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Этот канал для тех, кто изучает или просто любит английский.

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    Real Writer. Jennifer Frost

    Meg rented office #10a where she worked most weekdays, her desk facing the door, the window raised behind her. No drapes. No blinds. Office #10, adjacent, had once connected to #10a through a door to Meg's right long ago painted shut. On the left stood Meg's couch, an ashtray on the floor beside it, an e-reader on the charger. Lazy afternoons, she lay there examining the water-stains on the ceiling in which she imagined faces, figures, and sometimes, mathematical equations. Meg looked up from her keyboard when…

    Telegraph

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    Вот что дает умение программировать хотя бы на начальном этапе 1. Формирует критическое мышление. 2. Усиливает аналитическое и алгоритмическое мышление. 3. Прокачивает в технологиях и учит пользоваться их преимуществами. И это лишь верхушка айсберга. А 15 декабря стартует важное мероприятие Skysmart pro - бесплатный марафон по программированию среди подростков. За 4 дня ребята-участники сделают 3 игры, попробуют себя в роли настоящего программиста, посоревнуются за призы и главное - окунутся в волшебную атмосферу ИТ. Основатель компании Skyeng расскажет удивительные вещи о мире ИТ. На марафоне соберётся сообщество увлечённых детей. Участие в марафоне покажет, как можно весело и продуктивно работать в команде. А такие навыки, как поиск и фильтрации информации в интернете, продвижение своих услуг и продуктов, уже сейчас станут отличной почвой для уникального пути развития вашего ребёнка. Регистрируйтесь сейчас — https://go.skysmart.ru/kultura Это бесплатно и ни к чему не обязывает. Будет классно!

  • Story

    ​The Hare And His Ears by Aesop An illustration for the story The Hare And His Ears by the author Aesop The Lion had been badly hurt by the horns of a Goat, which he was eating. He was very angry to think that any animal that he chose for a meal, should be so brazen as to wear such dangerous things as horns to scratch him while he ate. So he commanded that all animals with horns should leave his domains within twenty-four hours. The command struck terror among the beasts. All those who were so unfortunate as to have horns, began to pack up and move out. Even the Hare, who, as you know, has no horns and so had nothing to fear, passed a very restless night, dreaming awful dreams about the fearful Lion. And when he came out of the warren in the early morning sunshine, and there saw the shadow cast by his long and pointed ears, a terrible fright seized him. "Goodby, neighbor Cricket," he called. "I'm off. He will certainly make out that my ears are horns, no matter what I say." Do not give your enemies the slightest reason to attack your reputation. Your enemies will seize any excuse to attack you. @one_story

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    The Secret Garden. G. K. Chesterton

    Aristide Valentin, Chief of the Paris Police, was late for his dinner, and some of his guests began to arrive before him. These were, however, reassured by his confidential servant, Ivan, the old man with a scar, and a face almost as grey as his moustaches, who always sat at a table in the entrance hall—a hall hung with weapons. 🧲 Вот как другие зарабатывают деньги на своём канале в telegram: @raskruti и ты свой канал — получи удовольствие от дохода в telegram Valentin's house was perhaps as peculiar and celebrated…

    Telegraph

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    The Case of Lady Sannox. Arthur Conan Doyle Read 30 min
    The Case of Lady Sannox. Arthur Conan Doyle

    The relations between Douglas Stone and the notorious Lady Sannox were very well known both among the fashionable circles of which she was a brilliant member, and the scientific bodies which numbered him among their most illustrious confreres. There was naturally, therefore, a very widespread interest when it was announced one morning that the lady had absolutely and for ever taken the veil, and that the world would see her no more. When, at the very tail of this rumour, there came the assurance that the celebrated…

    Telegraph

  • Story

    In The Evenings. Melissa Checker

    In the evenings, they go to the mall. Once a week or more. Sometimes, they even leave the dinner dishes in the sink so they will have enough time to finish all the errands. The father never comes -- he hates shopping, especially with his wife. Instead, he stays home to read the paper and putter around his study. To do things that the other dads must be doing in the evenings. To summon the sand to come rushing in and plug up his ears with its roaring silence.

    Meanwhile, the mother arms herself with returns from the last trip. Her two young daughters forget games of flashlight tag or favorite TV shows and strap on tennis shoes and seatbelts: and they're off. On summer nights, when it's light until after the fireflies arrive, the air is heavy and moist. The daughters unroll their windows and stick the whole of their heads out into the slate blue sky, feeling full force the sweaty, honey suckle air. In the cold mall, their rubber soles squeak on shiny linoleum squares. The younger daughter tries not to step on any cracks. The older daughter keeps a straight-ahead gaze; her sullen eyes count down each errand as it's done.

    It is not until the third or, on a good night, the fourth errand that the trouble begins. The girls have wandered over to examine rainbow beach towels, perhaps, or some kind of pink ruffled bedspread. The mother's voice finds them from a few aisles away. "What do you mean you won't take it back?" "I don't want to talk to you. Where's your manager?"

    Dinner squirms in the daughters' stomachs. Now comes that what-if-I-threw-up-right-this-second? or where-is-a-rabbit-hole-for-me-to-fall-into? feeling that they get around this time of evening, at the mall. The older one shakes her ponytails at the younger one. Her blue eyes hiss the careful-don't-cry warning, but the younger one's cheeks only get redder. Toe by toe, the daughters edge towards housewares where they finger lace placemats or trace patterns in the store carpet with sneakered soles. The mother's voice still finds them, shaking with rage. Finally, heels slapping in her sandals, she strides towards them and then keeps going. They follow, catching her word-trail, "Stupid people. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I HATE stupid people." It's the little skips between steps the younger one takes to keep up with her mother's long, angry legs. It's the car door slamming and the seat belt buckle yanked into place. It's those things that tell the daughters how the next few hours will go.

    In the car, the older one sighs and grinds her back teeth. The younger one feels her face get hotter and her eyes start to swell. She stares at an ice cream stain on the back of the front seat and sees a pony, a flower, and a fairy in that splash of chocolate mint chip. The mother begins on both at once. "And when we get home, if your shoes are still in the TV room, I'm throwing them out. Same for books. No more shit house. No more lazy, ungrateful kids." And so on and so on through the black velvet sky and across the Hershey bar roads. On into the house with a slap or two. "You'll be happy when I'm in my grave," wails at them as they put on their nightgowns and brush their teeth. The older one sets a stone jaw and the younger one tries not to sob as she opens wide, engulfing her small hand and scrubbing each and every molar.

    The father is not spared. The volcanic mother saves some up just for him. "Fucking lousy husband. Do-nothing father." And on like that for an hour or so more. Then in the darkest part of the night, it's bare feet and cool hands on a small sweaty forehead. Kisses and caresses and "sorry Mom got a little mad." Promises for that pink ruffled bedspread or maybe a new stuffed animal. Long fingers rake through the younger one's curls. "Tomorrow evening, we'll get you some kind of treat. Right after dinner, we'll go to the mall."

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