"Here," the tall man said, swinging the leather chair around. "It is May, 2023. You have exactly three months to create a perfect life-like portrait of me. But it cannot be a replicate image of any of these, and you may not leave any signature or mark that identifies the painting as yours."
The artist, a fellow of 27 years named James Howard, slowly raised his sharp eyes to the room. Countless pictures of the tall man were strung from the ceiling, the walls, pasted on the floors. James took in a slight breath.
"Failure to complete this task will result in your family being killed right in front of your eyes."
James jumped out of the chair and lunged at the tall man, who side-stepped and pushed James into the wall.
"I suggest you do not do that. Time is always ticking." The tall man laughed, tapping his wrist, tipping his chin back, eyes rolling slightly up, flash of pale yellow.
James rolled his lip up angrily, finding himself staring into a printed picture of the tall man, long jaw, sharp nose, thin lips. Everything about him was thin. Thin skin, thin eyebrows, thin ears. When he turned back around, the tall man was walking out of a silver, barred door.
"WHY?!" James bellowed, "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS!? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?!"
The tall man shrugged without turning around, wiggling his fingers in a peculiar way. "Three months." The door slammed.
James' head hurt. He pressed his fingers to his foggy skull, closed his eyes.
With a running start, he rammed his shoulder into the door. "LET ME OUT!" he yelled, pushing against the bar, which didn't budge a bit.
"Better start on your task," A voice boomed. James figured there must be a hidden speaker in the room. His head raced with doubt and fear.
"YOU'RE A LUNATIC!" James screamed at the ceiling. Turning to the left, he observed an easel, countless paints, brushes, canvases, paper, water, sponges, and napkins. Strange, thought James, that all the supplies were of high expense and quality.
The weight of his task overwhelmed him, but the fear for his family and the longing to be with them overtook all impossibilities.
He began to study the photos.
The man's left ear had a slightly larger lobe than the right, the man's nose was triangular, his eyebrows thin and curling.
The eyes, though, are what stunned James the most. They were a sickly yellow, deep-set, a line of black set before his eyelashes. The emotions they portrayed cannot possibly be expressed in a painting, thought James.
But he had to try.
James had no idea how much time had passed, but he knew his feet were beginning to hurt walking around the spacey room, he knew his neck was beginning to hurt, stretched at unnatural angles to observe the geometry and coloring of the photos.
He sat in the leather chair and his eyes blurred, but the bright lights bloomed in the back of his mind. Pressing his fingers to his temple, James thought he could see his wife, his two boys, and his newborn... a sweet little girl he and his wife had been blessed with.
Feeling inspired, James walked over to the easel and propped a blank canvas against it. He took a large brush in his hand and let the swirls flow through his fingertips.
He hummed a small tune, feeling peaceful, dabbing paint, mixing it, sponging it, filling the white on the canvas and entering a state of nonchalant productivity.
