Five Questions with : FirePlague

Reads: 64  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 1  | Comments: 6

More Details
Status: In Progress  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
An interview with a writer. FirePlague.

Submitted: June 10, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 10, 2017

A A A

A A A


Pinkies out , we raised the porcelain vessels to our faces; " Cheerio' ya salty wanker ! " she says delicately, the decor of other patrons acting so prim and proper takes pause. This water dressed in green looking suspiciously unpleasant.

Having escaped the rain that now seeps down the store front window outside, I manage to get the first swig down.

" Bluhty hell, mine is rotten! If this is wha' passes for tea 'round here, then pass me the ipecac , ha ! " she cringes back a smile, finding humor in that which is not worthy of it. Her fluency in accents feigns false embarrassment from the locals, all of which thinking the same thoughts, just not as brave enough to say it out loud.

I offer a joke, " What's this , ' Hey, Hey ' ?" I breath the question . Her face asks me  What ?

"A pair of pants !  Coz' I fear I might need to change the ones I am wearing after this horrid toilet water ! "

She agrees with the corner of her mouth.

The rains thunder on the pavement vibrating through the windows; " Ah'righty then, let me ask another, but this time, I will try to be more serious." 

Question 1 : Who inspires you ?

 I can't say it's any one person. It's a kind of person. The ones that see beneath the surface of the murky pond water; they see a story, not a bunch of algae. The ones that know how life really is.

 I take another sip of my murky pond water. She sets her cup down, the server taking notice, approaches and asks, " A different selection perhaps ? "  " Fuck yeah, something with a little less arsenic would be quite lovely." 

"So then another cup , another question ! " 

 Question 2 : What is your favorite word ? "

My personal favorite word, excuse my French, is Fuck. It's a powerful word and can get any aggressive message across, changing the tone of any conversation in a matter of mere seconds. I say it a lot, too. She laughs proudly. I do not wait for the second cup of tea to arrive. Fuck that.

Question 3: When did you first start writing and how long did it take to discover a style comfortable for you ? I know I slipped an extra question in there but it's deserving.

I started writing at a very young age. I wasn't part of a pleasant childhood, so I was pretty warped from the start.

Finding my style came around the time I realized that I shouldn't write to please others; about a year ago. Not many people enjoy doom and gloom. 

I sneak in another question before the next cup up of gloom and doom arrives, causing her to bring hell fire into this establishment.

Question 4 : Where is your favorite place to write ?

I write in my room, nowhere real significant, my memory lane is where I get all my ammo.

Her new offering of tea arrives, purple and lavender floating in the cup, flying on the saucer; like an extraterrestrial body fluid. I still pretend to enjoy my green toilet water. She takes a taste of the flowery death, her facial emotives telling me, we were better much better off in the rainstorm than this dryness of ignorance others were satiating upon; sending them down amnesia lane, forgetfull and unarmed.

 "One last question, then lets dine and ditch, hmm."

 Question 5 : Why does it take so long for us to express things we should have said ages ago, to open our hearts and souls and bleed out our love before those afraid of blood and honesty; if only to take away that fear from them and even yet, better ourselves ?

She smiles, I see her teeth, like words in open book.

I guess it takes so long because we spend so much time hating ourselves for the ugliness we possess, or for what others see, refusing to acknowledge it. Till the moment we grow balls; and say, FUCK IT.

 She has a way to say more in fewer words , thank I possibly could with a mouthful of them.

 We had tasted enough poison of ignorance; weak tea for the tiller who deserved better. We chose otherwise and ran, the rain crying down on us as soon as we walked out the door. Then we were free. Extinguishing the thirst that scorched our insides.

We will not tolerate anything else. If you expect us to pay the bill, well, it better be the real thing; or else.... 

 

Until next time FirePlague,

perhaps crumpets in a lighting storm?

Thunder and pastries to silence the demons;

forever chasing.

Ya' know mate,

the norm, the death of complacency.

 


© Copyright 2017 Dr. Acula . All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

Comments

avatar

Author
Reply

avatar

Author
Reply

avatar

Author
Reply

avatar

Author
Reply

avatar

Author
Reply

avatar

Author
Reply

More True Confessions Short Stories