Two Days by Aimee Bender

Is this considered emotional minimalism? I’m not totally sure, but it certainly feels like it. Two Days by Aimee Bender is a quick read although for me, comes across as slightly innocuous. The plot itself is deliberately small: the narrator has a meet-cute with a guy in a bookstore, they hit it off and make plans for a sweet, low-stakes beach date the next day. That’s basically it and that sparseness feels intentional.

Bender captures the awkward choreography of two young people meeting for the first time: the hesitant small talk, the white lies, the little embellishments meant to make oneself seem more interesting or appealing. There’s no big drama here, just nervous energy and the gentle performance of early attraction. 

As the beach date winds down, the narrator realizes that the chemistry and emotional connection isn't quite there. Nothing goes wrong exactly; it’s more that nothing deep ever really takes hold. That realization gives the story its bittersweet core. They share a romantic kiss at the beach, but they both acknowledge this moment as a closing gesture rather than a beginning.

The relationship lasts only two days (hence the title), and the story resists turning that brevity into something tragic or profound. Instead, it treats the experience as a small detour in the narrator’s life. You get the sense she’ll be fine. Sure, maybe slightly disappointed, maybe a little wistful, but already moving forward. Bender establishes a faint, underlying melancholy throughout, but it’s deliberately understated, almost held at arm’s length. That emotional minimalism keeps everything light and ephemeral, perhaps a little too light for my liking. While that narrative approach mirrors the fleeting nature of the relationship, it never quite resonated on a deeper emotional level for me. I appreciated the precision and restraint, but I was left wanting something more. 

You can read this story HERE.

Deal Me In: Short-Stories Challenge 2026!!

It’s pretty wild that my first time taking part in the Deal Me In short-stories challenge was all the way back in 2015! That feels like a lifetime ago and another internet era back when blogrolls mattered, comment sections were lively, and discovering new literary works often meant stumbling onto them through someone else’s post. This challenge was started by Jay over at Bibliophilopolis, and while I’m not sure whether he’s stepped away from blogging altogether, I still think fondly of those early days and the sense of connection they brought.

I would be truly honored to carry the torch and keep Deal Me In going. During its heyday, this challenge felt like a shared ritual: drawing a card, finding a story, reading it with intention, and then gathering in the comments to talk it through. It was such a joy discovering short stories I never would have picked up otherwise. It would be so cool to see a bit of that old magic return, so please help spread the word and jump in! 

What is the goal of this challenge?

To read 52 short stories in 2026. That’s only one per week, which should be manageable. 

What do I need?

1. Access to at least fifty-two short stories (don’t own any short story collections or anthologies? You can find plenty of them online for free).
2. A deck of cards.
3. An average of perhaps just thirty minutes of reading time each week.

How do I pick which stories to read?

The 52 stories themselves are totally up to you. Before you get start reading, come up with a roster of fifty-two stories and assign each one to a playing card in a standard deck of cards. It can be fun to use different suits for different types of stories, but that is optional. Each “week,” (if you’re like me, you may occasionally fall a story or two behind) you draw a card at random from your deck and that is the story you will read. 

How do I sign up?

Anyone can join even if you don't have a blog. Leave a comment below with any links (blogs, website, social media, goodreads, etc) and I will try my best to share them all in a weekly wrap up post.

Happy short-story reading everyone!

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This year, I decided to go with four different categories: A Century of Fiction in the New Yorker (anthology), Hugo Award Winners, The Black Fantastic (Anthology) and Ray Bradbury + Ursula Le Guin.

Spades ♠: A Century of Fiction in the New Yorker (anthology)

A ♠ – A Perfect Day for Bananafish by J.D. Salinger

2 ♠ –  The House of the Famous Poet by Muriel Spark

3 ♠ – The Secret Life of Walter Mitty by James Thurber 

4 ♠ – Children are Bored on Sunday by Jean Stafford

5 ♠ – The Ladder by V.S. Pritchett

6 ♠ – The State of Grace by Harold Brodkey

7 ♠ – I Live on Your Visits by Dorothy Parker

8 ♠ – Voices Lost in Snow by Mavis Gallant

9 ♠ – Father's Last Escape by Bruno Schulz

10 ♠ – Red Girl by Jamaica Kincaid

J ♠ – All Will Be Well by Yiyun Li

Q ♠ – Last Evenings on Earth by Roberto Bolano

K ♠ – Going for a Beer by Robert Coover

Hearts ❤:  The Black Fantastic (Anthology) 

A ❤ – Herbal by Nalo Hopkinson

2 ❤ –  The Hospital Where by Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah

3 ❤ – Tender by Sofia Samatar

4 ❤ – The Final Flight of the Unicorn Girl by Alex Smith

5 ❤ – Habibi by Tochi Onyebuchi

6 ❤ – All That Touches the Air by An Owomoyela

7 ❤ – Sanford and Sun by Dawolu Jabari Anderson

8 ❤ – The Malady of Need of Kiini Ibura Salaam

9 ❤ – The Venus Effect by Violet Allen

10 ❤– The Secret Lives of the Nine Negro Teeth of George Washington by Phenderson Djeli Clark

J ❤ – Calendar Girls by Justina Ireland

Q ❤ –  Spyder Threads by Craig Laurance Gidney

K ❤ – We Travel the Spaceways by Victor Lavalle

Clubs ♣:  Hugo Award Winners

A ♣ – Stitched to Skin Like Family Is by Nghi Vo (2025 winner)

2 ♣ –  Fermi and Frost by Frederick Pohl (1986 Winner)

3 ♣ –  The Water That Falls On You From Nowhere by John Chu (2014 Winner)

4 ♣– Even the Queen by Connie Willis (1992 winner)

5 ♣ – A Study in Emerald by Neil Gaiman (2004 Winner)

6 ♣ – Seasons of Glass and Iron by Amal El-Mohtar (2017 Winner)

7 ♣ – As the Last I May Know by S.L. Huang (2020 Winner)

8 ♣ – Eurema's Dam by R.A. Lafferty (1973 Winner)

9 ♣ – Cassandra by C.J. Cherryh (1979 Winner)

10 ♣ – The Crystal Spheres by David Brin (1985 Winner)

J ♣ –  Bridesicle by Will McIntosh (2010 Winner) 

Q ♣ – Why I Left Harry's All-Night Hamburgers by Lawrence Watt-Evans (1988 Winner)

K ♣ – Exhalation by Ted Chiang (2009 Winner)

Diamonds ♦: Ray Bradbury + Ursula Le Guin

A ♦ – Season of Disbelief by Ray Bradbury

2 ♦ – The Matter of Seggri by Ursula Le Guin

3 ♦ – And the Rock Cried Out by Ray Bradbury

4 ♦ –  The Diary of the Rose by Ursula Le Guin

5 ♦ – The Emissary by Ray Bradbury

6 ♦ –  Vaster than Empires and More Slow by Ursula Le Guin

7 ♦ –  One More, Legato by Ray Bradbury

8 ♦ – Unlocking the Air by Ursula Le Guin

9 ♦ – The Cistern by Ray Bradbury

10 ♦ – Solitude by Ursula Le Guin

J ♦ – Icarus Montgolfier Wright by Ray Bradbury

Q ♦ – The Rule of Names by Ursula Le Guin

K ♦ – The Smiling People by Ray Bradbury

In a Tub by Amy Hempel

In a Tub is another very short story by Amy Hempel, who continues to prove just how much she can compress into such a small narrative space. In just a few paragraphs, she captures the overwhelming, disorienting feeling of a sudden panic attack with unsettling accuracy. The story is made up mostly of somber observations and quiet reflections with the narrator grasping for some sense of stability. Anything that might ground her when her mind starts to spiral.

I don’t read the narrator as having suicidal ideations. Instead, submerging herself under the water feels more like a coping mechanism; a kind of improvised meditation, or emotional self-regulation when anxiety becomes too loud to manage any other way. There’s something deeply relatable about that impulse: the desire to mute the world, to slow your breathing, to find a brief pocket of control when your body feels like it’s betraying you.

That idea really crystallizes in the final line: “Then you take a deep breath, and slide your head under, and listen for the playfulness of your heart.” It suggests stillness, calm, and attentiveness to the body rather than fear of it. Not a cure, not a permanent solution. Just a momentary pause. A small, fragile release from the weight of the world, and sometimes that’s enough to get through the next minute.

You can read this story HERE.

The Whole Town's Sleeping by Ray Bradbury

Curfew is in effect.

I didn’t really care much for this one. Its depiction of small-town paranoia and gender politics felt silly and over-the-top to me. Maybe that was the point, but it just didn’t land. Instead of unsettling, it often felt a bit contrived, which made it hard for me to fully buy into the tension Bradbury was clearly aiming for.

Bradbury’s title is interesting though. The Whole Town’s Sleeping uses the possessive, reframing sleep as something the town actively claims, chooses, and protects, despite the moral implications of doing so. There’s a serial killer on the loose, specifically targeting women. People are on edge and yet not willing to do much about it. Even the local authorities are useless. Metaphorically speaking, the town would rather stay asleep than confront the situation head-on. Locking doors, turning off lights, and hiding indoors become coordinated behaviors. The possessive suggests intentional withdrawal, not ignorance.

This metaphor comes into sharper focus through Lavinia. She’s dangerous to the town’s “sleep” because her wakefulness threatens the collective decision to remain comfortably unconscious. Perhaps that is why the town’s anxiety feels passive-aggressive rather than genuinely protective. I also couldn’t help but chuckle at the fact that Lavinia is in her 30s and considered a spinster. Although, to be fair, gender norms were obviously very different back then. As an independent woman without a husband to answer to, her decision to stay out late marks her as an outlier. She disrupts the social order and the town’s fragile sense of safety. Despite the vocal objections of her friends and neighbors, she insists on asserting her autonomy. She refuses to play by the rules, which, unsurprisingly, lands her in trouble when she has to walk home alone.

The killer, in a sense, exploits a darkness the town itself has helped manufacture. Bradbury subtly suggests that evil here isn’t some outside force invading the community; it’s the natural byproduct of people choosing comfort over vigilance. As Lavinia’s paranoia ramps up, her earlier confidence begins to erode. Eventually, she’s convinced the killer has been stalking her all along. The story shifts into something resembling a slasher film: she’s terrified, running for her life from an ominous figure who may or may not even be real.

This is where the story lost me the most. The whole chase scene dragged on and Lavina's hysterics were irritating, taking me completely out of the story. Lavinia is completely on her own; not just physically, but morally. The town is sleeping, after all. They can’t help her, and more importantly, they don’t really want to. From their perspective, she brought this on herself by stepping outside the boundaries established by the collective. The twist ending felt pretty obvious to me, and that predictability drained the final moments of any real impact. Instead of feeling disturbed or reflective, I mostly felt underwhelmed. 

You can read this story HERE.

The Drummer Boy of Shiloh by Ray Bradbury

pa-rum pum pum pum, me and my drum.

The Battle of Shiloh was one of the bloodiest and most significant victories for the Union during the American Civil War, with devastating casualties on both sides. I ended up learning more about it after doing some background research, sparked by another short story I recently read called “Shiloh” by Bobbie Ann Mason (review forthcoming). Even though both stories share the same historical location (Shiloh, Tennessee), they couldn’t be more different.

In Bradbury’s story, the point of view belongs to a young boy named Joby, enlisted in the army. It's unclear to me whether he’s fighting for the Union or the Confederacy (maybe someone with sharper Civil War knowledge could clear that up), but what is clear is that he doesn’t belong on the battlefield. He isn’t a trained soldier, he doesn’t have a gun or ride with the cavalry, and he’s utterly terrified. There’s a painful dramatic irony at work here: as readers, we know he’s about to walk into one of the bloodiest battles of the war and the likelihood of his survival feels slim from the start. As the title suggests, Joby is a drummer boy, tasked with keeping rhythm and morale as the troops march forward. His role is symbolic rather than combative, yet no less dangerous. He is expected to inspire courage for everyone else while barely holding onto his own.

The emotional centerpiece of the story is the conversation between Joby and the general in the army camp just before dawn, moments before the battle begins. The general does most of the talking, delivering a somber, eloquent monologue about duty, sacrifice, and the importance of the drummer boy as the “heart of the army.” It’s a deeply patriotic speech and feels very American in tone, but it’s also tender in an unexpected way. Rather than glorifying violence, it seems designed to steady Joby’s fear and give him just enough courage to fulfill his role. In that moment, Bradbury captures the uneasy intersection of innocence and obligation that defines so much of the story.

Bradbury’s poetic prose truly shines in his descriptions of the natural world surrounding the camp. He lingers on images of bright blossoms, orchard trees, and the calm stillness before sunrise, crafting a setting that feels almost idyllic. This beauty stands in stark contrast to the brutal violence we know is imminent, and that contrast is what makes the imagery so haunting. The peaceful landscape feels fragile, as if it’s already mourning what’s about to happen. Bradbury uses this elegance not to soften the horror of war, but to sharpen it, imbuing the story with a pervasive sense of loss and inevitability. The final image—peach blossoms drifting down onto Joby’s drum as he marches toward battle—is quite powerful. It’s delicate, heartbreaking, perfectly encapsulating Bradbury’s ability to use poetic imagery to expose the tragedy beneath the noise of war.

My Brother at the Canadian Border by Sholeh Wolpe

Borderlands.

My Brother at the Canadian Border by Sholeh Wolpe comes across more like a prose poem than a short-story, especially the narrative structure and syntax. It’s pure satire, poking fun at white privilege through comical absurdity. The piece highlights how ignorance and entitlement often travel together, especially when whiteness is along for the ride (literally and figuratively).

The speaker’s brother and his friend are described as having “PhDs and little sense,” which is funny on its own, but the real joke is that their lack of sense is completely cushioned by their whiteness. As the brother, his friend, and the speaker cross into Canada, there’s a hazy sense that they might be a little too high for their own good. So when border patrol asks where they are headed and they answer “Mexico,” the response they get isn’t anger or punishment, just mild confusion. Whiteness, here, allows for stupidity, arrogance, and even suspicion without real consequences. If these guys were Black and tried pulling something like this at the border, the situation would almost certainly turn dangerous, fast.

What makes the satire especially sharp is the brother’s in-between status. His olive skin and hazel eyes mark him as technically white, but not automatically so. When the officer finally declares, “You are white,” the moment reads like unexpected affirmation. It’s an official stamp of safety, mobility, and forgiveness. The joke lands hardest at the end, when the brother has his over-the-top revelation: “I am white I can go anywhere / Do anything.” The repetition feels almost religious, like a conversion or awakening.

Or maybe I’m reading way too much into it and Wolpe just wanted to poetically capture a group of young men getting extremely high while crossing the Canadian border. Either way, it's quite funny.

You can read this story HERE.

The Fog Horn by Ray Bradbury

Pattinson and Dafoe in Roger Eggers' The Lighthouse.

Continuing with our Ray Bradbury short-stories for the week, next up is The Fog Horn. I seem to recall not enjoying this one as much when I first read it and revisiting it again after so many years has certainly changed my opinion. This is an excellent story just dripping in atmosphere, evoked by such enchanting poetic prose. 

I couldn’t help wondering if Robert Eggers’ The Lighthouse was influenced by this Ray Bradbury short story. Not so much in terms of plot, but in the way it conjures a haunting, claustrophobic atmosphere that feels steeped in eeriness and mystery, like something unfolding inside a fever dream. There are a few surface similarities, too: two men stationed at an isolated lighthouse, one a younger, newly appointed apprentice taken under the wing of an older lighthouse keeper with a distinctly eccentric personality.

In Bradbury’s story, McDunn has a flair for dramatic monologues and spinning tall tales about the sleeping gods of the deep. He has a secret he’s been guarding for years, something that feels ripped straight from a Jules Verne novel. The narrator is both bewildered and entranced by him, never quite sure if McDunn is a harmless old man slipping into madness or the sole witness to an ancient sea monster that rises from its slumber once a year to commune with the lighthouse’s foghorn.

Their intense encounter with the creature is pretty good stuff although what is most memorable here is the suffocating mood Bradbury creates around it all. His poetic prose drips with unease, delirium, and a creeping sense of cosmic dread, until the men’s encounter with the beast almost feels secondary to the oppressive atmosphere pressing in from all sides. The story leaves you suspended in that uneasy space between wonder and terror, where the sea feels alive, watchful, and profoundly indifferent.

You can read this story HERE.

The Dwarf by Ray Bradbury

Mirror, Mirror on the wall...

I'm not quite sure what to make of this one. Ray Bradbury has real talent for dipping into the macabre, and The Dwarf certainly fits that category. It’s surreal, disorienting, and totally bizarre. Set in a carnival, the story follows Aimee, one of the employees at the ticket booth, who becomes fascinated with a dwarf who visits the mirror maze every night. Inside the maze, illusion becomes a kind of refuge for him. The mirrors reshape his reflection so that for once in his life, he sees himself as tall, confident, even handsome.

The mirror symbolism is pretty obvious, maybe even a bit on the nose. However, it still effectively underscores the story’s core ideas including self-worth, superficiality, loneliness, and a fractured sense of identity. That brief moment of altered reflection gives the dwarf something the harsh world never does: dignity and a sense of belonging. For a brief moment, he doesn't feel like a circus freak or an outsider, prone to ridicule by others. Aimee, moved by his plight, grows emotionally attached to him and genuinely wants to help. She even tries to buy him a similar mirror for his home, which feels like a sincere, if somewhat naïve, act of kindness.

Unfortunately, her compassion sparks jealousy in the carnival manager, who harbors his own crush on her. His resentment curdles into cruelty, and he retaliates by pulling a vicious prank by swapping the flattering mirrors for ones that grotesquely shrink and distort the viewer’s reflection. When the dwarf returns the next night, the result is devastating. What was once comfort turns into public humiliation. The ending is left deliberately ambiguous. After fleeing the maze, the dwarf steals a weapon from another booth and we are left wondering what comes next. Will he seek revenge for the cruelty inflicted on him, or is his pain turned inward? Personally, I am leaning more towards the former because it would make for a great villain origin story. As long as the sequel isn't like one of those terrible Leprechaun movies, we should be good.  

Bradbury’s prose, as expected, is elegant and restrained with that signature poetic touch. Still, despite its strong atmosphere and heavy themes, the story itself felt a little underwhelming to me. It was missing that final emotional punch that would really make it memorable. The ideas are compelling enough, but the impact never quite reaches the level the setup promises.

Bogart by V.S. Naipul

The Maltese Falcon.

Humphrey Bogart was arguably the biggest leading man of Hollywood’s Golden Age in the 1930s and '40s. He was the definition of cool: sharp suits, cigarette always in hand, effortlessly world-weary. If you somehow haven’t seen Casablanca or The Maltese Falcon, what are you doing? These are classics for a reason. Fittingly, Bogart is also the opening story in V. S. Naipaul’s Miguel Street, a series of interconnected short stories set in Trinidad. From the very start, the influence of American pop culture (especially old Hollywood) looms large, filtering into everyday Caribbean life in subtle but telling ways.

I’m half Trinidadian, so I was naturally curious to read something by a Trini author, especially since the list feels pretty short to me beyond names like Sam Selvon. Naipaul’s writing here is very spare with no fluff and no excess, which makes it a breezy read. The story is driven almost entirely by snappy dialogue, peppered with Trini vernacular. There’s no heavy patois, so it’s easy to follow, though it does give the whole thing a very distinct rhythm and voice. I might be wrong, but it does feel like Naipaul is writing with a Western audience in mind, offering just brief, curated glimpses into these characters’ lives rather than fully immersing us in them.

As with many interconnected short-story collections, this one can feel a little incomplete on its own. More like a sketch than a fully fleshed-out portrait. We are introduced to characters who will presumably reappear later: Hat, Popo, Eddoes, Boyee, Errol, and of course, Bogart. Interestingly, we rarely get real names. Instead, many of the characters go by nicknames, some clearly inspired by famous Hollywood actors. It’s a small detail, showing how deeply American movies and celebrity culture had seeped into the local imagination, shaping identities thousands of miles away from Los Angeles.

Bogart himself is an enigma within the neighborhood. He’s mysterious, often disappearing for months at a time only to suddenly resurface. He barely talks, likes playing cards, enjoys women, and generally keeps everyone guessing. Eventually, he’s arrested for bigamy, which lands with more of a shrug than a shock. That's kind of it, really. Because the story is so slight, it’s hard for me to say much about deeper themes or social commentary just yet. It feels more like a character introduction, merely setting the stage for what's to come. I’m hoping that as I read further into Miguel Street, I’ll get a clearer sense of what Naipaul is trying to achieve here and how all these small, seemingly simple stories come together to say something larger about the diaspora, masculinity and Caribbean identity.

Marionettes Inc. by Ray Bradbury

Master of Puppets, I'm pulling your strings.

It’s been a lot of fun revisiting some of my favorite Ray Bradbury short stories, many of which I first read over 20 years ago (gosh, I feel really old). My reading habits and preferences have changed drastically since then, so it has also been interesting to see whether my opinions have shifted at all. Some of these stories hold up well and are just as good as I remember; others, not so much. I’m happy to report that Marionettes, Inc. firmly falls into the former category. It creeped me out back then and my reaction this time around was pretty much the same.

This is a deeply sinister little tale, blending horror with a generous dose of dark humor. It's an area where Bradbury truly shines. He has a remarkable ability to take an idea that sounds odd, even a little silly on the surface, and slowly twist it into something profoundly unsettling. His horror doesn’t rely on cheap scares; instead, it seeps in gradually, tapping into discomfort, dread, and the awful feeling that something is very wrong.

Here, Bradbury takes aim at male selfishness and hubris, particularly within the confines of marriage. Braling, the main character, feels trapped in a loveless relationship and can’t stand being around his wife, whom he views as a nuisance and an obstacle to his happiness. His dream is to escape to Brazil, but of course, that’s impossible because his wife is far too demanding and takes up all his time. Divorce would be the most sensible option, but no, Instead, he turns to a shady corporation that specializes in creating lifelike clones. Problem solved: Braling Two can stay home with the wife, while the real Braling enjoys his newfound freedom.

Naturally, Braling is confident that this plan is foolproof and that absolutely nothing could go wrong. His friend Smith is fascinated by the idea and can't wait to get a clone of his own because he is also dealing with his marital issues. While the premise teeters on the edge of camp, Bradbury treats it with complete seriousness, creating an atmosphere thick with dread and inevitability. The creepiness is subtle but highly effective, and the sinister twists land beautifully for both characters. Marionettes, Inc. is an eerie and surprisingly funny piece of sci-fi horror. 

Amusements by Sherman Alexie

Crazy mirrors.

In Amusements, Victor returns as the narrator, this time spending the evening at a local carnival with his cousin Sadie. They stumble upon their drunk relative, “Dirty Joe,” passed out on the grass while the other ticketholders (mostly white) completely ignore him. To them, he’s just another drunk Indian acting a fool. Victor and Sadie decide the best solution is to bribe the roller-coaster operator and strap Dirty Joe into a ride, hoping the thrill will sober him up fast. It’s a funny premise with some great comedic moments, especially as the two of them argue over what to do with their inebriated relative. But beneath the dark humor, that familiar sense of sadness creeps in again, a common feature that runs through so many of Sherman Alexie’s stories.

Alexie has explored racial discrimination before, but here it’s handled with a a more playful edge. There’s a great scene near the end where Victor runs from security guards who immediately assume that, since he’s Indigenous, he must be involved in the roller-coaster stunt. They are technically right, but the speed of their assumption says everything. Victor becomes an easy target, not because of what he’s done, but because of who he is based on skin color. He hides in a fun house filled with warped mirrors that stretch and twist his reflection, turning the moment into a powerful metaphor. Victor sees himself fractured—caught between wanting to distance himself from his cultural identity and knowing he can never fully escape it. The story captures that painful tension of trying to blend into whiteness while carrying shame, fear, and embarrassment about being visibly Indigenous in a world that is always watching, judging, and ready to misunderstand him.

Somebody Kept Saying Powwow by Sherman Alexie

Pete Rose.

Two five-star reviews in a row? I don't think that has ever happened before on this blog.

Sherman Alexie is one hell of a short-story writer, and Somebody Kept Saying Powwow is yet another knockout in a collection already packed with brilliant stories. His trademark style of stark realism mixed with witty, often dark humor is such a joy to read. The prose flows so effortlessly that he makes it look easy, even when he’s tackling heavy material. At this point, it’s safe to say The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven is shaping up to be one of the best short-story collections I have ever read.

The first-person narration is especially strong here with the story told from Junior’s perspective, giving us another intimate look at life on the reservation. Alexie walks a fine line, balancing comedy and heartbreak with remarkable control. He has a fantastic ear for natural, realistic dialogue; lines that can be laugh-out-loud funny one moment and devastating the next. You’ll find yourself laughing, only for the sadness beneath the humor to sneak up on you before you realize it.

Junior reflects on his platonic relationship with Norma before she married James Many Horses. Although she isn’t much older than him, she’s considered an elder in the community because of her wisdom, generosity, and deep sense of responsibility toward others. Junior clearly admires her and harbors a bit of a crush as he jumps from anecdote to anecdote about her life, while interconnected with moments from his own experiences growing up in this community. This approach can feel digressive at times, but it never drifts aimlessly. In just a few pages, Alexie gives us a vivid sense of who Norma is as a person, what she believes in, and why she’s so deeply respected.

Junior even wonders why Norma never ended up with Victor, another familiar character from the collection, since she’s a healer and Victor, as an alcoholic, could have used a lot of healing. Victor makes a brief but memorable appearance, stumbling drunk into the local watering hole. It’s a funny scene, but also a deeply sad one. This is classic Alexie, finding humor without letting us forget the pain underneath.

Through Junior's reflections and having access to his inner world, he becomes a fully fleshed-out character as well. At one point he confesses a shameful memory from his youth, when he was an all-star basketball player who bullied an opposing player. He still harbors guilt about his unethical behavior and Alexie effectively captures that long-lasting remorse. This brings us to the importance of Pete Rose in the story. He was one of the greatest baseball players of all time, whose legacy was tarnished by a gambling scandal. Norma compares Junior to Pete Rose: someone who achieved greatness, but one mistake ends up defining how others see him, a stain on their character that is impossible to shake. It’s a sharp, heartbreaking comparison,  perfectly encapsulating what Alexie does best: mixing humor, empathy, and social commentary together in a voice that feels completely his own, treating these flawed characters with such honesty and compassion. 

The Rocket Man by Ray Bradbury

And I think it's gonna be a long, long time

I have that Elton John song stuck in my head ever since reading this. It’s a Ray Bradbury double feature kind of day, which is always a treat. The Rocket Man is absolutely wonderful, maybe even one of his very best short stories. It definitely deserves to be in that upper-tier category, for sure. 

This is a simple story, but it’s also haunting, tender, and heartbreaking. It centers on a fractured family: a son, his mother, and a father whose job takes him far beyond Earth. He’s a space explorer, constantly traveling from planet to planet, and that life leaves very little room for rest, stability, or real connection. When he does return home, it’s only temporary, and even then, the family never quite feels whole. There’s always the knowledge that he will be leaving again.

The mother lives in a constant state of quiet agony. The only way she can psychologically survive the cycle of reunion and departure is by pretending her husband is already dead. It's a coping mechanism because if she can accept that loss upfront, maybe it won’t hurt as much when he leaves for real.

The father exists in a liminal space, never fully grounded in Earth-time. His life belongs to the stars, and while he loves his family, he can’t fully inhabit their world. When he’s home, he’s distant and withdrawn. He spends hours in his garden, digging into the soil, desperately trying to anchor himself to Earth, to feel rooted somewhere. But it never quite works. He’s always looking up at the sky, torn between wanting to stay and feeling the pull of the rocket ship calling him back. His purpose has given his life meaning, but it has also created an unbridgeable distance between him and the people he loves.

Then there’s Doug, the son, who longs for a father figure who can truly be there for him, especially during these formidable years. As the story unfolds, he begins to understand that this is likely all he’ll ever get. These brief visits, half-presence, borrowed moments. Doug learns to treasure what little time he has with his father, knowing it’s fleeting. That awareness of loving someone while already grieving their absence, gives the story its palpable, crushing power.

So much of The Rocket Man is built around stillness and silence: small moments loaded with unspoken longing, scenes of connection that never quite materialize into something substantial. The yearning is constant, and fulfillment always feels just out of reach. It’s understated and emotionally devastating. Once again, Bradbury’s short-story magic shines bright. His prose flows with such ease, leaving a lingering ache long after the final page.

The Other Foot by Ray Bradbury

Space is the Place. - Sun Ra

If you can suspend your disbelief, forget everything we know about Mars as a completely uninhabitable rock and read The Other Foot purely as an allegory about racism in America, you might enjoy this Ray Bradbury story more than I did. Science-wise, it’s complete nonsense, but Bradbury isn’t interested in astrophysics here. He’s using sci-fi as a moral sandbox, and that’s where things get interesting.

The premise is bold: Black people have left Earth and built a peaceful, thriving civilization on Mars. With white people gone, racism disappears. Life is idyllic, equality is the norm, and oppression is something that exists only in memory. Meanwhile, back on Earth, white people are still busy annihilating one another in nuclear war. With the planet on the brink of destruction, a lone white emissary is sent to Mars to beg for refuge. He pleads for a fresh start, promising that race relations will be different this time and that Mars can be a place of true equality.

Bradbury then flips the power dynamic. The Black residents of Mars, especially the main character Willie, respond with anger, fear, and deep skepticism. Who can blame them? Given Earth’s history, trust is in short supply. Willie rallies the community into a kind of mob mentality and what follows is a chilling role reversal: segregation is reinstated, discriminatory laws are drafted, interracial marriage is banned and white people are assigned the lowest-paying jobs. Mars has become like the Jim Crow south, just with the roles reversed.

This is where the racial politics get thorny. Bradbury seems less interested in exploring historical power structures and more focused on making a moral point about prejudice being universally corrosive. The story suggests that racism is a human flaw rather than a system rooted in history, economics, and power. By framing it as “any group can become racist if given the chance,” the story risks flattening the very real history between centuries of anti-Black oppression and a hypothetical scenario of reverse racism. The allegory is clear, but it’s also a little too neat.

The black population are faced with an important decision: should they let white humanity perish or extend mercy and risk repeating history? Bradbury opts for reconciliation, forgiveness, and racial harmony. It’s a hopeful ending but also a very safe one. The kumbaya moment feels contrived and overly optimistic, as if moral clarity can magically override centuries of slavery, systematic oppression, racial violence and intergenerational trauma. I can appreciate Bradbury’s intent and his use of science fiction as a vehicle for social critique, even if the ending kind of irked me. 

Sexy by Jhumpa Lahiri

Madhuri Dixit and Shah Rukh Khan in Devdas.

I mentioned in my review of Chekhov’s "The Lady with the Little Dog" how hard it must be to write a memorable story about an affair without sliding into boredom or cliché. Jhumpa Lahiri takes on that challenge in Sexy and while not spectacular, it’s thoughtful, observant, and tries to do something a little different. There is a pervasive melancholy that runs throughout the story, which adds to the emotional resonance. The story is less interested in scandal and more interested in exploring loneliness and the desperate need for genuine connection. 

Miranda is a white woman in her twenties who becomes involved with Dev, a married Indian man. It's a very simple story, but Lahiri fills it with small, telling details that reveal Miranda’s inner life, especially her shaky sense of self-worth. Despite going against her better judgment, she has accepted her position as the "other woman" knowing she’s on the outside of Dev’s real life. Her whiteness only reinforces that distance. A part of her is holding onto that tiny shred of hope that he might leave his wife one day and then they can be together happily. As the story unfolds, it becomes increasingly clear to her that Dev is never going to leave his wife.

In response, Miranda half-consciously tries to fold herself into Dev’s world. She watches Bollywood movies, befriends her coworker Laxmi, and latches onto pieces of Indian culture as if they might bring her closer to him emotionally. But these gestures feel forced and Lahiri subtly shows how cultural curiosity can slide into self-deception when it’s fueled by romantic desperation.

There is the obvious parallel between Miranda’s affair and the story Laxmi tells about her cousin’s marriage falling apart because the husband ran off with a younger woman. The echo is impossible to ignore, even if Miranda would rather not hear it. The title word, “sexy,” comes into focus when Miranda babysits Rohin, Laxmi’s cousin's son. Rohin casually calls her this, which she believes he’s heard elsewhere without fully understanding it's meaning. When he asks her what it means, she tells him: “loving someone you don’t know.” It’s a deceptively simple line. For Rohin, it's just another provocative word in our sex-obsessed western culture. For Miranda, it suddenly becomes a painfully accurate description of her own situation. 

Dev finds Miranda sexy, but only in the shallowest sense. Their relationship is almost entirely physical. She has fallen for him emotionally, while he remains detached, comfortable keeping her in a separate, consequence-free box. In that way, “sexy” becomes less about attraction and more about distance. Instead, it becomes desire without intimacy and closeness without real knowledge of the other person. I appreciate that Lahiri doesn’t judge her characters harshly and doesn’t let them off the hook either. Sexy is a story about longing, cultural misalignment and  self-deception. It captures that very human habit of building elaborate narratives in our own heads as a way to feel special or loved, especially when the reality of the relationship is very different. We convince ourselves that small gestures mean more than they do, that emotional distance is temporary, that silence is complicated rather than dismissive. These stories become a form of comfort, even protection, allowing us to hold onto desire without fully confronting disappointment. Lahiri shows how fragile and persuasive these internal narratives can be and how devastating it is when they finally collide with the truth.

The Appropriation of Cultures by Percival Everett

White power!

I can’t believe it took me this long to finally read something by the great Percival Everett. He’s been on my radar for years and after just a handful of short stories, consider me a fan. The Appropriation of Cultures is a perfect example of Everett’s razor-sharp satire, irony, and  irreverent sense of humor.

The story instantly reminded me of Dave Chappelle’s classic Clayton Bigsby sketch about the blind Black man who grows up to become a white supremacist. Everett is playing in a similar comedic and parody space. His protagonist, Daniel, is a Black musician who suddenly buys a pickup truck plastered with Confederate flag decals. That choice isn’t random or ironic for irony’s sake. It grows out of an ugly moment when Daniel is performing at a bar and a group of rowdy white guys insist that he play “Dixie.” The song, of course, is deeply tied to Confederate ideology, minstrel traditions, and the promotion of slavery. Everett doesn’t sugarcoat this history or soften the implications; rather, he puts the ugliness right out in the open.

What makes the caustic satire so effective is how Everett flips the usual script. Rather than another tale about white people appropriating Black culture, he turns the concept inside out. Daniel begins appropriating the symbols of white supremacist culture instead, exposing how hollow and absurd they really are. By the end of the story, this inversion snowballs into something even more outrageous: Black people across the country start driving around with Confederate flags, draining the symbol of its supposed power. Daniel even takes “Dixie” itself and breaks it down, rebuilding it through R&B and Black musical traditions. In other words, reclaiming it, reshaping it, and stripping it of its racist intent.

Everett is humorously mocking racism while dismantling it through exaggeration, irony, and subversion. By forcing these symbols into contexts they were never meant to survive, he reveals the fragility of these ridiculous racist ideologies. The result is provocative, defiant, and genuinely funny. There are some really hilarious moments in this story that caused me to burst out laughing. This is satire doing exactly what it’s supposed to do: unsettling, exposing, and laughing racism right out of the room. Percival Everett clearly knows how to wield that blade, and he does it brilliantly here.

You can read this story HERE.

Paycheck by Philip K. Dick

Another terrible PKD adaptation.

Paycheck by Philip K. Dick starts off with a ton of promise and then, unfortunately, drives itself straight into a brick wall at 100km/hr. As a sci-fi mystery thriller with time-travel elements, the opening is genuinely gripping. There’s intrigue, suspense, and that classic Philip K. Dick sense that something very strange and very clever is unfolding. For a while there, I was completely hooked.

Then the momentum collapses. Hard. What begins as a tight, fascinating setup gradually unravels into something convoluted, silly, and increasingly absurd. This feels like a textbook example of Philip K. Dick at his most frustrating: bursting with bold, imaginative ideas, but struggling to shape them into a fully cohesive, satisfying story. 

It makes me wonder what might have been salvaged with a firmer editorial hand. The story desperately needed a tighter focus. Cutting the word count by at least half and ditching the pointless plot detours would have gone a long way. Instead, it drags on far longer than it needs to, turning what should have been a brisk, punchy sci-fi tale into a bit of a slog.

The premise itself is great though. A mechanical engineer named Jennings has his memory wiped for the last two years of his life after finishing a secret job for his employer, a construction company. Rather than walking away with a hefty payout, he’s handed a small envelope filled with random junk. At first, it seems like a slap in the face. However, once the police show up and he miraculously escapes using one of those worthless items, it becomes clear that someone (possibly future-Jennings) knew exactly what was coming and planned accordingly. That’s a great hook.

From there, Jennings is on the run, trying to uncover what special project he worked on and why his past self set this elaborate breadcrumb trail. Again, there is so much potential for a great story here. Unfortunately, it spirals into confusion, plot holes, and increasingly goofy twists. There’s also some rushed, half-baked social commentary about capitalism and revolution that feels tacked on rather than meaningful, adding more noise instead of depth. Paycheck is a reminder of why Philip K. Dick is such a fascinating but wildly uneven writer. His ideas are endlessly compelling, but the execution often can’t keep up. 

Such a disappointment.

Tom Edison's Shaggy Dog by Kurt Vonnegut

Tommy E, mixologist.

There’s no denying that dogs are intelligent and emotionally perceptive creatures. But what if they were actually the smartest beings on Earth and have been deliberately hiding that fact from humans for centuries? After all, free lodging, regular meals, grooming services, and someone else cleaning up your poop is a pretty sweet arrangement. Why mess that up?

That’s the wonderful premise behind Tom Edison’s Shaggy Dog by Kurt Vonnegut, a short story that’s lighthearted, fast-paced, and a lot of fun. This isn’t Vonnegut at his most caustic or overtly satirical. Instead, he showcases a more playful, eccentric kind of humor that proves very entertaining.

The story opens with two elderly men sitting on a park bench. They are total strangers, but that doesn’t stop one of them from talking nonstop while the other man just wants some peace and quiet. Eventually, the reluctant listener fires back with a story of his own, recounting a strange childhood encounter with none other than the famous inventor himself, Thomas Edison! He lived next to him as a boy and while playing with his dog, ends up crashing into Edison's laboratory. 

As it turns out, Edison had a secret invention he never shared with the world called the “Intelligence Analyzer.” When he tests it on the boy’s dog, the results go completely off the charts. Vonnegut plays this revelation as slightly ridiculous and runs with it. Despite the silliness, the ending takes a surprisingly dark turn, especially when it comes to the consequences faced by the dog for letting this canine secret slip to the humans. This may not rank among Vonnegut’s most memorable short stories, but it doesn’t need to. It’s quick, clever, and built around a great premise, with his understated comedic style on full display. Sometimes being entertaining from start to finish is more than enough for me and there’s nothing wrong with that at all.