Prince Myshkin and Hold the Relish by Harlan Ellison

Prince Myshkin.

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

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

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

The Garden of Time by J.G. Ballard

"You cannot conquer time."

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

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

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

But all the clocks in the city

Began to whirr and chime:

'O let not Time deceive you,

You cannot conquer Time.

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

The Romance of a Busy Broker by O.Henry

Too busy for love until he checked his emotioanl portfolio.

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

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

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

You can read this story HERE.

Referential by Lorrie Moore

Daniel Boone.

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

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

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

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

"Somebody forgot the charcoal; blame the BIA."

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

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

The Grasshopper and The Bell Cricket by Yasunari Kawabata

You have much to learn, young grasshopper.

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

You can read this story HERE.

New York Mining Disaster by Haruki Murakami

More than a Woman.

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

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

It's great stuff.

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

T&T.

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

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

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

Slingshot by Souvankham Thammavongsa

Golden Girls.

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

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

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

You can read this story HERE.

Sweethearts by Richard Ford

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can read this story HERE.

Fireworks by Richard Ford

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transients in Arcadia by O. Henry

Queue iconic theme music.

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

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

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

You can read this story HERE.

Los Angeles by Ling Ma

$$$$$$$$

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

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

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

A Conversation with My Father by Grace Paley

Inhale. Exhale.

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

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

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

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

The Drunkard by Frank O'Connor

Aran Pintman by John Skelton

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

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

You can read this story HERE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Omphalos by Ted Chiang

Tree growth rings = a sign of God's creation?

Regardless of genre, the more I read from Ted Chiang, the more convinced I am that he is one of the greatest short-story writers of our time. A bold claim, for sure, but honestly, nearly everything he writes is mind-blowing. I can't really say that about many other contemporary authors. Having recently revisited Star by Arthur C. Clarke, I realized that Omphalos by Ted Chiang makes for a fascinating comparative analysis, as both stories explore the tension between science and religion.

SPOILER ALERT: Please go read both stories and then come back here...Okay done? Great. 

Let's continue.

Both stories follow protagonists who experience a profound crisis of faith. In Clarke’s Star, the narrator is a Jesuit priest and astrophysicist who embarks on a space expedition to study the remnants of a supernova. He initially sees no conflict between faith and science; in fact, he views scientific discovery as a means of better understanding God’s creation. However, his faith is shattered when he realizes that the supernova that destroyed an advanced alien civilization was the same celestial event that formed the Star of Bethlehem—a moment traditionally seen as a divine miracle. Instead of reaffirming God’s benevolence, this discovery makes the narrator question divine will, forcing him to confront the possibility that God’s plan is indifferent to human suffering.

Similarly, in Omphalos, Chiang presents a world where scientific evidence confirms God’s existence. The protagonist, an archaeologist, lives in a universe where physical artifacts such as tree rings without previous growth cycles and human remains without umbilical cords (hence the title Ompahlos has multiple meanings in this context) is clear evidence that Earth was created in a divine act. However, her faith is tested when new astronomical findings suggest that Earth is not the center of the universe. While she never doubts that God exists, she is devastated by the revelation that Earth may not have been God's primary focus. This realization mirrors Clarke’s priest, whose belief in a purposeful, benevolent Creator is deeply shaken by the implications of scientific discovery.

Time and historical evidence play a crucial role in both stories, though in different ways. Clarke’s Star relies on astronomical time scales such as the vast distances of space and the unrelenting passage of time that render human suffering insignificant in the cosmic scheme. The destruction of an entire civilization millions of years ago is a mere footnote in the universe's history, overshadowed by the biblical significance of the same event on Earth. The priest struggles with the idea that a seemingly random, catastrophic event was instrumental in a moment of religious importance for humanity.

In contrast, Omphalos examines time through archaeology and natural history. The protagonist’s work revolves around studying these physical remnants that serve as divine fingerprints marking the beginning of creation. However, the discovery that Earth is not the center of God’s attention reframes these findings, making her question their significance. Chiang's focus on material evidence and deep history serves as a counterpoint to Clarke’s cosmic scale, but both stories ultimately suggest that scientific discoveries can challenge rather than reinforce religious belief. The inherent paradox enhances the tension between science and religon where it all comes to faith. 

Chiang structures Omphalos as a prayer, with the first-person narrator addressing God directly. This framing adds a deeply personal and introspective quality to her reflections, making her struggle with faith feel more intimate. While Clarke’s protagonist arrives at a shaky conclusion, Chiang’s archaeologist does not reject God outright. Instead, she shifts her perspective, acknowledging her disappointment but continuing to seek meaning in a universe where humanity may not be at the center. Ultimately, both stories challenge the idea that science and religion must always be in harmony. They suggest that faith, when confronted with new knowledge, is often forced to evolve or be abandonded under the irrefutable evidence of scientific discovery. 

The Diary of a Madman by Guy de Maupassant

I am judge, jury and executioner.

Cleo over at Classical Carousel recently wrote an excellent review of The Diary of a Madman by Guy de Maupassant, in which she absolutely detested the story, even going so far as to call it "disgusting." Naturally, that only piqued my curiosity. While her reaction is totally valid, I didn’t find it quite as repulsive as she did. That being said, it’s definitely not for the faint of heart. Although I haven’t read much of Maupassant, is it weird that this might actually be my favorite work of his? (Cleo, if you're reading this, I hope this doesn't make you think of me in a completely different light 😅)

The story begins with the death of a highly respected judge. After his passing, some disturbing papers are discovered in his office. Eseentially, it is the ramblings of a lunatic. The story's title is quite accurate because this judge is totally bonkers. The bulk of the story is made up of his chilling confessions, revealing a man who not only kills for pleasure but takes perverse pride in how easily he gets away with it, thanks to his position of power.

Cleo makes a great point in her review about how the judge's madness isn’t necessarily just about his crimes and perhaps his twisted mindset was borne out of his profession, sentencing stone-cold killers in court for over 50 years. Or as she eloquently puts it, "We tend be more susceptible to evil than we are to good. " This is a valid argument because the judge doesn’t wrestle with guilt or remorse; rather, he sees himself as above consequence, which makes his descent into evil all the more sinister. The story raises some interesting questions for us, as readers, to ponder: Is the judge inherently evil, or is his descent into murder a product of his environment and power? If there were no legal or social consequences, would more people commit evil acts? Is morality something innate, or is it shaped by external forces like laws and societal norms? If all humans are capable of murder, is self-control the only thing preventing people from committing evil, or is there something deeper at play? Maupassant leaves it up to the reader to draw their own conclusions.

The Diary of a Madman is a psychological study of power, morality, and the terrifying ease with which one can rationalize evil. It may be stomach-churning at times, but it’s also fascinating in its exploration of human nature.

You can read this story HERE.

The Star by Arthur C. Clarke

"In a champagne supernova in the sky"

I read The Star by Arthur C. Clarke many years go and it still holds up as a powerful and thought provoking science-fiction work. It's a very famous story that has been anthologized many times over and is well deserving of this highly acclaimed status. 

Many stories in the genre have tackled the insignificance of humanity in the vast, inexplicable universe or the science vs. religion theme, but Clarke does something special here by personalizing the conflict through the protagonist’s deep internal struggle. Rather than presenting an abstract philosophical debate, he immerses the reader in the emotional turmoil of a man who is spirtiually conflicted. The Jesuit priest's crisis is not just intellectual but deeply personal. Ultimately, this new scientific discovery doesn't just challenge religious doctrine; rather, it shakes the very foundation of his faith. By framing the vast cosmic tragedy through the eyes of a devout man forced to reconcile the destruction of an entire civilization with the supposed benevolence of God, Clarke makes the theme more intimate and poignant. This approach elevates The Star beyond a mere thought experiment and into a deeply human meditation on knowledge, faith, and the emotional cost of understanding the universe. 

The climax of the story is what really make this story so memorable. The clash between science and faith collide in a profoundly dramatic way. If you haven’t read The Star yet, do yourself a favor and give it a shot. It's a quick read and you're going to want to discover the ending on your own. There's a reason why this story is considered a sci-fi classic because those final lines are incredible.

You can read this story HERE.

'Smote, or When I Find I Cannot Kiss You in Front of a Print by Bridget Riley' by Eley Williams

Bridget Riley, circa 1960's.

This story really isn't for me. I’m sure some readers will appreciate the avant-garde style and enjoy untangling the narrator’s fragmented stream-of-consciousness. It felt like I was staring at one of Bridget Riley's abstract/illusionary paintings that also don't make any sense to me. 

Maybe that was the author's intention?

The premise can be found in the title and the narrator's anxiety to kiss her girlfriend is certainly palpable. As the tension ramps up (will she kiss her, won't she kiss her), so does the obscurity of the prose, until I was completely lost in a swirling vortex of random gibberish. Maybe there’s some clever connection between Bridget Riley’s art and the narrator's fragmented inner world. If so, it went completely over my head. If you love cryptic and  impressionistic storytelling, then you might find it more rewarding. Unfortunately, I was just left squinting at the page, dumfounded, and could feel a headache coming on.

You can read this story HERE.

My Financial Career by Stephen Leacock

Next!

Stephen Leacock is often called the Canadian Mark Twain, and I can see why. Both dabble heavily in satire and irony, though if I had to pick a favorite out of the two, Twain holds the crown for now. Yes, I know, how un-Canadian of me. In my defense, my Leacock exposure has been pretty limited. Aside from reading a few selections from Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town back in undergrad (which, was over 20 years ago and my memory is a bit hazy), I really haven’t read much of his work. I think they were funny? Let’s just say this revisit feels overdue.

My Financial Career is a pure comedic farce, turning a simple bank visit into a full-blown panic attack. The narrator, overwhelmed by the sheer presence of financial professionals, fumbles his way through opening an account with the confidence of a deer on ice. At one point he's so flustered that he's oblivious to the surroundings and steps into the safe. His anxiety snowballs as he miscommunicates with the manager, awkwardly deposits a paltry sum, then immediately withdraws it. Ironically, this defeats the entire purpose of his visit. It's all very silly and over-the-top, which makes for a few good laughs. It's not gut-busting hilarious or anything but the ironic humor is positively droll.

Leacock’s dry, exaggerated tomfoolery captures the universal dread of dealing with banks (or any serious institution, really). The story thrives on its protagonist’s exaggerated self-consciousness, making even the act of walking into a bank feel like storming enemy territory while blindfolded. This is a super quick read, reminding us that sometimes, our biggest obstacles are entirely in our own heads.

You can read this story HERE.

Something that Needs Nothing by Miranda July

Paris, Texas.

Miranda July’s Something That Needs Nothing is one of those short-stories that sneaks up on you. At first, it feels like a quirky, offbeat tale about two teenage girls running away to Portland, trying to carve out their own little world of independence. But as the story progresses, you realize it’s really about queerness, codependence and the slow, painful process of figuring out who you are when the person you love doesn’t feel the same way.

The protagonist starts off with this almost blind devotion to Pip, clinging to the idea that their friendship is something more, something permanent. She’s willing to do anything to be with her even if that means living in near poverty, take humiliating jobs, pretending not to care when Pip starts drifting away. You can feel that desperate, aching hope in every line, that festering, unspoken fear of being left behind. But what’s really interesting is how she slowly changes over time. By the end, she’s not exactly "over" Pip, but she’s no longer trapped in that same cycle of chasing and waiting. She starts to build something for herself and assert her own autonomy, even if it means taking a terrible job at a peep show in order to pay the rent. 

That being said, I did have a few minor quibbles. The story probaby drags on a little longer than it needed to, making some sections feel repetitive. I also found that July’s signature quirkiness, while amusing at times, was also bit distracting in places. Almost as if she was trying too hard to imbue the story with idiosyncracies. But even with those minor issues, the story nails that feeling of young, obsessive love. You know, the kind where you shape your entire world around someone only to realize that they were never holding it up to begin with. July’s writing is weird and unconventional, with an underlying melancholy that percolates just beneath the surface. The climax is surprisingly hopeful, offering a beautiful reconcilation of the the two characters, suggesting tat even though life is full of hardships and the world doesn't make a whole lot of sense, it eventually gets better. Even if it's only for a short time. Life's messy, just like real emotional growth tends to be.

The Listerdale Mystery by Agatha Christie

The Butler did it!

This turned out to be a fun read that kept me guessing until the very end. That's all you can really ask for in a traditional mystery story that hinges almost entirely upon the climactic revelation. For these kind of stories, the "big reveal" is indicative of the author's cleverness while exposing the narrative design operating behind the scenes leading towards this pivotal moment. If the story is at all successful, it will usually elicit a visceral and satisfying response from the reader akin to: Ah-ha! I didn't see that coming. The Listerdale Mystery does just that and even without the famous Hercule Poirot or Miss Marple on the case, there's enough intrigue to keep the pages turning a steady pace. 

The Listerdale Mystery follows a struggling family whose luck seems to take a sudden turn for the better although perhaps it is too good to be true. The mother figure responds to a newspaper ad offering a grand estate for an absurdly low rent, which she assume must be a scam. But against all odds, she’s chosen from the many applicants to move in. There is a slight caveat although it doesn't seem like much of inconvenience: The house’s servants must remain, looking after the new tenants as if nothing has changed.

At first, the mother hesitates, but soon she embraces their newfound good fortune. Her son, however, is far less convinced. He suspects something sinister or even murderous is at play. Where is the estate’s former owner? Could he be buried within the very walls of their new home? Or worse, could the killer still be lurking among the servant staff, watching their every move and waiting to strike next?

There’s a reason Agatha Christie is hailed as the queen of detective fiction. Her ability to consistently turn out suspenseful and engaging mysteries within the confined structure of the short-story form is almost unmatched. While I wouldn't exactly consider The Listerdale Mystery as one of her more memorable works, it still carries her signature charming wit. If you’re in the mood for a cozy low-stakes mystery, this one is worth  checking out.