#jessicachouwrites

[jessicachouwrites]

No one knew when the red balls first appeared—just that one day, they were everywhere, clogging ditches and drainpipes, piled in corners like sad little shrines to jesters of old. People talked about them constantly, but I seemed to be the only one who felt uneasy. That changed the day I saw one twitch, heard the soft crack as it hatched.

[jessicachouwrites]

The thing that sits on my bed knows my name, but cannot speak it. I lie awake at night listening to broken consonants and mangled syllables, the pressure at my feet growing as it inches closer to articulation. With every coming dawn, I know my only chance is to learn its name first—but when I see it written out in ink that stains an entire page, I worry this is a race I cannot win.

[jessicachouwrites]

My boots splash in the knee-high water, accompanied by the jangling of bejeweled chains. A menagerie of lockets, gleaming brighter than birds of paradise, cuddle against my chest, thumping in time with my heart. These tunnels are open for only a few hours each day, the catacombs inside almost entirely cut off from the outside world, save for the cracks through which my air flows after the tunnels flood. The guards will never find me, and my treasure glitters around me like a dragon’s hoard.

[jessicachouwrites]

I breathe life into tiny motes of dust, summoning little dragons formed from an alloy of grime and sunshine. They do my bidding throughout the day, eager to cling unseen to the tidy cloaks of my wealthier patrons.

[jessicachouwrites]

Reversing an unscheduled rain shower is a thankless task. I poke individual droplets back into the cloud for hours, listening to the meteorologist on the radio blame someone else for his failings.

[jessicachouwrites]

me: pls let me sleep

brain: write about liminal spaces in a grocery store

me: it’s midnight, bestie

brain: …the caution signs form a fairy ring

[jessicachouwrites]

The water dripping from our oars sparkles like a thousand shards of glass. The reality is no less deadly. No one drinks the water here, and whispers tell of what bubbles up from the depths—writhing globs of murk marinated too long beside sunken dragon bones.

[jessicachouwrites]

They say it hasn’t rained in centuries. My work takes me to the cavernous depth of the once-ocean in search of the sun-bleached bones of ancient creatures; sturdy material that will fetch a high price for my efforts. The first squelch barely registers after the heat and exhaustion of the day, but the second has me pausing, searching my thoughts for the name of the substance that clings to my shoe as the first cold tap strikes my nose.