#groveling is useless in a writers group

[onbearfeet]

Welp. The video I wrote is doing well, and the character intro I wrote for a casual rp thing with a friend has apparently offended everyone in the game on my first day. I'm gonna walk into the sea now.

[growingstrongorsomething]

1. A Letter to Future Aliens

Original Prompt:

https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/b0pesi/wp_all_humans_on_earth_voted_to_assign_you_the/ “Now, we will turn to New York City, where United Nations assembly are reviewing letters and emails from the shortlisted candidates.”

My family are watching the news stream live from my computer. We lounged about in front of the computer, as it is placed on a coffee table. We aren’t very rich, but I managed to turn a small profit from blogs and Youtube channels. Truth be told, there are also a lot of professional writers, journalists, and philosophers sending their applications. Their names are listed on UN website, and my name is the 1065th.

“Thank you, Azizah. As you can see, the world leaders are busy reviewing the papers. I was told that eloquence of writing isn’t the only prerequisite to be selected. Prospective writers to this letter must also have active participation in aiding the hardcore poor and marginalised communities throughout the whole world.”

“The list will further be shortlisted to fifty best choices, and anyone throughout the whole world are free to vote for the best writer.”

My younger brother lies down on the tiled floor with a huff. “Mom, it’s boring. Why do I have to watch this?”

My mother lightly grabs his head and squeeze it a bit. “So that you know how the world works.”

The wait is filled with speculations by some experts thinking who could be the chosen fifty. Many names are from Africa, some from Europe, and a few from China. I think JK Rowling are also discussed, though I am more surprised that George R.R Martin aren’t included. He’s a sci-fi writer, he should at least be considered.

“The results are in, Azizah. We are now ready to broadcast the names chosen to be voted on by the Earth’s population.”

And the names are read aloud by UN Secretary General Antonio Guterres. He says many names I don’t know about, and a short list of their achievements, which I often see on Facebook or Instagram. The news is getting long, and my mother is already at the kitchen getting some fried banana fritters and black coffee to pass the time.

It took an hour before we turn our heads back to the stream. There has already been thirty names. “And for the thirty first name, we choose Januarius anak Idrus, a citizen of Malaysia. Born in Sabah, he has aided a lot in educating stateless children through the use of wireless connections and even funded internet availability for extremely rural areas.”

They took my bluff! It’s just my grandfather’s village. But my parents are esctatic, hugging me tightly and do I hear a sniffle?

The streaming continues, but my family are already too excited to bother.

“Start writing the letter, son. We will see Januarius name soar across the world!”

“We will help you all we can, but be quick, later people will beat you to it.”

I sleep soundly, too tired to take in the stress. My parents are laughing and loving each other throughout the night.

My younger brother wakes me up the next day. “Jan, jan, wake up!”

“What, why Felis?”

“Newspeople are coming! They want to interview you!”

The journalist is a petite woman. She sits in a single person sofa, comfortable in her seat. I on the other hand, is rummaging through my hair so it will look a bit more presentable.

The interview is embarassing. I barely have anything to say, haven’t researched anything, and worst of all, my face is sagging like rumpled carpet when they took my picture! By the way, what should I write anyway?

“Hello, my name is Maisarah. So, is your name is Januarius bin Idrus?”

“No, it’s Januarius anak Idrus.”

“I would like to ask a few questions. Firstly, how did you knew about the contest to write a letter to the aliens?”

“Well, me and my friends are browsing the internet when one of them, Saiful, shows me a Facebook post. It shows the contest, but I thought it’s a joke. So I write just a generic email and send it to them. World peace, economic equality, less pollution, all the good stuff. I also have to send some resume, so I hope I got at least a job out of it.”

“Will you send the same letter to the aliens, or will you rewrite a new letter?”

“I think I will have to. Apparently NASA does have correspondences with the aliens, but I have no idea what exactly they are offering.”

“Will you be consulting anyone to help with writing this letter?”

“Of course! I have no idea how to start this time. I don’t think I can answer you any more questions, since I haven’t prepared anything yet.”

“That’s alright. Will you let us interview you, next time?”

“Yes, yes please. Please give me a call first.” I wrote down my phone number and give it to her.

Now the problem of what to write is getting bigger in my head. Should I ask for world peace? End of poverty? Beginning of space travel? The silent whirr of my laptop fan might as well be a loud engine hum. Everyone is at work or school, and I am here staring at a blank Word document. Might as well call a friend.

“Hey, Hisham, can I go to your place?”

His place is a school. Not of brick and fresh paint and strong zinc roof. But of throwaway planks and board, lacking paint and old zinc roof with holes here and there. But the school is filled with children singing the alphabet song. Hisham is leading them, his smile shining bright from half a mile away.

I waited until his class is over. Hisham grabs me by the shoulder. “Hey, you have become fatter! How have you been?”

“Been healthier every day. Have you started building new school?”

Hisham leads me to a chair by a table. “We have just contacted a social advocacy group willing to help build one.”

We ate a few fried banana fritters as we chat. Hisham keeps spilling the beans. “Of course, we do have our own money, and have free volunteers too. You want to join?”

I would like to reject, but I haven’t been carpenting for weeks. “I will when I am free. If you are about to start, tell me.”

“Of course. But, what brings you here?”

I don’t know my face is obviously showing when asking for something. “Well, I have been chosen by the UN to write a letter to aliens, asking for help.”

Hisham pours more coffee to his cup. “You know our situation here in Sabah. You should speak about that.”

“But I am representing the Earth, not just Sabah.”

“There are many marginalised people. Stateless, minorities, hardcore poor, culturally oppressed, you name it. I do my little part. You expand it to the whole world.”

The visit is good, but I am not satisfied with the answer I get here. I walk back to my car when a kid is cupping his hands to me. I give her a ringgit. She shouted, and a horde of children suddenly appeared. At least, I still have enough money left for oil.

And now I am staring at the damn blank page. I try typing something. “Dear aliens ...”

No, too darling.

“To aliens of Planet Xenoniah I humbly...”

Eugh, grovelling.

“Greetings to leaders of Planet Xenoniah ...”

Isn’t that too formal? Am I supposed to be formal?

I am about to ram my head to the tabletop, but laptop is in my way. So I move it forward, then introduces head to desk. The pain is fogging my sight even more. Mentally, fortunately. My eyesight is still as clear as it always been without glasses.

Searching Google about child education is quite a chore. Half of it is about how to develop a child’s mind. Which is rather useless as my little brother taught me middle-school level math.  Then I searched about education for stateless and hardcore poor in countries throughout the world.

Many groups are already working on it. One research even shows how older children can help younger children learn English with apps and videos. But there is something missing in all this.

I try to find what the children do or became after they’re adults. There seems to be some classes on entrepreneurship for adults, but they seem to not bring the children in.

The next day, my handphone falls on my head. It should only be a small nuisance, if not for the fact that my handphone is the brick phone Energizer recently launched.

“Hello?” I can feel the heft of my phone on my forehead and cheek.

“Yo, congrats on your short selection! Have you wrote something?”

“Is that Eric over there?” I look at my phone screen. “Of course you are. I have no idea really.”

“Have you tried writing about poverty?”

“Poverty’s too big an issue. Can you be more specific?”

“You know microloans? Try to ask for that.”

“You want me to write a letter so they lend us a hundred dollars?”

My phone erupts with laughter of many people from the other side. “Try that. For the lols.”

“Heh, lol.”

Eric talks some more about how the soup kitchen he is running isn’t actually lacking in potential food waste. But they lack cars or trucks to carry all the leftover food quickly before they become prime source for compost.

“So I should ask for faster than light travel?”

“Wormholes. Something like Doraemon’s As-You-Like Door.” Eric is referring to a door gadget which opens immediately to a new location.

“Well, I try to make it sound formal.”

My parents return home for lunch, as usual. My sister cooked them some chicken in soy sauce and onions. And the vegetables are sauteed cabbage. The smell is heavenly. And the lunch is somewhat calm.

My father breaks the silence. “Have you started writing?”

“Nah, I don’t know what to write.”

My mother swallows her rice. “Try writing for world peace.”

“Isn’t world peace up to us?”

My sister removes the chicken bones from the flesh. “Try asking for a lot of money to pay both sides to be at peace.”

“I don’t know, that makes us look very greedy.”

“You’re saying we aren’t?”

Well, now I have three ideas. Education for marginalised, wormholes, and money.

The next interview with the journalist comes a few days later.

Maisarah points the microphone a bit too close to me. I readjust myself to the back and she gives some distance. “Please tell us what your letter is about.”

“I want to ask for tools to build a type of school.”

“School?”

“Yes, it’s an odd school. Children went there to learn how to read, write, and count, the usual. But adults learn how to do crafts, such as carpentry, weaving, smithing. Some schools may even teach coding and business basics.”

“Don’t we have the same system here?”

“Well, the schools we have now are for the citizens of our countries. There is no infrastructure for the stateless of our countries. There are classes set up by social advocacy groups, but it’s for children and they don’t have enough funds to teach more people. There is no funds to buy tools and supplies to teach adults.”

“So, you want to ask for funding to build schools? Will it be any different from our system now?”

“Yes, for one thing, we receive outside funding, literally! Secondly, the schools are going to be borderless. Any stateless people or hardcore poor can join in from anywhere.”

“Anywhere, even from other countries?”

“Yes.”

“But, how will they travel to the schools?”

“For one thing, we know Planet Xenoniah can make wormholes. Set up some wormhole doors so people can travel from their villages to schools by literally walking a few hundred meters away.”

We don’t watch the final selection on TV, as we are invited cordially to Geneva to witness the event. At the end, the judges decide to compile three most popular letters to one. The end result is this:

“To our friend, the leader of Planet Xenoniah Coalition, Babluk Xinaphah Waristi,

We thank you for your offer of help, and we have prepared with our requests.

Firstly, we ask for wormhole technology, some funding and supplies, to build schools to teach our marginalised people skills and carfts to help them provide their communities with jobs and products.

Secondly, we would like to learn your knowledge on terraforming. We have chosen our first step to be the atmosphere of Venus, while we build Mars to be more Earthlike. Hopefully, we could expand the reach of our species and provide more resources for further advances.

Thirdly, we would like to visit your fine planet and host you. We would like to know how your culture functions and the history.

We thank you again for your aid, and may our alliance blossoms for as long as our civilisations exist.”

For my problem, I get a goodie bag with some Swiss chocolate and kopi luwak. And the letter will be sent by Chris Pratt, aboard a provided spaceship. Unfortunately, he’s just the one to give the letter at a mothership stationed near Jupiter, not the one actually piloting it. That is other people’s job.

I never think about the letter after that day. I am still rather jobless, helping around with social advocacy groups, and sometimes teaching at Hisham’s school. But one day, just as I am watering the plants, there is a sudden flash of light. Hisham steps out of the light, which have transformed to a gate.

“Hey, come! Class is about to begin!”

“You better start paying me.”

“How does RM 3 000 a month sound?”

Well, I have no excuse now. I grab my wallet, phone, and some books. “Let’s go.”