During school today, I asked my nine year old to write a story. I told him it could be about anything he wanted, and as long or short as he liked. He despises handwriting, so I expected it to be three sentences or so. He has never really liked this kind of exercise. Often, I ask him to tell me a story while I sit at the computer and type it. He watches me type each word to verify that I'm doing it exactly as he says. Those stories are often long, involved, and nonfictional. He likes doing that, but when it comes to writing it down himself, he resists.
Anyway, today he was gleeful with the idea. He sat down and told me not to watch. Every now and then he would erupt in laughter. I loved watching him enjoy his writing.
Here is what he wrote. The spelling and punctuation is all his.
There was a boy named Kaster. He saw a scorpeen, AAAAAH! It crawled into his mom's cup. He grabed a club. He swung the club. Boom! He looked down. AAAAAHHH! The scorpeen was gon. The cup was smashed.
I think that's pretty great. I love how he didn't feel the need to explain the ending. He asked me if I would believe him about the scorpion, if this happened in our house. I told him no, because it's the truth, though I definitely wish I were the type who would believe it.