So we're eating lunch with my 12-year-old son, Peter, and we got an idea about writing a short story together. The conversation went like this.
"There is this boy, and he needs to eat soup," I said.
"But his grandma does something horrible to him when he doesn't eat it!"
"Do you want to write a story about it?"
"But you said you don't want to be a writer?"
"Oh, it's not writing. This is just for fun."
"Okay, I see. That's what it should always be, you know? Writing is fun."
"Come on, mom. Let's do it!"
We did. Below is the result.
A short story by Peter Ustyugov & Ksenia Anske
My parents died when I was young. 6-7 years old. I still mourn for them. Cancer was their problem. Now, my Grandma has adopted me. We live in an apartment in New York City. 8th floor. My name is Moldy Warts. Today I had a great adventure. (By the way, my brain is as small as 27 peas clumped together, mismatched, and moldy. Also glued messily together with super glue.)
My grandma usually feeds me soup. Every day it’s a different kind of soup. Some days it’s boiled grandpa’s shoes, other days it’s a weird stew that doesn’t look like anything I recognize but it smells delicious, so I eat it. Grandma likes it when I eat her soup. What I forgot to tell you is that when I don’t eat, she really doesn’t like it. She gnaws on her gnarly toenails, and chews her long pointy nose—how she does it, I don’t know. She has these little blue and poo-brown horns sticking out of her nostrils.
She poured something green into my bowl. It swirled and bubbled and smelled like stinky socks and two-week-old baby diapers in a dump. I looked at it suspiciously.
“Hi, my dear boy. Good morning. Would you like to eat some yummy soup?” She licks her lips at this and the horns sticking out of her nostrils make a little trumpet noise.
“No thank you, my dearest grandmother,” I respond. Then suddenly her hand shoots down to her belt where a Glock 19 coated in gold magically appears. She grabs it and then points it at my face.
“Wow, Grandma. What's that?”
“It’s a gun, my little lovely child. Now EAT. Or your doom will be confirmed.”
I dash for the window, shattering the glass as I jump through. I hear little squeaks from her shoes, tooting noises following her rhythmically. I land on a roof next to us. She climbs on top of the windowsill and shouts, “NO MORE SOUP FOR YOU!”
The rest of the story is here.