of baking and childhood memories

a lune about cheesecake and grandmothers
(c) Sonya, 2016

cheesecake aroma
summons the
spirit of my gran

(Today’s NaPoWriMo prompts is food, this week’s WP Discover challenge is about memory – I combined them in a bowl and this is the result…)

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Archiving

If she knew how
much she’ll want to
lose these memories,
would she still
try
to archive
every single moment?

***

If you’re wondering what’s going on here, this month I’m writing short poems combining NaPoWriMo and CampNaNo while I’m trying to finish a novel. The last few days, the poems were closely related to my story – I shall try to make them a bit less dependant on knowing all of the plot. How did I do?

U-Turn Down Memory Lane

A couple of announcements first: a story I wrote a while ago went up on The Drabble yesterday (if you’ve read my stories for a while, you may remember it), and I’ve picked six stories I think you should read this weekend. Right, on with the story.

U-Turn Down Memory Lane 

He catches a glimpse of lemon yellow tail-fins and chrome and thinks of Grandad.

Most of his early memories have a mythical quality – they’ve always been there but he’s never quite certain any of it happened. That time Grandad took him out in his car, though, he remembers every detail of it.

‘I like your finny car.’

‘You have it when I die, then.’

Grandad died one day before his fifth birthday. He was sent to the children’s home and never saw his Caddy again.

How many lemon yellow Cadillacs can there be in this country?

He makes a U-turn.

(written for Flash Frenzy, round 74)

Memory or Fabrication

The sight of the big top reminds me of that day when Dad took my cousin Susie and me to the circus. We buzzed with excitement as we climbed into our seats in the front row.

Dad had bought us each a bag of crisps. Susie finished hers in five minutes, I treasured mine, eating a few crisps in between acts. Despite clutching the bag as if it contained jewels, I couldn’t hold on to it when an elephant grabbed it.

That’s how I came to hate the circus. I think.

Where do the boundaries lie between memory and fiction?