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English Is My Second Language - Blog Posts
Story #85 is the poem "A Ballet Dancer"
Put your pointe shoes on
And get to the barre,
It’s your stage for tonight,
You’re a soloist.
Keep your balance,
Assemblé,
Attitude derrière,
Show bravura,
S'il te plaît
You’re not made of wood.
Half turn here,
Half turn there
Right leg extended in alongé
Left foot strong
With your foot en pointe --
Hard?
Demi-pointe it’s then.
Face your audience
Return to the first position
Grand plie,
Grand jete,
Pas de chat.
It’s your stage for tonight
You’re a soloist.
Stories #80-84 are chapters of the X-Files fanfiction story.
Read it on AO3
Story #79 "Mapping My Childhood"
That was a creative writing exercise from my tutor, and it's a mix of fiction and real-life events.
There was a heavy wooden bookcase in the living room of our old two-bedroom, creaky dusty shelves storing all kinds of books - detective stories, thrillers, romances that would make the most jagged reader blush. I rummaged through it from top to bottom and stopped my gaze on “Hatter’s Castle” by Archibald Cronin, a hefty volume of blue color - the book my younger self, fascinated with British and American literature – devoured whole in one week. Took me another week to digest it, before embarking on Dreiser’s “American Tragedy”. We’ll get back to that.
Kesha, our green and yellow budgie, was tweeting in his cage as I stood there hypnotizing the book, trying to decide if it was worth a read. As I made up my mind to give it a shot, I sauntered over to the kitchen to boil some water for tea. Benny, our beautiful white mongrel, looked at me with her wet brown eyes – always seemingly sad – and I paused by the door of the kitchen with my manuscript.
Later.
We could look through Hatter’s castle later. Tea could wait too. It was time to walk.
“Hey, let’s go out for a while.”
She didn’t hesitate and jumped on me, pawing my knees excitedly. I crouched down to be level with her lovely fluffy face and pulled her increments closer. Maybe somewhere in the back of my head, I had already known it would be one of our last times together. As I had known that one sunny day in June, I would forget to pull down the bar of Kesha’s cage while filling his bowl with fresh food, and he would fly away.
We tended to keep the balcony doors open in summer, but I still believed the chances he’d find his way out would be close to nil. Well, fucking stupid of me. But what would you expect from a fourteen-year-old – a clusterfuck of uncertainty and confusion?
Fourth floor. Eighty-eight steps up and down. Every day for the past six years, and then the next ten. Inside it smelled like dump plaster and cigarette smoke. I used to know all my neighbors by name, the types of plants they had (they asked us to water them when on holiday), and the loudness of their spouses’ voices once a row was in full swing.
Every four weeks it was our turn to sweep the floors of the lobby and wash two flights of stairs. Twenty-two steps. Up and down. I wish we had a rug there, so I could sweep under it all the dirt and humiliation I felt every time I got spotted by a random passerby.
Checking the postbox was the thing I loved best. There were letters and postcards I could read. When I was in high school, newspapers joined them. Later, when I entered the college, catalogs and brochures were added to the pile of the mess our postbox had become.
“What you got there?” The boy from the top floor – the fifth – asked me as he stepped across the narrow two-by-two lobby to check the box of his own.
“Yves Rocher catalog,” I mumbled and he pivoted on his heels swiftly.
“What?”
“Yves Rocher catalog,” I repeated louder and then felt compelled to clarify. “You can buy a lipstick there or a mascara.”
The boy smirked and swept my body down with his eyes, grinning wickedly.
“You think it’ll help?”
At his words, my face started burning. I kept staring at him with eyes wide open, acutely aware that if I closed them for a second, the tears that had already filled the back of my throat would spill over my lashes. I swallowed a sob ready to escape any moment and brushed past the guy, bumping his shoulder painfully with my backpack.
“Fuck you.”
Story #76. Based on the prompt: 'Surprise!' They cried, leaping out from behind the door.
“Surprise!” They cried leaping out from behind the door, and the glass of water she was holding, slipped out of her grasp and shuttered. She bolted down to clean the mess and peered sideways at her unsolicited guests shifting from one leg to another. One of them, Tom - she recalled vaguely - tiptoed around the shards and intercepted her hand, reaching for paper napkins in the bottom drawer of the desk.
“I’ll do that, don’t worry.”
The words broke the spell, prompting others to hurtle towards the couple on the floor. Flowers were put into vases, cake was set on the desk, candles were lit, and presents were stored in the corner of the room.
“Didn’t mean to scare the shit out of you.” Someone offered and the woman huffed a laugh.
She took a moment to meander around the office, gauging mentally whether she’d be able to take all the wrapped-up boxes and bouquets to her car in one go and then backed up and plonked down on the chair. A high tower of a cake leveled her eyes.
“Make a wish,” Tom encouraged.
I’d like this day to start over, she said in her head and blew the candles.
Story #75, which is a CPE essay about Children's games.
Game is a fundamental concept in the realm of childhood, designed to teach rules, demonstrate examples, and guide minors through their transition to adulthood. Games reflect the behavioral patterns of their age, thus the play adopted contributes to the impact parents have on their children.
The first text outlines the idea that children's games, be they in the past or present, while chosen freely, sometimes are severely criticized by parents. Unfortunate though it is, family members tend to breed further development of the problem buying juniors the newest exorbitant toys. That state of affairs might be the driving force of why children are not aware of ways to amuse themselves without gadgets or money in their pockets. However, the author fails to take into account that people had limited availability of playthings in the past, and therefore, it was natural for children to make their own amusements.
In the second passage, the author rightly highlights that not only children's play preferences are different in this day and age, but also the nature of games is the subject of constant progress. Social transformations, albeit sometimes disproportional, affect all areas of our lives, so the games children play are no more than a continuation of these alterations. One should consider them as a sign of evolution. This point notwithstanding, parents are in charge of guiding the juniors through a wide range of entertainment means, to enhance their experiences rather than assisting them in further sinking into boredom and, therefore, seeking joy and solace in new toys.
In conclusion, although one cannot deny the fact that children's games are constantly changing, the harmful nature of these changes is rather questionable.
Word count: 277
Story #74, which is another CPE review.
Prompt: A literary magazine has invited readers to submit reviews of non-fiction books. You decide to submit a review of a book that has influenced you greatly. Your review should briefly describe the book, explain what aspects of your life have changed after reading it, and assess the importance of non-fiction literature.
“To understand the ‘artist’, you must study his ‘art’,” says the FBI profiler, Special Agent John E. Douglas in his book “Mindhunter” where the ‘artist’ is a serial killer and ‘art’ is a homicide. A gruesome account of the US's seamiest underbelly, the book is a real gem for true crime lovers, with Douglas both a predator and prey.
Ted Bandy, Zodiac and Charles Manson. Even people who are not into crime stories heard about them. What made those seemingly normal men tick, turning them into the most notorious criminals the USA has ever known? To understand this, the former FBI agent explains, as he takes us inside his chilling-to-the-bone narrative, you have to start thinking like a criminal. In letting us into the predators’ devilish plans, he spares the readers no detail – the goriest the better, the reader rejoices. as we spiral down the madness path together with Douglas, we can clearly see that nobody emerges unscathed after such a journey - the strain profiling has on the family cannot go unnoticed.
For an amateur writer in my person, “Mindhunter” was the manual for creating an accurate portrait of a serial killer for the novel I have in the process. Not an easy read, the book demanded all my focus, but gave me a deep insight into serial killers’ motives and obsessions. It also proved effective to fathom what steered them wrongly. Can I recognize a serial killer in broad daylight now? No, I can’t. But can I tap into the knowledge I acquired to create a believable character for my own story? Yes, I believe so.
Douglas’ book was my source of information as the topic I explored demanded serious research. Such books are based heavily on facts, hence being valuable assets in analyzing real-life events and memories of those who bore witnesses to them. This is also their - the victims’ - way of making meaning of what happened to them. Let their stories be told and remembered. Let them not perish into oblivion.
Story #73 is a CPE review of the same book "Truly Like Lightning" by David Duchovny.
Prompt: A literary magazine has invited readers to submit reviews of modern books that might deserve the status of a classic. You decide to submit a review. Your review should briefly describe the book, explain why you think it deserves the status, and speculate on what makes a book a classic.
David Duchovny, known mainly as an actor, once again scales the heights of the literary world with his novel “Truly like lightning”. It, indeed, is truly like lightning accompanied by one clap of thunder after another – blinding and deafening in its narrative.
Duchovny’s novel tells the story of Bronson Powers, a former Hollywood stuntman and a converted Mormon, who lives off the grid in a plural marriage with three wives and ten children. Seemingly happy in their private desert outside of Joshua Tree, away from the corruption of the modern world, they spend their days hunting, foraging, and farming. Everything changes, when Maya Abbadessa, an ambitious employee of a predatory investment firm literally stumbles upon Powers’ homestead, setting into motion a deadly chain of events that will test the beliefs of everyone involved.
Throughout the narrative, the reader is confronted with the question of how to tell right from wrong in the world of extremes. There is a constant battle of virtue and vice – money against love, sex against religion, greed against generosity. Transposed through the account of Bronson Powers, both a martyr and a crucifier, this is a story of parents who mean well and children who obey their orders blindly. As if to aggravate the situation and show the inevitability of the tragedy, in the background, the reader witnesses how the environment of the ancient desert of Joshua Tree vanishes, turning yet into another meaningless hotel slash entertaining center.
“Truly like lightning” might seem hackneyed for anyone living dangerously close to Hollywood, but unhackneyed for anyone from afar. Regardless of sounding trite in his commentary on pop culture, the multilayered themes Duchovny explores and masterfully exploits are as universal as they will ever be. After all, what deems a book classic if not the topics that undoubtedly resonate with readers at all times - past, present, and future?
Story #72, which is a 'Truly like lightning' review.
“The X-files” were my Bible throughout the 90s to 2000s. I fell in love with the character of Fox Mulder long before I fell in love for the first time for real. I didn’t think Duchovny could get any better than that until he started writing and I started reading what he had written.
“Truly Like Lightning” is not David Duchovny’s first book, but it’s his best so far - it will strike you to the very core and leave you aching, with questions whirling like a snowstorm in the head.
Set in the desert of Joshua Tree, the story centers around the former Hollywood stuntman Bronson Powers, now a converted Mormon living unplugged in a polygamous marriage. They raise their ten kids away from the evils of society until one day a young ambitious employee of a corrupt real estate company targets their land. Cultures clash. Faith is tested. Choices are made.
The book will hook you and won’t let you put it down… if you manage to push through the first fifty pages. Seriously, it took me two weeks to read that part, where Duchovny mostly explained the background of his characters, and only two days to finish the 445-page manuscript, when the story finally turned into an action movie-like narrative.
All things considered, it’s worth every minute of reading. What made a successful man abandon all the perks of Hollywood and choose to live the life of an isolated nomad? What happens to Powers’ family once they are forced off their land and into the temptations of the world they left behind? What’s with the children who have never had a say in any of that?
Read the book. And be prepared to be struck.
Story #71 is about how I became a member of a 5 AM club.
Whenever I tell people that I usually wake up at the crack of dawn, their eyes go wide like two saucers. I then instantly bombarded with questions of how, why, and who on earth forces me out of my bed at such an ungodly hour. Once the initial shock settles though, and I share that getting up with the sun comes along with turning in with it, I'm rewarded with a look of utter disappointment. It is as if I was supposed to give them a magic pill of how to be an early riser maintaining a routine of a nightcrawler.
Sorry guys, you can’t expect to pop up eureka moments if your body’s basic need for sleep goes unmet. The membership at the club comes with a price - I gotta hit the hay before the ripe hour of ten.
So what’s the catch in being a lark? First and foremost, I have two completely quiet and uninterrupted hours to exercise, read, write and go over my agenda. Today my routine is heavily scripted - not a minute is wasted in vain. I also manage not to skip my breakfast (remember, it’s your most important meal of the day) and hardly ever feel rushed (bonus point: no added stress.) As a result, I feel accomplished well before most people hit the snooze button.
Ironically enough, the miracle morning of my first 5 AM awakening wasn’t miraculous at all. When my daughter was still a toddler, I put her to bed around nine. Since it isn’t uncommon for a newly-minted mother to feel extremely drained by the evening, I usually started snoring even before my little bundle of happiness/misery. As a result, my body had enough time to recharge its batteries, and by 4-5 AM I would wake up well-rested, replenished and all ready to jump on the world. Now I don’t even set an alarm - my biological clock is in perfect tune with my brain.
It’s possible that you already a morning person, it’s just your morning starts at 1 PM. Pun intended and achieved. But, if one day you choose to join the 5 AM club for real, I bet you will never find yourself mourning the fact that you’re no longer sleeping in the morning.
Story #70 is a message to the mothers of boys.
To the mothers of boys
I am a mother of a wonderful boy of six years. I often hear people, husband included, referring to our son as a mummy’s boy, a term I find derogatory. “You are too gentle to him,” “You are raising a wuss,” “Don’t kiss him. Don’t hug him. Don’t hold hands. Take your pick.
Friends, relatives, and even strangers dare to point their fingers at the fact that my son and I nurture a close bond as if it is something filthy. For reasons which elude me, mother-son closeness is severely stigmatized in our society.
You encourage your son to try a new hobby and people say you’re meddling with him. You let him cry on your shoulder when he scraped his knee and they say you’re coddling him. You buy him a long-wanted toy and they say you are smothering him. A mother that keeps her son “too close” feminizes him and discourages the development of his manhood. In the world of masculinity, a big macho man is a poster child for success, yet a man who is able to express his feelings freely and be susceptible to the emotions of others is a loser.
This is simply not true. No one is ever going to become oversensitive and maladjusted from being loved and treated with care. Contrary to popular belief, boys who don’t suppress their emotions won’t become clingy wimps hiding under their mother’s skirt – they will turn out to be better equipped to navigate their lives and be empathetic spouses.
Love won’t hurt. It will heal. So I'm just going to hug my son some more and tell him how much I love him.
Are you a mother of a boy? Maybe you should do the same then.
Story #69, which is a positive travel experience.
“Look, we gotta go there,” said my travel buddy Katya showing me the first photo that came out as she googled Austria. The photo showed the tiny alpine village of Hallstatt, nestled between a mountain and a lake with a mouthful of a name.
The vista rendered me speechless and was enough of a reason to say yes to a holiday, yes to Austria, yes to Hallstatt.
Between us, Katya and I have five kids and the power to move mountains when it comes to traveling without them. Ironically enough, our choice fell on that postcard-perfect Instagram-worthy place at the heart of the Alps.
Three train journeys, two soaked-through backpacks, and one ferry cruise across the lake later, we finally arrived in Hallstatt. The place, included in the top ten places to visit while in Austria, miraculously wasn’t swamped with tourists. We took a leisurely funicular ride to the skywalk observation deck, enjoyed a cup of Viennese coffee with a piece of the Sachertorte, walked up the path for another hour, and then set off on a hike back, all the way snapping away left, right and center.
Snap and we were 900 meters above sea level.
Snap and we were inside an old salt mine.
Snap and we stood in front of the stained glass windows of the old Protestant Church on the main square.
Snap and we were back home, locking away new precious moments in a memory box along with a few hundreds of photos capturing those unforgettable instants.
Story #68, which is a negative travel experience.
Here I am in my late 30s. Now scroll down my Instagram and see what I was like nine years ago - practically the same woman but with her first child (and don’t forget to wow me with “you haven’t changed a day!”) So when the baby girl turned 18 months old, our little family of three adventured off to Bulgaria - our first holiday in the status of parents.
It is not unheard of for a newly-minted mother to be cautious and plan everything ahead when a child is involved. That’s what I did. A hotel with a kid’s pool and a playground - ticked. A restaurant with a menu for picky toddlers - ticked. A suitcase filled to the brim with diapers, fruit smoothie pouches, formula, and every medicine imaginable - ticked. I was prepared for everything.
What I couldn’t have been prepared for was that three days into the holiday, Ann, my unlucky daughter, would start burning - not under the hot Bulgarian sun, but with a fever. A nasty virus, caught somewhere at the airport, and oral thrush, caught when she wined and dined herself with the beach sand are both quite innocent, but a deadly bouquet when worsened by a child violently teething.
We made it through the holiday watching cartoons (frigging Blue Tractor), eating the suitcase of smoothie pouches, and pushing a stroller along the most deserted streets of the town.
The hardest part was to watch her looking at the pool through the balcony bars, knowing that she couldn’t join the other kids there. The lesson learned hard - I hadn’t taken my second child on an abroad trip until all his teeth claimed their rightful places in his mouth.
Story #67 is about all the would have beens in my life.
Everything changed.
For better or worse is a pending question.
My typical day now is more or less the same flurry of commotion as for any other teacher slash blogger. I teach Present Perfect and Conditionals, check CPE essays, attend another how to organize your language classroom webinar or let’s-read-or-write-or-watch-together club. However, unlike those multitaskers who somehow manage to tick every box on the list, I always have something in between.
That something is kids. Every bullet point of my agenda is broken by “feed the kids,” “walk the kids,” “wash the kids,” and “do a million other things with kids.” And believe me, you better do, otherwise they will howl like werewolves on a full moon until someone finally draws a gun and shoots the poor bastards.
I could have done so much more with my life if I hadn’t had kids. I would have written the book I had been putting off for a decade. I would have designed a few writing courses of my own. I would have set up a gazillion of new projects. At the very least, I would have felt marginally less frazzled, drained and comatose.
Where’s that Jen who dreamed about driving along the Atlantic coast in a speeding red convertible, doing a Master’s in LSE and living in Belgravia right across Westminster Abbey? Does she know what my life would have been like if I had made other choices? Does she know what I would have missed?
It took me years to make peace with all the uncertainty those questions brought to my life, but I accepted the idea of only one true choice - all the roads would have eventually taken me right here, to this moment, when I’m sitting and typing that post.
Indeed, my life is a far cry from anything I have imagined, yet it’s perfect in its failures.
And even if I could turn back time, I wouldn’t change a day.
Story #66 "You are what you eat"
A cliche that sounds like a broken record. Well, I’m sorry to break it to you, but yes, you are.
I’ll have to go back here to explain my point. In 2014 I was diagnosed with Cholinergic Urticaria (CU). CU is a reaction of your skin to an increase in your body temperature, resulting in tiny hives. They are itchy, swollen, and they cover you from head to toe, lasting from thirty minutes to two hours. I typically got them when I exercised, was extremely stressed or while taking a hot shower.
There’s no documented cure from CU. You just have to learn how to live with it. And I did.
In February 2023, after another regular run on a treadmill, I noticed that my skin was totally fine. No red itchy bumps closing together, nothing. For the first time in almost a decade, my skin was clean. To say I was surprised would be an understatement out of proportion. I thought that NOT having my body FAILED me, was a FAILURE in itself.
Over the following days I tested it with vigorous workouts, hot baths and sauna visits. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Now, four months later, I finally believe it.
Do I know why it’s gone? I don’t. Do I believe that my immune system rebooted and my diet was a big part of it? Yes, I do.
It dates back to my adolescent years when I started modeling. First, it was about trying to follow the elusive 90-60-90 standard, then about fighting acne off my skin and gastritis off my stomach. Today, I allow myself to have cheat meals and late-night snacks here and there, but what you MOSTLY won’t find in my diet is
🦋gluten
🦋sugar
🦋red meat
🦋dairy
🦋tea
Over the years things like checking the labels in a supermarket and having veggies and fruit in abundance at home have become my second nature. Whether it’s a curse or a blessing, I’m totally obsessed with what’s on my plate.
I’m a great believer in the theory that our body is capable of curing itself once you create the conditions for that. So, if there’s something to cure and you’re considering where to start, start with what’s on your plate. As simple as that. Your problems might not disappear overnight, but, little by little, they’re bound to get better.
Story #65 is something to be said about bones.
“Do what you love. Know your own bone; gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw it still.”
Said Henry David Thoreau probably talking about finding your vocation and yada-yada-yada. Sitting in a wooden gazebo of my mother’s country house and looking at our twelve-year-old orange ball of a Pomeranian gnawing at a raw steak bone makes that quote a bit of a joke.
What does it take to know your own bone? How do you even know if that fucking thing is your true bone? Damn right. This is where you had to start, dear Mr. Thoreau.
I wanted to be a forensic pathologist. No, seriously. I thought I was going to cut skin and muscles and all. Literally. I would slice and dice and get to the very essence of a bone.
A human’s body is a temple, so often vandalized and violated by a few who believe they’re omnipotent - criminal offenders, abusers, perpetrators - doesn't really matter what you call them. By unraveling the mysteries of the body's destruction and gathering all the clues it left behind, I’d solve the puzzle and bring the body its dignity back. Restore it. Make it whole again. Make it more than just a set of bones.
I never became a queen of an autopsy bay. Somewhere along the way, I took another turn to explore my other obsessions. The writing was one of them, and this time it’s all down my bones.
The thing is, I didn’t recognize my bone when I first saw it. Sometimes it takes years to find it. It may take a few more to understand that it, indeed, is your true bone. However, one thing Mr. Thoreau was right about is, whatever your bone turns out to be, once you find it – gnaw at it. Gnaw at it with all your might.
Story #64 "Living a Life of Interruptions"
I wish I could say that writing comes naturally to me, and with a click of my fingers, I shift my mind into the subspace where my silly ramblings magically turn into coherent ideas.
Much to my chagrin, I can barely find time to transmit a few sentences to my journal on a daily basis. It should be easy, isn’t it? After all, you do it with everything else in your life - exercising, hobbies like reading or knitting, your work for crying out loud!
But…come on, in all candor, when are you ever alone? Exactly.
Peace and quiet is a gossamer door into a parallel reality allowed to exist in your head only. I’m hardly alone even when I pee, much less so when it comes to all my aforementioned ventures.
I live a life of interruptions. I’m interrupted when I read, when I run on a treadmill or sweat over another set of crunches or when I take a shower.
Notifications. Messages. Ads. Kids. Random thoughts. Things you forgot. Things you must not forget. Reminders. Whether these are your children, pawing through your desk with their little hands and naked curiosity or something else, be brutally honest with yourself - you are constantly bombarded with interruptions.
Is there a way out? There must be some, right? Mine is to write in the wee wee hours when everyone is asleep. In the dark and gloomy confines of my kitchen, surrounded by the smell of freshly brewed coffee that slips into my pores and receptors of my nostrils, I have found my safe place for writing. I’m all by my lonesome, and I love every minute of it.
I disciplined myself into writing. And if the muse happens to hover over my shoulder, I grab that resentful bitch by the neck and keep doing my thing, because if I don’t, she will slam the door shut out of my creative space so loudly that it will leave the void so vast, it will echo.
Be kind to yourself. No disparaging remarks. Only courteous behavior and soft-spoken words are welcome in that sacred place where creativity is harvested. Enjoy the crackling freedom you regain, when once evanescent thoughts, finally transform into actual printed letters, demystifying every nook and cranny of your brain.
That, indeed, is real magic.
Story #63 is a review of "The Craft: Legacy" movie
“Let the ritual begin,” says the slogan of the supernatural horror film “The Craft: Legacy,” catching the attention of those starving for spectacular special effects and magic rituals. Based on the story of 1996, which had set a pretty high bar, the Legacy is yet to beat its prequel.
The protagonist Lilly, masterfully portrayed by young Cailee Spaeny, seems to be your typical kind of teenager with her ups and downs. And while the story efficiently tackles the issues teens usually face on their way to adult life, it is heavily steeped in feminism, tolerance to LGBTQ+, and all that kind of thing. There are no “normal” male characters in the film. The fiancé of the heroine’s mother she moves in with is a tyrant figure ready to scold his daughter-in-law for hitting a boy twice her size. His brood of teenage sons acts like snitches, ratting on their newfound sister on every occasion. Her classmates crack vulgar jokes over a piece of blood-drenched clothing and ask out loud about her sex life.
Of course, Lilly and her witchy girlfriends decide to punish one of such guys, bringing out his “better self”. In the blink of an eye a yesterday’s bad boy magically turns into a sensitive and gentle spirit, defending all the weak and powerless, unable to tolerate low-waist jokes, he felt absolutely comfortable with before. But is he your poster child for an ideal man? I doubt it.
Taking up so promisingly, the story becomes a mere disappointment in its final leg, reaching its peak in a poorly directed battle between Good and Evil. Here the theme of feminism re-emerges again, as Evil is represented by a single male figure and Good is carried out through a bunch of school girls. “Legacy” turns out to be no more than a maudlin melodrama with the moral in the idea that magic is the panacea for any failure.
Story #62 "My best learning experience"
Originally written as a CELTA admission essay.
It’d be fair to say that one of my best learning experiences was the one I gained being a member of the “Teachers Teach Teachers” project. In a nutshell, that’s a program created by a teacher trainer and business coach Anita Modestova, where teachers are given a unique, almost once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be taught by their fellow teachers, teach their peers themselves, discuss the methodology aspects of the overall teaching process, as well as receive the extended detailed feedback.
As a basis, we used Hugh Dellar’s “Outcomes Advanced” coursebook, implementing both the communicative and the lexical approaches. Every month, one of the participants, was nominated to teach their colleagues and Hugh, himself, hosted workshops for teachers of the month. We discussed strategies, shared our ideas for exercises, planned the whole lesson together, and in the next meeting exchanged good and bad outcomes and what needed to be improved.
Having lessons weekly, it took us roughly three years to go through the whole coursebook. Not only I became more confident as a teacher, but I got plenty of insights as a student, especially on teaching online. It was a safe place for me to implement new ideas and experiment with my own teaching style as well as test out any unconventional methods. For instance, at one point my third-year mentor Ben Brooks pointed out how much better it might be to let all students stay in the main room for an active discussion instead of dividing them into pairs. That was when I saw that sometimes the MR works better than break-out rooms, and later that year I gave a speech at the “Meaningful Weekend” conference about the whole thing and how beneficial it could be.
All in all, I’m extremely grateful for that experience and believe that it is partially responsible for what kind of teacher I am now.
Story #61 "What is a good teacher?"
Originally written as a CELTA admission essay.
What is a good teacher? What qualities one should possess to be considered a poster child for teaching? And who is to tell a good teacher from the bad one, and make the final decision? They say “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Perhaps, to an extent, it’s fair for a good vs. bad teacher as well.
When I did my TESOL course a year ago, I was asked to write an essay on my teaching philosophy, and at some point, I started contemplating what a good teacher was in my opinion, and whether I, myself, met those standards. I might repeat myself here with what I wrote in the past, but thinking back now, I stand by my words.
I’m firmly convinced that a good teacher is a teacher who knows how to convey the information they prepared for the lesson and is able to present the material in a practicable and entertaining way, as well as be capable of engaging students in different communicative activities to provide them with vocabulary and grammar sufficient for successful communication. That kind of teacher knows the ultimate goal of any exercise they give and sets short-term and long-term aims for themselves and their students.
A good teacher knows how to encourage a student to use actively the learning strategies such as asking questions, making notes, and not being afraid of making mistakes. They can explain that experimenting with the language is impossible without mistakes, and get sure students feel confident enough in a classroom. As a rule, a good teacher sticks to the 80/20 strategy and knows how to reduce teacher talking time and increase student talking time.
They want to pass on not only their knowledge but their passion for languages and sow the seeds of the idea that any learning indeed is an exciting process a student can benefit from. A good teacher strives to show their students that there is no extrinsic motivation they need to study as they can find it within themselves. As a teacher, I try to be that source of motivation and enthusiasm for my students.
Story #60 "Power in Routine"
POWER IN ROUTINE
That's me on this tee. With one slight difference - we are not in the X-files universe where the Fox (supposedly Mulder) cries out for Scully in every single episode.
My version goes like that:
‘Kids! KIDS! K-EE-D-S!’
At half past six every morning.
And that’s how our day starts.
Ten minutes to lie in, ten more to wash up and get dressed. Fifteen to have breakfast. We gotta leave at 7.20 for school 🏫 which gives me a sufficient amount of time to return home and start my first lesson at eight.
I usually work non-stop until 11 or 12, and then I have a very long lunch. I might exercise (you gotta move that body around after being glued to your chair for hours on end), and watch some tv-series along the way.
In the second part of the day, there are two more trips to school and back, some more lessons, extracurricular activities, and dinner. By then, I’m so exhausted that I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
My co-star app says that I find power in routine, and I couldn’t have said it better.
Establishing a simple but flexible routine was my magic bullet to balance life and work and everything in between. Once I swallowed it, magic happened. Wonders haven’t seized since then.
As a part of my daily routine, I might write, read, cook, knit, or take a nap. The list is endless, you name it. One rule applies, though - whatever it is, it has to be scheduled and put on the calendar, otherwise, chances are I won’t get it done.
It’s all about planning.
Here goes the main question: are you a planner or more of a spontaneous kind of person? What helps you have it done?
Story #59 is a CPE essay on positive psychology.
Positivity. A shibboleth and a trend of modern society. Body positivity. Workplace positivity. All day everyday positivity. A cliché the proponents of stand tall with, encouraging people, as Samuel Beckett once said, to try again, fail again, and fail better. That said, is the happiness-first approach the only means to succeed, and is it fair to assume that not everyone is designed to be an “always over-exuberant smiley” person?
To be a happy individual and a better person for society, one should strive to reframe any negative mindset and adopt “happiness” principles, as the opposite brings feelings of stress into life. What the aforementioned concept fails to take into account, however, is that negative emotions are far from being something that should be just tolerated - these have to be examined through the lens of a more nuanced view. Stress is a natural physiological response a person not only suffers but also benefits from. Anecdotal as it sounds, stress serves as a medicine, which means that in healthy doses it facilitates achievement and contributes to a positive emotional state.
However, in some cases, it is simply impossible to maintain that “always happy” practice. There are people, known as defensive pessimists, whose broodiness and fatalism are the normal state of affairs as it is their way to think ahead and prepare themselves for challenges, hence the conclusion - what is acceptable for one is not for another. While riding on the pessimism bandwagon provides defensive pessimists with a unique tool to cope with stress, having an overly negative mindset may lead to clinical depression and anxiety.
Optimism and pessimism are two opposites, both of which are fundamental to mental development. That notwithstanding, it is natural for an average person to regard hopelessness, sorrow, and the like as something one has to avoid at all costs; thus, the popularity of the positive thinking concept will continue to increase.
(word count 316)
(I should also mention that my tutor said that wasn't an academic style intro - the very beginning:) It would be great for a review or an article, but too bold for a discursive essay!)
Story #58 is a super boring CPE report
Introduction
The purpose of this report is to assess the facilities of the “Garden Park” and outline a number of recommendations for improvement that would attract more visitors if implemented. The conducted investigation revealed the following.
Stalls with food
The park has an extensive network of multicultural stalls of food throughout its area. Mainly, customers have been satisfied with the variety of dishes and beverages as well as the price range. Nevertheless, long queues during peak times might be taken into account as a possible concern, especially in respect to the atrium space.
Suggested action
The installation of several more stalls will be beneficial as it would reduce the waiting time in the busiest quarters of the park.
Bike rental services
Bike rental services are the park's primary entertainment currently available for visitors. Despite the abundance in the number of bicycles, their usage has decreased recently. It appears that the problem occurred due to the absence of electronic payment terminals.
Suggested action
I therefore strongly recommend looking into the possibility of implementing an acquiring payment system as an alternative to payments in cash.
Playgrounds
There have been several complaints concerning the safety of “Garden Park’s” playgrounds, in particular, their suitability for infants and younger children. Some facilities available for minors are regarded by parents as health-threatening, which leads to their neglect of using them.
Suggested action
In the light of the information gathered, I would propose that we hang sign plates to indicate the age suitability of stated areas.
Conclusion
On the basis of the points mentioned above, it would seem appropriate to regard the implementation of the suggested improvements as they could increase the attendance of the park and enhance its premises for future visitors’ ventures.
(word count 288)
Story #57 "You gotta stay away from work to work better"
Said A. in our yesterday’s lesson when I asked her about Women's Day. Hell, yeah, I replied, would be nice but kind of hard to do your work not working it. We laughed it off and got back to our good old lexical items but the thought stuck.
It played on the loop later as well, when I thought back to my last year's holiday. And two years back. And basically all the holidays of the last 10 years. The first thing I pack with me is my laptop. I take it out to the airport to check the student's homework. I take it out on the plane to outline a workshop. I take it out in a hotel to upload some extra materials for them and then write some more.
The children run around asking for a cable car trip, or a dip in a swimming pool. The husband is pulling me under the blanket in his subtle attempt to make out with his seemingly relaxed pre-holiday wife. The dog we don’t have (thank god!) scratching the door desperately to remind us about its basic needs, would complete the picture perfectly.
Yet, I have my laptop on my knees. The wheels are already set in motion while I’m getting ready for my lesson in the room I set up for my study in our two-bedroom suite.
That begs the question - why the hell is it so hard not to work at all? And If I strip myself of any opportunities to be engaged in any work-related environment, can I break that vicious cycle?
What’s your holiday like, guys? Is it a real work-free holiday or do you tend to squeeze in a few lessons/homework checks/course supervising/etc. in between a morning beach stroll and an evening family dinner?
Story #55 is a one-shot #2 written at the X-Files writer's workshop in 15 minutes.
They were standing by the sea. Coffee cups in hands. She caught herself thinking she was drinking so much coffee these days it could start oozing out of her ears.
“You know, there was a time when I thought I would love to retire in a place like that. Opening my tiny cozy coffee spot, talking to people, reading books, brewing fresh coffee and tea.”
“You’d be bored to death in a span of a few weeks. A. coffeeshop and you, Mulder, is a parallel universe, no less.”
“I could write something.”
She ignored him, lost in a reverie of her own.
“People don’t even sit at coffee shops anymore, Mulder, it’s all grab and go. Life is too hectic, they won’t talk to you.”
“No, no, Scully, it would be different here. I just know. You could bake some gingerbread, and we would have books everywhere, and they would sit and read, you know, and then ask for a refill.”
The urge to interrupt him before he had finished was overwhelming.
“What on earth are you talking about? Coffee? Books?”
This is how she knew. It was anything but their reality. It was anyone but her Mulder.
“Your life is aliens. You are not married to coffee, Mulder. You are married to your work. Files and all.” He turned to her, a confused look on his face.
“See you in the basement.”
The portal opened behind and she stepped in, still feeling a strong tang of the sea in the air.
Story #54 is a one-shot written at the X-Files writer's workshop in 15 minutes.
The moon was shining so bright that she regretted she hadn’t taken her shades upon leaving the house. What the hell she was even doing here - in the woods, literally in the middle of nowhere, at night.
Was it supposed to be another nice trip to the forest? They were trying to hunt down a werewolf or some other folklore-based creature - she wasn’t even sure anymore. All she wanted was the sky to open up and rain with sleeping bags. Maybe even pillows. And some snacks. Please, add some snacks to the list. They needed some staples. She could already hear her stomach rumbling. Hunger was going to be a problem. It already started eclipsing any other thought in her head. Sanity for sure.
Stealing a quick glance at her partner, his shadow figure wading through the thick woodland just a few feet away, she felt a twinge of envy at the over-exuberant mood he was in.
Story #53, In the Silence of the Night 2/2
This is The X-Files fanfiction. Read it on AO3
She has no doubts that Mulder knows how to touch her mind.
She suspects that he keeps under wraps a few tricks on how to touch her soul.
But how is it possible that he’s never touched her body before, yet he can play it like a fine musical instrument? With unerring precision, he recognizes all the right keys to touch and strings to pull. Her body, mind, and soul sing the most sonorous chords all at once. Only in his arms.
If he can make her vibrate all the way down to her toes with just one kiss, what's going to happen when they take it to the bedroom? Oh, boy.
Scully straddles his lap and in a matter of seconds, their clothes end up in heaps on the floor of her living room.
Fingertips, calloused and tender, map the soft curves and hard muscles; eyes, hazel, and baby-blue, trail over the cream and bronze canvases of skin; lips deliciously full, devour hungrily over each other.
In his hands, he holds a microcosm of the ocean of pleasure that comes to wash her in tides.
With tender fingers, he caresses the undersides of her breasts - thumbs sliding over the hard nipples - then moves them down to rest on that sweet spot where her waist goes to her hips, and eventually encircles her back. Their bodies touch head-to-toe and the sweet fragrance of her skin fills him to the brim with each inhale.
“God, you are so beautiful,” Mulder whispers, tightening his arms around her and kissing her soft, fruit-scented hair.
“Should we take it to the bedroom? You know, there’s a bed in this apartment.”
In reply, he dips his nose into her neck and nips gently on the sensitive skin beneath her ear, hands still roaming along the pale expanse of her back. As they settle on the luscious cheeks of her lace-covered bottom, he gives them a firm squeeze and lifts his head off her shoulder to look into her eyes.
“I want to take you to the ocean, Scully.”
Scully smiles, her eyes crinkling with amusement. That’s clearly not what she expected to hear.
“Ocean?”
“Yes. To spend a day on the beach. To see the milky skin of your arms and shoulders become crowded with peach-colored freckles, and your russet hair lighten in the sun.”
“You are such a romantic, Mulder.” She chuckles, rubbing his nose affectionately in an Eskimo kiss.
“Should we call Skinner and tell him we are going on holiday together?”
“Mulder, at this point you can ask me to call Skinner and tell him I believe in aliens, and I’ll blithely agree. You have me that high on dopamine.”
One of her hands drifts down his sternum and brushes an impressive bulge through the rough denim of his pants. Mulder whimpers.
“Can we please not bring Skinner into our bed?” Scully murmurs into his ear, and the tone of her voice alone makes him squeal.
“Deal. And we are on the sofa, not in bed.”
“Oh, I stand corrected. Can we please go to bed and not talk about Skinner?”
Mulder slides his hands up her back, over her shoulder blades and neck, until they reach her face and cup her cheeks. His stare suddenly turns serious.
“I know I’m at the risk of sounding a wee bit cynical here, but I don’t wanna be just your easy lay, Scully. This celebration of ours… is it just a one-time thing, or do you think you can… we can… feelings might be involved here?”
There’s a pause of a length of a heartbeat that feels like it lasts hours. Time stretches. That's Mulder’s cue to lay out his cards and just go along with what’s coming next.
“Because I love you, Scully.”
He would expect her to frown. To jump off his lap and put on her clothes back. To ask him to leave and forget everything that’s happened tonight.
He hopes for a kiss instead.
He’s too afraid to believe she could say it back. Yet, she wouldn’t be his Scully if she didn’t keep him guessing.
“Mulder, I think, we both can agree, by and large, that feelings have been involved here from the very beginning.” At that, she frames his face in return, their foreheads touching.
“There’s some pretty hard evidence here.” She looks down briefly to illustrate the point, and Mulder lets out a nervous chuckle as he follows her gaze.
“That’s quite an astute observation.” He manages to say before her lips land on his in the most sensual kiss he’s ever experienced.
“I see you, Mulder. Always.” She says tethering him with her touch and her words.
“You won’t run for the hills in the morning?”
“I won’t run for the hills in the morning.”
“OK. That quelled my fears a little bit.”
“I don’t want to wait anymore.”
“I’m totally on board with this course of action, Scully, but maybe we should dial it down a bit.” She knits her brows, clearly confused.
“I mean, you are still recovering and…” The rest of the sentence dies, as she chooses that moment to grind against him, and Mulder loses any coherent train of thought.
“You know that you can’t really leave me hanging here, Mulder. Bear in mind the potential repercussions.”
“Oh, Scully, you know how to tug at my heartstrings.”
“I’m kind of hoping to tug at something else here.”
There's some more kissing and smiling. The night is young and promising.
Much much later, in the darkness of her bedroom, they lie under the covers, their bodies satiated and limbs intertwined, and Mulder, still slightly lightheaded, asks:
“Scully, how much would you give me on a scale of ten?”
Somewhere around his armpit, she sighs tiredly, mumbling half-sleepily: “You serious?”
Her eyes are still closed and he nods quite vigorously just to let her know how damn serious he is.
“Well, I think it’s fair to say… In aggregate, I’d score you six points, Mulder.”
“Six? You kidding?”
“You can’t deny a woman four years of sex and emerge unscathed. You’ll have to make it up to me.”
“Oh, I will, Scully. Believe me, I will. Do you think we can start right now?
“Right after I get my beauty sleep. Good night, Mulder.”
“G’night, Scully. Love you.”
She doesn’t say anything in turn, and Mulder thinks that she has fallen asleep and tightens his arms around her. It's more than enough for now, he's happy as he is. The night is silent around them and he closes his eyes, ready for the sleep to claim him.
“I love you too,” breaks through the haze of his dream right before he falls asleep with a content smile on his lips.
Story #52, In the Silence of the Night 1/2
This is The X-Files fanfiction. Read it on AO3
A light tap on the door pulls her out of her slumber. The TV is still on and Mulder is sleeping peacefully across from her on her little striped couch. Her bare feet are juxtaposed with Mulder's head, and his sock ones are dangling over the arm of the couch near her face. A silly thought - they look way too cozy with one another as if they are spouses, siblings, anyone but merely work partners – comes and goes. It reminds her of her childhood and how she used to make a beeline in the middle of the night to her parents’ bed only to find Melissa and Charlie had already been there. There wasn’t enough room for all the Scully kids, and mornings would often find Dana with her face somewhere around her sister’s feet, with her mother’s hand in her hair. Ironically enough, Bill would never join them.
When Scully frees herself off the pile of limbs and cushions to open the door, Maggie Scully greets her with a smile so bright that Dana squints at her, like the sun is shining straight at her face.
“I brought you something,” Maggie says, letting herself in and heading to the kitchen. “We need to stock up your fridge properly. Can’t let you live on anything but nice home meals.” While you are still recovering from cancer, the end of the sentence implies, but neither of them brings that up. Dana’s remission is nothing short of a miracle - still so new and fragile, and both fear to dig too deep into it, lest any careless stir can reverse it.
She joins her mother at the counter, her eyes flicking back and forth following Maggie’s hand diving into what looks like a dimensionless shopping bag, as she pulls out one Tupperware container after another.
“That’s a lot of food, Mom. Are we throwing a party to feed an entire floor?”
“Oh, dear, wasn’t it Fox I’ve just seen dozing off in the living room?”
Maggie asks in that deep mellifluous voice Dana always finds solace in, and immediately her face goes scarlet matching her flaming hair that, if one looks any closer, is quite mussed, creating the perfect ensemble with her smudged mascara and wrinkled blouse. Scully doesn’t lift her eyes off the counter to meet her mother’s half-joking but penetrating gaze. Instead, she occupies her hands with cups and tea bags.
“Well, I can’t imagine him not hanging around here with you all weekend. He’ll help you empty the fridge.” Her mother continues nonchalantly. “You hungry?”
“Not really. Mulder ordered a pizza earlier and made sure I ate at least half of it. I thought I was going to burst. Just some tea for me.”
As they finally settle at the table, Maggie reaches out to her daughter’s hand and gives her a gentle squeeze.
“How are you, Dana?”
"As strange as it sounds, I feel alive.” With delicate fingers, she grazes the golden rim of her snow-white porcelain cup.
“I feel good, Mom. To be honest, right now I have more time than I know what to do with, but as soon as Mulder lets me come back to work, I’ll make good use of that.” To a stranger, her words may sound a bit harsh as if she’s displeased with her partner’s over-protective behavior, but her mother knows better. Behind the façade of the feigned sternness, Maggie recognizes the notes of playfulness.
She can’t seem to avert her eyes from her daughter’s elegant hands, still deadly pale, with thin bluish veins running across her soft skin. For a long time, they just sit there, across from one another, sipping their tea and soaking up the comfort they find in each other. Mulder is still sleeping peacefully just across the wall, covered up with a blanket lovingly.
“You know, Dana, I didn’t believe we’d have you back.”
“Mom…”
“No, I need to let it out. After you told me that your cancer metastasized and spread to your blood flow… I didn’t see how we could have you back.”
“Neither did I, Mom.”
“You are a scientist in our family, Dana. I could see it in your eyes – the moment you gave up. That was how I knew - there wasn’t anything left to be done for you.” Maggie draws in a breath and braces herself to continue.
“Fox wouldn’t give up, though.” Her voice is quiet, careful and measured, mindful of the aforementioned partner sleeping just a few feet away.
Subconsciously, Scully turns to the living room, the corners of her lips tug up slightly.
“He wouldn’t let you go. I believed then he was ready to follow you. It was like the first time.”
“The first time?”
“When you were abducted.”
“Mom, it’s over.”
“My faith left me, Dana.” There are tears in her mother’s eyes, and Dana reaches out to pull her in a tight hug. Her strong brave mother, who, by some absurd coincidence, is doomed to outlive her beloved husband and a few of her own children. Her beautiful mother, whose faith and courage have been tested repeatedly. There’s only so much one can take.
“I don’t know how, Dana, but somewhere along the way, I lost my faith. When you were abducted, I didn’t believe you would be returned to us. And then you had, and I didn't believe you would make it. We went as far as to turn you off the life support because that was what you had stated in your will. We stayed with you to say goodbye. Fox was there too, Missy wouldn’t let him off the hook.”
“Missy?”
Maggie smiles sadly at her daughter.
“Yes. Fox wouldn’t come to join us. He thought it was wrong, that we had to fight for you. Unlike us, he still believed you could make it. I think Missy found the right words for him because, in the end, Fox was there for you. He didn’t come to say goodbye though. He came because he still had hope. If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be sitting here with you now.”
“Mulder is a dark wizard.”
“You didn’t see him then, Dana. It was like all of a sudden, his whole world fell apart. Then one day you turned up in a hospital and nobody knew anything, nobody was able to say what was wrong with you, and Fox just,” Maggie’s voice hitches and she takes another sip before she continues. “He just ran amok. Fox was devastated and dying along with you, but I didn’t think he’d have followed you. Not back then. He would have set on a journey to find everyone responsible for what had been done to you.”
Dana chooses not to interrupt, sensing her mother’s need to vent it all out.
“This time though, he would absolutely have. I’m terrified at the thought of having been so dangerously close to burying not just one, but the two of you. He was aching for you. He still does. Maybe you should let him in.”
Maggy departs, somehow leaving Scully both totally in disarray and maddeningly calm. She hadn’t the faintest what Mulder went through during her abduction. She could get some bits and pieces - from her family, case reports (her own file stored right there in one of the drawers), and occasional worried glances from Skinner. Allusions galore, but never anything specific.
While she tried to find a workaround for her trauma, Mulder was learning (by trial and error, no less!) to deal with his guilt complex – about being the reason for her abduction, about not getting to her on time, about failing time and again. Those were feeble attempts on both their sides and eventually, by unspoken agreement, they decided to ignore the matter entirely. As if it had never existed. It was easier that way. It was safer.
Even in his sleep, Mulder looks tired. Like he hasn’t been sleeping for days on end, that is likely to be true - he probably hasn’t been sleeping since she was diagnosed and the tumor started growing, spreading its treacherous cells and filling her mind with uneasy thoughts. She cannot bring herself to stop contemplating whether his thick brown hair turned silver on the temples because of her. She doesn’t remember him having any gray hairs before. And that signature frown line between his brows seems to have deepened and now is defined sharply. She wants to reach out and smooth that wrinkle away from his beautiful face.
Of its own volition, her hand cups his stubbly cheek, and her thumb traces the plump bottom lip. She can’t remember when they stopped being just partners and became friends. Probably somewhere around day one. She can’t remember when she stopped wanting him to be just her friend and become her lover. Probably somewhere around year one.
Lifting his head gently off the pillow, she squeezes herself in between it and the armrest, so now his upper body rests on her lap. His long legs are bent at his knees and tucked into the cushions and Scully’s bare feet are perched on the coffee table next to the empty box of pizza and she’s stroking his hair languidly. She pulls on an invisible thread and then tucks her cool hand under the neck of his t-shirt. Mulder’s skin is soft and hot under her touch, and as she caresses the expanse of his upper back, Mulder turns his head and sighs contentedly into her stomach.
“Hey,” he mumbles. His eyes are still closed and he shifts even closer and presses Scully deeper into the cushions all the while lifting her shirt with his nose and burrowing it deep in her belly button. She makes a sound, something between a moan and a chuckle.
“It tickles.”
She doesn’t attempt to stop him, though. Puffs of warm air breeze across her skin and trails of chaste, almost imponderable kisses send tingles down her spine.
Lay the blame on her being drunk with his closeness. Lay the blame on him being under the spell of sleep.
The last remnant of doubt vanishes when Mulder’s weightless dry touches turn into bold open-mouthed kisses. She wants to be closer to him. So close that she doesn’t know where she ends, and he starts. Mulder is the only man she can ever imagine herself with, and tonight he has her undivided attention.
There’s no way to resist an uncontrollable impulse to kiss her partner. They are magnetically drawn to one another. Having Mulder by her side has become second nature to her. He’s the oxygen she can’t live without. He seeps into her skin and permeates her thoughts.
She doesn't have delusions of ever having a normal family with him, where they both do their fair share of prosaic daily routines. There’s no house with a white picket fence in that equation - Mulder offers her the basement with overfilled file cabinets and dusty shelves. Over the years she has come to appreciate everything he gives her - Fox Mulder is the constant exercise to her brain, her guide and mentor, her best friend and platonic lover. He's the butterflies in her stomach and goosebumps over her skin.
Sometimes it feels like too much, and she wants to rip him off like the band-aid and expose herself to the world outside Mulder’s suffocating presence. That she did a couple of times before, only to realize that she had lost sight of herself not because of him, but without him. The air Mulder doesn’t breathe with her chokes her, and when the need to fill her lungs with Eau de Fox Mulder becomes unbearable, she calls his number. “Mulder, it’s me.”
“What are we doing, Scully.” He stops and lifts on one elbow, his face is level with her chest.
“We are… celebrating?” She asks unsure, one hand still tangled in his silky waves.
“Celebrating what?”
Everything and nothing in particular, she wants to say. Every day is a holiday now since we are alive. And so she says it.
“That I want to celebrate.” Mulder agrees.
“I think we deserve it."
Her eyes roam his handsome face, delicate fingers stroke the rough shadow of his jaw.
“I want it.”
Story 48 "Metamorphosis vs Parabiosis"
This story came to me in a creative writing club I'm currently participating in.
The theme of this season is “Metamorphosis.” It is inspired by Kafka’s novella of the same name. The first sentence of the novella goes, “One morning Gregor Samsa woke in his bed from uneasy dreams and found he had turned into a large verminous insect.” (Translations vary slightly).
The prompt:
Write a story that begins with the sentence “One morning [Name of Character] woke in his bed from uneasy dreams and found/realized/saw he had turned into/become … .”
___
“So one morning I woke up in my bed from uneasy dreams and found… you there,” he grinned at her and she couldn’t suppress a smile of her own.
“You believe in fate?” he snorted at her words, and Ani poked him with an elbow under his ribs.
“What else would you call it? We were broken and then suddenly we weren’t. This is a quintessence of a metamorphosis.”
“We are past that phase, Ani. We are more like a part of a parabiotic experiment now.” M. finished his drink in one gulp and put a glass on the coaster with a muffled thump.
“Parabiosis,” he raised an index finger to draw Ani’s attention. “That’s what it is. Remember how we met?” under the table he put a hand on her bare leg, his fingers brushing the soft skin near the hem of her skirt.
M. had big pale hands, which stood in stark contrast to the rest of his body – tanned, tall and seemingly fragile as if he was a good ten pounds below slim. Exactly the way when she first had seen him at the entryway of the intensive care unit. In a narrow hallway she brushed arms with a beautiful stranger, oblivious to the world around him. A silent sorry slipped past his lips and when their eyes met she couldn’t look away. Unable to move sideways, glued to the man standing at the door, she just kept staring, confronted by the pain etched on his face. His sharp hollow cheekbones and purple shadows under the bloodshot eyes did a poor job at masking his beauty. He looked like he was holding the weight of the whole universe on his fragile shoulders, yet he had found the strength to wind up on his feet.
Without giving it much thought – any thought – she caught his trembling hands and intertwined their fingers. In retrospect, it had been a bold move, the one she would never find an explanation for. The man didn’t flinch or pull away, just stirred Ani closer and encircled her with his big hands breaking into wrecking sobs in her embrace. He was tall and she barely reached the middle of his chest encased in a plain gray t-shirt, her forehead pressed into his pectoralis major, her lips against his heart, contracting two hundred beats a minute. He smelled like medicine, coffee and sunflower seeds.
Whatever his ache was, it echoed her own, and she stood there quietly, absorbing his tears with her hair and his sorrow with her soul.
She could never forget his frenzied kisses as he’d mapped out her luscious curves with his big pale hands. As he’d pounded into her, his body slick with sweat. As he’d bawled pressed to the sharp cut of her clavicle in the aftermath of his climax. As the sobs had racked his body and she kept rubbing soothing circles over his back.
Her heart clenched at the memory. M. reached over to wipe off a lone tear trickling down her cheek, the sea blue of his own clouded with moisture. And then he smiled. They both were in tatters, and then they weren’t. The metamorphosis, indeed.
M. bent over the table and kissed the hollow of her neck. Ani pulled away, trying to look him in the eye, his breaths still dancing across her skin quickening her pulse traitorously. He was drawing numbers with his tongue on her flushed skin, dragging his lips to that sweet spot behind her ear, which he knew damn well made her squirm on her seat. She panted. She wanted him to take her back home and undress. The idea of making love to him was uppermost in her mind. She told him so.
He chuckled softly and nodded at a pizza on the table.
“You don’t want your pizza? I thought you were hungry!”
“Famished actually! Just not for pizza.”
M. looked down at her plate, his hand moving towards the apex of her thighs.
“Pizza is an example of parabiosis.” M. continued calmly as if giving a lecture. She cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Just think about it! They put cheese on this perfect oval of dough and then – voila – you get an entirely new thing. Parabiosis, Ani.”
“Did you just compare me with a slice of mozzarella?”
“More like a sprinkle of Parmesan… You, me, combined together. A family, a child, the whole nine yards. Parabiosis.”
“Well, as you said, it’s clear that we are way past the metamorphosis stage.” Ani got out of the booth and extended a hand to M.
“Time to start the parabiosis phase, Romeo. Let’s go.”
Stories #46-47 are the X-Files fanfictions stories.
All good things happen on the couch, as well as bad ones.
Read it on AO3
Read it on AO3
Story #44 “Say Goodbye to 2022”
In our last lesson I asked my students to come up with three words to describe their 2022. There were many different words. Some good. Some bad. There was anger. The was silence. There were missed opportunities and new chances.
All in all, 2022 was a miasma of ruined dreams and suffocating thoughts, but.. (there’s always a big hairy ‘but’ lurking around the corner) some good things happened too.
1. I wrote a 3000-word story in @ira.lutse.ielts Creative writing club, which happened to be just a premise for a bigger story I’m still writing. Will it be a novella? A novelscicle? A novellete? We’ll see.
2. I finally took the Lexical Approach course I wanted to do for so long and completed it successfully.
3. I was a speaker at the Meaningful weekend conference, where together with Ben Brooks we talked about pros and cons of Breakout rooms and the Main room while giving online lessons!
4. I became a curator in Daria Maslovskaya’s exclusive collocations and chunks course.
5. I hosted two sessions in @ira.lutse.ielts Writing Incubator project, and both were a blast!
6. I graduated from Anita Modestova’s Teachers Teach Teachers 3-year long school!
7. I hosted a few sessions in (again!) @ira.lutse.ielts Creative writing summer based entirely on the story I had written in winter.
8. Numerous speaking sessions designed and hosted for the American Moscow Centre.
9. Then, I started writing fanfiction stories. I’ve been an avid reader of those for at least 15 years now and finally took a plunge and wrote a few stories of my own. I even took part in two fanfiction exchanges, where I was randomly assigned someone’s prompt and OMG, how much fun it was! I’m looking forward to doing it again in 2023!
10. I took CELTA! Just one big WOW.
11. And somewhere along the way I took an IELTS mock test just to check myself and for the first time ever I got 8.5 for writing! Not that it was a real test, but now there’s hope I can do it again.
12. Then I became a member of a wonderful community of teachers YOU MATTER, created by lovely
13. I have posted 44 stories in my blog 642stories.tumblr.com Not bad I should say. I will keep it up!
That’s it.
We cannot change so many things around, but I’m grateful for being able to keep doing what I’m good at and become a better teacher, a better parent, and a better person.
