Flash Fiction: Blackcurrant Jelly, 26th August 1966

sp-overgrown-summer-house

Snails had almost eaten the paper, but the writing on the label was my mother’s. I’d decided to tackle the sunroom last, after I’d gone through the rest of the house making piles: keep, charity, ditch. A lifetime of parental belongings. The warm smell reminded me of silent meals, my mother picking at her food, me itching to get down and play, unaware of things unsaid.

I would have thrown the jar away, except the date on the label was my birthday. Inside was a curl of baby hair, the same shade as my own.

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This is a 100-word flash fiction story inspired by the photo above provided by Sarah Potter. And it’s part of the Friday Fictioneers group of writers, run by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Click here to join in and write your own, or here to read some more.

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Find out more about my latest novel, Swimming Lessons, published by Fig Tree / Penguin (UK), Tin House (US), House of Anansi (Canada), and Piper (Germany).

 

51 thoughts on “Flash Fiction: Blackcurrant Jelly, 26th August 1966

  1. Dear Claire,

    This brings back memories for me. After my mother passed away I had to go through her things. Among them I found a baby dress and the braid from my first haircut when I was six. Lovely story.

    Shalom,

    Rochelle

    PS I’m guessing that the reason you didn’t link your post to the inLinkz is because you’re having the same technical difficulty that Sandra and I are having. 😦

    Liked by 2 people

  2. That was a lovely story, Claire. We had to go through my mother’s things but not because she has moved on, because we moved her! Found some gems there…
    By the way, I’m helping Rochelle with some linkups – did hers, Sandra’s and now doing yours… 😉

    Liked by 2 people

  3. My mom kept absolutely everything. Easy for me to identify with this story.

    I’ve been noticing comments about difficulty with the link. Mine worked perfectly yesterday, so I’m hoping it’s repaired now.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Brought back memories of going through my mother’s house. I cried like a baby when I found a homemade birthday card I’d made for her 20 years earlier. Great writing, Claire.

    Like

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