Jonathan Reddoch is co-owner of Collective Tales Publishing. He is a father, writer, editor, and publisher. He writes sci-fi, fantasy, romance, and especially horror. He has been working on his enormous sci-fi novel for over a decade and would like to finish it in this lifetime if possible. Find him on Instagram: @Allusions_of_Grandeur_
WE ALL SCREAM
by
Jonathan Reddoch
As a night owl, I’m typically wide awake at three a.m. It’s when I produce my best work.
There’s something special about being alive while the world sleeps. A nocturnal denizen is privy to the clandestine happenings of the night.
For example, many years ago, I was up late working on a soon-to-be abandoned art project, when I heard it. Faint at first, but oddly familiar. It was the merry music of childhood summers.
The ice cream truck was making its rounds.
Weird.
I thought nothing of it at first. Maybe a prank. Or a mistake.
As it grew closer, I peeked outside. It was parked in front of my apartment building. A classic bright striped red and blue Cream Patrol ice cream truck.
Odd. I thought those were all gone with the 80s.
And then the children came. Quietly at first. They lined up evenly paced in the queue.
I was appalled that their parents let them stay up so late on a school night.
Still, that was just envy talking. So, I grabbed my robe and my wallet and ran outside to meet them.
I stood behind a kid in tiger pajamas. I asked him what he was going to order.
With a straight face he turned, eyes closed, and whispered, “the Silent Soul Pop.”
“The what!?” I stammered.
The boy giggled without moving his lips. Then he turned to the proprietor, who was leaning over the counter, wearing a striped suit and a dripping red ice cream cone head. The boy politely made his request, “One Rising Sol Pop.”
There was no exchange of money. The ice cream man touched the boy’s head gently. The boy bowed. Then he took his popsicle in hand and returned to his home.
It was now my turn.
In the moonlight, the truth was revealed. I saw clearly for the first time the menu plastered across the side of the truck. Once-familiar favorites were stripped away revealing their true forms.
Was I reading these correctly?
The Golden Creamsicle was actually the Grounded Children’s Core. The Blue Bird Freeze was in reality the Blackened Bait and Swap. Had the Red Apple Pop had always been the Blood Rage Pop?
The impatient girl behind me urged me to order.
“Do you have any Rocket Launchers?” I asked. My go-to in a summer squelcher.
The plastic cone head smiled at me. “For you, we have every flavor of your childhood.”
He handed me my nostalgic bliss and I took a lick. The seasons of my youth, the years spent riding bikes in the street all rushed back to me like summer brain freeze.
I gobbled it too quickly, forgetting to savor the moment.
He refused payment and I departed empty-handed. Just like that my treat was gone forever, leaving a sticky residue in my heart (and on my palms).
I've tried to scrub the red stains off my fingers, but it always finds its way back into the little cracks and crevices. Some damned spots never leave you.
Some nights I lay awake at night, screaming. Screaming for ice cream.