The Electric Ant by Philip K. Dick

I'll be back.

After a terrible accident in his squib (that's a fancy futuristic car), Garson Poole wakes up in a hospital missing a hand and quickly realizes that he is well, not human. Turns out he’s what people in this world call an Electric Ant, which is basically slang for robot. Dun, dun, duuun. Don't worry, this is not a major spoiler since it is revealed right at the beginning of the story. 

The premise is interesting enough and has plenty of potential, but unfortuantely doesnt really go anywhere. As Poole becomes more self-aware, so does his drive to elevate his consciousness to a higher reality, but at a terrible cost. PKD sprinkles in his trademark weird sci-fi involving "reality tapes" that alters perception of time and space but it's also kind of confusing...though, maybe that's the point?

Like many of the author's short-fiction, ideas take precedence over effective storytelling. It also probably would have been more memorable or emotionally resonant if it were a bit shorter, since it often drags on without any real purpose. Still, if you’re already a fan of his work, you are likely find something to enjoy here.

You can read this story HERE.

Leave it to Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

Right ho, Jeeves!

I’m fashionably late to the P.G. Wodehouse party, but absolutely delighted to have finally made the acquaintance of the famous duo: Bertie Wooster and his ever-clever valet, Jeeves. These stories have all the makings of ideal comfort reads. They are light as a soufflé, endlessly witty, and packed with the kind of charming comedic flair that keeps a smile permanently plastered on my face. 

It's no wonder Wodehouse has built such a glowing reputation. Great comedic writing is rare and he absolutely nails it. The actual plot in Leave it Jeeves isn't that important, mainly serving as a launch-pad for the author to display his sophisticated wit and comedic chops. It's the razor-sharp dialogue and pitch-perfect humor that Wodehouse serves up on a silver platter. Bertie, with all his foppish charm and knack for landing in ridiculous predicaments, is the ideal foil for the ever-unflappable Jeeves, who always has just the right solution tucked away in his encyclopedic brain. Their hilarious witty banter and the wonderfully lopsided dynamic between master and servant is what makes the story memorable. If you're looking for a few good laughs and characters who feel like old friends, this is pure comedic gold.

You can read this story HERE.

The Snow Child by Angela Carter

Ice Queen.

Maybe it's just me, but The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter feels seriously overhyped and The Snow Child does nothing to convince me otherwise. She certainly has gift for poetic, richly layered prose and an imaginative way of reworking folklore and fairy tales. But so far, none of the stories in the collection have really left a major impression on me. This story, in particular, might have completely turned me off her work for good. 

Frankly, I found it vile, disturbing, and ultimately pointless. Whether the title character is meant to be an apparition or a magical being doesn’t matter to me. She’s still presented as a little girl. The inclusion of sexual assault and necrophilia in such a brief, surreal piece doesn't take away from the gratuitous nature of this scene. I get that Carter is tackling themes like the objectification of women, patriarchal control, and male fantasy but for me, any message or moral lesson is lost in the shock value. 

You can read this story HERE.

The Gun by Philip K. Dick

Boom.

I wasn't planning for a Philip K. Dick double feature today, but sometimes that's just how it works out. The Gun is classic pulp sci-fi through and through. It grabs hold of a well-worn genre trope and still manages to keep it fresh and fun: an expedition crew touching down on a post-nuclear wasteland.

Before they can properly land, the crew’s ship is blasted out of the sky by a surprise anti-aircraft gun. So much for a friendly welcoming party. Stranded and shipwrecked, a team heads off to explore the ruins, hoping to find a way to take down this mysterious weapon before they all become permanent residents.

The story moves at a good clip, delivers some cool mystery vibes, wrapping up with a twist ending that I won’t spoil here because it’s part of the fun. Is this mind-blowing, philosophical, reality-bending PKD? Not quite. This one’s more popcorn entertainment than paradigm shift. But if you’re in the mood for a quick and entertaining sci-fi romp, The Gun is right on target. 

Bullseye.

The Short Happy Life of the Brown Oxford by Philip K. Dick

 

That's two step, two step, one step / That's one step, two step, dance step.

After trudging through the letdown that was If There Were No Benny Cemoli, I was hoping to stumble upon a Philip K. Dick story that might rekindle my affection for this wildly inconsistent author. As one of the big names to come out of the Science -Fiction New Wave during the 1960's and 1970's, he has penned some truly brilliant short stories. Unfortunately, those gems are often buried among some real head-scratchers. The Short Happy Life of the Brown Oxford isn't great but hey, it’s a step in the right direction (pun absolutely intended). While it’s unlikely to be remembered as a standout in his extensive catalog, it’s still a light and entertaining read that doesn’t outstay its welcome.

Enter Doc Labyrinth (A+ name, by the way), who invents a machine called The Animator. It's basically a cross between a microwave and an Easy-Bake Oven that runs on what he dubs the "principle of sufficient irritation": the idea that, eons ago, some inanimate matter got so annoyed it just... started moving. Honestly, same.

Dick takes this wonderfully absurd premise and just has fun with it. He’s not exactly known for his comedy chops, but you can tell he’s having a blast here. I mean, an anthropomorphic oxford shoe that comes to life in search of its soul mate? That’s peak weird sci-fi right there. Admittedly, the final scene where the shoe wanders off into the bushes for some alone time with its new companion had me chuckling with amusement. All in all, it's a quirky and charming detour into PKD's lighter side. 

The Bath by Raymond Carver

Beam me up, Scotty!

The Bath is probably one of the weaker Raymond Carver stories I’ve come across. Granted, it's not terrible by any means, just kind of forgettable. Carver’s signature minimalism is definitely present: clipped sentences, bare dialogue, and plenty left unsaid. He’s clearly channeling his inner Hemingway here, leaning hard into omission and elliptical storytelling.

That being said, it comes off more like an exercise in style with a type of minimalism where the characters feel more like outlines than people. The story is simple with a mother buying a cake for her son's birthday when a terrible accident befalls the young boy. However, everything is pared down so much, creating an ambiguity that detracts from the emotional resonance. Or at least, that was my impression. 

Still, Carver’s use of omission is doing something intentional here. By withholding key details and refusing to tie things up neatly, he mirrors the emotional numbness of the characters. The mother’s fractured thoughts and distracted actions reflect her unprocessed grief. That restraint can be powerful, even haunting. Yet, it all feels more like a preview of the more nuanced work Carver would go on to do in stories like “A Small, Good Thing,” which actually expands and revisits this very narrative with greater depth.

So yeah, The Bath isn’t without merit, but it’s more of a minimalist draft, a sketch rather than a finished portrait. Worth reading as part of Carver’s evolution, but not the story I would recommend to someone as a shining example of his short-story talents. 

The Idol House of Astarte by Agatha Christie

 

Enter the Silent Grove. If you dare.

Agatha Christie dabbling in gothic horror? Sign me up! 

In the second meeting of the Tuesday Night Club, it’s Dr. Pender the clergyman’s turn to spin a mysterious yarn for the group. Miss Marple, ever the quiet observer, listens as he recounts a strange incident from years ago involving a dinner party thrown by his old friend Richard Haydon.

After dinner at his Richard's fancy estate, the guests decide to take a moonlit stroll through “Silent Grove”, a patch of woods complete with crumbling relics, a reputation for cult activity and whispers of demonic rituals. You know, the usual post-dinner entertainment. Things take a darker turn when one of the female guests vanishes. She’s later found in the grove, seemingly entranced or maybe even possessed by something not quite of this world. Richard reaches out to help her, only to suddenly drop dead on the spot. And just like that, a chilling evening becomes an unsolved mystery. Was it a heart attack? An encounter with the supernatural? Or is someone in the group hiding something far more sinister?

The Tuesday Night Club can’t agree on what actually happened and in typical Christie fashion, Miss Marple is already stitching together the clues with her trademark comparisons to village life. And wouldn’t you know it, Dr. Pender secretly does know the truth but he’s holding back, just to see if anyone else can figure it out. While the ending is somewhat underwhelming, the gothic atmosphere make this a fun and spooky little tale.

If There Were No Benny Cemoli by Philip K. Dick

Cemoli Cannoli.

Talk about a total letdown. Philip K. Dick has written his fair share of excellent sci-fi short stories but If There Were No Benny Cemoli is definitely not one of them. Save yourself the trouble unless you want to get duped like me. 

The premise actually sounds pretty great: Earth is a post-apocalyptic mess and a group of interstellar bureaucrats called Centurians suddenly show up, ready to rebuild it whether the few remaining humans like it or not. There’s even a buried sentient newspaper machine (a "homeopape"!) under the ruins of the New York Times building that somehow knows what’s really going on. Toss in a mysterious rebel leader named Benny Cemoli, and you’d think this would be a recipe for some mind-bending PKD goodness.

Nope. Instead of delivering on any of that potential, the story just meanders around aimlessly before abruptly hitting the brakes and calling it a day. It’s like Dick had a vague idea, wrote a bunch of pages, hit his word count for the publisher, and said, “Yeah, that’s good enough.” It's an underwhelming story with bland characters, zero payoff and no satisfying arc. Just a bunch of half-baked ideas that don’t go anywhere. It’s the kind of filler story that makes you double-check if several pages are missing. 

The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar by Roald Dahl

Dr. Strange at the Casino.

We are wrapping up this Roald Dahl short story weekend with The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar, which veers pretty close to novella territory. It’s consists of two parts that kicks off with a sharp introduction to our main character, Henry Sugar, a man who seemingly has everything money can buy. He is a bachelor, drifting through life with the motto: "It is better to incur a mild rebuke than to perform an onerous task." In other words, he's so rich and has never lifted a finger in his entre life. 

Henry is the epitome of old money: wealthy, self-centered, and obsessed with growing his fortune simply because he can. Dahl doesn’t mince words here, offering a cheeky but cutting critique of the ultra-rich: “All of them, all wealthy people of this type, have one peculiarity in common: they have a terrific urge to make themselves still wealthier than they already are.” It's a zinger that sets the tone for some of the bigger themes throughout the story such as capitalism, class inequality, and the hollowness of wealth without purpose.

At a party hosted by one of his rich friends, Henry grows bored and wanders into the expansive library. There, tucked away on a shelf, he finds a slim, curious volume titled “A Report on an Interview with Imhrat Khan, the Man Who Could See Without His Eyes,” written by a Dr. John F. Cartwright. Cue the Inception-style layers of storytelling: it's a story within a story within a story.

This inner tale follows Imhrat Khan, a yogi from India who has trained himself to harness incredible mental powers. It’s here that the story starts to shimmer with fairy-tale qualities: mystical abilities, exotic locales, and the promise of transformation through discipline and self-mastery. Think of it as a blend of spiritual fable and magical realism, all tied together by Dahl’s signature dry wit.

Inspired by this newfound knowledge, Henry decides to try learning the technique for himself. Yet, this is not out of spiritual curiosity, but because he sees its potential as a shortcut to gambling riches. This is where the fairy-tale magic really kicks in and his journey doesn't unfold the way he expects. Like all the best fables, there's a moral lesson: the more he trains, the more his priorities begin to shift. He starts to view capitalism and his role in it very differently. It's a compelling moral transformation wrapped in a cloak of mystical spectacle.

Ultimately, The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar is more concerned with what we choose to do with the knowledge, skills, gifts and tools we gain. It's about how even the most unlikely people can change for the better and how sometimes the greatest riches aren’t found in accumulating a vast amount of wealth, but in helping those less fortunate. I haven’t watched the Wes Anderson adaptation yet and Benedict Cumberbatch in the leading role seems like perfect casting. I can already picture it: symmetrical and pastel colored sets pieces, whimsical narration, and that distinct Anderson quirky flair should be a perfect match for the layered storytelling and magical oddity of the original source material. 

The Continuity of Parks by Julio Cortázar

The Sunken Place.

The act of reading is such a curious and almost magical experience. Arguably, it's the closest we, as humans, will come to actual time travel. Getting lost in a good book can feel like an out-of-body experience, where time slows down or even disappears altogether. Reality momentarily dissolves and suddenly you’re elsewhere: in another era, another world, even inside someone else’s mind. You’re not just observing events; you’re inhabiting them. You're thinking the author's thoughts, feeling their characters’ emotions, and watching entire scenes unfold through words on a page. It’s kind of trippy experience when you really think about it.

Julio Cortázar’s The Continuity of Parks captures this strange, immersive magic in just two short paragraphs. It’s a clever piece of metafiction that turns the act of reading itself into the actual story. The boundary between reader and fiction blurs until it disappears entirely, pulling the rug out from under you in the best way. Cortázar playfully deconstructs the art of fiction, showing how effortlessly a narrative can pull us in, to the point where the fictional and the real become indistinguishable.

What makes the story so effective isn't just the twist, but how subtly it builds towards that moment of fusion between the protagonist reading in his comfy velevet chair and the world he’s reading about in the novel. Reading allows him to experience the powerful sense of "escapism" literally and figuratively, reshaping reality through fiction. 

You can read this story HERE.

Lamb to the Slaughter by Roald Dahl

Revenge is a dish best served frozen.

Mary Maloney seems like your typical 1950's housewife. You know, the June Cleaver type that is sweet, doting and utterly devoted to her husband. Every evening she waits patiently for him to come home from work, ready to serve him dinner and hang on his every word. It's all very domestic and proper until he delivers some unexpected news that flips Mary's world upside down. Let’s just say, her response isn’t exactly what you’d expect from a soft-spoken homemaker.

Lamb to the Slaughter is classic Roald Dahl: wickedly clever, darkly humorous and deliciously twisted. Going into plot details would ruin the fun of discovering this story on your own. Dahl does a great job here of subverting gender expectations. Mary might look like the picture of domestic femininity, but she’s far more resourceful than anyone might give her credit for. It’s a playful, unsettling reminder that appearances can be deceiving, and sometimes the people you least expect are capable of the most shocking acts—served up, in this case, with a side of irony and a perfectly cooked leg of lamb.

The Swan by Roald Dahl

I believe I can fly. I believe I can touch the sky.

It’s a Roald Dahl weekend extravaganza here at Literature Frenzy, and we’re kicking things off with The Swan, a short story that takes the old adage “boys will be boys” and cranks it up to a level that’s quite terrifying. This isn’t your average playground squabble or name-calling behind the bike shed. Nope. The Swan plunges us headfirst into the dark, murky waters of cruelty, cowardice, and the kind of unchecked nastiness that makes your blood boil.

Dahl paints a crystal-clear moral picture, leaving no room for ambiguity: there is good vs. evil, and in this case, evil goes by the names of Ernie and Raymond. These two bullies are full-blown teenage tyrants—or as their victim Peter calls them, "hooligans." At the beginning of the story, we are offered a glimpse into Ernie's home life with a cantakerous father who is possibly abusive. The decision to buy his psychlogicaly disturbed kid a gun for his birthday is the epitome of bad parenting. Then there's little Peter. He's the shy, smart kid in class who’s enjoying a nice day in the woods watching birds before the two hooligans descend upon him, turning his life into a complete nightmare.

If Dahl intended for us to feel seething resentment toward these pint-sized sociopaths, then boy oh boy, did he succeed with flying, fuming colors. Every word and action they take is a simmering indictment of cruelty and our sympathy for Peter grows with each new torment he endures. He is admirable, not because he fights back with fists, but because he is a survivor. He endures. In a world where bullies seem to hold all the power, that kind of resistance is its own form of triumph.

But here’s where things get even more interesting and a whole lot darker. Spoiler alert: there is no justice. One of the most unsettling elements of this story is that the bad guys don’t really get what’s coming to them. There’s no dramatic moment where the authorities swoop in or Peter cleverly finds a way to enact revenge against his tormentors. No, Dahl plays it more like real life: sometimes the bullies get away with committing heinous crimes and evil wins. Sometimes beautiful swans are brutally murdered for sport and butchered by a couple of sociopaths. Life can be cruel that way and the world moves on without blinking an eye.

Perhaps that’s the cautionary tale here. Dahl seems to be saying, “Yes, evil exists. Yes, it’s ugly and cruel and unfair. And no, it doesn’t always get punished.” But in the midst of all that darkness, Peter’s resilience becomes a kind of moral anchor. He survives not because the world saves him, but because he refuses to break entirely. In that sense, The Swan isn't just a story about a kid who gets bullied; rather, it's a brutal, cynical depiction of childhood innocence being snuffed out by pure evil. It’s a harsh reminder that cruelty doesn’t always come with consequences, and that goodness, no matter how steadfast, doesn’t guarantee protection. The story forces the reader to sit with the discomfort and recognize the injustices happening all around. If the world won’t protect the Peters among us, then who will? Dahl's twisted and sinister tale is likely to leave you both enraged and awestruck. 

Hills Like White Elephants by Ernest Hemingway

Talk. Wait. Decide.

Hills Like White Elephants is one of the most famous short stories of the 20th century and has received more than its fair share of scholarly attention. So, rather than sounding redundant by going into full-blown critical analysis mode, I’m approaching this review more as a personal reflection. Re-reading it 25 years later (dang, I'm old), I found that it still holds up remarkably well although I wasn’t quite as blown away as I was when I first encountered it in high school English class. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still brilliant, but kind of like one of those small golf pencils they give you to fill in those flimsy mini-putt scorecards: sharp and striking at first, yet it seems to lose a bit of its edge the more it's revisited.

Back in high school, I was obsessed with this story. I remember being completely enamored by the punchy, stark, stripped-down style. Like so many aspiring writers, I thought I could mimic Hemingway’s technique. Oh, how naive! I quickly learned that writing with such precision and restraint is incredibly difficult. It takes serious talent to boil a story down to its bare essence, deriving emotional power through the art of subtlety. Hemingway’s brilliance lies in what remains unsaid and what can be inferred between those silences ("the iceberg theory").

John Updike once described Hemingway’s writing as possessing “gleaming economy and aggressive minimalism.” That hits the nail on the head right there. On the surface, Hills Like White Elephants is  just a conversation between a man and a woman waiting at a train station. But beneath that simple setup is a masterclass in implication, subtext, and emotional intensity. I especially admire how the story reads almost like the account of a nearby journalist eavesdropping on the couple, capturing their dialogue without judgment or intrusion. It’s the subtle and almost invisible storytelling, which makes it so remarkable. The structure is meticulous, the clipped dialogue flows with a natural rhythm, and the emotional undercurrents are quietly devastating. It’s really remarkable how much Hemingway accomplishes within such a compressed narrative.  

You can read this story HERE.

Emergency by Denis Johnson

The Pitt.

Many of Denis Johnson's interlinked stories in Jesus' Son have this strange, dreamlike randomness where misfit characters stumble through life in a drug-induced haze. Emergency is no exception. The narrator and his friend Georgie "work" at a hospital, spending most of their time stealing pills and getting high. The end result is a fever-dream of dark humor, absurdity, and bizarre misadventures.

For instance, there is a scene at the hopistal where a man shows up with a knife in his eye (already insane), and Georgie, who is just a janitor, casually yanks it out. Instead of doctors or medical personnel reacting like normal human beings, they all just sort of move on, as if pulling knives out of eyeballs is a regular Tuesday activity. It's unsettling, ridiculous, and somehow still funny. The hospital is meant to be a place of healing, yet Georgie and the narrator are probably the most damaged people in the entire building. Just not in a way that modern medicine can fix. They're like the walking wounded, metaphorically speaking. Maybe talking to the ER psychotherapist on duty or checking into rehab might help. 

After their shift is over, they decide to go on a road trip. Because why not? They’re driving through a snowstorm, hitting up a county fair, running over a pregnant rabbit (which Georgie heroically C-sections to save the babies) before the narrator absentmindedly sits on the newborn rabbits. They even pick up a hitchhiker on the way back. Does any of it make sense? Not really. Does it need to? Absolutely not. It's a wild ride though, that's for sure.

Through all the shenanigans, Georgie somehow emerges as an oddly heroic figure. He's reckless and unpredictable but also selfless and strangely kind. Perhaps he is a kind of messiah like figure? That might be bit of a stretch. Meanwhile, the narrator’s drug-addled memories are so fragmented and unreliable that it’s difficult to tell what’s real and what’s just a wild hallucination. I suppose that’s part of the appeal in reading this story where you’re never quite sure if you should be laughing or deeply disturbed. 

Philomel Cottage by Agatha Christie

Home Sweet Home.

Hard to believe it's already April! As quickly as these months are flying by, this also means another round of Agatha Christie short stories, courtesy of FandaClassicLit’s reading event! No complaints here. Philomel Cottage swaps Christie's usual detective-driven intrigue for something more intimate and psychological.

At first glance, it’s all rather idyllic: newlyweds Alix and Gerald Martin have recently moved into a charming cottage in the English countryside, a setting that practically begs for cups of tea and peaceful strolls. But as the days pass, Alix’s happily-ever-after begins to fray at the edges. Suspicion slowly creeps in and suddenly blissfull domesticity starts feeling more like a trap. Christie skillfully tightens the tension, mirroring Alix’s growing paranoia as she pieces together unsettling clues about her husband's true nature. Is she imagining things? Or is her life in danger?

The story is a slow burn, savoring the psychological unease rather than rushing into action. While the ending might not have the most dramatic payoff, the journey there is deliciously suspenseful. Watching Alix’s transformation from a contented new wife to a woman relying on sheer wits to survive is the true highlight. The tension builds up nicely with Christie’s signature storytelling charm at the helm, making for a perfectly cozy read for this rainy April evening.

Ordinary Nudes by Stuart Dybek

Calypso.

Stuart Dybek seems to have this remarkable ability to write about sensuality in a way that is both poetic and deeply evocative without resorting to explicit detail. Ordinary Nudes is an impressive display of brevity. Despite being just a single paragraph, it manages to distill some complex themes into a few elegant sentences: memory, perception, gender dynamics and the ephemeral nature of beauty. Dybek’s storytelling here is reminiscent of Hemingway’s minimalist style, stripping the story down to its bare essence while still maintaining its lyricism.

The imagery in the piece is especially striking. The woman's body, as seen through the mirror, is described with a dreamlike fluidity. Dybek draws a contrast between the woman’s physical characteristics and the idealized depictions of female beauty (nymphs, goddesses, and ballerinas). By doing so, he challenges the way women are often sexualized by the male gaze. Here, the woman is frozen in time through the photograph but she exists beyond this static representation where she will get older and beauty fades.

The woman's internalized feelings about her own body remain ambiguous and is juxtaposed with the male's voyeuristic perception of her beauty. His perception of her has been altered by time and secrecy with the tantalizing photograph being hidden away in a drawer “beneath his underwear.”  Dybek captures this impermanence of beauty in a way that feels both sensual and deeply melancholic, making Ordinary Nudes a memorable meditation on memory and the nature of desire.

You can read this story HERE.