#new yorker tote bag

[ronastudies]

🕰️☕️🗃️🖋

[walrusmagazine]

Our Tote Bags, Ourselves

How a humble bag became a humble brag

Everyone wants to replicate the success of The New Yorker’s tote, but that’s hard to do. The magazine didn’t invent the literary tote bag, but it capitalized on the idea at the right time. The design was first floated in 2013. But the bag, in its current look, really took off in 2014, when a promotion for a free tote with a yearly subscription started in full force—the same year the website put up its metered paywall, according to Jon Carter, global director of customer revenue for The New Yorker. The bag was designed by the magazine’s art department, helmed by then creative director Wyatt Mitchell. Deanna Donegan, who was an editorial graphic designer at the time, says in an email that they didn’t realize they were creating an object that would become a phenomenon.

Read more at thewalrus.ca.

Photography by Vicky Lam (vickylam.com)

[luveline]

hi jade <3 can you pls write an “idiots in love” scenario between fem!reader and peter. something really gushy and fluffy <333

hi baby <3 I'm really sorry I think I may have misunderstood this so they're idiots in love but they aren't together yet !! fem!reader, 1k

Peter's dragging you by the hand through the crowd like one might dangle a carrot on a stick, though you aren't sure what it is he's hoping to attract in the sticky floored Burger King you're dominating. 

"Coming through!" he shouts, shouldering past people in a way that isn't strictly polite. 

You're laughing so hard your waist aches and the tether of your hand is a necessary precaution to stop you collapsing into a baby stroller. The greasy bag of your spoils quivers with a paper crunching as it whacks some poor bystander in the arm, your "Sorry," a swallowed shout in the busyness. 

Finally, you arrive at your destination. Broken crayons and tear away colouring pages splayed messily over a table hidden in the corner of the room, and there, nestled between the chaos, a precious diamond in the rough, lays the true purpose of your visit to such a fine dining establishment on such a hot summer's day. The Burger King crowns lay in their pop put forms, thick printed card stock. 

"They were more impressive when we were kids," you say.

"They're rustic." Peter drops your hand and gathers up way more crowns than you. "Understated. Humble, even." 

"Yeah," you say, giggles emerging once again. 

Peter tucks the crowns into your bag and you leave the way you came through herds of disgruntled New Yorkers and out into the summer heat, dipping into shadows as the glaring yolk of sun dips behind a skyscraper. Peter leads you deep into a cold alleyway and fiddles with the shooter at his wrist. 

"You're sure you won't drop me?" you ask, taking the paper bag of burgers and cradling it against your chest like a child. 

"You think you're so heavy," Peter complains, wrapping an arm around your waist. 

"I am heavy, Pete. A normal guy could pick me up, much less carry me onto a rooftop." 

"I'm not a normal guy." Chest to chest, Peter gives you a shameless smirk. "Hold on tight. I won't drop you, but if you drop even a single French fry, I'll be tempted." 

"Don't even joke about thAT–" your words turn to a breathless hoot as Peter thwicks his wrist upward and the two of you careen through the air. 

"It's alright!" Peter shouts. 

"Woah woah woah!" you shout back, strangling him as you try to climb up his arms and away from the bottomless air below you. Another thwick and you climb higher. A swing that takes the air out of your lungs ends with a jogging stop on a gravel rooftop. "Woah, I'm gonna chuck up." 

Peter rubs between your shoulders. "You always say that." 

"I'm dying." 

"Don't crouch like this, you're begging to be sick." 

Peter helps you up, close and smelling like all things nice. Laundry detergent from a stickler of a laundry sheriff, deodorant and aftershave and the sweet burned sugar smell of his unwise experiments. 

The rooftop is one you've come to before, wide, abandoned, but outfitted with two camping chairs that can be dragged into or out of the sun depending on what half you sit on. You drag your chairs into the sun once your nausea has abated and sit down, Burger King bag in your lap. Peter peels the straps of your tote down enough to grab your unmanufactured crowns, his fingertips summoning an odd shyness from you while they touch you. He's familiar to the point of seamlessness, usually; you and Peter may as well be one person. But now every close encounter, each gentle hand on your skin, is demarcated by a fizzy excitement you can't ignore. 

Peter hooks his chair with an ankle blindly, dragging it under his butt as he sits and pops crowns from their cardstock holdings. He guesses the sizing for your head, and props a golden crown on your head while you retrieve his cheeseburger. It slips down your nose. 

"Woah," Peter murmurs, leaning in to nudge it back up. He looks you right in the eye, close enough to kiss. "Hi there." 

"Hello, good sir," you say, eyeing his own crown. 

"Your majesty," he corrects. 

"Your majesty. Take your burger." 

"Where are my fries?" 

"The crown suits you, I think, considering you're a royal pain. Give me five seconds and I'll give you your fries, jerk." 

Peter's eyes squint gently closed in a slow blink, eyebrows raised. "Jerk. Nice. You're a royal dick." 

"Nice!" You pass him his fries, and the ketchup dip. "We should've got milkshakes." 

"Then you really would throw up." 

"You're probably right," you say, leaning back into the chair, the sun warming your cheeks like a lingering kiss. You tip your head back to eat a handful of soggy fries, salt like an explosion on your tongue. 

"Christ," Peter says, fries in one hand, burger in the other, "they're trying to give us heart disease!" 

"I was thinking the exact same thing," you laugh. 

Peter nods, pleased to be on the same wavelength, and curls your legs together, elbows bumping as you eat with all the laziness of rich people poolside at the country club. The subtle crunch of fries, the crinkling paper bag held under your foot to stop from flying away on the breeze. New York doesn't need anymore litter. 

You give up on your salty fries and Peter doesn't ask, he doesn't need to, polishing them off. His metabolism is enhanced in time with his healing and regenerative abilities, his stomach an endless pit. 

"You should've gotten another burger," you say. 

"You should mind your business." 

"Is it 'cos I was paying?" 

Peter dunks your crown down your face, kisses your cheek, and steals another handful of your fries. "Too slow." 

You laugh and tip your head until the crown falls off. The wind picks it up, and Peter throws his wrist forward without looking, catching it in a web before it can fly off. Burgers, laughter, the flirting sun and an accompanying breeze. Things are perfect. 

You look at Peter as he tries to pull his web from the crown without ruining it. He gives up, grabbing a new one from your tote. 

Well, things are almost perfect.

[goatsandgangsters]

So we had lots of fun in Chicago, it was a really great time, we liked it there! 

UNTIL THE SINGLE WORST FLIGHT EXPERIENCE OF MY ENTIRE LIFE

it took 💫✨ 28 hours ✨💫

like, I fly multiple times a year and no hurricane or blizzard has EVER fucked up my day like this

so our original flight out of Chicago was Sunday, but bc of the storms every flight to NY from like noon onwards was delayed. and you know how delays are, every hour they push you back another hour, until you've wracked up Many Hours of delay

And finally, at like 9 pm, they canceled every flight to New York. This was at MINIMUM seven flights all cancelled. at 9 pm. with 7+ planes full of people now stranded 

And then the gate agents all left!! Didn't help rebook people, didn't answer any questions. Just left. Literally "not my problem, call customer service number." there was NO ONE in that entire airport To Help

Oh also fun fact: because the cancellation was due to ~weather, their policy is that they don't have to provide any overnight accommodations. For several planes full of stranded people. 

And there ARE no alternative flights because MANY PLANES OF PEOPLE all tried to rebook to the same place at once. There is not a SINGLE flight on Monday to any of the 3 New York area airports, or to Philly, or to those little airfields in Connecticut, or to Boston

There is absolutely nothing until Tuesday. It is Sunday. They are refusing to put anyone up in a hotel. Also it's Chicago on the night before the DNC, so good luck on last minute hotel reservations 

Finally, after an hour on hold, I get a (GENUINELY LOVELY, I love him) customer service guy who's like "I can get you back to New York tomorrow via three different flights" and when you've been stranded already for several hours that sounds like a recipe for further disaster. So instead we opt for a direct flight to DC the next morning and then spend additional money getting train tickets home from there

We are now left overnight in the airport with nothing but a $15 food voucher and those shitty tissue-paper airplane blankets (which, also, I had to walk to an entirely different terminal to get myself so.)

(There are also additional flights full of stranded New Yorkers who weren't even IN Chicago originally, they got rerouted mid-flight from other places and grounded, it is well past midnight and some of them aren't going to be able to get a flight out until WEDNESDAY)

We spend the night in the airport. I sleep for maybe 50 minutes. Do you know they vacuum airport terminals at really weird irregular intervals all night long? 

Also additional fun: I checked a bag. I am concerned about this. I express this concern to an employee who tells me to just track my bag in the app. The app says my bag is going to DC. I have doubts. I talk to the gate agent. He says the computer says my bag will go to DC. I still have doubts. 

I am correct. It does not go to DC. So I call the baggage helpline. I am on hold for an hour again. I finally get someone who tells me that my bag is still in Chicago and they won't mail it to my home address, but they WILL send it to my nearest airport and THAT airport can decide if they're going to mail it to me or not?? No, this doesn't sound right to me either. But fret not, because he put a NOTE in my file that an AIRPORT IN NEW YORK CITY should GIVE ME A CALL PERSONALLY when they receive my bag! Do you want to hold your breath, because I don't. 

So to recap:

Total trip time from door to door: 28 entire human hours

Hours of sleep: one.

18 of these 28 hours were spent in an airport and I no longer have any sense of reality

I also do not know where my bag is. I do not know how I will obtain my bag. It contains my all-time favorite shirts AND our gorgeous jstor tote bags that we got for free so like, this is somewhat Dire

I've had an hour of sleep 

I have not yet had the time to call and demand both a refund for my flight AND compensation for having to book additional expensive amtrak tickets just to get home because they couldn't get us any closer to New York thAN OUR NATION'S CAPITAL

I was told by the (genuinely lovely and ONLY helpful person in all this) customer service guy who rebooked me that I absolutely will be refunded. I am again not holding my breath, because I have been told many things and very few of them have been true

[gothicprep]

why do so many news services give you tote bags for your patronage? how many of those things do you realistically need? why not a coffee mug? or a small but good quality set of coasters? or literally anything else? it’s not like you wake up every morning and think to yourself, “I’m going to dump my wallet and everything else I keep in my bag into the new yorker tote bag today. my outfit doesn’t really go with the one the atlantic sent me.”

I know there’s a whole meme about “no one is saying this” when people, in fact, are saying this. but I’m completely convinced that no one is actually saying this.

[eviesaurusrex]

—ᴛᴏᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ɢɪʀʟꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴍɪᴄ ᴄᴏɴ

Pictures are mine!

Tom Sturridge x Girlfriend!Reader

summary: A short sweet moment between Tom and his girlfriend YN at his autograph booth at Comic Con

word count: smth along 1.4k

warnings: none, pure tooth rotting fluff, mentioning of reader being shorter than Tom

author’s note: I met Tom this weekend and had this idea the second I returned to my hotel room last night 🥺❤️ Just ignore it, but I had to write this down.

;

The internet—especially Twitter—desperately tried to figure out if Tom’s girlfriend would be with him during the German Comic Con, mostly because someone started to spread the rumors of sightings of YN at the New Yorker Comic Con as well as the Dallas Fan Festival. But none of the fans actually saw her, so the rumor that YN was seen in Germany spread like wildfire on social media. On the first day of Comic Con, Twitter was flooded by tweets looking for the still kinda mysterious woman because barely anything was known about her.

—

thesandmanforever Did someone see YN already??

user1 please, for the love of god, tell us poor unfortunate souls about YN if you happen to see her 😭

tomsturridgedaily Gonna keep my eyes and ears open for YN

user2 oh my… I THINK I SAW YN AT THE COSPLAY AREA

tomandyn YN stood right in front of me in the line for bubble tea 😱

—

Tom just sent another of his lovely fans off after he had signed a deluxe edition of The Sandman—the same one he had standing on his shelve at home—and wanted to greet the next one with a smile, as movements behind him distracted the man from the people in front of him. Slightly, he turned in his seat to check if everything was alright back where his convention assistant stood, who helped him stick to his schedule, but was taken by surprise at the sight of a very familiar and very loved face.

YN had stuck her head from behind the dividers, her face glowing, her eyes shining, and her lips forming into a wide smile. “Hey, handsome,” she greeted him with her signature soft voice he still fell head over heels with every single day all over again. “Hello, love.” She thanked the dark-haired assistant silently as he let her pass to get to Tom at his table. She grinned and looked from him to his waiting fans, gently waving in their direction. Instantly, YN received wide smiles, eager faces, and waves in return, accompanied by a handful of shy Hey, YN greetings. “I’m almost already gone again and will let him dedicate his attention back to you, guys. I only need one second if that’s alright with you?” She felt like intruding, but she wanted to check up on him, see if he needed anything she could get for him, and gladly, everyone in front of them nodded heavily.

YN didn’t even mind the phone cameras sneakily directed at them and their interaction.

And with that, she turned back to Tom, who stared up at her with a tender smile on his beautiful face. The woman couldn’t stop her hands from cradling his jaw and caressing through the mop of dark unruly hair after she had put down the steaming hot to-go cup she had brought with her. “Brought you some tea, love. Thought you could use a cup, and I got you—” YN let go of him to rummage through the black tote bag she carried on her right shoulder and conjured a bag of snacks out of there. “—some snacks. There is this stall in one of the other halls which sells dried fruits and nuts, so I got you something from there, and I also got you a little something from the bakery I went to before I drove here.” The bag found its new spot in his hands, and the man continued to stare up at her, entirely in awe of how she took care of him even though she wasn’t obliged to do so. His love for this woman continued to grow every day, but today, it reached a new all-time high.

Never in his life had he felt this loved and cherished, and he adored how they both took care of one another. And YN was a strong side and pillar to lean against during the last couple of weeks, always holding up with his busy schedule, always being there and traveling with him. But Tom knew how happy she’d be as soon as they headed home on Sunday night—just as happy as he would be. He loved to see all his fans, especially after the whole covid situation where conventions like this weren’t even thinkable, but after so many weeks, he craved the comfort and quietness of their shared home.

Blinking up at her, Tom showed another small smile. “You didn’t have to…—” was all he could push out before a finger found his lips and silenced him immediately. YN softly grinned at him and pressed an even softer kiss to his forehead. “Please, don’t be silly. I told you I would pop in here and there to check up on you and bring you some treats. But I gonna leave now, yeah? Let you get back to all those lovely people.” He really didn’t want to let her go just yet but knew that it was the most responsible thing. He would have her for the rest of his life, after all. So he nodded but raised from his chair to hold her for a second. The man didn’t even see the many phones pointed at them, didn’t even hear the voice from the other table shouting something about photos in German.

YN smiled up at him, now smaller than him, and let her arms wrap around his slim waist while his arms rested around her shoulders. “What are you up to now? Any appointments?” He wiggled sillily with his dark brows because he knew of all the many tickets in her tote, even though she believed to be as sneaky as possible about it, and made the woman laugh snortingly. “Well, y’know? Jus’ some hot dates with some people. Sandwiched between Ian Somerhalder and Paul Wesley, for example.” Now it was YN’s turn to wiggle her eyebrows and make Tom laugh softly under his breath. “I knew it,” he teased her, and the woman only grinned. “But seriously, I only have a couple of tickets for some photos, and I wanted to check out the artist alley upstairs. I will be back sooner than you think.”

After all, she only was a writer and author of steaming hot romance novels and poems about every aspect of life, and to see her longtime silly crushes? That was an opportunity she couldn’t let pass, even though she knew some of them personally, like Charlie and Elden, but she loved to surprise them.

Tom nodded at that and pressed a kiss to her temple, not daring to kiss her in front of all those people. However, he really wanted to because she was just this pretty in her comfortable convention outfit, consisting of some denim jeans and her favorite hoodie—which was actually his hoodie. “I hope you have fun, darling, and don’t forget to drink enough, ‘promise?” YN cooed lowly, cupped his cheek, and kissed the corner of his mouth before smiling up at him. “Of course, love. Don’t forget your tea. If you need anything else, just send me a text.” And with that, they parted from each other, and YN walked smiling along the line of waiting people before one of them almost shouted: “We love you, YN!”

With blushing cheeks, the woman waved lightly, feeling her heartbeat fasten, and disappeared between the other waiting people.

—

hourlytomsturridge I witnessed Tom and YN, and I never felt so single in my life

TomIsSandman YN brought Tom some snacks and something hot to drink to his autograph booth, and I think I will never see something sweeter.

tomsturridgedaily I want what Tom and YN have.

user1 YN is the sweetest human being on earth. Not only does she deeply care for Tom and take care of him, no. She also supported so many artists up at the artist alley, and I think I saw Tom and her later on, and he carried a lot of stuff. I guess that was her loot for today :D

user2 YN LN bought almost all my stickers and was like “I love stickers so much, literally every device case is plastered with stickers, and i can bring some for my two best friends because they’re Animal Crossing addicts like me” 🥺❤️

tomandyn I met YN twice today, and during the second time, we sat there, drank our bubble tea, and then she casually told me that she would be attending as Scarlet Witch tomorrow because she’s one of her favorite Marvel characters. This woman is not only a writing goddess of exceptionally wonderful romance and smut, but she is also a cosplayer. I envy Tom 🤯

—

Yeah, I don’t know what I did here, but I had to, bye 👉🏻👈🏻❤️ As usual: Comments, reblogs, and likes are much appreciated

P.S. Tom is the world’s greatest hugger. His hugs are ✨chefskiss✨

[random2908]

I'm reading something set 30 years ago by someone who clearly wasn't there, and it's fascinating what they get right and wrong, to me as someone who was in middle school when the story takes place. Mostly it's that the technology is right but the language/vocabulary is wrong.

But in the story, a New Yorker just made a comment about if they didn't have this job they'd be working at Trader Joes. And, like, I'm from LA, but except for my immediate family, 30 years ago literally all of my American relatives lived in and around NYC. So I know New Yorkers didn't know what TJs was 30 years ago. When the first TJs opened up in the greater NYC area, (years after this story takes place), one of my grandmother's cousins, who would bring an extra suitcase for TJs, stopped visiting us so often. When I went to college in Philly slightly less than 25 years ago, TJs was something I could bond over with my fellow Californians (one girl had a TJs tote bag that she carried around as a conversation starter) and most East Coasters had no clue what we were talking about.

[mrchalamet-mrstyles]

Every.single.word. of this. Good to finally see someone call out his demented haters and batshit fandom (who makes half his haters at this point)

https://www.vogue.co.uk/article/timothee-chalamet-wonka

Yes! EVERYONE needs to read this!

But after the trailer dropped, naysayers crawled out of the woodwork and the memes came by the hundreds. I could feel the tides turning against the leading man as viewers expressed their concern that this new Wonka could never live up to the legacy left by previous versions. That Chalamet was miscast, and simply did not possess the innate whimsy that his predecessors, Gene Wilder and Johnny Depp, brought to the role. That Chalamet would somehow tarnish his career in one move. Inferred from just a fraction of the film, Wonka was branded a flop before it even had a chance to prove itself.

You see, there’s a dichotomy at play here that is emblematic of the digital age we live in today: the parasocial relationship. We see our favourite actors and musicians bare their souls on screen or pour their hearts into their music. We watch a highlight reel of their lives on Instagram and read their tea on PopCrave (Gen Z’s answer to JustJared). We assume we know their political leanings, their family dynamics and what they would order at a restaurant, all because they’ve occasionally given us a glimpse into their lives. We assume that Chalamet would never take on a role that’s beneath him because of the calibre of his work thus far. We are disappointed when our favourite celebrities remind us that they are real people with agency, and not some character we created in our head.

And sometimes these obsessions manifest into something darker and more twisted. Case in point? The Chalamet fandom’s reaction to his relationship with Kylie Jenner: the stans were up in arms over news of the celebrity pairing. Twitter was aghast that the internet’s boyfriend might be romantically involved with one of the most followed people in the world, and not, say, a local tote bag-wearing, Bob Dylan-listening New Yorker who he stumbled across in a meet cute in a coffee shop. Why is it so inconceivable that Chalamet may date global baddie Jenner? Chalamet’s fans are possessive of him and project their fantasies on to him, and are inconsolable when he doesn’t fall into line. Perhaps, ultimately, the deification of celebrity is a reflection of the loneliness epidemic, whereby those of us who grew up online and in the eye of stan culture see celebrities as friends in lieu of genuine social interaction. Or maybe I’m just rambling…

[fragilecapric0rnn]

It’s me and my new yorker tote bag against the world

[cav-core]

Me, earlier this afternoon, sitting with a Moon Knight enamel pin on my New Yorker tote bag, reading The Book of the Dead in a McDonald's: I have become a parody of myself.

[walrusmagazine]

Our Tote Bags, Ourselves

How a humble bag became a humble brag

The literary tote is the perfect signifier for this moment in time because of its inherent contradictions: its lofty, high-minded ideals are represented by an item that’s earthy and utilitarian. It communicates rarefied taste, but it’s too functional to be pretentious. “It’s just a bag,” Phillips says. “But it’s so much more than a bag at this point.” 

Read more at thewalrus.ca.

Photography by Vicky Lam (vickylam.com)

[beastheads]

had to purchase a stupid new yorker digital subscription to access an article from 1967 for a personal project and now they're gonna send me a stupid fucking tote bag that i don't want.

[windowsandfeelings]

dair & 12 on the kiss prompts??

Dair & ...in grief

They get the call on a Thursday to come pick up the box. They go together.

It’s just plain brown corrugated cardboard with a paw-print inked on the side and a label reading “Hadley Waldorf-Humphrey.” The receptionist sets it down on the counter in front of them, and Blair stares at it while Dan signs all the paperwork. Somehow, the box seems both too big and too small for its contents, and she can’t bring herself to reach out and pick it up.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” the receptionist says. It sounds to Blair like she’s on the other side of a glass wall.

“Thank you,” Dan says. He slides the box into a New Yorker tote and takes Blair’s hand. “Let’s go.” His voice is low, his head bent to the side, his mouth close to her ear, and she lets him lead her out of the small veterinary clinic, onto a steaming Upper East Side sidewalk.

They cut west down 66th. The streets are quiet, most of the neighborhood off in the Hamptons for the holiday weekend. They slide into the park near the zoo, where it’s five degrees cooler in the shade, the tiniest bit of relief from the oppression of late summer, and it’s an easy walk to the duck pond. The tote bag bangs against Dan’s hip, but he doesn’t complain. He keeps a tight grip on her hand, squeezing it every few minutes.

They find a secluded spot on the edge of the pond, between a couple of trees and largely out of sight, and for a moment they just stand there, hand in hand, looking out over the water. Then Dan reaches into the tote bag and pulls out the box.

The box that isn’t Hadley, not really.

Blair can still feel the soft brush of Hadley against her ankles, the scratch of Hadley’s tongue on the back of her hand. She was a small cat, made more of fur and personality than anything else; prone to dramatically flinging herself at the floor, the furniture, Dan’s lap. Fond of napping in the bathroom sink, burying herself in pillows, hissing at unwelcome guests. They’d acquired her in the first month of their marriage, on a whim one Saturday afternoon. She was already a lady, grown as big as she’d ever get. Had already lived a life before they brought her into theirs.

They’d carried her home in a cardboard box that day, too.

Dan lets go of her hand to tear at the corner of the box, where it’s glued shut. There’s a plastic bag inside, but there’s some loose dust—what’s left of her delicate bones, her plush fur, her pink nose—that clings to his fingers, and some more that drifts away in a breeze. Blair can feel hot tears climbing her throat, pushing their way to the surface, but she swallows them down. “We should say something,” she says. “First.”

Dan nods. “What do you want to say?” he asks.

Well, she hasn’t thought about it, how to sum up Hadley into words. “I—” she starts, but whatever else she wants to stay is stuck somewhere below the tears. She shakes her head.

“Remember the time we had Serena over?” Dan asks. He’s just holding the box, now, out in front of him, one corner of the flap peeled up. “It was like a week after we got her, and we were spending all of our time chasing her around the apartment trying to stop her from peeing on the furniture, and you forgot you’d invited Serena to dinner and she showed up and found us on our knees scrubbing the carpet in my office.”

Blair nods. At the time it felt like such a low moment for her, cleaning up cat urine.

“Or when Hadley fell completely in love with Nate and tried to surgically attach herself to him so he couldn’t leave without her?”

Blair had to buy Nate a new sweater after that, to replace the one Hadley shredded.

“And then when she realized Jenny actually did get to go home with Nate and never forgave her?”

A laugh makes it through the tears, bubbling up out of Blair’s mouth. She can still picture it: Hadley hissing at Jenny in the foyer and Jenny hissing right back.

“She was a good cat,” Blair says. It comes out with a single sharp sob.

Dan steps closer to her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders, and she presses her face into his neck. Her tears pool where her mouth meets the cotton of his crew-neck tee. He kisses her, featherlight, at her hairline. Once. Twice. “She was such a good cat,” he says into her hair.

She pulls herself together one breath at a time, until she can step away from him, stand on her own. She slides one finger under each eye, flicking away the tears that have gathered in her lashes. Dan waits for, her, not-Hadley still clutched in one hand.

“I’m ready now,” she says. She’s not, not really, but she’ll pretend.

With one hard yank, Dan gets the edge of the box off, enough to get to the plastic bag inside. They crouch down together at the edge of the water.

“Goodbye, Hadley,” she says, as the ashes pour out into the duck pond. Some of them saturate, and sink, and some float away from them, a little gray bubble drifting off into Central Park.

“Bye, Had,” Dan echoes.

Blair swallows, and takes his hand, and together they watch her go.

[inkymoon16]

Chapter 2 - Dusk

Chapter 2 of my fic "Dusk Til Dawn" which can be found on AO3!

Native New Yorker - Odyssey

It was an ordinary day. Nothing out of the unusual. I woke up on time, which I always did, drank my tea, ate my toast, applied my makeup, threw my work uniform on, and was out the door in about forty-five minutes. I lugged my tote bag over my shoulder, which kept slipping off my coat - a ridiculously expensive purchase I had bought one night during a cocaine bender. I quit drugs the next day when I woke up to a fur coat perched on the edge of my bed, a half naked man snoring beside me, and a cat I had never seen before meowing at my door. 

This fur coat was a natural tan color and had cost me a hundred and fifty dollars, of which I certainly could not afford. I walked the four blocks to the diner where I worked, a cigarette perched between my fingers. My work uniform was simple - skin color stockings, and a stupid powder blue collared dress that came to my mid-thighs. I guess the owner wanted the “pretty girls to attract customers” but the only thing it attracted was unwanted comments. 

“Mornin’ Arthur.” I hollered when I sauntered through the door into the mercifully warm diner. 

My manager appeared from the back, carrying boxes from a new shipment, a cigarette hanging from his lips. “Mornin’ Aurora. You can start by sortin’ silverware and filling up those damn ketchup bottles. Closers neglected yet again.”

I rolled my eyes and huffed. The closers could never do anything fucking right. I worked mornings during the week and Friday and Saturday nights. Sunday was my only day off. I put a few quarters into the jukebox and soon David Bowie was serenading me as I rolled silverware into their respective paper napkins. 

As customers started to trickle in this Thursday morning, I abandoned my side work to serve them. The day passed as normal. I got off shift around 5:15 and after a hamburger, I slipped on my fur coat and headed back towards my apartment. These four blocks were often filled with annoying teenagers shouting things out at me. 

Complaints aside, I actually didn’t mind the walk. I relished the crisp air in the colder months and the soft breeze in the warmer months. This walk was a time for thinking. I zoned out and allowed any thoughts in my head to turn over and salivate. It usually took me approximately one cigarette to get home. Sometimes two if it was the summer and I was in a good mood. 

Greenpoint, Brooklyn, of which I called home, was nice enough. I thought back to the expensive brownstone that my aunt, whom I used to live with, owned in Williamsburg. She kicked me out when I was nineteen after she found me passed out in the bathtub the morning after a bender. I ashed my cigarette and walked up my steps to a brownstone that had been split into four different apartments. The flight of stairs up to my second floor residence was always littered with cigarette butts but at least it was safe. 

Once I took off my coat, I brewed a pot of tea. My aunt always had the most disgusting coffee brewing so I never got into that harsh black liquid. I shuddered just thinking about it. I wondered how she was doing. After I moved out, we called each other every now and then for a few months but that slowly trickled to nothing. It’s been two years since I talked to her. 

Our relationship was never that close and that was fine with the both of us. We were more like roommates than relatives. She had her life, I had mine. The only rule we had was to keep the noise down. I moved in with my aunt at ten years old when my mother was murdered. My father was so distraught over her death he fled the country and started a new life for himself. I never really cared too much to contact him. 

Only once when I was 17 did I try to find him but it led to too many dead ends. And that was the end of my curiosity. I found out during this research that my mother was shot during a gang fight when she got caught in the misfire. Sometimes I had nightmares about her mangled body on the street, cold and lifeless. The funeral was stuffy and quiet. I don’t recall much else.

I attended a public school in Brooklyn that I can’t quite recall. Could have been PS 144 or PS 81. I can’t say I learned too much. I had my first job waitressing at 16 and subsequently stopped caring about school. However, my aunt disagreed with this belief. She held education to a high regard and wouldn’t let me drop out. The only time she showed real parenting. I walked across the graduation stage alone and came home to my aunt who was two bottles of wine deep, passed out on the couch watching “Jeopardy” alone. 

We were both addicts and I guess that’s why we didn’t work out as “roommates”. Our front door was a revolving portal for men, booze, and bad decisions. I guess that’s where all my bad influence comes from, but I probably would have ended up the same way either way. 

I sipped my tea and stuffed my hand into a bag of chips. My apartment was small, more like a studio if anything. If you opened the door too fast, it would swing right into the kitchen, which then banged loudly against the counters, a clear design flaw. The kitchen was on the right, a living room/dining room straight ahead. A bedroom with an attached bathroom was on the left. 

All of my furniture and decorations I had bought second hand or taken for free off the street. I saved my money for things I actually cared about, like clothes, coats, shoes, makeup, and handbags. All the second hand stuff made the apartment eclectic and cozy. There was a large window that faced the west, so the setting sun would bring golden light and warmth in the afternoon. My brown tabby cat, whom I had named Stella, was currently in her small bed, sleeping next to the radiator. 

I went to the bathroom to take off my makeup, a sweet relief which could only be closely followed by taking off the entrapments of a bra. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and couldn’t help but to pick at my skin imperfections. Squeezing pimples was a nasty habit that I developed during my early tween years and found that I could never drop it.

My green eyes looked back at me. My lips and my eyes were always my favorite features of my face. I loved decorating my face with makeup. I always just got the cheap shit from the drugstore. Once a year I would splurge on a fancy perfume, usually around Christmas or my birthday. 

I ran a brush through my ginger hair which was slightly wavy, but not curly. I had bleached it once at sixteen but had let it fade since. I was debating cutting bangs now. I went back to the living area and grabbed a pack of Parliaments. 

I stepped out onto the fire escape, lighting a cigarette. I rubbed my shoulders, forgetting the chill. The city ambience washed over my body while I inhaled the nicotine. I had dreams once of being a journalist, imagining myself chasing down stories and criminals. That was quickly buried by the time I turned fifteen. I didn’t really know what I wanted to do with my life. 

I flicked my cigarette off the balcony and stepped back through the window. I grabbed a knit blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders. I grabbed a beer out of the fridge, put a record on, and sat behind my typewriter. Even though my dreams of being a journalist disappeared, my love for writing never did. When I felt as though I was lost in life, aimless and depressed, I turned to writing. This meant I had dozens of unfinished stories scattered throughout the apartment. 

Most nights I would open a beer and sit in front of the television, watching whatever was on. Sleep would lull my eyes shut after a while and I would stumble to my bed, slip my pajamas on and flop onto my queen size bed which miraculously I had found on the side of the street. I had snatched it up, lugging it all the way home, cursing and crying under its tremendous weight. I saved up to buy a bed frame second hand for it. I did a thorough inspection of the mattress but two years later and I haven’t gotten bugs or itches from it. Being broke makes a person desperate. 

Once my beer reached the bottom of the bottle and my paper ran out of room on the typewriter, I decided to call it a night. I took a hot shower, and got into bed. After a few minutes I felt Stella jump up, meowing her presence to me.

[woodsteingirl]

it’s been like two weeks and i have not received my complimentary new yorker tote bag. WHAT am i paying four dollars for then 😐

[fanficsiwillneverwrite]

A disgruntled cab driver shouts profanities at the Doctor as he exits the Tardis. And he waves at him, carelessly, obliviously. He’s parked in the middle of the road.Again.

People stare as he licks his finger then checks the air. “Oh. Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me,” he says, approaching a less than enthused couple walking the pavement. “New York”—and a car honks furiously as it's forced to maneuver around the Tardis—“City. Manhattan.” The man shoves him; the woman clutches her purse. They speed off, and the Doctor moves onto the next person: an elderly woman with a lumpy tote bag. He sniffs the air. “Ooh, New Year's Eve. What fun!” She hits him with her bag. He recovers, easily, and dances onto the next person waking past, a teenage boy with ripped jeans and a mullet. “1987! Wonderful!”

He spots River smirking at him in the distance, her diary in hand. She tried to kill Hitler and nearly succeeded in ending his own life last he saw her, and now she’s here undoubtedly causing chaos in New York. Her eyes brighten as he approaches; she’s still so new. She doesn’t know him yet. Not really. “Hello sweetie,” she greets in her usual way.

She moves in for a kiss and he nearly gives in before memories of their last encounter come flooding back to him. Poison. Regeneration. All that Time Lord mumbo-jumbo. He slides a finger in between their lips to stop the motion. And they stand like that, frozen in time as New Yorkers shove past them uncaring. River’s brow furrows in confusion. But he’s already moving on, his attention now on the cold wind blowing around them. “Thursday. 7PM.” He skips away, giddy. “Oh, wonderful. Just wonderful!”

She frowns, following. “What is?”

“Oh, nothing,” he says as he begins to hop, having been distracted by a smeared hopscotch chalk drawing along the path. “Just the end of the world is all. I’ll get to it eventually.”

She stops. “Eventually?”

He waves it off, uncaring. “Yeah. I’m handling it.”

She opens her mouth to protest. He kisses her so there’s no lecture. Oh, how he hates lectures. River melts in his arms and suddenly all he cares about is how perfectly well they fit together, her hands on his cheeks, his arms wrapped around her waist. They’re the only people in this universe—

“Coming through!” And they break apart quickly as some pink blob skateboards pass them. It’s a girl. A young one at that. Younger than his usual crowd, which is odd. She holds up the Doctor’s psychic paper as people frantically jump out of her way. “Don’t wanna die? Move out of my way!”

The Doctor laughs, pointing at the girl. “See, I told you I was handling it.”

“Who was that?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”