The summer when I was six

The rainbow is grey and at its end the Rheola in the shape of a brick. Rain presses the windows to squeeze out pints of golden bubble filled with the summer when I was six. I stayed with my grandmother for the first time, while my parents fled from the responsibilities of child care. As they slept in their tent I woke to a room that resembled a galaxy filled with precious metal. This pub is where I come to escape – just for an hour I am back, waking to that bedroom and a day of possibilities.

– Benjamin F Jones
Golden bubble filled with the summer

Pints of golden bubble filled with the summer when I was six

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About Graphite Bunny

I am a writer working in South Wales (UK). I love pizza, photography and moist clay. When it rains I catch drops in my open mouth. I create poetry, flash, absurdist snapshots and humorous fiction.
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5 Responses to The summer when I was six

  1. Such a lovely image you’ve painted there:-)
    Ah, the age of six, when it’s still possible to wake up with excitement, your mind open to a day of possibilities! I still have a vision of my son at that exact age arriving at a holiday cottage in Suffolk where he’d stayed the year before, and him rushing upstairs to throw himself backwards onto his bed and declare “hooray, my cottage!”

    • My cottage – fabulous. Such certainly is great to have. Hope you are well – I have another N+7 ready for the posting if you fancy. Give me a time and a date and it will be so…

      • Probably Saturday week would be good, unless I don’t get round to writing my proposed post about bees for this weekend and come up with an N+7 instead. Will let you know. Email coming in next few days. Have been hectic with family stuff.

  2. jonth says:

    Moments of consciousness preserved are fascinating. I have one such for my seventh birthday; the moment of waking to sun through curtains and the knowledge of a huge power which had filled me overnight.

    • I think one of my reasons for writing short prose and flash is in order to preserve those moments of conciousness. Mostly they are my own but sometimes other people’s can act as seeds.

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