SBWC 2009 National Writing Contest
Grand Prize Winner
Thomas M. Atkinson of Anderson Township, OH
“Dancing Turtle”
This is an excerpt from Thomas M. Atkinson’s Grand Prize winning short story. It is included in his collection of stories called Standing Deadwood. Atkinson’s first novel Strobe Life, is available as an ebook at www.electronpress.com).
Mom took me to the Appalachian Festival today, which was almost to Cincinnati, along the river. Dad stayed home to move the bars up in the bathroom. We dropped down and took Route 32 -“The James A. Rhodes Appalachian Highway”—for the better part of two hours. And when we passed the sign for Burnt Cabin Road, Mom said, like she always does, “There’s a story there.” She pointed out stands of corn, and fall-down barns, and every so often she’d turn and say, “Molly, need to stop?” And I said, “No.” Or at least the sound I make that we all know means “no.” Like a wheel bearing going bad Dad says, if a wheel bearing going bad started with an “n.” Holding my bladder has become something of a point of pride for me these last three years since, due to some difficulties during my birth, potty training ended and menstruation began in the very same month.
We parked up front in a blue sign space, and then we argued back and forth about my stupid rollator. It’s a walker with wheels and a little seat with a wire basket underneath and bicycle brakes that I can’t use very well any way. I’d rather just walk my walk. An Indian doctor at Children’s -an India Indian, not an American Indian—he told my dad it might help and that’s all it took. Twelve hours of price shopping on the internet later, I was the not-so-proud owner of a shiny blue Medline Rollator with eight inch wheels to give me “confidence on all terrains.” At least it wasn’t the pink “Breast Cancer Awareness” model. I think he was expecting more.
I finally got out, “Geezers and fat ladies.”
She leaned on my door and smiled. She said, “Are you sure? I told you, there’s going to be a lot of walking.” Then she shrugged her shoulders and leaned in to help me out. She slipped her arms around me, her face warm in my neck, waiting for the touch of my twisted hands against her back. It’s a dance we’ve done a million times, and the only graceful moment of my day, and sometimes, in that brief stillness before she says, “Ready?,” I pretend she’s a boy.