What Happened Two Hundred Fifty Years Ago? A Small Win?

Standing outside the English themed pub, Colin Colonist performed a small action that grew into a larger theatrical presentation, lighting up a smoke before taking a puff. “Did you like the pie?” A questionable character's voice gurgled, and the three-piece pin stripe garmenter dropped his brow.

“An interesting dish, proprietor Shepherd created, though I could use a sweet dessert,” Colin commented.

“But did the Yankees win?”

Smirking Colin stepped away from the situation, tightening his tie, “did the Yankees win?” Murmured the traditional revolutionary professional, deciding to stroll a block or two, accepting the personal mission, observing loitering harbor gulls.

One night, years ago, demonstrative staged havoc broke out when tea shipments were terrorized, thrown overboard, imitating a spicy mutiny. As a dark shadow approached, Colin turned quickly, “but did the Yankees, really win?”

Pondering the inquiry, Colin continued walking, stepping over ambiance driven cobblestone streets, arriving at one corner, headlining a historical past, remembered by a snowball fight, whose tragic resolution released human vital fluid. According to published accounts, frozen white ice turned reddish when guards opened fire, treating an immature provoked act seriously.

“They buried those young lads,” Colin reflected, “after losing the daily skirmish battle, we gave them a nice memorial, that looks like a gigantic manhole cover.”

After the silent moment Colin traveled home back to his apartment located exactly on Cloud Nine Avenue. Approaching the front door, noticing the knocker, the elder statesman felt a cold chill rush, “did the Yankees win?” Growled a mystical sound.

Pulling out keys, safely home Colin navigating towards the kitchen, heating a silver suspended kettle hoping more nourishment warmth would soothe his wounded bones. Sitting next to a furnace, Colin stared into the illuminating darkness, suddenly distracted, when a disruption clamored.

“Did the Yankees win?”

Stirred and shaken Colin confronted the saintly character, “do I know you?”

“Honestly, no, I came down from above upon my bosses request to check how you are doing visiting old haunts,” responded the ghostly figure who quickly tended to drying out white sox, “these are clean and do not have the bloody look.”

“Maybe black sox would have more marketing appeal,” the businessman suggested.

“Son,” the magical messenger addressed, “we are the good guys, from the innocent side.”.

“And that is why the Yankees won, the protagonist usually defeats the antagonist,” Colin inserted, “to honor our historical victory we the people developed a declaration stating independence along with a rightful bill, written using the ten commandments blueprint.”

“That sounds great you had one small win compared to the centuries of miniature successes kingdom’s united handled, applying tactics where lives are taken away too soon,” the leading spiritual guider explained, “you must do more,”

“Like what?”

“Develop athletic games where human anger can be unleashed not making a mess instead scoring a goal replacing killing a neighbor,” offered the travelling guest.

“Cities could clash against other metropolises,” Colin contemplated.

“And shake hands afterwards like you do following signing those peace treaty papers.”

“Marvelous idea,” Colin added, “oh next time if you wander aimlessly around by land, it's one lantern, two lanterns its by sea, that is our gate code these days.”

“Opposed to our father, who art,”

When the late-night soup snack transformed, now an empty bowl, Colin stood up and retired, occupying his study. Sitting at the desk, discovering a featherily pen, the dreamer tried scribing his “America’s Greatest Novel,” entitling the work, “Heaven Sent”. With everything stored away in his imagination, Colin knew the resolution already, but still asked the conflict, “did the Yankees win?”

Chuckling, he answered, “of course the Yankees won; the Yankees won.”. Giving those wearing redcoats, something to debate while spinning Canterbury tales, fixated on enchanting flames dancing to tailored choreographed numbers, interpreting someone named anonymous’s poetic script.