#and i only really write these while walking to work or suchlike

[catsafarithewriter]

A/N: part 15 of the double fake dating au :D

X

It was only when all eyes turned to her that Haru realised she'd actually said that thought outloud.

"Oh my goodness gracious!" exclaimed Louise AKA Baron's sister AKA Haru's new sister-in-law. "And this must be the infamous Mrs Haru von Gikkingen!"

Haru found herself swept up in am embrace comprised of a surprisingly strong grip and an excessive amount of sleeves. Really. It was a feat in of itself that Louise could somehow locate her own hands.

When Louise drew back, Haru was treated to eyes as blue as Baron's were green. "You may have noticed," she said conspiringly, "but the ladies here are a little outnumbered by the men."

"When you say it like that," said the tortoiseshell, "you make it sound like that was the reason you married me."

Louise glanced back to her wife. "It wasn't the only reason," she teased. "Oh," she added, turning to her brother, "and this is my ex-girlfriend."

"You have to stop introducing me that way," the tortoiseshell chided. She leant forward and offered a paw. "Sephie von Gikkingen. Louise's wife."

Baron took the paw first. "Humbert von Gikkingen. Have we... met before? You seem familiar."

There was a playful glint in Sephie's eyes as she replied, "You'd be surprised how often I hear that."

Haru's mind finally caught up to Louise's earlier wording. "I'm infamous?"

"But of course!" trilled Louise, evidently delighted to be the one to break the news. "My baby brother–"

"You're older than me by ten minutes."

"–turning up with a wife no one knew of until the week before? Scandalous!"

"Says the woman who didn't even deign to tell her own twin brother she was getting married," Baron reminded her.

"Yes, but that's me! You're meant to be the sensible, predictable one. Everyone expects me to do something charmingly rash and irresponsible, but you?" She raised a hand to her heart, the very picture of older sister pride. "It's finally happened. My bad influence has rubbed off on you."

Haru sidled round to Louise's wife, who hadn't lifted a claw to deter the squabbling, and seemed to be only regretting her lack of popcorn.

"Do you have siblings?" Sephie asked.

"No. Just me."

"I'm also an only child," Sephie said. She watched the proceedings with unworried curiosity. Baron had begun recounting the cape incident in some bizarre attempt to prove he could make bad decisions free of his sister's influence. "I rather get the impression this is a sibling thing."

Another handful of moments passed, in which the conversation inexplicably moved onto Louise accusing her brother of trying to upstage her marriage with his dark horse of a wedding.

"I think this might just be a von Gikkingen thing," Haru replied.

[bard-llama]

WiP Wednesday: Saskia Coming of Age Story

Today’s snippet is small, but it comes with info about a new story all about Saskia! 

I wanted to try to explore a Saskia that was a little less self-assured and assertive than my usual portrayal of her. At first I thought I was gonna do that through a romance and like, there might still be elements of that. But it’s really a coming of age story.

Premise: Dragons develop quickly. Within their first two years, their parent(s) teach them all they must know, and then they venture out into the world on their own. Saesenthessis explores the continent/globe for a while all alone, but when she starts to get lonely, she finds herself curious about the dwarven city of Vergen. But two-leggeds hunt dragons, so to protect herself, she polymorphs into her human form. But she’s never actually met a human before. So while she learns how to do that, she lives in the human ghetto of Vergen (the area where the Scoia’tael stay in the game) in a lil house and ends up building a community around her. Also at some point in here, Iorveth shows up. Idk when exactly tho.

So I think the bulk of the story is going to be Saskia learning how to human in Vergen and like, slowly learning about humans and dwarves and elves and also how to fight. Eventually, she decides to join the Aedirnian army (after she can fight or do they teach her?)

She works hard and trains with the army and makes friends with everyone she can, but no one knows who she actually is. She finds herself desperate to talk about stuff, so she adopts a stray cat and talks to it - all about what she’s learning and how she’s messed up and how weird mammals are and suchlike.

Eventually a general in the army sees her sparring or something and decides she has potential and enrolls her in officer’s training, where she gets taught how to read and write (but only in ‘Common’. I think she also gets taught Elder by some dwarves though). 

She sees all the stuff going on around her and has strong opinions on it, but she doesn’t really know what to do with these feelings. Until she meets Iorveth.

So, this is my canon for how they meet, but for this specific fic, it might need to change a little? idk. I had a comic half drawn of this, but I lost it when my computer bit the dust along with all my other art. 😞

Anyway, Saskia is flying around as a dragon (she needs to resume her natural form every so often + needs to absorb fire to sustain herself) when she hears screaming in the forest. So she lands and transforms and goes to the rescue of whoever was screaming - only to find that to be a human being tortured by Iorveth. Her interference lets the human run away and Iorveth is more than a little pissed about it. They argue a bit (all “this is not the way to make change!” and “yeah, you got a better idea?”) and then Iorveth ends up shouting something like, “who are you to talk? You’re nobody doing nothing significant” or something harsh that makes Saskia realize that she needs to put her money where her mouth is. More, that she wants to do that. But she doesn’t know where to start. So she goes looking for Iorveth and thus begins a beautiful friendship. Jk at first they’re kinda prickly with each other ‘cause Iorveth can’t quite believe that a human actually wants to fight for change. 

I have no idea how he finds out that she’s a dragon, but at some point before that, they’re just chatting or something and she’s feeling low on energy, so she just walks into a fucking campfire and Iorveth about has a heart attack, because “omg are dh’oine impervious to fire now!? wtf!?!?!”

Anyway, inspired by Iorveth, Saskia works to move into positions of leadership and becomes a commander (general?) in the Aedirnian army. Of course, this is the witcher world, so she mostly discovers that beaurocracy’s a bitch and the system is fucked. If they wanna change the world, they’re gonna need to overhaul the whole thing. But how do they do that? 

Thus the Free Pontar Valley is born. So like, basically, this is a story of how Saskia gets to be who she is in canon. 

Anyway, I gotta start work soon, so have a snip from the very beginning where Villentretenmerth teaches Saskia to polymorph for the first time.

“As you know,” her father began, voice deep and gravely in her head, “you will soon be of an age to go out on your own. But before you do, I have one thing left to teach you.”

“Mmhm,” she hummed absently, eyes tracking the trajectory of a huge bee as it buzzed around their cave.

“Saesenthessis,” Villentretenmerth snapped. “Pay attention!”

Saesenthessis groaned, “yes, father.” She huffed a breath of smoke at the bee, then turned her snout back towards her father.

The sun reflected off of his golden scales in a way it never did with her green ones, and Saesenthessis found her eyes tracing the rainbow-like patterns on the walls of the cave.

Villentretenmerth’s sigh was deep and heartfelt and Saesenthessis guiltily refocused on him.

“This is important,” he scolded her. “I have told you how dangerous the world is for dragons. We are some of the last in existence.” There was deep pain in her father’s voice and it was echoed in Saesenthessis' heart. She had never known other dragons, but her father had shared sense memories from days when he’d flown with a whole hoard of dragons around him. “In order to stay safe, or even just to walk amongst a different people for a time, you must be able to assume many forms.”

“Why would I want to be something else?”

Her father hummed, a rumbling sound in his chest. “This world is mostly made up of two-legged species. They do not understand dragons, do not understand how to communicate with us, nor can most be bothered to try. Instead, they hunt us for our hoards out of greed, believing that all that we treasure must be precious gems and gold.”

“Rubies are pretty,” she muttered. “I’ve heard this lecture before, Father. But why do two-leggeds matter? Can’t I just be me forever?”

A wave of sadness from her father made her wince and curl in on herself. She hated making him sad.

“Once,” he said softly, “that would perhaps have been possible. When there were enough dragons in the world, you could stay in this form for a lifetime without trouble. But the world we live in now? It’s… it’s lonely, Saesenthessis. All beings must build ties to those around them. When two-leggeds are all that are around…” Villentretenmerth sighed heavily. “It’s not so bad, really. You’ve liked Teá and Veá when they’ve come around, have you not?”

“I guess? But what about the other two-legged species?”

“There are a number of them,” he nodded. “We will go through each of them. But first things first. Let’s start with how to polymorph.”

She still didn’t understand why, but she kept quiet and let the lesson move on.

[christinefoley]

How To Manage Time and Work Like A Boss

I’ve been a teacher for nearly thirty years now, and so I should be red hot at knowing how to manage time. After all, the average classroom teacher regularly has so many plates spinning on a daily basis that every limb is a whirling blur in perpetual motion. Experience has taught me that allowing even one plate to go gyrating off its axis can bring chaos and catastrophe for the whole delicately balanced collection.

Blogging

But this blogging malarkey- well, that’s different. And I’m finding the whole issue of time management more challenging than I’d anticipated, to be completely honest. I mean, thinking about the whole idea of becoming a blogger was…well- just fantastic, really. I love writing, and blogging means that I can write about stuff that really interests me, and never again have to write about things that just don’t.

Primary School Teacher

To clarify what I’m talking about, you may not know this, but the average primary school classroom teacher is obliged to take an interest in such mind-numbing subjects as: rocks and soils, units of measure ( both metric and imperial), adverbial phrases and subordinating and coordinating conjunctions. Admit it- you’re bored already! Imagine having to feign interest in that lot- and a whole host of even more boring topics besides- for nearly thirty years! I don’t know how I’ve done it!

Working From Home

So, what I thought was: become a blogger: write about interesting things, things that get my fingers positively sparking over the laptop key board: it’ll be great! Hey- and you get to do it from home, and manage your own time! Goodbye M6! Goodbye difficult parents! Ta-ta to staff meetings and professional development and tedious meetings about assessment. No more report writing- hurray!!

This will be the new pattern of my Week

Monday morning: awakened at 7am by the alarm- no more 6:30 for me anymore! Up, dressed, breakfast and ready at my laptop to report for writing duty by 8:30 am at the latest.

Straight into writing/ preparing next blog post.

Timetable

9:30 am: take first break: wee, coffee, throw the ball for the dog in the garden for around 20 minutes, then back to the keyboard to work steadily through until lunch at around 12:00.

12:00 healthy lunch put together: salad, hummus, green stuff- that sort of thing- and eaten before 1pm before returning to the laptop for another hour’s work. That hour will be spent emailing, and suchlike.

FREE TIME!

2pm-5:00 FREE TIME! Wow! The whole afternoon off!!

Obviously ,this precious time will not be frittered away on any kind of pointless activities: no, it will be utilised for exercise, dog-walking and attending classes that I’ve really wanted to attend but have always been otherwise occupied teaching PE, the Egyptians or subordinate clauses or suchlike. No, now I will spend my afternoons attending French conversation sessions, singing, creative writing workshops and book clubs. I may even join a hiking club and enjoy hiking in the nearby Lake District.

5pm: teatime. Evenings will be spent working on my blog business- no more than an hour or so- and then I’ll actually go out: live music, pubs, the theatre, meals out- whatever I want, because there are no lessons to plan for the next day- and certainly no marking. Fantastic!!

Manage Time?

It’ll be a joy! No more telling myself I’ll do an hour’s marking, then I’ll fill in those assessment tables and then I’ll spend another hour and half preparing tomorrow’s lessons, before……..NO MORE, No more for me!

So, you’re asking, has it worked out like that?

Well, the fact is that I’m still teaching at the moment, so haven’t had the chance to try out this new lifestyle which I have planned out for myself just yet; but I’m having this creeping suspicion that I’m not going to be able to live that life exactly to plan.

Deadlines

Why not? Well, I guess I kind of like deadlines- I am programmed to respond to them anyway. I was always that one who started working on my essays well before the deadline at university, so that I had plenty of time. I was never the last minute panic type-no, I kind of used the whole two weeks preparation time to get pages of notes together and then panic over the last few days about how I was going to create anything of any value out of all that stuff.

Being My Own Boss

What worries me now, is that, as a blogger, working on my own blog, I am going to have to impose my own deadlines, and I’m not convinced that I’ll be all that good at it. It’s that thing about being my own boss- in one way, it’s what we dream of, but in another way it’s kind of scary. I mean, when you’re at work and things go tits up, the boss is ultimately the one who has to take it on the chin- not you. But if you are your own boss, and things don’t go right- well……it’s all your fault.

How To Manage Time and Work Like A Boss

So, before I cut the umbilical cord of a regular job and life pattern, I’ve been researching some hints and tips from the experts about time management- I’m in my note-taking preparation stage.

Find Your Most Productive Hours

Now, there’s a great idea! Work out when you are generally at your most productive and schedule most of your heavy lifting tasks for those times. A  first rate tip for time management- after all, how many people have you heard declare themselves a ‘night owl’ or ‘an early bird’? Loads, right?

Night Owl, or Early Bird?

So obviously that got me to thinking about myself: am I a night owl, or an early bird? A night owl, probably, because I’m used to working in the evenings after school. OK, so save all the deep-thinking stuff for the evenings. Yes…..possible, I guess.

Write a to-do List the Night Before

Undeniably a top idea! Apparently, only takes about five minutes and it means that the next day you can hit the ground running without any fiddling about. Hmmm, so- five minutes before bedtime…just a quick list…

You know what that would mean for me? Five minutes writing, followed by 45 minutes lying awake thinking it all through. Sleep well and up at 7:00 am to hit the ground running? Not on your nelly.

Back to the drawing board…next tip for how to manage time, please?

Start on the Most Critical Task First

Yes….now, that’s good….I get that. Get the thing that’s bothering you most out of the way first thing and you’re bound to feel better about yourself and what you can achieve.

Now that makes perfect sense! Thing is….that’s just not me. No, better for me to get a few little things ticked off my list first to get me stoked up with enough confidence to bring out the big guns and get cracking on those tasks that are going to CHANGE MY LIFE.

Sit down at my laptop and hit myself straight between the eyes with something that scares the pants off me and has probably kept me awake ever since I wrote it down on that to-do list the night before? That just ain’t happening.

Next hint, please….

The Eisenhower Matrix

What d’you mean- you’ve never heard of it? Well, I’m not a fan of tables, because they bring out all my twitches, but this one makes perfect sense- you may want to look it up. In essence, the idea is that you write down all the tasks you need to do- in one, long, terrifying list- then you categorise all the tasks. If it’s urgent, mark it ‘U’, if it’s important, mark it ‘I’, and if it’s neither of those, then cross it out.

Still following me?

Next, you evaluate how much time each of the remaining tasks on your list is likely to take and arrange a plan for yourself. Now, I must admit, I’m liking this idea of time management…especially the stuff that you can cross off the list altogether. The aim is to identify your genuine priorities: which tasks on your list are going to get you to achieve your objective the most quickly, and which, simply, are not.

Like it. Yes, this is one for me! Next tip, please…..

Use Time Constraints- Set a Timer

This tip to help you to manage your time advises using a timer to set time to achieve certain tasks, as the task will inevitably expand if there is an unrestrained time in which to do it. The idea is to beat the timer- complete the task in even less time than that which you allocated!

Hmm. Have I not escaped the 5-9 to escape exactly that- time constraints? The school timetable is gone, so I devise one of my own? Not sure I want to do that to myself, although I do understand the benefits of this time management idea, and every task does undoubtedly expand if there are no constraints in terms of time.

Hmm… I need to think this one through…….and while I’m thinking about it I might just make another cup of coffee and put a load of washing on…maybe iron those few shirts? Watch a bit of TV?

No, Christine, you’re talking about being productive, remember? Now, sit down and just get on with it.  

Next hint to ace time management, please.

No Distractions

No browsing your ‘phone, checking through emails, doing odd bits of housework. Now I have struggled with this trick of how to manage time, but have actually had a breakthrough in recent weeks.

What has worked for me, is to go out of the house- no dog wanting to play, no endless possibilities for making coffee and no housework-style responsibilities. The other benefit of being out of the house-for me- is no silence.

Silence

I’m not very happy with silence- it makes me a bit edgy. Never been very productive working in libraries and such places. However, it’s no good putting on music either, because then I start listening to that instead of concentrating on the job in hand.

Coffee Shops

I’ve found that coffee shops are my perfect place for productivity. Not only is there the gorgeous aroma of freshly-ground coffee beans wafting up my nose, but there’s just the right kind of background noise- neither too loud nor too silent to distract me. Obviously, a great cup of cappuccino also enhances the whole experience.

If you would like to learn more about how to manage time, and tips that you could use to improve your own productivity, then take a look at this excellent article by Dan Silvestre: ’23 Time Management Techniques of Insanely Busy People.’

[im-auntie-social]

Tagged by the redoubtable @nossbean​ and taking my time as usual....

🌿 Favourite comfort food: grilled cheese, skin-on fries, chocolate malt. Grilled cheese has always been my go-to comfort food, but during grad school and after there was a little diner near campus and I’d go between tutoring lessons, or before teaching exams. I mean, any grilled cheese and ice cream is good, but Peninsula Creamery will always be the gold standard.

🌼 Favourite drink: chai, iced orange pekoe, rose black tea, thai iced tea, milk tea with boba... listen I like tea okay? I hardly drink alcohol these days (it would not be a good habit for me personally to get into during quarantine) but I could really go for a snooty gin cocktail-- a berry bramble sounds particularly good right now.

🌷 Favourite relaxing activity: Right. Relaxing. I remember that. I had to give up baths which was a huuuuuuge bummer. But knitting with a Hawaiian radio station on works pretty well, especially if I go outside to do it. For a special treat, getting a massage does the trick better than most anything else. Oh, and if there are literally no limits, visiting the Huntington library and gardens in Pasadena is the calmest I ever feel and I wish so hard that I was there right now!

🌻 Favourite calming scent: flowering olive trees with a touch of eucalyptus-- it’s very specific but it’s the smell of my college campus in the spring. I also like good old fashioned lavender, and I have a candle from the Magic Candle Company that’s designed to evoke Walt Disney’s office that I use to focus while writing.

🌺 Favourite relaxing/uplifting song: “Yuri!!! On Ice,” hands down. The ebb and flow of the song are so comforting and especially in the context of the show it’s basically the definition of uplifting. Also on my inspirational playlist: “Make Them Gold” (which I loved and THEN I happened upon @nossbean​‘s PacRim JB that is still assaulting me with its amazingness and used its lyrics for titles), “Motorcycle Driveby” by Third Eye Blind, “Wait For It” from Hamilton, “Sit Next to Me” by Foster the People. If I need to calm tf down right gd now, “Trapeze Swinger” by Iron and Wine.

🍄 Favourite book to get lost in: The only real go-to book I have is Arcadia by Tom Stoppard. But I also just pulled Space Opera by Catherynne Valente off my shelf and remembered how it felt like submerging in a sea of language so I started rereading it. Nextwave is the comic I reread most, but if I’m up for it Transmetropolitan likes to punch me in the face a lot. I also adore an old fic that I think isn’t up anymore but I saved a copy with the author’s permission called Pyeongchang and Prejudice that is honestly a masterclass in adaptation and allusion and shared-universe building and ughhh it’s so good. And the list wouldn’t be complete without my guaranteed pick-me-up Stannis Baratheon: Fantasy Football Commissioner because it’s cracky and hilarious and I find something new every single time I read it.

💐 Favourite chill out TV show: Barbie Life in the Dreamhouse. I’m not even joking. Also aforementioned Yuri!!! On Ice, Leverage, The Good Place, and lately The Mandalorian

🍃 Favourite cheering podcast: Well, good timing-- there was just a post going around my corner of tumblr about how “podcast doesn’t work on me because ADHD, unless I’m debuffed by hand-activity.” Which. Yeah. I used to listen to more podcasts when I walked the kids to preschool and suchlike-- that’s how I blasted through The Adventure Zone: Balance-- but not so much lately. In the old days I was all about the NPR stuff (lordy I miss Car Talk). I’m not sure I can remember the last podcast I listened to, actually? Yikes. I did love Welcome to Nightvale back in the day...?

🌹 The best advice you’ve ever had: “If nothing we do matters, then all that matters is what we do.” I don’t know if it’s advice and yes, the source hasn’t necessarily aged well, but I’ve always found comfort in that one.

Usual tagging disclaimer: I’m usually the last on the train but if I’m not and you want to reply, go for it!

[glassworkspiderlilies]

one step forward, one step back

 Persona 5 | Goro Akechi, Haru Okumura | AO3 Summary: Haru helps Goro through a moment of darkness. It works for the moment, anyway. Notes: Prompt for this one was “hug”! Relevant Mementos dialogue here.

The moment he steps into Leblanc, the downpour starts.

He closes the door quickly, looking back for a moment to observe the sheer force of rain. The clouds had been threatening to break all day—it was lucky that he made it to his destination without being caught within the storm.

“You cut it close, eh?” Sojiro says from behind the counter, a wry smile on his face. “Guess I have two customers for the next couple hours, then.”

As Goro walks to his usual spot, he nods his greeting to the other person sitting at the counter a seat away.

“Hello, Okumura-san,” he says with a smile, which she returns.

“Hello, Akechi-kun,” she replies, “Lucky break out there, huh?”

“Indeed,” he agrees, then notices the little pink box sitting in front of her. “A gift?”

“Of sorts. For everyone, though, not for me,” Haru says sheepishly, opening it and showing him its contents. Inside are cookies shaped like flowers, some of them beautifully decorated with icing. “I was experimenting, and thought I’d bring them for everyone to share, but…”

She looks outside, at the thick sheet of rain obscuring the view.

“It’s probably safer to stay at home today, huh?” Goro finishes her thought for her.

Haru nods.

“Akira-kun and Mona-chan went out to buy some books earlier. Futaba-chan was really excited when I said I brought cookies, but even though she’s just down the street it would probably be better to wait until the rain lets up at least a little bit, if she’s that determined to come by.”

“If she tried right now she’d probably get pummeled and swept away by all that water,” Sojiro chuckles, but then frowns a little as he also gazes outside. “Sheesh, it’s really coming down…business will be slow today. Anyway, coffee for the two of you? And Haru-chan, set aside two of the chocolate and almond ones for me, will you?”

The two confirm their coffee orders, and Haru reaches into the box to pull out the requested cookies and sets them on a napkin. She slides the box towards Goro afterwards with a smile.

“If they’re to your taste, please have some,” she says shyly, “I made a few different kinds and would love feedback, if you’re willing.”

Goro smiles and selects the topmost cookie in the box, which happens to be one beautifully iced with small floral details and lacework. He examines it before looking back at Haru.

“These are…exquisite,” he says, “I’d rather admire it than eat it, to be honest.”

Haru laughs. “The experimenting also included working with royal icing. It’s quite fun, and therapeutic. Well, if the designs aren’t too complex.” She smiles and looks sheepish again. “I confess that is one of the few presentable ones.”

Goro raises the cookie in a bit of a salute before he takes a bite. It’s pleasantly chewy, and not overly sweet despite the icing. There’s another flavor he can’t quite name—some type of spice, surely—but it’s a nice touch.

“It’s delicious,” he says, after he’s finished chewing and notices Haru’s expectant look.

She smiles, but before she can say anything, Sojiro places their coffees in front of them.

“Should be expected,” Sojiro says, pouring a cup of coffee for himself. “Haru-chan’s gotten pretty good at making coffee and pastries.”

“Oh, no, but I’m nowhere near as good as you or Akira-kun,” she protests, though she flushes a little at the compliment.

Sojiro smiles wryly as he lifts his cup.

“I should hope not, you might run us out of business,” he says, chuckling, but then studies her with a thoughtful expression. He takes a sip of coffee before continuing. “You  know, you don’t have to have the same flavor we do, Haru-chan. You have your own touch, and it’s a good one.”

She ponders his words for a moment before tilting her head.

“I’ll…take some time to think about that a bit more,” she says solemnly, and Sojiro chuckles again.

“Alright, then. I’m gonna do some dishes and prep work in the back; you two enjoy yourselves. Give me a holler if you want more coffee.”

With that, Sojiro plucks the cookies Haru set aside for off the counter and brings them with him into the kitchen.

Haru and Goro glance at each other and smile politely. It’s a little awkward—they don’t talk to each other very often, as they don’t seem to have very much in common or any similar interests to bond over more extensively. But they mutually acknowledge that they aren’t going to force a conversation at the moment; Goro turns his attention to the TV, while Haru reaches into her bag resting on the seat and brings out a notebook, textbook, and pencilcase.

They pass about thirty-five minutes in relative silence, save for the background noise. After a while, Goro glances over at what Haru is doing. She seems focused on taking notes, the occasional small diagram littering the page amongst bullet-points of information. She writes quickly and in very small letters—he can’t see what she’s writing, but she also seems to have an eye for leaving white space amongst the page so that they are less overwhelming to look at later.

He smiles a little; it’s method and style that looks terribly picturesque—one that he isn’t used to seeing, though it’s not as though he’s seen several peoples’ notes before.

He has seen Sae-san’s notes, primarily preliminary notes on cases that she prefers to handwrite because it allows her to visualize things better before she types up a final version on the computer. The pages are crammed full of writing, extra things scribbled in the corners in addition to the text on the lines. The majority of the notes are impeccably neat, though the quality starts slipping a little once Sae-san has been working for extended periods of time. Makoto’s is similar—he’s seen her school notes before, when he’s stopped by the Niijimas’ apartment briefly— though her handwriting is a little more fluid, with a little more bend and looping to her letters.

Goro’s own notes are almost unreadable to anyone else—his handwriting looks neat outwardly, but people have trouble actually reading what he’s written. At present, Sae-san is about the only one who can read his handwriting without trouble. But there’s also the fact that he doesn’t organize things particularly well—he knows his own files and papers, knows what his own notes refer to, even though things written on the same sheet might not correspond to one another. Someone else might find it quite a puzzle to piece the information together, were they to take his notes.

That suits Goro just fine.

He hasn’t noticed he’s staring until Haru lets out a little sigh—not one of frustration, but simply tiredness—before she puts her pen down and traces the rim of her coffee cup with her finger.

“It’s good to take a break every now and then, you know,” Goro comments mildly, feeling compelled to say something. His words are hypocritical, he runs himself to the ground as a lifestyle, but she doesn’t know that.

She turns to give him a half-smile, though it comes out more as a wince.

“It is,” Haru agrees, “But there’s so much I need to learn in as short of a time as possible…”

She trails off, but she doesn’t need to explain much more. The general populace knows the gist of her state right now—with her father dead and her being the largest shareholder of the company, Okumura Foods was facing internal strife in terms of people battling for control of Haru’s power, or attempting to make her give it up.

“That sounds…difficult,” Goro says, knowing it is an understatement.

Haru looks at him, silent for a moment, as if measuring him. He blinks, briefly taken aback by her sudden scrutiny, before Haru glances away. She rests her hands on her lap, lacing her fingers together.

“It is,” she admits, sounding pained. “Akechi-kun, how long have you been working as a detective?”

Goro pauses before answering, thinking back to when he could claim he officially became a detective.

“I’d say about two years or so?”

“I see. I am sure that you went through your own difficulties during that time, so please forgive me for saying this—but there is a part of me that is…a little envious of  you.”

Goro raises an eyebrow, curious at what she means, and Haru finally meets his eyes.

“You’ve been at your craft for awhile,” she states, “Detective work is about solving cases, yes, but there are other processes involved in that, with the police and recordkeeping and interviewing. It’s more laborious than people know based merely off of watching your interviews, or crime dramas, or suchlike . But during those two years, I’m sure that you grew as a detective and became more comfortable in the role, perhaps learned knew skills to aid you in your work, and you certainly must have honed existing ones. The longer you work at something the better you become, after all.”

She pauses, gritting her teeth for a moment before continuing.

“I did not have that. All those times I was at my father’s side…and I have nothing to show for it. It is true that some of it could be blamed on my father—after all, I was not allowed to attend meetings of worth or do anything directly in relation to the company. Most of the time, I was for image—to talk to his guests, build connections…to be a bridal candidate for sons of his business partners.”

She sounds a little bitter at the last part, but she sighs and shakes her head.

“But I also could have insisted more—either in learning what he did, or asking him to spend less time at work—had I been less eager to please. I…might have been searching for his approval—maintaining my grades, being charming to his guests…accepting Sugimura-san as my betrothed without complaining. But in doing so, I may have only pushed him further into what he became.”

Haru’s eyes are distant and pained, and suddenly, Goro’s throat is dry, his throat tight. Her story is familiar, too familiar, and he balls his hands into fists to hide the fact that they’re trembling.

(Mothers who aren’t his Mother, fathers who aren’t his Father—what do those words mean, anyway?—eyes, cold and judging, constant and circulating…no one could say he wasn’t smart, not with how quickly he learned to devote himself to an image of himself he created, but intelligence didn’t help cuts or bruises…

Learning to breathe quietly, a fear of dark spaces—yet a comfort in them, which act was better? Which would have made them happier? Had it become like this because he was wrong, because he did it all wrong, could he start over—)

“Akechi-kun!”

Haru’s voice is sharp—not panicked, but geared specifically to get his attention—and snaps him out of the past immediately, but while his mind knows where he is now, his body doesn’t seem to be cooperating.

“I’m sorry?” Goro says, intending for it to be a polite apology for zoning out, but something about the tone must be wrong because Haru’s eyes are even more worried after he speaks. He tries to repeat himself, licking his lips in case their dryness is the reason why his voice isn’t coming out. He fails again, once more, twice more, and he stares at his hands so that he doesn’t have to meet Haru’s gaze.

It takes him a moment to realize that he’s shaking, not just his hands, but his entire body is trembling violently. Stop, he tries to command himself, it’s a sign of weakness, and he knows where weakness gets you—

“Akechi-kun,” Haru says, softer this time, as she slowly slides off of her seat. She takes cautious steps towards him, though he’s closed his eyes and can’t see her anyway.

“Please,” Goro croaks. He can’t bear this public humiliation, even if it’s only the Okumura heir, but suddenly he is unsure of what his own plea means, what it’s for. His breath is coming too fast, or too slow, he can’t tell, only that he needs to stop, before—

“Akechi-kun, will you let me touch you?” Haru asks carefully. Startled, Goro raises his head. She’s standing in front of him now, brown eyes grave, but even with her usual smile gone her manner exudes comfort. It takes him a moment to register what she’s asking. He wants to say no, wants to ask why she would ask such a thing when she barely even knows him. He wants to tell her not to look at him, to leave him be—

“Yes,” he whispers instead, and Haru takes his hands in hers.

The contact is warm, even through his gloves, but she carefully tugs them off and entwines her fingers with his, grip firm. The warmth is almost shocking, but he tightens his own grip as if he can absorb more of her heat that way.

“I was taught a magic chant for ramen the other day,” Haru says quietly. “It went something like…veggie-garlic-extra-extra…”

She says it very slowly, and repeats it once more before Goro catches onto the pattern. He breathes, in and out, in and out, following the rhythm of her words. She says the silly chant until his breathing becomes a little more even, though he’s still shaking. He lets go of her hands soon after, and attempts to straighten his posture.

“I’m sorry,” he says, clearly this time, “I don’t know what came over me.”

Lies, he knows exactly what happened, though he’d never been in someone else’s presence before when it’d happened. Haru tilts her head, her body language inquisitive, but her eyes aware. Goro’s lips tighten, though he knows he must not make a very convincing figure right now at all.

“Akechi-kun, will you let me do one more thing?” Haru asks, and holds out her arms.

Goro looks confused, and mimics her stance, unsure of what it means.

“I…suppose?” he answers, when she doesn’t move without a response.

Oh, he thinks, when she moves in and wraps her arms around him firmly, chin resting on his shoulder. He hesitates before doing the same, hands hovering over her back for a moment until he finally rests them on her gently, completely out of his element.

“I’m trying to grow camellias this year,” she tells him, “I did a lot of research on what kind of soil they prefer, and I  found that they do best in more acidic soil rich with organic matter. I’ve plenty of compost to help with that, and I could obtain extra fertilizer if necessary as well…”

She continues talking and he relaxes in her hold, all but burying his face in her hair. She smells like jasmine, her sweater and her hair both soft against his cheek. He is half-paying attention to the details of what she’s saying, but he knows she’s only chattering for his sake. He’s stopped trembling, and ultimately feels like he’s returned to a normal—or at least manageable—state after a while. But he gives in to himself and stays in Haru’s embrace just a little bit longer before pulling away.

Haru observes him, and he gives her a weak smile.

“Thank you,” he says, even though saying so means fully acknowledging what just happened. He can’t meet her eyes. “I…”

He wants to make excuses again, but before he can begin doing so, Haru slides a finger under his chin and tilts his head up gently.

“Akechi-kun,” she says, smiling softly, the corners of her eyes turning upwards. “I am your friend, and you may ask me for anything you need.”

He clenches his teeth, unable to find the words to express what he’s feeling. Haru releases him, though she doesn’t go back to her seat yet.

“Would you like another cup of coffee? I was going to ask Boss for another one, myself,” she says, and Goro merely nods, though caffeine might not be the best at the moment.

Haru calls for Sojiro, and when he steps out from the kitchen he doesn’t act like he’s aware anything happened since he left the counter, though Goro knows that he must. The café isn’t that big.

He’s thankful for the owner’s silence.

Goro drinks his second cup of coffee a little too quickly, though he appreciates the scalding heat sliding down his throat and into the pit of his stomach. He takes his leave soon after that, claiming that he has work that he should get back to now that the rain has let up, and Haru and Sojiro give him friendly goodbyes.

Just before he closes the door, her glances at Haru, who meets his gaze evenly. She gives him a hint of a smile and inclines her head, and Goro clicks the door shut.

When he gets back to his apartment, he doesn’t bother turning on the lights as he strips out of his outside clothing and into more comfortable attire and throws himself onto the bed. He pulls his blanket over his hand and curls up in the darkness, thoughts swirling, Haru’s words echoing in his head.

I am your friend, and you may ask me for anything you need.

If only she knew. She wouldn’t have said such a thing if she knew who he really was, what he’s done.

He curls tighter once he realizes a tear is sliding down his cheek, burying his face into the pillow. No more weakness, he vows, or tries to. He recalls Haru’s warm hands, how he showed a raw part of himself that she accepted without judgment, the easy comfort that she provided him with no strings attached.

A tiny hidden part of him feels relieved, that perhaps showing weakness isn’t so bad—

No, the greater part of himself says, with gritted teeth and nails digging crescents into his palms. Considering that is already a step towards disaster. If he becomes comfortable with help, then that will lead to seeking it, and it will only bring ruin. Really, he’s already halfway there, with being in this position at all.

He needs to remember what he’s here for and fix the grave mistake that he’s made by shutting that tiny voice up.  

Some sleeping pills and a while later, he falls into a fitful sleep, remembering the scent of jasmine, dreaming briefly of flowers.  

[lucifer-is-a-bag-of-dicks]

A submission for 'One Hell of a Faimily'

If you are willing to take such from un-Tumblred folks such as I.

Yana Gavrilovna had a plan. Possibly not a very good plan, but, eh. In this economy, there really wasn’t many options for a high school dropout in a village 70 miles from St Petersburg. She had no desire to be a housewife and she wasn’t pretty enough to be a whore. So, summoning the devil it was. She’d found the spells in a book in the old house in the woods north of the Markovs’ potato field, the one that had belonged to Yekatrina Fyodorovna, who everyone said had been a witch. Apparently everybody had been right because there were plenty of supplies and a giant mortar and pestle just lying about the place. All Yana had had to do was nick a few herbs from the Markovs to replace the ones that had gone moldy, and then puzzle her way through the really old fashioned text.

It was handwritten on mismatched pieces of parchment stitched together into a ragged leather cover and covered in writing, some in weird, spikey letters, some in a weird, long-voweled language, and half the time with Russian notations underneath. There were also a few spells in what she recognised as Church Slavonic, but they were all for good luck and plentiful harvests and that sort of goody-goody shit. The foreign spells were much more interesting.

She found no less than twenty three summoning spells for ‘spirits’, which she assumed was the polite witchy term for demon. She found herself torn between summoning a spirit of Heavenly Fire, which certainly sounded like Lucifer, and a spirit of shadow-dwelling snakes, which also sounded like the devil. The need to play music for the latter spirit decided it. Yana had all the musical talent of a brick, and no desire to risk offending some demon with her crappy voice.

She stumbled her way through the verses of the summoning, burning herbs and lighting candles at the appropriate moments. She was sure that the spell was supposed to be all aetherially beautiful and mystic sounding, but since she had no idea what she was reading out and kept stumbling over words, it just sounded like a six year old reciting poetry. Eventually, she got to the end, lit the last bundle of herbs in the candle and drew a wonky circle around the flickering lump of wax with the smoldering sage.

For a moment, nothing happened, and Yana began to feel like an idiot. Then, the candle sputtered, and the circle burst into multicoloured flames and all of a sudden there was a thing inside. Thing was definitely the right word, because Yana had no idea what she was looking at. It certainly wasn’t the sleek-looking horned gentleman in a suit she had expected. Television had clearly lied to her. Instead it seemed to be a thing made of sheets of light, almost like the aurorae they sometimes got this far south. After a short period of squinting it resolved itself into an immense face, almost that of a dog, but longer in the muzzle, with sharp fangs and catlike eyes.

It spoke without opening its vast maw, its voice echoing inside Yana’s head like a seemingly infinite choir. Sadly, it spoke in whatever the Hell language she summoned it in, so it might have been demanding her soul or complaining about the herbs for all she knew. Unsure how to respond, Yana just shrugged and asked, “You speak Russian?”

“Do I speak- of course I speak Russian,” it looked around, “this is Russia. Of course. First time I’m summoned in over a century, and it’s to some dingy hovel in Russia. I guess that explains the crappy incantation. You can’t speak a word of Finnish, can you, girl?”

“Finnish.” Satan spoke Finnish. Satan was a Finn. That… made a disturbing amount of sense actually.

She dismissed that train of thought with a wave of her hand, “I want to make a deal. Demons love that right?”

It looked at her blankly. Yana took that to mean she should go on. “Anyway, you lot always want the human girl to bear your spawn or whatever, and you got the magic, so, hears the deal, make me immortal and eternally young, and I’ll carry your kid. Sound good?”

“Please let me leave.” It looked almost despairing.

“Agree to the deal and I will.”

After a moment, in which the demon seemed almost like it was considering just staying there forever, it sighed, which felt really strange, and said, “Fine, alright, whatever. Just let me leave.”

“Awesome,” Yana clapped her hands together, “so, d’you need to do anything to knock me up or what?”

“I suppose this would work better if I was solid,” it said miserably, “human shaped too. One moment.”

The demon did… something, and it became smaller, and solid, and somewhat to Yana’s surprise, a fox. A disturbingly large fox, about the size of a horse, but otherwise, just a normal fox, the kind she sometimes saw in the woods. Then, the demon did something else, which sort of made reality go all twisty for a moment, and it became a young man, with bright red hair and glowing fox-eyes. He was actually kind of cute, all awkward and naked and- holy shit that was the biggest cock Yana had ever seen outside porn.

“I, uh, attempted to recall what human females prefer in a mate. My kind does not reproduce in such a… physical way.”

“No, no, we’re good.” Yana supposed that human men probably ought to be disappointing after demons, but still.

“There’s a bed over there, um,” she broke the circle with the toe of her shoe, “let’s, y’know.”

They did. It was very awkward and the demon, who apparently had no name pronounceable by humans but who Yana dubbed Vasiliy after a favourite pet dog, had no idea what he was doing.

“So,” she said after they were done, and Vasiliy was just standing about looking confused, “Assuming this takes,”

Yana looked a question at Vasiliy, who said, “It will. I am certain.”

“Then you just need to come back in nine months to give me what you promised and pick up your kid. ‘Cause I’m sure as Hell not looking after it.”

Vasiliy nodded, then asked, “Should I stay around or can I leave?”

“Go, go,” Yana waved him off, “ just remember to come back and gimme my payment.”

Yana walked back to the village with a limp and a feeling of smug accomplishment. Phase one, complete. Time for phase two.

Finding an actual witch, and not some random-arse Wiccan or neopagan, was actually a lot harder than summoning a demon. Google didn’t seem to work for this, so, at four months and already starting go show, Yana was forced to rely on somebody she really hadn’t wanted to. Her Babushka, her hyper-superstitious, extremely devout church-scrubbing, headscarf-wearing grandmother, who knew all the gossip, seemingly, in rural European Russia. Her babushka who would definitely know she was pregnant out of wedlock and lecture her for hours about sin and Hell and suchlike. Not that Hell was going to be a problem.

Still, her babushka could never know that.

Never.

Four hours of fire and brimstone later, she was able to ask about witches. Subtly.

“I don’t remember doing anything carnal four months ago, the only thing I can think of was I poked around in Yekarina Olekova’s old house, and everybody knows she was a witch. That’s why father Boris had to run her over with the combine harvester. Twelve times. So maybe she cursed her house and now I’m cursed and a what if it’s the kind of curse that needs another witch to remove it.” Yana used her best puppy eyes and crocodile tears. Apparently, it worked. Supposedly, there was a witch four villages over who kept trying to bargain for peoples firstborn. Babushka had told her that so she could avoid Anastasiya Karamazova, but, ehh. A week later she had borrowed her brother Aleksei’s car, purportedly to go see a doctor at the nearest hospital, and driven over to see Karamazova.

Karamazova’s house was a lot nicer than Olekova’s. Not just because it hadn’t been left to moulder for two years either. It was newer, built only a few years ago when Karamazova had moved here from the big city and had yet to try and buy babies. She looked about thirty, with stringy blonde hair and a kind face, laugh lines around brown eyes.

“So, I hear you’re a witch.” Yana said when she opened the door.

“Not another one,” she sighed, “I will call the police on you girl, don’t think I won’t.”

“No, no,” Yana held up her hands, “I’m not here to bother you. I’m here to talk business.”

Karamazova raised a brow and stood aside, gesturing for her to come in, “Then I apologise for my rudeness in making you talk over a threshold.”

When they were seated at a neat looking dining table, tea steeping in a pot in front of them, Yana began, “You are a real witch, right? Baba Yaga’s granddaughter, that whole deal, not just some Wiccan.”

“I am. Not that I like to publicise such.” Karamazova poured the tea and offered the bowl of sugar cubes. Yana took one and put it in her mouth, drinking her tea around it, while Karamazova did the same.

“Then, I have a deal for you. I’m knocked up, see,” Yana gestured to her belly, “and I hear you’re looking for a kid. This’d be my firstborn, and I don’t actually want a kid. So, I propose a trade.”

“Well, this is new,” Karamazova said, “Never heard of someone actually offering before. I’m guessing you don’t even want ten years with him or something.”

“Nope,” a thought struck Yana, “him?”

“I’m a witch, girl. Do you really think I can’t tell sex and gender, even in a fetus? Both male, in this case. A shame, I would have preferred a daughter, but needs must, and this boy will have power, I can feel it. I am interested. What do you want, then?”

“Money. I want to be wealthy beyond my wildest dreams for the rest of my life.”

“Doable. I will have to pull some strings, but it can be done.”

“Awesome. See you in, what, five months?”

“Yes. 13th of March, around 8:45 in the morning.”

“Cool. I’ll arrange to be at Mariinskiy hospital that morning,” Yana said, “think you can magic up the papers so they say he’s you kid not mine?”

“Easily. I will be there also. What name should I put down, then?”

Yana shrugged, “How about Timofey Vassilieyovich? Timo’s my favourite brother, and the father’s called Vasiliy.”

“That will do. Will I have to deal with the father?”

“Up to you. You’re a witch, I’m sure you can handle him. Although,” she smirked, “you might want to keep him around. Boy has no idea what he’s doing, but damn, he has got a good foundation to work on, if you know what I mean.” She waggled her eyebows and held her hands almost a foot apart, and Karamazova almost choked on her tea.

“I’ll see myself out,” she said, whilst Karamazova sputtered, “see you March 13th. Mariinskiy hospital, in Petersburg, and remember what I want.”

Winter came, and it went, and the only thing that really seemed memorable was that she got hugely fat, little Timmy seemed to decide bruising every organ he could reach was a great game, and there were far more aurorae than usual. Almost every night in fact, and a bunch of scientists kept turning up to poke at things with weird instruments and stare at the sky whilst scratching their heads. Other than that it was just the usual haze of her relatives’ and neighbours’ disapproval, she lost her job at the local pub, not that she really cared, and Timo agreed to put her up so she wouldn’t have to live with her parents. He really was her favourite brother. Also, he lived in Petersburg, and had a job as a journalist with the BBC, and could therefore be openly gay, which meant babushka would not bother her. She liked his boyfriend, too. Henri was nice, and Canadian, and told her stories about Montréal and his big, weird family and said that they’d happily put her up if she ever wanted to go.

Spring came and the canals filled with slush, and Yana became truly vast. Henri and Timo kept bringing her food and weird vitamin thingies and offered to adopt the kid if she didn’t want it, though they said they’d have to do that in Canada, where it was apparently legal for gays to do that and also get married. Yana spent a lot of her time looking up places she wanted to visit on Henri’s old laptop, and going to an English class that Henri taught. She figured English would be useful when she did travel, and she intended to travel and awful lot. She poked around museums and art galleries and looked longingly at fancy clothes and jewelry and expensive booze. And, come March 13th she made sure to be at Mariinskiy hospital bright and early around 6am, just in time for her water to break.

Two and a half hours of pain and swearing later, she was presented with a scrawny little thing by fearful nurses, while the obstetrician was on the phone and babbling about birth defects and journal articles and scans. Timmy had red hair. She supposed she ought to have expected that. Still, she was curious so she unwrapped the little bundle to take a look. The first thing that struck her was the tail. Well, no the first thing that struck her was that he was definitely a boy, but this was her son and a baby and that was just weird. Anyway, he had a tail covered in red fur, a when she turned him over the fur climbed up his back, and down his arms and legs to peter out on claw-tipped fingers and toes. When ne opened his mouth to cry there were fangs, and when she opened his eyes they were shiny and golden, the irises so large she couldn’t see the whites. This came out of her. Awesome. Anyway, Karamazova had apparently bullshitted her way in and was staring at her new kid with an expression of shock.

“So, uh, full disclosure,” Yana said, “Timmy’s dad is a demon. But hey, here’s your kid, gimme my money.”

Karamazova handed over a credit card silently, and picked up the boy, wrapping him back up. She appeared to be still in shock.

“Might want to make the doctors and nurses stop talking about weird birth defects and journal articles, before they start taking pictures.”

Anastasiya Vladislavovna Karazova had known the girl had been keeping something from her when she’d made the deal. She had though that it was something minor though, probably about the father. That he was black or Jewish or something a rural Russian would worry about, which wasn’t likely to be an issue since she intended to move to a Western country where they’d be less likely to be murdered, or that she had HIV or a drug problem or some genetic disorder, all fairly easily dealt with for a witch of Ana’s calibre. She had not expected this.

The father, she assumed, entered the room shortly after she had retrieved Timofey. She assumed it was the father anyway, because he was shrouded in some very impressive shapeshifting magic. He went over to Yana and spoke to her, then he did something that imbued her with some of his power. Then, she pointed him to Ana, who steeled herself for an argument.

“You are not a demon,” Ana opened, “some sort of nature spirit I’m guessing. A fox? You feel like fire and the aurorae have been oddly active.”

He nodded, “She summoned me and seemed convinced I would want a half human child. She demanded that I agree to her deal before she would release me. It was a kind of ignorant determination that I have never known to be swayed by facts.”

“So, now you want the kid so the deal can be fulfilled, yeah?”

“That is so.”

“Well, tough,” Ana said, “She made a deal with me too. Her firstborn for riches beyond her wildest dreams, and I held up my end of the bargain, so Timofey is mine.”

“But I also held up my bargain,” He - Vasiliy, wasn’t it, the hell kind of name is Vasiliy for a fox spirit – said, “Eternal life and youth for her half human child.”

“She played us,” despite herself, Ana was actually kind of impressed, “I’ve never even heard of somebody being ballsy enough to sell there firstborn to both a witch and a demon. Let alone bully a spirit into this sort of bullshit.”

“We seem to be at an impasse,” Vasiliy said, a thoughtful look on his borrowed face, “we could duel for the child. I am fairly certain I would win. However, not here. Too many mortals. Do you know of a good place nearby?”

“Yeah… how about no,” Ana said, “It must have been a long time since you last dealt with humans, but we’ve got a thing called joint custody now. I have him for say, a week, then you have him for a week, and we take turns like that.”

“Oh.” It seemed like the idea had never even occurred to him. While Vasiliy processes this radical alteration to his worldview, Ana took care of altering the doctor and nurses’ memories, so they only remembered a sad still birth by Yana, and a perfectly normal birth by Ana herself. Vasiliy stood in silence while she filled out the various forms, so that her son would have a birth certificate, and not long after Timofey Vasilieyovich Karamazov was officially registered as such, he spoke up again.

“Where do you live?”

“A few villages over from our mutual friend,” she gestured over at Yana, who waved back, “but not for long. I intend to go somewhere far from Russia, where we will be safe. England, maybe. Or America.”

“How about Canada?” Yana called out, “Kid’s gonna have family there. My brother Timo’s marrying a Canadian guy, he might be able to set you up.”

She though about it. By now, the demon hunters had heard about the strange goings on in the region, and she had already had to ward her home like a fortress, and the only reason that had worked was because they were looking for something bigger than some witch. They’d be after her soon enough, and Canada was a good choice. Low key. Not the kind of place anybody would think to look. And Timofey deserved to have as much family as he could, especially family that could help track down his birth mother if he ever wanted revenge.

“Sounds good,” Ana said, “unless you got a problem with that?”

Vasiliy shook his head, “It is good. Canada is close to the poles, I can visit without drawing too much attention.”

“Cool, go look up Timofey Ivanov, with the BBC. Tell him you got my kid and he’ll help you.” Yana said, then seemed to fall asleep.

“What is the Beebeesee?” Vasiliy asked.

Ana sighed and looked at Timofey. He was going to have one hell of a family to out up with.

Three months later, they touched down in Montreal airport, papers declaring them political refugees in hand, and Anastasiya Karamazov walked out into the chaos of a Canadian airport and into the slightly terrifying arms of her sponsors, the seemingly unending relatives of Henri Larivière, Timofey’s newly-minted uncle. Gods help her, for she was going to need it.

Do with this what you will. I am done with it.

---- DUUUUDE THIS IS GREAT THANK YOU FOR SHARING!!

[mariaanastasiou]

A Beginner's Guide to Opening an Art Gallery

Six months after opening her own eponymous gallery in London's King's Cross, gallerist and curator Sid Motion shares a few lessons she has learned along the way, for those who dream of following her lead

— October 10, 2016 — AnOther

If you’ve walked down York Way towards Regent’s Canal in London’s King’s Cross at any point over the last six months, you likely will have noticed a pink neon-signposted new addition to its ever-evolving landscape. When Sid Motion first opened her eponymous gallery in June, in a space which once played host to a bookies, it was received with curiosity, excitement and wonderment. Her first exhibition, What’s It Gonna Be? embraced local curiosity wholeheartedly, its title as much a reference to passing locals who would pop their heads through the door into the builder’s chaos inside to ask what she was making there, to her openness in considering what it might grow into in the future. Now, three exhibitions in, the gallery is gathering momentum with every passing month.

Motion is not, perhaps, what you might expect from a gallery owner. She’s a young woman, in a male-dominated industry, for one, and, as she confesses, grinning, “not rich!” She jokes cheerily about the confusion she’s often faced with when male associates meet her for the first time, too, expecting ‘Sid’ to be an older gentleman setting up shop in the corner of mahogany-clad member’s club. To equate either her age or her self-awareness for inexperience, however, would be fatally inaccurate. Motion grew up in London and first studied painting at Chelsea, before going on to the London College of Communication to study Graphic Design. “It is kind of a nuts thing, but I got slightly obsessed with printing and typography.”

The decision paid off, and when the time came around to present work at the degree show, Motion asked, rather, to curate it. “That was a really nice process,” she says. “For the first time I was talking to my colleagues and my peers about what they wanted to show, and how they would like to show it. That was sort of my first glimpse into all this. Three days after I graduated, I started my first job in a gallery.”

For five years, she worked her way up in London’s art galleries, a progression which culminated at American powerhouse David Zwirner gallery, and a role as Artistic Programme and Communications Manager at Photo London. Everything about Motion’s work in the gallery is nuanced, from selection of artists who show within it, to the accessibility of price-points for the work displayed, and the extra–curricular activity in the form of talks and suchlike that she is keen to foster. Here, we share three elements essential for those keen to follow in her wake.

Find Your Space

An art gallery is nothing without a space to house it, and as Motion attests, finding this space was the hardest part. She spent many years inquiring about vacant buildings, empty shopfronts and 'To Let' signs before stumbling across the dilapidated old bookkeepers on York Way, and, after fierce negotiation with the landlord to seize it for herself, many more months of work inside it to pull away layers and layers of wall to create the bright white, light-filled space it has since become. As it stands now, the gallery feels warm and welcoming rather than austere, as its varied and friendly clientele will attest – the perfect venue for the exhibition openings, held every four to six weeks, which unfailingly have people spilling out of the front door onto the tree-lined pavement outside.

Its location is key, Motion explains, attracting the likes of her landlord, who runs the Turkish restaurant next door – “he’s very intrigued; he comes in often” – as frequently as it does London's leading art-world talents, from buyers and curators to critics and fellow gallerists. Many of her locals are keen followers of the gallery’s activity, in fact – a participation that Motion welcomes. “I do feel very grateful to have the space, so I need to be honest about what it is, and I like listening to the local people’s feelings about it. I want it to be a very successful commercial gallery, but I don’t want to lose people, or leave them out.” It’s the perfect fit for Motion’s vision, which is accessible and open above all else.

Build a Network of Brilliant Artists

An art gallery is nothing without a plethora of artists to fill it, and Motion, with many years of training in artist management behind her, and an insatiable hunger to see new work and meet new people, is well-qualified in this respect. This operation begins with a wishlist, she explains – “I have a big, big, list that I just add names to every day” – which ranges from the lesser-known and the difficult-to-track-down through to the well established.

For Motion, the diversity of artists and exhibitions held is as important as the work itself; her first exhibition, a group show, featured only artists unsigned in the UK. “When I approached [Damien Meade] for the first exhibition, it was like writing to kind of Mick Jagger or something,” she said. “I thought ‘He’s definitely gonna say no to this’ and actually he was really open to the idea. For me having Damien in the show kind of sums up the journey.” Her second, entitled 12 Conversations, was a solo show of a 24-year-old painter called Morgan Wills, while her third takes the form of a two-woman exhibition, which has just opened. The programme will continue in this vein, she assures me – “I want to do as much as possible!”

Shape Your Curatorial Vision

Approaching the work with the eyes of a curator has presented an exciting new challenge for Motion. “I knew what I wanted, and I knew what I didn’t want,” she told me before the opening of the first exhibition. “When it came to choosing these works, I knew that, for the first time, I needed to think ‘Can I sell it? Can I talk about it? Could I plan an event around it? Would it work with the other pieces?’ I’m not just going with the same ‘Oh wow, I love that’ – I’m looking at things with different eyes, thinking ‘I’m a gallerist now’. So the whole process to me has been about learning.”

Motion has begun garner interest for her curation with her third exhibition, a two-woman show spanning paint, photography and glass, which places what the gallerist describes as Michelle Conway’s “gritty, evocative studies of empty landscapes” alongside Francesca Longhini’s “urban view on contemporary life”. “The ambition is for this to be a space which introduces the art world to new work,” she says. “Validation isn’t quite the right term, but to have established, educated people walk through the door and say ‘I’ve never seen this before, this is really interesting’… That feels really good.”  

As for her ambitions, they remain the same now as they were six months ago. “I still feel very new, there’s a huge amount to play with and learn from and experience, and that’s maybe why I’m testing out age, and medium, and levels of establishment, and that sort of thing. But fundamentally, my core interest is to have the artists as the focus.” This determination to maintain an honest and authentic approach to working alongside the artists she shows permeates every aspect of the gallery, from being open about price points, to making sure they approve press releases before they are sent out. First and foremost, she tells me, Motion is intent on putting artists front and centre. It’s a decision that the art industry, flocking in steadily growing numbers to see the gallery's transformation with each new exhibition, can only applaud.

Photography by Benjamin McMahon

A exhibition of the work of Michelle Conway and Francesca Longhini runs until November 5, 2016, at Sid Motion Gallery, London.

http://www.anothermag.com/art-photography/9154/a-beginners-guide-to-opening-an-art-gallery