Captured Tales

by Bill Tiepelman

Candy Cane Confidential

When the lights dim on Peppermint Lane, secrets lean closer. Candy Cane Confidential is a bold, brazen holiday tale where frosting hides leverage, decorations tell the truth, and one gingerbread pin-up becomes the witness Christmas never planned for. Sweet on the surface, sharp underneath — this is festive mischief after dark.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Laughing Pact of Mossroot Hollow

When a dragon meant to inspire terror discovers that laughter is far more powerful, Mossroot Hollow is changed forever. The Laughing Pact of Mossroot Hollow is a whimsical, heartfelt fantasy tale about accidental legends, forbidden joy, and the kind of friendship that makes elders nervous. It’s a story where chaos grins, fire behaves badly, and nobody regrets it.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Sapphire Songbird of Stillwinter

In a land where winter prized silence above all else, one sapphire-blue songbird dared to sing. As frost curled into filigree and Stillwinter itself began to listen, a quiet rebellion unfolded—ornamental, mischievous, and impossibly warm. This Captured Tale explores the moment when cold learned it didn’t have to be cruel.

by Bill Tiepelman

Empress of the Frosted Branch

Empress of the Frosted Branch is a winter tale of survival, silence, and authority earned without asking. In a frozen forest ruled by noise and panic, one cardinal endures through restraint, judgment, and an unshakable refusal to tolerate nonsense. A sharp, sassy Captured Tale about leadership that doesn’t comfort—it proves.

by Bill Tiepelman

Naughty List Royalty

Naughty List Royalty is a crass festive legend about the gnome who didn’t ruin Christmas — he fixed it. When the Naughty List becomes a throne and honesty replaces polite pretending, holiday cheer gets louder, messier, and far more fun. This Captured Tale celebrates chaos, confession, and the magic that happens when perfection finally collapses.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Last Cookie on Cobblestone Lane

The Last Cookie on Cobblestone Lane is a darkly whimsical winter tale about a festive little bear who arrives without explanation — and begins taking only what people assume is safe to leave behind. Cozy on the surface and quietly unsettling underneath, this story turns holiday comfort into a lesson about attention, trust, and the cost of underestimating something that looks harmless.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Night the Gnomes Drank Christmas

The Night the Gnomes Drank Christmas is a sassy, irreverent holiday tale about ancient rules, bad decisions, and the magical fallout that still haunts December to this day. When three gnomes revive a forbidden Christmas Eve drinking game, the spirits show up, the fine print gets read aloud, and Christmas is never quite the same again.

by Bill Tiepelman

Jingleboots & Bad Decisions in the Snow

When the Naughty List grows antlers, boots, and an attitude, Christmas stops being about punishment and starts being about recognition. “Jingleboots & Bad Decisions in the Snow” is a mischievous holiday tale where guilt learns to wink, bells jingle with consequences, and everyone is just a little more seen than they’re comfortable with.

by Bill Tiepelman

Evergreen Eddie and the Unlicensed Use of Baubles

When a gnome refuses to remove his overdecorated evergreen crown, a quiet winter town learns the hard way that joy doesn’t require a permit. Evergreen Eddie and the Unlicensed Use of Baubles is a slightly crass, self-aware holiday folklore about rules, rebellion, and ornaments that refuse to behave.

by Bill Tiepelman

Ladybug Serenades for a Sleepy Sprout

In this whimsical Captured Tale, a sleepy gnome named Brindle accidentally finds herself negotiating with a full-blown ladybug union perched on her hat. Between dramatic insect walkouts, sneeze catastrophes, and unexpected labor victories, the forest learns what happens when cute meets chaotic — and naps meet negotiations.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Marshmallow Mauler of Mistletoe Manor

When an over-whipped cup of cocoa unleashes a frosting-born menace, Mistletoe Manor becomes ground zero for a holiday legend filled with chaos, sugar-fueled mischief, and one creature’s unforgettable quest for marshmallows. Dive into the riotous origins of the Marshmallow Mauler in this whimsical winter tale.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Mulling-Spiced Mage of Frostmarket Row

When Frostmarket Row’s feuding carolers, ornament vendors, and snow-sculptors spiral into holiday chaos, only Brulk Emberwhisker — a beard-lit mage with zero impulse control — can “fix” it. Spoiler: he absolutely does not fix it.

by Bill Tiepelman

Red-Scarf Rascal of the First Frost

When the Forest Council accidentally discovers that their new Spirit of Winter is a scarf-tripping, joy-exploding reindeer with more heart than coordination, Winterwood is forever changed. Follow the Red-Scarf Rascal as he turns ancient tradition into warm, chaotic magic.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Gingerbread Thirst Trap of Frostbite Lane

When a dangerously seductive gingerbread cookie escapes the bakery and outruns holiday HR, all of Frostbite Lane is left craving chaos. Follow Ginger Belle’s wild quest for fame, freedom, and unapologetic thirst in this hilarious, unhinged Captured Tale.

by Bill Tiepelman

Sugarsweat Shenanigans of the Cookie That Lived

When a sugar-sweating gingerbread messiah awakens mid-frosting, he launches into a wildly unhinged quest through the kitchen—facing butter, flour, cats, and his own overconfidence in this hilariously chaotic holiday tale.

by Bill Tiepelman

Glitterbomb Gary’s Day Pass from the Ornament Bin

When Glitterbomb Gary gets a Day Pass from the ornament bin, he doesn’t behave—he declares himself the main character of the entire holiday season. Chaos erupts, elves fall, snowmen panic, and Gary sparkles his way straight into accidental glory.

by Bill Tiepelman

Candied Antlers of the North Realm

A gingerbread reindeer with outrageous confidence, candy-coated swagger, and one very questionable spin move accidentally tears open a cosmic rift—then discovers what real courage looks like. Follow Crumbsnatch’s laugh-out-loud, sugar-dusted journey from “too big for his britches” to unlikely North Realm hero in this heartfelt, chaotic holiday tale.

by Bill Tiepelman

Snowveil Hare of the Frozen Court

The Hare Who Refused to Be Ordinary On the coldest night of the year, when the aurora stretched across the sky like spilled paint and everyone with common sense was indoors hoarding soup, the Frozen Court gathered in the Valley of Unreasonable Sparkle. The snow there never simply “fell.” It pirouetted. It glowed. It attempted, on more than one occasion, to unionize. Every ruler of the North was present. The Ice Stag with his cathedral-sized antlers, the Glacial Owls with their disapproving expressions, the Polar Bear Matron wearing a cloak of storm clouds, and a flock of snow sprites who communicated exclusively in giggles and glitter. Even the northern wind had attended, appearing as a tall, translucent figure who looked like they spent far too much time in perfume commercials. At the center of it all, sitting on a smooth rise of snow that glowed from within, was a throne carved from a single block of ice. It was both magnificent and deeply uncomfortable, which is how you knew it was a throne. And atop that throne, in a halo of swirling frost, sat the most improbable monarch the realm had ever had: the Snowveil Hare of the Frozen Court. Snowveil was not what anyone expected from a winter ruler. For starters, they were small. Not metaphorically small, either. Physically. A hare. A very fluffy hare with long legs, luminous sapphire eyes, and antlers that looked like moonlight had grown tired of being intangible and decided to crystallize into something with sharp edges and opinions. The antlers glimmered with frost fractal patterns, delicate branches sparkling as though each was lit by its own tiny aurora. Snowveil’s coat was etched with swirls of ice-lace, filigree crawling over fur like an artist had been allowed to go absolutely feral with a frostbrush. Every time Snowveil moved, the patterns shifted, catching the light and throwing fragments of cold fire into the air. The Frozen Court had elected Snowveil for a simple reason: no one could intimidate enemies and charm tourists quite like a hyper-realistic magical hare with crystalline antlers. The marketing potential alone was obscene. There were already plans for seasonal tapestries, enamel pins, and collectible prints in the Hall of Excessively On-Brand Merchandise. But that night, the Court wasn’t thinking about merchandising strategies or limited-edition aurora posters. They were thinking about the problem. The problem in question came in the form of a messenger wisp, who spun into existence over the court like a terrified snowflake that had read too much bad news. It trembled in the cold air, its tiny face pale blue and worried. “Your Frosted Majesty,” the wisp squeaked, bowing so low it nearly folded itself inside out, “we have an issue in the Southern Melt.” The Southern Melt was not a place anyone enjoyed saying out loud, mostly because it sounded like a seasonal dessert special. It was the liminal region where the eternal winter of the North grudgingly shook hands with the warmer lands beyond. The snow there had a habit of melting, refreezing, sulking, and writing anonymous complaints in the slush. Snowveil’s whiskers twitched. “What kind of issue?” they asked, voice soft but edged with the crispness of subzero air. The wisp hesitated. “The snow,” it said, “is… refusing to fall.” The Court erupted into panicked murmurs. The Glacial Owls fluffed up indignantly. The Ice Stag stomped a hoof, causing an avalanche somewhere unfortunate. The Polar Bear Matron let out a shocked huff that formed a new iceberg off the northern coast. “Refusing?” Snowveil repeated, one elegant ear flicking. “Snow is not allowed to refuse. That’s literally its whole job. It goes up, it freezes, it falls. That’s the brand.” The wisp nodded miserably. “It says it’s on strike, Your Majesty. Something about ‘unreasonable working conditions, lack of respect, and human tourists who keep calling it ‘so aesthetic’ instead of appreciating its complex crystalline geometry.’” Snowveil pinched the bridge of their nose with an invisible paw of pure exasperation. The antlers glittered in sympathy. “Of course it does,” they muttered. “The last time we let a cloud read anything about labor rights, it staged a blizzard walkout.” The Wind leaned closer, cape of translucent air whispering. “If the snow stops falling in the Southern Melt, the line between winter and spring will blur,” it warned. “Rivers will swell early. Flowers will bloom too soon. Mortals will start posting ‘Is this climate change or vibes?’ on their little glowing rectangles. It will be chaos.” Snowveil wasn’t afraid of chaos; they were the sort of creature who could turn a snowstorm into a fashion statement. But they were concerned about balance. The winter realms relied on subtle rhythms: snowfall patterns, frost crystal maps, aurora schedules, the weekly migration of overly dramatic ravens. If the snow decided to rebel, everything else would wobble. The Ice Stag cleared his throat, antlers chiming like distant bells. “We could send the Storm Wolves,” he suggested. “A little intimidation might persuade the flakes to fall in line.” Snowveil’s blue eyes narrowed. “We are not threatening the weather into compliance,” they said. “Every time we do that, some mortal writes a myth where the gods are jerks and the moral is ‘Never trust atmospheric deities.’ Our PR team still hasn’t recovered from the Great Hailstone Incident.” There were solemn nods. The Great Hailstone Incident was still whispered about in the Hall of Reputational Damage. Somebody had tried to speed-run an entire winter in one week. It had not gone well. Snowveil hopped down from the ice throne in a flurry of glittering frost, landing so softly the snow barely noticed. They paced slowly, hooves—no, paws, but dignified ones—leaving faint trails of glowing patterns behind them. Each step wrote a secret sigil in the snow, the language of ice and intention. “Snow is not the enemy,” Snowveil said at last. “It’s an artist. It likes to be admired. It likes to be taken seriously. And lately it’s been treated like nothing more than a filter for mortal photographs and a hazard for poorly chosen footwear.” The Polar Bear Matron rumbled thoughtfully. “Humans do enjoy sliding around shrieking as if walking on frozen water is a deeply surprising concept.” “Exactly,” Snowveil said. “If I were a snowflake, I’d be offended too. Imagine spending hours crystallizing yourself into a unique six-armed masterpiece, just to get stomped by someone in discount boots and then compressed into sludge.” The Court winced collectively. “So,” Snowveil continued, “we’re going to negotiate.” The Glacial Owls blinked. “Negotiate,” one repeated slowly, as though tasting the word like a questionable berry. “With precipitation.” Snowveil’s whiskers twitched again, this time in amusement. “Yes. With precipitation. The snow wants respect? We’ll see what that means. And if we can’t come to an agreement, then we’ll find the real reason behind this strike. Snow doesn’t just stop falling unless something bigger is meddling.” The suggestion settled over the Court like a thin new layer of frost—chilly but stabilizing. They all knew what Snowveil wasn’t saying: storms didn’t organize themselves. If there was a labor movement among the clouds, something—or someone—had stirred it. A faint shiver slid through the air. Snowveil felt it, the way a hare feels the shadow of a hawk long before it sees the wings. It was subtle, like a ripple in the pattern of the cold, a small wrongness humming under the usual song of the North. That was the twist, Snowveil realized. The snow’s rebellion wasn’t the problem. It was the symptom. They turned to the wisp. “You’ll guide me to the Southern Melt,” Snowveil said. “We leave at once.” There was a murmur of protest—about the hour, the temperature, the ongoing agenda items concerning icicle zoning regulations—but Snowveil flicked one antler and the complaints froze solid, glittering briefly before shattering. “This realm,” Snowveil said calmly, “is balanced on patterns most mortals never see. Frost fractals, snowdrift rhythms, the way ice sings under starlight. If those patterns start misbehaving, we don’t sit here and fill out complaint forms. We go out there and fix it.” The Wind gave an appreciative bow, snow swirling in elegant spirals. “Very dramatic,” it said. “Nine out of ten. I would have added a cape swirl.” Snowveil’s fur rippled in a way that absolutely counted as a cape swirl. “Happy now?” they asked dryly. And so the Court parted to open a path of glowing frost. Snowveil stepped forward, antlers haloed in pale light, eyes reflecting all the strange, beautiful cold of the North. The wisp bobbed nervously at their side, already regretting every life choice that had led it to be the courier of bad meteorological news. As Snowveil crossed the boundary of the valley, the sky brightened with a fresh wave of aurora. Greens and violets rippled across the dark, dancing above the hare like a royal banner. Snowveil didn’t look back, but if they had, they would have seen the Frozen Court watching in tense silence, each member aware that something old and patient was stirring beneath the snow. Because far to the south, just beyond the edge of winter, someone else was tired of being ignored by the world. And unlike the snow, they weren’t planning a strike. They were planning a takeover. Snowveil didn’t know the details yet. But as a faint tremor shivered through the eternal ice, the hare’s antlers rang like distant glass bells, and they had the unsettling sensation that the season itself had just winked at them. “Wonderful,” Snowveil muttered under their breath. “It’s going to be one of those winters.” Negotiating With Weather (And Other Terrible Ideas) The journey to the Southern Melt began with the sort of dramatic flourish Snowveil generally tried to avoid before their morning tea. The wisp led the way, jittering like a lantern flame in a nervous sneeze, while Snowveil bounded through drifts of glittering snow that behaved as though they were in a perfume ad—swirling, shimmering, and showing off for absolutely no reason. The first sign something was wrong came when they reached the River of Respectable Ice, which had recently rebranded itself from the River of Slightly Cranky Ice after a successful therapy arc. Normally, it was frozen solid—quiet, reliable, and pleasantly self-important. Now? A chunk near the southern bank had melted into a suspiciously warm puddle, bubbling as though being boiled by a kettle operated by an unlicensed pyromancer. Snowveil leaned down, antlers casting shimmering reflections on the surface. “This isn’t normal.” The wisp nodded vigorously. “This happened when the snow declared its strike. The Melt's expanding faster than it should, and the air keeps getting… hotter.” Snowveil raised a furry brow. “Hotter? In the North? Without a signed permission slip from the Winter Council? Bold.” The puddle suddenly belched steam, which coalesced into a tiny, irritable heat sprite. It looked up at Snowveil with the expression of someone who had eaten a ghost pepper and immediately regretted all life choices leading to that moment. “Look,” the sprite rasped, hands on nonexistent hips, “we’re doing our best, okay? There’s interference. Someone’s cranking up the temperature without filling out one single Seasonal Adjustment Form. I swear, it’s like mortals think weather just happens by accident.” Snowveil cleared their throat. “Do you know who’s causing it?” The sprite squinted. “Something big. Something fiery. Something with an ego large enough to require its own postal code.” Snowveil winced. “Oh no. Not… him.” The sprite shuddered. “Yep.” Snowveil muttered a string of ancient frost-words that sounded suspiciously like someone cursing into a scarf. “The Sun Prince?" The wisp gasped. “He wouldn’t dare!” “Oh, he absolutely would,” Snowveil said. “He once tried to annex the twilight hours because he wanted to ‘expand his brand.’ The man radiates confidence and secondhand embarrassment.” But there was no time to stand there and make fun of a nuclear star’s self-esteem issues. The snow had unionized. The Melt was creeping north. There was a solid chance someone would attempt to turn the Frozen Court into a spa resort “for warmth enthusiasts.” Snowveil marched southward, antlers glowing faintly with frost energy. Along the way they encountered several troubling anomalies: A patch of daisies blooming aggressively out of season, attempting to start a selfie trend. A flock of robins arguing heatedly with a confused snowdrift about territory law. A snowman lying on its side like a Victorian damsel, dramatically claiming it was “melting from emotional distress.” And then—there it was. The Southern Melt in full rebellion mode. Snow wasn’t falling. It was floating upward in tiny groups, holding tiny picket signs made of ice chips. Every single snowflake was shouting at once, which sounded like a thousand faint jingles mixed with the subtle auditory equivalent of passive-aggressive emails. Snowveil took a deep breath. “Here we go.” They hopped onto a mound of slush like a politician climbing onto a podium moments before regretting everything. “Attention, snow!” Snowveil called, antlers ringing like crystalline bells. “We are here to listen to your grievances.” A representative flake drifted forward, swirling itself into a larger, more dramatic configuration that vaguely resembled a snowflake with managerial responsibilities. It floated eye-level with Snowveil. “We demand respect,” it chirped. “And hazard pay.” Snowveil blinked slowly. “Hazard pay?” “Yes!” the snowflake huffed. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is falling through the atmosphere? We’re basically yeeted from the sky at terminal velocity! And what for? To be shoveled, stomped, salted, and photographed with filters that completely misrepresent our crystalline geometry!” Snowveil rubbed their forehead. “Okay. I understand. But refusing to fall is destabilizing the winter cycle. We need you.” The snowflake crossed its little flake-arms. “We’re not doing a single elegant descent until our demands are acknowledged.” Snowveil’s voice softened. “What if I promised to speak to the Court? To advocate for better conditions, better appreciation, and maybe a mandatory course on how to photograph snow without flattening it into white mush?” The snowflake’s edges softened. “That… could be negotiated.” Snowveil nodded. “Good. Because something far bigger is threatening the winter realms. You aren’t striking alone. Something’s heating the North from the inside out.” A hush fell over the strike line. The snowflake trembled. “You mean—” “Yes,” Snowveil said grimly. “The Sun Prince.” The snowflakes erupted into outraged jingling. “That radiant himbo!” one shouted. “He’s always trying to steamroll winter! Literally!” “Precisely.” Snowveil shook frost from their whiskers. “We need unity, not rebellion. Winter won’t stand a chance if he unleashes one of his ‘seasonal rebrand’ schemes. The last time he tried to warm up the North, we ended up with the Great Slush Flood of Year 401. The otters still don’t speak to us." The snowflake hovered thoughtfully. “What do you need from us?” Snowveil looked up, antlers glittering with incoming determination. “Your help. Not as precipitation. As witnesses. Scouts. The Sun Prince won’t expect resistance from those he ignores. We need you to find where he’s concentrating heat. Where he’s planning his move.” The snowflakes conferred among themselves in soft crystalline chimes. Finally, the leader drifted forward. “We accept. On one condition.” Snowveil braced internally. “Name it.” The flake pointed one of its tiny arms at Snowveil. “If we save winter, we want recognition. Official titles. An annual parade. And—this is non-negotiable—a public apology from the Sun Prince for melting our brethren without proper documentation.” Snowveil nodded. “Done. Winterwide proclamation, parade funding, and a strongly worded letter dipped in frost for dramatic effect.” The snowflake twinkled smugly. “We’ll begin surveillance immediately.” The flakes scattered into the air like a burst of silent fireworks, streaking southward on cold winds. Snowveil exhaled in relief. One disaster stabilized. A larger one incoming. The wisp drifted beside them, trembling. “What now?” Snowveil stared toward the horizon where heat shimmered like a mirage. “Now? We go meet the Sun Prince.” The wisp squeaked. “Isn’t he… dangerous?” “Oh, absolutely,” Snowveil said. “He’s hotter than the gossip about two yetis caught canoodling behind the Icefall Tavern. But he’s also vain. And dramatic. And deeply susceptible to emotional manipulation.” The wisp blinked. “Manipulation?” Snowveil smirked. “Yes. You’d be amazed what you can accomplish with a strategic compliment about the luminosity of his solar flares.” The wisp groaned. “We’re doomed.” As they continued south, heat shimmered stronger, rising in waves that made the snow beneath them whimper anxiously. Something truly immense was interfering with the season—bigger and bolder than any prior tantrum the Sun Prince had thrown. But the final confirmation didn’t come until the clouds themselves parted in a sudden, dramatic flourish… and a colossal golden figure stepped forward, radiating smugness and SPF 500 energy. The Sun Prince, crown blazing like a supernova, looked down at Snowveil with a smile that suggested he practiced it in reflective surfaces. “Well, well,” he purred. “If it isn’t winter’s cutest little monarch.” He winked. “Don’t melt on me.” Snowveil’s eye twitched. “Fantastic,” they whispered. “It’s going to be one of those negotiations.” The Hare, the Himbo Sun Prince, and the Great Winter Rebrand Attempt The Sun Prince stood before Snowveil like a bronzed monument to questionable decisions, basking in his own radiance with the confidence of someone who believed sunscreen was a personality trait. Heat shimmered around him in waves so intense that several nearby icicles fainted dramatically and had to be revived with sassy pep talks from a passing frost sprite. Snowveil squared their tiny but ferociously majestic shoulders. Their crystalline antlers glinted defiantly, each delicate branch giving off the distinct impression that it would absolutely be used as a weapon if negotiations failed. “Sun Prince,” Snowveil began coolly, tone sharp enough to shave ice sculptures. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?” He flashed a smile bright enough to cause mild retinal trauma. “Just warming things up, darling. Your winter has been a liiittle too... wintery this year. I thought I'd give the land some razzle-dazzle.” He wiggled his fingers, and a plume of steam spiraled upward as if agreeing with him. Snowveil stared at him. Blinked once. Slowly. “You are destabilizing the entire seasonal structure of the Northern Realms.” He shrugged. “I like to think of it as… rebranding.” He leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. “Picture it: ‘Hot Winter™: A Sunny Take on Snow.’” Snowveil made a strangled noise that could have frozen a lesser being on the spot. “You cannot trademark winter.” The Sun Prince gave a devastatingly smug wink. “Watch me.” Behind Snowveil, the wisp made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a dying squeal. The hare pressed a paw to their forehead, antlers buzzing with frost energy. “Why,” Snowveil hissed, “would you do this? What are you possibly gaining from melting my domain?” The Sun Prince sighed dramatically, wind machines of pure solar flare powering up behind him. “Fine. You want the truth? I’m bored.” Snowveil arched a brow. “Bored.” “YES bored!” he burst out. “Mortals worship me all summer long—sunbathing, sunflowers, that whole solar-powered happiness aesthetic. But winter comes? And suddenly it’s all cocoa and blankets and ‘oh look how elegant the frost is’ and ‘the moonlight is so atmospheric’ and ‘let’s light candles and pretend the sun doesn’t exist.’” He stomped a foot, causing the ground to steam aggressively. “It’s rude.” Snowveil inhaled deeply. “So you heated half of my kingdom because you felt… underappreciated.” “Yes,” he said without shame. “Also, one mortal called me ‘mid’ in a poem last month, and I haven’t recovered.” Snowveil’s eye twitched with the force of an avalanche. But then—something shifted. Behind the heat shimmer on the horizon, a familiar glittering cloud approached, moving with purposeful, icy grace. Snowflakes. Thousands of them, sparkling like a rebellious militia with excellent posture. The snowflake leader hovered forward, tiny arms crossed in indignation. “Excuse us,” it chimed pointedly, “but are YOU the reason half of us melted before we even fell? Because some of us were masterpieces, thank you very much.” The Sun Prince recoiled. “Are you talking to me?” The snowflake jabbed a tiny icy arm right at his solar-plexus region. “Oh, we are more than talking. We are FILING A FORMAL COMPLAINT.” Several snowflakes behind it chanted “COMPLAINT! COMPLAINT!” like an extremely chilly protest group. The Sun Prince sputtered. “I—I didn’t melt you on purpose!” “Oh REALLY?” the snowflake hissed. “Because we have eyewitness accounts of unauthorized heat waves, unscheduled solar bursts, and at least one snowman who claims you looked at him funny and he liquefied out of fear.” Snowveil cleared their throat. “Prince. Apologize.” He stared at Snowveil as though they had asked him to dim. “I’m sorry—you want me to apologize to the weather?” “Yes,” Snowveil said firmly. “It’s that or we file a complaint with the Equinox Council. And you know how they get.” The Sun Prince blanched. “Not the Equinox Council. They make everything so… bureaucratic.” Snowveil nodded solemnly. “Mm-hmm. You’d be stuck filling out sunbeam allocation forms until next solstice.” The Prince shuddered in horror. “Fine! FINE. I apologize to the snow for melting—” A snowflake coughed loudly. He rolled his eyes. “—for melting you… without authorization. And for… uh… calling winter ‘emotionally clingy.’” The snowflakes squealed triumphantly and immediately began drafting parade blueprints. Satisfied, Snowveil stepped forward. “Now. You’re going to turn the heat down. Gradually. We don’t want steamstorms again. And after that, you’re going to sit with your feelings like a responsible celestial entity instead of committing meteorological arson every time someone forgets your fan club.” The Sun Prince sighed. “You’re surprisingly stern for someone so fluffy.” Snowveil smiled sweetly. “I will end you.” He believed them. A slow, controlled coolness spread through the land. Frost reformed. Snowflakes fell with dramatic flair. The river sighed in relief and refroze in the shape of a polite bow. The Melt retreated, muttering apologies as it went. By the time the Frozen Court gathered to greet their returning monarch, winter had returned to its elegant, orderly, and mildly judgmental self. The Court erupted in cheers. The Polar Bear Matron shed proud tears (which froze midair and had to be chiseled off). The Ice Stag bowed deeply. The Glacial Owls attempted applause but produced only very dignified wing flaps. Snowveil climbed the icy throne once more, fur glittering with victorious frost. “Winter,” they proclaimed, “is restored. And our realm stands strong—because even rebellious snowflakes have their place in the pattern.” The snowflake leader drifted up beside them. “We expect that parade by mid-month.” Snowveil sighed. “Yes, yes. I’ll inform the auroras to prep their choreography.” The auroras overhead brightened in smug acknowledgment. As celebrations erupted around them, Snowveil glanced southward. The Sun Prince was already retreating, muttering something about updating his fan club newsletter and exfoliating his solar layers. Snowveil shook their head with fond exasperation. “Drama,” they murmured. “Pure, incandescent drama.” But peace had returned. Balance was restored. And winter, once again, would sparkle with elegance, mystery, and just a hint of absurdity—exactly as it should.     Bring the Snowveil Hare of the Frozen Court into your own winter realm. Whether you're looking to elevate your décor, wrap yourself in enchanted warmth, or send a bit of frosted magic to someone special, this piece shines across multiple premium formats. Each product below transforms Snowveil’s crystalline elegance into a tangible keepsake—perfect for collectors, fantasy lovers, and anyone who lives for winter’s spellbinding charm. Explore the full collection:• Framed Print: A gallery-worthy display capturing every icy fractal and luminous detail.Shop Framed Print• Metal Print: Vibrant, reflective, and impossibly crisp—Snowveil practically glows from within.Shop Metal Print• Acrylic Print: Depth, clarity, and a glass-like finish that gives Snowveil dimensional presence.Shop Acrylic Print• Fleece Blanket: Wrap yourself in winter magic with a soft, luxurious blanket featuring Snowveil’s regal glow.Shop Fleece Blanket• Bath Towel: Add a touch of frosted elegance to your bathroom décor—yes, even your towels can be majestic.Shop Bath Towel• Greeting Card: Send winter magic to friends and family with a card that sparkles with charm and mischief.Shop Greeting Card Surround yourself with the enchanting energy of Snowveil—and let the Frozen Court’s most fashionable monarch bring a little winter wonder into your space.

by Bill Tiepelman

Aurora Guardian Rising

A late-winter aurora transforms into a celestial guardian who recruits Dani—reluctant, sarcastic, and running on caffeine—to help jumpstart spring. What follows is a whimsical, sassy, magical journey through glowing snow, awakening forests, and the first spark of a season determined to make an entrance. A humorous, adult fantasy tale about renewal, mischief, and the unexpected ways the world begins again.

by Bill Tiepelman

Twinkle-Shell the Festive Wanderer

The Glitter-Covered Menace of Mistletoe Marsh Deep inside the glimmering heart of Mistletoe Marsh—where the trees shed glitter instead of leaves and the ground is permanently sticky from a century of spilled eggnog—there lived a creature so cheerfully chaotic that even Santa had him on a “soft ban” list. His name was Twinkle-Shell, the Festive Wanderer, and his hobbies included: jingling loudly at inappropriate hours, hoarding peppermint just to say he had it, and single-handedly destabilizing the local ecosystem every time he tried to “spread holiday joy.” Twinkle-Shell, a snail by birth but an *aspiring* reindeer by attitude, strutted—or slithered, depending on how frozen the marsh happened to be—beneath a towering Christmas tree growing directly out of his shell. Not metaphorically. Not tattooed. Literally. A whole, sparkly, fully-functional tree, complete with ornaments that jingled, lights that flickered, and a star on top that glowed brighter whenever he felt dramatic… which was often. His antlers, grown out of pure festive stubbornness, sprouted ornaments like some kind of holiday fruit tree with boundary issues. Every time he moved, a cascade of jingles followed behind him, making stealth absolutely impossible. Neighborhood squirrels used him as a navigational beacon. A family of chipmunks synchronized their winter dances to the rhythm of his accidental jingling. And at least one very confused owl tried to mate with the ornament hanging from his left antler. (Twinkle-Shell never recovered emotionally.) He also had, for reasons beyond nature or decency, a reputation as a walking hazard. If you saw glitter drifting in the air, it wasn’t snowfall—it was him. If a candy cane mysteriously disappeared from your porch and reappeared lodged in a tree branch two miles away, it was him. If your snowman woke up wearing red lace garland like a feather boa, it was definitely him. Twinkle-Shell insisted these things just “sort of happened” around him, a statement that carried the same sincerity as a toddler claiming the dog opened the permanent marker. But despite the chaos—or perhaps because of it—everyone at Mistletoe Marsh adored him. He was the unofficial herald of the holiday season. The moment they heard his jingle-jangle-jing-JANGLE (followed by a thud, usually him slipping on his own ornament debris), they knew: the season had begun. This year, however… things were different. Twinkle-Shell had woken up with a feeling. A vibe. A destiny-level sensation that this holiday season, he was meant for something big. Something important. Something completely beyond his normal jurisdiction of moderately controlled chaos. And that, unfortunately for Mistletoe Marsh, meant he was about to try—really try—to be helpful. The last time he tried to be helpful, twelve ducks got perms and the mayor of the Marsh still refused to discuss “the tinsel incident.” But none of that deterred him. With the star on his shell glowing like it had just consumed espresso, Twinkle-Shell declared: “THIS YEAR… I SHALL SAVE CHRISTMAS!” No one had asked him to. No one had suggested Christmas was even remotely in danger. But history had proven one fact: when Twinkle-Shell decided something was destiny, destiny usually sent an apology note in advance. As he jingle-slid toward the edge of the Marsh to begin his “heroic quest,” local residents whispered, worried, hopeful, and bracing for impact. Because whatever was about to happen… it would be memorable. And probably sticky. Twinkle-Shell’s Incredibly Poor Life Choices Twinkle-Shell had barely made it twenty jingle-steps out of Mistletoe Marsh before destiny introduced itself in the form of a frantic puffin wearing a scarf knitted entirely of panic and broken dreams. The puffin crash-landed into the snow in front of him, skidding through slush like a feathery curling stone before popping up and blurting, “THE NORTH POLE IS A DISASTER!” Now, Twinkle-Shell was no stranger to the word “disaster.” He heard it often. Usually directed at him. But this time, it had a certain global tone—like the kind of disaster where holiday laws would be violated, elves would unionize, and Santa might start drinking the non-virgin eggnog before noon. “Explain yourself,” Twinkle-Shell declared, attempting to stand heroically tall, but remembering too late that snails do not stand. He settled instead for rearing up in slow motion, which looked less like bravery and more like he was trying to reach a cookie on a high shelf. The puffin took a dramatic breath. “Santa’s workshop… is covered in gingerbread sludge! The ovens malfunctioned, the cookie mixers revolted, and half the toys smell like cinnamon-based despair!” Twinkle-Shell gasped with the force of a creature who once ate an entire wreath and regretted nothing. “Is Santa okay?” “He’s… sticky,” the puffin whispered, as though sharing a national secret. “Very… very sticky.” That settled it. This was a job for a hero. A legend. A creature with the power to make things worse before making them better. This was a job for— “TWINKLE-SHELL THE FESTIVE WANDERER!” The puffin blinked. “I don’t know who that is.” “Still me,” Twinkle-Shell said, flexing an antler so that a tiny ornament fell off and rolled dramatically into a snowbank. And so, the two set off toward the North Pole, Twinkle-Shell jingling with heroic enthusiasm and the puffin waddling in a state of ongoing regret. Their journey was… complicated. First, Twinkle-Shell attempted to “speed up” by sliding down a frozen hill. This resulted in him spinning like a holiday Beyblade, screaming, “I WAS NOT BUILT FOR THIS!” as ornaments flew off his antlers like festive shrapnel. The puffin, trying to help, flapped frantically behind him, shouting instructions such as “STEER LEFT!” and “WHY ARE YOU SPARKLING MORE?!” Twinkle-Shell eventually crashed into a drift of powdered snow, emerging glitterier than before, which should have been impossible by the laws of physics but was absolutely on-brand for him. Then came the Snow Sprite Incident. Snow Sprites were known for their ephemeral beauty, frosted wings, and a temperament roughly equivalent to a caffeinated ferret. They were fragile, delicate, and notoriously manipulative when slightly bored. As Twinkle-Shell and the puffin cut through a clearing, a cluster of them descended like sparkly piranhas. “Ooooh! A walking tree!” one Sprite squealed. “A talking ornament bush!” another cried. “A sentient holiday fever dream!” said a third, deeply concerned but intrigued. Twinkle-Shell tried to introduce himself, but Sprites don’t wait for introductions. Or permission. Within seconds, they were hanging new ornaments on him, braiding his garlands, fluffing the branches of his shell-tree, and rearranging his decorations with the aggressive enthusiasm of interior decorators who haven’t eaten in days. “We added more sparkle to your sparkle,” one Sprite reported proudly. “You’re welcome,” another said, while applying shimmering frost to his left flank. Twinkle-Shell attempted polite gratitude, but the sheer weight of the extra ornaments nearly tipped him over. He had to dig his foot into the snow to keep upright. “I appreciate the… enthusiasm,” he managed, “but we’re on an urgent quest!” “A quest?” the Sprites gasped collectively like a dramatic choir. “For WHAT?” “To save Christmas!” There was a silence, followed by all twenty Sprites bursting into chaotic applause while yelling conflicting advice: “Kidnap the gingerbread!” “Punch a snowman!” “Blame the elves! They can take it!” “Bring Santa soup!” “Don’t bring Santa soup! He hates soup!” By the time the Sprites finished “decorating” him, Twinkle-Shell now jingled when he blinked. Literally. The puffin stared at him with the hollow expression of someone reconsidering every life decision. “Let’s just… go,” the puffin muttered. At last, after waddling, sliding, jingling, and arguing their way across the tundra, the North Pole appeared on the horizon—shimmering with lights, smoke, and the faint smell of gingerbread on fire. Twinkle-Shell whispered reverently, “We made it…” “I’m going to regret this,” the puffin whispered back. They approached the candy-cane gates, only to find them half-melted, coated in sticky sugar, and buzzing with tiny, exhausted elves trying to chisel themselves free from cookie cement. One elf, covered in dried frosting and rethinking all career choices, pointed at Twinkle-Shell and groaned, “Oh no. Not again.” Twinkle-Shell’s eyes widened. “We’ve never met!” The elf shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I can FEEL the chaos.” That was when another elf staggered out of the workshop, hair smoking slightly, and shouted: “THE GINGERBREAD HAS GONE SENTIENT! AND IT HAS DEMANDS!” Twinkle-Shell inhaled sharply. “This… this is my moment.” And as the peppermint-scented smoke billowed out of the workshop behind him, Twinkle-Shell jingle-glowed with heroic determination. This would be the day he proved himself. This would be the moment he saved Christmas. Or—more statistically likely—this would be the moment everything went gloriously, catastrophically wrong. The Great Gingerbread Uprising (And the Snail Who Probably Should’ve Stayed Home) The moment Twinkle-Shell slid into the workshop, he was hit with a wave of heat, spice, and the unmistakable smell of burnt sugar trauma. The walls were coated in gingerbread goo. Half-constructed toys were glued to the ceiling. A Nutcracker soldier was stuck to the floor, repeatedly muttering, “I did NOT sign up for this.” Somewhere in the distance, an oven door rattled like something inside was trying to negotiate its release. Elves scurried everywhere, armed with frosting spatulas, licorice whips, and the kind of exhausted expressions found on retail workers on December 24th at exactly 11:59 p.m. And right there, at the center of the chaos, stood the enemy. A giant, twelve-foot-tall, semi-sentient gingerbread man. He had gumdrop eyes of pure malice. He had frosting facial hair that suggested he’d been through three divorces. And he wore a peppermint belt like he was in some kind of seasonal wrestling league. “I AM GINGERPAPA!” he bellowed, his voice echoing like thunder made of cookie crumbs. “AND CHRISTMAS SHALL BURN IN THE OVEN OF MY WRATH!” Twinkle-Shell gasped. Mostly because he got too excited and inhaled a sprinkle. The giant gingerbread titan turned his gumdrop glare on him. “You,” GingerPapa growled. “Tree snail. Decorative menace. Living mall display. You dare approach me?” Twinkle-Shell jingle-flexed proudly, which involved wiggling his antlers and immediately losing two ornaments. “I am here… to restore holiday harmony!” An elf whispered to another, “Oh great. He’s monologuing. This is going to end in frosting.” GingerPapa raised one icing-coated arm and roared, “ATTACK, MY GINGERMINIONS!” From behind him poured an army of smaller gingerbread creatures—some shaped like classic gingerbread men, others shaped like little stars, bells, candy canes, and one disturbingly buff gingerbread duck who looked like he worked out twice a day and drank raw eggnog. Twinkle-Shell took a heroic stance (again, mostly by accident). The puffin behind him screamed into his scarf. The elves shrieked. The oven doors rattled harder. It was chaos. Beautiful, stupid, holiday chaos.   The Battle Was… Not Great Twinkle-Shell attempted to charge heroically. Unfortunately, as a snail, his top speed was “confidently leisurely.” The gingerbread army reached him long before he made any meaningful forward progress. They swarmed up his shell, climbing the branches of his Christmas tree, poking his ornaments, licking his lights (disgusting), and slapping him with tiny sugary hands. “Ow! Ow! Hey! Personal space! That’s a limited edition bauble!” Twinkle-Shell cried, flailing his antlers wildly—knocking gingerbread men off like shuriken made of holiday shame. Meanwhile, GingerPapa bellowed laughter. “FOOLISH SNAIL! YOU CANNOT STOP THE RISE OF THE COOKIE KINGDOM!” The elves, realizing they had backup, began throwing handfuls of flour like improvised flash grenades. The puffin aggressively pecked a gingerbread star into crumbs. A squad of teddy-bear-shaped cookies began chanting, “DOWN WITH MILK! DOWN WITH MILK!” for reasons no one fully understood. Overwhelmed and sticky, Twinkle-Shell’s star began to glow—not with chaos, but with something he had never experienced before: Actual determination. And then something incredible happened. His shell-tree lit up. Every ornament flared. Every garland shimmered. Every holiday light sparked to life all at once— —and unleashed a blinding explosion of glitter. Not normal glitter. Not craft-store glitter. This was primordial holiday glitter. The kind that sticks to souls. The kind that ruins marriages. The kind that you still find on you 17 years later. The workshop was consumed by a shimmering shockwave that froze the gingerbread army in place—literally. The sugar in their dough flash-crystallized, turning them into sparkling statue versions of themselves. GingerPapa let out a final dramatic roar: “NOOOOOOO! I SHOULD HAVE ADDED MORE MOLASSES!” before freezing solid with a pose suspiciously similar to interpretive jazz hands. When the glitter cleared, the workshop was silent. Twinkle-Shell blinked. The glitter blinked back.   Aftermath, Regret, and Questionable Praise Santa finally emerged from the back, coated in hardened gingerbread goo like a festive swamp creature. He squinted at Twinkle-Shell through the sticky sugar on his beard. “…did you… save Christmas?” Twinkle-Shell stood tall (as tall as a snail can stand). “Yes. I did.” Santa stared at the frozen gingerbread titan. Then at the glitter coating every inch of his workshop. Then at the elves—half cheering, half trying to scrape cookie cement off the walls. Then at the puffin, who looked like he needed therapy immediately. Finally, Santa sighed. “Could you… maybe next time… warn me before doing whatever you just did?” Twinkle-Shell thought about it. Thought long and hard. Then said confidently: “No.” Santa closed his eyes in defeat, but the elves celebrated. They lifted Twinkle-Shell onto a sled, cheering his name, chanting as though he were a holiday demigod: “TWINKLE-SHELL! TWINKLE-SHELL! SAVIOR OF THE SEASON!” The puffin even flapped up onto his shell-tree and declared, “You absolute disaster… I am so proud of you.”   A Hero Returns Twinkle-Shell returned to Mistletoe Marsh that night, glowing with triumph, glittering from shell to foot, and dragging so much leftover cookie dust that he left behind a trail of gingerbread crumbs like Hansel and Gretel going through a holiday divorce. Everyone gathered around him. They cheered. They jingled their bells. A choir of squirrels performed a celebratory interpretive dance despite having no formal training. Twinkle-Shell announced proudly: “I HAVE SAVED CHRISTMAS!” And the Marsh erupted in applause. However… a small, nervous squirrel raised a paw. “So… uh… does this mean you’ll stop trying to ‘help’ now?” Twinkle-Shell laughed, his ornaments chiming like tiny alarm bells of doom. “No, my sweet winter children. No it does not.” And from that day forward, the holidays were never peaceful again.     Bring Twinkle-Shell Home If Twinkle-Shell’s heroic glitterbomb of holiday chaos made you smile, swoon, or briefly reconsider the stability of the gingerbread ecosystem, you can now bring this gloriously unhinged icon into your own home. Celebrate the season (and the snail who almost accidentally destroyed it) with beautifully crafted holiday collectibles featuring Twinkle-Shell the Festive Wanderer. For a classic touch, hang him proudly on your wall as a framed print — a perfect way to let guests know your décor aesthetic is “classy chaos with a side of peppermint madness.” Prefer something sleek and modern? Show off every shimmering detail with a metal print that captures the image’s glossy textures and festive glow. If you enjoy a challenge (or simply wish to relive the gingerbread uprising in slow motion), the jigsaw puzzle offers a wonderfully chaotic holiday pastime — ideal for family gatherings, cozy evenings, or proving you're mentally stronger than sentient cookies. And for spreading the joy directly, nothing beats the charm of a greeting card. Send it to friends, family, coworkers, or that one neighbor who still owes you a borrowed wreath. Twinkle-Shell will deliver seasonal cheer, questionable decisions, and glitter-based optimism wherever he goes. Let the legend of Twinkle-Shell live on — in your home, on your walls, and in the hearts of everyone who receives a card and thinks, “Why is that snail sexier than I expected?”

by Bill Tiepelman

Holiday Hijinks in Red Velvet

Every holiday season needs a bit of chaos — not enough to derail Christmas, just enough to keep the reindeer humble and the elves slightly traumatized. And if there was one creature uniquely qualified to deliver that delicate level of festive mayhem, it was Grindle Tock: five-foot-nothing if you counted the hat, ears sharp enough to slice gift wrap, and a grin so sly it probably had its own backstory. At this moment, Grindle sat perched atop a giant present wrapped in shimmering red paper, his bare toes wiggling like they were independently scheming their own crimes. The warm glow of Christmas lights made his skin look almost cherubic… which was wildly misleading to anyone who had met him for more than eight seconds. The party behind him was reaching that blurry phase where elves began harmonizing ancient carols slightly off-key and slightly too passionately. Already three of them had formed a barbershop quartet despite none of them knowing what a barbershop was. Two reindeer — tipsy, though they’d deny it — were at the snack table arguing over the philosophical implications of gluten-free gingerbread. A cluster of toy soldiers stood frozen in their usual stoic formation, but even they seemed to be silently judging the questionable choices unfolding around them. Grindle, however, wasn’t distracted by the spectacle. He had the intense, squinty look of a strategist — or perhaps a raccoon eyeing an unsecured trash can. His Santa-red outfit was a size too small, hugging him with the affectionate enthusiasm of a garment ready to burst if he inhaled wrong. His belt buckle gleamed like it knew secrets. His hat sagged dramatically to the side like it was exhausted from enabling his nonsense. In his lap rested a handmade scroll titled, in calligraphy far too elaborate for someone with his reputation: Operation Cheerquake. The subtitle read: “A Gentle, Non-Destructive Redistribution of Holiday Spirit.” The crossed-out options underneath included “mildly inconvenient,” “reindeer-repellent,” and “illegal without a permit.” What exactly counted as “non-destructive” in Grindle’s mind was a question that had plagued Santa’s legal team for years. The list of previous incidents included exploding peppermint garlands, a hot cocoa fountain that achieved sentience, and a snowman uprising that required three days of mediation and one restraining order. Grindle hadn’t technically been responsible for all of them, but he had been “adjacent to the chaos,” which, in workshop terminology, meant guilty enough. Tonight, though… tonight he felt destiny humming in his bones. Or maybe that was the eggnog. Hard to tell. Grindle preferred to believe it was destiny because it sounded dramatic and he lived for theatrics. Every elf had a role: toy-maker, tinker, baker, reindeer wrangler. Grindle’s role? “Unpredictable Variable.” It was written on his file in Santa’s HR cabinet under the tab labeled “Caution.” “This,” he murmured to himself, “is going to be my masterpiece.” He leaned back, balancing perfectly on the present as if gift boxes were his natural habitat. His toes flexed with alarming enthusiasm. He stared into the twinkling lights with the energy of a small creature about to make a decision that would haunt the entire building by sunrise. His reflection in a nearby ornament looked entirely too pleased with itself, which only encouraged him. He unrolled the scroll and tapped the first item on the list: 1. Relocate the Naughty List. A perfectly innocent idea, really — except that the “relocation” destination was listed simply as “somewhere funny.” Grindle’s sense of humor had once led him to store 400 plush reindeer inside Santa’s sleigh. Santa had not laughed. Mrs. Claus, however, had laughed so hard she snorted cocoa, which only made Grindle feel validated. The second item read: 2. Replace Santa’s boots with spring-loaded substitutes. Not harmful. Just… energetic. Festive even. Think of the cardio. Item three: 3. Initiate Mistletoe Flash Mobs. No further notes. The implications were concerning. He scanned the crowd for his first accomplice — or victim. It was often the same thing. His eyes landed on Jibble, a mild-mannered wrapping elf known for being nice, friendly, and catastrophically gullible. Jibble was currently slow-dancing with a mop, which Grindle mentally categorized as “emotional vulnerability: high.” Perfect. “Tonight’s the night,” Grindle whispered again, like the villain of a Christmas musical no one had approved but everyone would talk about. He hopped lightly, toes curling over the edge of the gift box, preparing to leap into action… or onto someone’s shoulders, depending on opportunity. The air shimmered with anticipation — or possibly glitter fallout. Hard to distinguish at this time of year. And somewhere deep in the workshop, a single candy cane cracked in half for no clear reason. A sign? A warning? Or just poor structural integrity? Only time would tell. Grindle slid off the gift box with the theatrical grace of someone who routinely tripped over nothing. His toes hit the workshop floor with a soft pat-pat, and he strutted forward like a tiny, red-velvet menace on a mission. The lights above twinkled warily, as though aware that they were witnessing the early stages of a North Pole–level disaster. Grindle puffed up his chest, adjusted his hat to the precise angle of “festively unhinged,” and marched straight toward Jibble, who was still slow-dancing with the mop… now whispering affirmations to it. “Jibble,” Grindle said, stepping directly into his line of vision like an elf-shaped pop-up ad. “I need your help.” Jibble blinked slowly, as if trying to determine whether Grindle was real or a hallucination induced by sugar-cookie shots. “Grindle… buddy… last time you said that, I ended up duct-taped to a model train.” “Yes,” Grindle replied proudly, “and it built character. Also speed. You were very aerodynamic.” Jibble looked down at the mop for moral support. The mop, being a mop, offered none. With the defeated sigh of someone who knew resistance was futile, he nodded. “Fine. What do you need?” Grindle’s smile widened with unsettling enthusiasm. “A simple task! We’re going to, hypothetically, temporarily, and entirely for morale purposes… relocate the Naughty List.” Jibble’s pupils dilated. “Grindle. No.” “Grindle. Yes.” Jibble clutched the mop like a lifeline. “Do you know what Santa will do if he finds out?” Grindle shrugged. “Thank me?” “Grindle.” “Fine. He’ll notice. But we’ll put it back! Eventually. Probably.” Jibble whimpered internally but followed anyway, because good decisions had never once happened at a Christmas party. The two elves crept through the swirling chaos of the workshop dance floor. A conga line wrapped around them in a swirling, sugar-fueled tornado — Mrs. Claus still at the front, raising her mug triumphantly, chanting “HOLIDAY CARDIO!” as reindeer scrambled to keep up. An elf DJ was mixing classic carols with an alarming amount of bass, causing several ornaments to vibrate off nearby shelves. A group of gingerbread men — the living enchanted kind — were engaged in a heated dance battle with a flock of snow sprites who had clearly taken caffeine. Grindle moved through the madness untouched, a tiny agent of chaos protected by his own absurd energy. Jibble, however, got hit in the face with a rogue candy cane, stepped into a spilled bowl of marshmallows, and was briefly trapped inside a wreath someone mistook for a dance accessory. Grindle did not slow down. Soon they reached the long hallway leading to Santa’s office. The music faded into muffled thumping behind them, replaced by the serene hum of magical machinery and the faint jingling of distant bells. Here, the air felt… official. Important. Completely incompatible with whatever Grindle was planning. “Okay,” Grindle whispered, flattening himself against a wall despite the corridor being totally empty. “We must be subtle.” “Grindle,” Jibble said, “you’re wearing a hat with a jingle bell the size of a plum.” Grindle scowled, removed the bell, stuffed it into Jibble’s pocket, and continued his stealth mission with exaggerated tiptoe steps so dramatic they resembled an interpretive dance about paranoia. They reached Santa’s office door — a towering slab of carved wood depicting reindeer, snowflakes, and one angelic-looking Santa who would absolutely not approve of this situation. Jibble swallowed hard. The mop trembled in his hands. “Grindle,” he whispered, “maybe we should think about—” “Thinking is the enemy of adventure,” Grindle declared, pushing the door open before Jibble could protest. The office was empty — Santa and Mrs. Claus were still “setting the dance floor on festive fire,” as Mrs. Claus had put it — so the coast was somewhat clear. Warm lamplight illuminated the room. Papers were neatly stacked. The globe of the world spun lazily, glowing with soft enchantment. On Santa’s desk, glowing with restrained cosmic authority, sat the one item they were not supposed to touch under any circumstances: The Naughty List. Bound in leather. Embossed in gold. Radiating the quiet judgment of a thousand disappointed parents. Jibble froze. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’m out. I’m going back to the mop. It’s safer.” But Grindle had already marched forward, reverently placing his hands on the list like he was greeting an old friend — or choosing the shiniest object to steal. “Grindle,” Jibble said, voice cracking like a gingerbread cookie under pressure, “you cannot just TAKE it.” “I’m not taking it,” Grindle corrected. “I am temporarily borrowing it to enhance holiday morale through educational mischief. It’s called leadership.” “It’s called a felony.” Grindle snorted. “Only if I get caught.” He lifted the Naughty List. It hummed with ancient magic, glowing brighter the further it moved from the desk. The air shifted. The Christmas lights flickered. Somewhere, a distant bell rang in alarm — or annoyance. “Okay,” Grindle said, “step one: relocation. Step two—” The door creaked. Both elves froze. A shadow passed under the threshold. Heavy footsteps approached. The kind of footsteps that belonged to a man with opinions about proper behavior and a zero-tolerance policy for elf-based shenanigans. Jibble whispered, “We’re dead.” Grindle whispered back, “We’ll die heroes.” “You’ll die. I’ll pass out and hope that counts.” The doorknob turned. Grindle stuffed the Naughty List inside his shirt. That was his plan. The door swung open. The door flew open with a dramatic whoosh, as if the universe itself sensed that something regrettable was about to unfold. In stepped not Santa, nor Mrs. Claus, nor any authority figure with the ability to revoke workshop privileges. Instead, it was— “OH SWEET GINGERBREAD, IT’S JUST TINSEL!” Grindle hissed dramatically. Tinsel Norell—inventory clerk, chaos magnet by proximity, and the only elf who could lose an entire shipment of candy canes without leaving the room—stared at the two of them with the confused expression of someone walking in on a crime they did not want to be associated with. She blinked. Then she blinked again. Then she sighed, already exhausted by the sight before her. “I don’t even want to know,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose like a parent whose children have discovered matches. Grindle puffed out his chest, glowing with pride. “Excellent! If you don’t know, you can’t testify.” “Please don’t use that sentence again,” Jibble whimpered, clutching the mop like it was a legal defense. Tinsel’s eyes drifted to the bulge under Grindle’s shirt—an extremely obvious, rectangular, glowing bulge. “Is that… the Naughty List?” Grindle gasped dramatically. “Tinsel! You wound me! You think I would steal—” The Naughty List hummed loudly inside his shirt like a furious hornet nest. “—borrow,” he corrected without missing a beat, “such a historic, important, extremely overreactive document?” Tinsel stared. Grindle smiled. Jibble cringed so hard his spine made a noise. “You two,” Tinsel said slowly, “are absolutely unhinged.” Grindle beamed. “Thank you.” “That wasn’t a compliment.” “Oh… well, you said it nicely.” Tinsel was about to respond when a booming, jolly, unmistakable voice echoed down the hall. “HO HO—WHERE’S MY LIST?” Santa’s footsteps approached with the slow, seismic certainty of a man who had raised nine thousand elves and forgiven maybe ten. Jibble turned pale. “Grindle. He’s coming. He’s ACTUALLY coming.” “Stay calm,” Grindle said, despite being absolutely incapable of calm. “I have a plan.” He did not have a plan. Santa’s shadow stretched across the hallway like an omen. Tinsel shoved both elves behind Santa’s enormous filing cabinet with the strength of someone who had absolutely no interest in being present for the consequences. Santa entered the office. His boots thudded. His coat swished. His beard practically glowed with judgment. He looked around the room, frowning deeply enough to trigger a small avalanche somewhere. “Strange,” he murmured. “I could’ve sworn I left it right here…” Under the desk, Jibble was silently praying to any holiday deity that would listen. The mop lay across his lap like a dramatic fainting Victorian heroine. Tinsel was holding her breath. And Grindle— Grindle felt the Naughty List shift inside his shirt. He froze. The List glowed through the fabric. It warmed. It hummed louder. Santa turned. The List ignited in a burst of golden sparks so bright that it illuminated the entire hiding spot like a stage spotlight. Grindle let out a squeak. Jibble let out a scream. Tinsel let out a noise that can only be described as “existential dread mixed with a kazoo.” “WHO’S THERE?” Santa thundered. The filing cabinet slid forward as if shoved by an invisible force—or two panicking elves and one cowardly inventory clerk. The trio tumbled out onto the floor in a heap of limbs, mops, and glowing contraband. Santa stared down at them. Slowly. Silently. Deeply disappointedly. “Grindle,” Santa said, in the calm tone every elf feared. “Is that… my Naughty List?” Grindle considered lying. Then the List hummed louder, clearly snitching. “Technicallyyyy…” he said, drawing out the word with the optimism of someone who hoped Santa had recently sustained a blow to the head. “It’s more like a cooperative morale object?” Santa held out his hand. Grindle wilted. He pulled the Naughty List from his shirt with all the shame of a child handing over a broken vase. Santa took it, dusted off the glitter, and sighed the sigh of a man who would need extra cocoa tonight. “We will discuss this later,” Santa said. “Much later.” Grindle nodded solemnly. Jibble fainted again. Tinsel pretended to be unconscious just to avoid responsibility. Santa paused, then added in a much quieter voice, “Also… please stop hiding important artifacts in your shirt. Last year it was the Reindeer Roster. Before that, it was the North Pole Key.” “I learn best by doing,” Grindle said proudly. “And I learn patience by knowing you,” Santa said dryly. He left the room with the List in hand, shaking his head, muttering something about insurance premiums. Once he was gone, Grindle pushed himself up, dusted off his outfit, and struck a heroic pose. “Well!” he declared. “That could have gone worse.” “HOW?” Tinsel shouted. Grindle grinned wickedly. “Oh, I haven’t gotten to items four through twelve yet.” Jibble whimpered. Tinsel groaned. Somewhere in the workshop, a single ornament cracked in fear. And Grindle, red velvet menace, walked off into the twinkling glow of Christmas chaos… already planning the next disaster.     Bring Grindle’s Chaos Home If Grindle’s red-velvet mischief made you smile, smirk, or quietly question the structural safety of the North Pole, you can adopt a little of that holiday chaos for your own home. This artwork is available in several festive formats perfect for gifting, decorating, or subtly intimidating coworkers who think their cubicle décor is superior. Dress up your walls with a bold Canvas Print, or go full elegant troublemaker with a gleaming Metal Print. Want something whimsical and cozy? The Tapestry brings Grindle’s energy into any room without requiring magical liability waivers. For those spreading snarky seasonal cheer, the Greeting Card is perfect for delivering holiday messages such as “Hope your Christmas is calmer than Santa’s night.” And if you want just a dash of mischief, snag the durable, adventure-ready Sticker—ideal for laptops, water bottles, and any surface that needs 20% more chaos. Add a little mischievous magic to your world—Grindle insists on it.

by Bill Tiepelman

Gobsmacked in the Glade

The Lily Pad Incident At precisely “oh no o’clock,” a rainbow-haired goblin named Peeb discovered that lily pads are terrible chairs and even worse life choices. He’d crouched on one like a suspicious frog, hands pressed to his cheeks, and released a whispery “oooo” that traveled across the enchanted pond like a gossip column with webbed feet. Peeb wasn’t built for stealth. His hair was a gossip of color—cobalt, tangerine, electric moss—standing out like a neon sign that screamed TRY ME. His ears, the architectural wonder of the glade, collected every sound: the tilt-tock of water beetles, the distant honk of an aggrieved swan, and, more importantly, the crunch of someone stepping on a twig that did not sign up for this. “Show yourself,” Peeb stage-whispered, which for him meant “please announce your plot twist.” A ripple rolled past his toes. The lily pad burped. He adjusted his existential squat. “If this is a dramatic entrance, you’re late and I’m judging.” From the cattails emerged a figure in travel-stained leathers: a human woman with a map shoved into her belt and the facial expression of someone who’d headbutted destiny and won on points. She carried a backpack the size of a small moon and the attitude of an unpaid invoice. “You must be the Guide,” she said. “Guide? I am an Experience,” Peeb said, flicking hair like a discount thunderstorm. “Also, hello. I charge by the gasp, and you’re already two in.” “Name’s Renn,” she said. “Here for a job. Need a goblin who knows the shortcuts through the Glarewood, preferably one who won’t eat my boots.” Peeb held up both hands. “I only nibble ethically sourced footwear.” His eyes narrowed, tracking a dragonfly practicing irresponsible aerobatics. “But the Glarewood? That place stares back. Why go?” Renn unsheathed a rolled parchment. It glinted—literally glinted—like a guilty conscience. “Treasure map. Also a curse. Long story. Think ‘family drama meets hostile cartography.’ I was told the goblin with the loud hair and louder opinions could get me through.” Peeb perked. Treasure was his love language, followed closely by snacks and malicious compliance. “I have routes,” he said. “Secret ones. One involves a polite troll. Another requires emotionally negotiating with a bridge.” Behind them, the pond plopped. Something large exhaled bubbles the size of soup bowls. A golden water lily tilted, showering them in sparkles that were frankly showing off. The air smelled of wet coins and wishful thinking. “Fine,” Renn said. “Terms?” “One: I pick snacks. Two: If we encounter any prophecies, we ignore them out of spite. Three: You don’t ask what’s in my pocket.” “Counter-offer: I pick the route. You don’t steal my map. And if something with teeth smiles at me, you explain that’s just their face.” They shook on it. The pond hiccuped again, and Peeb’s lily pad sank an inch. “Right,” he said brightly, “time to go before my seat becomes a metaphor.” They made it as far as the reeds when the water boomed. A shadow rolled up from the pond’s belly like a thought nobody wanted to admit having. Two bulbous eyes surfaced, each the size of a teacup saucer. A mouth followed, wide enough to register its own postal code. “Friend of yours?” Renn asked, already drawing a knife that did not look ceremonial. Peeb squared his shoulders. “That,” he said, “is Bubbles the Approximately Gentle. He’s usually friendly as long as you don’t—” Bubbles snapped up the sinking lily pad with a single slurp and burped out a crown of pondweed. “—insult his décor,” Peeb finished weakly. The giant amphibian blinked. Then, in a voice like wet drums, it spoke: “Toll.” Renn glanced at Peeb. Peeb glanced at fate. Somewhere, a prophecy tried to stand up and tripped over its robes. “All right,” Peeb sighed, fishing in his pocket. “Let’s pay the frog and pray it’s not with our dignity.” The Toll of Bubbles and Other Unpaid Debts Peeb’s hand emerged from his pocket with an assortment of glittering nonsense: two bent copper buttons, a marble that faintly hummed with regret, and a coin bearing the face of someone who looked suspiciously like Peeb doing his best impression of royalty. “That’s your currency?” Renn asked, eyebrow performing interpretive skepticism. “Of course not,” Peeb said indignantly. “That’s my emergency charm collection. You can’t just pay a frog king with anything. There are rules. Amphibious etiquette is sacred.” He turned to Bubbles, who had begun drumming his webbed fingers on the pond’s surface, creating small tidal waves that gently insulted physics. “O Mighty Lord of Moist Surfaces,” Peeb began in an overly theatrical voice, “we humbly seek passage across your most glistening domain. In return, we offer tribute most shiny and irrelevant!” Renn whispered, “You sound like a con artist in a poetry contest.” Peeb whispered back, “Thank you.” From his satchel, the goblin produced a single item of magnificence: a polished spoon with an engraving of a duck doing yoga. He held it aloft. The world seemed to pause for a moment, confused but intrigued. Bubbles’ massive eyes blinked. “Acceptable.” The frog’s tongue—longer than necessary by several legal definitions—snapped out and took the spoon. He swallowed it in one heroic gulp, then leaned in close enough that Peeb could see his reflection trembling in an ocean of amphibian disinterest. “Go,” the frog rumbled. “Before I remember my dietary restrictions.” They didn’t wait for a second invitation. The reeds gave way to damp earth and a winding trail that glowed faintly underfoot, like moonlight had decided to join the conspiracy. Trees here grew in eccentric shapes—one looked like it was trying to hug itself, another had grown a perfect window through its trunk, framing a sliver of sky that looked suspiciously judgmental. Renn’s boots squelched rhythmically, the sound of someone too practical to be impressed by whimsy. “So what’s the deal with the Glarewood?” she asked. “Why’s everyone so afraid of it?” “Oh, the usual,” Peeb said, skipping over a root that was clearly plotting something. “Haunted trees, cursed air, sentient moss that critiques your posture. It’s a place that feeds on overconfidence and snacks on poor decisions. You’ll love it.” “Sounds like my last relationship,” Renn muttered. They walked in uneasy silence until the ground began to shimmer with a subtle blue sheen. Ahead, the trees leaned closer, forming an archway of twisted branches that seemed to breathe. The air shimmered with lazy motes of light, floating like tiny glowing lies. “That’s it,” Peeb said, suddenly serious. “The border. Once we cross, there’s no turning back without paperwork, and trust me—you do not want to deal with the bureaucratic dryads.” “Can’t be worse than the Department of Magical Licensing,” Renn said dryly. “Oh, it’s worse,” Peeb said. “They charge emotional tolls.” Renn stepped through first. For a heartbeat, she vanished—then reappeared on the other side, slightly blurry, like reality hadn’t finished loading her. Peeb followed, holding his breath, and the world changed in a blink. The Glarewood was alive in a way normal forests weren’t. Colors moved. Shadows gossiped. The trees bent closer to listen to secrets they weren’t supposed to hear. The air was heavy with perfume and potential bad ideas. “Okay,” Renn said, pulling out the map. “We head north until the path forks. One route leads to the Cackling Brook, the other to the Weeping Hill. We want the one that’s less emotionally unstable.” Peeb squinted at the parchment. “It’s moving.” Indeed, the ink shimmered and rearranged itself like it was trying out new fonts. Words twisted, forming a sentence that hadn’t been there before: ‘You’re being followed.’ Renn folded the map very slowly. “That’s comforting.” Behind them came a faint jingling—like tiny bells being carried by the wind. Then laughter. Soft, overlapping, too cheerful to be friendly. “Pixies,” Peeb hissed. “Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye anything. They weaponize attention.” “What happens if we ignore them?” Renn asked. “They’ll feel neglected and emotionally spiral until they turn into wasps. Or they’ll braid our eyebrows. Fifty-fifty.” Unfortunately, the pixies had already noticed them. A dozen of them swirled out of the trees—tiny, glittering beings with wings that sounded like gossip. Their leader, wearing a thimble crown, landed on Peeb’s nose. “You’re in our glen,” she said in a voice that could curdle honey. “Pay toll or perform dance.” Peeb sighed. “I just paid a toll. I’m starting to feel financially targeted.” “Dance,” the pixie insisted, poking him with a twig-sized spear. “Funny dance. With feelings.” Renn grinned. “Oh, I have to see this.” Peeb rolled his eyes so hard they nearly relocated. “Fine,” he said, hopping onto a nearby log. “Prepare yourselves for interpretive goblin jazz.” What followed could not legally be described as dancing. It was more like an argument between gravity and self-respect. Peeb flailed, spun, and occasionally made finger-gun gestures at invisible haters. The pixies were delighted. Renn laughed so hard she nearly dropped her knife. Even the trees seemed to lean closer in horrified fascination. When Peeb finished, panting and triumphant, the pixie queen clapped. “Adequate,” she declared. “You may pass. Also, your aura needs moisturizer.” “I’ll put that in my next therapy session,” Peeb muttered. The pixies vanished as suddenly as they’d appeared, leaving behind a faint smell of mischief and sparkles that clung like regrets. Renn wiped her eyes. “You’re surprisingly good at humiliation.” “It’s a survival skill,” Peeb said. “Also my cardio.” They pressed on, following the twisting glow of the trail deeper into the Glarewood. The trees grew taller, the air thicker. Somewhere ahead, faint music played—slow, mournful, and unsettlingly seductive. It tugged at the edges of reason. Renn frowned. “You hear that?” Peeb nodded, ears twitching. “Sirens. Wood version. Probably trying to lure us into an emotional flashback.” “Charming.” Renn drew her knife again. “Lead the way, Experience.” Peeb bowed dramatically. “After you, Customer Satisfaction Guarantee.” Together, they stepped into the clearing where the music pulsed like a heartbeat. In the center stood a crystal pool, and in it—something moved. It wasn’t a creature so much as an idea pretending to have a body: long, fluid, beautiful in a slightly threatening way. Its eyes glowed like bottled daydreams. “Welcome,” it purred. “You’ve come far. Trade me your fears, and I’ll show you the treasure you seek.” Peeb blinked. “Hard pass. My fears are artisanal and locally sourced.” Renn, however, stepped closer. “What if she’s telling the truth?” “Oh, she probably is,” Peeb said. “That’s the scary part. Truth here always has small print.” The creature smiled wider, too wide. “All treasures require a price,” it said softly. “For some, it’s gold. For others…” Its gaze slid over to Peeb. “Humor.” “No,” Peeb said instantly. “Absolutely not. You can pry my jokes from my cold, giggling corpse.” “Then perhaps…” it turned to Renn, “your name.” Renn’s grip tightened on the knife. “You’ll have to earn it.” The pool rippled. The air thickened. The Glarewood seemed to hold its breath. Peeb groaned, already regretting his entire résumé. “Every time I agree to help someone,” he muttered, “we end up negotiating with metaphors.” He reached for his pocket, where something faintly sparkled—the same pocket he’d refused to discuss earlier. Renn noticed. “What are you hiding in there?” Peeb grinned. “Plan B.” He pulled out a tiny glass orb swirling with rainbow mist. “If this doesn’t work,” he said, “run.” He hurled it into the pool. The orb burst in a cloud of colors, releasing a sound halfway between a laugh and an explosion. When the smoke cleared, the creature was gone. The pool shimmered gold for a moment, then faded into silence. Peeb blinked at the empty water. “Huh. That actually worked. I was 80% sure that was just a glitter bomb.” Renn lowered her knife slowly. “You’re a menace.” “And yet,” Peeb said, dusting off his tunic, “an effective one.” From the pool’s center rose a small pedestal. On it lay a glowing gemstone, shaped like a tear and pulsing softly with light. The treasure they’d been seeking. Renn stepped forward. “Finally.” Peeb, however, didn’t move. His expression was uncharacteristically serious. “Be careful,” he said. “The Glarewood doesn’t give gifts. It loans them—with interest.” Renn hesitated, then reached out—and the forest itself seemed to exhale. The Gem, The Goblin, and the Gigglepocalypse Renn’s fingers brushed the gemstone, and instantly the world hiccupped. Colors inverted. Trees gasped. Somewhere, a mushroom screamed in lowercase italics. The Glarewood came alive like a theater audience realizing the play had gone off-script. “Well,” Peeb said, blinking through the sudden kaleidoscope of nonsense, “that’s new.” The glowing tear pulsed once, twice—then melted into a puddle of shimmering light that slithered up Renn’s arm like affectionate mercury. She swore, trying to shake it off, but it climbed higher, wrapping her wrist in luminous threads. “Peeb! Fix this!” “Define ‘fix,’” Peeb said cautiously. “Because my last attempt at fixing something gave a raccoon the power of foresight, and now he keeps mailing me spoilers.” Renn glared at him with the intensity of a thousand unpaid invoices. “Do. Something.” The goblin squinted at the light now coiling up her arm like sentient jewelry. “Okay, okay! Maybe it’s not evil. Maybe it’s just aggressively friendly.” “It’s humming the same tune from the pool!” Renn snapped. “That’s never good news!” The humming grew louder. The gemstone’s light flared—and in an instant, the clearing was filled with a burst of magic that tasted like laughter and poor decisions. The trees bent back. The air rippled. And from the puddle of melted gemstone rose a figure… small, winged, and painfully familiar. “Oh no,” Peeb groaned. “Not her.” The figure yawned, stretched, and fixed them both with a smirk. “Miss me?” It was the pixie queen. Same thimble crown. Same weaponized smugness. “Thanks for the lift. You broke my prison, darlings.” “We what now?” Renn asked. “My essence was sealed in that gem ages ago,” the queen said, inspecting her nails. “Something about excessive mischief and minor war crimes. But now I’m free! Which means—” She spread her arms dramatically. “Party time!” With a flick of her wrist, glitter detonated across the clearing. Every tree started humming in harmony. Flowers burst into applause. Bubbles—the giant frog—rose from a nearby swamp puddle wearing a crown of disco lights and began to dance with terrifying grace. “Oh stars,” Peeb muttered, ducking as a confetti tornado spun past him. “She’s triggered the Gigglepocalypse.” “The what?” Renn demanded, wiping glitter off her face. “A magical chain reaction of uncontrollable laughter,” Peeb shouted over the chaos. “It feeds on irony and spreads faster than gossip in a tavern!” Sure enough, Renn felt a snort bubble up her throat. Then a giggle. Then a full, uncontrollable laugh that bent her double. “Stop—can’t—breathe—why—is—it—funny!” “Because,” Peeb gasped, barely holding back his own fit, “this—forest—runs on punchlines!” The pixie queen twirled midair, laughing like a caffeinated thunderstorm. “Let joy reign!” she cried. “Also mild chaos!” Peeb fumbled through his pockets, tossing out increasingly useless trinkets: a singing walnut, a broken compass that pointed toward guilt, and a half-eaten biscuit that might’ve been sentient. Nothing helped. Then he remembered the marble—the one that hummed with regret. He held it up, eyes wide. “This! This might balance the magic!” “How?” Renn choked out, tears of laughter streaming down her face. “Regret cancels joy! It’s basic emotional algebra!” Peeb hurled the marble into the air. It burst in a puff of gray mist that smelled faintly of unfinished apologies. The laughter faltered. The glitter dimmed. Bubbles stopped mid-disco. The pixie queen frowned. “What did you do?” “Emotional dampening,” Peeb wheezed. “Never underestimate the power of mild disappointment.” The Glarewood sighed, colors settling back to normal. The pixie queen hovered crossly. “You’re no fun.” “Fun is subjective,” Peeb said, hands on hips. “Some of us enjoy stability and not being turned into interpretive performance art.” Renn, still catching her breath, straightened. “So that’s it? We broke a curse and unleashed a menace?” “Technically,” Peeb said, “we upgraded her from imprisoned evil to freelance chaos consultant.” “I like that,” the pixie queen said. “Put it on my card.” Before either could respond, she vanished in a sparkle explosion so excessive it probably violated several magical ordinances. Silence returned—mostly. The forest still glowed faintly, as if chuckling to itself. Renn exhaled, brushing leaves from her hair. “So what now?” Peeb shrugged. “We deliver the good news: the treasure was actually a trapped pixie monarch who now owes us a favor.” “A favor,” Renn repeated skeptically. “From her.” “Hey,” Peeb grinned, “I’m an optimist. Sometimes chaos pays better than gold.” They turned to leave the clearing. Behind them, the pond rippled gently. Bubbles raised one webbed hand in a slow, approving wave. Peeb waved back, solemn. “Stay moist, big guy.” As they disappeared into the glowing forest, the trees resumed their whispering, the moss exhaled, and a single echo lingered in the air—a soft chuckle that might’ve been the forest’s way of saying, Nice try. Peeb adjusted his satchel and smirked. “Next time,” he said, “we charge extra for emotional damage.” Renn laughed again—this time on purpose. “You’re insufferable.” “And yet,” Peeb said, with a little bow, “you’re still following me.” The path curved ahead, glowing faintly, promising more trouble. The kind that smelled like adventure, bad ideas, and the next great story.     Bring a Piece of the Glade Home Can’t get enough of Peeb’s wild adventure through the Glarewood? Bring the magic (and a bit of mischief) home with our exclusive Gobsmacked in the Glade collection, inspired by Bill and Linda Tiepelman’s enchanting artwork. Whether you’re looking to elevate your décor or curl up in style, there’s a little goblin charm for everyone: Framed Print — perfect for adding a splash of whimsy to your walls. Wood Print — rich texture and earthy tones straight from the Glarewood itself. Fleece Blanket — because nothing says ‘cozy chaos’ like wrapping up in goblin-approved softness. Spiral Notebook — jot down your own questionable quests and mystical misadventures. Every piece captures the humor, color, and curiosity of Gobsmacked in the Glade — a reminder that magic, like good storytelling, belongs everywhere you let it in.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Clockwork Primate

The Gilded Banana Heist In the dim belly of the Brass Bazaar — a market so thick with steam you could butter toast on the air — there lived a monkey who refused to behave like one. He was not born; he was assembled. Every bolt, every glimmering gear had been placed by a drunk inventor named Theophilus Quirk, whose primary design principle was “make it shiny and slightly inappropriate.” Thus, came into being Mimsy the Clockwork Primate. Mimsy was a menace. He swung from chandeliers, rewired pocket watches to explode into confetti, and once famously replaced a noblewoman’s hat with a live, caffeinated parrot. His tail — a flexible coil of polished brass — made a noise like an offended accordion whenever he twirled it, which was constantly. He considered himself not just a monkey, but a performer of chaos. Tonight, he had his goggles on crooked and a plan forming in that rattling clockwork skull. The target? The Gilded Banana of Belgravia — an ancient relic encased in crystal and rumored to contain enough energy to power a small city or one particularly large hangover. It was said to hum with old-world magic and the faint smell of overripe ambition. The Gilded Banana was kept inside Lady Verity Von Coil’s private menagerie — a place so secure it made bank vaults look like teapots. But Mimsy wasn’t scared. Fear was for organics. He simply polished his gear-teeth grin, flicked his monocle into place, and muttered, “Let’s make bananas interesting again.” Under the copper moonlight, he darted through the bazaar, past rows of mechanical parrots hawking poetry and steam-powered crabs playing violins. He adored the noise, the color, the scent of oil and ozone and mischief. He blended in perfectly — a tiny king in a kingdom of creaking dreams. He reached the gates of Von Coil’s estate — all wrought iron filigree and clockwork guards with faces like bored kettles — and grinned. “Oh, you darlings,” he whispered, flipping a switch in his chest. His eyes flared golden, gears spun, and from his back unfolded mechanical wings stitched with shimmering, fractal feathers. “Time for a little sky piracy,” Mimsy declared, leaping into the thick, velvet night. He soared over the estate, feathers glinting like kaleidoscopic lightning. The guards below gasped, mistaking him for a drunken angel — which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely inaccurate. He landed with a soft clink on the menagerie’s glass dome and peered down at the prize below. The Gilded Banana shimmered on a velvet pedestal, bathed in a light that whispered, touch me and regret nothing. “Oh, darling,” Mimsy said, voice dripping with mischief, “I never regret anything shiny.” He pulled a screwdriver from his tail, winked at his reflection, and began to unscrew the dome’s panel. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled. Somewhere closer, a parrot belched steam. And somewhere deep in the gears of his mind, something clicked — destiny, perhaps, or just indigestion. Either way, the night was about to become very loud, very bright, and possibly naked. Bananas, Bafflement, and the Baroness’s Bloomers Mimsy crouched on the glass dome, glinting like a jewel thief in a jewelry store that had given up on morality. The last screw fell loose with a plink, and the panel sighed open. Below, the Gilded Banana waited — smug, radiant, and absolutely begging to be stolen. Mimsy licked his brass lips, though strictly speaking he didn’t have moisture to work with. He was more performance art than biology at this point. “Now,” he murmured, “a little descent, a little finesse, and—” The entire dome creaked. Somewhere in the mansion, a clock struck midnight — not because it was midnight, but because Lady Verity Von Coil’s clocks were emotionally unstable. One started chiming, the rest joined in out of solidarity, and soon the entire estate was ringing like a cathedral full of self-important bells. Mimsy winced. “Well, that’s subtle as a chainsaw in church.” He dropped through the opening, wings folding as he landed on a marble banister shaped like a screaming cherub. The menagerie around him hissed, whirred, and blinked awake — cages of mechanical beasts powering up, eyes glowing crimson in the darkness. He froze, and for one beautiful, absurd moment, every creature stared at him — the intruder with too much confidence and not enough sense. A mechanical ostrich blinked its jeweled eyelids. “Intruder detected.” “Darling,” Mimsy said, “you’re an ostrich, not a philosopher. Mind your beak.” That was the moment all hell unhinged itself. Cages burst open with hydraulic hisses, clockwork beasts stampeded through the polished corridors — lions of bronze, serpents made of slithering chains, and one rather anxious-looking squirrel that seemed to be powered entirely by caffeine and regret. Mimsy cartwheeled across the chaos, bouncing off chandeliers and decorative busts. He snatched up the Gilded Banana in one gleaming paw — it pulsed with an almost seductive hum. “Oh, you are deliciously naughty,” he whispered to it, holding it close. “You and I are going to cause so much paperwork.” A siren blared. Steam vents hissed. Somewhere, a recorded voice began repeating: “Unauthorized simian activity detected.” And that’s when she appeared — Lady Verity Von Coil herself, striding into the hall like a goddess who’d been interrupted mid-champagne. Her corset gleamed, her monocle glinted, and her mood was approximately volcanic. She was draped in violet silk and carrying what looked suspiciously like a cane, but was actually a lightning cannon disguised by etiquette. “Mimsy,” she said, voice smooth as oiled brass, “I told Theophilus to dismantle you years ago.” “Ah, Lady Verity!” Mimsy chirped, bowing with exaggerated flourish. “Still aging backwards, I see. What’s your secret, powdered envy?” Her monocle twitched. “Give me the Banana.” “Can’t,” he said. “It’s part of my balanced diet — one third potassium, two thirds criminal intent.” She aimed the cannon. The air buzzed, charged with energy. “Do not test me, monkey.” “Oh, but testing is what I do best,” he grinned, and flipped backward just as a bolt of violet lightning seared through the air. It missed his tail by a hair’s width — or would have, if he still had hair. He somersaulted onto a chandelier, swinging with gleeful abandon as glass shattered and sparks flew like rebellious fireflies. “Get him!” Lady Verity shouted, and her automaton guards surged forward — all stiff, proper, and terribly underpaid. Mimsy whirled through the air, releasing a burst of oily smoke from his back vents. The room filled with shimmering fog, and for a moment, no one could see a thing. When it cleared, the chandelier was empty, and only one thing remained: Lady Verity’s silk bloomers, pinned to the wall with a screwdriver and a calling card that read: MIMSY WAS HERE. ALSO, NICE CHOICE IN LINGERIE. Outside, the monkey soared into the storm, laughing — an echo of pure, manic joy ricocheting across the rooftops of the Brass Bazaar. He clutched the Gilded Banana, still humming with power. The wind howled; lightning flashed; somewhere, a drunk dirigible pilot swore he saw a winged monkey flashing him. He landed in his workshop — an absolute shrine to bad decisions. Half-finished gadgets littered every surface: a teapot that played jazz, a clock that insulted you hourly, and a half-built automaton labeled “DO NOT ENGAGE (again)”. Mimsy set the Gilded Banana on his bench and gazed at it reverently. “My precious golden fruit of chaos,” he whispered, stroking it with a wrench. “Let’s see what secrets you’re hiding.” He flipped open a hatch on his chest, revealing a swirling vortex of gears and flickering lights, and began connecting wires from himself to the relic. The Banana pulsed brighter — rhythmic, seductive, almost alive. “Oh, yes,” Mimsy said, eyes glowing brighter, “show me your naughty little mysteries.” The relic’s hum deepened to a low, resonant vibration that rattled the glass. Sparks danced across Mimsy’s fingertips. The air shimmered with electric mischief. And then — with one earth-shaking BZZZT — the workshop was engulfed in golden light. When it faded, Mimsy blinked, his brass ears ringing. The Banana was gone. In its place hovered a holographic sigil — spinning, fractal, and mesmerizing. It pulsed once, twice, then projected a line of elegant script into the air: “Congratulations, thief. You’ve just activated the Banana Protocol.” Mimsy tilted his head. “Oh, splendid. That sounds perfectly harmless.” The hologram blinked. “Self-destruct sequence initiated.” He froze. “Oh. Oh no. Not again.” Every device in the workshop began to hum, gears spinning faster, lights flashing crimson. Outside, lightning roared across the sky as steam vents screamed and boilers shook. Mimsy looked around wildly, flapping his wings. “Alright, alright — don’t panic — I’ve survived worse—well, slightly worse—okay maybe not this worse—” The sigil flared. The floor trembled. And in one last exasperated puff of smoke, Mimsy muttered, “This is going to ruin my upholstery,” before the entire workshop vanished in a golden explosion of fractal light. The Monkey, the Aftermath, and the Ministry of Peculiar Fruit When Mimsy came back online, he wasn’t sure if he was alive, dead, or subscribed to a particularly avant-garde newsletter. Everything glowed. Everything sang. His internal chronometer was spinning like a roulette wheel in a casino run by angels. He blinked, and the world blinked back — a shimmering kaleidoscope of light and sound that smelled faintly of burnt toast and destiny. “Ugh,” he groaned, rubbing his brass temples. “If this is heaven, someone’s overusing the color gold.” He sat up. His workshop was gone. In its place stood a circular room filled with pulsating glyphs and an unsettling number of bananas — each floating serenely in mid-air. In the center of the room hovered a massive holographic seal etched with runes and nonsense. A voice, smooth and smug as polished mahogany, spoke: “Welcome, unauthorized entity, to the Ministry of Peculiar Fruit.” Mimsy blinked. “Oh, splendid. Bureaucracy. I was hoping for oblivion, but paperwork’s fine too.” The sigil pulsed. “You have activated a Class-A Restricted Artifact: The Gilded Banana of Belgravia. This offense carries a penalty of either annihilation or a three-hundred-year internship. Choose wisely.” Mimsy frowned. “Define ‘internship.’” “Unpaid,” the voice replied flatly. He sighed. “Ah. So, annihilation it is.” Before the voice could reply, the air rippled and formed into the shape of a woman — or rather, the memory of one, constructed entirely from light and bureaucratic disappointment. She wore the severe expression of someone who had filled out forms in triplicate and never forgiven the world for it. “I am Registrar Peela Grunty,” she announced. “I oversee the containment and classification of all mystical produce. You, Mr. Mimsy, are in violation of Fruit Protocol Sections 8 through 42, and possibly some moral ones as well.” “Darling, morality is a setting, not a rule,” Mimsy said, giving her a dazzling grin. “May I interest you in chaos?” Peela glared. “No.” “Not even a little?” “Especially not a little.” He sighed and leaned back on a levitating banana. “So what now? You vaporize me? Turn me into jam? Force me to attend a meeting?” “Worse,” she said. “Orientation.” The room shifted — walls peeling apart like clockwork petals. Suddenly Mimsy found himself in a sprawling bureaucratic labyrinth populated entirely by fruit-based entities. A tomato in a waistcoat argued with a cucumber about tax reform. A pineapple with monocles was stamping forms marked “EXISTENTIAL THREAT.” And over it all hung a massive banner that read: “WELCOME TO THE MINISTRY. COMPLIANCE IS MANDATORY. OR ELSE.” Mimsy stared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” A peach in a bowler hat approached him with a clipboard. “You’ll need to fill out Form F-9 for unauthorized fruit interaction, Form H-2 for dimensional trespass, and Form D-1 if you plan on doing anything remotely entertaining ever again.” “I’d rather chew on a lightning socket,” Mimsy said. The peach adjusted his monocle. “We have a form for that too.” Hours passed — or possibly minutes, or centuries; time worked differently when you were being punished by produce. Mimsy had filled out seventeen forms, two complaints, and one love letter to a kiwi named Stan when something odd happened. The air shimmered. The lights dimmed. A low, seductive hum rolled through the Ministry halls. Every fruit froze. “Warning,” the intercom droned. “Banana Protocol: Stage Two initiated.” Mimsy’s tail twitched. “Stage Two? Oh, no. No no no, I’ve had enough stages for one day.” Peela appeared beside him, looking alarmed for the first time. “What did you do, monkey?” “I touched the shiny thing!” he shouted defensively. “Isn’t that what they’re for?!” The holographic seal reappeared in mid-air, fractal patterns whirling faster. It projected a message in elegant cursive: “Congratulations, Initiate. The Banana chooses its master.” Peela turned to him slowly. “It’s bonded to you.” “Oh, splendid. I’ve always wanted to be spiritually tethered to fruit.” Suddenly, the room erupted in light. The floating bananas spun, glowing brighter until they burst into streams of golden energy that swirled around Mimsy. The seal expanded, wrapping around him like a halo of divine nonsense. His gears hummed. His feathers shimmered with fractal colors beyond comprehension. Peela shielded her eyes. “You idiot! You’ve just ascended!” “To what?” Mimsy cried, as energy crackled through his frame. “To... Bananahood!” There was a long pause. Even the bureaucratic fruits seemed embarrassed. Then Mimsy grinned, eyes blazing gold. “Well,” he said, stretching his wings, “I suppose I’ll have to make it fashionable.” With that, the Ministry’s roof shattered like glass, and Mimsy shot into the sky — radiant, ridiculous, and magnificent. He soared over the Brass Bazaar once more, his laughter echoing like a malfunctioning symphony. Below, people pointed and gasped as the heavens shimmered with golden light. He looked down at the chaos, the wonder, the beauty of it all — and sighed contentedly. “All this,” he murmured, “for one piece of fruit. Worth it.” Then he turned toward the horizon, spreading his radiant wings. “Now, where’s the nearest pub that serves martinis with potassium?” And with that, The Clockwork Primate vanished into the night — half legend, half lunatic, and entirely unforgettable. Author’s Note: If you ever find yourself in the Brass Bazaar and hear faint laughter in the steam vents, raise a banana in salute. It might just wink back.     💫 Own a Piece of The Clockwork Primate Bring Mimsy’s mischievous charm home! Our exclusive Clockwork Primate Collection lets you capture the gleaming madness and charm of the Brass Bazaar in tangible form — whether you crave polished brass, fine paper, or something delightfully portable. 🖼️ Framed Print – A bold centerpiece for any wall that needs a little mechanical mischief. ⚙️ Metal Print – Vivid color and radiant sheen, perfect for those who prefer their art indestructible and dramatic. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry your chaos in style. Mimsy-approved for markets, mischief, and mildly illegal adventures. 💌 Greeting Card – Share the legend with someone who appreciates a good story — or a well-timed grin. Each piece is crafted with premium materials and a dash of irreverent brilliance — just as Mimsy would demand. Because good art should always misbehave a little.

by Bill Tiepelman

Song of the Spotted Sky

The Problem with Borrowing Magic By the time Pip realized the sky was humming in a key he could actually hit, he’d already promised three different mushrooms an encore and a fern a personalized shout-out. Pip—being a spotted owl-dragon hatchling with the attention span of a soap bubble—loved applause, snacks, and shortcuts, not necessarily in that order. He had two shiny new wings, a belly like a toasted marshmallow, and the deep personal conviction that rules were for species without charisma. On this particular morning, the forest glowed like it had been gently basted in sunlight and baked to golden perfection. Pip perched on a log, warming his toes and contemplating the day’s agenda, which mostly involved not doing the responsible thing and definitely doing the dramatic thing. The responsible thing was practicing flight patterns. The dramatic thing was debuting his original composition: “Song of the Spotted Sky.” There was only one issue—he hadn’t technically written it yet. Minor speed bump. Major main-character energy. “Art is ninety percent confidence and ten percent improvisation,” Pip announced to a moss ball, which offered the kind of silent support only spherical plants can. “Also, snacks.” He flicked his ears, spread his leathery wings, and attempted a warmup trill that sounded like a piccolo losing an argument with a kazoo. Somewhere in the canopy, an elderly jay shouted, “Cease and desist!” which Pip took as rave feedback from his core demographic: disgruntled elders. Enter Marnie, a bat with the dry wit of a tax auditor and the fashion sense of midnight. She hung upside down from a low branch like punctuation at the end of a bad decision. “You’re going to try sky-singing without asking the sky?” she asked, deadpan. “Bold. Illegal. I respect the commitment to chaos; I do not endorse the consequences.” “I’m not stealing the sky’s song,” Pip said. “I’m sampling it. Very modern. Very remix culture.” He wiggled a talon like a lawyer presenting a loophole. “Also, the sky is big. It won’t notice.” Marnie blinked. “The sky notices everything. It’s literally the surveillance state of nature.” She flapped once, landing beside him. “Look, maestro, you can either learn the fundamentals or you can learn them the hard way. The sky will teach you, but it charges interest.” Pip pretended to listen, which is to say he didn’t. The forest was now definitely humming, a slow, honey-thick chord that slid under his skin and lit up his bones like lanterns. It felt like standing in front of a bakery when the first tray of cinnamon rolls hits the air—illegal levels of irresistible. He lifted his chin and caught the melody, bright and simple as a whistle. It fit his throat like a key in a lock. He sang. Oh, he sang. Notes poured out like coins from a cracked jar—tinkling, spinning, showing off. Birds paused mid-complaint. Leaves angled themselves for better acoustics. Even the grumpy jay muttered, “Well, I’ll be—” and forgot to finish being offended. Pip’s wings vibrated with resonance, and the log thrummed along as if it, too, had been waiting to be part of something catchy. “See?” Pip gasped between phrases. “Effort is a myth invented by mediocre squirrels.” He stretched the last note into a glittering ribbon—and felt it tug back. The sky’s melody hooked him like a fish on an invisible line. He choked. His next breath tasted like static and rain. The golden haze sharpened to a metallic blue, and the air grew crowded, like a room where someone important had just walked in. The song—the sky’s song—unspooled wider, older, and wholly unimpressed. The clouds drew together with the soft menace of a librarian closing a very heavy book. A voice rolled across the glade, not loud, but large, as if it had been practicing patience for a few million years. “Little borrower,” it said, “did you ask?” Pip, who had not asked, did what all natural performers do when confronted with accountability: he smiled like a discount cherub and tried charm first. “Big beautiful sky,” he crooned, “I was merely honoring your work with a tasteful tribute—” “Cute,” the sky said, in the tone of a bouncer checking an obviously fake ID. “Return what you took.” The humming tightened. Pip’s wings snapped open on their own, his feet skittered, and he found himself hovering a foot above the log, held there by a music that tolerated no nonsense. Marnie winced. “Interest,” she reminded him, like a friend who has absolutely called this before. “Also, do not say ‘remix culture’ again. Nature starts charging royalties.” The sky’s melody pressed against Pip’s chest. Under it, he could hear something smaller—a thin, bright thread that might’ve been his voice. If he didn’t learn fast, he’d be a cautionary tale with good hair. The forest leaned in. The moss ball leaned in, which is impressive for something with no neck. “Okay,” Pip whispered. “Teach me.” The sky paused, amused. “Lesson one,” it said. “You don’t get to lead the choir until you’ve learned to listen.” The Choir of Small Noises Pip did not like being grounded—especially while hovering a foot off the ground. The irony was thick enough to butter toast with. The sky’s magic held him in place like an invisible hand, and his wings, those shiny new symbols of self-importance, trembled as if they had realized they’d been rented, not owned. “Lesson one,” the sky had said, in that tone all teachers use right before you regret enrolling. “Listen.” So Pip listened. Or rather, he pretended to. He tilted his head, widened his eyes, and summoned the expression of someone who had just discovered depth as a concept. The forest hummed around him, but it wasn’t the dramatic cosmic harmony he expected. It was… busy. Petty, even. The soundscape of small lives doing small things with alarming commitment. Leaves whispered gossip about who was photosynthesizing too loudly. Ants bickered about traffic management. A beetle somewhere was giving an unsolicited TED talk on bark texture. Even the moss muttered in an ancient, damp dialect that seemed mostly to be complaining about the humidity. It was less “sacred song of the natural world” and more “open mic night for neurotic vegetation.” “Is this it?” Pip whispered. “This can’t be it. The sky wants me to listen to this?” “Yes,” said Marnie, who had returned, smug as gravity. “This is what the universe sounds like when you’re not starring in it.” Pip gave her a side-eye so sharp it could’ve opened envelopes. “You’re suggesting that enlightenment sounds like moss complaining about its knees?” “You’d be surprised,” she said. “The trick is realizing it’s not about you. That’s when you start hearing what’s really there.” “But I’m adorable,” Pip protested. “Surely the universe can make an exception for someone with marketable charm.” “The universe has a strict no-influencer policy,” Marnie said. “Now shut up and listen harder.” He did. And gradually—painfully—the noise began to sort itself into something less like chaos and more like pattern. The beetle’s rant had rhythm. The ants marched in percussion. Even the muttering moss had a bass line so low it vibrated his feathers. Tiny sounds wove together, looping, layering, becoming something bigger. Pip blinked. For the first time, he noticed the beat under the breeze, the way the sunlight hit leaves in tempo, the soft pulse of sap and water. He wasn’t hearing notes; he was hearing intention. And somewhere in it, faint but steady, his own voice was tucked like a wayward thread—part of the fabric, not on top of it. “Well, I’ll be feathered,” he murmured. “They’re all… singing.” “You just realized that?” Marnie said, hanging upside down again, because emotional growth was clearly exhausting for her. “Everything sings. Some things just do it off-key.” “So the sky’s song…” Pip began slowly. “It’s everyone?” “Exactly. You tried to solo over a symphony.” Pip frowned. “But how am I supposed to stand out if I blend in?” Marnie gave him a pitying look reserved for the hopelessly theatrical. “Oh, sweet nebula, that’s not the problem. You already stand out. The problem is you don’t fit in. Big difference.” He chewed on that thought, which tasted suspiciously like humility and dirt. The forest hum swelled again—gentle, accepting, disinterested in his personal narrative. He tried humming along, softly this time. His tone wobbled, then steadied as he stopped performing and just… participated. The air shifted. The sky, which had been looming like a disappointed stage manager, eased its grip. “Better,” it rumbled, though it sounded almost amused now. “You’re not tone-deaf to consequence anymore.” Pip grinned weakly. “So… I’m free?” “Free-ish,” the sky said. “You still owe me a song. But now you’ll write it with the world, not against it.” “Collaborations aren’t my brand,” Pip muttered. “Neither is existing as a cautionary tale, and yet…” Marnie said. Pip exhaled, flapping his wings just to make sure they still worked. They did, but something had changed. The air felt thicker with meaning, heavier with… awareness, maybe. Or possibly guilt. Hard to tell those apart when you’ve just been schooled by the atmosphere itself. “Fine,” he said, stretching his neck dramatically. “I’ll listen. I’ll learn. I’ll become one with the whatever. But I refuse to stop being fabulous about it.” “No one’s asking you to,” Marnie said. “Just—maybe use your fabulousness for good. Like inspiring humility. Accidentally.” That night, Pip climbed to the tallest branch he could find. The stars blinked awake one by one, like cosmic critics taking their seats. The forest murmured in its thousand sleepy languages. He inhaled the scent of moss, bark, and something like old stories—and began to hum again. This time, the sound didn’t fight the world; it folded into it. The trees harmonized softly. The wind sighed in perfect pitch. A cricket orchestra joined in, playing from the shadows. Even the moon gave a slow, approving nod. Pip sang—not to impress, but to connect. It wasn’t as shiny as performing, but it was deeper, warmer, more… real. And for a moment, the forest’s countless little noises stopped being noise at all. They were the song. The spotted sky above shimmered as if smiling. Then, of course, a toad somewhere croaked completely off-beat and ruined the vibe. “Every band has a drummer,” Marnie said from a nearby branch. “Don’t take it personally.” Pip snorted. “You think the sky’s still listening?” “Oh, definitely. But it’s laughing now.” The night air buzzed softly, and Pip thought—just for a moment—he heard the faintest chuckle woven into the stars. He didn’t know if it was mockery or approval. Probably both. “Lesson two,” the sky murmured faintly. “Humility doesn’t mean silence. It means knowing when not to scream.” “That’s going on a T-shirt,” Pip said, and the wind carried his laughter into the dark, where even the toad managed to land on beat—just once. Encore Under the Falling Stars By the following evening, Pip had achieved something most creatures only dream of: a partial redemption arc and a sense of perspective. Unfortunately, both were terrible for his brand. Nobody buys plush toys of a morally balanced protagonist. He missed being the scandalous, sparkly one—the kind of hatchling who looked like trouble and sounded like a soundtrack. But he also didn’t particularly want to get vaporized by the upper atmosphere again, so personal growth it was. “Balance,” he told himself the next morning, as he tried to hum while eating a berry roughly the size of his head. “Moderation. Maturity.” He paused to lick juice off his wing. “God, I hate it here.” “You’ll get used to it,” said Marnie, who’d made a hobby of appearing uninvited whenever his self-esteem was within kicking distance. “Besides, if you’re done being punished, maybe you can figure out what the sky actually wants from you.” “I thought it wanted me to listen,” Pip said. “Then it wanted me to collaborate. What’s next? Therapy?” “You could use some,” Marnie said cheerfully. “Your ego’s still writing checks your soul can’t cash.” Pip scowled, but she wasn’t wrong. The forest was quieter today—or maybe he was just tuned differently. The chatter of beetles felt less like background noise and more like percussion again. The leaves’ whispers had softened into melody. Even the cranky moss had settled into something like harmony. And over it all, the sky’s hum lingered—patient, constant, the low thrumming reminder that magic, like rent, was due monthly. Then came the rumor. It started in the brambles, as most bad ideas do. A flock of sparrows passed it along to the jays, who exaggerated it into legend, and by sundown the whole forest knew: the sky was planning an open concert. “An open concert?” Pip repeated when Marnie told him. “Like… auditions?” “More like a cosmic jam session,” she said. “Every species gets a chance to contribute their sound. It’s how the sky keeps the balance—every few decades, everyone has to remind it they still exist.” Pip’s feathers fluffed. “So it’s basically a celestial open mic night?” “Exactly. Except if you mess up, you don’t just get booed off stage. You might, you know… disappear.” “Oh,” Pip said, smiling too wide. “So high stakes. Perfect. I’m in.” “You’re not invited,” Marnie said immediately. “You literally just got off musical probation.” “And yet,” Pip said, already preening, “how poetic would it be if I came full circle? The sky took my song—now I give it back, better. Redemption arc, act three, the critics will eat it up.” “The critics,” said Marnie, “will eat you.” But Pip had already decided. You can’t argue logic with someone who narrates their own character development in real time. The Sky’s Stage Three nights later, the entire forest gathered in a clearing so vast it seemed carved by something older than weather. The trees leaned back respectfully, their canopies forming natural amphitheater walls. Fireflies swirled overhead like stage lights. Even the moon looked dressed up, shining with the smug brightness of someone who’d scored front-row seats. The air was thick with anticipation and pollen—both equally intoxicating. One by one, creatures performed. The frogs croaked thunderous harmonies. The crickets chirped in complex polyrhythms that would’ve made jazz musicians weep. The breeze itself sighed through the reeds, a wistful solo that drew a standing ovation from the ferns. Even Marnie participated, contributing a haunting echo that danced through the canopy like smoke and shadow. And then, as always, Pip made an entrance. Not just an entrance—a moment. He swooped in with the subtlety of fireworks at a funeral, his wings catching the moonlight like polished bronze. The crowd collectively groaned. You could hear a fern mutter, “Oh gods, it’s him again.” “Evening, adoring public!” Pip declared, landing on a moss-covered boulder. “I come humbly before you to—” “Stop talking before the smiting starts,” Marnie hissed from above. “—to share a lesson learned!” Pip continued, ignoring her. “Once, I sang without listening. I borrowed what wasn’t mine. But now, I bring back what I’ve found: my voice, shared, not stolen.” He fluffed his chest feathers, inhaled, and began. At first, his song was small—a single, clear note, fragile as glass. Then it grew, layered with echoes of everything he’d heard since: the whisper of moss, the chatter of ants, the rustle of leaves. His voice rose and fell in rhythm with the forest’s breath. It wasn’t perfect. It cracked. It stumbled. But it was alive. Honest. His melody wound through the night like a thread stitching everything together. The sky listened. Then—because the universe enjoys good timing—a shooting star tore across the heavens. It left behind a streak of light that seemed to pulse in sync with Pip’s song. One became two, then ten, then a rain of falling stars, each burning brighter as his voice wove around them. The forest gasped. Even the moss stopped mumbling. The sky spoke again, but this time not as thunder or judgment. It was laughter, soft and rumbling, full of warmth and warning both. “You’ve learned to listen,” it said. “Now listen to what you’ve made.” Pip’s song didn’t stop when he stopped singing. It kept going—echoed, mirrored, remixed by the world itself. The frogs picked up his rhythm. The crickets repeated his melody. The wind whistled in harmony. For the first time, the forest didn’t just hear him; it answered him. And it sounded good. Unreasonably good. Like, “someone’s-going-to-start-selling-merch” good. He beamed. “So… I passed?” “Technically,” said the sky, “but I’m keeping the publishing rights.” “Fair,” Pip said. “I’d only blow it on snacks anyway.” The laughter rippled outward again, scattering among the stars until the whole clearing glowed with gentle, golden light. Creatures turned toward him—some amused, some admiring, a few already plotting to start a tribute act. Marnie landed beside him, giving a little snort. “You realize this means you’re insufferable again.” “Oh, absolutely,” Pip said, grinning. “But now I’m insufferable with depth.” “That’s somehow worse.” They watched the stars fall in silence for a while. It wasn’t comfortable silence—Pip had the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel—but it was companionable. The kind of quiet that happens when you’ve finally stopped trying to fill it. “So what now?” he asked eventually. “Now?” Marnie said. “Now you live with what you’ve learned until you forget it again. Then the sky will teach you something new.” “That’s the cycle?” “That’s the joke,” she said. “Welcome to enlightenment.” He nodded, thoughtful. Then: “Do you think the sky would mind if I did an encore?” Marnie groaned. “You are constitutionally incapable of not pushing your luck.” “True,” Pip said, and before she could stop him, he leapt from the boulder and flared his wings wide. His voice soared into the sky—lighter, freer, full of everything he’d been too proud to feel before. The forest joined him again, this time not out of obligation or curiosity, but out of joy. The whole world became orchestra and audience all at once. And for a brief, impossible moment, Pip thought he could feel the universe smiling—a soundless note of pure approval humming through his bones. Then the note faded, leaving behind only wind and laughter and a toad with no sense of timing. But that was enough.   The Lesson (Abridged, Annotated, and Mildly Sarcastic) The moral, of course, is painfully simple: You can’t own what you don’t understand, and you can’t understand what you refuse to hear. Pip learned—eventually—that creation isn’t conquest, and that sometimes the loudest voice in the room is the one quietly keeping time. The universe has rhythm. You can dance to it, or you can get dragged along by it, but either way—you’re part of the song. And maybe that’s the joke, too: everyone wants to headline, but no one wants to rehearse. Pip just happened to learn both the hard and the entertaining way. Which, frankly, is the only way worth learning anything at all. As for the sky—it kept on humming, amused, watchful, and only slightly worried about what Pip would try next. Because one thing’s for sure: somewhere, somehow, that little spotted show-off was definitely plotting a remix. ARCHIVE NOTE: Prints, downloads, and image licensing of “Song of the Spotted Sky” are available through the Unfocussed Image Archive. Perfect for collectors of whimsical art and lovers of morally ambiguous forest creatures.   Bring the Magic Home If Pip’s song made you grin, snort, or reconsider stealing from cosmic entities, you can now take a little piece of that story home with you. The artwork “Song of the Spotted Sky” by Bill and Linda Tiepelman is available in several gorgeous formats, each guaranteed to brighten your space—or mildly judge you if you ignore your creative calling. ✨ Framed Print — Because every wall deserves a touch of whimsy and questionable decision-making. ⚙️ Metal Print — Bold, luminous, and utterly indestructible. Perfect for showcasing Pip’s ego in HD. 🧩 Puzzle — 500+ chances to question your life choices, piece by piece. It’s chaos therapy with wings. 💌 Greeting Card — Send a note, a laugh, or an unsolicited life lesson in Pip-approved style. Whichever version you choose, remember: art is just another way of singing with your eyes open. And if you start hearing the forest hum back—don’t worry. That’s just Pip trying to duet again.