Scribbles From Earth: Prologue

I was lounging on the poop deck of Alexander Strange’s trawler, the Miss Demeanor, when a petite young woman with long, black hair appeared on the dock holding a leash.

At the other end of that rope was the most unusual dog I’ve ever seen, a hound, but his fur was blue and white and his amber eyes seemed otherworldly, glassy and unblinking like a mannequin’s.

“What happened to your pooch?” I asked. “Somebody spray-paint him?”

She cocked her head in the canine’s direction as if waiting for him to answer, then turned to me and smiled: “Yeah, he gets that a lot. My name’s April, by the way. April May.”

“April may what?” I asked.

“Yeah, I get that all the time, too. You posted a job opening on the journalism jobs site, right?”

I’m one of the editors at Tropic Press, a Florida-based online news service where I work with Alexander. We’re a non-profit and recently received some grant money from a wealthy Naples retiree (yeah, I know, redundant) who is a big fan of space news, Florida famously home to Cape Canaveral and all. I’d posted an advertisement looking for a writer with experience covering NASA.

“You a reporter?” I asked April.

“No,” she said. “But I was editor of my high school newspaper. Now I’m an au pair. Money’s better. Especially this dog-sitting gig.” Then she nodded to the hound. “He’s the reporter.”

“Riiiight,” I said. “Listen, you’re probably looking for Alexander Strange, not me. This is his boat. I’m just watching it while he’s on vacation. He’s the one who writes about news of the weird. I just edit his stuff, turn it into English. I’m sure he’d love to hear your shaggy dog story when he gets back.”

She turned to the blue dog and shook her head. “I told you he wouldn’t believe me. You’re going to have to do it.”

Which is when I suddenly heard a voice, but not “heard” in the normal sense, it was like a string of thoughts only with a bit of volume, as if the sound originated in the middle of my brain, not my ears.

“Yeah, that’s right, it’s me, the blue dog,” the voice said. “But telepathy isn’t the weirdest part. You could say I ain’t from around these parts. These parts being your Solar System. But I am a journalist, just like you. Well not exactly alike …”

“No kidding…”

“And I’m not referring to the dog suit. I’m an inorganic life form from Alpha Centauri, and I need your help.”

“I think I need help, too,” I said. “I’m hearing things.”

April covered her mouth, stifling a giggle. “Yeah, it really messes with your head the first time he does that.”

I won’t dwell on my befuddlement nor the rest of the confusing conversation. I’m sure he’ll get around to that, himself. The upshot is he needed someone to publish a journal he’s keeping about his adventures on the third rock from the sun. Would I do that for him?

I eventually pulled out my cell phone and called my boss, Edwina Mahoney, and put it to her: “What would you say if I were to tell you I’m having a conversation with a telepathic blue dog from outer space?”

“I don’t know. Is that something you’re likely to say?”

“I just did.”

 “Never thought you were into shrooms. Or is it LSD? Call me back when you dry out.”

I turned back to April and her canine pal. “This could be a challenge. Maybe you could just video it on TikTok.”

“Dog can’t talk out loud, dude, in case you hadn’t noticed.” April replied.

“Good point. How about a blog? Might need some help typing.”

She wiggled her thumbs and fingers. “Big part of the job description. Blog it where? You got a Substack account. I looked you up. Could you run it for us?”

“What’s in it for me besides shredding the tattered remnants of any lingering credibility I might still cling to?”

“You might save the planet,” she deadpanned.

I considered that for a few moments. Save the planet? That was probably a good idea. Seemed unlikely anyone in public office was on track to do that. Why not a telepathic space dog? I called Edwina back.

“Dried out already?” she asked.

I ignored that. “I think we’ve got our space reporter. Her name is April May.”

“Sounds Asian.”

“She definitely checks the diversity box.”

“Good. Now there’s two of us. What are her other qualifications?”

“Ninety-eight-point-six. Our usual high standard.”

“If possible, you’re a bigger pain than Strange.” She hung up.

I turned to April. “Looks like you got yourself a job. Keep fido on a short leash, though. Once we start publishing, the Men in Black will be crawling up his … uh, does he even have one?”

“No. Doesn’t eat, either. Easiest dog to take care of ever. Except for, you know, all the weirdness.”

“Well, welcome to Tropic Press. Weirdness is our business.”

— J.C. Bruce

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Sponsored by TROPIC PRESS, publisher of The Strange Files Series of Mysterious Adventures.