Tears of a Phoenix

Cyrus, a twelve year old boy, discovers that his father is wounded beyond repair. Since his mom had already died, Cyrus refuses to live alone with no father, nor a mother. The idea of finding a hidden cure strikes him, and Cyrus runs away from home to find a cure. He finds strange thins are happening to him, and discovers Alconore... what exactly is happening? Find out!

Prologue: Running Away

"He won't survive much longer," the docter said.

"What?! No! I--" I sobbed.

"I'm sorry Cyrus," the docter told me, putting his hand on my shoulder.

"My mom is already dead! Who would I possibly stay with?"

My dad's body shook, and his eyes gently fluttered open. I ran my hand through my golden-brown hair. My green eyes flashed with distress and sorrow. "! month left," said the docter. My dad's eyes shut.

"No--that's not possible. No!" I cried.

"He's beyond repair," the docter explained. "I can't do anyth--"


"Don't take your anger out on me just because your phony mother is dead!" the docter interrupted, yelling.

"SHUT..." I yelled. My eyes flickered reddish. My fingers prickled and burned. I balled my fists, and quickly opened them. A yellowish spark burned into life, spreading, circling the docter with dull rising flames. My eyes widened. I looked around and finally realized the truth: I'd done that. My eyebrows stiffened, and my expression softened to nothing more than a faint, crooked frown. Tears blurred my sight and rolled down my cheeks. I wiped them away with the back of my sleeve. I stormed up the stairs, not looking back at the sight. As I slammed my room door I twisted my fist around, studying my palm. There was a mark on my right palm, glowing with red and yellow light. I clenched my fist, and re-opened it, testing its veigns, The mark looked like... fire with a swirl in it.I sat down on my bed after grabbing my bag and cramming stuff into it. Thinking back to the fire incident, I heard slight broken cries. The occasional 'Help' would ring out from the living room downstairs but I just ignored them. 

How did I do that? I thought.

The answer was a mystery; unsolvable. A deep cloak of ambiguity shrouded and obscured the answer. Ignoring the thought and clearing my mind, a word popped into my head. Shutting my eyes, I allowed an invisible thread pull my hand toward a sketch pad. I picked both that and a pencil up off my desk. I let the thread guide my pencil hand down onto the pad. I scribbled a word down. When I peered at the pad this is the word I saw:



The End

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