Preview
There's no release date yet for Alien Election but I'm sure if enough people write polite but encouraging letters to Asylett Press they'll set one. In the meantime, here's a sample.
Tuscaloosa Lincoln stood uncomfortably on the first tee of the Otter Bay golf course. He wasn’t enthusiastic about being there. “So this is a golf?” he asked.
Jeffery Collins gave him an encouraging nod. “Not a golf. Just plain golf.” He swung his club confidently. Lincoln mimicked the motion with significantly less self-assurance and almost no grace.
Several hundred spectators watched him with breathless anticipation while his bodyguards tried to make themselves inconspicuous. Security was always a problem at these kind of outdoor events. Lincoln, though wildly popular, wasn’t universally loved. The war probably had something to do with that. His appearances usually drew a handful of mostly peaceful protesters. Still, there had been threats.
He and Collins were the only two actually playing golf, yet they were surrounded by a dozen golf carts full of photographers, television crews, press agents, security guards, secretaries and various hangers on. He squinted at the helicopter circling overhead, wondering who it belonged to. He assumed it was one of a dozen military or law enforcement agencies that followed his every move. He could tell it wasn’t his. His was yellow.
Newspaper and magazine photographers had already taken several posed shots of him in his golf attire. He’d been told it was stylish but he was still skeptical. He’d signed a few autographs and posed, smiling broadly, for a couple of pictures with members of the gallery.* Television crews were waiting for him to actually do something before they started taping. They could have filmed him getting out of the car or tying his shoes.
Jeffery Collins gave him an encouraging nod. “Not a golf. Just plain golf.” He swung his club confidently. Lincoln mimicked the motion with significantly less self-assurance and almost no grace.
Several hundred spectators watched him with breathless anticipation while his bodyguards tried to make themselves inconspicuous. Security was always a problem at these kind of outdoor events. Lincoln, though wildly popular, wasn’t universally loved. The war probably had something to do with that. His appearances usually drew a handful of mostly peaceful protesters. Still, there had been threats.
He and Collins were the only two actually playing golf, yet they were surrounded by a dozen golf carts full of photographers, television crews, press agents, security guards, secretaries and various hangers on. He squinted at the helicopter circling overhead, wondering who it belonged to. He assumed it was one of a dozen military or law enforcement agencies that followed his every move. He could tell it wasn’t his. His was yellow.
Newspaper and magazine photographers had already taken several posed shots of him in his golf attire. He’d been told it was stylish but he was still skeptical. He’d signed a few autographs and posed, smiling broadly, for a couple of pictures with members of the gallery.* Television crews were waiting for him to actually do something before they started taping. They could have filmed him getting out of the car or tying his shoes.
(* One of the many bewildering things about golf was the terminology. On the street the gathering would have been called a mob, in any sort of entertainment venue it would have been called the audience. On the golf course it was a gallery.)
Anything the first alien living on Earth did was news.
It was news when he met with the president. It was news when he addressed the United Nations. It was news when he was presented to the Pope. It was news when he appeared before any of a hundred governing organizations.
It was news when he sneezed.
It was apparently news when he played a golf.
Lincoln didn’t especially like reporters following him around all the time but he’d more or less gotten used to it.
Most of the Earthlings watching him weren’t in the media. They were just ordinary people eager to get a look at Earth’s first interplanetary resident. There was always a crowd of curious humans around the alien. He generally enjoyed the company.
Lincoln had been on Earth for six months now. In that time he’d seen several things that made him question the sanity of the residents. Golf, while indeed strange, was no more baffling than opera or baseball. The main difference, as far as he could tell, was that millions of Earthlings participated in golf while there were relatively few operatics or baseballians.
He smiled and waved as if he was happy to be there.
His real name was (Sound of a tennis ball in a blender). But since humans couldn’t pronounce that, he’d adopted an “Earth-friendly” name. Combining a well-known geographic location and a prominent historical figure, such as a town in Alabama and a revered United States President, would, hopefully, make him more acceptable to the humans. Several of his home planet’s leaders, who, for one reason or another, had contact with Earth, had used the same strategy. Gomorra Hitler had taught them all a valuable lesson in the importance of careful research.
(Sound of a tennis ball...) wasn’t comfortable as the center of attention. He’d never wanted to be a celebrity. He’d been a marketing executive before coming to Earth. In fact, he’d been his home world’s most successful marketing executive. As such, he’d always remained carefully in the background. He’d worked behind the scenes to make his products the star, never taking the spotlight for himself. Now he was his product. He was selling himself. He was the floor model for his entire species.
He was the embodiment of his home world. Everything he did reflected on his race and its culture. Most Earthlings believed all residents of the planet they called Loogie* were exactly like him. They operated under the assumption that if you’ve seen one alien, you’ve seen them all.
Anything the first alien living on Earth did was news.
It was news when he met with the president. It was news when he addressed the United Nations. It was news when he was presented to the Pope. It was news when he appeared before any of a hundred governing organizations.
It was news when he sneezed.
It was apparently news when he played a golf.
Lincoln didn’t especially like reporters following him around all the time but he’d more or less gotten used to it.
Most of the Earthlings watching him weren’t in the media. They were just ordinary people eager to get a look at Earth’s first interplanetary resident. There was always a crowd of curious humans around the alien. He generally enjoyed the company.
Lincoln had been on Earth for six months now. In that time he’d seen several things that made him question the sanity of the residents. Golf, while indeed strange, was no more baffling than opera or baseball. The main difference, as far as he could tell, was that millions of Earthlings participated in golf while there were relatively few operatics or baseballians.
He smiled and waved as if he was happy to be there.
His real name was (Sound of a tennis ball in a blender). But since humans couldn’t pronounce that, he’d adopted an “Earth-friendly” name. Combining a well-known geographic location and a prominent historical figure, such as a town in Alabama and a revered United States President, would, hopefully, make him more acceptable to the humans. Several of his home planet’s leaders, who, for one reason or another, had contact with Earth, had used the same strategy. Gomorra Hitler had taught them all a valuable lesson in the importance of careful research.
(Sound of a tennis ball...) wasn’t comfortable as the center of attention. He’d never wanted to be a celebrity. He’d been a marketing executive before coming to Earth. In fact, he’d been his home world’s most successful marketing executive. As such, he’d always remained carefully in the background. He’d worked behind the scenes to make his products the star, never taking the spotlight for himself. Now he was his product. He was selling himself. He was the floor model for his entire species.
He was the embodiment of his home world. Everything he did reflected on his race and its culture. Most Earthlings believed all residents of the planet they called Loogie* were exactly like him. They operated under the assumption that if you’ve seen one alien, you’ve seen them all.
(* The result of an ill-advised contest the aliens had sponsored among the Earthlings to give their planet a pronounceable name. Six-year-old Julian Freen of Coober Pedy, Australia had won a college scholarship when a computer chose his entry at random from among millions that had been submitted. The aliens still referred to their home world as (Sound of a worm sneezing).)
If he lost his temper, even once, they were all hot heads. If he slurped his soup, they were all slobs. He lived in constant fear of breaking wind. He was under relentless observation. Every word out of his mouth was subject to intense analysis, every gesture was open to interpretation. It wasn’t fair, but life rarely is.
He had no interest in participating in a golf and, frankly, didn’t understand the attraction. He couldn’t comprehend why anyone would want to spend the better part of a day hitting a small ball with a stick until it fell into a hole in the ground. He just didn’t see the point.
“It’s relaxing,” Collins had said. Collins, possibly the world’s worst golfer, made the statement in the face of significant evidence to the contrary. He usually came home from the golf course in a blind rage. “The objective is to accomplish an impossible goal using implements ill-suited to the task.”
Lincoln sighed. It wasn’t a matter of what he wanted. His job was to at least appear to embrace Earth’s cultures and customs. Millions of Earthlings played golf. It was one of the most popular sports on the planet. Golf was a significant part of Earth’s culture. Therefore, he would participate.
As far as the public knew, he had been sent to Earth as an ambassador, a liaison between it and his home world, a sort of cultural attaché. He was allegedly here to study Earthlings and their habits while giving them the chance to learn more about his race.
In reality, he was being punished.
Perhaps it was courage. Perhaps it was sheer animal cunning. Perhaps it was complete idiocy, but he, for reasons he didn’t fully understand himself, had chosen to oppose his home planet’s ruler. He considered himself fortunate to only be banished.
Even more surprising, his secretary, (Sound of an owl at 2.5 times normal speed), known as Virgin Islands Nightingale to the Earthlings, had voluntarily accompanied him.
They had taken up residence in Santa Monica. For two reasons. One: He was fascinated with the ocean. And two: Where else but southern California would the planet’s first aliens live?
As strange as Earth and some of its customs were, Lincoln had to admit he was enjoying it. He especially liked being outside. The air never ceased to amaze him. It was so fresh, so light, so... transparent. Air on (Sound of a worm...) was thick enough to nail a plank to. By comparison, even Los Angeles was pristine.
(Sound of a worm...)ers generally shunned any sort of strenuous exercise since whatever they might inhale while breathing deeply could easily offset the benefits of working up a good sweat.
It was the same with the water. It had taken him weeks to get used to drinking water that didn’t taste like tin. He’d initially been dubious about water you could see through. Now he drank it by the gallon. He couldn’t imagine ever going back.
Collins smiled. “That’s a driver,” he explained indicating the club in the alien’s paw. “You use that club to drive the ball into the fairway.”
Even before being exiled Lincoln had developed a close relationship with Collins.
When the Supreme Leader, (Sound of a crow landing on a chain link fence), had decided to move the entire populace of their home world to Earth, she’d hired Lincoln to sell the idea to the humans.
Collins had been their Earthling spokesperson. They’d considered using one of the planet’s more recognizable political or religious leaders. It hadn’t taken long to realize a certain, sizeable portion of the population was going to instantly reject any of the planet’s foremost citizens simply because they were a political or religious leader. Collins had been chosen because he was the absolutely statistically typical human. Everything about him was completely average. He represented all Earthlings in the most general ways. He was, as nearly as possible, the physically, emotionally, intellectually and spiritually normal human.
That’s assigning a very specific meaning to the word normal. There isn’t really a normal Earthling. There’s only an average of abnormality. Collins had achieved it. There was nothing about him the other Earthlings could object to. Actually, there were hundreds of things but they were all very common things.
Collins had been positioned at the head of world-wide environmental agency called, “The Neighbors” and paid an astronomical fee to convince Earthlings the aliens were environmental refugees who deserved the humans’ sympathy. To prove their sincerity, they’d given him the Otter Bay Golf Course.
If he lost his temper, even once, they were all hot heads. If he slurped his soup, they were all slobs. He lived in constant fear of breaking wind. He was under relentless observation. Every word out of his mouth was subject to intense analysis, every gesture was open to interpretation. It wasn’t fair, but life rarely is.
He had no interest in participating in a golf and, frankly, didn’t understand the attraction. He couldn’t comprehend why anyone would want to spend the better part of a day hitting a small ball with a stick until it fell into a hole in the ground. He just didn’t see the point.
“It’s relaxing,” Collins had said. Collins, possibly the world’s worst golfer, made the statement in the face of significant evidence to the contrary. He usually came home from the golf course in a blind rage. “The objective is to accomplish an impossible goal using implements ill-suited to the task.”
Lincoln sighed. It wasn’t a matter of what he wanted. His job was to at least appear to embrace Earth’s cultures and customs. Millions of Earthlings played golf. It was one of the most popular sports on the planet. Golf was a significant part of Earth’s culture. Therefore, he would participate.
As far as the public knew, he had been sent to Earth as an ambassador, a liaison between it and his home world, a sort of cultural attaché. He was allegedly here to study Earthlings and their habits while giving them the chance to learn more about his race.
In reality, he was being punished.
Perhaps it was courage. Perhaps it was sheer animal cunning. Perhaps it was complete idiocy, but he, for reasons he didn’t fully understand himself, had chosen to oppose his home planet’s ruler. He considered himself fortunate to only be banished.
Even more surprising, his secretary, (Sound of an owl at 2.5 times normal speed), known as Virgin Islands Nightingale to the Earthlings, had voluntarily accompanied him.
They had taken up residence in Santa Monica. For two reasons. One: He was fascinated with the ocean. And two: Where else but southern California would the planet’s first aliens live?
As strange as Earth and some of its customs were, Lincoln had to admit he was enjoying it. He especially liked being outside. The air never ceased to amaze him. It was so fresh, so light, so... transparent. Air on (Sound of a worm...) was thick enough to nail a plank to. By comparison, even Los Angeles was pristine.
(Sound of a worm...)ers generally shunned any sort of strenuous exercise since whatever they might inhale while breathing deeply could easily offset the benefits of working up a good sweat.
It was the same with the water. It had taken him weeks to get used to drinking water that didn’t taste like tin. He’d initially been dubious about water you could see through. Now he drank it by the gallon. He couldn’t imagine ever going back.
Collins smiled. “That’s a driver,” he explained indicating the club in the alien’s paw. “You use that club to drive the ball into the fairway.”
Even before being exiled Lincoln had developed a close relationship with Collins.
When the Supreme Leader, (Sound of a crow landing on a chain link fence), had decided to move the entire populace of their home world to Earth, she’d hired Lincoln to sell the idea to the humans.
Collins had been their Earthling spokesperson. They’d considered using one of the planet’s more recognizable political or religious leaders. It hadn’t taken long to realize a certain, sizeable portion of the population was going to instantly reject any of the planet’s foremost citizens simply because they were a political or religious leader. Collins had been chosen because he was the absolutely statistically typical human. Everything about him was completely average. He represented all Earthlings in the most general ways. He was, as nearly as possible, the physically, emotionally, intellectually and spiritually normal human.
That’s assigning a very specific meaning to the word normal. There isn’t really a normal Earthling. There’s only an average of abnormality. Collins had achieved it. There was nothing about him the other Earthlings could object to. Actually, there were hundreds of things but they were all very common things.
Collins had been positioned at the head of world-wide environmental agency called, “The Neighbors” and paid an astronomical fee to convince Earthlings the aliens were environmental refugees who deserved the humans’ sympathy. To prove their sincerity, they’d given him the Otter Bay Golf Course.