“You an advocate of slow torture?” Carol asked her son when she saw what was sitting in the refrigerator. “Next time you wanna play murderer why don’t you just get it over quick – stick the ice cream in the oven and blast the heat.”
When the school melted it was a blow to the entire community.
Next time we’ll build it from chocolate rather than ice-cream.
Months now and I still obsess.
Why did you fall, my delicious ice-cream?
Ruth stood, empty hands clenched, watching the truck disappear.
“Wish he’d peddle his damn ice cream on another street,” she fumed, heading back inside.