Saturday. Snow cream is just as good as I remember it being before all the dirt in the skies.
Bertha made a special trip into town to buy vanilla to please my whim. I know the sugar isn't good for me. But it reminds me of being a boy.
When I was a child on the farm, I made a tiny thin fort and took a bowl and inside it. Day by day, I made snow cream out. I ate the fort I was inside: that was like a fairy tale. That froze my tongue so much I couldn't answer when my mother called my name. I just stayed there and pretended I didn't exist.
That's how I feel today.
I think. My brain is frozen. I'm not here. And the sugar is like gritty snow.
YOU ARE READING
God =100,00O Dollars
HorrorIn this Weird Fiction short story, Frank Hopson records his days in an audio journal, losing track of dates and struggling to decipher what's real and what's a hallucination due to the human brain's common psychedelic reaction to blindness -- it's c...
