Royal Jelly by Roald Dahl

(Another entry in the Journal of Literary Mediocrity)

As I continue reflecting on my failures this year—not just in reading, but in life more broadly—there are the occasional glimmers of hope. For example, every now and then, I’m possessed by a burst of energy not only to read something, but to write about it. To whom, you ask? Well… you, my loyal fanbase of zero.

With book club entering a coma (group chat: dead; enthusiasm: also dead), I turn to another June short story: Royal Jelly by Roald Dahl.

I’ll admit, I was mildly intrigued by the unexpected lesson on bees (I think it was about bees?). Did I fact-check any of it? Absolutely not. Like a true modern reader, I simply accepted everything as gospel. Royal jelly is now both magical and mildly terrifying in my mind, and that’s good enough.

The story unfolds through a sometimes-cute, mostly-awkward conversation between a married couple, and while it’s technically labeled as horror, I’d argue that’s generous. This falls more into the "people-turning-into-animals" genre—a theme that’s been done to death, though perhaps this was one of the first? (Yet another thing I refuse to research.)

The build-up was weirdly compelling, in that way where you don’t know whether to laugh or be disturbed. But the climax? Meh. A bit of a letdown. Still, like in other aspects of life, sometimes a disappointing finish is just part of the experience—and that’s perfectly okay.