King of the Hill

This was more of an experiment with time-frame than anything descriptive.

Mark walked outside, the cold of the night chilling him instantly. At the bottom of the hill on which he lived on he could see a white marquee, illuminated by the moon above, the strobe lights inside doing their best to fend off the light of the sky. 

Reaching into his pocket, Mark pulled out a cigarette, his last one. Bringing it to his lips he could smell the sweet tobacco, he paused, savouring the scent and marveling at the almost glowing white of the paper it was wrapped in. He placed the cigarette in his mouth, right hand now free to search for the omnipresent lighter every smoker carried as he formed a cup with his left hand, shielding the end of his cigarette from the cold wind that was crawling on his skin. Finally, the lighter was found and the familiar process could begin.

Mark raised the lighter to the cigarette and flicked the spark wheel with his thumb, the flame of the lighter bursting into life as it began to burn the tobacco above. Mark breathed in hard, encouraging the ember he had formed to take hold of the tobacco and to constantly burn until he was done with it. Task completed he returned the faithful lighter to his pocket, not to resurface until tomorrow,
"Perhaps never again" thought Mark, contemplating quitting for the third time that day. He knew it would never happen, why throw away the one thing that he could enjoy alone? Mark blew out his first lungful of hot smoke, feeling it rush across his lips and watching it evaporate in the night sky. The smoke formed trails in the air, dancing against the constant black of the universe above.

Once again Mark's attention was drawn to the marquee below him. The strobe lights had been replaced with spotlights, their light trailing across the sky in a similar way that Mark's expelled lungful of smoke had. He could hear a band playing inside, the occasional stray chord floating on the wind to his ears. Mark felt lonely up on his hill, alone in his house he envied the contact that the marquee crowd were feeling. But he would never join them, Mark was doomed to spend hours on the hill, marveling at the way people could enjoy themselves despite the horrors of the world; famine, war, starvation. To Mark the world around him was desolate, a bleak wilderness in which he was forced to interact. His therapist had told him to write a book. To transfer all the frustrations and disappointments of his life into ink and paper. But what was the point,
"No one would read it."

Mark pulled another lungful of smoke out of his cigarette, consuming it and tilting his head backwards to exhale and release it again. Stars were shining in the sky above him and Mark marveled at them as well, but still felt no joy. Countless poets had stared at the same cluster of heavenly beings to be inspired, to write sonnets and novels. All Mark could muster in the form of emotion was a sense of sadness that, eventually, all the stars above him would burn out and die. No longer to be witnessed by the insignificance of humanity below.  

Mark held his cigarette high above him, the warm orange ember like a sun among the flickering white of the stars.
"There we are, Man conquers nature once more."

Eventually, the tobacco of the cigarette had burned out, leaving Mark with a charred tip. He flicked the butt over the edge of the hill and walked back inside, all thoughts of companionship, novels and starlight forgotten, his final lungful of smoke drifting listlessly in the wind.  
  

Author's Note

I thought it would be interesting to write a story in the time frame that it would take to smoke one cigarette whilst my character ponders over writing a novel. And other stuff, of course.

Reviews

[DreyaArt]

Hmm interesting, while it is beautiful writing, I feel as though you focused more on description then time. Only because you so many times described the smoke curling out of his lungs etc, I just think thats how it turned out.
May I suggest that if you were hoping to do a piece on time, that you should describe the changes in that time, sure you said it was night, but other then that it was a descriptive piece about his smoking contemplaitions.
Although I suppose, description and time walk hand in hand, you must remember to keep your original idea in mind as you write. Sometimes you must not let the words just flow out of you if you have a goal for that writing.
Anyways thats just what I think.

[Matthew Smith]

This was very nicely written. I didn't notice any technical issues.

You really did a great job depicting this Mark's contemplative nature during the course of that cig-session--which, by the way, has put me into a major nicfit. Ironic--the day I decide to quit smoking, I read something like THIS. Congrats, man, you've caused a relapse with your skill of description, lol!

Seriously, though, this was a good, interesting piece.

[Alice In My Own Wonderl..]

"Reaching into his pocket, Mark pulled out a cigarette, his last one. Bringing it to his lips he could smell the sweet tobacco, he paused, savouring the scent and marveling at the almost glowing white of the paper it was wrapped in. He placed the cigarette in his mouth, right hand now free to search for the omnipresent lighter every smoker carried as he formed a cup with his left hand, shielding the end of his cigarette from the cold wind that was crawling on his skin. Finally, the lighter was found and the familiar process could begin."

I could imagine this paragraph perfectly. You described the story very well. I liked reading this. Interesting write.
Keep writing :)