By T.L. Tomljanovic
The unicorns are restless. It’s a full moon and I’m on guard duty ‘til dawn. I check my tranq gun and pop in earplugs. I can’t stand the sound of ‘em. Unicorn screams are like sheet metal shearing against itself. It’s rutting season and in two beats of a pixie wing, stallions lock horns and white stains red.
A wounded one-horn is easy prey for dragons. Most D-dogs are fat and slow, but they can sniff out blood for miles. We knights used to take care of the problem, but dragon slaying isn’t permitted in the Preserve anymore so now we’re glorified park rangers. A lot of guys quit over it. More will bugger off tonight—go where they can kill monsters instead of saving them. There won’t be a chivalric order come morning. But I’m still here. Four hooves can’t protect themselves.
Trees tremble and the sky goes black as dragon wings blot out the moon. I cock my gun, aim north, and squeeze until I’m out of darts.
The ground shakes as several tons of oversized gecko hit the dirt. Kneeling, I check to make sure the dragon’s knocked out, but still breathing.
It’s the earplugs that did it. Otherwise, I would’ve heard him coming. That prancy-ass excuse of a horse. The horn sticking out of my chest is pearlescent pink with blood. It slips back out and I pitch forward onto a sleeping dragon. Being the last knight doesn’t save me from becoming breakfast. Really, we’re all monsters.
T.L. Tomljanovic dabbles in drabbles, micro, and flash fiction writing from the greater Vancouver area in Canada. Her work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, Sci-Fi Shorts, Roi Fainéant Press, Raw Lit, the Woolf, and others. She was nominated for Best Microfiction 2024. Find her on Blue Sky @tomljanovic.bsky.social and at tomljanovic.wordpress.com/.
MoonPark Review 