Winona Morris always knew she wanted to be a writer when she grew up. When it became apparent that she was never going to grow up she decided to become a writer anyway. After sharing her multi-genre fiction on various free blogs over the years she has finally decided to lock her imposter syndrome in a closet so she could be a "real" writer.
She currently lives in coastal Georgia with her husband, 2 kids, and 8 pets. When not writing or working at the full time retail job she's kept for nearly 2 decades, she likes to read and live vicariously through other people on social media.
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FIRST HUNT
by
Winona Morris
Dad was pissed when I wouldn’t shoot the deer. Called me a pansy, told me I was making him look bad in front of his boys. He drew back, and I thought he was finally gonna clock me like he’d been threatening to do for years, but he didn't.
I wasn’t a bleeding heart. I ate meat, and enough of that was the venison my old man shot. If it had been any other deer that wandered into my sights I probably would have made my first kill.
There was just nothing that could have made me kill this particular deer.
First it was tiny. The petting zoo had bigger sheep than this thing.
I told Dad it was a baby. He pressed his face up against mine, smelling like old sweat and cheap beer as he hissed, “Ain’t no baby got rack like that, now shoot it.”
Those antlers were another reason I didn’t want to shoot it. Its crown was so large I didn’t see how it held its head up.
I didn’t want to kill this deer, and if I thought it would have made any difference, I would have pointed out the reasons. Like the fact that it was wearing a collar. Like the fact that its nose was glowing.
Dad shot it himself, then tried to make me carry it back to camp. “That way they’ll think you done it, won’t think I'm raising some little sissy-boy.”
I think he meant this to be a punishment. Carrying a dead thing would gross me out if I were too soft to kill. I could have just picked it up and slung it over my shoulders, antlers on one side, ass end on the other. It couldn't have weighed more than our dog. I refused though. If I carried it, I’d get blood on me and I somehow knew that having that deer’s blood on me would be bad news.
The collar was thick leather and a silver medallion bearing a fancy letter R. Dad cut it off and tossed it aside. I don’t think the boys would have liked it much if they knew he killed a pet. They were pretty good guys, after all.
They actually cheered when we got back to camp. They clapped Dad on the back, claimed they had never seen a rack that big on anything before. Dwight even handed me a beer to join the celebration, but I set it aside. This didn’t feel like something to celebrate.
Then Harmon said, “What in the holy hell is THAT?” and for the first time Dad and the rest of them acknowledged that, even in death, the deer’s nose was glowing. Up close it wasn’t a soft muzzle, but was large and round, like a clown's honker, solid and bright like a lightbulb. It faded slowly in and out, like a warning beacon.
When Harmon reached down to touch it, the thing fell off its face like a ripe fruit. The guys actually started tossing it back and forth among themselves, laughing like it was the best game of catch they ever played. When Dad wound up and tossed it towards me, I didn’t catch it, but backed the hell away.
I went into my tent. I didn't want to participate in dressing it or be given a slice when some of it was roasted. Dad would pack most of it away in a cooler to take home and I fell asleep trying to think of some way to make the tainted meat disappear between here and home.
When my bladder woke me up, the tent was pulsing in a slow red light. Dad had brought the nose in our tent and lain it by his sleeping bag. I shuddered at the thought of being trapped in the tent with it.
When I unzipped our tent and crawled out, tiny men infested our camp.
They were wearing clothes in a bright holiday green. They had jaunty red and green hats, and curly toed shoes, they were adorned everywhere with little bells that must have not had any clappers because they were not making any noise. In fact, none of them made any noise at all as they moved around camp.
Each of them carried red bags. One of them ducked into Harmon’s tent with an empty bag as I watched. Another climbed out of Dwight’s tent, and his bag was full and bulging. One of them was at the edge of the campsite, digging its hands into the cooler we stored the offal in to pack out. He pulled out scraps of skin and organs and loaded them into his bag.
One man stood by the warm remains of our fire. Dressed all in red, he had a scroll of paper in one of his hands and was looking at it closely. When he turned his head to look directly at me, I saw a full white beard, and his eyes twinkled with authority.
I felt my pants go hot and wet and knew I had pissed myself as this elf-man stared at me. Still silent, he gestured with the hand not holding the collar, first around at the entire camp, then up, one finger touching the side of his nose.
I stepped away from the tents opening and pointed inside.
One of the green guys appeared, dragging his empty sack behind him. No time at all seemed to pass before he emerged, carrying the blinking nose in one hand, dragging the now full sack behind him.
Then they left. Each tiny man carrying a bulging sack. Some were full of deer, others full of hunters, one full of Dad.
In the years that have passed since then, I never had to ask myself why I was spared. Unlike the others, I had not killed, eaten, or even touched a single part of the deer.
I avoided being punished because I wasn’t on the naughty list.