Prompt #1: Location Location Location

Where are you? Your room? A hotel lobby? the top of a burning building? In the finest detail possible, describe everything you possibly can, from the sound to the smell to the temperature. Be extremely specific.

Length: 500 Words

20 thoughts on “Prompt #1: Location Location Location

  1. I leave a leave a response whenever I appreciate a article on a
    website or if I have something to contribute to the discussion. Usually it’s triggered by the
    fire communicated in the post I looked at. And after this article Prompt
    #1: Location Location Location | Qwiklit. I was excited enough to post a
    thought 😛 I actually do have some questions for you if
    it’s okay. Is it only me or does it look as if like a few
    of these comments come across as if they are written by brain dead visitors?
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  2. John Green says:

    In a basement, I dwell. The smell of Mountain Dew and Doritos permeates the air. My eyes bleed from the weaboo shit hanging on my walls, how do I get out of here? I long for my leave. Mother changes the bowls that I defecate into, and throws out the Dew piss bottles. I am grateful for Mother. But I do not show Mother my gratefulness, my social awkwardsness with woman prevents me. I want to bang her so bad.

  3. Elizabeth T. says:

    At 7 in the morning, I’m still curled up in a tangle of blankets in my bedroom. While I imagine the rest of the world is getting ready for their workday (Friday at that, which will motivate any worker of the corporate machine to make it through), I snuggle up with my pets and quell the urge for another cup of tea.
    Teddy bears stare up at me from their flannel patches on a quilt an aunt made for me when I was a teenager. Their cheery smiles are meant to comfort me. But I can’t help thinking those furry smiles are as fake as any other smile you come across in a crowd of unhappy strangers. Which is a depressing thought. The quilt’s edges are becoming ragged and worn. But, oh, the stories it could tell.
    My black Labrador Retriever lays on a blanket at the side of my bed. She is restless this morning, popping her head up now and again to prompt me to let her outside to begin her day. My fluffball of a cat is curled up at the foot of the bed, wheezing through sweet dreams. They think their lives are so tough. Little do they know… I only wish I had it so good.
    The morning is as quiet as it is dark. The only sound penetrating my ears over the clicking of my fingers hungrily typing is the low din of the refrigerator running. I loathe electrical, man-made sounds. I wish to someday get rid of them and replace them with only natural sounds. Birds singing. Crickets chirping. The breeze wafting through the pines. I even welcome the howling Wyoming wind of winter. Most citizens of this state hate those cold gales. But I have come to welcome them. It feels like home to me and reminds me to stay indoors and put my creativity to the test, whether it be from writing or baking.
    My bedroom is a simple one. Not very big, but small enough to be cozy rather than cramped. I noticed the other day cracks have begun to permeate the off white paint. Great. Another last minute job to complete. When will it ever end? One of the biggest draws of this old house was the woodwork. Beautiful wood molding envelopes the doorways creating a place to draw your attention. The organic warmth of wood, to me, is more inviting compared to the cold sharpness of the modern styles that are gaining popularity. I prefer traditional styles and adore antiques.
    The floor is pine. We unearthed it from under a ghastly green carpet full of pet stains and sand. Although it is hard to maintain, it is more beautiful than what came before. I have few furnishings in this room: an antique dresser that I’ve been meaning to re-finish, a couple of nightstands my husband made, a hope chest made by an uncle when I was a child, and the odds and ends that litter their surfaces as decoration.
    Through the open window, the sun is bathing the land in golden light. The pink of dawn has been replaced with the gold of early morning, heralding the coming day. The trees are still, which means no wind at the moment. As sleepy as I am, I must motivate myself to be somewhat productive today. So, away from this tangle of blankets that maintain my warmth. Away from the snoring pets who don’t have to worry about being productive. I must shove off to another day that I know will, in some way, hold small joys within its grasp.

  4. Richard Alfaro says:

    Guess what? I’m in the library sitting in a red chair facing the computer monitor and writing about The “Great Gatsby”. Yes, I have to write a biography about this famous writer an interesting character and honoring my parents for the generational blessing they prayed years ago wearing there blessing well. I figured I would improve my writing with all the sweat and tears necessary to improve my life because I have found a group of people that want the same in their lives.

  5. ManicLord says:

    On a chair. In a lit room in the middle of the night. I sit on this room fresh from the clutter caused by that one mountain of clothing that once covered the plastic basked in the closet. The bed is open, ready to let me in as I get more and more tired. A neat pile of paper made up of all the historically painful homework served over the years. An open shaker bottle, filled with water, sits next to the computer. The blinds are semi shut, to allow for light to enter come morning. There is some spare change here and there, lying about, trying to remind me of the uninteresting story of how it happened to appear in my trousers’ pocket. A spare bill, from my home country, taken from my wallet and lain to be forgotten on that table. A set of speakers surrounding that giant of a machine some call a computer. The sound of a rather comedic remix of a very dark song permeates the otherwise solemn air of the room.
    This is where I am; just sitting. I wonder whatever in the vastness of space I’m doing in my underwear at midnight writing about my surroundings when I have to be at the gym early in the morning. I finished all my assignments, everything needed for tomorrow. There is nothing left but to sleep. Yet, I power through and write on. I feel like it is almost illogic (I say “almost” but I think “most absolutely”) to remain awake to write away about nonsense in my room.
    The light shines bright. Strategically positioned, it does away with all and any shadow that could be in this small cube of space. The fan lazily turns around, serving no purpose. I actually wonder why I turned it on in the first place. I never turn it on. I hate that fan. Whenever it actually serves a purpose it spins so fiendishly I fear it might just fly of its socket and straight to that beautiful thing I call a face. Still, I sit and it turns and turns; at some point in time, I changed it to the lowest speed. I think I will just turn it off.
    The music has stopped and now only the sound of my computer purring to the touch of my fingers and the uneven sound of typing. I don’t even put the same amount of strength into each letter. If these keys were alive, the space bar would wonder why it is that I hate her and her brother “backspace” so much. Maybe “q” and ”z” would wonder why I pay no attention to them. Oh, and “y” would just be a confused mess.
    I’m tired. I should go to sleep. Bed is ready. Music is out. Night is, well, dark. Finally more bored than interested in this writing thing. Thinking about gym. Lifting and running. The fan is still going. Bed, bed, bed, I need my bed.

  6. White and gold. All that surrounded me was white and gold, with a sudden streak of dark here and there. It was work, and work consisted of greeting residents of 27 Sunrise End – a luxury building in the ritziest neighborhood of New York City, complete with one hundred and seventy seven apartments and roughly 500 permanent “shareholders.” That is what we were to call them – shareholders.
    So I would stand there in the vestibule in my black knee-length wool trench coat with the gold trimming around the wrist, and idle-y lean on the white marble wall with the dark flecks of grain and wait for my permanent residents to enter or exit so that I can pull open one of two giant, brass framed double-paned glass doors. In between I would have nothing much more to do than to stare up at the empty gold-painted ceiling. In between Gloria, with her firetruck-red wisps of frizz resting atop a face of wrinkled makeup, exiting to the gated garden and accosting her fellow residents of their dinner plans – I would stare at the white marble walls. I’d stare up into the void which was the gold ceiling in between Victor’s thrice weekly trips out to dialysis while he shimmied along with his walker complaining about the lack of service he receives in respect to his outrageous maintenance fees. And then there’s…
    “Something on the ceiling, Finn?,” came a voice which, although familiar, startled me.
    “Sorry, Dr. S. Just trying to remember how many times 14G was in and out today,” I repeated.
    “Listen,” said the doctor in his pristine white coat, “we got a new patient coming in today, answers to Meg, borderline dissociative. Let me know when she gets here. We have a few things to go over with her case worker.”
    “Gotcha. No probem, Doc…hey! You ever ask about my vacation time?”
    “Come see me during lunch. We’ll figure something out,” he answered.

    It was a little after noon when I noticed her approaching from the garden. She glided past the red carnations and gently brushed her fingers on them, at once inhaling deeply, as if through touch she could absorb the essence of the flower. She possessed this unyielding smirk, as if she was privy to some great secret, and even entertained Gloria’s ritual one-woman greeting committee for several minutes before she was ushered along.
    I opened the giant gold doors as she came near, and in walked Meg, with skin so pale and pure you would think she had never known the sun. Her soft green eyes were the color of kiwi flesh and emitted the same sweetness, and her golden brown hair fizzled with specks of color in the sunlight. She did not look crazy. She did not feel like a patient of 27 Sunrise End. She looked like an angel.
    That was my first encounter with the devil.

  7. jaimor says:

    sorry not 500 but if you wouldn’t mind leaving some feedback criticism, whatever, it will be greatly appreciated.

    I’m sat at the table, the only one in our house. the kitchen is filled with the smell of food, it comes thick and slightly sweet fuming from the something or other that spittles in the pan on the hob. The delicacy or staple comes courtesy of the newly arrived in house and country and is an unfamiliar scent to me, although smell is only second to sight as the most dull and obtuse of my senses, so not saying much, smoking curry eating drinker that I am. in this moment the nasal and lingual nervous suppression I have engaged in for half my life is no comfort as I chew up another mouthful from my acidic meal of citrus fruits and “butchers select” super market chicken. Not an issue to swallow but mastication is massively irritating the mangle of skin that is the ulcer at the base of the gum under and between my lateral incisor and canine on the right side…………

  8. authoress says:

    As I sit quietly alone in the dark it gives me a relaxation of calmness and free of my thoughts in a quieter manner to give me the consolation I know I want and deserve; to sit after dark when everyone has retired. It always gives me a happy thought and great comfort to be in a solitary room with no sound or breathe of anybody. Just to be around with merely my thoughts allows me to create a better prospect of my stories, and helps me to make them better out entirely; whether the thoughts are unhappy or joyful. I always seem to make something out of my mind with it promptly.
    I dare say this exercise will cause me no grief none what so ever, as I am sure it will only make me a much better writer; and I am convinced it will bring me entirely a vastly experience as an accomplished authoress for the future. It lets me get familiar with my gift as a writer and become known to what boundaries I have as well, so I never can exaggerate my talent.
    I know now, I may never become one of the richest or grandest authors or authoresses, but that will not stop me from that very matter, but instead always utter with my pursuit in trying to reach the purpose of the very reason I struggle here in life to hold on to the things that still matters to me, and that I so believe in. I have worked years to bring out the reality of my dreams, and I will work on it for eternity if I need to. In another time, I would not say money is dispensable; and I do so hate people who only seek of a grand fortune. But in such cases I would say money is very important, as I need it in order to make a living for my dear mother and for myself, and I would not wish for the two of us to live in poverty in the near future; but rather live respectable, and at the same time comfortable. In such matters as these; we cannot always account for the matters we make of the heart. But instead follow the general rules of welfare and hope for the best, as it is best to follow both love and fortune in order to make a generous and fair living. To start with one cannot help but hope for a kind and gentleman-like man, if a woman really is to succeed in a singularly happy marriage. Both would indeed need propriety with the right conduct of character to respect one another, to improve love into the proper reform, and improve the speech with your husband by conversing easily in a more fine and polite language. Of course you need to avoid the very places brigands show up, to be able to find your eligible gentleman; and maybe someday you’ll see a man who bows to you.

  9. dgardner23 says:

    How easily the sea eases a cluttered mind. Different shades of blue sit silently in all directions, making no particular sound but still communicating their honest messages directly, clearly, without hesitation. My insecurities have trouble relaxing in such confound spaces they need room to breathe, but the walls don’t allow them that luxury, at least not with such clutter, “How do you think in such a place” one wall says, “It’s clearly a sign thinking is not on his things to do”. Maybe they are right everywhere I look lies evidence of the days past, how will I know what is on the list for today? Elementary memories drag me into the past as I turn each page, forgotten emotions now inflamed eat me alive as I finish the last page. Deodorant sticks remind me of my lack of hygiene, empty mugs call me to my addictions, and layers of dust stick to my arm so I can not simply forget the passage of time.
    The sun creeps in the blinds, there is life on the outside, the sounds of life excite me, they excite me, they inspire me to live. No Truly live not a cyber life but a human one. Where an unmade bed speaks volumes to cleanliness, and dirty mirrors can be viewed as an accurate assumption as to how you view yourself. “The room is dirty” but it can be cleaned as long as the walls continue to speak their truth. The walls can help as long as you acknowledge them as walls and not the room. The clutter is there to help you appreciate space. I love the mess I am in, the walls I am in because they have inspired me to get out.

  10. tukumae says:

    The walls, like my mind, seem to be closing in on me. Trapping me, holding me down. Confining my chest. Not giving me enough space to breath. I had tried my best to make the space nice, comfortable, but my effort was wasted. Might as well have tried to turn a prison cell into a castle. The plant did nothing to remove the smell of old, rotting paint with a tinge of sweat. The yellow walls seemed mocking and reminded me of the girl in middle school who was loved by everybody, but was a devil to her peers. Even though I had spent days cleaning the room, everything seemed to be dirty. Though my belongings were still in boxes elsewhere, the room seemed messy. The first Harry Potter book laying on my bed where I had left it after rereading it was the only reminder of better times. It had been my escape, but no matter how hard I had tried to prolong it, I had reached the end. I had no idea how to find the rest, in the mess that was my life. Though this was the least of my problems, I was able to focus only on this. It seemed to be the easiest to solve after all. But nothing was going to change. I wasn’t going to leave this room after all. My limbs were made of lead, and even though the window had been open the entire day, no air seemed to enter. Looking out, past the single windowsill, everything was grey. The clouds were on the verge of spilling their guts, but they were holding back on me. The bony, naked trees seemed thirsty and as much in need of relief as I. But like me, they were in need of something uncontrolled by them. Waiting for life to take the reins. Weren’t we all? As much as I wanted the room to swallow me whole, I knew it wasn’t going to happen. The scrawny bed was not going to stop time and wait for me to regain control. Even though the room seemed to make up the entire universe, the knowledge of the world continuing its scheduled programming was tearing me apart. Was it not going to stop, for even a second, to acknowledge what was happening? It seemed surreal. It was not holding its breath. So neither should I.
    On the plant a tiny flower seemed to be on the verge of blooming.

    P.S. Would love feedback!

  11. guylaure says:

    it was on fresh staturday air moring that Jessica had woken up hopping that things would be differend at last! unfrotunaly it had not been the case for the poor little girl who had spent her whole life whising foe Something new–for Something diffrent from what shed used to know.
    She enjoyed spenting her spare time with her dog, doggy — not a very orignal name of pet of that speices. nevertheles, it was her only friend. She had expreienced hard times at school..indeed, she sa boullied. Never had it been possible for her to have a off namings

  12. I lie sprawled out on the plump leather sofa, my laptop perched on my thighs as I think of ways to describe this room. A cool, tiled floor rests beneath my feet. The white marbled array of uneven squares look as though a child has picked up a carved potato and dipped it in black paint, only to be told off by its mother for splodging its art all over the floor. In front of me, a fireplace stands, surrounded by the same marble that lies across the floor. Fake white flowers stand in a silver vase, each one illuminated by the fairy lights that stand above them. To my right, a glass stand holds all the technology we think we need; Television, DVD player, Sky+ box. To the left of that, on the shelf in the window lies cheap figurines, an abstract creation of a couple entwined in one another’s arms. A bonsai tree stands next to it. Cheap fabric has been scrunched-up and glued onto a plastic stand. If you are fairly blind or squint then in some ways it looks like a tree, rather than a £2.99 heap of junk. Tucked behind the frilly white curtains lies a stained brown envelope, inside, crumpled notes have been stashed away from prying eyes. Across from the window, a table that matches the glass stand holds a burning Yankee candle, its glass jar supported by a mosaic mirrored dish. A matching lampshade sits on top. Behind the candle lies a stack of mats made from char-coaled coloured slate, both large and small, some for dinner plates and others for catching the coffee that dribbles down my mug in the morning. A flat-pack stand has been slotted together neatly and placed beside the sofa, perfect for stacking papers and magazines. Watercolour roses peep from beneath my Golden Virginia tobacco pouch. A very pretty coaster, sent in the post from the British Red Cross, now mostly hidden by the plastic green pouch. Next to the pouch stands a lighter, used to light candles and cigarettes, its colour a cross between that of an olive and an Arriva bus. Underneath these items is another shelf, one that features a hi-fi and an assortment of CDs. In the draw at the bottom of the stand, various odd-bits have been scattered. Sewing needles, cotton, glasses and buttons lie tangled and stored out of sight. Although the heating isn’t on, the room is warm and the weather humid. So humid that the red fluffy cushions that rest behind me stick to the bare skin of my elbows, making it uncomfortable to type. I place my hand on the soft cotton blanket and watch as the material changes from dark to light cream with every stroke. Once a clear cream, the blanket is now stained and soaks up the muddy paw prints of our Jack Russell. It’s not just the blanket that’s been claimed by the dog. In the corner of the room lies her bed, navy blue to match her ball that is hidden amongst rubber bones and mauled teddies. She sits with me now, her head perched on my laptop as I finish thinking of ways to describe this room.

  13. On a floor.
    It’s cold, damp. Smells of wet cement, drying blood and old stool. My face feels swollen. Slowly I can rotate my head at an angle permitting my face cooled against the floor. Uneven. I can feel course hairs protruding. Insisting for their individual freedom. My hair is wet. It could be of blood. My torso is naked my pants are old, worn and torn. They are soiled and do not fit. I can hear the aggressors. They are heavy with gravity’s guilt. I am hidden for now. These words may be all that are left of me.

  14. poppaboy says:

    Two young lads are breaking the garage wall like clockwork with a hammer. The hammers are out of sync , however, they hold on to their own tempos stubbornly. Occasionally, they mutter something at each other.
    I am sitting by the window and wondering how are they able to work in such hot conditions. The temperature is scorching. It feels like the place will blaze out at any moment. Yet they go on with a steady beat amidst a cloud of dust.
    A gentle breeze crawls in and instantly vanishes. One of the workers closes his eyes to feel the momentary pleasure. However, as it passes, he opens his eyes and looks as if he had woken up from a sweet dream.
    The area is filled with the scent of perspiration,heat and hard work. It is giving me motivation in a lazy Saturday noon.
    I turn round and look at my cluttered bed filled with clothes and books. They will soon be transferred to the chair I am sitting on right now. They know it too. They had been moving around my chair and bed for months. Maybe I should find them a permanent shelter. Maybe I should do it now.

  15. Shane Cruz says:

    Book store. I dislike most contemporary American writers, but Joe means boy detective fails shocked me..in a good way. And yYA IS NOT LITERATURE I LIKE OR READ. Miller, Mailer, Russo are pretty good… though not really my style. As straight man was brilliant and Joe men’s boy detective fails shocked me, it was that good. Learn, Childs, Patterson etc do nothing for me. Murhkamia wind up Bird chronicles is amazing
    Sorry for poor grammar and vocabulary capitalization. Great reader, awful writer

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