Sunday, March 22, 2020

Paul Revere’s Last Ride

One if by land, two if by sea…three lanterns shone above Boston.

“Listen my children and you shall hear, of the midnight ride of Paul Revere…”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was only invested in the mythology of Americana, the type of emphatic thoughts that Ralph Waldo Emerson would once have while reminiscing about the beauty of the New Atlantis he was living in. The mythology we’ve been indoctrinated with is nothing more than a cover-up to ensure that no future generations of plebs would learn of the visitors’ existence.

Only two lanterns were lit that night, but vestryman Captain John Pulling Jr. saw the third light enter the King’s own church, descending from the heavens, piercing the brick below him and shooting up through the floor towards his face like an ethereal cannon ball. John fell backwards as if by imaginary force. On his back, he looked up at the light before him, it transformed like molten smelt being poured into a human-shaped ingot mold.

The figure of light spoke out with telepathic waves, “Revere rides, and we are ready.” 

The visitors had been through this before, though they were new to the Sons of Liberty, but past civilizations and empires rose to prominence with the help of their hand, the Spartans once embraced the assistance of the visitors as well, never to be mentioned of again in any texts circulating amongst the populous for common thought and reflection. Instead, their accounts were only handed down to self-appointed chosen ones, Grand Masters and those that had been initiated, the monks and philosophers who consciously chose to seek the light.

Spectacular chaos erupted in the sky as the British descended towards Concord, a technicolor halestorm of explosions and spark trails lit up the night sky and obscured the full moon with their sulphurous smoke. It was the waxing hours of April 19, 1775, General Thomas Gage gave the orders to Lieutenant Colonel Francis Smith, who had not quite reached his destination, instead, surprised in Lexington by the Patriots and their curious allies. Charging forth and dodging shells, Smith’s Equus companion bolted forth as if unphased by the dissonance of echoes assaulting its ears. Smith dug into the side of his horse’s satchel to grab his grimoire and for the Key of Solomon which it contained; perhaps he would be able to drive back the celestial forces, or open a portal for which they would be sucked back from whence they came.

Little did the King’s army know that George Washington and Benjamin Franklin had been prepping and spreading the word, disseminating the necessary incantations and instructions throughout the lodges of the colonies for the rituals that they needed to call forth the visitors.

The rites and rituals had already been performed several weeks before the British decided to march on Concord. The signals generated by the rituals were beamed out across the stars, and with no prime directive to speak of, the visitors were happy to play gods and demons once more. Although highly evolved and sentient, the visitors took a pridefully ignorant stance on interventionist policy, and pleasured in the hieroglyphics of ancient Egypt, the heads of Easter Island, and the admiration and respect they were given by the primates who entertained them with savage emotions and brutal wars.

Flipping to the desired page upon instinct, Smith straddle the grimoire as a faint blue hue emanated from the Key, with a jerking back on his reins and bridle, Smith showed off his eloquent dressage as his horse neighed and shot hot breath from its nostrils. Motioning with his left hand as if spiraling a tornado of blue flame from between his legs he threw his arm back and then forward with a throwing gesture. The tornado of blue flame coiled and spun out in front of him into a serpentine circle, ghostly winds — of no force or consequence to this plane of existence — began ensnaring the visitors who flew too close. The visitors’ essences drained like ink spilling into a pool of water. But it was too late, as Smith observed the area around him, clear of any visitors that might attempt to strike him down, he could see that his forces were scattered, the seven hundred men that made up the British force that night were terrified by the visitors, off in the distance the visitors gleefully careened, terrorized the redcoats as they dipped towards to the ground and then back up into the sky in a cardiac pattern.

Emerson would later describe this moment as “the shot heard round the world” as part of the opening stanza of his “Concord Hymn.” The dawn broke, and four hundred militiamen only had to square off against 100 regulars from three companies of the King’s troops. As the sun began it’s treck across the sky to reveal the blood-soaked ground of Middlesex county, it also expelled the visitors from their temporary existence.

War had begun, and the first battles were now being fought.

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( I started writing this post back on April 15, 2022. Over a year later I thought it was worth revisiting the ideas that I was working throu...