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.
#19 Habitual Mythos
#19 Habitual Mythos
by Tzvi Peckar the Third
From her belly came three massive sucker-less tentacles. The appendages were muscular flab and flesh that would reach into the night sky; their clubs were functional vaginal lips and passages that could collect stars from the dark matter of space and time. They were her additional boneless arms and legs. They were her perfection. If you were to be hers, she would wrap herself around your flesh, spiraling along your mass, suckling your extremities with her luscious vaginal lips.
Through the day, alone at night, she would relax her fleshy feminine appendages and sprawl herself out along the sea. The ocean’s salty water bathed her in acres of saliva and the sweat of an infinite number of men lost at sea, stranded on the shallow shores of empty islands populated by soulless sexual fantasies. The current would spread her hair like a fan of needle thin serpents. A head spawning a billion appendages that would pick at the deceased sea men who had swam out to a loveless suicide. The flesh of death lacked nutrition. The death had corrupted their protein and she might as well have been grinding sand kernels between her teeth. The tiny brail sea men had always left her stomach hollow and cramped, causing her mind to cringe from the pressure of the sea. By midnight she’d grow restless and maturate her three appendages to extend into the nightscape so she may catch burning stars with her multiple, sexless lips at the club of the tentacles and toss the dying suns toward the myriad of moons orbiting this living sphere.
Fish of a thousand kinds would spin schools of tornados to the rhythms of her humming. Throughout the days she has grown fonder of using her throat to tame her own melancholy as she waded through this sudden flesh-station her essence had accumulated from, from the minerals of the deep. Was she ever in search of a mate or was the fire on the mainland keeping her timid and cowardice because the ocean was cool and ever flowing despite being caged within the confines of its surrounding soil, the continents’ walls of granite, and her father’s promises.
Flutters of winged lions with peacock tails would circle over her identity. They were on the hunt for whale, not women birthed from gods. Some of the soaring kings of the wild would roar while others would purr and tumble in the playfulness of heaven’s clouds. And her sex was warm and wet and wiser none-the-less of he, the giant that stood upon the land. She would avoid him forever. That was her father’s single request. He would insist she never find him on the land, sky, or sea. Her glory was too great for even a father to part with, but her stagnation in the Sea would be the end of his light if ever a cult of mosquitos nested and reproduced within her tied umbilical.
Her father, who had been born from the wombs of sixteen prepubescent gods and his single father, the god of indignation, allowed her to live upon a chosen sphere as she wished. Her wish was that of entitlement based on the maddening sense that her soul was being drawn out of her essence and that she was certain to pain herself as does a swordfish who thrashes when caught on a fisherman’s pole. Her father in turn made glorious, shallow commitments that the upright beasts of the world she was to rest within would admire the sight of her mystical flesh reclined in the waves of the sea. The sea was the only real estate large enough to facilitate her immense size, being that she was the last daughter of a god. And in return she would ignore the fisherman. The ocean assisted in this futile commitment. That is the promise she was sure she could not hold. That was the promise that gave her credence and allowed her the patience to toil alone as she intentionally avoided the statue of the giant on the mainland forever. A lie. Float. Remain. Forgetful. Yearning. Strong. Weakened. Tempered. Bored. Careless. Drifting. The freedom granted from being bound in chastity chains adrift a sea of inconsistency was the under-toe, tidal waves, whirlpools, and hunger amongst the flesh eating, water winged, gilled beasts who would feast upon themselves in their specie’s sacrifice for survival and the rape of extinction, is what distracted her sense of past and future. And the electrified eels of the sea caves would tend to her needs by suckling her backside to pick the barnacles from her skin. She may have cried for the honey bees that washed ashore weekly if she had ever known a bee to be so full of life, but as far as she could recall, the soaring pollen seekers had just kept leaping to their death in the salted sea with no hope for sugar and sweets. And the bees were a reminder that she had never stopped avoiding him on the land.
The giant’s feet were as firmly planted into the estate as the stone they were carved from. His arms were the mass of a redwoods base, the bark stretched like leather, his veins raised and pulsating with a fever for the sea. He had been the giant that had set fires to the dry brush across all eighty-nine continents. Smoke billowed from each pile of charcoaled debris as the muscle and bone of the sphere’s inhabitants sacrificed their lambs, their kids, their fawn, and their fables in order to understand the treachery of the still giant who stands naked, tall, and silent, doing nothing, but burning down his land. More than two thirds of this world labeled him the horror of a monster’s fear. The remaining population believed him to be a recluse from his own kind. These inhabitants prayed for his revelation. They called up the gods who commanded the gods of the final gods who sacrificed their godliness for complete knowledge and truth of the Universe and its Opposite. They asked these gods to reveal the lover in the sea to him. If he mates, he may not flame the fires on us, was what they believed.
His gods were the women who birthed him. He was not a child of a single coupling. He was as if he was her own father, yet born a son not a god. His stomach wore the mark of miracles and mysteries. This giant of the land had three navels birthed from three women. The mothers were open wounds of cosmic dark matter completed with the seed of the suns. With every night came the fear of the day. With every day came the retreat of his mothers around his crown. Three wombs collected to balance the wake of the moons that by midnight would tilt and twirl the sea-water into unconsciousness—her dream. By day the blinding truth was as fierce a flame to his naked eyes as the stars she collected without a spark of pain along her appendages smacking their blood filled vaginal lips. And his phallus was a pillar of carnis as he stood staring blindly over the crumbling beach walls out to the vast bath of amniotic waters where she waded bare, her hair freely a drift, untangled from the undercurrent.
The earths and the fifty massive dying spheres that orbited the sea and the land had created a familial atmosphere within her orifices. Into her ears swam the reborn plankton that were regurgitated from the narwhales that in turn would penetrate her arteries with their spiraled tusks filling her heart with a numbing chorus of the orgasms sung by illustrious narwhales mating with aquatic pachyderms. Her anus would excrete, by the hundreds, heavy minuet eggs of pearl packaged in a fine silk membrane. Rabid sharks would launch themselves from their lazy depths to tear at the egg casing, that when ingested in large doses would induce a psychedelic jaunt for the flesh-eating sharks. And the fish would grow arms, and they would grow legs, and their phallus would stand tall and erect and yet they would devour each other in a fashion damaging to a cannibal’s integrity. Bottom dwelling clams the size of bears would unbury themselves from the sandy seabed to swallow the very eggs she disclaimed for the world to reprocess. And he would watch from the shore as the waves rushed against her closed and shackled uterus. Her pubic hairs were not free. An illusion from the seaweed caught along her chains. Her pelvis had been welded shut. Closed. Not for entry. Only when she deposited her eggs of lifelessness would a small door open from the rear of her metal diaper.
The giant’s mothers’ fires burned a crown along his forehead scorching the green leafed curls of his wild flower hair. He was sedated. His feet were heavy. Night would fall. He would wait no longer. He had chosen a path so simple. He would crush the cities and enter the sea. His steps would be slow. Each foot demolished hundreds of homes and offices. He would enter the sea and trudge along the base of the ocean and rape the buoyant flesh that floats before his eyes.
It was futile to avoid him if he was going to be so bold as to splash through her home with such a steady step and shine to his naked eye. There was more to him than the bulk of his flowing blood. This was the everything she was banned from accepting into herself. If he even spoke one word, the meaning would span a lifetime. And if he could find a way to enter her, to stay inside as she struggled and moaned, then she would surely defy her god, her father. Why not? Why not entice the giant and see how militant he is to have her. Even if she gave herself to him, he would still have the satisfaction of rape by defiling a god’s daughter. She eased her bellies appendages along his neck and shoulders when the aqueous sap would rise from his pores. Her elongated tentacles performed the acts of desire with the strength of a celestial army. Armies of gods and angels, demons and mercenaries had fought for the placement of lands and oceans along the void of dark matter. They would battle with swords and tear the flesh from each other’s spines with their molars and claws. The sphere on which he and she resided was the closest planet to the three mother suns; it was a past battleground basting in the blazing embers of dying stars.
The time was always the middle of the night when the sea would temporarily fill with the glow of his crown. She would turn her back on the night sky and instead watch the holocaust of his mother’s suns extinguished under the sea. His heavy soles would push the bottom dwelling clams that had claimed her eggs deeper into the sand of the sap soaked earth. Treasures saved the pollen of his flowered leaf hair. Pollen absorbed through the veins of the leaves would travel throughout his carnis body to his coupled pebbles. His dangling stones had the potential of expelling diamonds from his hardened phallus. These transparent gems were known to shave the most impenetrable of metals. His expulsion was the seamen of the alchemist’s gods; salient, acute metaphysical diamonds enchanted with the gyration of a hundred quaking planet’s cores that would violently carve at the chains of chastity to give her the single choice to reveal her rabbet, her father’s diamond in the rough, her laceration and within her soul, the yeast that makes the giant rise.
Beside the crevasse of molten sand along the center of the ocean floor was where her flesh had begun to grow. From the celestial realm, her father, against the wishes of her black matter Mother, transcendentally released her from a suffocating existence without oxygen and guidance, floating aimlessly from sphere to sphere, watching from behind the atmospheric fence, with no safe passage or fulfilled form.
Her fantasies in space were as transparent as the lies she perpetrated to herself to find a way to a celestial earth of matter. Her father had planted this daughter a garden of sulfur. A landscape where succulent living, conscious tubeworms once gave purpose to mammalian souls, now had become a warm bed of penetrable scent for his daughter to grow the soft flesh around her enlightened dark matter of essence. And the flesh would be sealed by a soothing membrane of suede and the essence would harden into bone and soon enough in years to come she would sprout the appendages from her belly to play with the stars to tease and tantalize the terra firma until he came into her sea.
The smaller fish would scatter as he stepped closer and closer to her drifting wake. The gentle movement of her fingers spread the variety of tides across the globe. The massive toothed, leather skinned octopods would, without trepidation, lunge themselves toward him. Curling their parasitic sucker infested tentacles around his entirety. His orifices were subjects to the rape of the single fingered appendages blasting from a single breast, loose flesh, a breast that can hold no shape, and a nipple expulsing air bubbles. His nose would be clogged. His ears stuffed. Two or three of these Octopi’s elongated arms would push their way into his mouth. His anus. His urethra. The others would squeeze his thighs, his claves, both his wrists, and his hands would try to contain a flow of blood. The Octopi’s tentacles would tie around his bicep, choke his throat, and suckle on his eyeballs. The mouths of the Octopods were only the vaginal comparison to the desperate pussy-cat in heat which screams in agony upon penetration. Smacking their lips together the Octopi attack. Salivating in the already salty sea, which burns their passing ovaries like severed arteries gushing red oil slicks, they would bruise his skin and gnaw upon his hair. If they had teeth they could break his surface and suck him dry. Blood that would surely fill their breasts so they may rise to the surface of the waves like she had and grow to mate on land with the monkeys in the trees and the rodents in the sand—If he hadn’t severed theses parasitic Octopi knots from his discomfort and released their meaty breast heads out to sea, then he may have never returned to the sea for a second time, this being his ninth.
The black and red ink stained water from the torn muscle and fat of the estranged Octopods paints a darkness in the ocean, another mask to peak her interest and allow herself to drift closer into his path. Just for show. The current flows steady. Crashing white water against her breasts. Her belly turns south again. She sees his helicoid eyes of indulgence, spiraling in, the vacuum of everything and nothing with the spice of rebellion and humor about both of their finite pasts and infinite futures.
The moon will shift. Forced to the East off the Z axis. The Mothers of the Universe, the dark matter, have collected the mass of all life. The tide has turned. The sporadic air bubbles have grown heavy and hard. Stones—Thousands of bulleted pebbles—Fragments of sand cascading against her suede skin. Mother is angry. Bruised again and again. The dark matter has had its patience with the Sea—No more. And the grains of sand, the trillions of stones, the monstrous rocks that bite and poison the under flesh will penetrate her amphibian spirit, drawing question to her innocent mind, and immaculately rape her in the sea and force her to bare billions of still-born crustaceans that drift to the continents and seed the forests after traveling upstream in the bellies of salmon, dropped in the mating ponds, and sprouting as the vegetation of smoke for the natives, the last of the risen people. Those of the industrialized and tragically civilized masses had been cast out from their burials upon his absence on the soil at midnight. The now broken peoples of the cities were as quick to repentance as he was wise to abandon them and lug his mass of dirt and soil through the sea to reason with passion and devour the fragrance of the sulfur gas, temporarily satisfying his cannibalistic salacity until he could lick the inside of her flesh and she could ingest his children.
The dark matter above the invisible skyline ceased to blanket her every inhibition. Her father patiently sat upon his godly throne of gas anticipating a time to battle against the giant that so thoughtlessly came to poison his kin with diamonds and then distribute her pearls. Her parents just did not know where she had gone to. The stones that had buried her alive and attempted to smother her new friendship, had all sunk to the sea floor, melting into a majestic coral reef mapped with the living sphere’s molten lava that would ooze from its core and slither through the valleys of the uncharted reef. And once again she would lower herself into the cloaked darkness of the depths to be with him.
Her carnis would augment into a lavish skin now even softer to the touch than the suede that he had imagined her essence to be sealed in. He would act unaware. She herself was surprised by her willful metamorphosis. Her shackles still remained. Is it she that is this thin membrane that now drapes over his skull in the manner of a mystic entering a session of mesmerizing prayer? He would twist his forearms into her. Use his calloused fingers to twirl her thin sheet of a form into his grip and he would tug her close and she would cloak him with her absoluteness and yet still avoid the vacuum of this giant skeptic’s helicoidally animated eyes. The membrane, which would be her hand, would flutter and stroke his phallus, washing the waters around his dangling stones and in time set off a series of penetrating diamond ejaculate against the metal shield that guarded her canal, her passage, his time capsule. And again and again he would bombard her father’s gated compound with his circus of shredding seamen. The darkness of the ocean blasted away into a shine by the bursts and fragmental streaks of electricity ricocheting from the striking diamonds and the metallic casing. The jolts of electrons would pierce her nerve endings, peddle to the metal along the nervous interstate, in and up the overpass of her breasts, nearly escaping from the opening atop her nipples, but instead curving along the esophagus and penetrating her spine so the electrocution could galvanize her neurotransmitters into submission and give him an ample chance at seducing her past her initial rape of his initial intention. Was she struggling? Absolutely. Was he brutal? Yes. His brutality played out with a creative care as he gnawed her flesh during the inflammation of her membrane that again was flowering with flesh, muscle, breasts, lips, fingers, and soon enough he will, with a final wrenching of the shaved metal, contest to remove the belt of subtle virginity, penetrate her father’s glory, and drown their sorrows, thrashing through the sea, murdering eels, captivating bottom dwellers stoned on shells, bewildering their animation of spirit, tickling their souls, bloodletting their tongues into each other’s mouths, and awaiting the diamonds to shave the lining of her tunnel to bare the eighty-eight children to dine upon and serve as fragments to the Natives, only to awaken the next morning, she floating aimlessly in the sea, and he back on land as stationary as an illicit idol surrounded by the fauna that has risen and walked from the sea while the medicinal flora sprouted from her pearls now washed ashore into the earth of his pedestal. And the scent of the flora would remind him of a catastrophic event that has him uprooting his stoned soles so he may gallivant into her ocean—night after night—to wade through the sex of the sea, she. And with the remnants of the salt he’s left between her thighs she would bake the grains and melt them with the heat of the suns enabling her to inhale his majestic opiate as he exhaled her sensational cannabinoids—This was their dream of how nothing came to be. This is the Mythos of what you need not know. This is the truth. This is. This.