Monday, September 27, 2004

Does anyone here know what a lipogram is? It's a piece of literature in which the author uses no E's at all. Not even one E. I had to write a 1 page one for my fiction seminar, so here goes . . .

"It's not that I can't quit, Mary, it's that I just don't want to."
My lips pull back into an impish grin as I light a virgin Marlboro - my fifth this morning.
"Anyway, I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm just choosing my own poison."
I drag hard, pulling tobacco hungrily into my lungs, and hold back a cough. Mary frowns.
"But your bronchitis, Sarah, I don't think you should . . ."
"Oh shut up. Stop playing mom. As if you know what's right for all your pals. I'm familiar with your drinking habits. What about cirrosis, huh? I don't call you on that."
"I'm just . . . I worry about you, that's all. Your lungs don't sound too good."
I turn away and puff again, muffling a bout of moist, hacking spasms with my hand. A familiar flavor - part iron, part microbial swill - blossoms in my throat. I spit slyly into a hanky. My god, I think. Look at that. Crimson. Last night, it was only light pink.
Mary, noticing my discomfort, puts a bony hand on my back.
"You must stop smoking, Sarah. I'm not kidding. I'm too damn fond of you to watch you cough up blood on a daily basis"
"Alright," I say, brushing Mary's hand off my body as if it was a scrap of rubbish torn from it's trashcan by a gust of wind. I shift right and flick my cig into a patch of ground ivy. "I'll cut back. Christ, I'll go so far as to quit. Happy now? Starting this instant, no Marlboros."
"What about Winstons?" says Mary, smiling wryly at my brand distinction. Damn. That girl truly knows my tactics.
"ok, how's this - no tobacco at all."
Mary nods, savoring victory, calls Jason, and abandons our chat in favor of romantic gratification. That's ok, I think, I don't mind. Waiting for isolation, I watch Mary stroll out of sight; as soon as I am on my own, I light my sixth Marlborlo.

shiny objects