Ghosts 'N' Stuff [Quest & Shy]
Oct 18, 2018 18:14:02 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Oct 18, 2018 18:14:02 GMT -5
There in the madness
Us against the world
And every heartbeat felt like
This is what we deserve
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The cannabis plant is primarily in the sativa and indica strains (though there is a third, ruderalis, but it doesn’t produce the same effects). Plant varieties depend on their strain; sativa plants are taller, with long branches, and narrow bladed leaves that look as though they’re trying to reach out toward you; indica plants are short and squat, with bushier leaves. Indica tends to make you want to stay in one place and ooze your body across the floor, like every bone in your body has suddenly disappeared. Sativa is more for the thinker – much preferred when you’re trying to listen to music and keep a sense of what works, while still enjoying the tingling, heady elements.
I suppose they would want us to know how to tell the difference between them, considering that they were in the log. If you go through the search in the little podium at the plants station, you can see all the sorts of strains they have growing in the simulated field. I mean, it’s remarkable that they keep track of all the different types of poisonous bushes, the berries, the trees good for burning, and then – plants that are more of the recreational variety. I like to think that some game makers want to see us cheesing and falling over after smoking the last thing we’d ever taste. Hell – that’s how I hope that I go in a few days, laughing and forgetting that I’m about to be impaled.
So I post up at the plants station because if I manage to make it more than a few days, I’ll have to scavenge for food. Except, here’s the thing, it’s really fucking boring. And like, there are plenty of types of berries that we can eat, and roots, and if I can just find one of them it’s not like I’m going to waste my time trying to make myself a feast. I once lasted on bread and milk for four days. We were still in the underground – the space of old medical supply bunkers we aptly named for our warehouse parties – from Friday morning through Monday (smelling god awful by the end), surviving on stale toast and canned milk. Most of the time these things don’t even last more than a week anyway.
Well I go through a few hours of looking at all the little plants, of cutting my fingers on several different thorns, until I start thinking about how Wilfred would go on and on about how he would wish he could smoke. Not that we did it that often – I didn’t like what he tended to buy, making us just disappear into our own heads for hours, slack jawed and goofy, until we fell asleep and woke up feeling like we needed six glasses of water. But now would have been as good of a time of any for him to extend one of his bony hands past my face holding a joint or a spliff or a bowl or –
And it makes sense, right? That they’d put this sort of thing in the games if they were going to put mutts that spat poison at us. They were horrible, sociopathic assholes, but even assholes could give us a break once and a while.
There was white widow, some skunk, and one that they’d actually sold in district six: sour diesel. Tucked away under some of the brighter fluorescent lights, I started to pluck heads from the plant, and marveled at the stickiness. Had I just not paid enough attention during the games to see most folks go for anything other than mushrooms? (Spoiler alert: if I had watched the games more as a teen, I probably wouldn’t have been standing here right now). Of course, smoking alone would be entirely pathetic (unless I was on the edge of a breakdown, which could be entirely possible by the end of the week). I stuffed a few of my winnings into my pockets and dusted off my trousers. Was there anyone worth sharing this with?
And then I saw him, just at the edge of the crops of plants leading toward the station. The kind of scrawny, young kid that seemed altogether out of his element, but somehow perfect to have been plopped into this nightmare. What was he, twelve, thirteen? What even? It would be morally reprehensible to give narcotics to such a child. So it was a good thing my morals were entirely questionable, and my motivations were probably impure. I’m what some people might refer to as a “human trash bag.”
“Excuse me.” God, I hate having to talk to any of these kids. “Can I just ask what the hell you’re doing here?” It was both rhetorical and in hopes to know if he was making use of the station.
I suppose they would want us to know how to tell the difference between them, considering that they were in the log. If you go through the search in the little podium at the plants station, you can see all the sorts of strains they have growing in the simulated field. I mean, it’s remarkable that they keep track of all the different types of poisonous bushes, the berries, the trees good for burning, and then – plants that are more of the recreational variety. I like to think that some game makers want to see us cheesing and falling over after smoking the last thing we’d ever taste. Hell – that’s how I hope that I go in a few days, laughing and forgetting that I’m about to be impaled.
So I post up at the plants station because if I manage to make it more than a few days, I’ll have to scavenge for food. Except, here’s the thing, it’s really fucking boring. And like, there are plenty of types of berries that we can eat, and roots, and if I can just find one of them it’s not like I’m going to waste my time trying to make myself a feast. I once lasted on bread and milk for four days. We were still in the underground – the space of old medical supply bunkers we aptly named for our warehouse parties – from Friday morning through Monday (smelling god awful by the end), surviving on stale toast and canned milk. Most of the time these things don’t even last more than a week anyway.
Well I go through a few hours of looking at all the little plants, of cutting my fingers on several different thorns, until I start thinking about how Wilfred would go on and on about how he would wish he could smoke. Not that we did it that often – I didn’t like what he tended to buy, making us just disappear into our own heads for hours, slack jawed and goofy, until we fell asleep and woke up feeling like we needed six glasses of water. But now would have been as good of a time of any for him to extend one of his bony hands past my face holding a joint or a spliff or a bowl or –
And it makes sense, right? That they’d put this sort of thing in the games if they were going to put mutts that spat poison at us. They were horrible, sociopathic assholes, but even assholes could give us a break once and a while.
There was white widow, some skunk, and one that they’d actually sold in district six: sour diesel. Tucked away under some of the brighter fluorescent lights, I started to pluck heads from the plant, and marveled at the stickiness. Had I just not paid enough attention during the games to see most folks go for anything other than mushrooms? (Spoiler alert: if I had watched the games more as a teen, I probably wouldn’t have been standing here right now). Of course, smoking alone would be entirely pathetic (unless I was on the edge of a breakdown, which could be entirely possible by the end of the week). I stuffed a few of my winnings into my pockets and dusted off my trousers. Was there anyone worth sharing this with?
And then I saw him, just at the edge of the crops of plants leading toward the station. The kind of scrawny, young kid that seemed altogether out of his element, but somehow perfect to have been plopped into this nightmare. What was he, twelve, thirteen? What even? It would be morally reprehensible to give narcotics to such a child. So it was a good thing my morals were entirely questionable, and my motivations were probably impure. I’m what some people might refer to as a “human trash bag.”
“Excuse me.” God, I hate having to talk to any of these kids. “Can I just ask what the hell you’re doing here?” It was both rhetorical and in hopes to know if he was making use of the station.
tag: yoya! words: 804 notes: :eyes:
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