by D.M. Anderson
Donald sneezed his brain all over the audience, his head emptying like an accordion until there was little left but a pancaked face sitting deflated atop a quivering neck.
The deafening applause of the gore-splattered audience’s adoration thundered into a crescendo that would surely echo across the eons.
He bowed low, his pinwheeling arms pausing for an aggressive flair of jazz hands, his fingers dripping motes of confetti, like crystalline dandelion fluff dancing in the spotlight’s glare.
He had finally done it, his birthright fulfilled, as nobody can deny, and, by golly, was his momma proud as punch.
Tears glistened deep within emptied eyeholes, the floor strewn with ocular detritus as the congregation collectively decided to spork themselves blind. After all, there was nothing left to see.
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D.M. Anderson hides inside his hermitage, leaving occasionally to scavenge for food and toiletries. When he isn’t setting a bad example for his kids, he’s mercilessly beating his head against the keyboard, hoping something interesting spills out onto the screen. You can watch to see if something does at Silent Insomniac.
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