My uncle is a Civil War buff. No, let me rephrase that. My uncle is a Civil War fanatic. His obsession goes so far that he dress up as Confederate general for Civil War reenactments every single weekend. When he learned that Barton Farm, a living history museum right here in our town, was having a Civil War reenactment, he jumped for joy. For my aunt’s sake, I was happy that the reenactment was in town, so my uncle would not be gallivanting off to some remote battlefield as he did most weekends. That happiness was short lived because my uncle asked me to join the reenactment. After his Oscar-worthy guilt trip, I agreed, which is why the reason I am lying in the middle Barton Farm’s pasture covered in mud and playing dead.
Around me grown men in Union and Confederate uniforms brandish rifles and bayonets as then charge each other. They fall to the ground in impressive death scenes that had been scheduled beforehand.
I hadn’t been “scheduled” to die in this battle. I was supposed to make it to end. I just decided take an imaginary bullet because it was close to ninety degrees and running across a muddy field in a wool uniform wasn’t as much fun as my uncle made it out to be. I fell at my earliest opportunity and have been lying here ever since, waiting for the battle to be over and hoping no one stepped on me before it was finished.
When I see her standing by the fence with her hands on her narrow hips and her nostrils flaring like the oxen grazing across the street, I knew my death had been the right decision. Her name is Kelsey Cambridge, and she is the director of Barton Farm. She is a petite and feisty brunette who held her ground between two irate reenactors fighting over a canteen. The men are equally red-faced and furious, but she's mad too. She glares at each of them, and I think those boys better worry more about her than each other.
She glances down at me.
“Water, please, Miss?” I ask.
She frowns and flicks her long dark braid over her shoulder. “I’m sure your medic will be along shortly.”
“I am the medic. There’s no help for me. Can’t you tell I’m dead?” I ask.
She raises an eyebrow and her dark eyes flash with amusement. “You don’t look dead to me.”
I wink and close my eyes. I think I might like this reenacting thing after all…
FORTHCOMING MAY 8, 2015 FROM MIDNIGHT INK
writing as Isabella Alan
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