Spilt

The library book lay unattended, closed on the exam desk as though it had been either forgotten or conspicuously left out for someone to notice. And so it was noticedThere was no title, and the simple curiosity of humanity, to know what the others of our kind are thinking (if indeed they really think at all and aren’t all robots sent to comfort us in the face of some massive and unknown tragedy_ was overwhelming  So I picked it up and flicked through it I can’t remember what it was about. I feel like I should.
It was an old book, well-read by other students before me, and it was suitably annotated with pencil, pen, highlighter and other things that sent nails down the chalkboard of my soul. Bibliophile, that’s me. Pages were dog-eared, and in places had just come clean away from the deep folds. There was one note that I read, that had nothing to do with the text but read as though it was addressed to me permanently, and that I shall always remember. That is what was important. Hat was the moment I felt it born.
The beak and claws were formed first, hard, sharp, disconnected little things, and then the skeleton congealed together out of the yolk of my mind, linking the hardest, solid pieces. Organs, pink and red and glistening like something obscene, began to grow in their allotted places, swelling like fruit on the bough until the skeleton was concealed beneath the sofness. Blood vessels grew like ivy tendrils, but instead of choking, they nourished the new little garden of an embryo. Skin came last, holding it together, moulding a familiar shape and filming over the eyes, and then of course feathers began to sprout in red pins to the swelling of music and feeling, as though I might burst like those tender little organs had seemed to want to do The wings sopped being stumps and started to be maestic as they should be, and a tail grew from nowhere among the flames.
A smile spread across my face as the phoenix’s first and repeated cry rang out through the must of the library.
Doubt cleared from my mind at last, and I ran out and back into the world, to prove that they were wrong.

Scrubbed

The library book lay unattended through my pensiveness that weighed the air down, closed on the study desk as though it had been either forgotten or conspicuously left out for someone to notice. And so it was noticed. It was that simple.

There was no title, and the simple curiosity of humanity, to know what the others of our kind are thinking (if indeed they really think at all and aren’t all robots sent to comfort us in the face of some massive and unknown tragedy) was overwhelming. So I picked it up and flicked casually through it, in the same way that I check the history of the library computers to see what other people have been searching for. I can’t remember what it was about, though, for all that I was so interested. I feel like I should.

It was an old book, well-read by other students before me, and it was suitably annotated with pencil, pen, highlighter and other things that sent nails down the chalkboard of my soul. The consummate bibliophile, that’s me. Every other page seemed to be dog-eared, and in places the corners had just come clean away from the deep folds. There was one note that I read, folded in there like a bookmark, that had nothing to do with the text but read as though it was addressed to me personally, and that I shall always remember, every word. That is what was important. That was the moment I felt it born again.

The beak and claws were formed first, hard, sharp, disconnected little things that pricked me, and then the skeleton congealed together out of the yolk of my mind, linking the hardest, solid pieces together coherently. Organs, pink and red and glistening like something obscene, began to grow in their allotted places, swelling like fruit on the bough until the skeleton was concealed beneath the pulsing softness. Blood vessels grew like ivy tendrils, but instead of choking, they nourished the new little garden of an embryo. Skin came last, holding it together, moulding a familiar shape and filming over the eyes, and then of course feathers began to sprout in red pins to the swelling of music and feeling, as though I might burst like a ripe fruit. The wings stopped being awkward stumps and started to be as majestic as they should be in fine layers of fire, and a tail grew from nowhere among the flames.

A smile spread across my face as the phoenix’s first repeated cry rang out to clear the must of the library.

Doubt cleared from my mind at last, and I ran out and back into the world, to prove that they were wrong.