There are No Thieves in this Town by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

The wannabe hustler.

Have I been bamboozled? Hoodwinked? Is this some kind of literary prank? Surely, this can't be the same Gabriel García Márquez who gave us such masterful short stories as "A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings" or "One of These Days." But alas, nobody’s perfect—not even a literary giant. Apparently, even the great Márquez can have an off day. Maybe my expectations were set too high, but There Are No Thieves in This Town left me thoroughly disappointed, with barely a redeeming quality in sight.

Dámaso, a chain-smoking young man barely scraping by, ignores the protests of his pregnant wife and decides to rob the local pool hall. He’s hoping to score some cash but, finding none, settles for stealing…the pool balls. Yes, really. Not exactly Ocean’s Eleven. His grand plan? Sell them for a profit in a town so poor it’s a miracle they even have a pool hall. To make matters worse, Dámaso isn't just unlucky—he's reckless, blowing money on alcohol and prostitutes while his wife waits for him at home, worried sick. He's a terrible husband and I'm not sure why she doesn't leave him. 

Márquez ditches his signature magical realism in favor of a bleak dose of social realism, but here it lacks emotional weight. The characters feel hollow, the story plods along at a snail’s pace, and just when you think it might be leading somewhere… it fizzles out with an anti-climactic ending. And if that weren’t enough, the story is laced with blatant anti-Black racism, misogyny, and unnecessary violence against women—making it not just dull, but actively unpleasant to read.

Maybe Márquez was experimenting, or maybe he was just having a bad writing day—it doesn't really matter. Either way, I still think he's a talented author but it might be a while before I revisit his work. 

One of These Days by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Have a seat Señor and let me get my pliers.

Unlike the novel, which has the luxury of expansiveness, a great short story must rely on precise language to achieve its impact within a limited space. Gabriel García Márquez’s One of These Days exemplifies this economy of expression, using brevity and conciseness to construct an emotionally charged story. The structure of a short story can take many forms—a fleeting sketch, a fragment of a larger whole or a single charged moment being quite prevalent. One of These Days embodies all of these elements while remaining a self-contained episode within a broader socio-political landscape. Though incredibly brief, the story resonates beyond its immediate events, hinting at deeper tensions and systemic forces that shape the two main characters. The gaps and ambiguities in the narrative invite the reader to actively engage with the text, piecing together the underlying tensions and themes.

In this way, the short story can be understood as occupying a liminal space—a threshold between worlds, where meaning is suspended and shaped by what is left unsaid. The author masterfully conveys intense emotional tension and rich story elements through a careful balance of precise details and deliberate omissions. Every small action, piece of dialogue, and unstated implication adds weight to the narrative, allowing meaning to emerge as the story progresses. This restraint heightens the story’s impact, compelling the reader to engage actively and interpret the underlying power struggles, unspoken emotions, and broader socio-political realities evoked by the scene.

This  liminality is especially evident in the reversed power dynamic between the dentist and the corrupt mayor. What appears to be a routine dental procedure is charged with unspoken conflict, as the powerless—represented by the dentist—briefly gains control over the powerful. The scene is deceptively simple yet full of tension and packed with meaning with the underlying currents of systemic oppression looming in the background. In this moment, the dentist’s reluctant defiance and the mayor’s vulnerability expose the fragile and often brutal nature of authority, turning an everyday encounter into a quiet act of resistance.

Nearly every story in this collection has been exceptional, further cementing Gabriel García Márquez’s mastery of the short-story form. His ability to craft vivid, emotionally resonant narratives with such precision and economy of language is nothing short of remarkable. With each story, he continues to captivate, revealing new depths to his storytelling prowess, imagination and versatility. Although best known for his magical realism, García Márquez demonstrates in this story that he is equally adept at crafting a compelling narrative within a more conventional framework. Eschewing with surreal elements, this piece is indicative of his ability to create tension and meaning through precise storytelling and sharp realism.

Division of Zero by Ted Chiang

1+1 = 2. Or does it?

What if mathematics turned out to be nothing more than a meaningless "mnemonic trick" (a phrase spoken by the protagonist)? That’s the unsettling premise in Division by Zero, another sophisticated short story by the amazingly talented Ted Chiang. Renee, a renowned mathematician, stumbles upon a proof that undermines the entire basis of arithmetic. As she explains to her husband:

"One and one will always get you two on your fingers, but on paper I can give you an infinite number of answers, and they're all equally valid, which means they're equally invalid."

That’s pretty wild—even if I don’t fully understand the formulas behind it. (I barely survived high school calculus, so my ability to grasp advanced mathematical paradoxes is about as solid as my ability to do long division without a calculator.) But while the complex math might have gone over my head, the emotional weight of the story resonated with me the most.

Renee’s discovery doesn’t just challenge mathematical truth—it shatters her entire worldview. For her, math has always been the one unwavering constant, the key to understanding the universe. Now, faced with the realization that it’s all built on contradictions, she spirals into depression. Her husband, deeply devoted but struggling to reach her, watches helplessly as she unravels. Their crumbling marriage and personal tragedy coincides with the author's historical reflections on the nature of mathematics, grounding the abstract theory in something profoundly human.

One particularly relevant quote from Einstein sums up the paradox at the heart of the story:

"Insofar as the propositions of mathematics give an account of reality they are not certain; and insofar as they are certain they do not describe reality."

Chiang's deeply intellectual premise never overshadows the story's emotional core. Even if the mathematical proofs went over my head, the philosophical depth and the deeply empathetic characters stand out.

"She, like many, had always thought that mathematics did not derive its meaning from the universe, but rather imposed some meaning onto the universe. Physical entities were not greater or less than one another, not similar or dissimilar; they simply were, they existed. 

Lederhosen by Haruki Murakami

Ein Prosit der Gemütlichkeit!

I truly admire Haruki Murakami's ability to take the most random, seemingly mundane subject matter and transform it into an engaging story-- Lederhosen being a perfect example of this rare talent. The premise, at first glance, seems silly and inconsequential: the narrator's wife's friend recounts how her parents’ divorce was triggered by a pair of lederhosen—yes, the traditional Bavarian shorts. While such a detail might seem trivial or even absurd in the hands of another writer, Murakami somehow manages to pull it off (well, for the most part). 

What makes the story so compelling isn’t just the peculiar catalyst for the divorce, but how Murakami invites readers into this anecdote, unfolding it like a thought experiment where the "why" of the situation is less important than the journey itself full of wonderful tangents. His prose, both simple and elegant, guides the reader through the winding history of this woman’s family, creating a narrative that feels both intimate with a hint of surrealism. 

Murakami is so skilled at elevating the mundane into something profound. He tends to focus on the quirks of human relationships or the small, seemingly insignificant details of life in a way that feels emotionally resonant. In Lederhosen, it’s not really about the shorts themselves but about what they symbolize, and the emotional landscapes they uncover. 

Hell is the Absence of God by Ted Chiang

"And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal." - Matthew 25:46 

Ted Chiang is on another level when it comes to the short-story writing. His excellent collection "Stories of Your Life" contains some of the most mind-blowing stories that I have ever encountered, and Hell is the Absence of God certainly falls into that category. It is a mini-epic with such a fascinating premise: what if Divine Intervention were not only real but also visible and undeniable to mortals? Chiang creates a richly imagined world where angelic visitations and divine acts are regular occurrence, with manifestations that range from miraculous healings to catastrophic collateral damage. This world is both wondrous and terrifying, forcing its inhabitants—and readers—to grapple with the nature of faith in the face of inexplicable divine power. 

Chiang explores faith in its many dimensions, presenting a series of interconnected stories that highlight the paradoxes of religious belief. Neil Fisk, the central character, is bitter towards God after his wife is accidentally killed by one of the angels during a moment of divine intervention. His grief becomes the catalyst for a misguided plan to be reunited with Sarah in heaven if he can chase down angels and speak with God (to avoid spoilers, let's just say that God has other plans in store for him). Through Neil’s story, Chiang examines how faith can be born of desperation, hope, and even resentment, raising questions about whether true belief can exist when it is motivated by self-interest rather than love or devotion. 

This is one of those stories that begs for analysis and my review has barely scratched the surface. The story’s theological complexity also touches upon themes of salvation, devotion, justice, and the role of free will in a world where divine acts are no longer abstract concepts but tangible, visible events. Chiang challenges us to confront the inherent paradoxes between belief and doubt, illustrating how faith can be a source of both profound beauty and intense suffering. There is a certain vulnerability that comes with devotion—how surrendering to something greater than oneself can bring comfort and meaning, but also lead to heartache and despair. Faith, in Chiang’s world, is not a simple path to salvation but a journey that forces us to wrestle with our deepest fears, desires, and contradictions.

In this way, Hell is the Absence of God is not merely a story about divine intervention but a poignant exploration of what it means to be human. It forces us to question not only the nature of the divine but the very foundation of our existence: our need for meaning, our search for connection, and the courage it takes to place our trust in the unknown. By the end of the story, readers are left with a profound sense of the fragile beauty of faith, and the realization that to believe—truly believe—is to risk everything. Ted Chiang’s work offers no easy answers, but it leaves us with questions that resonate on a deeply emotional level, urging us to grapple with the mysteries of life, love, and the divine in ways we never have before.

The New Yorker Challenge (short stories)

In conjunction with the" Deal me in Challenge", I've decided to also start reading more short-stories published in The New Yorker. Since I don't read a lot of contemporary fiction these days, this could be a good opportunity to expose myself to new writers that otherwise would not be on my radar. 

This would all be very chill with no rigid rules here—just me, a growing list of stories, and a goal to read at least one each month. If I manage that, I’ll consider it a literary victory (and probably reward myself with a cookie or something equally motivating). Feel free to join in if this challenge interests you at all and I'm happy for any recommendations.

Selections:

• Ming by Han Ong
• Consolation by Andre Alexis
• Allah Have Mercy by Mohammed Naseehu
• Incoming by Teju Cole
• The Books of Losing You by Junot Diaz (Flash fiction series)

Steady Hands at Seattle Hospital by Denis Johnson

"Talk into my bullet hole."

Denis Johnson's acclaimed Jesus' Stories has been on my radar for many years and I only recently took the plunge, which so far, has yielded mixed results. Steady Hands at Seattle General is one of the more memorable stories from the collection that is profound in it's simplicity. 

This story achieves its gritty realism entirely through dialogue while focusing solely on the raw, unfiltered exchanges between its two central characters. From what we can infer through context, the they are both patients in a psych ward, engaging in an oddly intimate yet disturbing conversation while one carefully shaves the other. This seemingly mundane act takes on a deeper, almost symbolic weight, highlighting their shared vulnerability and the fragile, unspoken bond formed in their shared environment of confinement and chaos.

The pacing is relentless—snappy dialogue propelling the reader through the story before there’s even time to fully process its weight. This brevity, paired with the punchy, authentic dialogue, captures the chaotic, fleeting moments that often define human connections and the fragile tension between despair and hope.

This won't be spoiling anything but the final lines spoken by the older inmate receiving the shave is haunting: "Talk into my bullet hole. Tell me I'm fine." It is a stark and visceral encapsulation of the story's gritty tone. It lays bare the raw and unflinching desperation, mixing dark humor with emotional vulnerability. The line captures the physical and psychological trauma central to the narrative, presenting pain as both a literal and metaphorical wound that demands acknowledgment, yet resists healing.

These specific choice of words reflect the story's overarching theme of human fragility, underscoring the characters’ struggle to connect in the face of so much suffering. The bluntness of the phrase, combined with its absurdity, reflects the unfiltered reality the story portrays, refusing to soften the harsh edges of its world. It’s a line that lingers, forcing the reader to confront the uncomfortable truths about survival, connection, and the weight of unspoken wounds.

The New Owner by Donald Bartheleme

Rent is due...and so is your sanity.

Renters are often at the mercy of their landlords and consider yourself lucky if you find one in today's housing crisis (at least here in Toronto) that is isn't a complete scumbag. In Donald Bartheleme's "The New Owner", the narrator's precarious living situation is made even more problematic by a ruthless new landlord who’s exactly the kind of person renters dread. True to the title, this guy is all business: slashing costs, making drastic changes, and caring little about how miserable his tenants are due to selfish greed.

It’s a tenant's worst-case scenario, but the narrator’s witty vitriol produces some funny moments. That's pretty much the story's only redeeming quality. Oddly enough, compared to Barthelme’s usual experimental and playful style, this story is as conventional as it gets. While it does have its fair share of humor and accurately conveys the frustration as a renter, it doesn’t quite add up to much in the end. 

"The new owner stands on the roof, where the tomato plants are, owning the roof. May a good wind blow him to hell."

Wait a Minute by Lucia Berlin

"We all have mental scrapbooks. Stills. Snapshot of people we love at different times."

It’s a Lucia Berlin double-feature this weekend here at Literary Frenzy, and I couldn’t be more excited to share another gem from one of my all-time favorite short-story writers. After recently reviewing Sex Appeal—a solid read, but not her best—today we have Wait a Minute, which truly showcases Berlin at the top of her game. Her signature style is on full display here: a masterful economy of language, poetic precision, wit, and emotional depth that makes her stories so memorable. 

Berlin’s prose flows effortlessly, drawing readers into poetic snapshots of everyday life, rendered with stark realism that is tender, intimate, and deeply moving. What truly sets her apart though is her extraordinary ability to infuse humor into even the heaviest themes—such as death in this story—in a way that feels natural, never forced. Rather than diminishing the emotional impact, her humor amplifies it, adding layers of complexity to the experience and making it profoundly human. Few writers can break your heart and make you laugh in the same sentence, but Berlin makes it look easy.

The opening sentence is fantastic and totally Berlinesque:

"Sighs, the rhythms of our heartbeats, contractions of childbirth, orgasms, all flow into time just as pendulum clocks placed next to one another soon beat in unison." 

Great stuff.

The concept of time in relation to death is a central theme here, as the narrator grapples with the loss of her sister. In typical Berlin fashion, we are presented with a series of memories, either about the sister or intertwined with those of her own life. Amid the chaos of daily life, we often lose sight of how finite our time truly is—until tragedy strikes and death rears its ugly head, reshaping our perception of reality. For the narrator, her sister's passing becomes a profound moment of reflection. It shatters the fog of forgetfulness, forcing her to face the fragility of existence and awakening a sobering awareness of her own mortality. 

Once again, Berlin masterfully balances intense subject matter with her signature wit, infusing the story with moments of sharp, unexpected humor. Her ability to juxtapose heartbreak and humor creates a striking emotional depth where moments of absurdity often emerge amidst the immense sadness. Berlin’s wit isn’t just comic relief—it produces laughter in even the bleakest moments.

Better Living Through Algorithms by Naomi Kritzer

Skynet is just around the corner. 

One of my reading goals in life is to work through all the short-story Hugo winners and nominees since the award's inception in 1955. When I saw that last year’s Hugo Award for Best Short Story (2024) went to Better Living Through Algorithms by Naomi Kritzer, I was curious to see what all the hoopla was about. Being unfamiliar with this author, I approached it with an open mind and ended up being pleasantly surprised.

Kritzer's story feels sharply relevant, capturing our present moment with uncanny precision. It focuses on the rapid encroachment of AI into our personal and professional lives, a theme that feels less like science fiction and more like our everyday reality. While the premise—our growing dependence on technology—has been explored in speculative fiction many many times before, Kritzer gives it a deeply unsettling edge. Many of us, myself included, struggle to tear ourselves away from the constant pull of our phones. Whether it’s scrolling endlessly, checking notifications, or letting algorithms dictate how we spend our time, it’s a habit that feels almost impossible to break. Kritzer’s story captures this all-too-familiar experience with remarkable accuracy, highlighting our crippling dependence on technology and the way it quietly dominates our attention.

At the heart of the story is the "Abelique" productivity app, an AI-driven App that's marketed as a life-changer, promising to streamline decision-making and enhance every aspect of its users' lives. The narrator is skeptical at first but eventually joins the thousands of others on the new App. What follows is a cautionary tale of how easily the allure of optimization and efficiency can override our humanity. The most striking aspect for me, was how  Kritzer portrayed the dehumanizing effects of advanced technology. As the narrator integrates Abelique into her life, the app's advice becomes indispensable—first for small, harmless decisions and later for profound, deeply personal ones such as finding meaning in her artwork. 

The app doesn’t just guide her—it reshapes her identity, quietly and insidiously. And that’s what makes it so terrifying and unsettlingly familiar in today’s tech-obsessed world. Kritzer doesn’t have to resort to dramatic dystopian tropes to make her point: this is all happening right now! She reveals how the slow, almost imperceptible erosion of autonomy becomes a part of everyday life. We willingly—sometimes even eagerly—hand over access to our most personal information, inviting these apps and tech companies like Google to influence not just what we do, but who we are at our core. It’s a chilling reflection of how easily we trade agency for convenience, often without even realizing what has been lost in the process.

We have all experienced that creeping sense of dependence on tech—whether it’s relying on GPS to navigate (guilty as charged), algorithms to suggest what to watch next, or apps to tell us how to feel. Kritzer distills that experience into a narrative that resonates deeply, exploring not just our dependence on technology but also how it erodes our ability to connect with others and even ourselves.

That said, the story isn’t without its quirks. There’s a hip, millennial vibe along with a kind of wry humor and self-awareness that might not sit well with everyone. Some readers might find the tone a bit grating or overly trendy. Overall, Better Living Through Algorithms delivers an interesting take on a familiar theme that’s becoming increasingly urgent. While it doesn’t entirely reinvent the wheel, its strength lies in how it captures the zeitgeist of our relationship with technology—and the subtle yet profound ways it reshapes what it means to be human. It certainly left me reflecting on my own tech habits and wondering how much control I’ve unknowingly ceded in the name of convenience or efficiency.

A Retrieved Reformation by O. Henry

"Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!"

Whenever I can’t decide what short story to read next, O. Henry is one of my go-to authors because (a) the guy was ridiculously prolific—he churned out hundreds of stories, more than I could ever read in a lifetime, and (b) he’s just so consistently entertaining even when he misses the mark.

Take A Retrieved Reformation, for instance. I wouldn’t exactly call it a top-tier masterpiece in O. Henry’s repertoire, but it’s a harmless piece of short fiction does exactly what it sets out to do—entertain. It’s quick, lighthearted and the twist ending (a classic O. Henry hallmark) was amusing enough to make me chuckle. Sometimes that’s all I’m looking for: a light, playful and fun read where I can sit back and enjoy the ride. 

The story centers around Jimmy Valentine, an ex-convict just released from prison, known as one of the best safecrackers in the game. Let's just pause for a moment to appreciate how perfect his name is—Jimmy Valentine just sounds like a guy destined to be at the center of a caper. Soon after his release, he meets the girl of his dreams, which throws a literal and metaphorical wrench into his plans of making the next big score. There is also a cop that has been assigned to track down Jimmy and throw him back into prison. 

The question becomes: will he stick to the straight-and-narrow this time or fall back into his old ways? There’s a playful energy in how the author sets up the story and teases the resolution, keeping you engaged while nudging you toward that inevitable "aha!" moment. Unfortunately, the narrative set up and big moral dilemma in the final act—where Jimmy has to decide between going back to prison or blowing his cover—feels utterly ridiculous. But hey, that’s part of the charm, isn’t it? The whole thing is so over-the-top that you can’t help but roll your eyes and smile at the same time. 

Oh well, on to the next O. Henry story!

Sex Appeal by Lucia Berlin

Do you know about the cup sizes and all? - Frank Costanza

Lucia Berlin's "Sex Appeal" is a darkly humorous coming-of-age tale that doubles as a nostalgic, slightly disturbing stroll through the awkward, confusing haze of puberty. The narrator takes us back to her early teenage years, trailing behind her glamorous older cousin Bella Lynn—a determined young woman with her sights set on landing a rich husband at a local golf tournament. As the narrator observes Bella Lynn’s masterclass in flirtation, she begins to grasp the surprising, complex power of female sexuality, all while delivering humorous commentary that steals the show.

With Berlin’s signature wit and deeply empathetic touch, the story breathes life into its flawed, yet relatable human characters. It’s funny and uncomfortably honest, unapologetic in depicting the reality of growing up female in a world where men hold the cards—or at least think they do. Berlin doesn’t shy away from the hard truths: men are sexual deviants, toxic masculinity looms large, consent isn’t always a consideration, and power dynamics are skewed. However flawed, Bella Lynn’s boisterous charm and sexuality is an attempt to reclaim a sense of control. Berlin captures it all with humor, heart, and just the right dose of scornful derision. 

Something about this story feels just a little off, like it's missing that final spark to make it truly great. While Berlin’s writing is as concise and evocative as ever, it doesn’t quite capture her usual magic—a seamless mix of poetic elegance and stark realism. Instead, it feels a bit too slight and silly, like a whimsical experiment that doesn’t fully stick the landing. It’s charming in its quirky way, but it doesn’t hit the same emotional depth Berlin so often delivers.

Deal Me in Challenge: 2025 edition!

Here we go again! It's a brand new year, which means it's time for the annual "Deal Me In Challenge" hosted by Jay over at Bibliophilopolis.  As an added incentive for me to read even more short-stories, count me in! 

What is the goal of this challenge?

To read 52 short stories in 2025 (that’s only one per week – versions with a lesser story requirement are noted below).

What do I need?

1. Access to at least fifty-two short stories (don’t own any short story collections or anthologies? See links to online resources below).
2. A deck of cards.
3. An average of perhaps just thirty minutes of reading time each week.

It's fun and not time consuming so what are you waiting for? Join up! 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For now, all the stories on this list will be those that I didn't read in previous challenges or random. 

Spades ♠:

A ♠ – The Line by Amor Towles (online)

2 ♠ –  Steady Hands at Seattle General by Denis Johnson (Jesus' Son)

3 ♠ – The First Seven Years by Bernard Malamud

4 ♠ – The Bet by Anton Chekhov

5 ♠ – Happy Endings by Margaret Atwood

6 ♠ – The Mud Below by Annie Proulx (Close Range: Wyoming Stories)

7 ♠ – The New Owner by Donald Barthelme

8 ♠ – The Feminist by Tony Tulathimutte (Rejection, online)

9 ♠ – Leave it Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

10 ♠ – One of these Days by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (Collected Stories)

J ♠ – The Husband Stitch by Carmen Maria Machado 

Q ♠ – Night of the Living Rez by Morgan Talty (Collected Stories)

K ♠ – Averroës's Search by Jorge Luis Borges 

Hearts ❤: 

A ❤ – Hot Air Balloons by Edwidge Danticat (Everything Inside)

2 ❤–  The Night Rhonda Ferguson was Killed by Edward P. Jones (Lost in the City)

3 ❤ – The Finkelstein 5 by Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah (Friday Black)

4 ❤ – Sweat by Zora Neale Hurston (Hitting A Straight Lick with a Crooked Stick)

5 ❤ – A Room Forever by Breece D'J Pancake (Collected works)

6 ❤ – The Management of Greif by Bharati Mukherjee (The Middleman and other Stories)

7 ❤ – Paper Lantern by Stuart Dybek

8 ❤ – Drinking Coffee Elsewhere by ZZ Packer (Collected stories)

9 ❤ – Key to the City by Diane Oliver (Neighbors and Other Stories)

10 ❤– New Things in My Life by Lydia Davis (The Collected Works of Lydia Davis)

J ❤ – Bridezilla by Kim Fu (Lesser Known Monsters of the 21st Century)

Q ❤ –  Children on their Birthdays by Truman Capote

K ❤ – The Johnson Girls by Toni Cade Bambara

Clubs:

A ♣ – Vitamins by Raymond Carver

2 ♣ –  You Never get it Back by Cara Blue Adams (UTL online)

3 ♣ – Peach Cobbler by Deesha Philyaw (The Secret Lives of Church Ladies)

4 ♣– Three Women Of Chuck’s Donuts by Anthony Veasna So

5 ♣ – Wednesday's Child by Yiyun Li

6 ♣ – The Black Monk by Anton Chekhov

7 ♣ – Last Coffee House on Travis by Bryan Washington (Online)

8 ♣ – Gwilan's Harp by Ursula Le Guin (The Unreal and Real, UTL online)

9 ♣ – The Drunkard by Frank O'Connor (online)

10 ♣ – The Voter by Chinua Achebe (Girls at War and Other Stories)

J ♣ –  A Strange and Sometimes Sadness by Kazuo Ishiguro (online)

Q ♣ – Without Inspection by Edwidge Danticat (New York Times)

K ♣ – My Girl and the City by Sam Selvon (Penguin Book of Caribbean short stories)

Diamonds ♦:

A ♦ – The Poetry Cloud by Cixin Liu (Big Book of Science Fiction)

2 ♦ – Pretty Mouth and Green My Eyes by J.D. Salinger

3 ♦ – The King of Bread by Alberto Urrea (online)

4 ♦ – When it Changed by Joanna Russ (Big Book of Science Fiction)

5 ♦ – Galaxy Girl and the November Monstrosity by Aleksandra Hill (online)

6 ♦ –  The Clockmaker and His Daughter by Tobi Ogundiran (online)

7 ♦ – Heaven by Mary Gaitskill

8 ♦ – Ms. Sen's by Jhumpa Lahiri (Interpreter of Maladies)

9 ♦ – The Gorge by Umberto Eco (online)

10 ♦ – Three People by William Trevor

J ♦ – A Loaf of Bread by James Alan McPherson (Elbow Room)

Q ♦ – The Mad Lomasneys by Frank O'Connor

K ♦ – Cafeteria by Isaac Bashevis Singer

The Bet by Anton Chekhov

The ultimate wager: life, freedom, and the soul.

At last! This is the kind of absorbing Chekhov short story I’ve been searching for—one that strikes the right balance between existential dread and hopefulness without leaving you buried under a pile of despair. The Bet is thought-provoking, packed with pathos, and a perfect showcase of Chekhov’s mastery of the short-story form. Its compact nature and brevity are a masterclass in storytelling—proof that sometimes less really is more.

If, like me, you occasionally find Chekhov a bit... let’s say, intense (or just plain heavy-handed), this story is a refreshing change of pace. It’s surprisingly accessible and, in my opinion, an ideal starting point for those new to his work. Much like Oysters, this is another exploration of suffering but through a more philosophical lens. 

As the title suggests, this tale revolves around a bet. It all begins with a lively dinner party conversation because, of course, nothing brings people together quite like debating life imprisonment vs. the death penalty. A rich banker and an idealistic young lawyer argue over which is worse, and things escalate quickly: the banker bets two million rubles (presumably an eye-watering sum in 19th-century Russia) that the lawyer couldn’t endure 15 years in solitary confinement. To everyone’s shock, the lawyer agrees. What happens next? I'll leave that up to you to discover on your own, since it will spoil the fun. Suffice it to say, there are some unexpected turns that are delightfully ironic where the penultimate question becomes: who is the true prisoner here?

The most captivating part of the story, for me, was its philosophical discourse, grappling with the big, thorny existential questions about happiness, wealth, and the meaning—or meaninglessness—of human existence. And let’s be real, maybe this relentless focus on suffering is just a 19th-century Russian thing. If you have read Dostoevsky, you know what I mean. Yet, Chekhov's stark honesty somehow makes that sorrow feel profound rather than suffocating. 

Admittedly, I was on the fence about Chekhov's work before, but reading The Bet completely won me over. It is such a polished, terse and memorable story, which has officially turned me into a fan. 

"Think better of it, young man, while there is still time. To me two million is a trifle, but you are losing three or four of the best years of your life. I say three or four, because you won't stay longer. Don't forget either, you unhappy man, that voluntary confinement is a great deal harder to bear than compulsory. The thought that you have the right to step out in liberty at any moment will poison your whole existence in prison. I am sorry for you."

The Toynbee Convector by Ray Bradbury

Arnold J. Toynbee, author of 'A Study of History.'

This is one of Bradbury's later works and seems to be indicative of a prolific author running out steam while nearing the end of his creative spark. There really isn't a whole lot of positive takeaways here, other than it was a quick read and doesn't outstay its welcome. 

The plot revolves around Craig Bennett Stiles, a quirky 130-year-old time traveler, who is coming out of retirement for one final trip into the future. At one point, he is recounting to a reporter why he named his time machine after the famous historian Arnold J. Toynbee: "any group, any race, any world that did not run to seize the future and shape it was doomed to dust away in the grave, in the past." Stiles channels Toynbee’s philosophy about humanity needing to embrace the future or face extinction, using it as an inspiration to design a time machine and save humanity from its inevitable self-destruction.

While the premise starts off as promising, the disjointed story fizzles out. The big reveal is also quite silly, lacking the emotional or narrative punch Bradbury usually delivers. Also, how is Mr. Time Traveler 130 years old and still kicking? Did he find the fountain of youth? We never find out, and this detail irked me. 

Unless you’re a completionist like me and feel obligated to read everything Bradbury's ever written, this is an easy one to skip.

“We made it!” he said. “We did it! The future is ours. We rebuilt the cities, freshened the small towns,  cleaned the lakes and rivers, washed the air, saved the dolphins, increased the whales, stopped the wars, tossed solar stations across space to light the world, colonized the moon, moved on to Mars, then 2 Alpha Centauri. We cured cancer and stopped death. We did it—Oh Lord, much thanks—we did it. Oh, future’s bright and beauteous spires, arise!” 

Oysters by Anton Chekhov

Well shucks, that was a downer.

Admittedly, I’m not fully on the “Chekhov is the short-story GOAT” bandwagon just yet, but after reading Oysters, I’m starting to understand the appeal. 

There’s a simplicity to his writing that’s deceptive—like, you’re reading along, thinking, “Oh, this is interesting, straightforward, not much really happening” and then BAM! The emotional weight of it hits you. In Oysters, Chekhov strips everything down to its bare essentials, just the harsh reality of a young boy and his father begging on the cold streets of Russia. The boy’s innocent perspective makes it all the more heartbreaking, as he experiences the cruel side of humanity. 

The boy doesn’t even know what oysters are (spoiler: he thinks they’re some kind of creepy frog), but that detail somehow makes the story even sadder. When a restaurant proprietor takes pity—or, more accurately, takes advantage—of the boy and his father, things take a dark turn. The boy becomes the butt of a cruel joke, eating oysters the wrong way (shells and all) in front of an audience while the restaurant's patrons laugh at his expense. It’s a sad and humiliating scene.

Then, just when things couldn’t possibly get worse, the boy falls seriously ill—whether it’s food poisoning from the oysters, pneumonia from his exposure to the elements, or something else entirely, it’s unclear. What is clear, though, is the grim reality of his fate as he ends up in a hospital bed. Chekhov offers no comforting resolutions here, making this is far from your typical feel-good story. Instead, it leaves you sitting with the weight of it all, a haunting reminder of the fragility of life and the indifference of the world. He doesn’t sugarcoat the harshness of poverty, making us confront the complex morality of these moments—how people with means can be so callous toward those less fortunate. 

The Balloon by Donald Barthelme

Up.

Donald Barthelme’s The Balloon is like a piece of abstract art that refuses to explain itself—and that’s exactly the point. Barthelme, ever the postmodern trickster, thrives on teasing out our need for tidy meanings. In this short story, he inflates (pun intended) a playful meditation on how art is represented, perceived, and, ultimately, misunderstood in a world obsessed with pinning things down.

The premise is as delightfully odd as it gets: a giant balloon appears over New York City. Naturally, the city’s inhabitants do what humans do best—overanalyze. They poke, prod, and project their own interpretations onto this floating enigma. Is it a political statement? A personal outcry? A metaphor for...something? Ultimately, even language and form dissolves into nonsensical jargon. And as the narrator casually points out early on, trying to decipher the “meaning” of this balloon is not just futile—it’s missing the point entirely:

“There was a certain amount of initial argumentation about the ‘meaning’ of the balloon, this subsided, because we learned not to insist on meanings and they are rarely even looked for now, except in cases involving the simplest, safest, phenomena.”

As a piece of metafiction, there is the inherent paradox running throughout the narrative when it comes to interpretation and the author ironically highlights that the “meaning” of the balloon is that the balloon has no meaning.  Instead, we get a playful patchwork of reactions and impressions from the city’s residents, filtered through a sly, shifting narrative voice that doubles as a cheeky commentary on the artist-audience relationship. The narrator, an artist figure, plays with the reader’s uncontrollable urge (consciously or subconsciously) to piece things together, only to remind us how futile that process can be.

And then, there’s the wonderful ending. The final paragraph epitomizes everything that I love about Barthelme's writing! Without spoiling it, let’s just say he pulls the rug out from under us in spectacular fashion. What seemed like an artistic exercise in ambiguity all along suddenly reveals its “true” purpose. The balloon wasn’t some grand symbol or profound statement. Nope, it was just there, because...reasons.

This is Barthelme at his best, poking fun at our literary pretensions while crafting something that’s simultaneously whimsical and deeply philosophical. The Balloon is a playful reminder that good art doesn’t have to mean anything—and sometimes, it’s better that way. Like the titular balloon, it floats beyond our grasp, offering not answers but endless possibilities. So, let it drift. And enjoy the view.

The Game of Rat and Dragon by Cordwainer Smith

Saving the universe, one hairball at a time.

Cats. In Space. Fighting Aliens.

Yes, you read that correctly. If that tagline didn’t immediately grab your attention, I don’t know what will. Cordwainer Smith’s The Game of Rat and Dragon is a wild ride straight out of 1950s pulp sci-fi, where the ideas are big, logic is non-existent, and entertainment value is prioritized above everything else. 

Humanity is exploring the stars, but space travel is a nightmare thanks to terrifying alien beings called "dragons" that can attack your mind and drive you insane. The solution? Astronauts, or “pinlighters,” form telepathic partnerships with cats. Yes, cats. These furry heroes zip around in their own little ships, pew-pewing aliens away with laser-like nuclear bombs. Why cats? No idea, but clearly Smith understood that if anyone’s going to save humanity, it’s definitely not going to be dogs.

This story doesn’t just lean into its ridiculous premise—it cannonballs into it, reveling in its over-the-top sci-fi absurdity like a B-movie that knows exactly where it wants to go. In this case, the destination is Bonkersville, USA. Smith takes what should be a completely unhinged idea and turns it into an entertaining sci-fi romp. Moreover, the relationship between the pinlighters and their cats is oddly sweet, and the alien battles are surprisingly well-conceived, even when you’re picturing a cat piloting a spaceship.

Look, if you’re here for hard-hitting, thought-provoking science fiction, you might want to steer your starship elsewhere. But if you’re in the mood for a story that’s charmingly weird and completely off the rails, you're in for a treat (sorry, no catnip is allowed onboard). After all, who wouldn’t want to imagine cats saving the galaxy?

Rating: 3 out of 5 interstellar felines 🐱🚀

Conversations with Goethe by Donald Barthelme

A Faustian comedy.

Donald Barthelme is often celebrated for his absurdist humor and rightfully so. He's at it again in Conversations with Goethe, showcasing his comedic range when it comes to satire. This story makes a great companion piece to "The Phantom of the Opera’s Friend," with a fun parallel where both stories feature narrators who play second fiddle to someone famous or fictional. This time, we get the inside scoop on what it’s like to hang out with the renowned Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, seen through the lens of a companion-slash-sidekick. Spoiler: it’s not all deep philosophical debates; sometimes, it’s just about buying bread from a local street vendor. 

The story is structured as a series of concise and snappy diary entries, which feel wonderfully random. The narrator reflects on moments with Goethe that are unexpectedly mundane and laugh-out-loud funny. Think dinner conversations where they discuss music, and Goethe casually drops a gem like: “Music, Goethe said, is the frozen tapioca in the chest of History.” Who knew the guy behind Faust could be this funny? Barthelme brilliantly humanizes Goethe, transforming the intimidating intellectual giant into a slightly weird dude who’s just as prone to rambling nonsense as the rest of us.

The story’s success mainly hinges on its comedic rhythm, building up to a perfectly timed punchline. For me, the joke absolutely lands—but comedy is subjective and you mind feel differently about this story if the joke doesn't work for you. I think Barthelme’s comedic prowess really shines here, delivering both the absurd and the relatable with wit that’s as sharp as it is silly. 

The City Born Great by N.K. Jemisin

Empire state of mind.

With her engaging storytelling and signature Afro-futurist style, N.K. Jemisin steadily proving herself to be the heir apparent to legends like Octavia Butler. I am a big fan of her Broken Earth novels, so I was eager to see how she would tackle the short-story format. “The City Born Great” is the second story in her exceptional collection, How Long 'Til Black Future Month, and while it certainly has its merits, it feels more like a warm-up act before Jemisin fully hits her stride with the stronger stories that follow in the collection.

Let’s get the obvious out of the way: the world-building is top-tier. This is Jemisin we’re talking about—she could probably create a sprawling, fully-realized Afro-futurist world on the back of a napkin during a coffee break. The concept of New York City as a living, breathing, sentient being is very cool and the narrator’s ability to channel power through their connection with the city gives off major Broken Earth trilogy vibes, like an Orogene moonlighting in Brooklyn.

But here’s where things start to wobble: the story itself. The pacing feels choppy, the narrative meanders, and it reads more like a prologue to something grander than a standalone piece. You’ll keep turning the pages (or swiping, if you’re fancy), thanks to Jemisin’s knack for intrigue and strong characterization, but it’s the world-building that steals the spotlight—maybe even shoving the story to the back row.

As a socio-political metaphor it's effective enough, despite being a little on the nose. It’s a rallying cry for marginalized communities fighting back against oppression, wrapped in a speculative fiction bow. The concept of the city choosing a protector feels empowering, like New York finally decided to ghost all the Wall Street greed and hand its future over to the people who truly understand its heartbeat. While this short story experiment isn’t Jemisin at her strongest, it’s still worth a read, especially if you’re a fan of her ability to weave magic into gritty realities. Just don’t be surprised if you find yourself craving more depth or a clearer destination.