“I remember the little song that would ring out into the neighborhood on a warm summer day. You’ll hear the laughs of children while their parents warned for them to slow down and wait for them. Don duh don duh don don don don. You scream, I scream, we all scream for ice cream. There was a joy in the air when the ice cream truck came around. Even those who’d linger indoors all day would gather up some change just to get a snow cone. Every person you’d run into in line would happily greet you with vigor and excitement while happily waiting for their turn.

Don duh don duh don don don don. No one runs out in anticipation for that cold sugary sweetness that pleasantly coats your tongue. Kids disappear inside after parents yell for them to come in with haste. The pretty little song no longer fills the air with delight; there’s a heaviness behind it like a dark cloud blocking the sun. No, things will never be the same since they found the missing child. Things won’t ever be the same when you lick the finger of a dead person in a large vanilla ice cream cone.” by Grim Angel

Advertisements