selling isn’t a word i like. i don’t like having to sell to people, and i don’t want people selling anything to me. give me things! that would be much better. let people gravitate naturally toward things/nouns/concepts they enjoy and let them explore from there. none of this selling/convincing stuff. not my style?
what are you trying to sell me are you some kind of salesman of scams and false hope are you selling yourself out ar eyou selling out your friends your family your memories the faith you once had in yourself what are you trying to sell me on don’t pretend you have anything that’s never been done before just sit back and shut up
Emma
Sell, sell, sell. Lie, lie, lie.
“Your job here is to take chicken shit and turn it into chicken fucking salad!”
I should have known after the first bleary-eyed ride in the white van fit for a rapist that this wasn’t the job for me. But then again, I am always willing to give a job that advertises $800 a week a fair chance.
Buying, selling, buying selling, Jesus Christ, doe it ever stop? The flow of commerce all around, at any given time, is unfathomable. Just think, that person next to you in the cafe (from which you just bought your morning coffee), the one on his phone, could be buying a car, or a house, or even 30 small gifts for orphan babies in Kenya for all you know.
Selling is a universal language spoken by all people groups on the face of the earth. Every occupation, every human interaction involves some kind of selling. No its not always tangible goods so often it is one person selling another person on their ideas, their plans, their believes.
The main selling point was that it could glow in the dark and fly. These things made it easier to find after it escaped from the user’s grasp in the middle of the night.
Jill
I don’t know what she’s been selling online, but apparently it’s been enough to pay her bills, and she tells me that she’ll never just “cash out,” so I’m assuming she doesn’t need my financial assistance come wintertime. This makes my heart feel all spring-like.
I don’t normally buy much. There’s so much to buy, that I could wind up moneyless in a day. But when this bloke came around selling, well, I shouldn’t even tell you what he was selling. Not here, like this. But when he came around, and he showed me what he had, I had a reaction I never expected to have. After I bought everything he had, I paid him more—to show me where he got it all.
“We aren’t interested in whatever you’re selling.” The woman said roughly, making to close the door.
I stuck my foot in the door frame. “I’m sorry, but I’m not selling anything. I’m here to see Harry Williams?”
The woman shook her head. “You’re certainly insistent. I’ll go get him.” She turned back to the house. “Harry!” She shouted over her shoulder. “You have a visitor.” She turned back to me. “Do you have a name I can give him?”
I nodded. “I do, but he won’t recognize it. We’ve never met before.”
The woman looked puzzled. “Well…um, come on in.” She let me into the house.
A balding man who looked about fifty walked around the corner, looking disheveled and tired. “What is it Kelly? I need to finish this chapter by tonight otherwise I’ll never finish my book on time.”
Kelly, the woman, motioned to me. “She wanted to see you. Hasn’t given me a name.” Kelly left the room.
I looked at the man. He had the same face as the man in the photograph I’ve been carrying around all my life, only with more lines around his mouth and less light in his eyes.
“Dad?” I held out the photograph.
“Christine.” He breathed.
She was selling everything she owned, and nobody knew why. They couldn’t know that she was scrounging up every penny she could in order to disappear. There was no way for them to know that her flight left at midnight, and this was the last time anyone of them would see her alive.
When I went selling in the market i began to wonder why i had chosen this destiny. i do not know where i’m going but i do believe i will make it there one day. who on earth is selling ski poles? where are they? do they want to trade? how many high fives can they handle? how do you do?
“You’re selling it?”
The chipped cup, china worn smooth by fingers pressing into its blue-glazed handle, weighed in her hands like cement.
“I’m selling everything, Johanna.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not mine to keep.”
“And that makes it yours to sell?”
Selling in, selling out. Moving forward without looking back. Letting go with the reimbursement of building a new future. A way out. Permanence. Capitalism.
Hannah
She wasn’t one to mince and convince with sweet words and constructive promises, and she never really understood why people couldn’t work out the value for themselves, and so knowing themselves better than others, be both the seller and the sold to.
But then looking at mismatch of the data created, and the lies they told themselves, it seemed people were as ignorant about themselves as they were about their world. Perhaps it was a good thing the data does the selling after all.
I’m not interested in what you’re selling; cheap drinks, boozy sweat, flashing lights, waking up with a mouth that feels like poison and a hot ball of regret roiling in my gut, disguised as glamour and youth.
lauren
Its easy to believe in what they hold up
Easy to look up and smile
and scream at everything inside
the fire is wreching
and the days are raining
One thousand more days, more one thousand dollars.
Another dark night, another hard caller.
Giving it up. Laying it down.
Your body and soul
entertaining the town.
If only the anthem did not sing for money.
Perhaps then your insides would not be so bloody.
But that was then, and now you want to know
how much you can take, how far you can go.
Which will give out first and fall apart —
Flesh and bones?
Or mind and heart?
Of all your
marketable talents
sharp skills
and rare gifts
you decide your soul
is the part
to to give?
Have you yet fathomed
the price paid
for that soul?
He was selling apples. Green, ripe apples. Amy took one, polished it against her shirt, the red contrasting with the green in the most delightful manner.
nina
Another day, another failure. I packed up my stuff, my smile, in the embossed briefcase they gave me when I signed up for what was called “the most rewarding job in the world.” A long sigh punctuated my chipper sales pitch echoing through my mind. I can’t take it much longer. The boss walked in, with the same forced smile as the one I caught a glimpse of in the reflection of my golden ‘Employee of the Month’ plaque, and handed me a stack of papers. “Thank you for being such a hard worker!” His words rung in my head, aching.
They were selling things on the street. Seven glanced wide-eyed around her, trying not to flinch back as the shameless bodies vied for her attention, her money.
All that you have was bought all that you will have you will buy. the only thing that is in your mind is money. oh ,no, how to buy something new… cheaper… or something more expensive (you deserve it)
OlgaQavenir
All over the market they were selling and buying of produce. The farmers were please that at last they have got the recognition that they deserve, and were thankful to all those who had patronize them.
I could not believe she would stand in the park selling. Selling her crazy idea on a Sunday! A park in the middle of the city, an international city where parent stake their kids to buy ice creams and walk and she is selling her crazy idea of blow up bras!
The selling point of the movie pitch came when the main character died – halfway through the second act of the script. And I don’t mean in an incredible way. I mean in a matter-of-fact, natural causes way. Death in sleep. And the character that was meant to be the protagonist stepped out from the shadows.
“So…?”
The screenwriter smiled. “She is reborn.”
Belinda Roddie
sometimes I like to sell my things to make money and then i always think that i want to donate those things to homeless people but i always end up buying more things and selling them for more money later on. its a continuous cycle that i can never seem to find an end to. one day i hope to sell something big like a house or a mountain bike so that I can travel across the world. but first i need a job to buy new things so that I can sell them and make money :)
selling isn’t a word i like. i don’t like having to sell to people, and i don’t want people selling anything to me. give me things! that would be much better. let people gravitate naturally toward things/nouns/concepts they enjoy and let them explore from there. none of this selling/convincing stuff. not my style?
“What? I’m not selling anything.” The young man looked perplexed, standing on the doorstep.
“I don’t want anything for free either.” I started to close the door.
“Wait! I’m your son!” He shouted, shoving his foot in the closing door.
I stopped. “That’s preposterous! I don’t have a son. I’ve never had any children.”
“It was while you were at White Hall.”
I stopped and opened the door with a shaking hand. No one had mentioned that place to me in over 20 years.
what are you trying to sell me are you some kind of salesman of scams and false hope are you selling yourself out ar eyou selling out your friends your family your memories the faith you once had in yourself what are you trying to sell me on don’t pretend you have anything that’s never been done before just sit back and shut up
Sell, sell, sell. Lie, lie, lie.
“Your job here is to take chicken shit and turn it into chicken fucking salad!”
I should have known after the first bleary-eyed ride in the white van fit for a rapist that this wasn’t the job for me. But then again, I am always willing to give a job that advertises $800 a week a fair chance.
Buying, selling, buying selling, Jesus Christ, doe it ever stop? The flow of commerce all around, at any given time, is unfathomable. Just think, that person next to you in the cafe (from which you just bought your morning coffee), the one on his phone, could be buying a car, or a house, or even 30 small gifts for orphan babies in Kenya for all you know.
Selling is a universal language spoken by all people groups on the face of the earth. Every occupation, every human interaction involves some kind of selling. No its not always tangible goods so often it is one person selling another person on their ideas, their plans, their believes.
The main selling point was that it could glow in the dark and fly. These things made it easier to find after it escaped from the user’s grasp in the middle of the night.
I don’t know what she’s been selling online, but apparently it’s been enough to pay her bills, and she tells me that she’ll never just “cash out,” so I’m assuming she doesn’t need my financial assistance come wintertime. This makes my heart feel all spring-like.
“I’m not here to buy what you’re selling,” she said crossly. With one impatient hand, she stuffed her money pouch back into her pocket.
I don’t normally buy much. There’s so much to buy, that I could wind up moneyless in a day. But when this bloke came around selling, well, I shouldn’t even tell you what he was selling. Not here, like this. But when he came around, and he showed me what he had, I had a reaction I never expected to have. After I bought everything he had, I paid him more—to show me where he got it all.
“We aren’t interested in whatever you’re selling.” The woman said roughly, making to close the door.
I stuck my foot in the door frame. “I’m sorry, but I’m not selling anything. I’m here to see Harry Williams?”
The woman shook her head. “You’re certainly insistent. I’ll go get him.” She turned back to the house. “Harry!” She shouted over her shoulder. “You have a visitor.” She turned back to me. “Do you have a name I can give him?”
I nodded. “I do, but he won’t recognize it. We’ve never met before.”
The woman looked puzzled. “Well…um, come on in.” She let me into the house.
A balding man who looked about fifty walked around the corner, looking disheveled and tired. “What is it Kelly? I need to finish this chapter by tonight otherwise I’ll never finish my book on time.”
Kelly, the woman, motioned to me. “She wanted to see you. Hasn’t given me a name.” Kelly left the room.
I looked at the man. He had the same face as the man in the photograph I’ve been carrying around all my life, only with more lines around his mouth and less light in his eyes.
“Dad?” I held out the photograph.
“Christine.” He breathed.
She was selling everything she owned, and nobody knew why. They couldn’t know that she was scrounging up every penny she could in order to disappear. There was no way for them to know that her flight left at midnight, and this was the last time anyone of them would see her alive.
When I went selling in the market i began to wonder why i had chosen this destiny. i do not know where i’m going but i do believe i will make it there one day. who on earth is selling ski poles? where are they? do they want to trade? how many high fives can they handle? how do you do?
“You’re selling it?”
The chipped cup, china worn smooth by fingers pressing into its blue-glazed handle, weighed in her hands like cement.
“I’m selling everything, Johanna.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not mine to keep.”
“And that makes it yours to sell?”
Selling in, selling out. Moving forward without looking back. Letting go with the reimbursement of building a new future. A way out. Permanence. Capitalism.
She wasn’t one to mince and convince with sweet words and constructive promises, and she never really understood why people couldn’t work out the value for themselves, and so knowing themselves better than others, be both the seller and the sold to.
But then looking at mismatch of the data created, and the lies they told themselves, it seemed people were as ignorant about themselves as they were about their world. Perhaps it was a good thing the data does the selling after all.
I’m not interested in what you’re selling; cheap drinks, boozy sweat, flashing lights, waking up with a mouth that feels like poison and a hot ball of regret roiling in my gut, disguised as glamour and youth.
Its easy to believe in what they hold up
Easy to look up and smile
and scream at everything inside
the fire is wreching
and the days are raining
One thousand more days, more one thousand dollars.
Another dark night, another hard caller.
Giving it up. Laying it down.
Your body and soul
entertaining the town.
If only the anthem did not sing for money.
Perhaps then your insides would not be so bloody.
But that was then, and now you want to know
how much you can take, how far you can go.
Which will give out first and fall apart —
Flesh and bones?
Or mind and heart?
Of all your
marketable talents
sharp skills
and rare gifts
you decide your soul
is the part
to to give?
Have you yet fathomed
the price paid
for that soul?
What was she selling? A silver necklace, embellished with a indigo stone hanging from the end. It was beautiful,
He was selling apples. Green, ripe apples. Amy took one, polished it against her shirt, the red contrasting with the green in the most delightful manner.
Another day, another failure. I packed up my stuff, my smile, in the embossed briefcase they gave me when I signed up for what was called “the most rewarding job in the world.” A long sigh punctuated my chipper sales pitch echoing through my mind. I can’t take it much longer. The boss walked in, with the same forced smile as the one I caught a glimpse of in the reflection of my golden ‘Employee of the Month’ plaque, and handed me a stack of papers. “Thank you for being such a hard worker!” His words rung in my head, aching.
They were selling things on the street. Seven glanced wide-eyed around her, trying not to flinch back as the shameless bodies vied for her attention, her money.
All that you have was bought all that you will have you will buy. the only thing that is in your mind is money. oh ,no, how to buy something new… cheaper… or something more expensive (you deserve it)
All over the market they were selling and buying of produce. The farmers were please that at last they have got the recognition that they deserve, and were thankful to all those who had patronize them.
I could not believe she would stand in the park selling. Selling her crazy idea on a Sunday! A park in the middle of the city, an international city where parent stake their kids to buy ice creams and walk and she is selling her crazy idea of blow up bras!
The selling point of the movie pitch came when the main character died – halfway through the second act of the script. And I don’t mean in an incredible way. I mean in a matter-of-fact, natural causes way. Death in sleep. And the character that was meant to be the protagonist stepped out from the shadows.
“So…?”
The screenwriter smiled. “She is reborn.”
sometimes I like to sell my things to make money and then i always think that i want to donate those things to homeless people but i always end up buying more things and selling them for more money later on. its a continuous cycle that i can never seem to find an end to. one day i hope to sell something big like a house or a mountain bike so that I can travel across the world. but first i need a job to buy new things so that I can sell them and make money :)