Short Story Contest — Details, details!

Here at Kingdom Pen, we’re always talking about writing for Christ. Attacking lies, changing the world with fiction and being deliberate with our words. Hopefully, you don’t feel beat over the head with this. That was never our intent.

But perhaps you are getting the idea that we’re a lot of studious, boring people with an ax to grind that we never stop grinding. That’s not true of us, we hope. We like to have fun, and we thought we’d do just that with our first time ever short story contest.

That’s right. Kingdom Pen is going to host a short story contest, with first, second and third place prizes. No fee for entry. All you have to be is a Kingdom Pen subscriber (and that’s free too, by the way).

What are the guidelines? Where can you find details about this event? And what about those prizes we mentioned? Keep reading.

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Short Story Contest!

Kingdom Pen will be hosting its first ever short story contest in an upcoming issue.

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Are You A Photographer?

We are looking for submissions for cover images to use in
our  issues!

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Next Stop

By Braden Russell

 

I wake up and look at my watch. My eyes are cloudy, like somebody smeared Vaseline in them, and the green numbers are too blurry to read.

I blink, and it says 11:15.

The train is still moving, but you wouldn’t know it. The red leather seat I’m sitting on is solid as a post. There’s no bumping. No rattling. If you look out the window you see nothing but grey fog, wisping close to the glass. Some of the fog seems to have made its way inside the train car, or maybe my eyes just haven’t cleared up yet.

In the seat across from me is a guy with his head against the window, staring at the ceiling with half-closed eyes. His forearms are stretched out, pointed upward like the white bellies of dead fish, and a glistening needle sticks out of one. Some nagging thought in the back of my brain tells me that I should be repelled at the sight, but I feel nothing. Just a heaviness in my temples, like fog inside my skull.

The fat man in the blue cap is stooped over the passenger on the opposite side of the car, and I squint at him, trying to remember who he is, and then it pops into my head. The Conductor. Just the Conductor.

He is talking to the girl with the ragged black hair and scarred wrists. He’s laughing. I think they must be sharing a joke, but then I see the tears running down her cheeks. I turn back to the fog outside the window. How long have I been sitting here? I should stand up and walk down the aisle, get some exercise.

“Well hello, youngster. And how’s the trip been?”

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The Beauty Of Life

By Julia Zwayne

 

I walked upon a lonely path,

As darkness settled in,

The wind began to moan and sigh,

And taunt me of my sin.

The fog and clouds were creeping close,

As if to kill me there,

The memories and the past regrets

Were spinning everywhere.

The torture and the bitter pain,

The callous words of strife,

The sin, the lies and utter shame,

Had ripped apart my life.

Forgotten, beaten, cast aside,

Shunned and left to crawl,

No one listened to my cries,

Or to my echoing call.

The bitterness had seized my heart,

Had made me cold as stone,

And now I walked upon this path,

Forgotten and alone.

As I walked, with hanging head,

While clutching to my skirt,

A piece of paper small and white,

Flew past me in the dirt.

I leaped ahead and caught it fast,

Then held it close to look,

It seemed as if it had been torn,

From somewhere in a book.

Words were there, across the sheet,

They smote me to my soul,

They seemed to burn me as I read,

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