The farmer just shook his head, a long stalk of barley hanging out of his mouth, as he watched scores of curious people stomp into his wheat field. “Should’a charged admission,” he muttered to himself.

A young girl ran with her brother, tramping on the flattened path of wheat stalks until they arrived where the others had congregated. From their vantage point it simply looked like a flattened circle, but from hundreds of feet in the air, it was a complex runes of circles, arcs, and maze-like rectangles.

“Who do you think makes crop circles?” she asked her brother.

“Aliens,” he said without much thought. The absurdity of that response made her giggle.

***

“The hearing will now come to order,” the purple gelatinous blob demanded, slapping a gooey tendril onto a gavel pad. Other members of the commission, mostly insectoids, cephalopods, and the token GELF (genetically engineered life form), were on both sides of him along the length of the bench. Behind the two opposing podium bars, a short gray alien known as a Sectoid sneered at the green segmented grasshopper-like Feeblefogon.

“I demand redress an a cease-and-desist order!” the Sectoid squeaked from the bar. “These fugglezergs cannot just stamp their corporate logo anywhere they like! There are implications to consider.”

“Who are you calling a fugglezerg, you over-replicated zoingbot!” the Feeblefogon snapped back. “You don’t own that planet. We can advertise anywhere we like!”

The judge slapped the gavel pad again and said, “The Feeblefogon is correct. Since Sol’Tera has a developing sub-species, no clan may lay claim to it until they sign a contract and accept compensation.”

“This is not about laying claim to a world whose inhabitants deny toxic industrial pollution can affect the weather,” laughed the Sectoid. “This is about brand placement and strategic marketing. As you well know, your honors, Sol’Tera is a refueling stop for many of the slower species. As they replenish their transduction drive with the plentiful nitrogen and carbon monoxide as their cargo haulers skip across the stratosphere, or when the Zedothians pump in seawater to harvest tritium for their class II reactors, they can see our advertisements which remind potential customers of shipyards that lease products for improves transport longevity.”

“We also have the right to advertise,” the green creature countered.

“The location of your advertisement has tarnished our brand, and that is not acceptable!” the Sectoid argued. “We have agreements where and when all the signatories may promote themselves.”

“That agreement is ancient and invalid,” the Feeblefogon claimed. “It is no longer necessary to build pyramids and flatten the top of mountains and carve geometrically line segments to showcase our products. Technology has improved. The Earthlings have domesticated agricultural crops that are perfect canvas for our logos. And your externally pulsed propulsion drives are inefficient and polluting. No one is going to buy that overpriced felderbarg.”

That remark made the Sectoid angry. “Do you see what I have to deal with, your honors?!?! Their restaurant and spacetavern graffiti near our corporate logo suggests our industrial products come from the same backwater, radioactive, nutrient poor brackish blood pools their dinners are oozed out of.”

“We only use the premium ingredients in our cuisine!” barked the Feeblefogon.

“Maybe for a Pootrellian,” the Sectoid laughed.

“Order! Order!” the gelatinous judge demanded as the Feeblefogon and Sectoid drew their ray guns. The robotic bailiffs were the first to be fried, and then the spectators, and then the seven judge panel. The Logo Wars still rage to this day.

***

My book of entries:

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