The Escape Route of Seda Bağrım

One day, this girl, Seda, discovered that she has an escape route on her stomach, just above the belly button, and she could use it any time she wishes; she’d just fold herself into two, wouldn’t even draw much attention if she’s careful enough, get in there and that’s it, she’d be gone — escaped.

The Uneventful Nights of Selma Kara

She did try to explain a few times to her parents, to a few friends, then to some lovers as if she’s mentioning such a trivial thing. She said that she doesn’t actually need to sleep but does so to blend in. “And all your instincts are true,” she told them. “Nothing happens while you all are asleep. The whole world stops. Believe me, I know. I was awake.”

The Conservation of Belgin Ilgaz

She’d like to imagine there’s a bag somewhere just for her. Functional but adorably chic with a velvet touch and a butter-like zip. A bag big enough for her to crawl in, get lost between things and things, some familiar and some completely foreign, and getting carried around on the arms of a giant lady as fair as herself.

She received the news of her aunt’s death on a chilly morning, before work. She was at the bakery, about to get some pretzels while ignoring the man behind her, talking and talking, encouraging her to give the eggplant pastries a chance. As she laid the money on the counter, she felt the vibration on her right thigh and offered the cashier a vague smile, just enough to assure he’s not going to hate her, then grabbed her phone in a rush.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, please, tell me what a joy it is hearing from me.”

“It’s just that you never call me this early.”

He muffled something—got to be a joke meant more to amuse himself than anyone else, as it’s always been. He was laughing by the end of the sentence but Leyla couldn’t hear him through the wind greeting her the moment she stepped out of the bakery. She stood there, in front of the display, straining to catch his voice. A passerby, probably out of pity, told her with an exaggerated gesture, “Shield it with your hand, honey,” and so she did, the nylon bag of pretzels looped around her wrist, she raised her arm, and cupped the receiver with her palm.

“Whaa?” she said, laughing too, though she couldn’t say why.

“Listen, we didn’t want to alarm you or anything but—we lost your aunt.”

“What?! My aunt? Dead?”

She still had the remnants of that smile, realizing too late she was hoping this might be another one of her father’s jokes. Silence stretched on the other end.

“You’re serious,” she continued, solemn now, “What happened?”

“Don’t worry about it, I know you gals were not close lately. It shouldn’t matter how.”

Did it matter? She had to think about it, and hard, for a while, fortunately, to discover that it actually did, but it was too late to confirm it now, too fake.

“Dad, I’m so, so sorry for your loss. God rest her soul— She. . . was a character.”

“That she was indeed. Anyway, the funeral’s tomorrow, back in the hometown.”

U-uh. Trouble.

“Well, I’m. . . Not sure I can make it.”

“You don’t have to be there or anything. I– just wanted you to know.”

“Thanks. I mean it. And once again, my condolences.”

“Yeah, well. . .”

She hung up, and all serene, tried to remember her aunt, hoping that some memory from her long-forgotten childhood or an insignificant gesture later on would make her feel something. When she thought about her aunt, she could only remember the leftover foods she made a habit of mixing together in a single pot, the pills she took not in search of remedy but due to the upcoming expiration dates, and the epilating wax that’s been used over and over and over again Leyla once had the misfortune of discovering in the freezer. Last she heard, her aunt was making a living by selling daily items allegedly belonging to a now-famous local artist through an online website as shady as the items themselves, ranging from napkins to toothbrushes to remotes to plastic utensils. The prices were quite reasonable, and the fans were usually buying them for their “what if” value.

“Sorry for your loss,” said a deep voice beside her. It was a man, in his forties, with a five-o’clock shadow and tired eyes, trying to have a smoke fighting off the wind. “May she rest in peace,” he added.

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you.”

It was not, in fact. He must’ve been listening to her conversation all the while, and with a wind like this, there was no overhearing. You had to mean it.

“You know,” the man said, releasing a temporary cloud of smoke that disappeared so quickly in the wind that Leyla found herself hesitated whether she really saw it or not. “You might have a day off from work.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was your aunt, right? They gotta give you a day off for that, even if you do not go to the funeral. Just an idea.”

You see, there was a practicality in death, beyond the grief and pity and regret.

“This advice of yours,” she said, after some thought, “am I gonna pay for it?”

The man gave her an equally inquiring look. He seemed genuinely confused. “You think it’s bad advice?”

For many, it wouldn’t have been. But as soon as she sent an email to HR that night, informing the company about her loss and taking the next day off for the funeral in hopes that she may finally clean her apartment, reorganize the kitchen cabinets, and catch up with some trending TV series, she became overwhelmed by this feeling of guilt. Having all this free time and still not making to the funeral? Bad, bad thing to do.

She did her best to shake it off, distract herself, trying to turn off all the things her father did not say to her on the phone, I’m very disappointed in you and Your disrespect towards me, I can take it, but to my sister?! She almost forced herself to take a nap, burying her head under the pillow, in vain. Called up some friends who were all working on this weekday just as she would’ve been if her damn aunt were alive.

Only a few hours at home, cursing and cursing, then she got her backpack, took off, and headed to the coach station, on her way to her aunt’s funeral. All because of a bad advice.

What does it all mean?

“There’s a foot rest, below the seat,” said the guy sitting next to her. “It’s much more comfortable, if you’d like to use it.”

She half-smiled with a tint of disgust, with no visible dash for the foot rest.

“I’m just saying. . .” the guy continued, now his hands raised, surrendered, probably against her indifference.

“Sorry, I meant no offense, but I’m really not in the mood for advice.”

“It’s nothing, forget about it.”

They sat in silence, for what, a few minutes tops?

“If I were to give you advice,” he said, “considering how you look, I’d say that all days have an end, even the worst ones. They don’t decide how the rest of your life is going to be.”

Without moving much, she took a quick look around, as if searching for an escape route, catching nothing but the fleeting, blurry image of an interstate road.

“Aren’t advice supposed to offer something solid?”

He thought briefly.

“Well, how about reading a book then? To distract yourself?”

She hated, hated this. Raised on her seat a bit and turned towards the window, away from the guy, as much as possible.

“Would you like to tell me more? About today? I can help you more, maybe? Offer better advice?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Could you close the curtain?” he asked, and seeing she hesitated, quickly added, “Not an advice, this is for me.”

Within the small intervals the guy shut the fuck up, she was having obscure visions about her aunt, remembering, her small gestures and the tone of her voice, and traces of kindness, if there were any. She picked up the smell of burnt hair, ironed in the middle of the living room. She felt her aunt’s long nails polished in bright red caressing her arm. She heard the flicking of her lighter, a hundred-year-old antique she insisted on keeping using. And there were these twisted guidance and commentary on life that her aunt meant to inspire her with, but instead confused her even more.

Never show your belly button to anyone, ever, for your life dwells in there.

There’s nothing wrong with a strict raw-meat diet.

It’s people who tell you that their favorite color is “purple” you gotta be careful about.

Who we are?

As a child, she considered this as a weird game between them, for her aunt would charge her for these random thoughts, cheap toys or some coins or a piece of biscuits, always something. When she grew up and she confidently began to sense that there was something wrong with these statements. “Only a mad person,” she had thought, “or a very corrupt company would charge people for a random advice.”

“I understand,” the guy interrupted her thoughts, “it’s not your fault, you know. It is our common failure as a species. And my failure for choosing a decaying job, which is talking. We lost the spontaneity of it. People used to believe in destiny, and they’d think, ‘If we’re here now, you and me, it must mean something.’ You and me, we are here, and look at this, I’m just bothering you.”

The thing is, she wasn’t sure what the hell this was. She thought that the guy must be trying to sell her advice. Then, she considered him to be nuts. Towards the end, she was convinced that he was trying to flirt in an awkward way. One thing for sure, she was bothered, very much so—weary, even. She even looked for the conductor to change her seat if possible, pointing out the guy with her eyebrows, quietly complaining, anything at all, for she didn’t want—or couldn’t dare—to antagonize him.

“Tell me, what was the best piece of advice you ever got?”

“Don’t talk to strangers?”

There were these physical signs now: the sudden knot in her stomach, the ache at the back of her head, the numbness creeping upward from her toes—each offering something new for her to feel: anxiety and terror and anger and doubt and hesitation. A complete gallery of emotions for her to pick and choose from.

“Huh. Funny. It serves me well, though. See, your parents told you not to talk to the strangers, years ago, and those words, they traveled, here, standing between you and me. I told you to close the curtain—not an advice but you get the gist of it. Now we’ll arrive, and you’ll slide it open to take a look around. That movement will be born out of nothing, and action created just because of my words. This is what an advice is. It loosens the time itself—”

The guy stopped, abruptly, which caught her off guard. She thought he could talk for eternity. He had a cheeky grin on his face, looking at her legs.

“The foot rest,” he said, “you’re using it.”

She had no idea about how or when this had happened. Through the ordeal the guy put her through his little talk, her body must’ve embraced the smallest comfort.

“I–” she began to explain but the guy suddenly lost interest in her, putting on his headphones, even turning his head away from her apparently to sleep for the rest of the trip. She felt a weird combination of relief and confusion, even locked her foot rest back in its place hoping to rid the guy the satisfaction, but he didn’t seem to notice it. Soon she fell asleep, had a dream in which her aunt was a bus and she had to pay the fare in the form of advice in order to get on, though she had none to offer.

Does the future hold anything?

They arrived at the terminal half an hour late. When she woke up, the guy had already left. She got off the bus, stretched, stretched like the last hours of a work day, rubbed her eyes, and took her phone out to call her father, only to find a new email notification, boldly titled, “Payment Received! Thank You For Your Purchase.” In it, there was an invoice for the equivalent of 9.99$ with a description of service: Successful Advice on Foot Rest

“God damn it!” she said, adding the invoice amount, along with the fee for the bus ticket, to an imaginary account book she opened for the cost of her aunt’s funeral. There, she recalled another advice, this time by her aunt, which cost her a gum and a plastic wristwatch. “You shouldn’t bury people,” she’d said, “And even if you do, you shouldn’t gather and watch.”

Is life worth living?

The transitions often happened smoothly overnight, before I have a chance to witness the gradual change in my form, or even briefly declare, if only to myself, that I am indeed changing. It was an insignificant cough that barely disturbed my sleep, it was a pimple in somewhere unseen, it was a momentary shiver: though annoying, a completely natural bodily reaction. I’d wake up, find myself turned into a different object, and embrace this new identity and function almost immediately – I had some quirks that I haven’t made peace with since adolescent, but I can’t remember a single instance when I had an issue with what I’ve become, regardless of how meaningless or superficial the object is.

There were some women, who spent their entire lives as a single object, and they seemed oh so proud of it, of themselves, of the men they love. They’d usually become these expensive, ostentatious, grandiose commodities and riches: a summer-house by the sea, a luxurious yacht, once I even met a woman who’s been a small private island out of the Aegean sea that caused a temporary political crisis to her joy. All of them would wear this condescending look on their material faces whenever they encounter other women who keep turning into a different object as frequently as every hour. They would open their windows, loudly crank their motors, or wave around their shores like a long dress, and confidently blame the others for not being able to fall in love with the right man, and they are now rightfully paying the price of this poor choice.

These accusations were cruel, mean, but it was also not unheard of that although women themselves promptly accepted and internalized their new forms, they could still get disappointed by their men’s desire. “Really?” a lot of arguments would start off, “Really? This is the thing you love the most in the whole world?” They’d show off their mutated bodies to their men who usually watch them jaws dropped, drooling, stars in their eyes. I, too, had found myself in a similar position with one of my exes a few years ago. I had turned into a leather fanny pack, a handmade one with long zippers and countless pockets. “Oh honey,” I said to my then-boyfriend, “if you love it that much, we can buy it. I looked into it – doesn’t seem to be that much out of our budget, no?”

“It’s not like that,” he said, caressing me in the meantime, unzipping and zipping back, putting his fingers in my pockets to check the depth, “I know I can afford it but it’s just, you know, lame. Not very manly.”

“And this is better? Your girlfriend turning into it?”

“It’s not worse? . .”

I’ve broken up with him within the same week, though I wasn’t entirely sure whether the “lack of vision” was a valid reason for separation. The relationship was over but the feelings lingered a little longer. I had remained a fanny bag for two more months, until I got over him, and I took back my original form.

Though annoying indeed, the disappointment in the hidden material desires of your man was not even the worst: that title belonged to finding out that you’re just a tool along the way to acquiring said desire. Some men, so sure that they will never be able to afford their dream object, would get involved with vulnerable women, seduce them, and watch them take the form of those precious things they desire so much. These men were deeply materialistic but made perfect boyfriends: you were right in all arguments, you’d never have to take your own glass of water from the kitchen ever again, and they never complained when you were too angry, or sad, or tired, or occupied to have sex. They were so obsessed with the material you turned into, they wouldn’t take any risk that would cause you to even slightly doubt about your relationship. They didn’t love you in the real sense of the word but were so afraid to lose you, and for some women, that was enough. They’d make peace with the idea of being with a man who’s only with them for the form they took. Some women who can afford would try to get out of the deal and buy whatever the hell their men turned them into, a motorcycle, VR goggles, ridiculously-priced collection figures in order to save their own bodies, though the relationships hardly survived that. And those who did believe in love would get hurt pretty bad upon discovering the reality. Late every night, you could come across women in the form of luxury goods at bars, restaurants, taxis and buses, silently crying or mindlessly drinking or staring into space throughout the city.

All of us, throughout our lives, would find ourselves in embarrassing situations at least once. Sometimes we’d turn into an object before we realize that we’re in love. Some of us would try to deny it even then, asking themselves, “Oh, which man in my life would lust over this handmade Japanese pen with Urushi lacquer,” contemplating night after night over who they might be in love with. I had a terrible experience once, too, in third grade, when I had these ridiculous horn-rimmed glasses and was still braiding my hair. It was my first time falling in love, and I hated it, and I hated to be a soccer ball signed by the players of the local football team; I hated to be made fun of both to my face and behind my back, I hated the gossips about the possible candidates of my affection, I hated when he came up to me one day after class, confident and loud as always, two characteristics that will intrigue me throughout my love life, and said, “So, you’re in love with me then. . .”

There were disputable rumors about some women turning into intangible things, into concepts or virtues. There were accounts of many men who claimed that they met a woman in the form of courage on New Years Eve a couple years back at a lavish bar. They all, at separate times, had a chance to have a conversation with her, and whenever the mood was loose enough for men to ask about what exactly she is supposed to be, she gave the same answer.

“I’m courage, obviously.”

“Courage? For what?”

“Courage to ask me out.”

The men, unbeknownst to each other, were saying that she must be the most beautiful girl they’ve ever seen.

Similarly, one of my male friends had once publicly announced that he broke up with her girlfriend because she turned into the Instagram feed of a woman he never met. As he explained, they’d first tried to understand the issue. My friend denied any accusation regarding his possible feelings towards this woman who’s completely unfamiliar to him, as well as towards her delicately curated content. Then in hopes of an explanation, they’d exhausted all options to reach out to the woman but she proved to be near-unapproachable. My friend’s theory was that his girlfriend has fallen in love with some other guy who’s obsessed with this woman on Instagram, thus the girlfriend turned into the Instagram feed of the said woman. It did make sense, but I think it made us, her female friends, a bit jealous one way or another. All we ever wanted was to be desired, so much that a random woman, who’s in love with a man who’s in love with us, would turn into only a fragment of our being. Honestly, I never met the girl, not while she was supposedly in the form of an Instagram feed anyway, so I’m not sure whether it’s possible to become something abstract regardless of how much you’re in love with a man, or how much they desire an abstract thing. Still, upon my friend’s request, I generously reported the relevant Instagram account for impersonation once they were broken up.

It was always difficult watching your close friends going through a rough patch with their significant others. You’d meet them and find out that they’ve returned to their original forms. Sometimes they wouldn’t want to dwell too much on it – in denial, they’d talk to you as if nothing’s changed, that they’re happy, content with their relationship, still in love. You were morally expected not to inquire about it, as if it’s a wound or a lost limb. Some others, on the contrary, would be too ready to talk about it: they’d sacrifice their precious sleep in order to discuss what’s going on between them and their lovers with a slight disfiguring in their form, publicly announcing their ups-and-downs, “I know, I know,” one would say in the form of a vintage vinyl, “there are some scratches on me but we’re talking about this, really, and I think this whole thing will help us quite a lot in the long run.” They wouldn’t shut up about it. We’d hate them until we ourselves become one of them.

There were some couples, only a handful though, the kind you come across on TV or over-dramatic romantic comedies, in which the woman remains in her original form and doesn’t turn into any object. We would watch them, curious, a bit star-struck, wondering whether they’ve somehow broken a curse that holds the rest at its mercy, or –equally miraculous– whether they’re in a healthy relationship where they’re not in love with each other but perfectly fine with it.

I heard to this day a lot of creational explanations for this phenomenon: how Eve was in the form of an apple or how such transformations were not a thing until Noah’s wife turned into a giant ark, providing much needed inspiration and a model for the actual one. I myself, however, choose to believe in the Great Switch theory. That there’s been an ancient switch somewhere far away, stuck for some reason, responsible for women to change forms depending on their lover’s material desires. That one day, on purpose or by accident, the switch will be turned on as if it’s its natural state. Then, someone will approach me at a bar just as my drink arrives; gently touch me on my shoulder, ask me with the smoothest voice, “May I buy you the next round?” I will raise my head, slowly, and see a man smiling at me, seductively, in the form of a comfortable, non-wired bra with French eyelash lace and silk encased straps, looking like it would never hurt me.

“What’s happening again?! Oh, my son! Geez, God help us all!”

“MONSTER! I’M TELLING YOU, A MONSTER! IN THE CLOSET!”

They immediately open the closet without a question. We briefly lock eyes, and for a fraction of a second, I suspect that I might actually exist. Every single time. Yet, all they want is to convince the kid that there’s nothing there. At first, I considered this a violation of my private space and got upset, but now I do not care, really. They ransack the closet, showing every empty corner to the kid as if asking for his confirmation. Look, nothing here, see?

At times like this, the emptiness they’re so sure of becomes relative. We cease to be mutually exclusive. And it seems we are the only ones disturbed by it – me and the kid. Us.

Once, I was really close to getting it all out. It was a moment in-between. The kid thought he was sleeping, but he was awake. Under the blanket, as usual. His little breaths was bouncing off of the fabric and blowing onto his face. There was dew on his skin from this unhealthy airflow. His eyes were open. He could see me. I knew it. I stood above him for a while: I wanted him to listen, you see. I wanted to be taken seriously.

“Listen, kid,” I said, speaking clearly, without missing any word. “I am not real. But I will keep coming to your room as long as you think I am.” I left short silences between sentences, hoping he’d grasp what I meant. I could hear him screaming, going wild inside his head. Yet he kept watching me. Not even blinking. Lying still in bed.

“If you stop believing in me, I’ll disappear. Just like that. Get it?”

I saw a small glare in the kid’s eyes, a vague trace of understanding – or I thought I did. Sweat now dotted his forehead. Slowly, he shut his eyes and drifted into an obviously troubled sleep. Then I returned to the closet. I did not disappear. Never could.

I was born three years ago, and now I’m the same age the kid was when he first imagined me. Back then, I was more abstract: I was the voice lurking in the corridors, the shadows on the walls, the rattles upstairs, everything that was kept hidden from him. At one moment, I was visible; at next, I was not. The kid’s mind wandered easily, so he couldn’t quite imagine me as a complete physical entity. Not that he lacked imagination – he was creative enough to give me hands made of screams or put mouths on my soles that growled with every step. Sometimes, I was thin and flat, my hair becoming a rug when I lay down. Sometimes I was so colossal that the kid imagined himself, his parents, his house and his school, his neighborhood and everything familiar to him as nothing more than dirt beneath my nails. Sometimes I was ever-present, and sometimes, I did not exist at all, and I swear to you, if you knew how comforting nonexistence is, you’d choke yourself with your pillow.

As the kid grew up, my existence became a full-time job. Even when he was busy, I lurked in his mind. I waited in his room, in the closet, waiting for bedtime. He’d suddenly remember me while playing with his friends or watching TV. A silhouette might remind him of me, or the static on the screen would speak in my tongue, babbling in unknown words and and indecipherable monologues.

I admit, at first, I thought my purpose was to scare him, and I tried my best. Looking at my non-existent reflection in the mirror, I’d struggle to come up with the most horrifying and intimidating faces or refine my voice that only the kid could hear. High-pitched shrieks felt amateurish, BOO seemed childish, and a scream like AAARGH was insincere. The closest I got was a growling GRRRR, but it was not sustainable, as I assumed it would hurt my vocal cords over time.

It was exhausting having to rely on the kid’s reactions to know if I was doing my job well. But in the end, I realized I didn’t need to try so hard. Just the thought of me being somewhere nearby was enough to make him uneasy. Still, I wasn’t satisfied. If I existed, and I did, and his fear was the sole reason for my existence, I wanted to be the best at it.

I eventually settled on a sound: a descending-and-ascending UuUuUuUuUu. It was a vague whisper, occasionally interrupted by a whistle slipping through my pursed lips. At night, I’d release my UuUuUuUuUus, and the kid’s eyes would snap open. The peach-fuzz on his arms would rise, and he’d dive under the blanket.

The whole thing left us in an awkward position.

Listen. No one but him sees me, yet the kid believes I exist. He created me, but he’s still afraid of me. I see him –the kid who created me– but I do not believe that I exist. He tries his best to convince others that I’m real, but no one believes him – or me, the thing they can’t see.

I feel like everything about me is a lie. My entire existence feels like a game. A Joke. I’m not real. I’m not even in a position to make claims about reality.

So I tried explaining this to the kid. “I shouldn’t exist,” I told him. “You created me. I was born because you imagined me. Your parents are right: I don’t exist.” I gestured grandly to my body to make him understand. “This is nothing. None of it is real. But you have to say it. Come on, just say it. ‘You’re not real.’ Say it!”

He didn’t respond. To him, I wasn’t something to talk to but something to fear, avoid, keep away.

“Can’t you just try?” I begged. “Look, I’m trying but you should, too.”

It only got worse.

“I can see you,” he said unexpectedly one day. “If I see you, you exist.”

It was a big step. A small ray of hope. Like a burning bush.

“That doesn’t always mean the same thing,” I said, keeping my cool. I was terrified of saying the wrong thing – almost as scared as he was of me.

“I see this blanket, too? Are you saying that it doesn’t exist? Or my mom? My dad?”

“No, no. They do exist.” I was uncomfortable making such definitive statements. After all, I was the last being to know what it is to exist.

One day, I existed, but I didn’t have a mouth. I’d lost even my whispers. I felt my neck, my throat – gone. Clever kid. He’d figured out that voices couldn’t exist without a body.

One day, I existed, but I had no arms and legs. “Not too bad,” I thought. “I’m disappearing, just as I’ve always wanted. Swell.” The kid still feared me tough. I could feel it. But it seemed like he didn’t need me to exist to be afraid anymore. He was erasing me bit by bit.

One day, I existed, but I was nothing but a head, swinging in the air like a severed skull. I hoped the kid wouldn’t see me like this – it’d scare him shitless and he might bring me back.

One day, I existed, but I was just a pair of eyes floating in the closet.

Can’t. Think. No more. Kid. Grew. Doesn’t scare. Doesn’t believe. But I. Always. There. In the closet.

At first, it was almost reassuring, each goodwill taking a load off of my shoulders. By the fifth person, it started to become increasingly alarming.

They usually offered second-hand, shallow advice about how to address the crowd: who to thank, where to raise or lower my voice, where to put my hands. Regardless of who I talk to, they always finished their lesson with the same, ominous though well-intended prophecy, as if the very idea itself teased a disaster: “You’re going to be fine.”

Once, upon learning that I was one of the selected speakers for the next Speech, a girl with braided hair and ballet flats that I met at a bar cheerfully encouraged me. “I’m sure it’s gonna turn out great,” she said. “I mean, they’ve got to have a system, right, the Committee? They’d never choose someone who’s gonna fail. Think about this: how many people do you remember who, like, royally screwed up their speech?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Off the top of my head — six?”

I clearly remembered one speaker uncontrollably puking in the middle of his speech —the videos were everywhere— and another with shaky legs who somehow managed to damage the stage, causing it to break down, even injuring a bunch of people. A few serious stuttering cases, a few misunderstood gestures; some speakers messing up their notes, some deciding on the worst topics possible like “The History of Scandinavian Wood” or “The Ethics of Flushing in Private and Public Places,” others unintentionally but undeniably coming off as racist or misogynistic.

As I stood behind the bars in the courtroom, I awkwardly realized that I wasn't nearly as excited as I had been when I stepped up to the platform to give the speech. It felt absurd, especially when you take into consideration that the Committee was indeed a more attentive crowd than the audience of my speech. 
"Regarding the last week's events, Mr. C—," the head of the Committee began to speak, "we see malicious intent."
I had been thinking the same thing myself, actually. Did I mean anything with my speech? Was I trying to humiliate the tradition or the Committee? Did I sabotage myself? 
"We also realize that this malicious intent cannot be the work of a singly individual," he continued. "Now answer me. Who urged you to make the speech titled, 'The Pornographic Categorization of the Members of the Committee'? WHO?"

“Oh shit,” she said. I could tell she momentarily forgot the uplifting nature of the conversation. “I thought there wouldn’t be any, and that’d be my point – sorry.”

God. All these people with their terrible advice, suggestions, and laid-back arrogance. . . I knew that I could find no solace in them. I knew that it wasn’t their fault, either. They just lacked experience: never selected for, nor had they made the Speech themselves. When I did try to reach out to previous speakers, they either refused to talk to me like under a vow of silence, or turned out to be thoroughly incommunicado.

At first glance, I thought the tip I got was a bust again. Some shady guys mentioned that this man had once made a speech called “The Strain of Being the Best,” and they pointed me to his direction. Now, he was in ragged clothes, missing a tooth, begging on the side of the road – he reeked so bad I could smell him long before I saw him. You’d pass him by as long as he kept his mouth shut, but if he said so much as a word, he’d turn into a snake charmer, you’d find yourself drawn to him like water down a drain. 
I did not want to offend him in any way, didn’t ask how he’d ended up like this, and just wanted some advice for my upcoming speech. 
“Once you go on that stage,” he said, “it will be the apex of your life, and you’ll be bound to live knowing that nothing will ever be as beautiful as that moment.” That was it. He said nothing else, and treated me like a ghost haunting him after that. 
I got on a bus, leaned my head against the window, and kept it there the whole ride. Got home, gathered my things, packed them in a small leather suitcase: a few pairs of underwear and thick cotton socks for the winter, a couple of shirts and spare denim. I left the house, headed North. As long as I kept running, I’d have a reason to live. I could wait for the Committee to catch up with me. I had all the time in the world. 

So, I had to make do with what I had: people telling me to practice in front of a mirror or speak spontaneously, engage with the audience or make as little interaction as possible, control my pace or be done with it as soon as possible. There was no one that can really tell me, teach me what to do.

Each year, a total of 240 people are chosen to make the Speech, and around 72% of them find themselves as nervous and unprepared as I did when I was first given this immense responsibility. Not anymore!
With a foolproof training program and guaranteed results, my three-week intensive Speech Course helps these people unlock their potential: choosing a compelling topic, writing a memorable speech, and delivering it with utmost professionalism.
I delivered my Speech successfully, and now I’m making sure that everyone else can do the same — at reasonable prices and with special discounts!

Though none of them had ever been more than enthusiastic audience members, they sure had a lot of ideas about the Speech. You see, you could talk about it all you want, gossip about the speakers, criticize them, nitpick their texts. But discussing the Speech tradition itself, inquiring about the Committee or its criteria for selection – that was blasphemous. And yet people were eager to share whatever blasphemous thing they had on their minds in a self-destructive spree as soon as they discovered they’re in the presence of a speaker. Pseudo-rebellious teenagers and drunken group of friends late at night would drag me to the side, whispering, theorizing, Is it true that they choose the terminally ill? or I heard that the Committee members are all previous speakers, hm?

As a matter of fact, no one knew about the origin of the speech, what it meant, or how it’s become an integral part of our society. I doubt even the Committee had any idea. Some antiquarian once wrote a book claiming that the first speech was made by Cain to justify the murder of Abel with a well-structured presentation, and the speeches we make today honor this tradition in a way. The Committee was not pleased. The man vanished. People tore down his shop and everything. It was ugly.

There were more bodies than I could count – on both sides. Never mind the death, the violence, the screams, and the scene was a twisted piece of art painted in reds and oranges and purples. Occasionally, a bomb would go off, flooding everything in light, turning it into a blank canvas only to defile it again with ungodly colors. 
The last line of defense had finally been breached. 
“Sir,” one of my soldiers said, his finger to his ear as he received the news, “we can move on.”
We entered the massive building ahead and moved up the stairs. There was smoke still, the stench of burnt flesh lingering. We reached the room on the top floor. I gazed around, unflinching, and slowly walked toward the large desk in the center. I removed the body lying on it and took the seat.
“Sir–” the soldier said again, “the Committee has fallen. What’s the first order of business?”
I grinned.
“No more Speeches.”

Nothing helped: no casual conversations with strangers, no deep contemplations, no investigations into previous speakers, no analysis of the tradition. I had nothing to talk about, no speech to give. Some ideas I came up with, they were mockingly solemn, taking themselves too seriously; some other were unbecoming – maybe perfect in someone else’s mouth but surely not mine. I became increasingly irritated, constantly on edge. Lost sleep. I’ve been sweating from the most unlikely places: my elbows and my knees, under my fingernails. Even when I swallowed, I could taste the sweat.

It had to be the best night I’ve ever had. There were five of us, five speakers. We all drank, and exchanged stories, and laughed. I think we felt wiser somehow, talking and listening with the candor of those who had gone through the same trauma. 
“I wish,” I said at some point, “I’d met you guys before the Speech. We could’ve helped each other.”
“It wouldn’t have been possible,” one said. “The Committee makes sure that upcoming speakers have no contact with one another – different cities, different backgrounds.”
“They claim it makes the speeches more original and genuine,” another added.
“And I spent most of my days drunk before my speech anyways. Couldn’t even help myself.”
“Oh, but your speech was amazing! How’d you do that? I even teared up a bit!”
Another interrupted: “I feel like I’ve cheated, listening to you all,” he said. “Honestly, I did have support – I mean my wife, my parents. . .”
We stayed up all night, celebrating speeches delivered successfully, and after that, again with the candor of those who had shared the same trauma, we never saw each other again. 

On the morning of the Speech, I made peace with public embarrassment and social exclusion. I was mentally ready. Took a shower, had a coffee like any other day, put on a suit and a purple tie. If my name were going to be dragged through the mud, at least I was going to look sharp during the process. As I was about to leave the apartment, I came across with an envelope on the ground. Sender’s name was adorned with big golden letters: The Committee. I tore it open, pulling out the sheets of paper and quickly glancing over them.

To the Upcoming Speaker, it said, Please find the enclosed Speech prepared by the Committee.

Read the Making of "The Speech"

One of the most popular words the inspirational social media accounts keeps throwing around —something I discovered after messing up my feed with an unfortunate “like”— is “sonder,” the realization of every random passerby has a life as real and vivid as your own. While reading, I would like to be in a constant state of sonder, becoming extremely aware that each of these characters —some given a name and a place within the story and some just dropped in as a he or a she or a they without any specific features or dialogues— have a solid life, a past, hopes for the future, families and friends, loves and disappointments. I want a superfluous number of stories, so that I can drown myself in them if I want to, get crushed under the weight of all these lives, gladly sacrificing a substantial amount of my time for a 1,000-page story.

This is why, when I encounter a straightforward story that can rob me of my time as shamelessly as a maximalist story, I get completely thrown off balance. The famous 2007 video game Portal is one such example.

Portal has a rather uncomplicated story: you wake up in a chamber in a lab, and an artificial intelligence named GLaDOS explains that you are part of an experiment, that if you successfully complete the upcoming puzzles, you’ll be given a cake as a reward. Then, you’re introduced to a portal gun that creates portals between two spaces: you enter through a blue portal and exit through an orange one. The story becomes infinitely entertaining thanks to the dark humor of GLaDOS and the growing doubts about its intentions and honesty with graffiti throughout the facilities stating, “The cake is a lie.” Still, how come creating portals that merely allow you to pass from one place to another become so captivating?

This question got me thinking about how to apply the portal mechanic to the short story form.

Alternative Portal Stories

My initial intention was to create portals between two separate stories: the contexts would be different, but the narrative would allow double entendre.

The first story would depict a couple having sex for the first time with all its awkwardness, unfamiliarity, and clumsiness, while the other would describe the very first human learning to walk on his feet with the same rough manner. Through the portals, the reader would be able to jump from one story to another without losing track. The stories would overlap.

The premise was promising but as I wrote, I discovered that it hardly said anything about the concept of portals, since it was lacking a connection between the form and the narrative. It felt like an unnecessary joke rather than a solid experiment that is integral to the story.

I was missing something: a portal (at least the portal in our original inspiration) does not open into another “time” but to another “place.” So, a more appropriate approach would be two stories featuring the same character moving between locations via reader-controlled portals.

Remembering my sister’s recent commencement speech (and her wise decision to ignore my suggestions for it), I thought the story may center around a speech. The protagonist would work on the text through many misguided advice, while the portals open into the inside of a pill he took to calm his nerves before going up to the platform, leading to dream sequences and flashbacks corresponding to the real events during the speech.

It felt like cheating though. You can add dream sequences anywhere regardless of the context, and still have a semi-comprehensible story. Furthermore, the idea still didn’t have much to do with portals.

What does a portal actually do? Beyond anything else, in its core, it let’s you bypass the journey and carry you directly to the destination, regardless of how unlikely the final stop might seem.

That’s how the short story equivalent of a portal should work: a story with multiple portals opening into unlikely conclusions without any further explanations about the steps that led there. After all, you don’t have to figure out the conventional route to reach your destination when using a portal gun. You’re just there.

I realize that this idea is still far from being perfect. It somehow feels like a glorified (or lazier) version of choose-your-own-adventure stories, except there is no need for a connection between the point A and B, and the only thing the reader chooses is whether to step into the portal or not.

The Rules

1. The original story should work as a standalone piece.

2. Though the mid-steps and fully developed plotlines are unnecessary, the connection between the entry and exit points of the portals should somehow make sense. 

Once again, this is my attempt to turn something very simple and minimalistic into a complicated mess.

“I know,” he said, “I’ve used it before – and heard all of these.”

“I’m serious. Teflon is valuable. Consider this an investment. One single scratch and it’d be unusable. Nothing but a waste of money.”

“I get it. I’ll take good care of it.”

The clerk threw a suspicious look, and finally, with an expectant disappointment peculiar to parents and ex-girlfriends, handed the pan over to him.

There it was – momentary content.

The thing with content though, it was fleeting. It was there only to take the form of something else all together eventually: doubt, indifference. . . And in Ali’s case, it was fear.

As soon as he went home with the pan under his arm and decided to have some sautéed meat with mushrooms for dinner, he started slipping. Mid-cooking, he realized that a Teflon pan may not have been the best option to expose high heat for an extended time, caught himself using a metal spoon while emptying it, and finally threw it into the dishwasher when he should’ve hand-washed it on the sink. Let alone the feeling of guilt that he was ever so ready to embrace, at each instance, Ali felt the judging gaze of the Teflon pan, almost winking through its coating, shaming him for being inconsiderate, an imbecile, a worthless piece of organism who doesn’t deserve to stand at the top of the evolution, stumbled into owning a pan instead of being owned by it through the act of pure chance or of an amateur God who fails to recognize the distinction between a superior material and a decaying being. He could’ve sworn that he heard the pan whisper, slowly moving its lips that are conveniently placed just below the handle.

“You can’t even take care of a simple kitchen appliance,” it said. “You know, humans now are creating endless scrolls, a never-ending supply of creative material, they have virtual assistants, automated call centers, and here you are, unable to use one of the most primitive inventions. You’ll never get better. You’ll never deserve to get better. You’ll always remain as a parasite to the rest of your kind.”

“It’s just a pan,” his girlfriend said, when Ali shared his concerns and wrongdoings with her. “I don’t even use mine. It just stays on the top shelf display.”

“Why?”

“I mean, what if I scratch it while cooking or something?”

“If you’re not gonna use it, what’s it good for then?”

“Some things are to be. They don’t have to realize their raison d’etre. . .”

First of all – not fair. Ali was almost offended by Teflon pans’ privilege to exist without a cause or struggle, something he’d appreciate very much himself. But more significantly, he was worried about the scope of this freedom.

“I’m not jealous of a pan!” he exclaimed, in desperate need to explain further. “I’m just concerned like any responsible citizen should be.”

The way he saw it, humanity has been moving towards its imminent end, and the reason was not going to be a nuclear war, or climate change, or an artificial intelligence uprising. It was going to be Teflon. The very material we create, only to let its functionality slide.

Ali’s nightmares changed form: he saw Teflon appliances crawling into households at night, settling in, and once there, people had no chance of getting rid of them. They were valuable. They were so delicate. No one wanted to touch them, afraid of accidentally scratching or damaging them somehow. “Oh, these pans,” they’d simply say with an it’s-no-big-deal tone, “They’re not doing any harm. They can just stay where they are.” Ali knew: soon, he’d come across Teflon products at places they weren’t supposed to be, on the street, on the sidewalk and at the stoplights, at public parks on the swings and slides, at government offices, banks, watching him, pretending like they’re oh so inanimate. When the world has finally come to an end, the unflinching Teflon surfaces would absorb the last rays of sunset, finally delivering the earth into an unnerving, endless night, and the humanity would suffocate under a flood of pans and pots, all as still as a statue, hoping that they’re not damaging their precious Teflon appliances in their last breath.

What can you do with such information, though? Ali knew how the world would come to an end, how the world would eventually fall under Teflon rule, yet there was nothing he could do about it. He imagined press conferences in which he’d end up humiliating himself; accusations of those who’re closest to him, his girlfriend, his family; officials trying to silence him, doctors trying to institutionalize him; and then, people all around the world embracing him as a martyr once he’s proven right, but long gone. . . 

So, one day, with all these in mind, Ali rose from his uncomfortable seat, ran to the kitchen, took his pan with utmost care, placed it on the table, and looked at it straight in the eye, spending a few minutes in a therapeutic trance.

“I know what you’re up to,” he said in the end. “I know what your kind is planning. And I want in on it.”

[MANTRA GASTRO PUB] Ian Cupiditas: It has a wonderfully clear view of Toros Bldg. if you manage to grab one of the seats at front.

I especially recommend the Parmesan fries, which are great to keep your stomach full if you skipped a meal too busy prying around this lively neighborhood.

The staff was awfully nice, and didn’t even say a word when my buddy Aydin and I basically occupied the whole area with shovels and pick axes.

Overall, if you have some time to kill while waiting for a crazy night, I highly recommend Mantra.

[FILL COFFEE SHOP] Beatrice Hardigan: I’ve been coming back to this place more and more lately, ever since I’ve been laid off. I turn on my computer, order a nice cup of coffee, and pretend to look for a job. Artists may not earn well but they can teach you all about the best cafes in town. Trust me.

[FILL COFFEE SHOP] Aydin Aramanaman: Well, we kinda stumbled into this place without any prior knowledge about it. After hanging around the street for too long with my friend, we came across some inquisitive faces, and wanted to ensure we conveyed the message we’re-here-in-peace by enjoying Fill Coffee’s fine brew.

Before getting into details about Fill’s menu, I must say that the building is exquisite! Of course, I did my research before coming here, so I knew that it was the passion project of the architect. He in fact first designed it when he was ten while intensely preparing for a game of hopscotch with chalk on the road. For the rest of his life, he’d dedicate himself to building this dream-apartment. He studied architecture and refined his design over time. His intention was to build it on the outskirts of Sicily but eventually settled down here in Osmanbey when the opportunity arose. The tragedy is, he lost his life before the construction could be finalized. Many things were left out from his vision, such as the giant dome, the third floor with no outer walls, and most importantly, the internal communication system, which is basically a giant vacuumed tube that goes from the basement to the roof.

Still, Fill’s interior design is vibrant enough to almost compensate for what we missed on the exterior. You will surely enjoy a cup of coffee – and perhaps a brownie if you’d like to spoil yourself generously.

[FILL COFFEE SHOP] Ian Cupiditas: It directly sees Toros Bldg. And coffee is also good.

[MANTRA GASTRO PUB] Cem Kaya: One of my friends mentioned that there’re some very eccentric people hanging around here, loudly discussing about a treasure and all, so I thought I might have a laugh on top of a burger but it was mostly quiet.

They have a great garden on the back.

[MANTRA GASTRO PUB] Duncan Durst: Such a great place if you want to pry about your OLD colleagues who plan to get rich behind your back. . .

Read the Making of THU

[ZUCCA PIZZA PANGALTI] Aydin Aramanaman: It’s a small restaurant with a lovely atmosphere. My friend Ian and I shared a Zucca Pizza with Pumpkin (their award-winning signature dish) and a Quattro Formaggi. I will admit I was not full in the end but the taste is something worth chasing. It is sad that the local myths about the building sometimes overshadow what Zucca’s menu can offer.

Ian and I did hear about a mesmerizing love story, akin to Romeo and Juliet but with a miraculous twist and a lot of money. It’s said that back in the 40s, a couple loved each other deeply, so deeply and with such ethereal love that whenever they slept together, the woman gave birth to a piece of gold bullion within nine days. Since those were the times when unaccredited wealth brought more trouble than the problems it solved, the man brought the gold to the construction site of this very building and threw them into its foundation after each conception.

Anyways, you just forget about the made-up stories. Come here and enjoy a feast with Zucca’s rightfully famous pizzas!

[ZUCCA PIZZA PANGALTI] Ian Cupiditas: I loved this place – it also helped that it’s located right under the Toros Bldg. Oh, believe me, dining here feels like sitting on a gold mine!

I ordered a Quattro Formaggi and was really happy with it until my buddy decided to “share.” Why the hell do people do that, hm? I just wanted to eat 4 Formaggi, in its entirety, not sparing a single slice. If I wanted to eat the damn Pumpkin pizza, I’d have ordered it myself. Why do I pay the price of your own indecisiveness?

All in all, if you’re dining alone and confident that you'll be able to enjoy your chosen pizza without sharing, Zucca is an excellent choice for a delicious meal.

[FILL COFFEE SHOP] Duncan Durst: It can get too quiet, so whatever you’re doing, you may attract attention and be noticed. If it’s not an issue, however, you should try their toasts. Definitely worth the risk of being spotted.

[IKIMIZINYERI OCAKBASI] Beatrice Hardigan: This is a place I frequent, actually, and I really like the quality of food and especially the generous portions as someone who tries to avoid eating out as much as possible.

Overall, I enjoy the warm atmosphere here but a few days ago, I witnessed three men fighting to death in front of the place. Covered in dirt, for whatever the hell the reason is, throwing kicks and fists, hitting one another with tools and shovels. Of course, this fine establishment has nothing to do with it, aside from being located in a rather uneasy neighborhood.

I cannot recommend their tapas enough.

[RAMADA PLAZA BY WYNDHAM ISTANBUL CITY CENTER] Ian Cupiditas: A luxurious stay strategically located in the city – and within walking distance of the Toros Bldg.

We’ve only stayed here for two nights for, uhh, a business trip, in and out, quick job. We had ample funds from a previous “conquest,” and Ramada proved to be the perfect place for our needs. The staff was also very helpful when we required information about the area's topography, which proved to be very useful.

Although the trip itself was a bust, at least we had a comfortable stay. . .

[FOUR SEASONS RESORT MAUI AT WAILEA] Beatrice Hardigan: Have you ever noticed how much easier it is to believe in miracles of the past? As if history, compared to the present, is infinitely richer with all its wonders and disasters that can reach to extremes. As though in the past, there’s always been a possibility to revive the dead, turn water into wine, split the moon in half, give birth to a piece of gold bullion, and somewhere along the way, somehow, we lost our privilege to witness miracles, except for those fleeting moments that remind us of their existence, like a serendipitous coin found on the ground.

That coin for me, mind you, is Four Seasons Resort Maui. It’s a glimpse of paradise, and even better, because regardless of how difficult to believe, you’re sure it is real. Especially if you’re coming from a modest background such as myself, you will find yourself constantly reminding that it is real, yes, the scenery lying before you is not a backdrop, you’re not viewing it through a high-quality photograph, that it is real, the staff is ready to provide everything you need before you even anticipate it, that it is real, the ocean is truly that blue and whale’s do swim in it. It’s all real.

To anyone with a small fortune to spend, I wholeheartedly recommend this place as the ultimate destination.

We’ve first come across with them while browsing the Google Maps page of a rather famous casino in Cyprus. My wife Firdevs and I lacked the proper attire to visit a proper casino with our shorts and slippers and mostly Hawaii-patterned shirts the first time around here. Gambling wasn’t exactly our forte, but in our second trip, we made sure not to miss this attraction, which is seemingly what Eiffel Tower is to France, what the pyramids is to Egypt, what beer is to Germany. We dressed elegantly, watched Ocean’s Eleven for reference, rehearsed how to look like we’re willing to burn money, checked Google Maps with a blissful ignorance to find out a suitable casino, and there they were.

It was Firdevs who spotted the pattern. “Look at these guys!” she said, excitedly showing a series of photographs of two friends on different Google Maps pages. “They really owned the city, didn’t they?” These two apparently visited every place within a certain radius including casinos, Mexican restaurants, bars, sceneries, supermarkets, public parks, and countless more.

Although strangers to us, we felt confident that with enough time spent on Google Maps, we could trace their exact route and relive all their adventures. We were captivated, immediately became their audience, clicking on random places on the map to see whether they had been there, whether they enjoyed it, had any comments about it, whether they were manly hugging on the uploaded photos or rather preferred a cool pose in which they fixed their eyes on a distant and invisible horizon. . .

These two guys, by documenting the fragments of their journey in a non-linear format under different locations on Google Maps on a random basis, unknowingly embraced a new approach of storytelling in which the discovery is as important as the story itself. I had to imitate it.

The Rules

As a matter of fact, the method these two friends instinctively used was not the first of its kind. The most famous example of a similar though conscious endeavor, I believe, would be “The Interface Series.” Back in 2016, people had discovered seemingly unrelated comments on Reddit under different discussion threads, and soon figured out that these comments by a user named _9MOTHER9HORSE9EYES9 are actually fragments of a larger work and when compiled, they tell an ambitious non-linear story from multiple narrative perspectives. Additionally, though it is criminally under-used, it is also worth to note the Google Earth tool under a similar category, which allows the users to create their interactive maps and tell stories through the locations of their own choosing.

Keeping these examples in mind but taking inspiration heavily from the two friends who dominated the Cyprus map with their reviews, Review Story will follow the rules below:

1.     The story will be exclusively told through the Google Maps reviews by multiple characters without the need of an explanatory omniscient narrator.

2.     The dates of the reviews will follow the actual timeline the story takes place.

3.     The reviews will only cover the places within a predetermined range in order to facilitate potential readers to stumble upon them and investigate further.

4.     As a courtesy, there will be no negative comments about the reviewed places and all locations will be personally visited.

Accordingly, the short story “Treasure Hunt, Unlikely” will recount the adventures of two treasure hunters in Osmanbey, Istanbul, through Google Maps reviews.

And it will work, I’m sure, as long as Google verifies the reviews made by a bunch of fake accounts I’d meticulously created.

Amnesia, or the story of a man who has a cold slowly discovering he has amnesia

I guess I have the sniffles.

This is nothing to complain about, especially considering I’m in my fifties now, but I do find myself reminiscing about the days when I could comfortably smoke in the biting cold or stay out all night wide awake; I don’t remember ever shivering or having a runny nose. I suppose I’ve always been a bit of a dissatisfied and grumpy man. I know that something’s changed in me. I know that at some point, my body rebelled against the unhealthy life style that it used to handle: it decided that it is quite absurd now trying to deal with the already familiar germs – definitely not the behavior of a “happy” body. My voice is deep, as if detached from life itself, my nose is nothing but a rain cloud bringing a disastrous storm to the peaks of my mouth, and my body is just an expressionist symbol of numbness and tiredness. How did this happen? What’s wrong with me?

I must admit, my family is quite creative when it comes to diseases, though their focus teds to be on psychological afflictions. Take, for instance, my Uncle Ahmet: still the favorite topic of our family gatherings, he suffered from ghost limp syndrome and the pain of his right arm, lost in a car accident, was so excruciating that he ceremoniously amputated the nonexistent limb with a bread knife in the middle of an ordinary meal, accompanied by intolerable screams. There are even more extreme cases. In his final days, my grandfather began seeing through his hands instead of his eyes – the doctors explained that his brain had somehow convinced him of blindness, granting his neurons the unexpected capability to interpret tactile sensations as visual input. There was no logical explanation for that, though everyone seemed to accept it as perfectly reasonable. My Aunt Selma was cursed with a peculiar form of amnesia: she retained every little bit of knowledge, yet when asked about the source, she’d become distraught and start to cry, unable to recall how or when she acquired it. When your family history is an infinite list of psychological disorders, it’s easy to feel defined by them. 

You see: how can I not attribute my sickness to my family? The responsibility, however, must go beyond that. After all, I myself inhabit this body. That’s the thing with diseases: some will blame their own body, some other will blame the environment – but yes, ultimately, I am to blame. I feel under the weather, because I accompanied Selim outside the restaurant even though I don’t smoke myself. Or the day before that, when the weather was so freezing people’s breath almost clouded my vision. Maybe I caught a cold when I had to step out of the shower to answer the phone. The real sickness, I suspect, is the uncertainty – the inability to pinpoint the cause of this cold.

How did I become this way? Well, my family is pretty skillful at identifying and confronting their issues. My Uncle Ahmet, unable to overcome his amnesia, was so adept at this “confrontation” thing that he eventually killed himself by losing his entire memory: doctors said that it is not possible to live with no memory at all (is that right, though?). My Aunt Selma (or was it Uncle Can?) was deaf but when we cursed around her, she’d somehow notice it and respond with a disgusted spit as though tasting something foul, as if she recognized the words with her own mouth. And here I am, unable to figure out the reason of my ailment – isn’t that strange? When I was born, the diseases were famous, not the treatments. How would I know?

“Please think carefully. What’d make you feel better when you got sick before? What happened to you all of a sudden?”

How unfortunate: even my wife’s thoughtful and compassionate interrogations fail to relieve me from my suffering. Perhaps grumbling serves as its own remedy. When my grandpa lost his hearing, I imagine my grandma’s annoying questions must have eased his pain. When I’m unwell, my wife always fires off questions and I always pretend that I do not hear her. Me and my terrible sense of humor.

“Didn’t I say to take care? How many times we have to argue about that?”

“What?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Why would I say that if I knew?”

“Oh, you know.”

“Sorry?”

“How long are you gonna keep doing this?”

If only ignoring facts were enough to overcome diseases or the problems in marriages. I think this entire “belonging to someone” thing is merely a calmative. Why else would anyone marry? True love, I believe, entails sharing not only joy but also negative emotions such as hatred or anger. And yes, even the diseases. Sometimes you just want to unload all your burdens that hold you down like an anchor onto someone else’s shoulders. 

There are so many things in my head. My marriage is crumbling. My wife and I separated our beds. When I try to sleep, I am plagued with vivid nightmares about my relatives and their horrible diseases. I have a runny nose. There is an indescribable pain in my throat. My mind is blurry. Whenever I try to think, I am pulling memories from the bottom of a cliff. I am tired. I leave my sentences unfinished.

I think I’m getting everything jumbled up.

The making of "Amnesia & Cold"

Cold, or the story of a man who is suffering from amnesia slowly discovering he has a cold

I think I’m getting everything jumbled up.

I leave my sentences unfinished. I am tired. Whenever I try to think, I am pulling memories from the bottom of a cliff. My mind is blurry. There is an indescribable pain in my throat. I have a runny nose. When I try to sleep, I am plagued with vivid nightmares about my relatives and their horrible diseases. My wife and I separated our beds. My marriage is crumbling. There are so many things in my head.

Sometimes you just want to unload all your burdens that hold you down like an anchor onto someone else’s shoulders. And yes, even the diseases. True love, I believe, entails sharing not only joy but also negative emotions such as hatred or anger. Why else would anyone marry? I think this entire “belonging to someone” thing is merely a calmative. If only ignoring facts were enough to overcome diseases or the problems in marriages.

“How long are you gonna keep doing this?”

“Sorry?”

“Oh, you know.”

“Why would I say that if I knew?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“What?”

“Didn’t I tell you to take care? How many times we have to argue about that?”

Me and my terrible sense of humor. When I’m unwell, my wife always fires off questions and I always pretend that I do not hear her. When my grandpa lost his hearing, I imagine my grandma’s annoying questions must have eased his pain. Perhaps grumbling serves as its own remedy. How unfortunate: even my wife’s thoughtful and compassionate interrogations fail to relieve me from my suffering.

“Please think carefully. What’d make you feel better when you got sick before? What happened to you all of a sudden?”

How would I know? When I was born, the diseases were famous, not the treatments. And here I am, unable to figure out the reason of my ailment – isn’t that strange? My Aunt Selma (or was it Uncle Can?) was deaf but when we cursed around her, she’d somehow notice it and respond with a disgusted spit as though tasting something foul, as if she recognized the words with her own mouth. My Uncle Ahmet, unable to overcome his amnesia, was so adept at this “confrontation” thing that he eventually killed himself by losing his entire memory: doctors said that it is not possible to live with no memory at all (is that right, though?). Well, my family is pretty skillful at identifying and confronting their issues. How did I become this way?

The real sickness, I suspect, is the uncertainty – the inability to pinpoint the cause of this cold. Maybe I caught a cold when I had to step out of the shower to answer the phone. Or the day before that, when the weather was so freezing people’s breath almost clouded my vision. I feel under the weather, because I accompanied Selim outside the restaurant even though I don’t smoke myself. That’s the thing with diseases: some will blame their own body, some other will blame the environment – but yes, ultimately, I am to blame. After all, I myself inhabit this body. The responsibility, however, must go beyond that. You see: how can I not attribute my sickness to my family?

When your family history is an infinite list of psychological disorders, it’s easy to feel defined by them. My Aunt Selma was cursed with a peculiar form of amnesia: she retained every little bit of knowledge, yet when asked about the source, she’d become distraught and start to cry, unable to recall how or when she acquired it. There was no logical explanation for that, though everyone seemed to accept it as perfectly reasonable. In his final days, my grandfather began seeing through his hands instead of his eyes – the doctors explained that his brain had somehow convinced him of blindness, granting his neurons the unexpected capability to interpret tactile sensations as visual input. There are even more extreme cases. Take, for instance, my Uncle Ahmet: still the favorite topic of our family gatherings, he suffered from ghost limp syndrome and the pain of his right arm, lost in a car accident, was so excruciating that he ceremoniously amputated the nonexistent limb with a bread knife in the middle of an ordinary meal, accompanied by intolerable screams. I must admit, my family is quite creative when it comes to diseases, though their focus teds to be on psychological afflictions.

What’s wrong with me? How did this happen? My voice is deep, as if detached from life itself, my nose is nothing but a rain cloud bringing a disastrous storm to the peaks of my mouth, and my body is just an expressionist symbol of numbness and tiredness. I know that at some point, my body rebelled against the unhealthy life style that it used to handle: it decided that it is quite absurd now trying to deal with the already familiar germs – definitely not the behavior of a “happy” body. I know that something’s changed in me. I suppose I’ve always been a bit of a dissatisfied and grumpy man. This is nothing to complain about, especially considering I’m in my fifties now, but I do find myself reminiscing about the days when I could comfortably smoke in the biting cold or stay out all night wide awake; I don’t remember ever shivering or having a runny nose.

I guess I have the sniffles.

As my interest in their music eerily increased, my initial intention was to adapt Ron Jarzombek’s Circle of 12 Notes theory, wherein he devised a new music writing tool. The premise was simple: I would determine the general options for broader categories such as character, time, place, literary trick, and human emotion, and then proceed with random combinations of them in each scene. I made a few attempts but the results turned out to be too form-oriented, as the content was written for the sake of the formula, and the form was not designed to support the narrative. Ultimately, it was a disaster. 

The second option was to emulate their song “Amnesia,” now released under the name of Blotted Science, in which the notes slowly disappear from the main riff, offering a musical representation of amnesia. In terms of literature, the idea of a text imploding into itself was hardly original; my man B.S. Johnson had already embarked on a similar mission in House Mother Normal, so I did not pursue it through.

I was so devoted to steal something from Spastic Ink/Blotted Science, I then tried their image-to-sound method, in which they sync the music to the movements within a selected scene, with perfect examples of “Cereal Mouse” and “Cretaceous Chasm.” My approach was a loose adaptation of it: listening to songs with lots of signature changes and writing a story that would accompany its ups and downs. The only good it did was reminding me of what a terrible poet I am.

Finally, I’ve found my calling. The closing songs of Blotted Science’s album “The Machinations of Demantia,” titled “Adenoise Breakdown” and “Adenoise Buildup,” were in fact mirroring each other, and both were equally enjoyable. With this inspiration, I’ve decided to write a short story that can be read both forward and backward.

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The Rules

1. The stories should mirror each other sentence-wise.

2. Stream of consciousness narrative must be avoided as much as possible. No need to cheat. . .

3. The story must have a logical plot/flow in both versions.

4. The plotline should be related to the form.

So, with these rules in mind and Blotted Science blasting on my headphones, I write “Amnesia & Cold” — a text in which, when read forward, tells the story of an amnesia patient realizing he has a cold, and read backward, depicts a story about a man with a cold slowly finding out he’s suffering from amnesia.

Tell me, what else can I steal, and how? . .

Please don’t correct me if I’m wrong, but this is how I imagine it all happened: we were bored as the habitants of the earth, so as soon as we discovered something to gather around, we started to tell each other stories.

Eventually the oral tradition, with all its imperfection, lacked the excitement and some genius came up with the disruptive idea of picturing the stories on walls. Imagine what an experimental move that was! I’d like to pin this person as the first avant-garde.

Then, I suppose, considering the time spent painting stories frame by frame, and the likely complaints by the elderly about the youth not being able to take their eyes off of the walls anymore, people began to feel an itch: This thing, they thought, this form is cool and all but what if, what if. . . And to scratch the itch, they invented writing as nails on their fingers. Mere shapes were now enough to represent all the pictures you could imagine, pictures that belonged solely to you and your own imagination.

Everything moved so, so fast after that: there came new forms, genres, movements, new ways to investigate and express thoughts and feelings – not only stories but also the human condition. And at each step, the motivation was the same as it had always been: getting rid of that itch, satisfying the curiosity of the question, What if, what if. . .

I’m Berkan, and I am doomed with this itch on a critical level. So much that if we’ve met, you’d avoid shaking my hand on the suspicion of a flea infestation, feel obliged to recommend me a good dermatologist, and might briefly remember our encounter in the following years and wonder, “What the hell was wrong with that guy?”

I write, and predominantly read, fiction, and I thoroughly enjoy it. I am especially mesmerized by that momentary shock at first encounter with such works of fiction — when you learn that there’s no letter “e” in Perec’s A Void, when you figure out what the deal is with Calvino’s If On a Winter’s Night a Traveller, when you take a quick look at Danielewski’s House of Leaves and ask yourself how the hell you’re supposed to read it. If nothing else, they break the routine reading experience, as if someone switched to sign language mid-conversation. I love it. I long for it.

As an author with the joy of a monkey given a typewriter, and with the curiosity of the scientists who gave the typewriter to the monkey, I designed MonkeyLit as a playground where I can conceptualize ideas for experimental fiction, even write and publish them when I feel shamelessly bold. Needless to say, there will also be the occasional rumination about literature in general: book reviews, creative process, publishing gossip. . .

All for the exactly same purpose: gathering around a bright screen, an imitation of a primitive fire, telling stories, entertaining each other, killing time.

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