Story of the Month

History by Alan Passey

After travelling through the morning I found myself strolling the streets of

a peaceful Spanish town of ancient buildings of ginger cake gold, the air

fresh from the oven : the townsfolk, I assumed, having disappeared

behind rusting shutters to await the cool of early evening. The quiet,

secure and ground. I wandered till I stood in the empty courtyard of an old

convent. I considered that I could be taken for an intruder and not wishing

to face that accusation sought an exit towards some trees glimpsed

greening over the rooftops. I stepped lightly for fear of breaking, and came

across a wooden door, ash – toned by the sun, with an elaborate iron

latch, part of which was worn smooth by generations. I paused to admire

the workmanship, and curious, raised my hand to the latch, yet wavering,

unsure that my thumb was worthy to play its part in history.