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which I spoke to his tears but against the evidence because why should any boy want to be like the men around him, his tears in that dry land like miracles, and had there been a poet here he would have gathered and then kept them, magic, except this was prison, Mexico, a boy, who in a single gesture threw back his shoulders and then he staunched his weeping, a gift given by the cold stored in the metal door, the door that had for so long acted as his friend but now betrayed him, an officer held it too open so that all the boy could do was brush it with his fingers, an act of gratitude, grazing the officer as well and he recoiled and then he shouted, neither of which I liked, and I said so, ‘I will remember what you did, it is written and what I have written stays that way,’ there was a narrow path, a mesh of ‘Walk, boy,’ ‘Walk,’ and men who jostled, needing to be seen when there was no cause for concern, they were seen and by me and I do not forget a face which made the boy a puzzle, for I should have recalled him and bravely he walked that corridor of laughter, two officers ahead and ÉCLAT FICTION

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MAY 2012

Profile for Eclat Fiction

Éclat Fiction - Issue 3  

The third issue of Éclat Fiction (an online short story anthology). www.eclatfiction.com

Éclat Fiction - Issue 3  

The third issue of Éclat Fiction (an online short story anthology). www.eclatfiction.com

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