A quick write. This is my short story about a girl with a pack of cigarettes, and her cynical outlook on life. I need to revise it and add more. Probably just a rough draft. What do you think?
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I thumbed through my pack of cigarettes. Virginia Slims. Call me a classy lady, or a Southern girl at heart, I don't really care. The only thing that matters is the choosing of the smoke, because with me picking out a cigarette has always been an art. There is always the perfect one, in that perfect pack, at that perfect moment. You may be thinking that every stick of poison is the exact same as the last, at least, when they're from the same pack. I'd deny that to the death.
Ironically, these cigarettes, that I defend so vehemently, will most likely be the death of me. I finally managed to pick out the perfect smoke. What can I say? The tobacco smelled sweeter than the rest. I put the cigarette between my lips, and laid back on the fresh, wet grass while looking up at the stars. When I die, I'll be one of those sparkling creatures in the sky. I call stars creatures because I believe they're alive, and when they shoot down from the heavens, I call that their death. Any religious, or educational figure would more than likely scoff at my opinion. But what can I say? It's what gets me through the day.
That...and my cigs. Stupid, I know. Relying on this poison, this cancer-fueling element, this death stick is stupid, and not what I wanted. But it's what I got. It's the only thing that I have. The only thing that could, can, will save me. What else can I rely on? My pathetic excuse for a family? Where were they now? Half way across the world? Next door? Three miles away buying cheap beer and hookers? Fun for the whole family. Yeah. Right.
Or maybe I could rely on my friends. Crack-whores, backstabbers, ne'erdowells? Yeah, really reliable. Real trust-worthy. They'd throw me to a pack of wolves for a bag of reefer, and a cup of yogurt (gotta keep those calories in check). No, I can't rely on them, and, for that matter, they can't rely on me. Because, as a person, I'm not much better than they are. Give me some cigarettes, and sunglasses and I'd shoot most anyone I'd met to this point.
Maybe my boyfriend could save me. Yeah, maybe after I'd scheduled an appointment, and he wasn't busy screwing my, previously mentioned, backstabbing friends. It's nice to love someone, and know they're lying to you every time they say they love you. It's nice to have your heart beat out of your chest for a scumbag. It's nice how he can just leave you, and then walk back into your life like he was never gone. Yeah, note to self, add him to the secret death list.
I lit my cigarette and inhaled the sweet, yet bitter poison. I didn't care that it would lead to disease, to death, to destruction. All I cared about was that this wasn't the last one in my pack. All that I cared about...was this perfect smoke, this perfect pack, this perfect moment. Nothing else.
"Kill me faster," I whispered to the night.
Full Version: Kill Me Faster
Wow thats a strong poem story.
But I like it I like the words you chose
But I like it I like the words you chose
Wow, that's the best thing I've read in a long time. I love it. You're an AMAZING writer. 
Thanks so much. I'm really glad this was liked.
Holy crap I loved that. You're an absolutely amazing writer.
wow that was awesome. i dont know what to say, i loved it. 
QUOTE(Sa-Chan @ Jul 10 2005, 12:24 AM)
A quick write. This is my short story about a girl with a pack of cigarettes, and her cynical outlook on life. I need to revise it and add more. Probably just a rough draft. What do you think?
-----------------------------
I thumbed through my pack of cigarettes. Virginia Slims. Call me a classy lady, or a Southern girl at heart, I don't really care. The only thing that matters is the choosing of the smoke, because with me picking out a cigarette has always been an art. There is always the perfect one, in that perfect pack, at that perfect moment. You may be thinking that every stick of poison is the exact same as the last, at least, when they're from the same pack. I'd deny that to the death.
Ironically, these cigarettes, that I defend so vehemently, will most likely be the death of me. I finally managed to pick out the perfect smoke. What can I say? The tobacco smelled sweeter than the rest. I put the cigarette between my lips, and laid back on the fresh, wet grass while looking up at the stars. When I die, I'll be one of those sparkling creatures in the sky. I call stars creatures because I believe they're alive, and when they shoot down from the heavens, I call that their death. Any religious, or educational figure would more than likely scoff at my opinion. But what can I say? It's what gets me through the day.
That...and my cigs. Stupid, I know. Relying on this poison, this cancer-fueling element, this death stick is stupid, and not what I wanted. But it's what I got. It's the only thing that I have. The only thing that could, can, will save me. What else can I rely on? My pathetic excuse for a family? Where were they now? Half way across the world? Next door? Three miles away buying cheap beer and hookers? Fun for the whole family. Yeah. Right.
Or maybe I could rely on my friends. Crack-whores, backstabbers, ne'erdowells? Yeah, really reliable. Real trust-worthy. They'd throw me to a pack of wolves for a bag of reefer, and a cup of yogurt (gotta keep those calories in check). No, I can't rely on them, and, for that matter, they can't rely on me. Because, as a person, I'm not much better than they are. Give me some cigarettes, and sunglasses and I'd shoot most anyone I'd met to this point.
Maybe my boyfriend could save me. Yeah, maybe after I'd scheduled an appointment, and he wasn't busy screwing my, previously mentioned, backstabbing friends. It's nice to love someone, and know they're lying to you every time they say they love you. It's nice to have your heart beat out of your chest for a scumbag. It's nice how he can just leave you, and then walk back into your life like he was never gone. Yeah, note to self, add him to the secret death list.
I lit my cigarette and inhaled the sweet, yet bitter poison. I didn't care that it would lead to disease, to death, to destruction. All I cared about was that this wasn't the last one in my pack. All that I cared about...was this perfect smoke, this perfect pack, this perfect moment. Nothing else.
"Kill me faster," I whispered to the night.
-----------------------------
I thumbed through my pack of cigarettes. Virginia Slims. Call me a classy lady, or a Southern girl at heart, I don't really care. The only thing that matters is the choosing of the smoke, because with me picking out a cigarette has always been an art. There is always the perfect one, in that perfect pack, at that perfect moment. You may be thinking that every stick of poison is the exact same as the last, at least, when they're from the same pack. I'd deny that to the death.
Ironically, these cigarettes, that I defend so vehemently, will most likely be the death of me. I finally managed to pick out the perfect smoke. What can I say? The tobacco smelled sweeter than the rest. I put the cigarette between my lips, and laid back on the fresh, wet grass while looking up at the stars. When I die, I'll be one of those sparkling creatures in the sky. I call stars creatures because I believe they're alive, and when they shoot down from the heavens, I call that their death. Any religious, or educational figure would more than likely scoff at my opinion. But what can I say? It's what gets me through the day.
That...and my cigs. Stupid, I know. Relying on this poison, this cancer-fueling element, this death stick is stupid, and not what I wanted. But it's what I got. It's the only thing that I have. The only thing that could, can, will save me. What else can I rely on? My pathetic excuse for a family? Where were they now? Half way across the world? Next door? Three miles away buying cheap beer and hookers? Fun for the whole family. Yeah. Right.
Or maybe I could rely on my friends. Crack-whores, backstabbers, ne'erdowells? Yeah, really reliable. Real trust-worthy. They'd throw me to a pack of wolves for a bag of reefer, and a cup of yogurt (gotta keep those calories in check). No, I can't rely on them, and, for that matter, they can't rely on me. Because, as a person, I'm not much better than they are. Give me some cigarettes, and sunglasses and I'd shoot most anyone I'd met to this point.
Maybe my boyfriend could save me. Yeah, maybe after I'd scheduled an appointment, and he wasn't busy screwing my, previously mentioned, backstabbing friends. It's nice to love someone, and know they're lying to you every time they say they love you. It's nice to have your heart beat out of your chest for a scumbag. It's nice how he can just leave you, and then walk back into your life like he was never gone. Yeah, note to self, add him to the secret death list.
I lit my cigarette and inhaled the sweet, yet bitter poison. I didn't care that it would lead to disease, to death, to destruction. All I cared about was that this wasn't the last one in my pack. All that I cared about...was this perfect smoke, this perfect pack, this perfect moment. Nothing else.
"Kill me faster," I whispered to the night.
I am SORRY that I didn't read this until now.
It is Art.
I found it to just be a monologue. Not really a story. There is no climax at all. No tension building up. Literally gives no payoff to the reader.
It is well written, and the only flaw I found was in the third paragraph. You referred to something from the second paragraph in the first sentence.
It is interesting, and I would like to read more if it is just the beginning of something longer.
It is well written, and the only flaw I found was in the third paragraph. You referred to something from the second paragraph in the first sentence.
It is interesting, and I would like to read more if it is just the beginning of something longer.
QUOTE(Musouka @ Jul 11 2005, 1:31 AM)
I found it to just be a monologue. Not really a story. There is no climax at all. No tension building up. Literally gives no payoff to the reader.
It is well written, and the only flaw I found was in the third paragraph. You referred to something from the second paragraph in the first sentence.
It is interesting, and I would like to read more if it is just the beginning of something longer.
It is well written, and the only flaw I found was in the third paragraph. You referred to something from the second paragraph in the first sentence.
It is interesting, and I would like to read more if it is just the beginning of something longer.
I agree, it should be longer, but I don't really want it to be. I kind of like how it turned out. Sometimes, a story doesn't need a payoff, or a climax. This was just supposed to be a one-pace story.
But I'm sorry it disappointed you.
To everyone else, thank you very much for your compliments.
And maybe one day I'll add more. I just kind of like this one-shot story, how it turned out.
Don't get me wrong. I did enjoy reading it. It was well written except for one mechanical flaw that I pointed out.
I understand where you are coming from with it being a one-shot story. I have a few.
I understand where you are coming from with it being a one-shot story. I have a few.
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