Canvas Bag Quotes

I faced the gaudy sunflower on her canvas bag -- it looked hand-painted and at last my eyes fell into hers. I said, 'Thanks for the card.' Her smile put the sunflower to shame. She walked off.

Alec dragged the heavy canvas bag out of the back of the van, dropping it on the sidewalk. "Ready to go." He announced. "Lets kick some demon butt!" Jace looked at him a little oddly. "You alright?

Bryce shouldered the canvas bag, surveying the Viper Queen. “Nice outfit.” The serpentine shifter smiled, revealing bright white teeth—and canines that were slightly too elongated. And slightly too thin. “Nice bodyguard.” Bryce shrugged as those snake’s eyes dragged over every inch of Hunt. “Nothing going on upstairs, but everything happening where it counts.

I wondered if maybe this kind of thing happened all the time in Vegas -- cars full of late-arriving passengers screeching desperately across the runway, dropping off wild eyed Samoans clutching mysterious canvas bags who would sprint onto planes at the last possible second and then roar off into the sunrise.

So that’s why Ivy always used canvas bags . It wasn’t because she was especially eco-minded. They were quiet.

As any bank robber can tell you (Nell would say), the best thing to do when running away is not to run. Just walk. Just stroll. A combination of ease and purposefulness is desirable. Then no one will notice you're running. In addition to which, don't carry heavy suitcases, or canvas bags full of money, or packsacks with body parts in them. Leave everything behind you except what's in your pockets. Lightest is best.

Uncle Albert fished in a canvas bag for bread, wine, cheese, and dried salami. The Beltraminis broke out five ripe cantaloupes. Pino’s father sat in the grass next to his violin case, his arms wrapped around his knees and an enchanted look on his face

So I take it you and Gansey get along, then?” Maura’s expression was annoyingly knowing. “Mom.” “Orla told me about his muscle car,” Maura continued. Her voice was still angry and artificially bright. The fact that Blue was well aware that she’d earned it made the sting of it even worse. “You aren’t planning on kissing him, are you?” “Mom, that will never happen,” Blue assured her. “You did meet him, didn’t you?” “I wasn’t sure if driving an old, loud Camaro was the male equivalent of shredding your T-shirts and gluing cardboard trees to your bedroom walls.” “Trust me,” Blue said. “Gansey and I are nothing like each other. And they aren’t cardboard. They’re repurposed canvas.” “The environment breathes a sigh of relief.” Maura attempted another sip of her drink; wrinkling her nose, she shot a glare at Persephone. Persephone looked martyred. After a pause, Maura noted, in a slightly softer voice, “I’m not entirely happy about you’re getting in a car without air bags.” “Our car doesn’t have air bags,” Blue pointed out. Maura picked a long strand of Persephone’s hair from the rim of her glass. “Yes, but you always take your bike.” Blue stood up. She suspected that the green fuzz of the sofa was now adhered to the back of her leggings. “Can I go now? Am I in trouble?” “You are in trouble. I told you to stay away from him and you didn’t,” Maura said. “I just haven’t decided what to do about it yet. My feelings are hurt. I’ve consulted with several people who tell me that I’m within my rights to feel hurt. Do teenagers still get grounded? Did that only happen in the eighties?” “I’ll be very angry if you ground me,” Blue said, still wobbly from her mother’s unfamiliar displeasure. “I’ll probably rebel and climb out my window with a bedsheet rope.” Her mother rubbed a hand over her face. Her anger had completely burned itself out. “You’re well into it, aren’t you? That didn’t take long.” “If you don’t tell me not to see them, I don’t have to disobey you,” Blue suggested. “This is what you get, Maura, for using your DNA to make a baby,” Calla said. Maura sighed. “Blue, I know you’re not an idiot. It’s just, sometimes smart people do dumb things.” Calla growled, “Don’t be one of them.” “Persephone?” asked Maura. In her small voice, Persephone said, “I have nothing left to add.” After a moment of consideration, she added, however, “If you are going to punch someone, don’t put your thumb inside your fist. It would be a shame to break it.” “Okay,” Blue said hurriedly. “I’m out.” “You could at least say sorry,” Maura said. “Pretend like I have some power over you.

He did not want to see her photograph and discover what the years had wrought, or hear about the details of her life. He preferred to preserve her as she was in his memories, with the dandelion in her buttonhole and the piece of velvet in her hair, the canvas bag across her shoulder, and the beautiful strong-boned face with its wide and artless smile.

In the forest, while the others settled the baskets and dishtowels under the trees, Jacques helped Michel rub down the horses and fasten around their necks the gray-brown canvas nose bags, in which the horses chomped their jaws, opening and closing their large brotherly eyes or chasing away a fly with an impatient hoof.

Do you want to go make friends with it first? Dawn asked. Matthew,give Emily the snacks. Collins swallowed, looking alarmed. Um...what do you mean? Dawn smiled at him. So we can give them to the horse! The carrot sticks? Oh, Collins said, after a pause. You see, you should have told me we were bringing snacks for the horse. I thought they were for us. My bad. Wait, you ate all of them? Dawn asked, taking her canvas bag back from Collins peering inside. The apple too? And where are the sugar cubes? You're telling me we brought the sugar for a horse? Collins asked,incredulous. What does a horse need sugar for? I can't believe you just ate raw sugar cubes, Dawn said, shaking her head. They're sugar cubes! Collins said, his voice rising. What else are you supposed to do with them? And since when do horses get snacks?

The men were alive when they were placed inside the brown canvas bags.

I was wearing a thin, plain sweater under a gray herringbone jacket with a touch of blue, and I had a canvas bag slung across my shoulder. The jacket was too new, the bag too old and worn out.

Not all that surprisingly, Holmes began to go insane, spending his final years in and out of institutions. At seventy, he was placing ads in mortuary trade journals for a rubber-coated canvas body removal bag that could, he suggested, double as a sleeping bag. Shortly before he died, Holmes is said to have requested that he not be embalmed, though whether this was a function of sanity or insanity was never made clear.

She liked solitude and the thoughts of her own interesting and creative mind. She liked to be comfortable. She liked hotel rooms, thick towels, cashmere sweaters, silk dresses, oxfords, brunch, fine stationery, overpriced conditioner, bouquets of gerbera, hats, postage stamps, art monographs, maranta plants, PBS documentaries, challah, soy candles, and yoga. She liked receiving a canvas tote bag when she gave to a charitable cause. She was an avid reader (of fiction and nonfiction), but she never read the newspaper, other than the arts sections, and she felt guilty about this. Dov often said she was bourgeois. He meant it as an insult, but she knew that she probably was. Her parents were bourgeois, and she adored them, so, of course, she had turned out bourgeois, too. She wished she could get a dog, but Dov’s building didn’t allow them.

Right now, all white people are either wearing or coveting a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses. These sunglasses are so popular now that you cannot swing a canvas bag at a farmer's market without hitting a pair. In fact, at outdoor gatherings you should count the number of Wayfarers so you can determine exactly how white the event is. If you see no Wayfarers you are either at a country music concert or you are indoors.

Perhaps it was the way she was dressed – blue jeans, black sweater and white trainers. She had a canvas bag with her tools inside. Her lower eye make-up was a little smudged. Leo found her to be more beautiful this way. More honest, perhaps.

Normally I’d hide my gun in a canvas bag or a purse. Today I didn’t bother. My Baby Desert Eagle rested in a hip holster. Its magazine held twelve rounds, .40 S&W, and I’d brought two spare magazines, in the interior pocket within the lining of my jacket.

-CHRISTMAS FUSS IN BARBADOS- Mother would remove the ham from an off white wrappped canvas bag, boiled it for a few hours, then she'd stick cloves all over it, and placed it in the oven,until was baked to perfection- I can still remember that smell-OVER IN AWAY

We’re professional alpine climbers, ma’am,” the Deacon says, leaning closer to the woman in black. “We climb fast and through all weather, we eat light, we sleep in canvas bags tied to the mountainside by a rope or—failing that—sit out the night on a narrow ledge with a lit candle under our chins to keep us from nodding off.

The Three-Decker "The three-volume novel is extinct." Full thirty foot she towered from waterline to rail. It cost a watch to steer her, and a week to shorten sail; But, spite all modern notions, I found her first and best— The only certain packet for the Islands of the Blest. Fair held the breeze behind us—’twas warm with lovers’ prayers. We’d stolen wills for ballast and a crew of missing heirs. They shipped as Able Bastards till the Wicked Nurse confessed, And they worked the old three-decker to the Islands of the Blest. By ways no gaze could follow, a course unspoiled of Cook, Per Fancy, fleetest in man, our titled berths we took With maids of matchless beauty and parentage unguessed, And a Church of England parson for the Islands of the Blest. We asked no social questions—we pumped no hidden shame— We never talked obstetrics when the Little Stranger came: We left the Lord in Heaven, we left the fiends in Hell. We weren’t exactly Yussufs, but—Zuleika didn’t tell. No moral doubt assailed us, so when the port we neared, The villain had his flogging at the gangway, and we cheered. ’Twas fiddle in the forc’s’le—’twas garlands on the mast, For every one got married, and I went ashore at last. I left ’em all in couples a-kissing on the decks. I left the lovers loving and the parents signing cheques. In endless English comfort by county-folk caressed, I left the old three-decker at the Islands of the Blest! That route is barred to steamers: you’ll never lift again Our purple-painted headlands or the lordly keeps of Spain. They’re just beyond your skyline, howe’er so far you cruise In a ram-you-damn-you liner with a brace of bucking screws. Swing round your aching search-light—’twill show no haven’s peace. Ay, blow your shrieking sirens to the deaf, gray-bearded seas! Boom out the dripping oil-bags to skin the deep’s unrest— And you aren’t one knot the nearer to the Islands of the Blest! But when you’re threshing, crippled, with broken bridge and rail, At a drogue of dead convictions to hold you head to gale, Calm as the Flying Dutchman, from truck to taffrail dressed, You’ll see the old three-decker for the Islands of the Blest. You’ll see her tiering canvas in sheeted silver spread; You’ll hear the long-drawn thunder ’neath her leaping figure-head; While far, so far above you, her tall poop-lanterns shine Unvexed by wind or weather like the candles round a shrine! Hull down—hull down and under—she dwindles to a speck, With noise of pleasant music and dancing on her deck. All’s well—all’s well aboard her—she’s left you far behind, With a scent of old-world roses through the fog that ties you blind. Her crew are babes or madmen? Her port is all to make? You’re manned by Truth and Science, and you steam for steaming’s sake? Well, tinker up your engines—you know your business best— She’s taking tired people to the Islands of the Blest!

Because I expected so little, Gaines's painting is startlingly powerul. A lank-haired blond woman with a hard face sits at akitchen table in the harsh light of a bare bulb. She's surrounded by dirty cereal bowls and fast-food bags, and her shirt is open to the waist, revealing small sagging breasts. Her hollow eyes look out from the canvas with the sullen resignation of an animal that has helped build its own cage.

The building was crowded with men and women packing stuff into boxes and bags, leather stuff, nylon, canvas, and rubber stuff, with brass rings and silver chains, steel buckles and studded straps. Elephant stuff.

An “alternative” to the mainstream frat boys and premed straight and narrow guys, these scholarly, charmless, intellectual brats dominated the more creative departments. As an art history major, I couldn’t escape them. “Dudes” reading Nietzsche on the subway, reading Proust, reading David Foster Wallace, jotting down their brilliant thoughts into a black Moleskine pocket notebook. Beer bellies and skinny legs, zip-up hoodies, navy blue peacoats or army green parkas, New Balance sneakers, knit hats, canvas tote bags, small hands, hairy knuckles, maybe a deer head tattooed across a flabby bicep. They rolled their own cigarettes, didn’t brush their teeth enough, spent a hundred dollars a week on coffee. They would come into Ducat, the gallery I ended up working at, with their younger—usually Asian—girlfriends. “An Asian girlfriend means the guy has a small dick,” Reva once said. I’d hear them talk shit about the art. They lamented the success of others. They thought that they wanted to be adored, to be influential, celebrated for their genius, that they deserved to be worshipped. But they could barely look at themselves in the mirror. They were all on Klonopin, was my guess. They lived mostly in Brooklyn, another reason I was glad to live on the Upper East Side.

She liked receiving a canvas tote bag when she gave to a charitable cause. She was an avid reader (of fiction and nonfiction), but she never read the newspaper, other than the arts sections, and she felt guilty about this. Dov often said she was bourgeois. He meant it as an insult, but she knew that she probably was. Her parents were bourgeois, and she adored them, so, of course, she had turned out bourgeois, too. She wished she could get a dog, but Dov’s building didn’t allow them. But the reason she was bourgeois was so she could make work that wasn’t bourgeois. If she were cautious in her life, she could avoid compromising in her work.

In the absence of any therapy, the mentally ill of the 20th century were chained, shackled, straitjacketed, kept nude, electrocuted, half-frozen, parboiled, violently hosed, wrapped in wet canvas, confined to “mummy bags”, subjected to insulin-induced hypoglycemic comas, forced into seizures with massive doses of the stimulant Metrazol, injected with camphor, drugged into three-week comas with barbiturates and tranquilizers, involuntarily sterilized, and surgically mutilated. Rape by hospital staff was common, as was humiliation and verbal abuse. One reporter noted that a state hospital patient had been restrained for so long that his skin was beginning to grow around the leather straps.

Then eventually Westwood arrived. He looked nothing like Reacher expected, but the reality fit the bill just as well as the preconceptions had. He was an outdoors type, not a lab rat, and sturdy rather than pencil-necked. He looked like a naturalist or an explorer. He had short but unruly hair, fair going gray, and a beard of the same length and color. He was red in the face from sunburn and had squint lines around his eyes. He was forty-five, maybe. He was wearing clothing put together from high-tech fabrics and many zippers, but it was all old and creased. He had hiking boots on his feet, with speckled laces like miniature mountain-climbing ropes. He was toting a canvas bag about as big as a mail carrier’s.

Then eventually Westwood arrived. He looked nothing like Reacher expected, but the reality fit the bill just as well as the preconceptions had. He was an outdoors type, not a lab rat, and sturdy rather than pencil-necked. He looked like a naturalist or an explorer. He had short but unruly hair, fair going gray, and a beard of the same length and color. He was red in the face from sunburn and had squint lines around his eyes. He was forty-five, maybe. He was wearing clothing put together from high-tech fabrics and many zippers, but it was all old and creased. He had hiking boots on his feet, with speckled laces like miniature mountain-climbing ropes. He was toting a canvas bag about as big as a mail carrier’s. He paused inside the door, and identified Chang instantly, because she was the only woman in the place. He slid in opposite, across the worn vinyl, and hauled his bag after him. He put his forearm on the table and said, “I assume your other colleague is still missing. Mr. Keever, was it?” Chang nodded and said, “We hit the wall, as far as he’s concerned. We’re dead-ended. We can trace him so far, but no further.

The children slept late, and washed and dressed almost in silence. Both of them were afraid to speak. Maia packed her belongings in an old canvas bag and stroked the dog. “I’ll come over in a minute to say good-bye,” said Finn. The Carters’ boat was ready to leave, breakfast tidied away, ropes coiled. The professor was sorting out the firebox and feeding in fresh logs. Miss Minton, sitting in the stern, had a parcel wrapped in burlap on her knees. “I’m ready,” said Maia, trying to keep her voice steady. She mustn’t cry. Above all, she mustn’t sulk. “Finn’s coming over to say good-bye.” “No need,” said Miss Minton. “He’d like to.” “All the same, there is no need.” Maia looked at her governess. Miss Minton seemed different…Softer? Rounder? More at peace? “Why?” she asked. “Why is there no need?” “Because we’re coming with you. We’re going on. Get back on the Arabella and tell Finn we’ll follow three lengths behind.” As Maia turned to go, hardly believing that there could be such happiness, she heard a loud splash. Miss Minton was leaning over the side, watching the parcel she had held on her knees floating away downriver. “What was that?” asked Maia. Miss Minton straightened herself. If you must know,” she said, “it was my corset.

And for the four remaining days - the ninety-six remaining hours - we mapped out a future away from everything we knew. When the walls of the map were breached, we gave one another courage to build them again. And we imagined our home an old stone barn filled with junk and wine and paintings, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and bees. I remember our final day in the villa. We were supposed to be going that evening, taking the sleeper back to England. I was on edge, a mix of nerves and excitement, looking out to see if he made the slightest move toward leaving, but he didn’t. Toiletries remained on the bathroom shelves, clothes stayed scattered across the floor. We went to the beach as usual, lay side by side in our usual spot. The heat was intense and we said little, certainly nothing of our plans to move up to Provence, to the lavender and light. To the fields of sunflowers. I looked at my watch. We were almost there. It was happening. I kept saying to myself, he’s going to do it. I left him on the bed dozing, and went out to the shop to get water and peaches. I walked the streets as if they were my new home. Bonjour to everyone, me walking barefoot, oh so confident, free. And I imagined how we’d go out later to eat, and we’d celebrate at our bar. And I’d phone Mabel and Mabel would say, I understand. I raced back to the villa, ran up the stairs and died. Our rucksacks were open on the bed, our shoes already packed away inside. I watched him from the door. He was silent, his eyes red. He folded his clothes meticulously, dirty washing in separate bags. I wanted to howl. I wanted to put my arms around him, hold him there until the train had left the station. I’ve got peaches and water for the journey, I said. Thank you, he said. You think of everything. Because I love you, I said. He didn’t look at me. The change was happening too quickly. Is there a taxi coming? My voice was weak, breaking. Madame Cournier’s taking us. I went to open the window, the scent of tuberose strong. I lit a cigarette and looked at the sky. An airplane cast out a vivid orange wake that ripped across the violet wash. And I remember thinking, how cruel it was that our plans were out there somewhere. Another version of our future, out there somewhere, in perpetual orbit. The bottle of pastis? he said. I smiled at him. You take it, I said. We lay in our bunks as the sleeper rattled north and retraced the journey of ten days before. The cabin was dark, an occasional light from the corridor bled under the door. The room was hot and airless, smelled of sweat. In the darkness, he dropped his hand down to me and waited. I couldn’t help myself, I reached up and held it. Noticed my fingertips were numb. We’ll be OK, I remember thinking. Whatever we are, we’ll be OK. We didn’t see each other for a while back in Oxford. We both suffered, I know we did, but differently. And sometimes, when the day loomed gray, I’d sit at my desk and remember the heat of that summer. I’d remember the smells of tuberose that were carried by the wind, and the smell of octopus cooking on the stinking griddles. I’d remember the sound of our laughter and the sound of a doughnut seller, and I’d remember the red canvas shoes I lost in the sea, and the taste of pastis and the taste of his skin, and a sky so blue it would defy anything else to be blue again. And I’d remember my love for a man that almost made everything possible./

Zane awakened them both early. By the time Chase stirred, he had both their tents down and was on his third cup of coffee. Phoebe had promised she could act completely normal, but looking at her from across the fire, he wasn’t so sure. There was no way anyone could see her dreamy expression and not know something was different. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “What? You keep looking at me. I know my makeup can’t be smudged. I’m not wearing any.” It didn’t matter; she was still beautiful. “You look different,” he told her. “Satisfied?” Color flared on her cheeks. “You’re only saying that because you know the truth.” “Uh-huh.” He doubted that, but maybe she was right. Or maybe the weather would be enough of a distraction to keep everyone from figuring out the truth. “How long is it going to rain?” she asked as she fingered a pole holding up the canvas sheet they put up to protect the fire and the seating area around it. “It sure got cold and damp in a hurry.” Zane shrugged. “No way to tell. The storm is supposed to hang around for a few days, but maybe it will blow over.” He hoped it would. Traveling in the rain wouldn’t be fun for anyone. And he couldn’t simply turn them around, head to the ranch and be there in time for lunch. They were at the farthest point from his house. It was a full two-day ride back. Phoebe finished her coffee. “I’m going to check and see if my things are dry,” she said as she stood. He nodded, then watched her go. Cookie had started a second campfire on the far side of camp. Phoebe’s clothes and sleeping bag were getting a dose of smoky warm air in an attempt to get them dry before they headed out. Zane knew the old man wouldn’t tease Phoebe. Instead he would save his comments for Zane.

The path, as the mystic poet Rumi writes, won’t appear until you start walking. William Herschel started walking, grinding mirrors, and reading astronomy-for-dummies books even though he had no idea he would discover Uranus. Andrew Wiles started walking when he picked up a book on Fermat’s last theorem as a teenager, not knowing where his curiosity might lead. Steve Squyres started walking in search of his blank canvas, even though he had no idea it would one day lead him to Mars. The secret is to start walking before you see a clear path. Start walking, even though there will be stuck wheels, broken drills, and exploding oxygen tanks ahead. Start walking because you can learn to walk backward if your wheel gets stuck or you can use duct tape to block catastrophe. Start walking, and as you become accustomed to walking, watch your fear of dark places disappear. Start walking because, as Newton’s first law goes, objects in motion tend to stay in motion—once you get going, you will keep going. Start walking because your small steps will eventually become giant leaps. Start walking, and if it helps, bring a bag of peanuts with you for good luck. Start walking, not because it’s easy, but because it’s hard. Start walking because it’s the only way forward.

Are you Hilary Westfield?” She sounded like she hoped it wasn’t the case. Hilary nodded. “Oh. Well, I’m Philomena. I have to show you to your room.” Hilary looked wildly at Miss Greyson. “I’m Miss Westfield’s governess,” Miss Greyson said, to Hilary’s relief. Maybe talking politely to people like Philomena was something you learned at Miss Pimm’s, or maybe getting past Philomena was a sort of entrance exam. “Is there any chance we could see Miss Pimm? We’re old acquaintances. I used to go to school here, you see.” Miss Greyson smiled for the second time that day—the world was getting stranger and stranger by the minute—but Philomena didn’t smile back. “I’m terribly sorry,” said Philomena, “but Miss Pimm doesn’t receive visitors. You can leave Miss Westfield with me, and the porter will collect Miss Westfield’s bags.” She raised her eyebrows as the carriage driver deposited the golden traveling trunk on the doorstep. “I hope you have another pair of stockings in there.” “I do.” Hilary met Philomena’s stare. “I have nineteen pairs, in fact. And a sword.” Miss Greyson groaned and put her hand to her forehead. “Excuse me?” said Philomena. “I’m afraid Miss Westfield is prone to fits of imagination,” Miss Greyson said quickly. Philomena’s eyebrows retreated. “I understand completely,” she said. “Well, you have nothing to worry about. Miss Pimm’s will cure her of that nasty habit soon enough. Now, Miss Westfield, please come along with me.” Hilary and Miss Greyson started to follow Philomena inside. “Only students and instructors are permitted inside the school building,” said Philomena to Miss Greyson. “With all the thefts breaking out in the kingdom these days, one really can’t be too careful. But you’re perfectly welcome to say your good-byes outside.” Miss Greyson agreed and knelt down in front of Hilary. “A sword?” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Miss Greyson.” “All I ask is that you take care not to carve up your classmates. If I were not a governess, however, I might mention that the lovely Philomena is in need of a haircut.” Hilary nearly laughed, but she suspected it might be against the rules to laugh on the grounds of Miss Pimm’s, so she gave Miss Greyson her most solemn nod instead. “Now,” said Miss Greyson, “you must promise to write. You must keep up with the news of the day and tell me all about it in your letters. And you’ll come and visit me in my bookshop at the end of the term, won’t you?” “Of course.” Hilary’s stomach was starting to feel very strange, and she didn’t trust herself to say more than a few words at a time. This couldn’t be right; pirates were hardly ever sentimental. Then again, neither was Miss Greyson. Yet here she was, leaning forward to hug Hilary, and Hilary found herself hugging Miss Greyson back. “Please don’t tell me to be a good little girl,” she said. Miss Greyson sniffed and stood up. “My dear,” she said, “I would never dream of it.” She gave Hilary’s canvas bag an affectionate pat, nodded politely to Philomena, and walked down the steps and through the gate, back to the waiting carriage. “Come along,” said Philomena, picking up the lightest of Hilary’s bags. “And please don’t dawdle. I have lessons to finish.” HILARY FOLLOWED PHILOMENA through a maze of dark stone walls and high archways. From the inside, the building seemed more like a fortress

Fuel for Life Men (Diesel) ★ ★ ★ ★ modern fougère The name sounds like a lottery for guys trying to ignore Prius ads, and the bottle, wrapped in a zippered, stitched distressed-canvas bag, conjures up third-world labor making frivolous objects for the idle rich. After all that, the fragrance comes as a pleasant surprise: it is none other than a brilliantly inventive variation on the purest, most classical fougère theme as seen in Brut and Canoe, enlivened with a sweet-woody-amber accord that somehow overlaps perfectly with the original structure without masking it. Nice work. LT

He was increasingly aware these days of how much he owned, of the ongoing effort his life required. The thousands of trips to the grocery store he had made, all the heaping bags of food, first paper, then plastic, now canvas sacks brought from home, unloaded from the trunk of the car and unpacked and stored in cupboards, all to sustain a single body.

Word has been spread to our accomplices within the city, London has armed the villagers and all are waiting for our signal.” Koranis stooped to hoist up a canvas bag, which he dropped on the rickety table before us. “The rockets,” he said, pulling a long, slender tube from the bag. “The King of Sarterad had to send all the way to Alidovia for these--they only arrived yesterday. Prop them up facing skyward, light the wick at the bottom and we have our signal.” He tossed the strange tube he held to Steldor, then removed two more from the bag for Galen and Temerson. “Set them off as planned, in the designated areas of the city, and be ready,” Cannan ordered. “I’ll certainly have to be,” said a new voice--one with an accent. We all leaped backward to face the cellar stairs, where we could hear methodical footsteps descending. Knives had appeared in the hands of the men around me; they were small, but they would be effective. The Cokyrian commander emerged into the torchlight, calm and unarmed. “Oh, good Lord,” King Adrik breathed, but everyone else stood silently, rigidly, their eyes assessing the enemy. Addressing the captain, Narian declared, “This stops now.” Cannan clenched his jaw and I slipped behind Steldor, hoping he could protect me. Maybe if I hid…but there was nowhere to conceal myself. I certainly had a knack for stumbling into the most compromising and dangerous of situations. I hadn’t been involved in this at all, but was sure to be sentenced for it now. Taking a breath, I forced myself to step into the open. After all, I had wanted to be here. And if I had to die, I stood in good company. “What is it you think you know?” Steldor demanded, but Narian ignored him, speaking only to Cannan. “You have the ability to be the voice of reason here. Don’t let these men walk to their deaths.” “Should I have them die by execution instead?” the captain ground out, but Narian did not flinch, continuing to stare at him, steely conviction in his eyes. “I’m alone, Cannan. I’ve been following your movements and the movements of your men since Shaselle was caught with that dagger, and I haven’t said a word to the High Priestess, to my comrades, not even to Alera. I’m giving you a chance to walk away, to live. Don’t be a fool--take it.” Cannan tucked his knife into the shaft of his boot, then cast his eyes over Steldor, Galen, Adrik and Koranis. All resolutely met his gaze. “I don’t see fear in this room, Narian,” he said, shaking his head. “Do what you must, as will we.

Janes, and the white canvas bag beside them. “You are so precious in your defiance,” said Clevenger,

I turned and flipped the latch on the door, then pulled hard on the handle, stumbling over the threshold into the fresh air. I would have fallen in the dirt for the second time that day except that someone standing outside caught me. Terrified that my escape was being thwarted, I struck out at whoever it was, feeling a sharp pain when my fist connected with the person’s jaw. “Empress, you hit hard!” a male voice exclaimed, then he captured my arms and trapped them behind my back. By the strange expletive he had used, I knew him to be Cokyrian--my luck was golden. “What’s going on here?” The butcher staggered into the doorway, squinting in the sunlight. “Your girl’s a thief,” he muttered at sight of the man who held me, sparing a glower for me as though warning me to be quiet. I ground my teeth and looked away, intending to do just that. Now that I had stopped struggling, the Cokyrian soldier released me, and I considered whether or not to run. Then I saw who had been restraining me--Saadi, the man with whom Narian and my uncle had dealt after my failed prank. There would be no point in running if he remembered who I was. “My girl?” Saadi repeated, his pale blue eyes calculating. “She is no Cokyrian. Besides, I would expect you to show any comrade of mine more respect than that.” “My apologies,” the butcher forced himself to say, and rage filled me at his newly respectful attitude. “She broke into my store and I assumed from her clothing…I also assume you’ll see her punished for her crime.” “You were about to punish her yourself, weren’t you?” Saadi scrutinized me, noting the red marks around my wrists and perhaps the beginnings of the bruises I would have across my mouth. “In Cokyri, you would be killed for what you did to her--what you tried to do.” “It’s good we’re not in Cokyri then,” the butcher sneered. Saadi’s jaw clenched, and he seemed to be fighting a deep urge to pummel the merchant who stood before him. “I should take you to join the men at the gallows.” “I would welcome it.” “I can see why,” Saadi coldly retorted, with a subtle look up and down at the heavyset man. “But I’m afraid the lack of your business might dampen the economy in the province, and that is something my sister would frown upon. She’ll be disappointed, though--she does so enjoy seeing men like you hang.” “And I enjoy seeing women in skirts as God intended.” Another strained moment passed, then Saadi laughed. “Perhaps if your God had paid less attention to clothing and more to abilities, you and your kind wouldn’t be in this position right now.” The butcher shifted uncomfortably, and Saadi quickly dispensed with him. “If you want me to arrest her for thievery, I’ll also arrest you for assault. So I would advise that you go back to your meat and your customers, may they be few.” The man did not need to be told twice. He slammed the door in our faces, and I could hear the lock click into place. It was then that I noticed the canvas bag at Saadi’s feet. He must have seen flight in my eyes, for he started running at almost the same moment I did.

It was then that I noticed the canvas bag at Saadi’s feet. He must have seen flight in my eyes, for he started running at almost the same moment I did. He caught me before I passed the next shop, snatching my upper arm just as the butcher had. I cried out, hoping he would think me in pain and let me go, but he did not, cocking an eyebrow and strengthening his grip. “I take it you’re responsible for this?” he said, hauling the bag of fruit, which he had slung over his shoulder, up to eye level with his other hand. I kept my mouth shut. “Despite the fact that you’re breaking the law, you’re lucky. The evidence you left at your previous site of conquest sent me on a search for you.” “Lucky, because you did a lot of saving,” I scoffed. Releasing me, he smoothed his bronze hair forward, but it stuck up at the center of his hairline, which I suspected was the opposite of his intention. “I was getting there.” He was mumbling, disagreeable, an attitude I did not expect. Why was he bothering to make conversation with a Hytanican criminal? And why did he keep smoothing that stupid hair of his? “I haven’t done anything,” I said, inching backward in preparation for my grand escape, the details of which I was sure would come to me at any moment. Motioning to the bag, I lied again. “That’s not mine.” “Yes, it is.” “No, it isn’t.” “But it is.” “No, it isn’t.” “You know, the more you deny it, the more likely I am to arrest you.” I stared wide-eyed at him. “You weren’t planning to?” “No, it doesn’t look like you’ve caused any real harm--a couple of coins in payment for the broken lock should resolve the problem. I have a feeling if I arrested you, you wouldn’t make it out this time, not with what your uncle and cousin are guilty of.” “Bravery?” “Corza spends an hour terrifying you and I get a confession after a few minutes.” Shocked and annoyed, I exclaimed, “I didn’t confess anything!” Saadi smirked. “Nothing I’m going to share. Women and men shouldn’t be killed for bravery.” “I suppose you condone the pranks and riots then?” I challenged. He was unbelievable--making things up to manipulate me. “I don’t condone them,” he said more seriously. “I have a different idea of what bravery is.” “What--compliance?” “In a sense. Acceptance, resiliency. How strong must one be to throw a temper tantrum?” “Is that what you’d call this? You and your people storm our homeland, take us all prisoner and any form of resistance is a temper tantrum in your eyes?” He pondered this for a moment, his freckled nose crinkling. “Yes.” I threw up my hands, not sure exactly what was going on or why I was still here with my enemy, but not willing to let this go. “How do you justify that?” “Well, for a century, our takeover of your kingdom has been inevitable. You should have acclimated yourselves to the idea by now.” “You’re right. This is our fault, really. We’ve never been superb at preparation here in Hytanica.” Saadi shrugged, and I thought for one stunned moment that he had taken my statements to be sincere.

Well, for a century, our takeover of your kingdom has been inevitable. You should have acclimated yourselves to the idea by now.” “You’re right. This is our fault, really. We’ve never been superb at preparation here in Hytanica.” Saadi shrugged, and I thought for one stunned moment that he had taken my statements to be sincere. Then his expression changed, and he looked at me with what appeared to be sympathy, perhaps even regret. “I do understand it, Shaselle. Being second tier, overrun, overlooked. Not having influence.” It disturbed me that he not only remembered my relation to Cannan and Steldor, but also my name. Yet I did not flee. “You have to take what you’re handed and make what you can of it,” he finished. “That’s the sorry truth.” “I plan to make them pay,” I snarled, hating his words and how similar they were to the message Queen Alera had been trying to send for weeks. “Them? What about me?” “Stop it!” I stamped my foot, not even sure what was upsetting me. “You killed my father!” “And you want revenge. Naturally. Just like the butcher in there. But the problem is, Shaselle, revenge isn’t a very satisfying goal. It eats away at you, destroys you from the inside out. You end up bitter and empty just like that butcher. And that’s not a pretty sight.” “What is wrong with you? You think you know everything about me! You don’t. Stay out of my way and out of my business.” I spun on my heel and began to stride away, but he called me back. “Don’t you want this?” I turned to see that he was still holding my canvas bag filled with fruit. I breathed in and out heavily, my stomach complaining, my pride aching just as much. “So far, it’s been you who’s getting in my way.” He chuckled. “If you don’t like it, let that uncle of yours catch up with you.” I warily returned to him to reclaim my bag, but he held it away from me for a moment longer. “There is the matter of the damages for the door,” he said, and my heart sank, for lack of money was what had gotten me into this mess in the first place. But before I could speak, he added, “I’ll cover the cost for now. But you’ll owe me.” Annoyed that I would be in his debt, I snatched my bag from his hand, then sprinted in the other direction, his laughter nipping at my heels.

MYTH-1: Handmade items are costly! The items are modest yet the commitment of the craftsmen behind the items we offer is costly The vast majority of the cycles engaged with making the item are finished by the creator – the plan, however, the choice of the materials, the working out of how to cause the materials to go together, gathering the item, capturing the item, advertising the item, planning the bundling, and posting, conveying, or action selling. In spite of this, the items that the fasten organization offers you are truly sensible. Haven't viewed our list? here you go! (click here) Have you ever discovered such wonderful hand-made items at such modest rates?? I GUESS NOT! MYTH-2: HAND-MADE PRODUCTS ARE NOT STYLISH On the off chance that you believe that way, I have an inquiry for you – did your grandmother convey such a shopping pack when went out to get for food supplies or did she have such telephone and individual embellishment sacks? Certainly not. The crafted works are not, at this point unfashionable or old-fashioned. Actually, they are intended for pioneers. Simply being an aspect of the pattern and following it has neither rhyme nor reason. Be the person who sets it MYTH-3: HANDMADE GOODS ARE OF POOR QUALITY I can't envision how individuals have such misguided judgment. The machine-made merchandise is to some degree bargained with quality. In any case, with regards to hand made items, they are taken well consideration of by the craftsmen as referenced above, there is no trade-off with the quality. They are made of cotton and jute which are solid and strong. They are lightweight and simple to deal with. MYTH-4: THEY ARE SAME OLD PATTERNS You can't quit lecturing about the handcrafted items which are extremely extraordinary as it will never be equivalent to some other the explanation being that they are delivered by the hands of a craftsman and not a machine. The sack so made is a result of devotion, love, energy, and the enthusiasm to serve the client. Individuals love block prints due to the strong and straightforward plans that can be made, yet that effortlessness finds a way to accomplish. The strategy is brilliant for pictures with only a couple of tones and fewer subtleties however can be hard to use for pictures with bunches of little content, or extremely fine subtleties that will, in general, sever the square with such a large number of employments. One of the benefits of square printing is that it very well may be done on a surface of practically any size and surface. I print on texture, paper, canvas, wood, and different materials, and you don't need to stress over fitting it through a printer or a press. MYTH-5: HANDMADE PRODUCTS ARE NOT LONG LASTING Recollect the last cowhide sack you had? Which lost its covering not long after getting wet in a downpour or subsequent to utilizing it for 3-4 times. That is not the situation with hand-made cotton packs. They are launderable which makes it look clean with each utilization. No problem with the upkeep.

She took out the last of the books, then nearly dropped the canvas bag in fright. At the bottom, neatly wrapped in a red handkerchief, she could just make out the bone grip of a Colt .45 pistol.

When you die, your soul wanders the earth for answers before the afterlife.” Da Hee checked for rain before she put her umbrella in her canvas bag. “This transition between life and death takes forty-nine days,” she

on the island where the drunken and brokenhearted typically washed ashore after a night of debauchery. A red-faced Swede at Le Select claimed to have bought Spider a Heineken that very morning. Someone else said he saw him stalking the beach at Colombier, and there was a report, never confirmed, of an inconsolable creature baying at the moon in the wilds of Toiny. The gendarmes faithfully followed each lead. Then they scoured the island from north to south, stem to stern, all to no avail. A few minutes after sundown, Reginald Ogilvy informed the crew of the Aurora that Spider Barnes had vanished and that a suitable replacement would have to be found in short order. The crew fanned out across the island, from the waterside eateries of Gustavia to the beach shacks of the Grand Cul-de-Sac. And by nine that evening, in the unlikeliest of places, they had found their man. He had arrived on the island at the height of hurricane season and settled into the clapboard cottage at the far end of the beach at Lorient. He had no possessions other than a canvas duffel bag, a stack of well-read books, a shortwave radio, and a rattletrap motor scooter that he’d acquired in Gustavia for a few grimy banknotes and a smile. The books were thick, weighty, and learned; the radio was of a quality

Sighing, she shifted restlessly in her seat. Her eyes felt gritty and hot, and her muscles ached with fatigue. She glanced down at her carry-on canvas bag, filled with final exams she needed to mark before she returned to her position as history teacher at Stirling Academy for Girls on Manhattan’s rarefied Upper East Side. She couldn’t face the exams yet and so she looked away, stabbing the button to power up the little screen installed in the back of the seat in front of her. Endless entertainment was what she needed.

At the far end of the bakery, our canvas curtain heralded April's lime and coconut theme. Little bags of coconut meringue polka dots with lime buttercream filling were there for the taking. I was proud of our little cakes shaped like a cracked-open coconut- white coconut cake interior with a dark chocolate "shell," complete with a lime cookie straw inserted in the center for imaginary sipping. Lime bars with a coconut crust and lime curd filling sat on a snowy white cake stand.

Wow,” I said. “I’m really hungry.” And just like that, out of the blue, it hit me. I glanced around the room frantically, knowing I was seconds away from losing it. Fortunately, I found a clean trash can parked right beside my bed and grabbed it just in time to absolutely fill it with projectile vomit. It was chartreuse and abundant, and splattered the lily white trash bag like a Pollock canvas. I snorted and sniffed and coughed. I felt like a demon. I could hear Marlboro Man getting up. “You okay?” he said, clearly not knowing what the heck he was supposed to be doing. I grabbed a wad of Kleenexes and wiped the corners of my mouth. As mortified as I was, my stomach felt a hundred times better. A nurse entered the room just after I set down the trash can. “How you doing?” she asked with a sweet smile. Little did she know the fun she’d just missed.

I don’t suppose you’ve got a ladder in your bag of tricks?” “No, but I do have rope.” She patted the heavy canvas sack and grinned. “I’ve also got handcuffs, in case we get lucky.” “Throw in some lube, and it’s a party,

On the third day, she smelled the fruit as soon as she came in. She followed the scent to the kitchen, and the peach was radiant, dusky rose and gold, its skin so plush she thought her fingertip might bruise it. This was the day, the very hour to eat- and she had come prepared, but she didn't want Concepcion to see her. She waited until the housekeeper shouldered her leather-handled canvas bag and left. Then Jess unwrapped the organic peach she'd bought that morning. Slightly smaller, slightly harder, but decently rosy, the peach listed left- just the right direction- when she set it on the table. Leaving this changeling for George, she washed his ripe fruit, and bit and broke the skin. An intense tang, the underside of velvet. Then flesh dissolved in a rush of nectar. Juice drenched her hand and wet the inside of her wrist. She had forgotten, if she'd ever known, that what was sweet could also be so complicated, that fruit could have a nap, like fabric, soft one way, sleek the other.

Air Force regulations required that the appropriate checklist would be open and in hand for whatever activity was taking place. In reality the books stayed in a G-suit pocket or a canvas carryall bag throughout the flight. The only time anyone ever opened up the checklist was when they were in deep shit and totally out of ideas.

By early afternoon the Carpathia had passed the last of the ice and could begin to pick up speed, but at 4:00 p.m its engines were stopped. Father Anderson then appeared on deck in his clerical garb, followed by Carpathia crewmen carrying four corpses sewn into canvas bags. These were the bodies of two male passengers, one fireman, and one seaman, that had been brought aboard from the lifeboats. Each of the canvas bags in turn was laid on a wide plank and covered with a flag. As the words “Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother departed, and we commit his body to the deep” were read aloud, the bodies were tipped into the sea one at a time. A large crowd stood nearby with heads bared. The canvas bags had been weighted so that the bodies would fall feet first but one of them struck the water flat. A Carpathia passenger wrote that he would never forget the sound of that splash. One of those buried at sea was first-class passenger William F. Hoyt, the heavy man who had been pulled into Boat 14 and died shortly thereafter. When May Futrelle learned that a large man had been lifted into one of the lifeboats, she questioned the crew of Boat 14 but soon realized that the man they described could not have been her husband. She also heard that Archibald Gracie had been pulled under with the ship and worked up her courage to ask him if he had suffered as he was being dragged down. Gracie reassured her that if he had never come up, he would have had no more suffering, giving May some comfort that perhaps Jacques had not endured an agonizing death. That afternoon Charles Lightoller had a serious talk with the three other surviving officers, Pitman, Boxhall, and Lowe, about what lay ahead. It was agreed that their best hope for escaping what Lightoller called “the inquisition” that awaited in New York was to immediately board the Cedric, scheduled to sail for Liverpool on Thursday. Their case was taken to Bruce Ismay who sent a message to Philip Franklin suggesting that the Cedric be held for the Titanic’s crew and himself. Ismay also asked that clothes and shoes be put on board for him. The cable was signed “Yamsi,” his coded signature for personal messages.

I'm glad you two find this amusing." Hildy scooched toward the table so a man with a howling baby and several canvas bags full of vegetables could get by. "Go ahead. Laugh at me. I don't care." "We're not laughing at you. We're just laughing. Know why?" Xiu threw her napkin over her plate so she wouldn't be tempted to eat any more. "1) Because we're young and alive and 2) because it's not that big a deal. It's normal. I don't know what it is about surly guys but they make girls do crazy things. Especially so-called 'sensitive' girls. Witness Heathcliff.

It was midnight and, framed by the cemetery gates, the figure stood tall and sinister. He was silhouetted by the weak light from a gibbous moon that made his muscular build and towering height seem much, much more than imposing. In one hand he held a heavy canvas sports bag. The other clutched a shovel that rested casually over one broad shoulder. If an errant driver or a late-night dog walker had glimpsed him, they would have thought he looked like a man with a strong sense of purpose. But the roads were as silent as a held breath.

The comfortable weight of the books in the canvas bag that Daniel had lent him made Jerry feel like a pirate coming ashore with his booty. No, more like a dragon heading back to his hoard. The urge to clutch his book bag to his chest, pet it, and call it “Precious” was strong.

While I was in the partisan unit, I received a letter from my husband by some miracle. This was such a joy, so unexpected, because for two years I had heard nothing from him. And then a plane dropped some food, ammunition…And the mail…And in the mail, in this canvas bag, there was a letter—for me. Then I wrote a letter to the Central Committee. I wrote that I would do anything so long as my husband and I were together. We waited for the plane, it was nighttime and pitch-dark. And some sort of plane was circling over us, and then it dumped bombs on us. It was a Messerschmitt. The German had spotted our camp and circled back again. And at the same time our plane, a U-2, arrived and landed just by the fir tree where I was standing. The pilot barely landed and immediately began to take off again, because he saw that the German was circling back and would start shooting again. I took hold of the wing and shouted, “I must go to Moscow, I have permission.” He even swore: “Get in!” And we flew together, just the two of us. I figured out from the postal code where my husband was fighting... They said, “You know, it’s very dangerous where your husband is…” I sat there and wept, so he took pity on me and gave me the pass. “Go out to the highway,” he said. “There’ll be a traffic controller, he’ll tell you how to go.” I arrive at the unit, everybody’s surprised, “Who are you?” they ask. I couldn’t say I was a wife. I tell them—his sister. “Wait,” they tell me, “it’s a four-mile walk to the trenches.” They told him that his sister had arrived. What sister? They say, “The redhead.” His sister had black hair. So he figured out at once what sister. I don’t know how he managed to crawl out of there, but he came soon, and he and I met. What joy… Suddenly I see the superiors coming to the dugout: the major, the colonel. Everybody shakes my hand. Then we sat down and drank, and each of them said something about a wife finding her husband in the trenches. That’s a real wife! The next day my husband was wounded, badly wounded. We ran together, we waded together through some swamp, we crawled together. The machine guns kept rattling, and we kept crawling, and he got wounded in the hip. With an exploding bullet, and try bandaging that—it was in the buttock. It was all torn open, and mud and dirt all over. We were encircled and tried to break out. There was nowhere to take the wounded, and there were no medications. When we did break through, I took my husband to the hospital. I buried him on January 1, and thirty-eight days later I gave birth to a son.

there, she pushes herself to her feet. Hoisting her school bag onto her shoulder, she walks across the stones to the boardwalk, waiting for a mother with a pushchair to pass by before crossing over it and heading for the gate in their wall. As she lets herself onto the patio, closing the gate behind her, she looks up. Through the fronds of the palm, she sees her mum as she has many times before. Standing in her studio, her brush to the painting in front of her. Kitty in a bouncy chair beside her. Megan studies her, wondering what it is that causes her mother to press the front of her forearm to her forehead. What she’s painted on that flat white surface. More sea, she presumes. More boring sky. It’s hard to see clearly, as the sunlight’s shining on the glass, but, as Megan watches, her mum stands back from the canvas, covering her face with the palms of both hands. As though unable to stand the sight of what’s in front of her. Megan turns away, not wanting to see. Apart from that time after Kitty was born, she’d always thought of her mum as strong. Now the vulnerability she’s shown recently scares her… leaves her wondering where that leaves her. What’s clear is she can never tell her mum what she’s done. Not unless she wants to make things worse. Alex will have to remain her secret. Her mum drops her hands, and Megan steps back into the shadows of the oleander, not wanting to be seen. As she waits for her mum to move away from the sliding doors, she sees that the fat buds in the leaves that hide her from view have produced their first flower. It’s something her mum would celebrate, seeing as how, every year in November, she and Sean have to drag it, in its giant pot, into the sunroom so the winter frosts don’t get it. She wonders whether she’s seen it, but, from the look of her mum now, it’s clearly the last thing on her mind.

I loved shopping on rue Montorgueil so much that I often carted home more food- slices of spinach and goat cheese tourtes; jars of lavender honey and cherry jam, tiny, wild handpicked strawberries; fraises aux bois- than one person alone could possibly eat. Now at least I had an excuse to fill up my canvas shopping bag. "Doesn't it smell amazing?" I gushed once we had crossed the threshold of my favorite boulangerie. Mom, standing inside the doorway clutching her purse, just nodded as she filled her lungs with the warm, yeasty air, her eyes alight with a brightness I didn't remember from home. With a fresh-from-the-oven baguette in hand, we went to the Italian épicerie, where from the long display of red peppers glistening in olive oil, fresh raviolis dusted in flour, and piles and piles of salumi, soppressata, and saucisson, which we chose some thinly sliced jambon blanc and a mound of creamy mozzarella. At the artisanal bakery, Eric Kayser, we took our time selecting three different cakes from the rows of lemon tarts, chocolate éclairs, and what I was beginning to recognize as the French classics: dazzling gâteaux with names like the Saint-Honoré, Paris-Brest, and Opéra. Voila, just like that, we had dinner and dessert. We headed back to the tree house- those pesky six flights were still there- and prepared for our modest dinner chez-moi. Mom set the table with the chipped white dinner plates and pressed linen napkins. I set out the condiments- Maille Dijon mustard, tart and grainy with multicolored seeds; organic mayo from my local "bio" market; and Nicolas Alziari olive oil in a beautiful blue and yellow tin- and watched them get to it. They sliced open the baguette, the intersection of crisp and chewy, and dressed it with slivers of ham and dollops of mustard. I made a fresh mozzarella sandwich, drizzling it with olive oil and dusting it with salt and pepper.

Turning to the canvas bag, she pulled out a foil package. The smoky, buttery smell of naan made the different types of hunger coursing inside him mix together. "Does your mom actually make naan at home?" She opened the packet and held it in front of his nose, and he picked one up and shoved it in his mouth and almost died on the spot from the chewy, yeasty deliciousness. "Mummy's made it since before homemade naan was a trend. My parents have always had an old-fashioned tandoor oven in the house. Because Dr. Kohli needs his naan and kababs." The brightness sparkling in her eyes dimmed.

pants, or “huggable” velvet hangers, rather than cheap wire ones, will keep clothing in top-notch shape and avoid tangles. It’s okay to use more than one kind of hanger to help clothing keep its shape. For example, padded hangers should be used for any hanging sweaters, but other kinds of shirts would be fine with tube or huggable hangers. Just keep them consistent in each section of the closet. And always hang clothes in the same direction. This will help reduce visual clutter and allow you to review your clothes at a glance. For shoes, there are a multitude of storage options. Inexpensive clear plastic shoe boxes keep shoes dust-free and easily viewed. Or use overdoor shoe bags, hanging canvas shoe bags, or a neat tiered shoe rack or shoe tree on the floor. Make sure to use ALL closet space. Underneath short- hanging garments, place a low trunk full of sweaters, a set of plastic drawers, or a simple wooden dresser filled with lingerie, swimsuits, and socks. 6. CLEAN UP & MAINTAIN Put the donation boxes in the car or near the exit so they leave the home immediately. Take out the trash. Grab the relocation box and redistribute all of its contents appropriately. Review the contents of the fix-it box and determine if the cost of the repairs is worth saving the items. If so, make a plan to get them to the

This. And this will be the first of many cancellations. I will spend hours—maybe even hundreds of them—explaining. First with doctor’s notes, then with death certificates, saying thank you when people trip over their condolences. Answering questions over and over because people cannot help but want to know how young people die. They need to know what they can do differently as not to meet the same fate. I will go from carrying a red notebook to a blue folder to a canvas bag full of everything I need to close accounts and then open them. To prove that a man existed and then didn’t. That a wife existed and then didn’t. That a family existed and now looks like something else.

You can eat wonderful food in a junked train car on plebeian plates served by waitresses more likely to start dancing with the bartender to the beat of the indie music playing on the sound system than to inquire, “More Dom Pérignon, sir?” Truffles and oysters can still appear on the Brooklyn menu, but more common is old-fashioned “comfort food” turned into something haute: burgers made from grass-fed cattle from a New York farm, butchered in-house, and served on a perfectly grilled brioche bun; mac ‘n’ cheese made from heritage grains and artisanal cow and sheep’s milk. Tarlow was not the only Williamsburg artist unknowingly helping to define a Brooklyn brand at the turn of the millennium. Around the same time he opened up Diner, twenty-six-year-old Lexy Funk and thirty-one-year-old Vahap Avsar were stumbling into creating a successful business in an entirely different discipline. Their beginning was just as inauspicious as Diner’s: a couple in need of some cash found the canvas of a discarded billboard in a Dumpster and thought that it could be turned into cool-looking messenger bags. The fabric on the bags looked worn and damaged, a textile version of Tarlow’s rusted railroad car, but that was part of its charm. Funk and Avsar rented an old factory, created a logo with Williamsburg’s industrial skyline, emblazoned it on T-shirts, and pronounced their enterprise

He commanded a painter to reverse the figures and the attitudes; and the emperors were delineated on the same canvas, approaching in a suppliant posture to empty their bags of tributary gold

My dresses always go into their individual plastic bags, pinned to canvas-covered wooden hangers in a special way so that they’ll hang right. (Some hangers do terrible things to the shoulder line.)