the envelope took more saliva to seal than nagisa had excepted. sending a letter sure was hard work. he was about to take it to the door, when makoto peered over his shoulder. “looks good! but i think you might be forgetting something.
“what did i forget? oh no, do i have to reopen it?”
“nope! you just need a stamp.”
“oh, okay.”
makoto spent a good five minutes searching around his father’s office for a stamp, and came back to nagisa with a used, albeit usable pink stamp. “hey, it’s my favorite color too!” makoto laughed and handed it to nagisa, who slapped it on the righthand corner of the envelope. “hey, i think i might be forgetting something else too.”
“what’s that?”
without answering, nagisa snatched the red pen he had been using off makoto’s desk and flipped the envelope over, balancing it on his knee and scribbling a sloppy heart where the two folds of the envelope met. “there. now rei-chan will know it’s a love letter. a love letter for him,” he added, scrawling rei’s name in the middle of the heart. “can you help me mail?”
“of course.” makoto smiled and took the envelope from nagisa, and the two walked out to makoto’s mailbox to deliver nagisa’s first handwritten letter.
Stamped is sealing something off. It is a very closed word and doesn’t really make me have feeling or anything about it. I think of letters when stamped comes to mind.
i opened the envelope. the flower on the square with the wriggly edges was one of my favorites, a purple chingiton .i expected it to be an invitation, but it wasn’t. it was a ransom note. and it was for me. i frowned at it then wondered why they sent a not if i wasn’t kidnapped. then everything went black. i was led through my house, i could tell by my mussel memories. we went upstairs then to the guest room, then we climbed more stairs. but we didn’t have stairs in the guest room. what? it must have been the attic. then the bag came off and i saw th meanest guy in school, Traver.
something done to an envelope in order to send it
to approve something, a document is stamped
ink and rubber
olden days- wax and emblem
words or picture
used to enhance the official-ness of a document
The saliva cooled on the adhesive strip before Alexandria had a chance to seal it. “Shoot!” She sighed, hand upon cheek as she gazed out onto the lively street though the window of her office. She pictured old corner newspaper boys and women stepping down from carriages. Horse hoofs clucking on the cobblestone road, a few girls running and top hats discussing business over their brunch. Her boss interrupted, “you’ve been licking those for the last five minutes.” Alexandria looked at the envelop, flapped it like a wing and looked back at her boss, “sorry, day-dreaming again.” He smiled, astonished by some prospect.
The sun was shining and we were all home. Home for the holiday’s – Fun right – well atleast for the first day and then we all go back to our usual places. Mom in the kitchen, daughter’s on the couch and Father out at the workshop.
The time was stamped upon her wrist, in such a manner as to remind her of its presence whenever she glanced down. The noise was horrendous, and after approximately five minutes she wondered why it was that she had come to this dive of a bar in the first place.
Sometimes, I wish that the world and its stresses and temptations and expectations did not trample upon me each day like a stampede of thoughts, into my head, then out of my head, and onto my back, around my chest, and on my heart. It sucks. I really want to be great. I really want to be free.
I stamped my name on the page. I was satisfied. It was good. It was worthwhile.
I’d created something from scratch. I can’t explain the feeling that came from seeing it come full circle. The act of stamping my name to the paper was surreal. I hope for everyone to experience it at some point in their lives.
I stamped my name and sat back, reflecting on it. I’d made something good. I’d made something worthwhile.
I wrote a letter to my best friend. I stamped it, popped it in the post office and it was mailed right to her door. When she got it, she was surprised my letter was handwritten. Old school style.
Now I got to wore a badge of ink on my thumb that would remind me of my stupidity all day. Maybe I would make up a better story to explain the embarrassing ink mark…
I stamped my name on the page. And then sat back and stared at it.
I can’t describe the pride that is involved in creating something good. Something worthwhile. And that moment of stamping my name on it each time I finished was such a surreal time. I wish for everyone to have that feeling at some point in their life. To know what it’s like to have their name attached to something that began from scratch.
I took the letter I held in my hand, sliding my fingers underneath the stamp. It cut my finger. I began to bleed slightly, but I ignored it. The letter was from my boss. I felt a twinge of nervousness. Was he really going to fire me for my mishap? It wasn’t my fault. I had been framed. Jessica knew all along he would blame me. Why? Why me?
God u luk grate with yer air all fluffed out and that that yoke on
with luv stamped all over it. aaaaaaif you must stamp to keep warm
you could at least learn tdo it wit grace
“No, no, no, no, NO, please, let me through, let him through, he’s only seven…”
He shook his head sternly. He’d seen this type before, begging, whimpering, snivelling. ‘Let the baby through’, they said. Just another mouth to feed and the government’s job to feed it.
Stamps can be used to send many things. Some small and large, but they are the messengers of postal. They are the very analogy of what we are as humans as sending messages everywhere is our goal. We are stamps and every where we go, we stamp on things.
The letter was sealed and stamped, and the old-fashioned wax emblem felt rather eerie and perturbing to Mara as she reached for a knife. The paper whistled slightly as it was cut, as if she were slitting a man’s throat and any last ounce of air he had left came gurgling out in a high-pitched whisper of warning.
The paper containing the message was fragile, enough to crumble into ash in Mara’s hand. But the words themselves were as stark and hot and unfriendly as steel.
“…And he said the funniest thing- ! Oh- ! I nearly tripped on something.” Her eyes flickered down. “Someone’s left a pile of clothes! How inconsiderate! I could have really hurt myself. Well anyway, so this man said…” One boot after another. But no one saw him – that poor boy. Children really should not be roaming the streets these days.
Stamped out. repressive governments stamp out dissent. Passes and other documents get stamped. Government officials love getting documents stamped. It gives them a reason to turn up for work.
I like to stamp letters, it makes me feel important. That is, of course, assuming that we are talking about that kind of stamp. Normally, when people stamp on my feet, I do not feel it.
Often, I feel unbalanced after and request that my other foot be stamped on also. It’s odd, that. Often, when things are not at a correct balance for myself, I will get annoyed and hence have to fix it.
The stamped was coming. The rumble went to my bones and I couldn’t remember ever fearing for my life as much as I did right then. But as the countless animals rushed by and I hid behind the wall, I knew I should be safe.
Bang. Bang. Passport suitably stamped, and I’m released from the accusatory gaze of the Immigration Official. I step from the neat, ordered passport control out into the thronging arrivals lounge.
And just like that, she stamped me and sent me away. My words for his eyes only with a spritz of Chanel perfume. She placed me into the mailbox with trembling hands, knowing what she was about to give she could never get back. If she hadn’t stamped me, she could get me back. But she did, and it was official that where I was going was where I’d be. Forever.
He stamped his foot on the old wooden porches, sending the slates aflutter because they’d long since escaped from their nails. He thought that he should make himself as free as the slates – and so he skedaddled out of there.
He stamped the inside of my wrist with a symbol so that I could gain entry to the club. Little did I know, it would never wash off. It would remain a constant reminder of that night.
It might as well have been stamped on my forehead: “DUMPED AND ON THE MAKE.” I was attracting jerk men and horny boys like mosquitoes to sweat, and I was all too ready to swat them into bloody oblivion.
stamped can have two different means. Examples of both include “I stamped my feet when i got mad,” or I got stamped on the hand once i entered the game.
I stamped on the button continuously, and aggressively, yet nothing… My friends and I were beginning to get nervous. “I thought you said this button would get us out of here?” one of them exclaimed… I had to stay brave. I looked around me at any chance of freedom.
the envelope took more saliva to seal than nagisa had excepted. sending a letter sure was hard work. he was about to take it to the door, when makoto peered over his shoulder. “looks good! but i think you might be forgetting something.
“what did i forget? oh no, do i have to reopen it?”
“nope! you just need a stamp.”
“oh, okay.”
makoto spent a good five minutes searching around his father’s office for a stamp, and came back to nagisa with a used, albeit usable pink stamp. “hey, it’s my favorite color too!” makoto laughed and handed it to nagisa, who slapped it on the righthand corner of the envelope. “hey, i think i might be forgetting something else too.”
“what’s that?”
without answering, nagisa snatched the red pen he had been using off makoto’s desk and flipped the envelope over, balancing it on his knee and scribbling a sloppy heart where the two folds of the envelope met. “there. now rei-chan will know it’s a love letter. a love letter for him,” he added, scrawling rei’s name in the middle of the heart. “can you help me mail?”
“of course.” makoto smiled and took the envelope from nagisa, and the two walked out to makoto’s mailbox to deliver nagisa’s first handwritten letter.
Stamped is sealing something off. It is a very closed word and doesn’t really make me have feeling or anything about it. I think of letters when stamped comes to mind.
i opened the envelope. the flower on the square with the wriggly edges was one of my favorites, a purple chingiton .i expected it to be an invitation, but it wasn’t. it was a ransom note. and it was for me. i frowned at it then wondered why they sent a not if i wasn’t kidnapped. then everything went black. i was led through my house, i could tell by my mussel memories. we went upstairs then to the guest room, then we climbed more stairs. but we didn’t have stairs in the guest room. what? it must have been the attic. then the bag came off and i saw th meanest guy in school, Traver.
something done to an envelope in order to send it
to approve something, a document is stamped
ink and rubber
olden days- wax and emblem
words or picture
used to enhance the official-ness of a document
You’ve been stamped upon my heart
I won’t even try to erase it
It hurts right now, but it’ll be a nice memory once it heals
The saliva cooled on the adhesive strip before Alexandria had a chance to seal it. “Shoot!” She sighed, hand upon cheek as she gazed out onto the lively street though the window of her office. She pictured old corner newspaper boys and women stepping down from carriages. Horse hoofs clucking on the cobblestone road, a few girls running and top hats discussing business over their brunch. Her boss interrupted, “you’ve been licking those for the last five minutes.” Alexandria looked at the envelop, flapped it like a wing and looked back at her boss, “sorry, day-dreaming again.” He smiled, astonished by some prospect.
The sun was shining and we were all home. Home for the holiday’s – Fun right – well atleast for the first day and then we all go back to our usual places. Mom in the kitchen, daughter’s on the couch and Father out at the workshop.
The time was stamped upon her wrist, in such a manner as to remind her of its presence whenever she glanced down. The noise was horrendous, and after approximately five minutes she wondered why it was that she had come to this dive of a bar in the first place.
Hopefully, they were competent at mixing drinks…
Sometimes, I wish that the world and its stresses and temptations and expectations did not trample upon me each day like a stampede of thoughts, into my head, then out of my head, and onto my back, around my chest, and on my heart. It sucks. I really want to be great. I really want to be free.
I stamped my name on the page. I was satisfied. It was good. It was worthwhile.
I’d created something from scratch. I can’t explain the feeling that came from seeing it come full circle. The act of stamping my name to the paper was surreal. I hope for everyone to experience it at some point in their lives.
I stamped my name and sat back, reflecting on it. I’d made something good. I’d made something worthwhile.
I wrote a letter to my best friend. I stamped it, popped it in the post office and it was mailed right to her door. When she got it, she was surprised my letter was handwritten. Old school style.
I slammed the stamp down.
“Ouch” I yelled. I’d caught my thumb in it.
Now I got to wore a badge of ink on my thumb that would remind me of my stupidity all day. Maybe I would make up a better story to explain the embarrassing ink mark…
stamped and sent
out
into the unknown
vastness
where dreams of skies
and kingdoms
keep our fear
at bay
I stamped my name on the page. And then sat back and stared at it.
I can’t describe the pride that is involved in creating something good. Something worthwhile. And that moment of stamping my name on it each time I finished was such a surreal time. I wish for everyone to have that feeling at some point in their life. To know what it’s like to have their name attached to something that began from scratch.
Stamped to something good. Something worthwhile.
All of the mistakes that stand out
Are forever stamped with sadness
Framed with pain
But laid out in plain sight
As a reminder
So I can see how they shaped
Into who I am
To this day
And that isn’t a bad thing at all
Because if not for those mistakes
I would not be anything at all
No life would be at stake
I took the letter I held in my hand, sliding my fingers underneath the stamp. It cut my finger. I began to bleed slightly, but I ignored it. The letter was from my boss. I felt a twinge of nervousness. Was he really going to fire me for my mishap? It wasn’t my fault. I had been framed. Jessica knew all along he would blame me. Why? Why me?
God u luk grate with yer air all fluffed out and that that yoke on
with luv stamped all over it. aaaaaaif you must stamp to keep warm
you could at least learn tdo it wit grace
“No, no, no, no, NO, please, let me through, let him through, he’s only seven…”
He shook his head sternly. He’d seen this type before, begging, whimpering, snivelling. ‘Let the baby through’, they said. Just another mouth to feed and the government’s job to feed it.
DENIED in red.
Stamps can be used to send many things. Some small and large, but they are the messengers of postal. They are the very analogy of what we are as humans as sending messages everywhere is our goal. We are stamps and every where we go, we stamp on things.
I wish your pet hedgehog would refrain from crossing the
road after dark. Maybe altogether!
The letter was sealed and stamped, and the old-fashioned wax emblem felt rather eerie and perturbing to Mara as she reached for a knife. The paper whistled slightly as it was cut, as if she were slitting a man’s throat and any last ounce of air he had left came gurgling out in a high-pitched whisper of warning.
The paper containing the message was fragile, enough to crumble into ash in Mara’s hand. But the words themselves were as stark and hot and unfriendly as steel.
He stamped the letter, thinking of the content it held. He didn’t really want to send it, but his wife had badgered him for days.
He sighed.
Maybe she won’t read it. She knew better to accept things from him. Maybe she will still go back to him… Maybe she will forget. He hoped she wouldn’t.
He sent it.
STAMPEDE. Watch out. Climb a tree if one be handy…
“…And he said the funniest thing- ! Oh- ! I nearly tripped on something.” Her eyes flickered down. “Someone’s left a pile of clothes! How inconsiderate! I could have really hurt myself. Well anyway, so this man said…” One boot after another. But no one saw him – that poor boy. Children really should not be roaming the streets these days.
The old haggard woman at the dusty counter cleared her rusty throat: “That’ll be a 25 cents”. She stamped the letter, written so carefully.
you stamp on my dreams. you stamp on my grave. I will forgive you 4 that
blanked. ..Stamped under by avalanche…stamps are hateful. I regret all stamps wot
licked me… I’ve had to do with. full stop
Stamped out. repressive governments stamp out dissent. Passes and other documents get stamped. Government officials love getting documents stamped. It gives them a reason to turn up for work.
I like to stamp letters, it makes me feel important. That is, of course, assuming that we are talking about that kind of stamp. Normally, when people stamp on my feet, I do not feel it.
Often, I feel unbalanced after and request that my other foot be stamped on also. It’s odd, that. Often, when things are not at a correct balance for myself, I will get annoyed and hence have to fix it.
The stamped was coming. The rumble went to my bones and I couldn’t remember ever fearing for my life as much as I did right then. But as the countless animals rushed by and I hid behind the wall, I knew I should be safe.
Bang. Bang. Passport suitably stamped, and I’m released from the accusatory gaze of the Immigration Official. I step from the neat, ordered passport control out into the thronging arrivals lounge.
And just like that, she stamped me and sent me away. My words for his eyes only with a spritz of Chanel perfume. She placed me into the mailbox with trembling hands, knowing what she was about to give she could never get back. If she hadn’t stamped me, she could get me back. But she did, and it was official that where I was going was where I’d be. Forever.
He stamped his foot on the old wooden porches, sending the slates aflutter because they’d long since escaped from their nails. He thought that he should make himself as free as the slates – and so he skedaddled out of there.
He stamped the inside of my wrist with a symbol so that I could gain entry to the club. Little did I know, it would never wash off. It would remain a constant reminder of that night.
The moment she read it, she knew the others had accepted her and stamped her with their approval. No one had ever made it that far.
It might as well have been stamped on my forehead: “DUMPED AND ON THE MAKE.” I was attracting jerk men and horny boys like mosquitoes to sweat, and I was all too ready to swat them into bloody oblivion.
stamped can have two different means. Examples of both include “I stamped my feet when i got mad,” or I got stamped on the hand once i entered the game.
I stamped on the button continuously, and aggressively, yet nothing… My friends and I were beginning to get nervous. “I thought you said this button would get us out of here?” one of them exclaimed… I had to stay brave. I looked around me at any chance of freedom.
Words tumbled down over each other and fell in a pile on top of words, and words, and words, and words.
stamped across his forehead
plain for all to see
the inventions of his slimy mind