Disadvantages maybe boring reading my daughter's efforts
My now nearly-18yr-old daughter wanted to be a writer in her earlier days. Now she wants to be a sociologist. Don't ask me why!. Up to the age of 16 she was a prolific creative writer. I thought I'd post something she wrote at the age of 14 and a half. I still toy with the idea of trying to get some of her efforts published for younger readers.Here it is:****** Late Roses *******
For me the smell of burning rubber or the glint of sunlight snaking its way through the thickly curtained windows brings everything flooding back.
Some recollections never disappear, permanent imprints in the mind, so deeply embossed they can never be eroded completely. A simple stimulus, a brief sight or sound, or a distinctive odour or even a fleeting sensation evokes the quiescent memory from the unconscious.
It was a cool crisp autumnal day, the sort only ever captured perfectly in Enid Blyton storybooks and church hymns. I’d been up until the early hours preparing food and wrapping Jess’s presents but here I was, out of bed just after 7am, roused by an overexcited five-year-oldShe was in such a rampant state of almost feverish anticipation that my husband and I couldn’t help but share in her enthusiasm. We stood in the doorway, me wearily clutching my hot coffee cup, witnessing the total annihilation of countless rolls’ worth of paper enclosing the brightly wrapped presents. As far as Jess was concerned, birthdays fell into the same category as Christmas; every year without fail, gifts appeared overnight at the foot of her bed and every year without fail, she got what she had asked for. For a child of that age, overdrafts and credit card statements are no obstacle.
I glanced down at my happy daughter, her cheeks flushed with excitement, her chin stained with chocolate - evidently she had discovered the Cadbury’s fingers laid out in preparation for her birthday celebrations. Even as I contemplated this, she stood up steadily, commandingly almost, her gaudy helmet balanced askew on her clammy forehead. I nodded, reading her pleading expression like a large-print book. Even then Jess always knew how to get what she wanted.She reached for her father, his strong palm enclosing her tiny fingers. She seemed so fragile, so precariously teetering between safety and harm. Between them they wheeled the new bicycle to the door and down the path, late roses bordering the mossy concrete.
As I closed the rickety gate behind them, I felt an amazing sense of pride flood through my body.But my happiness was short lived. As my husband turned to wave, I saw something move in the corner of my eye. It was a car. I shouted and my family stopped dead in their tracks. It was then that I shut my eyes; they saw the car too late. The squeal of tyres, grate of metal on metal and the dull thud of two lifeless bodies ricocheting off a car bonnet reached my ears.
The ambulance was at the scene in minutes but to me it seemed like a lifetime. A short lifetime like Jess’s.
They were both pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.
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