smoke smell - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Like a canon, my chest pushes out smoke in rapid, deliberate bursts. Hazy o-rings float upward, distorting and twisting along their wayward path. When perfectly executed, smoking is its own art form. The smoker does not work with hands but instead with his lungs, throat, and lips. With these simple tools I exhale transitory sculptures- cast of billions of vibrating N₂ and H₂ gas particles- momentarily coming together to create clouds of milky white intoxication. Every puff is accompanied by the sound of delicate trichomes incinerating and crackling, releasing a familiar scent which once known can never be forgotten. The sweet and musky aroma hints of citrus and pine. In a state of utter relaxation, I watch as the smoke rhythmically dissipates, one ring after another, and settles to form a layer of dancing fog near the ceiling.
The smell of the smoke coming out of the cigar was so bad, it was as if someone had put a piece of coal into my lungs. Looking at the man happily inhaling the smoke, I wonder whether my nose was sensing the wrong smell as the man looked as if he was inhaling flower scented deodorant or something.
The smoke smell drifts out of the open window as strongly as an incense stick. At first that's what I think it is, until I see the volume of the grey mist squeezing under the open sash window. That's when I feel the panic rise up and my mouth goes dry. The house is on fire.
Damn it. My clothes smell like some old tramp, my Louis Vuitton bag is now worth less than a dollar store import and if this smell get's into the paintwork and furniture I'm really screwed. My folks will be back from Alabama in two days and even with all the windows open that scent of burnt tobacco lingers. I'm going to have to spend this weeks wages on potpourri and air freshener. Next time I see Maxwell I'm gonna give him a look that withers him from the inside out. He must have been smoking all night in here while I was crashed on the basement couch.
Smoke particles danced in on the inbound breeze, layering the tongue with a woody fragrance, reminding Kashi of preserving salmon in fall. It wasn't yet thick enough to see or cast the sky in a duller hue of blue, but nonetheless it was there.
I watch the deep flames of the enraged fire through blurry eyes. I can’t breathe, nor can I hear even the simplicity of my heart racing in my chest. What was once beautiful wilted and cracked under the ferocity of the flames, turning to ash and dust. I continued to choke and splutter under the thick sack, my struggling ceasing. The smoke smelt of kerosene, and had a strange scent of perfume through it. The smoke was a deep, dark grey color. Intoxicating. Choking. I can feel it pull my very life away...
A familiar smell, one that should bring happy memories, sends my body into lockdown. It's smoke, but not the kind that comes from a dirty car; it's the kind that comes from the burning of timber. These city streets aren't the place for a campfire, something's wrong, very wrong.
I don't know what it is about the smell of smoke, but it permeates every little thing, like it's terrified to be blown away in the breeze. Every hair, every cotton fibre, even our skin, carries it's odour long after the flames are extinguished.
The car upholstery smells of smoke, not pleasantly, reminding us of expensively cured fish or cheese, but overpowering and unpleasant. The air freshener takes it away for a time, yet it is always there in the background, a hint of burning cigarettes.
Polly has damaged both house and car without even trying; the smell of smoke is in every little thing, invading pores and clinging to fibres. With open windows we can reduce the odour to a tincture of cigarette fumes, almost enough to forget its there. But the cold weather is coming and with the windows closed they both smell like a dirty nineteen-eighties bar.
Lighting up was easy, removing the smoke smell is near impossible. A few beers and cigarettes seemed like a great idea, outside was cold, inside so cosy. The night passed in laughter, the more drink the funnier we all got. But the morning has cured us of the giggles. Mom's house smells like a pub after closing, the remnants of cigarette smoke and stale beer...
Tiger is wafting about the house like a bird, an air conditioning sheet in each hand. He thinks he can get rid of the smoke smell this way. I shake my head and shoot him a look that lets him know trouble is coming with his name on it. Time to scram. Dad's due home in an hour and night shift makes him crankier than an old motor.
"Smoke smell removal" is what Tiger is googling. I snort. The internet won't save him today. When I come home Dad'll be wearing his ass for a hat. It's not a subtle aroma he's fighting, it bloody well stinks.