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.

First Love by Isaac Babel

The Cossacks are coming!

The title of Isaac Babel’s First Love is cruelly misleading because there is absolutely nothing innocent or romantic about this story. Instead of an sweet tale of youthful infatuation, we are presented with a bleak and harrowing account of Jewish persecution in early 20th-century Russia. The protagonist, a 10-year-old boy, develops a crush—maybe even love—for the older woman next door, but their connection is not built on romance; it’s built on survival. She is sheltering his family, hiding them from Russian authorities who are imprisoning Jews on false pretenses or murdering them outright.

Babel’s prose is intentionally chaotic, reflecting the boy's overwhelming fear and confusion of living in a world where safety is an illusion. There are moments where you can feel the protagonist trying to hold onto something hopeful (his feelings for this woman?) but any sense of comfort is fleeting. He is too young to fully comprehend what is happening around him, but he knows enough to feel the dread, to sense the violence lurking just outside the walls of his fragile refuge.

If you’re looking for a feel-good love story, look elsewhere. This is not a tale of passion or happiness; it is a story of displacement, fear, and the heartbreaking realization that childhood does not grant immunity from suffering. The ending does not bring closure or relief—just the suffocating weight of a world that is both cruel and indifferent.

And then there’s the tragedy of Isaac Babel himself. The fact that his works have survived at all feels like a miracle, considering his own horrific fate. Some sources claim he was executed during Stalin’s purges, while others suggest he perished in Auschwitz. Either way, his life—like his writing—was marked by oppression, injustice, and profound sorrow. Reading First Love in that context makes it even more devastating. It’s not just a story about history’s cruelty; it’s a reflection of the author’s own doomed existence.

Punch, Brothers, Punch! by Mark Twain

Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

Punch, Brothers, Punch! is a delightfully wacky satire that comedically critiques the way catchy marketing and brainwashing worm their way into our heads. Reading this made me want to read more works by Twain, since, he's another one of those popular American authors that I somehow managed to avoid. Much to my embarrassment, I once started Huckleberry Finn but never finished it. Maybe one of these days…

What makes this story even funnier is how eerily relevant it feels today. We live in the digital age where TikTok trends, instagram reels, YouTube influencers, viral ads, and social media take over our brains whether we like it or not. Twain was certainly ahead of his time. Here, our poor protagonist Mark reads a catchy railroad jingle in a newspaper ad, and before he knows it, the tune hijacks his entire consciousness. He can’t think straight, can’t hold a normal conversation, and ends up blurting out the words at random—leading to some great comedic moments. Ironically, the only way to free himself is to pass the ailment onto someone else, which ends up being his unsuspecting friend. Now that's what I would call a successful advertising campaign!

Twain imbues the story with just the right amount of absurdity without going completely off the rails (pun intended). The meta-fictional elements add to the fun, and Twain’s signature wit keeps the story lighthearted even as he scoffs at the way we fall victim to repetitive nonsense. It’s goofy, clever, and ridiculously enjoyable—just like good satire should be.

When it Changed by Joanna Russ

No flex zone! No flex zone!

Joanna Russ’ When It Changed is an unapologetically feminist twist on the classic first-contact narrative, and it doesn’t waste any time making its stance clear: men are the worst, and the patriarchy needs to go! This 1970s sci-fi short story remains highly anthologized, and for good reason—it’s a thought-provoking examination of gender, identity politics, and autonomy, all set against the backdrop of Whileaway, an all-female utopia where men have been extinct for centuries. 

And you know what? The women of Whileaway didn’t just survive without men—they thrived. Society flourished, technology advanced, and they built a world free from male oppression that once held them back. Relationships, love, and even family structures evolved, with women partnering with each other, raising children, and continuing the human race through advanced reproductive technology. The story subtly queers traditional notions of gender and sexuality, presenting a society where heterosexuality itself has become obsolete—until, of course, the men come back to ruin everything.

Enter the spaceship carrying these so-called "apes with human faces" and bodies "heavy as draft horses"—a perfect encapsulation of how alien and unwelcome men have become in this world. Their arrival isn’t just a disruption; it’s a threat of colonization, a harbinger of regression. The men show up expecting to be greeted as saviors, only to find that—oops!—they’re completely unnecessary. The women of Whileaway don’t swoon, don’t submit, and certainly don’t see their return as some grand restoration of balance. It’s a brilliant reversal of the classic sci-fi trope where male explorers “discover” alien worlds and impose their will. Here, the so-called invaders are the ones being sized up, dismissed, questioned and ultimately seen as relics of a past best left behind. The women of Whileaway have been doing just fine without them, thank you very much.

When It Changed is often considered a feminist sci-fi classic, and perhaps such a claim holds some merit. With its playful yet scathing critique of gender norms and power dynamics, the story still resonates today—maybe even more than ever. Sure, Russ’ politics are blunt (subtlety is not the goal here), but I suppose that’s why it has resonated with so many readers since it's publication over 50 years ago. It’s radical, defiant, and deeply queer—not just in its depiction of female relationships, but in its radical rejection of patriarchal structures altogether. It forces us to ask: what does gender really mean when one half of the binary is removed? And more importantly, what would a society look like if it were built entirely outside the shadow of male dominance? Russ gives us a glimpse—and while it may appear utopian, it’s also a challenge that can quickly turn dystopian when men remain in roles of power. 

Despite all these positive attributes, I can appreciate the story's political discourse but the actual story itself wasn't particularly engaging. The narrative felt more like a vehicle for its message rather than an immersive experience. While I respect its significance in feminist science fiction, I found myself more interested in the ideas it presented than the characters or plot itself.

Galaxy Girl and the November Monstrosity by Aleksandra Hill

I hope you like charred turkey.

I am slowly making way through all the short-stories featured on the Levar Burton Reads Podcast, and as a fan of comic books and superheroes, this particular title caught my attention. Let's face it, I'm a sucker for a cool title. 

The story follows a female superhero who would much rather be out beating up baddies and fighting crime than enduring an awkward Thanksgiving dinner with her passive-aggressive mom and overbearing sister. Despite her celebrity status as a superhero, she’s still considered the family screw-up—especially compared to her “perfect” sister, who can do no wrong in their mother’s eyes. But when that golden child decides to host Thanksgiving, things take an unexpected turn...particularly with the main course.

The story does exactly what you might expect from a contemporary piece of genre fiction: playing with familiar tropes and subverting expectations, but it’s not trying to flaunt its cleverness or reinvent the wheel. Galaxy girl is part of a team called The League of American Super-Humans (think X-Men or Avengers) with fire-based abilities, courtesy of a science experiment gone wrong. She wrestles with the whole gift or curse dilemma, further highlighting the cliches but the superhero angle isn’t really the main focus. At its core, it’s about the protagonist longing for acceptance, and maybe even a little love from her estranged family.

Overall, it’s a fun, quirky read that leans more into family drama than superhero spectacle—but sometimes, Thanksgiving dinner is the bigger battle than facing off against your arch nemesis. 

You can read this story HERE.

The Adventure of the Western Star by Agatha Christie

West meets West. 

No, The Adventure of the Western Star wasn’t part of Fanda Classiclit’s Agatha Christie short-story reading challenge—probably for the best, because, it’s not exactly a gem (pun fully intended). In fact, this story pretty terrible and can be skipped. But after reading just one Hercule Poirot mystery, how could I possibly resist jumping straight into another? The man is addictive.

On paper, the premise is intriguing. Given the British Empire's long history of swiping valuables during their rampant colonizing, the idea of a mystery centered around the Chinese allegedly trying to steal back some precious jewels that actually belongs to them is oddly satisfying. Unfortunately, Christie takes this setup and runs it straight into a wall at full throttle with some of the most egregious stereotyping that I've come across in a long time. The Chinese characters are painted with such over-the-top, villainous brushstrokes that it’s almost cartoonish—except it’s not funny, just painfully outdated. I mean, if a Chinese person has slanted eyes, pigtails and dressed in a robe, he must be evil right? Oh, and the British Aristocracy also like to refer to them as "chinks." Ugh.

Not even Poirot’s delightful smugness or his ability to solve the case with a well-timed twirl of his mustache can rescue this one from mediocrity. The mystery itself is forgettable, the big reveal underwhelming, and the blatant racism makes it all the more difficult to enjoy. Safe to say, this Western Star lost its shine a long time ago.

The Adventure of the Cheap Flat by Agatha Christie

Tout doucement, mon ami.

Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot mysteries are some of my ultimate comfort reads. There’s just something so wonderfully cozy and delightful about them—like curling up with a warm cup of tea on a cold winter day. Jumping into a Poirot mystery can also feel like spending time with that one friend who definitely thinks they’re the smartest person in the room—and, annoyingly, they’re usually right. But with Poirot, it’s all part of the charm! His cases are always a treat, filled with sharp wit, brilliant deductions, and just the right amount of theatrical flair. Christie's fast-paced, crackling dialogue and witty banter always bring a smile to my face, especially when Poirot is trading quips with his ever-bewildered sidekick, Captain Hastings.

Now, The Adventure of the Cheap Flat is definitely one of those mysteries where you just have to sit back and enjoy the ride because it is utterly ridiculous. The central premise about an apartment that's suspiciously affordable because it might be linked to international espionage is delightfully absurd. And at one point, Poirot and Hastings break into the flat using a coal lift, which is as silly as it sounds and had me picturing the dapper detective covered in soot, grumbling about the indignity of it all.

The climactic reveal is a also bit underwhelming, but I'm not really here for shocking twists even though these are Christie's specialty. The real joy of these stories, for me, lies in Poirot’s ego and cleverness, Hastings’ charming obliviousness, and the way Christie skillfully ties everything together in a neat little bow within such a confined narrative space. 

I can overlook the many faults because the amusement factor is off the charts, and of course, you have the iconic Hercule Poirot at the center of it all. Where else will you find a detective who solves crimes with the sheer power of his "little grey cells" while also being the most gloriously vain and particular man to ever grace the pages of detective fiction? Poirot doesn’t just solve mysteries; he does it with bravado and stylistic flair. Don't forget his perfectly waxed mustache either. Poirot’s presence elevates the silly mystery to pure entertainment. He’s fussy, theatrical, and occasionally exasperating, but you can't help but love him. Whether he’s lamenting the English obsession with undercooked vegetables, condescendingly berating Hastings for his lack of deductive prowess, or casually outwitting international spies with relative ease, he’s always such a delight. So yes, the plot may be a bit far-fetched, but who cares? As long as Poirot is there to smugly explain it all, sign me up.

Understood by Ted Chiang

I sense the lingering presence of something...sinister.

Ted Chiang does it again! Understood is a gripping sci-fi thriller that will keep you hooked from start to finish, turning the pages with breathless anticipation. Its length may be slightly longer than the average short story, but it never feels that way. Ted Chiang's masterful storytelling, combined with a fascinating premise, keeps the pacing tight and the tension high. His writing is both precise and immersive, effortlessly drawing readers into the protagonist’s complex mind as he grapples with this newfound power.

The story follows a man who, after surviving a devastating accident, undergoes a new experimental medical treatment that not only saves his life but also grants him extraordinary intelligence. What follows is a thrilling internal exploration of his transformation and the consequences that come with these super powers. Not only is the government chasing him down but there is another figure lurking in the shadows who has undergone a similar procedure and wishes to make contact...

While comparisons to Flowers for Algernon are valid, Chiang takes a familiar genre trope of enhanced intelligence and puts his own unique spin on it. Understood leans into pure, adrenaline-fueled suspense with the cat-and-mouse game. It's less about philosophical or emotional introspection and more about the exhilarating possibilities—and dangers—of a mind evolving beyond human limits. The result is a fast-paced, mind-bending story that blends thought-provoking sci-fi with the intensity of a high-stakes thriller.