This is the full text of the Ray Bradbury story “All Summer In A Day“. If the illustrations and micro-videos are not loading properly please kindly refresh your browser.
ALL SUMMER IN A DAY
By Ray Bradbury
“Ready?”
“Now?”
“Soon.”
“Do the scientists really know? Will it happen today, will it?”
“Look, look; see for yourself!”
The children pressed to each other like so many roses, so many weeds, intermixed, peering out for a look at the hidden sun.
It rained.
It had been raining for seven years; thousands upon thousands of days compounded and filled from one end to the other with rain, with the drum and gush of water, with the sweet crystal fall of showers and the concussion of storms so heavy they were tidal waves come over the islands.
A thousand forests had been crushed under the rain and grown up a thousand times to be crushed again. And this was the way life was forever on the planet Venus, and this was the schoolroom of the children of the rocket men and women who had come to a raining world to set up civilization and live out their lives.
“It’s stopping, it’s stopping!”
“Yes, yes!”
Margot stood apart from them, from these children who could never remember a time when there wasn’t rain and rain and rain. They were all nine years old, and if there had been a day, seven years ago, when the sun came out for an hour and showed its face to the stunned world, they could not recall.
Sometimes, at night, she heard them stir, in remembrance, and she knew they were dreaming and remembering gold or a yellow crayon or a coin large enough to buy the world with.
She knew they thought they remembered a warmness, like a blushing in the face, in the body, in the arms and legs and trembling hands.
But then they always awoke to the tatting drum, the endless shaking down of clear bead necklaces upon the roof, the walk, the gardens, the forests, and their dreams were gone.
All day yesterday they had read in class about the sun.
About how like a lemon it was, and how hot.
And they had written small stories or essays or poems about it: I think the sun is a flower; That blooms for just one hour.
That was Margot’s poem, read in a quiet voice in the still classroom while the rain was falling outside.
“Aw, you didn’t write that!” protested one of the boys.
“I did,” said Margot, “I did.”
“William!” said the teacher.
But that was yesterday.
Now the rain was slackening, and the children were crushed in the great thick windows.
“Where’s teacher?”
“She’ll be back.”
“She’d better hurry; we’ll miss it!”
They turned on themselves, like a feverish wheel, all tumbling spokes.
Margot stoodalone.
She was a very frail girl who looked as if she had been lost in the rain for years and the rain had washed out the blue from her eyes and the red from her mouth and the yellow from her hair. She was an old photograph dusted from an album, whitened away, and if she spoke at all her voice would be a ghost.
Now she stood, separate, staring at the rain and the loud wet world beyond the huge glass.
“What’re you looking at?” said William.
Margot said nothing.
“Speak when you’re spoken to.”
He gave her a shove.
But she did not move; rather she let herself be moved only by him and nothing else. They edged away from her, they would not look at her. She felt them go away. And this was because she would play no games with them in the echoing tunnels of the underground city.
If they tagged her and ran, she stood blinking after them and did not follow. When the class sang songs about happiness and life and games her lips barely moved. Only when they sang about the sun and the summer did her lips move as she watched the drenched windows. And then, of course, the biggest crime of all was that she had come here only five years ago from Earth, and she remembered the sun and the way the sun was and the sky was when she was four in Ohio. And they, they had been on Venus all their lives, and they had been only two years old when last the sun came out and had long since forgotten the color and heat of it and the way it really was.
But Margot remembered.
“It’s like a penny,” she said once, eyes closed. “No it’s not!” the children cried.
“It’s like a fire,” she said, “in the stove.”
“You’re lying, you don’t remember!” cried the children.
But she remembered and stood quietly apart from all of them and watched the patterning windows. And once, a month ago, she had refused to shower in the school shower rooms, had clutched her hands to her ears and over her head, screaming the water mustn’t touch her head.
So after that, dimly, dimly; she sensed it, she was different and they knew her difference and kept away.
There was talk that her father and mother were taking her back to Earth next year; it seemed vital to her that they do so, though it would mean the loss of thousands of dollars to her family.
And so, the children hated her for all these reasons of big and little consequence.
They hated her pale snow face, her waiting silence, her thinness, and her possible future.
“Get away!” The boy gave her another push.
“What’re you waiting for?”
Then, for the first time, she turned and looked at him. And what she was waiting for was in her eyes.
“Well, don’t wait around here!” cried the boy savagely:
“You won’t see nothing!” Her lips moved.
“Nothing!” he cried. “It was all a joke, wasn’t it?”
He turned to the other children.
“Nothing’s happening today: Is it?” They all blinked at him and then, understanding, laughed and shook their heads.
“Nothing, nothing!”
“Oh, but,” Margot whispered, her eyes helpless.
“But this is the day, the scientists predict, they say, they know, the sun. . .”
“All a joke!” said the boy, and seized her roughly.
“Hey, everyone, let’s put her in a closet before teacher comes!”
“No,” said Margot, falling back.
They surged about her, caught her up and bore her, protesting, and then pleading, and then crying, back into a tunnel, a room, a closet, where they slammed and locked the door.
They stood looking at the door and saw it tremble from her beating and throwing herself against it.
They heard her muffled cries.
Then, smiling, they turned and went out and back down the tunnel, just as the teacher arrived.
“Ready, children?” She glanced at her watch.
“Yes!” said everyone.
“Are we all here?”
“Yes!”
The rain slackened still more.
They crowded to the huge door.
The rain stopped.
It was as if, in the midst of a film, concerning an avalanche, a tornado, a hurricane, a volcanic eruption, something had, first, gone wrong with the sound apparatus, thus muffling and finally cutting off all noise, all of the blasts and repercussions and thunders, and then, second, ripped the film from the projector and inserted in its place a peaceful tropical slide which did not move or tremor.
The world ground to a standstill.
The silence was so immense and unbelievable that you felt your ears had been stuffed or you had lost your hearing altogether.
The children put their hands to their ears.
They stood apart.
The door slid back and the smell of the silent, waiting world came in to them.
The sun came out. It was the color of flaming bronze and it was very large. And the sky around it was a blazing blue tile color. And the jungle burned with sunlight as the children, released from their spell, rushed out, yelling, into the springtime.
“Now, don’t go too far,” called the teacher after them.
“You’ve only two hours, you know. You wouldn’t want to get caught out!”
But they were running and turning their faces up to the sky and feeling the sun on their cheeks like a warm iron; they were taking off their jackets and letting the sun burn their arms.
“Oh, it’s better than the sunlamps, isn’t it?”
“Much, much better!”
They stopped running and stood in the great jungle that covered Venus, that grew and never stopped growing, tumultuously, even as you watched it.
It was a nest of octopi, clustering up great arms of flesh-like weed, wavering, flowering this brief spring.
It was the color of rubber and ash, this jungle, from the many years without
It was the color of stones and white cheeses and ink, and it was the color of the moon.
The children
They looked at everything and savored everything.
Then, wildly, like animals escaped from their caves, they ran and ran in shouting circles. They ran for an hour and did not stop running. And
In the midst of their running one of the girls wailed.
Everyone stopped. The girl, standing in the open, held out her hand.
“Oh, look, look,” she said trembling.
They came slowly to look at her opened palm.
In the center of it, cupped and huge, was a single raindrop.
She began to cry; looking at it.
They glanced quietly at the sky. “Oh.Oh.”
A few cold drops fell on their noses and their cheeks and their mouths.
The sun faded behind a stir of mist. A wind blew cool around them.
They turned and started to walk back toward the underground house, their hands at their sides, their smiles vanishing away.
A boom of thunder startled them and like leaves before a new hurricane, they
Lightning struck ten miles away, five miles away, a mile, a half mile.
The sky darkened into midnight in a flash.
They stood in the doorway of the underground for a moment until it was raining hard.
Then they closed the door and heard the gigantic sound of the rain falling in tons and avalanches, everywhere and forever.
“Will it be seven more years?”
“Yes. Seven.”
Then one of them gave a little cry, “Margot!”
“What?”
“She’s still in the closet where we locked her.”
“Margot.”
They stood as if someone had driven them, like so many stakes, into the floor.
They looked at each other and then looked away: They glanced out at the world that was raining now and raining and raining steadily.
They could not meet each other’s glances.
Their faces were solemn and pale.
They looked at their hands and feet, their faces down.
“Margot.” One of the girls said, “Well. . . ?”
No one moved.
“Go on,” whispered the girl.
They walked slowly down the hall in the sound of cold rain.
They turned through the doorway to the room in the sound of the storm and thunder, lightning on their faces, blue and terrible. They walked over to the closet door slowly and stood by it.
Behind the closet door was only silence.
They unlocked the door, even more slowly, and let Margot out.
Attribution
This story was written by Ray Bradbury, and presented here under Article 22 of China’s Copyright Law. This was first published in the March 1954 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction.
I have found this version of the story on the Ray Bradbury library portal in Russia, and I have copied it here exactly as found. Credit to the wonderful people at the Ray Bradbury Library for posting it where a smuck like myself can read it within China. (Рэй Брэдбери .RU found at http://www.raybradbury.ru ) And, of course, credit to the great master; Ray Bradbury for providing this work of art for our inspiration and pleasure.
Ray Bradbury is one of my personal heroes and his writings greatly influenced me in ways that I am only just now beginning to understand.
I love the way that Ray Bradbury brings advanced concepts to the masses though his very (seemingly) simplistic stories.
Background
“There was this fence where we pressed our faces and felt the wind turn warm and held to the fence and forgot who we were or where we came from but dreamed of who we might be and where we might go…”
-R is for Rocket Ray Bradbury
For years I had amassed a well worn, and dusty collection of Ray Bradbury paperbacks that I would pick up and read for pleasure and inspiration. Later, when I left the United States, and moved to China, I had to leave my treasured books behind. Sigh.
It is very difficult to come across Ray Bradbury books in China. When ever I find one, I certainly snatch it up. Cost is no object when it comes to these masterpieces. At one time, I must have had five books containing this story.
Posts Regarding Life and Contentment
Here are some other similar posts on this venue. If you enjoyed this post, you might like these posts as well. These posts tend to discuss growing up in America. Often, I like to compare my life in America with the society within communist China. As there are some really stark differences between the two.
More Posts about Life
I have broken apart some other posts. They can best be classified about ones actions as they contribute to happiness and life. They are a little different, in subtle ways.
Stories that Inspired Me
Here are reprints in full text of stories that inspired me, but that are nearly impossible to find in China. I place them here as sort of a personal library that I can use for inspiration. The reader is welcome to come and enjoy a read or two as well.
Articles & Links
- You can start reading the articles by going HERE.
- You can visit the Index Page HERE to explore by article subject.
- You can also ask the author some questions. You can go HERE to find out how to go about this.
- You can find out more about the author HERE.
- If you have concerns or complaints, you can go HERE.
- If you want to make a donation, you can go HERE.