Picture Frames (revised)

Realized that I put up the rough draft of this piece and not the final draft, which I consider to be five times better, at least. February 2012. Fiction.

Laying flat on my back, I run my hands across my smooth, soft new bed spread. Breathing in, I look around at my surrounding walls, covered in decorations new and old. The same posters and portraits are hung, as well as shelves of keepsakes. What differs my present walls from walls of the past are my picture frames. The walls of the past never stood around me long enough for my precious frames to find a place to rest on them. I have displayed frames of all different shapes, different sizes, each containing, preserving, shielding a different memory. My gaze rolls across my walls, pausing briefly to reminisce on each of my memories captured in my pictures protected by my picture frames. I am not admiring my pictures as much as I am my frames.

Some are decorative; some are simple. My frame by the door is chrome colored, with a black, plastic star on its upper left corner. I have another hung next to my closet; it’s a wooden landscape frame with a base coat of pink and multicolored splatters of paint. There is a ledge on my frame with little, purple wooden letters set upon it, spelling “friends” in whimsical cursive. My frame in the corner is large, even though it contains only a 5x7” photo. It’s made of metal sculpted into an elaborate pattern; I painted my frame black so that it would stand out from my walls and from my picture inside.

 I hung my frames in places where I knew they would draw attention. For example, above my bed and under my high window, I hung my purple frame collage. The bright purple and plethora of colors inside the multiple photos was enough to draw someone’s attention, but the way that the collage fit perfectly in the spot was more than enough to capture it. The sun was rising, and its beams penetrated my dimly lit new bedroom through my window. The light spread across my bonded frames at a 45 degree angle, hitting them all just directly enough to illuminate my pictures harbored inside. There was no glare on my frames, not in the slightest.

                Sitting up straight, I look to my desk, on which I have set a remote control. I stroll across my floor to retrieve it. Rolling my thumb down a row of buttons on my remote control, a different set of lamps, light strings, and chandeliers brighten my room with each press. In each area of my room, my frames are highlighted without flaw. Endless color. Pictures unscathed. No glare in sight. I sink into my cushy, green desk chair, sighing. My frames have at last settled comfortably into places of their own; I believe I have done the same.

Reviews

[LCFreiderici]

The story shows a strong sense of self. The word "my" is repeated over and over and there is something about the flow that rolls off the tongue nicely. After the journey of the frames, I would change "The sun was rising, " to the "The sun rises," so that we may be brought to the present and notice the flawless arrangement of the whole.

[Eagle Cruagh]

To some this would be just a room, but
to you it is home, showing great pride and '
nostalgia, the Frames of your memories.
A beautiful story/poem. '
A place to renew your feelings .
----- John