The other Midnight Ride

December 6, 2008
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The young stallion galloped with fury on the damp sand. The howling midnight wind whipped at my face and tore the silk ribbon from my hair. The ocean’s roaring waves furiously crashed against the jagged rock and spit out the remains of sea creature. The wind wrestled with my hair and hissed in my ear. The moon’s glare reflected on the ocean and guided me through dark night. A jolt of fear crept up from behind, reminding me of the consequences I may face if caught on my journey. Death.

The young stallion I chose proved to be a good companion, for he galloped with fury and patriotism the whole 40 miles. We rode into town and warned each American of the British dark returning. We rode through Windsor, Wethersfield and Hartford and through each town I cried, “The British are coming!” As my journey came to an end I heard the distant marching of soldiers. The night’s darkness masked my fear and I hid in the nearby brush. There was a long moment of silence. Then a piercing noise screeched into my ear. Gunshot.

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