Literary Works

We never believe magic and spells are real, but C.S. Lewis shows us that these fairytale
fantasies have some truth -- our sin causes the “evil enchantment of worldliness” that we can
only wake from with “the strongest spell,” God’s grace.

All of creation bears the beauty of its Creator in some minute way. As a result, even a seemingly insignificant egg is fit for the application of such typology. The egg is a rich allegorical image.

The same routine happens every morning. The sun ushers in a new day, and the first task
of almost every human is to hyper-examine their flesh. Through the variety of different mirrors,
strategically placed around the home, individuals “encounter” themselves.

Oliver opened his eyes to the beige ceiling above him. The unwashed comforter covered him halfway to his abdomen, fell to the side of him, then down off his bed. He slept on the leftmost side of his mattress, a habit he had formed from his early childhood.

Lavinia leaned back languidly in her seat, her slender fingers that were studded with rings curling in anticipation. Her black gown had few sparkly sequins, almost allowing her to melt into the shadows of the night, but it was far from plain.

A young woman walked by herself among the wreckage. Wooden splinters of all sizes jutted from the sand. There was no way of knowing they had once belonged to a mighty ship.

A young woman walked by herself among the wreckage. Wooden splinters of all sizes jutted from the sand. There was no way of knowing they had once belonged to a mighty ship. Or maybe it had been a humbler sloop. Or a canoe.

The sun wasn’t up yet. The orange light from the lampposts encircled us as my team and I ran our morning workout around the lake. We always did the kilometer workouts there. The lake had a path around it and was the perfect size.

“To the victor go the spoils.”
Deuce, ad-in, deuce, ad-out, deuce again. The server readjusted her cap
and felt that the fabric had soaked through with sweat. She had played from morning to evening and had borne the worst of the Floridian sun. The heat was a small price to pay.

It started with the squirrels.
Billy would find them as he trudged through the woods, their tiny bodies mangled, their
fur stripped to expose the fragile bones. Usually, they had heads. None of them had eyes. Billy
would bury the small, bloodied bodies, gently patting the dark earth over them.

Lorrel dashed through the trees, panting. She only had one thought echoing through her mind. Fool, Fool why did I have to be such a daft witted fool. That and RUN! She did not have the slightest chance of outrunning her pursuer.

She moves in mystery, deep and vast,
The navy waves caress the coast,
Where long sands stretch, in stillness cast
In murmured secrets, haunting ghosts.

What should a man be?
The question is echoed throughout history.
Should he exude strength and power?
Conquer all the world- land, sky, and sea?

Gone! Gone to the grave has my beloved fled
Fled this forsaken world.


In hatred turned I to the sea

‘Nevermore’ quoth the bird,
Wisdom speaks and beak ceases
To strike. A Black streak which
Undergirds England’s lease on life.

Sliddle sladdle,
Drip and draddle,
Lines down windows course.

Chicago raised, a royal name, her voice
And amber scent; her tender touch consoles
My anxious, trembling mind. Remaining choice
And longing hearts entangled, smoking coals.

If I be but a footnote trailing prose,
A whisper slanted, pause for poetry;
My humble line invites you sweet repose
In stroke, a kiss, enshrined eternally.

I wander through the lonely halls, my sullen eyes downcast.
My heart borne down with beating sorrow for the race that fell.
And at our foolish detrimental gaff I stand aghast,
For deeds which our own hands have wrought unlatched the gates of Hell.

Alberto packed the film-reel case,

And slipped the wafers in,

He rolled the pray’rs and candles up

Within the screen pressed thin.