Filmmaking by B.R. Yeager
It was five years and two weeks when we filmed. She was the dead woman and I played her husband. I tip the Ziplock and drizzle a shotgun-red halo around her forehead’s perimeter and only a little makes it into her hair. She slipped—cracked her head on the hardwood, the bottom of her boots caked with ice and slick. (What we already shot). The aperture shifts and it’s behind my shoulders and I mock tears over her body. Later, I’ll make her spirit rise with opacity adjustments and overlays. She will move through her kitchen (my parent’s, really) and hesitate over a picture of her and her husband (a photo of us—the real us— from a year before, holding half-sour pickles at the Brimfield Flea Market). She will walk through the house and through plate glass into snow (freshly fallen—not in the storyboard but it works). She will walk through the snow and lie between two maples, holding in a quiet place— all quiet and grey. She will lie and close her eyes and fade and drift apart from This Place and be gone and be quiet and grey. Everything preserved I see, in milky BBC hi-def. Everything more or less how I imagined. The dead woman laughs and I wash strings of blood from her hair. We kiss and eat leftover mashed potatoes and stuffing. We depart the house she died in and drive back to our apartment, studded tires gripping iced concrete.
B.R. Yeager lives in Western Massachusetts with messed up teeth and a shitty disposition. His work has appeared in FreezeRay Poetry, Mixtape Methodology, and is forthcoming from Cheap Pop, Pidgeonholes and Cartridge Lit. http://bryyeager.wordpress.com Accompanying photo by Porsche Brosseau