Plumbing by John Updike

It's all pipes!!

John Updike’s short stories often immerse themselves in nostalgia, and Plumbing is no exception. While some readers may find this sentimentality excessive, Updike’s masterful prose makes it feel profound rather than cloying.

The story begins with the narrator observing an old plumber repairing the leaky pipes in his newly purchased home. As the plumber describes the antiquated system with its "antique joints," the narrator slips into a poetic reverie, offering glimpses of his future in this house—raising a family, experiencing love, loss, and the slow passage of time. Updike distills these emotions into a single, striking realization: 

|“We think we have bought living space and a view when in truth we have bought a maze, a history, an archaeology of pipes and cut-ins and traps and valves.”|

This rich, evocative style runs throughout the story, capturing both the joy of childhood Easter egg hunts and the bitterness of marital fights, culminating in the family's eventual departure: “Our house forgot us in a day.” The brevity of this line makes it all the more poignant.

Throughout, the narrator likens himself and his family to ghosts—custodians of history, fleeting presences in a home that will outlast them. Updike’s meditation on impermanence is deeply affecting, turning the mundane into the universal. Beneath the surface of leaky pipes and household repairs lies a profound reflection on change, memory, and the ephemeral nature of life itself.

Silence by Lucia Berlin

Hello Darkness, my old friend.

While I usually enjoy Lucia Berlin’s semi-autobiographical and fragmented storytelling, Silence didn’t quite land for me. Sure, it has some heartfelt moments, but the lengthy digressions and meandering tangents (this happened, then that happened, etc...) detract from the pathos, especially when it comes to the narrator’s final realization about her own struggles with alcoholism.

Like many of Berlin’s stories, Silence explores recurring themes of addiction, loneliness, and the weight of the past. The female narrator reflects on her tumultuous childhood (another hallmark of Berlin’s work) where her mother is abusive, her uncle is an alcoholic, and her grandfather is sexually abusive. It’s some heavy material, yet Berlin’s signature lightness of tone keeps it from feeling overwhelmingly bleak or melodramatic. She doesn’t dwell in tragedy; instead, she presents it matter-of-factly, letting the reader absorb the weight of it without unnecessary embellishment.

Despite the darkness, there are scattered moments of joy: becoming best friends with the Syrian girl next door, experiencing her first crush, working in an antique shop. These brief glimpses of warmth contrast beautifully with the harsh realities of her upbringing, making the story feel deeply human. 

That being said, I wish the story had a stronger sense of cohesion. The fragmented structure works in many of Berlin’s stories, but here, it makes the ending feel somewhat muted. The narrator’s self-awareness about her own alcoholism should be this emotionally powerful moment, but instead feels like just another moment in a series of loosely connected events. Berlin is at her best when her narratives are sharp, raw, and tightly focused through a minimalism. While Silence has all the ingredients of a great story, it never quite fully comes together in a way that delivers the emotional impact it seems to be aiming for. It’s a solid piece, but not one of her strongest.

The Rocking-Horse Winner by D.H. Lawrence

Ye-haw!

D.H. Lawrence is one of those early 20th century writers that can often be hit or miss for me and The Rocking-Horse Winner is...well, a winner. It appeared on my "Deal Me in Challenge" list back in 2016 and a recent re-read only confirmed my initial reaction: this is an eerie, unsettling psychological horror story wrapped in a coming-of-age tragedy. At its core, it’s about childhood trauma, parental neglect, and the desperate, unreciprocated need for love.

The tension in Paul’s household is palpable from the start. His mother is consumed by the belief that they never have enough money, even though they live in relative comfort with servants. His parents possess a toxic obsession with keeping up appearances—classic keeping up with the Joneses syndrome. The mother’s philosophy is particularly revealing:

|“It’s what causes you to have money. If you’re lucky, you have money. That’s why it is better to be born lucky than rich. If you’re rich, you may lose your money. But if you’re lucky, you will always get more money.”|

Unfortunately, young Paul takes this idea to heart. With an almost supernatural ability to predict horse race winners, he believes he can save his family from financial ruin using luck. The catch is that generating luck only works if he rides his rocking horse hard enough. His uncle, a seasoned gambler, sees an opportunity to take advantage of his nephew's gift, but at a terrible cost.

The toy rocking horse itself is the story’s most powerful symbol, representing Paul’s obsessive drive to gain fortune and, more tragically, his mother’s love. Every frantic ride pulls him deeper into madness, his desperation mounting with every bet. In some ways, the horse is a stand-in for childhood itself, a symbol of innocence that becomes warped under the weight of adult pressures. And let’s be honest—there’s also a pretty strong case for interpreting it as a metaphor for sexual repression and guilt. When his mother finds him in his room, wildly riding his rocking horse to the point of collapse, it’s not exactly subtle. Freud would have had a field day with this one.

The real horror of The Rocking-Horse Winner isn’t ghosts or gore—it’s the realization that Paul never really stood a chance. No matter how much money he wins, it will never be enough. Not for his mother. Not for the house that whispers (There must be more money! There must be more money!). And certainly not for him. It’s a bleak and depressing tale, but one that still feels relevant today. The story critiques materialism, greed, and the idea that love can be earned rather than given freely. In a world that still measures success in wealth, Paul’s tragic fate is a chilling reminder: sometimes, the price of winning is far too high.

You can read this story HERE.

A Tree. A Rock. A Cloud. by Carson McCullers

Joy.

I really don't see what all the fuss is about. Carson McCullers may be a celebrated American Southern writer, but I fail to see the magic here. If given the choice, I’d take Flannery O’Connor any day of the week. 

This story wants to be a profound meditation on love, loss, and loneliness. Instead, it feels more like a lecture than a compelling narrative. Some might find its philosophical approach moving but it came across as contrived to me.

An old man sits drinking in a restaurant, rambling poetically to a young boy who has stopped in for coffee before his paper route. He talks the boy’s ear off, yet the boy remains captivated, drawn in by his words. The contrast between the old man's world-weariness and the boy’s youthful innocence highlights the gap between those who have loved and lost and those who have yet to experience such emotions. His theory on heterosexual love is simple, yet persuasive: men fail at love because they start at the climax, rushing in too fast. Instead, they need to learn to slow down and love the small, simple things first—a tree, a rock, a cloud—before daring to love another person. It’s a valid argument and an almost scientific approach to something as messy as human emotion. 

However, the sharp-tongued restaurant owner named Leo isn’t buying it. He watches from the sidelines, scoffing at the old man’s ramblings. To him, this so-called love guru is just another drunk, spinning nonsense. His frustration builds as the old man drones on, and honestly, I can’t blame him. Some readers may find wisdom in these words. I found a story too enamored with its own message to truly resonate.

You can read this story HERE.

The Nine Curves River by R.F. Kuang

Gyarados.

Wow. Just wow. The Nine Curves River by R.F. Kuang might just be the best short story I’ve come across on the LeVar Burton Reads podcast. This was my first introduction to Kuang’s writing, and I was absolutely floored. Not just by the richness of the story itself, but by the shocking realization that she’s still in her 20s, and can write something as good as this with a level of maturity beyond her years! Her popularity makes sense now and having established herself as a literary force with multiple bestsellers under her belt, the sky's the limit for this author.

The story follows two sisters on a journey to the capital city of Arlong, where they must pay tribute to an ancient water dragon in hopes of ending a devastating drought. This sacred tradition has played out for generations, but the dragon’s price is far more precious than mere gold.

What makes Kuang’s storytelling so exceptional is her ability to seamlessly blend folklore, mythology, and magical realism into a narrative that feels both epic and deeply personal. Despite the brevity of a short story, she crafts a fully realized world—lush, immersive, and tinged with both wonder and sorrow without ever feeling overstuffed or bogged down in exposition. With excellent pacing, every detail builds towards the emotional climax of the tale that is utterly heartbreaking. 

Yet, for all its fantasy elements, The Nine Curves River remains profoundly human at its core. Kuang captures the complexities of sibling bonds: the love, the rivalry, the unspoken regrets. The author meticulously threads them through a story of sacrifice and forgiveness that resonates on a deeply emotional level. There’s an aching beauty in the way she explores loss, duty, and the cost of devotion, that is bound to leave a lasting impression. 

If this is just a glimpse of Kuang’s talent, I need to read more! Yellowface and Babel are already high on my list and who knows, her novels might be compelling enough to pull me away from reading only short-stories.  

Yours by Mary Robinson

Till death do us part... but first, let’s carve pumpkins.

Yours by Mary Robison is one of the weaker selections found in My Mistress's Sparrow Is Dead: Great Love Stories, from Chekhov to Munro edited by Jeffery Eugenides. The author's minimalist style seems focused on delivering an emotional punch, but for me, ends up missing the mark. Maybe I’m just jaded, but despite all the hallmarks of a classic tearjerker, it left me completely indifferent. 

The premise is quite simple: a husband and wife are carving  pumpkins together on Halloween—a small, shared ritual that brings them joy. It’s sweet, it’s wholesome, and Robison sprinkles in key details about their relationship, including the significant age gap and struggles with chronic illness. However, the story’s brevity works against it. Rather than building emotional depth, it feels like a fleeting snapshot that is razor thin to carry the weight of its themes. Great short stories often contain a rich underlying subtext, but this one felt almost too slight, like it was all surface and not much else. Maybe I needed more time with these characters, or maybe I just wasn’t the right target audience for this particular love story. 

At least it was super short and a very quick read otherwise my rating might have been lower.

The Five-Forty-Eight by John Cheever

Next stop, Shady Hill!

If you ask me, the adulterer in Five-Forty-Eight by John Cheever gets off way too easy, but that seems to be intentional. Blake is a successful businessman who fires his secretary, Miss Dent, after he has a one-night stand with her. When he suspects she’s stalking him after work one evening, he takes several detours through the city to shake her off. Convinced he’s finally in the clear, he boards the train home to Shady Hill (hence the title), only to realize that she’s right there in the same car, a gun hidden in her handbag and aimed straight at him. This premise has all the machinations of a classic thriller or a film-noir with Miss Dent stepping into the role of  the femme fatale, but this isn't that kind of story.

Blake is selfish, smug, and utterly indifferent to the damage he leaves in his wake. He uses people, discards them, and moves on without a second thought. His former secretary, Miss Dent, isn’t so lucky. She’s been left shattered, both emotionally and mentally, and now she’s come back to confront him about his immoral actions. An impressive aspect of this story is how Cheever slowly builds towards this tense, psychological showdown without ever tipping into melodrama. This isn’t really a revenge fantasy; it’s something more unsettling. Miss Dent doesn’t want to kill Blake. She wants him to understand what he’s done, to experience, even for a brief moment, the helplessness and humiliation she felt after being used for his own sexual gratification and then tossed aside like garbage. In a way, she succeeds during the final showdown by forcing him down into the dirt, leaving him shaken, powerless, exposed. But then… what? The train moves on, life goes on, and there’s no grand reckoning. Just the lingering sense that Blake will probably return to his old promiscuous ways, completely unchanged by the experience.

That’s what makes Cheever’s stories so different from his contemporaries like Flannery O'Connor or John Updike. He rarely offers dramatic epiphanies or neatly resolved endings. Instead, they function as portraits—snapshots of people at specific moments in their lives, often during times of crisis or moral failing. Rather than leading his characters to deep self-awareness or redemption, Cheever simply observes them, revealing their flaws, desires, and contradictions with a keen, almost voyeuristic eye.

His stories act as windows into lives in motion, capturing characters mid-stream, with histories behind them and uncertain futures ahead. Whether it’s marital dissatisfaction, suburban ennui, or in this case, a fleeting brush with humiliation, these conflicts don’t necessarily change them. Instead, Cheever leaves us with the disconcerting truth that people rarely change. They continue down their chosen paths, often indifferent to those they hurt, driven by self-interest rather than reflection or growth. This lack of transformation in these characters makes his stories feel all the more realistic and poignant.

Oliver by Kevin Maloney

Pure nostalgia.

Calling this story bizarre would be the understatement of the year. What do cults, veganism, a McDonald’s play structure, and Oliver from The Brady Bunch have in common? Honestly, nothing. But in the wonderfully warped imagination of Kevin Maloney, they collide in a way that somehow works—a fever dream of quirky absurdism that never quite spins out of control, but definitely swerves dangerously close to the edge.

Compared to Five Weddings, another Maloney story I read recently, this one feels even more zany. Maloney has this uncanny ability to make you laugh while simultaneously making you wonder, should I be laughing at this? And just when you think he can’t possibly take things further, he does. And then further still. There’s a fearless quality to his writing—he’s not afraid to push every scenario to its most ridiculous, uncomfortable, yet oddly satisfying conclusion. It’s the kind of storytelling that leaves you slightly bewildered, and already wondering what kind of bonkers ride he’s going to take you on next.

You can read this story HERE.

My Apology by Sam Lipsyte

Yummy banana bread.

In my ongoing attempt to read more contemporary fiction, The New Yorker has been an excellent source for discovering new authors (at least to me). Sam Lipsyte's sharp, absurdist humor and biting satire in My Apology immediately reminded me of Donald Barthelme, though with a bit less postmodern abstraction and a more direct, punchy style. It makes me wonder: did Lipsyte grow up on a steady diet of Barthelme, or is this just a case of two writers tapping into the same weird, satirical frequency? Lipsyte’s humor is packed with snappy quips, absurd contradictions, and the kind of witty dialogue that I think would make Donald Barthelme proud.

My Apology is a comedically dark send-up of 21st century cancel culture, centering on a narrator forced to write an apology letter to his coworkers after some, uh, regrettable office antics—namely, urinating on a colleague’s desk and using offensive language (which is never explicitly revealed). In essence, the entire short story becomes the apology letter, turning the act of forced atonement into a self-reflexive metafictional spiral of frustration and catharsis. 

The narrator is stuck in a doomed attempt to craft a genuine apology while navigating impossible expectations and his superiors won't be satisfied unless it is a confession soaked in total self-flagellation. Every draft he submits is met with rejection, and nobody seems interested in nuance or redemption. He must suffer, end of story.

|"Thing is, I am sorry and I am also not sorry. It’s all so nuanced. The nuance itself is highly nuanced."|

That line pretty much sums up the inherent contradictions and hypocrisy of cancel culture that Lipsyte is satirizing. The performative nature of public apologies and the Kafkaesque absurdity of trying to say exactly the right thing in a political climate where no response will ever be enough. The letter, initially an act of forced penance, gradually morphs into a bitterly funny venting session where the narrator subsequently examines his personal life, failed relationships, and trauma. We learn that he even enjoys baking banana bread.

Are we supposed to sympathize with the narrator or condemn him like everyone else? That’s the beauty of Lipsyte’s satire. The narrator is undeniably flawed, and yeah, peeing on someone’s desk isn’t exactly a minor slip-up, but does he deserve absolute ruin? The story never forces a moral stance on the reader, instead letting us decide: is he a misunderstood victim of mob justice or just an irredeemable office gremlin? Yet, the final paragraph certainly reveals the narrator's stance on the matter but of course, his position is steeped in irony. My Apology is a funny, painfully relevant take on the absurdity of public shaming—and Lipsyte’s sardonic wit makes it quite enjoyable without being overly preachy. 

You can read this story HERE.

The Ugly Chickens by Harold Waldrop

Edwards's Dodo, painted by Roelant Savery in 1626

A chance encounter with an old lady on a bus sends a University of Texas ornithology teaching assistant on a wild goose chase (ahem, wild dodo chase) to track down a possible sighting of this extinct bird. If the rumor proves true, it would be a discovery of a lifetime, launching him into scientific stardom and worldwide acclaim. But first, he has to follow a winding trail of clues deep into the rural American South, where the truth is as elusive as the Dodo themselves.

The Ugly Chickens by Harold Waldrop has a great premise (what if the Dodo never fully went extinct?) with offbeat humor and plenty of historical nuggets, which I found to be more interesting than the actual story. While the narrative meanders and does take a few detours (perhaps more than necessary), the whimsical charm of the story makes it worth the ride. 

This adventure becomes more than just a scientific scavenger hunt but a journey of self-discovery for the protagonist as well. He isn’t just chasing an extinct bird; he’s pursuing a lifelong dream, willing to stake his entire academic reputation based on a hunch. As he follows a decades-old trail, each new clue brings him closer to uncovering a forgotten piece of history and perhaps something even more extraordinary. Waldrop hooks the reader with anticipation, utilizing a mix of dry wit, historical asides, and an underlying sense of wonder to keep the narrative momentum going, even though it loses steam near the end. 

You can read this story HERE. 

The Swim Team by Miranda July

Cannonball!

Miranda July's The Swim Team is the kind of quirky and mawkishly sentimental story that usually wouldn't appeal to me and yet, it's unexpectedly heartfelt. While it certainly leans into whimsy, it does so without sacrificing the sharply focused storytelling. July masterfully balances an absurdist sensibility with an underlying emotional depth, ensuring that the quirkiness enhances rather than overshadows the narrative. Her keen ability to maintain a tone that is both lighthearted and melancholic, meticulously avoiding the common pitfall of eccentricity for its own sake.

The story unfolds through a second-person narrative voice, as the protagonist addresses an ex-boyfriend about an experience she never shared with him. At first, this framing suggests she withheld something deeply significant to their relationship, yet the anecdote she reveals—about befriending some elderly residents of a small town and giving them swimming lessons in her living room—feels both unexpected and strangely inconsequential. The reason for her secrecy remains ambiguous. Was it embarrassment? A sense of isolation? Or perhaps an unspoken longing for meaningful human connection? July leaves this open to interpretation, which only adds to the story’s emotional resonance.

While the premise might initially seem absurd or self-indulgent, there’s an undeniable charm to its quirkiness. The protagonist is a young woman in her 20's drifting through life, stuck in a small town and uncertain of her direction. Beneath the surface of her amusing tale lies a quiet sadness—a yearning for purpose, for belonging, for something more. Her detached, almost matter-of-fact tone contrasts beautifully with the poignancy of her situation, making the story all the more compelling.

The final line, "I must be the saddest swim coach in all of history," is particularly striking. It encapsulates the protagonist’s fragile emotional state. She once found purpose in bringing joy to her elderly students (now deceased), creating something meaningful through the unconventional. Yet, with their absence, she is left longing for that sense of connection, confronted once again with her own loneliness after the recent breakup. It’s a moment of self-awareness, reflecting on loss, the passage of time, and the difficulty of moving forward after heartbreak. 

Considering my initial skepticism, this story turned out to be a pleasant surprise.

You can read this story HERE.

Silly Asses by Isaac Asimov (1958)

Oppenheimer.

Asimov really isn't going for subtlety here. Clocking in at just under 500 words, this very short science-fiction story explicitly critique mankind's hubris and irresponsibility with nuclear power. The underlying fear is that misuse of these weapons will inevitably lead to the end of all life on this planet. Considering this story was written in 1958 during the Cold War, annihilation on a global scale seemed like a scary possibility at the time.

The Galactic Federation has been monitoring different planets in the solar system as they reach intellectual "maturity" and Earth just so happens to come up for consideration to join as new members. Unfortunately, since humans are foolishly prone to testing these nuclear weapons on their own planet, such reckless behavior cannot be overlooked by the council and their membership is immediately rescinded for being, well, a bunch of "Silly Asses."

Despite the serious subject matter, Asimov's satire effectively uses humor and irony to highlight the threat of nuclear war. He doesn’t pull any punches, but he sure knows how to have fun while making a point. The story’s dry humor keeps it from feeling preachy, instead serving up an exasperated shake of the head at humanity’s stupidity. Maybe one day we’ll get our act together and earn our spot among the stars. Until then, let’s try not to blow ourselves up, okay?

You can read this story HERE.

We Didn't by Stuart Dybeck

Gold Coast.

Every so often a short story emerges out of nowhere and completely blows me away. We Didn't by Stuart Dybek is one of those rare gems and it is such a thrill to discover new short-story writers otherwise unfamiliar to me. Before stumbling upon this title in the anthology My Mistress’s Sparrow Is Dead, edited by Jeffrey Eugenides (a collection of short stories exploring various facets of love), Stuart Dybek's name never crossed my radar. But if this piece is any indication of his talent, consider me an instant fan. His writing possesses a raw, exuberant energy full of wit and charm that is utterly captivating. 

The male narrator is reflecting on his youth, when he was eager to lose his virginity with his girlfriend on a beach. This is an ambitious and impractical choice, given the difficulties of being inconspicuous. Not to mention the problem of sand creeping into inconvenient places. Just as they teeter on the edge of physical intimacy, their amorous activities are shattered by the arrival of police responding to a body that has washed ashore. The sudden shift from erotic anticipation to a stark confrontation with mortality is well-rendered, turning the scene into a darkly ironic spectacle of disappointment. Talk about a mood killer.

Writing about sex—especially young, inexperienced sex—is a notoriously difficult feat, yet Dybek navigates it with remarkable finesse. He captures the urgency, awkwardness, and fumbling tenderness of first love, blending humor, poignancy, and realism in a way that feels authentic. The intimacy he portrays is not just physical but deeply emotional, layered with unspoken desires, insecurities, and the weight of burgeoning adulthood. His prose is poetic yet grounded, striking that rare balance between sensuality and sentimentality without ever feeling contrived.

In this story, it is not just about the physical act of sex but about everything that surrounds it—desire, hesitation, the weight of expectations (often gendered), and the profound sense of longing that often defines young relationships. He writes with a keen sensitivity to the nuances of emotional connection, showing how love and sex are not just physical experiences but deeply psychological ones. Both the narrator and his girlfriend grapple with unspoken fears, the fragility of their own self-perceptions, and the unpredictability of real-life circumstances—such as the grim and unexpected presence of death in the midst of their passion.

I find myself particularly drawn to Dybek's poetic yet unpretentious prose. He has a way of infusing even the most awkward, clumsy, or fumbling moments with a beauty that feels entirely organic rather than forced. He understands that intimacy is as much about what isn’t said as what is, and his ability to evoke emotion through subtext and small, evocative details makes his storytelling all the more powerful. The juxtaposition of passion with mortality elevates the story beyond a simple coming-of-age narrative. It becomes a meditation on love’s fleeting nature, the unpredictability of life, and the way that moments of intimacy can be both transformative and incomplete.

We Didn't is a testament to Dybek’s skill in writing about love and sex in ways that feel achingly real in all its inherent contradictions: messy, beautiful, and profoundly human.

A Very Short Story by Ernest Hemingway

A dashing young Ernest Hemingway in his army regalia. Circa 1918.

The title is very apropos since this is "A Very Short Story", indeed. In just a few paragraphs, Hemingway conveys an entire arc of love, war, betrayal, and loss, all within a tightly confined space. Despite its brevity, the story carries a raw authenticity and unexpected emotional weight that few authors can match. 

This piece is a prime example of Hemingway’s “iceberg theory,” a literary technique in which the majority of meaning lies beneath the surface, unspoken yet deeply felt. Hemingway strips away all superfluous details, presenting only the most essential elements of the story. This deliberate compression creates a striking contrast between what is explicitly stated and what remains implied, allowing the reader to engage with the unspoken emotions and fill in the gaps. It is precisely this ambiguity that gives the story its power—what is left unsaid is just as significant as what is revealed.

The final sentence is incredible. It is utterly devastating, encapsulating a profound sense of heartbreak, disillusionment, and the quiet agony of the protagonist’s downfall. With a single line, Hemingway masterfully conveys the crushing weight of loss and the inescapable consequences of a self-destructive path. It is this stark, unembellished style that makes A Very Short Story not only an engrossing read but also a testament to the author's genius in using minimalism for maximum emotional impact.

You can read this story HERE.

Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut by J.D. Salinger

UNCLE WIGGILY IN A BOAT.

No, Salinger’s Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut has nothing to do with the dapper rabbit from Howard R. Garis’ children's books—though childhood imagination does make a brief, bittersweet appearance. Eloise’s daughter, Ramona, has an invisible best friend named "Jimmy Jimmereeno," a detail that underscores the story’s central theme: the fragile ways people cope with loss. 

The real Uncle Wiggily reference comes from Eloise’s past, a seemingly offhand remark made by her former love, Walt, when she twisted her ankle chasing a bus. He called it "poor Uncle Wiggily"—a playful moment that, in hindsight, has become a haunting memory. Walt died in the war, and Eloise, unable to truly move on, ended up in a marriage devoid of passion, marooned in a life that feels more like a compromise than a choice.

Now a jaded, chain-smoking suburban housewife, Eloise seemingly spends her days drinking, annoyed at the way her life turned out, causing her to lash out at her daughter, a painful reminder of the child she didn't have with Walt. She invites her old college friend Mary Jane over for lunch and they talk about about their youthful dalliances and college misadventures, but the conversation feels hollow, contrived and forced. Beneath the surface, the story crackles with unresolved grief—Eloise isn’t just mourning Walt; she’s mourning the version of herself that once believed in love, adventure, and possibility.

Salinger paints a picture of postwar disillusionment, where the vibrancy of youth fades into a life that feels scripted and stifling. Eloise’s bitterness is palpable, yet there’s something deeply tragic about her. She is clinging to the past, burdened with regrets. The story ends on a sorrowful note, as she drunkenly breaks down, showing more tenderness for Ramona’s imaginary friend than for her own child. Eloise comes to the realization that she is no longer the "nice girl" and has been shaped by her unresolved grief. Eloise’s fixation on a lost love, coupled with her inability to connect meaningfully with those around her, suggests that this sadness has seeped into every facet of life. The emotional detachment from her husband and daughter highlight the dangers of living in the past rather than confronting pain in the present. By the story’s end, Salinger leaves us with the disheartening image of a broken and alienated woman. 

I really wanted to enjoy this more, but Salinger’s usual wit and sharp characterization felt muted here with a story that meanders in a way that feels more aimless than intentional. The emotional beats didn’t hit as hard as I expected, and the story, while containing that signature Salinger melancholy, lacked the depth and nuance I usually associate with his writing. It still has some redeemable qualities and worth a read if you're a fan of Salinger, but seems to be missing that spark to make it truly memorable. 

You can read this story HERE.

Five Weddings by Kevin Maloney

Mask on. Mask off.

It was only a matter of time before I stumbled across an author writing about the COVID-19 pandemic, which upon reflection, often feels like a surreal fever dream. Did that really happen? Yes. Yes it did. And it was five years ago.

What a wild time and it all feels like a total blur.

Five Weddings by Kevin Maloney immediately struck a personal chord with me, since my wife and I somehow found ourselves trapped in a seemingly endless loop of pandemic-era nuptials. Between 2020 and 2022, we must have attended at least nine weddings. It wasn't a wedding season but more like a wedding era. 

With social restrictions constantly shifting, many couples found themselves throwing not just one wedding, but two, three, or even more—each one a slightly more chaotic attempt at celebrating with loved ones. Maloney takes this pandemic-era absurdity and spins it into a an effective parody. The story doesn’t try to be deeply profound, but it absolutely nails the ridiculousness of the times, delivering plenty of sharp, well-timed laughs along the way.

From our collective fixation on scrubbing down groceries like we were handling radioactive waste to the ever-changing "rules" of social gatherings, the humor is fast-paced, delightfully zany, and perfectly attuned to the bizarre reality we all lived through. The story quickly becomes more absurd as the consecutive weddings occur. Besides, how can you not love a story where a cat officiates the couple’s fifth wedding while they are lounging in bed watching The Bachelorette? At this stage, the narrative fully embraces the irrational yet still remains firmly anchored in the emotional reality of the characters.

Kevin Maloney is a new discovery for me, and his unique storytelling has piqued my curiosity. I'm eager to explore more of his work and see how his other writings compare to this one.

You can read this story HERE.

Fat by Raymond Carver

'Tis Carveresque.

Even though Raymond Carver is one of my favorite short-story writers, it's quite shocking to discover that I have never reviewed one of his works on this blog! This has to be rectified right away. 

Carver’s mastery of the short-story form is evident in Fat, a piece that might struggle to find a home in today’s publishing landscape, potentially dismissed as fatphobic—an interpretation that would entirely miss the point. What makes Carver’s writing so compelling is his ability to distill profound human experiences from the seemingly mundane. His signature terseness, ambiguity, and elliptical storytelling effectively transform the trivial into moments of quiet revelation.

The premise of Fat is deceptively simple: the female narrator recounts a shift at the diner where she serves an unusually large man. Their brief interaction unsettles her in ways she can’t quite articulate, leaving both her and the reader grasping at the edges of some ineffable realization. While she senses that something within her has shifted, she is unable to define it, and Carver, true to form, refuses to impose a clear resolution. Instead, he presents only the suggestion of an awakening—a fleeting, intangible transformation.

One possible interpretation is that her encounter with the fat man triggers an awareness of her own dissatisfaction with her life, particularly in her stagnant marriage. She notes that her husband makes her feel fat when he lies on top of her during sex, a detail that, while seemingly offhand, hints at deeper emotional and physical alienation. Yet, Carver doesn’t spell out whether this realization will lead to any real change in her life. The story ends with lingering uncertainty. What exactly has shifted in the narrator’s perspective? How does she believe her life is going to change, if at all?

These unanswered questions are essential to Carver’s aesthetic. His stories are not about dramatic revelations or neatly packaged morals but about the texture of real life—messy, complex, unresolved, and often filled with little moments that hint at something larger. Fat exemplifies his brand of literary minimalism and “dirty realism,” capturing the quiet desperation, longing, and ennui of middle-class existence. These slice-of-life narratives refuse easy explanations, leaving readers with the lingering sense that something important has been glimpsed—if only just out of reach. 

And I'm all for it.

Liar! by Isaac Asimov

"I did not murder him!"

Asimov's Three laws of Robotics:

1. First law of robotics: A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. 
2. A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law. 
3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

The First Law of Robotics takes center stage in Liar!, as Asimov explores the implications of increasingly intelligent robots. The latest model, RB-34—nicknamed Herbie—introduces a groundbreaking (and troubling) new development: the ability to read human thoughts. While the scientists scramble to assign blame for what they see as a defect, Dr. Susan Calvin takes a different approach. As a renowned "robo-psychologist", she is fascinated by the deeper psychological ramifications of a robot that understands human emotions. Herbie is bored with learning science or complex mathematical theories. He is far more interested in reading novels to better understand human behavior: 

|"It’s your fiction that interests me. Your studies of the interplay of human motives and emotions."|

Asimov’s interest in the intersection of robotics and psychology is the primary focus. Herbie, bound by the First Law to never harm a human, faces an ethical paradox—hurting someone emotionally is still a form of harm. To avoid causing pain, he tells people what they want to hear rather than the truth, creating unintended chaos. Dr. Calvin has a crush on Milton Ashe, and Herbie attempts to play matchmaker. Additionally, the robot tells Dr. Bogert that he is up for a promotion as director of operations because the director has recently put in his resignation. Of course, they believe Herbie is telling the truth since he has no reason to lie, or does he? Hence, this premise gives the story a unique tension, as it isn’t just about malfunctioning machinery but the consequences of human desires and expectations when placed in the hands of artificial intelligence.

I imagine this story works best when read as part of the I, Robot series, interlinking with the other stories and broader themes. As a standalone, it lacks a certain oomph, though it certainly captures that classic, vintage sci-fi feel. The blend of technological speculation and psychological exploration is intriguing enough, even if the execution feels somewhat dated. Still, Liar! remains an interesting early look at the complexities of human-robot interactions—one that foreshadows many of the ethical debates surrounding AI today.

The Lovely Troubled Daughters of Our Old Crowd by John Updike

White Picket Dreams

Updike often walks a fine line between urban poet and a writer whose masculine reflections on gender can sometimes be problematic. The Lovely Troubled Daughters of Our Old Crowd is no exception. While the undertones of toxic masculinity are present, they are not so overbearing as to detract from the story’s more compelling elements. The narrator is borderline creepy, fixated on the unmarried daughters of his old friends, which seems to be disruption of the expected social order. This unsettling preoccupation is established immediately in the story’s opening line:

|"Why don’t they get married? You see them around town, getting older, little spinsters already, pedaling bicycles to their local jobs or walking up the hill by the rocks with books in their arms."|

Updike’s prose is simple yet deeply evocative. The phrase "little spinsters already" carries an air of condescension, but it is softened by the gentle, almost cinematic imagery of these women navigating their small-town lives. The narrator’s bewilderment suggests an inability or an unwillingness to comprehend how shifting social norms have allowed this younger generation to step outside the traditional path.

As is typical of Updike, the story unfolds in a fluid, almost dreamlike fashion consisting of flashbacks, poetic observations, and finely wrought details that breathe life into the past. The passage of time becomes the story’s undercurrent, shaping the narrator’s perceptions and reinforcing the contrast between nostalgia and present-day reality. This is encapsulated beautifully in one of the story’s most poignant reflections:

|"We were all so young, parents and children, learning it all together—how to grow up, how to deal with time—is what you realize now."|

Updike’s literary talents are apparent in his ability to render nostalgia not as a sentimental indulgence but as a force that both illuminates and distorts. His prose shimmers with an aching beauty, allowing even the most mundane moments to take on an almost sacred weight. And yet, for all its elegance, the story does not fully captivate in the way that some of his best works do. The thematic undercurrents are intriguing enough, but even when the storytelling falters, Updike’s gift for language ensures that every sentence is a pleasure to read. 

You can read this story HERE.

Who Am I This Time? by Kurt Vonnegut

Stellaaaaaaa!!!

Kurt Vonnegut takes us on a quirky little detour into the world of small-town theater in North Crawford. Our protagonist, an amateur director, is struggling to cast the role of Stella in A Streetcar Named Desire. During a chance encounter, he meets a phone operator with untapped acting potential and encourages her to audition.  The obvious choice for the famous Brando role will go to Harry Nash, the local hardware clerk and resident thespian.

At first, our new Stella fumbles, but once Harry steps in, sparks fly—on stage, at least. What follows is a love story that feels a bit forced, as the starry-eyed phone operator tries to melt the icy exterior of the emotionally unavailable Harry. Thanks to the magic of theater and power of art, she gets closer to him than any woman before. This story is a bit more subdued compared to Vonnegut’s usual sharp satire. The romance might feel a little contrived, but somehow, it still works, even if the narrative doesn’t really amount to much in the end.

You can read this story HERE.

Troll Bridge by Terry Pratchett

Trip, trap, trip, trap!

Here is another pick from Levar Burton Reads. 

Terry Pratchett has a knack for poking fun at fantasy tropes in his stories and Troll Bridge is no exception. This time around, he sets his sights on the wandering barbarian archetype—but not the usual brawny, brainless brute on a quest for blood and glory. Well… sort of. Our hero does set out on an adventure, talking horse in tow, determined to cement his legacy in bardic songs by slaying a troll under a bridge.

In classic Pratchett fashion, things quickly take a turn for the ridiculous. Instead of a fierce, earth-shaking battle of steel and stone, our battle-hardened barbarian finds himself face-to-face with… an enthusiastic fan. The troll under the bridge isn’t looking for a fight; he’s looking for an autograph. Normally, trolls demand a toll for safe passage, but there’s just one problem—nobody’s crossed his rickety old bridge in years. The poor guy is down on his luck, struggling to make ends meet, and barely scraping by to support his family. It’s less terrifying bridge guardian and more “underpaid toll booth operator waiting for customers who never show up.

Surprisingly, the barbarian finds himself sympathizing with the troll’s plight. After all, both of them are relics of a world that’s moving on without them. By helping out the troll with his financial troubles as opposed to killing him, they can continue fulfilling their expected fantasy roles. Pratchett has a lot of fun in his retelling of The Three Billy Goats Gruff fairy tale but with his signature absurdity. Yet, beneath all the humor, irony, and parody lies a surprisingly poignant story. As the world shifts away from magic and myth, even the most legendary heroes risk fading into obscurity. It’s a bittersweet reminder that with the inevitable passage of time, even famous barbarians with talking horses will be forgotten.

On the Banks of the River Lex by N.K. Jemisin

Humanity is gone. Starbucks is back. Even Death is confused.

On the Banks of the River Lex by N.K. Jemisin boasts a fantastic premise and some truly rich world-building. Unfortunately, the story itself isn't quite on par. Even though I just read this, it’s already slipping from my memory, which isn’t exactly a great sign.

The setup is undeniably cool: humanity is long gone, leaving behind only forgotten gods, mythical creatures, and, apparently, the undying spirit of capitalism (yes, there’s a whole scene about Starbucks reopening). At the heart of it all is Death—literally—who wanders through an empty New York City like an aimless goth kid in a world with no Hot Topic. The story tries to be a poetic meditation on mortality, but the execution is a bit hit-or-miss.

During one of his excursions, Death encounters a surprisingly resilient octopus that seems to rekindle his faith in life’s ability to endure and adapt. Honestly, I found myself rooting for the octopus more than anything else. In the end, the atmosphere and concept shine, but the narrative doesn’t quite leave a lasting impact. Even though this was disapppointing, I am still excited to read more stories from Jemisin's collection. 

Mr. McCaslin by Peter S. Beagle

Cerberus without three heads.

LeVar Burton has a strong track record when it comes to selecting engaging short stories for his podcast, and I would certainly place Mr. McCaslin by Peter S. Beagle into that category. Set in 1950s New York, the story is steeped in nostalgia, feeling almost semi-autobiographical as it paints a poignant coming-of-age tale infused with Irish folklore, the supernatural, and a touch of magical realism.

The young narrator and his friends form an unexpected bond with the titular Mr. McCaslin, an elderly resident of their apartment building, who approaches them with a peculiar request: he needs their help to stave off a dog from the underworld—an entity that has haunted his family for generations as an omen of impending death. The stakes are deceptively simple: he isn’t asking for a miracle, just a few more days to settle his affairs, particularly to write a final letter to his estranged daughter. This small but deeply human request adds an emotional weight to the story, making it as much about regret and reconciliation as it is about supernatural encounters.

The presence of the spectral hound heightens the tension while reinforcing the story’s themes of fate, inevitability and the loss of childhood. Yet, the children's involvement introduces an element of innocence and defiance against forces beyond their understanding. Beagle effectvely balances the eerie and the heartfelt, capturing the way childhood wonder often blurs the line between myth and reality. The contrast between youthful idealism and the sobering weight of mortality is beautifully executed, making the story both haunting and emotionally resonant.

Prior to this story, my only exposure to Peter S. Beagle’s work was The Last Unicorn, widely regarded as a classic of children’s literature. Mr. McCaslin further cements his reputation as a gifted writer, seamlessly blending the fantastical with the the deeply personal. 

Lovers of Their Time by William Trevor

The title is very apropos since "Lovers of Their Time" attempts to capture the zeitgeist of the 1960's, chronicling the misfortunues of conservative monogomy that was starting to feel outdated. Social attitudes toward love and marriage were shifting, though for modern readers, this transformation might not seem all that groundbreaking. Ironically, the story feels quite outdated, which could be intentional by the author. 

As a man in his 40's, the protagonist finds himself in the throes of a mid-life crisis. Bored with his wife and job as a travel agent, he longs for excitement and ends up falling passionately in love with a much younger woman. Their affair unfolds in the usual fashion, him being the csonservative and cowardly husband unable to divorce his wife whereas she is portrayed as the sexually liberal woman. Worried about being caught, he discovers a fancy hotel conveniently located near a train station. This is a total game changer because sneaking around gets a whole lot easier. Over several years, the couple resorts to meeting in the hotel's abandoned washroom to consecrate their carnal lust. Perhaps security was more lax in the '60s, but it's baffling that no one ever caught them for years.

Whether intentional or not, the story leans heavily into cliché, filled with platudinous dialogue and the well-worn beats of an ill-fated romance. The contrived nature of their relationship robs the story of any poignancy and despite the supposed passion, everything just feels incessantly dull. Don't even get me started on the terrible ending that reaffirms the patriarchy. Given William Trevor’s reputation as a master of the short story, I can only hope this one is an exception rather than the rule.