by Bill Tiepelman
The Red-Headed Woodpecker Who Refused to Blend In
The Red-Headed Woodpecker Who Refused to Blend In is a dryly humorous winter tale about presence, visibility, and the quiet audacity of refusing to disappear just because the season prefers restraint. Perched against frost and expectation, one unmistakably red bird reminds the forest—and the reader—that blending in is optional.
by Bill Tiepelman
A Mourning Dove Perched Between Seasons
Perched between winter’s last breath and spring’s fragile promise, a mourning dove carries a quiet bargain older than the fence it rests upon. This Captured Tale explores the unseen debts that keep the seasons turning—and the soft, enduring things that pay them.
by Bill Tiepelman
A Tufted Titmouse Pauses the Storm
In a quiet backyard in Wentzville, Missouri, a single tufted titmouse becomes an anchor during a difficult year. Through rain, stillness, and small acts of attention, birdwatching turns into a lesson on resilience, presence, and learning how to live inside the storm rather than waiting for it to pass.
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.
