#drygoods

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“PLEADS GUILTY TO THEFT CHARGE,” Brantford Expositor. February 15, 1933. Page 2. ---- Sentence Imposed on L. Earl— Two Elect Higher Court --- Leslie Brewerton and James Andrews and Leonard Earl were before Magistrate S. A. Blake and a large pile of drygoods in the county police court to-day. The drygoods, which are alleged to have been stolen from the stores of P. A. Sprowl and F. F. Balston, Burford, in recent robberies made a large heap in the court room and indicated the thieves were going in business in a wholesale way.

Leonard Earl pleaded guilty and was given a good record by both Crown Attorney W. M. Charlton and Provincial Officer Milligan. The court dealt with this case at once imposing a sentence of not less than three months and not more than two years. 

Brewerton and Andrews elected to go before a higher court and waived examination being committed by His Worship. Both men were convicted of thefts in Norfolk county and were sentenced to serve five years in a recent court held in Simcoe. They also are wanted in Hamilton and were brought from that city to Brantford by Provincial Officer Oliver who will take them back to face charges in that city.

[21st-century-minutiae]

Instant Ramen

Instant Ramen is a dry good food item. It is cheap, quick and easy to make, individually portioned, and pantry safe making it popular for individuals without spare time and money, such as college students. Some people like it for its own merits.

Instant Ramen essentially comes in two formats. The first, (which is slightly cheaper usually), involves a dry block of partially cooked partially dehydrated noodles as well as a flavor packet (usually some sort of meat or seafood flavoring and a lot of salt) in a small plastic container, both of which are contained within a plastic wrapping. The inserts the noodles (optionally breaking the block apart before hand) into boiling water then pours in the spice packet.

The other format is 'Cup Ramen' where instead of a plastic square container, the instant ramen is sold in a plastic or styrofoam cup, which contains the spices (and perhaps some dried vegetables). The consumer pours boiling water directly into the cup and waits for a few minutes. Alternatively, sometimes you can pour cold water into the cub and microwave the result. Cup Ramen requires no bowls or pots, unlike the alternative.

Either way, the result is a satisfying, salty (and sometimes spicy) noodle soup in a few minutes. It is equivalent to the actual 'ramen' dish in the broadest sense, but the quality is much lower (as one would assume by the low price). That said, it is easy enough to doctor the result by adding additional meat or vegetables, if the individual is willing to part with some of the convenience/frugality.

Unfortunately, Instant Ramen lacks most nutrients required for a human to survive, and is not healthy as a long term food staple, despite being a major component in many financially insecure diets.

Your characters should generally be familiar with Instant Ramen, but on a particular subset of them might have it in their pantry. The dish is associated with single people living independently on a shoestring budget rather than with children, families, or the financially fortunate. If your character is a university student, Instant Ramen may be a staple. If your character is a wealthy professional, you might use Instant Ramen in their cupboard to indicate their complete lack of time/energy to cook for themselves despite their good salary (though microwavable meals can serve the same purpose while being more nutritious/expensive.)

While it isn't entirely necessary, Instant Ramen diets can serve as blunt metaphors for negative temporary situations that the consumer needs to escape from or be saved from. E.g. one of your romantic leads might be eating Instant Ramen in the first act to contrast with a hearty cooked meal or restaurant date later on, or perhaps a high-powered professional trapped in an existentially meaningless rat race is stuck eating Instant Ramen, and they celebrate with 'better food' once they quit their stressful job.

Or you can just have characters enjoy Instant Ramen without ascribing moral judgement to the concept. It's food.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Invite Me In - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

The Wolf comes knocking at the door...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

At the Ditch, Pearl's drygoods shop was not yet open. But the shutters of the waist-high window were cracked an inch. A plume of smoke wafted through the latticework. Quail eggs and a bit of bacon, from the smell of it.

He rapped, once, and was greeted with the click of a shotgun.

"Who is it?" called Pearl, a touch warily. "Shop doesn't open 'til nine."

"Guess."

The shutter opened a crack. A thick-lashed brown eye peeped out at him, the node to a plumb-line of freckled breastbone, and the edge of a twilled white dressing-gown.

Pearl's voice, at this hour, was intriguingly husky. "Well, well. The Wolf's back in town."

"And the shepherdess is wide awake."

"Ain't no shepherdesses here. Those lucky birds sleep in."

"What're you then?"

"A woman with no business opening her doors 'til nine. Whatcha want, Mr. Wolf?"

"Breakfast."

"This look like a speakeasy to you?"

"I meant for you." He held up the bundle. "Not quite a pig's heart, but..."

The slit in the shutter widened until the steel chain-link pulled taut. A wedge of sunlight fell through the gap, and the plumb-line became the slope of a shoulder, a smooth throat, the edge of a sharp cheekbone, and dark hair hanging newly washed against the pale fabric of the dressing-gown. Pearl's eyes, of a piece with her dishabille, were a little worn-out, but enticingly so.

She took in the sight of him, clean-scrubbed and shaved, and gave a low whistle.

"Well, how about that."

"How about what?"

"Seems there's a distinguished gent, under all that grime."

"Grime, all right." He smiled, but it was more reflex than mirth. "How's tricks, Pearl?"

"Tricky."

"In the mood to share the tale?"

She gave him the once-over, then a twice-over. Again, he saw that tiny spark that'd danced in her eyes the first time he'd set foot in her shop. She'd stopped shrinking from him, but the caution remained. A hint of it, anyway. The stripe that comes with experience.

But a little danger had its own charm.

"I'm in the mood," Pearl said, "for breakfast."

"So am I. Shall we adjourn to your kitchen?"

"Depends."

"On?"

Pearl slid a quick glance over her shoulder, towards the back of the shop. A door, half-ajar, opened onto a slice of a bedroom. On the rumpled coverlet, a long leg, dusted with freckles, poked out from the hem of a nightshirt.  A young girl, sixteen or so, was snoring softly, her auburn hair in a wild tangle around her face. Silco looked, and saw the resemblance. The sister, then. Bundled up next to her, little Ikaa dreamed, her chubby fist knotted into her aunt's sleeve. Her bruises were all gone, but that was to be expected.

Anyone's would be, after a month.

Silco met Pearl's eyes, and got the message.

"Breakfast," he said quietly. "That's all it'd be."

"Breakfast," Pearl agreed. "And a tale."

"A little something to pass the time."

"Just a little something?"

"I've been warned to keep the big something to myself."

The corner of her mouth twitched. No laughter, though. The joke was a little too close to the bone. But a little closer was always better. Closer, and closer still, until the truth was right there, staring you down, in all its barefaced possibility.

Pearl said, "Why'd you come back, Sil?"

"You hinted at a warmer reception if I did." He gestured with the dangling trout. "This isn't warm enough?"

"Oh, I'll take the trout. Only a fool turns down a fresh catch."

"What then?"

"That's a question I don't rightly know." She scrutinized him, head cocked, as if trying to suss out the answer for herself. "That mug of yours..."

"Ugly as a boot?"

"No such thing." Her refutation came out a little strained. "Just... from a certain angle, you remind me of someone."

"Please don’t say the Eye of Zaun."

This caught her off-guard. For a moment, suspicion took root in that fixed furrow between her brows. But shopworn skepticism gave way to dismissal, and she snorted. In a moment, the latch to the shutters swung free, and Pearl leaned out into the deepening sunlight. She smelled of crisp lye soap and talcum powder, and there was a scattering of droplets on the shoulders of her dressing gown.

No raving beauty, but the motes of sunshine in her hair, and the soft wash of rose beneath her freckled cheeks, held an earthy appeal.

That appeal being: she reminded him of nobody in his old life. His real life.

Nobody at all.

"The Eye?" she scoffed. "Please. You're too much of a card by half."

"What kind of card?"

"A wild one." She reached out, though not for the trout. A fingertip, pleasantly cool, traced the blade of his nose. "But familiar, somehow. I'll have to give it some thought."

"You don't think I'm familiar now?"

"Only a little."

The fingertip drifted from his nose to the notched crest at his left cheekbone. His bad eye was tucked away behind the trusty patch. Her stare, locked on his good blue one, was still sussing out the truth, but with a gleam of kindling interest.  The sun was beginning to crest the rooftops, and the air was growing warm, the broomstick rays of light catching fire from coy rose to a golden that diluted the shadows.

"You know," she said, "you might not be the Eye, but you could be his long-lost brother."

"Could be."

"Would be," she corrected, "except my theory holds."

"Which is?"

"That you're a bloody Wiedergänger. And they ain't got brothers, those fellows."

"I'll accept 'bloody.' I draw the line at 'Wiedergänger.'"

"You'd rather I said 'vampir'? Those boys don’t do daylight."

"I'd rather," he murmured, "you said, 'Come on in, Sil.'"

Slowly, he sidled closer. The cool shadows of the awning cloaked them. In their cozy nook, the two girls slumbered on. But Pearl's focus was no longer on them. Her breath, warm with the faintest trace of mint, hitched. The blue vein on her throat pulsed. But her fingertip held its course. Down, down, to the scar that'd sliced his mouth open. Transformed his mouth into a crooked blade that did nothing but slice in turn.

He wasn't in the mood to slice. He wanted something else. Something a little gentler, a little giving. Something to remind him what the world was capable of, when it was not monsters and mayhem. When it wasn't the city, but a body. A live body, in a kitchen, and the simple pleasures of a tale spun, as two children slept, and the sun rose higher, and the shadows grew soft and sleepy with their shapes.

He wanted something that wouldn't last.

But the wanting would carry him, as he carried it, until he was home again.

"Invite me in," he breathed.

Pearl breathed too, but hers was a sigh. Her eyes, that last glint of unease seeping out, slid closed. Her fingertip, the callus grazing his bottom lip, trembled. Then her palm curled around his nape, and pulled him close, and the soft heat of her mouth settled on his, and the invitation flowered vividly, brightly, into the space between them, until he'd crossed the threshold.

It was one of the sweeter breakfasts he'd shared.

[drops-of-universe]

sir? its pest control. good news is the rats have agreed to stop nibbling your drygoods. bad news is they got social media accounts & are attacking your pages. theres nothing we can do sir. they're claiming to be tumblr users

[lordgrimwing]

In Town #03

[for Maedhros and Maglor week, hosted by @maedhrosmaglorweek]

“Hello, Laurë,” Maryann said, seeing the barefooted child holding one of her little brother’s hands as they looked at the tins of hard candies kept behind a glass display case in the general store. 

The girl glanced over at her and turned away without answering, hunching her shoulders like she didn’t want to be noticed. She appeared as dirty and boyish as ever, wearing a patched pair of pants and an old linen shirt that Maryann was sure she’d seen the oldest child in when he was her size. 

The town school teacher sighed. She felt disappointed, seeing yet another daughter in the community saddled with chores and childcare at the expense of an education and the chance to find more in life than a husband to care for and more children. There was very little she could do about it, though. 

Laurë’s family lived in the mountains. From what people said in town, the family lived there for several generations as active members of the community, and it wasn’t until the last ten years or so after most of them moved away that the remaining members became more reclusive. The father was a suspicious man and rumor had it he was mad as a child and probably still was. He cared not one whit about any social pressure Maryann exerted over the continued absence of his children from the schoolhouse. The mother, a strong woman named Nerdanel, was something of a folk-healer who could be convinced to help when a doctor proved useless or unavailable. She tried speaking with her, suspecting she benefited from some formal education herself and hoped that would make her more open to discussion. However, she was met with a similar stony refusal. By now there was little hope of ever seeing the girl in one of her classes.

“He’s Maglor.”

She started at a voice so close behind her, bringing a hand up to her chest. She turned around and looked up at Laurë’s older brother. Though he couldn’t be older than fifteen, he was already as tall and broad as most grown men in town.

He glared down at her, arms occupied by two heavy burlap bags filled with some kind of drygood the family needed. “Don’t call him that again.”

Who? She didn’t think that was one of the children’s names and she was almost positive the little boy was named Curufin. Did he mean his sister? That didn’t make any sense.

“My apologies,” She said, noticing how his hands gripped the sacs, knuckles turning white. Stepping back to disengage from whatever was going on, she bid a hasty farewell and walked away, heading to the clerk to make her purchases.

[smalltott-blog]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: JM Drygoods Cotton Embroidered Tunic Oaxaca Mexico One Size.

[quiqua-g]

💋

[cutevibezonly]

Tunnel of Fun 🌈

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

Zaunite girls are forever Silco's favorite types ♥

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

His first order of business was a visit to the drygoods store.  The proprietress was young. That's to say: younger than him. Thirty-six or seven, if Silco was a betting man, which he was, because the odds never failed him when it came to a woman's age. It's how he divvied up his tarts: the fresh, the seasoned, and the salted.

The salted could be had for a song. The seasoned, for a good deal. But the fresh always cost more than a man's dignity ought to permit.

He'd gotten damn sick of tarts.

The bint behind the counter was no tart. No beauty, either—not in the usual sense. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe braid from a face so angular, it'd cut glass. The eyes, close-set and the color of wet mud, were rimmed by lavender circles. A smattering of freckles, like a dusting of soot, coated the crests of her cheekbones.

But her body was a fine one beneath her patched wool skirt and shapeless jumper—rippling with the lean muscle that attested to a lifetime of hard labor.

Silco would bet folding money she was of old Oshra Va’Zaun stock. They were a breed apart. Most had dwelt on the edge of the Deadlands for decades. Families after families dedicating their days to backbreaking labor, only to end them at the bottom of a whiskey bottle and a coffin-shaped hole in the ground.

Most still had a touch of the ancient magic about them: a fire in the eyes, and a steel in the soul.

These folk, Silco knew.

The bell jingled as he strolled inside. She looked up from the ledger she'd been scratching away at. A frown dug between her brows.

Silco knew he must look a sight: dressed in dust and fit for gravedirt. And the smell—that pungent odor of wild beast and wild man—was enough to knock a Piltovan right on his pampered arse. Medarda would've summoned her guard, or set the hounds on him. Sevika would've taken one glance and drawn steel. Even Vander, his brother-in-arms, would've backed the hell away.

Only Jinx—sweet Jinx—would've kissed him, right on the scarred ruin of his cheek, and whispered: Silly, you stink. 

I love you, anyway.

"Help ya?" The proprietress said, in that drawl endemic to the Deadlands. "If yer looking for the bathhouse, it's a mile yonder."

Silco let the grime of street life soil his own tongue. He, who'd once inhabited a glossy world where the smallest slip in intonation served to reveal the most intimate secrets, now spoke with the accent of the slums.

No sense broadcasting his identity. Not before he'd gathered the lay of the land—or had a decent wash. 

"No bath," he said, in a low rasping timbre. "Lookin' to trade."

"Got no need for vermin. I don't care if they're skinned."

"Not fond of rats, I take it." 

"Not fond of vermin in general. Or what they drag in. If it's not plagues, it's fleas."

"I'm clean."

Her nostrils twitched. "You sure as hell don't smell it."

Silco tricked out a slow smile: his calling card. It'd greased his way into plenty of deals. Plenty of beds, too: usually of the saltier variety. Not this bint, though. Her face remained a stone-cold blank.

A Trencher, through and through.

"I'd buy a bar of soap," he offered, "if you'll buy a boar."

"Boar?" Her eyes cut to the bulging sack on his shoulder. "You got yourself a boar?"

"Big one. Fresh kill."

"Fresh?"

"An hour past. Still warm."

"Let me see."

"Will I get my soap?"

"One bar. And you'll get to watch."

"Watch what?"

"Me inspect the boar." No flirtation; just plain fact. "I don't have patience for charlatans."

"That makes two of us, sweetheart."

"Call me that again, and you'll get to watch me bury you."

Silco bit down a smile. She had a tongue sharp enough to slice. And Silco was a man who appreciated a sharp knife. Especially when it was pointed in the right direction.

He unslung the sack, and dumped the barrow on the counter. Its tusks gleamed a dirty ivory. The hide, mottled gray and white, was thick as a Shuriman rug. The proprietress, impressed despite her best efforts, gave a low whistle.

Demonstrating a cool eye and a meticulous manner, she probed the flesh: measuring the breadth of the shoulders, palpating the belly, checking the legs for signs of disease.

"You're a hunter," Silco noted.

She didn't bother looking up. "Worked the big game with my old man. Now, I stick to small."

"What happened?"

"To my old man? Same thing that happens to everybody. He died."

"I meant to your big game."

"Lost the taste. Lost my family's hunting license, too."

"How?"

"The Council revoked it. Right around the time the riots started after Bloody Sunday. No more Fissurefolk allowed to bear arms. 'Specially not within a hundred miles of the Bridge." She gave a flat scoff. "A hundred miles. As if they'd let the likes of us even sneeze its way."

"Rules is rules," Silco said, with a mocking lilt.

She didn't smile. But the upward flick of her eyes was a near thing. "You sound like a Bonscuttler."

"Born and bred in the Pump Station. You?"

"Born, at least. Raised in the Deadlands. My folk up and left when the Enforcers burned down the gunsmiths' shops. Maybe they reckoned they'd have better luck diggin' their own graves than the ones they were livin' in." She gave a brusque shrug: the quintessential Trencher, unburdened by nostalgia. "Maybe they did."

"Did the mines take 'em?"

"Took my Ma. The old man, he stuck around. Worked with the unions. 'Til he crossed the wrong man." Her mouth—a lip-bitten red beesting—pinched. "Bastard made an example of him."

"A chem-baron, I'm guessing."

Again, the eyes flickered his way. "You do a lot of guesswork in your line of work?"

"My fair share. Shall I guess what the boar's worth?"

"We already know it's prime. Top cog."

"I'm in the mood for top, all right."

The glint became a hidden twinkle. When he'd first walked in, she'd taken one gander and pegged him for a pitiable vagrant—and she wasn't the type to dole out pity for free. Now she was seeing past his sordid shell into something she could work with. Something that could turn her a profit.

Question was: how deep did this stranger's bucket of coin run?

"It's a fine piece," she said. "Top-notch. I'd give you ninety silvers for it. Maybe ninety-five."

"Not on your life."

"Not on yours, neither." The twinkle hardened. "Hundred. That's my last offer."

"Thirty gold Hexes. Or we're both wasting our time."

"Thought you wanted soap?"

"I'll take it off the thirty."

"You'll take exactly what I say. Which is a hundred for the boar. And two bars of soap. The finest grade."

"Finest grade of what? Lye and vole-fat? You'll be sorry if I drop dead."

"You'll be sorrier if you try to cheat me."

"Thirty, or nowt."

"Twenty-five."

"You're one hardhearted Hannah."

"You got no idea."

"Twenty. And you throw in a change of clothes, smokes, and jerky."

"I ain't hagglin' with the likes of you."

"Sweetheart, we've already started."

And they had.

[eboardman]

225 Years Ago

As I was reading through the daybook I’m working on, I realized that the entry I was viewing was 225 years old. There are a number of things here that people still buy and sell. Rum, panes of glass, cups and saucers, tea, knitting needles, and butter to name a few. Some, like muslin cravats, have fallen out of fashion. 

[herbanwytch]

Spring has finally sprung! Look for exciting product announcements coming in the next couple of months. No... I didn’t buy the building in @Brooklyn.... yet! #whatsupwithBeth #rosewitch #manifest #abundance #popupshops #farmersmarkets #drygoods #herbs #herbalism #potpourri #jams #linens (at Cleveland Heights, Ohio) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bvj_9kQANx0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=ogiucqt1clm7

[smalltott-blog]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: JM Drygoods Cotton Embroidered Tunic Oaxaca Mexico One Size.

[dumluck-official]

Choosing the right fabric is first part. . . . #raw #rawdenim #denim #denimjeans #denimjacket #selvage #selvagedenim #selvedge #selvedgedenim #drydenim #denimhead #denimporn #jeans #indigo #denimfades #rigid #mens #rawfie #mensfashion #menswear #style #indigo #denimevolution #amsterdam #handcrafted #handmade #bespoke #garments #artisan #drygoods

[blog4prince-blog]

@fruitspringsteen Is our guy for best dressed today! #customlevis #searchandrescue #drygoods https://www.instagram.com/p/CS2YWQiheOW/?utm_medium=tumblr