Stories, poems, vignettes. All in one place. Some paired with photos. Some left to your imagination.
Moon Rising truly is and eclectic collection of my writings. Bound together for your reading enjoyment.
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. . . It was then that we could feel the ground shaking. Our horses started snorting and sidestepping. The sound on the wind was a rumbling mixed with frantic whinnies from the animals in the valley.
Trying to sound braver than I was feeling, I quietly asked, “What’s going on Granddad? Why are the horses running?” He never said a word as he motioned to me with his hand to keep quiet and stay put. He turned his horse to the top of the rise; at the same time he pulled his rifle out of the scabbard. I was scared because I knew the gun was only ever to be used for a few things; shooting wild horses was not one of them.
I busied myself pretending to calm my horse. Patting his neck all the while, watching Granddad from under the brim of my hat. As I thought of all the things that could be going on, I wanted to yell out to him, “Wait for me.” I knew better. This was serious.
With his rifle in his hand, I watched as he stepped off his horse and dropped the reins. Slowly, he made his way to the edge of the ridge. Every move he made was like a slow motion movie. Never once doing anything that might call attention to his position. He leaned the rifle against a tree and brought the field glasses up to his eyes from around his neck. Somewhere inside my head I screamed, what do you see? Not a sound dared come from my lips.
Then I saw him move towards the rifle. He calmly picked it up and brought it to his shoulder. Without hesitation, he aimed down the valley towards the herd that I knew was there. My voice was locked inside me, screaming at him not to shoot the horses. I heard a shot and one more right after it. This time, my voice was real when I yelled out, “Granddad!” He lowered the rifle and turned towards me to once again motioning for me to stay put . . .
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