May Flash Fiction: How to Roll a Cigarette by Jake Pritchett

How to Roll a Cigarette
Jake Pritchett
Meet a friend in the broken lot of Overland Foods. Get into his car and give him the money and thank him. Wait while he’s in the store. He’ll return with a bag of Bugler Tobacco and an extra stick of gummed Zig Zag rolling paper. He’ll give you the change. It’s cheaper than the two of you would’ve thought. Six for the Bugler two for the rolling paper. 

Go to the elementary school the two of you were at not a decade ago and the playground you grew up on by measure of scraped knees and bruised elbow and stand under the street light and struggle. Stand and smoke and feel that rush and be thankful you’re feeling.

You and he will laugh and say things like: “Shit olboy.”

Thank him again. He’ll start to say his sorrys or his condolences. Brush it off. Go home. Roll a few in that empty house and your sister is gone and that’s good because you still don’t know what to say to her.

Walk far from the house even though it’s cold. Smoke and watch the bright moon above scraggy sage brush and the translucent paper with the dark tobacco under it. The bright orange and towards the end red moving towards an ever present finish. Don’t think of how mom’d scream at you for it and despite it how she’d appreciate this art in its own right, but how she no longer can because that’s what death is. 

Jake Pritchett lives in Fort Collins, Colorado and has a short story forthcoming in the next issue of DoveTales: An International Journal of the Arts, as well as in Fewerthan500.