Grace

Want a sneak peak at my new short story, "Grace"? YOU'RE IN LUCK! It isn't at its final draft so here's a raw look at the beginning, you lucky kids you. If you love it, I'll keep writing. If you hate it, I'll keep writing. Feedback's always lovely! Enjoy.

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I sucked the dry smoke deep into my lungs and held my breathe, letting it settle, trying to bring back the buzz I’d lost months back.  The books I read told me that the cigarettes were stimulants but the five minutes I spent on the porch with one of them pinched between my fingers was the most relaxing part of my days. I imagined the withdrawal symptoms that would creep up on me in the woods and shuddered. Momma used to purse her lips around a “tar stick” as the kids around Breezewood called them, making sure to hold the smoke in her lungs for a beat, searching for the same buzz I did, before letting it tumble out of her mouth as she told me to stay away from the nasty habit. She stuck to that argument for most of my growing up but on my 18^th birthday I woke up to Momma holding a pack of Pall Mall Lights under my nose. She pushed them against my chest even after I refused.

“This is the last bit of freedom you’re gonna get now you’re an adult, Grace.”

Birthdays weren’t celebrated at Breezewood, something Brother Gabe said about making sure equality was observed everyday. Momma made me swear not to tell any of the other kids that they were a gift. She probably feared one of the Elders would find out and she’d get time on the Stage during services but she didn’t need to worry. I didn’t consider early death much of a gift. Some of the other people around the ranch probably did but I was leaving one day. That I’d known since the day we showed up at the front gate.

I took another pull and tried to relish the feeling of it slipping down my throat, filling up my lungs with pressure, and flowing out of my nose. I allowed myself three a day so I could make my pack last all week. I only got one trip to town a week and I had to save the rest of my thirty dollars for books from the used bookstore. I about smoked the whole pack away just during my time in town. Books, other than the Bible, weren’t allowed at Breezewood so I had to sneak away to look through the stacks. Mr. Jones who owned the bookstore kept an eye on the door while I poked through the fiction section, letting my fingers wander over the broken bindings of Hemingway and Emerson. Most of the time he tried to lend me books for free, telling me he trusted me enough to bring them back, but if there was one thing I learned at Breezewood, it was never let anyone treat you like a charity case.
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