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.

#02 Life Bees

by Tzvi Peckar the Third, 2015

 

My intentions were good, she was beautiful letting her body gently hover above the luscious green of this hidden meadow of moss and grass. “Are you floating again?” I had to ask her as I stroked the grass between her spine and the soil. Along her spine, I feel only air and her essence; I curve my hand below her bum, still not resting on the grass, then along the air between me and the sole of her foot, sending chills along her nerves to the ends of her waving thick red hairs, red strands twisting around the blades of grass growing from the earth. “Yeah, floating as if I am breathing under water,” she says to me—Yes, I think. “No,” I say, and she stands, a storming cloud of denial and distortion cover the sun, she's grown angry because she wants to drink, I would rather see her burn, and the chase is on. I will love the woman grown from the soil.

 

                Following her across the stream was a lesson in balance—stones catapulted into blooming sea urchins, their tentacles reached for my toes. I’ve swam rivers filled with drowning honey bees, and I’ve swallowed minnows from the bellies of toads, but I've never followed a plant deeper into the forest. I've never sexed with a lovelier leafed creature, curling around my human essence, spreading her golden glitter all along my hair, her pollen, her diamonds, nearly too small for the eyes to see. Somehow shortly after, I've angered the lover who gave me a sacrifice of fire from her wooden bones. She skips so easily to the shore; as for me, I stumble, I fall, I get soaked; I made her laugh. “You have played yourself a fool, foo-,” she says smiling with new gangster gold grills, tricking me down, pulling out her gat, pointing it at my tan skin, my book smart glasses, unbuttoned suit shirt, I got the tie around my thigh hanging paisley colors, in loafers, gangster looking to burn some trees, and I’m not what I used to be or anything after, and I don’t know if I’m coming or going cause the radio keeps playing these different sort of tunes that mean nothing to no one ‘cept themselves, and they say they’re rapping for me, but the trees aren’t as gangster as they’re supposed to be, and I stand and I change, and I look into her glow in the dark eyes and spy and raise my lighter, an AK, a dragon with the breath of fire, “You love me, I love you—What’s a guy to do, but smoke you.”

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