The Airship Adventure

Yens wasn’t sure he liked the idea. He was fine with flying, and he did want to see the world from up above - after all, his favorite thing to do was to go to the top of his tree and look at the forest and the lands beyond.

He was okay with heights. What he was not okay with was leaving behind his comfy chair, morning coffee, cozy blanket, warm bed… and the garden.

“But Yens,” said Sommy the Badger, tightening the ropes around the basket, “we’ll be back. That’s the best thing - coming back home!”

Yens considered this. He did like the part about coming back. He especially liked the part where he'd relax near the fireplace with a nice warm cup of tea and remember this adventure as long since over.

Still, as the balloon began to lift, his ears twitched with uncertainty.

Spinny, who had packed three acorns, a length of string, and a single raisin “just in case”, was already lounging dramatically in the basket. He squeaked a triumphant note and closed his eyes against the breeze in pleasure.

The air grew cooler as they rose. The mountains stretched out in soft purples and blues below them, and the light felt like it had been painted just for today.

“Do you see that?” Sommy shouted from the front, pointing to a line of tiny glittering lakes.

“I see it,” Yens said softly, his voice full of wonder he hadn’t expected to feel quite so soon. “I think… I think I see everything.”

He leaned against the basket’s edge, paws gripping the ropes, his long fur waving in the wind.

Spinny climbed up beside him and squeaked a low, thoughtful note. Then he tucked one of his six little legs into Yens’ paw and sat very still.

There was something about being high above the world that made it feel even more precious.

Yens took a long, slow breath. The clouds smelled faintly of ice and far-off rain. The sun was climbing with them, golden and brave.

“I suppose,” he murmured, “if I have to leave my chair… this isn’t the worst way to do it.”

Spinny squeaked a soft note that might have meant see, it’s not so bad.

Far below, the forest waited. And far above, something new was beginning.

Yens smiled - just a little.
“Still,” he said, “I’ll be glad when we’re home again.”

Sommy grinned from the front of the basket.
“And that,” he called over the wind, “will be the best part.”

The Apple Pie Afternoon

The kitchen smelled of apples and cinnamon, and Yens was busy sliding the pie into the stove, trying not to burn his paws. He leaned in carefully, squinting at the fire and shifting the pan just a little to make it sit even.

Behind him, Spinny had climbed onto the counter with the flute Yens had carved some time ago. He gave it a testing squeak, and the note was so sharp and sudden that Yens nearly dropped the pie.

“Spinny…” Yens muttered, steadying himself, “Pie first, flute later. In that order.”

But Spinny had already started a tune, bright and a little wobbly, tapping his legs on the counter in rhythm. The bag of flour wobbled with him, then tipped over with a soft thump. A puff of white dust filled the kitchen, drifting everywhere.

Yens coughed, waving his paws in front of his face. “Wonderful. Now it’s snowing indoors.”

Spinny squeaked in delight, looking rather like a frosted blackberry, and kept on playing.

By the time the pie was ready, the whole kitchen was covered in a fine powder, and Yens set the pie on the table with a sigh of relief. He poured himself a coffee and looked around at the mess.

“Pie, music, flour, crumbs… I suppose that’s today’s recipe,” he said.

Spinny squeaked, hopped into a chair, and played a finishing note on his flute as if declaring the chaos a masterpiece. And Yens, eating warm apple pie through the drifting flour haze, had to admit - it really was.

Autumn Melody

Autumn came to the Forest in full strength, with its rusty colors and smells.

The afternoon was all golden light and quiet rustling. Yens had finished piling leaves and sat beneath the trees, with a pocketknife and a smooth hollow stick that seemed to be waiting for him.

He wasn’t carving something specific, not really. It was simply what his hands wanted to do while the leaves whispered overhead. A curl of wood fell to the ground, then another, spiraling into the soft carpet of autumn. Slowly, the stick began to shape itself into something that looked like a flute toy he had as a child.

Across the clearing, Spinny had made himself perfectly round on a mossy rock, basking in the warm sun as though he was a small blackberry dropped by accident. He squeaked once in lazy acknowledgment, then closed his eyes again, tired from the morning spent jumping in the leaves.

By the time the shadows grew longer, Yens had a flute, not polished, not even straight, but a flute nonetheless. He raised it to his lips and tried a note. The sound came out thin and breathy, like the wind through a loose shutter. He chuckled, shook his head, and set it aside.

It wasn’t until much later, back at home, with the candle lit and the kettle just beginning to hum, that Spinny crept onto the table, tugged the flute toward himself, and blew.

The note that came out was clear, soft, and startlingly sweet. Then another, and another, falling into a tune that curled around the room like smoke, fragile and perfect.

Yens froze with the kettle in his hands, listening. He smiled slowly.

“Well,” he murmured, “I suppose it wasn’t for me after all.”

Spinny squeaked, but didn’t stop playing.
The melody rose and wove itself between the shadows on the walls, as if it had always been waiting there, just needing someone small and unlikely to set it free.

The Great Teacup Incident

Yens had just finished setting the table for tea: two cups, one slightly chipped but deeply beloved; a small plate of oat biscuits; and a saucer with lemon slices.
Then he turned to fetch the teapot - and stopped.
The teapot was wobbling.
Not in a gentle, steam-is-rising sort of way, but in a suspicious, something-is-definitely-inside-it way.
“Spinny?” Yens called softly.
No answer. But the teapot gave a little hop.
Yens peered into the spout. “That’s not for sitting in.”
From inside came a faint squeak, somewhere between I regret nothing and this is my house now.
With a sigh that was mostly fondness, Yens lifted the lid.
Spinny blinked up at him, perfectly round eyes and six tiny legs curled under him.
“There are chairs,” Yens said gently. “With cushions. You like chairs.”
Spinny squeaked.
“You are not a beverage.”
A lower, reluctant squeak.
“Would you like your own cup?”
This time, no squeak - just a very slow crawl out of the teapot and into the empty cup Yens had set out. Spinny spun in a little circle, then settled in with a sigh, looking rather pleased with himself.
Yens glanced at the teapot, sighed, and steeped the tea in a jar instead. The teapot was, for now, very much in use.
Then he poured the tea for himself and added a slice of lemon. “I suppose everyone has their own way of having tea” he murmured, “as long as it makes them happy.”
Spinny lifted one leg in solemn agreement and glanced toward a biscuit.
Yens smiled. It wasn’t the tea he’d planned.
But it was the tea they had.
And that, in its own ridiculous way, was quite perfect.

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The Falls and the Yellow Cup

The day was hot and humid, and smelled of moss and last autumn leaves, which Yens always left piled on the west side of the Moss Tree for the fireflies.

Sun was in a light haze, but Yens knew it will make its appearance later, and all this made for a perfect day at the creek falls.

Spinny was already up and about, hunting for the dragonflies in the garden, when Yens called him. He happily poised himself on the top of the backpack, and they started toward the local mountain, covered with firs, aspens and larches.

The trail was narrow, rocky, but shady, and although switches took some breath out of Yens, he was enjoying the walk. Halfway up they passed through a patch of ripe huckleberries, where Yens took the opportunity for a brief rest, and Spinny - for a small mischief, but that’s a story for another day.

The path was winding along the creek, and soon they saw a nice sunny spot that could be easily reached, and settled between two gurgling waterfalls.

Yens unpacked his book and his favorite yellow thermos, with a round lid serving as a cup. Spinny trotted off to inspect the moss at the water’s edge, squeaking to himself in satisfaction.

It was peaceful for a while, sunlight dappling the green pools, the soft rush of the falls. But then Yens noticed the yellow cup was gone. He looked around, under the blanket, beside the thermos - no cup.

A small splash drew his attention. Downstream, bobbing cheerfully in the eddy below the second falls, was his yellow cup…with Spinny riding inside, legs spread like paddles, cheerfully beating on the water.

“Spinny,” Yens sighed, “cups are for tea, not for…floating expeditions.”

Spinny squeaked, as if to say the two were not mutually exclusive, and paddled his vessel toward shore.

And so the rest of the afternoon was spent not just reading, but occasionally fishing a yellow cup out of the creek - sometimes empty, sometimes full of water and pebbles, and once with a very bewildered dragonfly inside.

A little heap of pebbles grew nearby, all shiny and smooth, very unusual in forms and colors. Later, back at home, Spinny proudly placed the most unusual of them all - black and shaped almost exactly like a tiny dragon - on the shelf among his other treasures, right between the pine cone and the half of a walnut.

Between Carrots and Naps

The day had started with a hole in the watering can.

Yens found it just as he was about to begin his morning rounds in the garden - a slow and peaceful process involving more humming than watering, and more pausing to admire carrot tops than doing anything useful. But the hole was real and unacceptable. He fetched the repair tin, sat on the grass with the can between his knees, and set to work with quiet determination.

Spinny was somewhere nearby. Yens could hear the occasional squeaky note of a misfiring acorn catapult. He didn’t look up. Whatever it was, it probably wasn’t terribly safe - but it also wasn’t terribly breakable. Spinny had a gift for causing precisely as much trouble as the day could handle. Yens trusted him not to exceed it by too much.

The sun climbed. The patch on the watering can set. Spinny’s contraption went quiet. A breeze wandered in through the gooseberry hedge, slow and smelling faintly of mint and bees.

Yens lay back in the grass, just for a moment.

That was when Spinny flopped beside him, limbs in all directions, puffing slightly like he’d just outrun a crow (he probably had). Neither of them spoke. The daisies nodded above their heads.

And in that small, drifting pause - between the carrots and the nap, between mischief and mending - the world felt just right.

The Way There

The plan was simple: to go somewhere and sit there for a while.
Alone.
Quietly.

Yens had packed a pear, a soft orange blanket, a book he might not read, and a small yellow thermos with coffee, which seemed like enough for a proper outing. He checked the wind, hummed a little tune to himself, and rolled his bicycle gently down the path.

But halfway through the peaceful woods, he felt the slightest shifting in his bag.

A soft sigh.
A familiar squeak.
Spinny.

He had snuck in somewhere between the pear and the blanket and now blinked up, looking entirely unrepentant.

Yens sighed - not unhappily.

The forest path curled like ribbon, dappled with sunlight and tranquil sound of the woods. A squirrel scolded them from somewhere unseen, and a breeze smelled a little like mint. Yens hummed a song with no tune and no words, which was one of his favorites.

The road was not very fast, and neither were they. But it felt like exactly the right pace for a day like this.

Maybe they’d end up at the big flat rock by the river. Or maybe at the patch of moss that looked like a map of something important. Or maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t get there at all, and the way there would be the best part.

A Very Specific Kind of Afternoon

(This is how it all begins, more or less.)

Yens had finally gotten the hammock tied just right. Not too low (he hated when his feet dragged), and not too high (he wasn’t fond of climbing, despite being very good at it).

He tested it once. It held.
He tested it again. It sighed gently, which he took as permission.
Then he settled in with a long exhale and closed his eyes.

It was going to be a perfect afternoon of important work, which, in Yens’ case, involved watching light move across the leaves and possibly thinking about moss.

That’s when Spinny arrived.
He didn’t walk so much as skitter-drift, like a breeze had startled a pinecone into motion. His legs moved quickly, but only six of them - which somehow made it harder to track.

He landed on the edge of the hammock and squeaked.
It was a short, sharp squeak. The kind that usually meant: I have a plan.

Yens opened one eye.
“Oh no,” he said.

Spinny squeaked again and began tying a bit of string from the hammock to a stick, and from the stick to a pinecone, and from the pinecone to a spoon Yens hadn’t noticed until now.

Yens sighed. “I was working.”

Spinny ignored him, and pulled out a walnut half. He wedged it under the spoon, stepped back, and squeaked a note that meant: Stand very still.

Yens did not move, mostly out of curiosity.

Spinny leapt onto the spoon. It pulled the string, which nudged the pinecone, which wobbled forward, pulling the other string, which tilted the stick, which tugged the hammock rope.

Yens shot forward, then backward, then gently spun to the left.

“Was this... necessary?” he asked.

Spinny squeaked. He sounded proud.

The hammock swayed slowly now, like it had always meant to do that. The breeze had caught it perfectly.

Yens blinked at the sky.

“…Actually,” he said, “this is quite good.”

Spinny nestled beside him, all six legs folded neatly. Yens didn’t ask where the spoon had come from. Some things were better left unexplained.

They swung together in silence.
Doing important work.