Written for Crimson’s Creative Challenge.
Here’s where Crispina’s image took me.
For three centuries, no one had passed through the arch. The villagers called it the Bishop’s Door, though no bishop had ever claimed it.
Abigail found it one day in late summer, following her mischievous cat through the overgrown churchyard. The stonework was older than anything nearby …. flint and chalk mortared together by hands long turned to dust, the brick arch a later addition, as if someone had tried to repair a wound.
She stood at the threshold and listened. Beyond it, the trees grew differently …. quieter. The light fell at a wrong angle for the time of day.
Her cat sat calmly on the other side, watching her.
“Just a ruin,” Abigail told herself.
But ruins don’t have doors. Doors imply passage. Doors imply purpose.
She took one breath, ducked under the hanging branches, and stepped through.
NAR©2026
This is “Secret Garden – Pastorale”
Everything seen here was created by me, unless otherwise indicated. Thanks for your consideration. NAR©2017-present.
The Elephant's Trunk 