Farewell Summer ~ Ray Bradbury - Marimarister

jar, you could almost snap them to life, as if you were running bits of film over your eyeballs so
that the tiny things became large and then larger, shaping themselves into fingers, hands, palms,
wrists, elbows, until finally, asleep, the last shape opened wide its dull, blue, lashless eyes and
fixed you with its gaze that cried, Look! See! I am trapped here forever! What am I? What is the
question, what, what? Could it be, you there, below, outside looking in, could it be that I am . . .
you ?
Beside him, rooted to the grass, stood Charlie and Will and Tom.
―What was that all about?‖ Will whispered.
―I almost—‖ Doug started but Tom interrupted, tears running down his cheeks.
―How come I‘m crying?‖
―Why would anyone be crying?‖ said Will, but his eyes were wet, too. ―Darn,‖ he
whispered.
They heard a creaking sound. From the corner of his eye, Douglas saw a woman go by
pushing a carriage in which something struggled and cried.
Beyond in the afternoon crowd, a pretty woman walked arm in arm with a sailor. Down
by the lake a mob of girls played tag, hair fl ying, leaping, bounding, measuring the sand with
swift feet. The girls ran away down the shore and Douglas, hearing their laughter, turned his
gaze back to the tent, the entry, and the large strange question mark.
Douglas started to move back toward the tent, like a sleepwalker.
―Doug?‖ said Tom. ―Where you going? You going back in to look at all that junk again?‖
―Maybe.‖
―Why?‖ exploded Will. ―Creepy-looking stuff that someone stuck in old pickle jars. I‘m
going home.
C‘mon.‖
―You go on,‖ said Doug.
―Besides,‖ said Will, passing a hand across his forehead, ―I don‘t feel so good. Maybe
I‘m scared. How about you?‖
―What‘s to be scared of?‖ said Tom. ―Like you said, it‘s just some creepy old stuff .‖
―See you later, guys.‖ Doug walked slowly to the entryway and stopped in the shadows.
―Tom, wait for me.‖ Doug vanished.