“Fortunately,” chimed Gwendolyn, “science tells us that we are the most intelligent human beings who ever lived.”
Stephanie Biggers, Cat Farming in Nigeria.
“Oh, I am sorry!” said Dalton without an ounce of sincerity. “I’ve introduced an unpleasant thought, into the Goody Garden.”
Devona Twilly, Shallowness, a Novel.
An assortment of titles for short stories:
—The Undistinguished Hedonism of Annabeth Troost
—The Purloined Pills
—Do You Disavow?
—The Attention of the World
—The Unpaid Bill
—Devoured by Beasts
—Yearning for Exile
—William Anticipates the Consequences
—A Woman in a Mulberry Tree
—The Disappointed Actress
—Hildegard Is Drunk Again
Tessa Fielding and Constance Gogarty, A Book of Lists.
Sadly, Crispin was saddened. About his opinions being discredited. It was all so concerning. Perhaps even problematic.
Glynnis Downs, Houses I Have Known.
“To think that they actually thought in those terms—of challenging the viewer!” The gallery director had spoken. And there was the mildest condescending smirk on her face. But condescension is actually projection, is it not?
Benedict Elder, A Cosmopolitan Paradise.
Scott Fitzgerald had it all wrong. The “artist” is one who just does not care if his two concurrent thoughts happen to be contradictory. This has nothing at all to do with mental gymnastics. Really, it is mere indifference.
Clifford Parkening, How the Moon Doth Sway.
“Strangled Aunt Beatrice this morning. Went for a swim in the afternoon.” Justin was dreaming up entries for his Diary. Somewhat shamefully.
Rhonda Carstairs, A Bad Case of the Whim-Whams and Other Stories.
It is so bad in today’s art that the work is often less than nothing. And then they proceed to rationalize that less than nothing is better than something.
Titus Musgrave, The Mystery of Sleep.
“What lovely apples,” said Paul.
“I beg your pardon,” hissed Deborah.
Myrtle Mawby, Cabinets and Drawers, a Novel.
—War has never solved anything!
—Yes. Perhaps. But what has ever been solved?
Philip Cavendish, Tilly’s Treasury of Colloquial Bits.
