Duke had fallen asleep again.
Park bench this time. The kind that looks more like a medieval torture device than municipal seating. Chalk that up to a lack of humanity from the city designers. Duke had one arm draped over his eyes, the other hanging limp with a warm can of Poppi tilting in his grip. Niles, the Lhasa Apso they were dog-sitting, had coiled the leash around the bench leg like a booby trap. Louie, sprawled belly-up in the grass nearby, let out a sigh so long and deep, it could’ve been mistaken for thunder.
This was supposed to be the fix. A public place. Vitamin D. Fresh air. Maybe some people-watching to jolt him out of the sleep-coma habit he’d slipped into lately. But being your own boss had its downsides. No office to show up to. No clock to punch. Just a barely perceptible sense of urgency and the increasingly persuasive rationale of a “quick” nap.
He tried to fight it, he really did. But the sun was warm, the wind was soft, and whatever he’d smoked earlier had the gravitational pull of a black hole wrapped in a fleece duvet.
And just like that, his eyes shuttered, and the reel started rolling.
Fade to Black
He was walking through snow.
Not stumbling—strolling at ease. A trail stretched ahead like it had been blazed there just for him. Trees towered on both sides, bowed under heavy white coats, and above them danced the aurora borealis, humming in electric pastels across the sky. A glowing, celestial marquee advertising a movie made for some psychonautic god.
In the dream, Duke knew where he was going, even if he couldn’t name the place. He’d been here before—Vertigo-level déjà vu. A memory recalled from a life he may or may not have ever lived.
There was peace here. The kind of peace you don’t find in your inbox or your planner or that meditation app with the British guy who sounds suspiciously like A.I. Tom Hardy. No, this was ancient peace, but in that strange, cinematic way. The kind of peace that creeps in just before you fall asleep.
That’s when he saw the jar.
Enter: The Cultivar
It was sitting on a stump like some sacred offering, glass fogged from the cold, label catching the glow of the lights above. He picked it up. Read it. Northern Dream – Northern Harvest. The moment he cracked the lid, the dream shifted again, like a long take done in-camera, seamless and sharp.
Suddenly, he was standing on the edge of the Pacific. Fog curled around his boots. Cold sea spray misted his face, threatening to wake him—to drag him out of this place. The nugs inside that jar looked too beautiful to be real. Dusted in frost, pinkish-gold like a lemon orchard under a sunset. Delicate. Chef’s knife precision. This was no afterthought weed. This was clearly born from obsession.
Then came the aroma.
The Nose Knows
Not citrus. Not diesel. Something stranger. Umami. Seaweed, soy sauce, and the ocean air you only get on a pier during low tide. It reminded him of a sushi joint he’d once wandered into by accident in Rio. The chef didn’t speak. That same silence was here, now, in this dream.
Duke ground the flower, and the profile shifted again. Hot mint tea. Lemon zest. Blueberry syrup on a cedar tray. The weirdest, most comforting tea ceremony.
He took a hit.
The flavor landed like a bite of halibut sashimi, sharp and clean and iodined. Brined lemons, parsley, green bell pepper. It should’ve been vile, but it wasn’t. It was North by Northwest on the palate—cool mayhem. Carefully controlled anarchy.
And then it hit him.
Body First, Then Mind
Euphoria.
Not cartoonish. More like a Pét-Nat buzz. Effervescent and happy, but grounded. Like his bodyguard had taken the tension in his chest and politely escorted it out of the room without making a scene. His body stayed light, but his brain clicked into place, and suddenly everything—the snow, the light, the dream—felt real.
He didn’t want to leave.
But the dream was shifting again.
The snow began to melt into puddles. The light dimmed. The forest pulled away, like scenery being rolled off-stage.
A bell rang in the distance. A phone? No, a bark.
Niles!
Northern Dream Becomes Reality
Duke jolted upright.
Louie was licking his hand.
His prebiotic soda now empty and sun-warmed to the temperature of regret. The park looked unchanged. Kids yelling. Skateboard wheels on concrete. A guy talking loudly on speakerphone about crypto while Duke silently prayed for its quiet death.
But Duke felt different. Not like someone who’d just woken up. More like someone who’d returned.
He stretched. Smiled.
Northern Dreams was a portal. The kind of cultivar that didn’t just move you, it transported you. Somewhere calm. Somewhere beautiful. Somewhere surreal.
And as far as Duke was concerned, the only thing better than falling asleep after a bowl of Northern Dream was waking up still feeling it.
For more info on Northern Harvest, visit https://northernharvests.com/.
