by Richard Dallaire, translated by Mary O’Connor

Éditions Alto, 2013

A few nights every month, the authorities carried out horrifying purges. They locked down neighborhoods that were hardest hit by the drying up and erected scaffolding where guillotines dispatched a portion of each superfluous individual.

“That’s a lot of work to ease the burden on social programs.”

“Maybe they like the sound of the blade…”

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I wasn’t in a joking mood. Anyone who had heard a blade fall on another’s neck and seen the sand spill out of their body shouldn’t joke about it. I remembered the official line that was relayed in the newspapers. …


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