Blurred Family

Planned, written and edited with a thirty five minute time limit using the following quotes as inspiration. 1. Living too much in one's head can be dangerous. Anna Godbersen, Rumors 2. People don't read any more. It's a sad state of affairs. Reading's the only thing that allows you to use your imagination. When you watch films it's someone else's vision, isn't it? Lemmy Kilmister 3. You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write. Saul Bellow 4. I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination.Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world. Albert Einstein 5. Imagination does not become great until human beings, given the courage and the strength, use it to create. Maria Montessori

The boy stood staring at the lock upon the door that had been pulled shut violently in his face. He heard the locking mechanism turn and click into place, rendering him indefinitely confined within the surrounding four walls. His eyes began to well with tears.

He didn’t understand what he did to anger his stepfather, he just knew that it was probably for the best that he was on this side of the door. His alcohol fuelled lunacy knew no bounds when he was in such a state.

This wasn’t the first time he had experienced such a punishment for the nondescript misdemeanour he apparently committed against his stepfather. The first few times he spent the hours crying in his bed, sheet overhead trying to offer some protection and control from the chaos in his domestic life. He wondered why his mother didn’t step in and help, why she let this happen to him; the eventual revelation that she must not love him either simply brought more and more tears.


He laid on his bed for hours, hoping that someone would open the door and let him out. He watched the sun fall below the horizon and the streetlight outside his window introduced an artificial orange glow to his room. Eventually his back began to ache, so he moved to his desk. The tears had slowed, but his despair remained. It was here, at this desk that he discovered something miraculous. A tear made its way down his cheek and stalled in a droplet at the bottom of his chin. As more followed the droplet grew, until eventually the surface tension was unable to fight the pull of gravity and the droplet fell onto a colour pencil drawing he had started at school that day. The salty water reacted with the graphite developing a tiny pool of colour that could be manipulated with his fingers. The definite, coarsen aesthetic of the pencil lines became muddled. Colours mixed into a vivid palate of arrangements that weren’t strictly defined by the assortment of colour pencils he had in his pencil case.


He set to work on another piece he had drawn at school earlier this week; a family portrait he was asked to draw by his teacher. His tears had stopped, but that wasn’t going to hinder his progress. He placed a finger in his water bottle and introduced the water to the page exactly where he needed to. He contorted the lines around his stepfather, blending them with the bushes he had drawn in the background. As the colours blurred and his stepfather disappeared, his anxieties faded. He became lost in the fantasy of the portrait. And just for a moment, he imagined what his life would be like without his stepfather.