From the vantage point of the back of his farm horse, Bakkra Lynch smiled broadly and enjoyed the fight. O the stubby grass at the edge of the cane piece two small boys – each was about eight years old – were on the ground locked in a fierce struggle.
Seven-year-old Paul huddled under the house; alone, nervous, but not afraid. He had been there for some some hours and now it was pitch, black night. Normally at this time on a Sunday he would have returned from evening service, and his mother would be urging him and his siblings and cousins to go to bed.
High in the green mountains in the East of the island of Jamaica lived a young woman who loved her family very much, but she was always getting in trouble as she enjoyed going on long hikes in the forest and hunting in the mountains instead of tending to the chickens and weeding the vegetable gardens.
Marcus closed the gate of his parents’ yard and hustled along Market Street. The bag of marbles at the bottom of his capacious shorts pocket clicked softly, keeping time with the pace of his jogging…