Snow storm stories of people trapped in traffic, with hundreds of 911 calls going unanswered for hours, remained a fantasy to Mr. Gibson (a tall, cutely shaved grey bearded blonde, always on duty with his crispy pressed, customized uniform ) hitherto, when he’s being stuck in his cab with a “damsel in distress”, Miss Ann (a young pulchritudinous red - haired lass in her early twenties, with the” life of a party”, never wanting to play by the rules). He had been caught off guard by the ferocity of the storm after early forecast predicted just a dusting.

It all happened at the late hours of a Monday morning. Salt -like snow had already begun hissing with the onset of a freezing wind. Miss Ann, having been away from home for three days, returned from an after party tagged “Thank God it’s Friday”, escaped the fury of her father’s ( the complete opposite of his daughter's character wise) by the whiskers due to her being obstinate and turning deaf ears to his warnings. 

She bumped into Mr. Gibson’s cab and there the encounter between the duo began: 

“Hey! Miss. I’m Mr. Gibson but my buddies call me Gibbs”.

Noticing an abrupt silence, he pulled back the break pedal of his car, bringing it to a halt, he twitched his nape facing the front wind screen. Seeing the distraught face of Miss Ann, he beseeched ….

“A penny for your thought" ... She raised her head, looked at Mr. Gibbs, twisted her face into a pathetic grimace and looked away saying; “ Please! Sire, take me to a place where I can calm my nerves”. 

After trudging a distance of about 40km, now the atmosphere had become foggy with visibility at its zeroes. The run - way had been covered with moles of snow ravaging for it’s warmth, making travel difficult. The busiest street in Birmingham had become a parking lots with 10 frozen cars bumping into one another. 

Mr. Gibson being an unrepentant, dogged, kitten -spirited man in his early fifties (who likes his lacteal hot and thick), further probed, this time stretching out his hands with his phalanges holding a cup of lacteal to Miss Ann … 

“C'mon ma’am, we’re stuck in here, the least you can do is to have a chit -chat with a weary old man”, he continued …

“the anus does not pass out excreta with a smiling face”. [He smiled].

Please, tell me ma’am, “what troubles your heart” for it’s a known maxim that “ a problem shared is half solved”.

Miss Ann tried to put up a smiling face, “you must be a funny old man” she uttered. “I’m Ann by name. Nice taste you’ve got”, after having gulped down some volumes of the lacteal.

Mr. Gibbs concurrently shrugged with a grin, and the words, “Thanks dear” escaping through the barricade made by his teeth.

Slow rivers rushing down her cheeks in great quest, her mouth wide agape in utmost dismay, without uttering a word. She then bubbled up the courage to make known what pricks her heart so deeply.

“I just realized that I’m pregnant for a guy who’s mischievous and stone - hearted. He blatantly denied knowing me not to talk of we having coitus and swore saying; “ if you ever mention that I’m responsible or rather the father of the child, you’ll regret the day you were given birth to”. I was muddle headed, dumbfounded and bewildered by these shocking words and left his apartment down casted. This was a guy who had promised me heaven on earth, now he’s chewing his words about him ever saying …

“we’ll travel to the moon and back once we get hitched”.

Miss Ann having narrated her ordeal to Mr. Gibson, her face now so dried (due to the myriad of tears that dribbled down her cheek) like a loaf of bread left for the shrinking hands of cold to have its fill, felt relief. Her ears ached for a fatherly advise or rather an admonition.

Ehya! Mr. Gibson empathically muttered; “I feel your pain ma’am”.

Mr. Gibson being a man of three kids with the eldest just about same age as Miss Ann, coughed to clear up the phlegm that has built up his throat and continued

“Don’t do anything irrational that will harm this baby. It could be a blessing in disguise. The child might in the long run turn out to be your source of joy”.

I’ll advise you nurture the child. Though life isn’t a bed of roses and always presenting its various vicissitudes but one has to keep on keeping on.

I remember back then at an early age, I had a fatal accident by bumping into a rickety Toyota Camry without looking both sides before hitting the road which almost cost me my life. Lots of the red fluid that sustained life were lost and the doctor demanded a blood transfusion for a replace. To my utmost surprise, my mum ( so I’ve long believed) wasn’t a suitable donor. After my resuscitation and long lasting recuperation, I asked her …. “Mum! Why couldn’t you make the blood donation?”. In great bewilderment , my head spun like the rotating hands of a quartz clock, when she told me she wasn’t my biological mum. That I was adopted (from St. John’s orphanage home, where my mother dumped me due to father’s rejection or rather refusal to take responsibility), reason being that she couldn’t conceive. Though, she said she had always loved me like her own child, the authenticity I couldn't help but believe.

I felt madly enraged at my mum (biological) for giving up on me so easily without a fight, but of course, you can’t stay angry at the dead for long.

Now, to think that these duo had had a non - stop 8 hours conversation wasn’t unfathomable. Sunset had brought forth the night’s lit lamps, groups of snow -salters had arrived and the road looked quite manageable to trail on. Mr. Gibbs made a swift grind on his engine and reversed back to Miss Ann’s abode urging her to make amends with her father.

There goes the parting conversation between the acquaintances;

Ann: May you never drive when the road is famished 

Mr. Gibson: May your days be enveloped with a weather endowed with copious presents.

They both smiled at each other and waved good byes.

January 09, 2020 21:18

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J'nae Rae Spano
23:33 Jan 15, 2020

Reedsy sent me a link to your story for a critique circle. While I like the over all message of the story and a believe the story has an excellent foundation. The purple prose was distracting and often confusing and I had to reread the paragraphs several times for context.


Hillary Nwaigbo
11:02 Jan 16, 2020

Alright... Thanks dear


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