Smoke in The Rain

A short story about watching smoke rise from a crematorium in the rain.

A halo of parking lot lights surround the ash-stained smoke stacks of the mortuary highlighting the smoke as it rises to the clouds’ outstretched arms. Life reduced to ash. The hearse pulls away from the garage door while the driver slackens his tie, unbuttons his shirt’s top button and wipes the sweat from his forehead smearing streaks of black across his skin. Heavy eyes like lead marbles weighing down his wrinkled face.

Through a veil of rain and fog, I watch the empty hearse drive into the night from a cold lawn chair on my patio, cigarette burning to my knuckles in one hand, my last glass in the other, cracked and dripping whiskey onto the pavement where a zigzagging line of ants are taking turns drowning in the golden puddle.

“Who do you think that was?” She asks, feigning sadness, both hands wrapped around a coffee mug of red wine as though the cup could keep her warm, her chipped nail polish matching her cork wedges purchased from some trashy thrift store. Vermilion.

“Who knows.” I reply without taking my eyes off the closed mouth of rain and road that swallowed the hearse.

Reviews

[Chris]

Your imagery is top notch. I can see everything you are describing. I want more of this story! lol c'mon man. You are a good writer. Give me more next time.

[Quasi-Motorolla]

Unfortunately, that is all there was to the story. It was an odd moment and nothing more. Nothing before that moment really mattered and then it all just dissipated, faded into the storm. I wish there was a deeper meaning, and I can feel something trying to surface but it was all so brief that it never bloomed, like a match scraped across pavement, sparking but never igniting, then the match breaks and it's story is over.