David Walker 🇬🇧 Street Art Portraits • Graffiti Portrait, by stanley on Dec 31, 2010 21:30:40 GMT 1,

Dec 31, 2010 19:34:25 GMT 1 kever said:

I really love this competition, it was a great little exercise, even if I don't win. I love the print though, so I hope I do win I normally write screenplays (just a hobby, not a job) so this gave me a chance to write from thoughts and feelings instead of action and dialogue. It did sort of spiral out of control as I only intended to write a paragraph or two based on the image I got from David's painting. It turned out to be quite a bit longer though, the story really wrote itself and kept adding details, which I always consider a indication that I'm on to something. I hope it's not too long for the competition though.

One last thing, English is not my native language and I never really write in English, so I hope it doesn't show too much

----------------------------------

Unknown 1

She cautiously walked into the room. This was the first time she had been allowed in since the police had closed the investigation. Why they had felt the need to even start an investigation was anyone's guess, perhaps this was their way of getting back at him one last time.

Their apartment had always been small, but it had never bothered her until now. Perhaps it was the missing furniture. Not that they had had much in the way of furniture before, but his brother had been round the other day, when she was still working up the courage. He’d said he needed “a few things” for his own house – if you could call it that – and that it had never been hers anyway. She didn’t really want him to take it, but she hadn’t had the courage to say no. His brother scared her, much more than he’d ever done. She’d always known he would not hurt her, well not in any serious way at least. Then again, who would have guessed he would really go through with his “promises”. It had been his way to get attention, hadn’t it?

She walked around deliberately, her hand gently brushing everything left in the room. The cupboard, with “her” tableware in it. It was about the only thing in here that was really hers. The countertop, how many hours had she spent in vain, cooking meals, while he did not show up. It had taken her far too long to realise why he wasn’t there for dinner and why he was never hungry. It wasn’t until all the money was gone when he had confessed. Next, the dinner table, now there were some memories right there. They had been making love, passionately, when one of the legs gave way. They told the doctor she’d fallen from a chair replacing a bulb, laughing all the way to and from the hospital. It was weird to think how much had happened in less than a year’s time. How happy they had both been when they signed the contract.

The living room was far too empty. All that was left was the lounge chair, his brother had probably been too superstitious to take it. Oh, how she had fought for that chair. She didn’t know why, but even when he had started selling her clothes, and of course she had noticed, she still insisted she would leave him if he ever sold his own chair. It had been her personal little bastion in the “war” with his “little problem”. Looking back, she could almost cry at how pathetic it really was. And how ironic. Had he used that chair on purpose? Had it been a message to her? She felt the room creeping up on her, its emptiness seeping through her skin chilling her to the bone. With a few large paces she was at the door. That’s how small it all really was.

But she didn’t really want to leave. She couldn’t. Not this house, not these memories, not… well, this man. Had it been her fault? He had warned her, told her – and not just her – for weeks, but not once had he gone through with it. Nobody had really taken it seriously, until it was too late. Maybe it was his final statement, to show everyone that… well, to show everyone something anyway. She sighed, asked the question she had been asking herself for two months now: should she have stayed with him? Looking around though, it was as if the room was answering for her. This wasn’t love. It may have started that way. Not that love was a perfect thing. Love overcoming all obstacles was a fairytale fantasy for five-year-olds. Real love was something that needed work, care and attention. But he had never loved her, not really. So the answer was no, she had been right to go back home. Home, where right now, her parents would be waiting for her. Now there was real love. Slowly, she started smiling.

You thought off that whilst looking at the image?

Dec 31, 2010 19:34:25 GMT 1 kever said:

I really love this competition, it was a great little exercise, even if I don't win. I love the print though, so I hope I do win I normally write screenplays (just a hobby, not a job) so this gave me a chance to write from thoughts and feelings instead of action and dialogue. It did sort of spiral out of control as I only intended to write a paragraph or two based on the image I got from David's painting. It turned out to be quite a bit longer though, the story really wrote itself and kept adding details, which I always consider a indication that I'm on to something. I hope it's not too long for the competition though.

One last thing, English is not my native language and I never really write in English, so I hope it doesn't show too much

----------------------------------

Unknown 1

She cautiously walked into the room. This was the first time she had been allowed in since the police had closed the investigation. Why they had felt the need to even start an investigation was anyone's guess, perhaps this was their way of getting back at him one last time.

Their apartment had always been small, but it had never bothered her until now. Perhaps it was the missing furniture. Not that they had had much in the way of furniture before, but his brother had been round the other day, when she was still working up the courage. He’d said he needed “a few things” for his own house – if you could call it that – and that it had never been hers anyway. She didn’t really want him to take it, but she hadn’t had the courage to say no. His brother scared her, much more than he’d ever done. She’d always known he would not hurt her, well not in any serious way at least. Then again, who would have guessed he would really go through with his “promises”. It had been his way to get attention, hadn’t it?

She walked around deliberately, her hand gently brushing everything left in the room. The cupboard, with “her” tableware in it. It was about the only thing in here that was really hers. The countertop, how many hours had she spent in vain, cooking meals, while he did not show up. It had taken her far too long to realise why he wasn’t there for dinner and why he was never hungry. It wasn’t until all the money was gone when he had confessed. Next, the dinner table, now there were some memories right there. They had been making love, passionately, when one of the legs gave way. They told the doctor she’d fallen from a chair replacing a bulb, laughing all the way to and from the hospital. It was weird to think how much had happened in less than a year’s time. How happy they had both been when they signed the contract.

The living room was far too empty. All that was left was the lounge chair, his brother had probably been too superstitious to take it. Oh, how she had fought for that chair. She didn’t know why, but even when he had started selling her clothes, and of course she had noticed, she still insisted she would leave him if he ever sold his own chair. It had been her personal little bastion in the “war” with his “little problem”. Looking back, she could almost cry at how pathetic it really was. And how ironic. Had he used that chair on purpose? Had it been a message to her? She felt the room creeping up on her, its emptiness seeping through her skin chilling her to the bone. With a few large paces she was at the door. That’s how small it all really was.

But she didn’t really want to leave. She couldn’t. Not this house, not these memories, not… well, this man. Had it been her fault? He had warned her, told her – and not just her – for weeks, but not once had he gone through with it. Nobody had really taken it seriously, until it was too late. Maybe it was his final statement, to show everyone that… well, to show everyone something anyway. She sighed, asked the question she had been asking herself for two months now: should she have stayed with him? Looking around though, it was as if the room was answering for her. This wasn’t love. It may have started that way. Not that love was a perfect thing. Love overcoming all obstacles was a fairytale fantasy for five-year-olds. Real love was something that needed work, care and attention. But he had never loved her, not really. So the answer was no, she had been right to go back home. Home, where right now, her parents would be waiting for her. Now there was real love. Slowly, she started smiling.

You thought off that whilst looking at the image?