This piece is a creative writing sample:

Used Cars

My father always bought used cars. He loved the idea of restoring them to their former glory. He would repair them with love and paint them with care. After that he would give them a name and decide if he should sell them. Because of my dad’s excellent work restoring them to their mint condition; the cars he did sell were sold as valuable collector’s items. As a result, he made a decent sum off of each car, more than making up for what he had to spend to repair it.

We as his kids grew up to love the cars as much as he did. We even helped name a few. There was Danielle, a sky blue ’58 Camaro named after me, and a yellow ’69 charger named after my twin Jeremy. There was also Charlotte, Maude, Dwight, Duane, Darnell, Pamela and many more that passed through my father’s garage. The cars were his life, second to his family of course. My dad always used to tell me how lucky he was because not only did he get to do what he loved, but he did it surrounded by the people he loved. It’s actually ironic since the thing he loved to do is what ended up killing him.

It was on a hot, sweltering summer evening. The date was July fourth to be ironically precise. My dad was tinkering as he usually did until mom would call him out for our annual BBQ. Jeremy and I were in the backyard when we heard it. A big bang. Jeremy and I looked up at each other in horror, and our hearts sunk in realization as we smelled the smoke. We both stood up and ran towards the smoke trail left behind.

When we finally reached the part of the yard that held the workshop, it was already ablaze. My mother was standing on the porch, phone in hand and an expression of horror as well as tears running down her face. She must have called the department before she went into shock, because as I collapsed on the ground in tears, I heard the sirens. But the fact that I didn’t see my dad coming out of the blaze, and the rolling in my gut told me all I needed to know. He was dead.

The firemen put the fire out, preventing it from spreading throughout the rest of the property. After that things just became a blur; finding my dad, doing the identification, the funeral, and the gathering that followed. I later found out that there was a leaky gas tank, and a pipe hitting the ground hard enough to cause a spark, which turned into an inferno that killed my role-model.

After the funeral, things took a turn for the worse. My mom took to the bottle, many nights barely sober enough to prepare a meal for us on the table. My brother and I chose to act out in many ways. I became angry, and rebelled. At the age of 15, my brother began to take recreational drugs, and his use only getting worse over the years. At 18 he was in rehab after suffering through an OD. I took to vandalism. I began to trash any model car that I saw, until I got caught at 17 and spent a night in jail. The cop who arrested me took me under his wing, and convinced me to see a therapist.

When I went to the therapist, I finally got all my anger out in the open. I also managed to convince my brother and mother to get the help that they needed to get back on track.

My mom began to go to AA meetings and took up cooking as a profession. She got a great job in a restaurant, and met a great guy, the owner who made her happy again. My brother and I both got our game faces on. My brother went to college and became a graphic designer, one of the most in-demand ones. He actually met his wife through work. She, at the time was a struggling author. When she finally made it big, he was so proud. He now has to beautiful girls.

I took my own route. I decided that I needed more structure, and entered the military. I ended up reaching the rank of gunnery sergeant, and served 2 tours. I ended up joining black-ops for a few assignments, and got shot, so I was medically discharged.  I ended up finishing college, thanks to the military, and began to work with troubled kids and keeping as many as I could off the streets. I was immediately attracted to another at the same agency, who it turns out was the son of the cop that helped me.

We got married, had three beautiful kids. I was asked back by the military in a purely consultant way to help with missions. Since it’s classified, I won’t go into details. Over this period of time, I held a certain grudge against any model cars, which began to fade over time. Whenever I pass one in the street, I will sometimes stop and stare. I get a bit sad and nostalgic; since I know my dad loved it, but was killed by it. Irony to the ultimate degree. But once that pang starts, it stops. Because I think of my loving husband and beautiful children; and remember what I now have.

After some time, the pangs stop. I am happy where I am. My mother is happily remarried, with a kid at home to take care of. My brother is well-off with a good job and great family. I myself am the same. I can honestly say that I am in a great place. I will always love and remember my dad, but I can honestly say that I've let the resentment go. It will always hurt, and it'll never fade, but I'm happy. I can honestly say that I have moved on………