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.