On the inside, I'm a poet...

[camdenrefugee]

It was warm in the laundry room.  Quiet, too, if you ignored the hum and thump from the machines.  When stacked up against the current chill of the great outdoors and the chaos of the more popular rooms in the Compound, the laundry room had a lot to recommend it.

Marwood sat on the floor, leaning up against the warmth of the dryer as it studiously

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[pudge_halter]

I hadn't been on the island very long, so exploring seemed like a pretty good idea to me. I remembered being told about the laundry room, but I was still surprised when my search ended in one. I guess the guy who was sitting in there didn't hear me come in, because he was talking to himself about what sounded like a sonnet or some other poem. There was a moment where I wondered if it was my place to say anything-- a long enough moment that by the time I finally got the words out of my mouth the man had probably figured it out or at least forgotten that he had said it at all.

"Twelve... and a couplet at the end." Iambic pentameter had been drilled into my head in school. I used to get so angry at the example 'To be or not to be, that is the question' because it didn't fit the meter. Question was a hyper-metric word and the teachers would only get angry when I'd point it out.

[camdenrefugee]

Marwood looked up (and up, guy was tall) at the voice before glancing down at his scribbles again. "That makes fourteen. Fuck." The expletive came out a little louder than he would have liked, but the project had seemed hopeless even before the addition of two extra lines. Better and better.

Looking up again at the helpful stranger (who looked a little startled now), Marwood regretted his outburst. "Sorry," he said more easily, trying a smile. "Not your fault I don't know a sonnet from a sestina. I just..." He let out a whoosh of breath and took off his glasses. "I'm just not very good at this."

[pudge_halter]

"Then why are you doing it?" I asked. So far the greatest thing about the island to me what was there were no rules to abide by. No having to keep the door open in a girls room after 7, although I hadn't actually attempted that one yet, but I assumed, no rules against smoking, or drinking as a minor, no threat of going home if you do something wrong. But on the downside, not being able to go home no matter how much you wanted it.

I walked over and sat down so that the guy wouldn't have to hurt his neck. I sat indian style until I realized how awkward that probably looked, and then switched to leaning on one side, knees on my left and my arm draped over them. Alaska had sat like that a lot, and so I know it was affective in looking a least a little cool.

[camdenrefugee]

Marwood was momentarily nonplussed. Why was he doing it? He wasn't going to admit the reason to this kid he'd just met (especially since he would barely admit it to himself). For a moment, he contemplated pulling off some quasi-profundity about how excellence could never be a prerequisite in any attempt at progress, but it sounded like too much like Withnail in his head.

Finally, Marwood settled on a hedge. "It's a... Christmas gift for a friend. Well, it will be." He huffed a small laugh, more of an exhalation than a real noise. "And I'm doing it because I'm even more rubbish at everything else."

That was true, at least. Marwood hadn't been on the island long enough to develop any kind of new, useful skill. But writing was writing, application of pen to paper, the reproduction of imagery and ideas in words, and Marwood could do that. For the most part.

[pudge_halter]

It was weird having everyone talk about Christmas again, as when I had left, Christmas break had been over for a couple weeks. Here, I had no one to get presents for and no one to get presents from, so the whole spirit of the season seemed to be a bit wasted on me. Still, I nodded, understanding that people had probably made pretty great friendships here, and many met their great loves.

"A sonnet for a friend," I said, the hint of suspicion in my words. Sonnets weren't really something that you wrote for a friend, or at least not in my experience. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day was perhaps the best known sonnet, and that immortalized whatever girl Shakespeare had written it for... even if no one knows her (or his) name. I didn't know the guy though, and so prying didn't seem like the best plan of action. Making enemies in a new place was never a good plan and I was lucky that I did land myself right in the middle of some feud upon arrival. No roommate to get me dunked in the waterfall tied up in ducktape in the middle of the