The Phoenix hatched from an egg I threw in the fire. I held it in my hand as its heat intensified until I couldn’t stand it anymore. Out it popped, a Phoenix.
I’d swapped the egg with an old woman at work who had black teeth and a pointed hat. I didn’t know her, but hated my corned beef sandwiches, (I’d asked for roast beef but them’s the breaks,) so I really got the better deal. Luckily for the Phoenix, I got busy and hadn’t eaten what the woman had claimed a hard-boiled delicacy.
The Phoenix burst from the flames like a forest fire, circled the room three times, then crashed out of the window in molten shards. It saddened me to see it go; it was beautiful in a devastating way.
The next day, the old lady tried to swap me some vegetables. She claimed them marrow beans, but I knew better. “Oh, no you don’t, you crafty old hag!” I bellowed. “Not this time, lady!”
Besides, I’d already snaffled Phoenix rolls. It really shouldn’t have flown back.