dennis scharnberg

“It’s weeping without tears, Carol. Very much like acting?”

Park V. Kessler, Nearly Happy.

Our “Shannon” was an online sex worker drifting through life anonymously and without a stateable purpose.

Victoria Salt, A Compendium of Opening Lines.

“I have never before witnessed a more perfectly positioned occasional table. Let me make at least that much clear to you, Barbara.”

Adrian Caliban, The Magnificent Egglestons.

In the dark of the night, Helena Petrovna Blavatsky lies on her left side in deep slumber whilst Hoot Koomi, her “mahatma”, bends over her and whispers endless mysteries into her ear. This is the picture presented to us, the living way of Theosophy.

Teresa Ravens, The Lives of Helena Blavatsky.

November 11, 2012. It strikes me that hardly anyone is writing novels these days—suggesting that it is very difficult to do. On the other hand, everybody and his dog is busy scribbling miniatures! So, easy to do?

Reginald Boyington, Dear Dreadful Diary.

The World Wide Web necessitated an immense concerted capitalization at the very start (indeed, well before that). Who provided it? Who paid for—who built—the requisite hard infrastructure? A half-dozen “cool” tech guys?

Roger Hedgecook, Stolen and Sold for Parts.

The citizen longs for rubbish.

Godfrey Tooke, Collected Aphorisms.

“Someone has to fix dinner,” squawked Karl, presumably to explain why he was smothering one of the larger goldfish.

Jason Starling, ed., Adventures in Narrative Parsimony.

He sometimes tutored

A tuba tooter

Whilst commuting by scooter

Down in Dingley Dell….

Gilbert Crombie, A Red Wheelbarrow.

“But I’m not speaking about a place, Mr. Humphries. I am speaking about a time.”

Vivian Welles, The Stadium Puzzle—A Gilda Partridge Murder Mystery. (1937)