October 2016 by The Wagon Magazine

The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

VOLUME: 1 - ISSUE: 7 - October - 2016

Columns: Sotto Voce-Indira Parthasarathy 11 Musings Of An Axolotl -C.S.Lakshmi 27 P&P - Yonason Goldson 55 Talespin - Era.Murukan 15 Poetry: Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi 22 Greg Patton 36 Robert Beveridge 49 A.J. Huffman 59 Karen Wolf 70 Sharmada Shastry 84 Flash Fiction: Jeff Coleman 47 Fiction: C. R. W. Noakes 42 Thomas Elson 62 Steve Carr 76 Book/Author Introduction / Review / Excerpts: ‘Empathy Globally: Painful Portraits of People– In Poetry’ Brian Crandall - Cathy Sydlo Wilkes 89

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K G E Team A Better World Through Literature The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

PRASAD'S POST

John Milton Cage Jr. (1912 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; 1992) was an American composer, music theorist, writer, and artist. He was a pioneer of indeterminacy in music, electro acoustic music, and non-standard use of musical instruments. A major figure in avant-garde music, he is best known for his controversial piece 4â&#x20AC;&#x2122;33. Critics have lauded him as one of the most influential American composers of the 20th century. In addition to what Wikipedia says, John Cage was a Mycologist too. Let us come to that part later. In the second half of the 50s, Cage was relatively popular and was on his way to success. During that period, his relationship with dancer and choreographer Merce Cunningham, reading the works of Ceylonese sage Ananda K Coomaraswamy and attending the seminal lectures on Zen Buddhism by D.T.Suzuki, all put together transformed his basic outlook; the emphasis on the perennial philosophy The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

of impermanence, (also called Anicca or Anitya, is one of the essential doctrines and a part of three marks of existence in Buddhism. The doctrine asserts that all of conditioned existence, without exception, is “transient, evanescent, and inconstant”) transcendence (existence or experience beyond the normal or physical level) and the power of the void and this strongly shaped his entire approach to art, music and life itself. Indeed, Suzuki’s classes energized Cage and his music, releasing him from the self-negation and criticism that had been previously tormenting him, enabling him now to embrace a wholly new way in which to live. To quote: “the value judgment when it is made doesn’t exist outside the mind but exists within the mind that makes it. When it says this is good and that is not good, it’s a decision to eliminate from experience certain things. Suzuki said Zen wants us to diminish that kind of activity of the ego and to increase the activity that accepts the rest of creation. ‘And rather than taking the path that is prescribed in the formal practice of Zen Buddhism itself, namely, sitting cross-legged and breathing and such things, I decided that my proper discipline was the The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

7 one to which I was already committed, namely, the making of music. And that I would do it with a means that was as strict as sitting cross-legged, namely, the use of chance operations, and the shifting of my responsibility from the making of choices to that of asking questions.’ —John Cage, quoted in Kay Larson, Where the Heart Beats: John Cage, Zen Buddhism, and the Inner Life of Artists. In 1946, Cage was destined to meet the Indian musician and singer, Gita Sarabhai, who was instrumental in inspiring one of his greatest works, Sonatas and Interludes (1946–1948), a collection of twenty pieces for prepared piano (a piano with its sound altered by objects placed between or on its strings or hammers), and to whom he dedicated the score. Cage was also a pioneer of the prepared piano for which he wrote numerous dance-related works and a few concert pieces. ‘Sonatas and Interludes’ is one of them. Consisting of sixteen sonatas and four interludes, the aim of the work is to express the nine emotions of the Indian rasa tradition, a rasa being the dominant emotional theme or feeling that is evoked in the viewer or listener, namely: rati (love); hasya (mirth); soka (sorrow); krodha(anger); utsaha (energy); bhaya (terror); jugupsa (disgust); vismaya (astonishment) and of course, santam (tranquillity), a state that was highly endorsed by Gita Sarabhai who believed The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

8 that the purpose of music was to quieten the mind, freeing it from the ego, and thus rendering it open to mystical experience. On Gita Sarabai, Cage says: “Gita Sarabhai came from India. She was concerned about the influence Western music was having on traditional Indian music, and she’d decided to study Western music for six months with several teachers and then return to India to do what she could to preserve the Indian traditions. She studied contemporary music and counterpoint with me. She said, ‘How much do you charge?’ I said, ‘It’ll be free if you’ll also teach me about Indian music.’ We were almost every day together. At the end of six months, just before she flew away, she gave me the Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna. It took me a year to finish it.” —John Cage, “Afternote to Lecture on Nothing”, Silence: Lectures and Writings. Very soon Cage became more popular and was recognised and respected; he started writing articles and giving lectures. His ‘Lecture on Something and Lecture on Nothing’ is famous which expresses the symbolic relationship between a ‘thing’ and its ‘absence’: This is a talk about something and naturally also a talk about nothing. About how something and nothing are not opposed to each other but need each other to keep on going … For instance, someone said, ‘Art should come from within; then it is profound.’ But it seems to me Art goes within, and I don’t see the need for ‘should’ or ‘then’ or ‘it’ or ‘profound’. When Art comes from within, which is what it was for so long doing, it became a thing which to elevate the man who made it above those who observed it or heard it and the artist was considered a genius or given a rating: First, Second, No Good … But since everything’s changing, Art’s now going in and it is of the utmost importance not to make a thing but rather to make nothing. And how is this done? Done by making something which then goes in and reminds us of nothing. It is important that this something be just something, finitely something; then very simply it goes in and becomes infinitely nothing. —John Cage, “Lecture on Something”, Silence: Lectures and Writings The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

9 Cage’s most experimental and revolutionary piece is his composition, 4’33” (Four Minutes, Thirty-Three Seconds) (1952); the three movements of which are performed without a single note. The point was not to present a finite length of silence but rather that the audience would be compelled to distinguish the ambient sounds around them for the period of the duration of the performance. At a more metaphysical level, it was an attempt to challenge predefined ideas about art and music and even the very essence of silence itself. “They missed the point. There’s no such thing as silence. What they thought was silence, because they didn’t know how to listen, was full of accidental sounds. You could hear the wind stirring outside during the first movement. During the second, raindrops began pattering the roof, and during the third the people themselves made all kinds of interesting sounds as they talked or walked out.” —John Cage speaking about the premiere of 4’33” He can be listened here:- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pcHnL7aS64Y

The importance of his work and his legacy, in particular, the way in which he created a fusion of Eastern and Western compositions, is held by the power of silence. In a 1957 lecture, Experimental Music, he described music as “a purposeless play” which is “an affirmation of life – not an attempt to bring order out of chaos nor to suggest improvements in creation, but simply a way of waking up to the very life we’re living”. Now let us turn to poetry and John Cage. This is what he says about poetry: “I have nothing to say and I am saying it and that is poetry” The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

10 There is a small but emphatic anecdote that John Cage wrote, which appears in the book, ‘America a Prophecy’, edited by Jerome Rothenberg and George Quasha: (Here please recall that John Cage is a Mycologist also : a collector of Mushrooms.)

JOHN CAGE : Translating Basho’s Haiku (Matsuo Munefusa, alias Bashō (1644-94), was a Japanese poet and writer during the early Edo period. He took his pen name Bashō from his bashō-an, a hut made of plantain leaves, to where he would withdraw from society for solitude. Born of a wealthy family, Bashō was a Samurai until the age of 20, at which time he devoted himself to his poetry. Bashō was a main figure in the development of haiku, then known as Hokku, and is considered to have written the most perfect examples of the form. His poetry explores the beauties of nature and are influenced by Zen Buddhism, which lends itself to the meditative solitude sensed in his haiku.)

Text: Japanese Matsutake ya shiranu ko-no-ha no hebaritsuku [Basho, 1644-1694]

English transliteration Mushroom; ignorance; leaf of tree Basho adhesiveness Versions: R. H. Blyth translates Basho’s haiku as follows:

‘The leaf of some unknown tree is sticking on mushroom.’ The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

11 In the words of John Cage: “I showed this translation to a Japanese composer friend. He said he did not find it very interesting. I said, “How would you translate it?” Two days later he brought me the following: ‘Mushroom does not know that leaf is sticking on it.’ Getting the idea, I made during the next three years, the following: ‘That that’s unknown brings mushroom and leaf together.’ And the one I prefer, after a decade: What leaf? What mushroom?” (The whole anecdote expressed in his voice here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XNzVQ8wRCB0)

* This makes me wonder how long Basho would have taken to write this haiku. Even after four centuries, this three line poem is read and analysed and enjoyed. I wish most of the poems written today would be read fifty years from now on, at least! A Music Composer, theorist and a mycologist, John Cage went on for years munching and digging a single haiku to know more and more about it. Of course, unlike today’s poets, Basho would not have shouted from the hill top: How dare you, Cage? Oh! And there was no automatic move to press the ‘ENTER’ button and send to the void whatever was written, instantaneously. Those were the times to write, re-write, read and re-write, edit and then to publish. Readers also read, re-read and re-re-read and found or try to find their own interpretations Now poetry belongs to a subculture, unlike earlier days to be part of the mainstream art and intellectual life, and has become the specialised work of a relatively small invisible commune who like ‘likes’ and count the ‘likes’.

“I have nothing to say and I am saying it and that is poetry”

Krishna Prasad The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

a. k. a

Chithan

SOTTO VOCE INDIRA PARTHASARATHY

Was Shakespeare anti-people? Recently, I was visited by students of a city college, to have an

informal discussion on theatre. After the introductions were over, one girl asked me whether Shakespeare was anti-people. This question stumped me for a while, and I gathered myself to ask her, ‘What makes you think like that?’ ‘In ‘Julius Caesar’ does he not treat the citizens of Rome in the most contemptuous way, calling them mobs naïve and vulnerable as to be easily swayed by the opposing politicians?’ she asked. I replied: ‘Is this not true even today? Maybe, you may call Shakespeare as our contemporary portraying the present. He was not anti-people but was definitely against mobs and bad poets, as one The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

13 among the mob in Julius Caesar shouted, ‘Tear him for his bad verses’ referring to one Cinna, the poet, who was earlier mistaken for Cinna, the conspirator.’ After the students had left, the question that the girl had raised earlier in the evening set me thinking. A renaissance man he was, could Shakespeare have been anti-people? What were the political views of Shakespeare? In all his history plays, history is stripped of its sacredness and reduced to a mere power game, in which, winning is the ultimate arbiter of all moral values. When Richard II, with his moon- shine thoughts of idealism and divine rights of kings is overthrown by Bolingbroke, Richard, in a reflective mood of depression and self-pity says: ‘Was this the face That, like the sun, did make beholders wink? Was this the face that fac’d so many follies, And was at last out-fac’d by Bolingbroke? A brittle glory shineth in this face; As brittle as the glory is the face (Dashes the glass against the ground) For there it is, crack’d in a hundred shivers Mark, silent king, the moral of the sport! So power is sport for all the Shakespearean kings. In ‘Coriolanus’, called ‘a play of contradictions’ by the critics, his attitude towards the commoners appears to be totally ambiguous. This play of Shakespeare is the least discussed and staged play till the last century till Brecht took it up and called it a great play that had inspired him to write ‘Mother Courage’. What is the reason that it did not get its due earlier? So unlike a Shakespearean play, it has no music of the spheres, no clowns to outsmart the heroes, no raging storms, but just a bleak tragedy narrating the downfall of hard-hearted, cold blooded, arrogant hero, who was richly endowed with valour and fighting skills. There are two protagonists in the play, one has no one name The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

14 but many names and heads, collectively named the crowd, and the other is Coriolanus. There are twenty-nine scenes in the play and out of which in twenty-five of them the hero is not alone but surrounded by the crowd, the object of his remorseless despise. It is interesting to note Shakespeare has not even given names for one of the protagonists but he is being referred to as First citizen, Second citizen, Third citizen, First Senator, Second Senator, Third Senator, First conspirator, Second conspirator, Third conspirator etc. Of course, there are also mother, wife and son of Coriolanus but they simply serve as background to the situations in which the tragedy is developed. Coriolanus is an outstanding Roman soldier, a patrician (aristocrat), who has total contempt for the plebeians (masses). Ironically, the plebeians have the right to choose the tribunes (magistrates), their own candidates from amongst themselves to represent them in the Senate. When Rome suffers from a severe famine, it is suggested that the aristocrats (patricians) should give their surplus grains with the plebeians. Coriolanus vehemently opposes the idea and says this can be done, if only the masses give up their right of voting in the elections. The common people hate Coriolanus for his arrogance. At this point of time, Rome is attacked by a mountainous tribe called Volscians and the people of Rome have to depend upon Coriolanus for defeating their enemies. Not only the Volscians are driven out of the Roman territory, Coriolanus marches into their city and captures it. The common masses, now feeling jubilant forgive Coriolanus and are agreeable to the proposal of the patricians for electing Coriolanus as the Consul of Rome. But Coriolanus presence is required at the Forum to present himself as a candidate before the masses. The patricians ask him to go and show his twenty seven war wounds to the people. Coriolanus refuses to do so and that he would make no such exhibition of himself before â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;the ratsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; referring to the plebeians. After much persuasion by his mother and wife, he goes to the Forum to meet the masses. Meanwhile, the two tribunes (magistrates) elected by the plebeians, no different from the present day labour union leaders, The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

15 hate Coriolanus to the extent that they convince them that Coriolanus should not be elected as the Consul, although he might have saved Rome from the enemies. On the other hand, they take a decision collectively to exile Coriolanus from Rome. The patricians (aristocrats), the author of the proposal to elect Coriolanus as the Consul, also betray him for political reasons and confirm his exile. Coriolanus, who has no political ideology of his own, except his haughtiness, leaves Rome to join the enemy, the Volscians. He leads their army and attacks Rome. Rome has no hero to defend it. Feeling panicky and terribly scared, the patricians plead with Coriolanus’s mother and send her on a mission to dissuade her son from raging a war against his own home state. She goes to meet him, accompanied by his wife and his young son. She is a Spartan mother and she does not want her own son to be the traitor to his own country. After much persuasion, Coriolanus withdraws from the Rome territory along with the army he leads. He is killed by the Volscians for betraying them. Are the plebeians and patricians right in exiling Coriolanus, although they know he has saved Rome from its enemies? Is Coriolanus right to have had an inexplicable hatred for the masses for being what they are? Is the mother of Coriolanus right in persuading her son to desist from attacking Rome, although she could have been aware that the price of this betrayal is death? Is Spartan political virtue more important than her son’s life? This play opens the floodgates of many a political and ethical issue and Shakespeare’s artistic genius lies in his eloquent ambiguity.

Indira Parthasarathy is the pen name of R. Parthasarathy, a noted Tamil writer and playwright. He has published 16 novels,10 plays, anthologies of short stories, and essays.He is best known for his plays, “Aurangzeb”, “Nandan Kathai” and “Ramanujar”. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

TALESPIN

Era.Murukan

Falling between the stools to occupy the chair There indeed is something in the air. It is an ominous beginning to something else that I can always sense fairly accurate, even if it occurs a few kilometres away from where my current coordinates are. When it happens, my neurotic radar never fails me and beeps binary signals diligently to my cerebrum, putting me instantly at the general alarm mode, if not curved protectively into the foetal position. The alarm signals are mostly of this pattern - someone or a motley group somewhere is clustering and pulling up with single minded determination, a few planks of partially moth-eaten wood or back to back locked machine-cut plywood boards, arranging them in a hurry to fabricate a makeshift platform. They are aided and abetted by a few others of their ilk who spread a thick dusty carpet over the rough terrain while the rest of the gang are busy arranging a row of faded black and grey tinted plastic chairs, right at the centre of the stage. Having accomplished these strenuous chores with practiced ease, they take a deep breath and look back for a moment at what they were working on, with an expression of content befitting master creators, written large on their faces. They then proceed to install a microphone with all dedication due, at the left hand corner of the dais, with or without a podium ensconcing that electronic marvel, a weapon of mass oppression. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

17 The very sight of all these makes me tremble like having come into accidental contact with a high tension cable (donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t try it ever). The shivering makes my frail frame oscillate with a sinuous trail, if I factor-in the remote possibility of someone from that sinister mob inviting me to come up, rather occupy the stage, and yes indeed, to speak. Not that I am suffering from chronic Glossophobia which is the fear of public speaking and not the aversion to glossy fashion journals, as I once thought. Also, I am not claustrophobic or am suffering from a mutated form of vertigo of bonsai proportions. The problem lies with sitting bolt upright on the stage waiting for my turn to be lead to the electronic amplifier. It is a real bizarre sensation, I tell you. That is, to mention in the most polite, parliamentary (you should be joking) manner. I have had undergone this experience quite a few times. Every time I was drilling deep into it, I invariably ended up with my mind switching over temporarily to another frequency, not a hertz more or a hertz less, yet right enough to imagine I have become in a Kafkaesque manner of speaking, the far end corner of the dusty carpet on the dais or the advertisement banner in the background for the unique blended asafoetida whose manufacturer is the main sponsor of the event. Else I imagine, as a matter of variety, that I have morphed into one of those weary ceiling fans in the auditorium wiping away a wave of satiated asafoetida smeared oral outbursts or squeals with same attributes, sneaking from the other end of the alimentary canal, being the â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;take-awayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; from leisurely Sunday lunches of the mostly reluctant audience drawn by social, family or peer group compulsion, waiting for the proceedings to commence and end fast. Having entered into this mental frame, I look at the audience, certainly not with disdain but with a vacant look. That middle aged lady - I am sure she has dyed this morning her hair jet black - is sniffing a smile but continues staring at me. Something is seriously wrong at my end, I guess. Is it that I have left the comb stuck on my prematurely greying pate while leaving home or that I am wearing my pair of bifocals with one of the lenses having slipped out, making The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

18 it look like a dreaded monocle in the process? Shall I run my hand across my head and then quickly all over my face to conduct a status check to establish my worst fears are unfounded? And while doing so, if those down below induced by the henna dyed lady raise their heads in unison, what would they think of my mental equilibrium? Do I feel like sneezing? Can I sneeze with one nostril momentarily covered with my hand kerchief? Well, it is not my hand kerchief actually but my wifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, in arresting pink with a lot of tiny flowers printed all over. Do I look every nanometer a reverse coordinated, comb wearing, sneezing weird zombie, inclined to minimalist cross dressing? And what is happening to my â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;co-condemnedâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; - one of the to-be speakers sharing the dais with me? He yawns as if he is about to fall into a deep sleep. May I break into a sympathetic yawn myself wishing him a tiny neat siesta? I withdraw my gaze from him instantaneously as yawning could be infectious. And what is happening to the dignitary at the far end corner of the dais? He or she would have rushed here in a hurry, finishing an asafoetida laced lunch and in the process would have left at home the handkerchief or the infant to be nursed or the traditional brass pot filled with cardamom spiced hot water for drinking. With good Samaritans dime a dozen with one more coming as a free gift permeating the scene everywhere on government declared holidays, the forgotten article or life form would have duly been picked up, brought to the venue and would have commenced its journey from the other corner of the stage, with a request to pass it on ultimately to whomever that belongs to. And it is right now in my hands, while I am still a part of the door mat, mentally. That precisely is why I am mortally afraid to stir out of my two bed room, east facing apartment even if my neurotic radar catches all the wrong signals and issues a red flag warning about an impending calamity of the magnitude discussed. But every rule has an exception. The invitation may arrive but not exactly addressed to me. My close friend once was requested to address an august audience, other attributes of them unknown then. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

19 Being someone genuinely interested in social causes, he was keen on utilizing the opportunity optimally to showcase his prowess at soap box oratory. ‘Why don’t you come along with me? I find it somewhat odd to go all alone to address such an informed gathering on a sweltering dog day in May’. He pleaded with me earnestly that I had no alternative than to accompany him forthwith. Without losing further time we took a rickety bus to the suburbia and after a bumpy ride through a series of villages interspaced with small towns and town extensions, reached the place where he was to speak. It appeared that was the day when the weekly market gathered there in the vast open expanse, off the bus station. Those enter the market and those others leaving, most all the while chewing tobacco and chattering incessantly with raised voices, created the perfect ambience for the proposed gathering at sylvan surroundings. ‘Our meeting is to be conducted at the Flag Post’, my friend disclosed with delight expecting to meet a huge wave of captive audience any time then. All the friendly souls when not chatting or spitting out chewed tobacco came forward to guide us to the Flat Post, where we reached in no time. It was a small area with a slight gradient to the left of the highway, where the road takes a turn to the bus station. Six (or was it seven) bamboo poles were standing bolt upright there, each with a flag of a political party fluttering on the top. There was a large wooden table laid at the Flag Post. No one was found in the vicinity. After a few minutes, a head popped up from under the table. It belonged to the organizer of the meeting. He welcomed us heartily and took from the under belly of the table, a tiny mike with a built-in speaker. ‘My in-laws are based in Singapore. They gifted this to me when they were here last year for the annual village temple festival. As you see, this is the state of art communication system with low power consumption and longest voice throw’. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

20 With obvious self importance being tech-savvy, he inserted the batteries into the mike, and wielded it like a trophy, with his head held high. ‘Respected ladies and gentlemen, the one in yellow shirt, that lady in a green colored saree, the venerable old woman carrying a basket coming out of the market chewing a leaf of tobacco, the two young men cycling towards east.. Please come here and listen. Your life will be changed for ever. People of wisdom have come from the city to meet you and speak to you’, he announced. Having done so, he handed the microphone over to my friend like the conductor of a symphony orchestra passing on the baton to his lead violinist, albeit temporarily. ‘Please commence your speech’, he bowed his head with a request to my friend. Half a dozen boys all below the age of ten and returning from the school and a few elderly gentlemen with no particular avocation to attend to obligingly formed the audience soon. My friend, though looking bewildered for a second having addressed no gathering of this proportion and composition before, lifted the megaphone gingerly while another mega phone was thrust into my hand. Please repeat all the important portions of his lecture for the benefit of the audience; repeated hearing will make them remember what is being discussed here’, hissed the organizer like a bull snake in heat. And so, it went on. My friend was speaking about the importance of small savings and I was faithfully echoing his sentiments with a well measured time lag. For the next seven years and a half, I had had repeated nightmares of myself being the deputy of a rat poison salesman active in village fares crying hoarse selling our ware, with the offer of a free gift - a sturdy stainless steel spoon, only if you purchase two pouches of the wonderful rodent killer. I have to admit that it is an experience of quite another kind if one happens to be the organizer of a meeting. Once, in a weak moment, I gave my nod to be the general secretary of a literary The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

21 association in my home town. And I was immediately delegated the task of inviting a well known writer specializing in ancient epics, to address a discerning group of literary fans, on behalf of the club. The writer seemed to know like the palm of his hand the topology, crop pattern, industrial and business activity, anthropology and social mapping of my small town and its environment. He enquired whether it is true that sturdy coir ropes are mass produced there and are available at a fair price, which he could even quote unto the second digit after the decimal point. I answered in the affirmative and added with a tinge of pride in my voice that we supply hanging ropes to almost all the prisons across the country. â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;No, not that stuff for me. I need a lighter version to haul water from the well, strong enough not to snap even after a couple of months of intense useâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. With a heavy heart I gave up my desire to listen to his scholarly dissection of the epics and went in search of the right type of rope like a hangman armed with details of the one he is going to bid farewell. When I entered the meeting venue with the rope neatly folded and tucked under my arm, the writer was at his rhetorical best. He was quoting verse after verse from all versions of Ramayana about how Lord Rama lifted the formidable bow Siva Dhanusu as if it was a toy for the tiny tots and then broke it with a slight twist of his little finger. His hands were the amplifiers of his body language. They in perfect synch with his eloquence were kept steady along with an uplift chin, all creating an image of the brave Rama holding a gigantic bow to break. The moment the speakerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes fell on me, his hands started moving up and down frantically. But Rama did not bend the bow with such elementary gestures of kinetic motion. And it dawned on me rather a tad late that the last part of his action on the stage was a private performance, exclusive for my benefit. He was enquiring whether my Mission Rope was accomplished without any hitch. When I nodded in the affirmative, the meeting also came to a The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

22 close with Rama happily marrying Sita and the writer extending his arm not to greet them but to receive the coir rope for hauling pails of water from a deep well somewhere on the surface of the earth. Last year I attended a meeting held a couple of days after Deepavali, a popular Hindu festival celebrated throughout India. The meeting was held for the release of a poetry anthology. As speaker after speaker continued singing hosannas to the poet, a petite young lady, a team of busy attendants were serving in paper plates Deepavali sweets and a savoury item, ‘kaara bhoondhi’, made of fried lentil flour seasoned with pepper and hot chillies. One of these enthusiastic youngsters ascended the dais as well with a paper plate full of kaara bhoondhi which he magnanimously offered to the speaker at the podium. ‘Shall I continue my tryst with poetry till it tapers to its own conclusion or shall I begin a new rendezvous with this delicacy on the paper plate leaving poetry to fend for itself and the poets to fund themselves their anthologies in print?’ I guessed this could be the semi-existential debate the speaker was having at that very moment in his mind. Poor guy, after much hesitation, he continued with his shower of praise for the beautiful poems, forsaking the pleasure of the paper plate. Not me! I would gladly have quit my literary pursuit and commenced munching a handful of delicious boondhi. Anyone can indulge in poetry any time. How many opportunities one gets in one’s entire life time with a paper plate of mouth watering eatables offered lovingly, on or off stage, in lieu of a pursuit of literature?

Murugan Ramasami • Techno banker and project management professional heading large banking IT projects in UK, Thailand and USA • An author with 28 books to his credit, novelist, short story writer, poet, tech-travel-humor columnist (Tamil and English) • Playwright in Tamil • Movie script - dialogue writer • Translator from Malayalam, English to Tamil The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

POEMS

Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi Bat Early September, it was bit dark, I saw a bird flying in the sky. It was really high and steady: I thought it were a crow. After a while, I realized it was a bat, And soon they became many. I told my wife, “They are bats.” She didn’t believe me. How foolish-didn’t know bats’ wingsWhat a pity? I again said, “They are bats.” She resisted, they were not. I thought for a while, Whether with a mule I am talking too. I looked at my baby in the pram. Such a beauty! Do bats drink baby’s blood? A thought flashed through, and disappeared. I lifted my baby and pressed near my heart. “I will protect you from everything.”I said silently. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

CCTV

It is not a recording, But an indelible mark on my memory, Of a triple-X movie of Vice and venery Which is stored in my mind, and may Start anytime between two gates; There is no control. Do not know when I will become naked In front of myself. My soul may insult me anytime, There is no guarantee. For that reason I give bribe to all three: Soul, mind, and tongueSo that no one will reveal my secret.

The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

Duty Who says that I do not love myself. It is my love that I went to war. When youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re theorising your sweet selves, In parties over wine till your love for country expired. I was searching for that last enemy on the border, Who is still alive, only to make your life worth living. At home, my familyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sad as things are out of order, But when motherland is in danger, thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no grieving. I know that corruption and intellectual bankruptcy prevail, And few fellow men are supporting Jihadists and terrorists. But nothing can dissuade me, nor will I ever fail, In controlling anti-nationalists and curbing every separatist.

The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

Brain Brain is like a prince inside a fort, Who reins this body and its parts, a thing intrigue lives in the skull, where things happen bright as well as dull. We see, hear, smell, and feel, only through the brain theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re made real. or any movements we ever make, remain in memory, only death can take. So far so good the poem goes fine, but this is not what I really design. good silk comes when threads spun fine, on burial of the worms we decorate divine. So brain isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a prince, but a prisoner instead, whose colours of life depend on the dead. when body moves and actions play, imprints remain and poor innocent pays. To carry the burden of bitter blind thoughts; to face the music and never say nought. As a man in the chain, is he ever free? He is in the body like a clump of tree. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

Meeting

When rains stop and mists clear, Come to me and wipe my tears. When illusions of my being human are done, Come to me without any fears. Those hands that once slaughtered me On that bloody Friday, Might find some flowers-though wildTo put on my innocent grave.

Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi is assistant professor of linguistics at Shri Mata Vaishno Devi University, India. His research interests include language documentation, writing descriptive grammars, and the preservation of rare and endangered languages in South Asia. He has contributed articles to many Science Citation Index journals. He has contributed to various Anthologies, magazines and journals. His recent poem â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; has been published as a prologue to Motherhood and War: International Perspectives (Eds.), Palgrave Macmillan Press. 2014. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

28 MUSINGS OF AN AXOLOTL

C.S.LAKSHMI

When God Sheds Tears

Just returned from Ooty where a wonderful literary festival

had been organized on 16th and 17th September, by the Ooty Literary Festival Trust headed by Yash Muthanna, supported by other trustees Geetha Srinivasan and Gerard Pinto and coordinated by a very efficient convener Greaves Henriksen. A sub-committee consisting of young people like Dr Meenakshi Venkataraman, Dr Sheela Nambiar MD, a medical doctor, Madhavi Ravindranath with All India Radio, Ooty, and Ms. Shernaz H Sethna managed the sessions in what seemed like an effortless and easy going manner although they must have put in many hours of work to pack so many interesting sessions into The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

29 two days. With Jerry Pinto as advisor, the festival was a unique one conducted with warmth and camaraderie. Without the buzz of a city and literary stars from all over the world and Indian film stars and an unmanageable crowd hovering around, one could breathe easily and listen to what was being spoken in the sessions with mountains and old colonial structures for company. The venue was the 156-year-old Gothic building, Nilgiri Library, tucked away from the main road, hidden by tall trees. It was mildly cold but the event, the discussions and the hospitality were so warm that often we had to remove our shawls and join the discussions which were not heated but invigorating. A wide range of themes like fiction, poetry, non-fiction, environment, childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s literature, publishing and translation were included and it was a two-day treat one is not likely to forget. Most of us stayed at the Ooty Club, another colonial structure with its long corridors and large halls with hunting trophies and photographs of Britishers riding horses and rooms with fireplaces. Theodore Baskaran was able to tell us about the wild animals that made the hunting trophies and about how these hunting sprees wiped away the gene pool of some of the rarest of wild animals. Ooty Club has a bartender who makes the most wonderful Bloody Mary and in the evenings when the fireplace in the hall was lit up, the ambience became very intimate and casual and

Theodore Baskaran, Mansoor Khan, C.V.Ranganathan, Mark Tully & Sheela Nambiar The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

30 the conversation always veered into discussions on life and literature. The sessions began with discussions on non-fiction and there was Mansoor Khan along with Theodore Baskaran, Mark Tully and Sheela Nambiar to talk about the motivations behind writing non-fiction books on development, politics, environment and health. After a while I realised Mansoor Khan was really the ‘star’ of the festival for all of us could immediately think of only Qayamat se Qayamat Tak (QSQT as people called it), a 1988 film that he had directed on young love. But this was a different Mansoor Khan. This Mansoor Khan was a farmer who had settled down in Coonoor to do cheese farming and to live on a large farm with jersey cows, ducks, chicken and geese. He was at the Ooty Literary Festival to talk about his book ‘The Third Curve’, which critiques the growth model of development adopted in India. Mark Tully was there Mark Tully - Gillian Wright with his partner Gillian Wright and regaled us with not only his BBC experiences but also about his personal life which Gillian prodded him to reveal. Mark Tully readily shared the fact that he had actually wanted to be a priest and was training in a seminary when a friend invited him for a drink. Mark told him that he must be sober when he returned for the Evensong. The friend persuaded him saying the pub closed by afternoon and that he would certainly be able to return very sober. It so happened that the pub closed only at 6 p.m. and when Mark returned for the Evensong he was not in the best frame of mind. He was thrown out of the seminary. The Bishop told him: You don’t belong to the church; you belong to the public house! The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

M.T.Vasudevan Nair - Karthika

The legendary writer M T Vasudevan Nair was there and Karthika of Harper Collins was in conversation with him in a session where he was supposed to talk about the Bhima of Malayalam literature. MT read out from a prepared speech and when it comes to conversation everyone knows that MT can be a man of few words when he wants to be. But he could be a man of such few words we found out only in Ooty. Despite Karthika’s relentless and valiant efforts to make a conversation possible, MT answered in monosyllables or in two or three words. When she asked him about how it was to work with super stars as a film director he merely said: I made them [super stars]. Long questions of Karthika were merely answered with a why, how and so what. The best was the last question asked by a person in the audience who could not resist showing off that he had read Shakespeare, and wanted to know what MT thought of Shakespeare’s lines on life being “a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” “Why not?” MT said and the conversation came to an end. Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, the famous Spanish writer who wrote Don Quixote once said that “translating from one language to another, unless it is from Greek and Latin, the queens of all languages, is like looking at Flemish tapestries from the wrong side, The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

Vijay Nambisan, Susan Daniel, Gillian Wright & Sajai Jose.

for although the figures are visible, they are covered by threads that obscure them, and cannot be seen with the smoothness and colour of the right side.â&#x20AC;? Despite that valiant efforts are being made to translate from one Indian language to another and from other languages to Indian languages and from Indian languages to English. The translation session with Arundhathi Subramanian,Vijay Nambisan, Susan Daniel, Sajai Jose and Gillian Wright opened up the world of living with two or more languages and dealing with their sounds, rhythms, metaphors and the struggles involved in transferring them to a totally different English language and still managing to maintain the purity of the original constantly worrying that not the other side of the carpet but the right side is being revealed. Sajai Jose spoke in his soft and warm voice about the experience of translating into English Johny Mirandaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Malayalam novellla, Jeevichirikkunnavarkku Vendiyulla Oppees, considered a Kochi novel, as Requiem for the Living. It was nice to open the world of children talking about what we write for children and Shobha Viswanath, Anushka Ravishankar, Devika Rangachari and Kaveri Nambisan told us how difficult it is to write for children when you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to moralise and want to

The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

33 move away from Panchatantra tales and Chandamama stories but still hold their interest in these Harry Potter days. The fiction session had Aroon Raman who kept us in splits talking about how he came to write mystery novelsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the best was the incident in his school days when he had to borrow on sports day, the shorts of a rather fat boy because the dhobi had failed to bring his and had to do the high jump. He cleared the highest scales and could hear the cheering crowd but realised that the crowd was actually clapping for something else. In the process of jumping, his shorts had been left on the other side of the scales!- and Sangeetha Shinde who spoke in very soft tones about her stories and Yasmeen Premji who spoke about taking twenty years to write a novel which contained the oral histories of her family. Colonel Vinod Bhasker spoke about his book Blue Jeans to Olive Greens and how he turned to fiction. Maybe because of the warm comforting shawls we wore in the mild cold and sitting in a room surrounded by mountains, the sessions on writing on environment and the poetry sessions were the most unforgettable sessions. When Theodore Baskaran spoke about sitting by the Devarayan lake with a mist covering the area and watching a skein of geese descending in the mist as the most beautiful moment that led him to writing about wild life, what he said blended with the atmosphere and the rest of what he spoke was sheer poetry. Tarun Chabra who is by profession a dentist, spoke about his research on the Todas and all of us demanded that he should sing and after reading out the lyrics of the song he finally yielded and sang a couple of lines. I wish when I was a child travelling with my father sometimes to coffee estates in Karnataka for he was an Accounts Officer at Coffee Board, I had known someone like Meenakshi Venkataraman or seen a book like the one she has written on insects, for that would have taught me what it is to love insects. Meenakshi is an ecologist and Secretary of Nilgiris Natural History Society and is extremely unassuming about the path breakThe Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

34 ing book for lay people all over the world that she has written. Her book on insects, A Concise Field Guide to Indian Insects and Arachnids, is a book meant not just for nature lovers but for those who do not know what treasures nature holds for all of us and in what forms. In a simple and lucidly written note in the book she explains why we should know about insects: “Insects and arachnids, more often than not, evoke feelings of revulsion disgust and fear amongst the large majority of us. Butterflies, with their striking colours, are perhaps the only insect family that fascinates and beguiles us; the rest do not merit much of our attention. Nevertheless, insects and arachnids play a more important role in our ecosystem than we would like to imagine. Their presence or absence is as good an indicator of its health as that of any birds or mammals. Much of our disaffirming perception of insects and arachnids emerges largely due to ignorance and prejudice and it’s about time that people get to know these organisms better and look at these allegedly obnoxious creatures in a more empathetic light. In India, while we have quite a number of field guides and information on birds, reptiles, mammals and even butterflies for the lay person, we do not have a handy and basic field guide on insects and arachnids. This book seeks to fill this lacuna… There are over 1 million species of insects and over 100,000 species of arachnids present today, with many more being identified daily. Given such a magnitude, to try and identify every individual specimen is not possible. Instead, an easier approach is to familiarize oneself with the common characteristics and key identification for different families. This book aims to do so—by walking the reader through the different orders, using beautiful photographs of these amazing organisms—and will help identify most of them out in the field. Arachnids abound just as insects, and this book serves as two guides in one book. Though we have limited ourselves to insects and arachnids found in the southern states of India, most species are quite ubiquitous and are found through most parts of India. This guide, therefore, can be used quite easily anywhere in India.” The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

35 Meenakshi spoke about her book in the same simple and evocative way the book itself is written. Later when I read the introduction to the book by Raghavendra Gadagkar, Centre for Ecological Sciences, Indian Institute of Science, Bangalore, I realised how much this book would contribute to the future of not only our children but children all over the world. In the introduction he writes: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Most people are either smitten by a love for or bitten by a fear of insectsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and both conditions are based almost entirely on experiences in childhood. Any child that is encouraged to explore nature with a field guide to insects is most likely to develop a life-long fascination for these remarkable co-inhabitants of our planet. In India, we have plenty of curious, intelligent children, but we have no field guides to our insects. Armed with remarkable photographs of insects and arachnids by T. N. A. Perumal and others, Dr Meenakshi Venkataraman may have just begun to fill this lacuna. She has produced A Field Guide to Indian Insects and Arachnids that is sure to convert nine out of ten children who get hold of this book from a hobby of crushing grasshoppers and tying dragonflies with a thread, to a hobby of collecting beetles, watching butterflies and rearing caterpillars. Believe me, this is a service far more valuable to the future of our children than all the coaching classes that are the order of the day.â&#x20AC;? The poetry session with Tanya Mendonsa, Vijay Nambisan and Arundhathi Subramanian belonged to the mountains for they referred to heights one could reach in poetry and the joy of writing poetry. When Arundhathi recited her poems one suddenly felt that one was standing underneath a waterfall which came down with great force and yet when it touched one, it was gentle and caressing. The impact of the poetry session lasted even beyond the session. In almost all the sessions the discussions always somehow turned to what it was to be a writer and what it meant to write. The The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

36 writers did not seem to be in an enviable position when it came to either recognition or making a living with the royalties they got. Nor was it easy even for a well-meaning publisher to publish what she considers a good book for the good books had to struggle to make it in a market which demanded popular, easy-to- read books. Finally Tanya Mendonsa had to tell us a joke to conclude the festival. The joke was that god was walking down the road and saw a man crying. He asked him what the matter was. He said he was lame. God touched him and he became okay. God walked further down the road and saw another man crying and asked him what was wrong. He said he was blind. God gave him sight and continued to walk. He saw a third person crying and went and asked him what was bothering him. â&#x20AC;&#x153;I am a writerâ&#x20AC;? he said upon which God himself sat down and began to cry!

Photographs Courtsey: Ooty Literary Festival- Mr. Henriksen Greaves

C. S. Lakshmi is a researcher and a writer who writes in the pen name - Ambai. She is one of the founder trustees of SPARROW (Sound & Picture Archives for Research on Women) and currently its director. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

POEMS Greg Patton

Hell’s Gate That cowboy was about to ride through hell’s gate, He was riding a black horse named Mistake. That cowboy had done bad things and didn’t care, All he wanted was to get somewhere. The big ranch and shiny new truck, Do anything to just make a buck. But he found himself broke and alone, His heart was like a cold stone. He found a friend he called jack, And ended up living in a shack. Was setting there spinning his guns wheel, Didn’t know if it would be that or a pill. He was there drunk and crazy, That old cowboy had never been lazy. Thought he had lost it all, Was ready to take the fall. Felt a cold breeze blow threw a crack, In that old run down line shack. Stirred a memory in his mind, About some other time. Remembered his pa and a church they went to, Made him think maybe he wasn’t through. Started yelling and crying there, He started to begin care. Trying to rearranged his thinking, Right there stopped drinking. Jack don’t visit anymore, He’s been trying to even the score. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

A wrangler

A wrangler is a cowboy and rides for the brand, They have a code that all cowboys understand. Joe Bob was a cowboy, who wrangled around here, All his cowboy friends always held him dear. You could call him out in any type of weather, To catch that woolly cow I knew none any better. Yes Joe was a hand could cowboy all day, Until the job was done Old Joe would stay. But if old Joe’s had a call to fame, There was no horse he couldn’t tame. He started out a round penning teach them respect, Get the ground work done and crawl up on their back. Unfortunately old Joe’s not with us now, But he could make you laugh and make you smile. He spoke with that cowboy twist, He is a good friend truly is missed.

The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

Cows and the Bear Those old cows had gotten pretty tame, We had started calling each or them by name. We sang to them at night to keep them gentle and calm, Didn’t want any run always or need to throw a fast rope and burn a palm. But just when we thought there was going to be no trouble, That herd of calm cattle took off on us on the double. They got scared by an old black bear, He showed up smelling up the air. They took off every which way, spooked the horses too. I didn’t have a clue of what we were going to do. That’s when old Sam the oldest one roped that bear around the head, He said come on Jake let’s be quick or we will be dead. Didn’t want to just shoot him and let him get away, Because he would be back another day. Well needless to say those ponies were sure unhappy with us, But in us they did give their trust. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

40 So we had that bear strung out, That’s when crazy Larry started to shout. Said let him loose I’m going to wrestle him a while make him where he won’t come back, So we won’t have to tack his hide out on our old line shack. We didn’t want to let him go, So we did it real slow. We were more afraid of crazy Larry, Because he was so dam scary. Larry got that bear, Took and chewed off his ear. Then he gave him around house knocked him into the dirt, Larry said you will be my dessert. After Larry was done with that old bear it runs plum away, I haven’t seen that old bear to this very day. Crazy Larry said fetch me a drink Jake, I need to rinse down this bear steak.

The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

Bear and Elk do Mate the Offspring is Called a Bearlk It happens in the heat of the rut, When bear and elk run amuck. Only happens once in a great big blue moon, Which never happens anytime too soon. Old cowboy Roy was a lonesome man, Who worked up in the highland. Up under the ponderosa pines, For the big ranch Bar-C9. He was a burly man with a beard nearly a foot long, Roy was happy and always was singing a song. He liked his shine and his smoke too, Tended to tell a tell at least a few. He was a shapeshifted or claimed to be after all, His dad was a wolf his ma an Indian squall. He happened to meet up with a bearlk one day; he was raised in wild, He had always avoided the crowd but not because he was exiled. He couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help himself he fell in love with that doe, soft skin and warm fur, No other thought to old Roy could occur After all he was half wolf raised by a pack, Way up on the mountains behind an old wood shack. So he married that Bearlk, No matter how she smelt. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

Kansas The Old West Kansas is going to be like the old West. Going to be able to carry your gun under your vest, More Dodge City’s springing up. The law will be abrupt. There will be more growing tulips and smoking cigars, There will be less behind bars. Fewer repeat offenders, And a whole lot less of the attorney defenders. Looking forward to this new West, I think it’s going to be the best. The outlaws will think twice, Before they molest, that would be my advice. We will be helping the undertaker, Send them to meet their maker. And keeping the pulpits full with those who would morn, That outlaw that was born. Yep Kansas is doing right, In this war against them outlaws we will fight. Them days of Wyatte Erupt and Matt, We are back up to bat.

“I have a thought of myself as a cowboy, my poetry started with telling stories to my friends, around the fire, or when we rode horses on trial rides and during the times we worked cattle. My friends have enjoyed my stories; they have encouraged me in many ways. They would say ‘another good one Doc.’” Greg was born in Parsons Kansas on a farm just northeast of town. He and his wife Debbie live on a small ranch the South Branch Ranch east of Parsons. They both share the love of horses and the ranch life. Debbie encourages Greg’s writing and has been the inspiration for many of his poems. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

FICTION C. R. W. Noakes Millicent, of the Water A great wind rolled over the hilltops and down into the valley, carrying with it the chill of distant mountains and their grey clouds filled with wet promise. Millicent supposed this is what her father had been hoping for with all his dinner-table complaints of drought and impending bankruptcy, the rain was finally here. For the first time in a long time, the workers wore their longsleeved shirts with the sleeves rolled all the way down. Not rolled up, or forgoing shirts completely, as they did if the day grew long and hot enough. Millicent always wondered if the workers owned any other clothes, for they always seemed to dress day in, day out, in the same drab outfits. She also wondered if they had need for other clothing, as their entire lives seemed to be spent at the service of her father in the paddocks and sheds. When she asked her mother about this, Mrs.Goulding told her that of course they did, but they of course would not want to dirty their town clothes with their work. The wind grew stronger through the morning and brought with it more and more dark clouds, until the great blue sky that served as the perennial backdrop to Millicentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life was obscured completely. The girl stood in the gathering rain not far from the veranda, knowing that if she strayed further into the weather her motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s infallible sense of improper behaviour would be alerted. The smell of elm trees was all around her as the rain dotted the fabric of her dress. Millicent twisted this way, then that, her arms outstretched and her head tilted back, tracing the steps of an improvised dance to an imagined tune she carried in her head for moments such as these. As rare as it had been in recent memory, she had always loved the rain. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

44 “Millicent!” Her mother’s voice snapped from behind her. “Millicent, come inside at once out of this dreadful weather! You’ll ruin your dress, and what of your new shoes? You must try to be less foolish, you are nearly grown.” Rudely awoken from her happy little daydream, Millicent opened her eyes and gathered her hat from the ground. She looked down at the shoes her mother was so concerned about, spotted with rain and rimmed with the damp of the grass. She just then felt the chill in the air, and wondered if she might catch cold. She wondered if her mother wondered too. “I do not understand, dear, why you insist on trying to pass your time outdoors like a grubby little boy. There is so much more wonder, and beauty, and refined enjoyment to be gained from a good book.” Said Mrs.Goulding, striding ahead and making no effort to turn back and have her chastising more easily heard. “Do you not think that Mrs.West or the men in the field would be inside reading if they knew how, or were afforded the opportunity?” Millicent continued to look sullenly at her feet; she didn’t look up to see her mother looking around at her for an answer. Her mother so rarely imbued her criticisms with as personal touch as eye contact. Despite her rather lofty and preposterous manner of speaking, Mrs.Goulding had been born and raised in Australia, not England. Not only was she of colonial birth, but her family were perpetually destitute publicans in the failing village of Collector along the highway between Melbourne and Sydney. Compared to the circumstances of her upbringing, the modest prosperity of the Goulding name she had married into was luxury. She conducted herself as if it were even greater an improvement than it was. Mrs.Goulding could not understand why her eldest daughter seemed content to conduct and see herself as a modest farmer’s daughter, or even at times as a common child of a worker. She could not understand why Millicent didn’t squirrel herself away as she had done in her girlhood, absorbed in tales of greater and more interestThe Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

45 ing things, always aspiring to be more than she was. After all, she often thought, if she had made so great an improvement in her standing through marriage, what social heights may the girl reach? If only she would aspire to it. * Mrs.Goulding retired after lunch for her siesta, as she called it. Following Mrs.West out under the pretence of helping with the feeding of the workers, Millicent sought out old Harry. One of her father’s family’s longest standing employees, Harry had been relegated to little more than a gardener in his advanced age. As such he spent a great deal of time around the homestead tending to his duties, and given her great fondness of spending time in the garden, a great deal of time around Millicent. “Harry! Harry!” The girl’s voice cried out as she skipped over to sit herself beside him. “Hello, girly. How’s it going?” Harry asked, tearing off a piece of flat bread and sipping his tea. Despite many decades in the country, he’d never managed to escape the South African accent he’d acquired as a boy. “Quite splendidly now that mother has gone to bed!” She replied, kicking her heels against the ground and smiling her little smile that somehow seemed to cover her whole face whenever she wore it. “Can you tell me the story about the exploding dog again?” She asked, still smiling. Harry choked on his tea, and looked fearfully over to where Mr.Goulding was stood talking to Mick and Chook about the logistics of the weening of the calves. Not so much fearing the response of the girl’s father, but rather the belated lambasting he was sure to cop if word of his sharing with Millicent what Mrs.Goulding called colonial stories got around. Harry leaned closer towards her from his perch on a stumpturned-stool. Millicent squatted down to meet his gaze. “How about I do you one better, ey? How about I tell you a secret?” Harry said in little more than a whisper. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

46 “How good of a secret?” Millicent replied. “What if I told you that there’s a better swimming spot than that reedy little creek over the hill, even better than the big river halfway to town?” Millicent had only ever seen the river a handful of times, and had certainly never been permitted to swim there. Her mother always insisted it was too cold, or the current too strong, or the whole idea too unseemly this near the road for a girl of her age. “But Harry, I’ve still not been able to get mother’s permission to swim in the river! How am I to convince her that travelling to some secret spot I’ve heard from you is any better an idea?” Millicent said, a little too loud. Mr.Goulding cast his glance over at the girl and the old man. Quite unlike his wife, he firmly believed that spending time with the rough and wily old Boer would do the girl some good. She lived such a sheltered life here. Especially so, thanks to his wife. After he gave a nod and turned back to his own conversation, Harry continued. “That’s the beauty of this secret spot of mine, Millie! It’s so close-by you could slip away and back without your mallie ever noticing you’re gone. I swear it.” Harry said, finishing with a tip of his nose and a wink. It was several days of diligence and planning on Millicent’s part before the opportunity to slip away presented itself. Her father was off with most of the workers in one of the furthest paddocks, her mother had been struck ill the past two days and instead of retiring for her siesta after lunch, retired until the next morning altogether. As soon as her mother’s door was closed, she grabbed the small satchel she had prepared and squirreled away behind the woodpile in the kitchen and made off out the door. In her little bag of provisions she had her bathing suit, which she had gone to great pains to point out had been lost to anyone and everyone that would listen, a towel to dry her hair and avoid suspicion upon her return, and an apple to keep her energetic if Harry’s secret spot really was as good as promised. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

47 The secret Harry had told her about was the large reservoir hidden behind the big hill and a lot of bush, scarcely a 20 minute walk from the homestead. Kept in shadow under the canopy of the gumtrees that surrounded it, Harry said the water was always cool; but never too cold. And even if her father or mother or even Mrs. West were to come looking for her, they’d never check the reservoir. All the workers had been sworn to silence by Mrs.Goulding to never mention a word of it to Millicent, for fear she’d do exactly what she was on her way to do at that very instant. * Some days later Harry’s voice cried out over the hills. The sun had nearly set, and everyone was spread out across the property. They all came running at the sound, though, and reached the reservoir almost at the same instant. Millicent had never swum alone before. She’d never been told about how the tussock grass can grow so long and parallel to the water that it looks like solid ground, but has nothing but water and rock underneath. She’d never been told not to dive into water you can’t see through, at least without checking first. On top of all the other silly things that Mrs. Goulding thought, she thought that she could skip so many things a girl of twelve should have known. She thought that out here and so alone, that Millicent would have been safe. Old Harry never owned up to anything either. But it was the least he could do after days of searching, to go and find her there. Little Millie. Face down in the water.

C. R. W. Noakes is an Australian writer/ photographer currently travelling the world, leaving local languages butchered in his wake. A graduate of the University of Wollongong’s creative writing program, his words have been published in 20x20 Magazine, Tide, and The Writer’s Junction. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

48 FLASH FICTION

JEFF COLEMAN

GPS Signal Lost

“Turn left on Miraloma Avenue.” It wasn’t the synthesized voice of Google Maps but of a genuine human female. Richard obeyed and turned left. He no longer questioned the GPS’s choices. “In one point two miles, turn right onto North Kraemer Boulevard.” According to his phone, he was only ten minutes away. Sweat popped from his forehead in tiny pearl sequins. He hoped he wouldn’t be late. No, he didn’t think so. That was the damndest thing. He was always right on time. Right on time to prevent a fire, to stop a crime, to save a life. Richard had no idea where the benevolent voice in his GPS had come from, only that whenever it manifested with vague destinations like ‘Flood’ or ‘Robbery’ or ‘Suicide,’ it always pointed him toward a dangerous event that was about to occur. Once he’d determined it wasn’t just a sick prank being played on him by one of his techie friends, he’d ignored it, driven away in the opposite direction of wherever it was trying to lead him. But then he’d watched buildings burn to the ground and people die on the news, and soon his conscience had gotten the better of him. Someone, somehow, had set him on a mission, and his heart wouldn’t allow him to abandon it. “Turn right.” Richard turned right. Seven minutes. He stepped on the gas. He wasn’t typically so anxious. Maybe at first, but the GPS had never steered him wrong. It always delivered him right where he needed to be at just the right time. But today was different. Today, the destination printed at the bottom of the screen said “Wife.” What was going to happen to Katty? God, they’d only been married three years and only now had a baby on the way. He had to reach her. “GPS signal lost.” What? Richard slammed on his brakes. A car behind him whaled on the horn and flashed its brights, but Richard didn’t move. “What do you mean, ‘GPS signal lost?’” Richard shouted. He sat there staring at the phone mounted to the dash, dumbfounded. Silence. The phone’s display now displayed a red banner with the The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

49 text “Searching...” Nonono! He had to get to Katty. Maybe if the area were more familiar he could have guessed where the phone was trying to take him, but instead he’d been routed to a dingy run-down quarter of Anaheim that he wasn’t at all familiar with. Why was she so far from home? “Tell me,” Richard shouted. “Tell me where to find Katty!” As if in reply, the phone repeated its previous statement: “GPS signal lost.” The car behind him had swerved into the other lane, honking repeatedly until it was out of sight. Other cars were doing likewise, but Richard wasn’t paying attention. Instead he yelled. Bucked. Screamed. Banged the steering wheel with balled fists. Threw the phone against the door. “GPS signal lost.” “No,” said Richard, weeping now. “No, tell me, goddamn you!” He drove for more than an hour, frantic, almost hitting three other cars as he cut corners at over sixty miles per hour, scouring the streets for signs of his wife. He’d just pulled over to the side of the road, desperate and lost, when his phone rang. The sound startled him and filled him with an unexpected terror. What did this mean? He reached for the device with hands that were now shaking and looked down at the display. He didn’t recognize the number. Slowly, as if dreaming, he answered the call. “Hello?” “Hello, this is the Anaheim Police Department. Are you related to Katty Aimes?” A stone sank in his stomach. In a dull voice, he answered, “Yes. I’m her husband.” There was a sigh on the other end. “Mr. Aimes, I’m very sorry, but we have bad news about your wife.”

Jeff Coleman, Modern Literary Fantasy Author http://blog.jeffcolemanwrites.com/ The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

POEMS ROBERT BEVERIDGE The City Sleeps Metropolis, Part 2

I As in the old cities, the cemetery is in the center of this metropolis. Every night, they rise, remember what life was like. They drag race without cars, play football with insubstantial tackles, make love the way smoke makes love, the intermingling of two longing cigarettes and all the while their hearts and limbs lie in the center of town.

The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

Crosses burn outside all the houses the inhabitants think this will ward off evil spirits but the laughing phantoms race through the cityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s suburbs this night as every night yelling, playing tag remembering how they were not comforted by burning crosses either III Sometimes, in their attempts to garner lives, they peek through windows, watching television, sickness, or love in one apartment while the rest of the city sleeps one young couple lie entangled with the spirits watching them the girl is barely fifteen but she is a long redhead supple, strong, alive with the glow of just-discovered love. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

the spirits as one have quickened pulses but the girl belongs to the land of the living and would not notice the seductions of spirits such as these and so eternally frustrated they move on

The spirit of Old Miss Solebury wanders every night, whispering from house to house as she did from room to room in life ducking under burning crosses she whispers to windows night after night, watches different couples like pornography with willing players and the garnet gleam in her insubstantial eyes might just be a reflection from burning crosses maybe...

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Cleansed The jaws lock onto my arm and I wonder if Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll contract tetanus or if the keepers of this black beast have kept his shots up then I wonder how to get him off my arm he reminds me of a lawyer

Ritual Many many years ago the pile of mule skulls was placed here to help the priests get closer to their god Now the tourists steal a skull or two to take back with them maybe for the same reason

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The Surrealists Were Obsessed with the Eye Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not as observant as I once was. Where once I would have seen a glorious flock of souls, clamoring on their way to Hell, now itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just a bunch of Canadian geese in the middle of the road. Yet still I can see you, Laura, and I see hundreds of birds singing praises to you I see verses of poets long dead written in your name I see trees with our initials buried deep in their roots I can see you everywhere.

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Tiresias come down to my white powdery river you can just take a quick dip and get out I won’t keep you around skinny-dipping only in this place baby you’re so beautiful clothes shouldn’t hide that body once you swim you’ll want to come back just like the rest I know I’ve been here forever

Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. He went through a messy divorce with Face book some months ago, and as a result his relationship with time is much improved. Recent / upcoming appearances in Pink Litter, The Algebra of Owls, and Main Street Rag among others. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

56 PROVERBS & PROVIDENCE

An Ode to Almustafa YONASON GOLDSON

If memory serves -after all, it has been 32 years - I was some-

where between New Orleans, Louisiana, and Waycross, Georgia. It was late winter, but the southern air was mild and the sun brightened the sky. Hitchhikerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s weather, to be sure. I was waiting at a rest stop with my thumb stuck out when a pickup towing a large camper lumbered to a halt in front of me. I climbed in and uttered my heartfelt thanks. The driver, wearing a red flannel coat in hunterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s plaid, surprised me by identifying himself as a pastor on vacation. He asked the usual questions -where was I headed, where was I from, why was I traveling this way - then launched into his story. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

57 There are two ways hitchhikers pay for their rides. One is by talking, by entertaining a driver lonely from the road and weary of recorded music or talk radio. The other is by listening, by letting drivers unburden themselves without the cost of therapy, secure in the knowledge that their disclosures will vanish into the air the moment the passenger exits the vehicle … comfort of strangers and all that. Clergy have gotten a bad rap in recent years -- much of it their own doing. Corruption is bad enough from politicians and business executives, but we have every right to expect more from our religious leaders. The entire edifice of theology suffers from every single act of spiritual infidelity. But there are still many sincere men of the cloth, and my benefactor appeared faithful to the integrity of his office. He saw his mission not only to minister but to shepherd his flock toward pastures sown thick with the morality and ethics of scripture, to challenge them to challenge themselves and prod them to pay closer attention to the calling of their conscience. And sadly, like spiritual leaders from Moses until today, he had found ample cause for disappointment. It was 1984, nearly a decade closer to the assassination of Martin Luther King than to the election of America’s first black president. I had already traveled enough to discover that my southern California upbringing had left me unprepared to confront the racism still permeating the deep south. Apparently, the good pastor wasn’t quite prepared himself. On one recent Sunday morning, he had stood at the pulpit and broached the topic of social responsibility, of reaching out to people who are different from us, of taking steps to bridge the racial divide in true Christian spirit. After services, one prominent member of his congregation remarked, “Lovely sermon, Father.” Then he added. “Don’t give it again.” I sympathized with his lamentation. Never did it occur to me that one day I would be a member of the clergy myself, intimately acquainted with shepherding a flock of my own away from the comfortable pastures of complacency toward the foreboding fields of The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

58 inner change and personal transformation. Then again, perhaps I might have foreseen where I would end up. Why was I on the road, after all, if not to discover myself, if not to push myself into the unknown, if not to skirt the edge of the map to see if, indeed, here there be monsters? And why did I care to delve into the hidden places of the soul if not to bring a cup from the ocean of wisdom so that others might drink with me and share what I had found? And yet, for all that, I might have known I was on a fool’s errand. I had already tried and failed to share the insights of earlier travels with friends who couldn’t - or wouldn’t - see past the familiar landscapes of their own little lives, who shut themselves off from vistas that made their world seem frighteningly large or made themselves seem uncomfortably small. I felt deflated and disillusioned, having so much to tell and finding no audience willing to pay the meager price of attention for admission into my circle of experience. I had barely scratched the surface of all the world had to offer, and even that was too deep and too imposing for those who had no desire to look beyond the nearest horizon. It was only then that I fully understood the lamentation of Almustafa, finding myself as I did in the company of Kahlil Gibran’s tragic hero: “My soul is overflowing with her wine. Who now will pour and drink and be cooled of the desert heat? “Would that I were a tree flowerless and fruitless, For the pain of abundance is more bitter than barrenness, And the sorrow of the rich from whom no one will take Is greater than the grief of the beggar to whom none would give. “Would that I were a well, dry and parched , and men throwing stones into me; For this were better and easier to be borne than to be a source of living water The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

59 When men pass by and will not drink. “Would that I were a reed trodden under foot, For that were better than to be a lyre of silvery strings In a house whose lord has no fingers And whose children are deaf.” Such is the fate of all who aspire to look beyond the limits of earthly perception, of all who strive to share their vision with a world content in its philosophic myopia. Socrates was indicted as a heretic for exposing the logical contradictions of Greek morality, convicted of corrupting the youth of Athens, and sentenced to drink hemlock for his crimes. The fruitless search by Diogenes to find an honest man left him cynical and embittered. The Children of Israel preferred to imprison or kill the prophets who foretold divine retribution, when repentance would have rendered those predictions null and void. Indeed, was anyone more painfully cursed than Cassandra, condemned to witness her dire prophecies ignored again and again and again? But an authentic seeker of truth has no choice but to persevere. Socrates was correct: the unexamined life is not worth living. And anyone driven by natural temperament of the callings of conscience to embark on that examination can no sooner stop than he can will himself not to breathe. If you know what I’m talking about, I don’t have to explain. If you don’t, then there’s nothing more I can say. Part of me would like to know what became of the pastor after he let me off by the side of the road that winter morning. But he has his road to travel, as I have mine. Rabbi Yonason Goldson, a talmudic scholar and former hitchhiker, circumnavigator, and newspaper columnist, lives with his wife in St. Louis, Missouri, where he teaches, writes, and lectures. His latest book, Proverbial Beauty: Secrets for success and happiness from the wisdom of the ages, is available on Amazon. Visit him at http://proverbsandprovidence.com. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

POEMS A.J. Huffman Counting Backwards from Midnight

I begin primedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; a body filled by the hopeful potential of a full eight hours of peace. I close my eyes, hope the promise of proffered slumber will embrace me. I am nightflight eagle, eager to fall. I tick my wings in time to the clockâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s whispers. Minutes drag like lifetimes. Dream disintegrates into nightmare desperation. My eyes remain open. I grasp at straws shaped like pens, use them as weapons against my own mind. Early morning finds me bleeding, inkless-ly submissive. Forty pages have become the river I could not drown in. I force my body to become raft, drift exhaustedly through another day.

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This is Hell and Nothing loves Hell more than my muse. The bitch is Queen of my misery. Her skin is stained with would-be tears. She digs through my pain, trying to find worthy bits. Too late, I am used to her scarring scavengery. I am numb to all intrusions, bleed willingly into whatever words she wants, then lie quietly in dead-manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s float, waiting for apocalyptic flood to save me or morning to damn me all over again.

I Dream in Blue Echoes of drowning constrain my thoughts, stain my fingers finite. I have only one identity, and it is terminal. Velocity pulls me deeper. I pray my eyes will open before my lungs forget how to breathe. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

I Am Tightrope walker without a wire, searching for a net solid enough to catch me. Too fragile, my skin bears the scars of a lifetime of attempts at falling. All holes, no hold is the banner that trails behind me. Still I climb the breathless heights of darkness, step forward without fear, revel in the downward momentum, pray the next impact will be my last.

A.J. Huffman has published thirteen fulllength poetry collections, thirteen solo poetry chapbooks and one joint poetry chapbook through various small presses. Her most recent releases, The Pyre On Which Tomorrow Burns (Scars Publications), Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink), A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press), and Familiar Illusions (Flutter Press) are now available from their respective publishers. She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2600 poems in various national and international journals.She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

FICTION

SINS OF OMISSION THOMAS ELSON

“Your patient’s cancer is in such an eloquent area of the brain

that surgical intervention is not possible,” the consulting surgeon told Dr. Pennington during an early morning second opinion review at the Ninnescah Memorial Hospital two weeks before Christmas. Dr. Pennington waited, as the consulting surgeon continued, “Her situation is inoperable. An operation would destroy her brain. And interventions such as radiation therapy come at such a fierce price. It would be like taking revenge on her body. Her cancer is more like fingers that creep into healthy tissue, not like cancerous lumps that can be extracted. Also, it’s fast-invading with only a 4% survival rate after five years.” A few hours later on that same warm December morning, Dr. Pennington, tall, spare, her gray slacks jutting out from beneath her white exam jacket, knocked once, then entered the barren, whitewalled room decorated with framed copies of her diplomas, certificates, and licenses. She sat on the exam stool, then rolled toward her patient. Dorothy Lapin, sat fully clothed on the exam table. She The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

64 had waited in that room for twenty minutes amidst the jars of swabs, boxes of bandages, and odors of alcohol. Worried that she could miss her awards luncheon and too impatient to wait for the news, she said, “Just tell me, doctor.” A Registered Nurse for over twelve years, Dorothy had reviewed the Mayo and Cleveland Clinic websites for all the possibilities. She tilted her head toward her right shoulder and smiled the smile of someone who already knows. The doctor looked at the sheet of paper in her right hand, exhaled with an unexpected whistle, looked down at the floor, attempted to begin, then removed her stethoscope from her neck while she collected herself a moment. “Dorothy,” Dr. Pennington began softly, her motherly eyes reflected concern, “You have a malignant primary metastatic brain tumor on the section of your brain stem that controls breathing and pulse.” “Cancer… Then, it’s cancer,” she said, then asked a question – knowing the answer. “Can anything be done?” The doctor answered, touched Dorothy’s shoulder. Dorothy patted the doctor’s hand. They sat for a quiet moment as patient and Registered Nurse digested the news. “Then I could still be talking and even walking pretty well for a while, even a few days before- “Dorothy grew silent, then said, “before it’s over.” Dr. Pennington nodded in agreement. Left unspoken was what they both knew – unlike other cancers, Dorothy’s brain cancer had the capacity to shut down her body, not organ by organ, but in one swift motion; with revenge. Inoperable. Dorothy also knew that by the time she began to stare blankly across the room or through people, by the time she began seeing visions of horses, angels, friends, or dead relatives, she would have only a few days left. # In late January, the frost rested on the trees outside Dorothy’s hospital room, as high-tech monitors imbedded in the walls flashed her vitals. For five days, needles injected into bruised veins delivered morphine from bags of fluid that dulled her pain and muddled her logic. Her medications kicked-in, and she exhaled audibly. No medThe Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

65 ical terms necessary. Kicked-in said everything. She would remain relatively pain-free for two hours and forty minutes. Dorothy had timed it. She heard the humming and clicking of the electronics and mechanics that kept her alive, and allowed her to be an episodic observer. Her attention was diverted to her assigned nurse who moved silently among the tubes, hooks, and dials. Checked, then re-checked blood pressure, heart rate, pulse-ox, and I.V. drip bags. Her arms no longer gave a reliable reading, so the nurse lifted the sheet from Dorothy’s legs and ankles, adjusted the cuff that tracked her vitals. She asked about comfort as she raised the top half of the hospital bed a few degrees. The nurse then asked about pain levels, discomfort, and Dorothy’s needs - food, juice, medications – code for painkillers – euphuism for morphine; moved the call button closer; “Call if you need anything.”; re-checked for hospital protocol compliance, and, after a quick look at her patient, glided from the room. Dorothy spent her days alternating between anger at her emesis bowl and worrying. Her tears, always lurking, were now a ritual. Her entertainment was overhearing hospital staff members chatter about children, weekends, supervisors, assigned hours, working conditions, hospital policies and politics. When she overheard these hallway conversations, she was no longer confined to a hospital bed without a future, but was transported back to her office and behind her desk on that warm December morning at the Berdan Community Health Clinic – a medical clinic supported by Medicare and Medicaid funds. It was one hour before her doctor’s appointment and four hours before her luncheon, where, after only two years on the job, she was scheduled to receive the Community Health Executive Director of the year award from the State Healthcare Alliance. Dorothy had no family, few friends, nothing but the Berdan Community Health Clinic and her profession. On her walls were photos of neither children; parents; men; women nor pets; on her refrigerator hung nothing drawn by children nor godchildren; however, she knew all the employees by their first names, including the The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

66 names of their children. Her life focus, indeed her identity as the Executive Director of the Berdan Community Health Clinic, was as omnipresent in her conversations as the initials, R.N., were in her signature. * Dorothy’s early morning work habit was to enter the Clinic rear door at 6:30, walk the long hallway to her corner office, and check the accounts receivable printout placed neatly for her perusal on the corner of the desk of Jack Troxell, her accounts manager and a six year veteran of the Berdan Clinic who had applied for the executive director’s job Dorothy now held. Next, she pulled papers from the fax machine tray and reviewed the overnight cash deposits. After that, she walked through the other halls, checked the bathrooms for cleanliness, ran her fingers over the door jams, then turned into her office, switched on the wide-screen computer monitor, walked to the clinic break room for a shot of coffee, then returned to her desk to prepare for the morning meetings. * On that December morning, when Dorothy had finished her walk-through, and sat in her office, she noticed a white 9x12 envelope with her first name typed on the front. She opened it and read the single page enclosure; then she called Troxell. Her voice shook. “Can you meet with me ASAP?” Troxell flexed his biceps just before he walked into Dorothy’s office. Her hand shook when she pushed the single sheet across the desk. “Look at this.” The sheet he held alleged federal and state money misused, funds for children’s immunizations diverted by Dorothy to buy food and gasoline for herself, unreimbursed government credit cards used by Dorothy for personal purchases of clothes, a mattress and bed frame, and fraudulent financial statements presented monthly to the Board. At the bottom of the page were the names of people notified – board members, federal and state funding authorities. He read the page almost instantly, caught himself, leaned back, and scanned it several more times. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

67 Dorothy watched Troxell in silence. “Dorothy, this is crap.” He slapped the papers with the back of his fingers. “There’s no documentation here. If they had any, they would have used it.” She sat forward. Her hands covered her eyes. Mid-tears, she shifted and asked, “What do I do?” Overscheduled again with a doctor’s appointment before the awards ceremony, she dialed the first name on the sheet. “Dorothy, wait. We need to rehearse.” Twenty minutes later, she dialed again, recited the same litany for each call, “We do not know who did this, but I have arranged for an accountant to audit both our finances and practices. I’ve personally placed your name on their list to send a copy of the results on the same day they’re mailed to us.” Calls completed, Kleenex in hand, eyes wide, she looked at Troxell. Studied him, gauged how much space remained before she stepped over a line, and said, “Would you conduct the audit?” He waited, turned his head toward the window, then moved his head to the right, met Dorothy’s stare and said, “If I have the necessary authority.” Dorothy’s head tilted upright. She assumed a haughty posture, then peered down, “Meaning?” “Meaning, without having to renegotiate it every week.” Dorothy slowly drew out each syllable, “Agreed.” Quickly added, “And you’ll get a raise.” She looked at her watch, remembered her schedule. “I have to leave now. I have a doctor’s appointment and the awards luncheon. I’ll be back in a few hours.” Troxell returned to his office, and downloaded Dorothy’s credit card statements and receipts. Unvoiced memories floated inside his head. After a senior staff meeting, months earlier, Dorothy discovered her right front car tire was almost flat. She asked if he had a few extra minutes, said they could drive to the tire shop, review the meeting notes, and get the tire fixed. Forty-five minutes later, four new tires purchased with a credit card. The date on the tires receipt matched the date of their meeting. These funds were not reimbursed. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

68 Another time, the day before a Board meeting, Dorothy told him that she was leaving early to buy a mattress. The credit card purchase date matched. Again, the funds were not reimbursed. He downloaded the documentation not included with the single sheet. With each supporting piece of paper, he correlated specific use, amounts and dates, and corroborated each allegation with copies of credit card receipts with Dorothy’s signature. He finished, saved the material to a flash drive, placed it in his pocket, then leaned back, pushed his chair against the credenza, and made his decision – if he mailed the documentation during the Christmas shuffle, it might be misplaced or forgotten. He would mail his evidence to the funders after the first of the year. # Inside the hotel ballroom, the award recipient, Dorothy, executive director of the year award recipient, had just returned from her third trip to the bathroom. She walked toward the dais in her candy-apple Mephisto shoes purchased after her doctor’s appointment. She climbed the stairs and approached the podium, her mind full of praise for her staff, her board and others; she heard the same humming and clicking sounds from earlier that morning in the doctor’s office - only now they came from the fluorescent lights and the movement of the luncheon plates. For a moment, she was distracted, fear seized her, she swallowed, pushed the events of that morning deep down, grasped her prepared remarks in her right hand, and then stumbled on the cord underneath the rug. Her notes slipped from her fingers, she pulled forward, saved her pride by smiling and shrugging her shoulders, simultaneously raising both hands palms-up as if to say what else could happen today. As Dorothy neared the podium, the host continued, “When Dorothy took over at the Berdan clinic, the patient visits per day were around forty, and today it stands at-” He immediately turned toward Dorothy and asked, “How many patients did your staff see yesterday?” Caught off guard, Dorothy looked at the audience. She smiled The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

69 and created a number, “Over two hundred patients as of yesterday.” “Over two hundred patients,” the host echoed. “As most of you know,” he said to the hotel ballroom filled with community health clinic employees and board members from throughout the area, “Dorothy began at the Berdan Community Health Clinic as Nursing Director and rose to Executive Director within months.” The crowd smiled and nodded. Only a handful of people in the audience knew she had risen so rapidly because on the evening the prior Executive Director was fired, she was smart enough to get out of her tiny office, and move into his empty corner suite. That evening and each day after that, she contacted every Board member with updates on the newfound stability of the clinic. Nervous, unsure, and prone to overeating, she embedded herself with the board and staff. The awards host shook her hand, hugged her, stepped back, bowed ever so slightly, and with his left hand gestured Dorothy toward the podium to receive her award. After an initial bout of confusion, her tears flowed while she thanked all the right people, and repressed the events of that morning. * The hums and clicks of her oxygen machine brought Dorothy back to her hospital room with Dr. Pennington standing at the side of the bed. She strained to hear her doctor’s voice, “It’s Tuesday.” The doctor waited a moment, then said, “You will be transferred to hospice tomorrow, and-“ Dorothy was familiar with the protocol for Hospice admissions. “Hospice. You’re telling me I’m expected to die within weeks or days?” It was not a question. “Fighting everything; giving up everything. Now you tell me all I can do is wait.” Each word came more slowly over Dorothy’s dry lips. “I hope- I don’t think- I’ll try to- I just wish-” She stopped, caught her own denial, and then grasped her doctor’s hand in the manner of the elderly. “I always thought I’d get better.” Dorothy looked toward the wall. “But Hospice.” The doctor stepped forward. “Dorothy, it’s time. You’ll be The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

70 more comfortable. More home-like. I’ll be back tomorrow morning to help.” When she touched Dorothy’s shoulder, Dorothy wanted to return the gesture. She lifted her hand ever so slightly, then, too weak to continue, let it fall onto the bed. * The next day, Dorothy rejected the hospice pudding, the milk, even the water, but readily accepted the additional morphine. She grew disoriented. Her bed felt unfamiliar. As she shifted in a hopeless attempt for comfort, her cognizance drifted to a flash of what she imagined as lighting, then to the silence between the lighting and explosion of thunder. Relax. Breathe. Words she had repeated to her patients innumerable times. Dorothy grasped her bedrail, pressed the cannula toward her nose, then shoved her three-tipped cane off her bed and watched it disappear. Dorothy saw unfamiliar nurses escort the Berdan Community Health Clinic employees from the hallway into her hospice room. She thanked them all, asked about each person’s family, hugged each one, and then they were gone. She continued to talk to people past and present – one by one she said goodbye, watched as they faded. Dorothy heard her own liquid cough, felt a Kleenex deftly touch her mouth, and, on the same week Troxell mailed his documentation, she did the only thing she could – she waited.

Thomas Elson’s short stories, poetry, and flash fiction have appeared, or are scheduled to appear, in Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Oracle Fine Arts Review, Red City Literary Review, Avalon Literary Review, Clackamas Literary Review, Perceptions Magazine, Literary Commune, Culture Cult, Silver Apples, and Leannàn. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

POEMS

Karen Wolf

JUST THE WAY IT IS A colorful autumn sunset radiates through my windshield as his van swaggers down the road ahead of me spraying pride mixed with droplets of blood dripping down a bumper shelf attached to the back end. Strapped to it a deer no longer running through forests spraying joyful deer spirit. High in a tree stand, the hunter may have spent hours eating sandwiches, drinking thermos coffee and waitingâ&#x20AC;Ś for a buck with bragging rights antlers. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

72 His tree top assault required no training, no skills, no mental acuity, just a high powered telescoped gun, yet will no doubt provide months of retelling, barroom, beer swilling joy… as if this air attack upon the defenseless was a true test of his testosterone level. The deer hearse inches up his steep home on the river driveway, care taken not to spill his quarry on the asphalt. Immersed in his story, I pause to observe him exiting the van, his grinning, pride bloated form careens up the sidewalk like a pinball. “I bagged one!” he shouts with all the braggadocio of a victorious gladiator, ecstatic over his conquest. With hunters, that’s just the way it is.

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THE PHOTO Stop whispering about our past, you metal framed photo, with us decked out in wide collared shirts, bell bottoms, and long free flowing hair. Smiles holding the key to youthful innocence or ignorance of his hurtful wasting away mid-fifties death. Stop reminding me that youth was pain free, carefree, drenched in pansy petals that did not freeze in winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s deadly cold, or become ugly with burning sunrays and brown falling petals. Those smiles held the future and past in the present, reaching for everything, afraid of nothing, secure in now-love. Stop reminding me of all that is lost in deathâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s growth-halting grip.

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FLAG R AND R

High atop a pole the park flag is wind caught in a riverbank pine, the stars and stripes un-waving, yearning for serenity, unfurled within scented branches. Calm river water flows across rocks, between fish, and up against the shoreline. Peaceful sunshine dries the rain soaked cloth, greens the grass, perks wilted flowers, casts squirrelsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; shadows as they chase along the pine. The flag flutters as a breeze jumps from treetop to trail post to floating geese upon shallow waters. It stiffens refusing to wave back into the chaos.

The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

LOSING MY RELIGION It began to crumble when the black robed nun, her face framed in white accordion pleats, told her first graders: “Animals do not have souls.” She lied. I knew my floppy-eared puppy’s soul was bigger than hers --his was filled with love. It became dust at my father-in-law’s Catholic funeral. No priest’s words could stop my uncontrolled tears, not the hymns, crucifix, Bible verses, In-the-name-of-the-Father prayers, Nothing. Until the sound of drums and smell of wood smoke lured me outside to feel my connection to the earth. All traces were swept away at my former husband’s funeral. We had grown apart but never out of love. The priest spoke of his lost 25 years living an unholy life, married to me. But we were not lost. None of those Christians in their all- or- nothing religiosity could erase what we had together. The voice in my soul awakens with a cat’s purr, blowing river winds, crisp pine scent, coyote howls, not from recited words in a steeple place. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

HELD IN MEMORY BY NO ONE His last words to her as soldiers opened fire then burned their village to the ground, embraced her, warded off fear, provided solace, for each remaining moment of her life. Pet names echoed off empty nest walls as a retired couple peeled back memories playing romantic games recalled from college days. Until they passed on to whatever is next. A buckeye nestled in the glove box of an old womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s car reflected a special bond created in secret meetings beneath that far reaching tree. Cultivated through years of punishing winds and energizing sunshine. Its meaning lost with her passing. Death erases memories like ocean waves covering gems buried beneath the sand. At rest like the hearts that held them. Karen Wolf has an undergraduate degree in Education from the University of Toledo and a Master of Arts degree from Bowling Green State University. She has retired from a 30 year teaching career and is semi-retired from her own pet sitting company. She has been published in Smokey Blue Literary and Art Magazine, Dime Store Review, and Tree House. She also received the E.E. Cummings Free Verse award and the Creative Challenge Award from PRIZM â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s Art-A-Fair 2016. She says that poetry soothes the savage beast and opens her eyes to the beauty that abounds within the world. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

FICTION

Steve Carr

THE CRACK UP

Morning, a hot wind blowing from the east sent the tall yellow prairie grass bowing in ripples toward the old house. Colin leaned against the wood post to the barbed wire fencing that stretched from east to west as far as the eye could see, altering nothing in the flat prairie, but an intrusion in the pristine western open landscape nevertheless. He lifted a nearly empty bottle of Jim Beam to his parched lips and poured the whiskey into his mouth while looking skyward, glinting in the glare of the yellow sun unobstructed by the white pillows of clouds that hung in clumps in the pale blue sky. He lowered the bottle and with his bare back against the post he slid to the ground, sitting in a nest of grass that he had formed while standing there kicking at the earth with his boots. A meadowlark alighted on a distance post and let out a brief melodic aria. Colin raised the bottle to his mouth again and looked the direction the wind was blowing, focus blurring on the house, and took another long swig. Even at the distance he was from the house, he could hear Jack barking, probably having caught the scent of a gopher or jackrabbit. Good old Jack. Colin opened his eyes wide, trying to fool his booze addled mind into believing he could clearly see what he was looking The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

78 at. What he was seeing was the image imprinted in that part of his brain that retained the same image he had seen since he was old enough to crawl around in his diapers among the chickens. Gnats buzzed around his ears and sweat ran in rivulets down his bare chest and abdomen. He took another drink of whiskey. With the bottle empty he tossed it aside and removed his dingy white cowboy hat and placed it in the grass beside his outstretched legs. The wind rustled his curly black hair and he turned to the east and opened his mouth and gulped in the blowing aroma of the prairie in late August; dry earth and sun scorched plants. Reaching into his pants pocket he pulled out a green Bic lighter, and turned westward, and flicked the small wheel on the lighter and put the flickering flame to a clump of dead grass and watched it ignite. With his hat he fanned the flame and felt the heat of the erupting fire. He scooted a few feet from the spreading fire and watched it move westward, rapidly consuming the combustible dry grass, stretching out in a crackling line of exploding grass, north to south, a rapidly moving and expanding inferno. He heard Jack whining, then silence, and then the house was covered in a blazing blanket. * Noon, the chickens in the yard busily pecked about for the scattered kernels of corn that Colin’s mother, Janet, has tossed around in handfuls scooped out of a large wooden salad bowl. Her cotton floral print skirt fluttered in the breeze that also caught loose strands of her graying black hair creating tentacles that curled and twisted around her sun-weathered face. Jack was at her side, rubbing his lean body covered in long red hair against her bare legs. She looked to the west and watched as a line of bison crossed the range beyond the barbed wire fence. Colin came out of the house and stumbled from the small set of stairs that led out of the kitchen to the backyard, catching his balance before falling face-first into the dirt. Jack ran over to him, his tail rapidly wagging. “Hey old boy,” Colin said, rubbing the dog’s boney head. He held the back of his hand to Jack’s mouth and let him lick it. “It’s going to be another hot one,” he said to his mother. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

79 She turned from watching the bison and scooped the last handful of corn from the bowl and tossed it to the chickens. “Your father was hoping you would ride out to see about the cattle with him this morning,” she said. “He tried but he couldn’t wake you.” “I think I had a bit too much to drink last night,” Colin said, wavering unsteadily on his bare feet. “You always have too much to drink, Colin,” she said, looking up to see a flock of geese flying in a ‘v’ formation cross the sky. “My friends took me to that saloon in Scenic,” he said, swatting at a horsefly that landed on his shoulder, tickling his flesh. “Your friends are what got you in the trouble you’re in to begin with. Them and alcohol,” she said walking past him and up the stairs. As she opened the door she turned to him and said “we hoped you would try to be sober at least a couple days before you go to prison.” She went into the house letting the screen door slam behind her. Colin staggered over to the empty water troth, a remainder from and reminder of the days when they rode about the ranch lands on horses. They were sold in favor of a used Ford pickup that his father called Magnet because that was the name of his favorite mare he no longer had. His stomach was in upheaval; the chili he had at the saloon had not set well with the whiskey, his preferred choice of beverage. He turned around and barfed into the troth, then wiped his mouth with the back of the same hand that Jack had slobbered on, and took a pack of Marlboro’s from his back pants pocket, a Bic lighter from his front pocket, lit a cigarette and took a long drag on it. He watched the curl of exhaled smoke quickly dissipate in the noon time breeze. He wanted to drive somewhere, anywhere, just for the hell of it. But his car was gone, sitting in a car junk yard among all the other hunks of mangled automobiles. Driving while under the influence –DUI- they called it. * Night, the month of June, Colin was under the influence of a full moon shining bright and low in the early summer star-filled sky. He was under the influence of the rush of wind though his open car windows, his car being filled with the scents of wet earth from a dayThe Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

80 long raining spell and sprouting green bright green prairie grass that grew along highway 44 coming from Rapid City. It had not been the fun night he had planned, but he never liked the saloons in Rapid City anyway; too filled with businessmen posing as cowboys wearing clothes, hats and boots that had never been worn on an actual ranch or farm, and desperate secretaries not interested in meeting anyone but these fake cowboys. He had had a few shots of whiskey at the last of the three saloons he had been to that night, drove in a half-lit state around the city with two friends until he found a store where they could buy a couple bottles of Jim Beam. He and his two buddies sat in the darkness in the grass along Rapid Creek and drank until sunrise. Leaving them there along the creek to sleep it off , he got into his car then opened the last bottle of Jim Beam and put a Garth Brooks CD in the player and drank and sang his way under all those influences half way to Scenic before swerving off the road to avoid hitting a deer crossing the road. His car flipped three times before he was ejected miraculously unharmed out of the smashed windshield and landed in the grass, still grasping the neck of the broken bottle. He laid there in the grass with his car upside down on top of a bent highway sign, until a deputy sheriff found him, the demolished vehicle, and destroyed Highways Department property, an hour later. His blood alcohol level was two times over the limit. Two days later he was under the influence of a judge. “This is your third DUI charge in six months and the records show you have not sought help for your excessive drinking,” the judge said. “What do you have to say for yourself?” Colin wanted to say he needed a drink, but he looked at his dad who had barely looked at him all the way from the house to the court building in New Underwood, and seeing the pale face and dour expression on his father’s face, he kept his mouth shut. “You’re a menace to anyone else on the roads. Maybe two years in the state prison will help you with your drinking problem,” the judge said before bringing down the gavel with a resounding crack. * Afternoon, three o’clock, the pendulum in the grandfather The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

81 clock in the corner ticked monotonously from side to side as the chime behind the clock face sounded three times. On the sofa, Colin sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. Through the open window hot wind blew the sheer blue curtains into the room, their hems fluttering and snapping in mid-air. He got up and ducked beneath the curtains and looked out. Jack was lying under the swinging chair that rocked back and forth hanging from rusty hooks in the porch ceiling that made scratching sounds as it cast shadows that glided back and forth over Jack. A small eddy of dirt, like a miniature twister, whirled across the bare front yard. * Afternoon, fifteen years before, Jack was twelve years old and sat in a hard wooden chair in the principal’s office swinging his legs back and forth under the seat. His father, Al, sat on one side of him in another wooden chair and his mother sat on the other side, in a similar chair. The principal, Mr. Dawson, was seated behind a big metal desk, his hands folded on top of a small stack of manilla file folders. The window behind Mr. Dawson was closed and the brown shade up and Jack watched heavy snow fall on the playground equipment and school yard behind the school. Several crows were perched along the top of the schoolyard fence like avian sentinels. “Al and Janet,” Mr. Dawson said looking first at one then the other, “we’ve been friends for a long time and I’ve known Colin his entire life, so I feel I can be frank with you.” “Certainly,” Janet said, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. “Colin is one of the brightest pupils in his grade, but his teachers can hardly handle his restlessness. Mrs. Upshaw said it’s like Colin is fighting against invisible restraints around his body,” Mr. Dawson said. “And as you know Mrs.Upshaw is not prone to exaggeration.” “He’s the same way at home,” Janet said. “He was examined by the doctor and all he said was that Colin is just going through a phase.” Mr. Dawson leaned back in his chair and grasped onto the arms as if trying to hold himself in his seat, and looked at Colin’s dad. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

82 “What do you think, Al?” Al cleared his throat. “It’s nothing that a good hide tanning won’t take care of.” * Afternoon, 3:15, Colin pulled his head back in and turned around and through a curtain that flickered in front of his face he saw his mother standing in the doorway leading into the kitchen looking at him. She was wearing an apron and her face was smudged with flour. He had never been able to read her facial expressions. “You have flour on your face, Mom,” he said, pushing aside the curtain that had given his view of her being seen in a dreamlike bluish haze. “I’m making bread,” she said, lifting the hem of the apron and dabbing her face, sending a light snowfall of flour onto the wooden floor. “You always liked my bread.” “You make it sound as if I’ll never have it again,” he said. “I’m going to prison, not Siberia.” “If only you had gotten some help for your drinking,” she said wistfully. “It’s what your attorney said you needed to do after the second charge.” “I like to drink,” Colin said. “When I pass out then wake up I don’t even notice time has passed.” “I don’t understand that at all,” she said, pushing a stray hair back from her forehead spreading flour across her brow. “You can’t just drink to throw away what little time you have on this planet.” “I can’t think of any other way to do it,” Colin said. * Evening, 5:30, Al sat in the large chair in the living room trying to pry a splinter out of the palm of his hand with a Swiss army knife. Jack sat at his feet gnawing on the bone he had been given from the roast that Janet had fixed for dinner. The grandfather clock ticked and a steady hot breeze blew in through the open window. The sound of a lone coyote yelping from somewhere out in the prairie momentarily interrupted the solitude. Colin came into the room carrying some sheets of paper and sat down on the sofa and began to The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

83 read what was written on the first sheet. “What you got there, son?” Al asked looking up from the bleeding wound he had made in his hand. “It’s a list of what I can’t have when I am in prison. Contraband they call it. They want to make sure I don’t bring along any files or hacksaws when I check in,” Colin said not looking up from the paper. “Basically I can’t take anything to make life more comfortable or to make time pass faster.” “You were never happy with what you had or where you were anyway,” his father said grumpily. “It’ll be two years of just sitting around,” Colin said. “I’m going to get pretty restless.” “You were born restless and you’ll die that way,” Al said. “You tried to beat it out of me,” Colin mumbled. “What?” His father asked. “You tried to beat it out of me,” Colin said, his voice raised. “What?” “You tried to beat the restlessness out of me,” Colin screamed. “I was just trying to help,” his dad said, his lined, tanned face red with anger. “Look where being restless has gotten you.” “You tried to beat it out of me,” Colin whispered. * Night, Colin ambled his way through the tall prairie grass, carrying a bottle of Jim Beam, the one he had kept hidden in his room. He looked up at the night sky and watched a shooting star streak across the heavens and disappears into the clutter of stars. Jack followed close behind and Colin stopped and patted the dog on the head. “Go home old boy,” he told the dog, who whined briefly then turned and went back toward the house. At a wood post, part of the barbed wire fence that divided their property from the open prairie and the boundaries of the Badlands National Park, Colin leaned against it, took his cowboy hat and laid it in the grass at his feet and opened the bottle and took a long swig. He could see the light on above the porch of his home but all The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

84 the windows were dark. Coyotes howled in the distance. He drank until he was drunk and had reached that point where the passing of time went unnoticed and the endless boredom became meaningless. Then he passed out. * Morning, Colin opened his eyes and shook his head trying to erase the dream he had. It had been so vivid, as if his brain had memorized the details of his life, his home, the blowing of the hot summer winds across the prairie and even Jackâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s barking. He looked at the stretch of prairie between him and the house, and the house itself. In the dream he had set it all ablaze. From the time he had gotten out of bed at noon, the day before had worn on like most of the days before it, the only difference being that he and his parents were confronting the reality that he would be going to prison. Lying there in the grass, he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what the feeling was exactly, but it was like he was a piece of glass, cracking, about to shatter. Reaching into his pants pocket he pulled out a red Bic lighter, and turned westward, and flicked the small wheel on the lighter and put the flickering flame to a clump of dead grass and watched it ignite. With his hat he fanned the flame and felt the heat of the erupting fire. He scooted a few feet from the spreading fire and watched it move westward, rapidly consuming the combustible dry grass, stretching out in a crackling line of exploding grass, north to south, a rapidly moving and expanding inferno. He heard Jack whining, then silence, and then the house was covered in a blazing blanket. This time he was wide awake. Steve Carr has spent several years living in South Dakota near the Badlands, where this story takes place. He began his writing career as a military journalist and have had short stories published in Literally Stories, Sick Lit Magazine, Viewfinder, 50 Word Stories, The James White Review, and The Northland Review: An International Journal, among others. His plays have been produced in several states including Arizona, Missouri and Ohio. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

POEMS

Sharmada Shastry Abandonment I sit at his doorstep. The sun burns down the skin on my shoulder. The neighbour boys flit about and pass a quick glance at me, before they disappear into the darkness of their homes. This is not new; abandonment has lingered in my backyard like the ghost of an old lover. I breathe in spasms. My stomach implodes into a cramp. I am aware of his anger, his brittle, harsh anger. I remember gingerly knocking on his door two years ago, a sullen summer morning. He had opened the door, and had snarled at my unexpected arrival. Within seconds, I had fumbled my way through reason. I had always known of the other women in his life. They had made their presence felt in between snatches of conversation, sometimes in his hasty lovemaking, in the imploring gaze he did not return, in the way he mixed up the names of his lovers, even in the smell of his freshly-showered body; the body I had worshipped in virgin delight. I had wallowed into sobs, the only emotion my lovelorn heart could conjure in that moment of grief. He had tried holding me down, even as his anger surged into an eventual impossibility. I had left with a wound so deep; my addled mind had not been able to fathom its intensity for years to come. Instead, it had regressed into a state of numbness; a tired, persistent ennui that had sewn itself into the bone of my marrow. An unnamed fatigue that came to life each time I made love to a stranger. I hear the throng of his footsteps. He grabs me by my arms and slams me into the chair. I submit without protest. He reels off a list of my sins, forgetting his indifference that drove me to desperation. He prefers me a saint to a sinner. He likes his women voiceless, I should have known. He often forgets that he is my muse, that I turn the hurt he strangles down my throat into words. We both turn around in this nameless grave; he mirrors the syllables of betrayal. Abandonment has crept into my skin like a strange sickness that knows no cure, a fever that clings too close. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

Amma I want to picture the day my enraged mother grabbed her sleeping daughters and walked out of home even before the sun could trace her footsteps. Ajji tells me she sat by the banyan tree outside the temple, her wounded pride sulking down its tresses. I have vague memories of the temple, and the peeling red paint of its facade. Women with their freshly-washed hair caressing their virgin faces, dressed in cheap silks with the gold borders of their pallus tucked at their waist walked in at the crack of drawn with thalis of camphor, agarbattis and diyas in their hands to pray for a good husband. Amma must have walked around the temple pond noiselessly. Everyone had forbidden her from wearing anklets. She must have sat there for hours, her tears coursing through the folds of her saree. She must have gasped for breath and must have been thirsty. She had asthma. Appa must have come looking for her. Where else could she have gone? A woman with two daughters to live by; the bells of an unhappy marriage clanking against her neck. Amma never left home again. Not before sunrise. On days I shiver in the mornings, even in the raging summers of this coastal town, I find myself wrapped in her faded cotton sarees. I almost smell her tears through the fraying threads. Women like me shouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t clean cupboards. We should let dust settle in for seasons like memories of old lovers lingering on summer evenings. We should abstain from finding old sheets of paper, crumpled and mourning, yellowing and fainting in the demise of time. All the half-written poems squeezed into the back of bus tickets should be smuggled back into the pockets. We should let musty blue sweaters remain musty and refrain from washing them back to living. We should let tea stains make home on walls and remind us every now and then of scars that have remained. But I found more sheets of paper; and a bottle of ink. Night wanders around like a furtive lover. I watch till the ink blots the paper. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

Dear lover Dear lover, The puddles cannot take you whole. You are meant for the ocean. I want to watch ourselves skinning knees again in the backwaters of desire. Let us hang ourselves at the mouth of the river and speak of love in tongues that taste of salt. Leave behind naked words on my broken shoreline. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll hide them beneath the waves till your feet find me again. I am neither a whore nor a goddess. The temple gongs have left me deaf. Words leave welts on my tongue. My knees are skinned. I am not waiting by the alley for you to lick the blood off my skin. I am not the one you can pin down to the floor every time you want to break someone down. I am not your apology box, your redemption letter, your saving grace or your sin. Hold me down with your elbows. Turn on the radio. Let me listen to the crackles of old Bollywood songs. Bite into my skin, tell me about the ways you chased girls on park benches. Sing to me about madness, talk to me in verses. Peel my clothes off with the red in your eyes. Make me bleed into the evening. Turn me around till I lose myself in this strange, dreamless fever.

Maps 1

Do you remember this body where you drew maps with your tongue and I let you discover new cities in darkness?

The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

Maps 2

with maps strewn across the bed, I see what next of you I can call mine cities rivers oceans valleys mountains

and landmines. I often woke up in the middle of the night to watch you sleep. Your head, resting against the bedâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bare back, my fingers stuck in your hair, our languid breathing setting this night apart from the rest. You fell asleep, as if to a clock, and I wriggled like a sleepless moth, fluttering blind against the pane. Darkness had seeped in. We had hung words at the door. The lights fell pale on your cheeks, your neck shone like broken glass on snow. The silence we birthed took pauses every now and then. We had left behind cities to linger in this twinned solitude. The birds had left home to soak their feet in warm water, in a cold country, in a stranger land. Come here. Warm my toes in your breath. And sometimes I wonder why I leave things half-finished. Months back, I left the stove smouldering to talk to you about old lovers and burning lips. Last night, I left a cigarette midway to watch the moon dissolve into the sky. Years ago, I left an unfinished poem on the back of my first love letter and hoped to find more words hidden between seasons. The words got lost along the spines of books, their pages turning mustier as summer smells wafted by. I find old photographs, a younger me smiling back at myself when I am foraging my cupboard for my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s memories. I leave things half way. Sometimes they find me. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

Songbird I want to tell you that I once loved like a songbird, weaving magic with words, listening to the crescendo of his heartbeat. Laying my ear to his heart, I could precisely tell the moment his fingers would begin singing to my flesh, that since long lost raagas into itself. Our skin begins to talk. The beauty of his pulse threatens to unsettle the life in me. Sing me a song, turn your lips into something that music cannot hold. Make your words flow; make them tumble down the length of my arms, from the tides of my belly to my ankles, as I watch them awaken a strange kind of desire. You may have never touched a woman like a piece of music before. Strum down my shoulder like lost notes looking for home in the corners of your eyes. Let the world watch our bodies whisper lyrics into each other’s mouth. Let us be done like an exile leaving home; as he gazes back one last time – a frail, fragile home country that draws nothing but blood. The songbird has brought down dusk and has scattered it around us. I shudder myself away from you and walk into the womb of the moon. I have left the door ajar.

Sharmada Shastry holds a Master’s degree in English and currently works as a freelance menstrual health educator in Bengaluru. She spent a large part of her childhood reading obscure writers and disconsolate tales. She is a reclusive (and occasional) poet and some of her pieces have been published in The Brown Boat and Raed Leaf India Poetry Journal. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

BOOK- Introduction, Review, Excerpt

An Introduction to

‘Empathy Globally: Painful Portraits of People – In Poetry’ and author Brian Crandall When I read poetry, I read a poem three times:

One for content, one for emotional value, and one to let the reaction soak in. What I truly appreciate about the poetry written by Brian Crandall is that it extends from my usual three-read habit. I have found that his poetry extends to the rare addition in that it adds inquiry. It follows me with a question and maybe a response, whether in thought, word or action. His poetry reignited a new energy in my interest of the arts that was long dormant. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

91 Imagine if you went through a traumatic or life-changing incident, but you could not speak about it. The real world is visible on the other side of a deep ravine, but cannot be crossed. There is no bridge. Materials are not available to build one. The emotional static that plays in the mind churns painfully like a roaring river. With any luck, the noise subsides; but the pain, shame, perceived embarrassment, or the need for isolation becomes a constant companion. Healing could begin with an acknowledgement or identification of the situation. Thoughts and words are necessary to cross that bridge to get to the other side of reality and begin the process. Now imagine that you are a family member, friend, or loved one of someone who experiences this type of turmoil. It could be PTSD, addiction, abandonment, domestic violence, mental health, physical upheaval or culture shock. You know something is going on, but putting the pieces together is difficult. Support is hard to navigate without understanding the situation. Wading through these waters has its risks with the undertow. Platitudes are like slippery stones. Brian Crandall’s poetry reaches in more of an introspective apex than the more commonly-accepted definition of poetry. He uses his insight and words to provide the materials to build a bridge with the elements of description, reflection and introspection, but his work results in a different connection. What started out as a response to different situations that he saw in the media about extreme actions, violence, or tragedy against society or man, has offered an out-growth in steps towards a healing journey. His hope was to create awareness and a dialogue towards a more peaceful perception and motivate action towards change. Through his ‘Poetry for Peace’ website, with over 1,000 members from more than 70 countries, Brian was able to accomplish this mission. His work has been used by both soldiers and civilians for the treatment of PTSD, adult and juvenile detention centres, shelters for the homeless, and victims of domestic abuse, just to name a few. He is a former board member-at-large for the ‘So Brave Foundation’, a non-profit organization dedicated to providing physical The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

92 and emotional therapy for military veterans who survived the battlefield and are now trying to transition to current society. He also participated with 100 Thousand Poets for Change, an internationally-recognized grassroots educational organization that promotes peace, and serious social environmental and political change through the literary arts. “Ultimately, 700 events in 550 cities in 95 countries took place … in conjunction with 100 Thousand Poets for Change. Stanford University offered to archive all documentation and audiovisual records of the event posted on the 100 Thousand Poets for Change website.” [1][2] The testimonials and responses from his readers, and the use of his poetry in their work, confirm the efficacy of his words. His descriptions are relatable even though he writes from an objective view point. His poetry helps those who have lived it, by promoting awareness, and inviting a move to a more peaceable thought, attitude or action. His reason is altruistic. He writes not for himself but for others – not to an appreciative audience for entertainment or accolades, but to relate education and motivate. Brian Crandall is a conduit for communication. He is the voice for those who are unable to speak -----------------------Cathy Sydlo Wilkes

Cathy Sydlo Wilkes is a poet, writer, multimedia artist, storyteller, and educator with interests in the arts, history, sociology, psychology, travel, trivia, and different cultures. She is an advocate for military families, victims of sexual/ domestic abuse, and hopes to complete her Master’s in Psychology. The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

The Pain of a Poet ‘Oh no, here it comes again’, I think to myself as a wave of sadness overwhelms my mind and body. I feel as if I have just been told a close family member died unexpectedly. This experience began sometime during the year 2014, I don’t recall exactly when. Prior to this paradigm shift, I had written an occasional sarcastic poem for a birthday or sporting event, certainly nothing like what I am doing now. Sometimes I am inspired to write after I see a photograph of a child in duress, or when I’m watching the news and see a story about people suffering, or read a news headline about a tragic occurrence, either near or far from me. When I learn about one person or many people suffering, the results are the same: I experience a powerful wave of emotion, overwhelming sadness, and an unavoidable desire to write about the situation. Even though I do not know even one person involved, the emotions are so strong I feel like I experienced it myself. I didn’t grow up dreaming of being a writer, nor was I an overly emotional person, so the entire experience has been puzzling. ‘What is wrong with me?’ I used to wonder. I could not understand why I was suddenly getting so emotional. I still don’t understand why I get so emotional. I didn’t used to be like this, but Life tends to take some very unexpected turns for us all. Now I accept it, I expect it, and I know what to do, I write about it. There are people near and far who struggle, and suffer. ‘Empathy Globally: Painful Portraits of People - in Poetry’ is a window to their world. I write about the hungry, the homeless, the abused wife, the man who survived the battlefield only to live a life of nightmares, I write about pain, addiction that often leads to overdose and suicide, victims of racism and children in war-torn nations. Some people have told me, ‘You know, I never really thought about how tough that situation can be for a person, until I read what you wrote about it.’ This book is written in an effort to help raise awareness, encourThe Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

94 age compassion, and inspire the readers to help others in need. Even the smallest actions can make a big difference for another who suffers. Volunteer at a shelter for abused women or the homeless. Start conversations with others about changing the culture for the next generation. Or, if you are blessed with more than you need, offer financial help to humanitarian efforts. I write poetry with a focus of trying to encourage social change. When I see the pain and suffering in the eyes of a bullied child, or a woman who is a victim of domestic violence, the inspiration to write is unavoidable. Looking into the sad eyes of a homeless man inspires me to write. Images of the terrified faces of people who are desperately trying to escape an ISIS or Taliban attack inspires me to write. Learning about soldiers who survived the battlefield, only to live a life of nightmares of the horrors of war they experienced, inspires me to write. I write to ask, ‘Can we just pause for a moment, and put more consideration into situations where people are suffering?’ Can we perhaps put more focus on teaching kids not to bully another, and spend more time emphasizing that it’s never ok to hit your wife or girlfriend? Some people are quick to negatively judge a homeless man, and I ask them to pause and consider how did the homeless man get to this point? What could have been done differently to prevent this? If we increased the availability of help for those who suffer mental illness, surely this would assist the homeless population. Rather than having teachers prepare to shoot a student who has been driven so far over the edge that they believe going into a school and shooting others is the only solution, shouldn’t we focus more on prevention, including mental health care for troubled youth, and educating all students about the tremendous negative impact of bullying, in an effort to try to save lives before they’re ever in danger? I write in a way that I hope to inspire people to help a person near them who is struggling. I write poetry hoping to inspire people to talk to politicians and insist on social change regarding social issues near and far. I write poetry to try to help people understand that we are all one human race, borders are a false divider, and one person in The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

95 need, or one entire culture in need, should be helped by those who can, without hesitation. The response to my poetry by people who read it on social media has far exceeded my expectations. Former homeless people thank me for giving them a voice and making an effort to try to raise awareness and compassion. One lady in New Zealand even turned the poetry into songs to sing at her church. Another church, in Montana, featured my poetry about the struggles of the homeless during their drive to raise funds to help a local shelter. Former soldiers who survived battle have gone out of their way to thank me for writing about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and explaining it in a way they had not been able to, in order to help their friends and family try to understand what they are going through. Military veterans have even gone so far as to state publicly that the poetry brought them to tears. Psychologists use my poetry as one of many tools they incorporate to help counsel soldiers who suffer PTSD. Counselors who work with incarcerated youth and adults have incorporated poetry I write within the Alternatives to Violence Program in an effort to encourage prison inmates to turn away from violence and towards the arts to express themselves. Women who have escaped abusive relationships express thanks for my poetry that encourages a woman who is still in a dangerous relationship to get out, before itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s too late. People living in war zones message me a thank you for writing about the terrible situation they live in. They say they feel relief knowing that the poetry lets the world know how bad their situation is. Poet Ashraf Fayadh was sentenced to death for expressing his personal views, in his poetry. A poem I wrote about this man was translated to Arabic and read out loud during a protest in Saudi Arabia demanding his release from prison. What I have written has brought together homeless people, with others who are in a position to offer financial help or jobs. Upon request, I wrote a poem that was printed in a mental health magazine that is distributed across Ireland for patients in mental health facilities to read and enjoy various forms of art. I wrote to The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

96 try to help them ease their mind, as the poem ‘They Don’t Get Me’ explained there is nothing wrong with being different than others. They are different. Not better. Not worse. Different. I was asked to write a poem for the first-ever English edition of a magazine in Nepal that encourages Peace. I contributed poetry to two books that raise awareness about social issues. My poetry was included with the global efforts of a Rabbi, a Reverend, a Father, a Cleric, a Buddhist Monk, in addition to accomplished artists in a publication to promote peace on earth. The National Coalition of Syrian Revolution and Opposition Forces messaged me, telling me that the poetry I write gives them strength to continue their fight for freedom, despite the odds against them, despite exhaustion. They asked if they could share the poetry I had written about the struggles of Syria, on their social media pages including websites, Facebook and Twitter. I readily agreed. I also created a Facebook page, ‘Poetry for Peace – Words Against War’, for people around the world to gather with a unified message saying we’ve had enough war and senseless killing. More than 70 nations are represented by the more than one thousand members. Thinking about all of the problems in the world can leave a person feeling helpless and unable to make a difference. However, even the smallest act of kindness can and does make a difference, and the effects of one act of kindness can cause a ripple in the water that becomes a wave of change that one might never have expected. That is why I write. ---------------------------------Brian Crandall

The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

Tears of Terror Living in Fear, I’m TERRIFIED I want to sleep through the night But I’m too scared My eyes open wide It’s been like this since the day I was born This is my Reality This is my norm’ One day I asked my mom, “Where is my sister?” Mom said she’s gone to heaven And I really miss her We never go to school so we’ll never learn What it’s like to get an education All we feel is the burn I hear the explosion of another bomb I run outside and, now I can’t find my mom My dad has been gone Since I was about two A victim of Violence Now I don’t know what to do The family around me Everybody is dying Now I’m standing here alone And I can’t stop crying The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

It Never Stops Home from war, I got a medal They said I am a hero In my mind there is a devil I see the horrors of ground zero Bombs turned fields into craters Shrapnel ripped the skin from bone If I run I am a traitor There were six, now I’m alone Pain in my body Pain in my mind It Never Stops Now home, I’m walking to the grocery store To get food and things I need I see ghostly images I wasn’t looking for Soldiers dying, as they bleed Small children on their way to school Were caught up in the horror Once, I was a killing tool Now I question - just what for Tormented body Tormented mind The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

99 It Never Stops I cry myself to sleep at night Tears fall when I start to dream The echoes of the last gun fight I awaken to my screams The bombs go off inside my head The machine guns rapid fire Friends and enemies, theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re all dead Of this dreaded life, I tire Losing my body Losing my mind It Never Stops

A Toxic Trance I had a dream one species poisoned all the air Filled it all with smoke And they didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even care But as Real as it may seem It Was Just a Dream I had a dream one species poisoned all the land Filled it with toxic chemicals The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

100 And I just couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand But as Real as it may seem It Was Just a Dream I had a dream one species poisoned all the water Polluted it with chemicals Nothing left to drink When the temperature was hotter But as Real as it may seem It Was Just a Dream I had a dream that I awoke from this dream And it was just a nightmare Nothing was as it seemed What kind of species would destroy their own water? What kind of species would destroy their own air? What kind of species would destroy their own land? As if their own Extinction Was their grand Master Plan And then the sun came up And I awoke with a Scream I knew that it was True Everything was as it seems

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Gather your family And run through the carnage Your home destroyed In the middle of the night Rebel insurgents shoot at government forces Erratic Extremists cut the throat of a woman Cut the throat of a child Showing no mercy Like an animal Wild Nobody knows your name, Refugee No money, no food, no water No plan devised So many left behind You leave on foot A desperate search for freedom Never knowing what you might find Through the heat of the day you press on And on Feet aching, heart breaking Huddled together Your family shivers through the night Nobody there to help you, Refugee No bridge to cross this obstacle The sea is hungry for souls to feed Too many people or The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

102 The boat is too small A wave turns it over You hear a child’s terrified call He looks at you for help Afraid You sacrifice, so he could stay Your child survives another day But nobody came to your aid, Refugee I’m sorry you didn’t make it, Refugee

A Walk in the Park When I walk through the cemetery Some of them stare at me Others are looking past me A thousand lifetimes away There is no sign of life in those eyes Anyhow, it feels like a cemetery The park downtown where The homeless hang around Bodies scattered randomly about Some burned out Some fading away Two worlds collide at the park Children laughing on the swing set Up and down The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

103 Up and down Riding an upside down rainbow Their parents smile nervously Always keeping an eye On the bodies tossed aside What hell did they survive As a child, or maybe later What storm extinguished their spark To fulfil a prophecy of souls foretold ice cold Their eyes cry for help Tears for food and clothes And shelter from the cold It can feel intimidating to approach The homeless in the park We must try, we must be bold Let a new chapter unfold

Cancer Cancer Why did you choose me Why canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you understand My family doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to lose me Sitting here, as I download a ferocious beast into my veins to take arms against you The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

104 I think about time gone by I think about my future Now forced to pause and reflect The most insignificant things in Life Become the most Significant Time with family Time with nature Time with music Time I will fight you for the rest of my Life I will fight you for the Best of my Life Like war, you exist only to cause pain and suffering As a species, cancer, you have failed the universe Even if I die, cancer I have Won For I have Lived And I have Loved

They Don’t Get Me Crowded class rooms and countless classmates Kids to the left and to the right I try to carry on a conversation But they don’t get me And I don’t get them The daily grind of a mundane job The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016

105 Co-workers of every kind I try to carry on a conversation But they don’t get me And I don’t get them We are not all created to be social citizens Some of us sing in silence I often feel like a misfit denizen Trying to fit in compliance I find peacefulness in poetry And solace in a song I find magnificence in the art of Monet Photography a window to the world of today I get me My mind prefers a well written book Over societies critical and judging look I grow my spirit and pass the time The choices made are mine And I’m just fine

FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION ONLY Published by Vel.Kathiravan, K G E TEAM, Chennai, India - 600024 Printed by Print Process, Chennai- 600014 / Phone: +949176991885 The Wagon Magazine - October - 2016