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Penny for your Thoughts (General Fiction, 2,451 words)
bigrickcook
Dord of Lance?MississippiRegistered User regular
Dord of Lance?MississippiRegistered User regular
Hey everyone, I'm new to the forum. Thought I'd post up a little piece of short fiction and hopefully get some feedback. I don't work in short form fiction much, and I have a hard time tightening down my writing to meet the stringent requirements of a smaller story while still managing to get something really impactful out of the writing.
It's not supernatural, science fiction, fantasy, horror, or anything else but the more general kind of fiction. Best description I can give is that a girl gets an unusual gift and must figure out what it means to her.
I hope you all enjoy.
__________
Marcy’s 8th birthday was unremarkable, as far as birthdays go, which is to say that she would remark it as the best day. Amid the many festivities of the day were pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, killing a piñata, a rousing if confused and chaotic game of kickball, time spent drawing or coloring, opening presents, playing with presents, running around with her friends, swimming, eating pizza and cake and ice cream.
But after all her friends went home, and after all the presents were stored away in her room, and after all the cake was gone, Marcy received one more gift.
Grandpa Ellis was staying the night before going home to Texas, but he was in the kitchen helping Marcy’s mother with dinner. Marcy’s father interrupted her at the dinner table while she was painting a picture of a pony with the watercolors Uncle Ellison had given her.
“Wow, look at that gorilla.”
“Daaaaddy, you know it’s not a gorilla.”
“I do not,” he said, pulling a chair up beside her. “I was told that art is whatever I think it is. So I think it’s a gorilla.”
“No, it’s not! It’s a pony. Stupid gorillas don’t even have tails.”
“Well, I guess I should take the artist’s word for it, huh?”
“Yeah-huh,” Marcy agreed. The watercolors kept seeping everywhere, and the pony was getting all blotchy, and suddenly all she could see was a gorilla, too. She gave up on the pony.
“Listen, honey. You know Grandpa Ellis didn’t give you a present today?”
“What?” she cried. “Why wouldn’t he give me anything? He gave Ellen and Mark presents!” she continued, referring to Uncle Ellison’s children.
“Quiet or he’ll hear. He’s going to give you something tonight, at dinner,” he said.
Her eyes lit up. “Why’s he waiting? My birthday’s gonna be over if he doesn’t hurry!”
“Don’t get excited now, Marcy. You know how Grandpa is.”
“Oh.” She slumped and went back to trying to get the pony to come back out of the paint. “He gives weird stuff.”
“So what are you going to do when he gives you something ‘weird’?” her father asked.
“I’m going to say it’s awesome, like I always do.”
“Good girl.” He stood up, kissed her on the forehead, and went back into the kitchen. Dinner arrived and she was forced to put her paints away. She was so close to making it look like a pony again!
After they’d eaten leftover pizza, green beans, and carrot sticks, Grandpa Ellis reached into his pocket and handed Marcy a small box. It wasn’t even wrapped!
“Happy birthday, my little Marcia,” he said, beaming. For a moment Marcy thought she was going to get jewelry, a necklace or rings, and she got excited.
“Thank you, Grandpa!” She’d been rehearsing that line in her head for whatever weirdo present she got, but it came out sincere.
She opened the tiny box and stared at the penny inside.
She blinked. Nope, still a penny. It was inside a little glass case, with the picture of Lincoln on the front. She stared at it some more, then looked at her mother and father, who were both urging her with their eyes to say something. She turned her attention to Grandpa Ellis, who didn’t look pleased with himself, or expectant, or anything at all.
“Gee, Grandpa, what will I buy with all my new money?” Marcy’s father erupted in laughter. But he was the only one.
“Marcia Ellory Ward, you apologize to your grandfather right now!” her mother said.
“No, no, dear, it’s okay,” Grandpa Ellis said, waving a hand. “I don’t think you’d find much to buy with a single cent these days, but then, this penny’s not for spending.”
“What’s it do?”
“Do?” Grandpa Ellis laughed. “I suppose it doesn’t do anything.”
Marcy’s mother sighed. “Marcy, just thank your grandfather and go play.”
So she did. She took the penny with her, and for perhaps five minutes it was of intense interest. Then she forgot about it and got her watercolors back out in the living room.
Two more birthdays came and went. For Marcy’s 9th birthday, Grandpa Ellis gave her a photograph of him and Grandma Winnifred when they were just married. For her 10th birthday, she received only a sappy birthday card with some money in it. The handwritten part of the card had been written by someone else. When Marcy brought this up, her mother had said he wasn’t able to do much for himself these days.
Grandpa Ellis passed away a few days before Marcy’s 11th birthday. Because he had lived in Texas, his last birthday present to Marcy showed up in the mail a couple days after her birthday had already come and gone, after they’d all gone to the funeral and buried him.
She had cried when her mother cried at the funeral. She had cried again when her mother cried after receiving the present in the mail.
Marcy opened this envelope and read the very short letter:
Marcia,
Penny for your thoughts?
Love,
Grandpa Ellis
PS Happy Birthday!
Did she still have the penny? She hadn’t thought about it almost since the day it had come to her.
She raced upstairs to her bedroom and began looking around, shuffling things out of the way: toys, clothes, markers and pens. She almost knocked her easel over, which would have been disastrous for the watercolors she’d left out. She began opening and closing drawers on her vanity, and just when she was ready to give up in frustration, she found the picture of Grandpa and Grandma almost negligently-thrown into a box of odds-and-ends in her closet. Below the photograph was the little glass case containing the penny.
The glass case had little tiny screws holding it together, and she had to borrow her father’s eyeglass kit to get a screwdriver small enough.
Once she had the case dismantled, she took the penny out and examined it as closely as she could, but didn’t come up with much. She compared it to her other pennies and found that its backing was not the same. Instead of the little building it had what looked like feathers. Instead of some recent year it was 1909. On the back of the old penny, in print so small she couldn’t read them without a magnifying glass, were the letters V D B. No other penny had those on the back, and her parents were both mystified at the letters. The only information she got from them that she didn’t know on her own was that the “feathers” on the back were wheat, and that it was known as a wheat penny.
So the next day Marcy asked her mother to take her to the local library instead of the arts and crafts store. She spent several hours learning about the rich and storied history behind coin collecting. That didn’t interest her; a coin was a coin was a coin and they could be used to buy things, simple as that. But what did catch her interest was the specific story behind the 1909 VDB Lincoln Cent.
Victor David Brenner, noted sculptor and engraver, had been commissioned by President Theodore Roosevelt to design the likeness of Lincoln to be used in the copper penny. What made the penny rare was that it actually had the artist’s initials stamped upon it, which meant that it was part of the very first run of Lincoln wheat pennies, as the initials had been removed almost immediately. Its value was estimated a lot more than one cent, certainly, but still nothing spectacular like an “S VDB” or other coins cited in the library books that could sell for hundreds of dollars.
She thought about that coin and the significance of it being a VDB all the way home that day, and still came to no conclusion. It became a constant companion; other people had a lucky rabbit’s foot, Marcy had her VDB.
When school started back up after summer break ended, she had already been carrying it with her and had mostly forgotten why she had started carrying it in the first place. Until one day she noticed her teacher, old Mr. Van Isen, sorting through the change in his pocket, taking out a penny and setting it aside. The next day she watched him closely, and he did it again, though he didn’t set any coins aside. She continued to study his coin-searches until she was convinced. Mr. Van Isen was a coin collector.
One of the library books she had read about coin collecting was less about the collecting and more about the collectors and how varied they could be: in scope, in what they were looking for, in how they would spend their money and time on finding them. Had she inadvertently found someone who might know more?
The VDB penny burned in her pocket, but she was a respectful girl, and class was in session. When recess finally came around she realized she had a good opportunity to ask him. She got permission from the teachers on recess that day to go back to her classroom and get a jumprope from her backpack.
She came into the classroom, suddenly very nervous about the penny, and Mr. Van Isen looked up at the intrusion, a half-eaten bologna sandwich on the desk, a paperback novel in his hand.
“Something I can do for you, Marcia?” he asked after politely swallowing his bite of sandwich. Only old people called her Marcia. She hated it.
Her fist was clenched around the penny in her pocket. “Yeah- I mean yes, Mr. Van Isen. I have kind of a weird question.” She came closer and brought the penny out of her pocket, kept it held fast in her little fist.
“Are you a ‘coin collector’?” The way in which she asked it suddenly made her think it had sounded like she was scoffing at coin collectors. “I mean, not a ‘coin collector’ like it’s dorky or anything. I mean- I mean-“ Her face burned red and she almost darted out of the classroom at the bemused stare he gave her.
“It’s okay, Marcia. I understand what you meant. To answer your question, no, not really.”
Her head drooped, her embarrassment growing further. She shoved the coin back in her pocket and said, “I’m sorry I bothered you, Mr. Van Isen, I’ll just go back to recess.”
She turned to leave and he went on, “My wife is the collector.”
She turned back. “Women collect coins?” she asked, then wished she hadn’t.
He chuckled at this. “Not just old geezers like me, I promise. Did you have something in particular you wanted to ask about? Not many kids are interested in coins unless they can pop one into a pinball machine.”
She got the penny back from her pocket and held it out to him. “I thought maybe you would know something about this one.”
“May I take a closer look?” Mr. Van Isen asked, wiping his hands on a paper towel. She held it out for him to take.
He examined it closely, then got his reading glasses out. After half a minute he said, “Why, Marcia, this is a 1909 Brenner. My wife has a couple of these.”
“So you know what makes it special?”
He stared at it a few moments longer, then passed it back. “Spending so much time with a lady whose passion is the collection of historical currency, I’d be ashamed not to know one of the most well-known stories.” His brow furrowed and he took a bite of sandwich, thinking.
“President Teddy Roosevelt asked this Brenner fellow and some others to design some new coins because he didn’t like the current coinage.”
“Didn’t like it?” she interrupted. “I’m sorry, Mr. Van Isen, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He chuckled again. “You know you’re one of the most polite students I’ve ever had. Don’t worry about it. As I said, Roosevelt didn’t like the look of the coins. He wanted something with a little bit of artistic integrity, or merit, or something. Between you and me I think he just wanted pretty coins.” She giggled at that.
“How did you end up with a rare penny like that?” Mr. Van Isen asked.
“It was a present from my grandpa for my 8th birthday, and I just now refound it.”
“What made you start looking into it now and not then?”
“He died, and for my birthday this year he sent me only a letter reminding me of the penny.”
Mr. Van Isen sucked in a breath and sighed. He said, “I’m sorry, dear, for your loss.”
She nodded, unsure how she was supposed to respond to that. She pocketed the penny again and stared at Mr. Van Isen.
“Did you need something more?” he asked finally, when it became apparent Marcy wasn’t about to leave.
“I don’t know why he would give me an old penny like this, and no one else seems to know, either!” she whined.
He sighed again, putting his sandwich back down. He checked his watch, then looked out the window to the recess yard. The kids were getting ready to come back in, Marcy saw. She felt a little bad for wasting Mr. Van Isen’s time.
But he smiled at her from his desk. “I think I’d have had to know your grandfather, Marcia. And perhaps you a little better as well, to be able to answer that.” He stared for a moment at her fingers, then looked back up into her eyes. “I suspect you’ve got enough to go on, though.”
She looked at her hands and saw only blue and green marker staining her fingers from art class. “But I don’t have anything!” she whined.
“Oh, you’ve got more than you think. You know your grandfather, and you know yourself, and you know the story behind the Brenner penny. You’ll figure it out in due course, I guarantee it.” Then the hallways filled with the chatter of students, and her classmates all started ambling into the room. One of the teachers from the playground stepped in and nodded to Mr. Van Isen, motioning at Marcy.
“Well, Marcia, it’s time to go back to our regularly-scheduled curriculum. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”
She thanked him and went back to her seat, and during the next hour she thought about the penny, and about the President asking for pretty coins. After that she doodled horses in a notebook while Mr. Van Isen talked about verbs, or adverbs, or something uninteresting. She was pretty sure she could bring this pony out in watercolor when she got home.
She clutched the penny tight.
It's not supernatural, science fiction, fantasy, horror, or anything else but the more general kind of fiction. Best description I can give is that a girl gets an unusual gift and must figure out what it means to her.
I hope you all enjoy.
__________
Penny for your Thoughts
by Rick Cook
by Rick Cook
Marcy’s 8th birthday was unremarkable, as far as birthdays go, which is to say that she would remark it as the best day. Amid the many festivities of the day were pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, killing a piñata, a rousing if confused and chaotic game of kickball, time spent drawing or coloring, opening presents, playing with presents, running around with her friends, swimming, eating pizza and cake and ice cream.
But after all her friends went home, and after all the presents were stored away in her room, and after all the cake was gone, Marcy received one more gift.
Grandpa Ellis was staying the night before going home to Texas, but he was in the kitchen helping Marcy’s mother with dinner. Marcy’s father interrupted her at the dinner table while she was painting a picture of a pony with the watercolors Uncle Ellison had given her.
“Wow, look at that gorilla.”
“Daaaaddy, you know it’s not a gorilla.”
“I do not,” he said, pulling a chair up beside her. “I was told that art is whatever I think it is. So I think it’s a gorilla.”
“No, it’s not! It’s a pony. Stupid gorillas don’t even have tails.”
“Well, I guess I should take the artist’s word for it, huh?”
“Yeah-huh,” Marcy agreed. The watercolors kept seeping everywhere, and the pony was getting all blotchy, and suddenly all she could see was a gorilla, too. She gave up on the pony.
“Listen, honey. You know Grandpa Ellis didn’t give you a present today?”
“What?” she cried. “Why wouldn’t he give me anything? He gave Ellen and Mark presents!” she continued, referring to Uncle Ellison’s children.
“Quiet or he’ll hear. He’s going to give you something tonight, at dinner,” he said.
Her eyes lit up. “Why’s he waiting? My birthday’s gonna be over if he doesn’t hurry!”
“Don’t get excited now, Marcy. You know how Grandpa is.”
“Oh.” She slumped and went back to trying to get the pony to come back out of the paint. “He gives weird stuff.”
“So what are you going to do when he gives you something ‘weird’?” her father asked.
“I’m going to say it’s awesome, like I always do.”
“Good girl.” He stood up, kissed her on the forehead, and went back into the kitchen. Dinner arrived and she was forced to put her paints away. She was so close to making it look like a pony again!
After they’d eaten leftover pizza, green beans, and carrot sticks, Grandpa Ellis reached into his pocket and handed Marcy a small box. It wasn’t even wrapped!
“Happy birthday, my little Marcia,” he said, beaming. For a moment Marcy thought she was going to get jewelry, a necklace or rings, and she got excited.
“Thank you, Grandpa!” She’d been rehearsing that line in her head for whatever weirdo present she got, but it came out sincere.
She opened the tiny box and stared at the penny inside.
She blinked. Nope, still a penny. It was inside a little glass case, with the picture of Lincoln on the front. She stared at it some more, then looked at her mother and father, who were both urging her with their eyes to say something. She turned her attention to Grandpa Ellis, who didn’t look pleased with himself, or expectant, or anything at all.
“Gee, Grandpa, what will I buy with all my new money?” Marcy’s father erupted in laughter. But he was the only one.
“Marcia Ellory Ward, you apologize to your grandfather right now!” her mother said.
“No, no, dear, it’s okay,” Grandpa Ellis said, waving a hand. “I don’t think you’d find much to buy with a single cent these days, but then, this penny’s not for spending.”
“What’s it do?”
“Do?” Grandpa Ellis laughed. “I suppose it doesn’t do anything.”
Marcy’s mother sighed. “Marcy, just thank your grandfather and go play.”
So she did. She took the penny with her, and for perhaps five minutes it was of intense interest. Then she forgot about it and got her watercolors back out in the living room.
Two more birthdays came and went. For Marcy’s 9th birthday, Grandpa Ellis gave her a photograph of him and Grandma Winnifred when they were just married. For her 10th birthday, she received only a sappy birthday card with some money in it. The handwritten part of the card had been written by someone else. When Marcy brought this up, her mother had said he wasn’t able to do much for himself these days.
Grandpa Ellis passed away a few days before Marcy’s 11th birthday. Because he had lived in Texas, his last birthday present to Marcy showed up in the mail a couple days after her birthday had already come and gone, after they’d all gone to the funeral and buried him.
She had cried when her mother cried at the funeral. She had cried again when her mother cried after receiving the present in the mail.
Marcy opened this envelope and read the very short letter:
Marcia,
Penny for your thoughts?
Love,
Grandpa Ellis
PS Happy Birthday!
Did she still have the penny? She hadn’t thought about it almost since the day it had come to her.
She raced upstairs to her bedroom and began looking around, shuffling things out of the way: toys, clothes, markers and pens. She almost knocked her easel over, which would have been disastrous for the watercolors she’d left out. She began opening and closing drawers on her vanity, and just when she was ready to give up in frustration, she found the picture of Grandpa and Grandma almost negligently-thrown into a box of odds-and-ends in her closet. Below the photograph was the little glass case containing the penny.
The glass case had little tiny screws holding it together, and she had to borrow her father’s eyeglass kit to get a screwdriver small enough.
Once she had the case dismantled, she took the penny out and examined it as closely as she could, but didn’t come up with much. She compared it to her other pennies and found that its backing was not the same. Instead of the little building it had what looked like feathers. Instead of some recent year it was 1909. On the back of the old penny, in print so small she couldn’t read them without a magnifying glass, were the letters V D B. No other penny had those on the back, and her parents were both mystified at the letters. The only information she got from them that she didn’t know on her own was that the “feathers” on the back were wheat, and that it was known as a wheat penny.
So the next day Marcy asked her mother to take her to the local library instead of the arts and crafts store. She spent several hours learning about the rich and storied history behind coin collecting. That didn’t interest her; a coin was a coin was a coin and they could be used to buy things, simple as that. But what did catch her interest was the specific story behind the 1909 VDB Lincoln Cent.
Victor David Brenner, noted sculptor and engraver, had been commissioned by President Theodore Roosevelt to design the likeness of Lincoln to be used in the copper penny. What made the penny rare was that it actually had the artist’s initials stamped upon it, which meant that it was part of the very first run of Lincoln wheat pennies, as the initials had been removed almost immediately. Its value was estimated a lot more than one cent, certainly, but still nothing spectacular like an “S VDB” or other coins cited in the library books that could sell for hundreds of dollars.
She thought about that coin and the significance of it being a VDB all the way home that day, and still came to no conclusion. It became a constant companion; other people had a lucky rabbit’s foot, Marcy had her VDB.
When school started back up after summer break ended, she had already been carrying it with her and had mostly forgotten why she had started carrying it in the first place. Until one day she noticed her teacher, old Mr. Van Isen, sorting through the change in his pocket, taking out a penny and setting it aside. The next day she watched him closely, and he did it again, though he didn’t set any coins aside. She continued to study his coin-searches until she was convinced. Mr. Van Isen was a coin collector.
One of the library books she had read about coin collecting was less about the collecting and more about the collectors and how varied they could be: in scope, in what they were looking for, in how they would spend their money and time on finding them. Had she inadvertently found someone who might know more?
The VDB penny burned in her pocket, but she was a respectful girl, and class was in session. When recess finally came around she realized she had a good opportunity to ask him. She got permission from the teachers on recess that day to go back to her classroom and get a jumprope from her backpack.
She came into the classroom, suddenly very nervous about the penny, and Mr. Van Isen looked up at the intrusion, a half-eaten bologna sandwich on the desk, a paperback novel in his hand.
“Something I can do for you, Marcia?” he asked after politely swallowing his bite of sandwich. Only old people called her Marcia. She hated it.
Her fist was clenched around the penny in her pocket. “Yeah- I mean yes, Mr. Van Isen. I have kind of a weird question.” She came closer and brought the penny out of her pocket, kept it held fast in her little fist.
“Are you a ‘coin collector’?” The way in which she asked it suddenly made her think it had sounded like she was scoffing at coin collectors. “I mean, not a ‘coin collector’ like it’s dorky or anything. I mean- I mean-“ Her face burned red and she almost darted out of the classroom at the bemused stare he gave her.
“It’s okay, Marcia. I understand what you meant. To answer your question, no, not really.”
Her head drooped, her embarrassment growing further. She shoved the coin back in her pocket and said, “I’m sorry I bothered you, Mr. Van Isen, I’ll just go back to recess.”
She turned to leave and he went on, “My wife is the collector.”
She turned back. “Women collect coins?” she asked, then wished she hadn’t.
He chuckled at this. “Not just old geezers like me, I promise. Did you have something in particular you wanted to ask about? Not many kids are interested in coins unless they can pop one into a pinball machine.”
She got the penny back from her pocket and held it out to him. “I thought maybe you would know something about this one.”
“May I take a closer look?” Mr. Van Isen asked, wiping his hands on a paper towel. She held it out for him to take.
He examined it closely, then got his reading glasses out. After half a minute he said, “Why, Marcia, this is a 1909 Brenner. My wife has a couple of these.”
“So you know what makes it special?”
He stared at it a few moments longer, then passed it back. “Spending so much time with a lady whose passion is the collection of historical currency, I’d be ashamed not to know one of the most well-known stories.” His brow furrowed and he took a bite of sandwich, thinking.
“President Teddy Roosevelt asked this Brenner fellow and some others to design some new coins because he didn’t like the current coinage.”
“Didn’t like it?” she interrupted. “I’m sorry, Mr. Van Isen, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He chuckled again. “You know you’re one of the most polite students I’ve ever had. Don’t worry about it. As I said, Roosevelt didn’t like the look of the coins. He wanted something with a little bit of artistic integrity, or merit, or something. Between you and me I think he just wanted pretty coins.” She giggled at that.
“How did you end up with a rare penny like that?” Mr. Van Isen asked.
“It was a present from my grandpa for my 8th birthday, and I just now refound it.”
“What made you start looking into it now and not then?”
“He died, and for my birthday this year he sent me only a letter reminding me of the penny.”
Mr. Van Isen sucked in a breath and sighed. He said, “I’m sorry, dear, for your loss.”
She nodded, unsure how she was supposed to respond to that. She pocketed the penny again and stared at Mr. Van Isen.
“Did you need something more?” he asked finally, when it became apparent Marcy wasn’t about to leave.
“I don’t know why he would give me an old penny like this, and no one else seems to know, either!” she whined.
He sighed again, putting his sandwich back down. He checked his watch, then looked out the window to the recess yard. The kids were getting ready to come back in, Marcy saw. She felt a little bad for wasting Mr. Van Isen’s time.
But he smiled at her from his desk. “I think I’d have had to know your grandfather, Marcia. And perhaps you a little better as well, to be able to answer that.” He stared for a moment at her fingers, then looked back up into her eyes. “I suspect you’ve got enough to go on, though.”
She looked at her hands and saw only blue and green marker staining her fingers from art class. “But I don’t have anything!” she whined.
“Oh, you’ve got more than you think. You know your grandfather, and you know yourself, and you know the story behind the Brenner penny. You’ll figure it out in due course, I guarantee it.” Then the hallways filled with the chatter of students, and her classmates all started ambling into the room. One of the teachers from the playground stepped in and nodded to Mr. Van Isen, motioning at Marcy.
“Well, Marcia, it’s time to go back to our regularly-scheduled curriculum. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”
She thanked him and went back to her seat, and during the next hour she thought about the penny, and about the President asking for pretty coins. After that she doodled horses in a notebook while Mr. Van Isen talked about verbs, or adverbs, or something uninteresting. She was pretty sure she could bring this pony out in watercolor when she got home.
She clutched the penny tight.
End
_______________________________________
Language is like a martial art; if you have a strong foundation, feel free to improvise.
Language is like a martial art; if you have a strong foundation, feel free to improvise.
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Maddie: "I am not!"
Riley: "You're a marsupial!"
Maddie: "I am a placental mammal!"
This is fine, but it's less interesting (I think) than the parts where you let the girl's 'voice' into your narration.
I can see where you're coming from on the narrative, Axis. Especially the ones you quoted as "losing Marcy's voice". Unfortunately I was of the mind that I had to have these sequences to tie the narrative together, but I guess I didn't really put enough time into them to give them a similar voice to the parts where Marcy's voice really does come through.
Stylistically, I can say that whenever I write from a child's perspective I tend to hedge more towards letting their voice own the narrative, as I've done here. I'm not really sure why I do this, it's just always felt natural to let their little personalities out and run the show. I have an idea for a companion story to this one, where Marcy is older, in her twenties or early thirties, but I don't know how well it would come off since I'd be less likely to write her voice into the narrative as much.
Fine point, though. I suppose I need to really consider how to work those segments differently while still maintaining the important elements that I wanted them there for in the first place.
Thanks a lot! =D
Language is like a martial art; if you have a strong foundation, feel free to improvise.