This writing was accepted for publication
in the 84 page perfect-bound issue...
Down in the Dirt magazine (v078)
(the January 2010 Issue)

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Frame

Dale Howard

    A rectangular frame surrounds his face as if he is peering in from a giant movie theater screen. Dark spots blur the bottom edges of the frame like black holes, which turn out to be his thumbs placed in the corners. His brown eyes are swollen and coated in red from the salt that has leaked from them for hours.
    Not much can be seen of his side of the frame but the pale, gaunt extreme close-up of his face shadowed in a single smothered sepia light that comes from god knows where, muting every tone and color so that it is hard to tell the man from the ceiling the color of dry dirt beyond him.
    But on this side of the photograph, there is nothing but color and space. The sun, vibrance and warmth erupt in ten-mega-pixel brilliance too sharp to be called a true image of this one instant caught in time.
    And they both smile. He, six months younger than now, is taller than her, so her pristinely blond head is pressed to his cheek, his left arm wrapping around her waist to pull her in closer to ensure he gets both of them into the shot.
    The sepia man absently moves the picture around in his hand as if he were looking through a window to try and see more of the situation, but his attempts yield nothing more than what is directly presented to him in the photo; their faces shining at him through the glow that envelops them like a healthy aura...and a little bit of his right shoulder, all in front of an arctic blue sky.
    But on this side, you can see what he misses. You see the park they stand in, treeless, but populated by voiceless hills of grass an emerald green the deep rich color of her eyes, and the city that surrounds it like an overzealous promise. The buildings aren’t quite skyscrapers, but lift upwards as if they are straining to reach the proper height, their angles twenty-first century modern and funky with colors that match brushed stainless steel balconies and glass, like rust red, sky blue, and desert tan.
    You see not just their faces and a bit of arm, but their entire bodies, every pore and stitch of clothing. She is wearing vivid blue jean shorts and subtly pink sandals. Her tank top is so vividly orange you can smell sherbet when you look at it. Her hair is short-cropped and cute and surrounds a bubbly face flawlessly smooth—if not slightly freckled—even at such high resolution. Her teeth show through her smile and shine like a sensational idea.
    He wears his blue jeans faded from years of diligent use, the missing back pocket a testament to their survival. A t-shirt the color of faded autumn leaves covers his lanky frame, and his long face gives an impression only of ivory when he smiles. His right arm is stretching in front of him, his fingers somehow enclosing around, not the camera you would expect, but the over-sized rectangular frame, though somehow, there is no distortion of measurement. Beyond the frame, all else is gray.
    The sepia man blinks, and a tear comes crashing down upon the rectangular frame, blurring the ability to see him clearly from this side. One of the smudges in the corner lifts away and rubs at the blur, momentarily shielding him from the view of the happy couple smiling and staring blankly at him through this side of the photo.
    The sepia man says something, though it is impossible to hear through the barrier of the rectangular frame, yet the way his lips move, it looks like he says this was the best time, and however melodramatic the sentence really is, it is undoubtedly true for there is nowhere to go from the “best” but in a steady decline. And the evidence is there if you know where to look.
    From where he is, the sepia man can see only the happiness of the two looking back. But if you step to the side at almost ninety degrees, for example, you can see that her smile is pulled down ever so slightly at the edges to crinkle in resignation. If you continue on, and step behind her, you will notice her hip avoids contact with his, even though he pulls her close. And if you move a final time, and stand just off center from the rectangular frame that he stares through, then you will realize that the gossamer glint in her eye is not happiness, but doubt.
    Finally, the man of six-months-later wipes his nose and the perspective of the silently still couple suddenly changes from the man and ceiling to the view of an empty room. Bare of everything that she has taken with her.

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