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craft-not-of-the-witch · 11 months

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Ancient Natural Machine

An Abridged Version

The Jefrin

Abridged by Paul Knightly

“Good-day to you, Kind Reader. I’m glad my tale has found you, one way or another. It’s made a long, long, very long journey to get to you, but this story was made for you and your eyes. Get your tea, and get your puppy-dog, for I am the Jefrin and this is my Earthly experience.”

— The Jefrin

The Mighty Jefrin was born in an unknown year-sometime during World War II-His records being lost in a German air raid. His childhood was spent with his thoughts and various dangerous activities. The Jefrin was raised by a single mother, in Manchester, England, and was the eldest of several children. After He completed grammar school, The Jefrin and His sweetheart, who was referred to as Merope, moved to France and began dabbling in music. It wasn’t until the two’s first psychedelic experience that they saw music as a viable career option. The aim was to get their message out, and indeed they did. Their first single, The Moon Dips Low, was a mega-bestseller and immediate radio hit in 1967. The following album, Leaves in the Quarry, peaked at number 1 in the UK charts and number 3 in the US charts. Unfortunately, Merope fell sick after the release of their second best selling album, Flight of the Hummingbird. She had been diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer, but kept it hidden from the following their two-man band had amassed. She had only recorded vocal backtracks and a few drum licks for their next album, when Merope met her untimely demise in 1970, in the arms of the Jefrin, while tripping. By the grace of her existing consciously in the Fourth Dimension, Merope was able to pass on, but remain tethered to the Jefrin’s soul. Since the connection was made, the Jefrin went partially insane, deciding to live in the Fourth Dimension, so as to always be with Merope. This story that you are about to read was written by the Jefrin and, so He claims, Merope. It has been abridged by myself, Paul Knightly, or as the Jefrin used to call me, Arthur. The Jefrin and I met in 1969, at a nightclub - we quickly became friends, as one does when one meets the Jefrin. He gave me this journal a few years later, in 1972, after he had finished their third and final album, Surface Tension. Since that point, no one has heard anything of the Jefrin and more and more people are forgetting Him. So, here it is. The Jefrin, as He saw Himself.

***

The Moon is just so beautiful. She is free to do her magic in the sky as she sees fit. Her glow can illuminate a face, and infect said visage with a pinch of her love. The Space Race was, and is, stupid. We, as the lucky visitors of this rock, should explore and appreciate our world before we dabble in Space Capitalism.

My darling girl is just like the moon; her smile is bright, her love is omniscient. We, together, are the Earth and the Moon - intertwined since the dawn of time; I admire her and she changes my tides. I wish to any dear deity with an ear, to hold my sweet love, once again. More on that later.

Now, you nevermind my childhood. I spent lots of my time alone, not with the other children. This wasn’t particularly by choice in the beginning, but I grew into it. As I aged, I thrived in my own company, and I-later, regrettably-began avoiding my peers in pursuit of bettering myself and becoming comfortable with being alone. In my teenage years, I felt a sort of remorse for the amount of time I spent with myself, as I had missed out on the golden memories my peers had then revelled in - but, moving past, I realised just how uncomfortable these people were with themselves.

My life particularly picked up in school, Stretford Grammar School. I met the love of my life, Merope, the One of Sparkling Face. She is every star in my sky - she is my sky! We met in 8th year; I had asked this cute girl, with wild white-blonde hair, what flavour her lolly was. She stuck it in my mouth. It was cherry. In that moment, with the grass brushing my knees, I knew I would marry Merope, that I would carry her through Hell, bare-foot, if she so asked.

We owned our city; we observed the people, like we were Gods, giving them backstories and names. There were recurring characters and plot-enrichment characters, there were also people living their own stories, with the same Godly agenda as Merope and I, it was obvious. We used to go to the park by Merope’s house and play all sorts of games, with cards, boards, little figurines, and the lot. She would always dress to the nines to see me, too - she’d wear her cute little dresses and skirts, and always had her lavender headband holding back her nearly white hair. One day, my pretty lady surprised me with a Box, and in it, a guitar, and from that day forth, we were never bored again.

God, we used to bounce around - we had the best time. She could read my mind, I could read hers (sometimes). Nothing on this Earth has ever made me as happy as Merope has made me.

After our graduation, Merope and I went to France - first Paris, then Epernay. We continued to chase the fun, anywhere it went. Every night, we’d go to a show, we’d go to a dance; we were doing something every day, big or small. We went on walks in the countryside, we attached ourselves to the walls in the inner-city of Paris.

In France, we made many friends. Merope says I need to write of her favourite friend, Manon Lucas - she was the wonderful woman who got Merope and I on a stage for the very first time. We sang a little swing tune at a talent-night. All sorts of people were there that night and, despite neither of us particularly remembering it, we just kept getting invited back - soon enough, for our own full sets.

We drew crowds of hundreds from all corners of the city - I suppose, people either felt they could relate to us, or wanted to relate to us. It was no issue for us; it helped pay the bills, it gave us more reasons to buy Acid, and the music just flowed from us so beautifully that, after a certain point, we couldn’t fathom what we could be doing without our music. We soon forgot why we came to Paris (it was to study) and began chasing our ‘music career’ fullstop. We also got married.

One evening, while I was preparing our Box for my sweet girl, she was very deep in her trance. Merope was focused on something so hard, and I just let her - I was busy, physically making our Box, I know she handles everything else. This is after Leaves in the Quarry was released, you keep in mind now. It had been released on the Friday night, so we had the whole weekend to manifest our records flying off the shelves, and we were treating ourselves after the stressful ordeal of producing an album.

Once the tension broke, and we were thrust into the Fourth Dimension, it was the most beautiful sight one had ever seen. Tall trees surrounded us, with their branches hanging so low that the leaves could tickle your face if you allowed them. Our two cats, Igor and Ivan, meandered through the Fourth Dimension, constantly living in it. The ceiling above glimmered like the night sky and was so far beyond my reach.

Dead Heads littered the ground, leaning against the trees, sitting on their motorcycles. Just as they always did, they existed. They were expecting something though, waiting for it to happen.

This time, Merope had a surprise for me. She had covered my eyes quickly with her velvet, smooth hands and her giggle made my heart warm. Merope asked me to count to three, and I, of course, obliged. When she lifted her hands, she revealed a new, purple, sparkly guitar, and a matching drum kit, with our band’s name written on the bass drum.

We jammed for hours, upon hours in that Box. Even now, we’re laughing about how it was my most structurally sound ever, too. Really, Merope makes the Boxes. She creates what’s in the Box and I create space for the Box, I ensure she can always have exactly what she wants in the Box.

While in France, we went from Paris to Provence; after our album began selling out in France, we leased a small apartment, so we could just keep to ourselves and keep the inspiration close. The outdoor views were breathtaking, I can still picture them. I can still imagine my darling, smiling wife, twirling in the middle of a forest, so carefree and overjoyed. We would pick the Forget-Me-Nots and the Lavender, the Daisies and Lilies of the Valley - our abode was filled to the brim with flowers of all scents and colours, dried or fresh, watered or potted.

Flight of the Hummingbird was written partially in the deep Provence forests and fields, under the beams of the sun and in the company of the universe. Merope really spearheaded Flight of the Hummingbird, writing more and more lyrics and coming up with the bassline for every single song. Our first two albums were just like our Box - in the first, I took control and guided our project, but our second was when Merope showed, not just me, but the entire world, what she had been working on the whole time. Our second album is our best-selling album, for good reason. It was all my girl.

The day she was diagnosed will live on in my brain until the day I finally join her in sweet eternity. Pancreatic Cancer, stage four, terminal - and, by Jehovah, it was quick and painful. It wasn’t even mercifully quick, because it was so excruciating.

I suggested we end our tour, to go home and recuperate. Merope refused, insisting the last five or six shows wouldn’t kill her - but after we got off tour, and settled in a new London flat - she was gone in a matter of three weeks. We began using more and more psychedelics as she came to her end, and we wrote music like our lives depended on it. Merope only recorded some backing tracks and one ballad, and a few drum licks before she died, but she died while on Mescaline.

Because of her extended consciousness at the time of death, my beautiful woman came back to me as a Dead Head, in the Fourth Dimension. I had blinked, and the cold, grey girl in my arms transformed into a skeleton with the same striped, black and white skirt Merope was wearing just a second before. She spoke to me, and the honey had returned to her voice! Merope’s words crushed like velvet upon my ears and I was beyond overjoyed to find out that my girl wasn’t going anywhere.

Life truly is pointless without your love. I had told her through her entire battle that I would take my life the second she died. I just have a single task to do before we can truly enjoy our Box; finish our album. I’ve decided on a name.

No one can understand the thought going into our latest album - the Dimensional influence is going to upheave our entire style, our fanbase, and with any luck, the scene as a whole. I’ll be using a loop of her final drum tracks - I will not be touching her kit, only Merope can use those sticks on those drums and cymbals.

When Merope would break the trance during a trip, and fully enter us into the other Dimension, it felt like a swimmer coming to take a breath of air after a straight 100m swim - it felt like breaking the Surface Tension.

In their final concert, The Ancient Natural Machine, was just the Jefrin, to celebrate the final album the pair would produce. He rambled about lessons, talked to people who weren’t there, and preached strange ideas - but witnesses report seeing the drum sticks moving during the final concert. At the end of their final song, the Jefrin smiled to the audience. He thanked everyone, and thanked his wife. Then he swallowed about 20 unknown pills and was pronounced dead on scene, with a smile on his face. His death was sad for many, but, if you were a true friend, you should be happy that the Jefrin is dead. You should rejoice in the fact that he is with his love, so at least one thing, in one dimension, is absolutely perfect.

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craft-not-of-the-witch · 11 months

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To Build A Box

The title of Jefrin was first bestowed upon Keith Splendor when the 4th dimension was revealed to him for the very first time, by a friendly skeleton, named Cyrus. Cyrus lived in the 4th dimension, along with all the other skeletons and mythic folk. The 4th dimension was born of The Box, a concept that was established by the Jefrin and his late wife many decades ago.

The Box is a present, made by the Jefrin, prepared by his wife, and intended for both to enjoy.

On the eve of their first Box, Keith and Merope had purchased six hits of Acid, for 30 quid, from a friend in Hyde Park. Keith pulled Merope close on their brisk walk home, kissing her temple with a smile, “Our fate is made of stardust, Lovey - tonight, we’ll measure the sparkle.”

Merope offered him a smile and shook her head. “Tonight, we’ll find out what always makes you speak in poetry.”

The cool Spring air chased them into their apartment complex. Excitement pushed them up the stairs in a flash - their auras grew bubbly and spiky - like children in the front of the line for a roller coaster. As they made their way to their flat, they found themselves feeling a shiver (that they would soon find out to be eternal) from the tips of their fingers to their knees.

From Keith’s coat, he produced all six paper squares, all contained nicely in a green dimebag. The two shared toothy grins as Keith poured out the bag on their glass coffee table. Merope got to dividing the squares, using the tips of her long nails to touch the drug, so as not to absorb any through her skin. She placed Keith’s three tabs in front of him, in the shape of a small, cartoon heart.

“Are you ready, Babe?” Keith asked Merope as they both gathered up their doses.

“Always.”

They stuck the tabs underneath their tongues and let them gather a strange film on them. For a little while, the two just experienced the feeling of this card-stock-like paper not dissolving but lingering under their tongues. It was almost like the paper was spicy, it pinched the different parts of Keith’s mouth.

It wasn’t long before the world became more interesting. Well, it felt long to both of them - but they supposed you never feel more sober than after your first dose. Nevertheless, in 40 minutes or less, the walls became brighter and the carpet became softer, the couch was bouncier and the ceilings lower - but also higher!

While Keith examined the walls for any more fallacies, the level of his understanding of the walls only diminished. They stretched and shrunk at astounding speeds, they bent and swirled, and even changed colours in certain spots.

When he turned back around, Keith was pleasantly surprised to see Merope surrounded in multi-coloured flowers. They weren’t flowers, he quickly realised, for they were turning into birds. They took off around the room, zipping with beams of blue and yellow, followed by trails of piercing whistles. Merope was watching the same scene as Keith, just sitting on the couch instead of standing in the thick, shag carpet.

As the time passed, Keith continued to perfect their room, investigating and making sure everything was safe, sound and perfect. Keith brought Merope blankets when she was cold, jumping on the couch with her and enjoying how soft her skin felt on his fingertips, and he held her up when she grew tired of the couch.

Through their trip, Merope got in her head, passing out a few times in the first half of the trip - tears leaked out of her beautiful green eyes whether she knew they were or not. Finally, around four hours in, Keith could feel a tension snap in the room. Merope suddenly stood up with no issue and sighed very heavily. Before Keith could ask what had happened, someone else spoke. Or, rather, sang.

“Ooh, my life is yours - an’ I love you, Pretty, pretty gi-irl,” he sang, in a dry, brutal tone. Keith whipped around so fast he stumbled a bit, only to be caught by two boney arms. “Whew! Cool it, Jefrin. Lots of the Bone Daddy to go around.”

On top his head was a straw hat, with a huge brim, and a black, velvet hat band. He had a long, long white beard that reached past his knobby knees. And he had no skin, nor eyes, nor organs, nor blood.

“What the fuck.” Keith jumped away from the skeleton, pulling Merope back with him. The skeleton smiled warmly and pulled a guitar from behind his back.

He strummed a chord and focused his black eye-holes on the couple. “My name’s Cyrus. I’m your guide to your new world. Nothing’s staying the same, Jefrin, dig it?” Keith looked at Merope with a cocked eyebrow, only to see her smiling at the animated skeleton. “Your girlie here made me, with her mind. I’m made of her love, and a bit of yours too.”

Before Keith could even respond to this madness, Cyrus thrust his 6-string into Keith’s hands. Suddenly, all of his confusion was centred on where this guitar had come from. “I can’t play.”

“Then I’m here to teach you, Jef. Rip a chord, show me ‘n’ your girlie what swims through that head of yours.” Cyrus moseyed on over to the couch, plopping his bones amongst the green suede.

For the rest of the night, Keith and Merope passed the guitar to and from, figuring out their own chords and notes. Cyrus taught them the occasional trick but it seemed like they both had been playing the guitar for years, despite never having picked one up.

The next day, 16 hours later, once they had emerged from deep slumber their come-down had put them in, Keith and his lover determined that The Box was a present. Merope makes their gift on the plane of consciousness they both will soon share, and Keith wraps it as beautifully as he can. The world outside of The Box was beautiful, but The Box held more beauty than any mind could fathom.

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craft-not-of-the-witch · 11 months

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Planning

Plot-

Begins with a foreword by an imaginary friend of the Jefrin, Paul Knightly (he provides brief detail on the Jefrin and Merope’s lives).

It then launches into a sort of journal/auto-biography, written by a man who is slowly descending into madness.

First, the Jefrin tells you to ‘nevermind’ his childhood - that he was lonely on the schoolyard but grew into it. He met Merope in 1958, in grammar school, then they traipsed around France. They began dabbling in psycho-active substances a little bit pre-France, and began being recognised for their music and lyrics. When they went back home, they were a hit.

Two albums come out and Merope gets sick. The Jefrin is at her side the entire time she withers, even tripping with her in her final hour. Because of that, the Jefrin claims that Merope’s soul fully materialized in the Fourth Dimension. He continues to do psychedelics and see his dead wife while he makes music. He finishes their final album, releases it, then kills himself while tripping. The Jefrin now lives in the Fourth Dimension.

Setting-

Manchester, England

London, England

Paris, France

Provence, France

It is 1970, when the Jefrin is writing. Their flats, in fields, in forests.

POV-

Mostly first person.

Character-

The Jefrin-Mystic-He is kind, and smart, and incredibly strong. Only the right kind of people think he’s handsome, and those people think he’s drop-dead gorgeous. Deeply in love with his wife. Loves to make music, loves to sing. Plays guitar while Merope drums.

Merope-Mystic-Even kinder than the Jefrin, she is funny, she is sharp. She loves her husband and quite literally lives for him. She tried to stay so, so strong for the Jefrin when she was dying. She was the sweetest woman ever.

Cyrus-The Dead Head-Cyrus was made in the first trip of the Jefrin and Merope. He acted as a guide and mentor for a while, then he jammed with them when they would enter the Fourth Dimension. He had a long white beard and a wide, straw hat. Speaks with a sort of jive.

Stylistic Devices-

Motif-The colour purple is the favourite colour of the couple, and it darkens as the scenes progress. It starts with Merope having a favourite lavender headband, then to the Jefrin getting a purple guitar and purple drums, to Merope and the Jefrin both dying while a bowl of red grapes sits nearby.

Anastrophe-The Jefrin writes in a very strange way, wherein his verbs, nouns and adjectives take up very random spots of his sentences.

Colloquialism-The Jefrin wrote the entire story in a very relaxed fashion, using various slang words.

Connections-

TtP-I can relate to the love that the Jefrin and Merope have - they are extremely based on myself and my boyfriend, as well as our adventures together.

TtT-In the film, Waking Life, the main character simply floats through a growingly colourless void, having meaningless conversations with strangers. At first he believes he is dreaming, until he knows he’s dead. If it weren’t for the connection Merope and the Jefrin had, dying in the Fourth Dimension must be something like that.

TtW-The Jefrin is loosely based on Jerry Garcia, the leader of the Grateful Dead. The term Dead Heads comes from the Grateful Dead as well. I got the entire idea for this story while staring at a Grateful Dead poster.

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