(The short story “Colorin Colorado” by Camille Bordas appeared in the July 10 & 17, 2023 issue of The New Yorker.)
(SPOLIERS AHEAD!)
Photograph by Ryan Frigillana for The New Yorker
I loved it.
It was much better than The Lottery.
I going to read it, again and again.
(The short story “Valley of the Moon” by Paul Yoon appeared in the July 3rd, 2023 issue of The New Yorker.)
(SPOILERS should just be expected.)
Illustration by Dadu Shin
“Valley of the Moon” is an exquisite short story by Paul Yoon. Writing a good short story is hard enough, but writing a short story that feels lived in by complicated and authentic people, is pretty damn tough. Yoon takes it a step farther, and creates a story that speaks to the cycles in life, and how meaning remains elusive for some people.
The story is about Tongsu, a one-eyed man who, after the end of the Korean War, returns to the valley and home he was born in. His family is long gone, but Tongsu repairs the home, and makes his way as a substance farmer in the valley. There is a river that runs through the valley, and a set of rocks that as a child Tongsu was told the moon emerges and crashes down every night – only to repeat the process the next evening. One night, by these rocks, Tongsu is attacked by a man, who Tongsu kills out of self-defense, and proceeds to bury by these stones. Soon, two orphans, and boy and a girl, from a local church come to live with him. Years pass, and then one day a man comes through the valley looking for his uncle that went missing years before, but Tongsu is able to send the man on his way without raising any suspicions. Not long after that, one of the pigs dies, and Tongsu beats the boy for it. This leads to the children running away, leaving Tongsu alone again. Then the story picks up with the girl, Eunhae, now living in a city, working in a hotel, and creating her own life. She is given Tongsu’s phone number through the church, and she calls him. The reconnect, though never discussing the past, and she decides to visit him back in the valley. Things happen, but you can read about it.
What I loved about this story, and I just latched on to it, was the prose of this piece. It’s third person, with a detached and unemotional way of presenting the story. There is a “matter of fact-ness” to it, almost a simplicity, that keeps to story moving forward, but it never hinders the emotions. I found myself tensing up as the stranger arrived looking for his missing uncle, and also a pure shock of Tongsu snapping one day and beating the boy. And when the conclusion of the story arrives, still in this simple and direct prose, I was moved at how well these pieces played together, and brought me to a feeling that I had truly lived through this experience with these characters.
And that is the real trick with this story – creating that feeling of cycle, and continuation. I loved how this story was making the point, ever so slyly, how one decision creates new decisions, and how certain choices can never be undone. I also enjoyed how this was a story about fading memories, and what we decide to hold on to, and let go of. All of it coming back to the idea that life continues on, repeating the cycle.
“Valley of the Moon” by Paul Yoon is the type of short story that makes me love short stories. This is a world that is different from my own; I am presented with characters that are realistic and complicated. There is a plot and a climax that feels organic with the story that’s being told. It all feels so easy and simple, and I know creating a story like this isn’t easy or simple.
(This is an experiment of a flash fiction story that I decided to retire from submitting. Enjoy.)
Airbag
There was light, and then there was darkness. Maybe there was sound, but I think all I can remember hearing was the fear in my brain; As I was scared. Or was I screaming? Broken glass? I think so, and if that was true, then I don’t know how I didn’t get cut up. I hit my head, and banged up my back. There wasn’t any blood that you’d expect.
What existed after, most likely before if only I had paid attention, was the feeling of floating, up and away – of relief that I was here and not in some other place, even though no rational person would want to be where I was, and that’s because they weren’t fully/completely aware of being alive in this reality, but now, or at least then – in the aftermath – I was present.
When I was a child, growing up in the Cold War, knowing that at any second one of two nations could blow up the whole world; so many people lived in the pool of existential threat every day. Life could end at the push of a button, as that was modernity. But what I fixated on wasn’t necessarily that all life could end, but having to wait for it to end. Being told the missile was on the way, that in a matter of minutes I would be evaporated, but I had to wait for my impending death. That count down is what scared me. Sure, if you knew you had one day left, then you could get some stuff done. But with five minutes – I would just be left with my thoughts. My awful thoughts. Even if I tried to be constructive with my five minutes, I’d most likely use four of the minutes deciding what to do, and that last minute wouldn’t be enough time to accomplish it. But I know me, and I would spend five minutes kicking myself for all the things I didn’t do. Hating myself as the doom, the bomb, the endless end drew nearer. Not enjoying what I had, but regretting what was.
The darkness did give way to the light once again. I opened my eyes. I looked around and made sure I was alive. On the side of a highway, having spun around, I was alive. Excitable, juiced, sweating yet cold. The Universe had expanded, only to contract back to the same place, and I was still there. The blue gray interstate, an airbag deflating – I had the acknowledgement of time.
(The short story “Status in Flux” by Weike Wang appeared in the June 26th, 2023 issue of The New Yorker.)
(As in life, there will be SPOILERS!)
Illustration by Jiayue Li
First, we had stories about Covid arriving. Then there were the stories about living with Covid. Now we have arrived in age of stories after Covid, and what it all meant. “Status in Flux” by Weike Wang is at the vanguard of the “after Covid” era with all the questions: What did it all mean? How has it affected us? Some people have moved on, while others haven’t; why?
As the story begins, the narrator informs us that the world recently opened up for travel after Covid, while at the same time she is having intense insomnia which she is addressing by driving at night to twenty-four hour grocery stores to peruse the froze isle. Just from the opening, this piece is witty, clever, and humorous. The narrator is in process of applying for a green card so her and her husband can travel, because everyone else in her life has gone off to travel. Her Canadian parents, her younger sister-in-law, her in-laws, and her friends. But, because of the green card process, she cannot leave the country. The story daftly intertwines all of these storylines, while also giving the narrator ample ability to dwell on her life as an immigrant, first from China as a child moving to Canada, then moving to America for grad school.
Weike Wang is a very good writer. The story moved at a good pace, the characters felt individual and authentic to their own situations. Like I said, there is a healthy bit of humor in the story, and a few running and call back jokes are thrown in as well. The piece is well structured, showing Wang’s skill of not over staying any one storyline too long.
Yet, at the end of the story I couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing happened. All of the other characters go out in the world, but the narrator and her husband are stuck at home in New Jersey, waiting to see if she gets her green card. I get that narratively, logically and thematically that this is the point of the story, but it didn’t feel satisfying. The narrator keeps doing the same thing at the end of the story that she did at the beginning – driving to all-night places while dealing with insomnia. Also, the narrator doesn’t seem to learn anything, or gain any new knowledge, and emotionally, she never grew from where she started. It was frustrating because in the final moment of the story, the narrator is talking of driving to the boarder, all phrased as questions – so it’s just a hypothetical, and not a choice or an action.
This story really did charm me, and I enjoyed reading it. As I got closer to the end, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it did feel like it was building to something. For that reason, I can’t say that I loved this story, but I most certainly didn’t hate it. I would have to say that I had the mildest, lightest of disappointments with it. But in the end, you should read it.
(The short story “Civil Disturbance” by Said Sayrafiezadeh appeared in the June 19th, 2023 issue of The New Yorker.)
Photograph by Holly Andres for The New Yorker
This week’s short story from The New Yorker is “Civil Disturbance” by Said Sayrafiezadeh, an author I never have read before until today. It’s a competent short story that does a very good job of creating an unnamed fictional city that the characters exist in, which by extent, gives the protagonist ample breath of motion to go on his journey.
This is a first-person story, and the narrator also is unnamed, like the city. He and his girlfriend Molly, are out canvassing for their favorite candidate three days before the mayoral election. Molly works for the candidate’s campaign, as she has a clipboard of voter information, while the narrator give off a feeling of more “along for the ride” with his girlfriend. They bicker with each other, also implying that their relationship is near ending. The narrator works at a gym, a membership salesman, and his job skills come in handy speaking to potential voters when they answer the door. It happens that they come across a former high school classmate of the narrator’s. The classmate’s name is Bryce, who was a straight-A student that the narrator bullied in high school. Bryce works at the Wal-Mart next to the narrator’s gym, and happens to support a third-party candidate. The next day Bryce shows up to the gym looking to join, which the narrator is ready to upsell him, but then starts to have a change of conscious, only to have the power go out – blamed on the incumbent mayor. That night the narrator and Molly go out, and he throws bricks in the windows of the house that didn’t answer the door, which includes Bryce’s home.
There was a lot to like in this story. It flowed well, and had some nice touches of humor in it. The story was efficient on the whole, and worked with a minimum number of characters, who were clearly defined with understandable intentions. I also enjoyed how Molly would say something, and then the narrator would use that saying later in the story, showing he was listening, and applying what she said, though not in the correct way. And I was fascinated by this fictional city – it felt lived in, rundown, and struggling.
Yet, something kept nagging at me about this story which kept me from committing to it. One was that it did, sort of, have a “Dead Chick in the Basket*” moment at the end, where it is shared with us why this former high school jock became a gym membership salesman. I don’t think this information was needed about the character because we know that he is emotionally stinted, stuck reliving his past high school glories, and how that has affected his present situation. Knowing it was his coach who pushed him in that direction actually provides no new emotional insight on the character. The second issue took me a moment, but when I reread the story it hit me; this dumb jock talks like a writer. I offer this example; “Today’s particular conflict had been set in motion by the banal-”. Yeah… sorry, but no. The narrator doesn’t say “dude,” or “bro” or use any sports metaphors in describing any situations he’s in. The character is “jock” in name only – not in thought or action.
And that was it. Too bad as well, because I did enjoy what this story was saying about elections, politics, and how people interact with each other. Also, like I said before, Sayrafiezadeh did create a very lived in fictional city, that I was intrigued by, and wanted to know more about. I have a feeling that I will search out his other works, because there is something here, even if this story wasn’t completely even.
* “Dead Chick in the Basket” refers to a clichéd writing device where the final paragraph of a short story contains new information about a character which is meant to make the reader view the actions, statements, or feelings of that character in a different light. The first known use of this device was in J.D. Salinger’s short story “Just Before the War with the Eskimos.”
