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by Leza Cantoral

They say they saw little green men on the moon.

In the darkness, you can touch yourself but then the lights flash bright and the little green men put cold hard objects into your orifices. They drip milk into your eyes. They fill you with their sperm until it comes out of your eye sockets. Their long fingers explore your body to see what it can do. They fill your holes with electric rods and liquids. They watch you squirm and scream and squirt. They probe your anus. They have the curtesy to use lubricant. The lubricant jelly feels cold and wet like a frog licking your asshole—they’re reaching into your anus to see if you hid your soul in there.


So I am at a party in Brentwood, near Santa Monica. You know the neighborhood; it’s where O.J. Simpson stabbed the living fuck out of his wife’s fake boobs along with her plastic fantastic lover back in the golden 90’s. Now Nicole’s ex- BFF Kris Jenner is whoring out her brood for TV ratings. The brood she made with one of O.J.’s defense lawyers.

And here she is in all her living glory, snorting lines of cocaine off of Justin Bieber’s cock. That woman is the kiss of death. Her first husband is dead and her second husband rejected his very cockness the neighborhood himself into another fuckdoll. But Justin Bieber doesn’t care his wife’s snorting coke off his cock as long as someone is snorting coke off his cock.

I’m just rolling and rolling and rolling. I’m dancing and I feel like I will never be tired or need to eat or sleep again. Everything seems beautiful for one eternal sunshine moment. Waves of pleasure rolling over each other and over me. I am an ocean fuckpile. This moment is my soul. I am empty and full of this love juice. I don’t need to fuck to feel the fuck inside. I am the fuck. I am the fuckness.

I wake up, fried from rolling on ecstasy all night and I stumble over the half-naked bodies, beer bottles, piles of drugs, discarded underwear, and party hats that lie strewn all over the floor. Has it been weeks or one long night?

I have no idea.

I feel dazed and hollowed out to my core like someone took a melon baller to my soul. I am awake and I want to see the tangerine dream bleeding on the trees outside. I rub my eyes and look around through my melting lashes at all the happy drunken babies glittering in yesterday’s glamour, drool caked on their painted lips, eyeliner smudged over raccoon eyes. Party animals snoring off yesterday’s cocaine apocalypse.

The sky is streaked pink and orange like a beat-up Mardi Gras Queen. The porch overlooks a giant canyon.

I lean myself over the railing like a Dali melting clock. I swear my arms are dripping in big glowing fiery clumps down to the trees below. I gaze over the chasm of the canyon, smoking a cigarette. It feels like air after all the sweat inside. Ahhh….sweet sweet nicotine.

I notice a slight motion in the distance. I rub my eyes and I blink them hard and see it is a white creature that looks like a horse with no rider running along the other end of the canyon! It stops for a minute and I get a good look at it. I stare at it like it is an algebraic equation written tiny on a blackboard. I read it back and forth, tip to tip. Tail to horn. It can be nothing else. Somehow, of all the impossible things this is running around Brentwood canyon at 6 am. It is a white unicorn.

I run back inside to get my camera.

By the time I find it and run back outside it is gone. There is something else in the canyon instead. It is a massive craft hovering above, making absolutely no noise and not moving, just hovering there in the California morning fog. A bright and blinding light suddenly beams out from beneath it. I cannot scream and I cannot move a muscle. I am paralyzed as the light pulls me up into something huge as a shopping mall.

I lie there numb and look at the lights spinning inside. My back is up against a metal slab and many hands are reaching at my clothes. Their hands are cold and clammy. They peel off my underwear and my tshirt and pour a pink goo over my entire body. They rub and smear it in.

I try to struggle and scream but I cannot. I am floating above my own body, watching their hands touching it. Their eyes are huge and black and their skin is green. Their heads are massive in proportion to their bodies and their fingers are so long. One of them puts its finger inside my vagina. It keeps going in deeper and deeper as if it will never stop. I feel the tip hit the opening of my cervix and my abdomen begins to contract with waves of intensifying cramps.

There are four of them. They look at each other in amazement at the depth of my cervix. They take a clear plastic tube and feed it into my throat. They insert another tube between my legs. A bright blue liquid that tastes like mouthwash streams down my throat and a bright red liquid that both cools and burns explodes into my vagina. They take a giant needle and inject it into the center of my belly button. The pain is indescribable.

I look over and I see the unicorn. It is also on a slab. It is unconscious and they are cutting into its white furry flesh with glittering surgical knives. They cut off the head. They cut off each limb. They cut into its gut and remove the entrails. They take each part and vacuum package it. They are filling up vials and vials of its bright red blood. It glitters and glows. They test it and test it but they cannot find the magic hidden inside and I cry and cry and cry. I am screaming inside but my mouth remains immobile.

They say it is the last unicorn. They are disappointed. They shake their heads. The last unicorn.

They grind up the horn. The sound of the bone saw shreds my eardrum. After what seems like hours of grinding and sawing and prodding, we arrive at our destination and I almost sob with relief.

They land the ship on the moon, with a soft thud in a cloud of moon dust. The ship enters a hangar that drops swiftly down several miles beneath the surface. There are endless laboratories and hallways full of test subjects and stolen aircraft technology that is being reverse-engineered.

The moon is a hollowed out alien base. It always was just one big eye in the sky. The unicorn is dead and the aliens are filling me with its blood.

I’m a bloody rainbow.

I can feel the blood of the unicorn inside of me.

I feel electrified.

My blood is a glittery, fiery mess, and my heart is going to explode.

I feel orgasmic.

I feel suicidal.

I feel like my brain is going to spill into the universe…

The unicorn is the death of my soul.

I am the death of the universe.


Leza Cantoral is a Bizarro and Horror author. Her first novelette, Planet Mermaid, is a retelling of The Little Mermaid with a Takashi Miike twist. She is currently working on her first short story collection and her first Bizarro novella. Her stories are surrealistic pop culture mudpies that blur the lines between self and reality.

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