Sam Prickett
Stories (1/0)
Cold Turkey
He cigaretted the space between his fuck-you-finger and the one he used to use to point at things he wanted. It was his last cigarette, the last cigarette, an American Spirit, their apparently ethical farming practices weren’t enough to save the bees it turns out. “Should I half it?” the complex question arises with enormous implications. “I could save the short for later when it gets really bad.” He takes a long full drag and watched the ember eat the paper and touch the eagle's wing. A big exhale adds grey smoke to the brown-black landscape. “I miss green.” Now the only greens are the useless bills that sometimes blow across the soil and can’t buy kale. Horrified he watches himself take another lusty drag off the ultimate stogie and the eagle turns to phoenix whose final form is ash. He tastes the cotton fiberglass filter and wretches at the golden band. Tossing the pretzel butt feels familiar, stomping the heat out of habit though nothing’s left to burn. “It's quittin’ time.”
By Sam Prickett3 years ago in Psyche