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Camping. The rain is pouring the way that it only seems to when someone is getting on a plane and leaving for a better place in old films. I drag a sack that has what I assume is a tent inside from the trunk of the car. I’m more than a bit surprised that the tiny red BMW made the drive from St. Louis, and it never looks better than it does in the rain. The paint shines in such way where I can barely even make out the dents from a decade and a half of wear. I feel a genuine sense of pride for the old car in the way I imagine a rider does when an old horse takes first place one last time. Eager to get this trip set up as quickly as possible,Camping. by ~CultOfPatrick
One Last Cigarette Patrick KellisonOne Last Cigarette by ~CultOfPatrick
Nearly Exhausted Cigarette
It’s the last cigarette in what was a pack of twenty. Actually, it’s half a cigarette that I saved because I knew I would need it on the walk to the hospital in the morning. It’s not even out of my pocket before I’m aware of the bitter smell of burnt tar. I cringe a little as I light the smoldered end. I inhale and absorb the taste of ash and cloves. Without protest, my lungs fill with smoke as the paper around the cigarette crackles like a bowl of Rice Krispies.
“Breakfast of champions,” I think to myself. Smoke rises from the ember and ascends upwards until
Sta.sh
