Cribbage, Installment Two

Annette was afraid to return to her special place now. The playing cards in her box, with no note, suddenly appearing after all this time, had, well, made her feel a bit uneasy. Of course, it was scintillating to wonder who might have placed them there. And for what reason. She wondered had the person seen her or just found her special box. Did they know her? Did she know them? It could have been the neighbors' boy, William. Hmmm, Annette wondered, he'd never shown any interest in her before. But then, Mother had always said that some boys show interest by ignoring a girl. Maybe she should tell her mother about the cards to get her advice. Oh, but then she'd know about Annette's secret place. Yes, better to just keep it all secret for now.
Annette watched the neighbors' yard every afternoon when she arrived home from school and every morning, for as long as she could, before she left for school. Silently, distantly watching for a sign of the stranger's return. Unfortunately, the best vantage point was from her brother Eduard's window. From there she could see if any of the bushes rustled or if someone exited from any direction other than into her own yard. The mornings were easier to use her brother's room since he was incorrigibly late for school and always bolting his breakfast and frantically gathering his things before time to leave. The evenings were harder since Eduard had to study in his room and she was not allowed to sneak away during dinner. But Annette had not spent three secretive years in her favorite place without being an extraordinarily clever little girl.
Eduard could always be convinced that Mother had asked him to do something downstairs like sweep the back porch, put away his jacket and boots, feed the cat, or bring in a few logs for the fire. For weeks, Mother had simply been surprised, quite pleasantly, that Eduard had been doing his chores without having been asked. And, of course, if Annette had offered to complete his arithmetic work for him, Eduard could scarcely be found for hours thereafter. Arithmetic was so easy for Annette, she could do it without thinking. Even her older brother's assignments seemed childishly facile. She could watch the neighbor's yard until sunset, wistfully completing arithmetic problems on her brother's tablet, and hoping for a sign in the brush. And when the work was completed, and it was always completed early even in her most distracted state, Annette would play solitaire with her stranger's deck of cards.
This went on for almost two months, with absolutely no sign of the stranger. Eduard was passing his arithmetic measures for the first time in his academic career and getting a raise to his allowance for being so good about his chores. Annette was heartbroken and distraught. Not only because she had not seen evidence of the stranger but also because she had not visited her special place in so many weeks. Her mother was becoming suspicious. Why the long face, my love? she would ask. You seem so down, dear. What's more, her mother was beginning to engage her in distractions in the evening when Annette most wanted to be left alone in her brother's room. It was becoming harder to fend off both her brother and her mother.
So Annette resolved, finally, to leave the stranger a note. She'd not say anything personal in the note, just to simply say that she had found the cards and thought they were quite nice, as compared to other playing cards she'd seen. And she was not being disingenuous in the least. They were quite the nicest set of cards she'd ever found. Had they not been in excellent condition, they could have easily passed for antique. Each card's back had an English pastoral scene of one of the four seasons, with 13 different scenes for each season. There were no two cards alike in the whole deck. On the face, each number was drawn so elaborately and surrounded by an elegant and ornate filigree of silver or gold, that one would think them hand-drawn by a master artisan. And the face cards were perfectly exquisite, with a different likeness of the kings and queens of England on each card. The note, Annette decided, would have to be equally unique and exquisitely crafted. And she set about it one night after everyone else was sleeping.
When it was complete, Annette stole away from the house quietly, being careful not to let the screen of the back door smash against the house as she exited. Softly she walked across her yard and into the neighbors' thicket. The moon was bright and the sky clear enough that she could find her way easily to the little dilapidated garden shed and the wooden bench. Annette sat and breathed deeply the fresh night air from her special place. She had not realized how much she'd missed it until now, especially in the quiet calm of the night. She had never been here at such a late hour before and it struck her as significantly more mysterious at night. Gently she opened her box and placed the sealed envelope inside. On the outside of the envelope, it read "Dear Sir or Madam." Annette took one last deep breath of the mysterious and secret air and rose from the bench to go home. As she turned past the old shed for one last look at her special place, she heard a twig crack from within the thick brush behind her.

Cribbage, Installment One

There was a quiet place in the neighbor's yard where Annette went to be alone. It was far from the houses, behind an old rotting garden shed and a stand of birch. In the summer the roses covered the old arched trellis with a carpet of red, pink, and white. Sitting on the old wooden bench, she could feel miles away from everything, and the smell from the flowers was like a heavy blanket she could wrap around herself. When the foliage was at its thickest in the season, she could hear her neighbors in the yard, having a meal, doing their gardening, or playing cricket. But neither she nor they could see through the trees and bushes, and the neighbors never came back there.
Still Annette liked it best in the winter after a snowfall. The foliage was gone and the bench was visible, but only from one angle. And it was so quiet that Annette could imagine she was the only person in the world. Just two hundred feet from her own backdoor, she could pretend she was in a different part of the world. It was a place no one ever visited but her. Parents, neighbors, her older brother, they never came here. Annette wondered if they even remembered it was there.
Eventually, Annette lay her claim on the place with a small wooden box of her most treasured items. Included therein were her pink shoelaces, the marble she found in her room when her family first moved into their house, the key to her brother's spider-man safebox, which of course he had no idea she possessed, and a picture of her and Jess. It was a picture from the last day they had seen each other, the day Annette had moved to Dalton Hills. The box was kept on the bench in plain sight. Written on the top was "Private Keep Out." And for almost three years, it had never been disturbed by anyone but Annette, until one Saturday afternoon when Annette found someone had placed a deck of cards in it.

Is anyone listening?

For a writer, the only thing worse than the fear of having nothing to say is the fear that no one will care to read it if you did. So why do writers write? I suppose some never care whether others read them. Perhaps many just assume someone will. But for me, there seems to be something singularly cathartic about writing. Call them demons or ghosts, genius or insanity, writing is the only thing that relieves them. It's a blood-letting of sorts; a way to get the thoughts out before they do any real damage to my psyche. So writing becomes a necessity, regardless of consequence. Caring whether anyone reads it is, well, simply wanting to find some validity in my thoughts. Getting them out of my head is just not enough; I need to validate their having existed at all. Otherwise, I feel more and more isolated, different, and alone.
I opened this blog almost a month ago. I'm just now posting the inaugural message. This is, in fact, my first blog ever. I'm hoping to move these thoughts from my brain into the collective brain that is the internet: a wildly diverse, complicated, strange, and utterly incomprehensible collection of everyone's inner minds. Perhaps, if they find an audience in the larger mind, they won't seem so ridiculous for having been in mine. But, at last, the procrastination in starting was a symptom of the worst of all these thoughts: the fear of being alone in a room full of people.