dennis scharnberg

“What are you afraid of?” asked Mr. Hobart.  And  Donald could only shudder at the thought of the long, long list.

Lane Vivian,  A Knob of Old Cheese and Ten Short Tales.

“A calendar is a lie, Allison.  Count the ways.”

Lana Dowling,  The Mystery of the Dull Parcels.

Ellen was yelling at the top of  her lungs.  And here is what she shouted:  “Respect me!”  “Respect me!”  “Respect me!”

Darko Rivenbark,  Snapshots.

Edwin had decided upon a line of reasoning that went like this:  (1) The one who hates himself can at least respect himself for having the substance necessary to hate himself.  (2) No, it’s this way:  The one who despises himself does so in order to be able to “respect” himself in that way.  (3) It’s all one big contorted act of self-admiration, like everything else.

Benedict Elder,  A Cosmopolitan Paradise.

Torture:   forcing a woman to look at a photograph of herself.

Callista Ralph,  Alphabet Soup.

Why are movies so popular?  Well, people do search for identity.  And where do they look?  To actors, of course.

Theo Darden, Watching for Earthquakes.

We have neither a clear conception, nor any other kind of conception, of time.

Trevor Albertus,  Malevolent Asymmetry.

“There is not a groan of truth in that.”   Anna was speaking in puns again.   And she was enjoying it.   Again.

Diana Moone,  Living Well.

“I can say this much:  At least I am not famous.”   Randall meant what he said.   Still, he couldn’t help feeling that it all sounded a bit desperate.

Gladys Huizinga,  Hard-Luck Dennis.