One

Like a junkie mainlining caffeine, I live on a nicotine drip. Morning breath isn't morning breath without that first, sweet drag of tar and chemicals. Meal’s not done until the after-dinner mint of a smoke hits my lips. Coffee? It's merely the opening act for my two or three cigarette headliner.

So I made a pact with myself. One page of prose, good or bad, the point is moot, for every cigarette I get to burn. A half-thousand words as my entry fee for a date with Lady Nicotine.

At first, it was a walk in the park. A breeze. Thirty pages born in days. Then, a twelve-page short story squeezed out in a day. It wasn't the usual tar and nicotine cocktail my body craved, but it got me through.

I was practically begging for it. A writer's block. A chasm in the creative center of my brain. A headache, hot and relentless, driving me away from the page. But breaking my promise? Nah, that was not on the table.

The more I starved myself of the smoky kiss, the more my focus shattered. The hacking coughs, the trembling hands, the thoughts running wild like rabid dogs. My mind fixated on a cigarette, a dancing flame at its tip, a thin plume of smoke rising, rising, rising.

I've got this treasure trove of lighters. Some are fancy, some are cheap, some carry memories. I'd fondle them, weigh them, stare them down. Pack of cigarettes on my desk, just a stretch of an arm away. Light up, write a page, maybe two, and find redemption.

A week of abstinence, and the words refused to flow. I was convinced, my creativity hinged on my lungs filled with smoke. A perfect symbiosis. I caved, lit up just one stick. Penned five pages, an attempt to bury the guilt.

I had to resist. I had to put pen to paper. Anything, good or bad, didn't matter. I had to clear the smoke from my mind, find the words hiding in the fog.

Ghosts. That's what words become when you need them the most. I felt the nicotine slipping away, leaving a void. A transformation was underway.

Without my smoky muse, I felt incomplete. Without it, the words refused to come. But I had to stick to the twisted pact I'd made. A single page of words for a single stick of poison.

Oh, how much I need it. Just one puff, then another, until it’s gone. Then, a better man emerges. The man I recognize. One stick, one page. Writing these words for the privilege of another smoke. Just one, but oh, how much I need it.

This short story is part of my compilation, Dream City and Other Stories.