Neil Jefferies
Bio
Writer from Canada.
Stories (4/0)
Driver's Seat
My head is shaken. Thoughts feel scrambled but there's a rumbling beneath my back that keeps me comforted. A cat’s purr. Savoring the last moments where I’m somewhere between asleep and awake. I love this area. Thoughts come about in the fashion of little vignetted dreams. Shortened, somewhat realistic little things. I’m thinking of the old bottle. Can feel its cold exterior pressed against my thigh. In my little shortened dream it's reaching out to me with little glass arms. It's got a slice of lime for a mouth but it does not speak, not directly to me. We just look at each other. The air between us is as tense as the air between two lovers in a quarrel. Can almost taste it. The bitter air sits heavier on my tongue. Savoring the moments without it makes it so much better once it finally touches the tongue. It waits patiently. Old friend. Time to soothe the quickening nausea. My eyes open and I grasp the neck of the bottle. Swirl the liquid around in the glass. Very fortunate to find that it's nearly full. Sweet brown nectar sent from the gods, prepared by the devil. Love it when they work together. Makes for quite a show.
By Neil Jefferies2 years ago in Fiction
The Growing of a Melon
Plans were made to meet at the beach. A short gravel trail led them to an opening at the end of the peninsula. An old dried oak tree, sun baked and withered, was partially dug into the sand. They leaned their bikes and backs against it and began unpacking their bags. Smiles were passed from face to face with the radiant glow of summer sun bouncing off of their teeth in glimmering winks. They were ageless, no signs of life's traumas were displayed upon their faces. The food they unpacked was young and healthy. A container of watermelon slices from a melon with a yellow belly. An assortment of cheeses which, now with the heat blaring down upon them, they were growing concerned for. Bottles of wine, cheap but desirable nonetheless, passed from mouth to mouth. Sweet loving glances, passed from eye to eye from friend to friend as the juices of the fruits dripped down their chins and the seeds stuck in their teeth. The waves in the distance brought in the smell of the sea. A salty humid air, clinging to their skin, wrapping them into their environment as though they were no more than a stone or a shell. And they weren’t.
By Neil Jefferies2 years ago in Earth
The Dancer
When I leave my apartment with a flask full of whatever, I’m usually anticipating a good night. I’ve started to think it's the best part of going out. That warm, burning liquor that slips down my throat tells me lies. It tells me I’m going to have a good time, get laid, meet some people who will change my life, and someone will buy me drinks so I don’t have to keep dipping into my savings. As soon as I hear the thump of leather boots and I feel their rhythmless rumbling that rings through the floor, I know none of that will happen. Instead I’ll likely get enough of a buzz on to convince myself I can afford a night out, and that I deserve one. After that, once the medicine overtakes control of my own actions, I’ll find myself clumsily stumbling through the dance floor, trying to put my movements together in an extravagant way to show off and pull a mate. Maybe I just ought to take it easy. Avoid the break dancing and the fast feet, I’m rightly not good at it. For some reason it just spills out of me. In those 45 seconds that I’m clunking my dumb feet on the wood floors and swinging my spaghetti limbs around, I feel a sense of relief. It's in those moments and when I’m spinning like a turtle on its back where I feel like I know why I’m there. My time is usually up pretty quick, it doesn’t take long for some big strong cowboy to lift me up and either punch me or throw me out. The bouncers are always telling me, ‘No break dancing, you’re gonna get your ass beat’, but I spend my money like a fool so they let me in whether I keep dancing or not.
By Neil Jefferies2 years ago in Fiction
Dirty Yellow Bungalow
It’s exterior had a layer of filth that clung to its cheap vinyl sidings, turning it to a muddied, fading yellow with streaks of brown. It had an almost brown, almost red picket fence that sat crookedly in between the sad excuse for a yard and the sidewalk. The north side of the house had two parking spaces, one for the house and one for the neighbours who ran a massage parlour out of a similarly small but slightly more well put together bungalow. The south side of the house was a charmless alley that nestled itself in between the house and a newer, shining building that had a 3 foot barricade made of stone protecting it from the vermin of Calgary’s east side. The house's backside, which faced west, was a parking area for a company that specialized in industrial vehicle washing mechanisms. The house looked as though it was the only home available to be lived in along the congested and dusty 11th St.
By Neil Jefferies2 years ago in Fiction