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The Weight of a Tear

The Weight of a Tear

The Boy Who Stood Beneath It was not rain that soaked his shoulders, nor mist that clung to his lashes — it was the sorrow of someone much larger than him. Someone whose grief came in the form of a tear so heavy, it bowed his spine and made his knees ache. He stood there, barefoot in the beige void, wearing the striped clothes of a memory long dismissed. The ground beneath him was warm, the kind of warmth that holds no comfort — only the fatigue of emotional residue. The tear, frozen in descent, hovered just above his back, never quite falling, never quite lifting. He had no name. He was not born, not in the usual sense. He was made — carved from a moment of unbearable emotion. She had cried once, long ago, when she thought no one was watching. In the quiet of a hospital room, a mother wept silently, shoulders trembling like autumn leaves clinging to one last gust of dignity. It was in that room, in that instant — when pain met silence and memory kissed flesh — that the boy formed. Not in the physical world, but in the liminal space between feeling and forgetting. He was not hers, not truly. But he bore the consequence of her sorrow like marrow. He lived inside the eye. Not metaphorically — quite literally. His world was the hollowed-out chamber behind the iris, where fragments of memories drifted like dust motes. Sometimes he would climb the lashes and look out, catching glimpses of her life — birthdays missed, promises swallowed, words unsaid. Other times, he would sit by the tear duct and listen to the muffled thunder of the heart above, echoing pain and longing through fluid and time. But now, he was outside. The tear had descended. And with it, he had too. She must have remembered. She must have touched something — a scent, a sound, a photo buried deep — and summoned the ache. That’s how it always began. Memory is a cruel puppeteer, yanking forgotten threads until the marionette of pain dances once more. He did not cry. He never did. His sorrow was structural, embedded. He bore it, as Atlas bore the sky. Bent, small, silent — the perfect witness to someone else’s collapse. The tear pulsed slightly with warmth — not wet, not cool — but heavy, like an apology that arrived too late. She was crying again. And so he waited, beneath the weight of it all, until her grief would recede or consume them both. The Architecture of Memory Time passes differently under a tear. It does not flow — it hangs, stretching into a viscous eternity. Under its weight, the boy aged without aging. He grew no taller, bore no facial hair, yet his soul withered into something ancient. He became an archivist of pain, flipping through pages of memory not his own, deciphering the cryptic calligraphy of someone else’s heartbreak. And though he had never touched her skin or smelled her perfume, he knew her better than she ever knew herself. She was his architecture, and he, her echo — a resonance carved in silence, standing beneath the droplet of all she could not bear to carry. Sometimes he imagined what it might be like to leave the drop. To step out from under its pressure and feel — for once — the unburdened air. But he couldn’t. He was not a boy in the way others were. He was a custodian, bound by the emotional laws of physics. Grief, when unspoken, becomes a structure — and someone must inhabit it. Someone must make meaning from the fragments left behind by those who never learned how to mourn properly. He remembered a moment — though it wasn’t his, not truly — when she had been eight years old. She had hidden under a staircase while her parents fought over nothing and everything. That’s where the first tear was born. That’s where he first felt a draft in his non-world, a ripple through his skinless skin. A bruise bloomed that day, not on her body, but on her spirit, and it echoed through the tear-realm like thunder without lightning. There were more moments: the boyfriend who said she was “too much,” the miscarriage that no one even knew about, the laughter she had to fake in boardrooms, the nights she stared at the ceiling wondering what her younger self would think of her now. These were the things that watered the eye from within. And every time she swallowed the pain and smiled for someone else’s comfort, the boy’s knees bent a little more. He had grown crooked not from nature, but from compassion. Every lie she told herself became another brick in the invisible architecture around them both. He didn’t resent her. He didn’t even know how. Resentment requires agency, and he had none. He was born of her pain, but he was not its judge. He was its vessel — its sanctuary. He was the child who bore the weight so she wouldn’t have to. And yet… he longed for release. For her to acknowledge him. To speak, aloud, to the tear. To say, “I see you.” And one day, it happened. She was sitting alone in a room that smelled like lavender and wood polish. An old mirror stared back at her with the impersonal honesty of glass. She leaned forward and whispered, “I miss who I used to be.” And in that moment — not with a scream, but a sigh — the tear trembled. The boy felt it shift. Not just in weight, but in meaning. It had always been sorrow. But now? Now, it was something more sacred: grief made conscious. And that changed everything. The drop finally fell. It landed not with a splash, but a soft inhale — the kind a body makes after holding its breath too long. The boy, finally free from beneath its tension, straightened for the first time. And as he did, he didn’t vanish. He didn’t crumble. He remained. Taller, steadier, not burdened, but witnessed. He was no longer just a shadow of suffering — he was the child she never knew she carried inside her grief. And now, he was real. Not flesh, not bone — but real in the way hope is real. In the way redemption arrives with no parade, just quiet understanding. Somewhere deep in her chest, she felt lighter. Not healed — healing. She would cry again. Of course she would. But next time, the tear might fall without forming a boy beneath it. Because she had seen him now. Because she had mourned out loud. And in doing so, she had unbuilt the architecture of silence.     Epilogue: The Room with No Ceiling Years passed, though clocks never ticked in his world. The boy — or what remained of him — no longer crouched beneath falling sorrow. He had become something else entirely: a presence, a pulse, a soft exhale inside the spaces she used to fill with silence. He did not follow her, but he remained near — like gravity, invisible yet always felt. She grew older, her eyes ringed not just with age, but recognition. She had learned to cry in front of mirrors and strangers. She had written things she once feared to say. She even laughed differently now — from the chest instead of the throat. And when the tears came, they came honestly. No child carried them anymore. They fell to the earth like rain, nourishing the soil where shame once bloomed. In the corner of her memory, there was a small, warm room. Inside it, a boy once stood. Now, the room had no ceiling. Just sky. Just possibility. And in the vastness above, something watched — not to judge, not to wait — but to remember. Because healing is not forgetting. It is learning how to carry the memory without letting it carry you.     Bring "The Weight of a Tear" into your space If this story stirred something in you — if the boy, the tear, or the silence between them felt familiar — you can carry that connection beyond the screen. "The Weight of a Tear" is available as a framed fine art print, an acrylic masterpiece, a stunning metal print, or even a soft wall tapestry — each one as emotionally textured as the story itself. Prefer something smaller to share or send? A beautifully printed greeting card carries the same emotion in your hands, ideal for when words fail and art speaks louder. Let this image live on — not just in your memory, but in the spaces you love. Let it remind you: healing begins the moment we allow ourselves to feel.

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Trippy Gnomads

Trippy Gnomads

Shrooms, Shenanigans, and Soulmates Somewhere between the mossy roots of logic and the leafy canopy of “what the hell,” lived a pair of gnomes so groovy they made Woodstock look like a church bake sale. Their names were Bodhi and Lark, and they didn’t just live in the forest — they vibed with it. Every mushroom cap was a dance floor, every breeze a backing vocal, every squirrel a potential tambourine player in their daily jam session with existence. Bodhi had the beard of a wizard, the belly of a well-fed mystic, and the aura of someone who once tried to meditate inside a beehive “for the buzz.” He wore tie-dye like it was sacred armor and claimed he’d once levitated during a particularly potent batch of lavender tea (Lark said he just fell off the hammock and bounced). Lark, meanwhile, was a radiant chaos goddess in gnome form. Her hair changed color depending on the moon, the tea, or her mood. Her wardrobe was 80% flowy rainbow fabric, 15% bangles that jingled with intention, and 5% whatever she'd bedazzled while “channeling divine glitter.” She was the kind of woman who could make a peace sign look like a mic drop — and often did. The two of them weren’t just a couple — they were a cosmic alignment of snorts, incense, and undeniable soul-meld. They met decades ago at the annual Shroomstock Festival when Bodhi accidentally danced into Lark’s pop-up tea temple mid-spell. The resulting explosion of chamomile, glitter, and bass frequencies knocked both of them into a pile of enchanted moss... and love. Deep, sparkly, sometimes-kinda-illegal-in-some-realms love. Now, decades later, they’d made a cozy life in a hollowed-out toadstool mansion just off the main trail behind a portal disguised as an aggressively judgmental raccoon. They spent their days brewing questionable elixirs, hosting nude drum circles for squirrels, and writing poetry inspired by bark patterns and beetles. But something peculiar had stirred the peace of their technicolor utopia. It started subtly — mushrooms that glowed even when uninvited, birds chirping backwards, and their favorite talking fern suddenly developing a French accent. Bodhi, naturally, blamed Mercury retrograde. Lark suspected the cosmic equilibrium had hiccuped. The real cause? Neither of them knew — yet. But it was definitely about to turn their blissful forest frolic into an unexpected trip of the wildest kind. Cosmic Detours and Glorious Confusions Bodhi woke up to find his beard tied in knots around a mandolin. This wasn’t entirely unusual. What was unusual was the mandolin playing itself, softly humming something suspiciously close to “Stairway to Heaven” in gnomish minor. Lark was levitating six inches above her pillow with a satisfied grin, arms spread like she was doing trust falls with the universe. The air smelled like burnt cinnamon, ozone, and one of their questionable experiments in "emotional aromatherapy." Something was very not-normal in the glade. “Lark, babe,” Bodhi muttered, rubbing sleep from eyes that still glowed faintly from last night’s herbal inhalation, “did we finally crack open the veil between dimensions or did I lick that one too-happy mushroom again?” Lark floated down slowly, her hair swirling like galaxy tendrils. “Neither,” she said, yawning. “I think the forest’s having a midlife crisis. Either that or the earth spirit is trying to vibe-check us.” Before either could dive deeper into spiritual diagnostics, a series of thuds echoed through the glade. A line of mushrooms — fat, bioluminescent, and increasingly annoyed-looking — were marching toward their mushroom house. Not walking. Marching. One of them had a tiny protest sign that read, “WE ARE NOT CHAIRS.” Another had spray-painted itself with the words “FUNGUS ISN’T FREE.” “It’s the spores,” Lark said, eyes widening. “Remember the empathy tea blend we dumped last week because it turned our armpit hair into moss? I think it seeped into the root web. They’re woke now.” “You mean sentient?” “No. Woke. Like, unionizing and emotionally intelligent. Look — they’re forming a drum circle.” Sure enough, a ring of mushrooms had gathered, some tapping on stones with sticks, one chanting in rhythm, “We are more than footstools! We are more than footstools!” Bodhi looked around nervously. “Should we apologize?” “Absolutely not,” Lark said, already pulling out her ceremonial ukulele. “We collaborate.” And thus began the most psychedelic, passive-aggressive negotiation ceremony in woodland history. Lark led the chant. Bodhi rolled joints the size of acorns filled with apology herbs. The mushrooms demanded an annual celebration called Mycelium Appreciation Day and one day off per week from being sat on. Bodhi, overwhelmed by the sincerity of a portobello named Dennis, broke down crying and offered them full sentient citizenship under the Glade’s Common Law of Whoa Dude That’s Fair. As the moon rose and painted everything in a silvery hue, the newly formed G.A.M.E. (Gnomes And Mycelium Entente) signed their Peace Pledge on bark parchment, sealed with glitter and mushroom spore kisses. Bodhi and Lark fell back into their rainbow hammock, emotionally exhausted, and giddy from what might have been historical diplomacy or just a shared hallucination — it was hard to tell anymore. “Do you think we’re... like, actually good at this?” Bodhi asked, snuggling into her shoulder. “Diplomacy?” “No. Life. Loving. Floating with the weird and riding the vibe.” Lark looked up at the stars, one of which winked back at her in obvious approval. “I think we’re nailing it. Especially the part where we mess up just enough to keep learning.” “You’re my favorite mistake,” Bodhi said, kissing her forehead. “You’re my recurring fever dream.” And with that, they faded into sleep, surrounded by a softly snoring circle of sentient mushrooms, the forest finally at peace — for now. Because tomorrow, a sentient pinecone with a ukulele and political ambitions was scheduled to arrive. But that’s a trip for another tale.     Epilogue: Of Spores and Soulmates In the weeks that followed the Great Mushroom Awakening, the forest pulsed with an odd but joyful harmony. Animals began leaving handwritten notes (and mildly passive-aggressive Yelp reviews) on Bodhi and Lark’s door. The sentient fungi launched a twice-weekly improv troupe called “Spores of Thought.” The raccoon portal guardian began charging cover fees for dimension-hoppers, using the proceeds to fund interpretive dance classes for possums. Bodhi built a new meditation space shaped like a peace sign, only to have it claimed by the newly unionized chipmunks as a “creative grievance nest.” Lark started a ‘Gnomic Astrology’ podcast that became wildly popular with owls and rogue squirrels looking to “find their moon-beam alignment.” Life had never been more chaotic. Or more complete. And through it all, Bodhi and Lark danced. In the morning mist. Beneath moon-soaked leaves. On treetops. On tabletops. On mushrooms that now required enthusiastic consent and a signed waiver. They danced like gnomes who understood the world wasn’t meant to be perfect — just passionately weird, deliciously flawed, and infinitely alive. Love, after all, wasn’t about finishing each other’s sentences. It was about starting new ones. With laughter. With glitter. With the kind of kiss that smells faintly of rosemary and rebellion. And in the heart of the forest, where logic took long naps and joy wore bells on its toes, two trippy gnomads kept dancing. Forever just a little off-beat, and absolutely in tune.     Bring the Vibe Home If you felt the funk, the freedom, or maybe just fell a little in love with Lark and Bodhi’s kaleidoscopic chaos, you can invite their spirit into your space. Wrap yourself in the magic with a super-soft fleece blanket that practically hums peace signs. Let the art take over your walls with a forest-sized tapestry or a vibrant canvas print that turns any room into a glade of good vibes. And for those who still believe in snail mail and soul notes, there’s even a greeting card ready to deliver whimsy with a wink. Celebrate weird love. Honor magical mayhem. Support the unionized mushrooms. And most of all, stay trippy, friend.

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The Ale and the Argument

The Ale and the Argument

It started, as most disasters do, with a pint too many and pants too few. Old Fernbeard — retired mushroom forager, self-declared “Alethlete,” and wearer of suspiciously tight suspenders — was three steins deep into his celebratory "It's Tuesday" routine when trouble stomped into the clearing in the form of his wife, Beryl. Beryl Toadflinger wasn’t just any gnome wife. No, she was a capital-W Wife. The kind who could sew lace with one hand while hurling a shoe with the other. She had cheeks like winter apples, a gaze that could sterilize moss, and a voice known to shatter acorns at fifty paces. Her flower-crowned hat wobbled with every stomp, like a dainty warning flare. “Fernbeard!” she shrieked, sending a nearby butterfly into cardiac arrest. “What in the fungus-sucking hell are you doing?! I told you to fix the roof, not fix your blood-alcohol content!” “Beryl, my sweet portobello,” Fernbeard slurred, grinning around his foam-flecked beard. “I’m maintaining hydration. You want me dehydrated on a roof? What if I fainted mid-shingle?” “You fainted into a ditch last week after drinking elderberry schnapps and trying to pole dance with a cattail!” “I was honoring tradition!” he cried, puffing up like a drunk squirrel. “The Summer Solstice requires movement and moisture. I brought both.” “You brought shame and a rash. We’re still not allowed back in the fern glade!” As Beryl launched into a fiery monologue about “mature responsibilities” and “decades of lawn flamingo trauma,” Fernbeard, still smiling, tried to sneak a swig of his fourth pint. It didn’t work. Her hand shot out like a hawk snatching a vole, snatched the mug, and flung it — foam first — into a mushroom with a wet *thwap*. “That was my last barrel of Beardbanger Brew!” Fernbeard howled. “Do you know what I had to do to trade for that?! I danced for a badger. A badger, Beryl!” “Then maybe that badger can help you regrout the mushroom toilet!” Gnomes from neighboring stumps began peeking from behind mossy curtains, watching with the kind of interest usually reserved for lightning storms and nude trolls. Word was already spreading that “Toadflinger’s hit DEFCON Daisy.” Fernbeard’s eyes narrowed. “You know what, Beryl? Maybe I’d get things done if I weren’t being nagged more than a squirrel at nut tax season!” Beryl blinked. Slowly. Like a predator processing its next move. “Well maybe I wouldn’t nag if I had a husband who could tell the difference between a wrench and a garden gnome’s left nut!” “One time, Beryl! One time I fixed the wheelbarrow with a reproductive artifact and suddenly I’m banned from Gnome Depot!” The shouting crescendoed, their floral hats vibrating with rage. A squirrel passed out from stress. Somewhere, a pixie took notes for a future stage play. And then, silence. Pregnant, awkward silence. The kind that only occurs when two people simultaneously realize: they're standing in the woods, shouting about nuts and badgers, wearing floral crowns like angry garden center mascots. Fernbeard scratched his beard. Beryl rubbed her temples. A single beer burp escaped into the air like a fragile dove of peace. “So…” he began, “Dinner?” “Not unless you want it served with a side of shovel.” Beryl stormed off, trailing flower petals and rage like a floral hurricane. Fernbeard stood in the clearing for a moment, swaying in existential dread and ale-induced vertigo. He muttered something about “emotional terrorism via tulips” and kicked a pinecone with the gusto of a tipsy toddler in boots. Back at their stump-home, Beryl was elbow-deep in passive-aggressive rearranging. She flung Fernbeard’s “lucky bark chunk” out the window, relocated his novelty spoon collection to the privy, and scribbled a grocery list that included “eggs, milk, and a new husband.” Meanwhile, Fernbeard had retreated to his Thinking Log — a mossy perch by the creek where he often solved important problems, like “What if worms are just noodles with anxiety?” and “Can I ferment dandelions without another explosion?” He needed a plan. A big one. Bigger than the time he tried to build her a spa and accidentally flooded the mole parliament. He pondered. He farted. He pondered again. “Right,” he muttered. “We need the three R’s: Romance, Regret… and Ridiculousness.” First stop? The forbidden glade. The one they were technically banned from after Fernbeard tried to impress Beryl with interpretive gnome ballet. He’d landed in a bush, exposed himself to a hedgehog, and traumatized three ladybugs into therapy. But today, it was the site of Operation: Make-Up Or Die Trying. He set the scene: fairy lights made from fireflies (consensually borrowed), a blanket made from repurposed moth capes, and a feast of Beryl’s favorite things — acorn bread, candied snail curls, and that weird cheese she always pretended not to like but devoured at 3 a.m. To top it off, he brought out the Secret Weapon: a hand-carved mug inscribed with “To My Wife: You’re Hotter Than Troll Sweat” surrounded by tiny hearts and a questionable drawing of a mushroom. Inside? Beardbanger Brew, aged one week in a haunted thimble. Fernbeard stood there waiting, nervous as a pixie in a knitting shop, until Beryl finally arrived — arms crossed, eyebrow cocked so high it nearly snagged a cloud. “You dragged me out here to what? Beg?” she asked, eyeing the setup. “Begging? Nah. Pleading? Maybe. Offering emotional vulnerability disguised as cheese and beer? Definitely.” She tried to stay annoyed, but her nose twitched at the scent of the candied snail curls. “This better not be another trap like the time you ‘surprised’ me with a romantic tunnel and it turned out to be a badger den.” “That was a navigational error,” he said solemnly. “And they loved us. Invited us to their solstice orgy.” “Which we left in five minutes flat.” “Because you were allergic to the scented moss! I made that call for your safety!” Beryl snorted. But her arms dropped. And her foot stopped tapping. A good sign. “You made all this?” she asked, poking the moth-cape blanket. “And you used the mug. The... mushroom mug.” “Every gnome needs a little shame to grow strong,” Fernbeard replied, gently pushing the mug toward her. “Like fertilizer, but for your soul.” She took it. Sipped. Licked the foam from her lip in a way that made his beard quiver. “You’re an idiot,” she said softly. “A drunken, mushroom-brained, bark-snoring idiot.” “But I’m your idiot.” She sighed. Sat. Tore a piece of acorn bread like it had personally wronged her. Then, without ceremony, leaned against him. They sat there in the glow of stolen fireflies, sipping bad beer and better silence. He reached out, unsure, and laced his fingers through hers. She let him. “We’re not right, you and me,” she murmured, “but we’re just wrong enough to fit.” “Like moss and mold,” he agreed, a bit too proudly. “Don’t push it.” The glade, formerly the site of great scandal and one accidental gnome streaking incident, witnessed something far rarer that night: a truce between two wonderfully wild creatures who fought hard, loved harder, and forgave with the same passion they yelled about roof shingles and fermented socks. Later, when they stumbled home slightly tipsy and totally reconciled, Fernbeard grinned at Beryl in the moonlight. “So… about that pole dancing cattail?” “Try it again,” she said, smirking, “and I’ll shove it so far up your compost chute, you’ll sneeze pollen through autumn.” And just like that, the love story of The Ale and the Argument brewed another batch of chaos, crass affection, and one very lucky gnome who always knew the best arguments ended with dessert and a bruised ego.     Love the riotous romance of Fernbeard and Beryl? Keep their tale alive with artful keepsakes from our Captured Tales collection — perfect for those who believe that love is loud, laughter is messy, and every argument deserves a second round (of beer or kisses, your call). Frame the chaos with a vibrant framed print or metal print, and let these gnomes grace your walls with woodland wit. Puzzle out their problems — literally — with a charming jigsaw puzzle, or send a cheeky greeting card to the mushroom in your life who puts up with your nonsense. Explore more chaotic love and gnome-grown giggles at shop.unfocussed.com — because some tales are too weird not to frame.

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Joint Custody of the Brownie

Joint Custody of the Brownie

The Blooming Situation Runcle the Elf had never been what you’d call “employable.” His résumé, if it existed, would’ve included such gems as Professional Napper, Mushroom Inspector, and Occasional Lover of Sapient Ferns. So it came as little surprise to the other woodland folk when he was found one morning, high off his bark-bitten ass, lounging like a drunk god in the petals of a magnolia roughly the size of a garden jacuzzi. There he was, sun hitting his face just right, joint tucked between two long fingers like a wizard trying to look casual. His eyes were squinted not because he was suspicious, but because they were desperately trying to remember how to focus. On his lap sat the crown jewel of his day: a fudge-dense brownie laced with enough enchanted herbs to give a troll second thoughts about life choices. “Mine,” he mumbled with crumb-flecked lips, even though no one was around to dispute the ownership. Not yet, anyway. Suddenly, the bushes rustled with the confidence of someone who'd clearly ignored several signs that said, “Do Not Disturb the Elf. He's Baked.” Enter Glorma: pixie lawyer, 6 inches tall, legally terrifying, and vibrating with righteous fury. She landed on the edge of the magnolia like a winged subpoena, her heels clicking like doom across the petal. “Runcle. You greasy little leaf-humper. That brownie was supposed to be shared.” Runcle blinked slowly. “...I don’t recall agreeing to joint custody.” “You literally said, and I quote, ‘Yeah whatever Glormy, just don’t eat it all before I get back from peeing in the stream.’” Runcle took a thoughtful drag from his joint and let the smoke swirl out of his nose. “Sounds legally ambiguous to me.” Glorma, unshaken by the fog of fairy kush in the air, produced a tiny scroll with ominous red wax and several lines of text in microscopic, rage-filled calligraphy. “This contract states otherwise. Signed in glitter ink. Witnessed by three sprites and a horny badger.” Runcle squinted at it. “I was under the influence of... everything.” “And that,” Glorma said with a grin sharp enough to cut through bark, “is what we call consent with sparkles.” The standoff between elf and pixie was officially underway. The brownie sat like a holy relic between them — gooey, powerful, and soaked in enough THC to trigger a spontaneous spirit quest. Birds paused in the trees. A chipmunk stopped chewing mid-nut. The forest held its breath. And from somewhere in Runcle’s gut came a noise that sounded like a horny dragon gargling bong water. “Dibs,” Runcle whispered again. But Glorma was already reaching for her wand… Magical Mediation and the Brownie Tribunal “Runcle,” Glorma said through clenched teeth, her wings fluttering in a way that screamed ‘legal action imminent’, “you leave me no choice. I’m invoking the Snack Accord of 863 A.F. — After Fudge.” “You wouldn’t dare,” Runcle said, clutching the brownie like it was a newborn baby covered in chocolate and weed crystals. “That treaty was annulled after the Great Cookie Arbitration!” “Read the footnotes, my dear moss monkey. It was reinstated after the Muffin Uprising of '04. Page 17, subclause three: ‘Any disputed edible in a fairy/elf domestic disagreement must be tried by the Forest Tribunal of Munchies.’” Runcle groaned so hard a squirrel fell out of a nearby tree. “This is why I stopped dating pixies. All law, no foreplay.” Ten minutes later, the petals of the magnolia had been converted into a makeshift courtroom. On the left sat Glorma, legs crossed, hair in a very intentional power bun. On the right, Runcle, half-asleep, smearing brownie crumbs onto his tunic and looking like a confused old man at a Denny’s at 3AM. The tribunal consisted of: A morally flexible owl named Darren (Judge, also part-time DJ) A mushroom with eyes that blinked suspiciously often (Jury forefungus) And a raccoon bailiff named Stabbie, who was mostly there for the free snacks Darren the Owl banged a stick on a nearby acorn. “The Court of Crunchy Appeals is now in session. Glorma v. Runcle: The People v. That Greedy Bastard with the Munchies.” “Objection!” shouted Runcle, raising his joint like it was an evidence wand. “That’s prejudicial labeling!” “Sustained,” Darren replied. “We’ll call you the Allegedly Greedy Bastard.” Glorma cleared her throat. “Ladies and creatures of the court, I present Exhibit A — a glitter-contract, signed under the agreement that this sacred brownie would be shared.” “And I present Exhibit B,” Runcle said, dramatically lifting a half-eaten brownie with a corner bite taken out. “Which clearly shows there’s less than fifty percent left. At this point, we’re arguing about crumbs and moist suggestion.” “That’s still half a trip in magical dosage!” Glorma snapped. “I’ve licked goblins and seen less hallucination.” Darren nodded. “That’s legally accurate.” Suddenly, the brownie began to shimmer. The room fell into silence. A pulsing glow emitted from its gooey center as a deep voice echoed through the forest. “I am the Spirit of the Snack.” “Oh sweet fungus balls,” Runcle muttered, eyes wide. “It’s sentient. We over-infused.” “Who dares bicker over my delicious form?” the brownie boomed, levitating above Runcle’s lap with the aura of a smug baked potato on acid. “We both claim partial ownership!” Glorma said, trying to look authoritative while the brownie slowly rotated like it was being judged on The Great British Bake Off. “Then let the trial end in fair division.” With a flash of golden crumbs, the brownie split itself perfectly in two, each half levitating toward its respective claimant. The remaining forest creatures clapped politely, except for Stabbie the raccoon who tried to swipe both halves before being tasered by pixie magic. Glorma beamed, holding her half like a hard-earned diploma. “Justice is served.” Runcle took a long hit from his joint and chuckled. “Nah, babe. Dessert is served.” And as the brownie halves were consumed under the fading light of the enchanted grove, both elf and pixie drifted into a shared hallucination that involved a karaoke battle with a unicorn, a sentient cheese wheel, and a spontaneous marriage officiated by a sarcastic centaur. Some say they woke up hours later spooning in the petals, both sticky with chocolate and questionable decisions. Others say they’re still in that trip. But one thing was certain in the forest: custody may have been shared… but that brownie? Totally worth the drama.     Take the Madness Home Whether you're team Runcle or team Glorma (or just here for the sentient snacks), you can now own a piece of this beautifully bizarre tale. Canvas print? Yup. Metal print? Hell yes. Throw pillow? That brownie belongs on your couch. Tote bag? Carry your snacks like a forest legend. Grab your favorite version of Joint Custody of the Brownie and let the world know you support magical nonsense and the sacred right to edible equality.

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The Devilish Sprite of Emberglow Forest

The Devilish Sprite of Emberglow Forest

Deep in the tanglewood shadows of Emberglow Forest, where sunlight filtered like liquid gold and nothing that grinned could be trusted, lived a sprite named Virla. She wasn’t your grandmother’s kind of faerie. No twinkly dust, no squeaky voice. This one had horns. And hips. And a smile that suggested she'd stolen your socks, your secrets, and your last decent bottle of elderflower wine—all before breakfast. She dressed in leaves stitched tighter than gossip in a village square and wings that shimmered like blood-orange flames every time she fluttered past a squirrel mid-nap. The other woodland creatures had learned two things: don't accept her cookies, and never, ever ask for a favor unless you wanted your eyebrows relocated or your love life suddenly redirected toward a disgruntled badger. Now, Virla had a hobby. Not the respectable kind, like moss arranging or berry fermenting. No, she dabbled in... well, chaos. Small-scale mayhem. Think glitter bombs in bird nests, enchanted whoopee cushions made from skunk fur, or swapping the moonflowers with gigglepetals—a flower so cursed with ticklishness, even the bees got the giggles. But on the particular Tuesday our story begins, Virla was bored. Dangerous, truly biblical-level bored. She hadn’t tricked a sentient being in three whole days. Her last prank, a pixie makeover spell that left a troll prince looking like a porcelain doll with pouty lips, had run its course. The forest was getting wise. Time to expand her turf. And wouldn't you know it, fate—possibly drunk and definitely underdressed—delivered her a treat. A man. A mortal man. In a crisp button-down, lost in the woods with a camera, a journal, and the swagger of someone who believed trail mix was survival food. “A biologist,” she whispered to herself, peeking from behind a fern with her wicked grin in full bloom. “Delicious.” She slinked down from her mossy perch with the elegance of a cat who knew it looked good and the confidence of someone who had once convinced a bear he was allergic to honey. Her wings pulsed gently behind her as she stepped into a shaft of dappled light, making sure the sun hit her cheekbones just right. She cleared her throat—daintily, devilishly. “Lost, are we?” she purred, letting her voice curl around the air like smoke. “Or just pretending to be helpless for attention?” The man blinked, jaw slack. “What the… are you cosplaying out here or—wait. Wait. Are those wings? And horns?” Virla’s grin widened. “And attitude. Don’t forget the attitude, darling.” He fumbled for his camera. “This is incredible. A hallucination, probably. I haven’t eaten since noon. Did that granola bar have mushrooms in it?” “Darling, if I were a hallucination, I’d come with fewer clothes and worse decisions.” She stepped closer, eyes narrowing with interest. “But lucky you, I’m very real. And I haven’t had a good prank since Beltane.” She leaned in, close enough that her breath brushed his ear. “Tell me, forest boy... are you easily enchanted?” He stammered something unintelligible. She giggled—a sound that made flowers bloom out of season and squirrels faint from blushing too hard. “Excellent,” she said. “Let’s ruin your life in the most delightful way possible.” And with that, the game began. The man, whose name—he eventually confessed—was Theo, was precisely the sort of earnest, over-educated wanderer Virla adored to torment. He kept saying things like, “This isn’t scientifically possible,” while she made his shoelaces vanish and his socks begin debating one another in fluent squirrel. Virla called it a meet-cute. Theo called it neurological collapse. Tomato, tomahto. On their first “date”—a term Virla delighted in because it made him visibly uncomfortable—she took him to a mushroom circle that giggled when stepped on and tried to eat your toes if you insulted their spores. Theo tried to take samples. The mushrooms tried to take his boots. Virla nearly cried from laughter. “I thought fairies were supposed to be helpful,” Theo grunted as he wrestled a particularly clingy fungus off his ankle. “That’s like saying cats are supposed to fetch,” she replied, floating upside down and licking honey off a pinecone. “Helpful is boring. I’m whimsical. With an edge.” Over the next week—if you can call that stretch of twisted, time-bending chaos a “week”—Theo learned several things: Never accept tea from a sprite unless you want to meow for three hours straight. Forest nymphs gossip worse than old barmaids with crystal balls. Virla had an addiction to glitter. And revenge. But mostly glitter. One morning, Theo awoke to find a crown of beetles braided into his hair. They chanted his name like a sports team warming up. Virla just leaned against a tree, wings aglow, picking her teeth with a pine needle. “Adorable, aren’t they?” she cooed. “They’re emotionally co-dependent. You’re their god now.” “I’m going to need therapy,” he muttered. “Probably. But you’ll be adorable while unraveling.” And then came the accident. Or, as Virla later put it: “The gloriously unintentional consequences of my perfectly intentional mischief.” You see, she’d enchanted a stream to flow in reverse just to confuse a cranky water sprite. She didn’t mean for Theo to fall into it. Nor did she expect the ripple of enchanted logic to reset part of his biology. When he climbed out, sputtering and wet, he looked... different. Taller. Sharper. More fae than man. His ears had curled, his irises shimmered like frost under starlight, and he suddenly understood everything the mushrooms were saying. “Virla,” he growled, wiping river moss from his face. “What the hell did you do to me?” She blinked, momentarily caught off-guard. “I was going to ask if you wanted breakfast, but this is so much better.” He grabbed a reflection from the water—because yes, in Emberglow, reflections are mobile and gossipy—and studied his new features. “You turned me into a fae?” She shrugged, smile playing on her lips. “Technically, the stream did. I just… encouraged the possibility.” “Why?” “Because you’re fun.” He stared. “You ruined my life.” “I improved it. You now have better cheekbones and an immune system that can handle eating glowing berries. Honestly, you’re welcome.” Theo looked like he was going to protest. But then he sighed, dropped onto a mossy log, and muttered, “Fine. What now? Do I have to steal babies or dance in circles under the moon or something?” Virla sat beside him. Her wing brushed his shoulder. “Only if you want to. You’ve got options. Trick a prince. Woo a dryad. Make a frog orchestra. Live a little. You're not shackled to mortal mediocrity anymore.” He considered. Then, slowly, he smiled. “Okay. But if I’m going to live like a fae, I want a new name.” Virla grinned so wide it nearly cracked the forest in half. “Darling, I was hoping you’d say that. Let’s call you… Fey-o.” He groaned. “No.” “Fayoncé?” “Virla.” “Fine. We’ll workshop it.” And so, the Devilish Sprite of Emberglow Forest gained a partner—not in crime, exactly, but in mischief. Together, they became legends whispered among the brambles, the reasons travelers found their boots singing or their pants inexplicably braided. And Theo? He never got back to his research. But he did learn to levitate goats.     Bring Virla Home: If you’ve fallen under the spell of Virla and her devilish charm, you don’t have to wander into enchanted woods to keep her mischief nearby. Capture her fiery wings and wicked grin on beautifully crafted products from our Emberglow Collection. Metal Prints – Sleek, vibrant, and gallery-ready, perfect for making a bold statement in your space. Canvas Prints – Add fantasy to your walls with rich texture and color that brings her forest magic to life. Throw Pillows – Add a splash of fae sass to your couch, reading nook, or secret lair. Tote Bags – Carry chaos with you in style—Virla-approved mischief capacity included. Each piece is a slice of the story, designed to turn your everyday life into something just a bit more enchanted… and unpredictable.

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