Behind the wooden door

Since opening the wooden door I have been doing nothing but lounging in the courtyard and strolling the marketplaces. I was thrilled to step into a huge circular courtyard that looked like an oasis in the middle of the desert. A pond was in the center with our balcony bedrooms overlooking this oasis. After unpacking and armed with paper, pen and ice tea I settled in a lounge chair in the shade of a palm tree and contemplated the story I would share with my fellow travelers at the party tonight.

We were asked to go to the storage closet of antiquities and pick up an object from the shelves and write a story about it. I went, and searched, but could not find anything that stimulated my imagination so now I sit and wonder what I shall do. A story needs a plot; a beginning, a middle, and an end. I do not have one. A short story is even more challenging.

As I was searching my mind for some ideas I suddenly was startled by a loud piercing screech. Startled I looked towards the pond. It was in that moment I knew the tale I would tell from the bone chair. It would not have a plot, or a suitable beginning or end but it is a true story and I even have pictures. Really, our life is a series of short stories. I shall send the raven back to the Abbey to bring me my album and then tell my tale.