To My Fellow Writers:

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?

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.

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."

“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:

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

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

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

It will develop like everything else through time, care, and effort.

it’s okay if your prose is ugly right now. it’s just pre-gorgeous.

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!!!"

The Duties of The Older Brother Of A Magical Girl:

1. Do not get in her way while she’s fighting monsters.

2. Do get in the way when humans don’t know boundaries

3. Do kill the men who put hands on her without permission

Magical girls kill monsters all the time, but they're not allowed to kill humans. But you're not a magical girl; you're her older brother.