Story #79 "Mapping My Childhood"

Story #64 "Living a Life of Interruptions"

I wish I could say that writing comes naturally to me, and with a click of my fingers, I shift my mind into the subspace where my silly ramblings magically turn into coherent ideas.

Much to my chagrin, I can barely find time to transmit a few sentences to my journal on a daily basis. It should be easy, isn’t it? After all, you do it with everything else in your life - exercising, hobbies like reading or knitting, your work for crying out loud!

But…come on, in all candor, when are you ever alone? Exactly.

Peace and quiet is a gossamer door into a parallel reality allowed to exist in your head only. I’m hardly alone even when I pee, much less so when it comes to all my aforementioned ventures.

I live a life of interruptions. I’m interrupted when I read, when I run on a treadmill or sweat over another set of crunches or when I take a shower.

Notifications. Messages. Ads. Kids. Random thoughts. Things you forgot. Things you must not forget. Reminders. Whether these are your children, pawing through your desk with their little hands and naked curiosity or something else, be brutally honest with yourself - you are constantly bombarded with interruptions.

Is there a way out? There must be some, right? Mine is to write in the wee wee hours when everyone is asleep. In the dark and gloomy confines of my kitchen, surrounded by the smell of freshly brewed coffee that slips into my pores and receptors of my nostrils, I have found my safe place for writing. I’m all by my lonesome, and I love every minute of it.

I disciplined myself into writing. And if the muse happens to hover over my shoulder, I grab that resentful bitch by the neck and keep doing my thing, because if I don’t, she will slam the door shut out of my creative space so loudly that it will leave the void so vast, it will echo.

Be kind to yourself. No disparaging remarks. Only courteous behavior and soft-spoken words are welcome in that sacred place where creativity is harvested. Enjoy the crackling freedom you regain, when once evanescent thoughts, finally transform into actual printed letters, demystifying every nook and cranny of your brain.

That, indeed, is real magic.

there are 8394 fanfic tropes i need to read after mulder comes back fuckkkkkkk

i wanna see a good reaction to the pregnancy

i wanna see mulder finally admitting he has ptsd and telling scully about it and about what he remembers

i wanna see scully kissing his scars

i wanna see mulder being more empathetic about what scully has been through bc he knows if the roles were reversed he would have fucking lost it

i need all of it!!!!

Story #22 which is a CPE essay "Music"

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

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

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

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

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

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

The prompt: A literary magazine has invited readers to submit reviews of non-fiction books. You decide to submit a review of a book that has influenced you greatly. Your review should briefly describe the book, explain what aspects of your life have changed after reading it, and assess the importance of non-fiction literature.

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

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

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

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

Photo credit: @stellarose Unsplash

Story #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 48 "Metamorphosis vs Parabiosis"

This story came to me in a creative writing club I'm currently participating in.

The theme of this season is “Metamorphosis.” It is inspired by Kafka’s novella of the same name. The first sentence of the novella goes, “One morning Gregor Samsa woke in his bed from uneasy dreams and found he had turned into a large verminous insect.” (Translations vary slightly). 

The prompt: 

Write a story that begins with the sentence “One morning [Name of Character] woke in his bed from uneasy dreams and found/realized/saw he had turned into/become … .” 

___

“So one morning I woke up in my bed from uneasy dreams and found… you there,” he grinned at her and she couldn’t suppress a smile of her own.

“You believe in fate?” he snorted at her words, and Ani poked him with an elbow under his ribs.

“What else would you call it? We were broken and then suddenly we weren’t. This is a quintessence of a metamorphosis.”

“We are past that phase, Ani. We are more like a part of a parabiotic experiment now.” M. finished his drink in one gulp and put a glass on the coaster with a muffled thump.

“Parabiosis,” he raised an index finger to draw Ani’s attention. “That’s what it is. Remember how we met?” under the table he put a hand on her bare leg, his fingers brushing the soft skin near the hem of her skirt.

M. had big pale hands, which stood in stark contrast to the rest of his body – tanned, tall and seemingly fragile as if he was a good ten pounds below slim. Exactly the way when she first had seen him at the entryway of the intensive care unit. In a narrow hallway she brushed arms with a beautiful stranger, oblivious to the world around him. A silent sorry slipped past his lips and when their eyes met she couldn’t look away. Unable to move sideways, glued to the man standing at the door, she just kept staring, confronted by the pain etched on his face. His sharp hollow cheekbones and purple shadows under the bloodshot eyes did a poor job at masking his beauty. He looked like he was holding the weight of the whole universe on his fragile shoulders, yet he had found the strength to wind up on his feet.

Without giving it much thought – any thought – she caught his trembling hands and intertwined their fingers. In retrospect, it had been a bold move, the one she would never find an explanation for. The man didn’t flinch or pull away, just stirred Ani closer and encircled her with his big hands breaking into wrecking sobs in her embrace. He was tall and she barely reached the middle of his chest encased in a plain gray t-shirt, her forehead pressed into his pectoralis major, her lips against his heart, contracting two hundred beats a minute. He smelled like medicine, coffee and sunflower seeds.

Whatever his ache was, it echoed her own, and she stood there quietly, absorbing his tears with her hair and his sorrow with her soul.

She could never forget his frenzied kisses as he’d mapped out her luscious curves with his big pale hands. As he’d pounded into her, his body slick with sweat. As he’d bawled pressed to the sharp cut of her clavicle in the aftermath of his climax. As the sobs had racked his body and she kept rubbing soothing circles over his back.

Her heart clenched at the memory. M. reached over to wipe off a lone tear trickling down her cheek, the sea blue of his own clouded with moisture. And then he smiled.  They both were in tatters, and then they weren’t. The metamorphosis, indeed.

M. bent over the table and kissed the hollow of her neck. Ani pulled away, trying to look him in the eye, his breaths still dancing across her skin quickening her pulse traitorously. He was drawing numbers with his tongue on her flushed skin, dragging his lips to that sweet spot behind her ear, which he knew damn well made her squirm on her seat. She panted. She wanted him to take her back home and undress. The idea of making love to him was uppermost in her mind. She told him so.

He chuckled softly and nodded at a pizza on the table.

“You don’t want your pizza? I thought you were hungry!”

“Famished actually! Just not for pizza.”

M. looked down at her plate, his hand moving towards the apex of her thighs.

“Pizza is an example of parabiosis.” M. continued calmly as if giving a lecture. She cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Just think about it! They put cheese on this perfect oval of dough and then – voila – you get an entirely new thing. Parabiosis, Ani.”

“Did you just compare me with a slice of mozzarella?”

 “More like a sprinkle of Parmesan… You, me, combined together. A family, a child, the whole nine yards. Parabiosis.”

“Well, as you said, it’s clear that we are way past the metamorphosis stage.” Ani got out of the booth and extended a hand to M.

“Time to start the parabiosis phase, Romeo. Let’s go.”

Story 27

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

Read it on AO3

1.

“Are they sleeping?”

“Oh yes, they are.”

“What are they dreaming about?”

“Their worst nightmare.”

----

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

Darkness pervaded. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

makeup and potential parenthood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's the story behind the fiction article about the local hero.

Story #51 is The X-Files fanfiction story.

Read it on AO3

Stories #80-84 are chapters of the X-Files fanfiction story.

Read it on AO3