Contents

  Title Page

  Free Story

  The Art of Cigarette Smoking

  Free Story

  Post a Review

  Other Titles

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Author's Note

  Copyright (Epub)

  The Art of Cigarette Smoking

  By J.B. Reynolds

  FREE BOOK ALERT!

  A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For keeps you guessing right up until the punch.

  Claim your FREE copy now!

  Find out more at

  jbreynolds.net

  It is a clash of regal opposites—black and white, red and gold, the crowned and uncrowned horse—that graces the cardboard packaging of my packet of Marlboros. If I flip the packet upside down, Marlboro reads as orobljew, and indeed, I can imagine my face taking on the stingily gleeful countenance of same said ‘orrible Jew, as I carefully unwrap the plastic band and tear at the silver lining that conceals the treasures within. Oh, what treasures, these precious Marlboros—so precious in fact, it is conceivable that if Jesus himself were born today, the gift of frankincense given to him by the wise king of the east could be replaced with the gift of Marlboros from the rednecked cowboy of the west.

  My package unwrapped—the silver foil discarded within the green maw of a conveniently located roadside rubbish bin—I stop and raise my Marlboros to eye level and stare, fascinated by these cylinders of simple modernist beauty. Count them, one through twenty-five, all present and correct, neatly arrayed in geometric form and standing perfectly still, like soldiers at attention.

  Twenty-five! Can you believe it? It’s almost too good to be true. What fun we’ll have. My reaction is Pavlovian—salivation on sight. I select one of the twenty-five and remove it from the pack, with just a touch of sadness, for it leaves an ugly gap, distorts the geometric perfection of the whole. With one hand I shut the packet tight, bury it safe and deep into the pocket of my jacket. With the other I place my cigarette upon my moistened lips. The paper wrapping immediately absorbs some of this moisture and it sticks, dangling jauntily, waiting to be lit.

  With a flourish, I produce from the pocket of my trousers a shiny, white plastic cigarette lighter, embossed with the smiling face of a medieval joker. Bringing the silver flint of the lighter to the tip of my cigarette, I smile back at him. A swift roll of the thumb, a burp of flame, a suck and a puff and a cloud of smoke, and he returns to his pocket, the joke shared.

  Oh, what tender toxins, what pungent poisons now caress my capillaries and fondle the multiplicity of microscopic hairs sprouting from the walls of my lungs. See the way the soft, voluptuous curls swim from the tingling point of my cigarette as I walk. Marvel at how the rain, the blusts and gusts of frozen wind, cannot conquer its very fire. I do believe my fag is defying the physical laws of combustion.

  It is a strange ritual, the smoking of a ciggie. My heart puffs and preens while a thousand pollutants dust my lungs and foul my breath. I smile and happily kiss goodbye to seven minutes of my lifespan, for what is seven minutes of sweet existence to an aspiring artiste and champion of youth such as I?

  I stop at a traffic intersection and pull alongside a man, leather skinned and ugly with ill health. He lives somewhere near me, this wrinkled man with greying hair, and I am yet to see him without a cigarette protruding from his nicotine-stained mouth. I do believe that it has become an extension of his being, an evolutionary appendage. He leans heavily against the black and yellow pole of a traffic light, as if it were the only thing keeping him from stumbling into an imminent grave. I have often seen him thus, propped against some convenient wall or fence within our shared neighbourhood, gasping for life and fresh air between deep drags on his ever-present cancer stick.

  The lights change and the little green man across the road beckons me onward. I leave the old man panting in my wake and stride confidently, assured of my good health, ignoring the wetness and chill that clasps ghoulishly at my hand. This hand (my right) extends into the frozen afternoon, as my other delves further into the warm claustrophobia of my jacket pocket. I warrant that it would be a sensible idea to throw my cigarette away and plunge my right hand also into the safe havens of my jacket, but you see—in the name of all that is stylish and sophisticated and big at the box office—this really is not possible. An adjective like “sensible” does not fit with the way I choose to see myself. I would rather hold my cigarette, just so—butt pinched between fore and middle digits, shaft extending forwards, fingering the world. It’s no coincidence either, that should I rotate my hand ninety degrees clockwise, I would be performing this very gesture. For what is the smoking of a cigarette, if not a fervent “up yours” to the moral majority and self-proclaimed health experts of this world?

  I read once—in a book whose title and author and date of publication have long since eluded me—of a man who paid no heed to wet and cold, who walked with joy, head up and chest out, through the sodden drizzle of an undoubtedly English day. A man who revelled in the rain while others wilted in the wet. I took this passage to heart and proclaimed to follow in his fictional footsteps. For surely, a cold, grey, and rainy day is as glorious as any other? Who am I to let the trickle of heaven’s tears get me down? I am above that sort of self-pitying behaviour. I am a young and handsome rain worshipper, a cavorter in the cold.

  I have reached the steep part of the hill to my house now, where slabs of concrete steps slash exponentially upwards to a dreary, cloud-washed sky. I am nearing the end of my cigarette, and my head skips lightly with intoxication. My skull is airy and I float like a fairy. Ah-ha! Bear witness to my aptitude for childish rhyme. Oh, the path to wit’s a fag-damned dream; I blame it on the nicotine. Ha! Even better!

  My cigarette’s fading fast now, its fire swiftly dying. While I am slightly disappointed by this, I can only be excited by what is about to come. Ahh yes, what is still to come…

  Let me tell you a secret. For all my confidence and arrogant airs, I am still a novice in the art of cigarette smoking. Why, the first time I smoked a ciggie, not much more than a year or three ago, I did so with the shaft held between my fore and middle fingers, and my palm facing outward rather than towards me. I had finished the whole thing before I figured out why my companions could tap out their ash so much more gracefully than I.

  I cannot blow smoke rings, not for the life of me, and I have wasted many an hour trying to learn. For all my concerted efforts, not one glorious hoop has ever escaped from the “O” of my pursed lips. Indeed, I have given up trying, as all I ever got for my attempts was a sore head and violent bouts of nausea. And that trick with the circular breathing, where one blows gentle plumes of smoke from one’s mouth, only to suck it back up through the nose again, as though playing a didgeridoo? Hours again I’ve spent, in the darkest and dingiest of pubs, all to no avail. It was depressing, I can tell you. I was briefly tempted to give up smoking. But for the fact that I held an ace up my sleeve, perhaps I would’ve.

  For while smoke rings and circular breathing are not my forte, I am a master of the flick. I am a natural born flicker. When every last bit of tobacco leaf has burned, when your lungs can be polluted no further, when all you are left carrying in your stinking fingers is a smouldering, plastic-foam filter, there is naught left to do but flick. Flick, flick, flick your butt, soaring into space. Here—let me demonstrate. See how I pinch the sputtering butt of my cigarette between my thumb and middle finger? It is now poised for its cannonball rush through space. I raise my hand, and with a sudden push from my elbow and a lightning thrust of my middle finger, off it goes, spinning wildly. Metres and metres it flies, twirling like a majorette’s baton, fluid tendrils of smoke tracing its trajectory. It is the white ribbon of a rhythmic gymnast, the death wake of a stricken fighter plane. It’s a wonder to behold.

  I’m so good at flicking, that were the flick an Olympic event, I would be a medal contender. Imagine it! I’m standing in the middle of a huge stadium, surrounded by a crowd of cheering thousands and the best athletes that the world can muster. Yet I am aware of none of this—I am hooded in a cloak of concentration. All I can think about is my final flick, the flick that will win me the gold medal—if I can pull it off. The flick I have chosen to attempt is a notoriously difficult one—an octuple somersault with a two-and-a-half twist. Not only does it have a degree of difficulty of 4.3, but to win, my cigarette butt must leap and land past the eight-metre mark!

  I breathe deeply. IINN and AOOUUT… IIIINNN and AAOOOUUUTT. I moisten my finger and check the wind. It has dropped and will not be a significant factor in my flick. I step up to the mark and close my eyes, focusing. I twist back—every muscle, every fibre, tensing in anticipation, straining with effort. And then, BOOM! Like a shell exploding from a cannon, the butt is launched. A tidal wave of energy bursts through my body, flows through the muscles of my arm and out into my fingers. It floods into the smoking butt and off it flies, hurtling through space, twirling majestically. The crowd sucks in its collective breath. Time slows. My ciggie twists and spins… four… five… six… seven… eight times! Ye Gods! It hits the ground beyond the eight-metre mark and bounces lightly before coming to rest in a grimace of ash and wisp. Ah-ha! Jubilation! I’ve done it! I’m the winner! The crowd cheers, the folks back home watching it all on TV go wild. I’m down on my knees and I’m laughing!

  Later, while standing high on the centre pedestal of the medal dais, I am filled with a glowing pride, the gold medal hanging lightly around my neck. The national anthem blares, the crowd cheers again. A solitary tear rolls down my cheek, so filled with the emotion of the moment am I. I’m dying for a fag. But it’s okay, because I’ve got twenty-four more in my pocket. So when I reach my house at the crest of the hill, I walk in the front door, put the kettle on to boil and sit down on the couch to savour another cigarette.

  FREE BOOK ALERT!

  A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For keeps you guessing right up until the punch.

  Claim your FREE copy now!

  Find out more at

  jbreynolds.net

  POST A REVIEW!

  REVIEWS ARE GOLD TO AUTHORS

  If authors were pirates, book reviews would be their treasure. If you enjoyed reading this story, please consider rating and reviewing it.

  Share your thoughts at:

  Goodreads

  or your preferred store.

  Other Titles

  Riding Shotgun

  Square Pegs

  What Friends Are For

  Coming Soon

  Taking The Plunge

  Find out more at

  jbreynolds.net

  J.B. Reynolds

  J.B. Reynolds lives in rural Northland, New Zealand, where he raises children and chickens. He writes humorous short fiction in which tragedy meets comedy and character reigns supreme. His first short story was published while he was a university student, and in between that and a return to serious writing in 2016, he has worked as a graphic designer, landscaper, ski and snowboard technician, film critic, librarian, apple picker, and baker of muffins and teacakes.

  Nowadays, when not writing, he’s a husband, father, and high school teacher (not necessarily in that order). He enjoys sailing, cycling, and playing music, really loud, when his wife and kids aren’t at home. He has a big garden where he likes to get his fingernails dirty, and he loves to eat the things that grow in it.

  Find out more at

  jbreynolds.net

  To Annabelle, Greg, Peter, and Paul.

  Author’s Note

  The Art of Cigarette Smoking was first published in Critic, the magazine of the Otago University Students Association. I cannot remember exactly when, as it was so long ago, but it was either 1995 or 1996. It was the first story I ever submitted for publication, and my thanks go to Kapka Kassabova, who chose to publish it. What I do remember clearly is the wonderful feeling of excitement I had, collecting a copy of the special edition from a stack of papers in the foyer of the Union building and then sitting down to flip through the pages till my story appeared, in all its glory, ink black on rustling newsprint. It was the first time I felt like a ‘proper’ writer.

  In the years since, smoking has become a four-letter word. In New Zealand, nobody likes smokers anymore, and everyone in authority—from local councils through to central government—wants to make life difficult for the smoking public. Which is perhaps as it should be, since it really is a terrible habit. It’s bad for you, it’s expensive, and it smells. But let’s not get carried away—in a civilised society, people are free to make choices that are bad for them. I for one, would be sad to see smoking go the way of the dodo. It might be a vice, but a world without vice would be very boring indeed.

  The Art of Cigarette Smoking published by Tsubaki Press

  www.tsubakipress.com

  info@tsubakipress.com

  Copyright © J.B. Reynolds 2016

  All rights reserved

  jbreynolds.net

  Cover design by J.B. Reynolds

  Cover and pirate images © Fotosearch.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-473-38425-8 (Epub)

 

 

  J.B. Reynolds, The Art of Cigarette Smoking

  Thanks for reading the books on GrayCity.Net