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Glitter Bomb


I’m jostled in the back, sharp elbows spear at my ribs. I trip forward, catch myself against the wall of bodies. Yells ripple over the crowd – a sea of white faces impatient for the arrival of the candidates. A man turns to face me. “MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN,” his hat shouts. He smiles. Two of his teeth are missing.

I keep my head down. I’m an imposter and I know it.

Reaching into my jacket, I pull out the package. Fingers twitching over its edges, I slowly lift it down, down, hand grazing the seam of my pants. Exhaling quietly, my breath pauses on my lips. It’s nearly time.

Pressed against the cold steel barriers, I’m front and centre, self-appointed custodian of the candidates’ walkway. Arms pulled tight against my sides, my heart is drumming in my ears, muffling the cheers urged by patriotic flags. The first of the nominees step onto the tarmac. Smiling, waving to the masses, each disappears into the great hall.

Three candidates in – the energy changes. The crowd roars, hustling for pole position. I see the shoes first. Polished leather brogues stomping the passageway, expensive suit crackling with electricity, toupee ruffling in the breeze. The sun seems to chill, the air thickens. The man everyone is here to see.


My breath stills to nothing. I wait, I wait, I wait. The cheers quiet to silence. My eyes focus. The glitter bomb weighs heavy in my hand.


Time becomes soup as the bomb flies through the air, flakes of glitter shimmering to the floor as the bundle inches towards its target. Flickering soundlessly before the gaze of the crowd, disbelieving faces trail its trajectory, jaws swinging open. The bomb is a comet with a sparkling tail: carving its own gravitational course, it pulls unwavering towards Trump’s dominating ego.

It’s all over in a second.

First there’s a titter, stifled behind a hand. Then a chuckle. And the floodgates are thrown open. Shock rings out around the crowd. Wide-eyed gasps. Shoes pound the pathway, aides lurch with handkerchiefs in hand, security cast blindly around. In the middle of the storm – Donald Trump, red with rage, eyes popping against their sockets. He inhales, exhales, blowing steam. A shower of glitter skips down his lapel.

The cameras are rolling, press teams hollering commands – “did you get it!?”, “play it back!” Trump’s last vestige of credibility, twinkling to the ground in a small pile of glitter.

— Kate Wilson


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