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Old 09-29-2015, 05:34 AM View Post #1 (Link) Arbitrary Images
2sh4r (Offline)
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So one day I decided to sit down somewhere completely arbitrary and attempt to describe what I saw - you can try this with poetry or prose. I did two. One is a "landscape". It attempts to describe everything in my sight. The other zooms in on a specific thing that I saw.

You can use any style you'd like, just make sure the result is vivid and (relatively) concise.
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Old 09-29-2015, 05:35 AM View Post #2 (Link)
2sh4r (Offline)
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Cornell Chemistry Courtyard

Brick-wall to the right,
Bricks gray and black and rust,
Broken by two black-framed windows,
Which show a clutter on a sill
And flank a heavy door,
Defended by an old, stone pillar
On either side.

Pillars to the left too.
Seven stand,
White and smooth.
They reflect daylight from the window wall, which is just across.
Lamps hang from wires that hang from pillars.

Class ends. Herds of people flow.
Class begins. I’m alone again.
Except for the occasional wanderer
Gazing at her blue-cased phone
In her hand.

Sky looms beyond the window wall,
Populated by the occasional cloud.
The lower half is hills in the backdrop
And tiled roof in the front,
Behind which hangs a couple tree tops.
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Old 09-29-2015, 05:36 AM View Post #3 (Link)
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Someone Left Their Hair Here

Still like the spider,
whose legs,
Short or long,
radiate.
Each curls at the end
Like a crooked finger.

It doesn’t perch.
It’s spattered.
Maybe it’s been stepped on.

The floor is
Otherwise empty.
  
						Last edited by 2sh4r; 09-30-2015 at 04:00 AM.
					
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Old 09-30-2015, 02:43 PM View Post #4 (Link)
Keladry (Offline)
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Library

The computer dominates my sight. Bold black letters are taped to the top of my station: "Community #3" labels my existence. If I am remembered forever by the lady I asked to help me sign in, I will be "the nice girl who said the computers were slow." For the record, she didn't laugh. For the record, it was another girl, who happened to overhear me, who laughed when I said the computers were slow. I will forever remember her as "the girl at the other computer." She's not there anymore, and I can't think of what she might have been wearing. In her place is a guy, handsome but bulky, and he is wearing a grey shirt. I do not think he would look up, much less laugh, if I said the computers were slow.

Every so often I pull myself from the tunnel of my computer and glance around. Science-fair display posters question nursing practices for non-epileptic seizures and infections from urinary catheters. Bright green signs label the sections of the library, "Periodicals" and "Audio Visual." I wonder about these labels. The place is filled with books and ideas, a collection of work that evidences hundreds of thousands of hours of time. Yet in the end, Twilight and Forrest Gump are labeled the same: Audio Visual.

There is beauty here but I no longer notice it. Huge windows, floor to ceiling, reveal on one side a collection of palm trees and on the other a field of clouds and a blue house. The blue house is strange, partially because it is so ordinary looking. It has a slanted roof, a door placed off center to the right, and small windows. Perfect white trim emphasizes the subtle architecture. I do not know who would want to live in the shadow of a college library. I imagine some old lady going out for groceries, leaving her front door and being faced with a three story building of tinted windows. Anybody could look and see her, but she could see nothing but her own reflection. That is, perhaps, why the house looks unused and un-lived in and still perfect. Reasonably, it is probably just a storage shed, designed to look pretty for Girl at the Other Computer to glance at as she walks by, safe behind the wall of windows.

There is not much else to see but computers and books and people. The smell is stale, even in the early morning, though occasionally a hint of lemon cleanser replaces it for a change of pace. The sounds are all muted and muffled. Someone coughed. Up front there is laughter and directions, the lilt of polite and friendly speech, and the dial tone of old phones. Loudest of all in my ears is the tap of my very own fingers on the plastic keys, but I never care to notice that either. Instead I sit quietly and focus, let the labels and the windows fade from existence, and type.
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