alone. It is being released for all to enjoy and become a part of. The members will still have it delivered directly to their inboxes though. Members will find some other benefits to their membership that will outweigh being the only ones to read this great magazine, such as discounted entry fees. Keep an eye on the division webpage. There are some exciting things that will manifest in the coming year. We will have greatly informative and educational discussions for the members to take part in each month. We will have some side classes and groups online. And we will have new activities specifically designed for the youth of the Federation. My hope is that we all embrace the philosophy of the National Federation of the Blind and work to pass that on through the division. My hope is that we keep and cultivate the creative spirit that makes us artists with the written word. And most of all, my hope is that we support each other to do our best, personally and through our combined efforts in the Writers’ Division. On the Slate The S&S team wishes to welcome all readers, old and new, to the Slate and Style. It is a team effort made up of dedicated officers and members. And it should be noted here that there is always room for more team members. S&S is published four times a year at the seasons’ change. We have an email address especially for S&S submissions and correspondence. . We look forward to hearing from each of you, our readers and division members. Please use this new option of communication to submit, ask questions, make requests and express your interest in involvement. S&S is dedicated to showcasing members as they are in all their glory and levels of writing skills. Though, of course, we cannot accept all submissions, we encourage all members to get involved. We want you, as you are the membership we wish to
showcase. So become a part of Slate and Style. Particularly, in this we are highlighting some of our writing contest winners. The writing contest is a big part of the Writers’ Division and all the entrants deserve recognition. Sadly we are not able to showcase every submission, but the winners will be here in our pages. If you do not see a winning entry in this issue, it is likely being held for another, later issue, so keep reading. And even if someone did not win, it must be known that they were up against some great competition. Everyone who enters is a winner just for putting themselves out there. Another thing to note here is the formatting. There is an attempt to be accessible to all, so if you are having difficulty, please let us know. If you are a JAWS user, you could use Quick Keys by pressing insert + z and then navigate by pressing b. Enjoy reading what we are all writing. One for Every Year First Place, Adult Fiction by Chris Kuell “Life is not easy for any of us. But so what? We must have perseverance and all, confidence in ourselves. We must believe that we are all gifted, and we must use those gifts to fulfill our life’s purpose.” - from the diary of Suzie Bauer The first hurdle of the day was getting down on the ground. Well, getting down wasn’t so hard, but doing it without spraining or fracturing anything was another matter. After a minute of pondering, in the end Matthew mostly just used his cane for balance and plopped down on his backside with a grunt, followed by a silent prayer of thanks that nothing had broken. Using one elbow for leverage, he rolled onto his knees and caught his breath. So far, so good. He extended his cane out to the left and felt the bricks edging the garden, then moved right until he found the angel statue. Like an infant, he crawled forward until he found the plaque which read simply—Suzie. He
traced the letters with his index finger, mind racing backwards at the smooth cold of the marble to the day his grandson Allan had shown up with it. “I’ve got the bricks you wanted for Nana’s memorial garden in the truck,” the tall boy, well, man, said. “Instead of the plain red, though, I got nice white ones. I think it will look much better. They cost a little more, but don’t worry about that.” Allan paused before Matthew could ask him to drive his truck around back and help unload the bricks. “I also got you this.” He handed Matthew the heavy piece of polished marble. It was maybe eight by twelve inches, and he immediately found the engraved letters. “I figure if you’re going to put Nana back there, you got to mark it somehow.” That had been sixteen years earlier. His Suzie had passed in October of 1998, her ashes nestled in a brass urn until the following spring. They had both loved nature, loved to garden, and although they had never discussed it directly, he felt certain she’d want to return to the earth, her material self becoming a part of something beautiful and eternal. Matthew took a handkerchief from his back pocket and dusted off the stone. He then took the hand spade from another pocket and carefully dug a hole about six inches to the left of the bottom corner of the stone. When he finished that hole, he moved up six inches and dug another, repeating the process until he’d dug six holes, two on each of three of the stone’s sides. He then fumbled around behind him until he found the old lunch tray with two dozen Dixie cups on it. Each of the cups was half filled with dirt and a small green shoot that would grow into a bright yellow black-eyed Susan come June. Delicately, he removed the plant and soil from the cups, dropping one in each hole he’d dug. Then tender as handling a newborn baby, Matthew filled in the rest of the holes with dirt and patted them down safe and secure. He mindlessly hummed an
he’d stopped. Despite the protests from his knees and back, he pushed himself first into a squat, then using his cane for balance, slowly managed to stand up. As the world settled in under his feet, he wiped his brow with his handkerchief and smiled. Ninety years young, he thought. Still going strong. He walked, or perhaps ambled is a better word—across the backyard, up the driveway to the path that lead to the back of his house. The same house he’d lived in since 1978, when the place was a dump that probably should have been condemned. But over the years, with lots of hard work and determination, he and Suzie had built something strong and lasting. Sure, it was much quieter now that the kids and the grandkids were all grown. And of course, the first few years after Suzie passed had been almost unbearable. But there was also comfort in the familiar. So much had happened in this house that he felt like it was a part of him, and he a part of it. Inside, he took a long drink of water and grabbed the next tray of flowers. The morning’s work had taken a lot out of him, but perseverance was his middle name, and there was much still to do. Tucking the tray across his hip, he made his way back to the memorial garden and once again, utilizing more gravity than grace, got himself down with his spade and started digging. Matthew met Suzie in late summer, 1940. His best friend Tony had heard that a bunch of kids were meeting up at Andy Carroll’s parent’s place at the lake. Andy’s Dad was away on business, and his Mom was helping a sick aunt in Indianapolis. “No excuses,” Tony said, knowing very well how uncomfortable Matthew felt in social situations. It was awkward enough being sixteen-years old, never mind being the only blind kid in the entire town. “There’s going to be girls,” Tony continued. “Bill’s already in the car, and—“ he dropped his voice to a whisper. “We’ve got a bottle of hooch.”
Matthew remembered little of that day 75 long years ago, except for a girl who had spent time talking to him. Rather than focusing on his blindness, she asked about his favorite books, if he thought America would get pulled into the war, and if he liked to dance. As dinnertime passed, most of the kids went home. A dozen or so stayed and made a bonfire on the beach. Fortunately, Suzie and her friend Ellen were among the stragglers. Tony brought out the whiskey. Cans of beer and who knows what else were passed around until the entire group of them were three sheets to the wind. Ellen was trying to get them to sing ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’, but the ruckus that ensued could hardly be called music. When Matthew found he couldn’t remember the words, he figured he better pass when the next bottle came around. As the next chorus began, one of the boys Matthew didn’t know belched out, “Stuck a feather in his ass and said it looked like Tony!” The gang erupted into a puddle of laughter. Andy Carroll leapt to his feet all of a sudden and said, “I’m drunk!” which unleashed another barrage of laughter. Somebody else said, “Hey, why don’t we go A couple of the protested, but Matthew heard great enthusiasm from most of the gang. “It’s dark, anyway,” Tony said, already beginning to undress. “We’ll all be like Matthew tonight!” A weight pressed down on Matthew with those words. The lighthearted, happy feeling he’d had a moment ago slipped away like the water the kids were now splashing in. For a while tonight, he hadn’t thought about being different. He was just having fun, hanging out with friends, and he wanted that feeling back. He slipped off his shoes and socks, then his shirt, and finally he stood and slipped out of his shorts. Whoever was at the fire could see him, but so what? He decided to leave his cane by his clothes and made his way down the beach.
The chill of the water prickled his skin. Feeling Matthew forced himself to dive in. He came up maybe fifteen feet away from where the boys were dunking, splashing, and mocking each other. He stood there, chest deep, outside the circle. His usual spot. Behind him he heard movement, then two hands gently held his waist. Matthew started to spin, expecting to grapple with one of the guys, but a soft voice whispered, “It’s Suzie. Help cover me.” He as she pressed in closer, her skin soft and warm behind him. “Move slowly backwards,” she whispered, holding his hips as they eased away from the rambunctious crowd. She let go and he immediately missed her Turning, he heard her move through the water. Matthew wasn’t a great swimmer, but he could sidestroke and hear where she was going. When they were well away from the others he lost her sound, so he stopped to listen. He jumped at her touch. She giggled, then spoke softly by his ear. “Can you see anything, Matthew?” “No,” he said. “Can you?” “There’s only a sliver of moon, but the night is clear, and there are thousands of stars in the sky. It’s hard to see, but there’s a silvery sheen so I can still tell how handsome you are.” He wanted to say something clever—nobody but his mother had ever told him he was handsome before—but the words evaded his tongue. Fortunately, Suzie didn’t have the same problem. “Give me your hands,” she said, bringing his fingers to her face. “I’ll help you see me.” Perhaps the greatest mystery in life was revealed to Matthew that night. He now had a mental image to accompany his late night fantasies. Best of all, as the party broke up and people got into their cars to return home, Suzie found him and kissed him softly on the cheek. “What’s your phone number?” She said it, and he repeated the number to himself
twenty times to be sure he wouldn’t forget. Over the next year he called her Sunday, and even learned to take the bus from Columbus to Pickerington to visit her. Sometimes they went to the movies, where she narrated in a few, select words, what was happening on the big screen. They’d go for walks, play horseshoes, or just sit on the porch swing drinking sweet tea and talking. Following high school, when most of the boys who hadn’t joined up after Pearl Harbor went ahead and shipped off to Europe or the Pacific, Matthew once again felt like an outsider. His folks had pushed him to take a job at a local workshop making brooms for ten cents each. Suzie, on the other hand, pushed him to reach further. “Never settle for mediocrity,” she said more than once. “People will always tell you that you can’t, but I never will. I know better. I know you can do anything you set your mind to, Matthew.” Despite his objections, Suzie signed on as a nurse and went to London to help the devastated Brits. While there, she taught herself Braille so she could send letters home to Matthew. Nobody had ever done that before. Her thoughtfulness moved him, and Matthew vowed to make her proud. The next day he put on a suit and found his way to North American Aviation, where he knew they were in need of general laborers. Despite being shorthanded, they showed him the door. The same happened at Curtiss-Wright, Alco Manufacturing, and General Electric. But the Continental Can Company, who had thousands more orders than they could process with the meager workforce, offered him a that ended up lasting almost forty years. The job at Continental Can did much more than increase Matthew’s independence, and savings account. It proved to Suzie’s parents that he could provide for her. Six months after her return from week
England, on June 16th, 1945, Matthew Paul Bauer and Suzanne Lilian Miller were joined in Holy matrimony before 47 guests at the Pickerington Methodist Church. The next fifty-three years seemed, from the perspective of the ninety year old man planting flowers in his backyard, to pass in the blink of a hummingbird’s wing. There had been innumerable highs—the birth of their three kids, the trip to Yellowstone, Suzie winning the Betty Crocker cook-off with her raspberry tart recipe—and some terrible lows. Little Michael getting hit by that car back in ‘56, Matthew’s being passed over for the plant manager job three times, the closing of the Columbus plant, and of course, Suzie’s cancer, and the relapse that finally took her. But life is a journey, and there were many lessons along the way. And with Suzie helping to push him, he’d achieved more than he ever could have imagined. The seven long years of studying late at night and weekends to earn his bachelor’s degree. The promotion that brought them to this house in Rochester back in ’78. The way they’d both learned to sand and paint and plaster and fit pipes to turn this shack into a beautiful home. And perhaps the scariest lessons of all came from raising the kids. Matthew had been petrified he’d break them somehow. He didn’t know how to teach the boys to throw a football or hit a baseball, to ride a bike or drive a car. But Suzie was always there, reassuring him. Trusting him. Believing in him. Never allowing him to doubt his capabilities. And now he was on his own. Sure, he still had the kids, and his grandson Allan and his wife were godsends. It was hard without Suzie, awfully hard, but he’d made her a promise in the hospital, and he’d stuck to it. The cancer had come back hard; her organs were riddled with it. They both realized her time was He’d held her hand, so boney and frail, and stroked her soft hair.
particularly fond of what she called the vibrations of and seven plus five,” Daddy said, then shrugged. “Who knows what those numbers mean. That woman’s crazier than a pet coon.” He frowned. “I ain’t happy about you hanging out with that woman,” he said. “I’ve been tempted to break my promise ever since I came up here last to let your gramma know you were coming. That’s the devil’s doing—trying to make a liar out of me.” caught the tremor of fear in his voice. Everyone in their church thought they were entering the end times and the devil was stepping up his attack on them, because of it. Korin wasn’t worried. The war was still going on over there across the ocean. But that was a long way off and didn’t have much to do with her little town nor their church’s congregation, as far as she could tell. “Mama came to me again last night,” Korin said, disregarding Daddy’s warning to ignore the dreams she’d been having nightly ever since she’d turned twelve, three months ago. “I told you to pay them dreams no mind,” Daddy scolded. “That’s the devil, playing like he’s your mama. She’s been gone five years now and you know the dead can’t be showing up in our dreams.” “I know that,” Korin agreed, not really believing it. ”But this time she brought me a present.” She felt the weight of the flat river rock Mama had placed in her hand. She raised her chin and blinked hard against the burning in her eyes at the soft, cultured voice, so unlike that of most folks she knew. “Mama told me to listen to the of the Jidhe.” She turned to Daddy. “What’s a Jidhe?” After a long moment, he nodded and explained that he and Mama had studied the book of Jude the night before she died. “The devil was most likely aiming
no response, he yelled again, then again. The cacophony of crows fell silent. The only sounds were the rushing of river over rocks and the rustle of breezes through tall grass at the edge of the turnout. “She agreed to meet us on this side of the swinging bridge and she promised not to take you any farther than that grove of myrtle wood trees above the trail, over there,” Daddy explained. “I ain’t gonna have you messing around that heathen’s stomping grounds, even if she is your gramma.” He yelled again, then gave the swinging bridge a final scanned the trail across the river and grinned. “That’s it! She’s a no-show. We’re out of here.” He headed for the car, still grinning. “I kept my end of the bargain. It ain’t my fault she ain’t here.” He stopped and took in the wide turnout, the grimy pickup standing there alone. “Her turning seventy-five must not be so important,” he said. “Looks like she forgot and doesn’t need your help celebrating her birthday, after all.” “Who Unexpected emotions welled in Korin’s chest, negating those harshly spoken words—disappointment, hurt and an overwhelming longing for the gramma she would now surely never meet. Daddy thumped the Chevy’s hood. “Come on! Let’s go!” When Korin didn’t budge, he leaned into the car’s open window and gave the horn an impatient tap. Korin turned to leave, then caught movement from the corner of her eye and froze. A diminutive figure, no more than three feet tall, came out of the shadows across the river—a tiny man with a long white beard and wild, flyaway hair, the shade of summer clouds. It was the same little man who had stood at Mama’s side each time she had entered Korin’s dreams!
“Now what?” demanded as he strode toward her. Korin pointed and described the white-haired figure, not daring to mention that he, too, had been appearing in her dreams. scanned the trail, then frowned. “I don’t see nothing.” Korin watched the little man turn and look their way. “He’s right there!” How could Daddy not see him? Daddy shook his head. “I don’t see nobody.” He snorted. “That’s just the sun, bouncing off those logs over yonder.” His eyes suddenly widened and his shoulders slumped. An old woman emerged from the trees and onto the trail, toward the swinging bridge. “You’ve arrived earlier than the time we agreed upon,” she called, then stopped for a exchange with the little man who shot a glance Korin’s way before turning to disappear back into the shadows. The woman moved swiftly across the swinging bridge, oblivious to the way it swayed in response to each quick step she took. “I’ll stick around for your meet and greet,” Daddy said as they watched the woman hurry toward them. “Then, I’m outta here.” The Chevy’s engine faded into the distance as Korin’s gramma squared her shoulders and said, “I only have a few hours to teach you what you’ve been unable to learn since your mother’s passing. You may have the Jidhe Ken, as I do, but you can’t participate in what is to be done today unless you know how to use it.” The Ken? Korin raked a hand through her hair. “What…?” “We must work together.” Gramma interrupted and continued as though Korin knew what she was talking about—a binding spell, magic and a epidemic of evil. Seeing Korin’s confusion, Gramma heaved an exasperated sigh, then said, “K-O-R-I-N,” she nodded. “Thankfully, my daughter
had the foresight to give you a name with the value of seven plus five. So, you’re surrounded by the protective aura of seventy-five. Today, you’ll need all the protection you can get.” “Pro-protection?” Korin struggled to understand—the urgent pressure of time—the weird fixation on the number seventy-five—the birthday celebration that wasn’t a celebration at all. Gramma’s green eyes narrowed. “Did your mother tell you of our alliance with the Jidhe? Do you understand the importance of what must be done before the sun goes down today?” Korin shook her head. “But last night, Mama said I should listen to the Jidhe.” “She visits your dreams?” hesitated. “Sometimes,” she admitted, waiting for a lecture on giving credence to dreams. Instead, Gramma’s emerald eyes began to fill with hope. “Does someone come along with her?” “Well…” Again, Korin hesitated. “There’s a little man who …” “What does he look like?” When described the diminutive character, Gramma gave a sigh of relief. “That’s Sebastian, he’s one of the ancient race of magicians called Dream Walkers. If you’re able to see Sebastian, he and your mother have been instructing you in your dreams, showing you how to use your birthright, the Jidhe Ken, to communicate with him and others like him.” She took both Korin’s hands in hers and gave an encouraging squeeze. “We might be able to recharge the binding spell, after all.” Korin’s bewildered expression caused the old woman to glance up at the mid-day sky, as if judging the hour. “I’ll start at the beginning.” Korin listened with rapt attention as her family history unfolded. “Centuries ago,” Gramma began, “Our ancestors and the Jidhe lived on Angainey, an island
theme song for The Lone Ranger on the top of my desk. Silence on the other end of the phone—never a good thing where my mum was involved. I waited as she cleared her throat a few times and took a sip of something—coffee with just a snippet of brandy and cream, I suspected. "I'm dying," she finally said. "I hate to be rude, Summer, but can we please work all this out during our trip?" Just like my mum—blunt and evasive all at the same time. She had been battling with leukemia for some time, so the news should not have come as such a shock—but it did. "Um, look, Mum; I have to go. How about if I swing by your place after work?” More silence. "That will be just fine, dear. Be packed and to roll." Click—and she was gone. The woman was like a Northwest storm—quick to stir and faster to clear. "Shit!" I hissed, slamming my hand upon my cluttered desk as I Mum would never take no for an answer. She was as convincing as a heart attack and just as unyielding. Time to kiss my family and career goodbye! My boss was less understanding than my husband and teenaged kids. Given the circumstances, however, I managed to slip away with my job intact. That evening, when I arrived at my mum's in Silverdale, I noticed a motorhome parked in front of her building. Mum's tiny backside led the way down its stairs as she backed down one step at a time. "Mum, what are you doing?" "Packing," she said. "Do you have your personals? I left the bottom drawer and right closet open for you." A middle-aged gentleman with a huge belly and a ruddy face approached the rig. He handed my mum her keys. "Your place is empty, Mrs. Greyson. Here are the keys to your rig." "Thank you, Mr. Farley, for everything." The man sized me up for an uncomfortable moment before saying, "Good luck to you, gal!"
It had changed our last visit. The Oceanic Institute was comprised of buildings now, not the temporary trailers as I remembered. The harbor at the jetty was landscaped. It looked nice, but it had become just as sterile as the city itself. The towering cliffs had eroded quite a bit, leaving the cresting homes sitting precariously on stilts and crumbling foundations—apropos for how fragile life was, even for million-dollar homes. I grabbed a thick blanket and helped my mum out of the rig. She was too weak to walk, but walk she did. Her muscles trembled under my supporting hands and her flesh felt spongy and cool. She had to have been in terrible pain, but her face resembled a child's in a place filled with magic. "Brings back memories, yes?" I asked, guiding her to the bench overlooking the jetty. I moved around and sat beside the woman I had truly grown to love over the past seventy-five days. Wrapping my arm around her, I pulled her against me, gripping back the tears stinging my eyes. The woman ate as if every meal were her last, yet she looked so frail and thin. In my mind, she had always been robust, athletic, and strong. Had I also been so blind these past few years? "Thank you for this," she said, patting my hand. "I should be thanking you." I could not hide the smile from my voice, and she sensed it. "Life is meant to be lived, my dear. Do not allow your career to let you forget that." Her voice was frail, but very clear." Are you enjoying our trip?" I asked, not ready to face my shortcomings. She chuckled. "Oh my, yes. Although, I could have gone without the shark swimming between my legs." I nodded. "Yes, that was quite an experience. I did enjoy it, though, when you tried to teach the fish manners when they came to steal your bread." She glanced down at the still swollen mark on her hand where the fish had bitten her. "A lot of good it did me."
"Well, they did outnumber you." "Yes, but they didn't get my I made certain of that." I laughed. "You most certainly did." The sun had started its descent and was nearing the horizon. "The sky looks as if it's on fire," I said. "There are red clouds with bright pink highlights on an orange backdrop. The sun is clear and large; its reflection dominates the ocean's surface." She smiled and turned her face toward the sun. "I can feel the warmth, yet my body feels so cold," she said. I secured the blanket around her shoulders and held her close. "There, better?" "Yes, thank you, dear." Her face was aglow, eyes closed and delicate lips curled up at the ends. "Do you know why I named you Summer Sky?" I chuckled. "I always thought you did it because you me." "Heavens no, child. You were my gift from God—my miracle. My uterus was weak and unable to support life, yet despite the doctor's opinion, you stayed with me and blessed me with the only life I would ever bring into this world. You are my breath of fresh air, my summer sky." pooled in my eyes, blurring the magic of the setting sun. I finally allowed them to roll freely down my face, grateful for the emotion they represented. My mother had loved me. Now that I looked back on my life, she was always there for me. She attended every concert, every play, and even gave me a complete makeover when I wanted to gain a boy's attention at school. For so long, I had ridiculed her—had thought her wild and careless in her ways. She was so different from me, yet she loved me as I was—never trying to change me. "This is so hard, Mum." "Death is never easy for those who are left behind." "Can I ask what your favorite part of life was?" She smiled, though the expression was weak and etched with pain. "Jack's and my honeymoon, the day you were born, and these
stamped on our underwear. It's so ubiquitous, in fact, that we rarely spare a thought for what a marvel it is. What is Writing? The ability to collect and organize thoughts, observations and opinions and to encode them in a format that others can access long after we're gone is the crowning achievement of the human race. It wasn't always this way. People have been trying to communicate all along. Before the development of language, we used the "point, grunt and shove" method. It had its place, but it couldn't keep up with the complexities swirling through our primitive brains. Eventually, humans developed the spoken word. By vocalizations, we could convey concepts that were far more subtle than what we could communicate through grunts and gestures. Yesterday, tomorrow, forever, nowhere, nothing, created nuances in our communications that further expanded our thoughts and imaginations. The written word took things to a whole new level. By assigning little squiggles and lines to represent different sounds, we were able to make a lasting record of our thoughts. Everything we have achieved in science, technology, medicine, literature, music and so on owes its existence to the ability to write things down. Sometimes when I say this, someone reminds me that we don't need to write things down, because we can make videos of ourselves speaking, and those videos will live on after us. First, we can be more precise in writing. Flubs, incomplete thoughts and errors are far easier to edit in written form. But let's set that argument aside. Consider something we know from history. Simply put, we would have never developed the ability to record audio and video if not for the written word.
So many people living in different places and at different times contributed parts of the puzzle - math, science and technology. It was the ability of those who came after them - made possible by the nature of the written word - to read their thoughts and put things together, that enabled the discoveries and inventions that enrich our lives today. Why do people write? When we think of writers, we think of novelists, journalists, poets, playwrights and songwriters. These professionals, however, are merely the tip of the iceberg. Writing is something people do for many reasons. Some write to entertain, to educate, to inform, to sell and even to deceive. As beings who have developed language as a way to communicate and the written word as a way to record that communication, we have an innate connection to the art and craft of writing. It is nothing less than our birthright as human beings. Why Should You Write? Why? First of all, because everyone has a unique, irreplaceable vantage point to observe the world. Each of us has something to contribute to the discussions around us, both minor and monumental. No one - not today or in the future - will ever be able to capture your point of view ... no one but you. Secondly, it's your best tool for self-advancement. The ability to clearly express your opinions and observations is the pinnacle of literacy. Communicating with others enables us to resolve conflicts, make new discoveries, problems and elevate ourselves in the minds of those who are in a position to help us grow and achieve. The people who provide the texts of our news and entertainment may be the most well-known of the writers among us, but they are by no means the only ones. Writing is an essential
with excursions into fantasy. It follows two 14-year-old friends - one of whom is legally blind - as they make their way in a new country and struggle with the consequences of learning a dangerous secret. Recommended by professionals in education and the arts as a classroom resource, it is available in print through Amazon, on all major e-book outlets and on Bookshare. Donna worked for many years as a volunteer publicist for several NFB groups including the NFB of Pennsylvania, the Performing Arts Division and the Writers' Division. Her efforts led to stories about successful blind people and the issues we face in newspapers and other media throughout the country. Contact Donna at: http://DonnaWHill.com The Dragon’s Princess First Place, Stories for Youth by Laura Nunez In the far off kingdom of Bree, there ruled an honorable king, King Rolland, and his lovely wife, Queen Emma. They treated their people well, giving to the poor, and regarding all creatures with kindness and respect. King Rolland and Queen Emma were madly in love, the only thing that could make their life even more magical was a child. The Royals desperately to have a baby, but after several years of trying, they worried that Queen Emma may be unable to give birth. The King and Queen sought out help from the Royal Council of healers and wizards. Many tests were performed on The Queen to determine whether she could ever
carry a child. They measured her belly, made her eat different roots and berries, and even advised her to rub the stomachs of female animals for good luck. At last, the healers and wizards reached their conclusion. To their dismay, the Royal Council had determined that Queen Emma could not bear children. The Queen cried for days. The castle fell silent as word of the sad news spread. All activity ceased, and a day of mourning was held in the land’s churches. Sorrow fell heavy on The King’s heart, but he knew the land of Bree still needed its leaders. To spread good spirits through the kingdom, The King organized a party at the palace. Scrumptious foods piled high on platters. Musicians played beats that made you jump up and dance. Colorful lights were strung up in the courtyard. Beautiful bouquets sat in the center of each table. The entire kingdom attended, and for the first time in some time, laughter and jokes echoed within the gates of the royal grounds Right before the serving of the cake, a beggar approached The King and Queen. Promising incredible news, he pulled them aside to speak privately. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me your majesty.” “No thanks are needed,” replied The King.
The beggar bowed in respect. “I may have a solution to The Queen’s problem,” whispered the beggar, standing on the toes of his pointed red shoes. The Queen’s face fell in misery. “We have already received advice from our council,” The Queen said, brushing a tear from her eye. is nothing we can do,” finished The King. “I apologize for my honesty. Maybe your council can’t do anything, but I know someone who can help.” A pause passed as the King and Queen exchanged skeptical glances. “Go on,” instructed Rolland. So the beggar told The King and of a powerful wizard known as the Red Warlock, who lived in an old abandoned castle on the outskirts of the kingdom. The Red Warlock had the power to do almost anything, but always required a hefty payment from those who asked for his assistance. Wanting to keep dealings with the powerful warlock secret, the king and queen journeyed to the warlock’s castle at midnight the next night. A deep mote surrounded the warlock’s castle, with no drawbridge to cross. And ferocious alligators lurking beneath the water’s surface meant swimming was not an option. Feeling defeated,
the King and Queen turned back for home. Just then, a loud roar erupted as a massive scarlet dragon swooped down out of the sky. He scooped up The Royals in his meaty arms and flew back towards the warlock’s castle. The dragon landed near a set of run down stables where the Red Warlock stood waiting for his guests. He wore a red cloak and a red top hat. His red shoes pointed up at a funny angle. And though his cheeks were round and jolly, his eyes broiled bright with mischief. “I wondered when you would get here. I almost thought I gave you the wrong directions while at the party.” “That was you,” gasped The Queen. “Of course,” bellowed the wizard. “Now let’s get down to it.” “Yes yes,” said The King. “You can help us?” “Child’s play,” he snorted. “Oh look at that, I believe I made a pun.” He pulled a single sheet of paper from the folds of his cloak and handed it to The Royals. “The contract,” he announced with a grin. “I’ll be giving you a batch of enchanted rose petals to sprinkle into your tea every day for a week. These petals will make it that you can carry a child.” The clapped her hands excitedly. “What can we do for you?” The wizard scratched his head. “I have yet to
decide, but when I ask for my payment, you must give it to me.” “Anything,” agreed The King. Everyone signed the contract, and The King and were escorted home. Almost immediately, Rolland and Emma became the happy parents of a baby girl, Princess Annabelle. She became the light of their life, and the kingdom loved her as much as her parents. Emma taught her to sing and dance. Rolland taught her to ride a horse and hold a sword. Years passed, and the royal couple had not heard from the Red Warlock. They almost forgot about their debt. But on the eve of Annabeth’s eighteenth birthday, the night she would choose a prince to wed, the Red Warlock returned. He had seen Annabeth’s golden curls, heard her angelic voice, and fallen in love with her striking green eyes. Dressed in all red, the warlock entered Annabeth’s birthday celebration with The King’s debt on his mind. Confidently, he strolled up to The King and tapped him firmly on the shoulder. Rolland spun to face him and nearly dropped his “I know what I want,” announced the Red Warlock. “You…” he stammered. “What?” “Annabelle’s hand,” proclaimed the warlock. The King gasped. “Anything but that,” begged The King, perishing the idea
Outside of her cell, the dragon watched Annabelle closely, becoming more curious with the girl every day. Being a victim of the warlock’s captivity, the dragon could identify with The Princess. “Mam,” Smolder whispered timidly through the bars of the cell door. Annabelle looked up from she was sitting on the floor of the cell. She had stopped singing halfway through her nightly song, suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. “Yes?” “I know it’s not much, but I have a gift for you,” he said, dropping a small wooden flute into her cell. She held the instrument in her hands delicately. “It’s beautiful. Where did you get this?” “I made it,” he said softly, hiding his face behind his paws. Placing the wooden instrument to her lips, Annabelle breathed out and a series of elegant notes floated through the air. “Thank you,” she beamed. “And sorry for attacking you with my shoe the day I met you.” Smolder laughed. “I understand. I am a prisoner of Red Warlock too.” “Really?” “Many years ago, when I was a baby my mother went looking for food. The Red Warlock had been watching our den for weeks, and had planned to steal one of her babies when she left to hunt.
At once, Smolder ran off to Red Warlock’s study where he kept the key to Annabelle’s cell. Bouncing on his heels, Smolder unlocked Annabelle’s prison and set her free. “Climb on,” he said, offering his back. Carefully, Annabelle jumped onto Smolder’s back, making sure to avoid the sharp spikes stretching down his spine. Throwing open the window, they flew out into the night. The fresh air felt amazing on Annabelle’s skin. It had been so long since she had ventured outside. She held tight to Smolder, leaned back, and let her hair flow in the wind. For the first time since her capture, Annabelle laughed and hooted with excitement. Smolder flew closer to the ground, touching down in the middle of the garden. “Sorry my princess, this is as far as I can go.” “This is wonderful,” she chimed. With a heart full of adventure, Annabelle sprinted through the flowers singing a joyful tune. Smolder watched from a distance, feeling happy that he could make The Princess smile. She plucked a blooming white rose from its stem and went to present it to her new friend. “For you my dragon, as thanks for bringing me outside.” Smolder tucked the flower behind his ear. A nervous puff of smoke slipped from his mouth,
causing his scarlet cheeks to blush a deeper shade of red. “Is something wrong Smolder?” she asked teasingly. “Oh nothing. It’s just no one has ever given me a present. In fact, I’ve never had a friend.” “Well, now you do,” she replied, giving his bulky body a cuddly hug. “Princess…” “Yes?” “Uh. Well. I mean.” Smolder in circles. “I don’t know how to say this.” “Just tell me Smolder,” she encouraged. Suddenly Smolder’s ears perked. His head tilted towards the main of the castle. “He’s back! Hurry, we need to leave.” With Annabelle tucked under his arm, Smolder charged back into the air. Time was ticking, and surely Red Warlock saw them flying overhead. His paws hit the ground just as Red Warlock stormed the tower. The silence was threatening. Red Warlock’s eyes burned with Smolder stood still, terrified of his punishment. Annabelle tried to hide beneath the dragon’s wing. “You disobeyed me dragon,” Red Warlock said coldly. “You know what I do to those who disobey me.” Red Warlock fixed his glare on Annabelle. “And you Princess, my bride to be, you disrespect me. I give you food, a roof, my
love, and you want to escape.” Red Warlock inched closer to Smolder and The Princess. The uncertainty of the warlock’s next move was torture for The Princess and her dragon. Suddenly he lunged for her, gripping her the ankles and dragging her back into the cell. Smolder roared with fury, but the wizard blasted him with a petrifying curse. She kicked and punched, and managed to bite him on the ear. “You spoiled little brat! Someone needs to teach you a lesson.” Annabelle looked longingly back at the dragon, wishing she could have escaped this torture with him. They were so close. Catching the princess staring at the dragon, Red Warlock released her hold on her and turned to the frozen Smolder. “I think I know the perfect punishment.” With a wave of his hand, a spiked whip appeared. “I punish you Princess, but I think that little brave heart can take it. That’s why I like you.” An evil grin spread across his face. “The best way to make the message loud and clear is to make you watch your new friend take the beating for you.” Red Warlock slowly walked up to Smolder, dangerously swinging the whip back and forth. Even though Smolder stood frozen, Annabelle could sense the fear coursing
through his body. Ankles bruised from her attack, Annabelle struggled to her feet, scanning the room for a means to defend her and Smolder. The crack of the whip broke the heated silence. Spikes dug deep into the flesh of Smolder’s back. Annabelle bit her tongue to stop herself from crying and alert the wizard to her search for a weapon. An empty water troth stood in the corner, Smolder had left some other wood project hidden under a cloth, and the pen she used for writing lie in her cell, nothing that would really give her the upper hand against a powerful warlock. Another blow to Smolder’s hindquarters seemed to shake the tower. It was now or never. She needed to rescue the dragon. “Stop,” she screamed as strike number three neared Smolder’s wounded back. Red Warlock whirled to face her. “Can’t take it,”” he taunted. She cleared her throat. “Let him go!” “Why I ever do that,” he snickered. “You are a coward!” she screamed. “You are too frightened to fight him. You hide behind your spells and pretend you are powerful.” His hands shook with rage. The red cloak swirled around his feet as a storm of magic surged within his body. Dropping the whip, he marched straight up to the princess.
“What did you call me?” “You are a coward. And Smolders is more kind and courageous than you will ever be.” She declared loudly. It clicked inside the mind of the warlock. Princess Annabelle had fallen in love with the dragon. “You love this creature? You want to be with this creature?” “More than anything,” she said longingly. “No my princess. If I can’t have you, no one can. I’ll curse Smolder to remain a dragon forever. A human cannot be with a dragon.” Understanding the warlock’s plan, Annabelle jumped in front of Smolder as the gust of magic surged from the palm of his hand. Now before the wizard there loomed two almighty dragons. The light blue dragon that was once Annabelle stomped towards the warlock with fangs bared, claws poised. “Maybe we could talk about this,” cried the wizard. “Set him free!” she ordered. “Yes mam,” he complied, waking Smolder from his frozen slumber. “And break the curse preventing him from leaving the boundaries of your castle.” “Me? You already did that.” “What?” Realization dawned on her. “The curse… I… Because I…” she whispered shyly.
her door in my slippered feet, so I know she was talking to Granddad again. Granddad’s in Heaven now. I’m not really sure what that is, but I think it’s a good place where grandparents sit in comfy chairs doing their crosswords and watching our lives pass on TV screens. Granddad loved TV. He loved crosswords, too. But I know he loved me and Grammy the best. Grammy herself with care from her seat. She limps to the coffee maker and fills it with water. I would normally get up and help her, but not today. It’s been quiet for what feels like an hour, and I don’t want to be the one to talk and ruin it. I also know Grammy and Granddad have been married seventy-five years because I sneaked a peak at Grammy’s desk calendar when she thought I wasn’t looking. She had a heart drawn around today’s date. And that’s kind of silly. Girls at school draw hearts and boys’ initials in the margins of their homework papers, so the idea of Grammy doing it is weird. “Did I ever tell you about the time your Granddad dressed up as Willie Wonka?” Grammy asks. I look up, noticing for the first time the laugh lines folded into the skin around her mouth. “Yeah, at least fifty times. Don’t you have any new stories?” She laughs, a sweet sound that carries notes of the strange music she listens to on her radio when she’s balancing her bank accounts by hand. It reminds me of sunshine and the pain of a loose tooth and success when you finally pull the tooth out and put it under your pillow. It’s a real, true laugh, not the fake kind grown-ups usually force out when they want kids to think they care, but they’re really just distracted with car payments or jobs or whatever it is that adults worry about. “Your Granddad had lots of stories,” she says. “He used to be able to come up with one at the drop of a hat. Like you. His talent lives in you.”
strains of solo choral music wafted through the air, echoing as if sung in a mountainous cavern, the notes blending in with the landscapes. Laurie looked up as the notes resonated through the room, notes lying gently on her ear, and notes she could not explain in her experiences, but that caught her attention. Brett stood back still watching, patiently, as if he awaited a signal for his next move. Laurie turned to him; he drew her to his warm, strong body as the music softened around them. She removed his glasses, caressed his reddish gray beard letting her fingers linger on his warm skin for a moment. Their kiss came as the harmonizing voices faded away, leaving the room in quiescence. Now the ticking of the grandfather clock’s pendulum moving back and forth became the dominant sound in the room. Lost for a moment in the kiss and the colors and the silence, Brett’s house embraced Laurie, and yet, distant voices from the past echoed here, shrill cries of displeasure or accusation. Held by arms that perhaps longed for security, finding it in this pleasure, Brett pulled back, feasting on this happiness with quiet eyes. “It’s been a pleasure,” he remembered saying the first time she met him outside his locomotive cab at Union Station, and now, surrounded by serenity, and the promise of warmth, here was the blending of memories and the making of their future. She held to him, responding to his touch, and then disengaged herself as she realized that to stay here would mean crossing a boundary line. She held his hands and stepped back. “You like it?” he asked needlessly. Her smile answered his question. “You have so many memories here.” “Yes.” Brett couldn’t share all those memories with her today. Some of them were painful; the arguments, the sadness, the
who became friends, some who left their husbands for more secure or stable lives, or simply because they were unhappy. A few like Carol stayed with their men of the railroad, and sometimes she entertained them. Most of the time, Brett ate at the breakfast nook, coffee in the morning before driving half an hour or an hour to his latest point of origin, and then making the journey back again. Laurie could see people lining these walls, sitting in these easy, velvet and intricately carved chairs, talking, laughing. If the living room had presented her with more personal memories, the dining room spoke of lighter moments, and holiday meals enjoyed. But it was master bedroom that held the biggest surprise. The large simply furnished room was a personal glimpse into where and how he spent his quiet hours. Carol, he told her, slept in another room across the house. They had not shared sleeping quarters. He had to be up too early, she said. His early morning movements disturbed her. He preferred it that way, especially when he was up at 3:20 in the morning, showering, grabbing coffee, keys and his engineer’s bag and slipping quietly into frosty mornings to make his commute. It was possible that Laurie fell in love with this room much like she had fallen in love with the man who slept in it, perhaps before she met him, before she knew his name, and before she saw the room. Rich cool blue carpet, maple furniture with carved brass handles, a chest of deep drawers, a long dresser that matched the nightstands and the bed, the long top home to all of Brett’s personal items: keys, spare change, a pair of tweezers, small pocket knife, a railroad watch bought by his late wife. Now her already over stimulated senses took in cool blue backgrounds comforting to tired eyes, soft light played on the dresser from the lamp that hung on a hook from the ceiling.
"You can have the doll forever if you want." Megan gave Mandy the doll back, realizing that there would not be the normal crying reaction. Mandy also found that she preferred to be by herself. She baffled those around her quite a bit. For example, one day her mother treated her to Kentucky Fried Chicken. On the way to the car, with their carry-out meals, Mandy saw a group of Filipina girls begging. Making sure her mom could still eat what she wanted; Mandy divided her entire meal exactly evenly for the girls. They were very happy. She too, was a bird-lover, although she couldn't find a teenage bird forum. She resolved not to marry because she felt people would consider her quirky. Instead she would be an English teacher. She thought seventh grade would be the best grade to teach. She thought this because she had liked her seventh-grade teacher and because she could reach out to those in need. The two met in Antwerp, Belgium, during a European tour, when they were 26 years old. Matthew had been taught by his family, "You're not the only one who's lonely. There's someone else out there who probably is alone." Matthew and Mandy began to hit it off right away. They realized they had a ton in common and maintained contact with each other. Their parents, glad to have their children happy, and with the prospect of possibly having grandkids, were very enthusiastic with their children’s new spouses. They moved to Halifax, the capital of the Canadian province where Matthew came from. The first real problem occurred when they were discussing their wedding plans. They had just been engaged in Nova Scotia. "I'd like to get married in London," Mandy said, "because that's where I grew up and it's so special to me. What do you think? Where do you want to get married?" Matthew dismissed the second question and said, "Great. London seems wonderful. I'm good with that." "Matthew, you don't look
satisfied. Where is it you want to go?" "I want to get married right here in Halifax." "Then Halifax it is," said with a tiny smile. "No, I want you to be happy in London. It's silly of me to expect your whole family to come to Canada just for a wedding." "Oh no, it will be perfectly fine. They'll love it. They've always been so happy there." "Your happiness is important to me." "Your happiness is important to me, too." After a moment of silence, Matthew said, "This is useless." "Yes, it is," agreed Mandy. "We're arguing because we're being too nice to each other." "We have to find out where to have the wedding. What should we do?" Just then Alma, their neighbor, rang the doorbell. She was there with some apple pie a la mode. "Hi, Alma," Mandy said. "We're not sure where to get married, and we each want to do what the other wants." "Okay, then," Alma said, "Each of you, picks a number between 1 and 60 and you get the first slice of pie." "Okay," Mandy whispered. "Whoever gets the first piece of pie, the other person can choose the location for the wedding." Matthew guessed 12. Mandy guessed 19. The number was 16. Therefore, Matthew decided they would have the wedding in Nova Scotia. Next time there was a decision to be made for anything fun, Mandy would get to pick. Matthew will go the next time. Their system is going to work out great… Until they have children, and then they'll have to compromise. Vejas Vasiliauskas is a recent high school graduate who is beginning his training at the Louisiana Center for the Blind. He has always loved stories from a young age. Before he began writing, he would dictate stories to his parents, who would write them down. He started writing his own stories in second grade on his Braille note-taker, and has not
looked back. Although he does not know if he will write for money, he loves doing it as a pastime. His story, "The Amazingly Unselfish Couple", came about because he had to write some stories about love, for his eleventh grade creative writing class, and he wanted to veer away from the usual stories he has read of couples who are unbelievably selfish. Vejas has amused those on Stylist for many years and though he is young, he is also getting started as a member of the Slate & Style team. The Dead Past by Shawn Jacobson Geoff cursed under his breath as he pulled the boat ashore. The hot metallic stink of tortured machinery assailed his nostrils; whatever had messed him up was serious. It was fortunate that his engine had given out close to an island. The island was wooded. Sidewalks and roads crossed it at intervals. “At one time, this island had been high ground of importance to the city around it.” Geoff mused as he surveyed the remnant of land. At the top of the hill sat one of those old Southern mansions favored in cooler drier times. If his luck wasn’t horrible, the place might have hospitable people, who could repair his boat. Geoff heard a man holler from the heights. “Good.” he thought. The place was inhabited by a friendly person; his luck was not entirely rotten after all. “What’s wrong?” the man asked again his loud voice carrying through the hot sticky air. “Engine cut out” Geoff answered. “It got real hot, and then it died.” “Let me look at it.” the man said while coming down. “Thanks.” Geoff said, “I was afraid I’d be stuck out here forever.” Then, “By the way, my name’s Geoff.” “Joe.” the other man said. “Let me get my sons to come help turn the thing over. Then we’ll see what is wrong. Bill, Ken, come
down here. We have a traveler in distress.” Two beefy looking kids ran down the hill from the house. “Get the ropes.” their dad yelled.” One boy turned around, going back up the hill for the required equipment. After a good deal of heaving, in which Geoff was happy to have younger bodies at his command, they got the tub up and turned over. “Man what a mess. You ripped up the bottom something good.” Joe said. “Just because the water’s wide here, doesn’t mean you don’t need to take care where you navigate. There’s lots of stuff close to the surface once you get out of the main channel.” “Think I hit a tree?” Geoff asked. “Or one of those old war memorials.” Joe answered. “You’d be surprised how many people get hung up on The Flaming Sword. That thing will rid up a hull anything fierce.” “Could be.” Geoff agreed as he looked over the river. “I’ve been lucky thus far, till today.” Geoff recognized the Lincoln Memorial across the way. He realized that the mansion on the hill must be Arlington House, the old Lee mansion. Funny how he had forgotten until that moment. The old patriotic places had lost their meaning over the years of water and rough travel. “Damn hot.” Joe said, wiping his forehead with a sleeve. “Used to be this time of year you’d get some relief; not any more. Oh well, let’s head up to the house. The boys are good with their hands; they can put your boat back together, at least good enough to get you back to the main. As for me, I spent too much time in the office to be good with tools; it’s a good thing the kids got skills.” “Thanks.” Geoff replied, with his own office workers’ clumsiness with tools on his mind. “It’s good to have someone mechanically minded out here. Lord knows I’m not. Any repairs I need get done back at the docks or get done by the shore people.” “I don’t think I could live out here without the boys.” Joe
affirmed. “I used to be an analyst for one of the universities out here, before they moved inland before the flood. It took brains and work ethic; it sure didn’t take being a mechanic, if I’d known…” Joe trailed off. As they reached the house, Geoff heard the radio, one of the last games of the baseball season. The Des Moines Yankees were getting beat handily by the Omaha Red Sox. “Did the Yanks get any better since July?“ Geoff asked. “they were in pretty bad shape then if I remember correctly.” are.” Joe said. “Yankees haven’t played worth a damn since they moved from New York. One more thing we lost with the tide. That old man Kochrander sure was foolish when he said that climate change was a hoax.” “I worked for the guy for five years. He sounded pretty convincing, like he knew the arguments.” “With all the scientists saying the climate was changing” Joe asked with incredulity. “How could you not be convinced with all the evidence?” “According to the man, a lot of the evidence was contrived by people who had their own motives. He said a bunch of them were liberals who hate Americans.” Geoff continued defensively “and those folk who got caught faking data really helped convince me that he was right. It made all those scientists who said we were going to Climatological Hell sound like a bunch of ivory tower snobs who wouldn’t mind lying to prove their point.” Geoff remembered that a lot of other people had felt the same way, a feeling of resentment for the egg-head types. At the end, it was pretty much done as far as any reforms were concerned. “Well, it’s not like we made it up, we just smoothed out the trends, got rid of the extraneous data and outliers, tried to simplify things.” Joe retorted. ”Your boss just blew it all out of proportion.” “Yeah,” Geoff snorted. “you just explained away every observation that didn’t fit your
have assumed that she was a servant, but not anymore. Some things had changed for the better. “My wife would kill me if I hadn’t offered you supper and a bed for the night.” Joe said. “Regardless of our pasts, she is very old school that way, from an old Pakistani Christian family, very much into hospitality.” The smells from the kitchen became inviting, Geoff gave silent thanks for hospitality as he realized his hunger. The shore folk were good hosts in there way, but food was becoming scarce out at the old coastline as the fishing fell off. “Wonder what ever happened to old Mr. Kochrander?” Joe mused. “He seemed to disappear after the water started to rise in earnest.” “I was there when the shore folk pulled his body out of the water a year, maybe two, ago.” Geoff said. “He was on an artifact dive, and, well, something went wrong with his scuba gear. I never did find out what went wrong. They kept him above water just long enough to perform the last service for his soul, and then they buried him at sea. I took the rest of his family back to the main on my way home.” Geoff continued. “I’ve had several trips with refugees from the shore who wanted back to the main; it’s a hard life out there and keeps getting harder.” “So they fished him out of the drink just to throw him back in.” Joe said. “Seems a waste of time, but I guess if you have religion, you want him to rest in peace, have closure and all that. And,” Joe continued. “I guess they don’t have cemeteries out there anymore. Not that the folks buried here got anything better nowadays. With all the honorable words said at their funerals, all the old soldiers buried here ended up with sea burial.” As Joe spoke, lightning lit the sky and rain hammered down onto the roof of the mansion. “Man,” Geoff exclaimed “I’m for sure glad not to be out in that.” He took a mouthful of vegetables, savoring the varied tastes. Fresh vegetables were scarce on the shore.
Conversation wound down as they ate. The rain stopped, and started up again. Supper ended as the rain ebbed, and they moved to the living room for coffee. The rules of hospitality forbade any conversation that would re-ignite the argument of the afternoon. So they didn’t talk about the mess that the world was in, and they didn’t talk about the weather. Joe talked about his family from Illinois and Geoff talked about relatives down south. He talked about the little he knew about his wife’s current life after she had left him for a man with the financial means to satisfy her tastes. He also mentioned is son who he almost never saw. Joe’s wife didn’t talk about Pakistan. Geoff guessed that he knew the reason. Later, Geoff wondered about how Joe and his family could afford the gas for the generator, the coffee, and the rest of the good lifestyle. He guessed that they grew something besides vegetables, maybe tobacco and maybe weed, out behind the house and sold it to someone on the mainland. He didn’t ask. Hospitality also demanded the cultivation of the skill of minding one’s own business. This was especially true out here, where people had their reasons to flee the civilization of the mainland. After the coffee, Joe’s wife spoke up. “I’ll show you where your bed is. We go to bed early out here.” “Just like the shore.” Geoff thought, following the lady up the stairs. ‘The morrow would come soon enough. The morning dawned hot and sticky. Across the river, the sun was burning its way through the haze. Geoff had slept fitfully, his sleep shattered by nightmares of ruined cities, submerged graves, and the new fierce storms of these times. Things pulled from the sea also haunted what little sleep he got. “I’d better be going soon so I get to the Rockville docks soon. This looks like another day with early storms.” “She’s down there, at the bottom of the steps.” Joe pointed
to where the boat sat righted after being worked on. As they walked, Joe asked, “Do you remember tourists?” “Huh?” Geoff grunted. “You know,” Joe went on. “people who came here to see the sights, the buildings, the monuments; all that “Yah.” Geoff replied, with the return of old memories. “I remember, when relatives would come in, I’d take them on a tour through the city.” “Well,” Joe said, “I remember one tour guide saying that Arlington House represented the South, the Lincoln Memorial represented the North and the bridge between them represented the reuniting of the nation after the civil war.” “Interesting.” said Geoff. “I may have heard the same thing, it’s hard to remember now.” “Well,” said Joe, “I think it’s a bit different now.” “Makes sense.” Geoff said, with indifference. “Everything’s different now isn’t it?” “I now,” continued Joe. “that Arlington House represents our desire to hand on to the old ways of doing things and the Lincoln Memorial represents our belief in our own righteousness in the face of all we’ve done.” “And the bridge?” asked Geoff. “The bridge is pretty much gone, as you can see.” continued Joe. “but the represents something.” “Yes,” said Geoff. “what does the river represent?” “The river represents the flood that carries it all away.” “Interesting.” said Geoff. “In all the time on the river, I’ve not thought of it that way. But, I must be going.” The men said there farewells and Geoff pushed off into the swollen waters over the graves of the honored dead, heroes of yesterday’s wars, wars of a time as dead as they were, a past that could not be summoned by any act of contrition. Geoff realized, as never before, just how dead the past was. He could no more atone for the past than he could part the waters that had drowned the world.
With naught but a golden smile. The moon then awakens, Rising, rising, holding court Over time's impatient stars Until dawn's destiny calls it home. How odd it seems that in nature's trek Stars bow to moon and clouds acquiesce To this ruler of midnight skies Give them each a try! You never know if you might enjoy the magic of the sonnet. Myrna Badgerow is the 2nd Vice President and an active member of the Writers’ Division and a valued member of the Slate & Style team. She always has a word to say and a way to do it. Living in Louisiana, she is a true Cajun cutie, born and raised. Her stories have inspired generations and will continue to do so. Being a friend to many, one could never be surprised at who they find showing up in her writing. 75 Years First Place, Elementary Poetry by Delaney Brooks What would it be like in 75 years? Will people have smaller and sharper ears? Will technology be better? might even be a new letter. When I’m gone and there are other kids in school, will they still think our technology is cool? With all that’s changed in the last 75 years, I hope that playtime will still be here. THE GARDEN
Bring to a simmer, add salt to taste, cover and cook slowly until the meat is really tender. This could be anywhere from 90 minutes to 4 hours Once the meat is tender, whisk in the brown sugar, the vinegar and add black pepper to taste. Garnish with the chopped parsley. Mashed potatoes and Cauliflower Ingredients: 3 medium Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and cubed 1 small head cauliflower, separated into florets 2 cloves garlic 1/3 cup milk 3 Tablespoons butter or margarine 1/8 teaspoon salt 1/8 teaspoon ground black pepper 2 Tablespoons finely chopped parsley Directions: Place cauliflower and garlic cloves in a steamer, above water. Cover and bring to a boil. Turn off after a few minutes and let steam until tender. At the same time, cover potatoes with water in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil until tender. Drain well. Combine all in a large serving bowl, mash and add remaining ingredients. Enjoy with no guilt. Autumn Bread Ingredients: 1 teaspoon active yeast 2 cups all-purpose flour 2 cups whole wheat flour 2 teaspoons salt 4 Tablespoons sugar 2 Tablespoons sesame seeds 2 Tablespoons poppy seeds 2 Tablespoons sunflower seeds 2 Tablespoons softened butter 1 ¾ cups warm water Directions: In a large bowl pour a bit of the water, flour and the yeast so that it could start to activate while gathering the rest of your ingredients. Mix in all dry ingredients first. Add the butter, sugar and water and knead well. You may need to add a bit of water or flour