#regal staffing jobs

[regalstaffingservices]

The secret to Regal employment Agency long-term success is its consistent commitment to excellence. Regal ensures a precise and effective recruitment process by focusing on knowing the specific needs of clients and candidates in these specialist fields. This targeted strategy not only speeds up the hiring process, but it also improves placement quality dramatically. Regal carefully selects each individual to be not only a good match, but also a strong driver of excellence and progress in their new role.

[library-of-cronos]

Help Wanted

Happy Truce  @brokeitwiththepowerofmathamatics! I liked your “ghosts get a job at Casper High” prompt, so I went with that :)

Ao3

Staffing had always been an issue at Casper High, what with the constant ghost attacks. Teachers quit, classrooms were destroyed, and every other day it seemed like poor Mr. Lancer was teaching a new subject. It was clear the man was stressed out of his mind. It didn’t help that his students cared less and less about the subjects he taught with each passing day.

So, with all of the grace of a man stress-balding and losing so much sleep he could put ghosts to shame, he asked politely (nearly begged on his hands and knees on the floor of the Nasty Burger where he was eating(?) lunch) for the teenage ghost, Phantom, to please please convince some of his less violent friends to come teach classes for even a single day.

Pride be damned, even if he didn’t think it would work, he was willing to try anything for a day off. He hadn’t honestly expected it to work.

"Sure." Phantom said, shrugging and taking another bite of his half-eaten burger. He said this while chewing his meal. "Pretty sure they’d find it funny."

"...Funny?" Mr. Lancer squinted, his eyes red and irritated from the lack of sleep and his stomach burning from the caffeine. "They would find it...amusing?"

"To ‘teach those little brats a lesson’ for a day?" He mocked someone with a higher voice, but quickly went back to normal. "Hell yeah, she’d like that." He took a long, drawn-out sip from his soda, which was nearing its end. "There’s a couple others who would do it, for a price."

"Please." Mr. Lancer choked out, his desperation and sleep deprivation leaking through. "Just for one day. That’s all I ask."

Phantom shrugged nonchalantly, humming in response. "Sure. Don’t worry about showing up tomorrow." He finished the rest of his meal quickly, then threw it all out in the trash before lifting himself off the ground. He turned back to the teacher briefly. "But if you want a good laugh, I’d say stick around."

He vanished after giggling behind his hand and laughing all the way through the ceiling. Mr. Lancer sighed in relief that his plan had worked, and promptly collapsed onto the nearest booth.

Mr. Lancer didn’t have high hopes at first—God knows no one could reason with the likes of even the Box Ghost to stop destroying the town for one day—but he prayed and hoped (and prayed again) for just a mere day off.

He had woken up the next morning with no intent of going to his job and decided that even if Phantom couldn’t pull off the impossible, he would damn the consequences of not showing up for his classes. Of course, after spending approximately twenty extra minutes in bed desperately trying and failing to go back to sleep, his body screamed at him to get up and go to school out of habit.

The actions of getting up, getting dressed, packing up his things, and driving to school were all blurry in his head, but the one thing he noticed was that the streets were devoid of all ghost fights, including the GIW, Red Huntress, and the Fenton’s.

Casper High itself was quiet too. He looked up at the second floor while getting out of his car, half expecting it to be on fire without him. It stood proudly, not on fire, contrary to what he would have believed five minutes ago. He walked in the front door, maybe expecting the inside to lead to a ghost dimension, but it too was normal. The usual receptionist greeted him with a kind smile and a pleasant ‘good morning’.

Shaking his head, and thoroughly confused, he made his way to his first-period history classroom. He heard a single, calm voice behind the walls. The door opened, but he couldn’t have fathomed who was behind it.

A green-skinned ghost in a sky-blue gown, blonde hair held up regally, was floating at the front of the room, in front of a chalked-up blackboard, teaching in his place. A few students glanced over at his entrance, but other than that, every student was watching, listening, and taking notes on her lecture of the Middle Ages.

She glanced at him as well, nodding politely, before going back to her topic. He stood in the middle of the doorway, stunned, mouth agape. In the midst of his moments of staring, he noticed the staff name tag buttoned to her dress.

‘Dora’.

Mr. Lancer didn’t need to know any more. He wasn't going to question how Phantom, the teen-hero and enemy of ghosts, persuaded a ghost the teacher had never seen before to teach in his class at his school.

He walked to the vending machine, and mindlessly got a can of coffee. He spent what must have been the rest of the class ‘enjoying’ that terrible, bitter drink on a bench in the halls. It was the only break he’d gotten in the past month, and he wasn’t going to take it for granted by being suspicious of the ghost who’d given it to him.

The bell rang loudly, startling him. He put a hand over his rapidly beating heart, and took a calming breath, then put the empty can in the recycling bin and traversed the student-filled halls to his next class. For some reason, everyone was in a good mood today (seeing as no one slapped his head or called him silly names).

His second period class was in the computer lab. He had left his suitcase of teaching material somewhere along his journey from the front desk to where he currently stood outside the computer hall, though, and he’d already forgotten what it was supposed to be, so even if he wanted to teach, that was out the window.

Shaking his head and sighing deeply, he slid the door open to another strange scene.

The white-haired, electric-powered ghost that everyone knew by name because he shouted it out at every opportunity (almost rivaling the Box Ghost in that department), stood next to Mr. Baxter, guiding him along a research paper while monologuing about the sizes and fonts proper essays should be in. He would stop his rant to give advice or to praise the student for doing something well, but otherwise he chatted about the beauty of machines and how he decided to leave Phantom alone if it meant he got to be in a room with so many gorgeous electronics.

It was only then that Mr. Lancer noticed a trail of electricity running from his feet to each computer that was in use. If he squinted, the teacher could have sworn he saw a mini Technus displayed on the students’ screens, moving around and guiding them through their headphones.

He left, no one having seen him enter in the first place. The teacher decided to spend the rest of the class collapsed in the empty staff room. His weeks of insomnia were catching up to him, even with the coffee.

"Doin’ alright, teach?" A tiny laugh came from directly above him.

Without opening his eyes, he knew who it belonged to.

"Yes, Phantom." Sighing into his hands, he said. "However, I didn’t realize having the day off would be so stressful."

He snickered giddily, and Mr. Lancer loathed that he could not find this situation as amusing as he and his friends did. "Oh, and you haven’t even seen the best part yet."

"Please do not tell me." He shook his head and sighed again, somehow even more tired than before. "I would prefer to remain unaware for as long as possible."

"You got it, Mr. Lancer." He made a zipping sound, and presumably made the same action across his mouth. "My lips are sealed."

The room went quiet after that, and Mr. Lancer could only assume he had vanished through the ceiling again.

When the bell rang obnoxiously loud some time later, he slowly hoisted himself up from the chair and slugged over to the music room. This time, Mr. Lancer had an idea who would be behind this door. There was really only one ghost who had a music theme, though he had no idea why she would want to teach when the last thing he knew, she was hypnotizing his poor students into doing her bidding.

"Listen punks." Her voice was heard even through the door. It was...surprisingly gentle (considering her bold personality). "It’s 1, 3, 4." Three notes on an electric guitar played slowly. "Then 6, 8, 4, 44." Four more notes played. "Got it?"

Mr. Lancer heard a few affirmations, and the guitar shifted around. After a second, those first three notes played, a bit off-key but still correct. Then the next four, this time better.

"Now, do it all at once." He could hear the pride in her voice.

The student played the whole thing, and Mr. Lancer could hear the lyrics behind the notes. As they played it slowly, he followed along in his head.

You will remember my name.

Ah, of course the music ghost would pass on her favorite song. He actually stayed outside the music room for the rest of class, listening in on Ember's instruction and simply enjoying the pleasant sounds of guitars and cheers whenever a student got something right (cheers from both teacher and friends).

Just before he knew class was going to end, he got up from the floor, brushed himself off, and went back to the staff lounge before lunch began.

As he sat down, he began to get a little worried when he realized Phantom seemed giddy about something he hadn’t seen yet, even though there was seemingly nothing to worry about with Ember teaching his class, but he pushed it out of his thoughts so as to not ruin his break.

He suddenly realized that he had not only left his briefcase somewhere in the corridors, but also his lunch at home. Sighing in disappointment, he left to try and choke down some cafeteria food if he didn’t want to go hungry.

He was about twenty feet away from the closed cafeteria doors when he heard the raucous. He recognized the screams as those of his own students and dashed in, only to be hit in the face with what felt like chocolate pudding, but looked like radioactive waste. He exclaimed in disgust, trying to wipe it off with a nearby napkin, but when the napkin screamed back at him, he dropped it in surprise.

With one eye closed behind some radioactive pudding(?), he finally looked around to find out what was happening.

Inside, if his vision wasn’t failing him, there were definitely more ghosts than the ones teaching today.

While the Box Ghost was lifting boxes of utensils and politely threatening students with them (who were in turn throwing food at him in retaliation), Technus was summoning pictures of food from a stolen computer to lob at a ring of mashed potatoes the students had made as a target. There was a blue dragon huddled in the corner with a bunch of freshmen, all seemingly taking naps. Ember was standing on a table and playing her guitar for a screaming crowd (none of whom were mind controlled, just enjoying the show).

And Mr. Fenton had Skulker in a headlock?

"Heya teach!" He called out from where he was, dragging a complaining Skulker closer. Upon seeing his confused look, he glanced down at the struggling ghost. "Don’t mind this loser. He was trying to ruin our party, so he’s on timeout."

"Right." Mr. Lancer numbly nodded. "Well." He looked around again. There was food everywhere, the tables were flipped haphazardly, the Lunch Lady (when did she get here?) was serving radioactive food, and the bell was going to ring in ten minutes for class to start again.

Then, when class started, poor Mr. Lancer would be left to deal with this unholy mess.

Well, he’d only be left to deal with the consequences if he were here today.

"Good luck with your...party, Mr. Fenton." He decided. "If anyone asks, I was sick today."

When the students smiled, it was almost wicked, with bared teeth and nearly glowing eyes. "I hope you enjoyed your day off, Mr. Lancer."

[argent-vulpine]

The Queen’s Scheme(r)s

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Rating: G

Characters: Yuri/F!Byleth/Claude, feat. Ignatz

Chapter Two: Sitting Pretty (As a Picture)

Read it on AO3

Byleth shifted uncomfortably in the seat, keeping her face as still as possible. To either side of her stood Yuri and Claude, each with a hand on her shoulders. She wasn’t sure if they were more uncomfortable than she was, but she imagined standing for as long as they had been was at least equally so.

Ignatz sat before them, his deft hands brushing paint onto the canvas, eyes occasionally squinting as he compared his work to the scene itself, making sure the lighting was right. They’d already sat for him before, to get his preliminary sketches out of the way, and now it was time for him to do the official painting.

The archbishop fought back a smirk at her luck, having claimed Ignatz as a Knight of Seiros before Lorenz could recruit him. She hadn’t forbidden him from taking other jobs, but he now lived at the monastery, and his primary duties now were to be her official artist. And not just for important things like this, but also to just capture life at the monastery: the way the sun set on the hills, the cats lounging in the sunlight, the dogs playing in the streets… and the students themselves, laughing and going about their days.

Reopening the academy had been one of her first goals as newly-confirmed archbishop, although she had made some distinctive changes. Students were no longer sorted by what part of Fódlan, instead being sorted at seemingly random, both to foster relations between the three former nations… and to ensure a healthy mix of skills, since each class worked as a unit on missions.

Another quite major change she’d made had been opening the doors to students from outside Fódlan. Petra had been the first to reach out about it, the Queen of Brigid wanting this new age of peace to broker stronger, healthier relations between their lands, and Claude hadn’t been far behind with talks of having Almyran students.

Change was coming, whether Fódlan was ready for it or not.

And part of that change came in the form of this portrait, depicting herself in her Archbishop regalia, flanked on either side by her husbands in their noble attire. Knowing she needn’t stay perfectly still, Byleth took a brief moment to glance first at one, then the other, feeling their comforting warmth. They returned her glances with soft smiles and gentle squeezes of their hands before their attention was drawn back to Ignatz.

Byleth lost track of time at some point. They’d all conversed for a while in soft tones, but the mostly empty room had echoed with their voices, and they’d subsided when it was clear that it was affecting the painter’s concentration.

A soft clatter brought her back to the present, her eyes snapping toward the sound, tensing up beneath her husbands’ hands before she realized it was Ignatz plunking his brush into a glass of water, a satisfied smile on his face.

“It still has to dry, of course, but it’s finished!” he announced, a bashfully proud look on his face.

She did not run… but it was a near thing, her pace quick enough that Claude and Yuri both had barely registered she’d moved from her seat before she was halfway to the painter. Byleth was a mixture of nervous and excited; she knew that Ignatz was an excellent artist, regardless of his self-deprecating during his academy days. And once she saw the painting itself, she knew she’d done well to commission him for the task.

It was, in a word, beautiful. Breathtakingly so. He’d managed to capture a serene, compassionate look in her features despite the expressionless mask she so often wore. She looked regal, more like the queen she was meant to be than the one she often felt she was. Her tactician and spymaster flanked her sides, looking down at her with such love and affection that she almost couldn’t breathe, seeing it depicted in this manner.

“I took care on the detail of the rings,” Ignatz said at her elbow, giving her a soft smile. “I figured you’d want it to be clear that the three of you are properly together.”

Now that he’d pointed it out, she could see it. She wore a band from each of her husbands, while they wore one from her. She’d had a jeweler recreate her mother’s ring for them, keeping the too-small original for herself, on display in their suite beneath a portrait of Jeralt. The light hit the stones in a way that made them sparkle, drawing the eye to their existence while not distracting from the larger image.

Yes, this is what she wanted the church to represent. Love and acceptance without borders – political or geographical.

On a whim, she turned and hugged Ignatz, ignoring his protests at the supposed impropriety and the sudden wobbling of the adornment on her head. “It’s gorgeous, Ignatz,” she said, giving his hands a gentle squeeze. “I love it. What do you think?” she asked of her husbands, who’d come at a more leisurely pace and had been studying the painting in silence.

“Excellent use of color,” was Yuri’s first comment. “The way the light comes through, it makes Byleth look radiant.”

“As befitting a goddess.” Claude scrutinized the painting as well, leaning in so close his nose was in danger of touching the paint. When Ignatz nervously cleared his throat, Claude grinned and backed away a hair, straightening up. “It really is a masterpiece, Ignatz. This will look stunning in the great hall.”

“I’ll be working on the copies once this one is safe to move. You’ll have them in no time!” he promised.

They’d agreed that Fhirdiad, Derdriu, and Enbarr would all receive smaller version to hang in their main halls. Technically, those palaces all now belonged to Byleth, though the reality was that she had staffed them with trusted allies – her former students – to begin the reparations and ensure a smooth unification. She didn’t have the time to spend traveling between them as often as currently needed, but she had already scheduled a progress around the country… with Seteth’s approval, of course.

Eventually, Dimitri and Edelgard might be allowed back in their traditional residences, but as dukes, not king or emperor. First, though… first they had a lot to make up for. The people of Fódlan weren’t likely to forget that there had been a war, after all.

Ignatz busied himself putting away his paints and brushes, settling them into the case that had been made special for that purpose. He’d originally claimed it was far too grand a gift, when Byleth had presented him with it, but she’d pointed out that as her official artist, he needed to represent her well. That had been enough to get him to subside.

When he was done, she placed a hand on his shoulder, gaining his attention. “Give me some time to take off this regalia and join us for tea?” she asked, a soft smile lifting the corners of her lips.

“O-of course! I’d be honored!”

“Relax, Ignatz!” Claude laughed and clapped a hand on the young man’s other shoulder. “This is Byleth, your old professor. You don’t have to be so formal with her. Or with us,” he added, gesturing to himself and Yuri. “We haven’t changed just because we have fancy new titles.”

The painter didn’t look too convinced. One day, perhaps he’d learn. And she knew he’d relax once they were actually having tea, away from the potential prying eyes that wandered around the church. It was difficult to relax and be yourself around so many people, she knew. Once they were in clothes that didn’t immediately remind him of their elevated statuses, he’d be much more at ease.

“You have time to put your supplies away. I’ll send Cyril to fetch you when we’re ready.”

“Right! I’ll see you soon, then!” He gave her a broad grin, relaxing a little, before snapping the case closed and picking it up with ease.

Once he was safely out of the room, the door closed behind him and no one else in sight, she flung her arms around her husbands, drawing them to her for a hug and planting kisses on their cheeks. “You both look amazing,” she said, voice soft. “But seriously, let’s go get changed. This headdress is heavy.”

[small-fortunes]

Joker || Fracture

Readers Please Note: Joker || Fracture may contain spoilers for the film. Read at your own discretion.

|| FOUR ||

Three months, two weeks and four days.

Arthur had been keeping a log of the passing time in the staff sign-in book where he was taught to autograph his name and the date for every morning as he clocked in and every evening before clocking out. The theatre director, the enigmatic and somewhat eccentric Lauretta Styl proved to be a regimented woman who ran her staff both cast and crew strictly, but fairly.  With the exception of the performance personnel, theatre crew were worked on a two week rotating roster over a nine hour day. Staff began at either 7AM, 9AM or 11AM and worked through to 4PM, 6PM or 8PM respectively. They were afforded an hour’s lunch break, unpaid and two coffee breaks spaced evenly throughout their shifts ensuring the floors were never kept unmanned and always evenly staffed.

Arthur’s first fortnight in the theatre saw him on the 9AM shift and he was mindful to take an early bus into town to avoid being late. The weekend leading up his first Monday on duty found him to be a veritable ball of kinetic excitement. He could hardly sit still his anticipation was so great.  That evening after the interview, found him bolting home on jubilant footfalls. A new sense of purpose filled him. Opportunity did wonders for a man’s self-confidence. Divesting himself of keys and coat, he called for his mother who was reading in the warm lamplight of the living room. She fixed her son with a cursory glance and nodded approvingly. He furnished her with every detail he could recall, bustling into the kitchen, intent on cooking a celebratory dinner. He’d make pasta sauce from scratch tonight!

“This is why I named you, Happy.” Penny murmured fondly as she sat upon a stool at their kitchen counter drinking sweet, hot tea and watching her son chop onions and sing to himself contentedly.

“Are they going to pay your better at this new job?”

“I dunno, Ma. It’s not right to ask about money during the interview. I’m sure it’ll be okay. We’ve always gotten by before even when things were tight. You should see this place, Ma, really. They have these beautiful purple curtains and gold fittings on the ceilings. They’re so high! You’d strain your neck looking up. And the stage is beautiful. The lady who runs the place, Lauretta, she said one day I might be able to perform on it, with my comedy act.”

“You’ll have to write some better jokes then. Something funny.” Penny replied absently. A shockingly loud clatter jolted her abruptly upright. Her son dropped the cooking knife he was handling to the sink.

“Jesus, Happy, do you have to be so clumsy? And loud? And did you check the letter box on your way up? I’m waiting for a letter.”

“They are funny.” Arthur murmured indistinctly beneath his breath. His voice quiet and his gaze unfocused upon the middle-distance. His elation deflating as suddenly as it had swelled. Penny’s ears were sharp though.

“What?”

“I said no, Ma. There wasn’t any letters today. There never is.”

“Oh… Well, I’m going to watch some television for a while, leave you to cook in peace.”

He waited for a few moments. Listening to the shuffling slippered foot-falls of his mother as she groaned, rising from her seat and padding away.

Through the kitchen window and across the street, Arthur’s sight fell upon his neighbor’s drab, old brick building. His kitchen window regrettably afforded a view of the neighbor’s living room on occasion when the curtains weren’t drawn.

The tenants were never of any interest to him directly. There was something impolite about looking into their living room. For his sake as much as theirs he sought to avert his gaze or draw the kitchen curtains whilst he cooked.

What drew his attention on this night was their great ginger tom cat with white paws and striking yellow eyes. The animal wore a red collar with a tiny silver bell around its neck and perched regally atop the window sill, watching him. Seemingly never moving. He’d lept upon the peeling sill at some point during the conversation with his mother and proceeded to lick at his left paw watching Arthur with feline interest all the while. He wondered at the cat’s name.

Come Monday morning, Arthur made sure he was at the stage door early. Martha answered his knock and offered him a polite compliment over his neat attire for which he was grateful. He’d spent the night before agonizing over the state of his wardrobe, ensuring his shirt was ironed and his shoes were polished. He wished he had a better bag rather than his worn brown leather satchel. It would do however. He made certain he had copies of his resume and ID in his wallet. Money was tight this week, he’d have to eat when he got home. Just as well, he couldn’t stomach anything right now. He was far too nervous. 

“Pleased to have you, dear. Follow me to the break room. There are lockers were you can put your belongings and the coffee and tea is complimentary. You can help yourself before your shift starts. We take turns bringing in fresh milk. I’ll mark your name on the roster pinned to the fridge door. Mind you don’t forget it when it’s your turn hmm?” Martha began briskly as she lead Arthur around the box office, up a stair well, into a corridor and out into a large and airy breakout room with unfurnished windows that looked down into the bustling city below. The stage manager checked her watch and continued.

“Now, be mindful of the time. Laura’s called a meeting downstairs in front of the stage at 9am sharp. Take care you’re not late. She’s very particular about punctuality and famous for keeping us honest about it. I expect she’ll be wanting to introduce you to your crew mates formally and assign you some duties, you follow?”

Arthur nodded his head yes. He’d been listening intently as he followed Martha and her rapid footsteps to a row of tidy grey and white lockers that were set against the wall on the opposite end of the room. To Arthur’s surprise, number 11 had been assigned to him, his name written neatly upon a white label in black marker pressed upon the locker door. 

“This one’s for you, Arthur. You’ll need to bring your own padlock but I’ll loan you this one for today.” Said Martha producing a small mail lock and its key from her jacket pocket. Arthur took the lock in hand, nodding his thanks. Martha continued her preamble intently,

“Now, if you bring your lunch, make sure you label it clearly when you put it in the fridge, food will mysteriously disappear otherwise. And where possible, don’t keep clothes or shoes in your locker over the weekend. Take them home to be aired and laundered save you copping unwanted flack.” 

“Sure. I mean, of course, Mrs?”

“Martha, is perfectly alright, dear. You’ll find most staff will tolerate a first name. But be mindful, some of the actors are sensitive whilst performing or rehearsing. It’s best to keep out of their way. And for heaven’s sake don’t let yourself be caught near the women’s dressing rooms unless you’re expressly asked or you’ll catch hell for it, clear?”

“Crystal clear, Martha. Thank you. For everything, really.” Replied Arthur quietly. His gratitude welling in his eyes. He offered a docile, slightly lop-sided smile.

“Well, see if you make it through the first fortnight before giving me any thanks. Stage front in fifteen dear, yes? Ciao for now.”

And just so, Martha bustled away on a brisk footfalls, adjusting a pen in her tightly rolled bun, leaving Arthur to his own devices in the empty break room. A number of round timber tables and chairs waited quietly giving the room the impression of an unoccupied café.

With little left to do, Arthur set about putting his satchel away in his new locker, helping himself to some instant coffee and lighting up another cigarette to pass the time. Once the clock above the door read five to nine, he was quick to leave the large breakroom behind, retracting his steps downstairs until he came to the open theatre doors where a congregation of some fifteen people were standing at the foot of the stage.

Martha was among them, speaking hurriedly with Lauretta who seemed to acknowledge what was being said and taking notes on a clip board.

Oh, she was splendid today. Dressed in fitted, black high-waisted slacks and a peach blouse. Her sleeves rolled back and her hair gathered in a French braid. Around her stood an array of staff dressed in various states of uniformed workwear. Arthur gathered his wits and strode in what he hoped was a confident fashion to Lauretta’s shoulder.

She turned fixing him with a dazzling smile.

“And here he is. Alright, everyone!” The theatre director clapped her hands sharply, the crowd quieted and listened.

“For months now you’ve told me this production has taken a toll on each of you. I thank you for patience. As it stands, I’d like to introduce you all to our latest crew member, progressive comedian and practiced harlequin, formally of Ha Ha’s Entertainment, Mr. Arthur Fleck.”

All at once a dozen smiling faces broke into hoots and hollers. A round of applause was had and Arthur offered a heartfelt smile. A little shy beneath the heat of so much fresh attention.

“Hey, welcome aboard buddy!” Called a particularly sharp dressed young man. African American, lanky of limb and distinctly possessing the style of a pop-star.

“You’re gonna love it here. Hey, you wanna see your future? Look at that guy over there. That’s Greg, he’s what we all gotta look forward to lookin’ like, even the ladies, yeaooow!”  

This seemed to draw laughs from the gathering, even from the unfortunate Greg who was weighty, balding and sucking on a partially lit Cuban cigar. He waved off the sly remark with good humor.

“Enough from you Freddie, you’ll give Arthur the wrong impression.” Lauretta corrected playfully before continuing.

“Now, Arthur will join us as a stage hand over the next two weeks, shadowing Freddie and Fay respectively. I ask you all mind your manners and be patient whilst he learns the ropes. Stagecraft takes time to come into, but if we can work collaboratively we’ll find opening week to our musical runs a great deal smoother.”

The next twenty minutes were spent exchanging handshakes whilst Lauretta introduced Arthur to each of the theatre staff individually. Freddie was finally introduced as the theatre manager, holder of all the keys. Whilst Fay, a sharp eyed, pretty brunette advised she was the stage assistant and understudy to Martha.

“Together, we’re your ‘A’ team, my man.  Get ready, because we’re gonna work you to the bone.” Freddie began, shaking Arthur’s hand with a dazzling smile. Arthur could not help but feel this young man reminded him strongly of the pop star, Prince. He moved with musical grace and had a habit of adding a “yeeoow” to the end of his sentences when making a humorous quip.

“Don’t let him scare you off, Arthur, can we call you Art, or Artie? And what size shirt do you wear? We’ll have to work out some uniform shirts for you now that you’re part of the crew.” Fay announced, gesturing for Freddie to give them some space. Arthur could not help but smile radiantly. His other employers and colleagues were never so welcoming.

“Artie is fine,” He replied finally, “and I wear a medium dress shirt, if that helps any.”

Fay made a note in her log book signaling a thumbs up as Lauretta once again clapped sharply and drew the attention of her team. For the next few minutes she took feedback about the state of the up-coming production, making notes and giving a great deal many directions. Arthur stood by, smiling and noting how pretty her small drop pearl earrings were and the way the rest of the team seemed content if not a little stressed. She addressed each problem and complaint individually and earnestly. The team seemed at their ease around her. In time the crew dispersed to their individual tasks in groups of twos and threes.

“Freddie, I’m going to borrow Arthur a minute. I’ll send him backstage with you shortly.”

“You got it boss lady!” Freddie exclaimed, turning smoothly and strutting away in time with a melody in his head.

The theatre crew finally out of ear-shot, Lauretta turned to Arthur with her characteristic warm smile.

“So, how are we holding up, so far? All good?”

“Oh, yeah! I haven’t done anything for you yet. I’ll work very hard though.” Arthur replied sincerely.

“It’s not about working hard so much as it is about working smart. Relying on your team mates to support you and more than anything, not taking anything personally. You’ll see staff lose their temper more than once and sometimes it may appear directed toward you. It shouldn’t be. But if it is, remember, you’re in your rights to just shake it off and move onto the next task. We’re something of a family here, Arthur. Working a forty hour week means you’ll spend more time with us than you will your own flesh and blood. It’s important that you’re at your ease, even when you’re not. No matter what state you’re in or how busy we all look, I am here to listen to you.”

This sentiment seemed to bring some profound change to Arthur’s features. His smile slipped and his eyes began to sting. He looked away a moment, fumbling for his cigarettes as he whispered,

“Thank you. Really.”

“Of course.” She replied, reaching out her hand to caress his arm gently. Arthur’s smile returned, he lit up, breathed in deeply and exhaled sharply.

“Now, Arthur, I hope you don’t think this too forward of me, but, about your condition. I was giving it some thought over the weekend and I wanted to get your impression. Would you prefer I have a quiet word with the staff just to alert them or would you rather speak to them of your own accord during the breaks and such? What would make you most comfortable?”

Arthur coughed sharply, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“Oh, please, I’m sorry, I hope you don’t think I’m being rude?” Lauretta continued, concerned she’d said something off-key.

“No, no, not at all. I just got on with my cards in the past. I prefer to not draw attention to it if that’s okay with you, ma’am?” Arthur responded quietly.

“Of course, by all means. I just thought, if everyone was on the same page from the get go, it would make it easier for you. If people know what to expect.” Arthur’s eyes seemed to harden as he nodded, taking another pull of his cigarette and blowing the smoke sharply out of the corner of his mouth. Lauretta couldn’t help but feel she’d somehow overstepped herself.

“We just want you to feel comfortable, that’s all. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to find me. I’m almost always upstairs in the office. Have a great day ahead Arthur, I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Thank you, Lauretta. I appreciate it.” Arthur returned.

“Laura’s fine.”

“Laura then.” Answered Arthur with a smile.

The remainder of the day seemed to fly. Arthur diligently shadowed Freddie with a myriad of tasks. He was given a new pen, note book and clip board where he scribbled a range of instructions as he was toured around the theatre. After morning coffee break, Fay rushed to find him before he left the break room with a new walkie-talkie and a microphone head set in hand.

“Here you go honey, you’re on channel eighteen with stage hands. Push this button to call all crew and flick this switch to mute your mic. Try keep radio noise to a minimum during rehearsals. Actors lose their shit when they’re in the zone.” She punctuated the last word by gesturing inverted commas into the air, earning a laugh from Arthur who stifled himself by coughing. He wasn’t about to risk an attack in front of everyone in on his first day. He’d control this. He had to. Instead he thanked her and clipped the walkie-talkie to his belt whilst Fay rushed off taking an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter on her way out.

The evening came too soon. Arthur’s head was swimming with instructions. He’d managed to make notes of his latest directions and did a great deal of shifting, pushing and carrying of stage equipment on Freddie’s direction. The two men seemed to get on well and Freddie showed a sincere interest in asking a great deal many questions about Arthur’s personal interests that he took great pleasure in answering. Arthur was relieved come the end of the day. He’d found a friend in Freddie and Fay and looked forward to telling his mother all about it.

Come six o’clock, Lauretta found her way to the break room where she shook hands with the staff preparing to leave for the day, wishing them all the best and thanking them for their hard work. The same courtesy was applied to Arthur whom she lingered near a moment, whilst he made to take his satchel from his locker.

“Thank you, Arthur, for all your hard work today. I know there’s an awful lot to take in so quickly but your crew mates have nothing but praise for you. I’m thankful to have you in our team.”

“I’m grateful to be given the chance, honestly. It’s been a pleasure today. Are my papers okay?” Arthur replied with a questioning smile.

“Yes, they’re well in order. You can expect to pick up your first pay-cheque from my office next week. Now, go home and get some rest. Let’s see you back on deck bright and early tomorrow. Fay will have arranged some new crew shirts for you by the time you arrive.”

This was his chance. Arthur stepped forward,

“Laura, before I go, could you hold this for me?” He produced from his pocket an oversized match box and handed it to the director. She took it slowly with some trepidation.

“Arthur, this is not one of those prank boxes where if I open it I’ll be hit in the face with something, will I?”

“Haha! No, nothing like that, open it, go on.” Arthur urged, his eyes shining intently.

“Uh, okay.” Deft slender fingers gently pushed the large matchbox open to reveal within its depths a tiny pink rose bud.

“Oh how pretty!” She exclaimed lifting the flower gently and holding it to the light. Arthur furrowed his brows and clicked his tongue in exaggerated annoyance.

“Tsk, that’s not right at all. These boxes can be so unpredictable. Are you sure there’s nothing else in there?”

Perplexed, Lauretta opened out the match box fully affirming to Arthur that it was indeed empty

“May I?” He asked gently, taking the little rose bud from the lady’s fingers and shutting it back into the confines of the match box.

“Now, maybe if you blow on it, like a birthday candle?” Enchanted, Lauretta played along taking the box back into her waiting hands and blowing against it gently.

“Now try.” Arthur prompted. Nodding, the theatre director slid the match box open for a second time gasping with childlike surprise when within, where the tiny rose bud once lay was her light blue handkerchief folded into a neat little square.  With a gasp she lifted the cloth free of the matchbox looking up with stunned joy. The little rose bud was nowhere to be seen.

“Arthur! That’s remarkable! What a charming trick!” She gasped exuberantly.

“I’m glad you like it.” He breathed, deeply relieved and gently taking the box from her hand.

“Really Arthur, give yourself a little time to settle into your new role, then we’re going to have to talk about organizing some sort of show time on the side for you. How does that sound?”

“Oh! Wonderful, truly! Thank you!” Arthur exclaimed brightly.  

He left work that day and took the bus home in high spirits. He may have had little to offer, but his determination to succeed was great. He was tired now. Tired from a day’s solid physical and mental labor. He hoped to shower and maybe eat something. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard to sleep tonight. He began to plan his next visit to Pogo’s that weekend on the bus ride home. He still wasn’t able to get a seat. But it didn’t matter so much now. He’d have a lot to tell his mother when he got home.

He’d made Lauretta smile.

Fracture 1 | Fracture 2 | Fracture 3

[nythroughthelens]

On rejection, looking for a job, and numbers that boggle the mind...

(Long read, would mean the world if you read it and share it) I wanted to shed some light on the overall challenges I am experiencing in trying to find a full-time job right now.  I am going to share the raw numbers and effort with you before I share my background and situation. 

1. Of the now 317 creative jobs I applied to on various job boards and networks over the last 4-5 months, I only received 11 replies. 

Yes, only 11 replies.

Seven of those replies were automated rejections due to my CV not making it through the tracking systems in place.

The other four replies were mainly that they felt I had a great CV but that the position(s) had been filled internally or otherwise.

2. Let's talk a little more about the automated systems in place that read your CV. The systems are widespread and meant to lighten the load of in-house recruiters. Your CV passes or is rejected due to keywords and phrases. In the past, people apparently used to try to stuff their CVs full of keywords and/or essentially copy the job listing to pass the system. However, the systems have gotten more intelligent and also should you do that to your CV, it makes it a tad unreadable once it reaches the eyes of an actual human.

I am fairly positive that cold-applying to jobs is a futile process for the most part due to this factor.

3. Some listings aren't actually viable jobs. Companies leave listings up long after positions are filled or worse, there are CV harvesting services posing as regular listings that essentially are collecting CVs and data. 

4. I even tried paying to in-mail hiring and talent managers on LinkedIn. I reached out that way with personal notes about 32 times. 

People who replied from this effort: 4

One person who replied was from an agency I really want to work at and she replied to let me know she had just quit her job but wanted to wish me success. Another recruiter also replied to let me know that she moved on to working at a dog rescue and hadn't updated her profile. 

The other two people replied that they loved my background and would get back to me while also admitting that they had a hard time keeping up with in-mails. I never heard back from them despite pinging them again just to re-establish a connection.

I should add that for every job I apply to via that job site, I also seek out the talent acquisition person(s) at the company and send a personal note to them. This hasn't actually led anywhere.

5.  I compiled a list of 84 media/streaming/ad/design/PR agencies in NYC and cold-emailed them all with personalized emails. 

Replies from this effort: 0

Not one response.

6.  I reached out to over 12 recruitment/staffing people/agencies (also called half of them and was assured I would have someone 'get back' to me). 

Replies from this effort: 0

7.  I was referred to 4 recruiters personally who I reached out to. 

Result of this effort: 3 of the recruiters ghosted me after talking to me, and the other one I never even reached in the first place.

8.  I swallowed my pride and plastered myself all over social media publicly asking for leads (for reference, I have around 400,000+ people following me across networks, see below for my actual background if curious). 

Actual responses that panned out: 1

One potential really great lead did contact me and we talked on the phone. 

Perhaps that will turn into something. 

Let that sink in though.

Only 1 person with a genuine lead appeared.

The rest of the replies were from people who didn't read any of my actual post (skipped over where I said I am specifically looking for a full-time job in creative/advertising/media/design related work)

9. I tapped into my network by posting a few private posts to specific groups of people. Truthfully, some people went out of their way. However, ultimately those leads haven't materialized into anything either due to a non-response despite having internal referrers.

In fact, I have exhausted all of the familiar networking advice typically given. I am a the point of not wanting to actively get the people in my network to resent me for all the times I have reached out already to them individually.

In the last decade, I have been to more networking and various industry events than I can count. I have a lot of thoughts on this that would be more suited to another lengthy post though. Just wanted to add that this is not something I haven't done. 

Rejections:

Of the rejections I have received from agencies (creative/media), I keep hearing that I am not being considered because I don't have literal agency experience (meaning, because I never worked full-time at an agency, I am tossed out of the running even with my background which involves doing actual contract work for various creative agencies). This has been the most maddening part of the whole process to be honest.

This brings me to my background. Here's my formal background statement that I had to write out for a job months ago but covers quite a bit.

Having just spent the last decade building my art career from scratch resulting in a following of around 500,000 people across all social media, two passion projects that became a traditional book deal resulting in two internationally published and best-selling photography books, a multi-year financial sponsorship with a major imaging brand, and a wide array of experiences that have informed how I approach collaboration and creation, I am at the next step in my life. That step is to find a full-time creative home. I truly believe that ideas are at their best when they are allowed to thrive alongside a diverse array of audiences and collaborators. Nothing excites me more than sharing an idea with utmost excitement knowing that the sharing of that idea is just the start of the story. In fact, I truly believe that storytelling is at its heart a collaborative process and that everyone has the potential and ability to contribute to the storytelling process. Everyone has their own unique set of experiences and adaptive knowledge that they can contribute and I love nothing more than being the person that can synthesize all of these perspectives and ideas into something incredible. I believe that everyone I have collaborated with, from the astronaut who chose me to tell the story of our trip to the Arctic together, to the teams I worked with to create creative campaigns, to the communities I was privileged to help in the Dominican Republic and Cuba, has changed me in a multitude of ways in terms of my perspective, and how I approach life, art, storytelling, and the process of creation. Every day, as humans, we learn and grow in a variety of ways. The ability to look back and call upon these experiences that help us learn is what truly helps foster a well-rounded view of what it means to be, at heart, a storyteller and synthesizer of ideas. Now that I have hopefully regaled you with that formal statement, here are the last 10 years of my career put into a tidy format:

► Directed the creative process of all photography and writing projects from ideation to execution and distribution ► Managed all project assets, including project plans, data back-ups, uploads, photo-editing, photo-management, photo-shoots, disc storage management, file transfers ► Negotiated contract rates, terms of usage, and day rates while producing project requirements and timelines to consistently meet deadlines for events, exhibitions, and roll-outs of product releases ► Collaborated and executed many large-scale projects resulting in exhibitions around the world and even a featured collaboration with Astronaut Commander Hadfield presenting our collaborative art project to the Toronto Art Gallery of Ontario ► Expanded brand presence across multiple social media networks, resulting in 200,000 followers on Facebook, 115,000 followers on Instagram, 44,000 followers on Twitter, 195,000 followers on Tumblr, 1.8 million followers on Google Plus, and developed PR strategies for photography and books, including construction of a contact list of relevant press targets in the US and UK, production of press releases, and development of pitch ► My two books NY Through the Lens and New York in the Snow were the result of a traditional book deal. Both were published and released worldwide in stores (Barnes and Noble, Target, Walmart, the Strand, Watersmiths, WH Smith, and a host of other well-known stores and indie outlets offline and online) in 2014 and 2017 via Ilex Press, an imprint of Hachette UK. ► NY Through The Lens was based on the writing and art featured in my blog of the same name which had grown in popularity over the span of three years. The book was featured in the Guardian, on the Weather Channel, in the NY Post, on Yahoo News, as well as across many other news outlets. ► New York in the Snow was the culmination of a passion project that involved 7 years of taking photographs in every snowstorm in New York City. The book was featured in the NY Times in December of 2017 and had a major book-signing in London, England in January of 2018 ► As a full-time Sony sponsored artist, my art was used in multiple national ad campaigns and I regularly collaborated with the Sony Digital Imaging, and Sony marketing teams ► Selected to speak on behalf of Sony at PhotoPlus Expo, the largest annual photography event in the United States and at WPPI, the largest annual portrait photography conference ► Ideated and executed exhibitions for gallery spaces and new media installations including a showing at the Park Avenue Armory and show at London's Somerset House during the Sony World Photography event ► Participated in a pop-up store event hosted by Wired Magazine in which Sony sponsored a photography gallery featuring black & white prints and 250 signed copies of NY Through the Lens were given to VIP guests ► Commissioned to write regular features for multiple entertainment and media partners representing the Sony brand Why am I looking for a full-time job with this background? 

I am looking towards a sustainable career future I can invest in. What I have loved the most about the last 10 years of my career has been working with various teams. I adore people and I excel in team environments. I also love structure. 

When I say I am looking for a creative home, I mean it. I have a very strong work ethic as is hopefully evident by the career I built from scratch. I am looking to apply that work ethic and my creative output and vision towards a full-time job.

What do I want?

Jobs and roles I have been going after: creative producer, art director, brand strategist, engagement manager, creative strategist, various marketing positions, various social media positions, creative lead I have mainly been looking at ad agencies, media (broadcast and streaming), and some marketing and PR agencies.

Icing on the cake:

To add to this, I am losing the lease to my apartment at the end of August. I have no safety nets which I know is hard for most people to imagine. I don't have family, I don't have a Prince/Princess Charming, it's just me and that's terrifying on tons of levels considering that I really want/need a full-time job right now to not only move on with my career/life but because of this time-frame.

Hope this helps some of you understand my plight. I have gotten tons of messages about this and wanted to answer all the questions generally.  --- Links for good measure: My LinkedIn

Portfolio

Instagram Twitter

[astro-imagines-that-are-bad]

Speak of the Devil

Binu one shot (not requested)

Notes: first time writing Binu and one of my first ship fics. No warnings

Genre: Fluff

Premise: Eunwoo works at an animal shelter, and there is a certain regular visitor that catches his eye.

Believe it or not, Cha Eunwoo actually wasn’t the biggest fan of animals. He didn’t dislike them, but he only really took a job at a shelter because he really needed a job. Regardless, He was really good at his job. All the animals really liked him, and he attracted a lot of young people with his incredible looks. He had a gentleness about him that radiated to all animals around him, and they would ask him to deal with the problematic and violent dogs. Because of his inherent ability at his job, he didn’t pay much attention to what was going or who was there. Actually, one of the only assignments he really enjoyed was working in the catillion. It’s a room (of course the name is a bad pun) where there are several of their well mannered cats that anyone can go in and see and pet without going through a staff member. Whenever the shelter was well staffed, Eunwoo would be placed in the catillion just to make sure that the cats were okay and being treated well by the members. He would usually end up with a cat on his lap and zone out until a kid asked to pet ‘his cat’

Moonbin loves animals with all of his heart. He has had cats, dogs, parakeets, hampsters, ferrets, and even a chinchilla at one point. (Don’t ask). Because of his busy schedule with his band, however, he could never get a full time job, despite dreaming of working with animals. Since he was little, Moonbin always felt a connection with creatures of all shapes and sizes. He would just sit and look at a shy dog, and after a few minutes, they would be best friends. Because of his obsession with animals, the local shelter was a haven for him. Talking to them, either in glances, or gestures, or even just babbling, and petting the kittens through the cages was something he treasures more than anything. But especially, Moonbin loves the catillion. Having the ability to pet animals with no walls or cages makes the experience that much better.

It was just a normal day for Cha Eunwoo. He came to work, cleaned a few cages, and was placed in the catillion to watch over a group of elementary schoolers who were visiting the shelter for a field trip. However, he stayed in the peaceful room with a tortishell cat named Toya on his lap for several hours more. Towards the end of his shift, just as he was getting up, a lean boy, who looked to be about his age stepped into the room, closing the door behind himself quietly. He then went to pet the friendly tuxedo cat that always greeted catillion guests before turning around and nearly jumping out of his skin when he saw Eunwoo. He made a small yelp, almost like a cat himself before placing a hand on his chest. “Oh! You scared me half to death. Don’t sneak up on me like that.” “I didn’t sneak up at all. I’ve been sitting here the entire time.” Eunwoo retorted smartly, trying to cover up how flustered he was by this extremely handsome boy’s appearance. At this, the boy raised a finger, as if to object, but instead sighed and let out a chuckle, one that sounded like large wind chimes, musical and deep. “I guess you’ve got me there. You must come here a lot for Toya to be that comfortable with you. She usually doesn’t approach visitors.” Moonbin relayed, giving a sidelong glance at the cat, still peacefully curled up on Eunwoo’s lap. “I actually work here.” Eunwoo gestured at his name tag, on the left side of his Polo shirt. Upon realising this, Moonbin basically kicked himself. He had been too focused on this person’s long lashes and beautiful skin to notice the uniform and name tag of the shelter he visits basically every day. “You must come here a lot if you know that about this cat when I don’t.” Eunwoo broke the silence, curious as to how he hadn’t noticed the boy before if he truly came here that much. “Yeah…I come basically every day been school, and some days after. I don’t think I’ve seen you here before though. Are you new?” Moonbin queried, thinking he would definitely have noticed an angel working at his favorite animal shelter. “No, I’m not new, but I usually only work evening, so I guess that’s why you haven’t seen me before. I’m Eunwoo, by the way. I should probably know the name of such a regular visitor.” Eunwoo tried to make that come out flirty, but his tongue didn’t cooperate and instead made him sound cold and uncooperative. “I’m Moonbin, it’s nice to meet you, and I might just start coming in the evenings more often.” He mused, half to himself before giving Toya a stroke and walking out of the catillion, leaving Eunwoo sitting there in shock.

. Actually, Moonbin did start coming in the evenings, and Eunwoo took notice. He stopped daydreaming and instead would watch what this boy would do. He noticed how he almost had a language with the animals. His voice would be lower and more energetic with the dogs, except when the shy ones came into play. He would sound almost regal, with a silky voice account the cats. High and gleeful with the kittens, and full of energy with the puppies. His eyes would shine around animals, and he would almost take on some of their traits himself. When he smiled, he mimicked the dogs with their enthusiasm, but his calm face was closer to a cat’s calm demeanor. Eunwoo saw Moonbin, and developed strong feelings for this kind person who came so often that all the other staff knew him.

. Moonbin wasn’t only paying attention to the animals though. He stole glances at Eunwoo while playing with the kittens. He saw a softness in his beautiful face when a cat would sit in his lap, and he noticed the small smile when the three-legged dog approached him in the hall. To any other observer, Eunwoo would have appeared to be unfazed by the cute animals he worked with, but Moonbin saw him fall in love with the job, and Moonbin fell in love with him along the way. But until one fateful night, the two only watched each other, taking not of the idiosyncrasies of their faces, blushing if they were caught in the act. That night, Eunwoo was in the catillion again, with another cat sitting on his work khakis. This one was one of a pair of twins, both white with ginger stripes. As he gently smiled and pet the small cat, Moonbin entered the room, with that same gentle demeanor, and sat down next to Eunwoo on the bench. The two looked at each other, nit speaking at all until Moonbin broke the silence awkwardly. “That one has a twin sister right? That cat, I mean.” Moonbin sputtered, twisting his hands awkwardly. “Yeah, she does…well speak of the devil.” Just as Eunwoo answered, the other cat hopped on to the bench and settled down on Moonbin’s lap. “Hah…funny coincidence. I guess we’ll both have to be here for a while.” Moonbin said with an awkward laugh. Somehow, neither of them minded.

(sorry if this turned out poorly, I got a burst of inspiration late at night. I hope you enjoy and don’t be afraid to request)

[bordersmash8-blog]

Ruth Reichl on Why Gourmet’s Website Was Doomed From the Start

In 2009, Condé Nast shuttered its premiere food magazine Gourmet after 68 years in business. It was a shock to readers, food lovers, media world watchers, and restaurant industry reporters. It was a shock to Ruth Reichl, the woman at the helm. “A world without Gourmet was unimaginable,” Reichl writes in her new memoir Save Me the Plums, where she recounts the full story of her decade at the magazine for the first time. As the recession hit and revenue plummeted at a magazine dependent on luxury advertisers, Reichl figured change was coming. “I’d fortified myself against the pain of being fired, but this was worse: They had murdered the magazine,” she writes.

Of course, the memoir centers on more than the magazine’s demise. Reichl’s story is one of learning how to manage a staff and run a magazine after a career in newspapers, juggling demands at work and at home, and living through the golden era of Condé Nast, with its notoriously exorbitant salaries, clothing allowances, black cars on demand, and generous operating budgets. It is also the story of the evolution of the modern food world and media’s place within it.

In this excerpt from Save Me the Plums, Reichl recounts the difficulties she had finally launching Gourmet’s website, something she had been asking for since she arrived, and the internal rivalry with recipe site Epicurious. —Amanda Kludt

If you need inspiration when you’re planning a party, chances are you’ll leaf through cookbooks and magazines, dreaming up dinner. But if you come home from the farmers market with a bushel of ripe peaches or a fine cheese pumpkin, you’ll probably head to the Internet.

Cooks embraced the Internet from the very start, immediately appreciating the ease of googling an ingredient and finding dozens of different ways to use it. They treasured the ability to comment on a recipe and warn other cooks away from a dud or to suggest alternative methods. Instant communities sprang up, as cooks asked and answered dozens of questions. The Internet literally transformed the way we cook.

The possibilities the Internet held for Gourmet were so exciting that I began fighting for a website from my first day on the job. But Si [Newhouse, then the chairman of Condé Nast] was wary of the Web; while other media companies invested in technology, he sank a reported one hundred million dollars into a new print magazine. “Sank” is the appropriate word: Portfolio, his flashy business magazine, flamed out after two years. Meanwhile, he pursued an Internet strategy that involved shoveling the contents of his many magazines into super-sites like Epicurious and style.com.

But having Epicurious as our only online presence made me miserable, and for years I tried to persuade Si that Gourmet deserved a standalone site. I presented data about recipes being the most wanted content on the Web. Si didn’t care. My talk about Web advertising strategies interested him not at all. After each session I stomped back to my office to sit by, impotent and angry, as Epicurious siphoned off our recipes.

I did not fume alone. Everyone at Gourmet hated Epicurious. They were our archenemy. “We’re getting robbed!” Zanne [Stewart, Gourmet’s executive food editor] once complained. “And what’s worse is the way our recipes get tossed in with all the others as if there was no difference between us and Parade, Self...” Morosely, she listed all the other publications whose recipes lived on Epicurious. “At least Bon Appétit has a test kitchen,” she said darkly, “but some of the others...” I thought of our insane testing process and the vast amounts of money we spent ensuring that our recipes were absolutely foolproof.

When I complained to Chuck [Townsend, former Condé Nast CEO], over yet another bland lunch, he sighed deeply. “I hear the same thing from Anna Wintour,” he said. “You both want to support your brands with standalone sites. I certainly understand, but Si won’t budge.”

I don’t know what made Si change his mind, but when he finally did, he came in person to deliver the news. “I want you to create gourmet.com as quickly as possible,” he said as he sat down.

In my excitement, I began to babble. “You won’t be sorry; we’re going to create the best food site on the Web. We’ve got so many ideas! We’re going to hire a videographer and put webcams in the kitchen so readers can get to know the cooks; I was thinking we might even script a little show and call it Soup Opera. Just a few minutes from the kitchen every day. And we’ll create an online course: ‘Learn to Cook with Gourmet.’”

Was that a smile? Hard to tell. “That could be lucrative,” he said cautiously.

“We’ll go behind the scenes of all the restaurants we review,” I rushed on, “take cameras right into the kitchens. We’ll get our foreign correspondents to send daily dispatches from every corner of the world. We’ll put up episodes of our television show, Diary of a Foodie. And then of course there’s all the great content from the past. . . .”

Si’s face told me I was talking too fast, that he found my enthusiasm frightening. I reined myself in, tried to slow down. “Our recipes alone should quickly build traffic; everybody knows they’re the best-tested and most reliable recipes in the world.”

Si fidgeted, looking more uncomfortable than usual. “No,” he said.

Everyone at Gourmet hated Epicurious. They were our archenemy.

“No?”

“You can’t have your recipes.”

“Excuse me?” I struggled to understand what he was saying. “Every recipe published in Gourmet belongs to Epicurious. That will not change.”

For a moment I was too stunned to speak. When I’d mastered my emotions I squeaked, “Are you telling me you want us to create a website without recipes? I’m sorry, but that’s insane!”

Si drew himself up. “Epicurious,” he said with regal deliberation, “is the oldest recipe site on the Web. It is very successful.” He rose, ponderously, from the chair. “It will continue as in the past.” He turned toward the door; the audience was over.

“Wait!” I couldn’t not try. “What if we put the recipes up on both Epicurious and gourmet.com?”

“That risks cannibalizing their traffic, and we don’t want to do anything to jeopardize our most successful website. When readers want recipes, we’ll just redirect the traffic from Gourmet to Epicurious.” He had reached the door now, but he turned to throw me a bone.

“Any extra recipes you create,” he said graciously, “anything that hasn’t run in the book, are yours to use as you see fit.” His smile suggested I should be grateful for this gift.

“It’s a disaster!” Doc [aka John Willoughby, Gourmet’s executive editor] was appalled.

“Worse than that,” said Larry [Karol, the managing editor] gloomily. “It could destroy us. Building a website and staffing it is going to cost a fortune; I’ve been working on the figures. How are we supposed to make it back if the recipes live on Epicurious? They’ll get all the ads.” He darted out of the office and returned with a handful of documents.

“Do you want to know how much we spend on creating the recipes?”

“No,” I said. He didn’t have to tell me that the meticulous Gourmet system ate up a small fortune.

Larry ignored me. “The kitchen budget is huge. Salaries for twelve cooks, three dishwashers, a photographer, and his assistant. Food costs alone run more than a hundred grand a year. Props for photographs. Corporate charges for the kitchen. Not to mention copyediting the recipes. And we’re supposed to just hand them over for free?”

“Epicurious should at least share the costs,” said Doc. “If the recipes are going to live on their website, it’s only fair.”

“It would be simple to do,” Larry pointed out. “Just bookkeeping; no actual money need change hands. All they’d have to do is shift some of the costs on paper, put some of the expenses on their budget instead of ours.”

But when we presented the figures to John Bellando, the chief financial officer, he laughed as if we’d told a hilarious joke. “That,” he said succinctly, “is not going to happen.”

“I blame myself,” I said as we gloomily left the office. “I kept pushing for our own website. I never dreamed they’d handicap us like this.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Larry. “How could you have imagined this? How could anyone? Of course we should have our own website. Food sites are huge.”

“Yeah,” I said glumly, “but what people want are recipes.”

“We can’t have a website without recipes,” Larry agreed. “And unfortunately I can only think of one solution. The kitchen’s going to have to create twice as many.”

“That’ll be great for morale,” I muttered.

“Not to mention the budget,” he added. We stood there, the two of us, envisioning the huge piles of food the cooks were now going to require.

Looking back, I should have just said no. But, reluctant to be a squeaky wheel, I drove on like a good girl, devoting more and more resources to a money pit that could never be solvent, a hungry maw that could never be sated, a future we could never quite reach. I knew I was tilting at windmills, but I loathe confrontation and I kept hoping that somehow it would be okay.

There were high points. We were the first print magazine to hire a full-time video producer, and through her work readers came to know — and love — all the cooks. We were able to demonstrate techniques — boning fish, icing cakes, sharpening knives. We created crazy recipes for ingredients that would never have made it into the magazine: offal, insects, corn silk, and carrot tops. Best of all, for the first time we had the luxury of space. Now, whenever someone came up with an offbeat idea, it was easy to say yes. “We can always put it on the Web...” became our mantra.

And that is exactly what I said when Ian Knauer and Alan Sytsma approached me about the goat.

Ian Knauer was our most unorthodox cook. A talented chef, he was also a farmer, forager, and hunter, and this unique set of skills set him apart from everyone else in the kitchen. You never knew what he’d show up with: a deer he’d shot over the weekend, the season’s first chanterelles, a slew of ramps he’d stumbled across in Prospect Park. Ian came to us as a backup recipe tester, and when I told him we were promoting him to full-time food editor, he stared at me for one shocked second and then said, “Shut the fuck up!”

Now he was poking his head into my office. “Alan and I have an idea—” he began.

Alan picked it up. “We just saw this cool documentary called A Son’s Sacrifice—”

“Slow down,” I said.

Ian gestured to Alan to continue. “It takes place in a halal butcher shop filled with live animals; you choose your beast and then they slaughter it.”

“So,” Ian picked up the thread, “we want to do a story about how it feels to watch an animal make the transition from living, breathing creature to something that you cook.”

Five years earlier, this story would have been too gruesome to consider. Now I hesitated, wondering if Gourmet readers were ready for this.

“We can always put it on the Web...” became our mantra.

“It could be very powerful,” Alan pleaded. “The meat movement is starting to take off; people are really interested in butchering.”

He had a point. The artisanal food movement had turned butchers into heroes, and nose-to-tail classes were selling out. Maybe this was worth doing?

“We can always put it on the Web,” I said.

They returned from Queens carrying two huge black plastic sacks, and you could smell them halfway across the building. The reek of the abattoir was so intense it seemed they had brought the entire contents of the butcher shop with them. The goat’s body was still warm, and as they drew closer the primal scent grew stronger. By the time they reached the kitchen door, the animal funk was overwhelming. Up close, the sharp metallic smell of freshly spilled blood made the hair on the nape of my neck rise; despite my strong wish not to, I put my hand over my mouth. For a moment I stopped breathing.

“I can’t believe the guards let you in.” I cautiously lowered my hand.

“They didn’t seem happy,” Ian admitted. “But we flashed our employee passes and ran for an elevator before they could stop us. The doors were just closing.”

“I hope it was empty.”

Ian and Alan exchanged a glance. Ian heaved his plastic bag onto the kitchen counter. “Anna Wintour was in there.”

I stared at him, fascinated and appalled. “What did she do?”

“What could she do? She just kept backing into the corner until she couldn’t go any farther.”

I watched as he removed sundry bits of bloody goat from the bag. “Goat tacos,” he said, “are on the menu.”

I eyed him suspiciously — did Gourmet readers want goat tacos? Briefly, I envied Anna; she didn’t have to dream up ridiculous ways to generate traffic for her website.

Later, reading the story, I was ashamed of myself. There was nothing remotely ridiculous about the article Ian and Alan had written.

The halal butchers they introduced were proud men who had invested every penny they had in their shop. After September 11, they said sadly, everything changed and their once-thriving business began to struggle. Faith kept them going: They sincerely believed they had a God-given mission. Their goats were humanely raised on a rural hillside, and they were convinced their customers would appreciate how much finer spoke they were than ordinary goats, how much more delicious. “It is this food” — the butcher said reverently — “that can help the rest of America accept Islam.”

As Ian and Alan waded among the flock of goats, trying to select the finest animal, the butcher stood to one side, sharpening his knife. He prayed over the chosen goat, thanked him for his life, and dispatched the beast with a single slash to the throat. As he delivered the carcass into Ian’s hands, he said quietly, “I know you guys will treat him well.”

It was a solemn moment, for the goat represented something much bigger than food to these butchers. It was hope for the present — and a prayer for the future. Looking back, it occurs to me that it was the perfect metaphor for gourmet.com.

Copyright © 2019 by Ruth Reichl, excerpted from Save Me the Plums: My Gourmet Memoir, to be published by Random House.

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Source: https://www.eater.com/2019/3/29/18285307/ruth-reichl-memoir-save-me-the-plums-excerpt-gourmet-website

[imaginethemultiversedoms]

Animal Instincts Pt 1

Fandom: The Flash

Rating: G

Summary: Barry’s younger sister was also hit by particle accelerator explosion while helping take care of the animals at the animal preserve. Now, she has the ability to communicate with any animal.

A/N: This was an idea that has been playing about my brain for a while. I’m not sure how many parts this will have, but I love the idea of a meta having a connection with animals. This is also going to be in third person and the OC is named.

A year and half ago…

    "Animal symbolism is prevalent throughout many of the world's cultures. While some are revered as sacred symbols, others are seen as mischievous and cunning, bringing chaos wherever they go. The Coyote is one such animal that is a trickster in Native American lore, though the Raven, Crow, Spider, Blue jay, Rabbit, and Bear among others have appeared in similar trickster lore in some tribes. One animal can mean different things to different groups. While Malaysians said monkeys possessed artistic abilities and introduced writing and sculpture, Chinese legends state they perform brave deeds..."

    "Hey, whatcha up too?" Ava startled as her older brother, Barry, leaned over the back of her chair at Jitters, quickly reading the article she was studying. "Animals in mythology? Interesting. What's it for?"

    "A small assignment in my animal behavior class. We got to talking about how certain animals behave and how it correlates with how they are perceived in different cultures. While there are differences, some animals are portrayed the same way in different myths and lore. The assignment is to prove whether this is due to how humans have observed animal behavior in the wild, either by hunting or just observing," she answered quickly, barely sparing her brother a glance as she wrote down a couple notes. She did steal a small peek and smirked at the impressed look he was giving her.

    "I didn't realize how interesting animal behavior really was," Barry replied. She shrugged and smiled humbly.

    "Mr. Baxter likes to think outside the box on occasion."

    "Sounds like you have an awesome teacher, Ava."

    "He really is. Hey you going to that particle accelerator thing with Iris tonight?"

    "Nah, it's not really her thing." Ava couldn't help but hear the disappointment in his voice; her brother had been in love with Iris since childhood. Barry was her favorite person in the entire world aside from Joe and Iris. It was hard watching him pine after someone who was oblivious to what was right in front of them the whole time. "You want to come?"

     "I would, but I already promised Diane I would help feed. After Mark fired Jack for drinking on the job and harassing the animals, we've been short-staffed at the preserve. Sorry."

     "No problem. I'll take lots of pictures to show you later. Bye, Short-stack." He kissed her cheek as he grabbed his things. 

   "Love you, Sasquatch," she teased, grinning at her brother. Even though there was a four-year difference, the two of them were always close, practically in each other's back pockets. Ava didn't know what she would do without him. Having lost their mother and their father go away for murdering her at the tender age of six, she didn't want to even consider the thought of not having Barry at her back, protecting her as only big brothers could. He was her hero, best friend, and confidant all rolled into one giant pain-in-the-ass package she couldn't live without. The world just seemed darker without Barry Allen in it.

    After a bit more research, Ava packed up your things and headed out to the rescue preserve she volunteered at. Hopefully, in about two years’ time, she would be graduating with both a Computer Science degree and Veterinary Technician, both of which would be used at the preserve she loved so dearly. The owners/managers, Mark and Diane, rescued domestic and exotic animals from situations such as abandonment, neglect, etc. It was also a rehab center for animals that were brought in injured or blown in from storms. It happened quite often during tornado season. 

    Ava and Diane worked seamlessly in tandem, feeding and cleaning up after the big cats, horses, llamas, birds of prey, macaws, African Grays, foxes, snakes, and the huge tortoise Diane lovingly nicknamed "Crush" from Finding Nemo. It was dark when both finished. Ava were going through the final check when a large explosion echoed in the distance. Looking up, she was shocked and frightened to see a mushroom-shaped gold halo surrounding the middle of Central City...right where STAR Labs was. The particle accelerator was exploding and the effects were catapulting across the city. Soon, it would hit the preserve. 

    Ahead of her, Diane was already screaming for the employees to head inside for the tornado bunker. "AVA, COME ON!!" She bolted for the entrance. About halfway there, a tall figure bounded out of nowhere and shoved violently aside. Ava hit the side of the tiger enclosure with enough force to knock the wind out of her. Dazed and crumpled on the ground, she caught a hazy glimpse of a man bounding for the bunker. It was Jack Morgan; the guy Mark had fired two days prior. She wasn’t sure why he was back and right now it didn't matter; she needed to get inside. Dazedly getting to her feet, she stumbled a few steps before crashing to the ground. Ahead, she heard Diane screaming, Jack shouting, and then the worst sound you ever hear: the bunker door locking shut. Jack had forced his way inside, possibly hurt Diane, and shutting Ava outside. 

    Bastard, Ava thought. Looking up, she saw the gold halo of dark matter hurtling towards her, making impact in possibly five seconds. "Barry, Dads, Iris, I love you," she whispered, tears streaming. She barely had time to curl into the fetal position when the dark matter hit. 

    The world turned gold, then red, then white with pain. There was screaming all around: the tigers, the horses, the foxes, the wolves, hell even Nemo was somehow screaming. She could barely hear herself screaming with all the panic and chaos. Then, the roars and the screams and the whinnies turned into a cacophony of panicked voices, all screaming nonsense and words all at the same time. Her head was exploding with so much pain, she barely registered the panicked animals escaping. Gates busted open, fences came down, hooves stampeded, wolves howled, and a tiger roared a challenge from above. 

    Before Ava fully lost consciousness, she heard a deep, regal voice shout, "LEAVE THE CUB BE!" 

Present Day...

    A falcon soared across the dark skyline of Central City. It dodged around the skyscrapers, gracefully catching the air currents that blessed it with its unhindered freedom. Flapping a couple times, it looked around and caught sight of a few pigeons roosting on a nearby ledge. Gleefully, it tucked its wings and dove for the small flock, catching a current back up above the skyline as the smaller birds scattered, squawking angrily. Settling into the last leg of its flight, it peered back down at the ground. It caught sight of the red blur that had been so prominent the past three months. It belonged to a meta-human named by various bloggers and conspiracy theorists, The Flash. The Flash was a speedster, one of the first meta-humans of many to come out of the particle accelerator explosion nearly a year ago. There had been a few others who used their powers to create trouble, but The Flash was only one able to take them out and protect the city. Of course, those same metas were never heard from again, so anyone who was affected and not evil were keeping quiet, afraid of the retribution that might rain down. 

   Mentally shaking the dark thoughts from its head, the falcon caught a warm updraft and turned south. Within minutes, the falcon caught sight of a clearing, bordering a chain link fence. In the middle of the clearing sat a young woman, legs crossed and hands resting over her knees. The falcon tilted his wings back and dropped with a screech. He landed in front of her as she opened her eyes with a smile, easily pulling her consciousness back into herself.

   "Did you enjoy the flight with me?" a soft, melodic, male voice echoed in Ava’s mind.

    "I did. Thank you for allowing me to fly with you, Regan."  Ava stretched the stiffness from her back and legs; she and Regan, an American Kestrel Falcon, had been flying for close to three hours, the longest she had ever gone from her body. "I think it’s about dinner time now, if you would like to return."

    "Will there be any of those nice fat rats again? Seemed a shame to waste them on the snakes." Ava snorted as she allowed the falcon to hop onto her shoulder.

    "I'll see what I can do." Silently, the two of them walked back to the preserve. Dropping Regan off at his enclosure with the promise to bring him something special, Ava headed towards the building. A lot had changed in the year and half since the explosion. When the dark matter hit her that night, she was given abilities she only read in myths and fantasy books. While she hardly remembered anything that happened that night, Mark and Diane said they'd found her in the tiger enclosure with the breeding pair protecting her. It had taken some coaxing, but Chakrii, the male, had allowed Diane to get Ava and take her to the hospital. It wasn't until a few days later, what she thought was a hallucination from the concussion was the ability to understand animal language. A few months later, while her older brother was still in a coma from getting struck by lightning that same night, she realized she could also enter an animal's consciousness to use their eyes and ears. Mark and Diane, bless them, had taken the changes in stride and allowed the preserve to be a haven to explore her new "talents". And if it improved the wellbeing and happiness of the animals, well then, that was a perk.

    Ava told Iris after Barry had woken up. She handled the news with her usual grace, quickly becoming your confidant and the person to keep you grounded. But when other metas started popping up and causing trouble, she froze at the notion of telling Joe and Barry. What were she supposed to say? "Hey Barry, so I got hit with the same matter and even though you didn't get any abilities, your little sister can talk to her favorite animals now?" Yeah, that would go over well. For now, it was better to let things flow.

    She quickly got started on the feeding routine, checking in with the animals as she went. Regan got his special treat - a live rat she had managed to negotiate the boa constrictor in the reptile house out of - and were getting ready to go home when she saw Iris talking to Diane. "Hey Iris!" Ava called out, hugging her foster sister. "How was your first day as a big-time journalist?" 

    "Nerve-wracking honestly, but it went well," she replied. "You want a ride home?" Ava nodded, grabbing her backpack and clocking out. Both girls chatted about each other's day, Iris telling Ava everything about her new job as she drove. About halfway to the house, the conversation eased into familiar territory.

    "So, Diane told me you were at the clearing for three hours today."

    "Regan was due to stretch his wings after that hit he took. He allowed me to tag along and we flew over the city for a bit. His wing is fully healed. He should be able to be released soon enough," she answered, fiddling with a hole in your jeans. 

    "You know at some point you're going to have to tell Dad and Barry," Iris said softly, turning onto the street. Ava sighed, leaning your head against back against the seat. This was an old argument that wasn't even an argument. It was more of a disagreement of how stubborn they were being. She knew she had to come clean about this. There were aspects of her powers she didn't understand, such as how she could talk to the animals in the first place and how far her powers could even go. But she was scared at how her family, more importantly Barry, would react to their baby being a meta. She wanted to remain as Ava in their eyes: stubborn, energetic, and mischievous with a restlessness and independence that ran for miles. She was Barry's baby sister. It would crush her to see the pain and fear in their eyes. 

    She also knew that deeper part of her, a part connected directly to her powers, was uneasy at the idea of telling. They might shackle her, out of fear and over-protection, and not let her fly anymore. Oh, how she loved to soar. 

    "How? You know Barry's new friends work at STAR Labs, the whole origin point of all this. And they work with The Flash. How am I supposed to tell them about this?"

    "They could help you better understand what is going on!"

    "Or they could try to cure me of it. Or lock me away wherever they've got those other metas. Don't lie and say you haven't thought of that."

    "Okay, I have, but this is Barry we're talking about. Your big brother. You two have been in each other's back pockets for as long as I can remember! He's not going to let anything like that happen to you!" Ava sighed and stared out the window, feeling tears prick at the corners of her eyes. The car turned into the driveway and stopped, though the engine continued to idle. Iris reached over and took one of her hands, squeezing gently. "Ava, talk to me, what is going on?"

    "I don't want to lose this, Iris. This power...this gift. Being able to finally soar above the clouds, above the skyline, it's the best feeling in the world. I can't fully describe it and I know that I don't want to lose it. This is who I am. I can't lose that, Iris." After a moment, Iris reached over and drew Ava into a tight hug. She hugged her back tightly.

    "You won't, Ava. I'll make sure of it, even if I have to go and yell at Wells and his team myself." Ava chuckled at that, already feeling better about it. 

    "You are the best sister I could have ever asked for, you know that, right?" her voice muffled slightly. 

    "So are you," Iris replied, smiling. Both glimpsed the curtain in the window moving and knew they needed to head inside before questions were asked. "Come on. Dad said he was making lasagna. After dinner, we can go upstairs and watch a movie. Your tips look like they could use a refresher." She tugged at her blue tips cheerfully.

    "Cool. Legally Blonde?" Ava asked.

    "I was thinking of The Mummy Trilogy."

    "Brendan Fraser kicking mummy ass? Even better." Both got out and headed towards the front door. Hooking an arm around hers, Ava leaned her head-on Iris’ shoulder. "Thanks Iris."

    "Anytime." 

[lolabuckley-blog]

Rewards of Being a Certified Nursing Assistant

Some will say that being a certified nursing assistant is the hardest job in the world, and while I agree, it is the most rewarding job I have ever experienced. The simplest things we all take for granted can no longer be experienced by some of those residents that I along with countless aides who have work as a certified nursing assistant care for on shift. Of the rewards, the emotional rewards are the best parts of being a certified nursing assistant. One night Clara rang her light, when I was sitting at the desk with my nurse Larry so I answered it, she needed assistance to go into her bathroom, I told her I would be down in a minute and I disengaged her light from the desk.

I walked down the hall as I had done many times that night for those residents in the rooms down that hall, but this was the first time for Clara who was a sweet older woman of 93 years. When I reached her room, her light was on, and she was patiently sitting on the edge of her bed waiting for me, with that beautiful smile of a very regal and proud woman.

I helped her into her wheelchair, as any certified nursing assistant would do and into the bathroom so that she could relieve herself. She asked what it was doing outside and I told her it was snowing those big flakes that left the ground shimmering in the moonlight. She told me how she loved to gaze out her window as a youngster as it snowed, and she smiled as if lost in reflection of those winters long ago.

An idea entered my mind, that I could not ignore so making sure she was safe for a minute I walked into her bedroom area and grabbed her robe and a blanket for her lap. The certified nursing assistant in me was replaced automatically with the human in me at this point.

She looked at me puzzled when I returned with these items, and asked why I had them, I told her I had a surprise for her, and when she was finished I put on her robe, and helped her sit into her wheelchair.

I carefully tucked in the blanket on her lap, and wheeled her out into the hallway a smile came across her face as I walked to the huge low window at the end of the hall so that she could watch the gentle show fall.

We sat there for a few minutes talking about the snow, and silence over took us but it was a comfortable silence. I glanced at Clara and saw a tear slide down her cheek and I knew at that point that I had done the right thing that night. I sat there with her for ten more minutes until she asked to go back to bed. I slipped back into the role of the certified nursing assistant at that moment.

I tucked her back into bed, she told me thank you with a sweet sincere voice. I tucked her in and turned off the light, knowing I did the right thing. Clara died within the next few hours, peacefully in her sleep and it was unexpected.

The smile was still on her face and those people who seen Clara and I at the end of the hall, that night said I has done something special. To me, it was simply doing something special, for someone who could not do it himself or herself it was my pleasure to bring a smile to her face.

As a certified nursing assistant those opportunities to touch a resident so completely are incredibly rare, as we work short-staffed most of the time, however when those opportunities present them selves you need to take the time and make the most of them as a certified nursing assistant.

There are both mean spirited and sweet residents in the long-term care facilities I have worked, and the memories from both types of residents are some, which I will never forget. I shall never forget Clara or the other residents who made my job as a certified nursing assistant so rewarding emotionally.

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Instead, these roles are frequently filled via internal recommendations, networking, or employment agencies. Working with a staffing firm like Regal Staffing Services may be a game changer for job searchers, giving them access to special possibilities that might otherwise go overlooked.

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