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Sassy Shroom Shenanigans

Sassy Shroom Shenanigans

Tongue Wars and the Forest Code of Sass In the deepest thicket of the Glibbergrove, where mushrooms grew big enough to get parking tickets and squirrels wore monocles unironically, there perched a gnome with absolutely no chill. His name? Grimbold Butterbuttons. His vibe? Absolute chaos in wool socks. Grimbold wasn't your average gnome. While the others busied themselves polishing snail shells or whittling toothbrushes from elder twigs, Grimbold had an entire *reputation* for being the forest’s number one instigator. He made faces at butterflies. He photobombed the Council of Owls. Once, he’d even replaced the Queen Badger’s royal tea with flat root beer just to watch her snort. So naturally, it made perfect sense that Grimbold had a pet dragon. A tiny pet dragon. One that barely came up to his belt buckle but acted like she ruled the canopy. Her name was Zilch, short for Zilcharia Flameyfangs the Third, but no one called her that unless they wanted to get singed eyebrows. That morning, the two of them were doing what they did best—being complete little shits. "Bet you can't hold that face for longer than me," Grimbold snorted, sticking out his tongue like a drunken goose and widening his eyes so far they looked like boiled turnips. Zilch, wings flaring, narrowed her gold-slitted eyes. "I INVENTED this face," she rasped, then mimicked him with such perfect deranged accuracy that even the birds stopped mid-tweet. The two locked in a battle of absurdity atop a giant red-capped mushroom—their usual morning perch-slash-stage. Tongues out. Eyes bugged. Nostrils flaring like melodramatic llamas. It was a face-off of epic immaturity, and they were both thriving. "You’re creasing your eyebrows wrong!" Zilch barked. "You’re blinking too much, cheater!" Grimbold fired back. A fat beetle waddled by with a judgmental glance, muttering, "Honestly, I preferred the mime duel last week." But they didn’t care. These two lived for this kind of nonsense. Where others saw an ancient, mysterious forest full of magic and mystery, they saw a playground. A sass-ground, if you will. And so began their day of shenanigans, with their sacred forest motto etched in mushroom spores and glitter glue: “Mock first. Ask questions never.” Only they didn’t realize that today’s game of tongue wars would unlock an accidental spell, open an interdimensional portal, and quite possibly awaken a mushroom warlord who’d once been banned for excessive pettiness. But hey—that’s a problem for later. The Portal of Pfft and the Rise of Lord Sporesnort Grimbold Butterbuttons’ tongue was still proudly extended when it happened. A *wet* sound split the air, somewhere between a cosmic zipper and a squirrel flatulating through a didgeridoo. Zilch’s pupils dilated to the size of acorns. “Grim,” she croaked, “did you just... open a thing?” The gnome didn’t answer. Mostly because his face was frozen mid-snarl, one eye twitching and tongue still glued to his chin like a sweaty stamp. Behind them, the mushroom shivered. Not metaphorically. Like, the actual mushroom. It quivered with a noise that sounded like giggling algae. And from its spore-speckled surface, a jagged tear opened in the air, like reality had been cut with blunt safety scissors. From within, a purple light pulsed like an angry disco ball. "...Oh," said Grimbold finally, blinking. "Oopsie-tootsie." Zilch smacked her forehead with a tiny claw. "You broke space again! That’s the third time this week! Do you even read the warnings in the moss tomes?" "No one reads the moss tomes," Grimbold said, shrugging. "They smell like foot soup." With a moist belch of spores and questionable glitter, something began to emerge from the portal. First came a cloud of lavender steam, then a large floppy hat. Then—very slowly—a pair of glowing green eyes, slitted like a grumpy cat that hadn’t had its brunch pâté. “I AM THE MIGHTY LORD SPORESNORT,” boomed a voice that somehow smelled like truffle oil and unwashed gym socks. “HE WHO WAS BANISHED FOR EXCESSIVE PETTINESS. HE WHO ONCE CURSED AN ENTIRE KINGDOM WITH ITCHY NIPPLES OVER A GRAMMAR MISTAKE.” Zilch gave Grimbold the longest side-eye in the history of side-eyes. "Did you just summon the ancient fungal sass-demon of legend?" "To be fair," Grimbold muttered, "I was aiming for a fart with echo." Out stepped Lord Sporesnort in full regalia—moss robes, mycelium boots, and a walking staff shaped like a passive-aggressive spatula. His beard was made entirely of mold. And not the cool, forest-sorcerer kind. The fuzzy fridge kind. He radiated judgment and lingering disappointment. "BEHOLD MY REVENGE!" Sporesnort roared. "I SHALL COVER THIS FOREST IN SPORE-MODED MISCHIEF. ALL SHALL BE IRRITATED BY THE SLIGHTEST INCONVENIENCES!" With a dramatic swirl, he cast his first spell: “Itchicus Everlasting!” Suddenly, a thousand woodland creatures began scratching themselves uncontrollably. Squirrels tumbled from branches in mid-itch. A badger ran by shrieking about chafing. Even the bees looked uncomfortable. "Okay, no. This won’t do," said Zilch, cracking her knuckles with tiny thunderclaps. "This is our forest. We annoy the locals. You don’t get to roll in with your ancient mushroom face and out-sass us." "Hear hear!" shouted Grimbold, standing proudly with one foot on a suspicious mushroom that squelched like an angry pudding. "We may be chaotic, bratty, and tragically underqualified for any real leadership, but this is our turf, you decomposing jockstrap." Lord Sporesnort laughed—an echoing wheeze that smelled of old salad. “Very well, tiny fools. Then I challenge you... to the TRIAL OF THE TRIPLE-TIERED TONGUE!” A hush fell across the glade. Somewhere, a duck dropped its sandwich. "Uh, is that a real thing?" Zilch whispered. "It is now," Sporesnort grinned, raising three slimy mushroom caps into the air. "You must perform the ultimate display of synchronized facial sass—a three-round tongue duel. Lose, and I take over Glibbergrove. Win, and I shall return to the Sporeshade Realms to wallow in my own tragic flamboyance." "You're on," said Grimbold, his face twitching with a growing smirk. "But if we win, you also have to admit that your cloak makes your butt look wide." "I—FINE," Sporesnort spat, turning slightly to cover his rear fungus flare. And thus the stage was set. Creatures gathered. Leaves rustled with gossip. A beetle vendor set up a stand selling roasted aphids on sticks and “I ♥ Sporesnort” foam fingers. Even the wind paused to see what the hell was about to happen. Grimbold and Zilch, side by side on their mushroom stage, cracked their necks, stretched their cheeks, and waggled their tongues. A hush fell. Sporesnort’s fungal beard trembled in anticipation. "Let the tongue games begin!" shouted a squirrel with a referee whistle. The Final Tongue-Off and the Scandal of the Sassy Underwear The crowd leaned in. A snail fell off its mushroom seat in suspense. Somewhere in the distance, a fungus chime rang out one somber, reverberating note. The *Trial of the Triple-Tiered Tongue* had officially begun. Round One was a classic: The Eyeball Stretch & Tongue Combo. Lord Sporesnort made the first move, his eyes bugging out like a pair of grapefruit on springs as he whipped out his tongue with such velocity it created a mild sonic pop. The crowd gasped. A field mouse fainted. “BEHOLD!” he roared, his voice echoing through the mushroom caps. “THIS IS THE ANCIENT FORM KNOWN AS ‘GORGON’S SURPRISE’!” Zilch narrowed her eyes. “That’s just ‘Monday Morning Face’ in dragon preschool.” She casually blew a tiny flame to toast a passing marshmallow on a stick, then locked eyes with Grimbold. They nodded. The duo launched into their countermove: synchronized bug-eyes, nostril flares, and tongues waggling side to side like possessed metronomes. It was elegant. It was chaotic. A raccoon dropped its pipe and screamed, “SWEET GRUBS, I’VE SEEN THE TRUTH!” “ROUND ONE: TIED,” announced the squirrel referee, his whistle now glowing from sheer stress.     Round Two: The Sass Spiral For this, the goal was to layer expressions with insult-level flair. Bonus points for eyebrow choreography. Lord Sporesnort twisted his fungal lips into a smug, upturned frown and performed what could only be described as a sassy interpretive dance using only his eyebrows. He finished by flipping his cloak, revealing fungus-embroidered briefs with the words “BITTER BUT CUTE” stitched across the rear in glowing mycelium thread. The crowd lost their collective minds. The beetle vendor passed out. A hedgehog screamed and launched into a bush. “I call that,” Sporesnort said smugly, “the Sporeshake 9000.” Grimbold stepped forward slowly. Too slowly. Suspense dripped off him like condensation off a cold goblet of forest grog. Then he struck. He wiggled his ears. He furrowed one brow. His tongue spiraled into a perfect helix, and he puffed out his cheeks until he looked like an emotionally unstable turnip. Then, with a slow, dramatic flourish, he turned around and revealed a patch sewn into the seat of his corduroy trousers. It read, in shimmering gold thread: “YOU JUST GOT GNOMED.” The forest exploded. Not literally, but close enough. Owls fainted. Mushrooms combusted from joy. A badger couple started a slow chant. “Gnome’d! Gnome’d! Gnome’d!” Zilch, not to be outdone, reared back and made the universal hand-and-claw gesture for *“Your fungus ain’t funky, babe.”* Her tail flicked with weaponized sass. The moment was perfect. "ROUND TWO: ADVANTAGE — GNOME & DRAGON!" the referee squeaked, tears running down his cheeks as he blew the whistle like it was possessed.     Final Round: Wildcard Mayhem Sporesnort snarled, spores puffing from his ears. “Fine. No more cute. No more coy. I invoke... the SACRED MUSHUNDERWEAR TECHNIQUE!” He ripped open his robes to reveal undergarments enchanted with wriggling fungal runes and vines that wove his sass into the very fabric of the universe. “This,” he bellowed, “is FUNGIFLEX™ — powered by enchanted stretch and interdimensional attitude.” The forest fell into a hush of pure, horrified admiration. Grimbold simply looked at Zilch and smirked. “We break reality now?” “Break it so hard it apologizes,” she growled. The gnome clambered atop the dragon’s back. Zilch flared her wings, eyes burning gold. Together they launched into the air with a mighty WHEEEEEEE and a burst of glitter confetti summoned from a leftover prank spell. As they twirled through the sky, they performed their final move: a dual loop-de-loop followed by simultaneous tongue-wagging, face-contorting, and butt-shaking. From Grimbold’s trousers, a secret pocket opened, revealing a banner that read, in flashing enchanted letters: “GNOME SWEAT DON’T QUIT.” They landed with a thump, Zilch belching sparkles. The crowd was in chaos. Tears. Screaming. An impromptu interpretive dance broke out. The forest was on the brink of a vibe collapse. “FINE!” Sporesnort yelled, voice cracking. “YOU WIN! I’LL GO! BUT YOU... YOU SHALL RUE THIS DAY. I’LL BE BACK. WITH MORE UNDERWEAR.” He swirled into his own portal of shame and unresolved mushroom trauma, leaving behind only the faint scent of garlic and regret. Zilch and Grimbold collapsed atop their favorite mushroom. The glade shimmered under the setting sun. Birds chirped again. The badger couple kissed. Someone started roasting victory marshmallows. "Well," said Grimbold, licking his thumb and smearing moss off his cheek. "That was... probably the third weirdest Tuesday we’ve had." "Easily," Zilch agreed, biting into a celebratory beetle snack. "Next time we prank a warlord, can we avoid the fungal lingerie?" "No promises." And so, with tongues dry and reputations elevated to mythical status, the gnome and the dragon resumed their sacred morning ritual: laughing at absolutely everything and being gloriously, unapologetically weird together. The end. Probably.     Want to bring the sass home? Whether you're a certified mischief-maker or just deeply appreciate the sacred art of tongue-based warfare, you can now take a piece of Grimbold and Zilch’s legendary moment into your own lair. Frame the chaos with a gallery-quality print, wrap yourself in their ridiculousness with this fleece blanket, or go full forest-chic with a wood print that'll make even Lord Sporesnort jealous. Send cheeky greetings with a whimsical card, or slap some mushroom-powered attitude onto your stuff with this top-tier Sassy Shroom Shenanigans sticker. Because let’s be honest—your life could use more dragons and fewer boring walls.

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Teatime Tides

Teatime Tides

The Steepening There was a mermaid in Margot’s teacup. Now, you may think that’s the kind of sentence best reserved for children’s books or individuals who lick glue recreationally, but Margot had, in fact, just brewed a rather ordinary chamomile. And she was quite certain the tea did not include mythical beings on the ingredient list—unless Whole Foods had finally cracked and gone full goblin-core. The mermaid, for her part, looked mildly irritated but otherwise fabulous. She had a tail like sequin-infused sapphire syrup, hair that swirled like coffee cream in slow motion, and an attitude that read “Instagram influencer who’s too good for your land-based nonsense.” Perched beside her was a smug little seahorse, bobbing with the lazy swish of her fishtail like he was waiting to be knighted. “Ahem,” Margot said, peering into the cup. “Why are you in my tea?” “Why aren’t you?” the mermaid replied, stretching languidly in the lemon-honey swirl. Her voice had that bubbly champagne pop to it—too sparkly to be mad at, but fizzy enough to stir unease. Margot blinked. She was dressed in three-day-old yoga pants, had half a Pop-Tart in her hair, and was aggressively not caffeinated. Either this was a nervous breakdown or the world had decided to finally acknowledge her main character energy. “This isn’t a metaphor, is it? You’re not here to teach me self-love through marine metaphysics?” she asked, tapping the rim of the cup. The teacup responded with a dignified ping, like a crystal goblet being slightly insulted. “Oh please,” scoffed the mermaid. “Do I look like a self-help allegory? I’m on a lunch break. This is my spa cup. You’re the one who summoned me by pouring the water clockwise over that expired loose-leaf blend. Honestly, who still uses loose-leaf without a strainer? It’s chaos in here.” Margot leaned closer. “So you’re like… a unionized teacup mermaid? You have breaks?” “We all have breaks,” the mermaid said primly, adjusting her sea-shell bikini top like it had a grudge. “You think the tide takes itself out? You people are so self-absorbed.” The seahorse burped. Margot could’ve sworn it sounded like, “Amen.” At that moment, a butterfly flitted past and landed delicately on the cup’s rim, blinking its wings as if it, too, was trying to process the situation. “Okay,” Margot said finally, sitting down at her cluttered table. “Talk to me. Are there rules? Do I owe you rent? Am I secretly a siren queen or is this just the chamomile kicking in?” The mermaid’s smile curled like a tidepool secret. “Oh honey. This is only the steeping stage. Things get truly weird after the second sip.” Margot stared at the cup. The tea shimmered. The seahorse winked. Against all better judgment—and with a flair only chaos could summon—Margot took another sip. And the room, quite politely, wobbled sideways. Deep Brew Margot was falling, but not in the dramatic, flailing-into-a-void kind of way. No, this was more like being slowly poured into a velvet-glazed dream funnel lined with glitter and scented vaguely of sea salt and bergamot. One second, she was upright in her very real kitchen. The next? She was shoulder-deep in something warm and viscous and vaguely peach-colored, like time had decided to host a bubble bath. “Ope—watch the cascade, you’re creasing the ambiance,” said the mermaid, who was now full-sized and reclining like a smug goddess on a floating slice of citrus the size of a life raft. Margot flailed until she was upright and sputtering. “Am I IN the tea?” “Technically, yes. But spiritually? You’re in the interdimensional spa realm of Steepacia. Welcome. We host Wednesdays.” The space around her was absurd in a way only dreams or luxury catalogs dared to be. Opalescent tea leaves floated lazily like jellyfish through the golden infusion. Delicate teaspoons flitted like hummingbirds, and somewhere in the distance, a harp made entirely of kelp played something that sounded suspiciously like Enya trying jazz. “I knew it,” Margot muttered, eyeing her floating reflection. “I wore my regret pants today. Of course I end up in an existential tea dimension wearing regret pants.” The mermaid let out a melodic giggle and tossed her damp hair like she was auditioning for a shampoo ad in Atlantis. “Relax, landling. This place responds to your emotional temperature. Here—have a mental mimosa.” With a delicate flick of her tail, she conjured a sparkling glass that hovered just within reach. Margot took a sip. It tasted like nostalgia, orgasms, and brunch. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but she was significantly less anxious. “Okay,” she said, voice calmer but still riding the WTF rollercoaster. “So... is this a one-way trip? Do I need to kiss a kelp wizard to get out, or...” “Gods, no,” said a new voice, sharp and vaguely crustacean. A small crab wearing reading glasses and a necktie clicked into view, holding a clipboard. “She’s a first-brew. Probably temporary. Emotional instability triggered by caffeine deficit. I give her six hours, max.” “Hey,” Margot frowned, “I’ll have you know I’m emotionally stable enough to hold down a job, keep a houseplant alive, and only cry in the car like, once a week.” “Textbook.” The crab sighed and scribbled something. “Please report to the Fennel Sauna for processing.” “Ignore him,” the mermaid whispered. “He’s just bitter because he used to be a dishwasher in the real world and now manages leaf temperature therapy. Anyway, since you’re here, might as well enjoy the amenities.” And that’s how Margot found herself half-submerged in an oolong hot tub beside a unicorn-shaped kettle, being offered cucumber eye patches by a chorus of aquatic mice who hummed barbershop harmonies while exfoliating her aura with matcha seafoam. “I feel like Gwyneth Paltrow’s subconscious,” she murmured, wrapped in a hibiscus robe and watching the mermaid gently braid a rainbow koi into her hair like it was no big deal. “Enjoy it. This place has moods. It picks up on your vibes and… manifests accordingly.” Margot stared across the tea-washed horizon, where clouds shaped like biscotti lazily rumbled past a sun made of glazed lemon. “That sounds like foreshadowing,” she muttered. It was. Because that’s when the seahorse returned—only now it was wearing a tiny pirate hat and riding what appeared to be a jellyfish named Greg. “Emergency in the Rooibos Reefs! The Earl Grey Golem has awakened!” “Oh not again,” groaned the mermaid, who now had a slightly glittery sword tucked behind her ear like a hairpin. Margot raised her hand cautiously. “Quick question. Is this one of those moments where I learn I have hidden powers? Or do I just die creatively and serve as a plot device in someone else’s journey?” “Neither,” the mermaid said, diving gracefully off her citrus raft and summoning a war-squid from thin air. “You’re with me. You’re the emotional ballast.” “The what now?!” But it was too late. She was already astride the seahorse—who smelled faintly of cinnamon gum and teenage rebellion—and flying through the infusional ether like a caffeinated fever dream. Around her, storm clouds of bergamot thundered softly, and beneath them rose the ominous silhouette of the Earl Grey Golem: eight feet of antique porcelain fury, monocle glinting, moustache made of twisted tea leaves. Margot, full of mimosa courage and absolutely none of the necessary life skills, reached into her pocket. Miraculously, she pulled out a tiny teabag. It pulsed with lavender light. “Is that the Sacred Sachet?” the mermaid gasped from her perch on a spiraling honey drizzle vortex. “I dunno,” Margot said, eyes wide. “I think it came from a free sample pack. But it feels... emotionally charged.” “Then throw it. Right at his steeper!” Margot hurled the sachet with the flailing confidence of someone who once got a participation ribbon in elementary school dodgeball. It hit the Golem’s chest with a poof of fragrant steam—and the world paused. The golem blinked, looked down, sniffed, and sighed. A deep, contented sigh. Then he turned into a moderately sized antique teapot and gently plunked into the seafoam. The mermaid stared. The seahorse hiccupped. Greg the jellyfish applauded with one limp tentacle. “What… what just happened?” Margot whispered. “You soothed him. He was overstimulated. Poor guy only wanted a nap and some affirmation,” the mermaid said gently. “You’re very good at this.” “I… am?” “Yes. Emotional ballast. You stabilize the madness. Or at least repackage it in a way the rest of us can process.” Margot blinked, cheeks flushed. “So… like a therapist?” “Or a writer.” That hit a bit too hard. Just then, the sky above them shimmered, and the voice of the crab came booming from nowhere: “Time’s up! She’s beginning to stir in the waking realm.” Margot grabbed the mermaid’s hand instinctively. “Wait—what if I want to stay?” The mermaid smiled, that same sideways, salty grin. “You can’t stay. But you can visit. Anytime you need a break. Just brew clockwise. And never forget to stir with intention.” And with a final warm pulse of honey and lavender, the world turned inside out… The Stirring Margot woke up snort-sneezing on her couch, cheeks squashed against the faux velvet cushion like a crime scene. The tea cup—now completely ordinary, mildly lukewarm, and devoid of any mythical spa creatures—sat smugly on the coffee table, as if it hadn’t just been the portal to an emotionally complex teacup multiverse. She blinked. Sniffed. Peered inside. Nothing. Not a fin. Not a flicker. Not even a suspicious bubble. Just a faint whiff of bergamot and something like glitter trauma. “Okay,” she said to no one, rubbing her temples. “So either I hallucinated a high-budget sea fantasy on a Tuesday, or I just main-charactered my way into another dimension through expired loose-leaf.” She looked around. Her apartment was still her apartment—mildly chaotic, aggressively scented like dry shampoo and panic, and just cozy enough to pass for “intentional.” Her half-eaten Pop-Tart sat on the floor like it, too, had experienced an existential moment. And somewhere in the corner, her cat was making intense eye contact with the radiator, which wasn’t new. Margot leaned over the teacup. “Hey, uh… I don’t know if this is like Beetlejuice rules, but... steepacia, steepacia, steepacia?” Nothing. But the spoon did shimmer slightly. Just once. Almost like a wink. For the rest of the morning, she wandered around in a daze, accidentally brushing her teeth with sunscreen and emailing her boss something that included the phrase “crab-based time therapy.” She couldn’t stop thinking about it. The koi braid. The rogue seahorse. The terrifyingly relatable Golem who just wanted a nap. And most of all… the mermaid. That sassy, sarcastic, glittery-scaled miracle of emotional support and mild snark. The way she smiled like she knew all your secrets and had ranked them from least to most cringey—but in a nice way. Margot sighed, long and dramatic, like she was auditioning for a sad coffee commercial. She didn’t even realize how long she’d been staring out the window until her neighbor Todd waved from across the street. She waved back without looking, accidentally knocking over a jar of expired honey. It oozed onto the counter in a slow, poetic sort of way. Margot stared at it. She was pretty sure it was judging her. Later that evening, she stood in the kitchen holding a new tea blend she’d bought out of pure spite. It had a watercolor label featuring a fox in a bowler hat and promised things like “clarity,” “inner sparkle,” and “tasteful epiphanies.” Margot didn’t trust it. But she brewed it anyway. This time, she poured slowly. Clockwise. Very deliberately. She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. She watched the leaves swirl and settle. The color shifted to a familiar peachy hue. She whispered, “Steepacia?” The water glimmered. Nothing happened for a long moment. Then, just as she leaned back in disappointment, something tiny bobbed to the surface. A seahorse. Wearing sunglasses. It gave her a curt nod, did a dramatic backflip, and vanished again. Margot gasped, almost dropped the cup—and then laughed. A big, ridiculous, snorty laugh that echoed through her apartment and startled the cat into knocking over an entire shelf of scented candles. It felt good. A laugh soaked in bubble bath memories and kelp-harp music. A laugh that said, “Yeah, I’m probably not okay, but who is? At least I’ve got interdimensional sea friends now.” That night, she dreamt of spa mimosas, citrus islands, and mermaid sarcasm so sharp it could slice through imposter syndrome like a butter knife through warm brie. She woke up refreshed in the only way someone can be after confronting their own existential nonsense via magical beverage. From then on, Margot kept a shelf of strange teas—anything with mysterious names or packaging that seemed a little too quirky to be legal. She learned to pour slowly. To stir with care. And every now and then, when she really needed it, the tea would shimmer. Sometimes she’d see the mermaid again—lounging in her cup like royalty with a minor hangover, tossing sass like it was seafoam. They’d chat. Or fight. Or sit in silence, sipping cucumber kelp lattes from mugs made of rainbow clamshells. It didn’t matter. Because what mattered was this: Somewhere between loose-leaf lunacy and self-discovery, Margot had found the weird, magical truth of herself. Emotional ballast. Chaos whisperer. Lady of the Leaves. And she never drank bagged tea again.     Take a Little Magic Home with You If “Teatime Tides” made you giggle-snort, crave mermaid mimosas, or consider emotionally bonding with your teacup, you might just need a little piece of this dreamy nonsense in your real life. Bring the charm and sparkle of Margot’s interdimensional adventure into your world with our curated collection of metal prints, acrylic gallery panels, or even a cheeky tote bag to carry your tea and secrets in style. Feeling puzzly? Get hands-on with the full tea-venture in our jigsaw puzzle. Or for the serial sippers and daydream doodlers, grab a sticker and slap some whimsy on your laptop, journal, or next questionable decision. Every item is brewed with care, sass, and just a hint of lavender magic. Because let’s face it—you deserve more sparkle in your tea breaks.

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The Unicorn Keeper

The Unicorn Keeper

Deep in the Thistlewhack Woodlands, just past the grumbling bogs and that one suspiciously carnivorous mushroom grove, lived a girl named Marnie Pickleleaf. Now, Marnie wasn’t your usual woodland creature—no sir. She was a certified, broom-carrying, opinion-having fairy-child with a mouth too big for her wingspan and an unfortunate allergy to fairy dust. Which was, frankly, ironic. But the real kicker? Marnie had recently been promoted to Unicorn Keeper, Third Class (Provisional, Non-Salaried). The unicorn in question was named Gloompuddle. He was majestic in that "oh he’s been in the mead again" sort of way—ivory white, shimmering hooves, a spiraled horn so pristine it looked like it had never been used to skewer a single goblin (false; it had). Gloompuddle came with a floral garland, a chronic case of dramatic sighing, and what Marnie referred to as “emotional flatulence” — not dangerous, just deeply inconvenient during polite conversation. Now, one does not become a Unicorn Keeper on purpose. Marnie had tripped over a binding circle at precisely the wrong moment while chasing a rebellious broom, muttered a few creative curses, and accidentally formed an eternal pact. Gloompuddle, overhearing the spell, had dramatically swiveled his head and declared, “At last, someone who sees the torment in my soul!” It was downhill from there. Their bond was sealed with a headbutt, a sprinkle of rose petals, and a 48-page care manual that immediately self-destructed. Marnie had many questions—none of them answered. Instead, she received a rope lead made of cloud-thread, which the unicorn immediately tried to eat. And so their companionship began. Every morning, Marnie swept the golden leaves off Gloompuddle’s path with her enchanted (and slightly sarcastic) broom named Cheryl. Cheryl disapproved of the unicorn and once muttered, “Oh look, Mr. Glitterbutt needs walking again,” but she complied. Mostly. Gloompuddle, on the other hoof, had opinions. Many. He disliked wet leaves, dry leaves, leaves that rustled, squirrels with attitude, and anything that wasn't chilled elderberry mousse. He also had a habit of stepping dramatically onto hilltops and shouting, “I am the axis upon which fate turns!” followed by an awkward tumble when his hoof caught a pinecone. Still, something curious began to bloom in the crisp autumn air. A shared rhythm. A silly little dance between a cranky unicorn and a determined girl. Gloompuddle would roll his eyes and follow her broom-sweep trail. Marnie would scowl and stuff his mane full of forest flowers, muttering about freeloading equines with no concept of personal space. But they never left each other's side. On the eleventh day of their accidental bond, Gloompuddle sneezed glitter all over her face. Marnie, furious, chased him three miles with a pail. It was the first time either of them laughed in years. That evening, with the forest painted in gold and cider-scented wind curling through the trees, Marnie looked up at him. “Maybe you’re not the worst unicorn I’ve been soulbound to,” she muttered. Gloompuddle blinked. “You’ve had others?” “Only in my dreams,” she said, scratching his neck. “But you’d hate them. They were punctual.” And for the first time, Gloompuddle didn’t sigh. He simply stood there—quiet, still—and let her fingers rest between the knots of his mane. The kind of silence that meant something sacred. Or possibly gas. By their third week together, Marnie had taken to wearing a permanent scowl and a necklace made of dried apple cores and glitter—both byproducts of her daily unicorn wrangling. Gloompuddle, meanwhile, had developed a fondness for performing interpretive dances in the glade at sunset. These involved a lot of stomping, whinnying, and slow-motion tail flicks that sent entire families of field mice into therapy. It had become clear that their bond wasn’t just emotional—it was logistical. Marnie couldn’t go more than twenty paces without being yanked off her feet by the cloud-thread rope, which had the spiritual elasticity of a caffeine-addicted slingshot. Meanwhile, Gloompuddle couldn’t eat anything without Marnie reading the ingredients aloud like a suspicious mother with a gluten allergy. They were stuck with each other like gum to the underside of destiny’s sandal. One cool, mist-hugged morning, Marnie discovered the true horror of her new role: seasonal molting. Gloompuddle’s coat, once pristine and glowing with unicorny elegance, began shedding in massive floofs. Entire foxes could've been assembled from the tufts blowing across the field. Marnie tried sweeping it up, but Cheryl—the broom—refused. "Not my job," Cheryl said flatly. "I don’t do dander. I am a flooring specialist, not your mythical livestock stylist." Left with no choice, Marnie fashioned the fluff into various accessories: a scarf, a dramatic monocle moustache, even a questionable pair of earmuffs she sold at the local Goblin Flea Market (no goblins were pleased). Gloompuddle, vain as he was, spent hours grooming himself with a discarded fork he found by the wishing well, claiming it gave him “volume.” And then came The Great Snorting Festival. Every year, in a deeply underwhelming part of the woods known as Flatulence Hollow, creatures from across the realms gathered for a grand contest involving feats of nasal flair. Gloompuddle, hearing about the event from a gossiping badger, insisted they attend. “My nostrils are sonnets made flesh,” he proclaimed, striking a pose so dramatic a nearby oak tree fainted. Marnie reluctantly agreed, mostly because the prize was a year’s supply of enchanted oats and a coupon for one free de-worming. Upon arrival, they were greeted by a banner that read: “LET THE SNORTING BEGIN” and a centaur DJ named Blasterhoof. The crowd roared. A troll juggled hedgehogs. A kobold sneezed and caused a minor landslide. It was chaos. When Gloompuddle’s turn came, he stepped onto the mossy stage with the gravity of a war general. The hush was palpable. He inhaled. He paused. He aimed both nostrils toward the moon and SNORTED with such ferocity that several small birds un-birthed themselves and a druid’s wig flew off. The judges gasped. A nymph fainted. Someone’s goat proposed marriage to a chair. They won, naturally. Gloompuddle was given a golden tissue and a crown made entirely of sneeze-blown dandelions. Marnie held up the prize bag and grinned. “Now that’s some fine oat money,” she whispered. Gloompuddle nuzzled her cheek and promptly sneezed directly into her hair. It glittered. She sighed. Cheryl wheezed from laughter. On the way back to their glen, Marnie felt something strange. Contentment? Possibly gas. But also… pride? She looked up at Gloompuddle, who was humming a tune from a musical he wrote in his head called “Horned and Fabulous.” She laughed. He side-eyed her and said, “You know you love me.” “I tolerate you professionally,” she replied. “At great psychic cost.” Yet as the crisp twilight settled in, and the fireflies painted lazy constellations in the air, she felt that weird, quiet magic that only comes when life has spun out of control in just the right way. The kind of chaos that feels like home. They reached the glade. Gloompuddle did one last interpretive tail twirl. Cheryl muttered something about unionizing. And Marnie? She looked up at the sky, stretched her arms wide, and yelled into the wind, “I am the Keeper of the Uncontainable! Also I smell like sneeze glitter and regret!” The wind didn’t answer. But the unicorn beside her snorted approvingly, and that, somehow, was enough. It was sometime between the Harvest Moon and the Night of Unsolicited Goblin Poetry that things began to shift between Marnie and Gloompuddle. Subtly at first. Like the moment she stopped complaining when he trampled the herb garden (again) and instead calmly replanted the thyme with a muttered “we never liked it anyway.” Or the time Gloompuddle started using his horn not to theatrically skewer tree bark in protest of his oats, but to delicately hold open Cheryl’s instruction manual so Marnie could finally read the chapter titled: “Handling Magical Beasts Without Losing Your Mind or Your Eyebrows.” Their rhythm wasn’t perfect. It never would be. He still had opinions about atmospheric pressure and how it should “respect his mane,” and she still hadn’t figured out how to bathe a unicorn without getting waterboarded by his tail. But something gentle bloomed between them—an accidental symphony of shared chaos. And then came the Flying Potato Crisis. It began, as most catastrophes do, with a bet. A gnome in a pub challenged Marnie to launch a potato “as far as a pixie's resentment." She accepted, obviously. Gloompuddle, offended at not being consulted first, added a magical twist: he charged the potato with unstable unicorn magic—normally used only in extreme rituals or soap-making. When launched from Cheryl’s broomstick-catapult, the potato tore across the sky, split the clouds, and hit a passing wyvern named Jeff square in the unmentionables. Jeff was not pleased. He declared a Writ of Winged Vengeance and descended on Thistlewhack with the fury of a thousand passive-aggressive dinner guests. “I will turn your glade into mulch!” he roared, flames licking his fangs. Villagers screamed. Pixies fainted. An elf tried to sue someone preemptively. But Marnie didn’t run. Neither did Gloompuddle. Instead, they stood side by side—one with a broom, the other with a horn, both slightly damp from the morning dew and their mutual emotional avoidance. “Remember that headbutt spell that bonded us?” Marnie asked, raising an eyebrow. “The one involving eternal soul-tethering and seasonal glitter rash?” “Yeah. Let’s do it again. But angrier.” And so they did. Gloompuddle lowered his horn. Marnie lifted her broom. Cheryl shrieked something about liability insurance. Together, they charged the wyvern, who paused—just for a moment—too confused by the sight of a girl and a unicorn screaming battle cries like “FELT HATS ARE A LIE” and “GOBLINS CAN’T COUNT.” The impact was spectacular. Gloompuddle’s horn released a blast of incandescent energy shaped like an angry badger. Marnie leapt midair and clocked Jeff in the snout with Cheryl. The wyvern tumbled backward into a marsh, where a trio of offended frogs immediately sued him for pond trespass. Victory, as it turns out, smells like singed mane and triumphant sweat. The next day, the village threw a party in their honor. There were cider fountains, reluctant bagpipes, and one very enthusiastic interpretive dance from Gloompuddle that ended with him wearing a flowerpot like a helmet. Marnie even got a plaque that read: “For Services to Unreasonable Heroism.” She hung it in their glade, right next to the place where Gloompuddle kept his emergency drama tiara. Later that evening, as the stars rolled out like spilled sugar across the velvet sky, Marnie sat on a mossy log, sipping lukewarm cider and watching Gloompuddle chase a confused moonbeam. Cheryl, exhausted and possibly drunk on proximity to nonsense, snoozed nearby. “You ever think about... the whole forever thing?” she asked, half to herself. Gloompuddle slowed his trot and trotted over. “You mean our unbreakable soul pact sealed by ancient forest magic and extreme glitter exposure?” “Yeah. That one.” He blinked, flicked his tail, and said, “Only every day. But I think I like it now. Even the sneezing.” Marnie snorted. “You only say that because I stopped braiding your tail like a court jester.” “I liked the bells.” They sat in silence, watching fireflies drift past like wandering punctuation marks. Then, slowly, Gloompuddle lowered his head, touching his horn to her forehead—just as he had on the very first day. “Unicorn Keeper,” he said softly. “You’ve kept more than you know.” And just like that, the air shimmered. Not with magic, not with prophecy—but with something quieter. Friendship forged in foolishness. Love made not from longing, but loyalty. A keeper, and the kept. Companions who never asked for each other, but found a kind of forever in the ridiculous, anyway. “Want to go launch another potato?” she whispered, smiling. “Only if we aim for someone named Carl.” And off they went into the moon-touched night: a girl, a unicorn, and a broom with a mild hangover—ready for whatever dumb, dazzling thing came next.     If this ridiculous and heartfelt adventure between Marnie and Gloompuddle tickled your funny bone—or warmed that cozy corner of your heart where unicorn glitter and emotional potato warfare live—bring the magic home. Our official The Unicorn Keeper collection is now available at shop.unfocussed.com, featuring high-quality fantasy artwork by Bill and Linda Tiepelman. Wrap yourself in autumnal whimsy with a fleece blanket as soft as unicorn fluff, or send someone a little enchanted nonsense with a greeting card worthy of magical correspondence. Decorate your space with a fantasy poster print that captures the glowing gold of Thistlewhack’s enchanted forest, or go rustic with a textured wood print perfect for any magical nook. Whether you're a lifelong fantasy fan, a secret unicorn believer, or someone who just appreciates emotionally dramatic equines, The Unicorn Keeper collection is a whimsical tribute to the joy of unlikely friendship. Explore the full line and let a little magic into your space.

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Love Beneath the Morning Glory

Love Beneath the Morning Glory

The Bloom Boom Affair It began on a wet Tuesday. Not the dramatic, lightning-splitting, thunder-belching kind of wet. No. This was the gentle kind of wet that makes flowers open shyly, moss turn smug, and frogs feel just a little sexier than usual. It was precisely the kind of afternoon where moist was no longer a punchline—it was a lifestyle. Our scene opens on a mossy stump that locals call “The Velvet Throne.” Perched atop it were two frogs—no ordinary amphibians, mind you. These were tree frogs, jewel-toned and glistening like jade marbles dunked in desire. One was named Julio, and the other, Blossom. She had the kind of stare that made crickets rethink their life choices, and he had thighs that could crush a lily pad with the power of poetry. They weren’t always lovers. They started as polite neighbors who’d once locked eyes over a shared raindrop, both sipping from opposite ends like an amphibian Lady and the Tramp. Things escalated when Blossom—ever the unconventional romantic—built Julio a miniature umbrella out of magnolia petals and twine. He swooned so hard he nearly fell into the mud. She made him soup. They began “meeting for dew” under a canopy of morning glory petals, and like any sensible frog, they started avoiding eye contact in public just to keep the village gossip juicy. Now here they were—huddled beneath the curved embrace of a fresh bloom as a light drizzle tap-tapped overhead. The flower’s funnel acted as nature’s love motel, complete with ambient lighting, floral scent, and a gentle hum from a confused bee stuck in the next bloom over. "So," Blossom croaked with a sly smirk, adjusting her daisy tiara just so. "You gonna kiss me, or are we just here to exchange pollen and disappointment?" Julio's throat puffed out like a plush balloon. “I was waiting for the rain to set the mood.” “Honey,” she drawled, leaning in, “this whole forest is setting the mood.” She wasn’t wrong. Even the fireflies were flickering suggestively. A distant owl hooted the opening bars of a Marvin Gaye song. Somewhere, a mushroom shivered with anticipation. He finally leaned closer. “Blossom… if you were a rain droplet, I’d let you fall on my tongue first.” She blinked. “Julio… that’s the dumbest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” “But did it work?” She grinned, bit her bottom lip, and whispered, “It really, really did.” Outside the bloom, the drizzle turned to a light rain. Inside, a romance unfurled—slow, sticky, and slightly steamy. But of course, you know this is only the beginning… Tongues, Tea, and Trouble on the Throne They say love is patient, love is kind. But in the bog behind Bramblebrush Hollow, love is wet, weird, and just a little bit wicked. Under the soft arch of their morning glory hideaway, Blossom and Julio had moved from shy glances to full-on knee-touching. In frog terms, that’s practically third base. And on this particular day, Julio wasn’t playing defense. “You ever think,” he murmured, tracing a dewy fingertip along the curve of Blossom’s spine, “that we were destined to meet under this very bloom? Like the universe croaked us into existence just for this moment?” Blossom snorted, spraying a mist of pollen out of her nostrils. “Julio, you romantic dirt waffle. That was either the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard or an allergic reaction to fate.” He gave a low, amused ribbit. “I’m serious. The flower, the rain, us. It’s poetic.” “Poetic?” she grinned. “Julio, our first date ended with you mistaking a glowworm for a mint and projectile vomiting off a mushroom ledge. I had to bathe you in rainwater and ego-salve for half the night.” “And yet,” he said, with that glimmer in his pupils, “you came back for more.” She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. “Don’t flatter yourself, pond prince. You owe me three fireflies, a thistle massage, and emotional restitution for that time you told my mother I burp like a duck.” “Your mom laughed.” “She laughed because she thought you were a joke.” The bickering had that soft-lipped, comfortable cadence only lovers and siblings could master—a blend of fondness, venom, and shared inside jokes delivered with the finesse of verbal judo. But beneath the sass, under that veil of floral flirtation, something else simmered: want. Real, gooey, hopelessly swamp-scented want. The rain thickened. So did the air between them. Julio leaned in, this time not for drama but for truth. “You scare me, Blossom.” She tilted her head. “Because I’m hot? Or because I’m a highly emotional frog with complex needs and a running tab at the aphid bar?” “Yes.” They paused. A beetle flew past. A snail honked (or something vaguely honk-adjacent). The forest didn’t care about their romantic tension. But oh, it was watching. Julio reached for her hand. “Look. All jokes aside, I think I could stay under this flower with you forever. Like… retire here. Grow mold together. Raise tiny tadpoles and name them after lesser-known Greek deities.” Blossom blinked. “Did you just propose... cohabitation?” “Maybe.” “Julio, we’ve only been snogging for eight sun cycles.” “That’s like, five frog years.” She cocked a brow. “Don’t bring pseudo-science into our romance.” “I’m just saying… I like the idea of forever with you.” Blossom softened. She hated when he got like this—earnest, sweet, dreamy-eyed like he’d swallowed a poetry book and half a cloud. And she especially hated how much it made her heart go bloop. “Okay,” she said finally. “But if we’re doing this, I have rules.” Julio sat up straighter. “Name them.” “One,” she said, holding up a delicate finger, “no tongue fights before dusk. I have a schedule.” “Reasonable.” “Two. You clean the flower. Daily. Pollen is not an aesthetic, it’s an allergen.” “Done.” “Three. If you ever flirt with that flat-faced toad from Lilypatch again, I will roast you alive and serve you to a stork.” Julio blinked. “Understood.” “And four—no surprise mating songs. If you’re gonna sing, I want choreography and backup crickets.” “I’ll call the band.” They sealed it with a kiss. It was not dainty. It was sticky and weird and made a nearby caterpillar gasp. But it was theirs. Just as they began to settle into the newfound bliss of shared expectations and dangerously implied commitment, a new sound split the air: a squelch, followed by a high-pitched titter and the unmistakable voice of Velma—Blossom’s rival, frenemy, and occasional mycological consultant. “Ohhhhhh no,” Blossom whispered, panic rising faster than sap in spring. Julio peeked out of the bloom. “She’s bringing her entourage.” “The Giggling Tadpoles?” “All six.” Velma emerged with the kind of strut that only came from eating your ex’s best friend and posting about it on MudTok. She wore a shimmering fern frond as a cape and had a smug glow like she’d just seduced someone’s boyfriend—and maybe she had. “WELL WELL WEEEELL,” Velma chirped, clearly having rehearsed that line all morning. “If it isn’t Miss Morning Glory herself, playing house with Loverboy Julio on the Velvet Throne.” Blossom didn’t blink. “Velma. How’s that rash?” Julio winced. The Giggling Tadpoles gasped in unison. Velma hissed, “That was seasonal and you know it.” “Seasonal like your mood swings?” Blossom asked sweetly. The rain slowed, but the tension crackled like static in the moss. Velma grinned, dangerously wide. “Just dropping by to tell you there’s a little change coming to the Hollow. Some new blood. Some French blood.” Julio gulped. “You don’t mean—” Velma nodded. “That’s right, cherubs. A new frog in town. He wears a beret. He speaks in syllables you can taste. And rumor has it…” she leaned in, “he’s looking for a muse.” All eyes turned to Blossom. “Well, mon dieu,” she said. “Guess things are about to get sticky.” Berets, Betrayals, and the Bloom of Truth By the time the French frog arrived, the Hollow had already spiraled into scandal. Word had spread like fungal rot on a damp log: a mysterious, velvet-voiced stranger from “La Mare des Poètes” (translation: ‘Pond of the Poets,’ though some locals insisted it was just a fancy mud puddle) had sashayed into Bramblebrush Hollow looking for his “inspiration.” His name? Jean-Luc Tadreau. His resume? Former lily model, amateur haikuist, full-time homewrecker. Jean-Luc was tall, lean, and glistened like a freshly buttered baguette. His beret perched jauntily between his eyes, and his voice was so smooth it made slime trails look rough by comparison. And when he crooned? Lawd. Even the rocks blushed. Blossom was not impressed. “He smells like fermented lavender and pretension,” she muttered, perched beside Julio under the morning glory, sipping nectar straight from a flower straw. “He bowed to me and kissed his own hand,” Julio grumbled. “Then winked at a mushroom.” “That’s not charisma, that’s a fungal kink.” But the Hollow didn’t care. Velma had gone full PR blitz—posting dreamy sketches of Jean-Luc on bark scrolls, hyping up his “one-night-only interpretive dance tribute to love and amphibian freedom.” The Giggling Tadpoles had formed a fan club. Frogs lined up around the swamp to hear him whisper sweet nothings about existential rain and sensual algae. And worst of all? He was actively pursuing Blossom. It started with sonnets. Then escalated to interpretive staring contests. Then… the scandal. A public gift—a golden beetle wrapped in lotus petals delivered during morning dew hour, in front of Julio. “What the actual frog,” Julio had croaked, staring at the sparkling beetle like it was a live grenade with wings. “That’s our spot. OUR BLOOM!” Blossom held up her webbed hands. “I didn’t invite him. The beetle was… unsolicited.” “So was my existential crisis, but here we are!” The bloom wilted. Figuratively and literally. Blossom felt caught. Sure, Julio was loud, emotional, and once mistook a pinecone for a rival. But he was hers. Jean-Luc? He was every wrong decision wrapped in pheromones and poetry. A walking red flag that spoke in riddles and probably exfoliated. So she made a choice. She decided to destroy Jean-Luc the only way she knew how—publicly, dramatically, and with questionable ethics. The next evening, under the largest lily pad in the Hollow, Jean-Luc hosted a “soirée of the senses.” There was aphid wine. A glowworm strobe show. Someone set up a bubble machine. He was mid-monologue—something about the aching sweetness of forbidden love—when Blossom slinked into view wearing her daisy crown, a sly smile, and a glint of theatrical vengeance in her eye. “Jean-Luc,” she purred. “Sing me something. Something... real.” He did. A crooning ballad about moons and longing and the sorrow of amphibian monogamy. Frogs swooned. A snail wept into his leaf napkin. When he finished, Blossom stepped forward and kissed him. Full on. Wet. No tongue. But full. The crowd erupted in gasps. Julio, lurking nearby, dropped his nectar cup. Velma screamed “YESSSS!” in a way that scared two newts into fleeing the state. Then Blossom turned, grinned at Jean-Luc, and slapped him across the cheek with a wet leaf. “That was for calling me your muse,” she snapped. “I’m not a canvas. I’m the whole damn gallery.” And with that, she turned on her heel and marched straight to Julio. He stared at her. “You kissed him.” “I know.” “You slapped him.” “Also true.” “You walked off like a queen.” “That’s just my gait, babe.” Julio crossed his arms. “Explain yourself.” “He needed to be publicly humbled. You needed to be reminded I’m completely, tragically into you. Also, you owe me a dance.” “A dance?” “Yup. Under our bloom. Right now.” She grabbed him by the webbing and pulled him beneath their favorite morning glory. The petals shimmered in the moonlight, heavy with rain and forgiveness. Music swelled—probably imagined, or possibly a cricket band with great acoustics. Julio wrapped his arms around her. “You’re insane.” “Thank you.” They swayed. Slowly. Goofily. Beautifully. Two frogs in love, ignoring the gossip, the chaos, the fungal influencers and pretentious poets. Just them, under their bloom. Wet. Weird. And exactly where they were meant to be. Outside, the Hollow returned to normal. Velma swore vengeance. Jean-Luc vanished into the mist, whispering something about a mysterious turtle named Solange. The Giggling Tadpoles rebranded as a jam band. But none of it mattered. Because love, real love, isn’t about drama or grand gestures. It’s about knowing who makes your heart croak loudest in the rain.     Take a piece of Bramblebrush Hollow home... Whether you want to wrap yourself in romance with this lush beach towel, hang a splash of whimsy in your den with a canvas print or tapestry, or simply send frog-loving friends a sweet reminder of soggy love with a greeting card, the magic of Julio and Blossom awaits. Bring home the bloom, the sass, and the sweet, sticky kiss of love beneath the morning glory.

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Between Pencils and Planets

Between Pencils and Planets

Froggert Van Toad and the Infinite Sketchpad By all accounts, Froggert Van Toad had lived a rather normal life for a frog who’d recently transcended dimensional boundaries via a raincloud. Not that he planned it. Froggert was, if anything, chronically unplanned. His days were normally spent slurping existential lattes on lily pads and sketching esoteric doodles that no one appreciated—least of all his cousin, Keith, who insisted Froggert get a "real job," like fly herding or insurance fraud. But Froggert was an artist. A philosopher. A fishless fisherman. And above all, an amphibian of radical optimism. So when a glowing planetary orb began weeping over his sketchbook one day—dripping cosmic tears onto his to-do list (which only said “nap” and “invent a new blue”)—Froggert didn’t flinch. He grabbed his favorite pencil, a stubby orange No. 3 with bite marks and delusions of grandeur, and dove right into the puddle. And that’s how he ended up here: fishing in a pond no bigger than a coaster, surrounded by office supplies, under a cloud that cried moonlight. He sat in his rolled-up shorts, water tickling his knees, casting his line into a miniature ecosystem populated by suspiciously judgmental goldfish. They blinked at him in passive-aggressive synchrony, as if to say, “You brought a reel into a metaphor?” But Froggert was unfazed. He’d seen worse critiques. That one time he submitted a sketch of a melancholy snail to the Prestigious Amphibian Arts Guild, they mailed back a single word: “why.” (Not “why?” Just “why.”) Now, he was determined. This wasn’t just a pond. This was the blank canvas between realities. The moist studio of the gods. The aquatic cradle of art itself. And Froggert would fish inspiration from it—hook, line, and overthinker’s spiral. Behind him, a stubby army of orange pencils stood like battalions of judgmental monks, whispering things like “perspective lines” and “remember shadows, idiot.” He ignored them. Froggert had more pressing concerns. Namely, what exactly was nibbling his bait… and whether or not it was the ghost of Van Gogh’s hamster, or just another manifestation of his imposter syndrome. The line tugged. His eyes widened. “Oh, it’s happening,” he muttered, gripping the reel like a frog possessed. “Either I’m about to catch the next great concept or a very angry cosmic metaphor.” From above, the cloud rumbled. Drops fell like glimmering commas, as if punctuation were raining directly onto his artistic block. Froggert smiled. “Come to papa,” he crooned to the void, “You’re either my muse or a fish with a graduate degree in chaos.” And then he pulled. The Fish, The Muse, and the Accidentally Erotic Eraser With a grunt that sounded suspiciously like a French exhale, Froggert tugged his line and reeled in... absolutely nothing. Nothing, but in a very specific way. It wasn't the absence of a fish that worried him. It was the *presence* of the absence. The line came back empty, yet shimmering—dripping with symbols that hadn't been invented yet, glowing in hues only visible after a double espresso and a full-on existential crisis. He blinked. Once. Twice. The air wobbled. Somewhere between the cloud and the pencils, a tiny trumpet made of watercolor sound blasted a four-note jingle he instinctively knew was titled “Bold Decision #6.” The pond rippled, and the goldfish formed the shape of a face. Her face. His muse. She emerged like a dream filtered through a Salvador Dalí colander—part fish, part frog, part celestial librarian. She had lips like an unspoken poem and gills that blushed when she noticed Froggert’s stare. In one delicate webbed hand, she held a scroll labeled “Plot Device”, and in the other, an iridescent eraser that radiated the sultry aura of forbidden grammar corrections. “Hello, Froggert,” she said, her voice a cross between jazz and a warning label. “I see you’ve been fishing again.” Froggert stood, wobbling slightly in the pond, pants soaked, posture heroic in the way that only extremely damp frogs can manage. “Muse,” he said breathlessly, adjusting his beret, which hadn’t been there moments ago. “You’ve returned. I feared you’d left me. You’ve been gone since the Great Sketchbook Fire of ’22.” “I had to,” she said. “You were still shading with a single light source like an amateur. And your metaphors? They were becoming… squishy.” He gasped, wounded. “Squishy?! That’s harsh coming from a woman who once used a walrus to symbolize late-stage capitalism.” She smiled coyly. “And it worked, didn’t it?” The goldfish nodded in unison like backup dancers with tenure. The Muse floated closer, and the pond deepened beneath her like the gravity of deadlines. She reached out with her eraser and touched Froggert lightly on the snout. His nose itched with the forgotten scent of acrylics and ambition. Around them, the pencils began to chant rhythmically, “DRAW, DRAW, DRAW,” like a cult of overly caffeinated art students. “You’ve been blocked,” she whispered. “Creatively. Emotionally. Aquatically.” “I know,” he croaked. “Ever since my last series—‘Anxious Gnomes in Business Casual’—got shredded in the gallery’s Yelp reviews, I haven’t been able to finish a single canvas. I just sit on my log, sip lukewarm inspiration, and yell at birds.” She laughed. The water giggled in sympathy. “You’ve forgotten why you create. It’s not about applause or reviews. It’s about process. Mystery. That delicious panic of not knowing what the hell you’re drawing until it stares back and says, ‘You missed a spot.’” Froggert blinked. “So… you’re saying I need to stop worrying about being brilliant and just make beautiful, weird nonsense?” She nodded. “Exactly. Now here—take this.” She handed him the eraser. As it touched his hand, the world shivered. Not violently. More like a flirty shimmy from a cosmic belly dancer. Instantly, Froggert was filled with memories—unfinished sketches, forgotten ideas, that one time he tried to animate spaghetti into a romantic lead. All of it. But now, he saw the value. The humor. The joy in the mess. “But wait,” he said, looking up, realization dawning like a sunrise painted by someone with access to very expensive light filters. “Why now? Why come back to me today?” Her expression softened. “Because, Froggert... the moon cried. And the moon only cries when a real artist is close to remembering who they are.” And then, just like that, she vanished—dissolving into the pond like watercolor in warm tea. The goldfish scattered, the cloud hiccupped, and the pencils screamed with fresh enthusiasm, now shouting, “EDIT! EDIT! EDIT!” Froggert stood alone, soaked and inspired, holding the sacred eraser and the line still shimmering with raw potential. He looked down at his feet, then at the sky, then at the empty canvas that had suddenly appeared on the grass beside him. He squinted at the canvas. It squinted back. “Okay,” he muttered. “Let’s make something… ridiculous.” The Exhibition at the Edge of the Desk Three days later, Froggert Van Toad had become a legend. Not in the mainstream sense. He hadn’t gone viral, nor been featured in any reputable galleries, nor even accepted into the local toad-based co-op (which had very strict “no dimension-hopping” bylaws). But in the hidden circles of interdimensional art critics, caffeine-fueled stationery supplies, and emotionally available goldfish, Froggert had ascended. It began with a single stroke—a chaotic, daring, slightly smudged line across the canvas. Then another. Then a furious explosion of colors that defied any wheel ever taught in art school. Froggert wasn’t just painting—he was exorcising doubt, romanticizing absurdity, and interrogating the myth of clean edges. The pond became his studio. The pencils? His choir. The cloud? A misty muse of background lighting. Each day, Froggert woke with dew on his snout, inspiration in his chest, and a dangerously erotic eraser tucked into his tiny toolbelt. He painted frogs as astronauts, bananas as philosophers, and fish as unfulfilled middle managers. He painted dreams that had no name and breakfast items with disturbing emotional baggage. One afternoon, he created a six-foot tall self-portrait made entirely of regret and glitter glue. The Muse reappeared briefly just to weep softly, fan herself with a palette, and disappear into the wallpaper. And then it happened. The cloud, in a particularly dramatic lightning-sneeze, unveiled a cosmic scroll: a gallery invitation addressed to “Froggert Van Toad, Artisan of Madness.” The location? The Edge of the Desk. The ultimate exhibition space—where the clutter ended and the void began. A place feared by dust bunnies and respected by rogue paperclips. Only the bravest creatives dared show their work there, teetering on the boundary of purpose and oblivion. Froggert accepted. Opening night was electric. The crowd—a curated mash of sapient staplers, depressed ink cartridges, origami swans with MFA degrees, and a talking cactus named Jim—gathered with baited breath and literal bait (there were snacks). A paper lantern orchestra hummed ambient jazz. Someone spilled chai on a crayon that immediately broke up with its label and swore off monogamy. Froggert arrived dressed in a dramatically flared bathrobe and mismatched galoshes. He held a martini made of melted snowflakes and bravado. Behind him stood his masterpieces, now elevated by string, glitter tape, and invisible emotional scaffolding. The crowd gasped. They gurgled. One staple fainted. A pair of thumbtacks whispered something scandalous and applauded with their pointy heads. And then the Muse returned. Not as a whisper or a ripple—but as a full-bodied hallucination wearing sequins, eyeliner, and the unmistakable aura of a metaphor that got tenure. She approached Froggert, eyes glinting with admiration and a hint of unfinished business. “You did it,” she said. “You turned doubt into spectacle.” Froggert croaked softly. “I had help. And also, possibly a mild head injury.” “It suits you.” They stood in silence for a moment, staring at the final piece: a chaotic, iridescent pondscape titled “Hope Wears Galoshes.” “So,” Froggert ventured, twirling the eraser in his fingers, “you gonna vanish again or…?” She smirked. “Only if you forget what this is really about.” “Art?” “No,” she said, leaning in close, her voice like soft thunder. “Permission.” Froggert nodded slowly, like a philosopher in slow motion or a frog too proud to admit he just got goosebumps. The cloud wept in joy. The pond burbled in applause. A rogue mechanical pencil proposed marriage to a sentient paintbrush. The Edge of the Desk shimmered with possibility, just as a nearby drawer yawned open and revealed an entire dimension of unsorted inspiration waiting for its day in the sun. Froggert took the Muse’s hand. “Let’s get weird,” he said. And they vanished into the puddle, giggling. The End… and also, just the beginning.     Bring Froggert's universe home with you! If you’ve laughed, lingered, or just slightly fallen in love with the world of Froggert Van Toad, why not invite a piece of his whimsical pondscape into your own space? From galaxy-kissed metal prints to dreamy canvas artwork, every detail of “Between Pencils and Planets” is ready to leap from the page and onto your wall. Feeling cozy? Drift into inspiration with our luxurious art tapestries or dry off from your next muse-induced pond dive with our irresistibly soft beach towels. Want to send a little creative chaos to someone special? Share the story with a printed greeting card that says, “I believe in amphibians, and you.” Explore all available formats at shop.unfocussed.com and let the muse move you.

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