It’s that wonderful day of the week again, for many, it's their favourite day of the week. It’s Friday. It marks the beginning of the weekend and hopefully lots of spare time to read and write. It also means that we get to delve into the world of another active Proser.

This week we shine the spotlight on someone much loved in the Prose community. A wonderful lady whose name is Firdaus Parvez who you will know by her Proser name of @Firdaus.

P: Lovely Firdaus, where do you live?

F: I live in a small city close to the capital, New Delhi, India. I live with my in-laws and my little beagle, Cooper. My husband works abroad, my daughter is in college and my son in his final year in a boarding school, just about to enter college. I usually shuttle around from hubby to kids. So I actually live in a suitcase (and my mobile).

P: What is your occupation?

F: 'When I grow up I want to be a writer' —that was my wish, and I'm still learning and growing. I got a little lost along the way but I'm on track now.

Oh yes! I'm also a homemaker.

P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?

F: Some of you must have read this before (Yes! And we love it – Prose) but I can't think of any other way to tell you about my journey, so here goes...

I was about six years old when I was packed off to a boarding school, Wynberg-Allen. Nestled in the foothills of the Himalayas, this Anglo-Indian Christian school is where my reading and writing journey began. Being a shy child, I had few friends and perhaps to get over my homesickness I buried myself in books. The school library was a wonderland. Though English was a new language for me,I just sat in the library with a book, looking at the pictures. Slowly I learned to read. I still remember the large book on 'Sindbad's Voyages'. Magical and amazing.

Eventually, I was devouring Nancy Drews and Enid Blytons. That's about the time I started writing too. I got really good at writing essays in class and I would write stuff, especially poems, in my rough book, but tear it up so no one would see. I still have a diary from my school days with some silly poems.

Sadly, my writing and reading journey came to an abrupt halt when I got married in my final year of Law school. I then had two children in quick succession. No time for anything other than diapers and baby formula. Luckily, the writing bug was still alive and kicking, so, when my children went off to their respective boarding schools, I started writing. I have a little collection of short stories, some unfinished, languishing on my computer.

Then one fine day about two years ago, I stumbled over an app called Ku. That's where I met the most wonderful writers who were very inspiring and encouraging. I'm so glad most of my very good friends from there are here. A shout out to my kumilia! You guys rock!

I then started writing on Grace Black's blog Three lines Thursday (TLT), she's not just an incredible writer but a very inspiring and encouraging person. From there I was introduced to other writing sites/ blogs, 101words.org, microbookends and Flashfriday. Sadly all three have shut down but I have found some others equally motivating and I'm having fun with flash. Poetry on the other hand is something I dapple with to let off steam. I'm definitely not a poet.

P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?

F: I read a quote somewhere, and I don't know who said it, but it explains my reading addiction.

'I am a reader, not because I don't have a life, but because I choose to have many.'

I really believe this to be true and I know many of the readers will be nodding their heads. For me reading is like oxygen. I get restless if I don't have a book, so I carry books with me when I travel but now the kindle does the job, though I still prefer paper.

Since I was brought up on Brit literature I am more inclined to read poets and writers hailing from there. I love reading the classics. 'Jane Eyre' being my favourite.

As I'm also a compulsive book buyer and hoarder, my shelves are overflowing. I keep promising to buy only kindle versions but I end up with stacks of books when there are deals online.

I have a habit of reading several books at a time. I sometimes feel like a mixing bowl of stories. I think if it wasn't for reading I wouldn't be writing. Quite recently I've started reading American writers and I'm hooked.

I love Urdu poetry and my writings are to a certain extent inspired by it. Apart from that there are several Indian authors I like to read. So I read and write, then read some more, and write a little.

P: Can you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to in future posts?

F: As of now I'm writing on different blogs/sites, hosting flash fiction competitions. My weekends are usually spent churning out stories. Other than that it's me on Prose. I'm looking to submit my stories to e-zines in the future. Nothing concrete yet. I cannot tell you what my future posts will be because I really don't know. They're mostly spur of the moment writes.

P: What do you love about TheProse.com?

F: Have you ever arrived late at a party? The room is dark but throbbing with life. Smokey air, pulsating music. You enter tentatively, groping around, not knowing what to expect, unsure, apprehensive, a little scared. Then you bump into someone who is equally unsure, then another, and another. Till you're finally clinking glasses and moving to the music. You're finally home amongst friends. No inhibitions, just you, uncensored, loved, inspired, encouraged and drunk on words.

That's Prose.

I tip my virtual hat to the team that tirelessly works to make this place a haven for writers. I am in awe of the different styles of writing I come across every day. What can I say about the community? You guys make my day. I adore you all. #ProseRocks

P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?

F: Oh but there are so many! I can't pinpoint just one. Perhaps, 'A hundred years of solitude' by Gabriel García Márquez, and definitely 'Jane Eyre' by Charlotte Brontë and...and the list is inexhaustibly long.

P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?

F: I was in middle school and was on my path of 'discovery'. I had just been introduced to the 'romance novels', these books had very 'inappropriate' covers. I still laugh when I think of this. It was study time just before dinner. We were supposed to be completing our homework. The teacher on duty making the rounds of the study room was Miss Sara Tomas, a young British lady. Miss Tomas was our English teacher.

Instead of studying I was reading this book hidden in my text book. Miss Tomas caught me and confiscated the book. As the cover was torn, I hid it. She demanded the cover and when she saw it, her face went red with anger. She muttered under her breath, “Oh! What literature!" I wanted to melt into the ground. I was supposed to be the good one. A week later she summoned me to the staff room. She handed me the book and made me promise that I wouldn't read this 'trash' again. (She was a missionary, no offence intended to anyone who writes or reads this stuff, trust me I still do) She stressed that if I wanted to write well I should start reading well. I guess that was the turning point in my reading history. Though I did not completely give up those books (come on I was just thirteen!) I did start picking up 'good' books (whatever that is) from time to time.

P: Describe yourself in three words!

F: Just three? Seriously! Haha! :D

“Logophile. Friend. Supermom.”

P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up?

F: 'She couldn't finish, but she started a stampede.' – (Prose actually laughed like a drain at this!) Okay I made that up, but I want to be like that, a stampede starter, in a nonviolent way.

But seriously though, I come from a highly patriarchal family, so I guess this about sums me up:

'There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.

- Jane Austen, Pride and prejudice.

Yes, I'm a little rebel.

P: Favourite music to write and/or read to?

F: I usually prefer silence while reading or writing, but sometimes just instrumental music soothes me. Love Kenny G, incredible saxophonist. And Ustad Zakir Hussain on his tabla. Zabardast! (Incredible)

Usually just before writing I listen to ghazals. They are urdu poetry sung by some incredible ghazal singers. It's my form of meditation or inspiration, and I can vouch for urdu poetry that it will inebriate you. How I wish I could share it with you al but the magic is lost in translation. I think @manto can do it more justice than I.

P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?

F: This reminds me of the book by Ray Bradbury, 'Fahrenheit 451'. Kind of a similar situation.

Is there any chance of me going back in time, raiding a library and coming back? This is a nightmare!

P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about your social media accounts?

F: Twitter handle is @firdausp, though I just use it to get notifications about different competitions I participate in. Other than that my facebook account is for family and friends. I'm on it by my own name, Firdaus Parvez. My wordpress page is fidausp1.wordpress.com and you'll notice my name there is positivethoughts1. No clue why I chose that name.

So please, if you don’t already, do please follow Firdaus and read her work and interact.

As always if you would like to nominate any active Prosers or would like to be involved yourself, get in touch on info@theprose.com

We are pleased as punch to bring you an exclusive interview with the talented Brit, Raymond Antrobus, who was kind enough to take time out from his busy schedule to tell us all about himself and what he’s involved with. If you had yet to come across him, Raymond Antrobus is a poet, performer and hearing aid user, born and bred in East London, Hackney.

His poems have been published in magazines and literary journals such as The Rialto, Magma Poetry, Oxford Diaspora's Programme, British Council Literature, Shooter Literary Journal, The Missing Slate, Morning Star, Media Diversified and University Of Arkansas Press.

Raymond has read and performed at festivals (Glastonbury, Latitude, Bestival etc) touniversities (Oxford, Goldsmiths, Warrick etc), and has also read internationally (South Africa, Kenya, North America, Sweden, Italy, Germany, Switzerland etc).

He is co-curator of popular London poetry events Chill Pill (Soho Theatre and The Albany) and Keats House Poets. His work has appeared on BBC Radio 4, The Big Issue, The Guardian and at TedxEastEnd. Sky Arts and Ideas Tap listed Raymond in the top 20 promising young artists in the UK.

P: You are proud to explain that you were born and bred in East London. Do you still live there?

R: Yes, I often have to make a point of being born and bred in East London (Hackney) because now It's so heavily gentrified. To extent I feel I have more of a right to be here because people like me are disappearing. Hackney is a place I grew up in and around a street culture that lured me into certain negative things. I survived that. To see it become a place that certain people now claim as their own, makes me feel anger. Having said that, while growing up Hackney was a place I wanted to escape so I am a hypocrite for wanting to claim it now everyone wants to be here. It's complicated.

...

To read the rest of this fantastic interview and for links to videos of his performances, please head over to blog.theprose.com and let us know your thoughts.

I trip over the faded undefined boundaries every day. A desperate Nadia balance beam dividing the Old and New taunts me. And my unstyle remains obscure (and usually offends others).

But Their Certainty resides in Bland blind living, and They are churned Sour by real Individuality.

And so, Narcissism sits soundly on my shoulder.

Last night I dreamt I entered a sci-fi Stimulation Bar. Patrons seeking escape had two options (each in exchange for a Fee and a hangover):

The first option invited the Guest to temporarily relinquish his subconsciousness to a wall screened in white. Upon the screen his image appeared, and his image partook in the Guest's deep-set, subconscious Mind's most Radical fantasies. Aroused into a hypertonic state, his bodyshell sat Frozen, watching the Sins of his Suconsciousness on the screen.

Alternatively, the more voyeuristic (and often less brave) Guest could choose to simply Witness the images of his fellow Guests' subconscious indulgences. With popcorn and cocktails served ringside, these particular Guests were entertained by the sacrificial subjectivity of the subconscious Deviances of others.

The hangovers (and Fee) varied. The willing Guests were left with temporary flashbacks of euphoria, which caused coping (and returning to) monotony challenging. The Voyeurs were posed with less physical risk; however, their resulting hangover of hovering Regret and Shame were infinite (and innately) painful.

Continue:

My cousin drove his mother home in an Amateur bodybag. One hundred years removed from The Homeland, and now she Rests in bubble wrap and cardboard. And you think This is poetry, but Reality ruins the Joke.

I recently caught a glimpse of My hand in good lighting. It reminded me of my Childhood. Virgin flesh, pink nail beds, and smooth fingers without any ring-lines triggered Melancholy.

My spirit feels like it is slouching; perhaps She is slowly decaying with an awareness of mortality.

But my finger taps to the distant tune. I want to keep up with the expected Pace, but I am often distracted. I lose count of the Beat set in double-time.

I cannot date a man who peels his banana carelessly. Or one who veers astray from the serrated edge of a paper towel. And no, these are NOT metaphors.

I walk into the moving Shadows to address my future, but endless Interruptions are insatiable. I sometimes daydream of waking up with Amnesia or a different face. Cast me away on a fishing boat to Sea, and I will be renewed.

I recently cut my hair short and tomorrow I might skip Lorealesce. A "sick day" seems imminent. I want to write beautiful words and release them on Bond paper to a blue stream during business hours.

And I have been told my mind skips around. And Maybe it is true, or maybe I am bored. And maybe I am constantly performing "gap analysis" on Society. Petrified by The Mediocre, I would rather keep moving.

And still, Narcissism sits soundly on my shoulder.

Age was tender;

My mind surrenders;

An image of;

A toddler, three.

Behold a face;

A familial trace;

Looking at her;

Her at me.

My baby sis,

Born March 23.

Cloistered in the north,

Old Woman calls forth,

in chant, protection

and benediction

for the ones she loves,

releasing the doves,

that carry their names.

                                    Cauldron licked by flames!

“Soil, grass and sun

join, become one,

add some water

and go further.

Open eyes to

See. Look into

Past, Future, Now,

Answers of ‘How?’”

                                   Rumble tub!

“Destitute

prostitute

you will be

motherly

to a king.

All will see

Bravery

spilling

from his

veins and

justice

will then

reign. You

mother,

rejoice.”

“Raised

And

praised,

crowned

and

sound,”

“Foul’s

not

found.”

Hush little baby

Don't say a word 

Mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird

And if a mocking bird won't do

Mama's gonna teach you

A thing or two

Cause in this world 

It's tit for tat

No more nic-nac-paddy-whack

Jack and Jill go up the hill

Where Jack falls down 

Fucked up on pills

Jill helps pay for Jack's drug habit

By rentin out 'er pussy 

To horny jackrabbits

Hey diddle diddle a cop and a fiddle

Jack gets high as the moon

Of course; Jill cries to get out of a pinch

In jail, Jacks a lil spoon

Now Jill's the old woman who lives in a shoe

Has so many children 

She doesn't know what to do

Feeds 'em govt cheese and govt bread

Whips them all soundly 

And puts 'em to bed

Then DCF comes

And takes 'em away

Bounces 'em round til they come of age

Then tosses 'em out, right on to the street

Delinquents and ruffians

Each one of em be

No parents or morals or nursery rhymes

No twinkle twinkle 

No little star shine

Hey diddle diddle a cat and a fiddle

Lost eyes stare at the moon

Childhood lost no future ahead

Her little soul left for ruin

**for my niece and the half dozen half siblings she'll never know...

This is the place of the dead wrapped in granite. 

I slumber on in silence alongside. 

The sky is wreathed in clouded shade

Like the grim mask of death

Where I long to rest. I fell into

The tranquil step of time, the hateful casement. 

The ice of the wind defeats me. 

I am granite like the rest. 

The fire in the belly is consuming, 

My bones, whitewashed and silent, quiet. 

Only my mouth betrays my scream. 

Opportune dialect of death

In the sea of Babel. 

They heard it, these icy denizens

That haunt the stones of pain and remorse. 

Their mouths cry out too,

Drunken in longing. 

I drink in the darkness hungrily. 

Cold envelopes and embraces me. Demons kiss away my faults.

The wheel turns on, crushing bones beneath

Its heavy, stony lust.  

This is hell among the living. 

The wind stoppers and stutters

In its song of life-bringing death. 

The seas rush in to break down granite

Towers of the daylight dead

And the sameness carries on as eons

Do, searing and rotting the flesh. 

The anchor of another likeness

Is tossed into the wind-swept bay. 

It electrifies me, this current of death. 

A black clad angel floats by 

In graceless waves of remorse and fatigue. 

This is a city of broken angels. 

Phantoms cloaked in sin and devastation. 

The barrooms are full of broken hearts. 

Here are the doctors to wake me,

To make me real once more. 

Shocking me upon a system of heated inconsistencies. 

I am reborn. Life among the deathless.