Paint

The ashtray flambe parasailed the Florida breeze and dove inside open mouths, collecting on the throat like coats of tar paint. Adults whittled their lungs away with passing puffs, allowing blackness to overcome delicate pinks. Their voices passed through cheese graters until no fragment of sound conveyed more than a grunt. Now all that’s left are yellow bones.

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11 comments so far

  1. Jeeves on

    Deep. Love this one….

  2. quin browne on

    i can hear those croaking voices…

  3. Lilibeth on

    Well said. Succinct and vivid.

  4. Dee on

    Yikes – not a pretty picture but well written!

  5. Asleep On My Feet on

    I’m reminded of Janis Joplin, for some reason.

  6. SandyCarlson on

    Oh, so painful. A shared, slow death.

  7. Tammie on

    Ho, meaning something like ‘so be it’.
    you are so to the point in a very artful way!

  8. Tumblewords on

    Ouch. There’s trouble there…

  9. The Dark Lord on

    Yeah, some serious trouble.. being a smoker, it sure does reflect on some of the terrifying consequences..

  10. noahthegreat on

    So it goes. 😀

  11. Michelle Johnson on

    those poor diminishing voices…


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