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51outside without a word. Jem felt uncomfortable with the silence fromthe stern father and mute mother. He wondered what was in the stew.He’d never tasted anything like it. Something about Mr. McAvoy gavehim the willies with his ruddy face, glaring black eyes, and the hatthat made him seem even taller than he already was. He appearedphysically strong with weathered, hardworking hands. With a nod,Mr. McAvoy stood up and left the room. Toby jerked his head and said, “Let’s go.” When Toby and Jem went into the yard, it looked like an armycamp preparing for maneuvers. Three rifles and four shotguns stoodon end against the front of the house beside the door. Sleeping bags,tents, lanterns, boxes of ammunition, and camouflage clothing lit-tered the ground near the back of a red pickup with fenders half eat-en away by rust, a 1940’s model with running boards. “What’s going on?” Jem asked, as Mr. McAvoy with his Stetsonset squarely on his head, came around the back of the house withStrider prancing beside him. “Huntin’ season opens Saturday,” Toby said. “We’re gettin’ ready.” “Where do you hunt?” “Adirondacks, where my pappy was born,” Mr. McAvoy answered. Jem tried to imagine this hoard crossing the state line withoutrousing suspicion from state troopers on both sides of the border. “North of here a piece in the Hudson Valley,” Toby said. “Bestwhite tail hunting in the state.” “White tail?” Jem shrugged, not up on their lingo. “White tailed deer.” Toby glared, curious why Jem didn’t knowwhat a white tail was. “Been huntin’, boy?” Mr. McAvoy asked. “No, sir.” “Does yer pa hunt?” “No, sir.” Mr. McAvoy looked at Jem sternly. “How old are ya?” “Almost sixteen.” “And never been huntin’?” He shook his head and went to theback of the panel truck. The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

52 He tossed the bundle he was carrying into the open backdoorof the house. “Not good for a man not to know how to care for him-self,” he muttered. “Ever fire a gun?” “No, sir.” “It’s time ya did. Toby, take him out back. Let ’m try the twelve-gauge over yonder.” Toby motioned Jem to follow, grabbed the shotgun and a boxof shells, and led him to the back of the house. The clearing behindthe main shack extended fifty yards to the edge of the thick pine for-est. Toby grabbed a log from a stack of firewood and set it on end inthe dirt at the edge of the clearing. He came back to Jem, pluggedtwo shells into the double-barreled shotgun, and handed Jem thefirearm. “Just aim it at that log and squeeze the trigger,” Toby instruct-ed. “Nothin’ to it.” The weight of the shotgun surprised Jem. He strained to lift itto eye-level. Unsteady, he closed one eye and aimed down the barrel. “No, Jem! Not like that,” Toby warned. “It’ll rear back andknock your eye out. Hold it on your hip, stare at the log and squeeze.” Jem held the shotgun hip-level, aimed at the log, closed hiseyes then squeezed. Boom! The recoil knocked him back onto the ground. “Good shot.” Toby laughed, pointing to the log peppered withpellet holes and knocked three yards back into the woods. “Fire it again!” Mr. McAvoy shouted from the doorway wherehe stood with his arms folded in front of his chest. Jem nodded, looked down at the gun held limply at his sideand hefted it to his right hip. Toby stood beside him and looked at the log with an expect-ant grin. Jem felt Mr. McAvoy’s eyes burning a hole in his back, sohe spread his feet wider to brace for the recoil. Boom! The shotgunjerked up in his hand, but he stayed on his feet. Jem’s head ached and his arm and ribs throbbed from the re-coil. Mr. McAvoy called Toby over to him and said something Jemcouldn’t hear. Mr. McAvoy disappeared behind the house. The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

53 Jem felt relieved to set the heavy gun down and made his ex-cuses to get home before dark, but Toby said, “Paw says it’s time yawent huntin’. There’s important lessons to learn in the woods. Timeya learned some.” em shrugged. “I don’t know anything about hunting.” “Paw never took anybody but McAvoys huntin’ with him be-fore. He must like ya. He don’t like much of anybody ‘cept Maw andus chil’ren. We’ll teach ya what ya need to know.” “What should I bring?” “Just warm clothes. We’ve got the rest. We’ll leave Saturday at 4 a.m.” Jem felt glad to be away from that clan and back on his way tocivilization across the tracks. The autumn sun set maple trees ablazewith bright reds and yellows on the mountain ridge. He felt thatsame rush that came after he’d shuffle onto thin ice during an autumnfreeze and barely make it back to shore without falling through. *** Saturday morning, Mr. McAvoy drove the old pickup truckwith Strider between him and Cole, who sat on a milk crate wherethe passenger seat used to be. They added removable panels and acanvas tarp to the back of the pickup to protect the McAvoy boysand Jem from the frigid air. Even with the tarp cover, it still felt cold.Toby and Jem sat in back on top of the hunting gear with the twoother dogs. The McAvoys were silent the whole trip. Lem cradled his riflein his lap and oiled it during the entire drive. He caressed it gentlywith a dirty rag that filled the back of the truck with the smell of gunoil. The female shepherd slept in Toby’s lap while the mongrel heldhis drooling, panting snout a few inches from Jem’s face. Toby saidthe hunt excited the mutt, and he wouldn’t settle down till they’d re-lease him in the forest. The dogs knew where they were going. The boys wore woolen, plaid jackets and peaked caps with earflaps, but Mr. McAvoy wore his inseparable, crumpled Stetson. Slungacross their chests, Lem and Cole had leather bandoliers filled withenough ammunition to wage war. Jem wore a ski cap, fuzzy earmuffs,and heavy mittens. The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

54 “Them fuzzy paws will never do when it comes time to shoot,boy, “Mr. McAvoy said as he drove. “I’ll lend ya a pair of my leather gloves with the trigger fingercut out,” Toby offered. “If ya grab the shotgun with those woolies, it’llslip out of your grip and shoot your leg off. McAvoys don’t hunt forsport-just for meat.” All three dogs tugged with great anticipation against theirrestraints, jumping, snapping, and raring to go. With Mr. McAvoyleading, they hiked up the mountain and deeper into the woods.On frozen ground, the fallen leaves and branches crunched underevery step. The trail meandered up the mountain along a stream thatrushed with great force. Even with the leaves off the trees in the colderenvironment, the underbrush was so dense that the hunters couldsee only a few yards ahead. Stark and gray, the bare trees yielded toan occasional evergreen, which gave a hint of life to the otherwisecold, stark landscape. Jem zipped his ski jacket tighter around his neck. Toby re-placed Jem’s earmuffs with a flapped cap. Jem yanked it down tightover his head and tied the strings under his chin, but he still feltchilled after fifteen minutes. After steady uphill climbing, they reached the railroad tracksthat cut across the mountain. They saw clearly a hundred yards in both directions until thetracks curved around the mountain. “This is where they’ll jump,” Mr. McAvoy said. “You’ll be onthe low side, Jem, in that clump of bushes. When ya hear ’em hit thegravel, stand and fire.” He motioned for Lem and Cole to follow him. They restrainedthe female shepherd and the mongrel with leashes as they crossedthe tracks and disappeared into the woods beyond the gravel bed. Toby and Jem remain halfway down the mountain, hidden inthe bushes along the rail-road tracks. Mr. McAvoy, Lem, and Colewould take the dogs to the crest and drive the deer down the moun-tain and the three dogs would herd them, like sheep, into Jem andToby’s gun sights. When the deer jumped the railroad tracks, Jem The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

55and Toby would blast them with shotguns. Toby’s and Jem’s job was to keep still-not to spook the deer intoturning back into the forest when they came to the railroad tracks. Toby said, “Deer are cagey and quick. Ya got to get ’em whenthey jump the tracks. Other- wise, you’ll lose ’em in the woods andwe’ll never catch ’em. Paw and the dogs will get’em nervous, so they’lljump over those tracks even though they’d smelled us a mile back.When they jump, we got ’em.” The McAvoys were depending on Jem at his post. Mr. McA-voy, Lem, and Cole carried pots, big spoons, and a cowbell to spookthe deer. They carried scoped rifles, ammo, and knapsacks with foodand drink. Toby and Jem carried twelve-gauge shotguns loaded withdouble o-buck. They each had a thermos of hot coffee and fresh-baked bread to keep them warm during their vigil in the bushes. Toby nodded, gave Jem a thumbs up, and headed down thetracks to his assigned post. Jem took the opposite direction, sliddown the gravel bed into the woods and took vigil in the bushes.He heard only his own breathing, so loud he feared he’d scare off thedeer. He held his breath, but that just made his pulse sound evenlouder, which he feared would keep him from hearing the deer com-ing. The ground chill enveloped him. For several hours he remainedstill. *** In the dimming light of late afternoon, Jem jerked his headback, realizing he’d dozed off. He pulled the shotgun snug againsthis chest. With a shiver, he stretched both arms, but froze with theshotgun still in his lap when he heard a snort above him. On his side of the tracks, a twelve-point buck stood twentyfeet away. Except for the vapor coming from its wet nostrils, it couldhave been a statue. Then Jem heard faintly, what the buck must haveheard, but still from a distance-the McAvoys were coming with theirthree barking dogs and a clamor of pots and pans driving the rest ofthe deer down the mountain toward him. The majestic buck jerked its head toward the clanking soundsand its muscles tensed. With ears flared out, the buck faced Jem, still The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

56with the shotgun across his lap. The buck bolted toward him. Jem feltthe buck’s wind as it sprang over him, its hooves nearly grazing hisoutstretched fists. Jem stood, turned, and aimed. The buck was gone. The distant sound of clanking pots and barking dogs camecloser. Anticipating the sound of deer hooves on the gravel, Jemgripped the shotgun tighter. The sound was not what he’d expect-ed. It was just a flutter. When Toby’s shotgun boomed, Jem couldn’thear anything else as twenty deer sailed by him before he could thinkstraight. He heard Toby reload twice and fire repeatedly. “Come on, Jem!” Toby shouted. “I hear a few more comin’!They’re all yours!” Jem heard them even before they hit the gravel. He stood tofire before he could see them, but his unintended targets were twoburly bear cubs scampering onto the gravel and crossing the tracksbetween him and Toby. Jem lowered the gun to his side and watchedthe cubs disappear into the woods behind him. When he turnedback to face the tracks, the mother bear stopped on the tracks, thenturned toward the oncoming clamor. She stood seven feet tall facingtwo snarling German shepherds. The shotgun shook in Jem’s hands as he watched the bear swat thefemale shepherd, then the big male, Strider. Both dogs crumpled like ragdolls, their skulls cracked from the impact of the bear’s huge paws. Through the turmoil, Jem heard Mr. McAvoy shouting fromup the mountain, “Toby! Jem! Get out of the way! That bear will killya to protect her cubs!” Jem saw the McAvoys’ mongrel come out of the brush, notheadstrong like the shepherds, but cagey. That unknown gene in itsblood kicked in as it crouched low to the ground between the twodead shepherds and slinked toward the towering bear. The scent offear emitted from both the bear and the dog. Jem sniffed at his ownscent of fear. “Don’t move, Jem!” Toby called. “He’s defending us just likethe bear is defending her cubs. Stay clear till Paw can shoot the bear!” Jem wasn’t cold anymore and felt sweat trickling down his facefrom under his woolen cap. He realized the mongrel was not going to The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

57jump up at the bear and meet the same fate as the shepherds. It wasready to avoid the bear’s swatting claws by coaxing her down to itsown level and waiting for her to tire from an erect stance. Looking for her cubs to see if she could safely escape from herunpredictable opponent, the bear made a half-turn toward Jem andsensed his presence. When the bear dropped to all fours to chargeJem, the mongrel ripped its fangs deeply into the bear’s buttocks andshook its head back and forth with a growl. The bear roared, but themongrel bit the bear’s paw, holding it to the ground. She couldn’tstand up again with enough leverage to swat the mongrel. The dogslipped under the bear and sunk its teeth deeply above the bear’sshort tail. The bear seemed stunned, slumping off balance. The dogtook advantage by coming under the bear’s chest and locking ontoits throat. The bear roared hoarsely and spun vigorously, sending thedog flying into the far brush. Then turning toward Jem, the bear fled. Jem’s nostrils filledwith the stench of blood, wild animals, and gunfire. When the bearpassed, he took a deep breath of relief, but turned to be sure shewas gone. He raised the shotgun as he turned, but saw nothing andturned back toward the tracks. Without warning, the wounded mongrel came out of thebrush and jumped at him, its sharp teeth gashing across Jem’s fore-head. They rolled in the gravel until Jem shook the weakened dogloose with jerk of the gunstock. The dazed look in the dog’s eyes ter-rified Jem as he eased to his feet. The dog leaped at him, but all Jemremembered was the boom of theshotgun and the impact of the dogslamming its full weight into his chest before all went black. As Jem regained consciousness, he felt as if he were wakingfrom a bad dream. His eyes gradually focused and he turned to seethe silhouette of Mr. McAvoy wearing his Stetson, which made himlook like a giant standing in the doorway. He came to Jem’s bedsideand removed his hat for the first time since Jem had met him. He wasbald with long strands of hair around his jug ears. Jem said,“I’m sorry I shot your dog.” The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

58 In his silence, Mr. McAvoy weighed Jem’s apology, then hewalked to the window. Pensive, he spun his Stetson in his hands. “Nope,” he said. “I should be apologizing to you, son. We weregreedy, thinking only about the deer and forgetting about the otherdangers of the wild. It cost us our dogs. I raised those two shepherdsfrom pups; they were like family. I’d endangered them just like I’dendangered you. I had the know-how, but didn’t use it. If I’d scoutedfirst-looking for signs of bears-I would’ve left the shepherds in thetruck, maybe you, too. The shepherds didn’t stand a chance. Theirinstincts made them attack to protect you and Toby-even knowingthey couldn’t win. Folks know better-wait to fight another day whenthe odds are in their favor. Dogs are just loyal.” “I didn’t mean to shoot your dog?” Jem apologized with aweak, croaky voice. “Son, if you learned anything yesterday from the McAvoys,remember this: If you train a dog to kill, one day you might have toshoot ’m - I shot ’m, son, not you.” He plopped his hat onto his head.“I hope them scars won’t let you forget what ya learnt.” He headedfor the door without turning back, but said, “You’re always welcomeat the McAvoys.” Toby had invited him, but Jem never returned to the McAvoyhomestead. Though often tempted, Jem never wandered onto thinice again. Gerald Arthur Winter has a BA in Journalism from Rutgers University and an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Tampa. His short stories have been published by The Connotation Press, Hardboiled, and The Creativity Webzine. NY Literary Magazine published his story, “A Free Sampling,” with a 5 Star Award for Meaningful Fiction in September 2016. The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

59 POETRY Marianne Szlyk Poem in Red Ink The math teacher grades exams with red ink, drinks black coffee from a china cup, kicks off new stilettos. Cardinals flit past the lace curtains. The males are as red as her ink. The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

60Her First Job Her ninety-year-old grandmother wondered why she chose to spend so much time with old people. Her father said she was escaping her life. But the residents were happy to see her, a young girl in a pink suit with mail— cards from home, letters, church bulletins. Every day in baby louis heels she clicked down the second-floor hallway where the residents waited winter and summer. Time flowed smoothly without term papers or vacations. Making bad coffee at work for her boss Duke Lemar, she imagined staying there but knew she could not. The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

61 The Last Summer in Oregon “This is the last place. There is no place left to go.” * Lew Welch, “The Song Mt. Tamalpais Sings” I walk the numbered street, empty on a Sunday. My husband is at the coast with his friends. Without shade, sun widens the sidewalk, turns asphalt to a slow, noxious river, myself to a fat fly on a window pane. Beyond here be several small towns with lettered streets. I imagine moving to one, standing on A Street, waiting for the traffic that never will come, watching for the light that doesn’t exist. The west I know from black and white TV on Sunday afternoons is at least a day’s drive east of here. I take a named street, back into the shade, away from the flats. I look for an open store. There is none. There will be other last places. This is only the beginning, I tell myself as I return home to the place I will soon leave. The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

62Summer With My Family“Peter, there’s a people who believe you go onuntil the very last person who’s heard about youis gone.” -- Stephanie Marlis, “Golden Hat” Mom’s grandmother still says the Rosary as thunder shakes the summer shack on the cloud-dark pond up north. The cousins sprint in from swimming. My great-aunt still tells about Gram, her younger sister, as a toddler wandering away from a relative’s house. The dog, Sammy, still races around the yard of dirt and stones. Even now he whirs to life.Marianne Szlyk is the editor of The Song Is...Her chapbook, I Dream of Empathy, was pub-lished by Flutter Press. Her poems have appeared atCarcinogenic Poetry, Cacti Fur, bird’s thumb, of/with,Solidago, and Red Bird Chapbook’s Weekly Read. Sheencourages you to submit to her magazine. For moreinformation, see http://thesongis.blogspot.com/ The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

63 FICTION “Have you heard of Pricilla?” said Mrs. Callahan as I unpackedmy bags. The bare room needed posters and pictures, a pink lampand a lacy curtain to dress the naked window. Above all, it howledfor a serious airing after Mrs. Callahan left. Her perfume stung likejuniper. “Who is that?” I said without looking up. Mrs. Callahan took my arm and led me to the window. Shepointed to a white house with a covered porch. The grass was asgreen and lush as the bushes flanking the porch steps; yellow doorblared in the deep shade. “She lives there. She’s a little girl like you,about your age. Thirteen. How old are you?” “Eleven.” “Only two years. It doesn’t matter.” “Replace the C-A of your name with K-I.” Mrs. Callahan didn’t get it. I don’t think she ever did. She wasone of those pushy white ladies that never listened, no matter howmany times a girl repeated herself. Only actions would get through—but even that could get skewed on the way to her command center. The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

64I think the only thing she ever understood was money, and since Ididn’t have any, that made her smart and me dumb. “She’s got thousands of dresses, you know.” “How?” Mrs. Callahan ignored the question. “Why don’t you go overthere and say hello?” She was pushing it now. I moved all over theplace because of my dad’s work, but that didn’t make me a social but-terfly. I shook my head, but she didn’t listen. “Oh, come on. She won’tbite. I want all my boarders to feel welcome. I’ll call up Chelsey—that’s her sister, you know, and we’ll have a play date.” “Do I look five or something?” “It’ll be fun!” She smiled as if it would be fun because she saidso. She must have been the world’s worst grandma, if she was one atall. I told my dad about the old lady, but it didn’t matter. Three o’clockthe next day, I was standing on that porch with the yellow door, Mrs.Callahan crushing my hand as if I were three. Hopefully Pricilla didn’t have some ankle biting mutt that sheclaimed wouldn’t bite, while she smiled through her teeth at a de-fenseless girl trapped in a corner. If so, I would need to invest insome antifreeze. Mrs. Callahan knocked. The yellow door swung open and a short girl with small puck-ered lips, tiny bones and hardly enough skin to cover them steppedout. Blonde curls had been gelled into sticky wires. How in the worldcould she stand all that gunk in her hair? My own skull rebelledwhen it even thought about hairspray. The gel-headed shrimp worea thin, cream-colored silk dress with spaghetti straps and an effusionof lace on the breast. I had never seen such a dress before. What storehad she gone to? She stared at me with small hazel eyes as if I were some sortof rare specimen. Maybe, because the place was like those places inSouth America where there are tribes that have never seen a whiteman. Here there were tribes of white people who had never seen aNative. I had light brown skin and flat black hair, and was pretty tallfor my age. Already I had seen girls my age and they all reached my The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

65shoulder. This one was at least my height, and yet she still struck meas shrimpy. It must have been those chicken bones under her trans-lucent skin. “Hello, Pricilla,” Mrs. Callahan said, giving the bony thing a bestfriend hug. The girl patted Mrs. Callahan’s narrow back. “Hi, how are you?” The girl ended every sentence with an ‘A.’So ‘you’ sounded like ‘youwa.’ Totally bizarre. I turned around andheaded down the stairs, but Mrs. Callahan dragged me back. “This is Margo,” said Callahan. “She just moved in. I brought herhere to have a play date. She’s a little shy.” She put her arm around myshoulders as if she were my only friend in the whole world and hadcharge of me. “But she’s going to have fun here with you.” She shookme a little. “Isn’t she?” “No.” Callahan beamed. “Isn’t she a sweetheart?” She looked at theshrimp in the cream dress. Her voice grew low as if disclosing a greatsecret. “She’s from the reservation.” Pricilla smiled, clasped her hands. “Really? Wow! So, are youfinding your house all right? Your bathroom is okay?” “Don’t worry, I’m showing her everything.” I stared at them. “What are you talking about?” These peoplewere whacked. Pricilla put her arm protectively around my shoulders. “I wasjust going shopping, Mrs. Callahan. I’ll take Margo and we’ll buysomething wonderful.” “I knew you two would get along. Now take care of Margo. It’sher first time around here.” “Thanks a lot,” I growled. Mrs. Callahan skipped away. Pricilla turned to me. “I need a new dress.” “How could you possibly need another?” Pricilla smiled. It looked neither kind nor cruel. It was just there,like a mask plastered over the real thing. I didn’t need this. Crap, mydad was out and had locked the door. I was stuck here with this bonycreature. The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

66 “Isn’t Mrs. Callahan sweet?” Pricilla said in a voice so sugarythat it almost gave me diabetes. Just then, feet pounded on the oldwooden floor and an older girl appeared. She was in her twenties, Iguess. Strawberry blonde hair had been yanked back in a dull pony-tail, watery blue eyes gazed at me as if I were a thief. She had a pointychicken-bone face, too. “Oh! Who is this?” Pricilla smiled. “Hey, Chelse, this is Margo. She just moved in.She comes from the reservation.” I guess chicken face was Chelsey. She leaned over until her nosealmost touched mine. “Is Margo a Native American name?” Ugh, thewoman had brushed her teeth but hadn’t eaten anything. “Are you?” Chelsey wasn’t even fazed. “Ah…you’re so cute. I always did lovedark eyes.” I stepped back. “Sure you do.” I fanned the air with my hand. “Chelse,” said Pricilla as she minced about in her ballerina flats,“I was wondering if I could take Margo with me to the mall while Igo shopping for a new dress. I want to show her around, get her apresent.” Chelsey’s mouth twitched, she glanced at me and reluctantlyhanded Pricilla a hundred dollar bill. “You have such good taste. Besure to wear it at Henry’s dinner tomorrow.” “Thanks, Chelse, you’re so sweet.” Pricilla turned to me. “Comeon, Margo. It’ll be fun at the mall. Oh, do you have a bike? Do youknow what that is?” “Of course I know what that is.” I glanced at my watch and swal-lowed a curse. It had only been ten minutes. At least I was gettingsomething out of this. “Good,” said Pricilla. “Let’s go get it.” Well, we got to the mall. That’s all I can say. We tied up our bikesand joined the masses flowing like ants in a nest. As we wanderedfrom store to store, I made a note of all the things I wanted. I had tobe careful. I had to get the most satisfying gift that I could get. “Pricilla,” I said after who knows how long, “I’m dying of hunger The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

67here.” “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie.” Pricilla patted my head like I was a pup-py. “Let’s go eat.” She bought me a hamburger. I had barely swallowedthe last of it when she espied a watered silk, sky blue dress. “I must have it,” said Pricilla, although she hadn’t noticed it thelast fifty times we passed it. And so she bought it. “What about me?” I said as the lady handed her the change. “I bought you a hamburger, remember?” said Pricilla as if I werebeing greedy. I set my hands on my hips. “Oh, so get a present or starve, isthat it?” Pricilla laughed. “You know that eating is a gift. You’re so silly.” “You’re so stingy.” Pricilla tittered again and swept out of the mall. I glared at herback all the way home. She waved at passing cars, hollered to prissylittle people like herself and finally stopped in the Malt Shop withthem several blocks away. I rolled my eyes and snuck off. # That odious Callahan batted at the door in panic. My dad openedup and all I heard was my name over and over again. “Margo,” my dad called. I should’ve got in the shower when he told me to. Crap. I slunkout of the hall and found Callahan in tears. The woman fell over myshoulder, shaking all over. “I couldn’t believe what happened. Pricilla was in tears that youhad disappeared. She thought that something had happened. Ohwhere did you go?” “Get a grip, lady.” I shoved her off. “Pricilla sucks. And I don’tlike her.” “But she really likes you. You have to go over there tomorrow.She was in such tears.” She looked at my dad. “Margo might havewandered off or gotten lost. I am so sorry.” “Margo can handle herself,” said my dad. I beamed. The man was a five time divorcee to one woman, butthere were times when he really made my day. Mrs. Callahan still The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

68insisted. I think my dad was tired, or he was high, but he said I hadto go back to Pricilla the next day. “But I don’t like her.” “Do as I say, Margo. Have you bathed yet?” Callahan grasped his hand. “Thank you. Oh, I was so worried.”She kissed my hating cheek and swept out the door. I cleared the airwith my hand. Her perfume was as whacked as she was. Well, Callahan took me back to that stupid house with its stupidgirl, stupid dresses and stupid promises. She actually marched meupstairs this time. Pricilla ran to me with outstretched hands. “Oh, you’re back! I was so worried. Now, we’re going to havesome fun today.” “I doubt it.” Mrs. Callahan sighed. “I’m glad you two made up. Now don’tscare me like that again.” She left, her perfume stayed. I didn’t knowwhich one I wanted gone more. Pricilla went to the full length mirror,picked up the sky blue dress and twirled it in her hands. The wretchcould have bought ME a dress. No hunger was a gift indeed. The jerkgot to eat AND have a dress in one day. What was she talking about? “Well?” I said. “Are you gonna put it on?” “I can’t decide if I want to wear this dress or just keep the one Ihave on.” “You said you would wear the new one.” “But I like the one I have on too much.” I smiled in mock sweetness. “Why don’t you put them both on?” Pricilla’s face lit up. “I think I will! Margo, you’re so smart!” “I know.” She slipped the blue one on over the cream. She checked herselfover. “Chelse won’t notice. And I’ll wear a lot of perfume.” “One of your favorite dresses is grime, too?” Good thing I hadbathed the night before or I’d be like Pricilla. “Pricilla,” Chelsey crooned down the hall, “are you ready?” “Almost,” Pricilla called and dumped half her body spray on.She sprayed me in the face without warning. “There, now you’re allnice too. Come on, maybe Chelse will let you come with us. I need a The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

69friend at Henry’s place. Him and Chelse are going to get married andthey’re all mushy together.” I followed her flitting form downstairs and reached the door,where Chelsey tapped her foot impatiently on the dark wood. “Oh, Priss,” she cried, her nose wrinkling, “did you bathe in per-fume?” “Except her butt,” I said. “Margo wanted to try some on,” said Priss, as if I were the onewho had dumped the bottle all over myself. “I need another bodyspray.” “That’s a lie,” I said. Chelsey tittered. “Well, I suppose. She hasn’t had much on thereservation. It’s natural.” “My body spray smells nothing like this crap,” I said. Pricilla hopped up and down. “Can Margo come too? She want-ed to so bad and that’s why she put on all the body spray.” “I don’t wanna see your stupid boyfriend,” I said. Chelsey nodded. “Well…okay. Get in the car.” These people! Didn’t they hear a word I was saying? What wasthe matter with them? I was going to just leave, but then, I decided,why not? They probably had rich people food. I’d use them and stuffit all in a bag and take it home. We rode to Henry’s house. Chelsey had to keep the windowdown so that her sister’s abominable perfume wouldn’t knock herout. She kept glancing at me like it was my fault, and I smiled at her.When Henry opened the door, he kissed Chelsey, but when he bentto peck Pricilla, he jerked back. “I ordered take out,” he said. “I burned the burgers.” He chuck-led. “Sorry.” “I got dressed for burgers?” Pricilla growled. “You got dressed for something,” said I. Henry looked her up and down. “Why are you wearing twodresses?” He yanked down a delicate sleeve, revealing the cream un-derneath. “Chelse, he’s molesting me!” The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

70 “And turning green while he’s at it,” I said. Chelsey’s watery eyes bulged. “I thought I told you to changeyour dress!” “It was Margo’s idea!” “Well, she wouldn’t give it to me,” I said. Pricilla fluttered her skirts. “She convinced me it was a goodidea.” “It wasn’t hard.” “And I don’t want what Henry ordered.” Pricilla flipped hergolden wires as best she could. “I want a DECENT day out with myfriend Margo. So give me my money.” She stuck one fist on her hipand held out her other hand. My brows went up. “Who said we were friends?” Chelsey’s lips pinched into a thin line, glared at me as if I were afiend. But she slapped money into Pricilla’s hand. Pricilla recoiled. “Just thirty?” “That’s all I’ve got left.” Chelsey snapped her purse shut. “I onlywork at McDonald’s, you know.” With a grunt, Pricilla started marching. I smiled at Chelsey andfollowed her dumb sister back to the mall. She went straight to thedresses. The store was having a sale. There on a rack a bright yellowsundress waited for her. Pricilla snatched it up, slipped it over thewatered silk and cream dresses. # Chelsey’s voice barked, “Priss, you smell so bad! More perfumeisn’t helping!” “Whatever,” Priss snapped. She approached me on my ownporch. Now what brought on this spur of condescension? “Hello,Margo. Ready to go?” I tilted the rocker back with my foot. “Where?” “The mall.” “With you smelling like that? I might drop off my bike and getmy head smooshed by one of your prissy friends. I think I’ll pass.” Pricilla hopped up and down. “Come on, Margo. Come withme.” The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

71 “So you can blame the smell on me?” I waved her away. “Goodbye, Pricilla.” “Margo!” She stomped her foot. I folded my arms. “Present first.” Pricilla pinched her lips. “All right, I promise. I’ll get you a pres-ent.” “And lunch and a two liter pop.” I leaned, started rocking. Pricilla’s mouth fell open. I don’t think she had brushed it. “Youconniving fiend!” “Aren’t I though?” I smirked. She paced to and fro until the grass couldn’t stand the smell.“OKAY! I promise all of it.” “I’ll get my bike.” I jumped off the porch and retrieved my hunkof metal. I kept to the side of her crappy butt on the way. I was upwind butit didn’t help. Something must have died in her underpants. By thetime we got to the mall, Pricilla asked, “Are you hungry?” “I lost my appetite back there. I’ll tell you when it comes back.” Pricilla frowned. “I love my dresses. Don’t you know what it isto love?” “Totally ignorant.” Pricilla’s jaw tightened and we headed to the dress store. Shesnatched up a red dress with long sleeves and a turtle neck. “Gonna melt off the grime?” I said. She forced it over the three she was already wearing. Then shefound a purple, green and white dress. She shoved that one on too. When we got back, Chelsey was packing up. She was off on aromantic before wedding mash with Henry for a nasty month. Howin the world she was looking forward to jumping literal bones wasbeyond me. She pecked Pricilla goodbye, washed her mouth, glaredat me and ran off with her horny scarecrow. And now Pricilla was left completely to her own devices. Everyday she got a new dress. A golden one to her feet, an orange one toher knees, a sheer white one, a little black dress. All these she forcedover the others. Sweat collected in the collars and pits. A stench that The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

72reminded me of the color brown trailed after her, and it changedcolors as the days went by. Dirty green, dull red, gray and brownand then dark yellow. Grease caked her hair, left films on hands andsmudges on windows like some nasty kid had licked them. I stole Callahan’s perfume and poured it on that putrid, gorgedframe, but it didn’t help. She bought bigger dress sizes to accommo-date her growing girth. At 64 gowns she was a colorful pincushionwith tiny arms holding perfume bottles and a yellow rat’s nest of hair.She started leaving brown slime wherever she went. “Well,” I said from her porch, because I refused to go inside,“you look hideous and you smell orange. All your dresses are prob-ably ruined.” Pricilla sniffed. “I love them all. You will understand one day,when you grow up.” “I’ll grow UP. You’re growing sideways. I gotta get home before Idon’t eat dinner.” And I left the pincushion there, waving a tiny, stickarm at me. # “AAAAAAHHHHH!” I sat straight up. The scream came again. I looked outside.Chelsey was home, running back and forth on the porch in front ofthe pincushion. “What happened to you? You can’t go on like this!”She thrust a shining finger at my house. “Ever since that Margo girl’sbeen here, you’ve gotten weirder and weirder. This is all her fault. Us-ing all the perfume and her high ideas. Those kind aren’t good peopleto go around with. And she’s using up all of my money for presents.” I smiled and leaned on the windowsill. “I have to buy her presents or she won’t go to the mall with me,”said Pricilla. “You shouldn’t be going to the mall in your condition! You needhelp.” The pincushion leaped to its feet, brown slime splashing outfrom under the dozens and dozens of skirts. “No one wants to hangout with me anymore. You’re so cruel! I love these dresses, I love themall. I want more! You’re not in charge of me. You have nothing to The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

73say. You’ve been a slut for a month!” And she marched towards myhouse as if I was going to let that thing in. Bap-bap-bap! I hid. Bap-bap-bap! What would I need to use to clean off the porch before my dadgot home? How long would it take? Would the smell linger? FinallyPricilla left, a slime trail led up the street. Luckily the rain came andwashed it into the gutters under the sidewalks. I had to use Clorox onthe porch, though. That slime was just stubborn. # Pricilla didn’t come bothering anymore. Maybe Chelsey had cutthe dresses off her, boiled her in Pine Sol and forbade her to comenear me. Now I could make human friends if my reputation didn’tstill smell like Pricilla’s slime. But then Callahan showed up at the door right when the rainclouds were rolling in. She was in tears again. She called for me, ofcourse. What, did she think I had been lost for two weeks? The wom-an didn’t have a screw loose. She was missing nuts and bolts. “Margo,” she said, “we can’t find Pricilla. No one can find her. Doyou know where she is?” Okay, maybe not all the bolts were missing. “Just follow thebrown slime.” Callahan wiped her wrinkled eyes. “Well, do you? Please, I knowyou might be covering for her because she’s your best friend.” “No, she isn’t.” “Is she here?” I folded my arms in exasperation. “No.” Callahan called into the house. “Pricilla! Please come home!Your sister is so worried!” “Woman,” I shouted, “the girl isn’t here! She slugged her wayup the street—look, I’ll find her. It isn’t hard. Look for the slime orfollow your nose.” “Natives have such wonderful senses.” I rolled my eyes. “Even you can smell something dead. Oh wait, The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

74you still got that abominable perfume. When’s the last time youchanged it? 1865?” Putting on my rain coat, I headed out. That rainydirt smell was on the air. How I wished I could just sit there and in-hale it! But no, I was sniffing out slime and dead things. First I smelled the rot. It went behind Pricilla’s house to the shedwhere she kept her bike. Right under the door I espied slime that therain hadn’t been able to wash away. Some of the grass was dead. Iopened the door. A wave of stench hit me so hard my eyes watered. Istepped back hacking and coughing. Small, cold droplets pattered onmy head. I pulled my hood up. Callahan clapped her hands to her mouth. “What is that?” In the middle of the shed was the colorful pincushion I’d beenlooking for. But something wasn’t right. I touched the shoulder andblanched. A brown, gooey hole was where the head had been. “What in the world?” I kicked at the pincushion. At first itwouldn’t budge, so I put more juice into the next few kicks until thesphere of gowns rolled over. Humid stench stung my nose and eyes.Beneath the numerous dresses was a mound of brown ooze. I jumpedback before the stuff got on my shoes and I’d have to trash them. Mrs. Callahan screamed. “Oh, what is it?” I folded my arms and smiled sweetly at her. “Have you heard ofPricilla?” Born to the Bear Clan of the White Mountain Apache Tribe, Julia Benally enjoys writing horror stories and ridiculous fiction about her people and her area, including other places she had lived in. She has been featured in ‘A Shadow of Autumn Anthology’, ‘Mantid Magazine’ and more. This fall, her story “Devil’s Hour” will be featured in The Wicked Library Podcast. The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

75 FLASH FICTION Stones Sunil SharmaAfter finishing their private tuition class, the two tiny teens arereturning home: chirpy, fleet-footed, eager to be back before dark-asalways advised and insisted upon by the worried parents. Indian streets are not safe for the girls! There are predators un-seen, lurking everywhere!Little girls must reach home early. They know instinctively the heavy burden of gender they arecondemned to carry in life. They know wolves in men’s clothes roamaround, ready to pounce on the weak. The two are on the chatting mode. An uneven vast groundlittered with garbage from nearby high-rises has to be traversed toarrive home, on the other lower side. It is stinking hell; they say andcover their delicate noses with dainty kerchiefs. Typical femininegesture! The bespectacled, braided females, carrying backpacks, arebeing followed by two boys of their batch, few meters away. One ofthe fat boys picks up a small stone and uses it as a missile. Bang, bang! It hits the backpack of one of the two girls. Pro-ducing a metallic sound. Another stone is hurled with great force. The dominant girl stops mid-way, dodges the second stoneand says loudly, “If you hit us with stone…”,----another stone comesflying at her, while second boy aims and throws at the second girlwalking behind the first---“…I will beat you to death.” It is not orig-inal. She has heard it often from dad and elder brother. It becomes acaricature in her pursed mouth. The second girl echoes the first, obediently” Yes. I will alsobeat you…” The boys deliberately slow down, stalk, pick up more stonesand send them at the retreating figures, now many steps ahead. Theaimed stones fail to connect with the hapless targets and fall nearby. A short rain of pebbles and crooked stones descends on thegirls who, suddenly scared and vulnerable, break into a trot. The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

76 The ammunition provided by a roadwork going on in the sub-urb of Mumbai is plenty. The boys are determined. The girls start running fast on anaemic legs. The pursuers pickup more stony missiles, take aim and shoot gleefully at the girls. Thegame has really begun in earnest. Wolves, on urban streets, come in various age groups. Stalkingand assault come in different forms; be on your watch always---that isclassic Ma in her daily dispensation of wisdom. Her words are ring-ing true! Boys will always be boys! Her father famously repeats. Forboys, it is fun teasing sisters. A little fun! Nothing else. The girls realize it is no longer fun and break into a run undera hail of stones that might hurt badly. Boys, laughing boorishly, givethem a slow chase, flinging stones, delighting in violence reservedfor the curs, the nuts…and the hapless girls within their own circles,in the urban centers. They know it is innocent act, fun, going to be un-challenged.A friendly game. The weak has to be teased and tormented by thestrong. The Jungle has taught them this lesson so well on their videos. They increase their pace, laughing, throwing missiles; the timidgirls try to avoid by running fast; many adults passing by hardly noticetheir plight. The hunt at an early age has begun. Wolves vs. lambs.… Sunil Sharma is a senior academic and a widely-published writer from Mumbai, India. He is a recipient of the UK-based Destiny Poets’ inaugural Poet of the Year award---2012.His poems were published in the prestigious UN project: Happiness: TheDelight-Tree: An Anthology of Contemporary International Poetry, in theyear 2015. Sunil edits the English section of the monthly bilingual journalSetu published from Pittsburgh, USA:http://www.setumag.com/p/setu-home.htmlFor more details, please visit the blog: http://www.drsunilsharma.blogspot.in/ The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

77Sneaky clouds had established a dictatorship in the sky. Gloom wasslowly dropping onto the city. The city was moving towards the night bystepping on the heavy words... Cemal had directed his glances outside the office window but heonly saw the question marks in his head. His cigarette smoke directed hishead towards a summit of a foggy mountain. Cemal never had a suspi-cion anymore; the beheaded murders were made by a serial killer. But the murderer’s identity was so obscure as a sentence not yetconstructed. The only common thing in both murders was both victimshad benefitted from pardon. Cemal had never been scolded by his supe-riors since his graduation from the academy and he was never been undersuch a pressure in his whole carreer.. With the discovery of the secondcorpse, the interest of media and public had got bigger. Cemal was like ahelpless cavy trying to find it’s way in the labrynth. Every road ended ata dumb wall. ‘’Then what is he trying to say with the carved inscriptions on thecorpses?’’ he thought. ‘’Which silkroad multiplies the letter series...Withthe horse drawn carriages...’’ Additionally there are K and E letters. Is he playing a game with us The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

78or what?’’ He will go on with killing unless he got caught. But why?...’’ He sank at his table like an army that have been defeated. He got evenwith the pain his helpleesness by crushing his cigarette butt like a bud. ’Sooner or later you will make a mistake. Then you will be introducedto my handcuffs.’’ Ümit’s heart was fluttering like a sparrow that was trapped. He waslonging to reach the house by driving the car as if he was in dream. Hismother had never called the Station before. For tthe first time she askedhim to come as early as possible, but never told the reason.Saying ‘’Noton the telephone. We’’ll talk tonight.’’ left ümit in curiousity. Ümit sud-denly thought that it was about his father. Was it that his father got sickand his mother didn’t want to tell him on the phone, not wanting to worryhim...Ümit had turned into an anxiety ball... He stood by the door afterparking the car infront of the house casually. He rang the bell insistently. ‘’Welcome, son.’’ ‘’What’s up mother? Is there anything wrong withmy father?’’ His mother caressed the cheek of his son, smiling. ‘’No dear no.Come inside... then we talk.’’ They passed to the livingroom together. Mister İbrahim was on theseat of honour as usual. ‘’Good evening dad.’’ ‘’Good evening. Come and sit by my side.’’ Ümit had really got suspicious. His father had never talked to himin person unless there was a very important subject. ‘’There’s something important İ want to talk to you about..Ee, youhave really grown up.The time has come for a marriage.’’ Instantly Ümit’s blood pressure dramatically increased. The colourin his face flew away like a bird escaping from his cage. He was always afraid of this and now it was inescapably in front of him. ‘’We want you to get married while we’re around. We are longing tosee our grand children...’’ Ümit was like in a press. He was listening to his father in agony. ‘’You know your mother’s adopted maid Aunt Hamiyet. She hasa niece. A girl called Emine, who is very honest and religious. She justgraduated from the İmam Hatip...’’ The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

79 Ümit didn’t want to hear the rest but he was helpless like a fly gotcaught in the spider’s web. ‘’What I’m saying is that your mother went to girl’s house to seeher. She liked her a lot. She is beautiful and well- mannered. We shallgo as soon as possible to make an agreement.’’ There was a brief silence.Mister İbrahim got his stares on the pupil of Ümit’s eyes with the orderof his approval. ‘’Whatever you think is fit.’’ mumbled Ümit... Saying ‘’With your permission’’, he repaired to his room, dragginghis despair like a chain at his feet. His mother followed him to his room. ‘’Look son, this is the pictureof the girl...How do you find her? Beautiful isn’t she?’’ Ümit looked at thepicture reluctantly. ‘’Yes, beautiful.’’ ‘’Don’t you like her? ‘’ No, no. She is nice.’’ His mother went back to the room a little worried. Ümit stayed backwith his troubles that was accumulated like lava inside him. He wanted toscram like crazy on the street ‘’I’m a faggot goddamn, I’m a faggot!’’ Cemal was searching the radio channel that suited his mood. Inmany frequencies when he heard the crazy show host speaking Turkishwith New York accent and he couldn’t help saying ‘’American slimmies!Smart asses!’’ Then he met ‘’Apprentice of the Repairman’’ in a channel. His nervesthat were strained like a bow got relaxed. It was like seing an old friend.All of a sudden 70’s got down from the dusty shelves of his mind. He dived into his adolescent memories: When he was in the firstgrade, he and his friend Mehmet had skipped school on a warm springday. It was the most naughty day of Cemal’s small biography. For the firsttime he had eaten a great bowl of ice cream that looked like the peak ofa mountain. It was offered by Mehmet of course. Because he had a fatherand accordingly pocket money too. In the afternoon, they had sat in the tea garden. How nice was itto drink tea, looking at the sea... In a while, two young men at the nexttable got Cemal’s attention. He never understood what they were talkingabout. They were giggling sweetly at times. One asked the other ‘’Whereare you from?’’. And the other answered ‘’I’m a union man.’’ They had The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

80burst out laughing. Cemal was startled with the question in his mindabout where does union belong to... He realized years after.. He went to the kitchen pulling away from old memories. He re-turned to the livingroom after opening a beer bottle from the refrigera-tor. All of a sudden he realized his loneliness in the middle of the night.He was a purple button attached to loneliness. Turning off the radio heput on a ballad album on the stereo. And then sank into his armchair,and became like a bucket that was put down in the well. Cemal woke up startled, opening his eyes in his own home. Andthe sorrow of waking up alone in his bed started giving big pain some-where inside. Gamze passed by his heart as usual. That brunette girl in the picture...The clogged longing in his heartspread out naughty confettis on the vision of Gamze in her weddingdress. He got up reluctantly. He went to the kitchen and boiled water fortea. Then, washing his face, started shaving. He was again bleeding in ARh positive today, with his suicidal imitation of shaving When he went out the bathroom, he lit his first cigarette with-out waiting for the tea. . Because his lungs that challenged cancer withlaughters, were shouting out ‘Carpe Diem’ impatiently. In the barrel ofhis package, three cigarettes were left. As he inhaled a deep breath, thedoorbell rang. For a long time the doorbell was not to be heard in hishome. Cemal found Jale at the treshold when he opened the door. Jaleobviously came early with her nice sporty outfits, nicely done make upand with a plate in her hands full of fresh pies. Said ‘’Good morning Ce-mal’’ hiding her longing that was e flowing out of the pupils of her eyes.She wasn’t able to hide the sweet shyness that was left from the time thatthey spent last night. ‘’Good morning. Welcome’’ said Cemal with a flirty smile. Whatburden this was for you Jale. ‘’What burden? I made some pies. You must have smelled it. Ithought you would want some.’’ Cemal said ‘’Thanks a lot dear. See you’’. Underling the last wordwith a flirty hint. ‘’See you’’ said Jale, with a pretty smile and her eyeslooking down. And putting her shyness under her arm started climbingup the stairs reluctantly. The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

81 Cemal put the hot pies next to newly brewed tea. He just had aglimpse at his pelargonium: ‘’Girl why did you put your head down. Areyou jelaous or what?...’’ He said farewell to his house again as he wasleaving. As he went down an ominous air met him that turned out hisinner peace into a broken toy. The hope that he attached on his collar likean Algerian violet suddenly withered. Sky was a Grand Vizir that worea ‘Black Kaftan’. Gloom was shaking on the city like a greasy rope, as ifwaiting for an operation on Sultan’s orders. The office was getting narrower every minute. Cemal was confront-ing the unresolveness of beheaded murders in other folders. He could never take not overcoming on any matter. He had triedto hold on to life with a lot of battles until now. He closed the folderinto solitude. He got married with the new cigarette before the corps ofthe old cigarette got cold. The ofice door was opened suddenly to a newtension. ‘’Captain Cemal’’ ‘’Yes?’’ ‘’A new beheaded corpse is found. Ümit started from where he is tothe murder site.’’ Cemal had a tension like a boxer going to his title fight.Getting the adress of the scene, he went downstairs with strong steps.’’He was murmuring himself ‘’Oh only if you had a short.’’ He opened thedoor of his car as if he wanted to break it off. He sat on the seat as if hewas going into a panzer. ‘’Let’s see what happens.’’ he said to himself. The door of solitude slowly opened for Cemal. His car was a dirtywhisper mixed into silence. Darkness was drawn onto the city like ablack curtain. Spotlights were a feeble guide that were trying to enlightenthe obscureness of the roadway. Forest was throwing it’s black eyes ontothe car like a heavy threat. A shivering light bundle came into sight from a distance,. He hadcome closer to the site of incident. Parking the car in the nearest place,he dived into the forest reposing on the feeble help of his flashlight. Hewas getting closer at every step to a vacant uneasiness. He was simplywalking towards death step by step. The insignificant visions in the lightbundle became clear. The inspection team and Ümit tried to conceive theidentity the newcomer. The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

82 ‘’Captain Cemal?’’ ‘’Yes it’s me...’’ The team circled the death. With Cemal’s arrival the circle was broken instantly and the vio-lence that was at the footstep of an old tree came into sight: A corpse of afat middle aged woman, beheaded and hurt severely was lying down allnude. The log book of the murders became totally complicated. Cemalwas not expecting to confront woman’s corpse after two male victims.Coziness of the forest became deeper. Uneasiness was rustling on theleaves of branches. A showy silence had fallen down on the forest likefog. The woman’s skin had turned into an egg-plant field with the strokesof a hammer accompanied with some cigarette burns. On her back therewas a carved inscription vertically ‘’There’s blood under every word.’’ ‘’There was a big letter C running like a crazy brook, in the deepvalley between her two boobs.’ Julide was knitting a sweater, expecting to hear the voice of Cemal’scar that would park in front of the house, like Jale who was eating pump-kinseeds. Whenever Cemal was late, time crept slowly for the sisters. The ironmountains of anxiety settled on their breasts. Their hearts were squeezedin the clamp of fear. Despite the fact that Julide was full of anger for Jaleand Cemal’s spending the night together, she was still anxious. Once in awhile she threw a glance to Jale and she was carefully listening to every voicecoming from outside like herself. Both of them were watching the televisioncarelessly. Sound of a brake came into the middle of the room like a heartattack. Two sisters settled on the window like flies that swarmed on jelly.Thank god Cemal had come all in one piece again. Loneliness fell uponCemal like an avalanche as he opened the door to trust. Who did Cemalhave except his loneliness. Opening a beer he sat down on the armchair.He was trying to disperse the black clouds of anxiety that settled on hishead. He was stuck in between of a knot that was going blind. There wasno evidence found around the new body that gave any clue about theidentity of the murderer. And it was really confusing that the last bodybelonged to a woman. He was really depressed. One one side chronical The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

83loneliness, on the other Ümit’s whom he loved even more than a brother,revealing his sexual identity as being homosexual, on top of everything,this horrible serial murders. He missed Gamze at such times like this that troubles accumulatedon top of each other. Wish she were here by his side. First she’d end hisloneliness, later they’d communicate. ‘’Buddy give me one more gin-tonic.’’ Ümit said to the bartender,putting his head up from the deep darkness that he had fallen into. Gin-tonic set infront of him saluting Ümit with respect. “’Ok, thank you.’’ ‘’Bon appetit.’’ His father had always been an exclamation mark standing in frontof his life. He had constantly tried to block Ümit’s being the master ofhis own life. Ever since his childhood, it was his father who had chosenwhich schools he was going to follow, with whom he would have friend-ship, which career he would choose, and now who he should marry...Andthe worst part was that that he would get married to ‘a girl’. How wouldhe say that : ‘’I’m gay, I have nothing to do with girls.’’ to his parents ?. Saying ‘’Buddy, one more please’’, he put his glass up, within bartend-er’s field of sight. If he could sit at the table here, it was because he couldtell his parents that he was on duty. Of course he would have to sober upand get rid of the smell of alcohol before he returned home. How would heresist their demands...What kind of an excuse would he present for not get-ting married. Even if he told them that he didn’t like this girl, and even if heconvinced them, another one would have been offered to him soon. ‘’Goddamn it!’’ he cried out the anger that he accumulated from helplessness.‘’What is there to do? What!what!what!’ Ümit was the mandatory passen-ger of the black phaeton of fate. The weight of his courage was not enoughto erect his flag in the center of his life. It was a possibility that he would belike a small island in the midst of the ocean of loneliness. ‘’Buddy, one moreplease.’’Barmen arranged the gin-tonic to relief. ‘Give me one cigarette, goddamn it.’’ He directed a 100 mm. Cigarette barrel to the freshness of hislungs. His bronchus answered with broken coughs of inexperience. His glass was suddenly emptied together with the cigarette thattotally turned into ash. ‘’Buddy would you bring me a cup of coffee.’’ The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

84 Passing through the jungle of entertainement in the bar and hittingthe trees, he went to the toilet. He washed face with cold water. His faceemerged suddenly behind the fog of alcohol. Then he returned to hisseat. He drank the bitter coffee without waiting for it to get cooler. Thenhe overflew the sea of the bar like an old boat. He got on the road forhome by jumping in a taxi as he had done when he was coming. Puttingthe mouth spray on, he put his face out of the window to the strong wind.Passing through the heavily made up city, Ümit reached his neighbour-hood. The neighbourhood had already entered the soft breast of sleep.Cats were globalizing whatever they found, sneaking into the housesfrom the open kitchen windows of one flat homes. Thank God streetdogs of hope was wondering in the heart of lifelike Diogenes. Ümit got out of the cab in front of his house. A sad lightwas infiltrating outside the window. So his mother was still awake Ümitput his embarassed finger on the doorbell. His mother’s anxious footsetpswas heard from inside. ‘’Who is it?’’ ‘’It’s me mom.’’ ‘’Come inside my son.’’ Torpidness was sitting at the corner in striped pijamas. “Good evening dad.’’ ‘’Good evening.’’ As Ümit was sailing his room, his mother asked: ‘’Are you hungry, shall I prepare some food son?’’ ‘’No mom, I’m not, I’d rather go to bed.’’ Ümit shot down his bleedingsorrow to his room.’’ The sound of horseshoes of the blackhorses of despair were beingheard from the sky. The sky was being enlightened like exploding flash-bulbs with the sparkles of the shields and swords that were in battle. Theirblood was spurting onto the city ruthlessly. The city was repeating an in-ured tiredness: The retired people were falling down like grapes from thebranch of life. The shutters that were closed without any sales added one morering to the chain of despair... But the football chatters were going on in the coffeeshops steadily. The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

85There were spider webs in the libraries..In his office in the Security De-partment, Cemal was listening to Ümit’s report. ‘’Captain, the identity of the victim became clear. Her name is GülsümŞencanlı. She is a known prostitute. She is known as Fettan Gülsüm. She isfamous for trapping very young girls, and selling them.’’ ‘’God damn bitch’’ exclaimed Cemal, unable to control himself. ‘’Her folder is thick because of her many crimes. She got benefit of thepardon and was discharged. She took over her business as soon she got out...’’ ‘’So this one also got the benefit of pardon, huh’’ At that point, Cemal’s heart had untightened the warp attached tothe port of anxiety. His conscious was as light as a feather... Whoeverthis murderer was, he was specifically killing the traders that enjoyed thefruits of the last law of pardon. ‘’Ok, tell me Şehrazat.Well...Ümit.’’ With startled eyes, Ümit looked over Cemal. “The report of legal medicine is the same as the others... Whichmeans we don’t have anything new in our hands...With your permissionI am deepening the investigation about the victim.’’ ‘’Ok, go ahead.’’ said Cemal. The peaceful birds of relaxation settledon the edge of Cemal’s eyebrows. The night had penetrated to the mar-row of the city. Houses were all black silent. The transparent wreckages of the city, meaning the streetkids andthe homeless, those trying to find consolation from thinner and alcohol,street dogs of loneliness and Cemal had been left in the deepless darknessof the city. Cemal’s loneliness was a heavy tonnage one. He still couldn’thave forgotten Gamze. In fact he never wanted to. Though She had nevererased anyone’s name from his heart. All the Love that penetrated his lifewas like an old letter in deep corners of his heart. Some nights these pave-ments would be the residence of his sorrow. Cemal was walking towards the heart of the night, as if he had neverstopped. He also didn’t know the target of his sorrow. All of a sudden, ashadow approached from a desolate corner. An old man with his glimps-ing eyes, and shabby dress crossed his way. He said ‘’Hey boy! Leave the pain. Shake off and kiss the pinkcheeks of hope. Never forget that every love is an excuse for you to get The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

86burned. You are propeller turning around yourself ’’ and dissapeared inthe darkness again. This time Cemal was not surprised. He got used toit. Taking a deep breath, he directed the barrel of his loneliness towardsthe house. He went into the house like a storm and lit all the lights oneby one. He angrily stepped towards Gamze’s picture that was standing onthe table. He got the frame and angrily threw it to the wall. ‘’Now I’m content...’’ Mountains on his heart became vapour and flew away. Everythinglooked brighter than before. ‘’Enough is enough. What was that, he cried.’’ He immediately went to the bathroom and washed his sweaty face.His eyes were reflecting a clean page now. Finally he had destroyed thefixture icon of his heart. In the morning, he woke up with a flock of sparrows fluttering inhis soul cage. He ran out of bed like a pebblestone out of a child’s sling. The door-bell rang as he was leaving the bathroom and heading towards the kitch-en. It didn’t sound like a doorbell to Cemal, but like a dancing melody.Whistling he headed towards the door. As soon as he opened the doorhe kissed the amazement on Jale’s face on the lips. Girl’s face turned intoembarassed red. Her eyes became the motherland of excitement. Cemal entered the station with a cigarette in his hand with it’s plea-surable smoke and the wanderer birds of reverie in his inner pocket. Those who have seen the fall of nervous fortress on his face couldn’tleave their eyes. And the careless mimics that were organized on his facewere so alien to the people of the office. Cemal even saluted one or two.People around him thought that this was a symptom opf the doomsday. As he was passing by the table of theft his eyes met with a youngand beautiful woman officer’s eyes. ‘’Not a bad girl at all Cemal mur-mured, turning and looking back. The girl was smiling to herself tryingto cover up her shyness. What a girl she was!.. Her hair was like a bundleof freesia of Van Gogh yellow. Who knows to which blue sea belongedher eyes...Would Cemal’s eyes be able to swim in this wild blueness. While Cemal was writing his every step with all the comfort andrenewing on the white paper of his life, his friends who were not used to The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

87his late coming was wondering where he was coming from. Cemal glidedinto his office like a swan. All the startled eyes were directed towards him. The molotov cock-tail that was ready to explode every minute had gone, and a calm oceanwave had come instead. ‘’Good morning chief.’’ ‘’Good morning.’’ ‘’Are you fine.’’ ‘’Of course I am. Why?’’ “Well...We wondered about you because you were late.’’ He said I had some business to do and walked towards his table.Necati’s hands were shaking with confusion as he brought the brewed teato be drunk with his newly lit cigarette. The raindrops were passing by licking the windows of the office withtheir mysterious whispers. A timid silence was walking outside. Cemallifted his head up by a uniformed sentence that stood upon his ear: ‘’Chief you have a call.’’ ‘’Who is it?’’ ‘’Doesn’t say who it is. This person insists on talking to you’’ ‘’Ok, I’ll take it.’’ Cemal’s telephone rang to a piercing tension: ‘’Hello, who is it?’’ ‘’There’s blood under every word.’’ Cemal got startled as if he had a slap on his face. The inscriptionsthat were carved on the corpses were not published in the press. And thissounded like the others. He pulled himself up immediately and gave asignal for the colleagues to identify the location of the caller. ‘’Yes I am listening to you, what do you want?’’ ‘’Justice!’’ ‘’Will you be more specific?’’ ‘’Tell me Captain Cemal, if the state itself puts a dynamite to thefoundation of justice, what would a victim do?’’ ‘’What do you mean?’’ ‘’If you want to find me, search the beginnings carefully...’’ ‘’Hello! Hello! Hello!’’ ‘’...’’ The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

88 “Could you identify the location?’’ “No Chief. He hung up too early.’’ Cemal put the receiver backslowly. If the state itself puts a dynamite to the foundation of justice...Yesit’s definitely connected to the law of pardon. But how!?. Well, what didhe mean when he said search the beginnings...Beginnings of murders, orbeginnings of law of pardon ? Or something else?.. This discomforting telephone call put an end to all the hapinessthat had played on his heart like a ladybug, with the stroke of a sword. Aworried voice spoke five minutes later: “Chief, it’s him again.’’ “Put him on right away!’’ Telephone was put on immediately: “Hello!’’ “Blood voices on my handkerchief ’ ..’’ “Hello! Hello! Hello!!..He killed someone again...’’ The moon was whispering to the city from the gap of black clouds.The vibrant black hair of the sky was leaning on to the face of the citydrop by drop. Desolation was standing in front of the night like a drawnswitchblade. The wipers of the car weren’t able to cacth on, to postpone the cur-tain of the rain...Cemal parked the car to the pupilary of desolation. Hebreathed the horror closely. After all, death had passed from here scap-ing. In the air, the fear of death that was mixed with earth smells of rain...The night was was the widest shelter of murder anyway in every meridiancircle. Cemal’s every step was a window that was opened to concern. Hehad no wish to meet a new corpse tonight. But the duty was inescapable. Night had attached the moon to it’s collar like a diamond brooch. Black clouds were dispersed, promising to meet again in a new activity. The moon was trying to infiltrate the house crashing with the lightof the kitchen lamp. The rain was withdrawn from the window leavingthe fingerprints on the glass. Jülide was standing in front of the kitchenstand like an exclamation mark. She carried on rinsing the plate in herpalms. An unseen peace spread on her face. And Jale’s dead body lyingon the table, deep purple... Julide never hesitated to get into action. Because the magma layer The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

89of hatred which had accumulated inside her had overflown long timeago. Because since her childhood whatever she wanted was taken awayfrom her hands by Jale. Cemal was the last one...Nobody could guessthe volume of Julide’s dissapointment. Jülide was extremely tired of thiscompetition that was going for forty years. And she wanted to win the last round, by taking the sweet life ofJale that she loved so much. It was a dinner as always, putting carnation on the collar of sorrow.In the begining it was a farewell of another day of two missed lives. Tonight there were no whispers of children in the house, therewas no husband to ring the doorbell again. Food was being eaten in thekitchen that was filled with silence. Jülide was as calm as a lake as if it wasnot she who was going to strangle her sister in a short while. In fact, shewas not that far to the thought of murder. In her head she had killed Jaleseveral times in different ways. She slowly got up from the table with an excuse. The time for re-venge had come for Jülide. She went to the bedroom and took the beltthat she had prepared before like a rope. She felt neither excitement, norfear. She didn’t even care that she was going to be a sister killer and goingto rot in jail. She headed towards the kitchen with sneaky and dark stepsas a leopard approaching it’s prey. She was going to fade lillies of the timein Jale’s hand immediately. With the belt hidden behind her she went intothe kitchen . Jale was sitting at the table with her back to the door. She putthe belt on her neck speedily and started to squeeze with all her strength. Her victim was shaken strongly and tried to protect her throat. Astrangled moan was coming out of her mouth. Julide, tightened the beltstronger. The blindsided Jale with her unconciously shaken hands, scat-tered everything on the table. The chronic hatred inside Julide had erupt-ed like a volcano at last. A deep violence was flowing from her fingerstowards Jale’s throat. Then the flounderings stopped. Jale had breathedher last breath finally. He rface was deep purple, and her eyes were wideopen. She kept on pressing the belt to be sure that she was dead. Whenshe finalized pressing it, Jale’s head fell on to the table like an overthrowntree. All of a sudden Jale felt herself as light as a feather. Her soul was The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

90filled with an indiscrabible peace. Finally she had succeeded. She immediately went into the bathroom and tidied her hair. Sheshouldn’t meet the police with an untidy appereance. She carefully puton her make-up and combed her hair. Then returned to the kitchen andtidied up the table. Calling the police she told them in cold blood that she had com-mited a murder. And she carried on washing the dishes while she waswaiting for the police. Cemal was moving on with his car splitting the mourning of thecity with the question marks in his mind. The killer was working fastidi-ously. The research team at the incident point couldn’t find any clue oncemore. The victim had been murdered with the same methods like before.On the back the inscription was carved saying ‘Blood voices in my hand-kerchief.’ and a big letter E in the midst of the chest... ‘Ok, understoodthat the killer only kills those who were discharged of pardon benefits.This was the only common thing of the victims. He punished them in hisown way. It’s ok until now. Possibly a pardon victim. But then what dothose inscriptions mean trying to express something but in a very com-plicated way. And what do those letters mean that were carved on theirchests?..Oh it’s not easy not to get insane. There is neither any clue nor aneye witness. Only these goddamn inscriptions. He was tired of strugglingwith the questions that bled his mind. The pressure of his superiors wasincreasing every minute. Not being able to make any progress on thiscase was standing out like a black stain. All the questions that forcedhis mind immediately dissapeared when he saw the police car in frontof the house. What was the police emergency team doing here?.. As heparked the car quickly and went downstairs, Jülide came out of the doorattended by two policemen. His astonishment was increased when hesaw Jülide with handcuffs. He approached them and asked in a panickyway : “What’s wrong Jülide?’’ Jülide looked at Cemal with a vacant look. She had a calm expres-sion her face like a paper-ship swimming in a bowl. “Chief, this lady has murdered her sister’’ said the officer standingnext to her. Cemal felt as if he had received a big punch in his stomach.She stood there looking at Julide with questioning eyes. Jülide on the The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

91other hand was looking around indifferently. As the officers were taking Jülide away, Cemal was nailed on thepavement. Barbed wire had embraced his heart. With staggaring steps hehardly headed for the house. ‘’My God, what have I done, oh my god.’’ A dreadful regret was pressing his heart like a crampon. He wantedto wake up from this nightmare...Rain had stopped. Night was stuck onthe city like a wet dress. At this moment Cemal wanted to be a bug anddissapear in the most hidden corner of the city. His heart had crashedto sorrow wherever he turned. Sorrow had collapsed on him like earth-quake rubble. All of a sudden the sound of the morning prayer filled the room.Cemal directed his unconscious eyes towards the window. The sky wasbeing knitted with iron knots. The rhymed clouds were shoulder to shoul-der in the sky. An experienced wind was spoiling the face of the city. A torned wuthering was approaching the capillary vessel of the city.Cemal got up from his armchair in a terrible manner. All night long he wandered in the house with a heavy struggle withhis consciousness. When he came to the police station he was like a shipabandoned as junk. He slowly committed suicide with every cigarette helit. The chief had called him and offered a couple of days vacation whichCemal gracefully refused. He knew very well that the only consolationfor him was his job. Ümit couldn’t approach Cemal for a long while. He didn’t knowwhat to say. Then first he presented his condolences and then gave hisreport about the beheaded murder that was found yesterday. No cluehad been found again except the inscription saying ‘’bloodvoices on thehandkerchief ’’ and a big ‘E’ that was carved on body’s back. No matter how much Cemal forced himself, he had difficulty inconcentrating on his job. The possible states of Jale’S body was forcingthe limits of his mind. As the days passed, Cemal had begun to open out the fog curtainthat conquered his brain. Two finalised folders had given him somehope. He worked day and night and tried not to remember what hap-pened. Jülide was under arrest and in jail. She didn’t utter a word about The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

92her reason for killing Jlae. The policemen responsible for this case werespecially careful about not mentioning the details of this murder whenCemal was around. However there was no progress made on the be-headed murder cases. The last body found belonged to contracter EminYıldırım who was known as Torn Emin. This man who was responsiblefor the lives of people who died under the collapsed constructions andrubbles on seventeeth of October Earthquake, was discharged with par-don benefit like the other victims. One night when Cemal was trying to be ‘a fish in raki bottle’, thetelephone rang. A new beheaded body was found. Cemal who hardlyput his head up from the calm lake of sorrow, quickly got on the road.Night had steered his nails through the city. Black clouds blockaded themoon. Cemal was driving his car towards a dirty obscurity. When hereached the point of incident the usual scene had welcomed him. Thistime the inscription saying ‘We touched with our hands to the people’sgrieves. A big ‘D’ showed in the midst of it’s chest. In the following days the identity of the victim was clarified. The victim was Ali Sonay known as Cin Ali. His criminal recordwas huge, he was a master swindler who hurt many people. He sswindleda lot of people, promising that he would make a lot of people retire fromBağkur despite their lack of insurance premiums. Cin Ali, like all othervictims, had been discharged from pardon benefit. Cemal was totally confused with this case. On the one hand he hadto find the murderer, on the other he couldn’t help justifying the mur-derer. Anyway the murderer left no clue behind and made no mistakes.Even though this situation was on his favour, occupational responsibilitywas biting Cemal like a torn. He had thought a lot about the carved inscriptions on the bodies,but could not give a meaning to them yet. The murderer was sending hismessage in an obscure way. And comitting murders more frequently. Ina morning where gloom had invaded the sky, another beheaded bodywas found. Again with broken bones with hammer strokes and cigaretteburns, he was lying on the side of a street. This was the sixth body thatwas found. The following day Ümit came to Cemal with his report: ‘’Chief are you available?’’ The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

93 “Yes what is it?’’ “I brought the report about the body found yesterday.’’ “No clue again, isn’ that so?’’ Saying “Unfortunately, Ümit bowed his head slightly, as if it washis fault.’’ Cemal asked ‘’What is the criminal record this time?’’ as he wascrushing his cigarette in the ashtray like a bug. “This time it is the worst of all, his name is Necati Tandoğan. Hehad raped a little girl and killed her. Then he threw the body to the cess-pool...’’ “Honourless motherfucker!’’ said Cemal, clenching his fist and press-ing his teeth hard. “And the most dishonourable of all, Chief ’’ said Ümit and continued: ‘’Due to the law of pardon, in cases of rape which ended with mur-ders like this, the psycho’s punishments were set to zero...’’ ‘’God damn it’s true’’ responded Cemal, in an extremely tense manner. ‘’This wicked psycho called Necati also have served his sentence,then discharged after the benefit of pardon.’’ ‘’What kind of justice is this! The guy rapes a small girl, kills herand throws her to the shithole, and then the state pardons his murders.What kind of shit is this! What the hell?” ‘’It is written on the back of the body ‘As our singularity was drown-ing in the moonlight’. ‘And he has the letter T on his chest.’’ ‘’Uhm...’’ ‘’Let’s see where this will lead.’’ ‘’Ok go on’’ said Cemalcarelessly... Again Cemal had imprisoned his loneliness in his house. The sunhad left long ago after touching the roofs. Darkness had spread all overthe city like virus. He finished his third glass. He took another piece ofcheese. Although he didn’t want to catch the murderer of the beheadedcorpses the pressure of his Chief officers were increasing considerably.He was getting serious scoldings. Even though he was unwilling, he hadto solve this case in order to go on with his career. He started writing theinscirptions carved on the backs of bodies one under the other: Which silkroad multiplies the sequence of letters....K He suddenly realised when he put all these inscriptions on the The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

94other, there appeared a name from the initials. “There’s written... ‘Hik-met‘ here!.. Isn’t it that?... Tell me?.. Ok I found. This is an acrostic.’’ He immediately called Ümit: “Yes, what can I do for you?’’ “Ümitit’s me.’’ “Yes, Chief.’’ “Your cousin was a literature teacher... wasn’t he?’’ “Yes!?’’ “I’ve found a clue with this beheaded murders. I need your cousin.Call him and ask if he is available for tomnorrow... so, we can drop by.’’ “Ok, chief.’’ When he put down the telephone, he was excited but also sad. “Sorry, buddy. I have to catch you’’ he murmured. The following day, Cemal got the adress of Ümit’s cousin and wentto the school in which he worked around noon time. During lunch break,he met the teacher and went to a tea garden. He handed over the paper in his hand saying ‘’Here, Mister Hüseyin,the acrostic.’’ Taking a sip from his tea, Hüseyin stared at the paper. “Let’s see...These are all verses.’’ “Verses?’’ “Yes, these are verses from famous poets.’’ The first verse ‘Whichsilkroad multiplies the serries of letters’ belongs to Kermal Özer. The K let-ter nearby is Kemal Özer’s K. The verse underneath belongs to Ece Ayhan. Eletter nearby symbolizes this. The other verses respectively; Cemal Süreyya,Edip Cansever, İsmet Özel and Turgut Uyar... I understand your murdererlove the ‘Second New’ a lot.’’ “Is there any poet by the name Hikmet?’’ asked Cemal curiously. “Well, I wouldn’t know...You may find some information from literaturemagazines. The beginners send lots of poems to the magazines. His addresscan be found from there.’’ ‘’Thank you very much,” said Cemal, with a warm smile. He re-turned To the police station immediately and sent the assistants to well-known literary journals to make investigation. In a couple of hours, thewhole team came back: ‘’Chief we ascertained the suspect’s identification and adress.’’ saidÜmit pridely. ‘’Very well’’ The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

95 ‘’But there’s more...’’ ‘’Let’s hear it.’’ ‘’Well captain, our cousin thought very well. The suspect sent hispoems to the literary journals. We ascertained his full name and openaddress from a journal. His name is Hikmet Çeliköz. He is an interiorarchitect and...’’ ‘’So?’’ ‘’You know the last body we found, that one who raped the smallgirl and killed her...’’ ‘’Yes!?’’ ‘’Well, that little girl was Hikmet Çeliköz’s sister.” Cemalswallowed his pain. He put himself in Hikmet’s poisition in an instant. ‘’Chief, this Hikmet Çeliköz was peaceful and harmless guy. Al-though this incident hurt him very much, he has continued his life in anormal way. But when this psycho was discharged from jail by this lawof pardon, he became isolated. Left his job and stopped seeing anyone.” ‘’Ok, understood’’, sighed Cemal. ‘’Prepare the teams. We’re goingto make a raid.” As soon as the teams were ready, they went to raid Hikmet’shouse. Doors were broken, they went inside, but Hikmet was not at home.The superintendent said he saw Hikmet going towards the pier half anhour ago. All teams headed quickly towards the pier. And Hikmet, his feet fixed to the edge of the pier, screamed as if theveins of his throat were exploding: ‘’This has to come to an end...’’ Then, an impertinent silence tinkled in their ears. The moon extendedit’s head between the brunette clouds and grinned. Even though the sea was waiting with mother’s care her armsopened, Hiikmet couldn’t throw himself into the deep peace. He wanted to get purified, but couldn’t succeed. Couldn’t resignfrom life...Comitting suicide couldn’t be brought into action easily as hehad dreamed... He understood. His mind was decisive to go back whilehis feet pretended not to understand. It was neither easy to go back nor tojump into the sea. At the instant he returned and made a step, his head-hung in the manner of a student who got zero from the oral test, he heardthe sirens. Putting up his head, his eyes met the spotlights of the policecars. This was a big chance for Hikmet. If you can’t fall down from life’sbalcony, somebody could push you into obscurity. It was easier to do so. The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

96 The whole team, getting out of the cars at the pier, pulled out theirguns. Cemal was standing in front his team with his revolver ready toshoot. “Hikmet! Surrender!’’ “Welcome Cemal. Welcome my angel of death. Don’t think that youwon this game. I gave it to you as a gift.’’ Cemal’s hand was shaking for thefirst time when he was directing his gun at somebody. And his heart wasstammering. He didn’t want to harm Hikmet, but he had to do his duty.If he had the chance he would have given a medal to Hikmet, but he wasa policeman and he had to act in accordance to laws. Even though, lawsdidn’t bring Justice. He was approaching Hikmet with small and anxioussteps. He was frightened to death that he Hikmet would do somethingwrong and he would have to shoot him. “Come on Hikmet, don’t do anything stupid. Surrender! This is the end!’’ “The end! Well..What will happen now? I will surrender, go to jail.Well...Will they also pardon me in two years!?” “Look, I understand you very well. I mean I become mad from angerwhen I put myself in your position. I was depressed because of what hap-pened to your sister and this psycho benefiting from the pardon... But nowyou must surrender...It has come to an end...” “Come to an end, is that so!? What about me becoming inhuman -somebody who hasn’t even slaughtered a chicken in his life!? I, a harmlessgentleman, had to establish my own justice...Huh!..Ok, who pushed meinto being both the judge and the executioner!? Tell me, friend! what hascome to an end!? The shield of Cemal’s heart was torn into pieces. He felt as if he wasdirecting his gun to his own brother. “Don’t do this Hikmet, surrender. Don’t leave me alone with thepain of consciously shooting you. Surrender. There’s no place to escape.’’ “Escape!? No one can escape from himself Cemal...’’ “Ok Hikmet. Slowly raise your hands up and surrender.’’ Hikmet didn’t give any answer. He looked at Cemal with empty eyes.And he quickly directed his hand to his belly as if he was pulling out hisgun. In fact he had no gun on him. Cemal with his proffesional reflex, had two rapid shots. Two forced The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017

97bullets, passed through Hikmet’s chest. One in the middle of his heart,which was the metropol of pain. Hikmet’s dead body rose into the airwith the force of the bullets. A peaceful smile spread on his face. He fell into the sea as if he was falling into his mother’s womb. Thesea embraced and cherished Hikmet on it’s bosom. A fistful of blood wasleft on the water that belonged to Hikmet... On the pier, Cemal kneeled down and started crying not caringothers... And again the rain...which then was the teardrops of the sky thatpierced the night. Socialist Laz-Turk poet and author Serkan Engin was born in 1975 in Izmit, Turkey. His poems and articles on poetry theory have appeared in more than fifty literary journals in Turkey.In 2004, he published a poem manifesto, entitled Imagist Socialist Poetry. He has been trying to launch a new movement in Turkish poetry and to this end has published numerous articles about literary theoryPublished by K G E TEAM, Chennai, India - 600024 The Wagon Magazine - August - 2017