Rocket summer.
Every year since I was 12, I re-read Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles.
Here’s a quick piece I did, inspired by the book’s opening sketch.
Rocket summer. The words passed among the people in the open, airing houses. Rocket summer. The warm desert air changing the frost patterns on the windows, erasing the artwork. The skis and sleds suddenly useless. The snow, falling from the cold sky upon the town, turned to a hot rain before it touched the ground. Rocket summer.
Rocket summer!
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