Chapter 1
Ashley
I believed in no gods, no blessings or luck,
no fate nor destiny,
I’m getting really good at this whole “professional disaster” thing.
My resume is basically just a list of places I’ve been kicked out of.
I should’ve just let it slide, but every time I swallow my anger, it turns into a heat in my chest begging to escape.
No one noticed the way the lights above the counter flickered, or how the hobs in the kitchen turned up a notch, but I did.
What’s the point of these abilities? They just keep getting in the way.
I can torch a skip, but I can’t hold down a simple job.
Over the years, I’ve tried to find work that fits around my magic, but everything centered around fire seems to be about prevention or extinguishing.
Not for me then. What kind of firefighter makes it worse?
Maybe I should take up a proper hobby. Like yoga.
Or therapy. Or setting small fires in my flat to ease my stress where no one can see.
But no, it seems I like to go nuclear in the middle of a seaside café full of screaming toddlers and slurping pensioners.
After a shouting match over the top of my exasperated manager, Brian, no…
Barry? Who gives a shit. I was escorted off the premises.
Brian-Barry apologised over and over, whilst the senile idiot muttered something about the tea being too watery anyway.
After wallowing in bed for a bit, I’m now perched on a damp, weather worn boulder watching the sunset.
My happy place. The frosty breeze nips at my cheeks, and my cardigan hangs from my bare shoulders.
How crazy I must look to the townsfolk hurrying past. They’re bundled in thick, fluffy layers, desperate to get home before the storm hits.
But I embrace the cold like an old friend.
Closing my eyes, I inhale the icy, salty air and a tiny raindrop lands on my nose.
When my lungs feel like they’re going to burst, I exhale to ten, like I’d been taught at my most recent anger management class.
It’s supposed to help me find my centre or whatever.
“Absolute bullshit,” I chuckle, lips pursed.
Flicking my lighter and inhaling my blunt instead.
At least I tried, right? I’m not an angry person, not at all.
I just haven’t always been able to control my powers, usually at inconvenient times, but what am I supposed to do?
Say, “No officer, I did not smash this bitch’s windscreen when she cut me off on the roundabout, I accidentally let magic loose when I pointed at her broken indicator.
” I’ll take the classes and driving ban, thanks.
Though I’ll admit, today wasn’t an accident exactly. Let’s call it self-defense.
The high kicks in and the waves slow their pace, daring me to take a step.
The irritation and sadness simmer down, replaced with that soft blur I chase every day.
This is why I smoke. Why I drink. Everything feels…
manageable. All those emotions are flushed out of my heart and into my body instead.
It’s better this way. I wander to the water’s edge, spinning in slow circles, toes dragging through the sand.
The sky’s on fire above me, yellows and bruised blues bleeding behind storm clouds.
I rummage through the smooth stones in my pocket, crouch low, and skim one across the water at a perfect angle, just like dad taught me.
Eight skips. Not my best, but not bad for being high.
Again. Six skips. Damn. Seven. Ten. Yes!
He’d be proud as hell. I spin, imagining him scooping me up and swirling me around.
“That’s my girl,” he’d say between big kisses and wild laughs.
The memory makes me check my pockets in a panic.
I didn’t throw the wrong one, did I? My fingers close around the jagged charcoal lump, thank heavens.
I hate that the only place I still feel him is here, on this beach, in a stupid rock.
Tucking it safely back into my cardigan, I take a dramatic drag from my blunt and bow deeply to my audience of waves as they roar with applause.
Ten skips’ bitches. The beautiful pain of the tide smacks my ankles, and the rain stops flirting and goes full apocalypse.
Like the sky decided to throw a tantrum to match mine.
My blunt dies in a hiss, my clothes cling to me, and my hair— Fuck, my hair.
I don’t want to spend another two hours straightening it again, so I yank my cardigan over my head and grab my shoes.
But something in the sky catches my eye.
The clouds look like they’re folding in on themselves, charging straight toward me like a herd of elephants.
I blink hard, trying to clear the fuzz from my vision.
It’s probably the high. It has to be the high.
Because clouds don’t do that. And they definitely don’t follow people.
The grains tickle between my toes, and I can’t help but squeal as I sprint home, the storm strong on my heels.
Figures. Guess I pissed the Gods off today too.