Laura Rodley, a Pushcart Prize winner, has been nominated for the prize seven times and has also received five Best of the Net nominations. Her recent works include Turn Left at Normal (published by Big Table Publishing Company), Counter Point (published by Prolific Press), and Ribbons and Moths: Poems for Children (published by Kelsay Books). With a talent for capturing the essence of life, Rodley’s writing resonates with readers of all ages. Whether exploring the natural world or delving into human emotions, her words evoke a sense of wonder and connection. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PClY8G6HQwk

“You can’t make snow tires appear by frowning,” Liam said, pulling the car over, pulling at the edge of his leather coat that had become tight under the seat belt.
“Oh no?” Darcy thought, chewing the side of her mouth. The white snow, the soft pine needles of the forest floor where she got out of the car to take her coat off, pulling her long reddish-brown hair out of the way, as she was now warm from the car’s heater, helped her think clearly.
When she got home, she sewed a tire cover for each of the car’s four tires, out of black and white checked cloth. She walked to the car, and placed what parts of the covers that she could jimmy around the hump of the wheels. Then she got in the car, eased it forward in neutral to wrap the rest of the cover on. It required a stretching pull on each tire, pulling the cloth over each curve, and with her fingers aching, white from pulling, the edge snapped over the hump like a bicycle tire fitting over a tire tube on a metal rim. Then she tightened the elastic cord she had sewed into the tire cover’s outside seam like a drawstring on a pair of sweat pants, further securing each tire cover, one by one. An hour was gone. She was quite cold. Her hands were red, white at the fingertips. Her feet ached. She had to dress the tires in the parking lot by the river, across from her house because she needed elbow room. She wished she had chosen a busy parking lot out of the wind so no one would notice her, but she hadn’t considered that. Now she had to complete the second part where she was, or no snow tires.
She threw lumps of chamomile, fennel, horehound candies, licorice, and pictures of old Coupe de Villes, Studebakers, and Cadillacs that she had cut out of classic car magazines, chopped up into tiny pieces, and boiled into an inky soup onto the top of each tire. She poured the liquid that remained in the pot on the top of the car. It dripped off the sides on the windows in smelly, syrupy, salty streaks.
She turned to the river and chanted, “Tires, tires, keep us out of the mires, tires, tires, snow tires, will you grow, keep us safe in snow. River, river, be the giver, give us what you know.” She closed her eyes, turned around three times quickly, and clapped her hands. Reluctant to open her eyes in case it hadn’t worked, she stood for a moment with them clamped shut. “No use being so doubtful,” she thought. “I hate cleaning up messes, which it will be if I have failed.” She clapped her hands again for good luck and opened her eyes.
Four new-looking snow tires, each rubber tire serrated in perfect snow fighting diamonds, fat, cut deep in the hard black rubber. Darcy placed her fingers in the grooves and smiled.