Lilya Jones

The heat in Jackson, Mississippi was horrid. During summers like this one it would get up to a hundred ten degrees Fahrenheit. Cotton was the only crop that could survive through it. The bulbs that Moses had bought in Spring had borne a field of white. His small patch of land was the envy of every Negro in Jackson, but it filled Moses with great shame. The heat made him think of his Mother and Father and Grandmother and Grandfather. They had given their lives to this heat and to the cruelty of the peculiar institution. They had no choice. Moses often thought of moving up to the North, but he had no family up there and no connection to the land. Who even knows if there's jobs up there? Plus, he made good money for a colored man in Jackson. He was able to afford keeping up his spartan two bedroom cottage.

Even still, the heat gnawed at him. He thought of ancestors whenever it boiled up to triple digits. Today was the day his father had passed away. He had died of a heart attack at 56 or 58, dropping dead right on the hardwood of the cabin. Moses loaded his sawed-off. The heat made people do crazy things. Today, Mr. Whitman had slighted him. He knew the price for cotton was five dollars a bale, but Mr. Whitman refused to pay more than two. Moses packed a sandwich before going into town for the second time. He put it in the breast pocket of his brown peacoat and pulled the shotgun's lever back. He quietly walked out into town. The first white man that saw him was blown away. The heat made people do crazy things.