Dad’s Car by Kuli Kohli

I am in my back garden where there are no flowers or shrubs. No trees or bushes, only sunny dandelions, nettles and grassy weeds growing through the cracks in the concrete.

In one corner, bits of timber and wavy steel sheets have been shaped into a tatty, tacky shed.  I am surrounded by honeycombed barbed wire and can see threads of my favourite brown frock caught where I tore it on the hems.

My Dad’s car, old and rusty, rests like a dead whale smashed to pieces on the shore. The door is ajar and I catch my finger on the rust as I try to climb inside. The blood from my finger stains the battered seat but I am too excited to notice it. I sit on the driver's seat, my feet dangling. I grab hold of the steering wheel and start twisting and turning it. I can't see where I am heading, I only see the dirty dashboard and switches with funny signs.

I smile and sing, pretending to drive, imitating my Dad. I don't know where I am going but my imagination takes me to amazing places...

Reality brakes, holts me to a standstill, when Mum calls, "Come out this instant! You'll hurt yourself!"