Sit back, relax, and
7/4/2017 0 Comments
The glittering lights of the protruding silver machine invited me in. I pressed the blue button and the door slid open to reveal a small closet like space. I step inside hesitantly and the door closes with a thud.
“Okay Evelyn, you can do this. Just type in the numbers and you’ll be on your way,” I say, prepping myself. This is a huge mission that could change history forever. A key pad on the right of me blinks and I dial the numbers, feeling the machine shake and sputter.
April 14, 1865, the sun has long left the sky, as I slip inside the looming red and white Ford’s Theatre dressed in boyish attire. This will fool any suspicious onlookers. I open the worn out rear back door, and look up. There sitting in the presidential booth was none other than President Abraham Lincoln and his wife Mary. I take a deep hesitant breath and head back out. Fixing my hair under the small cap, I hear a noise behind me.
“Something has to be done now,” a voice whispers. “We can’t wait any longer, he has to go!”
The assassin! I have to hurry.
Quickly but quietly, I head up the stoned stairs breathing heavily. There the couple sat laughing merrily behind the white and gold curtains. I creep up behind them arms outstretched.
“Mr. Lincoln,” I tap his shoulder. He turns around confused.
“Well hello there boy, how may I help you,” he smiles and his eyes twinkle which made me smile back. Seeing him up close was surreal and a bit scary.
“You need to get out of here, someone is about to come and kill you!” His wife Mary turns around.
“Do you understand the monstrosity of what you’re saying!” she yelps. I look at my pocket watch: 10:11pm
I’m wasting time! Two minutes left.
I tug Mr. Lincoln by his arm. “Come on, you have to follow me before it’s too late!”
“Stop what you are doing at once young man!” he exclaims. Major Rathbone in his soldier’s uniform, gets out of his seat to pull me away. I collide with the ground just as John Wilkes Booth enters through the curtains, first glancing at me then pointing his gun at the president.
“No!” I yell. I grab his foot, taking him off balance but it was too late. He had shot him already.
I failed my mission.
Discretely, I exit the theater, stooping in the alleyway to cry.
I’m sorry I failed you great grandfather.
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