Tzvi's Trees: Stories About Weed




Tzvi’s Trees: Stories About Weed - are original short stories inspired by the culture, people, music, scene, and existence of marijuana in the lives of Human kind. Much like all of Peckar’s writing, Tzvi’s Trees teeter on a fine balance between Absolute Fiction and Personal Memoir, and yet Mr. Peckar himself will admit that to him they are one of the same and cannot exist without each other.

#16 Foggy Futures


#16 Foggy Futures

by Tzvi Peckar the Third


London had become an utter bore. He started dabbing between dabbing. Burn after burn. He didn't mind so much. He didn't mind anything these days. The rains were misting the sidewalks. He dabbed some more. The reflection of the city in the puddles of fog would get even clearer through the glaze along his eyes.


Every couple of days the girl from the thrift shop would stop by and do a dab or two. They thought about fucking, but London had just become such a bore.  She'd stand naked in her mind blindly staring at the wet cobblestones. Her dream was full frontal in the thrift store window. She would sway her planked hips ever so slightly that one could barely notice. The men would collect along the sidewalk. Were they even sure she was real or a manikin? They would elbow each other showing face to their neighbor saying, “I think she likes me. She keeps looking at my eyes.”— The mist against the thrift store window had begun to drip. Water balls cutting lines in the clean glass. Faceless bodies walk on by, but no one steps inside these days and instead of dreaming she ate edibles for breakfast and folded torn jeans in the backroom. No one buys torn jeans since London had become such an unbearable bore.


Every couple a days he'd put a thick coat over his flannel and walk a ways to the Queen's castle, but she wouldn't see him because she couldn't bare to go outside herself since London had become such a bore. She blamed it on the misfits who had all gone to New York and the flux between hip hop and house. These broken iconographic images behind his eyes didn’t deter him from waiting patiently at the gates watching the red guards pace in honor of the bore called London. He'd gotten in the habit of vape hits when the nutcrackers turned their backs. After, he generally got a pastry and a pack of camels that he'd distribute to the poor who suffered the most from this grey town by the sea being such a sudden never ending bore.

They would meet sometimes on Saturdays. That's when they could watch the bombs bursting in the distant islands. He felt it was all so very fickle to un-name the continents. The Kings with their pockets so full of gold had nothing more to do these days than avoid the conflict and emasculate the populated worlds into small withered islands that once were Somalia, Syria, Granada, Los Angeles, Cambridge, and the likes now known as tourist traps with surf shops and spiritual accountants serving only the taxman himself who serves the King and the Queens. And London never got excited and never was there a rebellion in years. This is what was considered the bore.


Saturday was their day to smoke the joints instead. Only Saturday—Their day to awaken the ocean’s child. The boy who stood two hundred feet over his mother’s washing tides. The boy who would lift his evaporating hands away from his eyes and press them into the clouds that were his father. The clouds would shape shift to the Londoner's every whim and will. Some were that of a Capricorn, and the others a school of fish, with six more the shapes of blossoming flowers illuminated by the fires of the burning human sacrifice with smoke billowing from their stove tops, up and out of London’s chimneys. By five she would always yawn and remind them both how London became such a bore.