... velt Middle School, Anita, liked to say. Now the smashed cellophane package of cheap cigars was hidden under a game of Clue in her closet. She wouldn’t even tell Anita, much less her parents. The first night she watched until her digital clock clicked to 2:25, then reached for her flashlight...

.... “Catfish will eat cigars,” I tell him, and he cocks an eyebrow, impressed. “They like the smell of the rolled leaves. Especially grape leaves. Once, I was fishing somewhere, and I tore up an entire cigar, in little quarter-inch shreds, and watched this catfish eat the whole thing.” “Really...

...Cody Ernst © 2016 Cody Ernst 2016 Cody Ernst If There Were a Song about This Car Ride it would start:  love didn’t exist yet  or:  love was but a child then, the winter I discovered self-destruction:  whiskey, stout beer, and cigar leaves muckied the atmosphere  I had a hopeless crush...

... liked the accordion gate, the cigar smell, the game-show noise of the buzzer I leaned on ’til he hovered up the shaft like a pissed-off ghost from his grave. 28 the minnesota review When the elevator man died of who-knows-what, some temps shuffled through...

... was the lawyer’s brat. Hey Jerry, I’d ask, how come this elevator’s got no buttons? Hey Jim, please please make it stop between the floors? I liked the accordion gate, the cigar smell, the game-show noise of the buzzer I leaned on ’til he hovered up the shaft like a pissed-off ghost from his grave. ...

... and Cuban cigars and studied poses and laughter and looks and judgments. Its insults and moonlights and fistfights and hangovers and pool parties and birthday parties and themed dinner parties and its Andes mint chocolates and bBeaux aArts balls and debutantes and privilege...

..., so much quieter than I, even if you’re still less quiet than your father, whose only sound each evening, as he puffs on his after-dinner cigar, lost in a reverie of woolly smoke, like a mountain­ top, is a long belch-like groan of satisfaction. Still, we hear things at night (the pop...

... THINGS Bill Brown, editor. This book is an invitation to think about why children chew pencils; why we talk to our cars, our refrigerators, our computers; rosary beads and worry beads; Cuban cigars; and why we no longer wear hats that we can tip to one another...

... to know, the menu included “chef’s salad, chicken Washington, new potatoes and peas, Trinity College burnt cream, savory crab on toast, followed by port, Madeira, sauterne, claret, biscuits, cheese, fresh peaches, coffee and cigars, brandy and seltzer” [21 She then relates...

...-enact those lost days of houses with pillars, servants, and thick cigars. Filth! They are the worst the Third World elite are the filth of the planet and I do not feel any affinity with their jingling-jewellery wives, their arrogance, their large TV screens. Filth! They con- sider themselves royalty...

... is an invitation to think about why children chew pencils; why we talk to our cars, our refrigerators, our computers; rosary beads and worry beads; Cuban cigars; and why we no longer wear hats that we can tip to one another and why we don't seem to long to. Based on an award-winning special...

.... She whistled for the girls. They formed a line in front of the bar. Their painted faces seemed to be made entirely of slashes and bone. One of them lit a cigar from the sputtering oil lamp on the bar. She bit down on the end and her face was lost in smoke. Another had a black-haired baby...

..., or handing off a bag on the boards, but nothing involving locks —​I know I’m getting in deeper, but I still says, yeah, okay. Sal lights a cigar. “You into that girl?” he asks me. “Nah,” I says. “She’s a tramp.” “She’s s kid.” “Don’t let her fool you,” he says, blowing out...

... first kiss, when we heard a voice from above: “What are you kids doing?” We panicked and scrambled away, afraid to look back. We ran past the cigar and newsstands, ticket booths, and baggage carts, up the escalators, through the food court, and down the sweeping termi- nal. We turned...

... in the front window. The car and the house don’t match, Alex thinks. It’s like a homeless guy wearing a tuxedo, like a twelve- year-old smoking a cigar. It is like a Baked Alaska, a dessert Alex has heard about from his brothers but never tasted himself. The house is as it always was: peeling paint...

... cigar onto his desk as his jaw just drops.” My cousins, Victor and Gregory, are sixteen and driving against their mother and father’s request that they not take the car out with- out an adult unless it’s an emergency. We accelerate and swerve over the top of small hills, and we catch...