Selected Works

Read on for a small taste of my writing style.

The Sky

By Jessica Knight

the sky is a desert

it’s clouds, nomadic cities

hiding the secret lives of stars

Egg Moon

By Jessica Knight

There’s always a story writing itself, or maybe its already been written and I’m just now reading it.

It was through exiting my front door I entered the chapter I’ll tell you about now. A door is all you need; a portal to another world.

Now, calling something as familiar as the neighborhood streets I walk morning and night “another world” may seem odd to you, but trust me, it is so.

This world’s atmosphere was a lifeless, cool blue. No clouds to paint it a face. Blank. Expansive, but pointlessly so without an expression.

That is, until my eyes were caught by seven birds flying overhead.

Did I say seven birds?

No, it was seven licks of flame: bellies ignited by a setting sun, burning their way through a dead sky. And on the earth below, on someone’s front lawn-

a fallen egg, that somehow hadn’t lost its structure.

It isn’t often I see eggs on the ground, and things you don’t see often always make you think.

An egg is surely a symbol of life, although I was unsure if this was the fate of the one I saw. It seemed ironic under a sky I had recently pronounced deceased.

But my eyes were caught again, this time by a big, rising moon.

Dare I say, it looked like an egg?

Pale with no cracks.

A plot’s twist.

Brightness in the darkening night.


By Jessica Knight

If I had to call late July one thing, it would be languorous.

Lazy. Thick. Slow.

Even the word gets stuck to the roof of your mouth while you sound it out.

So it was until the storm broke, just in time for August to roll in like heavy clouds do.

The skies opened up and poured gray-blue buckets. It came down so hard the drops felt sharp as a thousand pinpricks.

What a strange thing we had been wishing for.

We ran for cover into a dark house, our sight obstructed by slick palms and sheets of rain.

Storm killed the power.

Moon killed the Sun.

And on we slept, long past it’s resurrection.

I rose out of crumpled sheets the following day to greet the outside but it was a new world by then, and the ground seemed to have changed forms while we were out.

There were roads no longer, but mosaics in their place. Mirrored pools all around casting reflections like spells. The air felt like the taste of freshly bruised mint. Clean, cold.

The scent was wet wood. A smell that crept up from earth and old trees, charmed out like a snake under hypnosis following the water’s mystery tune.

And I thought to myself,

“Damn, I love a good monsoon.”

Night Bloomer

By Jessica Knight

Let the generous blossoming of summer’s sunny days offer nectar to the busy bees

And butterflies who flit among the splashes of color spilt over its brim.

When the moon takes reign, I’ll open myself

pale and spider-like

to the black leather and satin bodies of bats.

I’ll summon with unforgettable scent

the drab lot of moths who dust petals with powder

Like that of forgotten heirlooms in ancient attic tombs

and cigarette ash.

I’ll save my sweetness for the erratic intelligence of inky skies

Who call caves and corners home, waking only when evening calls.

I’ll keep my distance from sticky-fingered, plucky, ogling crowds

Never to be stolen.

Not to be kept.

Some say I’m doomed

For after one night, I’ll shrivel with the death of my magnificent bloom

But I beg time to take me

Back to the belly of my mother, the dark that bore me.

Safely under the world

I’ll whisper stories of kisses from not-so-wicked winged things

And tell tales of the way night crawlers taste

To all who writhe beneath the surface.

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