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A letter from a young boy to a deer. |
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Written by Robert Scribner
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Tuesday, 20 March 2007 |
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A return to literature.
Dear deer (singular),
My full name is William James Oglethorpe. I am 9.5 years old and in Mrs. Spencer’s third grade class. I am among the top students of my grade, and I have won the award for “Raddest Reader” two times in a row. I was awarded a blue t-shirt two times in a row.
I read on a seventh grade level, and I write on a ninth grade level. My favorite author is Tom Clancy, though I have never met him nor have I finished any of his books. I like to eat Skittles in my spare time. My favorite flavor of Skittles is purple.
Now that I have introduced myself, allow me to get to the point. You are a deer, and I think that is a cool thing for you to be. However, my Dad likes to shoot you with bullets. He puts the bullets into guns, and then he shoots you with the bullets. The bullets are specially made so that they explode in your heart, and although I realize the physical pain that this causes you, you must also consider the nonphysical anguish that my heart feels when this happens. Having never had a bullet explode inside of my heart, I cannot say which is worse. And neither can you.
I am on your side, deer. That is why I have written this letter to you (singular). I don’t know which of you is you, but you must listen to what I say. You have been chosen. If not by me then, by God, you were chosen by God. Imagine that I had been stranded on an island with only an empty bottle of Sierra Mist, a #2 mechanical pencil with .5 lead, and a solitary sheet of college-ruled spiral-unbound notebook paper. Imagine that I had encapsulated a hand scribed note in the 20 ounce bottle and had tossed it into the turbulent, tumultuous seas. Imagine that you were a human, and you had found this bottle, as if it had been destined all along for your soft, womanlike hands (you were a dude is why I mention it). Imagine that you had opened the bottle and then read the letter. Imagine that you then metamorphosized into a deer, but you retained the knowledge of that human.
Imagine it. Because this is exactly what happened if you are reading this letter right now. Now continue on, my deer.
Deer, you must get out of these woods. I have tried to compromise with my father. I offered to clean my room. I offered to clean his room. I offered to paint his room. I offered to paint his face. It turned out that the face paint was actually just camouflage, and I regret doing that. It didn’t help, and only now do I see that.
He is now likely on the prowl in your very own woods. Allow me to warn you: he is dressed like a plant, so be very careful. He perhaps even smells of deer urine, though that has nothing to do with his hunting. He always smells that way, and I think that it’s very weird and cool.
Be vigilant, deer. I am sure that you have heard the story of Bambi. I have not, but surely you have, being a deer and all. It’s kind of like me hearing the story of Jesus, as a human. I mean, who hasn’t, besides all those indigenous assholes in Africa? We’ll see how indigenous they are in about 50 years when they’re at the Pearly Gates clicking and clicking about how they have no clue what’s going on. Too bad God only speaks in English with a twinge of southern accent.
It’s kind of like that.
Never give in, deer. Never surrender. I know that you can make it out of these woods and start a new life in the city. You can get a job as a baker or a haberdasher, perhaps. Perhaps you could do both of those things, and that would be, you know, your thing. It would be so convenient to have those two things in one place, not to mention the novelty of having a deer with which to haggle. Do you haggle, deer? If not, you should consider it. I’ll make a deal with you. You haggle a little bit, you see how it feels, and if you don’t like it, you can stop. I’m not asking for a lot of haggling. I’m only asking for a little. Consider it.
Deer, you must stop reading this letter. I don’t know what you are thinking, wasting all of this time on a letter telling you that time is of the essence. I find it sort of nonsensical, to be honest. So be on your merry, deery way. Run, young deer. Run like the wind, but not a day that is calm. Run like the brisk wind of the Arctic or the Chicago. I wish you the best of luck. Fare well.
Farewell,
Human
PS - your antlers are kewl. ;) Bye.
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Last Updated ( Friday, 09 April 2010 )
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