Ella Robinson

Standing tall and proud, the hanging poles loom high on the platform. Well used and bloodstained, the ropes hang from the poles. In the afternoon summer heat, sweaty hands clasp the first coarse rope, ready to wrap it around the neck of its oncoming prey. The last of the sun’s tendrils retreat from the surrounding buildings of the square. They scorn the withered weeds that creep through cracks in the pavement; they are the only life in the city square. Today, unlike most days, is different. They are not the only life here. A white crowd ardent for revenge has gathered around the hanging poles. The condemned will hang in the city square, sending a message to all the coloured children that they do not understand.

Listen. Rising from the crowd, a savage roar builds. The pitch rises, and they whoop with anticipation as the four coloured men are led into the square. No longer a crowd of people, they become an animalistic mob; a different sort of beast. Desperately the black men pull away from their captors before they are pushed forward, one by one, by the jostling mob. Their cries of terror and panic are swiftly carried away on the mob’s roar.

The figures now stand upon the stage. A predictable performance for all to see. Sharply silhouetted in the light; they will soon become shadows in the dark. Wind rushes past, wearing the buildings down, as calloused and sweaty hands wrangle the rope around the coloured men’s necks. The last to be seen in their dark eyes will be this grimy city square. The last they will hear will be the yells of hatred from the mobs’ roar, carried by the wind. A wall of white hands grasping and clawing at their feet. Never before has a white person been willing to touch them. Chanting messages rise from the background din; their hatred lashing at the already wounded men. Bang! The flaps in the stage floor open up. A loud lull echoes through. Necks break. Silence, for a prolonged moment, then the noise restarts. A crescendo builds of cheers and howls of ecstasy. The bodies hang limply; swaying in the polluted city air. All except one. His neck did not break. The body writhes, calloused hands clawing at the filthy rope. Death will come soon. The mob, beside themselves, awaiting his death, jeering at his struggle. Let this event be an example.

The white crowed, now sated, can at last look away. Slowly they begin to leave. Pushing and shoving, sweaty skin against sweaty skin, they shove through the exit. Only a few linger, eyeing the dead wretches hanging from each pole. They are admiring the display. Soon the rest of the heinous race, that the lynched men represent, will follow their demise. Parading their capture in the city square, the hanging poles stand. The crowd has had their fix; it is heroin to an addict. 

Stop! Look. A night sky covered in cloud and city smoke rests upon the square. The only decoration and signs of colour are in the smeared blood on the stage and hanging poles. Litter tossed at the men is one of the only other differences. Their bodies rest, engrossed in the dark, elongated, looming shadows, as their skin melts into the black. One man’s calloused hands remain clenched and ragged skin falls limply from his bones. Gusts of air savagely torment his skin and that of his peers. They are all cold, choked in death’s grasp. The Grim Reaper has taken from the harvest tonight.

You draw your worn leather jacket closer, as your sweat from earlier cools you. Except for the occasional prostitute in the nearby allies, you are the only soul on site. The open expanse of the concrete square, warming your bones with oh-so-sweet recollection. Your fingers twitch at the muscle memory of the hangings. The coloured vermin should stay behind locked doors, out of sight, before they become ripe fruit ready to be plucked by your gracious hand. Today you have ensured the eradication of more of the filthy black race. And so you stand, a smile spreading across your weathered features. A feeling of pride clutching your blackened heart. Bodies now hang decoratively in the breeze. Your work, for now, is done.