This morning's prompt was 'coin'.

"What'cha got there?" Brenda asked Tom. He'd stopped and picked up something shiny.

"A penny. A bright new penny, like a harvest moon."

"Kid, you're a poet and didn't even know it!"

"Oh, I knew it... A teacher talked me into writing a poem every week, for extra credit. I got tired of limericks and haiku, tried free verse and simple rhymes. No, ah, iambic pentameter or stuff."

She gave him a beat up composition notebook and assorted pens that night after supper was safely in their bellies and they were all safely forted up for the night.

"We can be on the look out for something better, okay?"

"Sure. What do you want me to write about?"

"Anything." Brenda looked at his mom, Carol, and Ben, who were inspecting the healing stump of her leg. "Something about your Mom? Something about all of us, but maybe lay of the riffraff? You know. Mort and Morticia."

"I can do that, but-"

"Please?"

"Yes, Brenda." He gave her a look. "You make a show of being so tough, but you're a big softie- Ow?" This last was softly, so as not to alarm his Mom or Ben, but when he looked he saw them staring anyway, and then sharing a smile.

"Trust me, I know I'm a fake, got imposter syndrome out the-"

"What's imposter syndrome?"