That morning, Jamison smelt—rather too much, I thought—of petunias.
Victoria Salt, A Compendium of Opening Lines.
And she had those sensuous lips. The lips that David Bowie always dreamed of having. But never did have.
Logan Nygaard, A Treatise on Amusement.
Similarity is the lie.
Evan Amberol, A Theology of History.
“He’s a bad guy, silly. Just take a look at him. He is smirking. Just like a thief.”
James Finial, The Misadventures of Caroline.
“Listen to the music, Frank. It’s all around us. Just listen to it, and it will tell all.”
Edward Valerian, The Empire Is Maintained.
I caught a glimpse of her yesterday at work, just staring at me with that scowl on her face. I could almost read her mind: “There’s that stupid Dennis over there, in one of his stupid pullovers.” I decided—quite correctly, I think—to leave it alone.
Anselm Bligh, A Collection of Miniatures.
Sir, I will use the expression “shan’t” whenever I see fit to use it. And neither you nor anyone else will impede me. Is that clear, Peterson? Is that clear?
Karl Buckling, Time Domain Blues.
Walter was mowing the lawn again. “I want to take my own sweet time,” he declared. “Don’t I? Isn’t that what I want? Well, isn’t it?”
Jason Starling, ed., Adventures in Narrative Parsimony.
“They are musicians, Danny. They mean us no harm. They want to make us hop. Up and down. Just like bunny rabbits.”
Nicholas Bruhns, Otto the Magpie.
dennis scharnberg 