Welcome to this week’s installment of many micro stories, ranging in length from 100 words to 500 words.
With each story we hope to deliver a little whimsy into the lives of our readers.
THE UNICORN’S BONES
The smell of sandalwood and burning coals accompany her as she descends. Her guide, the monk Amontillado carries the censor without pomp or pretension. He has done this before: the wrinkles on his face and the soot on his hands do not lie. Even in the halls of such saintly catacombs thuribles must be kept lit to drive demons and wanton dead from site and sanctuary. Thus are the times. The smoke chokes her. Her eyes water. Yet she continues. The pilgrimage must be made. Otherwise, her crime will never be forgiven
The floor is stone, cold even through her leather hunting boots. Each step seems to creak and each bit of floor seems to ooze.
“If these catacombs are common for pilgrims, why are they in such disrepair?” she asks. Amontillado does not answer. She decides not to ask again. She presses forward.
Soon she reaches the basement chapel: lit by lantern, a flicker, an illusion. She takes small steps forward, reaching the coffin that holds the remains of the once untamed saint. It is tight here. She chokes. She sobs.
“Do not look, only kneel,” said Amontillado. She nods, almost crawling before the bones of the saint’s horse. She tries to whisper a prayer, to atone, but the unicorn whispers louder, firmer. The unicorn whispers of guilt and shame, of the death of many in battle and many from banditry. They are poems of encouragement and chastisement. She struggles, trying to pull herself back, but the unicorn pulls her tighter: tighter and tighter into an embrace of obsession.
She looks each bone pearl white, shining like seashells and opal. They smell of immortality. They taste of the godhead. She looks not because of its beauty, but because it would be a sin not to. She is too far gone to become a sinner once again.
Instead, her stomach turns, and bones bend and creak, and her mouth goes dry, and her skin shrivels and shrinks. How long has she looked at purity? Real purity — unapologetic, knowing, beautiful. Enough to feel the thirst in the back of her throat as it closes up and pain overcome her body.
The monk will take her body away, dragging it while it bends in wracked, mumbling silence. She is not the first he has seen succumb. He cannot help but smile. With her pain, his faith is restored, his vigils and prayers answered. One day he will look at the unicorn’s bones. For now, he returns to the abbey, eats, and waits for another pilgrim.
Sandor Paulson is a witch, audio-visual editor, poet, and fiction author whose writing has been published by The Writers’ Journal and The Dionysian Public Library. They are located in Chicago where they are most often spotted in the wilds of Roger’s Park, Andersonville, and Lincoln Square. Additionally, they are currently working to make a magazine for electronic and physical distribution in Chicago. Their Substack is: https://theweirdworldofsandorpaulson.substack.com/ and they can be reached for inquiry at sandorpaulson@gmail.com.
If you enjoyed this story you can find it and more in the Hawthorn & Ash anthology.
Iron Faerie Publishing 