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.

__________________
Damien

In my world, there are no heroes, only really polite villians.

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.

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

__________________
Bobo the Goat

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]

eggo

[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.

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]

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.

__________________
The Palace Flophouse

When Newton closed his eyes beneath a tree
and took the apple from the serpent, he
conceived the urge of humanity, plea, plea,
procreant desire and tendency.

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]

__________________
"When you catch an adjective, kill it. No, I don't mean utterly, but kill most of them—then the rest will be valuable." - Mark Twain

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]

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."

__________________
Science

Crazy_dude6662

gross

__________________
Rose (possesed by Cassandra) : oh chavtastic again

McSteamy:if it isnt my faviourite Dirty Mistress
Meradith (high on morphine) : havn't you heard? now i'm an Adulterous Whore!