Anne B. Walsh was born longer ago than most people think, in a town most people have never heard of. She told stories from the time she could talk, but it took her until the age of twenty to realize that a living could be made that way.
Anne now lives outside Pittsburgh, with one roommate (Krystal), two male dogs (Buddy and Brando), and two female cats (Starsky and Hutch). Her parents and siblings live just far enough away (two hours) that visits are frequent but insanity is contained.
Sadly, Bruce the Cane Corso mastiff, the personal Padfoot of the household, passed away on Sunday, August 18, 2013. He is missed very much. In his memory, a drabble (100-word story) about the truly important things in life:
In examining any new culture, one question haunts. Were the strangers anything like us? Or are they hopelessly, forever alien?
I submit a wide loop of thickened cloth, embossed with a single line of symbols. Lying in its center, a disk of baked clay, into which an animal’s foot was pressed. On the print’s reverse, three groups of symbols, the first matching the set upon the collar—the animal’s name. The other two I have translated into proof that however strange these people might otherwise seem to us, we are ultimately more alike than different.
They read, simply: