Carlos Fentanes

I know it seems odd, as if taken from an episode of The Twilight Zone, but I assure you this was real. It began in the quiet solitude of my studio, where I was immersed in the creation of a life-sized charcoal drawing. My focus was razor-sharp, the deadline looming large. I couldn’t afford distractions. But then, a voice broke through the silence.

“Can you draw me a fish?”

I froze, charcoal in hand, my eyes darting around the room. There was no one there.

“What? Who are you?” I demanded, startled and unnerved.

“It’s me. Can you draw me a fish, please?”

The voice was gentle, almost familiar, yet disconcertingly out of place—like something from a dream, or a story. It reminded me of The Little Prince, that strange blend of innocence and insistence. I shook my head, trying to dismiss it. I had no time for such nonsense.

But the next day, as I resumed my work, the voice returned.

“Can you draw me a fish, please?”

I sighed, annoyed. “It’s you again?”

“Can you draw me a fish, please?”

Why a fish? What was this voice trying to tell me? My irritation grew. “I don’t do commissions. Go away.”

“It’s not a commission. It’s important.”

“Don’t you see I’m busy?”

“No, you’re not. You have plenty of time to draw one or two fishes.”

Despite myself, I was intrigued. Why a fish? I began to search for photo references, recalling a trip to Japan and the koi fish I’d seen in a temple pond. I found a few photos that could serve as inspiration, but I pushed them aside, determined to focus on my charcoal piece.

A week passed without incident. The voice had been silent, and I was making progress on my drawing. But just as I began to relax, it returned.

“I saw that you haven’t started my fish drawing. What are you waiting for?”

I jumped, heart racing. “Oh, it’s you. I’m sorry—I’m busy trying to finish this drawing.”

“Can you draw me a fish?”

“I don’t even know how to start! And why do you want a fish, anyway?”

“Because it’s important. Look, you already have paper and crayons. Draw my fish.”

“No, no, no! This paper is for my work—a very important piece for an Art Prize. I’m out of time!”

“Actually, I want you to use that paper to draw my fish. Start here, then add another one here, and one more on this side.”

The voice was calm, insistent, and as I followed its directions, something strange began to happen. My drawing—the one I had poured my soul into—started to shift, to transform. The charcoal lines twisted and reformed into shapes I hadn’t intended, hadn’t even thought of. Fish. They appeared on the paper, delicate and ethereal, as if the voice was guiding my hand.

And then, with a suddenness that took my breath away, the room around me dissolved. I was no longer in my studio. I was somewhere else—somewhere beyond the realm of the familiar, where the boundaries of reality were fluid, and the rules of time and space no longer applied.

I was in the flow.

For the next couple of months, all my work flowed like water in a river. No more worries about deadlines or acceptance, just pure, unadulterated joy. Once I finished the drawing, the voice stopped. No more persistent commands, no more invisible presence. I was alone again in my studio.

What was that voice, and why was it so important to obey its command? Perhaps I will never know. But those couple of months in the flow—they were worth it.