Fleeting thought caught:
If my service in the war comes up in conversation, and I am asked by someone whom I barely know, "How was it, really?" my answer is usually to the effect, "It was hot, it was buggy, and it was very loud."
If the fool persists, and if he is fairly full of liquored thought and to a degree, so too am I, and if it is a chance of opportunity where he and I are quite alone and on my own homeground, I may open up my wallet and let fall a photo that I’ve carried in my mind as well. He’ll pick it up, and stare, unable to hand it back to me. And through his drunken haze of shock, I’ll sit him down and properly tell my story.
Hah! You can see the Hitchcockesque influence in my writing from my current reading: the language, the style, the genre.
Mayhaps I’m but a sponge…
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology