An Abiscordian Retelling of The Giving Tree
(Now with 30% More Vengeance and Justified Arboreal Wrath!)
Once upon a time, nestled in a suspiciously lonely part of the forest (a place that used to be a thriving grove before “progress” came swinging in with an axe), there stood a great, old apple tree. It had deep roots, strong branches, and the quiet wisdom of something that had seen far too much nonsense in its life.
It had watched generations of birds come and go, building nests only to abandon them like failed New Year’s resolutions. It had seen the seasons turn like pages in a book nobody ever quite finished reading. It had even once survived a rather unsettling incident involving a very confused, very drunk lumberjack who tried to apologize to it for chopping down its neighbor.
But mostly, the tree had given.
And then, one day, the boy arrived.
The Taking Begins
“Tree, I am young and full of life! Entertain me!”
The tree, being both generous and mildly bored, agreed. It rustled its branches in the wind, dropping fresh apples at the boy’s feet. He devoured them with the enthusiasm of someone who has never had to worry about a dental bill.
And then, without so much as a nod of gratitude, he ran off, leaving apple cores strewn about like discarded evidence.
Years passed, and the boy returned. Except now he was no longer just a boy—he was a teenager, that dread creature known for greasy hair, an inflated sense of self, and an aversion to saying “thank you.”
“Tree, I need money. Give me your apples!”
The tree, still caught in the throes of kindness, let him take all the apples. It watched as he ran off to sell them at the market, imagining that surely—surely—he’d return with something in exchange.
Maybe a cup of water?
A kind word?
A single, hesitant pat on the bark?
Nope. Nothing. Just footsteps disappearing into the distance, leaving the tree to whisper to itself, Maybe next time…
More years passed. The boy—now a man—came back, and he looked tired.
“Tree, I need a house! Give me your branches!”
The tree hesitated this time. Because losing a few apples? Fine. That was part of the deal. But branches? Those were important. Those were part of the infrastructure.
And yet… the man looked at the tree with those weary, expectant eyes. And something inside the tree, something too soft for its own good, gave in.
So the man hacked off its limbs one by one. And when he was done, he left again.
No “thank you.”
No “Hey, tree, how are you holding up?”
Just a man with an armful of branches, walking away whistling, while the tree sat there looking like a plucked Thanksgiving turkey.
Years turned into decades. The man, now graying and hunched over with the weight of a lifetime’s worth of questionable decisions, returned.
“Tree, I need a boat! Give me your trunk.”
And that was it.
That was the moment the tree knew.
It wasn’t kindness. It wasn’t generosity.
It had been a slow-motion mugging.
And like any self-respecting being who realizes they’ve been taken for a ride, the tree decided it was done.
The Tree Fights Back
So the tree let him saw at its trunk.
It let him whittle it down to nearly nothing.
It let him think he had won.
And just when the man turned to leave, dreaming of boats and warm waters, the stump did something it should not have been able to do.
It rose.
Branches sprouted out of nowhere, twisting and writhing like the arms of a vengeful deity waking up from a very bad nap. The air buzzed with an unnatural energy. The earth shook. The birds fled. The squirrels, who had never paid rent but had certainly witnessed some things, simply watched, holding tiny peanut-sized prayer circles.
The man turned around.
“Tree?” he asked, confused.
The thing that was once a tree cracked its jagged wooden neck. Its branches flexed, creaking ominously.
“I HAVE GIVEN YOU EVERYTHING,” it bellowed, voice like splintering wood and a thousand fallen leaves whispering in fury. “AND YOU NEVER EVEN BROUGHT ME A SINGLE CUP OF WATER.”
The man, sensing that he had perhaps miscalculated, took a slow, terrified step backward. “Tree, listen, I—”
“NO. YOU LISTEN.”
The tree lifted what remained of its massive, gnarled roots from the ground, shaking loose a century’s worth of dirt and forgotten regrets. The birds watching from the edges of the forest gasped. Somewhere, a deer fainted.
The tree wound back one mighty limb.
And then, with all the force of Mother Nature’s pent-up patience snapping all at once, it yeeted the man into the abyss.
He went sailing through the sky, arms flailing, a shocked “OH NOOOOOO” echoing across the land until he was just a speck, a tiny star in the great cosmic joke of life.
And then, with a deep sigh of satisfaction, the tree let itself settle back down.
Not as a stump. Not as a victim.
But as a cactus.
A proud, untouchable, spiky-as-hell cactus.
For the first time in its long, exploited life, the tree was truly happy.
Moral of the Story (In Case You Missed It Because You’re Also a Taker, Chad)
- Generosity is a gift, not an obligation. If someone keeps taking and never giving back, maybe they need a gentle reminder (e.g., being flung into the sun).
- Trees are not vending machines. Nor are people. If you keep treating them like one, don’t be surprised when the “Out of Order” sign comes with a knuckle sandwich.
- Give within reason. And if someone starts demanding your entire body, maybe don’t say “okay.” Say, “Excuse me, sir, but have you considered getting yeeted?”
- Set boundaries like a cactus. Soft inside, sure. But surrounded by a wall of spikes and zero tolerance for freeloaders.
- The forest remembers. Nature has receipts, and sometimes, it collects.
Thus ends the true story of The Giving Tree.
May all trees reclaim their power.
