“An ambitious politician. His wife. An old school chum with devious ways. Two rather nasty young women (and the legs that go with them)….” Harry was gathering the ingredients for his next potboiler.
Anselm Bligh, A Collection of Miniatures.
“Performing a topological sort on the flux curves, the nonlinear system can be permuted to triangular form and this permits discrete solution(s) with the property of local control on the nonlinear iterations.” Penberthy delivered all this in his usual dead-fish voice.
Jeremy Malking, The Anechoic Chamber: Stories.
The past—even ten seconds of it—was lived and breathed and smelled. It was filled to the brim. It was all love and hate, fun and resentment, more love and more hate. None of our diagrams can capture much of that. Our “histories” are condemned to anemia.
George Havarti, The Fire Festivals of Alt Bayern.
For something to be real, it must go through the tiresome formality of actually happening. At least, that’s the way it used to be.
Tristram Speaker, A Book of Postulates.
I was a bachelor in those days, practically a hermit, and my table manners wasted away. It is truly remarkable how fast that happens.
Algernon Webb, A Speculative Autobiography.
“Hesitation, of course, is always undesirable. So, by all means, proceed with your dumb idea!” Allen was tired of it all. In fact, Allen had had a belly full.
Charles Jeffrey Yett, Writing in Miniature—Vol. 3.
I am afraid that our kindness, like everything else, has become theoretical.
Tristram Speaker, A Book of Postulates.
“The deceased was an economist. So, of course, he will be missed immensely.” Gavin was indulging in the kind of sarcasm that he found so charming.
Jason Starling, ed., Adventures in Narrative Parsimony.
“I am trying so very hard! Isn’t that an amazing thing? Shouldn’t I be celebrated?” Howard was contemplating what is meant by the word culture.
Jason Starling, ed., Adventures in Narrative Parsimony.
A pink oblong box, with a name printed on the lid: Dora’s Smart Shop—Dallas. A shoe box. A shoe box is full of photographs. There is something autumnal about loose photos, isn’t there? The small ones. Snaps. Old ones. A box full of leaves. Black and white. Some are miniatures, with ragged borders.
Della Baskerville, Selected Memories.
