“Attention. We are genetic perfection. We abandoned our defectives upon this planet long ago. You are their ancestors. Children. We should’ve emptied the planet before we left. We apologize for allowing you to love for so long. We’re going to correct this. All of you, go to your loved ones.”
Ryan Joshua Ouimet wrote this story.
The sky was blue and the sun was hot.
Suddenly, I saw the Martians hiding in the corn. The Martians saw me first.
I told them that they were really ugly. The Martians strongly disagreed. I tried to argue my point. They argued back.
Next time I will know better.
Olga Klezovitch is a scientist who lives in Seattle.
Yes. This tour is quite legal.
Observe the unnecessary space.
The quietness is rather extraordinary, isn’t it?
I respectfully disagree. It’s quite orthodox to contemplate the aliens’ mind set.
This is a complex carbohydrate. This is alcohol. Please activate your toxicity filters.
This is not illegal.
Please eat and drink.
Deborah thinks: least said, soonest mended. Find her on her blog: Deborah Walker’s Bibliography.
The aliens came down from above. The locals screamed and ran for their lives.
“They’re monsters!” someone screamed as the military arrived and blew them to pieces.
Joyous celebrations erupted while, elsewhere, a small child picked up a burnt cloth from an alien uniform.
It read “United Earth Mission.”
Connell Wayne Regner enjoys ripping yarns and the variety of writing styles found in fiction. His other dabblings can be found at paragraphplanet and wtdmagazine.wordpress.com.
The alien vessel landed in Time Square.
Thousands gathered. Press clamoured. Cameras flashed.
Hiss. A hatch opened.
Two green, tentacle-covered creatures emerged. They looked, evaluated.
Silent, telepathic communication passed between them. “What a dump!”
They got back in their ship and decided they would go to Alpha Centauri next vacation.
Leo Norman is a teacher and part time writer. He lives in Southampton, England with his wife and child.
They walk among us. Amos couldn’t hold his liquor and spilled the beans. I didn’t believe him until he levitated the bottle of hot sauce on our barroom table.
Here to invade, these aliens? Nope. Earth is a galactic Tijuana. Alcohol. Drugs. Violence. Littering.
It’s boring out there, in civilization.
Joe Malone is fluent in the South Sudanese languages of Nuer and Zande.
“You’ve had five years,” said Lord Gurgatron. “What have you accomplished?”
The little alien scientists beamed. “We’ve sabotaged many of the humans’ toilets to only flush halfway on the first attempt!”
“This will soon incite insurrection against their plumber overlords!”
“They are ruled by plumbers?”
“So our research indicates.”
This story is based on a title suggested by @RobertRacoon.
All the aliens in the zoo are unique, but the sentient liquids are by far the strangest. They’re so far beyond the scope of my understanding.
I clean their tanks conscientiously, and feed them their minerals, and every day I resist a growing urge to hop in for a swim.
This story was based on the TypeTrigger prompt “liquids.”
Jim the Space Rabbit had always wondered what Mars was like.
One day, he flew his space rocket to Mars. He got out and looked around for a bit. It was cold and dry.
He told his friends he’d found diamonds and met aliens, but they knew he was lying.
This story was based on a title suggested by Al Gore.
I never understood checkers.
When you leap over another piece, it’s captured? What, do they all have gigantic nets or something?
And why flat discs? Why not something more representative, like in chess?
When the UFOs began to descend, I realized the truth: they had been preparing us for war.
Soon to be a student of culinary arts and therefore thrilled that he can call himself an “art student” and act pretentious on a technicality, Bruce Rytel’s hobbies include writing, gaming, and going by a pseudonym.