Secularism unleashes self-expression. Nineteenth-century Romanticism was not an aberration but an inevitability.
Malcolm Scrivener, The Reclining of the West.
What he really liked—what he loved—was the lying. His misbehavior was always mere necessity. Just what was needed to provide a pretext for the thrilling lies.
Thaddeus Crewes, The Seven Long Years.
We believe in freedom of expression—that is, we did before we didn’t. Thus, we never believed.
Chalmers Van Nest, The Trivial Quadrivium.
Sex with whomever and whenever. That is now the way. No more Victorianism. And, alas, no more culture.
Jonathan Culpp, Post Means After.
“I would say that it’s beside the point. But then there is no point, is there?” And Conan was being abrupt and irritating once more.
Charles Thrushmiller, The Silk Kimono.
What does Edgarton value? His deeply regarded desire to feel good.
Trent Bendix, Grieving for Margaret.
halve hope
after math
Andrew Tertullian, Pandora’s Ponderous Puns.
The only way to rediscover is to forget.
Titus Musgrave, The Enigma of the Box.
The words that Brenda cannot bear to say to herself: “Shut up.”
Gladys Huizinga, Hard-Luck Dennis.
“Every once in a while an artist comes along who is….” What does it mean, this “comes along”?
Clinton Arbogast, The Saints of Painting.
dennis scharnberg 