Flick Read Online Free

like then?”
    â€œI told you. Two dykes and a gay son. And one daughter but I didn’t meet her. She was apparently talking about coming out on Friday though. One of the dykes said so.”
    Ash grunts. Very attractive. “She’s not coming to mine.”
    Typical. We live in a place that’s so backward most English people don’t know where it is. Obviously it’s not surprising, considering this, that if someone’s gay they get slaughtered, but I don’t see the fuss myself. Everyone’s a little bit gay. Ash lezzes up every weekend to get the perverts at the bar to buy her drinks. She’s a classy bird, that Ash.
    Ella blinks dazedly at us. “The girl’s called Rainbow.”
    â€œRAINBOW?”
    Miss Clark, the music teacher, sixty-plus and a spinster, smells of piss, literally your walking stereotype, sticks her head in the door at this point (nosy bitch) and whines over our laughter.
    â€œCan we stop this noise ?”
    She’s drowned out by Ash bursting out with another shout of “RAINBOW!!” at which I drunkenly giggle.
    â€œGet out , pleeease !”
    â€œAll right, all right, we’re leaving.” I grab Ash’s hand and we head for the back field, behind the pavilion. Time for a spliff.

KICKING THE BUCKET
    Smoke rises around my face and I’m drifting away on it, dreaming in colors, floating on feathers. A hot pulsing wave moves up through my body, beating in my groin, warming my stomach, caressing my chest like the finely manicured hands of a high-class hooker (or so I imagine). I feel it pushing from inside my face on my cheeks and the back of my eyes, numbing my features, clouding my expression and finally, flawlessly, curling deliciously and airily around my brain (or lack thereof). I giggle indulgently, hornily, and smoke shoots up past my eyes to the ceiling, billowing out my mouth. It’s called having a bucket, and by participating in this equally social and antisocial act we, the participants, are deemed “bucketheads.” It involves pulling an empty two-liter cola bottle slowly out of a bucket of water, while cooking up pot on a piece of minutely punctured foil gripped to the bottleneck. The smoke is drawn into the bottle, the foil removed, and the designated buckethead quickly exhales, puts their lips to the opening and inhales the entire contents of the bottle. It is the most efficient way to smoke pot, but apparently not widely done (although everyone I know has tried it). But let me rewind my meandering musings and set the scene.
    Ash, Daisy, Jamie, Danny, Trixie, Limbo and three goths I don’t know are sat round this bucket in Ash’s flat in the center of town, as if the bucket was a campfire and we were scouts making s’mores. Jamie I’ve known since we were in nappies, and Danny, Limbo and Ash come from Osford, so we all grew up playing together out on the waste, a stretch of woodland-cum-rubbish-dump, where we made our dens out of old washing machines and chicken wire, and now here we are together, again, still, giggling in a dark, dank den of a living room. It’s sick and it’s reassuring and it’s sad and it’s pathetic how life repeats itself. We haven’t changed since we were eight, but as reality emerges before us, hope fades away, and we search for greater highs and deeper lows to escape boredom and deny our inevitable acquiescence to the monotony of life. That’s the pot turning me into Socrates, or similar. Who am I kidding. I’m disgusting. I giggle and choke on it, a bitter lump in my throat. I squeeze up my face tight and stay dead still.
    Ash sleepily expels smoke from her mouth. I catch her cherry-flavored lip gloss on the air. “What’s wrong with you?”
    â€œNothing.” I relax my face. “Nothing.”
    An hour later the guys, including myself, leave in better spirits to a wicked night out. Ash and the girls stay behind to wait for