Flicker & Burn

Alex- That's what I called myself, despite the fact that it wasn't my name. I'm not from here; I'm from a distant planet with a name that humans were incapable of pronouncing. My human 'guide' was killed at the hands of the alshirians- the ones that killed my planet. His last words were "find him," referring to the only other survivor of our planet. I will find him, and avenge David's death if it's the last thing I do. (First draft, read at your own risk.) copyright (c) 2013 of MyUsername.


1. Fires, The mother of all watchdogs, and a badass hobo.

The blaze started slowly. The couch went up in flames first, then the floor, then it crept up the walls, and hungrily licked the ceiling. 

Then it found me, sound asleep in my bed, without a fire alarm to wake me. I finally awoke, engulfed in flames, completely unharmed.That woke me up.  

Not againI groaned internally. This was probably the third time I'd set something on fire. Not with matches or a lighter; with my mind. Or something like that.

I could already hear sirens coming near, and I pulled myself out of the flaming pile of wood and ash that was once a bed, and casually strolled towards the rear door.    

The morning sun was glowing a brilliant yellow, the sky blue and cloudless.


Wonderful day for a house fire.   


I reached the end of the yard, jumped the short, wire fence with ease, and ended up in someone's back lawn. By the way, if you ever jump a fence, make sure there's not a aggressive, two-tonn mammoth of a watch dog on the other side.   Not my best move. The beast growled, and looked over my small form hungrily. This thing had been trained to kill. It lunged, sinking its teeth into my bare foot, and I cried out in pain. Flames started to flicker and dance on my palms as they often did when I was angry or in pain, and I pressed my hand between the dog's shoulder blades. It yelped and let go, and I ran, gritting my teeth and bearing the agony.  

I jumped over the front gate, careful to land on my undamaged foot. I leaned against a nearby lamppost, and examined my foot. Already healed. I smiled to myself, and it quickly became a frown as I realized I've no idea where I was going to sleep tonight. A Hotel? It's not like they're going to let in a barefoot teenager with an empty wallet. A park bench? Not an option.   

I've got just the place.


                                                                                   * * * * *  

Harlley mansion was supposedly one of the most haunted places in the state. That's what they wanted you to think. They being Al Henley, America's most bad ass homeless person, who lived in the place. As long as you stay away from the windows and let out a few blood curdling screams every once in a while, he'll let you stay in one of the rooms. None of the houses around it would sell, and the city was too scared to demolish it, so it was the perfect hideout.  

I sneaked in the back entrance, careful not to make a sound.


Al Henley was a big man in his forties. He had a thick mustache that he thought made him look intimidating, but in reality just made him look like a wannabe Hitler. The muscles handled the intimidation, in my opinion. He didn't faze me. I knew I could burn that mustache right off his face if I wanted to. He knew it too.

I'd been a bit of a regular last spring, and he'd made me very, very angry. I can't remember what he'd said to me, but it was enough to spark the fire on my palms. That was enough to scare him away from me for months at least.   He must have forgotten that incident today. Or perhaps it was the large amount of alcohol he'd been drinking. The latter was most likely.   

"Hey, girly," he slurred. "Haven't seen David in a while, how's he doing?," He proceeded to laugh as if he'd just cracked the funniest joke of all time. I wasn't laughing.

"It's funny, it's funny cause he's dead," he was asking for it.  

The flames started to flicker. Al's eyes widened.  

"You mention David again..." I didn't have to finish my sentence to get the job done. Al "muscles" Henley was thoroughly petrified.

 "I'll be upstairs." I brushed past the highly intoxicated and equally terrified Al.

                                                                            * * * * *  

I was concentrating on my hands. Nothing happened; not even a spark managing to fly off my fingertips.  

"I'm sorry."  

"It's not your fault," a man's voice answers.   


He wrapped me in a hug, and I could feel an almost fatherly love radiating from the smile he gave me.  

"Maybe it's not supposed to work like that. Maybe it only works when your angry."  


The entire scene changed, and there he was, pale and bloodied, a bullet through his heart. He was already dead I'd thought, but he seemed to come come back to life for a split second if only to choke out his last words.  

"Find him."

Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...