Welcome! Here are the first two chapters of Papatya Tarlasında Rönesans (Renaissance in the Daisy Field). Rights of the book are in Başlangıç Publishing House, and the book is not yet available in English, but studies are ongoing to make it. Thanks to Övünç Yaşar for the translation.

A Woman Body in the Rain

2017, Istanbul.

Those waking up grumbling and going into the new day reluctantly; those running to catch up their heart yearning with the calling; sportspersons leaving their beds quickly to befriend the early mornings they love; poets searching for inspiration like chasing butterflies in the meadows; the little kid sneaking out without his mother’s permission to play… Briefly, everyone who woke up at six in the morning and got out in the first Thursday of the March were aware of the mysterious woman body at the foot of the Hisar.

To the contrary of the customary climate of the city of gloom, raindrops had wetted the holes all night. A small flood had covered the unprepared ground secretly. A gift of the rain had been left at the foot of Hisar: A Body… No ID, seems to be in her twenties. She has a smooth skin, but her clothes seem like as if they were made of hay. So yellow, so worn out… The marks of the painful conditions make one question himself, the faith, what we live missing even though the God has given possibilities to be enough for everyone. Even this questioning is far from being sincere as it came up by the effect of the appearance of the girl.

Seven o’clock. The crime scene is full of cops. The yellow barrier tape is set, the public isn’t allowed in. A limited number of cameramen try to shoot for the news. The young lady, whose face is photographed by the police, is being put on the stretcher like a large size doll and taken to the hospital.

Nine. Hisar is completely evacuated. Apart from those satisfying their conscientious feeling via social media posts, the entire Istanbul gets back to their lives.

Twelve. The action is now in the corridors of the Police Station. Archives, missing persons files are being incessantly scanned. If the ID or family of the girl cannot be found in a few days, her photo will be added to the “Unidentified Bodies” page on the internet.

The next day… The body is moved to the morgue of a hospital nearby. Blood and DNA samples are being taken. Three days later, the autopsy will be performed before the district attorney.

The footage of the day she was taken to the morgue is a bit strange. An employee goes down to check the bodies. He checks each cabinet one by one and ticks the list off. When the turn comes to the compartment where the girl is, he looks at the open, working cabinet, lifts the list and moves his pen and he freezes with the squeezing feeling in his wrist. The list falls off the man’s other hand. A few seconds before dying due to a heart attack, looking up a little, he suddenly sees the surprised violet eyes of the girl who held his arm firmly.

The completely naked girl gets scared and bends her legs to her stomach. Meanwhile, she looks around carefully. After sitting there for a while, she stands up, wanders inside the room with her arms wrapped around her body, takes the sheet off from one of the empty stretchers, wraps it around her waist leaving one shoulder open. Then she quietly leaves from the door.

Despite months of investigation, no one could find who she was or where she is. She doesn’t appear in other records of the hospital as well, as if she had vanished.

This incident devastating the hospital management was not leaked to the press to protect the reputation of the hospital. At the end of the search period, the records were destroyed with the permission of the police and shortly after, the girl is forgotten.

Daisy Field

1374, London.

Even though it was summer, there was a painful cold in the dungeons of a tower only four years far from its third hundredth anniversary.

The London Tower. It allowed mostly noblemen, sometimes the common public to pass through its doors. Has been the middle square of the chessboard, determined the winner in the bloody civil wars. The tower is the iron fist of the crown and the reign, also a prison built in the nightmares – a special guesthouse the king had prepared for his high ranked enemies.

It was noon; however, this place wouldn’t get even a single drop of sunlight.

The ground and the walls were made of stones, the doors of the cells from iron. The cells were for one man, had such a low ceiling only to allow to stand up and narrow as much as for one’s feet to touch the wall when laid down. There was a separate compartment on the corner for toilet, but there was no tap.

The only sources of light that let the huge guard walking with an oxtail-like whip in his hand and a never-ending rage in him to see were the torches placed between each two doors.

The guard was bare foot. The cold ground would make one feel a refreshing coolness at each step. The guard stopped in front of the door he aimed. He squeezed the flask filled with water in his left hand a bit more and pinning the whip in his right hand between the fingers of his other hand, he looked for the key in his leather belt, on which there was no empty space.

The old lock opened clacking. Inside was seen a man kneeling. His clothes were new but torn down. His fingers were on the ground. The guard looked carefully to see what he was doing, could only understand a few minutes later. The young prisoner was writing something using the dirt on the ground.

Going mad, the guard threw the flask aside. Grabbed the prisoner from his hair, “Didn’t… I… Tell… You… Not to… Write… Things… Here?”

Hitting his face to the wall at each word.

“Stop, please!” said the prisoner desperately. When the guard left him, blood was leaking from his nose. When he gathered strength enough to talk “I am just doing what needs to be done for the prosperity of our people,” he said, “I won’t veer away.”

“Good for you.” The guard was talking mockingly. “Wait for the trial to pass, then we’ll see. Let’s see if you will still be so determined groaning on the scavenger’s daughter sweet boy?” – what he meant was a round torturing tool famous for breaking the backbone of the accused – “Ah, if only I had the authority, ah! My fingers itch!”

The guard threw the flask, all the water in which had scattered around, in front of the prisoner.

“Mr John Joseph Daisy, get ready. You have your trial in two hours.”

The door, which left a thin beam from the light of the torch when it opened, closed slowly, and turned inside over to the dark.

“My God…” grumbled Joseph. Took the flask on the ground and wetted his bone-dry lips with a few drops left in it. “You know God…” he said. “You know.”

This was the only sentence he said until the trial.

The square was thronged. The poor Londoners had gathered at places where the trial would take place to watch another public event which was their only fun. “Wow…” whispered people around, “Look at the doc!” Their dear doctor whom they admired with goosebumps only one week ago was now a man to belittle. When devoid of a bounding consciousness, the majority was not a good mate. As much as a falling star could divide the darkness of a sunless sky, so much could the love of unconscious masses help one.

Doctor John Joseph Daisy, who was an idol for good people and was even the topic of discussions whether he should be deemed a saint, had published an article titled “Immortality” exactly eight days ago. This article involving arguments which the King and the Church was not a fan of had been enough to bring the doctor from the saint level down to a pervert being tried for irreligion. Joseph had been waiting in a narrow cell far from his warm house for seven days. He was weak due to the cold, dirt and the moisture and had started coughing seriously – and he wasn’t even cracked yet! If a little later this young man doesn’t admit before the judge that he tried to subvert the holy British Kingdom and apologise stating that he gives up on everything he had written, he would be returned back to prison and until he comes clean, he would be tortured with methods which no one should have even heard of.  

Amongst the crowd, a woman with messy blond hair looking like hay held a boy in his arms even tighter. She looked for a place where she could both see the trial to begin and to avoid attention from people. This young woman, Sarah Daisy, was one of the most well-known women of London after the nobles. Her name would be uttered with a little admiration and a little envy as she was one of the hundred people who were literate, was both rich and generous at the same time and most importantly, was the wife of John Joseph Daisy, one of the most important doctors of the country. Sarah, just 22 years old, had given birth to a son in the eighteenth month of her five-year marriage.

Sarah got to the side of a wall and held Orson even tighter to avoid seeing people’s pitying looks almost screaming “Poor you, how the mighty have fallen.” She got lost in thoughts while the chairs of the judge, the clergy, and the interrogators were being prepared.

Towards the sunset, the wind patted her hair. Sarah felt more and more incomplete at every touch of the wind. She wasn’t used to have messy, dirty hair. She missed Joseph loving her “Jasmine…” and washing her hair with the jasmine flowers he boiled. And then knitting each knot kissing her, them reaching to the morning like that…

She was “Miss Daisy”, or “Miss Sarah” for everyone, but white jasmines next to Joseph. Whenever he washed her heart with beautiful smells saying “My Jasmine…” she would call her dearie husband back “My Daisy…”

On their door was written the Daisy Field instead of the Daisy House. They would live a flower garden happiness behind this door every day.

“Ah Daisy…” she hummed once more. Soon enough, at the centre of this circle, while he was trying to prove the judge that he is innocent, how much she would wish to hold his hand!

The dead sound of the beadle broke the humming like a dandelion:

“Silence! The trial is about to begin!”

Gong rang. Sarah cringed her corner even more while the public hustled and made more room for themselves to see everything better.

A guard, waiting alone inside the iron passage and eying the solitary places of the tower, squinted his eyes when he saw someone from the crowd coming his way. First, he saw his long dress. A black, bright dress with fur on its collars… He got anxious. What was a man from the judiciary board doing here?

“Sir,” he said stopping the man whose face was shaded. On his face was the worry of a man confronting an officer. “You cannot get in. The trial begins, you need to be ready.”

There was no anger on the face of the board member. “I know,” he said, he was calm; he had a deep but harmonious voice. He reached to the big cross on his chest, hung on a thick silver chain. “This won’t take long. I want to pray to God to be able to make the fairest judgment.” Satisfied, the soldier moved away and let him pass. The member wandered away dragging his long cloak and faded in the dark.

Reaching to a corner where no human being could notice the smallest movement, he ended his long walk. He took off and threw first the neckless with the cross and then the cloak. He leaned on the old walls behind and caught his breath. He took an old mirror from his inside pocket and checked his face. It was dangerous. “They wouldn’t like purple eyes here,” he said, as if he was advising himself.

He focused all his thoughts to one single point and closed his eyes. He hummed a few times: “Menni nomen sakrifin, mutare menum statim”, it was like he was talking in his sleep. “My name is the sacrificed, change me, now.” It sounded like Latin, but it wasn’t.

When he reopened his eyelids, the man saw the change in the mirror. His skin that got a bit darker, his duck egg blue eyes… The pleasure could be read from his face. Maybe not natural but was better than nothing.

He did what he had to, now he had to hurry. Re-dressing his cloak and neckless, the member left his hiding place to get to the court.

The two and a half hours long silence of the dungeon was broken with the guard’s voice:


Joseph startled with the unexpected sound. When the door of the cell was opening, he squinted his eyes with a surprising light. The guard had entered the cell with the torch in his hand.

His never soft voice was still rough but had nothing to do with its previous threatening mood. “You don’t want to look bad in front of the public, I am ordered to bring you new clothes and lots of water.” Throwing the clothes in his hands in front of Joseph, the guard placed the torch next to the door, so inside of the cell became light enough. “Drink some and wash your face and tidy your hair with the rest. Soldiers will be here to take you to the court.” After carrying the bucket full of water inside carefully, he left the door halfway on his way out. All this happened so fast that Joseph couldn’t even say thanks.

The first thing Joseph did was putting the cup inside the bucket left for him to be able to drink easily aside and tossed the bucket off. After refreshing his burning body a little, he cleared his mouth with his sleeve. Maybe, he thought, this was the tastiest water he ever drank.

Right after that, he tossed the bucked off again. This time he didn’t leave it back until he felt that he is full to the neck. He stopped when he can’t drink anymore. He was smiling unawares.

Spilling the one-cup water remaining at the bottom of the bucket down his head, he rubbed his face. He came around.

He changed his clothes, tidied his hair. Stood up and rehearsed standing upright. He felt the pang of grief most when he thought about his family. He decided not to look at the spectators in no way, because he knew if he saw Sarah and Orson, he wouldn’t be able to hold it together.

The rhythmic footsteps reminded the doctor that it was time. Joseph got ready, checked himself one last time and waited for the soldiers.

Those entering the cell at this third instance were two cavaliers. These were low-rank escorts who had small duties such as escorting the messengers to appear before the King or the prisoners before the court. Joseph’s wrists were not cuffed, his arms were not held tightly. Only, one of the soldiers showed the way with the tip of the spear.

The doctor thought whether these attendants treating him well might indicate his exoneration. Maybe he could tell that the theory of immortality didn’t contradict the religious doctrines in anyway. “If I can tell enough…” he thought. “I can even get the allowance for the theory to be put into practice. Just speak well Joshy, speak well…”

He closed his eyes before getting under the sunlight. He could feel the curious looks of hundreds of people, their shaken trusts, the wandering whispers… “I have only one shot to clear off all the doubts,” he hummed himself.

It was hot outside. Getting to the hot weather suddenly from the cold inside made Joseph sweat. His red orange camise was shining under the sun, his boots raised the dust. They walked together till the felon’s dock. Meanwhile such a humming rose from the people that one of the attendants had to silence the spectators for the second time.

Beginning the trial, the judge looked right into the eyes of the judged.

“Mr Daisy… at five in the afternoon at the 4th day of June, you had sent an article to the Science Magazine. In this article, you claim that the human body is not obliged to experience the diseases and the death, and the human life could be extended to hundreds of years with the right nutrition and correct treatments. However, in Bible, it reads clearly that the human body is obliged to death. The wish for a long life is to become evil and polytheism. Defend yourself.”

“I pay my respects to Your Honour, the establisher of the justice, and to all Londoners,” began Joseph his words. “What you said is correct. I argue that by arranging the nutrition and the treatments, it is possible to increase the life quality, triple or quadruple the period of life, and completely eliminate the death arising from diseases.

I argue that we can live in cleaner and healthier streets. Our country can reach to welfare. We can prevent our streets going down like ninepins. We can spend joyous times with our grandchildren, and maybe with their grandchildren. The cold face of the diseases can leave all households of this holy place, as long as we try it hard.

This in no way contradicts the rules of the God.

Just think about it… If the God didn’t want us to live as long as possible, why would he cover our body entirely with reflexes that protect our bodies, the life? If he didn’t want us to dip into the beauties, why would he create these most natural fruits and flowers in numerous colours?

Life is our reality, and my wish is to live well.

Today, you claim that I am an acolyte of Satan. In fact, I learnt that the diseases are sent to increase our patience and strength from your preaches.

How can a challenge that we don’t tackle increase our strength?

The real patience is not just waiting. The real patience is not wasting time with complaining but to do our parts to resolve the trouble. My theory will realise the aim of the God and the humankind.”

Ending his words, Joseph looked in front of him and licked his lips. He was happy that he didn’t stutter.

The judge was consulting with his assistants and cleaning his forehead with a hanky from time to time. After a few minutes of passionate debate, the judge silenced the humming and turned to the doctor.

“Many saints have been tested with diseases to this day,” he said. “Many of them havened in the prayers, showed patience refusing the treatment, and there have even been those dying because of this. Patience is the virtue, but you direct people to worldliness, withholding them from the virtue.”

For a moment, Joseph thought he won’t be able to talk at all, but a single sentence just spilled over his lips like a fall: “If the saints were treated and recovered and were with us today, wouldn’t it be better for the sake of our religion? Wouldn’t the God want that?”

This sentence creating an effect of a stone dropping to a still water made everyone suddenly fall into silence, followed by a whistling clapping from the stands.

There was nothing more to say. The public was convinced that Joseph was right.

The board stood up. The judge and his assistants looked one another but this time no one spoke.

The doctor was startled by the screams supporting him. His eyes breaking up his own words searched for his jasmine and his own piece in the crowd. Not finding them, he turned back.

“The verdict!”

The rising humming was suddenly cut. All the people sitting, including Joseph, stood up. The doctor tried to hide the grimace on his face, he felt like there were worms in his stomach.

As sure he was from the righteousness and necessity of his theory, so more his predictions that he cannot leave this court with a happy ending were growing. He could accept a bad call but the predictions emerging and vanishing in the fog of the thought, waiting hesitant, ah, the waiting… he would collapse and cry out loud like a child if not embarrassed.

“The verdict…” repeated the judge one more time, “your theory will be examined again, and the final verdict will be left to the next session. Meanwhile…”

Sarah and Joseph caught each other’s eyes from the most inner and outer points of the tower garden used as the courthouse as if they planned to do so.

“… as the case puts the public safety in danger, it is decided for Mr. Daisy to be jailed pending trial.”

While accompanying soldiers were coming with cuffs in their hands this time, Joseph sighed. He expected being arrested again anyway. In the end, which criminal of thought could have convinced the judges to this day? What good does the wisdom have where the power rules?

Everyone clearing away, Joseph’s name echoed in the walls. While Sarah was running inside as a rolling stone with her son in her arms, her cream skirt flew in the wind.

“They can’t take you my daisy! They don’t have the right!” she turned to soldiers, “You hear me, you don’t have the right!”

“My jasmine, don’t make it harder, please. Look, I am not accused. There will be a second trial in a month. I’ll walk free.” He held her hand tightly. “Take good care of our son.” Joseph letting her hand go slowly, Sarah felt the void of one falling down a cliff. She couldn’t even look behind him when he was being taken back.

When the square became as empty as the hearts of those staying up at night, she held her son’s hand “We are leaving Orson.” Turning back to go home, she was scared to death.

A man, seemingly to have a good place in the judiciary with his cloak, had come right next to them. Sarah would recognise this sly smile no matter where it is or how long it has been.

“Eagle… This is you.” She looked away for a moment and then turned back to the man.

“What are you doing here? And… and you are accepted to the trial as a board member! But you… How?”

Her past she left behind opening a new chapter as white as the clouds of a sunny day was standing in front of her as dark nightmares.

“You had my husband captured, right!?” Meanwhile she was poking the man’s chest. The man named Eagle was still smiling like nothing happened while a purple smoke was mixing with his blue.

“You look exactly the same. It is really smart to use a fake name and make your husband call you with your real name as a word of love. I am happy to see you again years later my childhood friend Jasmine Llyin.”

Thank you for reading! This is Goodreads page.

How Did I Meet Wattpad?

I want to tell about my Wattpad adventure in this article. It has high recognition among young readers; has brought many writers, good and bad, to the literary world; sometimes became the target of prejudice, criticism or appreciation.

Wattpad, is a social media founded in 2006 in Canada. It enables users to share their writings with other users. In short, it’s a literacy platform.

The books here are published without any editorial control, which brings positive and negative results. Freedom and ease of access are examples of good effects; but there are also downsides such as poor quality books to stand out because they are popular.

In 2014, I created an account on Wattpad.

I still don’t remember how I discovered this website. I must have seen it somewhere, then I must have created an account with a few clicks. I’ve always been someone who likes to write; but the idea of publishing my writings in a place like this was new to me.

I would delete most of what I had written before, and keep some of them on the computer. Oh, also there were fan fictions I posted on pages on Facebook. I used to think and write these fictions instantly, and they mostly stayed where they were published. Therefore, I don’t remember the name or the subject of any of them except two.

Who was I writing about these fan fiction, of course maNga. ☺️ I was maNga’s crazy fangirl when I was a teenager. I still listen to their songs and they are still my favorite band, but there is no old craziness on me, I grew up.

Vahşetten Öte (Overviolence), this was the name of one of the two stories that I remember. In 2013, I wrote on a page called Rockluminati. I had a virtual friend group of ten people who followed each chapter with enthusiasm. I was also using their name in the story. It was a psychopathic story. The killer kidnaps group members, lock them up in the basement of a mansion in the woods, and torture them. My nickname among friends was Saw VIII. I loved to write killer or horror stories until I fell in love with science fiction.

Later, I tried to rewrite Overviolence a few times, took it out of fan fiction category by putting original characters it in, but no way. That vibe was not got again.

A painting from the times I tried to rewrite Overviolence.

Until I got the idea of injecting this story into another story that still had not a vibe…

Yes, I’m talking about Balçık ve Sırça (Clay and Glass). In 2016, I started to write this novel, which I deleted and started over and over again, in which I talk about the human-like creatures called megalas.

Readers remember, at first there was Horan, who was only a zarkanat as the main character, talking about his daily troubles, etc. Later, the kidnapped people got into it. Here that part of the novel comes from Overviolence. For now, it’s well. Let’s see if I can finish this time.

The second story that I remember from my fan fiction periods is Ben Senden Vazgeçmem (I Won’t Give You Up or another name I prefer: Not Allowed). In 2014, I wrote three or five chapters and left it unfinished. When I found the drafts in 2017, I cleared the fan-fic elements and rewrote them with original characters.

The bottom line is, I created my Wattpad account in 2014 and haven’t touched it for a few months.

I was in search of new things.

The next year, in 2015, I was at a loose end. I was religiously confused, my life was confused, my academic life was terrible, etc. In this bad period, writing reached out to me like divine help, like an olive branch.

I started writing. I was writing, adding new chapters, posting my old writings on the one hand, and promoting on social media on the other hand. Transplant of Life, was the book I wrote at that time and which I trusted the most. Apart from that, there were a few other books I wrote but I deleted them because they were weak; For example, I was writing an action book called Rüyalar Kızı (Dream Girl), a high school student by day and a teenage girl who is a mafioso in the evening. It was full of clichés.

The former name of “Transplant of Life” was “Live Reincarnation”. Above is the oldest cover. “Show Me Life” is the old name of the current “Featured Poems”. “My Sister Poli” is an unnecessary and irrelevant name that I used for a while for the “Rebel of Three Cities”. I was publishing short stories in “Torn Passage”, I deleted it soon after.

I also wrote the first draft of Renaissance in the Daisy Field earlier that year, but it would take September to publish it on Wattpad, and for the first time I was going to start enjoying success that month.

The oldest cover of Renaissance in the Daisy Field. Six years old.

There was hope for me among daisies.

I had begun to write Renaissance in the Daisy Field with strong inspiration. Sentences were being built in my mind one by one. Most of the time, my hands couldn’t keep up with my brain speed. The book attracted considerable attention on Wattpad, and the comments on each chapter also increased my desire.

In the early days of writing, I started making videos to promote the book. Of course, both my technical knowledge and my financial strength were not enough to make a short film; I was doing it by cutting appropriate scenes from existing films.

I used Windows Movie Maker 12 to cut and combine videos, and Audacity to edit music.

While I was looking for sections that could represent my characters in the book, the movie called S. Darko came as a godsend. The lead actor resembled Crescent -one of the book’s protagonists- and the movie wasn’t watched much.

You know the movie Donnie Darko, it’s about time paradox, it’s a really nice and brainstorming movie. Again, you probably know that sometimes they make sequels to well-liked quality movies just for the money, and this new one will suck. Huh, that’s it, S. Darko is one of those movies.

Like a tailor making new clothes from old dresses, I took it, cut and made into an edited video. I stayed awake one night, worked for ten hours, and I made this promo video:

(Turn on subtitles before watching)

The milestone of the book was this video. After uploading it on the Facebook group “Wattpad Türkiye”, it took over 200 likes and comments in a short time. I remember very clearly my surprise and joy.

In the following days, Renaissance in the Daisy Field came to the top in Wattpad’s Historical Fiction category, it was placed for a long time in the first and second place and the final was published in May 2016. (I finished writing a few months ago, February or March. I was posting ready chapters.)

The Interregnum

In the fall of 2016, I started books titled Fatma’nın Portresi (Fatma’s Portrait) and Balçık ve Sırça (Clay and Glass), which I still can’t finish today. However, the books did not sit easily with me, I could not post chapters regularly. My mind, working like a machine gun, had run out of bullets. On the other hand, I was dreaming about my finished book and I was getting desperate when I could not realize it. At that time I wanted to be a writer, have a printed book, but I didn’t know exactly what to do.

This was the case until the spring of 2017. A message came from Wattpad in March. Soysal Publishing Group, wanted to talk about Renaissance in Daisy Field.

So we met, signed the contract – the publication of the book was delayed to the next year for some reasons – and the interregnum ended. My hope, excitement and muse were back.

Muse Knocks at the Door Seven Times

At that time I was living my student life in a dormitory in Ankara. Sometimes I could not sleep at night. I was walked into the empty and dark kitchen, wandering and dreaming.

The same figure had begun to appear insistently in my imagination. A girl. Her hair was short. At first, I thought she looked like Velma in Scooby Doo, but over time her appearance started to take on characteristic features.

There was also a young man. From far away he was coming to visit this girl. I didn’t know why he was coming. This girl lived alone in space in the back of beyond. At first there were only these two figures.

One night I realized that I must name them, or rather find their names. Ideas blew in my mind, names came to the tip of my tongue. I thought, “Iskender…”, yes, that was it! The name of the girl was also Hayat. Hayat and Iskender were formed in my mind. I was going to write a story for them. One day, I was going to write a story and it would take place in space.

I started to constantly think about some concepts and symbols. Black hole. Relativity of time. The number seven. Menorah (seven-armed candlestick). Ulu’l azm prophets. Being stated in the Qur’an that the universe was created in six days (stages). Six. Seven. Black hole. Time. I should have combined them. It seemed like I was going crazy, but it was a sweet craziness.

After a few days of thinking, I started thinking that I would write a heptalogy in the future. It would be called Seven Candles. The titles of the books would go as the Seventh Candle, the Sixth Candle… Hayat and Iskender would be protagonists. I thought that I had to do a long research and planning and that I could only start writing in 2020.

I returned home when school broke up because of summer vacation. On a July night, I veered away from my older thought. Because the first chapter’s first words were suddenly embodied in my mind and ready to be written.

I knelt, took a deep breath to feel at the space station where the first chapter was set, and after a while I got up and started writing Seven Candles’ first sentence.

“You’re here,” she thought. “Where stardust forms your cells.”

When I reached 1111 votes on December 30, 2017, I took a screenshot.

I actively wrote and read for the next three years. After Renaissance in the Daisy Field was published in 2018, I opened an Instagram account to promote it, started reviewing books there. Then I graduated from school, got a job, completed Seven Candles. Thus we have come to this day.

So, I met Wattpad like this. I hope coming days will bring us all goodness.


❝You’ll lose your name, your title, you job and you wife. You’ll lose everything you thought that belonged to you, but indeed didn’t. You say you love your life, but life is not only about your job or other similar things. Just like your id and your body is not who you are.❞

This story has waited for a long time in a dusty computer folder and is now in daylight! Thanks to Övünç Yaşar for the translation.

“Good morning love!” said Soner, to his wife Serra.

“Good morning!” trilled the woman. Her blue eyes were fairly sparkling with joy.

Soner admired her more and more each passing day. Her frizzy, wavy hair, her deep blue eyes contrasting her black hair, her smile, joy, her way of taking the life easy… He held his Serra firmly in his arms.

Serra responded with her killer smile. She gave her husband a big hug as well.

Soner was almost like detached from the life. He would feel like dying at the tiniest attention of Serra. He would die and catch the bird of happiness.

He returned to reality with her wife calling out “We should have breakfast now”. He was about to be late for work.

He was working as a sales manager in a small construction business. He lived with his father till his marriage. He didn’t know of a mother’s affection because he lost his mother, who was told “to have become an angel”, when he was four.

On the verge of his graduation, when he thought he would never fall in love with anyone, till he came across Serra, his own special medicine. At first sight, he gaped her beauty till she scolded him “Sir, why are you staring at me for minutes?”

“Uhm…” said Soner, “I just wandered.”

Serra just passed by that day saying a simple “huh!”, but then again didn’t rejected Soner’s dinner invitation three days later.

When he couldn’t talk at all and then drop his plate to the ground, he saw the eyeful laughter of his wife-to-be for the first time. He wasn’t offended, to the contrary, his love peaked even more. That day, they talked, agreed, and had their marriage ceremony right after their graduation.

If one asked Soner “What is your characteristic you are proud of?”, he would say “I wouldn’t fall under the spell of love and take wrong a marriage step”. Marrying Serra, it was also him who made the most detailed research. He knew the temporariness of such feelings; he couldn’t take a wrong step and rely on the possibilities.

Closing his office door gently, Soner took his seat. The moment he turned on his computer, he sighed. So many emails had piled! “Come on big man, get to work” he said himself and began answering his mails.

By noon, his eyes, hands and back were hurting. He must have finished the three-hundredth mail too. Thinking he would reply the remaining twenty-seven, he got to the dining hall. While drinking his after-lunch-tea, his boss called him out right at the end of his lunch break.

“Mr Soner, you have a lot of files that you have to check immediately.”

“But Mr Deniz…” he wanted to say but rushed to his office with the answer “I wouldn’t call you out if it wasn’t urgent”.

“Ah!” he said seeing the files. He couldn’t finish them till the evening, in fact it would take about two days. Mr Deniz said all these files had to be handled by the end of the shift on his way out; a note was attached to the envelope carrying the files.

The work was work, he would have to do them anyway. Sat on his chair and began to read the first file.


As if it was not enough with the density of the workload, now they would also call in a translator? Soner began to shout silent swears to the sending firm, though there wasn’t a clear firm name on the envelope. Which enterprise would be so frivolous?

“Well!” Yes, this was written by Latin alphabet, but whoever had written it must have just walked over the keyboard. Making of no meaning from the randomly typed letters, Soner thought he was about to lose his mind. What the hell was this? Some sort of encryption?

Losing his hope, he grabbed the third file as well. If this one also involved meaningless writing, he would throw them all to the trash! Fortunately, his guess was wrong this time. There was one sentence in the entire paper and that sentence was the first meaningful one of the files:

“Do not try to make sense of the previous files.”

“Well, I didn’t!” said Soner, wondering why he left his hot tea behind and read these. He grabbed the next file.

“I meant do not try to make sense of the Russian one. There is no Russian words there, it is just random letters.”

Soner had a trembling moment. He indeed intended to call in a translation for the first file. He put this one too among the ones he had read and checked the next file.

“You may be surprised but this does not mean that every file has only one sentence.” He thought what this meant, but then he understood. It meant that he should check back of the previous file as well. Then something hit him; whoever had written these, they knew, or had guessed, that he wouldn’t check the back of the fourth file.

He lifted the paper as if it was a bomb.

“I am happy that you understood that I understand.”

Soner was talking to either a master oracle, or a wizard, or a psychology genius. “If they know what I can think at each step, they can only be one of these three.”

Then he immediately flipped the back of the fifth file.

“I am not an oracle. I am not a Wizard either. I am not a psychologist, and no at all a genius.”

At that moment, the only think in Soner’s mind was to set all the files on fire.

What was written in the next file was this:

“If you damage the files I sent, you can never find out what will happen to you.”

Soner thought he has gone mad, and if he had, he had to continue the game, right?

“Well,” he said, “Then tell me what will happen to me.” He grabbed the sixth file and threw it away quickly. In the seventh file it said:

“You’ll lose everything you have.

Note: you are not crazy.”

“Everything I have?” What the hell does it mean now? The only think Soner knew was that he was not ready to lose. He loved his life. Slowly, he grabbed the eighth file.

“You’ll lose your name, your title, you job and you wife. You’ll lose everything you thought that belonged to you, but indeed didn’t. You say you love your life, but life is not only about your job or other similar things. Just like your id and your body is not who you are.”

Soner tried to make sense of these words. Yes, he was not talking to an oracle or a wizard, the man he was talking to could only be a wise man who understood the deep secrets of the life.

“Leave your prejudices behind and come to the address written on the envelope, and I’ll teach what you really are and what your life really is.”

“No, thanks!” shouted Soner. The fact that he was impressed did not mean that he would go to an unknown address alone. No one could guarantee him that a mental wouldn’t be there waiting for him.

“Shame. You’re afraid of the things to be harmed that already don’t belong to you. You see them your purpose, Soner. But know this:

The sentence was left unfinished. Soner checked the back of the file, it was empty. “He can’t blame me because I didn’t want to go there. If he is that wise, he could teach me who I am here.”

“… what life is cannot be taught, only you can find it. By searching. You’ll lose everything one by one Soner.”

“Oof!” said Soner, “Enough with you! When I have numerous emails to answer and a lot of files to handle, I read this crap. Can’t deal with it, I have work to do, goodbye!” He threw all the files to the trash.

Other work that made him feel very tired normally began to become pleasing. By late afternoon, all the work was done. Soner got out to the balcony, lit his cigarette. Soon, he would say goodbye to Mr Deniz and leave. Reach home, to his Serra.

Before leaving the work, he sighed finding out that Mr Deniz had left for home in the afternoon. “One should be a boss in this life” he said. “He is his own boss, of course he’ll leave whenever he wants… And what do we do apart from spending the half of the day to modern slavery?”

Mummering, he began to wonder. He got back upstairs, checked the trash and found the address on the envelope. It was the address of a village cemetery about half an hour far from the city centre.

Sighed and “He just made it up thinking I would go and check it…” he thought. However, if he had taken out the last page which he never read, he would see that it read: “You will regret not believing in these writings and not reading this file.”

He left the building, got to his mid-class car and began to drive in the north-south direction highway. If he wanted to go to the village, he must have gone straight ahead, but he took a right on the third turn as he wanted to go home. Seeing a peaceful light traffic instead of the rush hour intensity, he felt joyous again. He stopped in front of the florist shop on the side of the road.

It had only been five minutes since he hit the road. If he had decided to go to the village, he would still be on the highway, going on the same direction.

The possibilities… they were the breaking point of the ordinariness.

“Can I get a single red rose for my wife please?”

“Sure!” said the florist. Carefully tied a bow to a fresh rose and gave it to his him and sent this familiar customer whom he had seen a few times before off. Soner felt like a king after this attention.

Dreaming about the face of Serra, a warm smile flew around his lips. So, he drew his car at the highest speed possible not exceeding the limits. When he entered the parking lot of the site he lives in, it had only been 20 minutes since he left his workplace. While taking off his licenced pistol which disturbed his back and put it into its box in the car “Good that I didn’t go to that village” he thought. “I would have just seen the city border sign.” 

He didn’t ring the bell not to ruin the surprise. He opened both the building door and his apartment’s door where the lift reached in seconds. He got inside quietly. The house was quiet, apart from the hoarse, indistinct laughter and conversation sounds coming from behind a closed door. “The bedroom” he said for the source of the sound, listening carefully, “My love watches series again in the bed.”

He placed his hand on the door handle of their private room. Took a deep breath and counted to three. Opening the door shouting “Surpriii…” his vocal cords stopped working. The letter “Z” ran back to his throat. The rose in his hand fell on the ground.

Serra… The beautiful Serra blushed with remorse; hugged the naked body of Deniz a little more.

“Explain” Soner could only say. His tongue was refusing to move inside his mouth, his eyes were crying out to blur this disgusting image. “I am ready to believe!” he shouted. “Make an excuse no matter how stupid it is, tell me you didn’t cheat on me Serra!”

Even though he had a mocking expression on his face, Deniz was afraid that this furious husband could shoot him. He stood up and began to get dressed saying no words. Meanwhile the husband was looking with his bloodshot eyes and the wife was covering herself with the blanket.

When Deniz got dressed completely and was about to pass through the door, Soner held him on the neck and pin the stocky guy to the wall. Upon this, a scream came from the bed: “Don’t!”

“Shut up!” said the man going crazy. “How could you do this to me? Not ashamed to smile at my face, sleeping with me? I still love you, still can’t put the blame on you!”

He felt dizzy. The letters on the broadsheets were wandering around in his mind. When he felt he lost all his power, “do what the hell ever you want” he said and slammed the door. Getting of the lift, his knees were trembling.

Reopening the driver’s door he opened half an hour ago, he now knew where he wanted to go. If he had thought on the address, he would remember that it was the cemetery where his mother rested. If he had gone there directly, he would have arrived in the cemetery at the moment he held the door handle the second time. He would have seen a guard shack there. He would find an old computer, keyboard and printer there. If he had checked carefully, he would find the empty envelopes in the dusty drawer. He would understand that those random letters, weird messages were prepared here.

He would linger around for half an hour. When he checked the keyboard, the colour of which became invisible due to the dirt, he would see some Cyrillic letters. He would try to remember whether or not keyboards were produced in Old Soviet countries and then pass it as he had no idea. Half an hour later after he arrived the cemetery, he would hear a high-pitched engine sound. He would get out of the shack and see his own car in shock. Thinking it was an auto-theft, he would look inside the window and see himself: a Soner whose collar fell apart, face swollen and eyes crimson red… he would first be scared, but then his curiosity would take over. He would approach to the idling car and demand for himself to open the window.

“Explain” would say the normal Soner to the devastated one.

“It is over!” would shout the man in the car, “Your wife is cheating on you with your boss, they are all dirtbags, your life is over!”

The Soner outside would try to understand these words, he would leave the side of the car with no reaction because of the shock and enter back into the shack. He would notice that he had even lost his name. “If the other man is Soner, then Who am I?” he would ask himself. First, he would believe that he has gone mad, but then he would understand. The possibilities… The possibilities had torn him into pieces.

When he would enter into the shack the second time, he would move the mouse of the computer. He would notice that a saved file came out and he would be surprised. When he would open the file, he would see that there were random letters, writing and messages there.

Maybe Soner would come to the village not today but yesterday, before getting the envelope. To visit his mother… then he would notice the empty guard shack. Noticing that the computer is on, he would be surprised like today, and create a Word file and begin writing thinking “How would I react?” First, he would notice that the computer was set to work with Cyrillic alphabet, press the letters randomly, then correct the settings, type randomly with Latin alphabet, then in the third page, explain that the first two pages have no meaning, and so on…

After printing what he wrote, he would hide his ID and post it to his workplace, to himself without a name on it. Wandering what would happen, he wouldn’t go back to his house that night. He would inform his wife and spend the night in the cemetery with no guard, next to the soil covering his mother’s body.

He would wake up late afternoon the other day. With the dizziness of sleeping for about twenty-four hours, he would sit up, look around. He would relax seeing his car. First, he would crawl a little, then he would stand up and walk, and anger would replace the comfort seeing the stranger in his car.

He would feel backpain, so he would notice that his pistol was still there. The well-educated Soner who had never even got involved in a street fight would sleepily grab this killing metal. Seeing the man across also going for his gone, he would understand that he is in an armed conflict. He would use this device for the first time.

The one next to the gravestone would kill the one in the car. The one in the car on the other hand had already killed the one by the gravestone. The one in the shack would come out, see the deaths and kill himself taking out the gun in his waist.

Soner could not go back home. Soner had not gone back home. Soner would not go back home. There also wasn’t a body there because the possibilities had killed one another.

The other day, Deniz woke up yawning. He kissed his Serra, his second spring he could meet after years in the cheek and got ready. On his way to work, he was thinking about setting a meeting with HR department. He wanted to renew the ad for the manager post as there hasn’t been a convenient candidate for a long time.

Entering his workplace, he noticed an envelope on his desk. On top of it, there was a note that read “To be responded today!” There was no sender. Deniz walked through the envelope and torn it open and saw a lot of files.

Took one out. “A lot to do today,” he thought. “Wish we had hired a linguist here, now we’ll have to call in someone speaking Russian?”