De manhã cedo, o caixão já estava pronto para ser usado, pelo seu legítimo dono.

E foram enterrar nhô Jon Anton, o senhor que em tempos foi emigrante em Argentina e veio repousar na sua terra natal.

Depois do enterro, os bravos rapazes foram dar os pêsames na família. Sentados, cada um num canto da casa, olhavam um para o outro. Autelindo via para o Aldevino e para o Jon de Hipólito e apontava para a sandália de plástico do Chichal, coberto de vela seca e com a mão na boca, riam.

Depois quando sairam, foram para a pracinha e soltaram todos, o riso que estava oprimido. Riram à vontade.

E Chichal dizia meio a sorrir:

– “Hoje jame passá pior que rote num bli, na bsot mon, hein! Bsote é mufine.”

E abraçados, os quatro amigos, juntos, caminharam para a zona de Bordeira para terminar o grande dia, que cumpriram uma ingrata missão, mas com sucesso.

“The Coffin of Master Jôn Anton” by César Augusto Medina Fortes

Translated by Katherine Cowley. For the original Portuguese, click here

Master Jôn Anton was born in Mocho da Garça, on the island of Santo Antão. When he was still young, he immigrated to Argentina in search of a better life. Every year, he visited the land of his birth, where he would banish his longings for home and leave behind an additional child.  Among them are Basília, Dalena, Luís, Valentin, Ervelina, and others.

By 1955, master Jôn Anton had saved enough money in Argentina, and he resolved to return to his homeland. He bought a house and a little land in Cabeça de Mocho de Garça. There you could always see him, at the races and at the Feast of Saint Peter, riding on his beautiful horse, wearing boots made of leather, with a whip in hand that he might command the horse. He was also known as an excellent ouril player.

Time passed and he grew old. Master Jôn Anton went to live with his daughter, Ervelina, in the town Chã de Igreja, so he could be closer to an infirmary.

And in 1984, having lived to the age of eighty-four, he passed away.

Madame Ervelina called four men she trusted, namely, the carpenter João de Hipólito; her cousins, Autelindo (nicknamed Kokin) and Aldevino; the teacher Chichal and the gravedigger Albertino. She gave them a morbid mission: to find the coffin of master Jôn Anton, somewhere in Mocho da Garça, where he had previously lived.

Master Jôn Anton had his coffin made a number of years before, and he had kept it in his house so that when he died, he would not be buried in just any coffin, like a pauper.

The brave men left on this thankless mission. The path was mountainous, dark, and long. To keep themselves going, they brought a bottle of grog and lanterns.

They arrived in the region of Mocho and entered into the house of madame Djodja and told her what had happened. Her son, Antôn Joaquim, stood on the porch of the house and shouted:

“Jon Corr, where art thou? Master Jôn Anton has died in Chã de Igreja.”

Voice after voice yelled and passed on the message until everyone in the valley of Mocho knew of the death of master Jôn Anton. And you began to hear some of the women crying over the illustrious son of the valley.

The four men were guided by António Joaquim to the house of the deceased so they could find the coffin. They searched the entire house, yet they saw no sign of it. Exhausted, they stopped in the middle of the house, wondering where the dead man had kept his damn coffin.

António Joaquim turned his face upwards and saw the coffin hanging from a rafter. They all laughed freely.

António Joaquim, tall and strong as he was, with arms sculpted by agricultural work, carried the coffin by himself, on his shoulders, as they climbed the slopes of Selada and turned in the direction of Chã de Igreja and began the return journey. The other men walked at his side, steadying the coffin so it would not fall.

João and Autelindo were both faithful Christians. They had been baptized in the LDS church when they were young, and they were fearful of God, yet even so, they were much afraid. They began to pray to their Heavenly Father, pleading that he would deliver and protect them from the spirit of Master Jôn Anton, so that it would not enter his coffin before they arrived at Chã de Igreja.

It was almost midnight when they arrived at Chã de Igreja. They climbed to the terrace of Madame Ervelina’s house, and João de Hipólito, armed with a hammer and nails, began to repair the coffin, for it had been damaged by the humidity of so many years.

Autelindo stood like a pole, a candle in his hand, illuminating the terrace so that João de Hipólito could fix the coffin. Aldevino and Chichal would hold the coffin steady when Jon asked. Autelindo, who was quite mischievous, would at times let the wax from the candle drip—on purpose—onto professor Chichal’s plastic sandals, and slowly the wax would slip down in between the toes and there it would burn him, all the way to the soul.

And Chichal would yell, “Kokin, you lad! If you weren’t the son of my godmother, Maria de Vinha, then I’d tell you to go to a very fiery place. You’d better knock it off!”

The others would just start laughing.

Autelindo let the candle wax drip, time and time again, on Chichal’s feet, for the entire night. And every time this happened, Chichal shouted out profanities.

By the time the sun rose, the coffin was ready to be used by its rightful owner.

And inside was buried Master Jôn Anton, the gentleman who had for a time immigrated to Argentina and then came to rest in the land of his birth.

After the funeral, the brave lads paid their respects to the family. They each sat in a different corner of the house, looking at each other. Autelindo would catch the eyes of Aldevino and João de Hipólito, and then point at Chichal’s plastic sandals, which were covered in dried wax. They placed their hands over their mouths and snickered.

After it was over, they went out to the square and were finally able to let out all of their suppressed mirth. They laughed without end.

And Chichal said with half a smile, “You are a naughty lad. Today I have suffered at your hands, worse than a mouse in a bli!” A bli was a round Calabash gourd, hollowed out, dried, and used to carry milk to drink while working in the fields. Sometimes a mouse would climb into an empty gourd and be stuck, running and running in circles, spinning round and round until they died.

The four friends embraced, and, together, they walked to Bordeira to end their grand day, in which they had accomplished a thankless yet successful mission.

“The Fourth Ward Filibuster” by Kevin Klein

Sunday morning I woke up with the feeling that I should go to church early. It was more than a feeling, actually, and sure enough, when I arrived Brother Nigel LaBeouf was layering his organ prelude with unmistakable notes from that immortal Boston song.

At a quarter to nine the chapel was almost half full and funereally solemn. It would be a hard Sunday. Two weeks ago a member of the stake presidency had informed us that the records of any members aged 30 and over who were attending singles wards in the area would be moved into their corresponding family wards. Today five of our flock would be released from their callings, including Nigel LaBeouf.

No one in a Church calling is irreplaceable, but Nigel was certainly inimitable. He played with the passion of a concert pianist, his torso lifting and swaying, toupéed head shaking in impassioned little no-thank-yous. By weekday he taught German at the local junior high, where he’d taught many of my friends. Despite an English first and French last name he spoke with a German accent, a mystique which heightened when my friend, who became his home teaching companion, discovered he’d grown up in Kansas and served an English-speaking mission in Florida.

Seamlessly, “More than a Feeling” led into three measures of “There Is Sunshine in My Soul Today,” followed by the entire minute-long intro of Zeppelin’s “Your Time is Gonna Come”—which is, actually, a church organ prelude. That tune put a lump in my throat. I’d joined the ward after graduating from high school two months before, and any Zeppelin song reminded me of high school, and that it was over, and that, like Nigel LaBeouf, you can’t hold on to anything forever.

At five minutes to nine, the bishopric took the stage. Nigel’s next motif surprised me. He often riffed on Clapton’s “The Presence of the Lord” during his sacrament post-lude, but here it was in the prelude. That, I realized looking back, was no coincidence. Nor was it an accident when Brother Brady, our first counselor, stood to conduct, and Nigel held out the final chord five seconds too long.

Brother Brady waited, turned toward the organ, swiveled back, then welcomed us, recognizing Bishop Fry and Brother Tingey, the second counselor, as well as Brother Jensen from the high council. He expressed appreciation to Sister Jimenez for conducting the music, and then, ceremoniously turning around again, thanked Brother LaBeouf for his years of service to the ward.

The opening song was “Now Let Us Rejoice.” But Nigel had transposed it—maybe beforehand, maybe on the fly—into a minor key. It was the right thing to do with the wrong hymn for the occasion, but it didn’t make the singing any easier. People glanced around, whispered, and shrugged. The bishopric members glanced at each other but did not shrug.

Near the end of the final chorus, Tami Jackson approached to say the opening prayer. She’d timed her walk perfectly to arrive at the podium two seconds after the hymn’s final chord, but it never came. Well, it did, but instead of pulling off, Brother LaBeouf began a variation on the melody, moving in fairly brisk quarter notes with solid pedalwork to arrive at a slowed-down rendition of The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again.” Tami stood with folded arms. Ten seconds passed. She turned to look at Nigel, but he kept swaying away, eyes closed. She gestured toward the bishopric, who were engaged in earnest discussion, then after a few more seconds just walked back to her seat.

Meanwhile, Nigel kept playing. “Let Us All Press On” morphed into Tom Petty’s “Won’t Back Down.” Bishop Fry walked back and put his arm around Brother LaBeouf, still swaying and shaking his head. Bishop Fry returned to his seat and whispered to Brother Brady, who approached the podium and announced, almost shouting, “WE’D LIKE TO CONDUCT AN ITEM OF WARD BUSINESS–”

But a speaker-distorting surge of organ drowned him out. He covered his ears and kept talking, but we could only see his mouth move. Brother Tingey strode to the organ, bent down, and amid strains of “Sunday Bloody Sunday”—a bit too far, in my opinion—yanked out the power cord.

The sound from the organ stopped immediately, but Nigel kept playing. In dazed collective silence we heard the clack of plastic keys against felt, the gentle tap of foot pedals. Nigel, sweating like Bruce Springsteen, kept swaying to a rhythm now only in his head.

Brother Brady returned to the podium. “Okay, brothers and sisters, we’d like to thank Brother Nigel LaBeouf—”

NOO!

Not the shout of a repudiated organist, but its corresponding fermata-powered chord from “Shall the Youth of Zion Falter?” out of an inexplicably reanimated organ. True to the truth…Nigel drove home those chords, left hand and both feet dancing down the bass line of the chorus. People stood, trying to see how the organ had started playing again, or sat with eyes closed and hands over ears. This was the 1990s, and the bishopric didn’t have cell phones to call the stake president or police. They huddled again, pointing and gesturing around a blue Handbook of Instructions.

Finally, as Nigel played “All Creatures of Our God and King” mashed up with “Don’t Stop Believing,” the three bishopric members and Brother Jensen approached the organ. Another hand on the shoulder from Bishop Fry, then a step back, a visible three-count, and two brethren took Nigel LaBeouf lovingly under each sweat-gray armpit and hoisted him up. The other two unhooked his legs from the organ bench, and together they carried him twisting and protesting through sobs towards the chapel’s heavy swinging doors.

We watched in helpless silence. Then someone started clapping. In another second the chapel erupted, people standing and cheering and clapping as they set Nigel on his feet and escorted him out of the chapel, broken-spirited and released, but not without our vote of thanks.