#HEARTRENDERED : a study in greed, guilt, and the glory of the golden sun. given form as a dependent muse blog featuring yaser çelik, penned by karin ( any pronouns ) for redcreekfm.
the hand barely touches the item before scott zooms past in a blur, careless and grinning, as he snatches it out from their grasp. "nuh uh, no can do." spoken in an easy drawl, too casual to argue with. he doesn't even break stride -- just tosses the item up, once, then catches it behind his back. "this isn't for sale," he lies. the item, which was the last one remaining, is tucked under his arm as he lifts his shoulders into a lazy shrug. "you'll just have to come back tomorrow."
"i ought to report you for being disrespectful and lying." the threat rings empty — despite all the past misgivings that yaser's had with scott. he doesn't hold grudges anyway. does he? he reaches out to tap the flashlight where it peeks from under scott's arm. maybe everyone's thinking the same thing now that there's a dead girl and the night feels like an enemy rather than a friend. still, he says, "or you could give that back, and we'll consider it water under the bridge." no grudges, remember? "just like before."
tldr : caleb & your muse find themselves at the redemption chapel , two souls meeting in dire times tragedy .
dawn befalls town , sickly glow to the clouds scattered across the horizon - there's an undeniable hesitancy in it , as well . as if the divine powers themselves unsure how to proceed from given circumstances . heather had been found , cold as the fear she held in her eyes . it had caleb wondering . . . but perhaps that wasn't the ultimate approach for someone of his profession , perhaps he was meant to believe - believe in a higher power , in a right fixing what had been wronged , to guide the herd through misery . albeit there was agony ever lingering , alike a thick coat of dust fighting to not bury everything all and beneath it . " awake so soon , child ? " , timber softly echoes through the rows of the near empty chapel . though almost too big . . . too raw for them both , it held a certain kind of comfort meant towards consolidation .
is it not always a question of faith when tragedy strikes? dimly, yaser registers that the phantom sensation of his forehead pressing against the prayer mat still lingers — both a reprieve and a rarity. he brings his fingers above the crease of his brows, brushing away the stray strand of hair. something possessed me, he wants to say. too soon. "it's different here," he settles for. more of an answer for himself than it is for the question asked. his gaze moves past caleb, lingering on nothing at all over his shoulder. "calmer. there's... something about the hour before the sun rises." the remnants of tragedy hang in the air between them. maybe caleb's question wasn't really a question at all.
a breath passes. he brushes his hair back again, other hand already moving to gather strands at the nape of his neck — if only to keep himself busy. looking at caleb is easier now. his voice dips low when he says, "surely you understand, right? nowhere better to be awake than here."
𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘁𝘂𝘀 : francesca + anyone , open ( 0/6? ) . 𝘀𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 : halloween night , by the ferris wheel , 1:05am .
in a town where nothing ever happened, a tragic truth that was slipping by the wayside with every hour that passed tonight, francesca admittedly was readying herself to call it a night . the anti - climatic whispers that had swirled around all night felt less like good headlines for the morning paper and more like something to make the local police department feel something for once in their dull lives . despite her desire to retire for the night, call it quits, go home and stifle through a book that could conjure up a chill that didn't stem from the smell of stale caramelized corn, she remained . finding herself by the ferris wheel now, leaned against the fence, the glow of the lights almost made her twinkle in the night the way they reflected off her barely there costume . admittedly, fembot was possibly too much for this town -- too camp, too glamorous as she watched fellow residents hobble around in those god forsaken masks, cheap rubber things, likely from a gas station . " is it just me or playing a game of hide and dont seek in that new path in the corn maze almost sounds like a good way to end the night, " she mutters, half to herself - half to the closest individual by her, fingers raised up in quotes when she mentions the unmarked path every volunteer had denied knowing anything about hours ago .
" seriously, what's a girl got to do to get a little thrill in her life, " then as if she'd manifested it, security comes by making their rounds : the grounds are officially under lockdown – a body found . while some moan and groan, other's become visibly shaken, francesca perks up for the first time all night . a questionable reaction, she'd claim came down to journalistic instinct . whatever she'd felt moments prior was replaced with something more focused, colder, but she masked it as best as she could . a look of concern washing over her face, now fully facing the other, " well, seeing as we can't leave, we mine as well check out what's going on, right ? " her brow arching, hand already digging through her metallic purse slung over her shoulder . pulling out her notepad and pen . " don't worry i wont quote anything you say or do, " a reassuring smile offered, but then almost under her breath, " unless it's interesting . "
it’s as if nothing happened. maybe that’s the problem — maybe nothing did ever happen. except there was a francesca and a yaser once upon a time, and then a frannie-and-yaser, and now what exists is a chasm that closes and opens and closes again depending on the day. or perhaps it’s the hour, or the minute hand of the clock. it all amounts to nothing anyway, if there’s nothing to talk about and nothing to prove and— bitterness closes in over his throat, threatening to bubble over. the only thing holding it back is the allowance that maybe it was his fault as much as it was hers. maybe. she’s still here, right? surely that means something. “no,” he says, tighter than he meant to. it’s not really a response to anything. their eyes meet, and then he adds, low, “you can’t quote me if i never say anything at all around you, right?” a smile follows to soften the blow. it’s not even practiced enough for it to be convincing. but it’s something all the same.
that’s the problem with francesca mercado. he feels careful and uncertain and reckless all at once. there's no right or wrong here. maybe that’s the real problem with a familiar face like hers. some days he remembers her like a memory. some others, like a ghost. and then there are the todays — the ones where she’s here and she’s real and yaser makes himself exhale, long and slow. they're still friends, right? whatever concern crossed her face finds itself mirrored on his. he starts again: “come on.” you’re right, he wants to say. it tastes a little too close to defeat. “two heads are better than one. i know how to stand there while you poke your head in and out of things. just—” this time, he lets the joke land. “like when we were younger, right? have each other’s backs and all that.”
LOCATION: THE FAIRGROUNDS, GAME BOOTH GALORE. SEVEN O'CLOCK P.M.
heath walked through the world with an air of performance, even under the shade of night when he was sure no one would be looking. it filled the gap, the one that strived for recognition while his skillset largely fell behind the scenes — call it compensation, exerting himself in ways he couldn't otherwise. maybe that's why he chose this spot, one highly populated, arm straining to knock down a towel of discarded milk bottles. he didn't even look before his mouth began to move, speaking through upturned lips and a toothied-grin approach, “ y'want me to win you something? ” he played, unable to quell the provocation within his tone. “ i'm on a winning streak. wouldn't be hard to make sure you go home with a new teddy bear. ”
despite everything, heath is a respite on a night otherwise... pointless. unpleasant. his mind offers a series of adjectives, one after the other, each one as dramatic as the last. all these october 31sts spent in red creek, and yaser still doesn't understand the morbid charm of halloween that seems to have the rest of the town entranced. he forces the irritation to melt away, locked for a later time when he isn't graced with a friendly, familiar face. "you're saying that to everyone who walks your way, or am i just special?" at least heath is as cheery as ever on a night meant for the haunted and the horrible. yaser reaches out to pat his shoulder. "save that for valentine's," he says, mouth twisting into a wry smile. not at heath — never at him. "didn't you hear? spirits are more likely to possess inanimate objects with eyes. you going to let me go home haunted, heath?"
location: fairgrounds, shooting gallery
time: 10:30 ish pm
status: open ! ( 0 / 4 )
he held the air rifle the way you hold a memory, or the proof of it. back hunched, one eye slightly closed. it was his fourteenth birthday when his father first took him out to shoot guns. a winchester 250 still slick with the hatred of previous fathers, inherited. it bled down the barrel like oil that tarnished his boy hands. his father used to take his brother out before he died, so that day wasn't really about shooting, it was a ritual, a sick coronation, an attempt at crowning in the silence of the one who didn't come back. he knew it then, knew he'd fail before he started. now it's just the hum of carousel hymns in his ear, not the ghost town made of trees and the silence they both pretended was out of necessity. he remembered his father's stance, remembered him kneeling, his body faltering under recoil and serious eyes. breath in. hold. wait for certainty. three sharp breaths, third one caught in his throat, and then only the dry click of machinery answered. just the hollow cough of a broken thing. his finger stayed pressed like a man clinging to something, like a boy clutching his father's coat. still nothing. he chuckled, lowered the rifle and stared at it like it was either freedom or another kind of shackle. his father had always been amused by his weakness. and maybe, if he really was thinking of going back to visit the old folks soon, maybe that was a sign. maybe he could've borrowed a few more days. a shadow moved at the edge of his vision. he raised the rifle, smirked, pushed hair back behind his ear. "wanna try? not sure if this thing's rigged or if it's just me ---- maybe you'll have better luck."
as a general rule, he doesn’t play with things he has no understanding of — even when those things are only a mockery of something else. from the corner of his eyes, he watches soren lift the air rifle. he's too far away to get a real look at what soren's doing, or to judge if he's gotten the technique of a fairgrounds activity down to pat. still, there's an air of— something to the way he carries himself. confidence may be a stretch too far, but... familiarity, is what he lands on. the smile that makes its way onto yaser's lips feels like an inevitability, the same way his feet responding to the sad, empty whir of a broken toy gun also feels like an inevitability. a couple of strides, and suddenly he's almost close enough to nudge soren's shoulder with his own in an attempt of encouragement. he holds up his hands instead. surrender, if one were to look closely. "ah, no thanks," he starts, eyeing the rifle under soren's hands. the ghost of the smile still lingers, because this is elias' little brother. for the briefest of moments, yaser is struck by an impulse to ruffle the strands of soren's hair. simpler times, he thinks, when soren was just a kid who looked at his elder brother like he hung the stars in the sky. maybe this is elias trying to speak through yaser.
he shakes his head, a low amused huff escaping his lips at his own dramatic melancholy. "those things never gelled well with me. no good with them, trust me. won't have better luck than you do." and then, another impulse strikes. this one is called reassurance. he has to remind himself he's not here to fill elias' shoes. he says, "it's not luck. sometimes those things just don't... they're not for you. says a lot of good about you when they aren't, i think."
( alp navruz . cis man . he/him ) . ⸻ yaser çelik, a thirty-two year old, has survived another day in red creek where they have lived for eighteen years. the balancing act is known for being introspective and greedy and is often associated with the crush of your ribcage as a prison of your own making ; a pair of angel wings severed ; the blinding rays of the golden sun. in a small town where they work as an archivist at the red creek public library & freelance stained glass artist, word travels fast. it’s hard to keep a secret, and it looks like the boogeyman knows that secret ( karin , 27 , aest , any pronouns ).
dossier.
full name : yaser çelik. age : thirty2. birthday : november 7. place of birth : tbd. birth order : only child. gender : cis man. pronouns : he/him. sexuality : gay. religion : islam. occupation : archivist @ red creek public library / freelance stained glass artist. face claim : alp navruz.
you come to red creek not quite an accident, but— a coincidence, perhaps, is the right word for it. even at fourteen the town is already much too small for your heart, not big but already threatening to spill from between your fingers as you closed your fist over it. everyone here knows everything. you are fourteen and you are seen. you aren’t meant to stay here. fast forward. you are eighteen now, and they see you and crowd around the front porch as you climbed into the hand - me - down car that was once your father’s. so long, goodbye. pause. press play. this, too, is a coincidence. you found your way in and now you’re finding your way out. fast forward. twenty - three comes. they know you, now. welcome home, yaser. a dead body greets you, and then a funeral shakes your hand. your grandmother, gone. they say your name and tell you how sorry they are. rewind. there’s a one - bedroom unit calling your name down the street. the job in chicago doesn’t stick. is this not also a coincidence? fast forward. thirty - two sees you wearing your story like a badge. you smile and they smile back and you know you have a space carved out, somehow. stop. the reel ends. why did you choose to stay? i don’t know. i don’t know. your heart is held in the palm of your hand. don’t open it. it’s not safe here.
quick facts.
a study in greed, guilt, and the glory of the golden sun.
arrived in red creek when he was a middle schooler shortly after his grandfather’s sudden passing. his grandmother, a grieving widow, needed caretaking and the family moved back to his father’s childhood home.
left for a few years for college and attempted to find work outside of red creek after it, though it never really felt like he left. he always did end up spending too - long summers and thought he overstayed his new year returns, too. home is where the heart is and all that, no matter how desperately yaser wanted to break free. it always felt like something kept calling him home — including when his grandmother finally passed nine years ago, marking yaser’s permanent return to red creek.
has worked at the library since he was twenty-five. first as a volunteer, then as a part-time helper to the previous archivist, and since they’ve retired a couple of years back, yaser has taken up the role full-time.
really an aspiring stained glass artist more than anything, but he says freelance because it makes it feel more real. he’s worked on smaller pieces, but has never really been commissioned for big windows or anything.
unbeknownst to most, sometimes steals the designs of his stained glass artworks from other artists / exhibitions he’s come across during his time outside of red creek. he feels guilty over it, but. he has to start somewhere, right?
an outgoing introvert. if you invite yaser to a party, he will be there. he also likes to think he’s pretty decent at the whole socialising thing.
yaser is a muslim. he holds faith, but his practice is… let’s just say that his relationship with religion is between him and god. he does try to show up for friday prayers, though.
wanted connections.
his first friend. exactly as it says on the label. the very first person he connected with when he arrived in red creek many years ago as a teenager. 29 - 36.
ex… something. they kissed in high school and wrote to each other until halfway through college. it fizzled out, though. 31 - 33.
helpful neighbour(s). they look out for each other. basically “i’ll take care of you” “it’s rotten work” “not to me. not if it’s you” but it goes both ways. at least, until the community forum turns them against each other. any age range.
friends of his parents / grandparents / family friends. if they’re the same age, maybe their parents know each other. otherwise maybe they run into his parents a lot. or used to be close with his grandparents ( people who run businesses they frequent, an occasional caretaker, etc ). can be connected in any way & open to multiple. any age range.
someone who he met outside red creek. yaser was born outside of red creek ( location tbd ) and spent fourteen years in a bigger town / city. he also did college someplace else and then spent 1 - 2 years in chicago. maybe he ran into a red creek resident who is out of town too, or maybe their first meeting was elsewhere before they reunited in red creek. open to multiple. any age range.
petty annoyances. got off the wrong foot for whatever reason and never fixed their impressions of each other — preferably when they were in their teenage years or early 20s. taken by berkay.
mutual distrust. can be taken in conjunction with the above. something happened / someone saw something they weren’t supposed to / etc and now they don’t trust each other. any age range.
current best friend. someone he met either in high school or during / post the college years. they’ve been tight for years now. think walks around deer lake and night drives at the dead hours as they pour their hearts out. 30 - 34.
age gap friend(s). an individual much younger or much older than him who is a good friend nonetheless. “a job will have you 21 years old with a 56 year old best friend like dang where tf yaser at today” except instead of a job it’s living in a small town. open to multiple. at least 6 years younger/older.
friends to lovers to friends again. exes to friends is unfortunately one of my fave tropes ever, so : friends who had a casual flirtationship / fwb dynamic who recently tried dating but it didn’t work out. they’re even better friends now. maybe they know something about each other no one else does. 29 - 36.
night run - ins. old habits die hard. yaser frequents deer lake for strolls after dark. someone he keeps running into — weirdly enough for both of them. taken by nicasio & mikhail.
something soured. they were close back in high school. something happened, though. maybe the distance turned them bitter, maybe it was something bigger. 31 - 33.
those who are acquainted with him from encounters at the library / people he sees at friday prayer enough times that he’s struck up many conversations with them / those who have commissioned small art pieces from him / fellow artists ( of any kind ) who he admires / conversely, fellow artists who dislike him and/or he dislikes / past dates, however casual or serious they may be.
Is it okay to say this? - Trista Masteer // Blasted - Sarah Kane // Reassurances to Hades - Kristina Haynes // The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo - T.J. Reid // My Mother/Madame Edwarda/The Dead Man - Georges Bataille //"The Last Poem in the Book," These Days (Alfred A. Knopf, 1989); Over and over again - Frederick Seidel // My Mother/Madame Edwarda/The Dead Man - Georges Bataille // Adult Children of Emotionaly Immature Parents - Lindsay C. Gibson // She Satisfies A Fear with the Rhetoric of Tears - Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz // My Life Is Pathetic! - Heather Havrilesky
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