NOTE: The following is the short fiction story that jointly won the TGS Nobel Prize in Literature, which I wrote in early December and is my first jab at fiction writing. The style is emulating Gabriel Garcia Marquez, which was the requirement for an English assignment. It follows Jaka Jakac, a Slovenian addicted to Opium, living on the streets after...actually, just read for yourself, I don't want to spoil it. (FYI, the Chao Po is like the Thai Mafia and Est is basically a cheap Thai cola.) Enjoy, and I would grateful of any and all feedback.
He lay calmly for what seemed like an eternity that went by in an instant, hyper aware but not knowing what was going on, his head feeling fuzzy, numb and carefree. He was in a state of pure perfect pleasure, and pulsating orgasms weaved their way through his head, his chest, his arms, his legs and reached his awaiting toes. The poppy started to wear off, his head became clearer, his thoughts started racing back to him and he regained the feeling in his feet. Then the pain of the last 2 days, 2 weeks, 2 years resettled, like a perfect marriage, the euphoria of love replaced by the suffering, problems and dissatisfaction, and he let his tired ears listen to the metallic crackling as he let his tired fingers reach out for the tinfoil, he ignored the coffee table of arranged mess, with it's bottle of Est! Cola spilt on the pile of half written letters and postcards to family and friends of times past. He curved the foil and lit up his problem and solution with a lighter, half-empty and the lettering of red and yellow peeling off like layers of low self-esteem, inhaling slowly and exhaling even slower, he breathed out the smoke so that it traversed the dents and rises of the tin-foil lackadaisacally. Feeling his temples fill up with the smoke of dreamy beatitude, he recalled why Wan-Ung-Karn, the elderly Thai who had been so kind as to sell him some magic, called it ไล่ มังกร, or Chasing The Dragon.
His name was Jaka Jakac. He had become addicted to opium seven months prior, convinced into trying a harmless amount by his fragmented heart, as a second-best to the kisses of his girlfriend which he missed so much, all because of one chaotic, turbulent night. He was one of seven Slovenians who had come to Thailand in their gap year, escaping the Slovenian Januaries of bitter, harsh cold finding its way through every window, door and rafter, to experience the postcard beaches, the spicy food, and the cheap, cheap beer. After one hot night mid-March, Jakac stumbled through the narrow streets of Bangkok, confronted bad luck in the form of the Chao Po, and woke up with mud up to his thighs and in his fine hair, surrounded by the thin blades of green that epitomise the agricultural industry of Southeast Asia. He lacked his wallet, keys and phone, the three items that could bring him back home, and had gained three items in his shoulder, all of them knives, and so he turned to pickpocketing for money and turned to opium after giving up on any hopes that he would see Agata and Slovenia’s sweet, bittersweet cold ever again.
He was declared dead in August, although the streets of Bangkok know otherwise.