SLATE & STYLE

YOUTH WRITING CONTEST

The NFB Writers’ Division is hosting a Youth Writing Contest to promote Braille literacy and excellence in creative writing. Entries will be judged on creativity and quality of Braille. We are looking for creative writing, in the form of fiction and poetry. There is no entry fee.

This is a contest for students who use Braille. Entries must Be submitted in hand embossed Braille, either on a slate and stylus or on a Braille writer. No computer Braille entries will be considered. Submissions must be Brailled by the entrant. Elementary students (K-5) may submit contracted Braille, uncontracted Braille, or an acceptable combination of the two. Students in higher grades will be expected to submit stories or poetry in contracted Braille.

The six categories are:

Elementary is K-5. Middle School is 6-8. High School is 9-12.

The contest opens January 1st, and ends, postmarked date April 1st. There will be three cash prizes for each category. First prize per contest is $25. Second prize is $15 and third prize is $5. Submissions for fiction may not exceed one thousand words. Poetry may not exceed twenty lines. Authors may submit multiple entries and all work must be original and unpublished. Each entrant must provide an identical print copy for possible publication.

Entries must be accompanied by a cover sheet containing Name, address, phone, email, title of the entry, school and grade of entrant. Winners will be announced at our division meeting during the July 2009 NFB National convention held in Detroit, Michigan.

Questions? Contact Fred Wurtzel at:
f.wurtzel@comcast.net
or 517-485-0326

THIS I BELIEVE

I believe in the power of one person to make a difference for all humanity. I believe that circumstances are not a predictor of the power of the individual to make a difference.

On January 4, 1809, a little boy was born in Coop Frey, France. Four years later, he was playing in his father’s workplace and severely injured himself. There was no OSHA. There were no antibiotics or the knowledge of germs. There were no telephones or 911 paramedics to call. Some people believe that a tragedy happened that day. I believe a miracle happened that day: the world changed forever.

A little boy injured his eye with his father’s leather working tool. He eventually lost all of his eyesight. No one would have thought it unusual if the little boy had grown up to be a beggar or the ward of his parents and siblings. No one would have been surprised if he had died poor, broken and desolate.

Such was not the case. Something within young Louis Braille drove him. He thirsted for knowledge. He wanted to read. He wanted to teach. He wanted to express his creativity through music and language.

It is well-known that Louis Braille invented a portable and easily reproducible reading and writing system for blind people based on six dots read by touch. The Braille system is much more than that. The ability to read, write and record thoughts and ideas is arguably the most powerful invention of humanity. Inventing a universal system to extend this power to blind people has made all the difference.

Some people believe that the first blind astronaut has been born. We have seen blind artists, physicians, lawyers, politicians, judges, teachers, factory workers, secretaries, inventors, scientists and the list grows every day. Little Louis Braille’s accident led to the liberation of millions of people. One little boy whose curiosity, drive and imagination was not blotted out with his eyesight; One little boy of humble beginnings changed the world, just as have thousands and millions of others whose passion would not allow them to stop before their dreams were realized. I believe that, regardless of circumstances, every one of us possesses the God-given power to change the world.

GROW WITH THE FLOW

From long, long ago (it seems like only yesterday) those times now roll before me in bold kaleidoscope, highlighting my life’s journey. Premature birth with undeveloped lungs in the year 1924 made my early years quite touch and go with my loving parents on high alert for signs of any health problems that could arise.

During this time of my youth my parents earnestly showed me what mattered most and how to deal with it. It was then I came to realize I was a sensitive, creative free spirit with an insatiable thirst for learning. I could easily think with finesse and clarity, though often quiet and shy among grownups on a regular basis.

Such are the predicaments of the awkward years. Will this muddle ever end? Alas, the torments of youth thus stagger the growing mind, puzzle the caring parents with their own confusions.

My teenage years were beset with tragedy. At age thirteen my mother died suddenly of pneumonia. At age nineteen my brother, my only sibling, was killed in World War II when he was twenty-six. Along with him I lost some dear friends that I had grown up with. These adversities strengthened me in a way that would give me guidance for the rest of my life - the powerful knowledge that when there’s a will there’s a way. Always, always hold a positive attitude, look up beyond the clouds.

Today I am 85 years young, forever young at heart. I’m one of the few survivors of World War II. Our group is known as the Greatest Generation.

My mother was a teacher and I’ve become a teacher through time’s gifts. I’m not a preacher; just a teacher to sparkle sunshine in the dark, wherever one may be, how dimly one can see past remembered surroundings.

For many years I’ve been a lyric, inspirational poet and writer of song lyrics. My writings are available in libraries, churches, hospice, newspapers, and published internationally. I have a Japanese pen pal who uses my writings and song lyrics to teach his beginning English speaking and writing classes. Some of his students wrote to me in English to thank me for sending a CD song “Lullabies.”

I’m blessed to realize that you can get through anything that life throws at you by clear communication, friendship and faith. There is a peace here, this acceptance and trust to live by.

I have had glaucoma for twenty years. The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do from a personal standpoint is giving up driving due to loss of peripheral vision. Giving up this freedom was a wallop of an effort. After a few months to integrate a new mindset, I managed to get a positive emotional overlook on the problem and all’s well despite this setback. At present I’m dealing with an arterial retinal block behind both eyes that needs to be watched and treated as necessary. If unattended, over time I will completely lose my sight. I look at this as the greatest challenge of my life.

It will be a rewarding adventure to test my daily management of hidden abilities just waiting for future motivation. All lessons learned from the past will play a part to keep me always positive, alert.

How will I cope with the progressive loss of sight that threatens to attack my inner being? First of all, I will choose listening to my heart again - the heart that beats with wisdom energies, evolving flexibilities, possibilities.

In my heart I will secure life’s rhythms played in musical tones, balancing levels of contentment against daily shortcomings a much -needed tool for uncertain moments with dim directions to follow.

I will dance the waltz of life with lilting song additions, happy in my innermost being and ready to use new tools, adjust to the bridge between past and present with expansions for the future. My heart will let me dare to dream as always, reaching for lasting hope no matter how dim the future may seem at times.

I have three children and seven grandchildren - all vibrant in their own ways, all a constant joy in my life. Their loving support in all my ventures, their kindness and help along the way makes all the difference in my abilities to live as life should be lived, using ever available courage tools when needed.

One of my favorite tools is the Grabber. It can be used to pick up things dropped on the floor, unloading clothes from the dryer, reaching kitchen cabinet items, counter items, disposing of waste basket materials for the trash in handy clusters. It grabs my thankful heart each time I use it. Hooray for the Grabber!

For years I’ve suffered with painful arthritis, a tough thing to deal with. Combining this disability with my fading eyesight, I use a magnifying glass for reading and writing, cruise the house with a cane and walker, reach my favorite chair to rest awhile, then walk to the open windows. Here I can drink in the sweet aromas of springtime from the gardens. I can feel the velvet petals of a rose bouquet. How wonderful it is to connect once more with those sparkling childhood joys, harmonies as I mature. This is life lived to the fullest, folks, with no regrets, no sad songs to sing.

The rhythms of my days
All changes in my ways
Become my legacy,br /> For all those just like me-
Dim vision, loss of sight
Can cast amazing light
For spirit eyes to see
Releasing victories
God’s gracious destinies
Ever growing with the flow
Sharing as we go.

MY LIFE

I sit here in class,
And I know, alas,
That my life will not be carefree.
I know inside,
That the peaceful tide,
will become a roaring sea.
There’s a lot to know,
And a lot to find,
And lots of things to fill my mind.

The most important things I own,
My soul and my heart and my mind,
I will still treasure when I’m grown;
They are all intertwined.
I cannot tell you when I will die,
Nor what kind of life I will live;
All I know is that I will try
To give the world all I can give.

EDITOR’S NEWS & VIEWS

We are freshly back from the NFB’s Washington Seminar. During our time in the Capitol, we traipsed the halls of Congress and spoke, alas, only to Legislators’ aides. Fortunately, this was not the case of all seminar participants. Nevertheless, We returned with a feeling that yes, we accomplished something, and that our efforts imbued our lives with meaning.

On the train ride, my passing thought was, “We’re passing many homes, in which people live little lives…” At that point, I stopped and reflected on the meaning of this. I realized that no, the life I’m living is not a little life. I’m doing work that is meaningful to me and to the blind who follow after. So my life, and the lives of active NFB members are not at all little. We are living big lives.

When our division was founded, we had in mind just a place to hang our hats when everyone else attended division meetings. But gradually it dawned on us that the ability to write, and to influence those who read our words is one of the most important abilities we can master. Our country was shaped by literate men and women whose words come down to us today. Think of the Declaration of Independence, or the Gettysburg Address. Lincoln thought the world would soon forget his words—but he was wrong.

Literacy remains one of the most important abilities that a person can master. If you can read and write, the world of history, fiction, poetry, and all manner of information opens to you. This is particularly true for the blind. Yes, these days we write by computer, and some even dictate aloud into their computers. But without knowing how to spell, or to determine which homonym is correct, our words may come off looking as though written by a second grader. If you can’t spell you can’t write an effective letter. For the blind, this means learning Braille as the best way to master spelling, paragraphing, and the other bits of knowledge that make up reading and writing that we may not even think about.

At this time, barely ten percent of blind children learn Braille. Many of them find as they grow that the inability to take quick notes with a slate and stylus holds them back in many instances. Ninety percent of blind persons who are employed read Braille. That ought to tell us something about the importance of Braille literacy. Many children with a little bit of vision are taught print, and wind up reading one letter at a time. Handicapped by this lack of quick reading skill, a blind child will not enjoy reading, and is most likely not going to become able to write well. Yes, he or she may be able to read by listening, though this isn’t always as effective as we hope. Cassettes can be sped up, but it isn’t so easy to do this with the current version of talking books, CDs. Once the Daisy readers become available from the Library of Congress, this will get better. However, they will still not address the necessity of learning to write and spell.

Selected states will host the Institute’s BELL Core team during the two weeks of their program. BELL Core Team members will facilitate a variety of fun, hands-on lessons ranging from group activities to one-on-one instruction to help teach Braille to low vision students ages four to twelve. The program will run Monday through Friday from 8:30 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. Please visit http://www.nfb.org/nfb/Bell_Program_2009.asp to learn more about this exciting program.

The Braille Readers are Leaders campaign kicked off in July of 2008 with the unveiling of the design of a commemorative coin to be minted in 2009 in recognition of the 200th anniversary of the birth of Louis Braille. The Braille Readers are Leaders contest is open to blind children of various ages. To learn more about the campaign, go to: www.braille.org.

www.nfb-writers-division.org

ARE WE REALLY THAT DIFFERENT?

Are we really that different, those of us who are blind?
Do we not laugh? Do we not cry?
Have we never been ecstatic with happiness or overcome by rage?
Have we never saved a situation with our grace and charm?
Have we never bungled a situation with our clumsy ineptness?
Are we really that different?

You see us as disabled, you who can see,
You who depend so much on your eyesight.
You know not of our techniques, and assume we have none.
You know not of our resources,
And assume those you can offer are the only ones.
But are we really that different from you?

Do we not go to college?
Do we never have jobs?
Can we not raise children; care for aging parents?
Do you really think us incapable of these things?
Surely you have seen us going about our lives,
And accomplishing the same things you do!

Why then must you see us as different?
Why do you seek first to pity us, and second to help us,
Never to understand us?
We want you to understand us!
We want to walk beside you in life,
Sharing with you its joys and sorrows!
We are your brothers and sisters,
Friends and neighbors, parents and children!
We want to be your friends, your partners, your fellow soldiers!
We really are not that different.,

We want to meet you for a beer on Friday night,
And worship with you in church on Sunday.
We want to work beside you on Monday morning,
And take with you that “sick day” in the middle of the week.
How could you possibly think us that different?

WRITING FROM A DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE

Aside from my six-year run as publisher of my own publishing operation, I have been involved in the publishing world for twelve years. I’ve worked with many writers, about half of them hearing sighted and the other deaf sighted with a few deafblind. While the quality of the writing always plays a role in whether or not something gets published, the deaf writers’ work from the deaf perspective is always an advantage.

I don’t mean one needs to make a conscious effort to write about being deaf. Just write about life: love, crime, family, whatever, but through deaf eyes, drawing from the deaf writer’s own observations and sensations. Ha Jin, the well-known writer, made the point in his latest book that there are too many writers who write about stuff they learned in a second hand fashion, and readers can pick it up, even though they may not do it consciously. The writer describing his or her genuine observations and experiences is very important, and lends the work an aura of authenticity.

Another boon to any writer is any type of outsiderhood. Those who are “different” from the general population but don’t write from that different perspective don’t get published often, or if they do, their work wears off quickly and they are forgotten. Take the example of Thomas Caldwell, who was deaf, but wrote as if he wasn’t. Who knows him now? Or take Richard Wright, a wonderful, groundbreaking African American writer. All of his books are still in print, except one, and that was the only book he wrote about only white people.

There are tens of thousands of sighted people writing and trying to get published. So I cannot imagine any use in adding more of the same types of material to that pot. There are only a limited number of genres and plots, and they all have been done over and over again. But if you’re blind, and you’re privileged to have different sensations and a different touch in your observations, that’s quite a blessing and will help your work stand out amidst the awful racket of the same old, same old that editors endure reading through week after week.

My deaf writer friends have all found their most important and rewarding publishing credits through their deaf material. Many of them, before they started working with me, wrote only mainstream stuff, thinking they would have a better chance. Not so. Take Ramond Luczak: He has written over forty plays, but only twelve with deaf characters. Thirteen of his plays have been produced. All twelve deaf plays and one not make up the thirteen, leaving the rest of his “hearing” plays still collecting dust. He has written four novels, only one with deaf characters. No surprise. The three mainstream works remain unpublished and the deaf one won a prestigious fellowship and also a national first-novel contest and will be coming out soon. Raymond’s “hearing” work is good and worthy of publication, but there are so many equally good works these days, because there are so many well-trained writers from all those MFA [Masters of Fine Arts] programs. Those who get published are the ones with unique voices, original twists, or those that bring to the reader authentic tastes of different worlds.

I once got a story from a good deaf writer about the Titanic. A couple gets separated at the end, the woman rowed away while the man sinks with the ship. The story was wonderfully researched and detailed. The writing was smooth and luminous. It was a superb story. But it was never picked up, and the deaf writer could not understand why not, since it was one of her best efforts. The reason, of course, is that the Titanic as the backdrop for a love story has been done to death. It was already worn threadbare even before that movie with Leo and Kate.

But what if the couple was deaf? They wake up because of the great commotion outside their room sending vibrations to them. They ask each other what’s going on. Outside their room, they see people running. They try to get someone to write to them on a notepad, but everyone is in a panic. So they have to investigate, and gradually from all the visual information, they begin to understand. A sailor tries to put the deaf woman in line for a lifeboat, but she doesn’t want to be separated from her husband. All sorts of misunderstandings, issues, correctives occur. At the end, a twist on the classic separation theme: The deaf woman decides to sink with her husband, so strong is their bond with each other because they come from a small community and she cannot imagine venturing out on her own amidst all those hearing strangers.

Now isn’t that a much better story? A blind couple on the Titanic would likewise be much better than the mainstream version and would definitely stand out.

Some of the hearing writers I’ve worked with who have connections to the Deaf world have also found greater success in publishing work relating to the Deaf world as opposed to their more mainstream fare. Take Morgan Grayce Willow, and ASL [American Sign Language] interpreter. Her biggest book credit is her work on interpreting. Her most prestigious magazine credit is for her essay, “Double Language,” about her experiences as an interpreter. She has published other work, but with much more difficulty and less compensation. Or take Pia Taavila, a wonderful poet and professor of English, who is the daughter of deaf parents, or a CODA as we call people like her Children of Deaf Adults. She has written both mainstream work and work having to do with her upbringing in a Deaf home and her continued link with the Deaf community. You guessed it: Her Deaf-related poems are more readily published and get higher praise.

It is not that they can’t get published without the deaf material. They can and have. But it is against greater odds that they do. Here and there, they are able to be heard, able to be distinguished from the rest clamoring for the same editor’s attention. And it’s not that writing from a different perspective will automatically get you published. The writing still has to be good. But it is a huge advantage in arresting the editor’s attention, curiosity, and interest.

I don’t know how the deaf writers could possibly try to write mainstream stuff, or how [a blind person] could avoid writing as a blind writer, but I never could, never wanted to. It feels fake and contrived to me. It would take too much effort to pretend, to write about auditory things I never heard, to write visual descriptions of what I nave never seen. I am of the opinion that “catering” to the mainstream audience is self-defeating, because there are many writers who are not catering, but genuine, because they ARE mainstream. I have always written straight from who and what I am. I am not complaining about my inability to write mainstream stuff because I’ve been published in Poetry Magazine twice, while thousands of poets can only dream about appearing there. I’ve been published in McSweeney’s, America’s most hip literary journal. I’ve won all those awards. My work has been broadcast on radio, including on the Poem of the Day program on Martha Stewart. I’m being interviewed by someone from The New Yorker right now. I’ve been a featured poet at an international cultural arts festival, flown there first-class and with all expenses paid, so I guess I must be doing something right.

No, that was not to brag at all. That was purely to make my point, to make my case for writing from a different angle, and to encourage you and others to try doing that. Hey, it can’t hurt to try, can it?

FIREFLIES

Here’s to evening fireflies
Keepers of the flame
Flickering messages
For my heart to claim
Romance a childhood dream
Of launching sparks of light
Wonderments that beam
Comforts in the night…
Fiery flames of faith
For grateful eyes to see
God’s love, our dearest sight
Our firefly joys to be.

WRITER’S GUIDELINES

Slate & Style is looking for articles about writing and personal experience of blindness of 1000 words or less. Fiction of 2000 words or less, and poetry of 36 lines or less is acceptable. Please do not send your rough drafts. You may email your submissions to: LoriStay@aol.com.Please include your name, phone number and snail mail address. Articles may be edited for space considerations, spelling and grammar.

ADULT CONTEST RULES

The adult fiction and poetry contests are open to all, eighteen years of age and older. Entrants do not need to be blind. Each entry must be accompanied by a $5 entry fee, and cover sheet with entrant’s name, address, phone number and email, as well as the title of the piece.

Fiction entries of 3000 words or less may be sent to Tom Stevens, 1203 S. Fairview Road, Columbia MO 65203. You may email your entry to Tom also, at cthls@earthlink.net. Put “Fiction Contest” in the subject line. However, unless a $5 check made out to the NFB Writers’ Division has been received by the April first (postmarked) deadline, entries will not be considered. Snail mailed entries must be typed, double spaced, and accompanied by a stamped, self addressed envelope and a short bio.

Poetry entries of 36 lines or less may be sent to Lori Stayer, 2704 Beach Drive, Merrick NY 11566, and emailed to LoriStay@aol.com. The $5 entry fee enables entrant to send in up to three poems. Include a short bio, self-addressed, stamped envelope, and cover sheet. The deadline is the same: April 1st (postmarked). Entries must be typed.

All work must be original, and previously unpublished. Please do not send the same piece elsewhere before winners are announced at the Division meeting in July, and if your work wins prize and/or publication, that you wait until after it has been published to do so.

There are three prizes for each contest, $100, $50 and $25. Winners may be published in Slate & Style. Should your work win honorable mention, permission to publish the piece will be requested.

If you are located out of the U.S. your essays should contain U.S. stamps in the amount needed to return your entry or your check should you win. The “Forever” stamps won’t carry your work from another country. Please check the division website for the availability of Pay Pal. Robert’s email address is newmanrl@cox.net for further questions. The division website: http://www.nfb-writers-division.org.

INTROSPECTION

I look down into the river,
and see an Old Woman
staring back at me.

Her hair has been changed
by the elements of time,
and Her cheeks are dampened
by the bitterness in the air.
But Her eyes glisten in the moonlight
just the same.

She tells Me, in secret,
that She will never allow Herself
to be hurt like that again.

And so Her mind lives elsewhere,
making plans for the future,
while attempting
to put Her past behind Her.

Try to console Her,
but every time I begin to speak,
She turns away.

You see:
I think She’s as wonderful on the inside
as She is beautiful on the outside.

And sometimes,
She can appear to be
almost youthful and free.

PUBLISHING, PART 2

We’re all heroes or heroines of our own stories. The thought no one else would be interested in our story is not true. If it were, would we have so many books, and so many readers? Commercial publishing: We know what this is—colorful paperbacks, and hardcovers with jackets that sell a million copies and are never heard of again. Not many independent commercial publishers exist now, because publishers, like banks, are prone to eat each other. When they do, the smaller publishers become divisions of the larger publishers. This means that each publishing house has many different editors, each of whom deals with a specific genre of writing, such as fiction, including science fiction, adventure, romance, etc. and nonfiction of all kinds, such as biography, textbooks, medicine, and how to books, to name a few.

If you should decide to try to get your work commercially published, it is essential to determine which editor in a publishing house would be most appropriate to examine your work. How can you find this out? Research, of course. Each year, Writer’s Digest Books publishes The Writer’s Market, Children’s Writer’s &Illustrator’s Market, Poet’s Market, and Novel & Short Story Writer’s Market. They also publish a guide to Literary Agents. You can spend a fortune getting all these books, or you can use the public library reference section. You can also look online. www.writersmarket.com would be your initial source. To use this resource, you pay approximately $20 to $25 per year, about the same as you would pay for the book. Barnes & Noble sells the Writer’s Market with a CD that enables you to use the online resource, but you pay somewhat more for it than the book by itself.

In The Writer’s Market, you will find both commercial and noncommercial publishers. This means that not all of them pay for material you send them. But some will. Those are the ones to query if you wish to earn money from your writing. If you don’t care about the money but just want to publish, there are many small presses and service publications that would love to have you. Note: Those who do pay generally have a larger readership.

I finally made my first commercial sale, which may be more a matter of how often I submit to commercial publishers than the quality of my writing. I was paid $250 by Angels on Earth for a story they titled “Early Morning Announcement.” The odd thing is, they took what I sent them, and rewrote it entirely, keeping perhaps two lines that I wrote myself. To publish in a commercial magazine, you need to write in the style of that magazine. They kept the reprint rights, which was fine with me, since they paid for them, and also though it’s my story, I didn’t actually write the version they published. Publishing is a strange world.

As for electronic publishing, I do suggest if you plan this, you copyright your work. It’s not an absolute necessity, but once your work is made available on a commercial website, it’s considered published. It still belongs to you, and people need to request permission to quote passages from it, except for short excerpts which are properly identified. The Fair Use Act defines what is allowed. Because the rules are still a bit fast and loose on line, your work is liable to pop up just about anywhere, with or without your name. Whoever does this is violating the law, but can you catch him?

Publishing an ebook, and putting it for sale on Amazon does ensure that at least people will pay for the privilege of reading your work. But if someone buys it and wants to share it, files are easily downloaded. So it’s risky, but it might be worth it to get your name around.

Material that may be published but not paid for include letters to the editors, columns for local papers, unless the paper assigns you the work (and then they don’t pay very much), articles for small circulation niche magazines. But publishing in such places will give you “clips” that you can use to show editors who are considering your work for paying magazines.

So how do you get started?

First, write your story or article. Then research publishers, find one you like, and write a query. They query should be no more than one page, and should identify the type of story you have written, tell why you are the best person to write it, and mention that you are enclosing clips. If the article is short, send it along. The query should make the publisher/editor want to read the article.

Often publishers who have a bit more time to make decisions will ask, if you are writing a book, that you send a synopsis or fthe book and three sample chapters. Many publishers will not examine material unless it comes from an agent, but unless you are a well-known writer, getting an agent may be difficult. So it seems that if you qualify to have an agent, you probably don’t need one. Nevertheless, if you are fortunate enough to interest one, be sure that you are not charged a reading fee. It’s reasonable for an agent to ask for money for postage, though these days of email, it may not be quite so necessary as it used to be. If you expect an agent to edit your work, also expect to pay for this. But I hope that you will take the time to edit your own work so that it is the best it can be.

Pick a subject that fascinates you, and do more research than you need for your article or story. Check out magazines that specialize in the subject you’ve researched. Query the editor(s), but make sure you have the name of the person you are writing to spelled correctly. If you are in doubt that you can carry through, write the article first, and send it with the query. (This advice is given new writers for the most part.) When you query be sure to include your contact information. If you have no email, include a stamped, self-addressed envelope for a reply or the return of your material.

Once the article is written, you may find you have more than enough information to write a second article. If the first one has been published, use it as a clip, and query another editor. One writer I know rewrote her article several times and had it published under new titles in different magazines. So long as it isn’t word for word and contains new information, this is fine.

Finally, be patient. Some editors take up to six months to reply. If you feel you’ve waited long enough, there is nothing wrong with a phone call or an email to find out what is happening. But nothing bothers an editor more than having a writer phone three times a week and taking up time s/he might be able to give to the work itself.

SPRINGTIME

Phil Hollimon heaved the box of textbooks up off the living room carpet, then took two steps toward the open front door of his new apartment. He froze. Across the landing, a young girl stood in the open doorway of the opposite apartment. He stared at her, and she stared back. The girl, pretty and petite, appeared to be in her early teens. She wore jeans, a white cutoff T-shirt, and her short hair was the color of new bricks. The abbreviated top left her midriff bare.

A full two or three seconds passed before the girl spoke, breaking the silence. “Hi,” she said, her voice neutral, her expression sullen. Her eyes slid off Hollimon to some unknown focal point. “Hi, Red,” Hollimon replied. “You kind of surprised me. I didn’t hear your door open.” He lurched out of his apartment toward the storage room off the landing. “How you doing?” he asked, trailing the words behind him. “Fine,” she answered, her voice still emotionless.

Hollimon sat the box down inside the storage room. There, out of the girl’s view, he let his movements become slow and extra deliberate. He ignored the shelves and tried the box in various locations on the floor. Finally, he jammed the box back in a corner, then idly nudged at it with his toe. Her voice wafted in. “Are you there?” “Yeah,” he answered. For some reason, he was hesitant to go back out. “You’re moving in, aren’t you?” “Yep,” Hollimon called back. He took a deep breath, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and exited the storage room.

He jerked to a stop in mid-stride. The girl now leaned against the wall between the two open apartment doors. Her stance her back flat against the wall, her hands behind her accentuated her breasts in the cutoff T-shirt. Gaping at her, Hollimon said, “I just moved here.” His voice sounded mechanical. “I got a job with Pierce International. I just graduated from college. That’s about it, Red."

“My name isn’t Red,” she said, her tone solemn, her eyes still avoiding him. “It’s Melissa.” “Okay,” Hollimon said. He tore his eyes off her and rushed back into his apartment. The girl sidled after him into the living room. “We’ve got a key to that storage room, too,” she said absently. “You don’t have anything in there,” he said. “It was empty.” Melissa didn’t respond. She stood just inside the doorway, surveying the scene before her. “Is all this stuff yours?” she asked. “Yeah. It all belongs to me, if that’s what you mean.” He stole a peek at her as she scanned the boxes and clothes strewn about the room. He averted his gaze to look out the living room window. He barely noticed the houses across the street, the new greenness of the spring foliage, the fading sunshine of the late afternoon. “I don’t have a roommate,” he added.

Melissa said nothing. She stepped further into the room, continuing to study the clutter around her. After a long silence, he asked, “How’s school going?” “What?” she asked as if her mind was elsewhere. “How’s school?” “Fine.” “What grade are you in?” She inspected the kitchen utensils he’d dumped onto the easy chair. After a moment, she said, “I’m a senior. I’m graduating.” “You’re talking high school?” “Yeah.” He gave her a sharp look. “Are you sure?” “Yeah.” “Huh,” Hollimon grunted. “I wouldn’t have guessed you were that old." Melissa continued to study the kitchen paraphernalia on the easy chair. “I’m older than most people think,” she murmured.

The silence once more dragged out. Hollimon wondered what she found so fascinating about the kitchen stuff. At last, he asked, “Are you there?” More seconds passed. “Uh huh,” she then said. To get her attention, he blurted, “Did you know I have a pet alligator?” She raised her head to look directly at him. “You do?” “Yeah.” “Where is it?” Hollimon found himself looking into her eyes, big and blue. When he spoke, he sounded robot-like. “It’s not here yet.” Melissa stared back, still as stone, saying nothing. He broke eye contact and bent over another box of textbooks. “I plan on keeping it in the bathtub,” he went on. “Do you think people in the apartment house will mind?” “Gee, I don’t know."

He closed the box, keeping his head down to hide the beginning of a smile. “Oh well, it’ll probably be okay. It doesn’t make a bunch of noise.” Melissa asked, “What’s your name?” He hoisted the box up with a flourish. “My name’s Ed,” he answered as he spun around for the door, now unable to keep his grin hidden. He hustled into the storage room. She called out, “It says your name is Phil on your mailbox."

Hollimon strode back into the apartment, puffing a little. His eyes flicked over the girl’s bare belly. “Well, Red, I’ll tell you the truth. My real name is John.” “Really?” “Really,” he said, keeping a straight face. Melissa turned, seeming to stare at the thermostat on the wall. “What should I call you?” He closed another box of books. “You mean my name?” “Yeah. Should I just call you John?” “You can call me John, or Johnny, or whatever.” Hollimon straightened up, the box in his arms. He started to barge through the door but stopped short, coming up onto tiptoes.

The girl now leaned against one side of his doorway, her hands again behind her, her chest once more thrust out. He gawked down at her, his right arm and her bosom on a collision course. The girl stared straight ahead as if unaware of the situation. “Melissa,” he said. “Excuse me. I don’t want to bump into you.” Without a word, still not looking at him, she jumped out into the landing. Again inside the storage room, Hollimon wiped his brow, his heart thumping. What was she doing, anyway? Where was she coming from? He bumbled around, not sure what to think, not sure what to do next.

When he finally drifted out of the storage room, the front door to the six-plex burst open. A fortyish woman, short and plump, bounded up the stairs. “Hello there!” she sang out with a big smile. “You must be the new guy across the way. Hi, I’m Karen Womack. It looks like you’ve already met my daughter, Missy.” “Hi,” he said automatically, shaking her hand. “I’m Phil Hollimon.” He took in the mother’s stylish hairdo and pink pantsuit. That and the time of day suggested she was getting home from some kind of office job.

“Well, Phil,” Karen Womack said, her smile still huge, “it looks like we’re going to be neighbors. Has Missy been bothering you?” “No,” Hollimon said. He started to sneak another glimpse of the girl in her cutoff top, but made himself meet the mother’s gaze. “She’s not bothering me at all.” “Well, Phil,” the woman said, looking up at him, “you’re sure a big one. I bet you played football, huh?” “Yeah. In high school, anyway.” “And I bet you lift weights, right?” “Yeah, I do weights a little."

Karen Womack batted her eyes. “I bet you do.” “Mom, please,” Melissa whimpered. The mother, ignoring her daughter, continued to smile at Hollimon. “Well,” Karen Womack said, “I think we’ll enjoy being neighbors. I heard you’re alone in there?” “Yep. There’s just me.” “Where did you live before?” He gave her a rundown about his hometown, about college, about his new position at Pierce. Karen Womack said, “Well, then you’re new around here. What do you think so far?” “I like it.” He glanced at Melissa. The girl’s eyes were downcast as the three of them stood there on the landing. “It seems like a real nice area.” “It’ll be great to have a man next door to help us poor women,” the mother said, looking up at him coyly. “You know, to open jars and things like that.” “Yeah, sure.” He glanced again at the silent Melissa. He couldn’t tell if she was pouting or just frowning.

Karen Womack punched him playfully on the shoulder. “Well, I bet it’s going to be fun having you around here.” She laughed and bounced through the open door of her apartment, saying over her shoulder, “Come over some night and have a beer, Phil.” From somewhere within, she then called back, “Missy, I’ve got to change and go out again. Get yourself some supper, okay?"

As he and Melissa Womack once more stood alone on the landing, Hollimon could almost feel the silence that now enveloped them. The girl seemed to have deflated, becoming less curvaceous, becoming even smaller. Her frown seemed more than a frown. “You told me your name was John,” she shot out in a half-whisper, assumedly to keep her mother from overhearing. “I was only kidding, Red,” he said in the same low voice. “My name is Phil.” “You were just teasing me all the time. About the alligator and everything.” “Yeah, I guess so."

The girl turned as if to leave, then whipped around to face him once more. Her eyes were moist. “All you’ve been doing is teasing me.” Hollimon looked at her for a long moment. “You know, Melissa. Missy. You only tease the ones you like.” “Really?” “Yeah, really."

He gazed once more into her eyes, she into his, neither of them moving. Then Hollimon saw her expression soften. “So,” he asked, “is everything okay?” Her voice was small. “Yeah, it’s okay.” “Are we going to be friends?” Her eyes unlocked from his, once more slipping away to someplace unknown. “Yeah,” she said with the faintest of smiles. “I think we are."

WRITER’S RESOURCE