Her Sacred Space

Sammy was buried in the garden, behind a shed. Rose stepped daily over a trail meandering between overgrown shrubs to get there.

She told Sammy how dearly she missed him. How her life lacked happiness, excepting visits from grandchildren.

They would’ve delighted seeing him. But it was different for them. They lived elsewhere in town. Their lives filled with interests young people sought.

Only when Rose died did her grandchildren realize her loneliness. Close to the burial ground, hidden under debris, they uncovered a stash of cigarette ends.

Undoubtedly saturated with the tears she shed for her beloved Chihuahua, Sammy.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.

Dangerous Waters

After smoking cigarettes with a few other men in the lounge, I walk onto the deck for some ocean air, and watch the water splash against the Lusitania. I rest my arms against the railing and look out at the great ocean. After taking a deep breath, I notice a ship in the near distance. Other passengers are pointing, and no one seems panicked, but I know. Below I hear a rumble and see something approaching at great speed. A torpedo.

I jump, and when I hit the water, a mental image of my family without me, aches my heart.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

A Netflix Original

Two Scandinavian dudes set out in a vintage VW microbus to prove the secretary-general of the United Nations was the victim of assassination. But then, by accident, they discover an attempt to eliminate entirely the smoking of cigarettes after sex. The Scandinavians meet a leader of an underground militia who says that while that’s his signature on the document, he didn’t write the signature himself. I got to be honest, I was expecting more: maybe a “crime wall,” with photos and red strings and so on; maybe the angel of death promising in a mocking tone to stay in touch.

Howie Good is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Three Imaginary Boys

Three imaginary boys followed her everywhere. The one she called Whitey was the nicest. He would help her with math and comforted her when she was sad.

Churchill never had anything nice to say. He criticized her for crying too much and called her stupid whenever she made a mistake. He said the reason no one loved her was because she was a girl.

At least Churchill never hurt her, not the way Stephen did. He pinched her, or burned her with cigarettes. Sometimes worse.

She knew all three boys were imaginary, but the scars Stephen left were frighteningly real.

Collect

The men stand quietly, exchanging cigarettes and glances. There is nothing to say.

A klaxon sounds. More than one man sighs with relief: the mine-cage rises from below. Two men open the cage doors, collect the dripping bones of the man who lost the draw.

“Sacrifice accepted,” the mine owner announces, as though the men can't see the evidence themselves.

The bones are buried. The widow and children will receive a fat check from the owner, and much pity for the “unpreventable accident.”

“Okay, boys,” the foreman slaps his hat on. “Go ahead and collect. Coal ain't gonna fetch itself.”

From Guest Contributor Laura Lovic-Lindsay

The Scent Of A City

She hasn’t unpacked yet. The clothes still smell of Paris. No, not of butter and cigarettes. Of that indescribable smell that is the smell of the City of Light.

Cities are redolent beings, each one with a distinct indescribable scent. Indescribable because Bombay doesn't just smell of sea waves caressing concrete, raindrops infusing with sweat on a monsoon day, or fried green chillies consorting with vada paos. Bombay smells of Bombay.

She needs them clothes now.

They didn’t tell her that you can carry a smell across 7,000 kilometers but there’s simply nothing you can do to make it stay.

From Guest Contributor Sheena Arora

Jane And Pedro

Jane and Pedro met at the local dance hall. He was too shy to ask her to dance, so they chatted by the bar. Pedro was handsome and impeccably dressed, with his silk shirt and leather dance shoes and his hair slicked back in the latest fashion. Jane wore a long skirt and talked incessantly about her work with learning disabled orphans. They found they shared a passion for artistic endeavors and smoking cigarettes.

They were both married to other people, which was a shame because they fell in love with each other about five minutes into that first conversation.

The Vigorish

Sal lurked in the hallways of the gambling den, all greasy hair and cigarette stench. No one acknowledged his presence, not even the proprietor who employed him. He was considered a necessary evil by some, the angel of reckoning by others.

They called him the Vigorish. His job was to calculate and collect the interest. He wasn't the muscle--he was too much of a worm to behave violently. He was just the one doing the math.

If he came to your table, you knew you'd been cut off. If he came to your home, you knew you were dead.