499 Words

Lester Johnson was a man with a dream.

Every night he would perform the same routine:

1) Feed the three dogs and one cat who slept on his porch. His daddy had taught him to take care of those in need, no matter their size or shape.

2) Straighten up the kitchen and living room. His mamma had raised him to be a tidy boy; he would do her memory proud.

3) Brush his teeth, wash his face, and scrub his nails. The girl he'd loved as a teenager had once called him a slob, and said that’s why she wouldn’t date him.

4) Crawl into bed and switch out the light. He didn't know who taught him that. But it musta been someone.


Lester Johnson was a creature of others' creation. He was a good man, walked the straight and narrow all the time. He tied his shoelaces and buttoned his shirts. He went to church every Sunday and held open the door for the matrons and young ladies alike. Lester Johnson woke up at 7:15 every morning. Every Tuesday he went to the grocery store. He worked nine hours a day at a local toothpaste factory, and wasn't ever late. Lester Johnson ate a good dinner, and sometimes had visitors, but usually he ate alone. Every Friday he went to the bar and drank two beers and listened to the other men discuss sports. He never said much, unless to repeat what someone had said to him.

There was nothing to dislike about Lester Johnson.

Nobody could stand him.

Nobody knew about Lester Johnson's dream.

Nobody but Lester Johnson.

Every night after he turned off the light, Lester Johnson wondered if he would have the dream again. Lester Johnson knew it was wrong, and he knew he shouldn't love it, and he knew he should tell a doctor or a priest about it. But somehow, whenever there was an appropriate time, Lester Johnson would forget. He'd go to confessional each Saturday and say good morning, Father, and I have sinned, Father; but when he listed his sins, he never mentioned the dream. It was a sinful dream. He wanted to be forgiven for it. He wanted to stop dreaming such a terrible dream.

He was addicted.

Every night, as soon as that deep breath of sleep took him, Lester Johnson would dream. The dream was always the same. In Lester Johnson’s dream, the town fire alarm would go off. There was no fire, but all the townspeople would come running outside, anyway. They were all naked, and they all looked the same – no hair, no scars, no private parts. Just carbon copy bodies with different heads. They would scream, each looking to the other because nobody knew what to do without being told, naked chickens all in a row. Only Lester Johnson wore clothes. Only Lester Johnson knew what to do:

He took out his rifle, and he shot them all.

In his sleep, Lester Johnson smiled.

Due to disastrous laziness, I also have not completed a story for this evening. Instead, feast your eye-like appendages on an unfinished story I wrote like two years ago.

Jim and the alien.

Jim was in bed when the alien came. The ship landed silently in his back yard, utterly destroying a years-work worth of credenzas. The alien woke Jim by telepathically sending him signals telling him not to fear the strange and wonderful alien creature that was about to appear, and then violently punching him in the stomach.

“Greetings, squishy.” Said the alien in an unmistakably British accent.

“Ackghh,” replied Jim, clutching at his bruised and admittedly squishy stomach.

After regaining his breath, Jim gazed up at his extraterrestrial attacker. The alien was covered entirely in a metal suit with glowing bits that just seemed to be there for decoration. This made Jim wonder if he was dealing with an alien or a robot.

“Even if I was a robot, I’d still be an alien,” replied the alien to Jim’s thought. Jim decided not to think too much anymore.

“Well, squishy,” began the alien. “What is it that you call yourself?”

“Jim”

“Hmmm… Jim-Jiiiimmm. Jim?” The alien tried the name aloud, producing syllables that Jim was sure were impossible.

“I don’t like it. I think I will call you r².”

“Well I rather prefer Jim.”

“I should think that as I am the one who is forced to produce the necessary sound waves, that I should be able to decide what they are,” replied the alien curtly.

“Oh… all right then,” Jim said dejectedly, as he was not one for nicknames.

“Now r², you may be wondering why it is I have come across the incalculably large vastness of space to your humble living box?”

“It honestly hadn’t crossed my mind.”

“Well let me tell you!” the alien said, ignoring Jim. “I have come across the vast recesses of space in order to make you a remarkable offer.”

“Of what?” Jim asked apprehensively.

“On this, of course!” replied the alien. “This magnificent property you have.”

Jim looked around his house. It was easy to do because it was all one room. His kitchen consisted of a microwave next to a toaster oven and his bed folded up into the wall. His bathroom was located next door, outside the truck stop. The walls were an ugly lime color, which Jim had later found out was not, in fact, paint, but a mostly harmless fungus. For tax reasons it was classified as a shed.

“I honestly hadn’t considered selling it,” said Jim, slowly.

“Oh but you must!” The alien cried. “It is such prime real-estate. Not too far from the interstellar turnpike yet scenic enough to enjoy a clear sky, free of starships.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it like that before.” Said Jim, for once feeling some attraction to the house that was slowly giving him cancer. “ I guess those are nice features.”

“And that’s not even to mention its 220,000 miles of coastline!”

“Umm, excuse me?” said Jim, sitting up in his bed.

“Oh, and the mountains,” gushed the alien. “ I’ve never seen such beautiful mountains. All the ones on my planet have been ground down into fuel, but not these. Oh, it’s so relaxing.”

“Wait, hold on. Do you mean to say that you want this whole planet?” said Jim quickly, trying to get a hold on the situation.

“Why of course, you silly squishy. What else could I have possibly meant? Certainly not something as insignificant as this flimsy structure? That’s ridiculous.” The alien laughed at his own whimsical musing. It reminded Jim of the noise that was made when his neighbor’s Pomeranian had bit into a power cord and was electrocuted. Any pride Jim had begun to feel for his dwelling was immediately dashed into innumerable pieces. He slumped back in bed as the alien went on and on about the wonders of his planet.

“Obviously,” the alien continued. “I’m willing to offer well above galactic asking price.”

“Look, Mr. Alien… Metal… Thing,” began Jim. “I would love to help you but the earth isn’t mine to sell.” The alien, behind the entirety of its metal suit, still managed to look dejected.

“Are you sure?” it asked, disappointment heavy in its voice. Jim had to think about it for a minute.

“Yes, yes I suppose it really wouldn’t do for me to sell it.”

“I was so sure that this was the owner’s location.” then, brightening up again, “well would you please direct me to where I might find him?”

“Well, that might also be a problem. I mean no one really owns the earth, we all just sort of share it.”

“Ah, so you’re Communists. Well if that’s the case, then you should have a leader of some sort.”

“Well, I suppose that would be the President but he doesn’t-“

“Splendid!” cried the alien. “Tell me where I may find him.”

“He’s in the White House,” Jim said confidently.

“Which one?” asked the alien.

“Uhh…” Jim thought for a moment. “The big one?”

“Talking is such a wasteful activity,” grumbled the alien. “I’m sure you know where it is somewhere in there. It’s nothing a little old fashioned telepathy won’t solve.” With that, the alien forcefully grabbed Jim by the face. The room began to spin as his mind was jostled about by none too gentle hands. He cringed with the pain of what felt like two electrodes shorting out right behind his eyes. For a second, everything tasted purple, and then Jim blacked out.

***************************************************

Under construction.

Due to the disastrous crashing of my computer, I have nothing complete to offer for this week's idea. However, I do have an offering to tide over the ravenous appetites of the authors that be. It will be concluded at a later date.

The Jerovian Debate

The election in Jerova was a breach in the usual electoral structure. The former Great Jeroon, a demagogue with a tendency towards drinking, made an unprecedented decision to retire from office, rather than serving, as is customary, until death. The two contestants seeking the abandoned title were Jekrov’al, renowned for his necromancy and neologism, and Jerlav’el, a virago with an obsessive love for bunny rabbits. Already, tensions were at an all-time low in Jerova: the entrance of these thespians onto the political scene propelled the country into a vapid atmosphere as thick as jee soup. People were avidly seeking to avoid their jobs so to stay home and sleep; and accounts of malingering among the work force took a sharp rise. The Jextras were called out in full force to fulfill their vicarious duties- Jerova had entered its standard electoral slump. Unfortunately, Mr. Jekrov’al and Mme. Jerlav’el were not your average prudent, boring speakers. Both were deprecated for their articulacy; Jerkov’al had an uncomfortably exciting appearance similar to that of a cadaver, while Jerlav’el generally sported fuzzy pink bunny-patterned breeches and a bombastic personality. Oh no, it was not to be a standard election at all.

(to be cont'd.)


Peony the perspicacious pig played a pristine tune.
She played with pertinacity from dawn to dusk to noon.
But Pono, the phantasm pooch, with proud ears in a point,
Felt piqued by P’ony’s pretty tune when he passed by her joint.
For Pono’s philistine persona proclaimed that he should hold
A prickle for philanthropists- and P’ony was of that mold.
So Pono pounded passively upon Peony’s door;
He was piled with pervasion to be rude and nothing more.
“Why Pono, what a pleasure!” came Peony’s pretty voice.
“How perfect my perimeters are your peripatetic choice.”
“Pray practice punctuality,” Pono pronounced with a sneer.
“For practically a paragraph have I been pacing here!”
But P’ony merely smiled at the persnickety pup;
For Parakeet and Piebald, at that moment, did pop up.
Said Parakeet to Piebald, “Must that puppy persevere
“In performing such pathetic acts for everyone to hear?
“They say he’s a philanderer, unpleasant as can be
“But a poor, phlegmatic countenance is all he’s proved to me!”