“…and that’s not who I am anymore, believe me,” said Hodges. As though we just choose who we are, at any particular time.
Nicholas Crisp, Unfit for Murder.
…here’s kindred of
Your whispered honestie….
Lionel Troost, The Foole’s Felicitie. (1590)
Priscilla Fanning, Fragments From the Elizabethan Stage.
At home, combed my head.
Lute till late,
And so to bed.
Patrick Malmsey, Verse.
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 scharnberg 