The Red-Herring Theory by John Updike

There's something fishy going on here...

Richard and Joan Maple are downright insufferable—and yet, I can’t stop reading about them. This a testament to the magic of Updike's writing. His ability to craft deeply flawed yet painfully real characters is nothing short of remarkable. He writes with such sharpness and empathy that even at their worst, the Maples feel achingly relatable. Their flaws and contradictions are unsettlingly familiar. More impressively, Updike takes the quotidian of suburban life (dinner parties, idle gossip, lingering resentments, etc) and transforms it into something layered, authentic, and unexpectedly profound.

The Maples’ marriage is a battlefield, their conversations a series of carefully placed landmines. In The Red-Herring Theory, we witness one of their signature psychological chess matches, cleverly disguised as casual post-party chatter. After hosting a house full of friends, they sit together, debriefing the evening. It’s an exercise in manipulation, an opportunity to push buttons and test boundaries, especially when it comes to their long-running theme of infidelity. Updike grants the reader a front row seat as the couple deftly circle each other, feigning innocence while laying subtle traps. 

That’s when Joan drops her "red herring" theory:

|"The properly equipped suburban man… has a wife, a mistress, and a red herring. The red herring may have been his mistress once or she may become one in the future, but he's not sleeping with her now. You can tell, because in public they act as though they do."|

It’s a classic Joan move in passive aggression and Richard, as always, takes the bait (pun intended). The story becomes a battle of wits, a kind social deduction game where they are waiting for the other to slip up and confess to their transgressions. It’s exhausting, but also wickedly entertaining. Updike’s dialogue crackles with wit, making the mind games between Richard and Joan feel like high art. Love them or hate them (probably both), it’s messy, dramatic, and impossible to look away, like a fiery car crash.

Walter Briggs by John Updike

Walter who?

Walter Briggs is essentially Updike doing his usual Updike thing while on autopilot: sentimentality and nostalgia. 

Jack and Claire are driving home from a party late at night with their kids asleep in the backseat. To pass the time and fill the empty void, they decide to play a game called “Who’s Best,” ranking people based on their personal preferences. It quickly turns into an opportunity for them to air their WASPish superiority and make snide remarks about others. As the conversation meanders, they begin reminiscing about the past, particularly their first romantic meeting at a summer camp in New Hampshire.

One lingering memory takes center stage: "the fat man at Arrow Island who stayed the whole summer, played bridge every night, and wore a droopy fisherman’s hat." They struggle to recall his full name, and he becomes a kind of catalyst, launching them deeper into nostalgia. These shared memories, represent their collective past: the moments they built together. In the end, isn’t that what defines us? How we remember, and how we are remembered?

As they continue down memory lane, their recollections take on a six-degrees-of-separation quality, linking one person to another. But why does remembering Walter’s full name matter so much? Perhaps it is because he represents more than just a random person from their youth. He embodies the shared experiences that define their relationship and the slow erosion of those memories over time.

At one point, Jack offhandedly mentions that the camp’s kitchen boy had a crush on Claire, revealing an undercurrent of jealousy that has lingered for many years. This implied accusation hangs between them, but, as is often the case in Updike’s work, the real meaning isn’t in what’s said but rather in what isn’t said. Some memories are held close, too intimate to share aloud. Beneath the surface of their conversation is the loss of youth, the banality of routine, their former passion replaced by the everyday grind and responsibilities of parenthood. Jack, more than Claire, seems haunted by these memories, grasping at fragments of his carefree and youthful romantic dalliance with Claire. His epiphany at the end feels less like a victory and more like a moment of wistful realization. 

Bookkeeper, Narrator, Gunslinger by Charles Yu

 Ecstasy of Gold.

Bookkeeper, Narrator, Gunslinger by Charles Yu wears its influences proudly, with a clear nod to Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns—especially The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. 

Perhaps this is bit of a stretch, but could the title itself be a subtle riff on Leone’s classic? Bookkeeper = Good, Narrator = Bad, Gunslinger = Ugly? 

Just a random thought.

As the title suggests, the protagonist takes on three distinct roles, but it’s the gunslinger archetype that the author seems most eager to reimagine through a deconstructive lens. The result is a playful and clever approach to mixing the grit of the Old West with a sci-fi twist. You see, during these classic Western standoffs, there is always a lot of squinting going on before a shot is even fired. Sure, it's for dramatic effect but maybe there might be something else on here.....Nevertheless, even the narrator is befuddled by this common trope and provides some humorous commentary:

|"Deke did the staring thing. And I am thinking, what is with the gunslinger staring thing? Why do we have to do this? And my mind sort of drifts off and maybe it’s because I am lost in thought that I don’t close my eyes this time, but for whatever reason, I have my eyes wide open which means I am looking at Deke’s butt-ugly face and I see exactly how it happens."|

This passage exemplifies the Narrator’s self-reflective and metafictional engagement with the Western genre, consciously deconstructing its tropes while simultaneously participating in them. Through a blend of sharp introspection and wry, dark humor, the Narrator not only critiques the conventions of the genre but also acknowledges their own role in shaping the narrative. This self-awareness invites the reader to question the myths and moral ambiguities that define the Western tradition.

Our bookkeeper protagonist has a nice, quiet life running his shop, minding his own business, and steering clear of the kind of disputes that usually end with someone catching a bullet to the head. That is, until he makes the mistake of correcting a local gunslinger’s grammar. Next thing he knows, he's been roped into a duel with the offended gentleman. Against all odds and to the shock of the entire town, he actually wins. How? Even he’s not sure. But now he’s stuck with a new title: Gunslinger. And that’s when things really go sideways. Suddenly, every hotshot from every dusty town wants a piece of him and the body count starts piling up. What follows is a moral crisis wrapped in a whirlwind of duels as the former bookkeeper turned deadly Gunslinger navigates his new identity. Now that he has a certain reputation to uphold, he is bound to Western tropes and narrative conventions. Thus, there must be a final showdown and this is where the author has some fun with subverting genre expectations.

Overall, this is an entertaining and fast-paced read with sharp dialogue that keeps things moving at a steady clip (pun intended). My only gripe is that the genre mashup veers into gimmick territory and the ending kind of fizzles out. 

Still, it’s a wild ride while it lasts!

You can read this story HERE

A Real Doll by A.M. Homes

Where's Ken? Ken's dead, baby.

I will never look at Barbie dolls the same way again. 

I recently reviewed another short story centered around Barbie dolls, Barbie-Q by Sandra Cisneros, but that story couldn't be more different from A Real Doll by A.M. Homes. While Barbie-Q explores themes of innocence, play, and economic struggle, A Real Doll takes a far darker and shocking approach related to male sexual adolescence.

If you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to read a story that captures the unhinged chaos of male puberty, gender power dynamics, and a deeply unsettling relationship with a Barbie doll, well, here it is. This short story takes the awkward, hormonal nightmare of boyhood and cranks it up to eleven, tossing in a hefty dose of absurdity. Yet, it's shockingly explicit depiction of young male sexuality is surprisingly honest. It would not surprise me in the slightest that the first exposure to female anatomy and sex for many young boys was with a barbie doll. 

The premise is as wild as it sounds: a young boy develops an intimate, obsessive, and deeply problematic relationship with his sister’s Barbie doll. Yes, that kind of relationship. It starts off as innocent childhood curiosity but quickly spirals into something much darker, blurring the lines between fantasy, desire, and control.  The boy also encounters a Ken doll, which he first perceives as a rival for Barbie’s affection, stirring feelings of jealousy and competition. However, as he observes Ken’s sculpted features and idealized masculinity, his fascination deepens. This curiosity evolves into a profound exploration of his own developing sexuality, as he grapples with feelings he doesn’t entirely understand. Or maybe his uncontrollable sexual urges cannot be contained. Despite the serious subject matter, Homes keeps a deadpan tone that somehow makes it all even more disconcerting. 

What makes A Real Doll so memorable (and, honestly, hard to shake off) is the way it exposes the bitter realities of growing up male in a patriarchal society. The boy’s interactions with Barbie aren’t just about uncontrollable lust; rather, it's more about asserting power, domination, and the way boys are socialized to view women as mere objects (literally, in this case). Homes doesn't let the reader look away, forcing us to sit with the uncomfortable reality of a culture that encourages these dynamics, starting in childhood.

Homes pushes boundaries with a raw and unflinching portrayal of desire, identity, and adolescent confusion. But despite how unsettling it is, the story is also strangely humorous in a dark, oh-god-why-am-I-reading-this-and-laughing kind of way. There’s a surreal absurdity to the whole thing that makes it feel both exaggerated and painfully real. A Real Doll is the kind of story that burrows under your skin and stays there, a stark reminder that many boys grow up into men that value women only as sexual conquests, shaped by ingrained misogyny. 

Through vivid metaphors and disturbing imagery (some that will remain imprinted on my mind for a very long time), Homes crafts a narrative that is both bold and unfiltered. She leans into moments of discomfort, capturing the awkwardness of adolescence with a mix of humor and raw honesty. The result is a story that’s as cringeworthy as it is compelling. Love it, hate it, or squirm through it, you won't be forgetting A Real Doll any time soon. 

You can read this story HERE.

The Tuesday Night Club by Agatha Christie

Hello, dearie. Care for a cuppa?

I've fallen a bit behind on Fanda Classiclit’s Agatha Christie short story challenge, but I’m slowly making up ground this month. Whether I can keep up this momentum is another question entirely.

The Tuesday Night Club marks my first encounter with Miss Marple, and while comparisons to Hercule Poirot are inevitable, this elderly woman from the quiet village of St. Mary Mead can certainly hold her own in the world of detective work! Her gentle demeanor and unassuming presence should not be mistaken for weakness. From what I can tell so far, her expertise lies in keen intuition and a deep understanding of small-town life. Whereas Poirot relies on logic and deduction, Miss Marple takes a more psychological approach. As she humbly explains to one of the guests:

|"I am afraid I am not clever myself, but living all these years in St. Mary Mead does give one an insight into human nature."|

So modest.

In this story, Miss Marple's nephew, Raymond West, hosts a dinner party with an eclectic mix of guests, including his quiet but observant aunt who spends most of the evening knitting rather than engaging in the lively conversation. She’s not being antisocial per se, just doing what she does best: watching and listening. The group decides to form a detective club (hence the title), where each week, a different member presents an unsolved mystery for discussion. To start things off, a Scotland Yard commissioner in attendance shares a particularly perplexing case:

A husband, his wife, and her friend all fall ill after dinner from suspected food poisoning. Tragically, the wife dies. With a hefty inheritance at stake, the husband is the obvious suspect, but the evidence is purely circumstantial. Enough to raise suspicion, but not enough to convict. The case baffles everyone except Miss Marple, whose sharp "insight into human nature" proves far more effective than the logical reasoning of the others.

While not the most riveting or twist-filled Christie mystery, The Tuesday Night Club has an elegant charm, propelled by witty dialogue and brisk storytelling. This is a delightful introduction to Miss Marple who, I suspect, has many more surprises up her sleeve.

The Flying Machine by Ray Bradbury

So it begins.

It's been a minute since I've read anything by Ray Bradbury and didn’t expect to stumble into ancient Chinese folklore when I picked up The Flying Machine. Known mostly for his sci-fi and speculative fiction, Bradbury totally shifts gears here, delivering an intriguing fable about the transformative power of art in relation to power.

The story revolves around an inventor who’s cracked the code of human flight, an achievement that should be cause for celebration. The poetic descriptions are vintage Bradbury:

|"And in the sky, laughing so high that you could hardly hear him laugh, was a man; and the man was clothed in bright papers and reeds to make wings and a beautiful yellow tail, and he was soaring all about like the largest bird in a universe of birds, like a new dragon in a land of ancient dragons."|

However, while the Emperor is awed by the spectacle, he also sees potential danger with this invention. If one man can soar above fortified walls, what’s stopping another man from raising an army of flying men with a handful of well-aimed stones? Thus, in the name of social order and future prosperity, the Emperor makes a difficult decision: all evidence of the flying machine must be destroyed and the inventor executed. 

What makes this story especially fascinating is that the Emperor isn’t portrayed as a ruthless dictator. There is some moral ambiguity as he wrestles with the decision to ensure the survival of his people. He's also an artist/inventor in his own right. He’s built an intricate clockwork diorama with a carefully controlled display of movement and life. He claims to understand its purpose, unlike the flying man, who has potentially unleashed something reckless and uncontainable into the world (at least in the Emperor’s eyes).

Bradbury packs a lot into this short fable: the tension between creation and control, the fear that beauty unregulated is beauty weaponized, and the idea that power will always prioritize security over wonder. It's dark, efficient, and a quietly tragic story—classic Bradbury, even when he’s stepping outside his usual genre.

You can read this story HERE.

The Mystery of Hunter's Lodge by Agatha Christie

Well, it's no Downton Abbey.

Captain Hastings often plays second fiddle to the charismatic genius of Hercule Poirot, but in The Mystery of Hunter’s Lodge, he finally gets an opportunity to stretch his detective muscles while flying solo. Well, sort of.  As Inspector Japp cheekily remarks, “Rather the case of the cart without the horse, your being here without him, isn’t it?” Rude.

You see, Poirot is laid up with a bout of influenza and can’t take on the case, so Hastings volunteers to go in his stead. He heads to Derbyshire to investigate the murder of a wealthy man at a country estate, only to find that every suspect has an airtight alibi and the clues lead nowhere. Feeling stumped, he somewhat begrudgingly wires Poirot for help.

As with many of Christie’s detective stories, the real draw for me isn’t the "big reveal" at the end. The rapid-fire, witty dialogue keeps the narrative moving at a fast pace, and the enjoyment factor largely resides in watching Poirot’s methodical mind piece it all together through sheer logic and deduction.

I might have mentioned this in other reviews, but Agatha Christie’s stories are my ultimate comfort reads—like wrapping yourself in a warm blanket with a cup of tea on a chilly day. In fact, I recommend doing just that while reading one of her stories. Agatha Christie rarely ever fails to deliver an engaging murder mystery, and while this one may not be my favorite Poirot adventure, it’s still a solid and satisfying read. The ending ties everything up neatly, and though Hastings once again proves he's better at narrating than being a detective, justice prevails as it always does in Christie’s world.

You can read this story HERE.

Happy Endings by Margaret Atwood

In Loving Memory of John and Mary —

Margaret Atwood’s Happy Endings isn’t your typical romantic short story. Rather, it’s a clever, self-aware take on the art of storytelling itself. Instead of giving us just one version of a “boy meets girl” romance, she lays out multiple variations (A through F), each tweaking the details but all leading to the same inevitable conclusion found in part A: "Eventually they die. This is the end of the story."

This is where the meta-fictional magic happens. Atwood isn’t interested in the what of the story but the how. She breaks the illusion of fiction, reminding readers that all stories follow specific narrative conventions: love, conflict, resolution, and then death. By listing out different scenarios (the happy marriage, the affair, the tragedy, the mid-life crisis), she exposes how predictable these romantic tropes can be, poking fun at the way we, as readers, consume them.

Hence, the title is ironic. Atwood urges us to focus less on “happy endings” and more on how we get there. The meat and potatoes of the story isn’t in John and Mary’s fates but in why their story matters. She’s essentially winking at the reader, saying something like, “You want a good story? Then don’t just settle for the ending. Instead, dig into the messy, unpredictable middle.”

It’s a fun, slightly cynical, but deeply insightful take on storytelling. If you’ve ever rolled your eyes at a cliché romance plot or wondered why so many stories feel the same, Happy Endings is the perfect, tongue-in-cheek response.

You can read this story HERE.

Nakedness by John Updike

We're all born naked and the rest is drag.

Richard and Joan Maple should probably be in couple’s therapy. Actually, scratch that. They desperately need it. Their marriage is a mess of constant bickering, emotional distance, and extramarital affairs. It's the epitome of a toxic relationship but they stay together anyway, clinging to the illusion of a picture-perfect suburban family trapped by mid-20th-century expectations of what a marriage should be.

But let’s talk about the title—Nakedness. Sure, there’s the obvious physical aspect of the word but what’s really at stake here is emotional nakedness, or rather, the complete lack of vulnerability. These two are so disconnected from themselves and each other that their relationship is pure surface. Always going through the motions without ever digging deeper. And then, they find themselves at a nude section of the beach, which becomes a rude awakening for both of them.

Surrounded by a younger, freer generation of naked bodies, Richard is not having a good time and offended by the counter-culture. His masculinity takes a hit as he notices the younger men, more well-endowed, more confident, just existing in their skin in a way he never could. 

The Maples' enconter with the young naked couple perfectly encapsulates his fragile ego. Standing in close proximity to these naked youngsters makes him feel uncomfortable and painfully inadequate. The sight of these young, confident men, physically uninhibited and well-endowed, unsettles him. It’s not just about size—it’s about vitality, about youth, about the ease with which they inhabit their bodies, something Richard has never truly mastered. Instead of confronting his own insecurities, he redirects his frustration outward. He turns on his wife, scrutinizing her body with newfound harshness, as if picking apart her physical "flaws" will somehow make him feel more powerful. But there’s a deeper anger bubbling underneath; one that extends beyond Joan and into the shifting cultural landscape. Women are more sexually liberated. The younger generation no longer looks up to men like him as role models. He’s becoming obsolete, and he knows it: 

|"There have been two revolutions in the last ten years," he told her. "One, women learned to say 'fuck.' Two, the oppressed learned to despise their sympathizers."|

This is not just him making an astute observation but a lashing out. His words drip with condescension, as if these changes are somehow betrayals rather than progress. But beneath his bitter sarcasm lies fear. Fear of aging, fear of irrelevance, fear of losing control. In a sense, this is classic overcompensation. By belittling women’s sexual agency and mocking the younger generation’s social consciousness, he’s desperately trying to reassert his own power in a moment where he feels utterly powerless. Yet, ironically, the more he lashes out, the more he reveals just how deeply insecure he truly is.

From a stylistic standpoint, the writing in this story is fanastic and Updike's lyrical prose is littered with beautifully crafted, sexually charged imagery, like:

|"He recalled a remark of Rodin's, that a woman undressing was like the sun piercing through clouds."|

Or:

|"He was jutting out, 'sticking up at you like a hatrack,' as the phrase went through Molly Bloom's mind."|

The James Joyce Ulysses reference is a nice touch. This is incredible writing right here and Updike's talents are on full display. 

However, it’s the remarkable ending that leaves a lasting impression. The final secene as Joan slowly undresses for bed, Richard watches her closely with curiosity and longing. He's like a voyeuristic horndog but also a husband seeing his wife in a new way that suggests a possible internal shift. The last line is also strikingly poignant: "This nakedness is new to them." It’s a beautiful and quiet moment of revelation. After years of avoidance, years of failing to be emotionally bare with each other, there’s finally something raw between them. Perhaps it is a glimmer of vulnerability. Whether it’s enough to save the marriage is another question entirely.