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Last year, the people in charge of the picnic blew us up. Every year it gets worse. That is, more people die. The Frost Mountain Picnic has always been a matter of uncertainty in our town and the massacre is the worst part. Even the people whose picnic blankets were not laid out directly upon the bomblinewere knocked unconscious by the airborne limbs of the neighbors, or at least had the black earth at the foot of Frost Mountain driven upon their eyelids and fingernails and up in their sinuses. The apple dumpling carts and cotton candy stands and guess-your-weight booths that were not obliterated in the initial blast leaned slowly into the new-formed craters, each settling with a limp, hollow crumple. The few people along the bombline who survived the blast were at the very least blown into the trees.
“Frost Mountain Picnic Massacre”. Seth Fried.
Ilustración de Brandi Strickland.
