Today, I started selling my books, the ones with the frayed edges, the yellowing pages. They have been sitting on my shelf, collecting dust, feeling neglected. I hope to sell them to a young girl, so she can learn what I’ve learned. Maybe she will come to love those ruined pages just like I have.
Today, I started selling my old books. The one with the frayed book ends, the ones with the yellowing pages. They will hopefully go to someone who will appreciate them just as much as I did. But I know that they won’t, really.
Caitlin
Noble actions are nothing more than sins just being born in thought. Selling the mind a trusting illusion to become while the true reality fades away, into the darkened desires of the corrupted heart. I’ve never known myself to be once dead of mind. I’ve never realized how alive humanity is.
you gave your soul to highest bidder
the most attention now makes him the winner
no matter how much I tried
or where I did or what I said
nothing was ever enough
Josh Miller
I started selling my soul when I reached the peak of my adolescence. That is to say when I started grumping around as my parents called it, and caring about what other people thought. None of it was intentional – it just happened.
Jack Hargreaves
a young manis selling apples on a food market corner, they are bright and shiny and taste super juicy everyone is in a good mood and enjoying the beautiful weather that has persisted throughout the day no one could be any happier
kimberly coulton
selling is giving something to someone in exchange for money
goods services opposite of buying, trying to convince someone to buy something your selling, trying to convince them it will be good for them
nicole
“You’re selling it?”
“I’m selling everything.”
The piece of chipped china, worn smooth from fingers grabbing at its handle, wearing at the blue flowers etched onto its surface, was a trinket.
“I still can’t believe you’re going,” she said, each word embossed with “Please don’t go.”
If I ever feel like I’m selling out, I’ll be ready to pack it in. I’d like to believe that I don’t have a price, that there’s nothing that would tempt me away from the things I believe to be true, from what I know in my heart.
Andie
I don’t know what you are selling, but I don’t want any of it today. I just want to get away from your constant bullshit and exaggerations. You don’t even want to earn a living with dignity, instead you prey on the weak and distracted souls of our city.
did you sell your soul to the devil at the crossroads
where the two paths met
and the lowly walkers with their back sore
and their eyes shielded
from the blinding sun
met and spitting
by the side of the road
they continue without so much
of a hi
is that where you gave your life to evil
for a dime and a quarter?
He wasn’t very experienced with working in a store. In fact, he hadn’t ever thought to consider what it means to sell things as an occupation, let alone in a single location, and if the bookkeeping didn’t drive him mad, the need to keep track of his customers did. He feels a deep sense of regret, now, for taking on this job.
Crossy
I saw an old lady, toothless, with a gold glinting eye
waving patchwork against the azure sky
she flagged down the passerby with a bent and crooked arm
beckoned with a wordless sound and her worn but useful charm
they all walked past, casting stray thread glances
her stitching was thin and delicate, of honey-maple handsome
but her hands were old, and trembling, it has been years
since she made the last stitch.
Bussness, marketing, selling products. So much things to do. That’s what Michael’s dad wants him to take in college. He said it was a really sure profit. It’s the right thing to do. He said yes.
There is no way he can’t say no. His father was always right. Even his mother can’t say no either.
In Michael’s room, there are so many paintings, his woek of art. Canvases are in the other area, paintbrushes, crayons, oil pastels. He knew his father won’t let him take Fine Arts. He will say, that’s not a sure thing. But painting is his life, not selling some other products.
Here and there and everywhere in between there were merchants selling their wares. Brightly colored silks from beyond the Aradian mountains, exotic herbs and spices from across the Black Sea, not to mention the fares our own land was so adept at providing. Leathers dyed in every color from the valley, gems mined from the southern caverns. Here, in Andraste, there was everything. It was easy to lose yourself in.
But it was even easier to lose someone else.
selling one’s self…selling for survival…selling one’s self short…I don’t like sales. I don’t like hearing no. I don’t like feeling like I’m pressuring people.
Heather
Jackson peered through the trees. Janice inched in beside him and stared at the strangely dressed people dancing around the fire in the clearing below.
“There it is,” Jackson whispered and Janice nodded as she spotted the small, golden statue sitting on a carved slab with candles glowing around it.
“How do we get it without being seen?” she asked softly.
“Soon as they finish their ceremony, the statue is moved into that cave over there.”
Janice glanced at the dark hole in the wall.
“Is it guarded?”
“It is…and we’ll be selling our souls stealing it. Once I have it in my hands, we’ll have only 15 minutes to get back to the boat with it before someone notices it’s gone and gives chase. Don’t look back when I say to run…just do it. Get yourself on that boat.”
Mouths connect and clothes come off. You’re taking it slow tonight. You know you’ve won and soon we will have many more meetings like this. That smug sexy smile of yours never leaves as you push me down and grope my naked breasts. I can’t help the moans that escape from my mouth. It has been too long since we’ve last made love. You kiss my pale stomach and whisper sweet words into my ear, promising me things that I know will never happen. I open my legs and you step between them, staring into my eyes with unsated lust. Your wedding ring glitters in the dark, a faint reminder of what we are doing is wrong. I don’t care. I’ve sold my soul to the devil. I have sold my soul to you.
Iris
Used carsalesman and real estate agents are unsurpassed in their ability to sell. It’s rather unfortunate, though, that working as a used car salesman is tantamount to selling your soul.
Selling happens a lot in this country. As a capitalist society, buying and selling makes the country tick. We are always looking to pass off what we have for what we do not have. When we do, we are left to think, “What now?” It is a very empty style of living. We sell out souls.
Rachael
You push me farther and farther back into a corner. Your salesman pitch isn’t working, I can see right through your tweed jacket and fancy briefcase, but I have no choice. I cannot kick you out, I don’t even know where the front door is anymore. The look in your eye tells me it’s only a matter of time before you sell me out, and I can’t do a single thing about it.
What are you selling? they demand. Nothing. I’m handing out flyers. I haven’t got a clipboard, or a donation box. “Good day, would you like a flyer? No?” I smile and the happy people on the glossy paper smile but my smile fades as I watch the people on the street walk past, following the same trajectories but a few seconds apart, never meeting. They don’t want random input in their lives, do they?
I count that about one in five passerby take a flyer. There is conveniently a rubbish bin a few steps down and some don’t hesitate to unburden themselves immediately. I consider relocating. A child looks up at me curiously and holds his hands up towards me, but his mom drags him away, “don’t take things from strangers, honey.”
It’s a social experiment. A random inspirational quote on each flyer, with a link to a website, tell us where this quote took you today! But I guess everyone is sticking to the beaten path.
I’m here selling memberships and trying to get people to see the value in this. They say you gotta beleive in it in order for other people to believe, and it reminds me of Peter Pan and fairy tales – shit I don’t believe in. So that’s how I know i’m in the wrong place.
I like to not spend my weekends thinking about work but here it is, the “oneword.com” of the day: selling.
LOL it’s such a major FML moment.
FraudulentTruth
I sell things for a living. I sell my opinions about romance novels. I sell memberships to customers. I would sell my soul for a better job and apartment- if I believed in a soul.
khadija
I remember very little from my childhood. There are passing glimpses, sometimes, of fresh grass and daisies. When I close my eyes, I feel love. Love. Love. When I think harder, I remember selling lemonade on the road for 25 cents. I made 25 cents that day.
There was a man I knew that lived at the end of the lane. An old peddler man, with gruff on his face and in his voice with that skin that you knew probably has seen the Sahara and a thousand battles. We called him the vagabond because Joy thought it was a romantic sort of mystery name, but I can tell you that I saw no romance in those grey eyes. We would watch him ride by, most of the time on his bike, and sometimes in his truck. He would narrow his eyes as he passed our house, in what looked half like concentration and half complete anger. I’m not sure ill ever know why he hated us so, but I do know that at the end of the night he would come home in a more jovial mood. It was on one of these nights that he patted my head and laughed and said with his wins blown voice, “It’ll get you too one day, lass. And then you’ll wonder how you ever survived.” From his coat pocket he drew out a penny, and in that rough Scottish voice he whispered, “I’m selling this penny for a dollar. It’ll make you rich. Why, with tos piece of copper, you’ll be the richest lass in the county. Your dreams will come true. Your nightmares too.” He leaned closer, with something like lightning in his eye. “And who would dare put a price on dreams?”
Ku'uipo
They were selling their house at a huge loss because they had treated it like an ATM for so many years, pulling potential profit out with each re-financing. Now they were over a million in the hole and had to dump their family home. No one to blame but themselves. Maybe they can try to remember what it was like to be “just” people and live in the real world and re-build their lives. Or… maybe it’s too late for them. Only time will tell.
From the begging I know I was selling out my own luck. Almost throwing it away even. Every time I gambled a new card, every time I paid for a new session. I was draining everything I had. But as life had I didn’t care what happened. come hell or high water, I would do this.
JAC
selling sex, i can’t help but think. maybe because i was just reading erotica. i feel dumb think that but i think of whats not dumb. books. you know thosebooks that arereally good but then they’re just filled with smut and you feel the worlds should never mix. i guess sexuality and intellegt are wished apart.
Fifteen Female
She looked in the store at the magnificent amount of clothing she wish she had the money for. All of the days on the street had led to a life of selling herself just to feel that little ounce of confidence and pride to make herself feel worthy of a mannequin lifestyle.
Chelsea
Selling is an art form. Only a few chosen people can be sellers. Most of us are buyers in a sellers a world. One needs to be persuasive charismatic and they must have been cut throatattit ude. They must be willing to sell their sole to be the king of selling.
Zachary
Selling. It is giving something away. Lettin go of something. A goodbye, a God be with you. I don’t like goodbyes.
zsolt
They were selling their house when the buyer all of sudden changed his mind, and said that he was no longer interested in purchasing the house. They were flabbergasted! Ho
Aida
The man selling the iPod to the impatient customer was missing Thanksgiving at his family’s house, where the barbecued turkey with served with thick gravy, and his son sang a little tune as a substitute for grace before making a stereotypical volcano out of his mashed potatoes. And the customer who was being sold the iPod was ignoring his wife on Thanksgiving, even after she had made him the stuffing that he loved so much, because he was bored with his current music player and wanted a new one now, right now, right freaking now.
Belinda Roddie
But I digress… Selling. It’s just the roof over my head, the food on my table, those clichés that pay the dues, you know, the rent required to live here on planet Earth. But the reason…the real reason I keep going is not only the blind push to live that is within all living organisms — or at least I like to think that — the real reason has to do with what I’m interested in which, strangely is nothing I have control over…
I stood on the street corner, considering the lights of the city bustling around me in the crisp night air. Wondering as the people rushed passed where there might be another like me. Another who could see past the noise and distraction, another who could ignore the peddlers of the world, selling blissful ignorance.
Where could I find that ignorance? Such a high price I would pay for it, because wouldn’t it be better…not knowing? Wouldn’t it be better to walk, lost in the world, unseeing and blind to the turmoil underneath.
I sighed, pulling up my hood against the rain the had begun to fall, light and misting. I was not so blessed.
Jennifer Cavin
The reason I wake, but not the reason I keep going. The only thing I feel I do, but never am I motivated by this. Fake smiles and smooth lines don’t amount to much. However it does amount to the loss of one’s soul if in too deep. But, I digress…
Today, I started selling my books, the ones with the frayed edges, the yellowing pages. They have been sitting on my shelf, collecting dust, feeling neglected. I hope to sell them to a young girl, so she can learn what I’ve learned. Maybe she will come to love those ruined pages just like I have.
Today, I started selling my old books. The one with the frayed book ends, the ones with the yellowing pages. They will hopefully go to someone who will appreciate them just as much as I did. But I know that they won’t, really.
Noble actions are nothing more than sins just being born in thought. Selling the mind a trusting illusion to become while the true reality fades away, into the darkened desires of the corrupted heart. I’ve never known myself to be once dead of mind. I’ve never realized how alive humanity is.
you gave your soul to highest bidder
the most attention now makes him the winner
no matter how much I tried
or where I did or what I said
nothing was ever enough
I started selling my soul when I reached the peak of my adolescence. That is to say when I started grumping around as my parents called it, and caring about what other people thought. None of it was intentional – it just happened.
a young manis selling apples on a food market corner, they are bright and shiny and taste super juicy everyone is in a good mood and enjoying the beautiful weather that has persisted throughout the day no one could be any happier
selling is giving something to someone in exchange for money
goods services opposite of buying, trying to convince someone to buy something your selling, trying to convince them it will be good for them
“You’re selling it?”
“I’m selling everything.”
The piece of chipped china, worn smooth from fingers grabbing at its handle, wearing at the blue flowers etched onto its surface, was a trinket.
“I still can’t believe you’re going,” she said, each word embossed with “Please don’t go.”
If I ever feel like I’m selling out, I’ll be ready to pack it in. I’d like to believe that I don’t have a price, that there’s nothing that would tempt me away from the things I believe to be true, from what I know in my heart.
I don’t know what you are selling, but I don’t want any of it today. I just want to get away from your constant bullshit and exaggerations. You don’t even want to earn a living with dignity, instead you prey on the weak and distracted souls of our city.
did you sell your soul to the devil at the crossroads
where the two paths met
and the lowly walkers with their back sore
and their eyes shielded
from the blinding sun
met and spitting
by the side of the road
they continue without so much
of a hi
is that where you gave your life to evil
for a dime and a quarter?
He wasn’t very experienced with working in a store. In fact, he hadn’t ever thought to consider what it means to sell things as an occupation, let alone in a single location, and if the bookkeeping didn’t drive him mad, the need to keep track of his customers did. He feels a deep sense of regret, now, for taking on this job.
I saw an old lady, toothless, with a gold glinting eye
waving patchwork against the azure sky
she flagged down the passerby with a bent and crooked arm
beckoned with a wordless sound and her worn but useful charm
they all walked past, casting stray thread glances
her stitching was thin and delicate, of honey-maple handsome
but her hands were old, and trembling, it has been years
since she made the last stitch.
Bussness, marketing, selling products. So much things to do. That’s what Michael’s dad wants him to take in college. He said it was a really sure profit. It’s the right thing to do. He said yes.
There is no way he can’t say no. His father was always right. Even his mother can’t say no either.
In Michael’s room, there are so many paintings, his woek of art. Canvases are in the other area, paintbrushes, crayons, oil pastels. He knew his father won’t let him take Fine Arts. He will say, that’s not a sure thing. But painting is his life, not selling some other products.
Here and there and everywhere in between there were merchants selling their wares. Brightly colored silks from beyond the Aradian mountains, exotic herbs and spices from across the Black Sea, not to mention the fares our own land was so adept at providing. Leathers dyed in every color from the valley, gems mined from the southern caverns. Here, in Andraste, there was everything. It was easy to lose yourself in.
But it was even easier to lose someone else.
selling one’s self…selling for survival…selling one’s self short…I don’t like sales. I don’t like hearing no. I don’t like feeling like I’m pressuring people.
Jackson peered through the trees. Janice inched in beside him and stared at the strangely dressed people dancing around the fire in the clearing below.
“There it is,” Jackson whispered and Janice nodded as she spotted the small, golden statue sitting on a carved slab with candles glowing around it.
“How do we get it without being seen?” she asked softly.
“Soon as they finish their ceremony, the statue is moved into that cave over there.”
Janice glanced at the dark hole in the wall.
“Is it guarded?”
“It is…and we’ll be selling our souls stealing it. Once I have it in my hands, we’ll have only 15 minutes to get back to the boat with it before someone notices it’s gone and gives chase. Don’t look back when I say to run…just do it. Get yourself on that boat.”
Mouths connect and clothes come off. You’re taking it slow tonight. You know you’ve won and soon we will have many more meetings like this. That smug sexy smile of yours never leaves as you push me down and grope my naked breasts. I can’t help the moans that escape from my mouth. It has been too long since we’ve last made love. You kiss my pale stomach and whisper sweet words into my ear, promising me things that I know will never happen. I open my legs and you step between them, staring into my eyes with unsated lust. Your wedding ring glitters in the dark, a faint reminder of what we are doing is wrong. I don’t care. I’ve sold my soul to the devil. I have sold my soul to you.
Used carsalesman and real estate agents are unsurpassed in their ability to sell. It’s rather unfortunate, though, that working as a used car salesman is tantamount to selling your soul.
Selling happens a lot in this country. As a capitalist society, buying and selling makes the country tick. We are always looking to pass off what we have for what we do not have. When we do, we are left to think, “What now?” It is a very empty style of living. We sell out souls.
You push me farther and farther back into a corner. Your salesman pitch isn’t working, I can see right through your tweed jacket and fancy briefcase, but I have no choice. I cannot kick you out, I don’t even know where the front door is anymore. The look in your eye tells me it’s only a matter of time before you sell me out, and I can’t do a single thing about it.
I’m here selling these fine leather jackets.
The man was selling knives. Beautiful, silvery things, they were.
But they failed to keep him safe from the bullet.
A gunshot was heard. Everyone panicked. The madman who shot the vendor was brought to jail. He’s to be hanged.
It’s quite boring in this cell of mine.I just hope death comes soon.
Sailing, felling, shelling, falling. Sold. Gone. Done.
What are you selling? they demand. Nothing. I’m handing out flyers. I haven’t got a clipboard, or a donation box. “Good day, would you like a flyer? No?” I smile and the happy people on the glossy paper smile but my smile fades as I watch the people on the street walk past, following the same trajectories but a few seconds apart, never meeting. They don’t want random input in their lives, do they?
I count that about one in five passerby take a flyer. There is conveniently a rubbish bin a few steps down and some don’t hesitate to unburden themselves immediately. I consider relocating. A child looks up at me curiously and holds his hands up towards me, but his mom drags him away, “don’t take things from strangers, honey.”
It’s a social experiment. A random inspirational quote on each flyer, with a link to a website, tell us where this quote took you today! But I guess everyone is sticking to the beaten path.
I’m here selling memberships and trying to get people to see the value in this. They say you gotta beleive in it in order for other people to believe, and it reminds me of Peter Pan and fairy tales – shit I don’t believe in. So that’s how I know i’m in the wrong place.
I like to not spend my weekends thinking about work but here it is, the “oneword.com” of the day: selling.
LOL it’s such a major FML moment.
I sell things for a living. I sell my opinions about romance novels. I sell memberships to customers. I would sell my soul for a better job and apartment- if I believed in a soul.
I remember very little from my childhood. There are passing glimpses, sometimes, of fresh grass and daisies. When I close my eyes, I feel love. Love. Love. When I think harder, I remember selling lemonade on the road for 25 cents. I made 25 cents that day.
There was a man I knew that lived at the end of the lane. An old peddler man, with gruff on his face and in his voice with that skin that you knew probably has seen the Sahara and a thousand battles. We called him the vagabond because Joy thought it was a romantic sort of mystery name, but I can tell you that I saw no romance in those grey eyes. We would watch him ride by, most of the time on his bike, and sometimes in his truck. He would narrow his eyes as he passed our house, in what looked half like concentration and half complete anger. I’m not sure ill ever know why he hated us so, but I do know that at the end of the night he would come home in a more jovial mood. It was on one of these nights that he patted my head and laughed and said with his wins blown voice, “It’ll get you too one day, lass. And then you’ll wonder how you ever survived.” From his coat pocket he drew out a penny, and in that rough Scottish voice he whispered, “I’m selling this penny for a dollar. It’ll make you rich. Why, with tos piece of copper, you’ll be the richest lass in the county. Your dreams will come true. Your nightmares too.” He leaned closer, with something like lightning in his eye. “And who would dare put a price on dreams?”
They were selling their house at a huge loss because they had treated it like an ATM for so many years, pulling potential profit out with each re-financing. Now they were over a million in the hole and had to dump their family home. No one to blame but themselves. Maybe they can try to remember what it was like to be “just” people and live in the real world and re-build their lives. Or… maybe it’s too late for them. Only time will tell.
From the begging I know I was selling out my own luck. Almost throwing it away even. Every time I gambled a new card, every time I paid for a new session. I was draining everything I had. But as life had I didn’t care what happened. come hell or high water, I would do this.
selling sex, i can’t help but think. maybe because i was just reading erotica. i feel dumb think that but i think of whats not dumb. books. you know thosebooks that arereally good but then they’re just filled with smut and you feel the worlds should never mix. i guess sexuality and intellegt are wished apart.
She looked in the store at the magnificent amount of clothing she wish she had the money for. All of the days on the street had led to a life of selling herself just to feel that little ounce of confidence and pride to make herself feel worthy of a mannequin lifestyle.
Selling is an art form. Only a few chosen people can be sellers. Most of us are buyers in a sellers a world. One needs to be persuasive charismatic and they must have been cut throatattit ude. They must be willing to sell their sole to be the king of selling.
Selling. It is giving something away. Lettin go of something. A goodbye, a God be with you. I don’t like goodbyes.
They were selling their house when the buyer all of sudden changed his mind, and said that he was no longer interested in purchasing the house. They were flabbergasted! Ho
The man selling the iPod to the impatient customer was missing Thanksgiving at his family’s house, where the barbecued turkey with served with thick gravy, and his son sang a little tune as a substitute for grace before making a stereotypical volcano out of his mashed potatoes. And the customer who was being sold the iPod was ignoring his wife on Thanksgiving, even after she had made him the stuffing that he loved so much, because he was bored with his current music player and wanted a new one now, right now, right freaking now.
But I digress… Selling. It’s just the roof over my head, the food on my table, those clichés that pay the dues, you know, the rent required to live here on planet Earth. But the reason…the real reason I keep going is not only the blind push to live that is within all living organisms — or at least I like to think that — the real reason has to do with what I’m interested in which, strangely is nothing I have control over…
I stood on the street corner, considering the lights of the city bustling around me in the crisp night air. Wondering as the people rushed passed where there might be another like me. Another who could see past the noise and distraction, another who could ignore the peddlers of the world, selling blissful ignorance.
Where could I find that ignorance? Such a high price I would pay for it, because wouldn’t it be better…not knowing? Wouldn’t it be better to walk, lost in the world, unseeing and blind to the turmoil underneath.
I sighed, pulling up my hood against the rain the had begun to fall, light and misting. I was not so blessed.
The reason I wake, but not the reason I keep going. The only thing I feel I do, but never am I motivated by this. Fake smiles and smooth lines don’t amount to much. However it does amount to the loss of one’s soul if in too deep. But, I digress…