SLATE and STYLE: The Magazine of the NFB Writers' Division 
Editor: Shelley J. Alongi
Poetry Editor: Barbara Hammel

Spring, 2019 

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Editor's Musings Shelley J. Alongi
Notes from the President Myrna Badgerow 
NFB Writers' Division 2019 Contest Guidelines
The Baloon Blower Part 1 Anthony R. Candella 
Beyond the Backdrop: Mastering Setting in Fiction Sarah van Arsdale Writer Magazine  
Snow Ice Cream Jo Elizabeth Pinto
Mending, Helga Kidder 
Bearing the Light Helga Kidder
Tumbleweed Shawn D. Jacobson
Stiff Competition Prologue Patricia Hubschman
An Unconventional Love Barbara Irvin
Member Feature Shelley J Alongi 
Writers' Resource Shelley J Alongi
Slate and Style Submission Guidelines
Join the Division

NOTE: An astrisk *** separates articles. To quickly go to the next article search for ***. We are making formatting changes in the future so please be patient as we improve each issue. ENJOY!
***

Editor's Musings
by Shelley J. Alongi

winter is slowly turning to spring across the country. azalias and weeds poke their tiny heads up from a timid frozen ground and then disappear again when the last of the freezes settles over whatever region hosts them. IN our section of the country this is the case. The weather prognosticators say March temperatures in north Texas are running cooler than average and I'll take it. The stifling heat of summer in north Texas can hold off as long as it wishes. After days of temperatures in the twenties, and that's warm in some parts of the country, there is no end of days where walking is not welcome. During the small transitional spring I am sometimes the lone walker in this small town and I'll take that, too. It is pure pleasure enjoying the sometimes brisk breezes and sometimes kinder and gentler sunshhine and air and comfortable temperatures. I know I shall have to acclimate myself once again to the warmer weather, soon. 
The kittens frolick, the new neighbors let their small dogs out in the back yard which abutts mine, the cats stake out their territory then come into the house if a bit reluctantly, always happy to lay claim to a warm blanket, a lap, a bowl of gravy-drenched delights, a treat box, a night crazy not in the middle of the night. The warm bed calls, the book sings in the background, sometimes the baseball announcer drones on cozily, the cat cuddles at the feet, the refrigerator clicks on and off, the quiet night settles in; perhaps this is the best time to pick up the spring issue and read stories about love, questions about God and life, poems about understanding, nature, and an old-fashioned who-done-it mystery. The weather changes, editing staff for Slate and Style changes, we seek new members, new writing experiences and you, the readers, create and travel and experience and store up your impressions for publication. Here is our rich issue. Enjoy and Keep Dreaming! 
***

Notes from the President
by Myrna Badgerow
Welcome to the spring issue of Slate and Style. I hope all of you are surviving the weather. Mother Nature needs to take hormones, her menopause is crazy. I'm sure we'd all like the weather to calm down so we can get on with life. 
	We are waiting for your entries into our 2019 writing contest. Remember the contest closes on April 30 2019. The guidelines are printed below. Good luck to all.  
***

2019 NFB Writers' Division Contest Guidelines 

The annual youth and adult writing contests sponsored by the NFB Writers’ Division will open February  1st and close April 30th for all aspiring writers whether blind, sighted or visually impaired. 

Adult contest categories are: short Fiction, nonfiction including personal essay and memoir, and poetry.

Youth contest categories are: Short fiction and poetry. The youth contest is divided into three groups, determined by grade level – elementary, 1st through 4th grade, middle, 5th through 8th grade, and high school 9th through 12th grade. 
As always, in both adult and youth contests, there may be up to three prize winners (1st, 2nd, 3rd), and one or more receiving honorable mention. Additionally, a prize winning entry may be published within the Writers’ Division’s magazine, Slate & Style. 
All contest winners will be announced during the June Writers' Division telephone gathering which will occur on Sunday June 23 at 8:00 eastern, 7:00 PM central, 6:00 Mountain, and 5:00 PM Pacific. Information on contact phone will be provided closer to the date of announcement.
PRIZES 
*Youth contest winners will receive cash and prizes up to $30 for 1st place, $20 for 2nd place, and $10 for 3rd place. 
*Adult contest winners will receive cash and prizes up to $75 for 1st place, $50 for 2nd place, and $25 for 3rd place. 

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

YOUTH CONTESTS
*This is a contest for students who use Braille. 
*If you are 18 years old, or older, you must enter the adult contest.
*Entries must be submitted in hand embossed Braille, either with a slate and stylus or Perkins Braille writer, and there are no exceptions.
*Submissions must be Brailled by the entrant. 
*All submissions, no matter your grade level, must be in contracted Braille. Let us know if you “know” or are “learning” contracted Braille. Additionally, let us know if you have chosen to use UEB, or not.
*Each entrant must provide an identical electronic copy of the cover letter and contest entry as a Microsoft Word file [doc] or as a Rich Text Format [rtf] file).
*Attach the electronic copies to an email and send them to: Myrna Badgerow, at KajunCutie926@aol.com
*Send your hardcopy Braille and cover letter to:
Chelsea Cook
901 Englewood Parkway, Apt. J304, Englewood, CO  80110 

COVER LETTER 
Entries must be accompanied by a cover letter containing the following information for each entrant:
*Your name, mailing address, phone number, and e-mail address. 
*List the titles of all submissions, including the category in which they are being entered.
*List your school and grade level.

ENTRY REQUIREMENTS
*We will consider only unpublished original entries. Please do not submit entries that have been previously submitted on a web site or blog. 
*Youth short fiction stories submissions cannot be more than 1,000 words, and poetry of no more than 50 lines. 
*Authors of either poetry or fiction are encouraged to submit multiple pieces.

Youth ENTRY FEES – None

Are you the best Brailler in the contest? Be sure to double check your work for spelling and grammatical errors. Remember to use Braille paper so the Braille is easy to read. Good luck!

ADULT CONTEST
*This contest is for everyone 18 years old, or older. One need not be blind to enter.
*We will consider only unpublished original entries. Please do not submit entries that have been published on a website or blog.  
*Fiction and nonfiction categories can be of any main stream genre, and cannot exceed 3,000 words. 
*Poetry: We will accept poetry of any length 
*Authors of either poetry and/or prose are encouraged to submit multiple pieces.
*Adults are required to submit all poetry, fiction and nonfiction as attachments to an E-mail message. 
*The attachments must be in either Microsoft Word (doc) or Rich Text Format (rtf). 
*Fiction and nonfiction should be written in a normal prose style, with paragraphs being left justified, lines being single spaced, and having a 14 point font of Aerial, regular. 
* Be sure to double check your work for spelling and grammatical errors
*No hard copy submissions will be accepted.

COVER LETTER 
Along with your entry or entries, include a cover letter providing the following information: 
*Your name, mailing address, phone number, and e-mail address. 
*List the titles of all submissions, including the category in which they are being entered.
*State your method of payment for the entry fee (check or PayPal). 
*Finally, the cover letter could be your e-mail message, or a separate document attached along with your submissions.

CONTEST ENTRY FEES PAYMENT AND METHODS
Adult Fees: 
*The fee for each short story is $15.00 for members and $20.00 for non-members.
*The fee for each nonfiction entry is $15.00 for members and $20.00 for non-members.   
*The base fee for poetry will cover up to three poems, if the combined line-count of all three pieces does not exceed 108 lines - additional poems require a second fee, following the same fee payment scheme. Base fees are $15.00 for members and $20.00 for non-members.

PAYMENT
*You may use PayPal from the Writers’ Division website, http://writers.nfb.org
*Alternatively, you may mail a check made out to NFB Writers’ Division, with a note in the memo line relating to the contest. Send to:

Shawn Jacobson
19541 Olney Mill Rd.
Olney, MD 20832.

*E-mail submissions should be sent to Myrna Badgerow at: KajunCutie926@aol.com
We look forward to seeing your words. 
****

The Balloon Blower Part 1
By Anthony R. Candela
[Editor's Note: This essay will be published in two parts. Stay tuned for the next installment in the summer 2019 issue.]

	Call me agnostic. Walking around in the world as I do, you would think I’d cling to God or some higher power, but I don’t. In fact, as time has gone on, I have found making leaps of faith more difficult. This is probably the reverse of what one might think would happen when one goes blind. After all, losing a tool like eyesight is usually frightening enough to drive anyone to seek solace in a higher power.
	The day was supposed to be mundane. My thoughts were fixed on the here and now and certainly not on the cosmic or the infinite.
	I made my way toward my neighborhood subway station. It was balmy and quiet, a Sunday morning when most people were either sleeping off Saturday night or on their way to church. A subway station certainly was the last place I thought I’d be confronted by the unknowable. There, things tend to be quite mechanistic. Processes and procedures are pretty much embedded into subway-riding culture. Usually the only mystery is whether the trains will come on time or not.
	People often stare at me. Sometimes they look at me with curiosity and sometimes with trepidation. Their perceptions of me are affected by the dangers they think I may not know about or be able to handle. They react to me accordingly, either engaging me in conversation, sometimes offering a helping hand, or quite often I imagine, secretly wishing I wasn’t there. On this day, I received a little help and to my delight, a liberal dose of conversation.
 	My mission was to travel to the far part of the city to help a friend with some chores. The trip that lay ahead of me required two subway lines and a limited (semi-express) bus. It began with a 5 block walk and 5 street-crossings which during morning rush hour require pedestrians to be careful as drivers often build up heads of steam attempting to beat the lights. Today, everything was calm and quiet. I glided seamlessly, almost in a trance as I enjoyed the fluid motion of an easy walk. Out of habit, I breathed a sigh of relief as I reached the station. Ascending the elevated structure, I walked out onto the platform.
	The morning was pleasant; the sun shone and clusters of people quietly talked as they waited for the train.  A mild breeze wafted the length of the platform which I traversed toward a point which would place me in a more advantageous position to transfer to my next train. This is something all Metro aficionados do, but I tend to forget that my platform maneuvers raise the trepidation level among people who might be watching me.
 	An opposite-bound train came in on the far-side tracks. Its loud rumble stopped conversation and made it difficult for me to hear where the people waiting on the platform stood. I slowed my pace and picked my way more carefully.
	A man followed behind, no doubt observing me weaving in and out as I passed various clusters of people. My occasional move toward the platform edge may have spooked him, for his footsteps quickened. He closed in behind me.
	The northbound train departed and regular conversation resumed. The man sidled up to me and said, "God must be conferring something special upon you."
	Turning toward him, having deciphered the reason for his accost, I said, "I hope I am not frightening you.”
This question usually surprises most people, but not this time. Instead of retreating as people do when they don’t receive a humble ‘thank-you’ which is what they expect and want, he took the question in stride. "No," he said. "I am amazed that you can do what you do."
	The man’s sincerity disarmed me. Although gratified by the compliment, over the years such comments have come to feel pro-forma and boring to me. Most people wonder how we avoid injury or even worse. Observing us in dangerous situations usually ends in shrugs and ascriptions to a higher power.
	On the other hand, we who live in these shoes become desensitized to once keenly felt stress and effort. We forget how hard it was when we first learned to perform these amazing feats and ignore what it must be like for the uninitiated to observe us.
	"Why did you say God has conferred something special upon me?" I asked.
	"Because what you are doing is practically superhuman."
I laughed. "No, I assure you it is not superhuman."
	"I beg to differ," he said.
	“What do you mean?” 
	“I see what you are doing,” he said. “Your movements and reactions seem almost athletic to me.”
	“I was once an athlete,” I gushed. “Are you one?”
	“No, but in my spare time, I coach track at the local high school.”
	“Are you a teacher there?”
	“Yes,” he replied. “I teach a few different subjects.”
	“What do you teach?”
	“Well, I teach Social Studies and a psychology class where I try to mix in some philosophy.”
	“Fascinating,” I said. “I once studied for a doctorate in psychology. I fondly remember a philosophy of knowledge course.”
	“You’ve put your finger on why I include epistemology in my psychology class,” he replied. “I want my kids to think about how we know what we think we know.” Then he added, “You seem to be a well-educated fellow.”
	“Thanks, I replied. “I think a lot about how we know what we think we know and lots of other things too!” Then I added, "I'm just using regular technique to walk safely and avoid the platform edge."
	"You would need God's help for that, I think," he replied.
I was about to let fly with a reply, but the train approached, drowning out anything I might have tried to say. Instead, my companion asked, "May I help you get through the door?"
	Before I could decline his assistance, which was my wont, he took my arm. We entered the car and sat next to each other.
	Most of the time I choose to ride quietly, but today I felt like continuing the conversation. Something about the implications of how a deity might be intervening in my life was too vexing to ignore.
	With knowledge comes responsibility. Mine comes from being a student of people who are marginalized like those with disabilities. I have also lived the life.  Thus I have chosen to shoulder some of the burden by challenging the orthodoxies when the opportunity presents itself.
	"You mentioned that God must be helping me,” I reminded.
	“Yes,” he said. “I believe God is somehow helping to keep you safe.”
	“That is quite comforting,” I said. “But I don't like it when people put God into the equation. It is an unnecessary distraction.”
	“You are an interesting fellow,” he responded, “not to mention a persistent one! Distraction from what?”
	“Sorry,” I said. “I guess a button gets pushed.”
	“No problem,” he said. Pursuing, he said, “What did you mean about not liking God in the equation?”
	“Invoking God takes people away from understanding just how completely human is my existence. I think it is hard for people to imagine that everything they see me doing is the product of training, experience, and lots of concentration."
	"It certainly seems hard," he replied. "Most of us look in wonderment and have no idea how you even manage to get out of bed in the morning."
	“As a coach,” I observed, “you must have a feel for the process of training. Haven’t you watched some of your kids start out mediocre and round into polished athletes?”
	“Rarely,” he answered. He sighed wistfully and laughed. “A coach can only hope to find a wunderkind once in a blue moon.” Then he conceded, “Yes, I find the most rewarding part of coaching is helping my athletes to develop their skills.”
I laughed. “Wunderkinds are definitely once in a blue moon.”
	The train rumbled toward its next stop. "By the way, where are you getting off?"
	"Forty-Second Street,” he said. “I'm a religious guy and am heading to a non-denominational church near Times Square."
	"Well," I answered, "We will be on this train for a while." Smiling, I said, "I am up for talking about God and humans if you are."
	"Sure," he said. He probably wondered what he had just gotten himself into. Would he be able to make any headway in convincing me that God had a hand in my life?
	We introduced ourselves and shook hands. He had a gentle grip, the soft hands of a scholar, I thought. His vocabulary and word usage was that of a well-educated and philosophical person.
	"When you say that I must be endowed with, how did you put it? Gifts from God? You take something away from me."
	"I don't understand," he said. "What did I take away from you?"
	"First, you should know that very few people would have gotten anywhere close to a conversation like this with me or probably anyone else. They would have felt insulted and that I was an ungrateful and angry blind person, someone to walk away from."
	"Yes," he chuckled, "I can see that. I had the same impulse, but it seems you are an intelligent fellow and a thinking man. You remind me of my pastor. Always challenging us to think about what we believe and why."
	"That's funny," I said. "Usually men of the cloth insist upon faith. It sounds like your pastor wants some reason mixed in with faith."
	"Exactly!" he answered. "That is why I'd like to understand why you object to the idea of God in your life."
	"Well, I see you too are a thinking man. In a nutshell," I replied, "I think two things. First, it is my experience that the more one endows me with input from God, the less he gives me credit for just being human. It makes me feel that a person is not willing to reason out how and why I exist in the world and how it is I can do the things they are watching me do right in front of their eyes. I bet you were watching me since I entered the station and decided to speak up just about the time you thought I might be about to fall into the tracks."
	"Yes," he laughed. "You are amazing. How did you know that?"
	"I’m not all that amazing,” I said, “but now you're asking the right question!" I continued. "I was using mostly my hearing and my sense of touch with my cane. I could hear you walking behind me and your steps quicken. I was also listening to the sounds of the people talking."
	"Amazing," he blurted. "I still think God has a role here. It seems superhuman what you are doing. Not to mention the strength of spirit and courage all this must require."
	"You’ve got me there," I admitted. "I think most of us forget what we go through inside and for sure we don't admit it to others."
	"Why not?" He seemed genuinely interested. "It is part of the mystery we who observe you experience," he said.
	"If we were to talk about how hard it sometimes feels," I replied, " we would run the risk of reinforcing something we know exists in all of us: the "there but for the grace of God go I" phenomenon."
	"Yes," he said. "We feel that it must be quite hard to walk around the way you do. It amazes us and scares us too.” Then almost as an afterthought, he asked, “Aren't you afraid of getting killed? I was afraid for you seeing the edge of the platform not so far away from you."
	I stared at him, momentarily stunned into silence. It is always a shock to be reminded about the dangers one puts out of his mind and what it must be like for others to watch us.
	“There is a tactile warning strip along the edge. It gives me plenty of advance notice that I am approaching the drop-off.”
	“Oh, yes,” he said. “I forgot about that.”
Attempting to recover the thread, I continued. "I was about to say that every time you invoke God to explain how we manage to exist the way we do, you take away from our humanity, including,” I added, “how we fight off the fear of death."
	"Wow," he replied. "That is a mouthful. I feel bad just hearing it. What do you mean ‘humanity’ and especially ‘fear of death’?"
	"Sorry about that," I said.  "I've been thinking about this for as many decades as I've been experiencing and studying it, so to me it has lost some of its clout. I've got to remember that this stuff is, well, “heavy”, to most 'outsiders.'"
	"How can God possibly take away from our humanity? Isn’t he there to make us fully human, to save us from ourselves, in fact," he chuckled, “and even to help us not fear death?"
	“All great points," I encouraged. "But they are not my points of view."
[Currently semi-retired, Tony Candela had a 40-year career as a blind rehabilitation specialist. Most recently, he was founding Director of the Department of Veterans Affairs Blind Rehabilitation Center in Long Beach, CA. Tony worked for the California State VR agency, the American Foundation for the Blind, Lighthouse International and the NY Commission for the Blind.

In his spare time, Tony loves movies and sports, is an avid Star Trek fan and reader of books in most genres. His favorites are Sci-Fi and Historical Fiction, but his tastes are eclectic.  Tony likes to write prose and the occasional song. He accompanies himself on guitar with which he dabbles.] 
***

Beyond the backdrop: Mastering setting in fiction
Sarah Van Arsdale Writer Magazine, January, 2019

	Fully developing the setting of your work can lead to richer characters and deeper plotlines. 
Fiction writers often think of setting as a backdrop to a story, something sketched in just to make it clear the characters aren’t floating aimlessly in outer space. But it can be much more than that: The particular time and place of the story can help the story to evolve and offer insight to the writer about the plot and characters.
It isn’t enough to simply decide on the setting and airlift the characters from the writer’s imagination to Arizona, Paris, or a ship at sea. The choice of setting – both time and place – will inform everything that happens in the story. And by fully describing the setting, the story builds a foundation that proves integral to the plot; this foundation helps to form the characters.
	One example of using setting to create story is the brilliant short novel by Stewart O’Nan, Last Night at the Lobster, set on closing night of a Red Lobster restaurant crouched at the edge of a shopping mall parking lot. Corporate headquarters have ordered the place to close. It’s near Christmas.
And there’s a blizzard. This setting note gives the story its extra dose of tension and drama. The blizzard allows O’Nan to ratchet up the feeling of isolation and loneliness that are central to the story; the restaurant is an island in the blizzard; there is no crush of holiday diners. Anyone who has lived in a wintry climate knows that what happens during a blizzard is different from what happens any other time.
	I recently had a very talented graduate student, Kelly Grogan, who was working on a short story set roughly in the present day, somewhere in the United States. In the story, a young man comes home after serving in the Army. The story is told from the point of view of his younger brother, who is unsure what to make of the changes in the older brother he’s idolized and missed during his absence. The story was almost working, but there was some deeper underpinning that was missing.
I couldn’t see where the story was taking place. I knew it was in a house, and there was a driveway where the older son’s truck had been parked while he was away. I knew there was a lake nearby because there’s a scene where the brothers go swimming. But is the house a tidy ranch with a neatly mown lawn, or a ramshackle farmhouse comfortably in need of repair? And that driveway: Is it a long dirt drive running from a country road up to the house, shaded by elms or maples? Is it identical to the others on the block? Or is there a grand, sweeping turnaround at the top, by an ancient willow tree
	As I started asking about the setting, I saw other places where the writer could not only help the reader see the story but also where she could gain more information for herself about her story and its characters. The older brother sleeps late on his first morning home, then appears in the kitchen after the parents and the younger brother have finished breakfast. I wondered what was on the breakfast table – a box of Cap’n Crunch cereal? Granola and fresh fruit? Maybe the father had made French toast for everyone.
And why does this matter? Because the reader will imbibe information about the family based on what they’re eating. Some of this will be assumed information: Granola and fresh fruit may be taken to indicate a family with liberal, anti-war leanings. But this thought led me to the next thought, which was that perhaps what was missing in this story was the second storyline, the one that expands a story from the inside out and gives it a second dimension. The second story, or the understory, could be that this family had been virulently anti-war, but the older son had, for his own reasons, decided to enlist. That made me more interested in the primary story of the relationship between the two boys.
If you want to use setting to help you steer your way into deeper story and character, you have to start with detailed description.
All this leads to “show, don’t tell.” How do you “show” that a family is anti-war? Maybe the kid’s pickup truck is sitting next to a Volvo with a “EndLess War” bumper sticker. The topic of the war doesn’t have to be directly raised in this family, but the reader can see the tension from the outside, through the setting details.
If you want to use setting to help you steer your way into deeper story and character, you have to start with detailed description. Consider all the aspects of setting, including both time and place, from the macro level (what is the decade? what country are we in?) to the micro level (what time of day is it? what kind of house? what room in that house?) Choose a day of the week; think about whether there’s a holiday near. Choose the weather. And then describe it in detail.
	You’ll likely find that as you describe the setting, you learn about your characters. Put a character in a rainstorm without an umbrella. Shift the story from a Monday to a Sunday. Give a character an ancient VW instead of a late-model Prius – the VW could very well break down, and that will create action. (The Prius also could break down, creating a different kind of action.)
The very best stories are those that touch our common humanity, regardless of where they’re set. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Half A Yellow Sun is set in late-1960s Nigeria, and much of the story could only happen in Nigeria; it’s that setting-specific. The feelings of the characters, their struggles, and triumphs, are universal, and yet that universality can only be achieved by providing very specific details, many of which are about setting.
Our lives are lived in setting; we remember important events by the way the light played on the water or the glitter of the falling snow. It’s the setting that gives our lives – and our stories – their shape, and that allows the reader to enter fully into the fictional worlds we create.
—Sarah Van Arsdale is the author of five books, including the novels Toward Amnesia (Riverhead, 1995) and Blue (winner of the 2002 Peter Taylor Prize for the Novel). Her most recent book is a narrative poem with her illustrations, titled The Catamount. She teaches in the Antioch/LA low-residency MFA program, at New York University, and with Art Workshop International.
***

Snow Ice Cream
by Jo Elizabeth Pinto

	As soon as the door closed behind the social worker, silence fell over the room, broken only by the soft crackling sounds of a log settling in the fireplace. The teenager stood beside the door where he’d been standing since his arrival, a rolled-up blanket tucked under one arm.
	“You hungry, Ben?” the middle-aged man at the table asked, busy mending a pair of jeans. “There’s chili in the fridge.”
	“No thanks.”
	“Suit yourself. You’ll have to put down that bedroll sooner or later, though. Why not drop it on the couch for now?”
	Ben hesitated, then shuffled across the hardwood floor and laid his blanket on the couch. His gaze darted around the room, coming to rest on a framed picture over the fireplace. He froze, staring at the smiling couple in the photo. The sullen scowl on his face hardened into an angry glare.
	He strode to the fireplace in three quick steps, snatched the framed photograph off the wall, and flung it face down on the floor. 
	“How could you? I don’t wanna look at ‘em!”
	“Fair enough.” The man calmly crossed the room and picked up the photo. He glanced at it, then slid it into a desk drawer. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about seeing your folks up there. My question just got answered.”
	“Yeah, it did,” Ben snapped.
	“Look, Ben …” The man trailed off, then tried again. “The Iraq thing sucks. You lost a dad; I lost a brother. We need to make this work while your mom pulls herself together. We can fight each other or be a team, but either way, it’s you and me.”
	Ben stared at his tennis shoes.
	His uncle glanced out the window by the table. 
	“It’s snowing again.”
	Ben shrugged.
	“Your dad loved the snow. Winter was always his glory season.”
	Ben nodded slightly.
	His uncle pressed on. 
	“His old racing sled is still in the barn somewhere. He was legendary—the fastest thing on runners around here. He set records on the hill behind the church that haven’t been touched in thirty years.”
	A hint of a smile creased Ben’s mouth for a second. Then the boy bit his lip and went back to glowering at his Reeboks.
	“We could drag out that sled tomorrow when there’s more daylight.”
	Ben shrugged again.
	“I wouldn’t mind seeing the old girl again myself, maybe giving her a fresh coat of paint.” The man picked up the torn jeans from the table and found his needle. “Ever had snow ice cream?”
	“Snow what?”
	“Your dad and I used to … I’m surprised he never …” It was the uncle’s turn to look down at his shoes.  He swallowed hard. “Grab two spoons and two big mugs from the dish drainer.”
	Ben obeyed, eyebrows raised.
	“Go outside and put a nice clean snowball in each mug, about twice the size of your fist.”
	While Ben carried the mugs outside, his uncle took a jug of cream from the refrigerator. He whistled absently as he reached for a glass bottle on a high cupboard shelf.
	“What’s that?” Ben asked as he re-entered the kitchen on a blast of icy wind.
	“Maple syrup.”
	“How come it’s so dark?”
	“It’s real syrup from tree sap, not fake junk made of corn. Tastes like heaven.”
	The man splashed some cream over the fresh snow in each mug, then drizzled syrup generously on top. He handed his nephew a spoon and began stirring his own concoction.
	“Mix it up good,” he said as he took his first bite. “A treat fit for God Almighty.”
	He watched as Ben stirred up his ice cream and then put the spoon to his lips. A smile spread slowly over the boy’s face, starting at the corners of his mouth and making it all the way to his eyes.
[J. E. Pinto is a magnet for underdogs! Early in her married life, her home became a hangout for troubled neighborhood kids. This experience lit the flame for her first novel, The Bright Side of Darkness.
The Bright Side of Darkness won a first place Indie Book Award for “First Novel over Eighty Thousand Words,” as well as First Place for “Inspirational Fiction.” The novel also won several awards from the Colorado Independent Publishers Association: First Place for “Inspirational Fiction,” Second Place for “Audio Book,” and First Place for “Literary and Contemporary Fiction.
http://www.amazon.com/author/jepinto
https://m.facebook.com/authorjepinto/?ref=Footer
**

Mending 
by Helga Kidder 

[Helga Kidder lives in the Tennessee hills with her husband.  She was awarded an MFA from Vermont College.  She is co-founder of the Chattanooga Writers Guild and leads their poetry group.  Her poems have been published more recently in Poetry South, Tipton Poetry Journal, On the Veranda, and several anthologies.  She has three poetry collections, Wild Plum, Luckier than the Stars, and Blackberry Winter.] 

Wish I could pull thread through ore,
sew close the rift between us:
the rip in my cotton shift I finger. 

I douse our thirsty garden
as morning bees hum and stitch clusters
of blue salvia and silver lace vine
hugging the wrought-iron railing. 

Bees begin needling blooms at dawn
after the sun’s fingers stroke
each flower awake, warm nectar 
for their daily thimble full. 

Golden and purple finch brush 
bronze maiden grass, baste air  
as I spy a morning glory volunteer:
blue trumpets loop the feeder pole.  

I call to you inside,
begin patching the frayed gap. 

	Bearing the Light 

Day stretches the color of pale honey 
and she is happy, feeling the roses 
in full bloom, tomatoes finally ripe, 
grape vines twining the fence.  

This thing within, like bees humming 
through her body, her veins, her heart –
no one and nothing can take away.

Not his frowned brow,
not the hammer in her knee
knocking each time her foot bears down. 
Not the river running through her 
carrying debris and wreckage.  

**

Tumbleweed
by Shawn Jacobson

Borne upon the wind
the flying bushes of the plains
sail across the road.

Heading out from Pueblo going east,
we leave the mountain's grandeur in our wake,
and enter upon plains with flat expanse,
capacious vast unbounded and so free.

A wind arises from the howling north,
a sky of cloudless blue turns dusty brown.
I hear the keening in the chilly air
a storm is calling through the empty land.

And then I see a sight unique with wonder
a drove of plants the size of steers arrives
sailing across the emptiness around us,
flying over unencumbered land.

We flinch as these weeds cross the road ahead
collisions can not be avoided now.
They slam the car with slapping thudding sound
breaking themselves on our metallic helm.

Through prairie towns our tumble weeded way
does take us in our eastward journey home
La Junta, Lamar, Garden and Dodge cities,
and smaller towns swallowed by emptiness.

In time we'll leave this empty widespread realm
and eastward find familiar fenced-in land
of cities reaching skyward in their might
and bid nature around it mind her place.

But memory of this forgotten space
will linger as we contemplate the sight
of dusty skies that tell of distant storms
and plants that sail the prairies empty, wide.

Over unfenced land
these flying plants travel free
across memory. 
***

Stiff Competition 
A Tracy Gayle Mystery
Miss America 
By Trish Hubschman 

Prologue 
Danny Tide

	Tidalwave’s playing the Miss America pageant this year. Tidalwave’s my rock band, my creation, my baby. I was asked to be Master of Ceremonies for the big event. I accepted, of course. It’s an honor. 
The band’s performed at the pageant a couple of times in the past. That was, let’s see, 1987 and ‘93. Dave Mattson, our first keyboard player was on the band those two times. Dave and I didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, so he left the band. Dave’s deceased now. Les Carson, who replaced Dave, never got a chance to play the pageant. Les is deceased too. His son, Mike, is our present keyboardist. Mike’s a fantastic keyboard player and singer. He’s great with the audience too and I’m happy to have him with us. I miss Mike’s Dad, Les was a great guy, but he trained his son well in the music business. 
This year’s Miss America pageant is going to be a big splash, particularly for Tidalwave. I can feel it! Hey, we’re not getting any younger here! We still have a lot of life left in us though, even after thirty-plus years out there on the circuit. I’m happy to say we still record, make hits, tour and bring in the screaming crowds.
	On the sad side, my beautiful wife, Laura, isn’t here with me in Atlantic City for this. We’re separated by her choice. I’m hoping it’s only temporary. She walked out on me seven weeks and four days ago. I admit, her departure didn’t come as a major shock to me, but it was depressing and the timing lousy. It was downright aggravating! I didn’t believe her, or want to believe her, when she said she needed a break from me and the band. I thought she was just being childish and her insecurities were acting up again. She knew who I was, what my life was like, nothing had changed there. Laura and I had taken plenty of time to get to know each other as friends before we became a couple, and then got married. She had been the band’s nurse on tour for a few years before she became my girlfriend, and then wife, so who were Danny Tide and Tidalwave was not unknown to Laura.
I think the break she needed was more from me exclusively, not the group scene. My wife loves me and I love her, but she has trouble dealing with the two sides of Danny Tide, the devoted husband and the public image, though I’m still a devoted husband even when I’m in rock star mode. Heck, I am a rock star! That’s my career and my life and I’m good at it. 
So be it! As I said, hopefully, she’ll come to terms with this and return. Maybe she’ll be at the house in California when the guys and I break after the pageant is done. That would be nice! As it is, I haven’t heard from her, not a phone call, text or email, since she left. I know she’s in Fort Worth, Texas. That’s where she’s from, born and raised, where she was married to her first husband, Dr. Benjamin Wells, renowned psychiatrist. She was divorced from him before she and I met. I was a patient in the hospital where she worked. She was my floor nurse. I met Wells a few times while I was there. He’s deceased now too.
Fort Worth’s where we picked up our second keyboard player, Les Carson. This may sound hard to believe but Les had a working ranch in Fort Worth. Now, his widow, Brit, is the head of Carson Ranch again. She grew up on it. It was hers first. Frankly, she was better at running the place then Les had been. Hey, what else is new? Les was too busy with Tidalwave to be a good rancher. That was okay with us, but I don’t think it sat too well with his wife. 
What I found out is that Laura is staying with her sisters-in-law from her first marriage. There are two of them, Alice and Marie. I met them. Both are lovely ladies. Alice is the oldest and matronly, Marie is the youngest, and she’s cool. That’s the only way I can think of to describe them. They adore Laura. I’m not worried about Laura being down there. I’m just annoyed at the reason for her being there in the first place. Alice called me and told me Laura was there. She knew I was worried about my wife. Until I heard from Alice, I didn’t know where Laura was hanging out. Alice wanted to put my mind at ease. I appreciated that very much. I would have liked to talk to Laura when I was on the phone with Alice, but I didn’t push it. At some point, Laura and I will have to touch base. Right now, I’ve got a pageant to oversee and I’m not going to lie and say I’m not enjoying it.
Well, that is, until some unexpected, unexplained things happened. At this point, after all that’s transpired over the past few years, with such things occurring, I should be used to it, but does anyone ever get used to it? I mean, really, what else is new, right?
“What’s going on?” Tracy asked from her end of the phone line. 
“Miss New Jersey is missing!” I replied. .
“Run that by me again, will you?” my Long Island PI friend, Tracy Gayle, asked me. She began reeling off questions and ideas on the matter. “Are the police involved? What are they saying? Could this girl have just upped and left the pageant, gone home, ran off with her boyfriend, etc.”
I chuckled. I could see Tracy’s mind working, spinning out ideas as they popped into her head. I was in full admiration of Tracy Gayle. I liked her! We had become very good friends over the past few years. She was hired to find the jerk who set my band’s tour bus on fire and I hired her as the band’s security chief too. She was good! Anyway, I think my closeness with Tracy bothers Laura. Tracy’s a dear friend of Laura’s too, but the fact that Tracy’s a woman, attractive, successful and she and I are close friends, unsettles my wife. I understand from Tracy that Laura even went as far as to accuse her of having an affair with me. I was furious at Laura for saying that. Tracy took it in stride, which I’m thankful for. Laura’s jealousy seemed to blow over though, or so I thought. Tracy came with us on our summer tour last year. Everything was fine. For some reason though, Tracy didn’t come with us on tour this year. Why was that?
“That’s what the police are saying,” I told Tracy in response to her question. “That she went home to Mom and Dad or raced off with her beau.” I think my tone was cynical. That’s the way I felt.
“But,” Tracy prodded, “you don’t think either is the case, is that what you’re telling me?”
I shook my head, though she couldn’t see it. “For one thing, the girls aren’t allowed to bring boyfriends with them to the pageant. It’s against the rules. All I see running around here are a bunch of pretty girls.” We both laughed. “As far as her family, her folks’ live close, maybe an hour away, north of here, in Fairview, I think. The point is, we would know if she was there and she isn’t,” I rushed on. This was an even bigger point. “She made it to the semi-finals in the pageant, fifty girls down to ten. She had a good chance of being crowned Miss America. It wouldn’t make sense for her to dart off.”
“Agreed,” Tracy said. “I guess my next question is why is Danny Tide calling me with regards to, what will eventually be a Missing Person’s case for the police to handle?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Okay, I admit it. I’ve got an ulterior motive here in calling you, two of them, in fact.”
“I’m listening,” she shot back.
“I know you’re going to tell me it’s procedure, but the police seem to be stalling on this, and, for many reasons, that’s not such a good idea.”
“Again, I agree with you,” she chimed in quickly. “Go on.”
My response was just as quick. “Come down here and ask some questions, Trace. You’re the best private eye I know.” Frankly, she was the only one I knew, but that was beside the point.
I heard a smile in her voice. “What’s your other ulterior motive for getting me down there, Tide? You did say you had two of them.”
I sighed. “I’m lonely and need my best buddy.”
Tracy’s laughter sounded nice. It went on and on. Abruptly, she grew serious. “What about Laura? Wouldn’t my being there put a damper on her time with you, amongst other things?” The words came out slow and were obviously carefully chosen.
I had to fight off an urge to snap my fingers. There it was! Tracy saw it too! “Laura’s not here,” I blurted out and told her the whole story. She was the first person I did that with. I’m sure the guys in the band and crew had already pretty much figured it out. I just hadn’t pulled any of them aside and given details about it. 
Tracy sucked in her breath. “I’m sorry, Danny,” she said softly. “If Laura’s leaving you has anything to do with me, and I’m sure it does, I’m doubly sorry.”
“Hey, girl,” I cut in quickly, my tone brighter. “This is something Laura has to deal with herself.” I waited a beat, and then went on. “So are you coming down to Atlantic City? I’ll get you a room here at Caesar’s with the rest of the gang.” I was hopeful. She was hesitant. “Do I have to beg?” I shot out.
Tracy burst into laughter. “Let me see if I can square things away here,” she said, sighing, “Although, I can’t really say much is going on, professionally or personally, on my turf at the moment.” Her tone was cynical. 
I started wondering what that was all about. It sounded like she needed a friend too, me, and I was more than happy to be there for her.
“It’s settled then! I’ll see you down here soon?” I prodded. 
“You’re pushy, Tide, anyone ever tell you that?” she teased brightly.
“Yep,” I replied and disconnected the call.
**
Mending

Wish I could pull thread through ore,
sew close the rift between us:
the rip in my cotton shift I finger. 

I douse our thirsty garden
as morning bees hum and stitch clusters
of blue salvia and silver lace vine
hugging the wrought-iron railing. 

Bees begin needling blooms at dawn
after the sun’s fingers stroke
each flower awake, warm nectar 
for their daily thimble full. 

Golden and purple finch brush 
bronze maiden grass, baste air  
as I spy a morning glory volunteer:
blue trumpets loop the feeder pole.  

I call to you inside,
begin patching the frayed gap. 
**

An Unconventional Love: The Story of Celeste Holm and Frank Basile 
by Barbara Irvin

What constitutes a great vintage Hollywood couple? This question automatically brings to mind Celeste Holm and Frank Basile. In case you are too young to recognize their names, Celeste Holm (1917-2012) was a famous Broadway and film star. She appeared in such movies as All About Eve, Gentleman’s Agreement, and High Society. Frank Basile is an opera singer. They became acquainted at a charity event in October of 1999. He had been asked to sing at the gala.
His musical talents must have had a profound effect on her because she saw something special in him. As it turned out, the attraction was mutual. They began dating soon after, and it wasn’t long before Frank moved in with Celeste. 
Despite the more than forty year age difference between them, they seemed very happy. When it came to venturing out, being seen with each other never created a problem for them. The two liked attending parties. Their friends thought Celeste and Frank were so great together that they often requested them to sing at these gatherings. Each willingly obliged, launching into songs from notable theatrical productions. Some of the numbers performed were from shows she had starred in so many years earlier. 
While pondering Celeste’s and Frank’s relationship, one cannot help admiring their determination to make things work. These two people wanted to share their lives with each other, and they did not care what anyone thought or said. This is what makes their story so special and poignant. 
Their decision to live together before getting married tells a lot about them. Here were two open minded individuals who truly wanted to get to know one another before pledging their vows in front of a crowd of friends and family. Young couples can learn from the example Frank and Celeste set. 
Having been married four times prior to meeting him, she knew all about good and bad relationships. Three of Celeste’s marriages had ended in divorce. It was only her fourth marriage, which had been to Wesley Addy, that turned out to be long lasting. They were married from 1966 until his death in 1996. 
It is not difficult to see why she embarked on this fifth romance with abandonment and confidence. After having spent three years as a widow, Celeste probably felt alone and ached for the company of a man again. 
Not everyone treated her new beau with kindness. Her two sons were against the relationship. They felt Frank was taking advantage of their wealthy mother. Those who did not know them personally can only speculate, but it could be that the children did not like the idea of their mother spending her remaining years with a man who could have been her grandson. 
How Celeste and Frank were perceived by the world around them is not as important as how they felt about each other. In him, she found someone who could take care of her. In her, he had a soulmate with whom he shared a love of culture. 
By 2004, Celeste felt the need for an official commitment. She would turn eighty-five on April 29, and she wanted this birthday to be memorable for her. What better way to celebrate than to get married? 
That is just what they did. On the evening of her birthday, a fundraiser had been held for Arts Horizons, which Celeste contributed much of her time to. Attendees were treated to a screening of Gentleman’s Agreement. It was definitely Celeste’s night to dazzle. And the celebration wasn’t over yet. Before the evening ended, Frank and Celeste would be husband and wife. 
Everybody gathered at Sardi’s following the presentation. Magic permeated the air of the illustrious restaurant as friends and reporters wished Celeste a happy birthday. 
The glorious couple waited until near the end of the party to announce the occasion of their wedding. They were married by a Supreme Court judge. Two of the bride’s closest friends agreed to act as witnesses. 
Those who really knew him thought Frank was a good husband. He made her happy, and he cared for her when she became ill during the final months of her life. This is what made their relationship so strong. Their story could have emerged from the pages of a romantic tale. She was the revered, classy lady who encountered this dashing man and allowed herself to be mesmerized by him. In Frank Basile, Celeste found a man who would love her for the person she was, not because her name was connected to fame. What a romance! 

[Barbara Irvin recently wrote an article about a totally blind journalist named Empish Thomas. This article, titled An Inspiring Journalist, will soon be featured in an issue of Quill & Scroll. Barbara is also continuing to write her first middle grade novel.] 

***

MEMBER FEATURE
Shelley J. Alongi
 
	This month's Writers' Division member feature highlights Ann Chiappetta. Years ago I don't remember how many now we were in a writers' critique group together, a cross country relationship made famous by belonging to the NFB. She is back with us now and still creating. We want you! Join us and let us know, in sort of print anyway what writing projects consume you. We look forward to your work! 

 Words of Life © 2019 by Ann Chiappetta
In this new collection of poems, essays, and flash fiction, the author once again exhibits her ability to write about both the light and dark sides of life. There are numerous poems and stories about nature: its kindness, cruelty, and wonder. There are frank expressions of the sadness and frustration she felt at the progressive loss of her eyesight and a poem about the social isolation that disability can bring. Other pieces, though, sing of joys as diverse as family closeness, the love of dogs, the delights of scents, and the power of the muse. Just as in her first volume of poetry, Upwelling: Poems (2016), there is no fluff here. To read Ann Chiappetta's works is to feel them deeply, appreciate them mightily, and remember them forever. 
From the Introduction
While it is my hope that all the pieces in this book resonate with my readers, I have my favorites. Some of the poems have been previously published; all reflect what lies within. This volume is accented with a few photographs. As I lose the last vestiges of my vision, bringing a meaningful visual array to this collection seems imperative. Finally, dear reader, I want to share the prose that reflects the way I've lived my creative life. 
If just one poem or essay resonates with you, I have accomplished the purpose. For a moment, as the eye reads and the brain interprets, the reader slips into the shoes of the writer. This is the true spirit of what it means to be creative, open, to offer the emotions in such a way as to give another person the opportunity to appreciate the writer's experience with the words of life.
Read more: http://www.dldbooks.com/annchiappetta/
***

Writers' Resource
Shelley J. Alongi

Are you looking for a good book to pass a lazy day? Would you like to challenge yourself to read a million books this year? It's not too late! Are you an author who would like to let people know you and your work exists? Perhaps you would like to publish your own author's blog. One place to do this is http://www.goodreads.com. I don't remember how I found this place. Most likely it was passed down by a Facebook friend. I can't promise you'll get any sales of your books, but I can promise they will give you an author's page where people can see your titles and put them on their own reading lists. You can display covers, samples, ebook excerpts and make comments about others reviews of books. The site gives you the opportunity to mark books you would like to read, are currently reading or want to read again. You can organize your hard copy or ebook library into your own customized shelves. You can read book reviews and descriptions of books. 
	Sometimes when I want to get a sense of what a book is about, especially if I'm reading it for a book club selection, I like to see what others have said about it. Some of the reviews are good, some are short, some are in depth. What does this have to do with writing? Everything and nothing, as I like to say. Everything because in order to write well you must read. Reading fuels creativity. It also gives us access to descriptions we may not have imagined. Reading gives us access to styles, voices, techniques we'd like to incorporate into our own writing. 
	Personally, I have kept up with my reading challenges for the last three years. It is the ability to look at my lists, compare them, write about them, and read what others say that has helped me stay on track and find some great writing techniques. I have found most parts of the site to be quite accessible. There is also an App for the iPhone. I found it easy to set up my account. It is a free web site though they do offer paid services for marketing. Give it a looksee. I promise you'll like it.
***

Submission GUIDELINES for SLATE AND STYLE
Here are the guidelines for Slate and Style
They include submission deadlines, contact information, requirements for your bio and cover letter, general information and word counts for genres. Enjoy. 

Submission Dates 
Spring Issue: March 21st---Submissions close February 28th
Summer issue: June 21st---Submissions close May 31st
Fall issue: September 23rd----Submissions close September 2nd
Winter issue: December 21st---Submissions close November30th

Please read through all the guidelines carefully. Submissions that do not follow these guidelines may 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, book reviews, 1000 words or less, poetry, 36 lines or less.

Again, send ALL submissions as email attachments no matter the genre. Include a cover letter along with your submissions with author's name, title of piece(s) and contact info-phone, email and address included. Also include a bio with your submission(s). Your bio should be no more than 150 words. Do not send an entire history, just include key items you feel are important for readers to know. Send as an attachment as well. More than one submission is allowed per email but do list all submissions in the required cover letter. 

Send submissions to s-and-s@nfbnet.org 

In the subject line of your email, write: Slate & Style submission, your name, and number of submissions. Example: “Slate & Style submission, Myrna Badgerow, 3 submissions”.

Use Microsoft Word or create an RTF document for all submissions. No other formats are accepted, and therefore will not be considered. 

Proofread and check your grammar and formatting before submitting. 

Slate & Style will consider all submissions for publication. However, please be careful with graphic sexual and violent content as well as language and -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. Material will be published according to the discretion of the editing staff.

Please direct questions and comments to the email address listed above for submissions, in your subject line, please include your name and simply write: “QUESTION”. Then write your question in the body of the email.

***

Join the Division

Join a group of creative, active writers involved in all aspects of writing: educational reviews, poetry, short stories and novels. We have writers in all phases of the craft. We have some who enter contests, some who self-publish, and some who have worked with mainstream publishers. We are always looking for writers with new ideas. 

It’s only $10 to joim. Pay online by going to http://writers.nfb.org/index.html and clicking on the button that says pay pal. If you're new to a screen reader, you can search for the word pay on the site till you find pay pal and then click on that button. The pay pal information encourages donations, but this link can also be used to pay dues.