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Story
Апрель 21, 2021, 2:35 п.п.
24 апреля, в Международный день творчества и инновационной деятельности, пройдет II Международная неконференция «АRТtalk.

Искусство после креативной экономики», которая соберёт на одной оналайн-площадке всех креативных лидеров изменений.

Неконференция пройдёт на специальной онлайн-платформе и в социальных сетях в формате многопотоковых трансляций, стратегическими темами которых станут искусство, наука, технологии и их влияние на развитие экономики.

Концептуальные темы неконференции: «Искусство после креативной экономики», «Язык креативной экономики», «Мифы, связанные с креативной экономикой», «Искусство, наука и технологии», «Трансформация или хайп?», «Поколения Z и Альфа», «Каким не может быть образование в эпоху экономики знаний?», «Художники и учёные».

На платформе и в социальных сетях параллельно будут работать два тематических потока трансляций: публичная трансляция «Таврида» – обсуждение роли искусства, науки и технологий в развитии креативной экономики; закрытая трансляция «Меганом» – встреча лидеров креативной экономики и обсуждение креативно-инновационной деятельности.

Неконференция будет работать на протяжение 15 часов. Участие во всех программах онлайн-мероприятия является бесплатным.

Регистрация уже доступна: https://arttalk.art/?utm_source=tg&utm_medium=p&utm_campaign=one_story
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Апрель 21, 2021, 2:35 п.п.
The Wrinkles. Troy Keller

Stephen tells me the wrinkles methodology is a hoax, like astrology, phrenology and those other "unsuccessful bridges between science and superstition." This, after working three months together, here at the clinic where we are interns, assigned by our medical school, here where, each day, we place our hands on the foreheads of children and check them. We tell them to smile, frown. We record on our pads the lines that show up in their faces. And then we diagnose them. Tell them their futures.

Now Stephen says he wants nothing more to do with wrinkles after this assignment is over. But that is easy for him to say. He has long planned to confine his practice to the city — to bond brokers and their sterile wives, and he will have little need for the wrinkles methodology. In my frontier practice I will of course see many children, and this knowledge will be essential. Like with this morning's only negative diagnosis, the young Scot, fresh in from the gold fields. His crisp horizontal indentions above the eyebrows were an exact match to that same feature displayed by nearly every case of manic dementia found in New England during the past decade. Stephen had sighed as he filled out the report that would derail the child's future. What parent would pay to educate a lunatic-in-waiting?

We are taking our lunch across from the clinic, eating sandwiches on a wooden bench while the crowds along Eighth Avenue mesh in and through each other. I am thinking that I certainly do not need Stephen's doubts in my head. In a way, you could say he is biased because he has nothing at stake in any of this. I suppose he must care so little about the wrinkles that being critical like he is requires hardly any rigor at all.

I ask Stephen how his new opinion will affect the report we are to deliver at the end of the term, our analysis of the popular wrinkles methodology. He gazes at me.

"I think that you will have your report and I will have mine," he says.

"That's no good," I say. "We will discredit each other. They will conclude one or both of us are irrational."

"What else can I do?" he says.

Poor Stephen. He is making things so hard for himself — for us. I am afraid he still sees medicine as a science. I don't know — but I am concerned about the effect his doubts will have on the rapidity of our graduation. This internship was to be our final requirement — but if it is discredited, I don't know.

I am almost finished with my sandwich when Stephen asks me to look at him. "Smile," he says. "Frown." Fine, I do both. He shrugs and tells me that I and my wrinkles are pretty much normal, with about half a chance of suffering from severe nightmares. I already know this. I have checked myself in the mirror maybe a dozen times.

"How about you?" I ask.

He stares at me. "I have the forward eye creases."

"Horse manure."

He tips his head and frowns deeply, and there they are, sharp, angling dents between the eyelids and the brows. According to the literature, only Benjamin Franklin and a handful of other transcendentally intelligent souls had ever displayed them.

"You hide your genius so well."

"You want the truth. It's hereditary. Ben Franklin was my mother's grandfather. Every child in my family has them. It just goes to show how much of this is farce."

I consider that, but I cannot let his doubts get to me. After all, I will not get far with a practice that does not offer diagnoses via means of the much advertised wrinkles methodology.

"The eye creases have never been more than theory," I say. "Really, there aren't enough geniuses around to properly test them."

"Please," he says and throws the remains of his sandwich into the gutter for the rats.

I frown. I don't really care. I mean, I care about the patients. Who wouldn't? But I don't care about the proving. If Stephen wants to despise me for that, so be it.

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Story
Апрель 19, 2021, 3:32 п.п.
Прощай, жизнь?

От картины, все всякого сомнения, веет возбуждением, она вся словно пропитана эмоциональной неустойчивостью.

"Это одна из тех картин, глядя на которые можно почувствовать психические муки Ван Гога", - рассказывает Бэйли.

Тайна безумия Ван Гога: о чем говорит его последняя картина?
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Апрель 19, 2021, 3:29 п.п.
An Inhabitant Of Carcosa. Ambrose Bierce

For there be divers sorts of death -- some wherein the body remaineth; and in some it vanisheth quite away with the spirit. This commonly occurreth only in solitude (such is God's will) and, none seeing the end, we say the man is lost, or gone on a long journey -- which indeed he hath; but sometimes it hath happened in sight of many, as abundant testimony showeth. In one kind of death the spirit also dieth, and this it hath been known to do while yet the body was in vigour for many years. Sometimes, as is veritably attested, it dieth with the body, but after a season is raised up again in that place where the body did decay.

Pondering these words of Hali (whom God rest) and questioning their full meaning, as one who, having an intimation, yet doubts if there be not something behind, other than that which he has discerned, I noted not whither I had strayed until a sudden chill wind striking my face revived in me a sense of my surroundings. I observed with astonishment that everything seemed unfamiliar. On every side of me stretched a bleak and desolate expanse of plain, covered with a tall overgrowth of sere grass, which rustled and whistled in the autumn wind with Heaven knows what mysterious and disquieting suggestion. Protruded at long intervals above it, stood strangely shaped and sombrecoloured rocks, which seemed to have an understanding with one another and to exchange looks of uncomfortable significance, as if they had reared their heads to watch the issue of some foreseen event. A few blasted trees here and there appeared as leaders in this malevolent conspiracy of silent expectation.

The day, I thought, must be far advanced, though the sun was invisible; and although sensible that the air was raw and chill my consciousness of that fact was rather mental than physical -- I had no feeling of discomfort. Over all the dismal landscape a canopy of low, lead-coloured clouds hung like a visible curse. In all this there was a menace and a portent -- a hint of evil, an intimation of doom. Bird, beast, or insect there was none. The wind sighed in the bare branches of the dead trees and the grey grass bent to whisper its dread secret to the earth; but no other sound nor motion broke the awful repose of that dismal place.

I observed in the herbage a number of weatherworn stones, evidently shaped with tools. They were broken, covered with moss and half sunken in the earth. Some lay prostrate, some leaned at various angles, none was vertical. They were obviously headstones of graves, though the graves themselves no longer existed as either mounds or depressions; the years had levelled all. Scattered here and there, more massive blocks showed where some pompous tomb or ambitious monument had once flung its feeble defiance at oblivion. So old seemed these relics, these vestiges of vanity and memorials of affection and piety, so battered and worn and stained -- so neglected, deserted, forgotten the place, that I could not help thinking myself the discoverer of the burial-ground of a prehistoric race of men whose very name was long extinct.

Filled with these reflections, I was for some time heedless of the sequence of my own experiences, but soon I thought, 'How came I hither?' A moment's reflection seemed to make this all clear and explain at the same time, though in a disquieting way, the singular character with which my fancy had invested all that I saw or heard. I was ill. I remembered now that I had been prostrated by a sudden fever, and that my family had told me that in my periods of delirium I had constantly cried out for liberty and air, and had been held in bed to prevent my escape out-of-doors. Now I had eluded the vigilance of my attendants and had wandered hither to -- to where? I could not conjecture. Clearly I was at a considerable distance from the city where I dwelt -- the ancient and famous city of Carcosa.

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Апрель 16, 2021, 9:06 п.п.
On a Red-Eye Heading East. Ken Elkes

Last weekend, Daniel spent 43 hours straight with his daughter Esme. Nearly two whole days. Nearly. Now he is 30,000 feet up on a red-eye heading East, looking at a picture she has posted online - a 'selfie' and the shadow of his face. He is not tagged.

Planes, hotel rooms, toilet cubicles off quiet corridors. These are the sliver-thin places where he finds a little time, like a fisherman standing in a fast flowing river, hoping to hook something beautiful, reel it in, hold it for a while.

He spends these moments 'liking' her uploaded images - the lemon drizzle cake she made, Esme with a ginger-haired girl he doesn't recognize, her new patent-leather shoes. Or typing funny comments about cold feet, hair braids, boys in spectacles; thumbing love into the holy blue glow of the screen, as if a string of 0s and 1s were invisible threads that joined them.

Another flight, a few weeks back. A stewardess, greying and flat shoed, saw a picture on his laptop. She asked: "So, is that your daughter?"

The picture wasn't her, not really, he said. None of it was, the patchwork of messages and posts and the slow, twitching images of video calls.

"Zoom in. Just zoom in and see just how pixelated she gets," he said.

When she turned away wordless, he regretted his candour, the potential rudeness. He was relieved a little late when she brought him a whisky, unasked, leaned in and told him it was on the house, saying she had kids, was divorced, understood.

Today the stewardess is different, young and brisk, and he sits quietly, held down by the weight of the laptop and the phone, silent, in his pocket.

Finally, he lets himself think about last weekend. That fat, cold Friday, Daniel had driven through a blizzard to his ex-wife's house and taken Esme back to his too-hot, too-small new place where they scoured peanut butter straight from the jar and gazed at the ghost prints of birds in the snow.

When the snow relented Esme insisted they go out, so they bought a plastic sled and drove out to the hills near to where he grew up. When they crossed a bridge at the foot of the slopes, Daniel stopped and told Esme about how snow changed the sound of everything.

"Listen to the stream, I mean really listen to it," he said and was silent for a long time, until Esme pulled on his hand, said she wanted to have fun.

He watched her sail down the hill, time after time, worrying about the cold and the night and what they should eat when they got back.

Then she said "let's build a snowman" and they worked together, heaving a great ball of snow around the bottom of the hill, a lesser one for the head. He gave up his scarf and his hat and Esme made a face from twigs. When they had finished she adjusted the cap to a better angle, then patted its belly.

"Looks like you dad."

Against the hum of the plane's engine, Daniel remembers how, as they were leaving, he turned and saw the swathe of grass they had exposed all round the snowman, bright green, incredulous in its colour.

He stares out at the vast fields of clouds that stretch, white and unending, to the horizon. He thinks about what lies below.

By now the snowman would have melted and the deep, bright grass would be an unremarkable piece of field. Maybe someone walking there might see a hat and scarf, a pile of twigs. They might wonder, just for a moment, about who left them there and why.

He didn't take a picture of the snowman, neither did Esme. There had been no profile update, no location marked, no online record uploaded, filed or shared. But when Daniel closes his eyes he can hear the trickle of a stream dulled by snow, the sharp pipe of his daughter's laughter in cold air. He can smell crushed grass and he can feel the wondrous weight of tiredness in his limbs as he carried his own sleeping daughter to bed that night.
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Апрель 15, 2021, 3:15 п.п.
Культурный фронт – это отличный канал о культурном наследии, истории и путешествиях по России.

Подписывайтесь, вас ждут новости и фото, мемы и истории о культуре и архитектуре.

@kultfront_zp – это борьба за культурное наследие России. Это возможность расширить свой кругозор и лучше узнать о культурном и историческом наследии нашей страны.
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Апрель 15, 2021, 3:13 п.п.
To Sit in the Sun. Joanna Leyland

Don't ask me, dearie. I wouldn't know about that. As I said, I'm just a neighbour of theirs - that's right, that little white house there on the corner, the one with the fig tree next to it. And yes, I saw it all. Not that I was watching - I believe in keeping myself to myself - but a body couldn't help noticing. First all the coming and going with him being ill, then the weeping and wailing when he died - of course I went to pay my respects, that's only right - and I saw them carry the poor lamb from the village, lay him out proper and wall up the tomb. I did feel sorry for the two girls, I must say.

What? Yes, that's right, dearie. Four days later it was - just as things were getting back to normal. Some sort of preacher. The girls must have sent for him - with never a word to anyone - and up he walked, bold as anything, with a bunch of followers too. You can imagine the talk. And then to go on up to the tomb, with near enough the whole village hard on their heels. No, I didn't go - not decent, I thought, stirring people up, giving them false hopes, but I was wrong, wasn't I? The preacher did it - got them to open the tomb and called out, so they say, and that was that. Back they all came, the two girls crying and hugging their brother, half the crowd jabbering with excitement and the other half - you know, looking sideways and not really sure. I wasn't sure myself, come to that.

Afterwards? Well, when the preacher left and all the fuss had died down, I asked his sisters if they needed any help to keep an eye on him. They couldn't thank me enough. First it was just for a few hours, then they started bringing him over in the morning and taking him home at night, then they asked me if I could .... you know, have him permanent. Like I said, I'm a widow, and they ... well, dearie, let's just say I'm not too proud to accept a little something for having him.

Mind? Bless you, no, of course I don't mind. Well, you can see for yourself, dearie. He just sits there mostly. I talk to him, of course - well, a body needs some company - but if I don't ..... No, he's no trouble at all. He just likes to sit in the sun.

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Апрель 13, 2021, 11:06 д.п.
A modern history of the Levant. Charlie Hill

The path took the men along the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. It rose and fell and rose again, winding through dry yellow earth. It was too hot to be walking so far and the men were weary. They came across an outcrop of rock, shaded by a solitary fig tree. The first man said shall we take five? and slipping out of his pack, rested himself against the tree. His companion followed suit and the two of them sat shoulder to shoulder and looked out across the deep green water, to the hazy curve of the horizon.

The men wiped their brows with their sleeves. Sheesh, it's hot said the second man and the first man said: got that right.

Do you reckon it's hotter than that place last year?

Which one?

The city on the river. With the date palms.

I don't know.

Me neither, said the second man, I mean that was wet heat. This is dry heat. Like the desert with the ants.

The desert with the ants?

Yeah. Do you remember? There was the desert with the camels and the desert with the ants. Enormous things. Red heads. The ants I mean, not the camels.

I don't remember the ants.

Why would you? said the second man, and he smiled, it wasn't your ankle they took a liking to.

People remember different things, said the first man.

The two men took a sip of water from a bottle they passed between them. Down below there was a ship, cutting grey and shark-like through the sea. I'm hungry, said the first man.

Me too, said the second man. Could do with some of that goat. I'd kill for some of that goat.

Yeah, said the first man.

It was good wasn't it? said the second man.

They sipped at their water. The second man shook his head.

Will you listen to us? Talking about eating goat, like it's no big thing. Can you imagine if we hadn't been doing this, all this time. Shoney's, that's what we'd be talking about. Whereas now we're talking about goat.

A long way overhead a jet soared, like a gull on currents of air. The second man followed its path. I mean it's funny isn't it? We've had some crazy times, man, I've taken some crazy photographs – that woman on the back of the motorbike, the piles of fruit in that market. The hats at that wedding – sheesh!–

–I've seen your crazy photographs–

–but I think it's the food that's going to stick with me. The goat. What was that thing last summer? Was it sheep? And the rabbit! Man, that rabbit.

The rabbit?

Yeah. Now that was something else.

The first man frowned. I don't remember the rabbit, he said.

You don't remember the rabbit either? said the second man. Oh come on, you must remember the rabbit. We had it just outside that town on the coast. There was a square, with a fountain, lions on it. An old man sold you a cigarette. You must remember that. Don't you…

The second man's voice tailed off. The first man stood up and looked up at the sky. It was impossibly blue. There was a school, he said.

I know, said the second man.

A school.

I know, said the second man, I'm sorry.

He got slowly to his feet, patted the first man on his shoulder. The first man flinched. He bowed his head. Assholes, he said and he punched the trunk of the fig tree. Assholes he said, and he punched the tree again – assholes! ASSHOLES! – shouting the word now, punching the tree again and again, and he kept on punching the tree until his hand was useless, a grotesque, distorted and bloody mess of flesh, torn skin and bone, until the yellow earth was spattered with dark splashes of blood.

@one_story
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Апрель 10, 2021, 1:44 п.п.
А вот тут о том, как подружиться со скульптурой, если нет времени ходить в музеи — @exponat
Кайфануть от скульптуры
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Апрель 10, 2021, 1:44 п.п.
Fishing For Jasmine. John Ravenscroft

The silent young woman in bed number six is called Jasmine. So am I, but names are only superficial things, floats bobbing on the surface of the water, and we share deeper connections than that. Which is why she fascinates me - why I spend my off-duty time sitting beside her.

Today is difficult. The ward heaves with patients and I am kept busy emptying bed-pans, filling out forms, changing dressings. Finally, late in the afternoon, I get a few moments to make coffee, to take it over to the orange plastic chair beside her bed. I am thankful to be off my feet, glad to be in her company once again.

"Hello, Jasmine," I say, as if greeting myself.

She does not reply. Jasmine never replies. She is down too deep.

Like me, she has been sea-damaged. I too am the daughter of a fisherman, so I bait my words like fish-hooks, cast them into her ears, imagine them sinking down through cold, dark water. Down to wherever she may be.

"I have little time today," I tell her, touching her hair.

With Jasmine, it is always difficult not to touch. She is that rare thing, a truly beautiful woman. Because of this, people invent reasons to walk by. I catch them looking, drinking her in, feeding on her. They are barracuda, all of them. Wheelchair-pushing porters who slow to a crawl when they near her bed. Roaming visitors with greedy eyes. Doctors who stop, draw the thin screen of curtain, and continually re-examine that which does not need examination.

Great beauty is something Jasmine and I do not share. I am glad of it.

"Your father may be here soon," I say. "Last week he said he would come."

Jasmine says nothing. Her left eyelid flickers, perhaps.

It is two months since the incident on her father's fishing boat, since she fell overboard, sank, became entangled in the nets. It was some time before anyone noticed, then there was panic. Her father hauled her back on board and sailed for home. When he finally arrived, he carried ashore what he thought was his daughter's body.

"Jasmine," I whisper. I want her to take our baited name. I want her to swallow it.

Fortunately, there was a doctor in the village that morning, a young man visiting relatives. It was he who brought this drowned woman back from the brink, he who told me her story. She opened her eyes, he said, looked up at her father and spoke a single word - then sank again, this time into coma.

Barracuda. That is what Jasmine said.

When her father visits, he touches her hair, kisses her cheek, sits in the orange plastic chair at the side of her bed and holds her hand. Like my own father, he has the big, brown, life-roughened hands of a fisherman. He too smells of the sea, and pretends he is a good, simple man.

Jasmine. We share so much, we are almost one.

I remember early mornings, my hair touched to wake me, my father lifting me half-asleep from my bed, carrying me, dropping me into his boat. His voice rough in my ear, his hands rough on my skin. I never wanted to go, but I was just a child. He did as he wished.

I remember salt water, hot sun, my mother shrinking on the shore. I remember the rocking of the boat, the screams of the gulls.

"Jasmine, you have a life inside you. Can't you hear it calling?"

Nothing.

The ward door bangs, and I see Jasmine's father walking towards us, carrying flowers. He smiles at me. Even in death, my own child had my father's smile, and Jasmine's will have this man's. I know it.

He stops by her bed and touches her hair. Something stirs deep inside me. I watch Jasmine's eyelids, waiting for her to bite.

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Апрель 9, 2021, 5:04 п.п.
Выиграй 10 уроков английского с преподавателем онлайн! 👩‍🎓

Онлайн-школа английского EnglishDom проводит YouTube марафон 🌱
Победителю приз - 10 УРОКОВ с преподавателем и другие крутые призы за 2 и 3 место! 🏆

Что делать:
1. Заполнить формуформу
2. Выполнять простые задания в течение 10 дней
3. Забрать свой приз 🏆

Старт марафона 13 апреля!
Успей зарегистрироваться! Всем удачи! 🚀
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Апрель 9, 2021, 4:13 п.п.
Rewarding Superstitions. Fernando Sorrentino

I live off the superstitions of others. I don't earn much and the work is pretty hard.

My first job was in a seltzer plant. The boss believed, who can say why, that one of the thousands of siphon bottles (yes, but which one?) harbored the atomic bomb. He also believed that the presence of a human being was enough to prevent that fearful energy from being released. There were several of us employees, one for each truck. My task consisted of remaining seated on the irregular surface of the siphon bottles during the six hours daily required in the distribution of the seltzer. An arduous task: the truck jolted; the seat was uncomfortable, painful; the route was boring; the truckers, a common lot; every once in a while a siphon bottle would explode (not the one with the atomic bomb) and I would sustain slight injuries. Finally, tired of it, I quit. The boss hastened to replace me with another man who, with his mere presence, would prevent the explosion of the atomic bomb.

Immediately, I learned that a spinster lady in Belgrano had a pair of turtles and that she believed, who can say why, that one of them (yes, but which one?) was the Devil in the form of a turtle. Since the lady, who always wore black and said her rosary, couldn't watch them continually, she hired me to do so at night. "As every one knows," she explained to me, "one of these two turtles is the Devil. When you see one of them begin to sprout a pair of dragon wings, don't fail to inform me, because that's the one, without a doubt, who is the Devil. Then we'll make a bonfire and burn it alive so as to make all evil disappear from the face of the earth." I stayed awake during the first nights, keeping an eye on the turtles: what stupid, clumsy animals. Later I felt my zeal to be unjustified and, just as soon as the spinster lady went to bed, I would wrap my legs in a blanket and, curled up in a folding chair, I would sleep away the entire night. So I never managed to discover which of the two turtles was the Devil. Later I told the lady that I was going to give up that job because it seemed it was bad for my health to stay awake all night.

Besides, I had just learned that there was an old mansion in San Isidro overlooking a deep ravine and, in the mansion, a statuette depicting a sweet French girl from the end of the nineteenth century. The owners, a very old, grayhaired couple, believed, who can say why, that that girl was sad and pining for love and that if she didn't get a beau she would die shortly. They provided me with a salary and I became the statuette's boyfriend. I began to call on her. The old folks left us to ourselves, though I suspect they spied on us. The girl receives me in the gloomy parlor, we sit on a worn sofa, I bring her flowers, bon bons or books, I write poems and letters to her, she languidly plays the piano, she glances at me tenderly, I call her "my Love," I furtively kiss her, at times I go beyond what is permitted by the decorum and innocence of a late nineteenthcentury girl. Giselle loves me too, she lowers her eyes, sighs slightly and says to me: "When will we be married?" "Soon," I answer. "I'm saving up." Yes, but I keep putting off the date since I can't save more than a little towards our wedding; as I've already said, you don't earn very much living off other people's superstitions.

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Апрель 7, 2021, 6:18 п.п.
Что делать, когда у тебя в подчинении больше 9 человек?

Что нужно знать, если собираетесь стать управленцем?

Руководящая должность = успешная карьера?

На эти и другие вопросы отвечает автор Управлять(й)! | Менеджмент, руководитель с многолетним опытом

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Апрель 7, 2021, 6:16 п.п.
My Name is Electra. Joanna Leyland

I am a very lucky girl and my family is the nicest in the world. Mummy and Daddy are important of course and when we're out we have to behave properly but when we're at home we play and laugh and have lots of fun. "You spoil them!" Mummy says, and she frowns and folds her arms in front of her but then she laughs and kisses him so I know she's not really serious. We have all sorts of games like the one where the hall is the world and the tables and chairs are different countries. Then Daddy tells us all about his travels, but he says the best thing was when he met Mummy and fell in love with her. "Now that's a happy ending," he says.

He's a wonderful Daddy and is always nice and funny. When Mummy sighs and says she's getting lots of white hairs he laughs and says, "I'll be getting them soon and then we'll be two little old people nodding off on the terrace together" then he hugs her till she cheers up. And he lets me ride on his back and gallops round the room making horse noises, then rolls on the floor. Or sometimes we play Hide and Seek or Blind Man's Buff, even if Daddy doesn't really like it . "I want to see everything all the time," he says, "Just look at my beautiful wife and fine children!" but then he laughs and plays it anyway, so he really is a good Daddy.

Nobody is as nice as my Daddy and when I was little I wanted to marry him. Well, I was just little. When I told him he said, "What about Mummy? You don't want me make Mummy unhappy, do you?" Of course I didn't, and he said that I would always be his best and favourite girl and that we would always be special friends, but really special like brother and sister, even if I've got a brother but he is very serious - lots more serious than Daddy.

Mummy is nice too but in a different way. Daddy plays with us and makes us laugh and Mummy tells us bedtime stories. I like the ones she tells about when she was little and learning how to be a queen. She says her Mummy and Daddy were very strict and never had any fun and she only started having fun when she met Daddy. Then she tells us about how they met and it is a wonderful story, just like the old tales but not scary like them. Well, the first part is scary because Daddy had to get past a monster but then he met Mummy and they loved each other at once. "It was just like we'd always known each other", says Mummy, "as if we were part of each other", then she smiles and I know she's remembering.

When Daddy tells the story, my brother wants to hear about the monster and Daddy makes a joke of it because he knows I don't like monsters and terrible things. "It wasn't much of a monster" he says, "I would make a better monster. It didn't attack me and finish me off . It wanted to talk and play guessing games." Then he laughs, and if Mummy's there, he says, "Just like a woman - talk, talk, talk." "Half a woman," she says, "don't forget the lion part," then he laughs and says, "Yes, but the top part was a woman, so I knew it would think like a woman, and that whatever the question was, the answer would be 'a man'". Then they both laugh and she says that's just like him, never serious about anything.

That's my favourite story because Daddy is the hero in it and everyone lives happily ever after.

@one_story
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Апрель 3, 2021, 6:01 п.п.
Чтение литературы — это самый приятный способ игнорировать жизнь:

@biblio — чтоб впечатлять окружающих интеллектом — читайте рассказы великих писателей и удивляйте

@shkolamishlenia — канал, полный закрученных загадок, головоломок и историй. И аккуратнее, там залипают надолго

@vera_afanasieva — предельно ясно о сложных философских проблемах от профессора Веры Афанасьевой

@skazkiaudio — аудио-сказки для детей и взрослых. Фирма "Мелодия" и новинки

@scripca — кайфаните из дома не выходЯ от Чайковского, Паганини и ДидюлЯ

@ohmypain — сборник удивительных историй из мира искусства, культуры и мировой истории

@exponat — а если не успеваете сходить в музей, то заходите онлайн бесплатно

@brodsky_poet — Иосиф Бродский пробрался в Телеграм и читает свои стихи

@stihoman - лучшие стихи великих поэтов! Есенин, Маяковский, Бродский и многие другие.

@books_reviews — старейший книжный канал, к автору за рекомендациями обращаются и читатели и СМИ

@vincent_vangog — Почему картины Ван Гога стоят миллионы? А вы сами зайдите и посмотрите на них

@BagnenkoText - как писать тексты, читать книги, снова тексты, книги и немного маркетинга.

@kafkanazavtrak — Франц Кафка в цитатах, письмах и дневниках
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Апрель 3, 2021, 5:58 п.п.
Spite. Sam Silva

Mama was wrapping some kind of chocolate cookies that she bought to support a local orphanage. Sef came downstairs and stood in the hallway adjoining the dining area were Mama was thus engaged.

The day before he had tried to hang himself with a thin piece of cord. It was something he did in a desperate fit! He wondered if he was going to Hell for it. He thought about this while Mama wrapped the cookies.

Then Mama picked up a piece of twine. She said "Look Sef! This is called a hangman's knot! They used to do this so that the neck would break and people wouldn't choke slowly to death. The next time you play your games with string ... remember this."

@one_story
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Апрель 1, 2021, 2:04 п.п.
Scarecrow. Luke Thompson

So we hired this scarecrow. Yincent. My sister saw the ad in the Cambrian News and said 'Is he for real?' so I called him up to see. We met in the afternoon and in the evening I called him again to say the job was his.

This was Sunday. I showed him the plot and we watched at the kitchen window so he could see the birds he was meant to scare. He took it all in, but I could see his hands shake. I said 'Are you nervous?' He said he had Essential Tremors and he probably drank too much, but the shaking helped his work.

'Makes you look real,' he said. Before dawn every morning I let the cat out, and I see Yincent setting up. I think it's nice he's there and I wave, and he waves.

@one_story
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Март 30, 2021, 7 п.п.
🇬🇧АНГЛИЙСКИЙ ЯЗЫК С ГАРАНТИЕЙ РЕЗУЛЬТАТА

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Март 30, 2021, 6:58 п.п.
Essence And Attribute. Fernando Sorrentino

On July 25, as I tried to hit letter A, I noticed a slight wart on the pinky of my left hand. On the 27th it seemed considerably larger. On the third of August, with the help of a jeweler's loupe, I was able to discern its shape. It was a sort of diminutive elephant: the world's smallest elephant, yes, but an elephant complete down to the smallest detail. It was attached to my finger at the end of its little tail. So that, while it was my pinky finger's prisoner, it nevertheless enjoyed freedom of movement except that its locomotion completely depended on my will.

Proudly, fearfully, hesitatingly I exhibited him to my friends. They were revolted, they said it couldn't be good to have an elephant on one's pinky, they advised me to consult a dermatologist. I scorned their words, I consulted with no one, I had nothing further to do with them, I gave myself over entirely to studying the evolution of the elephant.

Toward the end of August it was already a handsome little gray elephant the length of my pinky although quite a bit thicker. I played with him all day. At times I was pleased, to annoy him, to tickle him, to teach him to do somersaults and to jump over tiny obstacles: a match box, a pencil sharpener, an eraser.

At that time it seemed appropriate to christen him. I thought of several silly, and apparently traditional, names worthy of an elephant: Dumbo, Jumbo, Yumbo ..., Finally, I ascetically decided to call him just plain Elephant.

I loved to feed Elephant. I scattered over the table bread crumbs, lettuce leaves, bits of grass. And out there at the edge, a piece of chocolate. Then Elephant would struggle to get to his treat. But if I held my hand tight, Elephant never could reach it. In this way I confirmed the fact that Elephant was only a part - the weakest part - of myself.

A short time later - when Elephant had acquired the size of a rat, let us say - I could no longer control him so easily. My pinky was too puny to withstand his impetuousness.

At that time I still was under the misapprehension that the phenomenon consisted solely of Elephant's growth. I was disabused of this idea when Elephant reached the size of a lamb: on that day I too was the size of a lamb.

That night - and a few others too - I slept on my stomach with my left hand protruding from the bed: on the floor beside me slept Elephant. Afterwards I had to sleep - face down, my head on his croup, my feet on his back - on top of Elephant. Almost immediately I found just a portion of his haunch to be sufficient. Afterward, his tail. Afterward, the very tip of his tail, where I was only a small wart, totally imperceptible.

At that time I was afraid I might disappear, cease to be me, be a mere millimeter of Elephant's tail. Later I lost that fear, I regained my appetite. I learned to feed myself with leftover crumbs, with grains of birdseed, with bits of grass, with almost microscopic insects.

Of course this was before. Now I have come to occupy once again a more worthy space on Elephant's tail. True, I am still aleatory. But I can now get hold of an entire biscuit and watch - invisibly, inexpugnably - the visitors to the Zoo.

At this stage of the game I am very optimistic. I know that Elephant has begun to shrink. As a result, I am filled with an anticipated feeling of superiority by the unconcerned passers - by who toss biscuits to us, believing only in the obvious Elephant they have before them without suspecting that he is no more than a future attribute of the latent essence which still lies in wait.

From En defensa propia, Buenos Aires, Editorial de Belgrano, 1982.
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Март 27, 2021, 5:32 п.п.
King M. Crispin Oduobuk

Hey friend, I tell you a story. A good story. With a moral in it.

I tell you about a king. I tell you about King Mmefiokmma. See, King M, he living long time ago with big kingdom. Lots of land and people. Just not enough water on one part of his kingdom. So he has like a desert, see?

King M; he a good king. So one day, God says to him: "Mmefiokmma, you're a good king, so I'll give you the one thing you really need. I'll give you a river so you won't lack water so much. Good, eh?"

King M says, "It's good," and, "thank you, God," then he sits back and waits for the river.

Soon enough the river comes flowing though. But it's flowing on the side of the kingdom that don't need it so much.

So King M figures to himself, maybe God forgot which side of the kingdom really needed the river. So he puts up army of workers and they spend a lifetime diverting the river to the side of the kingdom that really needs it.

Problem is, not long after they finish this tedious work, the whole river dries up.

So King M, now wasted by age and disappointment, cries up to God. "God, why have you taken back the river?"

"I didn't." Says God.

"So where's it gone to?" King wants to know.

God chuckles and says, "My son Mmefiokmma, you gave it to the desert, didn't you? That desert been thirsty long before your time. I knew that, but you didn't."

Again King M cries up to God sadly: "God, since you knew the desert was going to drink up the river, why didn't you warn me when I was diverting it there? And since you can do everything, why didn't you just sate the desert so it wouldn't drink up all the river?"

God sighs heavily and King M's whole kingdom trembles. Then God says, "Mmefiokmma, that's the problem with you humans: you just don't get it."

Now, friend, you know the story; you can figure out the moral -- I'm not sure what it is so I can't tell you. I can tell you though that I like this story and I'd like to try and dramatize it. You think maybe you can play King M and I play God?
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