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@one_story
Этот канал для тех, кто изучает или просто любит английский.
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Weaving The Magic. Robert Scott Three o’clock on a Thursday was an odd time for a visit, but it was the only downtime between my part-time jobs that suited Jo. More unusual than the time was the prospect of a one-to-one rendezvous in my bedsit with someone about my age and attractive. Read 8 min -
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The Bet. Anton Chekhov Grief has a sobering effect on a drunkard craftsman as he takes his sick wife to hospital during a blizzard. Read 12 min -
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Знакомьтесь: Леонид Васильевич Щепинин — лауреат Нобелевской премии по экономике. Он же ведущий профессор кафедры экономики в Национальном Экономическом Университете. На своём канале он просто, доступно и с юмором рассказывает, почему доллар умрет 28 октября (!), что действительно происходит с экономикой и почему санкции — хороший способ разбогатеть. Пожалуй, это лучший канал про экономику, который мы встречали. Поддержим Леонида Васильевича подпиской: @fourbes 
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A Tough Tussle. Ambrose Bierce At night, in the autumn of 1861, a brave but sensitive Federal officer sits alone in the heart of a forest in western Virginia. Read 13 min -
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Ни вóйны, ни власть, ни деньги. Никто и ничто не в силах изменить ход времени. Разве, только искусство. Будь то волшебная музыка, грациозные скульптуры и захватывающие картины, фотографии, стихи, фильмы - которые будут жить и оставаться вне времени. Отвлекитесь от проблем и насладитесь редкими образцами всех видов искусства на канале https://t.me/jamilya_bi Там искусно скрещивают знания в области искусства, что уходить с канала вам вряд ли захочется. Подпишитесь — https://t.me/jamilya_bi и сами в этом убедитесь. 
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The Flying Stars. G. K. Chesterton The last crime of the notorious thief Flambeau was a Christmas crime, a cheery, cosy, English middle-class crime. Read 22 min -
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Планируешь сдавать IELTS? На канале Easy IELTS много полезной информации, которая поможет получить результаты от band 6.5 до 8.5 🔥 На канале ты найдешь: 💥Советы по подготовке ко всем частям экзамена 💥Примеры эссе и описаний графиков, разбор типичных ошибок 💥Ссылки на полезные аутентичные источники: видео, подкасты, статьи 💥Лайфхаки по изучению языка 💥Полезную лексику и грамматику: не только для IELTS, но и для жизни 👇👇👇 https://t.me/el_ielts https://t.me/el_ielts https://t.me/el_ielts 
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A Haunted House by Virginia Woolf Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure--a ghostly couple. "Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here tool" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them." But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it,' one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps its upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass. But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The windowpanes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling--what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure? A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burned behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us, coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat gladly. 'The Treasure yours." The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy. "Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number." "Waking in the morning--" "Silver between the trees--" "Upstairs--" 'In the garden--" "When summer came--" 'In winter snowtime--" "The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart. Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. "Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips." Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy. "Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long years--" he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure--" Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart." @one_story -
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The Curse (Caravan of Dreams. IDRIES SHAH) A pretended Sufi took some wheat to a mill to be ground into flour. ‘Grind it now, and make haste about it,’ he said, for these charlatans are always trying to make people do things for them. ‘I have no time,’ said the miller. ‘If you do not,’ said the rogue, ‘I shall curse your mill.’ ‘I would like to see you do that,’ said the miller, himself a real Sufi, ‘because if you could get things done by such methods you would not be here trying to make me grind your wheat.’ The happiness of the superficial: when a man who has lost his donkey finds it again. Proverb My leg is not lame, Allah’s earth is not small. Proverb @one_story 
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Знаете что это? Это - кинцуги. И да, это золото😉 💔Бывает разбилось то, что дорого сердцу. Мастерская KingTsugi как раз этим занимается. ♻️Плюс осознонаное потребление полезно для планеты: выбрасываем меньше, покупаем меньше. 🙌Хотите попробовать сами? Подписывайтесь на канал👇👇👇 
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Little Joe in Trouble Again. Catherine Kelley My daughter's chihuahua, André, looks more like a rat than a dog. Last Saturday she asked me to babysit him when she went out of town, and I only agreed because I'm a doting father and like to think chivalry isn't dead. "But he's not sleeping with me," I told her. "Oh, please, Daddy." she begged. "He'll be cold and lonely if he has to sleep alone." "But he squirms around under the covers and I wake up thinking there's a rat in my bed." "He can be your foot warmer. The weather report did say tonight would be chilly . . ." Abby delivered André into my arms that evening, and after a dinner of Dog Chow and a roast beef sandwich, André and I settled into my easy chair to watch my favorite cable station. It runs the old Western TV shows like Gunsmoke and Bonanza 24 hours a day. I love those old shows where there are clear-cut good guys and bad guys without any postmodern haziness, shows about times long past when possession was nine-tenths of the law and a man could defend his honor with a duel rather than sucking up to avoid getting sued. The good ol' days. André and I lucked out with an episode of Bonanza about Little Joe. He's my favorite character because he reminds me of myself, not only because he's not big and buff but because, despite his good heart, he repeatedly gets into scrapes--beaten up or shot or abandoned by a woman, to name a few. André was apparently more used to fashion shows and other Abby favorites, so it wasn't long before he was snoring in my lap. I carried him to my bed, set him next to my pillow, and tucked him in. Later that night, when I got in next to him, he woke up and burrowed under the covers. I must have drifted off pretty quickly. I'm inside a saloon leaning against the bar, a full bottle of Scotch next to me. I hear a group of men at a poker table say that a small gang of outlaws recently killed a local farmer right in front of his daughter. Before I can take a swig of my Scotch, the saloon doors swing open and a guy, well over six feet, who looks like a burly John Wayne, walks in. Two little punks closer to my size walk behind him. It's obvious who they are. I look straight at them. "I hear you killed a woman's father," I say. "That wasn't very gentlemanly of you." "That ain't none of your business, now, is it?" the John Wayne look-alike says. He walks over to me and grabs my bottle of Scotch and then, raising it over his open mouth, empties the whole thing down his throat. "There's no room for you in this gentlemen's town," I say, my confidence brimming, "so I think you'd better leave." I reach down and touch my holster. Where's my gun? The big guy smirks and takes a swing at me, but I'm too fast for him. I duck and get into a boxing stance and give him two uppercuts in his sunburned chin, but that only makes him madder than hell. The smaller guys then pull my arms back, splaying my chest open, and the big guy pummels me over and over, chest, stomach, chin. I can't breathe, and the saloon starts to spin. Then I realize there's only one way out of this mess. I lean back, pull my legs up to my chest and with everything I've got I kick the big guy in the chest, sending him flying backwards. His head crashes into a light on the wall, shattering the glass, and he collapses onto the floor, dead. Then the saloon turns gray and hazy like it's filled with smoke. I hear a woman outside crying . . .maybe the one whose father was killed? I want to run outside and help her, but the men are still holding my arms . . . Wait a minute, what's this? . . . I sit up to find my arms tangled up in my blanket. I can hear André whining on the floor at the foot of the bed, his whimper a long thin note in the night. I free my arms and lean over the foot of the bed. I see the two tiny whites of his eyes in the darkness, and then I realize what I've done. @one_story -
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Пока все паникуют и уезжают за границу — самые умные скупают квартиры в Москве. Ведь только сейчас можно купить квартиру за 30-50% от реальной стоимости. Если хотите узнавать о таких возможностях первыми — держите в подписках канал Недвижимость Москвы. Там на пальцах рассказывают, как купить квартиру рядом с Кремлем за копейки, какие унылые ЖК через пару лет будут стоить как дача олигарха и публикуют закрытые акции от застройщиков. Подписывайтесь, чтобы заработать: https://t.me/+bCRnrgDzggYzMTgy 
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The Tortoise And The Ducks by Aesop The Tortoise, you know, carries his house on his back. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot leave home. They say that Jupiter punished him so, because he was such a lazy stay-at-home that he would not go to Jupiter's wedding, even when especially invited. After many years, Tortoise began to wish he had gone to that wedding. When he saw how gaily the birds flew about and how the Hare and the Chipmunk and all the other animals ran nimbly by, always eager to see everything there was to be seen, the Tortoise felt very sad and discontented. He wanted to see the world too, and there he was with a house on his back and little short legs that could hardly drag him along. One day he met a pair of Ducks and told them all his trouble. "We can help you to see the world," said the Ducks. "Take hold of this stick with your teeth and we will carry you far up in the air where you can see the whole countryside. But keep quiet or you will be sorry." The Tortoise was very glad indeed. He seized the stick firmly with his teeth, the two Ducks took hold of it one at each end, and away they sailed up toward the clouds. Just then a Crow flew by. He was very much astonished at the strange sight and cried: "This must surely be the King of Tortoises!" "Why certainly——" began the Tortoise. But as he opened his mouth to say these foolish words he lost his hold on the stick, and down he fell to the ground, where he was dashed to pieces on a rock. Foolish curiosity and vanity often lead to misfortune @one_story 
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No More The Wiser. David Dumouriez It's not every day you get an offer like that. In fact, most days, you don't get an offer at all. I was, as the saying goes, 'just minding my own business.' My business at the time was catering, well, waiting - if you want to put it bluntly. And it wasn't really my business in any case. I was just helping out a friend who had a little sideline providing food and drink for functions all over the city. Nothing much, just some snacks of questionable provenance and even more questionable hygiene, and wine which even I could understand was closer to the end of the urinary process than the beginning. Anyway, my buddy was desperate for staff one night and asked me to fill in. 'Just stand there. Hold the tray. If they want something, they can take it themselves.' And that was pretty much how it was. No mingling. No small talk. No deference. But there was a uniform — dark, polyester, and sadly ill-fitting. I can't say that I couldn't get into it as such. More like, once I had it on, I couldn't get out of it. So I was feeling like a clown. I tried to put the tray over my gut and hope for the best. The clock on the wall was my only friend in there, and, believe me, it wasn't doing me any favours. It was going to be a long two hours. And then. 'My word!' A woman. A well-dressed woman. Talking to a man. 'It's amazing!' the man replied. They were more or less in my face. 'Has anyone ever told you-' the woman began. But some excitement overtook her, and she couldn't finish the question. 'It's just so … incredible!' Well, I'd never heard of Ignatius J. Reilly. But I just went with it. I told them I'd never acted. They said it didn't matter. They could work round it. We went to lunches. We had meetings. Then we didn't. The film was never made. After that, it just seemed wrong to read the book. @one_story 
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А вы знаете кого называли "скрипач дьявола"? Это Паганини. Просто послушайте и скорее всего согласитесь с этим — http://t.me/scripca/146 
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A Betting Man. Wayne Harper Sometimes everything depends on the odds. Read 10 min -
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Этой башне Дыгина, что до недавнего времени украшала улицы в Якутска, в этом году исполнилось бы 337 лет. Но, к сожалению, она сгорела ровно 20 лет назад, оставив после себя лишь старые фотографии. Признаёмся, мы фанаты подобных снимков и были приятно удивлены, наткнувшись на канал «Фотохроники бренного бытия». Это все равно, что листать ленту Инст… запрещённой соцсети прошлых лет. Если и вы не прочь убить часик-другой за подобным занятием — обязательно подписывайтесь. Вот ссылка 
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Conviviality. Carol Zapata-Whelan A group of people from different backgrounds share a train journey. Read 5 min