The ashtray brims with fag ends. Each of the cigarettes has been smoked to its absolute limit, leaving just a filter, the end scorched slightly. They sit in the brown glass of the ashtray like a cairn. Adam stares at the mound of butts. His brow is scrunched and every now and then he rotates the ashtray, taking in the contents from another side of its square tray.
He stopped smoking five days ago. Quit dead. Just stopped buying cigarettes. No patches. No whining. No rushing out to buy a pack of ten from the all night garage. He simply decided to stop. Three days in, the ashtrays started appearing. He found the first in the kitchen, hidden in the bread bin. The smell of stale cigarettes tipped him off and he followed the trail bloodhound style to the antique tin. The second was in the garage. He found it a few days after the first while clearing out some shelving.
After that he found them with an alarming regularity. One in a desk drawer, another in the boot of his car. The airing cupboard. On top of a book shelf. In the shower. Under the kitchen sink. Twice in the garden shed; once balanced on the mower, another time tucked into a flower pot. Each time he found one he tipped the contents into the bin, washed out the ashtray and stacked it at the back of a cupboard in the living room. This time the ashtray had been hiding under the sofa.
Adam picks up the ashtray and marches out into the garage. He tips the pile of fag ends into a wheelie bin, eyes flickering over the falling brown cylinders. He takes the empty ashtray to his work bench and picking up a hammer, shatters the brown glass. He leaves the fragments where they fall and returns to the house. Later tonight he will set his alarm to go off at thirty minute intervals, unsure of what would be worse, catching whoever is tormenting him like this or waking to find himself hunched over the brown glass ashtray.
He stopped smoking five days ago. Quit dead. Just stopped buying cigarettes. No patches. No whining. No rushing out to buy a pack of ten from the all night garage. He simply decided to stop. Three days in, the ashtrays started appearing. He found the first in the kitchen, hidden in the bread bin. The smell of stale cigarettes tipped him off and he followed the trail bloodhound style to the antique tin. The second was in the garage. He found it a few days after the first while clearing out some shelving.
After that he found them with an alarming regularity. One in a desk drawer, another in the boot of his car. The airing cupboard. On top of a book shelf. In the shower. Under the kitchen sink. Twice in the garden shed; once balanced on the mower, another time tucked into a flower pot. Each time he found one he tipped the contents into the bin, washed out the ashtray and stacked it at the back of a cupboard in the living room. This time the ashtray had been hiding under the sofa.
Adam picks up the ashtray and marches out into the garage. He tips the pile of fag ends into a wheelie bin, eyes flickering over the falling brown cylinders. He takes the empty ashtray to his work bench and picking up a hammer, shatters the brown glass. He leaves the fragments where they fall and returns to the house. Later tonight he will set his alarm to go off at thirty minute intervals, unsure of what would be worse, catching whoever is tormenting him like this or waking to find himself hunched over the brown glass ashtray.
12 comments:
Ohhh...spooky! Tormented from within or without? Leaves me to ponder. Great!
have you quit smoking yourself? you perfectly evoke the nightmarish weirdness of the first few days. and it must be coincidence, but I dreamed I started smoking again last night (2 years quit).
I quit smoking about 9 years ago now. Not had any dreams where I started again though.
Addictions are powerful indeed. Well done.
I can see the ashtray lurking around the corner. You really tapped imagination in this piece. Bravo
Striking imagery. I can almost feel the pain. Very well done!
Nice story, with touch of withdrawal-induced behavior mixed in. Good job.
The early stages of withdrawing from an addiction are fraught with minor distortions of reality and presentiments of pursuit. On the button there.
May I be so bold as to suggest a re-casting entirely in the past tense? It can be more dramatic [witness middle two paragraphs, where most of the impact (imho) is made] which is a plus for flash and (imho) works well in a single-protagonist scenario like this one.
Felt his pain the whole way through. I quit cold turkey myself, more than 35 years ago. Smoked many a butt pefore succeeding. Very though thing to go through, and you nailed it. Funny thing how disgusting an ashtray smells once you kicked the habbit a while.
~jon
@skblr: thanks for the comment about the use of tense. I was trying to shake things up by trying to use past, present and future in one piece of flash. Obviously didn't work for you, still not sure myself. I'll bear in mind your thoughts when I revisit this.
@J.M. Strother - the smell of smoking once you've quit is bloody awful. Well done for doing 35 years...I still have 20 or so to go to match that.
I'm a sucker for the vague, supernatral horror of this. If you haven't read it, Stephen King has a short story in his Night Shift collection called Quitters, Inc which is... alright. He's a little over-the-top in with his depiction of addiction, but it might be interesting just for an appendix. I prefer the subtleness of this.
Novel use of imagery and discovery to portray Adam's withdrawal, his recognition of the depth of his addiction, and his resolve to be a non-smoker. I feel like I'm following behind him as he experiences these changes.
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