Maroon Carpet

I have been on the lookout for good writing exercises and have really been meaning to get back into writing more regularly. So I googled this one that I really liked and I think turned out pretty well while sitting at a Starbucks, without a pinging alarm clock to aid me, haha. 

Just looking at the clock in the corner of my laptop screen was enough when I used the exercise #3 in the provided link by Belle Beth Cooper – 10-Minute Writing Workouts. The exercise needed me to “expand & advance” every other minute. I used the word “carpet” as my prompt (I have no idea why or how that word popped into my head and I just started writing). You can probably spot quite a few typos and grammatical errors since I was just so focused on writing. You can almost see me struggle in the beginning, trying to write on cue and how to maintain the narrative successfully.

Below is the result of the exercise which I actually quite enjoyed! 

Totally looking forward to using more of these exercises, either from this link above or others, and just writing more now. 

 

“the maroon carpet lay fraying in the corner of the room and without attracting any attention at all. The dull deep quality of the colour was just as morbidly sad as my own mind. My sadness, my silence, my suffering all needed work – cleaning, if you will. Needed a good soapy scrub and renewing. It wasn’t going to happen by looking backwards, so I wont talk about it. I’ll just talk about where to go, wondering where I should go. and how often I do think about it.

the carpet is soft, still. after all the dirt and crumbs that are inlaid into its threads, crumbling underfoot. I think about those lost cookies and earring backings, random grains of rice, drying and forgotten. How often did we drop food in here? How often did we laugh, cry, sing and send Jenga blocks crashing around here? the microscopic pieces of all our  skin, hair, and all other kinds of cells that are laid to rest here… I can only begin to imagine.

There isn’t a single memory on these carpets that I don’t remember, like a kinetic energy as I walk barefoot on it and feel the memories rise up inside me, welling like a big old wave of ocean current. Oh right, I love the ocean. I don’t think I’ve mentioned that yet. The clear waters close to you, and the ominous block of solid colour farther away.

I remember when I’d first laid eyes on this room, this living room that my dad introduced us into. This was our living room and he’d so quickly, easily, moved onto the kitchen. Little had I thought about this murky dark carpet and how much it would hold. How much of our secrets, our late night stories…

rendevous. the things I’ve done here bringing Jack in here so many nights while my parents were out for work. Or wherever they went after 10pm. I used to bring Jake here and we’d get to know each other better. His skin cells, his smell, his pheromones that I know are engraved in this dirty old carpet too and it knows so much more.

there is nothing Jane and I haven’t shared here either. some of those late nights when our parents were gone and I sat here, our toenails showing chipped nail polish, digging into the carpets earthen secrets, as we whispered and laughed at the stories. The gossip of Jack and how he grunted sometimes when he was pleasured, the giggle of Jana Seymour in class when she heard something funny and always got in trouble, how Linda was still always at that boy’s desk, unable to keep their secret rendevous, well – secret.

that maroon carpet knew it all and here I am, yet another dark late night, alone on this carpet watching another secret of mine seeping into its layers. who better to share with? I mean, stains and spills almost never showed on my family’s carpet, after they dried.”

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