You'd think I was trying to kill them, asking them to write a two paragraph summary of what we've covered in history. Or getting them to write much of anything.
But in the thirty minutes I spent checking email and reading blogs before school this morning, the three of them jointly wrote a story. Granted, it was not exactly a literary masterpiece, but GOOD GOLLY MISS MOLLY it was seven pages long! In usual testosterzone fashion, it was an action-packed, globe-spanning epic. There were the inevitable explosions and militant rabbits and battles and nuclear-whatever and odd runway vehicles. And priceless gems, such as this:
The seats were tossed about, funneling Irish* Indiana Jones fans through the windshield into the Wiener-Mobile. It crashed through the wall, Irish movie-goers clinging to all parts of the thundering hot dog.But write about Indira Gandhi? Or taxonomy? Surely you jest.
* (No Irishmen were harmed in the telling of this tale.)
P.S. Can I just tell you, in the midst of all the raw BOY-ness of their story, how adorable I find the way Gunnar uses the word presently? He's been reading The Secret Garden again.