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.