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BROKEN

BOW

by Alan Scot

I had never seen the boy before, nor have I seen him since. He flicked into my life and out again like a firefly that chooses to light his lamp as he passes your nose. Yet still I find myself pondering about the boy and marveling at the

encounter.

The boy straddled his bicycle at the curb as I crossed the street after dropping a letter in the mailbox. The letter was one to Shel and my mind was filled with tender recollections of our recent reunion in Kansas City. It had been a year since Shel and I had been together but it had been worth the wait.

Suddenly I became aware of the boy at the curb. He was struggling awkwardly with a length of wood which resembled an unpainted slat from a Vene tian blind.

Suddenly the lad looked up at me. It seemed an impulsive act. A frown screwed his little face and he blurted out, "Mister, would you like to buy this?" and held up the wooden slat. His voice had a rasp of hopefulness, but the pitch rose as if to say, "I know you won't!"

Something about the boy struck me. I felt intuitively this was a special

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