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Here is a story, I wrote it for my fantastic writing class. "Here, try some of this," she said laughing. I did. "Yuck, bleghggh. Eww, what is that? Gughllgh." "Oh my god it's not that bad." "What is it?" "You're such a baby." "What is it?" "What do you think it is? It's tomato soup, I'm sure." "You made that?" "Yeah, what's wrong with that?" "It doesn't taste like any tomato soup I've ever had." "That's because you've only had Campbell's. That shit's not even made with tomatoes. It's just like flour and water and red food color." "There are too tomatoes in it. Have you ever read the label?" "Fine, whatever, but these are tomatoes from the garden." She looked at me. "When I was little, like 3 or 4 or something, my mom made us homemade tomato soup," I said. "It was terrible, no one would eat it, she had to throw it all out." "Yeah you've told that before." "Oh. Uh, I feel kind of funny." "Funny how?" "Like I don't know, my head feels weird and my stomach feels weird." "Oh, huh." "That soup really left a bad taste in my mouth." "Yeah that's probably the Chilean death powder in it, it has a bad taste to it." "The what?" "Or Peruvian. I can never remember if it's Chilean or Peruvian." She laughed. "I guess it doesn't really matter though, does it?" "What'd you do?" My body felt like rubber. "Why'd you do this to me?" "I knew you wouldn't like it." "But-" The ground started getting higher. I heard it hit my body. "That'll teach you to appreciate my cooking," I heard her say.
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