This is the second part of a series entitled The Chicken is on Fire. In order to view part one click on this link. The Chicken is on Fire: Part One

My enthrallment with fire remained a burning providence. Abusive family dynamics proved only to add fuel upon my flaming instability. By design, my pyromania was set ablaze. Fire reigned king and I, its demented fiery queen. There remained numerous means whereby to render fire within the swamp town of Reaux, Louisiana. We find nary a shortage of mechanisms of which to summon the thing. My intoxicated foster parents, Debbie and Allen Robicheaux cast themselves as prodigious chain smokers with matches ever on hand.img_2482

We didn’t have much by virtue of possessions, but my foster parents invariably enjoyed the smokes. One need not have cash to acquire specific sundries within the trailer park economy. Food stamps, pills, whiskey, sex, smokes, baby formula, drugs, gas, voodoo (more on this later), were offered upon hallow alters of sacrificial currency. Those, the sacred things.

Exquisitely euphoric constructs of pathological fire setting remained for me; as the culminating strike upon match. Currents of tension release crested through my body, as I set my gaze upon the oxidated vista burgeoning amid the azure flames. Filching matches, and likewise stowing them in the course of the trailer grew to be more natural than breathing. My denim pockets, ever filled with the things, evoked sentiments of tranquility with power. The question then arose; what may come of my compulsion?








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