Story #77 Is A 6-word Memoir

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 #52, In the Silence of the Night 1/2

This is The X-Files fanfiction. Read it on AO3

A light tap on the door pulls her out of her slumber. The TV is still on and Mulder is sleeping peacefully across from her on her little striped couch. Her bare feet are juxtaposed with Mulder's head, and his sock ones are dangling over the arm of the couch near her face. A silly thought  - they look way too cozy with one another as if they are spouses, siblings, anyone but merely work partners – comes and goes. It reminds her of her childhood and how she used to make a beeline in the middle of the night to her parents’ bed only to find Melissa and Charlie had already been there. There wasn’t enough room for all the Scully kids, and mornings would often find Dana with her face somewhere around her sister’s feet, with her mother’s hand in her hair. Ironically enough, Bill would never join them.

When Scully frees herself off the pile of limbs and cushions to open the door, Maggie Scully greets her with a smile so bright that Dana squints at her, like the sun is shining straight at her face.

“I brought you something,” Maggie says, letting herself in and heading to the kitchen. “We need to stock up your fridge properly. Can’t let you live on anything but nice home meals.” While you are still recovering from cancer, the end of the sentence implies, but neither of them brings that up. Dana’s remission is nothing short of a miracle - still so new and fragile, and both fear to dig too deep into it, lest any careless stir can reverse it.

She joins her mother at the counter, her eyes flicking back and forth following Maggie’s hand diving into what looks like a dimensionless shopping bag, as she pulls out one Tupperware container after another.

“That’s a lot of food, Mom. Are we throwing a party to feed an entire floor?”

“Oh, dear, wasn’t it Fox I’ve just seen dozing off in the living room?”

Maggie asks in that deep mellifluous voice Dana always finds solace in, and immediately her face goes scarlet matching her flaming hair that, if one looks any closer, is quite mussed, creating the perfect ensemble with her smudged mascara and wrinkled blouse. Scully doesn’t lift her eyes off the counter to meet her mother’s half-joking but penetrating gaze. Instead, she occupies her hands with cups and tea bags.

“Well, I can’t imagine him not hanging around here with you all weekend. He’ll help you empty the fridge.” Her mother continues nonchalantly. “You hungry?”

“Not really. Mulder ordered a pizza earlier and made sure I ate at least half of it. I thought I was going to burst. Just some tea for me.”

As they finally settle at the table, Maggie reaches out to her daughter’s hand and gives her a gentle squeeze.

“How are you, Dana?”

"As strange as it sounds, I feel alive.” With delicate fingers, she grazes the golden rim of her snow-white porcelain cup.

“I feel good, Mom. To be honest, right now I have more time than I know what to do with, but as soon as Mulder lets me come back to work, I’ll make good use of that.” To a stranger, her words may sound a bit harsh as if she’s displeased with her partner’s over-protective behavior, but her mother knows better. Behind the façade of the feigned sternness, Maggie recognizes the notes of playfulness.

She can’t seem to avert her eyes from her daughter’s elegant hands, still deadly pale, with thin bluish veins running across her soft skin. For a long time, they just sit there, across from one another, sipping their tea and soaking up the comfort they find in each other. Mulder is still sleeping peacefully just across the wall, covered up with a blanket lovingly.

“You know, Dana, I didn’t believe we’d have you back.”

“Mom…”

“No, I need to let it out. After you told me that your cancer metastasized and spread to your blood flow… I didn’t see how we could have you back.”

“Neither did I, Mom.”

“You are a scientist in our family, Dana.  I could see it in your eyes – the moment you gave up. That was how I knew - there wasn’t anything left to be done for you.” Maggie draws in a breath and braces herself to continue.

“Fox wouldn’t give up, though.” Her voice is quiet, careful and measured, mindful of the aforementioned partner sleeping just a few feet away.

Subconsciously, Scully turns to the living room, the corners of her lips tug up slightly.

“He wouldn’t let you go. I believed then he was ready to follow you. It was like the first time.”

“The first time?”

“When you were abducted.”

“Mom, it’s over.”

“My faith left me, Dana.” There are tears in her mother’s eyes, and Dana reaches out to pull her in a tight hug. Her strong brave mother, who, by some absurd coincidence, is doomed to outlive her beloved husband and a few of her own children. Her beautiful mother, whose faith and courage have been tested repeatedly. There’s only so much one can take.

“I don’t know how, Dana, but somewhere along the way, I lost my faith. When you were abducted, I didn’t believe you would be returned to us. And then you had, and I didn't believe you would make it. We went as far as to turn you off the life support because that was what you had stated in your will. We stayed with you to say goodbye. Fox was there too, Missy wouldn’t let him off the hook.”

“Missy?”

Maggie smiles sadly at her daughter.

“Yes. Fox wouldn’t come to join us. He thought it was wrong, that we had to fight for you. Unlike us, he still believed you could make it. I think Missy found the right words for him because, in the end, Fox was there for you. He didn’t come to say goodbye though. He came because he still had hope. If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be sitting here with you now.”

“Mulder is a dark wizard.”

“You didn’t see him then, Dana. It was like all of a sudden, his whole world fell apart. Then one day you turned up in a hospital and nobody knew anything, nobody was able to say what was wrong with you, and Fox just,” Maggie’s voice hitches and she takes another sip before she continues. “He just ran amok. Fox was devastated and dying along with you, but I didn’t think he’d have followed you. Not back then. He would have set on a journey to find everyone responsible for what had been done to you.”

Dana chooses not to interrupt, sensing her mother’s need to vent it all out.

“This time though, he would absolutely have. I’m terrified at the thought of having been so dangerously close to burying not just one, but the two of you. He was aching for you. He still does. Maybe you should let him in.”

Maggy departs, somehow leaving Scully both totally in disarray and maddeningly calm. She hadn’t the faintest what Mulder went through during her abduction. She could get some bits and pieces - from her family, case reports (her own file stored right there in one of the drawers), and occasional worried glances from Skinner. Allusions galore, but never anything specific.

While she tried to find a workaround for her trauma, Mulder was learning (by trial and error, no less!) to deal with his guilt complex – about being the reason for her abduction, about not getting to her on time, about failing time and again. Those were feeble attempts on both their sides and eventually, by unspoken agreement, they decided to ignore the matter entirely. As if it had never existed. It was easier that way. It was safer.

Even in his sleep, Mulder looks tired. Like he hasn’t been sleeping for days on end, that is likely to be true - he probably hasn’t been sleeping since she was diagnosed and the tumor started growing, spreading its treacherous cells and filling her mind with uneasy thoughts. She cannot bring herself to stop contemplating whether his thick brown hair turned silver on the temples because of her. She doesn’t remember him having any gray hairs before. And that signature frown line between his brows seems to have deepened and now is defined sharply. She wants to reach out and smooth that wrinkle away from his beautiful face.

Of its own volition, her hand cups his stubbly cheek, and her thumb traces the plump bottom lip. She can’t remember when they stopped being just partners and became friends. Probably somewhere around day one. She can’t remember when she stopped wanting him to be just her friend and become her lover. Probably somewhere around year one.

Lifting his head gently off the pillow, she squeezes herself in between it and the armrest, so now his upper body rests on her lap. His long legs are bent at his knees and tucked into the cushions and Scully’s bare feet are perched on the coffee table next to the empty box of pizza and she’s stroking his hair languidly.  She pulls on an invisible thread and then tucks her cool hand under the neck of his t-shirt. Mulder’s skin is soft and hot under her touch, and as she caresses the expanse of his upper back, Mulder turns his head and sighs contentedly into her stomach.

“Hey,” he mumbles. His eyes are still closed and he shifts even closer and presses Scully deeper into the cushions all the while lifting her shirt with his nose and burrowing it deep in her belly button. She makes a sound, something between a moan and a chuckle.

“It tickles.”

She doesn’t attempt to stop him, though. Puffs of warm air breeze across her skin and trails of chaste, almost imponderable kisses send tingles down her spine.

Lay the blame on her being drunk with his closeness. Lay the blame on him being under the spell of sleep.

The last remnant of doubt vanishes when Mulder’s weightless dry touches turn into bold open-mouthed kisses. She wants to be closer to him. So close that she doesn’t know where she ends, and he starts. Mulder is the only man she can ever imagine herself with, and tonight he has her undivided attention.

There’s no way to resist an uncontrollable impulse to kiss her partner. They are magnetically drawn to one another. Having Mulder by her side has become second nature to her. He’s the oxygen she can’t live without. He seeps into her skin and permeates her thoughts.

She doesn't have delusions of ever having a normal family with him, where they both do their fair share of prosaic daily routines. There’s no house with a white picket fence in that equation - Mulder offers her the basement with overfilled file cabinets and dusty shelves.  Over the years she has come to appreciate everything he gives her - Fox Mulder is the constant exercise to her brain, her guide and mentor, her best friend and platonic lover. He's the butterflies in her stomach and goosebumps over her skin.

Sometimes it feels like too much, and she wants to rip him off like the band-aid and expose herself to the world outside Mulder’s suffocating presence. That she did a couple of times before, only to realize that she had lost sight of herself not because of him, but without him. The air Mulder doesn’t breathe with her chokes her, and when the need to fill her lungs with Eau de Fox Mulder becomes unbearable, she calls his number. “Mulder, it’s me.”

“What are we doing, Scully.” He stops and lifts on one elbow, his face is level with her chest.

“We are… celebrating?” She asks unsure, one hand still tangled in his silky waves.

“Celebrating what?”

Everything and nothing in particular, she wants to say. Every day is a holiday now since we are alive. And so she says it.

“That I want to celebrate.” Mulder agrees.

“I think we deserve it."

Her eyes roam his handsome face, delicate fingers stroke the rough shadow of his jaw.

“I want it.”

Story #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 #73 is a CPE review of the same book "Truly Like Lightning" by David Duchovny.

Prompt: A literary magazine has invited readers to submit reviews of modern books that might deserve the status of a classic. You decide to submit a review. Your review should briefly describe the book, explain why you think it deserves the status, and speculate on what makes a book a classic.

David Duchovny, known mainly as an actor, once again scales the heights of the literary world with his novel “Truly like lightning”. It, indeed, is truly like lightning accompanied by one clap of thunder after another – blinding and deafening in its narrative.

Duchovny’s novel tells the story of Bronson Powers, a former Hollywood stuntman and a converted Mormon, who lives off the grid in a plural marriage with three wives and ten children. Seemingly happy in their private desert outside of Joshua Tree, away from the corruption of the modern world, they spend their days hunting, foraging, and farming.  Everything changes, when Maya Abbadessa, an ambitious employee of a predatory investment firm literally stumbles upon Powers’ homestead, setting into motion a deadly chain of events that will test the beliefs of everyone involved.

Throughout the narrative, the reader is confronted with the question of how to tell right from wrong in the world of extremes. There is a constant battle of virtue and vice – money against love, sex against religion, greed against generosity. Transposed through the account of Bronson Powers, both a martyr and a crucifier, this is a story of parents who mean well and children who obey their orders blindly. As if to aggravate the situation and show the inevitability of the tragedy, in the background, the reader witnesses how the environment of the ancient desert of Joshua Tree vanishes, turning yet into another meaningless hotel slash entertaining center.

“Truly like lightning” might seem hackneyed for anyone living dangerously close to Hollywood, but unhackneyed for anyone from afar. Regardless of sounding trite in his commentary on pop culture, the multilayered themes Duchovny explores and masterfully exploits are as universal as they will ever be. After all, what deems a book classic if not the topics that undoubtedly resonate with readers at all times - past, present, and future?

Story #62 "My best learning experience"

Originally written as a CELTA admission essay.

It’d be fair to say that one of my best learning experiences was the one I gained being a member of the “Teachers Teach Teachers” project. In a nutshell, that’s a program created by a teacher trainer and business coach Anita Modestova, where teachers are given a unique, almost once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be taught by their fellow teachers, teach their peers themselves, discuss the methodology aspects of the overall teaching process, as well as receive the extended detailed feedback.

As a basis, we used Hugh Dellar’s “Outcomes Advanced” coursebook, implementing both the communicative and the lexical approaches. Every month, one of the participants, was nominated to teach their colleagues and Hugh, himself, hosted workshops for teachers of the month. We discussed strategies, shared our ideas for exercises, planned the whole lesson together, and in the next meeting exchanged good and bad outcomes and what needed to be improved.

Having lessons weekly, it took us roughly three years to go through the whole coursebook. Not only I became more confident as a teacher, but I got plenty of insights as a student, especially on teaching online. It was a safe place for me to implement new ideas and experiment with my own teaching style as well as test out any unconventional methods. For instance, at one point my third-year mentor Ben Brooks pointed out how much better it might be to let all students stay in the main room for an active discussion instead of dividing them into pairs. That was when I saw that sometimes the MR works better than break-out rooms, and later that year I gave a speech at the “Meaningful Weekend” conference about the whole thing and how beneficial it could be.

All in all, I’m extremely grateful for that experience and believe that it is partially responsible for what kind of teacher I am now.

Story #11 "Ignorance is no longer bliss."

I was nineteen when my father died. He was only fifty. An industrial accident that changed all our lives in the blink of an eye. It was a late summer Sunday afternoon when the doorbell rang. Two men were standing on the threshold holding a small black plastic bag. They were the bearers of the tragic news. I couldn’t believe what I heard until I opened that bag. There was my dad’s lunchbox, untouched. I remember looking at that plastic box, not being able to open it, thinking how it was even possible. He was supposed to eat that food.

Everything was fine! He left for work in the morning, packed his lunch, and a couple of hours later those people were standing at the doors of our flat saying that my father would never get back home again. The sight of that container in the plain black plastic bag broke me. I kept saying that that was not happening. That was not happening. That was not real. Only it was.

His death was of the utmost importance because he was my father. Someone I knew and cherished. Someone I’m going to remember and love till the end of my days. But there are so many other deaths around we hardly notice. Every. Single. Day.

How many wars can you recall in the last seventy years? I remember the American-Vietnam war, probably because it was widely popularized and countlessly screen-adapted. I’ve definitely heard about several armed conflicts in Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, and Syria. Maybe some other places as well. I’ve no idea what was behind these conflicts, or what other parties were involved, or whether it escalated or not, or how many people died. Because these people are just blank faces in the crowd of other blank faces which have nothing to do with me. They’re faceless of the faceless. They don’t even seem real. They all live somewhere there. NOT here. Not close enough to be a problem for anyone apart from those who live and die there. They are out of sight and, therefore, out of mind.

It will not happen again. Donbas showed us that any war is real and cannot be considered trivial. There’s no small war. There is no war people can ignore. We all see now what happens when we act like it’s someone else’s problem. Once small and seemingly insignificant conflict, it escalated into the large-scale war. History repeats itself and once again gives us a lesson. Will we learn it now? I don’t know, but there is hope.

Everybody has to care. Everyone should think of consequences. We are not allowed to be blissfully ignorant anymore. Regardless of nationality, skin color, beliefs, etc., human life is priceless. Period.

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 #66 "You are what you eat"

A cliche that sounds like a broken record. Well, I’m sorry to break it to you, but yes, you are. 

I’ll have to go back here to explain my point. In 2014 I was diagnosed with Cholinergic Urticaria (CU). CU is a reaction of your skin to an increase in your body temperature, resulting in tiny hives. They are itchy, swollen, and they cover you from head to toe, lasting from thirty minutes to two hours. I typically got them when I exercised, was extremely stressed or while taking a hot shower.

There’s no documented cure from CU. You just have to learn how to live with it. And I did.

In February 2023, after another regular run on a treadmill, I noticed that my skin was totally fine. No red itchy bumps closing together, nothing. For the first time in almost a decade, my skin was clean. To say I was surprised would be an understatement out of proportion. I thought that NOT having my body FAILED me, was a FAILURE in itself.

Over the following days I tested it with vigorous workouts, hot baths and sauna visits. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Now, four months later, I finally believe it. 

Do I know why it’s gone? I don’t. Do I believe that my immune system rebooted and my diet was a big part of it? Yes, I do. 

It dates back to my adolescent years when I started modeling. First, it was about trying to follow the elusive 90-60-90 standard, then about fighting acne off my skin and gastritis off my stomach. Today, I allow myself to have cheat meals and late-night snacks here and there, but what you MOSTLY won’t find in my diet is

🦋gluten 

🦋sugar

🦋red meat 

🦋dairy 

🦋tea 

Over the years things like checking the labels in a supermarket and having veggies and fruit in abundance at home have become my second nature. Whether it’s a curse or a blessing, I’m totally obsessed with what’s on my plate.

I’m a great believer in the theory that our body is capable of curing itself once you create the conditions for that. So, if there’s something to cure and you’re considering where to start, start with what’s on your plate. As simple as that. Your problems might not disappear overnight, but, little by little, they’re bound to get better.

Story #71 is about how I became a member of a 5 AM club.

Whenever I tell people that I usually wake up at the crack of dawn, their eyes go wide like two saucers. I then instantly bombarded with questions of how, why, and who on earth forces me out of my bed at such an ungodly hour. Once the initial shock settles though, and I share that getting up with the sun comes along with turning in with it, I'm rewarded with a look of utter disappointment. It is as if I was supposed to give them a magic pill of how to be an early riser maintaining a routine of a nightcrawler.

Sorry guys, you can’t expect to pop up eureka moments if your body’s basic need for sleep goes unmet. The membership at the club comes with a price - I gotta hit the hay before the ripe hour of ten.

So what’s the catch in being a lark? First and foremost, I have two completely quiet and uninterrupted hours to exercise, read, write and go over my agenda. Today my routine is heavily scripted - not a minute is wasted in vain. I also manage not to skip my breakfast (remember, it’s your most important meal of the day) and hardly ever feel rushed (bonus point: no added stress.) As a result, I feel accomplished well before most people hit the snooze button.

Ironically enough, the miracle morning of my first 5 AM awakening wasn’t miraculous at all. When my daughter was still a toddler, I put her to bed around nine. Since it isn’t uncommon for a newly-minted mother to feel extremely drained by the evening, I usually started snoring even before my little bundle of happiness/misery. As a result, my body had enough time to recharge its batteries, and by 4-5 AM I would wake up well-rested, replenished and all ready to jump on the world. Now I don’t even set an alarm - my biological clock is in perfect tune with my brain.

It’s possible that you already a morning person, it’s just your morning starts at 1 PM. Pun intended and achieved. But, if one day you choose to join the 5 AM club for real, I bet you will never find yourself mourning the fact that you’re no longer sleeping in the morning.

STORY #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)