Wolfrich Shankland

Dead Memories

The forty degree heat filled the air; the rays of the sun beat down hard against the dirt, free of any cloud-like obstacle, the cicadas chirping incessantly throughout the day. I took out my three pack of filtered cigars; carefully unfolding the packet's lid and removed a single, small, cigar. Grasping the tip between my lips, I refolded the packet and placed them back into my packet, replacing them with a box of matches. Sliding the box open and removing a match, striking it across the rough side of the box ignited the match, creating a flame big enough to burn the end of my cigar, taking in a breath, inhaling the smoke, allowing it to sit in my mouth to savor the taste before exhaling.