Sue Bust

The morning sun

The morning sun tastes like the fermented ginger beer the Skinners brewed in their back yard and once forgot about and left until it was oozing out of bottles in a murky mess and when I tasted its extreme bubbliness, its yeasty sourness up my nose, I was wide awake and screwing up my eyes like I do when I walk out into the morning sun. And when I screw my eyes tight against the morning sun, I see a kaleidoscope, like the kaleidoscope in the darkness of a haunted house, black splotched with red and orange, colours that burn into the pupils of my eyes. And then I might be drinking fermented ginger beer in a haunted house

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