Neil Josten let his cigarette burn to the filter without taking a drag. He didn’t want the nicotine; he wanted the acrid smoke that reminded him of his mother. If he inhaled slowly enough, he could almost taste the ghost of gasoline and fire.
He glanced up at the sky. He wondered, not for the first time, if his mother was looking down at him. He hoped not. (Nora Sakavic,The Foxhole Court)
Nothing but My Aching Soul 