strangedaze

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

__________________
His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.

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.

__________________
His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.

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.

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.

__________________
"As the celerity took its horrid grip on his body, he turned to the right to see the bullet coming. In his twisted sense of time he had hardly a second to duck out of the way. Before the second bullet could leave the chamber, Saede was feeding.

'How easily your life flows. The adrenaline only serves makes the sensation sweeter,' the assamite said through blood-soaked lips."

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]

__________________
My aim is to put down on paper what I see and what I feel in the best and simplest way. --Ernest Hemingway

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]

__________________
His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.

ms. vodka

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

nae411

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.

__________________

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]

__________________
"Don't imagine that the art of poetry is any simpler than the art of music, or that you can please the expert before you have spent at least as much effort on the art of verse as an average piano teacher spends on the art of music." - Ezra Pound

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.

__________________

The Jackal: Half a million. In cash. Half in advance, and half on completion.
Montclair: Half a million francs?
The Jackal: Dollars.
Montclair: Are you mad?
The Jackal: Considering you expect to get France in return, I'd have thought it a reasonable price

gohn67

[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]

__________________
The Frowning Dog Blog

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]

__________________
Bobo the Goat

gohn67

[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]

__________________
The Frowning Dog Blog

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 hadn�t 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.