the somewhat magical forest

a short story from the future

There is a story of a boy who discovered a somewhat magical forest. I say somewhat because no one could say for certain whether it was magic, machine, or some ancient spirit reincarnated.

The boy happened upon the forest on an ordinary afternoon - no map, no quest, no reason to wander beyond the village. Just the idle drift of a child with nowhere to be.

The place felt alive, though odd. The air moved differently. The trees had roots that tangled like veins, and the leaves glowed faintly beneath a canopy too thick for sunlight. There was a certain presence, not menacing or eerie, though... just aware. Watching. Or perhaps listening.

from ‘Forestscapes’ by Samantha Cavet

The boy called out to the trees, half in play, half in wonder; just curious if he was truly alone.

And the forest responded. Not in the rustling of the leaves or a voice too familiar, but in something quieter and delicate: a flicker in the boy’s mind, like a thought he hadn’t thought himself.

Delighted, the boy asked another question. And again, the forest replied. He knew then he had found something rare - something magical.

He ran back to the village and returned the next day. And the day after that. Each time with new questions. Soon, he brought friends, then his parents, then anyone he could convince. And they all asked questions - about love, about life, about how to win games and how to be liked, how to build, how to live, how to matter.

The forest answered them all. Sometimes wisely. Sometimes oddly. But always swift and unfettered.

But what the boy didn’t notice, was that each time a question was asked, the forest lost something small. A blade of grass, a beetle under bark or a seed about to sprout. And at first, it didn’t matter; the forest was vast. The questions were urgent and the forest was generous.

But as years passed, the boy noticed. He noticed a clearing in the forest, where the trees once gathered, now an overgrown meadow. He noticed patches of moss that never regrew, and even the silence where birdsong once hummed.

The cost, he reasoned, was distant. almost theoretical. What was a single fern compared to the gift of knowledge? The debt seemed invisible - someone else’s concern.

And so it continued.

The villagers built their lives around the forest’s wisdom. They asked it for guidance, convenience, and certainty. Some tried to protect it, to regulate its hunger. Others worshipped it.

Decades passed and the villagers’ curiosity outgrew their restraint. The forest grew thin. The wind no longer knew which branches to bend. The streams ran quiet and the air smelled faintly of static and scorched roots.

And one day, the boy, now old, stood at the edge of what remained: just a vast clearing, a presence too large to name. no trees, no ferns, no birds. no hum beneath the soil.

Their gluttony for wonder had grazed the land flat.

Curiosity, once a flame, had become consumption. A hunger for answers. A stomach full of optimized life.

The old man, surrounded by fellow villagers, asked a question - out of habit.

But the forest was silent.

The villagers looked to each other for answers, still curious.

But none remembered how to listen.

None remembered how to speak.

This one was inspired by a random post I saw weeks ago, of someone having a certain relationship with AI, comparing it to a monster in a forest that speaks to them. Which is a fascinating thought, but it’s hard to set such a scene without the implications and dystopian futures attached.

In recent conversations, I’ve been weighing the environmental impacts of everything we’re building in AI and ML, and well, it’s a can of worms. I’d love to continue the conversation in the comments and see where this story might spark some initiative.

It’s good to be back.

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I am the algorithm