by The Winter Cynic
You can hardly smell it in the city, where the roar of traffic and the constant stream of human movement drowns out the quiet. Think of the countryside, where the roads are dark and the trees are tall and huge and old. They loom over you, stretching to follow you. Houses are nearly an hour apart and sounds of life are carried on the breeze. You’ll first notice it when you pass by a tree, the smell of tobacco. Not your usual whiff of cigarette smoke either but something thicker, like syrup, filling your lungs and pulling your eyes towards the tree.
There is a man perched on the branches, hiding among the leaves, watching you. Black shadow on black hairy skin, and eyes burning bright in the night like the tip of his cigar.