Barefoot hippy chick’s bad trip. (?/F). Part II. (10/2/25)
Posted: Sat Apr 05, 2025 7:23 am
As a younger woman I occasionally used not entirely legal substances to spice up a dull party. Fortunately I NEVER SUFFERED anything like this. Perhaps a warning tale to younger board members.
It was not the first time Janelle tried LSD. She was fifty years young, Her long, grey hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and her faded tie-dye shirt billowed around her as she danced barefoot in the warm, dry field. She'd been using it since her college days and had heard of, but never experienced , a bad trip asmsje explored the psychedelic side of life. Not until now, when a friend had casually handed her two tabs with a knowing smile at the music festival.
As the first wave hit, the vibrant colors of the festival became more vivid, the music more enveloping. Janelle felt as if she were part of a living painting. But as the second tab began to take effect, the scene grew darker. The smiles around her twisted into malevolent grins, and the gentle strums of the guitars turned into the sound of chains dragging across concrete.
Suddenly, she felt a sharp sting in her arm. Looking down, Janelle saw a tiny creature, no taller than her knee, with piercing eyes and a needle-thin smile. It hovered just out of reach, cackling as she tried to swat it away. Panic began to set in, her heart racing. The creature's laughter grew louder, and she realized with horror that it wasn't just one—there were dozens of them, swarming around her.
The little beings were like pixies from childrenks stories and fairy tales, but these were grotesque parodies, twisted by the dark corners of her mind. They had pointed ears and sharp teeth, but their skin was a sickly grey, and their eyes burned like hot coals. As Janelle struggled to comprehend the scene, one of them darted forward and slapped a sticky, wet piece of cloth over her mouth, muffling her screams. The taste of the fabric was bitter, and she gagged as it stuck to her tongue.
Her hands were bound tightly behind her back with what felt like thick, rough vines, then her feet were tied the same way and she was lifted off the ground by a dozen tiny, strong arms. They carried her through the crowd, which parted with eerie ease, as if the festivalgoers were all actors in a macabre play designed just for her torment. She tried to kick and thrash, but the pixies held her fast, their laughter a symphony of malicious glee.
The world around her swirled in a cacophony of nightmarish images. The blue sky turned into a canvas of writhing snakes, and the trees bent and twisted into menacing shapes that reached out with skeletal fingers. The music grew distorted, a cacophony of screams and wails that pierced her soul. The vibrant colors of the festival were now a sickly palette of greens and purples that made her stomach churn.
The pixies brought Janelle to a clearing at the edge of the woods, where a massive bonfire blazed, casting flickering shadows on the surrounding faces of the tiny tormentors. One of the larger ones, with a crown made of thorns, stepped forward. It spoke in a high-pitched, grating voice that seemed to resonate directly in her skull. "You thought you could escape the mundane with your chemical games," it taunted. "But now, you shall dance for us, human!"
The vines tightened around Janelle's wrists and ankles, drawing blood. The pain was real, not a figment of her tripping mind. She could feel the sticky sap ooze onto her skin, and the rough bark dig into her flesh. The pixies began to chant, a rhythmic, otherworldly tune that grew louder and more insistent. The ground beneath her seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, and the fire grew taller, reaching for her with tongues of flame.
The leader of the pixies produced a whip, its tail tipped with thorns that matched its crown. Janelle's eyes widened in terror as it cracked through the air, a sound that echoed in the depths of her soul. It was a sound that demanded submission, and she knew she had to find some way to escape before the creatures started their twisted performance.
Her mind raced, trying to remember any stories or myths she'd heard about dealing with fairy folk. Offer them something, she thought desperately. But what could she possibly give these monstrous beings that wouldn't just feed their malicious appetites? Then it hit her—music. The one thing she had always loved, the one thing that had brought her peace during her countless trips. If she could play for them, perhaps they'd be appeased, or at least distracted long enough for her to free herself. But tightly bound and gagged she was helpless to do anything but listen to their cacophonous chanting.
As the whip cracked closer, the pixie leader began to strike the soles of jer feet, the pain shooting like electric shocks up her legs and through her body. Through her screams she managed to mumble through the gag. The pixies paused, their cries of anticipation turning to curious chirps. One by one, they leaned in, trying to decipher the muffled words. "Music," she forced out. "I'll play for you." The leader tilted its head, the firelight flickering in its coal-like eyes. It nodded to the others, and they lowered her to the ground, untying her hands and removing the gag. They produced a small wooden flute, the same sickly color as the vines, and placed it in her trembling fingers.
Janelle took a deep, ragged breath, focusing on the calming sensation of the cool wood against her skin. She began to play a tune, something simple and sweet that she'd learned from her grandmother. The music filled the clearing, and the pixies stilled, their eyes wide with wonder. The bonfire's roar dimmed, and the cacophony of their chants faded into the background. The melody grew stronger, wrapping around the creatures like a warm embrace. But then the music changed to a rhythmic minotone peeping. Despite what she did the music was a rhythmic ping.
Her vision became blurry, her eyes flickered open, and she realized with a start that the pings weren't part of the fairy world but the medical tent's heart monitor. She was lying on a cot, her bare feet elevated and covered in blood-soaked bandages. The ground beneath her was not the vibrant, living earth of her hallucination but cold, sterile plastic. The smell of antiseptic and the faint scent of burning plastic from the bonfire outside mingled in her nose, creating an oddly comforting blend of reality and nightmare.
"You're awake," a calm voice said. Janelle turned her head to see a young, concerned festival worker in a medical jacket, her face a blur of pink and green from the light above her. "You had a pretty nasty fall. Looks like you stepped on some broken glass."
The reality of the situation washed over her with a cold jolt. The pixies, the whipping, the chanting—it had all been a horrifying hallucination. But the pain in her feet was real, as were the memories of the tiny, sharp shards digging into her skin. She had danced so hard, so lost in the music and the drug, that she hadn't noticed when she'd stumbled on the discarded glass. Her heart raced as she tried to sit up, the plastic of the cot crinkling beneath her.
It was not the first time Janelle tried LSD. She was fifty years young, Her long, grey hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and her faded tie-dye shirt billowed around her as she danced barefoot in the warm, dry field. She'd been using it since her college days and had heard of, but never experienced , a bad trip asmsje explored the psychedelic side of life. Not until now, when a friend had casually handed her two tabs with a knowing smile at the music festival.
As the first wave hit, the vibrant colors of the festival became more vivid, the music more enveloping. Janelle felt as if she were part of a living painting. But as the second tab began to take effect, the scene grew darker. The smiles around her twisted into malevolent grins, and the gentle strums of the guitars turned into the sound of chains dragging across concrete.
Suddenly, she felt a sharp sting in her arm. Looking down, Janelle saw a tiny creature, no taller than her knee, with piercing eyes and a needle-thin smile. It hovered just out of reach, cackling as she tried to swat it away. Panic began to set in, her heart racing. The creature's laughter grew louder, and she realized with horror that it wasn't just one—there were dozens of them, swarming around her.
The little beings were like pixies from childrenks stories and fairy tales, but these were grotesque parodies, twisted by the dark corners of her mind. They had pointed ears and sharp teeth, but their skin was a sickly grey, and their eyes burned like hot coals. As Janelle struggled to comprehend the scene, one of them darted forward and slapped a sticky, wet piece of cloth over her mouth, muffling her screams. The taste of the fabric was bitter, and she gagged as it stuck to her tongue.
Her hands were bound tightly behind her back with what felt like thick, rough vines, then her feet were tied the same way and she was lifted off the ground by a dozen tiny, strong arms. They carried her through the crowd, which parted with eerie ease, as if the festivalgoers were all actors in a macabre play designed just for her torment. She tried to kick and thrash, but the pixies held her fast, their laughter a symphony of malicious glee.
The world around her swirled in a cacophony of nightmarish images. The blue sky turned into a canvas of writhing snakes, and the trees bent and twisted into menacing shapes that reached out with skeletal fingers. The music grew distorted, a cacophony of screams and wails that pierced her soul. The vibrant colors of the festival were now a sickly palette of greens and purples that made her stomach churn.
The pixies brought Janelle to a clearing at the edge of the woods, where a massive bonfire blazed, casting flickering shadows on the surrounding faces of the tiny tormentors. One of the larger ones, with a crown made of thorns, stepped forward. It spoke in a high-pitched, grating voice that seemed to resonate directly in her skull. "You thought you could escape the mundane with your chemical games," it taunted. "But now, you shall dance for us, human!"
The vines tightened around Janelle's wrists and ankles, drawing blood. The pain was real, not a figment of her tripping mind. She could feel the sticky sap ooze onto her skin, and the rough bark dig into her flesh. The pixies began to chant, a rhythmic, otherworldly tune that grew louder and more insistent. The ground beneath her seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, and the fire grew taller, reaching for her with tongues of flame.
The leader of the pixies produced a whip, its tail tipped with thorns that matched its crown. Janelle's eyes widened in terror as it cracked through the air, a sound that echoed in the depths of her soul. It was a sound that demanded submission, and she knew she had to find some way to escape before the creatures started their twisted performance.
Her mind raced, trying to remember any stories or myths she'd heard about dealing with fairy folk. Offer them something, she thought desperately. But what could she possibly give these monstrous beings that wouldn't just feed their malicious appetites? Then it hit her—music. The one thing she had always loved, the one thing that had brought her peace during her countless trips. If she could play for them, perhaps they'd be appeased, or at least distracted long enough for her to free herself. But tightly bound and gagged she was helpless to do anything but listen to their cacophonous chanting.
As the whip cracked closer, the pixie leader began to strike the soles of jer feet, the pain shooting like electric shocks up her legs and through her body. Through her screams she managed to mumble through the gag. The pixies paused, their cries of anticipation turning to curious chirps. One by one, they leaned in, trying to decipher the muffled words. "Music," she forced out. "I'll play for you." The leader tilted its head, the firelight flickering in its coal-like eyes. It nodded to the others, and they lowered her to the ground, untying her hands and removing the gag. They produced a small wooden flute, the same sickly color as the vines, and placed it in her trembling fingers.
Janelle took a deep, ragged breath, focusing on the calming sensation of the cool wood against her skin. She began to play a tune, something simple and sweet that she'd learned from her grandmother. The music filled the clearing, and the pixies stilled, their eyes wide with wonder. The bonfire's roar dimmed, and the cacophony of their chants faded into the background. The melody grew stronger, wrapping around the creatures like a warm embrace. But then the music changed to a rhythmic minotone peeping. Despite what she did the music was a rhythmic ping.
Her vision became blurry, her eyes flickered open, and she realized with a start that the pings weren't part of the fairy world but the medical tent's heart monitor. She was lying on a cot, her bare feet elevated and covered in blood-soaked bandages. The ground beneath her was not the vibrant, living earth of her hallucination but cold, sterile plastic. The smell of antiseptic and the faint scent of burning plastic from the bonfire outside mingled in her nose, creating an oddly comforting blend of reality and nightmare.
"You're awake," a calm voice said. Janelle turned her head to see a young, concerned festival worker in a medical jacket, her face a blur of pink and green from the light above her. "You had a pretty nasty fall. Looks like you stepped on some broken glass."
The reality of the situation washed over her with a cold jolt. The pixies, the whipping, the chanting—it had all been a horrifying hallucination. But the pain in her feet was real, as were the memories of the tiny, sharp shards digging into her skin. She had danced so hard, so lost in the music and the drug, that she hadn't noticed when she'd stumbled on the discarded glass. Her heart raced as she tried to sit up, the plastic of the cot crinkling beneath her.
