“I’m just an ordinary person,” said Desmond. “I could never really know anything, could I? I mean, nothing important. Nothing like that.“
Kiefer Sythe, The Detective Club.
“He is certainly good at what he does, Alice.” “Well, yes. But the question remains: What does he do? Just what does he do?”
Rhonda Carstairs, A Bad Case of the Whim-Whams and Other Stories.
“Kathleen is hirsute. Nothing more. And nothing less.” The task at hand was to give a concise description of someone you know.
Charles Jeffrey Yett, Writing in Miniature—Vol. Three.
Above all else, it was Malcolm’s lack of ability that fascinated Edmund. Although “fascinated” might be the wrong word.
Dell Arbogast, The Null Hypothesis and Other Stories.
December 8, 2010. I hereby reject the following expressions: creativity, leadership, national conversation, conversation, balanced, sharp legal mind, great writer, influential artist, art writer, creating memories, rubbish heap.
Reginald Boyington, Dear Dreadful Diary.
March 21, 2014. Am I satisfied? Am I upset with things? Well, none of that. But this: What is it like? What is life like? Of course, no one alive really thinks about that. And then there is this question: Why must life be like something?
Reginald Boyington, Dear Dreadful Diary.
Then, Mr. Ambrose surprised everyone by asking, “Don’t you think it would be somewhat less pointless if you were to _________ instead of _________?” The reader should feel free to fill in these blanks (and any subsequent blanks).
Ralston Dowd, The General Ghastliness.
“PENELOPE: It’s all a bit difficult, isn’t it? I mean, knowing what to say. And when to say it. It’s a mystery, isn’t it? One of life’s little mysteries?” Jennifer was at it again, working on the one-act play. Working on the dialogue (what the characters say). Piecing the lines together.
Anselm Bligh, A Collection of Miniatures.
Old Perry Mason paperbacks with cracked spines. The warm sweet smell of yellowing pages. A tidy little autumn. Dotted with words.
Vandalia Jenkens, The Utica Flood.
Larry didn’t want to find out about X. No, he already knew about X. And he did not want to mess that up.
Tristan Holyoke, A Tree Full of Monkeys.
dennis scharnberg 