Howdy Freewriters馃! Welcome to my blog; a story of friendship, escape, and the many meanings of a joint馃槉.
Kim lay in bed, recovering. Martin sat on the edge of the bed. He was reading The Pulse, as he smiled to himself. Once in a while, when a photo from the magazine appealed to him, he'd look, nodding his head in agreement, chuckle, before showing it to Kim.
All of a sudden, he put the magazine down and turned to fully face Kim. "Bro, do you mind a joint?" he asked as he fished out a roll. Kim sighed tiredly. He couldn't breathe well. Not after he broke his hip joint as they escaped from the police.
They had gone to the Miraa joint in the slums, where they were busy chewing miraa (khat), when the patrol hit the area. Word had been conveyed to the police that the joint was abusing marijuana. It was helter-skelter at the joint as rolled joints flew off in the escape to safety.
Poor Kim tripped and fell, breaking his hip joint and Martin, his buddy, had to carry him to his house. He lay there watching Martin roll a joint, wishing he could join, but the pain had its own grip.
Thank you for reading鉂わ笍! Image generated with AI.
