Donna Trovato

The Sundown Clown

Creepy Curt stepped into striking range. His lips parted, and a toothy grin possessed his face. Under the mask, his eyes widened and gleamed with eagerness. The clown raised the butcher knife above his head and brought it down onto the man’s wrist, severing his hand.

The dismembered limb rolled off the top of the couch and onto the floor. The jester wallowed in the aesthetic vision before him. Thick, red blood had splattered the backside of the beige sofa. It was a perfect canvas—artwork for a wall in his dining room.

Blood-curdling screams broke his reverie. The male stood, waving his bloody stump into the air, emitting guttural sounds. A forceful stream of red spurted from the opened flesh—the location of where a hand existed a few seconds ago. What a glorious vision. The clown shifted his gaze to the female. In her panic-induced attempt to flee, she had fallen onto the coffee table. The glass broke, leaving her sprawled on the floor among scattered shards.