This short story was written in response to Esther Chilton’s prompt word of the week. This week’s word is: Crafty…

“Comin’ out for a crafty cig?” Dale asked, pausing the game. 

“Whoa! I was about to land the finisher on that guy!” Phil said, flustered.

“Don’t worry about that,” Dale said, “plenty of opportunities for that later on. What we don’t have is many opportunities to sneak out for a cheeky smoke while we’re staying at Mum’s.”

Phil craned his neck and took a conspiratorial peek into the kitchen, searching for their mum, “That’s true.”

“Can you see her?” Dale asked, who had made his way to the bottom of the stairs and was listening for any noise coming from above. 

“No.” Phil said, “She was doing laundry the last time I saw her.”

Satisfied all was quiet, Dale made his way over to the bookcase. One of the shelves was packed with DVDs ordered by individual boxes over to the left going into box sets on the right hand side. He quietly slid out one of the box sets, gently reached inside and produced a half-smoked pack of cigarettes and a lighter. 

“You know,” Phil said as Dale gently restored the box set case, “in the eyes of the law, we’ve been able to smoke for years. Think it’s time we actually told Mum?”

Dale stared at Phil like he’d just been invited to an AA meeting hosted in a pub. 

“Are you kidding?!” he gasped while pocketing the cigarette packet and lighter, “She’d kill us! We’ll do it when we’re in our thirties. Personally, I’d quite like to see out the rest of my twenties before we sign our own death warrants!”

Satisfied she wasn’t around, Dale and Phil quietly made their way to the front door, and both ssshhed the squeaky handle when it tried to give away their position. 

They crept across the front lawn, hopping over the bordering flowers onto the driveway. Brushing up against the garage, they took a sharp turn, ducking around the corner into the side access of the house. 

They skidded to a halt. 

Their mum was already standing there, facing in the opposite direction out and into the back garden. Dale and Phil motioned to back away, but before they could, they both noticed the plume of wispy, grey smoke coiling its way up and into the air around her head. 

“What?! Mum?!!” Dale cried. 

She spun around, startled. In doing so, the smouldering source of the wispy, grey smoke was exposed, tucked between her fingers.

In a futile effort, she hid the cigarette behind her back. 

“Oh, hey boys,” she said, “I guess that’s me busted!”

She stubbed it out on the wall and dropped it into a nearby flower pot.

“What can I say?” she said, “I just needed a crafty cig.”