Hey, I'm kinda bored so I think I'll share something with you guys I wrote for my writer's craft piece. It's supposed to describe a bedroom, no dialogue, no charachters....just a room. This is what I got:
The stagnant air in the room is reflective of the turbulent memories its held. The once crisp pearl-white walls are now worn with scuffs marking each hit taken. The droll rectangular room had three long windows facing the opposite direction of the door, they provide the view of a row homes that looked exactly the same though this room is the complete opposite of the image evoked by the word ‘suburbia.’ The tepid temperature of the room accentuates the putrid stench of cigarettes and booze.
A gaping hole marks a spot, three feet away from the closet door where he decided to put his fist through the wall. The furniture in the room is a collaborative mix of things found at garage sales and milk crates stolen from the back of grocery stores.
In the centre of the room, lays a weary single-sized mattress in a chaotic mess of scraggly pillows and soiled sheets. Facing the mattress, is a tiny television set complete with bunny-ear antennas balanced on a ‘Beatrice’ crate. The faux-wood trimmed television broadcasts the cold sound of static through the room.
A fury of newspapers and frenzied notes taints the carpeted bedroom floor. The notes feature ramblings and sketches in a felt-marker. In the far right corner, beside an aluminium baseball bat is an empty miniature fridge which sits it’s open. Perhaps it once held some of the hollow beer cans which join the paper on the littered floor. Periodic random burns mark the floor mark where cigarette butts have been thrown.
Inside the closet, outside of clear view there are bird cages, never used with no true intended purpose but to sit there. Bare wire hangers rest on a rod, also inside the vacant closet. The door to the closet leans into the room when open, hanging from the single remaining hinge.
The lengthy windows have California blinds covering the glass. Strips of wood are missing allowing blades of light to shine in but it does not light up the otherwise dank room in any significant fashion. An unused lamp lies beside the mattress on yet another milk crate. The black cast-iron lamp looks as though it has been left outside and only recently been brought indoors. The electrical wire that connects it to a wall outlet just a few feet away is in shambles and looks as though it has been chewed on.
Finally, there sits a simple study table on the same side as the door. On it are even more sheets of paper with their own unique brandings. Some include poems and others have single words spelled out in black marker. Underneath the desk, instead of a chair there is an opened small black cigar box. Inside it, lie syringes and tiny supple white paper packets, once used to provide a false sense of ecstasy. Beside the box lies a body, its arm pierced with countless pricks. It is lifeless, limp, and numb.