Leslie Claire Walker

Copyright Leslie Claire Walker 2012
Published by Secret Fire Press

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The truck slowed down as it passed into the shadow of my three-story apartment building. Chunks of crumbled brick façade and shattered window glass crackled under its bald tires. The rain-slicked asphalt reflected the glow of its headlights. Water pooled in the deep dents on its bumper.

It had been white once, that truck. Now its color hovered at dingy gray. But the legend painted on the side still shone with bright red blood magic.

Mighty Man Ice Cream. Only ice cream truck that didn’t play that silly canned music. Only one that cruised the streets at three a.m. in the dead of winter.

The dwarf behind the wheel--the last person I ever wanted to see again--leaned across the empty passenger seat and blinked at me through the window. When he blinked, the stars went out.

A black hole of soundlessness descended. A void of sight. No way to overhear a conversation or scry the goings on in a crystal ball.

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