Tag: Small Town

Another cup of coffee…

On By Jerry BrothertonIn flash, Short Stories22 Comments

William is only in his mid-thirties but already has a receding hairline and a thin spot on the back of his head that shines in the sunlight. He’s more than a few pounds overweight and can barely walk down the block without stopping to catch his breath.

Every workday at noon, for the past month, William has eaten at the Main Street Cafe. He always sits at the table in front of the window and reads another book by Ivan Doig, James Joyce, or E. E. Cummings.  Or perhaps he’ll just sip his cinnamon latte and slowly eat his tuna salad or chicken salad on rye and watch the crowd stroll up and down Main Street.

Now the cafe itself isn’t anything special. It’s the same one as in every other small town spread across America. Just another rundown café in another rundown town. You know the one with the cute little hand painted special written in neon colors on a whiteboard displayed on an iron tripod just outside the front door.

Inside the shop, the walls are covered with license plates from all over America and even a few from Canada and Mexico. Old photos of all the Little League ball teams they’d sponsored over the years hanging behind the counter along with amateur photos of people holding up huge catfish or posing with an eight pointer.

For William, the coffee is always a little weak and definitely overpriced. So most people wouldn’t even go there if it wasn’t the only café on the square.

But coffee isn’t what brings William here every day anyway. He’s here because he’s in love with Martha. Because he sees the real Martha, the way her curves bulge against the seams of her uniform. Her fish hook smile that can catch his heart and reel him in every time she flashes it at him. He’s here because of the warmth he feels in his cheeks every time she looks at him with those brilliant blue eyes.

He’s here because of the way he feels his heart pound against his rib cage when she walks close. Or the way the lump gets caught in his throat whenever she greets him each morning. The way his hands shake like an inmate on death row if she accidently brushes against him while clearing the table.

William has tried a hundred times to make the words come out but they just won’t dislodge from his throat. So he always lays a $10 bill on the table for a $5.99 tab and smiles at Martha before he heads out the door.

“What’s the deal with that William?” Charlotte asks.

“I don’t know, but I wish the hell I had the nerve to ask him out.” Mary whispers.

Memorial Day

On By Jerry BrothertonIn flash, Short Stories2 Comments

Memorial Day –

The picnic tables that held all the food were covered with red and white. We lazed about on blankets scattered around the cool grass covered yard. We drank ice cold beer, sweet tea and lemonade and devoured the watermelon, ice cream, Momma’s apple pie and fried chicken. Some of younger ones even napped in the cool shade of the trees. We caught up on lost time with family and watched the children play on the same playground equipment I knew as a kid. Across the street, an impromptu ball game started. They were soon joined by strangers from other families celebrating the day. Although in our quiet little part of the world, even strangers are family.

Earlier that day I had watched the parade pass down Main Street. I paid little attention to the elderly soldiers feebly moving along in their ancient uniforms and carrying flags from wars long gone. I was more interested in the kids chasing down the candy being tossed from vehicles whose signs I failed to read.

As the sun fell low on the horizon, and we strolled back to the car, I glance around at the serenity of the day. I realize that at least, I understood the question; even if I didn’t yet know the answer.

Could I be like those old men; willing to lay down my life to preserve this?

As I walked hand in hand with you down the tree lined street, laughter and singing drifting into the clear sky, I looked into your eyes and my heart beat out the answer.

Castaway

On By Jerry BrothertonIn flash, Poetry, Short Stories2 Comments

She only talked about her family in glimpses. Like she was always balancing on a tightrope between the expected and just chucking it all for the next bus to somewhere else. She tried to paint a picture for me of her small town. All those houses on tree lined streets with children’s faces peering out through window panes. Those strict rural Midwestern values standing in the doorways with belts in their hands. But I ran out of brown, umber, and black. I made her laugh…her cheeks turned red from embarrassment. She’d been told unwed mothers had nothing to laugh about.

Lies

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Poetry, Rhyming10 Comments

Running down those country roads

We were sixteen, free and alone

Didn’t care what life had in store for us

Just singing the songs of our own

 

Where did those children go

They spread their wings and flew away

I lost track of them so long ago

If only I could go back to those days

 

I would not worry about the hypocrites

Or all the other ne’er-do-well

They should have followed their own advice

As far as I can tell

 

But we listened to all of their lies

Instead of letting our hearts sing

I watched the sunrise fade from your eyes

And now I know what the future brings

Small Town Excitement

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Free Verse, Poetry22 Comments

Life in small towns always comes at you

In little spurts. Those quick flourishes

Of exhilaration that will last

Only a few seconds are followed

By an eternity of boredom

There’s never anything in between

Either your heart pounds with excitement…

Or you’re taking a nap