the springissue - Robert College

Kaleidoscope
the springissue
Bosphorus Chronicle: The Quarterly Robert College Newspaper
A supplement of the Bosphorus Chronicle March 2012 issue.
DITORIALPOLIC
Kaleidoscope is the literary
magazine of Robert College,
published annually by RC students under the supervision
of a volunteer faculty advisor from the English Department. The magazine is one of
the several published under
the auspices of Bosphorus
Chronicle.
Kaleidoscope is dedicated to
recognizing original creative
writing and art. Submissions
of students, teachers and other members of RC all add to
the colors of Kaleidoscope.
All pieces of writing and art
are discussed anonymously
and are regarded objectively by
the editors.
Opinions expressed are those
of the contributors and do not
necessarily reflect those of the
Kaleidoscope staff, RC or the
English Department. All expressions, feelings and emotions are welcome to be shared
and become another color of
our lives.
“Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.”
E.L. Doctorow
Kaleidoscopestaff
Editors in Chief
Ecegül Bayram
Didem Kaya
Editors
Esin Aşan
Pelin Çeliker
Oğul Girgin
Hazal Göksu
Bengücan Günen
Hande Güven
Derya İnal
Cemre Necefbaş
Kutay Onaylı
Cansu Saltık
Paulina Schenk
Nur Sevencan
Başak Sunar
Layout Editor
Ecegül Bayram
Faculty Advisor
Maura Kelly-Kuvvet
Editorial Coordinator
Güler Kamer
Printing
Type of Publication
Local, periodical
Back Cover
Ecegül Bayram
Place of Administration
İstanbul Amerikan Robert Lisesi
Kuruçeşme Cad. No: 87 34345
Arnavutköy - Istanbul/TURKEY
2
Cemre Necefbaş
Feyza Haskaraman
Nazlı Ercan
Didem Kaya
Cansu Sarıkaya
Özen Uğurlu
Moira Lang
Burcu Küçükoğlu
Deniz Şahintürk
Miray Palaz
Marita O’Neill
Kutay Onaylı
Tamra Hays
Özen Uğurlu
Andrew LaRaia
Hazal Göksu
Tamra Hays
Öykü Bozgeyik
Ege Yumuşak
Sinan Hiçdönmez
Andrew LaRaia
Nur Sevencan
Pelin Asa
Elif Erez
Mert Türkcan
Jake Becker
Didem Kaya
Mert Dilek
Onur Burak Kocabaş
Oğul Girgin
Kutay Onaylı
Elif Erez
Marita O’Neill
4
5
7
8
9
11
13
14
15
16
18
19
21
24
25
28
29
31
32
35
36
37
38
39
41
42
44
45
47
48
50
51
53
For the Road
A Bicycle with Four Wheels
Surrender
Stockholm Nights
The Wig
The Elevator
Frontier
The Forgotten Bottle
The Christmas Tree
The True Love Factory
Migration
The Gazelle’s Gaze
Glory
The Duty
Hell Town
The Lady of Flowers
The Difference between Which and That with Complications of Who
The Fog
Mortis I
The Sunday Night Abyss
Bones
The First Photo
Surrealistic Psychic Automatism
Gardening 101
Fugue
Town Meeting Item #4
Open
Secluded
An Afternoon at the Eternal House
The Dead Weight
A Poem is a Monastry
Old Books
The Call: A Love Song
Contents
2
For theroad
Cemre Necefbaş
Let’s fake accents and go places
We’ve seen on the reruns
Of our favourite 60s movies
I can be Bonnie,
If you’ll be my Clyde
Except the whole criminal thing
Let’s not pack suitcases or bags
We’ll save us the trouble
Of taking everything with
I can do “bohemian”
If you’ll bring the guitar
Except the whole overdose drill
Let’s hit the road to somewhere
Rain will soak us down
Under the ever-bright sun
I can sing Sinatra
If you’ll do the dance
Maybe we can be a part of it,
New York, New York...
4
a Bicycle with fourwheels
Feyza Haskaraman
Let me tell you a story. I
know you are not used to hearing stories from children. You
are always the ones who like to
talk about your very important
stories of `money`, of `business`, of `Be careful` .I only enjoy the stories which -Thanks to
God- don`t taste like the sleeping
pills of Mama but has the same
numbing effect. I know I will not
hear a story from Daddy today,
so I would love to tell you my
best story in hand.
There is this bicycle. As
far as I have seen and its name
suggests the bicycles have two
wheels, right? Not like Daddy’s
black Mercedes. Daddy bought
me bicycle about three months
ago. Jenny was bragging about
her pink Lady Diana. Lady Diana
was the key to be friends with
the boys in our street, making
trips to the nearest market, buying one loaf of bread instead
of two to save some money for
the Hershey`s. It did not take me
long to drag Daddy to the nearest bicycle store. He showed me
a blue one with its flash lights at
its back, with a horn under the
handle bars, phosphorous ornaments on its wheels. This bicycle
was `optimizing the energy-cost
and maximizing the performance` as the salesman told father, not even glancing at me, the
real owner-to-be. The word that
dominated the prattle was `Bianchi`. A light flashed as soon
as I remembered the day when
I had bladder and went to the
nearest toilette which was boy`s
and stayed in one of the cabins until the boys came after me
left the toilette. They were talking about their `Bianchi`s. I later
learned from my father`s conversation that the boys did not even
know how to pronounce name
of this Italian brand. The hands
were shaken before I had time
to protest its being a blue, bulky
monster veiled under its elegant
name. I feared it but Daddie told
me that he was trying to buy the
best bicycle for me. He made the
disapproving gesture that I knew
from the day when the cat that
I found in the street and hiding
at home had given birth and left
my bedroom a mess with six kittens in a puddle of blood. This
was my first experience of birth.
It was miraculous! Anyway back
to the bicycle story. You would
think that I cried and vexed him,
and finally made him buy the
pink one like Lady Diana right?
Not really. What really happened
is that we left the store with the
‘Monster’, placed it meticulously at the back seat of the Black
Mercedes. I felt myself like a
grownup because I had made a
5
decision which showed that the
colors, images and dreams were
less important to me than the
practicality.
We took Monster to
home and showed it to Mama. I
took a long time to explain her
advantages of the Monster to delay the upcoming step I needed
to take.
“You should learn how to ride it
then.” mother said.
The most dreaded sentence...
Daddy told me that he was going to hold the saddle for the first
ride. I was quivering because I
knew that he would at some point
let me ride by myself. He bent
over me holding the saddle and
the handle bars at the same time.
As I held the handle bar with
one hand, with my other hand I
clasped his shirt. I was trying desperately not to show my anxiety.
I knew he would never let me fall
down, yet what if he did? Feeling his presence made my feet on
the pedals start to turn. Once I
started, I saw that it was nothing dangerous but fun to ride
with Daddie. I pedaled faster and
faster. Daddy was left breathless
to catch up with me. We went all
the way down the street. How his
slightly white hairs were changing directions as I made turns!
The street was ringing with my
screams of joy. When we got
back home he was exhausted
and his shirt was wet with sweat,
making the wrinkled part where
I clasped a rooted print on the
white cloth. I kissed Daddy and
told him that Monster, Daddie
and I were the perfect team!
I guess this was why I could not
ever learn to ride by myself. We
were definitely a team. Without
Daddy, Monster seemed threatening. I heard several times Jenny
and the boys calling me `coward`
when Daddy was not around. I
did not mind them though my
co-pilot did. Daddy asked me
every time whether I was ready
to do it. I was never and never
would be. He waited about three
month for me to build enough
courage and confidence to rule
Monster.
Now, my bicycle has two little extra wheels at the sides of the back
wheel. I know it does not make
sense to have a `bi-cycle` with
four wheels. Daddy put them recently after one of his frequent
visits to doctor. It was two days
before he suddenly fell asleep
on his favorite chair. Then, there
was ambulance in which Mama
in tears left with Daddy. Our
neighbors tried to take me inside
the house but I escaped. I got
on my bicycle with four wheels;
two wheels were planted to take
the place of Daddy. I rode behind the ambulance until I lost
the sight of the red point in the
mess of the clouds and horizon.
I knew what was happening and
Özen Uğurlu
6
I should admit that I was crying.
Monster with four wheels did not
give me any joy. We put it into the
garage with the Black Mercedes
of Daddy.
I don’t want to see Monster again
because I know Daddy will never
ride with me again. Mama told
me that Daddy will always watch
over me in case I fell down. He
would always be with me. This
is probably her last story for me
and she clings hopelessly to the
probability of her story being
true. But I do not want to hear
stories any more like I don`t want
to see two extra wheels trying to
take place of Daddy. I am seven
years old now. I feel like am big
enough to tell my stories.
Surrender
Nazlı Ercan
In the deserted ocean all alone
A sticky touch covered my bare feet
Losing the sunlight and the heat
I tried to defeat it.
The green flame hairs of it
Held my neck, stopped my inhale
With my shaking body going pale
I pummeled the clammy creature.
Yet the pressure on my breast
Sucked all my energy to fight
With my darkened and dizzy sight
I obeyed the calling, pulling me firm.
At the moment of becoming the darkness
I felt the gentle lift of the ocean
After the release of the persistent motion,
Stopped me from losing the grip on myself.
So who has surrendered?
The seaweed or me?
Both of us were all alone, paying the fee
Of trying to get something to hold on.
7
Stockholmnights
Didem Kaya
Scheherazade fell in love last night
after a thousand nights spent in fright and delight
her time had come to an end
even after a thousand and one sunsets dark still chased the light
when she first walked into the room of this stranger
a sacred sacrifice she thought she had made
if she lost her way through her words
she would loose her head
so she served her tales delicately with her hennaed hands
every night tale by tale she saw filaments of his heart
where beneath his fury lay his woes
drowned in drops of blood -one for every virgin
when the sun rose this morning Scheherazade knew
her tale had come to an end
but she was not afraid
and she was not brave
but all her thoughts and emotions hid behind a greater pain
what would happen in this story, to the one who remained
ruins of a man who once had loved
who buried his sorrows in the ink of her veins
digged her grave with his hands, bare
Scheherazade sat by the lake soon to turn black
she cut her dark hair
to be one with the night
and began to wait
redeeming the doomed prince with every last breath she had
she sat there wondering what would happen in the end?
8
thewig
Cansu Sarıkaya
Penelope was looking
at the reflection of her face in
the mirror.She didn’t have the
strength to hold the scissors.
She was feeling nothing,she was
empty.There was nothing left
from anger or ambition.She was
looking at the Latin girl in the
mirror.She took her eyes off the
mirror and gazed at the scissors
in her hand.It didn’t seem like
an enemy to her now.She was
supposed to be crying her heart
out,how could she smile?She
didn’t know the answer but she
was smiling.Maybe she understood her obligation,she was accepting it.She had to do it,she
was an Espanol.If her family was
hungry,she had to do everything
she could to feed them.If her hair
could bring money to family,she
had to sacrifice it.She got rid of
these thoughts and looked at
her hair for the last time.It was
auburn,the color of chestnut and
she was picturing it in her mind
Very slowly,she held the sccissors and cut a long piece of
her hair.She looked at the hair in
her hand and thought how simple it was.She realized that she
was able to cut it in seconds.”I
waited too long” she thought.She
continued to cut.She was doing
it carefully because the hair had
to be long enough to make a wig.
Five minutes later,it was all done.
Penelope tried to keep calm but
she was getting full of anger.She
was mad at her self,at poverty.She
started to cry out loud.Five minutes later,her anger was gone.She
now was aware of her behaviour.
She put her hair in a huge envelope and took the paper that the
adress it was going to be sent was
written on it.She walked to the
post office with determination.
She thought about the person
that was going to wear the wig.
Then she realized it meant nothing.Her children were not going
to suffer anymore,that was important for her.She was going to
get the money in two days and
she was dying to get it.
James woke up early that
morning.It was a busy day for
him.He looked at his watch,he
had time for the meeting.He got
dressed very quickly and went
out.The weather was fine so he
decided to walk.He thought a lot
while he was walking.Why was
he doing this job anyway?The
answer was simple.He was doing
this job because he had no choice.
This was the only way of earning money.He dreamed about the
day that he’s going to close the
wig shop.He was going to work
in another job and become rich.
He had simple dreams,like his
simple life.He was searching
for meaning most of the time,it
9
was simple like that.He went
the meeting place with those
thoughts.He saw the huge boxes
on the table,everything was ready.
He gave the money and took
them.He took a cab and went to
his shop.
When he got to his shop,he
immediately started to put the
wigs on to shelves.He continued
to open the boxes and smell of
plastic was getting heavier.”The
same smell”he thought.He was
abstracting the wigs one by one
and organizing them in an order of color.He didn’t like his
job,but he liked that part of organizing them.He was able see
to all tones of brown and yellow.
Once in a month he could see a
very shiny red wig.But that day
he saw a very strange color;the
most beatiful tone of brown.He
took the wig and touched it.”All
the chestnuts in the world must
have given this color to that
piece of hair”he thought.He was
very impressed.It was the most
charming color of auburn.Without realizing,he held the wig up
to his nose to smell it.There was
nothing but the smell of plastic.
He wondered about the person that gave this hair.Then he
distracted himself,there was no
good of thinking the owner.He
continued to organize.Two customers came and went without
buying anything.James started to
get bored.All of sudden a woman rushed in to the shop.She was
very nervous.James looked at the
woman and he saw that she was
a transsexual.”That’s why I hate
this job”he thought,”I haven’t
seen a normal human being
coming here”, but he knew he
had to endure it.James was observing her.She was very furious
and also had a strange face.It was
clear that she made an effort to
look like woman.Then she realized that she’s been watched and
started to behave uncomfortably.James didn’t understand anything and he was praying inside
for woman to leave.At that moment a bold woman with a hat
came in to shop.”Ha!Another
maniac!”James thought.After a
minute,the bold woman bought
the wig that James smelled that
morning.But there was something wrong.The bold woman
was looking at the transsexual
with a smiling face.James was
suprised and not happy with the
two weird customers.The transsexual bought a wig and left the
shop.The bold woman left after
her.James felt relieved and he
started to wait for new customers.
Samantha took her mascara
and put it on her eyelashes.Then
she took her lipstick.She was coloring every part of her face.She
wanted to have a female sexuality
in every part of her body.Most of
the time she found that sexuality
in her self but this time,when she
looked at the
mirror she saw Simon’s face.She
did everyhthing to get rid of
that face,that male voice.She was
searching for a woman’s sexuality in her soul but the only thing
she found was a man.She wanted to get rid of this torture and
judging faces.Faces told her the
prejudice.She couldn’t take the
bus or subway.There were a lot
of faces in there.That’s why she
wanted end this torture,end this
prejudice.She was going to be
either Simon or Samantha,not
both.Maybe a millon times she
reminded herself,she was a man
and she was supposed to act
like a man.But it didn’t work.
she couldn’t stop his desire to
do makeup or wear dressses.She
woke up from these thoughts
and gazed at mirror again.Nothing was changed.She knew what
she was going to do.If she wanted to be Samantha,she needed
a lot more change.She took her
purse and went out.
She was walking on the street
and faces were around her.Eyes
had prejudice in them and eyebrows were not approving her.
But this time she didn’t care to be
judged. She got to the wig shop.
She rushed in and started to look
for a suitable wig.The owner of
the shop was watching her with
the same eyes,he had the same
face.Samantha couldn’t take it
anymore.She was about to cry
when a bold woman wearing a hat
came in to shop.Samantha turned
her head,she didn’t want to look
at her.She knew she was going
to meet the same eyes.Then she
saw a wig,it was the color auburn.
It seemed like a magical color to
her.Her eyes shined.She opened
her mouth to want the wig but
10
the bold woman moved before
her.At that moment their eyes
met and the bold woman smiled
at Samantha.She was suprised.
She immediately looked another side but the woman was still
looking at her.Samantha chose
another wig to ignore her.When
the woman saw that she said
“Good
choice,nice
color.”Samantha looked at her
face to thank her but she freezed.
It was the most beautiful face she
had ever seen.It was like an artwork.face.She thanked to woman
and got out of the store.Suddenly she wanted to meet this
woman who smiled at her.She
had what Samantha wanted;the
most beautiful face.Jealousy grew
inside of her but dissapeared and
she started to walk faster.
“Cancer” said doctor three
months ago.Juliet didn’t believe
at first but then it became clear
that the situation was serious.She
didn’t want to know the details
because she knew she was going
to survive.She was sure.She was
going to have her energy and ignore all the
obstacles.She started chemotheraphy with that belief.At first everything was in normal routine.
Her apetite was fine,her hair was
not falling.But she started to notice the changes in her body as
the time passed.She was able able
to eat a whole pizza before but
now she couldn’t finish a slice of
it.Her life was dissapearing.
It was after three months of
chemotheraphy when she let it
go.She was thirthy-five years old
and why did cancer come in the
middle of her life?She wanted an
answer.That day she was combing her hair in front of the mirror.
She touched the comb and felt a
dollop of her hair.She didn’t cry
at first,she continued to comb.
But the more she combed,her
hair was falling.Then she noticed something very painful;she
didn’t have eyebrows.She made
her self blind to ignore the invitation of death but now she
was realizing the truth.She started to scream,cry her heart out.
Then she got tired and stopped.
She took her eyeliner and draw
two thick lines above her eyes.
These were going to be her new
eyebrows.She took razor and
shaved her head.She was bluffing
,death was going to think that she
accepted his invitation.She gazed
at mirror,now she was a “bold
headed”.It was her new name.
She felt peaceful and took her
hat.She had a new style now.
She was walked down the
street.She found the found wig
shop and got in.All off a sudden
she saw her reflection in the mirror.She was like a ghost,a white
face and white lips.She was running out of blood.She looked
at the woman next to her and
smiled.Juliet didn’t notice that the
woman was a transsexual.”The
woman must have a perfect
health”she thought.At least Juliet knew that the woman didn’t
have a mass growing in her brain.
That woman had her blood fine.
Juliet was about to choke when
she saw that wig.It was a shining
color,exactly what she needed.
She bought the wig without hesitation.The woman bought another wig,when Juliet saw that she
said something good about it.She
wanted to meet that woman,tell
her disease and cry on her shoulder.But the woman left.She wore
her wig and left the shop.She was
smiling because death was fooled
with her bluff.
theelevator
Özen Uğurlu
The woman fishes around
in her pockets, the grocery bags
traveling from one hand to another. She is looking for the keycard to open the automatic doors
to the apartment building, reluctant to put the plastic bags on the
floor; she is afraid that she does
not have the energy to lift them
back up.
Her fishing is about to
prove futile when a male arm
reaches from behind her and
swipes his own card. The banging music in her headphones
must have concealed his presence, for it makes her jump in
surprise.
She acknowledges him
with a slight nod. Since everything
she’s been through, she does not
speak to people anymore. She is
here to make a brand-new start,
and she will once she is ready. So
she just steps into the lobby of
her brand-new living quarters.
The buzz of the air conditioning greets her when the
doors slide open, along with a
chill.
The lobby is nearly entirely a
dull grey; pots of ordinary green
plants are lined up in front of
large mirrors, with light bulbs
hanging over them. Distributing
the grocery bags between the two
11
hands, she ignores the stairs and
walks purposefully to the elevators, blowing her new red hair
out of her face. Normally, she
would welcome all kinds of exercise, mostly to keep her shape
than other possible reasons, but
she lives on the top of the apartment and it is not humanly possible to climb twenty flights of
stairs each time.
She distinctly feels that the man
is following her to the elevators,
and fights the urge to turn around
to take a look at him. Instead,
she hits the elevator’s button.
The redhead is so much like her,
he muses as he swipes his own
card. Then again, every girl he
looks at reminds him of her
nowadays. It must be her demeanor, he says to himself, the way
he carries herself, even the way
she claws through the interior of
her sling bag.
He wishes she would turn her
head, even if for a second, so
that he can see her face, and confirm that indeed this stranger before him is nothing like her.
He follows her quick steps with
his heavier ones. Maybe he
should offer her to carry the
bags. The least that can happen
is him meeting a resident of the
building in which he’s new. Plus
seeing the woman’s face would
erase hers from his eyes. For a
couple of minutes, anyway.
She never turns her head as her
heels click towards the elevator.
He wonders if she’s just moved
too. Some companionship would
be great after the severe depression he went through.
She waits for the elevator’s inner doors to open, toes tapping,
anxious to empty her hands and
reach for her music player. She
needs to change the song that
came up on her music player. It
was a soft, soothing melody, the
kind that can lull you to sleep, or
can be the theme song for a romantic date when coupled with
some roses and candlelight. It
was their song, the one that she
never had the heart to erase.
She shuffles inside, looking at
her toes and trying not to cry. So
many good memories flood her
mind. The time and love they
shared, and the bitter end of
everything is not likely to be forgotten in such short notice. She
sniffs, and looks up when she
senses another presence occupying the brightly lit but cramped
elevator space.
Her eyes pop open, and for a
moment she wonders if she’s
dreaming. She is speechless, only
able to blink.
He almost screams, and more
than certainly jumps when he finally gets to see the face of the
mystery redhead reflected from
the big mirror.
Then she composes herself. She
is steely, she can do this. She
needs to know how this had happened after all her attempts of
escape.
So she starts with a simple “You.”
He tries to grin lightly. His features are exactly as she remembers them. “Yeah?”
She grits her teeth. “What are
you doing here?”
He does a double take. He decides to go with the charm that
she had always liked. “I just
moved,” he answers cheekily.
She opens her mouth for a sarcastic retort, and then stops herself. She must be hallucinating,
the time she spent dreaming of
him must be finally catching up
with her.
There are only ten stories left until she gets herself out of the elevator and snaps out of it. Maybe
get some medicine. Or go see
her psychologist.
His heart is thumping. This must
12
be fate, or why would they move
to the same apartment building
without knowing a thing about
it? Maybe she is not angry anymore. Maybe she will take him
back, give up the stubbornness
and they could just be happy
again.
She eyes the numbers, only five
stories left until she’s free, provided the hallucination won’t follow her to her apartment. Four,
three, two—
He loses his balance as the elevator halts to a stop—between the
nineteenth and twentieth floor.
He almost smiles as he pulls himself back together. This is definitely fate, now they have to wait
to be rescued.
She swears in frustration, and
then punches the alarm button.
The com comes alive, telling the
two that they need to be patient
and will be saved soon. It is easy
for the doorman, she thinks, he is
not trapped with a hallucination.
Then the hallucination lightly
touches her arm.
“Well, it seems we are stuck here
together,” he says, smiling with
confidence. How can he be so
sure of himself ? Is he not hurting? Is he over her already? She
answers with the only phrase that
she can think of now.
“You are not real.” He seems
shocked.
“’Course I am,” he says, and then
brushes his fingers up her arm.
She cringes.
“Fine,” she says, turning her back
to him. He isn’t discouraged.
“Why did you move?” he asks,
to make conversation. She feels
compelled to answer, for the sake
of their times together. For that
song.
“Needed change,” she says.
“Me too,” he continues. “I mean,
I still can’t believe you’d leave me
because of that, but I thought if
I went away from our old place,
accepting would be easier.” He
looks at her. “I like the new hair,
though.”
She turns around, the compliment ignored. “You killed him. I
don’t date murderers,” she simply
says, trying to keep the sob out
of her voice. Her wound is still
too raw.
“He was an animal! You broke
up with me because of that animal, you know,” he says incredulously.
“Don’t call him an animal! He
was my best friend!” the sob is
completely off her voice now, replaced with slowly creeping fury.
“It’s not like it was my fault! He
just went off and killed himself!”
he defends himself. She narrows
her eyes, her face contorting.
“You were supposed to be looking after him! You were just
jealous of the poor guy, weren’t
you?” she yells.
He cannot believe what he’s
hearing. “Me? Jealous of that
low-life? You must be insane!
For the record, you were showing more attention to him!”
“So you killed him because of it?
You murderer!” She shoves him
hard.
He grips her wrists in a desperate
attempt to stop further damage.
“Murderer? I didn’t do anything!
And I got you a new one!”
She struggles against him. “My
Gerald was blonde! The idiotic
thing you got me was brown-
Frontier
Moira Lang
We stand on the frontier,
crossing, maybe,
together.
We listen to echoes,
now insurgent shadow prayers,
now rebellious voices.
We speak evaporating words
in a language we’ve lost,
or one we never quite knew.
13
haired!”
“It was a hamster, for Heaven’s
sake, a hamster! You broke up
with me because of a stupid little hamster; I hope you are aware
of that!” he yells at her face and
pushes her to the opposite wall,
away from himself.
Her lower lip quivers. Seeing
him, the very person she was
escaping from, made her heart
thump loudly in her ears. He was
just an arm’s length away, and
maybe he was right. The dead
are dead, after all.
The elevator starts to move and
she pulls herself back together.
He. Murdered. Her. Best friend.
And that is final.
“Yes, I am aware of that,” she
says coldly as she steps out of
the elevator.
Then she turns back. “But see
you around,” she adds.
the Forgettenbottle
Burcu Küçükoğlu
Drawers full with black and white photos
A calendar of five years ago on the wall
An Alzheimer lying on a cold bed, alone
No heartbeat, no breathing at all.
No one to wake her up from this endless sleep
Nor to carry her to the warm soil.
A forgotten bottle hidden in her old-fashioned clothes
Untouched by any hand for the last ten years.
I hold it to my ear and hear
Her husband’s sincere voice
And the deep breaths between each laughter,
Struggling to survive for the next moment together.
I hold it to my eyes and see
His hair turned gray as the rocks close to the sea
And his wrinkles gathering
Around his affectionate shiny eyes
Like a curious little child’s.
I hold it to my lips and taste
The pile of salty bitter sand,
Delicious with all the memories it contains,
Collected by them
From the beaches around the world they went to
And their dreamlike honeymoon
At the age of fifty eight.
So I see, I hear and I taste
While she rests on the cold bed,
Unaware now of the past she had.
But I’ll carry her to her new bed,
Which is already warmed by her beloved friend,
And I’ll pour the nostalgic sand
Next to her, into the soil;
So she can also
See, hear and taste
The memories they shared.
As the sand mixes with the soil,
As the soil mixes with the body
And as the body mixes with the sand...
14
the christmastree
Deniz Şahintürk
“Sure!” God, I loved these guys!
Melly was avoiding my eyes. I
could see her internal conflict,
but I knew what she was going to
do. “Yeah, right, whatever,” she
finally said. “Yes!” I yelled and
hugged her, making her jump.
The bake sale had been the easy
part of our adventure. Preparing for it - a total nightmare.
This time, even Melly had to
admit that being an orphan
had its good sides. Most of the
people who bought our cakes
and cookies did it because they
were touched by our sign that
said “Please But Some Cookies
So That We Can Sit Around A
Christmas Tree This Year – St.
Mary Orphans.” We were the
happiest kids in the world when
we entered that shop to buy our
Christmas tree. As expected, our
money was barely enough to buy
the smallest one but for us, it was
the most gorgeous one too. And
that Christmas, we ate dinner
around our Christmas tree with
broad smiles on our face. Then,
every other kid in the orphanage
sang a Christmas Carol together
for me, Joseph, Will and Melly.
For them, it was the best prize
they could get. For me, it was
something else and surprisingly,
Melly was the one who understood what it was. After everyone had gone to bed, I went out
to the garden to watch the stars.
“You did it for her, didn’t you?”
I was startled by Melly’s sudden
appearance, but she didn’t see it.
The “her” she was talking about
was Carol, the nine-year-old redheaded girl who liked reading
more than anything else, who
was like a sister to me and who
was probably going to lose her
fight with cancer before the end
of the year. “They stopped the
treatment and the doctor told me
that she could hardly live for another year and she – she always
liked these Christmas tres s-so I
thought-“ I had to stop speaking to release the sob I had been
keeping inside me. Melly hugged
me and said “That’s OK, shh
shh.” After I had calmed down,
she apologized for mocking my
idea at first, being a grumpy person who always complained, for
never seeing that she was luckier
than us because she once had a
family and thanked me for being
friends with her despite all these
things. We went in shortly afterwards and as I was about to enter my room, she told me “You
are a really good person, Luna.”
When I looked back, she was already headed to her room. That
night, in my dreams, I had another Christmas ceremony. This
was in heaven, above the clouds
with Carol, me and all the angels.
15
It was wonderful, but compared
to the ceremony we had in the
orphanage, it was just plain random.
the true lovefactory
Miray Palaz
I entered through the shiny door
with hesitant steps. The artificial
smell of the air conditioner filled
my lungs. The flawless bun behind the huge desk – I could not
see the rest of her face, nor did
she attempt to make eye contact
with me – spoke with a mechanical voice: “Welcome to the True
Love Factory. How can I help
you?” I looked around to see no
one else; the question was directed to me. “I... I was going to...
order.” My voice rembled more
than necessary. Now that she
realized my anxiety, the flawless
bun lifted her head and showed
me her face, which was not less
flawless or less emotionless than
her voice or her hair. Faking a
smile, she said “What would you
like to order, madam? Second
floor, One Night Stands; third
floor, Long Lasting Marriages;
fourth floor, Intense Love Stories; fifth floor, Naïve Love; sixth
floor, Teenage Desires. If you
wish to print your loved one’s
picture on 76 different products,
stop by out Gift Shop. You may
also find scientifically-proven
love strengthening dishes in our
restaurant on the roof.”
Mumbling a weak “Thank you,” I
headed towards the elevator. As I
pressed the heart shaped button,
the door opened and the elevator
cabin painted in the ugliest shade
of pink came into sight. I stepped
in; a man bathed in a sickening
perfume followed me in. Without a doubt, he pressed on “2”
with his fat fingers and turned to
me. “Your first time? Obviously
it is. Don’t worry, you’ll get used
to it in time.” I leaned over and
pressed on “5” softly. The man
laughed mockingly and got off
the elevator on the second florr.
My short journey ended on the
fifth floor. When the elevator
door opened, I found myself
in a green corridor. I heard soft
but determined footsteps approaching to me
from the far end of the
building. In a few seconds, I saw her: A very
thin figure with carefully
combed shiny blond
hair on her shoulders.
She was probably in her
early thirties, but had a
spotless skin. Her lips
were red and her pearllike teeth were showing
under a pretty smile.
With her pink dress and
white high heels, she reminded me of my Barbie dolls. I used to love
them so dearly, but also
felt crumbs of jealousy
inside of me, knowing that I would never
grow up to be as beau-
16
tiful as them. At that moment,
I fully understood what they
meant by “Perfection is a flaw.”
She reached and kindly shook my
hand: ”Follow me please.”
I followed her into a small office.
She sat on her chair and I slowly
got lost in an overly-comfortable
armchair. Holding my bag with
two hands and keeping my shoulders crookes, I showed no sign
of self-confidence. The woman
tried to comfort me: “Please try
to relax. Many customers, especially those who choose the Fifth
Oğul Girgin
Floor, are hesitant at the first
time.” The word ‘first time’ hurt
my ears. I did not wish to visit
this sick place. Not again. “First
of all,” she said, “I need to ask
you sume questions. We will try
to learn exactly what you want.
Would you like to create something new or recreate an ex-boyfriend, a loved one?”
I smiled unintentionally. How
could this woman know that I
barely had a few ex-boyfriends
and never had a loved one? I said
“Somebody new,” without pausing.
“Okay,” she said, filling out a
form. “Let’s begin with physical
featured. Somehow it is always
easier for the Fifth Floor customers. What would you want
him to look like?”
“I don’t know. Does it really matter?”
“You decide. After all, he will be
the one for you.”
I stopped. The idea was terrible;
the idea of these people manufacturing the man I couldn ot
find in a lifetime. I trembled.
“I can help you, if you wish,” she
said. “How would you like his
eyes, or his hair? Should he be
tall, or maybe thin? Tan or pale?”
I thought for a while. “I don’t
want anyone too handsome the
look in his eyes is more important than the color.”
“Unfortunately that feature is
not a part of our product.” I felt
that something was broken inside of me. Something was terribly wrong.
“Well, okay. Brunette, I guess.
Maybe slightly taller than me.”
“Nice choice,” the woman said,
still filling out the form. “What
about his IQ?”
“Smart enough to talk for hours,
stupid enough to love for years.”
The woman looked at me with
blank eyes, and then said: “Okay,
I will add the IQ of a standard model.” I wanted to scream
“No! Not like that! I don’t want
a standardized man. I don’t want
your labels. I only want a man
who can understand me, who
will care about me.” I did not say
anything. I could not. I knew that
she would not understand. Even
if she did, she could not help.
“Now his sould. How would you
like him to feel?”
“Kind,” I said. “I want a man
with a kind soul. He will never
break my heart, even when his
heart is broken. He will listen and
understand. I want him to be like
glass; transparent, translucent,
fragile.” I stopped. “I want him
to be like me.”
The woman kindly smiled. “I see,
we have your character analysis.
We will manufacture a similar
soul.” She looked at the form
again. “Finally, would you like us
to revise you? We may add you a
few features that our product will
love. If you have any characteristics you wish to change, we may
tame you.” Her eyes watched
me carefully. “We can also help
you change your hairstyle or lose
some weight. Remember, the
better you are, the longer your
relationship with the product will
be.”
“Do I really need all of this? I
won’t change. The man you will
give to me should love me very
dearly with all my mistakes, with-
17
out expecting me to change. He
should love me forever.” I remembered that I was in a factory.
“Isn’t that part of the guarantee?”
The woman looked startled. “I
cannot guarantee that to you. Actually, no one can. Nobody will
give you eternal love.”
Silence was in the air.
The woman cleaned her throat.
“Okay, that’s it. We filled out the
form. The product will be ready
no later than half an hour. It will
be delivered on the first floor.
The payment will also be taken
care of down there. Every product manufactured by the Naive
Love Department lasts four to
six months. Any argument or infidelity is a part of the guarantee.
After siz months, you may visit
us and renew your order. Do not
forget to be nice to the product.” She shook my hand. “Nice
to meet you. We wish to see you
again.”
I went down the elevator and sat
down on a chair in the entrance.
The woman with the flawless
bun kept announcing department names. “Long Lasting Marriages, Number 27.” A short,
pale woman ran to the door and
held the hand of a fat, blank-eyes
man. “Teenage Desires, Number
16.” A boy with pimples slowly
walked to the door and met a tall,
blank-eyed girl with a mini skirt.
The woman with the mechanical voice repeated: “Thanks for
choosing the True Love Factory.”
Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen
minutes, I kept waiting. Many
blank-eyed products were delivered to their owners, were emo-
tionlessly taken away. Finally, I
heard “Naive Love, Number 23.”
I got to my feet, feeling nauseated. One step, two steps. I could
not do it; I could not look into
those eyes, believing they are his
eyes, the one’s eyes. I turned towards the door and ran into my
car, crying. Even miles away from
the factory, blank eyes followed
me. They followed me everywhere, all my life. But it is alright.
I was going to bear ten thousans
of blank eyes, just to find those
one pair of eyes. I was sure I
have never seen them before, but
I had not doubt I would recognize them in a split second.
Migration
Marita O’Neill
At first only one stork labors through the sky:
a gull blown off course, we think, navigating
the formidable Bosporus winds. But then
suddenly above the roof is all wings-hundreds of them, plodding--clear white, black-tipped,
wide as a heron’s, but like nothing I have ever seen.
Not like geese or other orderly birds, their patterns,
not neat and triangular. Instead they mimic people
bumping into each other, like refugees, haphazard
and laboring, compelled to follow that call: move
forward, find home, leave and leave and leave again.
As they trace the rising lines of the Turkish hillsides
with their wings, I remember the Turkish verb to be
—oldu--is almost identical to the verb to die: öldü.
The night my father died, we told a friend in our pigeon
Turkish: my father lives. Now, the birds have almost disappeared
into the horizon. And the distinction between what it means
to live and to die, to die and to live, seems impossible to trace,
impossible to know where the dead leave and living begin,
as the last few birds become cloud, become thought.
18
the Gazelle’sgaze
Kutay Onaylı
Your eyes
are not huge
they are not an emerald green
are not an ocean blue
are not a raincloud gray
your eyes are not huge—
Your gaze
is not a gazelle’s gaze
it does not pierce me
does not cut through my heart
does not spill my blood
and drink it up.
Instead your glance
falls upon my body
falls upon my soul
falls upon my ideal self
like a single autumn leaf
its color the softest red
its arms wide open
-its fall so slow, so unharmful
you think you might injure it
with your own gaze, you think
it rejects gravityand when the soft red leaf reaches the soil
against a backdrop of Mount Fuji
Mother Earth moans in pleasure
as if touched by her true lover
on just the right spot.
Your gaze
is not a gazelle’s gaze
it is not unforgiving
it appreciates
it gives me the most clear shave
it ties my ties
it is a hand upon my shoulder
a hand in my hand
19
I don’t have to look at it
through a mirror
I don’t have to worship it.
Your gaze is warm,
your gaze is good
its only misdeed is that it terribly confuses me
with all its merciful qualities:
This is not the way
I have been taught.
Özen Uğurlu
20
Glory
Tamra Hays
Fields and farms began
just beyond the haunted house,
where a jail now stands.
Cigarettes, lies, ouiji boards
were among our petty crimes.
West of the abandoned Fornoff place at the edge of town, there were five miles of neat rectangular bean and cornfields. Then you came to a petrochemical plant, obvious by its oily stink, its flare of
burning gas, and it’s industrial misfit to the land. The stink was sometimes accompanied by a pinkish
cloud that we called it the pink stink. We didn’t connect it with the taste of our water or the mysterious ailments that plagued some people. West of the plant was a creek, Dry Fork, some of whose water
was diverted to the plant. Dry Fork disrupted the gridded pattern of square mile sections that had been
imposed on the land. Here were meanders and woods that defied the order of the fields. North of the
plant, farmland resumed and along Dry Fork, there were small villages, not even villages, but places
where houses were closer together than usual, places with names like Chicken Bristle, Bennerville and
Jimtown.
The ring-necked pheasant
flaunts his beauty in clean fields,
a perfect target.
Now the hen gleans what remains
invisible to our eyes.
From one of those farms came a girl who had a dream of competing in the Olympic games. In the early
‘60s before Title IX, the odds were against her; female athletes received minimal, if any, support. Where
would she train? Who would fund her? How could she hope to compete against the well-funded and
well-trained athletes from Russia and Eastern Europe?
Fields and farms began
just beyond the haunted house,
where a jail now stands.
Cigarettes, lies, ouiji boards
were among our petty crimes.
West of the abandoned Fornoff place at the edge of town, there were five miles of neat rectangular bean and cornfields. Then you came to a petrochemical plant, obvious by its oily stink, its flare of
21
burning gas, and it’s industrial misfit to the land. The stink was sometimes accompanied by a pinkish
cloud that we called it the pink stink. We didn’t connect it with the taste of our water or the mysterious ailments that plagued some people. West of the plant was a creek, Dry Fork, some of whose water
was diverted to the plant. Dry Fork disrupted the gridded pattern of square mile sections that had been
imposed on the land. Here were meanders and woods that defied the order of the fields. North of the
plant, farmland resumed and along Dry Fork, there were small villages, not even villages, but places
where houses were closer together than usual, places with names like Chicken Bristle, Bennerville and
Jimtown.
The ring-necked pheasant
flaunts his beauty in clean fields,
a perfect target.
Now the hen gleans what remains
invisible to our eyes.
From one of those farms came a girl who had a dream of competing in the Olympic games. In the early
‘60s before Title IX, the odds were against her; female athletes received minimal, if any, support. Where
would she train? Who would fund her? How could she hope to compete against the well-funded and
well-trained athletes from Russia and Eastern Europe?
Linda Metheny began her gymnastic training, as we all had, with Peg Pettit. We worked on the balance
beam in her basement in the winter and on the trampoline in her side yard during the summer, and
nobody worked as hard as Linda. At first, Ms. Pettit didn’t hold much hope for the child whose first lesson was simply to walk around and around the courthouse, as if that sidewalk were her balance beam.
But Linda persisted and began to compete in 1962. She found her own coach, trained in borrowed gym
space, paid for her transportation to and from competitions, and by the fall of 1964, she had won a
berth on the U.S. Olympic team.
Before dawn on one cold morning that fall, Johnny Bozarth drove slowly through town, picked several
of us up, and we headed out into the country. We were going to carry a torch for Linda who despite all
the odds was going to Tokyo. The boys’ athletic teams had been invited to carry the torch as it passed
through our town, but most of them didn’t want to get up that early, so it fell to the Girls Athletic Association and the few boys who were interested.
Patchwork fields stretched to the north and to the south of Highway 36. Some corn stubble remained,
but the bean fields were clean beneath a light frost. Lights shown from farms in the distance, and the
chemical plant glowed to the west. Someone gave us instructions while we huddled together, stamping
our feet and blowing warm clouds of breath onto our hands. Then we were dropped off, relay-style,
along the highway, where we each stood alone in the silence waiting for the silhouette a runner bearing a
torch. When the torch came to me, I was surprised to find out that it was a plastic flashlight in the shape
of a torch, not the flame I expected, but I carried it to the next runner and ran with her until somewhere
down the line the torch passed into hands from the next township.
Afterwards, we ate breakfast together, then got ready for school, just another day of school. “We carried
the Olympic torch!” we told our friends, but no one was interested in the most glorious thing we had
22
ever done.
Linda placed 36th in the ‘64 Olympics, the second highest place for an American woman, and the town
threw a big parade for her. After the ‘64 games, while attending the University of Illinois, she won seven
gold medals in intercollegiate championships, but they were not recognized by the university, because
these women’s events were not sponsored or sanctioned by the NCAA.
It didn’t occur to me until later that this plastic flashlight could not have been the Olympic torch, and
sure enough, after a little research, I found out that the official 1964 torch, a flame, of course, didn’t
even come through the United States, much less through Douglas County, Illinois. Official torch bearers
had uniforms and badges. We were a ragtag bunch of kids in sweatsuits and sneakers. Torch bearers were
chosen for their distinction as athletes, as citizens. We were chosen for our willingness to run in the cold
and the dark. So who sponsored this event? I don’t know, and I suppose it doesn’t matter. We ran for our
friend, and we bore the torch, bringing light, however faint and spurious, to the darkness.
A wildness exists,
something that can’t be contained,
along the river.
It leaps and tumbles as if
unaware of what can’t be.
Özen Uğurlu
23
theduty
Özen Uğurlu
a couple of snowy cubes, sitting side by side
wrapped within white paper
knowing nothing but their white selves
almost asphyxiated
almost crumbling apart
always tossed around
but they hold on
in their weenie world
consisting of the other cube
they hold on
to each other
their crumbles mixing together
they wait
and at the same time
they dread
what is to come
for when the duty calls
there is no choice
the question
lifelong partner
or your job
is never asked
as the white paper is ripped apart
and the suspense almost suffocates
which one will be
their fate
disappearing
that is certain
but
together or alone
and the cubes fall
side by side
mixing together
becoming one
in the dark
hot water
as the spoon dissolves them
and the only thing
that is left
is a loud clinging sound
24
Helltown
Andrew LaRaia
The bus ride home from our first
loss of the season is not like the
bus rides we are used to.
When we win, Coach doesn’t
care how we act, what we say;
not even what occasionally might
get tossed out the window. He
tells us not a word, “Not a word!
I want you bums thinking about
what it was that you did and did
not do to go from winners to losers.”
Coach is furious. And when I
say furious, I am not embellishing my words. That means exaggerate, and it’s one of my SAT
words. I study them on the bus
sometimes. When I know my
mom will be waiting to pick me
up in the school parking lot.
Which is why I’m glad I have
my flash cards right now; Coach
said to keep out mouths shut and
ruminate(SAT word) on how we
screwed this game up, how we let
Shitfield beat us. (Their real name
is Smithfield, but we would never call them by their real name.)
So, while everyone sits with their
heads down, looking dejected,
I secretly go over my cards. My
mom won’t really care about us
losing the game. She’ll just want
to know that I got some studying
in. She’s got this thing for seeing that I study. Also, that I go to
college and get out of Helltown.
That’s where we live, Helltown.
It’s not really called Helltown…
but it might as well be.
Shitfield is a blighted (SAT word)
little bump on the interstate between two other cities that aren’t
any better than Helltown. Or any
of the other awful towns we travel to. We just lost to Shitfield, like
I said. But, we play the Shitsboro
Indians next Friday, which we can
win. Have to win, really…when I
think of the names we give other
places—people, too—I think, we
ought to be more original. But,
then when I look around me, at
the faces of my friends, my teammates, my fellow Helltown denizens—that’s a great one, Mom!—
I realize I can’t expect that much.
Lots of playing on the word shit,
maybe the f-word now and again.
Definitely anything that sounds
like a body part will work well.
But, really, none of us are that
creative. There’s Shitfield, like I
said, Turdville, Cracker’s Town.
Pretty lame. When you think of
ways people show their smarts
or stupidity, it’s usually in the energy they put towards something.
When you can’t even bother to
be creative in making fun of people you’re supposed to dislike, I
guess there’s not a whole lot of
hope. But, it’s not about energy.
It’s about having quit and not being smart enough to know it.
None of us are that smart. Well,
25
they aren’t. I’m a jerk for saying
that. A real bum, I know. But it’s
true. I live in a town full of idiots. People that don’t really go to
school past 16; don’t go to college. They don’t leave at all, really. My mom says if it was still
the ‘60s, every one of us would
have been drafted and killed in
Viet Nam. We’re that kind of
town. I don’t really understand
that, but I guess it has something
to do with being, what she calls,
nothing but a dead end at that
termination of something that
died a long time before and no
one was smart enough to realize
it. She works at the bread factory.
The Big Bakery. My dad worked
at the Eveready factory making
batteries. But, he’s dead. So, I
don’t talk that much about him.
Too vexatious (not such a good
one, but, it’s in my pile of flash
cards somewhere).
I mean, I could probably use a lot
of other words to talk about my
dad, but, sometimes, words just
don’t really work like they should.
Anyway, my mom is pretty adamant about making sure I hate
this place as much as she does.
She is making sure I don’t develop any kind of silly sentimental attachment and start thinking
of this place as home, a place I
wouldn’t want to leave.
She’s too caught up in worrying
about to see that I wouldn’t stay
here, not even for a minute, once
I graduate.
My mom says my job right now is
the SATs, followed by my grades.
That’s what I have to concentrate on. Football is a luxury that
I have to earn. Nothing matters
more to her than me getting into
college, getting a scholarship and
getting out of here. Sometimes
I feel like she’s pushing me right
out of here, like she wants to get
rid of me, but I know she’s just
doing what she thinks is right for
me. Still, hurts a little bit though.
Even though I agree with her.
I tell her she can’t come with me
to college. And she’s fine with
that. So long as I go. I don’t think
she understood my jocular tone.
I’d let her come with me if she
wanted.
I ask her sometimes, how she
ended up here. Why she stayed
here. She said, sometimes you
live according to the covenant
life decides on for you, sometimes you get to decide for yourself. She didn’t try too hard to
make something out of the deal
she got; she says I better get it together and stop settling for what
life has to offer and take what I
want instead.
Mom’s tough. A lot tougher than
me.
Tougher than Coach, too. Who is
now walking the aisle of the bus,
toward me. I am sitting in the
back row, so I’ve got time to slip
the flashcards under my jersey
and adopt a countenance (!) of
shame and contemplation. Just
like he wants.
We’ve gone undefeated this year.
Balls out, smash mouth, blood
sweating, tear jerking football has
carried us to 9 and 0. Until now.
9 and 1. To the Shitfield Suckers.
Good for them, to be honest.
Those sorry losers needed something to lift ‘em up. They haven’t
won a game I don’t know how
long…I don’t mind losing. Not
that way. When it gives somebody else a little hope. A little
spring. A little life.
Coach comes to the end of the
bus, and stands over me, looking down. My hands are empty, I
feign serious contemplation. He
says to me: “Jackson, you studying back here?”
I say: “Yeah, coach. I was.”
“You study those three blocks
you completely missed?”
“I did coach. Slow; not ready. Totally my fault.”
He stands there, considers me
for a moment. He has an intelligent look in his eye sometimes,
but destroys any illusion of salience when he talks. He tries to
be—sound—smart. But some
things just don’t come out the
way he wants them to.
He says: “Yeah, well. OK. Get on
it and stay on it next time. Got
it?”
“Yeah, coach. I’m your man.”
He walks back up the aisle, looking for a fight, but everyone has
their head bowed, like a bus full
of altar boys in jerseys and pads.
Our school bus passes silently
through the chill October evening; there is a smell in the air of
rain, maybe snow. It’s too early
to snow, but the air has that
scent, wet and heavy. There are
26
few lights on the highway, and
we pass through small towns of
houses with darkened windows,
closed shops, blinking yellow
traffic lights hanging over empty
intersections.
I’ve never lived anywhere else,
never travelled outside of the
limited range of our 12 game
football schedule, so I have nothing to compare my restricted
world to, save for what I’ve seen
on TV. But, these empty stretches
of road between islands of dead
little towns, depresses me all the
same. I’m not alone in that feeling. I know. It’s almost cliché for
a small town kid to have dreams
of something better, someplace
that is alive and decidedly not the
run-down reality of a dying town
with no real promise of a future.
My mom makes my reality clear
to me each morning, complaining of her arthritic feet, cursing
the flour from the factory bakery
that sifts its way into nearly everything, her clothes, her hair, her
ghost-tinted finger nails
“God, Kiddo. Study hard today.
You don’t want to end up like
me.”
I know this is also a laughable cliché, a formula she’s worked out
in life for me to stick to, an action
plan to guarantee a future. But, I
don’t know what the guarantee is
that it will be a good future. But,
to my mother, a future is just
that: good. A benefit that can
be assured—no matter what the
details are. As long as I am gone
from this town, then no matter
where I end up, I’ll be safe.
I don’t feel that way: the unknown scares me, the multiple
factors, the kind of equations she
can’t comprehend, the factors
she doesn’t know how to predict. I feel a sudden sadness, not
at leaving her behind, but at the
fact that she wants something so
bad, but doesn’t really know what
it means. Or what it will demand.
I pull my flash cards back out.
The word ‘flout’ is on top. ‘To
reject or defy’. I was hoping for
something meaningful, something prophetic. I rely on that
kind of silly magic in my lowest
moments. I think a lot of people
do—look to the sky, or the coffee
ground or the ripples in a puddle,
the face on a card for some kind
of happiness and meaning. And
explanations and assurances. All
those things mean something to
a person when it suits them to be
gifted some kind of kindness.
‘Flout.’ That means absolutely
nothing to me.
We pass through Queer-Town
(the town of Quinn). Which puts
us just three miles from Helltown.
It is still. No one is talking. The
bus glides on, as if the wheels are
shrouded in blankets. About a
mile out of town, it starts to rain,
and the wet cloying smell comes
in through the windows. The kid
next to me, Charlie, shivers and
puts up his window. I want him
to leave it down, but he puts his
head back down, the praying
saint.
I put the cards away again. And
as we pull into town, the rain has
begun to pour down. The team
files off the bus, still silent. Coach
gets off first and walks to his car.
He is out of the parking lot while
half the team is still on the bus.
I expect the mood to break once
he is gone, for the joking to start.
But no one says a word. Everyone disappears. Waiting cars, wipers going at a frantic clip. I see
my mom, in the car corner of the
lot, in our grey Impala. Though I
can’t see it, I know the car will be
cloudy from her cigarette smoke;
she won’t have cracked the window because of the rain.
I run through the rain, ignoring
my soundless teammates, and
slide into the front seat.
“God, mom—how can you
breathe in her?” I ask, coughing
in the cloud of smoke. She opens
her window slightly, tips the cigarette out, and says: “Heard you
lost.”
“How did you hear, already?”
“Bad news travels quick.”
“How about: ‘nimbly’, ‘sprightly’
or…” I stop, raking my brain for
a word. “Oh! ‘velociously’. How
bout that?”
“That’s my boy,” she says, and
puts the car in drive. “Wanna talk
about it?”
“The game? Nothing to say,
Mom.”
27
The Lady offlowers
Hazal Göksu
Here she is, Elidilonera. The Lady of Flowers.
Wow. That dress does seem like it is made of flowers.
It is.
Really? Aren’t the flowers loosing colors or dying?
They are. That is why they change her dress everyday.
I see… It must be hard to stick all those flowers together.
They are not sticked.
Aren’t they falling apart?
They do. That is why she is not allowed to move.
How does she eat?
She doesn’t.
How does she sleep?
She doesn’t.
How does she talk?
She doesn’t.
Is she really alive?
Yes she is.
What does she do then?
She wears a dress made of flowers.
Is that all?
No. She also smells nice.
Nothing more?
Nothing more.
28
The Difference between Whichand
That with Complications ofwho
Tamra Hays
The poinsettias that were kept in the fireplace
died. Their red sepals flamed for a few weeks,
and then dropped in accordance with the nature
of things that are transplanted to inhospitable
climates. The others, which were here and there
throughout the house, lived. No one asked
why keep poinsettias in a fireplace.
The daughter,
who stayed in her room, barely noticed.
But the child that paid attention to such things
as sepals curled and dark like ash, cried.
It didn’t matter if that child was boy
or girl, that was the one who kept a cemetery
of dead pets, planted seeds in the spring,
and chatted with the neighbors. The other,
the one who kept to herself, believed life
to be cruel because she didn’t have
the right shade of red lipstick.
Seven lipsticks, which had been rejected,
lay in a drawer in the hearthless kitchen.
The parents,
who worried about both of these children,
wondered what to do. The parent who spent
the most time at home was a little sick
of both the selfishness of the daughter
and the sweetness of the other.
29
The other parent, the one who spent most
of the day away, felt helpless upon
coming home to find poinsettias
in the fireplace and not on windowsills,
lipsticks among the pencils and rubber bands,
and whiskey on the coffee table.
Finally the holiday ended and things
returned to normal. The family members,
all of whom were relieved, went back to work
or to school. The poinsettias that survived
the festivities grew spindly and pale,
but the lipsticks, which had been waiting
for just this chance, the lipsticks found their way
out of that winter-deep drawer and blossomed.
Özen Uğurlu
30
thefog
Öykü Bozgeyik
That day was dark and rainy. The
fog was around the trees’ necks
and bodies; making them sodden
with tiny water drops. The view
was thwarted by the altogetherwhite drops, indicating an indicted air and ghastly premonition
of insolence. The blurry view of
nearby trees and deep white road
was the reason of him coming
here.
With his carousel-red trousers
and
Ted’s-old-car’s-dark-blue
coat, he was contrasting the
vagueness and mysteriousness
of the view. He walked in wariness towards the bench in front
of the youngest and the thinnest
tree. It was not difficult to recognize his anxiety as he was throwing questioning looks around and
rubbing his hands nervously. Fast
and deep breathing with arrowlike swift moves, rolling his eyes
from time to time and shaking
his collar of the coat were all
suggesting the incensed-inside
of the man.
While he was walking towards
the bench, “I’m fed up with this,”
he murmured. He sat down and
looked around. Because of his
impatient doggedness he was
here, waiting. Someone would
come and they would talk. He
would scold that person and let
the white drops hanging in the air
carry the silent anger through the
deep and blurry road. The drops
would vibrate with his anger, but
the person would not respond
back. Maybe he would say, “Do
not come back,” and the particles
would carry the message to notyet-chosen people and not-yetset situations. It was possible that
he would regret because of not
counting the harbinger characteristic of the intense particles surrounding him. He would regret
because he was fooled by the frozen and stolid view.
He hoped that she would come
and moved his seat haughtily;
but then the thought of her
not coming preempted his kudos and anger. He looked at the
road timorously and hoped that
she would appear slowly amidst
the white particles. Maybe she
would come with Ted’s old car,
he thought, but Ted would not
be with her. She would be alone.
When she walked towards him,
he would stand and offer his
hand, she would look at his hand
first, and then look at him. She
would reach his hand, but not to
shake hands, to hand the toy of
a carousel. He would stand and
look at the red toy in bewilderment trying to understand what
it means. She would look at his
eyes, she would not cry, and
when she opened her mouth her
voice would not quaver. “Do not
come back,” she would say curtly.
His heart scorched, it was what
31
he was afraid of. The particles of
his thought were like the drops
around him, like the fog.
He would look at her with blank
eyes, because the fear of being
alone again and the feeling of
being cheated would knot in his
stomach and this knot would not
come up to his eyes. She would
not understand what he was feeling. She would not stay long, and
she would get in the car, dark
blue car and drive away. The car
would disappear just like it appeared, slowly. It would get fainter and the white drops would
hide it eventually. He would not
see the direction of the car; he
would not know where she was
heading.
He would sit on the bench with
the red carousel in his hand. He
would look at his son’s toy and
feel the fog.
It was the espionage of the drops
hanging in the air. “It is because
of the fog,” he thought.
The particles had carried the
message to the not-yet-chosen
person and not-yet-set situation.
He looked at the blurry road
again, waiting for the woman or
the car. As he moved nervously
in his seat, the drops of the fog
made his dark blue coat damp,
and the color got darker.
He had said “Don’t come back.”
Nobody came.
Mortis I
Ege Yumuşak
Prologue
-Report of Death regarding an ungrateful bodyAs he died, the body cried with anguish,
“O soulless sky,
O hungry earth!
Let the scavengers chew away
my concrete existence!
Lest, spare my children and my wife,
the false memories
of a genial and kind man,
which I failed to mold myself into.
Let this amorphous remnant of a man
join your nothingness
and not bother them
anymore.”
So, I increased his agony
by shoving his life
to his miserable face
as he ratcheted up the stages of death.
I.
Pallor mortis
Do you recall how pale your face was,
when your mother beckoned you to your father’s room,
when you needed to say farewell, and solace him
with a last smile,
or a drop of tear –warm with your love,
a soothing kiss on the forehead,
or a sniveling, appropriately sentimental,
a sigh of restlessness to connect
to hold his reached out hand
with intertwined fingers?
You couldn’t,
because you hadn’t eaten in two days
in a futile attempt to die with him,
because you were afraid to go on without him.
But you failed to die then,
and tormented your mother instead.
Accusing her of being a burden on your sunken shoulders.
That paleness
32
never disappeared after that day (the day your father died) ,
and your face became a black and white photograph
shot in a dimly lit room
with low contrast
on color film.
There was no loss of color in your face
upon your death.
II.
Algor Mortis
After years of torment,
you left your home for college, studied economics
just because you were good with numbers,
and numbers sedated you.
You drugged your way
out of pain
until you were burning aflame
with drunk girls nuzzling your ears
and leaving no part of your body untouched
and you were blazing
because it felt hot everywhere
in and out
and your mind was
burnt, paralyzed just like now,
but now, you don’t shiver although you are getting colder,
your rectal temperature decreases by 1° C with every hour,
and you are paralyzed by the loss of blood.
Back then,
your body was pumping blood rigorously and you were trying desperately
to forget and degrade yourself in all that junk,
by consuming money, sex, and whatever hazardous thing you could afford,
to kill yourself without having to take on the blame.
When it didn’t work, you succumbed to life, and cooled down,
got married, and froze but even that,
wouldn’t kill you.
III.
Rigor Mortis
Thus came your ultimate effort,
the ultimate contraction you could perform.
The last energy you had left,
got spent by the coupling of the million actin and myosins of your muscles
and you became stiff.
A perpetual state of contraction seized you.
Don’t you regret those moments
when your tongue was stiffened by exhaustion
33
and you could no longer respond to the demands of your loving wife?
Those moments when you couldn’t twist it
in her mouth anymore, and you felt that
you were drowning in her sticky saliva,
drowning in disgust of yourself,
even though her love was the only love you knew after your father,
but your vanity, preoccupations and memories of long lost times overwhelmed you,
and you could no longer FEEL.
You could no longer be unEMPTY.
unFRIGID.
unDEAD.
What about now?
How stiff are you now?
IV.
Livor Mortis
You didn’t notice when your wife stopped
taking pills in the morning,
you were clueless of her protruding belly and enlarged breasts
loaded with your child and its milk.
And when she finally told you,
praising your Oscar-quality acting skills,
for all those months of pretending that you didn’t notice,
you told yourself
“you gave me the Oscar for the wrong reason, see how I’ll fake happy now,”
and shot her an ear-to-ear smile, grabbed her by the waist, lifted her some inches up,
put her back, and sighed,
“god almighty, look how fat you’ve become!” and let her
chase you, hitting you with a pillow, and when the night came,
you could no longer hide your ingratitude,
it sank with the force of gravity
as you lay on your back
with her palm on your chest
with your baby, pushing you, prickling you
where her belly touched your waist.
Now the blood pools into your tissues,
and the purplish pink sets your new color.
You have become livid.
You should be glad nobody has found you yet.
V.
Decomposition and Skeletonization
You started as fresh flesh,
but hardened and warmed and cooled and hardened some more,
when you drove your car over that cliff,
when it crashed the ground,
34
your body was smashed through the windshield, to the grasses,
and I came by to take your clumsy life.
I didn’t throw you into nothingness,
because you asked for it. I did it
because world is enough of a crowded place with the living,
let alone stockpiling the dead.
Epilogue
I realized, the death of an ungraceful body
was as sad as all the others
to a spectator,
and as merry as all the others
to the countless creatures awaiting to feast on the remains.
The Sunday Nightabyss
Sinan Hiçdönmez
Istanbul, often dubbed as, “one
of the cities which never sleeps”
doesn’t have many quiet places
within, but there is one, ironically
in the middle of all the activity
of this buzzing city. Fortunately,
it’s near my home and about two
hundred people every day have
the chance of tasting solitude
within the reach of the abundance ofl ight and noise. This
place is in fact a street called “Org.
İzzettin Aksalur Street” braching
off one of the busiest avenues
of Istanbul. It’s possible to encounter children running around,
trying to catch each other, some
old people sitting on the benches
on the sidewalk to gather some
energy for the resto f their tiring
walks. Pine trees border the sidewalk and the road, which provide
a physical shelter for the pedestrians. Next to the road is the mili-
tary area, surrounded by a never-ending row of thin blue bars
with golden arrows on top, along
with the signs calling out, “Entrance is forbidden!” The chirping of the miniature birds and
covered women talking to each
other, haslity walking home, children yelling at each other and the
occasional passer-by dogs barking may give any viewer a wrong
impression about this street in
terms of tranquility. The real
quiet is beyond the first one hundred meters of this street where
only the sound of a few cars rolling by is heard and the peculiarsmelling car fumes are in reach
of nostrils. This is actually where
one can find true refuge from a
tiring, noisy and disturbing city.
Those in the quest for tranquility can find it in the buildings
that have stood for more than 60
35
years without any signs of wear
and metallic garbage cans which
have to be filled to the brim.
Even now people who are grateful to this precious quiet in Org.
İzzettin Aksalur Street are going
further away from the gigantic
avenues with dispensable light
and noise always present, in the
pursuit of solitude, and unfortunately, by the way, spreading their
contagious disease of sound and
noise farther into the last refuge
of solitude and quiet.
One of those aformentioned people littering this street
with noise was a five-year-old girl
named Fatma who often came
to see her grandparents, who
were living in one of the buildings lining down the street. Naturally, Fatma always came with
her parents to visit, and every
one of these visits, which were
always Sunday nights, guaranteed a strong wave of glamour
overwhelming this young girl.
The lights in her grandparents’
apartment were always turned on
and the different courses of the
family meal, which was always
delicious, came to the table on
plates and soon, the plates were
wiped clean. Afterwards, Fatma climbed onto the lap of her
grandpa and both of her grandparents embraced her as hard as
they could. All these were such
exciting moments the family always had lots of things to say to
each other while they were going
back home. This time it was the
soup which was the subject of
the post-visit talk. “Mom, wasn’t
the soup delicious?” asked Fatma,
and her mother answered, “Yes,
sweetie, as always.” Right after
this answer Fatma’s father, who
believed it was his turn to speak
although he was driving the car,
turned back to face his daughter
and made it clear he was in full
agreement with his wife.
Meanwhile, a beggar was
about to cross the street to go to
the freezing benches on the other
side of the road. This poor and
lonesome beggar hadn’t encountered as much luxury as the little
girl in the car which was ripping
the silence of the street with its
noise. In fact, he never had a
home. His life had been a story
of misery, mixed into the wild but
usually fruitless pursuit for money to survive. Now he was going
to sleep on a cold bench on the
sidewalk, something he had been
used to all his life, but before
that, he had to cross the street
Bones
Andrew LaRaia
December makes me wish for Spring.
Like it would anyone,
August, for December again.
January, I’m thinking Junes,
But only in the evenings, when it’s just too cold.
Oasis makes me think of London,
Like good pop songs should,
London brings to minde the Stones,
The Stones get me in the mood for Bourbon,
But only with ginger ale.
Snow makes me think of being home,
When it comes in a constant but quiet way,
Returning home makes me think of poetry,
And poetry makes me want to talk to strangers,
36
with legs which never seemed
to have the energy to move. He
dipped his right foot onto the
road, started to walk across the
street, but just at this moment
the family car tore apart the silence with astonishing speed and
the driver, with his back turned
to the windscreen at that moment, talking to his daughter,
never even saw the beggar on the
street. A shrill scream was heard
in the apartments nearby. The car
had crashed into the poor beggar, who was now lying on the
road, surrounded by a moat of
crimson red blood as the family
members crowded around him.
Just then a leaf from a nearby
tree, brown and crumpled, fell
onto the body of the beggar.
There was absolutely nothing left
to do.
But only about profound things.
Your tombstone makes me think of my own,
Though neither has been planted yet.
I make myself nostalgic for things I didn’t know
And the things I don’t want to know,
Make me think of what I will miss when I’m in the grave.
The Firstphoto
Nur Sevencan
Every day it is getting smaller
here. I want to get out. I am telling you: I want to get out of here.
Do you hear me? I am screaming and kicking and punching
at the soft walls around me but
nobody helps me. When I kick at
Oğul Girgin
the walls, I just feel the sudden
warmness of your hands.
I am hungry, when am I going
to eat something? Are you asking me what I want to eat? I want
to eat something sweet. Don’t
ask me I don’t know what it is.
Don’t turn around,
stay silent. I am being
squeezed here.
What happened? Why
are you crying? Did he
make you sad? What
did he say to you?
He said you are getting too emotional?
Forget about what he
said, he never knows
how it feels like...feels
like... to be you. Bu the
way, sometimes he’s
more emotional than
you are. While you
are sleeping, he talks
to me; do you want
to know what he tells
me? He tells me how
much he loves you and
how bad he feels when
you’ve got spasms. He
regrets for being in-
37
considerate sometimes, but he
is too proud to tell it to you. He
says he doesn’t know what to do
when I come. He thinks he’s not
ready for his new job. He says he
never wants to disappoint me. I
am sure he won’t. No, I am not
taking his side; I’m always on
your side of course. How can’t I
be? You are the closest to me.
Please don’t do it to me. I cry
when you cry. Please don’t do it
to me. You have a kidnap at least;
I don’t have anything to Wash the
salty teat drops off my face. You
say, you want to hug me? Why
don’t you let me come then? I am
bored here. I want to know what
it is like to be outside. I want to
see you and see me and maybe see
him. I don’t have a mirror here
and I can hardly raise my eye lids.
When I open my eyes it is too
foggy here. Are you curious to
see me as well? Did you say you
missed me already? Oh, come
on. Be patient. No, no. Stop crying. I am coming. You are going
to hug me. We’re going to sleep
together. I am going to look
you in the eyes. I won’t be able
to say anything to you because
I would be so astonished by the
new things surrounding me. But
wait a minute, do I need to say
anything to you? No, I don’t, you
understand me if you look me in
the eye. Do you know what I am
going to mean firstly: “Forgive
me; I apologize for the sufferings
I caused.” I am not sure whether
I would be able to say exactly
like that, but you should take it
as this. You will put your arms
around me and push me against
your chest and you are going to
put a kiss on my blushing cheeks.
Just imagine how happy we’ll be
when we meet.
... Are you okay? What’s happening? Where does he take us? Are
you there? Why don’t you talk to
me? No, no where are you going? You can’t leave me there. I
don’t know anybody there. I can’t
do without you. I need you. You
waited for me for months and
where are you going now? You
say, he will take care of me. He
can never do as you would. You’ll
be putting too much weight on
his shoulders. It is too much for
him. Don’t do it to him, don’t
do it to me. I promise I’ll always
be on your side; I’ll never leave
you alone. If you are going, take
me with your wherever you are
heading to. I don’t want to go
out without you. I apologize for
my kicks and for my caprices. I
promise I will be a good girl, I’ll
never let you down. You’re going
to be proud of me. You say you
have to go? Is it the time? Will
I ever be able to see you? Not
here? Where, when? Somewhere,
sometime… What if we can’t
find each other? I am scared.
Don’t go please, please. I LOVE
YOU TOOOOOOOO…
This is the first photo on my
baby photo album. I am a newborn wrapped in white clothes, in
my father’s arms and my mother
is absent in this photo as she is in
every other photo of ours. There
are tear drops in my father’s eyes.
And this the story that this photo
tells me. I love you too, mom….
Surrealistic PsychicAutomatism
Pelin Asa
My thoughts are playing hide and seek with me
They veil behind the convolutions
and taunt with me
and prick me with their truncheons
All my body rail about this
(but what can you do?)
Then some words flood out of the pores of my body
like a rushing sea
leaving me a dried dam after the summer
They are more than the blood in my body,
I can’t grab any of them.
If I could win the game
I guess then I would know what they wanted to say
and name the void they leave behind
Why this so tougher now than before?
I don’t know.
(How can you? You are left unarmed against them.)
I cannot put these wicked words in order
and cannot know what my brain and heart say.
I cannot even define the feelings
38
Özen Uğurlu
Or give a meaning to them.
I didn’t know there were so many things inside me
Was it because there were so many things to write about
that I couldn’t write anything?
(and instead fill the squares on the page)
Was it because I couldn’t understand them
in the middle of this deluge
that I played the god inside my head
and created my own perfect humans,
the perfect friends?
(or because they are so truly redundant?)
Now that they are out for once,
Would they stay there? The words, I mean.
Why they can’t take the thoughts and the feelings with them too?
They sway on the blank page instead.
This blabbering should finish
Like how it started. Sudden. Senseless.
Gardening 101
Elif Erez
“Welcome to Gardening
101. Here, you will learn all the
secrets of planting and maintaining a healthy, aesthetically pleasing garden. My name is Mr. Phloem, and I will be your instructor
this week.1 The classroom was a
dinghy, humid room in the basement of an apartment. It was
around 1:00 AM, according to
the digital watch on the teacher’s desk. There were about five
other students, as far as I could
see, but because I didn’t want to
be rude, I didn’t turn and have
a look around as Mr. Phloem
was speaking. A long dinner table separated the students’ desks
from Mr. Phloem’s. It was covered in flowerpots of various
sizes and shapes, with a large soil
bucket to the side.
“We shall start with
planting. Each of you, come up
and pick a pot to work with,” said
Mr. Phloem. Chairs squeaked,
and the students were at the dinner table choosing the right pot
for them. I counted: we were
about ten, including myself, and
I wondered how Mr. Phloem had
even managed to gather so many
people at this hour for a class on
gardening in a city where trees
were scarcer than weeds.
“Mind if we trade pots?”
asked another student-she was
about for times my age, had one
blind, milky eye, and was offering me a black cylindrical pot in
exchange for the broad and shallow terracotta one I had random-
39
ly picked up. “Sure,” I said. “My
name is Mel, by the way. Nice
to meet you.” The old woman
smiled, and said, “My pleasure,
dear. I’m Odessa. And thank you,
I wanted to grow watermelons,
and it would have been impossible to do that with that black
pot.” “No problem,” I replied.
Now, everyone had
picked up a pot, and was waiting for further instructions from
Mr Phloem, who was extracting a large sac from a cupboard
behind his desk. He placed the
sack on the dinner table, shoving
aside the remaining pots to make
room, and opened the mouth of
the sack to reveal thousands of
little brown seeds. “These are
tomato seeds. They were picked
from a tomato field down to the
south skirts of the city last summer, so they are fairly young.
They therefore should be suitable for growing into the plants
you wish.” The plants we wish? I
seemed to be the only one in the
classroom who had trouble comprehending what Mr. Phloem
meant. Ij raised my hand. “Yes,
Mel.” “Sir, what do you mean by
growing the seeds into the plants
we wish? Will a tomato seed not
simply grow into another plant?”
I asked.
“Pardon me,” said Mr.
Phloem, “I should have gone
into more detail about this as not
all of you-especially those raised
in the city-may not be familiar
with the growth and reproduction of plants. See, each parent
plant produced seeds or pollen,
that are dispersed over the land
and planted into the soil, either
close by the parent or far away,
carried by the wind or under the
boots of a passing traveler. Once
planted, this young seed has the
potential-depending on the type
of the parent plant- to grow
into a large variety of trees and
flowers. The seed is independent to choose what it wants to
sprout into. The genus of the
parent plant only provides it with
the opportunities it will have to
choose from.
“In this case, the choice
made by the seed is not one of
conscious thoughts and contemplation, but rather one brought
upon by the conditions of the
surrounding environment. Tomato seeds have the largest scope
of options to grow into. If you,
say, wish to have an avocado tree,
just plant one of these seeds in
a soil that will favor and demand
an avocado tree, and by a high
chance, your seed will choose to
grow into one. Of course, the
process is not entirely accurate,
since the choice of the seed also
retains a slight probability of random chance as well. Now, class,
grab a handful of seeds, plant
and water them, and think about
what you would like to grow in
your garden.”
As I went back to my
desk with a bunch of tomato
seeds to sit down and plant in my
black, cylindrical pot, I imagined
what my garden would be like, if
I had one. It would certainly have
large, tall trees I could sit under, resting my legs on the fresh
green grass. But I also would like
to have an occasional bite as I sat
in my garden. As far as I can re-
call, tomatoes had quite a pleasant, satiating taste.
I approached Mr. Phloem again. “Is it possible to grow
tomatoes from a tomato seed?”
He looked scandalized. “I doubt
that any sound- minded tomatoborn seed would ever want to
grow into the tomato stalk its
parent plant was. First, you’ll find
a way to convince it to revert to
its ancestral state. I’ve never seen
anyone manage that, but let me
not discourage you.”
I picked up the black cylindrical pot and thought, “Now,
how do I will an artichoke to turn
into a tomato?” Well, it was just
1:00AM in a dinghy classroom, in
a decaying city, and I had a long
few hours ahead of me.
Oğul Girgin
40
thefugue
Mert Türkcan
Shallow the rising night remains, perfecting
The forbiding stillness of introduction, musing
Full of terror and intimacy,smiling
Above what is incardine and unsuspecting.
The crime of superiority slowly sinks in:
Walter the he who knows the song of pondering
Wishes to fare forward from the ravening rivers
First by falling and then by flowering, witheringAlas, he contemplates of those still suffering.
‘Alistair!’ he calls the ferryman swimming by the bridge,
(Whose father,ghostly, chants while his mother weeps)
Whose relatives, in Mayfair, Victorian and rich,
Of years and silence so uninformed, so ignorant remain,
Who, to answer, trudges forward towards the amber archway,
In his ragged clothes looks up,yawns and stinks‘Indeed I carry a few- Perhaps many,perhaps too many-‘
‘Never too many- almost always too many!’
The Prussian envoy laughs, his cart sliding
Over the ancient roads of the Ottoman Paris.
Delighted with delights, honored by tapestries,
A bloody wine he feverishly drinks.
As the once honored chancellor,solemnly, awaits.
While we were studying the Golden Bough,
I remember, vividly, the chanting of
The Romantics of the then-called Setting Sun’s Age:
‘Sixteenth century, Seventeenth century,
Eighteenth century, that Bloody Revolution,
Nineteenth century, many poets, many fanatics,
Many nothings.’
There, my friend, there we had stood,
Above the ivory towers, above the jealous clouds,
And to the ancient grimoires, to the dusty tomes we talked,
Talked, and talked. In Barcelona. Park Güell was
Hard to reach; we never got to see it.
In my memories it still lives,
As something far below, something infinitely fearful,
Something so powerful and yet eternally incomplete,
Eternally old, longing for the stolen memories of a colorless rose.
You, the rope-maker of Rome, renowned painter of Les Saltimbanques,
41
The jugglers, bored and delayed, told me of the agonizing truth
That, terrified of yourself and craving hope, around the thorns
Leading to the silent mountains of primal grief, full of joy and dismay,
You are still pursuing the silent herald of your doom.
And now what will become of us without the barbarians?
Perhaps the last age shall be the worst of all,
Perhaps we will yet embrace the holy light of the evening sun.
For, i guess, there is nothing else to do,
For the likes of us and our bleak, stirring, starless nightmares,
Blending with the ever-fading sahdows of
Denied wonders.
Town Meeting: Item#4
Jake Becker
So many beautiful songs
for such a willowy town
she mentioned bending
their maple trees over the sea
as a bridge to share. “Do we
buy hammers for our woodpeckers?
Do we clear wetlands for the grossly
overweight? Did we
get the interview with the sun
you promised?”
the board asked.
“No.”
“Next.”
Town Meeting Agenda Item #6
“With those stones in his hands
We can build
a prison, temple, a new castle,
a stronger mall
or sell them
to B-town,
42
widen our internet band
acquire possibility
permanently.
Climb the giant when he is drunk
And in sleep’s luck.
Position two men at his groin
With blue bleach and rusty knives
threaten him
and his unresolved offspring:
cut music
choke his drink
lower and deliver
the stones.”
Then
It is always this girl
arriving in flying pants
and misty breath
the girl who saves daily rains
and picnics by herself
“He wants to work
His hands have softened
He’s never been asked
So instead he naps.”
“Write another fine.
Assign her a new sponsor.
Call the next town.
All in favor
.”
43
Open
Didem Kaya
an open heart is a black hole
that does not pick and chose
that takes in and accepts
all that comes to it
(like the open arms of Rumi)
a black hole
into
you will fall and fall
and fall deeper
relish the emptiness
because it too has been touched by the Almighty
when you see nothing to hold on to
be not afraid
hold on to that which is within you
it is all there was, all there is, all that there will ever be
a piece of soul that was blown into you
you will forget
that falling is infinite
but remember
black holes
don’t break bones
44
Secluded
Mert Dilek
Stuck. A rat in a maze, a tiger in
a cage, every cliché that you can
think of – I am stuck. Captured
under the red sky. Solid. Fluid.
And sometimes gas.
Whenever I try to reach and
touch, its strong and virile determination resists me. Each time I
attempt to feel its surface in my
palm, that slippery and selfish
membrane rejects my little hands.
Sometimes I try to peel it off. I
can’t achieve, but I love trying.
I know it really hurts. After a
couple of strikes I see the blood
coming from the inner sides of
my nails. Not always, but usually.
When they don’t bleed, they are
peeled. Anela (my own angel,
in case you don’t know) finds
it ironic. She says that I should
cease trying to no purpose, and I
simply can’t decide the time I will
be allowed to tear the sky.
When my fingernails do bleed,
I immediately stop going further. When I see the first drop
of blood coming from me, I
put it into the hole where I collect all the blood drops I got so
far. What I do is I gather all the
blood drops of my body into the
shallow hole on the ground, just
beside the one into which the
gore of the corpse laying besides
me had leaked.
But that was long ago.
*
In the beginning, it did not smell
bad. It was the smell of things
coming from the cord attached
to my stomach. Healthy. Nutritious. Full of life. I could see
the intense way it leaked into
my own room. Until it became
so forceful that I couldn’t see
where the red hole on the wall
began and where it ended. From
then on I couldn’t stare at the
borders of that little circle. My
room was filled with blood. Up
on my neck. When Anela came,
she was settling onto either one
of my shoulders. Once she told
me not to worry about the reduced space. According to what
she was notified, over the course
of my stay in here, the walls and
the ground were going to absorb
the blood in the chamber.
She was right. With each passing
day, I noticed how the blood level
decreased and how the wall separating my room from the other
one became transparent so that I
could see the dead body inside it.
He just looked like me.
And seeing him in that position,
hands curbed in the back, head
upside down, and legs seeming
broken, made me feel as if something was being snapped off
from my being. It made me feel
weighing less. And less.
It was the first time I felt the
smell. The blood that dried on
my body and on the walls and
on the ground smelled just like
the sky. Or the sky smelled like
it. I couldn’t understand, but I
45
realized how my own smell flew
away and that odor stuck to my
entire presence. When I asked
Anela about it, I heard the word
“dead”. When she pronounced
it, and when I looked to her with
questioning and curious eyes, she
panicked and insisted that she
didn’t say such a word. She was
so feeble. And loved me a lot.
She explained me what it meant.
I wish she didn’t. Further she
told me, worse my dread got. It
began with tiptoes, then to the
legs, from there up to my torso
and finally to top of my bold
head from where it evaporated
and did not come again until the
day I remembered what caused
the blood to unleash itself from
the body of my neighbor and to
let him “die”.
It happened when something
very similar to that occurred
again. Quaking. Vibrations.
Shakings. No matter how I call it,
the core will stay the same. Turning upside down, feeling the cord
coiling around my neck, hearing
the voice of crash when my feet
and head hit the ground and the
walls. Recalling that word again.
Feeling how close the end is to
me.
Or how close I am to the end.
*
Recently I hear voices talking to
me. In the beginning I thought
I was just assuming that I was
hearing them. But as my ears
fully developed, I made sure that
I was hearing voices. Voices talking to me. Directly. To be honest,
indirectly. There is still no clue
that the voice is referring to me
but I do know.
Something from the sky is leaking into my heart and just like
the voice itself, whispering to
me. Hereafter I listen to it. I try
to understand what it’s talking
about. I usually can’t, but when
I do, I cry. Again, I don’t know
why, but I really do. And when
I cry, as if they are blood drops,
I collect the tears from my eyes
and cheeks and drop them into
the hole.
But not to mine.
The reason why I don’t choose
my hole is because I don’t like the
color of the blood in that one. It
is black, unlike mine. As black
as the corpse, as his eyeballs, his
limbs, his toes.
The corpse is still there. It did not
vanish, did not evaporate. I know
it is whispering to me sometimes.
It invites me to go and live with
it. And in those times an incredible urgency to vomit arises inside
me. And I do vomit. But it keeps
smiling.
When Anela comes, I beg her to
kill me, to let me die. If she isn’t
permitted to kill me, then she can
teach me how to die. It would be
easier in a way, easier than being
killed.
After a long time’s self-reflection, I decide to do it. By myself.
Just like I did every time I tried
to touch the sky, this time too, I
raise my arm and make sure that
it is as erect as the back of Anela
when she sits on my shoulders.
I stab my finger to the sky so
hard that I hear a voice. Not the
voice talking to me, but the voice
of something falling apart. Sky,
probably.
No. Wait.
Something is pulling my head.
With all its force, it’s pulling my
head towards itself, through the
sky. I always knew that the only
way out was through.
The sky is absorbing my head.
Then my neck, my chest, my
legs… I see the silhouette of Anela, reflected to the red sky. She
is smiling. But I can’t see because
of them. They disturb me. Cryings. Moanings. Screams. I can’t
distinguish the voices. I see the
two holes turning upside down,
and the blood inside them spilling to my toes. I see the black figure on the far edge. It is smiling.
It keeps smiling. But this time it
doesn’t let me vomit.
*
Freed. A rat besides his cheese,
a tiger outside the barriers, every cliché that you can think of
– I am freed. Released into the
white. Sometimes solid. Rarely
fluid. And mostly gas.
I am killed. Left to die. Without
knowing the mechanics of how
or why.
Or by whom.
46
An Afternoon at the EternalHouse
Onur Burak Kocabaş
Busy people were passing by, squishing the mud and
ignoring this lonely little town
cemetery which was located in
a considerably dense area of the
city. There were small Gypsy
children next to the gate, holding their colorful umbrellas, selling flowers to the doleful visitors; the flowers spread a sweet
smell, and took some of the day’s
misery away. There were empty
plastic cups on the ground left
for the cats to eat. The food in
them was now wet because of
the rain. There were three black
cats gathered around them, eating like mad, trying to fill up their
hollow stomachs. One of the
crows that had been caving on a
tree decided to fly to another tree
and put some contrast on the
gray cloudy sky. Water was dripping from the edge of the gate,
causing some more discomfort
and adding some eeriness to the
scene. The water that dripped
was running into a small pond in
the middle of the gravel road and
a car would come every once in
a while and splash the water on
the gypsy kids, leaving them with
mud all over their raincoats. All
except one, Esmeralda, who was
standing away from them with a
book in her hands trying to read
the carved Latin words on the
top of the gate.
One of the boys who was
fed up with Esmeralda’s laziness
told her to help with organizing
the flowers in an angry voice
tone. Esmeralda said that she
was going to come in a minute,
but her deep curiosity, as always,
kept her doing some physical
work. None of her sisters really liked her; after all, she wasn’t
their blood-sister. Their Papa had
found her when she as a baby
left on the ground in front of
the graveyard. He had made an
effort and sent her to school for
two years, which was something
unheard amongst gypsy children.
One of the girls called her this
time and when she got no answer, she walked up and threw
the book to the water pond in
the middle of the road. Just as
the book landed, a car came and
went over it. “Now you are ready
for work.” said the big sister. Esmeralda lost her patience, started
to cry and started pounding her
older sister. Now, she was never
going to be able to learn what
the carvings said. In addition, she
didn’t know what to tell her father. If she told him the truth, he
would beat up her sister to death.
A slap landed on her face, taking
her away from all the thoughts.
This was the slap of her step
mother, cursing ferociously at
both the girls, shouting about the
price of the book and how careless they are about the matter of
money. She grabbed both girls
by the arm and made them stand
47
behind the flower stand. “This
is entirely your fault.” cried Esmeralda. “Shut up!” replied her
sister “If my father hadn’t taken
you six years ago, we were perfectly fine. We didn’t have to feed
an extra stomach. If it wasn’t
for my father, you would have
been dead by now!” This was the
moment Esmeralda learned the
truth about her past. She started crying, throwing the flowers
all over the place. However, her
rage didn’t last for long and her
mother landed another slap on
her face, causing her to stop. Esmeralda didn’t complain because
she knew that she wasn’t acting
reasonably and being hit by the
parent was not something so
unusual those days. The pain of
the slap seemed to fade away by
time but her sister’s words didn’t.
She had fallen asleep or fainted on one of the old wet seats
with question marks in her head.
When she woke up, the air had
darkened but her sisters hadn’t
sold a single flower. They looked
sorrowful and hungry as usual.
No flowers sold meant
only bread and water for dinner.
The mother’s looks were enough
to understand the hardships of
life. On the contrary, Esmeralda
wasn’t thinking of food right
now. No, the carving on the gate
was not bothering her anymore
but the things her sister told her
was. She was used to her sister’s
lies but this could be true. The
main thing was that all of her
sisters were dark tanned but she
was blonde. Mama called her
again and they headed for the
little hut which sheltered seven
kids and two adults. The sun had
set now. The only light from the
moon was shining on the gravestones, making it possible to read
every single detail of the dead.
Esmeralda followed twenty steps
behind, reading every grave as
she did every night.
The Deadweight
Oğul Girgin
As subtly as ever he was reminded,
Once again,
Of his legacy
The Dead Weight
Pulling him down
With even more strength
And determination,
Devoutly,
Piously
Really?
Like a malignant tumor,
It grew,
Somewhere…
From the cold and dark dungeons of his mind,
Behind its moss-covered bars
A voice calls
“Cut it off ”
But what exactly,
The one thing he doesn’t know is
The one thing it doesn’t tell.
“Cut, cut, cut…”
It ricochets off the walls
And explodes
Deafeningly black.
He has to start somewhere,
Before the concrete beneath his feet
Completes its metamorphosis
And hatches
Starving,
48
Sucking,
Leeching…
“CUT! CUT! CUT!”
And so he starts,
Beneath the heavens oozing red,
From his legs.
From his stubby little toes,
Right up to his muscular thighs.
But he does not lose
No
Not even a gram.
And so he cuts
Even more vigorously,
Into his own flesh.
His arms, his legs
His tongue and his eyes.
Everywhere.
No matter where he cuts,
Gravity still pulls him,
Crushingly.
So he cuts it all,
All until he is nothing more,
Or less,
Than what he thought he always wanted to be.
Bodiless, yet still intact
Where existence coexists
With extinction
A miracle,
Soon to be tainted
As he realizes that the Dead Weight
wasn’t his body
after all
But was his very own,
Himself…
“cut?”
49
A Poem is amonastery
Kutay Onaylı
I retreat to the monastery
that is the poem:
First I form an expression
a face of calm tolerance
a face of condescending humility
a soundproof face so what’s inside, the cataclysm within the monk
will remain unheard by the world
of woes and victories, to which I am
as neutral and cool and moist
as a monastery wall
with my face of words
printed on water
printed on paper.
I live in the monastery
that is the poem:
It is silent in here, it is still
(The writing of a poem
an onslaught, the decision to leave it all behind and join the monastery
an onslaught too, but;)
in here the battles are all over
in here we just walk around on the battlefield
and collect our dead
and collect the dead of our enemies
and we feast on all these, so we can
live within the poem,
and die within the poem.
I die in the monastery
that is the poem:
They undress me in voluptuous silence
They rub all over my body; oil
and ointments, they wash me with their delicate hands,
they gaze upon all the places
they know they really shouldn’t,
they gather wood for me, a forest for me, for me only,
lay me on the softly on the pile
and when it is time burn me
with the fire burning within them,
fools, they never checked my pulse—
50
it starts only now, though, burning within the monastery
that is the poem.
I have never felt
more alive.
And then I depart the monastery
that is the poem
in an urn
and when the urn is broken
what a fool the poem is:
for every single letter of it which I wrote
it gives another handful of me to another wind
when it is out of me, it adds to me
until it runs out of letters, which it never does.
I enter the monastery that is the poem
a monk with twenty-eight teeth
I exit the monastery that is the poem
the world itself.
Oldbooks
Elif Erez
Unobstructed by clouds,
the sun dominated the sky, coloring the meadow in brilliant shades
of green and tallow. The crown
and the tents could be seen from
far off, and the laughter, singing,
and delicious smells of the carnival had attracted many travelers,
including Sig.
One tent in particular,
that had a wooden sign saying
“Bookes”, caught Sig’s eye. It
was not what the sign said that
had captured Sig’s attention as
much as the transforming the
dull brown into a medley of purple, gold and maroon. Sig could
even see through to the metal
skeleton under the tent’s cloth
that the bright light had rendered
transparent. Inside were rows of
dusty books, reaching as high as
the tent itself, arranged in corridors of shelves where two people could easily lose each other.
Slowly walking along a shelf,
scanning the spines of the books
for an intriguing title, Sig almost
toppled over a boy of about
the same age. “Oh, sorry,” said
Sig, “didn’t see you crouching
there.” The bot chuckled, and
shrugged. “It’s all right. Say, have
you looked at the books on this
row?” the boy asked, pointing
towards the bottom shelf.
“No.”
“Well I think I have dis-
51
covered something quite amazing. Although I guess this is sort
of a discovery that I ought not to
share with many people. Would
you like to see it?”
Quite excited, Sig exclaimed, “Of
course I would!” One by one, the
boy removed al the large, thick,
encyclopedia-like books from
the bottom row, and put them
on the floor beside him. When
about a dozen were removed, the
boy said, “Look.”
Sig was confused: “You just emptied a portion of a shelf. I don’t
understand.”
No, look!” said the boy grabbing
Sig by the hand. “Look at the
shelf.” Having crouched in re-
sponse to the boy’s pull, Sig was
now staring directly at a shadowed space.
“You still can’t see it? Well, this
should do it-follow me,” remarked the boy, and crawled
right into the shelf, disappearing
in the shadows. Without hesitating, Sig followed the boy. Apparently, to Sig’s relief, the boy had
not vanished, but merely passed
into a tunnel previously concealed behind the large books.
The brick lining the tunnel felt
cold and dry to the touch, the
interior reminiscent of what Sig
imagined a sewer would be like.
Led by the bot’s soothing voice,
Sig bravely crawled through the
remaining short section of the
tunnel, and stepped out at the
edge of a grassy hill that led to a
beach. As opposed to the midday
sun shining over at the carnival,
the sun at the beach was glowing a ruby pink, and was already
touching the turquoise sea. Sig
was astounded- and looked at the
young boy for an explanation,
peculiarity of it.
The boy stared towards the sea
for a while, and Sig took this moment of silence to examine this
strange guide. It was not so muck
the appearance of the boy that
made him strange-quite to the
contrary, the boy looked quite
ordinary, had a fresh, smooth
complexion, neat hair and the
sort of clothes you would find
appropriate to wear for a family
dinner-but rather, the manner in
which the boy moved and looked
at Sig while speaking conveyed
the air of a much older person.
Perhaps Sig was imagining it,
but the adventurous fascination
the boy had, when mixed with
his curious hint of old age was
what caused Sig to feel sort of
an attachment to the boy, and an
urge to follow him to wherever
he may lead. A moment later, the
bot said, “There is a tree up at
the edge of this hill. Would you
like to go see it?”
“Sure, why not?” said Sig. The hill
was not too steep, but stretched
a long way up. It was not until a
few minutes of hiking that the
scent of the tree reached them.
It had a very familiar smell. Sig
was sure there was a tree of the
same king back home; the smell
brought back memories of long
hours of play in the garden, way
before Sig had decided to depart.
They soon arrived at the tree,
which had purple and white flowers with large, whick petals. The
boy reached up to a branch and
plucked one of the heavy flowers, as Sig wondered low the stem
managed to bear the weight of
such mass. Bringing the flower
to his face, the boy said, “I wonder what this tastes like,” and before Sig had time to say “Stop!”
the boy took a bite out of the
flower, chewed and ate the rest,
which seemed easily to make up
a mouthful.
It appeared to Sig as if the boy
was about the comment on the
taste when suddenly, and expression of fear crossed the boy’s
face. They boy was shrinking –
no, rather, he was sinking, right
into the swirling grass beneath
his feet. Sig first thought that
somehow, the beach sand under
the hill had created this quick-
52
sand vacuum, and tried to step
back in fear of being sucked in
as well, noticing in the process
that the ground was only moving
under the boy’s feet, as if the specific intent it had was to devour
only him. It was at this point,
when the boy had vanished to
about mid-torso, that Sig decided
to stick a hand into the ground,
in a feeble attempt to grab the
boy’s rapidly sinking body. What
Sig felt among the masses of the
moving earth was but plain soil
– in place of where the boy’s
chest should have been, half buried in the vacuum, was nothing
more than roots and damp dust.
Holding fast on the boy’s hand,
still in the air as the arm it was
tied to was partially swallowed,
Sig pulled as strongly as possible,
reaching up to the branch above
them, to pluck a second flower.
The sun had almost set now – the
sky was beginning to turn indigo,
and a few white stars twinkled to
the east. The sea, stretching to
the west like a giant blue tabletop, had caught the last few rays
of the setting sun as it rolled over
its edge. At the hillside, under the
long, twisting branches of the
tree, Sig had an incredible view
of the scenery. There was no
sound now, except for the wind
rustling the leaves high above, as
Sig gazed to the seashore below,
and chewed on the petals that
were softly scented of citrus, the
ocean and the pages of an old
book.
the Call: a lovesong
Marita O’Neill
for Duff
From where the sound comes is all mystery.
We’ve seen the domed roofs in the distance,
emerging from the hillsides, camis tucked
into tiny crevices of towns crumbling
with names like Kurucesme, Arnavutkoy, Ortakoy.
The mosques rise like that, like this song unfurling,
the muezzin replaced long ago by prerecorded tapes
from Mecca. A voice pierces the morning—5 A.M.
with a robust ezzan, calling Allah, the vowels stretch open
and long, all yearning and devotion. Other voices
join from all over the town until our early morning
dreams become a cacophony of prayer and yearning.
In these Koranic songs, between the A and B notes
over 15 notes exist unknown to western music.
As if the notes yearned for infinity itself.
As if in the marking of the rise and fall of the sun,
we might discover a space between, a moment
that can’t be marked or held.
On our first date, you surprised me
with a hug as we parted—no one had ever done that:
overflowed, just overflowed unabashedly
as if we were old friends, as if I had already agreed
to I do, to plant tulips in the garden, to wait for you
to come home, to draw you a bath and light you a candle.
It’s summer time, early morning, and as I wake
you sing my name from the bedroom,
and I am called again and again,
my fingers still drawn to touch your face,
feel the curls of your hair, explore the place
where love walks, lonely and songless,
searching for lovers to give it voice.
Oh, sleepy caller of the other room,
how did you know my name before I was born?
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