stealing - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Stealing is such an old fashioned word; it's so tied up with notions of property and ownership. But who owns what? People who paid money? What's money? It used to be gold but what is it now? Digits! Digits that are created at the touch of a button! And what do we all do? We slave for them, ruin the most productive years of our lives chasing them, some kill from them, degrade their humanity for them. What do laws matter if some have the power to create money and others do not? How can the common man compete with the elite of Wall Street?
So I don't care what the dictionary says; I don't care what the cops say. Stealing is when people who are educated enough to know better abuse their superior education to maintain an unfair system - keeping themselves at the top and Walmart employees living in motel rooms with their kids. It's worse than feudal England, at least then they were honest about wielding the power. So I hack, I take, I siphon off those electronic numbers and fund my causes.
Stealing was like breathing for Jason. He didn't need to, of course- he had a comfortable life with his wife and two children. But it was like a curse he couldn't break. Every other night, he snuck out, donned his burglar suit, and snatched something of little importance to anyone through a window. But every so often, he would go for something bigger- a necklace, a painting, a collection of coins. Tonight he was going to steal a vase.
Tom looked over at the wallet without turning his head. It was fat, new looking and best of all - unattended. He made as if to yawn, looking around whilst stretching. "It must belong to some rich fool," he thought to himself, granting permission for what he was about to do. He had already mentally spent the money on the kinds of food his mother used to buy him before he left his chair. Once level with the wallet he bent to tie his newly undone lace. Then he rose and walked away, outwardly nonchalant but internally impatient to discover what he had "won."
Lila never regarded what she did as stealing; to her it was the only sensible way to survive. In this western life she refused to be a consumer, piece of data, reduced to her purchasing preferences and her internet history. She wasn't going to suck it up and go work for a corporation that was only interested in amassing more digits in its bank account and inflating its stock price. She hacked her way in to financial transactions to steal only pennies, but she was so prolific that in less than twelve months she had millions. Then from behind a false corporate front she began to buy polluting companies to either shut down or re-equip with new clean technology. Long after she had no more need for the stealing she continued regardless, siphoning it off into her favourite good causes or using it to acquire another dirty factory.
I have been in this store so often of late, I am their newest and most friendly customer. I know the security guards by name and how many kids each cashier has. I am almost part of the scenery, the guards don't watch me at all. I'm "good ol' KC," completely trustworthy, that's me. I dress nicely and carry a laptop bag, my shoes are expensive and my hair well-groomed. After this small amount of ground work it is time to reap my rewards. I go for small but expensive items, things I can sell or trade: make-up, chocolate, pharmaceuticals and batteries. It all goes out in my computer bag and I always pay for something pricey on the way out. I wasn't always this way; I used to snatch and run. My mother told me "don't you ever get caught shoplifting again!" and I didn't. Didn't get caught that is. And why shouldn't I? Don't they make insane profits from the working poor? Don't they ding them for every dime while trying to look good with loyalty programs? Not that I'm Robin Hood...
I furtively reached my hand over the top of the cookie jar on the top of the fridge. I scanned the perimeter of my fingers for any trip wires that might trigger an alarm. Nothing. I stuck my hand in slowly and carefully making sure there were no lasers that my army of fingers would set off. As I grabbed my sweet biscuity prize my arm, the leader in the operation, toppled the jar which smashed on the tile floor. Drat! The evil overlord Dad had foiled me again. Back to the drawing board for a new plan to steal cookies.
Frank sees the apple, but just from the corner of his eye. He doesn't need to turn his head to know it's there and really it's best if he doesn't. He can see that the skin is mottled red and green, that it is plump like the ones he saw in those story books his mother used to read. Finding an excuse to walk closer he picks up a box and saunters to the shelving on the other side. It's fresh from the tree, any fool can tell that. It still has green leaves that show no sign of wilting. He feels the saliva pool in his mouth. What does Mr Darcy want with an apple anyway? They're almost priceless now. He imagines the money in his pocket, sweet. He just has to get the old man out of the room, just for a moment. Easy money. He started spending it in his head, and it was only an apple after all.
I stepped nearer to the desk, checking that no-one was watching me closely and that my friend was totally engrossed in helping the teacher count the papers. I quickly swiped the expensive designer pen into my pocket and walked away.