Part 1

A short sample from the very beginning of the story. Hope you enjoy :D Let me know if you want more!

Ice cream. Beautiful ice cream. Creamy and soft and perfect. Flavour, melting on your tongue…

Which was my exact problem. Flavour. My stereotypical evil stepmother would only let me get one. Flavour, that is. It was totally and utterly unfair, as my fat, little, Adipose-alien-looking twin stepsisters were allowed two flavours!

See, when choosing ice cream, I always find I get down to two flavours. It’s that last moment, that last choice, that’s hardest. Butterscotch or bubble gum. Coffee or caramel. Lemon or lime. The options were endless, unforgiving, impossible. And I knew that whatever I chose would cause regret later.

It’s a pretty typical situation. You buy that choc-mint flavour, with its bright green colouring and beautiful chocolate chips, and you’re so excited. You take your first bite, and the flavour fills your mouth. You take another, and another, and by the time you’re halfway through the cone, you realise that what you really want is the cookies and cream ice cream. Of course, by then it’s too late. Most ice cream places have a no returns policy.

‘I’ll have one scoop of rainbow swirl in a waffle cone, please,’ I told the ice cream seller, and Lydia, (the aforementioned evil stepmother), ordered her chocolate sundae and the twins double scoops.

Lydia. She was one of those people who was perfect. Perfect hair, perfect body, perfect house, perfect friends, perfect daughters and her own little slave. Of course, considering the typical Cinderella nature of the situation, I was said slave. Father married stepmother, father died, stepmother turned father’s daughter into slave, same old, same old. The usual drill. Not that it was all bad. I mean, Lydia still bought me the occasional ice cream.

We walked across the park, to the playground set that the twins loved frolicking on. Lydia was jabbering on to me about the things she wanted me to do when we got home and I pretended to listen, while licking the whirl of colour in my hand.

‘Damn,’ I muttered, looking back at the ice cream truck. Lydia turned to face me.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. And then she dropped dead.

‘I wish I had gotten chocolate ice cream.’