buyers guide
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Shopping is like Hunting
I don't know if it was Rabbit Season or Duck Season or Deer Season, but I hunted for about five years for three specific things: A Job, a Shoppe Space, and/or a home. My bipolar attitude of "find your own joy" had me hunting in every town I could get to from Florida to Georgia to Alabama to the Carolinas to Virginia even all the way to New Jersey. The mind is a terrible thing to waste, and when fear and pride are an individual's leaders, time and money get wasted on fruitless searches like a machine gun spraying bullet ammo aimlessly. I may have lost my tank and machine gun, but from those five years of hunting, I think I got two out of three. No job, but home is good and the shoppe space online is sufficient. I'll not buy another tank or machine gun for Duck Season, Rabbit Season or Deer Season. I've decided to give those up like vegetarians and Hindus give up Cow. I still have credit cards and some cash to go shopping with and the internet is still showing me lots of great "targets" of acquisition, so I'll just shoot for cans when I can.
By Shanon Angermeyer Norman3 months ago in Poets
The Gift of Words
The wind rustled gently through the open window, carrying with it the scent of autumn leaves and a quiet hum of the world outside. Inside the modest study, surrounded by shelves lined with worn books and half-filled journals, sat Arman — a poet whose words had once stirred crowds, but whose voice now belonged only to the pages in his notebooks. On this particular day, the room felt different. The golden light of the late afternoon sun painted long shadows across the floor, and a kind of stillness hung in the air, as if the world paused to listen. Across from him stood his twelve-year-old son, Rayan, whose eyes had always been full of questions. Lately, though, those questions had grown quieter — replaced by the silent confusion of growing up. Arman had seen it before. He remembered the weight of that age — too old to be a child, too young to be a man. And so, he had prepared a gift — not one of toys or gadgets, but something far older. Far deeper. Arman reached into the drawer and pulled out a thick, leather-bound book. Its cover was worn, the edges frayed from years of turning pages in the middle of the night. It wasn’t just a book. It was his life. “This,” Arman said, holding it out with both hands, “is for you.” Rayan hesitated. “Is it one of your poetry books?” “Yes,” Arman smiled. “But it’s more than that. This one… I never published. I wrote it for you. Since the day you were born.” Rayan’s hands trembled slightly as he took the book. He opened it carefully, seeing page after page of neat handwriting, faded ink, and delicate drawings in the margins — birds, trees, stars, and hearts. “I don’t understand,” he whispered. “Why give this to me now?” Arman leaned back in his chair, eyes misting with emotion. “Because there are things in life that can’t be taught with rules or explained with logic. Some lessons live in the spaces between words — in poetry, in silence, in feelings. I want you to have this, Rayan, so that even when I’m not beside you, my heart still is.” Rayan flipped to the first page. The title read: For My Son, Who Taught Me to Listen Again. He glanced up. “You wrote all this… just for me?” Arman nodded. “Every poem in there was written on a day you changed me — a question you asked, a moment you cried, the way you laughed at the stars. You may not understand all of it now. But someday, when you’re ready, those words will find you.” Silence settled between them, not awkward or uncertain — but full, like the pause after a beautiful line of poetry. Rayan hugged the book to his chest. “I didn’t know words could feel like this,” he said softly. “They can,” Arman replied. “Words can heal, guide, and remind us who we are. They outlive us. And if they come from love, they never die.” As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the room in amber hues, Rayan sat beside his father. They didn’t speak for a long time. There was no need. The boy had received not just a book, but a piece of his father’s soul — a map of feelings, a legacy of love, a timeless gift etched in ink and carried by the heart. And in that quiet room, the poet passed down the greatest verse he had ever written — the story of a father and son, bound not just by blood, but by words that would live forever.
By Muhammad Saad 3 months ago in Poets
Best USB Baby Bottle Warmers in the UK for 2025: Safe & Portable Picks
Feeding your baby on the go can be tricky — especially during the UK’s colder months. Thankfully, USB baby bottle warmers make it easier to keep milk at the perfect temperature anywhere, anytime.
By Baby Shopper3 months ago in Poets
The Pain
If I do not change I only have myself to blame For I am who I am Because of the pain Thank you for reading my work. If you enjoyed this story, there’s more below. Please hit the like and subscribe button, you can follow me on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram @AtomicHistorian. To help me create more content, leave a tip or become a pledged subscriber. I also make stickers, t-shirts, etc here.
By Atomic Historian3 months ago in Poets
