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Welcome to Six Minute Stories, where you hear the writing of new voices and experienced writers whose submissions appear in the anthologies of the Personal Story Publishing Project. In our new season, you will hear stories from our 13th collection. Free find links to Six Minute Stories and to the Personal Story Publishing Project at randalljones.com Everybody loves a good story. We hope you enjoy this one. 3G Flying free by SG Benson A reporter enjoys certain perks. Free stuff In 1989, I launched a weekly newspaper in the then small town of Prescott Valley, Arizona. I rented a tiny office, hired a part time ad sales guy, and convinced my parents, against their better judgment, to answer the phone. I served as the sole reporter, photographer, editor, typesetter, layout technician, and janitor. One of my first reporting adventures was to cover an air show at nearby Embry Riddle Aeronautical University. The festivities began with a Blue Angels flyover. Historic aircraft dotted the field, World War II bombers, fighters, and cargo planes. As I contorted my body to capture close up photos of engines, propellers, and wings, a deep voice from behind startled me. You with the local paper? A tall, lanky pilot grinned from the shadow of a Douglas SBD Dauntless, the US Navy's primary carrier based scouting plane and dive bomber during World War II. Nicknamed Slow but Deadly, I handed him my card. Prescott Valley News. May I look inside the cockpit? The pilot hopped onto the wing and extended his hand and pulled me up after him. He opened the latch and raised the canopy. I'm Gus. Climb in. I'll give you a ride. I shot pictures of the interior while Gus walked around the exterior doing his pre flight inspection. He returned to the cockpit and handed me a barf bag. Just in case, we'll be doing a couple of 3G turns. Gesturing at the instrument bank, the airman gave me an overview of how the panel worked. He then pointed behind the pilot's seat. Sit there, he said. In the rear gunner's position, he helped fasten the shoulder straps that would hold me in place. I felt an anxious twang as I tucked the little bag into my shirt pocket. Gus closed the cockpit glass, buckled himself in, and fired the engines. The warm October sunshine created a greenhouse effect, and I immediately began sweating. He looked over his shoulder at me. Sorry, no air conditioning. It'll be much cooler when we reach altitude. We taxied to the airstrip. Gus spoke into his radio microphone, but I couldn't hear what he said over the engine roar. I I assumed he requested clearance for takeoff. The plane bumped down, the Runway, speed increasing rapidly until I felt the wheels leave the ground. My camera's shutter clicked constantly as we gained altitude, circled the field, and then flew over the high desert. The cockpit temperature decreased as promised the higher we climbed. I saw the snow capped San Francisco peaks to the northeast, stark against the blue sky, and the copper mining town of Baghdad to the west, baking in the sun. I'll show you some of the wartime maneuvers this bird can handle, gus shouted over the engine noise. The plane slowed as he raised the nose, placing it into a deliberate stall. Imagine there's still a machine gun in that bracket next to you, and our target is that sandy patch off to our left. It's your job to provide cover fire so we can get close enough to drop our payload. I positioned my camera just below the empty gun mount and squinted at the clearing far below. Gusts brought the nose down and we barreled toward it. The gravitational force pushed the seat straps into my shoulders and my stomach leaped. I couldn't breathe. At what seemed like the last moment, he turned the craft sharply and leveled it just a few hundred feet above the target. Bull's eye. He yelled. That's what a 3G turn feels like. He swiveled and looked at my face, which may have appeared green, and added, how's your stomach? Grateful that I'd kept down my breakfast, I smiled weakly and gave him a thumbs up. I captured a dozen photos as Gus guided the aircraft through several intricate maneuvers before returning to the airfield. My stomach settled by the time we touched down gently on the Runway and taxied back to the aircraft parking Z own. While Gus opened the cockpit glass, I unbuckled and gathered my camera and notebook. Thanks, I said as I stepped onto the tarmac and handed him the unused barf bag. I'll never forget this experience. I hurried back to the office and into the darkroom to develop both rolls of black and white film. I breathed a sigh of satisfaction when a series of airplane and pilots shots emerged in sharp relief. The aerial pictures didn't amount to much, but at least I had something to work with. The story appeared on the front page of the following week's issue. Mom first saw it when I returned from the printer with an armload of papers for our front office. After scanning the article, she glared at me. Why didn't you tell me you'd be doing such dangerous things? She barked. What do you think? Went through my mind, but I made a sharp turn and just smiled at her. Copyright 2026 SG Benson. SG Sandy Benson lives in Warren, North Carolina, where she is a member of the North Carolina Writers Network West. Her work has appeared in numerous magazines and newspapers, and she received awards from the Nebraska Press Women. She published her first book in 2021, My Mother's One Family's Journey Through Dementia. Her second book, Dear Letters from Home from World War II, 1943 to 1946, was released in 2024. She is working on a collection of autobiographic short stories, Girls can't do that. Details@sandygbenson.com Read more about this writer and background on this story in a special feature of six Minute Stories called Author's Talk. Thank you for listening to another six minute story. You can read them all in the 13 anthologies of the Personal Story Publishing Project. Find the link to our online store@randalljones.com that's all R A N D E L L jones.com There you can listen to over 500 stories shared through 13 seasons of our 6 Minute Stories podcast. And remember, everybody loves a good.