The Spite Tree

No, no, NO. You idiot.

You can’t just carve your name into that fig tree and walk away whistling. 

That’s not how this works. That tree remembers. That tree holds grudges. That tree will carve your name into its own bark, happily bleeding sap and spite in exchange for sending the horrid wind and its cruel menagerie of devils after you.

Do you have any idea what you’ve summoned, you jam-fingered little Sprite?

Iiiiiiidiot! 

You deep-fried dunce with horseshit for brains.

In case you think about playing stupid again, let me be clear: 

You’ve summoned the kind of storm that doesn’t ask questions, that feeds on names, that gets off on breaking the world, on the sound of begging.

You’ve done it now, and of course, as allllwaaaays, I have to clean up your mess.

~ The Sprite, unseen, unheard, says something clearly flippant and infuriating. ~

Ha-haaaa, as if I should have expected anything different from the likes of you. You’ll just vanish into the forest as the sun rises, leaving behind your stupid, intoxicating stench of honey, woodsmoke, and megalomania. 

And lil’ ‘ol me? Still here—still stuck in this mortal realm that you treat like a goddamn playground for your god complex.

———and we keep ending up here.

we both know you have what I need—
the spark, the madness, the bite.

You’re the only supplier.

So I’m trapped between terrible choices. I can turn my back on you, and myself, in the name of safety, comfort, familiarity… Or continue risking everything in the name of alignment... But this isn’t even a real choice, is it?

Even if I tried negotiating our arrangement, you’d just do what you’ve always done and find ways of twisting all the details to alter the outcome in your favor. 

So… So all I can do is keep walking forward, keep coming back for more—at least I know you won’t be going anywhere. Was our messy dance through time fated? Or did you spot me spinning in the ether, a lost one, seeking their centre, and think, “Yes, yes indeed… Let me fuck with that one for all eternity”?

~ The Sprite stares back with golden eyes, empty, cold and uncaring. ~

I don’t know why I ask you these questions. Not like you usually answer. Or when you do, you rattle off the most mind-bending, step-skipping dribble I’ve ever heard.

So why don’t you just go. I’ve gotta deal with this enraged fig tree now, if it’s not too late. You’ll just mess with and heckle and harass me, making any hope of salvaging this situation impossible—then even you might be fucked. At least we’ll both go down. Wouldn’t that be just divine?

I can dream, can’t I? After all, that fig tree doesn’t care about dreams. Only debts.

If I clean up your godforsaken mess again, and that’s a BIG if… 

You’d better bring a gift next time you come slinking out of the forest. Preferably not blood again please and thanks, for all the good I’m sure manners will do.

~ Somewhere dark and hidden, a violent grin splits the Sprite’s face as the sun’s first rays carve through the trees, wisps of honey and smoke curling into nothing. ~

With love from the forest,

~ Alexander

P.S. A new addition to Emberbrook is coming: The Velvet Telegram

Where Wiz’s Whimsies are typically written off-the-cuff, with irreverence, for the sole purpose of scratching whatever creative or emotional itch is alive in me at the time…

The Velvet Telegram takes more of a lighthouse-in-the-fog approach, coming in the form of insightful letters delivered in a cloud of smoke and on a bed of silk—a blend of story, confession, and creative wisdom. 

These telegrams come recommended for anyone with at least one creative bone in their body (which I suspect includes you), or anyone drawn to plumbing the depths of yourself on a quest for growth.

The first story to publish (next week sometime), marking my return to the kind of longer-form, insightful writing that I haven’t touched since my fitness coaching days?

How I Became My Own Muse: The Art of Becoming Your Own Favourite Hallucination

The Velvet Telegram lives on Substack, and you can subscribe here.