Writing In English - Blog Posts

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.

Story #29

The X-files fanfiction "We only heal together" 3/3

Read it on AO3

3.

When Mulder opens his eyes, the darkness instantly evolves into a hazy grayness. No snow or harsh blinding light. No screeching metal cabinets behind his back, no blinking fluorescent ceiling lamps, no whirl of snowflakes around. It’s not their office. 

His head feels heavy and Mulder draws a deep breath and takes a look around. He’s lying on the tiled floor in what looks like a spacious conference room. He can hear Scully’s ragged breathing somewhere close but not quite there. The pounding in his head is the pounding on the door. Slowly, he comes to the conclusion that what they have just experienced was no more than a hallucination. A dream of sorts. It’s sickening cruelty chilling him to the bone.

“Scully?” he croaks. There’s no answer.

Dizzy and confused from their ordeal, Mulder manages to roll on his back and spots Scully lying a few feet away from him in the fetal position. From where he is, it looks like she’s still imprisoned in their mutual delusion, her eyes darting beneath her tightly shut lids. She doesn’t seem to acknowledge his presence at all, and on unsteady legs Mulder rushes to her, almost crashing down onto the floor in his haste to get to Scully. Not sure whether it’s safe to wake her up, Mulder nonetheless cannot resist reaching out and brushing her shoulder tenderly. At his touch Scully jerks sharply and a weak moan falls from her lips. 

“Don’t,” she says in a small voice. Mesmerized and terrified at once, Mulder watches how the lashes of her closed eyes get wet, and when a single tear escapes and runs down her temple, he is overwhelmed with horror. A shocking, stomach-churning realization sinks in.

The pounding on the door becomes almost unbearable in its discordance and in a matter of seconds the noise turns into a thunderous racket. The door gives up under the assault of whoever stands behind, and a bunch of police officers along with paramedics burst unceremoniously into the room.  

What happens next happens so quickly that even hours later Mulder struggles to reconstruct the whole evening in detail. It comes in increments, and he knows next to nothing as to which are real and which are just figments of his imagination. 

Scully is put on a gurney and whisked away outside to the ambulance, he himself has to endure a disgustingly long and meticulous examination by a young paramedic. When it’s finally confirmed that he sustained no physical injuries and is free to go, he’s held by another officer to explain his involvement. Around him, the place is swiped for evidence. Mulder does his best to deliver his version of events, which feels pretty much like an after-sleep groggy recollection. The police disclose that there was an anonymous call about people being subjected to torture at the location. They have yet to determine the source of the call, but the Portaverros were arrested on the spot upon trying to flee their office. They are being taken to the station at the moment and the agents are welcome to pay a visit and interrogate the couple as soon as they want. Mulder advises the cops that it might be reasonable to separate the couple, and confirms they’ll drop by the police station first thing tomorrow morning.

At last, he ventures out of the building to look for his partner only to find Scully already waiting for him in a car. Not a word is said as Mulder starts the engine and heads off to Georgetown, anticipating how tedious their journey back home is going to be. The silence is uncomfortable and seems to scream even louder than the noise he heard at the crime scene, and it makes him shift anxiously in his seat. His partner’s head rests against the side window, her eyes closed. He can’t stand the thought that she might be pretending just to steer clear of him, so he chooses to believe Scully is dozing off, exhausted.

When Mulder pull the car up to the front of her apartment building, she wakes up only to notice that the car is double-parked and the engine is running, the key still in the ignition. Obviously, Mulder has no intention of inviting himself in. Carefully, as if not to touch him, Scully extends a hand under the steering wheel to turn and pull the key out. The engine dies and the silence stretches like a taut skin of a drum. Taking a moment to gather her thoughts and then measuring each word carefully, she says:

“Come inside, Mulder.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” his voice is a bone-tired whisper. 

“We’ll just talk.”

“Scully,” he stops her with an exasperated sigh.

“Mulder, please. We can’t just sweep it under the rug and hope it will sort itself out.”

In an attempt to catch his eyes, Scully cups his chin and turns it to meet her steady gaze. Mulder surrenders to her willingly, secretly elated that she has no trouble touching him. Not like in the Portaverro’s residence. It’s only a moment before he drags his eyes away again, his face contorted in pain. 

“Did I really do that?”she knows he’s talking about their shared nightmare, and logically she understands it wasn’t real but it hurts all the same. They will bring it to the surface and acknowledge the damage done. They will deal with that. There’s no way she's going to put her head in the sand and circumnavigate his question. Withdrawing her hand, she says calmly. 

“Not for real, no.”

“It felt real.”

“It did.”

The knuckles of his hands turn white from the power of his grip on the steering wheel. All of a sudden he’s a wild animal trapped in a cage, the quiet and limited space of a vehicle suffocating him. He wants to launch himself off the seat, pace around, circle the table, topple a chair, shove his hands in his pockets, put some distance between them, punch someone. He doesn’t do any of these things. Deep down in his heart of hearts, he knows that Scully is right, they have to talk it through. Stealing a quick glance at his partner, Mulder is relieved to see that her expression and posture are open. 

“What was your fear?” he finally asks.

“Betrayal,” that makes him jerk his head up and search for her eyes. 

“Remember that case we were working on in Braddock Heights? With the vhs tapes?” Scully continues. “At the time, I thought you were in cahoots with the cigarette-smoking bastard. I was terrified of being betrayed, most of all by you. I guess this time that fear manifested itself in the cruelest way possible.”

Her hands are slightly shaking and she hides them between her thighs, so Mulder wouldn't notice and poses the question back. 

“What was yours?” 

“Hurting you,” Mulder replies without preamble, raw emotion in this voice. His eyes burn, pain filling him up to the brim, threatening to spill over the edge. “I was afraid…” he drops his head, no longer able to endure her sea blue penetrating gaze. “I am afraid to end up doing something that will hurt you, Scully. I fucking hurt you all the time.”

“Mulder…”

“I do, Scully. You can’t assuage my guilt by saying it was your choice. I know what you're gonna say, it's always been your choice, and you stay by my side of your own volition. I know that! It doesn’t make me any less responsible for all the bad things that keep happening to you.” He’s looking at his upturned hands, fingers splayed wide until Scully’s small strong hand comes into his view and cradles his tanned and big one. The contrast is mesmerizingly beautiful. When she tugs on his arm and brings their intertwined fingers to her mouth, kissing each of his knuckles lovingly, his eyes cloud with tears. 

From the moment they were partnered, Mulder had the unshakable belief that Scully needed his protection. If he could… if she let him, he would put her into an inner pocket of his jacket to hide her from the perils of the outside world. As far as she was concerned, he was simply scared out of his wits. Mulder is well-aware that despite being a diminutive woman, seemingly fragile and vulnerable, Scully is stronger than anyone he knows. Stronger than himself. Her petite frame is no more than a facade. On more than one occasion, he bore witness to her easily overpowering her male counterparts. Hell, for the seven years they’ve been together she probably incapacitated more offenders than he had done in all his years in the FBI. Scully is his strong little partner, best friend, and staunchest ally. She’s the love of his life. 

“Mulder, listen to me. You are intransigent. Adamant. Moderately aggressive, dominant and assertive. Maybe even the most grandiose narcissist in the flesh I know. But aside from being all those things, you’re also kind, compassionate, empathetic, loving. And you are not a rapist. I trust you with my life, Mulder.”

Her soft breaths dance across the skin of his hand still pressed to her warm cheek, lips grazing lightly on his calloused fingers. 

“You’re my guiding light, Scully. My touchstone. I wouldn’t be sitting here now if not for you.” 

It feels like a moment of distilled creation. He might have chosen other words but their meaning echoes her own: they are not going to let it drive a wedge between them, leaving their lives in disarray and their souls emotionally crippled. As Scully’s hand reaches the door handle ready to get out of the vehicle, Mulder doesn’t hesitate to follow. 

Story #28

The X-files fanfiction "We only heal together" 2/3

Read it on AO3

2.

Mulder looked at her with those dark, intense eyes, his gaze traveling over her body. Neither would be able to explain any of what happened afterward. It could be attributed to the inexplicable slideshow they had been forced to watch or just something he saw in her eyes. The next moment his mouth was on hers. One hand was sinking deep into her hair, and the other was covering her breast.

For one millisecond she was absolutely frozen neither returning the kiss nor pushing him off, but then her arms went around his neck drawing him closer. Mulder walked her backward until she was pressed against the metal cabinet, the sharp edges of its handle digging into her back. He skimmed his hands down her sides, gripped her hips, and lifted Scully off the ground. She braced her hands on his shoulders and instinctively wrapped her legs around his midriff, the narrow black skirt riding up and bunching at her waist. The hardness of his arousal was rubbing against her core. Mulder growled in her mouth and pulled her tighter, caressing her everywhere he could reach. Scully’s heart was thudding so loudly in her chest that her voice of reason drowned in the noise, not a single clear thought in her head. When Mulder squeezed the cheeks of her ass through the thin nylon of her tights and sucked on that sweet spot behind her earlobe that always made her knees go weak, Scully let out a moan and opened her eyes. She wanted to see him. She wanted to watch.

There was a wild glint in his eyes like he was on the brink of insanity, and it immediately threw her for a loop. With her hands still wrapped around his neck, she yanked hard on his hair compelling him to look at her. 

“Mulder. Slow down.”

He was tuning her out and that didn’t surprise her in the slightest. She could hardly hear herself over the tumult from the ringing in her ears. Groping, stroking, feeling her up, Mulder was acting like an overexuberant teenager on the cusp of exploding if he didn’t get inside her soon.

“I want you so much, baby.”

If that look in his eyes combined with Mulder’s erratic behavior did nothing to Scully, that ‘baby’ definitely tipped her off. She couldn’t imagine Mulder calling her that even in the throes of passion. Scully’s eyes widened in shock as it became abundantly clear that Mulder was under some kind of influence. He may have not even realize it was her in the room with him, his mind was foggy from whatever he had been subjected to. This wasn’t her Mulder.  Her Mulder was caring and kind. That Mulder was churlish and indignant.

Was it some kind of perverted trick to make her finally leave him? She would never believe Mulder was capable of hurting her willingly. No. He would not. 

The crystalline blue of her eyes filled with tears, but so did her mind with determination to stop her partner from his greatest fall. Overcoming a logjam in her throat and gathering all her strength, Scully managed to push Mulder off and slid off his hips. With her hands planted firmly on his torso, she said as calmly as she could.

“Mulder, stop! Something has been done to you. To us. This is not you!”

Shockingly, her resistance only added more zing to Mulder’s already steel-hard cock and he began grating himself over the layers of her pantyhose and underwear.

“Who else would it be?” he replied gruffly and with one quick motion turned her around, her back to his chest, her compact body trapped between his forearms.

Scully heaved a shuddering sigh, but it was the furthest from pleasure as it could be. Mulder tugged on her hips grinding against her ass, and it felt strikingly right and wrong at the same time. Nothing ever felt so good before. Nothing ever felt so bad before.

“Mulder, no.”

He was panting heavily into her ear, moving his lips, with a taste of water and salt from her cheek, down to her neck to bite on the tendon where he felt her pulse thrumming. Pressing all his weight to her backside, Mulder held Scully between the metal cabinet and his hard rock body, roaming with rough hands over her hips, her breasts, her stomach. Anywhere he could reach, his erection nestling right over the reddish ink of her tattoo.

“I’ve been wanting to do it since day one, Scully. I know that you want it too. Come on, help me here.” He punctuated each word with a thrust of his pelvis.

“Not like this, Mulder. Please. Never like this.”

How would they survive it? There was nothing they could possibly do to overcome it. This would create a rift so deep in their relationship, that nothing would ever be able to fix it.

What they had between them was more than a partnership, more than a certain amount of camaraderie, more than unspoken understanding. There was affection. Devotion. Love. How could it all be shattered to pieces in the blink of an eye?

One of Mulder’s hands crept under her skirt, and when it reached between her legs, she heard him tearing her pantyhose. He expected to find her all wet and aroused for him and was deeply frustrated to see that she wasn’t. Moving the gusset of her panties to the side, he dipped his middle finger inside of her to the second knuckle. He imagined her letting out a moan which would be a mixture of ache and pleasure.

What came out though was a gut-wrenching scream. Mulder covered her mouth with his big palm along with her nose making it impossible for Scully to breathe. A lack of oxygen sent her to the furthest corner of her mind, where one of the darkest memories was buried.

A ten-year old girl, a good swimmer, a natural - she wasn’t good enough that day. One moment she was diving with Bill and Charlie in shallow waters and the next, they were gone. She kept turning her head right and left rapidly but couldn’t see a thing. Utterly terrified, she failed to fathom that her lack of vision had nothing to do with her eyes, but was caused by the water itself. She was drowning. No air. She couldn’t breathe. Panic struck her and she opened her mouth to scream only to gulp mouthfuls of murky salty liquid. 

That time Bill pulled her out to the surface, literally saving her life. 

Here and now her life was only in her hands. Gathering her wits, Scully bit Mulder’s hand so hard that she felt the metallic taste on her tongue.

“Fuck!”

Mulder cried, pulling his hand away from her face. Scully was half ready for him to backhand her in return and used the moment to jump behind the desk, as far from him as the office allowed. She wasn’t really sure if that Mulder wouldn’t strike a woman.  

The man in front of her didn’t move as he was looking at his bloody hand. When he finally lifted his eyes to Scully, she was eyeing him cautiously, her lips were ruddy red with his blood, crimson smears on her palish cheek.

All of a sudden, Mulder was back to another time. They were in their office, their real office.

“Look at you!” Scully smiled, entering through the door and handing him a brown paper bag while moving aside the photos lying in front of Mulder on the desk to sit with her hip on it.

“Is this our new assignment?”

Mulder smirked and stood up to move to the glass-encased annex, the furthest part of the office used as a minuscule kitchen, and grabbed a mug to pour her some coffee from a carafe. 

She took a sip and put the porcelain cup down where both their mugs rested together: his - a huge white one with a gray almond-shaped eye alien printed on it, with milk and three sugars, and hers – an elegant golden-rimmed porcelain piece filled with pure black. 

He remembered her asking him if extraterrestrials were supposed to be green, and him blowing raspberries at her, stating what a widespread misconception it had always been. It was a theory for amateurs, he said, and they were pros.

He remembered complimenting her on her outfit that day and how she lowered her eyes shyly and started fiddling with the papers on the desk.

He remembered how a red bloom of blood stained the page as she got a paper cut.

He remembered rummaging through the drawers trying to find a box of Kleenex, that, for whatever reason, was missing, and then desperately reaching out, alarmed and panicky, to grab her by the hand and take her finger in his mouth to suck on it gently.

He remembered her eyes going wide, not from the shock of his action but the understanding behind it. He couldn’t stand seeing her bleeding. Not again. He couldn’t stand seeing her hurt. Not ever.

A red bloom of blood stained the page as she got a paper cut.

There was blood on his fingers. Blood on her lips.

“Oh Scully,” he whispered as realization dawned on him.

“Scully… Scully… Scully,” Mulder whispered suddenly completely drained. “Oh God, Scully. I’m so sorry.” 

She was right at his side. He could feel her feathery light touch on his cheek, her strong hands pulling him into a tight embrace, her soft breaths on his neck. 

She didn’t let go of him as they slid together down the wall. She didn’t let go when he broke into sobs, gently rocking her on his lap.

“I’m so sorry, Scully. I’m so sorry.”

Mulder took her hand and brought it to his lips, trying to soothe and kiss away the pain he knew was in her heart, his tears mingling with the red streaks on her ashen skin.

“It’s OK, Mulder. We are going to be OK.”

They seemed so unfixable and irrecoverable, and she knew that it would only add to Mulder’s guilt. Scully had no idea how but she would fix it. They would fix it. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away from you, Mulder.”

When Mulder felt Scully’s weight changing on his lap almost imperceptibly, he looked back at his arms, and it was like she was slipping away through his fingers. Melting like ice, leaking through the cracks, soaking his clothes, and pooling in puddles by his feet.

“Scully?” he cried. “No, don’t go. Stay with me.” 

He tried to squeeze her harder, to hold her as close as possible, to keep her solid and warm. 

“Don’t leave me, Scully.” 

He shook his head refusing to believe in the reality of the scene unfolding, his head pounding, eyes shut tightly. When he summoned up the courage to open them again, he was sitting on the floor in the pool of water and blood, his arms empty, and the rays of light were turning into snowflakes and falling down from the ceiling, whirling around him - tiny particles gathering in a storm in the midst of their office.

“Scullyyyyy!”

The pounding was getting louder and louder, becoming a deafening roar, the snowstorm raging and enveloping everything in blinding whiteness. His head was the epicenter of the explosion, burying under its ashes everything around, and there was a fleeting thought that he couldn’t help but feel relief. It was over. Whatever it was, it was over.

Story 27

The X-files fanfiction "We only heal together" 1/3

Read it on AO3

1.

“Are they sleeping?”

“Oh yes, they are.”

“What are they dreaming about?”

“Their worst nightmare.”

----

The “ping” of the elevator car pulled her out of her reverie and as the doors slid open, she was confused to find the basement floor shrouded in darkness. Stepping out of the lift, Scully groped for the switch on the wall but when she flicked it, nothing happened. 

Darkness pervaded. 

At the end of the hallway, their office was beckoning her with its dim shaft of light peeking from under the door, and she moved towards it as if summoned. 

She expected Mulder, the one who didn’t seem to need much sleep and was always up with the sun, to be there. He would probably be starting the second pot of coffee by that time. Always thoughtful, she brought him a blueberry bran muffin for breakfast. A crack about him being the only person in the whole universe leaving the office after nine and coming in around six of his own volition was on the tip of her tongue. She was looking forward to their routine exchange of banter and innuendoes.

As Scully opened the door, the light from the overhead lamps spilt out into the hallway, chasing away the shadows to corners. Spending seven years in that office, she knew it inside out, but that moment she felt like a stranger. It was their office, and yet it wasn’t. Gone was the stale dusty air and little puncture holes on the ceiling from Mulder’s pencils, and even the fluorescent tube lamps blinking constantly as of recently seemed to be changed. There were two mahogany desks facing one another in the center of the room and a potted plant in the corner. Scully didn’t remember ever placing it there. She couldn’t even remember her partner putting in a request for a second desk. 

Mulder himself was nowhere to be seen. In passing, she entertained the idea of Mulder wanting to surprise her thus the desk and all the cleaning. The ludicrous idea her logical mind immediately rejected. It just wasn’t possible. They had left he office together the day before, around lunchtime, grabbed a quick bite in the nearby deli, and headed to investigate another case ending up on a damnably boring stakeout.

There was a lead into what Mulder suspected could be anything from hypnosis to telekinesis to possession. The victims claimed they were made to do terrible things against their will. One guy beat his boss half to death, but couldn’t even remember what induced such aggressive behavior. When he entered the office the next day, ready to come clean in front of everyone and make his colleagues report him to the police, his boss was there, not a scratch on his face. The face allegedly smashed to puree no more than a day before.

“A nightmare,” Scully said unimpressed. “Or wishful thinking. They probably had some beef and their hostility manifested itself in a very realistic dream. Not unheard of.”

“One for two?” It was Mulder’s turn to raise a brow. “The thing is, Scully, both remember everything down to the smallest detail, and claim they did some severe punching and kicking.”

It appeared to be worth the time to talk to the people involved, which eventually shed light on some other facts - a few hours prior to the fight, the company’s employees took part in a one-day team-building seminar conducted by two personal development coaches, who also happened to be a married couple. The agents didn’t get any insights into the case upon interrogating Maria and Sebastian Portaverro, but since their possible suspects were about to carry out another workshop, Mulder and Scully decided to stay close and check the participants afterward.

They were sitting in a car across the building where the Portaverros had an office. No matter how much she tried, Scully couldn’t remember anything that happened during or after that. She remembered being in a car with Mulder, and then she was standing in the elevator. The absurdity of the situation was bugging her -  the changes in the office, the fact that she couldn’t remember getting back home the night before, or even arriving at work in the morning - everything was wrong. A glance at her watch told her that Mulder should have been here hours ago. Where was he? She needed him to help her figure it all out. 

Trying to stay calm and not to spiral into panic, Scully decided to do what she always did best  - collect and analyse the data. Stepping over to what was supposed to be Mulder’s desk, she touched the pristine wooden surface. Instantly she knew that something was wrong. Mulder’s desk was never that clean. There was no junk. It was too tidy. Too not Mulder. The papers were put in an orderly pile, and Mulder never bothered to organize his desk’s contents in such an impeccable manner. Even office paraphernalia was scattered around in a weirdly neat way as if each object was placed in its spot, on purpose. On a whim, Scully pulled open the first drawer and felt her stomach shrivel in dread. There were none of Mulder’s most prized belongings. Not even his ever-present sunflower seeds. Scully was horrified as it sank that the only thing she was familiar with in that office was their all-time favorite full-sized “I want to believe” poster. Did someone violate their office while they were on a stakeout? To what end?

As if out of nowhere something clicked and the room was plunged into darkness. Scully recognized the sound as their old-fashioned projector came to life and started switching slides, changing the images rapidly, lighting and darkening the room in turn. It was them - Mulder and Scully. The photos flicked on the screen like memories in her head. The most significant, valuable, delightful moments of both their lives. Imprisoned by the retrospection playing out on the wall in front of her, Scully stood still, frozen. With each image, she was sent to relive her past sensory experiences all over again.

Click, and she was opening the door and looking at the agent she was assigned to work with. Their first meeting. A mixture of curiosity and caution in his hazel eyes behind the wire-rimmed  glasses.

Click, and they were in Oregon, standing in the graveyard under the rain.

Click. They were in a van and Mulder was dressed in a bulletproof vest handing her his gun.

Click, and they were sitting on the bench in a small town of Home talking about their genetic

makeup and potential parenthood.

Click, and there was a hallway in a hospital in Allentown where their words sounded like a confession. 

Click, and there was another time and other woods somewhere in Florida where she, who couldn’t carry a tune, was singing because Mulder asked her to.

Click, and they were in California, burying the daughter she had never known.

Click. “You’re my one in five billion.”

Click. Another hallway, another greatest wish never granted - their aborted kiss.

Click. He was pleading with her not to make him choose.

Click. Mulder’s high as a kite I-love-you.

Click. A hospital bed. Again. His head was on her hip, her hand was in his hair.

Click, and they were dragging their eyes over each other in the decontamination shower.

Click. She was sobbing in his arms, the floor was stained with her blood.

Click. They were exchanging vows on the threshold of his apartment.

Scully pivoted her back to the screen, unable to take it anymore. What kind of sick joke was that? It felt too much. Too personal. Too them. How was it possible to sum up the history of them so succinctly in a few slides? Who the hell played those tricks on them? Her legs went wobbly and she braced herself against Mulder’s desk.

There was another click and all of a sudden the basement was brightly lit again. Scully made a complete 180 and was face to face with Mulder, his tall figure looming over the entryway. “How long has he been standing there? Did he see that too?” There was an ominous look in his eyes, and a foreboding sense of horror permeated the air, but Scully ignored all of that. This was Mulder. He wouldn’t hurt her. The projector kept clicking the slides but with the light back on, it was nearly impossible to make out the images on the wall.

Trying to pay no heed to a knot of anxiety agitating inside, Scully took a few tentative steps toward her partner. Noticing some lint on his shoulder, she reached out to brush it off when he grabbed her arm harshly. 

“Mulder,” Scully gasped and stopped dead in her tracks at the threat that emanated from Mulder’s demeanor. 

Story #26 which is a CPE letter.

Dear Editor,

I am writing in response to the editorial about friendship published on April 1. It deeply resonated with me and I started contemplating my own connection with someone who is based in another country. As challenging as it seems at times, it also may be one of the most rewarding life experiences.

Similar to other people mentioned in the publication, we struck up a friendship over the Internet. N. lived in London. I lived in P. Five hours difference, and a foreign language between us, yet we came along just fine. Surprising as it sounds, seventeen years later we still do. I cannot remember who took the plunge and initiated the next step forward, but at some point, we embarked on a romantic relationship. Nobody realized though how inconsistent it would be with being just friends. We decoupled a year later not able to maintain a challenging cross-border relationship, but not ready to abide by the thought of the end of years-long connection.

Having a great deal of experience of being a long-lasting long-distance friend, here is my word to share. You might find yourself struggling to stay awake for one another and lend an understanding ear to whatever problems are poured out. Your advice, however sound, might be unsolicited, and wherever the wedge is driven between the two of you, without face-to-face interaction, it is quite hard to make amends. On the contrary, it is mostly easy to remember all the significant dates, as well as to share the most private thoughts once your friend is on the other side of the phone, not the other side of the table. Little signs of affection like postcards and occasional gifts will also do the trick.

To sum it up, any real world relationship is a seemingly uncomplicated breeze to embrace in comparison with a long-distance union. However, despite its complexity, being miles and hours apart from your friend is exactly what helps to let bygones be bygones; therefore, survive through thick and thin and become true friends.

Yours faithfully,

E. K.

Photo credit: Nadine Shaabana (Unsplash)

Story #25, which is another CPE article. Based on true events.

“It’s negative, no cancer markers found”, the doctor said, perusing the paper with dots and numbers which made no sense to me. I exhaled sharply, not realizing I was holding my breath. Like a prisoner awaiting execution. Like a wanderer praying for a fountain in a desert to quench his thirst. Inadvertently her words defined the happiest moment in my life. My child was healthy. I leaned against the wall feeling my legs going wobbly. Silent tears ran down my cheeks. Relief. Contentment. Delight. Joyfulness. Gratitude.

I couldn’t stop scrambling over my memories to the day when her words, so easily and sharply, shattered my world to pieces. It all started with medical advice to vaccinate a child. A one-year-old son of mine. Preliminary blood work was recommended to exclude medical conditions which might cause after-vaccination negative side effects. No big deal. We did it before dozens of times with my older kid. But that time some indicators in his blood turned out abnormally high pointing to organs where his body suddenly started failing him. Failing to cancer.

“It’s negative. It’s negative. It’s negative”, I kept echoing in my head time and again.  The walls of the fragile fortress of my mind were reconstructed back. Suffice it to say, the fact that my child was safe and sound was happiness in its pure form. That was a moment to treasure. The memory to cling to. Indeed, to catch these dear moments and keep them close to heart is worth doing.

To me, it was a major epiphany. One does not need to chase ethereal dreams and get on the top of their career to make every moment meaningful. No need to be married, get promoted at work, buy the latest Tesla to feel happy here and now. This day and age you are alive and healthy. That’s what matters.

Photo credit: me. My son Alex with his father, the best in the world husband. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Story #24 is an IELTS type of essay.

Prompt: In many countries juvenile or child crime is on the increase. What are the reasons for this and what are the solutions.

It is a well-known fact that some countries have a high rate of juvenile crime which increases annually mostly due to the lack of pastoral care by relatives. Many children have to be on their own, especially if the family breaks up. It is common that single parents tend to pay less attention to their children's whereabouts and activities since they have to work a lot to be able to earn enough for a living. The lack of money often results in poor housing; therefore, youngsters who live in bad conditions may feel envious of their richer mates and turn to stealing.

There are several solutions for that problem.  Governments should put higher involvement in child development. Programs related to after-school activities for teenagers should be promoted. If we can occupy adolescents with sports and other interesting things to do which will be accessible and available for anyone for free, we can succeed in reducing the crime rates in this age category. Social services need to collaborate with employers to provide young people with part-time jobs that they can manage with their school studies. This will give them the opportunity to earn some pocket money and feel less dependent on their parents.

I believe that children turn into criminals due to several reasons but the main ones always root in the family. It all comes from the atmosphere in one particular kin and this is where governments can help. Parents should spend more time with their children to be aware of their interests and problems. To put it into practice, it is possible to consider preferences for single mothers and fathers such as fewer working hours a week for the same wage rates.

Photo credit: Maxim Hopman (Unsplash)

Story #23 which is another CPE Review.

The 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.

Whether you are a devoted vegetarian, want to embrace a meat-free day a week, or just look for new flavor combinations, Jamie Oliver’s “VEG” cookbook fits the bill. Inventive and varied, albeit pure and simple veg recipes, will bring vibrant phenomenal dishes onto your dinner table. Oliver’s collection of craveable recipes, full of gorgeous photos, will get you salivating and eager to jump on cooking right away. 

Having an impressive range of dishes from all over the globe will not only excite your taste buds but also widen your recipe repertoire. There’s hardly a dish that doesn’t taste utterly delicious. Oliver’s cookery book is packed full of nutrient-rich and healthy meals. Each recipe is followed by the nutritional breakdown beneath, and the paragraphs are organized in an “easy to follow cooking directions” way. 

At first, I was certain that such food would never float my boat. I couldn’t be more in the wrong! The book inspired me to be braver and bolder in my own kitchen and prompted me to make a concerted move to up my veg intake. It came at the perfect timing. Naturally, I turned into a voracious veg eater in the blink of an eye without any great efforts and complicated schemes! Should I mention the apparent positive effects it had on my body and overall health? 

If you dare to look at a simple cookery book from another refreshing perspective, you’ll see that it is all about facts rather than just a list of ingredients and instructions. Facts, structured and organized, so this book could be your quick solution manual, a source of inspiration, or an answer to a nagging question. You name it! In a world where people hardly know what to believe anymore, they crave not far-fetched stories from someone’s figment of imagination but clear-cut and specific facts. Don’t skimp on facts. They’ll give you the perfect new flavor to taste. 

Story #22 which is a CPE essay "Music"

For anyone who is not familiar with the Cambridge Proficiency (C2) type of essay, this is a discursive essay where you are supposed to read two short texts, summarize and evaluate them, and introduce a new idea.

“When words fail, music speaks” are the famous words by Hans Christian Andersen. It is claimed that music encourages creativity, develops one’s potential, and communicates our emotions best. How do we know, though, what shapes and forms music should take to bring about the best rather than the worst?

There are very few people who remain unresponsive to tunes whatsoever. From the majority of us melodic patterns elicit heightened emotional response, usually of positive nature, as they often trigger ingenious chords of our potential and impulses of compassion. What might be argued though is that, apart from being capable of producing inspiring flows of consciousness, music may also instigate aggressive behavior, especially if the tendencies pre-exist. There are criminal cases of appalling atrocities being committed while listening to Bach, Vivaldi, or Marylin Manson. It is, of course, highly debatable if the exposure to some particular musical listening patterns can push one over the edge, but the question still stands.

What is not debatable is the influence of music on the younger generation and its value when used as a tool of education. At the same time, it is widely disputed what kinds of music institutions should teach in their classrooms, and if we adhere to some particular style, how do we define what tracks exactly belong to it? First and foremost, we have to decide not on the content of the music we expose juveniles to but the form. However valid in rousing a person’s prowess the listening to music might be, the ability to play the instrument can be of more value, more impact, more worth. In this case we can reap benefits of both listening and playing music.

Whatever form and content are chosen though, it is beyond question that music is our outlet at times of trouble and we can always count on it to make us feel better.

Story #21 "It all started with a calendar" 2/2

This is The X-Files fanfiction story.

Read it on AO3

When Scully comes out of the bathroom, clad in her typical set of silk pajamas, her face bare of any make-up, Mulder is already in bed. He casts a coy smile in her direction, but his face is taut with a mixture of nervousness and anticipation.

“I took a shower in the downstairs bathroom.”

He’s wearing a t-shirt and whatever he has down there is hidden under the blanket, but Scully prays Mulder's wearing his pajama pants. Just looking at him, she feels ready to fall apart at the seams. All of a sudden she is tongue-tied, unable to squeeze out past her lips a single syllable. She feels like a bride on her wedding night who's about to get cold feet but also as if it might be her only chance, which she’s not quite ready to blow. She’s terribly out of sync with her voice of reason, so in order to calm her nerves, she turns off the light, takes a few steps to the bed, and quickly sinks under the covers.

She can feel Mulder moving as far away from her as possible, trying to give her extra space, but it immediately becomes obvious that they can barely fit in that bed together. As Mulder still does his best to avoid touching his lovely partner, one of his knees accidentally bumps into the crease of her ass, and Scully’s whole body jerks so unexpectedly that she knocks him out of bed.

“Oh my god, Mulder. Are you OK?

“Jesus, Scully. You know, you could have told me if you changed your mind about me sleeping on the floor. No need to go ballistic.”

He looks up at her from his place on the floor, grimacing and rubbing a bump on his forehead. With those big puppy eyes, that pouty mouth and mussed hair, dressed only in a tatty white t-shirt and boxers he looks irresistibly cute, and Scully can’t fight the urge to reach out and lightly touch his cheek. The whole predicament is so ridiculously comical that the corners of her mouth start curving up slightly, and she quickly covers it with her hand but it’s just too much and in a second she bursts out laughing, glimpses of tears shine in her eyes. Contagious. Deep, loud, wake-everyone-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night laughter. Mulder starts laughing with her.

And just like that, the tension is gone.

“Here, get back to bed.” Scully makes room for him on the bed and throws open the covers.

Illuminated only by the dim moonlight coming through the window across the bed, she can see Mulder wiggling his brows playfully at her. With a wide grin still plastered on his face, he gets on his feet and slips under the covers. He nudges Scully with his shoulder and she dives under his arm, throwing one leg on his, her head resting on his shoulder. Like they always sleep this way. As if she belongs there.

When Scully first realized that she started having unpartnerly feelings for her partner, she designed a whole set of rules in the situations of extreme proximity to Mulder. It didn’t take much to make her see that she had trouble sticking to those rules lately. Mulder was her guilty pleasure. And she is coming to terms with the fact that any guilty pleasure if done in moderation is not something to feel guilty about at all. Mulder IS her guilty pleasure. The one she is going to indulge in tonight and get away with.

“I have a confession.” Scully nuzzles his neck with the tip of her nose and feels him inhale sharply. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”

“That?” With a hand that isn’t caressing her back in long strokes, he waves between them. “Sleeping together? Hugging?”

“Sleeping, hugging, and all the rest,” Scully confirms quietly.

“The rest?”

“Yeah, the rest.” She lifts her head off his shoulder and eyes him lovingly. Their faces are so close that the wisps of air he lets out tickle her skin, and Scully draws a deep breath like she’s going to plunge into the water. When he first feels her soft lips touching his skin, right where the bruise is already marring his forehead, Mulder stops breathing altogether. She kissed him like that dozens of times before, but somehow this time it feels different. Intimate. Like a prelude to something else. Something more.

Mulder closes his eyes, relishing her tentative caresses. She kisses his cheek then, very close to his mouth but not quite there, and as she’s about to do the same on the other side, he slightly turns his face, and their mouths meet full-on. It's a chaste kiss, their lips are barely touching, almost hovering over each other’s. Her breath is shallow, and Mulder almost stops breathing at all. She wonders if Mulder can hear her heart pounding fast and loud, as blood rushes to her face causing her usually pale cheeks to blush. Her whole body grows hot and tingles with excitement.

When they finally part, their foreheads touching, for several long minutes they don’t move at all. The kiss is mind-blowing. Intoxicating. A promise made under the guise of night, the one Mulder has a full intention of delivering.

“Jesus, Mulder,” she says in wonder, just before his mouth lands full force on hers. One of his hands slides up to cradle the back of her head. In return, she wraps her own hands around his neck, weaving her fingers through his silky strands. When they take a break to breathe, he doesn’t let go but holds her tightly, face buried in her hair. He can hear her ragged breathing, warm puffs of air on his neck.

Scully’s eyes flutter open when he loosens his grip on her, and she slides one hand down his arm to entwine their fingers.

“Wow,” is all he is capable of. His voice is husky, and his smile grows wider as Scully ducks her head. Mulder’s absolutely enamored with her apparent shyness. His logically-minded partner is all of a sudden rendered speechless. So simple, unpretentious, and amusing in her pure wonder.

“Yeah,” she whispers, and then lifts her chin and leans down to steal another kiss.

“What else is in that “the rest”, Scully?”

She snorts and once again hides her face in his t-shirt.

“We are not doing that in your mother’s place, on your tiny bed, in the house full of guests, Mulder.”

They both chuckle and he pulls her into a tight embrace, kissing her hair when Scully’s head returns on his shoulder.

“But the offer is on the table?”

“Mmm,” she hums in agreement. “You better pray there's no snow in the morning and the roads are clean, so we get back home fast and safely to try that “rest.”

“Far be it from me to tell you, Scully, how bad I’m at communing with deities.”

Scully shuts him up with another kiss.

“Oh, God.” Mulder breathes out.

“You learn quickly.”

“Can we do it again?”

“Absolutely.”

Story #20. "It all started with a calendar" 1/2

This is The X-Files fanfiction story.

Read it on AO3

This is not how she imagined getting into his bed. Not even close.

It all started with a phone call. No, scratch that. It all started with a calendar.

In the duo, Mulder, for all his photographic memory, is prone to being blissfully ignorant when it comes to dates. Her own birthday, not forgotten but rather celebrated in dog years, as he fairly dubbed it, perfectly illustrates an untold number of all the dates Mulder is conveniently forgetful of. Scully, on the other hand, always pays attention.

So she was the one to point at the calendar and circle Teena Mulder’s birthday in red ink. And Mulder was the one to make a face as if he bit on the lemon at her not-so-subtle inquiry if he was going to pay a visit to Greenwich.

He brushed her off, literally hiding behind a random folder and figuratively hiding behind the seemingly heavy workload, excusing himself out of that conversation. He explained later that he’d give his mother a call and FedEx her something nice. Something bright and shiny. Or something practical and utilitarian. Or something useless but obscenely expensive nonetheless. He didn’t really care. He was sure that his mother didn’t care much either. Missis Mulder and her son still happened to be at odds, and it was apparent to his partner that a nicely wrapped box with a ribbon, even with a “Love you, mom” card attached wouldn’t undo the damage. And Scully’s determination when it came to family bonds knew no bounds.

So she kept asking. And Mulder kept dodging her questions. Scully kept reminding. Mulder kept finding excuses. Right up to the moment when he found one hell of a legitimate reason to skip his mother’s birthday party (there was supposed to be a party after all, right?). A case of a teenager abducted landed on his desk, and Mulder leaped at the chance to shift his focus to anything that wouldn’t involve him in figuring out what to do with their mother-son convoluted relationship.

It was the divine intervention though that they ended up somehow in Connecticut around that fateful unfortunate birthday date to investigate an aforementioned case, and Mulder agreed to swing by Teena Mulder’s house if things went well. Not like he really wanted it, but more to indulge Scully. As luck would have it, the agents managed to solve the case in two days, which turned out to be a typical runaway, where an alien was the victim’s boyfriend, and the victim herself was abducted of her own volition.

Surrendering to the promise made earlier, Mulder and Scully drove to Teena’s place and arrived at the house in the middle of a nice family-like gathering, Missis Mulder surrounded by her peers. Good food, rich wine, lots of jokes, and laughter. Despite Scully’s concerns, Mulder felt at ease and seemed to enjoy himself.

The snowstorm came as a surprise. It was problematic to leave Greenwich then, not least because everything froze. They’d have to dig their car out, with one of them shoveling the roads clear in front of the vehicle all the way out of the state, and Scully definitely wasn’t going to let him drive in the midst of the blinding whiteness, let alone fly. Not even in the first class. Who are you kidding? She sighed heavily. Cattle-class flying is more like it.

“Well, now we have a legitimate reason to laze about.” She told Mulder when it became clear they weren’t going to leave any time soon. “I’m not sure about you, Mulder, but my circadian rhythms are terribly shifted out of whack, so I’m going to crash here,” Scully said with an air of finality. “And maybe even have a lie in. We’re not due anywhere until the storm passes. You shouldn’t skimp on your sleep either.”

The problem was that no one in Teena Mulder’s house was due anywhere. They all were stuck for the time being and there were only so many beds available.

This is how Scully finds herself standing at the door of Fox Mulder’s old room in his mother’s house in Greenwich, the one they resided in after his parents divorced, with her partner leaning against the door jamb next to her. The room is small but cozy, so neat actually that it’s the furthest from what Fox Mulder’s own place looks like these days. There’s not much furniture in there, a desk with some drawers, a couple of bookshelves, a wardrobe and a bed. The bed. The bed they’re supposed to sleep in tonight.

“Ah, Scully, you finally get to see my room,” fueled by a few glasses of Cabernet, Mulder gives her his best smile and unglues himself from his spot near the door only to hop into the bed and pat the covers in invitation.

It will be fine, Scully tries to convince herself. We go to bed, we sleep, we wake up, and head back to DC. She doesn’t want to contemplate how small and narrow the bed is and how awkwardly aroused she is at the thought of spending a night in Mulder’s arms. Hey, stop, where did it come from? It’s just sleeping. Nothing more than sleeping. That’s it. More fibs, Dana. Feed yourself with white lies.

“Could be worse, I guess. At least we don’t have to spend the night in a car.”

She has no choice but to grin and bear it. It’s not like they’ve never shared a bed before, let alone too small of a bed, but here, in Mulder’s childhood bedroom, she suddenly feels totally knocked out of the rut. It doesn’t bode well with the fact that she has it really bad for him but has no idea if the feeling is mutual. Mulder manages to get under her skin even staying in another room with a closed door between them, but she’s not so sure she can keep her walls up and her heart shut with him literally breathing down her neck.

“How are you even going to sleep without TV?” Scully asks randomly just to distract herself.

“You are my favorite box set to doze off to, Scully.” He flirts with her shamelessly and she feels how her cheeks start burning and blush creeps down her neck.

Keep your chin up, girl. But if she can’t tell him in all candor about her feelings, she at least can be brutally honest with herself. She isn’t just tired of holding back. She is tired of making the decision of holding back. Decision fatigue, they call it. Each tiny fraction of his body to hers makes her resolve waver. She can already feel how in the darkness of the night, with his body hot and impossibly close to hers, the arguments previously solid and credible become mired in uncertainty.

Mulder, a perceptive one in their partnership, seems to feel her distress and offers quietly: “I can sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Scully immediately jumps at his rather weak attempt to protest, her voice of reason drowning out in a cacophony of thoughts and blood rushing down to her groin.

“If you sleep on the floor, you’ll feel even more groggy than before you nodded off. Come on, we are adults, we can make it work.”

“Can we…?” He asks with his voice barely audible, and when Scully lifts her eyes she sees that he’s not smiling anymore. Is it possible that he is trying to pull off that con scheme with sleeping on the floor not to save her virtue but because he actually feels something to her, something that she dares hope is as remotely affectionate as what she feels to him and doesn't want her to be uncomfortable? That's just too much for her hazy alcohol-filled brain to process right now.

“I’m going to take a shower.” Scully grabs her overnight bag and in a matter of seconds hides behind the bathroom door.

When Mulder hears the shower running, he growls in frustration and slumps back against the pillows, not even bothering to undress.

Story #19, that is about another amazing workshop I hosted for the Writing Incubator Project.

As we are about to embark on a fall season, I’d like to share a few words about the session I was honored to host in May 2022. 

The workshop I prepared was about “Stealing lexis from real articles to use in your CPE articles” (and any other articles as well). 

So how do you write a CPE article? Bet you’ve heard dozens (hundreds, thousands even?) of times that you should read real articles, explore the language, highlight some nice examples, and make lists of collocations or idioms you could use in your own piece. You do it mostly intuitively, just relying on your inner self to cue you, which is the right thing to do.

But where do you begin? How do you know what’s a good and what’s a bad choice? That’s what we had a look at in our Writing incubator project in May. And here I will succinctly summarize it for you in a god-knows-how-many-words blink. 

The technique we used is called investigative reading. However, before you even start opening your favorite sources, be it NY Times, The Guardian, or the Washington Post, for authentic articles in order to mine any good lexis you could borrow, create your template. And what do I mean by that? Find or invent the prompt of the article you intend to write and go through it.  Then start reading articles on the topic. Highlight the language. See what you can borrow. Explore it. Put it in your article. Toss some away. Experiment.

Is it something you can do with real articles for your blog? Sure thing, just keep the plagiarism rule in mind. Three consecutive words is borrowing, and more is stealing. 

The trick is, the more you write, the more you notice, how words and phrases naturally and effortlessly find their way into your pieces. You’ll start having your own unique style with a bunch of favorite chunks and structures. NO secret here. You just read some more, write some more, rewrite some more. 

On a related note, it occurred to me that I've never posted the article I wrote for that workshop following the aforementioned guidelines. So here it is, story #37 on my blog.

Story #18, that is another CPE article.

The prompt: An international travel organization is publishing a book entitled Travel Changes Lives and has asked for contributions. You decide to submit an article about a travel experience that has changed your life. You should briefly describe the experience, explain what made it so special, and assess the significance of the changes in your life as a result.

****

I was stuck. Not in heavy traffic or at the airport waiting for a layover, but in my life. Suspended between maternity leave one and maternity leave two, with the mantra playing like a broken record in my head: cook, clean, feed, repeat. I swear a ten-hour redeye would be a mix of joyfulness and buoyancy in comparison. So, when my husband asked if I wanted to embark on a solo trip, and despite having barely traveled on my own before, let alone in the middle of winter, I was uplifted by the idea so much that I could fight tooth and nail for it if needed.

Italy was cheap and relatively easy. I whiled away my days eating (amen to Italian food), praying (to Italian gods of food, of course), and loving. I was more full up with love than ever. I learned to love myself again. I woke up so early that the stillness hung over unpeopled avenues and squares, and then strolled down the riddle of streets to a bustling quarter of the city, checking cafes and shops strewn everywhere where my eyes landed. It became my daily routine for three days. Better yet, three lovely days. I was so overjoyed with my newfound self that even a noisy couple in an adjoining room of the hotel, which walls apparently had been made of cardboard, didn’t bother me in the slightest. 

One might think there was nothing special about my getaway, but let me remind the readers about two toddlers left at home, basically tied to me 24/7, and no personal space left. So every minute of that trip was counted, stored away in the memory box, and treasured. I was a walking commercial screaming out loud “good memories are priceless; for everything else there’s Mastercard.” For once, I could put myself first and feel no guilt over my decision. 

Everything good comes to an end, and so did my holiday, which I do not regret in the slightest. Eventually, it was that trip that helped me if not cut, then at least loosen the umbilical cord connecting me to my offspring. The distractive overprotectiveness reframed itself into mentorship and friendship. The kids discovered the kindergarten, and I rediscovered myself as a professional. We still spend plenty of time together as a family but now everyone is given enough space to breathe and explore the world around us.

Story #17 which is a CPE article about traveling.

That was based on a prompt that asked to describe the experience of “Traveling with a companion who spoiled your vacation”.

Imagine a pretty woman in her prime age traveling worldwide five times a year. Imagine her sacrificing tour adventures for such mundane things as raising a child. Imagine the woman jumping on a plane and flying to the seaside after three years of home-locked existence. Wasn't she all that excited? I bet she was! Well, I am that woman. 

After my long-standing maternity leave, I was finally ready to head off somewhere to dig my toes into soft ivory sand and feel the vanilla-scented breeze. I envisioned myself with damp hair sticking to my neck and sun-kissed cheeks, jogging along the beach at the crack of dawn and buying strawberries in a Styrofoam cup at the local market. The only thing dissimilar from my past pilgrimages was my infant daughter Ann standing as my travel companion. I thought ahead of everything: a hotel with high junior chairs, an allergy-free menu, and a childcare center nearby. My suitcase was filled to the brink with diapers, pacifiers, soft packs of fruit smoothies, and formula Ann was still sipping first thing in the morning. There was nothing I failed to consider. Or that's what I thought. 

Our private paradise ended abruptly on the third day. I remember reaching for Ann at night, wincing suddenly as if my hand had been burnt. I've never felt her so terribly hot trembling as if she was close to having a seizure. Next several days we would have spent in a hospital. On the 10th day, the GP gave her a clean bill. On the 11th we left for home. 

It could be argued that our situation was no more than an "unlucky" break, but there is something I have to say if you are a parent traveling with a kid. Take it easy. I bet if you try, try really hard, you’ll be able to find something good even in that seemingly terrible predicament. Good memories are priceless. For everything else there's MasterCard.

Photo credit: Marissa Grootes (Unsplash)

STORY #16 which was born from the exercise in the Creative Writing Club

The original prompt: finish the sentence using a simile "His promises were like..."

He always was a funny, kind of naturally gifted, guy whenever it came to storytelling, able to pull off a story in a way that drew the attention of every single person in a room. As natural as his verbal talent was, on the paper he turned out to be a godsend. The writing was what he was born for. At some point, books were pumping out like bags tossed on the belt conveyor, which was a funny twist of fate since that was exactly how they met. Mistakenly, she picked up his bag only to discover later that the bag itself was the only thing that was similar to her own luggage. She called it divine intervention. He called it kismet.

He seemed to be pretty content at home, only rarely mentioning how LA lights beckoned him. They always had. So it hadn’t come as a surprise when one day they headed to where the lights shone brighter as ever. He said it was to pursue his American dream. She said it was to chase the dollar and fame. Producers called him a real deal. Publishing houses labeled him a writer with a capital W. In a matter of months, he became everyone’s most wanted. Fiction turned into scripts, scripts turned into endless nights on screen sets, take after take, beds in nameless trailers, “shots” heard at any time of day and night. She had yet to realize that LA lights would never shine quite as bright as in the movies*.

He promised they could be happy there. All she ever wanted was to be happy. All she ever got was misery. He promised it’d be a step forward. He promised it’d be a chance to look into new perspectives and open themselves up to new opportunities.  He kissed her. And the kiss was a promise too. His promises always looked quite solid. Painfully so. Just until they weren’t. Like fall leaves with their reddish thin veins running across the yellow canvas, they laid on the carpet of grass, innocent and beautiful, only to turn later into the dust crunching under his merciless feet. He didn’t even bother as much as to look down.

Nothing panned out as he promised.

She kept waiting. Waiting to grow accustomed to that new bohemian lifestyle, waiting for him to deliver his promises. Just waiting. They were two worlds in collision but when the smoke cleared, he wasn’t there. What was there left for her…? Only his empty promises.

*“LA lights never shine quite as bright as in the movies” is a quote from the song “Catalyst” by Anna Nalick

Photo credit: Alex Motoc (Unsplash)

STORY 15 which is another CPE review "A Little Book of Hygge" by Meik Wiking

The 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.

Imagine yourself waking up in the crisp blue morning, snuggled in a soft, warm blanket, still hazy and disoriented, but well-rested and content. Imagine yourself taking that feeling of coziness and comfort, bottle it up, and carry it with you throughout the day: no stress, no chagrin, just pure joy and happiness. 

“The little book of Hygge” by Mike Wikking is your guide to the Danish concept by the same name of life devoid of anxiety and tension. Step by step, from picking the right light for your bedroom to planning weekend dinners, you’ll learn to recreate an atmosphere of the place where you feel shielded from the outside world and can let your guard down. The principles of this 10-part manifesto, full of gorgeous photos and illustrations, can be applied in the familiar space of your house, in the office environment, while traveling or walking by anyone from executives and mere employees to homemakers and students.

To me, Hygge is the epitome of tranquility. Curled up on my couch, with the ripple pattern baby afghan I had knitted for my daughter, I read through the book in a couple of nights. Prompted by the Wikking’s work, I put on the rubber gloves to clean the apartment of junk piling in my bookcase, my wardrobe, my cupboards. Little magic rituals like cocoa by candlelight and a game of Monopoly with kids on a Saturday night naturally implemented themselves into my routine. Hygge was that magic ingredient in my recipe for a stress-free life.

Lost in a hectic race to achieve some bigger goals, people forget to appreciate little mundane pleasures, such as a smell of a fresh-baked cake, or a bedtime story to children. Meanwhile, what could be a more effortless way to be reminded of the value of life? It’s the very time to turn to books of facts. They might not provide a fantasy world to escape like fiction, but become our tools for a quick-time solution, an answer to a burning question, or just a piece of advice. Perhaps, next time you ponder what kind of read to indulge in, attempt reality over imagination.

Photo credit: @stellarose Unsplash

STORY #14 is about something that was supposed to help me stand out but instead sank me down.

You see the irony here, huh?

So where do I begin? This is the video I recorded for the #TheReservoirTimelapse contest run by #davidduchovny and #akashicbooks.

I had a bunch of ideas for the video but the point is that I gave up the idea of a sunset/sunrise right off the bat since it was an obvious choice. You just google the “time-lapse vid” and tell me what you see. Anyway, it had that being-like-everyone-doing-like-everyone ring to it.

I wanted to claim all the credit for my creation. But how can I claim credit for something that has always been there? I mean, I needed it to be the thing that’d not just be there, but be there because of me. I wanted to do something that would require effort. And somehow I was certain, it’d stand out in the flow of sunsets and sunrises. Like it would be waving at you — come here, look at me, here I am⠀- refreshing and original. Well, I believed t was entertaining, easy on the eyes, and unique. But maybe in the eyes of a stranger, it was nothing short of dull, mediocre, and unoriginal.

I lost. It took me about twenty minutes to wallow in my own misery, but then I thought “what the hell”? I can’t really blame the guy for wanting to see another record of the sun painting the sky with every color of the rainbow, can I? So what if the man has a penchant for looking at the sunrise-sunset-sun-sky-etc.-thing? It’s up to him. On a related note, I could use that as an opportunity to turn my loss into a win. So here I am - turning it into a story, for the sake of mastering my writing skills.

And this is what I have to say. It’s no big deal. It wasn’t the first time when I failed, and most likely not gonna be the last one. As DD so much likes to recall himself - try again, fail again, and for crying out loud - fail better.

P.s. Please, be gentle, I did that shit for the first time ever 😉 (painting by numbers, I mean).

P.p.s. I know I might sound a tad envious but this is benign envy! Chill out, I’m 100% happy for those who won.

Story #13 which is an Instagram post A FEW WORDS ABOUT WRITING AGAIN

Where do I get prompts from?

Everywhere. As simple as that. I never really look for them, they just happen to find me. There might be a word, a phrase, or a whole excerpt that hooks me up, and I want to channel it into words.

Here’s a list of prompts I’ve accumulated so far:

🦋“When you choose to collect experiences rather than things, you never run out of storage space” (a random meme from the internet while preparing a discussion about decluttering for my speaking club);

🦋“Imagine a world without sadness, loss, or suffering. No one is ever in a bad mood. Tears are unheard of. You never wake up at 3:00 a.m. riddled with worry or anxiety about the future. Lovers never leave each other. Loved ones never die.” (From the “Blink”);

🦋“I value privacy, maybe not secrecy, but I value privacy.” (From the interview);

🦋“Vic didn't dance, but not for the reasons that most men who don't dance give to themselves. He didn't dance simply because his wife liked to dance. She was insufferably silly when she danced. She made dancing embarrassing. (from “Deep waters” by Patricia Highsmith);

🦋 “Do you know what the worst thing about being a parent is? That you’re always judged by your worst moments. You can do a million things right, but if you do one single thing wrong you’re forever that parent who was checking his phone in the park when your child was hit in the head by a swing. We don’t take our eyes off them for days at a time, but then you read just one text message and it’s as if all your best moments never happened. Parents are defined by their mistakes.” (From some other book. Hell, if I remember its title now);

🦋 “We tend to prefer the certainty of misery, rather than the misery of uncertainty.” (“Blink”);

🦋His promises were like… - by @ira.lutse.ielts;

🦋Sharing from your personal experience.

You see. Ideas are everywhere. Which one resonates with you most? Later next week, I want to start sharing them with you. We’ll start with #8. ✌️

Story #10

This story is my translation of the poem "The Key" by Boris Slutsky. I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I did while working on the translation and the video for it. Big thanks to all the people who helped make it happen.

"The Key" by Boris Slutsky

I had a room with a separate entry,

I lived all alone, single, no help.

At moments of lust, no double entendre,

I held that door open for ladies to step.

My married buddies lived with mothers-in-law,

And wives that were looking like mothers-in-law

Some overly fat, some overly skinny

But comfy like rain, though they looked pretty weary

Watching them turning another year older

Bearing more daughters and sons to behold

Wives turned into muses of travails and scolding

Symbols of sufferings kept untold

My married buddies cherished their wives,

More and more often they wanted to know

If I get married, saying ‘Idiot, jeez!

Marriage is bliss, can’t you see it, my bro?’

My married buddies resented their wives,

They yearned for ladies with unwrinkled hands,

Ladies, with eyes like wells deep enough

To fall into the abyss and never get back.

I felt repulsed by the thought (well, you know me),

But opted to mind my own business instead.

They needed a room with a separate entry

And I gave them the key from the room with a bed.

The original text:

"Ключ" Борис Слуцкий

У меня была комната с отдельным ходом,

Я был холост и жил один.

Всякий раз, как была охота,

В эту комнату знакомых водил.

Мои товарищи жили с тещами

И с женами, похожими на этих тещ, -

Слишком толстыми, слишком тощими,

Усталыми, привычными, как дождь.

Каждый год старея на год,

Рожая детей (сыновей, дочерей),

Жены становились символами тягот,

Статуями нехваток и очередей.

Мои товарищи любили жен.

Они вопрошали все чаще и чаще:

- Чего ты не женишься? Эх ты, пижон!

Что ты понимаешь в семейном счастье?

Мои товарищи не любили жен.

Им нравились девушки с молодыми руками,

С глазами, в которые, раз погружен,

Падаешь, падаешь, словно камень.

А я был брезглив (вы, конечно, помните),

Но глупых вопросов не задавал.

Я просто давал им ключ от комнаты.

Они просили, а я - давал.

Story #9 “Stolen Socks”

To the chief of police

From George W. Harrison

Alexandria, Virginia 

Statement

That’s one hell of a byzantine plot I’m going to unfold here, but bear with me, please. I’ll have to go back to square one to explain myself. It all started with The Blue Lagoon. I never watched the movie, it’s a 100% girly thing, but when Mary invited herself into my apartment to watch Brook Shields and her caveman skinny-dipping and necking in crystal clear waters, I couldn’t say no.

Detailing the story point by point - I cleaned my abode and bought some staples. A six-pack of Shiner Bock, lots of popcorn, and even butter. She loves it with butter like a true American. I changed the sheets on the bed. I didn’t mind making out on my oldie creaky couch, but hey, it’s about Mary, and she deserves better. Also, I’m a guy pushing my forties, so you can’t really blame me for wanting to get comfortable! Back in the day, that little black thing saw lots of action. Not like I was going celibate these days, I’ve just been waiting for the only woman I’ve ever been interested in, and finally, slowly, we were making some progress. Earlier that day she said that dating me was like taking a leap of faith. I deem it necessary to bring to your attention, officer, that I wasn’t about to disappoint this woman. We were finally getting down to business of getting down to business.

Anyway, as I started getting dressed for my first in 7 years date, it dawned on me that it was my laundry weekend. No clean undergarments. I felt fine with going commando, a t-shirt and jeans would just do that, but not with my feet bare. Bare feet were a no-no. That’d be like an invitation to skip all the pleasantries and jump each other’s bones right off the bat. Don’t get me wrong, Mary has stuck to my side for what feels like forever, but I didn’t want her resolve to waver at the sight of such neediness. I couldn’t let her have any second thoughts. You see, she’s the woman anyone is lucky to get a date with. She’s way out of my league and I’m considered off the rocker. So, yes, I am one lucky son of a bitch.

A glance at my watch let me know that I still had some time to drive to Giant and buy new socks. This is how I found myself maneuvering through the aisles in search of a stall with socks. When I did though, I grabbed the item and strode towards the checkout, only to realize that I forgot my wallet!

Usually, I am an exceedingly calm man, but at that moment, my stomach got knotted and I felt panic rising within me. Sweat broke above my upper lip. Oh man, that wasn’t nice at all. Actually, nice was too flat a word, too squishy. It was anything but nice! OK, I seem to go off on a tangent here again. I knew it was now or never. I couldn’t get back without a pair of clean neat socks. I rejected out of hand the idea of rushing home, finding my wallet, and then driving back to the mall. Mary was going to show up at my door in 15 minutes! So, when I noticed that the item in my hand had no anti-theft magnet on, I sneaked into the dressing room, shimmied up the socks, and in a matter of seconds was on my way out. Unfortunately, my little escapade was caught by the security camera, with a hell of a powerful zoom lens. Well, there was also an eager operator (maybe even too eager) who miraculously noticed that I went in with socks and went out without ‘em. 

I know that I am liable to the proper punishment here and I’ll cover all the costs. It’ll never ever happen again, officer. Scout’s honor!

 The thing is, as it turned out, Mary doesn’t care either for clean socks or for me having a record! Otherwise, she wouldn’t come here to bail me out with that beautiful toothy grin all over her lovely face. We probably still can make it to my apartment and spend a nice evening together. Maybe even skip the movie part. God, how I love that woman.”

__________________

That’s when the officer raised his eyes from my statement and looked me in the eyes. Uncertain, I mumbled, “So, what d’ya say, officer?”

Story #8 "The 5-Second Rule"

It's a CPE-based book review of "The 5-second rule" by Mel Robbins.

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.

What if somebody told you that you are just 5 seconds away from a totally different life? From having a better job? From being a better parent? From succeeding in business? The answers to all the questions above are explored by Mel Robbins, an Ivy League-educated criminal defense attorney, in her book “The 5-second rule”. Given that the only thing standing in your way is yourself, Robbins, with her quick wit and fiery opinion, hands over to the readers a simple way to break the habit of hesitation and set a scheme for a better life.

The essence of the five-second rule is in the so-called metacognition tool that enables one to trick the brain into things it wouldn’t normally do. Once you receive the impulse to work towards something, start counting backward, and then physically act on it. The moment you miss that five-second window, your mind shuts down, as it is designed to stop you from doing anything uncomfortable, uncontrollable, uncertain.

I wish I could say that to me, the book was nothing short of an epiphany. That I could trace back every single problem and complaint to hesitation and silence. That applying Robbin’s concept to my day-to-day life presented me with a prospect to push through excuses to procrastinate far enough to see how much more life had in store for me. Nothing supernatural happened though. Nonetheless, following the scheme given in her book, I managed to set my perfect routine to have just the right amount of time to go over my morning procedures, make breakfast, take the kids to school, and embark on a working day with a smile on the face.

Robbin’s 270-page debut is like a shiny new thing that attracts lots of attention. That notwithstanding, it is a prime example of why non-fiction books should probably slim down. They all have pages and pages of testimonials turned into riveting, albeit juvenile, and overly repetitive stories. Aside from that, they are heavily seasoned with pretentious advertisements, giving readers a feeling of being marketed to, on each page. That’s precisely why services like Blinkist can summarize such books succinctly into fifteen-minute reads. You may be tricked into thinking that you are handed over a tool to enrich your life; however, for jaded readers, it might be no more than an old pseudo-psychological trick wrapped in a new package.

Story #7 "David Duchovny"

What can you do in three minutes? In three minutes, you can boil water for tea or eat a banana. You can make a phone call, brush your teeth, or take an extremely quick shower. If you are on the subway, you can hop on the train and travel to the next not-so-far station. Three minutes seem to be just enough. Three minutes might take forever if you’re waiting for an answer from a girl you finally summoned up the courage to ask out. If you’re a defendant in a court waiting for the jury to reach a verdict, three minutes might drag on agonizingly slow. One hundred and eighty seconds of tickling as if a bomb is about to set off. All-in-your-head ticking.

However, if you talk to someone like David Duchovny, a person you were dreaming of having a conversation with, three minutes pass in the blink of an eye. Literally. You blink and then it’s over. David says that they are counting on us, and it is nice to see you again and then he’s gone. You are left with a mixture of euphoria and disappointment but unable to process it at the moment. It’s four in the morning and though you are so tired you cannot see straight, sleep is elusive. Your emotions are too raw to let go and grab so well-needed rest. So instead, you do some writing, keeping in mind what David has just told you - it’s all about discipline. And you write till letters start jumping on the screen and everything gets blurry. And then you brew some more coffee. A real thing. Not that decaffeinated crap you bought on a whim convincing yourself that this is what mindful people do. For they say it’s healthy. Sure. Fine. Whatever.

I got over my Duchovny crush in my early twenties, too busy to lust after anyone but my first-time-ever long-term boyfriend and struggling to major in English and Law simultaneously. Once my puberty was complete, I forgot about “The X-Files”. I didn’t think about David until I turned 33, which was 2018, the year when we moved to Moscow. It was a period of boring days dragging one after another in nothing but taking round-the-clock care of kids. Being acutely aware of my routine existence and suffering from the lack of babysitters, work-related stuff, and English altogether, I tried to fill an expanding void with books and series. I could read up to hundreds of pages a day and binge-watch Netflix every single minute whenever I had free time. It was my sea of tranquillity, and I was literally drowning in it.

I started watching Californication, the series I’d been deliberately neglecting for a little over 10 years (first released in 2007), due to my reluctance to shape Duchovny as anyone else but Fox Mulder. One more year later, I stumbled upon the news, that two more seasons of the X-files had been shot. You are so out of the loop, girl, exactly my thoughts. What are you? Some freak, living off the grid? How could you miss it? For what it’s worth, I loved it.

One day, almost accidentally, driving along the city center, I caught a glimpse of the billboard with his name and the word concert next to it. A concert? What the hell, the guy is an actor! Well, also a novelist now, but what does it have to do with music? Upon my arrival at home, I googled him thoroughly only to be struck by the fact that David indeed was a singer and it wasn’t even his first album. The same day I bought a ticket, including the meet-and-greet session pass, downloaded some of his previous tracks, and just like that, my affection was resurrected.

That first meeting we didn’t really talk. I remember my shy “May I hug you?” and his encouraging coarse “Yeah”. I remember warm strong arms around my shoulders. We took a photo, he sighed whatever it is I had on me to sign. It happened to be a tiny red notebook as nothing else seemed to fit in my lady’s purse. And then, there was an hour of pure bliss as the concert began. He may or may not be a good singer. If truth be told, it’s probably the latter. But he’s full of the heady dark intensity that shakes you to the core and makes the overall experience simply unforgettable. I could only hope that it wouldn’t be the last first time.

But then. Pandemic. It brought several good tidings, albeit being a catastrophe of the world. Virtual interaction is still booming. Back in the day, you either hoped that the flame of your heart would honor your country with a visit, or traveled over the ocean for the slightest chance to get a glimpse of them. Now all you need is broadband and a cell. Well, and some extra bucks on you. Virtual meet and greets, zooming, 1-on-1 calls, livestreams. You can get up to 10 minutes with the celebrity of your choice. At times, you can enter raffles they organize to raise money for charity, and then it’s a chance to win up to half an hour of a private talk. How cool is that?

So, the question posed, is it expensive? You bet. Is it worth it? Every second of it. Will I see him again? Well, I might. But then again, I might not. After all, I’ve already seen him three times. And two out of three I had a chance to talk with him. However, since we’ve already established that it was worth doing, I could only add that anything that is worth doing is worth doing well.

Story #5.

The CPE book review. David Duchovny “Bucky F*cking Dent”

Prompt⤵️

A psychological magazine is running a series of book reviews about family relationships. It has invited readers to send in reviews of fictional books about parent-child relationships. In your review describe the book briefly and the attractions it had for you. You should also explain why you feel the book could be appealing to a wide audience today.

--------------

David Duchovny is not your typical writer. Being internationally recognized as an actor, he both draws even more attention to his persona and scares away potential readers, sick and tired of performers scaling the heights of the literary world. As frustrating and pathetic as it has been at times, Duchovny puts the lie to an unendurable cliché with his novel “Bucky F*cking Dent”.

Ted Fullilove aka Mr. Peanut doesn’t live large, albeit being an Ivy League graduate, and wastes his exquisite education vending peanuts at the Yankees Stadium. He resides in a crummy apartment with his battery-operated goldfish in hope of writing the Next Great American Novel. Everything changes the day Ted gets a call delivering news about his estranged father dying of lung cancer.

Set In the 70s, the story is a real time capsule of that time period, which Duchovny treats with sweet loving care. Seemingly having nothing to do with love, “Bucky Dent” is your run-of-the-mill love story, nonetheless. Love for baseball. Love for a woman. Love for parents. Love for children. It's a story about the bond between a father and son and the damage wrought by the years of absenteeism. The story about healing, building trust, and gaining deeper relationship. Everything about this book has a ring to it. I couldn't stop reading.

Not afraid to fool around with words, generously seasoning the novel with his trademark humor, Duchovny comes across as a natural writer. Whether you are a dedicated baseball fan, someone with a weighty backpack of the complicated parent-child relationship, or just looking for a fresh read to ease your mind, the author will keep your interest maintained till the last line. Make sure your hands are not full, you might not be able to put the book away.

Story #4 "Up is like down..."

Up feels like down when one day you get back home with a bottle of Merlot and a bouquet of her favorite pale pink peonies, excited and all to celebrate a well-deserved promotion, only to find the house devoid of your loved one. Somehow you know she's not just out to the supermarket. You feel sweat start trickling down your neck under the collar of your freshly starched shirt. Your knees feel wobbly and you have to lean on the wall still jangling the keys in one hand and trying to balance the bottle and the weighty bouquet in another. All of a sudden, it is too much. The smell of flowers assaults your nose like they’re poisonous. It’s perfume. Eau de betrayal.

Of their own volition, your legs drag you into the bedroom where you stand frozen in front of the closet. Fear, gut-clenching and heart-pounding, holds you tightly in its grasp. The door is slightly ajar, and you are scared out of your mind to grab the handle and pull it all the way open. You know it will be empty.

You are glad she’s not here, coz you are not sure whether you want to hug her or slug her. She never was a gal who had airs about her. Or that’s what you thought.

“Au contraire, my dear Katherine!”

You scream into the empty room and the walls vibrate in unison with your anger.

“You are one hell of an arrogant bitch! Fuck you!”

You stride into the hall, grab the seemingly forgotten bottle and throw it to the wall with all your might.

Much-much later, you’ll start recognizing the signs of the looming storm you have been oblivious to. You just let it slide. As you were working your ass off up the career ladder, your wife was working her way down under another man. The moment you least expected it, she stabbed you in the back and filed the divorce papers. Being a trained analyst and observer, never missing a single detail, you were surprisingly slow on the uptake.

You slip your hand under the shirt, to the place where your heart seemed to beat. Past tense. Because you can’t feel it beating anymore. It actually feels like she’s just ripped it out. Or maybe she punctured your lung and you can't breathe. Or shot you point blank and the bullet hit an artery and you’re just bleeding to death on your pristine white kitchen tiles. You press the hand against the wound and groan in pain. You let the sobs overtake you.

At that moment your world has narrowed down to nothing more than a little ball made of bits and shards of pain and broken dreams. She would have said that you were reaching, and you are ever so covetous of that thought. You’d spring for that hell of a stretch.

You can think all you want but here you are, trapped in your inner turmoil, with your barely-moving chest, rasping incredulously “It doesn’t have to end that way. It wasn’t supposed to end that way.”