October 2024 Fic Roundup

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 #67 is about all the would have beens in my life.

Everything changed. 

For better or worse is a pending question. 

My typical day now is more or less the same flurry of commotion as for any other teacher slash blogger. I teach Present Perfect and Conditionals, check CPE essays, attend another how to organize your language classroom webinar or let’s-read-or-write-or-watch-together club. However, unlike those multitaskers who somehow manage to tick every box on the list, I always have something in between. 

That something is kids. Every bullet point of my agenda is broken by “feed the kids,” “walk the kids,” “wash the kids,” and “do a million other things with kids.” And believe me, you better do, otherwise they will howl like werewolves on a full moon until someone finally draws a gun and shoots the poor bastards.

I could have done so much more with my life if I hadn’t had kids. I would have written the book I had been putting off for a decade. I would have designed a few writing courses of my own. I would have set up a gazillion of new projects. At the very least, I would have felt marginally less frazzled, drained and comatose.

Where’s that Jen who dreamed about driving along the Atlantic coast in a speeding red convertible, doing a Master’s in LSE and living in Belgravia right across Westminster Abbey? Does she know what my life would have been like if I had made other choices? Does she know what I would have missed?

It took me years to make peace with all the uncertainty those questions brought to my life, but I accepted the idea of only one true choice - all the roads would have eventually taken me right here, to this moment, when I’m sitting and typing that post. 

Indeed, my life is a far cry from anything I have imagined, yet it’s perfect in its failures. 

And even if I could turn back time, I wouldn’t change a day.

Story #85 is the poem "A Ballet Dancer"

Put your pointe shoes on

And get to the barre,

It’s your stage for tonight,

You’re a soloist.

Keep your balance,

Assemblé, 

Attitude derrière,

Show bravura,

S'il te plaît

You’re not made of wood.

Half turn here,

Half turn there

Right leg extended in alongé

Left foot strong

With your foot en pointe --

Hard?

Demi-pointe it’s then.

Face your audience

Return to the first position

Grand plie,

Grand jete,

Pas de chat.

It’s your stage for tonight

You’re a soloist.

unsplash.com

Photo by Nihal Demirci Erenay on Unsplash

Download this photo by Nihal Demirci Erenay on Unsplash

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?

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 #78 is a poem inspired by a 2-word prompt "I'm from"

In the box of my memories is my Granny’s garden with yellow cherries  and apples,

And a merry-go-round where I was dizzy and sick,

All those cherries - slimy white purée on my black polished shoes. 

In the box of my memories are old fashion magazines that belong in a toilet,

And brown acidic paint Mum brushed the floors with.

In the box of my memories are the solo trips of a six-year-old me through the maze of streets, 

The smell of halva I tended to buy after school

And the traces left by the sharp blades of scissors I fell onto, giving me scars and scares.

In the box of my memories are the late-night X-files reruns,

The smell of the dead in a morgue,

and 180 questions to swot for my forensic exam.

In the box of my memories is my white wedding dress, two babies breathing into my chest,

All my dreams -broken, forgotten, the ones that came true.

Let me put ‘em aside - those memories - and make more room for the things to come. 

Story #65 is something to be said about bones.

“Do what you love. Know your own bone; gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw it still.”

Said Henry David Thoreau probably talking about finding your vocation and yada-yada-yada. Sitting in a wooden gazebo of my mother’s country house and looking at our twelve-year-old orange ball of a Pomeranian gnawing at a raw steak bone makes that quote a bit of a joke.

What does it take to know your own bone? How do you even know if that fucking thing is your true bone? Damn right. This is where you had to start, dear Mr. Thoreau.

I wanted to be a forensic pathologist. No, seriously. I thought I was going to cut skin and muscles and all. Literally. I would slice and dice and get to the very essence of a bone.

A human’s body is a temple, so often vandalized and violated by a few who believe they’re omnipotent - criminal offenders, abusers, perpetrators - doesn't really matter what you call them. By unraveling the mysteries of the body's destruction and gathering all the clues it left behind, I’d solve the puzzle and bring the body its dignity back. Restore it. Make it whole again. Make it more than just a set of bones.

I never became a queen of an autopsy bay. Somewhere along the way, I took another turn to explore my other obsessions. The writing was one of them, and this time it’s all down my bones.

The thing is, I didn’t recognize my bone when I first saw it. Sometimes it takes years to find it. It may take a few more to understand that it, indeed, is your true bone. However, one thing Mr. Thoreau was right about is, whatever your bone turns out to be, once you find it – gnaw at it. Gnaw at it with all your might. 

Story #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 #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 #1 “A Local Hero”.

This one was originally written as a part of my CPE training. It’s based on a true story, and I do love the way it turned out; however, it’s fair for most of my pieces.

___

Daniel Watzlav never planned to be a hero. He didn’t expect his life to change overnight, taking twists and turns like in an action-packed movie. It was more of a downward spiral reversing steadily until the point of no return was reached. In the summer of 2000, he took his daughter Liz to explore the Kungur’s cave in the suburbs of his home city Perm. They spent a night at the campsite, a fire cracking at their feet and a canopy of stars above their heads.

Anything can change your life forever. It can be something big like falling in love. Or something so teeny-tiny that it doesn’t even leave a mark. Like a bite of a rabid bat. Upon returning home from their holiday in the embrace of nature, Liz started exhibiting symptoms of a virus-like infection. Doctors failed to identify the root cause of her condition until it was too late. The girl died of rabies. 

It might sound awfully cliché, but as a loving parent, her father wanted to commemorate his daughter’s memory. While Liz was undergoing treatment in a hospital, Daniil became a first-hand witness of the sorry state of affairs of medical facilities. Little patients were surrounded by nothing but faceless white walls and stiff plastic chairs for parents in hallways. Daniil poured all his grief and sorrow into the project of building a state-of-the-art children’s hospital where parents would be welcomed into the healing process, and children would have buoyant space to recover that felt like home. It took another two years for the Elizaveta Watzlav Children’s Hospital to open.

Daniil played a pioneering role in addressing the problem of restricting parents’ access to their children once they were admitted to the clinic. Not only did the Elizaveta hospital become a template for all the following world-class children’s medical facilities built, but it also set the health system on track towards designing special parents’ houses on the grounds of the existing hospitals not to separate the minors with their next of kin. So, is Daniil a hero? Indeed.  But then again, do you need to be a hero to help others with all your heart?