Page 5 of Stalker's Toy

The phoenix’s talons need more definition.

I claw the side of the pencil lead against the paper, etching lines that fray at the edges.

The smoke should have texture.

My memories come rushing back.

Dad’s arms shovingme through the kitchen window. Mom’s wedding ring catching on my sweater as she pushes.

The porch beam groaning under the magnitude of the blaze.

I blink.

My thumb rubs the inside of my wrist where the scar tissue puckers.

The studio’s overhead lights buzz—a sound like distant sirens.

I layer another shadow beneath the phoenix’s breastbone.

Negative space where the heart should be.

Someone’s phone vibrates.

The rattling against plywood makes my molars ache.

Crash of timber. Mom’s scream cut short.

I dig the charcoal into the paper so hard it squeaks.

The bird’s eye emerges—a void swallowed by lighter voids.

Phoenixes don’t have irises.

They have centuries of ash packed behind their eyelids.

My boot taps uneven concrete.

The studio floor still shows stains from last semester’s oil paint spill.

Burgundy, like the rug beneath our Christmas treewhen I finally saw a glimpse of what was left of our home.

“Cohen.”

I startle at the sound of my name.

The girl with the espresso cup nods at my drawing.

“It’s supposed to be hopeful, right?” She gestures with her stir stick. “The rising from ashes thing?”

I rotate the paper ninety degrees.

The phoenix now plunges downward, wings spread like a falling bomber. “Hope’s overrated.”

She laughs, mistaking this for a joke.

The clock above the sink clicks to 3:17.

A bead of sweat slides between my shoulder blades.

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