The one word prompt for Lillie McFerrin’s Five Sentence Fiction was ‘Harvest’.
“Oh Mum,” moaned Katie from the doorway, “we were just asked to bring a contribution, not feed the five thousand.”
Susan placed a red gingham tea towel over the basket containing a freshly made poppy-seeded bread plait, jars of home made marmalade, piles of gleaming apples, plums and gently curving pristine yellow bananas, and stepped back in satisfaction to admire her efforts.
Her mind drifted back to a scene thirty years earlier, when, racked with embarrassment and nerves, she’d confronted her own mother about her apparent lack of enthusiasm towards the donation for the annual church harvest festival.
“For Christ’s sake, Susan,” her mother had said, idly flicking ash off the end of her cigarette and onto her grubby dressing gown, stained with the previous night’s inaccurate consumption of red wine, “if they’re needy, they’re needy, and beggars shouldn’t be choosers.”
“No daughter of mine”, thought Susan, grimly, “is going to rock up at the harvest festival carrying a can of peas and a half a packet of cornflakes.”