Ethan Coen, "A Morty Story"

Eccentric, Old-Worldy Uncle Morty comes to stay with his nephew and nephew's girlfriend in New York.

(from Gates of Eden, smuggled from the Godfrey-Lowenthal compound)

Eh. Morty is one of those people you'd say is "quite a character" in real life, but here, in the world of short fiction, and here, where somebody reads a short story every day, he's not much of a character at all. Still, it's an entertaining little story.
Little was key when it came time to choose a short story. I am stressed and pressed with work stuff, so I chose a tiny, tiny piece. Other, more lengthy stories from this book would possibly have made better reading, but better can't make your life better. Sorry, Mr. Coen. After all the great movies you've made, it turns out I couldn't even give you the time of day. Perhaps I will revisit your collection later.

Poppy Z. Brite, "The Devil of Delery Street"

A young girl is haunted, actually haunted.

(from McSweeney's Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories)

I was wondering when the ol' Enchanted Chamber, with its predilection for smartypants horror stories, was going to capitalize on my Catholic fears and superstitions. This story is freaky in plot and alluring in tone. Scary, but humane. It's also pretty sweet how you're lured into a kind of calm via the real world, so that when something supernatual actually happens, it's as fucked up for you as it is for the characters.
This is where I point out that "Poppy Z. Brite" is a preposterous name.

Charles D'Ambrosio, "The Scheme of Things"

Addicts cum door-to-door petty con artists wander into a small Iowa town.

(from McSweeney's Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Secrets)

A beautiful story. At times spooky, or heartbreaking, or aggravating. Some images — the buttery pie, the clean shaven face — are detailed and clarion. Other parts of this story are told through a cheese cloth. The author has us wrapped around his finger. And at 30 pages, did he have to let it linger? But, no, really, this story did not drag or wander, though the same could not be said for its main characters. Though I predict an epiphany on the horizon.
I like the part where, for no other reason than to experiment with a rare tactile sensation, Kirsten places her hand onto the dusty road.
A lot of times, I am hesitant to reveal too much about the story, because, surprise is, like, so great. This story, in particular, has a plot but its beauty is down there in the dust, traveling word-to-word. What? Point is, go here and read the story. Then try to tell me these characters aren't pulled right out of a Mountain Goats' song.

* * *

Some time soon, and for the first time ever, I will answer some mail and post a list of stories I would like for people to lend me. If you were thinking about writing me, well, c'mon already.

Wells Tower, "Executors of Important Energies"

An unsuccessful inventor can't seem to avoid unsuccess.

(from McSweeney's, Early Fall 2004)

Once again, the mysterious Wells Tower has dazzled me not just with twisting, wandering plotlines, but also with deliberate and sensual phrases. I encourage you, my peeping peeps, to peep this:

"Two human greyhounds in immaculate white jackets stepped from a restaurant door, hatchet heads swiveling in their fur collars, estimating the chill."

I should really say something more about the writing, since I'm all canonizing all aggressive like, but no. It's excellent. Read it, I suggest.

But who is this Wells Tower? Well, the "Contributors" section of this book tells us he's a he, and that he's working on a novel. A Google image search produces neither a picture of the author (meaning he has never, ever been photographed) nor a picture of the Wells Tower structure which supposedly stands near the Edgbaston Reservoir in Birmingham, England (so, like, nobody ever aimed a camera at that, either). How do I know there's a Wells Tower over there in blighty? I don't, but look: This guy thinks he was in it when he took a picture. Too bad he didn't photograph the Wells Tower itself.
What else? wellstower.com is taken, but it's only got a "coming soon" message. It could be about the author, or that putative tower, or for well stowers (which would be, I suppose, people who put their wells in sneaky places, so as to hoard water).
A Wells Tower, surely our Wells Tower, is or was a contributor to the Washington Post Magazine in some capacity. See?
Oh, wait, here's a picture of him plus an audio clip of him reading.
So much for mystery and excitement. The secrets have all been revealed, people. I bet you Bigfoot's on MySpace. And the Loch Ness Monster's got a blog. (Go ahead and find out for yourself whether these things are true, but send me no links, I am humorless, I am damaged goods.)
Here's a place where somebody really did some homework researching Wells Tower. Look, the guy was in a band called Hellbender. You may not be a yeti anymore, Mr. Tower, but I like your style nonetheless.

Franz Kafka, "A Hunger Artist"

Ah, remember the days when you could be entertained by something as simple as a man starving himself in a cage?

(from Selected Stories of Franz Kafka, on loan from Ryan Godfrey and Jessica Lowenthal)

What is this, a commentary on fads? On artists? On mob mentality? On pricey cuisine? On changing morals? Yes, yes, perhaps, no, yes. Sometimes you feel like you're reading some kinda allegory. All the signs are there: No proper names of people or places, no defined era, no extraneous detail to divert your senses from the main action. And by action, of course, I am referring to the guy curled up on the straw staving himself nearly to death. It's a beautiful and heavy story.

Read it here.

Agatha Christie, "The Perfect Maid"

Miss Marple tries to clear the name of young Gladys, the maid accused of attempting to steal a brooch from Miss Skinner.

(from Three Blind Mice, on loan from Inspector Ryan and Miss Jessica)

It's not that the maid is too perfect. I don't know what it is. Really, the ending makes sense except for motivation (unless the wrongdoer is just daffy) and how exactly what this person did was a crime. Egad, I've already said too much. I'll not be a spoiler!
But, it's my first Agatha Christie experience (outside the made-for-gogglebox fare, of course) and just my luck I picked a story without a murder. Oh well. No I didn't solve the mystery. I thought the culprit was climbing through ventilation ducts. Anyway, it's a funny little story, though every single character is ridiculously high brow.
Okay, my poppets, read the story here and explain it to me. While you're at it, tell me what they mean by "smut." Cause that word doesn't make sense to me the way they're using it.

Mark Twain, "The Notorious Jumping Frog of Calaveras County"

Funny scenes and tall tales from the life infamous betting man Jim Smiley.

(from, uh, old lit text books, recommended by Bethy Howard)

A strange and meandering little story that feels most like snapshot of a funny, quaint, simpler time in American history. The frog part, though interesting, isn't really integral. It's just sort of the last thing the narrator hears before he gets bored of the storytellers and ducks away. Most appealing about this story is the peculiar manners of speech and spelling. We should all start behaving in the way Twain has outlined for us. It would be considerable better.

I found the story here.

Emily Franklin, "43 Lake View South"

The second floor tenant of a three story apartment building can't help but know what's going on with her neighbors.

(from Pindeldyboz.com)

I like the way this piece has a main character who tells us detailed information — about her upstairs neighbor in mourning, her downstairs neighbor who watches porn, her dog who eats trash, her hours at the courthouse where she sketches — but leaves most of her own thoughts unexhumed. She's somebody with a dog, and a job, and not a lot else going on. With very little actual action to lead us further into this character besides her cursory tour, we're left with more of an articulate still life than a story. Appropriately, this is a shorter piece.

Read the story here. Find out more about the author here.

Julio Cortázar, "All Fires Fire"

Two gladiators battle and two ex-lovers confront each other in interwined plotlines.

(de All Fires The Fire, en el préstamo del mezcló los archivos de Ryan y Jessica)

This is what you call experimental fiction. The action jumps from a Roman coliseum to a bitter, mostly quiet confrontation on the phone in the present day. One could say that the two stories are intertwoven seamlessly, except that the leap is so conceptually jarring that I, the reader, always the reader, gave pause, so there might as well have been some white space indicating the rift in the time/space continuum to follow. This story was so crazy strange that I am tempted to read more by Julio Cortázar.

Here is a web site, perhaps with information on the author. It's en Espanol, as he was Argentinian.

Charles Baxter, "The Next Building I Plan To Bomb"

A man finds a piece of paper with that phrase on it and the crude drawing of a pillared building. And he's like, what should I do with this?

(from Believers)

Well, honestly, I was kind of hoping something would blow up. Not a lot happens, but really, that's OK. The guy who finds the note shows it to friends, cops, his shrink, and nobody knows what to make of it. There's not even a consensus as to which building that is on the paper. But the various guesses are routinely followed by some white space. It's probably supposed to be profound, or deadpan. But I'm hearing a slide whistle. You've slipped us a touch of broad comedy, Mr. Baxter!
It's funny how this note, this possibly harmless little doodle, inspires the narrator to examine his life a little bit. Not to any extreme end, mind you. Like I said, not a lot happens.

Hannah Tinti, "Animal Crackers"

Everybody at the zoo has a terrible moment in their past they'd like to live down.

(from Animal Crackers)

In the sad and eventful world of our narrator — who spends the majority of this story cleaning an elephant at the zoo — everybody's got it rough. But the way you deal with adversity, how you react to trauma, is what you use to measure your self-worth. Or something. I drank four ciders at the Rarebirds show tonight.

At first you think that this is a story about animals, how they're sort of unpredictable and predictable at the same time. Then you figure, but really, this is a story about humans. A little later on you decide you were right the first time and the second time.

The author has a web site. Here. Wow, it says she's the editor of One Story Magazine. I just subscribed to that a few weeks ago (after hearing about it through I Read A Short Story Today benefactor Maura Johnston). One Story sends out a new short story every three weeks, via snail mail. Here's the site for that. I'm waiting by the mailbox, with stilted breathing, for my first edition. If you're wondering where I am, I'm there.

Daniel Handler, "Delmonico"

Could a smart bartender help a rich bastard figure out what happened to his wife? Would she?

(from McSweeney's Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Secrets)

A smart, neat story. A mystery! I sorta solved it before the final pages, but there were still twists and bits of beauty to make it worthwhile to the very end. The matter-of-fact language and tightly drawn characters make you, the reader, feel like you are in careful hands. Indeed, as it should be in any good mystery!, the author has it all under control. Well played, Mr. Snicket.

Roddy Doyle, "The Child"

A man is haunted by a reappearing phantom child.

(from McSweeney's Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories)

Is it a real child, or a ghost, or is the man just crazy? He's crazy. This story starts out like an Edger Allen Poe descent into madness thing and then gets sort of dull and repetitive.
And the end. I like introvert goth types. Good people. Dreamers. But I don't want to read their unilayered do-I-scare-you mindfuck short stories. This story made me sleepy and distractable. Just 14 pages long and it took me two days to finish it.

Laura Distelheim, "On Leaving Normal Behind"

Everybody thinks its psychosomatic when the young woman begins to complain of stomach pain and lose weight.

(from The Iowa Review, Volume 34, Number 3)

A heart-breaking and poetically told story. The narrator's constant pain, coupled with the condescension all the supposed experts, makes her an excellent protagonist. Some of the language — "a charcoal sky bruised with November" — is wonderfully harsh and memorable.
But. See. There is a crazy, bullshitty final paragraph, one offset by white space and the common practice of placing three stars in the middle to indicate a cosmic shift. Whatever. Don't let it get you down, this story is mostly excellent, if utterly un-uplifting.

* * *

I've been at this Short Story Project for a little while now, and it's time I started identifying some of the usual suspects I've encountered in my adventures. I mean no harm by this.

"On Leaving Normal Behind" is an Illness Story. One can recognize this genre by the following characters: doctors who are wrong, patients who are misunderstood, loved ones who are helpless and friends who have no idea what to say or do for the sick person. One can also expect scenes of despair, flashes false hope, desire to turn back time and moments where the sick person encounters somebody who has it a little bit worse. There will also be a fellow patient in a nearby room who moans, wails, or otherwise refuses to go gently in to that good night. It's just like real life, mind you.

Julie Orringer, "The Smoothest Way Is Full of Stones"

Esty and Rebecca try to reconcile their newfound interest in sex with their strict faith.

(from The Best American Nonrequired Reading, 2004)

The intricate beliefs and system of rules by which Esty's Orthodox family try to live are appropriately enthralling and befuddling for the young people in this story. This goes double for this lapsed Catholic reader. More to the point, the scary and occasionally humorous struggle with sin experienced by these characters is universal.
This story is sharp and engrossing. Careful attention is paid to the senses, which makes for a slowly-paced but heightened read. And the parts where Rebecca talks to her sick mother on the phone are expertly awkward.

Couldn't find a homepage for this author, but look, how weird, you can open Julie Orringer's "virtual notebooks." That page promises a sneak peek into the writing and rewriting process of an author who swears that multiple drafts can eventually lead to a good story.

Thank you for reading my virtual notebook.

Roy Kesey, "Instituto"

A mysterious company makes improvements on Stanley's least important imperfections.

(from The Iowa Review, Volume 34, Number 3)

An interesting and possibly pointless story. Definitely a worthwhile read, but its ultimate goals escape me.

Arthur Miller, "The Performance"

A small-time tapdancer is called to perform for Hitler.

(from The New Yorker, April 22, 2002)

The narrator is a man who remembers being told a story in a drug store 50 years ago. Sometimes, this feels like a magazine article, albeit an atypical one. Something about the layers of anecdotes and comments (be it when the events occurred, when they were told, when they were later recalled) gives this an aura of whimsy and truth. As the story-within-the-story gets older, it loses warmth and becomes black and white. "The Performance" basks in the un-pessimistic confusion of those primitive, pre-WWII times, when tapdancing was entertaining and Nazi Germany wasn't completely understood. A crazy, humane story about crazy, inhumane times.

Arthur Miller, best known as a playwright, died today. To my knowledge, this is the first work of his I've ever read.
Edward Albee said this in an AP story: "About a year ago, Arthur Miller paid me a great compliment. He said that my plays were necessary. I will go one step further and say that Arthur's plays are essential. Arthur and I marched together several times to protest repressive governments. His work teaches us a lot about how to fight evil."

I believe this rings true of "The Performance." It's the story of a silly man who suddenly stares evil in the face, and, at least in hindsight, realizes the evil was a human being. That Nazi Germany, with its sickeningly clean streets and practiced phrenology, was made of people misled by themselves and others. They weren't monsters. They were people. Evil is people.

Read the story here.

Heidi Julavits, "The Miniaturist"

A dangerous drive on a snowy mountain path strands two sisters in a strange cabin.

(from McSweeney's Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories)

Partly this feels like a parody of those spooky, teen horror, Christopher Pike stories and novels I never really read. Lots of silly symbols and horror tricks, all written in an over-explaining and uncomplex style. Partly this isn't a parody at all. The suspense and spookiness made me put it down in the wee hours of the evening, lest they become the wee hours of the bed.
It's a little funny, and definitely scary at times. So, it's a success on both counts.

Jason Roberts, "7C"

An astronomer loosens his grip on reality when a mysterious scar appears on the side of his face.

(from McSweeney's Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories)

What a crazy-ass story. A catchy mix of science, science fiction and good ol' fashion psycho drama (not just, you know, psychodrama). This story has that moment you see in horror films where the protagonist sort of figures out the rules of the game ("Why is this happening?!" "It's the anniversary of this horrible thing what happened!"/"We trampled on its sacred lair or perhaps burial ground."/"'Tis our hubris!"), but it's flavored with deep, beautiful helplessness. A unique and screwed up story.
According to an italicized preface, this story "is the winner of the first August Van Zorn Prize for the Weird Short Story." I am glad such a prize exists.

Learn more about the author here, and check out the thing John Steinbeck said once.

John Cheever, "The Enormous Radio"

A married couple's new radio tunes into the private lives of everybody else in their building.

(from Vintage Cheever, on loan from the Lori Hill Library)

I like the '50s-'60s-ish sci-fi vibe of this story, with its post-war ideals and cool B-movie plot device. The end, while it's a bit melodramatic, drives home the otherwise understated theme of the growing distances between people as society becomes more modern. Other peoples' problems become entertainment, and, for Irene, it's the only thing she can do, as she is trapped in the apartment all day. Neat, smartypants stuff.


"They had some cocktails and went in to dinner to the 'Anvil Chorus' form Il Trovatore."

Anybody else think it's weird when you find a typo in a book? I understand typos; I make so many every day. I'm quiet good at it. Typos on blogs? Of course. In newspapers? Used to it. But books? That typo will sit on the shelf until you and the book return to the soil. How did it happen? It wasn't in the original, which means, what, that somebody had to type in this story? Like by hand? I appreciate the effort. I been there. It has humanized the process.

Peter Vaeth, "The Amazing Choir"

Father promises a fun surprise! But if it's not a circus, what are they waiting in the mud and rain to see?

(from Pindeldyboz, issue 4)

I'll tell you what they are waiting to see. A not so amazing choir. Yawn. A few paragraphs in, I no longer cared about this story. I wished to be free of its simplified characters. I longed to sprint from its trudging pace. Yet I kept reading. Why? Well, for one thing, I read short stories. It's what I do, here. Also, I knew there weren't too many pages to go. Lastly, for whatever it's worth, I really wanted to know what the stupid surprise was. Short of a fucking ninja rhinoceros, I knew it wouldn't bail out the preceding pages. But, I figured there was no way it would be a choir, because, like, it's the title. But yep. There's the choir and, here's a spoiler: All the father-son teams are gathered there to throw fruit at the singers.
"The Amazing Choir" is "The Lottery" as presented by Nerf.

Hey, look at this. The same author once did a poem about clowns. Peter Vaeth and I are very, very different people.

H.G. Wells, "The Grisly Folk"

Primitive humanoid tribes battle for prehistoric earth.

(from H.G. Wells Selected Short Stories)

But first a history lesson. Actually most of this story is really just a museum tour-style pre-history lesson on what we know and what we don't know about early man and his world. After a lengthy refresher course in antediluvian anthropology, we take a brief and theoretical sojourn into the old old world to walk with a small migrating band of men as they head north into the territory already claimed by Neandertals who, we already know, do not inherit the earth. Poor bastards. But they do get a few good hits in, and eat some human children before they fall to our ancestors with the spears and the necks that turn so much better and sneakier brains.

I like the way Wells was obviously fascinated and dumbstruck by the notion of getting into the heads of those "grisly folk." Check out this passage:

They[early humans] were still savages, very prone to violence and convulsive
in their lusts and desires; but to the best of their poor ability
they obeyed laws and customs already immemorably ancient,
and they feared the penalties of wrong-doing.
We can understand something of what was going on in their minds,
those of us who can remember the fears, desires, fancies
and superstitions of our childhood.
Their moral struggles were ours — in cruder forms.
They were our kind.
But the grisly folk we cannot begin to understand.
We cannot conceive in our different minds the strange ideas that
chased one another through those queerly shaped brains.
As well might we try to dream and feel as a gorilla dreams and feels.

Read the whole story here.

The narrative elements are presented like suppositions: They probably thought this. They probably ate this. Mostly, this reads like an article in a science journal. Wells, who published this in 1921 in something called Storyteller Magazine, has an obvious affinity for the winning team — "true men" he calls them — but I was hopelessly rooting for the dimwitted, grey-haired, apey underdogs.
Go Eagles.

Andrea Lee, "Anthropology"

A woman refers to her Southern relatives as "black" but, growing up, she knew it was more complicated than that.

(from The O. Henry Prize Stories, 2002)

A smart, unique examination of a cultural curiosity, Southern people whose racial backgrounds are so mixed, they live in a sort of midway race between black and white. They defy easy explanation, and this story — framed as a conversation between two cousins who've moved on to more metropolitan lifestyles — tries to define their ways and means without reading like a National Geographic article. It is "anthropogy" we're dealing with here, but it doesn't seem like explainable science. Which what makes the daughter's assessment of her family as "black" an unnecessary simplification. Does that make sense?
Cool story.



I saw Regina Spektor perform tonight. She was so great. Some experiences can just lift the bad feelings right up out of you. Maybe you should play Reginetris.

Amy Day Wilkinson, "Hiding From The Puppet Woman"

Trula wonders if the lady who lives downstairs peeks in through the reverse peephole in CJ's apartment door.

(from Pindeldyboz Issue 3)

A very short story. First time I read it, I thought it was sort of art schoolly and non-plussing. Then, because it's so short, I read it again. And I totally dug it. The characters are art fucks, but the story is smarter and less pretentious than I first gave it credit for. Hooray for brevity. Hooray for second chances.

Thomas McGuane, "Ice"

A boy measures his own courage against the cool, cocky mystery of the drum major.

(from The New Yorker, Jan. 24 & 31, 2005)

I like the idea that this A-hole with a big, fuzzy drum major hat strapped to his head is somehow the epitome of cool. The badass loner is the guy who catches the baton at the home games. That is good, solid comedy. Sets the stage for a story set in the real world, but populated for characters who aren't quite thinking clearly.
This story also does a good job of peering into the decidely un-concrete politics and stupid sexual undertones of high school boys. It's not really groundbreaking, but it doesn't have to be. As Jeremy Goodwin once said, "Our goal isn't to be cunning, is it?"