First published in MicroHorror (2008)
Jason slammed his palette to the floor. He prided himself on his ability to become his subjects, to feel what they felt, know what they knew, suffer what they suffered. That was the magical touch that made the people in his paintings stand out. But this time...
“Eight months, and I still can’t get it right.”
Disgusted, he walked onto the balcony of his seventh-story loft, put a choke-hold on the metal railing and wondered if he’d ever paint again.
Am I my father, after all? The result of a generation less tolerant than today? Is that why I can’t paint the face of a black man? Or is it a myth that my generation is more accepting?
Jason screamed to cover the voice trying to provide him with answers, and shook the railing, the force of his movements increasing with the volume of his protest. He never noticed the widening arc of the railing. Never heard the screws pull from the brick. Never felt his feet leave the tiled floor.