By Alexander Hattrell, Room 8

“Hold on Timothy!” Mother yells, “I’m coming to get you, too!” The storm crackles above me. I whimper. Why has she picked me to be last? I’m the youngest! I’m the weakest! Suddenly a freak gust of wind comes from nowhere. The branch snaps and I am blown away, a possum riding the wind - until there is no wind to ride. I come to a halt as the wind dies. Below me is certain death. A flash of blue stands out against the green. The stream! Of course! I angle myself towards the stream, unsure whether or not I will make it… I make it. I land in the center of the current where the water is deepest - but also fastest. I hold on to my stick like it is the most precious thing I will ever hold. Where do I go? Rapids ahead of me, with no way of safely getting ashore - or is there? I spot a branch directly ahead of me overhanging the river. I jump up and grab it. I have a moment of deja vu - I can almost hear Mother saying “Hold on Timothy!” All of a sudden the adrenaline dies. I can barely find the strength to keep awake, let alone hang. A voice from behind me says “Hold on Timothy, I’m coming to get you!” I turn around. Mother marches toward me and I fall into her arms. I’m asleep before she catches me.