Gloves

Today, the sun is shining, but it’s only one or two degrees above zero, and there’s a winter storm advisory in effect for the greater Sheridan Wyoming area until eleven o’clock tonight. In other parts of the country, heavy snow is causing power outages, road closures, and flight delays and cancelations. So much for going over the river and through the woods to Grandma’s house for Thanksgiving, I thought, as I heard the news.
This would not be a good day to be stuck in your car on a highway in the middle of nowhere with no heat and no gloves, but such is the case of a woman in the story below. This tale was originally published in Emerging Voices and is also on my Web site.
GLOVES
The wind blew, causing the snow to descend in walls of white that often obscured her view of the road and the darkening sky. “Why didn’t I stay where I was?” she asked herself, as she drove at a snail’s pace along the Shirley Basin Road, which wound its way from Medicine Bow to Casper, Wyoming.
The interior of the car grew colder and colder. She fiddled with the heater knob, but nothing happened. “Oh no, I don’t have any heat.”
She pulled to the side of the road, ignoring the sliding noise the tires made. She searched for her gloves. They weren’t in her coat pockets. After discovering they weren’t in her purse either, she realized she’d left them at the convenience store in Medicine Bow. 
“I should go back,” she said, after taking a few deep breaths and warming her hands in her pockets. “There are people in Medicine Bow. There is warmth in Medicine Bow.”
The engine whined, and the tires skidded on the newly fallen snow. In a frantic effort to free herself, she gunned the engine and rocked the car back and forth. The motor continued to whine and the tires slipped deeper into the drift. After a few more minutes of struggling, she took her foot off the gas, switched off the engine, and put her cold hands back into her pockets.
Close to tears, she breathed in and out several times. Here she was, stuck in a snowstorm on a deserted road with no heater, no gloves, no cell phone, and no food. Who knew how long it would be before help arrived? “Why didn’t I at least get something to munch on at the convenience store? What am I to do now?”
The night was silent except for the wind and the sound of blowing snowflakes pelting the car. Shivering, she zipped her winter coat as high as it would go. After tightening the hood around her face, she wiggled her toes inside her boots. With a sigh of resignation, she buried her hands deeper in her coat pockets and settled herself more comfortably.
“It doesn’t matter. What do I have to live for, anyway? If God exists, and this is his way of punishing me for running away, so be it.” She closed her eyes and let herself drift, though she knew this was dangerous.
Something woke her, perhaps a sense of impending doom. Then she heard it, a car engine running behind her. She turned and saw a figure looming outside her driver’s side window. She gasped in horror, as she recognized the angry face. No, it couldn’t be, she thought. He couldn’t have known where she was going. Since she had no relatives in Wyoming, the chance of him finding her here appeared slim. But here he was, standing outside her window, glaring at her.
His knuckles rapped against the pane with several sharp thuds. Her panic rising, she turned the key in the ignition and automatically locked all the doors. After pounding for another minute, he withdrew a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Of course he would have brought the spare key, she realized, as he opened the door and reached for her.
“How did you find me?” she asked, as he yanked her from the car, slammed the door, and pinned her against it before delivering a hard blow to her cheek.
“I followed your tracks,” he said, as he struck her a second time. “I found these on the counter at the Super America in Medicine Bow.” He removed something from his pocket and tossed it into the snow.
            “My gloves!” she said.
            “I knew you couldn’t be too much farther away,” he said, as he hit her a third time. “You
never did have any sense so I figured I’d find you stranded here somewhere.”
He released her. Stunned, she bent to retrieve the gloves, and he delivered a sharp kick to her back side, which sent her sprawling in the snow. The anger rose within her. She bent her knee and kicked as hard as she could behind her. Her effort was rewarded when her foot struck something solid, and he yelped in pain. She jumped to her feet, and as she put on her gloves, she turned and glared at him as he lay doubled in the snow, clutching his crotch. 
She flung herself on top of him, knocking him flat on his back. With her gloved fists, she pummeled his face. “Now, you’re getting a taste of your own medicine,” she said, as she struck
his eyes, his nose, his cheeks, his mouth.
            The blows sounded sharp. “Ma’am, are you all right?” called a voice.
            She opened her eyes. It was no longer snowing, and a bright moon shone. The lights of a
snowplow blinked behind her, and a man was standing at her window, knocking on the pane. 
Dazed and shivering, she opened the door and said, “I have no heat, and I left my gloves in
Medicine Bow.”
            “Your heater doesn’t work at all?” he asked.
            “No,” she answered, as she shook in earnest.
            “Why don’t you get into my vehicle where it’s warm and I’ll call a wrecker,” he said. 
“You don’t want to drive anywhere without heat in this weather.” As he placed a hand on her
arm, she recoiled. “It’s okay. I’m here to help you.”
THE END
Abbie Johnson Taylor
Author of We Shall Overcome
Advertisements

The Watcher

When senior citizens lose their vision, they often lose their independence. Some are placed in nursing homes by well-meaning family members who are concerned about their welfare. Such is the case of the grandmother in this story. The granddaughter arrives just as the old woman is leaving the facility and making her way home. She agrees to help her grandmother regain her independence. “The Watcher” was published in Behind Our Eyes, an anthology of stories and poems by disabled writers. You can read it onh my Web site.
Abbie Johnson Taylor
Author of We Shall Overcome

Vegas

Today, I sent a story to The Missouri Review. “Vegas” is the tale of a man who makes frequent trips to the gambling capitol and becomes re-acquainted with a woman he fell in love and lost touch with ten years earlier. After reading a story in the current issue called “Of Questionable Provenance” by Susan Ford, in which a man who makes regular trips to New York develops a relationship with a woman he meets there, I thought this magazine might be a good market for my story since the two tales are somewhat similar. Will see what happens.
The Missouri Review publishes fiction, poetry, and nonfiction. If you submit on line, there’s a $3.00 fee that you can charge to your credit card. You can also send manuscripts by mail. For more information, visit http://missourireview.com/main_info/e-submissions.php
Abbie Johnson Taylor
Author of We Shall Overcome

Poetry Society of New Hampshire National Contest

Today, I sent five poems to the Poetry Society of New Hampshire’s national contest. They are entitled “Stranger in the  Night,” “I Walk Alone,” “Excuses,” “Cancer,” and “Death of a Hard Drive.” I could win as much as a hundred dollars, and one or more of my poems could be published in the organization’s quarterly magazine, The Poets Touchstone. These poems have not been published anywhere else.
“Stranger in the Night” was inspired by an incident that happened last year. A man with blond hair wearing a dark shirt, work boots, and a baseball cap entered a house and threatened a woman with serious bodily harm. She and her children fled, and the police notified neighbors within a one-mile radius, myself included. When I answered the phone, an automated voice told me to lock all doors and resume normal activity but be vigilant. Later, the perpetrator was found and charged with a lesser crime. He never went to jail so in a sense, he’s still lurking, but as I said in my poem, life goes on.
“I Walk Alone” is about how I walk around town with my white cane. Last year, I submitted this poem to an anthology of poems with the same titles as Sammy Cahn songs. I never heard back from the editor of this anthology so I’m giving up on that one. The original title of the poem was “I’ll Walk Alone” since that’s the title of one of Sammy Cahn’s songs, but I changed it to “I Walk Alone” because the poem is in the present tense.
“Excuses” is about what you might say to your spouse when you’re late getting home. “Cancer” is an account of how my mother suffered and died as a result of the dreaded disease.
“Death of a Hard Drive” is the story of how the hard drive on my old Macintosh computer finally decided it was time to go. I’d recently bought a PC and transferred most of my files to the new computer. I guess my old Mac knew it would soon be put out to pasture.
If you’re a poet, there’s still time to enter the Poetry Society of New Hampshire’s national contest, but hurry! The postmark deadline is Monday, November 15th. Entries must be submitted by mail, and the fee is $3.00 for the first poem and $2.00 for each additional one. Visit http://www.poetrysocietyofnewhampshire.org/contest.html for guidelines.
Abbie Johnson Taylor
Author of We Shall Overcome

WyoPoets National Contest

Yesterday, I submitted three poems to the WyoPoets Eugene V. Shea National Contest. “A Secret Sadness” is about a time soon after my husband Bill suffered his first stroke when I was trying to put on a brave face during a friend’s little girl’s birthday party. “At Daybreak” was inspired by Bill calling me a carapace at five in the morning one day. I don’t think he was quite awake, but it sure made good material for a poem. In “At The Dentist’s Office,” I reflect on past and present experiences with a tooth doctor. These poems have not been published yet. Because anything that appears on the Web is considered published, and most magazines and journals don’t accept previously published work, I won’t post them here or on my Web site until they appear elsewhere.
If you’re a poet, there’s still time to enter the WyoPoets Eugene V. Shea National Contest. The first prize is $100.00, and there’s a $2.00 entry fee plus a $1.00 reading fee per poem. Poetry, that has been published or not, on any subject in any form will be accepted. Entries must be submitted by mail. You don’t have to be a resident of Wyoming to enter. The deadline is November 30th. If you’re interested, go to http://www.wyopoets.org/page4.html
Abbie Johnson Taylor
Author of We Shall Overcome

The Flower Boy

This is the story of Tristan, a little boy who is considered different. His older cousin bullies him during family gatherings, making these events a nightmare. His other cousins ignore him and don’t intervene when the bully strikes. But at Uncle Harry’s wedding, the bully meets an unexpected match.
This story was published in Behind Our Eyes, an anthology of stories and poems by disabled writers. It also appeared in Wordgathering, an online publication containing writing by disabled authors. You can read it by going to http://www.wordgathering.com/past_issues/issue7/prose/taylor2.html
Abbie Johnson Taylor
Author of We Shall Overcome