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Inspiration

The journalist shifted in the wooden chair, eyes skimming distrustfully over his surroundings. When his supervisor called saying that they managed to get a rare interview with the infamous author sitting before him, the man had assumed that it would have taken place…well, in an actual building.

But then again, Mr. Fakir was always notorious for being a freak recluse, no matter how good his writing was. He simply refused to leave the lake. The journalist huffed silently; that was probably the only reason he was famous in the first place. Everyone liked reading about abnormal people.

And Fakir certainly fit the definition of abnormal. The journalist eyed him from over his notebook, taking in the scruffy appearance of the man. Clothes looking like they needed to be washed, hair bound in a messy ponytail and beginning to gray out in several areas, hands callused with old scars and years worth of words.… Considering he was rarely seen even outside of the lake, an article about meeting with him would definitely sell.

"Thank you for your time today," the journalist began politely, crossing his legs to rest his notepad and quill over. "I'm sure you're a very…busy man." Busy doing God knows what in this isolated area.

The author sitting across from him said nothing, obviously waiting for the massive amount of annoying questions to begin. It was clear he wasn't amused with the company, even if he agreed to it in the first place.

Resting the quill tip against his notebook, the journalist began, "Well then, let's get started. How long would you say it takes for you to complete a story, on average?"

He watched as Fakir seemed to think for a moment. "Depends on the story," was his answer.

Oh joy, the other man could already tell this was going to be just one big pain. "I mean, if you could estimate on an amount of time. On average."

"Like I said before, it depends on the story."

"—So about a week, then," the journalist said with a twitch in his eyebrow, scribbling the corresponding words to the paper in his lap. Whether or not Fakir took any offense to the gesture, he did not check."Now, how about characters? Would you tell me about them?"

"What about them," the writer asked gruffly, crossing his arms and looking clearly displeased that he allowed such a meeting to take place.

The journalist could only close his eyes and sigh—clearly, this was not going to be a simple questions-and-answer arrangement.

And several minutes later, nothing had changed. The interviewer practically had to force any sort of real response out of Fakir. They were all too vague, or showed that he really wasn't interested in his own works. Better that than to be subjected to the ramblings of a narcissist, the man supposed, but it wasn't making his damn job any easier.

When he was given a 'no preference' upon asking what his favorite inks and quills to use, the journalist finally had it. He threw his hands into the air and cried, "Well then, is there anything you can give me an actual answer to?"

The outburst was far from professional, but Fakir didn't show any shock or annoyance. Instead, all he did was close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "I suppose not," he said, beginning to show the hint of impatience his company already expressed.

"Really," the other man mused, leaning back in his chair with a creak. "So you can't say what you like writing with. You can't say what you like writing about. Is there anything you can say?"

Fakir replied coolly. "Do you have any questions that aren't absurdly vague?"

The journalist looked down at his notebook with a sheet full of questions that had already been crossed out. "Where is your favorite place to write?"

"Anywhere."

"Do you have a personal favorite work of yours?"

"No."

"Do you have a personal favorite work of someone else?"

"No."

"All right, then," the man practically grit through his teeth, realizing that he had reached the end of the long list of pre-written questions. His mind rapidly searched for questions of his own, until he looked up to Fakir, his hands thrown to the air in exaggeration. "Something that's not vague? Then tell me why you always have a duck in your stories."

For once, Fakir didn't respond readily.

In fact, he blinked, meeting the journalist's glare with an expression that almost looked intrigued.

The man lifted an eyebrow. It was a much different reaction than the previous drawling responses. "…What?"

"Nothing," Fakir responded, lifting a hand to touch along his chin. "It's just that no one has ever noticed before."

That was something that caught the interviewer off guard. Leaning forward, he immediately readied his quill to the bound notebook again. It was finally something different than a gruff answer at the very least. And he was legitimately surprised. His previous aggravated tone immediately went away. "…So you say? But they're everywhere. A major character, a pet, a description of one being in the background…."

"No one has ever brought it up before."

And suddenly it felt like the journalist was actually going to have some interest material for his article. Really, it was a stupid thing to notice when he was going through all of the author's works, but he did. Sometimes it was just blink-and-you'll-miss-it, but without fail—in every single published book, there was a duck.

"Could you explain this to me?" he asked, already jotting down the notes.

When Fakir didn't respond, the other man had to give a sharp exhale. It looked like a breakthrough, and he was going back to being silent? But when he looked up, he found that the dark-haired man's focus wasn't entirely on him anymore, instead his eyes trailing off to the water of the lake.

Following his line of sight, the journalist turned over in his seat and twisted his head to squint out over the water. For the most part, aside from the worn-down cottage all the way across from them, it looked to be completely isolated.

Except for a small white dot far off in the corner. The man almost didn't notice it at first, until he noticed it moving and stretching out its wings. It appeared to be the very species of animal he continually found in Fakir's works.

Without turning back, the man asked, "Are they your muses?" It wasn't an unheard of concept with the creative arts. Although he couldn't say he had heard of someone using such a strange animal as a duck for inspiration.

He heard the creaking of woodwork as Fakir leaned back in his seat across from him. After several seconds, he apprehensively responded.

"…I suppose you could say that."

And for some reason, that time the interviewer didn't grow irritated over his vague answer.

End