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October 15, 1774

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October 15, 1774

The day is cold and bitter and my father woke me an hour ago. The time is ten fifty-one in the morning and the cold strikes my soul as an axe strikes the moist wood of life. Father is torn in these very strange and dark days that have been upon my family since the talk of a revolution that is surely inevitable. As me, father, Chris, and Stewart work on our small plantation we speak of what a country and nation this would be if the revolution came and we also talked on if war broke out and the militias were defeated but that thought was soon put away due to the depression and anxiety that soon over whelmed our thoughts. Slowly as the work trudged we hear mobs upon mobs of people in great rage and fury as they cheered and chanted down through the town. In great confusion we dropped our tools and in no time we were part of the great mob chanting “King George is the devil!” and as we approached Boston there were hundreds of Red Coats blocking the cobblestone road. The mob kept marching forward un-faltered by the threat of death and injury, as the commanding officers are readying the uneasy troops, and as soon as we were close enough to the line of red I saw the fear in the eyes of many as the mob marched. As that moment passed me by I knew right then and there that the long sought after revolution is going to come. The mob dives out of the way when the order to fire was barked but only my brother Chris stands like a statue when the shells fly by and miss by feet or inches. After the grey sulfur scent cloud drifts away I only saw Chris but he wasn’t my brother anymore he was just a cadaver missing bits of his head, legs, and arms. His face didn’t have the calm and sweet features it used to. From this remarkable day I will do my duty to guard and push this country to victory. The mob reassembles and advances on the newly bayoneted muskets that now wait to silence the language of freedom that is being learned by all who oppose the wicked crown. As the mob of rebels’ reforms so does the sweet sound of freedom, liberty, and unity ring out and soon the real acts of patriotism occur as rebels and British steel collide in a battle that caused near by cities to react within minuets. Within seconds, blurs of charging Red Coats and the tattered and torn militia scatter into near by fields and homes in little fits of death and victory for both sides. In my mind I am frozen and in different parts of my mind I think of the events that resulted into my newly dead brother and the feeling of rage as my mind pushes pain and suffering aside as the adrenaline consumes control of my free will. With the feeling of pain being restrained and tranquilized into a void that can’t be broken. Petrified I stand and look into the scared eyes of a young British solider around the 20 like me. I stare and start to move towards him in a relaxed walk then in an instant to a pace that only a rabid animal could keep pace with. The cries of pain, agony, victory, and relief surround and replace the ringing in my mind. The feeling of brute force has taken over my common sense as I grab his jacket the feeling of crushed velvet takes the anger within me to a dark chasm that awakens the demons within my soul and before the young man could move the smooth bony hand of death claims his soul before he knew it. As the riot came to an end only a few of the British soldiers manage to escape but the few that did managed only to be saved by the grace of God. When we returned to the farm later that evening we sat in a still silence that only sculptures and paintings can produce. I fear that this is only the beginning of the end or the start of a glorious age of America.





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