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 go 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.