[Nfb-editors] 2013 summer Slate & Style- NFB Writers' magazine

[Bridgit Pollpeter]

Slate
	&
	Style


Publication of the National Federation of the Blind Writers’ Division

Summer 2013

Vol. 31, No. 3

 

 
Slate & Style

Summer 2013


Senior Editor:	Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter, bpollpeter at hotmail.com
Assistant Editor:	Chris Kuell, ckuell at comcast.net
Assistant Editor:	Katherine Watson, watsonkm05 at gmail.com
Contributing Editor:	Robert Kingett, kingettr at gmail.com
Layout Editor:	Ross Pollpeter, rpollpeter at hotmail.com
President:	Robert Leslie Newman, 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 senior editor and 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.
 
Thank you to Victor Hemphill for embossing and distributing our Braille
copies. 

Slate & Style

Summer 2013

TABLE of Contents

Editor’s Note by Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter	1
>From the Keyboard of the President by Robert Leslie Newman	4
Fall Leaves by Kate Mitchel	7
Welcome to Our New Team Members	9
Precipice by Manal Masser	11
The Breakdown on Breaking into Journalism by Katherine Watson	12
William’s Red Roses by Lynda McKinney Lambert	15
Welcome to Fairyland by Kendra Holloway	20
Writing: A Pretty Sweet Gig by Chris Kuell	23
2013 Behind Our Eyes anthology winners.	25
I Have a Dream Too by Simon Bonenfant	26
No Stupid Questions by Robert William Kingett	27
Birth of a Savior by Doris Hampton	30
2013 NFB Writers Contest Winners	41
2013-2014 NFB Writers Board of Directors	43
Slate & Style Seeking Submissions for Holiday Issue	48
Slate & Style Submission Guidelines	49
NFB Writers’ Division Critique Service	51
NFB WRITERS’ DIVISION MEMBERSHIP	52


 
Editor’s Note
by Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter

The sun arcs across the sky, kissing the land, people, objects. Cicadas
buzz in the background. The shade whispers of days to come. The world is
covered in a haze; an Impressionist rendering of late summer.

In some places, the heat pushes down, creating a cage of desert air. The
Midwest is saturated in the density of an Indian summer. Autumn breezes
flirt across the country as summer obstinately hangs on like a fading
beauty.

And yet the lurking shade beckons a turn of season. As the sun sinks and
night settles in, that autumnal change wraps us like a blanket.

Since August, Halloween decorations and candy litter stores. Television
commercials remind us of the changing season even if the weather suggest
otherwise.

I stand in the check-out aisle of Target, conversing with a store
employee. She tells me that they will be setting winter coats out today.
I leave the store and enter a blast of heat, sweat bubbling through my
pores as we load purchased items and children into the car. Winter coats
far from my mind.

So here we are, readers, at the end of summer. Pools are closed, kids
back in school and many eagerly awaiting fall.

As the seasons bring change, so does this issue of Slate & Style.

As announced before, the magazine welcomes three new editors to our
team. Check out their individual bios in this issue.

NFB Writers’ also welcomes an almost entirely new board. Many members
much younger than ever before, ready to bring a fresh perspective. The
younger generation rising to the challenge of leadership. Their
individual bios are contained in this issue as well.

The Division also continues to work on its new and improved website.
They are currently in the testing phase. They hope to have a finished
website soon, up and running for public consumption.

Due to the construction of a new website, NFB Writers’ has not been able
to post all the winners in its 2013 writing contest. I decided to format
an anthology publishing all winning entries unedited for our readers to
peruse. This has been very popular. Thank you to Ross Pollpeter, our
lay-out editor, for assisting in the lay-out and formatting of the
anthology.

Slate & Style has added a couple features to our email format readers
will find helpful. You can now click on titles in the table of contents,
and it will jump you right to that article. You can likewise click on
the emails  provided for our team, and depending on the default email
preference you have set up for your email server, it will open up a new
message.

Stylist has been quiet, but this is common for this time of year. I’m
sure we will soon begin a fresh round of discussions, sharing our
writing and providing info and resources helpful to us as writers.

I have found myself reading quite a bit lately. I like to jump from
genre to genre, so I will read a bio then a fantasy novel then a
cookbook then an academic essay then more fiction.

As I read, I’m analyzing, deconstructing, studying what that author has
done to create their story, whether it's fiction or nonfiction.

My challenge to you, reader, is to study the book you’re currently
reading. What is the point of view, and how does this affect the tone
and pacing? Are the characters three-dimensional, and if so, what does
the author do to bring them to life? How does the author approach
sensory descriptions? Scenic descriptions? What element does this bring
to the story? What other literary devices are at work?

Writing itself can be tedious and difficult, especially when we feel
uninspired, hitting a road block. In these moments, I turn to
literature. My books provide an escape, along with inspiration. And most
importantly, I can study the technique of another writer. Reading is
crucial to the writing process.

When we meet again, reader, autumn will be in full swing. The rustic,
bronzey colors will replace summer’s cool but vibrant hues. Pumpkins
will dominate our décor and food. And turkeys will adorn most family
tables.

I hope you enjoy this issue of Slate & Style. We appreciate your
support. Feel free to contact us at any time. Do keep in mind that we
are not currently accepting submissions until January first. All
comments and questions are welcomed however.

*We are accepting submissions for our holiday issue. The deadline is
November first. More details can be found later in this issue.

Have a wonderful fall season.

Sincerely,

Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter, editor, Slate & Style

 

>From the Keyboard of the President
by Robert Leslie Newman

Welcome to our summer 2013 issue of Slate & Style. This issue is
important as it comes on the heels of national convention and NFB
Writers’ annual business meeting. Therefore, I will present a summary of
our meeting, and as always, end with a short thought provoking probe
into one of life’s most vexing and best kept secrets.

Convention:

Our thirty-first Division business meeting was held July 3 in Orlando,
Florida. We’ve come a long way since our first gathering in 1982 in
Minneapolis, Minnesota. 

We moved through our agenda quickly, especially the business portion.
The president’s report was short and to the point. The secretary’s
minutes were emailed in advance, and were accepted unanimously as
emailed. The treasurer’s report was presented, providing a current bank
balance and the year’s expenditures, and was accepted unanimously as
read. 

The third agenda item was a Bookshare presentation, given by our own
member, Allison Hilliker, who is also employed with the company. The
Division was given one year’s free subscription to Bookshare, to be
awarded to a member submitting the best-written request for this
opportunity. Watch for this contest alert.

Writing Contest

Our fourth agenda item was to announce the contest winners, both youth
and adult. Four winners from our 2013 contest were present in the room.
A complete listing of authors and titles will be listed later in this
issue. Usually winning pieces can be read on the Division’s website, but
due to the development of our new website, an unedited compilation will
be emailed this year so winning entries can be read.

Jerry Whittle and Myrna Badgerow provided our fifth item, which was a
presentation on self-publishing. This was the most educational item of
the meeting. 

Elections

Elections were the last item on our agenda. A total of nine positions
were voted on, and after the results were tallied, we welcome five new
members to our Division board. For the first time ever, our leadership
consists of a majority of members under the age of thirty-five. The 2013
NFB Writers’ board will be formally introduced, including our new
members, later in this issue.

Youth Writing Workshop

The Division once again hosted a writing workshop for teens. Our program
started with a short Q&A presentation about the Writers’ Division. A
majority of the workshop was spent working on a quiz consisting of
writing-related questions. A total of forty-three people attended the
workshop.

Reaching the final section of this article, the thought provoking
challenge I leave you with is entitled, “Living with Blindness: A Best
Kept Secret.” 

How many times have you heard a blind person say, "I'm blind; I can't do
that,” or an employer claim, "We don't have jobs for the blind, or the
parents of a newly born blind child say, "We will have to make
arrangements with someone to look after our daughter once we are gone;
she's blind.”

How many variations of this type of statement have you heard? If your
experience in life is anything like mine, then unfortunately the reality
is more negative comments are spoken about blindness than positive ones.
Yet, thank God, we Federationist's know the opposite is true.

We know the real problem of blindness is not any physical limitation but
the perceptions existing to this day. These negative perceptions prevail
because of the lack of information about blindness in today’s society.
Those of us in the NFB know most these negative ideas about blindness
are not true at all.

How is it that there are so few that have an enlightened philosophy and
knowledge of the human potential to successfully live with blindness?

There are many studies to answer this question, studies explaining the
state of affairs existing around blindness. Here is one of my favorite
explanations; one that I have woven into presentations or in one-to-one
counseling.

I have a secret to share with you. Living with blindness is not as hard
as most people think. The reality is, functioning with blindness boils
down to good old common sense and using a few specialized tools. When
the lack of vision presents an obstacle to a seemingly visual task, we
can employ one or more of our other senses along with our common sense,
reaching a successful outcome.

This reality may be common knowledge to us in the know, unfortunately,
it’s unknown to the majority of inhabitants upon this world of ours.

“It's one of life's best kept secrets.” This phrase is commonly used
when there’s a fact, situation or solution where the prevailing view is
one thing, yet the reality is the opposite. Is this not the exact idea
about blindness existing globally?

How many times have you observed that “Ah-Ha” moment in a person who had
been struggling with negative ideas often accompanying blindness, but
then they get it? For example: When a newly blinded person has that
special moment, say when on a travel lesson, realizing that independent
travel is possible. They learn life can be back under their control
again.

Or, when an employer has that light-bulb pop on, say after having the
opportunity to observe how, with the proper alternative tools or
techniques, a blind worker can be as productive as a sighted worker.
They discover blindness does not handicap the robust.

Or the scenario where parents of a blind child meet a group of blind
adults who successfully work and raise a family. They have that
epiphany, realizing they can have the same expectations for their blind
child.

As writers, we lend our talent to educate and elighten humanity. I will
share another truth that has been with us forever: The pen is more
powerful than the sword. Some of us will change what it means to be
blind through our actions, by physically and intellectually
demonstrating our abilities. As writers, we can employ our talent to
reach the minds and hearts of our world through the written word.

I know the task to change what it means to be blind is a large one. If
we continue to increase awareness about blindness, we will exponentially
increase the number of those communicating truths about blindness. If
this happens, the title of this article, “Living with Blindness: a Best
Kept Secret,” would become a falsehood. 

Enjoy the rest of this fine magazine.

 

Fall Leaves
by Kate Mitchel

Fall is a truly wonderful season.
I like it the most and here are the reasons:
In fall, the colours of leaves always change.
That creates a really beautiful colour range.

The leaves are every colour of a rainbow.
As they float through the air, to and fro.
They make crinkling, crackling and crunching sounds as I walk over them
or touch them.
Leaves are falling from trees all around.

The leaves are dancing in the breeze.
It’s their last chance before it starts to freeze.
Leaves dance like a ballerina on her toes.
Trees are soldiers standing in rows.

Soon all the tree branches will be bare.
It’s starting to get cold, it’s just not fair!
I love the pretty coloured leaves best of all.
That’s why my favourite season is fall!

Fall Leaves is the first-place winner in the high school poetry category
for NFB Writers’ 2013 writing contest.

Katelyn Lee Mitchel dwells in Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada. Her interests
include reading, writing, cooking, drawing, scrapbooking, visiting with
family and friends, watching TV, listening to music, travelling and
athletics.

Her dream is to become an Author one day. She loves writing stories that
are inspirational, drawing upon her own experiences. Suspense, action,
romance, Mitchel loves all genres.

Her poetry is descriptive and imaginative and full of fun. And she’s had
the opportunity to enter her fiction and poetry into several Braille
contests.

She plans to go to university after graduation, planning to succeed in
any endeavour she embarks upon.

Mitchel was inspired to write this poem during a school assignment. Fall
is her favourite time of year, and this poem reflects that sentiment.

 
Welcome to Our New Team Members

As announced in the spring issue of Slate & Style, we welcome three new
team members to the magazine.

•	Chris Kuell

Chris Kuell is a writer, editor and advocate. A former research chemist,
he lost his sight at thirty-five as a result of diabetic retinopathy. A
few years later he learned how to use a computer with speech output and
turned his efforts to writing.

He’s had more than two dozen articles about blindness published, and His
fiction has appeared in Spillway Review, Bewildering Stories, Breath and
Shadow, Apollo’s Lyre, Wordgathering, Gambit, Mountain Echoes,
Decomposition, the Sun and Dialogue. His stories also appear in the
anthologies, Coping with Vision Loss, Northern Haunts and Mountain
Voices: Illuminating the Character of West Virginia. 

After short-lived careers in arc welding, kick boxing, animal husbandry,
ophthalmology, septic evacuation, and clinical trial subject, Kuell
found creative writing matched his personality and lifestyle. He is
currently seeking representation for Rub It In, his second novel.

He lives in Connecticut with his wife, Christine, and the best kids in
the world, Grace and Nick.

•	Katherine Watson

     A recent graduate from The University of Wisconsin-Whitewater,
Katie Watson enters purchase orders by day and writes freelance articles
and Young Adult fantasy by night. Her articles have been published by
NASA, The University of Chicago News and various small newspapers in
Wisconsin. Watson hopes to someday publish her novel-in-progress, which
is about a blind werewolf.

     When she isn't writing, she enjoys playing guitar, cooking and
hanging out with friends. She is a member of The Wisconsin Association
of Guide Dog Users (WAGDU) as well as other disability-advocacy
organizations. She enjoys traveling to new cities with her Seeing Eye
dog, and trying new kinds of ethnic foods. Some of her favorite authors
include Jim Butcher, Carrie Vaughn, Jane Lindskold and Meg Cabot.

•	Robert Kingett

Robert Kingett is a blind journalist specializing in audio description,
adaptive sports, and disability news. His essays have been published
widely in magazines, blogs, and read on radio stations.

Kingett has been published in several anthologies. He’s the chief writer
consultant for Americas Comedy as well as a columnist for Truth Is Cool.
His most popular column has been “Kingett Reads Fifty Shades of Grey.”
He also holds several editing jobs.

He is a strong supporter and advocate for LGBTQ rights. Robert blogs
about and raises funds for HIV and AIDS research.


 

Precipice
by Manal Masser

On the precipice I stand with sharp, jagged rocks below,
Above, the sky so clear and blue, while at shore beneath, calm waters
flow.
Shall I tumble thoughtlessly, and hope not for my demise,
Or shall I reach farther out, and pray for strength to face what lies?
As the sun beats down from high above, and the biting wind whips from
behind,
I struggle to unravel the jumbled thoughts in my mind.
The many choices all tangled and need be unwound,
But only moments does one have for the right one to be found.
We have not enough time in this to waste,
But let it not be cause for us to make haste.
For forever we are to live with what it is we decide,
And by such assertions we are bound to abide.
The rocks begin to crumble beneath the soles of my feet,
For no time remains to make a swift retreat.
Shall I plunge downward where harsh pain is sure,
Or shall I leap beyond to where the landing more secure?
A step down is easier than a bound across,
For if we miss out on something wonderful, it will not be but our loss.
Three
 Two.. One.. With a final thought, I soar.
May this choice be true, for I can think no more.

Precipice is the first-place winner for adult poetry in the 2013 NFB
Writers’ writing contest.

 

The Breakdown on Breaking into Journalism
by Katherine Watson

The journalism industry may seem daunting to newcomers. The options may
seem endless, and you may not know where to start looking for publishing
opportunities. Although many forms of writing exist, and many mediums
are available for publishing your work, it is easier than you might
think to decide what kind of writing you want to do and what subjects
you want to write about.

Here, I will give four examples of the most common publication mediums,
as well as tips and book suggestions, helping you to break into the
industry. No journalist, unless he or she was quite lucky or had just
the right connections, started writing for People or National Geographic
right away. It’s important to remember to start small and work your way
up.

•	Magazines

Magazines are the most stable form of print journalism today. Unlike
newspapers, magazines still attract advertisers. They make far more
money from advertising than they do from subscriptions. Trade journals,
particularly, will always be around and looking for writers and
freelancers.

Many publications providing magazine listings exist. If you subscribe to
The Writer magazine, in addition to freelancing tips and submission
advice, you will gain access to its vast online listing of magazines,
organized by subject. 2013 Writers’ Market, by Robert Lee Brewer,
available from Bookshare.org, is another resource for magazine listings.

If you’re just getting started, small Internet magazines are always
looking for writers. Although you might not get paid at first, and the
readership might be quite low, publishing in such magazines is a great
way to get your name in print and establish your writing specialty,
whether you write about food, travel, astronomy or pet-care. You can
show these clips to editors of larger publications or use them to obtain
employment in the magazine industry.

     If you know of a group or subject-matter that could use a magazine,
look into starting your own publication. If you can develop a business
plan, then you can start a magazine. Starting and Running a Successful
Newsletter or Magazine by Cheryl Woodard is an excellent resource,
available from Bookshare.org.

•	Blogs

Blogs are increasing in popularity as a source of information. Blogs can
range from professional, with paid writers, to personal endeavors.
Establishing a blog will give you presence on the Web, and gaining
followers to your blog will ultimately increase traffic to your site.
You never know who might be reading your blog, and someone might think
you have a unique perspective or story to tell. You could receive offers
acquisitioning your blog compiled in a book or a weekly column. The
Everything Blogging Book, by Aliza Sherman Risdahl, available from
Bookshare.org, is a go-to guide about all things blog-related.

If you’re just getting started, make a list of all your hobbies and
interests. Pick the ones that excite or interest you the most and begin
writing. Don’t start “publishing” online until you have a few posts
already prepared. It is important for your blog to be updated regularly,
and you will lose readers if a regular schedule isn’t maintained.

•	Newsletters

Newsletters are a great way to get your feet wet in journalism because
most churches, nonprofits and volunteer organizations have newsletters.
It’s easy to write an article or two for a newsletter and get a feel for
what it takes to cover events, meet deadlines and communicate with
interviewees, organization leaders and people who will edit your article
before it is published in the newsletter. You most likely won’t get paid
for your work with newsletters, but the process will give you writing
experience.

If you know of an organization that doesn’t have a newsletter, take a
leading role in starting one. Starting and Running a Successful
Newsletter or Magazine by Cheryl Woodard is an excellent resource. Once
again, you probably won’t get paid for your work, but the experience of
starting and maintaining a successful newsletter could land you other
jobs.

When I interviewed for a job as a copy editor at my university’s student
newspaper, I brought in a copy of a newsletter I started for the NFB of
Wisconsin, and the editors who interviewed me said they were impressed
that I’d brought in a sample of my work. In the end, I got the job.

•	Local Newspapers

Writing for local newspapers is a great way to cover events and get your
name in print. Because many local newspapers are small and
short-staffed, they are usually looking for freelance writers to cover
meetings and write articles about happenings in the community.

Reach out to the editor of your local paper, or look in the newspaper
itself for ads requesting freelancers. If you do well writing articles
or have an interesting perspective or are an expert on a certain topic,
such as staying safe online, you could get your own column in the paper
eventually. Publishing articles in small newspapers will give you
examples and clips to show editors of larger publications.

During my journalism internship at Yerkes Observatory, in Williams Bay,
Wisconsin, I wrote an article about an event at Yerkes which was
published in a small, local newspaper, “The Beacon.” I talked about that
article a lot in job interviews, and used it as a writing sample while
competing for a technical writing job. That article got me into the top
three for the position.

In conclusion, although it might seem difficult to break into the
journalism industry at first, opportunities abound. The key is
researching the possibilities, talking to people who have done the kinds
of journalism you want to cover, and learning the correct forms of
writing to use in each journalistic project. Most importantly, though,
don’t be afraid to get your hands on the keyboard and start writing. You
never know where your opportunities will take you, no matter how small
they might seem at first.

 

William’s Red Roses
by Lynda McKinney Lambert

Early morning is my favorite time of day. Walking into the bathroom,
pulling up the blinds, peering outside to see what this new day is like
is part of my daily ritual. On this day, the world was a soft, hazy,
grayish-blue as I looked out the window before daylight.

Snow, newly fallen snow covered the earth like a pristine, frigid
blanket. The wind was not blowing and the fresh day seemed eerily still.
Even the early morning shrieks of black crows were absent. I glanced out
over the wooded hillside, far beyond this second story window.
Everything was quiet. Subdued. Bleak.

This winter storm moved in yesterday, just as the weather reports had
warned. By noon, the roads were already covered with large snowflakes
quietly surrounding everything. My husband and I had watched all morning
for the predicted storm to arrive. There is something about the
anticipation of a snow storm that stirs us to remember our childhood.

This was a perfect snow storm, the kind of snowfall that I love. Exactly
the kind of crisp, cold winter day, making me nostalgic, bringing layers
of distant memories. They arrived, one over another, tumbling down
softly like the driven snow.

Thoughts of my long-ago childhood and the aromas in my Mother’s kitchen
on distant winter days now merged with my view from the window.

On days like this, my Mother had often baked cookies, breads, and pies
for our family. Her four children came home from school in the late
afternoon. We smelled the fragrances of her baking as we came into the
house. 

In the early 1950s, my Mother could have been one of the women in the
magazine advertisements. She might have been Betty Crocker as she wore a
house-dress, cleaning, cooking and singing songs, moving through the
house.

I have no memories of my Mother wearing anything but a dress every day.
She would wear a starched, pastel gingham apron with ruffles all around
the edges. The apron covered the front of her dress when she was
cooking. Later, when I was in high school, she occasionally wore a pair
of slacks. 

Things were becoming more relaxed in the 1960s. Black-and-white family
photographs show the cultural changes taking place. We were the family
of a steel worker. We grew up knowing for sure that our Mother was a
“lady.” It had nothing to do with our economic status. Prior to the
1960s a “lady” would never think of wearing anything but a dress every
day to do her household chores and cooking for her family.

In our small mill town, there was a bar on the main street. It had a
sign in the window that said, “Tables for Ladies.” My Mother used to
scoff as we passed it. She told us, “There are no ladies in that place.”
Most of the town folks, who shared my mother’s definition of a lady,
referred to that bar as the “Bucket of Blood.” Mother made sure to walk
past on the opposite side of the street.

My kitchen was warmer than usual the other day as I baked goodies. The
room smelled like sweet, ripe, red cherries and spicy cinnamon. Opening
the oven door a bit, I let the hot, fragrant vapors escape, warming the
room and surrounding me in it’s luscious heat. Putting on oven mitts,
reaching into the hot oven, I slowly pulled out the piping hot glass
baking dish. This was the perfect day to bake a cherry crisp.

Before it had a chance to cool, I dug a soup spoon deep into the cherry
crisp and removed a little bit of sweetness. I told myself, “Just a
little taste to see how it turned out.” I cut through the tender flakey
biscuit topping and into the thick, sticky red cherry sauce still
bubbling and snapping from the high temperature of the oven. I poured
some cold almond milk over the crunchy warm cherry crisp. A tasty,
sweet, afternoon break and a freshly baked snack was the perfect way to
spend a blustery afternoon.

As I lifted the warm red cherry delight to my mouth, I reflected on the
snow outside the windows, noticing how it had accumulated on the old,
weathered gray fence that surrounds the yard. The oak fence was built by
my husband, our children, and some of their strong male teenage friends
in the summer of 1977.

The fence surrounded the new swimming pool we had built that spring.
Every year since then, in spring time, the fence becomes the backdrop
for the perennial plants and flowers when they begin to bloom.

Why is it that on solitary winter days like this, distant memories come
calling? Today, I thought of one particular sunny day in August.

It was my birthday, and my Father gave me a red rose bush. It was in a
black plastic container, its thin roots bursting from holes in the
bottom of the pot. I had a feeling the rose bush desperately wanted to
be planted, to grow beyond the container.

I was young, probably in my 20s, and busy with my family. I had not
taken the time to appreciate the gift and did not plant it for quite
some time. This particular memory makes me feel so disappointed in
myself. Because of my neglect, the bush did not thrive. How could it? It
was meant to be planted by just such a fence as I had, so that it could
bloom and twine upwards toward the morning light.

About forty years have passed since my father gave me that rose bush.
Once it was finally nestled in the rich, dark earth next to the wooden
fence, I never had the heart to dig it up, even though it never really
bloomed. I left it there as a reminder that time passes so rapidly and
one day it is too late to say “thank you”. Too late to appreciate some
gifts we received when we were too young. A dull sorrow always took root
in my heart when I thought of that rose bush.

This fresh snowfall on the rugged fence today unearths more memories.
Last summer I found something so unexpected out there on that old fence,
I had to walk closer to have a better look. Could it possibly be what I
was thinking it was? Closer inspection revealed that the old rose bush
my Father had given me for my birthday so long ago was in full bloom.

A joyous riot of deep red color wound all over the fence. It moved
through the rough weather worn planks, from the inside of the fence to
the outside. From every angle, the fully blooming roses could be seen.
The tender tips of the branches reached upwards, far beyond the tops of
the fence slats. It reached upwards, swaying in the sunlight of a balmy
summer day. I stood entranced by those old fashioned deep red roses.
They were wide open, with petals flying outward. There was an inner
crown of tiny little yellow pestles that looked like a circle of
delicate yellow flowers surrounding the rose’s centers.

“My Father’s red climbing roses are blooming. Oh, thank you, Dad,” I
said in amazement.

The name my Father was given at his birth in 1916 was William. An
ancient name going back to the Teutonic ages. It’s a strong name. A
perfect name for a little boy who would be orphaned in childhood. A boy
who would leave his wife and new baby girl to spend two years in
freezing trenches during winter days in Europe. A boy who would labor in
the steel mills for a weekly paycheck to support the family he loved. A
boy who would give the days and years of his life for the family and
never expect anything in return. We learned the lessons of living a good
life in the home he built for us with his own hands. 

Dad’s Germanic name is Wilhelm. It can be broken down into two parts.
“Will” means, to desire. “Helm” is a helmet. William, my Father, desired
to teach his children how to live an honorable life.

In order to do that, he picked up his steel lunch bucket and safety
helmet in the early morning when his children were still asleep in their
beds. In the darkness of the morning, Dad left for his long walk down
the railroad tracks, through the woods, and finally crossed over the
creek on the wooden planks of a swinging bridge, eventually reaching the
entrance gate of the steel mill.

I know that beneath the layer of snow, just in front of the weathered
and worn fence, there is a red rose bush waiting through the silence of
the wintry weather. The sunshine that will come in the spring will warm
the chilled earth, and the red rose bush will begin to grow once again.

My husband turned up the radio in the warm kitchen. He is listening to
Garth Brooks sing “the Thunder Rolls.” I walk into the kitchen and we
embrace. My husband has a wide smile on his face. He tells me this is
his favorite song. We dance together until the song ends.

William’s Red Roses is the first-place winner in the memoir category for
the NFB Writers’ 2013 writing contest.

As Professor of Fine Arts and Humanities at Geneva College, Lynda
McKinney Lambert created a Germanic Culture Program, taking students to
Europe every summer. She taught art and writing courses in Austria,
Germany, Italy, Czech Republic, and England. She developed a
cross-discipline course in Puerto Rico culture, taking students to
Puerto Rico every year for studies. 

On campus, she created and taught courses in English Literature;
Writing; Studio Arts; Humanities; and Art History during her career.

Lambert currently develops art exhibitions of her work, and she has
participated in over 300 exhibitions in the US, New Guinea, Europe, and
Japan. She has received more than 100 awards for her art works. Lambert
was selected by the US Department of State to represent America in the
Art in Embassies program.

She is currently developing a two person exhibition with another blind
artist for a show that will focus on visualization and vision by blind
artists.

She continues to write daily and is working on a series of essays for a
book.

Lambert says the following about “William’s Red Roses”: I never know
where writing will take me. It’s such a physical act: the movement of my
hands in tandem with my mind. It always begins with a thread. Once the
thread is in my hand, my own mythology will tell me where it leads. I
grab onto that thread, begin to tug at it; I follow its lead. After we
have passed through layers of turns and passages of time, inside the
labyrinth, we eventually arrive at the destination. 

 

Welcome to Fairyland
by Kendra Holloway

Once upon a time, there was a place called Fairyland, deep in a forest
surrounded by big, tall trees. Most of the time, Fairyland was a
cheerful place, but occasionally, it was a dreary, dull place. All of
the fairies were very generous and caring. They enjoyed hanging out with
humans, and wished they could be human some day. 

Well, one day, the fairies were doing their early morning flight when
all of a sudden, they heard a loud crashing sound.

"What was that?" asked Gossamer, an irridescent-winged red-headed fairy.

"I don't have a clue," replied Precious, a brunette fairy with emerald
green wings encrusted in multicolored gemstones.

"We don't know either," the other fairies chorused.

So they fluttered towards the sound.

"It's a human,” Precious said enthusiastically, a broad grin spreading
across her lips.

"It is?" Gossamer asked.

"Yes, it’s a human. She’s hitting a stick against a stone," said
Bubbles, a curly blond fairy with sky-blue eyes that twinkled all the
time.

"Let's watch the human." Gossamer and Precious said happily in unison. 

As the fairies watched the human hit the thick, cylindrical stick
against a stone, something magical started. The Sun's rays formed a
basket for the fairies to sit in as they watched the human.

The basket was bright yellow because it was made from the Sun's rays. It
was surprisingly soft and just the right size for all of the fairies to
sit in. Fascinated by humans, they decided to speak to this one. 

The human's name was Carnation, and she loved talking to the fairies.

"Why are you striking a stick against that stone?" asked Bubbles.

"I'm smacking a stick against that stone because I want to know if it
has a good, solid surface. I know that hitting sticks on stones is a
bizarre thing to do, but I like doing it," said Carnation.

"That's awesome," exclaimed Precious.

"We wish we could be humans," the other fairies said altogether.

"Your wish has been granted." Carnation said. 

Suddenly, the fairies' wings, star dust packages, and wands disappeared
in thin air. They started growing very tall and strong. They were now
humans.

"Now that you are humans, I will teach you how to walk," Carnation said.

"We are looking forward to learning how to walk," the new humans
exclaimed.

"Okay, so first, you have to stand on your feet, pick up one foot, then
the next," Carnation instructed.

"We're walking." exclaimed Bubbles, Precious, and Gossamer. 

"You're doing very well," Carnation said enthusiastically. "Do you want
to learn how to swim?”

"Yes," the new humans exclaimed.

Carnation led the humans toward a pool. The pool was filled with clear,
blue water. "Step into the water," Carnation said.

They stepped into the water. 

>From that day on, Carnation and the humans learned how to do many
things, and they lived happily ever after.

Welcome to Fairyland is the first-place winner in the elementary fiction
category for NFB Writers’ 2013 writing contest.

Kendra Holloway, age 10, is a 5th grader at Hawthorne Elementary School
in Atlanta, Georgia. She has always enjoyed writing stories, especially
fiction. When She grows up, she would like to be an author of all types
of books.

Holloway’s other hobbies are swimming, yoga, reading, listening to
music, technology, and getting together with friends. Her favorite
subject in school is ELA (English/Language Arts).

Holloway lives with her parents, her brother R.J., and four cats. She
also has a sister, Sarah, who is away at college.

 
Writing: A Pretty Sweet Gig
by Chris Kuell

A typical work day for me goes something like this: The alarm sirens at
6:00 a.m., and I lounge in bed listening to the news until 6:20 or so.
I have breakfast, see my daughter and wife off to school and work, clean
the kitchen, make a cup of tea, and by quarter of 8 I’m sitting at my
computer. I check my email, then call up whatever I was working on the
day before.

I review and tweak the piece or chapter to help set my mind to the task
before writing, hopefully a thousand words or so before stopping.

Around 11:30, I take 45 minutes to exercise, then check my email again,
have some lunch, and in the afternoon, I make phone calls, research
markets and catch up on outside editing work. 

It’s not glamorous, or particularly lucrative at this point, but after
reading Gabriel Thompson’s book, Working in the Shadows: A Year of Doing
the Jobs (Most) Americans Won’t Do (DB71853), I am very appreciative of
the job I have.

Thompson, a Brooklyn-based journalist, was intrigued by a news story he
read in 2007 about Federal Immigration agents raiding and deporting 30
undocumented workers at a chicken processing plant in North Carolina. To
protest the raid, over 1,200 immigrant workers walked off the job, and
the company couldn’t find people to do the work. Thompson decided to try
a year of immersion journalism, to work with immigrants (both legal and
undocumented) at various jobs across the country to get a feel for how
these ‘shadow’ people are treated.

Unlike Barbara Ehrenreich, who tried to live on minimum wage jobs like
house cleaning and working at Wal-Mart in her book, Nickel and Dimed: On
(Not) Getting By in America (RC52291), Thompson just tried to survive
the jobs that most Americans don’t want to do. He cut up to 3,000 heads
of lettuce a day in the blistering Yuma, Arizona heat; he endured
freezing temperatures and terrible hand and wrist pain working at a
chicken processing plant in Russellville, Alabama; he worked briefly for
10 hour days with no breaks at all at a flower shop in Manhattan that
paid him what they thought he earned (less than minimum wage) and as a
restaurant delivery man in New York City that had him biking as much as
20 miles per day, where he was yelled at constantly and twice was hit by
cars.     

Besides the luxury of not being bent over ten hours a day harvesting
lettuce or being splashed continuously with frigid chicken guts, I
enjoyed Thompson’s journalistic style in this book. Sure, he detailed
the misery he went through, but he also gave the history of the areas
where he worked and discussed how the American demand for cheap food is
the driving force behind the back-breaking work that many immigrants do,
and how recent attempts at immigration reform are in direct conflict
with this desire for inexpensive consumables.

In Yuma, he was the only Anglo among thousands of pickers, and his
co-workers not only adopted him into their midst, they covered and
picked for him when he fell far behind the demanding pace set by the
foremen.

In Alabama, he sat in on a ‘White Power’ convention, where immigrants
were blamed for all of America’s ills, but at the plant
everybody—whites, blacks and immigrants-- worked hard together to keep
the bosses off their backs.

In New York, the physical nature of the work was easier than cutting
lettuce, but the utter disdain in how he and his co-workers were treated
was truly shocking.     
  
Working in the Shadows is an excellent example of investigative and
immersion journalism, Thompson is a captivating writer and I don’t think
I’ll ever think of a head of lettuce in the same way again. Writers can
learn from his style, and everyone who reads this book will gain at
least some appreciation for how hard it is for the immigrants who do the
work most of us would really rather not do.
 

 

2013 Behind Our Eyes anthology winners.

Congratulations to NFB Writers’ and Stylist members selected for the
2013 Behind Our Eyes anthology. Currently, The anthology can be
purchased at Amazon.com in a hard-copy print format.

•	Myrna Badgerow

•	Bonnie Blose

•	Phyllis Staton Campbell

•	Donna Hill

•	Shawn Jacobson

•	Robert Kingett

•	Lynda McKinney Lambert

•	Mary Jo Lord

•	Evamarie Sanchez

•	Nancy Scott

•	Marilyn Brandt Smith


 

I Have a Dream Too
by Simon Bonenfant

I have a dream that one day this nation will have a greener and brighter
earth.
I have a dream that one day I will be a winning lawyer and a fair judge.
I have a dream that one day I will be a great piano player tickling the
ivories.
I have a dream that war will stop and peace will be in our world.
I have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day our country will be a better place for the
blind.
I have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day I will go to a good school and have great
success.
This is my hope and faith. With this faith we will be able to touch
people’s hearts every day.
This will be the day when I am a world changer.

I Have a Dream Too won first-place in the middle school poetry category
of the NFB Writers’ 2013 writing contest.

 

No Stupid Questions
by Robert William Kingett

Editor’s note: This was originally published in A & U magazine, August
2010.

The restaurant bustles with activity as my date and I sit opposite each
other, getting to know one another. To my immediate right, a woman talks
to her mom on her phone about the baseball game she missed. Dishes
clatter in the kitchen behind me, as different aromas waft through the
restaurant. Men and women pass, making their way to their tables. Then
my date’s cologne turns my gaze back to his ebony-accented voice. 

We’re chatting jovially, our laughter escalating, periodically drowning
out conversations around us. Occasionally people stop and, I'm sure,
stare at this interracial, gay couple. As our meals arrive, we get
around to the topic of careers. He's a teacher, but has a hard time
believing that I can be both blind and a journalist.  

Instantly I’m angry, and I’m ready to blast this rude insensitive
sighted person away. But then I realize that he's never seen adaptive
technology; never seen a Braille display; and never seen a screen reader
before. 

He's never experienced my world. Taking a deep breath and putting a huge
smile on my face, I explain how I'm both a journalist and a person who
is blind.

Instead of following my gut instinct to be sarcastic, I decide to answer
his questions on this topic. I’ve learned to answer people when these
questions arise because I’d rather educate than turn them off from
learning.  

Whenever I hang around people who are blind, we make insider jokes about
speech synthesizers and other assistive technologies that people with
sight have no clue about. Sooner or later, we get to talking about
people vastly lacking knowledge about blindness. Lots of anger is
expressed.  

“They should know better,” someone will say. “Why are they so stupid?”
another person will ask. When things like that are uttered, however, I
immediately see things through the point of view of the person with
sight.

Of course they wouldn’t be experts on blindness or assistive technology
in this area. No one knows everything, especially about a different way
of living. Instead, people who are blind have to resort to anger less,
and educate others more. Education is the key of knowledge that will
turn itself, unlocking the right doors if the right direction is given. 

Some people with disabilities and health conditions can become angry
when asked to educate about their situation. This applies to people with
HIV and AIDS, as well. I've seen countless instances where someone with
HIV or AIDS gets offended when a potential partner asks him if he will
contract the condition if they exchange saliva. The person who has HIV
or AIDS becomes offended, and storms off hurt. But the date may not know
what HIV is, or the fact that it does not have a cure.  

A lot of people say ignorance is bliss, but it's also a divider. Even
today, the biggest hurtle that we all have to overcome is the lack of
inclusion and acceptance. In this day and age, simple curiosity can ruin
a potential relationship, plutonic or romantic. This divide grows
because we are easily offended by questions, forgetting  we once ask
ourselves the same questions.

When I was learning the bus route for my daily commute, I wondered if it
would even work, me having to travel on the bus for field reporting.
I've asked myself the same question my restaurant date posed: “How am I
going to be a journalist?” But by being patient, and persistent, I
figured out the answers through trial and error, and by learning from my
past mistakes. 

If I let my own questions offend me, then I wouldn't figure out the
answers. I don't have HIV, but I asked questions in order to find out if
you can contract HIV from an exchange of saliva. I honestly didn’t know
the answer until I asked. It seems I owe the same consideration to those
asking about blindness.

I don't think anyone should remain in the dark if there is an answer to
a question. Answers, in all their simplicity, sprinkle awareness. Not
far behind awareness comes understanding, and beyond that is acceptance.


As an African-American, my date lives in a world I'll never completely
understand because I've never lived through the discriminatory history
he has. I can ask him questions, though, and with each answer I begin to
form some understanding. Equally, I provide answers about blindness, and
together we cross this divide. My date understands me now, and that's
the most valuable education I can give.

When I look around and see a world that's divided, I don’t want to
divide it even more just because someone asks me how I use a computer.
If education can breed positive results, then we should share our
experiences, educating the world. This is the only way to end these
“offensive questions.” The goal of inclusion is to bring outsiders in. 

If we keep educating, I know the door will open wide enough to let all
of us pass through to a better world. It will be a world where we all
stand up for one another, uniting in equality, embracing differences.
This will make a beautiful world. All the result of patiently answering
questions about our differences.


 
Birth of a Savior
by Doris Hampton

Excerpt from The Holy Book of Tellings:
When cities crumble, a Rye Mountain woman shall forfeit her life in
childbirth. And it shall come to pass that power, drawn from the
infant's conjured name, shall overthrow the Madda and restore the world
to order.

“This wee babe has come to save us, according to scripture,” the
diminutive midwife announced. Her high, reedy voice sounded alien,
springing from one so timeworn and withered.

The woman had appeared at their cabin door earlier that evening, toting
a ratty bedroll, just before the birthing, as if summoned by Suzelle’s
agonized screams. She had come to them trailing the delicate fragrance
of lilacs.

Keghan Elezon ignored the stranger as well as the newborn girl-child who
lay in her arms. This pregnancy had been Suzelle’s idea, not his.
Neither he nor his Rye Mountain neighbors could hope to protect their
offspring forever from those soulless children who were terrorizing the
rest of the country. They had already taken over New York, Chicago, Los
Angeles. 

Rain pelted the window where he stood with his back to the room. He
stared, unseeing, at his reflection in the darkened glass. Grief
stricken eyes glared back as he struggled to control the anger coursing
through his body from the untimely death of his beloved Suzelle.

“Your wife was one of The Chosen,” the woman announced. “As prophesied
in our Holy Book of Tellings.”

A brilliant flash of lightning charged the room. Thunder rumbled,
rattling dishes on the shelf near the window where Keghan Elezon stood.


“Oooh,” the midwife moaned, as if the storm signaled the arrival of
those lost children whose souls were thought to have been devoured by
hellhounds known as The Madda.

The children ran in packs, preying upon every cowering city dweller in
the land. 

Followers of the old ways weren’t surprised by this. The Book of
Tellings had foretold it all. They wrapped their religion around them
like a shield, waiting for the One who would come to imprison The Madda,
once again, and restore the world to order.

“An angel appeared to Suzelle in a dream.” The little woman’s voice
quavered with righteous zeal.

"She saw no angel.” Keghan Elezon spun and snatched a worn volume from
the midwife’s lap and hurled it into the open fireplace.

  “That’s what I think of your prophecies and your superstitious
babbling.” 

The woman’s eyes narrowed as hungry flames devoured the book. "Only an
unbeliever dares mock the faith of a midwife Seer.” 

“You and your kind are no more seers than toads in a corner.” Keghan
Elezon waved a calloused hand toward shadows at the far end of the room.


The woman claimed to be one of those lilac scented Rye Mountain hags who
supposedly kenned, through prayer and divination, the moment when one of
the faithful’s children would be born. These self-proclaimed seers
dwelled in ramshackle cabins far up the hollows and along the creeks
that meandered through the deep woods, venturing out of isolation only
to assist in birthings.  

“It is written that none but you has the power to conjure up your
daughter’s name,” the woman warned, glancing at the mantel clock whose
hands were inching close to midnight. 

The glow of a coal oil lantern washed over Keghan Elezon’s burly frame.
He stood as still as the ancient Redwood that towered above his cabin. 

It was no surprise to him that the powers that tree supposedly possessed
had failed to help his wife during childbirth. He’d never believed in
tree spirits or gods. Suzelle had been the one to practice the old
religion, not he. 

“Please.” the midwife begged. “This babe must receive her name beneath
our sacred redwood before the turning hour, or even the faithful’s
children will fall to The Madda.” 

Keghan Elezon didn’t respond. His pious neighbors believed that The
Madda had broken the binding spell which had imprisoned them for
centuries within the mountain’s venerated Redwood.

These mythical hellhounds were supposedly drawn away from righteous
mountain folk by urban violence – murder, rape, poverty, homelessness,
and human trafficking. Now, they thrived in the midst of squalor and
fear, feeding on the souls of city children. 

“Your job is done,” Keghan Elezon said. “Now take your bedroll to the
woodshed out back. Then, at first light, go away and leave us alone.” 

The sly old crone didn’t fool him. Her main reason for being here was
the slab of bacon and the dozen eggs and the pound of butter her
services would garner. 

“After midnight, the earth’s vibration changes and your daughter’s name
will lose its magic.” The woman clutched Suzelle’s baby to her breast.
“If the Turning Hour passes before her naming, she’ll be powerless
against demonic forces, And The Madda will forever roam the world.” 

Keghan Elezon gave a derisive snort. “That’s a slop pot full of bunk.”

“Blasphemy.” The midwife shot him a blazing look. 

“Get out of my house, you crazy bag of bones.” Keghan Elezon reached for
Suzelle’s baby. The woman reared back and tightened her hold on the
swaddled infant who then began to cry.

“This child is our only hope. Without her, our little ones are doomed to
fall to The Madda.”

“Drugs are threatening our children, not demons.” Keghan Elezon knew the
problem was an irresistible designer drug so potent that kids were
driven insane by merely succumbing a single time to the lure of its
enticing call.

Still, even he referred to the terrible concoction as, Madda Spawn,
after those nonexistent, soul-sucking hounds. 

Rain drumming the cabin’s tin roof slowed to a dull patter as the storm
blew its way on across Rye Mountain. 

The midwife stared at the worn floorboards near the rocker on which she
sat.

“Listen,” she warned. “The Madda have come for the child.” 

Suzelle’s baby ceased crying, stilled by the woman’s outburst. 

Keghan Elezon followed the midwife’s gaze to the floor. A low growl
drifted up through the floorboards, rising above the gathering calm of
the passing storm. 

“The Madda.” The midwife raised small, booted feet and held them
straight out in front of her, distancing herself from the menacing
presence lurking beneath her chair.

Keghan Elezon smirked. “Yep,” he said and lifted a blackened poker from
its place against the fireplace wall. ”You’re surely one of ‘em that’s
got the sight.” 

He raised the poker and gave the floor a couple of whacks. The growling
ceased, as if under the spell of a hefty iron wand.

“Aiiee.” The old woman’s beady eyes fixed suspiciously on the poker in
Keghan Elezon’s hand. Sitting there immobile - twiggy legs sticking out
like that, she looked as if lightning had zapped her a paralyzing blow.


“It’s Suzelle’s pet coons,” Keghan Elezon told the woman before the
idiot could accuse him of being in league with the devil. “Two of ‘em,
big and mean as wild boars.” He thumped the floor again. “They Come out
of the woods to hide under there whenever a storm blows in.”	

The midwife cautiously lowered her feet. Their eyes locked as seconds
ticked away on the mantel across the room. “Time is running out,” she
whispered hoarsely as if saying those words aloud might speed the moving
hands toward midnight. “Please,” the woman begged. “You must 
”

Bong. 

She sprang up and whirled toward the mantel, dislodging the wispy scent
of lilacs from the folds of her faded dress. 

Bong. 

“The turning hour is upon us.” The woman shrieked, tightening her hold
on the child. 

As if prompted by her outburst, Suzelle’s coons resumed bumping  and
growling beneath the cabin floor. 

“Stupid woman.” Keghan Elezon snagged the lantern off the table.

“Take this.” He held out the lantern. “And give me the child.”

If performing a useless ceremony while standing under a tree would
silence this insufferable old hag, then a ceremony it was going to be.

Bong. 

“Too late.” The midwife’s gray head bobbed. “It’s – too – late.” She let
out a deafening wail, sending Suzelle’s coons into a frenzy.

“That old time piece runs fast.” Keghan Elezon held out the lantern,
intending to make the trade. “Lately it’s been tolling the hour five
minutes ahead of itself.”

“Oh?” Frown lines deepened the creases in the midwife’s wrinkled
forehead. She ignored the lantern extended toward her.

“Take it,” Keghan Elezon ordered. “And give me Suzelle’s baby, so we can
get this farce over with.”

"No." wailed the woman. "I'll be the one to carry this child to her
naming."

The mantel clock gave its final chime and the lantern flame flickered
and sputtered.

Keghan Elezon shrugged and flung open the cabin door, He glanced over
his shoulder before stepping out onto the porch. If that look could have
killed, the midwife would now be as lifeless as the still form that lay
on the bed in the adjoining room.

Outside, the night had grown silent. Even Suzelle’s coons had stopped
their restless scuffling in the wake of the storm. 

Keghan Elezon headed for the sacred redwood that grew near his cabin,
splashing through puddles like an enraged bull elk.

In the distance beyond Rye Mountain, thunder grumbled weakly in the
belly of the dwindling storm.

He turned to find the path behind him empty and the midwife just
stepping off the porch, the bedroll under one arm and Suzelle’s baby in
the other.

Good. She planned to go straight to the woodshed after the naming. Then
he would finally be left alone with Suzelle’s baby, to grieve in peace.

“Slow your pace,” the woman ordered. “These old legs don’t move as fast
as they once did.”

Raising the lantern high, Keghan Elezon watched the little woman halt
and adjust her bedroll. She studied the towering shadow beyond the
woodshed, grazed by the light of the lantern’s glow. 

“Our sacred redwood,” she murmured. Head bowed, she paused as if
honoring the Holy Spirit within the towering giant that loomed before
them. She dropped her bedroll onto the path, narrowly missing a puddle,
and moved toward the tree.

“You’d better pick that up,” Keghan Elezon warned, “or you’ll be
sleeping in a muddy 
”

He broke off as a chill crept through his bones. The scent of lilacs had
merged with the odor of something wild and threatening. Scanning the
shadows, he searched for movement beneath the trees, then gave a
disgusted shrug. He was acting like one of them weak-kneed preacher men
who fancied devils lurking behind every bush. 

Stepping over the bedroll, he reached the sacred tree in four determined
strides. Refusing to accept the cloud of foreboding that was settling
over him, he spat on the ground. 

“Let’s get this over with,” he grumbled, turning to swap the lantern for
the child.

As he did so, the light fell upon a bloody mound at the base of the
tree. He squatted to find Suzelle’s pet coons sprawled there in a
mangled heap, their blood gleaming dark in the night. 

Before the reality of what he was seeing could take hold, the midwife
began to giggle.

“The turning hour has come and gone,” she chirped.

Keghan Elezon rose slowly, searching the woman’s face. She held his gaze
and began hopping up and down on the rain soaked trail, stomping out a
weird, manic jig.    

“Come and gone. Come and gone,” she sang, 

Keghan Elezon set the lantern down, preparing to wrest Suzelle’s baby
from the woman who had obviously gone completely mad. 

A sudden gust of wind wailed through the uppermost branches of the
venerated redwood as if the tree were crying out in pain. 

The sound sent a twinge of fear into the pit of Keghan Elezon’s stomach.
He stifled the emotion. He was a woodsman and a trapper. No way was this
damnable night gonna sucker him into thinking like a girlie-guy.

The overhead keening ceased as suddenly as it had begun, leaving only
the slushy clump of the midwife’s boots as she danced away the sodden
night.

Clump-clump-clump. 

Just as Keghan Elezon reached for Suzelle’s baby, the rustling of
movement through tall grass caused him to retrieve the lantern and turn
his attention to the trail leading back to his cabin. 

He watched a small boy step from behind a huckleberry bush and onto the
trail, kicking the discarded bedroll aside. Lamplight sent his shadow
this way and that as the boy began to dance – booted feet moving in time
with the midwife’s jig, soulless eyes glittering. 

Anger shot through Keghan Elezon. Sooner or later, one of them city
druggies was bound to make their way up Rye Mountain. 

The big man’s hands balled into fists. That wild odor was stronger now,
triggering memories of a rabid wolf he’d once caught, snarling and
slavering, in one of his steel traps. The stink of it had clung to him
for days. 

Clump-clump-clump.

“Get outta here, you snot nosed punk.” His voice exploded, fueled by
grief and rage.

The boy ignored him as if on automatic pilot, set to dance till dawn. 

Clump-clump-clump.

Keghan Elezon stepped forward, preparing to toss the kid off his land.
Then he saw them. 

They scrambled from beneath the cabin where his dead wife lay, ghostly
shadows at the fringe of the lantern’s glow. They banded together like a
pack of feral dogs – city druggies, dozens of them.

He swallowed back the bile threatening to erupt from his throat and
pulled his wool shirt up over his nose. The nauseating stench grew more
and more sickening with each raggedy child who came crawling out of
hiding. 

They stood staring at him like a passel of zombies. Then, one by one,
they began to dance.

Clump-clump-clump.

Something, ancient and knowing, swirled and rose to the surface of
Keghan Elezon’s mind. Fear. Not the niggling, petty emotion he’d felt
earlier, but deep, bone-chilling terror.

Confused, he swallowed hard, then shuddered, letting go of the shirt
that had been a poor shield against the foul odor. Like a drowning man,
he floundered, trying to make sense of it, thinking the old midwife
must’ve slipped a potion into the coffee he’d brewed earlier that
evening. 

He turned to find the woman stroking her face. Still dancing, she
cradled Suzelle’s baby in the crook of her free arm. 

Her dark eyes twinkled as she hooked a forefinger beneath her chin.
“Even tough guys scare when they smell the primordial essence of
devils,” she said.

“What didja put in my drink?” Keghan Elezon glared at the little woman.
“What didja 
 ?”

Stupefied, he watched as the midwife peeled away her face and held up
the wrinkled mass, gray hair dangling. 

Keghan Elezon gagged at the stench coming from the midwife who now
appeared to be a slender girl of ten or twelve.

The girl held out the wrinkled thing, still dancing. “It’s a shifting
shroud, programmed to turn its wearer into a midwife, complete with age
spots and lilacs." 

She thrust the thing at Keghan Elezon. “Wanna try it on?” she said and
giggled when he backed away.

With a flick of her wrist, she flung the shroud at the sacred redwood.
It fell short, settling onto the lifeless coons like cast off snakeskin.


Clump-clump-clump.

Keghan Elezon fought to overcome the poisoned drink’s terrifying effect
as he watched the city druggies begin dancing slowly toward them.

The girl chortled. “No need to spike your drink. “Mortals like you have
been fearing us since the dawn of time. .”  

Suzelle’s baby made a soft mewing sound. 

“No.” Keghan Elezon bellowed. “I’m through kowtowing to you bunch of
crazies.” 

He hurled the lantern at the dancing throng – druggies, not demons, any
fool could see it. The dancers didn’t falter, jigging onward over
shattered glass and through flames that sputtered and died, engulfed by
puddles and mud. 

He whirled and snatched Suzelle’s baby from the girl. His fist shot out,
nailing the maniac’s contemptuous grin dead center. She flew backwards,
arms flailing, and disappeared, giggling, into a tangle of greasewood
and weeds.

“We’ve won the game,” she called after him as he sprinted Suzelle’s baby
away from the mounting insanity, into the rain-soaked forest.

The oncoming dancers took up the young girl’s taunt. “We have won. We
have won.”

Clump-clump-clump. 

Keghan Elezon held Suzelle’s baby tight against his chest, plowing
through underbrush and around rockslides. No lantern was needed to light
his way. He knew these woods as well as he knew his own cabin. 

The sound of chanting faded into the night as he came out of the forest
and onto a trail that led to a neighboring homestead. There, he would
find guns and ammo. With help from his neighbor and the man’s four sons,
he would soon rid Rye Mountain of loonies. 

On a hill overlooking the homestead, he stopped to catch his breath.
That’s when he caught an odor coming from the blanket Suzelle had woven
for her newborn. Recalling how the drugged-out girl had reeked, it was
no surprise that the wool blanket had soaked up some of the stench. 

He drew back the blanket and touched the tiny face. The baby stirred and
seemed to nestle deeper into the protective  crook of his arm. The big
man didn’t try to blink away the moisture blurring his vision. He felt
an overwhelming current of love for this Lilliputian being. She was his
child as well as Suzelle’s.  

“You’ll always be safe with me,” he said.

In the distance, wind rushed through branches, sweeping the venerated
redwood's cry across Rye Mountain — one long piercing wail. The
following silence was trailed by another sound.

Clump-clump-clump. 

It was far off now, but inching closer.

Clump-clump-clump.

The baby growled.

Birth of a Savior is the first-place winner for the adult short fiction
category in the NFB Writers’ 2013 writing contest.

Doris Hampton has been published in many confession magazines. Her book
for young readers, Just for Manuel, was published by Steck-Vaughn.
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. Her short story, THE TELLING STONE, was a first place
winner in the 2011 NFB Writers’ adult fiction contest. Her story, Tyler,
won honorable mention in the NFB Writers’ 2012 contest.

Hampton, blind from Retinitis Pigmentosa, lives in rural Oregon with her
husband, eight rescued cats and a dog named Sally who thinks she's
"people.”

Could the sense of smell be used to depict good and evil in a story?

That was the question Hampton asked herself before she began writing
Birth of a Savior. After countless drafts, the story still needed
something to tie up loose ends and hold it all together.

“Months later, I went through the manuscript for the umpteenth time and
there it was. The infants conjured name,” Hampton says.

She wove the importance of the name throughout the story, but it still
wasn't right. The ending didn't jell. It wasn't until the sacred tree,
the approaching demons, Keghan Elezon and the nameless baby came
together in the final paragraphs that everything fell into place and the
tale then seemed complete.


 

2013 NFB Writers Contest Winners

Congrats to the following winners of the 2013 writing contest sponsored
by the NFB Writers’ Division. All winning entries will be available on
NFB Writers website, and select pieces will be published in upcoming
issues of Slate & Style.

Adult Memoir

•	First Place: William's Red Roses by Lynda McKinney Lambert 
•	Second Place: On Pink Elephants and Trees with Lopsided Breasts
by Chris Parsons
•	Third Place: Being Mama by Myrna Badgerow
•	Honorable Mention: A Grand Site Indeed by Evamarie Sanchez
•	-Honorable Mention: The Book Toad the Whole Story by Janet Di
Nola-Parmerter
•	Honorable Mention: Silent Discourse Number 3 by Lynda McKinney
Lambert 

Adult Fiction
•	First Place: Birth of a Savior by Doris Hampton
•	Second Place: The Doves Of Kononi by Robert Gardner
•	Third Place: Call center by Aaron Timm
•	Honorable Mention: There's Always Hope by Evamarie Sanchez

Children’s Literature by Adults:
•	Second Place: Starling’s Grandma by Evamarie Sanchez

High School Fiction
•	First place: Aquatic Adventures by Danielle Sykora 
•	Second Place: Somebody by Maddie Keefe 
•	Third Place: FeeFee-The Wonder Dog Chihuahua by April Victorian

Middle School Fiction
•	First Place: The Alligator and His Friends by Gianni Toce 
•	Second Place: Anne Whitherley by Jessea Vaughan 
•	Third Place: The Tornado by Umer Sohail

Elementary School Fiction
•	First Place: Welcome to Fairyland by Kendra Holloway 
•	Second Place: Bob The Bacteria Breathing Dragon by Jalen Ballard

•	Third Place: The Powerful King of the Kingdom by Andrew Meece 

Adult Poetry
•	First Place: Precipice by Manal Nasser
•	Second Place: Embers by Myrna Badgerow
•	Third Place: The Evolution of Man by Kay Spears
•	Honorable Mention: I Remember Purple by Bonnie Lannom
•	Honorable Mention: A Brother by Linda E. Vaillancourt

High School Poetry
•	First Place: Fall Leaves by Kate Mitchel 
•	Second Place: A Good Hood School Day by Jodi Comeaux 
•	Third Place: The Hard Life of Frederick Douglas by Ryan Barnes

Middle School Poetry
•	First Place: I Am From by Rupa Elizabeth Sprecher 
•	Second Place: Christmas Eve by Michael Butenhof 
•	Third Place: My Unreal Friends by Jessea Vaughan

Elementary School Poetry
•	First Place: I Have a Dream Too by Simon Bonenfant 
•	Second Place: Eid by Elias Alshabbi 
•	Third Place: What I Like About The Spring by Elijah Hedgemond 
•	honorable Mention: Music by Dominick Woodraska


 

2013-2014 NFB Writers Board of Directors

Robert Leslie Newman, president

Robert Leslie Newman lives in Omaha, Nebraska and is retired. 

“looking back at my thirty-seven year career as a Vocational
Rehabilitation Counselor for the Nebraska Commission for the Blind and
Visually Impaired, I can still say I enjoyed every new Monday,” Newman
says.

Among his NFB Writers’ leadership duties, he still finds time to write,
including his fiction, blindness-related articles, work with Blind Corps
and more. You can visit his website, http://www.thoughtprovoker.info,
for more information.

Chelsea Cook, first VP

As a physics major at Virginia Tech, Chelsea Cook has made her home in
the mountains for now. She left the sea and headed for the hills,
trading the continuous jet roar overhead for a crisp morning and a town
where the nearest mall is twenty minutes away. 

“college has been everything I hoped for, and I'm sure it will only get
better as I move deeper into the academic cavern, hoping to find
treasure and being guided by the best,” Cook says.

Cook writes science fiction and is attempting to bring a wider awareness
of the genre to her fellow classmates. Her novels have yet to be
published, but it's a great start on getting science fiction into her
university. Her poetry has been circulated online, in small journals and
in issues of Slate and Style.

Evamarie Sanchez, second VP

Originally from Northern California, EvaMarie Sanchez has lived too long
in the cold winters of Eastern Idaho. Recently, she moved to the Red
Rocks of Northern Arizona hoping to start a new chapter with her guide
dog.

Sanchez has had many chapters in her life, but Being a member of the
board of directors of the writers division and a writer of fiction and
poetry, this may be the most well written chapter yet.

“As a licensed social worker and an artist who loves animals of all
kinds, it is anyone’s guess what the next chapter will be titled,” says
Sanchez.

Katie Colton, secretary

Colton currently attends the University of Utah. She is a science
student, but  enjoys playwrighting .

“My plays are typically about issues that many people might be able to
identify with. Most of the themes are about acceptance, tolerance,
coming to terms with specific issues, or some combination of sensitive
issues with expressing who people are,” Colton says.

Colton compares her plays to the style of Tennessee Williams. Her plays
are character driven and emphasize scenic description. She has yet to
publish a play, but she intends to share her plays with the Division in
an attempt to receive feedback. She hopes that with her experience as a
playwright, she could be helpful to other members of the Writers’
Division.

“Over the next two years, I intend to serve the Writers’ Division board
well. I hope to include a different perspective while I am on the
board,” says Colton.

Bonnie Jean Newman, treasurer

Professionally, Bonnie Jean Newman is a retired special education
elementary school teacher. She taught thirty years for the Council
Bluffs school district, and now she substitutes.

At present, she’s more of a reader than a writer. She always reads at
least two to three print books at a time, and one audio book.

She comes from a family who are all voracious readers; growing up, her
parents always had a couple of thousand books in their home library.

“My current favorite type of book are very spooky ghost stories. In
fact, someday I plan to write a super good haunted house story,” says
Newman.

She’s Robert’s wife of thirty-three years. She has helped with the
banking since Robert was elected president. Newman wanted to legitimize
her work as treasurer since she’s been unofficially taking on many
treasurer responsibilities. 

Myrna Dupre' Badgerow, board member

 Myrna Dupre' Badgerow  makes her home in the bayou country of southern
Louisiana. She enjoys writing, reading, helping young writers, and
spending time with family, which includes three grown children and seven
grandchildren.

She began writing seriously in 2000 and has since been nominated for the
2008 Pushcart Award by the editors of Mississippi Crow magazine, named
2004's Poet of the Year at The Writing Forum, and also has a credit as
lyricist on a CD released by the band Against the Wall.

Antonio  Guimaraes, board member

Antonio  Guimaraes is a freelance journalist, writer and blogger at
technoblogicallyspeaking.com. His interests include writing biographies,
and technology news. He interned at Rhode Island Public Radio, and has
written for publications with a blind audience like Dialogue Magazine,
and The Braille Monitor.

He’s currently a student of education and social studies at Western
Governors University online, with plans to transfer to a program in
communications at a brick and mortar university in the Boston area.

 “My goal as a board member at the writers division is to increase
awareness for writing markets available to our membership of writers,
and to be a resource for non visual access to e-tools of the trade so
our membership will have better access to technologies  to advance their
careers,” says Guimaraes.

Kimberly Ann Valko, board member

Kimberly Ann Valko is a newly Graduated student from Courtland High
School. She plans to attend a center for blindness training to further
her education in nonvisual skills. She then will head off to college in
Virginia, majoring  education. She hopes to earn an early childhood
teaching degree.

Valko prefers to read and write fiction. She did have an article
published about an internship she was selected for. Her writing often
deals with romance, but she also has tried her hand at writing poetry
and scripts.

“I am hoping to learn different ways to write and learn what other ways
to express my writing better,” says Valko.

She’s one of four board members for NFB Writers’ along with serving on
the board of her local chapter in Fredericksburg, Virginia.  She’s also
been vice-president for her high school Latin club and the treasurer for
her high school Future Business Leaders of America (FBLA).

“I am proud to be a member of the Writers’ Division and also proud that
I can help out in any way possible, says Valko.

Sophie Trist, board intern

For the past two years, Sophie Trist has been a member of the writing
club at her high school in Louisiana. Writing is her passion, and she
hopes to make a career out of it someday. She’s working on her first
Young Adult fantasy novel.

“I've been telling stories since long before I knew how to write. I
remember lying awake many nights as a child, dreaming up all kinds of
fanciful stories and then recording them on an old cassette player I
used to have,” says Trist.

She primarily writes fantasy, though she does occasionally write
personal essays. Fantasy is her first love though because it feels less
restricted than other genres.

This is her first year as a Division member, and she has the honor of
serving as a board intern. Trist will participate in all board meetings
and activities, and though she won’t hold a vote, she will voice her
thoughts and opinions along with sharing board responsibilities.

“I intend to give my all both to the board and to the membership, to
help this division grow and succeed and to make it the best it can
possibly be,” says Trist.

She hopes that as a division, we can overcome all barriers confronting
writers who happen to be blind. Trist is looking forward to a great,
productive year.

Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter, editor, Slate & Style

Bridgit Kuenning Pollpeter studied creative writing at the University of
Nebraska Omaha. Her emphasis was creative nonfiction, but she also
pursued the fiction track as well. She minored in history and PR
writing. Long ago, she studied acting and vocal performance. Her
thespian and singing abilities are now restricted to the shower and her
husband and son.

Kuenning-Pollpeter blogged for the Omaha World Herald’s website, Live
Well Nebraska.com. Her blogs were featured on the Herald’s sister
websites, Omaha.com and Momaha.com along with the Living section of the
Omaha newspaper.

She has had personal essays published in small publications such as
Slate & Style and Breath and Shadow. Her articles have appeared in The
Nebraska Independent, Omaha World Herald and UNO’s alumni magazine.

She continues to participate in advertising campaigns for the Nebraska
Medical Center. Through her blog and ads, she has been asked to do
public speaking engagements for various local groups, organizations and
businesses.

She was hired as an intern for Maverick Solutions, a PR firm run out of
UNO. During her internship, she worked with local nonprofits and
businesses creating various written communications. Upon the completion
of this internship, Kuenning-Pollpeter was asked to continue writing
magazine articles for the firm.

She was instrumental in revamping UNO’s Network for Disability Awareness
while at university. NDA is a branch of student government dedicated to
providing disability awareness on campus. They do network with the
Student Disabilities Services Office on campus, but NDA provides
advocacy and awareness as opposed to services and accommodations. She
also helped to develop the CROP, UNO’s student-ran writing group.

Kuenning-Pollpeter lives in Omaha, Nebraska with her husband, Ross, and
their one-year-old son, Declan, and often their
three-and-a-half-year-old niece, Penny. She continues to write
nonfiction and fiction as much as possible.

“With young children, it can be difficult to find time to write, but I
still have the drive and inspiration. I write when I can,” says
Kuenning-Pollpeter.

 
Slate & Style Seeking Submissions for Holiday Issue

Slate & Style hopes to publish a special holiday issue this year. If
there are enough submissions to consider, we will release an email issue
for the holidays. If interested, read further for details.

We will accept short fiction, poetry and memoir/personal essays. All
submissions must be emailed by November first. Refer to submission
guidelines for length.

Material can be previously published or brand-spanking new. If
submitting previously published material, please note and provide
publication name and year.

Submissions do not have to be about Christmas. They can relate to any
aspect of the holiday season between November and January first, and it
can involve any religious activity, tradition and/or custom celebrated
or practiced around the holiday season. And you don’t have to directly
write about a holiday, but simply have your submission take place during
the holiday season.

No subject matter, genre or style is off limits. We will consider all
submissions. Try to not be over-sentimental though. Edgy and gritty are
perfectly acceptable. Sentimentality is not against guidelines, but
neither is darker, edgier material. Be realistic and honest in your
approach. Remember, It’s a Wonderful Life wasn’t all sunshine and
rainbows and puppy dogs, and A Christmas Story relied on wit and
sarcasm.

Submissions must be emailed by November first. Please submit by
following regular Slate & Style guidelines, which are in each issue of
the magazine and on the Division website. Email me at
bpollpeter at hotmail.com with questions.

 
Slate & Style Submission Guidelines

Slate & Style is a quarterly publication of the Writers' division of the
National Federation of the Blind (NFB Writers). It is dedicated to
writing including literary pieces along with resources and information
about various writing styles. A majority of Slate & Style's contributors
are visually impaired, but we welcome submissions from any contributor,
professional or amateur. We also accept submissions touching on any
subject matter.

Slate & Style accepts short fiction, short creative nonfiction, poetry,
articles discussing and providing tips for various writing styles
including literary, technical, editing, public relations and academic,
literary criticism and resource information.

Subject matter is not limited though it will be up to the editor's
discretion to publish.

Slate & Style accepts material from adults and children. We prefer email
submissions. Please no hand-written or Braille submissions.

An annual subscription costs $15. The costs for an individual issue is
$5. Members of the Writer's Division receive issues free of charge. An
annual membership costs $10. Visit our website to pay via PayPal at:
http://www.nfb-writers-division.net, or contact us at newmanrl at cox.net
for other payment options.

We accept submissions from January first through September first. Please
give Slate & Style six weeks to hear back from us. All submissions are
considered for publication but not all pieces will be published. We may
keep submissions to be used for later publication. The editor may
respond with comments and suggestions, giving contributors an
opportunity to resubmit. Please be patient and wait the full six weeks
before contacting us about a submission.

Submissions are welcome 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, 4000 words or less, poetry, 39 lines or less.
•	Please send nonfiction, both articles and essays,  and short
fiction submissions one selection at a time. You can submit up to three
poems at a time. Include bio and contact information for each submission
sent.
•	Include a title page along with your submission with author
name, title of piece and contact info—phone, email and address. Please
include this as an attachment and not in the body of an email.
•	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 should have a more academic approach. Don’t just
state you liked it or not, and don’t simply summarize a book. We are
seeking literary criticism. Address tone, format, style, character and
plot development and the over-all writing. The length for book reviews
is 700 words. Bios do not need to accompany 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. Entries simply
pasted into an email will not be considered.
•	In the subject line of your email, write:  Slate & Style
submission, name, title and genre. EX: Slate & Style, Bridgit
Kuenning-Pollpeter, title of submission, genre.
•	Use Microsoft Word or create an RTF document for all
submissions. No other formats are accepted, and therefore will not be
considered. Please do not send hand-written or Braille submissions.
•	Proofread and check your grammar and formatting before
submitting. Submissions with too many errors will either be returned
with corrections to be made if you wish to resubmit, or it will not be
considered at all.
•	Slate & Style will consider all submissions for publication.
However, please be careful with graphic sexual and violent content as
well as language and anti-religious, anti-gender, anti-racial and
anti-homosexual orientation content. Characterization and plot often
require this type of material, but it must serve a purpose. Gratuitous
material with no purpose or meant only for derogatory reasons, will not
be considered, however, material will be published according to the
discretion of the editor.

Please direct questions and comments to Bridgit KuenningPollpeter at
bpollpeter at hotmail.com,.

 

NFB Writers’ Division Critique Service

Have you just written your masterpiece? Finished that article you’ve
been working on? Completed a compelling memoir? ? Would you like a
seasoned writer to give you an evaluation of your material? 

The NFB Writers’ Division has established a critique service. For $10,
you will receive a written evaluation for any of the following: 
•	Short story, max 3000 words
•	First chapter, or first 20 pages,  of a novel 
•	up to 3 poems, 36 lines or less per poem
•	Children’s story, max 3000 words
•	First chapter of a Memoir, or first 20 pages 
•	Nonfiction article, 20 pages max

The critique will contain feedback on the following: 
•	Format
•	mechanics
•	Overall quality

If interested, submit work as an email attachment using MS Word. Double
space and email to: 
Robert Leslie Newman, president, NFB Writers’ Division
newmanrl at cox.net

Material may be submitted at any time. Critiques will be Emailed back
within 30 days from receipt of reviewer. We have a small pool of editors
available, so submissions may need to sit before an editor is free to
review.

For further information, please visit the Writers’ Division website at
http://writers.nfb.org. Send a check to, and/or contact Robert Leslie
Newman, president, NFB Writers.

The $10 fee can be paid via check or online. For checks, make out to:
NFB Writers’ Division, and send to:
Robert Leslie Newman
504 S 57th St.
Omaha, NE 68106
For PayPal, visit the Writers’ Division website at:
http://www.writers.nfb.org
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.net.
•	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:	

EMAIL:	

Which format do you prefer for Slate & Style:

	BRAILLE		EMAIL

Dues:	

Donation:	

Total enclosed:	

Send $10 membership fee in a check or money order, made out to: 
NFB Writers’ Division
504 S. 57th St.
Omaha, NE 68106

Do not send cash. Do not make your check out to an individual. Thank
you.
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