Thanks everyone for the comments on my last post! I never expected there to be so much interest in it, but obviously I was wrong :D I'll make more posts like that in the future. If you haven't seen the post click here.
Now, because I'm an epic fail, the story I said would only be 2000 words turned out to be over 4000. Hmmm. To make things up for you, I've split it up and named each part differently. Part 1 is Discovery and it's quite short. Enjoy!
*And yes this is the story with Fintan, Salvatore and Arianna in it, but you don;t meet the latter two until later*
Fintan sat on his bed and wriggled backwards. His legs were crossed beneath him and he could feel his thighs being squeezed by his black skinny jeans. He could smell the sweat coming out from under his arms, and the disgusting pair of socks that lay scattered on the floor, banished from his feet not two minutes before. The room was dark and silent, almost eerie. Fintan hadn’t wanted to turn the lights out, but he didn’t have a choice. He had to check whether what had happened in P.E was a fluke, a trick of light, his own imagination. There was only one way to find out...
Fintan laid his hands flat on the duvet, the palms facing upwards. He took a deep breath and curled his fingers round, turning his hand into a fist. Would it work? Part of him prayed it would - that part that longed to be different, that little part that said “Go stand on the roof naked! Eat ten jam doughnuts! Wear a multicoloured headband to school!” Most of the time those thoughts were pushed to the side, to make room for the part of him that wished it to be fake. The normal part. The part that wanted to be liked, the part that swept his fringe to the side when he saw Arianna, the girl he fancied, the part that screamed to be noticed even when he was sleeping. The rational part. The part boys very rarely seemed to have. Fintan shifted his position and took another deep breath. “Well. Here goes,” he whispered. He closed his eyes and opened his hand.
He knew it had worked before he had even seen the tiny flame spark from his palm. He had felt the tingling, the flash of heat and the hairs on his arms stand up on end. Fintan peeled his eyes apart and peeked at his hands. There were flames, miniature fires waving at him, moving in time to his pulse, his breath. They danced on his palm. Fintan stared at them for a moment, mesmerised. He closed his hands and tried again. The flames were bigger this time, brushing the tip of his hair. There was a sizzle and Fintan jumped backwards. His fingers flew to the tip of his hair. He touched it and felt tiny flakes of ash crumble onto the duvet. Pushing his hair behind his ear, he sat on his hands and furrowed his brow.
He could make fire from his palms. He could make fire. Fintan shook his head. That wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible. But it was. Three times it had happened, and twice he had burned his hair, making it curl and sizzle. The heat made his hair burn, but not his hand. It looked and acted like real fire, and it would probably burn paper with ease. But why? How? It made no sense. He hadn’t been able to do it yesterday. Or the day before. Or the day before that...
Fintan frowned and lay down on his bed. He flicked the light switch and the room lit up, bright as day. He glanced around the room. Presents and wrapping paper were strewn across the floor, video games like COD mixing with iTunes vouchers and silly little tops his Auntie still though he liked. He had forgotten that it was his birthday earlier. It was half twelve now, so that would make it yesterday that his birthday was. He had just turned fifteen.
Fintan turned his attention to the walls. His new Shrillrex posters hung from there, peeling at the edges. They couldn’t get used to the idea of being flat, not rolled up into a tube. The band members stood with their guitars by their sides and their black make-up rolling down their faces like tears. The black walls were dark and daunting to most people, but Fintan found them calming. He liked dark. He liked Goth. He loved heavy metal. He had dyed his hair black and grown it long when he was thirteen; he had started listening to Shrillex last year, before they were popular.
Fintan sighed and looked back up at the ceiling. He opened and closed his palm, watching out the corner of his eye. Sure enough, an orange and red spark floated upwards. Fintan carefully lifted his palm and pointed it downwards. The flame pointed downwards as well, dangling in mid-air. Fintan smiled. He could have fun with this. Maybe if he just...Fintan concentrated and the flame doubled in size. Fintan’s smile turned into a grin. Time to get experimenting.