By now, you’ve probably figured out that I never liked writing anything the typical way as kid. At 16, I had to write an autobiography. I, of course, decided to write it in the frame-work that I’d been abducted by aliens to, well, the first lines of my paper explain it best.
Mission: To search out and find a typical human being.
Purpose: To discover what really happens in the course of a human’s life.
They may have picked the wrong kid. In my defense, this was for a creative writing class and I’m pretty sure I’d been reading too much Ray Bradbury…
My interviewer was the king of the aliens, a creature astoundingly stereotypical.
[The alien] was big, bigger than any of the other odd shaped beings filling the room, and it had a long, pointed chin that made its face look like a sharp triangle. Its gigantic eyes seemed out of proportion to the rest of the body and its green color reminded me of very sick grass.
That’s right. Sick grass.
But how did one greet an alien king? “May your highness live forever,” sounded good, but a humble “Your servant, your majesty,” would always work. As it was, all I could squeeze out was a strained, “H-h-hi.
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