The Phoenix: Ashes to Ashes.

A Story by M. McDonnell

An emotional flash fiction about loss.

The flames were everywhere as she stood shivering in the street. Tiny embers floated in the wind, mingling with the shouts and sirens. A stream of cold air caught in her throat and she coughed.

Wiping the drowsiness from her eyes, she wandered down the shadowy street. The glow of the fire had an eerie affect on the surroundings she knew so well. Even then, though, she felt like an outsider watching her own life through cloudy glass.

After pacing for a short while she came back to face the house, her frigid hands residing in her pockets for warmth. Her eyes were fixed on her shoes instead of the burning mass that was her home. The world around her was bustling, but she was standing stock-still as if rooted to the ground. Words failed her and all actions seemed too hollow—too pointless to be carried out.

A blood-curdling scream pierced the night. Horror and fear nestled themselves in the girl and froze her nerves like the ground below. Panicked pleas of help echoed and bounced off the buildings lining the street, but they were not issued from her. They hung almost mockingly in the air long after they had died, nothing but frail memories.

The girl remained static, numb to the core. She glanced over at her father; tears stained his rugged face. “My wife… my wife…” he chanted through gasping breaths.

Her legs moved without knowledge of where they were destined. She collapsed into a heap of ash, running it through her fingers and shaking. This was her life being cradled in her hands—just charred remains now. She blew them off her skin and curled up on the soft earth.

From these ashes, she would be born again.