TITLE: Beasts of the Field
GENRE: Transgressional Fiction
It's a unicorn.
I've seen It before of course, not that it matters. I stand in the doorway, tingling all over, watching as It eats slowly and with purpose, eyes focused only on Its food and pretending It hasn't noticed me.
No one else even looks in Its direction; the weary looking mother with her frustrated child, the man reading the gossip columns about some personality's history of drug addiction, the old man seated alone at a table staring endlessly into nowhere at all; all of them pay It no attention whatsoever. Everyone mills about It as if It is just another person on a lunch break from the nine to five trudge, blending into the background of polyester and plastic shopping bags that make up everybody else on a Tuesday afternoon. This is because, for appearance's sake, this is exactly what It is. Nor does It pay any attention to them, for they are of no interest to It.
I watch Him, though by no means necessarily male in truth, raise the hamburger to His mouth and take a fourteenth bite, as slow and purposeful as the last thirteen. Then, for only a moment, the Unicorn raises His eyes from the table to my own before looking back down. This is the signal. I can now approach. As I walk slowly towards His table, the back of my neck alive and burning with His presence, I hear His voice boom like a torrent of water crashing into my mind.