[silkteared]

⌗ SILKTEARED: in starlit nights, i saw you. so cruelly you kissed me. your lips, a magic world, your sky, all hung with jewels. the killing moon will come too soon ... a dependent blog affiliated with REDCREEKFM, penned and loved by  𝒙𝒂𝒏  (  she/her   ) please do not interact unless a member of the group!

ayla yalçınkaya   ────   twenty8,   the mender   …   introduction.    pinterest.  

[silkteared]

for: heath ( @recoyles ) location: the yalçınkaya residence

there was an itch that begged to be relieved trying to claw its way out from under her skin, an urge that felt like it might actually set her ablaze if ayla didn't find a way to use it bubbling dangerously close to explosion. making şehriyeli tavuk çorbası for the twins was only half a solution; inviting heath over in an effort to gloss over the fact she hadn't left her house since halloween was another. the children's autumn scavenger hunt at the library, which the now deceased heather visser notably helped organize, had been postponed, perhaps in an effort to be respectful, yet all it did for ayla was highlight how glaringly wrong everything was. burak had barely been home, all her husband's energy poured into the sheriff's office, little much else left for her upon his return except for terse warnings to stay vigilant, no further explanations offered when pressed. the list of unmendable things was growing, vying for a spot at the forefront of her mind, competing with images of amber and a rough hand around her jaw. ayla was a broken compass spinning and spinning, desperate to find north, desperate to fix. she couldn't bring back heather visser, she couldn't have answers—but her sniffling toddlers? that she could do something about. but she must have been quiet longer than she realized, trapped in the spiral of her own thoughts. the nostalgic aroma of the simmering soup is undercut by the acrid stench of smoke, smoke ayla tries her best to waft away as she opens the oven door, coughs delivered into the crook of her elbow. "shit, i'm sorry. i'm so sorry. fuck." curse words are hissed, delicate fingers pinching the bridge of her nose in an effort not to start crying over burnt sourdough. after a minute she finds heath's eyes, forcing a smile he knows her well enough to read through. "i really hope you're not that hungry. or hungry at all, really, because i don't really trust i won't fuck up the soup, too."

[clandestone]

closed starter with: charlotte and ayla (@silkteared) setting: behind the ring toss, 12:15pm

There was a twist in Charlotte’s stomach, a twinge telling her something was amiss. The feathers on her angel wings were suddenly deeply annoying, tickling the back of her neck and bare arms, sending chills down her spine. She huddled into a dark corner behind a game booth, hoping a few deep breaths and a quiet moment alone would calm her down. It was just the crowds, the noise, and more than anything: being away from little Joey. It was all easily explained away… or so she hoped. She bent over, resting her hands on her knees as she took a few long, deep breaths. And then- footsteps. “Hi, sorry, I’m just looking for an earring,” she mumbled, until she looked up. “Oh, Ayla. Hi.” Charlotte dropped the pretense, leaning back, her hair falling behind her shoulders to reveal both earrings still in place. “If you’re looking for a place to hide too, I can scooch over.” 

[silkteared]

the fair is already buzzing with activity, the smell of fried dough and powdered sugar wafting in the air, the tinkling sound of game booths a backdrop to the chattering crowds. ayla weaves her way through the busier stalls, every costumed child in her path making her think of the twins who were currently somewhere in town no doubt being spoiled rotten by her parents. it had felt strange, having the afternoon to herself. perhaps it's why she'd volunteered to drop off a batch of cinnamon rolls instead of simply doing nothing, unaccustomed to the idea of sitting still. it's in her shortcutting the quickest path out of the fair that she finds charlotte crouched behind the ring toss booth, earning the younger girl a soft smile. "hey juliet," ayla greets back, accepting the invitation to sit beside her friend with little hesitation. "we're not hiding from your romeo, are we?" she teases, her long legs stretching out in the grass. if she had to guess what really had the other seeking a moment to herself, it wouldn't be too hard—ayla had been in charlotte's shoes not even two years ago, a new mother figuring out how to navigate her new reality. the fact is what had drawn the two of them together in the first place, ayla making it her mission to make sure charlotte didn't have to figure things out alone. "it's really nice to see you out."

[ofwounds]

timeline: 12:38 a.m, redstone bar. closed for: ayla yalçınkaya, @silkteared.

by the  time  the  kids  were  home and the sugar-high had worn off, redstone  opened  its  jaw  and  exhaled  adults  in  half-hearted  costumes. devil horns slipped; plastic  beads  scattered  like  loose  teeth  underfoot and  someone’s  wings  lay  crushed  beneath  a  bar  stool. berkay was perched near the end of the bar — one  elbow  hooked  on  scarred  mahogany,  the  other  curling  around  a  glass  that  barely  warmed  in  his  hand.  he  had  become  a  kind  of  landmark  tonight: not  a  beacon,  but  a  thing you navigated around,  like  a  post  on  the  edge of a tide.  every  so  often  someone  clapped  his  shoulder,  said  his  name  the  way  men  greet  a  cliff  face — fond of the view, wary of the drop — before drifting  back  to  safer  currents.  ayla  moved  differently, drifting from booth to bar, letting conversations spool around her wrist like ribbon before she slipped free and found her way back to him. her  closeness  exhales  perfume  and  autumn  night; somewhere in it, a  trace  of  cinnamon  sugar he swears he can taste, sweeter  than  whiskey. blooming  slow  and  shadowed,  until  desire  hums  like  a  low  candle-flame. berkay allows her only the fringe of his vision; a heat-shimmer he'd spent all night pretending not to chase. amber tilts in his glass as he lifts in slow salute; neon snaps across the liquid and for a heartbeat they burn the same violent orange, moth and flame mid-collusion. “ you've  been  generous  with  your  attention  tonight, ”  he says, voice low almost amused, like he's tasting the sentence before giving it away. on the surface, it's  a tease, but  an undertow drags the vowels deep:  generous  to  everyone  but  me, güzelim. berkay's  jaw  flexes  once  before  the  smile  returns. “ but not all of us are so easily fed. ” 

[silkteared]

red stone pulses like something alive tonight, autumn chill warded off by the thrum of familiar patrons seeking communion at the bottom of their glasses, the chattering crowd unraveling like a loosened thread the later the night dragged on until inhibitions were shed with every ticking minute. ayla's dark locks are matted against the nape of her neck, the white dress she hadn't donned since her honeymoon nearly soaked through as she flits from face to face until it feels like the wings against her shoulder blades might actually take flight. she hadn't tasted freedom like this in a long time, not since before the twins had been born. it only felt right to let herself be tugged under the tide of any warm greeting tossed her way, every how have you been reciprocated with such intense intention it had her head spinning like she'd spent the night drinking instead of just talking. or perhaps it was merely the absence of the twins that left her feeling untethered, a planet knocked off its axis, desperate for a new center of gravity. but there was an anchor buried among the animated bar goers, a force ayla could feel in the very marrow of her bones even from across the room. like burak, the oldest yalçınkaya brother possessed that looming ferocity she'd never quite encountered until the day they'd arrived in red creek and altered her life forever. but where her husband demanded it, expected focus and devotion like it already belonged to him, like it was his right to take it, berkay inspired it, attracted it the way only the most careful restraint could. she returns to his side with aching feet, a weary cosmic traveler seeking refuge in the shadow of its sun, ready to chart a familiar course once more. ayla fixes him with a look much less effective in his peripheral as she slides into an empty stool. "you haven't had your fill of me yet?" the question is soft as it glides past her lips, words curved with the same quiet delight that drags the corners of her mouth upward into the ghost of a smile. "from where i'm sitting, it looks like you prefer the company of your glass." absentmindedly, dark eyes trace the sharp line of his jaw, drawn by the fleeting movement. look at me—the thought is just as sudden, so forceful ayla tears her gaze away like one might their hand from a hot stove, busying herself with unsticking the hair from her neck, temperature that'd felt inviting just moments before now a degree too warm. "you're as demanding as your niece and nephew."

[holdf4st]

  ›     𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗌  :    open  [   0/5   ]               𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾   :    seven  pm  ,  fairgrounds.

             𝞋𝞎   ˖    ⊹  𝗶𝘁   𝘀𝗺𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗱   𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲   𝗮𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗺𝗻   —   𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹   𝗮𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗺𝗻   ,   not   the   shit   you   bought   in   a   can.   the   air   had   that   sticky   sweet   burn   of   cinnamon   brooms   and   cheap   cider,   jack-o’-lanterns   drooling   wax   down   porches   while   some   boombox   a   few   houses   over   blasted   “thriller.”   vincent   price’s   voice   rolled   through   the   neighborhood   like   fake   fog.   chet   hated   it.   all   of   it.   the   store-bought   masks,   the   plastic   cobwebs,   the   parents   pretending   they   weren’t   miserable.   halloween,   to   him   ,   was   just   another   excuse   for   people   to   act   like   fools   and   eat   too   much   sugar.   the   cup   in   his   hand   smelled   like   cider,   but   the   way   he   swirled   it   —   lazy,   careful,   a   little   too   practiced   —   said   there   was   something   else   mixed   in.   he   wasn’t   hammered,   though.   not   yet.   shockingly   alert,   even.   his   words   only   slurred   at   the   edges,   the   way   old   records   hiss   when   they’re   worn   down.

 “tired?”   he   repeated,   the   word   rolling   off   his   tongue   like   it   offended   him.   the   teenager   next   to   the   cider   table   had   said   it   with   a   yawn   when   he’d   asked   how   the   night   was   going.   chet   squinted   at   him.   "from   what?”   he   shot   back   before   the   kid   could   answer.   the   boy   blinked,   then   fidgeted   with   his   fake   vampire   cape.   chet   grunted,   muttering   mostly   to   himself.   “kids   these   days.   christ.”

 he   took   another   sip   and   turned   his   gaze   back   to   the   street,   where   ruby   mae   darted   from   porch   to   porch   with   her   little   plastic   pumpkin   bucket   swinging.   twelve   years   old,   all   elbows   and   determination,   dressed   as   some   japanese   cartoon   girl   —   sailor   mercury,   or   space   angel,   or   whatever   the   hell   her   name   was.   her   mama   had   sewn   her   costume:   a   bright   blue   sailor   getup   she’d   begged   for   after   seeing   a   vhs   at   blockbuster.   the   pleated   skirt   bounced   with   every   step,   the   silver   boots   a   half-size   too   big.   dorky,   adorable,   and   way   too   much   like   her   mama   for   his   peace   of   mind.

 he   spotted   her   laughing   at   something,   and   his   shoulders   eased   —   just   a   little   —   until   he   noticed   someone   stepping   a   bit   too   close.   some   older   kid,   tall   enough   to   have   stubble,   standing   near   the   candy   bowl   and   saying   something   ruby   mae   didn’t   seem   to   like.   chet’s   body   moved   before   his   brain   caught   up.   the   cup   was   gone   —   left   somewhere   on   a   fence   post   —   and   his   boots   hit   the   pavement   with   that   heavy,   deliberate   rhythm   that   meant   trouble   was   coming.   “problem   here?”   he   asked,   voice   low   and   even,   stepping   between   ruby   mae   and   the   stranger   like   a   wall   made   of   denim.   his   eyes   cut   sharp   beneath   the   streetlight.

 ruby   tugged   at   his   sleeve,   voice   small   beneath   the   din   of   monster   mash   and   laughing   kids.   “daddy,   it’s   fine.”   maybe   it   was.   but   “fine”   didn’t   mean   safe,   not   to   chet.   his   jaw   locked   up   tight   enough   to   ache,   that   muscle   near   his   temple   ticking   steady   as   a   metronome.   he   didn’t   blink,   didn’t   move — not   until   he’d   sized   up   the   stranger   and   found   something   he   didn’t   like.   he   jerked   his   chin   toward   the   nearest   adult— “ hey.   you,”   he   said,   rough   as   gravel.   then   his   finger   swung   toward   the   kid   beside   them,   his   voice   low   but   sharp   enough   to   cut   through   the   noise.   “you   know   this   one?   he   yours?”

[silkteared]

there was something inherently tragic about autumn, like all that beauty really was too much to bear, and that's why it was dying. still, it never stopped ayla from being charmed by every orange and red leaf each time the season rolled around, thoughts of decay warded off by timeless traditions like baking spiced cakes and trotting through orchards in search of the ripest apples. whatever magic had been lost to adulthood had returned tenfold the moment the twins had been born until it sometimes felt like she couldn't take it. watching taylan and selin chase each other around on wobbly legs, their confidence unencumbered by the halloween costumes ayla had sewn them, seized violently at her heart in a way it hadn't last year. perhaps it was the novelty of watching them grow up and get closer to the age she was in the black and white photos of herself at the halloween carnival that her mother kept neatly pressed inside an album. or perhaps what tugged at her chest was something darker after all. because among the overwhelming joy, there was overwhelming fear, too. an undercut that lingered, that threatened to leap out every second one of the twins wandered too far from her field of vision, or nearly stumbled face first into the trodden earth. it would be easier with burak. the thought passes through her head not for the first time that night, but certainly the most pointed as she watches selin trip over the fabric of her little cape, sending both her and taylan tumbling down. the cries follow soon after, faster than ayla can bend down, her white-tipped angel wings brushing against the dirt. "you're okay," she coos, brushing two sets of brown curls, turning tiny hands and elbows over checking for scrapes she knows don't exist, a nervous impulse she had yet to shake. ayla shakes the pumpkin bucket in her hand, the rattling sound of lollipops against plastic catching their attention, successfully thwarting their cries as they try to deduce what it was she was hiding inside. curious they were, her little ones. the thought was only mildly distressing now—she didn't want to imagine what it might feel like when they were older. she'd only just stood up, taylan now swung high onto her hip, face already obscured by grey fur now buried into her chest, when she hears it. there's trouble in that tone. selin latches herself to the back of ayla's legs like she can read her mind. but like a dog trained to follow a command, she can't ignore the call to fix a problem.

her attention follows the pointed finger, dark brows pulling in recognition, before drawing itself back to the finger's overtly angry owner. "mine can barely walk, let alone harass." she shifts her weight, adjusting her hold on her son. "but i know him. not as well as my husband does," at that her eyes dart back to the child's, who no longer seemed willing to meet her gaze at the mention of the deputy, before finding the older man's again. but somebody else catches her attention, a young girl who seemed uneasy, though accustomed to the scene unfolding, like she'd had practice anticipating what came next. "i like your costume," ayla says, offering a small smile, the mercy of acknowledgement perhaps just another way of swinging a metaphorical pumpkin bucket and redirecting a scene towards a softer outcome. "sailor mercury was always my favorite scout." she can feel selin's little red-caped head poke out from behind her, like she was testing to see if it was safe to come out of hiding. "—and what are you dressed up as?" gaze is draped over the man once more, a single dark brow arched as if daring him to change his focus.

[geryone]

I Will Tell this Story to the Sun Until You Remember that You are the Sun, Erin Slaughter

[taxidermiedfawn]

This filled me with both sentimentality and unease, set my heart's scene, because sometimes we return to what we recognize, whether we want it or not.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Excerpt from Cursed Bread by Sophie Mackintosh.

[rogers-carter]

PRACTICAL MAGIC 1998 | dir. Griffin Dunne

[silkteared]

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ (  özge yagız  .  cis  woman  .  she/her  )  .    ⸻   ayla yalçınkaya,  a  twenty-eight  year  old,  has  survived  another  day  in  red  creek  where  they  have  lived  for  their whole life.  the mender  is  known for  being  tenderhearted  and  complacent  and  is  often  associated  with  shattered porcelain pieces glued back together under the direction of a meticulous hand, your affliction to fix what's been broken is terminal; candlewax wings melted in the face of your all-consuming love; freshly cut flowers laid out on every windowsill like it's enough to keep death from following you home.  in  a  small  town  where  they  work  as  a  volunteer at red creek public library  word  travels  fast.  it’s  hard  to  keep  a  secret,  and  it  looks  like  the  boogeyman  knows  that  ████████. 

              aesthetics...

shattered porcelain pieces glued back together under the direction of a meticulous hand, your affliction to fix what's been broken is terminal; candlewax wings melted in the face of your all-consuming love; freshly cut flowers laid out on every windowsill like it's enough to keep death from following you home; the scent of cinnamon clinging to curled tresses, lingering against pillowcases, your presence not easily forgotten; still the way a lake is still once it's frozen over, ever-steady, but not to be mistaken for something harmless; kneading anger between your fingers like you're rolling out dough until you've transformed it into something softer; only praying in your native tongue; drops of scarlet dotting your sewing needles because bleeding is the only way you know how to give, the fear of what you don't know rooting you in place as you try to convince yourself this is all you've always wanted.

              statistics...

full name. ayla  yalçınkaya, nee savran. nicknames. moonlight, though only by her husband. date of birth & age. october 16th & twenty-eight. zodiac. libra sun, cancer moon. gender & pronouns. cis woman & she/her. orientation. bisexual. place of birth. red creek, michigan. ethnicity. turkish. occupation. volunteer at red creek public library, previously a waitress at dolly's diner. traits. tenderhearted, intuitive, reliable, protective, passionate, complacent, idealistic, conflict-avoidant, superstitious, obsessive. labels/tropes. the mender, the savior complex. parents. asli  savran, mother: retired english teacher at red creek k-12. erdem  savran, father: retired butcher at red creek grocery. siblings. emre savran, brother, deceased. berkay yalcınkaya, brother-in-law, football coach at red creek k-12 relationship status. burak yalçınkaya, husband, deputy at red creek's sheriff's department. children. taylan and selin yalçınkaya, twins, a year and a half years old.

               about...

TW:  brief  mentions  of  infant death.

—  your history in red creek predates you by two generations, when your grandparents fell in love with the sleepy american town meant only as a pit stop until they decided to plant their roots. you are a giver from a long line of givers, a trait passed down like tradition, like something embedded deep inside your genetic code. your parents were givers, too. staples of their community; the beloved english teacher and the town butcher. their love was something no hallmark imitation could ever capture. when the savran's welcomed their firstborn into this world, it was something all of red creek felt hopeful for. —  emre savran's earthly arrival coincided with the last of winter's ice giving way to gentle spring. your brother was born two days early, as if his zest for life couldn't be contained even a minute longer. but it was a truth your parents would soon have to learn to rewrite. at just eight months old, emre suddenly passes away in his sleep. no sickness, no warning. just here one minute and gone the next. his rosy-cheeked hospital photo, the one your father still keeps tucked away in his worn leather wallet, is the closest thing you'll ever get to meeting him by the time you're born four years later. — grief is your first childhood companion. not your own, but your parent's grief, the one they do their best to channel into love towards you. you never feel a shortage of it, and you're quite young still when you understand it must be your duty to give it back to them tenfold. our little savior, our little mender. words passed down to you in gratitude at the way you've lightened the load of their broken hearts, but that isn't how you take them. to you, it's a declaration of purpose. you, ayla yalçınkaya, were put on this earth to fix things. — it explains why, at four years old, you wept for three days straight at the rabbit with the broken leg you found caught in a neighbor's snare. it explains why, when you were ten, you spent an entire month gluing the pieces of your mother's favorite teacup back together after you saw her weeping over the pile of porcelain shards. it explains why, at fourteen, you become a cheerleader at red creek high, enticed by their infamy for giving back to the community. it explains why, even when you leave home at eighteen for college, you make the four-hour drive back to red creek every weekend once your father's hands become too worn down by arthritis to keep working. it explains why, at twenty-three, you marry a man whose sharp edges tug at the deepest strings of your heart, coaxing you to smooth them down with a patience he does not possess. it explains why no one in red creek seemed surprised at your decision to become a mother just over two years ago.

           personality & tidbits...

— category ten giver and fixer. ayla was raised by two generations of savrans who dedicated their lives to giving back to red creek, making her family as notable as those who founded the town, even if her history doesn't quite go back that far. probably participated in every bake sale that happened at red creek k-12 by the time she was nine years old. though she was involved in many things growing up, like cheerleading and student council, her role was often peripheral rather than leader-oriented. ayla had the charisma to brighten any room, but that wasn't where her true strength lied. what people never forgot about her was her reliability, the quiet kind of confidence that didn't inspire you to view her as the most desirable person, but to see yourself as better for having known her. — she has good intentions, but a savior complex is a double-edged sword. she has trouble differentiating when it isn't her job to fix something, most often when it comes to other people. romantically, this was usually devastating. still carries the habit of seeing people for who they could become, and not always who they are now. an optimist and a romantic, but there's nothing light or airy about it for ayla. she dones't know how to love something without throwing her whole heart into it. it's soul-crushing and terrifying, most of the time, but she'd never let it show. — for someone so intent on giving, having to be the one to take makes her want to throw up. she struggled with this the most during her pregnancy, then post-partum, which both weren't the smoothest. developed a bad case of insomnia with the twins, which she still struggles with even now. when she was still in college, she had brief dreams of studying child psychology, but they were quickly abandoned once her father's health took precedent, though it was never an expectation her father had placed on her. prioritizing herself is an unsettling concept, one laden with too much guilt. — she's one of those people who seem to be naturally gifted at any hobby they pick up, though ayla swears it's not inherent talent at all, but her meticulous habits that make learning new things come smoother. cooks and bakes often; at first it was just an interest in her culture and the role food plays, but it quickly became, like most things, about her ability to provide. sometimes it's stress-relief, the comfort of throwing her mind into something productive her preferred way of keeping anxious thoughts away. she also sews, a skill born from her nostalgic affliction in wanting to mend her old clothes so she didn't have to throw them away once they were worn or torn. now she'll create clothes entirely on her own, though never for anything more than a hobby. notably makes selin and taylan's halloween costumes, as well as outfits for special occasions, like their birthday. can play piano, but will rarely play in front of others.

— worked at dolly's all throughout high school, as well as briefly after college, until she met her husband. it was easy, wrapped up in those new years of such a grand love, to put her own ambitions to the side in favor of his dreams, which were always a little louder than hers. when the kids were newborns, ayla welcomed the luxury of being present in their lives, but now that they're older, volunteering at the library has been her compromise. — has a gentle nature, but don't mistake her kindness for weakness. there's a hardness at her center, and a fire that will burn when provoked past her limits. it takes a lot to get her angry, or to let her down, but once you do there's no returning. — she's superstitious, and even more so as she gets older. doesn't really mind if other people see it as silly, all that matters is that she believes in it. — has become interested, as of late, in the town's grocery store, which has certainly seen better days. though it's only an idea, a dream she's kept hidden so far, it plays on her mind often, what she could do to fix a place so essential to red creek.

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