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Experiences of Magic Mushrooms

There we were, about ten of us, sitting around the bonfire on the beach and someone handed me a gram of the stuff, wrapped in tinfoil.
“You eat it,” he said to me, when I looked at him with questions in my eyes.
Magic Mushrooms.
A place I hadn’t gone yet.
So I popped the clump of stiff stems and caps into my mouth. Chewed. It tasted musty and old. Left an unpleasent after-taste in my mouth.
A couple of my friends started playing guitar and we sat around the fire.
Waiting.
Just waiting for it. The sand was like chilled silk beneath my bare toes. I began to feel the wind on my cheeks, really FEEL it, more then I had before. It was feathers and fur, a brushing on my bones.
All of a sudden, I was alive! I mean, REALLY alive, as if I had just woken up from an opaque sleep and this film of dusty flesh had just been stripped from me.
I was radiant.
A few of my friends had taken the mushrooms too, and we all looked at each other, bouncing vibes back and forth like beams of light, even though it was very late at night, very dark, we could SEE the vibes, bright and glowing like our faces.
We began climbing the sand dunes as if they were mountain ranges, the snake-like grasses whipping at our bare ankles, the sand crumbling beneath our clumsy feet, sending us sprawling and laughing.
It was all so fresh and free.
All of a sudden we came to a cliff. A roar of a black mouth that just simply ripped away at the sand and vanished below us.
My friend Amanda jumped off of it and disappeared. It seemed bottomless, but when I heard her yelling at me from below, I realized that it must be shallow. It must have been the shadows and my own hallucinations that were making it seem so deep.
“Jump!” She screamed. “It’s not even that far down!”
But I was afraid of the blackness, the bottomless appearance of the hole.
I refused.
I wanted to go down to the wrinkling salt ocean, touch it.
Or return to the fire, how it appealed to me now, like a tangled knot of orange yarn, cozy and alluring. Anything but stand on this lonely, dark dune, and attempt throwing myself off it.
I was frightened.
“Jump, or you’re not my true friend! Only a true friend would jump!” She screamed up at me, from wherever she was below.
“I won’t jump!” I yelled back, and ran down the dune to the fire.
It began to rain at this point, the drops hissing down on the fire, a spitting cat.
The rain was cold and the wind harsh. It was such a trip, the sand and open sky, black and wet. A messy mural and I felt smeared across it in streaks of color and chattering teeth.
Someone had set up a tent, and I climbed gratefully inside. The raindrops sounded like a lone tap-dancer upon the tent roof. It was all so melancholy, and I lay and listened, watching the water pool on the tent flaps, smelling the clean scent of rain and ocean.
All of a sudden I heard a howl. It sounded positively wolf-like, and I emerged from the tent, spooked and curious.
Amanda was running over the dune, her hair wild and dripping. She had taken off her belt, brandishng it high over her head like a weapon, and was shrieking a wild streak of hell.
We all watched her, transfixed, as she ran to the smoking, dying flame that was the fire and proceeded to whip it with her belt. Over and over, she lashed the fire, wailing at the top of her lungs like a banshee, beating the fire until her belt was charred and smoldering.
Then she grabbed all the lawn chairs that we had brought over to the fire-pit, and threw them onto the fire. Blue, toxic-looking smoke decorated the air, along with the rancid stench of melting plastic.
We hastily decided that we should leave the beach then, just in case the police decided to show up.
We all piled into the van, damp and delirious, and began driving through the rain, back to town.
There was a lake and a dock at the end of Amanda’s street, down at the bottom of the hill, and when the van drove past the dock, stopping at a stop sign, Amanda opened the door. She jumped out of the van and ran full tilt down the hill towards the lake.
The boy in the driver’s seat, his name was Marcus, he turned around and yelled at me, “Don’t just sit there! Go after her! Get her! She’ll die out there!” (He had also indulged in some magic mushrooms, apparently.)
What else was I to do?
I hopped out of the van and charged after her, running down the street, wind whistling in my ears, and mind still reeling, tripping.
Amanda was a mere dot now, she was that far ahead of me and when she reached the end of the street, all that was before her was the dock, going straight to the lake.
“Amanda, don’t jump!” I hollered, seeing visions of drowning and ambulances with painfully red, loud lights.
She was too far ahead. I ran faster.
She jumped, of course.
And so when I finally reached the little dock as well, what could I possibly do but jump?
I plunged feet first into the water. It rushed all around me like soft grass, whispering in my ears and swishing over my head, like a hand. It was so dark down there in the warm lake, so dark and quiet, and I begged my throbbing lungs to hang on just one more second, so that I might stay a little longer in the comfort of the blind lake.
Sadly, my head finally surfaced. Gasping, I scanned the water for Amanda. I saw her head a few feet away from mine and we swam over to the dock, dragged ourselves out, our jeans heavy and clinging to us, trying to suck us back in.
“The best way to dry off is to run!” Amanda advised, her pupils huge and excited. She jumped up from our wooden refuge, where we had been sprawled, catching up to our breath. Then she broke into a run in the direction of her house.
“Wait up!” I yelled, running after her.
I had to follow.
Halfway down the street, I stopped running long enough to take off my shoes and throw them into a hedge, which I went back for in the days to follow
And then we kept running, through the dark streets, running high and hard.