Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Quota

On the night of the first fall sunset, the ice-cream truck driver sat bleating nursery-rhyme tunes across an empty ballpark. It was almost dark and he had not met his quota. So he went tearing down suburban streets, into every cul-de-sac, his vehicle a desperate patchwork of sun-faded popsicle images, blaring the songs every child hears in his crib. No children came. Darkness fell and a chill settled down onto everything that was not inside a home.

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