In '46, my great-grandmother poured herself some tea. Out the spout came a phoenix, damp and bedraggled, like a kaleidoscope of coloured paper. That evening, great-grandpa changed the dial on the Silvertone and dropped to the floor. The entire block was out a week.
In '91, my mom married. Her salesman husband lasted a week before showing a Dart with an ignition problem to a prospective buyer.
A day after my first kiss, my science-geek boyfriend made a mistake in chemistry. They say the phoenix is lucky, but I wouldn't care if I saw another one for a thousand years.
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free: http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
Chicken is part of 101 Fiction issue 1.