I found a unicorn standing in my yard, so I hung the washing on it and went back inside. By the time my sheets had dried it was still there and I was no more inclined to proffer belief. I went to the kitchen and slathered a carrot in butter and sprinkles and took it outside to talk. You can’t be here, I said, my life doesn’t have room for magic. The unicorn chewed dully and shook its horn, tiny rainbows falling from its mane. I went back inside and turned on the news, there’s a war going on.
Nic Addenbrooke is a freelance writer, editor, content creator, radio broadcaster, part-time poet and sometimes artist. Nic has been coming to terms with existence for years. He currently lives and works in Brisbane where he struggles to turn the cacophony of voices in his head into things of substance. It doesn’t always work but occasionally produces a nice veneer of sanity.