User blog comment:HumboldtLycanthrope/The 666 word pasta write off!/@comment-26425680-20160407232350

Okay, I only spent a couple of hours on this, so it probably has some rough edges, but it meets criteria! ____________

There's a special place in the forest where my father used to take me. He was a bookish man who seemed to always be on a frantic quest for knowledge, never taking a break from his studies. Yet when we went to that spot, he found a peace I that I couldn't quite understand at the time. He called it camping, but we never brought tents, food, or any of the other supplies you'd normally expect. I was quite young, so none of that felt weird to me. We'd sleep on the forest floor, comfortably. We never grew hungry or thirsty, at least not while we were among those majestic redwoods. I remember the early visits fondly. I'd sit patiently while the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves allowed my imagination to roam to far off places from long ago.

It wasn't until after I was kidnapped (and returned) that the visits to the forest began to bore me. I want to stress that my kidnapping, and the trips to the forest, are not related. I was taken at random by a mentally ill man who kept me at a desert dwelling along with his pathetic wife. There, I replaced their deceased son, who they'd starved to death a year earlier. I served them, entertained them, and did whatever they wanted. When I was finally rescued, I was a changed boy. I never connected with my father on an emotional level again, and I soon found that certain drugs were a good substitute for the feeling I'd once gotten from sitting on the forest floor listening to the trees.

As I entered adulthood, my father began to slow down, physically speaking. He found it difficult to move his limbs, and sometimes he could barely walk. I knew he didn't have much life left, and at his insistence I agreed to accompany him to the forest one last time. As we drove, I noticed large, rough scabs had grown on my father's legs and arms. They hadn't been there the last time I'd seen him, but that'd been two years earlier. I didn't even ask him what was wrong.

He showed a renewed vigor when we finally arrived at our spot. He walked tree to tree, gently touching each one.

He finally looked at me, "I'm sorry I never had the chance to explain this place to you earlier, but you weren't receptive." He moved his hands skyward, "These trees are my ancestors. They're your ancestors too."

He began undressing, and as his shirt came off, I saw that the scabs covered his entire torso. Yet as he stood between the trees, I understood that they weren't scabs at all, they were tree bark. He removed his shoes, and I saw his toes had grown long, almost like vines wrapping around his feet... no, not vines, they were roots. He had a look of relief on his face as he worked his feet back and forth against the ground, digging them deeper and deeper.

"Yes, this spot will do nicely." He looked at me, "Don't be disturbed, I'm rejoining my kin. You will too, one day." Small leaves sprang from his fingertips, "This is a repository of ancient knowledge. You and I, we predate mankind." He smiled, then became motionless.

Behind him, I saw a small child struggling pull himself forth from the dirt, he was green and leafy. I suddenly understood why I was never told anything about my mother. That child was meant for me, as a son, but I left him there in disgust.

Where were my ancestors when I was being tortured and abused? What good did their knowledge do for me in life? The only thing I knew for sure what that I never, ever wanted to rejoin them. I traveled back there only one more time, with as much accelerant as I could fit in my car. The trees burned nicely, and the oldest ones screamed loudest of all.