Concept Art Writing Prompt: The Night The Aliens Got Wasted

Illustration for article titled Concept Art Writing Prompt: The Night The Aliens Got Wasted

In this week's writing prompt, the aliens pull up to the bar and they don't leave until they're good and drunk. What story will you tell about these booze-guzzling extraterrestrials?


Artist Rafael Vallaperde created Ten Drunk Aliens for a CG Society challenge. If you're curious about his process, you can watch him develop the piece in the video below:

As always, we invite you to come up with a story inspired by this picture and post it in the comments. Happy writing!


Lauren Davis

When Prixmal said they were going to a human bar, Hunxhal was actually pretty excited. He'd been to a human bar once, a place where he'd slurped slivers of fish and sipped hot rice wine poured from carafes into tiny porcelain cups. It had been a perfectly pleasant experience, one that Hunxhal looked forward to replicating.

But human bars on Juhosh were different than the ones on Kleekar, apparently. Prixmal and Garth shoved Hunxhal down on a sticky stool inside a neon-lit room that reeked of salt and citrus. "This is a human bar?" Hunxhal asked dubiously.

"Sure is," Prixmal waved a hand at the bartender. "They got bars like this all over Sol, don't they, Tiny?" A heavyset man behind the bar nodded before plucking a bottle of golden liquid from the shelf. "Tiny's Garth's cousin," Prixmal added.

Hunxhal harrumphed in reply. Garth's family had a homestead on Ganymede, right in the heart of human civilization. Still, he didn't recognize the stuff that filled the small glasses in front of him. He sniffed, feeling the alcohol burn his nostrils. "What is this?"

"It's called tequila," Prixmal said, slapping him on the back. "Traditional human drink."

"Not synthetic, neither," said Garth, picking up one of the glasses. "Tiny managed to get an agave crop going in the Mimimo's hydro bay."

Hunxhal frowned, wondering which would hurt more by the end of the night: his head or his credit account. But when he tipped back the tequila, it sent a warm and pleasant feeling through his body. "Okay," he admitted. "This is a drink."

Garth taught them a drinking ritual that involved salt and a wedge of green citrus, and three shots into the night Prixmal plopped a giant hat on top of Hunxhal's head.

Hunxhal patted his head, feeling the sheer volume of it. "What in Borogat's Mouth is this."

Prixmal grinned at him. His eyelids had drifted so close together that his eyes were nearly slits, lit by the pink and blue lights. "Traditional human hat," he said, and then added a lazy chuckle.

Hunxhal flicked a finger against his friend's forehead. "You even seen a human, Prix?" he asked.

Prixmal pushed his cheeks together between his hands. "Sure. Squished-up faces. Hair everywhere. That's why they have to wear those hats, to hide all that ugly hair."

Hunxhal shook his head, but he was smiling. He felt a slight pressure on his sub-bladder and decided it was time to relieve himself. But when he stood, he felt the room swirl around him. "Damn human booze," he muttered before he began coughing. Before he had a chance to cover his lips, a mouthful of liquor—now sticky and acidic—escaped onto the bar.

Garth hooted in surprise. Tiny swore. Prixmal just traced a finger through the gooey mess before saying, "I'm pretty sure this is traditional, too."