It was a deathly quiet night when Emery set out in his new Audi A3. Though the weather forecasters had predicted that the blizzard would not move in for another six hours, their reputation for being pathological liars was not unwarranted and before he was even half way do his destination he faced white-out conditions. Realising that it was impractical to return, and realising that it was foolhardy to continue on his path until the storm either abated or he magically found a way to dematerialise and transport himself through fibre-optic cables to his destination he had to content himself with stopping in the next town, a pleasant, though over-priced town somewhere between here and nowhere.
All the inns were closed and the motels were filled up with people who believed, equally foolish, the fanciful musings of the weather reporter. Driving through the snow-covered streets the only thing he could find was a large farm with ample room and some signs of life. Though not overly thrilled with the idea, Emery accepted that he might as well ask if he could stay in one of the guest rooms weighing the risk of the farmers being spiritual kin of Norman Bates to be minimal he pulled in.
The farmer, Frederick Holgerson, a Scando-American of good disposition, greeted the rather unprepared driver with a bit of amusement. “A bit unpleasant out, isn’t it” he asked, showing that even an American was, at times, capable of making an understatement. “Yeah, you could say that again” replied Emery, not wishing to ruin his chances. “What brings you here” the farmer asked, still not fully understanding why anyone would be driving around on his farm late in the night. “The weather forecaster said that I would have some time to get to Duluth before the storm moved in, though it seems he was a bit off”. “Well, you kind of deserve that for believing them. Don’t you? You know they’re pathological liars, all of them, right”? “Yeah, I suppose so. The problem is I’m out here now and the roads are covered in snow. The inns are full, as are the motels. I don’t have anywhere to go and I don’t know if my tank is full enough to keep the heater running all night”. “Well, you are in a pretty bind, aren’t you”? Frederick said, chuckling slightly. “I can’t tell you to keep on driving since the roads are probably closed. And you probably can’t find another place to stay, either. Problem is, the family and the inlaws are all here. If I want them or not they all come around his year. I can’t promise you much, but the barn is warm and I promise the cows won’t kick. If you don’t mind old Bessie’s company I can give you an older sleeping bag and some extra blankets”.
While clearly not pleased with the idea of spending the night with Mr Holgerson’s prized heffer, Emery realised that his choices were that or certain death on the roads. He quickly accepted the generous offer and the two promptly set out to finalise the details. Hilda Holgerson, Frederick’s wife, catching wind of the story made sure to take out the camp bed and set up as comfortable a room as possible and told him that, should he need to stay longer than a night, that Emery was to feel free to do so and that he may use their telephone at his leisure to keep in touch with his own family. After all was said and done, including informing the incredulous family of the events that had unfolded, Emery settled in to his temporary living quarters. As Old Bessie curiously looked at her guest sleeping in the loft above her, he swore he could hear someone humming “Away in the Manger” while walking away into the distance.
Boadicea's Chariot 
Not wretched at all, Christopher, rather pleasing actually, and I like the ending. No guesses though about the inspiration for the story. 🙂
Good to see you enter this competition, Christopher and nice take on the subject.
It’s a very amusing take on the subject.