Ice Cream Mare

by Cardboard Box

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Death, Original Character, Second Person, Horror
Length: 1041

Everypony likes a nice cold treat on a hot day.

Everypony likes a nice cold treat on a hot day. Even the ice cream mare.

One shot based on a horror story I read in a 1970s Omni magazine. It says something about it's effectiveness.

Reviewed by Seattle's Angels - right at the bottom.

Live reading here.

Published 2020-08-28 01:20:00 UTC
Last updated 2020-08-28 01:20:00 UTC

I'll have a 99, please

You looked forward to hearing Miss Ice Cold's jingle in the summer. And why wouldn't you? Hot days and frozen treats always bring joy to the souls of foals.

Nopony knew where she lived, but every summer, every week, you could count on hearing the merry jingle of a tune the grown-ups said was 'Greenleaves', which was silly, because Miss Ice Cold didn't bring stupid leaves, she brought ice cream! and Luna-Cola! and frozen juice pops in all flavours!

And so you'd wait at the window, shivering with excitement, even in the heat, and soon you'd see her and her cart, the cart with all the compartments full of cold and deliciousness, and the gadget on one wheel that worked the bells on top of the shade, which were hidden by the sign with big letters: MISS ICE COLD.

You could have drawn her cart in your sleep. It was white, like the coat she wore, and the little funny hat atop her pink and orange mane, and striped in pink and orange too, with the top white part sinking into the colours imitating icicles, and one side was all compartments, three rows of five, metal doors that opened with a click and closed with a click, each one opening onto a magically cooled and expanded chamber of soda and flavoured ice and ice cream!

And you'd plead and beg and badger your mom and dad until they...

...ah, no, you were a good foal honest and said please and thank you and put all your toys away honest and washed behind your ears and were good, and you would get some bits and join the crowd. Playmates, grown-ups, everyone was welcome at Miss Ice Cold's cart.

And Miss Ice Cold herself, always smiling, turning bits into cold yumminess like magic. You would finally get up front, look into her eyes as sparkling as ice, hoof over the coins with your entreaty, and she would smile, always smile, and turn to the compartments, no hesitation, click-click, those literally magical compartments, and you would receive your ice cream! or soda or flavoured ice and move away, trying to make your treat last as long as possible before it fell to the sun or your craving. You would spend hours with your friends arguing over the best flavours, or why anypony would order pomegranate which is yuck, period. You never win that last one though, despite being right.

Such simple pleasure, and sometimes in the queue you would watch her at work underneath the shade, coins and click-click and thanks received.

Sodas in that compartment. Vanilla ice creams this one. Chocolate the other. And so on. Except for one.

Miss Ice Cold never opened the bottom right compartment.

Ever. You know. You watched, over the summer days, and she would open the top left, she would open all the compartments on the top, click-click every time, one two three four five. She would open all the compartments in the middle, one two three four five. And she opened almost all the compartments on the bottom, one two three four.

Except the bottom right. Never the bottom right.

You wondered, of course, being the curious one you were, what Miss Ice Cold kept in that bottom right compartment. Your mom and dad just laughed and said that it wasn't important. Maybe all the bits she made, dad laughed. Cold hard cash, and he laughed harder.

And you thought and thought and thought about Miss Ice Cold and her bottom right compartment. And one day you worked it out.

Miss Ice Cold kept the special grown-up frozen treats in there. Like the special drinks your sire and dam have in the cabinet. Or the special radio shows you're not allowed to hear because they're past your bedtime. Grown-ups, you know, keep all the good stuff for themselves and say you're not old enough.

So you thought and planned and plotted. You were going to be the cool colt: you were going to be the one who found out what was in Miss Ice Cold's bottom right compartment.

But Miss Ice Cold was always in the way, always moving smoothly and swiftly like a winter breeze, up and down and left and right, clink click-click, no chance to sneak up and click the door of the bottom right compartment, where the real good stuff was. You needed a distraction.

And you took a chance. There was a filly wearing a silk scarf, a long gauzy thing, a dumb thing to wear in this heat and even dumber in the crowd where one well placed hoof meant the poor foal was jerked back by the neck, her freshly dispensed yucky pomegranate ice flying upwards like her howls. But you'd already pulled your hoof back, and her parents were demanding a replacement for free, and those yucky pomegranate ices were in the top left compartment, and you took your chance and opened the bottom right compartment, click.

And it was closed under Miss Ice Cold's hoof, click, and her ice bright eyes loomed over you and her breath burned on your cheek as she said, those are for me.

And now it's midnight, and you lie wide awake in your bed, warm but frozen, like her breath, like the ice crystals in manes and in little eyes behind broken hooves that had been scrabbling for a catch that wasn't there since cupboards don't have latches on the inside to let you out back into the warmth and light.

And you know you're awake, this isn't Princess Luna's punishment for being naughty, you are far too awake, and you can hear a merry jingling, Miss Ice Cold is excited, the tune is going too fast and eager and hungry, and you're frozen in fear, because soon the jingling will be outside your house, and then the jingling will be in your house, and then in your room, and you're too frozen even to scream and then it will stop, click-click.

You won't hear the bottom right compartment being opened the second time. They never do.

Author's Note

Now I have TV ads for Popsicles and Frosty Boy running through my head.