In second grade we had a killer snowstorm. The teachers went on strike for a week and it was the perfect week to frolic in the snow....for every other kid on the block. Steve and I, on the other hand, had to stay inside with our new teacher....... My mother.
She wasn't really that bad. We had to read a story of my choosing (or I would bite her and Steve). Then Steve had to write a story about a subject of our "teacher's" choosing and I wrote about whatever I wanted (see previous sentence for the reason why).
The first day I wrote a killer story about a crocodile named Ralph who tried to escape from the zoo by biting a zookeeper and then was killed by the zoo keeper's vengeance seeking family. They threw him in the lion's den and he cried while being mauled to death, and was sorry for his past crimes. See? Suspense! Drama! A twist ending! A dynamic character! Fabulous!
My brother wrote a lame ass story about a pencil sharpener named Chris (his best friend's name. See the lack of originality already) who liked blue pencils and not brown ones. Guess which story Mrs. M (she wouldn't let us call her mom) raved about and put a gold star on? Ummm....IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A PLOT.
The next day Steve wrote a story about a shoe named Ryan (his second best friend) who liked red socks but not brown socks and liked it when people washed their feet before putting him on. YAWN! I wrote a story about an angry crocodile named Louis that ate his mother and a pencil sharpener named Chris and then wore a pair of shoes named Ryan and killed them by wearing them. I didn't get a gold star or a any recognition from Steve, but I did see the first flicker of fear in my mother's eyes and she made me my very first psychologist appointment that very day.
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