The Plyground

Once upon a time, in a peaceful valley called Splinter Creek, the wooden folk lived in perfect harmony.

Among the townsfolk was Ply Bob, the cheerful carpenter plank, and his best friend Maple, who painted every sunrise with bright colours. Together, they kept the little town neat - sanding fences, fixing roofs, and polishing the playground slides for the woodchip kids.

But one afternoon, the sky darkened. Rain poured in sheets, rattling every shingle and board. The great oak bridge trembled, and the wind tugged at rooftops as though trying to tear the town apart. The little woodchip houses squeaked and creaked in fright.

Maple dashed to cover the painted benches with tarps, while Ply Bob hammered down loose planks, his wooden arms glowing from the effort. Lightning flashed - bright as a saw blade - and thunder echoed through the valley like a hammer on a giant anvil.
When the storm reached its peak, a mighty gust ripped the top off the town’s old sawmill. Without thinking, Ply Bob braced himself and used his sturdy frame as a support beam, holding the roof in place until the winds calmed. The rain slowed, the clouds drifted away, and a single golden sunbeam broke through the sky - warm and gentle once more.

The wooden folk came out of hiding, their barky faces full of relief. That evening, under a pink sky, the townsfolk rebuilt what the storm had shaken. They sang, sanded, and painted together, stronger than before. Ply Bob and Maple carved a small wooden sign by the creek:

“Storms may shake our branches, but never our roots.”

And from that day on, the people of Splinter Creek never feared a storm again - for they knew that with heart, teamwork, and a little timber courage, even the wildest winds could be turned into music.