Describe a Room

A masochist mode attempt, I think. Done in the space of time between essays. Did it as a dialogue because I'm a cheap bitch:

"You said you wanted a story before bed?"
"Mom always tells me fairy tales, but I wanna hear one from you."
"Alright, well, here goes. I'll tell you about my college days."
"Can there be a romance?"
"In a sense. Imagine your standard college dorm…okay, think of a semi-trailer, maybe cut it in half. There were six other guys with me in that room, all wearing QSU sweatshirts and basketball shorts. Some idiot managed to smash my wall light, so it was a real cave, reeking of warm beer, stale pizza, clashing colognes, and sweat. I'd had all the guys come over because I had gotten a 'present' from home, and it turned out to be one of those 'make it yourself' desks from that Swedish store. I needed their help in getting it all set up, and there it sat, awkwardly in the middle of the room. The thing was colossal, made of chic plastic and practically bolted together with these suspect metal screws. Everyone kept telling me it was the same exact shade as our football team's banner, but you know that means jack to me. But anyway, they were getting a real kick out of it, laughing and inching the volume up on my speakers with some obnoxious garbage, all until the RA told us to keep it down and dissolve the party."
"That's a lame story. You wasted all that time talking about a desk and that's it?"
"There's more. That desk is the hero of this story. Let me finish. I talked to that RA for a while after that and we kept seeing each other over the next few weeks. Then, we both decided to come back to my room and, uh, passionately discuss unicorns."
"Ooh."
"Yeah, so we, er, sat on the desk and she proved she had rather, uh, flexible beliefs about unicorns and she was a real smooth talker. We had a great time on that desk, a lot of back and forth. And that's where you came from!"
"Mom! He's telling me stories that I'm too young to hear, again!"

Imagine this. Imagine a very little room, all boxy and rust stained. The air here is stale and moldy, having no windows, only a metal door that looks like bars. Imagine the people that lived in that little room, prisoners of their own right. There was no other furniture other than a desk where these prisoners would write out their sorrows or send letters to their loved ones. The desk itself is a cool color, dark and faded, paint peeling from the woodwork.

Why does such a little room exist, you asked? It is for the damned, the ones who did the greatest crime of all that can only be justly punished by being in this room. The prisoners here write and write on that cool desk, sending letters that will never be sent and writing their life story before they committed the crime. The warden sometimes visits them, just to tease them of their life before. This old room, full of despair and longing, is their new home now.

This is so worldbuilding 0.0

You should double-post this in the guild O.O

And make it a series

With different hard mode stuff each week

omg

if you don't I will

O.O

There is a room out there, so small, and so hidden you can't see it outside, but once you get inside of it, it is vast and endless, like an ocean. With depths and currents to match. Inside this wide and endless room is a desk, it is a warm azure with small cracks along the front and sides. You can tell it has been used for many years, even the paint has begun to chip and waste away. Yet, even in it's old appearance, it is sturdy and reliable, fulfilling it's purpose for many years and more to come. In front of it is a stool, looking just as worn, but also sturdy. It's fatal flaw is it's always too short or too tall for anyone to use properly. Always the strangest thing.


Now, there is not only furniture in this room, but a person as well. This person is small, scruffy, and you can't seem to tell if they are a boy or a girl. They also wear glasses so large and thick, you also wonder if they could see without them. Now you must be wondering, what purpose could this person have, as they cough from the suffocating air, struggle to see due to the one dim lamp in the room, or the sweat drops that fall from their rosy cheek. Well that's simple, they are the author. Even is this strange vast room, with no real walls, doors, or windows, they feel trapped, yet, content. This room that holds the tools most precious to them, in order to write the limitless stories, eating at their mind. Always creating something new to bring to life and remembering things that once were. It is a simple life. Yet, it is a life more complicated than you can imagine. They are the one that utilizes the thoughts within your small skull, for he represents your musings, your dreams, and your sympathies. He is the writer of the mind, sweet and simple.

Inside the room there was only a desk and a chair, nothing more could fit in the small room, it was barely the size of a storage closet. There were no windows to bring light to the room, a single ceiling light did that job, shining brightly. The desk was a simple, but sturdy office desk made of wood and bolted to the wall. The painted color fading in the brightness of the ceiling light, chipped at the edges it showed years of use. On the desk there was lined papers, a pen in a darker shade than the desk and a started letter. The door leading into the room was even more sturdy, the proof was several small dents in the door but nothing deeper than that. There was a mail slot in the door, the flap on the outside.

Occupying the chair was a single person, the writer of the letter was a young man in his mid-teens, wearing a rumpled shirt, blazer and slacks. The collar was popped open and only lacked a tie. The words were an apology for breaking rules and the writer could not leave until the letter was done and approved. The letter would be read, and if accepted the young man could leave. If not accepted then it was to write again. Few had succeeded on the first letter.

---

Here's my attempt. Not sure if it succeeded or not

It was a postage stamp of a room. Just a bed and desk and chest of drawers all crowded together around a dainty little rug. A round rug. Worn and soft and made of a ropy fabric in a girls favorite hue. Like a ribbon or a delicate flower, like femininity and like the blush that rushes across a young boys cheeks when he first falls in love or.... in this case... is embarrassed. For you see, I focused on the rug first. The wooden floor, aged and cracked like the boardwalks. Weathered by sunshine and hundreds of small sandy feet over decades or years. Like a dappled pony running wild on the beach. The porcelain doll in her cradle by the bed. The smudges and splatters of paint beneath the desk. Anything but to look forward or up. To the left or right. Anything to avoid their faces.

But then there was the glass, little bits beneath the desk. They glistened in the mornings sun which poured in accusingly from the window in front of me. The window above the desk. And from the desk had fallen two pictures, of horses and sunflowers. Doubtless this was where the paint had come from. And though they were not ripped they had been damaged in their fall from the little desk. The tall desk which tilted upwards, an antique by the looks of it. Hand painted like the ocean or like the sky. Like the blanket we would wrap our baby boy in so many years later.

But I'm getting my head of myself.

Her parents looked disappointed, angry perhaps, but later I would realize simply annoyed or amused. She only looked curious. Eyes like the day sky hair like the night's. She sat on her bed like a fairy on a bed of daisy's and watched the scene. And the walls, warm like butter or sugar cookies. Sweet. The walls seemed to make a halo around her. And I couldn't help but look.

I would come back the next day to help her father repair the window.

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And attempt. Less than 350 I think. No colors. Not sure about the rest. Kinda scattered. But fun nonetheless. ^_^