Describe a place

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Thread: Describe a place

  1. #1

    Describe a place

    Describe a place. It could be anywhere -- real or imagined. Inside or outside. Maybe it's just a field overlooking a stream, or somewhere in London, or maybe looking out a space station window at a hostile planet. Limit these descriptions to a few paragraphs at most.
    "The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn't live boldly enough, that they didn't invest enough heart, didn't love enough. Nothing else really counts at all. It was a saying about noble figures in old Irish poems—he would give his hawk to any man that asked for it, yet he loved his hawk better than men nowadays love their bride of tomorrow. He would mourn a dog with more grief than men nowadays mourn their fathers.

    And that's how we measure out our real respect for people—by the degree of feeling they can register, the voltage of life they can carry and tolerate—and enjoy.
    "

    Live like a mighty river: a letter from Ted Hughes to his son, Nicholas

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  2. #2
    The building was a typical, 1980's, southwest construction: wood 'stick' walls, with heavily textured, white stucco on the outside, sprayed on textured drywall interior. As long as no one walked on it, the roof would last another five years before the cheap, composite shingles degraded enough to allow water past them. From the outside, it most resembled a double garage, except that where the car doors would have been, there were instead, two large sliding glass doors, eight feet wide each, on either side of a solid painted laminate entry door. The door wouldn't lock anymore. There were no other doors or windows.

    Inside, the drywall on the ceiling followed the slope of the roof to an exposed ridge beam that supported the load of the roof. A higher than normal ceiling was needed to accommodate the ring. In fact, the whole building had been designed for this purpose; to house a boxing ring. Besides the ring, there was a weight machine, a rack of free weights, and some benches. Bolted to one wall was a speedbag platform. The interior walls themselves, were covered with boxing memorabelia. These were a combination of promotional posters for old fight cards, and framed photos of boxers from several different eras. Some had hand written thank-you's to the owner. There were two full length mirrors, one of which was cracked at the bottom. If you had looked close enough at the walls and photos, you might have noticed that between the cobwebs and dust, here and there were tiny splatters of dried blood.
    Last edited by Kevin; March 9th, 2012 at 12:06 PM.

  3. #3
    Dilapidated boards, void of roofing shingles or window glass.
    It's shabby exterior warming to a cracked mind.
    Ahhh, home sweet home.


  4. #4
    Cool picture, Kevin. It inspired me:


    The cabin looked like maybe it wanted to lay down and go to sleep, leaning to the left on wood supports that quivered and creaked whenever the wind swept in off the lake. He just stared at it from the road awhile, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, windbreaker zipped up and flapping, unsure of everything all of a sudden. Emotions always seemed to get involved in this sort of thing, of revisiting the past and whatever else, and it was cold and lonely and his stomach rumbled and he didn't really want to feel anything today. But he couldn't deny feeling a little ... tripped up, breathless maybe, at the sight of it now. To his surprise and amusement, the cheap door handle, the one he'd kind of jerryrigged with glue and a bit of string to stay fixed in place, was still in place after all these years. The chrome still bright, like it was a piece of the sun. He thought about going over there and giving it a twist, just to see what was still inside, what he had left there, but before he could even plant one shoe forward the wind gusted and seemed to blow him back onto the gravel road. He chuckled quietly to himself. Yes, this was yet another sign. Not to go in there and fiddle around in the dark, and for what? There was nothing in there now, except maybe the view.


    "The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn't live boldly enough, that they didn't invest enough heart, didn't love enough. Nothing else really counts at all. It was a saying about noble figures in old Irish poems—he would give his hawk to any man that asked for it, yet he loved his hawk better than men nowadays love their bride of tomorrow. He would mourn a dog with more grief than men nowadays mourn their fathers.

    And that's how we measure out our real respect for people—by the degree of feeling they can register, the voltage of life they can carry and tolerate—and enjoy.
    "

    Live like a mighty river: a letter from Ted Hughes to his son, Nicholas

    Hidden Content


  5. #5
    WF Veteran Bloggsworth's Avatar
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    A falt fish that lies on the bottom of the sea.
    A man in possession of a wooden spoon must be in want of a pot to stir.

  6. #6
    doghouse reilly
    Guest
    another house, a darker tone:

    Soon the trees began to thin out, and he stepped onto a small path through the forest, looking abandoned and forlorn, overgrown with weeds as tall as a horse's nostril. He came to a large clearing. The only sign of life was a house, a two-story clapboard frame with four gables, with a wide porch that went all around the place. All the paint had peeled off, and the bare wood looked like the dried skin of mummified corpses. The front and back door were locked, but after several tries he found a window that would open. The acrid, musty air from inside sickened him as he crawled through the window.
    The living room was full of furniture, covered with white sheets as if someone had to leave and wasn't coming back for a long while. He lifted some of the sheets. The furniture looked Victorian, but brand new, well preserved. The arms of the chairs were of curved wood that resembled bone, with small creases that looked like hands. The legs of the chairs ended in clawed feet. The carpet was blood red, with small curlicues. A small kitchen contained a wood burning stove from which a foul stench emerged.

    doghouse reilly

  7. #7
    Since this thread is apparently dead, how 'bout this? We re-write each other's 'piece' as we see fit. I'll start:

    Lying on the bottom of the dead sea, was a large, flat, falt fish.

  8. #8
    Nah, it's not dead. Life support, maybe.

    Things just move slower 'round these parts.
    "The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn't live boldly enough, that they didn't invest enough heart, didn't love enough. Nothing else really counts at all. It was a saying about noble figures in old Irish poems—he would give his hawk to any man that asked for it, yet he loved his hawk better than men nowadays love their bride of tomorrow. He would mourn a dog with more grief than men nowadays mourn their fathers.

    And that's how we measure out our real respect for people—by the degree of feeling they can register, the voltage of life they can carry and tolerate—and enjoy.
    "

    Live like a mighty river: a letter from Ted Hughes to his son, Nicholas

    Hidden Content


  9. #9
    The whole place geologically, was really just a part of the mainland. It was twenty-six miles offshore at the nearest point, but the mountains were just a continuence of the mountains across the channel; same fauna and flora, same rocks underneath, same manner of birth. The goats, pigs and buffalo were all introduced. The last of the Indians were hauled away into slavery almost two centuries ago. Avalon had been merely a plaything of the Wrigleys. They built the casino, the airport, and the whole damn town, so that their rich friends could come over and park their yachts, wear fancy white clothes, and sip drinks, while figuring out something else to do.
    Last edited by Kevin; March 13th, 2012 at 11:59 PM.

  10. #10
    Dh R- Nothing like the smell of death. I don't know what 'burnt death' smells like (maybe it's the same), but I know death.

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