Face

“They say he only did the one painting?” asked Josie, peering quizzically at the canvas which contained nothing but a blank face.

“Yes,” replied her friend. “Just the one, a self-portrait.”

“Where’s his face then? It’s not much of a SELF portrait, is it, Amy?”

“Apparently he wanted to reflect the sense of emptiness he felt.”

“It’s stupid,” said Josie, yawning. ”Shall we get something to eat? I’m starving, and bored of all this modern crap.”

“It’s because you don’t understand it.”

“What’s to understand? This is a faceless head. How’s that worth millions of pounds?”

Her friend chuckled. “You don’t know the story behind the canvas. Apparently the artist’s soul is trapped in there, waiting to be freed.”

“Meh,” scoffed Josie. “What a load of bull.” She turned to leave when something caught her attention, a slight movement on the canvas. Curious, she leaned forward, and then saw it: two faint, intelligent eyes looking at her.

“Amy,” she called. “Do you see this?”

Amy approached. “What?”

“There,” pointed Josie. “The eyes.”

“I can’t see anything.”

“There!” said Josie with frustration, reaching out and touching the canvas. In an instant the world spun, and she felt herself drawn irresistibly into the canvas, falling, as if into a whirlpool, until she was inside the portrait, looking out. She could see Amy standing, and herself, pointing at the picture.

At least, it looked like her …

There was something about the eyes.