Story #4 "Up Is Like Down..."

Story #49 is the X-Files fanfiction story

Read it on AO3

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?  

Story #57 "You gotta stay away from work to work better"

Said A. in our yesterday’s lesson when I asked her about Women's Day. Hell, yeah, I replied, would be nice but kind of hard to do your work not working it. We laughed it off and got back to our good old lexical items but the thought stuck. 

It played on the loop later as well, when I thought back to my last year's holiday. And two years back. And basically all the holidays of the last 10 years. The first thing I pack with me is my laptop. I take it out to the airport to check the student's homework. I take it out on the plane to outline a workshop. I take it out in a hotel to upload some extra materials for them and then write some more. 

The children run around asking for a cable car trip, or a dip in a swimming pool. The husband is pulling me under the blanket in his subtle attempt to make out with his seemingly relaxed pre-holiday wife. The dog we don’t have (thank god!) scratching the door desperately to remind us about its basic needs, would complete the picture perfectly. 

Yet, I have my laptop on my knees. The wheels are already set in motion while I’m getting ready for my lesson in the room I set up for my study in our two-bedroom suite. 

That begs the question - why the hell is it so hard not to work at all? And If I strip myself of any opportunities to be engaged in any work-related environment, can I break that vicious cycle? 

What’s your holiday like, guys? Is it a real work-free holiday or do you tend to squeeze in a few lessons/homework checks/course supervising/etc. in between a morning beach stroll and an evening family dinner?

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 #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 #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 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 #79 "Mapping My Childhood"

That was a creative writing exercise from my tutor, and it's a mix of fiction and real-life events.

There was a heavy wooden bookcase in the living room of our old two-bedroom, creaky dusty shelves storing all kinds of books - detective stories, thrillers, romances that would make the most jagged reader blush. I rummaged through it from top to bottom and stopped my gaze on “Hatter’s Castle” by Archibald Cronin, a hefty volume of blue color - the book my younger self, fascinated with British and American literature – devoured whole in one week. Took me another week to digest it, before embarking on Dreiser’s “American Tragedy”.  We’ll get back to that.

Kesha, our green and yellow budgie, was tweeting in his cage as I stood there hypnotizing the book, trying to decide if it was worth a read. As I made up my mind to give it a shot, I sauntered over to the kitchen to boil some water for tea. Benny, our beautiful white mongrel, looked at me with her wet brown eyes – always seemingly sad – and I paused by the door of the kitchen with my manuscript.

Later.

We could look through Hatter’s castle later. Tea could wait too. It was time to walk.

“Hey, let’s go out for a while.”

She didn’t hesitate and jumped on me, pawing my knees excitedly.  I crouched down to be level with her lovely fluffy face and pulled her increments closer. Maybe somewhere in the back of my head, I had already known it would be one of our last times together. As I had known that one sunny day in June, I would forget to pull down the bar of Kesha’s cage while filling his bowl with fresh food, and he would fly away.

We tended to keep the balcony doors open in summer, but I still believed the chances he’d find his way out would be close to nil. Well, fucking stupid of me. But what would you expect from a fourteen-year-old – a clusterfuck of uncertainty and confusion? 

Fourth floor. Eighty-eight steps up and down. Every day for the past six years, and then the next ten. Inside it smelled like dump plaster and cigarette smoke. I used to know all my neighbors by name, the types of plants they had (they asked us to water them when on holiday), and the loudness of their spouses’ voices once a row was in full swing.

Every four weeks it was our turn to sweep the floors of the lobby and wash two flights of stairs. Twenty-two steps. Up and down. I wish we had a rug there, so I could sweep under it all the dirt and humiliation I felt every time I got spotted by a random passerby.

Checking the postbox was the thing I loved best. There were letters and postcards I could read. When I was in high school, newspapers joined them. Later, when I entered the college, catalogs and brochures were added to the pile of the mess our postbox had become.

“What you got there?” The boy from the top floor – the fifth – asked me as he stepped across the narrow two-by-two lobby to check the box of his own.

“Yves Rocher catalog,” I mumbled and he pivoted on his heels swiftly.

“What?”

“Yves Rocher catalog,” I repeated louder and then felt compelled to clarify. “You can buy a lipstick there or a mascara.”

The boy smirked and swept my body down with his eyes, grinning wickedly.

“You think it’ll help?”

At his words, my face started burning. I kept staring at him with eyes wide open, acutely aware that if I closed them for a second, the tears that had already filled the back of my throat would spill over my lashes. I swallowed a sob ready to escape any moment and brushed past the guy, bumping his shoulder painfully with my backpack.

“Fuck you.”

We only heal together

Author: @642stories

For: @msrisallaround​

While investigating a seemingly simple and harmless case, Mulder and Scully find themselves in a situation when their reality is anything but real. 

Link Here

#XFDarkfic2022 11/17

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.