Tea & Cigarettes
I opened my eyes and saw that I was sitting behind a small restaurant table with a man I’ve never met sitting opposite to me, sipping what appeared to be tea. The man seemed to be in his thirties, and was sporting a short black beard, a small golden earring in his ear, and a charming spark in his eyes.
“Where… Where am I?”
“Here,” said the stranger and took another sip.
“Where’s here? And who are you, anyway?”
“William,” he said, putting down his tea. He then took out a cigarette pack, opened it, and casually threw a smoke in his mouth.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m William. And you must be Ernest Wright, correct?” he said, taking out a little notebook. He took a short glance at it, and reassuringly stated,
“Yes, Ernest Wright. Nice to meet you then.”
“Em… Pleasure’s all mine. Now, I hope you don’t mind me asking… But who are you? And just where the hell am I?”
“Dead,” said William, and lit his cigarette.
“Dead?”
“Dimensionally challenged.”
“Wait a min-”
“Perpetually immobilized.”
“I’m not-”
“Eternally at peace.”
“Wha-“
“Not alive.”
“Hold on a-”
“Dead.”
I looked at the table. I looked at his cigarette. It burnt a bright orange light, leaving an ash trail hanging on the tip as my companion inhaled the smoke. It all looked real enough.
“No way,” I said.
“Yes way,” said William, and winked, completely unexpectedly.
“Em. That sucks.”
“Sure does. Anyway, I’m just here to acquaint you with the surroundings. It’s kinda my job now. We had Lewis Carroll doing that some time ago, but he met Oscar Wilde one day and they climbed down some rabbit hole outside town, and now neither wants to come out.”
“Right… Em…”
“Look, I know how I’m supposed to show you around and all, but I’m sure you can manage on your own. Right? Right. Just don’t go North – that’s where all the critics are.”
“Em…”
“Well, been a pleasure, Ernest,” he stood up and promptly departed. In a minute, I was the only man in the entire restaurant. Or whatever the heck it was. Both William’s notebook and the cigarette pack still lay on the table, right next to the teacup. The notebook was open on a page that read,
[CENTER] Ernest Vincent Wright
1873 A.D. – 1939 A.D.
Literary accomplishment(s): wrote a grammatically correct 50,000+ story without ever using the letter “e.”
Death due to: writing a grammatically correct 50,000+ story without ever using the letter “e.”
[/CENTER]
I smirked and took the cigarettes. I took one out and lit it (I always knew my lucky Zippo would one day come in handy).
Perhaps I should’ve written my “Gadsby” without the letter “f” instead, I thought, enjoying the cigarette - Shakespeare smoked Marlboro Reds.
I opened my eyes and saw that I was sitting behind a small restaurant table with a man I’ve never met sitting opposite to me, sipping what appeared to be tea. The man seemed to be in his thirties, and was sporting a short black beard, a small golden earring in his ear, and a charming spark in his eyes.
“Where… Where am I?”
“Here,” said the stranger and took another sip.
“Where’s here? And who are you, anyway?”
“William,” he said, putting down his tea. He then took out a cigarette pack, opened it, and casually threw a smoke in his mouth.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m William. And you must be Ernest Wright, correct?” he said, taking out a little notebook. He took a short glance at it, and reassuringly stated,
“Yes, Ernest Wright. Nice to meet you then.”
“Em… Pleasure’s all mine. Now, I hope you don’t mind me asking… But who are you? And just where the hell am I?”
“Dead,” said William, and lit his cigarette.
“Dead?”
“Dimensionally challenged.”
“Wait a min-”
“Perpetually immobilized.”
“I’m not-”
“Eternally at peace.”
“Wha-“
“Not alive.”
“Hold on a-”
“Dead.”
I looked at the table. I looked at his cigarette. It burnt a bright orange light, leaving an ash trail hanging on the tip as my companion inhaled the smoke. It all looked real enough.
“No way,” I said.
“Yes way,” said William, and winked, completely unexpectedly.
“Em. That sucks.”
“Sure does. Anyway, I’m just here to acquaint you with the surroundings. It’s kinda my job now. We had Lewis Carroll doing that some time ago, but he met Oscar Wilde one day and they climbed down some rabbit hole outside town, and now neither wants to come out.”
“Right… Em…”
“Look, I know how I’m supposed to show you around and all, but I’m sure you can manage on your own. Right? Right. Just don’t go North – that’s where all the critics are.”
“Em…”
“Well, been a pleasure, Ernest,” he stood up and promptly departed. In a minute, I was the only man in the entire restaurant. Or whatever the heck it was. Both William’s notebook and the cigarette pack still lay on the table, right next to the teacup. The notebook was open on a page that read,
[CENTER] Ernest Vincent Wright
1873 A.D. – 1939 A.D.
Literary accomplishment(s): wrote a grammatically correct 50,000+ story without ever using the letter “e.”
Death due to: writing a grammatically correct 50,000+ story without ever using the letter “e.”
[/CENTER]
I smirked and took the cigarettes. I took one out and lit it (I always knew my lucky Zippo would one day come in handy).
Perhaps I should’ve written my “Gadsby” without the letter “f” instead, I thought, enjoying the cigarette - Shakespeare smoked Marlboro Reds.
幻術
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