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 peform 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 less about flashy powers and more conerned with what we choose to do with the knowledge and tools we gain. It's about how even the most unlikely people can change when given the right sparks and how sometimes, the greatest riches aren’t found in money, but in the ability to give back. 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 sets, whimsical narration, and that distinct Anderson 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. 

Buckle up, it's going to be a wild ride.

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. 

Philomel Cottage by Agatha Christie

Home Sweet Home.

Hard to believe it's already April! As quickly as these months are flying by, this also means another round of Agatha Christie short stories, courtesy of FandaClassicLit’s reading event! No complaints here. Philomel Cottage swaps Christie's usual detective-driven intrigue for something more intimate and psychological.

At first glance, it’s all rather idyllic: newlyweds Alix and Gerald Martin have recently moved into a charming cottage in the English countryside, a setting that practically begs for cups of tea and peaceful strolls. But as the days pass, Alix’s happily-ever-after begins to fray at the edges. Suspicion slowly creeps in and suddenly blissfull domesticity starts feeling more like a trap. Christie skillfully tightens the tension, mirroring Alix’s growing paranoia as she pieces together unsettling clues about her husband's true nature. Is she imagining things? Or is her life in danger?

The story is a slow burn, savoring the psychological unease rather than rushing into action. While the ending might not have the most dramatic payoff, the journey there is deliciously suspenseful. Watching Alix’s transformation from a contented new wife to a woman relying on sheer wits to survive is the true highlight. The tension builds up nicely with Christie’s signature storytelling charm at the helm, making for a perfectly cozy read for this rainy April evening.

Ordinary Nudes by Stuart Dybek

Calypso.

Stuart Dybek seems to have this remarkable ability to write about sensuality in a way that is both poetic and deeply evocative without resorting to explicit detail. Ordinary Nudes is an impressive display of brevity. Despite being just a single paragraph, it manages to distill some complex themes into a few elegant sentences: memory, perception, gender dynamics and the ephemeral nature of beauty. Dybek’s storytelling here is reminiscent of Hemingway’s minimalist style, stripping the story down to its bare essence while still maintaining its lyricism.

The imagery in the piece is especially striking. The woman's body, as seen through the mirror, is described with a dreamlike fluidity. Dybek draws a contrast between the woman’s physical characteristics and the idealized depictions of female beauty (nymphs, goddesses, and ballerinas). By doing so, he challenges the way women are often sexualized by the male gaze. Here, the woman is frozen in time through the photograph but she exists beyond this static representation where she will get older and beauty fades.

The woman's internalized feelings about her own body remain ambiguous and is juxtaposed with the male's voyeuristic perception of her beauty. His perception of her has been altered by time and secrecy with the tantalizing photograph being hidden away in a drawer “beneath his underwear.”  Dybek captures this impermanence of beauty in a way that feels both sensual and deeply melancholic, making Ordinary Nudes a memorable meditation on memory and the nature of desire.

You can read this story HERE.

Prince Myshkin and Hold the Relish by Harlan Ellison

Prince Myshkin.

Not gonna lie, the quirky title pulled me in immediately. What does the protagonist from Dostoevsky’s The Idiot have to do with a hot dog condiment? Turns out, quite a bit. Our narrator is a bona fide hot dog connoisseur who spends his late nights deep in conversation with his hot dog vendor buddy—dissecting Dostoevsky, the man, the myth, the literary giant. Among the topics on the menu: Was Dostoevsky a misogynist? Can we separate the art from the artist? It almost feels like Harlan Ellison himself is preemptively responding to allegations about his own less-than-stellar behavior toward women. Could he be aligning himself with Prince Myshkin, the naïve yet tragic figure of The Idiot? Or am I just completely out to lunch? (Pun absolutely intended.)

But wait, it gets weirder. Enter one of the hot dog stand’s more flamboyant regulars: a mysterious man dressed like a pimp. This guy sidles up to the narrator and with zero prompting, launches into a wild monologue about the many women he’s been involved with over the years, each of whom has met a ridiculous Final Destination-style demise (one gets crushed by a falling cinder block. Yikes.) Is he cursed? A walking bad omen? The Grim Reaper moonlighting as a stylish raconteur? Who’s to say. All we know is that once his tragicomic tale wraps up, he vanishes into the night, leaving our narrator to ponder life, death, his relationships with women and the colorful characters drawn to a good late-night hot dog stand.

And then comes the kicker at the end. The narrator turns back to his friend and deadpans: "There are some guys who are strictly no goddamned good for women." A self-aware moment from Ellison? A guilty confession disguised as fiction? Or just another absurd gem in this bizarre and darkly humorous fever dream of a story? Either way, I walked away mildly entertained with a sudden craving for a hot dog.

The Garden of Time by J.G. Ballard

"You cannot conquer time."

After many years of searching, I’ve finally found a J.G. Ballard story that deserves the highest praise. This is not meant to be a disparaging remark against the author. He's an erudite and talented writer and I have enjoyed several of his works but his style doesn't always gel with my personal preferences. However, The Garden of Time is not just an excellent short-story, it might actually come close to masterpiece territory. With its evocative imagery, lyrical prose, and lush descriptions, Ballard crafts a beautifully melancholic and uniquely haunting take on time travel.

The Count and his wife live in secluded opulence within their grand estate, seemingly untouched by the outside world. However, their idyllic existence is fleeting. On the horizon, an unstoppable army advances, threatening to tear apart their tranquil lives. Their only defense lies in the mysterious “time flowers” growing in their garden. Each bloom they pluck momentarily rewinds time, delaying the inevitable. But the flowers are dwindling, and no new blossoms can grow quickly enough to stave off the relentless march of time.

The true antagonist of The Garden of Time is not the encroaching horde but time itself—an enemy that no wealth, power, or beauty can ever truly defeat. While reading, I was immediately reminded of  W.H. Auden’s famous lines from As I Walked Out One Evening:

But all the clocks in the city

Began to whirr and chime:

'O let not Time deceive you,

You cannot conquer Time.

Like Auden’s poem, Ballard’s story is a meditation on the illusion of control and the inevitable passage of time. No matter how desperately the Count tries to hold onto his world, time slips through his fingers like sand. The flowers grant only temporary reprieves—just as love, art, and beauty may offer fleeting resistance against time’s advance, but never true victory. In the end, the garden withers, the flowers are gone, and the relics of the past are forgotten because time always wins.

The Romance of a Busy Broker by O.Henry

Too busy for love until he checked his emotioanl portfolio.

Here’s another cookie-cutter O. Henry tale, predictable in structure but still enjoyable enough. His sharp wit, economic prose, and  sardonic humor are in top form in The Romance of a Busy Broker, even if the “twist ending” doesn’t quite pack the usual punch. It’s a bit silly and exaggerated, but that seems to be the point.

The story does a great job of capturing the chaotic, nonstop energy of the New York Stock Exchange in the early 20th century. Maxwell, our frazzled broker, is so hyperfocused on the market’s ups and downs that romance doesn’t even register as a possibility until he finally pauses for half a second and realizes he’s in love with his stenographer.

It’s a fun little story, even if it’s not O. Henry’s most memorable. The humor and pacing keep it engaging, and the over-the-top nature of it all makes for an amusing read. If nothing else, it’s a reminder that work isn't everything and sometimes you just need to stop, take a breath, and notice what’s right in front of you before it is gone forever.

You can read this story HERE.

Referential by Lorrie Moore

Daniel Boone.

There's a great moment in this story where the narrator wryly drops a profound aphorism: "How could people be mentally well in such a world." This statement encapsulates the story’s central theme of mental illness while also showcasing Lorrie Moore’s penchant for dark humor. It is not just a personal affliction but also a response to an overwhelming, chaotic, and indifferent world. I think there's some truth to this statement. 

Anyone familar with Vladimir Nabokov's short-story Signs and Symbols, is bound to notice a few similarities with Referential, especially the basic premise of parents visiting their son in a mental instituation. The intertextuality is fun to dissect, also riffing on the misinterpretation of symbolism that is so prevalent in Nabokovo's story. For instance, hospital policy prevents giving gifts that could be used for self-harm and she decides to get him a book about Daniel Boone. The son believes it contains secret messages or perhaps he can take inspiration from Daniel Boone's life, a reflection of his own struggles and bravery dealing with mental health issues. But, it's just a book. 

Feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt over her son’s condition, the mother is burdened by a deep and inescapable powerlessness. This also extends beyond her role as a caregiver and seeps into her romantic relationship with Pete. Though his emotional withdrawal and avoidance clearly signal his desire to end things, she either misinterprets his behavior or refuses to fully acknowledge the inevitable. Her denial or inability to confront the truth mirrors the broader theme of miscommunication that runs through the story. Similarly, the son’s cryptic and fragmented conversations appear random and disjointed, but their true meaning remains elusive to both his mother and Pete. Whether through willful ignorance, emotional detachment or simple misinterpretation, the characters struggle to connect, further emphasizing the story’s exploration of misunderstanding as a central force in their unraveling relationships.

The First Annual All-Indian Horseshoe Pitch and Barbecue by Sherman Alexie

"Somebody forgot the charcoal; blame the BIA."

If it has not become obvious already, Sherman Alexie is quite fond of using long titles for his short-stories and yet ironically, many of them like The First Annual All-Indian Horseshoe Pitch and Barbecue are very short in length. Clocking in at only four-pages, we are offered a highly condensed depiction of a communal gathering on the reservation. Victor even makes a cameo appearance, dragging a piano over to play some music for the event. 

As the narrator later observes, "There is something beautiful about an ordinary carnival." It's a mixture of cynicism and sincerity. Sure, there are plenty of hotdogs, Kool-Aid, foot races for the kids, fun pranks, basketball tournaments. This should a time of joy and celebration but the narrator's underlying cynism is difficult to ignore. He views these activities as perfunctory or meaningless: "And then Seymour told Simon, "Winning all those contests makes you just about as famous the world's best xylophone player." Shattered dreams and disappointment cast a pall over the festivities but there are still glimpses of hope to be found here. The parental affection towards a mixed-child, the first meeting of a potential romantic relationship: "Neither has the words to describe this but they know how to dance, yes, they know how to dance." It's these beautiful little moments highlighting perseverance that are packed with meaning. Despite all the hardship and trauma, there is still a sense of community that endures under the yoke of oppression. 

The Grasshopper and The Bell Cricket by Yasunari Kawabata

You have much to learn, young grasshopper.

It's always exciting to discover new authors, especially those from outside of North America. Yasunari Kawabata's The Grasshopper and The Bell Cricket, is a brief, highly compressed fablelike story that is deceptively simple. The narrator is observing a group of children playing in a field with their paper lanterns, catching bugs. There is a lyrical quality to the prose that reminds me of a Miyazaki film with a beatiful score by Joe Hisaishi in the background, perfecting capturing childhood innocence with an underlying melancholy. The dramatic irony is derived from the narrator's commentary, as the young boy thinks he is excited about catching a grasshopper for one of the girls but it turns out to be a bell cricket, much to his disappointment. He doesn't fully understand the signifance of the bell cricket and why it is so meaningful to the girl. Like many fables, they usually end with a moral. In this case, the bell cricket represents a special love that might be overlooked due to conformity and conservative values. Moreover, childhood innocence is fleeting and will eventually be replaced by experiences of heartbreak, disappointment, and loss. The joys of childhood are expertly counterbalanced with cynicism, further contributing to the story's melancolic tone.

You can read this story HERE.

New York Mining Disaster by Haruki Murakami

More than a Woman.

Haruki Murakami is fond of incorporating Western pop-culture references in his work, especially music, and the title New Yorking Mining Disaster is a Beegees song. What is the connection in this story? Well, the narrator is metaphorically trapped in this "disaster" called life. Even though he's in his late 20's, he is attending the funeral of many friends and acquaintenances of a similar age. This existential dread and fixation on mortality contributes to his sense of despair and loneliness. Similar to the trapped miner in the song, he too suffers from fear, isolation and uncertainty about escaping this hellish nightmare. 

The narrative's underlying melancholy is juxtaposed with subtle surrealism, creating a sense of absurdity. Like other Murakami stories, the refined calmness and discursive prose has a floating, dream-like quality with a perfect balance of sadness and humor. The quirkiness is kept in check and the tangents highlight other common themes that show up in his work such as nostalgia and memories. The New Years Eve party at the end of the story is where the tonal shift towards playful humor becomes most apparant. He meets a woman there and their flirtatious conversation seems to awaken him from this debilitating reverie. She seems to connect with him on a deeper emotional level through humor and he finally begins to come out of his shell. 

It's great stuff.

A Fairy in the Flat / A Pot of Tea by Agatha Christie

T&T.

I surprised myself this month and actually caught up with the all the previous short-story selections for FandaClassiclit's Agatha Christie Challenge! Most of them were enjoyable, some more than others. I had never even heard of the Tommy and Tuppence mysteries before, so this was a pleasant surprise.

Not much happens in A Fairy in the Flat, which mostly serves as an introduction to Tommy Beresford and his wife Tuppence. They are both British ex-military and finding it somewhat difficult to adjust back into civilian life after the excitement of international espionage during WWI. Tuppence feels bored returning to a humdrum life of domestic and wifely duties. Tommy seems a little more complacent about their current circumstances wheras she is eager to embark on the next big adventure. He comes across as more pragmatic whereas she seems more forthright in her convictions, impulsive, mercurial. The title of the story refers to a photograph that he shows her where if looked closely enough, you can just make out a fairy-like figure hovering in the background. Perhaps I missed the significance of this discovery because it's mentioned once and then Christie quickly transitions into the turning point of the story where their friend shows up at the flat, presenting an opportunity to take over a detective agency. Looks like Tuppence's wishes for a new adventure have been answered. 

This brings us to the next story, A Pot of Tea, where the couple receives their first case. It's mystery-light and doesn't involve grand conspiracies or murder. The "big reveal" is rendered inconsequential; rather, it's main purpose is character development, giving the reader a better sense of their contrasting personalities. Like many of Agatha Christie's works, these two stories are dialogue heavy and it's the witty banter that really shines. Since this is just an introduction to Tommy and Tuppence, I can only imagine that the stakes are higher in their later adventures. 

Slingshot by Souvankham Thammavongsa

Golden Girls.

When it comes to symbolism, I’m still scratching my head over why Souvankham Thammavongsa’s short story is called Slingshot. The title brings to mind youth and mischief (Dennis the Menace comes to mind), which seems at odds with the narrator. She is an older woman in her 70's who embarks on a sexual relationship with a much younger man that lives next door. But hey, just because you’ve got a senior discount doesn’t mean desire disappears. The story explores how aging, particularly for women, can be a lonely and frustrating experience, especially in the realm of romantic relationships.

Now, if you’re here for steamy erotica featuring a grandma and her young stud, you might want to adjust your expectations. While there are some spicy scenes, the story is more about the narrator's search for intimacy and genuine emotional connection rathar than just physical passion. Aging makes it harder to be vulnerable with others, and while this fling offers a brief thrill, it’s just a fantasy. As much as the narrator wants this relationship to work, it isn't sustainable in the long term because she can’t outpace the reality of time creeping up in the rearview mirror. 

In the end, Slingshot isn’t all about wild, reckless passion (although that is one of the main driving motivators of this relationship), it’s more about the pull of longing and the bittersweet release of reality. In some ways, much like a slingshot, the narrator is stretched between past and present, desire and acceptance. Perhaps this could be one possible explanation for the title.

You can read this story HERE.

Sweethearts by Richard Ford

"Love isn’t about being alone. Never that."

I reviewed Fireworks first but Sweethearts was actually my first introduction to Richard Ford. It's quite excellent and there's something about his empathetic depiction of normal working-class people that just resonates with me. Another key feature of his writing that makes for such an enjoyable reading experience is the laid-back and colloquial style. His use of realistic dialogue is essential in shaping the personalities of his characters, making them feel like real people with lived experiences, and complex emotions simmering beneath the surface.

In Sweethearts, Ford masterfully employs this naturalistic dialogue to reveal tensions, regrets, and unfulfilled desires between the characters without resorting to overt exposition. Their words often carry an undercurrent of meaning that transcends what is explicitly said, creating a sense of emotional depth. This is particularly evident in the exchanges between the protagonist Russell, his wife Arlene and her ex-husband Bobby where seemingly casual conversation is loaded with lingering resentment, unresolved feelings, and emotionally charged truths of their shared past. 

Similar to Fireworks, the female characters are the most compelling in terms of personlaity and asserting their autonomy amongst men. As the narrator, Russell is more reserved and emotionally passive. In contrast, Arlene speaks her mind, is more vulnerable and takes the lead on things. The colloquial tone also helps establish the story’s mood and setting, reinforcing the realism that Ford strives for. The dialogue flows effortlessly, mirroring the rhythms of actual speech—filled with hesitations, interruptions, and subtle shifts in tone that reveal the true nature of the characters’ relationships. By stripping away any sense of artificiality, Ford allows his dialogue to become the primary vehicle through which character and conflict emerge organically.

The emotional crux of the story revolves around Russell and Arlene driving Bobby to prison for robbing a convenience store at gun point. It's a great premise for a story, ripe for drama and heartbreak. Two major themes that become apparant are masculinity and closure. As Bobby struggles with fear, regret and anger because of his current situation,  Arlene tries to offer reassurance, saying, "You're among friends, though, sweetheart," but he is unable to hear these kind words of affection. Instead, his toxic masculinity prevents him from articulating his true feelings, which instead comes across as resentment and misogynistic: "“I put all my faith in women,” Bobby said softly. “I see now that was wrong.” Or, aftering throwing the pistol into the front seat, he says, "I thought I might kill Arlene, but I changed my mind." This unembellished dialogue in Sweethearts does more than just sound realistic. It becomes a window into the inner lives of these flawed characters, exposing their vulnerabilities and the quiet tragedies that define them. Ford’s ability to capture the subtleties of human interaction with such precision ensures that every word, pause, and inflection creates a sense of verisimiltude while enhancing the emotional resonance.

The story also highlights how memories shape our present emotions and perceptions, particularly in the way Russell and Arlene process their shared past with Bobby. While Arlene tries to offer Bobby a sense of comfort, Russell remains largely passive, embodying a more restrained, ambiguous form of masculinity. He is not overtly aggressive like Bobby, but his silence speaks volumes. Whether it’s detachment, resignation, or an unspoken understanding of how little can truly be done in these circumstances. This contrast between Bobby’s toxic masculinity and Russell’s quiet acceptance underscores the story’s exploration of masculinity: one that is often performative, fragile, and ill-equipped to deal with emotional vulnerability.

At the same time, Sweethearts grapples with the theme of closure, or rather, the lack thereof. While the car ride serves as a literal journey toward an endpoint (Bobby’s imprisonment), it is clear that emotional resolution remains elusive for all three characters. Bobby’s attempts to assert control through violence and bitter declarations only mask his fear, while Arlene’s reassurances fall on deaf ears. Russell, positioned between the two, seems to recognize the futility of trying to change what has already been set in motion. In the end, Ford suggests that closure is not always about finding peace or redemption; sometimes, it is merely about acknowledging the past, taking accountability and moving forward. Eaiser said than done. 

Richard Ford really knows how to write powerful endings. Through this intense experience with Bobby, Russell tries to convince himself that he understands what love means: "It was about never being in that place you said you'd never be in." Yet, Russell finds himself confronting the unsettling truth that love is far more complicated than simple promises or steadfast resolve. His definition of love as a means of self-preservation and avoiding painful or compromising situations, reveals a deep-seated fear of vulnerability rather than a genuine understanding of connection. Watching Bobby unravel forces Russell to see the ways in which love, when tainted by resentment and regret, can turn corrosive. At the same time, this experience exposes the limits of his own emotional detachment. He may not express love in grand gestures or dramatic confessions, but his presence in that car, silently witnessing Bobby’s downfall, suggests an unspoken sense of empathy: it could esily have been him in this situation.

By the end of the journey, Russell is left questioning whether love is about avoidance, endurance, or something more elusive that he has yet to understand: "And [love] was not about being alone. Never that. Never that." It is the achingly tender conversation between him and Arlene that makes this story truly special. Both face uncertainty about their futures, yet Arlene reaffirms her commitment by telling Russell he is still her sweetheart, even as she acknowledges, "We don't know where any of this is going, do we?" In that moment, her love and devotion offer him a sense of stability, shielding him from a fate like Bobby’s simply by choosing to stay.

You can read this story HERE.

Fireworks by Richard Ford

 

"I hope you came down here to dance with your wife."

Although Richard Ford is often compared to Raymond Carver in terms of subject matter (both authors also hit their stride in the 1980s), their literary style couldn't be more different. Carver’s stories embrace minimalism, stripped down to their bare essentials, whereas Ford gives us a little more to chew on—more backstory, more character depth, more room to sit with the emotions. It's as if the characters in Carver's stories are transported over to the mid-west and given just a little more time to reflect about their sad lives as they fumble through relationships in a way that feels incredibly real. They’re still dealing with the same disappointments, the same struggles of everyday life but there's an extra layer of introspection, a little more vulnerability. Even in those moments of despair, frustration or uncertainty, Ford finds ways to slip in humor or small, unexpected moments of warmth. That’s what keeps his stories from feeling too bleak—there’s always some sense of hope that things will get better. 

Fireworks is a slow burn (no pun intended), where not much happens in terms of plot. Instead, Ford focuses on the everyday realities of Eddie Starling and his wife, Lois. Eddie is struggling to find work after losing his job at a real estate firm, while Lois makes ends meet by working at a dingy bar. That’s pretty much it. The main focus is the way Ford subtly builds Eddie’s character arc and fleshes out the complex dynamic of their relationship.

These two characters and their relationship feels so authentic because it isn’t filled with grand, dramatic moments. It’s just two people with emotional baggage trying to figure out life together. And that’s what makes Ford’s writing so compelling. He doesn’t romanticize love in a cliché way. Instead, he captures how love endures and can found in the little moments of connection: a phone call, drinks at the bar, a slow dance in front of a jukebox, a late-night drive to watch fireworks on the Fourth of July. These shared moments define their relationship more than any big declarations ever could.

One of the many memorable and heartfelt scenes takes place at the bar. When Eddie arrives, he’s emotionally distant, harboring jealousy over Lois’s ex-husband who had been there earlier. He puts on this tough-guy act, keeping his guard up. But Lois, with her charm and playful flirtation, gradually breaks through his defenses. What follows is a beautifully understated moment of forgiveness and reconnection—a scene that speaks volumes about how love can persist even through frustration and insecurity.

I'd be remiss if I didn't discuss the ending, which is nothing short of fantastic. This isn’t a spoiler, because again, the story isn’t about major plot twists. In an unexpected and deeply moving gesture, Lois sets off fireworks while dancing in the rain and Eddie watches her, mesmerized. It’s in this pivitol moment where he sets aside the ego and is finally able to see how being with her is healing. It’s a magical scene, and the fireworks serve as the perfect metaphor for love itself: brilliant and fleeting, capable of burning bright and then fading. However, that doesn't mean all is lost as the final lines powerfully reveal: "And only he would be there, waiting, when the light was finally gone." There’s a bittersweetness to it, but also a profound beauty. And Ford, true to his style, doesn’t over-explain or force emotion. He simply lets the moment unfold naturally, allowing us to feel exactly what Eddie feels: gratitude, wonder, and unconditional love.

Transients in Arcadia by O. Henry

Queue iconic theme music.

O. Henry truly mastered the "twist ending" short-story formula, which might explain his prolific output. His approach is simple but effective: set up a straightforward premise, introduce some characters, lead the reader in one direction, and then bam! Pull the rug out from under them. Sure, some readers might find this gimmick repetitive, but hey, if it works, why change it? Besides, executing this kind of twist well every single time is no easy feat.

In Transients in Arcadia, the luxurious Hotel Lotus on Broadway is a hidden gem, boasting top-tier service and accommodations. Enter Madame Héloise D’Arcy Beaumont (because of course she has a name that regal), who arrives dressed to impress, effortlessly turning heads with her beauty and charm. It’s not long before she gains a reputation among the hotel’s distinguished guests as a woman of refined elegance, clearly from the highest circles of society. She soon strikes up a connection with another guest, but just as things start heating up, she drops a confession that changes everything…

O. Henry’s signature wit and tight prose make for a quick but satisfying read. At just five pages, the story never overstays its welcome. He sets the stage, delivers the twist, and bows out before you even have time to process what happened. Classic O. Henry. Then again, the twist here isn't exactly the most profound and is also slightly hinted at in the title.

You can read this story HERE.

Los Angeles by Ling Ma

$$$$$$$$

Ling Ma’s Los Angeles is a surreal and darkly humorous meditation on memory, heartbreak, and unresolved trauma. To give you a sense of the uncanny found in this short-story, the female narrator lives with her husband in an opulent mansion but he only communicates in dollar signs. Perhaps this a metaphorical critique of her decision to marry for money and social status instead of love. If that weren’t strange enough, the house is also occupied by her 100 ex-boyfriends. They linger like ghosts of the past, quite literally and figurately living rent-free. It’s as if The Bachelorette took a comedically absurd turn where instead of the eliminated contestants leaving, they simply refuse to go. 

The story functions as a psychological case study of a woman grappling with past relationships and repressed emotions. Among the countless exes, two stand out: Adam and Aaron. Adam represents deep, unresolved sorrow because he is the "one that got away" and she is still in love with him. Aaron, in stark contrast, embodies something far darker. He was physically abusive, and when she finally chases him off the property during the climax, the act becomes more than just a moment of confrontation. It’s a symbolic exorcism; a desperate attempt to reclaim control and purge the trauma he inflicted.

Blurring the line between dreams and reality, Los Angeles unfolds with a fever-dream logic, where past and present collapse into each other. The mansion itself becomes a psychological landscape, an elaborate prison built from memory and regret where emotional wounds manifest as physical presences that refuse to be ignored. There’s a nightmarish quality to the narrative, yet it’s tinged with dark humor and sardonic wit, as if the narrator is both trapped within her own subconscious while battling inner demons. Ling Ma captures the eerie persistence of unresolved emotions and the narratives we construct to make sense of our pain.

A Conversation with My Father by Grace Paley

Inhale. Exhale.

A Conversation with My Father by Grace Paley is just as much about the art and craft of writing as it is about the narrator's relationship with her ailing father. Through its meta-fictional elements, Paley explores how storytelling itself can be a point of tension, love, and even misunderstanding between different generations. The narrator struggles not only with how to tell a "proper" story in her father’s eyes but also with how to be a good daughter—both in the way she cares for him and in how she represents the world through her writing. There's this constant push and pull between their perspectives. For instance, the father favors a more traditional, and simple type of storytelling. He's particualrly fond of Chekhov and Maupassant: "Just recognizable people then write down what happened to them next." In contrast, the narrator leans toward a style that embraces ambiguity and open-endedness: "Everyone, real or invented, deserves the open destiny of life." 

This tension mirrors the larger emotional struggle between them, highlighting not just differences in literary taste but also deeper, more personal conflicts between father and daughter. She seeks his validation and reassurance through her vocation as a writer. The story-within-a-story structure allows us to see how their relationship plays out through the act of storytelling itself. The father critiques her writing, urging her to embrace a more traditional, realist approach that presents life as tragic, clear-cut, and inescapable. In contrast, the narrator resists this rigidity, favoring an open-ended, ambiguous style that leaves room for hope or different interpretations. Through art, it is her way of taking risks, making mistakes and asserting autonomy. 

No matter how she rewrites the story, her father remains unsatisfied, which reflects the fundamental gap in how they see both literature and life. It’s not just about differences in narrative aesthetics but also perspective and values. His dissatisfaction with her work mirrors a deeper frustration with how she approaches reality and perhaps even how she has chosen to navigate her life. When he tells her, “In your own life, too, you have to look it in the face,” he’s not just critiquing her writing. He’s challenging her way of thinking, urging her to confront harsh truths rather than soften them or hiding behind specific artistic choices. This moment underscores a key theme of the story: the tension between fiction and truth. To the father, fiction should be a reflection of life’s hard realities, while the daughter sees it as something more fluid, something that allows for interpretation and possibility. His demand for realism isn’t just about storytelling and how he wants his daughter to see the world. But for her, fiction is a space where she can push back against his worldview, where she can create something that isn’t bound by his rigid expectations. This clash between his desire for stark truth and her inclination toward nuance is a point of contention, with the story ending on a note of uncertainty towards reconcilation.  There is so much left unsaid between them and the lingering uncertainty about whether they will ever fully understand each other. 

There is so much left unsaid between them, not just about writing but about their relationship, disappointments, and unspoken love. His critiques may come off as harsh and also reveal his deep desire for his daughter to see the world as he does. Perhaps as a way to prepare her for the inevitabilities of life and loss. Meanwhile, her resistance suggests a quiet rebellion, a refusal to conform entirely to his worldview, even as she still seeks his approval. This unresolved tension gives the story its sense of poignancy. The father and daughter are bound together by love yet divided by their views on truth, fiction, and how to make sense of the world. In the end, there is no dramatic reconciliation, no moment of understanding. What remains is the complexities of a relationship where words, both written and unspoken, hold as much distance as they do connection.

The Drunkard by Frank O'Connor

Aran Pintman by John Skelton

Frank O’Connor’s The Drunkard centers around an Irish father-son relationship shaped by disappointment, shame and familty duty. Mick Delaney is a charming and functional alcoholic whose drinking causes financial strain on the family. Though he occasionally attempts to present himself as a responsible man, this addiction consistently undermines his good intentions. Mick enjoys being the center of attention and is popular down at the pub. However, his drinking brings humiliation and hardship to the family, particularly to his wife who feels overwhelmed raising the children in poverty. 

Mick’s sense of shame about drinking is also deeply tied to his pride and self-image. While under the influence, he becomes boisterous and careless. His son's accidental intoxication is not only an ironic twist but also a symbolic shift as he momentarily steps into his father’s shoes and exposes the absurdity of Mick’s behavior. Yet, when confronted with the consequences of his son's action at the pub, he feels humiliated. Larry’s drunken spectacle forces Mick into an unfamiliar position as the sober and responsible adult dealing with a disruptive child. Despite the embarassment, the irony is that Larry’s actions actually protect the family from Mick’s usual pattern of drunkenness. His mother’s gratitude towards her son only deepens Mick’s humiliation, as he is forced to recognize his failure as a father and provider for his family. Ultimately, The Drunkard portrays a father who is trapped in a cycle of self-destructive behavior. The ironic ending highlights both the humor and complexity of family dynamics, making it a poignant and darkly comedic reflection on addiction and fatherhood.

You can read this story HERE.

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love by Raymond Carver

"The course of true love never did run smooth."

As one of my favorite short-story collections, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love never fails to impress me, and the title story, in particular, is one I’ve revisited multiple times over the years. Every time, I’m astounded by how Raymond Carver’s minimalist style manages to say so much with so little. His prose is stripped down to the bare essentials. There are no elaborate plot twists or superfluous descriptions. Just a group of friends sitting around a table, getting drunk, and talking about love. That’s it. A simple premise, yet beneath the surface, there’s layers of meaning, tension, and unspoken emotion.

Carver’s aesthetic minimalism is what makes the story so powerful. The dialogue is natural, unembellished, and flows with an almost hypnotic rhythm. There’s an art to the way he captures casual conversation, making it feel both effortless and meticulously crafted. Carver has fashioned a relaxed, colloquial style. His characters don’t deliver grand monologues or profound declarations; rather, they meander, interrupt, contradict themselves, and repeat things in a way that mirrors real speech. It’s this stark realism and verisimilitude that gives the story (along with many others in this collection) an underlying melancholy. You feel like you’re sitting at that table with them, listening, observing, and, just like them, trying to make sense of the complexities of love.

Mel and Terri dominate the conversation, each presenting conflicting perspectives based on personal experience. Terri, reflecting on her abusive ex, insists that in his own twisted way, he truly loved her. His love was destructive, obsessive, and ultimately led to his suicide, but to her, it was still love: 

|“Sure, it's abnormal in most people's eyes. But he was willing to die for it. He did die for it.”|

Mel, on the other hand, dismisses that notion entirely, believing love should be nurturing and selfless. He tells a story about an elderly couple who, after a car accident, are placed side by side in full-body casts at the hospital. The husband is devastated; not because of his injuries, but because he can’t turn his head to see his wife:

|“Can you imagine? I'm telling you, the man's heart was breaking because he couldn't turn his goddamn head and see his goddamn wife.”|

The beauty of Carver’s writing is that he never forces a conclusion. There’s no definitive answer, no grand revelation. Just a conversation that ebbs and flows, full of contradictions, uncertainties, and lingering silences. The characters wrestle with love’s many forms, from devotion to obsession, from tenderness to violence, yet they never arrive at a single truth. And perhaps that’s the point. Love, like the conversation itself, remains unresolved, elusive, and open to interpretation. By the end of the story, there’s a quiet sense of unease, as if something remains just out of reach. Perhaps an unspoken thought, a realization that never fully takes shape. The characters drink, they talk, they reflect, but they don’t find clarity. Instead, they are left in a dimming room, fading into silence, just as we, the readers, are left with our own unanswered questions.

Love is messy, complicated, full of heartache and contradictions. It can be painful, even destructive, yet we are drawn to it, unable to resist its pull. Why go through with it all? Maybe because love, in all its forms, is what makes us human. Maybe because no matter how much we analyze it, debate it, or try to define it, love remains a mystery—one we’ll never stop trying to understand. And maybe, in the end, that’s what we talk about when we talk about love.