The Unwanted Unicorn

“The Unwanted Unicorn” By Edward J. McCoul

It all started on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday. Twelve-year-old Max was home alone, nose-deep in a video game when he heard a loud, wet sloshing sound from the backyard. That was strange. He muted his game and listened. There it was again—a sound like someone was pouring oatmeal into a bucket.

He crept to the back door, cracked it open, and peeked outside. And there, in the middle of his mom’s prize rose bushes, was the last thing he ever expected to see.

A unicorn.

It wasn’t quite what he had imagined a unicorn might look like. For one thing, it was soggy—dripping from head to hoof. Its mane was plastered to its neck, its long silver horn looked dented, and its hooves squished as it shifted its weight on the muddy ground.

The unicorn let out a deep sigh and shook itself like a giant dog, spraying water in all directions. “Ah, much better,” it said, inspecting its reflection in a garden gnome’s shiny hat.

Max blinked. The unicorn talked.

“Well, don’t just stand there gawking!” The unicorn turned and frowned at him, if a unicorn could indeed frown. “Got anything to eat? I haven’t had a decent snack in...oh, centuries.”

“Uh…” Max stammered. “My mom...she doesn’t allow snacks outside...”

The unicorn rolled its eyes. “Fine. I’ll come in.” And before Max could object, the creature clopped past him into the house, leaving a trail of muddy hoof prints on the carpet. Max felt his stomach drop. He was never going to hear the end of this.

The unicorn’s hooves echoed as it wandered through the kitchen. “Hmm, let’s see,” it mumbled, sticking its head in the fridge. “Ah, pickles! Haven’t had one of these since 1382!” It grabbed a jar in its teeth, unscrewed it with a little difficulty, and dumped half the pickles down its throat.

Max watched, horrified yet fascinated. “How did you get here?”

The unicorn shrugged, its horn catching on a low-hanging lamp. “It’s a bit of a blur. I was galloping through the Enchanted Meadows of Flumm, avoiding a pack of miffed fire-breathing daisies—don’t ask—and poof! I end up here, in your yard.”

“Fire-breathing daisies?” Max asked, incredulously.

“Yeah, nasty little things. They’re like sunflowers, but with very bad tempers and flames. And I was already having a bad day—I just got kicked out of the unicorn council. Apparently, I’ve been ‘breaking too many magical codes.’” It did air quotes with its hooves, nearly tipping over a bowl of fruit.

“Breaking magical codes?” Max raised an eyebrow.

“Let’s just say they frown on creativity. Apparently, transporting fairy dust in your mane is ‘against protocol.’” It gave a heavy, dramatic sigh.

Just then, Max’s mom’s car pulled into the driveway.

“Oh no!” Max hissed. “You’ve got to hide!”

The unicorn looked offended. “Hide? I am a rare and majestic creature!”

“Well, unless you’re a rare and majestic creature with a vacuum cleaner, my mom is going to freak out about the carpet!” Max pointed at the muddy hoof prints leading through the kitchen.

The unicorn snorted. “Vacuum cleaner? Child, I am a unicorn of the Fifth Order! I do not vacuum.”

But seeing the desperation on Max’s face, it sighed. “Fine, fine. I suppose I could do something.” It trotted over to the middle of the room, reared up on its hind legs, and did a little twirl. Its horn glowed briefly, and with a sound like a thousand tiny bells ringing, the mud vanished from the carpet.

Max stared in awe. “Whoa! That was awesome! Can you teach me how to do that?”

The unicorn shook its head. “You? A human? Please, that’s like trying to teach a hedgehog how to do calculus. No offense.”

Before Max could object, his mom walked in, looking suspicious. “Max, why does it smell like wet horse in here?”

Max’s heart pounded. “Uh, wet horse?”

His mom looked around, shrugged, and grabbed a bag of chips from the pantry. The unicorn winked at him from behind the fridge door, crunching noisily on another pickle.

As soon as she was out of sight, Max pulled the unicorn out of the kitchen. “Look, you’ve got to go back to where you came from before she sees you.”

The unicorn frowned. “Leave? But I just got here! Besides, I’m exhausted from all this interdimensional travel. I need at least a day to recharge my horn.”

Max ran a hand through his hair. This was bad. If his mom found out he was harboring a unicorn, she’d ground him for life.

“Fine, you can stay tonight,” he said, “but we have to keep you out of sight. And you better not eat all our pickles!”

The unicorn winked. “No promises.”

That night, Max tried his best to sleep, but every so often he’d hear a thud or a crash from the living room. He tiptoed out of his bedroom to find the unicorn lounging on the couch, watching infomercials and polishing its horn with a banana peel.

“Unicorn!” he whispered. “You can’t just sit here in the open!”

The unicorn looked unimpressed. “Do you know how boring it is in the Enchanted Meadows? All we have is enchanted sheep, and they’re terrible conversationalists. ‘Baa’ this, ‘baa’ that—it gets old. These infomercials are amazing! Did you know you can buy ten egg slicers for only $19.99?”

Max facepalmed. “Listen, you have to be quiet! My parents are sleeping!”

The unicorn waved a hoof dismissively. “Relax. I put a sleep charm on them. They won’t wake up till I’m long gone.”

Max’s eyes widened. “Wait, you can do sleep spells?”

The unicorn shrugged. “Sure. I may be in trouble with the council, but I’m not exactly unskilled.” It twirled its horn like a conductor’s baton, sending sparkles floating around the room. One of the sparkles landed on Max’s nose and made him sneeze.

“So,” the unicorn continued, “what do you humans do for fun around here? Any jousting tournaments?”

“No! No jousting! My dad would freak out if he saw you poking holes in his lawn.”

The unicorn sighed dramatically. “Humans. So boring. Fine, I’ll entertain myself.” And with that, it trotted over to the bookshelf, picked up a stack of comic books, and plopped down with a pleased hum.

Max stumbled back to bed, feeling like he was in some kind of bizarre dream.

By the time morning rolled around, Max was hopeful the unicorn might be gone. He tiptoed downstairs...only to find the unicorn in the kitchen, wearing one of his mom’s aprons and attempting to make pancakes. The stove was smoking, and flour was everywhere.

“Oh, good morning, young squire!” the unicorn greeted him. “Breakfast?”

Before Max could answer, his dad shuffled in, bleary-eyed and reaching for the coffee pot. He didn’t seem to notice the unicorn, which was now whistling an off-key version of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” as it flipped pancakes with its horn.

Max watched, horrified yet fascinated. “Dad, do you...do you see...?”

“See what?” his dad mumbled, still half-asleep.

Max’s eyes darted between his dad and the unicorn, who grinned and winked. Somehow, it had put a glamour spell on itself so only Max could see it.

When his dad left, the unicorn tossed him a pancake. “Catch!”

Max fumbled it, dropping it on the floor. “How much longer are you staying?”

The unicorn grinned, its horn glowing faintly. “Just until my horn is recharged.” It pointed at the wall clock with its horn. “It should be ready by noon. Until then, care to show me around?”

Max groaned. “Look, just stay put. And no more magic on my parents!”

The unicorn laughed, trotting to the door. “No promises, kid!”

It was the longest morning of Max’s life. Between distracting his parents, keeping the unicorn from exploring the neighborhood, and preventing it from eating the last of the pickles, he was ready to collapse by noon. Finally, the unicorn declared it was “recharged and ready to return to the magical realms.”

“Are you sure?” Max asked, half-hopeful, half-worried.

The unicorn nodded. “It’s time. But don’t worry, I left a little surprise for you.”

With a poof, it vanished, leaving behind a single silver horseshoe on the carpet.

Max picked it up, shaking his head. He didn’t know whether he should feel relieved or disappointed, but one thing was certain—he was never, ever going to tell anyone about his unusual houseguest. No one would believe him, anyway.

As he set the horseshoe on his shelf, he was almost certain that he could hear the faint sound of bells...and the smell of pickles lingered for days.