It's a not-so-commonly known fact that I love a good short story. Here's how my love affair began: back in my childhood days (and, let's be honest, even to this very day) I was an avid reader of Roald Dahl works. Little did I know, he actually began as a writer for older audiences. One day back in middle school, I picked up a book I had never seen before: The Umbrella Man and other stories. Perplexed, I flipped through it to find about a dozen stories I didn't recognize. Giddy to find a book by Mr. Dahl that I had never read, I purchased said book, hoping to begin my journey into worlds far away that night after I crawled in bed. I have never mentally enveloped a book with such fervor and speed. Roald had done it again. Somehow he had captured my attention with seemingly average people living a seemingly average life, but then all of the sudden as I wasn't expecting anything unusual, some wild element had been introduced into the story. Only, it wasn't new. And it wasn't so wild. But it was griddy. And raw. Roald had made irony his dancing partner, and he was taking it on a great waltz through each page, unbeknownst to readers until the very last line. Some say Edgar Allan Poe is the master of macabre. And O. Henry the virtuoso on ironic endings. But Roald Dahl, acclaimed writer of children's stories such as Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and James and the Giant Peach, has more than earned his right to play with the big boys. I just finished another book of his short stories ("Skin and other stories") and still view Roald as a literary giant who can appeal to the masses.
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