I enjoyed both King’s and Wall’s stories, but more specifically Stephen King’s brief memories. In each if his memories he includes snapshots of descriptive details such as the kissing sound of the needle in his ear. I also found his lack of memory had an interesting impact on his story telling. Often when his memory fails him he would add what he as a child would have thought. For example, King describes his childhood cinderblock incident he includes his imagination of an animal skin singlet, most likely leopard skin. I think King’s writing has a sense of relation to the reader. Many of his passages incorporated aspects that the audience could reminisce from their own childhood.
My brother had invited me to perform with his band at a school event at ISU. We had just finished the gig and were returning home. It was June 13, around twelve thirty A.M., we were cruising down an isolated highway with Lane’s gently rusted pale blue van. The rear packed with drums, amps, guitars, and backpack jammed with entangled cords. My brother sat passed out in the back against the torn armrest, Nick sat upright in the center, his gaze glued to the car ahead, and Mike’s mind wandered out the side window. Lane and I occupied the front seats, Lane gripped the wheel with tired, callused hands and I sat beside him fighting drowsiness.
A deep green Ford Escape, tail lights splintered and mud unevenly covering the rear, led us. The Escape swayed roughly from shoulder to shoulder, with the occasional sudden jerk of the brakes, never leaving Nick’s stare. Lane lagged behind, avoiding any possible contact and neighboring cars did the same. The Ford countlessly dipped into the grass oasis separating the flow of traffic. The driver was clearly intoxicated and Nick reminded continuously, “They’re on something, they’re gonna get someone killed.”
Thirteen miles passed and the vehicle recklessly tore through the lanes and medians. No cars passed the Ford, everyone waited for the inevitable. The Escape plunged viciously into the grass bunker uncontrollably projecting itself into the air. Every driver slammed the brakes, sending an unbearable screech. The Ford tilted through the air diving into the ground on its side. The car must have rolled at least for times. Lane, Nick and I ran towards the car stopping ten yards away. “They’re fucking dead, there is no way they lived that.” Nick shouted. A crowd surrounded the vehicle, no one dared to glimpse into beaten windows.
It was a war. The car laid upside down. The front crunched in while liquids leaked through. The battle field torn and the soldier wounded. The roof crushed leaving nearly no escape and glass shards laid illuminated by headlights. A man approached the car in an attempt to open the driver door. Two others accompanied him and managed to pry the metal ajar. A woman sat strapped against her seat. The men gently removed her from the car. She leaned against a man. She was alive, but unresponsive. Questions were thrown at her but she gazed blankly.
I remember her figure perfectly: She was the soldier, scarred from battle. She fought an ugly battle but lost. A gash interrupted her smooth forhead. Her eyes shrinkwrapped with tears. Blood soaked her blonde hair, her lip split, the left side of her jaw glistened with glass shards. Her left arm torn brutally while her other twisted unnaturally. Her floral blouse painted rose red and her blue jeans striped from her knee to her ankle with an unsettling black.
She must have been in her late twenties, maybe thirties. I could not tell, the blood disguised her face. While we stood examining a person who should have been dead, a man pulled another figure from the previously known Ford. A little girl, no older then six, emerged from the backseat of the vehicle.
“What’s your name?” Shouted her savior.
“Sara.” She innocently responed.
“Are you alright, are you hurt?”
No one could believe it. She was untouched. Not a single scratch, blood sprinkled her arm but it must have belonged to her mother. The police and ambulance arrived asking similar questions and Sara responded the same while her assumed to be mother remained unresponsive.