“Side effects,” says the oncologist. The priest says angels have many forms.

In my garden, the unicorn eats my red roses, dripping petals like blood. “Am I dying?” I ask. She snorts, then gallops away.

Next summer, the roses bloom white. My hair grows back curly. The unicorn doesn’t return.

Hannah Whiteoak writes speculative fiction to escape the real world. She is working on an animal-themed flash collection. Follow @HannahWhiteoak or visit hannahwhiteoak.me.