The Evil Unicorn

Seriously, I swear I'm the only one who still writes legit stuff for this blog anymore. Though this wasn't specifically written for Calletrix. I'm a hypocrite. Oops.

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He was a silver-bright unicorn, and he liked killing:

a) rabbits,
b) goats, and
c) other unicorns.

Obviously, not many unicorns liked him.

One day, he trotted into a purple-green clearing intoxicated by the smell of bloody strawberries, and he saw another silver unicorn trip-tropping across the other side. He neighed and said, "WHY ARE YOU IN THIS CLEARING?"

The other unicorn said, "I WANT TO EAT YOU" and charged.

The first unicorn, still smelling bloody strawberries in a distant corner of his brain, charged back, delighted at the prospect of finding another unicorn with the same thought process. This happiness only lasted for a moment, as the second unicorn had poked his horn in the other's eye almost automatically, and the first unicorn died with a happy, stupid smile on his face, thinking about the happiness they could've had together and the bloody strawberries that he had not yet finished.

The second unicorn sniffed the corpse. She moved her nose slowly down his spine and counted the strands of his tail. She stood, abruptly, and left it to the flies, and the purple-green clearing was red with blood.

It was only until the next morning that a blessing of unicorns found the dead corpse. They ignored it, and the flies had finished it by the next day.

(Unicorn flesh is soft enough to be eaten by flies.)

And if anyone remembered it after that, well, no one ever said so.

The Butter Truck

“Who’s driving that huge truck of butter and where's it going?”

The sun scorched the sky, an open flame disintegrating the moths that flew too close. That day, everything was too close. The Golden Gate Bridge shimmered a pale, hot orange in the heat.

Sweat darkened a diamond on her back as she watched the truck rumble downhill. The giant stick of butter glistened with oil, the wax wrapper shone, even the black tablespoon labels.

“I don’t know. Have another cookie.” The boy held out the bag of chocolate-chip cookies.

“But there’s a butter truck!” She looked at the road, where the giant stick of butter had left perfectly round yellow drops melted in its tracks.

“Ssh.” He put a finger to his lips and offered the cookies again.

“But-”

“Ssh. Have a cookie.”

“But-” She took a cookie. “But it’s there.”

“I know. That don’t mean we talk about it.” He waved a hand up the hill. “They don’t see it, the big guys.”

She swallowed the cookie. It tasted like wood chips, like any other school lunch. “Why not?”

“They ain’t interested in butter trucks, nuh-uh. They want money and power.” He looked up at the nonexistent clouds. “If you ask me, that’s stupid. That’s boring. Butter trucks? They gotta love butter trucks.”

She shielded her eyes, trying to see further, to catch a glimpse of the driver. But it was too far away, and the air rippled in the heat, and she couldn’t see. The butter puddles sizzled on the pavement, the scent of laughter at a long forgotten party. She shouldered her backpack, wiping off her forehead.

He stood in a puddle of the stuff, sneakers yellowed with melting butter. He didn’t look down.

“They don’t see it,” he said. “No one pays it any mind. Least of all us.”

“Where’s it going, then, if no one pays attention?” She glanced at the dirty shoes as he continued walking.

“I don’t know.” But then he looked at her, eyes wide and clear and empty as the sky, and afraid. “But don’t follow the butter truck.”