“Burn.”

World of Pain

Kingdom of the sick;

Where chronic illness reigns supreme

and suffering is everyday

but we peasants manage anyway.

A sea of pain and patience

Pumping through our veins.

Saltwater heals but gives us strife,

and infects just like a dirty knife.

A hollow tree

Once full of life;

Now infested.

Drained by self-made

Parasites.

- A. Yenzer

Home Is Where The Heart Was

My chest was a home

Filled with warmth and light and love

My sternum the front door

That had welcomed many a friend and family

My ribs were once brightly painted siding,

A soft gray exterior that protected the treasures inside

My heart pumped hot water through my arteries

Providing warmth for nightly baths and mugs of hot cocoa

My lungs were the sturdy walls that kept the roof above our heads

My diaphragm the soft carpeting and cool wood

That had known running and cuddles from feet and paws alike

My spinal cord and nerves kept the lights on and the temperature just right

My vertebrae were a strong foundation

Solid and secure, keeping everything upright

My chest is an old, abandoned house

My sternum is the slamming storm door

The broken latch leaving it to swing wide in the wind

My ribs, the battered siding

Years of abandonment leaving them caked in dirt and grime

Termites and rot have eaten through the panels, leaving gaping wounds

My heart is the failing water heater

My arteries are the corroded copper pipes

My lungs are the creaking walls

Shifting and sinking, slowly collapsing

The wood floors of my diaphragm have sunken in, and the carpet is threadbare

Torrents of tears have seeped in through the leaky roof,

Now darkness grows from rotted wounds and mold scars stale strands

My spinal cord is the busted breaker box; My nerves: fraying electrical wires

My vertebrae are the crumbling foundation

My chest will be condemned someday

Caved in like a house of cards, not wood and stone

The love it once housed has moved on

And its protection is no longer needed

There will be no one there to witness it’s fall

And no one to grieve for the memories lost

- A. Yenzer

The concern pinching his brows was a shadow on the flickering interest lighting his eyes as he spoke of my power. “You’ll need to learn control before we can even attempt to teach you anything else. Without it, you’ll continue to burn until it consumes you entirely.”

I’d ventured so far, seen so many who boasted about their ability to help anyone understand the power inside them, but I quickly learned that the fear in their eyes was a warning. I had never been excepted, turned away and run out of their towns and cities every time. Yet, the man across from me didn’t look afraid. Concerned but not afraid. Hope sparked in my chest. And at my fingertips, the static of electricity jumping between them. I curled them into my palms, sniffing them out as I concentrated on my breathing, eyes closed until I felt the magic that had been trying to unfurl lessen again.

He’s right. I know it and it’s why I’m here. What little control over my power I have found isn’t enough to keep me from being a danger to those around me. It’s why I’d set out on this journey in the first place. I couldn’t keep endangering those I loved with my presence, so I packed enough to sustain me and left my mom a note. I promised I would come back when I had control and I refuse to break that promise.

Thoughts of my mom help anchor me, give me the strength to keep my tenuous hold on my power. With the burn of it settled from my chest again, I open my eyes and quickly find myself under his watchful gaze. The concern seems to have faded, replaced by a confident set of his shoulders, his mouth tipping up in one corner and his brows have relaxed. Is he really that reassured by that dismal display of my meager control?

Before I can open my mouth the ask, a sharp two raps on the other side of his office door interrupts me.

“That’ll be your new teacher.” He speaks excitedly, rising to grant entrance to the most important person in my life for… the indefinite future. Who knows how long this will take… No.

Rather than let that anxious thought take root, I rise. Wiping my shaky, sweaty palms on my pants before taking in the figure in the doorway shaking the headmaster’s hand. Inky black hair grazes lean shoulders and bright hazel-green eyes above a freckle-covered nose latch onto mine, their gaze sweeps over me as their smirking lips spread into a full blown grin.

“Damn kid, I could feel your power from outside the room. We’ve got a lot of work to do on you but I get the feeling you’re going to be well work it.” They cross the room in three quick strides and I try not to let my discomfort at being touched make me flinch at the clap of their hand on my shoulder. The reassuring squeeze that follows eases some of that tension but I’m still not used to it.

I don’t have to hide it for long, their attention leaves me as the headmaster speaks again. “Rook will be your master here at the guild. They are your teacher, your guide, everything you need. Stick with them, listen when they try to help you and before you know it, you’ll get to start learning to use your power not just control it.”

I step forward one last time reaching forward over the large, ornate wood desk. I grasp his hand firmly, eager to demonstrate how grateful I am for their help and the chance they’re taking on me. My voice comes out more earnest than I expect but I’m not surprised, “Thank you for this, Headmaster. I won’t let you down.”

“No. I don’t think you will, Ash. Welcome to New Haven’s Villain Guild. I think you’ll do well here. I can’t wait to see how you grow with us.” His grip is equally firm, before he released it, dismissing me and Rook from the room, with a smile and a nod to his office door.

"An initiate's mana could be imagined as a flame. Most are small candles to bright torches. And we at the Order help these flames flourish into something useful... but you're a raging wildfire."

Spoiler alert: it’s a parent trap situation

You are a god whose most devout follower is marrying your rival God’s follower. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem except you both are asked to bless the union, and for that both of you must attend.

I scream “SCREW YOU”

To the lies I tell myself

Insecurity runs rampant

In a head full of the voices of others

Hatred and jealousy spawn venomous words

And insults that burn

Like acid in the blood

And shred self confidence

So combat fire with fire

Until hate has no more fuel to burn

And the words of others

No longer sting

Spit venom at that hateful voice

Until the infection of their jealous words

Is burned out by the fever of self-love and spite

- A. Yenzer

Pyromancy has been known as the most deadly magic to be born with for centuries. Parents mourn their children the second their powers begin to manifest because they know their child will be dead before they have even had a chance to live. Magic specialties develop along with puberty and most pyromancers are dead by 20. It’s not a pretty death, they burn from the inside out because fire needs fuel. Fire magic? Well that feeds on the soul. Only the most responsible and diligent with their magic make it to 25. The only way to keep the flames from licking at your soul is to stay far from the fire. But they have to use it too, power is meant to be used and a build up of such a volatile power can turn the body into a ticking time bomb.

The older I got the more impressed everyone was, my parents were so proud when I made it to 24, albeit waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’ll admit I was too. I was confused having made it so long, I’d never been very conservative with my power. But as the years kept passing and I kept getting older, that pride turned to fear. Not for me but themselves, for how powerful must I be to have made it to 29? I haven’t aged, my power hasn’t waned, and somehow I’m still alive. I didn’t know why or how, and neither did anyone else. Soon that uncertainty turned to fear, that fear turned to anger, and I unwillingly became the boogie man of my own home. Anywhere I went, people would cross to the other side of the street, store owners would flip their closed signs, and children would run screaming at the sight of me.

The village that raised me began to shun me, my parents couldn’t look me in the eye. I finally moved into a small cottage just inside the edge of the forest that lined the village and it was like the whole place took a sigh of relief. I couldn’t blame them, I was afraid of my own power too but I couldn’t run away from it. It burned inside me but never seemed to touch my soul. The more a fire power burns at your soul, the more burns manifest on your body, yet my skin is unmarred, unscarred, clean.

When my 30th birthday came and went without any change, I wandered farther into the woods and tried to burn my power out of me. I poured every ounce of rage and sorrow into my power and let it explode out of me. When I woke in a smoldering clearing of black the next morning, I trudged home in defeat. As the days passed, I noticed the town was in mourning and as more and more burials were held at the cemetery between the town and my forest, I came to a swift and devastating realization.

I wasn’t dead because my power was eating at the souls of others instead of my own.

I collapsed into my bed and stayed there for days. I didn’t eat, I didn’t get up, I just laid there. Mourning all of those who died because of me, grieving for those who lost because of me, and letting the sorrow drown me in the hopes that I might finally relieve this world of my soul.

It didn’t work.

When I woke up one morning to an urgent knocking on my door, I almost thought I’d imagined it. I almost ignored it. But when you go so long in isolation, the prospect of another person’s presence is invigorating. I only opened the door a crack, sure I looked and smelled a mess after so long in bed. The sight of my mother stopped me in my tracks. The tears in her eyes tore me in two and I knew that one of those live that had been taken by my burning flame was that of my own father.

I let her in and she only took one step before falling into my arms. Our sobs rang out through the cottage and maybe even into the village but we didn’t care. We finally fell into a sorrowful silence, our heaving breathes between quiet sobs the only sound to be heard. I helped my mother up from the floor, into my softest chair, and moved to get us both a glass of water. We sat in silence as we drank them.

When she finally spoke it was heavenly despite her words. She was the first voice I’d heard besides my own in so long. Her words were painful though. As she told me everything…

Pyromancy is ridiculously dangerous. Most pyromancers die before they turn 20 and 25 is considered ancient by their standards. You have reached 30 and show no signs of slowing down.

Senseless death in combat should have been something Ares had gotten used to after so long, but it still pulled at his chest. It was unpreventable but it didn’t have to be callous and the scene in front of him was most definitely that.

Ares bellowed as his racing footsteps shook the earth with his fury and his sword, raised high, sung through the air as he whirled it above his head. Soaring over the young soldier on the ground, cutting down the man above them whose grin had been sadistic as he tormented them seconds prior. Cut after cut, pulling weak cries from their lips as loss of blood pulled them closer to death.

Ares panted over their wilting form, his gaze full of fury as the enemy soldier took his last breath, before turning back to the child at his feet. The face of war softened on theirs, the flames in his eyes subsiding as he knelt by their side. They couldn’t feel much, but the hands lifting them into his lap were more gentle than they would’ve expected from a god so fierce. As was his caress smoothing the blood matted hair from their forehead and his words soothing their fear.

He stayed with them as they slipped in and out of consciousness. It didn’t take long for them to succumb to their wounds, but Ares never left their side.

He had to wait.

“Thanatos,” Ares’ whispered eventually in begrudging acknowledgment of the newcomer now hovering by his side, looking down at the sleeping figure.

“I’m here now, cousin. You can let them go. I’ll take good care of them. I always do.”

“They’re so young,” Ares’ stiff shoulders slumped in defeat before he finally lifted his gaze from the child in his arms, chest barely rising with breath as their skin paled and their lips turned blue.

“Aren’t they always?” The God of Death’s words weren’t intentionally cruel, his tone was sympathetic even. It was simply a statement of fact.

“I truly despise those cowards that hide behind my name and send children to my battlefields in their stead.” The sound that rumbles from Thanatos’ chest is comforting but noncommittal. They both know that there was little either of them can do to stop the senseless theft of youth in the world of humans.

Even if Ares slit the throats of every one of those pathetic warmongers as they hovered over their miniature scenes of combat - simulations of war that they would never have to witness, playing at battle like a children’s game with no real consequences – it would make little difference. Like the Hydra, humanity never let themselves have peace, someone would always step into the power vacuum before it could close in on itself.

They both knew well that they would never rest as long as humanity persisted. They would always be at war and they would always die.

So Ares passed the duty to Thanatos as he always did, knowing that his cousin’s earlier words were true. He always showed Ares’ soldiers the utmost care on their journey.

The soul, gray and hazy, of the youth who rested in his lap rose from its body, groggy and confused but Thanatos simply held out his hand and helped them steady on their weightless feet.

That was one thing War could always count on: that Death would be there waiting at the end of every soldier’s battle.

- A. Yenzer

I call it a “pen drop”

does anyone else write a sentence so good you have to lean back in your chair and just vibe with the sheer power of it? like yeah, i, ME, did that.

to my fellow writers:

i hope you find the strength to finish that chapter, to finish your outline, to edit a bit more, to be kind to yourself

Not the chosen one. The one who chose to.