Ten Stories About Smoking by Stuart Evers

By Stuart Evers

Ten tales of attract, betrayal, nostalgia, solitude, seduction, harm, hope and loss; of silence damaged through the clicking of a lighter; insomnia outlined by means of a gleaming ember; a magician's trick; a lover's smell; a last want. those are tales that visit the guts of items.

'In this outstanding assortment, Stuart Evers winds a path via worlds of craving, secrets and techniques and mortification in prose as lithe as a ribbon of smoke' Wells Tower

'Love, loss and restoration are the true topics of those quiet, haunting tales, which upload up into an all of sudden robust publication. a powerful debut' Aravind Adiga

'Evers has chanced on chance in even the bleakest and smallest of lives, with each one delicately associated not just through a cigarette but additionally by means of a glimpse into how terrifyingly empty a lifestyles can be' David Vann

'With powerfully understated writing, Evers has an eye fixed for the humor that lives along unhappiness, and peculiarly for the humanity within the smallest of actions' Evie Wyld

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Being by herself for most of that time, my mum needed their help to look after me while she was at work. Sadly, they’ve both now passed on. My nan was a nurse at the London Hospital in Whitechapel. I don’t remember my grandad working, though I know that he had done a bit of carpentry. They had both been born in Jamaica and come over as part of the Windrush generation, but they didn’t talk about those early days much. I grew up my very close to them in Carr Street, near Mile End Park and the hospital where I was born and just a little north of the River Thames at Limehouse.

Well, nearly everyone. There were different leagues with different teams in them. Among them was another East End boys team, Puma, which, because they were in a different league, we never got to play. In my Olga Primary School team, Paul Ayoge also played for Puma. And so did this lad who moved across the road from the flat where Mum, Emerson and I had moved when I was aged, I think, ten, in Parnell Road, just round the corner from where we lived before in Tredegar Road. That lad’s name was Ashley Cole.

Halfway through the second year I had to come down a class. At first I was a little bit embarrassed, but once I was there I felt quite happy. But I was very sure that I never wanted to be in the bottom two classes, Loyola or Clitherow. The kids in those classes were seen as no-hopers even by the twelve-year-olds, winding each other up and cussing, as we’d say. I went down to one of the middle classes, Makassa. I felt comfortable there: the atmosphere and pace more natural to me than Owen or Ward, where the kids were regarded as the brains of the school.

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