Parannoyed Delusions

From The Storyteller's Very First Screenplay Exercise: Here is a photograph I took while I was in Chiengrai last week. Each one of us will see a different story in the picture. I'd like you to write, in TEN sentences or less, your version of what's happening here.

The man limped for fourty miles nonstop through a chill morning and a hot afternoon. His legs ached, especially his left one. With every step he made, the kneecap of his artificial leg squeaked and the blunt end of his severed leg burned, reminding him of his land mine injury. Yet he knew that his efforts will pay off, he knew that when he arrive monks clad in beautiful orange robes will greet and feed him, just like in his dreams. But when he finally reached the place, it was empty. The monks were not there, like in the recurring dreams he had. And at that single instant, all of his hopes vanished, evaporated like the countless drops of his sweat. He wanted to cry, to scream and curse the dreams that at that moment turned into his bane. But instead he knelt down and prayed. His knee touched the ground, his palms adjoined, his eyes gazed the grass below him, and at that very moment, six men in orange robes appeared.