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ceased their work, in fear that they might, somehow, interfere. “Excuse me,” she yelled as she approached the nameless boy, who maneuvered his G.I. Joes over a dirt mound. “Excuse! Me!” She now had his attention—it felt light in her hands, very uniform, and maintained a mild fuzziness, like a tennis ball. But it wasn’t yellow. It was uninteresting, just like the boy’s name. She unlatched her lunchbox and placed it inside. “I have your name. It’s right here inside my lunch box. Don’t you want it back? I stole it from you.” The nameless boy, not really caring, juggled a dirtbathed night crawler between his small fingers. He stretched it a bit, like an accordion, but not so much that it broke in half. “You can’t steal someone’s name. You’re dumb.” “I can. Look, it’s right here.” Lily held up the small jam jar for the boy to see, balancing it on her palm so the

Black Fox Literary Magazine Issue #3  

The Winter Issue of Black Fox Literary Magazine featuring new fiction, poetry, non-fiction and photography.

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