Open Contest Memories of Summer—2025

[BoundlessLove]

hate to be a debby downer but my summer sucked i lost my best friend

This was no ordinary summer—it was the summer of Bunny.


When my dad brought home that carton of free chicks from my brother’s hatchery, I had no idea how profoundly it would change my life. Among a chaotic jumble of yellow, black, and brown fluffballs, one tiny gray chick caught my eye instantly. She was different—quiet, delicate, almost fragile in a way that made you want to protect her. Something inside me clicked. Before I even touched her, the name “Bunny” appeared in my mind, soft and certain, as if she had always belonged to me. From that moment on, she wasn’t just a chick—she was mine.


At first, she didn’t trust me. Every time I reached into our homemade chick brooder in the basement, she would shriek and flail, wings beating wildly, a tiny storm of panic in the hay. But I was patient. I sat with her, whispered to her, held out my hand, and played soft music. Slowly, day by day, fear gave way to curiosity. She tiptoed closer, tilting her wide, glimmering eyes toward me, studying me with careful wonder. Then came the miracle: one afternoon, she collapsed into my arms, feathers warm and soft, and fell asleep.


In that moment, something shifted. She wasn’t just a chick in my care—she was my baby. Her tiny, fragile body trusted me completely. Every peep, every tiny flutter of her wings, felt like a signal of her reliance on me for safety and comfort. When she nestled against my chest or burrowed into my hoodie pouch, I felt the weight of responsibility settle on me, as if her entire little world depended on my presence. Her soft murmurs, meant only for me, were secret whispers of trust and love, a language that only I could understand. Every movement, every glance, every sigh of contentment made me ache with the fierce, protective love I had never known before. She was delicate, she was dependent, she was mine in a way that mirrored the bond between a parent and a child.


Bunny was unlike any other bird. Quiet, reserved, an introvert in feathered form, she shied away from the commotion of the flock. But with me, she was bold, curious, completely herself. In her cautious curiosity, her selective trust, and her love for small comforts, I saw pieces of myself mirrored back. Her quiet observation of the world, the way she studied before stepping forward, reflected my own tendency to watch and think before acting. Her comfort in music and curling up in my lap mirrored my own need for solace in small moments of beauty. Watching her navigate the world, I recognized my own reflection in her careful, sensitive, introverted spirit. It was as if in Bunny, I could see the softest, most vulnerable parts of myself—made tangible, alive, and entrusted to my care.


I’d play music on my phone, and she had favorites—the same as mine, Lady Gaga and Taylor Swift—curling into my lap or draping herself across my elbow, swaying as if she shared the rhythm. It felt like we had our own secret language, one no one else could understand.


When the chicks moved to the coop, the transition was overwhelming for all of them, but Bunny clung to our bond. She tried to burrow into my hoodie pouch as if to say, “Take me home, this is too much.” My heart melted. Eventually, she explored, but always returned to me, checking in, whispering in her tiny, private chatter: soft murmurs, cheerful tweets, intimate sounds meant only for me. “I know you. I trust you. You’re mine.”


And oh, she was beautiful. Her feathers were a masterpiece, gray and white splashed with perfection, as if painted by an artist’s meticulous hand. She was not just a bird—she was a living work of art. I would watch her for hours, utterly captivated, wishing the world could see what I saw.


But joy carried the shadow of grief. One by one, chickens began to die. Each morning, my stomach twisted with fear, dreading the day Bunny might follow. On the night of July 26th, I held her close, her soft feathers pressed to my face, tears soaking her gray fluff, whispering to her, feeling in my bones that our time together was precariously short. I didn’t want to let her go.


And then came July 27th—the day that will never leave me. I stepped into the coop, the air heavy and wrong. My eyes darted across the floor. And there she was. Bunny, stiff, feathers puffed, her comb gray and lifeless. My chest shattered. I screamed, cradled her in my arms, shook her gently, whispered “Please, please, don’t leave me,” pressed my ear to her chest, tried to force life back into her tiny body—but it was useless. She was gone. My baby, my little gray companion, cold in my arms.


I buried her in the soft morning light, hands trembling, tears streaking my face. My mom tried to comfort me, but nothing could fill the emptiness. A piece of me had been ripped out, leaving a hollow ache that no words could touch.


This summer had given me so much—the joy of watching her grow, the secret chatter meant only for me, the warmth of her sleeping in my arms—but also my greatest heartbreak: losing her far too soon. Bunny was not just a chicken; she was my companion, my baby, my confidant, the soul of my summer days.


And yet, in the quiet moments, I cannot escape her. I relive her endlessly—her soft murmurs, the gentle curl of her body in my arms, the warmth of her feathers, the way she tilted her head to watch me. But just as often, I am thrust back into that morning, the moment I found her, lying cold and still. It replays over and over, like a scene from a Stephen King novel: the shadows of the coop stretching long and thin, the sharp tilt of her tiny head, the unbearable silence where life once pulsed. I wake in a cold sweat, heart hammering, as if the memory itself is breathing down my neck. Joy and terror, love and loss, are forever intertwined. Bunny lives on in my heart, yes, but also in my mind—a haunting presence I cannot quiet, a story I am doomed to replay, endlessly vivid, endlessly raw.

I’m so sorry. Please post a picture of Bunny if you would like to share one. I’d like to see her.

 

[Birdlove2011]

My favorite trip this summer was celebrating my husband's 40 birthday on a cruise to cozumel. My husband had always wanted to go on a cruise and experience what it would be like. I was always on the reserve and didn't really care for cruises. However, I told myself that this trip was not about me but him so I booked us a cruise spontaneously for his Birthday. I surprised him with it when I got home and he thought I was lying... lol. I ended up having to show him the booking in order for him to believe. So after penny pinching for months just so I could afford the drink package it was time for our trip. My husband had a blast. When we arrived to board it was like watching a kid. He was super excited and I was relieved because all my planning was coming to fruition. As this was my first cruise to I found sharing that part of the experience the most memorable. Everything was a first for us-getting on a large ship ✔, eating endless food ✔, swimming in the ocean ✔, shopping the streets of cozumel ✔, endless drinking ✔, gamble without a limit ✔ ( lol came back with 200 but I'll will leave what we invested out ), oh and we did not get sea sick!! ✔. All in all it was a memorable trip for us both.

 

[Perris]

Several things experienced in summer 2025 have left a big impression on me. One is Chatsworth, in Derbyshire. Long recommended to me as a place worth visiting, I finally got there. It is magnificent, inside and out.

For example, a library to linger in

while someone tinkled the ivories

and extraordinary examples of the decorative arts whose quality can be appreciated even if one's personal preferences tend more towards the Bauhaus

(that wall covering is embossed and painted leather). And this, apparently, was what it looked like in 1703, shortly after completion

And finally, their farm shop was selling eggs in cartons very similar to those I use, and for £2.75, which is reasonable

 

[CatInTheHenHouse]

This year I set out to grow as many big, vining crops as I could reasonably fit - melons and squash were on the list - and in my minuscule space that meant either going all out with trellises or getting eaten by my squash, Little Shop of Horrors-style.

To that end I did some research, and one of the cheaper, more durable options was making trellises from cattle panels. But how to get them home? I don’t own a pickup or anything else I could use for hauling. Most places wouldn’t ship, wouldn’t ship except in quantities far exceeding my needs, or had a price tag attached to shipping that made cattle panels much less budget-friendly.

What I ended up doing was renting a truck. My schedule meant I had to rent the more expensive box truck (rather than a pickup); this summer was the first year I ever drove something that size. There were a few issues (thank you to my lovely neighbors for helping me get the door unstuck!) but finally the panels were home.

My next problem was that the cattle panels were more than double the width they needed to be. That set off a search for bolt cutters - it turns out a lot of those don’t list the gauge they are good for. But after multiple hardware store visits, I finally located a suitable pair. The new trellises were cut to size and thus began the wait to see if they would actually work out.



The pole beans staked their claims first, and as of this writing seem to be perfectly happy with the setup. But pole beans are lightweight; I’d bought cattle panels because they were supposed to be sturdy enough for melons.

The melons in question took their good sweet time getting established; the entire month of June was cold and rainy, and they may have gotten overshadowed by the peas planted with them as well. But they did finally take off, and were perfectly happy to climb skyward with a little coaxing. (Side note, I recommend hair clips over twist ties for holding the plants in place until their tendrils find a perch. They’re easier to find and move.) Aside from the space savings, I also found the trellises have an added bonus: once the vines start climbing, they can get sunlight more hours per day in my sheltered, low-sun garden. I don’t know if the softball-sized melons currently hanging from the plants will make it to harvestable size by the time the plants die - the weather is consistently cool and summer is running out - but as for the trellises, they’ve been working beautifully.