By “Ophidian Khan” – Copyright © 2025
It was a sunny afternoon in the Glade of Friendly Disputes—the kind of place where animals came not to fight, but to argue with style. The wind was just right, carrying the scent of sweet moss and freshly churned mud, and the daisies were in full gossip.
Fox—red, proud, clever as a coyote in a courtroom—paced back and forth beneath the old tree stump podium. His golden eyes gleamed with righteous indignation.
“No no no, Hopper,” he said, tail flicking, “you can’t submit a mushroom log as a project report. It doesn’t even have a title!”
Grasshopper, who had been sunbathing on a flat stone with her legs crossed and antennae twiddling, let out a slow whistle. “Fox, it’s a living presentation. Organic. Bold. It speaks for itself.”
“It doesn’t even speak, Hopper!”
The two had been working on the Great Woodland Ideas Showcase together. Well…technically together. Hopper had ideas. Fox had structure. And structure, Fox believed, mattered. But now the whole thing had derailed into a passionate shouting match about whether Hopper’s literal fungus was visionary or ridiculous.
Finally, Fox snapped upright and declared, “Alright! Since words are wasted, let’s do what every wise animal does in times of conflict—take it to the court of public opinion.”
Hopper raised a skeptical brow. “The Meadow Poll?”
Fox grinned. “Exactly. We’ll ask our neighbors. Whoever wins the argument—gets my shiny new penny.”
At that, the animals nearby gasped. The shiny penny! Minted in 2008 (whatever that meant), polished by dew and Fox’s obsessive tail-buffing, it was legendary. Fox even kept it in a nest of pine needles atop a velvet toadstool like some kind of royal relic.
Grasshopper’s eyes narrowed. “You’re on, furball.”
And so, the poll began.
They zig-zagged across the glade—questioning squirrels, consulting owls, even interrupting a particularly awkward family of hedgehogs mid-dinner.
“I ask you, noble turtle,” Fox intoned dramatically, “is this—” he gestured to the fungus—“an acceptable project submission?”
“Uh,” said the turtle, chewing. “Looks moldy.”
Point to Fox.
As the tallies grew, so did Fox’s smirk. Hopper was clever, sure, and she had charisma—especially when explaining his ‘living art piece’ to the fireflies—but the logic of Fox’s presentation proved too sharp. Too convincing.
By sunset, Fox stood on the tree stump, a paw raised triumphantly. “I accept this shiny penny,” he declared, holding it high to the heavens as if it were the acorn of destiny itself.
The crowd clapped politely. A few birds cawed. The snail fainted.
Then—fwip!
A blur of green. A sudden gust of air.
SNATCH!
“WHAT IN THE–?!” Fox spun around, paw empty. His jaw fell open like a cracked walnut.
There, mid-leap, backlit by the setting sun like a grasshopper-shaped comet, was Hopper—grinning ear to antennae, the penny clutched tight in her six little limbs.
“I always win!” she cackled, disappearing into the tall grass with a ninja’s grace.
Fox stood frozen. His mouth worked silently as his tail sagged in defeat. Around him, the animals began to laugh—not at him, not cruelly, but in that way friends laugh when the world just surprises you.
“I… I was robbed,” Fox muttered.
The owl fluffed her feathers. “Technically, you gave it away.”
And from that day on, whenever anyone in the glade argued too long or held onto pride too tight, someone would say, “Careful now… or the grasshopper might steal your penny next.”
And the penny? Never seen again.
Some say it’s hidden in a mushroom throne beneath the mossy stone. Others say Hopper traded it to a raccoon for a set of custom sunglasses.
Fox just sighs. But even he will admit—with a grin he tries to hide—that it was one heck of a leap.
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