The Smoke Dance by Stuart Hough

The fire glowed with the hearty memories of the year past. It invited them to enter the present moment as bright as the sparks that leaped skyward. As the sun set with casual elegance, it lit a glow in all of them in the growing darkness. In the time before it shone again and the world shone back to reflect those warm rays, it would be their light. The air was filled with the lively crackle of the fire and conversation. Between the songs and jokes, between the smiles, the stories and the drinking, their bonds had become a kind of palpable ever-glow. Within the large group, by chance he found himself sitting next to Duana.

“Fires aren't just burning but rebirthing.” She ventured the thought to him, unannounced. “Our passions are that way too. The fire changes from one state to another. Cold to hot, wood to smoke and ash, dark to light. The right souls have those connections too.” She smiled at his surprise as he contemplated the idea.

A number of smaller fires were lit around them. Flowers of flame opened heavenward, generous with golden sparks. The burning logs soon massaged their senses with the sounds, the smell and the taste of the air. The night became a golden glow. The smoke had its own way of revealing the still air, making an artistry of its swirls and flow.

SMOKE by Kath Norgrove

It was never going to be an ordinary day. I opened my eyes and had no idea where I was. Take a deep breath, I told myself. Count to ten. Visualise a tropical island.... none of it worked. The feeling of utter disorientation didn't go away. I closed my eyes again. After an unmeasured length of time had gone by, I opened them, very slowly.

I was being watched by someone - or something. Her – at least I thought it was a her and decided it would be a she until I had more information - was a small chocolate skinned naked but slightly hairy human-like creature. She was much more muscular and robust than your average human though, with much wider hips and elongated legs. She had a long, flat head and the lower jaw lacked a chin. I wondered if this was really what aliens looked like? Most intriguing of all, her face was capped by a strong, prominent brow ridge, over the eye sockets, that extended past the eyes.

NO GOOD SMOKE by Elizabeth Obadina

 A personal plea for those preparing for

in November

there's

NO GOOD SMOKE

My memories are shrouded in smoke; smoke-filled good memories.

My birth year was the year of the Great Smog and despite the coming of the Clean Air Act of 1956, most of my early childhood winter memories are misty, yellowish and cold. I don’t remember clear starry nights but I do remember fogs you could taste the coal dust in and the joy of arriving home from school after the excitement and apprehension of making it from one pool of lamplight to the next in quick dashes through the vapours hanging between.

Then there was the smoke of the back-room fire. This was where we ate, toasted bread and crumpets in the flames, listened to the radio and were later on transfixed by ‘Watch With Mother’ on the BBC on a tiny black and white tv set. We played cards, board games, read stories and Mum sewed and wrote letters on the dining table. It was the warm, beating heart of the house. Beyond that dining room door the hallway, the kitchen, the bathroom and the bedrooms were icy, and the fire in the front sitting room was only ever lit for special occasions and visitors. We wrapped up in winceyette nighties and pyjamas and thick, thick dressing gowns, socks and slippers to make the chilly climb from the smoky, warm embrace of that one heated downstairs room; climbing upstairs to hot-water-bottle warmed beds in freezing rooms.

There was not a smidgen of doubt about my favourite room. The coal might have spat and flared and sometimes blown dirty, black smoke back into the room when the wind was in the wrong direction; clearing the out the ashes in the morning when the room was cold and laying a new fire for the afternoon was a chore and being sent out for coal in the dark and the wet was a misery; but despite all of that I felt, good, safe and cocooned close to the smoky fire. As children we never thought about the damage the coal, which everybody used, was doing to the atmosphere. In fact I’m not even sure that we made the link between the dreadful, sometimes smelly smogs we walked out in and those welcoming home-fires. We hadn’t heard the word ‘pollution’. We didn’t make the link between those smogs - - and the wheezing of adults and sickly friends, even though people died. My grandad died. He wasn’t a smoker and was only in his fifties when he succumbed to ‘bronchitus’ – undoubtedly triggered by working in the smoky inferno of a munitions factory during the war and afterwards those post-war smogs couldn’t have helped either.

City of Smoke by Jennie Hart

Tropodo: photo supplied by Jennie Hart

Black smoke billows from towering chimneys; the smell of burning plastic fills the air. Patches of black ash litter the ground. Tropodo is only a village but it is known as ‘The City of Smoke.’

Annisa lives here. Her name means lovely or beautiful, but it is difficult for her to feel lovely when she is choked by fumes. Java lies along the equator and is drenched by rainfall all year round creating a perfect climate for tropical trees and exotic flowers to thrive but Annisa rarely sees them. Sometimes she leaves the kampung and wanders off alone but can never escape the acrid smoke which seems to chase her, even through the lush vegetation. Amongst the dripping leaves and tangled vines, she can at least, while she is there, clear her lungs and breathe deeply.

SMOKE OVER THE LINE* by Adam Rutter

I look at the dales.

From the peak

Rows of arches stretch out

Like tooth comb

With a bridge spanning across

Joining the two uplands

Filling the empty gap below.

A thin line reaches from

One end

To the other

Cutting a fine groove in the greenery

Slicing through narrow gorges

Threads through a mountain

Smoke trails

Follow the line

Leaving a white tail

Arching over the carriages

Winding through undulating landscape.

Puffs of thick columns drift above

The bridge

Coiling, spreading

In the wide valley

Funnels inside cuttings

Diminishes to a

Wisp.

* The Settle and Carlisle Railway

HM Govt Warning - Smoking is bad for your health by Martin Edwards

Before purchasing this product, you are advised to read the latest guidance below, issued by the Surgeon General of the Dept of Ill-Health and Not-Very-Well-Being:

Of the four classical elements, water, earth, air, and fire, it is the first three that seed, nurture and sustain life. Fire stands alone, all powerful. It is both the destroyer and the creator, for without heat and light, there is no life.

For those who harness fire, they too are all powerful. Or at least, they like to think they are. And so the earliest humans, upon the discovery of this nefarious element, took control over the planet - and some would also say, its decline and inevitable destruction. Because fire is like that. It tempts you; it hypnotises you; it takes you in and takes you over. Fire is the ultimate power. It seeks out weakness and becomes an uncontrollable force that razes all and everything to the ground - so that life can begin once more. But well, it knows the inherent weakness of man - that thirst for supremacy and exploitation. 

SMOKE and MIRRORS by Sue Akande

Dressed in a smart, long coat and brimmed hat and carrying a large handbag,

She strode into Boodles, the jewellers in Mayfair.

This was ‘Anna’, sent to value seven sparklers,

Diamonds worth over four million pounds.

 

She was working for a group of wealthy Russian investors

Who wanted to buy the gems.

As a ‘gemologist’ she set to work examining the stones,

With the boss of Boodles and one of their diamond experts.

 

But the boss was called away.

‘Alexander’, one of the buyers, was on the line.

The diamond expert was left alone with ‘Anna’

And as she handled the jewels in their pouch, she put it into her bag!

 

She was told to give the pouch back and so

Anna duly produced the pouch and put it on the table.

Unsettled, the diamond expert raised her concerns,

Anna’s bag was searched but all seemed in order and the pouch was put back in the safe.

The meeting at an end ‘Anna’ stepped out into the sunshine.

 

So, imagine the horror when, the very next day,

The pouch of jewels was opened and

Instead of seven diamonds

Seven pebbles were in the pouch instead!

 

Who had acted with such audacity?

Who had committed this sleight of hand heist?

And how had she pulled off this sort of smoke and mirrors illusion

At the top jewellers, in Mayfair?

 

‘Anna’, age 60, real name Lulu Lakatos,

Had put the diamonds in a hidden compartment in her bag

And produced an identical pouch full of pebbles,

When asked to return the purse of diamonds.

 

Making efforts to disguise herself

She hot footed it to Paddington, jumping on Eurostar to make her escape.

But CCTV footage provided strong proof of her identity and crime

And she was finally arrested and charged to do her time.

 

The grand larceny has been likened to a scene from a Hollywood movie.

There is no doubt, Lulu played a key role.

But she did not work alone.

And while she sits in jail, enquiries are ongoing to capture the rest of her gang, who have flown. 

SMOKE by Andrew Harrison

I am born from fire. From the combustion of all things flammable 

I am a thing of heat, soot and ash.

I represent many things, a portent or warning, a signal or metaphor for hidden truths

My existence occurs on various scales 

From the puff of a cigarette and the rising trail from a cosy log fire, to the terrifying signs of a building ablaze or an approaching wild inferno

In the open I disperse and rise, swirl and dance

Rising above whatever cleansing apocalypse is happening below 

Only warmer air or wind will check my ascent or direction 

In enclosed spaces I will choke you

Yet you use me to communicate. To flavour, brown, cook and preserve your meat and fish.

In autumn I will rise from your bonfires to consume summer's waste, transporting nature's perished matter to the heavens 

Wind and rain may disperse me, but not until the flames are dowsed shall I cease to be.