I Brought The Bullets

I speak this tale of two strange creatures from guitar strings that play back the days of old. All know of a tale of a fallen soul and a grueling fate of forgiveness. But it is not told enough. So I dare speak this curious tale with guitar strings that will weave a tale that I have told twice or thrice before, just for you.

I know of a moose in the woods. Peculiar, I know. He wanders the woods leaving behind a shadow, not of darkness, but of identity. He questions his own often as he huffs and gruffs in his wake. He lives on the opposite side of the creek, not too far away from where the beasts live. He is a large moose, with heavy, dejected footsteps that make the leaves shrivel and fall from their home. He bears so much weight on his shoulders; so much burden. What the critters know him most for is his antlers; his antlers carry cut guitar strings tangled into each root from his head. These strings carry stories of old; stories he refuses to let go of. I shall speak about one of his first strings he received as his story began to bloom into song:

I was born in the woods alongside this moose. From the day I opened my eyes, and his eyes met my own, he knew that I was his and he was mine. We would frolic near the creek together. And when we got tired, we'd sit on a grass bed and rest together, watching the sun go down. Even though I knew the woods well, I loathed that place with every mortal bone beneath my skin. It was always such a terribly loud place, filled with the most horrible of beasts. Looking back, it was indeed our home… but we failed to realize that the monsters were there all along, watching in the shadows.

A new guitar string was added: we grew up. The moose started developing a set of strong antlers as I started to grow into my own body. Our attitudes changed as well. I became akeen to my own interests as he was as well. I loved to dance and sing as loud as the wind could carry me. And him? What I thought were harmless activities, soon I learned, were the acts of what the beasts had done to my moose. They taunted and belittled him so much to the point where he became one of them. They forged new guitar strings to add to his set of antlers, forcing him to play a role in a song my moose was not. While my moose carried his own guitar strings, I carried my own. Allow me to tell you one of them:

One night, I had enough. My moose was forced to play a song that he had replayed for all the forest to hear, making him act out. Critters began to fear him; birds that once huddled on his antlers for rest now avoided him. I did not. I ran to him. I protested that he is singing from false strings; this song is not who he was. Those beasts have transformed him. He got angry. Very angry. He used his large antlers and hurt me that day. He left me alone in the dark as he ran back and jumped to the opposite creek where I could not reach him. Then I became a lost critter and I ran away from him, too.

Apologies… I speak this from a broken guitar string so the story has lost its rhythm. I cut this string myself. When one cuts a guitar string, that song can never be replayed again. Which is why I speak it. I know it happened, but I refuse to let it become my song that I sing throughout life. But there was a time when this string became my necklace; I wore it everyday when I left those woods that night. I did not return after years. I built a cabin far from the woods and rested there. When a being of no matter species is isolated with nothing but their hardened soul, no guitar strings can be formed from it. My will to sing had been used up. I cursed that moose every day and every night. My rage was an infection; a rotting tree from the inside out caused by an outside force. I started saving bullets long before that day, swearing to myself that I would go into the forest and end the rage that contained my will to sing. Each bullet was a reason to never forgive him. My rot had consumed my being and urge to sing… until one day, that tree fell and I broke.

I have one final guitar string; this I will play for you. One day, I had saved enough bullets. So I went back down deep into the forest when I stopped at the creek where that moose and I used to play. I knew he would be on the opposite side of this forest. I saw him, sipping water from it. He had grown larger since I remembered. I thought I was prepared to face him again, but his ear flicked to the sounds of my heavy breathing. He tilted his head up and I saw his face. I saw his eyes and I admit… the string I wore around my neck plucked in song. My rage was silenced as it met with the songs of the birds. My once deafening rot had become a muffled afterthought by what I saw in his eyes; I saw my moose. I looked at his antlers, where his guitar strings hung, and noticed he cut the ones the beasts had left behind. But still, he wore them. He knows not to sing that song anymore but he refuses to let the pain go, blaming himself for what happened. I looked into those beautiful brown eyes and I had a revelation: I brought my bullets, but I refused to raise my gun. Once he realized that it was me, he ran back deeper into the forest, afraid to face me again after what he had done.

That day, I went home and cut my guitar string. I do not blame myself for what happened and nor will I choose to hate my moose for doing it. After that day, I chose to forgive him in my heart. Since the string had been cut, my rot began to grow buds of flowers that blossomed into the crevices of my once broken heart; if you listen closer to the sound of my song, you can see it yourself. Today, I am still weaving a guitar string of my own. I walk to the forest and sit at the creek, waiting for my moose to show. He has not. Yet. But I know he will one day. And when he does, I will tell him that he no longer needs to bear those strings. He no longer needs to blame himself. It is his song and only he can write it, not allowing others to write it for him. Neither of our songs are finished. I know we'll meet again in the creek. And when he joins me on the opposite side, we shall frolic near the water, rejoicing an old song whilst we make a new one.