Please don't tell my girlfriend that I smoke peach-flavoured
cigarettes. She'll kick my arse. And normally I would like that. But I
haven't written anything good for weeks now and I'm feeling a bit
Last night she was out at band practice, so I scrunched up on the
couch with my laptop and a glass of cheap red and tried to bleed out
some poems or something.
Nine deleted opening lines later, I took my wine glass and lighter out
to the back of our building to the paved area with the bin shed and
washing line and a view of the rear windows of a dozen flats. Every
window was lit up, so I smoked my secret cigarette and watched the
city go to bed. The air smelled of frying food and clean laundry, and
it was warm enough that I hadn't put shoes on but cold enough that the
hairs on my arms felt rough. I could see a few burning blobs where
other people had gone out for their own secret cigarettes. I liked the
feeling of having a communal secret.
I went back inside, wrote 500 words without blinking, then went to
sleep feeling terribly smug. The next day my laptop crashed and I lost
those effortless 500 words, but I guess that's what I get for being
- - -
Read KL's story, "All-Night Cartoon Party."
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