Are you the next JK Rowling?

JK Rowling: But could you show her how it's done?

To mark the release of the fifth Harry Potter book, BBC News Online has been having fun looking for someone who could be the next children's blockbuster writer.

Almost 600 people sent us their first paragraph of a children's book, and on Friday we whittled the choice down to the final 12.

Some 9,200 of you voted for your favourite over the past four days.

We are delighted to announce that your winner is Louise Arnold, from England, with her tale of an unimpressive ghost, at 21.55% of the vote.

A very close second was Chris, from England, at 20.36% with his story of a major security lapse at the Von Richten prison.

And third was the UK's Caroline Lea and her description of Ndole running in the night, with 9.53%.

Well done to everyone who entered, and we look forward to publishing a complete short story by Louise in the near future - and maybe seeing her children's books on the shelves as well...

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THE WINNER
Some ghosts are all lightning and fierce eyes, chains rattling and dramatic wailing. Some ghosts are made of mischief and mayhem, re-arranging furniture when backs are turned and laughing a silent laugh at shocked faces. Some ghosts are made of centuries of tears, and just seeing them makes you feel sad for weeks after. Some ghosts are just like normal people, just a more see-through shade of real. And some ghosts, ghosts like Grey Arthur, are made of cloud, and no firm edges, and aren't very ghost like at all. Ghosts like Grey Arthur don't make you feel scared, or confused, or sad: ghosts like Grey Arthur you tend not to notice at all. And this didn't impress Grey Arthur one bit.
Louise Arnold, England

SECOND PLACE
Security at the Von Richten prison for the Criminally Insane was second to none. Designed by the brilliant Dr Albert Von Richten, scientist, architect, and (as it turned out) megalomaniac, the prison was so secure that even Dr Von Richten himself was unable to escape after he was imprisoned for attempting to take over the world. Built on stilts in the murky depths of a huge lake, just a few miles from here, even the prison guards had trouble getting out for tea. Which is why, one morning, the governor was a bit concerned to discover that all 476 prisoners were gone.
Chris, England

THIRD PLACE
The street was dark, the night air soft as a black cat's paw. By day, the same street heaved to accommodate thousands of bustling bodies, and the tarmac sweated under the gong of the South African sun. So the whispering blackness had an unnatural threatening edge, silent as a flick-knife. But Ndole liked the silence. It swallowed him, blanketing the slap of his bare feet on the cool tarmac. He loved these nightly sprints, away from the taunts and punches of the schoolyard. In the thick night air he was no longer the wrong colour. He blended with the darkness; he was faster than the light.
Caroline Lea, UK

AND THE HONOURABLE RUNNERS-UP...
John's first conversation was with a squirrel. His first animal conversation you understand, he had been speaking to other people for a long time. Just like you and me. No, this was his first conversation with a non-human being. It happened during the great tree incident last summer at about lunch time. It was called a conversation because John and the squirrel spoke to each other, but the squirrel did most of the talking. John just stood and stared, which I dare say most of us would have if a squirrel came up to us and started on about the weather or the state of the nation's parks or something.
Robert Price, England

At just after five o'clock one summer evening, when a small vehicle flying over London crashed into Putney Heath, nobody noticed. A few people nearby may have glimpsed a flickering movement in the corner of their eye, and perhaps someone in the area heard an unusual echo, but none of these people thought twice about it. This was because those who were inside the vehicle were making every possible effort not to be seen, and some very effective means were available to them. They couldn't have known that they had crashed directly into Mike Sullivan's route home from school.
Tim G, UK

Everyone wanted to be a Chocolate Kid. Even the girls who always sat on the back seat of the school bus, and already knew all about make-up and boyfriends, were talking about it. It was all letters of application here and glamorous photos there; how Mum or Dad was helping with the typing; what they'd do if they won. Chocolate Kids; that was all that anyone could think about the whole of the journey in, right across the playground, and into the clammering cloakrooms. Yes, everyone wanted to be a Chocolate Kid - except for Hatty Hattersley, of course.
Lucy Bailey, New Zealand

"That pumpkin ruined my life!" announced Grandad as we sat around the dinner table. Mother turned a rather ashen shade of grey, whilst father just carved the meat faster and pretended to be looking at the clock. Grandad had a tear in his eye as he looked at me. "What happened, Grandad?" I asked, but mother grabbed my hand and whisked me out of the room. She slammed the door behind us and pointed a crooked finger at me, opening her mouth to speak. Without warning, there was a mighty crash of light and sound from the dining room...
Paul Bird, UK

It's not every day you fall through a rotten floor into a forgotten mine shaft. Usually such a day is your last because mine shafts have, as a rule, very hard bottoms. Fortunately for Peter, this mine shaft had a great vat of soup at the bottom. Even more fortunately the soup was not hot. Peter made quite a big splash.
DR Wilson, Scotland

The first cannonball's fireburst was the most terrifyingly beautiful thing John had seen in his thirteen years. It would be three more cannonballs until his father was killed. And seven more before he reached the safety of the trees, amidst a crush of an unfriendly panic. As he ran to avoid being run over, John clutched at the note in his left hand. It would be forty minutes more before he read it.
Jeff Hansen, U.S.A.

Arnold sat up sharply in his bed, his bedclothes thrown aside revealing his lucky pyjamas and even luckier hot water bottle underneath. He had heard it. The quiet bing-bong of an email arriving at his computer in the corner of the room. This was it. Just as the man had said. Quietly, he crept over to the softly purring machine and, with a quick shake of the mouse, woke it from it's sleep. There it was, the email, subject line 'Treasure'. With a frantic double-click he opened it. It was blank. Completely blank. Disappointment came over his barely lit face. He reached the mouse pointer for the corner to kill the window and all his hope. Then he saw it, a little paper clip in the corner. An attachment. It was called 'map.gif'. Before opening it, he took a deep breath. Maybe this was going to change things forever.
Scott Liddell, UK

The pigeon lady had been feeding the birds on Shadwell pond at 3.45pm every day for the last four years. She would shuffle along the path, slightly unsteady in her too-big shoes, smiling at an unseen joke that nobody else could understand. She had been there, dishing out grain from a torn Sainsbury's carrier bag, every day since Tom had started school. He could have set his watch by her, if he hadn't lost it. Then one day, she wasn't there any more.
Louise Marshall, UK

Dear Dad Please come back. I miss you. Do you have any idea how hard it is for me? People are either horribly nice to me, or pretend that nothing's happened. Every time I turn a corner, I expect to see your face. Each time a car comes past that looks like ours, I expect to see you driving it. And the phone. God, Dad, when the phone rings I think it must be you. It must be you just ringing to say you're on your way home. Mum cries sometimes and Charity always wants to know where you are. I'm just trying to keep us all sane. Please come back.
Gill Perkins, UK