INTRODUCTION
Nestled in the forgotten ridges of the West Banks of Maine, under a near-constant cover of clouds and rain rested a small town called Amherst. Time almost stands still in the quiet quaint living town. A home for close-minded, but friendly humans who never fear hard work or the harsh winters.
Rows of two story homes littered the streets with decked porches and filled garages. Nothing particular occurs in the destined little town. Maine is afterall a rural state that reaps the benefits of possessing a mountain of natural remedies; the ocean, coastline, rivers, mountains, and lakes. The shimmering red plains truly shine in the heat of summer, and the thick evergreen forests glow in the winter.
Amherst, a town of friendly faces, that never asked questions or probed its nose in others business. A safe place to raise your children belted with morals, ethics, and little crime. That was, until one particular night, when an unnatural fire set the Mcalister family home ablaze.
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CHAPTER ONE
WHERE IT ALL STARTS
FLINT
"Listen son," my uncle says, scratching his chin, "it's only going to be for a year."
A year away from the little family I have or the friends I inquired about over the years. I would be uprooted to stay at a prissy boarding school offgrid in the mountains of Montanna. An entirely new environment that didn't have the infamous five seasons like Amherst does. Where summer is sublime even if it only lasts for two months, and fall is filled with crisp Friday stadium nights and gorgeous foliage of fiery red and orange. Winter, despite its harshness, is a gorgeous long season made for outdoor sports. If you've lived here long enough, the cold doesn't prick you. You're never bored when you can spend your days snowshoeing, nordic skiing, ice fishing, and hunting. Or my favorite season- mud. Tucked between the end of winter and beginning of spring, when the ground thaws and days grow with warmth. The ground thaws, softening from the harsh winter, and the world becomes brown. You get to laugh from your balcony watching as the town's eighty year old grump tears up the town on his atv like he's back to his prime years.
Amherst held the ability for time to stay still, and you'd be hard-pressed trying to find friendlier faces. It's old-fashioned and home to many. You can stroll through the woods when you need to be away from everyone and watch boats down at the coast. I'll never get tired of passing wide open fields and farms in the countryside- no matter the smell. It has everything. Hell, you receive a friendly wave from those who pass you in their pickup. Doesn't even matter if they know you or not. But they most likely do.
The part about living in a small town is that your dad likely knows the teller's father, and the nosey librarian's too. And your grandfather helped build the town's fire station. It's unheard of to keep your doors locked or to not have your car keys in the ignition- even when you're not around. You know everyone's secrets but never call them out on it like when the sheriff is cheating on his wife in his patrol car. You might even know who it was. Or when the neighbor's kid is tripping on salts again.
Even if nothing used to happen in my hometown, I can't imagine myself anywhere else. How could I uproot the seventeen years of my life where the air tastes of salt from the cleanness of the ocean? Where dinner comes from fresh lobster that's from the Porshe family at the docks or grown goods from the Owens farm. The thought of leaving my home to make a 39 hour drive to stay in Salem, Montanna turns my stomach. The place sounds rotten.
"It's just until things cool down."
Three hundred and sixty five days away from the only place that I've called home, because of a mistake I had no idea I could make. I try to grasp my uncle's words, but regret pools into my stomach. Washing dinner's contents violently. If only my dad was still here, he'd know what to do. He wouldn't ship me away.
"This is what your father would want, Flint." He said, gripping my shoulders so I would face him. "There's so much he never got to tell you, and I don't even know where to begin."
I try to pull my anger back. What caused the blazing fire to Bobby Mcalister's home in the first place. Control the reins on the fire that's sparking under my fingertips, but I feel powerless despite my newfounding… condition. "Don't say this is what dad would want! You don't-" I hate that my voice cracks, "-know that."
"I know this isn't what you want to hear, son." My uncle releases me, and the fire in my throat dims, "but I know more than you could bother to understand. This place- it's different, sure. It's where your mother went."
I never got to meet my mom. I was a breech baby, ripped from my mom's abdomen and born blue. I remember my dad describing that day a night from hell because he thought he lost us both. She passed away during childbirth due to hemorrhaging. But nearly everyone spoke about her as if she was a walking breathing angel. Dad even said that I got my ginger hair, turned-up nose, and brown eyes from her. He never went a day without mentioning about her and the way she used to scorch pans or dance freely in their hard times. Mom was dad's muse.
If it wasn't bad enough, I lost my dad in a collision three years ago. Mainers, like my pops, aren't afraid of a few inches of snow on the road. A foot of snow on the road will do little to none to keep a Mainer from going where they need to go. But one distracted driver was all it took to leave me with my reclusive uncle.
"What does that have to do with this?" I cry, holding out my hands that once held a glowing red hue. I can't control it nor can I summon whatever the hell it is. I wish it was gone. I didn't mean to do it. I just wanted Bobby to leave me alone.
"Everything, Flint." He says, not backing away. "You're a dragonling. Just like your mother."
What the hell is that?