Metamorphosis: Phoenix Rising from the Ashes

This week's challenge was to write a poem or short story about a phoenix rising from the ashes. Any time that a theme feels too clear, I feel a bit wonky at first. As a child any craft with specific steps to make something, almost always set my heart into quiet rebellion.

"You can't tell me to make this into a wooden white rabbit. I'll turn it into a demon. You'll see! You'll all see!" This was usually a school or church project. I don't really who I thought "You all" were, or why I was arrogant enough to think anyone else would even care. The teachers were probably just happy to have a few moments of peace while we did an art project.

This same attitude held me back initially as I tried to think of a way to tell a story about a phoenix in a different way. Maybe it would be a spaceship called the phoenix and it would survive an attack. Better yet, maybe it wouldn't and the survivors would turn into zombies. Possibly with a musical number. Don't ask me how I expected that to translate on the blog. Maybe it would just be a series of groans and hums. Afterall they would be zombies.

Eventually I came back to the traditional phoenix, but decided to tell the story from their perspective. From there it unearthed some old concepts I had thought about years ago. The phoenix, poetically, gave those ideas new life. I hope you enjoy the short story of the phoenix. I could have written another 2,000 words or more. The story really look flight, pun intended. I have a feeling that I'll be revising the world of the collector and the phoenix in the near future.

The Collection

By Deborah Moore

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. That’s what they say. The phrase is supposed to focus on accepting other people’s tastes and choices. Unfortunately, some people justify it as a right to ‘hold’ onto someone considered beautiful.

That is the way it was for me. My brilliant feathers drew the collector’s attention. The mad eyed woman was even more impressed when she learned about the way I turn to ash and am reborn. She called my innate nature a “trick” as if there was no effort, pain or struggle that I endure with each and every rebirth. I suppose it’s beyond human comprehension.

I wouldn’t care what she thought, except that it landed me in my prison cell. The concrete walls have been painted in bizarre shades of green and brown that I’ve never seen in nature. There’s hay on the ground and a few measly dried up twigs for me to perch on. It’s nothing like the lush forest I used to call home. That was more than a lifetime ago.

The air vent hummed above me. It was closed so the violent breeze would stop rustling up my feathers. I wondered if any of my other cell mates felt the same way.

All of us were trapped behind glass and surrounded by concrete. I was the only phoenix, but there were plenty of fantastical creatures stuffed into boxes. The chimera across the hallway paced along the front of his cage. He had given up roaring a long time ago, but his tail still held onto some of his spunk. It hissed and snapped out at invisible enemies.

He froze and he lowered all of his ears. I turned my head as well. The metal door down the hallway was opening. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a cockitrice scurry to the far end of its pen. The Chimera backed away from the glass. She was coming.

“How are my darlings,” she asked. Her fingertips gilded along the glass. In reply a small demon lowered his eyes to the ground. She smiled as if his cowardice amused her. “I think we need a dragon. An ugly old one that’s missing half of his teeth. Then my dark and unloveable collection will be ready.”

Ready for what? No one ever asked, even though a few possessed the ability to speak in the human tongue. I could comprehend it, but my beak was thankfully only able to utter melodious chirps, songs and other calls. My words were beyond her comprehension.

She turned toward me. Her thin lips tilted down as they took me in.

“You’ve lost more feathers. I hope you’re not going to change soon. It would be a shame for them to see you as a bright feathered chick. Try not to turn to ash before we open,” she said.

She turned and walked away, stopping occasionally to make a remark at one of the other cells. I didn’t pay attention. Her words had sparked a plan. I watched her punch the code 037882.

I repeated the numbers in my mind over and over. Then I scratched them into the hay on the ground, in case I forgot. A few of the others had begun to pay attention to my strange actions. Good. If I had their attention, then I might also get their help.

I flew up toward the air vent I hated. This time I opened it and directed it down toward the front of the cage where food came in and out. It was too small for any of us to sneak through. Nothing larger than hay could slip though, but that didn’t matter. Soon I was about to become something much smaller.

The stupid woman read too many story books. She thought I only changed when I reached old age. That was usually when I let myself evolve, but it was not the only time I could. Soon I would turn to ash, being blown out into the hall.

Then I would be reborn with the code in my mind. Soon we would all be free. I wondered how the woman would react as we charged out of her twisted prison. I had a feeling it was going to be beautiful.

To check out Elora and Christine's stories check out their links: https://christinediamondthewriter7.blogspot.com https://raegunnwrites.wixsite.com/eloragunn

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