Intro to Fiction
Writing Exercise Two/ 06-30-2010
Even on hot summer days, the concrete surrounding me felt cool to the touch on all surfaces: the rough walls, the polished concrete floors; all of which was cool enough to create condensation in my sweaty palms. It was, after all, my sanctuary where I turned to for comfort and relief from the ridicules of the world around me. In the far corner off the landing sat the washer and drier. Opposite of that wall under the stairs were the household appliances. Dividing the room were three support poles six feet apart, with steel beams perpendicular to the stairs eight feet from the floor. The only impeding structure from these beams was a clothesline along the last two-thirds of space from the support pole to the concrete wall. The rest was mine!
My sanctuary became a place that kept me safe from everything. It kept me out of trouble, it channeled my anger, and became a place of hope; an area where dreams were made and broken, but never forgotten. In this space of mine, I had all the tools needed for my success: an Olympic Bench, Vertical Leg Press Machine, and 600 pounds of Olympic plates at my disposal. Various bars and dumbbells were strewn about, all of which reciprocated the temperature of the walls. The smell of sweat soaked into the leather of the machines gave me a sense of pride; a sense of self-worth while the scent of the musty old couch allowed me a place for reflection. Even the sound of the weights clanging together, echoing off the walls, sent chills down my spine with each rep. This place was where my dreams came true as a result of my hard work. This place gave me the confidence I needed to stand above my peers. This place was my sanctuary, my gym, my learning block of self-control and dedication to myself. This place was our basement.