Anthony kept claiming that he had managed to do something well. Very well, in fact. But that was a week ago, and I can’t remember what it was all about. Most likely, it had something to do with stringing words together.
Sebastian Sleeve, The Random Walk and Other Stories.
The distractions [mean] not having to worry about that emptiness where a soul should be.
Christopher Jayne, A Critique of Sincerity.
It was the Bolsheviks who started all that twaddle about Marx being the diligent, tireless “scholar.”
Bertrand Bartholomew, A Confusion of Tongues.
“What’s all this rubbish about forgiving yourself? Oliver wondered. “Who cooked that up?”
Herbert Fallowes, Inclined to Murder.
“I might have made a mistake,” confessed Lisa. “A very small one.”
Rhonda Carstairs, A Bad Case of the Whim-Whams and Other Stories.
Kenneth wants a nice full-length mirror before which he can stand and admire himself while he engages in forgiving others.
Dell Arbogast, The Null Hypothesis and Other Stories.
A certain philosophical issue had taken Diana’s fancy. And so, the search was on for someone who would be willing to “discuss” it with her.
Augustus Bligh, Crawlspace.
[In Pepys’ Diary], each sentence offers a glimpse.
Adrian Hodges, Nine Restoration Voices.
Desire for a quiet life is still desire. It is not rationality.
Titus Musgrave, The Mystery of Sleep.
“Nothing is really true, you know,” said Lucy. “And that makes it all so much fun.”
Priscilla Onkers, All About Edward.
dennis scharnberg 