Happenstance Literary

Happenstance LiteraryDecember 15, 2012

Happenstance PublishingSharon Vander Meer

Permission to use content contact:

sharon@vandermeerbooks.comCover image:

Patio poinsettias from 2011, still flowering

Photo by Sharon Vander Meer Some images from

clipart.com

Next issue:On or about Jan. 1, 2013

Submisson Deadline,Thursday, December 27

Theme: New Year, New Beginnings, Surprises

Page 6, A Christmas reflection

In this issue:Page 3 • From the editor

Page 4 • Writer’s Block Schedule

• The happiest time of the year, or is it?

Page 5 • A backyard mosey: Nature calls, by Wendy Shinn

Page 6 • A Christmas reflection Page 7 • Favorite family holiday recipes

Page 8 • Rollo the Christmas elk, by Peter Linder

Page 9 • The interview, by Alan M. Guy

Page 10 • Episode 2: Thunder Prime: Hunter’s Light, by Sharon Vander Meer

Page 12 • Poetry

• Shipwrecked: A fable

Page 5, A backyard mosey...

Happenstance Literary December 15, 2012, Page 2

Subscription: $12 annuallyFree to contributing writers

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PO Box 187Las Vegas, NM 87701

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sent the views of their authors. For permission to reprint any part of a by-lined article, contact the author.

www.vandermeerbooks.com Copyright 2012

Page 8, Rollo the Christmas Elk

Call for ContributorsIf you are a writer who wants to share your work, please become a Happenstance Literary contributor.

Writer’s Guidelines:1. Must be original work (will do reprints as long as the work is yours).2. Grammar, punctuation and spelling must be correct.3. Maximum length 1,500 words.4. Acceptable genres and styles: poetry, hu-mor, essay, memoir, short story, photo essay, feature articles, travel, social commentary, food, wine and dining, book reviews, fiction, non-fiction, mystery, romance and sci-fi/fantasy.5. Submission does not guarantee publica-tion.6. Submit work to: sharon@vandermeerbooks.com.

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Persevere...Every day is a celebration. Is that

too corny for you? Do you have a hard time believing that? Is life kicking you in the butt more often than giving you a kiss on the cheek? Sorry for your troubles, friend, but here’s a thought. Do you find that when you celebrate life instead of bemoaning your troubles, you are blessed and you are a blessing to others?

Last year I decided — when it comes to work — to be more intentional about my writing and getting published. I chose a word on Jan. 1, to use throughout the year to en-courage me to put writing first. The word was persevere. Did it work? Yes, but not in the ways I anticipated.

I’ve grown my network of writing friends, attended a writing workshop, spent quite a lot of time on the sequel to The Ballad of Bawdy McClure, (Thunder Prime: Hunter’s Light), which I am serializing in Happenstance Literary (see pages 10-11), created Writer’s Block, a successful radio show featuring writers and writing, and launched Happenstance Literary in October. I took countless online writing and blogging courses, several web development and copy writing seminars, and read everything I could about indie and tradi-tional publishing. I celebrated the craft of writing.

In the end I realized I was so busy doing a lot of stuff that I wasn’t working on my novel, nor was I actively look-ing at ways to get my writing published. And then it hit me. What I most enjoy is working with and promoting the work of other writers. Yes, I like to write and I find Happenstance Literary an easy way for me to publish, but I also enjoy reading what other people write. I would love to discover the next Stephen King or have the privilege of interviewing the Stephen King on my radio show. I enjoy celebrating the work of others.

The publishing world is in transition. As an indie author I have no boss but myself. That’s a good thing on the one hand, and a disaster on the other. For instance, when I have a paying client in my graphic design and copy writing business, I have no trouble organizing my time and meet-ing deadlines. When I have no deadline I live in tomorrow mode: “Oh, shoot, I didn’t get my five pages done today, so I’ll do 10 tomorrow.” Only tomorrow comes and I find I’ve put off the five pages for five days and all of a sudden I have 25 PAGES to write. So guess what? I don’t write much of anything.

Perseverance isn’t about doing something doggedly with no direction. It’s knowing what you want and work-ing at it with dedication and persistence against all odds and celebrating the small successes. I’m celebrating that perseverance led me back to doing what I enjoy: publishing a magazine that celebrates my work and the work of other writers. In 2013 I will continue to persevere and celebrate.

What is my word for 2013? Focus. I’ll let you now how that works out.

—Sharon

Happenstance Literary December 15, 2012, Page 3

Writer’s Block 2013: Scheduled guests through Jan. 29

Writer’s Block is a weekly radio program on KFUN/KLVF in Las Vegas, NM, featuring the work of

writers in most every genre. To query about booking contact

sharon@vandermeerbooks.com.

Jan. 8, Michael HeblerFrom Michael’s website: In ad-

dition to writing, Michael is a film publicist. He began writing in col-lege where he was fortunate enough to watch his first penned one-act play performed on stage by the Orange Coast College Theatre Department. He was hooked from that moment and the writing bug has never left. He currently has two publications, Hunt for the Chu-pacabra, a free e-book short story, preceding the events of Book I, Night of the Chupacabra.

Jan. 15, Blaize NolynnFrom Blaize’s website: About the

book Firefighter Down, District One: Life isn’t promised. When the tones go off you never know who needs you the most or even worst, who will you set your own life down for. My father was a captain who set

his life down for me in a fire. Now it is my duty to find out how that fire started and who started it. The guy that killed my father didn’t just kill him in a normal way, he killed him with his worst nightmare. My father wasn’t killed by a gang shooting or an accident, he was killed in the most painful way this person knew how to kill my father. He unleashed the animal on him and myself. I am not talking about an animal like a wild or domestic animal, I am talking about

the elemental animal, the one known as fire.

Jan. 22, Mary HanleyAbout the Book “Romance and

Murder in the Cinque Terre: Former Special Forces Commander Drake Harrington and his partners find themselves on a trail of lust, murder, and vengeance that lead them from San Francisco to Rome, and then to the Cinque Terre area of Italy. An unexpected encounter with a beautiful brown haired woman puts Drake’s life on the line as he strives to save her from a serial killer’s need for revenge.

Jan. 29, Alexander ValdezThe discussion will be about

Mr. Valdez’ books, Your Story Begins: Advance Your Ideas into Words, and the companion Screen-writer’s Notebook: A Step-by-Step Guide to Finishing Your Screenplay.”

Alexander Val-dez is a National Merit Scholar and the president and visionary for Vi-sion Quest Entertainment Incorpo-rated. He has edited for the Spanish language television show Buscando Amor and is the author of, Your Story Begins: Advance Your Ideas into Words, and A Writer’s Guide to the Hero’s Journey: The Eight Elements of Story with Twelve Story Question Pictographs. He received a Bachelors Degree in the Fine Art of Drama and a Masters Degree in the Fine Art of Cinema-Television Production.

________

To hear samples of recent Writer’s Block programs go to http://wbvan-dermeer.podbean.com/. To download program format go to http://www.vandermeerbooks.com/WritersBlock_copy.pdf

Happenstance Literary December 15, 2012, Page 4

The happiest time of year, or is it?

In the little town where I live an event called Community Holiday Open House will cel-

ebrate its tenth year serving people who would other-wise be alone for Christmas. Any and all are welcome but its target visitors are those who are away from family, estranged from family or who have no family.

In the wake of the tragedy in Newtown, Conn., this year will be hard on everyone. Our essential need to feel safe has been stripped away, and we are help-less on many levels. We want to reach out to those who are hurting, but we are removed by distance and insufficient information about what would be most helpful.

Frighteningly since the shooting there has been a rise in gun sales across the country, not because of the shooting, but out of fear new legislation will prevent sales of assault-type weapons. This isn’t as horrifying as the events of Friday, Dec. 14, but disturbing all the same.

What do we do when we can’t do anything personally to share the burden of those affected by the acts of an unbalanced individual? Perhaps by making a difference — when and where we can — in the lives of people of all ages. We are stunned nearly senseless by what happened at Sandy Hook School, but the reality is that children die every day from acts of violence visited on them by those who should be protecting them. Neglect, poverty, physical abuse and predatory sexual acts take the childhood and lives of too many children. People frightened and alone choose to opt out of life through suicide rather than be in emotional pain.

What can you do? Report abuse and neglect when you see it. Form neighborhood watch programs that focus on children’s safety. Make your neighbor-hood a safe zone by reporting suspicious activity. Help with events like soup kitchens and other activi-ties designed to reach out to those who are alone.

Limit how much time you spend watching news coverage about Sandy Hook. We can grieve with these broken-hearted people, we can pray with and for them. We can send funds to help with funerals. Watching countless hours of news coverage seems intrusive and exploitative. I’m appalled by the insensi-tive journalists who insist on interviewing children, and am surprised parents allow it to happen.

My prayer for the people of Newtown is for lov-ing memories of these children and the adults who died, and the glue of shared healing. My prayer for communities across the country is for caring indi-viduals to help when and where they are needed.

—Sharon Vander Meer

Happenstance Literary December 15, 2012, Page 5

It was time to take a survey. The ground was wet. The layered pine

needles slipped under my feet as I shifted weight carefully. A slip here and there of-ten startled me, my heart picked up a beat and I became more cautious, stepping more slowly. With book in hand, I flipped through the pages.

I’d been reading a book about Florida palms recognizing a few in my yard. My next project was to identify them. The cabbage palms were easy to identify by the fan-like fronds and rippled trunk surface. When young, the frond remnants left a jagged residue called boots. I could now pick them out by their spray of seed fruit, which I could see from the ground. They’d drop often and I could then take a closer look at the dried spray before I hauled it out to the street for next week’s pickup.

As I approached my favorite cab-bage palm, carefully positioning my feet, I noticed a singular brown clump about the size of an Enteman’s Danish, strategi-cally positioned at the base of the trunk. I squatted down to get a closer look. The tube-like circle was also lumpy with raised edges and topped with dark ber-ries.

I imagined myself on a wild life survey, with khaki brimmed hat, shirt and walking shorts — noticing paw prints and varied scat. Looked like scat to me. Not cat scat. Not dog scat. Both familiar to me as a pet owner. Something certainly much different.

My neighbor claimed he had seen a family of raccoons “...comin’ and goin’,” and he suspected they spent their noctur-nal time in the tops of one of these palms. He suggested a cleanup, as often round worm eggs become a health problem to humans when the breezes blow about, but I thought it best to wait a few days to see if more appeared. I was on a field trip exploring the wild terrain. I was the neighborhood biologist.

Over the next five days, the number of patties had circled the tree base like a giant’s necklace of roughened cabochons. There were now five, one for each day, spaced evenly apart, similar in shape and decorated with the identical topping of berries.

I did a Google search, my investiga-tive tool for almost everything. I learned that raccoons develop latrines. They return to the same spot daily to leave their bun gifts behind. Soon there’d be more.

Yesterday, I heard Dave Brubeck’s Take Five while I was driving down Palm Springs Boulevard, my toes bumping out the familiar tune. Later I began to hum it to myself (da da da dada da…) loving the implications of musical incantations considering who would take my five away. Could we do a night chanting to Brubeck’s Take Five and hope for some mysterious interventions?

What a silly thought. I continued with my humming

and reminiscing having seen Bru-beck perform when I was very young,

he on stage at the piano, walking off stage for five minutes to return when the time was up. He died Dec. 5, at 91.

With the now known health hazards and possibility of a grow-

ing population of patties, I had to develop a plan. This wasn’t the back forty of acres and acres. My bed-

room window was about ten feet from the raccoon latrine, and I like to keep it open during coolish nights. It was time to elicit some help.

My neighbor and I are nature en-thusiasts having joined Audubon, Native Plant Society, Nature Conservancy. To-gether we hatched a plan. I had read the book and seen the movie Don’t Cry Wolf by Jack London. We began our project. Our plan: Human Marking.

This morning, each of us peed into a large mayonnaise jar. Mixing our male/female hormones seemed like the most powerful influence, and two is greater than one by all counts. Then humming Take Five and doing a little circle shuffle we carefully dribbled the amber solution marking a line around the cabbage palm. We finished the ritual with a two-step native dance, verbalized a few magical chanting phrases, raised our arms to the celestials and skipped off.

Today is Day 2. Not a Danish in sight.

—By Wendy Shinn who says she writes for the joy and fun of it. Wendy is a retired RN and teacher from Colorado, enjoying eldercare as well as teaching read-ing/writing to youthful remedial readers. Now retired and living in Florida, she has discovered the joys of writing short stories for memoirs and also coaching others to write their own personal journeys. She is currently working on an Alzheimer’s Fam-ily Handbook.

A backyard mosey: Nature callsCreativity comes in

many forms, including letting nature take its course

Happenstance Literary December 15, 2012, Page 6

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. Luke 2: 8-9

There was nothing great and glori-ous about Jesus’ birth, any more

than the birth of any child. In truth he arrived following the pains of childbirth, in a lowly setting. With the exception of the three kings who came bearing gifts, everyone and everything around the baby Jesus was simple, natural and rustic. He came from humble beginnings, but he was not forever trapped in a stable. He grew in stature and wisdom and became someone who would forever change humankind, not with physical might, but with compassion, mercy, wisdom and truth.

His birth was attended by a host of angels, so perhaps it wasn’t so humble after all. He is the Son of God, and there is noth-ing humble about that. How he lived is a testament to divine light; how he died is a commentary on the cruelty of humanity; how he rose from the dead is God’s love for us made manifest.

The account in the Bible says the shepherds were terrified. Terror. Awe. Are they the same? Some theologians contend the shepherds were in awe when the angel appeared and that being terrified and being in awe are similar. I’m not sure I agree. Awe is reverence. Awe is worship. Awe is respect. Terror is finding out your child is in the crosshairs of a madman’s automatic weapon.

The shepherds’ terror might have been out of concern for the sheep in their care. Were the sheep frightened by the light? The Bible doesn’t say, but for the shepherds their behavior would be a bellwether. If sheep – notoriously skittish animals – didn’t run madly away, perhaps this light was something wondrous rather than something fearful. And then the shepherds got the word. An angel shared with these men of the field that something unusual was happening in Bethlehem. A heavenly host appeared praising God, bringing light into the darkness. The shepherds felt com-pelled to go see for themselves. After they did they shared the good news, a message we continue to celebrate. It is a story worth telling.

But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Luke 2:10

Good news of great joy. The divine and the human, one child, one night one incredible story. Christmas lights are a reminder of His equally incredible love for all humankind revealed when a new light – born in a manger – came into the world. Bells are angel voices, tolling out the story. Carols are the music of human hearts raised in praise and thanksgiving. Christmas is for Chris-tians, yes this is so, but the story is for everyone, no exceptions.

God’s love is remarkable, unfathomable and not subject to human interpretation. Does God hold each of us accountable? I believe he does, but that is God’s job, not mine. Thank the God of all creation it isn’t my job to decide how or if others will ac-cept the joyful news of Christ’s birth. My job is to light the lights, ring the bells and sing the songs that tell the story, Christ is born.

Because of God’s love we who ac-cept his truth are among the chosen, and it matters not to God what faith label we carry. How awesome is that? God in his glory, fully realized in every sense of the word, powerful beyond imagining, greater than anything human minds can conceive, creator and author of all of life, in all of the cosmos, God has chosen to love you and me. I am struck speechless at the idea of

it, knowing full well I haven’t deserved this love and have at times forgotten that it is there, holding me up, protecting me in the storms of life, taking it as my due. God’s love for me is singular. It is based on his infinite love for his creations, you and me. The thing is that although it is singular to me, it is also singular to every person upon whom his favor rests. His choice. His love. Amazing beyond words.

I say thank you, God, for the babe in a manager and thank you that he didn’t remain there, a symbol of something. Instead he grew to be a man, God in human form, who taught and encour-aged, healed and redeemed, a single individual who changed the world forever. I often don’t understand what I read in the Bible, I trust its message and give thanks.

No, God did not send the child into a rich family, and the first people to hear about the birth were not the elite and educated. The message got out and about through working shepherds and a working class man and woman who would care for the child, a housewife and a carpenter. From these unlikely foundations the message blew through the world creating quite a stir. It drove one ruler to the mass murder of children. It created a longing to learn more in the hearts and minds of kings. It stirred the hearts of a couple just starting out in life, two people willing to live in faith that their young charge was someone special.

In this time of grief over the loss of so many little ones, we can pray their heart-breaking deaths will cause us to make dra-matic changes in the mental health care system to prevent more tragedies in the future. The God of all will bring comfort to those who turn to him, including the family of the disturbed person who pulled the trigger again and again and again. Honoring the birth of one Child strengthens us to cope with the deaths of 20 beautiful children and the deaths of their protectors. The horror of Dec. 14 cannot be denied. Our hope and comfort lie not in the hands of a madman, but in the heart of God.

—By Sharon Vander Meer

A Christmas Reflection

Happenstance Literary December 15, 2012, Page 7

Favorite family holiday recipesAmong the joys of the holiday season is preparing food for fam-

ily and friends. There are certain cakes and candies I make every year and share as part of gifts I give. Below are easy recipes that make a lot so you have plenty to share.

Easy No-Bake Apricot Balls

1 pkg. (8 oz.) dried apricots ground up or finely cut up21/2 C. flaked coconut3/4 C. sweetened condensed milk3/4 C. finely chopped nuts

Mix apricots, coconut and milk. Shape mixture into 1-inch balls. Roll in nuts to coat.

(Alternative: mix nuts into other ingredients and roll in powdered sugar). From the 1980 Betty Crocker Cookbook

Easy No-Cook Date-Nut Roll

2 C. granulated sugar1 C. Carnation evaporated milk or thin cream1/2 lbs. chopped dates1/2 C. flaked coconut3/4 C chopped nuts1/2 cube butter1 tsp. vanilla

Boil sugar, butter and milk until it forms a soft ball. Remove from heat. Add dates. Beat until mixture separated from the pan. While beating, add nuts and coconut. Let cool, and then add vanilla and stir well. Pour onto a clean damp cloth. Roll up and refrigerate. When firm, remove from refrigerator and divide. Roll into a log 1 1/2 to 2 inches in diameter. Sprinkle liberally with powdered sugar. Cut into 1/2 to 1 inch slices. (Mom’s recipe. She made this every Christmas)

Applesauce Date Nut Bread

3/4 C. chopped walnuts1 C. chopped dates1 1/2 tsp. salt3 T. shortening1 C. hot applesauce2 eggs1 tsp. vanilla

1 C. granulated sugar1 1/2 C. flour1 tsp. baking soda

Mix walnuts, dates, soda and salt. Add shortening and applesauce. Let stand for 20 minutes. Heat oven to 375 degrees. Grease loaf pan. Beat eggs and blend in vanilla, sugar and flour. Combine with date mixture until well blended. Turn into pan and bake 1 hour and 5 minutes or until cake tester inserted in middle comes out clean. Cool in pan 10 minutes. Remove to wire rack to com-plete cooling. Wrap in tinfoil and sore overnight before slicing.

(Alternative: I pour into mini-loaf pans (makes about four loaves, which make nice gifts. Bake for 30 to 45 minutes.)

Christmas Cake

3 C. all purpose flour1 1/2 C. sugar1 1/2 tsp. Baking powder3/4 tsp. salt3/4 C. shortening3/4 C. butter1/3 C. orange juice9 eggs16 oz. candied cherries cut into halves3 C. golden raisens12 oz candied pineapple, cut up4 oz. candied citron4 oz. candied orange peel, chopped up3/4 C. flaked coconut8 oz. blanched whole almonds8 oz. pecan halves

Heat oven to 275 degrees. Spray loaf pan with Spam and flour lightly. Beat all ingredients except fruits and nuts in a large mixer bowl on low speed, scarping bowl constantly, for 30 seconds. Beat on high speed for 3 minutes. Mix fruits and nuts into batter and spread in pans. Bake for 2 1/2 to 3 hours or until cake tester inserted in center comes out clean. Remove from pans. Cool. Wrap in plastic wrap or aluminum foil and store in refrigerator or freezer. For a rich flavor pour wine or brandy over the cakes and wrap in cloth soaked in wine. Let mellow for three to four weeks before serving.

(Alternative: Pour into mini loaf pans. Decrease baking time. Make excellent gifts.)

Have a blessed and happy Christmas and a safe New Year

High in the Polar Latitudes,Where the Northern Lights still gleam,There lived a troubled Wapiti,Who had a secret dream.

His given name was Rollo,A most majestic deer.His family name was cervidae,To make all crystal clear.

But Rollo was a tortured soul,A stag with odd desires.He felt a need he could not meet.To quench internal fires.

He wanted what but one man had.A life to give one pause.This noblest of ruminants,Dreamt of being Santa Claus.

Was it the adulation?The endless, worldwide fame?Or was it giving, of itself?The act, and not the name?

Who can say what drove this elk?Amid his mountain haunts.Perhaps he’d suffered as a fawn.Brought low by Bighorns’ taunts.

But one bleak winter’s morning,Our Rollo said, “It’s time.”Filled with an icy new resolve,He planned a horrid crime.

He journeyed to the nearest town,Arriving with the Yule.He scouted out some likely homes, And found one with a pool.

He waited through the shortened day.

Afire with his scheme sublime.After sunset, the stars shone down.And he grunted: “Now it’s time.”

Though an enormous quadruped,He climbed with blinding speed.His rippling muscles drove him up.Pressed by his frantic need.

With a final wracking effort,He dashed upon the roof.His weight was shattering shingles.As he planted each broad hoof.Despite the clatter of his feet.The roar of his panting breathThe innocent family in the home,Still slept, as still as death.

Rollo sought concealment on the roof,Despite his size and girth.He crouched behind the chimney.For all that he was worth.

Just in time he ducked, and froze,To hide his massive head.His antlers scraped the weathered bricks.A noise to wake the dead.

And as he hid, he heard a sound,A drone of distant bells.His questing nostrils flared and flicked.Afire with reindeer smells.

A clatter of hooves unlike his own.The creak of a loaded sleigh.The clumping noise of heavy boots.His prey before him lay.

Rollo waited patientlyWhile Santa was inside.He burned to act, to seize the chance.But caution bade him, “Bide.”

But when St. Nick seized the chim-ney top,Preparing to climb out.He felt huge antlers pin him down.And he gave a strangled shout.

With sagging jaw, Kris Kringle heard,The rasp of Rollo’s voice.

Demanding he take off his clothes.And giving him no choice.

Once Santa stood in deshabille A’shivering in the snowRollo forced him back across the roof.To the edge, and the pool below.

The old elf, not so jolly now,Clad but in his underwear,Plunged from the roof, kicked by a hoofThrough December’s icy air.Luckily he struck the pool.Broke through an icy skim.Luckier still, the pool was deep.And he knew well how to swim.

Santa thrashed in the icy depths.His gasping cries unheard.As he struggled to draw breath.He could barely say a word.

With satisfaction on his muzzled face,His antlers still a’gleam.Rollo donned Kris Kringle’s clothes.Though he ruptured every seam.

Then he climbed aboard the sleigh,Spoke to the waiting deer.We don’t know exactly what he said,But they gave a barking cheer!

It could have been a simple joke, A quip about wintry weather.Or an argument that antlered folk,Had better stick together.

They then stood to the traces,The laden sled took flight.As a Sad Santa clambered from the poolThe sleigh flew out of sight.

There is no moral to this story,No lesson to derive.Except, watch out for crazy ungu-lates,The next time that you drive.

© Peter Linder December 2012

Rollo the Christmas ElkHappenstance Literary December 15, 2012, Page 8

It was October, 1966, a cold and blustery day in Buffalo. But the joke

is that Buffalo has only two seasons, winter and July 11. The ominous sky fit my mood. I was about to be interviewed for one of only seventy positions in the 1967 class of the dental school.

Having parked my little yellow Beetle in the vast unzoned, unmarked overflow-ing parking lot, realization struck me. Geez, it might be difficult to find my car later; it’s such a large campus. After all, it’s the ‘60 and VWs are the car of choice.

That thought increased my apprehen-sion as I approached the distant building with a great deal of trepidation. It remind-ed me more of a yellow-bricked penitentia-ry than a seat of higher learning. Little did I know that my perception of the building wasn’t too far off the mark.

A lot was riding on this. A career! Mine! I hope someone will be impressed that I arrived appropriately early for this intake interview; hmm… isn’t that what they call it in a prison too?

The receptionist kindly informed me, “You are a bit early. Your interview won’t be conducted by our admissions officer, but by the Dean himself. Dr. Powell is not quite ready to meet with you, so please have a seat. He will come out to greet you soon.”

He’ll come out of where? My mind raced. Some impenetrable cell, his inner sanctum, a private chamber of anguish, possibly a sound proof room to mask the cries and wailing of the rejected? Mine?

The lump in my already dry throat got tighter. I’d hoped it wasn’t evident to his receptionist that my knees were knocking.

No other candidates for admission were present. This was going to be a one-on-one with the Dean!

Why? What’s so different about me that I’m not being interviewed by an admissions

officer? Is that how they try to let you down easy, by having the omnipotent Dean do the dastardly deed?”

Slowly my palpitating pulse of para-noia eased.

Picture what a classic, tall, well-pro-portioned, flat-topped, side-buzzed Marine Colonel would look like. Well, I found myself face-to-face with one. Greeting me with a really firm handshake, “Hello, Mr. Guy. Good to meet you. I’m Richard Powell, the Dean of the Dental School. Why don’t you come into my office so we can talk?”

Again my mind raced. He did say “Good to meet you,” didn’t he? He intro-duced himself as Richard, not Doctor. Is that a good thing?”

Fortunately no swagger stick was in sight as I had nearly expected. Not surpris-ingly he indeed had been a Marine officer in the Dental Corps. Later in the inter-view he said, “I and most of the rest of the school’s department heads are also retired military dentists.”

Immediately my mind reconfigured the building from a prison to more like a boot camp. Later I was to discover that, again, I wasn’t too far off the mark.

Some typical interview type conver-sation followed, which included, “I have transcripts from your pharmacy under-graduate studies. Not bad.”

Not bad? He didn’t say good! “Blah blah blah blah...” I didn’t hear a lot of what he said, my

mind was so full of “not bad.” Then he hit me with it. “I don’t think you can make it through

here and graduate.” Huh. Were my ears hearing what

my heart was feeling? Did he mean I was rejected?” No.

“My records indicate that you have an artificial leg, Mr. Guy. I’m afraid that you’ll encounter great difficulty requiring a student to carry his own heavy instru-ment boxes up and down the three flights of stairs between clinical assignments. In addition, specific intervals could be even more brief because your instruments also need to be sterilized in time for the next

clinic. I feel that you would be at an unre-alistic disadvantage.”

The gauntlet was thrown! How dare you, Sir! I thought to myself.

This man, this officer, this leader of men, may have been testing me. Perhaps he knew that if you challenged handicapped individuals they would either succumb or fight. They will whimper away with tail between their legs or work harder to prove themselves. Perhaps he didn’t. Whichever, he didn’t know ME!

I didn’t overreact, but I told him with humble bravado and confidence, “I am certain that I am up to the challenge! Sir!” I also hoped that my reply was one he’d expect a good soldier to give.

The cold Buffalo wind knocked me on my kiester when I was trying to find my car. Was that a sign? Can I actually master the difficult tasks he mentioned if I can’t even fight the wind?

A month later the mail delivery con-tained my acceptance. Four years later, I graduated at the very top of my class. The gauntlet challenge was met with pride and with his respect.

How do I know that? Two reasons. First, in my third year, he called me into his office and said, “Mr. Guy, by law I am not allowed to ask a junior to consider staying on as a full time faculty member upon graduation, but I want you to know that I will ask you that question next year as you consider your future in dentistry.”

Holy cow! I respectfully declined that year for numerous reasons. The compli-ment was not only inspirational, it opened a different, more kindly relationship with other faculty members who thought I could possibly be one of them the follow-ing year. Second, knowing in his retire-ment, about twelve years later, that cancer would overtake him, he made a sort of pilgrimage around the country to visit those students whom he said, “Were my favorites.”

I proudly picked up the tab for dinner that night.

—By Alan M. Guy, from his memoir.

The interviewA gauntlet thrown, achallenge accepted,

a goal achieved

Happenstance Literary December 15, 2012, Page 9

Episode 2

I strode across the open area in front of the rebuilt meeting house,

self-absorption a deterrent to anyone who wanted to chat. This was as much home as any place and despite harsh memories one I returned to when Hermes was on earth.

We’d dropped Harp off on Alpha 9. He was a fool of the first order if he thought his disguise was effective. The man looked as much like a galactic trader as I looked like a Chandorian. I didn’t bother telling Romani. He didn’t care who he was carting around the galaxy as long as he got paid. On the whole that’s all I cared about. My quest didn’t come cheap.

I had been traveling on Hermes for two years. Romani’s reputation for going wherever he needed to add to his fortune presented opportunities I wouldn’t find on any other vessel. The cocky merchant-man was rolling in wealth yet he was ever ready to grow the pile. It was more about excitement and challenge than anything. As owner and chief pilot he was fearless, and perhaps a bit foolish. Although his rep was that he would do anything to make cred, he drew the line at slave trade. It was among the reasons I’d had hooked up with him, that and the fact he protected me without expecting anything in return. No sex, no favors, no nothing. He made it clear to the crew I was off limits, the only fem among nine techies and four pilots including the boss. Not that I needed protection — Pella Soames needed protec-tion from none — but having it kept to a minimum attempts by some crew mem-bers to get into my pants. And of course I had Box, and when the accursed thing was working, SPIN.

A whooshing flap brought a grin to my face. I couldn’t help it. The dragaun loped toward me with wild joy, wings flap-ping to maintain balance. Booder pecked playfully at my short-cropped hair and cooed.

“Hey, get off now.” I tried to sound stern but couldn’t help laughing as he spread his wings exposing his breast in trust.

“Goof ball.” The dragaun batted his long lashes.“Sorry, Pel, he got your scent and took

off like a shot.” Huffing slightly Elvira Hummiford

petted Booder and slipped a lead rope over his slender neck. She then tied the lead to the back of her belt anchoring the docile creature to her as effectively as if she’d locked him in place.

“Now, give us a hug and tell me what you’ve been up to!”

The hug was hesitant on my part. Although the woman had taken me in after Trish Soames and Henry Kyper disap-peared, I felt no closeness to any. Loss was a needle that pricked at my soul. It was bet-ter to remain alone. I had but one goal and that was to find my mother, Trish Soames. Peripheral to that was finding my father. What I would say to him was another mat-ter. I had idolized both of them growing up and even though Jake Casey had not blamed Henry Kyper for betraying him, I did. My father’s secret life had affected all of us in one way or another, most signifi-cantly my mother. Despite the absence of evidence I was sure Trish Soames was on Chandor, and I believed my father knew where. Between impenetrable security and a deadly environment, getting on planet was a challenge I had yet to work my way through. The best I’d been able to do was illegal, and if found out could mean my life. For all I’d learned it had been a waste of time. Harp never made it past Jonfellow whose officious rejection was diplomati-cally firm.

“It’s mighty good to see you,” Elvira said, interrupting my wayward thoughts.

“It’s just a stopover.”Elvira’s brow lowered. Before she

could launch her familiar lecture about how awful Romani was and how dan-gerous it was for me to travel with him, I asked about life in Safe Haven. Elvira wasn’t fooled but she allowed the conversa-tion to move to less contentious topics. We arrived at the property she and Joey called home, the unspoken criticism creating a cool rift between us.

Elvira had gone to some lengths to make the place pleasant. The stone-paved

courtyard was swept clean and patches of bright flowers clustered here and there. Joey sat on a bench working on a carv-ing. I studied the piece emerging from the wood as Elvira detached the rope from her waist and led Booder to a pen inhabited by several other dragauns.

“Joey.”He grunted but didn’t stop working.

“‘Bout time you come ‘round for awhile.”“And hello to you too.” It had been

a long time since I had let his taciturn manner affect me. In truth I preferred it to Elvira’s need to have more from me than I could give.

“Nice work.” The form emerging from the wood was of a bird — perhaps an eagle — in flight, its sweeping wingspan enough to take my breath away.

Joey ran long fingers over the carving and nodded. “Wood’s coming good.”

“In your hands it always comes good.”Joey turned red as fire and rubbed his

ruddy cheeks with work worn fingers. “Go on with you, gel, and let me be about my business.”

“Indeed. The man’s plenty full of him-self as it is, he don’t need nobody shining his apple.” Elvira grinned proudly as she spoke and gave him a quick buss on the cheek before heading for the front door.

I rolled my eyes at Joey and grinned. If there was anyone less full of himself than Joey I couldn’t think who it might be.

Elvira opened the door and motioned me in. The cramped but comfortable room brought no sense of homecoming, only a sharp sadness. The tantalizing aromas of roasting meat and savory stew wafted in from the rustic but serviceable kitchen.

“How long will you be here?” The hope in her voice embarrassed

me. I shrugged and let the duffel bag strap slide off my shoulder. “Hermes is in for a systems check and at the moment nothing is scheduled.”

“I worry about you being tied up with the likes of that man!”

So, she wasn’t going to let it go. “We’ve been through this. I can take care of my-self.”

“Romani is trouble,” Elvira persisted. “He’s not going to help you get what you

Thunder Prime: Hunter’s LightHappenstance Literary December 15, 2012, Page 10

want, make no mistake about that.”I bit back a sharp retort. My response

when it came was carefully measured. “I’ve been through the so-called legal channels and got nothing but the official line, you know that.”

Elvira regarded me in silence and then said what she’d never said before. “Could be the official version is true.”

I clinched my fists. “Trish Soames didn’t die on Fog Island fifteen years ago.” I struggled to keep the fury coursing through me from spewing forth. “She’s alive! As for Henry Kyper, he betrayed us all, I know it and you know it. EVERY-BODY knows it.”

“You believe all that, but that doesn’t make it so. It’s time to accept what is and move on with your life. Kinder, you’re strong willed but you can’t keep hoping for the impossible.”

“That scum Chandorian took her for a brood mare, that’s what I know!”

“No, you don’t know that. All you know is anger and hate,” Elvira said gently. “It’s eating you alive.”

I stooped and picked the duffel up from the floor and held it as a barrier be-tween us as I backed toward the door.

“Pella?”“Leave it, Elvira. I think I’ll head on

over to Chase Cantina, see what’s stir-ring. I’ll take a room at the Wayfarer. Be more convenient.” I ignored the hurt that crossed her face.

“Please, Pel, stay. I have your room ready.”

“Better this way. I’ll be coming and going a lot. You take care now.”

I hurried out grateful to see that Joey was no longer in the yard. I didn’t feel like explaining to him why I was leav-ing, especially since there was no good reason. Being angry at Elvira for nosing in my business probably wouldn’t cut it. Elvira meant well but having her fret all the time wore on both of us. I should be more considerate. I owed Joey and Elvira a lot. Following my rescue — along with

Bart Casey — from Fog Island, I’d had the option of staying with B.J. Conner or going into a Supervised Educational Boarding School. The SEBS was out. Being confined to a system that directed every hour of a person’s day scared me witless. As for staying with B.J., the bonding of B.J. and Bart’s father was inevitable. My feelings of guilt over what my father had done made it impossible to be around them.

With no place else to go I returned to Safe Haven against the protests of B.J., Bart and Jake. Elvira and Joey took me in. Safe Haven had once again become my home, despite shattering memories I lived with every day.

I was grateful to them, glad to have a roof and protection, but as much as they treated me like their own I could never care for them in the same way. Somewhere in the galaxy Mother was alive. To forget that was disloyal and heartless. I couldn’t be who Elvira and Joey wanted me to be, whatever that was.

It had been a mistake to come to Safe Haven. Elvira continued to pressure me to move on and forget the past. The last thing I wanted to do, was hurt them.

Like my actions at the cabin hadn’t been hurtful? I shook off this thought and pushed away feelings I didn’t want to be burdened by. Keeping life simple was hard-er than juggling sabers. A lump lodged in my throat and for a heartbeat I almost turned around and went back, but activity around my borrowed ATV stopped me. Several curious kinder were running their hands over the exterior and three men were trying to get inside.

“Hey! It’s locked for a reason!”The kinder giggled and scurried away,

accustomed to my gruff ways. The men regarded me with distrust, lust and dismis-sive amusement.

“Be needing transport to Duketown,” one of them said.

“Don’t take passengers.”The biggest of the three crossed his

arms and blocked my way to the ATV’s

hatch.“You got room for us and we’re willing

to pay. Just to Duketown. That’s it.”“I guess you didn’t get the part about

me not taking passengers.” I said, stepping back from his stench.

“Look, little fem-fem, I’m asking nice. I could just as easy take that control device away from you and give you a ride instead.” The smarmy way he said it sug-gested the ride wouldn’t be in the ATV nor would it be to my liking.

The other two elbowed each other and guffawed. “Yeah, and when Ollie’s done then it’ll be our turn,” one of them said.

I shrugged, helpless little fem giving in. “Put that way, guess I’ll have some pas-sengers.”

The sudden switch sent a look of mild disappointment across the punched-in face of Ollie, the man blocking my path. After a moment he flashed a grin exposing yellow-ing teeth.

“It’s not like your being hijacked... exactly!”

The other two roared with laughter and edged closer getting into my personal space in ways that made my belly churn.

Ollie stood aside and gestured toward the hatch with a sweeping bow, as though he owned the ATV and was graciously al-lowing me to use it. The others shot furtive glances over their shoulders. Their eager-ness to leave Safe Haven probably meant they had overstayed their welcome.

I looked around to see if anyone was close by to help me out. As usual, when it came to taking care of myself I was on my own. Just as Ollie grabbed for me I touched the sensor on my wristcom and two things happened at once.

___________________________

Next issue, on or about Jan. 1, 2013Does Pella get away from the men

threatening to hijack her transport? Find out in Installment 3 of, Thunder Prime Hunter’s Light.

Happenstance Literary December 15, 2012, Page 11

What to look for in

2013Happenstance Literary

January: BeginningsFebruary: Love, Love, LoveMarch: Spring ThingsApril: Flower PowerMay: TransitionsJune: Traditions

July: Summer CelebrationsAugust: School DaysSeptember: Autumn LeavesOctober: Spirits and GhostiesNovember: Fabulous FoodDecember: Winter Celebrations

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Happenstance Literary December 15, 2012, Page 12

PoetryEmbrace the light

Morning light diffusedThrough clouds hidden by Lacy trees, devoid of leavesStriped for winter, preparing to rest.

A new day dawnsBrilliant light of the sunChanging moment by momentTaking shape in unexpected ways.

What do you hope for,How do you dream this day?With hope and anticipation,Or uncertainty and dread?

Did you know?You get to decide.Choose joyEmbrace the Light._________

SolitudeAlonebut not silent.Separatebut connected.Awedbut not afraid.Worshipthrough prayer.Emptiedby faith.Filledwith God’s love.

By Sharon Vander Meer

Shipwrecked: A fableJoe and Tom were shipwrecked and found their way to a small deserted

island. As humans will it wasn’t long before they were bickering about one thing and another. Joe said, “My prayers are more powerful than yours. To prove it we’ll split up this rotten island. You take one side and I’ll take the other. We’ll pray for what we need and see who is the more worthy of God’s attention.”

Tom shrugged his shoulders and trudged away to the other side of the island. Joe began to pray. First he asked for food and before long found more than

enough. He stuffed himself, while on the other side of the island Tom barely sur-vived on roots and small fish.

Joe thought about the next thing he wanted. He looked at his beat up clothing and realized he needed something without holes. He prayed for clothes and before long came across a chest that had washed ashore, full of clothing just his size. On the other side of the island all that kept Tom from the elements were the tattered shirt and pants he had on when he arrived.

Joe, now dressed to the nines, began pondering his next need. Shelter. He prayed hard for a house, and as he walked he came upon a small beach cottage. He moved in and reveled in its cozy warmth. Tom huddled under palm fronds and oc-casionally found shelter in a damp cave.

Joe began to feel a desire for companionship. “God, I’m alone and pray for a woman to share my life.” Within no time he found a woman washed up on the shore, the lone survivor of yet another shipwreck. He took her to his beach cot-tage, nursed her back to health and made her his wife. Meanwhile Tom sat in his solitude, his face turned toward the heavens.

Joe was doing so well with his prayers, he decided to pray for a way off the island. Sure enough, before the day was out a cruise ship arrived and Joe and his woman ran toward it joyfully. Just as they reached the small boat that had come to rescue them a gentle voice spoke from heaven.

“Joe, haven’t you forgotten someone?”Joe stopped short and looked around.“Your friend, Tom, aren’t you going to take him with you?”“He’s not worthy. Everything I prayed for I received. He hasn’t gotten anything.

His prayers are worthless! He is worthless!”“Joe, you are mistaken. His prayers were the most powerful, because, you see,

his prayers were that you get everything you asked for. It was his prayers that were answered, Joe, not yours.”

—This came to me via the internet in one of those forwards that travel all over

cyberspace. It made me think of all the times I’ve relied on the prayers of my friends and they’ve relied on my prayers for them.