The logstack launch
A story for when you’re scared to share your gifts with the world.
The morning light was thin and silvery, the kind that made the forest look half-asleep. Frost still clung to the moss like a blanket, and the air tasted faintly of woodsmoke.
Fern the Fox sat at the edge of the clearing with her satchel beside her, paws fidgeting. Inside were the stories she’d been working on for months. Tales about quiet courage, soft seasons, and the magic hiding in ordinary days.
She’d built a little nook on the forest network where creatures could come and read them; her new Logstack, she called it.
And now it was ready.
Except… she wasn’t.
Her paw hovered above the wooden button on her screenleaf.
“Maybe I’ll press it after lunch,” she muttered. “Or after sweeping. Or maybe when Mercury’s not in retrograde.”
Her reflection in the glass blinked back at her, unimpressed.
What if no one read them?
What if they laugh at me?
What if they think I sound silly, or sentimental, or just too much?
“And what if,” she whispered, “it’s all just… for nothing?”
The forest was quiet, except for the rustle of Saffron the Squirrel padding over with two steaming mugs of cinnamon cocoa.
“You look like you’re about to fight a dragon,” Saffron said, perching beside her.
