Jeffries was singing—more like whispering—some old ditty: “Always listen to Mother, girls….”
Allison Terew, The Shining Shifting Things.
Drysdale was toying with his bit of breakfast. And when Drysdale did this it could mean only one thing: Drysdale was thinking. Was, in fact, lost in thought.
Tristan Holyoke, A Tree Full of Monkeys.
“Happy once again, my dear Phyllis,” said Toby. “That’s what you shall be. If only you will please attend to my prescriptions. To my modest advice.”
Quentin Drabb, Ebenezer’s Untold Tales.
“To tell all that took place would fill another volume—a very large one indeed.” So said that all-knowing narrator, in a self-exculpatory tone.
Sebastian Sleeve, The Random Walk and Other Stories.
“I think of the Hereafter, Deborah. I do. And I lie and lie and lie.”
Myrtle Mawby, Cabinets and Drawers, a Novel.
“I have done all I can do, I’m afraid.” So said the narrator of the long elaborate novel. And not for the first time, either.
Quentin Drabb, Ebenezer’s Untold Tales.
You can prove anything by means of psychology.
Mildred Cummings, Murder and Poetry.
Quentin, the professional writer, had composed an inadequate paragraph. And this state of affairs he could not tolerate.
Rhonda Carstairs, A Bad Case of the Whim-Whams and Other Stories.
With Anthony, it was always “Rubbish!” That was the only word he used. “Rubbish! Rubbish! Rubbish!”
Trent Bendix, Patricia Knows Best.
“You never know,” George reminded them, “what is on the other side of the door.”
Hilary Fewkes, The Banality Killings.
dennis scharnberg 