The Moon in its Flight by Gilbert Sorrentino

Moon river.

April went by so fast!

This is exactly the kind of innovative and refreshing short-story that I needed to snap me out of this reading slump that has gone on for weeks. The Moon in its Flight by Gilbert Sorrentino leans heavily into the meta-narrative and self-reflexive storytelling that doesn't always work for me but somehow it all just works splendidly. It's the kind of literary magic trick that I can't quite put my finger on. 

There are so many killer lines and weird, wonderful passages that it felt like I was reading the lovechild of a jazz record and a deconstructed Harlequin novel. I ended up highlighting basically the entire thing.

The self-reflexive narrator is prone to waxing poetically about the complexities of love and romantic relationships: 

|"Of course this was a summer romance, but bear with me and see with what banal literary irony it all turns out — or does not turn out at all. The country bowled and spoke of Truman’s grit and spunk. How softly we had slid off the edge of civilization."|

So good.

Check out the beautiful striking imagery evoked by the narrator when describing his experience of falling in love for the first time:

|"Leaning against her father’s powder-blue Buick convertible, lost, in the indigo night, the creamy stars, sound of crickets, they kissed. They fell in love."|

There's plenty of lyrical prose mixed with bawdy humor: 

|"To him that vast borough seemed a Cythera — that it could house such fantastic creatures as she! He wanted to be Jewish. He was, instead, a Roman Catholic, awash in sin and redemption. What loathing he had for the Irish girls who went to eleven o’clock Mass, legions of blushing pink and lavender spring coats, flat white straw hats, the crinkly veils over their open faces. Church clothes, under which their inviolate crotches sweetly nestled in soft hair."|

Or how about his first sexual experience with the young woman?

|"The first time he touched her breasts he cried in his shame and delight. Can all this really have taken place in America?"|

Amazing stuff right here.

The story is dripping in sentimentality but the author embraces a kind of self-aware sentimentality He leans into the clichés just to rip them apart, exposing the artifice of literary fiction. He then proceeds to builds something even more tender out of the ruins.

There’s a lot going on under the hood of that powder-blue Buick convertible—music as transformative and healing, jazz influences, Donald Barthelme-style metafiction, black pop culture nods like Amos ’n’ Andy, literary references flying all over the place. It’s like Sorrentino took a bunch of narrative puzzle pieces, shuffled them around while blindfolded, and still made something that feels weirdly coherent and emotionally sharp. Structurally, it's all over the place in the best way. Fragmented time jumps, poetic stream-of-consciousness, a narrative voice that knows it’s a narrative voice. It’s playful and experimental while dismantling the very idea of storytelling. And yet, it all works. Somehow, it works.

Then there's the powerful final line: “Art cannot rescue anybody from anything." Sorrentino’s mic drop. After inundating the reader with poetic nostalgia, romantic longing, and jazz-soaked melancholy, he ends the story in such a brutally honest and cynical fashion that is totally on-brand for the story’s whole meta-narrative vibe.

The story contains all the classic romantic tropes associated with young love through a sentimental lens before pulling the rug out.  It’s like he’s saying, “You felt something? Cool. Just remember it was all made up.” This line rips the curtain down and reminds us that even the most beautiful art cannot be a perfect representation of life. Maybe I'm out to lunch here but I think that’s kind of the point: the story knows it’s a story. It seduces you with aesthetics, sentimentality, beautiful language and emotional flashbacks only to expose how artificial and performative it all is in a literary context.

By ending the story this way, Sorrentino plants himself firmly in a postmodern literary tradition that delights in pulling apart the seams of narrative itself, especially when it comes to romance, a genre that practically thrives on illusion. Romantic stories usually promise some kind of transformation: love conquers all, heartbreak leads to growth, memory redeems, etc. At the very least, they offer the feeling that something matters. But Sorrentino, ever the trickster, sidesteps all of that. He gives us the shape of a romantic story (intoxicating attraction, uncertainty, yearning, sexual anticipation, the heartbreak) only to subvert it all with that final line.

It’s a classic bait-and-switch. We think we’re being led to catharsis, or at least a poignant reflection. But instead, he hands us an anti-resolution. There is no tidy bow, no deep insight; just the quiet thud of reality. The curtain falls, and nobody’s saved. Not the lovelorn narrator, still lost in the fog of memory, and certainly not the reader, who might have been anticipating something a bit more hopeful.

But this isn’t to say that fiction is meaningless. On the contrary, Sorrentino’s point seems to be that meaning itself is slippery, constructed, and often a product of our own desire to find meaning in art. Indeed, the story doesn’t rescue us, but it shows us how badly we want to be rescued. It also shows how we attach meaning to art even when it explicitly tells us not to. That’s another underlying irony presented here: by insisting that art cannot save us, the story ends up doing something emotionally powerful anyway. It stirs us, unsettles us, makes us reflect. In denying transcendence, it delivers a kind of sideways truth that feels more honest than consolation. It highlights the fantasy of literary catharsis, and ironically reminds us of why we keep turning to stories in the first place. 

You can read this story HERE.

The Electric Ant by Philip K. Dick

I'll be back.

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

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

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

You can read this story HERE.

Leave it to Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

Right ho, Jeeves!

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

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

You can read this story HERE.

The Snow Child by Angela Carter

Ice Queen.

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

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

You can read this story HERE.

The Gun by Philip K. Dick

Boom.

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

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

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

Bullseye.

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

 

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

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

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

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

The Bath by Raymond Carver

Beam me up, Scotty!

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

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

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

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

The Idol House of Astarte by Agatha Christie

 

Enter the Silent Grove. If you dare.

Agatha Christie dabbling in gothic horror? Sign me up! 

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

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

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

If There Were No Benny Cemoli by Philip K. Dick

Cemoli Cannoli.

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

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

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