“Do Not Be Afraid” – An Otherworldly Flash Fiction Story

As he stood within the trees, watching the road snaking up the hill and savoring the tart scent of the pines, a glint of light caught his eye. Looking up, he saw an object in the eastern sky.

The object hovered in the air like a silent helicopter, floating near the ridge a thousand yards away. He strained his ears and heard a slight hum. The woods were quiet with no other sounds, only the faint humming sound.

Now, he saw the vehicle clearly with clean, well-defined lines, glinting in the twilight like burnished metal. He was unable to discern any seams in the object.

There was the light. The netherworld of dusk, presaging nightfall, began to engulf the mountain. The object remained bright, a self-contained amazing slightly pulsating source of glowing light.

The craft’s movements reminded him of a leaf falling, catching updrafts as it fell. Then it settled onto the surface. The man watched as three small beings came around from the far side of the vehicle and moved to the clearing’s edge. He strained his eyes to see the creatures silhouetted against the craft; they were small, humanoid, and moved strangely with a gliding motion.

Two more beings appeared and joined in the exploration of the area outside of the craft.

Suddenly, the craft shook. First, the left side dipped a little, about three feet, as far as the man could tell; the right side soon caught up. As the quicksand took hold, the craft began to sink into the ground. Despite himself, the man chortled.

The occupants glided toward the other side of the sinking craft, disappearing.

Suddenly, the disc began to glow brilliantly, becoming more and more intense as the craft shuddered. It lifted slightly.

The light dimmed. The vehicle settled back into the bog.

Again the light glowed, becoming brighter than it had before and the ship began to vibrate, shaking the earth around it. With a plop, the craft freed itself from the bog and hovered two hundred feet in the air.

The man didn’t hear the sound; he was too busy laughing. He continued to laugh, laughing so hard his sides hurt. Tears streamed down his face.

He continued to laugh, closing his eyes, bending over, and holding his sides. He paused and opened his eyes but the craft wasn’t in view. He looked around to find it had moved to the north, about three hundred feet from him.

Apprehension rose.

I’m scared.”

He turned in the direction of the path leading him to the safety of his house. He started to run but was unable to move.

“My legs are wooden, dead.

No matter how hard he tried; his legs wouldn’t operate.

Fear turned to terror as he heard a voice inside his head.

“DO NOT BE AFRAID!”

The End

Thank you for reading

I Miss Looking For My “PLUCK” – It’s Making Me “Feel So Lonesome I Could Cry

A Personal Note

My wife and I just finished binging the ten-episode Public Broadcasting System (PBS) series Country Music by Ken Burns which chronicles country music from the beginnings through the early 2000s.

It is really a fascinating 20 hour long series. While watching something resonated inside me. It reminded me that earlier in my life I had been looking for my “PLUCK” and still haven’t found it. Most importantly and sadly, I have given up looking for it.

First, let me mention my definition of “PLUCK.”

It’s when you listen to a piece of music, read a poem, read a passage from a book, watch a painting, see a memorable scene on television or a movie and something PLUCKS that core within, like a guitar string inside you that seems to connect your soul to your spinal cord, heart, gut, your nerves, your blood vessels — all at the same time. As that inner guitar string vibrates from the pluck, your mind — your soul — moves to a transcendent space — pure emotion, yet beyond emotion — this space in the world of spirit wells up within you — triggering something pure — melting the world inside you — around you — causing your soul and your insides to tremble — melting you so you either cry or wish you were crying — as that inner guitar string plucks — and the feeling vibrates — the pure emotion RULES!

And you know you just experienced something extraordinary and special.

I got reminded of the PLUCK when viewing that “Country Music” documentary series because, even though I have never been a music enthusiast, I did remember some songs which had evoked the PLUCK within me. One song, by Hank Williams. “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry,” has plucked me for years… plucks me every time I hear it … when Elvis sings it, it plucks me almost as much as hearing Hank Williams sing it … Small wonder to me the series dubbed its episode featuring Hank Williams as the “Hillbilly Shakespeare.”

The series pointed out songs by other artists which have also plucked me in the past.

When I heard those songs, I remembered that at one time, I felt there was a PLUCK inside of me, and if I kept writing my fiction, maybe someday the PLUCK would emerge. Nothing spectacular — a passage, a scene, a phrase or a couple of phrases which, when read, might pluck something inside me and if I’m lucky, someone else.

After all, I think that’s what every writer wants to do. Yeah, some write to make money and that’s what I do sometimes even when I dabble in my fiction, but deep down, my goal is to find the PLUCK, capture it and then share it. If I can do that, then stuff money.

I am a technical writer who writes a specialized form of technical writing, but my heart leans toward admiration for the creative side. At times in my smallish fiction writing career, I have come close to writing stuff which I thought might develop into a PLUCK, but I have never achieved a PLUCK.

Since COVID limited my movements, I started accepting more technical writing gigs and disavowed my creative side until it feels like I don’t have the time or energy to pursue my fiction. It doesn’t hurt I am good at the technical writing in my little niche.

In these days of inflation, I hesitate to pull back on my technical writing gig and the six figures I finally earned last year (best year ever). But I must admit the yearning, the desire, the pull — to start once again working on my fiction in search of the elusive PLUCK is very, very strong.

One part of me wants to end up like the person in the country song, “Today, He Stopped Loving Her,” where the narrative goes: “Today, Ed Stopped Looking For His PLUCK.”

That would mean I had made the decision and acted upon it to cut back on my technical writing so I could once again start searching for the PLUCK with my fiction.

Do I have it in me to refuse financially comfortable (“paid”) technical writing assignments or not?

I frankly don’t know the answer but do know I am facing one of the constant deadlines always contained with my technical writing, so for today, it is back to the wonderful world of seeking Government contracts for my clients.

I honestly do NOT have the answer as to whether I will begin that search again.

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Dear reader, if you have made it this far, what about you?

Are you able to search for your own PLUCK?

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Thank you for reading.

And please, always,

Stay In The Light!

Ed

Hemingway Wins a Bet – The Shortest Story

The Shortest Story

One day Ernest Hemingway was having lunch with friends and they were talking about the importance of writing with brevity.

Hemingway bet everyone at the table ten dollars each that he could craft an entire story in six words.

After the pot was assembled, Hemingway took a napkin and wrote down the following six words:

“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

Everyone paid up without saying a word.

***

Thanks for reading. This is an old story worth repeating.

Recommended Reading (This is an affiliate link) Hemingway on Writing