Author: Hatice Ebrar Dürüyen (12 years old)
Translator: Sena Vardar (18 years old)
Rea-ding Fes-ti-val.
Everybody would give me praises from my back. “Look how my lovely daughter read”, “Just like me”, “No, she took it from me”, they said. I fell into assuming that I did something big. I became one more step closer to my dream goal, which is being a pilot.
“What would you like?” asked my mother. Surely, the best outcome is the gift. I thought a lot that I was almost going to burn my mind. With that child brain, what I wanted should've been a toy, but it was not.
“Let’s move houses!” I screamed. Everybody around me burst out laughing. “Let us give you a promise of a chocolate.” mom said. I hated those restrictions even when I was one year old, and still was hating them. “No, I want to move houses!” I shouted. They were not taking me seriously. They were not listening to me, and they were giggling with each other as if I told them something funny. Should I give up being a pilot, and rather be a clown, because everybody is laughing at me.
“Why do you want to move houses?” they asked. However, the answer to that was clear enough since I was trying to explain it for years at the time. The issue was the shop on the right. It would touch our apartment. Colourful flowers drawn on the asphalt of it, the roof is painted blue. There were rainbows and various children's portraits on each of the yellow walls. There was a tarpaulin kind of curtain above the door for protecting the guests from the sun. Our apartment seemed too boring besides that shop.
Some people could get into this shop, conned by the appearance of it, and they were dragging their poor kids inside by their sleeves. Kids would get that this place is scary. They would cry while getting in. So, they would screech in there. I do not know what they do there, yet I know that it is scarier than the horror tunnel. The children would get out with their eyes wet. Meanwhile, their mothers would try to console them. “Look, it is so beautiful. You will not be uncomfortable any more.” were the frequently said sentences I heard. However, the kid’s problem was something else. Inside that place, they would get her scared enough.
The shop owner was no person to underestimate though. He had a nicely cut moustache, snowy white shirt, and very yellow hair. However, his real face was something very different. He would watch everyone. I was sure he was home with guests even if he is a man. Moreover, he was someone clumsy, and he would drop yellow, brown, black strands into the shop. Poor charlady was tired of cleaning them. The shop owner would take the coming kids, snap the door, and surround them with a cover in july heat. Nobody knew why he would do what he did to kids there.
I depicted whatever happened well. I am aware that you guys are biting your nails from fear. I got up from the front of the typewriter, and, approaching to the window, I read the name of the shop:
-Ha-irdress-er.