He pretended he was one of the parade balloons, hovering over the tiny ant people and dandelion trees, afraid of nothing and wishing the wind would whisk him away.
Stephanie stared at the crack of (barely) life–twigs, leafs, the surprise of a feather, the miracle of the quadrifolius–thinking it a metaphor for the cosmically short span that life has existed and likely will exist, smoked her last cigarette and moved on.
It occurred to her that the gardener’s leaf blower wasn’t as thorough as she’d thought.
When Hank, a non-smoker, saw the butt on his back deck after returning from a business trip, he improbably admired the smoker’s determination to get every last bit of tar from that cigarette, yet also forlornly wondered if that guy had been that thorough with Hank’s wife.
Never, never, never, never give up; except smoking — you can give up smoking.
As another asked for “spare change,” Yvette averted her eyes downward, only to realize that her block was so bad, even the weeds were junkies.
As he lay there sobering, slowly, face down on the sidewalk, he realized he was looking at a story worthy of Dostoevsky: the tough little plant that survives –triumphs–in spite of impossible odds watching over the remains of his pampered brother who had, in the end, avenged himself on his destroyers!
The gray of the polluted sky covered buildings and sidewalks and animals and plants and even the dirt seemed dirty; ah, home at last.
Smoking had been outlawed for almost a century in the tiny community, and yet the cigarette butts still appeared on the sidewalk overnight.
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