Two Points of View!

Dark Alley Picture (big)

 by Hristo Rusanov

http://digital-art-gallery.com/picture/big/565

 

This Exercise was to find an image and create two points of view using the setting.

All I can hear is the dripping. It follows me where ever I go, drip, drip, drip. Nothing is ever dry on Downing Alley, even during the day there is no sun, no warmth. I don’t know why the muckers and urchins bother hanging their clothes on those ratty lines that slump and sag across the confines of the dingy backstreet.

Creak, creak, creak, click, click, click, cry, cry, cry. The sounds of a woman with pram in tow, on the high ground between the slums, echo as they stoop to the dungeon of the lower street. Here I’ll sit on one of the upturned crates that course along the buildings, and it’s here I’ll stay, watching the drip, drip, drip, of the dark wet parade.

But I’ll always be dry…so dry. I don’t think the hot quench of smoke will ever leave my lips or the feel of the burn and of the way it sucked me dry. Even under the grind of the filthy drip, drip, drip.

I can still feel the flames licking my check, mocking my last kiss of my lost beloved. Ridiculing my senses as it consumed all that I ever held dear. Shrouding me in darkness, filling the void with an inescapable parch.

The shadows on the buildings, from the swinging light above the ramshackle Seven Market, streak and slime bending only to curve around and flop off the dilapidated awnings. I can fade here, under the slouching and broken walkways, into the dark corners where the rats sulk and stock the tin garbage cans. It’s only they who might sense the heat that still seems to radiate off from my singed hair and black skin.  Only they who knows, who dwells in the dark places when all is taken, they who drink from the drip, drip, drip of the tears of the fallen.

 

Drip, drip, drip.  All you can hear is the dripping. It’s the sound of a new day down Downing Alley. You can see the how everyone is embracing the day. Hanging their clothes on the lines, decorating the  confines of our backstreet.  

Creak, creak, creak, click, click, click, cry, cry, cry. The sounds of a busy woman with pram in tow, on the high ground between the neighborhood, the echo is like music as it crescendos down to the lower street. Oh the sight of the crates along the concourse, remind me that it’s been a good week for the local businesses.  I sit and watch the drip, drip, drip of the wet parade, cleaning the old walls.

It’s nice here under my umbrella, so dry, dry, dry. Nothing can dampen my spirits today as the rain grinds on drip, drip ,drip.  I can still feel the soft kiss of my darling. It fills all my senses, consuming me with an unquenchable fire.  She fills my life with light that radiates filling the voids.

The light at the Seven Market paints the walls with light and shadow. Its like a gallery down the alley, with the texture of the awnings, and the broken lines of the walkways. The rats are the lucky ones who dwell in the dynamic places, where they hear and see all the happenings. Even now they come and drink from the drip, drip, drip of the hope filled.