She was looking at the letter. It wasn’t stamped or anything. No address and no addressor. Just her name. Her name in those letters she felt like having seen a million time. It was his handwriting, she could recognize it out of a million. Still, after more than twenty years. The letter weigh heavy in her hands and she didn’t turn around, when her husband called her.
I stamped through the door, making sure I was loud enough for her to hear. I was angry and I wanted her to know it. How dare she treat me like that? I trusted her and all she did was cheat on me and lie to my face. She was about to find out that I know what’s been going on, and she’s not going to like it!
*BOOM*
The stamp seemed to resonate throughout the large, vaulted ceilinged room. It was finally official. No longer did I have to live in fear of not being part of society. I had waited for what seemed like an eternity.
My passport was stamped with the official mark of Honduras. Why was I going to Honduras? In search of my lost father, who had stolen money from my mother’s family, leaving behind just a note that signed off with, I’m sorry. It wasn’t like him.
aI can’t believe that stamps today cost .44 cents. REALLY? It actually costs almost a dollar to mail a letter? I think I’m going to stick with email or carrier pigeon. They’re hard to find, but certainly cheaper.
You say there’s so much to write about, why can’t we talk it out. You’re a thousand miles away and all I’ll hear you say is something about the weather up there.
Think twice before you write, cause what’s stamped cannot be returned to sender.
“Next” the man droned, as if he had said it for the hundreth time that day, and he probably had. The line, of which I was the head of, stretched for miles. Behind me lay a sea of broken souls, of hoplessness.
I gave the man my ticket and he stamped it, the red ink shining like blood.
Don’t even think that, I told myself, because what if it is?
‘You can pass” he sighed handing me back my ticket as traipsed through the barrier.
So what if I had passed through this checkpoint? I was on the road to death and a thousand more checkpoints lay before me, a thousand more souls behind me.
The woman stamped my parcel, the red pen inking its way over the postage stamp. “1st Class” it read. I sighed deeply, this was it, no turning back now. I handed over the change, it chinked as it passed from my hand to her’s. The £4.10, such a small fare for such a big thing.
She turned away and put the parcel on the back shelf of her office, smiling she turned to face me. Handing me my reciept, I glanced down.
“One parcel, small 250grams. To: Address From: Camberley”
I hoped she got it in time. I checked the time 11:11 on the 14th February 2016.
The Valentines Day that falls on a leap year. The small stamped pacel held my future. Plus a £300 engagement ring.
A flower, mud squishing into its colour
Purple and yellow screams and bruises
Stamping it into the wet brown ground
And army boots moving away
To take in the beauty of nature
On a higher plain
I stared at the seal that was stamped at the yellow envelope in horror. It could only mean one thing. I had been so careful… I didn’t understand how it was possible. But they knew. And if they knew then all the barons and duchesses and everyone worth calling a noble had all the details. The invitation
joe put a presidential stamp on the bill. he was the president of the urm or the united renegade movement aimed at making the laws of frigadie more better for the mexicans and minorities of the country. he had just passed the affirmative action bill which made military movements legals in the once non violent movement
On the package there was one name. One name amongst a strange pattern of swirls and design. How the post-man had been able to distinguish the hand-writing from the scribbles, she was unsure. But there was her name. No address. No stamps. Nothing but a name. Yet, it had somehow found her.
Overwhelmed is how I feel about the things occurring in my life. College applications, maintaining grades, etc. I just need to step back and collect myself. I have been under too long and need to breath.
i stamped the envelope of the letter. i stamped? or pasted the stamp? anyways, before i actually put the letter in it, i decide to re-read it. was i really going to send that? i crumble it and throw it over my shoulder. they are wasted words on you.
The sound repeated and repeated, never louder, never softer, never stopping. He opened the door, and now the sound was louder. The machines stamped and stamped, and as he walked to the end of the room, he saw light glinting off metal discs as they moved down a conveyor belt.
“At last you at here,” came the voice. “It is time for you to see.”
The paper crumpled in his hand, the dark curling stamp glaring back at him. The mark of the king, paid for with the labor of his citizens across the ocean.
There it was. Stamped across her forehead for the world to see. There was no erasing this mark, no changing its implications. It was and forever would be who she was, all she would ever be. A criminal in the eyes of society, a heretic in the eyes of God.
She was mad. The look was, well, stamped all across her face. I don’t know what we did to deserve this this time. I guess it was the usual turn of the cycles.
They rushed through the building with guns in hand. Their objective was not far now, they had succeeded. Behind them they left a trail of death and carnage, like a stampede of bulls. There was nothing between them and their trophy.
The moment I was stamped, I gave up all hope. Like a cow in an abattoir, I knew the end was nigh. It was at this moment that I knew I had lost the battle; big brother had won.
I love stamps. I remeember the time when I got stamped on my left butt cheek by a lesbian. Being stamped represents a basic denial of freedom.; it’s like someboyd’s watching over you, in total control.
He stamped down hard and twisted his ankle to make sure it was really squished into the dirt. The butterfly hadn’t done anything to annoy him in particular, besides being beautiful. There couldn’t be beauty in the world anymore. Not if she was gone. It shouldn’t be allowed.
he awoke that morning in a haze of a brutal hangover that would be long in recovering.
no wallet, no phone, no shoes, no watch.
only a tattoo
stamped
foreverin red ink on his left wrist
it read “Laura”
he didn’t know a Laura.
When anyone asked about the tattoo on his left wrist
he lied a new lie each time he answered about it.
You me and everyone else
Stamped upon our backs
Our fate, destiny, or whatever
bullshit they sell us
Its seared right into our flesh
Does it sting?
I would like to rub away the mark
And
And run away from the stamp
I will stamp all the blood out of your body, i will wring every ounce of feeling out of your heart, you know i will, you know i can do it.
I stood in the darkness and moaned.
Turn away. Don’t listen to it! Voices clamored for release inside my head. Scream. Scare it out! Don’t you give in now. Don’t.
I closed my eyes and breathed in the night. I felt myself give way to this invisible conqueror. The air, infused with all the wretchedness of despair, washed deep down into my lungs and into my bloodstream, towards my heart.
In a heart beat.
I could feel it take hold. Moving with my blood in its insidious way, growing and plotting to take over. In my heart, i could already sense the despair latch on, catching fire with its slow burning until all that will remain is a deadened blackened space where i won’t be able to feel anything anymore.
He accepts the harsh innuendos and plastered namesake merely because, as a breathing individual himself- still worthy of opinions and contemplation of some- he knows when to be labeled. Never has there been a low enough call to him that has made Tsuna reconsider reaching for the soccer ball or pressing a hand against the indent of a locker. He accepts them gracefully and perhaps more silently than one would think.
“Don’t call me that! I’m not the ‘boss’ of- of anything!”
Noticeably there has been a chance of axis that sets everything on it’s side and leaves Tsuna with an uncomfortable churning in his stomach. “Don’t make up stuff!” He feels the seams of all his other labels stripped away and picked at with sharp fingernails. During this time he undergoes the scabbing and scratching of many new hands clawing away at his past self. His old labels are as flimsy as himself now, no longer an accessory to his bleak outlook on what plays out before him.
“I’m not the Tenth Boss of Vongola!” Tsuna feels the churn in himself and shouts. He imagines ink sinking into his guts, forever branding him in a name that demands his attention like nothing else. Something that might make him stronger someday.
I tried to run. Fumbling to force one tangled leg in front of the other, I must admit, I made little headway. They caught me easily and pulled me backward, most likely to donate extra bruises to the bounteous collection they’d helped me put together. In a panic I leapt forward and away, but, still partially in their grip I fell forward, through the yellow tape, into the wet concrete, leaving an imprint of my face in its soft surface. To this day, my face remains stamped in the sidewalk in all its glory.
She was looking at the letter. It wasn’t stamped or anything. No address and no addressor. Just her name. Her name in those letters she felt like having seen a million time. It was his handwriting, she could recognize it out of a million. Still, after more than twenty years. The letter weigh heavy in her hands and she didn’t turn around, when her husband called her.
This man told his great grandad was blinded by either
pygmies or lemurs. He couldn’t quite say which.
your tears have touched my skin
i guess i’m yours now
You are stamped on my heart. I care about you. I think about you. I might even love you.
I stamped through the door, making sure I was loud enough for her to hear. I was angry and I wanted her to know it. How dare she treat me like that? I trusted her and all she did was cheat on me and lie to my face. She was about to find out that I know what’s been going on, and she’s not going to like it!
*BOOM*
The stamp seemed to resonate throughout the large, vaulted ceilinged room. It was finally official. No longer did I have to live in fear of not being part of society. I had waited for what seemed like an eternity.
My passport was stamped with the official mark of Honduras. Why was I going to Honduras? In search of my lost father, who had stolen money from my mother’s family, leaving behind just a note that signed off with, I’m sorry. It wasn’t like him.
“I should not have mailed that.” Wheels turned, but the hamster is dead. Why. Regret, hostility, and remorse. Now I’m screwed.
aI can’t believe that stamps today cost .44 cents. REALLY? It actually costs almost a dollar to mail a letter? I think I’m going to stick with email or carrier pigeon. They’re hard to find, but certainly cheaper.
You say there’s so much to write about, why can’t we talk it out. You’re a thousand miles away and all I’ll hear you say is something about the weather up there.
Think twice before you write, cause what’s stamped cannot be returned to sender.
Stamped yolks seems to be revoking with my best belly ache so I could spread this massage to my bottom.
“Next” the man droned, as if he had said it for the hundreth time that day, and he probably had. The line, of which I was the head of, stretched for miles. Behind me lay a sea of broken souls, of hoplessness.
I gave the man my ticket and he stamped it, the red ink shining like blood.
Don’t even think that, I told myself, because what if it is?
‘You can pass” he sighed handing me back my ticket as traipsed through the barrier.
So what if I had passed through this checkpoint? I was on the road to death and a thousand more checkpoints lay before me, a thousand more souls behind me.
I don’t know why he stamped on his foot. It was supposed to be a friendly game of football. It’s not as if the world cup was at stake.
The woman stamped my parcel, the red pen inking its way over the postage stamp. “1st Class” it read. I sighed deeply, this was it, no turning back now. I handed over the change, it chinked as it passed from my hand to her’s. The £4.10, such a small fare for such a big thing.
She turned away and put the parcel on the back shelf of her office, smiling she turned to face me. Handing me my reciept, I glanced down.
“One parcel, small 250grams. To: Address From: Camberley”
I hoped she got it in time. I checked the time 11:11 on the 14th February 2016.
The Valentines Day that falls on a leap year. The small stamped pacel held my future. Plus a £300 engagement ring.
A flower, mud squishing into its colour
Purple and yellow screams and bruises
Stamping it into the wet brown ground
And army boots moving away
To take in the beauty of nature
On a higher plain
I stared at the seal that was stamped at the yellow envelope in horror. It could only mean one thing. I had been so careful… I didn’t understand how it was possible. But they knew. And if they knew then all the barons and duchesses and everyone worth calling a noble had all the details. The invitation
joe put a presidential stamp on the bill. he was the president of the urm or the united renegade movement aimed at making the laws of frigadie more better for the mexicans and minorities of the country. he had just passed the affirmative action bill which made military movements legals in the once non violent movement
On the package there was one name. One name amongst a strange pattern of swirls and design. How the post-man had been able to distinguish the hand-writing from the scribbles, she was unsure. But there was her name. No address. No stamps. Nothing but a name. Yet, it had somehow found her.
The little girl stamped her foot, tears streaming down her red face as she screamed at the top of her lungs “I wanted a real car, not a toy car!”
Overwhelmed is how I feel about the things occurring in my life. College applications, maintaining grades, etc. I just need to step back and collect myself. I have been under too long and need to breath.
i stamped the envelope of the letter. i stamped? or pasted the stamp? anyways, before i actually put the letter in it, i decide to re-read it. was i really going to send that? i crumble it and throw it over my shoulder. they are wasted words on you.
The sound repeated and repeated, never louder, never softer, never stopping. He opened the door, and now the sound was louder. The machines stamped and stamped, and as he walked to the end of the room, he saw light glinting off metal discs as they moved down a conveyor belt.
“At last you at here,” came the voice. “It is time for you to see.”
The paper crumpled in his hand, the dark curling stamp glaring back at him. The mark of the king, paid for with the labor of his citizens across the ocean.
Im stamped in one static situation.
BRANDING WHY!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!!?!
There it was. Stamped across her forehead for the world to see. There was no erasing this mark, no changing its implications. It was and forever would be who she was, all she would ever be. A criminal in the eyes of society, a heretic in the eyes of God.
She was mad. The look was, well, stamped all across her face. I don’t know what we did to deserve this this time. I guess it was the usual turn of the cycles.
It was stamped on my DNA…. loner. Never to experience that total commitment from a lover, husband, friend. So what is the lesson to be learned?
They rushed through the building with guns in hand. Their objective was not far now, they had succeeded. Behind them they left a trail of death and carnage, like a stampede of bulls. There was nothing between them and their trophy.
Stamped across your face, last nights shame, revealed for all to read. Regret.
The moment I was stamped, I gave up all hope. Like a cow in an abattoir, I knew the end was nigh. It was at this moment that I knew I had lost the battle; big brother had won.
I love stamps. I remeember the time when I got stamped on my left butt cheek by a lesbian. Being stamped represents a basic denial of freedom.; it’s like someboyd’s watching over you, in total control.
He stamped down hard and twisted his ankle to make sure it was really squished into the dirt. The butterfly hadn’t done anything to annoy him in particular, besides being beautiful. There couldn’t be beauty in the world anymore. Not if she was gone. It shouldn’t be allowed.
he awoke that morning in a haze of a brutal hangover that would be long in recovering.
no wallet, no phone, no shoes, no watch.
only a tattoo
stamped
foreverin red ink on his left wrist
it read “Laura”
he didn’t know a Laura.
When anyone asked about the tattoo on his left wrist
he lied a new lie each time he answered about it.
how about that unstamped envelope I posted…?
It makes my face burn like a brand…. I used do
so many funny things way back. That still bothers
You me and everyone else
Stamped upon our backs
Our fate, destiny, or whatever
bullshit they sell us
Its seared right into our flesh
Does it sting?
I would like to rub away the mark
And
And run away from the stamp
stamp it
twist it
lock it
have fun
don’t stop
don’t look back
you’re doing fine
we’re all friends here
now
breathe deep
I will stamp all the blood out of your body, i will wring every ounce of feeling out of your heart, you know i will, you know i can do it.
I stood in the darkness and moaned.
Turn away. Don’t listen to it! Voices clamored for release inside my head. Scream. Scare it out! Don’t you give in now. Don’t.
I closed my eyes and breathed in the night. I felt myself give way to this invisible conqueror. The air, infused with all the wretchedness of despair, washed deep down into my lungs and into my bloodstream, towards my heart.
In a heart beat.
I could feel it take hold. Moving with my blood in its insidious way, growing and plotting to take over. In my heart, i could already sense the despair latch on, catching fire with its slow burning until all that will remain is a deadened blackened space where i won’t be able to feel anything anymore.
I was stamped.
elephants stamped dust into dust
zebras black and white in the dark
birds perched on the necks of giraffes
and the lion stalks his prey.
ants scurry along a trail of mud
snakes hiss soft in the grass
the hippopotamus yawns hard
and the crocodile takes.
He accepts the harsh innuendos and plastered namesake merely because, as a breathing individual himself- still worthy of opinions and contemplation of some- he knows when to be labeled. Never has there been a low enough call to him that has made Tsuna reconsider reaching for the soccer ball or pressing a hand against the indent of a locker. He accepts them gracefully and perhaps more silently than one would think.
“Don’t call me that! I’m not the ‘boss’ of- of anything!”
Noticeably there has been a chance of axis that sets everything on it’s side and leaves Tsuna with an uncomfortable churning in his stomach. “Don’t make up stuff!” He feels the seams of all his other labels stripped away and picked at with sharp fingernails. During this time he undergoes the scabbing and scratching of many new hands clawing away at his past self. His old labels are as flimsy as himself now, no longer an accessory to his bleak outlook on what plays out before him.
“I’m not the Tenth Boss of Vongola!” Tsuna feels the churn in himself and shouts. He imagines ink sinking into his guts, forever branding him in a name that demands his attention like nothing else. Something that might make him stronger someday.
“Shut up, No-Good Tsuna.”
I tried to run. Fumbling to force one tangled leg in front of the other, I must admit, I made little headway. They caught me easily and pulled me backward, most likely to donate extra bruises to the bounteous collection they’d helped me put together. In a panic I leapt forward and away, but, still partially in their grip I fell forward, through the yellow tape, into the wet concrete, leaving an imprint of my face in its soft surface. To this day, my face remains stamped in the sidewalk in all its glory.