Every Birth Begins with a Pain

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: 9798201877200

Book preview

Atemi Kayaky

ISBN: XXXXXXXXX

Atemi Publishing 20 18

*****one*****

Every Birth Begins with a Pain - Berat Pasha

I want to go back to where it all started for a long time. To return to that first moment when I missed the end of the rope and tumbled into uncertainty. But I can't remember where it started or where it ended. It's like I've been lying in the middle of the road for a long time. My soul seeps into the scorched asphalt under the heat. I've given up on all the beauties I could see and see, and it's as if I'm waiting for bad possibilities to just pass me by. My heartbeat is clear in my mind like an earthquake. I am the sigh of everything that is lived and unlived on me, and I have only a sigh of living, which is about to dry up. But I wasn't like this before, I remember from time to time. Once, for example, the sky fell in front of me, I gathered all the stars one by one. I thought the stars would always shine in my eyes, but before I collapsed here, all I saw in the mirror was the darkness of night. I guess that darkness destroyed me like that. Thinking that staying is an action unique to those who can't go, and the deep pain of not being able to go despite this, pinned me down. But I know that this pain will definitely give birth to me on this hot asphalt that I lie on. Because I know that every birth starts with a pain...

Berat Pasha – 17.04.2020. 

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

Migration - Abdurrahman Açıkgöz - Kirpi Literature and Think Magazine

I am in a place where everyone is perfect, my flaws are more than the square root of the sins of the people where I am. I've been living with my head for 3 years to avoid eye contact with you clean people who clean all your dirt with blendax because I'm afraid that you will see too much of my breath and want it back. I know I don't belong or worthy of this society, but now I want to hang around with my head high. You ask why ? because i miss the sky I have to go to a place where I can walk with my head held high.

To where? Of course to Israel. Maybe I can beat them with my flaws, but their sins are definitely more than mine. How do I know? Of course, from the curses of the imam who came out of the mosque the other day, from television, from the newspapers, from the fact that he is the number 1 enemy of the Israeli market, after the grocer uncle Rıza spilled and burned the Israeli goods he bought 3 4 days ago this afternoon . By the way, before I go, I have to tell Uncle Riza that he doesn't go to see anyone from Israel's side, if he goes, they will cut him into pieces. So if I were Israel, I would find the person who hit the country's economy, cut him into pieces and mix his blood with vodka and drink it.  

I have 42 minutes left to go. I came to Şakir to have my last tea here and I will soon get up and go to Nara Cape. At a depth of 84 meters, there are people I need to see for the last time, such as Selami Özben and Şaban Mutlu. Maybe Uncle Vahdet will get on the boat from there and we will throw 2 doubles together, 2 final doubles.

If you ask him, I will go without seeing him. According to what Nevzat brother said, even a drum was equal to its equivalent. So it didn't. Last night, I drank liquor until morning and wrote a poem to him. When I said I wrote it, I copied a little-known poem by Orhan Veli onto the yellowed paper in my room. After I put some salt, a pinch of ginger, a bunch of parsley and my grated index finger into the poem, I left it in the freezer for 2 hours and delivered it to the cargo. I think I can go now.  

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*****3***** LAST CHILLINGS-Burak AKBAŞ - Kirpi Literature and Think Magazine

I couldn't wake up on my watch again this morning. I'm getting really angry with myself now. Since I started this way, I need to settle some things now, but I see, unfortunately, there is no such effort. I wouldn't say completely absent, but not much. Talking to himself like this, his eyes fell on the writing desk. On the left of the white chipboard stretched out on the black iron legs, there were several books, an ancient oil lamp, a notepad and pen on the right, work papers and many sketches in the middle. Well, come anyway! they looked like. He was a little late today, but he had very good thoughts about the continuation of yesterday's story. He quickly threw the quilt off, so as not to miss what was on his mind, like the gas remaining in the vehicle's tank for a long time. His bed was right next to the window. On the marble of the window were many flowers whose names he did not know. Here's the quilt he threw down, he dropped one of these flowers. Blackened soil from the pot that fell on the bed spilled over the bed. He swore a few curses and left the flower pot there. He wanted to put his thoughts on paper as soon as possible. With a heart-tickling voice, he pulled up the chair and picked up his blue pen, although it was black on the outside. He began searching for the story he had left halfway through. He looked over the table, under the books. He bent down a few times to peek under the table, but he was nowhere to be found. Not the job that will be, not the job that will be! ' he repeated, increasingly angry. She reached for her bookcase, which was clearly built in a simple way, which stretched up to the ceiling next to the desk. He was knocking over the books, picking up a few and looking through them. But it wasn't! He was starting to get very angry now that he said to himself: No, it's not that bad. No, my dear! he began to speak. He had just finished speaking when he headed for the door, grabbed the handle of the door hard, and pulled it towards him. They came face to face with their mother. When his mother saw him like that, he said: What happened, my son, what is the state of that face of yours? You are red, are you sick? What happened, please answer, my child? Mother! His voice grew louder towards the end of the word, as if he had cried out the last letter. He continued shouting : Did you see the paper on my desk? What paper is that? He took on the innocent expression of the boy caught in the crime, his face covered with light freckles. Toward the end of the sentence, his voice was hoarse, as if he had whispered the last word. Mom, I'm talking about the piece of paper that sits on my desk, on top of the papers. I'm talking about the paper on which I started to write my new story. The conversation continued in the same tone. I didn't see it, son. It's among the papers there, wherever else. Anneee! Beautiful boy, well, okay, stop, don't shout. Mom, I don't want to disrespect you. Can you please tell me where is my paper? He was sinking slowly, his voice taking on a tearful tone. He was losing his strength like one who despairs of his lost loved one. In the morning I used it to light the stove. She had said it at once, her mother. He opened his hands to shield himself from the words he would hear, squinting his eyes, then leaned his head further back from his body, waiting. Mother, mother, what have you done! he could say. Maybe he wanted to say something more, but at the time he had managed to control himself. Without waiting for his mother's answer, he leaned back against the doorpost and went back to his room. He sat on his bed and stared at the ground on the duvet cover. The flower in the raked flowerpot had been broken in the middle, and the fresh petals of the flower had been blown away. He took the flower in his hand, I am no different from you. she said in all her despair. 

But despite everything, all living things definitely deserve a second chance. he continued. He collected the sand on the bed and replanted the flower from its solid place. He gave his water. He thought that from now on, I should take care of these flowers even more. He watered all the flowers. By the time he sat down at his writing desk again, the time had passed a long way. He put his head in his hands and sighed helplessly as if to say what am I going to do now. He checked left and right, as if searching for something. It's okay, it should still be written. he muttered. The question that came to his mind every time he took the pen in his hand was on the tip of his tongue: Why do you write black on the outside, blue? Of course, there was no answer to this question, it only served to occupy his mind. He pulled