Artist's Rendition

A well-to-do woman visits her local amusement park, finding she has little interest in anything other than an unassuming portrait artist; but the artist makes things more lifelike than she expects.

Free Horizons, the local theme park by Alice’s home, was, in reality, hardly free; a single-day ticket would put a sizable hole in the pockets of most visitors. Alice, however, didn’t notice, for her purchase of an annual pass had hardly made a dent in her funds. She had purchased the ticket online, but had forgotten to redeem it until a month afterward, when she received an email from customer service reminding her to do so; it was only then that she decided to make a trip to the park.

As she drove along the perimeter of the park on Friday in search of a parking lot, she noted the height of the roller coasters, the chaotic nature of the thrill rides. They all repelled her, and she wondered why she had bought a pass at all. She hoped there would be something for her as she pulled into the lot, but her thoughts were soon interrupted by a boom barrier.

“It’s eight for a regular parking spot,” the man in the booth said. He looked tired, as though he might fall asleep where he stood.

“Right.” Alice fished in her purse for a card and gave it to him. Someone in line behind her honked their horn.

“Enjoy your day,” he said, handing her card back. His face seemed to suggest that he wouldn’t be doing the same.

Alice quickly found a spot near the shuttles that led to the park. Used to cars with exceptional shocks, she found it difficult to adjust herself to the bumpiness of the shuttles and nearly dropped her purse out of the side. When the shuttle reached the entrance to the park, she already felt as though she had ridden a roller coaster. Her gait slightly unsteady, she walked up to the turnstile, scanned her pass, and entered the park.

She was greeted by a tile mural of either a sunrise or a sunset; she couldn’t tell. She had always been appreciative of art and its many interpretations, but found it now to be mildly frustrating. She noticed its accompanying plaque on an otherwise nondescript rock, which read:

The sunrise is often symbolic of new beginnings. We at Free Horizons believe that, while beginnings are essential to any aspect of life, so, too, are endings. The sunrise and sunset both work to balance our lives, and in this piece harmonize beautifully. We hope you enjoy your beginning and ending here at Free Horizons.

Alice looked up at the ambiguous mural, reaching out to touch it. It felt cold. She shook her head and moved away, venturing deeper into the park.

She passed by many different attractions, hearing the screams from the roller coasters, the laughter from the spinning teacups. She also couldn’t help but notice that everyone appeared to be in a group; no one was alone, save for her. A tad embarrassed, she moved rigidly through the crowd until a voice caught her attention.

“Portraits,” it called. “Come and get your portrait drawn for an affordable price.”

Alice found herself drawn to the humble stand from which the voice came. She sat herself down across from the artist, waiting for her to say something. The artist’s hair ran down in lavender curls around her face, ending a little beyond her angular shoulders, but her face was what held Alice’s attention. Her skin was drawn across the contours of her skull like putty, but her eyes seemed compassionate, almost piercing, as though she understood everything about those she saw with just a look, even beyond the physical aspects a portraitist might be concerned with.

“Hello,” the artist said after a moment. Her mouth was almost imperceptibly curled upward, even as she spoke.

“Hi,” Alice said. “I understand you draw portraits.”

“Yes,” the artist said. She lifted her hand up gently, a pencil with intricate markings resting between her fingers like a cigarette. “Do you wish to be drawn?”

Alice considered herself to be decently photogenic, but she couldn’t help but wonder how her features would translate through an artist’s careful hand. “Yes, I do.”

“Excellent,” the artist said. “Your name?”

“Alice.”

“I see. That will be thirty dollars, please.”

Alice handed the artist the bills, and she took them in hand, displaying a forearm adorned with many bracelets. Curious, Alice eyed them, but saw nothing that held any inherent value.

“Now, I’ll need you to sit still,” the artist said.

“What’s your name?”

She blinked. “My name is not important, Alice. What is important, however, is you.” She took a pencil to the paper and smiled. “This is all about you.”

Alice was slightly unnerved by her comments, but she dismissed them as an eccentric artist’s enthusiasm. She settled into the chair, aware that she would be there for a while, and the artist began to draw her.

Families passed by the stall, some glancing at the pair as they sat, the artist pencilling in the details of her client’s face. A child let go of a star-shaped balloon and began to cry out. Alice thought that she would’ve preferred more privacy and less noise, but the artist didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she appeared to be perfectly serene, almost dreamlike; her lips continued to have that slight upward curl as she drew.

“I’m almost done,” she said, pulling the pencil away from the paper. “Do you live far, Alice?”

“Somewhat.”

“Ah,” the artist said. She shaded in a small spot on the portrait. “What brings you to… Free Horizons?”

“My friend used to go here all the time,” Alice said. “I’ve never been, but I thought it might be nice.”

“I see.” A small jab at the paper, as though frustrated with something. “You don’t seem like you’re much for theme parks, I must say.”

Alice shrugged. “I don’t suppose I am, really.”

“Well, I don’t suppose we have much to offer you.”

“I’m excited to see this portrait.”

The artist paused, then smiled and continued working. “I am, too.”

After a few finishing touches, the artist put her pencil aside and tilted her head, frowning for what Alice thought was the first time during their encounter.

“Is something wrong?” Alice said.

“No, no, not at all,” the artist said. She stuck her hands around the canvas and flipped over the cloth that was hanging over the back.

Alice got up and tried to get a look at the portrait, but found that the cloth totally concealed it. “Are you going to show me?”

The artist’s face looked pained, drawing her skin even further along her skull. “I’m afraid that’s not a request I can entertain,” she said. “I’m terribly sorry.”

Alice’s eyes widened. “You’re telling me I can’t even look at the portrait I paid for?”

The artist leaned over to take the thirty dollars from the lockbox beside her and offered it to Alice weakly. “I’ll give you a full refund.”

“And how are you gonna repay me for the time I just spent sitting here?”

The artist hesitated. “A free return ticket?”

“I have an annual pass already, and I’m not sure I want to come back to begin with.”

“Of course,” she said, looking as though she wanted to disappear. Alice cursed under her breath, then went for the cloth covering her portrait.

“Don’t do that,” the artist said, putting her hands on the cloth to hold it in place. Alice tried to lift it, but could only reveal a corner. Her shoulder, she couldn’t help but think, looked terribly realistic.

The artist glared at her. Alice returned the look, but soon became aware of a strange sound. It was as though someone were trying to speak through the cloth. She felt something light on her arm, like a breath, and she jerked her hand away, letting go of the cloth.

“Get out of here,” the artist said.

“The wind,” Alice said. “It must have been the wind.”

“Get out.”

Alice stepped back from the artist, from the little stand. People had been watching them; one stopped to ask the artist if she was okay, but she simply took up the canvas and walked away. Alice went in a different direction, toward the park gates. She bumped into a few people along the way, and chose to walk the distance to the lot instead of taking a shuttle. As she reached into her purse for her car keys, she remembered she didn’t take her money back from the artist. Cursing, she unlocked her car and drove home.

A few weeks passed, and Alice was beginning to forget about Free Horizons. Unsettled and annoyed by her encounter with the artist, she resolved never to return to the park. But something kept her from discarding her annual pass. She had a vague feeling that she wasn’t done with the park.

The thought made her shiver as she rested in her easy chair by the fire. She had just gotten home from the office, and was busy ignoring the television as the local newscaster droned on about something she couldn’t care less about. His voice was soon interrupted by the doorbell ringing, and she got up to answer it.

Upon opening it, she immediately regretted her lack of a peephole. A young man, sporting a Free Horizons souvenir t-shirt and an atrocious amount of hair gel, was on her doorstep.

“Can I help you?” Alice said, prepared to deny him whatever he wanted. She glanced at his shirt and grimaced. She was trying to forget about Free Horizons, and now there was a walking billboard at her front door to remind her.

“I was sent here,” he said. “By you.”

“What?”

“You told me to come here.”

“I don’t know you,” Alice said. “I’ve never met you.”

“Really? You don’t remember me?” He pointed to his shirt, once again drawing her attention to it. “It’s Westley. From Free Horizons, remember?”

“No, I really don’t,” she said. “I haven’t been there in almost a month.”

He seemed hurt, then confused. “Are you sure? I was there yesterday.”

Alice made a face. “I’m completely sure.”

“I see,” he said. He looked totally deflated. “So you don’t remember any of our conversation?”

“I can’t remember what never happened.”

Westley took a deep breath, looked at her pleadingly for a final time, then walked off. Alice didn’t feel as bad as she felt bewildered. She closed the door and locked it, then went back to her easy chair.

Throughout the rest of the week, Alice received similar visits from a disconcerting amount of people. She also received a number of texts, calls and emails from total strangers, all mentioning Free Horizons. She learned that she supposedly had made a number of commitments that she failed to follow up on, and found a couple of charges on her credit card bill that she hadn’t made. Upon receiving a sizable package full of old jazz records, she finally decided to make a trip back to Free Horizons to investigate; she hated jazz.

The shuttles weren’t in service on the Wednesday that she chose to return, and a couple of roller coasters had apparently broken down. A landscaping crew was attempting to tend to a gnarled tree that had overtaken one of the kiddie rides from over the park fence. As she passed the crew on her way to the entrance, listening to the droning sound of their crosscut saws, she felt a vague desire to run. Something seemed off. But she continued on, knowing she had to stop whatever was happening here.

She scanned her pass, walked past the mural, and, feeling as though the portraitist had something to do with all this, retraced the path she took during her first visit. However, she didn’t find the stand; instead, she found herself.

Alice - or, rather, her counterpart - was talking to a group of children a short distance away. Alice was unable to hear what they were saying, so she stepped forward to get within earshot. She focused her eyes on her counterpart and found that there was a haziness about her that wasn’t there a moment before, as though she was on an old television. Aside from that, she had all of her features; it was like looking at a mirror, except that her outfit was the one she had worn on the day she got her portrait drawn.

After a moment, she realized her counterpart’s haziness was less like that of an old television and more like a lifelike painting being gradually reverted to a sketch. Her movements were as lifelike as a human’s, but she still looked like a pencil drawing, more and more as she came closer. Alice had been right. The artist must have been behind this.

Finally, she was able to hear their conversation.

“Do you like Free Horizons, Alice?” one child said.

“I’m not much for this place, I admit.”

“Why are you here, then?” another child said.

“Oh, I’m waiting for someone.”

The group of kids wished her luck and scampered off, talking amongst themselves as they went. Alice’s alternate self waved softly to them, pencil lines moving fluidly, then turned to face her; it was as though she had known of her presence the whole time.

Her counterpart spoke first. “Hello, Alice. I’m glad you came - I was hoping I had annoyed you enough.”

Alice squinted. “What are you?”

She laughed, her movements looking like a flip book. “I’m more interested in you, Alice. What you are, who you are. After all, everything that you are, I am.”

Alice’s hands curled into fists. “That can’t be. You’re just a drawing.”

“Oh, you may see it that way,” she said. “But I see it differently. And so does everyone else.”

Looking furious, Alice tried to grab a couple people’s attention, but her counterpart put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re making a scene, Alice. They’re just trying to enjoy a day at the amusement park.” She smiled. “You wouldn’t want to ruin that, would you?”

She backed away from the drawing, escaping from her touch. Her hand subconsciously went to her shoulder, but something felt off. When she looked, she realized her shoulder had been turned to graphite. She gasped, and looked at her counterpart; her hand had become realistic. Their eyes met, and her counterpart smiled devilishly. “Oops,” she said. “I suppose you know why I needed you here, now.”

Alice froze due to fear, unable to register what was happening. Her counterpart reached forward, her hand as realistic as any. Alice’s eyes locked onto the hand, and she began to back away as the hand reached forward and grabbed her wrist. She started to lose feeling in her wrist, and her skin turned blank as color traveled up her counterpart’s arm. She tried to wrench her arm away, afraid of touching her with her other hand. Her counterpart’s smile turned to a grimace as she continued to latch on; her shoulder had become real by the time Alice freed herself.

Alice stepped back as her counterpart fell forward onto the ground. She was about to run when she realized that her counterpart had dropped something out of her other hand; the pencil that the artist had used to make her, its markings glowing a deep blue.

Immediately, her counterpart tried to reach for the pencil, eyes wild with apprehension. Alice went for it, her remaining hand grasping it just as her counterpart latched onto her wrist with her realistic hand.

“Give that back,” she said. She seemed desperate. Alice took her pencilled hand and tried to snap it in two, but it felt tough. Her arms were losing more and more feeling as her counterpart began to look more like a real human. She couldn’t feel the pencil anymore, but she heard it begin to snap. The wood was splintering, and the blue glow was beginning to waver.

“Let go,” her counterpart said, straining as she continued to grow more realistic. Alice’s body was becoming numb. She had to believe that the pencil was about to break.

Finally, her counterpart brought her other hand forward and grabbed for the pencil, trying to take it away from her. Alice shrieked as her body began to turn to graphite in full.

One final pull, and her counterpart disappeared, swirling away in a cloud of graphite.

 

Days later, on Saturday, Alice was at the kitchen table looking over the local newspaper from the day before, something she never did. Her friend who liked Free Horizons had told her that there was a small story about a woman lying on the ground at the park, shouting and disturbing the other guests. When she found it, she sighed wearily. The accompanying picture was, quite clearly, her.

She looked at her left hand, closing it slowly. It felt quite real, fleshy. It felt comfortable. She grinned. She supposed no one had to know what had actually happened that day, even if it looked strange.

The doorbell rang, and she looked over to the door. Hoping it was no one from Free Horizons, she walked over and opened it.

“Package for Ms. Alice Fuller,” said a young man wearing a brown shirt and visor.

“Package?” she said. “I haven’t ordered anything.”

“Well, do you know anyone near here with that name?”

Alice pursed her lips. “That would be me.”

“Then I need you to sign for it.” He offered her a clipboard with a sheet of paper on it.

Alice took the clipboard, but found that there was no pen. “Mind if I sign in pencil?”

“Go ahead.”

Alice brought out a pencil from behind her ear. She was in the middle of signing when the delivery man looked over.

“That’s a cool pencil you have there,” he said.

She paused.

“I like how it glows.”

She finished signing and smiled. “I do, too.”

He frowned. “Looks like it’s seen better days, though.”

“Yeah. I’m just glad it’s not broken.”

Alice closed the door as the man walked away. She took the package to the table and set it down beside the newspaper. Inside was another jazz record, and a note.

Sorry for missing this one, it read. I suppose there were so many that you might not have noticed. Anyway, here it is. Thanks again, and enjoy.

Alice took the record and sat down to examine it. New Orleans Suite by Duke Ellington. She hadn’t heard of it, but she thought she’d have to give it a listen; she was becoming quite fond of jazz.

Author's Note

Don't be afraid to offer criticism, but also tell me what you liked!

Reviews

[Vic]

This was a gripping read. Your synopsis caught my attention and I couldn't stop until it was done. The only thing that immediately comes to mind in terms of criticism is "Days later, on Saturday," You can probably either say days later or that Saturday instead of both.