At the current rate, the estate of my heart will be worthless in a matter of months..
There must be something wrong structurally because I keep running off potential buyers..
I hate to think of estate sales, where someone dies and all their things get sold off. It makes me think of you, and how your family is here dealing with all the reminders of you. It makes me sad. It makes me miss your daughters’ smiles, and it makes me miss the summers at your barbecues, and the days when everyone was a bit more ok. Happy new year, I’m sorry you weren’t here to see it. We miss you.
The estate of Mrs. D was willed to her son: a man in his fifties, canoeing somewhere along the Amazon. After a short wait (two weeks), it was determined he had been destroyed by hippos. Amazingly, he also left a will: one dog, a small terrier, named Potato Chip inherited it all. The dog had survived the hippo attack and lived with natives in the Amazonian jungle for ten days. He’s a bit rough around the edges, but we who served Mrs. D find him to be incomparable.
I have never lived in anything truly huge, so of course when it was my luck to spend a summer at an enormous estate of a distant relative, I was thrilled. But then my luck turned – it was clear as day after that first night that the estate had some unpleasant history.
selling the souls of old folks is not a job for the weak. I took it because let’s face it, most other jobs in hell are as fun as a broken roller coaster in an otherwise perfect fantasy land theme park. I take the souls when they are at their most vulnerable, just after death and before they know what’s happening to them.
The grand house looms up slowly over the territory as I creep toward it. The Westin Estate, that’s what they called it, and it’s the scene of my latest case. Its foreboding shadow casts an eerie darkness over the ground, over my face and that of my sidekick. We inch closer, hoping to unfold the mystery and catch the culprit.
the grass rolled over hills that seemed to stretch for miles and miles, an ocean of well-tended greenery billowing like a cape around his father’s estate. children, his father would say with great satisfaction, need space to grow.
they also need friends, though, but nobody told Father that. so the boy grew up in a home that was more a castle than a house, exploring its grounds until he knew them like he knew his own name. he befriended oddly-shaped trees and interesting rocks he found on his travels, and his closest companion was the collie his father bought him when a maid mentioned, hesitantly, that solitude rarely looked good on children.
i wonder, if i could build estates. i can’t draw, i mean, and i absolutely cannot build… yes i’ve always been drawn to architecture, etc. sometimes i wonder what i was meant to do in life, like i can’t be a writer or an actress or a guidance counselor, but something bigger, something i just can’t see right now.
i planted an estate of weeds
let them wimper around the weak
stood in the garden and watched the tendrils
wrap around my toes
mingle with my leg hairs
pass my arse
over my chest, around my neck
down my nostrils and into my brain
resting in my thoughts of you
My estate will be very small. The biggest thing will be to determine the fate of my instruments and my music. But I don’t really care. Whatever happens, happens.
the empire has fallen
and the children are weeping
along the hag-tooth cobbles
that vein their footed past
like a gilded claw
startling awake the ashes
from past giants
When I think of estate I think of something a person owns. Such as when someone is selling their belongings they are having an estate sale. I associate the word estate to higher class indivuals although I don’t know why, because there is a trailer park with estates in it and it indeed does make it sound better!
It’s this big, bright beautiful thing, staring at you from the end of the tunnel. You can see the grounds and the flag and all those statements that mean, ‘this is mine’. You’ve always wanted something to be yours, but you have too many stars in your eyes, too much violence in the way your hands shake with every breath you take.
A place you call home. A place of quiet and solitude. A place where your family gathers. A place you want to pass on to your loved ones after you’re gone.
Your estate can be a term representing what you leave behind in this life. Your physical possessions, the relationships you’ve made, the career you’ve established, and everything else that you will be remembered by. We spend our whole lives trying to make our estates and our legacies a worthy way for people to remember us.
He went to the estate sale. He bought a mirror that was cursed. Every day and night he saw himself in it, but he was never happy. He was convinced the mirror was evil, that it was wicked, he threw out the mirror and washed his hands of superstitions. But he still wasn’t happy.
You don’t own me. I am my own person. You may own your TV, yor car, your stupid humor… But you’ll never own me. I will never be your estate. Not now. Not in a million years. Not ever.
This estate is worth loads of money and you want to exchange it for this little property in the outskirts of town. This is surely one of the worst of your ideas.
There was a long line for what was being auctioned off that day after the death of Mr. Higley. some items were never used… abandoned, as if it were the last distillery during a time when processes were manually implemented. Time, it seems, has shifted more toward mechanization and impersonalization and away from human kindness and personalization. however, given the remains of Mr. Higley, we are unaware.
This is what I leave to you–books, clothes, jewelry and more than than, I hope, ideals. How to live in this world, how to cherish people and nature, how to do the right thing, how to be a valuable person, how to make a mark, how to enjoy each day.
He walked around the estate sale looking for that perfect piece of jewelry. He eyed it across the table and reached for it. His hand met hers, reaching for the same piece. They looked at each other. He said, “Hello Cousin Rebecca.”
At the current rate, the estate of my heart will be worthless in a matter of months..
There must be something wrong structurally because I keep running off potential buyers..
I hate to think of estate sales, where someone dies and all their things get sold off. It makes me think of you, and how your family is here dealing with all the reminders of you. It makes me sad. It makes me miss your daughters’ smiles, and it makes me miss the summers at your barbecues, and the days when everyone was a bit more ok. Happy new year, I’m sorry you weren’t here to see it. We miss you.
The estate of Mrs. D was willed to her son: a man in his fifties, canoeing somewhere along the Amazon. After a short wait (two weeks), it was determined he had been destroyed by hippos. Amazingly, he also left a will: one dog, a small terrier, named Potato Chip inherited it all. The dog had survived the hippo attack and lived with natives in the Amazonian jungle for ten days. He’s a bit rough around the edges, but we who served Mrs. D find him to be incomparable.
I have never lived in anything truly huge, so of course when it was my luck to spend a summer at an enormous estate of a distant relative, I was thrilled. But then my luck turned – it was clear as day after that first night that the estate had some unpleasant history.
selling the souls of old folks is not a job for the weak. I took it because let’s face it, most other jobs in hell are as fun as a broken roller coaster in an otherwise perfect fantasy land theme park. I take the souls when they are at their most vulnerable, just after death and before they know what’s happening to them.
The grand house looms up slowly over the territory as I creep toward it. The Westin Estate, that’s what they called it, and it’s the scene of my latest case. Its foreboding shadow casts an eerie darkness over the ground, over my face and that of my sidekick. We inch closer, hoping to unfold the mystery and catch the culprit.
the grass rolled over hills that seemed to stretch for miles and miles, an ocean of well-tended greenery billowing like a cape around his father’s estate. children, his father would say with great satisfaction, need space to grow.
they also need friends, though, but nobody told Father that. so the boy grew up in a home that was more a castle than a house, exploring its grounds until he knew them like he knew his own name. he befriended oddly-shaped trees and interesting rocks he found on his travels, and his closest companion was the collie his father bought him when a maid mentioned, hesitantly, that solitude rarely looked good on children.
With high esteem, we calculate- estimating estates at the rate of fates.
the most rubbish word in history. too business-like>.> should be banned or at least edited to make it sound more awesomesaucy. fanx for reading!
The estate was doomed to fail from the start. It was one large and sprawling, now nearly gone.
i wonder, if i could build estates. i can’t draw, i mean, and i absolutely cannot build… yes i’ve always been drawn to architecture, etc. sometimes i wonder what i was meant to do in life, like i can’t be a writer or an actress or a guidance counselor, but something bigger, something i just can’t see right now.
i planted an estate of weeds
let them wimper around the weak
stood in the garden and watched the tendrils
wrap around my toes
mingle with my leg hairs
pass my arse
over my chest, around my neck
down my nostrils and into my brain
resting in my thoughts of you
Real Estate. Something I dont know to much about. Its like a state with an E infront of it. Like Macintosh. iMac.
My estate will be very small. The biggest thing will be to determine the fate of my instruments and my music. But I don’t really care. Whatever happens, happens.
the empire has fallen
and the children are weeping
along the hag-tooth cobbles
that vein their footed past
like a gilded claw
startling awake the ashes
from past giants
When I think of estate I think of something a person owns. Such as when someone is selling their belongings they are having an estate sale. I associate the word estate to higher class indivuals although I don’t know why, because there is a trailer park with estates in it and it indeed does make it sound better!
The large estate lay on a large moutain in the middle of an ocean, and the seas were wild with life all around the estate.
It’s this big, bright beautiful thing, staring at you from the end of the tunnel. You can see the grounds and the flag and all those statements that mean, ‘this is mine’. You’ve always wanted something to be yours, but you have too many stars in your eyes, too much violence in the way your hands shake with every breath you take.
And then the estate would belong to her, finally. Just as long as they didn’t find Papa, buried underneath the new fish pond.
A place you call home. A place of quiet and solitude. A place where your family gathers. A place you want to pass on to your loved ones after you’re gone.
The estate next to our house was build in 1990s and still look in perfect condition.
Your estate can be a term representing what you leave behind in this life. Your physical possessions, the relationships you’ve made, the career you’ve established, and everything else that you will be remembered by. We spend our whole lives trying to make our estates and our legacies a worthy way for people to remember us.
He went to the estate sale. He bought a mirror that was cursed. Every day and night he saw himself in it, but he was never happy. He was convinced the mirror was evil, that it was wicked, he threw out the mirror and washed his hands of superstitions. But he still wasn’t happy.
You don’t own me. I am my own person. You may own your TV, yor car, your stupid humor… But you’ll never own me. I will never be your estate. Not now. Not in a million years. Not ever.
mmmm
This estate is worth loads of money and you want to exchange it for this little property in the outskirts of town. This is surely one of the worst of your ideas.
There was a long line for what was being auctioned off that day after the death of Mr. Higley. some items were never used… abandoned, as if it were the last distillery during a time when processes were manually implemented. Time, it seems, has shifted more toward mechanization and impersonalization and away from human kindness and personalization. however, given the remains of Mr. Higley, we are unaware.
This is what I leave to you–books, clothes, jewelry and more than than, I hope, ideals. How to live in this world, how to cherish people and nature, how to do the right thing, how to be a valuable person, how to make a mark, how to enjoy each day.
He walked around the estate sale looking for that perfect piece of jewelry. He eyed it across the table and reached for it. His hand met hers, reaching for the same piece. They looked at each other. He said, “Hello Cousin Rebecca.”