# 08-22-05 | Bedroom Description (prose challenge) (1 Viewer)



## daniela

*Literary Maneuvers*: Bedroom Description

Opens: _Monday, 22nd of August_
Closes: _Saturday, 3rd of September_

Hi, me again.  This time I'm fairly certain LM #4 will be the last one I'm running for a while.  So, let's get on with it.  Mr. Farror, who recently made the transformation from tiger bunny to duck, has kindly provided this week's theme.  I think you'll enjoy it.

*In 500 words or less describe your bedroom or the place where you sleep.* (I myself prefer a tent in the front yard when the weather is nice - noisy siblings.)  As usual, there is room for many different interpretations.  Do you have a mountain of junk that seems to come alive at night?  Have you ever thought about how an ant or spider views your room?  Would you like to stretch your literary muscles and write a description worthy of Ian McEwan?  Or is your style closer to that of Lewis Carroll?  Whether the entry is serious or humorous, we want to hear about your space.  Now let's all go out and write some awesome *prose*!



All of the usual rules apply.  For those of you who are new the LM forum or have forgotten the rules, please look over the LM Guide and previous competitions (especially the Moralistic Fable one).


Before I let you guys take over the thread, please remember these four things.  Except for the first one, these are all areas where you could possibly loose points depending on the judges' moods.

1. Only one entry per person is allowed.

2. Your piece needs to have a title and it should be in bold text.

3. Do not go over the word limit.

4. Spelling and grammar count.



Since I am posting this late in the day, I will leave the thread open until *6:00 pm EST* on Saturday, Sept. 3.  Please submit your entries before then.

Good luck!



Edit:  Don't forget to use the off-topic tags for non-entry posts.


		Code:
	

[ot]Praise for awesome entry that I wish I had written.[/ot]

generates
[ot:d80393c933]Praise for awesome entry that I wish I had written.[/ot:d80393c933]


Edit 2:  We're looking strictly for *prose* this time around.  No poems, please.


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## Crazy_dude6662

* my room*



Peaceful, my own place of solitude, no one enters without permission. Incense burns almost constantly, windows and blinds open letting in light and air. Stickers on the door from early childhood, now impossible to remove, the door and stickers are one. Clowns are stuck to the door also, twisted into letters spelling my name. The blue carpet is warm and fluffy, comforting. The duvet and pillow cover are covered in Chinese symbols.
Candles on shelves casting a comforting glow. Books cover a wall, never dusty as they are constantly removed, read and replaced. Computer in one corner, where I stay typing late into the night, when every other member of the family is a sleep, the glow of the computer and the tapping of the computer are still going. Writing scrawled on a message board, reminders and ideas.   Frames stuck to walls containing achievements, awards, certificates. Ornaments stand on the desk, things bought with the little money I had as a child. Posters hang on the wall, some bought others given. Blue walls energising and creative.
This is my shelter.
This is my space where no-one intrudes.
This is my safe haven. 
This is my room.

Alan K.





> sorry it isnt longer


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## daniela

[ot:3531476081]What is it with you and always being first? j/k

The length's fine Crazy dude.  I did say 500 words *or less*. :wink:[/ot:3531476081]


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## Crazy_dude6662

daniela said:
			
		

> [ot:e76126a0e5]What is it with you and always being first? j/k
> [/ot:e76126a0e5]



[ot:e76126a0e5]i dunno, its weird isnt it?[/ot:e76126a0e5]


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## Ruben

[ot:a6878f6ce6]*whispers to daniela* somebody should tell crazydude that his signature isn't working[/ot:a6878f6ce6]


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## Crazy_dude6662

Ruben said:
			
		

> [ot:f15dd368a5]*whispers to daniela* somebody should tell crazydude that his signature isn't working[/ot:f15dd368a5]



yeah i know im too lazy to change it,


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## Rico

*Midnight Musings*

I can’t sleep, as usual. Unfortunately, tonight, I cannot leave the warmth of my bed and spend the long hours of the night online. I am pinned on the bed by the body curled up next to mine, head and arms ensuring that I’ll be here for a while. Knowing it might be hours until sleep finds me, I survey the room in darkness. Without the benefit of sight, of course, my observations are limited to the other senses. 

Beneath me, there’s the softness of the new mattress I bought last month and on top, a light cotton blanket. Funny; the color of the blanket escapes me. It looks like a dark color, but when there’s no light, everything is dark. It might be pink, for all I know. Other than the fact, of course, that I wouldn’t actually buy a pink blanket. Most likely, it is some shade of blue. What else do I feel? Well, I could easily spend an extra thousand words to the body beside me, but that would fall outside the parameters of this competition. So, moving on from my tactile impressions.

In the air around me, there is a lingering scent of cologne and sweat, punctuated by the occasional breeze flowing from the open window. It smells vaguely salty, an observation explained by the beach and waves only a few hundred yards from this very room.

The sounds of slow, rhythmic breathing dominate my hearing, but there are other sounds, too. There’s the soft hum of the laptop on my desk, halfway across the room. I can just about make out the blinking green light as it sleeps far more soundly than I. It might just be my imagination, but I feel that I can hear the digital clock counting away the seconds, the display of the red numbers both comforting and ominous. The window is open and I fancy that, just out of my range of hearing, there are waves crashing on the beach beneath a starlit sky. Perhaps someone is out there, listening to them. But again, I forget myself. This is about describing the room.

Now, what have I forgotten? Ah, yes, taste. Well, I could turn my head about five inches and taste the skin of my man, but again, that is outside the bounds of this piece of writing. So I think I’ll leave taste alone.

There’s another feeling here, too, one that cannot be defined or confined to the realms of the senses. It is, I suppose, what you’d call a sixth sense, but I hate that term. Just a gut feeling. This room radiates safety and comfort. It is within this room that I can let go and do whatever crazy thing enters my mind. This is my haven. Perhaps that’s cliché, perhaps naïve, but no description of this bedroom would be complete without it.

And now, with a smile on my lips, I descend into sleep.


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## Ruben

Crazy_dude6662 said:
			
		

> Ruben said:
> 
> 
> 
> 
> [ot:5305021c46]*whispers to daniela* somebody should tell crazydude that his signature isn't working[/ot:5305021c46]
> 
> 
> 
> 
> yeah i know im too lazy to change it,
Click to expand...


[ot:5305021c46]Fair enough[/ot:5305021c46]


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## Londongrey

*My Bedroom*


The oak floor grains across your sight, bar any feeling of running into my bedroom.  A dull sheen eminates from the door as your reflection is wrapped around the brass of the handle.  You confront yourself as you enter, the oak framed full length mirror shows the hallway and all who pass through.  The window offers an almost back door past it, overlooking terrace after terrace of Victorian Villas through quartered glass and thick gloss frames.

A step in and there is a rustle, like stepping into a clearing in the woods, when your feet touch fallen leaves not found by walkers.  It is the warm ivory satin bed spread hanging on the bed, embroidered with delicate flowers that shimmer as you move over them.  Lightening strikes through the satin when your hands glide to touch them, light patterns play on the ceiling like in public baths.  

The wrought iron frame that holds the human body stands imperial and masculine, smooth matt columns rush up to the plain acorns that round the corners.  An Italian coat of arms pokes through, a leg of a unicorn or the point of a shield, bronzes and greens sweep up to the ceiling from the pillows stating that whoever sleeps here may be rich in texture as it is.

You must lift your knee to climb on top, the goose feather bed and duvet enclosed within white Egyptian cotton (like silk Hessian), lets you sink back to the knees of the next person.  

'Le Pays Du Sourire' cries the pale coloured poster on the wall, framed behind glass in a simple matt black frame, it declares the coming of a 1930's film it once advertised in a theatre house in Paris.  Musique de Franz Lehar!!!  

Such is the excitement beside the subdued Edwardian frame of the secretaire.  Thin tapered legs make it seem as though a hover charm has been cast, as if too little supports the rosewood writing screen that lowers to hide the oval detail on its face.  Just enough room for a delicate wrist to rest on the midnight green leather.  It mirrors the gloss window frames in its worn, pebble smooth surface.  It constrasts the walls that are painted in soft beige, a soft beige that has been mixed with sand to give the walls texture.  

The room seems draped with texture, no spiteful blocks of colour to lead the eye on a biased tour.  Just textures, sand, grain and hessian.


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## Psycho6058

The Times They Have A'Changed

My bedroom used to be a playground, when I was young and married (and healthy).  Satin sheets and pillowcases (well, sateen actually, I couldn't afford satin), a bookcase full of poetry, my guitar propped up against the bookcase, and my irreplaceable collection of VINYL.  We would crack open a bottle of Cold Duck and I'd recite e e cummings to set the mood, while burning a stick of incense.  Then, we grew apart, and went our own ways. Time and age took it's toll. And, now, what used to be my playground is now prison.


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## mswietek

*Where I Sleep But Cannot Rest*

*Where We Sleep But Cannot Rest*

_____Normal bedroom; bed on one wall, two dressers, his and hers, facing each other. Drawn shades keep the room in perpetual twilight, save for a luminescent sliver carved into the far wall by a buzzing streetlamp's glow. Laundry lies in two heaps on the floor, insensitively segregated into whites and colors (there is no Brown v. Board of Ed. for polo shirts and pajamas). A fan stands in the corner, its metal-cage fan-blade head drooping like a discarded lover while the air conditioner hums smugly. 

_____My wife lies next to me in bed, face drawn in perpetual poor health, save for the luminescent blue eyes which carve slivers into me when our eyes meet. For her, the bedroom has become the whole of her geography, so pieces from other rooms have been broken down and carted back like plunder from conquered lands. The good TV from the living room sits awkwardly on the dresser. Bathroom toiletries share space with today’s mail on a foldout TV tray. Non perishable foods fit tightly into a plastic bin next to the bed.

_____So we lie in bed watching TV; sitcom reruns from 1992. I hold her hand with my right while I peck, peck, type with my left. Socks strain from out the top of an overstuffed dresser drawer like little animals desperate to get out.

[an:02577434a6]223 words, not including the title.[/an:02577434a6]


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## bobbiego

*Literary Maneuvers*

*I Find Peace*

On my couch sleep comes easy.  It is the softest couch in the whole country, that might be a slight over statement, but it is very nicely plump with feather stuffing which sinks you into a forest environment  right in your living room.  If I had an inclination to be perfectly honest, I might mention, sleep comes easier there because of the earthquake of snoring that accompanies my husband in his slumber, but that is a family secret, and he would not admit it if asked.  

I like falling to sleep with a relaxor thingy on top of my couch.  It massages and heats tired bones and automatically shuts down after 16 minutes so you won’t burn yourself up with relaxation.  That is an excellent feature.  I had one of those nice things a couple years ago, it’s motors got so over used they just quit working, so I have spent the last year looking for a new one.  It was not to be found, my little night cap of warmth and massage, so I bought a new couch, whose tenderness might just lull me into bliss. It was pretty good, but I still missed my relaxor…the company spelling not mine. I found one the other day, at a garage sale.  It cost me five dollars.  Sixteen hundred and ninety seven dollars less than my couch.  Now I have both, I am in sleep heaven as long as the scanner is running and the television is on the 24 hour news channel.  I feel safe knowing that even asleep I am vigilant in protecting myself and my family.   News alerts and fire alarms awaken me.  I am on top of everything while under the covers.  

The remote is close by, the heat and air conditioning controls are no further than ten feet away, I am merely seconds away from complete comfort, winter, spring, summer or fall.

When I was a kid, I fell to sleep listening to KOMA Top 100 count down from Oklahoma City every night. Now, listening to music, just makes me want to get up and dance, that is not sleep. I truly think I need hubbub going on in the background, it helps me shut down my mind, which does not rest easily and never has. I even leave the bedroom door open so I can hear my hubby’s snore, it just doesn’t shake rattle and roll me this way.  My couch is my haven, my safe spot, my comfort zone.  It is all I need to be rested and fulfilled.  I do not think there is a better sleep area anywhere unless it would be in our fifth-wheel parked next to a fast running creek in the Big Horns…creek noise is like the creators lullaby.

Bobbiego


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## dannyboy

*My Bedroom*

word count 499

My daughter comes into my bedroom every night around midnight. I know that’s the time because the grandfather clock in the hallway chimes the start of another day. My wife and I have often debated whether we should turn that clock off but my wife is superstitious (the only other time that clock stopped her father died  asleep in his bed). I like to leave it on because I know one day soon my daughter will be gone.

Of course this poses problems like sometimes the need to finish what we’ve begun in the time it takes small feet to patter down the stairs, across the sunroom and through into our bedroom. It makes us laugh, the race we sometimes have at twelve o’clock of an evening in our bedroom.

Sometimes I am not in bed but sitting at the computer that lives on my side of the bed. My wife has books and the alarm clock and a collection of small fluffy animals our daughter carts down each night on her side. I have the computer on mine.

I sit at the computer writing into the small hours while behind me my wife sleeps. It is a beautiful time, my eyes on the screen or often staring out the window into the front garden illuminated by the streetlamp. Sometimes I watch the possums tightrope their way across the powerlines, or the fox that visits regularly even though he polished off my daughter’s guinea pigs a year or so ago.

If I am at the computer when she comes down the stairs she will always sit on my lap for a cuddle, forcing me to stop mid-word, no matter how great the inspiration, then she says ‘A drink please dad.’

She climbs off my lap and falls into the big bed like a body falling into the warm Indian ocean and I get a drink, look at the screen and feel the small tear between my art and my family. Sometimes I return to writing, sometimes I retire and cuddle close the two women of my life.

In my mind is always a hint of sadness for my son, thirteen now, growing up swifter than a sapling. He no longer comes down the stairs. The weight of him in my arms just a memory from long ago merging softly, gently, with other long ago memories, like my own childhood walks to my parents room done in trepidation because it would mean I had wet the bed again and that brought swift rebuke.

Sometimes I turn off the computer and instead of going into my bed I leave my bedroom and climb up the stairs and sleep in my son’s bed, cuddling him as I did all those years ago.

Sometimes I do neither, instead I retire to my daughter’s empty, cooling bed and pretend a relapse into my fantasy childhood; dreaming I could wander down those stairs and into my parent’s welcoming bed if I so desired.


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## Londongrey

[ot:3454c87b66] Dannyboy your avatar is really off putting.  It is however interesting to see how people describe this very personal space [/ot:3454c87b66]


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## Kelhanion

*The Strange Connection Between Everything And A Relatively Common Object*

The universe is infinite or at least pretty close to it. If I found myself floating around endlessly I'd really be depressed. Come to think of it, it would be all my fears coming true at once. I couldn't control the situation in any way. The infinite mass of everything would surround me and that would be a bummer. That's why I like stability.

Planets are nice. They and their pal, gravity, offer people a comfortable place to be in. Sure, in space your hair doesn't get all mixed up or your buttocks grow numb, but you can't lie down or hug the ground up there. I guess the planets give us the feel of security we so badly need. They're like enormous mothers. We know that planets aren't going anywhere. We can't run or hide from them. Even though they travel thousands of miles per second and eventually turn into melting balls of lava, that's basically true.

But being on a planet isn't enough. We have lost the perspective being stuck here for all of our lives. We find the world around us overwhelming: it's practically everywhere. We look for shelter in buildings. A house is considered a nice place. It has walls, usually one on each side, and a roof. It keeps the world outside and us inside.

Yet, while being in the concrete shelter of houses, we can't relax. There is still life everywhere around us in form of mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, spouses and those little things that run around drawing on the walls. We need more obstacles.

A room is an awfully good solution. Better yet if it has a door in it. It is really quite odd that such a simple, small cube can keep us away from our family, the human kind, the hemisphere and the universe, but we don't like to think of that kind of things.

A good room has the following things: a bed.

You can do all kind of things in your bed, the second oldest of them being sleeping. You can't really stress the importance of sleep too much. Many of the greatest ideas have been came up with while asleep. Plus, you can usually see some wacky stuff in your dreams.

To describe my room, I will now use the method known as fictional prose. In it you will find a character who is about to enter a room. The character is me and the room is mine. From this story you will learn that my room is nothing but the setting for a good bed, and that that is more than enough.

”I came home from work. I opened the door to my room. I looked around and saw all kinds of random stuff: a desk, chairs, bookcases and little objects on them. Blaa blaa blaa. And there was the bed. I took off my pants and positioned myself on my bed so that my nose faced the mattress. Suddenly, the universe faded out.”


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## strangedaze

[ot:fa6ddf587d]And I'm spent. Good luck to all.[/ot:fa6ddf587d][/code]


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## strangedaze

* My Room as a Lovestory*

_Word Count: A slice over 500_

Fishnet pantyhose, sweaty relics from last night’s bondage playnight, stretch from the pointed tip of my cracked ceramic bedside lamp to the garbage pail a few feet away, sticky latex overflowing and drying into misshapen crusts on its rim. A wig hangs on my closet’s doorknob: blonde – Iris was a blonde yesterday. Iris, like an eye, a beguiling semi-feminine crossdressing eye with bright pink razor blade lines grinning on her forearms.

An unsteady hand has drawn a smiley face, ex’s for eyes, in red lipstick on the cover of my bible. I recognize Iris’s handywork. Nothing like lipstick to lubricate the often grainy, inertia-dampening road that my midnight prayers have to travel to get to God.

Dusty Bibles lead to dirty lives. She laughs. Sometimes I brush up against the good book when I’m reaching for a Kleenix. I imagine it burning the pads of my fingers, feeling past the miscellaneous trinkets (buttons and things) until I find sanitation bliss in a small tissue box, the kind with koalas and zebras and bright, bright flowers printed on the side.

Sometimes we smoke joints under the Trainspotting poster I bought at the university print show. It tells me to ‘choose life’; two words are supposed to inject meaning into my prostitute ridden existence. If I could choose any life, I think that I’d choose to live in the smoky recesses of the purple bong on my desk. (When I’m not looking it kicks rolling paper packages against my brand-spanking new 12 inch iBook: a gift from mom).

Clutter is my room's poetry. It goes without saying that kitsch likes to arrive in my life unannounced, often in the form of strange ceramic collectibles. Garfield eyes me suspiciously from atop a hip-height bookshelf.

Iris stands by the window, her face partially hidden by a long, downward slant in the ceiling that touches the floor, making a small alcove by the window sill. She’s playing with the plants, our plants, all named after literary figures like Wild and Joyce. These are our surrogate children, replacements for the offspring we know we’ll never produce. Do all prostitutes share photosynthetic families with their johns?

Her muscular legs swim in the clothes that flow from the closet and onto the carpet, blotchy stains of cheap blackberry merlot and cigarette ash temporarily vanishing – one unhygienic blunder painted over another. The walls are sporadically white, mostly behind my posters, but tar yellow everywhere else. The room habitually mimics its occupants. In this instance its occupant’s lungs. When I’m dead the superintendent will go to great lengths to wash the walls and a fresh set of lungs will walk in, younger and (hopefully) with a steady paychque.

Fuck it, they’ll think, because the rent’s cheap here, even though the neighborhood is shit and prostitutes work the streets two blocks down. She picks at her fingernails, watching the empty parking lot turn itself inside out. My love is green as I fish it out from under the mattress and throw it on her side of the bed. When it leaves my hands I start sinking, swallowed whole by dirty sheets and dim lighting. The room has decided to move onto bigger and better things.


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## who?

*Night by Day*

My room is not a place of darkness and peace, of serenity and relaxation. It is not a sanctuary, nor my refuge. It is a place of exhausted collapse, of bloodshot eyes and muffled thoughts. It is the place to which I crawl when my energy is all but spent. We have an uneasy relationship, my bedroom and I, the star-crossed lovers that were never meant to be.

It loves me, and I love it, but we are forced apart. Each drawn in another direction, preoccupied by our own selfish needs. I do not spare it a second thought when I’ve rolled out of bed, yawning at the new day; the new afternoon. We do not meet at a traditional time you see; our night is lit by the sun, swallowed by traffic and the squawk of birds.   

We meet, resentfully, when our energy is all but spent. We have no time for each other, to relax and unwind, to simply enjoy the sensation of being together. I do not notice the patchwork of furniture, accumulated over the many years from many places, as I drag myself into her warm embrace, nor do I notice the stacks of boxes and magazines waiting patiently to be taken to their final resting place.

She is a good friend, my bedroom, when I let her be, but I do not thank her. I do not show my appreciation, just a silent gratitude that I can sleep. And dream. We share it all, the good times and the bad, but we never speak of them. Countless memories sleep with me in my bed, but they are only half remembered and never discussed.

Yes, it is an uneasy relationship, but we are unable to change.

Rows upon rows of DVDs and CDs clamour for my attention, but I have none to give. Not any more. Not like I used to. My time is pulled in over directions, towards other interests, but still they wait. Always ready for me to return, to love them again. I dare say it’ll be a long wait. Now my room is filled with dust; empty words, broken promises, forgotten dreams. It is the resting place of what I was, and what I am. 

It is the only constant in my life, the one thing that remains unchanged. Beneath the crates of bottles and piles of clothes, it is still my room. Still as I remember it, in my waking dreams, when I let my mind wander. A diamond beneath a stratum of filth and decay, just waiting to be unearthed again. And one day maybe it will, when my time is not stolen by petty thoughts and pointless distractions. When once again I can return to her warmth, her love, and remember what we had been.

But that day is not yet here, and so she waits. She sits and she dreams, knowing in her heart I will be back as long as she has patience.


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## Dirkin

*The Room I Sleep In*

_Everytime I step into my room, it is like stepping into a jungle. It is a little misty perhaps, or my eyes act up on me. I step over my fallen clothes. Like a snake I have shed layers of skin, leaving them on my floor to decompose, and fuel the next generation of flora. I sit on my bed. Its large, but rather ratty, as if it had been slept on by a thousand people, perhaps even a million. Ratty is the word I would call it, so often I cover it with a blanket, springs visibly poking through. Somehow I miss them while I sleep. I must have a map.

Around my bed, I have books, hundreds of them, of all categories. I have non-fiction for studying real life events for use in my stories. I also enjoy reading classical fiction, I have a collection of that as well. Lining the top of my shelves are the books that hold the most intrigue to me at least, works by R.A. Salvatore, JK Rowling, and Scott McCough. I have a book by Eve Forward as well, and it is getting banged up around the edges. A sign of love I am positive.

I sit at my computer, open up the Internet Explorer window. Looking around my computer, I see various knickknacks, which hold no real meaning except to me. Star Wars action figures, drawings that I drew as a child and adolescent. A phone beside the computer connects me to the real world, like a tether, as long as I have someone to hold the other end. Looking up to the right I can see that it is a bright day out today, and looking to the left, I see a large mirror. My reflection is far from it though. All I see through the mirror is my television, which is behind me. Discovery Channel is on, something about Pyramids. Cartoons used to fuel my creativity; Captain Planet was my hero. Now I watch the Discovery Channel. Real life is so much more interesting then children’s cartoons or at least I think so. My television is large, but not massive. I’m happy with it.

I look around. Perhaps I could and should clean my room a little, but I’m comfortable. I enjoy a comfortable level of filth, as long as it doesn’t stink. That would be bad. I mean, at least I can see my carpet. Pulling down my book by Eve Forward I begin to read. After reading several times, the adventures of Samlander and Arcie still entertain me, but not for long. I put the book down and lay down on my bed. There used to be posters around my room. I really don’t know where they went. I guess time just devoured them. I think about my story, how I will continue, and break through my current writer’s block. I sit up and look around. It’s not perfect, but it’s home._


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## LoneWolf

* My Room is Weird*

My room. It's such a strange little space, this area that is supposed to represent the complicated anguish of my teenage heart. As I gaze around I realize how odd and insane I would seem to anyone who stepped foot here. Yet here I am, giving you the opportunity to join me in my black hole of a room. 

The greatest of ironies occur on my door; only in my world would a gorgeous, detailed picture of a viola sit nobly atop a glossy picture of --oh, no-- Eminem. Somehow I have managed to force them into playing a Wooden Door Duet.

The wall to the left of this entrance is covered in clippings from newspapers, mainly about sports--Tiger's fourth Masters, the Red Sox's historic game, the Panther's road to the Super bowl--it's all there amidst numerous plaques and certificates. 

As I gaze around again I see how much stuff I really have, as if I were a packrat; my small bookshelf sits bravely, jammed and overflowing with discount books. Another shelf acts a home to the books of my childhood, too precious to be given to the library. 

A smile flickers across my sleep deprived face as I see my CD collection. There are so many CDs, so many genres. My heart sings with joy at the recollection of the frantic, excited ripping at the plastic,  that first chord that sets off the musical adventure---it's touching, really. My CD collection exudes the fiery mix of melodies with the help of my impeccable taste; my New Orleans feather boa and beads add a touch of spiciness to anything.

Sitting in front of the CD player is my collection of shot glasses and pictures of friends. Stuck on the wall above this music device is my collection of stickers from the age of ten and up. Put these two collections together and you get to the core of Chelsea---a person who likes to collect stickers while drunkenly pouring liquor into various shot glasses.

Oh yeah, that's me.

Random papers have found a permanent home in various corners, making it feel all at once cozy and disgustingly messy, a wonderful mix. And looking down on me from more than one wall are my precious Eminem posters, collected over six years. These are my centerpieces, my _viola!_ moments; somehow they don’t fit in with the rest of my seemingly normal but eclectic room. One would ask, why would a girl with a viola picture, respectable writing talent, and plaques love Eminem and own _pictures_ of him?

The answer is quite simple: because I am weird. My soul is a mix of all things strange and confusing, and that shows in my room. To me, my Eminem posters add life, mystery, and amusement to my room. So, in a sense, my room is basically me (without the talking and the thinking and…you know): small and simple, but surprisingly unique. However, it can also be utterly perplexing...and funny, of course.

[ot:1cd7ddbedd] It's meant to be humorous and kind of questionable. I figured, I'm writing about my personal space, so I should write as myself. I tried my best... 500 words on the nose...woot![/ot:1cd7ddbedd]


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## ms. vodka

*In My room.  In. My. Room.*

(word count- 500)

This bedroom is relatively new to me.  I’ve only occupied it for about five months, give or take a month.  The memories here are few, compared to the bedroom I occupied for seven years before I moved back to Portland.  For some reason I like this bedroom better, though.  New memories are bound to be made here over time, knowing me.

The two large windows to the left of my bed let in as much or as little light as I want them to, depending on the day and my frame of mind.  The blinds are white and a bit dusty.  I keep meaning to get around to dusting them.  I put it on my list, but somehow it never gets crossed out.  

I love my bed.  The sheets are khaki blue flannel. I like them best when they are fresh out of the dryer. The comforter is down and the duvet cover is forest green corduroy.  If I could, I might just live in my bed and in the bath, alternating from one to the other. In the long run that may produce unsightly sores though, so I don’t.

On the right side of my bed is an extremely large, extremely old roll top desk.  It used to belong to my mother in law.  When it was given to me, there was mouse shit all through the drawers and nifty secret compartments.  I cleaned it out while trying not to wretch, thinking about the people whose skin rotted after touching mouse shit.  I got over it, though.  Now it functions as a reflection of my brain.

The desk is cluttered, yes, but so is my brain. On the left side of the desk sits a large red dictionary, a folder with printed versions of my poetry and a paperback copy of Still Life With Woodpecker, all for easy reference.  The top of the desk holds the monitor, printer and a large stack of books which won’t fit into the overflowing blue book case to the left of my chair.  Beside that is a Juicy Couture handbag that my best friend bought for me after a character from a story I wrote stole one just like it. The handbag intimidates me. To the right of that is a framed picture my oldest son drew of our family back when things were more simple, if not more happy.  

Opposite the end of my bed, against the wall, is my dresser.  On it are a myriad of bottles of my favorite perfumes, my mother’s jewelry box and her hand puppet of Kermit the Frog, which I sometimes put over my bong as a cozy.  

The closet next to that is overflowing with clothes and shoes.  

The walls are still bare, off white, as I haven’t gotten around to putting up the various paintings that I should have gotten around to putting up by now.  I keep saying I’ll get to it on the weekend, like the blinds.  Maybe someday I actually will.


----------



## strangedaze

[ot:cc097e3a75] i likes, vodka, though im slightly disappointed with the minimal sexual references. [/ot:cc097e3a75]


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## ms. vodka

[ot:423957044b] well, drew, you can always hit me up on msn for a modified version :wink: [/ot:423957044b]


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## nae411

*My Private Sanctuary*

*My Private Sanctuary…*

My bedroom, my sanctuary these words become synonymous. Closing my eyes, I transport to my very own land of dreams, places only as incredible as my imagination will allow. So the mood is set in warm colors, with accents of sun, fire and magic. I invite you, so come in and discover why a small room, with so little material worth is a sanctuary like no other.

Walls transform from a mere blank canvas to soft natural linen. My bed deliberately placed in the very center of my room, represents the center of my life. This the very place in which I feel my life revert from reality to a place where no feeling, no desire, no impulse is silly, useless or elementary. My duvet is a small cluster of colors as powerful yet subtle as a bouquet of flowers meant for a cherished one. Orange, green, gold, and yellow, each have a theme consistent with my strengths, weaknesses and desires.  Piles of pillows, all within their space, make for a treasured place to be me.

Candles, arranged in madness, short, tall, round, all shapes loved, each scent revered find comfort on my dresser. Some held up in candelabras exalt their status as most impressive, most loved and most used. Drippings of wax running down their sides make known they are honored in usage, not left as window trimmings lonely and abandoned.

Of all the wonderfulness, I have come to value my humble shelves filled with books the most. Not just any books, but “my” books. Some as silly and simple as childhood favorites, ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ and my all time favorite ‘Are you there God, it’s me, Margaret?’ Old and new alike, snuggled side by side creates a bit of history, my history. Pictures of happy times, framed in love, beckon all visitors to come forth and take a closer look at who lives here. 

Every color, pillow, candle and book have one thing in common, they are all a small piece of who I am. They each undeniably call you to the truth that this space, this room, this small part of who I am, is in fact my sanctuary.


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## mswietek

[ot:7db30e2599]I realized that what I posted was not the final version of my entry.  It remains largely the same save for fixing the dreaded lay/lie mistake.  I didn't see anything in the rules prohibiting editing of posts prior to the deadline, but if it is a problem, let me know and I will repost the earlier version.

Michael[/ot:7db30e2599]


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## Isis

[500 words on the nose, not including the title]
*It's a lair, I tell you*

Some days I'd like to think that I don't really have a bedroom. It's different from years of dressers crowded in Precious Moments, not an organized mess of CD's and duvets and old birthday cards; and even though bedroom is a pretty loose term I still see them in books as the slightly contrived product of suburbia. After all, if your innermost sanctum is orderly and tasteful, then your whole life must be the same. 

There's a bed, of course, (a loft) but it's like its own little world, an elevated cavern or one of those tiny tower rooms that the princess always lives in. It's not fit for a princess, though, unless royalty forgets to change their sheets and start to sleep with blankets that resemble crumpled shag rugs. My dog always mistakes them for his companions when they fall on the floor, even though they're checkered in green and purple. 

Looking at my walls, I'm glad I'm not a dog. Colorblindness would be a major disadvantage in here. 
I painted them bright aquamarine this summer - a testament to a season that I would cheerfully ignore, once the paint had dried and the fumes sifted away. No longer needing to get fresh air and sunshine from outside, I'd be safe inside my own slice of the Caribbean, admiring a one by five taste of Times Square that’s still leaning against the bottom of my music stand – my violin is hidden, but the few things I play are on display, teacher’s notes at the top telling anyone who cares to look how I need to practice arpeggios. The Orpheus theme wears a pirate hat over one corner, and the feather for it is still on my dresser along with stacks of books and necklaces I’ll never wear. 

The floor, though…were I feeling like a tour guide, I’d point lovingly at my messy carpet and say “this is where the magic happens”. Anything important gets done on the floor – not the desk, which is little more than a computer cabinet, unplugged monitor blank and lonely on top. Books and papers are scattered across the floor, an incomplete novel thrown next to open, unfinished Global History homework – the binder used to be translucent blue, (there are so many stickers on it now), just like you used to be able to see that my carpet’s candy stripes didn’t always fade into old pillows and yesterday’s papers. Every week I change favorite spots for reading, flipping the cushions over and scooting across the floor, and every week another part of my room becomes it’s own comfortable cavern corner, with bookshelves taking the place of stalactites and pillars. I think it’s the idea that the whole room works as one place – a place for me to sleep, a place for me to think – that sets it apart. Corners and colors just blur into the next, and it’s a comfortable unity. 

No, I don't really have a bedroom. I have a lair.


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## gohn67

mswietek said:
			
		

> [ot:23008e88ad]I realized that what I posted was not the final version of my entry.  It remains largely the same save for fixing the dreaded lay/lie mistake.  I didn't see anything in the rules prohibiting editing of posts prior to the deadline, but if it is a problem, let me know and I will repost the earlier version.
> 
> Michael[/ot:23008e88ad]



[ot:23008e88ad]Not a problem, mswietek[/ot:23008e88ad]

[ot:23008e88ad]I actually think that this is the toughest challenge yet.  Even harder than the sonnet.[/ot:23008e88ad]


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## bobothegoat

[ot:87a742bf51]I'm still stumped as to what I'm going to do.  Describing things isn't too hard... It's just difficult to make it interesting.  This is definately a difficult challenge.  I'll try to have something in this soon.  Don't expect too much though...[/ot:87a742bf51]


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## gohn67

bobothegoat said:
			
		

> [ot:b9189db10f]I'm still stumped as to what I'm going to do.  Describing things isn't too hard... It's just difficult to make it interesting.  This is definately a difficult challenge.  I'll try to have something in this soon.  Don't expect too much though...[/ot:b9189db10f]



[ot:b9189db10f]I agree, I've been trying to come up with something just for fun, and I can't think of a thing that is remotely interesting.[/ot:b9189db10f]


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## thinstep

*Not my room, but rules are made to be broken*

(a paltry 344 words)

It was a smoking room, that much I could tell. 

The bathroom light had been left on, casting a yellow hue on the two beds. One had been moved during the night, the carpet still crushed from where the feet had been. An ashtray, full, was on the nightstand.

A crumpled form lay motionless on the unmoved bed; the arms and legs splayed out like some grotesque morning jogger. The hair, matted and sticky with blood, clung to the yellowed pillowcase. The face was pinched, as if offended by its own stink of beer and filth. 

Bottles of all descriptions lay strewn about the stained carpet; some nestled in scattered piles of unwashed laundry, some upright in crazy defiance to the confusion of the rest of the room.

I made my way carefully, tiptoeing like a child sneaking a late night snack. I sat gingerly, fearing broken glass, on the bed opposite her. I perched my head in my hands, staring at her face, her hair, her thighs, her breasts.

The air conditioner clicked on and cold, reeking air flowed around me. On the nightstand I noticed a manila envelope. I didn't have to open it to know what was inside. 

In the next room a TV switched on and the solemn, clipped tones of the evening news wafted through the walls.

I hadnï¿½t known she had taken up smoking again, but I suppose that that was really the least of her troubles.

On some inexplicable impulse, I leaned forward to kiss her lips and reached my hand up her blouse. The coldness of her skin was at once repulsive and electric, and I almost drew away, but the scent of her lingering perfume mixing with stale tobacco smoke brought up some nostalgic high school memories of drunken fumblings in the dark. Crawling on top of her, I unfastened her soiled jeans and eased inside her. Noticing the revolver by her lifeless fingers, I brought the barrel to my temple and fired.

She had only brought one bullet.


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## damien_frosst

*An un-private space*

I don’t think I’ve ever thought of my bedroom as a place that was all my own.  I’ve never really had a bedroom for myself, at least, nothing I could call private.  I shared a room with my brother growing up, and with my roommate at university.  Since then, I have shared a bedroom with my wife.

There have been brief periods – never more than a few months – where I had a place to sleep entirely to myself, but those have never been true bedrooms.  One such place was a tent in the backyard.  I lived there after having returned from summer camp and found my belongings packed into boxes.  Another was a futon in the corner of a single room flat, others were simply a pull-out couches in the middle of friend’s TV rooms.  None of these were really private places.

The bedroom is not seen on a tour of our house – other than being shown a closed door and told “it’s far too messy in there.”  It’s cringe-worthy at the cleanest of times, and never shown at its worst.

My bedroom is not a showpiece.  It is a lived-in space.  Each piece of mismatched furniture bears scrapes, chips and other imperfections – the hallmarks of roadside trash given a temporary stay of its landfill destiny.  Instead of picture frames, treasured knickknacks and mementos of people and places, the tops of the dressers and bedside tables carry all manners of the debris of life pulled from pockets and deposited precariously atop the rest.  Small piles of change, discarded clothes, and semi-important papers litter and obscure the marred surfaces of the furniture.

My bed is not fancy.  An old box-spring rests directly on the carpet, and the mattress is atop that.  A bed slip, flannel sheet and comforter – none of them matching, make up the bedclothes.  The three pillows are an equally odd assortment.  One filled with feathers, one with foam and the last with a synthetic down of some kind.  My wife takes the largest of the three (the synthetic), and I stack the other two for myself.  The pillowcases have seen more years than my children, but are the only bedclothes that match – they are all a uniform white.

Plastic laundry baskets, filled with as-yet-unmatched socks and clean, folded clothes, occupy specific places in the room so often they should be considered furniture.  The laundry has developed a sort of perverse ecology.  As the clean clothes are depleted from their baskets, the dirty clothes piles grow at the foot of the bed.  The piles are harvested periodically for washing, and the clean clothes restock the baskets, continuing the cycle.

For some, the bedroom is a private haven away from the world.  Retreats where they can seclude themselves, read a book, or relax and listen to music.  Not so for me.  A bedroom has always been simply a place designated for sleep – and a container for my dirty laundry.


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## bobothegoat

*Love is Green, But my Walls are Red.*

Night has fallen and only the light from the streetlights outside illuminates my walls.  But something is amiss in this otherwise tranquil scene.  What should have been a refreshing summer-night breeze instead carries a foul stench, and the walls red, as if stained with blood.

Silently, I groan.  Then I turn on the overhead light and close the door behind me.  Magic: The Gathering cards are strewn across the floor and clothes are tossed into corners; I’m sure they’re all clean.  Worse yet, the books in my bookshelf have been misarranged to be out of order.  Leering at me, my short, green-winged nemesis stands above my blue-sheeted bed.

“Ich heisse—“ but my nemesis stops.  Reality seems to warp for a second.  My walls seem to revert to the normal blue-green.  But then I blink, and the walls are still red and the yellow-fanged smile of my nemesis is still there.  He (though I’m not sure that’s the proper pronoun to refer to my nemesis with) must have been toying with my mind.  _What's the German word for Devil?_ I think.  I know what I must do.

I jump at my nemesis.  He tries to fly away, but we won’t escape this time.  He shouts in alarm, as I pull him down by his leg.  Only one thing can truly defeat him, and fortunately I possess the weapon needed for this.  With my free hand (my left one) I reach to the bookshelf next to my bed and grab a packet of papers from the top.

_Poetry by Bobo_.  Few are capable of withstanding the sheer potency of my poetry.  In fact, only the most grizzled middle-school teachers have proven able, with exception to myself.  It’s the sad curse of my life.  I open it up as best I can with my left hand and begin reciting it, even as my nemesis tries to break free of my grasp.

“Love.” I pause.  “Is green.  And empty.”

He shrieks, and though I feel a tinge of sadness for his pain, I read on.  By the third poem, he had shriveled into nothing.  With my nemesis banished, I crawl under my bed’s covers.  Oddly they seem unruffled by my nemesis.  Perhaps I caught him just before he was going to strike at my bed?  I lie there and reflect on my victory.  Finally, I close my eyes and wake up.

[an:8daf4eac90]Well, I ended up just taking a very broad approach.  I probably went to far from the topic, but whatever.  On a side note, the descriptions of the room, excepting the german devil guy, the walls being red, and the packet of poetry on top of the book-case, are accurate.  I did have a poem titled "Love is green" though, so that poem is real.  It's just buried far, far out of reach in the bottom drawer of my otherwise disused dresser. :lol:

399 words not counting title.[/an:8daf4eac90]


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## ms. vodka

[ot:35df0feea6]gigi, did you catch that from my title?

do you remember when he who shall not be named band's covered that?

that was back in the day that the other he who shall not be named tried to hunt you down by cab.[/ot:35df0feea6]


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## eggo

*Nightmares of Pearl Street*

[ot:a79a3152df] When I lived in the city, I had a basement apartment. I had the same nightmare a couple of times, being a bit claustrophobic. Sorry, if this is too far off the beaten path of the topic. I sat down and this is what wrote itself [/ot:a79a3152df]


The bomb ripped apart half the block when it went off. People’s material goods flitted down from the sky or crashed to the ground like it was raining yard sale. Some people were vaporized, where others were crushed as the accumulated debris slammed to the ground as a great dust cloud rose up from the streets.

The dirt released from the mundane earth, climbed happily into the atmosphere and obscured the sun. Blood from the press of humanity ran through the gutter and into the storm drain. Fires raged about the city, elementals unleashed, they hungered for the fall of man and longed to gnaw charcoal in their teeth.

As the terra firma fog begin to clear, a small dog with matted gray curly hair hobbles down the street favoring one leg. It comes to what used to be an intersection and looks both ways for its master. It decides one way is as good as another and limps down the road. 

I am there,

In the basement.

Five floors of mortar and bricks, of joists and wallboard, of sub-floor and rafters piled on me like demonic pick-up sticks. Light gone, if it ever existed as dirt cascades down into my eyes. A board is smashed against my face allowing only one nostril to suck in air. The accumulated weight stands on my body, squeezing, gently squeezing my body like a tomato press. 

I remembered sleeping in my room.

The soothing city noises echoed around the walls of my apartment. The trucks jack braking down Winter Hill sang to me like a lullaby, the cool night air hummed with the passing buses, the noise cradling me in my warm bed. Around my room, a pile of mismatched socks stood atop my dresser daring me to find matches in any know universe. My dirty clothing was crawling out of the hamper and across the floor, as if animated with my genome. 

It was 6:38 when the sound stopped. The city held it’s collective petard when an errant fist smashed civilization down for daring to grow over the brim. The buildings were drawn upon an etch-a-sketch and promptly shook.

And here I lie, held immobile in my sarcophagus of sheetrock. 

The pain becoming a familiar friend, I’ll wait to depart. I know I will get out one way or another.

As long as I can think, I am alive. 

I laugh inside, my bed has turned into a final resting place.


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## BookLover

*Me, myself and my room*


This is the place where I have spent the most time with myself. No inhibitions, no fears, and no expectations to meet, no justifications to give – I am totally free here. This is where I am myself.  I unfold my inner thoughts, I feel totally at home. This is my personal space, my room.

The place I ran to whenever I was shouted at. It was always there to take me in its embrace and let me cry my heart out. My shelter from all the evilness in the world. One that washed away my tears and which brought back a smile on my face. The one that gave me strength to move on when I faltered. This is my inspiration, my room.

This is the place where I have relived many times. The place that let me recover from the numerous illnesses. The place that took away my tiredness and filled me with freshness and vigor. The place where I died in the night and relived the next morning. This is my refresher, my room.

The place where I lost myself, and through losing, discovered myself. This is where I became one with my soul mate. Our minds and hearts had united elsewhere, but this is where we became ‘one’. I discovered him, I explored him in this place. I discovered my sensuality, my weak spots here. I lived again that night in this place. This is my confidant, my room.

This is where I want to die. This is where I want to spend the last moments of my life. This is my heaven, my room.

I have changed rooms over the past few years. The walls are different, the room is different, but the feeling and the caring embrace remain the same. This is my room. 

[an:e535c9f8fa]Word count : 304, without counting the title.[/an:e535c9f8fa]


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## Achilles

*Contentment is a Place*

In my sanctuary, boredom is irrelevant. In my sweet haven, sleep comes as easily as tears of contentment. I stay secluded–hidden from an ocean of cultural fears. Comfort stalks me like the heavy night, and memories are so vivid they crease my mind with images of peace.

And the walls! Oh, the walls! They are alive, creeping and crawling and meeting in the middle, soaking up the silence with devout haughtiness. The green hues that fade in and out of them subdue my terrors. They shelter me from rain and storms, but somehow welcome in the relaxing rays of the sun.

My bedposts are intricately carved with ancient runes. They tell me stories, and I listen as I fall asleep. There are only two of them, erect and holding my swaying hammock until dreams of simplicity carry me away. Their creaking is certainly the gentlest lullaby I have ever heard.

My chair is only a stump, but it means more to me than any expensive sofa. It sits in the very center, drawing the attention of my world’s inhabitants. It bears the marks and curves that years of use have brought about. Hardened roots protrude from the base; they serve as a resting place for my feet.

Unlike others, I have no television, computer, stereo or even a clock; I tell time from the courses of nature. In this world quantity has no meaning and numbers are useless. Communication still comes easily, because emotions are instinctive.

That’s it: only those leafy walls, my crude bed and that old stump. Everything is so simple, but in my mind complexity is a sin. This is the law of the forest, which is, of course, my bedroom.


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## daniela

[ot:b683e4251b]Just a quick reminder for those who have not entered the current LM comp but would still like to do so:  I am closing this thread tomorrow at 6:00 pm EST.  As of right now, you have a little over twenty-four hours to get those submissions in. (the time on this post should give you an idea of when the thread is closing in your part of the world)[/ot:b683e4251b]


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## Ruben

[ot:7d7f9e9802]I hope that this is enough of a ‘room description’ to enter this LM. I started this several hours ago, and because it takes me an incredibly long time to write something (especially in English), I’m happy that I finished this on time. Here in Belgium it’s almost Saturday, but I have no idea which time you actually use, so I just thought that I would post this as soon as I finished it. This may not be very clever, because often you don’t see your mistakes when you just wrote the piece, but I hope that isn’t the case this time. But anyway, I’m making this Off Topic way too long, so I’ll just shut up.[/ot:7d7f9e9802]

*Plastic Kiss*

The door swung open and a joyful lad flew into the room, almost tripping over the freshly-washed Pikachu doll on the floor. With no worries, he threw himself on the bed, which enthusiastically responded by bouncing the boy up several times. After releasing a jovial laugh, he turned his head to the right and looked at a small light oak wooden closet, filled with innumerable things, from socks to his WWF action figure collection. But at the top of the closet stood something much different. It was inhabited by a clock on which a clown rested, the very thing that woke him up every day at early hours, driving him mad every morning. But not even the sight of his dream-disturber could diminish his excellent mood today. 

Then suddenly, in the corner of his eye, magically, he saw a butterfly on the door of his closet. He rose from his bed immediately and tip-toed towards the tiny creature of colour. As he tried to put it on his finger, it flew away with great majesty, heading for the open window. It was only after the butterfly had disappeared in the distance, that the boy spotted something under the window. 

There, between a mountain of Lego and a bunch of school books, lay a big red inflatable seat, made out of plastic in the shape of giant female lips. The sight of those shiny lips made him feel even warmer inside, since the reason of his great, great happiness today, is that he had his very first kiss. Certain that this forever would be the best day of his life, he dropped himself into the great replica and lowered his eyelids.

His eyes were engulfed in blackness.

With an irritated feeling he let the light back into his vision and looked into the soft bluish darkness. A bit farther away he managed to see his closet standing with doors wide open, revealing its contents. Boxes of ironed underpants, colourless ties, unicoloured socks and plain shirts were stocked beneath the traditional white and black matching pants and shirts hanging stiff. 

Positioning his hands on the giant piles of file papers at his both sides, he pushed himself up with trembling forearms. Once up he hastily checked how late it was, looking at the electronic clock, piercing trough the darkness. He didn’t have much time left to finish those bundles on the floor, and since his boss had given him one last chance, he could not afford abandoning his duty by dosing off. As he turned around and bended over to pick up the paper towers, he stopped as he saw to his side, at what he had fallen asleep in.

Slowly and carefully he straightened his back, forgetting about the papers, and looked. Before him now stood a half-deflated plastic seat, looking dark brown in the sunless environment, overwhelmed by tape, poorly trying to contain its air. He looked without emotion for several minutes, and continued his work without a word.

[an:7d7f9e9802] I had to invent the word unicolour, since I found no word which meant what I wanted it to mean. With unicolour, I mean an object or objects with the same colour. Please refrain from using it before I bought my patent.[/an:7d7f9e9802]


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## Hodge

[an:df898a42fa]It's not very good, but whatever. I had to enter something. 510 words (just a little over)[/an:df898a42fa]

*The Dime Tour*

The Dime Tour

"Welcome! To the mysterious, to the romantic, to the bizarre... Josh's room!"

"Why am I the only one on this tour?"

"Bad publicity."

"Ooh! I can't wait! Is this his door?"

"Yes. Notice the stickers–vintage, some of them are. Not his, of course. Previous owner's."

"Where in the world is Carmen Sandiego?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"No, he has one of those stickers! Double Trouble! I remember watching that as a kid!"

"Ah. Lets go inside. To your left is Josh's bookcase. It's much too small, as you can see—"

"I bet this dark blue carpet is really good at hiding stains."

"Depends what kind of stain."

"Probably."

"Two feet ahead is his closet. A scary place it is. Full of horrors from other worlds, ancient relics, and books."

"Evil books?"

"Just normal ones."

"What about porn?"

"Are you over eighteen?"

"No."

"Then no."

"Ah! What's that poster of on the wall?"

"That would be a Pink Floyd poster. The album cover of Pulse. Those are just tadpoles, despite what they might look like." 

"They look like something that might stain the carpet."

"Moving on, now. To your right it his dresser. As you can see, it's overflowing with clothes."

"He has lots of clothes."

"It’s not that he has a lot, it’s just that they aren’t folded. Ever. And notice the objects blocking his bottom two drawers! A laptop computer from nineteen ninety-eight, old textbooks, Dungeons and Dragons books—"

"Oh, I don't like Dungeons and Dragons! It's the devil's game, you know."

"We all know."

"Uh oh!"

"What?"

"That shelf is about to fall over!"

"It's fine. It wasn't built quite right and the carpet is soft, which allows it to lean forward like it does."

"Scary! What's in his file cabinet?"

"Are you over eighteen?"

“No.”

“Empty files.”

"What CD's does he have on that CD rack?"

"Take a look."

"I've never heard of any of these bands... Doesn't he have any Coldplay or Dave Matthews Band? I love Dave Matthews. He needs some country, too."

"I'll let him know how you feel. Right behind you is his bed."

"Ooh—"

"Don't touch! There could be spiders under those sheets!"

"Ah! I don't like spiders!"

"Neither does Josh! Why, if he even just heard us talking about them he'd be frantically jumping around to make sure none are on him!"

"Does he have a mental disorder?"

"He might. We aren't sure yet. Now, the focal point of his room is, of course, his computer desk."

"Wow! What does he keep on it?"

"His computer and computer related stuff."

"Can I get on his computer?"

"Go right ahead."

"Wow! Look at all these Super Nintendo games! I thought that was a console."

"He uses emulation. Very illegal. If anyone asks, he owns all ten thousand of the cartridges for Sega Genesis, Game Gear, and Super Nintendo."

"What's in these untitled folders?"

"Probably porn."

"Can I look?"

"Are you over eighteen?"

"Yes."

"Go right ahead."

"Can you leave the room for five minutes?"

"Alright, tour's over."


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## Crazy_dude6662

Hodge said:
			
		

> "What's in these untitled folders?"
> 
> "Probably porn."
> 
> "Can I look?"
> 
> "Are you over eighteen?"
> 
> "Yes."
> 
> "Go right ahead."
> 
> "Can you leave the room for five minutes?"
> 
> "Alright, tour's over."



gross  :roll:    :shock:  :shock:


----------

