Do Not Touch
by Paul Liadis

note: This was written as part of a flash fiction writing contest at the blog, The Clarity of Night, back in 2006. Here is a link to the original post. The idea was to write 250 words based on a provided prompt.

“Do not touch” were the words Mark and Elizabeth heard repeatedly regarding the painting that now hung illuminated in the hallway between their bedrooms. Much to Mark’s chagrin, the artwork had accompanied them to their new house.

Though Mark took great care to hide it in the back yard while they packed, his parents had somehow found the painting. Something about the picture made Mark feel uneasy, as though its composition was more than mere canvas and paint. One night in their previous house Mark was on his way to get a glass of water and was sure he heard a girl laugh inside the painting. He now runs past the painting, not willing to chance even a glance at it.

It was Elizabeth who made sure the painting hung in their new house, fishing it out of the bushes out back before they moved.

To a six year old like Elizabeth, “Do not touch” meant “Touch, but make sure Mom and Dad don’t see you.” The sight of Elizabeth mere inches from the painting, softly clutching Winnie the Pooh’s worn hand, startled Mark.

“Elizabeth, you know we’re not supposed to touch that,” Mark whispered forcefully as he approached his sister.

“It’s ok,” answered Elizabeth. “I touched it before.”

Mark ran toward his sister, hoping to stop her from touching the painting. Unfortunately, he was too late. All that remained of his sister was a lonely teddy bear and a giggle from inside the painting.

The Old Grey Wall
by Paul Liadis

note: This was written as part of a flash fiction writing contest at the blog, The Clarity of Night, back in 2007. Here is a link to the original post. The idea was to write 250 words based on a provided prompt.

For most men, their most fond childhood memory involves playing catch in the backyard with their dad, like the ending of The Natural. Mine’s a little different. Mine is of the old grey wall outside of the apartment Mom and I lived in when I was a boy. We had electricity most of the time, hot water occasionally, but the old grey wall was always there.

Mom used to come home late from work only to find me outside throwing the beat-up Rawlings baseball Grandpa gave me against the wall, imagining I was Ozzie Smith roaming the Busch Stadium infield. I was too small to make the baseball team, but on that gravel filled pavement I was an All Star. For years I was sure I held the record for most throws, 5,429, without a miss and if the Guinness Book of Records people ever happened to be in my neighborhood, I would be famous.

I still return from time to time to my home town to visit my mother, who now lives in a nice little Ranch not too far from the city. That dilapidated excuse of an apartment building burned down a few years ago but the old grey wall remains. I rarely miss the chance to visit my old friend, only now I bring my son with me and we stand in front of that old grey wall and have a catch together. Sometimes, I miss the ball on purpose, just to give my friend a turn.

Out of the Darkness
by Paul Liadis

note: This was written as part of a flash fiction writing contest at the blog, The Clarity of Night, back in 2007. Here is a link to the original post. The idea was to write 250 words based on a provided prompt.

Alistar wept, his tears tracing the curve of his sunken cheek. The sky had been a murky gray for ages, the sun and moon and stars, his onetime companions, having long ago taken their leave. His tears were tears of joy, for the light had returned to him, filling Alistar with hope for the first time in his life.

He had been bound to the tree facing this spot for months, possibly years, possibly his entire life. Alistar could not recall. The forest was all he knew, all he could remember. It was his world.

There were times Alistar felt himself on the verge of starvation, ready to give in to the hunger that gripped his being. Each time a mysterious man would appear out of the shadows, giving him something to eat and something to drink. Alistar had begged for mercy, hoping the man would release him from his entanglement or let him die, but the stranger would simply smile, wipe away Alistar’s tears, and slink back into the shadows. Despite this, Alistar felt no ill will towards the man.

And so it was, on the day that the day the sun peaked once more through the treetops, that the stranger unbound Alistar’s hands, wrapped a towel around his thin frame, and led him to the cottage beside the rippling stream. “You have endured,” spoke the stranger. “Now rest.”

It was on this day that Alistar began his journey to the throne, as the Great Book had said.

To Be The Hero Once More
by  Paul Liadis

note: This was written as part of a flash fiction writing contest at the blog, The Clarity of Night, back in 2007. Here is a link to the original post. The idea was to write 250 words based on a provided prompt.

I should’ve listened to my wife.

She had told me, begged me really, to sit this one out, to stay at home with her and the baby ,to not try to be the hero. She knew this about me. I always have to be the hero.

She told me I’m not a kid any more, that I have responsibilities now. “What if you got hurt”, she asked. We both knew we couldn’t afford for me to miss any time at work, but I assured her that I’d be fine, that there’s no way “Sweet Feet” was coming home injured. She rolled her eyes.

Sure they were all at least twelve years younger than I, and most of them faster and stronger. And sure, at the last minute they had decided we were going to play tackle rather than touch. I was going to be Quarterback; all of the glory without having to do much running or even get hit.

I’m not sure what came over me. Watched too many Steeler games? All those girls in the stands, cheering us on? It’s nice to know you still got it, right?

It was fourth down, we were at the goal-line, and the game was on the line. In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have dove, but it felt right at the time.

And so, I find myself staring at the beautiful Fall Pennsylvania sky, with a headache and possibly a few less teeth. Was it worth it? Depends. Did I get in?