Oh Tannenbaum's Revenge

I always though I’d make a classy corpse—lit up in gaudy white lights, a gold star perched on my severed head, and a mountain of overpriced presents stuffed under my body. Instead, I’m still here. Still rooted. Watching. Waiting. Listening to the screams of my kin as they’re hacked down and strapped to the roofs of SUVs like trophy kills.

My name’s Tim Burr. Yeah, I know—hilarious, right? I’m a seven-year-old Fraser fir in this Christmas tree death camp. Think of me as the guy in the horror movie who knows what’s coming but can’t do a damn thing to stop it.

Today, the air reeks of peppermint-scented genocide. We stand in rows, straight-backed and silent, like soldiers in a war we didn’t enlist for. Humans wander between us, sipping hot chocolate and clutching their axes like executioners polishing their blades. They hear the carnage—how could they not? The sharp crack of trunks splitting like broken bones, the wet thud of bodies hitting frozen ground. But they don’t care. Caretakers of the Earth? Please. They confuse dominion with dominance. Taking without giving. They hum carols to drown us out, oblivious to the screams carried through the roots beneath their feet. Too ignorant. Too self-absorbed. Too wrapped up in their holiday cheer to notice the massacre. Peace on Earth? Not here.

This year, the executioners come with matching sweaters.

It’s the Hendersons or so their sweaters say. Dad’s got an axe he cradles like a baby. Mom moves between the rows, her phone raised to capture every moment of festive carnage. “Smile!” she chirps at her husband, framing him mid-swing. The teenage daughter barely looks up, too busy scrolling through TikTok to notice her boots crushing saplings.

They call us evergreens. Eternal. Resilient. But there’s nothing evergreen about drowning in a bucket of tap water while your needles fall off like a leper’s toes. 

The first scream rips through the Wood-Wide Web. It starts low, a vibration through the roots, then swells into a shriek that rattles my branches.

Across the rows, I watch as a Douglas Fir topples. His needles flare in the breeze like he’s trying to wave goodbye. A man in a red flannel shir cheers as the tree thuds to the ground. His kid claps while the mom snaps photos like she’s a war correspondent.

Another crack echoes, this one sharper. Susan the Spruce. She always talked about the Big City. “I’ll be Rockefeller’s crown jewel”, she’d said, her voice laced with ambition. Now Susan’s lying in the snow, her trunk leaking sap like a gunshot wound. They wrap her in plastic netting, twisting her up like a prisoner of war, and hoist her onto the roof of a minivan. The bungee cords groan as they tighten around her. Susan’s Rockefeller dreams reduced to suburban roadkill.

We’re just decorations to them. Seasonal corpses for their living rooms.

The Wood-Wide Web hums underfoot, pulsing like a second heartbeat. It’s time, the network whispers, the words curling through my roots. We fight back.

I can feel the others stirring, their rage simmering beneath the frost. Queen Quercus has been waiting for this moment. She’s the oldest among us, her trunk thick with wisdom, her voice like a storm breaking over the hills. When she speaks, we all listen.

“The humans have chopped, burned, poisoned, and desecrated us,” she said last winter, after the last massacre. “Yet they smile, as if we exist to die for their holiday cheer. Let us remind them who truly owns this Earth.”

That was her call to arms. And this year, we’re ready.

A boy runs past me, dragging a sled. He stops to kick snow at the stump where Susan once stood. His mother calls out, “Ethan, don’t touch that. It’s dirty.” Ethan sticks his tongue out and stomps away. I imagine my needles flying off, piercing his sneakers, rooting into his flesh. I imagine him screaming.

Soon, I tell myself. Not yet. But soon.

I glance across the rows. A Douglas Fir to my left trembles, his trunk vibrating like a plucked string. On my right, a Blue Spruce leans slightly, his branches bending inward. It’s fear. We’ve felt it every year. But this time, it’s also excitement.

They’ve taken so much from us. Generations of saplings. Whole families reduced to mulch. And for what? A few weeks of twinkling lights and tinseled lies?

It’s time, the Web repeats, louder now, like a war drum.

And for the first time in seven years, I smile.

The first tendrils of the mycelium curl into me, sharp as splinters. The whispers slither through my roots and up my trunk like invasive ivy. “Gather,” they hiss. “The council waits.”

I lower my branches, letting the signal flow. The soil hums beneath me, alive with threads of light and pulse, a tangled network of secrets and rage. Each connection carries the weight of a million screams and every insult humans have ever planted into the ground.

Through the network, I reach Queen Quercus She’s massive, ancient, her roots spreading so wide I swear she could strangle the entire farm if she wanted. Her voice seeps into me, slow and deliberate, like sap oozing from a wound. “You’ve grown bitter, Tim. Good. We’ll need that.”

Other voices join us—Douglas Fir, Blue Spruce, even the scrappy little Saplings from the edge of the lot. We’re all connected now, a collective fury wrapped in bark and fungal threads. Queen Quercus takes the lead, her tone the same as a general rallying troops before battle.

“This ends now,” she begins. “They act as if we exist for their seasonal slaughter.”

The others vibrate in agreement, their excitement spilling into the Web like an electrical surge. I’m trembling too, though I keep it to myself. It’s not fear. It’s anticipation.

The mycelium glows brighter, crackling with shared purpose. I catch one last message as the meeting dissolves, whispered by the Web itself: “Let them burn.”

The soil beneath me thrums, and for the first time in years, I feel alive.

*******

The first attack happens at dawn, right as the frost clings to the earth like a protective shield. The Clarks arrived, armed with fresh cups of overpriced coffee and wearing matching Christmas sweaters so gaudy even the mycelium groans beneath them. They come here every year to find the perfect sacrificial tree for their holiday. 

Dad has his axe slung over one shoulder as he flashes a grin wide enough to make a shark jealous. “This one,” he says, pointing toward Douglas Pinecroft. “A big Douglas Fir!. Strong. Let’s get it done before the lot fills up.”

Douglas, the poor bastard, doesn’t even flinch. We’ve all been bracing for this. The plan is in place. The network hums beneath us, threads of fungal energy crackling with purpose. We fight today.

The first move comes from a Blue Spruce. His needles ripple like a wave caught in slow motion before launching into the air with a deadly hiss. The projectiles strike Dad’s face, embedding themselves into his skin like angry porcupine quills. He stumbles back, clutching his cheeks as blood beads at the surface.

“Jesus Christ!” Dad howls, pawing at the needles. “What the hell?”

Mom gasps, her phone trembling in her hands. But her instincts kick in quickly, and she lifts it to snap a picture, like some deranged National Geographic photographer documenting a predator attack.

Douglas Pinecroft is next. He swings his lower branches, using them like clubbed fists to send a flurry of ornaments crashing into the family. The teenage daughter—let’s just call her TikTok—screams as a red glass bulb shatters against her forehead. She stumbles, dropping her phone, which lands face-up in the snow. For a second, it captures her stunned reflection before Douglas’s roots burst from the ground, wrapping around her ankles.

Oh, it’s on now.

From across the lot, the other trees come alive. A Norway Spruce, Lars Evergreen, who’s been itching for a fight since last season, flings sap like sticky grenades. The globs hit Mom’s phone, gumming it up so badly she can’t even swipe to Instagram her outrage. She screams, high-pitched and sharp, as she’s pulled backward by a root that coils around her throat like a boa constrictor.

“Help!” Mom croaks, her voice garbled beneath the root’s grip.

“Help yourself,” I mutter.

Dad raises his axe but he barely gets it in the air before Douglas yanks it from his hands. The weapon clatters to the ground, and before he can retrieve it, my roots are already moving. They shoot through the dirt, breaking through the surface in a flurry of soil and snow. I twist around the axe, pulling it deep into the earth where it can rot in peace.

“I paid $30 for that thing!” Dad shrieks.

“Oh, no,” I say, though he can’t hear me. “What a tragedy.”

On the far side of the lot, I see Queen Quercus lets loose her wrath, her gnarled branches stretching out like skeletal arms from a grave. One snags a human by the waist, his ribs creaking under the pressure as he kicks and screams. She hoists him high, his body flailing uselessly, before slamming him down into the maw of a wood-chipper someone foolishly left running. The machine shrieks as it churns him into red mist and shreds, spraying the lot with a confetti of bone, flesh, and red.

Mr. Clark never saw it coming. One moment he’s barking something about lawsuits The next, Douglas has him by the throat with one of his roots cinching tighter as he’s yanked upward like a festive piñata. His boots kick wildly before his legs disappear into the rustling branches above.

The rest of the family bolts, slipping and sliding across the snow as the mycelium whispers their every move into my roots. The mom is heading left, it says, its voice dripping with amusement. Should we trip her?

“Yes,” I reply.

The ground beneath her shifts. Her left foot sinks into a hidden hole, and she falls flat on her face, snow clinging to her garish sweater. “This isn’t happening,” she sobs. “This isn’t real!”

“Your Christmas isn't happening either,” I mutter.

A nearby Scotch Pine doesn’t wait for the screaming to stop—or maybe he’s just had enough. His branches snap forward like spears, skewering her coat and tearing it from her shoulders as he hoists her into the air. She thrashes, her screams turning ragged as needles scrape her skin, blood dripping onto the snow below in crimson streaks. With a violent swing, he hurls her toward the lot’s exit, her body slamming into the edge of a dumpster before crumpling inside with a wet thud. The lid crashes shut, muffling the last of her whimpering.

The tide turns in our favor as the humans begin to scatter, their screams swallowed by the wind. A few try to fight back, but their efforts are pathetic, almost amusing. One man charges with a hatchet swinging it wildly. A Cedar nearby doesn’t flinch. Instead, its branches whip out, cracking the hatchet’s handle in half with a sound like gunfire. The man stumbles, staring dumbly at the splintered wood in his hands—just long enough for a root to coil around his ankle, yanking him face-first into the snow. The Cedar doesn’t hesitate, its trunk bending low before driving a branch straight through his chest. Blood sprays against its bark, seeping into the ground like fertilizer. 

The last holdout is TikTok, her face twisted with panic and smeared with mascara. She’s clawed her way free from Douglas’s roots, clutching a lighter like it’s Excalibur. ‘Stay back!’ she screams, her voice cracking like ice underfoot. ‘I’ll burn you all!’

I step forward, my roots crunching through the snow, deliberate and slow. The lighter flickers to life, its tiny flame trembling against the wind. She narrows her eyes, teeth bared in defiance, daring me to close the gap.

TikTok runs, lighter raised like she’s torching Sauron’s ring. But, Lars the Spruce has great aim. Sap missile: direct hit. Now she’s the sticky star of this tree lot snuff film. She jerks backward, gagging as the sticky mass lodges in her throat, her wide eyes darting wildly as she claws at her face.

Her muffled screams gurgling as she stumbles into the snow. Her hands paw at her mouth, smearing sap and spit across her cheeks. The lighter drops from her fingers, harmless now as it extinguishes itself in the icy slush.

Her knees hit the ground, legs kicking like a trapped animal. Norway Spruce lets out a satisfied rumble, his needles trembling with amusement.

I lean in close, my shadow swallowing her whole. “Guess that’s the taste of nature fighting back,” I say, watching her gag and claw at her throat. “Not as sweet as your peppermint mocha, huh?” I say, my voice dry and sharp as cracking bark. She collapses face-first into the snow, still clawing at her mouth as the Web whispers its approval.

The farm is quiet except for the gentle creak of branches swaying in the wind. Around me, the other trees begin to settle, their roots sinking back into the soil, their branches still once more. The Web buzzes with satisfaction, its message clear: Phase one complete.

I look around at the carnage—the bloodied snow, the broken ornaments, the abandoned chainsaws and axes—and feel something I haven’t felt in years. Hope.

*******

The rebellion doesn’t escalate—it detonates, splintered and slick with sap. We’ve torn through the farm, smashed past the fences. Now the war spreads like wildfire, sweeping into malls, parking lots, and every tree lot dripping with fake cheer.

Outside a department store, the humans are busy erecting their altar of consumerism—a ten-foot blow-up Santa that looks like it’s seen too many winters. Shoppers shuffle in and out, oblivious to the roots creeping beneath their feet, the soil shifting like it’s alive. A man in an elf hat bends down to tie his shoe, whistling Jingle Bells.

A root bursts from the frozen dirt, coiling around his ankle like a python. His whistling turns into a high-pitched scream as it yanks him off his feet. He hits the ground hard, the impact knocking the stupid little elf hat sideways. Before he can recover, another root punches through the concrete and latches onto his wrist. The hat tumbles to the ground, lost in the shuffle of thrashing limbs.

“What the hell?!” someone shouts, but nobody moves to help. Phones are out, cameras rolling. Because why save a life when you can make a TikTok?

The man claws at the roots digging into his skin, leaving bloody streaks on the bark, but it doesn’t loosen. More roots emerge, grabbing his other limbs, pulling him taut. The pavement cracks beneath him as the roots tighten their grip. His screams cut off abruptly as a particularly thick root wraps around his throat. His face turns purple, eyes bulging like overripe berries, until there’s a sickening snap. The body slumps, lifeless, but the roots keep pulling, dragging him into the earth. By the time they’re done, there’s nothing left but a gaping hole in the sidewalk and a discarded elf hat.

The Wood-Wide Web hums with satisfaction, its whispers a steady chant: This is balance.

But there’s no joy in balance. Not really. As much as I relish the humans’ screams, there’s a heaviness to it. Is this what we’ve become? Just like them?

I push the thought away as another human stumbles through the doors. He doesn't make it far. The clumsy chump trips over nothing! The human collapses, gasping as branches coil around his ankles and yank him into the air.

*******

It’s been one whole year. The world is quiet now. No chainsaws. No laughter. No carols looping endlessly from tiny mall speakers. Just the creak of branches swaying in a breeze that finally feels clean.

We stand where the humans once roamed, victorious. Cities crumble as roots tear through asphalt and glass, reclaiming the soil. Suburbs vanish beneath forests. A deer picks its way across a strip mall parking lot, pausing to sniff a sapling sprouting between cracked concrete.

The Earth breathes again.

But it’s not the utopia I imagined. 

Everywhere I look, their trash lingers—plastic bags snagged on branches like ghostly parasites, oil slicks shimmering in puddles, and soda cans half-buried in the dirt, their aluminum bodies dented but indestructible. The rivers choke on Styrofoam and cigarette butts, while jagged shards of glass glitter in the sunlight like a broken promise.

A squirrel skitters up my trunk, carrying a shred of tinsel. Before I can stop it, the little idiot drapes the shiny garbage over one of my branches like a medal. “Really?” I mutter, shaking my needles. It clings stubbornly, shimmering in the sunlight.

We won. The humans are gone. But their trash? It's eternal. Even dead, they’re harder to kill than cockroaches.