A Writer's Journey through the Maze of Life

CJ's Books

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EXCERPT: Steady shivering overtook her as the dampness crept into the car. Goose bumps prickled her skin. Her teeth chattered. As the windows glazed over, she remembered that snow was an insulator. She could never understand that. Snow was cold. It might insulate a soda can keeping tit cold, but how did snow keep anything warm. Still, it was a theory the experts touted; she assumed they knew their business and at least she shouldn't freeze, but she was feeling colder by the minute. She rubbed her arms and thighs, then switched the defroster to maximum heat. The heat and the running engine should melt the ice bound Taurus. She hoped. If so, she could get out and walk for help. Meanwhile, she turned the radio on scanning the frequencies. Only one static filled station came through.

". . . whiteout . . . crackle . . . crackle . . . treacherous roads . . . Do not attempt driving . . . crackle" Static took over. She turned the radio off.

Great, just great. I haven't seen a car for at least ten miles, I'm all alone and on one to find me. Hoping against hope she was wrong, she resolved to wait for help. Surely, someone lived on this road. Someone had to come along eventually. She put the hazard lights on, shut of the ice-encrusted wipers and nestled into the seat. Squinting, she tried to see through the windshield. The visibility was almost zero.

Within minutes, opaque layers of ice glazed the windows. Her breath quickened. Would anyone see the car? Was it ice covered? What if they didn't see her, hit her, set her over the edge? Please God, send somebody to find me. She turned the headlights on hoping it would make the vehicle more visible.

Only a week in Wyoming and look at the predicament I'm in.


Knocking on the cabin door brought no response. She wondered how long she would have to wait for the 
attendant. Maybe he/she was out with another group of riders. Or had there been a mix-up?

"Sorry for the hold up." The muffled voice startled her as a large man with heavy goose down parka, ski pants, and Mukluks appeared., his face hidden behind sun goggles and a scarf tied around his neck and up over his chin, covering his mouth. 

"Are you the driver?" she called out.

"I'm a musher."

Candace stepped back warily. Had she heard right? The high altitude must be affecting her ears. Had he said he was a masher? Was she going to be ravished out in the middle of nowhere with no one else in sight?

                                             PASTICHE A Collection of Poems
                         Available only through author: contact at writerbks@netscape.net  $5.00

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