|An Introduction with No Name Yet (standard:adventure, 489 words)|
|Author: Pitter Pat||Added: Sep 29 2015||Views/Reads: 964/0||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of cherry Pop Tarts, two small wrapped squares of dark chocolate, a book purchased at a yard sale this morning, and an outdated iPad that carries the music she has collected over the years.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..... Tweet
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