In the pitch darkness, oncoming headlights
glared. Horns honked in disbelief, mimicking the racket in my head, the
slamming of my heart. In the back seat of the station wagon, my
fingernails dug into the upholstery. The wind was pushing the car, the
road was slick with black ice and we were on the wrong side of the road.
Grandma was driving. Or rather, she was trying to figure out how to
drive in a country where the steering wheel was on the left side of the
car and where roads were more than one lane wide. My twelve-year old
brother was leaning forward in the front passenger seat, seat-belt
straining, peering through the windshield.
“You’re on the wrong side of the road!” he cried.
Grandma twisted the steering wheel. The tires squealed, at a loss for
traction. The car swerved clumsily onto the correct lane. My brother
yelled for grandma to press the brakes, but she she stepped on the gas
and the car jerked forward. Just as quickly, it lurched back as she
tried the other pedal. My stomach heaved and cold sweat dampened my
back. My hands felt as frigid as the sleet lashing the windows. I
squeezed my eyes shut, my lips whispering frantic prayers.
Please God let is reach home safely.
Please God let the police appear to escort us home.
Please God –
“There’s your mom!” Grandma exclaimed happily, screeching to halt beside
a crowded bus stop. Mom’s eyes were round with fear. She looked at my
panic-widened eyes, at the way I clutched the edges of the seat with
both hands. She looked at my brother’s trembling form and then at
Grandma’s penitent expression.
“I suggested we pick you up from work,” Grandma admitted in a small
voice.
“Mammy,” Mom said tremulously, “This isn’t Trinidad!”
(c) Kristy Kassie, 2006
Showing the emotions of characters in a story or in an essay involves your reader in what is written. It is better to show than tell. In the piece above, the children's fear is clear through their actions and words.