Ice Cream Man
By Kosative D.

As if a carnival had puked out the entirety of its musical organs, the sound started low-key. It grew to be something familiar, as heard from a nursery rhyme—a scheme, dreamed by those who can dream.

It began as one octave and grew three sizes the amount. The song could pierce even the thickest of walls. As I sat in my living room, huddled in solitude, it struck me—luring me, transfixing my synapses.

Like a mouse intoxicated by cheese, I stood. Slowly heading the direction the sound was coming from. It was an ice-cream truck playing the sinister Frederick Chopin’s Nocturne in C# Minor, a song I’d known all too well at this point.

The strangest quality about the musical starkness was simply that—its barren monotone ring, the type of desolation only an ice cream truck’s speaker could produce.

Yet I was simply drawn to it. I could practically see the notes in the air, pulling me closer and closer with each passing note along the thread.

Zombie-like, I sauntered up to the rickety truck, practically wobbling off its hinges.

He swiftly shot his head out the door, a man with a demonic face—redness surrounding each concave in his horrifying gaze.

I was still transfixed from the music, however coming to the realization of who the friendly neighborhood ice cream truck driver really was—a demon, perhaps one who had come looking for a feast.

He held it out, an ice cream cone. Perfect. Gorgeous—each layer as magnificent as the previous.

He then asked, “Would you like it with a cherry on top?” his jaw nearly obliterating his teeth from the crunch of its clench. As he interrogated with such a putrid question, his face/head/neck muscles moved in such a robotic way, he nearly squeaked at the hinges.

And then, my tongue slithered out of my mouth as a serpent to the dissonance. It crawled as a wet correlated mass, wrapping itself tightly around the cone, engulfing the sweetness with its fleshy organ (engulfing the musical notes that still hung as well).

I swallowed it whole—smearing milky goodness along the left side of my mouth. I raised my eyebrows and said “That won’t be necessary, however—“ as I paused I stuck my tongue out, slurping the remaining ice cream that dripped, “next time you come around this region, know who you’re selling to.”

And then I ate him. And he tasted fucking fantastic, without the goddamn cherry on top.

- - -
I write under the pseudonym Kosative D. Noetic power struck me at a young age, and since then, ink has replaced my blood. I love creating stories of madness and troubles and I try to be as poetic as possible in the midst—horrific strife in beautiful waves of elegance.
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