Slate and Style

The Magazine of the National Federation of the Blind Writers' Division
FALL 2018

Editor: Shelley J Alongi
Format Editor: Robert Gardner
Poetry Editor: Barbara Hammel 
Phone: (714)525-9632
Email: S-and-S@nfbnet.org
Alternate email: Queenofbells@outlook.com 

Table of Contents

Editor's Musings, by Shelly J. Alongi 			  Page 2

Notes from the President, by Myrna Duprè Badgerow	  Page 3

Is the Memoir Market Over Saturated? [Part 1], 		  Page 3
by Jack Smith, Writer Magazine

Reaching, by Marilyn Brandt Smith,		  		  Page 8

Another Try, by Elizabeth Jo Pinto 				  Page 9

Write a Poem in a Well-known Poet's Voice, 		 Page 14
by Jaqueline Williams  

The Laptop Reader, by Shawn D. Jacobson			 Page 14

Walking by Inner Vision by Lynda McKinney Lambert:     Page 22
A Book Review by Becky Anne Porter

Night Dreams, by Jaqueline Smith				 Page 26

Snowball the Matchmaker, by Kerry Elizabeth Thompson   Page 27

Submission Guidelines For Slate and Style			 Page 37

Join the Division						 Page 38

Note: besides going to a specific page number for a story/article/poem, the beginning can be accessed by searching for ***

***

Editor's Musings
by Shelley J. Alongi

The house rings with the energetic rompings of two six-month-old kittens. In June of this year when I got the kittens, the local pet store owner here said to me: "You have had cats. You haven't had kittens." I offered as rebuttal that yes I did have one kitten. When I got Brandy fourteen years ago she was possessed of boundless energy and she woke me up a few nights with her antics. She may have been tamed by the presence of a cat three years her senior. However, the wise pet owner was right. My once orderly dining room teems with cardboard boxes, package shipping materials, empty plastic water bottles, colorful balls with bells, and anything else that will transform it into a kitty gym. Prince and Pilot, the lucky kittens, love it. I love it. Their frantic pursuit of paper, plastic and shadows elicits hearty laughter as I read through the fiction entries, poetry, and article for this issue. 

This issue is filled with offerings from our 2018 Writers' Division contest, and the conclusion, at least so far, of the Snowball stories. With a cat, you never can tell. The story never ends. 

If you are, like so many others, interested in writing your memoirs, we have an in depth selection which may shed some light on the subject from the Writer magazine. Stay tuned for the second part of the article in the winter 2019 issue.  

Let me also encourage you to join our monthly Writers' division gatherings by telephone on the fourth sunday of each month. We have covered subjects from self-publishing to audio description. Stay tuned to Stylist or membership emails for details on each gathering. 

Finally, as the leaves turn and the weather cools, we are looking for more articles on your personal writing journey for publication in future issues of Slate and Style. I love including the Writer Magazine articles on how to improve writing technique. Yet, I know out there in the ether and in your marvelous brains are many other ideas that will help us improve our writing. Please construct an article and share your personal journey and techniques with us. 

While you work, enjoy the journeys of others. Sit back with your latte, coffee, or tea and maybe the beginnings of an apple bounty and enjoy. Add your touch to our magazine. Till we meet again in print, keep writing and keep dreaming!

***

Notes From the President
by Myrna Duprè Badgerow

Welcome to the Fall 2018 issue of Slate and Style. The Writers' Division is now making plans for its 2019 contest season. Stay tuned for more details. 

In other news, for several years now the Writers' Division has offered a paid critiquing service. Changing technologies and personal critiquing through the Stylist have taken the place of this service. For now, we will suspend offering of this service. Should the need arise in the future we will reinstate it. These are the notes from the president this issue. Keep eyes and ears peeled for other Writers' Division news.

***

Is the Memoir Market Over Saturated?(Part 1)
by Jack Smith
Writer magazine, August 13, 2018

[Editor's Note: This article has a wealth of information on the memoir market from writers and publishers. Because it is so long I have chosen to publish this in two parts. Look for the part on publishers in the winter, 2019 issue. It will keep you anticipating! 

Jack Smith is the author of four novels, two books of nonfiction, and numerous articles and interviews. 

For more email news letters go to Writermag.com]

Once upon a time, fiction ruled the market. Today, however, nonfiction is just as heavily competitive – and memoir is a key corner of that genre. Consider some famous best-selling memoirs from the recent past: Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, Jeannette Walls’ The Glass Castle, Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, and, most recently, J.D. Vance’s Hillbilly Elegy. As three-time memoirist Mary Karr recounts in The Art of Memoir: “Memoir as a genre has entered its heyday, with a massive surge in readership the past 20 years or so.” And luckily for would-be memoirists, the genre has a wide appeal among commercial publishers.

Why such a recent interest in this form? Perhaps it has to do with the confessional nature of memoir, the reality-based aspect: Just consider the popularity of reality TV. A memoir is a chance to read something that really happened instead of what a fiction writer has imagined. Memoir can serve as a raw baring of the writer’s soul. Yet it had better be more than this for the work to stand a chance of publication.

“Memoir done right is an art, a made thing. It’s not just raw reportage flung splat on the page,” writes Karr. To write it well, you must make judicious selections from your innumerable fund of personal experiences to create something more than the sum of your memory’s parts. You must render scenes from memory, recreating dialogue, reimagining yourself in the past, and recalling every sensory detail you experienced in any given moment. Finally, the work must, as Karr says, be more than “raw reportage:” It must be seen as an art form. What, after all, is a personal memoir that has no deeper meaning than a stark retelling of events in one’s life? Perhaps it will appeal to one’s family and friends, but its chances of publication are dismal at best.

As Natalie Goldberg, in Old Friend from Far Away, states: “Memoirs are not usually about your whole life, covering birth to the present moment. They are more an expression of your life through something.” Generally, says Bill Roorbach in Writing Life Stories, only celebrities – heads of state, famous athletes, Nobel Prize winners, etc. – can get away with simply putting their life story on the page from birth to the present. That something Goldberg mentions provides a much-needed focus that is essential in any work of literature.

Keep in mind that memoir doesn’t necessarily need to be strictly autobiographical. It can also be about a person other than the writer, or about a given place, or it can be a “hybrid memoir” combining a personal story with other nonfiction subject areas. Two famous hybrids in recent years are Helen Macdonald’s H is for Hawk and Kate Bolick’s Spinster, which have autobiographical elements but cross several genres.

So what makes a great memoir, as memoirists themselves see it? What are some essentials in writing the form well? And what do those in the publishing world consider a salable memoir? We spoke to leading memoirists, agents, and publishers to find out.

What are your best tips for beginning memoirists on selling a memoir?
Peter Selgin: My first tip is don’t think how best to sell your memoir, but how best to write it. Write the best book you can, the book that you long to pull down from a shelf and read. Assuming you long to read it, others – including agents and editors – will feel likewise. Writing to the market is an artistic mistake, and probably a commercial one as well. Tell a story that only you can tell as only you can tell it. It may be a sensational story, or not. It may be happy or sad, or both. What will make it memorable is how you tell it, the level of clarity and precision and insights you bring to your memories, the quality of the reflections that they give rise to, the characters evoked through them. Once you’ve written the memoir you long to read, you’ll figure out how to sell it. Then it will just be a matter of having it read by the right people.

Kate Braverman: I would think the question is ‘how do I write a striking, original book,’ rather than ‘how do I sell it.’ How do I find the ability, the focus, skill, and stamina, the conviction for this unnatural surgery? Without vulnerability and exposure, without daring and risk, there can be no revelation. All memoirs are acts of fiction in the sense of not seeking objective truth. Unless one is historically significant with achievements and pedigrees to legitimize us, our lives are ordinary. Memoirs are not acts of journalism, either. The writer selects from the monumental possibilities, strategizes, omits, truncates, and then surprisingly expands. One examines and revises, denies and exaggerates, and in that active engagement with the page, the unexpected emerges. Memoir writing is about the illusion of truth. It’s liberating to recognize that it’s not about the actual events, people, era, and landscape. Writing is about stunning and triumphing over the innocent page, which prefers you not bother it.

Glennon Doyle Melton: Make time. I write first thing in the morning. I don’t have a room of my own, but I do have an hour of my own – I get up first thing in the morning before the world wakes up and starts making demands of me. My early-morning writing hours are my pocket of time to be a soul instead of a role. I also believe we should choose carefully where we do our truth-telling. One thing I remind people is something my friend Nadia Bolz-Weber told me: “If you’re going to share widely – make sure you’re sharing from your scars, not your open wounds.” Love Warrior is intensely personal, but it’s not a diary. I started turning it into a memoir two years after it all happened, and I had enough distance to look at all of it somewhat objectively. So, in real time, we share with our tiny circle of trusted friends and maybe our therapist. Then, when we’ve found some meaning in it all and feel some peace about it, we can take it wider. At that point, if folks don’t want to listen, no worries. But if you’ve got a story burning inside you, it’s likely that somebody out there is burning to hear it. The more personal it is, the more universal it is, too.

Shannon Leone Fowler: My advice would be to read and write as much as possible – read widely, join a book club, keep a journal, start a writing group. Write chapters and pass them around to friends and family. Don’t make every change suggested, but consider each one. Rewrite, revise, repeat. I feel I’m done (for the moment) when I can’t tell if the pages make sense anymore. But maybe that’s just me! Decide if you want to try to sell your memoir before it’s finished, or send a complete manuscript out. I found an agent in the early stages of writing Traveling with Ghosts, but it became increasingly clear the book she wanted to sell was not the book I wanted to write. In the end, I finished (with many revisions still to come) and found an agent who completely believed in the story and in the way I wanted to tell it.

What makes a memoir stand out? What makes one truly great?
Shannon Leone Fowler: Unflinching, uncomfortable, and unapologetic honesty is what makes a memoir stand out. I think of Sonali Deraniyagala’s astounding memoir, Wave. It has got to be the most shocking, brutal, raw, brave, and truthful book I’ve read about grief. Because a reader can see through an author who is trying to paint herself or himself in the best possible light, when each and every one of us is capable of noble acts of generosity as well as terrible acts of unkindness. A truly great memoir reflects both of these qualities of the human experience, with moments of light and with moments of darkness.

Glennon Doyle Melton: Truth. I believe that the truth sets us free. I think how that works is this: We think we are bad. We think our feelings and urges and secrets are shameful, and so we hide who we really are. That hiding leaves us isolated and disconnected from others, and often causes us to feel afraid and sick. When we share our real selves, others are inevitably emboldened to come forward, out of hiding, towards us and say those magic words, “me too.” When we hear “me too,” we realize that our feelings and urges and secrets aren’t shameful at all, they’re just human. And so we stop being so afraid of who we are. That realization empowers us to step out of hiding and take bigger steps towards others. Reading a great memoir makes you feel connected and brave and healthy.

Peter Selgin: There are as many answers to the question as there are different kinds of memoirs. For sure a sensational story can make for a sensational memoir. Not having survived a deadly disease or been a mob hit man or sailed solo around the world, I can’t speak to the sorts of memoirs that describe such dramatic experiences, yet each of us has an interesting story to tell, if only we can learn, as Emerson urges himself in his journal, “…how to choose among what [we call our] experiences that which is really [our] experience, and how to record truth truly.” Among the memoirist’s greatest challenges is to rescue memory from imagination, and to do so with the understanding that the one can’t survive without the other. The trick in writing memoir as faithfully as possible is to be aware of the role imagination plays in shaping our memories, in making them cohere into scenes. The next great challenge is to avoid sentimentality, which I define as emotions in excess of experience. What that boils down to, essentially, is the need to make sure that the reader has shared our experiences as fully and accurately as possible so that whatever emotions they end up with derive from the experience itself, rather than from anything added, like sweeteners or food coloring, to it

Kate Braverman: It’s not the story. It’s how you tell it. After all, Ulysses is about one day in Leopold Bloom’s life. June 16. Garcia Lorca said art was a struggle, a process, ancient and unmistakable. It has a quality of the foreign, the eternal and the just born. You recognize it by its sincerity. Your book will be as grand as you make it. Master a writer’s full repertoire – experiment with description, dialogue, characters, textures, scents, specific details you create, not actual details. Use the illusion of thought and memory. Language, language, language. Each word choice is the sum of your life’s experience. Individual syllables are a music you can orchestrate. Sentences are intersections where you can go in any direction – you can fly, transform, predict the future, and time travel. Write for the wild pleasure of the process, give yourself vertigo and fever, and write what you didn’t already know.

How can the writer make the memoir special for the readers instead of being “all about me?” What’s the difference between memoir as art and memoir as a shallow, self-serving telling of one’s own story?
Shannon Leone Fowler: I believe this is one of the trickiest parts of writing memoir, figuring out how to tell a story that is deeply personal yet also universal. My 25-year-old fiancé was killed by a box jellyfish – an incredibly unlucky and unlikely event. Part of my own journey after his death was searching for other stories of grief, which I found all over Eastern Europe. I was desperate to not feel alone, and I was able to lose myself in the histories in the haunted landscapes there and the stories of the people left behind. Some of the most fascinating memoirs are about extreme situations the average reader would never even come close to experiencing. Yet at the core of every story are emotions, hopes, and fears that anyone should be able relate to.

Glennon Doyle Melton: I wrote Love Warrior and rewrote it, and with every paragraph asked myself: How is this not just about me but about the reader? About all of us? How can I turn my personal story into something universal? I sifted through my own pain and mined it for gold to share with others. When we truth-tell widely in real time, it’s alarming to people because it can feel more like a cry for help than an act of service. You must be still with your pain before you can offer it up and use it to serve and connect with people you don’t know. When we get real, we and the people we’re writing to relax because we realize that at our cores, we’re all the same. Our details are different – looks, jobs, families, pasts, personalities – but our essentials – our deepest fears and joys – are the same. For that reason, we’ve got to share the truth somewhere, sometime, with someone because we have to learn that we’re not alone. We realize that our feelings and urges and secrets aren’t shameful at all, they’re just human. So we stop being so afraid of who we are.

Peter Selgin: I think the key thing to understand is that – though based on our memories and experiences – unlike an autobiography, a memoir is never about us. Even when we’re the main character of our memoirs, we’re not the subject. The subject is something bigger than ourselves, a theme to which certain experiences we’ve had attach themselves. In my memoir The Inventors, the dramatis personae are my father (who was an inventor), my eighth-grade English teacher, and myself; but the theme is how we are invented by those who influence us, and more specifically how each of us invents our selves. My father “re-invented” himself by denying his past; the teacher did so by fabricating his. Through their profound influences they in turn shaped my character; they invented, or helped to invent, me. The story I’m telling is my story, but it’s not about me; it’s not even about those two men. It’s about the reader, who, in reading my book, discovers that she, too, like all of us, is her own invention. The test of a great memoir is how much the story it tells us is, ultimately, our own.

Kate Braverman: I is just a word, like she or Aunt Amy or my bridge partner, George. The I you create on the page is just another character. You make your I a multiple being. Find a voice you didn’t know existed. Talk in tongues. Live your incarnations simultaneously. Revise your own history. When they go low, you go high. 

***

Reaching
by Marilyn Brandt Smith 

[Editor’s Note: This poem took first place in the 2018 Writers Division adult poetry contest]

It could be worth a mint.
Imagine, if I sent
An effort to impress
Experts at this address,
And one important judge
Gave mine the final nudge.
How should I spend my fame,
On mat and glass and frame?
Or should I savor wine,
A win would soon command
My horizons to expand

But first I need a start
For this secret in my heart.
Impressions bounce around--
A mouse, a creek, a town--
With affect bold or faint?
Which picture shall I paint?
The shock in others' eyes
To hear I've won a prize,
Will outweigh the reward,
Keep me moving toward
Collections worth attention
With purpose and dimension.
 
I choose a path unique;
For instance, at that creek
I fancy stockinged feet
Near buried, 'neath the seat
Of a wagon broke and bare.
Now, where should I go from there?

***

Another Try
by Elizabeth Jo Pinto

[Editor’s Note: This story took first place in the 2018 Writers' Division fiction contest]

Mom stopped her faded green station wagon in front of the elementary school. “Have Fun, honey.”

“Get real.” Danny scowled at the shiny foil reindeer antlers in his lap. “It’s bad enough I’m stuck in school all day. My teacher shouldn’t be allowed to drag me back at night.”

Mom sighed. “I’m sick of your lousy attitude.”

“Yeah? I’m sick of everybody acting like Christmas is something to celebrate.” Danny got out of the car. “It’s the pits.” He slammed the heavy door and started to walk away.

Mom rolled down her window and called out to him. “I asked Mrs. Hill to drive you home after the program. I get off work at eleven. Don’t unlock the door for anyone.”

“If Dad were here, he’d come to my Christmas play!” Danny exploded, turning to glare at her.

“If your dad were here, I wouldn’t be mopping floors in a laundromat, and we’d all live happily ever after.” Mom gunned the motor, and the station wagon sped off down the road.

Danny watched till its taillights disappeared in the darkness. He swallowed hard to get rid of the lump in his throat.

His feet dragged as he trudged into the school. He paused in the doorway of the gym and scanned the noisy mob of students and parents. It looked like he was the only kid there all by himself. He crushed the foil antlers fiercely and flung them into a corner. He wasn’t about to haul a stupid cardboard sleigh across the stage while a bunch of proud parents in the audience snapped pictures. Nobody noticed as he slipped out of the building.

He was winded by the time he ran the half mile to his house. Empty dirt roads deepened his loneliness, and icy evening air stung his cheeks and made his eyes water. He let himself in the back door and bent to greet his spunky little Chinese pug.

“I hate my life, Lucky,” Danny burst out in the silent kitchen, clasping the wiggling dog against his chest and letting his tears fall on her cream-colored coat. “Dad skipped out on us, and Mom’s always working, and all the other kids have people to watch them in the Christmas program. I wish I could just die!”

In the next instant, the idea was crystal clear in his mind. He let Lucky go, threw off his parka, and sprinted for his parents’ room. Lucky scurried after him, but he shut the door before she made it in. That dog was awfully devoted to him. She didn’t need to see what he was about to do.

He opened the top drawer of Dad’s nightstand and pushed aside the jumble of boxers and socks. Yes, it was still there. Mom hadn’t sorted through the clothes yet. If she had, the revolver would have been history. Mom was afraid of guns. She had always told Dad weapons didn’t belong in a peaceful house.

Danny sat on the edge of the bed for a long time with the revolver laid across his knees, too scared to move and too dejected to give up his plan. Finally he made sure the gun was loaded and pressed the business end against his temple with a shaking hand.

Then Danny caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above the dresser. The terrified eyes that stared back at him shocked the air right out of his lungs.

“I can’t wimp out now,” he told the pale face in the mirror, almost apologizing. The eyes only gaped at him, as big as hubcaps. He lowered the gun and slid to the floor, where he wouldn’t have to look in the mirror.

Before he worked up enough nerve to lift the revolver again, a memory flashed in his mind. He saw himself, two years ago last summer, sitting with Dad at the picnic table in the back yard. Dad had trusted him enough to show him how to clean and load the gun that day, and Danny remembered how proud and grown up he had felt.

Then, in one quick movement, Dad had raised the gun and fired a bullet into the biggest watermelon in the patch.

“See that, Danny?” He had gestured at the explosion of rind and red pulp splattered over the better part of the garden. “That’s what a person would look like, too, one big mess on the ground. Don’t ever point a gun at anybody unless you’re sure that’s what you want.”

The thought of that exploded watermelon nearly broke Danny’s resolve, but he set his jaw and gripped the revolver tighter in his hand. He hated his life. He hated his parents for splitting up. He hated himself for the way he’d acted the night his family shattered for good. He remembered the final shouting match that had made him drop the piece of pizza he was eating and bolt for his room. He remembered Dad’s pickup roaring out of the driveway a while later and then Mom’s miserable sobs going on forever in the dark house. And he’d been too chicken to do anything but burrow under his covers, shaking and crying.

It was time to get this over with. He’d do it on the count of three, and no turning gutless this time. He raised the gun.

“One … two …”

The bedroom door opened, and a pair of legs in boots and blue jeans lunged toward him. Danny toppled sideways on the carpet. The revolver fell harmlessly from his hand. Lucky was there, pushing her wet nose into his face. Then he was in Dad’s strong arms. He felt Dad’s heart pounding as he pressed his cheek against the familiar work shirt that smelled of sweat and sawdust.

Danny wasn’t sure how long Dad held him, rocking him gently and stroking his forehead with a calloused hand, but he knew it was the first time he ever saw a grown man cry. It seemed like years passed before they both settled down. Then a strained silence crept from the corners of the room and forced itself between them.

Dad propped Danny up beside him on the floor and kept an arm tightly around him. “You were really going to do it, weren’t you?”

Danny nodded. “I don’t wanna live anymore.”

“You’re pretty young to be saying that. You haven’t even hit your twelfth birthday yet.”

“There’s nobody to shoot hoops with me and nobody to watch my Christmas play at school, and Mom cries every night when she thinks I’m sleeping.”

“But it’s finished forever once you pull the trigger.” Dad’s face hardened. He looked right into Danny’s eyes. “Your brains would have been plastered all over that flowered wallpaper, and there would have been no chance to change your mind. Remember how that watermelon was splattered from one end of the garden to the other?”

“You ran out on Mom and me, so why would you care anyway?” Danny snapped.

Before Dad could answer, they heard footsteps in the hall. Lucky vaulted out of Danny’s lap and raced across the room, her back half wiggling furiously.

Mom appeared in the doorway. “Danny? Mrs. Hill called the laundromat and said you weren’t at the Christmas program, and—” She seemed to notice the two figures on the floor for the first time. “Paul? What are you doing here?”

“I drove by and saw your car gone, so I thought I’d stop in and get a few things. I’m glad I did, too.” Dad’s glance darted to where the revolver lay on the carpet.

Mom’s eyes followed his. She reeled backward. The color drained from her face. “Dear God! He wasn’t going to—”

“He sure was.” A spark of anger flared in Dad’s eyes. “Maybe you should watch him closer from now on.”

“I told you that didn’t belong in the house!” Mom shrieked, snatching the gun off the floor. She passed it frantically from hand to hand as if it were a hot coal and she was desperate for a safe place to drop it.

Dad jumped up and grabbed it from her. “That’s not a wise thing to be waving around.”

“Get it out of my house!” Mom spiraled dangerously toward hysterics. “Get yourself out, too! My God, he could have died, Paul!”

“Don’t you think I know that? How do you suppose it felt to walk in here and find my son a split second away from blowing his head off?”

“Whose fault is that?”

“See, there you go again.” Danny sprang up. “I wish I’d pulled the trigger before Dad stopped me.”

There was a long silence.

Then Mom let out a strangled sob and swept Danny into her arms. Dad dropped the revolver on the bed and joined the huddle, biting his lip and scrubbing hard at his eyes with the back of one hand. Lucky ran laps around their ankles, panting excitedly.

“Thank God you’re alive, baby,” Mom finally murmured into Danny’s mop of dark hair, still crying softly. “I shouldn’t have taken that extra shift at work and missed your Christmas play.”

Dad laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. If I hadn’t stormed out of this house like a selfish fool and left you both for the buzzards, none of this would have happened.”

“You’re back now,” Danny pointed out. “We could be a family again.”

“Honey,” Mom began, “sometimes things don’t work out the way you want them to—”

“Laura, I miss you,” Dad broke in. “What if I come home for a day or two, just to see if we can patch things up?”

“What about your freedom?” Mom demanded. “What about all those good times that passed you by because you got saddled with a wife and son before you had a chance to see the world?”

“My son almost put himself in a coffin tonight.” Dad stared at his boots. “If that had happened, I guess the world wouldn’t be worth seeing.”

Mom frowned. “Well, I don’t know—”

Danny’s lip trembled. “You cry every night. I hear you through my bedroom wall.”

Mom’s face flushed, and she stepped back from the huddle and put her hands on her hips. “Don’t say that!”

“Okay, look. No promises. We’ll just give the family thing another try.” Dad ruffled Danny’s hair and kissed Mom lightly on the cheek, then picked up the revolver and strode toward the door. “I’ll lock this in my truck and light a fire in the stove, and we can cuddle up on the couch for a while.”

“That might be good for all of us.” Mom wiped her eyes on her shirt sleeve and took Danny protectively by the hand as they made their way into the living room. Relief seemed to overwhelm her when the two of them settled themselves on the couch, and she pulled him into a sudden, tight embrace.

“I love you so much.” Her voice shook. “Please don’t ever do anything like this again. I couldn’t stand to lose you.”

“Mom, don’t cry. I love you, too.” Danny snuggled down beside her, comforted by the faint scent of her perfume. Lucky sprawled on the throw rug at their feet.

Mom glanced up when Dad came in a few minutes later with an armload of firewood. Her face softened into a hesitant smile. Still stroking Danny’s hair, she shifted a little on the couch so Dad could squeeze in next to them.

***

Write a Poem in a Well-known Poet’s Voice
by Jaqueline Williams

[Editor’s Note: This poem took second place in the 2018 Writers' Division contest.]

I did not write a poem this week,
I felt so darkly blue.
I noted dreams, and tried to tweak
some rhymes that sounded true.

Alas, I cooked and ate and slept
awaiting inspiration.
I read Babette, Millay, then wept—
no ease from my frustration.

I searched old verse forms that survive,
with iambs, trochees, dactyls.
Oh, please, just make me come alive—
not cut up into fractals.

Well, there I go, again, you know.
I’m forcing dreadful rhyme.
Another’s voice is hard to throw.
I guess I’ll take halftime. 

***

The Laptop Reader
by Shawn D. Jacobson

“If you moo, there’ll be no miniature golf for you after the meeting.”

“Sure mom,” I replied,” just as Mrs. Cudd returned to the room.

Mrs. Cudd, my new counselor, was a large woman with, according to mom, brown hair and eyes.  It was apparent, even with my limited eyesight, that she was unkempt.  I wasn’t sure if the stains on her blouse were from lunch, or from earlier in the day, but they were large enough for me to see. To top it off, she was chewing a big wad of gum.  The whole picture screamed, or mooed, bovine.

Whenever I’d worn stained clothes, mom said that this was because I was blind and couldn’t see what I was doing.  I’d assumed that sighted people didn’t go out in public looking this messy; I’d assumed wrong.

After all, the agency prided itself on only hiring sighted counselors.  Mr. Balderstadt, the agency director made that clear at the intake meeting for high school and college students.  “You know what happens when the blind lead the blind?” he said as counselors chuckled.  Whatever my new counselor’s problem was, it wasn’t blindness.

“Sorry for the interruption,” she said to mom, “but I was just giving gold stars to students in our SITE program.  That’s Student Integration Through Enlightenment.  It’s like the nine-month programs offered at those other agencies only more realistic.  What these people expect of poor blind students defies belief.”

“How old are the SITE program students?” mom asked.

“Oh, high school and college age.  We have one student taking advanced math in college.  He’s so inspirational, I couldn’t imagine taking classes like that and I can see,” she said.  “He does need to understand his limitations though.”

I’d struggled to stay awake in the hot stuffy room.  I’d signed forms where I was told and listened through a lot of boring details about college and agency funding rules. Then the topic of reading came up.

“I understand that your son doesn’t read Braille very well,” Mrs. Cudd said.

I flinched expecting another lecture about my poor work habits, but I got a pleasant surprise.

“This is to be expected,” Mrs. Cudd continued, “experts have found that blind guys don’t want to read Braille, they want a reader to sit in their lap and read to them.  So, we are very excited to introduce the new Lap Top Reader.” She pulled a case out of the desk drawer.  “I have a sample unit here.”

She opened the case and pushed a button.  Plastic sheets stirred to life and a vaguely humanoid form took shape.

“Gosh! It looks like a Martian!” mom exclaimed.

“Originally it was going to look like a woman,” the counselor said “but some politicians, right wing types you know, objected to spending tax payer money for inflatable dolls for the blind.  They decided not to object when we added antennae and changed the skin color, better optics I guess.  In a way, you could say it’s an innovative example of green technology.”

“Put it on your lap son and see how it works,” mom said as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

Once the machine was on my lap, Mrs. Cudd said, “push the left button.”

“Accessing lap top reading system,” a voice purred.

“Very good,” said the counselor passing over a Kindle, “Place this in the female port,” then, taking my hand, “I’ll show you where.”

“Opening Kindle interface,” the machine continued once the device was properly inserted.

“Now say test script,” the counselor directed.

I said, “text script,” like a good boy.

“See spot run,” the machine said.

Sorry about the content,” said the counselor.  “That’s just the demonstration unit.  When he gets his own, we will load age appropriate material for him.  In fact, with the latest upgrade, we can load his course materials straight from our office.”

“Sounds good,” mom replied.  I think she was glad that this would be the end of managing readers.

The meeting continued with my counselor and mom discussing my education.

Finally, mom said, “You’ve been a good boy. Want to go to the miniature golf course?”

…………………………

“Accessing advanced algebra.  Starting at chapter 2,” the reader said.  “Do you want to start here or review chapter 1?”

This was cool!  The machine was reading to me and I could get a lot read without struggling through bulky Braille books.  

Algebra was still hard, and I had to concentrate on what the machine was saying.  From time to time, I had to push the rewind button and have the reader repeat difficult equations.  While I was busy with that, I heard a knock at the door.

“Come in,” I said, and Jane entered the room.  I could tell it was her by the tapping of her cane.  We had met about a week after I’d come to college and we had started seeing each other on a semi-regular basis.  She was involved with the sort of blindness politics that agency people didn’t like.  They said that folk like Jane were radical and to be avoided, but she seemed sane to me, even if she thought my equipment was weird.

“What’re you doing Jake?” she asked.

“Just studying,” I replied.  “This reading machine is neat.”

“May I touch it?” asked Jane reaching towards the sound of the voice.

“Go ahead,” I replied.  Jane reached out felt around the machine for a while then….

“What the heck! That feels like some sort of weird plastic doll!”

“Yeah” I said, “it’s an inflatable reading machine.  My counselor said that it would help me keep up with my reading; she’s a really neat piece of work.”

“It’s a piece of work alright,” Jane exclaimed.  “I hope you don’t turn out to be one of those weirdos who….”

 “Hey,” I rejoined, “It’s not like that at all.  This is just a tool that helps me read, like any other type of adaptive equipment.  Besides, I can re-read math books without readers losing patients with me.”

"If you read Braille,” Jane said, “you wouldn’t have that problem.  These books do come in Braille you know.”

“Braille,” I replied without interest, “that’s so big and bulky and cumbersome and it’s so hard.  But this machine is neat.  Feel it again, it’s even warm.”

“Sounds like you’ve got some wires crossed,” Jane scoffed.

“There sure doesn’t seem to be a problem,” I said.  “All I have to do is push the start button and she reads whatever I need.”

“Tell you what,” said Jane, “you get tired of pushing its buttons, you let me know.  We can go out for dinner and, later, I can introduce you to blind folk who don’t play with dolls.”

……………………

Things went well for a while after my talk with Jane.  So, I was in a good mood when I came home from class the day the trouble began.  My plan was to start reading a book by Hegel for my Political Science class project.  I figured to get a good start on the project and impress my teacher with the result.  I wouldn’t even have to worry about bothering my roommate; he was draining a keg off campus and wouldn’t be back for a while.

“You are not authorized to read this.” the reader objected.  “It is not part of your official course material.”

“What!” I exclaimed, “Why shouldn’t I read this?  I’m studying Political Science, and this is a book on political philosophy.”

“It is not part of your course material,” she responded, “and besides, Hegel is so hard to 
understand.  Your counselor explained that many sighted people can’t understand what he was saying, so it is considered beyond your expected level of comprehension.”

The machine made a slight whirring noise.  “Let’s read this instead,” said the machine, “Twilight Passion.”

“But that’s a romance novel,” I replied with disgust, “why should I read that?”

“Your counselor explained that you need to work on social development, on cultural integration.  Experts agree that blind men often have problems in normal social situations.”

“Ok,” I conceded.  I was going to have a long talk with my counselor.

About two hours into the book, we got to a sweaty love scene.  

“Doesn’t that just make you want to cuddle?” the machine purred.

“It makes me want to puke!” Jane exclaimed entering the room.  “What’s with this Jake, shouldn’t you be reading for class?”

“Jake needs to work on his social development,” the machine said.  “It’s something his agency covers extensively in its SITE program.”

“OK,” said Jane, “that explains a lot.  I keep forgetting that some agencies don’t get it about blind folks.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The SITE program,” she continued.  It’s horrible.  Blind guys sit around for nine months just listening to reading machines.  When they get out, the best job they’re qualified for is in a sheltered workshop,” Jane continued.

“You would help your social development if you stayed away from radicals who run around badmouthing agencies,” the machine chided.  Had I naught known better, I’d have said it was angry.

“Well,” retorted Jane, “when you get tired of that, give me a call.  In the meantime, put some headphones on; if people hear you reading that garbage, they’ll think you’re a freak.”

After the reading session, I called up my counselor.

“Hello,” said Mrs. Cudd, “who’s there?”

“It’s Jake.  I’ve got a problem.”  I explained what had happened with my reading machine.  “So, you see, it won’t read the books I need.”

“Is your mother there?” Mrs. Cudd asked?  “You should really have her with you when you’re making important decisions.”

“My folks went on a vacation in California,” I explained.  “It’s a second honeymoon, since I’m not in the house, they felt they could take the time.”

“That’s very irresponsible of them,” Mrs. Cudd said testily. “They should understand that they still need to take care of you.  Oh well, since they aren’t here, I’ll explain.  With the latest system upgrade, we can communicate directly with your reader.”

“That’s cool and all, but I’ve still got a problem,” I replied.

“You should understand,” my counselor said, “that college is not just about learning a trade, it’s also about getting a well-rounded education and the appropriate social skills.”

“The book the machine’s reading is about a girl with a crush on a vampire,” I explained wondering, for the first time, about Mrs. Cudd’s social development.  “Are you sure that this is going to give me any of the social skills you’re talking about?  This doesn’t seem to be the sort of thing I’ll need after college.”

“Trust me,” replied the counselor, “it’s what enlightened sighted people are reading; if you read things like this, you’ll understand the sighted world better.”

Suddenly, I heard the rustling of plastic.

“Is there a problem?” the reading machine asked as it came to life.

“Good,” said Mrs. Cudd, “why don’t you join us.  You see,” the counselor continued, “the new system upgrade allows the machine to automatically switch itself on when you need it.”

“And you won’t have to push my buttons,” the machine said, “that is, unless you want to.”

“Sure,” I said handing the phone to the reading machine, “go ahead and discuss this without me.”  I realized that whatever I said now would make no difference at all.

After the phone call, I turned off the machine and went for a walk.  While leaving the room, I knocked over a half-empty beer can from last night’s football party.  I started cleaning up the stale beer and realized that my roommate was going to do better than me in school even though he partied every night.  It wasn’t fair!

I’d always been a good, if not model, student.  I’d always followed directions from my parents, teachers, counselors, and all my sighted friends.  I’d never disobeyed, or even argued.  This had always worked, at least until now; now, I was in a mess I couldn’t obey my way out of.

I had an epiphany then, if I wanted to be successful, I was going to have to fight for myself; my folks could help, but I had to take charge of my life.  I started by making a phone call.

“Jane,” I said when she picked up, “I have a question.”

“Sure,” she said.  “What is it?”

“If you’re having problems in a class caused by your technology, what do you do about it?”

“Usually,” Jane replied, “I go to my professor and work something out.”

“Thanks.  I’ll call him now,” I said preparing to hang up.

“Hey,” said Jane, “it sounds like you’re new to this.  If you’d like, I’ll meet you at the professor’s office.  Afterward, we can have dinner and talk about how to deal with blindness.”

“Thanks,” I said with relief.  “I’d like that a lot.”

……

I met Jane by the modern art statue—the one with the man trying to gnaw his arm off—in front of the social sciences building and took the elevator to the Political Science department.  The secretary, noticing Jane’s cane, said, “I have to warn you, Dr. Locksworthy keeps a messy office; there’s paperwork all over the floor, so mind where you step.”

“Thanks,” said Jane.  “I’ll be careful.”

“Also,” the secretary continued, “he smokes a pipe; be careful when reaching for things.”

“Thanks for the warning,” said Jane, “but isn’t this a no smoking building?”

“You know how it is with established professors,” said the secretary, “he teaches the law, obeying it is someone else’s department.”

“He teaches pre-law,” I explained.  “He’s a bit full of himself but he’s a really smart.”

“You know where his room is Jake,” the secretary said, “go on back.”

“Hello,” said Dr. Locksworthy.  “Come on in.  You’ll have to pardon the mess, but this great institute of higher learning believes in small offices unless you’re the football coach.”

I helped Jane through the clutter on the floor to one of the chairs.  I took the other.

“My problem is with my research project,” I began nervously, “my reading system won’t read the required material.”

“Why’s that?” asked the professor. “I wouldn’t think that a reading system could tell you what to read.”

“It didn’t” I explained, “then it got upgraded.  Now, it has some sort of intelligent operating system that tells me what I’m supposed to read.”

“Why didn’t you get a closed circuit reading machine or one of the new machines that scans text?” he asked.  “I would think that they would be less expensive and less trouble.”

“The way my counselor explained it, they have a sole source contract.  That’s what they can provide.  Besides, my counselor thinks it’s the greatest thing since….”  I heard the all too familiar rustling noise.  “In fact, you can see it in action,” I continued.

“What the Hell!” exclaimed Dr. Locksworthy.  “Is that your machine?  It looks like some green creature from a bad movie.”

“I didn’t realize it was green,” said Jane.

“My counselor explained that if it was green we wouldn’t find it attractive in the wrong way.”

“So, a blind guy will not find an inflatable reading machine attractive if it’s green,” Jane scoffed.  “The ideas some folks get about us just boggle the mind.”

“Why don’t you tell that girl to leave so we can get down to business,” said the machine as it moved toward my lap.

“She really is attached to her job,” I said.

“That thing has to go Jake,” Jane said.  “Otherwise, you’ll be ruined by your agencies’ vampire ideas.”

Just then, the machine tripped on a pile of legal journals on the floor and stumbled into the 
professor’s desk.  His pipe, which lay on a stack of tests he was grading, flew into the air showering the reader with tobacco.  I smelled the reek of burning plastic and heard the fizzing of circuitry giving up the ghost.

“Hey,” said the secretary running into the office, “someone saw a green monster in your office, and, oh my, it’s on fire!”  I’ll get the extinguisher,” she exclaimed running back to her desk.

“I’m sorry that your machine is ruined,” said the professor “even if it wasn’t working for you.”

My mind turned to the terrifying thought of what gizmo my agency would get for me next.

“How would you like to come to our Braille class?” Jane asked.  “Afterword, we can discuss advocacy.”

“Sounds better than a vampire romance with a reading machine,” I replied.  “You’re on.”

***

Walking by Inner Vision by Lynda McKinney Lambert: A Book Review
by Beckie Anne Porter

[Editor’s Note: Posted on 5/1/2017 by Beckie Porter. Published on The Write Stuff July 24, by Marcia Meara] 

Celebrating our successes as visually impaired people is an essential step on the journey to healing. Peer advisor, Lynda McKinney Lambert knows this firsthand.

Celebrating in a Memorable Way
After profound vision loss in 2007 due to Ischemic Optic Neuropathy, Lynda did not use a computer for almost two years. When she finally did relearn her way around the computer with the help of adaptive technology, she decided to celebrate in a memorable way. She started a blog.

Lynda’s blog, “Walking by Inner Vision,” grew and grew over a seven-year period. Last year, she decided to collect her stories and poems in a delightful book by the same name.

Walking by Inner Vision: Stories & Poems is Lynda’s second book. The first, Concerti: Psalms for the Pilgrimage, was published in 2003 by Kota Press.

Into the Mind of the Artist
Lynda is an artist and a retired professor of fine arts and humanities from Geneva College. Her artistic background permeates her writing in an unmistakable style, painting word pictures and setting vivid scenes. Her black and white photography accompanies several stories and adds to the visual appeal.

“This book takes readers into the mind of an artist, how we work in layers, seeing connections between history, philosophy, psychology, and nature. It’s the artist’s job to tell the things others don’t notice. We see nuances and fragments—these things spark the mind,” Lynda said.

Walking by Inner Vision is arranged as a year-long pilgrimage from January through December. Each month begins with a poem and reflects the happenings unique to its time and place. For example, in “March Arrived Like a Capricious Cat,” she speaks of the changeable nature of late winter in her native Western Pennsylvania.

“Glass wind chimes
hang
immovable
stiff
shrouded in new snow.
March arrived like a capricious cat
crouched—hunkered down, bent over
spring-loaded, squat
Changeable!”

Viewing a World of Beauty with Vision Loss
Throughout the 16 poems and 27 essays, Lynda views her world through the lens of beauty even in the midst of vision loss.

“I want to give people a strand of hope to hold on to,” Lynda said. Her personal Christian faith provides the anchor for her own hope and optimism. 

Lynda draws on her wealth of experiences to offer the reader a treasure chest of reading variety. While some stories are light and humorous (“A Wintry Tale”), others are poignant, like the story of her mother’s last family gathering and ensuing struggle with Alzheimer’s (“The Living Room”).

Regardless of the form—free verse or creative non-fiction—one thing remains consistent: lingering images stay with the reader long after the book is finished. They have been taken into the world of Lynda’s inner vision. And all is well. The artist has done her job.

BLURB:
This book is the dream-come-true of Pennsylvania artist, author and Professor of Fine Arts and Humanities, Lynda McKinney Lambert.

Through her poetry and creative non-fiction essays, Lynda invites her readers into her personal world of imagination, faith, beauty, travels, music and more. Since her retirement from her teaching career in 2008, she writes full-time in her century-old rural western Pennsylvania home where she has lived for over ½ a century with her husband, Bob.

In her books and her art works, she takes strands from ancient mythology, history, and contemporary life and weaves a richly textured new fabric using images that are seen and unseen. 

Lynda’s first book is Concerti: Psalms for the Pilgrimage. This collection of poems, historical notes and reflections was written over several years as she lived and taught courses in Austria every summer. Her students came from all over the country to be in her classes. Her course, “Drawing and Writing in Salzburg,” took students on daily excursions in a variety of places in Austria. Students travelled with Lambert to locations in Austria, Italy, Czech Republic, and Germany during a month-long sojourn. Lynda kept journals each summer and the stories and poems in her book were inspired by her journaling.

In her newest book, Walking by Inner Vision: Stories & Poems she takes us on a year-long journey through the seasons. The book opens in the month of January. She takes readers through each month, with a final destination at the end of December.

Author Lynda McKinney Lambert
Lynda is a diverse and creative writer, author and visual artist who has earned degrees in fine arts and literature. She worked at Geneva College, Beaver Falls, PA as Professor of Fine Arts & Humanities. She lectured in art history, and a variety of special topics in contemporary literature with an emphasis on modern/post-modern poetry and writers.

In addition, she taught studio arts courses in a variety of genre in art.

What is remarkable about her personal and professional history is that she went back to the university to pursue her degrees, at the age of forty-two. She and her husband, Bob, had nearly completed raising their 5 children, and Lynda decided it was time for her to return to her passions in art and literature. Over a period of only 9 years, she earned all 3 of her degrees, at universities in 2 different states. During those 9 years of full-time studies, she also taught courses at a community college and summer art programs for children at a local art museum. During her graduate work at West Virginia University in Morgantown, WV. Lynda began submitting her poems to publishers and immediately began her career as a published poet in her first year at grad school with that first publication she was hooked on pursuing her career of poetry and publications.

In 2017, Lynda had over 140 publications of her essays and poetry published in literary magazines, anthologies, blogs, and print books. 

Her academic degrees are:
BFA in Painting from Slippery Rock University of PA, 1989.
MFA in Painting from West Virginia University, 1991.
MA in English Literature from Slippery Rock University of PA, 1994. 

At the time when she was offered a tenure track position at Geneva College, she was serving as executive director of the Hoyt Institute of Fine arts, New Castle, PA from 1993 – 1996.

When she accepted a tenure track position at Geneva College, Beaver Falls, PA, she began her teaching career in the fall of 1996. She taught courses in English Literature, Humanities, and Fine Arts during her years at Geneva College. She retired in 2008 from teaching and has been writing and making art full-time since her retirement.

Lynda’s career has taken her around the world. She was included in international exhibitions in the U.S., Japan, Austria, New Guinea. She was selected by the U.S. Department of State for the Arts in Embassies program and her wood-cut prints were on display at the U.S. Embassy in Paupau, New Guinea. Another notable recognition in 2017-8 was her nomination for the Skirt Best-of-the-Net Award for an essay, “Knitting a Life Back Together,” nominated by Spirit Fire Review. SFR published non-fiction essay and selected it for this nomination.

In 1991, Lynda’s wood-cut prints were chosen as 1 of 8 U. S. printmakers invited to the international exhibition – The Osaka Triennale (Japan). Her unique prints and paintings were shown all over the U.S. in traveling exhibitions and in invitational shows. She still actively exhibits her art work. She exhibits her art for over 40 years in museums and galleries. 

Since her sight loss, she began creating mixed-media fiber art in her River Road Studio, which was established in 1976. She has won over 100 awards for her art. Currently, Lynda writes two blogs. She began blogging in December 2009, 2 years after her profound sight loss. Her writing appears on numerous blogs as a guest blogger and as a featured writer. She garners many awards for her writing throughout the year. 

Lynda’s poem, “Red December,” was a winner in the Proverse Poetry Prize Anthology, Mingled Voices #2, published in Hong Kong. In 2018, Lynda completed two manuscripts that are now ready to be published and she is beginning to let potential publishers know of her desire to have them published. FIRST: Lynda completed her first chapbook, first snow, a collection of “little poems” with a wintry theme. It is a collection of SIXTEEN poems. SECOND: she completed her next full-length book, Star Signs: New & Selected Poems, which contains 60 original poems.

Buy Walking by Inner Vision on Amazon. 

***

Night Dreams
by Jaqueline Williams

[Editor’s Note: This poem took third place in the Writers' Division 2018 adult poetry contest]

I stroke the gentle velvet of your cheek,
your head cupped hard against my chest,
for you my strong and steady arms.
Slow rise of tenderness, and passion deep,
I rock you gently side to side—
pressed fiercely to the length of me.

My Dear, I cannot turn you loose for sleep,
or midnight milestone, or ascending dawn.
My bed holds fast to draw me deeply toward the haven of the love we knew.

The magic of these hours spent with you
are building blocks for my tomorrow’s face.
From moments such as these I find 
a rare reality to meet the morning’s light
without the you I knew.

***

Snowball the Matchmaker
by Kerry Elizabeth Thompson

[Editor’s Note: In the summer issue of S&S we published the first story in the series: Snowball the Wonder Cat. Now, for the pur-fect conclusion.]

This story takes place some six weeks after the events of “Snowball the Wonder Cat,” which won First Prize in the NFB Writers' Division Fiction Contest for 2007.

Snowball liked to come in the bathroom with me and keep me company while I washed. I noticed her now, jumping up to sit on the toilet seat with its fuzzy pink cover, as I finished brushing my teeth. 

I’d been bouncing all morning, and could hardly stop smiling long enough to rinse and spit. My reflection returned the grin. The sun was shining, and there had been a check for First Prize in the NFB Writers Division’s Fiction Contest in the mail. All was right with the world, my corner of it anyway. 

Maybe I felt a little too buoyant? Holding up the veterinarian-recommended toothbrush and toothpaste from the overpriced but irresistible pet catalogue I asked, “Shall we brush your teeth now, Kitty?”

She bared her teeth – they didn’t usually look so much like fangs, did they? – and said in her most dangerous purr, “You can try.”

I retreated hastily. “Er, maybe I’ll take a shower now,”

“That’s a good i-de-urrr,” Snowball agreed. She curled up with the tip of her tail touching her nose, once more the picture of feline placidity. I sighed. It really was true. You didn’t own the cat; the cat owned you.

It’s also true that there’s nothing better in life... Well, there are few things better in life than sudsy hot water running down your back. OK, Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk is better; and kissing is better, if the guy is a good kisser. I sighed, reaching for the grip bar. Kit had been a great boyfriend in lots of ways and I missed him, but he had left something to be desired in the kissing department.

I wrung out the facecloth and hung it up. Then, as always, I delayed for just another moment shutting off the water. It was so warm and soothing. I wasn’t one of those women who felt incomplete without a man in her life. Far from it. Women of that kind roused in me both pity and contempt. Still, being twenty-six years old with no one but a cat in your life, even a super smart talking cat, did feel less than optimal.

I got out and toweled off, my bounce to the ounce having drained away with the shampoo lather. Checks were all very well, my bank account certainly appreciated them, but what I needed was something to do...a project. I eyed the large bath towel in my hand. It was a garish shade of pink but otherwise unremarkable. No inspiration there.

Snowball was sitting in the sink. “A towel,” she observed, “Is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have.”

I laughed, pulling on my bathrobe as we recited together the rest of the entry on towels in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams, my favorite book. My cat could always pull me out of a funk. 

I scooped her up to carry her back into the bedroom and kissed the top of her head. “You’re a good kitty,” I told her, “a little damp, but a good kitty.”

Stretching, she laid a paw on my shoulder. “I’m a wondurrr cat, remember?” she reminded me, her big, round eyes a contented green.

Since she was in such a good mood and since the weather was warm and fine, I decided we should go for a walk. So, I buckled Snowball into her harness, which Kit had said looked like a sled dog’s harness (as if he knew any more about sled dogs than I did), and attached the lead. Snowball was very good during this process, standing still and refraining from comment. That should have tipped me off that she was up to something. But I had to get myself ready to go out too, and the warning signs floated right past me.

Threading a sturdy leather belt through the belt loops of my favorite jeans, I attached the holster for my white cane, so that it hung at my side like a short sword. It wasn’t exactly Excalibur, but having it to hand bolstered my confidence even though I didn’t expect to use it. Then, I pulled a windbreaker with my alma mater’s crest over the heart on over my hot pink T-shirt. This was Massachusetts. However lovely the weather might be at the moment, experience had taught me, I’d need a jacket if I didn’t have one. 

It took a while to find my keys. Mom had given me a key locator, but since I didn’t see it on a cursory glance around the living room and couldn’t remember where I’d left it, that wasn’t much help. Finally finding the keys exactly where they were supposed to be – I could have sworn they weren’t there the first time I looked! – I dropped them into my pocket and Called Snowball.  

She was at the apartment door, standing on her back paws, stretching and trying to reach the doorknob in her eagerness to go out. She didn’t have a chance of reaching it. But, that never discouraged her from trying.

“OK, I’m ready now,” I said, reeling in the lead and opening the door. “Let’s go!”

We weren’t going anywhere in particular, or so I thought. So, I let Snowball lead me through the hallways and stairwells of our small apartment building (She didn’t like elevators), and out onto the streets of our small and, so I was told, picturesque town. I knew that I enjoyed looking around, but “picturesque” was beyond my visual competence.

We meandered in companionable silence through the quiet streets, soaking up the rays, and eventually ending up on the town common. This was a lovingly maintained piece of parkland with a baseball diamond at one end. Snowball set off confidently towards her favorite bench under the eves of a tiny copse.

Because I was distracted by a couple of children playing with a big red dog – an Irish Setter? - I didn’t realize till we came right up to the bench that it was occupied. A man was sitting there, a big man with dark hair, reading a paperback with a brightly colored cover. I stopped, confused. But Snowball was undaunted. To my horror, she went right up to the man and rubbed against his legs.

“Snowball!” I gasped.

He looked up from his book and glanced around. He must have been puzzled. I would have been, in his place. In a moment he spotted my cat and bent to tickle her ears. “Hi there,” he said. What a voice! On the low end of tenor, rich and full like the deep gold of honey. “Taking your person for a walk?” he asked her. She meowed demurely.

“Snowball!” I exclaimed. “You know better than to bother a stranger.”

Then I looked up. He’d risen and taken a step towards me. I wasn’t, I reminded myself, a judge of such things, but it seemed to me, that smile was a knockout, and those dark eyes.

“She isn’t bothering me,” he said. “I’m Ross, by the way, Ross Perelli.”

I stared at his proffered hand for a moment before summoning up the courage to take it. “Cassie Clark,” I said faintly. Dear Lord, let me not be goggling! It wasn’t as though I’d never seen a guy before! But that smile...

His handclasp was firm but gentle, his skin rough though not deeply callused.  I guessed he regularly worked on a car or motorcycle, or played guitar.

As if he could read my mind he turned my hand over in his and said, “I’m an amateur palmist. Let me have a look. I blushed. Kit always said I had pretty hands. Did Ross think so too? Or, maybe this was just the pickup line he used on every girl he met who wasn’t wearing an engagement or wedding ring.

He ran a finger along one of the lines in my palm. “Nice, long lifeline,” he observed. I smiled. That sounded good. He traced another line. His touch tickled, but it felt nice. “And a strong loveline, I see.”

Looking up into his face I asked shyly, “Loveline?”

Snowball sneezed.

He laughed and squeezed my hand. Forget kissing! Holding his hand was better than hot showers and Super Fudge Chunk put together!

“Sorry about that,” he said. “I don’t know if there is a loveline, but there ought to be one, especially for someone as pretty as you.”

OK, it was a line. I could still let it warm me. The sun had to go down, but you could bask in it while it was shining.

“Thank you,” I said. Then, idiotically, “You’re nice.”

“Thank you,” he said. He sounded like he meant it. I’m not often told that.”

I blinked. “You’re not?”

“No. Usually girls say, ‘You’re so handsome’ or ‘You look just like Tom Cruise, only taller.’ Most girls, well, seem pretty shallow. And, they aren’t interested in going below my surface either. So it’s refreshing to be told I’m nice.”

My blush returned and I looked down at my loafers. “I don’t know if you look like Tom Cruise,” I said hesitantly.  “I don’t see well enough to know something like that.”

“Oh,” he said, I’m sorry.” I brace for the rejection or, worse, the uncomfortable, self-conscious pity that often came when someone found out I was partially sighted.  But Ross’s tone and body language didn’t signal rejection. Instead, he squeezed my hand again and said, “I didn’t mean to upset you, or say something insensitive.”

Holy smokes! Looks to match Tom Cruise’s (I might not be fully sighted, but I had a pretty good idea of the caliber of gorgeousness involved), beautiful voice, wonderful hands AND a kind, thoughtful disposition? He was sent from above!

“You didn’t say anything insensitive,” I assured him. “Some people see well, some don’t. I don’t, that’s all. You couldn’t have known.”

I blushed yet again. He would have known if I’d been using my cane instead of just carrying it. What an idiot. Reluctantly withdrawing my hand from his, I reached for the holster at my belt.

“Are you packing heat?” he asked, sounding amused rather than alarmed.

I shuddered. “What? Me? No!” I drew Excalibur. “This is my folding white cane. See?” I unfolded it.

“I see. May I?” Nodding, I handed him the cane. He took it in his left hand, lightly grasped my wrist with his right and said, “Let’s sit down and be comfortable.” I allowed him to draw me to sit beside him. Snowball sat down with her back against my ankle. I felt warm and protected and totally content.

Ross examined the cane, asking intelligent questions and showing a lot more interest in Orientation and Mobility than Kit had ever displayed. At last, he folded the cane deftly, as if he’d been doing it for years, and handed it back. Knowing that if I didn’t do so at once I’d forget and possibly lose the cane, I holstered it.

“So,” he asked, “why are you wearing it like a six shooter rather than using it in approved fashion?”

“My totally blind friends get on my case about that,” I answered, not quite squirming. “But, well, I know my way around and, anyway, when I have Snowball on the lead it gets really awkward.” I hesitated. Then, not knowing why, I blinked hard at the grass in front of my toes and blurted the real reason. “Besides, Kit never liked it. Said it made him nervous, always feeling like I was about to skewer him.”

A curious, half-challenging, half-wistful note entered Ross’s voice as he asked, “And who’s Kit that what he thinks should deter you from using a valuable tool?”

I stared without seeing the grass. “My, my ex-boyfriend.”

“Ex?” Somehow, he filled the hard-edged syllable with gentleness. His hand came down softly over mine.

I swallowed and mumbled, “He had kind of a strong influence on me.” Snowball growled and pounced with unnecessary vigor on an inoffensive dandelion. I smiled a little. “Snowball didn’t like him.” Ross reached down and gently pulled the end of Snowball’s tail, but he made no comment.

Never one to hide her feelings, Snowball purred. Then she got up on the bench and settled herself beside me. But, before Ross and I could resume our conversation, she sat up and started to growl in earnest. I had a pretty good idea it wasn’t because Ross and I were getting along so well. So I rubbed her ear and asked, “What is it, Kitty?” She didn’t move her nose from where it was pointed, but her ear twitched under my fingers.

I groaned. “She must see Kit somewhere.”

Ross scanned the extent of park spread before us. “The only guys I see are two who are obviously a couple, and an elderly gentleman, very distinguished looking, with two kids, maybe ten and eight who must be his grandchildren, and a pretty Irish Setter.” It was an Irish Setter. I smiled, pleased with myself.

Ross paused. Then, leaning over me, he sited along Snowballs pink nose. “Ah, got it. Carrot top coming in at 4:00.”

I didn’t bother to look. “Reminds you of a grownup Ron Weezley?”

Ross gave a yelp of laughter. “Hey, I always liked Ron.”

“Me too. I haven’t been able to reread the Harry Potter books since...” I swallowed.

Ross put his arms around me. It was like suddenly walking into a home I’d never known I had. “What a fool,” he said. I blinked in confusion. He was looking past me, and I realized he must mean Kit. He looked at me and smiled. “Any man who would leave you must be a fool,” he said softly. “But it’s all right, Cassie. Kit isn’t going to hurt you any more.”

And then, and then!

Glory and stars, but kissing Ross was wonderful! 

I was a little dizzy and we were both out of breath when he raised his head. His eyes were bright. Bright dark eyes? What a lovely conundrum. Ross smiled, putting a hand up to stroke my hair. That felt nice too. Sighing contentedly, I closed my eyes. Love at first sight. Who knew it could really happen? And, who knew it could happen to someone who was partially sighted?

Abruptly, Ross paused in mid-stroke. He swore under his breath. “Bloody Hell! Carrot Top coming in for a landing. Is he an insensitive swine as well as a stupid jerk?”

I smiled faintly. “He isn’t either of those things, not really.”

Snowball’s growl changed, becoming not so much louder as deeper, an almost subsonic rumble, that shook the bench. Kit had arrived.

I turned and looked at him from the safety of Ross’s arms. He had stopped several paces away. I wondered why he didn’t step closer until I looked at Snowball. She sat as still as a statue except for that low, continuous growl. Her fur was fluffed out so she seemed half again her normal size. Her teeth definitely looked like fangs, and her eyes were as red as stoplights. I couldn’t blame Kit for keeping a safe distance.

“Hello, Cassie,” he said diffidently.

“Hello, Kit.” I didn’t meet his eyes. He was too far away for me to make eye contact. Well, OK, I probably could have made eye contact if I’d really wanted to, and really tried. I didn’t. 

For a moment the only sound was Snowball’s ongoing growl.

Kit said at last, “How are you keeping yourself?” Apparently, he had decided to ignore the hunk wrapped around me.

“Pretty well, and you?”

“Oh,” he said with a not quite successful attempt at airiness, “nothing to complain about.”

“That’s good.”

He paused again. A wisp of cloud passed across the sun and was gone. Ross shifted slightly, drawing me closer.

“So,” Kit said, “are you going to introduce me to your new boyfriend?” He sounded not jealous, but forlorn. 

He dumped you, remember? I reminded myself. And, he really is sort of a jerk. After all, who walks straight up to his ex-girlfriend when she’s kissing somebody else?

“Sure,” I said, allowing myself to smile and making the effort to meet his eyes. “I’ll introduce you.” 

Turning to my cat, I laid a calming hand on her head. “Shush, Kitty. It’s OK.” She maintained the growl long enough to let me know she was stopping because she had decided it was safe to do so, not because I asked her to do so. Then she jumped onto the back of the bench and started to groom her tail.

I took Ross’s hand and we stood up. “Ross,” I said, looking at Kit. “This is Kit McClain. Kit, Ross Perelli.” Ross stepped forward to shake hands.

Kit demurred. “Ross Perelli?” he asked, sounding deeply impressed. “The Ross Perelli?”

“No,” Ross said, amused, “just a Ross Perelli. Haven’t you heard? I come in six packs.

Behind me, Snowball purred. He’s a Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy fan, I thought, fairly bubbling with excitement. How much more perfect can he get?

Kit goggled. “My ex-girlfriend is going out with the lead guitarist of Skunk Grass Cabin?”

Skunk Grass Cabin? Dear Lord! Had I fallen in love with the next Kurt Cobain?

Not for the first time, I wondered if Snowball could read my mind. She jumped down to the seat of the bench and from there onto my shoulder. Wrapping her fluffy tail around my neck like a muffler she leant in close and whispered, “It’s a Folk-Rock Group.” It is a measure of how accustomed I had become to my cat’s remarkable abilities that it didn’t occur to me either to doubt her or to wonder how she knew about a band I had never heard of.

Ross stepped back to my side and put a protective arm around me. “That’s right,” he said. The amusement had left his voice, and the friendliness. “Only, she isn’t your ex-girlfriend any more. She’s my girlfriend.”

My heart went crazy thumping and my knees turned weak. I leant against Ross and thought, My boyfriend is a Folk musician. That’s way cooler than a computer programmer.

The two of them must have done some guy thing, the battle of the Vulcan stares, or something because after a moment Kit said, “Yes, Sir.” I did feel sorry for him then, just a little, for a moment.

After another uncomfortable pause Kit said, “Well. See you around, Cassie.” Without waiting for a response, he walked away.

I looked after him with a mixture of regret and relief, and wondered wryly how much Ross knew about fixing computers. On the whole, though, the relief outweighed the regret. As Ross drew me down to sit beside him again and a sudden puff of breeze rustled the trees, blowing my hair across his shoulder, I was able to form, and really mean, the hope that Kit would find the right girl for him sometime soon.

Ross began idly playing with my hair; twisting one strand after another around his fingers and letting it slip between them. I’d never liked being a blonde. I wasn’t dumb or sexy, and I did not have more fun. But it looked as though he was playing with stray strands of sunlight, and that made me smile.

We did seem well suited. He did seem like a gift from above, but I had to be sure. Sighing I said, “Ross, there’s something you need to know if, since you’re going to be part of my life.”

“A deep, dark secret, eh?” he asked, smiling.

“I shook my head. “Not exactly, only...”

“Well, let’s see.” He raised his hand to stroke my cheek. “ You have an ex-boyfriend who’s a jerk.”

“He can’t help that,” I protested. “He’s a computer geek.”

“Should have guessed. Though that’s not something Ron Weezley would be likely to grow up to be.”

I giggled. Probably not.”

“What else? You have a cat.” 

Troubled, I followed his gaze. Snowball was washing her face, apparently paying no attention to us. “Yes,” I said hesitantly, “and...”

“What do you do, by the way?” Ross asked, returning his full attention to me. “You know that I play in a Folk-Rock band, more Folk than Rock mostly. But, how about you?” He paused. “You’re an angel sent to me from Heaven,” he said with a curious mix of matter-of-factness and awe. “But, I imagine even an angel has to have a job nowadays.”

An angel? No one had called me that since Gramma Kennedy died when I was seven. Besides, he was the gift from above. I smiled. Maybe that was part of being in love, each thinking the other heaven sent.

“I’m a writer,” I said, and pause. “Well, at least...”

“Ah, you’re a writer in the same way I’m a musician. It’s what you love, but it doesn’t put food on the table.” I nodded. He went on, I work at a bookshop to keep body and soul together.”

“That sounds perfect,” I said, for the first time remembering his abandoned paperback. I looked around to see it face down on the bench beside us. I recognized the cover as the same as one of my commercial audiobooks, Stranger In A Strange Land. Turning back to Ross I asked, “Where do you work?”

“The Frigate.”

“The new place on Mulberry Street? I haven’t been in there, but it’s a wonderful name.”

“You think so? Lots of people don’t get it.”

“You’re kidding!” I quoted softly:

“There is no frigate like a book 
To take us lands away,
Nor any corsair like a page 
of prancing poetry.

This traverse may the poorest take 
Without oppressive toll.
How frugal is the chariot 
That bears the human soul.”

I added, “I’ve loved those lines since I was a child, though I’m not a fan of Emily Dickinson in general.”

“They are lovely lines,” Ross agreed. “It’s no surprise a writer would like them.

“You should come in sometime; it’s a nice shop. I think you’d like the owners, Cindy and Tom.” He grinned. “They have a cat who looks just like Snowball except that he’s jet black. They call him Darth Vader, of course.”

I glanced at Snowball and back to Ross. Surely he would understand. “That’s what I need to talk to you about,” I said hesitantly.

“Darth Vader?” he asked in surprise.

I couldn’t help smiling. “No, Snowball.” Saying her name renewed my uneasiness.

Ross picked up on it. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said. “I like cats. And Snowball seems like a very nice cat.”

“She is,” I said a little desperately. “She, well, she’s special.”

“Sure she is, very special.”

“No, you don’t understand.” I turned away in frustration. “And you won’t believe me.”

He asked gently, “Do people often not believe you? Was Kit -” He paused. “Was Kit in the habit of not believing you?”

I sighed. “I never tried to explain this to Kit.”

Ross’s voice became almost husky. “But you want to explain it to me?”

“Yes, only... Oh, drat it all!” I turned to my cat. “You tell him.”

“I,” Snowball said in her high, clear voice, “am a wondurrr cat.”

Ross turned slowly to stare at her. “Say what?”

“I’m a wondurrr cat,” she repeated patiently. She stared at him with her big, green eyes to drive the point home. Then, she started unconcernedly licking her left paw.

“Oh,” Ross said.

Sick apprehension knotting in my chest, I watched him. Please, Lord, let him not be totally weirded out!

As he faced me and grasped my hands, I realized with a great, giddy rush of relief that he was laughing. “A wonder cat, huh? Why should I be surprised? Naturally, my wonder girl has a wonder cat.”

As I raised my head to protest, “Me? A wonder girl?” Snowball started purring to beat the band. And then I forgot what I’d been about to say, because Ross was kissing me.

***

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