I.dream.of.Ellen.Hickle
Member
I never seem to finish what I start. Maybe if I write about weed it will keep me interested. I know I'm not the best writer - thoughts and suggestions 
The fire could been seen throughout the entire small town of Roland. The pungent smell of smoldering weed waltzed through the air and cloaked the small framed houses and desolate ranches that housed the population of 2,400. The grow was a complete failure, burnt to the ground out of pure necessity. Things just seemed to get out of hand so fast. Where did the love and passion go? When Kevin first started out he grew because it was his calling, it was the first time he felt good about something. Aside from the passion, the money is what kept Kevin in this continual loop and eventually led to this. Sirens were wailing in the background. His brain buzzed with a mixture of adrenaline and bong rips. He knew where he was going to end up. He knew Mark was slowly bleeding to death because of him. Even as the volunteer fire department came into view on the long dirt road, all Kevin could do is light his last joint and think about how he ended up here.
“How can it be a gram off, you only bought four.” Mark grabbed the small zip lock bag from Kevin's hands, rotating it with a Sherlock Holmes superiority.
“I don't fucking know, I guess his scale was off.”
“His scale was off? Bullshit I bet he didn't even weigh this shit” Mark tossed the bag back to Kevin, hitting him in the leg.
“He pulls this shit all the time. If it's not the weight it something else: seeds everywhere, sand, rocks, a fucking branch from a tree. What the fuck man”
“All we can do is sit here and complain about Terk's weed, but where else are we going to get it?”
Kevin was right, Terk was the only reliable connection that they had met within 200 miles of Roland. It seems like the old saying is true even in the world of dime-bag pot dealers: Absolute power corrupts, absolutely. Terk loved the “power” of being the only source. Terk carried himself with the charisma of vulgarity of scarface – well at least the GED equivalent. What he lacked in business ethics and knowledge, he made up for with brute strength and firepower.
After rolling a decent sized joint of the shwag they just bought, Kevin lit it up.
“You know what we need to do Mark. We need to grow our own shit. How hard can it be, it's a weed for Christs sake.”
Mark was tossing a baseball up in the air, bouncing it off the ceiling and catching it with alternating hands.
“Dude just shut up and get your lips off my joint. You couldn't grow a chia- pet if your life depended on it”
The fire could been seen throughout the entire small town of Roland. The pungent smell of smoldering weed waltzed through the air and cloaked the small framed houses and desolate ranches that housed the population of 2,400. The grow was a complete failure, burnt to the ground out of pure necessity. Things just seemed to get out of hand so fast. Where did the love and passion go? When Kevin first started out he grew because it was his calling, it was the first time he felt good about something. Aside from the passion, the money is what kept Kevin in this continual loop and eventually led to this. Sirens were wailing in the background. His brain buzzed with a mixture of adrenaline and bong rips. He knew where he was going to end up. He knew Mark was slowly bleeding to death because of him. Even as the volunteer fire department came into view on the long dirt road, all Kevin could do is light his last joint and think about how he ended up here.
“How can it be a gram off, you only bought four.” Mark grabbed the small zip lock bag from Kevin's hands, rotating it with a Sherlock Holmes superiority.
“I don't fucking know, I guess his scale was off.”
“His scale was off? Bullshit I bet he didn't even weigh this shit” Mark tossed the bag back to Kevin, hitting him in the leg.
“He pulls this shit all the time. If it's not the weight it something else: seeds everywhere, sand, rocks, a fucking branch from a tree. What the fuck man”
“All we can do is sit here and complain about Terk's weed, but where else are we going to get it?”
Kevin was right, Terk was the only reliable connection that they had met within 200 miles of Roland. It seems like the old saying is true even in the world of dime-bag pot dealers: Absolute power corrupts, absolutely. Terk loved the “power” of being the only source. Terk carried himself with the charisma of vulgarity of scarface – well at least the GED equivalent. What he lacked in business ethics and knowledge, he made up for with brute strength and firepower.
After rolling a decent sized joint of the shwag they just bought, Kevin lit it up.
“You know what we need to do Mark. We need to grow our own shit. How hard can it be, it's a weed for Christs sake.”
Mark was tossing a baseball up in the air, bouncing it off the ceiling and catching it with alternating hands.
“Dude just shut up and get your lips off my joint. You couldn't grow a chia- pet if your life depended on it”