GRAND PRIZE WINNER SUMMERWEEN 2025 CONTEST
There was nothing like that song in the early evenings of summer.
You heard it before you saw the truck — a tiny jingle rising over lawnmowers, barking dogs, and the electric hum of air conditioners. It came from somewhere just out of sight and made the air feel sweeter. Like something good was coming.
The sound smelled like melting asphalt and chlorinated pool water. Like sweat and sunscreen and grape cough syrup. It tasted like sticky hands and freezer-burned sugar, like gumballs tucked into a scoop of neon ice cream.
It didn’t matter what you were doing — on your bike, halfway through dinner, even getting yelled at — once you heard it, your heart kicked up. You ran, yelling, “Mom! Dad! Money! The ice cream truck is here!”
And you weren’t alone. Kids poured out of houses like ants from a cracked hill, crumpled dollar bills in hand, bare feet slapping the pavement. The song pulled everyone — like gravity, but sweeter.
That was how it had always been.
But this summer, the song was different. Slower. Dragging. Sticky. Like someone had wound the music box too tight, then dropped it into something thick and dark.
The truck looked the same — cartoon-splashed panels glowing in the evening sun: glittery popsicles, waving waffle cones, a cheerful penguin giving a thumbs-up under the menu. Bright. Safe.
But something wasn’t right.
The jingle played from everywhere — the air, your teeth, the roots of your hair. It wrapped around you like cotton candy: slow, sweet, and suffocating.
You didn’t walk to the truck.
You were pulled.
Kids ran barefoot across lawns, waving dollar bills. But it wasn’t the ice cream they were chasing. It was the sound. The way it made them feel warm and still inside. Like being held. Like being told everything was fine, even when something inside whispered that it wasn’t.
The parents didn’t stop them.
Some even followed.
The Ice Cream Man stood behind the window, smiling. He looked like someone from a 1950s ad — neat hair, pressed shirt, immaculate posture. And that smile.
Too wide. Too clean.
Too… bone-white.
His teeth were bright — blinding — that eerie kind of perfect.
Parking-lot-white. Like they’d never chewed, never bled, never belonged to anything human.
The menu beside him pulsed with impossible color. Mascots with glassy eyes. And beneath them, the specials of the day:
**Emerald Lane Creamery – Today’s Specials!**
Handcrafted Happiness, One Bite at a Time.
Ghoulberry Swirl – $1.25
A hypnotic spiral of pink and blue, topped with sugar crystals that fizz on your tongue.
Rumor: If you stare too long, something stares back.
Banana Blood Pop – $0.85
Neon-yellow shell, syrupy red center. Stains everything it touches.
Parents say it’s just food dye.
Frostbite Float – $1.75
A scoop of icy blue that smokes in the heat. Frost runes shift on the surface.
The colder it gets, the louder it whispers.
Birthday Cake Surprise – $3.00
Vanilla swirl, wriggling sprinkles, a candle that won’t go out.
Surprise inside: something chewy. Something that pulses. Always chosen first.
Meloncholy Cream Bar – $1.10
Watermelon-striped shell with seeds that click between your teeth.
Swallow one, and you might forget your name.
Licorice Lick Monster – $0.95
Red and black twist shaped like a smiling tongue.
Numbs your mouth. Tastes like coins and grave dirt.
Each treat shimmered behind the glass like it had been made just for you.
And maybe it had.
A little girl picked first. Maybe six. Freckles. Crooked pigtails. Jelly shoes. She stepped up to the window, eyes locked on the Birthday Cake Surprise.
“That one,” she whispered.
The Ice Cream Man handed it to her with a wink. “Happy birthday”
She frowned. “It’s not my—”
She bit.
She sighed.
And something left her eyes.
The other kids rushed forward.
One by one, he handed out cones. That same smile. That same polish. Every child who tasted the ice cream went still.
Not relaxed.
Not peaceful.
Still.
Eyes glazed. Shoulders dropped. Mouths opened into soft, empty grins.
It looked like happiness.
But it wasn’t.
Something about that stillness was too quiet. Like they were dreaming with their eyes open. Like they were being drained.
Then the adults stepped forward.
Laughing.
“Guess I’m still a kid at heart,” one said.
“Why not?” said another.
The music grew louder. Closer. It wasn’t playing from the truck anymore. It was inside their skulls.
They took cones like communion wafers.
They bit in.
They went still.
And they looked up.
Everyone.
The entire street.
Staring.
Silent.
Mouths open.
Cones dripping between fingers. Ice cream puddling at their feet. Eyes unblinking.
They weren’t looking at the sky.
They were looking through it.
I was the only one who didn’t get in line.
Not because I wasn’t tempted. I was. The song stirred something in me — summer nights, sticky hands, chasing the truck barefoot.
But this wasn’t that.
Something inside my chest tightened. Not just nerves.
Warning.
I stayed inside.
From my window, I watched them. The kids. The parents. Frozen in place.
A lawn chair blew over. No one turned.
A dog barked itself hoarse. No one flinched.
That song kept playing.
And then…
He looked up.
The Ice Cream Man.
He looked straight at my window.
And smiled.
This time, it wasn’t friendly.
Then they began to move.
Joints popped. Necks bent too far. Limbs unhinged.
One woman’s elbows folded backward like broken doll arms.
Hair spilled over faces. Eyes flickered black.
They began to howl — high and thin, like something scraping glass.
A boy turned. Pointed.
“HIM!”
I bolted. Slammed the door. Locked it. Ran to my room. Dove under the covers.
I held my breath.
The song kept playing.
Soft now. Inside the walls.
I must’ve passed out.
When I woke, the world was normal.
Birdsong. Sprinklers. Dogs barking. Radios playing classic rock.
I peeked out.
Kids rode scooters. Mr. Lorne was washing his car. The Henderson twins were playing tag.
No one stared at the sky.
No one hummed.
No one mentioned the truck.
I told myself it had been a dream.
I wanted to believe it.
Until I heard it again.
That song.
Sweet.
Slow.
Sticky.
The jingle rolled down the block. Same music. Same truck. Same penguin giving a thumbs-up.
I didn’t want to look.
But I had to.
He was there.
Same man. Same smile.
And those teeth — bright as bleached bone.
Parking-lot-white. Too clean. Too still.
He held out a Birthday Cake Surprise. The candle flickered in the breeze.
“Well, hello there,” he said.
Like he’d been waiting for me.
I dropped my money.
Screamed.
“Don’t touch the ice cream!”
Everything stopped.
Even the wind.
Even the music.
Every face turned toward me.
Eyes wide.
Mouths silent.
Just me.
Alone.
Because I remembered.
Hi, I’m Kristine Moropito. I live in Abbotsford, BC, and I’m just beginning my journey as an author. My inspiration comes mostly from my two sons, who spark my imagination every day and remind me how magical childhood can be. I had so much fun writing for a recent contest, and that experience encouraged me to publish my first children’s book, Elliot and Mr. Balloon. It’s a whimsical story filled with wonder, and I hope it inspires kids to see the magic inside themselves.
Published 8/26/25