Writing Stuffs

Austen

His black and white VANS hit the cement of the sidewalk below him. The light-colored, holey skinny jeans he wears make a slight swishing noise with every step he takes. He pulls his black and white striped jacket closer to his body in an attempt to keep warm. His shaky hand reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small box: a pack of cigarettes. He lifts the small, rolled up drug into his mouth while he puts the box back into his pocket and pulls out a lighter. He carefully cups his hand around the end of the stick, protecting it from the wind as he lets the flame light it. After the end is burning, he stuffs the lighter back in his pocket and inhales. He carefully brings the death stick from his mouth and lets a stream of smoke leave his parted pink lips. His blue eyes examine his surroundings. The sky is dark, with the exception of a few stars, but the area is still lit up by some street lights. He passes ratty looking houses, which is what the town is mostly made of. The ditch has water rushing through it, like it's supposed to be a small stream or river. The town, he thinks, is sometimes beautiful, but it mostly seems to be a prison. Seems like once you're there, you may only have one chance to get out. He shakes his head, letting his brown locks flop around underneath the black beanie on his head. He takes another hit from the death stick between his fingers, feeling relaxation overcome him. Within minutes, he's left with a burning stub. He drops the last of it on the sidewalk, crushing it with his shoe. He notices a car coming up towards him and lights turn on, letting him know it was a cop. He didn't react, didn't show an ounce of fear, and watched the cop car speed past him. The corners of his mouth barely turned up, a lucky smile crossing his face as he pulled out his pack, ready for a second round.