Bloom Willow Moriarty at barely eight years old stood in her grandmother’s green house giggling as the tomatoes ripened before her eyes at rapid speed. Her grandmother smiled fondly at her, “Careful now, we don’t want them turning bad,” she warned cheerfully,
“Okay, Nana,” she began picking them off the stalks and sitting them carefully in the basket, her soft blonde curls tickling her face as she brushed it back with a muddy hand. Her blue eyes sparkled with her rosy cheeks - the image of innocence.
Blossom Moriarty touched her soft wrinkled fingers to the soil and the stems of flowers protruded from the ground. Gardening was her muse and was so happy to see her granddaughter so intrigued. Her once blonde hair now silver and tied at the nape of her neck while she worked,
She watched as Bloom skipped across the dewy grass barefoot, in her worn out dungarees, daisies opening as she went; her powers were strong and she was trying very hard to control them, sometimes she just let it slip.
Scorcha Ashley Daniels stood in her local church with a box of matches lighting the candles for the morning prayers service. She checked over her shoulder and the other to make sure nobody was watching when she touched her finger to the wick and a golden flame flickered in it’s place. She grinned touching the next one and the next.
The few morning members filed in and Scorcha hid the matches and took her seat next to her father, singing out hymns from her book and listening to the prayers for others and silently wishing in her head.
Afterwards her father took her skinny hand in his and they walked down the overgrown path to the graveyard stopping at a tombstone. Her father took two chunky orange candles from his suit pocket and set them either side of the grave. He squeezed his daughter’s hand and they each clicked their fingers. Their eyes flashed amber. A flame resting on the finger tip as they lowered it to the wick and watched it burn.
“Happy birthday, mummy,” Scorcha mumbled, “I love you,”
“We both do, Edna, we love you,” Blaze Daniels murmured.
Flora River Frost sat in her tree house at the bottom of the garden forcing the raindrops to chase each other up the windowpane.
“C’mon, take the inside lane.... use him as a wind break....” she mumbled to herself. She was angry at her father for moving them out into he countryside because ‘her powers were out of control’. Please, they weren’t out of control! Most of the time....
Dark thunder clouds rolled in blocking out the sun and lightening flashed in the sky. Oops, maybe Dad was right. She still had to leave her friends behind. Rain poured - turning the grass into mud - again.
“Flo! DINNER!”
She darted through the droplets to the small river cottage they now lived in. Flo sat at the small table with her Dad and four-year-old-half-brother Jack in the high chair. The water on her clothes and hair slowly evaporated.
Skylar Anemone Tanberry sat on the wooden swing on the tree and it rocked back and forth in time with her breathing. The leaves on the ground began to dance although there wasn’t a chance of a breeze in the little clearing of the forest. Her hair swirled around her face.
She let out an angry huff at her lack of control with her gift and all the leaves on the tree, the swing was attached to, fell at once.
“Do not fret young one...” the wind whispered to her, “In time you will learn...”
She began swinging again. “To and fro... Stop and go... in and out... thin and stout.... For every high.. there is a low... and for every to there is a fro,” she smiled at the rhyme her Mother taught her.
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