Any writers here?

Would love to read some MJ related short stories, and perhaps get some inspiration too.
I, personally, write SEO's that didn't make the cut.
Not that great at writing myself (unless its really wordy comments), but I'm trying to express the thoughts I have on paper/screen as good as I can.
I'm one of those people that sees the story unravel in front of their eyes whilst reading a book, you see.

I recently made a similar thread to ask at the members base to write down some of their real life stoner stoners.
It wasn't a big success but some have shared some amazing stories.
Maybe you can check the thread out too.
https://www.icmag.com/ic/showthread.php?t=378579

I have and I love that thread, thank you, I added my story too the one where I lost the car that was right next to me haha
These are things that actually happened, I'm looking for fictional and whimsical stories too

my 1st one is here
https://www.icmag.com/ic/showpost.php?p=9072131&postcount=3671

As evidenced by my stories in that other thread, I am a closet author. I am retired now so I have time. For work, I used to write newsletters, advertisements, taglines, Frenglish translation – a lot of business writing. Therein lays my biggest problem, because my writing is too technical and not imaginative or descriptive enough or something. I have done numerous personal detailed ‘trip reports’ on various destinations on a travel forum and I did book and product reviews on another pot site. I haven’t done any fiction yet. In an age when books and words don’t seem to carry the same weight they once did, writing often just feels like holding up a selfie stick. Look at me – I can write!

The information age has inundated us with words - which is both good and bad . . .

I have a true life stoner tale to tell. Many moons ago, Mountain High ski area in Southern California's San Gabriel mountains, was my favorite destination for night skiing under enormous floodlights that flickered on after sunset. Starting off at dusk was definitely the only time to really enjoy the sport, because the night shift began a couple of hours before sunset, when the massive throngs of day skiers began to thin out, and the long lift lines shortened until you could literally ski right up to the chairlift after each run, and ride back up with no waiting in line at all.

One of life's greatest pleasures the time for me and many other night skiers, was twisting up a nice fat joint of aromatic Hawaiian Kona Gold, Colombian Gold, Panam Red, Thai Budda-Stick, or any of the fabled brand names of the era, and then firing it up on the chairlift ride up amid the snow-encrusted pine trees that whispered and tinkled with each gentle breeze that stirred the icicles hanging from the drooping branches. As the chair rode uphill, the air was laden with the sweet scent of myriad stoners' joints ablaze, each sending its own unique bouquet wafting down the procession of chairs gently swaying on the lift cable, as skiers whooped and hollered below, slicing through gaps in the treeline and sending up massive rooster tails of dry powder with each graceful swooping turn of their skis.

The toking and smoking was by no means restricted to the chair lift rides, for at various points along the trails leading downhill, skiers would pull off into the shadows and indulge in further top-ups of their buzz amid the trees, just beyond the glare of the trail spotlights. Way back then, one could be forgiven for presuming that our beloved weed was perfectly legal to fire up as the mood dictated, without a care in the world. That was my carefree mindset when I walked into a restroom to take a leak and relight a fattie, after a particularly exhilarating run.

As I walked out of the restroom struggling to get my frozen cigarette lighter to work, I noted a man smoking a cigarette and decided to ask for a light, momentarily oblivious to the military bearing of the smoker whose burning Marlboro cigarette I'd just requested to re-ignite my joint. Reality only began to dawn on me when the man looked me dead in the eye and asked: "That isn't what I think it is, is it?" Taken aback by that stern question asked of me in such a stoners' paradise, I now regarded the man a bit more analytically, and my heart sank.

" You're not a cop, are you?", I asked, already fearing the reply I was about to hear. Standing square-shouldered in that ticket-writing stance every freeway speedster knows only too well, the cigarette smoker replied with the words that killed my buzz in one sobering instant: " I sure the fuck am, you dumb fuck!". Dumbfounded at my own idiocy and now in full damage control mode, my profuse groveling apologies tumbled out from beneath my frosted mustache like so much loose change from a Vegas slot machine. After thanking the officer for not producing his ID, I readily handed over my joint and watched him crush it on the restroom floor with extreme prejudice, before storming out, and leaving me slack-jawed, sobered up, and ready for the drive home, grateful at least that I was leaving in my own car, and not in the back seat of a paddy wagon while wearing matching bracelets.