Editor: This story was originally posted on November 7, 2011. It was archived because flash fiction doesn’t fit with my approach to Special People anymore.
It was a blazing hot summer afternoon in Vancouver. Felicity was stuffing her mouth with an enormous chocolate cupcake, and she wasn’t sure whether she should feel guilty or not. Not about the cupcake–though that was something she should be considering too, actually–but about the swathe of destruction she’d left in her wake on the way to the bakery.
When she’d first discovered that she could picture a destination in her mind and convey herself there almost instantaneously, burning a Felicity-shaped hole in everything that stood between her points of departure and arrival, she had been terrified by the carnage she might wreak in a wishful moment, or a lucid dream, but the longer she hid herself away in her apartment, berating herself for every hint of desire or intention, the greater her need for freedom grew.
Eventually, her misgivings about “the consequences” were swallowed up by restlessness, energy, and an overwhelming craving: first, for a cupcake; then, for the world.
She glanced at the quavering bakers behind the counter, who flinched at her every movement. She turned and looked over her shoulder at the singed hole in the door and the path of charred pavement drawn out along the sidewalk.
Felicity wasn’t sure whether she should feel guilty, and for half a moment she wondered what that meant, but this cupcake was really just so good. She wondered what the equivalent of a cupcake was in Madrid, and as her body scorched its way across the Atlantic Ocean, her thoughts laid a flaming path of their own across her conscience.