Liam Perrin

It had become easier for Marty to move around in the world recently. Everyone assumed he was just like all the others. Except for the hat. That silly pointed hat.

It wasn’t a hat of course. It was a horn. But it couldn’t be a horn, because horses don’t have horns. So it became (to them) the only thing it could be. There goes Marty, they’d say, the silly-hatted horse.

Marty was worried the little girl was on to him though. Her name was Occam, and she kept trying to take off his hat.

She was smart. If it was a hat, he should be able to take it off. She tested the hyposthenis. Hythopsethis. Idea.

It didn’t come off. She reasoned that when all else failed, the simplest explanation had to be the truth.

She was right. The jig was up. Marty was a unicorn. Occam’s unicorn.

“Practice on me,” said his friend.

“I don’t-”

“Give it a try.” His friend adopted a feminine posture. “So, handsome, what do you do?”

“Um,” he said, disconcerted. “I’m a technical writer.” He sensed this wasn’t enough.

“On the macro level,” he added.

“Macro level.”

He nodded. “Things are more interesting subatomically.”

“Mm-hmm,” said his friend.

“Subatomically, writing is arranging charged particles on magnetic media in meaningful patterns. In truth,” he said triumphantly, “I am a quantum mechanic.” He raised an imaginary glass.

“And you know what they say about quantum mechanics.” He grinned. “Everything is possible.” He winked.

“That’s what you’re going with?” said his friend.

“No good?”

“It’s a lot of spin.”

He grimaced.

“But you are a quarky guy.”

He groaned. “But will it work?”

“You mean does your angle have momentum?”

“Stop it.”

“Well,” said his friend, “everything is possible.”

Unfortunately, fewer things were probable.