Introduction

I believe that anthologies are, in and of themselves, a type of story. Poor anthologies are bitty; a playlist and not an album. It doesn’t matter how good the individual bits are; a proper anthology should have something to say as a curated composition.

That said, I’m too British at this point to make an anthology with a theme of ‘me’. Instead, I’ve chosen twelve stories that I think are remarkable for showcasing the power and potential of short fiction. They’re all clever and insightful and highly entertaining, as many good stories are. But the best short stories use the medium to do something novel (pun intended); to provide a perspective that is perfectly suited for the exact length and depth of the format.

‘The Old-Maid Aunt’ by Mary Wilkins Freeman

Mary Wilkins Freeman is a (sadly overlooked) turn-of-the-century author and fierce feminist writer, much admired by her peers. The Whole Family was the brainchild of novelist William Dean Howells; a ‘collaborative’ with a dozen authors (including Henry James) all telling interconnected short stories about a single family, and centred around the engagement of Peggy and Harry. Freeman is given the second chapter, but took exception to the description of her character in Howells’ set-up and proceeded to turn the frumpy ‘maiden aunt’ into a sexual dynamo who flirts with her niece’s fiancé and ultimately torpedoes the relationship entirely. The remaining ten authors have to pick up the pieces after the “explosion of a bombshell” (the editor’s words) as Freeman fiercely defended her decision to liberate her character.

The story of the story is fascinating, but even without context, Freeman’s contribution is simply excellent work. Freeman not only showcases a new perspective, but changes the entire narrative around her. By subverting expectations, she transforms Aunt Elizabeth from an insipid wallflower to an intriguing, admirable woman who threatens to steal the spotlight entirely. (So much so that she’s quickly packed off to New York by the book’s other contributors!)

First published in Harper’s Bazaar, 1907. Collected in The Whole Family, Harper & Brothers, 1908. Read it online here

‘The Wonderful Old Gentleman’ by Dorothy Parker

Including Parker feels like a cliché, and I can’t imagine she’d appreciate that, but – she’s inescapable. Parker’s inarguably one of the finest stylists of short form writing – poems, reviews, and, of course, short stories.

‘The Wonderful Old Gentleman’ is Parker at her very best. It is set in a family’s hideously stifling sitting room, while the clan’s elderly patriarch is dying in a bedroom upstairs. As Parker can be, it is merciless from the opening lines:

“If the Bains had striven for years, they could have been no more successful in making their living-room into a small but admirably complete museum of objects suggesting strain, discomfort, or the tomb. Yet they had never even tried for the effect.”

As the story unfolds, we learn about the “old gentleman’s” oppressive presence, and the emotional and physical wear and tear he’s inflicted on the family. But is that enough to merit their hypocrisy as they sit, blandly exchanging platitudes as they wait for his death? This story is – like ‘A Telephone Call’ – torturous, as Parker conveys a crushing anxiety. Line by line, Parker’s one of the most cunningly quotable writers imaginable. But it is her ability to inflict emotion on the reader that makes her stories more than cruel caricature. We’re laughing at her characters, but somehow we feel the pain of being laughed at as well.

First published in Pictorial Review, January 1926. Collected in Complete Stories, Penguin, 1995

‘Beyond the Black River’ by Robert E. Howard

Like most of Howard’s stories, the theme here is the tension between civilisation and barbarism – and, in this instance, the latter triumphs. Howard’s most famous creation, Conan, finds himself is involved through happenstance – he’s hanging out in the the area, and gets caught up in the conflict between a handful of pioneers and a burgeoning horde of ‘Picts’. A barbarian himself (obvs), Conan sees the settlers’ efforts to bring order to chaos as futile – and he’s right, as the story ends tragically.

‘Beyond the Black River’ takes the unusual approach of making Conan the secondary character. The Spy Who Loved Me approach provides a different point of view to what is initially established as a conventional pulp adventure. Balthus, an ordinary man, is the true protagonist of the story. As a pioneer, he’s trying (and ultimately failing) to build something, but is trapped between inexorable, destructive forces. Conan himself is undeniably impressive, yet his triumphs are, ultimately, meaningless – if not outright destructive.

The barbarian is, to both Balthus and to the reader, a legendary, superhuman figure. But in this story, Conan’s presented less as a man and more of a natural force; he’s not a person, he’s a plot point. Howard’s ability to deconstruct his own literary creation earns this story a place on my list. It is an excellent adventure in and of itself, but when taken in the context of the greater mythos, it is an absolute triumph.

First published in Weird Tales, May 1935. Collected in The Complete Chronicles of Conan, Gollancz, 2016. Read it online here

‘Zero Hour’ by Ray Bradbury

A bunch of kids are playing, because aren’t kids the cutest. They’re being very imaginative and talking to their ‘friend’ and nicking household items to build things. All very sweet, and told from the point of view of a distracted, rather distant mother. If anything, she’s delighted that the kids aren’t underfoot – even if they are playing ‘WWIII’. As with many of Bradbury’s twisted tales, by the time the people that shouldbe paying attention start to pay attention, it is too late, and terrible things are now underway.

This is a maddening, frustrating, provoking tale. It makes me want to yell at the page, and then hide under the bed. It was the source of a decade’s worth of nightmares as a child, and has stayed with me ever since.

First published in Planet Stories, Fall 1947. Collected in The Illustrated Man, Doubleday, 1951

‘First Offense’ by Evan Hunter

Evan ‘Ed McBain’ Hunter is one of my favorite authors. His 87th Precinct series ran for over half a century, always reflecting the attitudes, trends and mores of the day. Hunter is excellent at capturing the cultural zeitgeist: The Mugger is as quintessentially Fifties as, say, Lightning is undoubtedly Eighties and Fat Ollie’s Book is peak Noughties.

‘First Offense’, I would argue, bucks that trend, as a genuinely timeless piece. It is, like the 87th Precinct, a procedural: it follows a young man as he’s booked on his first offense, and goes through the process of being charged and interviewed by the police. But the nuts and bolts are secondary.

Stevie, 17, starts his journey hardened and cynical, but regresses before our eyes, finally ending as a weeping and confused child. Hunter captures the essence of adolescence: of being half-man and half-boy, trapped between knowledge and ignorance, in the world but not yet of it. He also captures the system that is there to process, not care; solutions, not sympathy. The details of ‘First Offense’ may feel dated, but the most salient human and social elements of it are still relevant today.

First published in Manhunt, 1955. Collected in Learning to Kill, Harcourt, 2006

‘The Doubtful Guest’ by Edward Gorey

It is hard to separate Gorey’s writing from his art, but why should we? A story like ‘The Doubtful Guest’ is the perfect fusion of words and pictures; the tragic, comedic tale of an unspecified creature that comes to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting family.

The havoc is also, for lack of a better word: marginal. Yes, it eats all of the syrup and part of a plate, and then breaks the gramophone. But it is never actually menacing or a threat. Gorey’s art depicts the guest or as small and fuzzy (wearing what looks suspiciously like Converse). The family are, at worst, annoyed: their trinkets are lost and pictures are askew. The net sum of its disruption is no worse than that of your average Tortoiseshell cat.

Perhaps, dare I say it, they’re better off?

That’s the beauty of Gorey’s world. Even when he’s outright macabre (such as ‘The Gashlycrumb Tinies’), he’s somehow making it seem gosh darned cute. And when he’s adorable (like ‘The Bug Book’), it is masking the grotesque. ‘The Doubtful Guest’ is perfectly spun in-between the two, leaving the reader to wrestle with their own indecision.

First published by Doubleday, 1957

‘Things’ by Ursula K. Le Guin

Le Guin explains that, when first published, the editor changed the story’s title to ‘The End’. Although still fitting, I agree with Le Guin’s re-assertion of her original title. Although set against the backdrop of the apocalypse, this is not a story about endings: this is a story about things.

In a small, seaside town, an (unspecified) end is nigh. Everyone has resigned themselves to their fate: either taking to the hills to weep or the streets to rage. Everyone, that is, except one brick-maker. A stolid man, he cannot abandon his creations, and isn’t drawn to the mob. Instead, he finds himself drawn to the faintest possibility of hope: the idea that something may exist across the waters. While the rest of his village burns and fades, he begins the patently futile task of building a bridge across the ocean. He is aided by the sole other remaining villagers, a widow with a small child, and the three of them attempt to build something, even as the world ends.

Unsurprisingly, given the author, this is a beautiful story. I have a hard time reading it through misty eyes. It showcases the disregarded perseverance of those who quietly strive to create in a world full of destruction. The choice of bricks as the central ‘thing’ is inspired. Solid, unspectacular, unremarkable, and the foundation for everything else, even hope.

First published in Orbit 6, G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1970. Collected in The Wind’s Twelve Quarters, Harper & Row, 1975

‘The Coyote Gospel’ by Grant Morrison, Chaz Troug and Doug Hazlewood

Nearly-wordless and almost entirely heartbreaking. Imagine a world like that of Looney Tunes: adorable cartoon animals who spent their days in adorable cartoon violence. ‘The Coyote Gospel’ takes it a step further: imagine being one of those animals, forced by the cosmos to live a life of unending, Sisyphean slaughter, a world where there is nothing but (adorable cartoon) war, with no hint of resolution.

The animals manage to send a representative, a coyote, out of their world into ‘ours’ with a desperate plea – for someone, somehow to bring them peace. The coyote faces the trials and persecutions of the world, including a human stalker convinced that this visitor is the devil incarnate. The coyote finally meets the ostensible ‘hero’ of the title and begging for his aid. The resolution is truly heartbreaking, as worlds collide with a whimper.

It is a story within a story: a cartoon character meeting a pilgrimage to meet a comic book character. Like much of Morrison’s work, it is an examination of the form itself – a way of pulling the reader into the story by questioning the reality of storytelling itself. It is also a contrast between heroism, superheroism and the ordinary, as all three figures in the story weave in and out of one another’s lives.

First published as Animal Man Vol. 1, No. 5, DC Comics (Vertigo), December, 1988

‘Desert Rain’ by Pat Murphy and Mark L. Van Name

An artist moves with her husband to their new home in the American Southwest. She agrees – reluctantly – to be the ‘test subject’ for her husband’s new project, a virtual companion that can help with tasks from basic research to online shopping. Isolated, lonely, and creatively frustrated, her relationship with ‘Ian’ becomes more and more complex.

‘Desert Rain’ is prophetic at every level – down to basic functionality of our modern day, household AI devices. But, like the best of science fiction, it isn’t about the exciting technology – it is about what our relationship with that technology says about us. In this case, how we connect with humanized AI speaks volumes about who we are as people, and what we want from our own relationships. Do we want a sleekly perfect partner, or do we want the mess and chaos of imperfection?

This story has stuck with me since I first read it, not only because it becomes more accurate every day, but because it is – ultimately – a perfectly composed tale that builds to a single moment of choice. It is quietly, superbly constructed.

First published in Full Spectrum 3, Doubleday, 1991

‘Covehithe’ by China Miéville

Oil rigs as sea turtles. The miracle of life, as witnessed by a father and his daughter. It is gorgeously written and profoundly disturbing, a vignette of a deeply-traumatized world. As discarded oil rigs begin to resurface, humanity reacts with violence, then a fannish glee; finally completing the cycle with a sort of malign complacency.

It is odd, brief and wonderful. In a brief space, it raises questions about our relationship with history and the environment, with both the constructed and natural worlds. Miéville, who has somehow mastered the twin arts of meaningful philosophical prose and also kickass monsters, marries the two in a story that forces us to consider how we react to wonder itself.

First published in The Guardian, April 2011. Collected in Three Moments of an Explosion, Macmillan, 2015. Find it online here

‘Saga’s Children’ by E.J. Swift

Swift is an absolute virtuoso of the science fictional short story, and ‘Saga’s Children’ is an example of her ability to craft hushed speculative realism. The story focuses on the – entirely ordinary – offspring of the Solar System’s most daring explorer, the titular Saga. It is a story about adjacency: what it means to be the child of celebrity; the unwilling participant in someone else’s narrative.

Although naturally in conversation with more classic science fictional narratives, it has immense contemporary relevance. What is it like to be ordinary in a world that only celebrates the extraordinary; human in the shadow of the superhuman? It sounds trite, but short stories excel at providing new perspectives on assumed narratives. Without knowing Saga, we know Saga. She is an archetype, and her adventures and heroics can be easily inferred. What we don’t know is the human cost of her passage, the emotional toll of growing up in her wake. Swift brings humanity a myth, and gives voice to the humans around the myth as well.

First published in The Lowest Heaven, Jurassic London, 2013. Collected in The Best British Fantasy, Salt Publishing, 2014. Find it online here

‘Ghosts’ by Vauhini Vara

‘Ghosts’ is the result of Vara using an early version of ChatGPT to discuss – and process – the loss of her sister. It is, again, something that could only work in the short form.

The story itself is a type of memoir, with Vara giving the AI increasingly detailed prompts and letting it ‘finish’ her sister’s story. But it is more about the process than the prose. There’s no attempt to pass the machine’s outputs off as real, human effort, nor is the AI’s work ‘good’ in any conventional sense. The real story here is what’s happening off the page, as we witness the author walk, one small, AI-aided step at a time, towards a form of healing.

As I write this, the use of AI in the arts – in all aspects of our lives – is terrifying. It is cold, and cruel and dehumanizing. Vara’s story is not ‘by’ AI or even ‘about’ it. It is entirely about herself and her own, very human, feelings. The tool is rightfully secondary to the human behind it. It is an exquisite work, and, again, something that is far more than the sum of its parts.

First published in Believer Magazine, 2021. Collected in Best American Essays, Mariner, 2022, The Big Book of Cyberpunk, Vintage, 2023 and the upcoming Searches, Pantheon, 2025. Read it online here