I started the 100 drabbles for Summer in 2011, but I only got to 10. So here are 10 Summer Drabbles for you to enjoy:

Rain (wordcount 115)
Rain in the summer is always a little strange. Most people want to dislike it, but one look at a plant, perking up and turning fresh green leaves to the sun, reminds you why it is important. The drop of clean water on dry, dusty earth, blossoming darkly into something nurturing, reminds you what it can do. The smell of the air after a rainfall lifts the sullen muggy air into a fresh, sweet breeze, like newly-cut grass or an ocean breeze. Most people want to dislike summer rain, but sometimes it’s cleansing, like wiping a layer of dust off an old photograph and finding an image of a rich, bright drop of water underneath.

Blue Skies (wordcount 115)
There is a window in the hallway that looks out over an overgrown, weed-cracked pathway. It is terminated by a broken fence, a weary tarmac pavement taking up on the other side and leading out of sight of the window. The sky is dull and grey. On the other side of the door is another window, but this one looks onto a photograph. The view is the same as through the window, but uniquely different: the pathway is fresh and clean, lined by neatly trimmed flower beds. It is always overlooked by sunny blue skies, bringing out the fresh white of the fence and the hope, the excitement, of the road on the other side.

Wander (wordcount 104)
She gets lost so very easily, following her feet and her heart here and there in the world and forgetting where her wanderings are taking her. Some other girl, living some other life, might have been enraptured by her wanderlust, might have allowed her feet to carry her far away, past oceans and mountains and into strange, foreign lands. But while her feet and her heart carried her away, their tread knew a familiar road better than any – the road to her home, the path back to her family. She always knew that wherever she might wander, her feet would always take her home.

Ocean (wordcount 114)
There was a photograph on the wall, blown up and displayed prominently above the mantle. It was done in the same washed-out wistful grey as the photo of the boy on the beach. It was the same ocean, possibly, the same white-crested waves frozen forever in print, a vast unstoppable force held still. It had the feeling of a memory, or a dream: quiet and endless, but small, lost. It almost felt incongruous against the warmth of the other pictures, the close sense of family in the room. Occluded by dust and lying still in the empty shell of an abandoned house, it captured the feeling of the room better than any of them.

Sunburn (wordcount 99)
His brother took photograph after photograph of him; mouth wide with laughter and hands sometimes shaking with mirth. At least half of the pictures would have to be thrown out for being useless – because the camera was shaking, because he had turned his face away, covered the lens with a hand. He scowled and swatted at his brother whenever he caught him aiming the camera at him, but secretly he was glad he was amusing his brother. It took some of the sting – figuratively – out of burning almost all of his upper body under the glare of the sun.

Ice (wordcount 98)
There is a glass, on the edge of the mantelpiece. You notice it because it is out of place, the only sign of inhabitation in this dead room. The photographs on the walls, the furniture, they are just background noise, but this glass is real, a whisper from the past still echoing softly. The residue in the bottom is a caked stain by now, an amber film marred by dust and the black carcass of dead insects. There is a void, an odd shape that must have once been an ice-cube, long since melted. It makes you wonder.

Float (wordcount 104)

He learned to float first, as most children do. Swimming comes later, when you have re-learned the trust you felt for water in the womb, where you were safe and content. Unlike most children, who learn to float and immediately want more, progress to doggy-paddle and breast-stroke, eager to explore the water, he preferred to just floating. To feel water lapping at his ankles, shoulders, feel it buffet and buoy him, tug him sweetly and gently somewhere or nowhere. Tides were his favourite, sweeping him to and fro but rarely anywhere else. When photographed in the water, it was always on his back, floating.

Driftwood (wordcount 98)
There is a picture on the wall, when you wipe away the grime. At first it looks like nothing but driftwood on the beach – gray toned, waves cresting in gentle white curls and washing onto an untouched sandy beach. Caught and batted by the tides close to shore is a dark shape, lazily drifting and complacent, free of the hurry and bustle of deeper, windswept seas. Only a closer, discerning eye would see the outline of a body, would see the gentle curves of fingers, the soft swells of hips and shoulders. At first, it seems like driftwood.

Festival (wordcount 96)
Fireworks shone in the background, bright flares of gold reflecting on the flame of her hair, haloing her wide, delighted grin as the camera flashed. Elsewhere an older boy was captured with white-stained lips and a dusted shirt, a doughnut clasped in his hand. Later a stranger would see through the lens, would capture the whole family together in a bright shining moment. The wide smiles and eyes sparkling from the reflected Catherine wheel would look over the family from the mantle-piece, pride of place in a whole set of photographs documenting this festival of joy

Dust (wordcount 110)
Dust lay thick on the room like a widow’s funeral shroud, darkly shielding the eyes and emotions of the abandoned shell. Faded, dull photographs lined walls and shelves, their furry coating obscuring all but the basic outlines of the contents – here a blurred young man, there an indistinguishable family. A series of frames bearing the same carved edges attempted to conceal a series of pictures of the same young girl, flecks of flame-red hair just visible through the grime. White sheets veiled old furniture, stained now with age and dust but protecting the hidden shapes. Beneath the dust had been a soul, a family, but they too now were ash.