While scratching itself, the deer stuck the tip of its antlers into its intestines. Carlos del Puente Stories

"Ah, Monsieur," exclaimed the old man, "have you ever seen a deer with antlers so grand they could touch the very fabric of the heavens?" The young writer, pen poised above his notebook, glanced up from his coffee. He had been trying to write, but the café's ambiance was not cooperating. The man's question was peculiar, but it piqued his interest. "Can't say I have," he replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. The old man leaned in, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "It's a sight to behold, my friend. A creature so elegant, so majestic, yet so... so utterly absurd in its beauty. It reminds me of a painter I knew once, who painted the most lifelike images you could ever imagine, yet they were always missing a piece of reality." "How so?" the writer inquired, his curiosity now fully engaged. "Well," the old man took a sip from his steaming cup, "his paintings were so detailed, so vivid, that you felt you could step into them. But in every single one, there was something that didn't quite make sense. A tree with square leaves, a cat with eight tails, a moon in the daytime sky. It was as if he painted the world as he saw it in his dreams, not as it truly was." The writer chuckled, scribbling a few notes. "Sounds like he had a wild imagination." In a café, an old man interrupts a young writer's work to ask if he's seen a deer with heaven-touching antlers, then shares a story about an eccentric painter whose hyper-realistic art included surreal elements. "Oh, indeed," the old man nodded, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "But it was his way of saying, 'Look closer, my dear friends. For reality is not always what it seems.'" He paused, then leaned in even closer. "Now, let me tell you about a deer I once saw..." The writer leaned back, intrigued by the sudden change in tone. He had come to the café for a quiet afternoon, but it seemed fate had other plans for him today. The old man's tale was about to begin, and he was about to embark on a journey into the surreal. "This deer," the old man continued, "was not like any other. Its fur shimmered with every color of the rainbow, and its antlers, ah, they were like a sculptor's wildest dreams brought to life. They grew so large, so heavy, that they began to bend under their own weight. And one fateful day, while the deer was scratching an itch, it accidentally pierced its own belly." The writer's pen hovered in the air, the image so vivid he could almost feel the deer's pain. "But surely, such a creature could not survive such an injury?" The old man's eyes grew distant, as if lost in the memory. "Ah, but you see, that is where the absurdity of it all truly begins. For instead of blood and guts spilling forth, a bouquet of flowers bloomed from the wound. Roses, lilies, daffodils – a veritable garden of life where moments ago there was only potential for death. It was as if the deer had become a living metaphor for the delicate balance between existence and oblivion." The old man tells the writer a story about an extraordinary deer with heavy, sculpture-like antlers that it inadvertently sticks into its stomach while scratching, leading to a bouquet of flowers blooming from the wound, symbolizing life from potential death. The café patrons, normally chattering away, had fallen silent. The only sounds were the clinking of cups and the old man's steady voice, weaving a tapestry of impossible images. The young writer's mind raced, trying to capture the essence of the story, but the words eluded him. It was too absurd, too fantastical, yet it resonated with a strange truth. He scribbled furiously, hoping to encapsulate the tale before it slipped away like the steam from his forgotten coffee. "The deer," the old man said, his voice now a whisper, "wandered the forest, leaving a trail of blooming flowers wherever it went. The other animals watched in awe, afraid to approach, for they knew they were witnessing something beyond their understanding. And as for the painter, he heard of this phenomenon and set out to capture it. But alas, by the time he reached the forest, the deer had moved on." The writer looked up, the café suddenly feeling smaller, as if the story had filled every corner with its peculiar magic. "And what of the painter?" The old man shrugged, a twinkle in his eye. "Some say he found the deer, others that he never did. But in every painting he made after that, there was a hint of those antlers, a flash of those colors. His work grew more bizarre, more mesmerizing. And in the center of each canvas, where the deer's wound once was, there was always a gap, a void, a reminder of the untouchable mystery that dwells within us all."  The old man's story captivates the café audience, describing a deer with a wound that blooms flowers. The eccentric painter hears of it but may never have found it, influencing his art with its presence in an unseen way, leaving a void in each painting to represent the inexplicable. The café's chatter resumed, as if on cue, and the old man took a sip from his empty cup, signaling the end of his story. The writer sat back, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. He had found his muse, not in the quiet solitude he sought, but in the unexpected tale of a deer and its antlers. As he closed his notebook, he knew that the absurdity of the world was precisely what made it so fascinating to capture with words. And with renewed vigor, he was ready to explore the depths of the surreal. Days turned into weeks, and the writer found himself drawn to the forest's edge, searching for a glimpse of the fabled deer. The old man's words echoed in his mind, guiding his pen through the pages of a new manuscript. The story grew, sprouting legs and antlers of its own, becoming a tale of self-discovery and the pursuit of the unattainable. Characters emerged, each with their own quirks and secrets, each a reflection of the absurdity of existence. One evening, as the sun painted the sky in a symphony of pinks and oranges, he found himself in a clearing, surrounded by a sea of flowers that seemed to stretch on forever. He felt a strange kinship with the painter from the old man's story, a fellow seeker of the unseen. He took a deep breath, the sweet scent of blooming life filling his lungs, and began to write. The writer is inspired by the old man's story and starts a new manuscript, becoming obsessed with the absurd and the pursuit of the inexplicable. He visits the forest where the deer is said to live, feeling a bond with the eccentric painter whose art was influenced by the deer's tale. The deer, he wrote, had become a symbol of the artist's struggle, forever caught between the desire for perfection and the inevitable imperfection of existence. Each time the deer's antlers grazed the fabric of reality, they left a tear, a reminder of the fragility of beauty. Yet, from these tears sprang forth the most exquisite of creations, a bouquet of hope amidst the thorns of despair. As night fell, the writer looked up from his notebook, the words blurring together like the stars above. The forest was alive with whispers of the surreal, each rustle of leaves a potential brushstroke in the grand painting of life. He knew then that he would never find the deer, for it was not a creature of flesh and blood, but a figment of the imagination, a representation of the eternal quest for meaning in a world that often made none. And with a soft smile, he realized that the story was not about the deer at all, but about the journey of those who dare to follow the scent of the absurd into the heart of the forest. The café had become a second home to him, the old man's story a beacon that drew him back each day. The regulars had grown accustomed to his presence, offering knowing nods and curious glances at his ever-growing manuscript. The barista, a young woman with eyes like pools of ink, had begun to ask about his progress, her interest piqued by the fervor with which he approached his work.  The writer's manuscript explores the deer's antler wound as a metaphor for the artist's struggle for perfection. He spends his evenings in the forest, realizing that the deer is a symbol of the quest for meaning, and finds kinship with the old man's tale and the curious barista's interest in his work.  An old man tells a story in a café about a deer with antlers that bloom flowers when it inadvertently sticks them into its stomach. This tale inspires a young writer to explore the metaphor of the artist's struggle for perfection in his manuscript, which includes a visit to the deer's forest. The writer feels a bond with an eccentric painter whose art was influenced by the deer's absurd fate and finds kinship with the barista interested in his work. One day, as the writer sat contemplating a particularly vexing paragraph, the old man reappeared, his eyes twinkling with the mischief of the cosmos. "I see you've found your muse," he said, a knowing smile playing across his lips. The writer nodded, his heart racing. "I think so. The deer... it's more than just a story. It's a reflection of the human condition, of the endless pursuit of beauty and truth." The old man chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to echo through the very fabric of the café. "Indeed, my young friend. And what have you learned from your time in the forest of words?" The writer paused, his gaze drifting to the window where the real forest lay just beyond the glass. "That reality is not what we see, but what we choose to believe. That the absurd is not a hindrance, but a gateway to understanding the profound." The old man's smile grew wider. "And what will you do with this newfound wisdom?" The writer looked down at his notebook, the pages filled with the scribbled thoughts and visions of a world unseen. He knew now that the story was not for the masses, but for those who dared to peer beyond the veil of the mundane. "I will continue to write," he said with conviction, "until the deer's message is heard loud and clear: that the most extraordinary beauty can be found in the most unexpected of places."  The old man returns to the café, acknowledging the writer's muse and the depth of his work. The writer articulates the deer's significance as a symbol of the human pursuit of beauty and truth, and decides to keep writing for those who seek understanding beyond reality's surface. And so, the writer's tale grew, each word a petal on the antler bouquet, each sentence a thread in the tapestry of the surreal. His story was no longer about a deer with antlers that pierced reality, but about the hearts and minds of those who dared to dream beyond the confines of the ordinary. The café, once a mere backdrop, had become a stage for the unfolding of a literary odyssey that transcended the boundaries of logic and reason. In the quiet moments between words, the writer felt the presence of the deer, its antlered shadow a silent companion in his quest for understanding. And as he wrote, the scent of blooming flowers grew stronger, filling the air with the promise of a world where the absurd was not just accepted, but celebrated as a fundamental part of existence. The story of the deer was no longer a tale of a single creature, but the collective sigh of all those who had ever reached for the stars with antlered ambition, only to find themselves forever changed by the brush of the unreal. The barista, whose curiosity had bloomed into a quiet fascination, approached the writer one morning with a steaming cup of coffee. "Your story," she said softly, "it's unlike anything I've ever heard. What happens next?"  The writer's narrative expands, focusing on those who seek beauty beyond the ordinary. The deer's story now symbolizes the collective aspirations of all who dare to dream. The barista, intrigued by the writer's work, asks about the story's progression. The writer looked up, surprised to find the café so still. It was as if the very air held its breath, waiting for the next chapter in the unfolding saga. He took a deep breath and spoke the words that had been whispering in his mind. "The deer, you see, becomes a guide for lost souls. It leads them through the forest of doubt and confusion, each step a lesson in the acceptance of the absurd." Her eyes searched his, a question unspoken. "And what of the painter?" He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling like the pages of a well-loved book. "The painter, ah, he becomes the deer's scribe, capturing the essence of each encounter in his art. His canvas, once a prison for the ordinary, now a gateway to the extraordinary." Their conversation grew into a dance of words, each question a step closer to the heart of the surreal. The barista's eyes shone with the light of newfound wonder, and the writer knew that he had found not just a muse, but a fellow traveler on this strange and winding path. Together, they wove a tale of the deer and its disciples, each character a piece of themselves, each encounter a reflection of the human condition. The café's walls seemed to expand, the ceiling lifting to reveal the vast tapestry of the universe, a canvas for their shared imaginings.  The writer reveals the deer's role as a guide for lost souls and the painter as its scribe, sharing this with the barista who shows deep interest. Their discussion evolves into a collaborative exploration of the surreal, with the café acting as a metaphorical space for their shared creative journey. The writer's notebook grew thick with pages, the ink a river of thought that flowed through the veins of the story. The old man's story had become a living, breathing entity, a testament to the power of the absurd to illuminate the darkest corners of the human experience. And as the sun set on another day in the café, the writer closed his notebook, the weight of the words within it a comforting presence. He knew that the story was far from over, that it would continue to unfold in the hearts and minds of those who sought to understand the mysteries of life. And with the first stars of the night peeking through the window, he whispered to the barista, "Let's go for a walk in the forest." Together, they ventured into the woods, the path illuminated by the glow of the moon. The trees whispered secrets as they passed, and the air was thick with the scent of the deer's trail. They walked in companionable silence, the only sound the crunch of leaves beneath their feet. The writer felt a strange sense of déjà vu, as if he had walked this path before in a dream or perhaps in the pages of a long-forgotten book. Suddenly, the barista stopped, her hand reaching out to touch a tree trunk. "Look," she breathed, pointing to a shimmer of light. There, nestled in the bark, was a single antler, its tip piercing the fabric of reality. The writer's heart skipped a beat as a bouquet of flowers bloomed before their very eyes.  The writer and the barista, inspired by their conversations, take a moonlit walk in the forest, where they discover a real-life manifestation of the story: an antler piercing a tree trunk, leading to a bloom of flowers, a physical representation of the deer's metaphorical impact on their lives and the story they've been discussing. They stared in wonder, the absurdity of the moment enveloping them like a warm embrace. The deer had become more than a story, more than a metaphor. It had become a beacon of hope, a reminder that beauty could be found even in the most unlikely of places. As they continued their journey, the forest grew wilder, more vivid, the trees bending and twisting in impossible shapes. The writer could almost hear the laughter of the deer echoing through the leaves, a sound that was both joyous and melancholic. And with each step, the story grew richer, the characters more complex, their struggles and triumphs a mirror to the human soul. The old man's tale had been a gateway, and now they were deep within the realm of the surreal. The writer knew that he could never fully capture the essence of the deer, the painter, or the forest in his words. But he also knew that the act of trying was what truly mattered. For in the pursuit of the absurd, one often finds the most profound truths. Their journey grew longer, the night darker, but the writer's pen remained steadfast, scribbling furiously in the dim light. The barista, now a silent partner in this literary quest, offered gentle prompts, her eyes reflecting the glow of the blooming flowers that lined their path. And as the first light of dawn began to break through the canopy, they reached a clearing where a herd of deer, each with antlers like a rainbow of possibilities, grazed peacefully. The writer looked at the barista, her eyes filled with the same wonder that had sparked in his heart weeks ago. "The story," he said softly, "it's not just about the deer. It's about us, about the beauty we find when we dare to look beyond the ordinary." She nodded, a soft smile playing on her lips. "And now, it's ours to tell." With that, they turned back, the forest's whispers guiding them home. The café awaited, the pages of their lives ready to be filled with the ink of their shared imagination. The deer had led them through the darkness, and now, hand in hand, they stepped into the light of a new day, ready to embrace the absurd with open arms. Back in the café, the writer found his words flowing like a river released from a dam. The barista, her curiosity now a full-blown obsession, listened intently, her own thoughts blossoming alongside his. They spoke of the painter, now a legend, whose every brushstroke contained a piece of the deer's essence, whose eyes had been forever changed by the beauty of the untouchable. The writer described the painter's journey, how he had once sought to capture the world as it was, but now painted it as it could be. His canvases were windows to the surreal, each one a door to a new dimension where the deer's antlers danced with the stars and the flowers grew from every conceivable wound. The painter had become the guardian of the absurd, a beacon in a world that often forgot to look up and marvel at the sky. Their conversations grew deeper, the lines between reality and fantasy blurring like watercolors on wet paper. The café patrons, once mere observers, now found themselves drawn into the orbit of their story, their lives touched by the whimsical tale of a deer and a painter. The writer and the barista had become weavers of a new kind of reality, one where the mundane was transformed into the magnificent with the stroke of a pen or the whisper of a word. The writer's manuscript grew thick with the weight of their shared experiences, each page a testament to the power of imagination. The old man, ever present in the corner, watched with a knowing smile, his eyes gleaming with the same mischief that had started it all. The deer's story had become a living, breathing entity, a bridge between worlds that only those brave enough to cross could truly understand. And so, the writer and the barista continued their odyssey, the café their sanctuary, the forest their muse. The story grew, twisting and turning through the landscape of the surreal, touching hearts and opening minds. They knew that their tale was not for everyone, but for those who dared to dream, it was a map to a place where the impossible bloomed with every heartbeat. In the quiet moments between chapters, the writer would look at the barista, her eyes aglow with the light of creation. They had found in each other not just collaborators, but kindred spirits, bound by the absurdity of their quest. The café, once a simple stop on the path of life, had become the stage for an epic of the heart, a story that transcended the boundaries of time and space. Their tale grew legs and antlers of its own, wandering through the minds of those who heard it, leaving a trail of blooming flowers in its wake. The deer, the painter, the writer, and the barista - all became one with the story, forever intertwined in the dance of the absurd. As the days stretched into months, the writer's manuscript grew into a novel, a tome of the surreal that whispered of truths only the brave could comprehend. And when it was finished, when the final word had been written and the last flower had bloomed, they knew that their story had only just begun. For the deer with the antlers of reality's fabric was not just a creature of myth, but a symbol of the boundless potential that lies within each of us, waiting to be set free by the power of a good story. The old man, ever the silent observer, approached the writer one evening, his eyes brimming with a knowing that seemed to have been born of eons. "Your work," he said, his voice a gentle breeze through the rustling leaves of the café, "it is a masterpiece. A tapestry of dreams and whispers that will resonate through the ages." The writer looked up from his notebook, his heart swelling with a mix of pride and humility. "Thank you," he murmured, "but it's not just my story. It's ours, and it belongs to everyone who dares to believe in the absurd." The old man nodded, his smile a warm embrace. "And now," he said, his gaze drifting to the barista, "it's time to share it with the world." Together, the writer and the barista took their story to the city, to the hallowed halls of publishing houses and the bustling streets of literary fairs. They spoke of the deer, of its antlers that pierced the veil of understanding, and of the painter whose brush had been dipped in the ink of the infinite. And with every telling, the story grew, morphing and evolving as it passed from one eager listener to another. The novel was met with a mix of awe and skepticism, but those who saw its beauty were forever changed. It became a beacon of hope in a world that often forgot to look beyond the ordinary, a reminder that the most extraordinary beauty can be found in the most unexpected of places. The writer and the barista watched as their creation took on a life of its own, as readers became enchanted by the dance of antlers and the scent of blooming flowers that seemed to waft from the pages. They had given voice to the whispers of the surreal, and in doing so, had created a space for others to find their own absurd truths. In the end, the story of the deer was not about a creature with antlers too grand for this world, nor was it about a painter whose imagination knew no bounds. It was about the journey of two souls who had dared to follow a trail of absurdity into the heart of existence, and in doing so, had discovered the boundless beauty that lies within the fabric of our shared reality. And as the café's door swung shut behind them, the old man's words echoed through the now-empty room: "Look closer, my dear friends. For reality is not always what it seems." The writer and the barista ventured forth, their hearts full of the deer's lessons. They wandered through the streets of the city, their eyes seeing the world anew, every corner a canvas for the absurd. They watched as the sun painted the sky with hues that defied description, and the moon whispered secrets only the night could keep. They saw the deer in the arch of a lover's neck, the painter in the stroke of a child's finger on a dirty window. The novel, "The Antlered Dance," became a sensation, a tome that was both revered and reviled. It sparked debates in café corners and academic circles, inspiring a new wave of artists and thinkers to embrace the absurd. The writer and the barista, now inseparable, held readings and discussions, inviting the curious and the skeptical alike to join them on their journey through the surreal. But as the story grew, so too did the whispers of doubt. Some called it a fluke, a stroke of luck that could never be replicated. Others claimed the writer had lost his mind, that the barista was nothing but a siren leading him astray. Yet, amidst the clamor, the two remained steadfast, their belief in the power of their shared vision unshaken. They knew that the true measure of success was not in the accolades or the sales, but in the hearts and minds they had touched. Their partnership grew into a movement, a collective of dreamers who sought to find beauty in the most unlikely of places. They gathered in the café each evening, sharing tales of the absurd and celebrating the small, strange moments that made life worth living. The old man, ever the instigator, watched from his usual corner, a knowing smile playing on his lips as he sipped his eternally steaming coffee. And so, the story of the deer that stuck its antlers into its intestines continued to bloom, leaving a trail of wonder in its wake. It became a symbol of hope and resilience, a reminder that even in the face of the most profound absurdity, there is always room for beauty, for growth, for life. And as the writer and the barista sat side by side, their fingers stained with ink and their hearts full of joy, they knew that they had found their purpose. To illuminate the darkness with the light of imagination, and to show the world that reality is but a canvas waiting for the bold to make their mark. The whispers of doubt grew louder, but the writer and the barista remained steadfast in their belief. They had seen the deer, felt the warmth of its breath, heard the rustle of its antlers as they brushed against the fabric of the universe. They knew that the absurd was not a prison, but a playground, and they had no intention of leaving it behind. The café, once a quiet sanctuary, became a hub of creativity and debate. Artists and thinkers gathered around the couple, sharing their own tales of the surreal, their own visions of a world where the impossible was not just possible, but essential. The old man, ever the sage, listened to their discussions with a twinkle in his eye, occasionally offering a nugget of wisdom or a knowing nod that seemed to say, "I told you so." But the writer and the barista knew that their journey was far from over. The deer was out there still, somewhere in the vast expanse of the forest, its antlers piercing the veil of reality, leaving a wake of blooming flowers. And they knew that as long as there were those willing to follow, as long as there were hearts open to the absurd, their story would live on, growing richer with each telling, each interpretation, each heart that dared to believe. And so, as the café grew quieter, and the last of the flowers closed their petals for the night, they picked up their pens and continued to write. For the deer was not just a creature of myth, but a living, breathing metaphor for the human spirit. And as long as there was a heart beating in their chests, as long as there was ink in their pens, they would follow its trail, weaving their tale into the fabric of existence. The story of the deer with the antlers of reality was not the end, but the beginning of an adventure that would stretch on infinitely, a dance of absurdity that would never grow old. Their days grew long, their nights shorter, as the writer and the barista became lost in their world of words and wonder. They spoke of the deer in hushed tones, as if it were a secret shared only between them, a sacred trust that had been passed down through the ages. They discussed the painter's brushstrokes, the way the colors bled into one another, creating a symphony of surrealism that could never be captured in mere prose. But the whispers of doubt grew restless, eager to snuff out the flame of their passion. Critics scoffed, calling their work "nonsense," "a mere trifle," "nothing more than a child's fantasy." Yet, the writer and the barista remained undeterred. They knew that the true power of their story lay in its ability to make people feel, to make them question the very nature of reality. They had become the champions of the absurd, and they would not let the naysayers steal their crown. One evening, as the writer stared at a blank page, the barista placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch as gentle as a deer's breath. "Look around," she whispered, her eyes shining with the light of a thousand stars. "Our story is not just on these pages. It's in every heart that has been touched by the beauty of the unexplainable." And with that, they stepped out into the night, the café's warmth giving way to the cool embrace of the moonlit street. The deer was with them, its antlered shadow stretching before them, guiding them to the next chapter of their journey. The city was a canvas of concrete and steel, but in the eyes of the writer and the barista, it was alive with the potential for the absurd. They saw the deer in the neon signs that flickered in the night, in the puddles that reflected a world turned upside down. They heard its call in the laughter of a child chasing a butterfly, in the sigh of a lover lost in a kiss. And with each step, they felt the story growing inside them, a living, breathing entity that demanded to be set free. They wandered the streets, their fingers intertwined, their hearts beating as one. The old man's story had become their story, and it grew with every person they met, every experience they shared. The deer's antlers had pierced not just the fabric of their reality, but the very essence of their souls. As the city lights began to dim, the writer looked into the barista's eyes, and in that moment, he knew that they had found their true purpose. To be the shepherds of the surreal, to lead others to the promised land of the absurd. The café was their sanctuary, their story their gospel, and the deer, their eternal guide. The next morning, they returned to the café, their spirits buoyed by the night's revelations. The old man was still there, his eyes twinkling with the mischief of the cosmos. He knew, without a word being spoken, that they had seen the world anew, that the story had become a part of them. "Now," he said, with a knowing smile, "it's time to share your gospel with the world." And with that, the writer and the barista set forth, their hearts ablaze with the fire of creation. They wrote of the deer's dance, of the painter's quest, of the boundless beauty that could be found in the most unexpected of places. And as they wrote, the café patrons watched, their own imaginations kindling with the warmth of their shared dream. The whispers of doubt had been silenced by the roar of their determination, and in their place grew a chorus of voices, each eager to join in the telling of the tale. The story of the deer with the antlers of reality had become a beacon of hope, a declaration that in a world that often made no sense, there was still room for wonder, for magic, for the absurd. And as they wrote, the deer's antlers grew longer, its bouquet more vibrant, the forest of words more lush. The writer and the barista had found their place in the grand tapestry of life, weaving their own thread of absurdity into the fabric of the universe. And together, they danced with the deer, their hearts forever entwined in the antlered embrace of creation. The café walls grew thick with the scent of ink and paper, the air electric with the energy of shared dreams. Each day, the story grew, each page a testament to the power of the absurd. They spoke of the deer with a reverence reserved for the divine, its every movement a lesson in the art of living. The old man watched from his corner, his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a seed well-sown. He knew that the writer and the barista had taken the tale and made it their own, that they had become the storytellers the world so desperately needed. The whispers of doubt had become the background music to their symphony of wonder, a gentle reminder that the most profound truths were often found in the most ludicrous of places. As the seasons turned and the leaves fell, the writer and the barista grew into their roles as the guardians of the surreal. Their story had become a beacon in the dark, a light that drew in the lost and the seeking. The café was no longer just a place for coffee and conversation, but a sanctuary for the soul, a gateway to a world where the absurd was not feared, but revered. And so, with each new dawn, they continued to write, their fingers a blur of motion, their hearts a song of possibility. They knew that the deer would always be with them, its antlered silhouette a constant reminder that reality was but a playground for the imagination. And as they shared their story with the world, they watched with wonder as others began to see the beauty in the absurd, to find their own truths in the shadows of the surreal. The tale of the deer and its painter had become a movement, a revolution of the mind, and the writer and the barista were its humble yet fierce leaders. Their love grew with each shared smile, each whispered word of encouragement, each silent nod of understanding. They had become the antlered deer and the painter, their hearts forever linked by the story that had chosen them. And as the café door swung open to the world, they stepped through it hand in hand, ready to face whatever absurdity the universe had in store for them next. The city was their canvas now, each street a new page in the ever-expanding story. They spoke of the deer to anyone who would listen, their words painting a picture of a world where the impossible was not just possible, but essential. And as they wove their tale, they watched as the barren streets began to bloom with the colors of the deer's bouquet, as the hearts of the skeptical grew soft with the warmth of wonder. The whispers of doubt had become a distant memory, drowned out by the laughter and the applause of those who had been touched by their story. Yet, the writer and the barista knew that the absurd was a fickle mistress, always one step ahead, always waiting to reveal the next twist in the dance of existence. The old man watched them go, his eyes filled with the quiet pride of a mentor who had passed on his wisdom. He knew that their journey was far from over, that the deer's antlers would continue to pierce the veil of understanding, leaving a trail of beauty in their wake. And as he took a sip of his eternally warm coffee, he couldn't help but wonder what strange and wonderful tales the future held for his young protégés. For in the world of the surreal, the most extraordinary adventures often begin with the most mundane of moments. The writer and the barista returned to the café the following evening, their cheeks flushed with excitement and their eyes alight with tales of the city's absurdities. They shared their experiences with the old man, who listened intently, his smile growing wider with each word. "You see," he said, patting the writer's arm, "the deer is not just a creature of myth, but a living embodiment of the human spirit's need to find meaning in the chaos." The café buzzed with the energy of their revelations, the air thick with the scent of potential. The regulars leaned in closer, eager to hear more of the deer's teachings, their eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. And in that warm, cozy corner, a community of dreamers took shape, united by the absurdity of the story that had become a part of their very being. As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, the writer and the barista's story grew in complexity and depth. Characters emerged from the shadows of the forest, each with their own tale of encounter with the deer and its bouquet of reality-defying flowers. The painter's work, once a solitary quest, now served as a bridge between the real and the imagined, a testament to the transformative power of art. The old man's story had become a catalyst for change, a spark that had ignited a wildfire of creativity and wonder. And as the writer and the barista sat side by side, their heads bent over their manuscript, they knew that they had found not just a muse, but a mission. To shine a light on the absurd, to show the world that there was more to life than the rigid constraints of reason and logic. And with each stroke of the pen, each whispered word, they brought the story to life, creating a world where the most profound truths were hidden in the most ludicrous of places. One evening, as they worked late into the night, the writer looked up from his notebook, the candles casting shadows on his face that made him look like a young Van Gogh lost in a fit of artistic fervor. "We must find the painter," he said, his voice filled with a sudden urgency. "He's the key to understanding the deer's message." The barista nodded, her eyes reflecting the same fierce determination. They had heard whispers of an artist who painted the unseen, whose works were said to capture the very essence of the surreal. It was as if the deer had led them to this moment, as if the story itself had willed them to seek out its creator. And so, with the café as their base camp, they set out on a quest to find the elusive painter, following a trail of breadcrumbs left by the old man's tale. They wandered through galleries and back alleys, their eyes peeled for any sign of the deer's influence. The city had become a living, breathing metaphor for their journey, each twist and turn a chapter in the ongoing saga of the absurd. Finally, in a dimly lit studio tucked away in the heart of the city's art district, they found him. The painter was an enigma, his eyes a blend of madness and genius, his brush strokes a dance of reality and the impossible. He looked up from his canvas, a bouquet of flowers seemingly sprouting from the very fabric of the painted deer's wound. "You've found me," he said, his voice a raspy whisper, "but what do you seek?" The writer and the barista exchanged a look, their hearts racing with excitement. "We seek to understand," the writer said, holding out the manuscript like an offering to the gods of creation. "We seek to share the story of the deer with the world." The painter took the pages, his eyes scanning the words with a hunger that was almost tangible. And as he read, the room grew still, the very air seeming to hold its breath. When he finished, he looked up, a single tear rolling down his cheek. "You have captured the essence of the absurd," he said, his voice filled with awe. "You have become part of the story." The trio sat in silence, the weight of their shared revelation heavy on their shoulders. They knew that their journey had only just begun, that the deer's antlers had pierced not just their hearts, but the very fabric of reality. They had become the storytellers of the surreal, their words a beacon in the dark forest of the mundane. Together, they worked tirelessly, the painter bringing the deer's antlered wisdom to life on canvas, the writer and the barista weaving the tale into the fabric of the city. They spoke of the deer in hushed tones, as if it were a sacred secret, and the people listened, their hearts and minds opening to the beauty of the absurd. And as the story grew, so too did their understanding of the human condition. They saw the world not as it was, but as it could be, a place where the impossible was not just possible, but necessary. The deer had become their muse, their mentor, their guide through the twisted labyrinth of existence. The café remained their sanctuary, a place where reality was but a fleeting memory, where the absurd was king. And as the seasons changed and the leaves fell, their story grew stronger, the bouquet of flowers more vibrant. They had found their purpose, and with the deer as their compass, they set forth to conquer the wilderness of the imagination. Their days were filled with the scent of ink and the whisper of brushes against canvas, their nights with the sweet symphony of shared dreams. They wrote of the deer's wisdom, the painter's brushstroke, the beauty that could only be found in the most unexpected of places. And with each telling, the story grew, its roots reaching deeper into the hearts of those who dared to believe. The old man watched them from his corner, his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a seed well-sown. He had planted the seed of wonder, and now it had grown into a mighty tree, its branches reaching out to embrace the world. The writer and the barista had become the living embodiment of his tale, the antlered deer of the imagination leading a conga line of lost souls through the forest of doubt. The painter, once a solitary figure, now found himself surrounded by a community of believers, each eager to add their own twig to the bonfire of the absurd. His studio was no longer a sanctuary of solitude but a bustling workshop of creation, where the whispers of inspiration were as constant as the ticking of a metronome. The writer and the barista had become his muses, their words and glances sparking ideas that danced across the canvas like fireflies in a summer's night. The café had transformed into a salon of the surreal, where the most profound discussions took place over steaming cups of coffee and the clinking of spoons. The walls were adorned with the painter's works, each one a window into a world where the deer's antlers pierced the fabric of the everyday, leaving a trail of blooming flowers in their wake. The air was thick with the scent of possibility, a heady mix of paint and paper, ink and imagination. The writer and the barista grew in their roles, their storytelling a ballet of absurdity and truth. They danced around the café, their words painting a picture of a world where the most profound insights were found in the most ludicrous of situations. The old man's tale had become a living, breathing entity, a creature that grew and changed with each retelling, each interpretation. The whispers of doubt had been silenced by the laughter and the applause of those who had been touched by their story. The city outside had become a canvas for their shared vision, each street a new page in the ever-expanding narrative. They spoke of the deer and its painter to anyone who would listen, their voices a siren's song that drew in the curious and the disenchanted. And as the story grew, so too did their understanding of the world, of themselves, and of the boundless potential of the human spirit. The painter, his eyes alight with the fire of creation, painted furiously, each stroke a declaration of war on the ordinary. The writer's pen danced across the page, giving life to the deer's adventures, while the barista's gentle prompts and questions served as a metronome to their symphony of words. They had become a trio of absurdity, a band of merry pranksters playing a tune that resonated through the very fabric of reality. Their days were filled with the chaotic harmony of creation, their nights with the sweet whispers of a story that was now as much a part of them as their own hearts. They had found their place in the grand tapestry of life, weaving their own thread of absurdity into the fabric of the universe. And as they worked, the deer's antlers grew longer, its bouquet more vibrant, a testament to the power of the surreal to transform the mundane into the extraordinary. The café was their forge, their crucible, a place where the absurd was not just tolerated, but celebrated. They wrote of the deer's dance, of the painter's quest, of the boundless beauty that could be found in the most unexpected of places. And as they shared their story, the whispers grew louder, the flames of wonder spreading through the hearts and minds of those who dared to listen. The writer looked up from his manuscript, his eyes meeting the barista's in a silent acknowledgment. They had started as two lost souls in a sea of indifference, but now they had become the lighthouse in the storm, guiding others to the shores of the surreal. And as they continued to weave their tale, they knew that the deer's antlered embrace was not just a metaphor, but a promise. A promise that in a world that often made no sense, there was always room for the absurd, the beautiful, and the profound. One evening, as they sat in their usual spot, the café door swung open with a gust of wind, bringing with it a figure that seemed to have stepped straight out of the pages of their story. She was a young woman with hair as wild as the forest and eyes that held the secrets of a thousand untold tales. The writer felt a jolt of recognition, as if she had been conjured by the very words he had written. The woman approached, her footsteps echoing the rhythm of their hearts. "I've heard of your story," she said, her voice a melody that danced on the edge of their thoughts. "I've seen the deer in my dreams, and I know it has a message for me." The painter looked up from his canvas, his brush hovering in the air, and the old man leaned in, his eyes twinkling with the light of a thousand stars. The trio shared their experiences with the woman, each word a thread in the tapestry of the absurd that now connected them all. Her eyes grew wide with wonder, and when the writer offered her the manuscript, she took it as if it were a sacred text, her hands trembling with anticipation. She read through the night, her eyes never leaving the page, and when the first light of dawn began to seep through the windows, she looked up, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. "I must find the deer," she said, her voice filled with a determination that could move mountains. "I must see it for myself, feel the warmth of its flowers against my skin." And with that, she disappeared into the forest of their shared imaginings, leaving behind a trail of whispers that grew louder with each step she took. The writer, the barista, and the painter watched her go, their hearts heavy with the weight of their creation. They had become the guardians of the absurd, the shepherds of wonder in a world that often forgot to look beyond the surface. Yet, they knew that their story was not just for them, but for all those who sought the beauty in the impossible, the truth in the ludicrous. The café remained their sanctuary, their haven from the mundane. They continued to write and paint, the deer's tale growing more intricate with each passing day. And as the whispers grew louder, so too did the calls from those who had heard their story, seeking their guidance, their wisdom. They became the beacon of hope in the dark forest of reality, their words a map for those who had lost their way. The writer and the barista grew closer, their bond forged in the fires of shared passion. They knew that the story was now more than just ink on paper, more than just paint on canvas. It had become a living, breathing entity that demanded to be shared, to be lived. They had started as two, but now they were a collective of dreamers, a family bound by the absurd. The city outside grew more vibrant, the people's eyes reflecting the same wonder that had once sparked in the old man's gaze. The painter's works adorned the streets, the writer's words etched into the very soul of the city. And as they watched the sun set on another day, they knew that the story of the antlered deer was not just a tale of transformation, but a call to arms, a declaration that the most profound truths could only be found in the most absurd of places. The woman returned, her eyes filled with the light of the deer's bouquet. She spoke of her journey, of the deer that had led her to the edge of reality and back again, her voice a symphony of awe and understanding. Her story wove seamlessly into their tapestry, enriching it with the colors of her own experiences. The café, once a simple refuge, had become the epicenter of a movement, a place where the surreal was not just accepted, but embraced. The walls were covered in letters and paintings, each one a testament to the power of the absurd to heal, to inspire, to challenge. The old man, the writer, the barista, and the painter had become the prophets of a new faith, their gospel the story of the deer whose antlers had pierced the veil of the ordinary. Their days grew shorter, their nights longer, as the story demanded more and more of them. But they did not tire, for they had found in their quest a purpose that transcended sleep and hunger, a reason to keep breathing in a world that so often felt devoid of meaning. They were the midwives of a new reality, bringing forth a world where the absurd was king and beauty was not just something to be admired from afar, but to be lived, to be felt, to be tasted. And as the seasons changed, so too did the café, evolving with the story that had been born within its walls. The whispers grew into a roar, the laughter a contagion that spread through the city like wildfire. They had started as a spark, but now they were an inferno of imagination, consuming the mundane and leaving in its place a landscape of wonder. The woman, now known as the Deer's Disciple, shared her visions, her dreams of a world where every soul was a canvas for the absurd. And as they listened, the writer and the barista felt their hearts swell with hope. They had not just found a muse, but a partner in their quest to redefine the very fabric of existence. The painter, ever the silent observer, continued to capture the essence of their journey in bold strokes and vivid hues. His canvases grew larger, his brushes more wild, as the story grew beyond the confines of the café, reaching into the hearts of those who dared to dream. The writer's manuscript had become a sacred text, passed from hand to hand, each reader finding in its pages a reflection of their deepest hopes and fears. It was a mirror to the soul, a key to the door of perception that had been locked for far too long. And as the seasons turned, the writer, the barista, the painter, and the Deer's Disciple grew into their roles, each one a thread in the tapestry of a story that had grown to envelop the very city they called home. They had become the guardians of the absurd, the champions of the surreal, and their tale was now the heartbeat of a movement that pulsed through the veins of the city, a testament to the boundless potential of the human imagination. The whispers grew into a chant, the laughter into a roar, and the café into a cathedral of creation. The story of the deer was no longer just a story, but a way of life, a manifesto for a world that had forgotten the beauty of the impossible. The old man watched from his corner, his eyes gleaming with pride. The seed he had planted had grown into a mighty tree, its branches reaching out to embrace a world that had grown cold and gray. And as the writer put pen to paper and the painter added the final touches to his masterpiece, the barista served coffee with a smile that contained the warmth of a thousand blooming flowers. The café had become a beacon in the dark, a lighthouse guiding lost souls to the shores of wonder. And as the story continued to unfold, they knew that their work was far from over, that the absurd was an ever-expanding universe that demanded exploration. The writer and the barista looked into each other's eyes, a silent promise passing between them. They had found in the deer's tale not just a muse, but a mission, a purpose that would shape the rest of their lives. They knew that the path ahead was fraught with challenges, that the forest of reality was thick with thorns and shadows. But with the painter and the Deer's Disciple by their side, they felt ready to face the absurdities that lay in wait. Their days grew more intense, their nights a symphony of whispers and laughter as they worked tirelessly to bring the story to life. The café buzzed with energy, a hive of creation where every customer was a potential co-conspirator in their quest for beauty. The whispers grew into a chorus, the story of the deer and its antlers a siren's call that could no longer be ignored. One evening, as they sat exhausted but exhilarated, the old man approached, his gait slower now, his eyes dimmer but still filled with the mischief of the eternal trickster. "The story," he said, "it is time for it to leave this place, to find its way in the world beyond these walls." He handed them a small, leather-bound book, its pages filled with the scribbled notes and sketches that had been the seeds of their creation. "This is your manifesto," he whispered. "Guard it well, for it holds the key to the door of the surreal." With trembling hands, they took the book, feeling the weight of their responsibility. The painter, his eyes shimmering with the light of a thousand stars, nodded in agreement. "The world is ready," he said, his voice a gentle rumble like distant thunder. "They need to see the beauty in the absurd, to know that there is more to life than what their eyes tell them." And so, the four of them set forth into the city, their hearts beating in time with the story that had become their life's work. The streets were their stage, the buildings their canvas, the people their audience. They painted murals of antlered deer and told tales of the surreal to anyone who would listen, their words a balm for the souls that had grown weary of the mundane. The city began to change, its dull grayness giving way to a riot of color and life. The whispers grew into a roar, the laughter a symphony that echoed through the streets. They had become the catalyst for a revolution of the imagination, a force that could not be stopped. The writer and the barista watched in amazement as the story grew beyond their wildest dreams. The deer with the antlers of possibility had become a symbol of hope, a reminder that the world was not fixed, but fluid, that reality was not a cage but a playground. And as they stood on the rooftops, looking out at the city that had become a tapestry of their creation, they knew that their journey had just begun. The painter's works adorned the walls, the Deer's Disciple's visions danced in the minds of the people, and their words painted a new reality. The café was no longer just a meeting place but a sanctuary, a beacon of light in the dark forest of the ordinary. The story of the deer had become a living, breathing part of the city, a reminder that the absurd was not just a jest but a gateway to understanding. The writer felt the pages of his manuscript flutter in the breeze, the ink still wet with the tears and laughter of those who had read it. He knew that the story was not just his anymore, but belonged to everyone who had felt the touch of the deer's antlers. The barista, her eyes reflecting the glow of the streetlights, whispered, "The story is ours now, but we must let it go." And so, they did. They released the story into the wild, watching as it grew and changed, taking on a life of its own. It was a bittersweet moment, the culmination of their shared dream, but they knew that the deer's antlered dance would live on in the hearts of those who had been touched by it. The writer took the barista's hand, the painter and the Deer's Disciple at their side, and together they stepped into the night, the whispers of the surreal guiding them into the next chapter of their absurd odyssey. They had become more than just storytellers; they were the architects of a new world, a world where the absurd was the most profound truth of all.

By Carlos del Puente relatos