The following short story is Pure. Comedic. Gold.

It captures the essence of the small town I grew up in. I wrote this with inspiration from personalties of people I grew up around in the 70s and 80s. There was a tale that Johnny Carson wanted to interview someone from White Bluff on the Tonight show, who supposedly had real photos of aliens landing in his junkyard. Who knows, but you'll enjoy this short story:

 

THE BAKE SALE FROM BEYOND

 

White Bluff, Tennessee

Summer of 1965

 

Spacehead Odumn had always said the aliens were coming.

Most folks in White Bluff had laughed him off back in ’58 when he first started saying it, and they’d laughed harder when he bought that old sawmill by Leatherwood Creek and painted “SULLIVAN’S SUPERIOR SAWMILL” on the side in glow-in-the-dark paint.

They’d laughed the hardest when he bought himself a German shepherd and named him “Sputnik.”

But on a warm June night in 1965, nobody was laughing — not even Bubba Jenkins — because Sputnik was barking like he’d lost his ever-lovin’ mind.

“Now hush, boy,” Spacehead said, stepping out onto the warped back porch of the sawmill office. “Ain’t nothin’ out there but the woods and maybe a possum with a death wish.”

Sputnik wasn’t having it. His fur was standing straight up, and he was growling toward the tree line behind the mill, right where Leatherwood Creek curved through the dark like a silver ribbon.

Then the lights came.

Not lightning. Not moonlight. Not headlights.

These lights were green and blue and purple all at once, swirling and pulsing, casting shadows where shadows had no business being.

“Well I’ll be dipped in moonshine and rolled in sugar,” Spacehead whispered. “It’s really happenin’.”

The woods hummed. Not like cicadas. Not like frogs. This was a low, steady, stomach-vibrating hum that made Spacehead’s dentures rattle.

A silver shape slid down between the trees, silent as sin at a Sunday picnic.

Spacehead dropped to his knees, clutching Sputnik.

“I TOLD ‘EM,” he whispered. “I TOLD EVERY LAST ONE OF ‘EM.”

Sputnik barked again — but this time it was a whimper.

From the glow stepped three figures. Tall. Thin. Big black eyes like wet marbles. Their skin shimmered like trout scales in moonlight.

One of them raised a hand.

And then everything went black.

 

THE NEXT MORNING

Bubba Jenkins was halfway through crushing a 1952 Plymouth with his crane when Spacehead came staggering into the junkyard looking like he’d wrestled a tornado and lost.

“Bubba,” Spacehead wheezed, “they’re here.”

Bubba didn’t even look up. “If this is about the IRS again, I already told you — that tractor ain’t mine no more.”

“Aliens,” Spacehead said.

Now Bubba looked.

“Did you fall into Leroy’s mash barrel again?”

“I seen ‘em,” Spacehead insisted. “Spaceship. Lights. Big eyes. No eyelids. One of ‘em had fingers like uncooked spaghetti.”

Bubba scratched his chin. “You sure that wasn’t Miss Helen without her glasses?”

“I’m serious, Bubba.”

“Well,” Bubba said, “I ain’t sayin’ you’re wrong… but I ain’t sayin’ you’re right neither. But if aliens wanted to land somewhere, they’d probably pick White Bluff, on account of nobody would believe it.”

Spacehead leaned in close. “What if they already done somethin’ to folks?”

Bubba shrugged. “Only folks actin’ strange lately are Miss Helen and Miss Arline — but they been strange since Eisenhower.”

That’s when Spacehead froze.

“Miss Helen?” he whispered. “The Garden Society queen? The Eastern Star commander-in-chief? The woman who alphabetizes her spice rack?”

“Yep. And Miss Arline too. Been walkin’ around town smilin’ weird, talkin’ in… I don’t know… riddles.”

Spacehead’s eyes widened.

“They got ‘em.”

 

MISS HELEN AND MISS ARLINE

Miss Helen Carter had never, in her sixty-three years of life, put ketchup on cornbread.

But that’s exactly what she did at breakfast that morning.

Miss Arline Bryant, sitting across from her at the kitchen table, stared like she’d just watched someone iron a cat.

“Helen,” Arline said carefully, “are you… are you alright?”

Miss Helen smiled — but it wasn’t her usual polite church smile. This one was wider. Too wide.

“Nutrition… is… relative,” she said slowly.

Arline blinked. “You been readin’ one of them science magazines again?”

Miss Helen tilted her head.

“Arline,” she said, “what do you know of the planet Zorblax?”

Arline dropped her coffee cup.

“WHAT do I know of the WHAT?”

“Zorblax,” Helen repeated, tapping her temple. “Third moon of the Galactis Cluster. Mild gravitational pull. Excellent for colonization.”

Arline stood up so fast her chair fell over.

“Helen Carter, if this is a joke, I do not find it amusing.”

Helen smiled again.

“It is… not… a joke.”

Arline stared.

“Helen… did you drink before breakfast?”

“No,” Helen said. “But I intend to soon.”

That right there was how Arline knew something was deeply, spiritually, medically, and socially wrong.

 

CHIEF JIMMY HESTER GETS INVOLVED

By noon, half the town was whispering.

Miss Helen had told Mrs. Peabody she “sensed interstellar vibrations in her azaleas.”

Miss Arline had walked into the post office and asked if stamps came in “gamma ray flavor.”

And one of the Eastern Star ladies, Miss Bernice, had tried to measure the courthouse steps with a tape measure and a tuning fork.

Chief Jimmy Hester was halfway through his second cup of coffee when Deputy Carl came in looking like he’d seen the rapture and missed it.

“Chief,” Carl said, “you better come see this.”

“Carl,” Jimmy sighed, “unless the town’s on fire or Bubba’s tractor fell into the creek again, it can wait.”

“Miss Helen’s tryin’ to water her garden with a funnel and a whistle.”

Jimmy blinked.

“Well now,” he said, standing up, “that’s new.”

They found Miss Helen in her front yard, holding a funnel in one hand and whistling into it like she was trying to summon dolphins.

“Miss Helen,” Jimmy said gently, “what in the good name of White Bluff are you doin’?”

She turned, eyes shining.

“Testing acoustic resonance of liquid transport,” she said.

Jimmy looked at Carl.

Carl shrugged.

“She been like this all day.”

Jimmy cleared his throat.

“Miss Helen… you feelin’ alright?”

“I am… enhanced,” she said.

That’s when Jimmy knew this wasn’t Leroy’s work.

 

MAYOR JAMES BROWN STEPS IN

Mayor James Brown — preacher of the Church of Christ, mayor of White Bluff, and part-time expert in strong drink — had just sat down to write his Sunday sermon when Chief Hester walked into his office without knocking.

“Jimmy,” Mayor Brown said, “you know I only like surprises when they come in a mason jar.”

“James,” Jimmy said, “we got a situation.”

“Is it Bubba again?”

“No.”

“Leroy?”

“Not this time.”

Jimmy leaned in.

“I think aliens took over Miss Helen.”

Mayor Brown blinked.

Then he sighed.

“Well,” he said, “it’s been a long week.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” James said. “Go on.”

Jimmy explained everything — the lights, Spacehead’s story, Miss Helen’s behavior, Miss Arline’s new vocabulary, and Bernice trying to tune the courthouse.

Mayor Brown listened, nodding slowly.

When Jimmy finished, the mayor leaned back.

“Jimmy,” he said, “I’m not sayin’ I believe you… but I am sayin’ that if aliens were to come, they’d pick the two most organized women in town. It’s strategic.”

“You believe me?”

“I believe that Miss Helen put ketchup on cornbread.”

“That bad?”

“That bad.”

Mayor Brown stood.

“Call Leroy.”

 

LEROY AND THE CURE

Leroy lived up in the woods, just past where the dirt road turned into a suggestion. His still was tucked behind a thicket of honeysuckle and rusted car doors, about half a mile from Bubba’s junkyard.

When Mayor Brown, Chief Hester, and Deputy Carl showed up, Leroy was stirring a barrel and humming “Amazing Grace” like it owed him money.

“Well, well,” Leroy said, “if it ain’t the town government come to visit my illegal enterprise.”

“Leroy,” Mayor Brown said, “we got a problem.”

“You always do.”

“Aliens.”

Leroy paused.

“…what kind?”

“The kind that take over church ladies.”

Leroy considered this.

“Well,” he said, “that explains Bernice askin’ me if my still had ‘quantum properties.’”

“You noticed somethin’ odd?”

“She asked if my mash could ‘disrupt non-native neural frequencies.’”

Jimmy looked at the mayor.

Mayor Brown nodded.

“Leroy,” James said, “you remember the 1963 zombie incident?”

Leroy smiled.

“How could I forget? Best sales week I ever had.”

“And your moonshine cured ‘em.”

“Temporarily,” Leroy said. “Mostly it just knocked ‘em out, but they woke up human again.”

“We need that again.”

Leroy scratched his beard.

“Well, I can spike somethin’. Punch, tea, lemonade — aliens ain’t immune to ethanol.”

Jimmy said, “We gotta get ‘em all in one place.”

Mayor Brown said, “We need a lure.”

Leroy grinned.

“Well,” he said, “there’s only one thing that can gather every woman in White Bluff like moths to a porch light.”

“The bake sale,” Jimmy said.

 

THE BAKE SALE PLAN

Miss Helen and Miss Arline were already organizing the Eastern Star bake sale — even more aggressively than usual.

They had charts.

They had schedules.

They had a color-coded spreadsheet, and nobody in White Bluff even knew what a spreadsheet was.

Mayor Brown, Chief Hester, Spacehead, Leroy, Bubba, and Deputy Carl met in the back room of the town hall to plan.

Spacehead was vibrating with excitement.

“I TOLD Y’ALL,” he said. “I TOLD Y’ALL SINCE ‘59.”

Bubba leaned back in his chair.

“Now calm down, Spacehead. You still owe me twenty dollars from that time you bet me Elvis was singing and workin’ at your mill.”

“He is,” Spacehead said. “Just not in this dimension.”

Jimmy ignored them.

“Alright,” he said, “we gotta get the aliens — inside Miss Helen, Miss Arline, and the Eastern Star ladies — to attend the bake sale. Then we spike the punch bowl with Leroy’s special.”

“And how do we get ‘em all there?” Bubba asked.

Spacehead said, “We whisper it to Helen.”

“Whisper what?”

“That the aliens should possess the bake sale. That it’s a perfect gathering place. They’ll hear it.”

Mayor Brown nodded.

“They’re inside her mind,” he said. “We plant the idea.”

“And who’s gonna whisper it?” Carl asked.

They all turned.

Miss Helen was terrifying on her best day.

“Not me,” Bubba said. “Last time I talked to her, she rearranged my entire junkyard.”

“I’ll do it,” Mayor Brown said. “She trusts me.”

“And if she don’t?” Jimmy asked.

“Then I’ll pray.”

“And if that don’t work?”

“I’ll offer her a drink.”

“That’ll do it.”

 

MAYOR BROWN MEETS THE ALIEN

Mayor Brown found Miss Helen in the church kitchen, organizing canned goods by expiration date and “planetary alignment.”

“Helen,” he said gently, “how are you today?”

“Functioning within optimal parameters,” she replied.

James swallowed.

“Well… that’s… good.”

He leaned in.

“Helen,” he said softly, “I been thinkin’ about the bake sale.”

Her eyes flickered.

“Yes,” she said. “The bake sale is… ideal.”

“I thought so too,” James said. “A place where… well… all the ladies gather.”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t it be… efficient… if all the… unusual folks… came together at once?”

Helen tilted her head.

“Unusual?”

“You know,” James said, “folks who… might not be… from around here.”

Helen’s eyes glowed — just for a second.

“A convergence,” she whispered.

“Yes,” James said quickly. “A convergence. For… planning purposes.”

Helen smiled wider.

“The bake sale shall be… enhanced.”

James backed away slowly.

“Well… good talk.”

 

BAKE SALE DAY

White Bluff had never seen a bake sale like this.

The courthouse lawn was packed. Tables overflowed with pies, cakes, casseroles, cookies, brownies, and things nobody could identify but trusted Miss Helen to make safe.

Miss Helen and Miss Arline moved through the crowd like generals inspecting troops.

But something was off.

Miss Helen was smiling at children.

Miss Arline was humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like Morse code.

Bernice was stacking cupcakes in geometric patterns.

Mrs. Peabody was trying to weigh the moon with a bathroom scale.

Chief Hester, Deputy Carl, Mayor Brown, Leroy, Spacehead, and Bubba stood behind the lemonade table.

Inside the punch bowl was Leroy’s finest — clear, strong, and potent enough to make a mule reconsider its life choices.

“All we gotta do,” Jimmy said, “is get ‘em to drink.”

“They will,” Leroy said. “Nobody turns down free punch.”

Spacehead was scanning the sky.

“Do you see the ship?” he whispered.

“No,” Bubba said. “But I see Miss Helen tryin’ to sell a pie using hand signals.”

Sure enough, Miss Helen was gesturing in strange patterns while speaking in a slow, echoing voice.

“This pie,” she said, “contains… warmth… comfort… and the essence of star matter.”

“That’s… sweet potato, Helen,” Miss Arline whispered.

“The buyer will decide,” Helen replied.

 

THE SPIKING

Mayor Brown approached Miss Helen with a cup of punch.

“Helen,” he said, “you look thirsty.”

“I do not require hydration.”

“Well,” James said, “drink anyway. It’s hot.”

Helen hesitated.

Then she took the cup.

Across the lawn, Miss Arline accepted one too.

So did Bernice.

So did Mrs. Peabody.

So did half the Eastern Star.

One by one, they sipped.

And then…

Bernice blinked.

Miss Arline swayed.

Miss Helen froze.

“Error,” Helen said. “System conflict.”

Then she collapsed — gently, like a stack of well-organized books.

Arline followed.

Bernice sat down hard on a cake.

Mrs. Peabody passed out mid-sentence.

The lawn went silent.

Jimmy cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said, “that worked.”

 

THE SEPARATION

The air shimmered.

Above each fallen woman, a faint glow rose — like smoke, but brighter, and moving against the wind.

Shapes emerged.

Tall.

Thin.

Big-eyed.

“Holy mother of casseroles,” Bubba whispered.

The aliens floated upward, wobbling like drunk jellyfish.

Leroy nodded.

“Yep,” he said. “Moonshine’ll do that.”

Spacehead fell to his knees again.

“I told y’all,” he sobbed. “I TOLD Y’ALL.”

Jimmy snapped out of it.

“Carl! Truck!”

Deputy Carl ran to get the town truck.

They wrangled the floating aliens using fishing nets, bed sheets, and one very confused garden hose.

Bubba lassoed one.

Mayor Brown tackled another.

Spacehead tried to talk to one.

“Do you come in peace?” he asked.

It burped.

“Noted,” Spacehead said.

They loaded them into the back of the truck.

The women slowly stirred.

Miss Helen sat up, blinking.

“What… what happened?”

“You fainted,” James said.

“I fainted?”

“Yes,” Jimmy said. “Must’ve been the heat.”

“I never faint,” Helen said.

“Well,” James said, “you did.”

Miss Arline looked around.

“Why am I holding a cupcake?”

“You were protectin’ it,” Bubba said.

Bernice looked at her dress.

“Why am I sittin’ on a pie?”

“Long story,” Jimmy said.

Miss Helen stood.

“Well,” she said, straightening her hat, “I do hope no one missed the bake sale.”

Jimmy glanced at the collapsed tables, unconscious ladies, and alien goo on the lawn.

“No, ma’am,” he said. “It was unforgettable.”

 

THE AFTERMATH

The aliens were driven to Nashville, where the state police called the feds, who called somebody who probably wore sunglasses indoors.

White Bluff returned to normal — or as close as it ever got.

Miss Helen and Miss Arline never remembered being possessed.

But they did notice something odd.

Miss Helen’s roses grew bigger than ever.

Miss Arline could suddenly solve crossword puzzles in seconds.

Bernice could whistle in four-part harmony.

Nobody questioned it.

As for the spaceship…

That was a problem.

 

THE SHIP

Bubba, Spacehead, and Mayor Brown went looking.

“Couple hollers over,” Bubba said. “Behind the junkyard.”

Sure enough, tucked behind a pile of rusted refrigerators and an abandoned school bus, sat a silver craft — about the size of a pickup truck, shaped like a biscuit.

“Well,” Bubba said, “what do we do with it?”

Spacehead walked around it, touching it reverently.

“This is history,” he said. “This belongs in a museum.”

“Smithsonian ain’t takin’ calls from White Bluff,” Mayor Brown said.

Bubba scratched his chin.

“I could sell it for scrap.”

“No!” Spacehead cried.

“I’m kiddin’,” Bubba said. “Mostly.”

Mayor Brown thought.

“Well,” he said, “we can’t tell the town. They’ll panic.”

“They already panic when Myatt's Piggly Wiggly runs outta bread,” Bubba said.

Spacehead brightened.

“What if… we make it a tourist attraction?”

Mayor Brown raised an eyebrow.

“You want to advertise ‘Alien Ship’?”

“No,” Spacehead said. “We call it… modern art.”

Bubba nodded.

“Yeah. People pay good money to look at weird metal stuff.”

Mayor Brown sighed.

“Well,” he said, “I reckon we could put it behind the junkyard and tell folks it’s… experimental farm equipment.”

“Perfect,” Bubba said. “That’s what everything else back there is.”

 

MISS HELEN’S SUSPICION

A week later, Miss Helen and Miss Arline were walking near Bubba’s junkyard when Helen stopped.

“Arline,” she said, “do you feel that?”

“Feel what?”

“A… vibration.”

Arline tilted her head.

“I feel… hot.”

“That too,” Helen said. “But I also feel like… something important is nearby.”

They followed the sensation — straight to the hidden spaceship.

Miss Helen stared at it.

“What on earth is that?”

Mayor Brown, who had been supervising Bubba’s rearranging of junk, nearly swallowed his tie.

“Oh! That,” he said. “That’s… uh… experimental… equipment.”

Helen squinted.

“It does not look… earthly.”

“Well,” James said, “it’s from… out of town.”

“Which town?”

“…Far.”

Helen walked around it.

“I feel… strangely connected to this.”

Arline nodded.

“So do I.”

Mayor Brown panicked.

“Well,” he said, “y’all best be goin’. Church meeting in five minutes.”

“We don’t have a meeting,” Helen said.

“We do now,” James said.

Helen paused.

Then she smiled.

“Very well.”

But as they walked away, she turned back one last time.

“You cannot hide the stars forever, James.”

He shuddered.

 

SPACEHEAD’S VICTORY

That evening, Spacehead sat on his porch, rocking in his chair, Sputnik at his feet.

Bubba joined him with two beers.

“Well,” Bubba said, “you were right.”

Spacehead smiled like a man who’d been vindicated by the universe.

“I been right a long time.”

“You think they’ll come back?”

“Oh yeah,” Spacehead said. “Once they sober up.”

Bubba laughed.

“Well, next time, maybe they’ll possess somebody easier.”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know… Leroy.”

Leroy’s voice floated from the woods.

“They already tried.”

Bubba jumped.

“How long you been standin’ there?”

“Long enough,” Leroy said, “to hear y’all talk about aliens.”

Spacehead leaned forward.

“You got any more moonshine?”

“Always,” Leroy said.

They clinked jars.

 

FINAL SCENE: THE BAPTIST PICNIC

A month later, White Bluff held its annual summer picnic.

Miss Helen and Miss Arline were back to their proper selves — organizing, correcting, guiding, and ruling with iron lace.

Mayor Brown was grilling.

Chief Hester was refereeing horseshoes.

Deputy Carl was losing.

Bubba was selling scrap.

Leroy was discreetly selling “lemonade.”

Spacehead was watching the sky.

Suddenly, a faint hum passed overhead.

Spacehead froze.

“Y’all hear that?”

Bubba squinted.

“That ain’t thunder.”

Miss Helen paused mid-sentence.

“What is that sound?”

Mayor Brown looked up.

The hum faded.

Silence returned.

Spacehead exhaled.

“False alarm,” he said. “Probably just the wind.”

Miss Helen looked thoughtful.

“Still,” she said, “it feels like we’re being… watched.”

Bubba laughed.

“Well,” he said, “long as they don’t mess with our bake sales, we’ll be fine.”

Miss Helen smiled — her normal, proper, human smile.

“Oh,” she said, “I don’t think they’d dare.”

Spacehead smiled too.

Because he knew.

And somewhere, far beyond Leatherwood Creek and Taylor Town Road, something was definitely watching White Bluff — and taking notes.

~ Shane Bryant