Ice Milk (New Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

Ice Milk

Sterling Glory spooned the icy treat into his mouth with perfect grace and compliant savor. Sweet blessed ice milk, a touch of heaven in a mystic hell. The bleached white cloth fluttered and caught in the arid breeze. The makeshift infirmary was little more than a tent begat and full of a never-ending array of patients all ill with the morphous virus, the shifting demon that wasted the vital essence of life.
Sterling stood near the entrance savoring his ice milk. Cool snowstorms in the midst of a broiling insanity, he had screamed and raged until the requisition had been fulfilled, rationed consideration, cool in the promise of a mosaic of earthen pleasure. He saw himself as a child, grinning with his quarter as the compact white cart revealed its treat. The ice crème man handed Sterling a cup of Vanilla ice milk and he savored the moment in an accomplished nearness to god, a panacea for the following of man.
Sterling watched as the mess hall guard and nursing staff made the rounds. Each and all received a cup of ice milk. Sterling realized what the distance was between today and yesterday and tomorrow and forever an eternity of life. “Ice milk, MMMMMMMMMAAAAHHHHHAAAAA.” he whispered as he fingered the quarter in his pocket.