[Nfb-editors] Writers' Division, Slate & Style, fall issue

[Bridgit Pollpeter]

Attached and pasted is the fall issue of Slate & Style. Please do not
share outside the Federation. Thank you.

Slate
	&
	Style

Publication of the National Federation of the Blind Writers' Division

Fall 2011
Vol. 29, No. 2

Editor: Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
E-mail: bpollpeter at hotmail.com
President: Robert Leslie Newman
Email: newmanrl at cox.net
Slate & Style is a quarterly publication of the National Federation of
the Blind Writers' Division. Submission guidelines are printed at the
end of this publication. The editor and division president have the
right to cut and revise submissions. The division president has final
authority regarding publication for any submission.

Slate & Style is a magazine showcasing literary writing as well as
articles providing information and helpful advice about various writing
formats. While a publication of the National Federation of the Blind,
submissions don't have to be specific to blindness or the NFB.
 
Special thanks to Victor Hemphill and Ross Pollpeter for distributing
our Braille and print copies.
 
Slate & Style

Fall 2011


TABLE of Contents

>From the Keyboard of the President, Robert Leslie Newman	1

So You Want to Write a Song?, Brad Dunse	4

The Telling Stone, Doris Hampton	7

Snow, Shawn Jacobson	12

Five Things Editors Hate, Chris Kuell	13

Wild Velvet, Burns Taylor	15

Review of The Last Werewolf, Ross Pollpeter	20

>From a Military Hospital, Natalie Watkins	21

>From the Desk of the Editor: Looking Towards the New Year, Bridgit
Kuenning-Pollpeter	22

Slate & Style Submission Guidelines	24

NFB-Writer's Division Application	25

2012 NFB-Writers' Division Writing Contest	26
 
>From the Keyboard of the President
By Robert Leslie Newman

Since the writing of my previous president's report, the 2011 NFB
national convention was held, and I have much to report concerning
activities during convention. Not only did I oversee business for the
Writers' Division, I conducted my first seminar for the Newsletter
Publication committee as the new chairperson. First, I will give you a
synopsis of the Division's activities during convention, and second,
I'll fill you in on my new Chairmanship of the NFB's Newsletter
Publications Committee.

National convention was held in Orlando, Florida in July. The Writers'
Division's schedule included: a writing workshop for teens, our
fundraiser, Story Telling Idol and our annual business meeting.
 
The teen workshop was successful. The activity consisted of a group
effort to build a continuous and coherent story-line, and students took
turns adding to the story. It was enjoyed by all.

During Story-telling Idol, the general theme of the tales told took a
humorous bent. The Division netted approximately fifty-two dollars.

The Division's annual meeting was a blend of taking care of business,
and presentations by new authors. Major business covered included the
usual reports, the 2011 writing contest winners were awarded and
elections held. The highlight of our business meeting was the panel of
guest authors.

This year's meeting was recorded, and the MP3 is available from our
website. Also, for the first time, individuals had the opportunity to
dial into a teleconference number to participate during the meeting.

In January, Dr. Mauer asked if I'd accept an appointmentship as chair of
the Newsletter Publications committee, and I said yes. And so began a
multi-month learning curve to get on top of all that I needed to know
and do. This statement from my committee chair appointment letter opened
my eyes to the full extent of the job:
The purpose of the Federation's Newsletter Publications Committee is to
consider questions dealing with the Braille Monitor, state newsletters,
and the total range of communications and information throughout our
movement.

My first order of business was to find out who all within the Federation
had an active newsletter going. Needless to say, there wasn't a list.
Checking all NFB websites proved to be the most expedient method to
ferreting-out where newsletters were to be found. The results were
surprising.

Out of the fifty-two affiliates, eleven don't have a website, and only
fifteen states have newsletters. Out of the twenty-seven divisions, nine
have websites, and only four have newsletters. Chapter newsletters
and/or Websites are the more elusive to track down, yet though
uncounted, they too exist.

In terms of communication, it appears that all states, divisions and
chapters have an email network to communicate with members. Also, many
states have Newsline and make use of it to post communications.

As a result of my research, the Committee's focus for 2011 became
boosting the awareness of how we as an organization must maximize our
communications. This developed into two major focuses: One, encourage
and assist newsletter development, and two, assist with the development
of a web presence for affiliates and divisions, including FaceBook and
Twitter. 

Gary Wunder, editor of The Braille Monitor, said the following during
his keynote speech:
What do you get from a newsletter? You have the opportunity to highlight
people others don't know, provide them the opportunity to test their
wings at writing, and the opportunity to become more involved statewide
and nationally. You develop a record of your accomplishments others can
use when reconstructing the progress of the blind in moving toward
first-class citizenship. You have a vehicle you can use to demonstrate
to people inside and outside the organization what the NFB is doing, and
this information can make them feel a part of something vital and
important. You have the ability not only to report on current events but
to add the element of contemplative reflection that can make all the
difference in understanding.

Following Wunder's great intro, a panel addressing the creation and care
of a newsletter was presented by the editors of the Minnesota and Alaska
newsletters, two very different, but excellent publications. Another
panel covered the use of online communications: websites, including Face
Book and Twitter, email and Newsline. An auditory recording and an
abridged written version of the meeting is available by request.

My awareness of writing for websites has increased. As a part of my
extensive research of NFB websites, I've been committed to spotlighting
what is working and assisting to bridge the gaps where it is lacking in
terms of content. To help, the NPC authored an NFB Website Start-Up
proposal. The Nevada, Vermont, Washington DC and Wyoming affiliates have
responded and now have online presences.

One important concern I want to focus on as we continue to develop and
refurbish websites is how information is presented on individual
websites. As a communication tool, it's important that our websites and
social networks follow proper writing and grammar skills.

Some believe that Slate & Style is the newsletter of the Writers'
Division. I don't agree; it doesn't contain "newsy" information, but is
a literary publication. Slate & Style isn't a communication form
detailing information and activities for the division, but it's a
publication dedicated to literary pursuits, and other writing formats,
not necessarily specific to the NFB or blindness.

In closing, I encourage all of us to consider our part in communications
efforts with the NFB. As writers, we can be helpful in the creation of,
restructuring of and consistency of NFB communications including
newsletters, websites and social networks. So many options exist today
allowing us to share and spread news; we must learn the best medium in
which to share news as well as harness the ability to write effective
communications no matter the medium. After all, as Wunder states, "Dare
to start or remake your newsletter." Do not give up the power of the
word in our effort to change what it means to be blind."
 
So You Want to Write a Song?
By Brad Dunse

Ask 10 songwriters how to write a song, you'll get 15 answers. That
makes you laugh, I know, but it's the truth. Over the years as a
songwriter, I've heard everything from, "There are no rules in
songwriting," to, "There are always songs that break the rules and still
become hit songs."

Dude, is it rules or no rules-you ask. I know, I've been there too. It's
a bit confusing when starting out as a songwriter. The honest truth is
that the dos and don'ts of songwriting are determined by you, the
listner.

Me? What do I have to do with making rules for your songs, you're
asking. Well, if I write:

Roses are red,
Violets aren't pink 
Bet you guess the rhyme,
That's coming, you suppose?

Disappointed with the rhymes resolve? Let's end your angst before we go
on

Roses are red, Violets aren't pink, Bet you guess the rhyme, That's
coming, ya' think?

Feel better? Now we can continue reading.

See, you do have a lot to do with setting the rules. Granted, we writers
tend to set you up for certain expectations, but ultimately it is up to
you whether or not you accept what we create. Yes, you the listner are
the songwriting rule police.

The rules songwriters follow have a lot to do with what shows on the
current menu in terms of what passes for acceptable songwriting
elements. It is the job of songwriters to experiment with different
seasonings so T-bone steak has a new flavor-same, but different. Many in
the music industry who focus on satisfying the taste of the public will
say the product needs to be the same yet different. They want a T-bone
for dinner-quality music-because of course salsbury steak can't pass for
quality T-bone, but the T-bone can't look like the last one either. The
product can't be completely different, but different enough to make it
sound fresh and new.

Why, you ask, because you'll get bored. Can you guess why "Achy Breaky
Heart" or "Don't Worry Be Happy" disappeared from the radio? They were
over-played, and you grew sick of them.

So, what are the rules, or guidelines, of songwriting? You might wonder
if you have what it takes to write songs, and the answer is yes you do.
It is a learned skill that doesn't require you to play an instrument.
It's like a newborn baby burbling gibberish-the ability and potential to
speak proficient English is there, you just haven't had time to mature
and practice it. Songwriting is similar.

Life needs to be lived so it can be written about. Have a sweetie you
want to sweep off her feet with a love song? Fed up with political
rhetoric-decide to get Dylanesque, waxing political in song? Not your
style? Want to write that hit song, retire to some Pacific island, sit
beachside sipping little drinks with paper umbrellas while royalty
checks are deposited into your off-shore bank? Hitting the emotion of a
song's topic takes practice, but once you find it, Prepare yourself for
the journey. Take your time; join a local songwriting organization; read
songwriting books; attend workshops; have your work evaluated; learn
from those who have more songwriting experience. Most importantly,
write, write, write.

I can point you towards some helpful resources, so stay tuned. I've
listed five rules to keep in mind when beginning the songwriting
process:

.	Write Your Experience

Don't fabricate your emotions-write your own true life experience. Don't
be tempted to fabricate your story. When you've written what you think
is everything, dig deep and explore your experiences and emotions.

.	Don't Take it Personal

Understand we're all growing, and even the most seasoned songwriter must
undergo constructive criticism. Take criticism, positive and negative,
for what it's worth-a learning opportunity that will help you grow.

.	Universal, Not to Personal

Writing personal doesn't mean personal details. No one wants to hear how
your grandma cut her third toe off and now limps through the garden
while picking veggies-focus on universal experiences and emotions, not
specific details.

.	Write Then Edit

Writing songs that appeal to listners takes time Just like growing from
a three-foot kindergartner to a six-foot senior. The only way to grow as
a songwriter and to polish your work is to write, write, write some more
then rewrite-there's no way out of this step.

If you'd like a no-bells-and-whistles list of books and resources for
songwriting, you can download a free Songwriter Resources html file at:

http://www.braddunsemusic.com/links.html

I know you can do it. Happy writing.

Based in the greater Minneapolis/St. Paul, MN area, Brad Dunse's songs
have been heard commercialy, publicly and on internet radio. Dunse has
performed at various venues including coffeehouses, festivals and
classrooms in the Heartland. Working in multiple genres, Dunse goal is
to create music with heart.

Currently serving on the board of directors for the Minnesota
Association of Songwriters, Dunse has been involved in various music
organizations through the years. He currently writes a column for the
international songwriter e-zine Muses Muse. Dunse also offers song
evaluations for those seeking feedback on their material.
 
The Telling Stone
By Doris Hampton

The witch's cart rattles toward us, hauling a lone prisoner up the rocky
hillside. Villagers swarm around it, as bloodthirsty and cruel as the
demons they fear.

Mama and I are here to witness the hanging. Everyone in Salem Village
has come to watch Bridget Bishop die.

Mama slips a hand inside the pocket of her cloak, reaching for the
Telling Stone. "Listen," she says. "The hanging tree is crying." She
turns to me. "Do you hear it, Hannah?"

Holding my breath, I grow as still as the wild grass at my feet,
searching for the sound of branches.

Beyond the angry shouts of the villagers comes the far-off barking of
dogs, but the old oak stands, silent and tall, against the morning sky.

"No, Mama," I finally admit. "I hear nothing." My cheeks burn with
shame.

Fourteen-years-old and I'm still unable to catch the language of trees.
Those wise women, whose blood runs through my veins, forgot to pass this
talent on to me.

A thundering growl spreads across the hilltop. The hate-filled mob
rushes toward the hanging tree like a pack of rabid wolves. 

They call me a simpleton. Yet I know what those pious folk will never
understand; No true witch, protected by powers of earth and moon and
sea, will suffer the hangman's noose.

The villagers' God may have turned from them, as their ministers fear,
but the witches' Goddess will never forsake Her own.

As the taunting grows louder, Mama pulls the stone from her pocket.

The small, gray river rock has passed from mother to daughter since time
began. In the old country, our foremothers were using the stone to draw
down the power of the moon long before that sacred act became a deadly
sin.

When the witch hunts began ages ago, a wise woman called upon the river
rock to help keep each victim's name alive, so their stories might be
told and not forgotten. The gray rock agreed to lend its voice to her
enchantment, and thus, it became the Telling Stone. 

Countless names have been captured and stored inside the heart of the
stone. When the witch hunts end, name after name will fly away like
caged birds set free. Each name will carry a tale haunting the dreams of
poets and commoners and kings.

"The killings are almost over." Mama's voice seems to come from a
distance, like the call of a wild goose through the ghost-fog haunting
the valley below our cabin. 	"Only a few more shall hang," she says.
"And one will perish beneath the weight of stones."

Squeezing my eyes shut, I search the darkness behind my eyelids in a
futile attempt to catch a glint of tomorrow.

Mama brings the Telling Stone to her lips. "Bridget Bishop," she says,
capturing the doomed woman's name; willing it past the opening spell,
into the heart of the stone.

"WITCH, WITCH, WITCH," the villagers shout as the terrified prisoner is
pulled from the cart, forced to stumble the final distance, meeting her
fate.

"Bridget Bishop," Mama says again, her voice trembling.

"What's wrong?" I cry. I've never seen her composure falter so, not even
when Papa lay dying.

"The Telling Stone has taken the opening spell from me," Mama says with
a troubled frown. "I've forgotten it."

"How can that be?"

The opening spell is the key unlocking the stone's heart, freeing its
voice. Without the sharing of that spell, no name can be added, none
released. 

"Oh!" Mama's startled cry jars my senses. The Telling Stone slips from
her hand, falling to the ground at my feet. 

On the hilltop across from us, Bridget Bishop is dragged closer and
closer to the waiting hangman.

Her name must be taken soon, before death seals her story forever within
the gloom of the Killing Times.

"Hurry, Mama," I urge.

The hangman binds Bridget Bishop's hands and feet, and shoves her head
into a black hood.

Mama gives the terrible scene an anxious glance, then fixes her
attention on me. "Pick it up," she demands, pointing to the stone.

Staring at her, unable to move, I think, why should I touch the stone?
She's the name-gatherer, not me.

"The Telling Stone has gone from my hands to yours, Hannah." Mama's
voice comes so low I can barely hear. "You've been chosen to gather
these final names."

Scooping up the stone, she forces me to take it. The weight of its
burden presses into my palm. 

"No!" My blood runs cold as water in our winter rain barrel. "I'm not
one of the wise." 

Mama's eyes hold mine, willing me to accept the role neither of us
dreamed I'd be called upon to play.

"My magic can't assist you, Hannah." Mama gives an uneasy sigh. "You
must find your own way to the voice of the stone."

"I can't!" Unanswered questions flit through my mind like panicked bats.
Where is the opening spell? How can someone like me persuade the stone
to reveal its hiding place? 

"When you receive the opening spell, you'll automatically do what's
needed to save Bridget Bishop's name." Mama's promise is tainted with
doubt. She knows my thoughts run slow like chilled molasses.

The hangman starts up the ladder with Bridget Bishop flung over his
shoulder like the carcass of a slaughtered goat.

Gripping the stone, my whole body shakes with the effort to squeeze past
its silence.

The hangman is halfway up the ladder now. A hush falls over the crowd as
every eye fixates on the bound and hooded woman.

I clutch the lifeless gray rock, dizzy and sick from trying. 

Bridget Bishop's ragdoll body dangles over the hangman's shoulder as he
reaches the uppermost rung of the ladder. She reminds me of a wounded
squirrel I once freed from the jaws of a neighbor's cat.

Hot tears sting my eyes as I send a fervent prayer to the Goddess,
begging Her to nudge the stone, which steadfastly refuses to speak.

The hangman reaches for the noose.

I turn away. Because of me, Bridget Bishop's story, and those locked
inside the heart of the stone, will be forever left untold.

Shame sizzles from the tips of my fingers to the soles of my feet. I
welcome the pain that pushes me toward the familiar sanctuary deep
inside my head where all is dark and still.

"Hannah!" Mama's work-strong fingers grip my arm. "You must not
withdraw!" Her piercing gaze blocks my escape. 

I swallow hard. Withdrawing is the only thing I do well. Whenever faced
with more than I can handle, I disappear into what Mama and I call
Faraway.

She releases her hold on me as I obediently look to the sky. Although I
fear it's too late, I try with all my might to pull in the magic of sun
and cloud and air. The Telling Stone remains as still as the dead beetle
I plucked from a spider's web early this morning.

Accepting failure, I shut out Bridget Bishop's screams. I'll never be
able to catch the voice of the stone, no matter how hard I try.

Mama's desperate pleading fades as I retreat into the safety of Faraway.
In time, the bad things around me slip away, leaving only darkness as
comforting as the snuggle-nest under Mama's favorite quilt.

Out of the shadows, from some hidden corner, comes a faint melody.
Secure within my hiding place, I open to the sound. It is strangely
familiar, like a birdsong from some forgotten dream.

Silently, I repeat every word that spins and rhymes and flows.

In the distance, a great chorus of women's voices seeps into Faraway,
lending power to the magic of rhythm and words.

The Telling Stone begins to pulse. Its steady thud-thud-thud keeps time
with the drumming inside my own chest.

I rise up out of Faraway to find the hangman tightening the noose around
Bridget Bishop's neck.

I bring the Telling Stone to my lips as though I've done this a thousand
times before. "Bridget Bishop," I say. Her name flits over my hand like
a dancing butterfly, then settles down, taking its place at the heart of
the Stone.

Doris Hampton has been published in many confession magazines through
the past forty years. Her book for young readers, Just for Manuel, was
published by Steck-Vaughn in 1971. Hampton's poems, stories and finger
plays have appeared in numerous children's magazines, including
Highlights and Humpty Dumpty. Her poem, "Pete Bixby Died This Morning,"
was a winner in one of Writers Digest's poetry contests. 

Hampton, blind from Retinitis Pigmentosa, lives in Oregon with her
enduring husband, Chuck, eight rescued cats and a dog named Sally who
thinks she's "people."
 
Snow
By Shawn Jacobson

I break the pristine crust,
and lift my load,
to the chest, high drift I make
as I carve my way to the street.
Thus I liberate myself
from winters dazzling grip
through the sharp jewel light of winter's morn.

A break is called, I lower my burden and return to warmth.
I sit and rest as hot chocolate warms my belly.
Warm winter light warms me as it streams through the windows
showing the virgin white of snowy lawns.

Too soon I must resume and shovel forward,
and mark my progress with snowy piles.
And scoop by scoop I near the street moving forward,
success and final victory tantalize with closeness.
The final goal appears it seems so near.

But I must break the wall thrown by the plough.
I attach with steel blade, heaving dirt-soiled snow chunks.
They stain the white untouched ground.
One more load, another and another still.
Then, I am through, exhausted, triumphant, free.

Shawn Jacobson was born in Ames Iowa in 1959, attending the Iowa School
for the Blind in Vinton, Iowa. He received a BA in political science and
an MS in statistics from Iowa State University. Jacobson has worked for
the federal government since 1984.

Jacobson now lives in Olney, Maryland with his wife, Cheryl, son,
Stephen, daughter, Zebe, and their dogs, Penny and Bruise.

Jacobson is treasurer of the NFB Maryland-Sligo Creek chapter, and also
is treasurer of the state affiliate. He is a deacon at his church,
Presbyterian Church of the Atonement.
 
Five Things Editors Hate
By Chris Kuell

Three years ago I took over as editor-in-chief of Breath and Shadow
(www.abilitymaine.org/breath) an online literary journal publishing
pieces written exclusively by people with disabilities. For the two
years prior to my promotion I was managing editor, which entailed
refereeing submissions, endless grunt work, and no salary.

During my tenure I've seen approximately 5,000 submissions, from
Pushcart Prize finalists to stuff a shelter cat might have scratched
out. Here are the five fastest ways for submissions to end up in the
rejection bin.

.	Not following our guidelines.

It sounds simple, intuitive; there isn't an article or book on the craft
not stressing the strict adherence to submission guidelines. yet
approximately 30% of what we receive fails one or more of our minimal
requirements. We don't ask for much, and we aren't interested in head
shots, going to your blog to peruse your masterpieces, or translating
Norwegian. 

.	Obvious errors such as misspellings, missing words, using the
incorrect homonym, etcetera.

Again, you would think it was obvious, but submitters should have one or
more writing friends look over their submissions to catch these neon
rookie signs, or no editor will ever take you seriously.

.	The same old submission with no new twists. 

At Breath and Shadow, this usually comes in the form of how the writer
dramatically overcame their particular disability.

There is nothing inherently wrong with these pieces, and in fact, we've
published several. But enough is enough! We aren't Bravo or Lifetime or
a Chicken Soup publication. Show us a different angle, a novel twist.
We're looking for unique voices opening us up to new ideas and
experiences.

.	Submitting cathartic pieces with no creativity or sense of
imagery.

Listen, I'll be the first to admit that journaling can be great
therapy--but I have no interest in witnessing the anger/hurt/sadness you
spilled on the proverbial pages during your recovery. Use some of those
images in your poetry or prose, but use them sparingly and weave them
into the fabric of a more enlightening work.

.	Writers who respond to rejection with insults about our
intelligence, inability to appreciate genius, or hypotheses about
ancestral background.

No, I wasn't raised by Jackasses, we do encourage writers with potential
to submit again, and I've got a good memory for names. Submitted pieces
are always refereed by several editors, and we often ask writers for
revisions if a piece is close to publication quality. We have never
changed our mind because of a submitter's reported clips, degrees or
certifications. 

Did I mention flat characters, unintentional POV shifts, or poems that
rhyme like Dr. Seuss, but aren't half as good? Maybe next time I'll
cover these points. 

Be humble, follow directions, always submit your best work and you stand
a good chance of receiving an acceptance letter.

After short-lived careers in arc welding, kick boxing, animal husbandry,
ophthalmology, septic evacuation and clinical trial subject, Chris Kuell
turned his efforts to creative writing. His articles and fiction have
appeared in several literary and a few not-so-literary magazines. He is
currently revising and polishing Rub It In, his second novel. He lives
in Connecticut with his wife, Christine, and the best kids in the world,
Grace and Nick.
 
Wild Velvet
By Burns Taylor

 Uncle Dave's ranch sprawled across a thousand acres in the gentle,
rolling hills of Central Texas between Wimberley and Blanco. A lively
creek, spanned by a wooden bridge, rambled through the ranch. My
family's annual excursions there were like visits to a wildlife theme
park. There were deer, possums, squirrels, turkeys and bobcats. There
were domestic animals, too: cattle (including bulls) horses, hounds and
Pancho, Aunt Lillian's talking parrot.

And a deer named Spike waited for me; a blind boy touched by the
companionship of a special deer.

When we got to Uncle Dave's ranch that day, my mom warned me to curb my
excitement and be polite. I was to go into the house, say hello to Uncle
Dave and Aunt Lillian, and be courteous before I hurried out to the pen
to see about Spike. Unable to tolerate their idle chatter no longer, I
interrupted, asking about Spike. 

"He's just fine, son," Uncle Dave drawled in his southern tone that had
a faint metallic ring like Governor Jimmy Davis of Louisiana. "but he
got too big for the pen." 

"Too big for the pen," I said, "then where is he?" I was incredulous.

"He lives in the woods now with all the other deer," Uncle Dave said.

I couldn't believe what he was saying. Why would he let Spike get out of
the pen and go off to the woods? Sensing my disappointment Uncle Dave
said, "Son, Spike still comes back to visit. Maybe I can fix it so you
can see him this evening when he comes in to feed." 

Was that possible? Spike was grown now and living free. Would he still
let me touch him? Would I be afraid? 

After lunch, my sister, Gwen, entered the room where I was napping,
saying, "Let's go swimming." I almost forgot about Spike in my
excitement. 

We tumbled into the back of Uncle Dave's dusty old pickup with springs
that squeaked like a litter of whining puppies when we hit a bump. The
metal of the truck bed was blistering hot from the afternoon August sun.
Gwen gave me a running commentary on everything she saw as we moved
along. I was blind, she was my eyes, we were a team. We crossed the
creek bridge on the winding dirt road as we dipped and rolled along past
pecan orchards and hay fields and the milking barns. Then the truck
lumbered off the road and stopped with a lurch and a final high-pitched
squeal of the springs that hurt my ears. 

The swimming pool was a large, round tank about 20 feet across. A nearby
windmill pumped water from the tank down to the troughs where the cattle
drank. The tank, itself, was made of rough finished concrete that
chaffed our bare skin. It stood six-feet above ground. Uncle Dave lifted
each of us up to the lip of the tank. We dived from the edges into what
seemed like bottomless depths of water; the slap of our hands shattering
the surface of the water into spray tinkling like splintering crystal. 

After what felt like hours of games racing across the home-made pool and
retrieving rocks from the scratchy bottom, Aunt Lillian said it was time
to return so she could begin dinner. The metal bed of the truck felt
warm on my bare skin as we drove home. It was late August, and the sun
was beginning to fade into the west 

The truck slowed into the drive in front of the ranch house, and Gwen
and I scrambled over the fenders and tailgate. The women and Gwen
trailed into the house. I loped over to play with Uncle Dave's dogs.

I was wrestling with Uncle Dave's black-and-tan coon hounds when he came
out the back door and thumped heavily down the weather cracked wooden
steps. "Come here, son." He set a heavy bucket on the ground.

I walked over to him. 

"You stand right here next to this milk bucket. Pretty soon old Spike
will come around to feed on this cottonseed cake. Don't be afraid. I'll
be watching you from inside." He scuffed away back to the house.

I stood alone in the quietness of the evening next to the bucket filled
with cottonseed cake. The first crisp aroma of grease heating in an iron
skillet filled the air as Aunt Lillian prepared to fry chicken. Doves
cooed softly in the distance. A sense of fear but exhilaration gripped
me like those moments before walking out on stage for the annual
Christmas play at the Texas School for the Blind in Austin, where we
lived. 

Spike was only two-feet-tall when I first met him. Uncle Dave, my
grandfather's brother, had found him alone in the woods; a hunter had
killed his mother. A bell around the fawn's neck allowed me to locate
him in the large pen behind the ranch house. Spike would race around the
pen, and when he was sure I didn't intend to harm him, he'd stop and let
me stroke his bony head and slender neck. Knealing, I would hug his
warm, plump, little body.

But that had been two years before. I was twelve now, and Spike was a
full-grown whitetailed buck. 

I swung my foot in an arc measuring the distance between myself and the
bucket as I waited. How big would he be, I thought. Up to my chest, my
shoulder? Taller? I strained to hear something, anything in the muted
silence. 

Just then, a twig snapped nearby. Suddenly, like an apparition, Spike
was there, munching the cottonseed cake. 

I tried to visualize his stance. Which way should I reach to touch him,
I wondered, not wanting to scare him. I spoke his name softly. Would he
remember my voice, my scent? 

Stretching my hand out timidly, expecting to touch his shoulders or the
back of his neck, I was surprised at what I discovered. Reaching his
antlers, it felt like a cluster of fuzzy tree limbs. This was not the
Spike who'd let me chase him around the pen. 

Grasping the tip of his velvet antlers tightly in my hand, I was
mystified by the danger, but glory, of this transcendental moment.
Something mystical flowed from Spike into me, and I felt as wild and
free as he was. Then, quietly, swiftly, just how he had come, Spike was
gone with a puff of wind.

Breaking into the stillness, a voice called me into dinner. 

Walking toward the house, I felt triumphant and privileged. What other
boy had ever stroked a wild deer in the open? No one I knew of. I was
dying to know about those fuzzy antlers though.

Dining on Aunt Lillian's fried chicken and home-grown collard greens,
Uncle Dave explained that bucks came into velvet each year, rubbing it
off against bushes and trees because it itched them. He said Spike was
grown, ready for a girlfriend. 

For the life of me, I didn't understand why Spike would give up the
security of the pen and Uncle Dave's friendship to go looking for a
girlfriend. Uncle Dave said that was a lesson for another day. 

Returning to the ranch the following year, I couldn't wait to hear about
Spike. Uncle Dave stood in the yard talking to my parents and Gwen about
how dry it had been and how little he had gotten for his cattle at
market. I stood on one foot, then the other, waiting to ask about Spike.


Sensing my impatience, Uncle Dave touched me once on the top of my head
with his flat hand. There was a long pause before saying, "Son, I'm
afraid I have some bad news for you about Spike." 

I wasn't ready to hear bad news, and guessing what it must be, I turned,
finding my way into the house. 

In the kitchen, Aunt Lillian gave me two pieces of salt water taffy and
I chatted with Pancho, her talking parrot, not wanting to think about
Spike. Pancho ran through his usual jumble of phrases and fragments,
ending up by singing in a high, shrill falsetto,
"Darling I am growing older; silver threads have turned to gold."

Pancho's singing eventually turned into sqawking, so I left the kitchen
returning to the yeard. Uncle Dave's two black-and-tan coon hounds loped
slowly across the yard in the heat and bumped me with their big, wet
noses. They were sleek and fat and nameless. I hugged and petted them
until I grew tired of their licking me with their wide juicy tongues. 

I wandered over to the pen where Spike and I had played together-child
and fawn. The gate dangled open, the hinge loossened at the bottom.
Patches of dry grass and weeds bristled, crackling beneath my shoes like
potato chips.

The pen was empty, and I was pretty sure Spike was gone forever.
Something in me vanished with him-boyish innocence and trust. I hardened
myself against the pain-loss-and I fought back tears. 

"Son?" Uncle Dave's voice startled me. "Over here."

"What happened to Spike?" I was ready now for the truth.

"A deer hunter shot him last season." He placed an arm across my
shoulders.

Anger and sadness battled for control of me. I spurred the anger to
overcome tears, but I turned away from Uncle Dave just in case.

"Somebody mistook him for an ordinary deer, that's all," Uncle Dave
spoke to my back. 

I knew all about deer season. I'd heard men brag about ten and twelve
point bucks dressed out at one-hundred pounds, plus. Gwen told me about
people driving into Austin with deer slung across the fenders of their
cars and pickups. I had even enjoyed venison chili myself. 

"Why didn't he stay here in the pen where he was safe?" I tried to not
choke on my words.

"You can't keep a wild animal caged up forever. They need to be free, to
run, to play. For a deer, being free means taking a chance on. well, on
getting killed. Come on in now." Softly laying a big hand on my
shoulder, he led me into the house.

At home that night, laying awake, thinking about Spike, I wondered if
the people sitting down, eating venison steaks last year, thought the
buck cut up, littering their dinner plates had grown up with humans.
That it had once stood, unfettered, unafraid, in the half-light of the
August moon, and let a young, frail, blind boy stroke his velvet-covered
antlers.

Burns Taylor is first-place winner for the adult nonfiction category of
the Writers' Division 2011 writing contest.

Taylor is a freelance writer, motivational speaker and independent
contractor living in El Paso, Texas with wife, Valora. HIS poems and
essays have won national and international competitions and have been
widely published. Samples of Taylor's work are available at
wwwburnstaylorcom. Taylor is presently at work on a full-length memoir.
 
Review of The Last Werewolf
By Ross Pollpeter

Taking a suggestion from my father, I recently read The Last Werewolf by
Glen Duncan, published earlier this year. According to the National
Library Service, its recording is currently in progress, so I purchased
the book from Audible (http://www.audible.com/).

This novel chronicles Jake, a two-hundred-year-old werewolf who, as it
states in the title, is the last werewolf in existence. Separate sides
compete to destroy him, ridding his kind from the planet, and others
strive to keep him alive for their own designs. Meanwhile, Jake
initially contemplates giving up but soon finds a reason to keep
fighting.

Nowadays, when a reader hears about a novel revolving around werewolves,
you think of the Twilight series, but this is not a young adult romance
geared towards younger female readers. Jake's story intrigued me
throughout the book up to the conclusion. Suspenseful and well written,
a sequel would be a welcome addition keeping readers up-to-date with
Jake's story. The struggles among this sole werewolf, his human rivals,
and yes, the vampire societies, keep the action constant and mood
intense. Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed this book and recommend it to any
who enjoy modern versions of old monster stories.

Note: The Last Werewolf contains explicit descriptions of sex and
violence.
 
>From a Military Hospital
By Natalie Watkins

Service before self
Mottos melting
Pen gliding

Leaden footsteps
Jarring thunder
Piercing light

Thoughts slipping
Consciousness drifting
Pain searing

Where are my legs?
Where is my arm?
What is this burning
In my bowels?

Words stuck
Like smacking cotton candy
Oh God, let me wake 

Am I salvageable?
Am I survivable?
Am I dead?

Mottos melting
Bullets pelting
Just want to be whole
Just whole

Natalie Watkins is an honorable mention for the adult poetry category
for the Writers' Division 2011 writing contest.
 
>From the Desk of the Editor
Looking Towards the New Year
By Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter

The summer issue of Slate & Style, though belated, was a success. We had
an overwhelming, positive response, and the general consensus is that
our current direction is well-received. With this in mind, we hope to
generate more steam as we move into the New Year.

We are all now buckling down and preparing for winter; many have already
experienced Jack Frost's terrible return. Nonetheless, we all turn eager
gazes to the holidays, which are approaching with the pace of a shooting
star. The first crisp notes of winter are chiming, and we all feel the
gleeful, magical anticipation of the holidays.

As autumn flirts with winter before uniting as one, think to the future.
I have enjoyed the submissions sent to Slate & Style for consideration,
and we look forward to more submissions as we enter the New Year. I
would like to see more articles discussing writing tools, methods and
tips as well as articles informing readers of various formats. We have
so many readers extending from those writing as a hobby to
professionals, and all writing in different fields. I encourage you to
enlighten us on a form knowledgeable to you, or share advice and tips to
inform as well as help us all work to become better writers.

And of course, I revel in all the literary submissions! Please continue
sending poetry, short fiction and short memoir/personal essays. We have
a talented group of writers contributing to the pages of the magazine,
and I'm thrilled with your eagerness to submit.

We have an opportunity to form Slate & Style into a bigger publication.
I've read submissions from talented writers, and I know more of you
exist. With the growing popularity of online publications, Slate & Style
has the chance to hop in line and join the various grassroots
publications cropping up in the ether sphere. I am enjoying the
editorship of Slate & Style, but it's the collective that will help
boost the status of the publication. I encourage all of us to consider
the magazine as a viable option when submitting work. Growth will happen
as we work to build upon an already great publication.

Thank you to those who are submitting, and a warm glow brightens my face
after reading the numerous responses ecstatic with the summer issue. I
hope this issue lives up to the expectations built by our past issue. I
wish you all a very merry holiday season, and we shall all meet again on
the pages of Slate & Style in 2012!

Sincerely,
Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter, editor, Slate & Style
 
Slate & Style Submission Guidelines

The next Slate & Style issue will release this winter. All submissions
must be turned in by Sunday, January 15, 2012 for consideration in the
winter issue. Submissions are welcomed at all times however. Please read
through the guidelines carefully. Submissions that don't follow these
guidelines will not be considered for Slate & Style. 

Submission guidelines are as follows:

.	Length requirements are: articles, 1500 words or less, fiction
and memoir/personal essay, 3000 words or less, poetry, 36 lines or less.

.	Include a title page along with your submission with author
name, title of piece and contact info-phone, email and address.

.	Please include a brief bio of yourself-no more than 150 words.
Do not send an entire history, just include key items you feel are
important for readers to know.

.	Book reviews are to be favorable reviews only. The length for
book reviews is 500 words. You don't need to send a bio for book
reviews.

.	All email submissions must be attachments and sent to
bpollpeter at hotmail.com. Do not paste entries into the body of an email.

.	In the subject line, write: Slate & Style submission, name,
title.

.	Use Microsoft Word or create an RTF document for all
submissions.

.	Proofread and check your grammar and formatting before
submitting.

.	Slate & Style will consider all submissions for publication.
However, please refrain from graphic sexual and violent content as well
as language and anti-religious, anti-gender, anti-racial and
anti-homosexual orientation content. Material will be published
according to the discretion of the editor though.

Please direct questions and comments to Bridgit KuenningPollpeter at
bpollpeter at hotmail.com.
 
NFB WRITERS' DIVISION MEMBERSHIP

If you'd like to join NFB-Writers' Division, please choose one of the
following payment methods:

.	Access our PayPal button from the Writers' Division's Website
http://www.nfb-writers-division.org 

.	Fill out and send in a print copy membership form, listed below.


Dues help finance division activities, including the publication of
Slate & Style, and our division's annual writing contest. 


NFB WRITERS' DIVISION MEMBERSHIP APPLICATION

NAME:	

ADDRESS:	

CITY:	STATE:	ZIP CODE:	

PHONE NUMBER (Include area code):	

EMAIL:	

Which format do you prefer for Slate & Style:

	BRAILLE		PRINT		EMAIL

Total enclosed:		Dues		Donation

Send $10 membership fee in a check or money order, made out to: 

NFB Writers' Division
2704 Beach Drive
Merrick NY 11566

Do not send cash. Do not make your check out to an individual. Thank
you.
 
2012 NFB-Writers' Division Writing Contest

The annual youth and adult writing contests sponsored by the
NFB-Writers' Division, will open January 1, 2012 and will close April 1,
2012. 

Adult contestants must be at least eighteen years of age. We accept
poetry, short fiction and nonfiction entries that are memoirs or
personal essays. For length and format requirements, visit the Writers'
Division website.

The youth writing contest promotes Braille, and all youth entries must
be submitted in Braille either using a Perkins Braille writer, or slate
& stylus; no embossed Braille will be accepted. Youth contestants are
divided into the following categories: Elementary, Middle school and
High School. Entries will be judged on creativity as well as the quality
of Braille.

.	Prizes range from $25 to $100 for adult categories, and up to
$30 for youth categories.

.	Contest winners will be announced during the Writers' Division
business meeting at the NFB convention, to be held in Dallas, Texas, the
first week of July, 2012. In addition, a list of winners will appear on
the Writers' Division Website, www.nfb-writers-division.net.

.	First, second and third-place winners in each category, adult
and youth, will be considered for publication in the Writers' Division
magazine, Slate & Style.

For additional contest details and submission guidelines, visit the
Writers' Division Website, www.nfb-writers-division.net 


Sincerely,
Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter, editor, Slate & Style
bpollpeter at hotmail.com


Read my blog at:
http://blogs.livewellnebraska.com/author/bpollpeter/
 
"History is not what happened; history is what was written down."
The Expected One- Kathleen McGowan
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