You don't really need to know what is going on exactly. Tell me what you think.



Inside Thomas’s piercing glare, inside the throbbing pupil, Ronan witnessed the

events that the Sheriff laid bare. There on a mini cotton farm Negroes fanned

carpet rugs off the railings of porches, a small congregation of whites stood in a

circle zeroing in on young Thomas like a peculiar specimen. “You’re sliding off

the end of my shovel straight to Hell, boy,” one white man said. The white

man’s five year old son snickered and mocked Thomas, jabbing him with a red

hot poker to the ribs. The men threw a rope over a large oak tree, tied a noose

and slipped it over Thomas’s head and strung him up on the tree. They laid a

thin log for Thomas to balance on. They weren’t finished with him quite yet.

The five year old poked with the devil’s tip some more, this time incinerating the

flesh under each and every one of Thomas’s toes. Thomas’s eyes watered. He

shrieked, tried to kick his feet away, but knew if he did too much he would lose

his only support underneath him. Stones enwrapped in a palm were thrown

wildly, sometimes missing Thomas, sometimes pelting him, tearing away at the

remaining baby fat on his cheeks. After much agony the men kicked the log

from underneath and left Thomas to meet his end. There he swayed from the

tree like a pendulum, hypnotizing rather than horrifying the sadistic breed of

zombie looking on, who admired their work as if it were respected art. The

Negroes remained on the porch watching with little feeling, sweeping and

washing, humming hymns and tuning out the catcalls and whistles from half the

white men dancing gaily in celebration.