The dirty bus coughed and spluttered it’s way up to the top of the hill, and into George’s estate. At the grimy bus stop it disgorged it’s tired passengers as if vomiting the spent workforce. Each to go their own little way, to their own little homes and their own little lives.
George turned the corner, second on the right, into his own street, third house on the left. He came to a sudden halt. Staring in disbelief at the side wall of his home. There, written in huge letters, in an unknown hand stood the words “I REGRET THIS,” and then …nothing else. No resolving conclusion to the statement. No insightful, meaningful ending to the sentence. It was just left, hanging there.
“Perhaps whoever wrote this ran out of paint and went to buy some more?” thought George. “If I wait awhile maybe they will comeback and finish it?” his inner voice told him. “Then again maybe it is finished.” “Could there be some hidden meaning?” he asked himself. He was asking himself more and more these days, just a symptom of living alone he guessed.
Maybe the “THIS,” is the house. “Could the author be questioning his decision to buy a property in such a run-down neighbourhood.” “Could he, or indeed she, have written the first letter and then wondered why they were defacing someone else’s home?”
They could at least have included some washing instructions. “I could just take the can of white paint out of the shed and obliterate the scrawl.” “Or would that just give them a fresh page for more of their social commentary?”
A thought struck George as he analysed the alternatives, reading what was written there and what was not.
“I REGRET THIS,” and then nothing. Perhaps they regret nothing. As far as the writer is concerned the message is complete.
Another picture prompt piece from my English GCSE course. Any observations anybody?
A Life On The Shelf 