Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Camp Art of War

Zack and I are studying military history and building forts.

He builds the forts.

 I attack them.

Sometimes I come in and hang out and pretend to fall asleep. Then I attack him.

Sometimes I jump through the ceiling. I win.

Sometimes I send in good things to eat, and tell him I killed him. Score.

Once I attacked him crucial fortification with a Spongebob ball calling it a "naval bombardment"

Today it was my turn to build a fort.

My fort was square, like the Alamo, and had a yoga mat on the bottom because I hear most of war is spent waiting and waiting so I didn't want to be in the "dirt."

Zack curls up next to me, like a good son should.

 I tell him stories about people just like us who lived a million years ago caves and painted on the walls.

What would you write? I ask him, not at all trying to be a teacher or professor or anyone who had a right answer in mind.

"I'd write F.U. British!" Zack said, then he killed me.