The Firefly Who Feared the Dark

Flick the firefly kept her light on. All night. All nap. All the time. The other fireflies blinked — on, off, on, off — like tiny winking stars over the meadow. Not Flick. Flick glowed steady as a lantern in a window.

“Don’t you ever switch off?” asked Zip, blinking fast. “Off is overrated,” said Flick brightly. “Also dark.” The others chuckled, and Flick chuckled too, but her wings pinched close. Because here was her secret: Flick was afraid of the dark. Like a fish afraid of puddles.

So Flick slept with her glow turned up high, where the dark couldn’t reach her. That is why she woke up droopy every morning. “You look like a squashed dandelion,” said Zip. “I’m radiant,” Flick yawned.

Then came the cloudy night. Clouds rolled in like a thick gray blanket. No moon. No stars. Flick sat very still in her own small circle of gold. Her knees knocked. From the tall grass came a tiny sound. Sniff. Sniff.

A baby beetle crawled into the light, one feeler bent sadly. “The dark ate the path,” she sniffled. “I’m Dot. I can’t find my mama.” Flick looked out at the dark. The dark looked back. “The path goes that way,” she whispered. “Into… that.” Her glow gave a little wobble.

Flick wanted to stay in her golden circle. But Dot was very small, and the night was very big, and nobody else in the whole meadow had a light. Flick breathed in. She breathed out. “One glow, one step.” And she flew straight into the dark, with Dot hurrying along below.

First, a wall of thistles blocked the way. “Too prickly,” squeaked Dot. Flick’s belly buzzed. “One glow, one step.” She shone between two stems, Dot squeezed through, and Flick followed with a careful wiggle and one poke to the bottom. Oof.

Then a puddle spread black and shiny across the path. “Too splashy,” peeped Dot. Flick’s light shook on the water. “One glow, one step.” She lit a row of round stones, and Dot hopped across. Plip. Plip. Plip.

Last came a curled leaf, lying over the path like a low, dark tunnel. Flick stopped. Her glow shrank to a pinprick. “Too dark,” she breathed. Then Dot turned around and took her hand. “One glow, one step,” said Dot — small, but steady. And this time they went in together, one gold dot at a time.

At the end of the leaf, warm voices floated through the grass. “Dot?” “MAMA!” Dot zipped to the hollow log, and her mama rushed out and wrapped all six legs around her. “My little button,” she murmured. Then she looked up at Flick.

“You’re a brave one,” said Dot’s mama. Flick’s glow fluttered. “But I was scared the whole time.” “I did not say you weren’t.” Dot nodded hard. “She was EXTREMELY scared.” Flick laughed — and a warm blink slipped out of her. On. Off. The dark stayed soft and still.

Flying home, Flick looked around. Really looked. The dark was not empty. It was full of soft things: folded-up flowers, dreaming grass, the slow breathing of the sleepy meadow. The dark, it turned out, was exactly where a little light mattered most.

That night, Flick dimmed herself. Not off. Just down. To a soft warm ember, like the last coal of a campfire. “One glow, one blink,” she whispered. The dark came close and sat beside her, quiet as a friend. And Flick slept deep and long, and woke up not one bit tired.

The End