Devonne Brown

“It rose up from the Earth like a feral UFO. I swear,”

“You’re just aggravated that you had to get up early. You wanted to sleep late, and don’t pour anything but distilled water on my amaryllis, it will die. I’ve been babying that thing. It’s beautiful, and I want it to stay that way. 

“I can’t help it, that you didn’t get to see the UFO. Why are you so on edge about it?”

It might have been a feral UFO. The tame ones were common these days. They flew fast and performed in multiples of threes. They liked to start off with three, go fast to the east, switch direction, add six, appear north with nine, finish south with twelve or eighteen in perfect rows. Then vanish with a flourish, sometimes a flash. They were reminiscent of band rows and twirls if they were feeling fancy. Maybe that’s where they got their inspiration, high school bands made them a bit more relatable but they took it to an extraordinary playing field. Band directors could learn a thing or two from UFOs if they paid attention. Apparently, the UFOs were paying attention to them.

The feral UFOs were a different story. They were unpredictable in form and function. The most accurate records in existence of the crafts and their inhabitants were middle school boys’ drawings. They were as varied as the artists, and most of them ended up shredded and torn in trash cans. The more unruly the child, the more accurate the drawing. Feral attracted feral. 

It made sense to pay attention to wild things.