Something shone and glittered from a high limb. And up the wobbly old ladder went Dad Rawlings, until before him lay a small gold coin resting on the ragged bark. And two others alongside it, of silver. “This shouldn’t be,” he said, quite aloud.
Miles Bantry, ed., Mr. Roode’s Rustic Tales.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” whispered Mr. Tomlin. To himself.
Dickinson Holmes, The Book of Shoes.
“Now that is someone who really cared.”
“Who? Who cared, dear? Who really cared?”
“Dr. Sigmund Freud. That’s who.”
Adrian Caliban, The Magnificent Egglestons.
World: a pretext for having mass media.
Nathaniel Bumppo, The Final Word.
In a degenerate society, blackmail encounters a problem. Simply stated, the society reaches a point in degradation where nothing—no particular act—is revolting enough to offer blackmail value.
Desmond Urquhart, The Unsocial Sciences.
“But how did Palmer come to be the one who knows? How did that happen? Was he born that way? Born already knowing?”
Dickinson Holmes, The Book of Shoes.
I hunted for edges
The pond gathered rain
Worlds are strange when wet
Ann Sensabaugh, The Faulty Haiku.
“You’re a guy stuff happens to, Tommy. You have that knack. Or perhaps it has you?”
Sylvester Wickham, He Wishes To See You.
“And remember, young lady, that anything good in this life is strictly illusion. Only the bad things are real.”
Angela Unseld, ed., Letters from Uncle Hal.
There should be no limit placed on the contempt that one has for actors.
Logan Nygaard, A Treatise on Amusement.
dennis scharnberg 