Slate and Style: The Magazine of the National Federation of the Blind Writers’ Division Summer 2020 Editor: Shelley J Alongi Format Editor: Chelsea Cook Poetry Editor: Barbara Hammel Send submissions to S-and-s@nfbnet.org or Email: Queenofbells@outlook.com Website: writers.nfb.org Find the NFB Writers’ Division on Twitter @nfbwd Table of Contents list of 9 items • Editor’s Musings, Shelley J Alongi • Presidential Bell Notes, Shelley J Alongi • The Crazy Artists, Chelsea Cook • Writers’ Division Extended Phone Calls, Shelley J Alongi • Saved by Strangers, Frederick J. M. Kamara • All Prayers end in Bingo, Shawn D. Jacobson • Reading Room: Invisible Planets, Shawn D. Jacobson • Slate and Style Submission Guidelines • Join the Division list end Editor’s Musings, Shelley J Alongi Between helping produce online services for the church I work for, reading, and amusing a thoroughly spoiled cat, I have taken time to sit outside and observe the bird life that flits and flutters, chirps, warbles, and chatters constantly in my back yard. Hefty windy days, mild temperatures, and what I call light weight sunshine will soon give way to hot and humid temperatures. Maybe we won’t have a July that comes screaming in at 114 degrees on any given day. These days, who knows what will happen; hope springs eternal. There’s always time for a book or a new movie. Between all that, putting together this issue which focuses on prayers bingo style, planets that influence your life, maybe, the thoughtful kindness of strangers, and the not-so-always pleasant part of being an artist, we have a wide variety of thoughtful pieces. There is always room for more, so please consult our magazine guidelines and consider how you can enhance these pages with your own contributions. Sit back and relax and read on. Presidential Bell Notes, Shelley J Alongi Things have changed. You could say that. As this issue goes to press, restaurants are reopening here and the Writers’ Division is getting ready for its part in the NFB 2020 virtual convention. We have submitted our agenda description. Our leadership has decided to use the Zoom platform for convention activities, so we will use that to conduct our seminar and division meeting. We have come up with two great door prizes this year so tune in to the national general sessions to see if you win one of them. There are always plenty of fun prizes. I remember the first time I won a door prize: it was my first convention in Dallas and I won a box of Armadillo Droppings. The event was even more exciting because each time a person won a box of the oddly-named candy, President Maurer at the time would say he wanted to try such a confection. As I recall, the candy was caramel and nuts shaped as the famous armadillo dropping: a disc. Are armadillo droppings famous? These were. I couldn’t help myself: I just had to offer a taste to our national president in front of the entire convention. That was a fun day. That was probably twenty plus years ago. I think someone found it for me on the Internet once and even that was a long time ago. I do remember those droppings! Who knows what we will have this year? What a year it has been. Join us for our virtual convention. We will publish more information as soon as it is available. In the meantime, enjoy your Writers’ Division member offerings. The Crazy Artists, Chelsea Cook Editor’s Note: This issue’s board profile features Chelsea Cook, who writes in poetic form about her involvement with a poetry community in Boulder, Colorado. She chooses to express herself in poetry for this article. As she says, she had trouble expressing the “magic of the community in prose.”. The Crazy Artists We are the crazy artists! Yo, who’s got the list? Is there a list in the room? Calm down: there always is. We make hand and mouth cheering noises, Praising the preceding poet with a well-loved lyric. And then the crazy artists begin. We all write about universal themes: Love. Friends. Current events. Except we are the crazy artists, So of course there is a twist. Love. We write about the regular love, Breakups and get-togethers and “We are an item” loves that will never end. But then, we write about the loves that stay And keep going, and going, and start out as love but morph in no time Into abuse, assault, violation and running far, far away from the love that has now become lifelong trauma. So yeah … we write about love. Friends. Oh, do we write about friends: Those we have, those we hung around with, those we thought we’d be with until the end of the world. And then, their world ended. Suddenly, sometimes as simple as ending a relationship with a text, More often, more complex, they leave this world forever, by their own doing. And we are left with the holes in the patchwork quilts of our psyche, Wondering for years afterward if there was anything we could do. So yeah … we write about friends, a lot. Current events. I wonder if all good revolutions start in coffee shops, Or whatever the pre-coffee shop venue was for starting revolutions. We write about policies and wars, How they have affected us personally, or as a society, or as a planet. But then, we write about the injustice of everything: Of police breaking up homeless camps, Of what being a generational chess piece means, As we try and figure out a clean part of the planet to inhabit. So yeah … you could say we write about current events, sometimes. We are the crazy artists! We are the ones from within, who speak in myth and metaphor, But our voices are powerful! Yes, but why are they crazy? you whisper. What you’ve shown is just them being artists! Au contraire! We are the crazy artists … Because in our own way, we all know about being crazy. We know about befriending someone in rehab, only to have them cut off contact completely after two years. We know about spending days or weeks in the hospital, While they try fruitlessly to find a combo of chemicals that will make you feel like you’re not an eternal worthless loser. We know about taking those chemicals, day after day, And then we know what happens if we don’t. We know about loss, of all kinds, We know probably a hundred people between us affected by suicide. But most importantly: We know about healing. We understand energy, life force, power. We understand when someone says, “Can you give me a lift so I can get my meds?” We understand when someone has a panic attack on stage. We understand “I love you,” better than anyone else. We understand the hardest part is loving yourself. So that’s why we are the crazy artists. Because shit is real, and we love to spit, And by the end of the night, if you haven’t seen yourself in at least someone’s words, You haven’t lived enough yet. Why do we continue, when every poem has a trigger warning? When that trigger warning could be anything, from death to wanting to die to eating dinner? Because that’s what we do, and that’s who we are, And when life gets real for you as it certainly will, And you wonder: “Maybe those crazy artists were onto something?” We own the Phoenix metaphor! And we’ll be here for you. Every week. And when we’re not? The world really has ended. April 29, 2020 (inspired by the virtual open-mic night during the COVID19 pandemic.) Writers’ Division Extended Phone Calls, Shelley J Alongi If you’re on our membership email list or you subscribe to Stylist you received emails from me during the quarantine time letting you know about extended phone calls for the Writers’ Division. Because you may have had extra time on your hands, I offered phone calls as a way to connect with Writers’ Division members or anyone who is interested in joining the division or has an interest in the group. The calls were attended by up to seven people at different times. The subject matter ranged from books to writing projects, grocery delivery services, biographical histories, all things that interest us as writers. I scanned the writing emails I receive to see what kinds of interesting things we could talk about on those calls. “The Writer” magazine, and “Writers’ Digest,” both big promoters of contests, offered additional ones for poetry and short fiction. Some of our members make a practice of entering writing contests so it was fun to see what kinds of catalysts stimulated the creative processes. We even had one person who wrote poetry every day in April because it was National Poetry Month. Everyone has walked a different path to arrive at the place where we’ve all met on the phone. We’re all in different phases of our writing journeys. The pattern followed the one laid out by several different affiliates and divisions of the NFB during the shelter in place orders. As of June 1, the NFB’s policy is to return to in-person meetings where possible. It is supposed that many will continue to offer online meetings. I don’t know if we’ll continue with additional phone calls. It may depend on how active I get with all my other projects and obligations. Slowly, life is returning to a busier state for all of us. However, we will continue to host our once-a-month phone calls. June 28 will be our next regularly scheduled call. After the June call we will be right up on convention time. I hope we’ll see you for all of the excitement. Saved by Strangers: a True Experience, Frederick J. M. Kamara Editor’s Note: FREDERICK J. M. KAMARA has his Bachelor of Arts in English and History from the University of Sierra Leone. He also holds a Master of Science degree from London School of Economics and an M.A. in Special Education and Human Development from George Washington University. He came to this country in 1997. Helped by members of the Sligo Creek Chapter of the National Federation of the Blind, he obtained training in computer skills and worked for several agencies, including the National Industries for the Blind, and the District of Columbia Public School system in Washington, DC. In April 2016 at the 55th anniversary of Sierra Leone’s independence from Britain, he was honored with COR (Commander of the Order of the Rokel), a national Presidential award honoring individuals who have provided valuable services to the country over the years. He is currently working on updating and republishing his memoir. It was some time in June of 1982. I don’t remember the exact date. I had just taken the final exams for my Master of Science (M.Sc.) degree at the London School of Economics (LSE). I was invited by my friends, Tom Maley and his then fiancee, Sarah, to Sarah’s birthday party at Tom’s residence off Caledonia Road in north London. I took the No. 77 bus from Euston Station and I told the driver/conductor where I needed to get off and asked him to let me know when we got there, which he did. When I got off the bus (on the left side of the street, since the British drove on the left side of the road), I turned south (the direction we had come from) and walked down to the intersection of Caledonia Road and another street, and was waiting to cross over to the east side of Caledonia Road when two young men stopped by and asked me if I needed help crossing the street. They must have suspected that I was blind, since I was holding a white cane. As a first reaction, I turned down their offer, as I was confident I knew exactly what to do. However, traffic was very heavy and they still stood with me, so I accepted their offer of help. They asked me where I was going and I gave them the address, which was like two blocks east of where I was. At that point, they suggested a shortcut, but I told them I was not familiar with the area, so they offered to go with me over to the next street and assured me that I would be able to get it from there. We crossed Caledonia Road and turned left, with the young man on my left holding on to my arm to guide me along. We walked for about two hundred yards and then turned right into what seemed like an alley. Then we came into what seemed like an open area and I heard the voices of several young people who suddenly surrounded us and one of them shouted out, “Put him against the wall! Put him against the wall!” Another two or three of them echoed the same command. Then one of the two young men who had been with me stepped in front of me and said in a very firm and resolute voice, “Don’t touch him!” The other young man asked what they meant and what they were up to. They just kept repeating, “Put him against the wall!” At that point, I became very frightened and said in a rather timid voice, “Please don’t harm me!” Then the two young men flanked me on either side and said, rather calmly but firmly, “Get out of our way or else! …” There was a very brief standoff then one of the mob cried out, “What is he doing here? Let him go back where he came from!” That made me proffer the reply, “I am just a graduate student, almost at the end of my course. I will return home shortly!” I wanted to reach into my jacket pocket to take out my LSE ID but one of my “protectors” said, “No! No! Don’t worry! They will not touch you.” Then the other young man said, “Boys, get out of our way!” Then the two of them took each of my arms and pulled me forward. The mob gave us way and we walked over to the next street, then the two young men informed me that we had just had an encounter with so-called “skin heads” who had earned the terrible reputation of perpetrating racist crimes in parts of London but, up to that time, I did not have the slightest suspicion that north London would be one of those areas. In any case, the two young men insisted on taking me right to where I was going, and they made sure they saw me right into Tom’s apartment. Unfortunately, however, I did not ask their names or addresses. By the time I thought of it they had left. I was too shaken up to think about anything else. When I told Tom and Sarah what I had just been through, they immediately wanted to call the police and make a report, but I thought it did not matter anymore. When I was ready to return home, they made sure I got a ride back. Reading Room: Invisible Planets, reviewed by Shawn D. Jacobson BARD Information: Invisible Planets—DB87211reading time 14 hours 26 minutes narrated by Andy Pyle Translated and Edited by Ken Liu Reviewed by Shawn Jacobson One of the thrilling things about science fiction is its ability to take you to strange and wondrous places across the universe and its ability to show us exotic cultures of the imagination. But, what of strange and wondrousplaces here on Earth, and what of the exotic cultures that people from these places strange to us can imagine? These imaginings spawned by strange cultures can also be found in science fiction. Invisible Planets is a collection of stories translated from the Chinese that show us the dreams, and also the nightmares, of people from one such exotic land, China. This collection features 13 stories written by six Chinese authors. These stories cover the range from hard science fiction, the carbide-tipped pen stuff, to science fantasy. There are also three articles written by authors featured in the collection that discuss the history of science fiction in China and what makes Chinese science fiction uniquely Chinese. By far the best of these stories is Liu Cixin’s “Taking Care of God” in which the civilization that created life on Earth returns in its old age seeking family to take care of them. The first manifestation of the “God civilization” is a sky full of spaceships; “The sky is full of toys” one child character exclaims. The second manifestation is an increasing number of old people claiming that they created humanity and asking if people can spare them food. It turns out that the gods are so dependent on their smart machines, which they no longer know how to maintain, that they are helpless without them. The author makes this predicament sound eminently reasonable; after all, how well could most of us maintain the computers that we depend on in our daily lives? The story deals with vast spans of time and the aging, and ultimate death, of great civilizations in a manner as plausible as it is imaginative. We feel the impact of the “God civilization on the planet as a whole and on a family living in a Chinese farming village. The author does a good job of joining the two perspectives in an engaging narrative. Other good stories include “Folding Beijing”, by Hao Jingfang, in which advanced engineering is used to reinforce class stratification in a manner that I have never seen before. The protagonist must navigate the different social strata of the city while the landscape literally shifts under his feet. Ma Boyong’s “The City of Silence” pays homage to 1984, even the string of numbers is banned by the state. The author shows us how the Internet can make the Orwellian nightmare even worse. Xia Jia’s “A hundered Ghosts Parade Tonight” features a boy raised by “ghosts” in an out-of-favor holloween amusement; but things are not as they seem. “The Year of the Rat”, by Chen Qiufan, shows us college students pressed into service to fight genetically modified rats. The students must learn to live a military life and cope with the head games the military plays—and the rats can play head games as well. Not every story worked for me. “Night Journey of the Dragon-Horse”, also by Xia Jia, was full of poetic writing, and Hao Jingfang’s “Invisible Planets” was chalked full of imaginations of what life on other worlds might be like, but I struggled with the stories. My trouble with these stories was that I never got the point. I either lacked the nuance to appreciate them or something got lost in translation. Even though the stories are a mixed bag, the good stories in the collection make it a worthwhile read for anyone who wants to explore the dreams of a culture that most of us will find different from what we’re used to. All Prayers end in Bingo, Shawn D. Jacobson “I–22,” the caller said over the white noise of the machine that drove the game, and a third of the people sat down. These were people who’d not won all night: who’d waited in taut anticipation for the number that would give them bingo joy. But now, their number got called at the worst of times sealing a day without winning. Among these was Alice, who’d waited for I–22 to make bingo three games before. She’d waited, ready to explode out of her chair while I–21 was called. With the call of I–23, her neighbor got to shout in her place. N–38 was called and more people sat. Vince remained standing knowing that this was his last chance to win. It wasn’t that he wanted the prize: football memorabilia for a team he loathed. It was the winning, that was the thing, really, the only thing. For Vince Lumbardi Packer, winning had always been the only thing. He’d been named after a winner by a dad who’d wanted him to have the success to lift the family from its plodding mediocrity: success that still eluded the family despite the name of the son. It wasn’t that Vince was bad at things; it was just that he was average, fair, merely satisfactory, an “honorable mention” type of guy in a world that didn’t appreciate honorable mentions. He was good enough to compete, but victory always, always, escaped him. Failure had curdled them both, causing son to resent father, and father to feel disappointed in son. In time, the son had changed his football allegiance to the hated Vikings: an act to spite his father once and for all. Vince would watch the Vikings play the Packers and yell “Thor!” at the television venting his frustration at dear old dad with every blasphemous scream. Following the Vikes taught him the hard fate of those predoomed to live forever on the wrong end of somebody else’s “Hail Mary.” With every disappointment, his primitive self would howl against a world that would not give him heart’s desire. O–67 was called and Ken found himself with a chance to win. Ken scanned the room as numbers were called thinning out the assembly of the upright. Unlike most people in the room, Ken would not find it ironic if the number he’d waited for should fell him. Ken understood that this game, as all such games, was ruled by chance: by whatever inscrutable God ruled probability. He played knowing that everyone’s lucky number had the same chance of coming up. Having no delusions about chance, Ken had no superstitions about numbers. When the man selling 50–50 raffle tickets came by, and the only number remaining was “13”, Ken went ahead and bought the ticket. Statisticians like him were on good terms with all the numbers; it was part of the job. Ken sat across from a lady who dominated the table with a vast spread of cards: an abundance of extra chances that did her no good. The fourth number called matched a number on the G-column of her card, and she shrugged as she sat. In this game, everyone had one card: one equal chance at redemption. After the tenth number was called, Vince looked around and was glad. He still stood, and only two others stood with him. With the 11th number, a chunky woman plopped down on her chair, sighing with disappointment. It was just him and some nerd across the hall. Vince would not have called himself religious. He was familiar with the rudiments of faith, though its celestial mechanics were beyond him. Just the same, he sent up a little prayer to the Almighty for the chance to be a winner tonight. Vince remembered times when jests about religion were acceptable. One jest he remembered held that all prayers sent up by people of his faith ended in bingo. Thinking about it now, Vince felt that this was true of all prayer, not just his. You prayed for something until you got it or fate snatched it out of your hands. Then it was finished, done, case closed, and there was nothing left to pray for. “O–62,” the caller said and both Vince and Ken sat down. For a while the caller scanned the suddenly silent room to see if anyone still stood. Seeing no one, he said that anyone who’d sat for O–62 should stand. Vince and Ken arose once more, reprieved from that last loss of the night. Ken was not devoted to the game. He was here for the cause, to help his blind friends in whatever way he could. He knew enough about blindness from his friends to tell the man who’d jostled him in the bathroom about the shortcomings of his cane technique. Ken kept silent, understood, with wisdom that often eluded him, that this wasn’t really the time or the place for criticism. Of course, part of supporting the cause was buying the food. As volunteers pushed between the tables hawking hot dogs, pizza, potato chips, cookies, cake slices, nutty bars, and sodas, Ken bought copiously. In the moments between games, he ate what he’d bought as a shield against conversations that he really didn’t want. As Ken awaited the next number, he received a strange sending. It was less a vision than an impression of something out of the more bizarre writings of the prophets, Or Lovecraft. The creature, or whatever, seemed intent on saying something, but Ken couldn’t understand. He couldn’t put the strangeness of his experience into coherent thought. ‘I’ve got to stop with the sweets,’ Ken thought as the strange interlude faded. The caller told out the next number and then the next. Ken wondered if, by some mischance, the two of them had the same card. He’d seen it happen. Finally, the caller said “B–13” and the statistician was brought low by a number that he alone didn’t fear. But then, he saw no irony in this; in the end, one number was as likely as another. With exultant joy, Vince saw the nerdy guy sit. One of the volunteers maneuvered through the crowded hall to bring him the prize he’d won. Vince thanked the boy as he accepted the basket with its despicable load. ‘Winning was good,’ he thought as he left the building; ‘winning was the only thing.’ ………… The probability sculptor surveyed its work from its far medium: a place where man be the alien. No human could live there save with protective armor to keep the environment at bay. Nor would any sane person want to brave that frigid darkness full of weird sounds and stinks. The sculptors’ folk would also seem strange to the bingo players. They were a race of beings with uncanny senses and unfathomable arts. And as for its form, if someone were in its presence and could find a light to see by, that person would see a huge many-armed creature that swam through its medium in a twisting manner not seen in the oceans of Earth. Most humans would find it repulsive. Yet, if a person could be in its presence, and appreciate it for what it was, that person might find the creature less strange than it seemed. For it had an appreciation of art though the sculpting of chaos, of chance and probability, would be beyond human understanding. It shared with man the idea that art was to be appreciated, especially by the artist. The creature also shared with man a drive to seek companionship. So, as it observed what it had made, it sought out those it saw as participants in its creation. When doing so, it always felt the need to comprehend these frantic, care-warn, folk: beings roiled with drives it did not understand. But all its efforts were for naught. It knew the words these beings used to describe its flourishes: “twist of fate”, “God’s cruel jests”, “coincidence”, miracle.” However, it could not map these words back to its experience of the universe. Yet it persisted in its quest, and this night, it found a kindred spirit; a worker in chance. Though this creature, it called itself a “statistician”, worked on a level the sculptor found primitive to the point of savagery, it felt a commonality of purpose with this being. The sculptor sought out other common ground, but the statistician’s life was just too strange. Shaken, the sculptor removed itself to the realm of its kind. Recoiling from its attempt to bridge this gulf, the sculptor turned to one of its parents. Thy talked as their bodies moved against each other, arms interlocking, caressing, reaching for each other as if to join their souls together. They talked of art and beauty in the most intimate language of their folk: a language of touch and taste. In that language, the old one assured the sculptor of the beauty of its creation and the power of its art. Thus reassured, the sculptor returned to complete its project with the last finishing touches that would bring the work to its final glory. The sculptor hoped the beings, especially the statistician, would appreciate the final twist it felt inspired to add to the piece. …….. “Nice stuff,” Ken said looking at the basket that Vince had won. “My nephew is a real sports fan.” “Have it,” Vince said. “It’s all junk: a picture of their star quarterback before he switched teams; a football signed by their star running back before his drug problems got aired out in the press; stuff from other players who fell from grace. They fob their junk off onto charities to look like they care about the community and all; but they’re just dumping stuff no one else wants. I’m sure there’s a truckload of that crap they need to dump.” “Just the same,” Ken said, “Toby would really like it. He doesn’t get out much, and this is his link to the outside world.” “Doesn’t get out much?” Vince asked. “He’s sick,” Ken replied, “just real sick.” Ken hoped that Vince would not press him for details. He did not feel like bearing his soul to the man. Helping him jumpstart his car was the right thing to do, and Ken was glad to do it. Just the same, Ken was crowd-weary and just wanted to go home. Ken didn’t want to talk about how he was better with numbers than with people: how crowded nights wore him down. He didn’t want to talk about how Toby’s sickness intimidated him: making him feel like whatever he did was not enough. He didn’t want to share the darkness in his head with this fierce man. “Well, have it then,” Vince said shoving the basket at him. Ken thanked the man and drove off into the fog-obscured night. As he reached the highway, he had another of those, maybe, visions where the strange being tried to communicate. This time, Ken got a feeling that the, whatever it was, had achieved something though Ken could not discern what the achievement was. For a while, Ken thought that this might be some bizarre angel in charge of granting prayers. ‘Did Toby pray?’ Ken wondered and decided he didn’t know. He’d never felt the need to ask. By the time Ken reached his house, he’d convinced himself that the whole thing was just a sugar high; that was the sanest, safest, least terrifying thing to believe. The uncanny was too far beyond the comfortable rationality of numbers for Ken to be at home. ‘At least,’ Ken thought, he would not be visiting empty handed the next time he saw Toby. He had something for his nephew, a gift that would make Ken feel useful, a person who could answer prayers. Submission Guidelines for Slate and Style Here are the submission 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 list of 4 items • Spring Issue: March 21st—Submissions close February 28th • Summer issue: June 21st—Submissions close May 31st • Fall issue: September 23rd—-Submissions close August 31 • Winter issue: December 21st—Submissions close November30th list end 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 And Style submission, your name, and number of submissions.” Example: “Slate and Style submission, Shelley Alongi, 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 and 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” (the word). 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 join. Pay online by going to our division Website and clicking on the button that says “PayPal”. If you’re new to a screen reader, you can search for the word “pay” on the site till you find PayPal and then click on that button. The PayPal information encourages donations, but this link can also be used to pay dues. The End.