An Introduction with No Name Yet (standard:adventure, 489 words)
Author: Pitter Pat	Added: Sep 29 2015	Views/Reads: 2636/2	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Hi friends, It has been a while since I dabbled in writing. This is still in raw form, but I’m looking for your feedback. Does this introduction have possibilities? Your honest opinions are welcome.

In a meadow, down a worn path, just out of sight of an almost hundred
year old country home, stands an old weathered six foot tall “A” tent.  
When new, this tent stood proudly, with bleached white sides that 
amplified the sun beams and moon light.  A campfire would to burn 
outside of the tent door and family and friends would bring other tents 
and join together to celebrate the special occasions of life. Wedding 
parties, birthday, anniversaries, graduation gatherings, reunions, and 
summer holiday weekends were no strangers to this spot hidden in the 
tree. 

As time passed, the sides of the tent became brown, orange, and yellow
stained from decaying leaves that made their final flight during a fall 
rain storm only to be plastered to the side of the tent.  The brownish 
green coloring embedded into the northwest side of the canvas was a 
gift of moss from the neighboring oak tree that shared her abundant 
harvest.  No longer does the tent announce itself to everyone coming 
near. If you don't look closely, it blends in with the trees and tall 
grass, hiding from the intruders it once had welcomed. 

The tent flap blows open and the rustic outside gives way to three
humble pieces of furniture.  A worn green army cot partially covered 
with a crocheted quilt of green, orange, and white granny squares; a 
well-used blue lawn chair with a torn cup holder and a pink cat head 
shaped pillow thrown on the seat; and a small wood folding tea table 
varnished with a walnut stain almost completely worn away with age. 

A grey haired woman dressed in worn blue jeans and a t-shirt with a
faded picture of a once popular band walks silently along the path to 
the tent.  Her bare feet don't feel the sticks and rocks along the 
path, for the years have created a thick layer of callouses to protect 
them from the hidden elements.  Over her shoulder hangs a faded cloth 
grocery bag filled with her needs for the afternoon.  A can of pop, a 
two-pack of cherry Pop Tarts, two small wrapped squares of dark 
chocolate, a book purchased at a yard sale this morning, and an 
outdated iPad that carries the music she has collected over the years. 

With barely enough room to walk past the table, she eased into the lawn
chair, adjusted the pillow to the small of her back, and then put her 
grass stained feet on the edge cot. Her eyes stare at the colors on the 
canvas then slowly close. Taking long deep breaths she learned from a 
young blonde yoga instructor on a television, she attempted to quiet 
her mind.  Her last thought before slipping into sleep is, “just as 
nothing can remove the stains from the canvas, nothing can remove the 
stains from my life”.  With each calming breath, she slips deeper into 
the world of sleep. 

To be continued.....


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