The Sistine Chapel of Soft Serve

This flash fiction is inspired by Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge #14. This piece has adult themes sprinkled in, so read at your own discretion.

 hobo @

Twirling’s addictive. I should know, I’ve been doing it for twelve years. Soft serve is sacred to me, and you can tell how much you’re loved by how perfectly poured your next cone turns out to be. I pride myself on making my swirly mountains symmetrical.

There’s a light bell. So soon, I think. We just opened, but I sure do love a coney afternoon.

She’s radiant. My favorite customer, her hair light tendrils swirled like the ones I make with my machine.

Sometimes, I like to twirl in my sleep. My hand makes the motion below the covers.

I’m imagining twirling her curls when she interrupts my daydream with a request.

“Can I get a large cone, please?” Such a rare treat, to get five swirls perfect is a challenge not to be taken lightly.

“Would you like a sugar cone or a cup?”

Please pick sugar, please pick sugar. A cup is such an inadequate vessel.

Sugar for me, sweetie.” She winks, I’m sure of it. And now it’s up to me to make the Sistine Chapel of soft serve. To show her through size and symmetry my true feelings.

I stand below the machine, purring like a newborn kitten, hold my breath, and close my eyes. The best swirls are made by motion, and I pull the nozzle down and let that slushy white fill the basin before I begin my upwards spiral. It’s quite a lot of coordination to keep time, one hand releasing liquid love while the other twirls, creating a staircase towards the highest peak of what is possible.

When I open my eyes, I know it’s been done. I’ve created the quintessential soft serve cone, and I hand it over to her reverently.

“Oh my! It looks just like the big one outside.” She exchanges money with me, before taking a lick from the base straight up my soaring alabaster masterpiece.

“Yum, yum.” She says, dropping the change in the tip jar, before turning and tinkling the bells.

Another satisfied customer satiated by rows.

And it’s all worth it, I think, wiping down my machine. All my efforts rewarded by that dreamy expression in her eyes.


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