So I found this little story that I must have written ages ago in my sketchbook, but it's not really creepypasta material, so I decided to post it as a blog (I hope that's okay). Anyways, it didn't have a title, and I'm too lazy to come up with one. So enjoy a little bit of younger me's writing.
There once was a man who could see the future. In the village he brewed pemonitions for the commoners, but one day, the man stopped. He had grown weary of being the village's tourist attraction. To find his solitude, the man moved into a forest. No one bothered him there, though the visions still came.
Days turned into weeks, and those into months. Then, on the night before the Summer Soltice, the man was confronted by a young boy. He told the man that he'd heard of the incredible things the man could do, and asked if he could have his future foretold. But the man told him to take his leave, vexxed that someone should bother him with a question for such a trivial answer; for all the man had seen in the boy's future was a terribly average and monotonous life.
So the boy left, angered and bitter. The man could no longer see the visions of the boy after that - neither what he had already known, nor anything new. It was that same night he saw the flames.
Coughing as the forest burned, he ran to that villa where he had once found comfort. He saw nothing of the future, but the wildfire still caused him to dream.
He saw only flames. Vibrant colors of orange and yellow, grasping unto objects by any means necessary. Planks of grey wood, fragile as, and soon to be, ash. Searing embers dancing into the wind, paling each and every star. The noise bled into his mind - the screams, the terror, and then the utter silence.
The boy, hoping only to know of what he was to be, trying to sleep. His blankets felt like a cinderblock on his chest, as every breath became an exasperating cry for help. What was he to do when his mother's sickness finally ended her. It's all he wanted to know. He lit a candle, and began walking his way to the door. All he needed was some fresh air, before he was stopped by a voice he'd heard many times before.
But the boy was startled, and from there the pictured burned with a horrific hue of red.
The man stumbled from out the brush, gasping for air as the smoke vigorously assaulted his lungs. The village was in ruins, every house burned to nothing but ash and crying embers. No one was there, not a single soul. Then from out the corner of his eye, the man saw a figure of two.
There was a child, wrapped tenderly in the mutilated flesh of an adult - perhaps a caring mother, or a wise father. He could no longer tell, for the body was too distorted. The black skin peeled and flaked with the wind. He walked gingerly towards them, staring down at the scene, knees trembling and eyes watering. He thought of the boy's one wish, and how he had failed to fulfill it, how he had failed to ease his restless mind.
Dropping to his knees, the man wrapped his arms around the boy and tried to tear him from the embrace; but they were forever glued in a state of death-defying love. He cradled himself with them, and wondered so fervently upon what he had done, and why he couldn't see what was to happen. Why he couldn't stop it. There he weeped for hours, pitying his ignorance.
He could not see what he had already set in motion.
A butterfly fluttered atop the head of the child.