Please join me in welcoming Padraig E Griffiths to Fab Friday!!
Isabella: Who influenced or
encouraged you to become a writer?
Padraig: Hi, Isabella ;-) Thank you for allowing me to express myself on
your blog ;-)
Well, in reply to your question, I read extensively, which means basically
everything and anything. And yet, because I grew up in a very secluded area of
Donegal, I was home-schooled, which meant that I didn't have access to the more
'normal' books that other children were reading. What happened was this: My
mother would only travel into town once every ten days or so, and she would
always return with a stack of second-hand books that she'd bought from the
library or an old bookshop. And so, after I'd finished my morning chores -
chopping wood, or collecting vegetables from the fields, I'd rush inside and
find a wide assortment of books awaiting me. There were some good books there -
and I love anything by Joyce, Keats, Yeats and Heaney. But sometimes it was
trash-novels, or even rare books on philosophy and psychology. So, I have to
say that my influences were many and several.
I: What’s next for you? Maybe a
sneak-peak of your next book?
P: I'm currently working on a new Christmas book entitled, Stocking Filler.
Below is a brief excerpt:
From
Stocking Filler by Padraig E
Griffith
The Prologue:
Prologue
“You take care how you speak to me. You know the rules. I’ll cut you off.”
Her tone was no longer sweet and enticing, yet he didn’t appear to notice.
His breathing was shallower now, even though his voice was an excited rasp.
“You’re a dirty fuckin’ whore, Amanda. And I swear… if I was there… I’d punch
you as I came in your face…”
“This is your last warning. Dirty chat is fine – that’s what we’re here for
– and most kinds of kinky are okay, too. But you know the rules by now – we
definitely don’t allow violent chat.”
“Okay… okay,” he said, shortly. “I’ll behave. Please… don’t hang up.”
He was still pulling at himself – she could hear his short gasps, the almost
rhythmic crumple of cloth.
She sighed impatiently, knowing she still had him,
but wishing he’d simply cut the connection, redial and choose another girl.
“Are… you still there, Amanda?”
“I’m still here, yeah.”
“Then... describe yourself.”
She smiled wryly, wondering why he always wanted to hear a description he
must have intuitively known was false. But, reasoning that it was his money he
was wasting, she told him anyway, as always exaggerating every detail except
the colour of her hair and her age. “I’m twenty-eight, blonde, with really big
tits and perky nipples. I also have a curvy waist, a firm peachy ass, and the
tightest, most perfect pussy you have ever, ever laid eyes upon.”
“Uh-huh.” He couldn’t speak for a time, no doubt deepy immersed in that erotic
vision. But, when perhaps a minute had passed, he said, “Now… tell me what
you’d like me to do to you…”
She took a deeper breath, composing herself. Then, in a low,
sexually-charged whisper, she said, “I want you to bend me over your bed –
very, very slowly - and pull down my panties with your teeth…”
“Uh huh…”
“And then, when they drop to the floor, I want you to stand back up and pull
my ass cheeks gently apart. But you shouldn’t have all the fun. As you do that
to me, I want to be able to look back at your cock.” Her voice was a trained
sigh now, suggestive, desirous. “Because that’s no ordinary cock, is it? I
mean, look how long and thick it is. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen one
that big before. It might even be far too big to fit inside my very tight
pussy…”
“I could… I could… put it in your mouth first and make it really wet…”
He was panting now, stroking himself harder. She prayed he’d cum, then hang
up quickly afterwards. But, even then, she instinctively felt he wouldn’t.
“Yes, you could. You could put it in my mouth, all the way in so that it
hits the back of my throat and nearly makes me gag...”
“I… really could… yes.”
She sighed softly again. “And then, you could finger me, couldn’t you? Just
to moisten me a little bit more. Just so your thick cock won’t hurt me as you
push it in. Could you do that? Could you moisten my pussy before you put your
thick knob into me?” She paused, feigning intimacy. “Could you do that, just
for me?”
“I…I could, Amanda… I could so do that…”
A small moan escaped her lips. “Oh, I wish I could see you now. I wish,
after you’d fingered me and slipped your cock right into my wet hole, that I
could feel your balls pounding off my ass. I wish I could look back at you
right now, just to see your face…”
“I… wish… that, too…”
“Yes, you do, don’t you? You really do want to ram your knob into me, again
and again, harder, faster. And, as you do so, you want to hear me begging you
not to stop, begging you for more…”
“I do…I do…”
Now, he was frantically tugging at himself, even as a strained groan escaped
his lips. She cooed again.
“Oh, god, look at you. You’re about to shoot your
load into me. I’ve never had a cock that hard inside me…”
He seemed set to explode. “Amanda…Amanda…”
“Ooh, yeah, babe?”
“Tell me… that you love me.”
“I love you, babe. I love everything about you.”
He spoke then, even as he came, but his voice was a rush now, colder than
ice. “You’re… lying… you dirty whore. And I wish…I wish I could punch your
fuckin’ head in right now…”
She pressed hard on the red button, instantly severing the connection.
He never listened. She’d warned him several times over in the last two
months, as had one or two of the other girls. And she’d told him each time, in
no uncertain terms, that there were rules to be followed, even on premium-rate
phone lines. Yet this was one man who seemingly couldn’t get his kicks in any
other way.
I: What do you think makes a good story?
I think that most good stories contain characters who are placed in
situations they would never attend to in their day to day lives, and ones which
their skill-sets are totally unsuited to. So, straight away we have an almost
comical situation, after which a tragedy or a mystery unfolds as they slowly
work out how to deal with their situation. I think the climax of such stories
is always more satisfying, because it has always seemed, from the outset, that
the character never had a chance.
I: If you couldn’t write, what would
you do?
P: Having lived in the mountains my entire life, I'm a very physical person.
But I'm an artistic person too. I carve wood and I also paint on occasion, so I
have other outlets. And I could presumably still read in such a scenario, so
things wouldn't be so bad.
I: What is your favorite quote?
P: I have many favourite quotes, and all of them by famous authors,
spiritualists, political activists, etc. But my favourite is actually by a
not-so-well-known English actor named Marty Feldman, whose cross-eyed looks
raised laughs the moment he stepped on camera, and it goes thusly: 'The pen is
mightier than the sword, and it's much easier to write with as well'. That just
about sums it all up for me.
I: Where would you go in a time
machine?
P: I think I would wear it out. I wouldn't take it into the future, because
I'm happy enough to go there one second at a time. I'd take it back into the
past, and stand upon the periphery of famous battlefields all over the world as
they commenced, or to hilltops above great ancient cities to stare down upon
them. I think that would be the ultimate way to spur a story on, wouldn't it?
I: Where is your favorite place in
the world to be?
P: I like being at home in the mountains. There, at night, there are no city
lights to blot out the sky, and the silence is a natural, deep silence, broken
only by the wind or birds or the trees out beyond the farmhouse I now live in.
The air is also better there, obviously, but it's more about the mind: There is
no real sense of time there, and that is how I think life is supposed to be.
Thank you, Isabella, for allowing me to express my thoughts here on your
site ;-)
Thank you for joining
me today, Padraig!!
Blurb:
