Michael Jefferson

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Feb, 2022

Stories (149)

149 Stories

2899 karma pts

?

“God May Be Tone Deaf But I’m Not” by Michael Jefferson

Submitted to Contest #177

Connor Crosswhite flashes a toothy grin as he passes Hattie the receptionist, who puffs up her posture hoping the rock god will notice her. Whipping off his sunglasses, the tanned, trim, thirty-three-year-old Brit-born lead singer of the band THC breezes into Rollin’ Records’ conference room like a swashbuckling pirate. “Well, if it ain’t his nibs,” Amp Steele, the group’s bass player teases. “How’re things in paradise?” “Living in Monaco is like being in Disney World every day.” “Wouldn’t know, mate,” Amp replies. “My checks are much sm...

2 comments 2
Read story

“The Purple Scourge” by Michael Jefferson

Submitted to Contest #176

Colette, Calisto’s seventeen-year-old apprentice, straddles Mazie, Castle Hogue’s prize pig. “Hold her steady,” the young magician says, waving a bowl in front of Mazie. Grunting, the oversized pig licks at the contents of the bowl. “All right, release her.” Colette steps away from Mazie, giggling as the pig wanders drunkenly around her pen. “Looks like your potion packs a punch,” the attractive brunette says. “The question is, will it work?” Mazie suddenly nosedives into the mud, dead. “Well, we know it kills,” Calisto says. The pai...

0 comments 0
Read story

“Mr. Charm and Mr. Scrambled Eggs” by Michael Jefferson

Submitted to Contest #175

Blake Best skillfully spoons a hefty portion of scrambled eggs onto a veteran’s plate. “Thank you for that.” “What?” “Giving me a little extra.” “You look like you could use it today, Terry,” Blake says. “You keeping up with your appointments?” “Yes, sir. I go to an AA meeting every afternoon. Tomorrow I’m goin’ for my glasses. Thanks again for settin’ that up. You’re a good man, Blake. This place used to be empty. Since you were made liaison to the Director, this place has become the top vet’s club in the county.” “How about some bac...

2 comments 2
Read story

“The Brawl For It All” by Michael Jefferson

Submitted to Contest #174

Eric Monarch chafes at the first question. “Shouldn’t this fight have taken place five years ago when both fighters were in their prime?” The promotor grins, the jewel in his front tooth gleaming against the lights, his spikey grey hair standing straight up like a forest of exclamation points He is not about to let his press conference get out of hand. “I should have married Christina Hendricks five years ago, but she wasn’t available. You gotta do these fights when the warrior's schedules free up. Carlos Madrid, ‘The Lion of the Pro...

0 comments 0
Read story

“By the Colour of Your Dreams” by Michael Jefferson

Submitted to Contest #173

Lyric Bass blows the steam off her mochaccino. “Are you still looking for the right song for your advertising campaign?” Brice Bass closes the lid of his laptop. Taking off his glasses, he rubs his tired eyes. “Yeah, nothing seems to fit.” “What about Derry Dalrymple’s ‘By the Colour of Your Dreams?’ Great song. Great album. It’s very sentimental and sad yet uplifting at the same time. I think it fits because you’re selling the idea of a theme park where fantasies come true.” Brice’s boyish features brighten. “That’s perfect! And I love...

2 comments 2
Read story

“Achtung, Baby” by Michael Jefferson

Submitted to Contest #172

One sentence, “Will you marry me?” might have made me a happy, responsible man. Unfortunately, at the time I should have said it, I was hardly responsible and more horndog than man. I got swept up in the false image of being a player who walked into bars with three or four stunning nannies on his arm. I wanted all of them, but I really only needed one - Ilka. Now, thirty years later, I’m alone, unable to remember the sound of her voice or the touch of her hand. The irony is we never should have met in the first place. I was forty-four...

0 comments 0
Read story

“The Bedford Cross” by Michael Jefferson

Submitted to Contest #171

Vince Stafford’s eyes welled up with tears as he looked at the photos, wilted flowers, trinkets, and waterlogged sympathy cards gathered around The Bedford Cross. The twenty-five-foot cross had been erected in 1956 on a large traffic island that separated South Bedford Road and Route 119. The Cross memorialized the dozens of lives lost or ruined there. Vince cried because he knew too many of them. Drivers heading north were often lulled into a false sense of safety by the picturesque trees that lined South Bedford Road, especially in the f...

0 comments 0
Read story

“Let Me Be Your Dog” by Michael Jefferson

Submitted to Contest #170

The stocky, fortyish Black man walked toward the elderly couple. Regina Beckwith smiled neighborly at him. Checking her watch, she let out a hearty laugh. “Ten-thirty on the nose,” she said. Barton, her husband of fifty years, grinned placidly. “Yep. Right on schedule. I swear I can set my watch by you.” Starling Coyle took great pleasure and pride in compartmentalizing every aspect of his life, beginning with his morning walk through the Dobbs Ferry Town Park. Starling had no family and he liked it that way. His mother had been a bitte...

0 comments 0
Read story

“Shadow on My Wall” by Michael Jefferson

Submitted to Contest #169

The floor in the living room creaks, catching Aaron’s attention.            Aaron turns to face the shadow on the wall behind him, saying, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was followed.”            Aaron sinks into a crouch in a darkened corner of the bedroom. He reaches in his jacket for the gun he left on the dining room table. His favorite softball bat will have to do.            T...

0 comments 0
Read story

“Kyrie Kicks Back” by Michael Jefferson

Submitted to Contest #168

“Did you bring my medication? It’s time for my pills.” “Yes, mother,” Marshall Destry answers wearily. “…As if you even know what you’re taking…” “What? Speak up. You mumble all the time these days.” Lifting her head from her cushioned seat, Rosamond Destry looks out of the window. The scenery blends into a blur as the train speeds along, its whistle blaring loudly. “Where are we?” “We’re on a train, mother. We’re going to your new home.” “Where’s Inka?” “Inka’s not your nurse anymore. You’re going to have a new one.” Rosamond’s tir...

0 comments 0
Read story

“We’ll Meet Again” by Michael Jefferson

Submitted to Contest #167

“You bushwhackin’ sidewinder!” Tristan Calendar shouts. He quickly surveys the grubby saloon, realizing he’s surrounded by half a dozen of Cody Dillinger’s men. “This is between you and me, not your hired shooters,” Tristan says to his foe. “Let’s settle this like gentlemen.” Dillinger reaches for his pistol. “No one’s ever accused me of bein’ one.” Tristan draws first, pointing his gun at Dillinger’s head. “All right let’s be civilized then,” Dillinger says, holding up his oversized hands. “I’m unstrappin’ my gun. You do the same, and ...

0 comments 0
Read story

“Hoping For a Blessing” by Michael Jefferson

Submitted to Contest #166

The silver armor of the approaching order of knights gleams with menace as they advance toward King Quentin Kaloric’s castle. Four knights detach themselves from the order, their metal shoes clanking loudly as they cross the drawbridge. Still standing at attention outside of the castle, their battle flags flying, the figures of the other hundred knights appear to fade into the moonlit night. Despite the warmth of his oversized robe, King Quentin shivers as he watches the four knights get closer, their metal shoes leaving a trail of blood...

0 comments 0
Read story

“Your Mouth is Cashin’ Checks Your Gun Hand Can’t Deliver” by Michael Jefferson

Submitted to Contest #165

White Oaks, New Mexico 1887 Clancy Cooper spits a long stream of tobacco juice into a nearby spittoon, cocking his eye at a dark-skinned man at the end of the bar. The man in the black suit and wide-brimmed hat glares back at the scruffy farmer with greasy, shoulder-length hair. Clancy runs his finger across his bushy mustache, nodding knowingly at the man. “I tell you, Trey, that’s him.” Hoping to avoid drawing attention to himself, Trey Akin, a baby-faced, thirty-two-year-old farmer, quickly glances at the man. “Maybe it ain’t…” “Wh...

2 comments 2
Read story

“The Cement Mixer” by Michael Jefferson

Submitted to Contest #164

There were thirty-foot oak trees in my hometown of Mount Kisco, manicured lawns, parks that spanned for miles, and the air smelled fresh and sweet. Where I was going to work in the Bronx, the scrawny trees were two feet high and were marginally protected by sharpened barbed wire fences. There weren’t any lawns, the parks had more broken glass than grass, and the air smelled of dog crap and urine. As Senator Carmen Marini’s communications director, I was duty-bound to spend forty hours a week in a claustrophobic, crime-ridden dump. My frie...

0 comments 0
Read story

“First Volk” by Michael Jefferson

Submitted to Contest #163

“It’s inoperable, Adam.” Adam Volk fights to digest the news, pushing his thick glasses up off the end of his nose. “I can make you comfortable, but that’s about it,” Dr. Karl Ambros says, his furrowed brow registering his concern. The fifty-seven-year-old doctor has been treating his close friend for the past two years. During that time, he’s watched fifty-two-year-old Adam disintegrate from a robust 220 pounds to a scant 160 and seen his friend’s dark hair turn silver from worry. Experiencing sympathy pains, Karl has developed ulcers an...

2 comments 2
Read story

Author bio

Michael Jefferson has not written a bio yet!