This long story was written without facing the facts in large houses which all the tricks had been living behind back doors of the rooms . Some things have no reason to exist in life, some want real things as scared of all dreamy air flying around real life like a secret fog that only odds are able to see. The dreamy things which are called “nonsense and irrelavant ” make the realist ones who love money and power incredibly coward rabbits because loss of the contol cause them to be invisible . The story teller lives with words, sentences and paragraphs which are called worthless as they have no place in business life in the skyscrapers. Someone should move in a quite place which is abondened , someone like a storyteller. Before beginning to write all about the main secret story, I wanted to take my raincoat and go away but the damnation already made me a storyteller once.
I always confuse numbers with nightmares. Whenever something is out of the real life but belong to your own spirit , there is always something to count like men jumping the barriers which are as endless in sweating. There always exist three kinds of lies ; simple lies, complicated lies and the strongest one- Damned Lies! One day in the south part of the city , I was almost shouting out my story from an art magazine to all our relatives and neighbours. It was sort of being alone as a vertical line and just to mug around familiar faces and terraces. We all gathered around a round table about fifteen people, it was a huge table, which was in the middle of the yard among white roses and more kinds of flowers that I had never known and never aimed at learning , and I was reading or shouting my story called “Disappearance” thanks to my uncle who just came from South Africa trip and his brother’s (that is my father) heavy psychological press on me . I was the monkey which was chosen for this night to be popular in the neighbourhood. I was lucky.

When I left the night with white roses out and tried to hide myself under my quilt, I had laothed my own story “Disappearance”. It was so artificial that reminded me the day which I became a quince by wearing a yellow sack in the week of domestic goods in the primary school. I was reading a poem called “quince”, loudly. Life wasn’t always a chain of choices. I was sitting on a kid chair covered with cartoon characters , my feet weren’t stepping on the floor, if I had sat on the end of the chair I could have stepped on the floor but then I felt under the weather.This was a detailed sitting style -Innocent and need to be protected. A long and quiet childhood wasted away in pink losing dreams on a chair with mickey mouse. My uncle just stood up and began to clapp and the others joined to that serious family ceremony by louder clapping. “Great!” and again they all agreed and clapped enthusiastically. I am not really sure whether they’ve still gone on clapping or not but I am definitely sure that I still hear all the clapping at my ears in all my quiet life- I have no doubt ,I am both alone and crowded.
I didn’t have any idea if it was more than a nightmare but I have still had the same pain in me. I just tumbled out of my bed and watched myself. I began to behave like a monkey and gabble near to a monkey while I was clapping me enthusiastically. This was the image of being a monkey- A nameless monkey is reading her story called “Disappearance” to odds and ends loudly. An interesting idea just occured to me ; working as a monkey in a circus – A monkey yelling her stories and whenever the story finishes she bows and greets all the audiences respectfully.Unfortunately, because there is no work for monkeys like that in a circus, again I am still a jobless monkey storyteller. I may satisfy my desire as a guest monkey by reading the stories in our garden , even in other stupid neighbours’ houses and again to odds and ends. There could be a circus chance in near future if I am lucky enough.What an enjoyable life .

Time began to corroborate my thoughts, the following morning, our German next door neighbours Arnold and Ilka, who heard the sounds of the story I was reading loudly around the neighbourhood and in the yard, were impressed by the clapping sounds and invited over me for telling a story. I was the lucky monkey. I’ve never wanted to hurt them and accepted their invitation immediately. It could be a good reference for me and my stories may have had the chance to be popular all around the world and made me an international well-known monkey. The rest of it was easier, when I go overseas, getting better jobs in big and famous circuses would be inevitable. I was in a good humor now.Nobody could make me worried about nicknack. I was Arnold’s story- teller then. As I haven’t known German, firstly I was reading and later his wife Ilka, who knows Turkish a little , was translating it and they were both laughing ,sprightly. I was unaware of the fact that I was writing funny things until that day. Actually, I had also begun to have fun quite a lot.

I was reading my stories to Arnold regularly every week and was very successful at making laugh him thanks to his wife’s translations. I hadn’t intended to entertain someone while I had been writing my stories but the pitiful mood of Arnold, who was having fun with Ilka’s wrong translations and began addicted to my stories slowly in time, showed me the heavy cost of being a monkey. Arnold’s expectations were surpassing my dreams and if I didn’t get rid of my passions of being an international monkey , my dissapearences could be increased. A night that I couldn’t stand to deceive myself more , I took the time to my childhood and began to cry in the middle of reading my story and Arnold looked astonished and embrassed who was again laughing because he was used to laughing. I made my crying more and more powerful to enjoy my victory against these two German neighbours and watch their defeated faces as sobbing and sobbing. I guess, I was the one who enjoys crying as it is usual in my country while it was quite the contrary in their hometown. I had known well that to overdo crying might make me far away to be persuasiveness according to impressions gained in my childhood and shaking confidence was the last thing I wanted to do. Trust was inevitable value in every kind of relation, even between a story teller and a story listener.

I implied that I have no more strength to stand Arnold’s unduly laughings because his wife Ilka had been translating wrongly since beginning while I was sniffing as wearing a face of coldblooded storyteller. They seemed immensely sad. While Ilka was caressing my head, she was telling me that she would be more careful about translating and keep a dictionary around the story and if needed she could skip the parts causing Arnold to laugh a lot which drove me mad. It was totally meaningless for me to continue talking. Silence was better but , I began to laugh involuntary, even die laughing and oddly enough, dear two German story lover neighbours joined in laughing with me right away. That night I decided they were definitely fair-weather friends and laughing was the principal activity , the gist of stories. Sometimes , I agree with them it was sure easier than thinking.

They went to their hometown for Christmas holiday a week later. I missed them a lot. Actually, I felt lonely. I planted new stories in the meantime , I even extravagated to fall in love with my own fictions. It seems that being a monkey was really delighting. I thought I missed even their laughters. One understands the value of something when he loses it. If they had been with me, I would have shared my stories even superficial but enjoyed myself. Daytimes were passing quickly but as I was close to darkness, I couldn’t bear to spend nights usual and lonely , they should have been lived gorgeously. I wasn’t sure of what I was indeed hunting for but all my nights turned into an unknown expectation feeling to meet it suddenly , at any moment of night hours.It may be thought that I was revelling it. To be timed to hopes were increasing my vitality. Furthermore I was attached to nights for dear life passionately. I was waiting sunset firstly and then all the stars to count and follow the phases of the Moon to prove that I was mad. I was gathering evidences from the dark blue sky late time. In cloudy or rainy daytimes , time was passing well, too. Ones who can’t see the sky where they lie down, everymen , never know the joy of falling asleep by counting the stars and falling ones. The darkness and obscurity captured me to deep sleeping.

While the night was spreading in me , my own scream was jarring in quiteness. Dear Arnold’s hands were wandering around my brown long hair and took me a spookish big forest. Arnold had a heavy pressure on me – my long-held fears and doubts. He was strong enough to trail me everywhere even I never wanted. I was both in the middle of the night and ultima thule. I had no idea where I was and how everything happened so quickly. It was dragging me to deep odyssey and infinite questions which have more than one answer- probability, non-existence, suspicion…I was going out at midnights even I was scared of darkness and streets at late time and I was trying to find out evidences that demonstrate my existence at the daytime , I was only awake at darkness with deep breathing. I was sometimes in front of skyscrapers, sometimes in the middle of abondened inns, and all uphil old roads…Stone houses, wooden houses, narrow sidestreets, cobblestone pavements, arabic signs, english street names, Turkish baths…So meaningless, incompatible places…I belonged to no city, no streets, no home… I wasn’t somewhere I knew , worse I was nowhere. This was the price of being a story-teller… I was wondering if I was in walking dream or walking real streets…
The jungle with sorceries was only a nightmare, Arnold, my brown long hair, all weird places, they were long-abandoned roads which no one have passed for years…I was only a miserable witness of time and the story which made us addicted to each other with curiosity and a little doubt. There was nothing that I wished. All my intend is to be a witness to my real soul and maybe when I learn the fact, objecting to it with all my soul and body shouting miles away ” I am not what I am !” . Who knows ? Arnold and Ilka…I realised that they were not my real friends, I was not ready to leave them at that time, though. I was lonely enough to be in nightmares. Arnold, Ilka and others want to listen to happy ending stories, funny things or every time optimistic characters. Is life really like that? I can’t believe how they want only good things and pretend there is no badness in life. Arnold and Ilka have never had bad days, no accidents, no operations, no bankruptcy, no family lost…They were the good man and good woman in life who want always smile and laugh at everything by being positive even they are lost in my story which is written with both dreams and nightmares with damn.
I guess, only the ones who have luck live happily. I don’t want to hear the nonsense that one must create his own luck. These people who always say be positive salad are the really lucky ones in life like millionaires, heirs, kingpins , beautiful ladies and handsome guys. If you have a rich friend , you may find a good job easily. I am the friend of Arnold and Ilka but not many people know them in this country, so this friendship doesn’t work for me to find more and more story-lovers. I was walking around crowded places like flea markets, bazaars, stalls in open markets, squares and every place which one similar to me may wander around at the same time, at the right place. If I find someone who as me, I will feel better in the rest of my life. I am not the only one who writes nonsense stories and read them only to her two faithful and passionate readers all around the world. Two is a bigger number than one, so I must be happy like Polyanna. The bad thing is that Arnold and Ilka are still in their hometown and they might deceive me with another German storyteller in long time. They had better come back. I need two more faces listening to my nonsense fiction and I am bored of my own face reading in the mirror. My silly stories are valuable and meaningful only with Arnold and Ilka.

Amelia Allen Damnation
Hülya Uçar.

Some women from the Northern Sun Neighbourhood , ran a dream marketing job to raise money for their own dream vacation to Mars. The women really worked hard, they all dreamed from nine to five and sold them for two months. One of the woman says that ” I feel very lucky as I can make money with my dreams, I have just been dreaming all day and I am breaking the bank now.” They sold these all dreams to people who have no ability to dream and need them right away. They had started to this job just for traveling to Mars but now they can travel around The Moon and other planets, too. No doubt, this event is a big success with pipe dreams.

Sell A Dream Success
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Breaking Up Shuts Down The Woman –  32 years old woman suffered at midnight. There was a big pain in her heart as she had been left by her love. All the windows and curtains had to be closed so the woman could decide what to do, where to go or how to get rid of the messy in her mind. The woman says that ” I have never realised he had deceived me!” The lovelorn woman added her thoughts ” One morning I woke up and found out myself alone in bed, actually not completely alone, there was a note left near me, it was written that he loved another one and charged me to take care of myself really well. He was so unfaithful but so kind. The ice on the streets in my life were very thin and hazardous to stand and walk on, a million dollars can’t rearrange my life and take the edge off my hurt. This woman of this life really suffered because of heavy rain that night. No one was killed, just injured. 

Breaking Up Shuts Down The Woman
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Unlocked my things and left money. I had had nothing to do with the real world. It is very dusty to be here again in this dreamy room. I had been here years ago with small white hands and now I returned with my hands keeping timeless dreams in them. It had been raining years ago and surprisingly it has been still raining as years never passed in the same tone. The same cafe called “cafe of the life ” with same scent of coffee and rained steps of the regular customers with same faces which have never changed as years ago. Same familiar faces walking around the same street across from the same haunted inn with same ghosts. Ghosts must have been good coffee drinkers hanging out every day with past and dust. Standing among unchanged faces, souls, ghosts , I must confess that I was impressed by magic of the life and dreams. Every dream is definitely, clearly, sure possible in the life even every kind of small real stuff is hard to get in the real world. I have mania of living dreams… Nothing in the cafe seems me stranger, every corner has been same as usual as past… Measuring life time, I was endless here in the fog of pipe dreams. I had  been supposed to be successful in real offices but I have been a happy dreamer playing the guitar in the rainy days of years with the chance of a dreamy and foggy heart in this cafe of the past time life… Something in me ? Everything imagined limitless, no time, no hurry, every place in peace, happy hearts… Moments come back whistling old songs with innocent beauty without benefits, as good-hearted as before, getting cold, getting hot but with faithfulness through deepness of imagination. I have mania of the living in dreams… I have never needed meaningful sentences, I have always continued to breath on my own quiet and weird path walking slowly after a rain scent dream. I had left the definite facts carelessly, not to mention others and realities, contrarily, I would like to make the sentences without subjects to change the river stream if it is possible with dreams on my own mania. Is it ? I wish I never went back to conversations which are interrupted in hurry and wish to left unfinished… I only need quietness and patience to complete my relation with foggy nights and dreaming…None is necessary, after time, before time…” I realize how you feel.” Really ? Do You ? I have mania of living in dreams… No more or no fewer words…

The Mania Of Living In Dreams
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Dr.Pink Does His First Memory Transplant In The World –  Have you ever thought to live another’s life instead of your life with bad memories ? Dr.Pink changed Mr. Smith’s life. He has always wanted to forget all about very bad accident, very rough hospital days and nights, being left by his wife, losing all his money and belongings , he has hoped to forget mainly all his ruined life. Dr.Pink is Mr Smith’s future hopes. He transplanted a happy man’s life who has nearly no bad memories. In a way, Dr. Pink changed Mr. Smith’s spirit. Experiences, years, memories make our soul in time . Eveybody wonders how Mr. Smith feels at the moment. Will he be happy forever or is it possible him to have an accident or something bad like that again? If everything goes well and Mr. Smith is a happy man for ever and a day , then Dr. Pink transplants memories more and more …

First Memory Transplant Around The World
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Can’t Believe – Missing In A Mystery –  Late at night around midnight a beautiful blonde character is kidnapped from the long story, even from a novel. She was about to be the main character of the main plot according to the  first person of view and she was very blonde to be very attractive… She was also in a mystery in the novel as it is now in fact, and she was afraid of being lost in all paragraphs and try to hold on to a very long sentence with beautiful long hair secretly. Her main fear is her real fate now. The writer has been crying since she had been kidnapped from the most important chapters and all the story was scattered by unknown criminal in one night. The writer calls for the unknown man to take her back to the story and if she leaves her into the blanks in the novel, he will place him as a very important character as a reward. Get Her Back To The Novel ! I Will Make You A Hero ! 

A Blonde Novel Character Is Kidnapped
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