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“I screamed, but nobody heard.  I hollered, called, shouted.  But all that listened was the bare trees, swaying like feathers blowing in the wind.  I felt my face.  It was hard, sticky with tears and sweat.  I shut my eyes.  I wanted it to go away.  The grass was a pale brown, curling and falling on the ground.  The sky was grey, a pale, distressed grey that flooded into my blood.  I couldn’t tell whether it was day or night.  My arm felt terrible.  It burnt through my bones, snapping my veins, filling my skin with heavy, pointed rocks.  I screamed, and lay down on the grass, my face screwed like a crumpled newspaper.  All around me I saw grey and pale brown.  It was misty.  I could just make out the car.  It was in pieces, but I could see the front bumper and the doors and wheels scattered around it.  It was deep below me, in the ditch.  I shuddered, wishing I could look away, or stop myself, but I couldn’t.  Struggling with my awful arm, I scrambled up, and walked towards the ditch.  Music filled my head.  A memory of a tune.  It had been in the car CD player before it happened.  I remembered all the notes.  It was an African beat.  A hollow drum and some tingly instruments were banging away while an old man chanted words.  It was a beautiful piece of music.  Haunting, but beautiful.  Mum had told me all about the African music.  I loved every beat of it.  She showed me how to recognise it.  I swallowed as I found myself getting closer to the ditch.  I could make out the rubbish in it.  The rusty parts of tractors lay angrily in the pit.  Scattered around it were chains, saws and metal razor sharp bits and pieces.  I moved closer, not knowing what to expect to find.  I saw a face.  A white face with crimson lips and open, yet still green eyes. Dead.  It was a woman.  It was Mum.”

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Lola Button, aged 11, likes writing stories.  She asked me to give her a subject, so I did, and this is what she wrote.

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