Young Writers Society

Note: This story isn't my usual gore horror, but more of the horror of smoking. I had pictures that went with this but to my disappointment they weren't working. If you would like to see them, let me know.

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Little Chimney

When the teenagers left campus for lunch, they would sometimes pass by the elementary school and hand cigarettes to us through the chain link fence. The first time they did it a kid named Anthony Berthal, with greased-back hair and shadowed shallow eyes, showed us how to hold them. He raised his middle finger, making his friends snicker, then his index and placed a cigarette between them.

We imitated, put the cancer to our lips, and waited as Anthony lighted each and every one of our deaths.

"Try not to cough," he said.

It was obvious we had been up to no good when we walked back into Mrs. Baxley's stuffy 2nd grade classroom. If she couldn't smell the smoke, she definitely could see the ash down the front of our shirts.

I had always liked Mrs. Baxley. She put smiley faces in the right corner of my tests; those were what mattered back then. Her orangey hair reminded me of cheese-puffs. She had smelled like my grandma, and a little like my grandma’s cat, too. But I had sworn to never say good morning to her again after she told my mom what I had done. She slapped my hands, but after my 5th cigarette, she stopped caring and became numb to me coming home smelling like I rolled in a fireplace.

Susie Rocksford was the first kid to die because of Anthony Berthal. She was the girl whose mom would bring cupcakes for us on her birthday. When you asked, she would share her candy with you.

I think the meaning of “the apple of my eye” was Susie Rocksford.

She always wore a pink fleece jacket, which got stained with ash from the cinders of all those cigarettes she had. Even though the high school banned smoking on campus, it did nothing but force the druggies to smoke their one-pack-a-day either in the morning, at lunch, or after school. They would share with us on our way to class and back. And Susie, eager to please, had smoked every smoky treat with a smile until her teeth yellowed, eyes drooped, and skin paled.

Her mom cried a lot at church after she died. I had wondered if Susie’s angel wings were going to be black and ashy. Would Jesus mistake her for a demon? I hopped not.

I became a part of the group of five kids the druggies became particularly fond of. They were like older brothers and sisters to us, helping us with our homework and showing us how to crush the butts of our death sticks under our shoes.

“It’s the 80’s,” they said. “Everyone smokes.”

And I noticed it, too. Men would take drags from their cig while the other was talking, then conclude their conversation once there was nothing left. Women would smoke instead of eat to keep thin for their husbands who brought home 40 cent packs of Camels.

Benjamin Folker didn’t just smoke cigarettes though. He was a rebellious kid, which made him one of the favorites of the druggies. He was always dressed in his church clothes, and I could only imagine how angry his mom was when he came home with ash stains from the cigar he brought one day in 3rd grade.

“I stole it from my Dad’s drawer,” he gloated, hollowing his cheeks and letting out the biggest puff of smoke. I inhaled it as it passed by my face. “Ma is gonna kick my ass when I get home.”

From the bruises he came to school with every day, I think his mom kicked his ass all the time.

Through the years, the group of teenagers who had adopted us came and went as they graduated or died. But there were always new faces the next year. They paved our way for a smooth transition into the upcoming grade; they said they had our backs if someone gave us trouble.

Ashlee Evans had a hard 4th grade, though. She was molested. No one had her back then.

I don’t think her parents gave enough attention to her. Her hair was never combed, face always dirty, and clothes looking like she picked them out herself. She was always outside, playing in fields of poison ivy or abandoned construction sites with glass. Did they care when she would come home dizzy from smoke? I don’t think so. I bet they didn’t even listen to Miss Anderson, our 4th grade teacher, when she told them that Ashlee had ran into her room one morning in tears, or that Ashlee had said a boy touched her here and there.

For a month after that, Miss Anderson kept a passive Ashlee in at lunch to comb her hair, wash her face, and whisper comforting words that her parents had never uttered to her before.

In 5th grade, Taylor Coughman smoked a whole pack of Miche cigarettes that she had bought for 60 cents. She said she couldn’t believe how expensive a pack was now and days—the druggies nodded sympathetically, passing a lighter to her. I agreed.

Taylor couldn’t afford to buy herself a school lunch that day. Or for all the months before she died of malnutrition. Instead of eating, she spent her money on packs of cigarettes, drinking up the toxicants like apple juice. She said the taste of a cig was sweet and the smoke delicious.

Nearly everyone in elementary school had tried a cigarette at least once. It didn’t matter who it came from—unknowing parents, naive friends, ruthless high schoolers. From the 4 year olds in kindergarten to the 11 year olds in 6th grade, everyone’s lungs had been tainted. We were all on a downward spiral. Some parents made sure their kid didn’t become addicted, while others became desensitized. Indifferent. Uncaring. Some kids stopped on their own, while others became hooked.

Like Martha Payne.

She made a record for lighting the longest cigarette chain in town. She told everyone to meet up at the park with their own cigarette and get in a line. I was near the front, having gotten there straight after school. I watched Martha, red hair pulled back in pony tails and freckled face knitted with concentration, grab a cigarette from the kid next to her and lighted it with her own.

On down the line it went, high schoolers lighting 3rd graders’ smokes and 3rd graders lighting 8th graders’.

I remember bending down to a kindergartner and lighting one for her. “Try to not cough,” I said.

Through middle school, the remainder of those in the group stayed together. We had seen death, smelled death, tasted death. We awaited death. Anticipated it.

From there we went to high school-- we had survived by the skin of our teeth. If I had known being a teenager was so depressing, I would have stayed home with my mounds of crushed cigarette butts.

But Benjamin Folker had the idea to go home with Ashlee Evans because his parents constantly hammered him with their words and belts. Ashlee would lend her body to all the boys anyways; she could pleasure him. Martha Payne, the dare devil, was in and out of trouble, always starting little fires in the field next to the trailer park that she lived in. The pastor at church said she couldn’t come back because he thought she was the antichrist.

I watched us all become Anthony Berthals through a haze.

I observed. I learned everyone’s habits. I picked up traits. I blew rings of smoke into cheerleaders’ mouths under the bleachers to watch them shudder. I smeared ash on my homework to see my teachers sigh. I gave out free cigarettes to glimpse a smile from a lost soul.

I consoled Benjamin when he said he was going to run away from home, reasoned with Ashlee when she wanted to kill herself, and assured Martha that she didn’t need to prove anything to anyone. They said I was a true friend.

But when I finally graduated, I was the only one left. Benjamin dropped out of high school our junior year. Ashlee went to heaven to meet up with Susie Rocksford and Taylor Coughman. Martha got arrested for trying to light the pastor on fire.

I decided I could live off of secondhand smoke from the people at college. Maybe I could salvage what was left of my lungs; hopefully they weren't shriveled entirely. I threw away all my cigarettes.

I saw a 2nd grader fish them out of the trashcan.