Weaving 150 words...

The train stopped at a small village, and snaked around a hill. We spotted two young Mexican Indian boys playing catch with a boulder the size of a bowling ball outside our window.  They were dressed completely in white and their game of catch intrigued us. Watching them from the train, we found ourselves laughing with them as they tricked each other. Suddenly the younger boy, fell to the ground. Blood now poured from his head and pooled around him coloring his clothes. He had been struck by the boulder. My little brother screamed and a chorus of horrified  shrieks was heard from  the other compartments. At that moment the train slowly pulled away  from the scene. I cried for the boy lying on the ground, now alone and growing distant. The older boy had left him. That night I had nightmares. A few days later I was home.