Poets and prose writers, dreamers and inventors, scribblers and masters of the word—we invite you to take part in the "Art of Writing" contest.

The rules are very simple:
* visit the website of Kvartira S Gallery - https://kvartiras.com/,
* open the catalogue and choose any painting or photograph,
* write a piece inspired by the work you have chosen: a poem, a short story, an essay, a fable, a play, a fairy tale—whatever your inspiration allows. Please note: no more than 2,500 characters including spaces!
* send your creation to info@kvartiras.com, stating the title or article number of the work you have chosen.

The contest runs until 19 September.

And then comes the most exciting part: in the new season, Kvartira S Gallery will host a vernissage where theatre and film actors will read the best works aloud amid the paintings and photographs.
We promise to publish every piece you write on our website in the Blog section https://kvartiras.com/blog/ and on our social media pages.

And who knows—perhaps all of this will grow into a wonderful book-album!;)

Good luck!
Stay tuned for our announcements!

Official contest hashtag #stories_kvartiras

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So, let’s begin!

***

Nadezhda Sabadash

About happiness, about purpose,

About love—or about pity?

About the way things are,

Or about what remains?

About piecing yourself back together.

How to grow a goal and reach it truly.

To raise yourself up and steer toward victory.

And whether happiness lies in career and in children,

In family and in the one you love.

In your convictions.

You must set your life spinning in a single direction.

With friends, with your beloved,

At peace with yourself.

So that all… your children follow after you.

***

Yuri Averchenkov

Life is strangely arranged,

Cut not to my measure.

Suddenly I met Anna,

And I was not on my horse.

I had no armor, no sword,

No titles, no coats of arms,

But a heart full of courage, —

And I was ready for anything.

Armed with a brush,

Clashing shadow and light on the canvas,

With but one thought of Anna

I painted a bouquet.

With a painting of yellow tulips

I hurried to her:

To a girl out of novels,

Destined to be mine...

But life is strangely arranged.

Words like a slap in the face:

"I'd rather have a Dolce & Gabbana bag

And a shih tzu with a haircut."

Everything collapsed. Glances, plans...

No knights, no Dulcineas...

I sell the tulips

For two hundred thousand rubles.

***

Ekaterina Bandakova

Fish are like people. They live in cities
of fish.

They go to work. They stand in lines
long ones.

Only they do everything in silence
and smoothly.

How well everything is arranged for them!
How splendid!

Each fish swims in its own
thoughts.

Silently writes poems, multiplies in its head
numbers.

And if it sees another fish,
then at once,

Without needless words it winks at her
with one eye.

Fish have no debates and long
arguments.

There are no heart-to-heart talks at night in the kitchen.

Fish have no gossip, rumors
and idle talk.

At night fish in the kitchen wash the dishes without a sound.

And in all else fish are like people:
To hear one another is, as for us,
hard.

***

Yuri Averchenkov

Carefully, along the contour, without breaking the edges,

I cut out what I once was as I:

An embarrassed curve of a smile, a surprised brow,

A great heart that stands for love,

A lightbulb as a symbol of ambitious ideas,

A little cross that once helped me believe in people,

Clock hands that taught patience and waiting,

A handful of tears I would not let myself cry through.

Everything has frozen, stiffened—not living water.

I cut the past with scissors for ice.

***

Sergey Logvenkov

I walked along the darkened pier,
When even waves dared not break.
I turned around... The seagull fell silent...
Not daring to stir its wing.
I lowered my feet onto the water
And suddenly knew I would not sink!
My breath caught as I gazed into the water!
I waited for her! For her alone!

Only a pale silhouette appeared

Amid the mingled spray of waves and clinging mist.

I stood there until morning,

Not daring to utter a word or even blink.

Only a gentle breeze arose,

And everything vanished that very instant,

I cried out: "Do not go, oh no!!!"

But only silence answered me...

***

Alisa Yagubets

Sometimes you realize that nothing will ever be more precious than this moment.

It holds everything. Air at just the right temperature, night diluted by the glow of streetlamps, and you yourself. A playground, where several children out late are engrossed in some game. Nothing distracts them, just as nothing distracts you from your contemplation. The day has been lived.

During the day, you failed... It happens. But you have reached the end of this day with what you brought into it, and it is foolish to dwell on the past. That day is gone. Night comes precisely to wipe our accounts clean and allow us to begin anew. To grant us respite. A blessed time that we usually squander on regret and guilt. Instead of relaxing and drinking deeply of this night. It is a life in its own right, the other side of life.

On this side, no one is rushing anywhere. If your haste was not left behind with the departed day, there is something you have failed to understand about this life. Smile.

The end of a day is like the end of a life. That is all, the screening is over, and the lights come on in the cinema. Thank you, it was interesting. And difficult, and painful, and magnificent. But we move on. Why not drink wine with friends and share the silence?

Thank you, night, for erasing the traces of my failures like a wave. Thank you for the way everything is arranged. For letting me draw obscure signs in the sand and build illusions. To be disappointed and to die. To lose and abandon hope. And then the wave comes—and once again a blank page lies before me. Thank you.

Stay where you are. Stay where time has placed you. Here and now. Speak with God. Be silent. And listen. In the inexhaustible silence of the night, you will find your haven...

***

Kristina Zyblaya

Not once, but every time,
I searched the crowd for the one
Whose beautiful eyes and their hue
Would cast their light upon my face...

But the crowd seethed with anger,
Filling me with sorrow and fear,
And now a tawdry deception
Has settled in their hearts.

Do not search, simply become the crowd—
A passerby called after me—
It is your chance to find peace
Until the end of your mature years.

Hurry home without delay,
The essence of the crowd is to return twofold

The tenderness and love
That were denied to you.

***

Darya Ermakova

Hello! I am a big woman.
My city is Jericho.
They lean ladders against me,
I weigh dozens of tons.

I stand here half-undressed,
I stand and try to keep silent,
In this little world as if a captive...
How hard it is to stand alone!

Passers-by point their fingers at me
And rush up closer to look,
Grimacing, contorting their faces,
As if I were a circus bear.

"You could have been a meter with a cap,
But look — a cliff!"
Offensive remarks rain down,
And I am neither alive nor dead.

I endure and live on hope
That after I am gone,
I will be new, not the same,
Walking in a heavenly garden.

A tear appears in my eyes,
But my gaze grows brighter.
You know, it is foolish to grieve
When you are a sister of the mountains.

[And here I am filled with love,
I decide that this is providence.
A vast soul lives within her,
And so mercies await].

***

Evgeniya Plokhikh

And we settled by the sea,
For a couple of months exactly.
Behind the house — a boundless field,
In it — the wind, juicy as peaches.
By the house — a hammock and tree stumps,
On them — fresh tea, a pair of cups,
On them — our daughter's little socks,
A dog collar and ours .
They are not needed here at all,
While it is so warm and empty of people,
While autumn has not yet dawned,
While you cook me dishes —
One after another — on the grill,
While there are hours for reflection,
And a place where for mother
We will set out wicker chairs,
And next to them — a climbing rose
We'll plant, and sit closer,
While the frosts have not yet struck,
While we love and breathe.

***

Sveta Romashkina

The water seared her with cold. After somehow enduring the icy streams, Kira began drying her hair. Getting ready took a record-breaking 28 minutes, which meant she still had time to buy coffee at Starbucks. In her lonely life, burdened with problems, it was her only solace. Dashing out into the raw autumn air, with solitary leaves drifting on the wind, Kira realized how closely her state of mind echoed that capricious, ill-tempered lady—autumn.

Near the metro, an elderly woman always sold Antonovka apples. She lovingly sorted through her rosy fruit, wiping some of the apples with a cloth that was none too clean. The sight made Kira shudder. Noticing her grimace, the woman looked at her and suddenly held out an apple. Kira recoiled in surprise. In a low voice, the woman said, “Take it, dear! It’s from my own garden!” Too flustered to squeeze out even a couple of words, Kira merely sprinted toward the metro entrance with the speed of an Olympian. Swept into the human maelstrom, she sat down, intending to read. But the letters swam before her eyes, the headlines danced a tango, and although the pages kept turning, she absorbed none of the meaning. The woman with the Antonovka apples remained before her mind’s eye, and waves of burning shame washed over Kira for having fled so disgracefully without even managing to say thank you. That evening, Kira decided to buy a cake, find the woman, and ask her forgiveness.

By evening, Kira was somewhat nervous and dismissed her morning decision as a mere impulse. Emerging from the metro, she stopped, thought for a moment, and decided that she had to approach the woman. But the woman was nowhere to be found. The shawarma vendor was busily drizzling ketchup over his creation for a customer waiting nearby. Kira asked him about the woman, and the vendor, whose name—Misha—was scrawled on his badge, smiled broadly and said that she lived on the second floor of the nine-storey building over there.

The entrance hall was dimly lit, and no one had painted its chipped railings for years, yet watered flowers in new pots stood on the windowsill, striking a discordant note against the general state of the place. Intuitively, Kira headed toward apartment 7. That apartment smelled of kindness, comfort, and cabbage pies. As a little girl, Kira had loved them because her grandmother’s were truly exceptional. To give the crust a golden glow, Granny brushed it with egg. Timidly pressing the doorbell, the young woman heard the bright bark of a dog. Brisk footsteps announced the imminent arrival of the lady of the house. The door opened, and there stood the woman before her.

“This is for you,” Kira said, holding out the cake. “And I wanted to apologize. What happened was awful.”

“Come in,” was all the woman said. “We’ll have some tea, and you, Barsik, stop pestering our guest,” she added, addressing the lively little dog.

Sitting in the kitchen and stirring her tea with oregano and thyme, Kira felt like crying for the first time in two years, like a sliver of ice melting in a hot glass. She sensed that she would become a frequent guest in this home that smelled of cabbage pies, where a woman with kind eyes and a generous heart lived; inwardly, she gave thanks that, amid the daily bustle and the endless race around the metropolis’s vicious circle, she had managed to discern a spark of human compassion and had followed its light.