Time slowed as the flame lit up. Her friend’s excited voices, the conceited warnings of the fat elder women glued to a nearby bench, everything faded and she felt like she could hear the flame.
Obviously she could see it, and she felt its heat lick the edges of her face, but for the very first time, the girl was convinced that she could hear it. Not only its initial flaring up, which is common, but she could hear the infinite movement inside the flame. The chaos within it, its particles, infinite tiny beings, smashing in to each other with utter abandonment, obeying nothing but this momentary chaos.
The young girl felt immense power, this was not just chaos, it was her chaos, woven from her elegant hands, fueled by her calm eyes. How many men, she thought, would she feed it before her flame grew cold.
The bystanders, as intoxicated as they were, recoiled long before the pain even registered with Suzie. All she could think about in that moment of drunken stupor was the intense glow, beautiful in a way, and the distressed look from her father that was sure to follow at the end of the day. It all reminded her of Tyrone again.
She just finished school and then she went down the stairs with her 2 best friends amy and tash along the path. Amy was quiet and quiet all day she said. Tash said "wow"! she said what Tash said "flame" in her hands! She looked down wow
Not sure why this made me wheeze with laughter... it just seems oddly appropriate to the image and to what might actually be going through the minds of those girls
However, some of the vaccinated did not decay, but developed superpowers. Rumor has it that one of the chief physicians involved secretly spread some doses that did not contain a "cure" for COVID, but instead contained super serums to save the future from the vaccinated zombies. For example, Vanessa could throw fireballs for a limited time. In the gated COVID community she was nicknamed Pfizer girl because everyone sang "THIS GIRLS ON PFIZEEERRR".
Blooming gates of fire hold
within naught but black desire
of coals and men
Aye, the devil's wish it be
as for me
wieners of sombre nature I thoroughly inspire
As I looked into my hands, my mind was set ablaze with thoughts of fire. The creator and destroyer of civilization, the savior of humanity, the gift of Prometheus. I felt truly warm for the first time in years.
I have to admit I was quite sad that the day was over. The first day of the semester is often disappointing, but today was different. My breasts grew a bit over the summer and boys have started noticing me. The girls too. The polo t-shirt Maddie let me borrow really accentuated them.
While I admit that all the attention felt nice, it's telling how shallow everybody is. All I needed for people to notice me - to listen to my thoughts - was a few grams of fat glands and connective tissue growing on my chest.
But my breasts and disdain weren't the only things that grew, my pyrokinesis was getting stronger, and I knew what I must do...
She held the fire in her hands, skinny ruskie b***h. Why don’t you grow breasts you auschwitz ho motherfricker. Her pink shirt accentuated breasts that weren’t there. Flat frick. There is a man riding a horse on top of her chest, polo fresh. Her brown almond hair reminded me of almonds mixed with conconut. Her face looked like a 14 year old boy, hardening my 4 and one half inch member. In the upper right corner of my eye there was a carnival ride: I must be in a carnival. Wasn’t worth the price of admission for this gay shit
frick it I need some practice so I'm taking this way more seriously than I should
She felt all of its enrapture but none of its heat. A subtle stinging sensation that thawed the rigid limbs in her hands, making them limber again as the fire melted her nails and chewed on the webbing. To her it felt like the attempt of a dragon without teeth. Still too young to consume, but trying nonetheless. This was a good sign, the girl thought, it meant that the fire knew its nature, but not yet well enough that it impervious to her manipulating it.
She began to play with the hearth in her hands, raising her fingers, swaying her arms, leading it in dance. The inferno obeyed her with grace. She brushed the flames against herself in observation. Her cheek. Her nape. Her thigh. Her skin felt dry as it burned, the scorch marks left behind mimicking other natural blemishes found on her skin. Only her hands were numb to the pain. The rest of her -- the rest of the world -- remained vulnerable.
She clenched one fist shut and watched the flare flicker away, knowing it could be summoned again whenever she pleased. Before extinguishing the second flame, she brought it to her lips and cast it into her throat, swallowing its smoke and plumes. Her body twitched in revelry. It was too much to resist. Just think of how she could present this gift to others! Just think of the gratitude they would feel when she strangled them with her darling.
Kristiina Kivikeppi looked with amusement and disgust at the pink-gray lump of flesh resting in her cupped hands. The lump of flesh looked like a somatic coma, a human tadpole, an uterine shrimp. Small beads of black grew in its bulbous head. Two saplings, one lower than the other, grew from its pink transparent body like capillaries from a central root. The lump of flesh had reeked of menstrual discharge but, after a shower of vodka, it a gave a nice antiseptic scent.
“It looks so cute,” Marina Sooriist, Kristiina’s classmate, her friend, said and squealed like a quivering orgasmic pig.
Kristiina smirked.
Yes. Her embryo did look cute. She must thank her daddy for that, Martin Kivikepp. A model of Estonian fatherhood who fricked his own daughter senseless and raw to ensure the continuation of the pure white Estonian race in the face of the ever-present Russian menace and the ever-growing Black person threat.
Kristiina didn’t want kids from her father - she liked her grandfather more because he didn’t smell like a hobo that had rolled in coughed up cigarettes and vomited beer - so she aborted it.
To get rid of the evidence she and Marina had travelled from Nomme, where she lived in a two storey modern house surrounded by an apple orchard and other purebred inbred Estonians, to the Russian infested commie block dystopia that was Lasnamae. For the denouement of their abortion adventure Kristiina, due to her tender innocent age, had to offer herself to some Russian gopniks: hairless tattooed apes dressed in black leather and black trackpants, wearing flat caps, squatting, legs wide open, vodka in between, talking in the raspy throaty tones of a chronic cigarette abuser, and reminiscing of their romantic youth spent in penal colonies for rape, assault and after assault rape. Thanks to her efforts Kristiina now had bottle of vodka along with clumpy Russian cum on her mouth, tasting of cigarettes and poverty, and cold and clammy viscid Russian cum smeared around her c**t.
Kristiina and Marina stopped at a crossroad in the middle of deserted park. Kristiina checked around and found not a single body nearby (everyone who lives in Estonia - either Russian and Estonian - doesn’t have a soul anyway; it goes with the territory). The windows of the restaurant behind her, built in the shape of a medieval English inn, were dark. The parking lot to its left, empty. The entrance of the underground passage to her left looked deserted. The benches along the cobbled road behind Marina features no one excepted exploring carrion crows. The problem could come from the windows of the apartment building to her far left - a dull gray building made of a lattices of alternating balconies and windows both vertically and horizontally that was called khrushevka in Russianspeak. These building always features some retired derelicts, always of the female sex, who had nothing else to do but to sneak on others and gossip till their inevitable inglorious end.
Whatever. The faster she’ll end this the faster she can get back to fricking Black folk - they had some emotions, even if primitive, compared to the golem dumbness of Estonians. Every other girl does it. She didn’t want to be left behind.
“Wash it,” Kristiina said.
Marina smiled, turned the bottle of vodka up and doused once again the embryo in spirits.
“Now light it,” Kristiina said in a bossy voice.
“Aren’t you afraid to ger burnt?”
Kristiina shook her head. “My dad said we, Estonians, don’t burn. We’re the asbestos of the human race.”
“If you say so,” Marina whispered.
She brought a red lighter from her pocket and pressed its black stop. Orange flames appeared next to her thumb.
As Marina brought her lighter over Kristiina’s child, unripe, a large plume of fire appeared between Kristiina’s hands. It leaped right and left, split either at the top or the base and then reunited into one single tongue. The fetus at its root wrinkled, shriveled, turned black. It skin split. Ivory strands of fat oozed out and sizzled.
The fire petered out once the embryo turned into a shrunken coal, a three dimensional fat comma. It left behind a trail of dark gray smoke that vanished quickly into the evening gloom.
Marina sniffed and smiled.
“Smell like barbecue. Can I have it?”
“Be my guest,” Kristiina said as if Marina were asking a condom or a lipstick.
Marina squealed and, eyes tightly shut, jumped. She took the cooked embryo and put its front between her teeth. A loud crunch broke the evening’s silence.
“It’s actually good,” Marina said, chewing. “Like KFC.”
Kristiina didn’t care.
She smiled.
She could finally return on the never stopping carousel of frick.
I fricking hate Estonia. Living here is like being at the bottom of an outhouse.
Whatever. The faster she’ll end this the faster she can get back to fricking Black folk - they had some emotions, even if primitive, compared to the golem dumbness of Estonians. Every other girl does it. She didn’t want to be left behind.
“Wash it,” Kristiina said.
Marina smiled, turned the bottle of vodka up and doused once again the embryo in spirits.
“Now light it,” Kristiina said in a bossy voice.
“Aren’t you afraid to ger burnt?”
Kristiina shook her head. “My dad said we, Estonians, don’t burn. We’re the asbestos of the human race.”
“If you say so,” Marina whispered.
She brought a red lighter from her pocket and pressed its black stop. Orange flames appeared next to her thumb.
As Marina brought her lighter over Kristiina’s child, unripe, a large plume of fire appeared between Kristiina’s hands. It leaped right and left, split either at the top or the base and then reunited into one single tongue. The fetus at its root wrinkled, shriveled, turned black. It skin split. Ivory strands of fat oozed out and sizzled.
The fire petered out once the embryo turned into a shrunken coal, a three dimensional fat comma. It left behind a trail of dark gray smoke that vanished quickly into the evening gloom.
Marina sniffed and smiled.
“Smell like barbecue. Can I have it?”
“Be my guest,” Kristiina said as if Marina were asking a condom or a lipstick.
Marina squealed and, eyes tightly shut, jumped. She took the cooked embryo and put its front between her teeth. A loud crunch broke the evening’s silence.
“It’s actually good,” Marina said, chewing. “Like KFC.”
Kristiina didn’t care.
She smiled.
She could finally return on the never stopping carousel of frick.
I fricking hate Estonia. Living here is like being at the bottom of an outhouse.
"I hope this looks cool on the picture."
It did look pretty cool on the picture. But sweet Anastasia never forgot how hot the coolness could burn, and neither did she forget the coldness and cruelty of her classmates. They would all soon feel the flames of revenge lick their soft little toes with the heat of her passion.
She bobbed her hands back and forth, the other girl watching as she did. It wobbled gently, back and forth, off her palms. "Long enough."
The other girl looked over her shoulder at the short, grey convenience store with the cruddy red tile roof they'd passed on the way to the park. "Long enough for me to get marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate?"
"Hungry?"
"Just curious."
The girl smiled, and she nodded. Her friend nodded quick in return, and, a big, wide, fun look on her face, took off running for the store.
Pooling the flame in her right palm, holding it upright, the girl began to walk through the park. She bent every so often, looking for sticks.
As she reminisced Chad pumpin and dumpin her, rage filled her heart, but now focused and calm, she channeled the heat to her palms. Her fury is now her weapon
"She likes to play with her hands sometimes," Haley whispered to the newcomer. "Gets caught up in her own little—"
"I'm not deaf, you know," Lenora said, loud enough to make the other two flinch. Her eyes never left her hands, however; gliding through the air in random but precise movements as if strumming an invisible harp. And floating above it all: a throaty tune, vaguely reminiscent of the ancient melodies they studied in class.
"Why is she singing?" The new girl, Ashley, wished to be polite towards her new friends but was becoming acutely uncomfortable. All Haley could offer was a shrug and a nervous chuckle.
"It's best to leave her be, she'll be along soon."
Now this Lenora did not hear. The flames were the following the cadence of her song:
Stress... Release... Stress... Release...
If she lost her concentration for a moment, they would be gone and she didn't know when they'd come back. Or if they'd come back.
Stress... Release...
Just then, the headmaster walked out of Bellier-Kent Hall and saw Ms. Lenora Huston doing god knows what in the middle of the campus courtyard. But she had more important things to attend to.
Stress... Release... Stress... Release....
Stress...
Release...
The tendrils of the blaze scraped the sky itself...
Stress....
Release...
Stress...
And then a single gust of wind rushed through Cortland School for Girls. Hair blown about, Lenora watched as the flames came spiralling down and were extinguished in her lily palms. Catching her breath she listened and through the silence came the solemn tones of the old church bell.
"What's it calling out tonight, Lenora?"
"Ruach," she answered.
"Hmm, not this time." And before it left, the specter said "That was Hebel."
Lenora did not understand but she did not linger, in body or mind, because:
Everlasting flame, see me aiming at your face
Hundred meter blade, put him back inside his grave
I was so afraid 'cause I couldn't feel the pain
Standing in the rain, I put silver in my chain
i rub my hands along thy nuts
fire in my palm
you, my dear troon
are a man with many qualms
a homosexual, (YOU) are
a homosexual, you see
i run my hand along thy nuts
to fulfill his gentle homosexualry
"So then I was like, 'You better not, or I'm gonna tell Valorie and she-"
A hot tingling on the back of Emily's neck stole her attention from her friend's story. "Sec, someone sent a vis." She paused on the path and cupped her hands, channeling to interface with the school's thermavisus. In the space above her gesture, an invisible veil lifted to reveal a flaming figure, like a curtain being drawn to reveal an actor centerstage.
It began to dance in the grammar adapted to message-by-flame. "Come. Home. Early. Soon. Surprise. Visitor. Mom."
Now, as mentioned in the summis desiderantes affectibus of Pope Innocent VIII, there are seven forms of harmful magic whereby sexual intercourse and conceptions in the womb can be poisoned by various acts of harmful magic; first, by changing people's minds towards excessive love, etc.; secondly, by obstructing the power to procreate; thirdly, by taking away parts of the body which are appropriate for that act; fourthly, by using the art of illusion to create unnatural phenomena; fifthly, by destroying the power to procreate, which belongs to females; sixthly, by procuring a miscarriage; seventhly, by offering small children, but not other animals and fruits of the earth, to evil spirits, thereby enabling them to cause all sorts of harm.
I need a female so bad. But I always end up in a relationship and this kills the love. I wish I could be cool enough to just frick around but somehow I seem more like a guy for sonething stable, instead for adventure. Fricking hell.
Now let me tell you child, of a war that is about to come. Since time unremembered, there have been two. One dark and unforgiving, the other pure and filled with light. At the dawn of war I stand alone, looking out at what will be the last battlefield. For winter is coming... and I am a princess
>a creature void of empathy
Women are well known for being the emotional and empathetic sex. Maybe your mom is an exception, but she’s not indicative of her sex
I see more women than men in my life. There’s four of them near me now.
This is the stupidest accusation going against centuries of consensus. And loads of proof that males get battered into emotional moronation. Stoicism? The army? “Boys don’t cry”?
Fricking fraud.
2 years ago
Anonymous
nice try, woman! your tricks won't work on me!
2 years ago
Anonymous
>nice try, woman!
This is true, but my previous post wasn’t a trick.
2 years ago
Anonymous
that is precisely what i would expect a woman to say
Watching her watch the flame flicker high between cupped fingers, I studied her visage, waiting for a stray ember to spoil her even gaze. Nothing came: the surface of her palms remained flawless, taut dermis untouched by blisters, the diaphanous hair ridging her thin wrists intact. Passerbys and roving junkies ignored us. For a moment I wondered if she really existed, if perhaps now I'd wake from stupor, and she'd decompose into waking delusion, the scent of ethanol coming off of her porcelain hand fading into the pungence of plastic-bottle vodka and of vomit smeared across my upper lip. She'd wince in pain, her party trick gone awry; I'd taste particles of her charred skin, young and piquant. Over the following weeks, traces of her lost flesh would be found hidden in the footnotes of a decades-old film studies paper, wedged between the fibers of blouses by Brandy Melville, smeared across the wipe frames of moeshit, and scattered through the audit logs of pro-ana chatrooms. Years later we'd get together to laugh about it, aroused by our failures, our years in the slave quarters, our fatal foolishness, the yearning dal segno al coda.
Polished white hands grasped at the flame, devoid of understanding yet gripped harshly by feeling. A warmth that came from within, rather than without. It was as though eventide lay within her palm, an infinity just tangible to the touch. What was of her spark had emanated for all to see.
Her friends gathered in awe, and wonder; and longed to see the flame, thither there upon her hand, shimmering, and eventually withering.
This was a first brush with the truth of things, but for the young girls there, most certainly their last.
>whips out wiener >pisses on her fire, saving her from a fiery death >her girlfriends make a circle around us until we finish making love in the middle of the park >give her my new novel so she has better ideas to impress her cult >never see her again except occasional stalking to ascertain if she ages or not... in the latter case befriending her as she is pretty and smart
Once mom and dad started fighting over the hotel's mashed potatoes, she knew she had to go. Amélie wolfed down her plate and ran off to meet her friends at the patio, in front of the plastic castle; blessed be they, for salvaging this shitty vacation. Stone-tiled floors greyed the landscape further, until all was the dull blue-green of an oncoming evening. No girls. But, it didn't take long until the rose-gold of Mary's jacket stained the view; and ah, the indispensable pop of a gum-bubble. She put her phone away once she was at speaking distance, then drew her breath.
"Do they not get tired of it at all?" Mary started. Must've seen the text.
"They'll fight over specks of dust if you let them." Amélie sighed. "D'you see the other girls?"
"I think Pam's still at the hiking trail with Gem, and Claire's getting dressed. But they'll be here soon."
"Kay. I don't feel so well, right now."
"Hm?" One eyebrow raised. Bubblegum chewing, blowing---pop.
"It's just ...." Her eyes wandered to the castle, then the tiny, insignificant cardboard princess stuck inside. "Shit gets tiring, really really fast. I keep wishing to run away and take life in my own two hands, but I'm never allowed to. Never allowed." Nascent tears blurred the sight of her open palms, until one of them gave in and fell. It evaporated on her hand. "I'm stuck in this shitty family. It's like all I can do is wait for a 'prince' to come and save me, and I can't go looking for him."
"You're not the only one." Mary looked right then left---still no girls. "My mom doesn't let me see Brandy anymore."
"Is it because of that ... that party? I'm sorry."
"Actually, she caught us trying weed---don't do it, by the way, shit sucks. Like," chewing, pop, "just because of this one frickup, I can't be with my future husband anymore. She took away my kit, too, fricking ... b***h."
"Wait, what? When was this?"
"Right before we got here, I think. Like two days before. It's why Brandy didn't come."
Without a kit, she couldn't sell her embroidery, which meant no money of her own, so no going out. And if Mary couldn't go out, Amélie couldn't see her. Which meant ....
It came, the urge to burst and rain all over her friend's shoulder, and she could only watch it happen---or so she thought. The tightness in her chest was there, the lump in her throat, the filling nose. But she just felt hot---her hands, especially. Tingly. When she saw her palms again, out came sparks. Sparks turned into flickering lights, turned into a growing flame. A sudden burst of red, yellow, orange heat, tearing apart the cold air. Amélie flinched, Mary flinched, gasped---"What the frick?"---but curiousity overcame shock. First instinct was to shake the fire away, like one shakes water off clean hands, but this only angered it.
"Ah, what now, what now?"
"I don't know---how much does it hurt?"
"No, it ... it doesn't."
The fire mirrored her increasing calm. Waving, puffing up, splashing her plain getup with a red glow.
"Why is it like that?" Mary said.
"I have no idea. But ... it's pretty."
She hovered her other hand on the fire, but found it didn't burn. Soon enough, she passed the fire from one hand to the other, and back, and again. Mary watched, hypnotized, mouth agape. Amélie, however, never felt this alive before.
A darker shade of blue, darker the azure of the afternoon, rolled over the sky from west to east: from the orange, red, and yellow inferno of the embrace between the sun and the earth on the horizon the wave of indigo blue eastwards spread and brought sparkling stars in the sky, deepened the blackness of the shadows on the ground, enchanted the urban spaces, the parks, the medieval playground, the block of flats down the cobbled path, past the rim of the garden, with an otherworldly blue. Veronika, thirteen, felt at home within this ephemeral stretch of time that lasted from the deepening of blue to the first pop of the faint streetlight yellow. She always believed that at this dusk anything could happen. Anything. Fairies could appears, monsters could roam, doorways into other worlds could open.
Veronika felt as if the gloom whispered to her the way she imagined her crush, that black haired, chocolate skinned classmate, would whisper: quietly, gently, in warm hushed tones. The gloom pulled at her hear and beckoned her to go somewhere else; told her that she was an alien, an outsider, a being extraneous to the human race; warned that she must return home otherwise the people she considered her family, her friends, would frick her over. Maim her.
Although she had tried to push this feeling of alienation away by drowning in studies and mimicking the behaviour of her peers - their gossip, their throaty nasal accent, their flirting with boys who seemed to her like aborted alopecic apes - it still came over her and enveloped her and made her look at the bedlam of her class - the violence, barely inhibited, of the males and the bestial eroticism of the females - from the viewpoint of an outsider that had come to earth from the transplutonic space.
“Are you listening to ME?”
That was Viktoria. Someone Veronika had, until recently, considered a friend. Now that Viktoria’s pink shirt bumped in the front and Viktoria’s buttocks swayed her short khaki skirt she had turned into a backstabbing boy loving b***h. Like all the others Viktoria developed a feverish interest in boys and grew fierce in the struggle for their simian hairy wiener, especially if the wiener belonged to someone all girls liked. Like Artyom, the israeliteeler’s spawn, or George, the marketing manager’s son.
“Sorry,” Veronika said. She pushed a strand of hair behind her right ear. “I zoned out. Thinking about the test.”
“Forget about the TEST! I’m going out with Tyoma. I’m so fricking happy,” Viktoria said.
Veronika wished he could be as stupid happy as them.
Instead of genital heat, the blood call for mating, puberty brought to Veronika peculiar things. The palms of her hands turned red and tingled every time she thought about her crush or experienced the sweet warm wetness between her legs; and when she, simmering in a bath and rubbing, reached that point when drilling pleasure gripped her for a few eternal seconds her body felt as hot and liquid as lava and afterward she opened her eyes and discovered that her bathtub was dry and the room filled with vapour.
Veronika’s right hand tingled, like a leg that had fallen asleep, then burned, as if dropped into boiling water. That was another thing Veronika didn’t like about puberty: the sensual thoughts came whenever they liked and aroused her, made her wet, against her will. Then the burning came.
“I wonder how’s big Tyoma’s down there, you know, because Katja said he’s hung like a fricking gorilla but-WHAT THE FRICK, VEE,” Viktoria shouted and jumped away from Veronika, clutching the strap of her purse. Her face was pale, her eyes wide open.
A soft yellow orange glow lightened Veronika’s pink shirt and khaki blouse.
Veronika looked down. Gasped.
Her whole right hand, from the fingers to the wrist, was enveloped in a single tongue of flame: incandescent yellow in the middle that turned vibrant orange at the rims.
“You’re burning,” Viktoria shouted. “Why aren’t you burning?”
Veronika lifted her hand. The flame moved away from her wrist, leaving behind skin white, virginal, untouched, and gathered around her fingertips. It wavered and shuddered from the light evening breeze.
Viktoria, still clutching the belt of her purse, approached Veronika. One step. Two step. Stop.
“What the frick are you?” she, her voice trembling, asked.
Veronika looked at Viktoria’s face - pale, her mouth an O, her eyes wide as saucers, her lips twitching, her forehead glimmering from a filigree tapestry of sweat - and understood she would never be accepted.
Never.
and now do I come to life, who holds me, to whom possessest me? Oh I don't know how long i'll be here for, but i'm here. She's a pretty one. She doesn't even seem afraid, besides what I can tell from her eyes.
hands on fire
hot hot hands
hand so hot you can fry an eg
this is hot because of the fire on the hands
"Gosh damn, they're getting hot" Claire thought to themself, while her hands were on fire.
Fire mitts and flat breasts.
The fire roared not far from her flat breasts. *It burns* she thought, as her hands were aflame.
She thought of home.
hand so hot
u fry an eg
Time slowed as the flame lit up. Her friend’s excited voices, the conceited warnings of the fat elder women glued to a nearby bench, everything faded and she felt like she could hear the flame.
Obviously she could see it, and she felt its heat lick the edges of her face, but for the very first time, the girl was convinced that she could hear it. Not only its initial flaring up, which is common, but she could hear the infinite movement inside the flame. The chaos within it, its particles, infinite tiny beings, smashing in to each other with utter abandonment, obeying nothing but this momentary chaos.
The young girl felt immense power, this was not just chaos, it was her chaos, woven from her elegant hands, fueled by her calm eyes. How many men, she thought, would she feed it before her flame grew cold.
I just know you have a Wattpad kek. Link it.
Nice! May Chaos take the world!
dam he do strutt
Ow, shit that burns! Did you get the picture?
She looked for me in those flames. She found me on her blistered palms.
that has a nice ring
Kino...but delusional
The bystanders, as intoxicated as they were, recoiled long before the pain even registered with Suzie. All she could think about in that moment of drunken stupor was the intense glow, beautiful in a way, and the distressed look from her father that was sure to follow at the end of the day. It all reminded her of Tyrone again.
She just finished school and then she went down the stairs with her 2 best friends amy and tash along the path. Amy was quiet and quiet all day she said. Tash said "wow"! she said what Tash said "flame" in her hands! She looked down wow
Not sure why this made me wheeze with laughter... it just seems oddly appropriate to the image and to what might actually be going through the minds of those girls
ayyo pawg b***h be tripping balls das hot frfr no cap
>oooh oooh oooh its hot hot hot
His hands were on fire
sexist chud
wypipo be like dis hand too spicy
That's Black person free zone, sir.
However, some of the vaccinated did not decay, but developed superpowers. Rumor has it that one of the chief physicians involved secretly spread some doses that did not contain a "cure" for COVID, but instead contained super serums to save the future from the vaccinated zombies. For example, Vanessa could throw fireballs for a limited time. In the gated COVID community she was nicknamed Pfizer girl because everyone sang "THIS GIRLS ON PFIZEEERRR".
hands in flame
yearning for mine
touch close to
disaster
- poopi
The element of fire and heat represents her insatiable lust for wiener.
she's 25 years old you sick frick
Blooming gates of fire hold
within naught but black desire
of coals and men
Aye, the devil's wish it be
as for me
wieners of sombre nature I thoroughly inspire
good
do you try to hide your pretentiousness?
You wouldn't be asking then, would you.
Ayoo shitz finna lit frfr on god no cap
gem
>Write something about this image in your best prose
Why?
jesus…
Aim to skies your flame,
Millennial fireworker:
In flare return to air.
As I looked into my hands, my mind was set ablaze with thoughts of fire. The creator and destroyer of civilization, the savior of humanity, the gift of Prometheus. I felt truly warm for the first time in years.
I have to admit I was quite sad that the day was over. The first day of the semester is often disappointing, but today was different. My breasts grew a bit over the summer and boys have started noticing me. The girls too. The polo t-shirt Maddie let me borrow really accentuated them.
While I admit that all the attention felt nice, it's telling how shallow everybody is. All I needed for people to notice me - to listen to my thoughts - was a few grams of fat glands and connective tissue growing on my chest.
But my breasts and disdain weren't the only things that grew, my pyrokinesis was getting stronger, and I knew what I must do...
I was hot.
It's time everybody else was too.
>it took 38 replies for a stereotypical description of a woman by a man in literature to appear
Is IQfy filled with illiterate people or women?
illiterate people
C'mon now. That was satire. I thought I made it obvious.
>samegay
Nope.
>shit prose
I'd say Poe's law, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and promise to do better next time.
samegay plus shit prose.
>But my breasts and disdain weren't the only things that grew...
Jesus Christ.
that's my favorite line!
She held the fire in her hands, skinny ruskie b***h. Why don’t you grow breasts you auschwitz ho motherfricker. Her pink shirt accentuated breasts that weren’t there. Flat frick. There is a man riding a horse on top of her chest, polo fresh. Her brown almond hair reminded me of almonds mixed with conconut. Her face looked like a 14 year old boy, hardening my 4 and one half inch member. In the upper right corner of my eye there was a carnival ride: I must be in a carnival. Wasn’t worth the price of admission for this gay shit
~To summon back the fire witch / to the court of the crimson king~
She held fire in her hands. I imagined her engulfed in flames, in exquisite agony, struggling to breathe.
frick it I need some practice so I'm taking this way more seriously than I should
She felt all of its enrapture but none of its heat. A subtle stinging sensation that thawed the rigid limbs in her hands, making them limber again as the fire melted her nails and chewed on the webbing. To her it felt like the attempt of a dragon without teeth. Still too young to consume, but trying nonetheless. This was a good sign, the girl thought, it meant that the fire knew its nature, but not yet well enough that it impervious to her manipulating it.
She began to play with the hearth in her hands, raising her fingers, swaying her arms, leading it in dance. The inferno obeyed her with grace. She brushed the flames against herself in observation. Her cheek. Her nape. Her thigh. Her skin felt dry as it burned, the scorch marks left behind mimicking other natural blemishes found on her skin. Only her hands were numb to the pain. The rest of her -- the rest of the world -- remained vulnerable.
She clenched one fist shut and watched the flare flicker away, knowing it could be summoned again whenever she pleased. Before extinguishing the second flame, she brought it to her lips and cast it into her throat, swallowing its smoke and plumes. Her body twitched in revelry. It was too much to resist. Just think of how she could present this gift to others! Just think of the gratitude they would feel when she strangled them with her darling.
Kristiina Kivikeppi looked with amusement and disgust at the pink-gray lump of flesh resting in her cupped hands. The lump of flesh looked like a somatic coma, a human tadpole, an uterine shrimp. Small beads of black grew in its bulbous head. Two saplings, one lower than the other, grew from its pink transparent body like capillaries from a central root. The lump of flesh had reeked of menstrual discharge but, after a shower of vodka, it a gave a nice antiseptic scent.
“It looks so cute,” Marina Sooriist, Kristiina’s classmate, her friend, said and squealed like a quivering orgasmic pig.
Kristiina smirked.
Yes. Her embryo did look cute. She must thank her daddy for that, Martin Kivikepp. A model of Estonian fatherhood who fricked his own daughter senseless and raw to ensure the continuation of the pure white Estonian race in the face of the ever-present Russian menace and the ever-growing Black person threat.
Kristiina didn’t want kids from her father - she liked her grandfather more because he didn’t smell like a hobo that had rolled in coughed up cigarettes and vomited beer - so she aborted it.
To get rid of the evidence she and Marina had travelled from Nomme, where she lived in a two storey modern house surrounded by an apple orchard and other purebred inbred Estonians, to the Russian infested commie block dystopia that was Lasnamae. For the denouement of their abortion adventure Kristiina, due to her tender innocent age, had to offer herself to some Russian gopniks: hairless tattooed apes dressed in black leather and black trackpants, wearing flat caps, squatting, legs wide open, vodka in between, talking in the raspy throaty tones of a chronic cigarette abuser, and reminiscing of their romantic youth spent in penal colonies for rape, assault and after assault rape. Thanks to her efforts Kristiina now had bottle of vodka along with clumpy Russian cum on her mouth, tasting of cigarettes and poverty, and cold and clammy viscid Russian cum smeared around her c**t.
Kristiina and Marina stopped at a crossroad in the middle of deserted park. Kristiina checked around and found not a single body nearby (everyone who lives in Estonia - either Russian and Estonian - doesn’t have a soul anyway; it goes with the territory). The windows of the restaurant behind her, built in the shape of a medieval English inn, were dark. The parking lot to its left, empty. The entrance of the underground passage to her left looked deserted. The benches along the cobbled road behind Marina features no one excepted exploring carrion crows. The problem could come from the windows of the apartment building to her far left - a dull gray building made of a lattices of alternating balconies and windows both vertically and horizontally that was called khrushevka in Russianspeak. These building always features some retired derelicts, always of the female sex, who had nothing else to do but to sneak on others and gossip till their inevitable inglorious end.
Whatever. The faster she’ll end this the faster she can get back to fricking Black folk - they had some emotions, even if primitive, compared to the golem dumbness of Estonians. Every other girl does it. She didn’t want to be left behind.
“Wash it,” Kristiina said.
Marina smiled, turned the bottle of vodka up and doused once again the embryo in spirits.
“Now light it,” Kristiina said in a bossy voice.
“Aren’t you afraid to ger burnt?”
Kristiina shook her head. “My dad said we, Estonians, don’t burn. We’re the asbestos of the human race.”
“If you say so,” Marina whispered.
She brought a red lighter from her pocket and pressed its black stop. Orange flames appeared next to her thumb.
As Marina brought her lighter over Kristiina’s child, unripe, a large plume of fire appeared between Kristiina’s hands. It leaped right and left, split either at the top or the base and then reunited into one single tongue. The fetus at its root wrinkled, shriveled, turned black. It skin split. Ivory strands of fat oozed out and sizzled.
The fire petered out once the embryo turned into a shrunken coal, a three dimensional fat comma. It left behind a trail of dark gray smoke that vanished quickly into the evening gloom.
Marina sniffed and smiled.
“Smell like barbecue. Can I have it?”
“Be my guest,” Kristiina said as if Marina were asking a condom or a lipstick.
Marina squealed and, eyes tightly shut, jumped. She took the cooked embryo and put its front between her teeth. A loud crunch broke the evening’s silence.
“It’s actually good,” Marina said, chewing. “Like KFC.”
Kristiina didn’t care.
She smiled.
She could finally return on the never stopping carousel of frick.
I fricking hate Estonia. Living here is like being at the bottom of an outhouse.
pathetic
I hate women so much it makes me realize how much I hate women.
"Cool", she said, oblivious to the irony.
Lemuria's friend asker her for a high five. "Hot five?" she replied dumbingly. "NO b***h NOOO" her friend shrieked.
ow that's hot
"I hope this looks cool on the picture."
It did look pretty cool on the picture. But sweet Anastasia never forgot how hot the coolness could burn, and neither did she forget the coldness and cruelty of her classmates. They would all soon feel the flames of revenge lick their soft little toes with the heat of her passion.
Worst handjob ever
"How long can you keep it going?"
She bobbed her hands back and forth, the other girl watching as she did. It wobbled gently, back and forth, off her palms. "Long enough."
The other girl looked over her shoulder at the short, grey convenience store with the cruddy red tile roof they'd passed on the way to the park. "Long enough for me to get marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate?"
"Hungry?"
"Just curious."
The girl smiled, and she nodded. Her friend nodded quick in return, and, a big, wide, fun look on her face, took off running for the store.
Pooling the flame in her right palm, holding it upright, the girl began to walk through the park. She bent every so often, looking for sticks.
comfykino
i like it anon
I like this one. Comfy kino indeed.
The tears of israelites burn bright.
>tfw no insane private school gf
UUOOOHHHHHH NEEDS CORRECTION
As she reminisced Chad pumpin and dumpin her, rage filled her heart, but now focused and calm, she channeled the heat to her palms. Her fury is now her weapon
Gradually, I began to hate them.
"Hey lois remember the time that schoolgirl's hands caught on fire"
tiddies
"She likes to play with her hands sometimes," Haley whispered to the newcomer. "Gets caught up in her own little—"
"I'm not deaf, you know," Lenora said, loud enough to make the other two flinch. Her eyes never left her hands, however; gliding through the air in random but precise movements as if strumming an invisible harp. And floating above it all: a throaty tune, vaguely reminiscent of the ancient melodies they studied in class.
"Why is she singing?" The new girl, Ashley, wished to be polite towards her new friends but was becoming acutely uncomfortable. All Haley could offer was a shrug and a nervous chuckle.
"It's best to leave her be, she'll be along soon."
Now this Lenora did not hear. The flames were the following the cadence of her song:
Stress... Release... Stress... Release...
If she lost her concentration for a moment, they would be gone and she didn't know when they'd come back. Or if they'd come back.
Stress... Release...
Just then, the headmaster walked out of Bellier-Kent Hall and saw Ms. Lenora Huston doing god knows what in the middle of the campus courtyard. But she had more important things to attend to.
Stress... Release... Stress... Release....
Stress...
Release...
The tendrils of the blaze scraped the sky itself...
Stress....
Release...
Stress...
And then a single gust of wind rushed through Cortland School for Girls. Hair blown about, Lenora watched as the flames came spiralling down and were extinguished in her lily palms. Catching her breath she listened and through the silence came the solemn tones of the old church bell.
"What's it calling out tonight, Lenora?"
"Ruach," she answered.
"Hmm, not this time." And before it left, the specter said "That was Hebel."
Lenora did not understand but she did not linger, in body or mind, because:
She was late for dinner.
aids made me gay, but the fire,
oh the fire
it stayed
Not a great fan of this one, but I like the implication that Lenora was the only one that could see the fire.
Everlasting flame, see me aiming at your face
Hundred meter blade, put him back inside his grave
I was so afraid 'cause I couldn't feel the pain
Standing in the rain, I put silver in my chain
i rub my hands along thy nuts
fire in my palm
you, my dear troon
are a man with many qualms
a homosexual, (YOU) are
a homosexual, you see
i run my hand along thy nuts
to fulfill his gentle homosexualry
"So then I was like, 'You better not, or I'm gonna tell Valorie and she-"
A hot tingling on the back of Emily's neck stole her attention from her friend's story. "Sec, someone sent a vis." She paused on the path and cupped her hands, channeling to interface with the school's thermavisus. In the space above her gesture, an invisible veil lifted to reveal a flaming figure, like a curtain being drawn to reveal an actor centerstage.
It began to dance in the grammar adapted to message-by-flame. "Come. Home. Early. Soon. Surprise. Visitor. Mom."
I'm a little prostitute, but with hands on fire.
Now, as mentioned in the summis desiderantes affectibus of Pope Innocent VIII, there are seven forms of harmful magic whereby sexual intercourse and conceptions in the womb can be poisoned by various acts of harmful magic; first, by changing people's minds towards excessive love, etc.; secondly, by obstructing the power to procreate; thirdly, by taking away parts of the body which are appropriate for that act; fourthly, by using the art of illusion to create unnatural phenomena; fifthly, by destroying the power to procreate, which belongs to females; sixthly, by procuring a miscarriage; seventhly, by offering small children, but not other animals and fruits of the earth, to evil spirits, thereby enabling them to cause all sorts of harm.
Waves of warmth enclosed
A well of wrath micro-dosed
"Frick, we need to go"
Her touch so hot
I can't endure
Scorching my flesh
Yet looks so pure
Gallons of cum
No exaggeration
Her Flame, my Sperm
Denaturation
Woman hand burny she care no for it
I need a female so bad. But I always end up in a relationship and this kills the love. I wish I could be cool enough to just frick around but somehow I seem more like a guy for sonething stable, instead for adventure. Fricking hell.
zorra con manos de fuego,
mientras me hace una paja
se mete el deo en el bujero
i hate women
In the first age...in the first battle....
?t=56
Now let me tell you child, of a war that is about to come. Since time unremembered, there have been two. One dark and unforgiving, the other pure and filled with light. At the dawn of war I stand alone, looking out at what will be the last battlefield. For winter is coming... and I am a princess
the woman, a creature void of empathy and with evil to its core, can conjour a flame at will
>a creature void of empathy
Women are well known for being the emotional and empathetic sex. Maybe your mom is an exception, but she’s not indicative of her sex
>t. has never seen a woman
I see more women than men in my life. There’s four of them near me now.
This is the stupidest accusation going against centuries of consensus. And loads of proof that males get battered into emotional moronation. Stoicism? The army? “Boys don’t cry”?
Fricking fraud.
nice try, woman! your tricks won't work on me!
>nice try, woman!
This is true, but my previous post wasn’t a trick.
that is precisely what i would expect a woman to say
Watching her watch the flame flicker high between cupped fingers, I studied her visage, waiting for a stray ember to spoil her even gaze. Nothing came: the surface of her palms remained flawless, taut dermis untouched by blisters, the diaphanous hair ridging her thin wrists intact. Passerbys and roving junkies ignored us. For a moment I wondered if she really existed, if perhaps now I'd wake from stupor, and she'd decompose into waking delusion, the scent of ethanol coming off of her porcelain hand fading into the pungence of plastic-bottle vodka and of vomit smeared across my upper lip. She'd wince in pain, her party trick gone awry; I'd taste particles of her charred skin, young and piquant. Over the following weeks, traces of her lost flesh would be found hidden in the footnotes of a decades-old film studies paper, wedged between the fibers of blouses by Brandy Melville, smeared across the wipe frames of moeshit, and scattered through the audit logs of pro-ana chatrooms. Years later we'd get together to laugh about it, aroused by our failures, our years in the slave quarters, our fatal foolishness, the yearning dal segno al coda.
She's how I imagined Albertine to look, in Vol 2 of ISOLT.
Polished white hands grasped at the flame, devoid of understanding yet gripped harshly by feeling. A warmth that came from within, rather than without. It was as though eventide lay within her palm, an infinity just tangible to the touch. What was of her spark had emanated for all to see.
Her friends gathered in awe, and wonder; and longed to see the flame, thither there upon her hand, shimmering, and eventually withering.
This was a first brush with the truth of things, but for the young girls there, most certainly their last.
>Sorry, I don't get wet.
lay down: i lie again
my hands of fire
talking so confident
my small empire
my friends
somewhere in dinky
my bad
should've know you're busy
>whips out wiener
>pisses on her fire, saving her from a fiery death
>her girlfriends make a circle around us until we finish making love in the middle of the park
>give her my new novel so she has better ideas to impress her cult
>never see her again except occasional stalking to ascertain if she ages or not... in the latter case befriending her as she is pretty and smart
Once mom and dad started fighting over the hotel's mashed potatoes, she knew she had to go. Amélie wolfed down her plate and ran off to meet her friends at the patio, in front of the plastic castle; blessed be they, for salvaging this shitty vacation. Stone-tiled floors greyed the landscape further, until all was the dull blue-green of an oncoming evening. No girls. But, it didn't take long until the rose-gold of Mary's jacket stained the view; and ah, the indispensable pop of a gum-bubble. She put her phone away once she was at speaking distance, then drew her breath.
"Do they not get tired of it at all?" Mary started. Must've seen the text.
"They'll fight over specks of dust if you let them." Amélie sighed. "D'you see the other girls?"
"I think Pam's still at the hiking trail with Gem, and Claire's getting dressed. But they'll be here soon."
"Kay. I don't feel so well, right now."
"Hm?" One eyebrow raised. Bubblegum chewing, blowing---pop.
"It's just ...." Her eyes wandered to the castle, then the tiny, insignificant cardboard princess stuck inside. "Shit gets tiring, really really fast. I keep wishing to run away and take life in my own two hands, but I'm never allowed to. Never allowed." Nascent tears blurred the sight of her open palms, until one of them gave in and fell. It evaporated on her hand. "I'm stuck in this shitty family. It's like all I can do is wait for a 'prince' to come and save me, and I can't go looking for him."
"You're not the only one." Mary looked right then left---still no girls. "My mom doesn't let me see Brandy anymore."
"Is it because of that ... that party? I'm sorry."
"Actually, she caught us trying weed---don't do it, by the way, shit sucks. Like," chewing, pop, "just because of this one frickup, I can't be with my future husband anymore. She took away my kit, too, fricking ... b***h."
"Wait, what? When was this?"
"Right before we got here, I think. Like two days before. It's why Brandy didn't come."
Without a kit, she couldn't sell her embroidery, which meant no money of her own, so no going out. And if Mary couldn't go out, Amélie couldn't see her. Which meant ....
It came, the urge to burst and rain all over her friend's shoulder, and she could only watch it happen---or so she thought. The tightness in her chest was there, the lump in her throat, the filling nose. But she just felt hot---her hands, especially. Tingly. When she saw her palms again, out came sparks. Sparks turned into flickering lights, turned into a growing flame. A sudden burst of red, yellow, orange heat, tearing apart the cold air. Amélie flinched, Mary flinched, gasped---"What the frick?"---but curiousity overcame shock. First instinct was to shake the fire away, like one shakes water off clean hands, but this only angered it.
"Ah, what now, what now?"
"I don't know---how much does it hurt?"
"No, it ... it doesn't."
The fire mirrored her increasing calm. Waving, puffing up, splashing her plain getup with a red glow.
"Why is it like that?" Mary said.
"I have no idea. But ... it's pretty."
She hovered her other hand on the fire, but found it didn't burn. Soon enough, she passed the fire from one hand to the other, and back, and again. Mary watched, hypnotized, mouth agape. Amélie, however, never felt this alive before.
she jerk me off so fast her hands caught on fire from friction or something idk I came and fell asleep
To be young and free. To be unaware of the life that goes on around you. No responsibility. No real need to seek it out.
looks like this
>finest prose
>anons write poetry
Midwits.
A darker shade of blue, darker the azure of the afternoon, rolled over the sky from west to east: from the orange, red, and yellow inferno of the embrace between the sun and the earth on the horizon the wave of indigo blue eastwards spread and brought sparkling stars in the sky, deepened the blackness of the shadows on the ground, enchanted the urban spaces, the parks, the medieval playground, the block of flats down the cobbled path, past the rim of the garden, with an otherworldly blue. Veronika, thirteen, felt at home within this ephemeral stretch of time that lasted from the deepening of blue to the first pop of the faint streetlight yellow. She always believed that at this dusk anything could happen. Anything. Fairies could appears, monsters could roam, doorways into other worlds could open.
Veronika felt as if the gloom whispered to her the way she imagined her crush, that black haired, chocolate skinned classmate, would whisper: quietly, gently, in warm hushed tones. The gloom pulled at her hear and beckoned her to go somewhere else; told her that she was an alien, an outsider, a being extraneous to the human race; warned that she must return home otherwise the people she considered her family, her friends, would frick her over. Maim her.
Although she had tried to push this feeling of alienation away by drowning in studies and mimicking the behaviour of her peers - their gossip, their throaty nasal accent, their flirting with boys who seemed to her like aborted alopecic apes - it still came over her and enveloped her and made her look at the bedlam of her class - the violence, barely inhibited, of the males and the bestial eroticism of the females - from the viewpoint of an outsider that had come to earth from the transplutonic space.
“Are you listening to ME?”
That was Viktoria. Someone Veronika had, until recently, considered a friend. Now that Viktoria’s pink shirt bumped in the front and Viktoria’s buttocks swayed her short khaki skirt she had turned into a backstabbing boy loving b***h. Like all the others Viktoria developed a feverish interest in boys and grew fierce in the struggle for their simian hairy wiener, especially if the wiener belonged to someone all girls liked. Like Artyom, the israeliteeler’s spawn, or George, the marketing manager’s son.
“Sorry,” Veronika said. She pushed a strand of hair behind her right ear. “I zoned out. Thinking about the test.”
“Forget about the TEST! I’m going out with Tyoma. I’m so fricking happy,” Viktoria said.
Veronika wished he could be as stupid happy as them.
Instead of genital heat, the blood call for mating, puberty brought to Veronika peculiar things. The palms of her hands turned red and tingled every time she thought about her crush or experienced the sweet warm wetness between her legs; and when she, simmering in a bath and rubbing, reached that point when drilling pleasure gripped her for a few eternal seconds her body felt as hot and liquid as lava and afterward she opened her eyes and discovered that her bathtub was dry and the room filled with vapour.
Veronika’s right hand tingled, like a leg that had fallen asleep, then burned, as if dropped into boiling water. That was another thing Veronika didn’t like about puberty: the sensual thoughts came whenever they liked and aroused her, made her wet, against her will. Then the burning came.
“I wonder how’s big Tyoma’s down there, you know, because Katja said he’s hung like a fricking gorilla but-WHAT THE FRICK, VEE,” Viktoria shouted and jumped away from Veronika, clutching the strap of her purse. Her face was pale, her eyes wide open.
A soft yellow orange glow lightened Veronika’s pink shirt and khaki blouse.
Veronika looked down. Gasped.
Her whole right hand, from the fingers to the wrist, was enveloped in a single tongue of flame: incandescent yellow in the middle that turned vibrant orange at the rims.
“You’re burning,” Viktoria shouted. “Why aren’t you burning?”
Veronika lifted her hand. The flame moved away from her wrist, leaving behind skin white, virginal, untouched, and gathered around her fingertips. It wavered and shuddered from the light evening breeze.
Viktoria, still clutching the belt of her purse, approached Veronika. One step. Two step. Stop.
“What the frick are you?” she, her voice trembling, asked.
Veronika looked at Viktoria’s face - pale, her mouth an O, her eyes wide as saucers, her lips twitching, her forehead glimmering from a filigree tapestry of sweat - and understood she would never be accepted.
Never.
coomers, the lot of you
AND WE CAN PEE WITHOUT SITTING DOWN OR TAKING OFF OUR SHOES
where's the fricking sauce
and now do I come to life, who holds me, to whom possessest me? Oh I don't know how long i'll be here for, but i'm here. She's a pretty one. She doesn't even seem afraid, besides what I can tell from her eyes.
Look at it, the bright, all the eyes on me
Then it goes out, leaving only crisp dry skin,
Suddenly I'm 44 in tinder
Fishing for some dick
bravo