The Wish by Rob Bowen

Dylan raised the cigarette to his sun chapped lips. As his rough calloused thumb ran along the jagged teeth of the thumbwheel and the flint sparked life into the fumes from his Zippo, he took a long overdue breath to relax his over-excited nerves. He always needed a cigarette afterwards to settle him back down. Tether him to the earth, as it were.
Traditions, he thinks to himself as the toxic smoke pools in his lungs, waiting for the exhalation to come. Seconds pass as Dylan soaks in the summer sun and the calming chemical interlopers from the smoke holding tight in his chest. As he exhales he reaches into the tall patches of field grass breaking off a small dandelion from it's roots and holding it up to examine it's numerous seeds waiting with their make-shift parachutes to be given flight by the summer breeze. He takes another drag off his cigarette as a subtle grin pulls across his face.
He closes his eyes gently as his wish works its way through his mind before he exhales the smoke, blowing the dandelion seeds free from their keep and into the air. His eyes open to see one solitary seedling holding on tightly for dear life, rendering his wish completely useless. He sighs as the smile slowly fades into a light bite of his lip as Dylan nods in understanding at the fate of his wish.
'Oh well...' barely escapes Dylan's lips, trailing after his sigh, as he tosses the remainder of the dandelion aside. He looks out across the field as the tall grass playfully sways with the wind, and the sun begins to drift down towards the horizon leaving a colorful explosion of pinks, oranges, and purples upon the sky as it bids adieu to the day.
Dylan climbs to his feet and brushes off the earth clinging to the denim on various areas of his jeans. Mostly those that were pushing against the ground as he rested, riding the high he was always left with after each of his 'special encounters'. He wondered briefly if others were left with that same warm rush of satisfaction that ran through them leaving their skin almost tingling.
He crushes the end of his cigarette between his fingers, pinching the barely lit cherry off. Its job is done. The rush is gone, and Dylan's skin is no longer ringing with sensation. A sensation he would be robbed of if that damned dandelion seedling would have its way.
No matter, he thinks to himself turning his back on the sunset and walking from the field. For as long as he gets that same thrill...that rush...Dylan Westing will keep killing.

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