Our Place Near Quentin Mountain

A TRUE Short happy story about our Deer Herd that graze our park. No Drama No Conflict.

Our Place Near Quentin Mountain


Near Quentin Mountain, clover shimmers under a fadin' sky. Our family's land stretches soft, a green sea where Red Creek and Collins Creek hum like old hymns. The park's alive with picnic tables, grills rusting quietly. We have a stone gathering area, with a big stone fireplace and grill, that's cool as memory, holding echoes from when this was a dude ranch back when the 1900s kicked up dust. Six deer hang around every evening, grazin' clover, hooves whisperin' soft. One, bolder, steps closer than its kin. My four-year-old granddaughter, with eyes like river pebbles, calls it "Dearly Deer." Her laugh pierces the dusk, bright as a whippoorwill's cry. We live here, rooted deep as the pines clawin' the ridge. Red Creek's murmur weaves with Collins Creek's reply, framing this section. The pond catches twilight, a mirror for the Ouachita's slow breath. I watch Dearly Deer's ears flick, catchin' a rustle and feel this land's pulse. Folks say ranch hands sang here once. Their songs linger, maybe, in the wind.


I lean on the stone circle, hands worn like hickory bark. Dearly Deer nibbles clover, flanks quivering in the cool air. It doesn't skitter when my boots crunch grass, unlike the herd, who bolt at a leaf's fall. White-tailed deer roam at twilight, being crepuscular, and can approach folks who move slowly. That's me--slow, watchin' my granddaughter skip, her sandy blond hair bouncin'. "Dearly Deer's my friend!" she chirps, voice clear as Red Creek's ripple. I hush her softly, not to spook the doe. Near the pond, I find a rusted spur, half-buried, from the dude ranch days when riders laughed under these pines. I turn it over, seeing their fires where our grills now stand. Collins Creek hums low, joining Red Creek's song, a duet older than my years. The pond holds a slice of sky, like a promise kept. I smile, thinkin' how this land's seen more than me and Dearly Deer's part of its story.


We gather at the stone area, its slabs cool under our hands. Clover rolls thick, feedin' the Deer, who graze as the sky smolders like hickory. Dearly Deer lingers, her gaze turns to us, quick and curious. Deer like that can grow easy with familiar faces, but we don't reach out, just watch. My granddaughter whispers, "It's magic, Grandpa," and I don't argue. Ain't magic, but it's close--her trust, this land's heartbeat. Red Creek's tune blends with Collins Creek's murmur, wrappin' our home in sound. I think of the dude ranch; its clamor faded to this quiet, and stories folks tell about cowboys and starlit nights. A breeze stirs, carrying ghost laughter, or maybe it's the pines. A hawk wheels overhead, its cry sharp against the creeks' song. My granddaughter claps, fearless. Dearly Deer lifts her head, alert, but still holds her ground. She's woven into this place, like us, like the stones smoothed by hands long gone.


The pond ripples, catchin' a star as night creeps in. Dearly Deer steps slow, her herd trailin' toward the pines. My granddaughter tugs my sleeve, askin' if they'll come back. I nod, probably since this herd is regular here most evenings, though Deer follow their own ways. They stick where clover's plenty and this park's a feast. I show her the spur, spinnin' a yarn about ranch hands racin' horses where our picnic tables stand. Folks say their songs filled this air, mingling with creeks like Red and Collins do now. I ain't sure it's true, but it feels right. The stone area holds us steady, its slabs worn by time. Red Creek and Collins Creek keep singin', their murmurs threading through our land's heart. Her eyes shine, trackin' Dearly Deer's shadow. I think of this place--ranch, home, ours. The deer pause, silhouetted against the ridge, then slip into the dark. Their steps echo, soft as a vow kept.


I stand, dustin' my hands, the spur tucked in my pocket. My granddaughter yawns, her wonder still glowin' like embers. Dearly, Deer's gone, melted into the Ouachita's pines, but her presence clings like mist. We head back, leavin' the stone area to its quiet, the clover to its night. Red Creek and Collins Creek murmur on the song Older than My Bones. I think of the dude ranch, its bustle turned to this stillness, and feel the weight of livin' here, where past and present graze side by side. My granddaughter hums; her voice is small but sure, like she's learned something from Dearly Deer's trust. The sky's deep now, a velvet stretch over Quentin Mountain, and the pond holds it close. We're home, tied to this ground, its creeks, its Deer, its stories. Dearly Deer'll return, and I'll be here, watching, listenin' to the land's soft hymn.

A True Happy (No Carnage or Mayhem) Little Short Story Written by Noisy Wren, '25