text: ( I found this gem in my google drives, must have written it when I was a teen, or at the very least 5 years ago. Totally forgot I had ever written it, but it made me laugh and cringe while rereading - now you all get to see it! ) Born with them, I’d say. “I was born with them. It’s nothing special. It’s nothing, really. Thanks.” I’m referring to, of course, the sticks of menace sticking out just above the fringe of my hair. The twigs of doom. The rods of revenge. The twin wands from hell. Antlers. They’re nothing but a body part to me, but people never understood this. They would always weave back and forth in front of me, eyes affixed on not my eyes but my stubs, mouths endlessly chewing words and spitting them out like soft bubblegum. Personally, I think it’s something to do with genetics. Grandma used to live in the deep woods by herself, a long time ago. Was a bit of a bohemian. Who knows what could have happened then? But nobody wants to hear about that. Instead I get questions, about as stock as cardboard - Are they real? How’d you put those on? They’re not that big, are they. Can I touch ‘em? Ew, what are those? Wow, that’s really weird. Does it hurt? Does the size reflect somethin’ else of yours? Answers to those: Yes, I didn’t, I know, no, thanks, I know, no, and goodbye. The truth is, the infernal sticks are capable of getting real big. When I was younger, my mother let me grow them out for a year or so. In the spring, they started to erupt just like the joints of my wrists and ankles. They bloomed above my head like trees do in spring and they stretched, they yawned, they were alive. But when they began to draw attention just a little too much, it was my father’s responsibility then. I can still remember it, the way he got up from his chair during dinner. The way he opened the small cabinet door, his face hidden by the intricate pattern on the wood. The sound the knife made when he sharpened it, reassuring me, *​the sharper it is the less it will hurt.* And oh, it didn’t hurt. But it was terrifying as hell. They stopped growing for a while after. I mean, they did, but I tried to shave them down when I could. I didn’t really want anything like ​that​ to happen again. \- That changed when we decided to move to the edge of the city. Away from people. It wasn’t my fault, or so my parents told me, suspiciously often. Then again, it’s not like they had anybody else to tell. After having me, it’s reasonable to think that they’d hold back against having more. Our new house was located on the left side of a small lake and to the front of a big forest. It was so close to Mother Nature that you couldn’t really say it was part of the city anymore. It still was, of course, but our immediate surroundings made it a hard fact to remember. I think that’s what my parents were going for, anyway. They loved it. The forest behind our house was gigantic. I say ‘big’, but from an objective point of view it was bigger than big. From the first day we moved in, I could feel its power emanating like some sort of radiation. There was something about that forest that made it seem like a giant -- intimidating. I’d go back there a lot. At my tender teen age I already felt the wanderlust. The forest was my escape for whenever I felt misunderstood (which was a lot). It became my playground whenever I had nothing better to do. Even more than that, the forest gave me a deep sense of belonging. At the time I figured it had something to do with the abominable twins atop my head. Something like a nature sense, if that even makes sense. When I was in that forest, I would feel something twining deep into the corners of my soul, seeding itself there and spreading its roots, grounding me to the place as if I’d been born there. It got to my head, a bit. Sometimes I even fancied that I was Nature’s Gift to Mankind. But whatever - the point here is that I felt totally at home in the forest. Well, it was a rainy day when it happened. The sky had been overcast all day. I’d skipped school that day, mostly because of a test I hadn’t prepared for. My parents never minded when I didn’t go to school. They’d even offered to homeschool for me, but again, I digress. It was a hooky day. The sky was cloudy, my mood was just as turbulent, and I made my way to the forest to unwind. I’d already been wandering for a couple of hours when I realized rain was beginning to drizzle down. And by drizzle, I mean I was getting stupidly wet - no umbrella, to say the least. I had no real defense but to put my hood up. I began to backtrack, carefully going back towards the house through trees I’d marked. As I walked, a fog started to form around me. The forest does that sometimes, when there’s rain. It made things mighty difficult to see. Soon I was walking circles around trees I’d already seen. I was starting to get pretty confused. Well. Lucky for me, that’s when I met a god. In the form of a deer. For a deer, he was extraordinarily handsome. As one would expect, really. Russet brown fur, slicked down by the rain. His chest was painted white. Heavy shoulders. An elegant neck. And on top of his triangular face was a pair of two beautiful, decorated antlers. He strutted up to me like he owned the place. When we met eyes, it was apparent from his expression that the fog had confused him as well. But he made no mention of it when he began to speak. “Human,” he said, without opening his mouth. “You’re new here.” “Nah,” I replied, opening mine. “I’m actually not.” Not a regular phenomenon, talking deer. But I’ll confess, the whole antler thing had left me cynical towards more things than I care to admit. “Are you lost?” he asked. “Probably, but it’s fine.” “I see.” “Yeah.” Long pause. It was more likely that he was the lost one, not me, but I didn’t say that either. Instead we just stared at each other. He at my eyes, and I at his... antlers. Strange, to say the least. I was usually on the opposite end of that spectrum. But I couldn’t stop staring. What the deer lacked for in conversational skill, he more than made up for with his rack. There they were - stemming from the head, two hell sticks, spreading upward like they were flowers licked by the wind. Branches like fingers unfolding from their tops and entwining at their bottoms. They were much bigger than mine. And they were covered in a soft velvety fuzz. I couldn’t move at that moment, I was paralyzed, but I remember thinking that I wanted to touch it, feel it beneath my palms. Under my gaze he became self-conscious, or so I think. He began to fidget and blush. When I didn’t say anything further, he started to deflate. “Human,” he said to me, “You’ll go home now.” And that’s when I attacked him. Or to be precise, I tried to. I couldn’t help myself, really. I lunged forward, hands outstretched for a touch of those antlers. I can’t describe how I felt at that exact moment, but it was chaotic and full of need. He bolted, of course. Before I could even get close, he turned and fled, his hooves kicking up wet soil in my face. Not terribly surprising. He was a god, after all. But where did that leave me? In the rain, muddy, wet. Terrible-looking. My expression must have been weirdly perverted, a mixture of awe and desire, eyes scrunched and mouth open and curved into a smile. But again, not surprising. I felt like I’d just witnessed the crown of an angel. \- I started growing my antlers out from then on. Wearing less hats. They’re still growing, actually. I feel like, no matter how much I let them grow, they’ll never amount to the rack of the one I saw. Not that it matters, really. Human beings are amazed by my tiny ones anyway. But being less ashamed of them, you know? It’s nice. Born with them, I’d say. Not an evasive answer, per say, but a mark of pride. “They’re 100% natural. Give ‘em a touch, they won’t bite.” ‘Course, I still get the stock cardboard questions. And I get a lot of hands up there, rubbing and affirming that they are, in fact, real. But it bothers me less now. I’ve even had a few interviews, but once people start accepting the fact that you’ve accepted it, the thing becomes less of a phenomenon. Too bad, honestly. I was just starting to enjoy the attention. We still live near the forest, but I don’t go near into it anymore. The world’s too busy for that kind of thing once you decide to start living in it. But I still stare back sometimes. It’s kind of a forlorn thing, you know. If you’ve ever felt it, you’ll understand. Part of me isn’t ready to go back, anyway. Until then I’ll probably be answering inane questions in hopes of finding an answer. Like such: Hey, how’d you make these? Who made ‘em? Answer to those: I did. And they are completely, totally mine.