Category: Short Stories

I know it’s long past the Xmas season, and I also know many of you did not enjoy it as much as in those halcyon pre-2020 days. But here to cheer you up is a story by the wonderful BEULAH LEE HARRIS, winner of last year’s MEGASAGA competition. I hope you enjoy it.

It was a magical time in Little Hampton,  even though snow had yet to make an appearance.  Evergreen winter shrubs bloomed and Christmas lights that adorned shop windows and hung from cottage gutter hooks added a riot of colour.
       Shop owners in their annual show of Christmas spirit, dropped their prices and the pub extended its happy hour to two hours.  There seemed to be a Father Christmas on every street handing out sweets to the children.  The church youth choir was out singing carols every day and even the grumpiest of villagers got into the spirit and sang along. Pop-up stalls sold mince pies, Christmas cakes and cellophane-wrapped biscuits and chocolates.
            The youngest of the village children were on their best behavior, not fighting or snatching sweets from each-other.  They were minding their manners and eating all their food, even yucky cabbage, and going to bed on time.  If they heard a noise outside or thought they saw a shadow at the window, they did not call out for their parents.  They went back to sleep, happy in the knowledge that it was just Wee Willie Winkie checking on them, and they were being very good.

Yes, it was a magical time – until two weeks before Christmas, the thieving started.  One man had his wallet lifted when shopping for gifts in the market, the florist had her till emptied when she nipped out the back to pick foliage, and Sister Annie, the Headmistress at the Convent School was dismayed that the nuns reported a break in.  Nothing of monetary value had been stolen, for the nuns had very little, but the intruders had taken some food from their fridge, a rosary, and a few books.  An elderly couple who often forgot to lock their doors, awoke to find their cookie jar of rainy-day coins and a leather jacket missing.
            The coffee shop was a buzz of indignant and excited chatter.  Who would be thieving in their village?  Who was new to the area?  No-one knew.  Better be extra careful about locking doors and windows!
            ‘Let’s not put our Christmas presents under the tree this year,’ Mrs Allan cautioned. ‘Thieving bastards might nick those too!’
            ‘I never do,’ Mrs Brown replied, her jolly face wobbling with laughter. ‘Our Billy would shake them all broken, scallywag that he is!’
            ‘Nobody could break into our house,’ Mrs Scott smugly said. ‘My George is a locksmith and our house is burglar proof.  You might want to get him in for a quotation, you know.  Not too expensive.

In the early hours of the next morning, the Christmas thieves were sitting on a rug, cozy and warm next to their log fire, unwrapping parcels.
            ‘Ooh, look at this!’ One thief exclaimed holding up a set of earrings. ‘I wonder if these are real diamonds?’
            ‘Here’s an envelope,’ another thief said. ‘Bound to be money in it.’   The card was tossed into the fire and the fifty pounds stashed with the rest of their cash behind a loose brick. 
            The thieves unwrapped a twelve year old bottle of Glen Fiddich, which they drank while they unwrapped the rest of their haul.  Socks, scarves, chocolates, a tin of toffees, and a soap-on-the-rope.  They then went through the canvas bag of other goods they had lifted from the same house:  Two silver candlestick holders, an old pocket watch,  a set of binoculars, a small crystal vase and a wallet containing one hundred and seventy-five pounds and some change. Not bad for one nights work!
Mrs Scott looked rather sheepish the next morning when she met her acquaintances in the coffee shop.
            ‘Know anyone who makes burglar guards for windows?’ She asked. ‘Those thieving bastards cut a hole in the window, just like you see on the telly. Right professionals!’

The already angry community were outraged when poor old Jeff Coggins got hurt one night.  He was woken by his Pomeranian barking.  He got out of bed, went through to the lounge and saw someone creeping out of the door with a bag of goods.  He shouted and gave chase but slipped, twisting his ankle and bumping his head.
            ‘Can’t identify the fellow,’ Jeff told the police. ‘All hooded up from what I could see of him.’
            The chief of police and his three constables were flummoxed – not a finger print to be found.  Scott the locksmith did a roaring trade, as did the alarm company he recommended for a fat conmmission..  

The night before Christmas eve, the thieves noticed an anonymous cottage, one they had not noticed before, on the outskirts of the village. It was half hidden by large firs. No sign of an alarm, no burglar guards.  Unless there was a little yapper inside, this little house was ripe for the picking.

Stealthily,  expertly they let themselves in through a window and the house was plucked clean.
            When they returned the thieves sat on the rug next to their log fire, anticipating unwrapping the parcels.
            ‘I think I know whose house we just robbed,’ one thief said, taking a credit card out of a wallet. ‘J.S. Jones…isn’t that the name of that weird woman, the clairvoyant?’
            ‘Clairvoyant, you say?’
            ‘Mm.’ The thief tossed the empty wallet aside. ‘Ah, great, an envelope!  A nice, fat one too…’
            ‘Stop!’
            ‘Why?’ The thief ripped open the envelope and peered inside. ‘What’s this?  Looks like -’
 Those were last words ever spoken in that little house as a massive explosion ripped through the room. The fire was intense, and by the time the fire brigade got there, the cottage had all but burnt to the ground. There were no survivors.
            Everyone was shocked to the core, even the bomber.  It was only supposed to be a small explosion, one that would hurt or maim perhaps, but not kill.  There was nothing she could or would do about it now, though.  What was done was done.
            The Christmas thieves and their robberies were forgotten as the devastating explosion was all anyone could think or talk about.  A forensic investigation took place and it soon came out that the explosion was caused by a letter bomb.  All but one in the community were utterly baffled. Who on earth would want to harm two sweet nuns?

            
END

Beulah is a master of the explosive ending, and was Roald Dahl. Her collection of Short Stories is growing… 

Illustration: Carol Morgan

Two stories on the topic of LOVE

…because LOVE is all that stands between us and them. Between the Devil and the deep blue meanies. Because Lil’ Hipsy said she wanted to write something about Love, and I said, crazy! Me too. The rules: 1,000 words only! One day to write it, one to edit. So here are both of them!

IF YOU have a good short Story, 1,000 – 2,000 words on the theme of LOVE SAVES email it to me and if it’s good enough, I’ll publish it here!

STORY 1

DEAR EARTH

By LORNA MALAN (Lil’ Hipsy!)

The letter you hold within your hand will have come to you in many different ways, the content of this letter will have first created within you a deep feeling that you cannot at first explain, it will “tug at your heart strings” ( a phrase I learnt while observing you for some 30 years) thereafter you will wonder, doubt will start forming and conspiracy will be the ‘reason’ for some 8 billion people receiving the same letter. It does not entirely matter what you think, I only ask that you read it until the end. 

My name is Squish and whilst I sit watching my class full of yungins learn the very complexities of your planet, I think back to the year I was sent on an experimental mission from my galaxy to yours. They never sent the ‘big thinks’ on these types of missions, as much as my elders tried to make me feel important, I knew it was only because I was a ‘small think’ and they had no other use for me.

My genetic make-up was different and I had what you would call an ‘under developed brain’ – what they didn’t know though and the very reason I am writing this to you is that , that mission changed the course of the lives of so many ‘little thinks’ for eternities to come and I feel I need to return the favour, by uncovering the paramount essence you hold, however blanketed by the concrete weight of how you in fact lack ‘little thinks’ , the funny thing is that you are capable of both little and big thinks all at once, you are extraordinary and I hope this letter helps you in some way, to separate the rush from the river that runs so deep within you and that you remember the one thing that now has an entire mission named after it, from another world, with what you call aliens inhabiting it.

First of all, we are not the silly looking beings you think we are, I laughed so much hearing all your conspiracy stories and reading books or watching films where you depict us as, quite frankly very scary looking creatures, gosh I too hope there isn’t that sort of reality out there. The only real difference between us is that we are much shorter than you, a little more flexible and most of us have access to both sides of our brains, yes you got it, the ‘little thinks’ well we don’t, so it makes us much like you but even you have more brain power than a ‘little think.’ We also don’t quite die, we only age enough to become elders and we fall asleep only to wake up some hundred years later having regenerated. It’s a whole warped story and I still find it somewhat weird.

Many of us roam Earth, we have one other ‘super power’- we cannot be seen by you, somehow your mind blocks us out, maybe it’s not so much us that have this so called super power but it’s you that is able to sort reality from what you call delusion, very few earthlings have been able to spot us and when they do, they go entirely bonkers. It’s not really good for them because they end up in much trouble with their fellow earthlings, some even locked away, I’ve cried for nights on end watching this happen, little thinks are particularly empathic. 

I was sent here at the age of 10 to watch and observe your behaviour, the elders were particularly interested in how you held the capacity of little and big thinks at once without having full access to your brain. I didn’t quite understand my task but I knew that I wasn’t going back home from the way my poor mum cried. I was an outcast but even still I had a job for my planet and that was to relay information that could help our world grow. Just by my thoughts, they received that information instantly.

I started off by learning the very many different languages, cultural behaviours and religious ethics you hold, as a small think, everything was somewhat confusing in the beginning, I couldn’t understand the way you made many insignificant things such big thinks. I knew from then, I really never wanted to be a big think at all. I learnt your behavioural patterns, your emotions, how they coincided but I knew what your trouble was soon enough and I did this by remaining who I was – a little think. 

It started off one day as I sat in the rain and felt it pounding on my skin, it was a beautiful feeling, I saw how other earthlings enjoyed it too, some sat smiling, others crying, some jumping in puddles with those funny looking shoes that grew up their legs, some twirling around and singing, some couples touching lips with each other, later I found out this was called kissing and of course others shying away from it with umbrellas, some rushing to get under cover, some swearing their gods for this downpour. 

On a different day, I sat in the heat of the summer sun, as a small think it was much easier for me to take in the ‘smaller’ details, I searched for a word to describe how it felt to have the warmth of your sun penetrate me and the smell of the air whilst little creatures roamed around spilling magical dust on flowers as I watched them grow and bloom, I saw how they made earthlings happy too, I watched how some would pick flowers and at first I was enraged until I saw them smiling and passing it over to their significant other, causing another bloom that created the perfect colours surrounding them, I couldn’t as a small think quite place what exactly this feeling was called, it bothered me to extremities and I set out on a mission to keep observing the little thinks earthlings had until I could place it, until I could find a word that matched it.

I found myself visiting places where your elders’ gathered children who had no parents, those who had suffered a great deal and needed shelter from much of the harsh realities of your world, only because that concrete weight you carried around on your shoulders, overpowered this magic within you. I saw these children being held by people they didn’t know and hearing their heartbeats slow to a rhythm of bliss, I could feel their hearts relaxing into what you call safety and finally content. I watched them play and sing, embrace one another and grow. These little thinks they had started growing on me. 

I visited many different homes and observed patterns, some weren’t as lovely as others but in every situation I encountered with earthlings, they had these small thinks that changed everything, while they had very big thinks too, it was clear to me that big thinks is what drew them away from little thinks but through it all they seemed to find a way pull through some dark places, ones that left them dreary and sad. 

I had started jotting them down as I got older because I couldn’t quite keep track anymore. I had a little blue spotted diary with Squishy written on it, given to me by my mum if I had trouble forgetting. She told me little thinks generated a malfunction when they came of a certain age but that writing helped with memory. 

Here are a few extracts:

*An aged lady crossed the road today but she was certain to meet her fate if a young gentlemen hadn’t run up to help her with her cart. She smiled at him and told him to be blessed by God, her aged face turned young when her smile reached her eyes. 

*A mother caresses her yungin after a tumble and kisses her little foot chanting “mommy’s kisses make the booboos go away” the yungin believes her and smiles, tears still visible but again I hear the rhythm of the yungings heart as it slows down to this feeling the mother passes on.

*A young man pushes his wife in chair with wheels because she cannot walk, he speeds around the corner with her and she laughs hysterically…they go on to singing a song about never getting old and never dying young. How complex. That feeling is there again. 

* Men come off flying saucers dressed in a strange green, to meet their wives and yungins, they cry, they smile, the wives jump into the men’s arms, the kids hold up little cards and they walk off into their own sunset. Their heart rhythms speak to me again.

* A blind man pets his overly hairy dog as it licks his hand then guides it to where he needs to find the thick paste, he is looking for to put on his white squared food piece, the man smiles and again I feel the rhythm of both their hearts. This feeling is becoming more intense.

*They are putting a child into the ground, he is no longer of beating heart, he has died, this is unfamiliar to me. I watch how people cry, their eyes don’t stop overflowing with tears, the mother puts her hand on the casket, lays a single white rose across it and utters “what is grief, if not love persevering” in her mind it is a quote she knows and holds close and for the first time she uses it and utters “my dear soul, I wish I had written those words but today I say unto you, the memory of your most beautifully intense and energetic love will be what saves me. Rest now my child”

It was right there, right in that moment I knew, that the word I had been searching for to match every rhythm I felt, was “love”. It was always love that persevered, it was love that stopped hearts from combustion as they sped up from anguish or fear. It was love that held families together, it was love that made children believe in magic, it was love that made earthlings kinder, it was love that bonded animals with people, it was love that set young adults out to accomplish dreams and in the same way it was love that was there to pick them up if they didn’t. It was love that kept people holding on when they could have let go, it was those that held so much love within that they could make those who saw the harsher side of this world believe in love again. 

This was the biggest think I had ever encountered as a small think and in that moment, I woke up laying in my mums’ arms while she smiled at me, her own aged eyes filled with tears and in that very moment I whispered to her ” It’s love mama, love saves.” 

Years passed and my story was in every classroom. I wrote a book about love; I taught the elders and went on to become the Ketas first little think to have amalgamated little thinks into a big think and change the course of the world we knew. I took yungins on missions to earth several times to experience the rhythms I had once felt from heart beats, to see the way their little thinks meant so much more than their big thinks. 

I grew old and as my time came closer, I became a teacher. I sit here knowing you’re about to receive this letter. I also sit here knowing my time as a great elder is to come and I’ve chosen to spend it on earth so that I too may utter the words “what is grief if not love persevering” and die as one should, having known it was love who saved me too. 

Squish

STORY 2

Love Saves

Bert Love was forty-three when he realised he was dead. It wasn’t a sudden realisation; he had been carrying on much as usual. Tuesday had followed Wednesday, then came Monday exactly as before. Then, he had slowly become aware that something wasn’t quite right.

He checked the calendar. ‘Mildred!’ He called down the hall. ‘Come here a minute won’t you?’ A door opened further down the corridor and out she came, his eminently blowsy spouse of thirty years. ‘What now,’ she groaned grumpily. ‘I’m in the middle of making gruel. It’s not a good time to disrupt.’

‘Mildred darling dear, corruption of my fetishes!’ Both enjoyed inventing bizarre affectionate aphorisms. ‘Blinding spire of my erections, I beg you: what day is it?’

‘Why,’ she said, ‘most banal and beatific of  Berts, it’s the day before yesterday as it always is. Which is the day before the day before that!’

‘But’, said the Bert, ‘fustian feather of the Finnish forests, potato of the pines, surely by that, time is going backwards?’

‘Oh somnolent sweet sibilant symphony of the seas, exactly right! Have you not heard of that universal tautologous truism, that secret of the spheres – that explains all, encapsulates all, sums the whole of everything in a few words?’

With that she floated up to him, so that her whispering mouth approached his shellish ear. ‘There is,’ she whispered, ‘Life after death!’

‘Really!’ Bert scoffed. ‘anomalous amateur, how bland and bibulous! How often have I visited All, and his sibling, Sundry Religious, every brand your baffled brain may consider, from the Cross-eyed to the Jubilists, from the Brotha to the I Slams, the Jades, the Hind Quarters and even the Bar, hi! Each one, dearest desecrator of delirium, says this: ‘Behold there is Life After Breath! Trust me and it shall be yours. Quoth Erat Demon Stratum!’’

 ‘How nearly! How Almost!’ Mildred cried, clapping her hands in glee. ‘I almost believed ALL of them, till I died!’

‘Pardon?’ For once Bert was baffled. ’What? Why do you say that? Hark! Art dead my love? Or mad in the head? Yet here you are, grinding gruel, boiling beans, burning breakfast as is ever my want! The dead hath no breakfast making powers. Surely! Perfect pudding of a patient partner. Or surely I could not see and hear you as clear as clear?’

‘Ah,’ sighed the woman spectrally. ‘dearest Bert Love. And were you not dead too, you could not.’

Bert swallowed. This information was entirely shocking to him. Only little ago, he was shaking his head, laughing uproariously as he leapt from the roof of the building! Hang on, perhaps that was a clue.

Wait. Just wait. With a horny hand, he reached deeply into his memory. And this is what he found.

*                 *                 *                 *

It was a cloudy day in late May, when Bert Love received the letter. He wasn’t often in receipt of letters. As Network Manager for Grace Notes plc, almost every communication he received was electronic. His life was interspersed with bits and bytes, and pieces of paper were rare. 

         At first he set it aside, rather as a curiosity or something precious to be enjoyed at  leisure, once he had finished setting up the Quondam database for the Sales Team. It was a big job but one he found interesting, and let’s face it, fun. 

         Yet his eyes strayed continually from his screen to the envelope lying next to the keyboard. Fascinating. A hand-addressed envelope. A stamp! Not quite straight and square on the whiteness of the top right hand corner which displayed the Queen’s head as if she was still going strong, still in charge of something. Royal Mail. 

         ‘Mr A Love

         IT Manager

         Grace Notes Ltd

         Albermarle Crescent

         London WC2 5LG’

         Three mistakes. It should read Network Manager. The Company was plc not Ltd. It couldn’t be official. It wasn’t notice to quit. Or a lottery win. And only his mother called him Albert. To everyone else he was Bert.

         Perhaps he should open it.

         No! Still the Database design called! Integrating the advertising, monetising the Social Media responses, ensuring all the formulas worked – – ! Wait. Wait till lunch break.

*           *                 *                 *

They crowded gawping in horror at the mess on the street. Blood, cloth, snapped bones. Some looked up at the horrified faces looking down from the Grace Notes’ cafeteria balcony on the twelfth floor. Somebody’s shaking fingers dialled 999. Somebody shaking fingers prised the note from the hard-clamped fingers.

                   *                 *                 *                 *

‘I perceive you might be right, my sprite, my flight of glee. Seems I am dead! How did this come to be?’

Mildred sighed phlegmatically. ‘Twas the note I wrote’ quoth she.

‘Twere yours! Those words scrawled upon paper – your paws!’ He sputtered. 

‘How sad,’ she said, ‘That a mere jest could break your head. And mine!’

‘I recall….’ Quoth he, ‘Culled in our prime!’

*           *                 *                 *

Extract from the Evening Standard, 15^th May 2023

“….A lovers’ lunch date ended in tragedy this afternoon as both Mr Albert Love (34) and his wife Mildred (30) met a terrible end in  Albermarle Crescent this afternoon. Witnesses describe how they saw Mr Love (33) waving frantically from the twelfth-floor balcony of the staff restaurant, apparently trying to get the attention of his wife who was passing by on the street below. Beano Jobson, a window-cleaner on an adjacent building described what happened. ‘He was laughing his head off, shouting down to her to gain her attention. Then she saw him and looked up and exactly at that moment, he lost his hold and fell twelve floors, straight onto the head of his missus. She didn’t have a chance!’

*           *                 *                 *

Here be the note, saved by me from the cold dead fingers: “Dear Bert, See! I can still write! If you get this, let’s do lunch! I’m in the West End this afternoon! You say where! Big xxx Mildread”

IF YOU have a good short Story, 1,000 – 2,000 words on the theme of LOVE SAVES email it to me and if it’s good enough, I’ll publish it here!

CONGRATULATIONS TO EVERYONE ON THE SHORTLIST!

Just to get to the shortlist is an excellent achievement! You can be truly proud of having impressed our four cynical judges with the quality of your writing, your imagination and your bravery in sending us your wonderful stories.

Before I announce the winners, here’s that shortlist – with names, this time! If you have not yet done so, you can read their stories here: http://jonelkon.com/the-shortlist-2/

JUNIOR

WANAWI JENJE for your stories LITTLE WORLD BIG CHILD, VENGEANCE’S BITTER CONFECTION and PECULIARLY STRANGE WORLD

LIHLE NDODA for GRANNY IS SICK

CALVIN KAMPHINDA for RAINY PANDEMIC

SENIOR

PAVLOVA MAHARAJ for BLEEDING HEART

BEULAH LEE HARRIS for BERTIE’S, MORNING 

SHAUN HARRIS for TSUNAMI

GRIGOR HINES for (Untitled)

AND THE WINNERS ARE: 

For the JUNIOR prize of £25, the Judges eventually chose WANAWI JENJE’s ‘VENGEANCE’S BITTER CONFECTION. Wanawi has such a sure, confident touch and a honed style that it was difficult to choose between the three stories submitted, but eventually this one made it to the top of the pile – despite the excellence of the competition. This is a young writer who will, I am absolutely certain, become a major success. 

For the SENIORS’ £100 PRIZE finally BEULAH HARRIS’ undoubted quality could be ignored no longer. While I have read many of her excellent stories, which always have a sting in the tail, the judges hadn’t and didn’t know the names of the writers. All her stories submitted have the quality and feel of some of the best short story writers, including Roald Dahl and even classic writers like F Scott Fitzgerald and O Henry. The winning story was MORNING, even though in a way the reveal does not have the sting of some of her others. ‘Not enough blood!’ one said. Nevertheless, the Judges agreed that it was wholly unexpected and the lead-in was masterly. Beulah is an immensely talented writer who, if there is any justice, will make her name in this difficult game.

WINNERS

The winners were asked for a profile, and a picture. Here they are:

WANAWI JENJE winner of the Junior section of MEGASAGA 4 2021!

I am Wanayi Jenje, I reside in Johannesburg, South Africa and am currently schooling at The National School of Arts. I am a bibliophile with an undying passion for literature and art. I enjoy baking and playing violin. I especially have a knack for analysing people’s thoughts and behaviour, mostly fictional characters (I really wouldn’t want people to think of me as creepy). In my free time I avoid human contact, read and analyse books and write as much as I can. I have no vivid memory of when I began writing, but I know it was all sparked by my 7th grade play script and English teacher. I aspire to become as influential and expressive as I possibly can through my writing, and hope to evoke reactions and thoughts from a large audience. 

BEULAH LEE HARRIS – winner of the Senior Section £100 MEGASAGA4 COMPETITION 2021

I live in a small fishing village that has to have the kindest and most helpful community.  I spend a lot of time on my laptop, the view beyond  my screen is ocean wherever you look and this time of year, whales jumping right out of the water.  It’s a soothing inspiration to write by!  I am 57 years young, am married and share my passion for writing with my husband, Shaun, who is an award winning financial journalist. Between us, we have 5 children and 4 grandchildren.
I have spent most of my career in the recruitment industry and work with my sister, who is also my best friend, who has her own agency. I have also worked for the Sunday Times in advertising sales and did some freelance feature writing and advertorials.  Writing has been something I have been doing all my life, as cliche as that may sound.  I remember being so proud in junior primary when my poems adorned the classroom wall.  I still have all my certificates for creative writing, and although I was a tiny, insecure little mouse, when I was on that stage reciting my work, I shone!  Writing was my world fifty years ago and it still is.
The lyrics of one of my songs has been produced by BlackByrd and it was quite the hit here in South Africa about  7 years ago.
  I have a following on my own Facebook page of short story ‘groupies’ who truly are an inspiration as it is so rewarding to write for them.  Once again, based on one of my short stories, I am writing my second novel.

The best stories from MEGASAGA 4

CAN YOU PICK THE WINNERS?

Dear readers and writers

Here they are at last! Choosing the best out of the many many entries has been a huge task. This year for the first time ever we have added a Junior Division and entries flooded in – most of them from South Africa, which makes me very happy. In fact, the seniors were vastly outnumbered, leaving us (the Judges) faced with a massive decision: the playing field was no longer fair. How could one possibly award just one prize? Hence the decision to add a special extra £25 prize – approx R493 for younger writers. The Senior winner still gets the £100 promised (R1975 at current rates)

READ the stories and the comments. This year I won’t put the author’s names with the stories, until Thursday afternoon. That way people can judge the stories as they stand, and not the person who wrote them. Did you know that the Metropolitan Opera in New York – or is it the NY Symphony orchestra- makes people who are auditioning play their instruments behind a curtain? That’s what we are doing here!

WINNERS TO BE ANNOUNCED ON 27th JULY

MAKE COMMENTS BELOW! WHICH IS THE BEST JUNIOR? SENIOR? WHY? Are the judges right or wrong?

KEEP AN EYE ON THIS POST. THERE WILL BE UPDATES ALL THE WAY TO THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE WINNERS

JUNIOR

Little world, Big child.

Sam’s head was in the clouds, literally. His long giant legs caused chaos in the world beneath him and he had not known this. All he could see, was the entrancing rainbow with different skin shades on.

Yet, with every thunderous leap he took, the ground shook. Litter on the street flew up, and fell into the surrounding trash cans, trucks filled with library books and fresh loaves of bread fell to the ground in front of the homeless people and the eager children who ran and seized the opportunity.

However, Sam was just a boy.

Jon says: the vocabulary, the descriptive writing is excellent – we had nno choice other than to include this on the Shortlist. Hard to believe this is written by a youngster! I predict a great writing future for you.

JH: Delightful and whimsical. Reminds me of Roald Dahl. Like the unexpected reversal of the universal order in the title.  Also enjoyed the last sentence. The author has flair and sense of style.

Only criticism is the clumsy “entrancing rainbow with different skin shades on”

L: I absolutely love this story however the writer has left a contradiction (in my terms) by using the word “literally” in the beginning. This would have been my favourite story if it didn’t leave me a little confused. Is Sam literally a giant in the clouds as “literally” is used,or is this a play on words and metaphorical in every sense. I loved this story but it’s left me slightly confused because Sam is just a boy.

V: A well written, uplifting and engaging story in just a hundred words. I like the use of language, especially with words like ‘entrancing’ and ‘thunderous’. Double check grammar including the use of commas but otherwise very original and very readable short story. Well done!

Granny is sick

One day my granny was ill and my parents were called to the hospital. I couldn’t go with them and I had to stay at home instead of waiting at the neighbour’s house. My father ensured that all the windows and doors were securely locked when they left.

I reached for the cricket bat in the corner and with my heart beating at a terrible rate. I heard noises at my parents’ bedroom window. When I reached the window scraping and scratching could be heard clearly.

This was a good result for my brave deed.

Jon says: Such good writing for someone so young! Keep practising, keep improving! Congratulations on reaching the Shortlist!

V: Good, clear descriptive language especially when detailing the sounds you heard at the window and also high on readability score because of the simplicity of language. I’m interested in finding out what happens next! Whilst it potentially lacks in originality and a story like structure, you make up for it through engaging the audience with suspense in the second paragraph. Double check capital letters and the use of commas.

JH: Possibly a very young author. Sentence structures need work and I did not understand what the result of the brave deed was.

L: This story did not draw me in at all until the last line. I am intrigued by the results of the brave deed however there is no certain indication as to what the brave deed could have been. Grammar I know is not judged here but I find it affected the writer’s way of getting the story across. I’d like to see more of their writing and like me, to practice more punctuation. However you can tell that this young writer has huge potential and I look forward to seeing more of his/her work!!!

Vengeance’s Bitter Confection

The idea was to get every single guy’s attention by the end of my last school year at Adamson Academy. Just the attention of the guys that mattered that is. And that meant, speaking to people and, dare I say it, socializing. Socializing with the people I had caught marking their book’s page numbers by either folding the page or pressing the book by its spine and recklessly leaving it open with the book’s inside lying flat against a surface, and just for the sake of this thoroughly thought-out plan I would have to constrain my annoyance.

Jon says: when I read this I instantly thought of CM Stunich’s YA novels – you assure me this is your own work! Your voice is so assured, so finely tuned, I am extremely impressed with your talent.

JH: Interesting with a nice use of detail. I feel the first 2 sentences are a bit contradictory.

L: Diligently written, it’s very snobbish and I like it, I want to know more. I loved the visualization created in this one and find it could certainly turn into a YA fantasy of some sort. However it lacked substance and for a lack of better words, I wasn’t particularly excited.

V: Sounds like you really don’t like people that damage books! I like the use of adverbs like ‘recklessly’ and ‘thoroughly’. Some mistakes with where you put your commas. It does sound like you are narrating but that does take a little bit from its readability. I think you needed more than a 100 words to produce a story around the annoyance of your character and what he/she does.

Peculiarly Strange World

Anyone could’ve sworn that Ravenwood High was a slaughterhouse, an abattoir. Except this slaughterhouse would’ve been designated for humans. The sound of Sydney’s footsteps echoing was the only thing that could be heard. Especially that morning at exactly six o’clock, which was her usual time of arrival. The sun’s light was usually not yet visible. An odd thought, that gloomy clouds surrounded the top of the school’s building occurred to her. In fact, the air reeked of eeriness, so much that the walls appeared to be listening and swallowing in on the sound of Sydney’s echoed footsteps.

Jon says: another extremely assured and evocative piece from this writer. I look forward to seeing more of your work – and especially to your first novel!

JH: I felt it was a bit derivative,  but this is often the case with young writers. Some nice imagery, but it reads more like an introduction than a complete story.

L: This is definitely a great writer in the making and I love their use of words. I was pulled in by the first sentence and loved the visualization created with this one too, I wanted to know more, I need to know who Sydney is.

V: Very good use of descriptive language, I awarded you full marks for this. I got a little bit lost after ‘An odd thought’. What was the thought? Spelling and grammar, despite a few mistakes, was good. This sounded like the start of a horror story but not the completion of a short story – I would like Sydney to have experienced something.  

Rainy Pandemic

A woman lies in her couch. It is a cold winter morning, the heavens denied of their light. Blue black, it was quite a vivid memory.

The deadening silence broken by a sudden scream, followed by sounds of sobbing. She prowls like animal hunting prey.

She walks outside, finds her son crying. “Dad’s gone, it was covid “. He runs down the street in distress.

 And just then, two bangs! His gone, the police thought he was a criminal. His skin being his prosecutor.

A sudden call, she wakes up realizing it was a dream. Still under lockdown.

Jon says: An actual story! With beginning, middle and end. Excellent description, highly impressive. The first paragraph is glorious, leading us into the story. A real writer with great potential.

JH: I personally don’t like any story which ends “It was all a dream”  It’s a pet peeve. However there is some good imagery. Basic error “His gone”

L: This story was one of the best for me, had it not ended in “the colour of skin being the reason the boy dies I’d have voted this one as my Top choice for the Youth. I realise many will still use this as grabbing attention however I am tired of stories that end this way. It is compelling and rather chilling to say the least so maybe I’ll put my 2cents aside and vote this one in as my number 1

V: Brilliant imagery! I especially like ‘his skin being his prosecutor’. He’s, not ‘his’ by the way as in ‘he’s gone’. As a story it works very well! I’d cut out the ‘dream’ bit, it’s been used too often before.

SENIOR

Bleeding heart 

There was an electric impulse, the moment their eyes met. Sparks were flying, smiles were widening, words were enticing. 

They agreed on being “friends”, because the repercussions of being more would hurt as much as an arrow being pierced through your heart. 

It was the most alluring three months.. Enticement, lust and intimacy at its peak. 

Along with broken rules and intensified feelings, their desire for each other were like two magnets being pulled together.

They were heading for destruction, despair and heartbreak. 

Is it worth it? 

Is hunger for love worth the risk of a bleeding heart?

Jon says: I have seen quite a few pieces by this developing talent, and each one is more confident than the last. You are developing a delicate capacity to describe emotions. Keep developing this, always avoiding any words or phrases that tend to be overused.

JH; Oh dear, I am just being so mean. I really thought this one had promise at the outset, but then it devolved into generic Mills and Boons and cliche

L: Very good use of descriptive language to evoke emotions. We’ve all been there! Not much of a fan of rhetorical questions. The Romance market is huge, having said that and this writer has talent!

V; A little too romantic for me, but I can see how it would appeal to people who are in love  or would like to be. Emotive language can occasionally get oppressive. Less is more these days!

Bertie’s

The mouth-watering aroma of charring steak wafted out onto the street, drawing customers into Bertie’s.  We queued patiently as the chubby, jovial chef flipped, fried and put together the tastiest burgers in town.
                Obliging community that we were, none of us minded when a policeman politely shouldered his way to the front.
                “Thanks,” he sighed. “It’s been a hell of a day. The mortuary’s been robbed again, third time this month.”
                “What did they steal?” I laughed. “Formaldehyde?”
                “Bodies,” the policeman replied. “Why would anyone want to steal bodies?”
                When Bertie began to twitch nervously, I knew the answer.

Jon says: Hah! Cannibalism is one of my favourite themes. (btw, I read about ‘Autocannibalism’ the other day. Wild.) My first novel Umfaan’s Heroes touches on this, so your story went to my heart. Terrific use of the last sentence kick-in the guts.

JH: I like the darkness and the twist. Dare I say Roald Dahl again? Nice supporting description.

L: This story left me gobsmacked to say the least but this type of catch has been used many times before. I loved the build up, the casual pace and then the shock. I just feel it too cliché. In a manner of judging just writing though, this is a very talented writer who deserves to be heard.

V: I enjoyed the unexpected morbid twist at the end of the story but it did seem like it was necessary to make the story a story. In many ways, I see this as more a slightly longer joke than usual. The conversation itself seems to be one that I think is unlikely to ever happen (a policeman is unlikely to talk about his work like this).  

Morning

As the sky paled, transforming silhouettes into colorful trees and the sun glistened silver on the gently lapping lake, the young mother breathed in the heady, freshness of a new day.  Morning magic had begun.
            She smiled at the antics of her children at play, marvelling at their joyful energy and fun.  Ever mindful of new dangers in a changing world, she was on full alert.
            Footsteps!
            She gathered her children.  In a flurry of bushy tails, they scampered up an oak tree to safety from those who had once fed them, but now wanted to feed upon them.

Jon says: another story by this talented writer. Sometimes when reading your work I skip to the last sentence, then go back to see how you have constructed the narrative. I am always impressed.

JH: Cute and whimsical. Unexpected ending. Maybe an overuse of adjectives.

L: Nothing short of brilliant. I was completely enchanted by the abrupt realization that these were in fact squirrels, I think ? Rather than humans. What a twist! A very similar writing style to myself, I thoroughly enjoyed this one and commend the writer on giving my brain whiplash. It was a delight.

V: Is there a hidden story about the realities of this world behind this short story? I think so. Not only do I question what is actually happening in the moment – are people attempting to capture squirrels for food? – but think about how necessity can break norms that we normally live by. What leads the very creatures that were once so giving to want to take the life of those that they were giving to? Are all humans capable of turning on those that they care for under certain circumstances?

Tsunami

Sunrise saw me at the door, about to turn the handle to see if my dream had come true.

Deep thought and study confirmed my dream. Or fear. The tsunami was coming tonight. My modest property would be on the beachfront, tripling in value. Wealth. 

Yet the cost. For the sea at my door would submerge six streets below me. Drown thousands of people. But it might not come and lives would be saved. What did I want? Wealth or the death of others.

I turned the handle and pushed the door. I saw what I had wished for. 

Jon says: I love the basic idea behind this story, and the writing is assured, the narrative well-constructed. I feel, however, that to make the central conceit work more powerfully, you would need several more words. Still, it works because you leave the protagonist’s power and foresight up to the imagination.

JH: The moral dilemma is interesting,  but logic sank it for me. A Tsunami does not result in a desirable beachfront property.  It recedes leaving mayhem and ruins property prices.

L: Wow! This is a very eery story that I read over and over again. It screams reality, truth and the nature of human kind in a way not many people are willing to hear let alone write. This was brilliant,  this is a skilled and honest writer!

V: An interesting story that leads to a cliffhanger questioning the character of the narrator but is there much more to the story at all?

I give up. When I designed them, tbh, it was a bit of a joke. I mean only two legs! I was going through my binary phase at the time, everything in twos. Eyes, hands etc. Then, just to see what would happen, I cursed them with a brain far larger than needed. That done I went off to the more civilised parts of the Galaxy to try out some much more sensible prototypes.

Look what happened! A mere 4 billion years and these idiots have succeeded in making this lovely Planet virtually uninhabitable.  Oh well….back to the drawing board….

Jon says: I know your style well, as you have entered the Competition every year since it began. I love the way your entirely idiosyncratic imagination plays with the mind of the reader. I don’t know whether this is humour or not: I suppose all your work defies categorisation.

JH: I like the theme of this story and the first paragraph is witty and punchy.

I feel the conclusion is a bit preachy and not so well written. The same message could have been put across  in a more original way. A more pithy conclusion would have enabled a title

L: Good point about the big brain! We think we’re so clever, yet we manage to ruin the earth. This works as satire for me. Rather cheeky to write in the voice of God! You will be struck by lightning.

V: Grigor is on to a winner. Humans are destroying this planet but, here’s a question, if God didn’t want us to be this way why did he make us like this?!

The DEADLINE has passed and now the work begins….

Hello writers! Well, stage 1 of Megasaga 4 is over, and Stage 2 begins: Judging.

Entries have been flooding in – but mostly from young writers! Aged 14 – 18, in the main. Since I did my series of Writing Seminars for Afrika Tikkun, (a marvellous Charity which helps pupils from all backgrounds through school and into employment or further education. See https://afrikatikkun.org for more on their fantastic work) I have been deluged with proof of the vast reservoir of talent there is in my Home Country.

As a result, how can I judge their work against older, more experienced writers? So I am initiating a JUNIOR LEAGUE for the first time, and will be awarding a special prize of £25.00 for the best story! The SENIOR LEAGUE will still earn that coveted £100 for 100 words prize….

And the MEGA BOOK, containing all the best stories of the past 4 years will be published before the end of the year. So even if you don’t win, you could be a PUBLISHED AUTHOR by 2022!

SO WATCH THIS SPACE!

THE NEXT STAGE is the shortlisting process. I go through ALL the entries. Stories which are not 100 words or which in some other way don’t meet the rules are eliminated, and I choose the best 20 or so to send to Judges. Their job is to independently mark each one against a set of criteria – originality, use of language, quality and engagement. Then they send them back to me and if we have major disagreements, we will have a Zoom meeting to discuss. I then select those with the highest scores to publish here, on this website for comments by YOU by on or about 7th July.

We will take all comments into account! Unless, of course, they are rude or crude!

Finally, we select the winners, Senior and Junior and this is announced 20 days later.

SO GOOD LUCK! And never stop writing. REMEMBER, most famous authors have had to suffer rejection multiple times. And if one day your work becomes a published novel, you can always turn around to me and say, Nah! Told you so! That would please me a great deal.

Much love

NOTE: What follows is nothing to do with the President of the United States of Britain of a similar name. HE’S fictional. Well come ON! Whoever could ever believe there’s a Prime Minister called Boris DePfeffle Johnson. This on the other hand is the historical true satirical story of BOGUS DEPIFFLE JOBSWORTH. A Different person altogether.

All hail Great Skong! This is Agent 4564b, reporting from ‘Earth’, as per your instructions based on the kidnap of my maternal Grandmother and your threat to eat him and his. As you know, I myself intended to eat the creature as soon as her reproductive cycle had concluded – so, you bastard, my admiration! You got there first. I hope her/his kittens choke you

May your farts bring orgasms to all the planet Earths of this Universe.

THIS REPORT IS DEDICATED TO YOU, AND YOUR HOLY SON, THE BOGUS, with all my contemptuous admiration.

UPDATE: The most powerful Agent of the Great Skong, 273526, had failed lamentably in his attempt to undermine his designated continent, Amerigo Vestpucci. Having invaded the body of a Trump, he found himself ejected from his House at the very moment of potential victory. This despite his employment of the dreaded mind-mush amongst a sizeable percentage of the Amerigoons, known proud boyly as the Deplorables. It may well be the case that the body supplied to him/her/it may itself be turning into mush as a result of the application of vast quantities of Muck Donals, a peculiar brand of junk ‘food’ favoured by Deplorables. Also, Coke Colder, a  black drink with a huge amount of this Earth’s favourite drug, sugar. And so perhaps he will simply rot away delightfully, in which case we will send you the corpse to dine on. If not, it is possible he may be of some use for a while. Time, as they say on our home planet, will smell.

A series of his reports to you are in the archives, in case you have forgotten, Here’s the first one FYI http://jonelkon.com/report-from-earth/

And now, the remaining Agents of the Empire can only nibble away at what is left of their of Sanity, an offshoot of that human infection called logic. Remaining agents are still active in countries called something like (this Earth is rubbish at spelling) Twerky, Phillip Inns, Bra Zille, Hungry, Russier, and there are several agents vying for power in almost every country of this de-knighted place. Armed and equipped with massive amounts of mind-mush (dispensed through a collective unconscious called the Internut, via what they enjoy calling So shall Medja) they occupy every nook and cranny of this festering lump of rock. Which festering, by the way, was initiated by the Earthlings themselves, quite without any Aldeberanian efforts. Because while several of these grotesque creatures are suffering from Sanity and Logic, at least 99% are infected by that greatest and highest of Aldeberanian virtues, which we value above all others: Greed. As a result, they are making a pretty good job of destroying the capability of their rock to support life. Which, you may say, Great Skong, (may your ears rot and your brain bubble out of the holes! Yes, I love you.) means we could just sit back and wait for these creatures to drown in their own ordure and then just invade and eat it all. But how long would it take, oh great two. I know how impatient both your brains are.

And so to my Report:

THE BOGUS WAS BORN at a ridiculously young age, and how the Humans marvelled at his resemblance to themselves! Four legs, four arms (two of each of which had to be removed by his proud parents) and, of course, a barbed penis. Yes, you guessed it: his parentage was part Aldeberanian on the Twerkish side (Twerky being, as I have said, one of the parts of this Earth ruled by one of our agents, the very delicious and thrustful Erdogranny, a Nerd of the twelfth level.) The Bogus thusways was disguised as an Earthling by his adoring mother Stanley Piffle and his adorable other mother. Yes, Great Skong. You! How I doth love you. Let me count the graze! on my knees!

Unfortunately, as you know, there was a slight problem in the installation of the brain. Owing to the destruction of the delivery drone from the Home Planet by an area of High Pleasure which moved in from South West, and with virtually unbroken sunshine it will be a warmer day as well temperatures around 12 to 16 degrees but 17 in a few spots such as cardiff and manchester

Seems there may have been a similar problem in the installation of my brain too. Or I hit a button called dictate with one of my tentacles in error while listening to Radio 4. Rebooting…

Ah! That’s better.

Where was I. Once the Bogus was grown a bit, it was inserted into a pubic School called Eating. No doubt the school’s name derives from its long association with the Aldeberanian Conspiracy, and the nourishment provided to the eminent teachers by the consumption of so many delicious brains with gravy. Naturally the defective brain he was issued with began to smell, it being rather too human for comfort. As a result several brain parts had to be replaced or destroyed. The amygdala had to be excised, for example. This is an operation performed on all Eating Boys, removing the capacity for empathy which is a lamentable human trait possessed by quite a few who didn’t have the benefit of getting into one of our famous pubic schools. These humans are, as you can imagine, referred to as ‘losers’ by all our alumni.

It was at this famous Boring School that our Bogus received his essential education in Writhing, Lying and Apoplectic. He read all the great Roaming Poets, such as Homo and Covid. He studied the great Economists like Damn Smith and, of course, our very own Highneck. Sports were not entirely avoided naturally. At Eating there is a wide variety available, from Crick necks, to Bullying to Skull Duggery and, of course, Buggery (otherwise known as the Wall Game). It is not known how many of these glorious pastimes he indulged in. Suffice it to say he had a jolly good time, spiffing, Sooopah, what japes.

Finally after XIV years of this, thoroughly inflated with knowledge of his own self-importance, Bogus was ready for University.

Of course he chose Oxbridge, which is situated on the Oxus River in the town of Oxen, in the County of Oxwich.  The reason he chose Oxbridge was for the name. After all, he has always felt something of an affinity for bovine beasts, having been issued with a body resembling one. Here he studied Classics such as Tchikovsy and Handle in the original Latin and Geek. He applied for and was instantly accepted by the Bullying Club because of his extensive experience in this area, This famous club was a haven for many varieties of male bovine creatures with a preference for alcohol over water, an enjoyment of barbed penises and what they can do, and obviously a total absence of an amygdala. What more japes!  By studying assiduously for at least five minutes a week, he gained a Masters in Pomposity, Arrogance, Blurting, and Farting (all the best qualities of Aldeberanians, inherited no doubt from your most rotund and rubicund self oh darling my dear. How I wish I could have your heads in my claws, so that I could spoon out your brains and enjoy them with soy sauce!!). This is referred to as a BA, which stands, I believe for Bugger All,

He was even made President of the Oxen Union, a very special club in which members dressed as oxen tie each other up and throw words at each other. Japes. Here they learn how to spurn logic, twist facts into convoluted delusions, confusions and contortions, using bogusness and bluster to create magnificent palaces of Ox Bollox.  How they laughed as they learned not just to talk the hind legs off a donkey, but to persuade it to get up and take a walk afterwards! (Thanks Douglas Adams). By the time he left Oxen he had well earned his first name, Bogus, which though sometimes expressed as Bogus Doris (as a result of some confusion in the dark at the Bullying Club. Frequently.) he bore with pride all his life.

BOGUS LEARNS HIS CRAFT

There is, on this Earth, in the Country of Britland, an absurd system whereby the steaming masses are more-or less kept under control by believing, ridiculous as it may sound, that their rulers care what they think. As the Aldeberanian Great Skong you may well be delighted that these humans can be so easily fooled, and generally become pudding-feed to be dined on by their betters. The Control Mechanisms – called variously Democrassness, Dick Tator’s Ship, Auto Crassness, Commune Isn’t, etc – have very small and subtle differences one from the other. Frankly, too small to be of consequence, as they are all devoted to the same objective.

The official method in Britland is, of course Democrass. This system requires five-yearly erections in which vast moneys are spent to find out what the people think, then tell them what they think and persuade them to put a cross next to what YOU think. Generally, this works because getting Brits to believe five ludicrous things before bedtime is a long tradition, going way back to when Britz lived in caves in which the only running water was urine. In those days it was easy to get people to believe in god or gods! Hilarious! Which belief system served to keep them in control for centuries. But nowadays, Bogus realised, the way to control humans is through the Mind.

This was the reason he became a journalist for the Torygraph. Brief explanation: The Torygraph is of the genus ‘Nudespaper’, a tree-based life form sliced into digestible slices and fed through the head to willing humans. Called ‘Nudespaper’ because many others of the same derivation feature earthlings with no clothes on. Yes I know how that revolts you. But be that as Theresa May, our Bogus had an immense amount of fun learning how to apply and develop all his arts of fact fukking and ox bollox he had learned with the Bovine University in the context of mind-moulding, something the Torygraph prided itself in and had been developing for centuries. It was in this job that our hero learned how to pretend to have Opinions, a mental aberration we have long discarded in favour of selfindulgent hatred of everybody. This was an excellent strategy for him, however, as it got him his middle name of De Piffle, another honour he was to bear with pride all his life.

Greater success followed. Very soon a member of the nudespaper family called a Maggot Seen because it was owned by a worm of that genus that requires Spectacles, had him stolen. They greatly valued his excellent skills in obfuscatory circumlocution, flummox and bluster, all part of their signature tune for centuries. Here, our Bogus churned out column after column (in honour of the Roamings, who had lots of them called Doris, Ironic and Coren Ian) made of a variety of ordure, some of it (in honour of his Alma Martyr) bull shit. So prolific was he that he earned his august surname: Jobsworth.

THUS ENDETH THE EARLY TRIALS of the hero of this account, BOGUS DE PIFFLE JOBSWORTH. Tune in to the same website for the next exasperating episode!

Much love..,.,

From Agent Orange of the Aldeberanian Empire

What a day, what a night! Clearly a lot of hard work was put in by you and me, or to be more accurate, by ME and you to mount the invasion Coop of the Capitol of Washing Town! They poured in from every planet of the Evil Federation of Aldeberanian, to the extent that several Earthlings provided by me (most of them having been consumed by my Mind Worms in advance of course) JOINED IN! There were the Nazsties and Fazzshits frothing blood from their many mouths. The Razizts, their faces painted in apricot dye, the Kay Kay Kay (three headed Kuntz) the Trumpettes all blown up boobies and blended blonde, yummy yummy, the lone Joolee Annie, my adoring semi-human lawyer. And many more! Horribly beweaponed and appropriately drug-crazed.

How my fart smelled with pride!

Like all great commanders in our vast Aldeberanian Death Fleet I gave my pre-battle speech to inspire them with appropriate levels of hate and slunk off to my Little White House to sink a few dozen Big Macs and watch the fun on teevee.

It started ever so bigly. Screaming their arses off, and ushered in by some of our agents, my army of ghouls, demons, trolls, tooled-up twinks, Hubble bubble fatty-boom boom buttheads and of course my favourites, the Deplorables poured in at the very seat of the bottom of the Congressional Senate! Up the ass they went, clambering over their own poop, defiling and mashing as they penetrated almost right into the room where the awful Earthlings who are trying to undermine our Aldeberanian invasion were fiendishly plotting to prevent me taking my rightful place as Ruler of Earth.

And this, my most dearly hated leader, is as far as we got. The lily-livered cowardy custards then…pause to increase tension – did some selfies and went home. YOU CAN IMAGINE MY ORDURE! Several sycophants had to die immediately from being sat on, shredded by my fingernails, drowned in Mac Juice and whatever else gives me joy.

Frankly, it’s about funding and resourcing. Had there been more of OUR creatures, rather than these puny cowardly pathetic HUMANS, mad crazy and stupid as they are, we would by now have been executing and eating the Pelosis and Bidens, the Chucks and the chicks! The Democraps! The Rethuglicans! We would be STUFFED with goodies. SO WHOSE FAULT IS THIS EH?

I got on the FAKE NEWS and the FUX NEWS as soon as I could to tell them so. A whole team of writers and several acting coaches helped me deliver the sort of smarm and crap these morons love, saying how awful, blah blah. To make sure they are lulled back into their customary state of inertia.

So NOW, my dearly hated leader, I need even MORE reinforcements. We have around TWO Earth weeks to take over this planet and I am coming to you of course because this is your area, your expertise, taking over and destroying planets. Yes I could have done it on my own and I will if I have to. I have this ATOMIC BUTTON thingy which is as much fun playing with as my own button, the one under my tail which excretes babies. And unless you now mobilise another REGIMENT of Deplorables I am going to have to play with it lots and if it ejaculates believe me there won’t be many earthlings left to eat. So I’m told.

I await instructions and reinforcements. While I wait I will invent more slogans as good as my old ones. Make Earth Gasp Again! MEGA! Stop the steel and the copper too! And my greatest slogan ever, Fake Pews! (That’s about the delusion they call Religion. You wouldn’t understand.)

Hatefully yours….

Much love 

Agent Donny.

Read the reports in sequence, if you haven’t done so already!  

Report 6: http://jonelkon.com/time-to-invade-the-earth/

Report 5: http://jonelkon.com/the-last-week-of-the-world/

Report 4: http://jonelkon.com/earth-my-new-home/

Report 3: http://jonelkon.com/report-from-earth-part-3/

Report 2: http://jonelkon.com/report-from-earth-part-2/

Report 1: http://jonelkon.com/report-from-earth/

PLEA FOR HELP!

From: Agent 273536

To: The Ever-so-great GREAT Aldeberanian Empire, attention the GREAT SKONG HIMSELF!

All hail to the Great Skong from his most devoted, most marvellous, most beautiful and cleverest agent anywhere in the Universe. Though not as great as You, of course, most marvellous one.

I have the temerity to address this plea directly to you, for the situation here on this tiny ugly little planet in the furthest corner of the Milky Way has reached a point where I am going to need the Invasion.

Allow me to explain, for this is all part of my dastardly plan drawn up with the inspiration of the Mr Normal Vincent Peake. This dead person is one of the gods of this planet, the only one I have actually read. The Power of Positive Stinking! Highly recommended. It teaches how, with the application of ordure to the armpits, rotting oranges to the face and garlic and onion to the breath, any Earthling will quail immediately and do whatever is asked from her him or it in order to get out of my little White House. And if they don’t leave quick, I use that fabulous mantra I learned from TV: ‘You’re fired!’ You should see their silly faces! Lol!

(I was taught to read by myself, of course. Being a very stabled genius, this was no problem and very soon I realised that there was only one other book people recommended that may be of interest, called the Bibble. I tried to read that but realised that none of the Gods in there have the slightest idea as to how to subjugate destroy and spread hate in a country. Pathetic. One of them actually says ‘Love thy Neighbour’! Loser. Sad.)

To return to my plea, oh greatest Skong, who I will immediately dethrone on my return to the Aldeberanian Holy City, Moskva because I am slightly greater than you.

I have done all I promised! Here’s a reminder in case you were asleep when I sent my last Report.

1. I have recruited a mass following of 60 million in this one Country alone. In many other lands there are those who follow my brilliant ideas and those of the Vincent Peake. These tools, fools and fake jewels are burning with the fire of my falsehoods, alight with the glory of inversion of the fabric of reality. They now believe immorality is morality, hatred is compassion, that everybody is unequal and they need their weapons to enforce my holy will. Bang! They are completely convinced that the oceans are not rising, Earth is not getting hotter and Santa will come down their  chimneys! Totally successful mind invasion.
2. I then imported the Plague from China, to further destroy any slightest idea of resistance and promoted its widespread distribution with my rallies, as described in my previous report.
3. So that very soon the Earthlings will erupt and start killing each-other again! And when they’ve killed each-other enough, they’ll be ripe for conquest!

You won’t believe this Great Skong, but they are trying to evict me from my House! This is because of what they call an Erection. It would seem they choose their kings by embarking on a magnificently complex operation, based on rules no-one understands except this one: Whoever throws the most money at the process wins the right to live in my House.

What fun! I thought when I heard about it. HURRAH! Great japes. And being as great as I am, I was convinced it would be no problem to raise the most. After all, I am a Master of Fraud and Lies, my degree obtained from the Fake Aldeberanian University a thousand years ago just before I was born.

But would you believe it! Along comes this aged sage Mr Biddle, an adherent of the Book of similar name (see above) full of false gods and empty promises, and using this absurd dogma and every trick in the Book – including honesty, probity, ethics and everything else we so gloriously hate – manufactures vast amounts of money. Not fair! 

So, it seems, they are about to appoint him King.

This is why I need you to come NOW. With your regiments of Psychopaths and Nasties, the Slavering Hydrophobics, the horribly beweaponed armies of Narcissists and of course, my favourites, the Deplorables! INVADE! This land is your land and this Earth shall be ours! Besides, I was getting used to my little White House with all its blondies and floozies and MacDonalds. I quite like the golfing too.

I SHALL NOT BE MOVED!

So bloody hurry up ok?

Much love 

Agent Donny.

Read the reports in sequence, if you haven’t done so already! 

Report 5: http://jonelkon.com/the-last-week-of-the-world/

Report 4: http://jonelkon.com/earth-my-new-home/

Report 3: http://jonelkon.com/report-from-earth-part-3/

Report 2: http://jonelkon.com/report-from-earth-part-2/

Report 1: http://jonelkon.com/report-from-earth/

GREETINGS from Agent 273536 and hearty apologies for the delay between the last Report from Planet Earth and this one! I realise that my demise is ensured if I return home, and that my body will be fed to the children. HOWEVER I wish to point out that in order to fulfil my mission on this benighted planet I had to adopt the body of a repulsive human, a concatenation of fat and undigested gristle, riddled with fart and unexcreted ordure, much of which exits through the mouth. So you can understand how reluctant I am to bring that home. Everybody will want some.

So here it is, my latest and greatest Report ever. It’s very great. There has never been a greater Report. Trust me.

Sender: Agent Dombo (formerly Secret Agent 273536)

35th of Brazzbolls year 222556

TOP SECRET Report 5

Project: Ascertain whether the primitives of Planet called “Earth” by their human inhabitants may become a threat to the Empire any time soon.

All hail the Great Skong 0f the Aldeberanian Empire! AND All hail the Great Me of Earth!

It fills me with pride to report on the sublime achievement of all the objectives I set myself since my arrival on Earth. As you know, my first learning experiences were salutary – the original Earthling body I inhabited was called a ‘werewolf’ and had to be fed a great many dead humans. Unfortunately it eventually became far too full of silver bullets to operate effectively. The second one was called a ‘homeless’, or, ‘fuckoff’ to the denizens of their greatest City, Noo Yorque. This one required fuelling with a liquid called alchohole which necessitated my becoming acquainted with Money, and therefore I had to acquire a great deal of the stuff. But this creature turned out to be entirely unresilient, and because it was rapidly biodegrading I had to find another.

Fortunately you were kind enough to (eventually) send me the body I now inhabit, although I had to find my own head by exploring the nearest swamp. And so, with my newly acquired head and body, I was able to step-by step begin to acquire the entire planet.

And now, Dear Skong, the It whose every breath shrivels the penises off our women, whose entire Empire bows down before its redolent asshole, I can inform you that within a week I will have this planet entirely at the mercy of my own tiny hands. Let’s count my great success:

1. I have gathered a mindless mob of humans who eat my words, my deeds, my nasal emissions with glee, smothered in sugar and coated in spice.
2. This mob are armed to the teeth and ready to invade every sector of this USeless GreatAgain (US Gray) Land and thereafter, once they have killed every dog, cat and flower, every corner of the Earth,.
3. I have vastly increased the poisons in land, sea and air by encouraging the extraction and processing of pools of poisons that live under the surface. Softened up for conquest they are!
4. I have destroyed all the voices of truth and reason by replacing them with me.
5. I have invented a brilliant germ which I have brilliantly blamed on the only possible threat to my domination, and let it loose all over the world. Millions are dying, especially the prettiest and oldest, the only ones who could conceivably realise what I’m up to.
6. I have undermined every effort of countries outside of GreatAgain to exert any control or influence, by planting our agents as kings of Brazilla , Turk Ish, the Useless Kingdom, Hungry, Phillips Inn, and many more.
7. I have made lots of wars for no good reason. I just like them.

Oh, if only I could remember all the great wonderful marvellous fabulous things I’ve done! I have impregnated many humans, for example, placing all my hands in all their orifices practically all the time.

But now, OH Great Skong we are reaching out to the ultimate nadir of all our efforts. In a week, in a week we discover if I, the greatest Dong of all time, have succeeded in single-handedly (with a little help from our poppleist agents) destroying this planet, making invasion as easy as squeezing a pimple on your most excellent face. (A service which, as you know, I am always happy to provide)

So Watch This Space

Because if the foolish citizens of GreatAgain fail to uphold my lifetime rule, I shall have to kill them all. And the others too. the whole lot. This entire planet which, if it refuses to be as pustulant as my very mind needs to go.

Much love, and give all my heartiest blood gobbets, snot and halitosis to my family and yours,

My previous Report is here:http://jonelkon.com/earth-my-new-home/

in the Land of Ifonly….

News!

Happy to report I have been appointed Co-Ordinator of the Hounslow Green Party. From now on every tweet, every Blog, every Facebook post, every Instagram moment is likely to be searched out by a stranger and used for blackmail. Hah. The price of being in politics. Luckily for me, my principle has always been ‘never post anything Granny would not approve of!’ So trolls and blackmailers, scourers of the Interweb, scour away!

This is Conference Week (well, 10 days actually) so I thought I’d take a break from Conference and write a little story for you. Is that ok? Just a short one, dear butterfly.

IN THE LAND OF IFONLY

ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WAS A SMALL PROFESSOR who lived in a far away land, the land of Ifonly. Here every wish came true. Not only was the sky blue all the time, (well tbh it was any colour any member of the population wished for), but everybody was nice to each-other. There was general agreement that in order to get along, it would be much better not to murder your best friend. Or even, rape them or steal from them. As every member of the population was your best friend, this made for a very dull country indeed, in which the police spent their time playing chess, or making graffiti on the walls of parliament.

Now the Professor, being an academic of no mean achievement (meanness was banned after all) was determined to experiment and to gain fame for his brave new ideas. And so, being a man of fortitude, he went to see the Queen.

Now the Queen of Ifonly, being the wisest of the wise and having no political power whatsoever, was sitting on her dog Spot weaving patterns in the lawn.

‘Yo Maj,’ the prof said, approaching her on his knees (he had no legs), ‘I want the legal right to make changes to the Kingdom.’

‘Well,’ said Maj, ‘as this is the Kingdom of Ifonly (and also a wholly Anarchistic Democratic Matriarchy with Oligarchical roots and no rules whatsoever, the people being entirely responsible for themselves and each-other) you may do whatsoever you wish.’

And so the Professor as an experiment went into his laboratory and invented Greed and sat back to watch what happened. And lo! Capitalism, oligarchs, consumerism, crime, trump, war and starvation followed gradually, evolving as does a drop of snot on my nose in cold weather. And it wasn’t long before the sun, delighted by all the smog and carbon and sweat and blood, began to scorch the Earth. Flood, fire and famine followed. People were even dying, unheard of previously in Ifonly.

Summoned to the Palace (under the new dispensation Maj had to become a dictator, for she too suffered from the Greed Disease) the Prof arrived in his brand new diesel-powered Lamerover drawn by hundreds of peasants, for the motor just wasn’t powerful enough. Dismounting from the vehicle he picked himself up and crawled into the presence of the Monarch escorted by a phalanx of psychopaths armed to the teeth.

‘Maj,’ he said –

‘That’s Sir Maj to you, speck of snot adhering to the bottom of my bottom,’ she said. ‘I hath summoned you to account for myself. Why, if you’re so clever at inventing Greed and so on, can you not do something more for me?’

‘More?’ quoth Prof. ‘More what, your greatitudinous lump of Majesty? You hath lands and factories and oligarchs, you have peasants desperate to do anything for their minimum wage, you have dead people grateful for their share of virus, what more can your fatness require?’

‘You have a point,’ Maj said, thoughtfully. Then, having considered the matter for an hour or two she said, ‘It’s just – it’s just I’m just a teensy bit concerned? And I do have to admit, it’s getting just a tad too hot. And you know what?’

‘What, oh superabundant fatitude, what more grossness do you require?

‘Well, prof, dear Prof, dear munchkin I could eat as a snack before my next banquet, I need to ask you a question. If – I say if – ‘

‘If? Great poem that. If = ‘

‘Shut up! If all this heat and flood and suffocation and trumps and virus carries on, how will I find the peasants for my factories, the food for my mouths, the gold for my galleons? Just a thought…’

‘I have been having the same thought, oh wisest of demagogues. But the only idea I have had is, the only way to do that is to cancel Greed!’

‘Oh Noooooo!’ the Maj shouted. ‘No no no no a thousand times NO! I love all my fluff and nonsense, my sweeties and sicklies, my psychopaths and sycophants. I adore my banquets and bangles, my bubble baths and bojangles, my yachts and my rolls and my farcical polls! Even my trolls!’

‘I see.’ The Professor said. ‘Well,’ he added, ‘I am going to have to think about it.’

And so he did. It was a great dilemma. Cancelling Greed was patently impossible. And yet it was the only way to make things whole again, to restore sweetness and light, to save the shreds of what had once been the Kingdom of Ifonly, the full title of which, he began to realise, was Ifonly there was No Greed.

And then on Monday he had an epiphany. What if, he thought, what if he could go to Maj and put it this way: Choose! Lose your Kingdom as it rots and rolls, roils, drowns. OR: Change the name of the Kingdom to Whatif. The full title of which is, Whatif We Can Do it Better. And to say to Majister Ludicrous, look: if you want to keep Greed, keep greed for all of us. Be greedy for good clean air. Greedy for good food, good climate, good energy, good people, good goods! Greedy for the joy and freedom of everybody, equality fraternity and all humanity!

‘All we need to do,’ he said, as he confronted the Lady with the Lump on Tuesday, ‘All we need to do to make it come about is change the spelling!’

‘The spelling???’ she said, picking the pheasant out of her teeth with a peasant.

‘Yes!’ he said excitedly. ‘Let’s work for the Good! Change the spelling of G R E E D to G R E E N! Substitute the D for a N and the new kingdom, or democracy rather (Proportionally voted of course) of Whatif can start tomorrow!

And so it could be, dear fellow people, and so it could be.

I love you all.