Blast from the Past
Woah! It's been 5 months since I last was on here! That's nuts! I really shouldn't do that again...

Anyway, I don't have much to say right now, so i'll just post a short story (it's a historical fiction) I wrote since I've been gone.

Don't Blink
by: IceCricket

The Battle of Saratoga, or more specifically, the Battle of Freeman��s Farm was unfolding quickly and dramatically. The Americans had commenced firing on the Hessian troops as they were coming through the woods and Benedict Arnold sent forward the brigades of Generals Poor and Learned to deal as much damage as hard and fast as possible to the British troops. American militia man George Taylor was rarely as at home since as he was in war. George had been part of General Poor’s brigade before he was sent to, in General Poor’s words, “Scout ahead and report back. Don’t hesitate to kill any British officers.”
George separated from his brigade and went to see what the red-coats were up to. He was on his own, but George didn’t mind. If there was anything he learned while serving under Francis “Swamp Fox” Marion, it was how to stay unseen. George was used to being in small numbers, or sometimes even alone, against large numbers of English troops. He listened to everything around him and looked around. Except for fairly distant gunfire and the screams, it was clear around him. He didn’t like the screams, but he had gotten used to hearing them while retreating from British troops after a raid. After double checking no one, friend or foe was around, George ran hunched forward. As he ran, he repeated the motto those who had followed the Swamp Fox had come to adopt. “Donâ��™t blink.” George kept going, keeping his eyes open and watching and listening until he heard men shouting in German in the distance. “Ah, the Hessians,” thought George. He turned slightly to the left and kept running, still hunched.

After about 5 minutes, George could almost see the Hessians. He stopped to rest a bit before advancing. After all, he wouldn’t be as stealthy if he was panting for breath. When he got his breathing under control, George drew his pistol (He never carried a rifle. Too cumbersome) and walked slowly toward the sound of the German speaking men. He came across a small road through the forest and on it were 30 Hessians maneuvering a cannon toward the combat ahead. They were all on foot except for one on horseback. The fact that the Hessian was on a horse and that he was shouting orders made him the most likely ranking officer there. “Time to create a little chaos for them,” thought George as he leveled his pistol at the officer. He pulled the trigger, a shot rang out, and the officer fell off his horse, the bullet went through his temple and exited through the other side of his head. The Germans shouted to one another in alarm as they dropped whatever part of the cannon they were carrying, grabbed their muskets, and aimed them at the woods. By the time they figured out where the shot had come from, George was already 500 feet away and celebrating this minor victory.


George Taylor allowed himself 5 seconds of time to enjoy the moment before he got back on task. Then, he began thinking more critically about what he had seen: “The red-coats like to send the Hessians ahead as the main assault. If those Hessians were heading toward battle, then British themselves must be farther back.” George went into his crouched run following the road at a distance through the forest, repeating the Swamp Fox motto to himself, watching and listening.

One mile later, George saw the outskirts of the red-coats’ camp. There were quite a few soldiers; George estimated there must be at least 3,000 of them. Near the edge of the camp he thought he saw a commander of some kind that looked to be giving instructions to his brigade leaders. George moved closer, taking his time. “Canâ��™t rush this,” he thought, “Rushing means mistakes and mistakes mean death.” George crept closer and closer to enemy commander until he saw who it was. “Burgoyne himself!â€�� thought George excitedly. “If I kill him the red-coat offensive will fall apart!” George estimated the distance between himself and the Burgoyne, 100 feet. Just a bit closer… George crept closer, inch by inch, pistol in hand toward the leader of the opposition until he was within 40 feet. Not the best range, George knew, but he was pushing his luck as it was being this close. Besides, he made shots from greater range than this before and succeeded. George leveled his pistol at Burgoyne, just like he did with the Hessian. He pulled the trigger… and pistol clicked. “Fool!” George scolded himself. He had forgotten to reload it after he shot the Hessian! George pulled out the powder and a bullet and began reloading the gun. He heard a metallic click. Not from his gun. George looked up and saw the barrel of a British musket inches from his face.
“I blinked.��

Blast from the Past
Woah! It's been 5 months since I last was on here! That's nuts! I really shouldn't do that again...

Anyway, I don't have much to say right now, so i'll just post a short story (it's a historical fiction) I wrote since I've been gone.

Don't Blink
by: IceCricket

The Battle of Saratoga, or more specifically, the Battle of Freeman��s Farm was unfolding quickly and dramatically. The Americans had commenced firing on the Hessian troops as they were coming through the woods and Benedict Arnold sent forward the brigades of Generals Poor and Learned to deal as much damage as hard and fast as possible to the British troops. American militia man George Taylor was rarely as at home since as he was in war. George had been part of General Poor’s brigade before he was sent to, in General Poor’s words, “Scout ahead and report back. Don’t hesitate to kill any British officers.”
George separated from his brigade and went to see what the red-coats were up to. He was on his own, but George didn’t mind. If there was anything he learned while serving under Francis “Swamp Fox” Marion, it was how to stay unseen. George was used to being in small numbers, or sometimes even alone, against large numbers of English troops. He listened to everything around him and looked around. Except for fairly distant gunfire and the screams, it was clear around him. He didn’t like the screams, but he had gotten used to hearing them while retreating from British troops after a raid. After double checking no one, friend or foe was around, George ran hunched forward. As he ran, he repeated the motto those who had followed the Swamp Fox had come to adopt. “Donâ��™t blink.” George kept going, keeping his eyes open and watching and listening until he heard men shouting in German in the distance. “Ah, the Hessians,” thought George. He turned slightly to the left and kept running, still hunched.

After about 5 minutes, George could almost see the Hessians. He stopped to rest a bit before advancing. After all, he wouldn’t be as stealthy if he was panting for breath. When he got his breathing under control, George drew his pistol (He never carried a rifle. Too cumbersome) and walked slowly toward the sound of the German speaking men. He came across a small road through the forest and on it were 30 Hessians maneuvering a cannon toward the combat ahead. They were all on foot except for one on horseback. The fact that the Hessian was on a horse and that he was shouting orders made him the most likely ranking officer there. “Time to create a little chaos for them,” thought George as he leveled his pistol at the officer. He pulled the trigger, a shot rang out, and the officer fell off his horse, the bullet went through his temple and exited through the other side of his head. The Germans shouted to one another in alarm as they dropped whatever part of the cannon they were carrying, grabbed their muskets, and aimed them at the woods. By the time they figured out where the shot had come from, George was already 500 feet away and celebrating this minor victory.


George Taylor allowed himself 5 seconds of time to enjoy the moment before he got back on task. Then, he began thinking more critically about what he had seen: “The red-coats like to send the Hessians ahead as the main assault. If those Hessians were heading toward battle, then British themselves must be farther back.” George went into his crouched run following the road at a distance through the forest, repeating the Swamp Fox motto to himself, watching and listening.

One mile later, George saw the outskirts of the red-coats’ camp. There were quite a few soldiers; George estimated there must be at least 3,000 of them. Near the edge of the camp he thought he saw a commander of some kind that looked to be giving instructions to his brigade leaders. George moved closer, taking his time. “Canâ��™t rush this,” he thought, “Rushing means mistakes and mistakes mean death.” George crept closer and closer to enemy commander until he saw who it was. “Burgoyne himself!â€�� thought George excitedly. “If I kill him the red-coat offensive will fall apart!” George estimated the distance between himself and the Burgoyne, 100 feet. Just a bit closer… George crept closer, inch by inch, pistol in hand toward the leader of the opposition until he was within 40 feet. Not the best range, George knew, but he was pushing his luck as it was being this close. Besides, he made shots from greater range than this before and succeeded. George leveled his pistol at Burgoyne, just like he did with the Hessian. He pulled the trigger… and pistol clicked. “Fool!” George scolded himself. He had forgotten to reload it after he shot the Hessian! George pulled out the powder and a bullet and began reloading the gun. He heard a metallic click. Not from his gun. George looked up and saw the barrel of a British musket inches from his face.
“I blinked.��