Shiny pennies.
Grimy pennies.
Untold secrets.
A treasure, a curse,
A Rolls, or a hearse?
A coppery lie,
Pass them by.
Pass them by.
Granny always cautioned me about picking up lost pennies. She was scared of them. Many are dark, cursed, she often said. The condition of the penny does not reveal its history, for a penny can pass through a multitude of hands before it is forsaken and lost to the ground.
“Have you experience cursed pennies?” I was seven when I asked her this.
“No, but I have been told stories,” she replied, a glint of fear in her eyes. “Evil is pervasive and evil can be passed on by things that have come in contact with it.”
“What about something good? Is it the same?”
“Best not chance it.”
I collected forsaken pennies for charities. I collected all coins I found and put them in one of Granny’s Mason jars. When the jar was filled, I dropped it off at the charity center. I never counted the coins, just handed them over. Most times I added my own coins to fill the jar. Most were pennies and it was a once a year donation, just around Thanksgiving time.
On the day I turned thirteen, I found 5 pennies in a parking lot. Three appeared brand new. All bright and shiny. Two were dull and grimy – one minted in 1968, the other 1989. I left the pennies on my desk and went to do chores. When I returned to my room, I saw them there, waiting to be dropped into the Mason jar. Remembering Granny’s words, I picked up the 1968 and rotated it in my fingers. A flood of warmth filled my being and a flash of a devoted elderly couple sitting in a church somewhere came to me. I was startled momentarily but I was sure it was only my imagination. I picked up the 1989 and was hit with a wash of sadness mixed with profound relief. Like a departed loved one had suffered in pain and it was good they had now gone to a peaceful place. A burial scene tripped through my thoughts. The penny tumbled out of my hand. It landed on its side and spun like a top, before falling flat. A sense of fear and dread swept over me and yet I could not stop myself from picking up one shiny penny. A vision of a man on his knees, bending over a porcelain bath tub raced into my mind. In his hand a hacksaw rained blood. One shapely leg reached out over the tub’s edge, a gruesome stump of the other leg seeped out blood next to the butchered torso. Blood splatter raced down white tiles like a thousand crimson streams. The man hummed as he feverishly sawed, yanked, and pulled at the mangled body. He had done this before. Many, many, times before. It’s his compulsion, his gratification.
After my screaming had ceased, I was driven to sketch his face. The drawing would be sent to the authorities. The serial killer must to be stopped.
Granny was wise. Pennies. Pass them by.
***The story idea is about a young artist who experiences visions whenever she comes in contact with a found penny. A good vision, she rejoices; an evil vision compels her into action. She is driven to help law enforcement solve or prevent the crime. This ability puts her in great danger. Her name is Grace.
