Make first million after starting own business.
Applied for a loan. Declined due to excessive account activity. Note: Constant purchasing of rare (albeit mint) wicker chairs is not conducive to bank balance. Wife insistent on selling wicker chairs to find money to start business.
Bought new donut recipe book. Learnt how to make category hard donut, 'Diamond Swizzler'. Delma loves them.
James offered to lend the money if he can become a business partner. Potential.
First million still a long way off. Wife still nagging.
Spent savings on replacing the roof of the conservatory when neighbor's tree uprooted in the November storm.
Update: Dogs should never be fed over two donuts a day. Next Year's Resolution likely…? Find enough money to take Delma to the vets. And make more realistic resolution idea.
Find an appropriate business idea.
The TimesI was printed on the evening of November 27th, 2008, just as the weather was turning from chilly to cold. I was tomorrow's news. At the moment I came off the press, I told the future. I knew things before the rest of the world; it was wonderful. I knew what my purpose was: to inform as many people as possible about the world's happenings.The Times3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
As I was put to bed, bound against my brothers and sisters, I dreamt of being passed around a construction site, making sure all the workers were aware of which sports team triumphed, and which celebrity was getting a divorce. I dreamt that corporate peons debated over politics, and the state of the economy and which policies would be most effective in fixing the existing problems. I slept contently, snuggled warm in the middle of a stack, ready to be shipped out the next day and sold to whoever wanted me.
The next morning was cold and blustery. I was so excited about being sold that I allowed the wind to ruffle my pages, since I couldn't move on my o
A Reason to LiveIf only she had the guts to actually do it, to just leap among the cold waves and sink in death among the fish. She breathed in the smell and taste of saltwater, and water sprays hit her face, neck, and chest. She shivered slightly in the breeze from the waves, but she wasn’t really bothered by the chill. What weighed on her mind was something much deeper than the weather.A Reason to Live2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
A pang of apprehension penetrated her heart as she envisioned her body being plunged into the water and weighted down by the strong waves. She thought about what it would be like to gulp in mouthful after mouthful of water, choking and never feeling any relief, but she didn’t think the pain could be any worse than what she was already dealing with.
“Aimée!” The young woman moved her arms in circular motions as she tried to keep her balance. Her mother’s call startled her, and for a brief moment she thought God might be
Don't Give me a Reason to Sell My SoulDon't give me a reason to sell my soul, she should have said.Don't Give me a Reason to Sell My Soul4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Instead, she just stared at the man on the screen in front of her, the man with his long, drooping skin, tired eyes, haggard face and balding head. He was hardly the admiral we had once known. She said "I don't have any desire to do it," and then quickly, "but I'll follow my orders, if you give them to me."
There was fright in her eyes. She gripped the edges of the captain's chair and bit her cheek, fighting off inevitable tears. But not here. She couldn't cry now. People relied on her to be strong. What people she wasn’t sure, but someone, somewhere, surely. She had to believe that.
"Those are your orders," the man said, sinking heavily into his chair. "I trust you'll carry them out."
She snapped off communications with ill-hid despair. Her blonde hair, thin and almost colorless, hung around her face like a fallen halo, fading with every sin. Her lips were tight, her cheeks drawn, and her eyes stared out of bru
no wonder it took him 1455 pageswhen i was seven years old, a group of kids in my grade threw rocks at me for liking neopets more than webkinz. from then on, i was convinced i knew what hatred meant. but i don’t know how to describe it to the little girl who sits in the corner of my womb and in ten years might call me mommy and ask for help on dividing the world into black and white.no wonder it took him 1455 pages2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
would i point to the churches with their bigotry? to the cotton fields of the south in the 1800s? to the classrooms of modern day america? would i tell her about how the jews stood in straight lines, waiting to die, with fear in their eyes and faith in their hearts? or would i try and describe the sound tyler clementi’s body made when it hit the water of the hudson river after he jumped from the george washington bridge?
would i point to myself and say, “i am hatred, i am hatred to others. i am lying and cheating and stealing and coveting and jealousy and hubris. i am the idea of every time someone wants to kill someone
we won't bury you The last time we saw Taylor alive, it was behind Melrose Diner on Snyder Avenue at two in the morning. It was a little bit after the rain had stopped; the clouds had disappeared and the moon was already covered by the quiet buildings that lined up on Main Street. There were still puddles on the tarmac, and the streetlights still had some raindrops trailing down their sides. The smell of wet rust and burnt florescence still lingered in the air - the normal fragrance of a night in Philadelphia, after a night of too much to drink and too few fucks to give.we won't bury you3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
We had all of our band gear already packed up in the back of Dave's shitty van, except for Taylor's old Ibanez guitar, which he kept in the gig bag that was strapped around his back. He liked to keep it with him after a particularly good show; it was a good-luck charm to him, and we needed all the luck we could get.
Escape VelocityF = G(m1m2)/r2Escape Velocity2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Black – true black – is the absence of light. Darkness is defined by what it is not, by the lack of something else. When we say a black hole, we truly mean that; black. Blacker than black. An absence of not only light, but of time, distance, anything.
The night was scary when I was little. I hated the dark, but couldn’t bear to sleep so long as the light was on, any light, burning on the other side of my eyelids. I used to have nightmares about dark things in dark corners, shadowy figures with shadowy fingers trailing along my spine. I always woke up cold and fumbling frantically for the lamp, but the aura of light just made the shadows deeper and I turned it off quickly.
Black holes are dead stars. Graves. Tombs that bury light, bury it so deep, swallow entire suns, planets, galaxies. Dead stars take all the light with them like rich men spending fortunes on alabaster monuments and marble headstones.
There are four unmarked graves
Conversation"I am driving in a Hummer. I am on a two lane highway. I was listening to Counting Crows before panic threatened to cut off my air supply. Air supply is a band. I have no idea what they sing. I'm pretty sure they were a clue on Jeopardy once. I…I…have to pull over so I can breathe."Conversation2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Omar put on his blinker and steered the over-compensation-mobile to the shoulder of the road. He fumbled with the lock on the door and his heart felt like it was going to burst through his chest when he tried to get out of the car and couldn't. Seatbelt. It was just the seatbelt. His hands were slick with cold sweat by the time the belt whizzed cheerfully back into its place and he managed to slide out onto the shoulder of the road.
He was glad it was so late and glad that the highway was so deserted. He was trembling so hard that the change in his pockets rattled and he never would have been able to speak if someone had pulled up and offered to help. He hated for people to witness his panic.
A Night at Pinetop's TavernSomewhere in the back alleys of the city's older section there was a crumbling brick building that had been around since before ragtime music was popular. Hanging above a faded green door that led down to the building's cellar was a wooden sign, and despite the peeling paint, you could still make out the bar's name: Pinetop's Tavern. Nobody really knew when Pinetop's first opened; local folks would tell you it had been there since time began, and the world had grown up around it. It was one of those places where the lighting was always dim and the cigarette smoke never dissipated and the cloud you were breathing now had probably been around since W. C. Handy was still alive.A Night at Pinetop's Tavern2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Pinetop's Tavern was a blues joint, and it had been around almost as long as blues music itself. Blues music was a lot simpler than most kinds of musicsimpler chords, simpler lyrics, and most blues musicians couldn't read sheet music. The genre was born on some unknown plantation in the forgotten Deep
LongingI want the Renaissance of LoveLonging2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the Age of Aquarius promised us.
I want to understand humanity
and ask you to take my hand when needed.
I want your hand
when I may desire the same.
I want prejudice to die
on the Altar of Compassion
while we walk arm-in-arm
without inhibition or shame,
a Love-In of not just tolerance,
but real acceptance.
My deepest desire is the reawakening
I want to end my vanity
to see what really matters.
I want a mature mind
with a young outlook.
I want to awaken refreshed each day,
and rest reassured each night.
I want to find myself by looking inward
rather than search the world in vain.
I want to accept responsibility and blame
if that’s what it takes to live honestly.
I want a revival of Love
we have all awaited for so long.
I want justice
for its own sake.
I want elections that give
a choice of politicians who will
“reach across the isle,”
instead of ridicule and polarize.
I want America to find its backbone
to stand against brutality
Moving: A YaduWe keep a homeMoving: A Yadu3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Of unknown hums
And lonely cats.
The sky cracks but
He lacks a raincoat.
Fueled by smoke and
Words he lands on
A branded street,
Knows the sweet rage
Of meeting too soon and late.
This town belongs
To a song man
And wrongful ghost.
He is most sure
The coast will fade their remnants.
The Solipsist's LotThere's something about yourself that you don't know. You probably don't remember the circumstances very well, but I do. If you enjoy things the way they are, if you revel in even the smallest speck of ignorance, you need not read ahead. I won't force you. But from what I know of you, you don't like secrets. Especially not when they are about you.The Solipsist's Lot3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
You see, when you were born, so at once was everyone else. Your mother, she sprang into existence, just like that, the instant your tiny infant brain achieved the smallest semblance of self-awareness. Woven out of the ether, she remembered everything that never happened, and she looked down at you, cradled and squirming in her loving arms.
"Oh," she said. "So here is life."
The doctor was there too, although a moment before if there ever was a moment before he was not. He just nodded, smiling assuredly, and said, "Here is the beginning."
Helicase Helio and I were always sitting on the stairs, chatting about the lamina and occasionally making snide remarks about ribosomes. There wasn't much for us to do. Our job was to simply be, and let the RNA polymerase scribble down the letters on our foreheads when they came around every once in a while. Helio was a G, I was a C. It wasn't exactly fulfilling, I suppose. There wasn't much to be filled. So to pass the time, we talked.Helicase2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"You ever wonder?" Helio asked.
"About...well...what's out there." Helio and I were rooted to the stairs, quite happily, but it was awkward to move in. He kind of twisted in the general direction of the closest pore. "Out in the cytoplasm."
"I haven't," I admitted. "What's there to wonder about?"
"That's exactly the thing. I have no idea." Helio sighed, gazing into the distance. "Somehow it feels like we pl
still,"i want grandchildren."still,2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
that car ride ruined some things
threw a wine bottle at the wall
15 years sitting
it was good enough or
it wasn't good enough
all the silence forced
my pride to jump out the window
if any rested in her
she showed it off like a speech bubble
tied it to her teeth
slammed it in the door
had it under her pillow for months
and years and years and years
there was no statement
there was no outstretched hand
just steering wheel clenching
knuckles white and jaw taut
(all because who i bed was not her mindful of
i still think i'm a tumor
she shows it off like a speeding ticket
i put a pin through it
i put it on her sweater
she never wears it
Gus Number FiveGus Number FiveGus Number Five2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Jenna and Cindy filled their mouths with watermelon seeds, spitting them fast and hard until the air swarmed with seeds like shiny black dive-bombing gnats. “My seeds are winning,” twelve year old Cin yelled, her thin body tense and urgent with victory.
Jenna just kept spitting seeds. Eight years old, she already knew the seeds that flew the farthest would be Cin's no matter what.
Jenna puckered her mouth preparing for another losing bombardment. Suddenly she paused, lips plump and pouting as the mouth of a painted candy box cupid. Spitting the seeds into her palm, she stared at them for a moment, chewing the end of her pigtail. Then anxious with inspiration, she trotted into the house and minutes later reappeared hugging a fishbowl.
Carefully placing the bowl on the steps, she solemnly stared at the rattled goldfish who darted and wiggled his copper penny of a body. But when Jenna scattered her handful of watermelon seeds into the water, the goldfish paused
Fragile--FFM Day 7Lindsey Stirling blared from my ear buds and I bobbed my head, furrowing my brow. My hand was shoved deep into my purse, searching for my keys. Instead, I found receipts from the Stone Age, a collection of seashells from last year's vacation, and enough pepper spray to blind at least twenty bears.Fragile--FFM Day 72 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Frustrated, I dumped my portable landfill on the welcome mat; lipstick tubes and loose change bounced across the wood and disappeared, lost beneath the porch. Spreading objects out with my hands, I sighed. No keys. "Damn it all to Hell and back ag--"
Glancing up, the box near my door caught my eye. Wrapped with neon-colored paper, a large skull-and-crossbones bow held a handwritten "FRAGILE" note in place. The colors were garish, clashing with the ivory siding.
Wrinkling my nose, I pulled the package toward me, keys forgotten. The paper was slick, slipping against the pads of my fingertips like silk. Examining the box, I flipped the "FRAGILE" note over--and gasped.
Yanking the ear
Beautiful Today, you are beautiful.Beautiful2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Your parents tell you that you’re beautiful on every other day, too, but no one else ever does. The only time you matter to the world is at your shows. When you’re not beautiful, you’re nothing.
Today, though, you are shining. At least, you think you are, but you’re not feeling great. Your stomach hurts, just like it does before every pageant. Your dress is brand new, and you haven’t gotten used to the way it itches yet. You’re sure your wig is gorgeous, even though the hairspray smells bad.
Your teeth, though, are hurting the most. You know your flipper is a good one, but it doesn’t fit anymore.
The other girls are all beautiful too, crammed here in this
First Day of School."Miss, miss!"First Day of School.4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Sit down Gerald. Waving your hand and jumping around will not make me choose you quicker. Everybody will get a turn. Now, Natalie."
"Stand at the front then. There. Nice big voice."
"whatididonmyholidays by Natalie Marsh. What I did on my holidays we went to the beach it was nice and su....sunny. I had ice cream and I went on a boat. The boat was nice. The sea splashed up and we all got wet. Then there was a shark and it ated us and we all got dead TheEnd."
"Very good Natalie. Well done. And you spoke nice and clearly too, but try to be a bit louder next time. Now who's next? No, Gerald, I will not tell you again. Sit down. Now, Kyle. Your turn."
"What I did on my holidays by Kyle age six. What I did, I went to the zoo. I went... no, wait, I know,
The Dinner Hour"We need a refill on salt shakers at table two, a fresh ketchup bottle on tables three, four, and six, and for god's sake, see if we've got a spare pacifier for the kid at table five." Marcheline's lawyer-like voice rattles off instructions faster than anyone can understand them. Taking over her shift is like diving headfirst into an ocean current traveling at a million miles an hour.The Dinner Hour3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I nod after every ten or so words; after sounding off eight commands in under a breath, Marcheline gasps, "Thank god you always show up for your shift on time." Then she flings off her waiter belt like it was on fire and throws it on the rung. I watch her dash out of the back room like she's being chased.
Poor Marcheline doesn't always do well with the evening rush hours, when anything can happen.
Already in my uniform, I make sure of three final things before I step out into the fray that is Elliot's Diner at 6 PM: 1) my nametag is straight and my name tag, because once I grabbed Pedro's nametag a
A Note on DrowningI am writing this letter for myself. If you have found this letter, please give it to me. If you find that I lack the will to read, if my mind is gone, if my hands are bloodied, tell me at least, that the song is near its end. If I am dead [indistinguishable]A Note on Drowning3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
[Written in the margin: IF I AM DEAD THROW ME TO THE SEA]
In laying out the bones of my terrors, a solution may be found.
I’ll start before the beginning, when Mother took me for walks on the beach and told stories. Together we missed my father, who sailed the sea. These are my earliest memories, but I remember things had always been this way. We walked together, and I counted my many steps and Mother’s few. When I stretched my legs, I could make it so my path went over only her footprints.
The sand was soft where she had stepped. Elsewhere was gritty, and unclean.
I was young for all of Mother’s stories. Here I will write the relevant one as best I remember.
“A sailor was on a ship. This ship was far of
on watching the night close its eyes on you1. I will not tell youon watching the night close its eyes on you2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you are pretty.
How can the halls and angles of such honest humanity
be so pinched between sounds as elementary as these?
2. You need not be two stringent boughs of syllables
nor weave your viney bones abreast these five petty letters,
whirling in the fire of the river
Do not attempt to peel yourself layer for layer,
leaving all the disgust behind.
Do not tally your body six lines
too short, hemming the holes into
puckers red as those volcanoes of strength
bursting at the base of your hips.
3. Blood is not satisfaction.
Blood is not patience, waiting for the rooms to empty
The art of blacking outHow I wish I could say strangersThe art of blacking out3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
crept inward, night by night,
stealing my medication and
rearranging my furniture.
But I know it's not true.
There are holes inside
my head. Oxidation.
No one unlocks this door
but me. I am just
The Price of Dying“I want to be interred after I die,” Mr. Peters said. He made that clear to his family while he was still lucid, before old age and illness rendered him unintelligible. Seventy wasn’t that old, but he recognized the symptoms that were creeping up on his ailing body – the aches, the fatigue, the feeling of helplessness and despair. Despite his daughter’s attempts to assuage his concerns, he sensed his own mortality.The Price of Dying2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The worst part about dying, Mr. Peters thought, was what happened afterwards. Even since he was a small boy, he had been afraid of fire. He could never forget the scorching heat of the orange flames searing his skin, the dark billowing smoke entering his nostrils. The time that his house burned down, the fire almost took him with it. How ironic then, to escape the fire only to be fed into it after death.
So one day, he sat his son and daughter down after dinner. “I want to be buried whole,” he said, emphasizing the
SimbelmyneThere is silence here, uponSimbelmyne3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
stale skull tombs
these everminds are stilling...
(And yet their tragedies
shall endure in the pallor of the
flowers in your hands.)
PoetreeNOTE: The poem should have the shape of a tree. If it looks messy, your monitor is too narrow. Press "Ctrl" and "-" until it fits into your monitor, or follow the link in the author's comments. Thank you!Poetree2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
In darkness sweet I dream I sleep; my fate to wait till time is ripe
A tender leaf curled in the seed, an idea that would be freed
I dream of bra