“In My Dreams, They Shoot the Men First” by Gillian O’Shaughnessy

I don’t sleep well. I rise early again, smoke the last of my cigarettes in a circle of moonlight on the floor by my bedroom window. At dawn, I go searching for the makings of more.

Outside, a skinny cat winds around my legs looking for food. I prod it gently away with my cane. It’s a slow walk to the river; I work my way through parking lots and along the verandas of the hotels, looking for makeshift ashtrays in dark corners, concrete planters and the rims of garbage cans. There aren’t many. No one smokes much anymore. Those that do, rarely waste them.

When I was young, I’d follow my grandfather through our village collecting any stubs we could find. I thought he was older than forever, as bent and crooked as a forest gnome in a fairy tale. We’d be up before the street sweeps; we’d fill his blue tobacco bag before the sun fully rose. There boy, he’d say. There’s a fat one. And I’d swoop. They were everywhere then, carelessly flicked into gutters, tossed to the ground. Sometimes barely even lit.

At home, my grandfather would empty the contents onto the table. With thick yellow fingernails, he’d carefully pull apart each remnant, tipping caramel coloured tobacco into a soft pile. He’d snip away the singed shreds first, throw the leavings into the woodstove where they’d sparkle then fade like fireflies. It was my job to pass him the thin papers for the fresh cigarettes.

It was an art. A good pinch of tobacco scattered in a line down the middle of each sheet, not too much, not too little. Rolled smooth, perfectly even. He would hand them to me as he finished, and I’d place them in a wooden box. Afterwards, I was always allowed to light one. I loved the sharp smell of sulphur, the soft hiss as I inhaled, the red-gold glow of the tip and the bitter taste of earth and ash.

My father died before I knew him. Grandfather kept the family safe as long as he could, but eventually they came. They took my older brothers, my mother and my grandfather too. He was frail, he could barely hobble through the snow. He ordered me to hide in the woods, and I obeyed. All I took was what I was wearing and the bag, filled with bread and some matches.

I’m a long way from that place now. I try not to think about it. I have no wife, no children. I don’t make friends or feed stray cats. I am as old as forever, bent and crooked as a forest gnome in a fairy tale. I have a small room, with a table, a chair and a single bed. I have my grandfather’s blue tobacco bag. At night, I smoke my cigarettes in a spill of moonlight on the floor by my window. I don’t sleep well. I try not to sleep at all.