“Three Dogs in the Afterlife” by Luisa Perkins

that same sociality which exists among us here will exist among us there

 

Δ waits while ⊕ gets her bearings. It always takes a little while, he says.

⊕ lifts her spirit nose, trying and failing to scan the air.

I can’t smell, she says.

No, Δ agrees. Smelling means taking in bits and letting them give you messages. We don’t have that here.

⊕ looks around. This is probably still her street, but she’s never trusted only in her eyes before.

Is my person here?

She is. You will see her soon.

But how will I know her if I can’t smell?

You have a sense beyond smell—you always did.

⊕ cocks her head, confused.

Much of what you think of as smell is actually ⇔. With it, you sense energy and intention. That’s how we’re talking now, do you understand?

⊕ yawns the way she always does when she has deep thinking to do. I suppose, she says.

And spirit eyes see light, as I’m sure you recognize, Δ adds.

⊕ looks up and down the street. It’s flat and faded without the voluptuous dimension of odors, aromas, fragrances—like the screen her person watched in the evening sometimes. (⊕ never understood the appeal.)

I guess so, she says doubtfully.

She looks at ⊕ more closely, fighting the impulse to sniff. Where’s your person?

The Master is my person. He asked me to greet you. I greet all the new ones. We find it helps ease the disorientation.

A bit of grey flashes past ⊕ and up a tree trunk. ⊕ puts up her spirit ears.

Was that a…

Squirrel, yes. They’re usually up for a good chase, but always ask first. It’s one of the rules.

I’m supposed to ask a squirrel if I can chase it?

Yes. We’re not enemies here. There is no prey, only the pack. Squirrels, persons, even cats—

⊕ yawns again, unable to believe what Δ has just said. Cats. You’ve got to be kidding. They’re pure evil.

Cats are the Master’s creations, like you and me, Δ says firmly. They’re part of the pack. So chasing is okay, as long as you remember it’s a game.

***

Later, ⊕ recognizes ψ. Before…all this…he ran down her street most days at dawn and dusk. ⊕ barked a greeting every time he passed, almost envying ψ’s freedom—until her person gave ⊕ a tasty and scratched behind her ears. Persons were the best. ψ had no person, ate out of tipped trash cans and slept in forgotten corners. But he trailed scents of places ⊕ had never been, and ⊕ picked up those whispers and rumors on walks with her person. Remembering them now, she bites back a whine.

I can see that I will look on the absence of my body’s nose as a bondage, she says.

***

Δ agrees that ⊕ can go around with him until her person is ready. They walk all through the neighborhood, then beyond and into the city, and ⊕’s spirit paws never ache with fatigue. That’s one nice change. It almost makes up for the lack of smell.

It’s not long now until you’ll have it back. The Master won’t tell any persons when, but He told me.

⊕ cocks her head, hoping. But, no.

I can’t tell you yet. But it’s soon.

I’ll see my person first, though.

Δ assured ⊕ earlier, but she needs to hear it again.

Yes.

Δ is patient, which tells ⊕ good things about Δ’s Master. As the person, so the dog, was what ⊕’s mother said when ⊕ was a pup.

ψ runs by again—with two cats and a big animal ⊕ doesn’t recognize. ⊕ still finds it odd, the different animals and the persons all going around together. One pack, she reminds herself. A question occurs to her.

ψ didn’t have a person before. Will it always be so?

The Master saves special persons for wild dogs like ψ. He has been promised a person who had no dog before.

⊕ knew there were such people, felt bad for them when she met them. It is good this Master has a plan.

I’d like to meet your Master.

And so you shall. In fact, it’s time. Your person will be there, too.

They cross a bridge and come into a vast park, one ⊕ has never seen. ⊕ feels a tingle of ⇔ in her spirit nose, and all the colors of the plants and flowers and sky flare brighter for just a moment. The pulse comes again, stronger, and ⊕ puts up her spirit ears.

, she says, increasing her pace. It’s my person.

Indeed, says Δ.

They run, never tiring, and the pulses flare more often and more brightly until they round a corner and everything is round and real and almost smelly in its varied beauty.

And then, walking toward them on a path, two persons.

⊕ barks like crazy. She speeds to her person’s side and circles around and through her person’s spirit legs, wagging her spirit tail frantically. ⊕’s person kneels and places her spirit hand on ⊕’s spirit head, and it’s almost as good as a tasty. ⊕ is about to lick her person’s spirit face, but then comes a Voice.

.”

⊕ looks up. And knows.

Master, she whispers. Looking into his eyes, ⊕ remembers everything from before—and from before that. She rolls onto her spirit back humbly.

The Master kneels by ⊕’s person’s side and rubs ⊕’s spirit belly with His hand.

,” The Master repeats. “It is well.”

A Q&A about this story with Luisa Perkins is available here

2018 Mormon Lit Blitz Finalists

Finalists for the 7th Annual Mormon Lit Blitz will be posted here on lit.mormonartist.net 28 May – 9 June, according to the following schedule:

28 May: “Three Dogs in the Afterlife” by Luisa Perkins
29 May: “Scrubbing Jesus’ Toilets” by Lehua Parker
30 May: “A Perfect Voice” by Katherine Cowley
31 May: “New Rhythm” by Tanya Hanamaikai
1 June: “Counsel” by Faith Kershisnik
2 June: “After the Fast” by William Morris

4 June: “Beneath the Visiting Moon” by Lee Allred
5 June: “Still Clean” by Sherry Work
6 June: “Proof That Sister Greeley Is a Witch (Even Though Mormons Don’t Believe in Witches)” by Wm Morris
7 June: “The Last Swing” by Sheldon Lawrence
8 June: “Joseph and Emma Grow Old Together” by Eric Jepson
9 June: “Missionary Weekly Report for 28 March-3 April, Mumbai 1st Branch” by Mattathias Westwood

Audience voting for the Grand Prize Winner will take place June 11th-June 13th. This year, there will also be a judge’s choice award for a piece selected by Kylie Turley, a scholar of Mormon literature serving as a guest judge.

Congratulations to the finalists!

2018 Mormon Lit Blitz Longlist

Thank you to everyone who submitted to the Seventh Annual Mormon Lit Blitz! After reviewing the submissions, we’ve selected twenty-four semi-finalists. Finalists will be announced on 21 May and posted here 28 May-9 June.

Congratulations to our semi-finalists:

“After the Fast,” by William Morris
“Beneath a Visiting Moon” by Lee Allred
“The First Dream/Counsel/First Vision” by Faith Kershisnik
“I Was Poor” by Michael Gentry
“The Investigator” by Jeanine Bee
“It Rains Every Day” by Alison Brimley
“John Who Tarried” by Steven Peck
“Joseph and Emma Grow Old Together” by Eric Jepson
“The Last Swing” by Sheldon Lawrence
“Missionary Weekly Report for 28 March-3 April, Mumbai 1st Branch” by Mattathias Westwood
“New Rhythm” by Tanya Hanamaikai
“Ode to a Handcart” by Kathryn Hales
“A Perfect Voice” by Katherine Cowley
“The Prayer” by Katherine Cowley and S. BreAnne Johnson
“Proof That Sister Greeley Is a Witch (Even Though Mormons Don’t Believe in Witches)” by William Morris
“Redwood Song” by Terresa Mae Wellborn
“The Reluctant Seraph” by Adrienne Cardon
“Scrubbing Jesus’ Toilets” by Lehua Parker
“Semester Abroad” by Jim Richards
“‘Stanl33’s Silver Spaceship’ from The Friend, August 3029″ by Eric Jepson
“Still Clean” by Sherry Work
“Still Life #2 (fly on the counter)” by Laura Hilton Craner Myers
“Three Dogs in the Afterlife” by Luisa Perkins
“The Weightier Matters” by Merrijane Rice

7th Annual Mormon Lit Blitz: Call for Submissions

Mormon culture gets a bad rap. Many outside observers tend to assume we’re too golly-darn nice to produce any great writers, artists, etc. Within the Church, “Mormon culture” often becomes the scapegoat for anything that annoys us, rather than a term for our traditions, values, history, and the creative works that explore them. As a result, relatively few people are looking for the gems that already exist in Mormon literature. Worse yet: very few people are working to develop the next generation of thoughtful and engaging Mormon writers.

In 2012, James Goldberg, Scott Hales, and Nicole Wilkes Goldberg organized the first annual Mormon Lit Blitz as a small and simple way to address these problems. By focusing on very short work, the contest allows skeptical readers an accessible way to look for Mormon literary voices they like. It also allows writers the chance to try out something new in a length that is manageable.

Since its inception, the Mormon Lit Blitz has been the world’s premier contest for Mormon Micro-Literature. As we enter our seventh year, we hope you’ll join our ongoing effort to see and show what writing for Mormon audiences can accomplish.

Details: 

Submissions for The Seventh Annual Mormon Lit Blitz Writing Contest are due by 1 May 2018 to everydaymormonwriter@gmail.com. Submitted works may be in any genre so long as they are under 1,000 words and designed to resonate in some way with an LDS audience. Previously published material and simultaneous submissions are acceptable. Up to three submissions are allowed per entrant.

Finalists will be posted on the Mormon Artist magazine website (lit.mormonartist.net) starting in late May. This year, they will compete for two prizes. At the conclusion of the Lit Blitz, readers will vote for their favorite pieces, and a $100 prize will be given to the audience choice winner. A writer or literary critic will also choose a judge’s choice winner for a second $100 prize.

For updates about the 2018 contest, follow the Mormon Lit Blitz Facebook page.

To facilitate the judging process, we prefer to receive submissions as .doc, .docx, or .pdf attachments with the author’s name and contact information in the body of the email but not included in the attached text. Please email submissions and any questions you may have to everydaymormonwriter@gmail.com.

By submitting, authors give us the one-time rights to publish their work electronically. As stated above, previously published work is fine if you still have the rights to the piece and if it meets the above contest requirements.

Past Finalists: 

Interested in this contest? Take a look at past years’ finalists to get a taste of what we’ve featured:

We look forward to reading your entries!

2017 Mormon Lit Blitz Winners

A huge thank you to all the finalists and to all our readers this year. The new work that’s produced for each contest and the audience that gets to experience it is the thing that has made six years of Lit Blitzing worthwhile.

Votes are in and this year’s winners are:

4) “Pride” by Hillary Stirling

3) “On the Death of a Child” by Merrijane Rice

2) “Celestial Accounting” by Kathy Cowley

and…

1) “Forty Years” by Jeanna Mason Stay

Congratulations!

We hope you’ll join us for next year’s Lit Blitz.

2017 Mormon Lit Blitz Voting Instructions

We have enjoyed all twelve finalists. But we only have one Grand Prize. Help us decide which piece wins this year’s Lit Blitz by emailing a ranking of your four favorite pieces to everydaymormonwriter@gmail.com.

Voting is open from Monday, June 12th until the end of the day on Saturday, June 17th. The winner of the $100 Grand Prize will be announced on Monday, June 19th.

The twelve finalists are:

29 May: “Celestial Accounting” by Katherine Cowley
30 May: “Sonata in Three Movements” by Jeanine Bee
31 May: “Germination” by Sarah Dunster
1 June: “Pride” by Hillary Stirling
2 June: “Spurious Revelations” by Niklas Hietala
3 June: “On the Death of a Child” by Merrijane Rice

5 June: “Worthy World” Tanya Hanamaikai
6 June: “There Wrestled a Man in Parowan” by Wm Morris
7 June: “Valley 176th Ward” by Eliza Porter
8 June: “Walking Among the Legend People” by Marianne Hales Harding
9 June: “Daughters of Ishmael” by Annaliese Lemmon
10 June: “Forty Years” by Jeanna Mason Stay

Again: in order to be counted, votes must contain a ranking of the reader’s four favorite pieces and must be emailed to everydaymormonwriter@gmail.com by the end of the day Saturday, June 6th. Voters should have at least skimmed all twelve pieces. We also welcome comments and feedback on the contest in vote emails.

For those who are interested, a public discussion of the pieces is taking place on the Mormon Midrashim blog. We’d love to have you share your thoughts on the contest there.

“Forty Years” by Jeanna Mason Stay

The day before my mother died, I’d planned to call her, ask how she was doing, catch up in awkward, stilted conversation. But the day passed; I was busy. Would she even notice or care? Maybe it would serve her right if I didn’t call. Maybe I’d call her tomorrow.

By the time I decided to do it, it was too late.

***

Six months later, I met the man I wanted to marry. We would grow old together, I thought; I could see it in the way he looked at me when he left me on my doorstep. I went inside and reached for the phone to call her, then remembered. But I could hear the conversation in my head anyway. Too young, she would have said, and she’d tell me about her old loves and how they didn’t last, and my joy would have been lost, swallowed up in her.

So I took a breath and shook her out of my head. Yes, too young, I whispered in my mind, but too bad. You don’t get a say.

***

Just a few months before my mother died, she missed my high school graduation. She’d missed my final recital too, and the academic awards ceremony, and the fancy parent dinner. I didn’t expect her, I told myself, and I didn’t care—but I scanned the crowds just in case.

***

Nearly a year after I met him, we married. A year after that, the baby. I held that child in my arms and panic flooded through me. What was I doing? I looked to my husband then back to the baby. How could I be a mother when I’d never really had one? How could I give my own child this legacy?

Was this how my mother felt? Did this terror fill her heart as she looked down at me? Was I destined to fail my own daughter as my mother failed me?

And then she squirmed and cried out. I took her hand in mine, and her tiny fingers wrapped around mine.

It was going to be okay.

***

She learned to sit up, then to crawl. She took her first step exactly three years after my mother died.

Another year passed, then two, then three. Her first words, her first day of school, her first crush, her everyday in-and-out. I made her cry, sometimes, this inexplicable and mysterious child who bore within her my soul’s DNA—and my mother’s, try though I might to forget it. She made me cry too. We laughed, we fought, we made up.

We grew up.

I floundered and failed so many times.

But I kept coming back to try again.

***

Eighteen years before my mother died, I was born. Who was she before then? I couldn’t know.

Thirteen years before she died, I heard the adults talking about her in the other room. I wasn’t meant to hear it, and neither was she—they never once said it when we were around. I had sneaked into the room to eavesdrop on conversation that was far more interesting than dolls or blocks. “She never was the same,” they said, “not after she had that baby. Something broke in her. Maybe she just wasn’t meant to be a mother.”

It was another year before I realized “that baby” was me.

Three years after that, we sat together on the floor as I practiced for a spelling bee. She quizzed me, word by word, as I prepared. She had such patience correcting my mistakes. I felt her absolute confidence in me wash over and surround me. I could do it.

Years later, I held this memory close and careful, like a dandelion stem whose seeds might blow away in the wind of time. She wasn’t always gone, I reminded myself. Not always.

***

“I met someone,” my daughter said, twenty-one years after my mother died, and I could hear from her voice that this man was different from the others she’d dated. My heart stuttered. Too soon, I thought. Far too soon.

I swallowed down my fears and smiled widely. “Tell me about him.”

***

Twenty-three years after my mother died, my daughter called and begged me to come.

I came.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered, gazing down at the new baby in her arms. “She needs me too much. I’m so lost.” Then she looked up at me, eyes wide and worried and wet. “I’m gonna ruin everything.”

I wrapped my arms around her, enfolding both her and my beautiful grandchild in my arms. “You won’t,” I promised her.

“Tell me what to do,” she pleaded.

I looked into eyes so like my mother’s. “You’ll fail,” I told her. “Lots. You won’t be perfect. You’ll make mistakes and you’ll wonder what’s the point of it all. But you’ll also have days that feel perfect, where you know this was the job you were meant for. Hold on to those ones for the darker days.”

She laughed through her tears. “That wasn’t much of a pep talk, you know.”

I nodded. “I know. But it’s the best one I’ve got.”

***

The day after my mother died was the day I began to realize I needed her more than I’d thought. It was the day I realized that despite it all, all the ways she hadn’t been there for me, I still loved her. And she had tried to love me. For good or bad, I would carry her with me wherever I went.

Sometimes I think we are all just wandering in the wilderness.

“Daughters of Ishmael” by Annaliese Lemmon

Mahalath smiled as she watched each of her sisters by the fire. Whatever the feud between Laman and Nephi, worsened with the death of Lehi, at least the daughters of Ishmael could still enjoy time together. Huldah was showing the dyes she had created from the plants and bugs she had discovered. Jerusha appraised the cloth while Elisheba examined the sample plants.

But little Adah (all right, she wasn’t so little anymore) wasn’t participating in any of it. She played with her infant, head down, not looking at anybody. Mahalath scooted closer to her. “Is something wrong?”

Adah looked up, eyes blinking rapidly. “I’m fine.”

Mahalath pursed her lips. Adah always blinked when she was upset. “Come on, you can tell me. What’s going on?”

Adah shook her head. “It’s nothing.” But as she spoke, a tear started to trickle down her cheek.

Huldah fell quiet. Elisheba crawled over to Adah’s other side. “Adah, it’s all right.”

“It’s not all right!” Adah buried her face in her infant’s body. “We’re never going to get to do this again!”

Elisheba rubbed Adah’s back. “I know it seems that way, but we convinced our stiffnecked husbands to let us get together tonight. We can do it again.”

Adah only sobbed in response.

Mahalath placed one hand on Adah’s knee and glanced at Huldah and Jerusha. Why weren’t they saying anything? Jerusha just folded Huldah’s cloth together while Huldah rubbed her fist against her mouth. Were they keeping something from them? There was no reason for the five of them couldn’t get together, unless… “Is Nephi making you leave home, again?”

Adah looked up at Mahalath, eyes wide. So, Mahalath had guessed right. They’d already left Jerusalem and Bountiful. Would Nephi never find a place to settle?

Jerusha glared at Mahalath. “Do you really think he’ll be safe if he stays?”

Mahalath shrank under her oldest sister’s gaze. True, she had already warned Jerusha twice that Laman seemed angry enough to carry out his threat to kill Nephi. Then while Jerusha had run to tell Nephi, Mahalath had hidden at Jerusha’s house in the hope that Laman wouldn’t discover that his wife had been the reason he couldn’t find Nephi. As overbearing as Nephi could be, Adah didn’t deserve to be a widow.

“So, when do you leave?” Elisheba’s voice was little more than a whisper.

Jerusha and Huldah exchanged glances. “Tonight,” Jerusha said. “If you could, try to keep Laman and Lemuel from investigating our houses. The longer it takes for them to notice that we’re gone, the less likely they’ll be able to follow us.”

“We can do that,” Elisheba said. “Though you would think that you’ve had enough traveling in the wilderness. It won’t be the same without you.”

Mahalath stared at the fire. No, it wouldn’t. While Nephi was strict and overbearing, she had never feared him like she had her husband. Where was she going to go to escape from Laman’s wrath if her sisters left? “Take me with you.”

Though Mahalath’s voice was quiet, it drew everyone’s attention. “What about your children?” Huldah asked.

“Laman’s teaching them to beat your children, and shouts at me if I try to intervene.” Mahalath drew her knees up against her chest. “I’m so sick of it.”

Adah reached her arm around Mahalath. “Of course you can come. We’ll take care of you.”

“You’re going to leave me?” Elisheba said. “Alone?”

“You can come too.” Adah beamed through the tears still sticking to her face. “This must be why I felt like I needed to see you one last time.”

“I don’t know.” Elisheba bit her lip. “We finally have a place to call home. I can’t just leave my kids, my husband.” She looked to Mahalath.

“But you know the Lord speaks to Nephi,” Adah said. “How will you know what to do without him?”

Elisheba snarled. “Yes, how will I know what to do without Nephi criticizing us every single day?”

Mahalath held her hands out. “That’s enough.” She didn’t need reminding how frustrating Nephi could be. “Elisheba, just promise to cover for us as long as you can.”

Elisheba’s face fell. “All right.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going to miss you.”

Mahalath wiped tears from her eyes. “And we’ll miss you. Take care of my kids. Try to teach them to be kind.”

Elisheba nodded.

“Then I better go pack.” Mahalath stood, throat thick. This time tomorrow, she would be free of this feud. If only she didn’t have to trade one family for another.

“Walking Among the Legend People” by Marianne Hales Harding

In Bryce Canyon, nature’s flip book of erosion,
Hoodoos crowd the amphitheater
dripping sunset colors,
waxing and waning
(though truly always waning),
Piute Legend People
cycling through the life
of a temporary rock feature
(a scant 10,000 years).

The crowd of 7th graders pause
their quick march long enough to find
orange falcons and candy corn and chess sets crumbling
around tenacious, vanilla-scented pines
(true story—we checked).
Peering at ever-changing faces
through their own ever-changing faces.
Children waxing into adulthood
through the ruthless weathering
that no rock or child can escape.

But waning too.
Our scant 100 years more temporary
than the smallest column.
Our faces painted with our inevitable sunset.
Our Legend People a breathtaking
snapshot of one moment
in the unflinching cycle of life.

“Valley 176th Ward” by Eliza Porter

The scriptures were the motivation for a mighty change in the Valley 176th ward.  Brother Dalton wanted to protect the women and children.  He was very passionate about their safety and brought that up again and again as things were changing in the neighborhood.  As a real estate agent Brother Dalton couldn’t control everything, but he could make recommendations about home values online.  Little by little, the 4 block boundaries of the ward became more united, unified, and uniform.  There were families, yes.  There were some elderly, not so many as to become a burden on the ward.  A few married couples were able to get houses as less desirable landlords sold their property because a rash of complaints to the zoning commission.

Brother Dalton was always very friendly with prospective buyers.   Middle-class doctors and salt-of-the-earth programmers came to him with specific criteria for home and neighborhood.  If Brother Dalton felt them worthy, he might show them a listing–surprisingly under-priced–in his own area.   The anonymous ratings for the properties were, of course, very negative to discourage the general pool of buyers.

Yes, things had been changing for 10 years.  Brother Dalton was singing in the choir for Ward Conference.  He almost missed the announcement of a new Bishopric as he sent a text to a future ward member.  Bishop Jones had lost his job a few weeks ago and his family would be moving to Oklahoma.

Brother Dalton smiled as he pushed “send” on his text:

–And the Lord called his people Zion, because they were of one heart and one mind, and dwelt in righteousness; and there was no poor among them.