Qwertehhh.

I haven't typed any works of fiction for eons now. As a high school student, I used to write on a daily basis from one genre to another. Horror, thriller, romance, supernatural - you name it. All it took was a single sheet of foolscap paper and a 0.5 Pilot Shaker to put my ideas from being just ideas to words flowing on paper. 

But my writing skills are rusty now.

My vocabulary is atrocious and my grammar is out the window. 

This is just my way of getting back in the zone. Back to my writing roots (or should that be typing now?) Plus, my left brain could take a break and let my right brain exercise for a while.

Here's some word vomit. Lalala. 

And because I write romance/angst the best. I might just try writing again in that direction. Hmmm.

*

He stands against the wall, half-slumped, lighting a cigarette. He brings the cigarette to his pale lips. Inhales. His head falls back, eyes closed in silent ecstasy as he puffs out a white wisp of smoke through pursed lips. 

The smoke still burns his lungs, no matter how long it has been since his first time. But he loves the taste of nicotine on his lips, the burn that runs through his system with each puff and the pretty wisps of smoke that leaves his lips afterwards. Sometimes, when he felt a bit more creative, he would make smoke O's and smile as he watched rings of smoke escape his mouth. 

*

Stick after stick, box after box; he couldn't stop. He did not want to stop.

It is a self-destructive cycle and he knows it. 

He had tried everything. Nicotine patches, hypnotherapy, psychotherapy and every other 12-step-program  he could attend. Nothing worked. Nothing. 

He would stop for a few days and relapse into the lethal cycle. 

*

The cigarette he was smoking was starting to burn down to a stub. He throws the cigarette to the floor and puts it out with the back of his sneakers. He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and takes out a crumpled box of cigarettes. He flicks the top open and takes out a fresh cigarette. He places the cigarette in between his lips; cupping one hand over the cigarette while lighting the cigarette with the other. He inhales the toxic fumes once more, savoring the burn.

He loved cigarettes. 

But there was one thing he loved more than cigarettes. Her. 

*

A/N: I didn't have a proper plot whilst typing this. So the story had to end there. Lalala. 

Ciao, bella!