I knew it was a stupid idea, but I was curious, poor, and had nothing else to do— besides, it smelled intriguing, like nothing I had encountered before now.

In my hand was a small tube made from a kind of leaf or plant. Inside of the tube was an earthly substance. Thinner at the base than along the fatty middle and end, the man at the gas station told me that I put the thin end in my mouth and lightly burn the fatter end until it smokes. Then, I inhale, swallow, and exhale.

It was the weirdest fucking thing, legit.

It was hard for me to grasp the idea of smoking. I did not understand it. “Smoking” as a concept was simply strange. Alien. But the instructions that the guy gave me— that weird flipping guy with a huge multi-color afro and kilt made from discarded pieces of clothing— made it very clear: I was to take a “drag,” as it was called, inhale and have the smoke travel to my lungs, and then exhale. Wait. Repeat the process until the so-called “blunt” had been totally consumed. But what was I waiting for? At the end of the tiny instructions card it simply said, “And once the whole blunt has been smoked more than your daddy’s meat, wait for your life to change, forever.”

What did that even mean? Wait for my life to change? I thought about how “smoking” this “blunt” could change my life, but nothing came to mind. At the gas station, the man I had met had such a hurricane of a personality, and he smelled off to boot, that I was just sort of swept up in his aura. But now that I was back home, I was having second thoughts.

Oh, screw it, I thought, after over and hour and back and forth internal arguing. I’m not going to waste my whole damn day off trying to figure this shit out.

I took up the card again and carefully followed the instructions. Before I knew it, I was “smoking” like a pro. Albeit one that coughed a lot.

At first, the blunt only simmered with a wisp of smoke escaping here and there. But after a few puffs, oodles of smoke started splitting off the blunt like a crackling fire. Having the good sense to crack a window, I remained near the open sill. Slagging down into a bean bag chair, I let myself sink and let the waves wash over me.

I brought the spliff up to my lips and took a drag. Inhale. Exhale. I watched as the smoke danced around my apartment before being sucked out the window. Nothing remarkable there. Then I took another drag. And another.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

By now, I had been smoking for a good five minutes. Half the blunt was gone. I felt weird, but that was it. My life certainly had not changed. But like most things in life, you just have to give it a minute; and boy oh boy, by the time I reached the end of the little cigar, weird shit had started to happen.

I exhaled the smoke and saw a rainbow ribbon sparkling along the edges of the cloud as if it was some strange and highly elaborate art project; no longer just a gray bit of puff-puff excrement, the bejeweled cloud tinkled like an energetic star in the night sky. It was beautiful; as the moonlight shone on the cloud’s colorful diamond edges, some of the diamonds seemed to dance with each other: red diamonds with blue, black with white, yellow and black, silver and jade and so many more besides— amazingly, the colors were multiplying even now, as I thought about them— that what was once a simple dance seconds before was now an elaborate ballet set to the outward fuming of the cloud as it was sucked out the window.

All of eternity could have passed for all I knew. Time now meant nothing to me.

I raised the spliff to take another hit, but I was rewarded with the void. I glanced down and saw that the joint was gone. Dead.

Loosening my lips and letting it fall to my chest, I was surprised when the short and thin stubby end instead vanished into nothingness instead of landing on my shirt.

Weird. Really, really weird, I said to myself.

But not so weird as the world around me. Looking around, the world seemed like color and a half; waves of incandescent hues wafted in and out of intensity as they clung to my crappy apartment walls, the mold and water damage now not seeming so bad thanks to the surreal rolling colors.

Getting myself up from the chair, a tricky feat, for some reason, I wobbled about just sort of gawking at the kaleidoscope affair that had become my world. I stumbled into my bedroom and sat down on the bed, waving my hand in front of me like it was the most fascinating thing on the planet.

Minutes passed and the world settled. Although the colors remained, their luster faded a fair sum leaving me to my own devices. I blinked myself awake and back to normal. Yawning, I stretched my arms and reflected on the whole misadventure: well, no harm, no foul. Whatever substance was in that so-called cigarette seems to have left me know. Fun while it lasted. Made me feel special. Weird. I guess that gas station guy wasn’t lying about the experience because I certainly would remember how that made me feel. But the whole changing my life forever? Yeah, he oversold that just a bit. But still, what a different and enjoyable diversion from the everyday old in-and-out.

I thought it was over and done. That I could go back to my nightly routine: brush my teeth, yank my mate, and call it an evening. But, of course, that was not what happened. Instead of normalcy, I noticed that my chip bag started talking to me.