Comments on: Training Exercise #2 http://www.verbhounds.com/training-exercise-2/ Subsiste sermonem statim et scribe. Mon, 06 Jun 2011 14:46:13 +0000 hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.2.1 By: MAUS http://www.verbhounds.com/training-exercise-2/comment-page-1/#comment-30 MAUS Fri, 05 Feb 2010 05:50:34 +0000 http://www.verbhounds.com/?p=134#comment-30 The room is like a flower after it dies. The smell coming from the walls is sweet, but in a way that makes her uncomfortable, like a skeleton carved from sugar, the rot still clinging to the bones. The air that spills into the room disturbs all the things at rest, and she feels the long-shed dog fur brushing against her cheeks, tickling her nose. It wasn't like this; it's all wrong now. She misses Kira, and the life Kira brought into this place. The room is like a flower after it dies. The smell coming from the walls is sweet, but in a way that makes her uncomfortable, like a skeleton carved from sugar, the rot still clinging to the bones. The air that spills into the room disturbs all the things at rest, and she feels the long-shed dog fur brushing against her cheeks, tickling her nose.

It wasn’t like this; it’s all wrong now. She misses Kira, and the life Kira brought into this place.

]]> By: monster soup head http://www.verbhounds.com/training-exercise-2/comment-page-1/#comment-24 monster soup head Thu, 04 Feb 2010 18:58:05 +0000 http://www.verbhounds.com/?p=134#comment-24 Whenever I walk into my room, I get the feeling that someone has just been there. It's nothing I can put my finger on. Just the slightest draft whispering around my ankles as something dives underneath the bed. My notebooks are silent, a silence like a bitten tongue. And my nightgown is stiff with tension. It collapses into my arms when I take it from the peg. 'Here I am,' I say. It is the kind of room where you have to speak out loud, to make your own ripples in the still air. And to warn the room thief that you're home. Whenever I walk into my room, I get the feeling that someone has just been there. It’s nothing I can put my finger on. Just the slightest draft whispering around my ankles as something dives underneath the bed. My notebooks are silent, a silence like a bitten tongue. And my nightgown is stiff with tension. It collapses into my arms when I take it from the peg. ‘Here I am,’ I say. It is the kind of room where you have to speak out loud, to make your own ripples in the still air. And to warn the room thief that you’re home.

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