Happenstance
June 1, 2013
Magazine
A Musing...
“I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father’s protection. .” –Sigmund Freud
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Happenstance Magazine
Next issue: On or about June 15, 2013 Submission deadline, Wednesday, June 10, 2013 No exceptions Creative Prompt: Traditions
Q&A: Poet Susan Gardner You can almost hear the voice of the poet in the structure of the poems and in the powerful cadence of the words. Susan’s work speaks of honest emotion, introspection, and heart. Page 4-5
In this issue: Page 3 • Life and Eli Page 4 • Q&A with Susan Gardner Page 6 • My Pili Erection by Alan M. Guy Page 7 • Funeral Films The Loved One By Gail Rubin Page 8 • Thunder Prime: Hunter’s Light Episode 10 Sharon Vander Meer Page 12 • Sunset on Fire
An Alan Guy essay: Ignore the title, it’s the story, a true one by the way, that counts.
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Happenstance June 1, 2013 Happenstance Publishing Sharon Vander Meer For permission to use content contact:
sharon@vandermeerbooks.com
Cover image: Father’s Day from clipart.com Some interior images from clipart.com
Gail Rubin, the Doyenne of Death, is back, with commentary on a movie that is bizarrely funny and gives a lesson or two in funeral planning. Page 7
Subscription: $12 annually Mail check to Sharon Vander Meer Happenstance Publishing PO Box 187 Las Vegas, NM 87701 Subscribe online at Happenstance Magazine All rights reserved by Happenstance Publishing in Las Vegas, N.M. Reproduction of contents in any fashion without written permission from the publisher is prohibited. Happenstance Publishing is not responsible or liable for the loss of any unsolicited materials or incorrect dates or incorrect information in articles. Opinions expressed within the pages (or web posting) of Happenstance Magazine do not necessarily represent the views or opinions of the magazine. Bylined articles and editorial content represent the views of their authors. For permission to reprint any part of a bylined article, contact the author. www.vandermeerbooks.com Copyright 2013
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Happenstance Magazine
Life and Eli Submissions Welcome These prompts are suggestions, not fences to corral the writing muse. June: Traditions July: Summer Celebrations August: School Days September: Autumn Leaves October: Spirits and Ghosties November: Fabulous Food December: Winter Celebrations Submission deadlines: One week prior to the publication date, which is typically on the 1st and the 15th of each month.
Writer’s Guidelines: 1. Must be original work. 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 commentary, food, wine and dining, book reviews, fiction, nonfiction, mystery, romance and sci-fi/fantasy. 5. Submission does not guarantee publication. 6. Submit work to: sharon@vandermeerbooks.com. If you have specific questions about the submission process, please e-mail sharon@vandermeerbooks.com Compensation not paid at this time.
There is a fire burning in a national forest not too far from where we live. We’re not in danger, more significantly the town’s watershed appears to be safe, assuming the wind doesn’t come up and change the fire’s dynamics. My granddaughter gave birth to a healthy baby boy on Friday morning. It’s publication time for Happenstance and I don’t have one piece of copy ready. I’ve been busy on other projects and feeling pretty stressed, partly because I didn’t get stuff ready and partly because I didn’t feel like adding to my workload. A little ray of sunshine entered my life. My most pressing project is now behind me. The NMHU Alumni spring magazine is out and in the hands of lots of people. I stressed over an error I made, and worried about how to fix it, focusing on that rather than taking in the many positive comments that have been made. Seven pounds eight ounces of potential burst into the unknowable on May 31 at 7 a.m., an explorer who will in his first two years learn and retain more than he will learn in all the years to come. Eli. I love that name. I’ve been stressing about how to promote Happenstance and reach more readers. It’s a tricky business, one that mires me in grand plans that are unlikely to come to fruition, like getting the attention of a major sponsor who will infuse the publication with sufficient resources so I can hire a digital and web manager. Strategizing about growing my readership has caused no end of restless nights. I don’t mean Eli won’t learn and retain whatever formal education can provide. It’s just that in the first two years of a child’s life he or she learns how to live in this world: walk, talk, interact, love, laugh, cry, be kind, be mean, be generous, be selfish, hate, be joyful, be creative, have compassion, be merciful... Yes, Eli will learn a lot in the next two years, invaluable lessons that will stay with him for a lifetime. We drove to meet Eli for the first time on Saturday. The smoky air around Pecos, N.M. where the fire had already consumed more than 6,000 acres and forced evacuation, lay like a gray blanket over the hills and deep into the valleys. The haze spread across the miles of highway ahead of us. On Facebook Eli looks like a sleeping munchkin. I can’t wait to hold him. The local paper has a story about a possible mayoral recall election, a costly and time-absorbing process that will in the end divert attention from important issues that must be addressed. Eli, they say, looks like his granddad, my son. It’s hard to tell that in the sleeping image I saw. All I see is a beautiful gift, a life unformed and ready to take shape. On TV and in the newspaper many of the stories have to do with murder, violence, stupidity and cruelty. It’s enough to make you cringe and not want to keep track of the news at all. Eli. Life. Both are complex. I can’t think about one without thinking about the other. When I finally held Eli in my arms I was instantly in love. Eli. Life. Get ready my child; the journey has just begun. – Sharon/Great Grandmother
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Happenstance Magazine
Q&A with Susan Gardner To Inhabit the Felt World By Susan Gardner Publisher: Red Mountain Press $16.95
but all are new and written specifically for this book. H. “Trilogy for My Daughter” is heartbreakingly beautiful. What does it take from you to put into words such a deeply personal and life-changing loss? SG. My daughter's illness and death were a soul-shaking n Sunday, June 9 at 3:30 p.m., event. For years I had no words for it, spoken or written. Much Susan Gardner will be at op.cit. later, as I started to write about it, my husband urged me to speak bookstore, Sanclearly and fully. The third section of busco Center in the trilogy was written just after the Home Bound Santa Fe, to read death of my much-loved mother-infrom and sign her book of poetry, To law and it was the final reconciliastraw of summer flowers Inhabit the Felt World. The book received tion I needed. The trilogy unites my held immobile, upright in snow an Eric Hoffer honorable mention for philosophical persuasions with my poetry award, and is a finalist for the Da emotional sensibility. Although the dirt tracks a frozen river of mud Vinci Eye Prize for cover art and design. whole poem was composed almost refreeze in ruts half a foot deep Gardner is a poet, painter, photographer complete in just a few days, I had a and literary editor. Elizabeth Raby, author vivid sense of growth and transforblue berries weight juniper trees of Ink on Snow, said of Susan’s work, “I mation as I wrote it. lean fence posts pull wire don’t believe I have ever read lines of such H. You are an artist and photogshadows across iced fields ferocity, honesty and pain. Yet Gardner rapher. How does that inform your continues, observes, listens... she opens poetry? white-whiskered crane alone herself to passion.” SG. I have been a painter and in morning stillness I would agree. The work is painfully photographer for a long time and I long feathers amidst brittle stems honest and joyously expressive. You can see the world through that field of eyes sweep cloud-struck sky almost hear the voice of the poet in the reference. Many descriptions in the one path home structure of the poems and in the powerpoems are influenced by the wonderful cadence of the words. Susan’s work ful names of colors and the vocabu–Susan Gardner speaks of honest emotion, introspection, lary of the art studio. My practice and heart. In her Q&A she talks about To as a visual artist encourages, even Inhabit the Felt World, and her writing forces, scrupulous attention to fine journey. detail, the particularity that reveals the essence of the whole. It is just the same with poetry. H.Talk about the title, “To Inhabit the Felt World” and what it H. Your work has been described as being a “…landscape of means to you. experiences and perceptions not our own, but hauntingly familiar.” SG. The poem “Sticks and Stones” is about the process of What does that mean to you as a writer? calligraphy — crafting the ink from carbon and glue, fabricating SG. Art-making in all its forms is a universal human need brushes, making the paper and allowing the ink to settle into the and characteristic. We are related by our human-ness and our paper as a poem or painting. Calligraphy is a joy to me. I wrote place in nature. My job as an artist is to look carefully, point my first poems in Japanese calligraphy and experimented with all directly, try to shape experience so that we, poet and reader, can the phases of the process described in the poem. apprehend its meaning. We make use of this particular moment, The paper is made from a slurry of fibers and then “felts” into here and now. I hope that through my work the reader will recogthe paper sheet. I used this physical process to suggest the felt nize the value of our shared experience. world of the poem, the felt world of the poet — the observation, Art – regardless of form or genre – has the potential to awakexperience and emotions we feel and understand through poetry en us to our own humanity and to our place in the world. More and art. than joy and beauty, more than sensory pleasure and satisfaction, H. How did you select pieces from your body of work for this the practice and presence of art can offer redemption in the face collection? of almost irredeemable sorrow. SG. The poems for this book were written during several months in 2012. A few of the poems reconsider earlier themes, Continued on page 5–
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Q&A With Susan Gardner, continued from page 4 H. Your bio also says you are a literary editor. Talk a little about your experience in that arena. SG. I love the poets and their work. A poet brings me what seems to be a finished manuscript and that is the starting point for creating a book. We look at every line, every poem, trying to see how each element supports every other. Formatting the words on the page is graphic as well as literary. We consider the sequencing within each poem and through the book. We are after clarity, beautiful sound, natural language pacing, each word inevitable. Most important of all: how do we let the reader hear the voice of the poet on the page? Within the lines, we want to leave room for the reader to breathe with the poem, to come closer to its heart, to the poet’s intention. The collaboration is intense, creative and for most books, very satisfying. H. You’ve traveled extensively. Talk about some of the places you’ve been and how those experiences are reflected in your poetry. SG. Away from the familiar, jolted from the expected and taken-for-granted context, we can see ourselves new, make an opportunity of an unimagined and perplexing puzzle. My early adult years in East Asia were the introduction and context for my exploration of Buddhist philosophy and calligraphy. I have learned Korean, Japanese, French and Spanish well enough to live in them, sometimes teach in them, for Japanese and Spanish, write in them. Language embodies the values of the culture and contains a point of view. Using a new language, participating in a new culture, shakes me out of old assumptions, forces me out of the ruts of old habits. In Drawing the Line I wrote: “I think that Heraclites had it right: it is not possible to step in the same stream twice. Even the Rocky Mountains seen from my window are in flux, uplifting themselves, eroding away, their shadows and colors changing every minute under the high altitude light. I find myself astonished every day by the sights on this expedition, the new, unruly landscape to be negotiated.” H. You’ve written other books. Talk about them and the inspiration that motivates you to write about a particular subject. SG. When I began Drawing the Line ~ A Passionate Life I intended to write about the nature of making art. Artist and poet are not a label or description; being an artist is in the context of my whole life. It is not a job but as much my identity as woman, mother, wife, housebuilder, garden-planter, teacher. My initial essay speculating about the nature of art inevitably became a memoir. Part of the artist’s task is to cast what light we can on the human condition. It has been fashionable to say that beauty and harmony have no meaning, that all we need is some adrenaline-pumping, eye-popping hugeness to be satisfied. I believe that humans are hard-wired to desire
and recognize beauty in all its forms. It is the human mind that transforms facts into truth, stone into sculpture, empty sounds into poetry and music. Each of us is alone, an anonymous, separate being. Art lets us see who we are; it is the bridge from one mind to another. It lets us hold a transforming mirror to our human qualities and remember who we can be. It is the ultimate freedom. Box of Light ~ Caja de Luz is Spanish and English poems, about half originally in each language. Moving between languages is moving between cultures. It was interesting to try and capture both sense and music of the original language in the second. The poems are cousins rather than twins. It was a joy to explore these possibilities and I learned so much about language and making poetry. My first book, Intimate Landscapes, was a chapbook published by St.. Johns College. I had a photography exhibition at the St.. Johns College Gallery and instead of standard wall text (that almost no one reads) I wrote poems for the walls. The gallery director immediately asked to publish them as a chapbook and made the edition in time for the opening reception. Almost all 300 copies left with the visitors to the gallery and I was left with the pleasure of having my poems in print. H. Whom do you write your poetry for and what do you hope readers of your work get out of it? SG. In all my work, as in my life generally, I try to realize the idea of direct pointing, to look carefully, with attention. I try to put aside expectations, fear, preconceptions and acknowledge what I am seeing right here, right now. I hope the readers will recognize what they may have overlooked or forgotten or will re-examine it with renewed attention. Most of all, I hope the work has lasting value and will bring pleasure to readers many years from now. H. In what ways has writing changed you? SG. Writing and photography as well as painting are investigative processes. I accept change as a central quality of life. Each new poem suggests another step in my evolving understanding of the world around us and our place in it. Writing Drawing the Line was very illuminating. Looking at my parents through a new perspective I found a deeper understanding of them and came to accept the cruelties and anomalies of their lives with more equanimity. I now see some of the ongoing themes of my own life with more clarity and fuller appreciation. The tragedies, achievements and serendipitous good fortune seem to be more in balance. H. Where is To Inhabit the Felt World available? SG. The publisher’s website is http://www.redmountainpress.us; also the distributor http://www.spdbooks. org, independent bookstores, and, of course, Barnes and Noble and Amazon.
Happenstance Magazine
June 1, 2013, Page 6
Essay: My Pili Erection
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trivia question: Where is the official seat of the Pope? It is not Saint Peter’s Cathedral, as you might think. The correct response is the Arch Basilica San Giovanni in Laterno. In English, that’s the Basilica of St. John in the Lateran district Rome.” That’s how our guide, Luciano, began the third day of our tour. “Oh, crap!” I said to my wife. “Not another church.” “Honey, get used to it. That’s where much of the art and lots of the history is in all of Italy, except for Roman ruins, of course. Just listen and hear what he has to say. You might find it interesting.” “Although lesser known than so many more famous historical sites,” Luciano continued, “this church holds great significance, not only as the principal church and seat of Popes for over 1,000 years, but has always been the center of Christian life in the city, a distinction it still holds. It claims the title of “Ecumenical Mother Church,” mother church of the whole inhabited world among Roman Catholics.” “Okay,” I said. “Let’s stick with him for a while but if I get bored, I’m outta here.” “Shhh! Just listen.” “When the College of Cardinals elects a new Pope, he automatically, also becomes the Bishop of Rome. Before assuming his papal duties, he performs Holy Mass at this church. Then, for one day only, he accepts ring-kissing adoration from followers in the adjacent Bishop’s official residence, The Lateran Palace. Once completed, the Pope retreats to the far more luxurious and secure quarters of the papal Vatican apartment and his church, St. Peter’s.” “I don’t blame him,” I said. “It’s nice but can’t compare to St. Peter’s we saw yesterday. This is tiny.” Luciano droned on. “Due to numerous wars, pillages, fires and earthquakes, over the centuries it has been rebuilt to the beautiful edifice you currently see.” After climbing a ramp at the side entrance, Luciano continued educating us. It was obvious he loved this job. “Within the sidewalls of this long nave we are in now, are twelve niches, each containing a magnificent seven-meter high statue of an Apostle The multiple side chapels, also off this nave, are constructed with fascinatingly unique arches, which create an acoustical phenomenon that must be experienced to believe.” He was so right. Facing an arch in one direction he softly whispered while I stood facing the opposite direction about
twenty feet away. “Can you hear me?”asked Luciano. “Oh, my God. I can hear it really loud and clear! It’s amazing! My God.” “I heard you say that,” Luciano said. “And yes, if it is in here I guess God may have had something to do with it.” Turning to another traveler in the group I said, “You have got to try this. It’s unbelievable.” “I know. You can find that in other places like the U.S. Congress and Grand Central Station. It is amazing,” the woman said. “I didn’t know that. It’s a new phenomenon to me.” Now I was interested. “This guy’s got my attention for sure,” I said to my wife. “See? And you were ready to bolt.” By this time I was listening more intently as the guide continued. “These very impressive first century bronze doors, from the Roman Senate’s own pagan temple, were transferred here, from the Forum, and affixed to the newly rebuilt facade by Pope Alexander VII in 1660. Each of these massive five sets of doors, green with the patina of age, about thirty feet high and four feet wide, can be amazingly easy to open as they roll on their bottom bronze wheels by pulling on the pineapple shaped handles. “Here. I want each of you to try.” So, here we are, finally, at that which became my real fascination with this church. It lies in those golden yellow bronze handles, rubbed shiny by the thousands of hands that have touched them. Luciano the guide said, “So many Caesars, Popes, Presidents, Ambassadors, dignitaries, poets, actors, authors, and other famous, infamous and non-famous people have actually touched these very pineapple handles.” And so did I. It was electrifying! It’s not like you could walk the modernized Via Delarosa in Jerusalem of today and say you stepped in the ancient actual footsteps of Jesus. These are real. They are tangible. I was so profoundly moved that just touching them made the erector pili muscles attached to the bases of the hairs on my arm contract, giving rise to my resulting “goose bumps.” The memory of the electricity I felt at that moment of contact is an experience I shall carry with me forever. —By Alan M. Guy, a retired dentist who lives in Florida and loves to write. This, along with his other submissions, are from his memoir in progress.
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Funeral Films: The Loved One
he film, The Loved One Miss Thanatogenous commits satirizes the funeral busisuicide by self-embalming. Air Force ness, including pet funerals, as well as officers have a wild party in the the movie industry and the militaryWhispering Glades casket room. A industrial complex. It debuted in 1965, rocket launch is supposed to carry the two years after Jessica Mitford’s exposé remains of a war hero into space, and book The American Way of Death Barlow manages to switch bodies and rocked the funeral industry. Despite launches Miss Thanatogenous instead. its black-and-white vintage, The Loved Terry Southern, known for One does show funeral trends that satirical outrageous fiction, wrote the have continued to this day. screenplay based on the Evelyn Waugh Critics at the time skewered the novel. Southern’s other screenplay movie, although others have come to credits include Dr. Strangelove or: How regard it as a very funny comedy. Its tag line is, “The motion picI Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, Easy Rider, Barture with something to offend everyone.” It’s not terribly offensive barella, and The Magic Christian. by 21st Century standards. The story gets rather confusing toward These elements in The Loved One endure and provide lessons the end and most of the characters are unlikable. for today’s funeral consumer: The exception is Sir Francis Hinsley (John Gielgud) who • Weddings and funerals are similar. The Whispering Glades hangs himself because he’s summarily laid off after 31 years of chapel and minister do double duty. There’s a quick-change scene working for a Hollywood studio. He becomes The Loved One for where a newly married couple is hustled out and the black crepe whom nephew Dennis Barlow (played by a young Robert Morse) drops from the ceiling for Uncle Francis’ funeral. Some funeral sets out to arrange a funeral. homes and cemeteries offer their facilities for both life cycle British ex-pat Sir Ambrose Ambercrombie (Robert Morley) events. Whether the event is a wedding or a funeral, plan ahead if directs Barlow to sell his uncle’s house to pay for a sufficiently you want to reduce stress and save money. impressive funeral. • There is always a mind-boggling array of choices to make. At the Whispering Glades mortuary While casket rooms are disappearing from About the Author and cemetery, Barlow encounters discrimifuneral homes, the array of caskets from Gail Rubin is the author of the nation against blacks and Jews, faces a huge which to choose, and sources to get them, award-winning book, A Good Goodarray of choices to make in caskets, interhave only proliferated. Shop around before bye: Funeral Planning for Those Who ment options and burial clothing (gleefully someone dies to make an informed deciDon’t Plan to Die, and host of A Good presented by Liberace), and gets a tour of sion without pressure. Goodbye TV. She speaks to groups usthe Whispering Glades cemetery grounds • Funerals are expensive. Barlow has ing clips from funny films to illustrate (Forest Lawn gets its close-up). to resort to selling his uncle’s Hollywood funeral planning issues and help start Barlow, an unemployed “poet” from home to pay for a traditional funeral. How serious conversations. Her website is England, is attracted to Aimee Thanatogwill your household manage to pay for http://AGoodGoodbye.com. enous (Anjanette Comer), a young lady who a funeral with costs that can range from Gail recently began participatdoes funeral arrangements and make-up $8,000 to $20,000 and more? ing in The Death Café, movement on the corpses at Whispering Glades. Once • Pets are part of the family and their enerating lots of news coverage lately, Uncle Francis is dispatched with a high level loss is keenly felt. People love their pets including a recent article in USA Toof pomp, Barlow pursues Thanatogenous, and often experience intense grief when day. At these free events, people come they die. The pet cemetery and cremation who is also pursued by co-worker Mr. Joytogether in a relaxed, confidential and boy (Rod Steiger), an embalmer. He brings operation in The Loved One showed lesssafe setting to discuss mortality, drink Miss Thanatogenous home to have dinner than-respectful treatment of dead animals. tea and eat delicious cake or cookies. with him and his obese mother in a bizarre As with people funerals, shop around The objective of Death Café is, “To infood orgy. before you need such services to ensure crease awareness of death with a view Things just get weirder as The Loved you work with an ethical provider. toward helping people make the most One progresses. The Loved One can be rented on DVD of their (finite) lives.” Barlow goes to work for a pet cemetery from Netflix and can be purchased (as For more information about Gail and cremation service. On his first call, he available) on Amazon.com. This film is not and her creative and senstive underencounters a highly distraught dog owner rated. standing of the mortality and the (Margaret Leighton) and her husband (Milritual of honoring the deceased, check ton Berle) who can’t wait to get rid of the —By Gail Rubin, The Doyenne of out her website and subscribe to her carcass and go out to a dinner party. Death™ blog. (Spoiler Alert! Skip to the next paragraph if you don’t want to know the ending.)
Happenstance Magazine
June 1, 2013, Page 8
Thunder Prime: Hunter’s Light
Episode 10 Pella and Bart take the shuttle to Launch Alpha in search of help. Is their foray going to net results or trouble?
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he only way Romani would permit me to pursue contacting Jojo Franklin, a greedy functionary I’d been told was easily manipulated with the lure of cred, was to take someone with me. The obvious choice was Box, but no one on board Hermes was willing to oversee the three kinder, who I had to admit could be downright scary. Gol’du with his unpredictable switch from quiet shadow to fierce beast, Ja’lu’s cunning, and Chant with her watchful eyes, haughty condescension, and secretiveness were enough to make any sane person wary. Box was left with the duty of minding them, under extreme protest I might add. I had lots of takers to go with me to Launch Alpha, and I would have selected any one of them over the man sitting beside me in Franklin’s dingy cubicle. Bart lifted a quizzical eyebrow at me and turned his attention back to Franklin as the assistant administrator droned on and on about the problems of managing the Launch Alpha platform, quite as if he was in charge of the entire operation. “The complex nature of the complex makes overseeing this place a nightmare,” he said, not for the first time. “I tell you, you people just don’t get it. You want to be moved forward in the launch cycle under a security order, when you haven’t even gotten any launch time at all. You say it is an emergency, yet you won’t tell me the exact nature of the emergency. Why, anyone and everyone could use that very same argument and where would the schedule be then, I ask you? Where indeed? You can see my dilemma, I’m sure.” Bart shifted restlessly in his chair, a much-abused relic that tipped to one side. Any moment now his temper would erupt and all hope of dubious diplomacy would be gone. A cross word to Franklin would end negotiations before they started. I used my most innocent smile. “Of course. You are right,” I said, with just the right amount of pout and downcast eyes. I had known Jojo Franklin for almost as long as I’d been traveling through the galaxy. I had never used him as a resource, but was well acquainted with his greed. He was a diminutive off worlder whose origins were sketchy. He claimed to have lived on Chandor, Alsarsia, Juno IV, Earth, and Alpha 9. He was multilingual, but I suspected the main reason he’d gotten his current position was his ability to stonewall, and an unerring instinct for survival. “Jojo.” I lifted my eyes in silent plea. His smarmy grin made my skin crawl. “Jojo, this is a personal matter, delicate you might say. Truthfully you don’t want to know the why of it. It would be dangerous for you; maybe even threaten your future.” Franklin’s face flashed tomato red. “Are you threatening me?” Bart shifted forward. The wheels on the wobbly chair squealed a protest. Franklin whipped his attention to Bart, spittle forming at the corners of his wide mouth.
My smiled widened as I laid a hand on Bart’s knee out of sight of Franklin, to keep him from saying or doing anything rash. “Threaten you? Why would I threaten the very person who can get my ship moved up in the launch cycle, and securely at that?” Franklin blinked and twitched his snout-like nose. “I believe our offer will please you.” Franklin’s eyes narrowed, but he eased back. His color returned to a mottled pink. Bart’s hand covered mine on his knee and squeezed. I snatched my hand back and ran it through my hair, never letting my attention stray from Franklin. “Offer?” Franklin beamed like a greedy kinder anticipating a treat. His tone, however, was appropriately suspicious. He barked an unpleasant laugh, one that punched me in the sternum and made me want to grab the twerp by the throat. Instead I lowered my voice, a conspirator talking to a confidant, a partner sealing a deal. “I can see you have a difficult job, Administrator Franklin,” I said, conveying an unwarranted title. “We appreciate someone of your importance giving us so much of your valuable time.” Franklin perked up and nodded. “Yes, yes! Busy, busy.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bart glance around the man’s shabby space taking in an idle workstation that looked like it hadn’t been used for some time, and abandoned vacpacs and dishes that crowded every surface. The smell, a combination of old food and Franklin’s personal odor–somewhere between rancid vanilla and dirty socks–permeated the room. “Galactic pays you well for your services, I’m sure,” I said. Franklin scoffed. “Maybe Galactic would, but this place in contracted out to private operators.” I feigned surprise. “Yeah, and you know what that means.” “Crappy pay,” Bart said. Franklin punched a thin finger into the air. “You got it! Cheap. Every contractor here is doing it on the cheap.” “So you have all this work to do and are inadequately compensated?” I asked. Franklin looked puzzled for a moment and then brightened. “Yeah, that compensated thing, but I don’t complain, mind you, I have my private quarters paid for, and food too.” “Of course, of course. Good benefits.” Bart fidgeted. I was getting anxious as well. We still had to make contact with a resource for getting protective gear once we reached Chandor, but I couldn’t rush this. Franklin was a prickly sort, easily sent down the dragaun path, never to return. “You’ve been here a long time; I would guess you must like it.” Franklin glanced around as if making sure no one could overhear. “Hate it. Hate it, hate it! Keep thinking one day this floating bloated network of space trash is gonna fly apart and that’ll be the end of Jojo Franklin!” By the time he’d finished speaking his face was again bright red and spit foamed at the corners of his mouth. “Ah, I see. And if you could get off?” Franklin regarded me in silence for a moment and then cut
Happenstance Magazine his eyes to Bart whose glare made the little off worlder squirm in his chair. His suspicious nature burst into full-on protective mode. “Who are you? Is this a trick? You’re from the company, trying to trick me. I been loyal, done everything I’m told, yeah it’s not easy, but...” “We’re not from the company,” Bart said. The effort to remain even-tempered was evident in the popping line of his jaw. “We just want to get moved up in the launch cycle, a request that will in no way bring you trouble, and we’re willing pay for your help… handsomely.” Franklin’s eyes glittered and he sat straighter, all business. “How much?” “Depends on what you can do for us,” I said. “No. Creds first.” “But...” I stilled Bart’s response with a look. “Half now, the balance when we’ve launched.” Franklin didn’t take time to consider. “Secured launch time’ll cost you more.” Bart and I nodded. Franklin’s pink tongue flicked over his lips. “Won’t help you for less than...” He pondered for a moment then wrote a figure on the back of an instruction manual. Bart raised an eyebrow, shook his head and wrote a number below that, marking out the first. Franklin frowned and started to write another number. I stood. “Let’s go, Bart. I know of one other source who can help us.” “No! No, wait, this’ll do.” Franklin tapped Bart’s offer, which was staggering. I’d be a lifetime paying Romani back. “This’ll do. Transfer half over now. As soon as it is in my creds reserve I’ll get you set up.” I took my time thinking it over, and then nodded. All of it posturing, there was no other source I knew of, but it was obvious Franklin knew of others as greedy as himself. Bart caused a slight delay when he said he wanted the transfer to come from his personal accounts instead of using Romani’s. I wouldn’t allow it. “I made this deal; I’ll pay Romani back.” I most certainly didn’t want to be indebted to Bart. When Franklin was satisfied the creds were safely in his reserve, he went to the neglected workstation and efficiently logged in a launch time. “You’ll make sure it won’t broadcast until we’re in the dock and ready to launch,” Bart said. I squeezed his shoulder to shut him up. No need getting Franklin riled up at this point. The little man pointed a universally offensive gesture at Bart and went back to entering data. “’S whatcher paying for. I have a reputation to keep, you know.” I bit my lip to keep back a smart remark and thankfully Bart remained silent until we were well away from the snake’s cubicle. “It would have cost less to give him a ride to anywhere he wanted to go aboard Prime II,” he muttered. I grinned. “Franklin isn’t interested in getting off the platform; he’s interested in making cred.” “Then why didn’t we just do that in the first place instead of listening to all his bellyaching?” “Part of the price,” I said, “part of the price. Besides, I had to be comfortable that he was indeed bribable.”
June 1, 2013, Page 9 Bart grunted. “I thought that was evident right up front.” “It is always wise to tread carefully.” He snorted and strode on with me taking two steps to every one of his to keep pace as we went in search of the eatery where we were supposed to meet our next contact. The platform teemed with humanity, some of whom were residents, other passing through on their way to someplace else. As always, I was awed by the confusing arrangement of connecting modules that comprised launch platforms. There were multiple docking bays and between each a module where anything and everything was sold, not all of it legal. Bars and bistros vied for space with brothels and boutiques. Off worlders and true earthers bumped elbows, some drunk or on looper, some sober, most somewhere in between. Jabber flashed off surfaces flickering with garish colors. It felt like being on earth until you looked up or out the ports lining the throughway and saw the vast landscape of space. We ducked into Pax, the bistro we’d been told to look for. Bart ordered ale for both of us. We settled back against the bar and scanned the room. Which of these beings was our contact? Not surprisingly Bart received greetings from people he knew. For all the size of the galaxy the community of pilots and merchants was small by comparison. Unlike me, Bart was friendly. He liked people and enjoyed learning about them. He never forgot a face or a name. When he encountered a pilot down on his luck or in need of a cred or two, Bart was quick to lend a hand out of his own creds. Knowing this about him warmed me to the core. His father had given up trying to steer him away from this generosity. He worried that Bart would be taken advantage of, but Bart was no fool. He only helped those he knew would benefit from the aid he gave them. How he was able to make these determinations was a mystery, but he seemed to sense the true need in others. That his actions indicated he thought I was needy did nothing but piss me off. He pointed to a just-vacated table and hurried over to claim it before someone else did. No sooner had he sat down than a willowy blonde with tilted up eyes and a pouty mouth approached and took the chair I would have taken. I stood back, but remained close enough to listen without seeming to. “Howdy, cowboy, buy a fem a drink?” Bart glanced at me, his eyes questioning. I shrugged. The fem could be our contact, or not. Romani had directed us to Pax; the contact would know who we were and initiate conversation, he’d said. “What’ll you have?” Bart asked. “Sweet Surprise.” “Pardon?” “Sweet Surprise, it’s my very favorite drink of all time!” Is it as sickeningly sweet as you, I wondered? Bart punched in the request on the autowait and authorized payment. A waitdroid appeared within seconds and deposited a pink sweating iced drink in front of the blonde. Bart raised his ale in a mock toast as she tipped her glass in response and winked at him before taking a drink. Bart squirmed. I almost laughed. Bart had told me once that fems made him nervous because he never knew what to expect. I knew little about his personal life, and didn’t want to know, but he had a rep as a
June 1, 2013, Page 10
Happenstance Magazine man who liked to have a good time with no commitments. In the way of the world, that wasn’t uncommon. “Do you have information for me?” he asked the blonde. The fem sipped her drink and sat it down. She reached over and tapped the back of Bart’s hand with a red-tipped fingernail. “What’s your hurry? Why don’t we get to know each other?” Bart frowned and started to rise, but she pulled him back down. “Relax. Let’s have some fun.” “Look, this is a mistake. You’re obviously not who I thought you were,” he said, rising again. Before he was fully on his feet Bart was struck from his blind side, sending him crashing to the floor. The blonde leapt up, a gleam of excitement in her milky gray eyes, the Sweet Surprise held firmly in her hand. Bart struggled to rise, but the brute who attacked him kicked him in the side. The blow knocked him back down and sucked the breath right out of him. Chaos erupted in the café, with everyone clearing the way for the fight to develop. I looked around and realized I was Bart’s only hope. The mixed-breed off worlder bobbed on the toes of his boots waiting for Bart to get up so he could come at him again. “What’s your deal?” I said stepping in front him with my hands on my hips. “He was minding his own business.” The off worlder grunted an obscenity and tried to push me aside, discounting little me.
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In a flash I tucked myself into his bulk and anchored myself by holding onto his belt. Surprise was to my benefit as he tried to shake me off. Like a leach I clung to him and laid my stunner against his bulging manly parts. The result was a loss of interest in anything but excruciating pain. I danced back as he clutched himself and went down with a thud. By then Bart was on his feet, swaying from the blow he’d taken to the side of his head. The blonde strode up and screamed in a language I didn’t understand right before she threw the remains of her Sweet Surprise in my face, followed by the glass, which I dodged. She hurried over the mewling brute, cooing soft words. I grabbed Bart’s arm and pulled him through the crowd and into the main throughway, intent on avoiding security and questions that might arise. Bart was still dazed. Time to head back to the shuttle. We hadn’t gotten far when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a Brolotagan behind me. He tilted his head and invited us to follow him. I exchanged a questioning glace with Bart, who shrugged. “If you can’t trust a Brolotagan, who can you trust?” he said, and rubbed at the growing bump on his head. Episode 11: Is Pella putting herself in danger by trusting a Brolotagan she’s never met? Will she get what she needs to survive on Chandor? Stayed tuned.
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PHOTO: S. VANDER MEER
Sunset on fire, as seen through the smoke from the Tres Lagunas fire. Taken on Saturday, June 1, 2013, at Pendaries in New Mexico. By Saturday the fire near Pecos, N.M. had burned more the 6,000 acres.