When an adolescent, I played in melted candle wax. Mom wasn’t around much at night, and I was easily bored. Entranced as solid became liquid, I’d light up a Benson and Hedges pilfered from a carton kept in the kitchen. One quick exhale extinguished the flame. Wick and cigarette smoke co-mingled in mid air, while I watched the wax begin to harden. Dipping my finger in, it became slick with oil. I smelled vanilla and burning tobacco, and I prayed Mom didn’t come home early. She’d no doubt question this quirk of mine. That, or she’d kill me for smoking.
100 words/Genre: memoir
Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. It is an honor and a privilege to have Ms. Rochelle critique my work. Please be sure to go to her page and read their stories too. We are a rather eclectic group and the genres run the gamut.
I welcome kudos and criticism. Happy reading.