The Art Wall

Flash fiction

Photo by Bernard Hermant on Unsplash

I’m not nosy. I just notice things.

Like how that little girl’s bike had remained in the same spot—off the side of the driveway near the tree line, no kickstand, no nothing keeping it upright. It’d been there for three weeks. Bouts of heavy rain kicked up all sorts of mud, covering the pink and purple unicorns in big splotches. Looked like the bicycle was sinking into the earth itself. Guess this is true for all of us sooner or later.

I always enjoyed driving up to that home on Beckerman Hill because it felt happy there. (Not to mention the killer view on the way down, too.) Kids’ toys were always in the yard, little painted birdhouses nailed on trees everywhere. A tire swing out back.

The old mutt who lives there—sweet dog must be going on fourteen or fifteen by now—always comes out to greet me, even if it pains him.

But what always catches my eye above everything else is the art wall in the entryway of the home.

Look, I don’t snoop, don’t poke around anyone’s business. Nothing like that. I deliver the mail and get the hell out. But for the life of me, I can’t help but notice the kids’ artwork on that wall.

I walk up to the porch, say hi to my buddy, and scan the Maldonado family’s packages. That’s when I take a quick glimpse through the window. The art’s always changing. It’s hung up on these strings going from one end of the wall to the other, clothespins keeping the individual pieces in place. Week to week, sometimes day to day that stuff’s rotating. Little sunset paintings and sketches of monsters with seven eyes transform into tall seaside castles or beluga whales. You name it.

When you reach fifty-three years old, you start running out of surprises. You take what you can get, right? Seeing the artwork is always enough to brighten my day.

Something about the relentless rain and that upturned bike soaking in the muddy lawn bothered me. And when the art wall had the same exact lineup for those three weeks straight, my suspicion grew.

Around that time, lots of medical bills started rolling in for the Maldonados. Not as many Amazon packages and whatever the hell else they were always ordering. I’d drop their letters in their mailbox and continue on my way, four-way lights forever blinking. But I couldn’t get that family out of my mind.

A couple of weeks later, the Maldonados have a package in the mail. My stomach turns upside down as I climb up their gravel driveway. My palms sweat.

I put the truck in park and hop out with their mail and package in hand. The bike’s nowhere in sight, and neither’s the dog. I scan the box, set it by the door, and take a quick peek inside. There’s a new lineup. “Mommy and Me” and “I love you, Mommy” written all over the place, hearts and rainbows. Butterflies. “You’re the strongest person I know” misspelled. Flowers. And then I see it: a kindergarten drawing of two bald kids, a bald dad, and a bald mom.

I turn away, cough into my sleeve, and hop back into the truck. Stones kick up behind my vehicle as I forget to take in the view.

Spring and summer come and go; fall does, too. And winter’s a bitch, especially when they can’t find a replacement for Rob. I’m working thirteen out of every fourteen days.

When I drive up to the Maldonado residence before Christmas, there are no lights. There used to be. Snow’s everywhere, but there aren’t any footprints or sleds in sight. I can’t help but feel a sense of dread as I approach their front door. The art wall hasn’t changed. Still the same butterflies and messages.

I feel foolish slipping my Happy Holidays card under their package, but I do it anyway, and then leave.

Spring arrives—a warm and sunny one. I dress in layers but end up in short sleeves by noon most days.

The Maldonados have a sudden flurry of deliveries one day. Instead of stopping at their mailbox, I speed up their driveway—butterflies already setting in.

But then I see the dog. He’s lying out on a poofy bed on the porch, soaking up the sun. I can’t help but smile at the sight of him. There are some baseball mitts lying around in the yard, too, and an old-school pogo stick. I stack the boxes in my arms and head toward the dog.

“You’re still around, buddy?” I say to him. I set the packages down and scratch him behind the ears. “Yeah, me too.”

Then I can’t help but look through the window.

There is new artwork everywhere. Paintings, drawings, cardboard cutouts. All of it has a similar feature.

Hair—full heads of hair on mom, dad, and the kids. There’s so much goddamn hair everywhere it’s enough to bring me to tears. Even Rapunzel makes an appearance from her tower—at least I think it’s her. Perhaps the mother has taken her place this go around.

“She beat it, huh?” I say to the mutt. He tilts his head, and I wipe my eyes. I sit beside him and scratch a while longer—bring him a treat from the truck before I leave.

“See you tomorrow?” I ask, though I’m fairly confident I will.

I put the truck into drive and begin my descent. The budding trees that surround me—the rolling green hills in the distance—have never looked more beautiful.

The sun pokes a hole through a lone cloud, and the wind carries its warmth through me.

Thank you so much for reading “The Art Wall” today. If you enjoyed this story, please consider liking it or sharing it with a fellow reader.

Special thanks to

Marc Typo

for providing the original inspiration for this story in one of his recent letters to his 9-month-old son, Myles. (Marc shared a picture of his son’s first art project.)

Before I share our next Fifties by the Fire prompt, I must shout out two more individuals.

The first is

John Lightle

. For anyone who reads or contributes to Fifties by the Fire, you’re more than familiar with John’s photography. John recently began his own Substack,

John’s Substack

, which offers readers insight into the current art scene. Please check out his work and consider subscribing!

The second is

Meg Oolders

, the wise and witty author of

Stock Fiction

. Recently, Meg had me on her fiction podcast, and we had a blast chatting about our newsletters, taking leaps, and other writing-related topics. Please consider listening to the podcast here.

Let’s get together this Friday, April 5th, and share some fifty-word stories! As usual, the thread will go live at 3:00 PM EST. Hope to see you there.

Prompt: Write a fifty-word story (fiction, CNF, poetry) that incorporates a musician, an instrument, or both.

Happy writing! Have a wonderful week.

“The Sound Coming from the Cellar” by John Lightle