When he says he wants to be a unicorn, his father leaves the room and his mother snaps, they’re not real. Just horses with a horn glued on. He doesn’t believe her, has seen pictures in books. Their snowy manes, their hooves pawing the dirt, their horns sharp as a razor. Pictures don’t lie. He’s 15. Other boys play baseball, feel girls up under the bleachers. He doesn’t care about either of those things. At night, he dreams with his eyes open. Sees shadows dappling the bridal path, his unicorn self wandering through forbidden woods. His horn a shield.

Each night, the three of them at the kitchen table, chewing. His mother heats the food, pours ketchup on it. His father stares at him like he’s a mythical creature after all – strange and unknowable. When he tries to talk, his tongue gets tangled in words. The clock on the wall ticks off the minutes. Silence thick as a can of acrylic paint. He has been researching unicorns at the library. They have lavender eyes, super quick speed. He thinks they would look even better with wings.    

Years slip by like pages ripped from a calendar, dandelion seeds scattering before he can catch them. He’s 33, saddled with a wife and baby, selling snowy white toilets and sinks. He hasn’t thought about unicorns in years until he sees a book in a store window. Five kids at the zoo try to catch the creature, which eludes them at every turn. Smart unicorn, he says aloud. Dodging the drop-down cage. Lifting the plastic parachute. Breaking free of chains. His daughter is too young to recognize the pictures, so he takes the girl’s tiny fingers and touches them to the unicorn’s sparkly, rainbow tail.  

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Beth Sherman has had more than 150 stories published in literary journals, including Flash Frog, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and Smokelong Quarterly. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and the upcoming Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on social media @bsherm36.