dennis scharnberg

Theories are, by their very nature, full of holes.

Addison West, The Ontology of Destruction.

“I don’t know, Kathleen. I don’t think anyone knows. No one even asks.”

Gwen McTaver, Murder Has Windows.

“What’s your code name, Jack?”

“My what?”

“Your code name. Your secret name. What is it?”

Harold Nickleby, Captain Hugo and the Case of the Mystic Rhymes.

“Harvene was an unusual girl, you know.”

“How do you mean unusual?”

“Well, thoughts mostly. But also clothing. Her garments.”

Lana Dowling, The Mystery of the Dull Parcels.

“I thought seed-cake was for weddings,” quipped Tom. “Or for funerals. Or both.”

Leighton Johns, My Uncle Toby.

Lost in mountains

praying for rain

crunch of cheeto

howl of wolf.

Ann Sensabaugh, The Faulty Haiku.

“The one who did have good English was the sort of fellow who didn’t talk much. Just my luck.”

Lawton Trumbull, The Three Days.

“I might occasionally do a little juggling. Is that okay?”

Georgina Hickes, An Ornamental Murder.

Atoms are the basis for all of our stories.

Godfrey Daniel, Inspecting the Time Domain.

“I have become aware of the fact that I think,” whispered Adrian. “Therefore, I am.”

Ford Blasey, The Perplexity of the Two Green Doors.