Motive vs. Opportunity by Agatha Christie

Admittedly, I went into this one a little skeptical. A mystery built around the mysterious circumstances of an old man’s will didn’t exactly sound gripping, but Motive vs. Opportunity won me over pretty quickly. This time, it’s Petherick, a well-respected lawyer, who brings a puzzle to the Tuesday Night Club. The crime itself is already solved; the real question is why the will, when retrieved from Petherick’s own vault, turns out to be completely blank. Of course, Miss Marple already has it figured out while the rest of the group continues scratching their head. As always, she draws on her sharp understanding of human nature and uncanny knowledge of village life (especially when mischievous children are involved).

Christie provides a surprisingly rich backstory involving the old man, his family, and the heartbreak of adopting a child who later dies of illness. Overcome with grief, he seeks comfort from a spiritual medium who claims she can help him communicate with the dead girl. Deeply affected, he adds the fortune teller to his will, much to the horror of the family members who stand to inherit. Petherick is his lawyer and also dumfounded. They are convinced he’s lost his senses and being hoodwinked by a charlatan.

Sure, this isn’t a pulse-pounding whodunit or a nail-biting thriller, but it doesn’t need to be. There’s enough intrigue to keep things moving along at a steady clip and the solution, when Miss Marple casually lays it out, is cleverly amusing. It’s a quaint, cozy and satisfying little mystery that turned out to be far better than expected. 

Accident by Agatha Christie

Would you like a cuppa?

Finally, an Agatha Christie short story that really hits the mark. Accident is delightfully sinister, with tension that creeps along at just the right pace before snapping into a genuinely surprising ending (at least it caught me off guard). It was especially refreshing after a run of recent Christie stories that, for me, never quite delivered the thrills or narrative spark she’s famous for.

The setup is classic Christie with a sharp twist. Inspector Evans is convinced that a woman he recognizes from an earlier case (where she was acquitted of murdering her husband with arsenic) is about to do it all over again with her new spouse. From there, Christie divides the story neatly in two: first, Evans lays out the backstory to a friend (and to us), and then the tale shifts into a tense game of cat and mouse. What follows is a clever duel of wits, with Evans and the woman circling each other, trading psychological feints and quiet manipulations. It’s smart, suspenseful, and thoroughly entertaining. Exactly the kind of Christie I’ve been missing.

The Case of the Missing Lady by Agatha Christie

Elementary, my dear Tuppence.

The Tommy and Tuppence short stories have mostly been a letdown for me. None of them are really memorable and wouldn't come strongly recommended. You're far better off sticking with Hercule Poirot or Miss Marple for more consistent results. It often feels like Agatha Christie is recycling the same basic ideas and after a while the formula starts to wear thin. Don’t get me wrong, Tommy and Tuppence have good chemistry and their playful banter can be fun, but too many of their adventures end up falling flat.

The Case of the Missing Lady continues that mediocre trend. As the title makes clear, the plot revolves around the duo trying to track down a young woman who has disappeared. I kept hoping Christie might do something unexpected with such a familiar setup, but the story feels like it’s running on autopilot. Tommy leans hard into a Sherlock Holmes act, casting Tuppence as his Watson, which is mildly amusing.

I won’t bother getting into the details of the plot, since it’s all rather silly and builds toward an an abrupt ending that is utterly ridiculous. The resolution is so anti-climactic that I half-wondered if a few pages were accidentally left out before publication. And while Christie’s work is known to contain some uncomfortable elements such as overt racism, this story stands out for being openly fatphobic.

Not my cup of tea. I’d say this one is safely skippable.

You can read this story HERE.

Staying Behind by Ken Liu

Come join the Singularity.

Ken Liu is remarkably consistent when it comes to delivering top-tier science-fiction short stories. His work is packed with imaginative concepts and big, philosophical ideas, but what really sets him apart is how deeply human his stories feel. He pairs speculative thought experiments with rich characterization and genuine poignancy. For my money, he’s one of the most talented writers currently working in the genre and deserves far wider recognition.

Staying Behind is a haunting post-apocalyptic story set in a world where people can achieve a form of immortality by uploading their consciousness into computers. It's like a vast digital cloud where the mind can exist long after the body is gone. Physical life is shed entirely, leaving behind only thought, memory, and identity floating in perpetuity. These entities are referred to as "The Dead" by those that remain. With the rapid advances in AI and digital preservation, the premise feels highly probable in the not-so-distant future. I am pretty sure there is a Black Mirror episode with a similar premise.

What gives the story its emotional weight is the devastating human cost of this choice. Liu focuses on those left behind, people who must grapple with the absence of loved ones who have chosen digital eternity over a finite, embodied life. The uploaded may still “exist” in some super-computer but the intimacy of physical presence, shared time, and human touch is irrevocably lost. The story becomes less about immortality as a triumph and more about grief, abandonment and the painful realization that survival doesn’t always feel like living.

There’s something profoundly heartbreaking about watching the characters try to move forward in a world where death has been technically defeated, yet emotional loss remains absolute. Immortality may preserve the mind, but it cannot preserve connection, presence, or the fragile intimacy that defines human relationships. Staying Behind revisits one of science fiction’s most enduring questions: what does it mean to be human? It suggests that humanity is not rooted in endless consciousness or technological transcendence, but in our capacity for love, grief, and shared mortality. Our bodies, our limits, and even our inevitable death are not flaws to be engineered away, but essential components of meaning. In choosing to live forever, the uploaded abandon the very vulnerability that allows relationships to matter, leaving those who remain to shoulder the emotional consequences. Liu’s story ultimately implies that being human is not about surviving indefinitely, but about accepting mortality, even when doing so guarantees struggle, pain, suffering, heartbreak and eventual death.

You can read this story HERE.

The Conversion of the Jews by Philip Roth

The power of Christ compels you!

Philip Roth is one of those towering 20th-century American authors who, despite his reputation, has never quite worked for me. I have made several earnest attempts at his novels, only to abandon ship each time out of sheer frustration. There’s something about his bloated, self-indulgent prose that irks me. I hoped that dipping into his short stories might finally change my mind. I wouldn’t say it hasn’t helped, but I’m also not fully converted just yet.

Which brings me to The Conversion of the Jews. Is this story supposed to be funny? Perhaps the humor sailed right over my head, but I didn’t laugh once. Not a chuckle. Not even a polite internal “hmph.”

Beneath the supposed satire, the story reads more like a coming-of-age tale in disguise. Ozzie Freedman isn’t rebelling just to be difficult; he’s a kid genuinely trying to reconcile what he’s being taught with what actually makes sense to him. His questions about God, Jesus, and immaculate conception aren’t acts of defiance so much as early signs of intellectual independence. That pivotal moment when childhood acceptance gives way to adolescent skepticism.

Exploring Jewish identity has always been integral to Roth's work and his most effective move here is treating faith and doubt as inseparable. Ozzie’s so-called “heresy” isn’t a rejection of Jewish religious belief but evidence that belief is alive, unsettled, and worth wrestling with. The adults cling to rigid answers (in this case, the Rabbi and Mother), while Ozzie’s uncertainty feels honest, curious, and deeply human. Ironically, the child is the only one taking faith seriously enough to interrogate it. 

So no, I didn’t laugh. But I did recognize that uncomfortable moment when you realize the world isn’t obligated to give you neat, satisfying answers. In that sense, the story captures a key rite of passage: the first time you ask the wrong questions very loudly and are promptly told by people in authority that you really, really shouldn’t.

The Jewel Robbery at the Grand Metropolitan by Agatha Christie

1920's swag.

Not exactly the most original premise, The Jewel Robbery at the Grand Metropolitan is probably the best out of the recent batch of Agatha Christie stories that I have read lately, which really isn't a glowing endorsement. Hercule Poirot and his ever-loyal sidekick Hastings are taking a brief holiday from sleuthing, enjoying some well-earned R&R at a fancy Brighton hotel. Naturally, Poirot barely has time to unpack before his services are required once again and those famous “little grey cells” are switched back on. Vacation denied.

Enter a wealthy couple, with the wife in particular being very proud of her jewel-encrusted necklace. She’s eager to show it off, until she goes back to her room and discovers it’s vanished. Gasp. The local inspector and others quickly zero in on the usual suspects: it must be the servants! The lady's maid and the chambermaid were both in the room at the time, so it must be one of them. Right?  Poirot, however, is not entirely convinced. Given the layout of the room, it seems highly unlikely that either woman could have grabbed the necklace from its supposedly secure location and hide it before the mistress returned. Hastings even supplies a helpful little floor plan of the room (which is neat, I guess?), while Poirot does what Poirot does best: quietly observes, thinks circles around everyone else, and eventually outsmarts the lot of them.

All that said, the story itself just isn’t very compelling. From the outset, it’s hard to feel invested in the mystery or particularly care about how it all turns out. Yes, Poirot’s eccentricities and razor-sharp intellect are always a pleasure, but even he can’t entirely save a story that feels this slight. His charm carries it some of the way, just not memorably across the finish line.

The Manhood of Edward Robinson by Agatha Christie

Little Caesar himself, played by the impeccable Edward G. Robinson

I don’t like to think of myself as having a dirty mind, but I probably would have chosen a different title than The Manhood of Edward Robinson. Just saying. That aside, I’ve been a little underwhelmed by the summer picks for the Agatha Christie short-story reading challenge. None of them have quite delivered that signature Christie blend of charm, wit, and suspense I usually expect and this story sadly continues that trend. Fingers crossed the fall and winter selections fare better.

Despite what the title might suggest, this has nothing to do with the famous Hollywood actor. Instead, we get an English fellow of the same name who feels perpetually henpecked by his sensible, strong-willed fiancée. Edward is convinced his independence is slipping away and that her practical nature is slowly but surely emasculating him. A devoted reader of romance novels, he longs for adventure, passion, and a dramatic reversal of power. One where he calls the shots and the woman is the impressionable one.

When Edward unexpectedly wins a tidy sum of money from some newspaper contest, he does what any man desperate to reclaim his “manhood” would do: he buys a flashy car without telling his fiancée. Naturally, she would prefer the money be sensibly invested in savings or bonds, but Edward is done being sensible. He wants the carefree bachelor life, wind in his hair, no lectures, no spreadsheets, and definitely no talk of long-term financial planning.

This joyride marks the story’s turning point and also when things start to get, frankly, very silly. Edward stops somewhere, then somehow drives off in the wrong car because it happens to be the same model. An understandable mistake, right? Maybe I’m nitpicking, but a) how do you not realize you’re driving someone else’s car? and b) how did he even start it when the keys weren’t left in the ignition? Maybe cars were made differently back then? I don't know. 

Naturally, Edward then discovers an expensive necklace in the glove compartment (sorry, “pocket”), which launches him into a bizarre adventure involving mistaken identity, a theft ring, and a series of increasingly improbable decisions. Having wished for excitement, he happily plays along, pretending to be someone else until he narrowly escapes and returns to his comfortably ordinary life.

The premise should make for a fun, frothy, lighthearted thriller, but instead it all feels a bit too ridiculous and not in a charming way. In the end, it’s Christie’s polished prose and storytelling finesse that barely keep this one from stalling out completely.

The Blood Stained Pavement by Agatha Christie

Cliffs and Stack, West Penwith by Paul Mcgregor

In Agatha Christie's The Blood Stained Pavement, it's now Joyce Lempriere's turn to regale the Tuesday Night Club with a mystery from her past. She recalls a stay at a picturesque seaside inn in Cornwall, where she planned to spend her days peacefully sketching the dramatic landscape. Surrounded by steep cliffs and rocky terrain, one must always be careful of their footing should an unfortunate "accident" occur. As Joyce talks, Miss Marple sits quietly in the corner, knitting away and saying nothing, using her superpower of picking up on the seemingly inconsequential details that the others barely register. 

Joyce notices a young couple arrive at the inn, followed soon after by another woman traveling alone. The man recognizes the woman as an old friend, they exchange pleasantries and everything seems hunky-dory. Perhaps too hunky-dory. Then Joyce spots what looks suspiciously like bloodstains on the pavement (hence, the title), which according to Cornish folklore, is a bad omen meaning that someone will die in 24hrs...dun, dun dun. She begins to question whether it's actually blood or whether the sea air is getting to her head. Before long, the female friend vanishes and her body washes up on the shore few days later. Did she drown? Or maybe she took an unfortunate tumble off the cliff? The ending is anti-climactic because Joyce just tells everyone exactly what happened following the police investigation into the woman's mysterious death. Instead of the group excitedly dissecting clues and debating theories, Joyce simply explains what the police investigation uncovered. Case closed, discussion cancelled. Miss Marple then calmly delivers her usual moral of the story, one she seems contractually obligated to repeat in some shape or form in these tales: 

"There is a great deal of wickedness in village life. I hope you dear young people will never realize how very wicked the world is."

A sobering thought, sure. Unfortunately, the story doesn't offer much in the way of suspense or thrills, which we know Christie is more than capable of delivering. Instead, everything is wrapped up in a tidy little bow and presented to the reader on a silver platter, no sleuthing required. 

The Future Looks Good by Lesley Nneka Arimah

Biafra.

Lesley Nneka Arimah’s short-story collection What It Means When a Man Falls from the Sky contains some solid stories, so far. Taken as a whole, the collection hasn’t completely swept me off my feet yet, but I’m always excited to dive into the work of contemporary Black women writers, particularly those from the African diaspora who bring fresh storytelling traditions and cultural perspectives to the page. Black representation in fiction matters. Not just in the sense of “seeing yourself,” but in expanding the kinds of stories, emotional landscapes, and narrative possibilities that literature makes room for. Black women writers, especially, often carve out spaces that challenge the usual boundaries of genre and theme while simultaneously confronting the complexities of identity, history, and resilience. Arimah seems more than capable of doing exactly that.

The Future Looks Good opens with Ezinma trying to unlock her apartment door before everything takes a sharp and shocking turn. I won’t spoil the moment itself, but the story immediately yanks the reader backwards through layered memories of her life and family history, stretching all the way back to 1966 as Nigeria plunges into civil war. However, it's Ezinma's complex relationship with her sister that forms the emotional crux of the story. Arimah uses this flashback structure effectively, as if the past is rushing forward to collide with the present in the very instant Ezinma turns her key. The title, of course, is darkly ironic since there is no hopeful future waiting for Ezinma. Only the weight of inherited trauma, family wounds that have never healed and tragedy await her.

Arimah’s clear-eyed portrayal of how Black women are repeatedly made vulnerable within patriarchal structures, both in public and in private spheres is worthy of note. The story’s violence is presented as a grim reflection of how society often normalizes harm against women while demanding their endurance in the face of it. Arimah exposes these dynamics while showing how generational expectations, gender roles, and power imbalances intertwine to create a world where women like Ezinma are expected to survive everything but are protected from nothing. This story covers a lot of ground within a very confined space, which is impressive and usually a good sign of a talented short-story writer. 

So yes, stay far away if you are in the mood for something uplifting because this one is sad, sad, sad. But it’s also powerful in its sadness, and Arimah doesn’t let any of it feel sensationalized. Instead, she shows how deeply rooted these cycles of pain are and how urgently they need to be named.

You can read this story HERE. 

The Adventure of the Egyptian Tomb by Agatha Christie

Hamunaptra.

It's an Agatha Christie double-feature today! Mostly because I am wildly behind on the Agatha Christie short-story challenge (hosted by Fanda Classiclit), which ends on December 31. I took a summer/fall hiatus, my reading momentum plummeted and now it’s all coming down to the wire.

Nothing like a little end-of-year panic as motivation.

The Adventure of the Egyptian Tomb is another Hercule Poirot mystery, and this time our favorite Belgian detective heads off to Egypt with his partner Hastings in tow. Their mission: get to the bottom of a string of mysterious deaths at an archaeological dig. This English expedition has just uncovered the tomb of an Egyptian mummy and ever since, people keep dying in ways that don’t quite add up. Is it an ancient curse or just superstitious hokum? 

Or, maybe, just maybe, it's just good old-fashioned murder.

It’s a great premise with lots of room for Christie to dabble in her trademark wit and clever plots, but unfortunately, the ending lands with more of a sputter than a bang. There’s plenty of intrigue but the final reveal feels a bit silly and kind of fizzles out. On the bright side, one thing that surprised me was that the story wasn’t the sweeping parade of 1920s racism I was bracing for. Small blessings!

As an aside, it's not that I ever need an excuse to rewatch The Mummy (the Brendan Fraser version, not the one with Tom Cruise) for the 1000th time, but this story definitely nudged me right back into that mood. There’s just something magical about this story's exotic locale and questionable curses that instantly sends my brain straight to Brendan Fraser dodging undead priests and cracking goofy one-liners. Reading this made me think, “Ah yes, this is why I’ve championed The Mummy as one of the greatest films ever made.” So if Christie won’t give me the sweeping, pulpy, curse-ridden adventure I crave, that’s fine. Brendan Fraser and Rachel Weisz will gladly pick up the slack.

Now excuse me while I press play…again.

You can read this story HERE.

The Adventure of the Sinister Stranger by Agatha Christie

Silver Cigarette Case (1920's).

I’d put The Adventure of the Sinister Stranger somewhere in Agatha Christie’s mid-tier category. It’s a quick read and somewhat entertaining but definitely not the crown jewel of the Tommy and Tuppence collection. In fact, among their stories, this one is on the weaker side and mostly forgettable. 

Business is slow at the International Detective Agency, and Tommy and Tuppence are itching for a real case instead of another day of shuffling letters and staring at the wall. Then a mysterious blue envelope with a Russian stamp drops into their lap, kicking off a plot full of deception, mistaken identities, and the ol' bait-and-switch. It all sounds more exciting than it actually is.

There’s not much suspense, and the mysterious letter left me more confused than intrigued. There’s also a silver cigarette case with an inscription that ends up being important, but even that reveal didn’t do much to liven things up. I found myself struggling to care about any of it.

Maybe if I caught all the nods to classic detective fiction, the story would have left more of an impression. As it stands, it’s a pleasant enough diversion but we know Agatha Christie can deliver so much better.

Carmen by Lucia Berlin

 

A spoonful of sugar make the medicine go down

It’s been a minute since I read anything by Lucia Berlin and I was looking forward to something light and breezy. Maybe a little of her trademark dry wit, maybe a chuckle or two to cut through the day. Carmen turned out to be absolutely none of those things. Quite the opposite, really. In hindsight, I should have reached for P.G. Wodehouse if I wanted something gentler on the soul. 

Carmen is a bleak and heartbreaking story about a pregnant woman who becomes a drug mule for her heroin-addicted, deadbeat, abusive husband. Since his heroin supply has run out, he's now chasing that high with cough medicine. Sometimes referred to as lean, as the rappers call it these days. Except, this dude isn't mixing it with Sprite, he's drinking it straight out the bottle. A charming man, truly. Berlin’s usual wry humor is nowhere to be found here. No sly smiles, no moments of levity. Just a mounting sense of dread and hopelessness. The protagonist keeps trying to prop up a marriage that has already collapsed, maybe out of obligation, maybe out of love, or maybe because escaping an abusive relationship is far easier said than done. The story simply refuses to give her (or the reader) a break. When she arrives at the apartment to purchase the drugs, the scene unfolds like something out of a Tarantino film. Lot's of tension, a tiny sliver of dark comedy but mostly just tension. If the situation weren’t already dire, she's almost raped by some hooligans soon after the drug deal goes down. Talk about a really bad day. 

It's just misery stacked upon misery, reinforced by the tragic ending when she rushes to the hospital to give birth.  You can probably guess what happens next. There’s no Hallmark-style hospital scene, no tender tableau of a happy couple cooing over their newborn. 

Next time, I’m sticking with Wodehouse when I need something a bit lighter. At least with him, the worst thing that can happen is a stolen cow creamer or a misunderstanding about engagement rings. Not a harrowing odyssey through drug dens and emotional devastation. 

Why Don't You Dance? By Raymond Carver

Will Ferrell in the adaptation, Everything Must Go.

I am slightly curious by how filmmakers managed to adapt this incredibly sparse short story into a full-length feature starring Will Ferrell. It’s an unexpected casting choice, sure, but Ferrell can absolutely handle dramatic, serious roles. So who knows, maybe the movie will surprise me in the best way.

If you’ve ever picked up anything by Raymond Carver, you already know what you’re signing up for: minimalism, understatement, and a whole lot of emotional turbulence simmering beneath the surface. Why Don’t You Dance? is quintessential Carver. So stripped down that, on first glance, you might think nothing actually happens. But that’s exactly where the magic lies. He builds entire worlds out of implication, the weight of context, and the unresolved ache between lines.

The "plot" (I’m using that word generously) follows a man who has dragged all of his household belongings onto his front lawn. Spring cleaning? Hardly. It feels more like the kind of chaotic purge someone undertakes during a mid-life crisis. Then a young couple rolls up, takes an interest in the furniture and soon enough they’re all chatting, bartering, and bonding. Naturally, because this is Carver, everyone ends up drinking together. Alcohol is practically a supporting character in his work.

That about it, really. Not a whole lot “happens” but Carver has never cared much for narrative convention. He’s after elevating the mundane into something profound. Capturing those fleeting, weirdly tender moments through slice-of-life realism. His minimalism becomes the engine of the story's emotional impact. By withholding explanation (no tidy labels like “loneliness,” “heartbreak,” or “failed marriage”), he nudges the reader into the gaps, the silences, and the unspoken grief.

So when the story reaches its final moment with this man, surrounded by the wreckage of his past, putting on an old record and dancing with a young woman he barely knows, it hits with surprising force. It’s vivid, sad, strangely warm, and loaded with everything Carver refused to spell out. The scene is painfully intimate: regret swirling with the faintest glimmer of hope. And because so much has been left unsaid, the ending lands harder than any tidy explanation ever could.

There’s also something sly and universal about the title Why Don’t You Dance? It isn’t just a question for the characters and it’s a nudge toward the reader. Dancing can be vulnerable but also liberating. For this man, the dance becomes a brief, fragile moment of catharsis, a small reminder that despite the loss and loneliness, he can still move, still feel, still reach for something. When you’re at your lowest, maybe all you have is a worn-out record and a fleeting connection, but sometimes that’s enough to spark a pulse of life again.

You can read this story HERE.

At the Clinic by Sally Rooney

Connell and Marianne.

I didn’t care much for Sally Rooney’s Normal People, although the TV adaptation is miles better than the source material. But oddly enough, I’m starting to think I might prefer Rooney as a short-story writer rather than a novelist. Her trademark blend of tenderness, melancholy, and emotional awkwardness feels much more contained and digestible in a shorter form, where it doesn’t have the chance to spiral into the same narrative loops.

At the Clinic was written in 2016, two years before Normal People was published and turned Rooney into a literary celebrity. The story follows Connell and Marianne, familiar to anyone who’s read or watched Normal People, as they stumble through yet another chapter of young love and heartbreak. I’m not sure whether this piece was Rooney warming up for the novel or something that simply didn’t make the final cut, but either way, it’s an excellent standalone.

What really shines here is Rooney’s dialogue. Even this early in her career, she had already mastered a very specific kind of conversational realism. The kind that feels unpolished, hesitant and emotionally charged in all the right ways. Her characters don’t just talk to one another; they reveal themselves through the rhythm of their speech, the awkward pauses, the contradictions, and the little half-truths they let slip. The dialogue becomes the backbone of the story, shaping the pacing and the emotional temperature of every scene.

Rooney also shows a keen instinct for building characters who feel fully formed, even in just a few pages. Connell and Marianne don’t need lengthy backstories or heavy exposition.  Their personalities, anxieties, and desires emerge organically through how they speak and react to each other. Rooney lets their emotional lives surface gradually, giving the reader the sense of eavesdropping on something painfully real.

By the end, you can see the early blueprint of what would eventually become Normal People. However, At the Clinic also works beautifully on its own as a compact, emotionally rich story that highlights Rooney’s strengths in dialogue, character depth, and the complicated ways people try (and fail) to connect.

You can read this story HERE.

When Eddie Levert Comes by Deesha Philyaw

Start a love train, love train.

It’s always a thrill to stumble across a new short-story writer who immediately clicks with me and Deesha Philyaw is absolutely one of them. Her voice is so refreshing and her prose glides along effortlessly. Smooth as butter but carrying a ton of emotional heft. I’m always impressed by writers who can build complex, fully formed characters within such tight narrative confines and When Eddie Levert Comes is a perfect example of that skill.

On the surface, this could have been your typical run-of-the-mill estranged mother/daughter story, but Philyaw elevates it into something far more layered and affecting. Her exploration of Black womanhood, racial politics, and intergenerational trauma hits hard. The protagonist, referred to only as “Daughter,” is the full-time caregiver for her mother (simply called “Mama”) who is living with dementia. Mama, a devoted fan of The O’Jays, spends her days believing Eddie Levert himself is coming to visit her. It’s a premise that could have leaned into sentimentality, but Philyaw uses it to peel back the complicated emotional history between the two women.

Through various flashbacks, we are provided a glimpse into Daughter’s childhood, growing up in a single-mother household alongside her two brothers. Mama’s mercurial moods and relationships with different men, highlight the various contradictions of her own black femininity, especially when she becomes a woman of God. Mama has directly shaped Daughter’s understanding of womanhood in ways she still hasn’t fully unpacked. Caregiving, in her world, is expected of women. Silent, dutiful, automatic. While the men drift on the periphery with little consequence. The story captures this imbalance with painful clarity and Daughter’s simmering resentment toward her absent brother feels achingly real. The burden, as always, falls on her.

What makes Philyaw’s approach so moving is the rawness with which she reveals Daughter’s unresolved trauma. The story doesn’t sensationalize it; instead, it shows how old wounds throb beneath the surface of everyday tasks. Whether it is feeding Mama, washing her hair, picking out her clothes, correcting her memory, it all contributes to absorbing the emotional fallout of a lifetime. Philyaw invites the reader to sit with Daughter’s conflicting emotions: obligation, love, anger, tenderness, exhaustion. It’s an experience that rings true for so many Black women who are expected to hold their families together while carrying their own unspoken pain.

This is only my first taste of Philyaw’s work, so I’m trying not to hype myself up too much, but if this story is any indication, she’s firmly on my radar. I can’t wait to dive into "The Secret Lives of Church Ladies" and see if she continues to conjure this kind of magic.

You can read this story HERE.

Pastoralia by George Saunders

Ooga booga.

I might be completely out to lunch here, but George Saunders really seems to be picking up where Donald Barthelme left off. Like his predecessor, he embraces that postmodern absurdity and sardonic humor, while still doing something unmistakably his own. To call Pastoralia bizarre would be the understatement of the year. It is such a unique reading experience and I haven't encountered anything quite like it before. Then again, the same can be said for almost every other short-story that I have read by this author. The man operates on his own wavelength.

Saunders’ short stories tend to wander into novella territory and Pastoralia is no different. But even with the extra length, it never drags. In fact, quite the opposite. It's a whirlwind of narrative force and the story is completely absorbing from start to finish. Whereas Barthelme often tosses narrative convention right out the window, Saunders keeps a recognizable story shape (ex: complex characters with emotional depth and a plot you can trace) but it's more like a zigzag patters as opposed to a straight line. Additionally, everything is filtered through this wonderfully skewed lens. Instead of laying all the groundwork upfront, the story begins in medias res, which is completely disorienting. Yet, like a widening circle, the world slowly reveals itself as the initial strangeness becomes more familiar and not so far removed from our own reality. 

The premise itself is pure Saunders: sharp social satire wrapped in exaggerated absurdity. Beneath the weirdness, he’s poking fun at the bureaucratic machinery of capitalism such as what it means to be a “good worker,” how far one is willing to bend (or break) themselves to appease an uncaring, corporate structure, and the consequences of maintaining the status quo. You see, our unnamed narrator and his coworker Janet are cavepeople impersonators in a kind of historical theme park where guests can come watch them live like Neanderthals. 

Weird, right?

To keep things as historically accurate as possible, they spend their days making fires, flint-skinning goats (provided daily through the Big Slot), pretending to eat bugs and generally grunting the hours away. Of course, this being George Saunders, the job is also bleakly hilarious. The prison metaphor of being a worker literally trapped in a dead-end job is explicitly illustrated with the narrator and his cavewoman partner living in this the cave. It is both their workplace and home where everything is monitored by the higher-ups running this zany operation. The historical anachronisms are also played up for laughs with the company mostly communicating with staff via fax machine and memos. The whole setup feels like a parody of corporate office life taken to a ridiculous extreme. 

I won’t spoil any plot developments, because half the fun is discovering just how bizarre and oddly heartfelt this story becomes. But stylistically, the Barthelme echoes are delightfully there: the disjointed narrative, the sudden tonal shifts, the non-sequiturs, digressions, the comedic beats that appear out of nowhere, the playful language, the pastiche of everyday corporate nonsense. Still, Saunders’ approach feels less avant-garde and more...how do I put it...generously weird? He stretches language, toggling between meaning and non-meaning, sincerity and parody, but always keeps the emotional core intact through an empathetic narrator.

The humor is what really sells it though: the sharp dialogue, character interactions that border on slapstick (or a Samuel Beckett play) and irony that runs through everything. Pastoralia ends up feeling like a mini-epic, a mishmash of workplace politics, bureaucracy run amok, performance art and human longing that surprisingly comes together beautifully by the end. It’s hilarious, inventive, cynical and one of the most memorable reading experiences I've had in a very long time. In other words, prime Saunders.

(Ratings are arbitrary but I can see this story being 5 stars with another re-read)

Eugene by Greg Egan

Eugenics.

After the very disappointing The Way She Smiles, the Things She Says, I am happy to report that Greg Egan is officially back in my good graces. Hey, nobody’s perfect. Eugene is another thought-provoking, mind-bending science-fiction treat, the kind of story Egan can deliver with almost unfair consistency. The title itself is a clever bit of wordplay: “Eugene” nods toward eugenics and the story follows a couple who are offered the chance to become test subjects for a breakthrough genetic technology. One that can manipulate DNA to create a super-intelligent child. Nothing left to chance, no roll of the biological dice. As Dr. Cook points out, this engineered child might grow up to be the answer to saving the world from complete collapse into the dark ages. 

It’s a fascinating premise and would slot perfectly into an episode of Black Mirror.

What really makes the story work, though, is Egan’s storytelling technique. He has this uncanny ability to incorporate dense scientific ideas into the narrative without ever letting the pace drag. His trademark imagination is on full display here: wild, ambitious, and grounded enough to feel eerily plausible. The pseudo-hard sci-fi elements never overwhelm; instead, they serve as the sturdy framework for a narrative that flows smoothly and confidently. Even when the story detours into backstory and exposition, it never feels like homework. Egan knows exactly when to zoom in on the science and when to pull back so the emotional and thematic threads can breathe. There is also a conceptual twist involving time travel, culminating in the darkly cynical ending that is quite brilliant. I had to re-read it a few times just to wrap my head around it all. 

Eugene is a reminder of why Egan remains one of the most imaginative sci-fi writers out there. Always willing to push boundaries, but rarely at the expense of a good story.

Bridezilla by Kim Fu

Runaway Bride

In an effort to broaden my reading horizons, I have been trying to explore more contemporary short-story writers. Kim Fu’s newest collection, Lesser Known Monsters of the 21st Century, jumped out at me, partly because of the interesting title and partly because she’s Asian-Canadian. Bonus. Bridezilla, one of the stories in the collection, ended up being a decent read: quirky, succinct and tinged with just enough speculative weirdness to keep things interesting.

A giant sea creature has suddenly risen from the ocean and seized global attention. Yet, for Leah and her boyfriend Arthur, life keeps plodding along in its normal, earthbound, humdrum way. They have decided to get married, though “decided” is maybe generous. It’s more like they have just accepted that marriage is what you’re supposed to do once you hit a certain age and have been dating long enough. The might not exactly be super compatible and often seem bored in each other's company but there’s also safety, stability and predictability, which sometimes feels like enough.

The sea monster metaphor works well enough in the context of the story's themes of female autonomy and societal pressures. The emergence of the sea monster throws the couple's engagement into sharp relief. Here’s this awe-inspiring, world-shaking event happening in the background, and yet Leah is bogged down in the minutiae of choosing flowers and venues. The contrast exposes how arbitrary and performative these traditional milestones can feel. As Leah watches the world obsess over this inexplicable creature, she starts questioning whether marriage is something she genuinely wants. 

I won’t spoil the ending but Leah does reach a moment of release. Just not in the tidy, empowering way she might have imagined. Fu plays with the idea that breaking free of expectations doesn’t always look heroic; sometimes it’s unsettling, messy, or even monstrous in its own right.

Bridezilla wasn’t earth-shattering, but it was intriguing enough that I’m curious to see what else Fu does in the rest of the collection. If nothing else, she knows how to combine human anxieties with just the right amount of speculative oddity, which is a pretty compelling combo.

You can read this story HERE.

Housewife by Amy Hempel

Jules et Jim.

Flash fiction really doesn't do much for me. I can appreciate the craft behind it and I’m all for brevity but there’s a point where minimalism starts to feel less like storytelling and more like a writing prompt scribbled on a Post-it. Amy Hempel’s Housewife falls squarely into that territory for me. It’s a single sentence, so slight it practically floats away. A woman is having an affair and the most intriguing part is her habit of whispering “French film” to herself, like she’s casting a spell.

Here is the story and see what you make of it:

|"She would always sleep with her husband and with another man in the course of the same day, and then the rest of the day, for whatever was left to her that day, she would exploit by incanting, “French film, French film.”|

Is there supposed to be a hidden depth here, or is Hempel simply trolling the reader, inviting us to dig for meaning that may not actually be there?

Honestly, I still can’t make heads or tails of it. Similar to a lot of flash fiction I’ve read, I doubt it’s going to stick with me. But the mention of “French film” did at least nudge my brain back toward French New Wave cinema of the 1960s/1970s. Those dreamy, messy, wonderfully impulsive films like Jules et Jim and Breathless. Maybe that’s the connection: the sense of romantic chaos, the blurred lines between passion and routine, the way life feels like a series of jump cuts. If nothing else, it reminded me that I’m probably overdue for a rewatch. 

So I guess that’s something.

Mr. Voice by Jess Walter

Demi Moore, circa 1970's.

I’m not familiar with Jess Walter’s work and as the final story in The Best American Short Stories 2015 (edited by T.C. Boyle), Mr. Voice was slightly underwhelming. Enjoyable enough but not exactly fireworks.

The narrator reflects on her 1970s adolescence, a time when her single mother is locally famous for being an absolute “stunner.” Men orbit her like confused moths around a porch light, so naturally the entire town (daughter included) is baffled when Mom chooses to marry a decidedly average-looking radio announcer, nicknamed “Mr. Voice” because he is famous on the radio.

What follows is a slice of the narrator’s puberty years as she adjusts to life with her new stepdad and even develops a confusing crush on her stepbrother. Walter sidesteps a few obvious clichés and while the story leans heavily on exposition (lots of this happened, then that happened), it somehow doesn't feel entirely bogged down. There is a natural rhythm and flow to the story with a somewhat compelling narrative voice. The emotional beats might have landed more sharply with a more subtle approach, but hey, maybe that’s just my preference.

Still, there are some humorous and unexpected moments that give the story a bit of heart. Running beneath it all are the gender politics and challenges of being a teenage girl in a world built on patriarchal expectations. Where everyone seems a little too comfortable policing women’s choices while ignoring the everyday dangers they face in the presence of men. The story brushes up against the era’s casual sexism and the ambient threat of male predation in a way that feels accurate, even if it isn’t explored as deeply as it could be. 

A decent short story, but not one that’s going to take up long-term residency in my brain. As a side note, I genuinely assumed Jess Walter was a woman (the name fooled me), and I have to admit, he writes a pretty convincing female perspective for a straight guy. That’s something! Not that an author’s gender has any real bearing on the quality of the story, of course. It just made me chuckle at my own assumption.

Death Constant Beyond Love by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

"The world's a stage."

As far as political satires go, Death Constant Beyond Love by Gabriel García Márquez is a remarkable achievement and has officially climbed its way onto my list of favorite short stories. Márquez somehow manages to pack a whole telenovela’s worth of drama, irony, and political shade into just a few pages and the result is nothing short of masterful.

Senator Onesimo Sanchez's desperate attempt to cheat death by falling for the beautiful Laura Farina is loaded with irony. He’s a corrupt politician, used to manipulating the populous of this "illusory village" called Rosal del Virrey. He and bending reality with flashy campaigns, yet here he is thinking he can negotiate with mortality the same way he bargains for votes. Spoiler alert: death does not negotiate and the wonderfully acerbic opening sentence sets the narrative tone: 

"Senator Onesimo Sanchez had six months and eleven days to go before his death when he found the woman of his life." 

What makes the story even more compelling is how Márquez integrates political corruption directly into its emotional core. The mayor’s re-election campaign turns the village into a traveling carnival of deceit, complete with cheap theatrics. He delivers grandiose promises, like an overzealous stage performer (he even recites empty quotes from Marcus Aurelius' Meditations), relying on cardboard sets that literally mask the town’s poverty, described by the narrator as an entire “superimposed cardboard town” built to hide the truth. He’s a fraud, and though no one is fooled, he still rules with an iron fist. Everything gleams on the surface, but underneath it’s hollow, decaying, and propped up only by his power and the villagers’ fear.

Then there’s the whole dynamic of lust and power, which Márquez handles with that trademark magical realism, myth and folklore. The senator is powerful enough to move entire communities and intimidate the local crook, yet he’s utterly undone by Laura. This young woman who becomes both an object of desire and a reminder of what he can’t control. Their connection is uncomfortable, a little creepy and intentionally framed within systems of coercion. Even when the moments feel tender, the imbalance is impossible to ignore. Lust in this story is transactional, symbolic, and often a tool in the political game. 

The senator’s love affair cannot save him or redeem his ugly qualities. His corruption, so carefully staged and propped up, ultimately caves in on him just like those cardboard houses. Death is the one force he can’t manipulate or outmaneuver and Márquez drives that point home with unflinching precision.

Overall, the story strikes a pitch-perfect balance of ironic humor and biting cynicism, delivered with that wonderfully sardonic touch only Márquez manages so effortlessly. It mocks the absurdity of political pageantry, exposes the spiritual emptiness behind authority, and underscores how human mortality can topple even the most powerful men. It’s sharp, clever, thematically rich, and such a satisfying read from start to finish.

The Paladin of the Lost Hour by Harlan Ellison

"I love the smell of napalm in the morning."

I really wanted to enjoy The Paladin of the Lost Hour by Harlan Ellison a lot more than I did. Truly. It opens with a genuinely intriguing premise and for a moment I thought this could turn into an interesting time-travel narrative. Unfortunately, I was wrong. Instead, it becomes a meandering and silly mess that never quite finds its way back.

Billy Kinetta is visiting the grave of an army buddy when he spots, from a distance, a group of hooligans beating up an old man. Naturally, he rushes in and rescues him, Ellison-style, which means things get pretty violent pretty fast. Billy later discovers that this old man is a Paladin, the appointed guardian of a magical pocket watch that supposedly contains a “lost hour” of time. 

Sounds cool on paper, right?

This is where the time-travel/science-fiction stuff starts getting muddy. The logic behind the “lost hour” hinges on Pope Gregory XIII abolishing the Julian calendar in 1582, causing one hour to somehow become detached from time and stored inside this watch. This watch must never be used or else the entire universe collapses. I think? Honestly, it’s all presented in this grand, mystical way that suggests it should feel profound, but the more you think about it, the less any of it makes sense. The mechanics are hand-wavey to the point of dissolving entirely and the mythology Ellison tries to build around falls flat. The story wants to be cosmic and metaphysical but the actual science-fiction scaffolding is so flimsy that the whole thing wobbles.

The story actually works better (not to mention more coherently) when it digs into Billy’s trauma and survivor’s guilt during the Vietnam war. Those moments are surprisingly heartfelt, grounded, and affecting in ways the magical pocket-watch lore never manages to be. If Ellison had ditched the science-fiction and leaned fully into the emotional core, I think the story might have been far stronger.

You can read this story HERE. 

Guests of the Nation by Frank O'Connor

"Well chums, what about it?"

I guess third time really is the charm. Guests of the Nation by Frank O’Connor completely surprised me (in the best way possible) and now I must reluctantly admit that perhaps I misjudged the guy as a short-story writer. I’m not fully on the bandwagon yet, but at this rate I might as well save myself a seat.

It’s hard not to read this story as openly anti-war, calling out the absurdity and brutality of conflict through sharp irony. Our narrator, Bonaparte, and his partner Noble are tasked with guarding two English prisoners, Hawkins and Belcher, in a rural cottage (even the names are ironic). And instead of the tense, hostile standoff you might expect, it’s surprisingly wholesome? At least during the first-half of the story. They do chores together, argue politics, play cards, and even dip into theology. It’s more like a slightly chaotic roommates-situation than anything resembling a war story.

This is where O’Connor’s humor really sneaks in, creating a lightheartedness in those small domestic moments, the playful banter, the genuine camaraderie between a group of men who, by all logic, should probably hate each other. He leans into the irony of it all: sworn enemies becoming something dangerously close to friends. So when the order comes down from above that Hawkins and Belcher must be executed in retaliation for British actions, the emotional whiplash hits twice as hard. The lightness of the earlier scenes doesn’t cushion the blow; rather, it sharpens it, making the tragic ending even more emotionally impactful. 

O’Connor’s writing is wry, warm, and deceptively funny, which only makes the final moments feel more gutting. It’s a heartbreaking reminder that war can take even the most human, genuine connections and destroy them through military conformity, defying all logic and reason.

You can read this story HERE.