Fiction Writing Sample
By Sandra K. Williams © 2003. All rights reserved.
Dorie stood on her left pedal and swung her right leg over the bike frame, dismounting in front of the rusty wrought iron gates. They stood ajar, just wide enough for a stocky matron carrying a vase of plastic flowers, or for a girl on a bicycle.
She wheeled her bike through the gates and past the ugly stone angel that leered at her like a mutant lech, one wing shading drunken beer bottles and a milky condom. Avoiding the shards that glittered on the walkway, she turned on the graveled path that led to her mom’s grave.
No stone angel for her mom. Even if they could have afforded a headstone that fancy, her mom would have hated it. Don’t waste money, she’d say. The roof’s got to be fixed.
Dorie sniffed and dragged the back of her hand across her eyes, the handlebars wobbling in her other hand. She dragged the bike over the curb into the lawn. Dew soaked into her sneakers as she counted off the graves. Sara Montanez, James Duran, Tomas Jones . . . Angel Wyatt. Mom.
They should have at least got Mom a regular headstone instead of a sunken parking bumper. The dull gray stone looked like concrete. Maybe Mom wouldn’t care, but she did.
She did.
She hurled her bike on Mannie Jelks and dropped onto the grass. I care! She pounded the earth. I care! The grass flattened under her fists.
“Goddamn you!” she shouted.
The cypress against the fence bounced her words back at her, taunted her.
Goddamn you for not thinking enough of yourself. She slapped the headstone. Goddamn you for being a martyr. Slap. Goddamn you for leaving us. Slap slap slap.
She clutched her hand to her chest and let the tears boil out. Screw those two old ladies sneaking looks at her while sticking those grotesque calla lilies on Harriet and Jeremiah Porter.
The two old ladies shuffled away.
Dorie hiccupped.
She wiped her eyes with her sleeves and sat up, legs crossed Indian-style.
“Mom?” Her throat ached, but she needed to say her part.
Mom didn’t say anything, but Dorie felt her.
“I kissed a boy yesterday.”
Mom waited.
“He tried to tongue me, but I didn’t let him.” Ben’s tongue was too icky, squirming against her lips like an eel, but Mom didn’t need to know that.
Mom approved.
“I’m not sure how much I like him, but all the other girls have got boyfriends.”
Mom questioned her.
“I don’t do everything just because the other girls do!”
Mom questioned her again.
“I don’t know — we talk about things like, you know, things.”
Mom insisted.
“Okay, okay. He tells me about how Justin is the best scorer but wouldn’t be if he didn’t pass the ball to him, and how his dad promised him a car as soon as he turns sixteen, and —”
Mom interrupted.
“I — I guess I don’t talk much.” She would like to, but Ben probably wouldn’t be interested.
Mom said something.
“What do I get out of being around him? I . . .” She plucked a blade of grass and wound it around her finger. “I get . . .” She plucked another blade and tried to whistle, but it turned into a sob. “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”
She tossed the blade and stood. “I gotta go now.”
Mom whispered to her.
“I love you, too, Mom.” Her throat closed up on her.
She jerked her bike off Mannie, 1901–1997, and hustled away without looking back. Saying goodbye again was always the hardest part.