Day of Rolling Leaf

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: Sep 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201104030

Book preview

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Uma F. Unat • Traces - Oggito

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The teacher left us and left the classroom, and we started to pack our bags as if we were all set up. When he came back, he said, Come on, line up in front of the board. Keep your bags. Be quiet! he shouted. The news of the vaccination spread quickly. We started to descend to the auditorium in two rows. Our steps echo on the stone stairs, Quiet! We're getting a warning. From the landing of our apartment, I smell the smell of the soap that I know. The corridors we pass are dim and cool. With our loafers, we make a loud and constant noise on the stairs – I learn such cool words from books. As we pass through the other floors, a few more classroom doors open and join our convoy. I lost sight of ours while looking at them. Even if I want to skip the steps by two or three, in vain. We reached the basement with this mob. The huge auditorium does not look like the reading festivals or celebrations at all. Half dark, almost empty. Up ahead, they put a table in front of the stage, a woman and a man in a white coat bent over, they must be doctors, nurses, or something like that. A bare bulb burns above them, illuminating only them. I heard the 5-A announcement while the other classes that I was stuck in were dispersing into the hall, our branch. On the right, NeziheI chose the teacher. She is like an angel right now with her golden blonde hair in a bun on her neck and her beautiful face. He's busy lining up our class and queuing up in front of the table. I immediately ran to them, entered the rear end of the tail. Every time our teacher turns his head to the other side, there is a fusion and there is a rush to get behind each other. Pole Rıfkı says, Get ahead of me, pushing me, and now Zehra, who is in front of me. So I slid forward one by one in line, and it was quickly my turn to get vaccinated. I was caught in the middle of my classmates, teachers and paramedics. I extended my right arm and they rolled up the sleeve of the white shirt. When they tried to turn my head away, I resisted, I can look, I said. They didn't hold back, and while my gaze was on my arm, they stuck the needle into my flesh. It didn't hurt. I took my handkerchief from the pocket of my new navy blue jersey and pressed it on my wound. Spots of the same color have been added to the red rose patterns. The one who has the vaccine goes to the classroom, picks up his bag and is sent home. So did I. I took my bag, walked out of the huge doors of the school, waving my arms. Even Ismail, the janitor at the door, did not make a sound. Only two of the shuttle vans lined up on the street every day are there. Two men are standing in front of him smoking cigarettes. I went and asked, Isn't there helper brother? The midday services aren't coming yet, said the fat one. He turned his head to the other and they continued their conversation. It's hot, I take off my cardigan and hold it on my left arm. Macuncu, cotton candy, none visible. Probably too early. We didn't do the lessons. My head is tingling, I tug at the elastics that are pinching my hair. If I leave, I won't be able to collect it again. I pass my bag in my other hand. I tilt my bangs to the side with my sweaty palm. The chubby yellow cat is there, on the stairs of the pink apartment on the side street. I go and say, Sarman, dear, I stroke his jowl, he stretches. Humming with the sun on it. This is that building. It should have an empty basement facing the quayside. I got up from where I was crouching and went there. The glassless window of the basement with its iron bars is dark. Those at school, those in the service, say that a madman lives here. Demet said an old witch is hiding here. He had strange hair, like red wool. I bent down and tried to get closer and see inside. A foul odor blew from that darkness. I'm stuffed my nose, I'm spying, I can't see anything. Something touches my back, I jump. It's Sarman. I walked back to the street where we waited for the shuttles. My situation is hopeless. Imdat Abi does not appear. What time is it? For the first time, I don't have any elders with me, a shudder runs through my back. I'd better hit the road. If I find the exit to the main street, I know how to get home from there. I went through a few streets and tried to see ahead, nothing. I tried, but I was afraid I would mess it up. Last Sunday evening, my fathers and uncles had gathered with us again. The table was set, eating and drinking, songs were sung. My moms got up from the table and went to coffee with my aunts. My cousins ​​were playing cards with my brother in our room, I didn't like it. I was sitting on the floor listening to my parents. Here, they read in the newspapers, a taxi driver kidnapped a woman. I couldn't hear the rest whispering from ear to ear. But in the end, my mother said, No, sweetie, you will take the taxi from the station, it is the safest. I approached the taxi rank on the corner, standing quite far from the door, staring. The doors are open. Inside sits a man whose mustache covers his face. Even darker than my uncle. He must have had coffee as a kid. His hair is oily. He is leaning against the office, his eyes on the newspaper. He looks at the pages over the top of his glasses that he cut in half. His dark shirt has rolled up sleeves, huge hands, and a ring with a black egg-like stone on his little finger. This is the first time I come across such a ring in a man. Not an engagement ring. A voice said, Radio Theatre. Effector: Korkmaz Çakar, he says. The antenna is visible from the back of the man, next to it is the desk calendar, the part showing the day of 1976, October... is left on the back of the newspaper page. I stood there, my heart pounding. Suddenly he put down his newspaper. pull up your glassesHe looked at me. Uncle, will you take me to İncirli? I asked from afar. Let's see where you want to go. His voice is very deep, wheezing. You guys take me to the main street, I'll describe what's next. He looked at me, looked at my mother's two-tailed hair, my neckband, my chest crest, my purse, my patent leather shoes, and stood up. He put down the newspaper and pulled his trousers up to his waist. I can only... pay you when I get home, I said. I had given my allowance to the pitibor biscuit. He turned off the radio, pulled on his jacket, and pulled a bundle of keys from his right pocket. Okay, come on girl, she said, locking the office door. He opened the door of a blue car and entered, reaching up and unlocking the side and rear doors. I walked around to the other side, sitting in the front so I could show the way. It smells of gasoline. He turned the ignition, didn't work, tried again and again, and finally the car jolted to start. I settled down close to the door, put my driver and search bag on my left side. We moved. The driver opened his window and stuck his left elbow out. He drives the steering wheel with one hand. The seat cover is knitted not from fabric, but from colored beads. It pinches my leg meat in the parts where my form is stripped with every shake. The man's glasses are filthy, I can't quite tell where he's looking, does he occasionally look at my legs? I'm covering my cardigan too. We quickly passed the side streets, and I realized that it was inside the bazaar instead of the main street. I don't remember ever going through here. I approached the door. Why are you leaving here? I asked, my right hand ready to hang on the doorknob at any moment. My cheeks are burning, red now. When I turned my head towards the driver, I saw the baby swinging in the mirror. Other than mine. It's like a movie artist, not a baby. How can I say, it looks like the ones in the shameful movies. She crossed her bare arms over her head, cloth wrapped around her torso, her exposed legs curled to the side. He is sitting in midair, tied to the rearview mirror by a string above his head. He sways left and right, his knees hitting the windshield as he sways. What would I do if I hadn't gotten into this car from the station? They give the way from the bazaar to get to the main street, I was startled by his voice. Sweat trickles down from the man's forehead to his cheek. I leaned against the door. I have a buzzing in my ears. The tingling in my head continues. There are yarn vendors around, Kurukahveci, greengrocers, mobile lahmacun vendors. The driver turned the steering wheel to the left from the corner, the street appeared, the traffic lights turned yellow for us at the corner where it intersects with the street. The driver gasped, his right hand reaching towards me... it seems he was going to change gears. We passed the lights just as it was turning red. With that jolt, my shoulder hit the corner of the door, and my injection site hurt. I closed my eyes, the warm tears