Some matters they did not want to express in the vulgate—the tongue of profit and loss, of body openings, of odors. For this role, they turned to Latin.
Gaylord Perry III, Walls of Magnus Martyr.
The dissidents were quite possibly the majority. Even a substantial majority. But they had no way of knowing it.
Clem Tartessos, Designing the Past.
Typescript: deus ex machina.
Callista Ralph, Alphabet Soup.
More dividends of self-consciousness: “Am I interested in X, or am I just pretending to be?”
Jason K. Broadus, The Ice of My Dreams.
Lynda has resumed work on a definitive list of “things in her life” and how she feels about them.
Darko Rivenbark, Snapshots.
“Remember, anxiety is understandable,” announced Dr. Winthrop. “No it isn’t,” I muttered.
Clifford Apogee, Draining the Pools and Other Stories.
“Not when does it end, but where,” insisted Marcus. “Location, location, location.”
Stephanie Biggers, Cat Farming in Nigeria.
They grow weary of reason, of rationality itself, of logic, of evidence, of the empirical. They yearn for something magical, for some hidden/secret knowledge. But they never seem to consider that this yearning might itself be tiresome.
Teresa Ravens, The Lives of Helena Blavatsky.
“There is no need to speculate. It is sitting right there, in front of us. As always.” Alton muttered all this under his beard. But Janet heard it well enough. Every word.
Beatrice Landers, The Case of the Disappearing Detective.
The mystery of buildings. The tenant moving about from one room to the next, unseen.
Timothy Swofford, The Corpse and the Candle.
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