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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Aug, 2025
James carried chalk in his pocket now. It was a habit, like someone carrying keys or coins. He never left home without it. The chalk was his way of speaking, his way of remembering. He couldn’t write sentences anymore, couldn’t hold onto ideas long enough to shape them into stories, but he could leave marks. A crooked bird here, a star there, a tree with uneven branches. They weren’t perfect, but they were his.At first, people barely noticed. A few children laughed at the drawings, some adults shook their heads, thinking it was just another ...
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