A Love Letter from Fergon

A Love Letter from Fergon

John Goodfellow

41 Factory Row

Fergon, 2^nd Quadrant, Outer Space

5 April 2035

Giselda Blondheim

7422 Montague Place

Beverly Hills, CA

My Dearest Giselda,

My love, my deepest apologies for not being able to tell you what happened to me. When seized by the FNOG, (Federal Non-Organic Group), no phone calls were allowed. Someone leaked to the government that I was sharing organic produce with our neighbors. Unaware of new laws forbidding the growing and dispensing of home-grown food, this new arm of the government arrested me. I was whisked onto a space craft, handcuffed, and fingerprinted. Communication with earth is forbidden, so sending this letter puts my life in danger.

 Here in a huge factory on Fergon, I stir vats of high fructose corn syrup and add Butylated Hydroxytoluene to packaged goods. To distract myself, I fondly remember our garden of earthly delights. How you used to baby my hydroponic tomatoes, thin my radishes, and mulch my squash.

           Being exiled and forced into slave labor does not pain me nearly as much as being separated from you. I’ll admit in my darkest hours, I’ve considered suicide. Here, upping my daily consumption of hydrogenated oil, Aspartame sweetened soda, and hot dogs full of nitrates would be an effortless way to off myself.

To keep from myself from following through on these gloomy thoughts, I try to recapture the memory of your tangy breath after sucking on a non-GMO lemon. I picture the soft tendrils of your hair like curled watermelon vines clinging to the nape of your neck. At night, I dream of pressing your bountiful body next to my rapidly deteriorating one.

With our first touch, I knew you were the one. Your lips, crushed strawberries warmed by the sun, beckoned me to kiss you. Your succulent flesh is ripe honeydew melon.

When viewing this photo of myself stacking cans of caffeine-infused energy drinks, you will be shocked by my appearance. I’ve gained nineteen pounds, and my hair is falling out. I hope you haven’t based your affection on my outer appearance as I have yours.

           I wish to protect you, beloved one. Preserve your looks by hiding our organic vegetables between rows of large marijuana plants. Officials won’t check your produce since pot is now legal in all fifty states.

I’ve asked Roger Smithe, the pilot of the spaceship, Reconnoiter, if I could stow away on his ship to return to earth. He says most transports are loaded with palm oil, shortening, and MSG. I couldn’t squeeze my overweight body between the cans and boxes, but perhaps if he were hauling highly refined flour and rice in sacks. I await this type of delivery.

But at least he will deliver this impassioned message to you. Please write back to me, give me something to help me hold on.

Meantime, if there is anything you could do to intercede on my behalf to return me to your tanned and toned arms, I beg you to lower your standards. At the weekly meeting of the executive FNOG board, appear in that red dress that shows off your spectacular Brazilian gluteus maximus. Wear waterproof mascara, turn on the tears, and appeal to their manly sense of justice, their humanitarianism, and prurient nature.

Marvin, my best friend, has connections with FNOG through his government position. I know he’s always had a thing for you, so you might take advantage of his obsession and ask him for help. Give promises, BUT DON’T FOLLOW THROUGH.

A cynical guy here on Fergon had the nerve to suggest Marvin might have been the person to turn me in. That’s absurd, we’ve been friends since middle school. He even hinted it might be you. I punched him repeatedly and spayed him with non-dairy whipped cream. He licked his wounds.

Tonight, my darling, you will be running through my dreams, your long, blond hair flowing back over your creamy white shoulders.

Yours, unless you grow old, wrinkled, and out of shape,

John Goodfellow

Dear John,

Roger Smithe, the hunky, handsome pilot of the Reconnoiter, brought your letter to me personally. What an exciting time I had with him. I’ve always had trouble resisting men in uniforms. He says he doesn’t eat that garbage, just delivers it. It’s truly sad that you can’t refuse to do so as well.

I tore up your picture because I honestly couldn’t stand seeing you looking so awful. Until you can do something about your weight and hair loss, I’m afraid there is no sense in coming back here to earth. I couldn’t bring myself to be seen in public with you and certainly anything intimate would be out of the question.

You can stop worrying about me. Marvin has been cultivating the garden plants with me every weekend since you went missing and everything is flourishing, including myself.

He said my going to persuade FNOG’s board to change their minds is futile. He knows through special channels that they are deporting any people selling herbal remedies as well as the organic gardeners. He used some sort of secret government hiding device that has cloaked our vegetable plot and made it invisible to drones. Oh, and he suggested that I wear the red dress to dinner with him next Saturday night instead so someone will get the benefit.

I am aware that you will be devastated by the fact that our romance is likely at its end. Perhaps there is some woman in that horrid station who won’t mind that you look haggard and sick. But then, she probably will look bad too, so neither of you should have any cause for complaint. If this should come about, don’t show her any pictures of me, your former girlfriend. She might be tempted to binge on sodium nitrates and trans fats.

I’m so glad you set that insolent fellow straight. Neither Marvin nor I would stoop to something so low as to turn you into FNOG. It’s likely it was that nosey neighbor, Mrs. Turner, who asked how I could possibly look so good, and I told her our little secret.

Well, John, I guess this is good-bye. Try to have the best life you can under the circumstances.

No love and kisses this time,

Giselda Blondheim