'The unicorn in the garden' by Caroline Ashley

He stood at the boundary between garden and woodland. A milky-white unicorn, spiralled horn narrowing to a razor-sharp point, silently surveying the wooden barrier. Judging it safe, he brazenly stretched across.

“Mummy, there's a unicorn eating the grass!” Ollie said.  

“Don’t be silly.” Mum sheltered in the doorway, eyes dwelling on the keratin spear. Averting her gaze, she gripped Ollie's hand and retreated inside. “Unicorns don't exist.”

Each day the unicorn weaved through the trees, body luminescent in the shadows – stopping at the fence. The flowers were consumed and soon the soil was bare.  

“What happened to your garden up the back?”  

“It was the unicorn!” Ollie said.

Mum waved a dismissive hand, eyes drifting to the back window. “Just clearing it for spring.”

Sometimes the grown-ups would speak in hushed tones about the visitor:

“Should we do something about it?”

“It's not that bad, really. Wasn’t keen on those flowers anyway.”

Ollie was discouraged from playing at the end of the garden. His parents hardly used it at all – too much to be getting on with. Then the unicorn breached the fence, gleefully pirouetting by the sandpit.  

Ollie’s parents silently locked the back door – the next day the key got lost. Och, it’ll turn up somewhere.  

Ollie would sometimes watch the ephemeral creature. It would toss its glistening mane and look back, equine eyes shimmering gold. His mother, lips pressed tight, turned him away. Blinds shielded the garden from view, the space ceded to its invader.

The beast remained, every day venturing a little closer to the door.