The Wagon Magazine July 2017 Web (1)

51FICTIONROBERTKIRKENDALLFaultLinesSILICON VALLEY, LATE 1980sYou really want to move out there?’ Gina asked. ‘I think it’s a good idea,’ Craig asserted. ‘It’s a great idea whenyou think about it.’ Gina felt unconvinced. ‘But it’s so far away.’ ‘Aren’t you tired of renting?’ Craig asked rhetorically. ‘We’rethrowing money away.’ The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

52 Gina looked away from the dining area table and out the front window of their apartment. ‘The commute is going to be at least two hours each way. I can’t do that.’ ‘And you won’t have to,’ Craig reassured. ‘With the affordable prices of houses out there, we’ll only need one paycheck. And if you want to keep on working, I’m sure there are offices out there as well.’ Gina continued to look out the window at the central courtyard of the complex. She was noticing its familiarity for the first time, with the apprehension of possibly leaving it. ‘But there aren’t any jobs out there for what you do.’ ‘The programming jobs are over here, but I’m willing to make that sacrifice.’ Gina looked back at Craig. ‘But will I do all day in that boring valley?’ ‘At least you’ll have nothing to do in our own house. Won’t that be an improvement?’ ‘Yeah, but Modesto?’ ‘With all the people who are going to move out there, it might end up being a boomtown,’ Craig added positively. Gina felt uneasy. ‘Can’t we find somewhere closer?’ ‘I’ve looked. Gilroy, Santa Cruz, East Bay, real estate prices are rising everywhere that’s nearby.’ ‘I don’t know. It feels like we’re going to be refugees.’ ‘I know this is asking a lot, but we don’t have a future here except as renters. I don’t want that. It’s so affordable out there we could be homeowners out there right now,’ Craig emphasized. The sudden pressure got to Gina. She stood up and paced around the dining and kitchen area. ‘Maybe housing prices will come back down eventually.’ ‘I seriously doubt it, things just don’t work that way. Land value just keeps going up, at least around here.’ ‘And everything that goes up must come down,’ Gina pointed out. ‘Not in our lifetime. Technology always expands, and this valley is one of its centers, maybe the most important one.’ Gina thought some more, and a seeming unfairness dawned uponThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

53her. ‘You would think that such an important economic powerhousewould be affordable to those whose work makes it happen.’ ‘It’s affordable for the top executives and engineers.’ ‘But not everybody else,’ Gina said a bit angrily as she pacedaround some more. ‘Our parents had no trouble making it here, andthey weren’t executives or engineers. Is buying a house becoming aprivilege?’ Craig looked as if he heard something unexpected. ‘I don’t know.Maybe it’s survival of the fittest now,’ he shrugged. Gina slowly went to the front window toward the courtyard at thecenter of their complex. ‘We’ll have to leave everyone we know.’ ‘It’s not like we’re moving cross country,’ Craig resumed his argu-ment. ‘And we’ll come back and visit everyone, or they can come andsee us.’ Gina continued to look out the window to all the other units. Acouple of the neighbors were talking and laughing. ‘It won’t be thesame. We won’t be a regular part of each other’s lives.’ ‘But if we stay we’ll never be able to afford a house, not even withboth of us working.’ ‘This is not an easy decision for me to make.’ ‘Everyone will be a phone call away,’ Craig said cheerfully, ‘and ahundred miles away really isn’t that far.’ ‘It isn’t that near either.’ Gina sauntered away from the windowand back into the dining area. ‘No more dropping by at the spur ofthe moment, no more regular get-togethers.’ She sat back down atthe table. ‘We’ll have to plan when we see each other, like visiting faraway relatives.’ ‘A big event to look forward to!’ Craig added happily. ‘Andwouldn’t you rather people visit us in a house? Of our own? We’ll beable to have more people over, even for an entire weekend.’ ‘What, like a slumber party?’ ‘Sure, why not?’ Gina laughed a little. ‘I thought you liked slumber parties.’ ‘Sure,’ Gina said, ‘when I was in middle school.’ The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

54 ‘But you see I’m trying to say.’ ‘Which is?’ ‘That we can finally entertain people properly,’ Craig highlighted. ‘But what do we do with ourselves the rest of the time?’ ‘Enjoy the open space. A lot of agriculture in the central valley, small town life, slower pace, like this valley used to be.’ ‘I don’t know. I really don’t think it’ll be the same.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Because things happen in the Bay Area. This is where the excite- ment is.’ ‘We can create our own excitement,’ Craig smiled suggestively. Gina laughed a little. ‘You just want to do it in more rooms.’ ‘Is that so wrong?’ ‘Well, it’s not going to be all fun and games,’ Gina reminded. ‘I mean, think about your commute. It’s going to be at least two hours each way, that’s four, maybe five hours a day behind the wheel.’ ‘At that hour I’ll be able to floor it. That’ll shave off some time.’ ‘Well I don’t want you getting in a wreck,’ Gina said with concern. ‘C’mon, you know I’m a safe driver.’ ‘But what if you dozed off for a few seconds? Or what if someone else did?’ ‘You worry too much. There won’t be that much traffic that early, no way it’s going to be like 101 during the morning commute. No other cars to get in the way.’ ‘I can’t help but worry.’ Gina looked downward. ‘I just don’t know about this.’ Craig leaned forward across table. ‘Look, hon, I know this is a big step, and I understand why it bothers you, but I’ve thought this through. We’ll be building up equity and I’ll be getting raises as I keep working, and at some point we’ll be able to afford to move back here.’ Gina looked up at him as he relaxed back into his chair. ‘Or maybe we’ll both end up liking it out there and want to stay.’ ‘But if real estate prices do keep rising over here like you’re saying, we’ll be stuck over there whether we like it or not.’ ‘Like I said, the way things are going at work I’ll soon be earningThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

55some more raises,’ Craig restated. ‘At least I’m working in the rightplace for that.’ ‘Yes, that’s true,’ Gina said, then new thoughts entered her mind.‘But another thing to consider is how quick technology can change.Remember the 8-track? Every advancement eventually becomes obso-lete, which usually leads to layoffs.’ ‘Another thing not to worry about,’ Craig said with a little exas-peration. ‘Every new advancement leads to new opportunities at a ratethat far outpaces the lost, no longer needed jobs. The fact that peoplekeep flooding into Silicon Valley proves that there are opportunitieshere. And they more than replace the people that leave.’ ‘Just like lemmings,’ Gina said resignedly. ‘I suppose it would takea massive earthquake to get people to move away from here.’ ‘You mean like the California coast falling into the Pacific? Thatcould turn Modesto into ocean front property!’ Craig said excitedly. ‘That’s a happy thought.’ ‘Serious. The farther we are from the San Andreas, the safer we’llbe when the big one finally hits.’ ‘But what if Modesto ends up under water?’ Gina posed. ‘Then we’ll move to Nevada and their new beach front casinos!’Craig said still excited. ‘Just think about what a golden opportunitythis is. The northern San Joaquin Valley is going to be the next boomarea, because that’s where the population is going to expand into.And,’ his eyes brightened, ‘we’ll be in on the ground floor.’ Gina considered all the promises to her perception of the realities.‘Gotta admit, I’m having a hard time seeing that happening.’ ‘Why not?’ Gina felt her tact lessening. ‘There’s nothing to do out there.’ ‘There’s a lot to do out there! Open space everywhere, no trafficjams, slower pace of life. We’ll be out in the country.’ ‘But where can you see a concert?’ ‘They’ve got things out here that we don’t have here, like rodeos,and gun shows.’ ‘A gun show?’ Gina said with alarm. ‘Yeah, I always wanted to check out one of those,’ Craig said The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

56 wistfully. ‘Didn’t know we were moving out to the wild west.’ ‘Don’t worry, I won’t turn our house into an armory.’ Gina had new ominous feelings. ‘I still have to think about it.’ ‘Okay, but I don’t think there’s much to think about.’ ‘This move will upend our lives,’ Gina said seriously. ‘It will improve our lives,’ Craig responded equally serious. ‘Imag- ine having our place.’ ‘Location is everything.’ ‘Which is what real estate agents say when they want to sell you some overpriced mini-mansion. Modesto is a fine place. George Lucas is from there.’ ‘He doesn’t live there now.’ ‘It’s a true, old fashion American city, like Mayberry.’ Gina felt she was hitting a wall. ‘Sure seems like you have your mind made up.’ Craig’s excitement finally calmed down. ‘Maybe this all seems sudden,’ he admitted, ‘but I did consider everything about this. And I really believe that the positives outweigh the negatives.’ Gina had of a new idea. ‘How about we stay for a while and try to save up some more money? We’re still young enough, and I’m certainly willing to work some overtime. I’d even be willing to buy a townhouse,’ she said trying to be persuasive, ‘that’s good enough for me.’ ‘Sure, we could do that, but the house in Modesto is something we can do now. And why settle for half a house with no yard?’ Gina gazed over to the living room. She noticed all the pictures arranged around the television and stereo. The still images of loved ones and life’s important events stirred memories inside of her. ‘What you say makes sense, but I never counted on leaving my hometown, or the Bay Area at least.’ ‘This move will pay off in the end.’ ‘This is a lot more than just an economic decision.’ ‘Understood,’ Craig relented. ‘So can we at least sleep on it tonight?’The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

57 dGina laid upright in bed under the covers while reading a magazine. ‘Now one last thing and I swear I’ll stop bugging you about this,’Craig said from the bathroom sink. ‘With our own house, you’d haveyour own room to do whatever you want with. Think about it.’ Hewent back to brushing his teeth. Gina looked up from her magazine. ‘Like what?’ Craig stopped brushing. ‘Like some of the things you like to do, or talk about doing, sew-ing, art projects, things like that. Maybe you can turn it into a library.’He started brushing again. Gina thought about having an extra room. She found the idea of a room she could design in her own imageappealing. My own little corner of the world, she contemplated. Thepossibility of more space brought about a new yearning. Sure wouldn’tmiss this closet of an apartment, she thought, three fifty a month for aone bedroom, and another rent increase probably on the way. She alsoanticipated how much better open space would be if they had children. Gina speculated further into the future. The possibilities unfurledin her mind, and her dreams grew bright. Then the brightness beganto dim, the open space became engulfing, the move an exile, the rooma cell. Craig finished brushing, rinsed, and came to bed. He got underthe covers and sidled up to Gina. ‘What are you reading?’ ‘Oh, nothing.’ Gina closed the magazine and set it on the night-stand. ‘You know, I was thinking about what’s happening in the worldlately, about how things are thawing out between us and Russia. That’sgoing to change things here in the valley.’ ‘How so?’ ‘Well, it was defense that drove technology and created most ofthe jobs here. If things change, and it looks like they are, that’s go-ing to have to change the job market around here. Booms don’t lastforever.’ ‘And you think it’s going to affect my job?’ The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

58 ‘It might.’ ‘I thought you didn’t want to talk about this anymore tonight,’ Craig kidded. ‘It just occurred to me right now, must have been something I read.’ ‘Well let me put your mind at ease. There are many uses for tech- nology other than defense. I mean, technology is everywhere these days. Ten years ago there were no ATM’s or VCR’s, now they’re every- where. The future is very bright for the computer.’ ‘What if it’s not a smooth transition?’ ‘It’ll transition.’ Gina tried to consider all possibilities. ‘You know, these changes could mean more pay.’ ‘I sure hope so.’ ‘So why not wait to make a decision until after what happens happens?’ Craig seemed intrigued. ‘But what if this opportunity passes by and real estate prices rise over in Modesto?’ ‘What if we go there and die of boredom?’ ‘Boredom is a state of mind,’ Craig reminded. ‘And we are not boring people.’ He relaxed under the covers. ‘Right?’ ‘Of course, it’s the surroundings I worry about. And that long drive five days a week, won’t that make you crazy?’ ‘All I need are my tapes, or I can listen to the sports chat on KNBR. And other Silicon Valley people are moving out there, maybe we can start a carpool.’ Gina pondered. ‘Guess I always look at the glass as half empty.’ ‘Nah, you just need to sleep on it.’ d As Gina drifted toward sleep, she remembered something from her childhood, when she was ten or eleven. Her family was going to go to downtown San Jose for the annual Cinco de Mayo parade. When they got into the car to leave, her father wasn’t with them. She and her siblings had asked their mother why their father wasn’t going. MotherThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

59said that father had some things to take care of. They kept asking theirmother what their father was doing as they drove to downtown. Shesaid their father was working on a project around the house he hadbeen meaning to get to and didn’t want to put it off any longer. Theyfinally arrived at downtown and walked to the parade. Gina remem-bered it was a clear, sunny day, the parade was colorful, musical, andfestive, and they all had a fun time. When they returned home after the parade, father was in thebackyard laying down bricks and mortar for a new walkway. He wasvery intent on his work, and appeared unusually tense. Gina and hersiblings tried to talk to him, but he was too focused on his task.Mother stayed in the house, and when father came in the house theydidn’t say much to each other. A new tension was filling the house. Within a day or two the tension eased back into calmness. Every-thing was seemingly normal again, but her parents interests began togo in different directions, and the light of unity in which she alwayssaw them was changed forever. She had never known what first causedthe rift, but she thought back to that past as if she were seeing it forthe first time. Robert Kirkendall is from San Jose, California, attended San Jose State University, and lives in Santa Cruz, California. He is currently developing a live televised drama anthology show for CTV Santa Cruz and writing the final draft of his novel Redwood Summer The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

60 Threaded Back what of this hole in the skin something about the sun cracking in the blue below the horizon the threads scarlet have nowhere to go back but to dark that dried yesterday all over the tundra the needle made of day could ever be like yesterday a shade on the stitch figuring out figuring outThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

61Obliviousi was not a bad poet thenthe cut on my forehead would still sing with the moonas though untying the knotof a man of chancereturning to the last line of Kafka’s spot —like a dog, like a dog —a fish knife in his eyeas bare as the moonwailing for a pantomime& a cluster of sheep surfacing to my poems hummingthat’s fine, that’s finelife, no billowingi was not maladroit enough to think of a metaphorto travel into with my fatei would just sing alongthat’s fine, that’s finemi luna mi tierrai was not a bad poet thenflaked off the borage blue of the nightthe moon kept waningin my heartwith gored sidesthat could stillcleave a path through the darknessi knewfeeling full of purposebefore the brumal bladeor trying to unfold a creasethat life holds as jarredwere to impedeThe Trialnot worth trying The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

62 ‘with twenty hands’ how much longer could i then behold the smile of the summoners in opera hats like relics of a long gone love everything in the dulling parable was beckoning me nearer to the spleen at the back of my throat as quiet as the night laboring in that page & pages, pages, pages, pages that would come into being to become blotched with an estranged sour touch of the words i tried dead & alive years to come & drift past them when prowling in that moonlit quarry they all would learn to lament: oh poor frog, your heart is still beating! what are you K.? Indian Journal New Delhi: to get more than the dawn a red tulle body flaring up. the mosquito net white & whooshing at times & this foundry of wings of mosquitoes now ready for the spilled over blood.The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

63here sun.somewhere birds crack the skydawn what I fear has never been so latekid’s head buried in my chest.do I knowwhat’s to cry like a bleating sheepbroken lines unfurls K’s poems in my thoughtsobliterating the bleeding sun dissolving into now a distant humvery soon a cacophonous mixwhat’s K to make of it in his poemsI think of the young poet of Kolkata.somewhere the oblique overpasses ask for boundless loveslogging through memoriessnuffing out the first azan of the day & the litanies of the stray dogskid’s skull rolls on my chesthis eyes waking to dawnwhat’s that poet to make of itkid’s eyes etched on his notebook pagewhich is perhaps whiter than the mosquito net now emptied like timeswhen I used to live in this land& never had to step inside.tomorrow I would be again in Kolkatabrushing dust from a palimpsesttoday I would just pass the dayKipling Sahib gazing hatefully on New Delhithe breeze stirring a tattered liana of madhabilatahigh up among the colonial columnsdust on dustto creep throughKolkata: the waterboardingK’s poems are now bowing lower than this planebleeding off its speed The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

64 the cinnamon colored brick kilns look plastered by a green that feels so unwanted in a blood brick telecast on BBC years of rising smoke have gnawed the moulded bricks but the green green green so green that I turn to Lorca’s ballad & cry like a fool unheeded for the girl of bitterness until the touchdown when I hear K whispering I leave you alone for the eve now you would be too blind to trust my poems begin me only when you end your quick days & nights in Kolkata when you are left again to think that you are still stuck like an albino bone in its craw made of loose scoria these long years these long years were not so imminent in my mother’s dream of me becoming a Caliph one fine day seven thousand miles away. these long years were not a life book that rustles inside memories dying in the throat. for a crown of light she has been counting a thousand & one nights. every morning kneeling to the earth she tries to find me again amongst the sprouts. ha the world has to pass mutters my father sparrows cluster in the back of his throat. & here we are home, kid hello hello I say opening the gates of shadows of the crows aloft & aground. the long-spiked coconut tree leaves dance across K’s sun-blazed note- book page capturing kid’s fingers making a ghost with a lump of earth mine tearing the sword-shaped leaves only to reminisce all afternoonThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

65upon a palm frond hat from my school daysmaybe everything might have been...everything like your face in my handsdark eyes glistening in the foldslike malaria now & thenthose love vomit & rum stained clothesmoving under the coal iron in the neighborhoodcoming back laundered the following afternoononly to redeem truth& to rehearse a hundred summers of solitude...to think I’m going to see you again tonighta conjurer had his timeon earth this is the placewhere I can sing I am your mana place that has no place in timeor maybe it’s always just half passedlike this late afternoon sun on water in K’s notebook pagelike this fish put out to crawl through a hologramnever failing kidfish eyes always give him thrillsprocessions passthe foreheads of the deceased pressed against the cobwebbed eveningfeel the reference point that had rattled so hard in lifenow the queue in the burning ghatssouls reassured once oxidized flake after flake& then beguiled by the creeping waters.placid slumbers the Ganges like the night at the bottom of the rootthis is the countrywhere cicadas chase every evening the crackling stars of each cast & class.my friend sings taking my breath awaythe dead to become boats floating downward the rim of the dark skiesdrifting anew in the city alleysin search of hearts that had no refuge from any versions of hearts. The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

66 processions pass shouts drawling a tribute to dawn poppy red flags a street full of scars you ask me how I feel now with my eyes peeled K’s poems stopped to bleed into the evening so wet & claiming now again mouth into mouth we keep frisking & gamboling round the night we come & coming on like a hemorrhage like Fidel Castro floating belly up dying of his own death I need not watch for the moon I close my eyes to get more than the dawn more than its billow & spray more than K’s love poems glittering like war their curl of waves that come rolling in & I say Kolkata, my tin soldier the waterboarding is all yours Debasis Mukhopadhyay holds a PhD in literary studies and lives and writes in Montreal, Canada. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Curly Mind, After the Pause, Posit, Mannequin Haus, Yellow Chair Review, Thirteen Myna Birds, Of/With, I am not a silent poet, New Verse News, Scarlet Leaf Review, With Painted Words, Silver Birch Press, and elsewhere. Follow him at debasismukhopadhyay.wordpress.comThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

67POETRYRESHMA RAMESH MaceI unbutton your poems word by word not as a touristbut as a travellerthe one who sits on roof tops of buses not pictures,the one who likes to cycle through stanzas stopping atbus stops not to ask directions from strangersbut to find out their names and where they came from,I draw them out of camel tracks, eerie havelis, a bangle maker’shands wrinkled like a used unstarched cotton dhoti. The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

68 Your poems are like drum beaters, chest thumpers, fire handlers and acrobats, loud and obnoxious the kind I do not want to read. I like stories that have thick walls, a court yard, a priest, pot holes, a manganiyar singing while his tired wife looks on, eagles flying over forts, opium clad deserts, stranded couple, a bird on the roof and some warm milk. Stories where you meet your father’s teacher, where wind mills have lost their way and have blue painted houses that do not look spectacular but only ordinary, stories that have pitch darkness. Silence. I slip my hands between your words to caress golden sand dunes, temple bells, like one would worship a family deity. I want to have arguments with your verbs, with their carved windows and narrow lanes. I want to meet them midway between being written and heard.The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

69 Window SillYou break me up into descending rain,listen to me as you listen to nothing when you enter your empty house,arbitrarily, condensed and very conscious.You climb up my sleevesA quarter of me is below your poised poem as you reach for my eyesto look into faded pages from a book.A book that was written when you did not know we existed,While you unstitched the noise of a train and I stitched airFar away from each other closing and opening doorsYet always standing by the window just hopinghoping that someday a sparrow would arriveand place a summer on our sill. Reshma Ramesh is a prominent voice in Kavya Sanje, a popular poetry platform in Bangalore and has presented her poem for Handloom Movement, Swachh Bharat campaign, Flamingo Festival, etc, and attended PULARA7 International Poetry and Folk Song Festival in Pangkor Island Malaysia. Her collection of poems, Reflection of Illusions was published by Writer’s Workshop. Also a photography degree holder, Reshma practices dental surgery in Bangalore The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

70 POETRY SUE ANN OWENS Photo Session with Street Orphans Stop everything! Don’t give me your young look. What drama is there in simple smiles or tears? When this camera’s shutter snaps Please, no more faces frozen in masks of innocence We must start again — in focus.The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

71Give me your crocodile grin,your hawk keen gleam.Show me your buzzard brutalityor your ‘Who done it?’ look.All together-again.Pose, home sweet homeless.Unveil your scorpion tailsand the red serpents housedin your heartless scowls.Show the worldyour feigned ferocity. Street ScarsYou wear them like war painteach with its specificcomplaint and gleeChildren, must you carve your nameslike epitaphs into your armsinto the very heart of me.Bolivar, you do have a yento profess to your handiworkwounds from jagged bottle glasson your ex-best friendHow crass! Jose, you show and tellthe razor’s gash on Raphaelthat barely missed his smile.Jose Luis, should I admire The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

72 all seven stitches from Martin’s machete that nearly split your scull in half like a coconut. Dare you laugh. And Eddie, on your neck the row of cigarette burns that your dear father once blessed are no less than Que Mado’s knife wounds where hematomas have raised little ant hills around his heart. To the Deaf-Mute Street Orphan Your harpist fingers sing make music with air paintings twisting your wrists with love circles you tell me the same time tomorrow you will be waiting I hear the voice of your dimples your script of scars tell stories and the brief storminess of your tears on the verge of spilling stirs even the hearts of goatsThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

73do not try to say, ‘I love you.’words are now superfluouschild of the unstrung instrumentyour speech of violets surpass The PartingGoodbye with your faces of flushed amethystsweet pickle ears and persimmon kissesI will miss the clown suit of your laughteryour voices rising and fallingwith death’s shortness of breath will frequent my dreams foreverforever your faces will confront me in catacombs of sleepdecomposing faces that bloom up at mefrom out of the temple ruinswhere grow the dead roses of your cheeks Sue Ann Owens is an author and nonprofit activist on issues pertaining to homeless and abandoned children. Her work with Children of the Americas in Santo Domingo and throughout the Dominican Republic, providing care and assistance on the street to street orphans inspired her poetry and forthcoming novel. She lives in Tucson, Arizona The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

74 INTERVIEW WITH AMITAV GHOSH MURALI KAMMA A Planet in Peril The 2016 presidential contenders barely discussed climate change, although Donald Trump—whose stunning victory dismayed environmentalists, among many others—has made no secret of his deep skepticism. The timing couldn’t be worse for the world, because the progress we’re making is now in jeopardy. Author Amitav Ghosh explains why global warming is such a potent threat. Every now and then, we’ve come across a book or a film whose timing was so uncanny that we wondered how the author or the auteur knew their topic would be, well, trending. Amitav Ghosh’s The Great Derangement: Climate Change and the Unthinkable, published by theThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

75University of Chicago Press this year, is one such example. Of course, the alarm over climate change and its consequences isnot new; what’s been newsworthy is the heartening resolve so manynations have shown in tackling the issue. And that included the UnitedStates, which supported the Paris and Kigali Agreements, each signedby close to 200 nations. However, after President Trump walked out of the recent Parisclimate meet, all bets are off. In fact, President Trump—who oncetweeted that human-created global warming was a hoax—thinks us-ing financial resources for climate change policies is a waste of money. Why are there so many skeptics? Does economic growth at anycost trump everything else? Perhaps the message is not getting acrossbecause it’s hard to envision a transformed planet. Even the terms(‘climate change; and ‘global warming’) are not scary. They may evensound benign to some people. Maybe they don’t induce panic becausethe science is complicated, although the impact of human actions isnot easy to miss. Denialism can be a way to avoid responsibility. ‘I don’t think messaging is the problem, really,’ Ghosh says. ‘Thereality is that it’s almost impossible for most of us to take adaptivemeasures as individuals.’ In his book, Ghosh writes that recognition of the problem is notthe same as comprehension—and, invariably, we want to maintain thestatus quo. But that’s increasingly untenable in the face of stark, ob-servable scientific findings. So is there hope for the earth? ‘Whether or not it’s too late to reverse climate change is a ques-tion best answered by scientists,’ he says.’The consensus seems to bethat some very serious impacts are inevitable—and indeed we’re seeingthem unfold around us already.’ The statistics are chilling. To give an idea, according to the Inter-national Energy Agency, air pollution accounts for about 6.5 milliondeaths every year, and according to the UN, around 300 million chil-dren—the majority being South Asian—breathe extremely toxic air.On one occasion recently, the pollution level in Delhi was so high thatover 1800 schools were closed—not a comforting thought for par-ents. Rising affluence cannot insulate people from such dangers. With The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

76 about 24 percent of India’s arable land gradually turning into desert, a two-degree Celsius increase in global average temperature would slash the nation’s food supply by a quarter. The Paris Agreement aspires to limit the rise of the global mean temperature to 1.5 degrees Celsius—but even that’s widely thought to be out of reach, Ghosh points out. This year’s average temperatures, almost certainly the highest on record, are said to be about 1.2 degrees Celsius above what the world experienced before the Industrial Revo- lution. In this century, according to the World Meteorological Orga- nization, we’ve had 16 of the 17 hottest years on record. Another study shows that rising sea levels could lead to the migration of up to 50 million Indians and 75 million Bangladeshis. Another example, to stay with the subcontinent, is the impending water crisis. The water stored in the Himalayan ice sustains 47 percent of the world’s population; ‘in 2008 it was found that the Himalayan glaciers had already lost all the ice formed since the mid-1940s.’ A third may disappear by 2050. Grim predictions, indeed. Will we have a ‘9/11 moment,’ in the not-too-distant future, when the reality of climate change hits us with such force that we’ll never forget it? Saying that we’re already ‘reaching some sort of inflection point,’ Ghosh adds, ‘The other day on the New York subway, I heard five separate conversations on Hurricane Sandy.’ In an Antique Land, Ghosh’s highly praised nonfiction debut, will endure. But he is mostly known for his novels, which range from The Circle of Reason and The Shadow Lines, in the early period, to the more recent Ibis Trilogy. He is also the author of The Glass Palace and The Hungry Tide, and it was the latter novel—set in the dense Sundar- bans of eastern India—that made him a passionate environmentalist. The novel was released in 2004, just a few months before an under- sea earthquake measuring 9.0 on the Richter scale triggered an epic tsunami in the Indian Ocean, causing horrific death and destruction. That was Ghosh’s 9/11 moment. ‘The news had a deeply unsettling effect on me: the images that had been implanted in my mind by the writing of The Hungry Tide merged with live television footage of the tsunami in a way that was almost over- whelming,’ he writes. ‘I became frantic; I could not focus on anything.’The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

77 Now, over a decade later, Ghosh points out that India’s west coast—which has long been less vulnerable—may experience even more devas-tation than the east coast. Citing long-term projections that show cy-clonic activity increasing by 46 percent in the Arabian Sea, while fallingby 31 percent in the Bay of Bengal, he says, ‘These developments willhave very serious implications for India because so much of our indus-trial and commercial infrastructure is concentrated on the west coast.’ Does that mean living by the water will no longer be prized? It’s asign of affluence, after all. A beautiful home with a gorgeous view maybe the ultimate status symbol for the aspiring class. Ghosh notes that the allure of beach front properties wasn’t—orisn’t—universal. ‘In India, and in most other Asian countries, peoplewere hesitant to build near the sea until quite recently. Nor are ‘seaviews’ prized everywhere. In, Indonesia, in most traditional communi-ties, people build their houses facing away from the sea.’ What’s clear is that, regardless of our preferences, the price of liv-ing near the water is going up—and it has little to do with real estatevalues. Global warming will raise sea levels and wreak havoc in coast-al communities. Already, we’re seeing the effects of super storms—whether you want to call them hurricanes, cyclones, or typhoons—which can be at least partly attributed to climate change. Does thatmean more and more people will have to move inland? ‘People living on the coast, or close to flood-prone rivers, will cer-tainly need to act to protect themselves,’ Ghosh says. ‘Unfortunately,for most people, moving presents many practical obstacles. How dothey dispose of their houses? What do they do about their mortgages?And so on.’Besides, moving inland presents its own challenges if wedon’t seriously tackle the real problem. ‘Many inland communities arealready having to deal with drought, ‘rain bombs,’ flooding, intensify-ing wildfires, and so on.’ In his book, Ghosh examines climate change from three angles—literary, historical, and political. Considering works from various cul-tures, in the first section, Ghosh takes issue with the contemporarystance that novels work best when they focus exclusively on individu-als and their stories. What about the collective—and what about the The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

78 great dramas of nature, which may become more ‘deranged’ as climate change accelerates? What about other creatures? Perhaps we’re too de- tached to sense the urgency of the challenges facing us. John Steinbeck may seem a little old-fashioned today, but in his work, ‘what we see, rather, is a visionary placement of the hu- man within the nonhuman; we see a form, an approach that grapples with climate change avant la lettre.’ That’s not all. ‘Around the world, too, there are many writers—not all of them realists—from whose work neither the aggregate nor the nonhuman have ever been absent,’ Ghosh notes. ‘To cite only a few examples from India: in Bengali, there is the work of Adwaita Mallabarman and Mahasweta Devi; in Kan- nada, Sivarama Karanth; in Oriya, Gopinath Mohanty; in Marathi, Vishwas Patil.’ A stinging assessment of colonialism’s impact is given in the sec- ond section of Ghosh’s book: how the promotion of fossil-fuel econo- mies in the West forestalled more sustainable models of development, as articulated by Gandhi and other dissenters. Moreover, as a supplier of raw materials that fueled Britain’s rise, India for a long time had to put off building its own carbon-based economy. And now, as Indians (and others) play catch-up by replicating the same kind of modernity, and seek the same kind of prosperity in rising numbers, we’ve realized that ‘every family in the world cannot have two cars, a washing ma- chine, and a refrigerator—not because of technical or economic limita- tions but because humanity would asphyxiate in the process.’The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

79 Though we’re seeing the effects of climate change, India and otherdeveloping countries have been more focused on their economic objec-tives, perhaps understandably. They no longer have that luxury—allother goals become moot when your very existence is under threat. Be-cause the political establishment tends to focus on the narrow concernsof citizens, it needs other allies to tackle global threats like climatechange, even when nation-states come together. The allies Ghosh hasin mind may surprise some people. ‘If religious groupings around the world can join hands with pop-ular movements, they may well be able to provide the momentum thatis needed for the world to move forward on drastically reducing emis-sions without sacrificing considerations of equity,’ he writes. But in the modern world, where we turn to science and technol-ogy for sophisticated solutions, this approach may seem antiquated.Ghosh disagrees, noting that ‘religious world views are not subject tothe limitations that have made climate change such a challenge forour existing institutions of governance: they transcend nation-states,and they all acknowledge intergenerational, long-term responsibilities;they do not partake of economistic ways of thinking and are there-fore capable of imagining nonlinear change…in ways that are perhapsclosed to the forms of reason deployed by contemporary nation-states.’ While it’s understandable that growth without equality or envi-ronmental awareness is morally bankrupt, isn’t it true that religiousbeliefs can be a barrier when they’re at odds with scientific views?Climate change denialists come in all stripes. ‘I think Pope Francis’s encyclical is perhaps the single most im-portant development on the climate change frontier,’ he responds. ‘Wecan only hope that other religious groups and figures will start wakingup to this issue.’ As he notes in his book, ‘Finally, it is impossible tosee any way out of this crisis without an acceptance of limits and limi-tations, and this, in turn, is, I think, intimately related to the idea ofthe sacred, however one may wish to conceive of it.’ The biggest impediment for making changes as individuals,Ghosh points out, is that we don’t get how the crisis is also a crisis ofculture. Is it the culture of consumption, specifically? The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

80 ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘consumption and culture have been very closely linked for some time now. Consider the romance with the automobile that has long been a feature of American life. Today it is very much a feature of Indian and Chinese life as well.’ What, then, can we do at the micro level? At the macro level, as he makes clear, the distribution of power in the world lies at the core of the climate crisis. But at the individual level, what choices should we make? What can we do to make a difference? ‘There are many things that we can and should do as individuals,’ Ghosh says. ‘Some of them are obvious, like cutting back on consump- tion, wasting less, being careful with water usage, etc. But it’s perhaps even more important to try to bring these issues to the attention of politicians and leaders at the municipal, state, and national levels. At the same time, at a personal level, we can also examine our own priori- ties and prepare for the unexpected.’ The interview first appeared in Atlanta, US-based Khabar.com. Murali Kamma is the managing editor of an Atlanta-based features magazine Khabar. com. His fiction has appeared in Lakeview International Journal of Literature and Arts, Rosebud, Asian Pacific American Journal, South Asian Review, India Currents, The Missing Slate, America’s Intercultural Maga- zine, India Abroad, Trikone Magazine, Muse India, and is forthcoming in EastlitThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

81BIO-FICTIONIt’s stormy and raining. A flash penetrates the room through cracks near the roof. ‘Turn off the radio!’ Dad shouts to beat the sound oftrees flapping in the wind outside. He’s always told me lightning in-terferes with radio waves. I hesitate a little. He thinks I haven’t heardhim. He says it again, this time rolling his fist with the thumb pressedagainst the index to signal a turn off. I nod. The crack in the wall be-hind the stool scares me. I turn the radio off and rush back to where Ihave been sitting the whole afternoon. Night is creeping in. The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

82 ‘Let’s run to aunt’s house.’ Nobody responds. I look at dad. He hasn’t heard me. He keeps wandering from room to room moving plates and pots to trap rainwa- ter from leaks. When he is still, he gazes at the roof. His face glows before he’s interrupted by another thunderbolt. I glance at mum. She turns her face away. ‘People, let’s go to aunt’s…’ ‘I will stay,’ dad cuts me short. ‘We will find you,’ mum says. They are releasing me. They share 132 years between them. They aren’t leaving each other. For some minutes, we all quietly stare at the candle burning out. It struggles in the winds blowing through cracks near the roof and the broken windows. Then, the house starts howling. I want to ask mum and dad to run. Again. But they have been blunt about their intent to stay just some moments ago. After this, my elder sister will check on us at dawn. The roof shakes violently. The winds want to tear it off. They have started throwing debris inside. Through the window. Everyone notices but we all remain silent. I take a long gaze at dad and mum. And try closing my eyes. That’s even scarier. I reminisce 2010. At a house dad’s eldest son had constructed for us. I had returned from Zomba to join the rest of the family having completed my first year in university. I hadn’t been in regular contact with my parents now that Desmond, my other brother, had relocated to near where he was teaching. I would just call and ask him to pass my regards to mum and dad. And our only sister in the village. That December, I was anticipating a fabulous vacation. My twin sister would be back from town. We were a little unsure about our other two little sisters who were residing in the capital. I arrived in my hometown some days before schools closed but I didn’t go straight home. I rested at Desmond’s place because he told me he had also taken some days off to join us. I finally reached home with my brother in the very first days of December. We were welcomed by Chuck’s wagging tail. And dad on a chair behind the house where he always sat listening to the BBC. ‘Welcome home brothers.’The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

83 He grinned as he moved the radio from his lap to the chair to helpus with our luggage. Mum had gone out but she would be back beforedusk. We returned the grin. ‘We are here. A nice place isn’t it?’ ‘Yeah, very quiet,’ I chipped in. My brother was already moving around inspecting the house,whistling throughout. Unlike the old one, it was very spacious andlocated at the very end of our clan compound. Dad liked privacy andour old house had forced him into a position of compromise. But itwas still good because being the oldest brother to our aunts he was theclan head. Everyone was obliged to pass through him, which wasn’teasy with the relocation. ‘It’s almost finished. We’re just waiting for panes and we will begood to go.’ Mum joined in the celebration of our arrival when she returnedthat evening. She was happy that we were five now: dad, herself, Des-mond, I and Chuck. ‘You just left us with Chuck you guys. The good thing is hedoesn’t wander a lot.’ We laughed. Mum was a very different person. She still is. She always thoughtfarming. That’s what I dreaded. ‘Now that you are here and the rains are also almost here, we willhave enough manpower for the fields.’ We just laughed it off and discussed about voluntary constructionwork that was going on at our local church and other stories untilnight came. In the coming days, we spent our mornings in the fields ridgingand the afternoons at home playing draughts. And listening to snarlsabout skyrocketing corn and sugar prices from regular church visitors.Mum had a soft spot for friends complaining about the rising cost ofliving. It made her a terrible church treasurer, but very loved by every-one - from the pastor to those that attended service for just enoughSundays to earn her trust. Sunday, December 10th 2010, Desmond and I woke up late after The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

84 a village football match the previous day. From our window, we could see clouds threatening with rains, but they disappeared at the first sight of the sun over the plateau east. Since late November, the days had been like that. We were starting to long for rains with chiefs and other village elders organizing rain prayers. As I left our room to sweep around the compound, the sun was already burning my bare feet from under. ‘Seems you aren’t ready for church again today. See you when we are back.’ ‘See you,’ I responded. As mum and dad returned in the afternoon, the clouds that had vanished early that morning had started reemerging. ‘It will rain today,’ dad said, with an air of satisfaction. Mum prepared lunch quickly and moved all kitchen utensils into the house. Clouds kept forming until around 3pm when showers started. The rattling sounds on the roof became louder each passing moment. ‘This must be Chiperone,’ dad said, sending us around to check if all doors and windows had been sealed. The winds were forcing the rains into the sitting room through the windows. We had nailed sacks to frames for protection against winds and rains but Chiperone was proving stronger. ‘Let’s go to our rooms. They are much safer than here.’ We all left for our bedrooms. We were on our beds when tragedy struck. Without warning, the winds ripped the siding from the house’s exterior walls and at one go lifted the entire roof away. Before we could even react, we heard a crushing sound from the living room. Without talking to each other, Desmond and I sprang up from where we stood and darted for the corridor. Rains whipped us in the few seconds we dashed across the living room and trod over the collapsed wall to outside. We were wres- tling with the rains and the wind in the open when Desmond stopped. Mum and dad. They just stood still in the rains watching the whole house crumble. We rushed back. We grabbed them by the hands and ran. When the rains stopped at around 5pm, we slowly padded to where our house had stood just that very afternoon. Mum cried.The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

85 Soon, a crowd gathered. Everyone looked scared. They helped uspull out what was left under the rubble. Then, mum heard Chuck yelp.The living room wall had fallen over him. A group of boys tried lift-ing the block as the yelps subsided into whimpers. When they finallylifted it, he ran. ‘This whole block fell over him,’ I explained to my in-law whenhe arrived about half an hour later. ‘You’re lucky. When a building collapses, and the wall falls on apet, you’re very lucky.’ I looked into his eyes. ‘It was supposed to be one of you under that block,’ he sneezed,before joining the crowd in the search for more property. We could’ve died that afternoon. Now, we’re even snapping questions at each other on whether weshould run. Another thunderbolt. The whizzes get louder. I look atdad and mum once more. Then, the roof lifts up but the wires tyingit to the wall hold it back. It falls with rumbles, sending some debrisdown. I don’t want to die. Without a word, I sprint to the door. A fewminutes later, am not even in the rains. I have escaped to aunt’s house.I rush straight to the bedroom I borrow when I’m home. As I roll thecurtains to check on our house, I see mum and dad in the rains. Beaton Galafa holds a Bachelor’s degree in Education from the University of Malawi. His works have appeared in The Maynard, South 85 Journal, Birds Piled Loosely, The Voices Project, Bhashabandhan Literary Review and Betrayal: a collection of poetry and prose on betraying and being betrayed by Robin Barratt. He is the current chairperson for Pen Avenue Malawi and the Founding Editor of nthandareview.com, a Malawian online literary magazine The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

86 FICTION When them pupils go demon-dime and the numbs begin ta tingle, that’s when I know I’m back. If I lie still enough, I’ll feel myself takin flight and I’ll hear momma whisperin ta me ta have a good night and then I’ll smile big and wide and breathe deep and think bout how momma dresses me and how she sometimes likes ta leave the tag on jus in case I don’t like it none, but I always love it. Papa tells me I’s special. Papa tells me that I’s conceived from jus a kiss and he tells me it all started with him beggin pretty momma for jus one little kiss, and when she did, he slipped her me, right onta her tongue and she saw my colors beginnin ta bloom and she knew some’n truly special was brewin. Papa told me I’s born that very same night, up there at that Eastside Tulsa Vet, right across the street from the El Chico restaurant. I sure love hearin the story cause it make me smile every time papa tells it, but I suppose everybody loves hearin bout how they came abouts. Papa was jus originally gonna stop by there ta let momma pet on them homeless kitties and Papa said momma was so tripped up she kept tellin em that the wallsThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

87looked like the floors and the floors looked like the walls. Papa was good buddies with the doggy doc there, who was jus sohappenin ta be workin on this big pooch that he had all propped up andon the tall table, and this big doggy was hurtin and bleedin and lookedlike he’d been shot by a farmers two barrel, and the doggy was pantin andin pain and was havin a hard time breathin and momma kept sayin thatwatchin that hurtin doggy was makin her numbs tingle a bit and shestarted gettin anzy from a sting she’d never felt before, and when thatdoggy doc said he was gonna have ta put em down, papa asked mommaif she wanted ta test out those new feels a hers, and she told Papa that thedoggy’s cries a pain was makin her feel sad and she’d never felt this waybefore and it was doublin her over like they’s labor pains or somein, andPapa told momma ta breathe. The doctor already had an IV line in thedoggy and a syringe full a some frothy, milk lookin stuff and papa said hisassistant, some gangly chinaman pushed in that syringe and fed the lineand it made the doggy go into a deep sleep. Papa walked my momma up to the dyin pooch and guided her tremb-lin hand onto the doggy and placed the heal of her palm onto his chest andPapa said that when the doggy doc nodded ta his assistant, the chinamanquickly unscrewed one syringe and put another one on, a clear one. Then hetold momma that they’s pushin in the heart stopper and papa said mommastarted full body shakin as she began feelin that doggy’s heart race at first,before then breakin rhythm and quiverin and then stoppin, and then she letout a gasp and papa said her eyes started tearin and she made a big, sad smilebefore laughin nervously and grabbin her chest and sayin she could feel thegood in her tryin ta come out. Then she got real dizzy. And then it happened. I came inta this world and I looked up at Papafor the first time and I’s cold but I wasn’t, and I looked down at that poordead doggy and I embraced him and we stayed there for hours and Papaheld me, and I was so scared but he held me so tight and I felt so safe andeven though I didn’t know him, I knew he had ta be my papa by the wayhe looked at me. The way he treated me. Papa drove me home and I remember how green the grasses was andhow it was as if the world was a picture paint, and I told Papa that whenyu drive too fast yu smearin up the world and he laughed and said that The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

88 callin him papa was gonna take some gettin used too, and he said I’s makin him feel like a mad scientist. d Every night before the dawn I’d cry cause I’d get real weak and sleepy and start feelin different. I told Papa that every time I went ta sleep I felt like I’m dyin, like I might not ever come back and he would rub them bangs outta my hair and kiss me on the cheek and tell me you got nothin ta worry bout and I’d look over and see them sheets a stickers. Papa made stickers and stamps and he’d drip stuff on em. He had him all kinds a stickers. Neon stickers, peace sign stickers, horsey stickers, a bunch a hap- py face stickers. He had set aside some big sheets a baby bee stickers and I asked papa if those are for me and he’d smiled and said they’s actually for momma and he said ‘momma uses em when she misses ya’. Then I went ta sleep cause I sleep a lot and I saw momma when she was a little girl in the dirt circle, a little girl that didn’t feel the way you or I feel, and she was buildin castles in the Pit dirt and she’s all smiles, and then I see the bird ribbons a blood soarin in the air and then splatterin on that very same dirt, the iron stench, and I smelt it well, as if she’s wavin it right under my nose, the blood mud and the always single, bright light from above, cuttin through that marlboro haze and lookin like a bright moon tryin ta push through a dark, fall- en cloud mornin’. I see her grippin a chain link circle cage with blood red fingernail polish, a slick floor concrete pit, the grey floor coated in the smeared crimson, paws slippin, clawin fightin for the traction, in the back a some industrial nowhere. And I see the flickerin a fire light and it paints the side of a barn with quivery, spooky shadows. The outdoor, cage-less Pits now,... the cheers of a tipsy, blood thirsty crowd, the pig pens and the fasted hogs that wait in the delight ta dine on the loser. Two dogs tied in, the teeth clinch, them whimpers, so loud, and it scared me and I woke up and screamed for papa and he came runnin and I told him that I’m scared a momma’s stuff and he gave me one a momma’s stickers and told me to put in my mouth and then I relaxed a bit and I asked him if momma works with doggy’s andThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

89he nodded and said that momma is a special kind a doggy trainer, oneof the best in the Midwest and I smiled and we had pizza and he tookme up ta see one a his newborn nephews at the hospital. I got ta holdhim and his smell, his sight, he was so beautiful, it’s like I couldn’t takeit and I asked papa if I could have babies someday and he said ‘you cando anything you heart desires.’ dI saw in my dreams a doggy mutt shakin up on that big centennial oak,the one that’s up there on the hill. A stolen family doggy. A retriever mixmaybe. His snout ducked taped. He’s tied to a tree. The young girl is mymomma and she smiles and touches the doggy as he goes a frightful jumptwitch and the doggy fears momma cause the doggy should fear mommaand I see momma smile in the sight of his fear, not with a sinister feel, butmore of an interestin one, and I feel her feels and her feels, they feel wayoff course. All that’s in her feels is like, the superficial, the hunger and thethirst, and the cold and the hot and the pain and the feel goods and it’s,..itsas if everything else was left out and if I look deep in momma I see neithergood nor evil, but instead like this machine glowin on with blinkin buttons. I see her and the other dog’s coming down the path and she smilesand looks to her papa who stands nearby with rifle in hand, with a happy,proud look, and these doggy’s, they’s comin but they’s ain’t dogs, not nomore. They somethin else. They are all steam nosed, and their heads arelike watermelons and their ears clipped by chew, and them scars upontheir mouths are paper white and they move like demons and the packraces towards her and she stands there with this dull, spark of a rollercoaster fear cause this feel, this little bit a rush is all the feel she can musterup. She closes her eyes and smiles and extends her hands in trust and asthey come, the packs move around her as if she wasn’t there, or as if thesedemons from hell recognize her as one of their own. She smiles a bit asthey brush by and tickle her finger tips and palms and the wind createsa gust that scatters her pretty blonde bangs and she turns and opens hereyes and watches as the pack moves in on the bound doggy whose life willbe sacrificed for practice sake and she looks upon the animals with a satis- The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

90 fied smile as them pits lunge upon the dog with quick, retractin like bites that don’t look natural but instead trained, like technique; the extend, the bite, the pull, the tear, only ta repeat, the extend, the bite, pull, tear, like a boxers jab, a technique not ta kill but ta harm. They test and prod for defenses, defenses that, in this poor animals case didn’t exist none and the crimson colors spray in the air by just these, gentle, probin attacks, that which has already killed the doggy, whose corpse now lies a bloody meat bag, unrecognizable and the practice continues and it twitches on the grass, lifeless but being pushed by the dogs continuous strikes. I wake and I pet on my kitty and sometimes papa records me on the big camera thingy. Papa shows me the stars and it’s like I remember all this, and yet it all feels so new to me like I’m just an over-sized newborn. Like they’s someone else memories and i’s feelin em. d I see momma grown up now, tapin up dog snouts with expert speed and I see rows and rows a various house doggies. Labs, Goldens, and a few little nipper dogs and she’s got a thin, jus bout dead, row a duct tape that she finishes off on a big, fat lab mix who fights her a bit but, with experience, she sits on his back and winds the last bit around his mouth, takin a bit of the paper roll with it. These doggies are all scared and shakin as if they know what horrible death is ta come of em, and I see momma walkin a big pit on leash slowly up a steep hill. The dog struggles as he drags a rope tied on his harness, the end of the frayin rope tied ta a loop chain that necklaces a whole clankin cluster a old, rusty barbell plates that drag with dirt markin till, turnin green grass up. The plates, they rattle as this muscular, dog grips the ground with his paws and pulls in with sinewy struggle. Momma reaches the top of the hill and thinks bout me. d Why you cryin?’ I asked Papa while watchin him squish a tear before it rolled into his mouth. ‘There’s a lot you don’t know.’ Papa said ta me and I begged em taThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

91explain it and he jus shook his head and was all teary eyed. ‘Momma’s hell bent on cookin ya in permanent. Even if it kills her’ hesays and I asked him if he misses momma and he nodded and said he lovesmomma but it was too weird and they couldn’t stay together the same waythey used ta be together. Then I asked him about the dreams and aboutmomma and he told me that she was a dog trainer and I asked him whatkind a dog trainer? I could see him gulpin a bit and then I asked him againand he told me that I probably already knew and I gulped cause I did know. ‘Does she have trouble doin it?’ and he looked at me. ‘Trouble doin it?’ ‘Hurtin em?’ He looked at me and smiled and shook his head with confidence.’Never.’ I got upset and he told me that you momma didn’t want me ta tellyou cause momma thinks you’re such a good person but I didn’t really un-derstand how momma could be like that. And papa told me that mommaain’t like me or even him. He said that momma was born with themnumbs and that she couldn’t really feel too well. ‘Momma tried ta be a better person...I tried ta help her, we,. tried tajump start them feels a hers, but,... she got you instead,.and she’s real happybout that.’ Papa said ta me while flashin me one them lovin papa looks. I cried a little cause papa cried a little and I went ta sleep cause mostof my life is sleep and I saw momma again up on the hill and she was filindown, dullin the canines on a chained bird dog with a grinder file and thedog wrestles her but she knows how ta do it, once again climbin on thedocile doggy’s back and pinnin him, preparin the soon ta be live sparrinpractice. Her face is pale, cold, with these no sleep swells, stuck in thenumbs. She walks over and brings one her latest clients, a young pit pupwith a lot of potential, good fightin stock, good genes but too gentle, tookind in his youth. She warms up the cattle prod, her instrument to bringabout the beasts, and I yell at her. I screamed at her ta stop, and she looksup. I think she hears me. dPapa laid me out some ugly clothes and said I had ta dress professional The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

92 cause momma took someone else’s meds instead a papa’s, and it was a bad batch. I asked papa if she was poisoned and he shook his head and said that Clay always dunks his sheets instead a drippin em and I didn’t know what that meant but either way papa said it stretched my trip way too long and momma wouldn’t be back till god knows when, so I’s gonna have ta cover. I didn’t want ta have ta watch, but papa said I didn’t have to, that I jus had ta be there. I took a chair by the big bon fire and jus stared at that illuminatin barn that beakoned with both the artificial light and fire light inside, and you could hear the screamin and shoutin a drunks and I watched as a big man walked over and he was, carrying two dogs by the scruff and they’s weren’t movin and they’s both dead but they’s still locked onta each other in this death clinch. They’s like a big doggy knot and the man, ...the man, he, ...he didn’t even bother ta break em apart, he didn’t even try ta untangle em, instead he just tossed em on top of the bonfire and, when he did it, it felt, it felt like some- one had just stabbed me. Then the man, he waved at me with a smile cause he thought he knew me. I started shakin as I watched them animals burn. I couldn’t get that image outta my noggin and no matter how much I shook it, it wouldn’t go away and then I got real dizzy and felt real sick. d I woke and I looked over and I saw papa standin in the kitchen. Papa came over and brushed my hair and he started askin me stuff that I didn’t un- derstand. Talkin to me like i’s a different person, askin me questions that got me stuck in the headlights a clueless. While waitin for my response he must a caught my blank gaze. ‘Milley?’ he said and when I looked at him strangely again. ‘Bee?’ he said and I told em I’m hungry and his face relaxed and he smiled and kissed me and I asked him how momma was and he said that ‘momma don’t care bout momma no more. She only cares bout you.’ And then I smelt coffee and then I went ta sleep. d Papa woke me up. It was my birthday and I asked him how momma wasThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

93and he said bout the same and he made me my favorite, the spaghetti andthe meatballs. ‘Oh... your momma got yu somethin.’ he said pullin out and slid-din me a silver wrapped little present across the dinnin table. ‘From momma?’ ‘From momma.’ Papa said I unravel it and open it up and it was a name tag that said Pets-Martwith momma’s name on it and I look at Papa all excited like, and under-neath it was a folded up piece a yellow paper and I unfolded it and it wasan outline a momma’s hand and I put my hand in her trace around, and itfit like we’s twins and I closed my eyes and smiled and pretended that meand momma were holdin hands. I looked up ta papa while lettin my tears run inta my mouth. ‘Momma got her a new job?’ I ask. Papa nods. ‘Momma got a new job..’ he says. ‘She gonna teach doggy’s how ta sit now?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘And that’s all?’ ‘Yeah,’ Papa said with a smile. WA Coleman is a freelancer and fiction writer based out of Tulsa, Oklahoma. His work has been featured in Evergreen Review, Houston Literary, 3 AM, Thrice Fiction, Founding Re- view, Echo Ink, Crack the Spine and many more. His first collection entitled Wound and Suture (Montag Press) was published last year The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

94 FICTION 5 Rain was spilling out on the pavements. Copper clouds were danc- ing slowly... Ümit woke up with his mother’s caress on his head. From his dear mother’s eyes, the most timid look of compassion was flowing on this face. Miss Nebiye had already made her prayers and prepared the breakfast. ‘Come on my son, tea is ready.’ ‘Hmm, ok mom.’ Mister İbrahim had already got his place at the table. The stressed eyebrows hiding the soft corners of his heart had their shift on the north of his face. Even his wife for 40 years, Miss Nebiye couldn’t see that he laughed bass-baritone. Maybe he smiled a little...When their son was born. According to Mister İbrahim, a father figure had to be hard. Be- cause he was the king in this small monarchy which he called ‘my family’. His frowning eyebrows and his voice in a high decibel were the shields of this ruling power. After washing and shaving his face, ÜmitThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

95walked towards the desk with sleepy steps. ‘Good morning father.’ ‘Good morning,’ murmured the father, not caring to look at Ümitby lifting his eyes from the egg that he was peeling. Miss Nuriye put the teapot on the table. The teapot was sleep-ily murmuring it’s vapour. The silent air in the room which expandedwith the vapour was forcing the windows. Ümit wanted to hit his heartto the street... Like every other morning, he kissed his mother’s hands thatlooked like crippled paper and he went flying down the steps, leavingbehind the murmuring prayers. He confronted the rain outside thedoor. He looked to the sky, pulling his head up. Sky put little rain kisses on his face. His heart was like a butterflywhich came out from it’s cone. Now was the time to fly with the infi-nite motion of life... He threw a bashful gaze on the window of the house on the otherside from under his eyebrows when he was opening the door of his car.The sunscreens were not yet opened to the day. The rooms had notstarted yet to unburden themselves to the city. Was Zafer awake?... What kind of an expression would be on hisface while he was sleeping. All his gazes passed by the windows exte-rior but his heartbeat in the house for a few seconds. He hit the road to the Station. He put a cassette on the car’sstereo. The city was trying to reach life’s speed. The shutters wereopening with rusty noises; the shop windows were putting on theirbright masks with anxiety. The garbage man was sweeping off thetired memories of the night. The sparrows which were afraid of thecopper shield of the sky, were hiding the fears under the roofs thatwere not fitting into their little hearts, postponing to fly. People were trying to catch buses and ferry boats, dragging theirfrowning-faces with themselves. Everybody was anxious to open aspace, in accordance to their volume. Their anxious footsteps wereblending with each other. Nobody was able to catch-up with him.Ümit was someone who ended the mission that he started. The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

96 He had solved every case that he had taken so far, yet he couldn’t have the smallest clue about Broken Ziya’s murderer. He had wandered around every place that Ziya frequently visited, made a search for every possible friend and enemy. They couldn’t gather any information no matter who they questioned. All of a sudden, Ziya had disappeared. His family never got worried. They were used to Ziya’s not coming home for days. When he made good money, he ran to the whorehouses and then he ended up in the gambling places in the vicinity. When he came back, he would compen- sate for the pain of losing, by hitting his wife and children. Everyday the hatred of his family towards Ziya got bigger, but they were obedient to him because of helplessness. Ziya was a life preserver made of fire in the middle of an ocean of hopelessness. Ziya’s wife Selma would compensate for the pain by her skin and insistently filter hope from despair. Ziya would carelessly roll cigars and get high in front of his children. At times he would he would even use his nine year old boy as a courier, saying, ‘He’s jut a kid, he wouldn’t draw suspicion.’ At such times Selma found herself one step away from murder. She would have cut Ziya into pieces with a bread knife if only her courage didn’t fall short. Because of all that Selma never got sad, when she went to the juridical medicine for identification of the body. When she saw the icy death on Ziya’s flesh, all of a sudden the firework show started in her eyes. She hardly surpassed the steps of the gazelle that went down near the lake to drink water. She got scared that the people around would hear the happiness knocking on the door of her heart. She never turned back to look while she was leaving the morgue. Now Ziya was a nightmare marathon that had been completed... As soon as the Police Station had come to sight, Ümit’s heart- strings had been torn off. He was feeling embarrassed to face Cemal because he couldn’t find any clue about Broken Ziya’s murder. Whenever he saw Cemal, Ümit’s neck had written italics in every language. While he was climbing up the stairs, he passed through the crowds, which increased insistently. The handcuffs were living the metal tiredness. The typewriter buttonsThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

97were doing overtime to be able to catch up the records. As soon as Ümit entered to the office and sat down, Cemal ap-peared. They shared a cold hello reluctantly. A stubborn and transpar-ent wall was still standing between them. Cemal put the cigarette in his mouth like a gun barrel. His freshbrewed tea accompanied the dance of the smoke with the anxiety of alatecomer cavalier. The rain that was cold outside and wanted to embrace the room’swarmth, was knocking on the window and asking permission for entry. ‘Which silk road multiplies series of letter.’ ...This sentence coiled inCemal’s mind like a leach. Cemal was the locomotive of the murder table. He had solved many cases that looked impossible, and cuffed somany murderer’s ankles. Nonetheless they couldn’t get even the small-est clue this time to save appearances. While looking at other cases, the obscurity of the beheaded mur-der was working like a mechanical clock at a corner of his mind. Guilt was ahead of Punishment on the streets, with its holiday dress-es. Death cringed upon the whispers among public. He said to himself:‘The insiders in the corner must be shaken one more time,’ looking at thecigarette butts resembling a communal cemetery in the ashtray. A bunch of birds were flapping their wings in Jale’s spirit cage.The kitchen became narrow for her enthusiasm. Cemal was comingto dine that night. While Jale was busy with preparing to put herfavourite dishes on the menu, Julide was also trying to squeeze in herfavorites. Saying ‘Cemal loves this more,’ they struggled a great deal,trying to put their favored dishes on top of the list. Pretending thatthey don’t understand each others intentions was increasing the sus-pense. As time passed by the shape of all the objects on the counterstarted creating erotic connotations. Finally, Jale got decisive. She hadto whisper her desires to Cemal when she found the right time. Herlibido suppressed her pride at the end. The two sisters were embroidering the table like a canvas. What-ever they added to the table, there were still something missing. Theguest cutleries were arranged perfectly; the salads and appetizers werecompeting with each other.... Cemal left the office. The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

98 His feet found the way automatically and he went down the stairs. Suddenly, he found himself in the front yard and the question marks in his mind totally dispersed. He thought of walking a little. All day long, he was imprisoned indoors like a lion in it’s cage. Evening was just beginning. Darkness was woven on the city like spider’s web. The street lamps were illuminating the tiredness on the faces of those who were just leaving their offices. The metal lightning bugs were passing by the pavements, buzzing. The sorrow was getting much bigger in the beer houses. The season left the parks disabled. The parks where ghettos of green were pressed between the concrete giants. Sometimes life stops while passing, in the middle of the untidy symphony of the city...Swings knew silence by heart. The teeter- totters couldn’t find their balances for a long while. The ravens which were suppressing the nakedness of branches were agitating each other to prove Hitchcock right. The cold breath of concrete’s covering zone was expanding on the green space. The more human being’s ego was fed, the more hungry it got... Cemal was strolling along the streets like a letter that has for- gotten it’s address. His feet became like stone as he was passing by the district market. The vision that he encountered hit his face like a slap. Immediately a short autobiographical documentary had been released in his brain: He found himself in his primary school’s garden, with his big uniform, bought intentionally two size bigger to be worn in the future. Children flew away like sparrows and there was the fatherly image of teacher Kenan. Teacher Kenan passed by Cemal’s childhood with a warm smile. And he just touched on the shoulder of his black uniform. Cemal was a motherless child and a heavyweight orphan. They would carry their orphanage with them from the house to school with a group of his friends. Other children certainly knew this terrible loneliness and ruth- lessly bled those open wounds with scoffing razor laughs. There was only teacher Kenan... It was only him that Cemal had compassion from. It was only him who fondled his head when he solved a difficultThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

99mathematical problem at the blackboard. Cemal wouldn’t be that happy even if the prune that he lovedvery much would sour his mouth; neither he would go to the cinemawhere he made his neck ache by looking at the movie posters that hepassed by holding his breath. The pleasure of riding a bicycle shouldbe something like this. The memories that was covered with chalkdust had been exploded like flashlight in Cemal’s memory. He foundhimself again in the untidiness of the district market. There was a rusty drill whirling in his heart: the retired teacherKenan Dülger was collecting crushed fruits... Not knowing what todo, Cemal stood there paralyzed. He thought maybe the teacher would have remembered him, be-cause he helped him to enter Police Academy...He would rather notshow up to him for preventing from his pride be hurt. But how would,coming near and pretending not seeing him and helping him, be ex-plained with his desire of paying the bill. Cemal’s feet went to rightand left. He threw himself to the side street. He felt like a runawaysoldier at wartime. Should he go back? He walked to the main streetwith this fire of duality. The concrete giants looked taller. It seemedas if the absence of humans were increased per square metre. The av-enue covered him like a Tsunami. Then, from the crowd, the same decisive and gentle hand foundhim and pressed on his chest. Cemal put his head up surprised andlooked at the owner of the hand. It was him. But this time his eyeswere like a lullaby: ‘Hey kid! Never enter the black seas of melancholy;beware of the black hole of hopelessness! Even if life had destroyedyour life like a robbed bank, never forget: ‘Hope is most suitable forus.’ ...Never forget boy! Beware of yourself...’ Swirling like a lark, hedisappeared into the crowd. Cemal stood looking behind the old man, looking like sun flow-ers turning their faces to the sun. He got on the first taxi that he saw.The further the car drove away, the nearer approached the bitter imagein his brain. As soon as he entered the neighbourhood, he remem-bered that he was invited to dinner tonight. He got off the taxi at thebeginning of the street and lit a cigarette. He wanted to pull himself The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

100 together before he went to the landlords. The sisters would be of- fended from the bitter expression on his face. There was no other way than postponing the sorrow. The doorbell which thought of itself a canary rang with a feeble voice. Julide popped out from the kitchen and Jale from the living room and headed to the door. Julide with a swirling body attack, succeeded to pass Jalle and opened the door. He met Cemal with the spring joy of a university student, saying ‘Welcome dear, come inside’. ‘Hello, thank you...’ He entered inside by organizing his mimics to smiles as much as he could, but at this moment, it was a torture for him to look happy. His eyes were exposing his endless sorrow. Jale said, ‘Hello Cemal, welcome’, the waves in her voice struck on Cemal’s face. Just like Jül- ide, she also realized Cemal’s attempt to cover his restlessness with a smile unskillfully fictionalized. ‘Hello Jale.’ ‘Why do you look unhappy!?’ ‘Nothing important...I seem to come across something that both- ered me that’s all...Whatever... Let’s see what kind of goodies have you prepared for me?..’ ‘Come and see for yourself.’ They all passed to the living room as Cemal was a bit confronted. ‘Oh I’d say that only milk and honey is missing at the table, but definitely they are waiting their turn in the kitchen.’ ‘Come on we’ve done some bits and pieces that’s all’ said Jale while giggling. Then the parade of the food carnaval started on the table. Both sisters pushed the appetizers and food they have prepared to Cemal’s nose like a ultimatum, underlining who prepared what. They had sweet conversation; generally on ordinary issues; heavy matters had been slightly touched. Small and big laughters gad about in the liv- ing room . The cutlery became tired from heavy work. Then the first after dinner cigarettes were lit. Jale quickly smoked hers and ran to the kitchen to prepare the coffees. She knew that in a while Cemal wouldThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017