The “Eco-Friendly” Christmas Tree
The “Eco-Friendly” Christmas Tree
Stave 1
A family decides to get a live, potted Christmas tree to be more sustainable. The tree, however, is a chaotic and mischievous little plant. It sheds its needles all over the house, grows at an alarming rate, and maybe even starts to move around on its own when no one is looking.
The Arrival of the Tree
The Johnson family, led by an enthusiastic but naive mom, Susan, arrives at the local Christmas tree farm. Instead of the usual rows of cut firs, they head for the “Living Trees” section. The tree salesman, a shifty-eyed man in a muddy parka, hands them a small, potted spruce with a suspicious-looking tag that reads “Non-Shedding & Delightfully Fragrant.”
They get the tree home, but even the act of getting it through the door is a struggle. It seems to resist every pull and push. Once inside, they place it in the living room, where it stands perfectly still, almost too still.
That’s when the first weird thing happens. The lights, which Susan has carefully wrapped around the tree, suddenly go out. Thinking it’s a short circuit, Dad, Mark, jiggles the plug. The lights flicker back on, but now they’re not twinkling—they’re blinking a frantic, off-beat rhythm that makes everyone slightly dizzy.
The family dismisses it as a fluke and begins to decorate. But as they hang their favorite ornaments, they notice something odd. The tree’s branches seem to subtly shift, nudging away the handcrafted snowmen and heirloom glass baubles. Every time they place an ornament on a branch, it ends up in a different, less-than-ideal spot just a few minutes later.
The kids, ten-year-old Lily and seven-year-old Sam, are the first to get suspicious. Sam swears he saw a branch twitch on its own. Lily notices that a tiny Santa Claus ornament keeps migrating from a high branch to a low one, as if someone is moving it when their backs are turned.
By the end of the first night, the Johnsons are tired but proud of their new, living Christmas tree. Little do they know, this is just the beginning of a long, bizarre holiday season.
A Morning of Mayhem
The next morning, the Johnsons wake up to a scene of subtle chaos. The living room is covered in a fine layer of green, powdery dust. At first, Susan thinks it’s just the tree shedding its “non-shedding” needles. But upon closer inspection, she realizes it’s glitter—specifically, the glitter from their holiday-themed tablecloth. The tree has somehow inhaled it all and is now sparkling from every branch.
Meanwhile, the ornaments have completely rearranged themselves overnight. The handcrafted, ceramic reindeer are now dangling from the very top branches like daredevils, while the fragile, glass baubles are all crammed together on a single lower branch, clinking ominously.
The worst is yet to come. The family’s cat, Mittens, is found trapped halfway up the tree, tangled in tinsel. She’s not just stuck, though—a tiny, prickly branch has wrapped itself around her tail like a handcuff. Mark has to carefully snip the branch to free her, all while the tree seems to subtly rustle with a low, taunting vibration.
That night, as the family sits down to watch a movie, they’re interrupted by a series of unsettling noises. A deep, thumping sound comes from the living room, followed by a clatter. When they investigate, they find the tree has dragged itself a full foot across the floor, leaving a long scratch mark on the hardwood. It’s now positioned directly in front of the television, as if to say, “I am the main event.”
The family exchanges worried glances. This isn’t just a quirky plant; it’s a living, breathing menace.
The Root of the Problem
The following days descended into a bizarre, escalating battle of wills. The tree, which the kids had now christened “Pine-as-aur” (much to Susan’s dismay), grew with terrifying speed. Every morning, Mark had to saw off a foot of the top that had somehow pressed itself against the ceiling, releasing a cloud of “delightfully fragrant” pine scent that was now starting to smell vaguely like stale gym socks.
The family tried everything to contain it. They duct-taped the pot to the floor, only to wake up and find the tree had simply uprooted itself from the pot entirely and planted its base directly into the carpet. Susan tried playing soothing classical music, hoping to mellow it out, but the tree only responded by aggressively shaking its branches until every single ornament was flung off, narrowly missing Lily’s head.
The most disturbing change was its movement. It no longer waited for the family to turn their backs. Now, when they entered the living room, they might catch a fleeting glimpse of a branch retracting too quickly, or see the whole trunk subtly lean toward them, as if listening to their conversation.
One afternoon, Sam was alone in the room, trying to retrieve his favorite action figure that had fallen underneath the couch. As he reached, he heard a low, woody chuckle. He looked up just in time to see a lower branch, thick as a man’s arm, snatch his superhero and lift it high above the mantle, holding it ransom.
Christmas Eve Catastrophe
By Christmas Eve, the Johnsons’ living room looked like a botanical war zone. Pine-as-aur now nearly filled the entire space. Its needles weren’t just shedding; they were actively flinging themselves like tiny, green darts. The family had taken to wearing thick socks and slippers indoors.
Susan was making her famous eggnog when she heard a blood-curdling scream from the living room. She raced in to find Lily and Sam pressed against the wall, eyes wide with terror.
“It’s eating the presents!” shrieked Lily.
It was true. The tree had strategically positioned itself right in front of the pile of beautifully wrapped gifts. A thick, lowest branch was slowly but surely dragging a present, a new electronic tablet for Lily, underneath its lowest boughs. The wrapping paper tore with a sickening shredding sound.
Mark grabbed his axe from the garage. “That’s it,” he grunted, brandishing the tool. “Sustainable or not, this thing is going into the compost bin!”
But as he raised the axe, the tree seemed to anticipate his move. Every single light on its branches went out. The living room was plunged into darkness, save for the flickering light of the fireplace.
Then, the true horror was revealed. The tree began to glow with a sickly, ethereal green light of its own. Its branches, thicker and more numerous than ever, began to reach out—not just swaying, but actively stretching and writhing toward the family. The scent of pine was replaced by a sharp, metallic, ozone smell.
“Run!” yelled Mark, shoving Susan and the kids toward the front door.
As they scrambled out, looking back, they saw the trunk of Pine-as-aur split open slightly, revealing what looked disturbingly like a large, woody mouth lined with tiny, sharp, brown needles. It let out a loud, mocking, vegetative roar.
They slammed the front door and stood panting on the porch. Suddenly, a massive, decorated branch punched through the living room window like a green battering ram, showering the porch in glass and rogue tinsel. It swept the axe right out of Mark’s hand and then retracted, holding the tool aloft like a trophy.
Just then, a small, heavily-taped brown box rolled out from under the porch railing. It was from the tree farm. Sam picked it up and read the label: “CARE INSTRUCTIONS: MUST BE WATERED WITH A MINIMUM OF 3 GALLONS OF SALT WATER DAILY. FAILURE TO DO SO MAY RESULT IN AGGRESSIVE BEHAVIOR.”
The Johnson family quietly drove to a nearby motel, leaving their “eco-friendly” holiday menace to slowly consume the gifts and hopefully run out of house to destroy by morning.
The Day After Christmas
The Johnsons returned the next morning, dreading the sight of their pulverized living room. They pulled up to the house to find two things immediately apparent. The massive, gaping hole in the window was neatly filled with a haphazard tangle of tinsel, and the “Living Trees” salesman was standing on their lawn, looking desperately apologetic.
“Mr. Johnson! Mrs. Johnson! So sorry about the… rapid adjustment period,” he stammered, smoothing down his parka. “That specific cultivar, the Picea malefica, requires a highly specialized, proprietary brine. Didn’t realize my intern forgot to include the Saline Stabilizer Spray.”
Mark merely pointed to the axe on the lawn. “It ate our presents. It tried to fight me with my own axe.”
“Yes, well, that’s the sap-rage,” the salesman muttered, pulling a thick envelope from his briefcase. “This is a full refund, plus compensation for the structural damage. And as for the… specimen,” he said, taking two enormous steps back as the living room wall subtly bulged. “I’ll call my partner. We have a specialized crew for ‘Bio-Aggressive Holiday Artifact Retrieval.’ They wear thick leather, you can’t miss them.”
Two days later, the “Retrieval Crew”—two burly guys in padded hockey gear carrying a very large chainsaw and a bucket labeled “Extra Salty Brine Solution”—showed up. After much noise, cursing, and the smell of ozone, the dormant, now-brown shell of Pine-as-aur was dragged out of their living room, leaving a long, deep gouge in the hardwood floor.
The following Christmas, the Johnsons went back to tradition. They bought a plastic, pre-lit, non-moving, fire-retardant artificial tree from a big box store. It was garish, static, and completely devoid of organic menace.
And as they hung their ornaments—which stayed exactly where they were placed—they agreed it was, by far, the most sustainable Christmas they had ever had. After all, nothing is more sustainable than absolute, predictable peace.
Stave 2
The Salt Lake City Trip
The Discovery
A year after the nightmare, the Johnsons’ Christmas was aggressively ordinary. They had spent the entire fall rebuilding their living room and were now the proud owners of a four-foot tall, fire-retardant plastic tree named “Doug” (short for “Doubt”). It was a deliberate exercise in sterile holiday safety.
However, Mark could not let go. He spent his evenings on obscure arborist forums under the handle “AxeDad1975,” searching for answers about the Picea malefica. One evening, he found a grainy post titled, “BRINE CULTIVARS: POST-MORTEM TIPS.”
The post, from a user named “SaltWrangler,” explained that the Picea malefica never truly dies unless it’s exposed to extreme salinity. The brief brining in the “Retrieval Crew’s” bucket had merely stunned it; the plant was dormant, waiting to spring back to life. The post recommended a full, permanent purging in the Great Salt Lake.
Mark rushed to the garage. There, sealed in a heavy-duty contractor bag and shoved into the darkest corner, was the stiff, brown, shriveled carcass of their former Christmas tree.
“It’s still alive,” Mark whispered, his eyes wide. “We have to finish it.”
The Quest
It was a tough sell to Susan, but the image of the spruce’s woody mouth flashing in her nightmares finally convinced her. On December 22nd, the Johnsons packed their luggage, a trunk of normal Christmas things, and the bagged, dormant pine corpse, strapped to a rental trailer. Their mission: deliver the menace to the Great Salt Lake.
The cross-country drive was tense. Every bump the trailer hit, Susan, Lily, and Sam would flinch, convinced they heard a twig snap in the back. Mittens, the cat, rode the entire way stuffed inside Mark’s fleece vest, refusing to look out the window.
They finally reached Utah on Christmas Eve. The vast, strange, alien landscape of salt flats surrounding the lake felt fittingly apocalyptic. They drove the rental truck to a remote, empty stretch of shoreline. The air was thick with the scent of brine.
The Final Salty Showdown
Mark and Susan unhitched the trailer. The brown, needle-shedding corpse of the Picea malefica had been wrapped in chain-link fencing as a precaution. Sam and Lily stood a safe distance away, clutching a Super Soaker filled with ordinary, non-aggressive tap water—their only defense.
“Ready, Johnson family?” Mark asked, brandishing the axe (which he had re-purchased).
As they began to drag the heavy, inert shape toward the water, the intense salinity in the air worked its terrible magic.
A low, guttural moan escaped the brittle, dead-looking branches. The brown needles began to vibrate, then shiver, and then, slowly, a vibrant, sick emerald green began to bloom on the tips of the boughs.
“It’s regenerating!” shrieked Susan.
The tree snapped out of its dormancy. It wasn’t the powerful beast from last year, but a smaller, scrawnier, and utterly furious version. Two thick, new roots, slick with dark sap, snaked out from the bottom of the fencing and clamped onto the trailer hitch.
“It’s fighting back!” yelled Mark.
The tree strained, attempting to drag the entire truck and trailer back toward the mainland. Lily and Sam, overcoming their fear, blasted the nearest regenerating roots with tap water. The mundane liquid sizzled on the aggressive foliage, causing the roots to momentarily retract.
“It hates the fresh water!” yelled Lily. “Keep soaking it!”
Mark used the opportunity to hack at the thickest branch with the axe, severing it with a sharp thwack. The tree recoiled, letting out a shriek that sounded like a thousand dry pinecones crunching at once.
Susan rushed forward and, with a primal yell, pushed the entire chained mass of the Picea malefica toward the water’s edge. It rolled down the salty bank and plunged into the opaque, hyper-saline waters of the Great Salt Lake with a magnificent WHOOSH.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, a massive cloud of green gas, smelling strongly of pine and ozone, burst from the surface, followed by a sound like a giant, sizzling exhale. The Picea malefica dissolved into a thick, briny foam.
The Johnsons stood panting on the shore, watching the green cloud dissipate over the silent, empty lake.
“Happy Christmas, you demon spruce,” Mark mumbled, wiping the sweat from his brow.
They spent the rest of the holiday huddled in a surprisingly cozy motel room, ordering room service and watching classic movies. They missed the familiar comfort of home, but the silence, broken only by the sound of Sam wrestling with a complimentary pillow, was its own kind of holiday miracle.
The next year, the Johnsons bought two identical four-foot plastic trees named Doug and Dale. Just in case.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 