Work in progress **Black Phoenix**

This is a work in progress, I think I know where it's going but I'm not positive yet. How do you like what I have so far? What do you dislike?

§§§§

I am the Black Phoenix. On wings of black flame I ascend, transcend. I devour all obstacles, transforming anguish into ecstasy. Fiery black talons, like midnight razors, grasp the prey that is my goal. I am eternal flux, forever growing, changing. I am birth and death in one breath. I exist inextricably entwined at once in pleasure and pain.

This is my spiritual mantra. When change finds me again I hold it to my breast and cradle it. I imagine flaming black wings sprouting from my back, I feel myself flex them and I picture myself transformed into a great flaming raven, Black Phoenix. This is the image, the mantra that carries me through each new change that life throws at me.

My name is Anastasia, it means “She who shall rise again.” My mother told me she gave me this name because a phoenix came to her in a vision while I was being born. She taught me to meditate and pray for spiritual guidance in times of trial. When I was fourteen, my father died. That night Raven came to me in a vision. He told me that my life would be in a constant state of flux. He then burst into black flames and gave me my Spirit Name. I am Black Phoenix.

My wife was killed. We were married for seven years, beautiful years. Joan was a doctor, and she believed it was her calling to bring medicine and care to those who most needed it. So we traveled. For seven years we moved from one third-world village to another. Then she was gone. I spent a lot of time praying to Raven after she was killed.

Joan and I came back to the states to visit my family. We were hit by a drunk driver before we ever made it to my mother’s house. I had a nasty gash in my scalp, twelve stitches, a lot of bruising, and one broken rib. Joan died on the site. It took rescue workers three hours to cut her out of the car. She screamed for almost half that time and she died before they were done. The woman who hit us broke her right arm and got scraped up a bit. She was so drunk she couldn’t stand.

Joan’s killer was 24 years-old, her name was Cynthia Richards. It took them six months to bring Cynthia Richards to trial. I prayed to Raven every day for six months. I prayed for vengeance. When they brought her into the court she looked small, her eyes were big. She looked like she might be a kindergarten teacher, or a librarian. She looked sweet; I hated her for her that almost as much as I hated her for ripping my life apart.

When she took the stand she cried. She placed her right hand on the Bible and she began to cry. When the prosecutor asked her if she felt remorse for what she had done she didn’t make any excuses, she said she was “blind drunk” that night. Cynthia Richards looked at the jury members and told them, “I have done a terrible thing, a thing that I can never repay or make right. I can’t imagine a punishment harsh enough to serve justice for what I have done.” The jury was out for less than an hour. They found her guilty of “involuntary manslaughter.” She was sentenced to serve three years in a minimum-security prison. She was released in less than eighteen months.

The day Cynthia Richards was released from prison I prayed to Raven. I felt great flaming black wings rise up from my back. I prayed for guidance. I felt myself engulfed in black flames, mighty talons extending from my toenails, a razor sharp ebony beak replacing my lips. In my mind I soared into a dark sky, trailing lightening in my wake. I begged Raven to come to me, to release me from my rage. When I opened my eyes I sat alone, no guidance was given, no solace found.

The next morning I drove slowly past Cynthia Richards’ home. I saw her hugging a man who looked old enough to be her father. She was smiling, laughing. She looked like she was his little girl, innocent, sweet. Her curly hair and cotton dress, her sweet smile and sparkling eyes brought a bitter acrid taste into my mouth, a sickly sweet smell of rotten meat to my nostrils.

For days all I could do was sit in my living room and pray. The harder I tried to relax my mind and allow Raven’s guidance to reach me the more I saw Joan’s face, her long black hair spilled over her shoulder, blood smeared across her beautiful cheeks, anguish in her eyes. I smelled smoke. I saw pebbles of glass from the shattered windshield and windows. I heard her screams. I saw the light go out of her eyes. Each failed attempt to achieve peace and find guidance brought a new layer of rage to the surface. Each time I closed my eyes and envisioned myself as The Black Phoenix my wings were larger, my talons sharper, the black flames engulfing me darker.

Two weeks after Cynthia Richards returned to her happy life, my phone rang. The voice on the line said, “Is this Anastasia Macey?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“My name is Cynthia Richards.” Her voice was kind, quiet. I don’t know if she said anything else. The room began to shimmer and waiver as if heat were rising in great dark waves from the floor.

A roaring filled my ears and after a moment I realized it was my own voice. I don’t know if I was even speaking words. When the roaring stopped, my throat was burning and raw and there was a sharp ache in the knuckles of the hand that was holding the receiver. When I looked they were bleeding and still clutching the phone. I was slamming it into its cradle over and over.