Well, it happened again. Peter wrote another story. Actually, we wrote it together (see if you can spot the places that are mine), but it was him about 70%, I'd say. Maybe 73.65%. Yeah, that sounds about right. Anyway, we were eating lunch. Russian shchi! So we started talking about soup, and he came up with this idea about a boy who has to eat soup but doesn't eat soup, and his grandma gets angry at him for not eating soup. Then it got really weird, and he was excited to write it down.
"But you said you don't want to be a writer?" I teased him.
"Oh, it's not writing. This is just for fun," he said.
"Okay, I see. That's what it should always be, you know? Writing is fun."
"Come on, mom. Let's do it!"
So we did. Here 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!”
I scream and duck. Bullets whiz over my head. My hair stands on end, flees jumping off miraculously, and my heart pounds like a crazy hamster in a wheel running after a piece cheese. I hope I didn’t pee my pants. My hand reaches down to my butt, where I feel something squishy. I gasp. Could it be? The magical pooey butt fart glitter lord of tomatoes? I hear a voice saying “Don’t touch me please… I have a soft tooshie."
A wiz sounds from my pants as a tomato covered in brown glitter shoots up into the sky from my belt. It explodes into turd-shaped fireworks. Fabulously, a helicopter emerges from the fireworks! It's pink, covered in polka dots and it makes funny little squeaky noises. But then noise, the loudest I’ve ever heard, erupts from grandma's position.
I see rainbow beans mixed with a hurricane of objects, all surrounded by shart. She flies up to me, and I see her disfigured butt. It's disgustingly satisfying. A ladder unfurls from the helicopter. I scramble up, as a bullet grazes my buttocks. A pain unlike anything explodes from my butt. Diarrhea shoots out of my nose, ears, mouth, and butt. I hear screams below me. I reach the top of the ladder, and I see a floating astronaut on a green cloud. Mission Impossible music starts blaring around all of New York City.
Grandma takes out a bazooka, and shoots. The rockets are big green broccoli! She attempts to shoot us down as we dodge them by 3.1415926535897932384626433383279 millimeters. The broccoli hit the windshield and splash into green goo that slides down and obstructs our view. Then for a moment it's quiet.
I crouch by the door and cautiously look out, and that’s when she hits me! Right in the forehead!
I shoot up into the heavens, explosive stuff flying around me. It’s a magical experience. Then, somehow, beans fly all around me. All types of them. And I soon figure out, I CAN FART BEANS!!!! A little voice inside my head that sounds awfully like grandma’s exclaims: Now… you may have soup again.