“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.
What do we call them—those who fear the sound of certain words?
Thaddeus Crewes, The Seven Long Years.
“We should communicate,” she whispered desperately, “only through handwritten words—no talking.”
Clive Ennis, The Case of the Broken Handle.
“Let’s not overlook the good that can be done with a sledgehammer,” implored Nelson.
Burdyce Goode, Philosophy of Vegetables.
Let’s detach everything from the status of (1) a physical presence at (2) a particular place. In other words, why be real?
Hunter Hogarth, Raised by Wolves.
dennis scharnberg 