Sometimes we’d see him in the backyard, training his eyes on the starry sky, not moving, not blinking. Downloading mission parameters, we’d say. Searching for signal. Before our first year living together was up, we’d come to a perfectly reasonable conclusion: Champ was a stranded cosmonaut, trapped in the body of a small dog after a botched science experiment and abandoned in Alabama. He kept trying to tell us, he just didn’t have the apparatus to relay his message. You’d be skittish, too.
(Read the rest at Banner Society.)
I'm a multi-platform journalist and story producer, a Tennessee Volunteer by birth, a West Virginia Mountaineer by blood, an occasional Angelena, a current ATLien, and an Aquarius, if you're interested. Past work samples to the left, where all the words are.