Story #70 Is A Message To The Mothers Of Boys.

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 #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 #41, CELTA weeks 2-3-4

Considering teacher’s practice still hasn't started, both these were relatively easy.

During the second week a student is supposed to cover 4 modules on the platform, each takes from 40 minutes to 2 hours.

✅ Dealing with language ✅ Classroom management ✅ Using the coursebook 1 ✅ Lesson planning 1

Week 3 modules: ✅ More about the learner ✅ Checking understanding ✅ Anticipating problems ✅ Coursebook

Week 4: ✅ Listening ✅ Lexis ✅ Practice activities ✅ Correction

There were also a few tasks to submit on discussion forums both individually and in small groups about the theoretical material.

Apart from that, there’s only live session a week (2-2,5 hrs):

📚”Classroom management, online vs offline lesson”. 📚 “Eliciting and concept checking questions.” 📚 “Lesson Planning”

At the end of the 4th week we also had to submit one of our written assignments.

📝 Assignment 3 is a reading lesson based on authentic materials, designed for a particular group of students. The list of possible articles to use, as well as the class profile are provided by Cambridge. No stages and procedures should be included, it’s a lesson in prose, where each activity should be described and the rationale stated (references and appendix with designed handouts included).

The revelation of the week: when it comes to lexis, CELTA promotes (however, not explicitly), the Lexical Approach and encourages students to study words in chunks and collocations, notice grammar patterns and check linking and connected speech features.

That’s it 👌 Off we go to week 5, where teaching practice starts.

This week I have on the plate:

✅the first lesson with a pre-intermediate group. ✅ assignment 2 ✅ two live sessions ✅ lesson plans ✅ sweat, tears and a lack of sleep.

But.. I will survive ❤️

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 #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 #49 is the X-Files fanfiction story

Read it on AO3

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 #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 #12

When you’re out of depth, draw strength from love. Love is something they can never take away from you.

There’s been said so much that it feels like there’s nothing left to say. We’re not free. We speak up – and they condemn us. We fall silent – and they condemn us. We protest - and they condemn us. We live our lives – and they still condemn us. We try to stay sane – and nobody cares. We go nuts scrolling down neverending newsfeed only to read how much they hate us. No matter how much we do or don’t do. It’s never going to be enough. It’s never going to be safe anymore.

I hate to think of my children being raised in a world where people hate people just because they belong to this particular country. I hate to think someone is going to hurt my kids just because... You would have thought that there are nations, there are countries, who have to understand us better than anyone else, as they’ve been there themselves, only to see how ridiculously short memory can be. Even before the gates of hell broke open, I couldn’t imagine hating someone… just because. But they can. This is our new reality.

My heart aches. Sometimes it hurts like hell. Other times it’s a dull throbbing pain. But it’s always there. I just hope there’s hope… for all of us.

How do I learn to live with that legacy now?