The Phoenix’s Guide to Self-Immolation

WRITING BY Z LUO DESIGN BY DEVON LEE

Charcoal flame flashes, dim amidst the steady drizzle of pattering raindrops. In a mockery of a nest of wet soot and ash, a small bird stretches.

Oh, you’re back. Strange. Experimental shrugs of your wings bring stiffness and crisp, cracking sounds. You stare at your wings, if these odd things could even be an excuse for wings, feathers charred and ragged, barely decorating bones that shoot ever outwards and you cannot breathe.

You peck at them, unsure at whether eyes have peddled lies, distanced as jets from what flesh yours. Yet the caress and these things They cannot be yours.

Steeling you leap, like a chicken in flight. You register a minor twinge on your side, but you still can’t breathe. Again. Fire drips into your beak, mixing with rainwater, sickly sweet. Again. A shawl of black flame emerges against you, but air continues to escape your gasping lungs. Again.

You are adorned in dark regalia of ebony flames, yet your stubborn ability still refuses to activate. In the eternity in which you collide again and again with the bitter, mildly burning ground, you suffocate. Finally though, your fire takes pity on your broken form and ignites. Despite the agony of your bones, you greet the raging wildfire that greedily consumes and cleanses every bit of wrong with a jagged grin.

It makes sense that you’d have to asphyxiate to breathe again.

Tucked in a windy crag and rocking incessantly, a cerulean egg waits for the sea. Chipped spheres of hail rush from the sky, a heavy greeting from the world.

The sea rushes in, and you’re back, drenched and much too fluid.

There’s an ocean in your head. It howls with storms and calms with the moon, relentless and so loud. The tide sings to you, lullabies and laments, and you sway ever closer to the lure of the sea. Crashing waves beckon, beckon you, deafen you to anything but the sirenic, hissing froth of the sea, veins of sand pleading with you, to bury yourself beneath the mirror of blue.

You hurl yourself into the sea, a muted plume of water jetting from where your flames explode.

Lavender and scarlet reindeer moss flutter amidst fluff, shed feathers floating like snow. A river crept in while you were gone, lapping at your claws with chilly, undulating ebbs. Claws? Glancing down, you balk at the … iridescent scales shimmering along violet, leathery wings. Whose nightmare has thrust you into this draconic form?

Your new wings slice through the air, sending you gliding in languid lazy loops, so swift and sure, lavender rushing your mind. Yet still, each brings a sense of chill. is so much colder than it crystalline specks of frost across your scales like freezing You can’t stop shaking.

You haven’t tried to return to stardust in a while, but the suffocating cold of your skin leaves you no choice. Murmuring a quick apology to whatever victims there will be, you soar upward, rapidly, before tucking your wings to dive. As you blaze like a comet towards your victim of a volcano, the ice begins to melt.

Spiraling horns, magnificent even when damp in the torrential downpour but so wrong, inferno, hatching with … hands? Flesh and featherless, so wrong, flaring into rocks for feathers to explosions and shards of azure rippling through your vision as gills, wrong, burns to wrong, wrong, wrong

Oh, you’re back.

The first step of self-immolation is–

叽叽叽

Chicken! Ah, to be as free as a bird, even a grounded one. Oh, you can fly? 叽叽叽

Ah, a smart bird are you! Can you understand me? No? Well, that’s ok. You have time to grow.

Chicken! You’re still here!

I brought you some food! Look! I heard chickens like strawberries so I found you these really green ones!

A skeletal bird dreams in turmeric flame, nourished in the depths of lava. Yet, when you crawl out under the harsh sun, you have fins, flapping, flightless, useless. With the phantom taste of rose on your forgetful tongue, you ignite.

Incandescent.

You are a featherless biped and you can’t move, your mind alight with a conflagration that finally, finally sparks.

Come ooooooooooooon, won’t you eat it? For me?

I’ll eat it with you? Yayyyyyyy!

The sun sets on twin faces emblazoned with matching, puckered grimaces.

Chicken, you’re on fire!

Huh? You’re not on fire? But you weren’t this carrot before?

Interesting, so you just burn sometimes? Don’t do it in the future 啊.

Maybe someone will think you’re some legendary phoenix. And now, we can match scars! Anyway, I brought you more food today! See, it’s a fruit cake! Because a balanced diet is important!

It’s not strange! I baked it, so it’s a little lopsided, but there’s nothing wrong with the taste. See, some kiwi and honeydew, figs, carrots and eggplant, all with a yogurt coating, fine, I’ll take a bite first–

A crescent moon rises under the radiance of twin smiles.

-

叽?

Chicken, am I useless?

I just want to loved for who I am. Not who I can 叽叽叽

You don’t have to try to make me feel better. It’s ok as long as you’re here.

I didn’t bring you much today. Just this really big plum– a child, both laughing with pained expressions of disgust amidst the drifting, powerful scent of durian.Chicken!

Yeah, it’s really yummy isn’t it?

You want to know what happened? I’ll tell you later, ok?

That’s a promise.

Today, I got up early and baked you this blackberry-lavender-cabbage crepe cake! It’s not very pretty and I ruined a bunch of layers, but it should still taste good!

Chicken, did you hear that?

!! Chicken, hide! 叽?

I’ll lead them away, please, run or hide! The observing celestials wipe at their leaking trails of starlight from glittering, prism eyes as the chicken nudges the small, crumpled crimson form, faces still both flecked with lavender cream. Frustrated, it burns the form to no avail, setting an amethyst stone before the charred husk of a corpse as a memorial.

-

Chicken! I snuck out, so I’ll have to do some extra studying, but look! 叽叽叽

Yeah! I made you this corn and durian mooncake!

Don’t worry! You can quiz me, and we’ll eat together if I get it wrong!

Amused stars watch as a small chicken chases

Come back, come back!

叽, I’m back. I’ve never dreamt before, but I think I dreamt of you. Humans are obsessed with names, but somehow I never learned yours. Who will remember you? I tried to make the thing you called cake, but I’m not sure if it was the heat or the materials but it exploded. I brought you the remains if you still want to split them.

A gust of cool air lifts the smoking ‘cake’ in lazy, ribboning arcs.

I ate a durian today and it reminded me of you. Are you still eating your horrible concoctions, wherever you are?

A breeze blows, messing your long tailfeathers into a matted mess. Okay, okay, your unique concoctions, better?

I brought you those odd fruits you liked so much. See, the mauve one, and the green ones, the red one, the blue one, the pink one too. I tried to bring some seedlings so you’d have company too. I think that with you watching over them, they’ll grow really big and sweet.

The wind gently ruffles through your feathers.

I’ve never stayed this long, you know. It’s … like an itch, maybe, the urge to ignite. But then I wouldn’t be me any more, in a way. And you liked me as me. It’s funny, you know, being me. I thought I’d want to be someone else by now, but it’s kind of nice. You liked me for me. Not someone who I could be. Not someone I wasn’t.

My feathers are the color of your ichor now, bloody reds and purples. I wonder what you’d think. Do you still think of me as that little chicken? My tailfeathers finally grew, so maybe you’d mistake me for a dull peacock. Our scar sits pale across scarlet and violet plumage. I’ve never kept a scar for so long before. I wonder what yours would look like. -

I… I don’t think I can hold on anymore. I… wanted to … say hello … to you … I’m … sorry … may…be … I’ll … see .. you a—

On a lonely peak where stray clouds play with ice and earth, a battered phoenix lays. A trail of tiny, periwinkle flames lead to the phoenix, which heaves gasping breaths as each successive, weakening gulp of air wracks its crumpled form and sparks at the surrounding flora. Despite the furrow of concentration in its pained brow, desperately trying to smother the crimson flames that crawl up its ripped tail feathers, it can barely begin to cry before it is cut off by searing combustion.

-

A tiny wisp of blue flame hovers in the midst of the decimated mountaintop, floating across scarred ground and between skeletal, ashy stubs of trees. In front of a small, charred remnant of rock, it pauses, shaking. Then, it blooms like an exhale, sighing into the form of a small, cyan chicken. When it glances down at the pristine, matted teal feathers across its chest, a wailing keel shatters the silence.

-

Pale creamy petals beckon / to their tart fruit / as decadent flesh / lies / in the arms of / summer / unrisen / no juice to stain / molting feathers askew / in a nest of down / you stain feathers / viridian

Frolic / across lush meadows / blossoming with multihued flora you cannot / name / wade through streams / with rushes of steam / wherever you brush / perch along magnificent, wizened / branches / hide in hollows / from the fuzzy forms / of your / compatriots / to dream / and dream bursting from the sun / ever radiant / to glide towards the ever-elusive / moon / the stars call out blessings / jest over the length of your / tailfeathers / as you laugh / and dive / to greet their / reflections / amidst the spray / you delight at / rainbows

Flaming eyes locked on / delicate, colorstruck wings / thinner than your feathers yet / fluttering so swiftly / ribbons and strokes of color / to dance across the sky / with your clumsy form / following

Play at potions and gardens / as the ivy spirals along / frigid waterfalls and / among plum trees / to tie knots of grass / as promises / untangled or / cut / you still borrow sky from the trees / for what passes / as wisdom -

Ragtag wings still flutter / something seemingly / true / funny is it how / truth bends as you / need / and above the / scorched earth you / can breathe / with the jokester winds

Oh patchwork phoenix in your regalia (who says regalia) /I like the vivid hues/ [muted] b your blindness to (pain)

Do you remember

*what it feels like to* -burn- you are a sight to be beheld, surely (ha, you are, in your flailing) and attached too much (is this attachment?) is your torn wing, /silence, for the chirping of the wa, fire! (quiet) to listen /is not to be/ is not to have

[why are the feathers brown?]

-ombre- lies, yellows and reds

Gurgle and babble / little brook / flow red like the sky / splits into welcome / fit for the first / gasps of the world / listen / listen as the rivers

/ awaken

Listen, the fanfare / blares / escort of the ghost / requires a deft spin / of your wings / never quite / touching / ripples of mercury / light, of ghostly / balefire / to comfort / faceless / where has / your ghost /

Perhaps vengeance is fit / for the trees you have / trapped / tortured into sculptures / and dust / never to wither and gnarl / to see the gift of / decay / as seas melt to your / embrace / listen / the winds forget too / the rustle of / leaves

， you child before / fate / are you still / child / sleepless / dreamless / weary of spinning again / and again / have you grown you hear / the grand bell of dao / tolling / to spin / again

Can you hear the sound / of breaths / calm / and ragged / do you taste air / or water / in your blazing lungs / you walking corpse / is the hissing air escaping / whispers of / are you awake / are you breathing / are you / breathing

Cut yourself open, won’t you / little birdie / you’ve never felt flesh / ripped apart by the carrion / believing you deceased / you find solace in your / ashes / though you flee / always / from the ruinous devastation / of your / wake / listen, the crows are / cawing

Listen / your feathers / burnStab-pull. Stab-pull. Stab-pull.

The hoe cuts crisply through the charred topsoil, stroke by stuttering stroke. Despite the pervasive scent of smoke, you can almost smell the eggplants and figs that will flourish. Soon. Stab-pull. Soon.

You smile at the tiny chick who watches with shining, apricot eyes.

Want to try?

叽叽叽 chirps the chicken.

In a flurry of sunshine down and lemon feathers, fluttering gently to the freshly hoed soil, your small chick dances across the handle, little wings beating happily. To your surprise, the spade ignites in a shower of brilliant sparks.

Had it been yesterday, when the chick had hatched? Bouncing from that absurdly large shell of plum with the occasional fleck of lime, it’d blinked at you with such child-like curiosity and let out an inquisitive 叽叽叽. You’d blinked twice at the sheer yellow of the chick, absurdly bright against that behemoth of a shell, and at how miniscule the chick seemed. Was there to be an entire legion that would follow it in a burst?

Without a thought, you’d extended your hand and let it hop onto your palm, little embers spattering merrily. You’d barely had the chance to bask in this warmth before it leapt off of your fingers towards the shell. Was it going to pick up its siblings? Would you have a nice, protein-filled dinner?

Before you could dive further into your poultryfilled daydream, the chick began pecking at its shell. You’d laughed at the sight, leaning down to help when suddenly, the chick’s beak bloomed into a sharp-fanged, many toothed wonder with a long, spine-covered tongue flicking wildly. A massive shard of a piece disappears into that gaping maw. Not to be cowed, you’d taken a burning bite too, crunching through fig and honeydew, blazing lavender and blood.

Each drag sends crashing slices ricocheting through your head. Stuck, you uproot your hoe and send another wave though your skull. Caught on the blade, a fractured, ghastly skull peeks from the scorched earth; the long, crooked beak hangs open as though mid squawk.

Don’t look.

No response. Where had your 叽叽叽 gone? And when you’d sought to glance down to cover the eyes of your chicken, you began to shake, with laughter, with tears.

There are amber feathers fluttering along your arm.