Eisenheim the Illusionist by Steven Millhauser

The Illusionist or the Prestige. Which do you prefer?

For a story packed with exposition and styled like a historical narrative, Eisenheim the Illusionist by Steven Millhauser somehow manages to stay utterly captivating from start to finish. Normally, that kind of heavy detail can bog down a short-story but in this case, it works pretty much flawlessly. Millhauser's brisk pacing keeps things moving at a steady clip with a constant sense of mystery and wonder swirling around Eisenheim, eastern Europe's most legendary illusionist at the dawn of the 20th century. 

Despite being written like a faux-biography, the story never comes across as a dull historical treatise. In fact, it embraces the illusion of truth so convincingly that you almost find yourself Googling whether Eisenheim was a real person. Spoiler alert: he wasn’t. That’s part of the story's magic though. Millhauser playfully blurs the boundaries between fact and fiction in a way that mirrors the very illusions Eisenheim performs. The result is a kind of literary sleight-of-hand that leaves you questioning art as illusory. 

The 2006 film adaptation, The Illusionist, starring Edward Norton, often gets overlooked because it had the misfortune of coming out the same year as Christopher Nolan’s The Prestige. At the time, I remember thinking The Illusionist was actually quite solid, even slightly underrated. The two films inevitably drew comparisons, but it never felt fair. Sure, they both feature magicians but also tell very different stories. The Prestige is a twisty rivalry thriller, while The Illusionist is more about mythmaking and the paradoxical nature of art as truth. 

Ultimately, Eisenheim the Illusionist is far more than a tale about a gifted magician at the height of his powers. Through Eisenheim’s spellbinding performances that seem to defy the laws of physics, the story explores how illusion can reveal deeper truths. Just as the magician manipulates human perception, Millhauser himself becomes a literary illusionist, constructing a narrative that plays with ambiguity, expectation, and the reader’s sense of what is real. In doing so, he invites us to consider that very good art is simialr to a magic trick, acting as both deception and revelation. This inherent paradox is what makes the story so haunting and enchanting at the same time, even after after the final curtain call.

The New Music by Donald Barthelme

Demeter and Persephone.

Even though I can appreciate Donald Barthelme's bold experimentation in The New Music, which consists entirely of dialogue, it's probably one of my least favorite short-stories by him. It mostly left me feeling confounded and frustrated, as if I had just listened to a jazz solo with every instrument playing a different song. 

Barthelme, true to his post-modernist roots, is all about breaking the rules of conventional storytelling. He loves to turn narrative expectations on their head, and staying true to the title, it's as if he's trying to compose a new kind of literary "music." But instead of a harmonious symphony, it often feels more like a chaotic jam session. If the goal was to disorient the reader and shake up traditional form, then mission accomplished.

The basic framework of the story is a conversation between two brothers. There's repetition, fragmented anecdotes, and plenty of nonsensical detours. At times it felt like eavesdropping on a conversation in a dream. And yes, there’s even a large sketch of a bird (I think it's a bird?) tossed into the mix, just to keep you guessing. Because, why not. 

One of the recurring threads in their conversation is the complex relationship with their mother, blending childhood trauma, myth, and themes of death and mortality. Heavy stuff buried beneath layers of absurdity and randomness. Perhaps a narrative logic does exist here but it eludes me.

Look, if you enjoy decoding literary puzzles and don’t mind wading through jangling narrative noise, you might get more out of this than I did. But for me? I felt like I was tuning into a radio station that never quite landed on a clear signal.

Here are a few quotes that stood out to me:

If one does nothing but listen to the new music, everything else drifts, goes away, frays. Did Odysseus feel this way when he and Diomedes decided to steal Athene’s statue from the Trojans, so that they would become dejected and lose the war? I don’t think so, but who is to know what effect the new music of that remote time had on its hearers?

To the curious: A man who was a Communist heard the new music, and now is not. Fernando the fish-seller was taught to read and write by the new music, and is now a leper, white as snow. William Friend was caught trying to sneak into the new music with a set of bongos concealed under his cloak, but was garroted with his own bicycle chain, just in time. Propp the philosopher, having dinner with the Holy Ghost, was told of the coming of the new music but also informed that he would not live to hear it.

The new music burns things together, like a welder. The new music says, life becomes more and more exciting as there is less and less time.

Barthelme leans hard into absurdity and irony to reflect how ideology, identity, and knowledge are rendered unstable or even meaningless in the face of this "new music" he is creating. It becomes a metaphor for radical change or innovation, something so all-consuming that it pulls focus from everything else. Barthelme layers in myth and historical detachment to show how even the most heroic or legendary moments feel uncertain and destabilized in the face of modern absurdity. It's both a playful and melancholy nod to the way meaning becomes obfuscated in the postmodern condition. This "new music" can also be viewed as metaphor for art, societal upheaval, and the way meaning slips through our fingers when we try to hold onto it too tightly. The author is not offering answers but rather, he’s reveling in the questions. I just don't care enough to ponder them.

The Captured Woman by Donald Barthelme

I'm cookin' steaks fah dinnah. I expect you to stay.

The Captured Woman is really weird, even by Donald Barthelme standards. Beneath its wry humor and fragmented style lies a dark critique of sexual stereotypes and the rigid roles imposed by heteronormative domestic life. At the center of the narrative is a bizarre premise: a group of men who kidnap women and form a support group to share "best practices" for emotional and psychological control. It sounds absurd, and it certainly fits that bill. The author uses this absurdity to provide some sharp commentary on how power operates within traditional gender dynamics.

In one particularly twisted moment, a man advises the narrator on how to win his captive’s affection with poetic manipulation: “Speak to her. Say this: My soul is soused, imparadised, imprisoned in my lady.” Barthelme is fond of wordplay, which shows up plenty here. Much to the man's initial annoyance, the narrator mixes up the order of imparadised and imprisoned, which changes the meaning: "No. Imparadised, imprisoned. It actually sounds better the way you said it, though. Imparadised last." The ironic reference to Milton's Paradise Lost is both comical and chilling where the poetic language of romantic devotion is used as a manipulative tool for control. The misogynistic relationship is anything but a paradise; rather, it's the complete opposite: hell. 

Who exactly holds the most power in this relationship? Something to ask yourself when reading this story. It largely revolves around performance and not just in the literal sense of role-playing, but in the performance of gender itself. The men adhere to a strange set of rituals and rules, playing out their roles as dominant figures while encouraging each other to adopt increasingly performative and contradictory behaviors. Meanwhile, the narrative voice constantly shifts. The "I" becomes "you" or turns into "we", blurring the boundaries of identity and authority. The result is a dizzying cacophony of voices, like a dissonant dance between captor and captive. 

It is this use of reversals that makes the story so intriguing even if the wackiness strays into outlandish territory. The power dynamic is constantly in flux: although these women appear to be prisoners, they often seem to hold the real power. The men, for all their authority and control, are portrayed as emotionally fragile and desperate. So much so that the narrator even resorts to doing the dishes in a desperate attempt to make his hostage stay. This moment, simultaneously domestic and pathetic, underscores Barthelme’s central irony: in trying to assert their dominance, these men become trapped in the very roles they are trying to enforce.

Ultimately, the story deconstructs the fantasy of male authority within the domestic sphere. The men cling to outdated notions of control, but their actions only reveal their deep insecurities and their dependence on the very women they claim to dominate. Barthelme dismantles the power structures of traditional gender roles by blurring the lines between control and submission, masculine and feminine. Above all else, they are rendered entirely superfluous. 

The Affair of the Pink Pearl by Agatha Christie

 

Thorndyke or Holmes?

If you've ever wondered what would happen if a charming married couple decided to open a detective agency armed only with enthusiasm and a love for classic mysteries, The Affair of the Pink Pearl has you covered.

Tommy and Tuppence may have read their fair share of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Thorndyke stories, but does that really make them qualified sleuths? Probably not. But that’s exactly what makes this story so fun. It kicks off with a humorous scene of Tuppence stepping into their brand-new office, only to find Tommy buried under a pile of books. Turns out, he was doing research on how to be a great detective by consulting with famous novels. They are both clearly in over their heads here (literally and figuratively) but before they can second-guess the whole detective business idea, a young woman shows up at their door with a juicy case: a pink pearl has vanished during a swanky country estate party. Naturally, they jump at the chance to prove themselves.

What follows is a whimsical little mystery that doesn’t take itself too seriously. Honestly, the who-done-it isn’t all that gripping and mostly forgettable. The real charm lies in the duo’s witty banter and the way they throw themselves into their new roles, even mimicking their favorite fictional detectives. The couple's playful chemistry and amateur sleuthing antics is entertaining enough although the actual story lacks any kind of staying power. It's worth reading if you're already a fan of Agatha Christie but it's difficult to recommend based on merit alone. 

Eugénie Grandet by Donald Barthelme

Butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter

Does anyone still read Balzac anymore? Perhaps he's gone out of fashion in the 21st century but his novel Eugénie Grandet undergoes a complete re-interpretation through Donald Barthelme's postmodern lens and parodic style. In typical Barthelme fashion, any kind of  conventional "plot" or linear structure is thrown out the window, replaced with a collage of narrative fragments. It's quirky, absurd and experimental—common adjectives that I have used before many times in describing his work. 

Barthelme version is interested in transforming the original text into parody. The reader is tasked with filling in the gaps through context, which includes fragmented narrative threads, pencil drawings of the title character's hand ("Who will obtain Eugenie Grandet's hand?"), a sketch of her holding a ball, an unfinished letter, etc. There's even an old photograph of Charles (her cad of a fiancé) and a whole paragraph with the word butter repeated over and over again after asking her father to bake Charles his favorite dessert (could this be an exaggeration of her having a temper tantrum?). Again, Barthelme's collage technique is on full display and these textual fragments are representative of his subversive art. I might have appreciated this story more if I was familiar with the original source material but it's still a fun literary experiment.

Barthelme clearly isn't trying to retell Eugénie Grandet in any traditional sense. He’s more interested in bending, poking and deconstructing Balzac's novel while seeing what happens when you filter 19th-century melodrama through postmodern absurdity. There's something entertaining about the way he reshapes this French novel into something strangely compelling and self-aware. It has this playful energy that makes the story enjoyable on its own terms even though there's probably a lot more going on here that went over my head.

Jon by George Saunders

I've tasted other cocoas. This is the best.

Bizarre and disorienting in the best way, Jon by George Saunders isn’t your typical sci-fi dystopia. The worldbuilding exists on the periphery and the reader is dropped into this world without any explanations. All we get are flashes through the narrator’s scattered, hyperactive thoughts that starts to coalesce and make more sense as the story progresses. If you tossed The Truman Show, Black Mirror, and a dash of Samuel Beckett into a blender, you might get something vaguely resembling this story. However, it would still manage to be weirder, sadder, and somehow funnier. Like The Truman Show, Jon explores the unsettling idea of a life lived under constant observation, but with none of the cheerful suburbia. It channels the tech-paranoia and nightmarish unease of Black Mirror, yet filters it through a voice that feels more comically absurd. And then there's the Beckett energy: fragmented thoughts, repetition, and a lingering sense that life might be meaningless, except when it suddenly isn’t.

Our narrator, Jon/Randy, has grown up in what is essentially a corporate prison, raised with other kids to be literal guinea pigs for consumer products. It’s as bleak as it sounds but Saunders leans into the absurdity with sharp, satirical humor. Through Jon’s confused and frantic voice, the author provides a scathing critique on capitalism, media saturation, and how human experience can be warped and commodified. At the heart of all this chaos, is a surprisingly tender coming-of-age story. Jon is just a kid trying to figure out love, identity, and what it means to live freely, even if his idea of freedom has been totally shaped by commercials and advertising slogans. It's funny, unsettling, and surprisingly moving. 

I have always found George Saunders’ writing a bit tricky to sink my teeth into because he seems to be operating on a wavelength just slightly out of my reach. His stories are often quite strange and his writing style can be perplexing in a way that goes right over my head. Much to my surprise, even though it takes on that Saunderian weirdness, this story felt more accessible once you settle into its rhythm. Now that I’ve finally had a taste, I’m actually curious to explore more of his work. 

Burn by Morgan Talty

Set on the Panawahpskek Nation reserve in Maine, Burn is the opening story in Morgan Talty’s highly acclaimed short story collection, Night of the Living Rez. At just five pages, it’s super short, and not a whole lot happens. Yet, from what I can tell so far, it does a good job of setting the darkly humorous tone that carries throughout many of the other stories that follow. 

In this story, we meet the narrator, Dee, who finds his buddy Fellis lying near a frozen lake, unable to get up. Why? Because he got blackout drunk, passed out, and now his hair is literally frozen to the ice.  But the only way to free him without risking frostbite (or worse) is for Dee to cut Fellis’s hair. Since long hair holds cultural significance in many Native communities, this is not a great scenario to be in. Later, as they’re trying to score drugs and get high (because what else is there to do on the rez), Fellis insists that they burn the hair or they might be cursed: “Don’t want spirits after us.”

I’ve been on a big Sherman Alexie kick this year, so it’s hard not to draw some comparisons. Talty’s got that same raw, biting humor and the reservation setting is similar, but it doesn’t feel like an exact replica. This is a very small sample size to make any bold claims but there is definitely lots of potential here. If anything, it’s like he is picking up where Alexie left off while finding his own distinct voice and literary style in the process. 

A House in Spain by J.M. Coetzee

 

Catalonia.

The only other work I've read by J.M. Coetzee was Disgrace, but that was ages ago and, honestly, I barely remember anything about it. I think I liked it? Maybe? Either way, reading A House in Spain felt like a proper reintroduction to an author who is often hailed as one of the great writers of the post–WWII literary world. I'm not quite on the Coetzee bandwagon yet but can definitely see the appeal. 

As the title suggests, this story revolves around a house in Spain (Catalonia, to be exact) bought by a foreign man in his 50s. Through the lens of this house, Coetzee’s omniscient narrator digs into some big themes: mortality, ownership, social class, history, love, marriage, and the fleeting nature of life itself. It’s philosophical but never stuffy, with elegant, economical prose that gets straight to the point.

One of the more striking aspects of the story is how the narrator reflects on the man’s complex relationship with the house. At one point, they remark: "Functional from beginning to end, his understand of the ownership relation. Nothing like love, nothing like marriage." Yet, the act of maintaining this foreign property requires a lot of work and starts to resemble a kind of burgeoning intimate relationship. That duality is beautifully summed up in this quote:

|"If this is a marriage he tells himself, then it is a widow I am marrying, a mature woman, set in her ways. Just as I cannot be a different man, so I should not want her to become, for my sake, a different woman, younger, flashier, sexier."|

The author's use of metaphors here and throughout the story is quite effective. It’s such a poignant way of capturing the delicate balance between acceptance and control, especially in the context of love and aging. The house, like a long-term partner, comes with its own history, quirks, relationship dynamics and worn edges. Rather than try to renovate it into something it’s not, the man chooses to meet it where it is instead. There’s a quiet grace and dignity in that; an acknowledgment that real love, or at least real commitment, is about embracing imperfection and giving up the fantasy of transformation.

Ultimately, A House in Spain is a thoughtful and quietly moving piece. It may not be flashy, but it's deeply wise. It offers some sharp insights into the human condition, particularly when it comes to love, stability, and our search for meaning. Coetzee doesn’t shout his ideas; he lets them unfold gently, inviting the reader to sit with them. It’s the kind of story that understands something quietly profound about what it means to live, to age, and to care for something so passionately, even if it is a house that doesn’t love you back in quite the same way.

The Million Dollar Bond Robbery by Agatha Christie

 

"Iceberg, right ahead!"

It's a brand new month and that means more Agatha Christie short-stories, courtesy of the reading event hosted by FandaClassictLit. 

The premise of stolen bonds vanishing on an ocean liner doesn’t exactly scream “edge-of-your-seat excitement.” But leave it to Agatha Christie to take a ho-hum setup and spin it into an amusing and tightly plotted little mystery. That’s kind of her thing. She could probably make a thrilling whodunit out of a missing sock. Christie’s mastery of the mystery genre and uncanny ability to craft intricate puzzles with seemingly simple pieces continues to impress me. The woman was also wildly prolific, churning out mystery after mystery with the kind of consistency that makes other writers weep into their typewriters. 

As for The Million Dollar Bond Robbery, it’s a fun, classic whodunit that benefits immensely from the presence of Hercule Poirot. Without our beloved little Belgian detective at the helm (yes, pun intended), I’m not sure it would hold up nearly as well. Captain Hastings is once again the well-meaning sidekick, charmingly baffled while Poirot remains ten steps ahead of absolutely everyone, as usual. His mind is a steel trap, and let’s be honest, he’s the main reason we keep coming back for more.

Yes, these stories follow a bit of a formula, but it’s a formula that works. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Just pour yourself some tea and enjoy the quick ride.

The Moon in its Flight by Gilbert Sorrentino

Moon river.

April went by so fast!

This is exactly the kind of innovative and refreshing short-story that I needed to snap me out of this reading slump that has gone on for weeks. The Moon in its Flight by Gilbert Sorrentino leans heavily into the meta-narrative and self-reflexive storytelling that doesn't always work for me but somehow it all just works splendidly. It's the kind of literary magic trick that I can't quite put my finger on. 

There are so many killer lines and weird, wonderful passages that it felt like I was reading the lovechild of a jazz record and a deconstructed Harlequin novel. I ended up highlighting basically the entire thing.

The self-reflexive narrator is prone to waxing poetically about the complexities of love and romantic relationships: 

|"Of course this was a summer romance, but bear with me and see with what banal literary irony it all turns out — or does not turn out at all. The country bowled and spoke of Truman’s grit and spunk. How softly we had slid off the edge of civilization."|

So good.

Check out the beautiful striking imagery evoked by the narrator when describing his experience of falling in love for the first time:

|"Leaning against her father’s powder-blue Buick convertible, lost, in the indigo night, the creamy stars, sound of crickets, they kissed. They fell in love."|

There's plenty of lyrical prose mixed with bawdy humor: 

|"To him that vast borough seemed a Cythera — that it could house such fantastic creatures as she! He wanted to be Jewish. He was, instead, a Roman Catholic, awash in sin and redemption. What loathing he had for the Irish girls who went to eleven o’clock Mass, legions of blushing pink and lavender spring coats, flat white straw hats, the crinkly veils over their open faces. Church clothes, under which their inviolate crotches sweetly nestled in soft hair."|

Or how about his first sexual experience with the young woman?

|"The first time he touched her breasts he cried in his shame and delight. Can all this really have taken place in America?"|

Amazing stuff right here.

The story is dripping in sentimentality but the author embraces a kind of self-aware sentimentality He leans into the clichés just to rip them apart, exposing the artifice of literary fiction. He then proceeds to builds something even more tender out of the ruins.

There’s a lot going on under the hood of that powder-blue Buick convertible—music as transformative and healing, jazz influences, Donald Barthelme-style metafiction, black pop culture nods like Amos ’n’ Andy, literary references flying all over the place. It’s like Sorrentino took a bunch of narrative puzzle pieces, shuffled them around while blindfolded, and still made something that feels weirdly coherent and emotionally sharp. Structurally, it's all over the place in the best way. Fragmented time jumps, poetic stream-of-consciousness, a narrative voice that knows it’s a narrative voice. It’s playful and experimental while dismantling the very idea of storytelling. And yet, it all works. Somehow, it works.

Then there's the powerful final line: “Art cannot rescue anybody from anything." Sorrentino’s mic drop. After inundating the reader with poetic nostalgia, romantic longing, and jazz-soaked melancholy, he ends the story in such a brutally honest and cynical fashion that is totally on-brand for the story’s whole meta-narrative vibe.

The story contains all the classic romantic tropes associated with young love through a sentimental lens before pulling the rug out.  It’s like he’s saying, “You felt something? Cool. Just remember it was all made up.” This line rips the curtain down and reminds us that even the most beautiful art cannot be a perfect representation of life. Maybe I'm out to lunch here but I think that’s kind of the point: the story knows it’s a story. It seduces you with aesthetics, sentimentality, beautiful language and emotional flashbacks only to expose how artificial and performative it all is in a literary context.

By ending the story this way, Sorrentino plants himself firmly in a postmodern literary tradition that delights in pulling apart the seams of narrative itself, especially when it comes to romance, a genre that practically thrives on illusion. Romantic stories usually promise some kind of transformation: love conquers all, heartbreak leads to growth, memory redeems, etc. At the very least, they offer the feeling that something matters. But Sorrentino, ever the trickster, sidesteps all of that. He gives us the shape of a romantic story (intoxicating attraction, uncertainty, yearning, sexual anticipation, the heartbreak) only to subvert it all with that final line.

It’s a classic bait-and-switch. We think we’re being led to catharsis, or at least a poignant reflection. But instead, he hands us an anti-resolution. There is no tidy bow, no deep insight; just the quiet thud of reality. The curtain falls, and nobody’s saved. Not the lovelorn narrator, still lost in the fog of memory, and certainly not the reader, who might have been anticipating something a bit more hopeful.

But this isn’t to say that fiction is meaningless. On the contrary, Sorrentino’s point seems to be that meaning itself is slippery, constructed, and often a product of our own desire to find meaning in art. Indeed, the story doesn’t rescue us, but it shows us how badly we want to be rescued. It also shows how we attach meaning to art even when it explicitly tells us not to. That’s another underlying irony presented here: by insisting that art cannot save us, the story ends up doing something emotionally powerful anyway. It stirs us, unsettles us, makes us reflect. In denying transcendence, it delivers a kind of sideways truth that feels more honest than consolation. It highlights the fantasy of literary catharsis, and ironically reminds us of why we keep turning to stories in the first place. 

You can read this story HERE.

The Electric Ant by Philip K. Dick

I'll be back.

After a terrible accident in his squib (that's a fancy futuristic car), Garson Poole wakes up in a hospital missing a hand and quickly realizes that he is well, not human. Turns out he’s what people in this world call an Electric Ant, which is basically slang for robot. Dun, dun, duuun. Don't worry, this is not a major spoiler since it is revealed right at the beginning of the story. 

The premise is interesting enough and has plenty of potential, but unfortuantely doesnt really go anywhere. As Poole becomes more self-aware, so does his drive to elevate his consciousness to a higher reality, but at a terrible cost. PKD sprinkles in his trademark weird sci-fi involving "reality tapes" that alters perception of time and space but it's also kind of confusing...though, maybe that's the point?

Like many of the author's short-fiction, ideas take precedence over effective storytelling. It also probably would have been more memorable or emotionally resonant if it were a bit shorter, since it often drags on without any real purpose. Still, if you’re already a fan of his work, you are likely find something to enjoy here.

You can read this story HERE.

Leave it to Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

Right ho, Jeeves!

I’m fashionably late to the P.G. Wodehouse party, but absolutely delighted to have finally made the acquaintance of the famous duo: Bertie Wooster and his ever-clever valet, Jeeves. These stories have all the makings of ideal comfort reads. They are light as a soufflé, endlessly witty, and packed with the kind of charming comedic flair that keeps a smile permanently plastered on my face. 

It's no wonder Wodehouse has built such a glowing reputation. Great comedic writing is rare and he absolutely nails it. The actual plot in Leave it Jeeves isn't that important, mainly serving as a launch-pad for the author to display his sophisticated wit and comedic chops. It's the razor-sharp dialogue and pitch-perfect humor that Wodehouse serves up on a silver platter. Bertie, with all his foppish charm and knack for landing in ridiculous predicaments, is the ideal foil for the ever-unflappable Jeeves, who always has just the right solution tucked away in his encyclopedic brain. Their hilarious witty banter and the wonderfully lopsided dynamic between master and servant is what makes the story memorable. If you're looking for a few good laughs and characters who feel like old friends, this is pure comedic gold.

You can read this story HERE.

The Snow Child by Angela Carter

Ice Queen.

Maybe it's just me, but The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter feels seriously overhyped and The Snow Child does nothing to convince me otherwise. She certainly has gift for poetic, richly layered prose and an imaginative way of reworking folklore and fairy tales. But so far, none of the stories in the collection have really left a major impression on me. This story, in particular, might have completely turned me off her work for good. 

Frankly, I found it vile, disturbing, and ultimately pointless. Whether the title character is meant to be an apparition or a magical being doesn’t matter to me. She’s still presented as a little girl. The inclusion of sexual assault and necrophilia in such a brief, surreal piece doesn't take away from the gratuitous nature of this scene. I get that Carter is tackling themes like the objectification of women, patriarchal control, and male fantasy but for me, any message or moral lesson is lost in the shock value. 

You can read this story HERE.

The Gun by Philip K. Dick

Boom.

I wasn't planning for a Philip K. Dick double feature today, but sometimes that's just how it works out. The Gun is classic pulp sci-fi through and through. It grabs hold of a well-worn genre trope and still manages to keep it fresh and fun: an expedition crew touching down on a post-nuclear wasteland.

Before they can properly land, the crew’s ship is blasted out of the sky by a surprise anti-aircraft gun. So much for a friendly welcoming party. Stranded and shipwrecked, a team heads off to explore the ruins, hoping to find a way to take down this mysterious weapon before they all become permanent residents.

The story moves at a good clip, delivers some cool mystery vibes, wrapping up with a twist ending that I won’t spoil here because it’s part of the fun. Is this mind-blowing, philosophical, reality-bending PKD? Not quite. This one’s more popcorn entertainment than paradigm shift. But if you’re in the mood for a quick and entertaining sci-fi romp, The Gun is right on target. 

Bullseye.

The Short Happy Life of the Brown Oxford by Philip K. Dick

 

That's two step, two step, one step / That's one step, two step, dance step.

After trudging through the letdown that was If There Were No Benny Cemoli, I was hoping to stumble upon a Philip K. Dick story that might rekindle my affection for this wildly inconsistent author. As one of the big names to come out of the Science -Fiction New Wave during the 1960's and 1970's, he has penned some truly brilliant short stories. Unfortunately, those gems are often buried among some real head-scratchers. The Short Happy Life of the Brown Oxford isn't great but hey, it’s a step in the right direction (pun absolutely intended). While it’s unlikely to be remembered as a standout in his extensive catalog, it’s still a light and entertaining read that doesn’t outstay its welcome.

Enter Doc Labyrinth (A+ name, by the way), who invents a machine called The Animator. It's basically a cross between a microwave and an Easy-Bake Oven that runs on what he dubs the "principle of sufficient irritation": the idea that, eons ago, some inanimate matter got so annoyed it just... started moving. Honestly, same.

Dick takes this wonderfully absurd premise and just has fun with it. He’s not exactly known for his comedy chops, but you can tell he’s having a blast here. I mean, an anthropomorphic oxford shoe that comes to life in search of its soul mate? That’s peak weird sci-fi right there. Admittedly, the final scene where the shoe wanders off into the bushes for some alone time with its new companion had me chuckling with amusement. All in all, it's a quirky and charming detour into PKD's lighter side. 

The Bath by Raymond Carver

Beam me up, Scotty!

The Bath is probably one of the weaker Raymond Carver stories I’ve come across. Granted, it's not terrible by any means, just kind of forgettable. Carver’s signature minimalism is definitely present: clipped sentences, bare dialogue, and plenty left unsaid. He’s clearly channeling his inner Hemingway here, leaning hard into omission and elliptical storytelling.

That being said, it comes off more like an exercise in style with a type of minimalism where the characters feel more like outlines than people. The story is simple with a mother buying a cake for her son's birthday when a terrible accident befalls the young boy. However, everything is pared down so much, creating an ambiguity that detracts from the emotional resonance. Or at least, that was my impression. 

Still, Carver’s use of omission is doing something intentional here. By withholding key details and refusing to tie things up neatly, he mirrors the emotional numbness of the characters. The mother’s fractured thoughts and distracted actions reflect her unprocessed grief. That restraint can be powerful, even haunting. Yet, it all feels more like a preview of the more nuanced work Carver would go on to do in stories like “A Small, Good Thing,” which actually expands and revisits this very narrative with greater depth.

So yeah, The Bath isn’t without merit, but it’s more of a minimalist draft, a sketch rather than a finished portrait. Worth reading as part of Carver’s evolution, but not the story I would recommend to someone as a shining example of his short-story talents. 

The Idol House of Astarte by Agatha Christie

 

Enter the Silent Grove. If you dare.

Agatha Christie dabbling in gothic horror? Sign me up! 

In the second meeting of the Tuesday Night Club, it’s Dr. Pender the clergyman’s turn to spin a mysterious yarn for the group. Miss Marple, ever the quiet observer, listens as he recounts a strange incident from years ago involving a dinner party thrown by his old friend Richard Haydon.

After dinner at his Richard's fancy estate, the guests decide to take a moonlit stroll through “Silent Grove”, a patch of woods complete with crumbling relics, a reputation for cult activity and whispers of demonic rituals. You know, the usual post-dinner entertainment. Things take a darker turn when one of the female guests vanishes. She’s later found in the grove, seemingly entranced or maybe even possessed by something not quite of this world. Richard reaches out to help her, only to suddenly drop dead on the spot. And just like that, a chilling evening becomes an unsolved mystery. Was it a heart attack? An encounter with the supernatural? Or is someone in the group hiding something far more sinister?

The Tuesday Night Club can’t agree on what actually happened and in typical Christie fashion, Miss Marple is already stitching together the clues with her trademark comparisons to village life. And wouldn’t you know it, Dr. Pender secretly does know the truth but he’s holding back, just to see if anyone else can figure it out. While the ending is somewhat underwhelming, the gothic atmosphere make this a fun and spooky little tale.

If There Were No Benny Cemoli by Philip K. Dick

Cemoli Cannoli.

Talk about a total letdown. Philip K. Dick has written his fair share of excellent sci-fi short stories but If There Were No Benny Cemoli is definitely not one of them. Save yourself the trouble unless you want to get duped like me. 

The premise actually sounds pretty great: Earth is a post-apocalyptic mess and a group of interstellar bureaucrats called Centurians suddenly show up, ready to rebuild it whether the few remaining humans like it or not. There’s even a buried sentient newspaper machine (a "homeopape"!) under the ruins of the New York Times building that somehow knows what’s really going on. Toss in a mysterious rebel leader named Benny Cemoli, and you’d think this would be a recipe for some mind-bending PKD goodness.

Nope. Instead of delivering on any of that potential, the story just meanders around aimlessly before abruptly hitting the brakes and calling it a day. It’s like Dick had a vague idea, wrote a bunch of pages, hit his word count for the publisher, and said, “Yeah, that’s good enough.” It's an underwhelming story with bland characters, zero payoff and no satisfying arc. Just a bunch of half-baked ideas that don’t go anywhere. It’s the kind of filler story that makes you double-check if several pages are missing. 

The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar by Roald Dahl

Dr. Strange at the Casino.

We are wrapping up this Roald Dahl short story weekend with The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar, which veers pretty close to novella territory. It’s consists of two parts that kicks off with a sharp introduction to our main character, Henry Sugar, a man who seemingly has everything money can buy. He is a bachelor, drifting through life with the motto: "It is better to incur a mild rebuke than to perform an onerous task." In other words, he's so rich and has never lifted a finger in his entre life. 

Henry is the epitome of old money: wealthy, self-centered, and obsessed with growing his fortune simply because he can. Dahl doesn’t mince words here, offering a cheeky but cutting critique of the ultra-rich: “All of them, all wealthy people of this type, have one peculiarity in common: they have a terrific urge to make themselves still wealthier than they already are.” It's a zinger that sets the tone for some of the bigger themes throughout the story such as capitalism, class inequality, and the hollowness of wealth without purpose.

At a party hosted by one of his rich friends, Henry grows bored and wanders into the expansive library. There, tucked away on a shelf, he finds a slim, curious volume titled “A Report on an Interview with Imhrat Khan, the Man Who Could See Without His Eyes,” written by a Dr. John F. Cartwright. Cue the Inception-style layers of storytelling: it's a story within a story within a story.

This inner tale follows Imhrat Khan, a yogi from India who has trained himself to harness incredible mental powers. It’s here that the story starts to shimmer with fairy-tale qualities: mystical abilities, exotic locales, and the promise of transformation through discipline and self-mastery. Think of it as a blend of spiritual fable and magical realism, all tied together by Dahl’s signature dry wit.

Inspired by this newfound knowledge, Henry decides to try learning the technique for himself. Yet, this is not out of spiritual curiosity, but because he sees its potential as a shortcut to gambling riches. This is where the fairy-tale magic really kicks in and his journey doesn't unfold the way he expects. Like all the best fables, there's a moral lesson: the more he trains, the more his priorities begin to shift. He starts to view capitalism and his role in it very differently. It's a compelling moral transformation wrapped in a cloak of mystical spectacle.

Ultimately, The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar is more concerned with what we choose to do with the knowledge, skills, gifts and tools we gain. It's about how even the most unlikely people can change for the better and how sometimes the greatest riches aren’t found in accumulating a vast amount of wealth, but in helping those less fortunate. I haven’t watched the Wes Anderson adaptation yet and Benedict Cumberbatch in the leading role seems like perfect casting. I can already picture it: symmetrical and pastel colored sets pieces, whimsical narration, and that distinct Anderson quirky flair should be a perfect match for the layered storytelling and magical oddity of the original source material. 

The Continuity of Parks by Julio Cortázar

The Sunken Place.

The act of reading is such a curious and almost magical experience. Arguably, it's the closest we, as humans, will come to actual time travel. Getting lost in a good book can feel like an out-of-body experience, where time slows down or even disappears altogether. Reality momentarily dissolves and suddenly you’re elsewhere: in another era, another world, even inside someone else’s mind. You’re not just observing events; you’re inhabiting them. You're thinking the author's thoughts, feeling their characters’ emotions, and watching entire scenes unfold through words on a page. It’s kind of trippy experience when you really think about it.

Julio Cortázar’s The Continuity of Parks captures this strange, immersive magic in just two short paragraphs. It’s a clever piece of metafiction that turns the act of reading itself into the actual story. The boundary between reader and fiction blurs until it disappears entirely, pulling the rug out from under you in the best way. Cortázar playfully deconstructs the art of fiction, showing how effortlessly a narrative can pull us in, to the point where the fictional and the real become indistinguishable.

What makes the story so effective isn't just the twist, but how subtly it builds towards that moment of fusion between the protagonist reading in his comfy velevet chair and the world he’s reading about in the novel. Reading allows him to experience the powerful sense of "escapism" literally and figuratively, reshaping reality through fiction. 

You can read this story HERE.

Lamb to the Slaughter by Roald Dahl

Revenge is a dish best served frozen.

Mary Maloney seems like your typical 1950's housewife. You know, the June Cleaver type that is sweet, doting and utterly devoted to her husband. Every evening she waits patiently for him to come home from work, ready to serve him dinner and hang on his every word. It's all very domestic and proper until he delivers some unexpected news that flips Mary's world upside down. Let’s just say, her response isn’t exactly what you’d expect from a soft-spoken homemaker.

Lamb to the Slaughter is classic Roald Dahl: wickedly clever, darkly humorous and deliciously twisted. Going into plot details would ruin the fun of discovering this story on your own. Dahl does a great job here of subverting gender expectations. Mary might look like the picture of domestic femininity, but she’s far more resourceful than anyone might give her credit for. It’s a playful, unsettling reminder that appearances can be deceiving, and sometimes the people you least expect are capable of the most shocking acts—served up, in this case, with a side of irony and a perfectly cooked leg of lamb.

The Swan by Roald Dahl

I believe I can fly. I believe I can touch the sky.

It’s a Roald Dahl weekend extravaganza here at Literature Frenzy, and we’re kicking things off with The Swan, a short story that takes the old adage “boys will be boys” and cranks it up to a level that’s quite terrifying. This isn’t your average playground squabble or name-calling behind the bike shed. Nope. The Swan plunges us headfirst into the dark, murky waters of cruelty, cowardice, and the kind of unchecked nastiness that makes your blood boil.

Dahl paints a crystal-clear moral picture, leaving no room for ambiguity: there is good vs. evil, and in this case, evil goes by the names of Ernie and Raymond. These two bullies are full-blown teenage tyrants—or as their victim Peter calls them, "hooligans." At the beginning of the story, we are offered a glimpse into Ernie's home life with a cantakerous father who is possibly abusive. The decision to buy his psychlogicaly disturbed kid a gun for his birthday is the epitome of bad parenting. Then there's little Peter. He's the shy, smart kid in class who’s enjoying a nice day in the woods watching birds before the two hooligans descend upon him, turning his life into a complete nightmare.

If Dahl intended for us to feel seething resentment toward these pint-sized sociopaths, then boy oh boy, did he succeed with flying, fuming colors. Every word and action they take is a simmering indictment of cruelty and our sympathy for Peter grows with each new torment he endures. He is admirable, not because he fights back with fists, but because he is a survivor. He endures. In a world where bullies seem to hold all the power, that kind of resistance is its own form of triumph.

But here’s where things get even more interesting and a whole lot darker. Spoiler alert: there is no justice. One of the most unsettling elements of this story is that the bad guys don’t really get what’s coming to them. There’s no dramatic moment where the authorities swoop in or Peter cleverly finds a way to enact revenge against his tormentors. No, Dahl plays it more like real life: sometimes the bullies get away with committing heinous crimes and evil wins. Sometimes beautiful swans are brutally murdered for sport and butchered by a couple of sociopaths. Life can be cruel that way and the world moves on without blinking an eye.

Perhaps that’s the cautionary tale here. Dahl seems to be saying, “Yes, evil exists. Yes, it’s ugly and cruel and unfair. And no, it doesn’t always get punished.” But in the midst of all that darkness, Peter’s resilience becomes a kind of moral anchor. He survives not because the world saves him, but because he refuses to break entirely. In that sense, The Swan isn't just a story about a kid who gets bullied; rather, it's a brutal, cynical depiction of childhood innocence being snuffed out by pure evil. It’s a harsh reminder that cruelty doesn’t always come with consequences, and that goodness, no matter how steadfast, doesn’t guarantee protection. The story forces the reader to sit with the discomfort and recognize the injustices happening all around. If the world won’t protect the Peters among us, then who will? Dahl's twisted and sinister tale is likely to leave you both enraged and awestruck. 

Hills Like White Elephants by Ernest Hemingway

Talk. Wait. Decide.

Hills Like White Elephants is one of the most famous short stories of the 20th century and has received more than its fair share of scholarly attention. So, rather than sounding redundant by going into full-blown critical analysis mode, I’m approaching this review more as a personal reflection. Re-reading it 25 years later (dang, I'm old), I found that it still holds up remarkably well although I wasn’t quite as blown away as I was when I first encountered it in high school English class. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still brilliant, but kind of like one of those small golf pencils they give you to fill in those flimsy mini-putt scorecards: sharp and striking at first, yet it seems to lose a bit of its edge the more it's revisited.

Back in high school, I was obsessed with this story. I remember being completely enamored by the punchy, stark, stripped-down style. Like so many aspiring writers, I thought I could mimic Hemingway’s technique. Oh, how naive! I quickly learned that writing with such precision and restraint is incredibly difficult. It takes serious talent to boil a story down to its bare essence, deriving emotional power through the art of subtlety. Hemingway’s brilliance lies in what remains unsaid and what can be inferred between those silences ("the iceberg theory").

John Updike once described Hemingway’s writing as possessing “gleaming economy and aggressive minimalism.” That hits the nail on the head right there. On the surface, Hills Like White Elephants is  just a conversation between a man and a woman waiting at a train station. But beneath that simple setup is a masterclass in implication, subtext, and emotional intensity. I especially admire how the story reads almost like the account of a nearby journalist eavesdropping on the couple, capturing their dialogue without judgment or intrusion. It’s the subtle and almost invisible storytelling, which makes it so remarkable. The structure is meticulous, the clipped dialogue flows with a natural rhythm, and the emotional undercurrents are quietly devastating. It’s really remarkable how much Hemingway accomplishes within such a compressed narrative.  

You can read this story HERE.

Emergency by Denis Johnson

The Pitt.

Many of Denis Johnson's interlinked stories in Jesus' Son have this strange, dreamlike randomness where misfit characters stumble through life in a drug-induced haze. Emergency is no exception. The narrator and his friend Georgie "work" at a hospital, spending most of their time stealing pills and getting high. The end result is a fever-dream of dark humor, absurdity, and bizarre misadventures.

For instance, there is a scene at the hopistal where a man shows up with a knife in his eye (already insane), and Georgie, who is just a janitor, casually yanks it out. Instead of doctors or medical personnel reacting like normal human beings, they all just sort of move on, as if pulling knives out of eyeballs is a regular Tuesday activity. It's unsettling, ridiculous, and somehow still funny. The hospital is meant to be a place of healing, yet Georgie and the narrator are probably the most damaged people in the entire building. Just not in a way that modern medicine can fix. They're like the walking wounded, metaphorically speaking. Maybe talking to the ER psychotherapist on duty or checking into rehab might help. 

After their shift is over, they decide to go on a road trip. Because why not? They’re driving through a snowstorm, hitting up a county fair, running over a pregnant rabbit (which Georgie heroically C-sections to save the babies) before the narrator absentmindedly sits on the newborn rabbits. They even pick up a hitchhiker on the way back. Does any of it make sense? Not really. Does it need to? Absolutely not. It's a wild ride though, that's for sure.

Through all the shenanigans, Georgie somehow emerges as an oddly heroic figure. He's reckless and unpredictable but also selfless and strangely kind. Perhaps he is a kind of messiah like figure? That might be bit of a stretch. Meanwhile, the narrator’s drug-addled memories are so fragmented and unreliable that it’s difficult to tell what’s real and what’s just a wild hallucination. I suppose that’s part of the appeal in reading this story where you’re never quite sure if you should be laughing or deeply disturbed.