Two very small paragraphs because I want to know if I'mreally that bad a prose writer. Any comments much appreciated.
The Burgundy Cadillac
The burgundy Cadillac stopped when Kissa stopped making splashes in the puddles. The rain pelleted the car as much as bullets from a gun. There weren't any guns anywhere, only Kissa's echo. Kissa was not three paces from the car painted burgundy. She was painted burgundy too. When it happened no one said anything or tried to help, they were caught in the moment, the moment not so rare as final. The girl's mother died last year, three weeks following Kissa's birthday weren't full of the same joy of commencement.
The sirens eventually came, the driver stayed, and the passer-bys dispersed all too quickly. The girl wouldn't testify and neither would they. The police questioned the driver while the paramedics took the body. From there the two split, girl and driver, to morgue and jail,presumably. The only witness who didn't run was told to check later, if he cared to at all. The police officer only said that the same thing happened a week ago half-way across town. It was common enough, regardless of age.