World Of Pain

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."

reblog if you believe fanfics are as valid as books that were published and sold by authors who write as their main careers. I'm trying to prove a point

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.

Life is a game of chess, and your opponent is time. 

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

Overstimulated

A rumbling, thundering storm

Of sunshine and perfume.

Bright light that feels like daggers

in your eyes and temples;

While you suffocate in the scent of

Flames and fruit.

A tidal wave

Of loud noise and pin pricks.

Swollen eardrums

Throbbing in time to

the sound of blood pounding past them

As needles burn your skin

Taste the only safe space

To harbor love for sweet

And sour, too.

Where bitter and umami,

Break through the pain

To you.

- A. Yenzer

The knight’s armor clacked softly against the stone floor of the cave, shock and realization dawning in his expression and draining his adrenaline, his limbs collapsing as his fight left him. His brow furrowed as he thought hard, trying to remember how the kingdom’s war against the dragon had started. He quickly found that he couldn’t, the kingdom’s people had been aware of the dragon for centuries. They hadn’t had any problems for so long, the attacks were completely unexpected… or so they’d been told.

Outskirts villages burned, livestock slaughtered, gold stolen… the palace had blamed the dragon. Stirring up fear and contempt, raving about centuries of peace broken, calling for soldiers and volunteers willing to make the trek to slay the dragon and save the kingdom.

But there had never actually been any proof… no dragon sightings, no scales or talons left behind, not even claw marks, only the declarations of their kings.

As the knight has his crisis over the dragon’s revelation, the dragon had released him, moving off of him and backing away. The knight made it to his knees before hanging his head, pulling a rosary from a small pouch on his belt and began to pray.

“Oh Lord, forgive us. We’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“You pray not only for yourself?” The shock in the dragon’s booming voice was palpable as it resonated off of the cave walls. It was enough to jar the knight from his prayers, looking up at the dragon with a face full of regret.

“Our kings have lied to us. I cannot take back the pain you have suffered at our hands but I can apologize for my people, being so quick to judge despite centuries of peace and no evidence. Teaching generations to hate you out of spite.”The knight had made it to his feet over the course of his speech, resolve steeling his shoulders. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be heading back to the kingdom.” He gave the dragon a quick bow before turning on his heel back to his camp, armour clanging against itself and the stone floor.

“What will you do?”

The knight gave a last glance back over his shoulder, before answering the dragon’s curiosity, calling out as he continued on, “I have a king’s head to remove.”

"GO AWAY!" bellowed the dragon to the man currently pinned beneath one of their paws. "I've done NOTHING WRONG!" "You lie! You've slain dozens of noble knights over the centuries-" "In self-defense, because YOU ALL KEEP TRYING TO KILL ME!!!"

How many tears had the Doctor shed,

Before his sorrow was thoroughly fed?

How many times has the Doctor wept,

Comfortless, until he slept?

Each day, after the close,

It was enough to water a Rose.

When he realized she could never come home,

And that he was left to hopelessly roam.

After the angel made them blink,

And she said goodbye with a final wink;

Nourishing an almost bond,

Flowed enough to fill two Ponds.

Finally, a River,

And, alone, he was left to shiver;

When after the final breath,

Greeted like an old friend, was Death.

- A. Yenzer

Fallen soldiers, from wars old and new, never stop fighting. They just have a different war to fight.

Sailors who die on sunken ships fight the monsters of the deep from pulling the ships of the living down to the depths. Ships with smashed hulls and broken masts, submarines with gaping holes in their sides rise from their graves at the bottom of the ocean and protect the living from the monsters of old.

Pilots of the newer wars have found themselves fighting the ones who can fly, the monsters that would steal a child off the street or a beloved pet from their yard. Until the first of these new fallen, attempting to fend the flying ones off was almost futile. But now ghost planes with broken wings and burning engines patrol the skies.

Warriors struck down on the battlefield fend off the monsters of the land from taking the souls of the living that walk the earth. Their axes and swords, bows and arrows, even calvary horses are some of the only things that allow the living to believe fairy tales are just tales.

A soldier never stops being a soldier, even in death. To them, it’s worth everything. To continue protecting those they love and all who come after.

- A. Yenzer