My Short Stories- Scurry & Store: A Nutty Autumn Adventure.

Pipkin the squirrel was a bundle of rust-colored energy, his bushy tail twitching with an urgency that only autumn could inspire. The air, crisp and tasting of woodsmoke, carried the scent of fallen leaves and, more importantly, the promise of hidden treasures. Below the gnarled oak, a scattered bounty of acorns lay waiting, each one a precious jewel to be secured before the biting winds of winter arrived.

“Another one, Pipkin!” chittered his mate, Hazel, from their cozy drey high in the branches. “The twins are getting restless, and our larder isn’t quite full.”

Pipkin, already mid-sprint with a particularly plump acorn clutched in his jaws, gave an enthusiastic flick of his tail. His children, tiny sprites named Acorn and Nutmeg, tumbled playfully around the base of the tree, occasionally pouncing on a stray leaf or chasing a particularly captivating shadow. But even their youthful antics were tinged with the serious business of the season. They knew the drill: find, hide, repeat.

Days turned into a blur of ceaseless activity. Pipkin would dash down the oak, nose twitching, paws expertly sifting through the leaf litter for the finest nuts. He’d bury them in a dozen secret spots – beneath roots, near a weathered stone, under a patch of moss – each location meticulously cataloged in his keen squirrel memory. Hazel, equally diligent, gathered pinecones and walnuts, her smaller size allowing her to navigate tighter spaces.

One blustery afternoon, a sudden gust of wind dislodged a cluster of particularly ripe chestnuts from a nearby tree. “Jackpot!” squeaked Nutmeg, her eyes wide with delight. The family worked together, rolling the prickly treasures into a more secluded spot before Pipkin painstakingly carried them, one by one, to their subterranean caches.

As the last golden leaves drifted to the forest floor, and the sun began to cast longer, colder shadows, Pipkin paused atop his favorite lookout branch. He surveyed the transformed landscape, a tapestry of muted browns and lingering oranges. His heart, usually racing with the thrill of the hunt, now swelled with a quiet satisfaction. Their pantry was stocked, their drey was warm, and his family was safe. Winter’s chill held no fear for the industrious Pipkin and his clan, for they had mastered the art of “Scurry & Store,” ready for whatever the frosty months might bring.

© William Sinclair Manson 2025