Imperfect Observations by Dawn DeBraal, soda

 

I

Life can be disappointing sometimes like when you twist the cap off a bottle of soda, and it says, “Sorry, you didn’t win.”

“What?” I then look on the outside of the bottle and see there is a contest where you can win a thousand dollars instantly by selecting the right bottle.

Now I am sad. I was happy a few seconds ago to have a drink of my favorite soda, which, would have been reward enough for me to take a sip of the cool refreshing sweet liquid. Now I was standing there with a cap in my hand saying, ‘I wasn’t a winner,’ or in essence, ‘I was a loser.’ I wonder why I bought this soda on the first place. Thank you, marketing!

It seems all my life I have seen the disappointing side of things. When someone says to me, “Look what I painted.” I see the crooked nose or the uneven eyes. The dropped stitch in the sweater, the wrinkle in the missed spot of the ironed shirt. I remember my cousin taking me to a beautiful lighthouse in Maine, telling me that it was her most favorite spot in the world. A beautiful white building with a red roof. The lighthouse was on a rocky cliff in the ocean, water splashing up around the rocks. A breathtaking view and all I could see was the broken window in the attic. I said to her.

“The window is broken,” she couldn’t believe I would even bring that up. I recognized my grandmother in me. Growing up, she said nice things, there was always a “but”. I realized it wasn’t me. It was what I inherited from her. Grandma saw the same things that I see now. Instead of delighting in the whole, I find the one flaw that irks me. Suddenly I didn’t feel so harsh about her anymore. She was long gone by that time. All the things she said while I was growing up suddenly made sense in this new light.

I know that my cousin will never take me to her favorite place on Earth, again, I pretty much screwed that one up, but I have realized I need to take a kinder, gentler approach to life around me. Instead of telling someone, “You have no true talent, put that paintbrush down,” I can say. “Wow, that is so interesting!” See the difference?

Angela is my best friend or at least one of them. She is always supportive of everything I do. When I saw her the other day, she had cut her hair. I bit my tongue and did not say, “Does the right side grow faster than the left?” Instead, I said. “How unique! You thought that up on your own?”

I am not perfect, nor have I ever claimed to be. It is just that I would like to keep the friends that I have. When Betty had her baby, I took one look at the repulsive-looking child with large buggy eyes, a wobbly baby bird neck, and a sagging jowl. He looked like Alfred Hitchcock. Did I say that? No, I didn’t. I asked her if it was too late to exchange models? She left me standing on the sidewalk. My guess?  I need a little more practice.

About the author

 

Dawn DeBraal lives in rural Wisconsin, USA. She has published over 700 stories, poems, and drabbles in online magazines and anthologies. Her first solo novel won the Global Literary Award 2024. https://www.facebook.com/All-The-Clever-Names-Were-Taken-114783950248991 https://linktr.ee/dawndebraal 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining hthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

The Silos on Cherry Street by Roger Helms, flat soda on the rocks

When I awoke on the Fourth of July, the silos were there.

            There had been no silos on Cherry Street before that day. An extra shelf might be needed for jars of canned green beans or tomatoes from gardens, but not midnight blue silos looming high above roofs.

            No one seemed alarmed except me.

            The next day I drove to work, past the backyard silos, each an identical rocket-sized, solid steel phallus, flat on top.

            Somehow, the neighbors had clearly gotten together without me—me the lone unmarried person on the street. They must have decided that the best way to survive whatever was coming is to each have a silo, filled up for the long haul, maybe for a lifetime. I mean, these are big silos. Prosperous farmer silos.

            At the T-intersection ending the street, however, I saw two houses without silos. I thus dismissed the idea I’d been purposely left out of the loop.

But when I returned that evening, I discovered those two houses also had silos.

            I’d clearly been left out. Why? Something about me? I was the most recent neighborhood arrival, so perhaps they needed time to properly assess me. Maybe there was some secret neighborhood society I had yet to be initiated into.

            Or maybe it’s my house. Cherry Street is a normal suburban neighborhood—a little cul-de-sac street, one block long, all the houses aspiring to be above the middle of the middle—new siding in trendy colors and huge decks.

            All except mine.

            My house is smack in the middle of the middle, or perhaps right below that. My house is without adornment—a rectangular box, tan in color, like dry earth. My roof has no overhang on the sides, a dead giveaway that this is the house of a poor person right smack below the middle of the middle.

            My house was previously owned by a Korean man with an American wife, the only diversity in the neighborhood before me. I mean, I’m white, like everyone else here, just single and—being honest with myself—not very attractive. I think I’m actually too white, beyond pale. I sunburn so easily I wear sunscreen like a cloak of invisibility against the sun, the spray bottle always in my pocket like a magic amulet. Here, for your trip across the desert of life you will need this talisman. Keep it safe and do not reveal it to others. It is called SPF-70. Do not speak its name aloud or it will be stolen by your lobstered companions.

            I suspect my singleness and my house’s austere design have kept me from being initiated into the secret silo society. And yet, my neighbors seem pleasant enough, often waving at me as I pass in my car, or at least nodding their heads.

            All the houses on Cherry Street except mine are two-story constructions. They all have wide porches across the front, porches that are not deep enough to provide comfortable places to sit. I suppose that’s why I’ve not seen anyone sitting on them.

My house has no porch—only a protrusion like the bill of a baseball cap over the door that does not even keep the rain off delivered packages. They are left exposed to the elements, like unwanted kittens, the soaked cardboard barely holding in the innards.

            I keep expecting someone—perhaps one of my neighbors on each side, whose last names I’ve seen on their mailboxes—to ask me if I want ‘in’ on the silos. But the days keep passing, no one letting me in on it, leaving me fearful of asking why I’ve been left out.

            I tell myself I don’t care. Secret societies are so bogus, the initiation rites a bunch of mumbo jumbo—and then you must bow before the 425th Degree Barbecue Master.

Who needs that?

            And so, every morning I go to work down north-south running Cherry Street, the eastern sun casting silo shadows across it, creating waves of light and darkness my car must cross. When I return home, the shadows have reversed polarity, now extending from west to east, just reaching the road. When I cross the shadows, I worry about them engulfing my car, so I hurry, pressing the magic button that gets me into my garage. Once inside, I press the magic button to seal me in before getting out of my car. I then slip quietly inside my house through the garage.

I have yet to see anyone on Cherry Street enter by their front door.

            Each evening, I eat at my kitchen table, watching the silo shadow grow from my neighbor across the street to the west, growing toward me. The absence of light soon swallows my house like the singularity at the heart of a black hole—where nothing, not even light, can escape.

            I wait until darkness swallows the shadow, then I reach out on social media to hear human voices, but the only sound is the tapping of my fingers.

About the author 

 Roger Helms has been a journalist, newspaper editor, and technical writer. His fiction has appeared in The Saturday Evening Post, Smoky Blue Literary and Art Magazine, and Fabula Argentea. He lives in Rochester, Minnesota. 

 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Warned by Louise Arnott,soda

As Tyler pulled into the parking lot in his brother’s blue Honda Civic, Kara bounded out of Dairy Queen at the end of her shift and leaned in through his open window.’ Wow, Tyson let you have Civi tonight? I want behind the wheel. Come on. You know I’m a good driver. Just for a while. Please.’

 Tyler hesitated. Kara would likely dump him if she didn’t get her way but if Tyson found out, Tyler would never be allowed to borrow Civi again. Which would be worse - losing the girl or his car privileges?

Knowing in his gut this was a bad idea, he specified, ‘O‑kay, but no speeding, no fooling around.’ He eased out from behind the wheel.

Kara shoved past him, adjusted the seat and fiddled with the rear-view mirror.’ You are so not fun.’

‘You can only drive for a few minutes. Pay attention to what you are doing.’

Kara turned the key in the ignition, shoved in the clutch, revved the motor, and shifted, landing in third rather than first gear. The car lurched and stalled.

She giggled. ‘Oops, missed.’

Tyler protested, ‘I thought you knew how to drive a stick shift. Let me…’

‘I’ve got this, Tyler.’ She ground the gears, finally landed in first, popped the clutch and gave the car enough gas to keep it going. The car lurched forward.

Tyler grumbled. ‘Don’t ride the clutch. You’re going to burn it out.’

Kara stuck out her tongue. ‘Don’t be a backseat driver. I said I’ve got this.’

‘Don’t go past the shop - Tyson’s working, that’s why I get to drive her.’ Tyler drummed his fingers on the dashboard.’ And don’t go by my house. If Mom sees us, she’ll tell him.’

The next three shifts were smoother and Kara brashly headed for the highway exit.’ Let’s see what Civi will do. Tyson will never know.’

‘He will. He checks the odometer before and after I’ve borrowed her.’

      She rolled her eyes.’ Does weird run in your family?’ Rhythmically tapping her fingers on the steering wheel she said, ‘you should just turn back the mileage. I bet there’s a you-tube about how to do it.’

Tyler shook his head in disgust. What was with her and rules, anyway?

He suddenly saw what Kara was about to do and shrieked, ‘Don’t.’

Too late.

She recklessly swerved into traffic, missing a Fed-Ex truck by inches. The driver laid on the horn and Tyler dug his fingertips into the dashboard.

Kara cracked up. ‘You’re an old man at seventeen.’

‘Stop it. Keep both hands on the wheel.’ Tyler sat, knees locked, right hand in a death grip on the ‘oh shit’ handle. ‘Kara, watch the road. You’re gonna get us killed.’

Blue flashing lights in the rear-view mirror and the whoop of a siren startled Kara. She over-steered, veering into the right lane. The car pulled in behind her and the siren whooped again. A no-nonsense voice came through the police car’s public address system.

‘Pull over and stop the car. Immediately, Kara.’

‘Rats. It’s my dad. Why’s he out on patrol?’

Frantic, Tyler searched for Tyson’s insurance and car registration in the glove compartment. Kara checked her makeup and fiddled with her hair in the rear-view mirror. She impatiently revved the car engine.

‘Oh man, oh man, oh man! Shut off the engine, Kara. Now. We are in so much trouble. Kara, don’t anything else. I never should have…’

‘Cool it, Tyler. It’s just my dad. He’ll give me a blast and tell you off for letting me drive with only my learner’s licence.’

‘Learner’s?’

‘Yeah, but I get my Novice one next month.’

Sergeant Grayson walked along the passenger side of the car and lit up the interior with his Maglite.

‘Tyler Morrison, I thought you’d have more sense. Does your brother know what you are doing?’ He took the paperwork from Tyler’s shaking hand.

‘Yes, Sir, I mean, No sir, Mr. …um Sergeant Grayson.’

Sergeant Grayson shifted his flashlight, illuminating his daughter’s face. ‘Licence.’

‘Oh, Daddy, don’t be silly. You’ve known me my whole life.’

He snapped his fingers. ‘Licence.’

She pulled out her wallet and tossed it in his direction. Tyler caught it and handed it over.

‘Here, Sir. I’m sorry, she didn’t mean …Sorry, Sir.’

Sergeant Grayson took the wallet and paperwork and strode to the police car. He was gone for several agonizing minutes.

‘Are you brainless?’ Tyler wrenched the keys out of the ignition.

Kara shrugged; Tyler was history.

The Sergeant returned the paperwork to Tyler. ‘I could have the car impounded. The driver, with only her learner’s licence, was recklessly driving an uninsured vehicle, which is not yours. And, your right taillight is burned out.

Tyler held his head back to keep the tears rimming his lower lids from falling. ‘I’m really sorry, Sir. I…’

‘I’m letting you off with a warning, Tyler. You know you aren’t qualified to supervise her.’

‘I thought she had her licence, Sir, or I never would…’

‘Well, now you know.’

Kara grinned. ‘See, I told you Ty…’

Her father ripped her licence in two, leaned across Tyler, and handed her a ticket and her wallet.

Kara pulled back and stared at him. She barked, ‘What are you doing? You can’t …’

Sergeant Grayson held up his hand, palm forward. ‘Don’t.’

Kara wheedled, ‘Give me a warning like Ty. I won’t do it again. I promise.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You sure?’

She simpered. ‘Thanks, Daddy. You are the best.’ She crumpled the ticket.

 ‘Better not, you’ll need it when you go to pay the fine.’ He held her gaze. ‘And sweetheart, if I see you driving recklessly or hear about any new misdemeanours, you’ll be grounded until you are at least twenty-five.’

She shrugged off his meaningless warning.

      He leaned back and smirked. ‘And, Kara. Consider yourself fortunate it wasn’t Mom who pulled you over.’

Kara, silent for once, slid out of from behind the wheel and stomped around the front of the Honda. She glared at her father, and mouthed, ‘I hate you.’

He raised one eyebrow and spoke to Tyler. ‘I don’t need to follow you, do I? Take her straight home, then stop at the shop and fill your brother in on your escapades of the evening. Or I will.’

Tyler’s voice squeaked. ‘Thank you Sir.’

Mike Grayson rapped his hand on the roof, signaling dismissal. He returned to the police car and, sighing heavily, called his wife’s direct line at the detachment.

When he opened with, ‘Staff-Sergeant Grayson, ask our darling daughter…’

Paula Grayson knew it was going to be a long night and interrupted him. ‘What’s Kara done this time?’

      He continued, ‘How she spent her evening. I doubt her recollections will match mine.’

Paula came back with, ‘Mike, I can’t always be the enforcer. We need a better way of dealing with our recalcitrant daughter.’

Mike offered no argument. ‘Let’s grab a coffee after work and we can figure out how best to deal with this kid before she is completely out of control. After tonight’s run-in, I’m fully on board with your tough love approach.’

 

About the author 

Louise moved from land-locked Calgary, Alberta to Victoria, British Columbia to enjoy ocean views. Instead she spends hours in her basement writing-room considering the uncommon in the commonplace. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)