Bonsai - A short story
This is a piece of non interactive digital media that I made out of an abandoned project. I created it and then wrote the short story that you will find below to go along with it. You can find the same story here or read more about what it is here
Anyway it's something a little different. I don't know how well I did or how it will be received but if you have any feedback or want to see that I do make normal games too check me out on Twitter
it had begun before the townsfolk had even noticed a change. It started as a seed. By the time it poked through the topsoil its straggly brown veins had slithered their way to the ceramic walls of the pot. Days turned into weeks as the single green blade gingerly worked its way towards the sun. To the common people it was indistinguishable from grass. One could unwittingly pluck it out of the earth, mistaking it for the small weeds that swept through the fields each spring. Then, one day people began to take notice.
It proudly waved its newly produced leaf in defiance of the wind that tried so hard to beat it down. People were beginning to see it. Not many. Maybe one out of every 20 passersby would toss a comment to their significant other, or allocate some humble reserve of mental energy to acknowledge the hard work of the infantile plant in the ceramic pot.
There was so much from the past
to explore, to search for more,
But gone is that day.
Still I longed, like a leaf on a tree
To be blown away forever
But gone is that day.
The boundaries before me lay
I turned for one last look
Life will not always be this way
The ground around me shook
I used to fear so much for the future
But gone is that day.
The ceramic pot couldn't handle anymore the pushing from the engorged roots and with a thunderous crack it split. The tree was now set free.
Attention had now became the norm. The small tree now looked down at the grass growing around its fattening base. Not all the witnesses were admirers though. A smattering of the populace had become irate at the trees' labor. How dare it stand so tall. Someone should cut that eye-sore down. How selfish it is to take up so much precious water. It should just stop. How pathetic. However, the tree couldn't stop, it didn't dare allow itself to listen to the insults hurled by the Proles – the unwashed masses that had been taught, and happily practiced the tradition of attacking those that failed to toe the line. It wasn't their fault, and it wasn't ours. We are all just the effect of some deeper cause. under the soil a groundswell of Kthulian scale was, and is, and always will be churning and groaning. The tree closed its third eye; the one that bridges the gap between the third dimension and the fifth, and began to pray to itself; it was becoming a god.
The tree had blended into the peripheries of the peoples trivial lives. They had grown to accept the shade that it drew on the road. It had grown to the size that children would not believe that such a thing could come from a single seed. Oh sure they were told about it at schools, but who could honestly believe that a towering pine tree was merely the product of organic materials and years of hard work?
On the other side of the town were the zealots. Those shunned communities believed that no materials born of this world could create such majesty. The answer, they foolishly believed, was in the willpower of the tree and a sort of super consciousness that permeated our plane of existence from the previous – the one below us. Yes, it is true that a tree cannot grow without water, sun, healthy soil and appropriate climate; but why does one thrive in the clouds, while its poor, withered neighbor struggles to claw itself free from the undergrowth. The mighty tree listened sleepily to the slow, omnipotent vibrations of the ancient paraliths that had existed before time knew its own name and before matter had begun to form. They had long surpassed the pathetic reliance on eyesight, but still, they watched the tree.
No one knew how much time had passed since the god-like tree had sunk its super dimensional roots into the dank soil; but they knew that the tree required reverence. It required worshipers, it required sacrifices. Its super-ego had filled the deepest of oceans with water and life-salts. It's leaves promised to fall only on the most worthy virgin cheek. It's infinite black shadow promised to crush all those that opposed the chosen people. Its id looked on from the clouds at the pathetic faceless meat husks that begged for its forgiveness. It granted such requests, not because it had any conception of sin and purity, but because of the psychic ebb and flow that fuels life. People won't change. People can't change. People need the super-conscious to enter them, to infect them and to turn them on one another. To cheat, to deceive and swindle those with vulnerabilities. To maim. To kill. Without it people would stop improving and weeds would not have the will power to become mighty trees.