This writing was accepted for publication in the 108-page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/paperback book “The Great White” cc&d, v318 (the February 2022 issue) Order the 6"x9" paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Unfinished Business the cc&d Jan.-April 2022 magazine issues collection book		get the 410 page Jan.-April 2022 cc&d magazine 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Party Girl

Bill Tope

    She sat on the edge of an easy chair, overlooking a coffee table—beautiful solid oak—on which all her most important possesssions were carefully arrayed and put into neat little piles.
    On one end of the table were a panoply of medium-sized white and ecru tablets—the amphetamines—and close at hand were a colorful arrangement of other speed and the barbiturates and other downers: there were black capsules—the biphetamine, of course; the reds—seconal—and those crazy, multicolored capsules, whose identity she could no longer remember, but which effects were clearly etched into her mind.
    At the far end of the table, next to the crystal candy dish and the TV Guide, were the psychotrophic substances—the hallucinogenics and other mild-altering drugs. Foremost was the LSD, the lysergic acid, tiny squares of rough-hewn paper with pictures of Mr. Natural imprinted on the surface. She bit her bottom lip as she considered the flat little squares of Acid: one taste, she knew, and she would be up all night and would greet the songbirds and the robins in the morning. She wasn’t certain whether she wanted to commit all her psychic energy to one drug for the whole night. This girl had big plans for the evening.
    Adjacent to the LSD was the psilocybin, the so-called Magic Mushrooms. They tasted awful, she knew, but if she mixed them with honey—and got very stoned before—they were tolerable. Besides, they were an “organic high,” whatever that was supposed to mean; her friend Phoebe swore by anything organic, be it cow’s milk or drugs, so she supposed that that was all right. Phoebe always got the best pot in the tri-state area, so Phoebe’s word was good enough for her.
    Next came a variety of miscellaneous highs, all nestled in a small bamboo box: there was mescaline, small green, succulent buttons from Mexican cactii; opium, a dirty brown powder that once brought the nation of China to its knees (she knew this because she was careful to learn the history of any drug she imbibed, smoked, shot up or otherwise consumed). There was also a small cache of hashish and a tackle box containing cigarette paper, loose pot and more than 200 rolled marijuana cigarettes. She licked her lips in anticipation.
    Finally, there were what she called her “square drugs,” a liberal collection of high-priced whiskies, bourbons, vodkas, brandies, and myriad other alcoholic beverages. “Oops,” she said, suddenly remembering. Reaching under the coffee table she gathered in several plastic bags, which contained her Meth and her MDA, gifts from her—sometimes—boyfriend. How could she have forgotten? The boyfriend wasn’t much, but the drugs were terrific. He was a Sports Agent, so she knew they were good.
    “Hmm,” she pondered. Phoebe was coming over tonight to party; where should they start? Should they begin at one end of the table and work their way down? Or should they just get really stoned on the hash and get in the mood to party down? Not too much alcohol, she told herself; that dulled the senses and then what was the point.
    She was anxious to get started; where was Phoebe, she should be here by now. She glanced at the clock: 11:30; no, she was still on time, the best partying came only after midnight. Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Phoebe! “Come in,” she called out. The door opened and in walked Phoebe—blond and beautiful as always, damn her! In her hand was a Big Mac and in her mouth a cigarette. “Hey, Babe,” Phoebe called out. “Damn it, Phoebe, you know how I feel about tobacco and saturated fats; don’ t you care or even think about what you’re putting into your body?”
    “Sorry, Babe,” murmured Phoebe, contrite. Taking up a gleaming metal syringe and carefully loading it, the party girl said, “Forget about it, I forgive you.”

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...