The source of the maddeningly, hypnotic melody emanating from the woods is standing before me. It appears to be some kind of bird. Its feathers are a thousand glimmering gradients of every color. A rainbow of shifting hues, sparkling in blinding brilliance. I have never seen anything like it. I am going to try to get closer.”
“…and that’s all there is captain.”
“Any signs of the body?”
“No sir”
“Perhaps, we should head back to base before nightfall.”
“Sir, do you hear that? It’s that song the geologist was talking about.”
“I do private and it’s absolutely beautiful!”
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More stories from Philip L. Cress and writers in Fiction and other communities.
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I woke up extra early one morning in the summer of ‘87, and immediately began putting on my brand-new Cub Scout uniform. It was the coolest, with all its patches and adornments. I, of course, didn’t tie the neckerchief right, but that didn’t matter to me.
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