The Story-Seeker and Her Rooted Friend
Forged Series Prequel: The Future of Nature Special Substack Event for Earth Day 2025
To learn more about the FORGED series, visit the Table of Contents.
The Future of Nature
“The Future of Nature” is an Earth Day community writing project for fiction writers to explore the human-nature relationship in a short story or poem. It was organized by and , and supported with brilliant advice from scientists
and . The story you’re about to read is from this project.The full list of stories from the writers participating in The Future of Nature Earth Day story project are listed below and can be found on the Top In Fiction Disruption post from
.Alia Parker | Alicia Arbe | Annie Hendrix | Ben Wakeman | Brian Reindel 👾⚔️ | 𝐂𝐁 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 (you are here) | Chef Chris | Claudia Befu | D. A. Kelly Author | Dan Reat | Devon Nako | Emily Charlotte Powell | Johnathan Reid | Joseph Young | Julie Gabrielli | Kate Bown | Marla Lise | Mary L. Tabor | Nick Buchheit | Nick Winney | radicaledward | Sarah Rose Nordgren | Sharon Hom | Shoni | Stephanie Loomis | Stephanie Sweeney | Susan Earlam | Thomas Wharton
The Story-Seeker and Her Rooted Friend
“Hello, my tall, rooted friend.” I wrapped my arms around the trunk of my favorite Black Cottonwood tree.
Strong and silent, the tree stood guard over the hillside. Gnarled with age. Laden with wisdom. Rich with tales written like a tapestry upon the bark, woven through the roots, and etched with far-reaching branches.
— Hello, little wanderer. Welcome back.
The rough bark rasped against my cheek. And though I couldn’t reach even halfway around, I stretched as far as possible to squeeze the expanse. Closing my eyes, I imagined the tree sighing a greeting in return.
— Ah, you are warm as always. And your barkless outer layer is a welcome embrace. What shall we talk about today?
Stepping back, I tipped my head up to see through the branches scraping the sky. The leaves up high were golden in the sun’s rays. “How’s the weather up there?”
My mamá chuckled as she passed me on her way to the creek. She was harvesting mushrooms today, a favorite excursion of mine because I got to visit with this bark-faced elder, the oldest on the hillside.
I didn’t care if she thought it was funny that a fourteen-year-old would talk to a tree. I’d been doing it for years. Since I was younger than Sis was now. Sure, I knew the old-growth tree would never say a word back, but that didn’t mean we didn’t have conversations.
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I ran my hand down the bumpy skin of my friend. My fingers trailed over the deep crevices of the bark and traced the edges of the open wound. The bark was blackened and pulled away, almost like a heavy curtain being drawn apart. The inner layers were exposed, smoothed by the years of weather and the tree’s attempt to seal and heal the damage.
— Ah, that tickles, young sapling.
I imagined the tree squirm under my gentle touch, almost as if the area was ticklish. Picturing the tree laughing made me grin. My smile faded. “You shouldn’t have this injury. Tell me again about how you survived the Great Changes. You must’ve seen so much in your decades on this hillside.”
— Well, story-seeker, I was older than you, but still young for my kind, when we were parched from too little rain. My leaves were brittle, unlike my big leafy greens today. The elders were in worse shape. They sent us young ones more moisture and sustenance than our fair share, protecting us from the drought. Telling us to grow tall and strong like them. After suffering dryness for many moon visits, the nighttime sky was lit by fire bolts. They reached out and touched the ridgeline behind you.
I envisioned daytime turning to night—the Great Changes were always dark in my mind—and I looked around. I leaned closer to listen. A distant boom of workers repairing the comms tower reminded me of thunder and lightning.
— My elders rustled with concern, but I couldn’t see around their girth to know why they worried. Then I felt the whispering of panic through the web of mycelium woven beneath the soil. They warned, ‘The bright, roaring purifier is coming.’
I watched a trail of ants traverse the edge of a wrinkle in the bark. Each carried a little piece of treasure on their back, like parts of a story to be reconstructed later.
— The feathered nest makers flew off. The wind picked up, roaring louder than a metal bird buzzing the ridgeline. As I shifted back and forth, I tried to catch a glimpse of what those taller than me watched with concern. And when I did, let me tell you, I was frightened.
I squatted down, hand on the bark, feeling vibrations, almost like when I shivered when scared.
— The dry hillside was immediately engulfed in flames. An inferno reaching the hidden stars, moving wild and swift through those gathered on the slope. The blaze swallowed the darkness.
I rocked back on my heels and looked up. I could almost see the sun streaks as light reflected from flames. “How bright is a forest fire. Bright as today?”
— Not as bright, no. The sentinels guarding our side cast stark shadows, so looking towards the gruesome sight alternated between gloom and blinding light.
Wind through the branches shifted the leaves, and the sun’s glare blinded me for a moment.
— The wall of flames coming towards us was massive. I can admit now, it was impressive, but in the moment, I was quivering with terror. Then, over the howl of the wind, the sounds reached me. Popping. Crackling. Squealing. The cries of those on fire will forever be seared into my memories.
A stick broke nearby. The loud crack made me flinch and look. Mamá was walking around collecting mushrooms down the slope from me. I brushed my hair off my forehead. My finger came away damp. “The forest fire must’ve been hot.”
— Worse than when the glowing orb is at its highest. My side closest to the approaching blaze was singed. The blast of heat cracked me open like a seed.
I rubbed my hand down the blackened curve of the bark. “It must have hurt.”
— It was as if all the water was scorched out of each of us. We shriveled and curled up with dehydration. My heartwood steamed, my cambium hissed.
“How did you survive?”
— I was surrounded by more of my kind back then. And those in front of me shielded me from the flames and the worst of the heat. The other hillside was not as fortunate. And if the wind hadn’t shifted direction when it did, our cluster would’ve all been burnt beyond recognition. But the flames moved off, away from us, charring a path up the ravine and across the ridges. For miles of the folded earth, our kin were taken from us. The underground web went eerily silent. The sky wept with us.
“Tell me about the rains. They must’ve helped.”
— The veil above released a torrent of water and pelted us. Sizzling sounds and sighs of relief echoed up the hill as those charred by the fire soaked up the cool soothing water, myself included. As awful as it sounds, I praised the stars we were spared and thanked the rain pouring down.
I moved around the base to the squishy green moss. The metal ‘root’ blocked my path on the back side. Mamá had explained how the tree grew around the fallen turbine blade, absorbing the man-made debris into its structure until the tree and blade were inseparable. I knocked on the metal, and a muted sound echoed along the length.
“Do you feel that?” I look up at my rooted friend and asked.
— That I do. That blade has been a part of me for many years. When the quaking of the ground crumbled the blunt-edge boxes of the two-legged ones and ripped up the false rock they placed in large patches, the unnatural trees on the ridgeline tumbled. Their roots were not as deep as mine. And their trunks were too rigid to dance with the ground’s movement.
I’ve heard this story many times, but I paused and smiled, willing to hear it again. “Were you scared when you saw the blade coming for you?”
— My barkless kin, I was too busy gripping the soil and swaying in time to the rumbling to notice the blade sliding down the slope. Not until it stuck into my side did I pay any notice.
“Were you mad at the intrusion?”
— Well, sure, at first. But, just as after the fire, I sealed the wound and became stronger for it.
“Tell me again how your metal root saved you.” I ran my hand over the moss that covered the tree's north face and gripped the blade's microtexture much like it clung to the tree’s bark. The blade truly looked to be one with the tree.
— A couple of leaf cycles later, many around me had succumbed to the effects of the great fire. Only a few of us remained. When the season changed to block the warming orb, the grey blanket returned. Only this time, instead of seeping, the sky poured. I lost track of how long we’d gone without a break. The hillside turned muddy and slick. My grip on the loosened earth was . . . precarious. The murmurs of a landslide rustled through the ranks of us still standing. We’d outlasted previous cycles, so we thought we could remain until the brightness came back to dry out the slope.
— But the ground shaking returned. Stronger than the times before. The soil, super saturated by days of heavy rainfall, could hold our weight no longer.
“Earthquakes are terrifying.”
— True, landslides are even more fearsome. And I was scared. I felt my own footing slip. My purchase on the slope began to give way. Yelps of panic raced through those clustered around me. The oldest told us to stiffen, to brace against each other. Even the underground webbing curled its tentacles to hold us.
— The shaking continued, and the hillside liquefied. Sounds of breaking and rumbling intensified around me. The ground turned into a river of mud and debris, roaring like the metal boxes that used to thunder past.
“How did you not get pulled down the slope?”
— My metal root held me in place. I tried to hold on to the others, but my grip wasn’t strong enough for their weight.
I walked over to the deep craters left by other trees that had perished in the landslide. The years had softened the scars in the earth. New growth had creeped over the soil, though not enough to cover my majestic friend’s exposed roots, which told the rest of the story. I ran my fingers over the broken ends. Marveled at the healed wound. “You tried your best to save them.”
— Ah, thank you. I sometimes forget you can see my past so clearly.
“I hope I’m strong enough to help others when they need me.”
— You are strong enough already, gentle-listener. You are enough.
To learn more about the FORGED series, visit the Table of Contents.
A Prequel of sorts
Thank you for reading my interpretation of “The Future of Nature,” a special Substack event in honor of Earth Day 2025.
Want to know how this story came to be? Read the behind-the-scenes look at this special short story, written from the point of view of the protagonist, Contessa “Tessa” Wright —a sort of prequel to my novel, Shattered, book one of the Forged Series.
Want more?
If you enjoyed this short story, you might be interested in these.
Or pick up a copy of the novel, Shattered, to read more of Tessa’s story. Find it here⤵️
Check out these other “The Future of Nature” stories and poems!
The moth effect, Alia Parker
We are Stardust, Alicia Arbe
This Will Happen Again, Annie Hendrix
You Won’t Remember, Ben Wakeman
Red Bloom, Brian Reindel 👾⚔️
The Story-Seeker and Her Rooted Friend, 𝐂𝐁 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧
Fall of the Jellarks, Chef Chris
Human Island,Claudia Befu
Silverback, Memoirs of a Mad Scientist
GOB CHÀRNAIRC, Dan Reat
Bad Kids Don’t Light Good Fires, Devon Nako
Archive of Stone, Emily Charlotte Powell
Homeobox, Johnathan Reid
The Cheyenne Girl, Joseph Young
then now someday, Julie Gabrielli
Life with birds in the fifty-second world, Kate Bown
The Last Dreamer, Marla Lise
Earth Day Thoughts, <Mary L. Tabor>
Renovated Home for Sale in the Carolina Mountains. Includes Fish. Nick Buchheit
Homo Myceliensis, Nick Winney
I dreamt of better worlds, radicaledward
Bright shards of sea-worn credit cards, Sarah Rose Nordgren
The Future(s) of Justice (Part 1): Sofia108, Sharon Hom
Surface Tension, Shoni
Topside, Stephanie Loomis
Follow on the Water, Stephanie Sweeney
The Stone Dreams, Susan Earlam
Books of the Future, Thomas Wharton
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This is like a grown up version of "The Giving Tree"! Thanks for sharing the story. It's hard to write from the perspective of inanimate objects, but you did a fantastic job. Although trees are kind of in the middle 😁
“You are strong enough already” is just what I’d want to hear from a tree elder.