Story #76. Based On The Prompt: 'Surprise!' They Cried, Leaping Out From Behind The Door.

Story #70 is a message to the mothers of boys.

To the mothers of boys

I am a mother of a wonderful boy of six years. I often hear people, husband included, referring to our son as a mummy’s boy, a term I find derogatory. “You are too gentle to him,” “You are raising a wuss,” “Don’t kiss him. Don’t hug him. Don’t hold hands. Take your pick.

Friends, relatives, and even strangers dare to point their fingers at the fact that my son and I nurture a close bond as if it is something filthy. For reasons which elude me, mother-son closeness is severely stigmatized in our society. 

You encourage your son to try a new hobby and people say you’re meddling with him. You let him cry on your shoulder when he scraped his knee and they say you’re coddling him. You buy him a long-wanted toy and they say you are smothering him. A mother that keeps her son “too close” feminizes him and discourages the development of his manhood. In the world of masculinity, a big macho man is a poster child for success, yet a man who is able to express his feelings freely and be susceptible to the emotions of others is a loser.

This is simply not true. No one is ever going to become oversensitive and maladjusted from being loved and treated with care. Contrary to popular belief, boys who don’t suppress their emotions won’t become clingy wimps hiding under their mother’s skirt – they will turn out to be better equipped to navigate their lives and be empathetic spouses. 

Love won’t hurt. It will heal. So I'm just going to hug my son some more and tell him how much I love him.

Are you a mother of a boy? Maybe you should do the same then.

Story #69, which is a positive travel experience.

“Look, we gotta go there,” said my travel buddy Katya showing me the first photo that came out as she googled Austria. The photo showed the tiny alpine village of Hallstatt, nestled between a mountain and a lake with a mouthful of a name. 

The vista rendered me speechless and was enough of a reason to say yes to a holiday, yes to Austria, yes to Hallstatt.

Between us, Katya and I have five kids and the power to move mountains when it comes to traveling without them. Ironically enough, our choice fell on that postcard-perfect Instagram-worthy place at the heart of the Alps. 

Three train journeys, two soaked-through backpacks, and one ferry cruise across the lake later, we finally arrived in Hallstatt. The place, included in the top ten places to visit while in Austria, miraculously wasn’t swamped with tourists. We took a leisurely funicular ride to the skywalk observation deck, enjoyed a cup of Viennese coffee with a piece of the Sachertorte, walked up the path for another hour, and then set off on a hike back, all the way snapping away left, right and center.  

Snap and we were 900 meters above sea level. 

Snap and we were inside an old salt mine. 

Snap and we stood in front of the stained glass windows of the old Protestant Church on the main square.

Snap and we were back home, locking away new precious moments in a memory box along with a few hundreds of photos capturing those unforgettable instants. 

Story #5.

The CPE book review. David Duchovny “Bucky F*cking Dent”

Prompt⤵️

A psychological magazine is running a series of book reviews about family relationships. It has invited readers to send in reviews of fictional books about parent-child relationships. In your review describe the book briefly and the attractions it had for you. You should also explain why you feel the book could be appealing to a wide audience today.

--------------

David Duchovny is not your typical writer. Being internationally recognized as an actor, he both draws even more attention to his persona and scares away potential readers, sick and tired of performers scaling the heights of the literary world. As frustrating and pathetic as it has been at times, Duchovny puts the lie to an unendurable cliché with his novel “Bucky F*cking Dent”.

Ted Fullilove aka Mr. Peanut doesn’t live large, albeit being an Ivy League graduate, and wastes his exquisite education vending peanuts at the Yankees Stadium. He resides in a crummy apartment with his battery-operated goldfish in hope of writing the Next Great American Novel. Everything changes the day Ted gets a call delivering news about his estranged father dying of lung cancer.

Set In the 70s, the story is a real time capsule of that time period, which Duchovny treats with sweet loving care. Seemingly having nothing to do with love, “Bucky Dent” is your run-of-the-mill love story, nonetheless. Love for baseball. Love for a woman. Love for parents. Love for children. It's a story about the bond between a father and son and the damage wrought by the years of absenteeism. The story about healing, building trust, and gaining deeper relationship. Everything about this book has a ring to it. I couldn't stop reading.

Not afraid to fool around with words, generously seasoning the novel with his trademark humor, Duchovny comes across as a natural writer. Whether you are a dedicated baseball fan, someone with a weighty backpack of the complicated parent-child relationship, or just looking for a fresh read to ease your mind, the author will keep your interest maintained till the last line. Make sure your hands are not full, you might not be able to put the book away.

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.”

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.

Some more factual information behind the CPE fiction article "The local hero". You can find a full article here https://www.nytimes.com/1995/10/05/nyregion/girl-s-death-is-attributed-to-rabid-bat.html

Story #21 "It all started with a calendar" 2/2

This is The X-Files fanfiction story.

Read it on AO3

When Scully comes out of the bathroom, clad in her typical set of silk pajamas, her face bare of any make-up, Mulder is already in bed. He casts a coy smile in her direction, but his face is taut with a mixture of nervousness and anticipation.

“I took a shower in the downstairs bathroom.”

He’s wearing a t-shirt and whatever he has down there is hidden under the blanket, but Scully prays Mulder's wearing his pajama pants. Just looking at him, she feels ready to fall apart at the seams. All of a sudden she is tongue-tied, unable to squeeze out past her lips a single syllable. She feels like a bride on her wedding night who's about to get cold feet but also as if it might be her only chance, which she’s not quite ready to blow. She’s terribly out of sync with her voice of reason, so in order to calm her nerves, she turns off the light, takes a few steps to the bed, and quickly sinks under the covers.

She can feel Mulder moving as far away from her as possible, trying to give her extra space, but it immediately becomes obvious that they can barely fit in that bed together. As Mulder still does his best to avoid touching his lovely partner, one of his knees accidentally bumps into the crease of her ass, and Scully’s whole body jerks so unexpectedly that she knocks him out of bed.

“Oh my god, Mulder. Are you OK?

“Jesus, Scully. You know, you could have told me if you changed your mind about me sleeping on the floor. No need to go ballistic.”

He looks up at her from his place on the floor, grimacing and rubbing a bump on his forehead. With those big puppy eyes, that pouty mouth and mussed hair, dressed only in a tatty white t-shirt and boxers he looks irresistibly cute, and Scully can’t fight the urge to reach out and lightly touch his cheek. The whole predicament is so ridiculously comical that the corners of her mouth start curving up slightly, and she quickly covers it with her hand but it’s just too much and in a second she bursts out laughing, glimpses of tears shine in her eyes. Contagious. Deep, loud, wake-everyone-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night laughter. Mulder starts laughing with her.

And just like that, the tension is gone.

“Here, get back to bed.” Scully makes room for him on the bed and throws open the covers.

Illuminated only by the dim moonlight coming through the window across the bed, she can see Mulder wiggling his brows playfully at her. With a wide grin still plastered on his face, he gets on his feet and slips under the covers. He nudges Scully with his shoulder and she dives under his arm, throwing one leg on his, her head resting on his shoulder. Like they always sleep this way. As if she belongs there.

When Scully first realized that she started having unpartnerly feelings for her partner, she designed a whole set of rules in the situations of extreme proximity to Mulder. It didn’t take much to make her see that she had trouble sticking to those rules lately. Mulder was her guilty pleasure. And she is coming to terms with the fact that any guilty pleasure if done in moderation is not something to feel guilty about at all. Mulder IS her guilty pleasure. The one she is going to indulge in tonight and get away with.

“I have a confession.” Scully nuzzles his neck with the tip of her nose and feels him inhale sharply. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”

“That?” With a hand that isn’t caressing her back in long strokes, he waves between them. “Sleeping together? Hugging?”

“Sleeping, hugging, and all the rest,” Scully confirms quietly.

“The rest?”

“Yeah, the rest.” She lifts her head off his shoulder and eyes him lovingly. Their faces are so close that the wisps of air he lets out tickle her skin, and Scully draws a deep breath like she’s going to plunge into the water. When he first feels her soft lips touching his skin, right where the bruise is already marring his forehead, Mulder stops breathing altogether. She kissed him like that dozens of times before, but somehow this time it feels different. Intimate. Like a prelude to something else. Something more.

Mulder closes his eyes, relishing her tentative caresses. She kisses his cheek then, very close to his mouth but not quite there, and as she’s about to do the same on the other side, he slightly turns his face, and their mouths meet full-on. It's a chaste kiss, their lips are barely touching, almost hovering over each other’s. Her breath is shallow, and Mulder almost stops breathing at all. She wonders if Mulder can hear her heart pounding fast and loud, as blood rushes to her face causing her usually pale cheeks to blush. Her whole body grows hot and tingles with excitement.

When they finally part, their foreheads touching, for several long minutes they don’t move at all. The kiss is mind-blowing. Intoxicating. A promise made under the guise of night, the one Mulder has a full intention of delivering.

“Jesus, Mulder,” she says in wonder, just before his mouth lands full force on hers. One of his hands slides up to cradle the back of her head. In return, she wraps her own hands around his neck, weaving her fingers through his silky strands. When they take a break to breathe, he doesn’t let go but holds her tightly, face buried in her hair. He can hear her ragged breathing, warm puffs of air on his neck.

Scully’s eyes flutter open when he loosens his grip on her, and she slides one hand down his arm to entwine their fingers.

“Wow,” is all he is capable of. His voice is husky, and his smile grows wider as Scully ducks her head. Mulder’s absolutely enamored with her apparent shyness. His logically-minded partner is all of a sudden rendered speechless. So simple, unpretentious, and amusing in her pure wonder.

“Yeah,” she whispers, and then lifts her chin and leans down to steal another kiss.

“What else is in that “the rest”, Scully?”

She snorts and once again hides her face in his t-shirt.

“We are not doing that in your mother’s place, on your tiny bed, in the house full of guests, Mulder.”

They both chuckle and he pulls her into a tight embrace, kissing her hair when Scully’s head returns on his shoulder.

“But the offer is on the table?”

“Mmm,” she hums in agreement. “You better pray there's no snow in the morning and the roads are clean, so we get back home fast and safely to try that “rest.”

“Far be it from me to tell you, Scully, how bad I’m at communing with deities.”

Scully shuts him up with another kiss.

“Oh, God.” Mulder breathes out.

“You learn quickly.”

“Can we do it again?”

“Absolutely.”

Story #4 "Up is like down..."

Up feels like down when one day you get back home with a bottle of Merlot and a bouquet of her favorite pale pink peonies, excited and all to celebrate a well-deserved promotion, only to find the house devoid of your loved one. Somehow you know she's not just out to the supermarket. You feel sweat start trickling down your neck under the collar of your freshly starched shirt. Your knees feel wobbly and you have to lean on the wall still jangling the keys in one hand and trying to balance the bottle and the weighty bouquet in another. All of a sudden, it is too much. The smell of flowers assaults your nose like they’re poisonous. It’s perfume. Eau de betrayal.

Of their own volition, your legs drag you into the bedroom where you stand frozen in front of the closet. Fear, gut-clenching and heart-pounding, holds you tightly in its grasp. The door is slightly ajar, and you are scared out of your mind to grab the handle and pull it all the way open. You know it will be empty.

You are glad she’s not here, coz you are not sure whether you want to hug her or slug her. She never was a gal who had airs about her. Or that’s what you thought.

“Au contraire, my dear Katherine!”

You scream into the empty room and the walls vibrate in unison with your anger.

“You are one hell of an arrogant bitch! Fuck you!”

You stride into the hall, grab the seemingly forgotten bottle and throw it to the wall with all your might.

Much-much later, you’ll start recognizing the signs of the looming storm you have been oblivious to. You just let it slide. As you were working your ass off up the career ladder, your wife was working her way down under another man. The moment you least expected it, she stabbed you in the back and filed the divorce papers. Being a trained analyst and observer, never missing a single detail, you were surprisingly slow on the uptake.

You slip your hand under the shirt, to the place where your heart seemed to beat. Past tense. Because you can’t feel it beating anymore. It actually feels like she’s just ripped it out. Or maybe she punctured your lung and you can't breathe. Or shot you point blank and the bullet hit an artery and you’re just bleeding to death on your pristine white kitchen tiles. You press the hand against the wound and groan in pain. You let the sobs overtake you.

At that moment your world has narrowed down to nothing more than a little ball made of bits and shards of pain and broken dreams. She would have said that you were reaching, and you are ever so covetous of that thought. You’d spring for that hell of a stretch.

You can think all you want but here you are, trapped in your inner turmoil, with your barely-moving chest, rasping incredulously “It doesn’t have to end that way. It wasn’t supposed to end that way.”

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 #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)