\u2022 First Prize: Hilal Ku\u015fhan, \u201cSunday Crepes<\/a>\u201d
\u2022 Second Prize: Erva Kay\u0131r, \u201cThe Lemon Tree<\/a>\u201d
\u2022 Third Prize: Dilanaz G\u00fcler, \u201cThe Call\u201d<\/a>
\u2022 Honorable Mention: Zeynep Y\u00fcceler, \u201cA Convenient Day<\/a>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The winners were joined by author and television scriptwriter Gamze Arslan, who read from her story collection “Kanayak” (Bloodfoot).<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In addition to the short fiction awards, a poster design competition was organized to visually interpret and bring these stories to life. The poster designers were also recognized during the ceremony and presented with certificates. The recipients were Zeynep Yoku\u015f, Duru Kesking\u00f6z, Beray Seydio\u011fullar\u0131 and Deniz Oru\u00e7.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The evening was distinguished by musical performances from Dr. Belinda Chen, accompanied by students Serenay S\u00fcren, Ekin I\u015f\u0131k and Erkin \u00c7okova, and faculty member Fulten Larlar, whose artistry framed and enhanced the program.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00c7i\u011fdem and Hossein Dabir, lifelong advocates of creative expression, played an important role in shaping the ENG 312 course and inspiring generations of students to explore their voices through writing. Following their passing, this award was established in their memory to ensure that their passion for storytelling and their belief in the power of young voices continue to live on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n SUNDAY CREPES<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n SUNDAY CREPES<\/p>\n\n\n\n I woke up as the sun hit me in the eyes from the window across from my bed, the ceiling fan above creating just the right kind of breeze. I watched the curtains move as the wind flowed into my room. At the right angle, I could get a glimpse of the sea. I didn\u2019t know what time it was, nor what day. I turned to my side and reached the phone on my nightstand. 9:43 on a Sunday. Yeah, one of those Sundays. Definitely not of those who made you worry about the first day of the week. I could hear my grandma downstairs, probably cooking crepes for me just because she knew I loved them. What she didn\u2019t know was that I loved crepes because she was the one cooking them. I loved anything she made. Okay, maybe not that spinach dish\u2014but everything else, for sure. I didn\u2019t have much time left before she\u2019d call my name, so I got up from my unfortunately very comfortable bed, made my way to the bathroom, and started brushing my teeth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe crepes are ready! Come down before they get cold!\u201d I heard her just as I was tying my hair up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes, yes, yes and yes. Ready to eat, darling.\u201d I said, swooshing down the stairs to give her a kiss on the cheek.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGood morning! I could smell them from upstairs,\u201d I added.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She laughed and kissed me back. Extra giggles included. She was wearing the dress with lemons on it, one of her favorites. With her short height and adorable smile, she\u2019d made any dress look cute.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTomorrow is my turn to make the crepes! I need to practice.\u201d I said with a full mouth, muffled voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh? Really? I can\u2019t wait for it then. Let\u2019s see your tricks.\u201d she added as she sat next to me with a cup of tea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That beyond-delicious breakfast was followed by a call from my dear friend\u2014an invite to do absolutely nothing until it was late enough to hit the beach. Needless to say, our lives there revolved around the beach. Is it beach time? If yes, go. If no, keep yourself busy until it is. Simple as that. At that moment, we were very much in the waiting-to-go phase. I layered on my first sunscreen of the day, untangled my wired headphones, and headed out. I had this that in summer, any song I listened to in warm weather instantly sounded like a masterpiece. It actually made my life easier. On cold, gloomy days, though? The absolute opposite. That was when I\u2019d spend hours just trying to find a song that didn\u2019t sound completely wrong. That alone made me a summer person.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I could feel sweat trickling down my forehead, my chest, my arms\u2014everywhere, basically. The cicadas chirping at full speed were giving away the high temperature. I picked up the pace and rang the bell at my friend\u2019s house. She opened the door with a grin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCome on now, pick your nail color!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Apparently, today\u2019s pre-beach activity was nail painting. Her impressive collection was already lined up on the wooden coffee table. She was deep in thought, trying to make the perfect choice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI think I\u2019ll go with the dark blue. What do you think? It\u2019ll match my bikinis.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n We were already in our bathing suits. She was still wearing the same one we\u2019d picked up at the town market the other day. I couldn\u2019t blame her\u2014it looked incredible against her tan. The kind of incredible I could never pull off, thanks to my sun allergy. I could barely stay in the sun for more than fifteen minutes before the itching started.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI say go for it. They\u2019re literally the same tone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI know, right!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd since we\u2019re matching today,\u201d I said, reaching for the purple polish, \u201cI\u2019m taking this one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Purple was my favorite color, so no complaints here. I couldn\u2019t possibly get enough of it. \u201cI was just about to say that! Do you want milk with your coffee, by the way?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her back was turned as she poured espresso over ice. She was that kind of friend\u2014the kind who knew what I wanted before I did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo, no, not today. I\u2019ll have an americano.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The beach, as always, didn\u2019t disappoint. The crystal clear water welcomed us. We stayed until the sun melted into the sea like butter on toast\u2014soft and golden. The sky played dress-up, cycling through pastels and deep blues. We lay on our towels, mostly quiet except for the occasional \u201cremember when\u2026\u201d or \u201cthis reminds me of\u2026\u201d that always ended in laughter. Those kinds of moments didn\u2019t need much more than presence anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n By the time I was back home, my skin was already throwing a fit. I took a lukewarm shower and stood in front of the mirror, inspecting the reddish patches blooming across my shoulders and chest like clumsy watercolor stains. It stung a little, and I\u2019d usually grumble about it. But no regrets, not today. I tiptoed downstairs in a red, breezy dress I\u2019d found in the wardrobe. Grandma was asleep on the armchair, a book open on her chest softly rising and falling. The crepe pan from the morning was still in the sink. I made myself some chamomile tea and stepped out to the porch. The air had cooled. It smelled like earth, jasmine, and the remnants of the sea. I sat once again on the steps I\u2019ve been sitting on for as long as I can remember.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That\u2019s when it hit me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Not like lightning, but more like tidewater, slow and certain, wrapping around your ankles before you notice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n This wasn\u2019t going to last forever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And it wasn\u2019t just about the summer, or the week, or the tan lines that would fade before school started again. It was the whole thing. The crepes, the matching nail polish, each perfect song. These were the good days. The ones I\u2019d talk about one day, pause halfway through, and barely get the words out. It didn\u2019t make me sad. Not immediately. Just\u2026 aware. That even while living the moment, I was already missing it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I heard the creak of the screen door behind me. Grandma had woken up and was standing right behind me, smiling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou hungry?\u201d she asked softly. I smiled back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNope,\u201d I said. \u201cNot yet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMom, I\u2019m starving!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The voice came barreling down the house\u2019s long hallway like a tiny stampede. I glanced at the clock. 9:43 a.m. on a Sunday. That tracked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAlmost done, baby!\u201d I called back, flipping the crepe and praying it didn\u2019t land halfway on the counter like last time. They weren\u2019t perfect. A little too crispy on the edges, a little too thick in the middle. One was definitely lopsided. I stacked them on a plate and poured honey on top, just like she used to do. It smelled right, even if it didn\u2019t look quite right. I brought the plate to the table, set it down in front of my daughter (still in her Spider-Man pajamas, by the way), and watched her dig in like I\u2019d been starving her for days. I laughed. Sat down, and took one for myself. Had to do a taste test.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One bite in\u2014and I stopped chewing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Not because it tasted like hers\u2014it didn\u2019t. But it tried. It really, really tried to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The kitchen went quiet for a second, except for my daughter\u2019s sounds of joy. At least she was enjoying it. I looked at the steam rising off the plate, and suddenly I was there again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The sun-warmed porch. The lazy fan spinning above. Saltwater hair. Purple nail polish. My best friend\u2019s dark blue bathing suit on tanned skin. The creak of the screen door. A soft kiss on the cheek.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I missed her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I missed her in that soft, chest-full way where you wish you had a button to pause the time and go back. Just long enough to kiss her cheek again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I took another bite. Still kind of rubbery. But warm. It\u2019ll do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n THE LEMON TREE<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n The house was full of chatter when I arrived. Some quietly whispered in the corners, with a comforting hand on a shoulder. Some was full of reminiscence, tones laced with laughter and fondness. Every room in the summer house seemed to overflow: the narrow hallway, cluttered with too many shoes; the sunlit sitting room, thick with perfume and cologne; even the garden door left ajar, letting in the scent of lemon and heat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The kitchen was busy with the hustle and bustle of women. The door stood wide open, offering a clear view of them moving quickly past with trays in hand, their voices rising over the clatter of pots and pans. The sharp sounds of glass dishes, the soft rustle of lace doilies, and the smell of powdered sugar and rosewater filled the air as they arranged plates of desserts to be handed out in his honor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tiny bites of sweetness to soften the sour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was a photo of him perched up in the living room. It was one I hadn\u2019t seen before, set in an intricate wooden frame. Everything about it looked new and deliberate. He was smiling in the photo, his sparse white hair curling weakly over his blotched scalp. Wrinkles, taut lines, a beard he insisted on growing but never managed past his chin, too brittle and shallow-rooted to reach further. Some of the liver spots were missing, as if wiped away digitally. His skin unnaturally smooth and bright, clearly not belonging to a man who had spent his final months circling hospitals, body failing in pieces, before suddenly dying on a dull summer night, heart giving out under the pressure of too many surgeries packed too close together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Someone approached me. There was pity in her eyes. I vaguely recognized her, a neighbor, perhaps. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry for your loss,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou are his granddaughter, yes?\u201d she asked, her brows drawn together in a rehearsed grimace of sympathy. She placed a light hand on my shoulder and gave it a slow, deliberate pat. \u201cMust be very hard for you. He really loved his grandchildren,\u201d she said, glancing toward the photo. When I remained silent, she added \u201cMay he rest in peace,\u201d before drifting away, muttering something under her breath with a sorrowful tone that I didn\u2019t quite catch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Perhaps it should have been hard for me. Perhaps it was. Perhaps I should have been crying like my older cousin, who sat with puffy eyes and a crumpled tissue clutched tightly in her hand. Perhaps I should have tried harder to look teary-eyed and sorrowful. Should have left the room at the mention of his passing, sobs lodged in my throat, like my little cousin. Should have said something\u2014to the woman, or to all the others who stopped to offer their condolences.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Instead, I turned away from his photo and stepped out into the garden. The lemon tree towered over the yard, casting its shadow across the grass. I walked toward it, passing a few people gathered on the porch. Some of them tried to talk to me. Another set of all the same condolences, maybe a hug and some tears. All vaguely performative, they didn\u2019t even know him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The lemon tree was overgrown, but looked healthy despite it all. Branches heavy with the ripe yellow fruit, full and bright, clustered among the thick green leaves. The sun barely leaked through. The bark, rough and solid, the trunk steady.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I heard the shuffle of feet in the grass. It was my aunt. \u201cHe\u2019d be proud of how full it is this year,\u201d she said, glancing at the towering tree with fondness and reminiscence. \u201cHe cared for it like another child,\u201d she added, with a soft laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My eyes fell to the lemons, fallen on the ground, their skin rough and dimpled. My grandmother hunched over herself, with her bad back, collecting the fallen ones with groans escaping her lips.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The agreement sat in my throat, unspoken.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The dinner table was laid out with the best food. A long, makeshift setup; several smaller tables pushed together, covered in mismatched tablecloths, some silken, some floral. Plates and plates upon food made collectively from the hands of the women who spent their entire lives in the kitchen. And at the edge of the plates, perhaps the most sour sight, the lemonades in neat glass cups.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe made them from the very lemons of the lemon tree,\u201d my aunt was saying, serving the sour drinks in sweet cups.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We made them from the very lemons of the lemon tree, sweetened them up with loads of sugar to mask the sour taste.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The dinner was all laughter. Reminiscence and smiles. Tears and broken faces, followed by airy chuckles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe was a good man,\u201d a man said, another neighbor. \u201cHe was generous. I\u2019ll never forget what he did for us when we were struggling.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe had a kind heart, my father,\u201d my other aunt said, all sad smiles and shaky voices, \u201cHe acted out of pure goodwill, nothing more. He loved all his children, his grandchildren. From the bottom of his heart.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe used to take me to the park and push me on the swings, even if his knees were frail,\u201d My little cousin said, eyes away as if she wasn\u2019t here but years in the past instead, \u201cAnd then we would walk to the market and he would buy me a popsicle. Everyday, after school.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe used to gift me books every month, it was children books but it was something,\u201d my older cousin said, made a small chuckle pass through the table, \u201cHe kept telling me, reading is the most important thing. A person who reads never ends up poor.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Everyone laughed, and I hoped it wouldn\u2019t be my turn next. I hoped no eye on the table would turn to me, with expectant eyes and pitying smiles. I hoped I wouldn\u2019t be asked to tell of the good memories I had with my grandfather.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Because there weren\u2019t any. Because no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I racked my rusty brain for even a sliver of warmth with him in it, I couldn\u2019t find it. Every memory of him lived in the dark corners, untouched, collecting dust. I never revisited them. What was there to reminisce about in tears and judgment?<\/p>\n\n\n\n When night began to fall and the guests drifted away, I sat with my parents on the porch. The lemon tree stood in the distance, a quiet, looming presence. My parents spoke about my grandfather. My mother\u2019s eyes were teary, her voice unsteady. My father said little, his gaze fixed somewhere far off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They talked about him in a way that made me wonder if we were remembering the same person. Wasn\u2019t this the man who had made my father\u2019s life a living hell? Why were they so sad all of a sudden? Was I the problem?<\/p>\n\n\n\n When my father left, I finally spoke. My voice was a bit scratchy because I hadn\u2019t said anything the whole day except for some curtesy words. I hadn\u2019t exactly planned the words that left my mouth. They were an abstract thought, that finally composed itself to five clear words.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAm I a bad person?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My mother looked at me as if I had said the most ridiculous thing. \u201cOf course not, honey, why would you think that?\u201d she said, as she leaned on her seat to hold my hand across the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I said, my voice low. \u201cEveryone talks about him as if he was this saint like person. For people who didn\u2019t know him, I can understand. But it\u2019s not just the distant relatives and neighbors and acquaintances. It\u2019s you, too. People who have shared a roof with him, who have visited him and saw him in the times he didn\u2019t bother to hide his true feelings. He wasn\u2019t a good person, wasn\u2019t he? Why do I feel like I am the only one that remembers?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My mother looked down at her hands. \u201cWe remember,\u201d she said quietly. \u201cWe haven\u2019t forgotten what he was like.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThen why are you all pretending he was something else?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe\u2019re not pretending,\u201d she said. \u201cWe\u2019re just choosing what to hold on to now. He\u2019s gone. What\u2019s left is whatever we decide to keep.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI can\u2019t do that.\u201d I said, and for the first time that whole day, my voice lodged on my throat. It was bitter and for all the wrong reasons. \u201cI don\u2019t have anything good to keep. It\u2019s like everyone got handed a different version of him than I did.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSometimes it is best to move forward from those bad memories.\u201d My mother said, as she squeezed my hand. \u201cYou are a good person, Goldie. I believe that you have it in your heart to forgive him, and move on.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t say anything. Her hand was warm. The lemonade in front of me was untouched. I knew it would taste sweet. But all I could imagine was the sour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When the next day came, I found myself sitting under the lemon tree. Cross-legged, the grass prickling my legs. The sun filtered through the leaves, and I had to squint against the light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I thought about what my mother said. About forgiving. Everyone seemed to be doing it. Even my grandmother, who cried and cried and smoked through an entire pack of cigarettes in her grief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My grandmother, who had suffered the most.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A lemon fell in front of me from the tree. I picked it up. I saw my grandmother, her hands raw, flinching as juice seeped into the cracked skin around her nails. I turned the lemon in my palm, its skin warm from the sun. I saw her wrists straining, her knuckles taut, squeezing fruit after fruit while his voice droned beside her. Sharp, insistent, never lifting a hand himself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Revered for his lemonades, my grandfather. The sweet taste everyone remembered. Drawn from her labor, sour. The sting of acid, the ache in her joints, the quiet endurance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As I sat under the tree, I stopped trying to find a good memory. I decided to let myself remember all the bad, all the ugly. My name was Goldie. That\u2019s what everyone called me. He had named me Marigold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He liked the sound of it. Bright, delicate, proper. He imagined braids and pressed dresses, polite smiles and folded hands. A granddaughter who sat straight at the table, who said thank you with a soft voice, who laughed at his old jokes, even when they weren\u2019t funny.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He didn\u2019t like it when I started being me. He never once called me by the name I wanted. To him, I was never Goldie, and he made sure everyone knew. He always called me Marigold, and after a while, he stopped calling altogether. When he stopped the leers and the sneers, and started to just look past me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Everyone seemed to be forgiving him. Finding pieces of him to hold on to, sweetening what they could. Maybe that made it easier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I couldn\u2019t. Some things were sour. They stayed sour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat beneath the lemon tree, the yellow fruit resting in my palm. I tore it open with both hands, the skin resisting at first before giving way with a sudden, wet split. Juice burst out, spraying across my shirt, my arms, my face. It caught in my hair, dripped into my eyes. They stung like crazy. I was crying now. That\u2019s what everyone expected of me, wasn\u2019t it?<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked down at the lemon. Flesh pale and glossy, divided into clean segments, each packed tight with trembling pulp. The juice, gathered along the edges, catching the light. Seeds that sat lodged in the center, slick and off-white. The sharp smell of acid. I leaned forward and bit into it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was incredibly sour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n THE CALL<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Laura Owens had completely forgotten about the deal she signed with Healthline Insurances Inc. until she received their call on a Tuesday afternoon. It was important that it was Tuesday: Tuesdays were her work days. So were other days, on occasion, but especially Tuesdays. On Tuesdays, she would lock herself in her home office, forego the company of the world outside, and get working on her novel. Isolation was a must: no friends, no family, no technology allowed. It had to be her and her battered notebook for twelve consecutive hours. That was how she worked. That was how her novels were written.<\/p>\n\n\n\n You can imagine, then, the annoyance she must have felt when the landline shrieked at her from where it stood in the living room. Ignoring it was no use; it was insatiable and insistent. The phone demanded Laura\u2019s attention. The ringing breached walls, doors, books and various other objects to make itself at home in her ears. The sound knew no end. Laura did not dare to unplug the device\u2014the fear of breaking it and having to talk to more people outweighed the disdain she had for her current predicament\u2014but she did not stop herself from imagining all the ways in which she could torture the person making the call with the cord of her landline either. After the seventh ring, it became evident: there was nothing to do but to answer the goddamned call. Dragging her feet across the hardwood floors and desperately hoping whoever needed to speak to her so badly would give up on the way, Laura took a deep breath before yanking the headset with all the force she had. Did they not know she worked on Tuesdays?<\/p>\n\n\n\n The voice that met Laura upon her lifting of the phone belonged to a young woman. High-pitched, cheery, nervous. She recited, from what Laura could tell, a script written by some poor PR person to prevent the receiver from hanging up on the call a second into the conversation. How ironic, Laura thought: if not for her first novel\u2019s success, she would have been colleagues with that scriptwriter, spending her days twisting words and phrases to ensure corporate America gets what it wants Even now, she was not free from the ways of thinking her past life had instilled in her. Her eyes would always be drawn to billboards in her urban explorations. She would hum tunes of ads when feeding her cat. She would copy-edit menus to better fit the desires of an imaginary customer. Old habits really died hard. Her train of thought was interrupted by the woman\u2019s voice, asking whether she was still there. Laura took a deep breath:<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes, sorry, your voice got cut off there. How may I help you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh gosh, no worries! Let me just re-introduce myself from the start, haha!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The voice giggled like a schoolgirl. Laura\u2019s irritation at the call doubled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMy name is Stephanie, I work at Healthline Insurances as an outreach consultant. We have your number down as belonging to a Laura Owens; if that is you, may you confirm your mother\u2019s maiden name?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat would be me. It\u2019s, uh, Gonzales.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGreat! Laura, it is very nice to meet you. I\u2019m sure you\u2019re very busy, so I\u2019ll try to keep this short, haha! I\u2019m just calling you to let you know that, due to our recent changes in policy\u2014I\u2019m sure you know the whole mess with the Congress right now\u2014we unfortunately won\u2019t be able to continue keeping you off the waitlist for the depopulation initiative. However, this shouldn\u2019t worry you at all! Healthline prioritizes customer comfort above all. So, we\u2019ve taken the liberty to select some packages that may aid you with the transition process! Please let me know if you\u2019re interested in hearing them!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Laura\u2019s blood ran cold. Stephanie\u2019s voice was nauseating. Sure, she knew that using insurance against the depopulation program\u2014the \u201cinternational initiative countering global overpopulation via \u2018liquidation,\u2019\u201d or at least, that was how the PSA that ran ten years ago had phrased it\u2014was currently in hot water, but she never predicted it would get this far. She never realized she would be in danger. She had gotten the insurance some five years ago as a result of her girlfriend\u2019s pestering, and she had accused her of being overly paranoid all throughout the process. The topic still came up in arguments. Laura wondered how she would take all this. Her hands were shaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cRight, um, sure. I\u2019d like to know my options.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGreat! Let me pull my sheet up,\u201d the voice responded, drawing out the last syllable. \u201cIt says on your file that you are a vegan! Oh my god, so am I! Well, occasionally. Mostly pescetarian, actually. I can live without red meat, but shrimp is absolutely where I draw the line, haha! Especially in stews. And sometimes I will have yogurt too. I guess I\u2019m a bad vegan.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Laura did not care for Stephanie\u2019s dietary preferences. Before she could interrupt, though, the voice seemed to remember the purpose of the call.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnyway, between that and your regular donations to the Animal Rights Fund, it looks like you\u2019re a big environmentalist. We really, really, appreciate that. So, our first option is a burial that honors your life in the same, environmentally-conscious way\u2014even after you won\u2019t be here with us. What I\u2019m talking about is the Green Package: it comes at the cost of a thousand and fifty dollars, plus tax, and it allows Healthline to forego all plastic packaging that would be sent to you during the liquidation process. Plus, if you prefer to be buried, the kit we will send you at the last stage will not have any chemicals, nor pesticide: that way, when your form becomes one with the earth, it will not harm the worms and the various roots that will make your body their new home!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Laura couldn\u2019t believe the conversation she was having. Worms? Plastic? Here she was, expecting her insurance company to do their goddamned jobs and ensure their client\u2014a high-paying one at that\u2014continues to live, and Stephanie, with her sickeningly sweet voice and overly personable demeanor was talking about how her corpse had the option to not be poisonous for the insects planning to eat her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d Laura responded, \u201cwhen we were talking about packages, I thought, you know, lawyer support, appealing the decision, all that. Do you not have anything of that sort?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, right.\u201d The voice faltered a bit before sounding cheery again. \u201cI completely sympathize, Laura. I know that learning you\u2019re on the waitlist for being liquidated is complicated. It must feel like a lot.\u201d There was a moment of silence. \u201cUnfortunately, though, we are not authorized to provide an appeal. Not unless you\u2019re the president or something, haha!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Laura found it increasingly hard to laugh. \u201cRight. Um, it\u2019s just\u2014this is just horrible timing, actually. I\u2019m in the middle of working on my novel. I\u2019m also getting married soon, and we\u2019ve already paid the venue, you know? The invitations have been sent. And I don\u2019t know where to house my cat. My girlfriend\u2014fianc\u00e9e\u2014she likes him, but my cat is blind and I don\u2019t think she\u2019d be up for the job. I would rather not die with such a full to-do list.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh gosh, I really am sorry. It really is unfortunate that the timing is so awkward, but there are so many people after you on the list, and the system wouldn\u2019t let us get to them before your liquidation is complete. I\u2019ll tell you what, though,\u201d Stephanie\u2019s voice became jovial once again, \u201cin recognition of your predicament, I\u2019ll put you on this package for half the price. It\u2019s called a Romeo and Juliet Package\u2014though I guess it will be the Juliet and Juliet Package for your case\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJesus fucking Christ.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd it allows your partner to accompany you throughout this journey.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou want me to kill my wife-to-be?\u201d \u201cNo! She is on the list already. What we provide with Healthline is the allowance for companionship. We offer, with the package, a honeymoon-like outing to your five-star hotel of choice for a long weekend, as well as a complimentary dinner just before you take the final step to liquidate. Instead of going through with this by yourself, why not have your beloved share those precious moments?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m not doing that!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cO-kay! No need to get aggressive, haha!\u201d Panic took hold of Stephanie\u2019s voice. \u201cIt was just a suggestion.\u201d After a few seconds and some keyboard clicks, she began again: \u201cwhile those two are what our system has highlighted as the most desirable packages for you, I just want to let you know of our other options, just to cover as much surface area as possible. For your novel, if it is not finished by the time you transform, Healthline will be happy to supply you with a creative writing AI that, from what you have written, evaluates and completes the work. This allows you to\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Stephanie\u2019s voice no longer reached Laura\u2019s ears. She had stopped listening. Eyes on the framed photograph of her household just before her first book signing day, Laura thought of all the ways in which she could tell her girlfriend the news. She sat down. Her book would go unfinished. Maybe, maybe she could buy some time if the bureaucratic process was challenging enough, but even then, she hardly saw the point of continuing when all she had worked on was bound to be taken away from her sooner or later. She did not want to die. She did not want to die, and yet, she did not feel the type of terror that made a person act. She had no plans of running away. The appeal process\u2014if she could even get to that point\u2014would be draining. Suicide just seemed banal. No, what she felt was a damning acceptance. She would go through with it, just like everyone. Like anyone. It wasn\u2019t so bad with her mother. Perhaps it would not be so bad with her. She closed her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJust\u2014just make me good worm food. I don\u2019t want any other package.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh! Alrighty! I\u2019m glad our system was able to place your most desired option at the very top, haha! I will start the process now, as soon as I get off the call. You should have an e-mail in your inbox with a more detailed rundown of the contents. You have four days to cancel it and be refunded for the full price if that is something you may wish to do. And with all that out of the way, thank you for your cooperation with Healthline Insurances Incorporated! We will do our best to keep you engaged throughout your liquidation process. Have a nice day!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Stephanie continued to type on her keyboard. Laura felt a tear run down her cheek.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, and, Laura?\u201d Stephanie\u2019s voice seemed smaller now, like she was doing something she was not supposed to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cUm, I really liked Dusk. It was my favorite book of the year last year. I think you\u2019re really talented.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh.\u201d Laura took a deep breath. \u201cThank you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The line went silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A CONVENIENT DAY<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Sophie had decided to break up with Cameron long before they had the accident. Dozens of reasons flickered through her mind when she thought about why she should break up with him. Yes, five years was a long time, but she knew she couldn\u2019t afford to dedicate another five to this relationship. Every night before going to bed, she waited for a convenient time to have this conversation. But the right time never arrived.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One of the many days planning to make the talk, Cameron had found a photo of the two of them from the day they first met, tucked among their old things. One time, Cameron\u2019s mother had gotten sick. Another time, Pogo, their beloved dog, had suddenly started throwing up. Then there was Pogo. She couldn\u2019t leave him. She wasn\u2019t sure if Cameron would leave Pogo either. Sophie didn\u2019t think Cameron would fight for him, but she didn\u2019t want to risk it. If it were up to Cameron, Sophie and him could get married so that their life and arrangements wouldn\u2019t be disrupted. Deep down, she knew the-prospective-breakup was his wish too. He was probably waiting for her to break up, but he was too apathetic to take any action.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sophie was knee-deep in her thoughts, when the water in the garden hose in her hand suddenly decreased and started pouring intermittently. She gave the hose a sharp shake, her fingers slick with water. For a second, everything fell still. Then, with a guttural hiss, the hose jerked to life. A wild burst of pressure shot through it, sending it thrashing like a headless snake. The nozzle whipped in the air, spinning jets in wide arcs that slapped against her legs, her chest, her face. She shrieked, stumbling back as cold water drenched her shirt and plastered her hair to her cheeks. From inside the house, Pogo\u2019s ears perked. At the sound of Sophie\u2019s scream, he bounded over on his three legs, tail lashing the air. The hose spiraled like a possessed creature, and Pogo chased it with yipping and twirling around Sophie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow can you just sit and watch from there?\u201d Sophie raised her voice to her boyfriend watching them from the porch. Cameron\u2019s crow\u2019s feet were prominent, eyebrows raised as he stared at his girlfriend. When their eyes met, they both waited for half a second to burst into laughter. The garden hose was getting Sophie soaked as it danced in the air. Sophie lifted one leg to join Pogo and started hopping beside him. Cameron laughed even louder. Leaning on the railing on the porch, he watched Pogo and Sophie as he ran his hands through his curly brown hair. With his other hand he took one more hit from the joint. The wind blew the smoke from his lungs back into his face, and he waved his hand back and forth dispersing the smoke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019d like to join you! But I\u2019m a bit numb!\u201d he shouted. Then added, \u201cShit, it looks fun!\u201d Sophie, after turning the water off, walked over to Cameron and she left a little inviting kiss to his lips. Grabbed his shirt and pulled lightly to lead him into the house. Cameron let out a small groan and smiled, but his hands didn’t leave the railing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The next day, Sophie went to the hardware store to buy a new garden hose. The store was not far from the house. However, on the way, she was lost in her thoughts again. She had to break up with Cameron. The thought had already begun to thread itself into everything. Her breakfast, her errands, and her sleep. Lately, it felt like he was gently holding her underwater. And yet, she reminded herself, he hadn\u2019t done anything. Cam was good to her. He was kind and steady. He always asked if she wanted the last fry. He loved her in the way someone might love a favorite sweater. Familiar but worn in. Before they found Pogo at the shelter, he had really wanted a puppy. Something brand-new and unbroken. But when he saw Sophie crying for Pogo, he\u2019d sighed, rubbed his temples, and said, \u201cAlright, alright, we\u2019ll take him.\u201d It was sweet, in a way. She told herself that often.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When Sophie saw the red light it wasn\u2019t too late. She slammed her foot down but the pedal barely budged. A grunt escaped her as she pressed harder, muscles tensing, knuckles white on the wheel. The car jerked to a stop, but a full meter too far. Headlights from the opposite lane veered sharply toward her. Vibrating through the closed windows, a long furious horn exploded. Through the glass, the other driver\u2019s mouth moved rapidly, hands flailing, but Sophie could only stare. There was a drum solo in her chest. Something was wrong with the brakes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n After finishing her chores, she tried to return home very slowly and carefully. Cameron was swinging on the porch swing, with a joint in his hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHi, Soph-\u201d He swallowed the smoke as speaking, it made him cough. \u201cWhere have you been? It’s been a lot. You ok?\u201d His voice was as soft and calm as ever. The words came out of his mouth over a long period of time. Sophie rolled her eyes. Cam had slowed down a lot compared to before. His movements, his speech, getting anything done. Everything was taking a long time. On the one hand, she liked his calmness, it made her feel safe. Yet, this indifferent attitude was unbearable at times.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI think there is something wrong with the brakes. I almost crashed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, are you okay? Nothing happened to you right?\u201d he slowly sat up on the swing and slowly wrapped his arm around Sophie\u2019s waist. He leaned his forehead under her chest and gave her belly a small kiss. \u201cBe careful, babe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah, yeah. I am. But it\u2019s not about me though. You should check that car this week before we hit the road for your brother’s wedding.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNooo\u2026\u201d He dragged the word out. \u201cWait, it\u2019s next week? Ugh. Seriously? Why would he pick, like, the middle of nowhere?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeap. I know. Don\u2019t forget to check the car will ya? I\u2019ll go make us dinner.\u201d Cameron\u2019s whining exerted a repulsive orbital force on Sophie. Whenever his voice curled into that pitch, half complaint, half retreat, the man before her dissolved. Cameron didn\u2019t follow Sophie. Just kept swinging until the dinner was ready.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sophie was frantically packing the suitcases and the weekend arrived. Her suitcase had been ready for three days. Her dress, makeup, a spare dress, underwear. But now, she was looking for a pair of socks to match the reception outfit she had chosen today for Cameron. She was tired and didn\u2019t want to drive four hours to Cameron\u2019s big brother\u2019s extravagant over the top wedding. But when she found Cameron smoking on the porch after she had barely gotten the suitcases down the stairs, she couldn\u2019t control her anger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCameron! You were going to drive!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBabe, it\u2019s fine-\u201d He coughed. \u201cI can drive. Really.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sophie\u2019s unhappiness had already spread to the muscles in her body.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo you can\u2019t. Now I have to drive for at least 2 hours! It\u2019s not cool Cam.\u201d Cameron pursed his lips like a little kid caught misbehaving and blinked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSorry, love. I was waiting for you here and you just didn\u2019t come down.\u201d The blood rushed to Sophie\u2019s brain. She opened her mouth to scold him, but stopped when her eyes caught the car.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou took the car in for repairs last week, right?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019ll check that out when we return babe, don’t wanna rush that.\u201d Sophie didn\u2019t bother to answer. Her gaze was shifted from the car. She wanted to say she was leaving him right then, grab her suitcase and go back to her mother\u2019s house. But she didn\u2019t. She had to wait until the wedding was over. Once they returned, she would leave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They were only half an hour out of town when it got dark. She was going to hand the car over to Cameron at the nearest stop. She tried to remember where she had put Cameron\u2019s spare shirt. She was going to put it in the suitcase. Cameron would definitely spill something on himself. Would they be able to find a spare shirt there? Sophie was going to move when she got back. It was time she started looking for other places. She would go to her mother\u2019s first. Besides, spending some time together would be good for both of them. Pogo tried to nuzzle Sophie\u2019s arm from the backseat. But he couldn\u2019t keep his balance and fell back onto the seat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, Pogo!\u201d Sophie laughed. She glanced at the rearview mirror for a moment to check if he was okay. Pogo was okay, but at that moment Cameron shouted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSoph! Brake!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sophie slammed on the brakes before looking ahead, but it was too late. The brakes had jammed again, and even when Sophie had leaned her whole upper body against the steering wheel to give all her strength, they had barely stopped. Something splashed onto the window leaving rusty dark traces. A pitiful squeal came from outside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat is that? Oh my god! What is that?\u201d Sophie started rambling. \u201cIs- Is that a kangaroo? Cam! What is that? Oh, god! What did we do?\u201d Sophie threw open the car door and ran towards the animal in front of her. Her hands were on her temples, her mouth continuing to let words that did not form sentences. She collapsed next to the injured animal. \u201cCam\u2026\u201d Sophie’s voice trembled. \u201cIt\u2019s a kangaroo.\u201d Cam had gotten out of the car, looked at Sophie through the open door and then away, using all his strength to avert his eyes from the kangaroo lying on the ground. \u201cNo\u2026 Cam\u2026 It’s not dead. Cam, it’s not dead.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The poor kangaroo was still breathing. Cam didn’t respond. Instead, he ran his fingers through his hair, leaned his back against the door and set his eyes to the ground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSoph, we can’t do anything about it. We have to go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo!\u201d She opposed it. \u201cWe can’t leave it like that! It’s suffering. What are we gonna do?\u201d Sophie looked into the kangaroo\u2019s eyes. They were glistening. A tear fell. \u201cIt’s crying, Cam\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGod, Soph. Stop repeating my name over and over! Let\u2019s just go. There is nothing we can do. We can\u2019t even carry it to the car, let alone to the vet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCam! Cam!\u201d Sophie shouted in a calmer manner. \u201cIt\u2019s suffering. We can\u2019t just leave it like that\u2026\u201d She didn\u2019t finish the thought. Her eyes lingered on the suffering body.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo way I\u2019m doing that. No.\u201d Cameron stated sharply. Yet, there was something darker in the silence that followed. Cameron covered his face with his hands and sighed deeply. \u201cI\u2019m not gonna ruin the car anymore. No Soph. We have to leave.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCam we can’t!\u201d Sophie screamed at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThen take fucking a rock and smash its head yourself, okay? Because I can’t!\u201d The kangaroo\u2019s breathing was ragged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s crying Cam.\u201d The storm inside her calmed down for a moment and the words flowed from her lips without a tremor. The pain was in a foreign language. Its groaning was haunting Sophie’s ears, but what drowned out the groaning was the heavy pressure of silence buzzing inside her skull.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSoph, get in the car.\u201d said Cameron, wearily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo-\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGet in the car, Soph.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCam! I- I can’t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEnd of discussion Soph. Get. In. The. Car.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sophie ran her hand over the animal\u2019s head. It continued to howl in pain. Its whimpers would rise, and then come out thinly under its breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m so sorry, baby. So sorry.\u201d Sophie got up. The kangaroo was trembling. She couldn\u2019t take her eyes off the animal on the ground. Its image was buried in the depths of her mind. Red stains were on her jeans and hands. Cameron was already behind the wheel. He put the car in reverse. Sophie got in the passenger seat. Pogo’s breath fogged the window in the back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe front of the car is totaled,\u201d Cameron sighed under his breath. As the car passed the dying kangaroo, Sophie kept watching it in the rear mirror until it was out of sight. Next week, she told herself. Surely, there\u2019d be a convenient day by then.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The \u00c7i\u011fdem and Hossein Dabir Award for Excellence in Short Fiction is an annual award that celebrates Bilkent students who demonstrate outstanding creativity, originality and skill in short fiction writing. The 2025 award ceremony was held on Friday, February 6, at the \u0130hsan and Ayser Do\u011framac\u0131 Science, Culture and Arts[Read More…]<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":10295,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[4,80,212,193],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bilkentnews.bilkent.edu.tr\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10230"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bilkentnews.bilkent.edu.tr\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bilkentnews.bilkent.edu.tr\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bilkentnews.bilkent.edu.tr\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bilkentnews.bilkent.edu.tr\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=10230"}],"version-history":[{"count":12,"href":"https:\/\/bilkentnews.bilkent.edu.tr\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10230\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10388,"href":"https:\/\/bilkentnews.bilkent.edu.tr\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10230\/revisions\/10388"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bilkentnews.bilkent.edu.tr\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/10295"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bilkentnews.bilkent.edu.tr\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=10230"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bilkentnews.bilkent.edu.tr\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=10230"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bilkentnews.bilkent.edu.tr\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=10230"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}![\"\"](\"https:\/\/bilkentnews.bilkent.edu.tr\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/02\/1X9A5152-1024x683.jpg\")
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