“The fire keeps going out,” explained Brandon.
His father scraped aside some sliced peppers. “Oh I know what he means. It’s that stupid self-starting charcoal. I’ll bet it went out again.”
“Honey. Stopping buying that charcoal,” she said to his father. “It never works.”
His father sighed. "You're right. It's hardly 'convenient' when it doesn't work at all. We’ve got real wood beside the fireplace. I’ll just start that when I’m done slicing.”
That gave Brandon an idea. He ran back to the fireplace.
“Diu Nia Sing!” shouted the bird as Brandon returned. The curious bird glared at him. “I truly despise self-starting charcoal. Is it ever so much to ask that people put wood in a wood-burning fireplace?”
Brandon found a log in the stack. The heavy log was a bit much for such a young boy. He grunted and strained and staggered with it. With a great heave he tossed the log into the fireplace.
“Ah! Thank you, my good man!” said the bird gratefully. It stomped again and the well-dried log burst into raging flames. As flames licked up around the bird it stood there regally, back straight. Flames alit upon its shabby feathers.
Brandon covered his mouth with his hands and whimpered. He realized he'd helped to kill his wonderful new friend. Tears streamed from his eyes. He reached out to help but the flames were too hot. He sat down abruptly and began to cry.
Brandon’s lip quivered as he watched the flames collapse and the ashes of the creature pile up upon the log. He’d liked the odd bird that talked to him. Where would he find another one like that? But soon the ashes rose up as if guided by a twisting zephyr. They flared with light and disappeared, leaving behind a beautiful bird much like the one he’d just seen. This one looked fresh and new with feathers that flickered with internal flames. “That’s better. Thanks awfully," chirped the Phoenix. "Toodles!” it called, and it flew back up the chimney.
A few minutes later, his father stood beside him. “Did you put that log on the fire?”
Brandon stared into the fireplace with a bright smile and eyes filled with wonder. Absently, he said, “Yes.”
“That could be dangerous, Brandon. Why did you do it?”
“The bird needed help.”
“You’re right,” his father said, happy to see his son understood how ordinary things worked. “The chicken was never going to get cooked with that lousy charcoal!”
About the Author
E.A. Wicklund is an IT Consultant living in Austin, Texas. He lives with his beautiful wife, Shey, and baby Hannah. He's a football fanatic, Micro-Brew aficionado, foodie, photographer, and a student of military aviation history. When not writing, he can often be found flying his favorite flight simulation over simulated skies in various theaters of World War II and the modern age.
Look for more flash fiction at his blog, right here: https://momusnews.wordpress.com
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