The smoker's gazebo

The people are cold. They’re huddled underneath the gazebo for warmth, even though the thermometer reads 4˚C. The rough, weathered wood delivers splinters to those who use it for shelter and for this reason, everyone huddles near the middle to avoid leaning on the posts. The ground is covered in concrete that is no longer black but a dark, dirty shade of grey. The buildings in the background are ancient and made of stone. They are painted beige, but are dirty and haven’t been washed since winter started. In the distance, the French flag waves in the wind.

Cigarette smoke curls out from under the wooden structure and drifts up into the sky. Some of the people out there are students, some are teachers. The gazebo always looks like this when school lets out for a smoke break. The murmur of several different conversations makes its way across the schoolyard and echoes in the empty hallways.

There is graffiti on one of the wooden posts. It’s a heart with letters inside, but they are hard to make out because it’s has been there for many years. The lovers have graduated and moved on. Cigarette butts litter the ground inside the structure. There are no garbage bins in sight, so butts are dropped on the ground. The smell of smoke is overwhelming and everyone’s eyes are watering. The wood has absorbed so much smoke over the years that it smells permanently of cigarettes and has been stained yellow.

There are backpacks spread out on the ground in front of the gazebo. One of them has a broken zipper and textbooks are peeking out from inside. There are notebooks laid on the ground belonging to students who don’t carry a bag.

The principal walks out and yells that the break is over. Students and teachers begin heading back into the school and the last few wisps of smoke are absorbed into the atmosphere.  When the people leave and the smoke clears, burn marks on the posts become clear and reveal the abuse this gazebo has endured. When it stands empty it looks frail, as though the years of being ill-treated by smokers have worn down its will to exist.

A naturally terrifying environment

By day, the woods smell damp and mossy. By night, those smells are combined with the scent of predatory animals, sweat and terror.  It’s a smell only exists in those woods and to me it signifies everything evil.

It’s darker in there than anywhere else in the world. Once your eyes adjust you see fallen trees, reaching branches and slight movement out of the corner of your eyes. Off in the distance, you can see a graveyard full of crumbling tombstones and you can’t help but wonder what is hiding in the shadows.

Everything is wet. Even when it doesn’t rain, the ground and trees are slick to the touch. The moisture chills you to the bone no matter how much clothing you’re wearing. As you walk, fallen logs trip you and branches reach out to scratch your arms and snag your hair.

Twigs are snapping all around you. Something howls in the distance. The bugs are the biggest noisemakers in the woods – and their buzzing is foreboding, almost sad. It’s as if they know that you’re lost and hope you make it out of the woods safely.

The air is thick and heavy. It tastes like decay – as if you are inhaling the final breath of all of those fallen trees. It weighs you down and you’re not sure if you’ll make it out.

The smoker's gazebo

The people are cold. They’re huddled underneath the gazebo for warmth, even though the thermometer reads 4˚C. The rough, weathered wood delivers splinters to those who use it for shelter and for this reason, everyone huddles near the middle to avoid leaning on the posts. The ground is covered in concrete that is no longer black but a dark, dirty shade of grey. The buildings in the background are ancient and made of stone. They are painted beige, but are dirty and haven’t been washed since winter started. In the distance, the French flag waves in the wind.

Cigarette smoke curls out from under the wooden structure and drifts up into the sky. Some of the people out there are students, some are teachers. The gazebo always looks like this when school lets out for a smoke break. The murmur of several different conversations makes its way across the schoolyard and echoes in the empty hallways.

There is graffiti on one of the wooden posts. It’s a heart with letters inside, but they are hard to make out because it’s has been there for many years. The lovers have graduated and moved on. Cigarette butts litter the ground inside the structure. There are no garbage bins in sight, so butts are dropped on the ground. The smell of smoke is overwhelming and everyone’s eyes are watering. The wood has absorbed so much smoke over the years that it smells permanently of cigarettes and has been stained yellow.

There are backpacks spread out on the ground in front of the gazebo. One of them has a broken zipper and textbooks are peeking out from inside. There are notebooks laid on the ground belonging to students who don’t carry a bag.

The principal walks out and yells that the break is over. Students and teachers begin heading back into the school and the last few wisps of smoke are absorbed into the atmosphere.  When the people leave and the smoke clears, burn marks on the posts become clear and reveal the abuse this gazebo has endured. When it stands empty it looks frail, as though the years of being ill-treated by smokers have worn down its will to exist.