All we can expect is the relentless creation of “literariness.” A product to be consumed and then discarded. A never-ending cleverness contest.
Clifford Mounce, A Portable Darkness.
“Never talk to an angry dog, Janice. Just move along.”
Jane Chetwynde, The Have-Not Faradays.
“Will reality prove itself to me today?” Jack wondered. “Is it just around the corner?”
Jason Starling, ed., Adventures in Narrative Parsimony.
“When will someone look at the internet,” demanded George, “and see it for the trap that it is?”
Glynnis Hoving, The Multiplication Murders.
find doubt
Andrew Tertullian, Pandora’s Ponderous Puns.
“If only I could put it into words,” thought Edward. “Make a nice package. Make it all so simple. Neatness—that’s the thing.”
Rubina Malcolm, The Black Box.
“That, dear girl, would amount to ascribing a property to a nonexistent entity.”
Nicholas Crisp, Unfit for Murder.
Dennis brightened the dinner party abruptly with his terse sketch of today’s literary culture: (1) read the reviews, (2) devour the new novels, (3) give out awards to a few authors, (4) forget all of those novels, and (5) repeat the process.
Anselm Bligh, A Collection of Miniatures.
“They were looking for the capability to be embarrassed,” said Professor Wylkes. “Just potential embarrassment.”
Buster Kelso, Crimes Against Music.
“It was scratching oneself in the nether parts,” said Mr. Fanshawe, “and calling it belief.”
Tristan Holyoke, A Tree Full of Monkeys.
dennis scharnberg 