4/20 Flash Mob

a slapdash stoner diversion

In the grand tradition of stoner culture, I decided to throw together a collaboration for 4/20 at the very last minute then made sure to procrastinate so the project would arrive late.

I could have delivered it on time but then no one would believe I was stoned.

Also I just finished my autofic so I’m still covered for latent dishonesty.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

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A Philosophical Query - Roberta Lynn (stoned)

How do you get Dick out of Richard?

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Twenty-four/Flowers - Mo (stoned)

flash haiku

four twenty four twent-

ty four twenty four twenty

four twenty four twent.

got flame got flower

hoping greens will fix my blues

want to hit this too?

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The Ballad of Johnny Weedseed - mare novem (maybe stoned)

flash poetry

He was spry of frame

as the sound of his name

as he skipped along the green,

and he often would slouch

as he reached in his pouch

for a trick he had up his sleeve.

His hand would come out,

and with never a doubt,

he would cast upon the air

a handful of seeds

to feed all our needs,

so that each would have a share.

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Buns - M. P. Fitzgerald (almost certainly stoned)

flash fiction

My hands are itchin’ for crime. Seth reaches across the plexiglass book table, all scratches and neverbooks, to hand me his lighter. Dumbass nearly knocks over the bong in doing so, spilling dirty water onto my white and blue striped shirt.

“Sorry!”

He says it a lot.

“How ya gonna snatch purses when your hands aren’t even steady enough to pass a fuckin’ lighter, Seth?”

I flare my nostrils in protest, get all bug-eyed ‘cause I need my fix. Weed now. You’d probably walk in my mom’s apartment and smell four-day-old taco rot and the sawdust from broken skateboards, but me? I can only smell that sweet illegal Marihuana.

“They say that stuff kills.” Seth, the steady.

I snatch the lighter out of his hand, like the badass ninja I’m meant to be.

“I’ll be the killer soon,” I flick carbon sparks with my thumb, “Master Tatsu will have to give me the Test of Shadows after tonight’s crime spree.”

An earthquake? No, it’s—

“BUNS MCPHEARSON!” Seth cries happily.

“That’s right, kiddos!” It says.

Mom’s front door has been sheared right off the hinges. Might as well still be there for the mass muscle of bunny-bulk in its place is as impassable as if the door were unbroken and locked. We’re fucked.

Master Tatsu warned us about this. Buns McPhearson, not just the mascot with the FBI seal plastered in every arcade machine in America, no; Buns is sinew wrapped in fur, an egg-hatched government mutant trained in the ancient art of karate.

“The name’s McPhearson and I’m here to say—“🎶

Also It raps.

“That smoking Marihuana’s not the way!”🎶

“God bless Reagan!” Seth says.

My ninja training is automatic. My deft hand reaches for my illegal spring-activated switchblade, ready to plunge cold steel into rabbit eyes— but those pupils, like whirlpool swirls and I’m swept in their currents. My will is Buns’.

“Who wants to fight the communists?”

“ME!” I scream. The pain is absolution. Seppuku.

“Badass!” Seth giggles as my red blood seeps through my white and blue striped shirt. He salutes.

I want to scream for mommy, but my mouth says: “God bless Reagan.”

“And a Merry Ronald McReagan to all!” says Buns.

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The Raid That Wasn’t - Zani D (always stoned)

flash autofic

The phone call ended with Arthur hanging up on his wife Sheila, having just informed her of his plan to drive to the Canadian border in order to avoid a wellness check.

“They keep turning my GPS back on! I have to turn my fuckin phone off so they can’t track me.”

Of course it wasn’t the wellness check itself he was running from, called in by a concerned friend after another one of Arthur’s wildly dramatic furies where he vacillated between homicidal, suicidal, and existential violence.

It was the grow.

Two hydroponic tents in the walk in closet adjacent his bedroom, replete with six mature marijuana plants and twenty clones.

And now they were Sheila’s problem.

Sheila mused over her husband’s remarkable act of chivalry and considered running too, but the car was transporting her Arthur to another country, and trying to flee on foot with a toddler and 12 year old didn’t seem practical.

Neither did going to prison for felony possession with intent, but her options evaporated with the phone still gripped against her ear as two police cars pulled up.

Four officers and an annoyed looking K-9 approached the stairs to the unit, and after clearing names and contacts, set their sights on the door.

“We’re gonna need to come inside to clear the house ma’am.”

“I told you he’s not in there,” Sheila stood half in front of the stairs, knowing full well this was a losing battle. The K-9 looked disinterested.

“We need to clear the house ma’am or we have to come back with a warrant.”

Sheila sighed. Dumb fuck must have mentioned his gun.

She led them up the stairs one step at a time, feigning a limp to fabricate an excuse for her lack of urgency. The K-9 followed in back, clearly put upon by the two flight ascent. A YouTube video of ramen made in a single serve Flamin Hot Cheeto bag played in her brain as she summoned any excuse whatsoever to keep the cops out of the closet.

We’re fumigating.

The dog has diarrhea.

My nanna lives in the closet, she’s sleeping.

Sheila was fucked.

The kitchen and living rooms were cleared and the cops made their way up to the bedrooms, flashlights glaring at her sleeping children.

There’s a snake we called animal control.

The landlord said there’s no floor in there.

It’s haunted.

So. Fucked.

The cops entered the master bedroom, clearing the bath and under the bed, K-9 dragged ass behind them.

Then they approached the closet, opening the door wide, tents awaiting. The police pup stuck it’s nose in the air and sniffed halfheartedly.

Sheila broke.

“That’s a dark room tent you can’t go in there or the light will ruin the pictures my husband is developing and he’ll be so mad at me you can’t open the tents I told you he’s not here and if he doesn’t get these pictures done tomorrow he might lose his job so please don’t open the tents okay they’re good it’s good they’re fine they’re good tents.”

The cops side eyed Sheila, nodded, flashed the light at a few empty corners for good measure, then made their way outside. The K-9 sniffed the door to the closet, shrugged, then lumbered after his partner.

Sheila picked up her jaw off the floor and followed them out.