“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.
It’s Eric’s first time on two wheels. Mary watches him through the kitchen window as he pedals faster and faster, becoming a blur.
The walls start to close in again and she reaches into a drawer for her little bottle of pills. One day, she hopes, she won’t need them.
Daniel has always loved the stabilising influence of words.
“Any questions, sir?” says the clerk.
“What are this medication’s side effects?” asks the customer.
“There are none.”
“None? Impressive. Three bottles, please.”
The customer pays and leaves.
Another clerk says, “You didn’t tell him it turns people into pathological liars?”
“I couldn’t,” says the clerk. “I’m taking it myself.”
This story was based on the prompts “side effects” and “pathological liar” at TypeTrigger.