Yolanda the Yak Yodels in the Yard E-Book

Kelly Johnson

• Herausgeber: Kelly Johnson
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

In Yolanda the Yak Yodels in the Yard by Kelly Johnson, a quiet mountain morning turns extraordinary when Yolanda the Yak discovers a surprising talent. Nestled in a peaceful village surrounded by misty forests and snowy peaks, Yolanda wakes to a typical day filled with cozy warmth and the scent of pancakes. But as she steps into the chilly yard, an unexpected sound bubbles up from deep inside hera thunderous, joyful yodel that echoes across the valley. Startled and amazed, Yolanda wonders if the powerful voice was really hers. As she stands in awe, a sense of magic and newfound bravery stirs within her, marking the beginning of an adventure rooted in self-discovery and the courage to share her unique voice with the world.

Leseprobe

IMPRESSUM

Yolanda the Yak Yodels in the Yard

Author: Kelly Johnson

© 2025 Kelly Johnson.

All rights reserved.

Author: Kelly Johnson

Contact: 903 W Woodland Ave, Kokomo, IN 46902

Email: [email protected]

Disclaimer

This eBook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

Title: Yolanda the Yak Yodels in the Yard

Author: Kelly Johnson

Chapter 1: A Quiet Morning in the Mountains

The sun peeked over the snowy mountain tops, its golden rays stretching slowly across the sky like sleepy fingers gently waking the day from a long, peaceful slumber. The first light brushed the jagged peaks one by one, turning their cold, sharp edges into glowing towers of soft pink and warm orange, as if the mountains themselves were blushing at the dawn. A delicate frost clung to the rocks, sparkling like tiny diamonds in the early light.

Far below, the valley lay quietly beneath a thin, silvery veil of mist. It drifted lazily over the fields and forests, wrapping the earth in a soft, cool blanket that made everything look like a dream just beginning to unfold. The mist hovered low, curling around tree trunks and rolling gently over the hills, hiding the first signs of life from the waking sun.

Nestled deep in this tranquil valley was a tiny mountain village, where time seemed to slow down and nature’s rhythms ruled the day. The little stone cottages huddled close together as if they were old friends keeping warm against the cool morning air. Their walls, thick and weathered by countless winters, seemed to hold stories whispered through generations. Moss and ivy crept along the stones, softening the edges and blending the homes seamlessly with the forest around them.

From wooden chimneys, thin columns of smoke rose in lazy spirals, weaving up into the crisp sky like strands of ribbon candy melting in the morning light. The scent of burning wood mixed with the fresh pine needle aroma that filled the air, while somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed—not with the usual punctual bravado, but a slow, sleepy “cock-a-doodle-doo” that echoed humorously through the village. The chickens clucked and fluttered in their coops, stretching their wings and shaking off the night.

Carried on the crisp breeze came a mouthwatering smell that made stomachs rumble—a scent warm and sweet, buttery and comforting. It was the unmistakable aroma of pancakes, just pulled from the skillet, their edges golden and crisp, still steaming under a drizzle of maple syrup. The smell curled through open windows and slipped beneath doors, promising a cozy breakfast for anyone lucky enough to wake early.

At the very edge of the village, where the towering fir trees grew thick and close, like ancient sentinels standing watch, there stood a sturdy stone cottage. Its mossy roof tiles blended with the forest floor, half-hidden beneath creeping ivy that snaked up the walls and curled over the windowsills. The wooden shutters were carved with delicate patterns—little flowers and swirling vines—painted a soft green that had faded over the years. This was the home of Yolanda the Yak.

The cottage looked as though it had sprouted from the earth itself, as natural and timeless as the trees surrounding it. Roots from a giant fir curled protectively around the foundation, and wildflowers bloomed at the doorstep, nodding their heads in the morning breeze. The air here smelled of cinnamon and fresh firewood, mingling with a faint hint of lavender from a small garden tucked just behind the house.

A little path made of smooth, round stones wound its way through the soft moss and fallen pine needles, leading visitors from the forest edge to the front door. Nearby, a wooden swing hung from the thickest branch of the tallest fir, creaking gently as it swayed back and forth, inviting someone to come and sit awhile beneath the whispering leaves.

Inside, Yolanda’s cottage was a haven of warmth and comfort. The walls were lined with shelves that held treasured things: books filled with stories and songs, jars of colorful buttons, pinecones collected on woodland walks, and polished rocks that glittered faintly in the soft light. A handmade quilt draped over a wooden rocking chair told tales of careful stitches and cozy evenings. The fireplace crackled softly, even though the morning had just begun, casting flickering shadows that danced on the walls like playful spirits.

On the stove, a pot of porridge bubbled gently, sending up tiny spirals of steam. It was flavored with honey and a sprinkle of nutmeg, ready to warm the belly of anyone who stirred it awake. Yet, as quiet as the cottage was, no one stirred just yet—the whole village seemed wrapped in the same peaceful calm, waiting for the day to truly begin.

Outside, birds began their morning songs—a chorus of chirps and whistles that blended with the rustling leaves and the distant murmur of a mountain stream. The valley was waking, stretching its limbs, and filling with the promise of new adventures and the gentle magic of another day in Yolanda’s world.

Upstairs, in the coziest little room at the top of the house, Yolanda lay snuggled under a patchwork quilt stitched by her Grandma Yak many winters ago. Each square told a tiny story—snowflakes, stars, wildflowers, and one that looked suspiciously like a yodeling marmot.

The quilt was heavy and warm, and Yolanda didn’t want to leave it. But the golden sunlight had crept through her curtains and landed right on her fuzzy nose.

She blinked open one sleepy eye.

Then the other.

With a great, lazy yawn that puffed out her cheeks, she stretched all four of her fuzzy legs, wiggled her hooves, and gave her shoulders a shake. Her horns bumped the bedpost with a gentle thunk.

“Morning already?” she mumbled, voice scratchy and low, like gravel sliding down a hill.

She sat up slowly, blinking the sleep from her eyes, and looked out her small round window. The view was her favorite thing about mornings: rolling green fields dotted with wildflowers, a little creek that sparkled like silver thread, and far-off mountaintops glowing like candle flames.

Yolanda sighed happily.

She climbed out of bed with a small hop and shook the bits of hay from her thick brown fur. Her bedroom smelled like lavender from the sachets Grandma had tucked into the drawers, and her wooden floor creaked familiarly as she tiptoed toward the door.

Her hooves made soft clacking sounds as she padded down the hall, past family pictures carved into birchwood frames, and a wall covered in dried flower bundles. The air grew warmer as she neared the fireplace, and she could hear the soft, steady sound of Mama Yak snoring gently in her chair—wrapped in a knitted shawl and surrounded by half-finished knitting projects.