One By Cristian Mihai Copyright 2012 Cristian Mihai Smashwords Edition This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Table of Contents One About the Author By the Same Author One I am an avid smoker. When I wake up in the morning, I feel this inexplicable urge to smoke a cigarette. I have to do it, it’s the first thing on my mind, and the only thing I need to do so I can clear my thoughts. After a good meal, I light myself a cigarette. I can’t drink coffee without two or three cigarettes – as a side dish, I suppose. So one day I made myself a promise. For every cigarette I smoke I have to write a page of literature. Good or bad, it doesn’t matter. I have to write one page, five hundred or so words, just so I can light up a cigarette and puff, puff away the smoke and nicotine. At first it was easy. I found enough inspiration to write thirty pages in a matter of days. It wasn’t so bad. After that, I wrote a twelve page short story in a day or so. Again, it was not the usual amount of nicotine I had been used to, but it wasn’t really bad either. To be honest, I was asking for it. For a writer’s block, for a terrible void inside my head, for headaches and such. For a burning pain in the back of my head that would keep me away from writing. But I didn’t want to break my vow. It was a foolish thing to do. But the more time passed without me smoking, the less I could concentrate. I started to cough, my hands began to shake, and I could no longer control my thoughts. All I could see was a cigarette burning, burning, burning, a thin little cloud of smoke slowly rising, rising, rising toward the ceiling. I have this incredible collection of lighters. Some expensive, some cheap, some have sentimental value. And I kept staring at them, weighting them in my hand. I had a pack of cigarettes on the desk, and all I had to do was stretch my arm and take a damn cigarette out of the pack and light it. And after that, write a damn page or maybe even two, so I could redeem my soul. A week passed without me touching a cigarette, and I still couldn’t write a thing. I thought that maybe it was because I needed smoke in my lungs so I could write something down. Symbiosis one might call it. A perfect balance between two entities in order to create a better, more adapted individual. So I smoked one cigarette. Just one. And I wrote five pages, so I could get rid of the guilt. That night I couldn’t sleep. All I could think of was that there was a pack of cigarettes on my desk. Cigarettes, cigarettes, cigarettes, all lined up like on an assembly line, all lined up like sheep, running and dancing around in my brain. So I couldn’t get any rest. But I didn’t want to smoke either. I had already broken my vow once. I had to write something down, to write one page. Just one. Good or bad, it had no importance. I had to clear my head, to get rid of what I desired so much, and focus. Concentrate; try to find words among so much smoke. Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts, these words are when we need them the most. I didn’t feel good. I could feel the nicotine leave my body, leaving me empty. I could feel that I was slowly transforming. Without a cigarette, I was half the man I used to be. Without a cigarette, I couldn’t write a damn thing. But I had to do it. I had chosen that vicious circle, I had embraced that stupid connection between one page, just one page of words, and the right to smoke one cigarette, just one, but oh, how much I needed it. How much I need it. Just one cigarette, not more, just a few puff, puff, puffs and the cigarette will be gone, but I will be a better man. I will be the man I am used to be. One cigarette so I can write more, so I can write better. I am only writing this page so I can smoke one cigarette, just one, but oh, how much I need it. About the Author Cristian Mihai (born 25 December 1990) grew up in Constanta, Romania. And he's still growing up, or at least trying to. Sometimes he writes. Sometimes he gets lucky and writes something good. His favorite painting is "Wanderer above the Sea of Fog" by Carl Gaspar Friedrich. He can't, however, draw a straight line. No matter how much he tries. Not even with a ruler. And, please, don't ever ask him to sing. Visit his blog at http://cristianmihaid.wordpress.com By the Same Author short stories REMEMBER MEMENTO MORI