dennis scharnberg

“Oh, I do love the non sequiturs. Let them pour. Let them pour!”

Otto Klegg, The Ellipse of Uncertainty.

“So, are you just making up these stories?”

“No, Janice. Certainly not. I wish I could.”

Stoke Twombly, The Tragedians.

Stumblebum

Keg of rum

Just keep falling forward

And under thumb.

E. E. Bynum, A Thump Upon the Head (and Other Poems).

The landing was broad, almost a room unto itself. High windows were crowded by the treetops, and gave only modest light. Just enough to reveal a boisterous wallpaper and framed pictures that leaned out at you.

Brendan Sander, Speaking in Wonders.

“Oh, no—you’re not going beatnik on us, are ya?” Alvin posed the question with earnest solemnity, and a searching gaze into my eyes.

Jason Starling, ed., Adventures in Narrative Parsimony.

“Well of course I’m not sure, Deborah. I’d have to consult with the Marketing Department before I could claim anything like certainty.”

Stoke Twombly, The Tragedians.

The Question of the Century is the one that nobody asks.

Roger Hedgecook, Stolen and Sold for Parts.

“Some things just are preposterous, Dorothy. And when they are, I like to point it out. I call that lending a hand.”

Park V. Kessler, Nearly Music.

“What idiotic dancing,” said Mr. Rawlings, contemptuously. And he uttered not a single word for the rest of the evening.

Chase Tipton, Enjoying Prison Pizza.

He had that way of walking straight up to someone—to a complete stranger—and declaring, “Well, I hope you’re happy now.” Right to his face. With animated sarcasm.

Heywood Wakefield, The Humdrum Demon.