Making Clouds

When the summer rain came we left buckets outside in the yard. We went to sleep and dreamt of flying. In the morning the buckets were full to the brim, cold to the touch.
We poured some of the rainwater into our mother’s mixing bowl and found the electric whisk. At full speed the water buckled, fizzed, and spat, but it never really changed.
Later we carried a bucket down to the fairground and waited until closing time. We snuck into the candy floss stall and poured rainwater into the machine. It spun into strands, the strands into webs, the webs collapsing in on themselves. We ate candy floss on the way home.
There was a big hill outside of town. We picked up our bikes and cycled, dangling the last bucket on our handlebar. At the top of the hill, we counted to three and threw the water up as high as we could. It hung in the air until the breeze carried it away.

Anton Rose lives in Durham, U.K. He writes fiction and poetry, and his work has appeared in a number of print and online journals. Find him at or @antonjrose.