Short story: A Blueberry pie

In the frosty December dusk black men’s cabins look snug with a pale powdery purple smoke rising from their chimneys and their front doors glowing with amber from the delicious fires inside.

Surrounding me were ladies in cool fragile pastel prints. They were smiling. Naked Oak trees stood in neat lines. And the slushy snow, bearing a myriad of footprints, was merely evidence. I looked up at the grey cloudless sky and prayed, for that was all I could have done.

Men holding beer mugs were at the front grinning broadly; and women stood at the back holding their children’s’ hands tightly. In the heart of the commotion, there stood a bare dark figure. His chocolate skin glistened in winter’s unforgiving sun but his eyes remained white and gloomy, they looked juxtaposed.

Slow desperate tears trickled down his cheeks as he was poured all over with oil. Suddenly, he was a blaze with dark fire. His flesh bubbled like a baking blueberry pie and its strong scent filled the misty frowning air. With every scream, the crowd cheered harder; they cheered louder; and for longer. I saw my father looking at me from the hazy corners of my eyes, I knew he wanted me to appreciate this morbid entertainment but I could not give in.

 He died innocent. He was another victim of a falsely accused crime. And by the next day, all was forgotten; women went back to knitting and baking cinnamon cookies and men went back to their respectable jobs. It was as simple as black and white.