The giant plastic multi-coloured ice cream cone arrived one day as if from outer space. In the sunlight it sometimes possessed an inner glow, and in the frequent rain it glistened with crystals. Children danced around it with joined hands singing “ice cream ice cream” which as they circled faster became blurred to “I scream I scream” before they shouted “all fall down” and crumpled, as if in obeisance to the ice cream god. After a while, hearty holidaymakers took to patting it for luck, but there is no record that luck followed, at least not good luck. The legend that the cone walked at night along the promenade could not be verified, although shards of colour like sweet wrappings could sometimes be found there in the grey morning. The seagulls avoided it. A sect in the town said it was really a golden pyramid and could be discerned as such by those with awakened eyes. The beach shack sold striped sandcastle flags depicting the colours of the cone. The sky on the horizon at sunset seemed to adopt them too, in palaces of smouldering yellow, pink, pale orange and green. The town was becoming the cone’s domain.
Mark Valentine is a short story writer and essayist. His work is published by the independent presses Tartarus (UK), Sarob (France), Swan River (Ireland) and Zagava (Germany) and others.
