Announcing the Winners of the 2025 Braly Awards for Creative Writing
The English Department is happy to announce the winners of the 2025 Braly Awards for Creative Writing: Jordann Allen (creative nonfiction), Zachary Lyons (fiction), and Cameron Shiao (poetry). Congratulations to all for this achievement and their commitment to the craft of creative writing!
Read on for bios and samples of their work.
Creative Nonfiction: "Praying for Rain" by Jordann Allen
Jordann Allen is an aspiring professor double majoring in English literature and political science. She loves stories, whether in books, history or memories shared by cherished ones.
Fiction: "Paella" by Zachary Lyons
Zachary Lyons is a sophomore majoring in English with a minor in creative writing on the prelaw track. He fell in love with creative writing as a junior in high school, where he ascertained the skills to use language to evoke emotion in readers and critique repressing social constructs. When he's not writing, he enjoys spending time with his family and friends, specifically his cat, Pablo, listening to old Drake songs, and watching Lamar Jackson highlights.
Poetry: "halo / crown of thorns" by Cameron Shiao
Cameron Shiao (he/him, she/her) is a Taiwanese-American artist of many disciplines, including writing, visual art, music, and translation. Through his art, he seeks to convey and some day understand what it is to be human. Currently, he is in his second year at UMBC studying Applied Linguistics and Japanese.
Excerpt from "Praying for Rain" by Jordann Allen, winner for creative nonfiction:
“My heart became hot within me. As I mused, the fire burned; then I spoke with my tongue.”-Psalms 39:3
Have you ever jolted yourself awake from a nightmare, boiling in your bed, and tangled in sheets, squirming in the mire of your sweat? How fortunate are we that most nightmares slip from our memory, save for these persistent terrors that cling to us and follow us into waking life. I have this recurring nightmare where I am in some state of peril, desperate for help yet unable to plead for it. When I try to scream, the only sound that escapes my throat is an inaudible and incoherent screech. This is how I envision the bulk of my mother’s childhood. Though I was raised in a Christian denomination that rejects the notion of hell, I was still familiar with it through my mother’s stories. Her stories provided a landscape of unending torment in hell’s place. My mother was born on October 26, 1962 in South Carolina but she spent most of her childhood in New York City, a city she finds more repulsive than the bowels of hell. She hated the chewing gum speckled sidewalks, the filth, the crime, the rats and the pigeons that hobbled on the garbage lined streets. She lived in New York for the first fifteen years of her life but for her, it was never home.
Excerpt from "Paella" by Zachary Lyons, winner for fiction:
“So you don’t really gotta do anything,” Martin said, “Just sit there and watch.”
“True,” said Ferran.
“And don’t say anything.” He turned suddenly into an alley and took four plastic baggies of weed out of his bag that absolutely reeked.
“I’ve got a couple deals lined up tonight. I figured I’d just slide you like ten if you help me tonight.” Ferran leaned against the bronze brick at the side of the alley and looked at the light in the distance, digging his fingers into the crevices between the stones.
“How long have you been dealing?”
“A few months. I’ve made good money from it. You could too.”
“So this is the security job you got. You’ve just been dealing this whole time.” He said. “You didn’t tell me?”
A few weeks ago, Martin was keeping Ferran company while he washed. To make ends meet, Ferran regularly washed his neighbors’ clothes. With each load, he carried clothes down multiple floors to the shaded part of the courtyard outside the shitty concrete complex where he lived and threw them into a large kiddie pool filled with water and dish soap. Each day, the water quickly turned from clear to a murky, bubbly brown creating a dirty-citrusy scent that liked to waft into the noses of anyone who passed by. Ferran usually did four loads per day, or twenty-four a week. He never works Sundays. Charging five euros per load, Ferran earns 120 euros in revenue per week from his laundry business and gives 100 of those to his mother to help pay for rent, food, and other unexpected expenses.
That day, Martin wore a large diamond stud on each ear that looked out of place in such a neighborhood. It was a hot place filled with junk and litter and anything or anyone else worth throwing away. But, no one threw away Diamonds. Martin told him he found a job working in private security. Ferran couldn’t help but notice that the diamonds shined to match his eyes and shimmered in the light. He smiled.
The sweat fell from their faces like bodies and turned their olive skin an oily sheen, adding extra curls to Martin’s long, flowy hair. Ferran didn’t sweat as much as Martin. Ferran was only five-eight and maybe a buck fifty if he weighed himself in the period after he ate and before he shit. And if he didn’t look small already, he certainly did next to his six-two, broad-shouldered friend.
Present day, the two sat there like usual, soaking in the humidity as they listened to the sound of the clothes washing and squishing against the board. Ferran dared Martin to jump in the ugly brown water and Martin was so hot that he actually contemplated it for a few minutes before ultimately deciding not to. After sitting there a while, Martin interrupted the silence to ask Ferran for a favor and to meet him back there later that night. Ferran nodded and shortly after Martin left.
As Ferran finally finished washing, the sun lowered, pausing its assault and creating a golden hue in the sky. Watching the sunset, Ferran took in a deep breath of the washing chemicals to try and relax. In the golden hour, the courtyard didn’t seem as dirty and dry. Ferran paused to listen to the children playing soccer in the distance. Ferran found peace in these moments, often entering a second consciousness. It was as if he was watching someone else that happened to look just like him. Except it didn’t really look like him, or at least it wasn’t how he thought he looked, or maybe how he wanted to. Ferran couldn’t afford siestas but this was the closest he could get — a break from the burden of having to force himself to keep going.
"halo / crown of thorns" by Cameron Shiao, winner for poetry:
Your brother prayed to God for two little siblings when he was a child: one brother and one sister.
two and four years later, he got his wish exactly as he asked for it—
Your mother cried tears of joy when they told her You would be a girl.
Your role was decided for You long before You took Your first breath: daughter, sister,
God’s gift to Your family from heaven. to be a woman was destiny and conscription,
carved out of Adam’s chest to fill the gaps in a lonely little boy’s life.
he believes in God because You were born, You know. don’t go breaking Your brother’s faith, sweet girl.
they gave You a name from the Bible, divinity etched into every inch of Your being,
hungry talons tracing verses inside Your thighs and outlining Your shape in holy, wine-red text for all to see.
Rachel means “Ewe”; “a female sheep,” a lamb of God—
Your namesake, tricked by her father's greed and killed by her husband's recklessness, was fated to suffer all along. this is Your destiny; don't You dare try to be anything more.
You are Rachel; a lamb of God, a creature to be possessed—
“Your body belongs to Him, not You.”
self-mutilation is the most vile sin; to declare ownership over the body He granted You is unforgivable. don't You want to go to heaven?
God will do anything to prove a point—He would drown the world a million times over,
curse the Earth and raise it again, all for love. all of this is for love.
He’s the only one who will ever love You like this. He’s the only one who will ever love You enough to cut You open.
when you kill Rachel for the second time, God will pry Your chattering jaws open with cruel, hallowed hands and force Milk and Honey down Your throat,
wiping the blood from Your mouth and watching You suffocate on the sickly sweet with nothing in His eyes but love, love, Love.
choke down divinity, You creature of God. You can’t help being holy.
You never had a choice.
Posted: April 23, 2025, 3:14 PM
