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

[David Andrews]

Also, since this is a publicly archived group, it can be searched and 
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Dave

At 07:03 PM 11/23/2011, you wrote:
>Say *what*? Don't we want our message shared far and wide?
>
>Mike Freeman
>
>
>-----Original Message-----
>From: nfb-editors-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:nfb-editors-bounces at nfbnet.org]
>On Behalf Of Bridgit Pollpeter
>Sent: Wednesday, November 23, 2011 4:45 PM
>To: nfb-editors at nfbnet.org
>Subject: [Nfb-editors] Writers' Division, Slate & Style, fall issue
>
>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