Donald lay face-down on his towel while the sun toasted his oily back. Around him children played, couples kissed, and teenagers tried to look cool while strolling on the boardwalk.

Donald’s back toasted and toasted and when it was golden with the threat of burn he flipped over, slathered himself roughly with more oil, and started toasting his front.

The sun hung in the sky and dared to never go down, but signs of the inevitable emerged on the canvas. Pinks, greens and purples smeared across the once-blue expanse, dancing, swirling, drowning out the clouds.

Couples admired the sight, leaned…

Melchior Dudley

i’ve got an awful lot of nothing to say

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