Category: Short Stories

1980's, Childhood Memories, Fun And Games, Life, Short Stories

Lightning Bugs

It was on the evening of June 5, 2026.

I’m writing the date down because it’s one of those moments I don’t want to forget.

I’d spent the entire day working in the yard, doing everything possible to make it look respectable for another week. The truth is, no matter how much you mow, edge, trim, or pull weeds, nature always wins. At best, you earn yourself three or four days before the battle begins again.

As twilight settled over the neighborhood, I pushed my green John Deere mower back into its usual spot in the garage. Grass clippings that had clung stubbornly to the underside all afternoon now dropped onto the concrete floor in soft green clumps.

Normally, I would have swept them up, but not tonight. I was tired, sore, and in no mood for one more chore. The clippings could wait until morning.

Despite the exhaustion, there was a deep satisfaction that came from the day’s labor. The scent of cut grass, gasoline, and sweat lingered in the warm air—a mixture that always smelled like accomplishment.

I went inside, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, and stepped onto the patio to admire my handiwork.

The first swallow washed away some of the day’s fatigue. Tomorrow would bring sore muscles and a touch too much sun, but that was tomorrow’s problem. For now, all I wanted was a quiet evening, a warm breeze, and the simple pleasure of sitting still.

That’s when I saw them.

The first lightning bugs of the year.

Some people call them fireflies. Entomologists might know them by their scientific names. Around here, though, they’ve always been lightning bugs.

And in my opinion, they’re the most magical insect on Earth.

There are certain things that announce the changing of the seasons. Falling leaves tell us autumn has arrived. The first snowfall whispers that winter is coming. Crocuses pushing through the soil remind us that spring has returned.

But lightning bugs are different.

The first one of the year feels less like a sign and more like a reunion.

Like seeing an old childhood friend after months of being apart. 

A friend arriving with the wonderful news: Summer is finally here.

Long before I became familiar with lawn mowers and property taxes, my summer evenings were spent chasing these tiny lanterns through the dark.

Nothing compared to those summer nights as a child.

We’d spend all day swimming, riding bikes, and running through the neighborhood with our friends. Then, as dusk settled in and the air cooled, we’d race across our backyards to see who could catch the most lightning bugs.

Even now, I can still picture it. Me running barefoot through the grass in a pair of shorts and a tank top. Chlorine drying on my skin after a day at the pool. Honeysuckle drifting through the evening air.

School was still months away, and the first yellow bus of autumn existed somewhere in a distant future that didn’t matter yet.

The world felt endless. The possibilities felt endless. It was freedom in its purest form.

There was always a sense of wonder after catching one.

You’d slowly open your cupped hands and watch the tiny creature blink inside the darkness. Then it would crawl up the tip of your finger, pause for a moment as if gathering itself, and suddenly spread its wings and disappear back into the night.

Sometimes my friends and I would poke air holes into an empty mayonnaise jar and fill the bottom with fresh grass. One by one, we’d place our glowing treasures inside until the jar shimmered like a tiny lantern.

We’d carry it proudly through the yard as if we were explorers setting out on some great adventure.

Of course, we never kept them long. Once they grew sluggish from captivity, we’d unscrew the lid and release them back into the summer darkness, where they belonged.

But the best part of all came during what I called the magic hour. Usually around nine o’clock.

The sky would be nearly black by then, and the yard would erupt into a dazzling storm of flashing lights. Hundreds of tiny beacons drifted through the darkness, blinking in silent rhythm.

And then you’d spot him.

Granddaddy.

At least that’s what I called him.

He always seemed brighter than the others. Bigger, too.

Granddaddy was the undisputed king of lightning bugs, and catching him was nearly impossible.

Every time you got close, he’d rise just out of reach.

If you stretched your arm higher, he’d drift a little farther upward.

If you crept toward him quietly, he’d somehow know.

Looking back, I’m convinced he understood exactly how tall his pursuers were.

“This kid is four-foot-eight,” he seemed to say. “I’d better hover at six-foot-five.”

But on those rare occasions when someone actually managed to catch Granddaddy, there was no question who had won the evening.

For a few glorious minutes, they were the champion of summer.

Back in 2026, I finished my beer and looked across the yard. The flashes were multiplying now.

Dozens. Then hundreds. The same living constellation I remembered from childhood.

For a moment, fifty years disappeared.

I wasn’t thinking about work. I wasn’t thinking about mowing the lawn. I wasn’t thinking about responsibilities, bills, deadlines, or anything else adulthood had placed on my shoulders.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him.

Granddaddy.

Hovering just above my head.

Without thinking, I stood and reached for him. He responded exactly as I remembered.

The moment my hand moved, he rose higher into the air, stopping just beyond my grasp.

Some things, apparently, never change.

I sat back down and laughed.

The lightning bugs continued their dance across the yard while memories of those carefree summer nights drifted through my mind.

And I found myself wondering how anyone could choose to spend an evening staring at a television or a phone screen during a time like this.

Especially when there is so much magic waiting in our own backyards.

© 2026 James E. Wood

Books, Entertainment, Life, Short Stories

Not Ready

What follows is a new short story. Would love to hear your comments.

Not Ready

It was a dark, overcast afternoon in mid-July when I pulled into the small parking lot.

Much like my mood, the sky had been sulking all morning. Heavy gray clouds hung low overhead, threatening rain for hours before finally giving in with scattered showers and distant rolls of thunder.

Another burst had just passed as I shifted into park and killed the engine.

For a moment, I sat there in silence, watching the last thin streams of water slide down the windshield. Tiny rivulets merged together, slipping past the resting wiper blades.

I watched them disappear into the growing puddles below and wondered what it might be like to simply let go.

I glanced up at the sign mounted on the building’s façade.

Yes. This was the place.

The structure sat on the far side of town, an anonymous block of concrete that looked like it might once have been a small warehouse. Most people would drive right past it without giving it a second thought. But I knew what it was. 

Or more accurately, I knew what waited inside.

That knowledge settled over me like a weight.

I had already promised myself I wasn’t buying anything today. I was only here to browse. Maybe ask a few questions. Maybe take a brochure home and leave it unopened on the kitchen counter for six months.

The truth is, I could have learned everything online in less than ten minutes, but that wasn’t the point. I needed to stand here. I needed to see it for myself.

Mostly, I needed proof that I could.

A large man stood outside the entrance smoking a cigarette. He looked to be in his mid-sixties, with weathered features and salt-and-pepper hair. A bright yellow construction vest hung loosely from his shoulders.

The rain didn’t seem to bother him.

He drew deeply from the cigarette and exhaled toward the sky, the smoke joining the dark clouds above.

Those things will kill you, I thought. 

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

A few moments later, a delivery driver approached carrying a long cardboard box. He handled it carefully, as though dropping it wasn’t an option.

The older man dropped his cigarette, crushed it beneath his boot, and held the door open for him.

The driver smiled.

The older man smiled back.

Then both disappeared inside.

Through the glass, I caught a glimpse of wooden stocks hanging on a wall before the door swung shut again.

I sat there for several minutes after that, replaying the simple exchange. 

It felt like I was stalling. Maybe I was.

My thoughts drifted to the cemetery a few blocks away.

My grandfather is buried there. It struck me that nearly forty years had passed since they lowered him into the ground.

I remembered the old .22 rifle he kept locked in the hall closet. He’d taught me how to handle it when I was twelve.

“Always respect what it can do,” he’d told me.

Back then, I thought he was talking about the rifle.

“Where does the time go?” I whispered aloud.

Rain tapped softly against the roof.

I thought about my grandfather resting nearby in a place where pain no longer touched him. A place where he could no longer speak, yet somehow always seemed capable of listening.

I remembered something I’d read years ago in high school—a story, maybe a poem. I couldn’t recall the details. Only the image of a smile slowly leaving someone’s eyes. 

The memory brushed against me like a cold hand. My heart skipped.

Outside, the rain began falling harder. 

I looked up at the sign again through the distorted curtain of water. 

The answer came immediately. Not today.

My hand moved almost on its own, turning the key in the ignition. Smooth jazz filled the cabin.

The windshield wipers sprang to life, sweeping away the rain with steady determination. They were doing exactly what they had been designed to do.

Me? I wasn’t so sure.

I shifted into drive and pulled out of the lot.

I didn’t look back. Instead, I took the long way home, following the road that passed the cemetery.

I didn’t stop. I simply glanced toward the section where my grandfather’s headstone stood.

The weather wasn’t right for a visit, but that didn’t matter. This wasn’t about saying hello. It was about hearing one last piece of advice.

And somehow, from a place beyond words, I felt like he understood.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and continued driving. 

I’d make a few phone calls once I got home.

I’m not ready.

(c) 2026 James Wood

Books, Life, Short Stories

Young As I Want To Be

Some may say that I’ve crossed over. That the torch had finally been passed along to me from my father, much the same way as his father and his father before him had passed it down to their sons. Yesterday, much like the way that guy in the comic books becomes The Incredible Hulk, I came very close to metamorphosizing into that dreaded three-letter word—old.

The truth is, I’ve never thought of myself as that three-letter word that I will no longer mention to describe me. That word is reserved for people who are much more advanced in age then I am. Those are the people who grew up having their milk delivered to them by a man in a horse drawn carriage, or someone who once wore saddle shoes while playing hopscotch with her friends. The same people who listened to Buddy Holly or Peter, Paul, and Mary on the radio and were forced to watch Lawrence Welk on Sunday evenings at their grandmother’s house. The same poor souls who claimed to walk two miles to school barefoot in ten feet of snow and had parents who gave them enemas at the slightest inclination of a stomachache. That word is reserved for them, not one for someone as cool, and young, as me.

Sure, I may have grown-up but I still do most of the same things I did as a child: I still play guitar, not very well but enough to amuse myself. I still enjoy reading the box while relishing bowls of Lucky Charms and Cap’n Crunch cereal. I still play video games, though not as often as I’d like, and am still a big fan of superhero and Godzilla movies. I even continue to do chores like mowing the grass and taking out the garbage. I’m still fourteen years old if you really want to know. All that’s missing is a little more hair on my head and the loss of the forty or so pounds I’ve gained over the years.

Ok, unlike when I was a child, I’m forced to do my own laundry and make my own meals. I have to go to work every day but I make my bed without being told and fix things around the house when they break instead of leaving it for someone else to do. I do all the things a grown-up should do, but that shouldn’t put me in the same league as those three-letter-word people, should it?

And I confess, when I look in the mirror, I do see a little bit of gray in the beard, but no one has ever said a word about it to me. Besides, I’ve done a pretty good job at covering it up. Just for Men is working just fine, thank you very much.

Anyway, where was I?  Oh yes, the crossover to becoming that three-letter word. 

It happened yesterday when I was at my ten-year-old daughter’s softball league end of season celebration. It was a chance for a team of girls who had played hard all season to experience one final round of camaraderie together, along with some swimming and several slices of pizza. After dinner, the girls were even treated to a make your own ice cream stand supplied by their manager for a sugar rush farewell.

I’ve been conscious of watching what I eat, so I passed on the ice cream and sat down at one of the empty tables while my daughter and the others stood in line. I enjoyed watching the girls giggling with each other as trickles of soft vanilla ice cream from their waffle cones ran down their arms.

At one point, I recognized a woman who was standing in line for ice cream with her daughter. Someone I hadn’t seen in a very long time. It was a girl I’d gone to high school with, and I decided to go over to say hello.

It was a lot of fun catching up with my former classmate. We had a good time discussing what all of our classmates might be doing now, and the lives they all were leading. 

“Wasn’t it just yesterday that we all were in Mr. Kasperkowski’s science class?” I asked. 

“Oh, I didn’t have him,” she answered. “I had Mr. Opitz for science. I do remember both of us being in Mr. Siddons’ history class.” 

“That’s right!” I said, feeling a bit ashamed for confusing science with history. Then I asked if she could believe that next year was going to be our 25th class reunion. Looking back now, I think that might have been the precursor to what happened next, because once our conversation was over and I sat back down at the table, my daughter made a public service announcement to all in attendance. 

“All softball team members sit at this table,” she announced, pointing to the table where both she and I were sitting. A moment later, a stampede of ten-year old girls with half-eaten ice cream cones started sitting down at the table with us. It felt great to be enjoying a moment with my baby girl and her teammates. 

Unfortunately, one of the girls who joined us at the table thought something was a little out-of-place. The little whipper snapper pointed to another table where all of the parents were sitting. She measured me with her beady eyes.

“This table is for the girls,” she proclaimed. “THAT table over there is for the OLD people.” 

I quickly tried to think of something to say. You know, some sort of a witty comeback. Sadly, all I could muster was, “Hey, I’m not old, YOU’RE old!” But all that did was invite the rest of the girls on a sugar high to come to her defense. You’ve got to love the way teammates stick up for each other.

Realizing I was outmatched I finally conceded and slowly rose from the table to join the other men and women who were closer to my own height. But don’t think for a minute that me leaving their table is an admission that I actually am that three-letter-word, because I’m not. The truth is, I could have battled those girls all night with my grown-up rhetoric if I had more time. I just didn’t want to make them look bad in front of their parents. In my mind, I’m as young as I want to be, no matter what any ten-year-old girl thinks.

Later, on the drive home and while she was mindlessly looking out the window, I stuck the tip of my index finger into my mouth, moistened it with my tongue and then reached over and gently poked it into my daughter’s left ear. 

“DAD!! KNOCK IT OFF!” she screamed, as I manically laughed out loud.

There I go again, being childish.

Childhood Memories, Life, Short Stories, Summer

Lightning Bugs

It was early in the evening of June 20th, 2025. I’m going to have to mark it in my journal so I don’t forget. I’d just spent the day working in the yard and doing everything possible to make it look presentable for another week. The truth is, no matter how much you mow, how much you edge, or how many weeds and dandelions you pull from the earth, you’ll inevitably have three to five days respite before the process will need to be repeated. Nature waits for no man.

As twilight was settling in, I slowly pushed my green John Deere lawn mower back into its usual place in the garage. Residual grass clippings, which had been pasted to the chassis of the machine for most of the afternoon, now began falling onto the concrete floor in small bushy clumps. By that point I was too lazy and in no mood to even think about sweeping them up. I was much too tired and they would have to wait until morning. Despite the thought of having to clean up the excess grass and being completely drained from today’s labor, the smell of sweat and gasoline that permeated my senses gave me a wonderful feeling of accomplishment.

I went inside, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and walked out on to the patio to admire my handiwork. As the first drams of alcohol hit the back of my throat, I could already feel the weight of the day leaving my shoulders. Tomorrow there would be sore muscles and excessive sunburn, but for now it was time sit at the patio table and enjoy the warm summer breeze that had picked up as the day was drawing to a close.

That’s when I saw them for the first time this year – June 20th, 2025.

 Lightning bugs.

I believe the correct term for them is Photuris lucicrescens. Some others might use the word “fireflies” in their vernacular, but here in the Northeast portion of the country, we refer to them as lightning bugs. A bug that even the person with a severe case of insectophobia will usually find attractive. Sure, the butterfly is beautiful and the ladybug is often considered a symbol of good luck, but as far as I’m concerned, nothing compares to the majesty of the lightning bug, and I’ll be happy to tell you why.

You see, there are certain things in life that remind you of the different seasons of the year. We all know that when crisp leaves begin to fall from the branches of trees, autumn is here. The first snowflake that appears in the cold, milky sky means winter is on its way, and when flowers begin to spring up from their deep sleep, we know that spring has indeed sprung. But when we see the first lightning bug of the year, it’s magical. Like welcoming home an old friend. One who’s been gone for months and has now suddenly come back with word that summer is finally here.

Long before I became experienced in the art of the lawn mow, my early summer evenings as a child were spent catching these illuminated creatures. Nothing could compare to spending an entire day swimming with friends from the neighborhood and then seeing how many of these flying creatures we could catch as dusk settled in. 

If I close my eyes now, I can still picture it. Me, running barefoot through the dark back yards of my neighborhood, wearing nothing but shorts and a tank top. My youthful skin glistening with chlorine-riddled sweat, the smell of crisp honeysuckle in the air, and without a single care in the world except for the task at hand. Summer had just begun and the arrival of the first yellow bus calling children back to school was a long way away. It was pure freedom. 

There was always a feeling of wonder after you’d caught one of God’s miracles of childhood. Then, as you slowly open your cupped hand, you watch its blinking body escape your palm and climb to the highest point of your extended index finger, where it would spread its wings and fly off into the night.

Sometimes my friends and I would poke holes into the lid of an empty mayonnaise jar and fill it long blades of freshly cut grass to contain our electric treasures. Then we’d all take turns marching through the yard with our makeshift lantern. When the lightning bugs became lethargic from being trapped inside of our glass house, we’d release them back into the sky to rejoin their winged friends. 

The most fun of all though was during what I liked to call the “magic hour.” This was usually around 9 p.m. and right before my parents would call me in for the evening. You’d notice the frenzied firestorm of lights in the yard as the lighting bugs danced in unison to nature’s song, but soon one bug would seem to burn bigger and brighter than the rest. It was the granddaddy of all lightning bugs making an appearance. 

Granddaddy was the coolest bug of all and, as you might imagine, was almost impossible to catch. Every time he’d land on a bush and you’d get close enough to grab him, he’d take off and hover just out of reach above your head. It was as if he knew the measurement of his assailant. I’m sure he was thinking, “Ok, this kid is four feet eight inches tall, so let’s hover six feet five inches off the ground.”  But if you were lucky enough to capture a granddaddy when he let down his guard, you were always the winner of the evening’s festivities. It was childhood summer at its finest.

I’d just finished my beer when the real firestorm of lights began. It was just as I remember from childhood but something I hadn’t so much as thought about for at least forty summers. 

Then it happened.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw granddaddy flying slightly above my head. I stood up and used my now adult-sized hand to make a grab for him. Still smart as ever, he calculated the precise distance of my five feet eight-inch frame and rose just high enough to be out of my reach.

I sat back down in my chair and smiled. The adult duties of lawn mowing vanished and I continued to think about those carefree summer nights of childhood. Then I wondered how there could possibly be any interest in watching television or playing video games during this magical time of year.

Especially when there’s so much entertainment right in our own backyards.