The Picture Frame

by Jessica King (she/her)

The picture frame rests on the table, where love letters are spread across the large wood, written in faded ink and decorated with yellow corners. Stiff rose petals were spilled across the pages, the brown stems snapped in half and clinging together with strings of white ribbons. Strips of portraits from distant photo booths have been taped to the papers, the dates on the white spaces discolored and missing numbers. A tarnished ring glistens by the picture frame, the diamond withstanding the tests of time.

The wedding dress lies across the sofa like a forgotten jacket, the divine white color fading to vintage yellow. The bag suffers holes and tears from long moves and playful cats and prying children. The veil with the adorning tiara has half-disappeared by now, the thin fabric shredded from improper storage, but too precious to part with. An elf crown like Arwen’s, you had claimed after reading Lord of the Rings, your most recent obsession at the time. The blue gem, the color of your eyes, angrily tore through the veil as well, glimmering and glistening with the memories now beyond our reach. All of this aged artistry reflects in the picture frame’s glass, casting a light shine that mars my groomed face.

Eight years ago, you cried to the minister “I do,” to a fulgurant future filled with fierce fervor and life’s fulfillment. For four long years before that, I had held those frail fingers like a prayer, my mind perverted with the day when I could finally claim you as my companion, my soulmate, my forever. In your elven dress, you radiated divine grandeur like a fairy goddess, beaming with delight of our long-awaited union.

The dustily-disguised photo of our fairytale wedding day is the lingering proof of your brilliant smile. Not even the crystals embellishing the picture frame can dare compare to the intensity of your intelligent eyes. We clung to each other like magnets, our cheeks imprinting into each other as your cheekbone bore into my own. Rosy pink lipstick stained my jawbone, your favorite spot to kiss me because it tickles. A loose strand of brown hair had curled around your flushed nose; you insisted that it ruined the perfect picture, but to me, it proved that no imperfections could blemish the beauty of your countenance.

In our marriage bed, with your hair tussled with passion and exertion, you dreamed of the two children and three dogs we’ll have. You didn’t care if your holy palace bore sons or daughters, just as long as we taught them to “be gentle with all fur-babies... especially ours.” In the dawn, when the sunlight blessed my world with the glow of your eyes, you fantasized about the futures we were building for our children. You didn’t care who they loved or what they pursued, just as long as they were safe and happy. “Maybe we’ll name them Angel and Riley, in case they’ll need a new identity. Their nursery walls should be yellow, bright and joyful like the love I have for them.”

Five months ago, I grasped your small hand as you slept, your somber-sweet eyes slipping away from this sliver of heaven, the machine beeping to the slow and steady speed of your beat as your soft voice bid your final farewell. Then silence. Than the machine proclaiming the absence of your soul. Then the coldness settling into your skin. The cracked cries finally releasing themselves from the cage in my throat as I clung to your fingers like my last hope of salvation. Soft whimpers in the night.

Our beautiful, wonderful wedding day was hauntingly followed by our first-month anniversary, the day we found out you had lung cancer.

Dreaming in Adulthood

by Jessica King (she/her)

The metallic dragon roared a newfound wrath and spat scalding water on my hands, flushed flesh like speckled coral.

The leviathan hissed from the dark depths and summoned seafoam in furious whirlpools, its void mouth swallowing seas.

My fingers danced hastily between the beasts, wielding a sword and shield, my only line of defense in the raging tempest–Reality crashes into my body like a ship sailing into rocks, blood cascading down the planks.

My hands surrender the scrubber in the soapy abyss to bandage the wound on my calloused palm; a stray fang found my searing skin.

Oh! to be alive in this crazy world where dragons and leviathans reign behind clumsy mistakes inside my head

Making Art out of the unlikely things.

by MR. OMAR KING (he/him)