What I do is this. As soon as I wake up, I prepare myself with a normal morning routine, and then I sit down and write a story about whatever comes to mind. More often than not, it is a surprise. Many people call this “Flash Fiction”. This is Flash Fiction February.
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If you are not familiar with the OVALS concept I started to develop last year, it’s a thing I started in 2017, then in 2023 started having some fun with it. The species that belong to the “Tic-tac” uaps, or OVALS, are the subject of the series. It is pretty weird how our imaginations correlate with some of the findings that have been coming out regarding this technology. That’s why I always ask, “is your brain trying to tell you something?” Are we more aware of things than we give ourselves credit for? Do we selectively suppress things we don’t want to know?
Madsen is a UAP flier. He went rogue by allowing his body to die while maintaining his consciousness in his OVAL. That’s a no-no. You can find that episode in last year’s schedule. It’s called, Where’s Madsen? You can go to my Substack and do a search. Easy-peasy.
Simpson is off doing a juice run. Madrigal and Hao are hiding in some clouds at about 5,000 ft., observing the activities of late 1980s Earth, at a metal recycler. Cars are getting crushed.
“This is highly satisfying.” Hao says. “There’s something pacifying and relaxing about the sounds.”
“It’s like crunching bones.” Madrigal responds.
“That must be it.” Hao agrees. The two of them are taking turns telepathically interjecting picks for the magnet crane operator, who is not at all aware that he is being influenced, and who is also more productive today than usual.
“I’m picking that long, red one.” Madrigal says.
“That’s called a Cadillac.” Hao says. The giant magnet hovers over the beaten, sun patina finish on the hood. It moves up to the center of the vehicle and lowers itself to the dirty and worn white vinyl covered roof. It attaches itself and two large metal claws come down and grab the old coach. They squeeze and lift, breaking all the windows. The operator releases the magnet, and then the claws, dropping it into the crusher. The walls of the crusher close in and compact the old vehicle into a cube of usable scrap. The memories it left behind are unrecognizable, now.
“Ahhhhhhh…” Hao says. “So good.”
“I want to watch what it does to one of those little ones, I could probably sneeze and send that thing to Alpha Centauri.” Madrigal says. As the crushing is short work on the tin can garbage she picked out, some Datsun or Toyota only a few years old.
Simpson comes over to join them.
“I was just over at one of their massive Amplitude Modulated radio stations getting us juice. I love those things. I love the buzz you get from those big transmitters.” Simpson says.
“I think you have a problem.” Hao responds. “You know that can absolutely fry us.”
“I just sweep through it once or twice, I can stop any time I want.” Simpson says.
“MmmmHmmm, sure.” Madrigal opines. “Which one are you picking.” She asks Simpson as they look down at the junkyard.
“I think I like those pick-up truck things. That’s definitely what I would have if I had to be put on a Guest Assignment down there, God forbid. I’m going to go after that yellow one over there.”
“Good choice.” Hao says. Expecting to see the crane spin behind and grab the yellow pick-up, instead, they watch as it moves to its right and find an old, black 1950s hearse.
“Hey, that’s not my choice!” Simpson exclaims.
“What tha?” Says Hao.
As quickly as the interloper arrives, he folds out of time.
“Oh my God.” Madrigal says. “That was Frank.”
The End438 Words.
