cigarettesaftersexualabstinence

[cigarettesaftersexualabstinence]

Flowers

I believe I have a weird story with flowers.

I remember my mother used to hate flowers or bouquet which was quite unfortunate as my father was a florist. He, on the other side loved flowers. He would bring as much faded flowers he could to try and revive them. I thought it was stupid. He, on the other side thought it was his mission to save those neglected flowers and offer them a “second life” if you will. He was so careful with his dead flowers as I used to call them to tease him. He never gave up on a single flower. Never. If a flower was too faded and couldn’t be rescued, he would pick out its seeds and plant them in our garden. He truly had a gift with flowers—he was patient and careful with his flowers which wasn’t the case when he had to take care of my brother and I.

When my parents got a divorce and my dad moved out into a tiny apartment in a rough neighborhood I thought it was then the end of my green-thumbed father and his skills in keeping flowers alive. However he kept on with it. He never gave up on his flowers. He still gave my mother some of his finest rescued ones—she wasn’t really content with it but put on a smile and always said thanks which I thought was nice. 

I almost thought that whatever would happen to him, he would never give up on his flowers. He would wake up early every Wednesday and Saturday, I remember not seeing him for the most part of those days—I mean he would leave home at 5 am and get back at 3 pm. He didn’t care if it was raining or snowing, he just wanted to go and sell flowers on the market place downtown. His body would hurt like hell and he would complain a lot but still he loved it and we all knew about it. 

When his mother died he kept on taking care of his flowers and he even worked harder on it so that he could keep her sepulcher nice and colored. I remember that at one point the sad grey stones were all covered with beautiful and colored flowers. We couldn’t even imagine what was underneath it and it lasted for a while until…

Until one day my dad fell sick—very sick—and he had to be hospitalized which meant that he had to take a break away from his flowers and the market downtown. I did my best to make it easier for him. I visited him every day when he was in the hospital. I brought him his favorite dessert and had never-ending conversation about everything and anything. But never have I ever brought him flowers. I never thought about that—maybe he would have liked it. 

Now I never forget to bring flowers whenever I go to visit him and even though he can’t take care of them anymore I know he likes them.

[cigarettesaftersexualabstinence]

Sleeping analysis

I’ve had troubles sleeping lately. 

I don’t know why. I’ve always been a great sleeper. As soon as I’d got into bed I would simply lie down and fall asleep and that since I was a young boy. I remember my mother being on the side of the bed and telling me stories she used to make up just for me. One day I was a singer—a very famous one—the other I was a footballer—a very good one. I remember my favorite story being about me becoming an actor and shooting movies with my idols of the time. My mom was good at making up stories. She knew me well and she also knew what I wanted to hear. My childhood was a troubled time. I was a weird kid with no friends and lots of hobbies I was bad at. I tried sports and music but couldn’t quite hang on to it but that didn’t matter cause I knew I’d be doing those things in my mother’s stories. I’d be doing those things so well that people would be interested by me—looking up to me. I would lie if I said that I wasn’t looking up to the guy in those stories. I mean, he had it all. He was famous, rich, handsome and he was good at something. 

It feels nostalgic to say that but I miss those times. I wish I could sleep like I used to when I was a child.

Growing up, I started making up stories in my mind as my mom stopped sitting on the side of my bed waiting for me to go to sleep. I started making up stories about me going out with the prettiest girl in high school. I even thought that if I believed it strongly it would become a reality. It never did. Despite this I kept on telling myself stories to go to sleep. On Mondays I was the richest man on earth and on Tuesdays I was the funniest man on earth. It worked so well that I would wake up with the memory of dreaming about the story I made up. The stories I used to make up to put me to sleep were pretty different from my mom’s. I wasn’t a famous person anymore I was just a dude who does silly jokes and make all the pretty girls laugh—the exact opposite of the shy kid I was. The guy in my story was confident and charming and I kept on looking up to him and wish I was him so bad. It wasn’t hard getting to sleep during those times but it was hard waking up. 

I kept on growing up and fantasizing on the guy I wish I was until I went to college. 

When I was younger I used to make up stories to put me to sleep; growing up, I started thinking about it all day long. Daytime was becoming a long hypnagogic state for me. I didn’t know who I was and more than that I didn’t know who I wanted to be. Rather than imagining what my life could look like through different prisms I was wondering about what my life was really about. In college I was confronted with gifted people whom I feared. I feared them more than they will ever know. I was not the unique and special kid my mom portrayed. I had friends. I wasn’t the shy kid I used to be. I wasn’t special anymore. To this day I still don’t know what made me think I was special. The fact that I had no friends and thought that it was because they couldn’t understand me or the fact that I wanted to become an adult so much because my mom’s stories made me think it was cool to be one.

I recently tried to go back to making up stories to get me to sleep. It didn’t work. I tried going back to old classics such as the footy one or the late funniest guy in the room one. Both failed miserably. All it did I think was keeping me awake more than anything. The questions came back with the fears, the anxiety, the feeling that I’ll never be enough for anybody. That moment between getting to bed and falling asleep feels like sleep paralysis now. The damn questions they keep my eyes wide open. They soar above the bed waiting for me to get in the sheets and when I do they hang on to me and they never leave. Never. The darkness of the room reminds me that another day passed and I still haven’t achieved any of the things my mom predicted for me when I was a child. I may not be a disappointment but will I ever be enough? Will she ever be proud? She may but will I feel the same way? The questions, they keep me up at night. 

I wish my mom could tell me stories again and I wish I could still believe in them—no questions asked.

Illustrated by drn_jessica_

[cigarettesaftersexualabstinence]

The Best Gift

Ma pote Alice a eu la meilleure idée. Elle est revenue d’Irlande avec dans sa valise le livre Creative Writing: A Journal to Kickstart Your Writing d’Eva Glettner. Le livre est composé d’illustrations et d’idées de départ pour écrire. Ce livre est une bénédiction, comme vous avez pu le voir je suis le roi de la productivité: Une (1) nouvelle en cinq (5) mois et pas parce que je n’écris pas, mais parce que je hais tout ce que j’écris: de l’idée à l’exécution.

Ce livre est une bénédiction parce que je m’en fiche de me planter, je m’en fiche que ce soit pas bien, je m’en fiche que ce soit pas personnel, je m’en fiche que ce soit pas drôle, je m’en fiche que ce soit pas émouvant: j’écris sans me poser de questions, c’est tout ce qui compte. Merci ma soeur pour ce très beau cadeau, je te promets d’écrire. 

A bear’s tenth birthday is always a special day in the life of a bear. The. Bear is ten years old he is expected to leave his parent’s house and go on an adventure of his own. This moment of a bear’s life is considered a stepping stone in the ursine community as it shapes the adult one becomes. The tradition is simple: on the day of a bear’s tenth anniversary, he or she has to say goodbye to their parents and move out.

Today was baby bear’s tenth birthday and so naturally Mama bear spent her week preparing a party for her loved son. Everything was set in the small cabinet built inside a giant pine tree ; the whole place was prepared for a festive afternoon with flowers, paper decorations and balloons. When baby bear got back from playing outside, mama bear took the cake out of the fridge and put it on the table. Baby bear sat down ; his eyes longing for a piece of cake but his mother had something to get off her chest before she could eat something. 

-  Be not afraid my boy for everything is going to be just fine. [Scared? You should be, yes.] It is a big adventure that awaits (for you?) ; so many things you have yet to see ; so many friends you have yet to meet ;  so many fruits you have yet to eat ; so many trees you have yet to climb ; so many places you have yet to visit and so much time before you. I’ve been on that path before. I was just like you my boy. Was I scared? Yes! Most definitely. Was I excited? Yes! Most definitely too. One thing that you have to keep in mind is how natural it is to apprehend your first time alone in the woods (but in the end it is going to be OK, if it is not OK then it is not the end). You will be afraid by the first crack you hear ; the first puff of wind you feel ; the first bird you hear ; the first bee sting you feel but in the end it will be just fine. To truly appreciate the peace I found in you I had to live all those moments and now it’s your turn. I would not have truly, fully appreciated the house we built from solid wood far away from those singing birds ; I would not have fully, truly appreciated the friends we made from the hive near the pines ; I would not have truly, fully appreciated that life I had with you. Now go on, leave, live! I’ll be there, waiting for you to tell me all about your adventures. 

- So… No gifts, eh?

[cigarettesaftersexualabstinence]

An Ideal Gas

Thomas sent me a message saying that he would be late but that he would get there sooner or later. I didn’t know where he was but I trusted him and I knew he would be there. Thomas is someone you can trust—everybody would tell you that. 

Everyone was already here packing up boxes. They smiled when looking at old photographs, laughed when going through the nicest piece of clothing he owned, talked about how he got them all together on that day and cried when they had to lock the door for one last time. It felt harsh but it was needed. They had to empty the apartment for the future owners. The sole idea of someone else living in it was painful for everybody. It was his apartment—not someone else’s. Our father lived in it for six years—enough time to create immortal memories. 

I always find it crazy how some places are so important for us. I was there when they emptied the house but couldn’t help them. I walked around the rooms searching for memories—as it turned out, the rooms were filled with memories. As I watched the members of my family moving away a lifetime of furniture, I thought to myself how meaningless life can be. It is crazy, isn’t it? 

Thomas arrived when they were done packing and looked surprised but not disappointed—he never wanted to get here on time. Thomas spent the afternoon with some friends acting like the man he was three days ago. He didn’t say a word and got in the car as we would make our way back home. 

My brother is a beast of nature. He’s tall—taller than me. He’s strong—stronger than me. I tried to find similar traits between him and our father that night. As it turned out, the face I was looking for was not to be found. He chose not to eat that night. My mother looked worried but decided not to ask him why he wouldn’t. That night may have been the birth of a new man. Thomas has been the baby of the family and overlooked by our elders. Now was the time for him to grow up. Thomas now aimed to be the man of the family. He hid his sadness behind fake confidence—well I assume it was fake but it looked real to me at that time. He made some easy and dirty jokes and talked about girls while drinking wine. 

The day after, Thomas woke up with a headache—which was likely to happen given the amount of wine he drank the night before. He didn’t say a word, grabbed a cup and poured some coffee in it—no sugar, never. He picked a cigarette out of the pack and offered me one even though he knew I had quit smoking for almost a year. He went outside and started smoking. He missed him a lot that day and decided he would swing by if he had some spare time in the afternoon.

Thomas enjoys a walk from time to time but that week he walked more than ever—I assumed that he needed to be alone. This afternoon he picked his earphones and left the house without saying a word. Our mom looked worried and offered Thomas a ride to the funeral home which he declined. They say that grief is only tolerable when accompanied. Thomas said he didn’t need anyone. 

Thomas wrapped himself up in his cocoon. 

Everything was looking grey on 4 March 2020. Thomas hugged some old women and shook some strong hands all day long. Everyone was sorry—so were we. Thomas wrote a speech that gave me chills. He didn’t shiver when reading it. He didn’t cry. He was the man. He was strong—stronger than everyone else. 

At the end of the day Thomas came by my side and started sending insults to the sky—a cathartic activity I may say. I joined him and it felt good. We hugged. Thomas offered me a cigarette and I took it. We shared a laugh and got back to the car on our way home as Thomas hopped for tomorrow to be a better day. 

As we finally arrived home after a forty-five minute ride that seemed like never-ending, Thomas took off his suit jacket and shirt and put a football jersey on. The family started to gather in the narrow living room of our childhood home. Most of them talked about what was going on in China or the latest sports results as if nothing happened. Thomas and I felt confused. Nobody would talk to us. They would elaborate savant plans to avoid us. As the noise of the babbling and small talking kept increasing, Thomas felt even more and more uncomfortable with the situation. How could they? How could they be having those random chats when someone just died? 

People started to leave the house as the sun started to set on the small French town of Flers. It felt like a relief for the three of us. The day was finally over. Thomas could get back to his normal life—so he thought—and so could everybody. Thomas went downstairs to light a cigarette—he didn’t want the family to know about it even though he had been smoking for over a year now. I followed him to get a talk with him, I didn’t feel like smoking. It was clear that Thomas needed to talk but didn’t know how to and who to speak with. He used an old lighter we found in our dad’s apartment but didn’t notice at first and I felt like I needed to break it down to him. 

“It was dad’s favorite, do you remember?” I asked hesitantly.

“Is it?,” He inspected the lighter with great care.”Did he have a favorite though? Wasn’t his favorites the ones he hadn’t loose yet?” He answered with a hint of humour. 

I must admit he was right. 

“Well, it’s my favorite now!” He added gently. 

He locked the lighter in his hand and looked up as if he was trying to hold back his tears. He then looked at me and asked with an air of inflexible calmness: “What do we do now?” He paused. “What are we supposed to do? I mean, I’m only eighteen. Am I ready for what’s about to come? Where do I learn all the things I was supposed to learn from him?”

“Are you looking for answers? Because I don’t have them. I have the same questions you know. We’ll have to find the answers together. Until now I can only say that I don’t know. I’m sorry”

He looked at me as if he had something to say but sat on it. He thought I had the answers and as it turned out I had the same questions. He dropped his cigarette on the dirt floor of the basement and headed back upstairs in silence. He seemed upset and sadly I didn’t know what to do. I don’t know what I have to do most of the time.

Mom called us for dinner even though she knew we were not hungry and she was not either. It was just a way to get us three around the table. The atmosphere was as oppressive as if a bomb was in the room about to blow up and neither one of us knew how to defuse it. No one would eat that night. Everything was looking dark and even the television was off. Mom fixed her hair briefly and looked us both in the eyes. 

���I’m not giving you up,” She said before correcting herself. “I mean… I am here. You can talk to me.” 

She gave the dog a tender pat on the back and put her head down towards it. She was inconsolable too. I knew that my mother’s sadness was sincere. Even though they had been divorced for ten years now there was still something strong between the two of them—something inv isible and invincible. It may not be love but it was something of a kind. Our dad was her first everything and she did all she could to be there until the end as they promised each other in September 2000 and regardless of them breaking this promise in November 2010. My mom had respect for my father and she also admired him. I couldn’t tell if she thought of November 2010 as a mistake now. I think she was reconsidering all of her life choices that night. On the other side of the table, Thomas’s face made it look like his soul had left his body—maybe that was the reason why he didn’t answer. Before going to bed with empty stomachs, we decided to play some old family tapes and it never felt more hurting. All the smiles and laugh on television contrasted with the dull faces and tired bodies that laid on the couch. Before going to bed, we all agreed on going outside to smoke a cigarette. Mom decided once again to break the solemn silence as she saw above her head a sparkling star that seemed like it was glowing for her. 

“Look!” She cried.”There’s only one star in the sky tonight and it is glowing like no other.”

She was right. It was the only star in the sky that night as all the others were hidden by the thick dark clouds. Symbols are important sometimes and that night mom decided that this star would be her lighthouse. She smiled at the star like she was looking at my dad and whispered something I couldn’t quite hear nor decipher. 

“You think dad turned himself into a star?” Thomas asked.

“He would rather have turned himself into a horse!” I said. 

“Who knows?” Said mom. “A star, a horse, he could very well be a jellyfish I wouldn’t mind.” She paused, “For God’s sake let me have this one. Just this little, meaningless, illogical, senseless thing I can stick to.” 

She stopped even though it seemed like she had something else to say. Was it hope? Was it denial? I thought to myself that it didn’t mean anything. I knew for a fact that stars are born, they live and they die and it is only when they are dead that you can see them. 

“You’re delusional,” I said. 

“Maybe.” She answered. “Maybe I am. Again! Who knows?”

I knew. 

Thomas stood up. He raised his head, cracked his neck and threw his cigarette on the ground. 

“Stars are only visible when they are dead.” He said as I thought he was reading through my mind “Looking at them is looking into the past. Maybe we should stick to that star before hope is forever lost… I mean…” he paused” It’s a mystery. Maybe this star is glowing for us and maybe not. We’ll never know. It might be time for us to embrace the fantasy in those dark and twisted times.”

I couldn’t say anything and neither did mom. It was a strange moment. My brother became a poet. He farted and we all agreed that it was time for us to finally go to sleep. 

Illustrated by drn_jessica_