Thanks for the comments. I’ll try to keep a lot of that in mind when I next do an edit to this.
Short Story / Nicotine
She stands there (in front of me). Her arms crossed. Her black hair almost fades into the night sky.
“I’m sorry,” she says and I stare into her dark amber eyes. ”We just don’t have the same faith.”
She’s Irish and of Rom decent. Which makes her family Irish-Catholic Gypsies. Yeah. They’re all like this. At least, that’s my assumption. You either follow their way of life or you’re gone. There is no compromise.
I stand there and I think about what she’s just said. What it means. She’s there in tears, all shaken up. Probably hoping I’ll say something magical. Something to make it all okay. But I don’t. I don’t even say the typical guy things: the “please don’t leave” or the “I’ll change, I promise.”
Instead, I stand there a moment longer. Then, I turn and walk away. I don’t even look back but I can hear her in tears. Funny. She’s the one that just dumped me and she’s crying.
So I do something spontaneous. I get in my car, drive to the gas station and buy a pack of smokes.
The rush of nicotine. I haven’t felt that in a year and seven months. I’m sure if I tried, I could figure out the exact number of days. Hours. But I don’t. I don’t care that much. Right now, all I care about is that my lungs are being corrupted by the sweet taste of smoke and ash.
My throat burns as the smoke rushes down the windpipe with each new inhalation. My lungs, which had relearned how to breathe without the aid of smoke, once again discover how to breathe through it—growing stronger with each breath. And with each draw from the cigarette, the smoke enters my lungs easier than the last.
I’m home. Photographs I’ve taken of her adorn the walls. They’re all beautiful. One (my favorite) has her wearing a blue satin dress. She’s draped over a headstone. It’s not a close-up. Actually, she’s in a far corner in the picture—just another cemetery decoration. The emphasis in the photo is on the other graves. Most people have only noticed her in the picture after they’ve looked at everything else. It almost reminds me of a Where’s Waldo book except not cluttered, not comical. Just beautiful.
The phone rings. Again. I debate not answering, but decide to pick up the receiver on the fifth ring.
“H’lo?”
“Dave?”
It’s her. Her voice sounds tender, soft.
“Dave? Can we talk?”
Great. She wants to talk. Let me guess, she hasn’t hurt me enough yet. . . ”`Kay.. we can talk.”
Silence. It lingers beyond the point of comfort, leaving an awkward (and somewhat false) sense of tranquility. I continue to wait through the silence for Nora to speak. I can hear the blood through my veins pulse as I hold the phone to my ear. I want to….
“Dave,” she begins. ”How do you feel?”
How do I feel? How can she ask a question like that? She tells me she can’t see me because of religion then she asks how it makes me feel. I light up a cigarette . The flame from the butane lighter sizzles as it burns the tip of the paper and tobacco.
“Dave? You’re not saying anything.” Another pause. ”Was that a lighter I heard? Are. . .are you smoking again?”
I inhale the smoke feeling the tar tainted fumes crawl down my windpipe and settle in my lungs. It may be bad.. but damn does it keep me calm.
“Dave? You are smoking, aren’t you?”
She may as well have asked a rhetorical question. She knows the answer. What does she want from me anyhow? Was breaking up with me not enough for her? Now what horrible injustices must I endure?
“Please talk to me.”
“I’m fine, really.” I lie. I can’t tell her no, you’ve hurt me. I can’t say things are horrible now. I’ve lost the woman I love and feel the world’s weight crushing down on me and I don’t know if I can make it through the night or not but goddamn does this cigarette taste good. I can’t tell her this because she doesn’t want to hear it and I don’t have that kind of strength.
The clock on the wall ticks. I hear it as my mind rambles. It’s a bomb—ticking away while the world waits. . .waits for it to explode so time can finally continue on.
“I’ve gotta go.” I finally say. She tries to stop me, begs me to stay on the line. I just can’t. I hang up the phone and walk to the patio. The stars shine through the night sky, unlike the city. I don’t miss looking up late at night and seeing the city’s clouded hue over everything. The weather is nice right now, so I stand. . . smoking my cigarette. For a moment, my mind wonders (hopes) if she’ll come over tonight and “stop me from doing something stupid.” I was always good at that--the stupid stuff. That’s why I began taking photographs--it helped take my mind off other things. But then I met her and I had both, a hobby to keep me solid and a love to keep me reassured. Now, one is gone, and it’s tearing the other apart.
I remember when she’d join me out here on the patio. The two of us would spend half the night talking crazy philosophy back and forth. That’s really how all this started. One night, while we were standing out here and I was smoking she threw out a question.
“What if God hates people who smoke?” she asked.
I choked on the smoke that had just begun to fill my lungs. ”Wha..?”
“What if he sees people who smoke as bein’ weak?” She never looked at me as she tossed the questions in the air—just remained, eyes fixed on the sky.
I took another puff of my cigarette.
“You’re still smoking.” she said with a matter-of-fact tone. Like by asking those questions, she was really demanding that I quit smoking. So I took another puff and flicked the half-unfinished cigarette out into the yard. I watched as her eyes followed the cigarette—arching up and then finally down in the slightly wet grass below. She never asked about religion though.
. . .
Mid-afternoon. A year and a half ago. She was holding my hand as we ran through the woods. I’ll never forget that smile on her face. She carried herself so carefree. There was a bounce in her step and it seemed that nothing held mastery over her.
We continued to run through the woods not really knowing where we were going. We didn’t care. All that mattered was that we were together hand in. . .
I slipped on the loose, dry earth below my feet and fell over. Rolling through the weeds. As I stood and dusted away the dirt, I noticed the path before me. The vines and weeds grew over and around it—making it hard to see at first glance, but there it was with a small cobblestone path. It made me nervous. We were in the middle of the woods, far from any signs of civilization and here was this cobblestone path seemingly out of nowhere. Nora wanted to follow the path. It intrigued her. I tried to interject, but she wouldn’t have it.
We followed the path until it revealed a house in disrepair. Shingles were scattered across the wild grass lawn. Planks were rotted through or had fallen off.
The front door was slightly open (slightly unhinged). Nora walked in without hesitation. I followed her in the house her hand still in mine. The floorboards were wooden. There was no carpet. With each step we took, we heard the creaking of the old wood coming to life.
My eyes scanned the environment. I noticed the cobwebs, the dead silence, my hand in hers. We were alone but it still felt like we were being watched. It was like there was something over my shoulder saying “Stop. Don’t go any further,” but we did. We always went further. And all the while I thought, god, I could use a cigarette.
The whole place reeked of mold. God only knew how long that place had been abandoned, forgotten. Nora stopped at a doorway. I couldn’t see past her. I only saw her motionless. She stood there staring into that room. She let go of my hand and walked on in.
The moment her hand released mine, I felt cold (lifeless). There was something telling me to grab her and run—that same thing that told me I wanted a cigarette. So, of course, I didn’t listen. Instead, I followed her into the room.
I followed her in despite the stagnant air that begged me to leave. With each step inward I took, the bumps on my skin rose ever higher. I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want to breathe. But when I looked ahead, I had to breathe. I breathed in that dead air, which chilled my lungs. I would have gladly taken the cold, icy air of a January night if only I would not have had to breathe in at that moment.
There were these two (decaying) corpses. An old couple hand in hand—dead from age. They must have died about the same time. Their decomposing bodies made me want to vomit. I felt the burning fluid in my throat. I doubled over, knees into my chest. Dry heaves ensued.
“How do you feel?” That was the first time she ever really asked that question.
“How. . .how do I feel?”
She didn’t look at me. She kept her focus on the two bodies resting together.
“I feel sick. That’s how I feel. And I feel sorry for them.”
“Sorry?”
“Here they are--trapped in this dead house for God knows how long, amazingly undisturbed until now. Their spirits, probably tormented, not able to leave this place--not able to go where-ever it is they need to go. They simply remain here. Haunted. I feel them pleading with us to leave. Run far away. And here we still are, staring at their bodies! So, yes. It makes me sick and remorseful.”
She still wouldn’t look at me. ”No.”
“No?”
“No. They’re in heaven. . .or hell. Depending on how they lived. Though, from the looks, I would imagine heaven.”
She turned and walked out of the room. I remained—confused as to what just transpired.
“That could be us,” her voice echoed out from the living room.
“How. . .how do you mean?”
“Growing old together—hand in hand until our deaths. It’s romantic.” She turned to look at me for the first time since entering that house. ”It’ll all depend on you. I can’t make that choice for you.”
I didn’t know what she was talking about. I just knew I was sick, cold and suddenly feeling very much alone.
She walked out the front door nothing in her hands.
. . .
I try to smoke my cigarette but my hands shake. A chill rushes over my body flooding my senses. I feel like Houdini after he was dumped in that ice-covered lake except I can’t figure a way out. I choke. Gasping for air, my body reacts the way it did years before—solace through smoke. I breathe the nicotine in deep. It helps control my breathing.
Tears begin to gently roll down my face. “She’s not coming.” I feel the realization crash against my brain. It feels like the entire world has just smashed down upon me—crushing me, killing me.
I fall to the ground. My face, moist with tears, looks upward to the milky black sky. Clouds now blanket the stars. I’m left alone in this starless night—unable to feel the way I want to.
. . .
Once, about a year ago, I decided to accompany her to church. She was overjoyed that I was finally going to join her in church. She was so excited she went out and bought a new dress the afternoon before. I remember her coming over to my place that night to show me the dress she bought.
“What do you think?” she asked as she spun around showing off her calves. Her face was beyond smiling. Dimples proudly shown on either side.
“I’m just accompanying you to church. It. . .”
“This isn’t just a just.” She never let me finish the thought. Probably a good thing at the time. I was going to tell that it wasn’t like this was going to be some soul saving event for me—only a favor.
“Okay.” I looked in her eyes. I read the want that was there (how much had she wanted me to go with her and how long). It all became clear in that moment when I looked into her eyes. Her wide, dark amber eyes. The eyes that overpowered me. The eyes that looked deep into me but still, somehow, remained only on the surface. Her eyes. If only eyes could transform a person into something else—anything else, hers would have changed me in that moment. But they don’t and hers didn’t. They never will.
I went with her to church on the following day. She held my hand and walked with a bounce paying no attention to the fact that I wore corduroy pants and an unbuttoned flannel over a tee.
The moment we entered, I scanned the room. I looked for other “lost souls.” People who were there, like me, because they were trying to appease someone. I searched for others who wore flannels and cords or at least something other than business casual wear. I found maybe one or two.
The church was not as massive as I would have believed. It sat between fifty and a hundred and fifty people—I didn’t know for sure, I was never good with numbers or calculating. The preacher was not on some high raised platform that would give him the “I am closer to God and therefore far superior than any of you” appearance. He didn’t even have a podium.
His message that day went far with Nora. I watched her ball up as he spoke of “those who were not saved.” He spoke of the common people. People like me. He spoke of how, no matter how good we were, we would still go to Hell if we didn’t believe in God. She cried. I instantly wanted to leave. How could any religion say that someone is not deserving only because they don’t believe in some particular deity. If someone’s a good person and has a good heart, then that’s all that should matter isn’t it? It wasn’t enough for Nora.
After church she asked if I thought God was talking to us through the preacher. I said no. She didn’t speak another word while in the car. Instead, she looked around and tapped her feet and hands—usually a good sign that she was feeling less-than-stellar with me. When we got back to my house, she slammed the door to my car and walked directly to her car (without even a glance backward). She muttered something about suddenly remembering “some important engagement” that she had to attend. It translated into “I don’t want to see you right now.”
I remained as I was—confused, unsure of what was happening. I stood there, just outside my car, as her engine revved and she pulled out. She never even waved.
. . .
My clothes are wet from the grass. I lie thinking, dreaming of some far off fantasy world where she comes back to me and everything is as it was. Better yet. I think of some place where religion is not a focal point for which people are divided and again, everything is happy and as it’s supposed to be.
I smoke my cigarette. I don’t even notice as the smoke enters my lungs. My chest moves as it always has--no kickback from the smoke. It feels as if I had never quit, and so I continue smoking--enjoying my vice.
I think back on my conversation with Nora. The big talk. The one that has left me here staring at my wrists. What was it she said?
“I’m sorry, we just don’t have the same faith.” Yes. That’s what she said. I inhale deep the essence of the nicotine.
Why’d she have to leave?
I question it for the first time.
Did she leave? I was the one who walked away. I never gave her the chance to speak again. To say what she was wanting to say beyond that.
Then she called, asking what I was thinking. . .how I felt. Is it hoping too much?. I start to wonder if she’s sitting at her apartment thinking on the same things I’ve thought about tonight.
I imagine myself rising and running inside my house. Calling. Listening to it ring. Again. After a few more rings, the answering machine picks up—she’d never buy into voice mail.
“Hi. This is Nora Reen. I’m unable to answer the phone, obviously. So leave a message and way for me to call you and. . .I will.” Beep.
“Nora! Are you there? It’s Dave. But. . .I guess. . .you know that. Listen. About earlier. Can we talk? I. . .really need to explain myself. . .”
I imagine saying even more, knowing that she’d be on the other side of the answering machine. Listening. ”If you still want to talk. . .call me? Come over? Please?”
Finally, I open my eyes. The fantasy fades with my eyelids. I can’t make the call. Not tonight. She wouldn’t be on the other side of that line listening to me. She wouldn’t have a reason to.
I can’t just blink my eyes, tap my feet and repeat over and over again that everything is shiny and stellar. I can’t. I sigh.
A part of me hopes she calls. The rest of me (the more logical side) knows she won’t. I light up one last cigarette for the night. The stars look beautiful. They always do. I finish my cigarette surrounded by a symphony of crickets—all of them singing out to me. I feel all the more alone.
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decemberskye reviewed Version 2 -
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This 70 word review has not been unlocked.
Benjman reviewed Version 2 -
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So many elements of this story are successful. The dialog is excellent, as are many of the descriptions. I found it interesting that both characters have their own vice. His is smoking, her’s religion. A few things:
I wouldn’t use parenthesis at all in your first sentence. You should avoid using parenthesis, just restructure the sentences to include the thought.
I did not expect the dead people in the house, and frankly that portion of the story struck me as less believable. Would they not smell them?
“I decided to accompany her to church.”
“I’m just accompanying you to church.”
A redundancy, you should probably fix this.
The biggest problem I had with your story was the ending. There is no real catharsis. In the end he decides not to call and ends up feeling lonely. Also a good tool for expressing the narrator’s grief might be to have him act out.
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rhizome23 reviewed Version 2 -
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The story isn’t “bad”, but I have mixed feelings about it, more regarding substance than style. I like the natural syntax of the narrator. It didn’t seem affected at all. The flashback transitions were well placed. Good narrative structure over all, in my opinion. My questions have more to do with the motivations of the characters than anything else. It doesn’t seem plausible to me that the two characters could develop such a deep relationship if religion is an overriding concern for Nora. One would think that Dave’s indifference towards religion would have been apparent early on and would have acted as a deal breaker from the very beginning. My other slightly prurient question is whether or not this relationship was non sexual due to the religious dimension. Granted, that’s a bit of a cliche question, but it still occurred to me. I also don’t think that Nora’s objections to smoking are ever developed. She poses an absurd rhetorical question from seemingly nowhere and Dave apparently just goes along with it. This is especially ridiculous considering that it’s a acceptable practice for Catholic priests to smoke and Nora is a nominal Catholic. It just didn’t make any sense to me and seemed to damage the metaphor. I hope you find some of these comments useful.
MaggieMinardi reviewed Version 2 -
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This is very well written. It needs work; you have a very solid foundation. My advice: read it aloud to find where it doesn’t flow; then put it away for a year and don’t think about it.
The breakup is simple, stark, good. When he doubts the breakup at the end, that he walked away from her and its now his fault, that doesn’t ring as true, but it works for his introspection.
At times, you’re second guessing your writing. The photo of the cemetery: “Actually, she’s…”, actually doesn’t fit. The parentheses throughout show the narrator’s character but are sometimes distracting and redundant (especially in the church section).
In the cabin, I got confused with location, referring to the boards creaking as they walk in, but then they’re still in the doorway. Perhaps better description to clarify the setting.
The focus on cigarettes gets heavy. It might work better as a theme than as a focus. They do a good job illustrating his sacrifice, but don’t get too heavyhanded. Your descriptions at the very beginning and very end are excellent. But all the nico-references in the middle….
It’s a good piece that can be great. Tighten it up and it’ll be there.
nothing reviewed Version 2 -
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That was a really interesting story to read.
I think however that you were caught as to whether it should be about a relationship broken up by her religion and what that means to her or his nicotine addiction.
There were some very nice descriptions. I think if you want to make it about addiction you should go a little darker.
I hope this helps.
tia_logic reviewed Version 2 -
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Ahh, revisions. The thing that gets me, is, if it’s such a big deal to her, why did she date him in the first place? Meh.
On a purely plot related critique, I still don’t like the old folks tangent. Nora isn’t a terribly likeable character, in her own merit, but then she goes all psycho female about death and roting corpses, and (apart from i tbeing a cliche image) I truly hate her. I find her character disturbing. is that your point?
The parentetical notes don’t do it for me. they really take away from flow. (for instance, last paragraph- you don’t need it. it’s implied that the side of him that wants her to call isn’t logical, but emotional. You don’t need that, it’s ober explaining.)
Keep working at it.
Love, love.
brunswick reviewed Version 2 -
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It’s very interesting. Realistic, I suppose, no one can really expect people to change everything for love. I think this is pretty good, but it could be done better. It feels like something is missing, maybe it feels too stark. The sentences are very short, blunt in a way, I guess it feels very condensed. Condensed work isn’t my thing, so I suppose it’s really just my opinion that makes me think the story could use some work. I guess it does work, makes everything seem a bit more real, Dave doesn’t want to think too much and it emphasizes the loneliness of the tone.
I think that maybe there could be more on why Dave doesn’t do more. I was always under the impression people did stupid things for love and I don’t really understand why Dave doesn’t. There doesn’t really seem to be any reasoning on why he won’t at least pretend to be Catholic for her, though I suppose both characters are unable to compromise. I also thought the two dead bodies thing was a bit strange. It’s not bad, it’s just sort of weird and an odd juxtaposition.
Anyways, maybe some imagery would flesh out the story, but I suppose if this is your style, you really don’t have to. I kind of liked this story, the subject matter kind of hits home with the whole religion pull, and the tone is consistent. You’ve done a decent job.
Trent reviewed Version 2 -
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I like stories of deep lament. Why they seem more telling of the human soul I’m not sure. This story is okay in parts, better in others, and with one brilliant line (to follow below) saves the whole piece for me.
The beginning is long leading no where. The middle is where the meat is. The reader is drawn in with the old couple in the dilapidated house. This is where your writing, though consistent throughout, peaks and shines through the angst. As a reader, I want more from this scene, as it still impresses me as the crux of the piece and not religion.
The ending is cryptic then fades out leaving the reader with the impression that this is some existential movie for Film making 101. This piece has more to it than that. I encourage you to find it and further give it life.
Ultimately, I love the title and the symbolism of the cigarettes – what we give up for love. I want more of the psychology of Nora and the main character. I want more of the dialogue of what and why the old people together hand in hand is romantic to one and appalling to the other.
Lastly, I want this story to go somewhere. While reading this piece, I surmised suicide out on the lawn under the stars for the main character. A brooding and cynical man gripping at something or someone to put his faith in only to have that ripped away from him. He was left with no other out. Where faith dies, we only have our vices and our conflict to carry us further. Perhaps this is a way for you to go with this piece.
Best Line:
If only eyes could transform a person into something else—anything else, hers would have changed me in that moment.
Owl_Light reviewed Version 2 -
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A retrospective story has no surprises. The reader knows where the story has got to right from the beginning so the incentive to read on is often lost. This website has gone funny. The typed words are moving about on the page!
The feeling is of sitting still and getting nowhere.
The story of the two decaying corpses hand-in-hand is a surprise however and this gives your piece some substance.
You buy the cigarettes but make no mention of your craving although there is reference to Nora Reen not liking you smoking. I think it would be helpful to draw the reader into the contrast between your unsatisfied craving for Nora reen and your newly satisfied craving for nicotine but this point is not made.
Perhaps Nora was revolted by your cigarette smoking. Perhaops you could have mentioned this. Girlfriends generally encourage men to cease smoking if they don’t smoke them selves or, worse still, used to smoke.
Well Done
Write on
tia_logic reviewed Version 1 -
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“the “please don’t leave��? or the “I’ll change, I promise.��?” This is a weak line, you don’t need it. You’re better w/out it.
“I haven’t felt that in one year, seven months and eleven days. I’m sure if I tried, I could figure out the exact number of hours, minutes and seconds but I don’t. I don’t care that much.” This wars a bit – you say you don’t care that much, but you do remember how long its been to the day? I think you care. :) You don’t need the seconds minutes bit.
The section where you talk about re-learning to inhale.. It doesn’t seem like he likes it. Its a vindictive, spiteful thing he’s doing, right? Taking up smoking again to jab at her? I can see it being sensual, almost. Dirty, in that good way, like doing the one thing as a child your parents told you not to do. I want it to feel naughty, and I’m kind of let down..
I don’t understand the whole.. cabin, elderly dead-in-love couple. It doesn’t do anything for the story, I think. I understand you’re reminiscing, but.. really? Dead bodies?
“I’m left alone in this starless night—unable to feel the way I want to.”
Just before this line, the character realizes she isn’t coming, but the reader haad no idea we were waiting for her. Also, in this paragraph, he tries to smoke, but can’t, and so find solace in smoking. That doesn’t follow.
“I watched her ball up..” I don’t understand what this means. I don’t know if its slang I don’t know, or.. No complaints, just saying.
“My clothes are wet from the grass..” I thought he was on the patio?
“The rest of me (the more logical side) knows she won’t.” The reader doesn’t need that. ‘She won’t’ would be a more powerful statement here.
I like how you end it, the last few lines. Good imagery.
This seems to be more finding god, about him, her, their relationship ending, and smoking, in fairly equal parts. The problem with that is you try to make too many grand points in a very small piece, and I as a reader, feel lectured. I want to feel bad for the guy, but I don’t. I want to want him to smoke, or not to smoke, or find god or get the girl, but I don’t. Make me care. I think you’ve got some potential, but you need to sort out where you want to direct this, toward god, toward his sadness, toward smoking, what?
Keep it up, hope this helped. Love, love.
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