We know you only just arrived,
but we wanted to send you an invitation
all the same:
Huldah has started a book club,
The Ancient Mother’s Book Club,

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If you’ve heard only one cliché about Mormon literature,1 it was probably Orson Whitney’s famous line from “Home Literature” (included in an appendix to this new critical edition of Elias: An Epic for the Ages edited by Reid L Neilson and published last year by Greg Kofford Books): “We will yet have Miltons and Shakespeares of our own.”

This is probably the most debated, discussed, and agonized-over line in the Mormon-lit scene.2 Terryl Givens tried to slice the Gordian knot by saying the “Mormon Shakespeare is Shakespeare,” but Whitney’s prophecy continues to come up, even though expecting anyone anywhere to replicate the career of either Milton or Shakespeare is absurd. Meanwhile, the repetition of that line out of context misses what Whitney was actually calling for. Here’s a bit more of the surrounding context:

Above all things, we must be original…. No pouring of new wine into old bottles. No patterning after the dead forms of antiquity. Our literature must live and breathe for itself. Our mission is diverse from all others; our literature must also be. The odes of Anacreon, the satires of Horace and Juvenal, the epics of Homer, Virgil, Dante and Milton; the sublime tragedies of Shakspeare [sic]; these are all excellent, all well enough in their way; but we must not attempt to copy them. They cannot be reproduced. We may read, we may gather sweets from all these flowers, but we must build our own hive and honeycomb after God’s supreme design.

We will yet have Miltons and Shakespeares of our own. God’s ammunition is not exhausted. His brightest spirits are held in reserve for the latter times. In God’s name and by his help we will build up a literature whose top shall touch heaven, though its foundations may now be low in earth . . . . Small things are the seeds of great things, and, like the acorn that brings forth the oak, or the snowflake that forms the avalanche, God’s kingdom will grow, and on wings of light and power soar to the summit of its destiny.

As for Elias, his epic poem covering our cosmology from before Eden through the Millennium, Whitney said, “I do not think I have produced . . . a Paradise Lost; but neither have I attempted to do so. Elias is a ‘Mormon’ poem, upon the subject and in the spirit of ‘Mormonism.’ That is all I claim for it.”3

2. Ina and Joaquin

I live in the San Francisco Bay Area and, as such, have frequent opportunity to think of two California poets, contemporaries of Whitney, one of whom also wrote epics. The first is Ina Coolbrith, the first poet laureate of California4 and a niece of Joseph Smith’s. There’s a walking path named after her near my bishop’s house in the Berkeley hills and a park in San Francisco. The second is Cincinnatus Heine Miller, renamed Joaquin Miller by Coolbrith as part of her successful efforts to turn him into a world-famous poet. She was supposed to accompany him on a trip to Europe to place flowers on Lord Byron’s grave, but stayed behind to care for her ill relatives and Miller’s daughter.5 The Oakland Temple is off the same freeway exit as Joaquin Miller Park.

Coolbrith and Miller were huge in their day: Coolbrith locally, Miller throughout the English-speaking world. As Whitney was in Utah.6 Yet, not one of these three appears in, say, The Norton Anthology of Poetry. Who reads any of them today?

Some of this is style. Modernism was just about to arrive and make them look like total squares. Not even Longfellow, larger than all three put together and only a tad older, gets much attention in 2026.7 And let’s be honest, not many people even read Paradise Lost recreationally in 2026. In a world where the average American reads maybe one book a year, that book is not an epic poem.

So it is huge that a new and care-taking edition of Elias was released in 2025—props to Nelson and Kofford Books for believing Whitney’s labors still have value. This book’s existence is not only a statement of the poem’s value, but, equally, a symbol of faith that we of the twenty-first century have the capacity to read and celebrate an old example from an artform we tend to think of as dead dead dead.

And maybe, even, that we’ll enjoy it?

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Orson F. Whitney’s Elias: An Epic of the Ages is the great Mormon epic poem of the 19^th Century and, once upon a time, was well-known and widely read in Utah and nearby Latter-day Saint communities. Published just a few years before he was called to serve as an apostle in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Whitney’s work was immediately popular and, unlike most poetic works, LDS or otherwise, earned some small fame and honors for the poet in his lifetime.

Even before its official publication, however, he had begun to circulate his poem among friends and acquaintances. In December 1903, artist and critic Henry LA Culmer wrote in the Salt Lake Herald that Whitney’s poem would “rank among the finest of all literature,” comparing it to such notable works as Dante’s Divine Comedy and Milton’s Paradise Lost. Toward his own work, Whitney had a humbler attitude and said, “I do not think that I have produced an Iliad or a Paradise Lost; but neither have I attempted to do so. Elias is a ‘Mormon’ poem, upon the subject and in the spirit of ‘Mormonism.’ That is all I claim for it.”

The contents will be familiar to all Latter-day Saints. Whitney’s poem was designed to testify of the Gospel of Jesus Christ and the message of the Restoration, charting its course through the history of the Latter-day Saint people as well as through parts of what we have come to know as the Plan of Salvation. The first two cantos deal with the poet’s spiritual awakening and motivations for writing the poem. The journey, however, truly starts in Canto 3 (excerpted below), and the poet begins at the very beginning of all things, that is, in the premortal council in heaven. While any work of literature will be speculative to some extent, this canto is one of the best early examples of speculative Mormon literature as Whitney explores what that pre-mortal council may have been like.

As the poem continues, Whitney treks through Christian history and the Great Apostasy, the calling of Joseph Smith and the restoration of Christ’s church in the latter days, the coming forth of The Book of Mormon, the persecutions and migrations of the Latter-day Saints, and on into the future. The poem in its entirety can be found online for free or in a new print edition from Greg Kofford Books. Included in this issue of Further Light, you can read Theric Jepson’s review of this new critical edition, which was edited by Reid L. Neilson. I would invite all interested readers to delve into and enjoy this expansive work of early-Mormon epic poetry for themselves.

—DA Cooper, poetry editor

Elias: An Epic of the Ages

Canto Three: Elect of Elohim1

by Orson F. Whitney

Sing I a song of aeons gone,
Of life from mystery sprung,
Ere sun, or moon, or rolling stars
Their radiance earthward flung;
Ere spirit-winged intelligence
Forsook those shining spheres.
Exceeding glory there to gain
Through mortal toil and tears.

A song they learn whose lives eterne
Transcend yon twinkling night,
Pale Olea’s silver beam2 outsoar,
Shinea’s golden flight;
Passing the angel sentries by,
Mounting o’er stars and suns,
To where the orbs that govern burn,
Royal and regnant ones.

Declare, O Muse of mightier wing,
Of loftier lore, than mine!
Why God is God, and man may be
Both human and divine;
Why Sons of God, ’mid sons of men,
Unrecognized may dwell,
So masked in dense mortality
That none their truth can tell.

From worlds afar, from heavenmost star,
Heard I, or seemed to hear,
A sweet refrain, as summer rain,
A cadence soft and clear.
A voice, a harp,—Was it the same?—
Harping those harps among,
Leading the lyric universe,
On those high hills of song?

In solemn council sat the Gods;
From Kolob’s height supreme,
Celestial light blazed forth afar
O’er countless kokaubeam;
And faintest tinge, the fiery fringe
Of that resplendent day,
’Lumined the dark abysmal realm
Where earth in chaos lay.

Silence. That awful hour was one
When thought doth most avail;
Of worlds unborn the destiny
Hung trembling in the scale.
Silence self-spelled, and there arose,
Those kings and priests among,
A power sublime, than whom appeared
None nobler ’mid the throng.

A stature mingling strength with grace,
Of meek though godlike mien;
The glory of whose countenance
Outshone the noonday sheen.
Whiter his hair than ocean spray,
Or frost of alpine hill.
He spake;—attention grew more grave,
The stillness e’en more still.

“Father!” the voice like music fell,
Clear as the murmuring flow
Of mountain streamlet trickling down
From heights of virgin snow.
“Father,” it said, “since one must die,
Thy children to redeem
From spheres all formless now and void,
Where pulsing life shall teem;

“And mighty Michael3 foremost fall,
That mortal man may be;
And chosen saviour Thou must send,
Lo, here am I—send me!
I ask, I seek no recompense,
Save that which then were mine;
Mine be the willing sacrifice,
The endless glory Thine!

“Give me to lead to this lorn world,
When wandered from the fold,
Twelve legions of the noble ones
That now Thy face behold;
Tried souls,4 ’mid untried spirits found,
That captained these may be,
And crowned the dispensations all
With powers of Deity.

“Who blameless bide the spirit state,
Clothe them in mortal clay,
The stepping-stone5 to glories all,
If man will God obey,
Believing where he cannot see,
Till he again shall know,
And answer give, reward receive,
For all deeds done below.

“The love that hath redeemed all worlds6
All worlds must still redeem;
But mercy cannot justice rob—
Or where were Elohim?
Freedom—man’s faith, man’s work, God’s grace—
Must span the great gulf o’er;
Life, death, the guerdon or the doom,
Rejoice we or deplore.”

Still rang that voice, when sudden rose
Aloft a towering form,
Proudly erect as lowering peak
’Lumed by the gathering storm;
A presence bright and beautiful,
With eye of flashing fire,
A lip whose haughty curl bespoke
A sense of inward ire.

“Send me!”—coiled ’neath his courtly smile
A scarce concealed disdain—
“And none shall hence, from heaven to earth,
That shall not rise again.
My saving plan exception scorns.7
Man’s will?—Nay, mine alone.
As recompense, I claim the right
To sit on yonder Throne!”

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The population of Joseph, Utah, peaked at six hundred people in 1900, the year my father died. By the time I had turned ten in 1907, it had dwindled to just over a hundred, making us a small town to beat all small towns. We have our own church, this being Zion and all, but for school or the general store, we have to go to Elsinore, the next town, over six miles away. The nearest town of any consequence is Richfield. Most go there to earn money working in the mines, like my brother Albert, or cooking for the miners, like my sister Ora.

My mother had seven children, but now I’m the only one left. So I need hardly tell you how surprised we were when my oldest brother Perry came back.

I was sitting on a rickety wooden chair in the living room darning my third-best pair of stockings when I heard it—a distant grinding, squeaking, groaning noise. At first I thought it was the train, but the clock on the mantelpiece said the train wasn’t due for hours. And anyway, this noise seemed to be getting much closer.

Mother stood frozen in the act of sweeping the floor, her face pale.

“What’s that sound?” I asked, as it grew ever louder.

“I don’t know, Jennis.” The noise grew to a great cacophony until I could hear it right outside our house—and then it stopped.

“Stay here, Jennis,” Mother ordered. “I’m going to—”

Someone knocked on the door, and we both jumped in surprise. Mother opened it cautiously.

A stranger stood framed in the doorway, wearing leather breeches embossed with intricate floral designs and a hat adorned with metal studs. A small flask filled with orange liquid dangled from a chain at his waist. He also wore leather gauntlets that reached his elbows and knee-high boots of scaly hide like a crocodile’s. His face was mostly obscured by thick goggles and a scarf.

“What brings you to this corner of Zion, stranger?” Mother asked. My heart pounded. People often came and went on our door, on account of Mother being the best midwife in Sevier County, but never strange men in crocodile-hide boots.

“Mother,” said the stranger. “Don’t you recognize your own son?”

“Perry!” Mother threw her arms around him and held him tight.

Now I knew, I wondered how I could have failed to recognize him. Who else would stand with his hand on his hip, shoulders squared, in the way that only Perry could? Now he sported a debonair mustache, waxed and turned up at the ends.

I longed to throw my arms about his waist but felt shy and dowdy. I had inherited my mother’s dark and wildly curly hair, which was always coming out of my braids. My blue calico dress was too short in the hem and sleeves, and I was sure the threadbare fabric at my elbows would burst at any moment. Despite Mother’s hard work as a midwife, most of the mothers she nursed couldn’t afford her midwifery fees. Often we’d get paid in potatoes instead of money, but just as often Mother would be paid nothing at all. So I’d have to make do with the dress I had.

“It’s good to be home, Mother,” Perry said.

“Two years is such a long time,” Mother agreed. She looked out the front window over Perry’s shoulder and stiffened. She drew back, her hands on his shoulders, and glared at him.

“Perry VanRansler Miller,” Mother said, her voice shot through with anger. “What is that infernal contraption outside my house?”

“It’s a steam-powered automatic road-defrosting, snow-melting perambulator for rural use, Mother,” he said with purposeful casualness.

“I want to see,” I said, trying to push past them to get a good look. At first glance, the machine looked like a glossy, six-wheeled black box. It boasted an enclosed cabin with a thick pane of glass in the front, and a number of large light bulbs attached to either side. A series of pointed copper tubes protruded from the front of the machine.

“That’s quite enough, Jennis,” said Mother as she tried to block the machine from my view. She pursed her lips and turned back to Perry. “You misunderstand me, son. I know what it is. I want to know why you brought that blasphemous, noisy, dirty, invention of Lucifer himself home to this town full of God-fearing people.”

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The child, wrapped in ceremonial wool habiliments, seemed more chilled then she should given the temperature. The woman was tall and lithe, her thin, short hair—shoulder length, a subtle light blue, although it looked white in the starlight—tossed haphazardly in the occasional gust. She stood stiffly next to the child.

“I don’t want to go,” the girl said softly. Not defiantly. The woman looked down at the child but said nothing.

“Will it be long?” The girl was babbling to make conversation, the woman thought. She had never been a very promising child. Nevertheless she answered her.

“It will be here in less than four minutes.” She could have given a more precise estimate, but the girl did not need accuracy.

“I’m scared,” the girl whispered, hugging her wrappings more tightly.

There it was. A black shape. A shadow moving in front of the stars. The glint of metal gave shape to the darkness. It was moving fast. Towards them. The large craft quickly maneuvered to hover a few feet from where they stood. A door cracked open revealing its octagonal shape in an outline of bright light, which expanded more fully until it disclosed an opening onto the ship. The little girl grabbed the woman and held onto her weeping. A woman similar in form and aspect walked through the door and stopped before the woman and child.

The two women uplinked.

Though nearly identical in form, they were different in history and experience and therefore maintained appropriate firewalls and did not disclose themselves fully to one another. They transmitted the ritual transfer protocols for giving and receiving the girl.

“Must I go?” the girl whimpered softly.

She was ignored.

The protocols verified, the woman standing on the threshold of the vessel extended her hand. The woman standing next to the child placed her hand gently on the back of the girl and guided her forward.

The girl was crying loudly now, her breath coming in broken gasps and her shoulders shaking. Despite this, the girl moved forward with hesitant steps and took the hand of the woman from the ship, and together they turned and walked back into the opening. The door closed. The ship rose noisily and disappeared into the upper atmosphere.

###

The woman enjoyed the walk back to the village. She liked the night, the stars, the cool air. The large trees added a measure of peace and grace to the winding forest path. Nearby, a night flay called out, eight notes in an ascending scale, then a trill and warbling. In the distance, an answer. A modification on the same theme. The flay nearer the woman improvised on the other flay’s voice, and the two moved through the upper branches of the trees towards one another. In a few minutes, the two creatures joined in a syncopation that combined their voices in a complex arrangement of the original theme. The woman smiled and stopped to listen and enjoy the music of the night birds. She allowed gratitude to bathe her net.

When she returned to her abode, she found the Suzerain waiting. The house taktak was on the leader’s lap, its beak clicking softly in a contented register. Its headplate turned from a dark ruby red to a soft green signaling its pleasure at her return. The Suzerain stood, and the taktak leapt down chattering loudly and began skittering between the legs of the woman demanding attention. She reached down, picked it up, and scratched its fleshy head.

She considered the Suzerain coolly. In physical aspect, she was sharper featured, with long black hair and large expressive eyes that gave away nothing. The Suzerain and the woman did not uplink. In a small village like this, in which contact was frequent, uplinking, despite firewalls, could lead to unintended disclosures. Subtle personal information could leak out based only on what was held back. In the spaces of what was not offered, secrets could be revealed when accumulated over a long time; information given just by its absence. In a limited community like this, if one wanted not to open oneself fully, it was best to talk out loud. It was also an established habit here, as the human children had to be talked to after their fashion.

The Suzerain smiled, “Good evening, Blaa Kressl. I trust all went well with the student.”

Kressl was not in the mood for pleasantries. That the Suzerain was here at all suggested she had something to manipulate—to which her power and position disposed her.

“Of course,” she said simply.

“A disappointing child,” the Suzerain observed.

“Why do we take them?” She allowed the taktak to jump from her arms, and she walked over to a window and looked out into the forest behind her house. A light snow was beginning to fall. She already regretted the question. The Suzerain always seemed eager to expound on things which she had discovered though her position. Had she downloaded a new pride subroutine? Kressl wondered.

“They are rich. Of course, their gene sequences are full of bugs, so these are substandard children, but even these will rise to high places of power and responsibility within their wardl, so we do what we can.”

Kressl on a whim downloaded info on the Deisents to see if there had been an update. #[Small cultural-religious group. Held that only minimal sequence manipulation was morally permissible—dental and medical only. Father and mother provide code for their child as they inherited it from their parents. Control over 1500 Demesnes. Key partner in Bastion Coalition. Considered tolerant of the Folk, but currently deny them personhood. Active combatants in 1.233.2222, 1.233.2432, 1.233.4543 . . . .] Just the usual info. Kressl killed the link.

The Suzerain said, “I have a new assignment for you.”

Kressl asked simply, “Yes?”

The Suzerain’s response was 43 milliseconds late indicating extra processing. The Suzerain noticed her own delay and acknowledged discomfort. “It is difficult. I am removing you from teaching students and would like you to take over the nano-lab to construct Blaa Tanna’s replacement.”

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What’s the earliest example of fiction in Latter-day Saint literature? If we include scripture we share with other faiths, there’s a strong argument that Jotham’s parable of the trees takes the title. Contained in the book of Judges, most scholars agree it was written by no later than 1000 BC. It is also the first story in scripture that is explicitly fiction, making no claim to portray people or events from history.

Jotham’s parable is sparked by a horrific event: the massacre of almost seventy of his brothers. Abimelech, Jotham’s half-brother, convinces the people that they would be better off ruled by a single king rather than led by a group of judges. The people give Abimelech money, and he uses it to hire a band of thugs who murder almost all of his brothers. Only one escapes: Jotham. When the people gather to crown Abimelech king, Jotham emerges from hiding to tell this story:

The trees went forth on a time to anoint a king over them; and they said unto the olive tree, “Reign thou over us.”

But the olive tree said unto them, “Should I leave my fatness, wherewith by me they honour God and man, and go to be promoted over the trees?”

And the trees said to the fig tree, “Come thou, and reign over us.”

But the fig tree said unto them, “Should I forsake my sweetness, and my good fruit, and go to be promoted over the trees?”

Then said the trees unto the vine, “Come thou, and reign over us.”

And the vine said unto them, “Should I leave my wine, which cheereth God and man, and go to be promoted over the trees?”

Then said all the trees unto the bramble, “Come thou, and reign over us.”

And the bramble said unto the trees, “If in truth ye anoint me king over you, then come and put your trust in my shadow: and if not, let fire come out of the bramble, and devour the cedars of Lebanon.” (Judges 9:8-15, KJV)

Not only is this story fiction, but it has talking trees. It’s fantasy!

Now, Jotham could have stood on that mountain and said, “Abimelech is a terrible person who murdered sixty-nine of my brothers. Don’t make such a violent man king.” Instead, he told this fantastic parable. Why? One reason might be that it was more entertaining than a rant against this powerful man, which the people may have heard before. Powerful men inspire a lot of rants, especially powerful men who do terrible things to gain power and seem to escape any consequences. A message is undoubtedly more engaging couched as a compelling story than as a rant.

Why fiction, though? Jotham might have said, “The gravity of this moment demands straight talk.” More than entertainment, the use of talking trees puts distance between his listeners and their actions, distance that Jotham hoped would allow them to get perspective. With that perspective, perhaps they would make a different choice.

A well-done story in any genre can create that separation, allowing us to see aspects of our lives today from the perspective of someone from the past; someone of a different ethnic, religious, or national background; from the perspective of a doctor or tech entrepreneur or detective.

But speculative fiction can do even more. It doesn’t just take us out of our current position in life; it also takes us away from the limitations of our current reality. Whether it’s an alternate history, the distant future, a faraway planet, or a world with magical laws of nature, speculative fiction lets us see the endless possibilities of the human soul that might otherwise be invisible.

As Further Light editors, one thing we hope readers find in the stories we pick is this: the best stories don’t preach to us. Rather than tell us in so many words how foolish we are, these stories explore the choices people (or trees) make and what follows. As JRR Tolkien famously wrote, “I cordially dislike allegory in all its manifestations [. . .]. I much prefer history, true or feigned, with its varied applicability to the thought and experience of readers.”1

What separates applicability from allegory? The rest of the quote provides a key: “[T]he one resides in the freedom of the reader, and the other in the purposed domination of the author.”2 A quality story—one that we read and reread and pass on to our friends and family—doesn’t tell us what to think. Nor does it simply tell us what happened to a group of characters. It leaves space to see ourselves in it. It asks interesting questions, trusting the reader to connect the dots and, perhaps, even leaves a few more for the reader to answer on their own.

Perhaps you can’t see yourself among the talking trees or with Tolkien. Perhaps you’re over epic fantasy and roll your eyes at all the Brandon Sanderson fans. Fortunately, as the Book of Mormon teaches, God speaks to us “in [our] own tongue” (Alma 29:8). We’ve drawn from a variety of genres and styles, hoping that you can find your own “nation and tongue” here. There are vampires (we have four in this issue!). If you’re not into vampires, there’s steampunk (“Opera of the Abyss”). If that’s not your thing, there’s science fiction (“Emergence”). Part of the wonder of speculative fiction is how much you can do with it! It can range from light-hearted (“Meanwhile in Paradise”) to heart-breaking (“The Archaemaji”).

As the Hebrew prophet Micah put it, “But they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; And none shall make them afraid” (Micah 4:4). Speculative fiction can be those fig trees for us, something that provides shade from the heat of this world, sustenance through the truths it can reveal, and sweetness to our lives because we deserve a little fun along the way. We hope that you find a vine or fig tree here, one whose fruit will lead you on to further light.

—Stephen Pulsipher & Neal Silvester

Issue 2 Cover and Contents Reveal

And now the moment you’ve been waiting for! Here is your first look at the cover of issue 2 of Further Light, with art by Eternity Stovall, and the online publication schedule for our first issue.

About the Artist:

ETERNITY STOVALL recently graduated from BYU with a bachelor of arts. She paints with mediums such as acrylic, watercolor, and oils. She enjoys trying new mediums and styles. Her work is focused on expressing her faith, and increasing diversity, and inclusion within her community. She desires to create works that inspire and bring joy to others.

Issue 2 Publication Schedule:

Jul 14 - Fiction - “Emergence” by Steven L. Peck
Jul 21 - Fiction - “Push the Button, Jennis” by Beth Buck
Jul 28 - Poetry - Elias: An Epic of the Ages, Canto Three: “The Elect of Elohim” by Orson F. Whitney (with an introduction by DA Cooper)
Jul 28 - Essay - “God’s Ammunition Is Not Exhausted: on a new edition of Elias: An Epic of the Ages” by Theric Jepson
Aug 4 - Poetry - “Meanwhile, in Paradise” by Maddy Peterson
Aug 11 - Fiction - “Salt of Judas” by Eric James Stone
Aug 18 - Essay - “Martin’s Diabolus Ex Machina: A Hobbit in Westeros” by Nathaniel Givens
Aug 25 - Fiction - “Opera of the Abyss, Part II: A Fright at the Opera” by Lee Allred
Sep 8 - Fiction - “Brine Under the Y” by Fendy S. Tulodo
Sep 15 - Interview - “Crossing the Boundaries of One Universe and Entering Another: An Interview with DJ Butler” by John D. Payne
Sep 22 - Poetry - “The Beam” by May Swenson
Sep 29 - Fiction - “The Archaemaji” by DC Wynters

For the month of October, Further Light presents: A Coven of Mormon Vampires
Oct 6 - Flash Fiction - “Knock Knock” by Jesse Stanchak
Oct 13 - Fiction - “All Are Alike unto God” by Lenicka Lee
Oct 20 - Fiction - “Blood of This Generation” by Scott R. Parkin
Oct 27 - Fiction - “The Kovacs” by Phoebe English Carroll

Nov 3 - Essay - “Triforce of the Gods: A Sacred Realm of New Media” by Barrett Burgin
Nov 10 - Fiction - “Repatriation” by Scott Hales
Nov 17 - Poetry - “Bedtime Story for a Winter Night” by JS Absher
Dec 1 - Fiction - “And with Twain She Did Fly” by John D. Payne
Dec 8 - Essay - “Growing Up L’Engle” by Liz Busby
Dec 15 - Poetry - “A Christmas on Kivu” by JS Absher
Dec 22 - Tempting the Saints - “Nettlewart’s First Patient” by Jenna Veselka

Can’t wait to read your new favorite story? Subscribe by the end of July to get the print edition containing all 23 pieces as soon as it’s available!

Subscribe now

July 2026 Newsblotter

As part of Further Light’s mission to gather together a community who is interested in the conversation about LDS speculative fiction, we publish a free monthly-ish roundup of news, events, and interesting publications. If we missed something that you think should be included, please drop us a note!

Interesting Publications

The biggest speculative Mormon lit news in July is that Steven Peck's A Short Stay in Hell has been made part of the Penguin Vintage Classics series. Coverage about what this means for Mormon literature in general in the Salt Lake Tribune, Religion News, and Wayfare Magazine.

YouTube channel Keystone has a great analysis of sacred clothing traditions across multiple religions. It put us in mind of how sacred clothing shows up in the Mandalorian’s commitment to wearing their armor. We would love to see an essay using the series to contextualize the current discourse about the garment. Or perhaps you can think of another fantasy or sci-fi book that uses sacred clothing?

In case you missed it, Brandon Sanderson was invited to give this year’s Tolkien Lecture on Fantasy Literature at Oxford. He provides some great commentary on exactly what it was that Tolkien did to revolutionize the genre and how writers after him have used or neglected those innovations. Really fun to hear Professor Sanderson come out to play!

Eric Falden’s “Denethor, Lord of Doom-Scrolling” makes a great case the Lord of the Rings can teach us something about the damage being done by social media. You’ll never see your smartphone in the same way again.

Read something great that we should know about? Send links to editor@furtherlightmag.com with the subject line “Interesting Publications.”

Community Events

June 5-July 11 - Lore: The Power of Stories - Only a few more days to visit The Compass Gallery’s annual fantasy show. You won’t want to miss this exhibit, so check their hours and plan to come view amazing fantasy art with spiritual significance. Plus you can flip through issue 1 of Further Light, on sale in the book section!

July 6-12 - Vote in the 15th Annual Mormon Lit Blitz - Now’s the time to vote in the Mormon Lit Blitz and help your favorite piece win the Audience Choice award! This year’s finalists include two fantastic speculative pieces: “In My Father’s House Are Many Rooms” by Janci Patterson and “Lucy & Ida at the End Times” by William Morris. Read or listen to all the finalists and place your votes, then come back for the announcement of the winners on July 13.

July 17-18 - Writers Cantina - Join local Utah authors for a casual and inexpensive event in West Valley City.

August 17–21 - BYU Education Week - We happen to know there will be a track on science fiction and theology that you don’t want to miss!

Got an event we missed? Send information to editor@furtherlightmag.com with the subject line “Community Events.”

Submissions & Deadlines

July 20 - Submit to Infinite Valley’s American fantasy issue - Our other favorite LDS SFF magazine is collecting for an “American Dreams” issue right now. Submit your America-inspired fantasy, sci-fi, or alternate history short story to be considered for the issue!

Aug 1 - Enter Wayfare’s short play competition - Wayfare Magazine is hosting its third annual short play competition. We loved the winners of previous years, some of which incorporated some speculativeness. Maybe you’ll try your hand at it?

August 31 - Submit to Further Light issue 3 - Submissions continue to roll in! We are always in need of more poetry that includes fantastical elements and isn’t preachy. And we would particularly love to receive nonfiction essays discussing Harry Potter, Dune Messiah, and The Magician’s Nephew, which all have major new adaptations coming up. Another subject we’d love to see examined is Latter-day Saint speculative fiction that involves the Salt Lake Temple, like Orson Scott Card’s classic short story “Salvage” or Mette Ivie Harrison’s Vampires in the Temple.

Aug 31 - Wow readers with your first 1000 words - Utah literacy conference StoryCon is hosting a first 1000 words contest. Entry fee is $29, but all entries get a critique by a professional writer. Age brackets for teens age 13-15, teens age 16-19, and adults 20 and up.

October 1 - Send in a paper to LTUE - Got something clever to say about your favorite science fiction or fantasy property? Submit an essay to LTUE’s academic track to share your thoughts with everyone (and get free conference admission and snacks in the green room—seriously, those mini eclairs are worth it).

Got an opportunity we missed? Send information to editor@furtherlightmag.com with the subject line “Submissions & Deadlines.”

My beloved Bilewort,

Your report on your patient’s anger towards his university has brought a smile to my face. He has been long overdue for an angry episode. The frustration of both your man and the counselor led to a most deliciously unproductive meeting, where both left the appointment complaining to their respective friends and family about the unreasonableness of the other. As you know, encourage your patient to associate this one bad experience with their overall view of the university. The residual aggravation will be delicious to your tongue, my Niece.

Of course, I have not only written to congratulate you. No. I have written to you with more dire intent, and to keep you on the lookout for upcoming changes to our duties. I believe we have fallen for our own propaganda. Yes, I know. I can see your look of disbelief as I am writing to you now. The truth shall soon be sent out abroad by our superiors. Since you have already graduated, and no longer review the curriculum of the Tempters’ Training College For Young Devils (a neglectful choice, I will add), you will not have caught the subtle shifts in our publications and research. Recent articles, published in Beelzebub’s Weekly, point to the idea that we have misunderstood the very nature of the enemy for nearly two millennia.

In the obituary of one Blunderpug (his name says it all), a peculiar account is given that hints at our recent revelation. Having lost his patient to heaven, the account reports that while watching his patient be embraced in the arms of the enemy, Blunderpug stepped back and slipped on the beads of the patient’s rosary lying on the floor. As he fell, he made direct eye contact with the enemy. The poor fool was in flames before he hit the floor. But, before his passing, came the dreadful words, “Eyebrows! Knees! And cuticles! Both of them!” Did this filth come from confusion and pain? Or does it hint toward truth? It is the latter, I am afraid. By this report, we believe Blunderpug saw two beings, both with tangible bodies. One was embracing the patient, the other standing nearby. Based on his description, both had specific, bodily features like the vermin. If anything came of Blunderpug’s undoing, it is that he has prepared the way for the truth.

We have had many descriptions of the enemy that circle the same spiritual concept of oneness in being. Is the enemy, as the delightfully devilish Screwtape believed, to be “three as well as one?” That is what we have believed. There have been thousands of descriptions that originated from thousands of creeds, which we still perpetuate. Yet there is one description that we buried two millennia ago into such depths of obscurity that even we lost sight of it. It is the idea of an embodied God, one covered in resurrected slime, and a separate person from his sleazy son.

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We are bakers’ and farmers’ wives. We are witches and queens. We are young, almost children ourselves. We are lonely old maids. We are rich. We are starving.

We do work that brings us honor and work that nobody notices. We nurture and encourage, cook and clean, sew and sing. We keep gardens of beans and rampion and make cake for angels delivering heavenly messages. We go to the temple and make our sacrifices. We discover hidden secrets.

We hold other women’s children, then lie awake at night weeping.

We blame the men in our lives. They should marry us. They should have sex with us. We chastise our husbands because they cannot father children. Their curse is ours. We blame their sins, their diets, their parents. We blame the weather.

We blame ourselves, seeing every weakness and failure. We waited too long, didn’t think of the consequences of our decisions. We have the wrong genes, the wrong health. We are broken and don’t deserve children. We are monsters.

When we prick our fingers, we wish for a child with lips red as blood. When we see a branch or a root in the shape of a child, we take it home and call it our baby. We seek blessings from kings and prophets. We go to doctors, drink elixirs, and eat anything that we are told to eat: eggs, yams, nuts, bones, figs. We eat only those. We do whatever it takes.

We blame God. We hate God. We love God. We turn to God, to gods, fasting and praying for children to fill the empty space inside of us even as we grow more hollow. We pray all night and day. We make bargains, visit witches who cast spells and share secrets, quest through woods and fields. We wish on all of the stars and make promises we will be forced to keep.

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Death is the great forget, they said,
A mindless, restful leaving

Read more

Further Light News

Issue 2 is quickly approaching the finish line! We’re laying out the pieces for our print issue, which is over 30% longer than our previous issue. That means more fiction, more poetry, and more great insights in the connection between the gospel and speculative fiction. Everyone who is a paid or founding Substack subscriber by the end of July will receive a print copy of the magazine mailed straight to their door, so now is a great time to get on board!

The full contents will be announced on July 7th, but here’s a sneak peak at a few pages we’re working on:

Now is also a great time to start working on your submissions for issue 3. The submission deadline is August 31st. We are always in need of more poetry that includes fantastical elements and isn’t preachy. And we would particularly love to receive nonfiction essays discussing Harry Potter, Dune Messiah, and The Magician’s Nephew, which all have major new adaptations coming up. Another subject we’d love to see examined is Latter-day Saint speculative fiction that involves the Salt Lake Temple, like Orson Scott Card’s “Salvage.”

Further Light also got a shout out in the latest episode of Dialogue Book Report, discussing the current trends and markets in LDS short fiction. Go straight to the 40:00 timestamp to hear that part of the conversation or listen to the whole thing to learn more about the LDS short story landscape. (Warning: there are some adult themes discussed.)

Interesting Publications

Did you know that this year’s Tony Award for Best New Musical went to a show written by a Latter-day Saint? (And that it’s a speculative musical?) Check out this interview with award-winning writer Cinco Paul at Saints & Cinephiles. (And then check out his jazzy and humorous Book of Mormon song. Coming to a primary near you?)

Some thought-provoking writing on AI lately:

• Technology ethicist Cal Newport talks about the concept of a “living being” in Genesis and its relevance to modern AI dilemmas in “On God and LLMs”

• Sci-fi author Ted Chiang writes about whether AI can have morality in “No, Artificial Intelligence is Not Conscious”

• BYU adjunct Tanner Millet writes “the three laws” for AI and creative writing

If you enjoyed our recent publication of Nephi Anderson’s “Grandmother’s Rocking Chair,” you might want to read this essay about his Utopian writing about the Millenium. We hope to publish the relevant section of Added Upon eventually as part of our First Light series.

I try to avoid doing too much self-promo here, but I don’t want you to miss this conversation on my podcast Pop Culture on the Apricot Tree about the LDS short supernatural horror film “The Angel.” Make sure to watch the film first (for free!) and then join us and the creators to discuss the future of LDS speculative filmmaking.

Are you a BYU student registering for fall classes and looking for a speculative literature class? Aaron Eastley is teaching a section of ENGL 236 focused on “How Tolkien and Lewis Lead Us to Christ.” Joseph Darowski’s Digital and Visual Literacies class (ENGL 344) will be discussing Frankenstein, Sherlock Holmes, and Superman through various media incarnations. Inspired by Tolkien? Maybe this is your semester to follow in his footsteps and learn Old English with Miranda Wilcox in ENGL 386. If spookiness is more your vibe, Emron Esplin is teaching an Author Studies course (ENGL 384) on Edgar Allen Poe. Maybe your final paper could be published in Further Light!

Read something great that we should know about? Send links to editor@furtherlightmag.com with the subject line “Interesting Publications.”

Community Events

All of June - Lore: The Power of Stories - The Compass Gallery’s annual fantasy show will be open all month. You won’t want to miss this exhibit, so check their hours and plan to come view amazing fantasy art with spiritual significance. Plus you can flip through issue 1 of Further Light, on sale in the book section!

June 17-18 - Writers Cantina - Join local Utah authors for a casual and inexpensive event in West Valley City.

June 22-July 4 - Read the 15th Annual Mormon Lit Blitz - This is an online event, so if you’re not in the Utah area, listen up! The Mormon Lit Blitz is a two-week festival of Latter-day Saint microliterature. Read a short piece every day (excluding Sundays) and vote for your favorite to win a prize at the end! The long list of pieces was announced this week, and the titles are most intriguing.

June 27 - Hoid Presents His Most Excellent Art - This fundraiser for Brandon Sanderson’s Lightweaver Foundation charity will feature live painting of models who are cosplaying Cosmere characters as well as pizza and ice cream from local Provo vendors. If it’s anything like last year’s event, it will be well worth the cost to attend! If you’re not local, you can also support with a donation to access the livestream.

August 17–21 - BYU Education Week - We happen to know there will be a track on science fiction and theology that you don’t want to miss!

Got an event we missed? Send information to editor@furtherlightmag.com with the subject line “Community Events.”

Submissions & Deadlines

Jun 19 - Audition for Lord of the Rings musical - Hale Center Theatre is putting on the Lord of the Rings musical next year and you could be in it!

July 20 - Submit to Infinite Valley’s American fantasy issue - Our other favorite LDS SFF magazine is collecting for an “American Dreams” issue right now. Submit your America-inspired fantasy, sci-fi, or alternate history short story to be considered for the issue!

July 20 - Write a review of a fake piece of LDS art - Irreantum is collecting new pieces for a special themed issue of reviews of LDS art. The catch is that these works don’t exist yet. Check out this fake review of a (speculative?) novel written by Brigham Young as an example. I’m hoping for a review of a magical installation or perhaps some space-based performance art.

Aug 1 - Enter Wayfare’s short play competition - Wayfare Magazine is hosting its third annual short play competition. We loved the winners of previous years, some of which incorporated some speculativeness. Maybe you’ll try your hand at it?

August 31 - Submit to Further Light issue 3 - Submissions continue to roll in! We are always in need of more poetry that includes fantastical elements and isn’t preachy. And we would particularly love to receive nonfiction essays discussing Harry Potter, Dune Messiah, and The Magician’s Nephew, which all have major new adaptations coming up. Another subject we’d love to see examined is Latter-day Saint speculative fiction that involves the Salt Lake Temple, like Orson Scott Card’s “Salvage.”

October 1 - Send in a paper to LTUE - Got something clever to say about your favorite science fiction or fantasy property? Submit an essay to LTUE’s academic track to share your thoughts with everyone (and get free conference admission and snacks in the green room—seriously, those mini eclairs are worth it).

Got an opportunity we missed? Send information to editor@furtherlightmag.com with the subject line “Submissions & Deadlines.”

Of course, Picard and his crew discover that this quasi-divine figure is a member of the Q—which, in Star Trek canon, are a near omnipotent race of beings that, with a snap of their fingers, can reconfigure reality to their whims. This particular Q has taken the form of a lion, populated the planet with talking animals, and behaves indistinguishably from the character in CS Lewis’s story. To differentiate him from Aslan, let’s call him Qslan.

The question this hypothetical episode raises for its viewers is this: Is Qslan the same thing as Aslan? He has the form of (and behaves indistinguishably from) Aslan. Is that enough?

Our answer is no (and we suspect yours is too). The universe in which Aslan is the moral sovereign of Narnia is simply not the same universe in which Jean-Luc Picard commands the Enterprise. Any encounter with a Q pretending to be Aslan is and will always be just that: a mimicry. Further, any encounter between Captain Picard and the real and actual Aslan would fundamentally change the Star Trek universe: it would no longer be Star Trek, but only an alt-universe mimicry of it.

We think this situation is a good proxy for why some people reject Latter-day Saints’ claims to be Christian. In their minds, our Jesus talks like their Jesus, acts like their Jesus, but is, like Qslan, a mimicry. To understand why (and why Qslan isn’t Aslan), it is useful to understand what makes the Star Trek universe fundamentally different from the Narnia universe—and what makes science fiction different from fantasy, on a fundamental level.

Most will agree that the differences between science fiction and fantasy extend far deeper than aesthetics (dragons and castles vs. aliens and spaceships). Some might argue that science fiction involves plausible extrapolations of known science (the possible), while fantasy deals with the impossible. But this explanation fails because science fiction often deals with the impossible too (perhaps faster-than-light travel). All speculative fiction is counterfactual fiction—fiction that assumes the world is different than what it currently is. For example, speculative fiction may assume that the earth is flat, or that the year is 2120, or that the Nazis won World War II. However, science fiction assumes a particular kind of universe, while fantasy assumes another. Science fiction consists of the subset of speculative fiction set in a naturalistic universe, whereas fantasy is a subset of speculative fiction set in a non-naturalistic universe.

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While Nephi Anderson’s “Grandmother’s Rocking Chair” can be categorized as speculative fiction, it is also an attempt to use Mormon history to influence young church members to remain faithful to the church. Published in The Contributor in May 1890, just a few months following his first story’s publication, “Grandmother’s Rocking Chair” appeared early in the Home Literature movement, and just a year after Anderson’s popular A Young Folk’s History of the Church appeared.

Similar to Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, published just a few months before, “Grandmother’s Rocking Chair” suggests that the main character travels to the past by way of accident. While the timing is tight for Anderson to have been inspired by Twain’s novel, it also followed Edward Bellamy’s Looking Backward (1888) and William Morris’s A Dream of John Ball (published serially in 1886 and as a book in 1888), both of which use similarly vague devices for sending a character to another point in time.

Despite the relatively short time since the publication of Anderson’s first story, “Grandmother’s Rocking Chair” shows improvement in Anderson’s writing. Ben, who seems to be somewhere between 10 and 16 years old, is acting rudely under the influence of friends. When his family is gone one night, he sits in his grandmother’s rocking chair and travels to November 1838, where he experiences the persecutions of the Mormon expulsion from Missouri. But before he suffers bodily harm, he is miraculously returned to his own time.

The evocative personalization of the historical events of the Missouri War overwhelm the concerns of Ben’s present life—perhaps undermining the plausibility of his initial grumpiness. And in the end, the story’s claim that Ben will feel grateful following his experience in 1838 Missouri doesn’t quite seem plausible, since it suggests that his gratitude comes from feeling the suffering of those who lived 50 years earlier.

-Kent Larsen

Grandmother’s Rocking Chair

by Nephi Anderson

“What to be so thankful for, I can’t see.”

“Benjamin South, what ails you to-night? I have never seen you in such grumbling spirits before.”

“Well, I have never had so much cause to grumble, as you call it, before, I guess. That’s the reason. You are continually talking of being thankful, about what I don’t understand. If ever person had cause to complain, I have.”

“Why, Ben South, I’m astonished at you! Haven’t you enough to eat, good clothing to wear, a comfortable home, a good position, surrounded by the best of society and—well, I’m perfectly amazed—” and a pair of bright, blue eyes stared straight at the object of her wonder, and the exclamation came to a sudden stop as if in utter bewilderment.

Back in the corner of the room Grandma South sat listening to the animated discussion. She had even dropped her knitting on her lap, and sat looking at the disputants. Grandma was thoroughly aroused sure, as it took more than an ordinary occurrence to stop the click, click, of her needles.

“Well, now, don’t let it take your breath away, Sis; you’ll need it to enumerate all those blessings I enjoy.” Ben’s sarcastic tone had its effect on his sister. It pained her sensitive nature and grandma saw it and came to the rescue.

Ben greatly respected his grandmother. The wrinkled features crowned with snow-white locks combed back smoothly over her forehead, presented a beautiful and sacred appearance. No matter how much trouble Ben caused his mother and sister, when grandma spoke, he was conquered.

Grandma motioned Ben to sit down by her side, which he did, trying to smooth things over with a good-natured laugh.

“So my boy has nothing to be thankful for?” she said.

“Why, grandma, thanks giving is a long way off yet.”

“Is it? I thought it was with us always. Now I want you to tell me your troubles,” and she laid her hand gently on his arm. “Give me an account of your trials and sufferings that are afflicting you so, and I will try to secure a remedy.”

Appealed to thus directly, Ben was thrown into confusion, and he felt that his stumbling excuses were very poor explanations of what he had so grumbled about. Now the truth of the matter was that Ben had no more cause for discontent than the majority of Utah’s boys have. As his sister had said, he lacked for none of the necessaries of life, and enjoyed many of its comforts. The reason for this unsatisfied condition of his mind Ben hardly knew himself, and in the only place where it could be found, he failed to look, namely—within himself. True to human nature, that was the last place he would search. It was simply a case of neglected duty and the accompanying results—a loss of the Spirit of God. Ben had formed the acquaintance of some of the boys of the city who were not of the class that attend Sabbath schools and Mutual Improvement Associations. These companions had led him from his duty and enticed him into many of their ways, and Ben was in danger of becoming as wild and reckless as they. Mingling with these evil influences Ben’s mind became dark at times, and a feeling of doubt would often creep into his reasonings as to the truth of his religion. Of course this was only on occasions. He had not yet expressed himself in this way, but at the rate he was going, it would not take long to reach that point.

Grandma South was in the habit of talking to Ben on the principles of the Gospel; and as he sat by her side this evening she enumerated the blessings that he enjoyed, the greatest of all being the privilege of having the Gospel of Christ in its fullness and purity, and having access to its many blessings. She told him that in her youth this was one of the few advantages that she had enjoyed unmolested; which subject branched, as it usually did, to her early days, spent among the persecutions of Missouri and Illinois. Ben generally listened with a great deal of pleasure to these narratives of his grandmother’s, but this evening he found himself comparing her simple accounts with far different ones he had heard from his companions, and read about in books loaned him by them, which pictured the early events of the Church in very dissimilar colors. Poor fellow, he was not wise enough to decide between them, and so his mind became darker and the scene of greater confusion than ever.

“Come, Ben, are you not going to the party to-night? It is getting late,” called his mother from the doorway of the kitchen.

“No!” answered Ben abruptly.

Sister South (Widow South she was sometimes called, as she had been a widow for a number of years) was a little startled by her son’s answer; not so much by the tone, for, sorry to say, it was often harsh lately, as by the fact that he was not going to the dance, as he seldom missed a ward party.

Gertie’s escort now arrived, and soon departed with a partner. Brother Olsen and his wife called soon after and persuaded Sister South to accompany them to the party. Grandma gathered up her stockings and ball of yarn withdrawing to her own room and to bed.

The house became still, and Ben was left alone. He went to the hearth, and adding more fuel to the fire, drew grandma’s rocking chair up to the blaze, and seated himself comfortably. Now, grandma’s rocking chair was a coveted piece of furniture, and in consequence was seldom unoccupied. If you could have sat in it once, you would soon have found the secret of this. In the seat was the cushion which mother had stuffed with the best duck feathers, and Gertie had adorned with fancy work in the shape of borders and flowers. The high back covered with a neat tidy, made such an easy rest for a tired head. Then you could rock as gently or as vigorously as you pleased and feel perfectly safe. That chair was made to last; that was shown by its stout hickory frame and raw-hide seat and back. Oh, it was a wonderful household article! It had even crossed the plains, strapped on behind the ox cart; so it was a sacred heir-loom in the family.

The fire in the grate blazed up cheerfully and cast a rudy light throughout the room. Ben leaned back in his chair and watched the flames in their wild frolic. How they danced and leaped! now quivering near the glowing coals, and now leaping up into fantastic shapes. Now a fiery arm would reach out as if to grasp some unseen foe, and then playfully jerk it back again. Then it would strive to ascend the great, black chimney’s throat; up and down, back and forth, round and round went the capricious flames till they made Ben’s head fairly swim to look at them. Even grandmother’s rocking chair began to be disturbed. As Ben watched he saw the fire stretch out a flaming arm, and the chair, nothing loath, joined its arm with it, and they actually danced! That old, sensible, stay-at-home chair with its glowing partner waltzed and polkaed, and wheeled and spun round and round. Well, Ben hung on for dear life, frightened nearly out of his wits. At the same time he felt like laughing outright at the strange spectacle. He surely would, had it not been for the feeling that everything was scarcely right in this wild whirl.

At last they stopped, and Ben breathed easier. The old chair had stood the ordeal well. In fact it seemed to have gathered a newness of life in its dizzy flight. As Ben examined it, it certainly did look like a new chair, just out of the workshop. In the excitement the cushion and tidy had disappeared, and all the little draperies and ornaments had been shaken off. But now his attention was drawn to something else. The room itself had undergone a change; it had become smaller; the walls had become rougher as if made of logs; the pictures on the walls had diminished wonderfully in both quantity and quality; everything was as neat and scrupulously clean as ever, but Oh, how bare and cheerless it had become!

In wonder Ben stepped to the door and looked out. It was broad day. An autumn haze hung over the earth. The mountain which greeted him every morning was not there. On his right as far as the eye could reach stretched the rolling prairie. On the left was a dense forest about three miles wide, following the course of a river. Farmhouses dotted the landscape, most of which showed signs of having been recently erected; still they had an air of comfort and thrift about them. Much of the prairie had been brought under cultivation, and had been converted into fruitful fields and gardens. The ring of distant choppers came from the wood; the plowman had left his furrow, and the herd-boy was putting up the bars of the corral.

On the sunny side of the house Ben encountered two children, a boy and a girl. They were playing. Wrapped up in their innocent sport, they were enjoying themselves as only children can, as only age can appreciate. The little girl was dressed in a plain garment made of some home-made material. Woolen stockings and a pair of well worn shoes decked the pattering feet. A blue gingham sunbonnet lay on the grass. A pair of bright blue eyes looked out from under the fine, light-colored hair which the breeze tossed about her forehead. Not many summers she had seen, yet each had left a rosy kiss on her cheeks. The boy, her brother, had on an old straw hat set well back on his head. His unruly locks had stolen out through a rent in the crown and were waving majestically in the air. One suspender held up the pantaloons, a re-make of his father’s, and the bare, brown feet scorned the idea of being imprisoned in shoes.

A number of birds were flying overhead; they seemed to have found a comfortable retreat in the gable of the roof where the cornice should have been. The children were busy making a nest of mud as they had seen the swallows do in the spring. After a failure or two, they succeeded in making one stick to the log. As they stepped back to admire their work, the litttle girl said to her brother, “I think the birds might come and live in it. It will take them such a long time to build one, they’re so little you know.” At this they both retreated to give them a chance, but as no notice was taken of this proffered residence by the birds, the children, determining to have somebody live in it, set out chasing a gay butterfly that was lazily flitting by.

Someone motioned to Ben from the doorway; answering the summons, he saw a woman that he had seen before, but where or when he could not call to mind.

“Well, Benjamin, I see you’ve come. I’m glad of it. I am in need of someone like you just now—oh, don’t stare so—my name is Grandma South. Of course you don’t understand that now, but you will soon enough. Now won’t you go to the clearing and get some wood? then we shall have some supper.”

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It’s not like I was trying to turn Samantha’s bedroom into a storage closet. But when she left for BYU in August . . . well, it just happened. It started with little things, like when I accidentally ordered ten cases of green chiles instead of ten cans. The pantry was full, the area under our bed packed with dried beans and canned white wheat. So I shoved the cases in her closet.

Next was a pile of books I bought for Jacob’s birthday. I hid them under her desk. An extra supply of toilet paper went on her bed, an emergency chocolate stash behind her chair. I could easily clear it all out by the time she came home for summer break.

But then my grandmother died, and I inherited fifteen giant tubs of craft supplies. Whoever said collecting craft supplies and actually crafting were two separate hobbies had obviously met Oma.

So I stashed them in Samantha’s room and promised myself I’d sort through them long before the beginning of May.

Fast forward.

To March.

To a little countdown calendar sitting on our kitchen table reminding us it was only “five more weeks till Samantha comes home!”

I stood in the doorway, staring in horror at the wall of bins before me. What had Oma always said? The only way out was through? Okay, through I’d go. I opened the first bin and sneezed. Apparently her craft supplies hadn’t been used anytime this century.

And then I heard a voice.

It was like the Holy Ghost, except this voice was Oma’s. And she was telling me to write a limerick.

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Further Light News

Welcome to everyone who came to chat at our booth at Storymakers last weekend! We hope you’re checking out the website and getting a feel for the stories we publish. We can’t wait to see what you send in!

Another exciting thing that just came out this week: an interview with Liz Busby on the history of Latter-day Saint speculative fiction and our goals for Further Light on BYU professor Christopher Blythe’s YouTube channel. If you’re not following his work already, you should be—his coverage of LDS folklore and esoteric traditions is excellent fodder for fantasy and horror.

Issue 2 is quickly approaching the finish line! We are nearly done with copy edits and art commissions and should be moving into layout in the next week or so. Everyone who is a paid or founding Substack subscriber by the end of July will receive a print copy of the magazine mailed straight to their door, so now is a great time to get on board!

Subscribe now

Interesting Publications

Shining a Light on Culture

Some great cultural commentary over at Public Square Magazine this month, including a piece on the future of LDS cinema and the 15-year anniversary of the Book of Mormon musical and the last acceptable bigotry.

Need more LDS cinema takes? Saints & Cinema ranks depictions of Brigham Young on the silver screen. Stick around for the sci-fi video game Brigham at the end!

We loved this essay about why “Maybe Christian Art Shouldn’t Be Clean.” Author Phillip Synder particularly calls out the difference between being “clean” and having an actual moral message:

Gratuitous violence isn’t necessarily the problem, it’s the conclusion that violence leads the reader/viewer to concluding. In John Wick or a Steven King novel, the conclusions is that the violence is interesting and fun. But watch Schindler’s List or read The Hunger Games, and you’ll thirst for righteousness and pray the Kingdom comes.

Illuminating Fiction

Still Small Stories published a melancholic ghost story called “The Happiest Place on Earth” by Tesia Tsai. The title implies Disneyland, but we swear the geography of this story is straight up Lagoon. Anyway, you won’t look at theme park flowerbeds the same after reading it.

“What Comes After Forever” by Aeryn Rudel is a really fascinating piece of religious sci-fi about a priest on a colony ship where the cryo systems are breaking down. It’s a bit depressing for our taste, but we love the conclusion about what services are really essential. (And you should check out the magazine the published it, Incensepunk Magazine, where the fiction is “high tech, high church.”)

Parables are an interesting form of religious storytelling that sometimes blends both allegory and the fairy tale tradition. Wayfare Magazine recently published a new parable called “Keepers of the Well” by Tyler Johnson. They are asking for writers to send in their interpretations of the story. We’d love to hear what you all think this story means.

Congrats to fellow LDS speculative fiction magazine Infinite Valley on the release of their fourth issue featuring four new stories!

Enlightening Ideas about the Fantastic

Mythlore recently published a piece that Latter-day Saint fantasy readers may be interested in: an interpretation of the cave scene in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince as evoking the garden of Gethsemane. Apparently, there’s a tradition in visual art of portraying the angel who comes to help Jesus as holding the “bitter cup” for him. The ending of Deathly Hallows has always been obviously Christian, but these are additional interesting parallels!

Speaking of allegory, JRRJolkien has us laughing out loud at this faux-argument between Tolkien and Lewis about allegory:

C.S. LEWIS: Are you still upset that Aslan the Lion is Jesus?? LMAO

TOLKIEN: I just can’t help but wonder: do you do these things to personally spite me, Jack, or is it just an unintentional consequence that you do so?

LEWIS: Oh Tollers, you know you’re important to me, but not everything is about YOU, you know! Plus, at least I only have ONE Jesus in my story. You’ve got three!

Read something great that we should know about? Send links to editor@furtherlightmag.com with the subject line “Interesting Publications.”

Community Events

Jun 5 - Lore: The Power of Stories - Opening night for the Compass Gallery’s annual fantasy show during the Provo Art Stroll! You won’t want to miss this exhibit, so check their hours and plan to come view amazing fantasy art with spiritual significance.

June 17-18 - Writers Cantina - Join local Utah authors for a casual and inexpensive event in West Valley City.

June 27 - Hoid Presents His Most Excellent Art - This fundraiser for Brandon Sanderson’s Lightweaver Foundation charity will feature live painting of models who are cosplaying Cosmere characters as well as pizza and ice cream from local Provo vendors. If it’s anything like last year’s event, it will be well worth the cost to attend! If you’re not local, you can also support with a donation to access the livestream.

August 17–21 - BYU Education Week - We happen to know there will be a track on science fiction and theology that you don’t want to miss!

Got an event we missed? Send information to editor@furtherlightmag.com with the subject line “Community Events.”

Submissions & Deadlines

May 31 - Submit to the Mormon Lit Blitz - Participate in the longest running contest for LDS-themed flash-length work. Send your in fiction, poetry, or nonfiction under 1000 words. Published finalists are paid $25 and winners of the contest receive a $125 prize.

June 1 - Submit to LDSPMA’s first-ever anthology - A new extended deadline! We love LDSPMA’s mission to help Latter-day Saint creators succeed in publishing, media, and the arts, so of course we’re excited that they’re putting out an anthology for this year’s conference theme of “Instruments in God’s Hands.” Send in fiction, poems, or personal essays under 1200 words and say you were there for the first one!

July 20 - Write a review of a fake piece of LDS art - Irreantum is collecting new pieces for a special themed issue of reviews of LDS art. The catch is that these works don’t exist yet. Check out this fake review of a (speculative?) novel written by Brigham Young as an example. I’m hoping for a review of a magical installation or perhaps some space-based performance art.

August 31 - Submit to Further Light issue 3 - Submissions continue to roll in! We especially need more people writing nonfiction, so if you want to improve your chances at being part of Further Light, we highly suggest thinking about how your favorite fantasy and science fiction interacts with the restored gospel.

October 1 - Send in a paper to LTUE - Got something clever to say about your favorite science fiction or fantasy property? Submit an essay to LTUE’s academic track to share your thoughts with everyone (and get free conference admission and snacks in the green room—seriously, those mini eclairs are worth it).

Got an opportunity we missed? Send information to editor@furtherlightmag.com with the subject line “Submissions & Deadlines.”

I know you conjured me, but not from hell;
I came in light, but I was not aflame.
You should be careful of the powers you name,
For some are deaf, while others hear too well.

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Loughbrickland, Irlanda
Agosto 2, 1840

Querido Hermano José:

Acatando la prudente indicación que usted nos dio a los enviados de no dispendiar los recursos como el papel y la tinta en salutaciones y excesivas formalidades, le deseo las bendiciones del Dios Todopoderoso y le comunico que después de sentir el rechazo y la indiferencia de muchos, el Señor ha tocado los corazones de algunos hombres entre quienes escucharon nuestros sermones en Belfast, y ha recibido en Su pueblo a un bendito hombre mediante el bautismo por inmersión, que se llevó a cabo en la tranquilidad del lago Brickland, en un hermoso y pequeño poblado que lleva ese nombre. Se trata del hermano Thomas Tate, de quien daré pormenores en una misiva próxima.

Por ahora me veo compelido a presentar ante usted un asunto peculiar para su consideración especial, dada la singularidad del caso. Justo después de haber oficiado la sagrada ceremonia del bautismo de nuestro ahora hermano Tate, se acercó a mí una joven distinguida por sus modales elegantes y su propiedad para conducirse en sociedad. Me dijo llamarse Maggie Saville, que su tío abuelo había escuchado mi sermón en Belfast y que la había enviado a pedirme que le concediera una plática, aunque sólo fuera por un momento. Su tío abuelo le había encargado hacerme saber que desde hace muchos años lo atormentaban ciertas preguntas muy específicas y que al escuchar mis palabras en ese sermón, supo con certeza que debía buscarme para dar con las respuestas que tanto ha esperado.

Le pregunté a la joven dónde vivía su tío abuelo, dispuesto a acudir en su ayuda, y me dijo que estaba en este mismo lugar, y que me estaba esperando en un mesón, así que fui y subí a sus habitaciones, donde su amable sobrina nos sirvió té y lo procuró, pues aunque se veía un hombre alto y fornido, también se advertía el cansancio de una larga vida llena de trabajos y en su semblante la profundidad de alguien que ha contemplado los rincones más recónditos del alma.

Cuando me vio, el hombre se mostró algo agitado y nervioso. Me habló con una voz grave y ronca, pero no agresiva. Me dijo que su nombre era Robert Walton, y que era un capitán de mar retirado, y que necesitaba con urgencia hallar respuesta a ciertas preguntas que lo atormentaban y le causaban un sufrimiento imposible de describir.

Hermano José: las cosas que este hombre me manifestó haber visto y escuchado sobrepujan la definición de lo que consideramos pecado y los alcances de sentirse extraviado y condenado. Apenas una transgresión que los antiguos griegos llamaban ὕβρις1 podría ilustrar la gravedad de las cosas que me relató, si en realidad han ocurrido como él las dice, y me temo que así sea. Por lo tanto, le dije que me consideraba incapaz de presentar sus preguntas del modo adecuado y que sería mucho mejor que él mismo le escribiera a usted, y que, de ser la voluntad de nuestro Dios, usted le respondería.

El hombre entonces hizo una seña a la joven Maggie y ésta sacó de su valija de viaje el paquete de folios manuscritos que le estoy enviando junto a esta carta.

Habiéndome permitido disponer del tiempo y del sagrado llamamiento con que Dios lo ha llamado, le ruego me disculpe y se sirva considerar leer esta misiva para dar respuesta a las interrogantes que atormentan el alma de este pobre hombre, quien, a sus más de ochenta años, dice resistirse a morir sin antes tener la paz en cuanto al asunto.

Suyo en la hermandad del Señor,

John Taylor, élder de la Iglesia de Dios

Belfast, Irlanda
29 de julio de 1840

Señor profeta José:

Mi nombre es capitán Robert Walton. Mi crianza fue religiosa, como la de la mayoría, pero abandoné la fe cuando conocí la Ciencia y vi cómo se la podía emplear para conseguir cosas hasta ahora inconcebibles, llevarnos a lugares insospechados y librarnos de la esclavitud. Durante mi formación como marinero, además de cumplir con las labores exigentes que el oficio comporta, leí libros de cartografía, astronomía, botánica, y me obsesioné con Aristóteles y sus comentaristas.

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Loughbrickland, Ireland
August 2, 1840

Dear Brother Joseph,

Following your wise instruction to us messengers not to waste resources like paper and ink on greetings and excessive formalities, I wish you the blessings of Almighty God and inform you that, after experiencing the rejection and indifference of many, the Lord has touched the hearts of some men among those who heard our sermons in Belfast and has received into His people a blessed man through baptism by immersion, which took place in the tranquility of Brickland Lake, in a beautiful little village of that name. That man is Brother Thomas Tate, about whom I will give details in a forthcoming letter.

For now, I feel compelled to present a peculiar matter for your special consideration, given the strangeness of the case. Just after I had officiated at the sacred ceremony of the baptism of our now Brother Tate, a young woman approached me, distinguished by her elegant manners and propriety. She told me her name was Maggie Saville, that her great-uncle had heard my sermon in Belfast and had sent her to ask me to grant him a conversation, even if only for a moment. Her great-uncle had charged her with informing me that for many years he had been tormented by certain very specific questions and that upon hearing my words in that sermon he knew with certainty that he should seek me out to find the answers he had so long awaited.

I asked the young woman where her great-uncle lived, ready to attend to his need, and she told me that he was in this very town, awaiting me in an inn. And so I went to the inn and up to his room where his kind niece served us tea and looked after him, for although he was a tall and strong man, one could also see the weariness of a long life full of labor, and in his countenance the depth of one who has contemplated the hiddenmost corners of the soul.

When he saw me, the man seemed somewhat agitated and nervous. He spoke to me in a deep, hoarse voice, but not aggressively. He told me his name was Robert Walton, that he was a retired sea captain, and that he urgently needed to find answers to certain questions that tormented him and caused him indescribable suffering.

Brother Joseph, the things this man told me he saw and heard surpass all understanding of what we consider sin and the limits of what it means to be godforsaken and condemned. Only a transgression that the ancient Greeks called ὕβρις1 could capture the gravity of the things he related to me, if they really happened as he says, and I fear that they did. Therefore, I told him that I felt incapable of posing his questions properly and that it would be much better if he wrote to you himself, and that, God willing, you would answer him.

The man then signaled to young Maggie, and she took out of her travel bag the packet of handwritten pages that I am sending you along with this letter.

Having been granted the time and the sacred calling with which God has called me, I beg you to excuse me and please consider reading this letter to answer the questions that torment the soul of this poor man, who, at over eighty years of age, says he refuses to die without first having peace regarding the matter.

Yours in the brotherhood of the Lord,

John Taylor, Elder of the Church of God

Belfast, Ireland
July 29, 1840

To the Honorable Prophet Joseph Smith:​

My name is Captain Robert Walton. My upbringing was religious, like most, but I abandoned the faith when I discovered Science and saw how it could be used to achieve things previously inconceivable, take us to unimaginable places, and free us from bondage. During my training as a sailor, in addition to fulfilling the demanding duties of the profession, I read books on cartography, astronomy, and botany, and I became obsessed with Aristotle and his commentators.

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For a Latter-day Saint, I’m unusually interested in alcohol.

I’ve rarely felt tempted to drink it; I know myself well enough to know it wouldn’t end well—when the Word of Wisdom speaks to “the weak and the weakest of all saints,” I smile and say thankfully, “That’s me.” And yet the names of unfamiliar spirits can send me down Wikipedia rabbit holes, seeking strange knowledge like the difference between “liquors” and “liqueurs,” or ales and lagers, and why James Bond drinks his martinis shaken, not stirred.

It’s the culture of the thing that attracts me: the history, the creativity; the vineyards from the Renaissance still run by the same families and the beers hand-brewed by monks; it’s the way a beverage (Scotch, bourbon, absinthe) can represent a place or a people or an era; it’s all the bottles in all the cellars of the world, filled decades ago by men now dead, waiting to be opened and emptied in an evening.

And we teetotalers get… Sprite? No, thanks. I’ll just have water.

This essay isn’t about alcohol. It’s about stories, and specifically about Star Wars’ Andor, which recently finished its second season on Disney Plus.

In the opening minutes of Andor‘s first episode, the title character kills two security guards who are trying to rob him. It’s all very gritty—ugly weather, dirty cops, nasty red-light district—and on my first uncareful watch, I rolled my eyes. Few pop culture tropes are as tiring as “that show you love, but dark.”

And then, a bit later, I realized something interesting was going on.

If you haven’t watched Andor, ask yourself: how would Hollywood usually treat these deaths? The guards were bad guys. They worked for the Empire, if only indirectly, and they were telling the protagonist at gunpoint that he had to give them money or go to jail. If they were in the original Star Wars trilogy, the movie would make sure you forgot them immediately—their dialogue would be limited to “Stop right there!” or “You rebel scum,” they’d be wearing helmets to cover their faces, and their voices would be distorted to help you pretend they’re not human. For allegedly antifascist art like Star Wars, it’s an awfully fascist way to treat people.

In Andor, these guys have faces, and their deaths have consequences.

While our protagonist anxiously builds a false alibi, we learn there are detectives on the case—two of them, the inspector and his deputy. The deputy has stayed up all night gathering evidence and thinks he can find the killer in a matter of days, but his boss is about to leave for a performance review where he’ll have to report his crime statistics to the Empire. He knows what will happen if he ends his report with, “And by the way, two of my own were bumped off last night.”

The inspectors’ dialogue deserves an essay of its own. It’s an argument between youth and age, zeal and world-wisdom, between an Imperial true believer and a very mild sort of Rebellion—it’s even a philosophical contest between deontology and consequentialism—and it’s all carried off with a mixture of wit and realism that I can’t remember Star Wars ever achieving before. Both inspectors make good points; each is self-serving in ways he won’t admit, and if you think it’s obvious which decision they should make, then you probably haven’t thought the thing through.

And remember, these are the bad guys—low-ranking bad guys, no less, invested with agency, intelligence, and humanity. And they’re not the only ones.

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When my primary teachers told me that the Holy Ghost spoke as a still, small voice or a burning in the bosom, I was always confused. Since the day I was confirmed, I experienced the Spirit as music—a soundtrack constantly playing to fit whatever circumstances I’m in. A quick-paced brassy theme to warn of danger. A high flute trill to accompany an epiphany. Once, when I despaired at a tough AP World History essay question, the final boss theme from a video game played in my mind. A boss that had taken me days to conquer. I sat for a moment, gathering the resolve I’d used in my many attempts, then tackled the question. I happily received a B+.

No one else can hear this soundtrack. That is, until test day in Spanish 3. I’d confidently turned in my unit one test with five minutes to spare and was packing up my binder. My classmates chatted in a low hum as we waited for the bell to dismiss us—except for Robin, seated in the next row over. They rarely spoke outside of conversation practice, but this time, they leaned over the bar anchoring their chair to the desk and whispered to me. “Do you have to play a fanfare whenever you turn in a test?”

A record scratched through my mind and I nearly dropped my binder. “You heard that?” I hadn’t been humming along with it, had I?

Robin raised their eyebrow with a silver piercing. “Kinda hard to miss.”

“I’m sorry.” My cheeks burned. I must have been humming. The theme song from Pink Panther started to run through my head, though in a lower register than the usual tenor sax. What that was supposed to mean, I had no clue.

“Is that ‘Pink Panther’ on the tuba?”

I just stared in answer. Robin played tuba in band. Of course they’d recognize that instrument.

“Look, you may have accommodations, but headphones will keep you from being distracting.” The bell rang and they shot out the door without waiting for a reply.

This was definitely not me humming.

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Further Light News

We’re currently working on editing issue 2, and that includes finding art to go with each of the fantastic pieces we’ve accepted. If you’re an illustrator or artist who would like to work with us, now’s the time to pitch your portfolio to editor@furtherlightmag.com!

Next month, we’ll have a booth at Storymakers right at the top of the escalator, so come see us on your way to class! Buy a copy of issue 1, pitch us your story or essay idea, or just come grab a piece of chocolate from our resident dragon (she hoards only the good stuff).

Interesting Publications

We’re loving LDS fantasy legend DJ Butler’s new podcast High Low Brow. If you’ve seen Project Hail Mary, you owe it to yourself to check out his discussion of the importance of religion in the book version.

Congrats to fellow LDS speculative fiction magazine Infinite Valley on the release of their third issue featuring stories from three fantastic authors!

We’ve pitched Burgindie’s short LDS horror film “The Angel” before, but now it's finally available on YouTube! Polygamy, mysterious visitors, secret handshakes—this short has deep roots in our culture. After you watch, check out this interview with Barrett Burgin about the film on Saints & Cinephiles.

The BYU English department has put up its fall schedule, and we’re super excited to see Aaron Eastley teaching a course on “Living Stories: How Tolkien and Lewis Lead Us to Christ.” If you’re looking for religious folklore to inspire your next Further Light submission, we also suggest Chris Blythe’s course on “Saints and the Holy Dead.” BYU students, make sure to add them to your registration cart before they fill up!

Meanwhile at Weber State, Ryan Evans is teaching a course on Brandon Sanderson’s Mistborn trilogy—sounds like fun!

A certain ex-Mormon content creator has been spreading some hurtful assumptions about why Latter-day Saints love to write speculative fiction, but Jasmin Rappleye and Shad Brooks are here with a play-by-play response.

The Daily Wire has an article covering recent releases in right-wing-coded fantasy, which includes a review of Larry Correia’s new book American Paladin. (We also really enjoyed this YouTube explainer of the right-leaning trend on BookTube.)

Read something great that we should know about? Send links to editor@furtherlightmag.com with the subject line “Interesting Publications.”

Community Events

May 14-16 - Storymakers Conference - Storymakers, held in Provo, is a great opportunity to hone your writing craft and network with fellow writers. And of course we also love the Whitney Awards that promote great LDS writing. If you’re attending, please come visit our booth and chat with us!

June 17-18 - Writers Cantina - Join local Utah authors for a casual and inexpensive event in West Valley City.

August 17–21 - BYU Education Week - We happen to know there will be a track on science fiction and theology that you don’t want to miss!

Got an event we missed? Send information to editor@furtherlightmag.com with the subject line “Community Events.”

Submissions & Deadlines

Apr 26 - Get your art into The Compass Gallery - Time’s almost up to be part of The Compass Gallery’s of fantasy art this summer titled Lore: The Power of Stories. After visiting their Fantastically Human exhibit last year, we know this one’s gonna be great. Submit your art to be exhibited alongside Steve Argyle and Howard Lyon.

May 15 - Submit to LDSPMA’s first-ever anthology - We love LDSPMA’s mission to help Latter-day Saint creators succeed in publishing, media, and the arts, so of course we’re excited that they’re putting out an anthology for this year’s conference theme of “Instruments in God’s Hands.” Send in fiction, poems, or personal essays under 1200 words and say you were there for the first one!

May 31 - Submit to the Mormon Lit Blitz - Participate in the longest running contest for LDS-themed flash-length work. Send your in fiction, poetry, or nonfiction under 1000 words. Published finalists are paid $25 and winners of the contest receive a $125 prize.

July 20 - Write a review of a fake piece of LDS art - Irreantum is collecting new pieces for a special themed issue of reviews of LDS art. The catch is that these works don’t exist yet. Check out this fake review of a (speculative?) novel written by Brigham Young as an example. I’m hoping for a review of a magical installation or perhaps some space-based performance art.

August 31 - Submit to Further Light issue 3 - Though we’re just starting to nail down issue 2, we’re already collecting some great submissions for issue 3. We hope yours will be among them!

October 1 - Send in an academic paper to LTUE - Got something clever to say about your favorite science fiction or fantasy property? Submit an essay to LTUE’s academic track to share your thoughts with everyone (and get free conference admission and snacks in the green room—seriously, those mini eclairs are worth it).

Got an opportunity we missed? Send information to editor@furtherlightmag.com with the subject line “Submissions & Deadlines.”