Small Stories
Wisteria knelt before the muddy puddle and pointed. In it, a shining yellow chick shivered against the bitter cold, its peeps already softer than even when we'd first arrived.
"She smells sick, gran," Wisteria whispered. "We could save her."
I leaned on my cane and ground my front teeth. "She's a phoenix, child," I started. "We've got no place for her."
"But she'll die out here."
"Yes, but--" Every protest died before my granddaughter's tears. "Alright, Wisteria. And damn us both."
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Small Stories
She'll die, but come back, but never be the same.
Or she'll have all the love and compassion one can give... and still burn the house down when she reforms.
A lesson, either way.
