Forecasts in Glass

Every morning, before Chicken opens her eyes, she listens. Not for birdsong, or wind, or rain outside, but for the sound of the jar.

It sits on her nightstand like a small planet, a jar sealed with a metal cap, holding whatever sky her mind has conjured overnight. Some mornings it glows. Some mornings it grieves. She never knows which world she’ll wake to.

Morning opens like a breath. Chicken blinks awake to light, thick and golden, pooling inside the glass jar on her nightstand. It swirls lazily, as if the sun itself has decided to rest there a while.

She sits up slowly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her feathers catch the light; dust dances in the air around her. For a moment, the world hums, a low, contented sound that seems to come from everywhere at once.

The jar glows brighter when she looks at it. Warmth spills across the quilt, over her knees, onto the oak floor. “A good day,” she whispers to no one. “A good one.”

She swings her legs out of bed, her claws clicking softly against the wood. The air smells faintly of lavender drifting through the cracked window.

In the kitchen, she moves quietly,  a ritual. The kettle hums. The coffee blooms. Steam curls upward like tiny spirits leaving her favorite egg mug.

She leans against the counter while it drips, eyes half closed, listening to the familiar rhythm, the soft hiss of boiling water, the tick of the clock, the gentle bloop of coffee finding its place in the mug.

She stirs oat milk in slow circles until a tiny sun forms on the surface. Then she takes her phone from the table, thumbs tapping a little too fast, excitement bubbling:

“Brunch tomorrow? Le Petit Matin?”

Caroline replies first, a black cat sipping coffee emoji, and, “Only if we get the mimosa tower.” 

Then Diane, “Only if we sit outside in the sun. I’m working on a new form of sun meditation.”

Caroline responds, “Drunk meditation. Enlightenment through prosecco.”

Chicken laughs under her breath and responds, “Perfect, I can’t wait to see what that looks like. Let’s try not to get kicked out this time.” 

Caroline fires back instantly, “It wasn’t my fault Diane decided to do a headstand fueled by mimosas and crashed into the table next to us.”

Diane quickly responds, “We don’t talk about that. The floor was uneven.”

Chicken pauses before replying, the memory washing over her, 

Sunlight, laughter, the golden clink of glass. Diane upside down between tables.

Caroline and Chicken frozen, cheeks puffed, trying not to laugh.

Two stunned squirrels at the next table, their croissants suspended mid-bite as Diane’s chair toppled gracefully into their mimosa tower, breaking their cafe table clean in half.

The crash, the gasp, the silence, then the three of them bursting out laughing as orange juice rained across the floor.

Back in the present, Chicken grins at her phone and types, “Yeah, sure, Diane.”

Her laughter spills into the quiet kitchen, bright and boundless. She tops off her coffee, opens the door, and steps into the morning.

The air smells like grass and lavender. The light is soft at first, then bold, brushing against her feathers as if the day itself wants to touch her.

She crosses the grass barefoot and settles onto the swing beneath the oak.

The ropes creak, the seat sways.

And then time stops meaning much at all.

Chicken swings and sips and smiles, the cup warm in her hands, the sun warm on her face. She hums a tune she doesn’t remember learning.

Hours fold quietly into hours. The light moves across the fields, turning the lavender from lilac to gold, the way moods turn without warning.

By afternoon, the whole world glows.

Chicken leans back, closes her eyes, and lets the sky hold her. She feels perfectly aligned with the day, no storms, no clouds, no ache, just her and the sunlight, swinging in easy rhythm with the earth.

The jar glows through her bedroom window, bright and pulsing, a small, bottled sunrise keeping time with her heart.

She’d spent hours on the swing, legs pumping, laughter spilling into the air, getting high enough to touch the sky and having whole conversations with the clouds.

They’d listened, she was sure of it. They’d told her she was weightless, brilliant, limitless. And she’d believed them.

…

The next morning arrived, but now the light through her window is pale and foreign, a quiet kind of brightness that hurts to look at. The jar on her nightstand has dimmed to gray, a fine rain circling inside like a sigh that can’t escape.

She felt it, the rain, the sadness, the sudden heaviness that made her body a weight she couldn’t lift. Her feathers clung to her skin. Her chest ached with a numbness that didn’t feel like peace.

Even though it was bright outside, the world already felt far away, like the clouds had taken her laughter with them and left her here to dry.

She stared at the jar for a long time, watching the drizzle gather and fall, as if the weather inside it had moved into her veins.

She didn’t get up. The rain inside the jar kept falling, and she could feel every drop in her bones.

She meant to move. She meant to text. She meant to do something. But the weight in her chest pressed harder than the blankets.

Time slipped without sound.

By the time the clock blinked noon, she could hear faint laughter outside, then the soft knock at her door.

“Chicken?” It was Diane’s voice, careful and bright at once.

Another knock. Then Caroline muffled, “Oh, no.”

Chicken kept still, eyes open but fixed on the ceiling. The light outside her curtains was too much.

The door creaked. Footsteps, soft, hesitant. Then Caroline’s voice, quieting mid-sentence.

“Oh,” she said. She saw the jar first, gray and heavy on the nightstand next to the six bottles of medications, then Chicken curled beneath the sheets, feathers dull, face turned toward the wall.

Caroline didn’t say anything else. She just crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, one paw resting gently on the blanket near Chicken’s shoulder.

Diane hovered by the doorway, eyes flicking between them, her usual composure thinning into worry.

Caroline gave her a slight shake of the head, don’t. Diane nodded and looked away, folding her arms tight.

The three of them stayed like that, the rain inside the jar falling quietly, the sound of lavender brushing against the window, and no one trying to fix anything.

Just being there, while the weather passed through her.

…

The next morning came with a growl. The light through the curtains flickered, not from the sun, but from flashes inside the jar.

Thunder cracked somewhere deep within it, a low, pulsing sound that rattled the nightstand. Tiny forks of lightning tangled like nerves under glass.

Caroline was still curled on the floor, while Diane was draped across the chair near the window, with the remains of croissants and empty coffee cups scattered between them. 

Chicken blinked at them, her chest tight.

They’d stayed. All day yesterday. To sit with her. And still, the first thing she felt was anger.

At herself. For needing them. For wasting another day. For the way her mood changed without permission.

She sat up too fast. The blanket slipped from her body. Her feathers felt electric, standing on end, pulsing with heat.

Caroline stirred. “Hey,” she said softly, “you okay?”

Chicken didn’t answer. She stood, pacing the room. The storm inside the jar followed her, with thunder rumbling louder and the glass vibrating against the wood.

“I’m fine,” she said too quickly, the words sharp and hot. The jar flared, a flash of white-blue light that lit the whole room.

Diane opened one eye. “It doesn’t sound fine.”

Chicken stopped, fists balled, wings trembling.“I hate this!” she said. “I hate that I ruin everything. You stay, and then I wake up and I’m just…” Her voice cracked.

The thunder in the jar answered for her.

Caroline stood and crossed the room, stepping carefully between the flashes. 

“Hey,” she said, gently but firmly, “you don’t ruin anything. You weather things louder than the rest of us, and that’s okay.”

For a moment, everything stilled. The lightning dimmed, thunder fading into the low hum of rain.

Chicken closed her eyes. The air smelled of metal and lavender. She let Caroline’s words settle, though part of her still didn’t believe them.

Outside, the storm clouds were gathering too, as if the jar had called them in for company.

The thunder cracked so loud it rattled the windows. 

Chicken’s breath came in sharp, uneven bursts. The jar on the nightstand pulsed with light, black clouds swirling, lightning trapped in glass.

“I’m just so tired of this! I hate myself!” she cried, stumbling toward it.

Caroline reached out. “Chicken, wait…”

But Chicken’s hand was already on the jar. The chill of it bit into her palm.

She lifted it, heart pounding.

“I HATE THIS!” she screamed at it, and threw it.

The glass shattered against the floor.

For a moment, everything froze, then a wave of cold air burst outward, sweeping through the room. The smoke poured from the broken jar, thick and wild, swallowing the light, turning the air heavy.

Diane coughed, eyes watering, voice strained. “Open the window!”

Diane stumbled toward it, fumbling with the latch as the dark air coiled around their feet.

Chicken sank to her knees, shaking, clutching her head as if she could hold herself together by force.

“It’s everywhere,” she sobbed. “It’s in me.”

“Hey, hey,” Caroline said, crawling to her, one paw on her back, the other holding her steady.

Diane threw the window open; the smoke rushed toward the air, spilling out like a wounded sky.

The cold began to lift.

Chicken gasped, trembling, feathers damp with sweat and tears.

Caroline kept her close, whispering, “It’s okay. You’re still here.”

Diane knelt beside them, pulling a blanket from the bed, wrapping it around Chicken’s shoulders.

The last tendrils of smoke curled upward and vanished through the open window, leaving behind a faint scent of rain and glass.

For a long time, none of them spoke.

The only sound was Chicken’s breath, uneven but alive, and the wind outside, gentle again.

The smoke had lifted, leaving the floor littered with glass, fragments of what once tried to hold her heart. Each shard caught the light, trembling, a thousand tiny reflections of the storm that had passed.

Caroline bent down, picking one up carefully. “Guess you’re done bottling it,” she said softly.

Chicken gave a breath of laughter, tired and cracked. “Guess so.”

She knelt beside the mess. The pieces glittered like fallen stars, sharp, beautiful, dangerous.

For a moment, she wanted to fix it, to make it whole again. But she couldn’t. How could she when she didn't feel whole herself? 

So she gathered the shards one by one, cupping them gently in her hands. Her reflection scattered across them, a dozen versions of herself, each with different eyes.

Then she stood, walked to the open window, and let the pieces fall.

They caught the light as they went, spinning silver over the bundled lavender bush outside her window, tumbling until they vanished into the grass below.

Caroline and Diane watched silently, their faces soft in the early light.

Chicken stayed by the window, the wind threading through her feathers, her palms empty, shining with the memory of glass.

These pieces of her were never meant to be contained. They were meant to scatter, to shimmer, to live in the world, and find their own light again.

She watched the horizon, the lavender bowing under the morning breeze.

“I’ll take each day,” she whispered, “each piece, as they come.”

The wind answered softly, carrying the last glint of light away.

What was broken had finally learned how to breathe.

Poem for this Episode

A Fragile Keeper

I was a jar once, 

a fragile keeper of storms, 

tight-lidded, trembling, 

full of weather I didn’t choose.

Some mornings I woke to sunlight, 

gold pooling against the glass, 

and I swore I’d never let it leave.

Other days, 

the jar filled with smoke so black 

it swallowed my reflection whole.

I begged it to stop.

I begged me to stop.

And when it didn’t, 

I threw it, 

the sound like a body breaking open.

Glass met floor.

Smoke met air. 

I met myself again, 

bare and breathing.

Now the pieces live in the lavender, 

spinning silver when the wind moves through.

What’s broken still glints. 

What’s gone still gleams.

These pieces of me, 

they were never meant to be contained.

I’ll take them as they come, 

each sharp edge, 

each soft reflection, 

each weathered breath,

and call that living.

CHK