Happenstance Literary December 1, 2012

New FormatTell me how you like it.

The most comfortable place for me is in a rut. Rather than go back to previous layout styles I’m trying something new. I’m also rethinking Writer’s Block. Read more on page 3.

Page 4

In this issue:Page 3 From the editor

Page 4 Reindeer Games: Behind the Scenes, by Douglas McLaughlin

Page 5 Sunrise x 3

Page 6 Art in the Park Page 7 Poetry, Sam O. Dixon and Sharon Vander Meer; Prose by Alan M. Guy

Page 8 The Fine Art of Procrastination, by Marcos Quezada

Page 9 George, by Alan M. Guy

Page 10 Thunder Prime: Hunter’s Light, by Sharon Vander Meer (Sci-fi novel excerpt)

re you inspired? Share that inspiration with others. When you touch others

with kindness you find your own problems are lightened. If you’re stressed, don’t be afraid to find a shoulder to lean on, you are not alone.

The following are 25 easy ways to cele-brate Christmas, and yes it is Christmas to me because I’m celebrating the birth of not just the Savior, but my Savior. Being kind

is a connection we all share, no matter what faith we profess or if we claim to have no faith. We are all made a slight bit better when we show our care for one another. When we share our burdens with those who care

about us, we reveal our human need to be connected. It’s all part of the circle of life.

Twenty-five ways to show you care and need care, one day at a time:

1. Shop at local independent stores. Does that sound commercial and what is it doing on a list about kindness? Your local merchants have employees, pay taxes and support — to a great extent — the infrastructure of the town where you live. Keep the indies in business by shopping local. We need them to provide products, services and employment all through the year. Without small businesses the entire country would be in a world of hurt.

2. Donate to your community food bank all through the year, not just during the holidays.

3. Mentor or help a child or teen. There are local programs like Big Broth-ers and Big Sisters, and CASA (Court Appointed Special Advocates) looking

for volunteers. Become a mentor to kids through your church or school.

4. Start something in your neighbor-hood or among your friends that will help military personnel far from home, but beware of scams. Unfortunately they do exist. Guideposts has a long-standing pro-gram for sending its uplifting magazine to soldiers all over the world. The magazines have proven to be popular and the cost is low. Check out their website for details.

5. When you cook for your family, make an extra small casserole and take it to someone you know who is alone, or invite them to your home for a meal. The holidays are often the most difficult times of the year for people who live by them-selves.

25 Ways to Brighten Your December and Inspire Others

—More Brignten and Inspire - Page 12—

Page 5 Page 6

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www.vandermeerbooks.comCopyright 2012

Happenstance LiteraryDecember 1, 2012

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Happenstance Literary December 1, 2012, Page 2

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

Writer’s Guideline:

1. Must be original work (will do re-prints 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, humor, essay, memoir, short story, photo essay, feature articles, travel, social com-mentary, food, wine and dining, book reviews, fiction, non-fiction, mystery, romance and sci-fi/fantasy.

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Life is good, especiallywhen it’s busy

I am having a blast. Life is good. Every day is a new oppor-tunity. Last month my mind had a brain

poot, and I decided (apparently with no real certainty) to stop doing my radio show, Writer’s Block. After some consideration, I’ve realized I would miss it if I quit altogether, and there are authors I still want to meet, if it’s only as a voice on the phone. I will continue the program, but the show will be re-formatted so I can manage it a little better, and allow authors have more time to talk about their writing.

In addition to the show, I’m enjoying a variety of other work. One of those projects is to create a full-color alumni magazine for Highlands. It’s an exciting project. Why? Because Highlands is an exciting place to be. I was amazed to learn about all the innovative instruction, in addition to established programs like the schools of education and business.

Do you know how much cutting edge research is being done? Are you aware of the media arts students and the work they’re doing? Have you heard about a middle-school initiative to provide innovative teaching methods, and an endowment for additional education for middle school teachers? How about the stunning and remarkable fine art print collection made available to students for study and instruction? Have you kept up with NMHU alumni and how successful they are in life?

Are you aware Highlands is largely a green campus and continues its efforts geared toward environmental responsibility through water conservation and catchment, a recycling program open to the public, and being LEED (Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design) certified in construction projects?

Highlands is a critical part of Las Vegas and northern new Mexico. Its centers offer accessible education to outlying areas through on-site instruction and online classes.

NMHU is more than 100 years old, fully engaged in innovative instruction delivered by notable professors from all over in addi-tion to established and dedicated faculty who have helped shape the lives of hundreds of students. Whether it is a professor who has been with Highlands for decades, or a recent hire whose creative energy is inspiring high tech and research-driven instruction, students are assured of an education that can take them wherever they want to go.

New Mexico Highlands University is a small campus in the heart of a 175-year-old community. In many ways the university and the community have grown up together, and are connected through shared values and dreams. I’m honored to be working on the magazine. When Highlands is showcased, so is Las Vegas. The first issue will be out in mid- to late February.

—Sharon

Happenstance Literary December 1, 2012, Page 3

Reindeer Games: Behind the Scenes

Happenstance Literary December 1, 2012, Page 4

As Paul Harvey used to say, “And now,

for the rest of the story.”

Hearye, hearye, hearye, this secret meeting will now come to order,”

the chairman proclaimed as he banged his gavel on the sled.

“Where’s Prancer? I told him the meeting would start exactly at nine p.m.”

All reindeer heads turned as the barn door slammed open and Prancer pranced in.

“It’s about time you showed up.” Blitzen said in a blaring voice, “We have decisions to make. None of us want to end up at the South Pole again, like last year. Why are you late?”

Prancer leisurely took his seat in the sleigh and said in a forceful voice, “Now, don’t get testy with me, Blitz. It’s not my fault I’m late. Blame it on old white-whiskers.”

All the other rein-deer didn’t laugh or call him names.

“What happened with Santa Claus?” Comet asked.,

Prancer, being the diva he was, re-sponded, “I’ll tell you, but first I’m owed an apology.”

Blitzen stared at Prancer and in an unassuming yet in-charge tenor said, “I’m sorry, Pranceeee.”

Prancer raised his right front foreleg as if to say accepted.

Blitzen continued, “You saw Santa before you came in? He’s always in bed by eight, that’s why we scheduled our secret meeting for nine.”

“Yeah, I know, I was on my way here

when Santa appeared out of nowhere and told me to follow him. You all know how bossy he can be.” All the reindeer nodded their antlers in agreement.

“He took me to Rudolph’s private quarters and com-manded me, ‘Teach him some reindeer games. If you do, I’ll share some cookies and milk with you.’ I held my hoof out for a cookie but that old geezer shook his head.”

Dancer interrupted. “Old fuddy-duddy tried that ploy with me a few years ago. That shiny-nosed little Arkansas reindeer isn’t smart enough to learn any reindeer games. I tried teaching him games for three days — never did get any cookies. I know my fellow brethren Cupid and Dasher tried teaching that numbskull games over the years.”

“Yes, we did,” Cupid said.

Dasher added, “The only game he was even half good at was hide and seek… but he always got lost.”

Dancer asked, “How did you get out of that mess, Prance?”

“Well, I knew everyone tried to teach him games and failed, so being the ar-rogant deer that I am, I found the courage and asked Santa. ‘Why are you still trying to teach Rudolph reindeer games when he hasn’t learned any in over sixty years?’”

“I know he hasn’t,” Santa said. “Prob-ably never will, not enough smarts up

there.” Santa pointed to his head. “But maybe something, someday will sink in.”

“Santa, if you know he’s brainless, why is he still the guide deer? There hasn’t been a foggy Christmas Eve since the first time you asked knucklehead to guide your sleigh.”

Santa stood up and said in a loud jovial voice the heavens could hear, “Pub-licity, Prancer, publicity, and with public-ity, endorsements, many very large well paying endorsements. Do you realize the earth’s population has more than doubled since Rudy first flew? We were almost out of business back then. The elves were con-sidering going on strike. They hadn’t had a raise in over two hundred years. Rudy and his glowing nose was a Christmas life saver. I know a rock is smarter than he is but until I can find a better way, it’s going to be status quo.”

“I told Santa I was a terrible rock teacher and he let me go, without any milk and cookies I might add. I wanted to tell you guys our situation hasn’t changed.”

“Thank you for sharing with us, Prance,” Blitzen said. He asked his fellow reindeer, “Any suggestions?”

Vixen raised his antler and was sum-moned to speak.

“Last Christmas one of the packages opened and the contents fell out. They were red LED flashing lights that work a lot better than nincompoop’s nose. Really easy to use. I’ll show you. I kept a strand.”

Vixen slipped the LEDs on his nose and it lit up the room like the Fourth of July. All the rebels agreed Vixen had found the shiney nose solution.

—More Rudolph - Page 5—

“Publicity, Prancer, publicity, and with publicity, endorsements, many very large well pay-ing endorsements. Do you realize the earth’s population has more than doubled since Rudy first flew? We were almost out of business back then.”

—Santa Clause

Happenstance Literary December 1, 2012, Page 5

Continured from P. 4

Blitizen said, “I take that as a motion to use LEDs. All in favor raise your tails.”

The motion passed unanimously and the reindeer gave each other antler high fives.

Blitizen banged his gavel for order. “Now, how do we get rid of shiny-nose? Who has an idea?”

Donner jumped up and said two words. “Yogi Bear.” All antlered heads turned and looked at him with questioning expressions.

“Yogi Bear? What in the world does Yogi Bear have to do with this?” Blitizen asked.

“Yogi Bear isn’t his real name. His real name is Father Bear. He turned state’s evi-dence against Goldilocks because of her Ponzi scheme. Father Bear — aka Yogi Bear — went into the federal witness protection program. He used to be a hit-bear for Goldilocks and he owes me a big favor. Just don’t ask me what the favor is for.”

All the reindeer clapped their hoofs and gleefully said, “Let’s do it.”

Blitizen regained control by bellowing in a non-glee shout, “Does this mean you want Rudolph to go down in history?”

Their cheerful faces became blank looks and they hung their heads with all fourteen antlers scrapping the floor.

“That’s what I thought.” Blitizen banged his gavel and said, “We’ll come back to Ru-dolph later. Our next order of business is, how can we talk cookie-lover Santa into joining weight watchers? He got stuck in too many chimneys last year. Any reasonable sugges-tions?”

—Douglas McLaughlin is the author of “The back porch Philosopher: Life is Simple, It’s the Instructions That are Difficult,” and is working on two novels. He has written numer-ous short stories. Expect to see more from him in Happenstance Literary.

Rudolph

Sunrise —It only takes about five minutes at most for the sunrise to go from brilliant reds and oranges with a lattice work of black trees, to soft mauves and blues interspersed with the first tinges of yellow sun. The beauty of the morning is made all the sweeter for being shared with two-legged and four-footed friends. The conversa-tion is lively, the walk is brisk (mostly) and the air warms as the day progresses.

A Musing...A Sunday school teacher was telling her

class the story of the Good Samaritan. She asked the class, “If you saw a person lying on the roadside, all wounded and bleeding, what would you do?”

A thoughtful little girl broke the hushed silence, “I think I’d throw up.”

This summer, santero Margarito Mondragon com-pleted a lovely sculpture created from a tree gone

bad, which just goes to prove that something good can come out of something bad. Most everything is redeem-able. The sculpture is called Our Lady in the Park, but as the retablo held by Mary Chavez of Tito’s Gallery states on the back, the name is Nuestra Senora de los Dolores Our Lady of Sorrows, patroness of mothers, children, women in childbirth, compassion and against sinners.

Second and third sculptures are under way, with Peter Lopez pretty far along with his depiction of Un Campesino (Farm Laborer). Nobility and pride are etched into the features of the worker as he stands looking into the distance.

These two highly regarded santeros will be honored at a December 8, Second Saturday art reception in Tito’s Gallery, 157 Bridge Street, from 2 to 6 p.m.

These sculptures are part of a project involving six local artists creating cultural images from trees that have been in the park for decades. The images reflect the area’s heritage and traditions.

Art in the parkHappenstance Literary December 1, 2012, Page 6

PHOTOS: HAPPeNSTANce LITeRARy

Poetry & ProseTime

Sam O. Dixon

Time can build a mountainor turn one to sand.

Time can take a small boyand change him into a man.

Time can take a secondand end up with a day

Or take a week in Januaryand March right into May.

Time is always present and it’s here to stay.So don’t you thinkwe all should make

The most of every day?

Something LostSharon Vander Meer

I lost my lifeto grace’s giftand gained redemption.Known, rememberedand redeemed.found now onGlory’s shoreseeing Christ I’mlost no more. According to Poets. org, the Japanese tanka is a thirty-

one-syllable poem, traditionally written in a single unbroken line. A form of waka, Japanese song or verse, tanka translates as “short song,” and is better known in its five-line, 5/7/5/7/7 syllable count form. It’s a great exercise for communicating in short non-rhyming verse. Here are a couple of my attempts.

SailingBy Alan M. Guy

The sleek white-hulled, forty-eight foot vessel, its knife-like bow cutting cleanly, swiftly, through the

clear aqua-green windblown seas, its curved canvas sails full and taunt, the captain tilling the wheel at the ship’s stern, the crew, all seven of them, clutching on to ropes for dear life, leaning far backwards over its gunnels, defying danger, salt spray stinging their eyes, helping tip the racing sloop on its side.

Facilitating The America’s Cup was Captain Fogerty’s ambition, already having won three years in a row, wanting more, now being challenged from behind, giving him the adrenalin rush a true winning sportsman needs, barking out orders to his crew, encouraging them to give it all, hop-ing the intense training, month after month would culmi-nate in proof that teamwork can claim victory.

The V-shaped wake of the ADVENTURE, as it is called, having been christened three years earlier by its owner, slowly being encroached upon by the competing yacht, the only other boat in this final heat of the week-long regatta, inching forward, changed its color from that of the surrounding sea to a white foam.

The crew of the sloop, rounding the last buoy, entering the home stretch of three nautical miles, now up-righted as it entered the final straight away, seeing their competi-tion, fighting furiously to re-align the sails for more efficient utilization of wind, water, and sheer determination, holding their collective breaths for what seemed an eternity, broke out in whoops and hollers, cheers unheard by the celebra-tory fans on the distant shore, making their own victorious noises, nearly collapsed with exhaustion, letting the ship glide forward on its own for another half mile before they regained control, guiding it into the boat slip decorated with red white and blue bunting for the winner.

Alan M. Guy is a retired dentist from Florida who loves to write. He set a challenge for himself as a writer to form a story about sailing using long descriptive sentences. He readily admits he’s not a sailor, hasn’t been on a sailing ship and has never seen a regatta. This short piece of prose is a writer’s mind at work, challenging the craft and himself, just for the fun of it.

Happenstance Literary December 1, 2012, Page 7

Ringing moments knellThrough soaring minds not earthboundBeauty whispers loud Angel wings, voices swellingSing the truth of grace’s sound.

Do not say that nowWe will not hear “no” todayThere is too much inNeed of yes to speed us onTo the moment we are blessed

—Sharon Vander Meer

HAPPeNSTANce LITeRARy PHOTO

Happenstance Literary December 1, 2012, Page 8

It is 3:40 p.m. on Tuesday the 6th of November. This essay is due today

in my writing class at 5:30 p.m. The reason I’m giving this information is because I want you, the reader, to know how serious I am about the topic of this essay. I am writing about procrastination, which is a habit, a talent, a big responsibility, and a way of life. It is an act that is widely used and much abused. Like most things in this world, procrastination is something that is looked upon with disdain by some people, others embrace it wholeheartedly and in-vite it home to meet the family. I obviously belong to the latter group, and I’m going to explain my lifelong companion to you.

As a seemingly cultured and edu-cated person, I am expected to live a rigid, orderly life. That would be true if my ap-preciation for chaos hadn’t led me into the path of procrastination. I love the well-or-dered chaos that happens when people are trying to get things done at the last minute. I personally get a rush to my system when the clock is ticking down toward zero-hour and there are still things to be done. To be wracking your brain making sure you didn’t forget something — while trouble-shooting, while organizing your tasks — is an experience like no other. There’s the elevated heart beat, the cold sweat, the shaky hands, the jitters, the uncertainty of things and, finally the flood of relief and excitement when your deadline is past and everything went off smoothly. It’s gotten to the point where I can scarcely do anything unless it’s done at the last minute, just to get my fix.

Everyone can procrastinate with just about everything in life. The universal usability of procrastination is what makes it so attractive. The hitch — and there is a hitch — is that everybody can use it, but not everybody can use it well. A lot of times you end up with results that are poor in quality, lacking in quantity, or some-times just not finished at all. In worst case scenarios, total catastrophe ensues in the hands of unqualified users.

The ability to procrastinate well takes a lot of skill and dedication to the cause. You can’t just jump into an F-15 fighter jet and expect not to fall off the end of the

aircraft carrier, when you’re nothing more than a tourist. You have to start small and hone your skills at multi-tasking, delegat-ing, and problem solving. Once you’ve made it past things like shaving in a hurry, or walking the dog, then you can take on more important stuff, like work projects or feeding your fish. If you can’t keep your houseplants alive, then I suggest you get a life coach or something.

A well seasoned procrastinator can sleep until noon, have breakfast at Hoot-ers, make it to work at 3:30 p.m. sharp and have all his productivity reports for the last quarter to the boss by 5 p.m., then go to a pick-up game at the courts, and still make it in time for his daughter’s violin recital. That is capturing the great white whale for most procrastinators.

Sure I bet people say, “That’s nothing, I can do that.” The truth is, if you’re not good under pressure then you are going to go down in a magnificent ball of flames. Everyone around you will just watch, enjoying the fiery display; some will even clap.

Procrastinators don’t just have themselves to worry about. True, most of your co-workers or project members will be safe with the fact that it was you who dropped the proverbial ball. What you have to remember is that when you don the yoke of procrastination you are not just putting your reputation on the line. You are representing an expansive, all inclusive sibling hood of procrastinators. We enjoy your successes but suffer in your failures. When someone mishandles procrastina-tion it makes us all look bad, regardless of our prior conquests. Ask yourself if you’re

up to the task of being confirmed in the Venerable Order of Procrastinators World-wide.

For most of us, once we’ve made it this far, procrastination is no longer a juvenile tendency or a recreational activ-ity. We learn to plan our daily life around procrastinating. We treat it with its due respect. We wield it as deftly as an Olympic fencer does the foil. We use this time of procrastination to show the world our best qualities, sometimes all at once. It’s what we look forward to when others crumble at the sight of a deadline. Look around you. You can probably spot procrastinators by their relaxed demeanor, confident attitude, and that mischievous grin they give off as the tasks are doled out. It is procrastina-tion that allows us to have the carefree, happy-go-lucky lifestyle that makes people wonder, “How do they do it?” More often than not, once you are a member of the Order, you’re a member for life.

Procrastination is not something that should be taken lightly. Cultures have gone extinct, civilizations have been lost, kingdoms have been toppled, nations have been fractured and popcorn has been burned because of irresponsible procrasti-nators. This behavior is very easy and very addictive, and I say by all means imbibe. It is the cheapest drug, the best platform to show your goods. It is being a part of something infinitely bigger than yourself, and a great way to enjoy the best of what life has to offer.

Procrastinating has its ups and its downs, and you are bound by Murphy’s Law to fall on your face now and then. Step up your game so you can fall with minimal damage. Whatever the case may be, please remember, when you burn, we all burn with you. As you go on your journey of procrastination, I’d like to leave you with a quote from my biggest hero’s uncle. Peter Parker’s Uncle Ben said, “With great power comes great responsibility.”

Please, reader, use but don’t abuse procrastination.

—By Marcos Quezada, a writer with imagination and humor.

The Fine Art of Procrastination

Happenstance Literary December 1, 2012, Page 9

If there was ever such a thing as a northern redneck, George Cormie

was it: deep creases in old leathery tanned skin, straw hat, kerchief in hand wiping his sweat, speaking few words slowly, that was how I first met him. He was about five feet eight, slim, but muscular, with a steady, controlled gait. In learning to know him, I discovered he was a true blue loyal Ameri-can spiritual man.

I have no idea how or why it was decided to build the Little League Baseball field next to the reservoir on Valley View Road, just past the last residential house before it became a country road, George’s house, but serendipitously a perfect union was formed. George, retired, strong, an avid gardener, and an amazingly knowl-edgeable handyman, lived right next door to that field which was in need of a care-taker. Hired by the organization, George was the guy in charge. That’s where I came in.

Knowing I had no baseball skills, nor interest in playing for that matter, I told my dad that I wanted to volunteer in some way for the league, like he did. Dad took an old broomstick, cut it shorter, and fixed a sharp nail into its bottom for me. Now, armed with my lance in one hand, a burlap bag, my personal Sancho Panza, in

the other, I set out to battle my personal windmills. I stabbed trash discarded by the uncaring lazy louts around me, de-trashing the field’s perimeter, grassy parking area, and bleachers.

George, seeing what I was doing, apparently sufficiently impressed with an eleven year-old’s initiative, approached me.

“Would you like to help me with the field on weekends? I could use an extra hand.”

“Sure would! What do you want me to do?”

“Just show up bright and early and I’ll learn ya if yer willin’ to sweat a little.”

“Yes, Sir,” I said.“I think you need to clear it with your

folks, though.”I ran over to my dad, told him what

George said and asked him to tell George it was OK.

“That your boy, Ed?” he asked when he recognized my father. “Nice kid. Hard worker. OK if he helps me here?”

“Sure, if that’s what he wants to do,” was the permission I needed.

Not being a weekend warrior and somewhat of a loner, this was a perfect fit. As distant as it may seem, being nearly out in the country, this reservoir was only a fifteen-minute sunrise bike ride from my house. George was an early riser. In those days there were never thoughts of danger as we kids all rode our bikes safely every-where across the city.

George took me under his wing and became a surrogate grandfather to me, stepping in for the grandparents I’d never known. Maybe that’s why — even to today — I tend to gravitate to and hang with

people older than me. George taught me, nurtured me, and made me into one heck of a useful helper; mowing, painting, fix-ing, and even chalking the white lines.

One great memory of George is that on those working weekends, he loved to have Vaughn Monroe records playing over the PA system in the background, espe-cially Ghost Riders in the Sky. That song still haunts me.

This wonderful, gentle man realized one Saturday morning that I was not quite myself. His inquiries brought tears. Old George sat me down on the bleachers, popped open a couple of bottles of Coke, and sat next to me. He paused for a bit and then said, “Tell me about it.”

“Some of the kids at the games tease me. They shout, ‘Hey, kid. What you do when you’re young is what you’re gonna do when you grow up… GARBAGE PICKER!’”

“Them are insecure bullies,” George said. “Ignore ‘em. I think you’re doing a great job helpin’ and keepin’ the place neat.” Then he told me something I have carried with me always.

“Never be ashamed of anything you do, so long as it’s honest.”

Some years later, when I had moved on and had to work summers for money, with no car to drive, having to take the bus to and from an outdoor job, probably smelling pretty bad to the others, I proudly sat, lunch pail on my lap, and remembered George. I always have many times over.

—This short story is from a memoir written by retired dentist Alan M. Guy’. He writes with compassion and humor in equal measure.

GeorgeMentors come in many

shapes and sizes, and from a variety of backgrounds.

George taught Alan lessons that have lasted a lifetime.

Cast all your anxiety on him for he cares for you. 1 Peter 5:7

Is it me, or does everyone have a time of it REALLY letting go and

letting God? I know I say I’m going to do that, but some crisis rears its ugly head and instead of trusting the Lord, I try to fix things I didn’t break and make right those wrongs I can’t do anything about. I

trust God, right up until the time I have to turn my biggest fears and failures over to him; then I freeze. I stand there clutching the thing that’s eating me up and chew-ing on me instead of letting it go. I can’t even articulate my greatest fears they’re so worrisome to me, but loss of love is right up there at the top. If I don’t do this or that, my child won’t love me, or if I fail my friends won’t respect me.

When I give in to the temptation to control, all is lost. I know that, yet time and again I grab the reins out of God’s hands, inasmuch as saying, “No, you’re not doing it right!” Right being my outcome, not God’s. 1 Peter 5:7 is a good reminder that in His care for me, God will and does remove anxiety and give me peace.

Reflection, by Sharon Vander Meer

Happenstance Literary December 1, 2012, Page 10

Chapter One of the sequel to The Ballad of Bawdy McClure, by Sharon

Vander Meer

Hermes was docked at Chan-dor's intake terminal. The single passenger had disem-

barked in the company of one Emmtet J’fal, his planet-side guardian. I scraped my short-cropped hair back from my face and settled in to watch the feed back from SPIN, the seeker pod intel node I'd recently acquired. Box immediately began translating SPIN's incoming data.

The node was perched on the true human's eyebrow as he followed his Chandorian guide toward the gilded city. The city's dome shielded everything inside from the elements and from voluptuous exotic flora that breathed poison into the atmosphere. Decline approached Dusk. At Zenith the Chandorian sun would blister the skin off true humans and most off-worlders. SPIN was designed to withstand any extreme, but it mattered not as it was protected by the human's body gear and head shield.

From the safety of my berth aboard Hermes I watched the action through SPIN's optics. The night cycle of Wane, Dark, and Dawn was approaching. The unbearable cold was the least of it. Qzzls and Huqzzls hunted in the darkness. The Qzzls were fierce and predatory and Huqz-zls were no less fierce and more dangerous because of their cunning.

The man calling himself Adam Jones, a food merchant, hurried behind J’fal. In truth his name was Goodwin Harp, the leader of the fastest growing cult in the gal-axy. Was he here because this was the only planet he hadn't been able to infiltrate? Probable. Chandorians were not a pliable people. They insisted on clinging to old ways, prideful of their self-creation, having re-engineered their species from human seeds of Earth combined with the DNA of the planet’s native Qzzls.

The Hermes had ferried more than one of Harp's emissaries to Chandor only to have cultural director Ekzak Jonfellow refuse to see them. If you couldn’t get past Jonfellow you couldn’t get to Brandon

Wallace, one of the few remaining settlers. Wealth derived from Chandor's under-ground resources assured the surviving clans access to anything they desired, including the ability to purchase slaves. Somewhere on this accursed planet I was sure my mother was serving as broodmare to a Chandorian, if she was still alive. If I could figure out how to survive planetside, I would leave Hermes and go in search of answers. Knowing I was trapped by my limitations I forced my attention back to the data stream.

J’fal held up a cautionary hand. The two men stood with eyes lowered as a wizened Chandorian passed by flanked by guards and a bevy of exquisitely adorned Chandorian fems.

SPIN scanned the area. Shirefel, the only city on Chandor, was designed for protection of its governing council and to maintain control of any who came calling. While SPIN recorded data, Box accessed a diagram of the city's layout. This was not the first time I'd reviewed it.

To the west was a small terminal for arrivals where shuttles disgorged pas-sengers into passageways leading to the domed marketplace or onto the open tarmac. Only Chandorians and autho-rized guests wearing protective gear were permitted to approach the secure admin center.

From the protected inner marketplace, a vast space filled with shops, Chandorians and others who were either properly protected or who could naturally with-stand the intense variations in the planet's toxic environment and climate, could pass into an open marketplace, equally filled with shops and lodging establishments. Beyond that were the pods where work-ers and shop owners lived. All of this was ringed by the holdings of the Chandorian elite. On the surface Chandor abided by the law of the galaxy, but I knew the open market shops and the labor co-op within the domed market center were rife with corruption, ignored by Chandor and monitored loosely by galactic grubs more interested in the creds they were paid by Chandor to ignore anything that would bring attention to suspicious activity. Call

me a cynic if you want; I think of myself as a realist.

J’fal waved his hand and the two men continued on their way. As the bronze door leading to admin sighed open at their approach J'fal cautioned Jones/Harp to re-member the rules. At the entry a voice first spoke instruction in Chandorian and then intoned in galactic standard language:

ENTER TRANSITION PODThis was the test. Box could not

determine in advance whether Chandor's security would block the transmission or in some way disable SPIN. When the door closed behind the two men I crossed my fingers and sent a request for success to the One, whom I hadn't believed in for a very long time. I held my breath until Box began translating incoming data. SPIN's night optics revealed the image of J’fal's charge stumbling into him in the darkness.

“Focan!”Harp clinched his fists but kept him-

self from reacting to being called a fool by the Chandorian. A tone hummed and a door into admin opened into a well-lit, modern — if somewhat austere — waiting area.

J’fal motioned to a bin. “Dispose of the protective suit there and be seated. Wait until you are called. When you are ready to leave I will bring a replacement garment and take you back to your transport.”

With that he strode away and left through a door marked in universal galactic: No Entrance/Official Personnel Only; directly below that the message was repeated in symbols of the Chandorian language.

SPIN scanned the room as Harp shed the gear and tossed it into the converter bin. Assigned need artificial intelligence units sat at terminals spaced around the perimeter of the room. A few empty up-holstered chairs occupied the center. Harp was the only visitor.

“When will Director Jonfellow be available?” His demanding tone had no effect on the ANAI he spoke to. It worked without pause.

"ANAI!"“You will be called.”“I have an appointment.”

Thunder Prime: Hunter’s Light

Happenstance Literary December 1, 2012, Page 11

The Artic Adventure Continues: 6:30 a.m. and it’s 27 degrees!Photographer Peter Linder shot (and commented

on) this photo of his wife Carol, the tall one on the far right, Juli Salman, in the middle, and me, short stuff Sha-ron Vander Meer, on the left. We, along with Peter, were on our early morning walk a couple of weeks ago when the photo was taken. With us, but barely visible are our four-legged friends, Stella and Little Fish, feisty dogs who are part of our pack. The wash of early morning sun highlighting lacy clouds make getting up and meeting the day worth the effort, and it’s good for us. Since cold weather set in we’ve walked when it was six, yes SIX, degrees. It’s invigorating and the sunrises are absolutely stunning. We call our walk, Getting Fit Together (GFT), and it is a great gift, we share our time, encourage each other and laugh. I can’t think of a better way to start the day.

“You will be called. For your comfort, sit. Refreshment is available on request; press the appropriate item on the keypad located on the arm of the chair you select.”

What little I knew of Harp, he was not a man accustomed to being ordered about by an ANAI. No doubt he wanted to get in, make his case to Jonfellow, and be given time with Wallace. In the past five years I had observed without much interest the emergence of Harp as a man of great consequence on planets across the galaxy. I had only recently begun to take note of his activities because he'd used Hermes several times to transport his people, and on this voyage, himself, to Chandor.

After a brief hesitation, he turned away and headed for one of the chairs, a tick at the corner of his left eyes the only indication of his agitation. SPIN's ability to read body reactions revealed the man's fury and something else a little curious. He was much older that he appeared.

I set that aside for later reflection as he chose a chair and sat down. He pe-rused the food selections with frown of distaste. He'd complained no end about offerings from Hermes' galley. Appar-ently he was more accustomed to gour-met dining instead of vacpacs of gummy soup, which was the staple aboard ship. He selected black caf and Chandorian blackberry scones with sweet cream made from dragaun milk. As he settled back

his outward appearance gave the impres-sion he was content to wait. Inside he was seething.

It looked like he would be going anywhere for I while. I headed to his cabin. Might as well find out what I could while I could. I hadn’t been there long when I was interrupted.

“When’ll he be back, gel?” Romani asked, bouncing on the toes of his scuffed work boots.

I jerked hard on the storage box lid. It had been easy to get past the locking mechanism, but the unit was old and worn out. The ship was not the most beautiful craft in the galaxy but it had two things going for it: speed and a pilot/owner with a reputation for discretion who would do anything for creds.

“Why do you care? He’s paid plenty up front for the privilege of doing what he wants for as long as it takes.”

“Don’t care. Just asking.” The lid popped loose banging against

the bulkhead. Harp’s belongings were neatly arranged inside along with two sealed bags. For someone with my talents getting past the seal would be easy.

“Anything good?”I lifted the bags to see what might be

hidden underneath. “Don’t know yet.”Alman Romani rubbed a hand over

his bald head, and grunted, ducking his chin which left him peering up at me from

under bushy brows. “Don’t want him complaining to me

sumbuddy’s been through his stuff. I draw the line at you takin’ anything; at least for now. Maybe later, when we’re on the return trip.”

“Don’t want anything he has.”“So whadder you lookin’ for?”I ignored him and kept going through

the storage bin. “Do what you gotta do as long as I

don’t hear nothing from him.”The door hissed shut as he left. Harp had been gone for more than

three hours. The way things worked on Chandor it could be hours or minutes before he returned and because of SPIN I would know immediately when he was on his way. At the moment he was still sitting and seething.

I opened the bags and found the con-tents disappointing.

Author’s Note: This novel follows Pella Soames, a woman in search of her mother, and on a quest to reconnect with her father whose betrayal left her in turmoil and orphaned by circumstances. It’s sixteen years later and her search has lead her across the galaxy but success eludes her. Look for more in future issues of Happenstance Literary. The Ballad of Bawdy McClure is available at Xlibris.com.

Happenstance Literaryis supported solely by subscribers. You won’t see advertising on its pages.

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Continued from p. 1

6. Make a date with your kids and husband or partner. Give them your un-divided attention for at least an afternoon a week. Have fun. Laugh. Talk. No TV. No electronic distractions. No excuses.

7. Make time for yourself. Sit and read or sit and do nothing. Meditate or pray or be still. Close your eyes, breathe deeply, and let peace flow through you.

8. Smile. Return disgruntled behavior from others with understanding and pa-tience. It’s much better for your heart and defuses stressful moments.

9. Listen. When someone wants or needs to talk, be ready to hear what they have to say, whether it is your two-year old son, or your eighty-two year old mom, or your forty-two year old grumpy neighbor, listen.

10. Pray. In whatever way is comfort-able for you take time to make a spiritual connection. God is always on call and He always listens.

11. Give from the heart. The frenzy of buying the latest and greatest diminishes the meaning of the gift and too frequently is good for instant gratification rather than long term delight.

12. Be kind to your family. Cook and bake healthy. From Thanksgiving Day through Christmas the average adult gains only one pound, according to a study con-ducted in 2000. The problem is the pound is not lost in the ensuing 12 months. It is, as one writer stated, the gift that keeps on giving because as the year progresses, so does weight gain, to a greater or lesser degree based on lifestyle and eating habits. To keep from gaining and retaining extra pounds, eat delicious food, prepared in a healthy manner in moderate proportions.

13. Be kind to yourself. Exercise. This

does not mean down and dirty weight training or intense workouts. Based on age and physical condition, choose the exercise best suited to you. Walking briskly an hour a day at 20 minute intervals is exercise. Most of us are able to do at least that. Make it a social occasion and pair up with friends.

14. Eat out. I know, I just talked about healthy eating and that doesn’t always happen at a restaurant where there is a ten-dency to get too much fat and salt, but eat-ing out with friends or family is a stimulat-ing opportunity to reconnect. Sharing time with those close to us lightens our hearts.

15. Broaden your horizons. Have a party and in addition to your close friends and family, invite people who you’ve met and would like to know better.

16. Be a secret Santa without be-ing part of a group. Is there someone you know who is separated from family? Make up a gift basket of baked goods and useful but inexpensive items, and have it delivered by a trusted friend who won’t reveal your secret. Or if you’re enough of an actor, take the basket yourself and say it was given to you to give to the recipient. I know, it sounds complicated, but it’s not. It’s kind.

17. If there is a toy drive in your com-munity, take part in the ways you are able. It’s not about the gifts; it’s about caring for children.

18. Find out if there is someone you know who needs a ride to go shopping or needs a personal shopper to pick items up for them. Consider organizing a group of your friends to work with you to do this.

19. Rein in your expectations of others. It will be a kindness to everyone around you, and to yourself. Too often we want everything to be perfect – by our definitions – and end up stressed and

depressed when everything doesn’t go our way. The road to Bethlehem was not easy, nor was the next 33 years of Jesus’ life, yet he turned everything into a teaching mo-ment and was the first to forgive and forget when the imperfect crossed His path. We can do no less.

20. Celebrate. We celebrate the birth of our Lord. We also celebrate goodness and trust, faith and mercy, joy and cre-ation. Everyone can celebrate those things in word and deed.

21. Make a memory. Cameras were created for a reason. Record the holidays, whether it’s baking cookies with mom, unwrapping gifts on Christmas morning or decorating the house inside and out, photograph what’s happening and share with family and friends, both through social media and in the form of personal gifts that include those photos.

22. Consider keeping a journal. It’s not difficult and the rewards are amazing when you read entries after the fact.

23. Advent is the beginning, the ush-ering in of a new year as we anticipate the Holy One. Find uplifting services or con-certs where stirring music rings through the halls and through your heart.

24. Light a candle. Think of it as the light that shines bright in your life every day throughout the year, the light that illuminates your hope and shows you your potential and God’s promise to always be with you, come what may.

25. Spread your arms wide and look up. Let go of every anger, worry, frustra-tion and disappointment. Give them up to the God of all. He can handle it. Empty yourself and get ready to be filled up with joy. Christ is born. Hallelujah!

—Sharon Vander Meer

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