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.
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.

__________________
"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

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.

__________________
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!

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. [/ot:3531476081]

__________________
"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

Crazy_dude6662

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

__________________
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!

Ruben

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

Crazy_dude6662

yeah i know im too lazy to change it,

__________________
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!

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.

Ruben

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

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.

__________________
You are only as dull as the light in the room you occupy, everything else is just hearsay - Me, about five minutes ago.

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.

__________________
All that is necessary for the forces of evil to win the world is for enough good men to do nothing...Edmund Burke

mswietek

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]

__________________
"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

bobbiego

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

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.

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]

__________________
You are only as dull as the light in the room you occupy, everything else is just hearsay - Me, about five minutes ago.

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.”

__________________
The body is a prison for the mind. Still, only a fool would break out.
-Me