Ever so slightly bonkers

It's mid-summer in the English countryside. A pensioner in desert campaign shorts worn with knee length socks is judging - sternly - a race between two small boys on pedal scooters over on the village green. Our house smells of manure because it's that time of year when you need the windows open and the farmer needs to plough his fields. What isn't brown and stenchy out there, is much too green. The postman brought a terrific haul just now. Another five copies of the Fish Anthology, which will be winging their way to those who asked. A tin of biscuits from France - yum. And a big envelope with photos and memorabilia from the prison camp, courtesy of my mother's fellow internee. Right, back to work.

More memories

This time a Red Cross photograph taken of my grandparents and mother, to prove how content were the Japanese civilian internees. The crucifix worn around my mother's neck was carved from the Perspex windshield of a downed enemy aircraft. Dutch nuns interned with the civilians carved one of these for each child in the camp. My grandmother told me, years and years later, how she loathed this picture and could not stand to look at it. Because it was such a terrible lie. The look on my mother's face hints at the truth, but barely. She could easily be mistaken for a sulky child made to pose in a dress that was too tight for her. If you click on the picture it will open in a larger version.

Heatwave

I'm wilting, all but. The holiday was lovely, lots of sea air and sitting around in my mother's beautiful garden with cold drinks and books to read. I'm back at work now and it's much too hot, but I'm working on a couple of long-short story ideas, one of which is crime. The other is genre-non-specific and, if I can pull it off, will be the best short story I've managed to date. I'm excited about writing it, just wish I had more time to devote to the task.

Remembering

On Saturday I met up with four people who were in the Japanese internment camp with my grandparents and mother, near Kuching, 1942-1946. Two of these were brothers in their late sixties whom I've not met before, only seen as small blond boys in photos and film footage from the liberation of the camp. It was an amazing experience to meet and talk with them. On 17 August it will be exactly 62 years since the Australian forces liberated the camp, saving hundreds of men, women and children who would otherwise have been executed under orders from the Japanese. Hundreds more had already died by that time, and some of the survivors would face premature deaths from illnesses, physical and mental, resulting from their incarceration.

My mother is the girl held in the soldier's arms on the left of the photo, with her hand on her head.

Postscript

Another flash acceptance, this time for a flash called Porn is like Pot Noodle, from a cool new venue, Red Peter. I can't wait to see how he illustrates the story. Also I get to send a snooty withdrawal notice to the buggers who've had that submission since January and ignored my polite chasing emails.

Off for a week

School's out and the Welsh seaside beckons. I'm taking books, deck shoes, jumpers and a small child.

Back in a week. Bye for now!

Nice news

I've just received two of the fastest ever acceptances, both from a new venue for me, Ink Sweat & Tears, and for stories I'm really fond of.

The first, Passing on (homage to Hemingway), is a modern day response to the famous baby shoes story.

The second, After a long illness, quietly at home, follows a structure whereby each sentence starts with a consecutive letter spelling out F-L-A-S-H.

So two stories, each in its own way a tribute to this terrific discipline called flash fiction. They'll be published as a pair in about a month's time. I'm chuffed to bits.