writtenacrossthestars

Latest Posts by writtenacrossthestars

Who’s next?

If you're reading this...

go write three sentences on your current writing project.

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

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

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.

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

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

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 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."

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?

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.

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!!!"

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.

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.

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

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

Precipice

The sharp click of the switch

reverberates through the air

as you turn off the light in the laundry room

and step into the kitchen.

Your steps stutter to a stop

on the cool laminate sticking to your soles

when your mind catches on

the sliding glass door

in your peripheral. There is a man,

standing on the precipice

of where the porch light’s glow

is swallowed by the dark.

Balaclava and clothes carved from obsidian

tempt the night to draw him in. The dying

bulb above the door is just strong enough

to drag his silhouette into its illumination.

Your gaze latches on

where his should be, instead

two brimming pools of black abyss

stare back, looking through you.

Your head is screaming,

“Don’t look too closely!

He might be real

this time.”

Wind wails against the walls outside,

the house creaks and groans in protest

and leaves scrape bark branches

as their trees bend with the gust.

The sudden sounds steal

air from your chest in

a sharp gasp. Muscles tense

and your eyes slam shut.

Dissipating

in the darkness,

the vision is gone

when they snap open again.

Your recurring apparition

leaves less fear

lingering in your blood now.

So,

Push your shoulders back

and wrench the weight

of anxious paranoia

off your chest.

You'll finish getting

ready for bed but

even though you know

there’s nothing there,

the shadows still seem

to whisper your name

and cling to you

in the night.

- A. Yenzer

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

I am aching with the urge to run.

To express my own

personal form of violence.

To pound my feet into the earth

until they burn and bruise.

To cut my arms through the air

and make the world pull away from me.

I am vibrating with the need

to punch and kick and scream.

To make myself a separate

entity, all my own.

To break and destroy things

until there is nothing left

but my broken body.

- A. Yenzer

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

Not the chosen one. The one who chose to.

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

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

“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:

He’s been chasing me for centuries for stealing that bottle. I’m not about to let him catch me now.

You drank a snake oil salesman’s drink only for it to make you actually immortal in the old west now 300 years later you see that same salesman

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.

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

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