Thomas Pluck<\/p>\n
The fact that unicorn droppings sparkle iridescent doesn\u2019t make them any more pleasant to shovel than regular old horseshit. There\u2019s a lot of it, and its saccharine scent catches in the throat like cheap perfume.<\/p>\n
Miss Nibs has seven of the beasts. Her carriage gathers dust in the barn. The unicorns are ageless, graceful alabaster sculptures long of limb and silken of tail and mane, and I\u2019ve got to shovel their shit for eternity.<\/p>\n
Kai-Lun has taken to fouling his trough. Leaves a rainbow slick on the water, like oil. He\u2019s curled up like a cat, having a snooze as I spoon it out. Amalthea bows in the back of her stall, crossing her forelegs. I pat her flank, and she nickers, but her heart\u2019s not in it. She blushes as I scoop out her dainty leavings from the corner, as always.<\/p>\n
I get to the last stall, lean my silver shovel on the door, and tap a smoke out of my pack of Maleficent Lights. Snick my silver Zippo and take a drag, slouching against the beam.<\/p>\n
\u201cEnjoy the fag, mate. I left you a bloody dung castle in here to clean up. \u2018ave one \u2018ere.\u201d<\/p>\n
That\u2019s Spike.<\/p>\n
\u201cCan\u2019t share anymore, big fella,\u201d I tell him. \u201cFire hazard.\u201d<\/p>\n
His leathery nose with its nostrils like billiard pockets peeks out and I blow a smoke plume at it.<\/p>\n
\u201cBloody tease.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo manners,\u201d I say. \u201cWhat, were you raised in a barn?\u201d Only half a pack left, and nights get long and lonely.<\/p>\n
\u201cFunny man. For that I\u2019m squeezing out another dollop.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNow or later. What\u2019s one more scoop?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGetting to you, is it? The Herculean labor?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat big old Mary only had to do it once.\u201d I puff a smoke ring at his golden spire. He takes a few stabs at it. \u201cThis is more Sisyphean. Endless toil.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCould be worse,\u201d Spike says. \u201cYou could be pushing dung boulders up and down a mountain.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAt least there\u2019s that.\u201d<\/p>\n
I tap another smoke from the pack, light it off mine, and hold it before his stippled gray muzzle.<\/p>\n
\u201c\u2018Bout bloody time.\u201d He lips it from me deftly, takes a deep drag. Waits for me to pluck it, so he can talk. \u201cThat\u2019s the stuff. Old Saint Nicotine. You ever feel guilt, contributing to the delinquency of a symbol of purity?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI sleep like baby,\u201d I tell him.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t you mean a Beauty?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re the funny one now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSpeaking of, how is the old bitch? She nick your cherry yet?\u201d<\/p>\n
Spike loves rhetorical questions.<\/p>\n
\u201cCourse not. I\u2019d smell the stink on ye.\u201d<\/p>\n
I let him have another drag.<\/p>\n
\u201cStill remember that lovely scent,\u201d Spike says. \u201cMe last day of freedom. That little hussy three stalls down was prancing tail high, the poor dumb thing. Beggin\u2019 for it. And then there was that sparkle in the ol\u2019 nose. Virgin. Nothing quite like it.\u201d<\/p>\n
I\u2019ve heard it a thousand times, but I let him go on.<\/p>\n
\u201cLike the first clovers of spring. A hint of rain, in the dog days. Or a whiff o\u2019 one of your fags.\u201d His tail whips against the slats of his enclosure. His muscles are surely rippling down his flanks, alight with purple undertones. Majestic, that\u2019s what you\u2019d call him.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd all of a sudden, I\u2019m rod stiff. She nickers and rolls round in the grass, hikes up and presents herself. And that\u2019s when I know. I trot right past \u2018er quivering quim and follow me nose. The day has come. I\u2019d smelt it before, mind you. That zing. But never felt the urge. I work myself up to a gallop. I’m on the hunt. Feel it in my blood. It’s me purpose,\u201d Spike says. \u201cAnother puff, mate.\u201d<\/p>\n
I give it to him, and he drags greedily.<\/p>\n
\u201cI burst into the clearing, toss me mane and neigh triumphant. \u2018ere I am, I\u2019m saying.\u201d He laughs. It turns into a neigh and then a coughing jag. He stamps his hooves, works himself out of it.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd there you are, in the bushes. Looking… sheepish. No offense. Not like a sheep. Filthy things, those,\u201d he says. His horn dips low. \u201cAnd me, I trot up, and I bow. Like I was told I would. Can’t \u2018elp myself.\u201d A ripple runs down his flanks. \u201c\u2018Cept you’re a fella. And you come out, pat me neck. A thing of beauty, you are. So I lay me horn in your lap. It feels right. Then your fella stomps out, and what\u2019s he say?\u201d<\/p>\n
I shake my head, roll my eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cC\u2019mon, now. Do the voice. Me accent\u2019s all wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n
I deepen mine as much as I can. \u201cWell, that\u2019s just great.\u201d<\/p>\n
Spike laughs, tosses his head back. \u201cHis Nibs looked fit to shit himself.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat he did.\u201d I stub my smoke out on my boot.<\/p>\n
\u201cPity what the Queen did,\u201d Spike says.<\/p>\n
I say it along with him: \u201cNot the King queen, the queen Queen.\u201d He laughs, I don\u2019t.<\/p>\n
I hear him sometimes, at night. Down in the dungeon. Shoveling shit\u2019s not so bad after all.<\/p>\n
\u201cThink she\u2019ll let him out? When she gets it through her \u2018ead, that you won\u2019t turn?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don’t know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe heart wants what the heart wants, Queenie,\u201d he announces. Just a show. She hears everything, anyway.<\/p>\n
Spike sighs, I offer the cigarette, he inhales deep. Blasts twin plumes out his nostrils. \u201cGotta show me how to blow rings, someday, Charming.\u201d<\/p>\n
I nod, and pick up my shovel.<\/p>\n
THOMAS PLUCK<\/strong> writes unflinching fiction with heart. His stories have appeared in Shotgun Honey<\/em>, PANK magazine<\/em>, Crime Factory<\/em>, Spinetingler<\/em>, Plots with Guns<\/em>, Beat to a Pulp<\/em>, McSweeney\u2019s<\/em>, The Utne Reader<\/em> and elsewhere. He edits the Lost Children charity anthologies to benefit PROTECT: The National Association to Protect Children. He lives in New Jersey with his wife, Sarah. You can find him as @tommysalami on Twitter, and on the web at www.thomaspluck.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Thomas Pluck The fact that unicorn droppings sparkle iridescent doesn\u2019t make them any more pleasant to shovel than regular old horseshit. There\u2019s a lot of it, and its saccharine scent catches in the throat like cheap perfume. Miss Nibs has … Continue reading