I Am Aching With The Urge To Run.

You will delve into the depths of your emotional dumpster fire and gorge the rodents on the remnants of your imagination, suffering for inspiration with the rest of us.

You will not use AI to get ideas for your story. You will lie on the floor and have wretched visions like god intended

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.

Duplex Dream

I grew up in duplexes and trailer homes

A trailer home for two with no fence for the yard

No fence for the yard is no pets, just us two: me and you

Us two, mother and daughter; it takes a village to raise a child

Our village was small. Small but good, dysfunctional but strong

Raised in dysfunction, but strength brought me up; helped me grow despite the odds

The odds that I wouldn’t make it this far; my own doubt that I'd ever see eighteen

Eighteen years don’t seem so long, but I always thought something would cut them short

Cut short but not by my own hands; it was just so hard to look for life ahead

But now, ahead of me a future lies, one I did not expect

My expectations far surpassed what I might have ever imagined

The imagination and dreams of that little girl who struggled to grow

But grew nonetheless from the love I found

Found but never lost in duplexes and trailer homes

- A. Yenzer

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.

“Burn.”

The power of a spell is inversely proportional to the amount of words in its name. You, hated and exiled, invented the first single word spell:

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.

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

Me! It’s for me! Thank you very much!

you ever start describing a character and accidentally give them an entire anthropology backstory? like, why does this random baker suddenly have a tragic past involving forbidden love, a war, and a cursed necklace? who is this for?

Who’s next?

If you're reading this...

go write three sentences on your current writing project.

"I know adverbs are controversial, but "said softly" means something different than 'whispered' and this is the hill I will die on."