Aydin Reyhan
Collision Magazine (collision.pitt@gmail.com)
This literary magazine is run by students at the University of Pittsburgh.
Analysis: The editors of this journal accept the works of poetry, prose, literary criticism, and visual art/photography. The essays should be a decent length (not too long or short) and catch the reader’s eye. It needs to stand out more than the others. If one has already been published in this magazine, they are encouraged to attempt to do so again.
Prose: No more than 3000 words for this type of work should be sent in. Creative non-fiction prose includes the personal essay, narrative, travel piece, and profile.
My story fits in the prose section of this site. The one I would submit is “The Field,” which is about the soccer game I attended. It is my first “eye” essay. It is a descriptive travel piece, being that I described what was in my sight in Philadelphia at the game. My experiences that I heard with my ears and saw with my own two eyes are all in there. Therefore, the purpose of this piece is intended to be read by an audience that loves sports and traveling. Also, I want the audience to experience the same emotions I did when at the game. The roar of the crowd, the goals, the arguments, and competition between the two nations is what should be understood or thought about. That is all crucially important.
Representatives Essays
Subject Matter: The prose dominates the journal. They are written in a narrative voice. They are all written from a personal perspective of things they see, hear, and touch. There is even a bit of dialogue. None of the writings have anything to do with sports. Therefore, mine would be a unique addition.
Voice/Tone: There is no humor or political commentary, just serious reflection. Writers present their experiences from their lives as if they are telling us in person.
Form: This is mostly written in experimental form. After every sentence, they begin at a new line, even if it is not the beginning of a new paragraph. The grammar seems not to be corrected in some of the pieces so I do not know if it was done on purpose or not. There is one poem where the writing is small and placed on different spots of the page, as opposed to putting it all in one long form line by line.
Artistry: They are all quite literary and narrative. However, they are not too journalistic. None of the pieces seemed to have been taken out of a journal of any sort. Some describe important scenes from their lives with words that fit perfectly within.
Gift for a Fifth Child was written by Lawrence Lenhart of the University of Pittsburgh.
http://collision.honorscollege.pitt.edu/pdf/Collision11.pdf
Page 7
It is a story about an Irish family that has a house with a lot of history behind it. The main character takes the keys of the house after attending the funeral of the owner, John. The description of the inside of the house has a meaning behind it all. The author takes us through each part of the house and gives us a taste of what occurred within. John had promised to give the priest a hat but had to break it since he promised it to the main character. The imagery, voice, and description gives me the vision of the entirety of the story. It’s a quick yet interesting read.
Length: Some of the prose pieces are 3-4 pages while the poetry is no more than 1-2.
Number of Pieces Accepted: 14 per publication (Prose and Poetry)
Pay: 1st Prize-$250
2nd Prize-$135
3rd Prize-$100
Cover-$100
Manuscript requirements: All written work should be sent in a .doc document. The author’s name should not be included within the document of the submitted work. With the attached material, your name, contact info, and school name should be included in the body of the e-mail. One must be an undergraduate in order to submit his/her work.
There are no reading dates.
They are willing to provide feedback for the essays that are submitted by students.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Blog 21-Craft essay
Craft Essay
For the past three months, we have evolved as writers within the creative non-fiction genre. I the beginning, it was just a class to take with the hope of earning an A and learning a bit. However, the realization that there’s much more than that struck almost instantaneously.
At first, my writing was solely regarding the world of sports, soccer to be particular. My goal is to become a soccer writer within the near future after graduating college. Blogging, watching games, analyzing, and thoroughly describing my views and thoughts on the game is what soccer writing is all about. Making the switch to creative non-fiction for the class room was a bit difficult after an entire summer of sports writing. Every story was written from my perspective.
My first creative non-fiction piece was about the time I experienced my first car accident. The goal of that particular work was to tell the story from start to finish. No imagery or philosophy was intended to be written. I explained in chronological order what had happened at the time. The intended audience for that piece would be people who have had similar experiences that could relate to me. The story was written in organized form, moving from one paragraph to the next. It was directly to the point from start to finish which allowed it to develop along as it went.
Next up was the story on the family business. Transition swayed throughout the entire piece as there would be dialogue and description playing off one another. Whether it was having an issue with a customer or not wishing to follow my parents’ orders to make two pizza pies, it was all clear. It wasn’t as organized as the first piece because of the transitioning. Some paragraphs would be longer than others. The idea was to give my ideal audience of people who have worked/owned restaurants the first hand experience of what my family and I go through. However, for this story, I may have not put it in the best order. I could have made it a tad more exciting if I didn’t rush through writing the piece.
My third and fourth pieces were about the inside of a packed stadium at a live soccer match and travelling to Turkey respectively. Both were organized in the same way as the first one. The Field showed my experience at my first ever showdown between Turkey and the USA. I would transition between game play and the dialogue occurring with me and the other fans all around the stadium in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The audiences that I would imagine enjoying the read are fans of international soccer. The language and dialogue within my story are what occurred at the game. It’s an experience I will never wish to forget.
The travel piece on the differences between Turkey and the USA is probably my favorite one of all. I wrote it out straight through for the rough draft. From playing video games in the United States to kicking a rubber round ball in the dirt, the differences of these two nations are certainly there. For the revised draft, I took my time and made a few changes here and there to make it even better than it was. For people who would like to find out what it is like to travel to Turkey, that story is a must read. The imagery, metaphors, and easy description mixed altogether are what defined the piece.
Throughout this semester, I experimented with different types of stories in different ways. I really had to force my way out of my comfort zone in order to do the job right. The language was all straightforward within all four of my works. I wrote the stories and descriptions the way I know them. The ethics of my representations are certainly acceptable. No one was intended to be offended by any of my stories. They were written for the purpose of learning and enjoying the words on the screen.
My process definitely changed and grew throughout this semester in the ways that I learned more about organization, imagery, ethics, craft, and of course the idea of focus. The last one was difficult because I usually like to jump around to write the story as the thoughts pop into my head. However, I learned how to organize my thoughts and write them down as they fit in the best order.
Writing creative non-fiction has been a wonderful journey for me to take part in. From beginning solely as a sports writer, I grew into someone who can write about different, new, and interesting subjects that will not only attract sports fans but people who deal with everyday situations. Owning a restaurant, watching a sporting event, traveling, and experiencing accidental events are all parts of my life that I was finally able to write about. Even if it is just a tiny bit, my writing process certainly did improve throughout the semester as I was finally able to shift from sports writing. The tools I picked up in this class are ones I will never forget. Thank you for reading.
For the past three months, we have evolved as writers within the creative non-fiction genre. I the beginning, it was just a class to take with the hope of earning an A and learning a bit. However, the realization that there’s much more than that struck almost instantaneously.
At first, my writing was solely regarding the world of sports, soccer to be particular. My goal is to become a soccer writer within the near future after graduating college. Blogging, watching games, analyzing, and thoroughly describing my views and thoughts on the game is what soccer writing is all about. Making the switch to creative non-fiction for the class room was a bit difficult after an entire summer of sports writing. Every story was written from my perspective.
My first creative non-fiction piece was about the time I experienced my first car accident. The goal of that particular work was to tell the story from start to finish. No imagery or philosophy was intended to be written. I explained in chronological order what had happened at the time. The intended audience for that piece would be people who have had similar experiences that could relate to me. The story was written in organized form, moving from one paragraph to the next. It was directly to the point from start to finish which allowed it to develop along as it went.
Next up was the story on the family business. Transition swayed throughout the entire piece as there would be dialogue and description playing off one another. Whether it was having an issue with a customer or not wishing to follow my parents’ orders to make two pizza pies, it was all clear. It wasn’t as organized as the first piece because of the transitioning. Some paragraphs would be longer than others. The idea was to give my ideal audience of people who have worked/owned restaurants the first hand experience of what my family and I go through. However, for this story, I may have not put it in the best order. I could have made it a tad more exciting if I didn’t rush through writing the piece.
My third and fourth pieces were about the inside of a packed stadium at a live soccer match and travelling to Turkey respectively. Both were organized in the same way as the first one. The Field showed my experience at my first ever showdown between Turkey and the USA. I would transition between game play and the dialogue occurring with me and the other fans all around the stadium in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The audiences that I would imagine enjoying the read are fans of international soccer. The language and dialogue within my story are what occurred at the game. It’s an experience I will never wish to forget.
The travel piece on the differences between Turkey and the USA is probably my favorite one of all. I wrote it out straight through for the rough draft. From playing video games in the United States to kicking a rubber round ball in the dirt, the differences of these two nations are certainly there. For the revised draft, I took my time and made a few changes here and there to make it even better than it was. For people who would like to find out what it is like to travel to Turkey, that story is a must read. The imagery, metaphors, and easy description mixed altogether are what defined the piece.
Throughout this semester, I experimented with different types of stories in different ways. I really had to force my way out of my comfort zone in order to do the job right. The language was all straightforward within all four of my works. I wrote the stories and descriptions the way I know them. The ethics of my representations are certainly acceptable. No one was intended to be offended by any of my stories. They were written for the purpose of learning and enjoying the words on the screen.
My process definitely changed and grew throughout this semester in the ways that I learned more about organization, imagery, ethics, craft, and of course the idea of focus. The last one was difficult because I usually like to jump around to write the story as the thoughts pop into my head. However, I learned how to organize my thoughts and write them down as they fit in the best order.
Writing creative non-fiction has been a wonderful journey for me to take part in. From beginning solely as a sports writer, I grew into someone who can write about different, new, and interesting subjects that will not only attract sports fans but people who deal with everyday situations. Owning a restaurant, watching a sporting event, traveling, and experiencing accidental events are all parts of my life that I was finally able to write about. Even if it is just a tiny bit, my writing process certainly did improve throughout the semester as I was finally able to shift from sports writing. The tools I picked up in this class are ones I will never forget. Thank you for reading.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Revised "Eye" Essay
Aydin Reyhan
Creative Non-Fiction
Clashing Cultures
The TV, PC, PS3, heater and AC are the items that I most appreciate in my room. The silver Honda Civic on my driveway is what takes me away from my fortress to travel to palces where I can escape the electronic adventures. The roads are paved to perfection for a smooth drive with stop signs, red lights, yield signs, and speed limits controlling my actions. Dunkin Donuts, McDonalds, Applebee’s, and BP’s are our designated stops on our way throughout our journey. Ladies and gentlemen, this is America, the good old USn’A. We are used to this as most of us were born into this nation of freedom. So when we leave the country, we wonder what lies beyond.
I wake up to a black, metallic stove with a sliding mini-door which protects us from the burning fire wood. It’s the source of heat in the mountainous area of Turkey. No air conditioner, heater, or central air system. It is old fashioned.
A couch with beautiful flowers sewn unto its cushions is my bed. The hard wooden floor is painted brown to add a bit of spice to the all white room. The two big windows split me from the beautiful green grass that leads to a path to the top of the mountains in Rize, Turkey.
My aunt and uncle are sitting on the couch with a tiny table in front of them. Two cups of tea rest on the top while they converse in Turkish about the weather. My uncle is swinging a string holding roughly 33 beads that are tied in a 6 inch circle; prayer beads. It’s a religious custom to swing the beads right after a prayer but he likes to do it throughout the day for good luck.
The TV is on but no one is watching. It’s as if we left it on so there would never be a moment of silence whenever we choose to stay silent.
At home in Jersey, my parents are sitting at the dining room table conversing while watching the TV. It’s as if they are all attempting to speak over one another. My siblings are in their rooms while I am upstairs in my lonesome typing, watching TV, or simply thinking. We all split up as if we are on a group mission. It’s difficult to remember the last time we had a family dinner.
In Rize, we are always together in the kitchen/dining room. We talk, eat, drink, and sit together just to keep each other company. No internet, cell phone, or video games. We only have each other.
As I walk outside, the forty concrete steps descend to a dirt filled ground with rocks to compliment it. There is nothing but brick houses surrounded by a plethora of green trees in the distance. The country side of Turkey is like a prison for a city lover from the United States.
Women with scarves covering their hair hold the hands of their children walk on the dirt roads to their neighbor’s so they could have a cup of the famous tea while their children kick a size four rubber ball around. Pick-up trucks rumble as they roam throughout the country side spewing gas and smoke with their shocks battling the olden roads.
It breaks my heart to see all of these people fake smiles while here in the states I complain about the smallest of things. It honestly puts things into perspective.
Bottled water, Gatorade, and even alcohol can be bought at a local Quick Check or Wal-Mart in the states. Out there, it’s a relief just to get to a local convenience/grocery store.
The silver Mitsubishi 4x4 looks like an ordinary American pick-up truck on the outside, but from the inside, it’s a different story. Nothing but dirt roads and trees for a thirty minute drive to the inner city of Rize seems like a life time. Not moving any faster than 40 mph, it’s a bumpy ride. Men and women are on the sides of the dirt track with big bags of green tea leaves on their backs. They are marching like soldiers; staring straight ahead and not letting anyone/anything distract them.
We enter the city. It’s as if we crossed the border from a surrounding country. Buildings, paved roads, restaurants, and convenience stores surround us as we cruise on the main street. There are two grocery stores that within 300 feet of each other. It seems like a miracle.
In certain parts of New Jersey, it takes two minutes to hop onto Route 22. There, the giant buildings full of the goods we crave await our presence. It couldn’t be easier to get to our destination. In Turkey, it’s like a never ending journey to get to the city. Most of the province is country like; trees, mountains, brick houses, and mosques all over. It seems like the perfect fit for someone from Montana but could be unbearable for someone from Manhattan.
One of the sounds I hear as while sitting in the kitchen next to the fire-wood powered stove is a man singing into a megaphone. He does this 5 times a day, signaling that the time has come for prayer. It is three minutes long but absolutely soothing. The sound of his voice magically stops everyone from what they are doing to prepare for their prayer to God. This type of religious action is disallowed in the United States. We call it a free country but it’s only free if we follow the rules.
Standing on a small carpet with a picture of a mosque on it, I stand tall with my eyes staring straight ahead while covering my left hand with my right hand and resting them on my stomach. We all do this while facing the direction of the Kabah; where every single Muslim faithful prays towards to prove their love and loyalty to God. In America, people travel to churches, temples, or synagogues to pray. There is no man singing a prayer into a microphone.
McDonald’s and Burger King have the most famous American foods; the Big Mac and Whopper respectively. Those restaurants could be found almost anywhere. In Turkey, these places do not exist as much because food is a specialty.
As I look into the window, the Gyro is spinning around on its metal pole with the Kebab, rice, and salad being prepared delicately nearby. Chemicals do not exist near this delectable meal. The butter milk is poured into a tall, clear thin glass that is aligned with the fork, spoon, and knife. My mouth begins to water as my eyes and nose are teased with its delectable scent and appearance.
People sit on the streets with ripped clothing while polishing upper classmen’s shoes. Sweat drips from their faces while they stroke the brushes like zombies. “Hey buddy, I’ll give you one dollar to clean my shoes, and make it quick.”
The 12-15 year old child covered in dirt from head to toe nods his head and begins his job without breathing a word. It is absolutely degrading to see something like this. As an American, I can’t imagine this occurring on our streets in the US.
Some women walk about with scarves covering their heads and clothing covering their entire bodies. Here in the US, some women dress freely, covering only half of their bodies up while allowing the other half to be gazed upon by desperate men.
Football, Basketball, Baseball, and Hockey are what dominate the streets, fields, and courts in our nation. Overseas, Soccer is played on the streets, fields, and indoors.
Young children set up two goals made of trash cans and run around, attempting to kick a plastic ball in between the badly scented grayish cans. Mothers gaze down from the windows of their apartments to inform their children that dinner will be ready in five minutes. Even though their homes are thirty feet up, the wind guides the delicious scent my way. Turkish tea, rice, and freshly baked bread fill my nostrils.
The United States is where I was proudly born into. The city, lights, and pollution are part of who I am. However, sometimes even in the city, I smell the burning firewood and I close my eyes. The dirt road, trees, mountains, and brick houses automatically appear in my mind’s eye. It’s not the city, but it truly does feel like home.
Creative Non-Fiction
Clashing Cultures
The TV, PC, PS3, heater and AC are the items that I most appreciate in my room. The silver Honda Civic on my driveway is what takes me away from my fortress to travel to palces where I can escape the electronic adventures. The roads are paved to perfection for a smooth drive with stop signs, red lights, yield signs, and speed limits controlling my actions. Dunkin Donuts, McDonalds, Applebee’s, and BP’s are our designated stops on our way throughout our journey. Ladies and gentlemen, this is America, the good old USn’A. We are used to this as most of us were born into this nation of freedom. So when we leave the country, we wonder what lies beyond.
I wake up to a black, metallic stove with a sliding mini-door which protects us from the burning fire wood. It’s the source of heat in the mountainous area of Turkey. No air conditioner, heater, or central air system. It is old fashioned.
A couch with beautiful flowers sewn unto its cushions is my bed. The hard wooden floor is painted brown to add a bit of spice to the all white room. The two big windows split me from the beautiful green grass that leads to a path to the top of the mountains in Rize, Turkey.
My aunt and uncle are sitting on the couch with a tiny table in front of them. Two cups of tea rest on the top while they converse in Turkish about the weather. My uncle is swinging a string holding roughly 33 beads that are tied in a 6 inch circle; prayer beads. It’s a religious custom to swing the beads right after a prayer but he likes to do it throughout the day for good luck.
The TV is on but no one is watching. It’s as if we left it on so there would never be a moment of silence whenever we choose to stay silent.
At home in Jersey, my parents are sitting at the dining room table conversing while watching the TV. It’s as if they are all attempting to speak over one another. My siblings are in their rooms while I am upstairs in my lonesome typing, watching TV, or simply thinking. We all split up as if we are on a group mission. It’s difficult to remember the last time we had a family dinner.
In Rize, we are always together in the kitchen/dining room. We talk, eat, drink, and sit together just to keep each other company. No internet, cell phone, or video games. We only have each other.
As I walk outside, the forty concrete steps descend to a dirt filled ground with rocks to compliment it. There is nothing but brick houses surrounded by a plethora of green trees in the distance. The country side of Turkey is like a prison for a city lover from the United States.
Women with scarves covering their hair hold the hands of their children walk on the dirt roads to their neighbor’s so they could have a cup of the famous tea while their children kick a size four rubber ball around. Pick-up trucks rumble as they roam throughout the country side spewing gas and smoke with their shocks battling the olden roads.
It breaks my heart to see all of these people fake smiles while here in the states I complain about the smallest of things. It honestly puts things into perspective.
Bottled water, Gatorade, and even alcohol can be bought at a local Quick Check or Wal-Mart in the states. Out there, it’s a relief just to get to a local convenience/grocery store.
The silver Mitsubishi 4x4 looks like an ordinary American pick-up truck on the outside, but from the inside, it’s a different story. Nothing but dirt roads and trees for a thirty minute drive to the inner city of Rize seems like a life time. Not moving any faster than 40 mph, it’s a bumpy ride. Men and women are on the sides of the dirt track with big bags of green tea leaves on their backs. They are marching like soldiers; staring straight ahead and not letting anyone/anything distract them.
We enter the city. It’s as if we crossed the border from a surrounding country. Buildings, paved roads, restaurants, and convenience stores surround us as we cruise on the main street. There are two grocery stores that within 300 feet of each other. It seems like a miracle.
In certain parts of New Jersey, it takes two minutes to hop onto Route 22. There, the giant buildings full of the goods we crave await our presence. It couldn’t be easier to get to our destination. In Turkey, it’s like a never ending journey to get to the city. Most of the province is country like; trees, mountains, brick houses, and mosques all over. It seems like the perfect fit for someone from Montana but could be unbearable for someone from Manhattan.
One of the sounds I hear as while sitting in the kitchen next to the fire-wood powered stove is a man singing into a megaphone. He does this 5 times a day, signaling that the time has come for prayer. It is three minutes long but absolutely soothing. The sound of his voice magically stops everyone from what they are doing to prepare for their prayer to God. This type of religious action is disallowed in the United States. We call it a free country but it’s only free if we follow the rules.
Standing on a small carpet with a picture of a mosque on it, I stand tall with my eyes staring straight ahead while covering my left hand with my right hand and resting them on my stomach. We all do this while facing the direction of the Kabah; where every single Muslim faithful prays towards to prove their love and loyalty to God. In America, people travel to churches, temples, or synagogues to pray. There is no man singing a prayer into a microphone.
McDonald’s and Burger King have the most famous American foods; the Big Mac and Whopper respectively. Those restaurants could be found almost anywhere. In Turkey, these places do not exist as much because food is a specialty.
As I look into the window, the Gyro is spinning around on its metal pole with the Kebab, rice, and salad being prepared delicately nearby. Chemicals do not exist near this delectable meal. The butter milk is poured into a tall, clear thin glass that is aligned with the fork, spoon, and knife. My mouth begins to water as my eyes and nose are teased with its delectable scent and appearance.
People sit on the streets with ripped clothing while polishing upper classmen’s shoes. Sweat drips from their faces while they stroke the brushes like zombies. “Hey buddy, I’ll give you one dollar to clean my shoes, and make it quick.”
The 12-15 year old child covered in dirt from head to toe nods his head and begins his job without breathing a word. It is absolutely degrading to see something like this. As an American, I can’t imagine this occurring on our streets in the US.
Some women walk about with scarves covering their heads and clothing covering their entire bodies. Here in the US, some women dress freely, covering only half of their bodies up while allowing the other half to be gazed upon by desperate men.
Football, Basketball, Baseball, and Hockey are what dominate the streets, fields, and courts in our nation. Overseas, Soccer is played on the streets, fields, and indoors.
Young children set up two goals made of trash cans and run around, attempting to kick a plastic ball in between the badly scented grayish cans. Mothers gaze down from the windows of their apartments to inform their children that dinner will be ready in five minutes. Even though their homes are thirty feet up, the wind guides the delicious scent my way. Turkish tea, rice, and freshly baked bread fill my nostrils.
The United States is where I was proudly born into. The city, lights, and pollution are part of who I am. However, sometimes even in the city, I smell the burning firewood and I close my eyes. The dirt road, trees, mountains, and brick houses automatically appear in my mind’s eye. It’s not the city, but it truly does feel like home.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Like My Work
The journals that will like my work are the ones that are filled with a variety. I have written about sports, countries, and my experiences within each. I could improve a bit in each different occasion, but I think its all a good start. Imagery, emotion, and dialogue are all in different portions of my writing. There is a bit of comedy and drama in my writing. Also, there is plenty of description.
Poetic journals will not have a place for my writing but ones that enjoy creative non-fiction prose. Ones that have 3-4 page essays that take readers into a new, different direction. Ii do not know the names of these journals, but surely they exist.
Poetic journals will not have a place for my writing but ones that enjoy creative non-fiction prose. Ones that have 3-4 page essays that take readers into a new, different direction. Ii do not know the names of these journals, but surely they exist.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Rhetorical Analysis
Aydin Reyhan
Collision Magazine (collision.pitt@gmail.com)
Analysis: The editors of this journal accept the works of poetry, prose, literary criticism, and visual art/photography. The essays should be a decent length (not too long or short) and catch the reader’s eye. It needs to stand out more than the others. If one has already been published in this magazine, they are encouraged to attempt to do so again.
Poetry: One may send up to 5 poems at a time. All styles and forms are accepted. If it is an imitation, the name of the author should be included.
Prose: No more than 3000 words for this type of work should be sent in. Creative non-fiction prose includes the personal essay, narrative, travel piece, and profile.
Literary Criticism: Send a literary critical essay of no more than 3000 words. All essays must consider contemporary literature ("contemporary," in this case, means anything written within the past twenty years); or, if the essay considers older works, authors, or movements, there must be some connection made to the contemporary.
Visual Arts and Photography: Send up to 10 pieces in .jpg or .jpgs format. Visual art may include uploaded versions of photographs, sketches, paintings, or comics.
My story fits in the prose section of this site. The one I will or would submit is “The Field,” which is about the soccer game I attended. It is my first “eye” essay. It is somewhat a travel piece being that I traveled to Philadelphia to watch the game. My experiences that I heard with my ears and saw with my own two eyes are all in there. Therefore, The purpose of this piece is intended to be read by an audience that loves sports and traveling. Also, I want the audience to feel the same emotions I did when at the game. The roar of the crowd, the goals, the arguments, and competition between the two nations is what should be understood or thought about. That is all crucially important.
Representatives Essays
Subject Matter: The prose and poetry dominate the journal. They are written in a narrative voice. They are all written from a personal perspective of things they see, hear, and touch. There is even a bit of dialogue. None of the writings have anything to do with sports. Therefore, mine would be a unique addition.
Voice/Tone: There is no humor or political commentary, just serious reflection. Writers present their experiences from their lives as if they are telling us in person.
Form: The journal chose to put prose before poetry. After every sentence, they begin at a new line, even if it is not the beginning of a new paragraph. The poetry is short but very descriptive. The grammar seems not to be corrected in some of the pieces so I do not know if it was done on purpose or not. There is one poem where the writing is small and placed on different spots of the page, as opposed to putting it all in one long form line by line.
Artistry: They are all quite literary and narrative. However, they are not too journalistic. None of the pieces seemed to have been taken out of a journal of any sort. Some describe important scenes from their lives with words that fit perfectly within.
Length: Some of the prose pieces are 3-4 pages while the poetry is no more than 1-2.
Number of Pieces Accepted: 14 per publication (Prose and Poetry)
Pay: 1st Prize-$250
2nd Prize-$135
3rd Prize-$100
Cover-$100
Manuscript requirements: All written work should be sent in a .doc document. The author’s name should not be included within the document of the submitted work. With the attached material, your name, contact info, and school name should be included in the body of the e-mail. One must be an undergraduate in order to submit his/her work.
There are no reading dates.
Collision Magazine (collision.pitt@gmail.com)
Analysis: The editors of this journal accept the works of poetry, prose, literary criticism, and visual art/photography. The essays should be a decent length (not too long or short) and catch the reader’s eye. It needs to stand out more than the others. If one has already been published in this magazine, they are encouraged to attempt to do so again.
Poetry: One may send up to 5 poems at a time. All styles and forms are accepted. If it is an imitation, the name of the author should be included.
Prose: No more than 3000 words for this type of work should be sent in. Creative non-fiction prose includes the personal essay, narrative, travel piece, and profile.
Literary Criticism: Send a literary critical essay of no more than 3000 words. All essays must consider contemporary literature ("contemporary," in this case, means anything written within the past twenty years); or, if the essay considers older works, authors, or movements, there must be some connection made to the contemporary.
Visual Arts and Photography: Send up to 10 pieces in .jpg or .jpgs format. Visual art may include uploaded versions of photographs, sketches, paintings, or comics.
My story fits in the prose section of this site. The one I will or would submit is “The Field,” which is about the soccer game I attended. It is my first “eye” essay. It is somewhat a travel piece being that I traveled to Philadelphia to watch the game. My experiences that I heard with my ears and saw with my own two eyes are all in there. Therefore, The purpose of this piece is intended to be read by an audience that loves sports and traveling. Also, I want the audience to feel the same emotions I did when at the game. The roar of the crowd, the goals, the arguments, and competition between the two nations is what should be understood or thought about. That is all crucially important.
Representatives Essays
Subject Matter: The prose and poetry dominate the journal. They are written in a narrative voice. They are all written from a personal perspective of things they see, hear, and touch. There is even a bit of dialogue. None of the writings have anything to do with sports. Therefore, mine would be a unique addition.
Voice/Tone: There is no humor or political commentary, just serious reflection. Writers present their experiences from their lives as if they are telling us in person.
Form: The journal chose to put prose before poetry. After every sentence, they begin at a new line, even if it is not the beginning of a new paragraph. The poetry is short but very descriptive. The grammar seems not to be corrected in some of the pieces so I do not know if it was done on purpose or not. There is one poem where the writing is small and placed on different spots of the page, as opposed to putting it all in one long form line by line.
Artistry: They are all quite literary and narrative. However, they are not too journalistic. None of the pieces seemed to have been taken out of a journal of any sort. Some describe important scenes from their lives with words that fit perfectly within.
Length: Some of the prose pieces are 3-4 pages while the poetry is no more than 1-2.
Number of Pieces Accepted: 14 per publication (Prose and Poetry)
Pay: 1st Prize-$250
2nd Prize-$135
3rd Prize-$100
Cover-$100
Manuscript requirements: All written work should be sent in a .doc document. The author’s name should not be included within the document of the submitted work. With the attached material, your name, contact info, and school name should be included in the body of the e-mail. One must be an undergraduate in order to submit his/her work.
There are no reading dates.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Blog 18- Revision of Essay 2 "The Family Business"
Aydin Reyhan
The Family Business
In 1993, my father purchased what would turn out to be his most successful business ever, Maria’s Restaurant and Pizzeria. He began with the goal of turning an ugly place with an unfavorable style into something that would fit his talent perfectly. It took some time, but after 18 years, it is safe to say that it is truly a beautiful, remarkable, and delectable place to eat.
“Aydin! I need two cheese pies and an order of garlic knots to go, pronto,” my mother ordered.
“What the fuck!? I just got here. I don’t want to make that shit now. I don’t even want to be here,” I whined back.
It was one of those days in mid 2011 when I let everyone around me know--including the observing customers--I simply didn’t want to be there. I know it’s disrespectful to curse when speaking to parents, but sometimes it just slips out, and I chose not control my urge.
“Aydin! Don’t make me tell your father,” she threatened.
“Go ahead! I don’t give a rat’s ass,” I rudely replied.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents more than anything and anyone, but at Maria’s, I tend to lose myself. After a long day at school, going into the store to finish off the second half of my day by doing something I absolutely hate annoys me. The food, personnel, and even most of the customers are a delight, but this beast inside me is begging to escape so it can cause havoc. Battling with it at work slows me down.
My father removed the bar that used to cover the wall in between the waitress station and the pizza oven. He decided he did not want to acquire a liquor license since he doesn’t like dealing with drunkards. The waitress station is where the waitresses have access to everything they need to serve their customers such cheese, pepper, utensils, napkins, and drinking glasses. There is also a phone hanging on the wall so orders may be taken when a customer calls.
My father brought yet another pizza/Italian cuisine talent into the town of Scotch Plains. There are two other pizzeria/restaurants that have been there well before we arrived. However, our business still built up to be the success that it is today. We like to thank God for that.
In 2006, while my mother was away with my siblings in Turkey visiting family for the summer, my father decided that it was time to sell the restaurant. He was fed up with depending on the same customers to come in and allow him to make a living. When most of the regulars stopped coming in, he let go of his most prized possession, Maria’s.
After selling, he took a 7 month break from working. It was refreshing for him yes, but it also drove him crazy not going into work every single day. For me, it was decent at first but then I became scared about not having money in my pocket. Therefore, I was hired at Dunkin Donuts where I have worked on and off for two years.
My father and I worked at two different places he took over in Wyckoff and Rochelle Park up in northern Jersey. The only fun fact about those places was the long, soothing drives we took to get there and back. They were truly awful experiences as we barely had any regulars at either location that spent more than five dollars.
“Excuse me, this is not what I ordered,” a customer complained when he received a chicken parm instead of a chicken francese.
“Oh, terribly sorry sir. Let me fix that ASAP,” I replied while tightening my lips as I walked towards the kitchen.
When customers complain, I get extremely pissed off. Its bad enough I have to be there to serve them, now I have to listen to them bitch and moan? I don’t think so.
“Edgar, eso hombre no quiere chicken parm, quiere francese. Esta rompiendo mis bolas para nada,” I stated to our chef at the time in 2009. Roughly translated, it means: Edgar, this guy doesn’t want a chicken parm, he wants a francese. He’s breaking my balls for nothing. I tended to bitch and moan myself for the smallest things. I simply hated being there at times.
“Here you go boss, enjoy. Sorry about the mix up. Have a good weekend, you fucking prick,” I mumbled under my breath. It is rude to curse off customers to their faces so when I get angry, I talk to myself, a lot.
However, one thing I absolutely love about the restaurant is how many beautiful girls enter the premises. I get to talk with them as well as check them out. Of course I don’t take things too far being that it is a business, but still, it’s a fun part of being there.
In 2009, the man who purchased the place from my father gave him a call. He admitted that he was going nowhere but downhill and that he was wondering if my father would take it back. My mother, who was praying everyday for the past three years, convinced him to do so. My father gladly accepted.
The personnel along with my parents did their best to spruce the place up a bit for the grand re-opening. The date was set for July 7th, 2009, but little did I know that there was a surprise waiting for me the day before.
A friend and I were driving to a soccer game on July 6th and while waiting at a red light, my attention was not on the road but towards something in the back seat. Next thing I knew, I had rear-ended a 2001 Toyota Camry being driven by an Oriental man. It was the first ever fender bender I was in that was completely my fault. It is the day before we open up Maria’s after a 3 year break, and a $500 dollar accident occurs thanks to yours truly. Bad luck anyone?
My father agrees to pay the fee but on opening day, he let me have it.
“How fucking stupid can you get? You need to drive right,” my loving father informed me. “What the fuck did I do to deserve such a shitty son?”
Regardless, I love my father to the fullest. Not just because I live under his roof, but because I am his son. It’s absolutely okay that he got pissed off at me for doing something so pointless and stupid. It was one of those things that shouldn’t happen but does anyways just to teach me a lesson. Well thanks karma, I certainly learned it.
That’s enough with the negativity. It’s time to discuss the good times. No matter how bad it is at the store, working with my parents was fun at times.
“I just called to say...I love you…my darling,” my father happily sang.
“Tomorrow...could be rain...or could be snow...” I happily joined in.
My father and I would sometimes randomly begin singing when we were bored or needed to calm down. We would even make jokes with the customers.
“Boy, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, does it?” a customer chuckled while asking.
“No, I guess not,” I smiled back. It was hard not to since my personality is almost exactly like my father’s. I love him dearly and it sometimes tears me up inside that I hate the place in general. The reason is simple: family. Having a family business is the perfect way to pass time with one another. Since my parents are barely ever home, the chance to work with them there is worth it. However, it’s been long enough.
Every time I get pissed off at the store, I always remember the accident because it made me believe that Maria’s was going to bring us bad luck. It may have put food on our table and clothing on our backs, but it took a lot of energy from us to do so.
One thing I am absolutely grateful for is that at Maria’s, I get to spend quality time with my family. If I didn’t work there, I would barely ever see my parents. While there, I get five hours with them where we work very hard yet find time to bond. It is truly a remarkable experience to run a family business.
It may be awful at times and I may not be as thankful as I should be, but I am finally beginning to realize we are truly blessed. God gave us place to come together and enjoy one another’s company. After writing this piece, I may never complain again. Well, at least not as much.
The Family Business
In 1993, my father purchased what would turn out to be his most successful business ever, Maria’s Restaurant and Pizzeria. He began with the goal of turning an ugly place with an unfavorable style into something that would fit his talent perfectly. It took some time, but after 18 years, it is safe to say that it is truly a beautiful, remarkable, and delectable place to eat.
“Aydin! I need two cheese pies and an order of garlic knots to go, pronto,” my mother ordered.
“What the fuck!? I just got here. I don’t want to make that shit now. I don’t even want to be here,” I whined back.
It was one of those days in mid 2011 when I let everyone around me know--including the observing customers--I simply didn’t want to be there. I know it’s disrespectful to curse when speaking to parents, but sometimes it just slips out, and I chose not control my urge.
“Aydin! Don’t make me tell your father,” she threatened.
“Go ahead! I don’t give a rat’s ass,” I rudely replied.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents more than anything and anyone, but at Maria’s, I tend to lose myself. After a long day at school, going into the store to finish off the second half of my day by doing something I absolutely hate annoys me. The food, personnel, and even most of the customers are a delight, but this beast inside me is begging to escape so it can cause havoc. Battling with it at work slows me down.
My father removed the bar that used to cover the wall in between the waitress station and the pizza oven. He decided he did not want to acquire a liquor license since he doesn’t like dealing with drunkards. The waitress station is where the waitresses have access to everything they need to serve their customers such cheese, pepper, utensils, napkins, and drinking glasses. There is also a phone hanging on the wall so orders may be taken when a customer calls.
My father brought yet another pizza/Italian cuisine talent into the town of Scotch Plains. There are two other pizzeria/restaurants that have been there well before we arrived. However, our business still built up to be the success that it is today. We like to thank God for that.
In 2006, while my mother was away with my siblings in Turkey visiting family for the summer, my father decided that it was time to sell the restaurant. He was fed up with depending on the same customers to come in and allow him to make a living. When most of the regulars stopped coming in, he let go of his most prized possession, Maria’s.
After selling, he took a 7 month break from working. It was refreshing for him yes, but it also drove him crazy not going into work every single day. For me, it was decent at first but then I became scared about not having money in my pocket. Therefore, I was hired at Dunkin Donuts where I have worked on and off for two years.
My father and I worked at two different places he took over in Wyckoff and Rochelle Park up in northern Jersey. The only fun fact about those places was the long, soothing drives we took to get there and back. They were truly awful experiences as we barely had any regulars at either location that spent more than five dollars.
“Excuse me, this is not what I ordered,” a customer complained when he received a chicken parm instead of a chicken francese.
“Oh, terribly sorry sir. Let me fix that ASAP,” I replied while tightening my lips as I walked towards the kitchen.
When customers complain, I get extremely pissed off. Its bad enough I have to be there to serve them, now I have to listen to them bitch and moan? I don’t think so.
“Edgar, eso hombre no quiere chicken parm, quiere francese. Esta rompiendo mis bolas para nada,” I stated to our chef at the time in 2009. Roughly translated, it means: Edgar, this guy doesn’t want a chicken parm, he wants a francese. He’s breaking my balls for nothing. I tended to bitch and moan myself for the smallest things. I simply hated being there at times.
“Here you go boss, enjoy. Sorry about the mix up. Have a good weekend, you fucking prick,” I mumbled under my breath. It is rude to curse off customers to their faces so when I get angry, I talk to myself, a lot.
However, one thing I absolutely love about the restaurant is how many beautiful girls enter the premises. I get to talk with them as well as check them out. Of course I don’t take things too far being that it is a business, but still, it’s a fun part of being there.
In 2009, the man who purchased the place from my father gave him a call. He admitted that he was going nowhere but downhill and that he was wondering if my father would take it back. My mother, who was praying everyday for the past three years, convinced him to do so. My father gladly accepted.
The personnel along with my parents did their best to spruce the place up a bit for the grand re-opening. The date was set for July 7th, 2009, but little did I know that there was a surprise waiting for me the day before.
A friend and I were driving to a soccer game on July 6th and while waiting at a red light, my attention was not on the road but towards something in the back seat. Next thing I knew, I had rear-ended a 2001 Toyota Camry being driven by an Oriental man. It was the first ever fender bender I was in that was completely my fault. It is the day before we open up Maria’s after a 3 year break, and a $500 dollar accident occurs thanks to yours truly. Bad luck anyone?
My father agrees to pay the fee but on opening day, he let me have it.
“How fucking stupid can you get? You need to drive right,” my loving father informed me. “What the fuck did I do to deserve such a shitty son?”
Regardless, I love my father to the fullest. Not just because I live under his roof, but because I am his son. It’s absolutely okay that he got pissed off at me for doing something so pointless and stupid. It was one of those things that shouldn’t happen but does anyways just to teach me a lesson. Well thanks karma, I certainly learned it.
That’s enough with the negativity. It’s time to discuss the good times. No matter how bad it is at the store, working with my parents was fun at times.
“I just called to say...I love you…my darling,” my father happily sang.
“Tomorrow...could be rain...or could be snow...” I happily joined in.
My father and I would sometimes randomly begin singing when we were bored or needed to calm down. We would even make jokes with the customers.
“Boy, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, does it?” a customer chuckled while asking.
“No, I guess not,” I smiled back. It was hard not to since my personality is almost exactly like my father’s. I love him dearly and it sometimes tears me up inside that I hate the place in general. The reason is simple: family. Having a family business is the perfect way to pass time with one another. Since my parents are barely ever home, the chance to work with them there is worth it. However, it’s been long enough.
Every time I get pissed off at the store, I always remember the accident because it made me believe that Maria’s was going to bring us bad luck. It may have put food on our table and clothing on our backs, but it took a lot of energy from us to do so.
One thing I am absolutely grateful for is that at Maria’s, I get to spend quality time with my family. If I didn’t work there, I would barely ever see my parents. While there, I get five hours with them where we work very hard yet find time to bond. It is truly a remarkable experience to run a family business.
It may be awful at times and I may not be as thankful as I should be, but I am finally beginning to realize we are truly blessed. God gave us place to come together and enjoy one another’s company. After writing this piece, I may never complain again. Well, at least not as much.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Blog 17- Essay 4
Aydin Reyhan
Creative Non-Fiction
Clashing Cultures
The TV, PC, and PS3, heater and AC are the items that I appreciate the most in my room. The silver Honda Civic on my driveway is what allows me to leave my fortress to travel to a place where I can escape the electronic adventure. The roads are paved to perfection for a smooth drive. Stop signs, red lights, yield signs, and speed limits are control us on the road. Dunkin Donuts, McDonalds, Applebee’s, and Bp’s are our designated stops on our way throughout our journey. Ladies and gentlemen, this is America, the good old USA. We are used to this as most of us were born into this nation of freedom. So when we leave the country, what’s it like?
I wake up to a black, metallic stove with a sliding mini-door which protects us from the burning fire wood. It’s the source of heat in the mountainous area of Turkey. No air conditioner, heater, or central air system. It is all-natural.
A couch with beautiful flowers sewn unto its cushions is my sleeping place. The hard wooden floor is painted brown to change the color of the all white room. The two big windows separate me from the beautiful green grass that leads to a path to the top of the mountains in Rize, Turkey.
As I walk outside, the forty concrete steps descend to a dirt filled ground with rocks to add a bit of decoration. There is nothing but brick houses surrounded by a plethora of green trees in the distance. The country side of Turkey is like a prison for a city lover from the United States.
Bottled water, Gatorade, and even alcohol can be bought at a local Quick Check or even Wal-Mart here in the states. Out there, it’s a journey just to get to a local convenience/grocery store.
The silver Mitsubishi 4x4 looks like an ordinary American pick-up on the outside, but once in, it’s a different story.
Nothing but dirt roads and trees for a thirty minute drive to the inner city of Rize seems like a life time. Not driving any fast than 40 mph, it’s a bumpy ride. Men and women are on the sides of the dirt track with big bags of green tea leaves on their backs. They are marching like soldiers; staring straight ahead and not letting anyone/anything distract them.
We enter the city and it’s as if we crossed a border from a different country. Buildings, paved roads, restaurants, and convenience stores surround as we cruise on the main avenue. It seems like a miracle.
In certain parts of New Jersey, it takes two minutes to hop onto Route 22. There, the giant buildings full of the goods we crave await our presence. It couldn’t be easier to drive to one of those stores.
In Turkey, it’s like a never ending journey to get to the city. Most of the province is country like; trees, mountains, brick houses, and mosques all over. It seems like the perfect fit for someone from Montana but could be unbearable for someone from Manhattan.
One of the sounds I hear as I sit in the kitchen next to the fire-wood powered stove is a man singing into a megaphone. He does this 5 times a day; signaling that the time has come for prayer. It is three minutes long but absolutely soothing. The sound of his voice magically stops everyone from what they are doing to prepare for their prayer to God.
Standing on a small carpet with a picture of a mosque on it, I stand tall with my eyes staring straight ahead while covering my left hand with my right hand and resting them on my stomach. We all do this while facing the direction of the Kabah; where every single Muslim faithful prays towards to prove their love and loyalty to God.
In America, people travel to churches temples, or synagogues to pray. There is no man/woman singing into a microphone that reminds the entire city.
McDonald’s and Burger King have the most famous American foods; the Big Mac and Whopper respectively. Those restaurants could be found almost anywhere. In Turkey, these places do not exist as much because food is a specialty.
As I look into the window, the Gyro is spinning around on its metal pole with the Kebab, rice, and salad being prepared delicately nearby. Chemicals do not exist near this delectable meal. The butter milk is poured into a tall, clear thin glass that is aligned with the fork, spoon, and knife. My mouth begins to water as the colorful edible that my eyes are feasted upon teases me with its delectable scent.
People sit on the streets with ripped clothing while polishing upper classmen’s shoes. Sweat drips from their faces while they polish like zombies.
Some women walk about with scarves covering their heads and clothing covering their entire bodies. Here in the US, some women dress freely, covering only half of their bodies while allowing the other half to be gazed upon by desperate men.
Football, Basketball, Baseball, and Hockey are what dominate the streets, fields, and courts in our nation. Overseas, Soccer is played on the streets, fields, and indoors.
Young children set up two goals made of trash cans and run around, attempting to kick a plastic ball in between the badly scented grayish cans. Mothers gaze down from the windows of their apartments to inform their children that dinner will be ready in five minutes. Even though their homes are thirty feet up, the wind guides the delicious scent my way. Turkish tea, rice, and freshly baked bread fill my nostrils.
The United States is what I was proudly born into. The city, lights, and pollution are part of who I am. However, sometimes even in the city, I smell the burning firewood and I close my eyes. I picture the dirt road, trees, mountains, and brick houses. It’s not the city, but it truly feels like home.
Creative Non-Fiction
Clashing Cultures
The TV, PC, and PS3, heater and AC are the items that I appreciate the most in my room. The silver Honda Civic on my driveway is what allows me to leave my fortress to travel to a place where I can escape the electronic adventure. The roads are paved to perfection for a smooth drive. Stop signs, red lights, yield signs, and speed limits are control us on the road. Dunkin Donuts, McDonalds, Applebee’s, and Bp’s are our designated stops on our way throughout our journey. Ladies and gentlemen, this is America, the good old USA. We are used to this as most of us were born into this nation of freedom. So when we leave the country, what’s it like?
I wake up to a black, metallic stove with a sliding mini-door which protects us from the burning fire wood. It’s the source of heat in the mountainous area of Turkey. No air conditioner, heater, or central air system. It is all-natural.
A couch with beautiful flowers sewn unto its cushions is my sleeping place. The hard wooden floor is painted brown to change the color of the all white room. The two big windows separate me from the beautiful green grass that leads to a path to the top of the mountains in Rize, Turkey.
As I walk outside, the forty concrete steps descend to a dirt filled ground with rocks to add a bit of decoration. There is nothing but brick houses surrounded by a plethora of green trees in the distance. The country side of Turkey is like a prison for a city lover from the United States.
Bottled water, Gatorade, and even alcohol can be bought at a local Quick Check or even Wal-Mart here in the states. Out there, it’s a journey just to get to a local convenience/grocery store.
The silver Mitsubishi 4x4 looks like an ordinary American pick-up on the outside, but once in, it’s a different story.
Nothing but dirt roads and trees for a thirty minute drive to the inner city of Rize seems like a life time. Not driving any fast than 40 mph, it’s a bumpy ride. Men and women are on the sides of the dirt track with big bags of green tea leaves on their backs. They are marching like soldiers; staring straight ahead and not letting anyone/anything distract them.
We enter the city and it’s as if we crossed a border from a different country. Buildings, paved roads, restaurants, and convenience stores surround as we cruise on the main avenue. It seems like a miracle.
In certain parts of New Jersey, it takes two minutes to hop onto Route 22. There, the giant buildings full of the goods we crave await our presence. It couldn’t be easier to drive to one of those stores.
In Turkey, it’s like a never ending journey to get to the city. Most of the province is country like; trees, mountains, brick houses, and mosques all over. It seems like the perfect fit for someone from Montana but could be unbearable for someone from Manhattan.
One of the sounds I hear as I sit in the kitchen next to the fire-wood powered stove is a man singing into a megaphone. He does this 5 times a day; signaling that the time has come for prayer. It is three minutes long but absolutely soothing. The sound of his voice magically stops everyone from what they are doing to prepare for their prayer to God.
Standing on a small carpet with a picture of a mosque on it, I stand tall with my eyes staring straight ahead while covering my left hand with my right hand and resting them on my stomach. We all do this while facing the direction of the Kabah; where every single Muslim faithful prays towards to prove their love and loyalty to God.
In America, people travel to churches temples, or synagogues to pray. There is no man/woman singing into a microphone that reminds the entire city.
McDonald’s and Burger King have the most famous American foods; the Big Mac and Whopper respectively. Those restaurants could be found almost anywhere. In Turkey, these places do not exist as much because food is a specialty.
As I look into the window, the Gyro is spinning around on its metal pole with the Kebab, rice, and salad being prepared delicately nearby. Chemicals do not exist near this delectable meal. The butter milk is poured into a tall, clear thin glass that is aligned with the fork, spoon, and knife. My mouth begins to water as the colorful edible that my eyes are feasted upon teases me with its delectable scent.
People sit on the streets with ripped clothing while polishing upper classmen’s shoes. Sweat drips from their faces while they polish like zombies.
Some women walk about with scarves covering their heads and clothing covering their entire bodies. Here in the US, some women dress freely, covering only half of their bodies while allowing the other half to be gazed upon by desperate men.
Football, Basketball, Baseball, and Hockey are what dominate the streets, fields, and courts in our nation. Overseas, Soccer is played on the streets, fields, and indoors.
Young children set up two goals made of trash cans and run around, attempting to kick a plastic ball in between the badly scented grayish cans. Mothers gaze down from the windows of their apartments to inform their children that dinner will be ready in five minutes. Even though their homes are thirty feet up, the wind guides the delicious scent my way. Turkish tea, rice, and freshly baked bread fill my nostrils.
The United States is what I was proudly born into. The city, lights, and pollution are part of who I am. However, sometimes even in the city, I smell the burning firewood and I close my eyes. I picture the dirt road, trees, mountains, and brick houses. It’s not the city, but it truly feels like home.
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