So it was my turn to offer up a musical muse for this exercise. I chose one of those little ditties in between stories on NPR. Apparently, Great Round Burn by Kaki King sends very distinct images. Jeff and I wrote a very similar piece. The last time, we couldn't have been more different, or wrapping it up simply, Sex and the Pope. Read Jeff's Here .
Here is mine:
Annabelle tore through the trees at whatever speed lightning can go when it’s in the form of a nineteen year old girl. Make that a well read nineteen year old girl. Who is great at traipsing through these particular woods but has rarely had to raise her heart rate to get through them. Hearing the distant snaps and sloppy shuffling noises through the leaves on the ground she knew she had a moment to assess. Most of the trees were now bare, leaving many easy to obtain hiding places out of commission until next summer. Fairly close were a few spruce trees in which to try and quietly wedge herself among the branches.
“Fucking sharp needles!” Annabelle huffed to herself while straining to move in slow motion so as to make the least amount of rustling possible.
Gently spitting the edge of a bent branch out of her mouth, she reached into the tiny pocket within the front jeans pocket to be sure that she hadn’t lost it. Even through her cotton gloves she could feel the evenly spaced bumps along the perimeter of the coin - except for where the year was minted - 1795. She tucked her hair behind her ear and waited.
Annabelle’s’ grandfather,(Wompaw as she liked to call him) lived modestly but comfortably three miles into the woodland to be sure to avoid doing the Happy Neighbor thing. He’d given up people a long time ago and was only so happy to do so. “A complicated bother of blather” he called the collective bundle of humans, known as The Entire Population. Wompaw had lived here since before Annabelle was born, so he’d had plenty of years to settle more luxuriously into curmudgeonhood. Annabelle herself lived closer to society but not by much. She was a mere two miles from the wooded border in a small cabin that she helped Wompaw build only two years ago for her impending eighteenth birthday.. Wompaw taught her the meaning of a hearty bread pudding, how to hire a bunch of toads and frogs for the garden by collecting your help during tadpole season and then releasing them into the garden, and biting into a raw ear of corn straight off the stalk, savoring the milky liquid that came with a crunch. More useful currently would be the many times he would creep around corners to catch her unawares, each scream thickening her skin just a sliver more.
Earlier, she’d dropped in on Wompaw for a little help with churning out some of their beloved picture frames from small, wand like branches. Christmas was at least a month away and if she didn’t get started now she might end up handing out a basket of good intentions for the holiday.
She remembers that she walked in, mouth open shooting out melodic, teasing and familiar salutations. She knows a basket filled with collected items on the way over - winterberries on stems, tiny, flexible branch pieces, pinecones and acorns - tumbled to the wooden floor, berries rolling into corners, under the table, leaving red juices as her boot trampled them. She knows that she ran toward him. She goes blank. Next her mind races to the moments after the paramedics took Wompa away, nothing left in his eyes. By the door.....something shiny enough to pull at her attention. Something out of place. His prized Flowing Hair dollar, valued at over $7 million dollars. If Wompa didn’t believe much in the value of being social, he certainly didn’t believe in leaving your prized assets with any institution.
“Keep it in a lockbox? Well why the hell would I do that when I can hold it in my fingers, look at the mastery of the minting process as it was at the end of the 18th century? There is energy in everything. Every single person who ever touched this coin has left a piece of themselves within it. Sometimes I don’t even have to read a book, I can just hold this coin, just imagine what it has seen, what it has bartered, and as a result, who had been given more life to live and who fell due to their own acquaintance of it. . Not the coin of course, but what it symbolizes to others. A price has been attached to this coin. But why? Other than the value of history, it is simply a material object, a piece of metal.” Annabelle was not sure how true the story was, but was told that the coin came into Wompa’s hands many years prior as he and his now deceased buddy, Grey George, dug the grounds to create the well, which was now defunct, as a more mordern well had been put in six years past..
But right now she knew she had to stay absolutely quiet. Coming out of the cabin, she thought she saw someone stalking from behind one of the larger oaks. Whoever it was, was certainly looking for something. Something they thought they’d had earlier, and dropped on their way out after stealing Wompa’s last breath. Obviously it had been in someone’s hands. Possibly with a tell tale fingerprint. Dual motive for getting it back.
Quietly turning the coin carefully over in her hand, she heard a silent swooping, just a decibel above noiselessness. Looking up, she saw a crow perched on one of the branches of her hideaway. Curious and intent, it stared down at her. She followed its pitch black gaze to her hand. Without a doubt, it was interested in the coin. Ah, yes. Crows love shiny objects. They are known to steal jewelry, foil, keys and the like. Annabelle amused herself out of boredom momentarily by imagining how many people destroyed relationships over “stolen” things that very well could have been coveted by a smart bird. For no other reason, except the objects glinted. She imagined a room full of crows and a disco ball, each crow attempting to take a piece of it, eventually pecking it into a sort of hollow and pointless pinata.
She put the coin away so as to not to attract attention to her current sanctuary, should Mr. Crow start becoming vocal. She felt around for the baggie in her coat pocket that was filled with trail mix. Good that it was there, but nothing she could do to show her offering to the bird right now. She knew that the owner of the footsteps was most likely somewhere in the vicinity looking for her.
Annabelle looked up slowly just to check where the crow was sitting and visually lined up her head to it’s tail.....whew.....not possible. The last thing she needed was a trick on the head while stuffed inside of a bunch of crisp needled branches.
After a couple of hours went by, Annabelle decided to exit her coniferous hideout. She hadn’t seen who was following her, nor had she heard anything of human foot come through since. Tired of being cold and cramped she felt it time to attempt slipping out.. The movement of her hands gradually pulling apart the branches and ducking her head through, caused the crow to launch itself off of the top of the tree where it had been. Annabelle looked around thoroughly before pulling herself completely out of the tree. When she saw no evidence of another human, she pulled her other leg out through the density of her previous cover and brushed herself off, checking her hood for any “surprises”. She caught sight of the crow now sitting about four trees away, in a nest, which would have been barely visible if not for watching him fly straight to it. A good choice, to not build homebase in a deciduous tree. She looked up at him and pulled out the granola, throwing a small pile on the ground, grateful to have had a companion of sorts during her anxious wait in the tree. He waited for her to step away about ten feet before jumping down from branch to branch, with proper intervals in between to assure his safety. After swooping over the modest pile a few times, he landed, satisfied that it was indeed invulnerable, and swooped off with mouthfuls of food, bringing them up to his nest.
Once home, Annabelle pulled down the shades, barricaded the doors and lit a fire. Wompa had helped create a fairly impenetrable fortress for her when building her humble home. The Medeco Maxums were so plentiful, she slept without worry, even when hearing the sounds that frequent the dark hours of the night. As expected, she didn’t sleep much that night. Or the nights following. She did hear steps around her cabin from time to time, but completely covered windows, 911 on speed dial and a never needed to have been used thus far rifle by her side, she knew she would be fine. For now.
The nights following Wompa’s death saw much introspection for Annabelle. She sat in front of the fire, Johnny Walker in gloved hand, turning the Flowing Hair coin over and over. She hadn’t wanted to compromise any previous prints on the coin and wouldn’t touch it without gloves.
She figured out that whomever it was that wanted the coin would be around her cabin in the darker hours. She could easily call enforcements, but it wouldn’t feel like Wompa would be served proper respects. She knew she had to deal face to face with this callous soul.
She pulled out her roll of fishing line. Alibar, her feline companion had no qualms with fishing line. “Stop it, Al. Here.” She threw a treat across the room to keep him from chasing the line. She wasn’t sure how much to cut but made the line a slim, three feet and taped one end to the Flowing Hair coin. The other end was wrapped around the ring Wompa gave her that she wore on her right hand. She would leave the ring off for tonight.
Annabelle, three drinks later, was not beat by the drink. It only emboldened her. Her idea seemed perfectly logical. If it was plausible, well, that would be up to the Gods. She brought her flashlight and slung her rifle around her chest, pointed toward the ground. Looking for Wompa’s old well, she pulled off the top, and set some thin branches over the top. Then some more, crossing the originals, like a tic tac toe board. She loaded the top with leaves, and evened it out as best as she could without them all falling below. Next, she stuck four smallish branches in the ground, to mark the surroundings of the well. Then she went to the store, stocking up on potato chips, beef jerky, blueberries and also bought one package of chicken.
Pouring herself another drink, Annabelle made a magnificent batch of thick skinned fried chicken. She ate one drumstick and put the rest into a container, closed the refrigerator and went to bed.
The next morning, Annabelle went out to give the crows some granola and peanuts, watching the swooping dance that was performed before the offering was accepted. Then she took a deep breath and felt around in her pocket. Flowing Hair was ready. She felt under her vest.....should she need it, the gun was loaded. She hoped this would be unnecessary.
Annabelle located her work from the previous night. She stuck fried chicken, beef jerky, potato chips and blueberries under the leaves around the perimeters of the well. She popped a handful of potato chips in her mouth and washed it down with a flask produced from her vest pocket. She took out her camera and wandered around, slowly, aimlessly, waiting, acting calm, acting like it was just a day. Then she heard the short scuffles that someone else did not mean for her to hear. After Wompa’s training for living in this area for years, Annabelle would hear everything - down to a mating fruit fly. It was one of the first things Wompa had trained her in. The art of observation.
She moved along the birches, the oaks, the maples.....slowly, calmly, taking periodic sips from the flask. Taking photos of anything that she could in order to look normal. Shuffling in the background too quickly became foreground. Annabelle finally knew there would be no more grace periods. She turned around to see him waiting, at least six feet away. She slowly controlled the movement, backing up ever so minutely.
“What do you want from me?” she said, the alcohol forcing her to sound more vulnerable than she really felt.
“I was ….looking for a coin. I lost it while visiting a friend a few days ago. Would you know anything about it?” He was handsome. She had him computed within seconds. Charming, manipulative, dangerously smooth. If she were a slave to even one tenth of a hormone, she’d lose this one.
“What coin?” she countered, hoping he didn’t know who she was, but trying to remember the reality that he’d been following her for days. He knew more than she’d let on that he knew. At least to his face.
“It’s just a silver coin But was given to me by my grandfather so it means a lot to me. I carrry it around for luck, as crazy as it sounds. Has a lady’s face on it. Flowing Hair. I was visiting with an old friend of mine, and like a fool, wore the pants with the hole in the pocket. I believe it fell out. Do you know what I speak of?” he stepped a little closer.
“I’m not sure. Is it a Lady Liberty sort of thing?” How long could this shit go on? They both knew this was a poker game.
“Something like that. It’s more nostalgic than anything else.”
What a fucking liar, Annabelle thought to herself. She glanced down at the ground, seeking out the stakes she’d planted the night before.
“I may have found something actually. When I was visiting my Wompa. Could this be yours?” Annabelle pulled the Flowing Hair out of her pocket.
The man smiled broadly.
“That’s it! That is totally it. Thank you so much. What do I owe you? I’d be happy to take you out for a drink or dinner or something to show you my appreciation.”
Annabelle held out the coin and pretended to stumble over one of the stakes, dropping the coin onto the ground.
“I’m so sorry, let me....”
But by that time, her stalker was so greedy, he’d already stepped forward to grab it out of the leaves. A loud snapping was heard as his weight cracked through the thinly covered branches over the defunct well. Annabelle quickly yanked the fishing line attached to the coin and yanked it back up with her.
“Help me out of here. Please. I think I broke something.:
“You’re a fucking liar. I’m going home. Good luck climbing the concrete, you fuck! It was you that killed my grandfather Why else would you stalk me? This coin was in his collection. How dare you pass it off as your own! How could you even possibly know about this? Tell me, tell me and I may have enough compassion for you to let you go. If you don’t tell me who you are and how you knew he had this, I’m going home now.”
A groan was heard, and then, “I’m George’s son. My dad told me that your grandpa found this coin years ago, but that the didn’t want to do anything with it. Like he refused the magnitude of fortune that would come with it. I thought that if he didn’t care about it, perhaps I would trade it in....but he cared enough. Not for fortune’s sake...”
Annabelle said nothing. Instead, pulled out from behind a tree, a bag. She surrounded the borders of the deep hole with the fried chicken she’d made the night before. She punctuated that with the chips, the beef jerky and even a few Little Debbie’s creme filled cakes, then stepped away. Bears were abundant in these woods and Annabelle knew effectively how to keep them away from her home. Conversely, she knew how to attract them.
The man in the well started to scream in panic. Annabelle threw a few fried chicken legs down.
“Here. This is so you taste better to the bear, you fucking scum. Just like bacon can’t hide the taste of liver, this won’t hide much in your foul flavor either. But the bears need to eat and will be happy with what they get. And here.....you can enjoy this too.” She threw down a coin. As he caught it he noted immediately that it was a penny. This year’s penny. Worth exactly, one cent.
Annabelle walked nearby to the tree in which she knew the crow’s nest to be. She put down a pile of granola and peanuts. The only sound to be heard right before she walked off was in the middle of the pile of granola....a thunk of the Flowing Hair coin being tossed away.
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