Bubba walked down the gravel road counting every step towards the bus stop. He looked down and his watch, which read quarter till five, and sat down.
Just like clock work the british soldier came pounding down the hogtrail on an exhausted thoroughbred with a letter in hand, till he heard, “Halt.”
Just like every morning, the rebel troops read the letter and then shot the messenger. The second soldier raised his rifle and then shot the horse and set fire to the limp carcases. Even though any normal person would shudder in fear, Bubba watched the scene unfold like a saturday morning cartoon. Bubba had told his mother about the ghostly murder that took place every morning, but she said it was only his imagination.
Mothers, as Bubba and every other nine year old boy in the world knows, are never wrong.