Vagrant Bullet

By Atemi Kayaky

We are faced with an industrialization phenomenon that makes itself felt in literature as well as in every other subject. The reshaping of literature according to the conditions of market capitalism turns literary products into simple consumables. Newly released literary novels, stories, poems, essays, etc. literary products no longer have an artistic quality, they are consumed quickly and resemble Hollywood movies…

 

Identical, fabricated books adorn the shelves of the bookstore. We are faced with books that appeal to the eye, not to the pleasure of reading. Every day, we are showered with novels whose content resembles a movie script, and the most popular ones are immediately adapted to the cinema. Their styles, plots and even the subjects themselves are extremely superficial, identical books are everywhere.

 

There are quite a few pages in such works, but it is possible to read and finish them in a short time. We would like to say that the reason for this is that it is written in a successful language. However, if we consider that the majority of the people who read these books find it boring and they find it boring, this is not the main reason. The main reason is that in such industrial novels, whether it is character analysis, description of environment and events, a very superficial work is done. Writers don't think about these things. Because – a group of authors should be excluded from this – what is important for authors now is the sales figures and the amounts they will earn, rather than the literary and aesthetic characteristics of their works.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atemi Kayaky
• Release date: Aug 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201131852

Book preview

*****one*****

Marcus' Poetry - Reyyan Daçe - Kirpi Literature and Think Magazine

The poem ended with You and we are not even enemies anymore[i]. Marcus placed the book in his hand on the nightstand next to him. Five apartments were destroyed in the relentless hurricane before his eyes, dozens of people died under the rubble, the survivors were looking after those who left, and while he was watching all this from his balcony, he took a deep breath as if he was experiencing a nightmare with his hands tied and his screams hidden.

At first, he couldn't breathe to this depth. Then he tried to breathe once more, this time more prepared. His lungs, which had never seen tobacco in his life, would exhale as if they had faded from regular cigarettes. He sat up in his bed, propped two of his pillows against the wall and laid them on his back. The last sentence of the poem, which was supposed to go from the esophagus to the digestive system, had escaped into the windpipe and upset him. It would seem that tonight was going to be quite a long one as well. Waiting his turn on the nightstand, he slowly opened the lid of the liquor bottle, took a sip from it, did not move until the burning sensation reached his stomach. Continuing in a moment, he simply closed the cap on it without turning it and put the bottle aside. When he pressed the button of the nightlight, the room was now completely dark. Only the moonlight penetrated through the thin curtain of the balcony door.

Marcus was a secretive man. He would have fights that started and ended within himself. He would not let the darkness out of his body. He wouldn't let anyone in his life know about his wounds, touch them. Weren't those who opened those wounds already in your life once? Only his own fingers shielded his collapsing soul. Marcus had ten fingers and dozens of wounds. There was no way he could suppress them all at once. At night, blood oozed from the grooves he could not press. His bed was quite accustomed to this sight. That's why he tried to treat her as gently as possible. If your bed had the ability to speak, it would only open up to him.

He took another sip of his drink. He was already halfway through the bottle when he realized that he was staring blankly into the moonlight filtering in softly. Relying on the wisdom of the endless sky, his inner light silently asked, Everyone? asked. He was not getting any response. Well, he said, that question is too shallow for a wise sky, you're right, I'm apologizing and asking again: Everyone, right? Anyone can do this stupid thing. He can love first, make himself loved; then it disappears for no reason, just as darkness cuts off the sun. Anyone can do this, anyone, right? The light from the curtain suddenly disappeared. Then it slowly filled the room again, trembling. The branches of the majestic tree just in front of the balcony were moving in the wind, causing the moonlight to tremble in the room. Marcus nodded, as if to say, I see, without saying anything. She took another deep breath and tilted her head back. His experiences flashed before his eyes at such a rapid rate that he rarely had the opportunity to question what he had caught. He recalled the last sentence of the poem: You and we are not even enemies anymore... Now... We... We are not even enemies... He held the rest of the bottle on his head breathlessly. Only if his mind went away would Marcus regain some sense. He thought of the her in You and us. Whether it was from thinking or the weight of the drink, he was having a hard time keeping his head up. He took the notebook he found while he was running his hand on the nightstand and the pencil he kept with him, leaving his own poem for the night:

"Everybody, right, everybody goes, Marcus, get used to it.

Keep your head up and try to hold your breath.

There will be those who come again, everyone who comes will go again...

Release your soul, mingle with the human being."

The doorbell rang for five minutes the next morning as Marcus fell asleep with the notebook in his hand. Unable to hear from inside, the police finally had to break down the door. After searching everywhere, the bedroom was next. When there was no response to the calls, the pulse of the feeble body lying on the bed was felt. The sirens in the street had sounded for the first time in his life for his soul, which found peace that day. No blood stains were found on the sheet. In his autopsy, the cause of death was written Sudden heart attack. The Marcus case of life had closed smoothly.

[i] Nazım Hikmet Ran, You (1933)

*****2nd*****

It Was a Sin - Ilkay Genç - Kirpi Literature and Think Magazine

It was harvest time. The necks of the spikes were bent, and their heads were melting more and more to the earth with every breeze. Needle-embroidered Yemeni was around his neck, and as he drove that tractor, the birds among the crops were flying in front of him and landing back again.

He hoped to finish half, if not all, of the field before the sun was fully overhead. The days were getting longer, it would be over, but other things were waiting for him. Her mother could only find enough relief to cook a bowl of food, and the arthritis in her knees was consuming all her strength. Ever since her father left the village, Gülbeyaz had carried all that burden on her narrow shoulders.

He had cut the crops before the midday heat was scorching, leaving the rest for the early hours of the next day. He wiped the sweat from his face with the handkerchief tucked into the elastic of his shalwar, and in the shade of the olive grove just ahead, he made his own leavened bread wrapped in a table cloth with a little cheese, and every tomato he bit wet his bite.

He leaned his head against the trunk of the tree, and watched the ants rushing on the trunk of the tree with the light breeze, without cutting them in front of each other. That tree would also watch him; Sometimes Yusuf would run away to the shade of this olive grove, tell all sorts of stories and live right there.

It means he couldn't escape from the tea house today.

Every time Yusuf went to the district, he would buy a yen, and he would come and wrap it around Gülbeyaz's neck in this olive grove. He could feel Yusuf's hands when the Yemenis were around his neck. The chest in his room was filled to the brim with Yemeni. Maybe he went to town again. He packed the tablecloth and threw it on his tractor and set off on the village road.

When he got off the tractor, his forelocks covered his forehead and the scarf on his neck covered his head. He was one of those who had been transformed in his mind under his image that was compatible with the land he was born in. Before reaching the village square, he cooled down in the fountain of charity:

'May the soul of the deceased rest in peace, may God be pleased with the person who made it, may it be a lifeblood for me'

The surah he knew best was Fatiha, and the only place he read was this fountain head. He was again disturbed by the water that continued to flow like string from the licked faucet.

'It is flowing again in vain, sin'

He had nothing to do with sin or good deeds, but one of the two words of his mother and villagers was sin.

She would say, 'Everyone will be judged by their own conscience one day, and he will make both heaven and hell live', but her mother would make people repent upon repentance and say, 'Give me bread from your head'.

He made his way to the house, watching his rubber