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The truth of the legend had never been tested; therefore, it could not be confirmed. Nonetheless, Perisso could vouch for the last three centuries. With clarity, he could account for the last three hundred thirty two years, eleven months and twenty-nine days because that was how long he had lived and dined among the Polycerate clan.
It was unnatural for an herbivore to eat flesh, so the Dactyla family ate just enough to sustain them as they counted down the days, two remained, give or take one sunset. The three hundred thirty three year cycle of the curse would soon be complete and they would be grazers once again.
It is almost over. Perisso thought, as the wild oats he had nibbled the day before sat like lead in his stomach. The souring grain gave his breath a rancid air, more rank than the slow decaying flesh of his herd, a stench he had never grown accustomed to. If we can just hold on.
Christened: Uno Perisso Dactyla, a proud noble steed, firstborn to Keratin and Arteeo Dactyla and companion to Shofar. Perisso was the strongest unicorn in Zomb Valley, as well as the most sought after stallion in all the land, a truth that made every mare in season compete for his attention. The attention irritated Shofar. She knew without a doubt that Arteeo Dactyla would not permit his son to mate with an accursed unizomb, not even her – not until the change occurred. But what if he is unable to control himself? She wondered, as she studied the other females. It would only be natural...
The winter had been harsh and the spring heat made them senseless. The mares vied for affection with their hips raised and their tails swishing seductively from side to side, most of which were hairless, some with only bare vertebrae but not Blee Polycerate. The matriarch of tramps managed a long elegant tail and a mane that framed her smooth ivory horn.
Keratin had once explained Blee’s almost pure unicorn appearance. “She is the progeny of the misplaced ones... she and Anak alike. They are the posterity of a rebellious creature that left his celestial place. Their poor mother, weak and desperate from the curse mistook him for Pegasus and after they were born the fiend devoured her.”
Blee trotted beside her brother until he slowed to a plod, at which time she stopped. Within a few feet of Perisso, Blee winked, flexed her withers and tossed her tail across her back. He in turn nuzzled Shofar and assured her that what remained of his enchanted heart would always be hers and hers alone.
Anak Polycerate was skillful in the art of manipulation, yet he could not persuade his opponent nor could he disguise his outrage when Arteeo refused the marriage of his son, Perisso, to the Polycerate tribe.
Anak whinnied with contempt, his boney nostrils steaming against the evening chill. “You are a fool! Your selfish dreaming will stir consternation among the herds.”
“That is not my intent.” Arteeo answered the half-dead gelding with meekness, knowing his true concern. “I am not your enemy. Why do you snort as if I were a wolf, or worse still, a man? When the days are up I – my family and I long to graze the meadows; to walk in the light and to be proud once again, as were our ancestors.”
“Eating straw and hiding your selves at the sound of footsteps? Do you call that proud? I call it preposterous!” shifting his weight between balding fetlocks Anak pranced in circles mocking the old unicorn, “Indeed you are a fool Sir Dactyla, nothing more than a bleating lamb longing to be slaughtered.”
“Consider me a fool if you wish, so be it, but your words will not persuade me.” Arteeo answered with a dip of his chin, offering a rollkur of respect before continuing. “For us, this is not living.”
Perisso sensed the rising tension though he remained respectfully quiet; standing the proper distance, he offered no more than a polite nod when his father spoke.
“We continually tear at flesh yet we are never full. There is not enough meat in the universe to satisfy the endless lust, do you not see that? We are an abomination.” Arteeo shook his head, his milky-gray eyes like mirrors. If it were possible for him to shed a tear, he would have flooded the valley. “Do you not find it repulsive that instead of guarding man and beast we consume them?”
“It is far better than being hunted by man and beast.” Anak Polycerate answered brazenly, “Do you not recall those days old friend?”
“I do.” Arteeo nickered with fond recollection, “and if the legend bears truth I will see them again.”
Anak pawed at the ground; flippantly breaking flank-high blades of grass. He repeated the motion with more and more vigor until his dried blistering hoof landed in a stomp. Keratin retreated to the crevice of an ancient Banyan and motioned for her son’s filly to follow.
“Is your decision final?” the angry eunuch hissed.
“It is.”
“Then you have chosen to leave the valley?”
“No I have not. We have chosen stay!” Arteeo’s eyes glinted from narrowing slits. When angry or aroused he could easily be mistaken for a rhinoceros. His equine appearance involuntarily giving way to the thickening of his flesh and horn as his breaths grew harder. “It is the way of nature, the way of our creator. We will not live by the—”
“The natural order has changed! My creator has been consumed and before the final night of your fast I will have disposed of you and your family, saving your son for dessert of course.” Anak sneered, speaking boldly for one that knew he was outmatched. One Dactyla could take down ten of his kind on any given day normally, but this was not a normal day.
Arteeo reared onto his hind legs and lunged, landing several meters from his target. The fast had weakened him.
Shofar was not so weak. Her teeth glistened within millimeters of Anak’s neck, her short mane bristling above the leathery gray shield, disguising any resemblance of her once beautiful coat. The shimmering soft hair that Perisso recalled from her youth had become matted and foul, draped over her ribcage like that of the starving nags of the highlands, mustangs that had escaped the curse only to starve amid the rocky cliffs.
“Shofar stop!” He snorted, “It is a ploy. If you take of his flesh, he wins and we will forever be freaks of nature – is that what you want? Think of our future. Think my dear Shofar. Think!”
Blee mockingly neighed at Arteeo’s clumsiness, “You—” Before she was able to complete the sentence her severed head landed at her brother’s feet.
A growl rumbled in Anak’s throat as he scratched at the earth, his black eyes filled with vengeance. Shofar smiled and with one fluid motion, she was airborne. With another, Anak landed in three pieces.
“It is finished!” Arteeo whispered welcoming the tears that welled in his eyes beneath the setting sun.
We’re Unicorns
Let’s you and I be unicorns
And frolic in our mind
We’ll run away just for today
And leave our cares behind
I’ll sketch for you a meadow
For me an endless sky
We’ll walk upon the rainbow
Where Rocs and Griffins fly
We’ll nosh upon the tender herbs
And sip from nectar’d clouds
We’ll dance beneath the Banyan tree
Safe within its shroud
By and by we will return
To every meddling eye
But n’er a one will dare discern
We’re unicorns, you and I
From the Author
Zomb Valley was created specifically for a flash fiction challenge. The challenge was a 1200 word limit about unicorn zombies. Sounds crazy, right? Of course it does but we all need a little challenge from time to time, that’s why I wrote it. Well that and the heckling dares of a fifteen year old.
The cover is mixed media and was a gift from the late Tex Henson to my mother.
The poem was inspired by my mother and Tex.
I confess this is not my usual forte and exhausts the scope of my unicorn knowledge.
Caution dear reader, the remaining stories in this anthology are not so short nor are they so mild.
Perpetual Darkness
THE NIGHT WAS DARK.... That’s how all of her stories began. As if the night was ever anything but. A more creative approach might have been a different start or at least a more beseeching entrance to the narrative. And why must it always be night? Why must it always be dark? Suppose she stretched the infinite boundaries of the night and found it lit with glistening stars. No, not glimmering or shimmering – these stars would be glistening like morning dew... like drops against a sunny window... like a single bead of sweat against a million glossy pores... opening and erupting, or even a rainbow tinged tear. Anything other than the night was dark.
That phrase is really testing my tolerance. I want to interrupt her, to offer a little creative criticism but I’m not a writer. Writers have to have characters living within their thoughts – my characters are all dead. Sometimes I attempt to force her imagination, by sheer will I implore her to expand her thoughts that by chance the tale could begin with a breaking sunrise... with tepid yellows pressing through the grays of dawn before giving way to streams of blue. Instead of the crickets and tree frogs one might conjure noisily filling the darkness, consider the illusive bunting calling in the distance, the bright male cardinal singing as he preens his downy coat or a doves coo.
Her fingers caress the key pads, pausing at the letter k. She softly, without pressing moves her index finger forward, backward then side to side. I can tell by her expression she doesn't know where this story is going but I don't dare disrupt her. If she would trim her fingernails, I believe she’d be able to type slightly faster and more comfortably. What word is she searching for? The night was dark... K... Kevin? Kathy? Katmandu?
I take a swig from the two-liter bottle and decide to stroll but I catch myself pacing, striding back and forth along the lattice fence of her tiny courtyard. Strolling implies leisure and I don't feel leisurely. I’m annoyed. Her writing is causing me stress, it is not stimulating, it's stressful and I really don't need any more stress in my life right now. Watching her sit there staring at that bloody laptop for hours on end and all she can come up with is the night was dark? K..! I am too irritated now so the last pacing lap against the fence I decide to just keep walking. I need a smoke anyway. The night was dark...gees-sh!
The night is still dark but with my optic eye wear I can see everything. It's not in high definition color but I’m working on that. There is a certain appreciation for seeing things in black and white, basic truths lost in color can sometimes be seen in shades of gray. This pair is much better than the last; I’ve managed to tweak the design till they look nearly like regular prescription eye glasses. The thick amber tinted shades gouge at the bridge of my nose. That’s a minor flaw I tell myself as I steam the lens with nicotine breath and polish them against my undershirt. I can see the fields I work by day and lean myself against an oak, light another full flavor Marlboro and watch four coyotes as they slink up on a calf that was born this morning. It has no idea its short life is coming to an end in the next few minutes. It won’t take long. It may seem like an eternity in the throes of violence but its only moments – sometimes seconds. The battalion communicate without a sound - two of them running between the cow and her newborn while the other two latch onto the squalling baby and drag it a hundred yards before gnawing at its throat to shush the little racket maker. The mother will bellow for the next twelve hours but it won't do her any good. Mr. Carson will go out at sunup, follow the crying of the mourning bovine, examine the tell-tale droppings left and ask me to kill the mangy coyote that dared to cross his property. I'll pretend to spend half of the day looking for the pack though I know exactly where their den is because I see them entering there now, each one with a chunk of bloody veal in their mouth, the alpha carrying the right front shoulder still attached to the neck and head.
Mr. Carson is a good man, the kind of man that worked hard all of his life. The kind that works to own the land until the land owns them. He walks stooped over because it hurts too bad to stand up straight. He's been bowing down for so long it's become a way of life. I try to help him as much as I can. As a matter of fact tomorrow I’m going to bring him all four of them coyote sonsofbitches that just ate his calf and hang their carcasses on the corner posts.
The last cigarette eased my nerves and I don't feel so agitated with her anymore. I actually feel a little ashamed for my childish behavior so now I stroll... moseying happily back to my place beneath the cedar tree outside the glow of the guard light. The folks around here call them security lights, some call them guard lights but trust me you are not secure and they make poor guards.
She has turned the music up. It’s my favorite song of hers. I can almost believe the song was written for her. I wish I’d wrote it but I’m not a songwriter either. I have the words memorized though. Before moving here I’d never heard of Texas country – if I had I’m sure I wouldn’t have liked it. I don’t know this Josh Abbot fellow, the man singing to her now yet I feel jealous so I sing his lyrics to her and entertain the belief that she’ll pick me over him.
She's as free as the Blue Bonnets in the summer
She's as hot as the Padre Island sun
Most of the times she's as warm and friendly
Like the hills that surround Austin
She's as bright as the Dallas sky
She always holds her head up high
She loves the company of her family
She has faith in God's greater plan
She trusts that I'm a good man
And that’s why I'll always believe
She's like Texas and she likes me
Her eyes are green like the trees in Nacogdoches
Her teeth are white as the cotton in the fall
And when she laughs you'll always take notice
'Cause her heart's charm will shine right through it all
As the music fades I dance over and settle in to my spot beneath the scruffy evergreen and get another swallow of lemon lime soda. I can see she's made progress. She's also closed the window, which isn't surprising considering the temperature has dropped eighteen degrees since I arrived this evening.
I trade the glasses for a standard pair of binoculars that I keep with me at all times. Some things are better understood when viewed in full color. With the cold rubber pressed against my eyes I can see now where she was going with the letter K. Killing didn't come easy... No, it never does. If she would move slightly to the right I could see the rest of the sentence. But she won’t and I can’t so I focus instead on the curls against the nape of her neck. She doesn't put a lot of effort into managing her hair. It's usually twirled and clipped to the top of her head with nappy little ringlets springing from her hairline. I prefer her hair down, with the sun bleached strands tussled about her shoulders looking slightly windblown. She is beautiful anyway. I look forward to the warmer weather when she'll open the bathroom window again for fresh air and the scents of cocoa-butter soap and papaya shampoo will drift to my perch beneath the cedar tree. The thought of it arouses me.
I watched her once through a hole that had been bored below the window. The lazy plumber failed to patch it when he replaced the pipes last winter and charged her two and half times what he would have charged a man. She bathes in darkness, the small lavatory lit by a single stick candle that smells of lime and avocado. It doesn’t do much to compliment the other tropical scents and I almost find it offensive. I have since plugged the hole to protect her privacy.
She's on page two now so we celebrate. She turns up a cup of lukewarm coffee and I lift my soda to a toast. Setting the cup down she apparently misjudged the distance and the ceramic container hits the floor. No harm done, it was empty and landed on plush carpet. She picks it up, plants it solidly on the desk and stretches. “Don't stretch.” I hear myself whispering. It's the dreaded stretch that means she's through for the night and I’m not ready to see her go. After she has turned off the laptop I ease closer, despite the boundaries I have set. I know I’m asking for trouble but something stronger than me drives me toward the unlocked window. It would be so easy-
That damn barking dog. Those are the first words that cross my mind when the sun peeks into my bungalow. Truth is that dog kept me in check. I barely finish the first cup of black coffee and Mr. Carson is tapping at my door. I remind myself to act surprised when he tells me the bad news.
“Good morning Mr. Carson. Come on in I’ve got a fresh pot on the burner.” I say to the distraught rancher, motioning him in. He obliges, takes his dirty straw hat into his scarred, gnarled hands and sorrowfully shaking his head he begins to tell me what he found first rattle out of the box this morning.
“Damned mangy monsters devoured that poor calf and left his momma heart broke. Her bawlin' is what got my attention `fore daybreak. I’m gonna bait the rest of them bastards but I'd sure like to see one strung up on the fence. That’ll deter the others ya know.”
“Say no more Mr. Carson. I’m on it.” that's all the old man wanted to hear and it done my soul good to see his face relax into a smile. I watched as his dented old Ford crept east and when the dust had settled back into the white rock road I loaded my twenty two caliber rifle and headed across the field.
The dew is thick on foot high Bermuda grass and halfway there my socks are soaking wet because the rubber silicone patches have peeled away. I could afford another pair but these are my favorite boots; me and these boots have walked many a mile together.
The cawing crow overhead dares me to take a shot; he’d like nothing more than to ruin my mission – but not today. Five sleeping coyotes lay in view of my high powered scope. Hmm, wonder where that fifth one was last night? Don't matter none, five is always better than four.
The first two were killed probably dreaming about their last meal of tender beef. One hit the ground before he had stood up good and the other two made it twenty-five feet or so into the clearing before they succumbed to instant lead poisoning. I should have waited. It would have been better to have `em fresh and limber for the boss to examine but I wanted chores out of the way. I drag the bodies into a heap, lay my rifle against the smelly collection and start boldly toward her place.
I had never visited her during daylight hours but I needed to see more than her outline in the distance and there she was... a sight to behold sitting so prim and proper on the veranda folding laundry. Locals call it a porch but I prefer the term veranda, it has charm and sophistication. Porch sounds bland and almost heathen; she fits neither of those descriptions with her gentle femininity.
I hadn't quiet decided what to say – what would be my reason for the visit? I'd figure it out; right now I just had to get close to her. Her whites were the purest white imaginable. I might ask her how she managed that. Mine always have an off colored tinge no matter how much bleach I use. Stained like me, stains no amount of washing is going to make pure again.
She doesn't seem to notice me and I’m no more than fifteen feet from her with no windows between us. I can almost touch her creamy soft skin. Would she be offended if I nuzzled my nose into her fragrant hair or kissed the orange scented sunscreen from her hands? My heart is racing with anticipation.
“Can I help you?” she asks staring straight through me. I can't speak. I’m dumbfounded, hypnotized by the angelic tones flowing from her lips. “I know you're there – why won't you answer? Can you speak?” Beads of sweat pool into the sinkholes above my collar bones and a few rush down my back into the crack of my buttocks. My head is swimming... throbbing for lack of oxygen and I panic.
“Why didn't you speak to her you damn fool!” I am so angry with myself I bite the ear of the last rigid coyote and drive an extra nail into the hide pinning his shoulder to the post. I’ve watched her for months, I know everything there is to know about her but beneath the wall-less bright sun I am vulnerable. I'll answer her tonight.
It's eight o'clock, seventy degrees, the window is up and she's typing with vigor. The evening air smells faint of blooming jasmine... it is a lot like gardenia but not as strong. The tiny white flowers never sleep. Feeling bolder, I pass up my worn spot under the old itchy cedar and make myself comfortable on the bench swing beneath a full moon while the lanky Oleander's coaxed by the breeze dance to either side of me. I will leave the optic wear at home, tonight I’ll watch with naked eyes, seeing only her – I won't critique her writing. I don't even care how the story goes anymore.
Pretending is a rare indulgence I allow myself only on special occasions such as this, so with a deep sigh I relent. She is on the swing beside me, my arm resting lightly on her fragile shoulder, her head cradled in my armpit. She says she loves my musty smell mixed with dollar store cologne. I compliment her on her laundry – the whites especially. She confesses that she doesn't understand color. Something most take for granted. The sky is blue, spring grass is green... how can I make her comprehend... Savor the aroma dear. I tell her, take it in your mouth... taste it... this with the warm sun on your face... this is the color yellow. My mind drifts as I cut the lemon and let a quartered piece of fruit set against my teeth; sucking at it slowly, rhythmically until my jaw tenses. My pulse quickens as the saliva glands beneath my tongue explode, filling my mouth with tangy liquid.
She looks toward the window but doesn't move from her chair and barely misses a beat at the keyboard. If she came to me now, if she would ask again “can I help you” I wouldn't cower. Maybe tomorrow night she will – she will ask again and I will reply “yes ma'am you can.”
I killed three more coyotes last week, took `em down before they could get to one of the new heifers. They'd barely crouched when the small bullet passed through their brain. I got that damn smart aleck crow too. That beady-eyed son of a bitch won’t mock me anymore. Remington is my best buddy. Hell, he's my only buddy. I can fire fifty rounds in forty-five seconds and hit my target ninety percent of the time, one hundred percent if the target isn't moving.
The boss man was exuberant, told me I was worth every nickel he ever paid me. I hope so at two hundred dollars a week. That averages out to be about five dollars an hour or two and a half bucks for every fence post. It should be mentioned however that he does supply me a shack with paid electric, that's probably worth another four dollars an hour. I’m not complaining he pays in cash and don't ask too many questions. I like it like that.
The few people I’ve met around here know me as Max – Maxwell Hubbard from Altus Oklahoma, ranch hand and handy man. That's all they need to know. If I have to move on I’ll leave ole Max behind because there’s only room enough for one of us on the road. Leonard Stymie got left in Benton Missouri. I didn’t care much for Leonard and he didn’t care to be accused of poaching, an odd term for taking down a buck at the wrong time of year. Eggs are poached- wild game is killed out of season. Nonetheless Leonard was left to answer for things that might come about in the investigation.
I splurged on a new pair of boots and a bottle of high dollar aftershave today. Got a haircut, new jeans and a crisp white shirt- I’m ready to meet her face to face.
Mr. Carson dropped off a new water heater today also. It took me ninety-six minutes to install it. The electric miracle can heat thirty gallons of water to one hundred twenty degrees in five minutes but I took my shower cold. I need to be alert and sharp. I have failed in my own resolve too many times already where she is concerned. When she speaks to me tonight I have to be prepared. I can't clam up and run away like a dog with his tale between his legs. No, tonight she will know I love her and she'll eventually ask me to make love to her. Not in a slutty seductive way, she'll tell me with her fragrance of papaya and cocoa-butter... with open windows that say I’m waiting. She'll beckon me from behind her keyboard, teasing me with ‘the night was dark’ and I will teach her colors.
Her damp hair is hanging in clumps, still dripping down her back. I want to blot it dry for her. She is immersed in her writing and unaware of the officious drips dampening her night shirt. The teal colored towel she’d used lays in the floor to her right. The sweet clean scents left over from her bath murmur you can come in now.
I can see the screen clearly, reading the lines I am pleased with her descriptions. The night was dark and so were the days, a perpetual darkness. I like it but where is the line that she fussed with over the k? Killing didn’t come easy... I want to know how she knows that. Possibly we can share a secret or two so I press forward.
This is the closest I’ve ever been and my knees are shaking. My head is roaring so I don’t hear the twigs snapping beneath my feet. She’s got the Rolling Stones playing on her computer. Pleased to meet you –hope you guess my name. Now that’s my kind of music. With my face against the screen she is no more than three feet away.
“Who’s there?” she asks without turning to face me. I wish she could see me, see the love in my eyes. Ah what’s puzzling you is the nature of my game... I strain to push the lyrics out of my head and tell her who I am but my voice has left me. It doesn’t matter; tonight we will consummate our union. I gently remove the screen as she reaches for the towel.
“Max?” she knows my name, she has been expecting me. It is destiny. “If it’s you –you need to say something NOW.” Her voice is quivering with anticipation. Is she as nervous as I am? “Say something or I’ll-”
I set the screen down and lean into the window. I am nervous but I finally muster the courage and clear my throat to profess my love. I have memorized Sonnet 43 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Alas I tell her, “I love thee to the level of every day's most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.” The recital should have softened her expression, made her smile and hold out her arms.
Something is terribly wrong. I’m speaking but the words are garbled and bubbling. I shove my fist against the hole in my neck and try again but it sounds like I’m yelling under water. I find the hole and plug it with my index and middle finger but it’s useless. I cram a third finger in and wet sticky air hisses with every attempt. “I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.” Though my vision is blurred I can see beneath the teal colored towel her sweet hands are trembling as she holds steady to the nine millimeter Beretta. I wish she’d dry her hair. The track has changed, Gimme Shelter – oh yeah I like that one too. War children... it’s just a shot away; it’s just a shot away... I cling to the shutters with my free hand; rest my chin on the windowsill and strain once more to see her face but all I can see is the computer screen. “That’s a good line.” I manage to mumble, “perpetual darkness - I like that.” ...storm is threatin’ my very life today. Gimme, gimme shelter. Lord I’m gonna fade away. Just under the lyrics I hear “911what’s your emergency.”
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