thumb; a single spark of plant
life in his mother's fallow garden. He picked the egg up and held it to
his chest. A pleasant warmth wiggled from the tips of his fingers to the
tips of his toes. He took the egg inside, and placed it back in his dresser
drawer.
Chan closed the drawer, and walked across the hall to his parents'
bedroom. They lay on the bed with their arms behind their backs and
their feet bound together. Dirty rags had been stuffed in their mouths.
And instead of looking happy to see Chan, their eyes blazed with anger.
If he freed them, he would still be punished; they had not seen that he
had saved their lives with the phoenix. He would show the small sprout
to his mother later, and hope that she would believe that her luck in the
garden had changed. Chan briefly wondered how much better his life
would be if he left his parents like this. A smile crept across his face,
then he sighed, and began loosening the nearest rope.
"Watersnake, Firesnake" is © 2007 by Jason Erik Lundberg
This story was written in 2002, and has been posted online for free in
honor of International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day.
Creative Commons License
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/
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