Lucipurr: Guardian of the Underrealm

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Equinox in Feathers

Once upon a cusp between seasons, deep in a forest that couldn’t quite decide if it was sweating or freezing, there lived a peacock named Percival Featherstone the Third. Yes, third — his ancestors insisted on absurd titles, but Percival preferred simpler things: sunrise strolls, arguing with leaves, and occasionally seducing unsuspecting tourists with what he called his “nuclear strut.” Now, Percival was no ordinary bird. His feathers were an ongoing existential crisis. One half burned with the molten reds and golds of autumn, while the other half shivered in glacial blues and silvers. Rumor had it a sorceress cursed him after he accidentally pooped on her enchanted picnic. (In Percival's defense, the potato salad did smell evil.) Locals from nearby villages often made bets. Was he a divine omen? A walking season-change? A very confused turkey? One misty morning, as leaves danced drunkenly through the amber light and tiny snowflakes pirouetted in the cold, Percival had had enough. He decided it was time to answer the question plaguing the countryside: Was he a fall bird or a winter bird? Thus began the Great Identity Quest. He first visited the League of Autumnal Beasts, a secret society of raccoons wearing leaf hats and possums fermenting apples in hollow logs. They celebrated him with drunken hoots and a ceremonial dance involving three pinecones and a slightly aggressive squirrel named Maude. But just when Percival thought he'd found his tribe, the wind shifted. Snow gnawed at the forest edges, and from the icy mist emerged the Frost Fellowship — a cadre of stern-faced polar rabbits and suspiciously buff snowmen. They lured Percival with promises of glittering honor and a lifetime supply of ethically-sourced mittens. So there stood Percival, mid-forest, mid-season, mid-crisis — a peacock torn between mulled cider and peppermint schnapps, between crackling leaves and sparkling icicles. What was he to do? Where did he belong? And most important of all, could he maybe somehow finesse the situation to get both cider and schnapps? Standing precisely on the line where autumn kissed winter, Percival Featherstone III did something no peacock, possum, or snowman had ever attempted before: he called an emergency summit. He sent leaf-telegrams and snowflake-messages to both the League of Autumnal Beasts and the Frost Fellowship, inviting them to meet at the Great Maple-Gone-Moody-Tree — the most indecisive tree in the entire forest, known for dropping leaves in July and growing fresh ones mid-December out of sheer contrariness. At dawn, the forest pulsed with tension. On one side, the Autumnal Beasts rustled in crunchy leaf armor and sipped dubious pumpkin-flavored potions. On the other, the Frost Fellowship polished their ice shields and occasionally flexed their mittens menacingly. In the center, Percival, resplendent in shimmering contradictions, cleared his throat (it sounded oddly like a kazoo) and declared: "I am not one thing, nor the other. I am both. I am every blasted confusing, glorious, contradictory thing this mad forest breathes into life. And if you think I'm picking a side, you can all go find a frozen pinecone and sit on it." There was stunned silence. Even Maude the aggressive squirrel dropped her pinecone-knife. Then something miraculous happened. A tiny, elderly vole stepped forward from the crowd, clutching a thimble of spiced mead. With a trembling paw, she squeaked, "My grandson's got spots and stripes. We still love him. Maybe... maybe it's time we stop making folks choose." Slowly, heads nodded. A possum accidentally nodded so hard he tumbled into a pile of fermented apples and started singing sea shanties, but even that somehow felt appropriate. Within minutes, an impromptu festival erupted. Autumn beasts and winter beasts danced in the slush together, slipping, sliding, and laughing until their fur was matted and their spirits lighter than air. Tables of feasts emerged as if summoned by magic (or very efficient raccoons). There were roasted chestnuts and frozen blueberry pies, caramel-dipped icicles and hot cider with frosty rims. Percival gorged himself shamefully, feathers sparkling with sticky sugar and ice crystals alike. Later, as the sun sank into a molten orange sea and the first true winter stars winked above the skeletal branches, Percival found himself alone at the edge of a half-frozen pond. His reflection shimmered: fire on one side, frost on the other, a creature stitched together from opposing worlds. And for the first time in his life, he loved every impossible, riotous inch of himself. He realized then that seasons weren’t enemies — they were a dance, each needing the other to exist. Without autumn’s death, winter’s slumber was meaningless. Without winter’s hush, spring’s birth would be hollow. Every contradiction was part of the same grand, ridiculous, beautiful song. As Percival raised his wings high to the heavens, a final gust of wind lifted swirling leaves and tiny crystals into a slow, breathtaking spiral around him. The crowd gasped, thinking it magic. But Percival just smiled his secret, mischievous smile. It wasn’t magic. It was simply belonging. And somewhere, deep in the forest’s wise old heart, even the trees sighed in relief. They wouldn’t have to pick a side either. —The End (and the Beginning)     Epilogue: The Festival of the In-Between Years later, the tale of Percival Featherstone III became a legend whispered between rustling leaves and drifting snowflakes. Every year, on the exact day when the forest couldn’t make up its mind — when frost kissed the last golden leaves — creatures from every corner of the wood gathered for the Festival of the In-Between. There were no rules. You could wear a fur coat and swim trunks. You could roast chestnuts while building snowmen. You could sip frozen cider with a scarf knitted from autumn leaves. There was laughter and bad singing and the occasional regrettable tattoo inked with berry juice. Nobody judged. Everyone belonged. And always, above it all, floated the memory of a slightly vain, deeply stubborn peacock who dared to say, "I am everything you think I can't be." They built a little statue of him by the Great Maple-Gone-Moody-Tree. Naturally, the statue was half-carved from fiery amber and half-chiseled from pure winter quartz. It tilted slightly, as if about to strut right off its pedestal — an eternal wink to those smart enough to embrace life’s messy, magical contradictions. Visitors who came to the festival were encouraged to leave something at the base of the statue — a leaf, a snowflake, a silly poem, a ridiculous hat — anything that said, "I see you. I celebrate you." And if you listened very carefully, after too much cider and perhaps just enough schnapps, you might swear you heard a faint kazoo-like chuckle ripple through the swirling mist. Some said it was just the wind. Others knew better. Long live the In-Betweens.     Bring the spirit of the In-Between home. If Percival’s story stirred a smile or sparked a little fire in your heart, you can celebrate his legacy with a piece of art that captures the magic. Choose a vibrant Metal Print that gleams like winter frost, a rich Canvas Print that warms a room like autumn sun, a challenging Puzzle to piece together every swirling season, a Tote Bag for carrying your contradictions in style, or a cozy Throw Pillow to rest your head between dreams of fire and frost. Whatever you choose, may it remind you — every glorious, ridiculous day — that you don’t have to fit in a single box. Life is richer at the crossroads. Long live the In-Betweens.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Echoes of Autumn and Dawn

She stood where the worlds divided, her bare feet pressed against the cracked threshold of an invisible seam, stitched together by the unseen hands of gods who had long since forgotten they made her. On her left, the light — gold, radiant, alive — streamed through towering trees whose leaves whispered the secrets of endless beginnings. On her right, the dark — indigo, reverent, tender — cradled crimson boughs heavy with sorrowful wisdom, the kind only endings ever truly know. In her hands she cradled a bouquet, roses too real for this place: thorns bloodied by choices unmade, petals bruised by hopes too fragile to survive the crossing. Her dress, woven from light and shadow, flickered with each heartbeat — a heartbeat she was no longer sure belonged to her, or to the aching universe that breathed through her skin. Two faces rose behind her — great earthen visages, carved by the slow, patient chisel of time itself. One wept golden sap from hollow eyes, the other bled crimson mist. They were her ancestors, her descendants, her twin reflections stretched across lifetimes she could only half-remember. She was their echo; they were her memory. And in the silence between their thunderous existences, she was given a choice. To remain. To bridge. To become the song of seasons, the living testament to the impossible reconciliation of contradictions: morning and mourning, birth and decay, fire and water, reaching for each other across the chasm of entropy. As she stepped forward, roots tangled around her ankles, pleading and promising. The trees, ancient and unknowable, whispered in a tongue older than the soil beneath her toes: "Choose wisely, for your choice will echo beyond the stars you can see and the ones that have already died for you." Her heart faltered. Not from fear — no, she had shed fear long ago — but from the terrible beauty of knowing. Of seeing too much. Of feeling the pull of both creation and destruction within her marrow. She could not take the first step without betraying one half of herself. She could not stand still without betraying them both. Overhead, the sky split — not with anger, but with possibility. Through the crack poured stardust older than grief, carrying with it a voice, not heard but understood: "You are the daughter of collapse and the mother of rebirth. Choose, and choose wholly." She closed her eyes. She opened them. She lifted one foot, trembling but resolute, toward the twilight beyond the seam... She stepped — not onto ground, but into memory. The air thickened, trembling around her like the skin of a drum, humming with the echoes of every soul who had ever chosen, or failed to choose, before her. Each heartbeat became a drumbeat. Each breath a symphony. She was no longer merely standing between light and shadow; she was becoming the space where they met, where they clashed and caressed and collapsed into something utterly new. Through her feet, she felt the lifelines of planets pulsing, dying, birthing. Through her hands, she cradled stars not yet born and empires already turned to dust. Her body became a bridge, and the terrible, magnificent weight of existence pressed into her bones, branding her with its eternal demand: Be more than the sum of your contradictions. Be the thread that sews the torn fabric of becoming. The two faces loomed closer now, no longer silent sentinels but living memories. They whispered truths she had tried to forget: how every beginning is a wound, how every ending is a kiss. How love and loss are not opposites but mirror images gazing endlessly at each other across time’s vast hallways. And above it all, the breach in the sky widened, pouring silver rain onto her upturned face. Each droplet whispered names — names she had worn in other lifetimes, names she had forgotten, names she had yet to earn. Some were cruel. Some were beautiful. All of them were hers. In that moment, she saw herself: not as a single woman bound by flesh, but as an endless, spiraling constellation of choices, regrets, desires, and dreams. She was not standing between autumn and dawn — she was the autumn and the dawn, the hand that closed the door and the hand that opened the window. She realized that the choice was not about which side to favor, which face to love, which future to birth. The choice was simply this: Would she remain divided forever — or would she embrace the unbearable wholeness of who she truly was? The roots around her ankles loosened, not in surrender, but in offering. The trees bent low, their branches brushing her hair in reverent benediction. The faces closed their hollow eyes and waited, neither demanding nor pleading. The universe itself seemed to hold its breath. With a smile — the kind born only after knowing true sorrow — she knelt. She pressed her palm into the cracked seam of the world, feeling its roughness, its scars. She whispered not words, but understanding, into its depths. She gave it everything: her hopes, her failures, her fury, her forgiveness. She gave it the music of her unspoken poems and the weight of her silent screams. And the world answered. From the fissure bloomed a tree unlike either of its ancestors. It bore leaves that shimmered like prisms, shifting from gold to blue to red to colors no human tongue had ever named. Its bark was etched with the fingerprints of galaxies. Its roots drank from the dreams of dead stars. Its branches reached not just across seasons, but across the very curvature of time itself. She rose. She was no longer a bridge, nor a seamstress, nor a daughter of collapse. She was the seed and the soil, the ache and the awakening. She carried within her the silence of endings and the laughter of beginnings, braided together so tightly they could never again be torn apart. The faces crumbled into dust, their task complete. The sky stitched itself closed, leaving only a faint scar — a reminder that even healed wounds remember being broken. The trees sang, not with leaves or wind, but with the silent thunder of new possibility. And as she stepped into the vastness, the bouquet in her hand unraveled into starlight, scattering across the firmament to seed new worlds — each one bearing the faint, eternal whisper of her name. She was autumn. She was dawn. She was the echo, the song, the silence between stars. She was the choice made whole.     Epilogue: The Silent Orchard Centuries later, when the world had forgotten her name but not her story, travelers would stumble upon the place where the golden and crimson woods once met. They would speak in hushed voices of a single tree that stood apart — a tree whose branches shimmered like broken rainbows and whose roots hummed underfoot with a pulse older than any living memory. No birds dared build nests in its boughs. No storms could twist its trunk. It belonged to neither season nor soil. It simply was — as she had been, as she still was, somewhere beyond the trembling curtain of reality. Some said if you pressed your ear to its bark on a cold autumn morning, you could hear the laughter of dawn mixing with the sighs of falling leaves. Others claimed that if you wept beneath its canopy, your tears would vanish, lifted into the sky to become new stars — tiny testaments to choices made and paths walked bravely, even when unseen by any eyes but your own. And though her name was lost to time, her echo remained, not carved in stone nor sung in legend, but sewn into the fabric of being itself. Every sunrise. Every withering leaf. Every trembling hand reaching for hope against despair — they bore the invisible fingerprint of a woman who chose wholeness over comfort, unity over certainty. It is said — by those who still listen carefully enough — that when you stand very still between the hush of ending and the hush of beginning, you might hear her whisper: "You are more than you fear. You are all that you remember, and all that you dream. Step forward, beloved echo. The universe is listening."     Bring the Echo Home Carry a piece of this cosmic journey into your own sacred spaces. Let Echoes of Autumn and Dawn remind you — every day — that beginnings and endings live intertwined within you. Explore our curated collection featuring this stunning artwork: Woven Tapestry — wrap your world in the shimmering embrace of gold and twilight. Metal Print — breathe life into your walls with this luminous, durable masterpiece. Fleece Blanket — wrap yourself in the comfort of stars and ancient forests. Beach Towel — take a little magic with you wherever your soul wanders. Greeting Card — send a whisper of light and shadow to someone who understands. Every piece is a portal — a reminder that you, too, are an echo worth remembering.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

The Petal's Little Protector

It was a night so muggy you could drink the air. Somewhere between midnight and whatever hour is reserved for bad decisions, the garden vibrated with the kind of life that most respectable creatures avoided. Crickets shouted unsolicited opinions. Moths made questionable life choices involving open flames. A possum waddled by with the kind of unbothered confidence that only comes from making peace with one’s own trashy destiny. And there, amid the chaos, reigning supreme on a lotus bud not even fully awake yet, was Pip. Pip: a creature of approximately eight ounces, three ounces of which were ego. A micro-dragon, a salamander dream gone technicolor — turquoise and gold and candy-apple red, shimmering like a toddler’s glitter accident. His frills fluttered dramatically in the nonexistent breeze. His tail, striped and twitchy, thumped the bud with the rhythmic impatience of a CEO stuck on hold. “Listen up, you soggy peasants,” Pip squeaked to absolutely no one. His voice carried the world-weary scorn of someone who had once been forced to attend a meeting that could’ve been an email. “This bloom is sacred. Saaaacred. I will destroy anyone who so much as breathes on her wrong.” He turned his head, slowly, menacingly, to glare at a confused beetle trundling by. The beetle paused, sensing the general vibe, and awkwardly reverse-walked into the nearest thicket. The lotus bud said nothing. If it had a face, it would have been wearing the strained smile of someone stuck next to a very drunk relative at a wedding reception. Pip didn’t care. He pressed his scaly cheek against her soft petals and sighed with the kind of tragic romance usually reserved for operatic heroines on their fourth glass of wine. “You’re perfect,” he whispered fiercely. “And this world is full of sweaty-fingered monsters who want to touch you. I won’t let them. Not even a little. Not even ironically.” Overhead, a disillusioned owl, bearing witness to this performance for the third night in a row, considered seeking therapy. Still, Pip remained vigilant. He flared his head fins every time a wayward breeze threatened to flutter the petals. He growled (adorably) at a toad who looked at the lotus with mild interest. When a moth had the audacity to land within a six-inch radius, Pip executed a flying tackle so dramatic it ended with him sprawled belly-up in the damp grass, legs kicking indignantly at the stars. He was back on the bud within seconds, polishing the flower with the inside of his elbow and muttering, “No one saw that. No one saw that.” Truth was, Pip had no official title. No magic spells. No real strength. But what he lacked in credentials, he made up for with boundless, unrelenting devotion. The kind that could only be born from believing, deep down, that even the most ridiculous, most mismatched protectors were still the right ones for the things they loved. And the lotus — she stayed silent and serene, trusting him completely, maybe even loving him back in her own slow, green way. Because sometimes, the universe didn’t choose champions based on size or power or grandeur. Sometimes, it chose the loudest, smallest brat with the biggest heart. The night dragged onward, a wet symphony of croaks, chirps, and far-off shrieks that no respectable citizen should ever investigate. Pip stayed rooted on the lotus, a hyper-vigilant blot of color in an otherwise sleepy world. His tiny heart thudded like a war drum against his ribs. His frills sagged slightly, damp with dew and exhaustion. And yet — he remained. Because evil never sleeps. And neither, apparently, did Pip. Just when he dared to blink, just when he permitted himself a victorious thought (“No one would dare challenge me now”), it happened — the catastrophe he’d been dreading. From the gloom emerged a hulking threat: a bullfrog. Fat. Warty. Oozing malevolence, or at least gas. It fixed its milky gaze on the lotus with the lazy hunger of a man contemplating a third slice of pie. Pip’s pupils narrowed to slits. This was it. The Boss Battle. He drew himself up to his full, mighty three inches of height. He arched his back, flared every fin he possessed (and one he may have invented out of sheer spite), and let loose the fiercest battle cry his little lungs could manage: “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” The frog blinked slowly, unimpressed. Pip threw himself bodily off the bud, all claws and noise, landing squarely between the lotus and the amphibious threat. He puffed, he hissed, he slapped the ground with his tail in a display so wildly unnecessary that the frog actually reconsidered its life choices. After a long, tense moment, the frog croaked once — a low, begrudging sound — and turned away. Pip remained frozen until the sounds of its retreat faded into the misty dark. Then, and only then, did Pip allow himself to collapse theatrically against the stem of the flower, panting like a marathoner who hadn’t trained. “You’re welcome, world,” he muttered, slapping one tiny hand dramatically against his forehead. The lotus said nothing, of course. Flowers are not known for effusive gratitude. But Pip could feel her appreciation, warm and slow and deep, wrapping around him like a hug no one else could see. He dragged himself back up onto the bud with great ceremony. He needed the world to know he was battered, bruised, and therefore desperately heroic. Once settled, he wrapped his limbs tight around the petals and buried his snout against her soft surface. In the distance, the owl — now lying prone on a branch from sheer secondhand exhaustion — offered a slow, sarcastic clap with one wing against the other. And the garden? It kept on living its messy, ridiculous life. Crickets hollered. Beetles clattered. Somewhere, something squelched ominously. But none of it could touch the lotus. Not while Pip stood (well, laid) guard. Because no matter how small, no matter how silly, the bond between protector and protected was unbreakable. No monster, no weather, no cruel accident of fate could tear apart what Pip had vowed to defend — not with teeth, or tail, or most importantly, obnoxious determination. Under the dappled moonlight, the Petal’s Little Protector snored softly, frills twitching in some dream of endless battles won and blooms forever safe. And the lotus — safe, whole, and untouched — cradled him gently until morning.     Epilogue: The Legend of Pip They say if you wander far enough into the garden — past the muttering lilies, beyond the judgmental daisies, through the part where even the weeds seem suspicious — you might just find a lotus blooming alone under the open sky. If you’re lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you feel about being yelled at by something the size of your thumb), you’ll catch a glimpse of him: a shimmer of impossible colors, a flash of fin and frill, a guardian curled protectively around a single sacred flower. Approach too quickly, and he’ll scold you with the full, furious force of someone who once fought off a frog three times his size. Approach too carefully, and he might just approve of you. Maybe. If you’re very lucky, and your vibe is sufficiently non-threatening, Pip might even allow you to sit nearby — under the strict understanding that you are absolutely, categorically, not to touch the flower. Or him. Or breathe too loudly. Or exist too flamboyantly in his general direction. And if you sit there long enough, if you let the night fall around you and the stars stitch themselves into the black velvet above, you might start to feel it too — that fierce, funny, aching kind of love that demands nothing but promises everything. That stubborn, ridiculous, beautiful kind of protection only the bravest little hearts know how to give. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll realize that the world is still full of tiny, glittering miracles — guarding the best parts of it with tooth, tail, and absolute, glorious defiance.     Take Pip Home (Carefully!) If your heart’s been thoroughly stolen by Pip (don’t worry, he does that a lot), you can invite a little bit of his fiercely protective magic into your own world. Choose your favorite way to keep the legend alive: Wrap yourself in wonder with a stunning tapestry featuring Pip in all his colorful, chaotic glory. Bring his fierce little spirit into your space with a sleek, vibrant metal print. Tote his sass and loyalty everywhere you go with a whimsical, sturdy tote bag. Start your mornings with a grumpy guardian by your side — Pip looks particularly judgmental on a coffee mug (in the best way). Whichever you choose, just remember Pip’s golden rule: Look, but don’t touch the flower. Ever.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Soulbound to the Stonekeep

The Oath Beyond the Stars The stars bled the night into the Stonekeep’s battered towers, their wounded glow spilling across crumbling battlements like ghostly rivers. At the threshold of the great steps, where moss devoured stone and the air crackled with forgotten spells, Kaelen waited — a sentinel forged from both flesh and the breath of dead worlds. His fur shimmered with unnatural hues — obsidian, cobalt, and veins of burning gold that seemed to pulse with a heartbeat not entirely his own. Runes etched into his hide by a dying celestial god throbbed softly beneath his pelt, whispering oaths older than the language of men. His luminous eyes, fractured like twin nebulas, stared down the endless path winding into the mist beyond the gates, where mortal threats once dared approach the Keep. But no mortal dared the Stonekeep now. Not after the Sundering. The Keep itself, a fortress of monolithic stone veined with silver and sorrow, leaned against the bruised sky as though exhausted by its own terrible history. Each carved arch and battered spire was a gravestone to the kings, scholars, and dreamers swallowed by ambition. A thousand worlds had brushed against the Keep’s walls when the Veil had thinned — some offering wonder, others ruin — until finally, the skies had cracked open, and the gods themselves had turned away their faces. It was in that abandonment that Kaelen was bound. He was no common beast; he was the anchor, the last thread stitching the dying weave of the Keep to the mortal plane. Where once a hundred Guardians stood — lions of flame, serpents of crystal, titans of bone — now only Kaelen remained. The others had broken. Fallen. Or worse, been unmade by the silence beyond the Veil. Tonight, the stars sang again. And it was not a song of hope. In the cold black spaces between constellations, something moved — a hunger stitched into existence by forgotten hands. It called to the ruins. It called to Kaelen. But Kaelen’s heart — battered, cosmic, invincible — answered not with submission, but with defiance. He stood, muscles rippling under his ancient armor, claws digging into sacred stone, and loosed a sound that tore across the heavens like the shattering of an old and terrible chain. His howl was not for summoning. It was a warning. The Hunger Beneath Names The mists recoiled at Kaelen’s cry, folding back to reveal a path long abandoned to darkness. Shadows spilled across the broken ground, writhing like worms in a corpse. Yet no mortal army emerged, no clang of steel or warhorn broke the hush. Only a slow, deliberate pressure bled through the air, like a hand unseen, reaching across eternity to test the last lock upon a forbidden gate. Kaelen bristled. Beneath his fur, the runes ignited, flooding his limbs with borrowed power — starlight condensed into violence. It was a fragile gift. The magic that stitched his spirit to the Keep was ancient, and the stone drank from him even as it sheltered him. Every breath was a negotiation; every heartbeat a gamble. Out beyond the crumbled roads, past the skeletons of forgotten villages, the Hollow Ones stirred. Kaelen felt them before he saw them — life forms denatured by cosmic entropy, stripped of memory, stripped of name. They dragged themselves toward the Keep not in search of conquest, but oblivion. It was not hatred that moved them; it was the gravitational hunger of annihilation itself, wearing their corpses like cloaks. They were his former kindred — kings, mages, dreamers — now puppeted by something deeper than decay. Kaelen growled low, the sound a serrated promise. He would not let the Stonekeep fall. He would not allow the rot to take what little remained of honor, of memory, of truth. The first of them lurched into view — a knight whose armor hung in rusted tatters, eyes hollow save for the pinpoint glow of forgotten stars trapped in their sockets. Around its broken crown hovered splinters of some shattered relic, orbiting like moons around a dead world. The creature raised a blade that wept black ichor onto the stones — a blade that had once pledged itself to the defense of the Keep, before time turned loyalty into a joke whispered by carrion. Kaelen did not flinch. He lunged, a blur of cosmic fire and iron will, crashing into the Hollow One with a force that cracked the earth beneath their clash. His jaws found the specter’s throat — not flesh, but the trembling memory of flesh — and tore it apart with a snarl born of grief and fury intertwined. More came, drawn by the scent of defiance. Hollowed champions, shambling scholars, even the spectral echoes of children who had once played at the edge of the battlements. The air was thick with sorrow — a sorrow that fed the thing beyond the stars, the true enemy. And from within the dark firmament above, something vast and patient opened an unseen eye. Kaelen felt it gaze upon him — not with anger, but curiosity, the way a flood studies a stone before deciding whether to wash it away or grind it into dust. It knew his name. It had always known his name. The Last Stitch of the World Kaelen stood at the summit of the battered steps, his breath steaming in the cold air, the bloodless corpses of Hollow Ones crumbling to dust around him. But he knew these victories were illusions, as transient as mist on a blade. Every foe he felled left a scar in the weave of existence itself. Every roar he loosed shook loose another thread from the fragile tapestry the Stonekeep anchored to the mortal realm. The true enemy was not these empty husks. It was the thing beyond the veil — the Nameless Hunger — a force older than gods, older than stars, birthed in the blind space between creation’s first thought and its first regret. It had no form, no mercy, no language beyond entropy. It was not evil. It simply was. And it had noticed Kaelen’s defiance. Above him, the stars began to smear, twisting into unnatural sigils that burned the eyes and shredded the soul. The air itself became viscous, heavy with the scent of iron and ancient sorrow. A rift tore open in the sky — a mouth with no lips, a wound across existence — and from it spilled tendrils of darkness laced with starlight, seeking purchase upon the world below. Kaelen lowered his head, the ancient sigils across his body blazing gold and white. His muscles ached under the pressure, his mind fraying at the edges. He could not fight the Hunger as he had the Hollow Ones. He could not tear it apart with fang and claw. But he could deny it. The runes that had been carved into his bones were not merely wards — they were keys. Keys to the Stonekeep's true purpose: not as a fortress, but as a lock. A final barricade against the unraveling of reality. And Kaelen, once a prince among his kind, had been reforged into its guardian, bound by oaths so old the gods themselves had forgotten the words. He turned away from the oncoming darkness, ascending the final steps to the great door of the Keep — a door of ironwood and starstone, etched with patterns that pulsed under his gaze. The door knew him. The Keep remembered. Behind that door lay the Heartstone — a fragment of the First Light, the raw, chaotic ember from which the multiverse had been kindled. Left unguarded, it would burn this world to ash... or worse, call the Hunger directly into its core. But sealed, nourished by sacrifice, it could deny the Nameless One entry for another age, another desperate generation. Kaelen pressed his paw against the cold surface. He felt the connection ignite instantly — a bridge of agony and grace stretching from his body into the infinite roots of the Keep. Every memory he carried, every hope, every sorrow, began to pour into the ancient stone. His victories, his failures, the warm voices of companions long dust... even the taste of the stars he'd once hunted across the night sky. All of it streamed from him, weaving into the lattice that would seal the Heartstone anew. He did not hesitate. He did not falter. Outside, the world howled in protest as tendrils of darkness lashed against the Keep’s walls, tearing away towers and battlements like parchment before a storm. But Kaelen stood unmoving, his spirit burning brighter than any star the Hunger had ever extinguished. In his final breath, Kaelen offered no plea, no curse. Only a promise: “I remember. And as long as I do, you will not pass.” The Keep shuddered once — a deep, earth-splitting groan — and then the door sealed with a blinding flash that erased every shadow. The rift in the sky closed with a scream that no mortal ear could hear. The Hollow Ones froze mid-crawl and crumbled into nothingness. The world stilled. The stars, battered but unbroken, resumed their silent vigil. And within the Stonekeep, somewhere deep beyond mortal reach, the last echo of a guardian's heartbeat fused into the walls, forever a stitch binding the mortal world against the end. Kaelen was no more. Yet he was everywhere the Keep still stood. Soulbound. Eternal.     Bring the Legend Home Kaelen's oath and the enduring spirit of the Stonekeep live on beyond the final page. Honor his memory and carry a fragment of his story into your world with exclusive artwork from Unfocussed: Adorn your walls with the Soulbound to the Stonekeep Tapestry, a sweeping canvas that captures every fierce, cosmic detail. Embrace the story’s fire with a Metal Print — a striking, durable piece worthy of any warrior's hall. Wrap yourself in cosmic protection with the Soulbound Fleece Blanket, perfect for nights under embattled stars. Even your most ordinary battles can feel epic with the Stonekeep Bath Towel, a warrior's way to greet the morning. Carry the legend. Remember the oath. Keep the darkness waiting a little longer.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Fae of the Laughing Leaves

A Cautionary Tale of Bad Decisions and Worse Ideas The Acorn Incident Deep in the Greenwood — where even the moss rolls its eyes at tourists — lived a fairy known far and wide (and sometimes regrettably) as the Fae of the Laughing Leaves. Her real name was unpronounceable to mortals, involving at least two eyebrow movements and a sneeze, so everyone just called her "Giggles." Giggles was a vision of chaotic charm: green hair like she'd lost a bet with a hedge, shimmering wings that flashed colors you couldn't describe without making hand gestures, and a smile that usually meant someone’s afternoon was about to get a lot more complicated. Her favorite hobby? Mild emotional sabotage. One glorious, overcaffeinated afternoon, Giggles decided it was time to shake up the sleepy old forest. (Mostly because the last prank — involving a love potion and an extremely amorous squirrel — had worn off, and frankly, the place was getting boring.) Her plan was simple: enchant a handful of acorns to explode in clouds of glitter every time someone said the word "leaf." Hilarious, right? Except, well... fairies aren't known for measuring things carefully. By sunset, every single living thing in the woods — trees, foxes, tourists, confused mushrooms — was sneezing sparkles and muttering dark threats about "that green-haired menace." Giggles, naturally, thought it was the best day ever. She even hosted an unofficial awards ceremony for "Most Ridiculous Sneezing Fit." (First place went to a centaur who sneezed so hard he accidentally proposed to a birch tree.) But the chaos had consequences. See, when you meddle with nature in the Greenwood, the trees notice. Especially the Elder Tree, a towering ancient being with bark thicker than most egos and the patience of a caffeinated cat. And when the Elder Tree gets cranky? Let's just say... bad things happen to mischievous fairies. Under the full moon’s watchful eye, the forest grew ominously quiet. The Elder Tree stirred, shaking centuries of dust off its gnarled branches, and in a voice like two mountains arguing over property lines, it called out: "FAE OF THE LAUGHING LEAVES... STEP FORTH." Giggles, perched upside-down in a nearby branch, casually picked a piece of glitter from her eyebrow. "Or what?" she mumbled, already plotting an exit strategy involving smoke bombs and feigned emotional vulnerability. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath. The stage was set. The mischievous Fae was about to face the consequences of her most ridiculous stunt yet... or at least, she would if she didn't wriggle out of it like usual. Bark, Bite, and Questionable Negotiations As the Elder Tree's thunderous voice echoed through the clearing, the fae of the Laughing Leaves — known colloquially (and affectionately?) as Giggles — performed the time-honored fairy tradition of acting like she hadn’t heard a damn thing. She plucked a leaf from her hair (which immediately exploded into a puff of glitter — residual side effects, no big deal) and gave the Elder Tree her best innocent stare. This was difficult, considering her left eyebrow had a mind of its own and kept twitching like it was plotting its own mischief. "Oh no," she chirped, fluttering down dramatically, "whatever could you mean, Great and... uh..." she glanced up, noting the distinct smell of ancient, grumpy authority, "extremely dignified Wooden One?" The Elder Tree, not easily impressed by theatrics (or anything, really — it once ignored a flash mob of singing satyrs), leaned forward with a groan of creaking bark. A root the size of a horse flexed dangerously near her foot. Giggles wisely hovered a few inches above ground — she'd seen what happened to the last fairy who thought she could outrun a cranky oak. (Spoiler: he lives permanently as a decorative knot now.) "YOU HAVE DISTURBED THE BALANCE," rumbled the Tree, small twigs snapping with the force of his scowl. Giggles twirled in the air, arms thrown wide like a magician revealing his latest trick — or an idiot about to get sued. "Disturbed? Nooo, no no no! I prefer to think of it as... flavor enhancement!" The Elder Tree was unimpressed. "THE FOREST IS SNEEZING, FAIRY." "Seasonal allergies!" she sang, somersaulting midair. "Very trendy this time of year." The root flexed again, closer this time. Bark crumbled. Giggles stopped mid-spin. Right. Not the time to be cute. (Well, cuter.) Seeing negotiations were going poorly, she switched tactics: flattery. "Listen, Big Bark Daddy," she purred, fluttering dangerously close to what might technically be considered the Tree’s "face" area, "you're looking exceptionally... photosynthetic tonight. Are you exfoliating? You're absolutely glowing." Somewhere in the dark canopy, an owl audibly gagged. The Elder Tree took a very slow, deliberate breath — which involved several centuries of accumulated moss shifting grumpily down his sides — and said, "A PRICE MUST BE PAID." Giggles froze. Not because she was scared (okay, maybe 12% scared), but because "A Price Must Be Paid" was ancient forest code for, "You're about to have a very bad time." Still, she was a professional. She adjusted her leafy dress (which was hanging a bit too rakishly off one shoulder, scandalizing a family of modest violets nearby) and asked, "What kind of price? Gold? Glitter? My Spotify playlist of tragic ballads from brokenhearted gnomes?" The Elder Tree was silent for a long, heavy moment. Then, in a voice so low it vibrated small rocks out of the dirt: "YOU SHALL... ATTEND... THE ANNUAL FOREST SINGLES’ DANCE... AS THE GUEST OF HONOR." Giggles gasped. Not the Singles' Dance. Anything but the Singles' Dance. It was less a "dance" and more a "desperate meat market of mythical proportions" where lonely dryads, nervous trolls, and socially awkward elves tried — and mostly failed — to flirt. Last year, the dance had ended with three fights, two accidental engagements, and a very confused badger who woke up married to a water sprite. "That's cruel and unusual punishment," she whined. "JUSTICE," the Elder Tree boomed. "Also highly ineffective! I don't even date unless it's a full moon and Mercury’s in retrograde and someone else is paying!" But the decree was final. Giggles, wings drooping in theatrical despair, accepted her fate. Invitations went out. Decorations were hung. The enchanted forest buzzed with gossip louder than a caffeinated pixie convention. On the night of the dance, she arrived wearing a gown spun from spider silk and moonbeams, trailing a suspicious cloud of pheromones she'd "accidentally" brewed a little too strong. (If she was going to suffer, everyone was.) She flirted outrageously with a bashful centaur who nearly dropped his punch bowl. She twirled scandalously close to a bashful dryad who blushed until her leaves caught fire. She winked at a cluster of shy gnomes, causing two of them to faint into the snack table. And when a seven-foot-tall troll with surprisingly delicate hands asked if she'd like to "dance real close-like," she smiled sweetly, leaned in, and whispered: "Only if you can handle glitter, big guy." Seconds later, the poor troll was covered head to toe in sparkling chaos. The dance dissolved into panicked giggling, a minor food fight, and, somehow, a spontaneous conga line led by a drunk faun. Giggles, laughing so hard she nearly fell out of the air, wiped a glittery tear from her eye. The Elder Tree watched from a distance, his face unreadable... but if one listened very carefully, one might have heard the faintest, very reluctant chuckle ripple through his ancient roots. Because in the Greenwood, you didn't really win against the Fae of the Laughing Leaves. You just survived her... and maybe, if you were lucky, you got a little fabulous doing it.     Bring a Little Mischief Home! If you fell under the spell of Giggles (don't worry, it happens to the best of us), you can snag a piece of the magic for yourself! Whether you want to drape her sass over your couch, strut into town with her on your tote, or surprise your friends with the world’s most chaotic greeting card, we’ve got you covered. Literally. Tapestry — Wrap yourself in pure mischievous vibes. Framed Print — For walls that need more sass and sparkle. Tote Bag — Carry chaos wherever you go (responsibly, probably). Greeting Card — Send some fairy mischief through the mail. Beach Towel — Soak up the sun (and scandal) with Giggles. Warning: Owning a piece of the Fae of the Laughing Leaves may cause spontaneous giggles, side-eyes, and a suspicious increase in glitter sightings. Proceed with delight.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Grin and Gnome It

The Mushy Affair In the heart of the Blushblossom Grove, where the mushrooms grew as tall as gossip and twice as colorful, lived a gnome couple whose love was as loud as a frog orgy in springtime. Bucklebeard “Buck” Mossbottom, the jolliest mischief-maker in the glade, had a laugh so powerful it once caused a fairy to drop her pants mid-flight. And then there was Petalina “Pet” Thistlewhip, the sharpest tongue east of Toadstool Bend and proud owner of the only apron in the forest banned for ‘excessive sass’ by the Gnome Gardeners Guild. Now, Buck and Pet were not your dainty, storybook gnomes who spent their days knitting socks or watching moss grow. No, these two were infamous for their woodland hijinks, nightly howls of laughter, and the strange but oddly sensual way they buttered each other’s mushrooms. Every morning, Pet would pick him a daisy the size of his butt and wink like a wench in a bard’s bawdy tune. Buck, in return, would swing by her mushroom workshop with a bouquet of dew-drenched fern fronds and a smirk that practically screamed, “I brought pollens and I know how to use them.” One foggy spring morning, Buck stomped into their mushroom-stump kitchen, cheeks already flushed like he'd been caught with his pants tangled in honeysuckle. "Pet, love of my life, wrinkle in my suspenders," he boomed, "today, I’m takin’ you out! A real date! No toad races. No spore-counting competitions. I made us reservations at Fung du Licious." Pet arched an eyebrow so high it nearly poked a squirrel. “You mean that scandalous place where they serve soup in snail shells and their waiters wear nothing but rose petals and a confident grin?” “Exactly! We deserve it. I want wine. I want weird. I want you and me in candlelight, whispering dirty mushroom jokes ‘til the waiter begs us to leave.” Pet giggled, her eyes gleaming with devious delight. “You’re lucky I shaved my legs with a pinecone yesterday. Let me get my corset — the itchy one with the embroidered raccoon scandal." That night, the gnome couple turned heads all the way down the mosswalk. Buck wore his best checkered shirt, with buttons so shiny even the fireflies got jealous. Pet strutted beside him in a skirt that practically yodeled with flirtation and a flower crown so aggressive it nearly declared war on a wasp hive. As they entered Fung du Licious, holding hands and smirks, the entire forest seemed to hold its breath. They were seated under a glowing fungus chandelier, served glowing beetle juice cocktails, and serenaded by a quartet of horned newts with suspiciously sensual saxophones. Every dish that came out got more suggestive — the ‘Stuffed Moaning Morels’ nearly led to an indecent groping incident, and Buck’s attempt to describe the ‘Saucy Root Pile’ earned them a stern glance from a dainty hedgehog couple in the corner. But it was during dessert — a steamy tart named “The Creamy Puff Puff of Lust” — that Pet looked at Buck and said, “Darling, let’s go home. I need to jump your spores so hard we’ll fertilize the next zip code.” And Buck, wiping pudding off his beard, whispered back with all the subtlety of a thunderclap, “Grin and gnome it, baby.” They didn’t even finish their second puff puff. Pet flung some coins at the petal-clad waiter, who winked and handed them a complimentary bottle of dewberry wine, whispering, “For what comes next... hydrate." They burst out into the night air, giddy and slightly sticky, making a mad dash through the glowing shrooms, tripping on moss, and tearing petals out of their own crowns like love-drunk forest lunatics. But just as they reached their stump home, something unexpected was waiting on their doorstep… Sporeplay & Shenanigans Standing on their mossy front porch, slightly wine-soaked and whispering innuendos about puff pastry and sap-sticky nibbles, Buck and Pet froze. Because sitting atop their doormat was not a raccoon, a rogue snail, or even that judgmental owl from down the lane — no, this was something far more terrifying. A basket. “It’s not ticking,” Pet said warily, poking it with a spoon she kept in her corset for emergencies both romantic and violent. “It’s not farting either,” Buck added. “So it’s not my Uncle Sput.” Pet untied the gingham bow with the same grace and caution she used when undressing Buck — which is to say, she ripped it off like it owed her money. Inside lay a note and a large, squirming puff of fluff with two oversized ears and a tail that twitched like it had opinions. “Congratulations! It’s a Fuzzle!” They stared at the creature. The creature sneezed, and a cloud of sparkles hit Buck square in the beard, coating him in a fine dusting of glitter and pheromones. “A… Fuzzle?” Pet blinked. “Who the hell drops off a semi-sentient emotional support beast when we’re two drinks away from a night of rumpy-pumpy?” “It’s blinking in Morse code,” Buck said. “I think it’s judging our life choices.” “It’s about to watch us make more.” They carried the Fuzzle inside and dropped it into the cuddle-cushion pit, where it promptly fell asleep snoring like a hedgehog in a harmonica. Buck locked the door. Pet unpinned her crown with the flair of a gnome ready to sin. They locked eyes. They held hands. They grinned… And then the Fuzzle exploded. Not violently, but dramatically — a puff of spores erupted from its fuzzy little body, filling the air with a scent like cinnamon, vanilla, and poorly suppressed kinks. Buck staggered. Pet swayed. The room went pink. The candles flickered into little hearts. Their reflection in the mirror suddenly wore matching lingerie. “Buck…” Pet whispered, her voice suddenly several octaves lower and suggestively damp. “What… the... glittery shroom is happening?” “I think the Fuzzle is a Lustspore Familiar,” he gasped. “Those things were banned after the Great Groin Fire of ‘62!” They collapsed into the mushroom-mattress in a tangle of limbs, laughter, and pheromone-fueled silliness. Pet’s corset somehow snapped itself off. Buck’s pants disintegrated into a fine powder, possibly due to age or spellwork — no one cared. The next hour was a blur of kisses, tickles, giggles, and one moment involving whipped honey, a ladle, and the phrase “CALL ME FUNGUS DADDY.” Later, sweaty and exhausted, they lay side by side as the Fuzzle purred between them, now glowing faintly and wearing Buck’s sock like a cape. “That was… something,” Pet sighed, running fingers through her flower-tangled hair. “I saw colors I don’t have names for,” Buck wheezed. “Also, you bit my thigh. I liked it.” “I know.” They dozed off in a pile of warm limbs and snoring spores, tangled in love and mischief and the kind of magic only found deep in enchanted woods — the kind of love story that never makes it into bedtime books but is whispered by naughty pixies behind toadstools for generations. By morning, the Fuzzle had redecorated. Their living room was now a heart-shaped mushroom lounge. Everything smelled like wine and unspoken secrets. Buck woke up with a raccoon curled around his foot and no idea how it got there. Pet, now wrapped in a throw blanket made of moss and bad decisions, sipped dewberry tea and smiled. “Well, my darling,” she said, “we grinned. We gnomed it. And next time, we check the basket before dinner.” Buck raised his mug, sloshing tea all over a fern. “To mushroom madness, Fuzzle-fueled fornication, and loving you ‘til my beard turns to bramble.” And the Fuzzle, still glowing, farted a love heart into the air. THE END (until they get a second Fuzzle…)     Bring the giggles home! If Buck and Pet made you laugh, blush, or crave a puff-puff tart of your own, why not capture their enchanted chaos for yourself? From the heart of the whimsical woods to your cozy corner, “Giggling in Gnomeland” is now available on a curated selection of charming gifts and home decor. Snuggle up with a Throw Pillow bursting with fairy-tale feels, take your mischief on the go with a Tote Bag, or pen your own saucy gnome tales in a Spiral Notebook. For those who want a magical visual punch, hang a Canvas Print or a sleek Metal Print and let the laughter of the forest light up your space. Whether you’re a woodland romantic or a mischievous soul, these treasures are for anyone who believes love should always come with a grin… and maybe a Fuzzle.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Striped Socks & Secret Smiles

On the edge of Whimblewood, just where the tulips start gossiping about the daffodils, there lived a tiny gnome girl named Tilly Twinklenthistle. Tilly wasn’t your average mushroom-sitting, dewdrop-sipping garden sprite. No, Tilly had ambition. Big ambition. The kind that didn’t fit inside your average toadstool or fit in your mouth when a bee flew too close and you tried to look dignified. Tilly’s mornings began with stretching her toes toward the sun while perched atop a stump she’d claimed as her "Throne of General Mayhem." Her favorite pastime was sitting still as a frog statue, smiling just wide enough to get the nearby butterflies suspicious. You see, Tilly was famous in these parts for two things: the uncrackable mystery of her secret smile... and booby-trapping flower beds with honey-soaked pebbles. The smile? No one ever quite figured it out. The traps? Oh, they were legendary. One poor hedgehog ended up with five ladybugs stuck to his nose and a complex about tulips. The therapy bills were outrageous. Today was no ordinary day, however. Today was the Vernal Equinox Gnome Games — a celebration of all things muddy, petal-scented, and vaguely inappropriate. There were contests for “Most Impressive Moss Hat,” “Longest Tulip Nap,” and the notorious “Soggy Boot Toss.” Tilly had a different plan entirely. While everyone else was fluffing their dandelion wigs and preparing interpretive pollen dances, she was gearing up for a caper the likes of which would echo through the root systems of the forest for generations. You see, tucked beneath her cap — hidden behind daisies, tucked below the tulips, and camouflaged with cunning buttercups — was the legendary **Whoopee Thorn**. A prank device so potent, so scandalously snort-inducing, that even the elves banned it after the incident with the unicorn and the mayor’s wig. Tilly’s plan? Wait until the Gnome Games' closing speech, delivered by the uptight and tragically flatulent Chancellor Greebeldorf... and let the Whoopee Thorn do its symphonic work right as he bent to accept his ceremonial ladle. Of course, plans this glorious never go smoothly. Just as Tilly leaned forward, chin resting on her tiny fists, a rustle came from behind a tulip. Not a breeze. Not a beetle. A rustle... with intent. The kind of sound that makes a gnome’s ears twitch and their instincts scream, “Someone’s about to out-prank you.” And that, dear reader, is where things start to spiral gloriously out of control. The rustle behind the tulip turned out to be—of all the ill-timed interlopers—Spriggle Fernflick, the self-declared “Mirth Minister of Whimblewood.” Spriggle, with his pinecone shoulder pads and the eternal smell of fermented elderberry juice clinging to his beard, had one singular passion: ruining Tilly’s best-laid plans by accidentally improving them. “TILLLLYYY!” he whisper-yelled in the shrillest voice known to elf or gnome, “Did you remember to polish the Whoopee Thorn? You can’t unleash audible joy on a dry nozzle! It wheezes instead of parps. You’ll end up with more embarrassment than explosion!” Tilly, eyes still fixed on the stage where Chancellor Greebeldorf was clearing his throat and adjusting his ceremonial garters, did not flinch. “Spriggle, I swear on my striped socks, if you make one more peep I’ll bury you under a pile of disobedient dandelions.” But Spriggle, undeterred and unable to respect the sacred art of comedic timing, tripped on a daisy root and went sprawling into the center aisle — right in front of the Chancellor’s podium. A collective inhale swept the crowd. Somewhere, a mushroom fainted. Tilly face-palmed so hard she momentarily blacked out and imagined herself in a quiet life of snail-herding somewhere far, far away. But here’s where fate, that glittery rascal, stepped in. As Spriggle scrambled upright, he stepped squarely on the **Whoopee Thorn**, which had fallen from Tilly’s hat during the kerfuffle. The Thorn, offended by its early deployment, unleashed a gassy crescendo so majestic and unrelenting that even the clouds above paused their drifting to listen. It began as a honk, evolved into a gargle, and ended in what gnome scholars would later describe as “the sound of a goose fighting for dominance in a tuba factory.” Chancellor Greebeldorf dropped his ladle. A nearby faun burst into tears. Someone's enchanted frog screamed in French. The meadow erupted into chaos. Laughter. Applause. Two gnomes fainted in ecstasy. The local dryad filed a noise complaint with a pinecone. Even the notoriously humorless mushroom council cracked. One of them giggled so hard he split his cap and had to be ushered away with a parasol and a shot of bark whiskey. Tilly, initially mortified, realized something beautiful: it didn’t matter that her plan had gone sideways, or that Spriggle had accidentally become the hero of the hour. What mattered was that joy had bloomed—louder, stinkier, and funnier than even she could’ve orchestrated. So she stood. Climbed onto her tree stump. Took off her floral hat with a sweeping bow, daisies tumbling like confetti. And she declared, with a grin wide enough to shame a fox in a henhouse: “Let it be known henceforth across the thistle-thickened hills and all petal-strewn plains of Whimblewood... that today, laughter reigned supreme. That today, our Chancellor farted — and it echoed in our hearts.” Thunderous applause. Spriggle passed out from joy. Greebeldorf resigned on the spot and became a beekeeper. And Tilly? She returned to her stump the next morning, a daisy between her teeth and her Whoopee Thorn safely stashed in a tulip vase. She had new ideas. Big ones. Possibly involving beetles in bow ties and a barrel of custard. But that, dear reader, is another mischievous tale for another wild spring day.     Epilogue: The Aftermath of a Glorious Toot In the weeks that followed, tales of “The Gnome Who Made the Chancellor Blow Brass” spread through Whimblewood faster than a squirrel on sassafras. Tilly became a local legend, her image etched onto pastries, pebble mosaics, and a limited-edition mushroom ale that tasted vaguely of regret and chamomile. Spriggle Fernflick gained cult status too—accidentally, of course. He tried giving inspirational speeches about “embracing the stumble,” but usually tripped off the podium by the third sentence. The forest loved him more for it. As for Chancellor Greebeldorf? He now lived in a quiet glade with bees, his ceremonial ladle repurposed into a honey dipper. He claimed he was happier, though the bees reported he still tooted nervously during thunderstorms. And our mischievous heroine? Tilly Twinklenthistle kept to her stump, her hat always freshly decorated with blooms and secrets. Each morning, she greeted the sunrise with the same knowing smirk, striped socks snug around her ankles, ready for the next glorious mess of a day. Because in Whimblewood, spring didn’t just mean new growth. It meant laughter that echoed through mossy halls and tiny hearts that beat a little faster when they saw her grin. And somewhere, deep in the soil beneath the stump, the Whoopee Thorn pulsed gently… waiting for its encore.     💫 Bring a Touch of Tilly's Mischief Home If Tilly Twinklenthistle's springtime antics made you smile (or snort tea through your nose), you can now bring her giggle-worthy charm into your everyday life. Whether you're daydreaming in a sunny nook or planning your next prank, these delightful products inspired by “Striped Socks & Secret Smiles” are ready to add a splash of whimsy and wonder to your world: 🌟 Metal Print: A vibrant, gallery-worthy print with rich details and colors sharp enough to make tulips jealous. 🌿 Tapestry: Drape your walls in springtime enchantment and bring the meadow to your space. 💌 Greeting Card: Send a chuckle and a cheeky wink through the mail — perfect for birthdays, pranks, or just-because gnome joy. ☀️ Beach Towel: Bring Tilly to the shore and dry off in full mischief-mode style. 📝 Spiral Notebook: Ideal for recording suspicious giggles, prank blueprints, or heartfelt poetry under petal-dappled sunlight. Because let’s be honest — your world could use a little more striped sock magic and a lot more secret smiles.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Flirtation Under the Fungi

Mushrooms, Mischief, and Maybe? It was the kind of forest where the mushrooms were suspiciously large, the squirrels wore monocles, and you could smell the flirtation in the air like pine and pheromones. The elves called it *Glimmergrove*, but the gnomes had a far less poetic name: *That Place Where We Once Got Really Lost and Accidentally Married a Tree*. Long story. In the middle of this magical mess was Bunther Wobblepot, a gnome with a grin like he knew something you didn’t—and he usually did. Rugged in a plaid shirt and suspenders barely holding on after a poorly executed cartwheel competition, Bunther was what you'd call “sturdy with confidence.” And a beard so lush, even the moss was jealous. He sat on a mossy log, boots dusted with fairy pollen and pride, watching her. Lyliandra Blushleaf was all curves and curls and coy little smirks that could turn a frog prince right back into a toad if he got too cocky. Dressed in a laced-up corset and a skirt that swished like whispers in a tavern, she had a flower crown so extravagant, it required its own zip code. “You come here often?” Bunther asked, plucking a mushroom cap and pretending it was a fedora. “Only when the fungi are in full bloom,” she replied, her voice smooth as honeyed mead. “They say they grow better around... warm company.” Bunther wiggled his bushy brows. “Well, I’m practically a compost pile of charisma.” Lyliandra giggled—a sound that made a nearby patch of clover blush—and leaned in just a bit closer. “Funny. You don’t smell like compost. More like... woodsmoke and questionable decisions.” He puffed out his chest. “That’s my cologne. It’s called ‘Poor Life Choices, Volume III.’” Just then, a firefly landed on Bunther’s beard, twinkling like nature’s approval. He didn’t swat it away. He winked at it. “So,” Lyliandra purred, “what brings a gnome like you to a glade like this?” “Oh, you know,” Bunther said, scratching his knee thoughtfully. “Foraging for mushrooms, avoiding exes, maybe meeting a beautiful elf who doesn't mind a little chest hair and a lot of emotional baggage.” She laughed. “Well lucky you. I have a thing for emotionally complex garden décor.” The forest paused in anticipation. Even the mushrooms leaned in. “So,” Lyliandra said, “you wanna... spore together sometime?” Bunther’s eyes widened. “Elves don’t mess around with innuendo, do they?” She leaned in close, her breath warm with hints of lilac and mischief. “No, darling. We mess around with gnomes.” Arousal by Agaricus Bunther Wobblepot was not unfamiliar with risk. He once tried to impress a nymph by juggling hedgehogs. He’d moonwalked across troll bridges. He’d eaten glowing berries on a dare (and briefly thought he was married to a fern). But nothing had quite prepared him for this. “You’re really not like the other gnomes,” Lyliandra whispered, tracing a delicate finger down the rough bark of a nearby tree—one she was using, rather suggestively, as a backrest. “You’ve got... a vibe.” Bunther’s beard twitched with pride. “Ah, yes. That would be my signature move: unfiltered charm and forest musk. A potent combination. Like wine and regret.” She laughed, tossing her hair so dramatically a nearby chipmunk fainted. “So what’s your game, Wobblepot? You trying to woo me with fungal facts and aggressive whimsy?” “Maybe,” he said, scooting closer. “Did you know that certain mushroom spores can only grow in pairs?” “Is that a scientific fact or a pickup line?” “Darling,” he said, his voice husky with the weight of unsaid nonsense, “in this forest, science and seduction are practically the same thing.” As he reached out, offering a vibrant blue mushroom like a bouquet, she plucked it from his hand—slowly—then bit the edge like it was a truffle in a romantic comedy. Bunther nearly short-circuited. “Careful,” he warned. “That one causes mild hallucinations and vivid dreams of intimacy with woodland creatures.” “That explains why I suddenly want to kiss a gnome,” she purred. Bunther looked around. “Listen, if there are dryads watching, they can pay extra.” They inched closer, a symphony of crickets rising in tempo like an overenthusiastic romance soundtrack. Her knee brushed his. His eyebrow arched like a woodland bridge about to collapse under romantic pressure. “You ever... danced under bioluminescent mushrooms?” she asked. “No, but I’ve slow-danced in a puddle with a raccoon once. I’m versatile.” “Good. Because I don’t do half-hearted courtships. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it full fairy tale.” “Do I need to slay something? Or maybe serenade you badly with a mandolin?” “No,” she said, standing suddenly and offering her hand. “You need to come mushroom-hopping with me. And if you survive that... maybe I’ll let you braid my hair. Or touch my wings.” “Wait—you have wings?” She winked. “That’s for me to know and for you to flirt your way into finding out.” Bunther took her hand, ignoring the suspiciously vibrating moss beneath them, and followed her into the glowing grove, where the mushrooms pulsed gently with a light that whispered, *someone’s getting lucky tonight.* They hopped. They twirled. They laughed. They fell—twice. Mostly on each other. And somewhere between dodging enchanted spores and getting tangled in each other’s accessories, Bunther realized he might actually be falling for this ridiculous, radiant elf who smelled like moonlight and poor decision-making. As they collapsed, breathless and giggling, into a pile of fragrant moss, she looked into his eyes and whispered: “You know, Bunther... I think we’re the perfect mix of fantasy and fungus.” He grinned. “And a touch of forest friskiness.” “Exactly. Now hush. The mushrooms are watching.” And under the wide caps of the glowing fungi, the forest sighed in contentment. A new tale had begun—one full of snark, spores, and scandalous spooning positions only known to woodland beings with high flexibility and lower moral standards. The End (until they run out of mushrooms...)     If Bunther and Lyliandra’s cheeky charm made you laugh, swoon, or question your relationship standards, you can take a piece of their magical mischief home! Shop acrylic prints that glow like the forest, canvas art worthy of a gnome’s love cave, throw pillows soft enough for post-flirtation naps, and a whimsical puzzle that’s just complicated enough to do with someone you kinda want to kiss. Mushrooms sold separately.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

The Weight of a Tear

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

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Trippy Gnomads

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

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

The Ale and the Argument

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

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Joint Custody of the Brownie

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

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

The Devilish Sprite of Emberglow Forest

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

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

The Eggcellent Trio

In the heart of the Whimwood Glen, nestled between mossy tree trunks and wild cherry blossoms, lived three eccentric gnome siblings: Bramble, Tilly, and Pip. Known collectively (and proudly) as “The Eggcellent Trio,” their reputation stretched far beyond their size — which was roughly two and a half carrots high. They weren’t famous for being wise, nor particularly helpful. No, their fame came from a very specific seasonal skill: Easter egg smuggling. Not smuggling *from* anyone, mind you — smuggling *to*. Their mission? Delivering mysterious, oddly magical eggs to unsuspecting woodland residents who clearly didn’t ask for them. “It’s called surprise joy, Pip,” Bramble would say, polishing a particularly glittery teal egg while his beard twitched with excitement. “The best kind of joy is the unsolicited kind.” “Like mushrooms in your tea,” Tilly added, cheerfully placing a glow-in-the-dark egg inside a squirrel’s sock drawer. She wasn’t quite sure the squirrel even wore socks, but the drawer had a hinge and that was reason enough. Each egg was a work of odd art: some chirped when opened, others puffed confetti laced with giggles, and one memorable creation laid a tiny marshmallow every full moon. They weren’t practical, but practicality was rarely on the menu in Whimwood. The trio coordinated with military-level precision. Pip was in charge of reconnaissance — mostly because he was sneaky and once accidentally dated a vole for two weeks without anyone noticing. Bramble crafted the eggs using recipes that may or may not have included fermented jelly beans. And Tilly? She was the getaway driver, using her handmade leaf-cart which only occasionally caught fire on downhill slopes. This year’s mission was different. Bigger. Bolder. Borderline illegal in three counties (if gnome law were ever enforced, which, thankfully, it wasn’t). They had set their sights on High Hare Haven — the elite burrow community of the Easter Bunny himself. “We’re going to sneak into the Bunny’s personal egg vault,” Bramble declared, nose twitching with anticipation, “and leave our eggs there. Reverse robbery. Joy-burglary. Egg-bomb of happiness.” “That’s… bold,” Pip said, already halfway into a bush for surveillance. “Also, we might die. But like… in a festive way.” “Imagine the Bunny’s face,” Tilly sighed dreamily, tucking a giggle-egg under her bonnet. “He’ll open his vault and be confused and delighted. Or mildly concussed. Either way, a memory.” So they plotted. And packed. And possibly had too much elderflower wine. At dawn, with cheeks rosy and hats lopsided, the Eggcellent Trio rolled toward legend, wobbling in their little leaf-cart full of chaos, glitter, and cheer. The sun had barely yawned over Whimwood Glen when the Eggcellent Trio rolled to a halt behind a suspiciously large mushroom that Tilly claimed had “excellent acoustics for eavesdropping.” Before them loomed High Hare Haven — a sprawling underground compound disguised as a hill, complete with a topiary shaped like a smug-looking rabbit and a "No Solicitors" sign that Pip was certain had once been a gnome. “Alright,” Bramble whispered, adjusting his oversized pom-pom hat like a war general donning his helmet. “We’re going in quiet, fast, and as delightfully illegal as gnome-ly possible.” “Are we sure this isn’t just trespassing?” Tilly asked, adjusting her knitted bloomers. “Like, Eastery trespassing, sure. But still…” “No. It’s reverse burglary,” Bramble insisted. “Totally different. We’re leaving things. That’s gifting with flair.” High Hare Haven was guarded by a platoon of overly serious bunnies wearing aviator goggles and fitted vests embroidered with “EggSec.” Pip, the smallest and sneakiest of the three, executed his signature move: the Hop ’n’ Drop. It involved hopping like a bunny, dropping like a gnome, and generally confusing everyone within a 10-foot radius. He slipped past the guards using a cardboard decoy shaped like a motivational quote about carrots. Inside, the halls shimmered with magical wards — pastel runes glowing faintly, whispering phrases like “Access Denied,” “Hippity Hop No,” and “Don’t Even Try It, Chad.” Pip snorted and picked the lock with a candy cane sharpened to a felony-level point. He was in. Meanwhile, Bramble and Tilly made their approach from the rear, scaling a jellybean drainage chute. It was slick. It was sticky. It was absolutely not up to code. “Why is everything in here edible and also a death trap?” Tilly hissed, chewing absently on her sleeve. “That’s called branding,” Bramble replied. “Now climb.” After what felt like a lifetime of crawling through a licorice-scented wind tunnel, they reached the vault: a massive golden egg embossed with the words “BunVault 9000 – Authorized Whiskers Only.” Pip was already there, munching nervously on a marshmallow decoy egg. “Bad news,” he whispered. “The Bunny’s in there. Like, in the vault. Napping. On a pile of Fabergé backups and Cadbury prototypes. He looks very… serene.” “So we stealth it,” Bramble said, wide-eyed. “Drop the eggs, don’t wake the bun, get out. Like folklore ninjas.” “With hats,” Tilly added. They crept in, balancing their carefully curated chaos-eggs in gloved hands. Pip tiptoed over a glowing carrot-shaped alarm, while Tilly used her scarf to muffle the sound of glitter spilling from her surprise-bomb egg. Bramble, too round to be stealthy, rolled like an oddly soft cannonball behind a stack of commemorative Peep dispensers. Then it happened. Someone — and historians would never agree on who — sneezed. It was not a small sneeze. It was a gnome-sized, pollen-induced, allergy-fueled kaboom of a sneeze that echoed off the vault walls like a jazz solo on bath salts. The Bunny stirred. His left ear twitched. One eye fluttered open… and locked onto Pip, who froze mid-egg placement like a tiny Easter-themed criminal caught mid-gift. “...The fluff,” the Bunny growled, voice deep and oddly seductive for a rabbit. “Who the fluff are you?” The trio panicked. Bramble launched a Confetti Egg of Tactical Distraction™. It exploded in a blast of rose-scented streamers and faint giggling noises. Tilly dove under a velvet table. Pip did a cartwheel so perfect it nearly earned him a sponsor. “We’re joy insurgents!” Bramble cried, crawling toward the exit. “We come bearing unsolicited delight!” “And artisan eggery!” added Tilly, throwing a marshmallow grenade that fizzled with the smell of nostalgia. The Bunny blinked. Then blinked again. He stood slowly, brushing glitter off his tail with dramatic flair. “You… … to give me eggs?” “Well, we weren’t going to just keep them,” Pip muttered, somewhat insulted. For a long moment, the room held its breath. The Bunny stared at the chaos. At the rainbow of odd eggs now nestled among his curated collection. At the gnomes—wide-eyed, covered in sparkles, one of them chewing his own hat out of nerves. Then the Bunny… laughed. A soft, huffy kind of chuckle at first, which soon snowballed into a deep, belly-hopping cackle. “You’re all certifiably insane,” he said. “And possibly my new favorite people.” He offered them a cup of carrot espresso and a chocolate cigar. “No one’s surprised me in a hundred years,” he admitted. “I’d forgotten what nonsense felt like. It’s delightful. Dangerous, but delightful.” The Eggcellent Trio beamed. Bramble wept a little, blaming it on the espresso. Pip tried to pickpocket a Fabergé just for old time’s sake. Tilly gifted the Bunny a “Tickle Egg” which snorted every time someone walked past it. They didn’t get arrested. They got invited back. Officially. As chaos consultants. From that day forward, every Easter morning in Whimwood and beyond, odd little eggs would appear where none had been — on doorknobs, in shoes, under teacups. They didn’t hatch anything living, but they often hissed compliments or whispered off-key songs. No one knew where they came from. Except everyone did. And they smiled. Because somewhere out there, three gnomes in knitted clothes were probably giggling behind a bush, cartwheeling through danger, and redefining what it meant to deliver joy… one wildly unnecessary egg at a time.     Spring turned to summer, and summer to cider-season, but the whispers of *The Eggcellent Trio* only grew louder. Children would wake to find eggs that burped haikus. Grandmothers discovered pastel spheres in their breadboxes that told scandalous jokes in Old Gnomish. One bishop swore his sermon notes were replaced by a talking yolk that recited Shakespeare, backwards. The Bunny — now their greatest accomplice — commissioned them as official “Agents of Anarchy & Cheer,” complete with embroidered sashes they never wore because Pip used his to smuggle tarts. Their leaf-cart was upgraded to a licorice-fueled hover-sled, which exploded often and to great applause. Occasionally, other gnomes tried to copy them. One trio attempted a "Maypole Mayhem" stunt with explosive taffy. It ended in melted shoes and a goat with trust issues. The truth was simple: only Bramble, Tilly, and Pip had the right balance of heart, humor, and total disregard for sensible planning. Now and then, on especially magical mornings, if you follow a trail of giggles and candy wrappers deep into Whimwood Glen, you might stumble upon a scene beneath a cherry blossom tree — three gnomes, bellies full of laughter, arms full of nonsense, and eyes twinkling with plans they probably shouldn't share. And somewhere in a vault, in the heart of High Hare Haven, a single egg sits on a velvet pillow. It hums softly. It smells faintly of cookies. And once a year, it cracks open — not with a chick, but with a new idea. An idea wild enough to earn its place in the legend of the Eggcellent Trio… ...the only gnomes to ever break into a vault to break out a holiday.     Love the tale of Bramble, Tilly, and Pip? Bring their mischievous charm into your home with artful keepsakes from our Captured Tales collection. Whether you’re looking to smile every morning with a cozy throw pillow, puzzle your way into gnome-lore with a delightful jigsaw puzzle, or send joy in the mail with a whimsical greeting card — this trio’s legendary spirit is ready to hop into your heart and your space. Adorn your walls with the magic of mischief using our vibrant metal print or turn a plain space into a giggle-worthy nook with our enchanting tapestry. It’s not just art — it’s an egg-ceptional adventure, waiting to be displayed. Explore more Captured Tales Art at shop.unfocussed.com and let the legend live on... one egg, one giggle, one gnome at a time.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Love in Small Gestures

The Eye of the World The Eye had always been there. Silent. Watching. Weeping. No one knew exactly where it came from — it was simply discovered one soft, gray dawn, nestled into the hillside like a secret the earth couldn’t keep any longer. Massive and alive, it blinked slow as tides, its iris glistening with a deep, knowing hazel, the kind of color you could lose years in. The Eye never spoke, though the villagers swore they heard murmurs when the wind stirred just right. Some said it belonged to a sleeping god. Others, that it had watched the world too long and wept for what it saw. But most simply left offerings at the base: coins, candles, hand-written prayers folded small as beetles. And still, the Eye cried. That was until Mira wandered into the glade, dragging a damp blanket and a half-eaten pear. She was four, maybe five. Small by any standard but determined in that way only children and wildflowers can be. Her parents thought she was napping. Instead, she was following the trail of petals she’d been dropping all week, convinced they would lead her to something magical. She was right. The Eye blinked at her. She blinked back, wiped her nose on her sleeve, then frowned. “You’re sad.” It wept again, the tear pooling until it spilled from the lower lid and began its slow, luminous descent. Mira didn’t flinch. She watched it with a grave sort of calm, then pulled the blanket from her shoulders, bunched it up in her tiny fists, and reached upward. She couldn't possibly touch the Eye — not really — but she reached anyway. On tiptoes, arms high, she offered the cloth like a holy thing. And for the first time, the tear did not fall to the ground. It touched the blanket… and vanished like a sigh into her outstretched hands. The Eye stilled. In the hush that followed, something shifted — not in the sky or the trees, but in the space behind things. The kind of change that only happens when someone chooses love over logic, kindness over comprehension. Mira patted the air gently and whispered, “It’s okay. I get sad too. But it helps when someone sees you.” The wind carried her words upward, and the Eye, impossibly, softened. The Child and the Colossus The villagers were the first to notice the change. Birds sang differently. The morning mist arrived a little later, lingered a little longer. Old Elric, who hadn’t seen color since the war, claimed the flowers were “louder.” Children began laughing more, not louder — just more. It was as though joy had been quietly invited back to the village, and no one knew exactly who had mailed the invitation. Mira returned to the Eye every day after that. Sometimes she brought a different cloth — a wash rag, a scarf, her father’s old undershirt that she’d filched from the laundry bin. Other times, she brought stories. “Today I got a star sticker for coloring inside the lines. I didn’t mean to, it just happened.” “I tried peas again. Still gross.” “I think trees are just really slow people.” The Eye listened. It blinked. Sometimes, it cried. But not always — and when it did, the tears seemed… lighter. Like clouds letting go of rain they no longer needed to carry. One afternoon, Mira brought a small jar. It was glass, painted in streaks of wild blue and glittering green. She stood beneath the Eye, waited until a tear fell, and caught it with care. “This one’s for my mama. She’s been sad in the mornings.” The Eye blinked, the edges of its lid twitching — not in confusion, but something older… recognition. Understanding. By the end of the week, Mira had an entire shelf in her bedroom filled with “tears.” Some for her mother, who woke up tired. Some for her father, who had forgotten how to laugh with his teeth. One was labeled with a drawing of the family dog who’d gone away. She never gave the tears as gifts, only kept them like tiny, sacred promises — reminders that sadness wasn’t bad, just heavy. And that someone, somewhere, had helped her carry it for a while. The villagers eventually followed her example. They no longer left coins or candles at the base of the Eye. They left notes. Confessions. Crayon drawings. They whispered apologies into jars, sang lullabies into empty cups, tucked little poems into tree roots, believing — rightly — that the Eye would hear. And all the while, Mira grew. Not fast, not suddenly — like a melody you don’t realize you’ve been humming until someone else joins in. The Eye never stopped watching her, even as she grew taller, and the space between them became more and more balanced. She still brought cloths sometimes, though now they were sewn into proper handkerchiefs. She still talked, though her stories had bigger words and more pauses. And when the Eye cried, she was still there, arms ready, even if her heart was the cloth now. On her sixteenth birthday, she stood before the Eye one last time. It was raining, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t speak. She simply pressed her hand to its lid — it was cool, like stone warmed by memory — and whispered, “Thank you for seeing me, too.” The Eye blinked… and smiled. Not in any way mouths smile. But in the way dawn sometimes feels like a held breath finally exhaled. And though she walked away that day, Mira never truly left. Because when the world became too sharp, too loud, too broken — there were always those who remembered the girl with the cloth and the Eye that cried. And they taught their children, and those children taught theirs, that love doesn’t need a reason. It only needs a moment. A gesture. A reaching upward. And so the Eye still watches. Still weeps. But not always in sorrow. Sometimes… in awe.     Epilogue: Jars of Light Years later, the stories of the Eye and the girl who dried its tears became legend. But unlike most legends, this one didn’t gather dust or become bloated with grandiosity. It remained simple. Gentle. Whispered from one soul to another, passed like a folded note in a quiet classroom of the universe. Some say Mira became a healer. Others, a poet. A few insist she was just a girl who once listened hard enough to be heard by something ancient. But everyone remembers the jars. They became relics — not of power, but of presence. Tiny glass vessels holding something you couldn’t quite explain but always recognized: the feeling of being loved without needing to be fixed. To this day, travelers who find their way to the glade will sometimes see a child — never the same one twice — standing below the Eye, cloth in hand, speaking softly into the vastness. And always, the Eye listens. Because some truths outlive time, and some hearts, no matter how small, leave behind ripples that change everything they touch. And in those ripples, among the trees and morning hush, you might just hear it — not a voice, not a whisper, but something closer: A gesture of love, still reaching up.     Bring the Story Home Let the emotion and beauty of “Love in Small Gestures” live beyond the screen. Whether it’s to inspire, to soothe, or simply to remind you of the quiet strength in tenderness, this image is now available in a variety of beautiful formats for your space: Framed Print – A timeless, gallery-worthy presentation that brings elegance and sentiment to any wall. Metal Print – Vivid, sleek, and durable—this modern format makes every detail of the image pop. Wall Tapestry – Soft, flowing fabric turns your space into a sanctuary of meaning and memory. Fleece Blanket – Wrap yourself in comfort and compassion. Perfect for quiet evenings and thoughtful gifts. Let this story stay with you — not just in memory, but in the moments between. Because love, as always, lives in the small things.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Tongues and Talons

Of Eggs, Egos, and Explosions Burlap Tinklestump never planned to be a father. He could barely manage adult gnomehood, what with the ale debts, magical gardening fines, and one unresolved beef with the local frog choir. But destiny—or more precisely, a slightly intoxicated hedgehog named Fergus—had other ideas. It began, as these things often do, with a dare. “Lick it,” Fergus slurred, pointing at a cracked, iridescent egg nestled in the roots of a fireberry tree. “Betcha won’t.” “Bet I will,” Burlap shot back, without even asking what species it belonged to. He’d just finished chugging a fermented root beer so strong it could strip bark. His judgment was, generously, compromised. And so, with a tongue that had already survived three chili-eating contests and one unfortunate bee spell, Burlap gave the egg a full, slobbery swipe. It cracked. It hissed. It combusted. Out hatched a baby dragon—tiny, green, and already pissed off. The newborn let out a screech like a kettle having an existential crisis, flared its wings, and promptly bit Burlap on the nose. Sparks flew. Burlap screamed. Fergus passed out in a daffodil patch. “Well,” Burlap wheezed, prying the tiny jaws off his face, “guess that’s parenting now.” He named the dragon Singe, partly for the way it charred everything it sneezed on, and partly because it had already reduced his favorite pants to ashes. Singe, for his part, adopted Burlap in that aloof, vaguely threatening way that only dragons and cats truly master. He rode around on the gnome’s shoulder, hissed at authority figures, and developed a taste for roasted insects and sarcasm. Within weeks, the two became inseparable—and entirely insufferable. Together they perfected the art of mischief in the Dinglethorn Wilds: lacing faerie tea with fireball elixirs, redirecting squirrel migration routes with enchanted nut decoys, and once swapping the Wishing Pond’s coins with shiny goblin poker chips. The forest folk tried to reason with them. That failed. They tried to bribe them with mushroom pies. That almost worked. But it wasn’t until Burlap used Singe to light a ceremonial elvish tapestry—during a wedding, no less—that real consequences came knocking. The Elvish Postal Authority, a guild feared even by trolls, issued a notice of severe misconduct, public disruption, and ‘unauthorized flame-based object alteration’. It arrived via flaming pigeon. “We have to go underground,” Burlap declared. “Or up. Higher ground. Strategic advantage. Less paperwork.” And that’s when he discovered the Mushroom. It was colossal—an ancient, towering toadstool rumored to be sentient and mildly perverted. Burlap moved in immediately. He carved a spiral staircase up the stalk, installed a hammock made of recycled spider silk, and nailed a crooked sign to the cap: The High Fungus Consulate – Diplomatic Immunity & Spores for All. “We live here now,” he told Singe, who replied by incinerating a squirrel who’d asked for rent. The gnome nodded in approval. “Good. They’ll respect us.” Respect, as it turned out, was not the first reaction. The Forest Council called an emergency tribunal. Queen Glimmer sent an ambassador. The owlfolk drafted sanctions. And the elvish inspector returned—this time with a flamethrower of his own and a 67-count indictment scroll. Burlap, wearing a ceremonial robe made of moss and buttons, greeted him with a manic grin. “Tell your queen I demand recognition. Also, I licked the tax form. It’s legally mine now.” The inspector opened his mouth to reply—just as Singe sneezed a fireball the size of a cantaloupe into his boots. Chaos had only just begun. Fire, Fungi, and the Fall of Forest Law Three days after the incident with the flaming boots, Burlap and Singe stood trial in the Grand Glade Tribunal—an ancient patch of sacred forest converted into a courthouse by some very judgmental birches. The crowd was massive. Pixies with protest signs, dryads holding petitions, a group of anarchist hedgehogs chanting “NO SHROOM WITHOUT REPRESENTATION!” and at least one confused centaur who thought this was an herbalist expo. Burlap, in a robe made from stitched-together leaves and sandwich wrappers, sat perched atop a velvet mushroom throne he'd smuggled in from his “consulate.” Singe, now the size of a medium turkey and infinitely more combustible, sat curled on the gnome’s lap with a smug expression that only a creature born of fire and entitlement could maintain. Queen Glimmer presided. Her silver wings fluttered with restrained fury as she read the charges: “Unlawful dragon domestication. Unauthorized toadstool expansion. Misuse of enchanted flatulence. And one count of insulting a tree priest with interpretive dance.” “That last one was art,” Burlap muttered. “You can’t charge for expression.” “You danced on his altar while yelling ‘SPORE THIS!’” “He started it.” As the trial went on, things unraveled fast. The badger militia presented charred evidence, including half a mailbox and a wedding veil. Burlap called a raccoon named Dave as a character witness, who mostly tried to steal the bailiff’s pocket watch. Singe testified in the form of smoke puffs and mild arson. And then, as tensions peaked, Burlap unveiled his trump card: a magically binding diplomatic document written in ancient fungal script. “Behold!” he shouted, slapping the scroll onto the stump of testimony. “The Spores of Sanctuary Accord! Signed by the Fungus King himself—may his gills ever flourish.” Everyone gasped. Mostly because it smelled awful. Queen Glimmer read it carefully. “This... this is a menu from a questionable mushroom bar in the Marshes of Meh.” “Still binding,” Burlap replied. “It’s laminated.” In the chaos that followed—wherein a squirrel delegate threw a nut bomb, a pixie went rogue with glitter-based spells, and Singe decided the time was ripe for his first true roar—the trial collapsed into something more closely resembling a music festival run by toddlers with matches. And Burlap, never one to miss a dramatic exit, whistled for his getaway plan: a flying wheelbarrow powered by fermented gnome gas and old firework enchantments. He climbed aboard with Singe, gave a two-finger salute to the crowd, and shouted, “The High Fungus Consulate shall rise again! Preferably on Tuesdays!” They vanished in a trail of smoke, fire, and what smelled suspiciously like roasted garlic and regret. Weeks later, the Mushroom Embassy was declared a public hazard and burned down—though some claim it grew back overnight, taller, weirder, and faintly humming jazz. Burlap and Singe were never captured. They became legends. Myths. The kind whispered by tavern bards who smirk when the lute chords go slightly off tune. Some say they live in the Outer Bramble now, where law fears to tread and gnomes make their own constitutions. Others claim they opened a food truck specializing in spicy mushroom tacos and dragon-brewed cider. But one thing’s clear: Wherever there’s laughter, smoke, and a mushroom slightly out of place… Burlap Tinklestump and Singe are probably nearby, plotting their next ridiculous rebellion against authority, order, and pants. The forest forgives many things—but it never forgets a well-cooked elvish tax scroll.     EPILOGUE – The Gnome, the Dragon, and the Whispering Spores Years passed in the Dinglethorn Wilds, though “years” is a fuzzy term in a forest where time bends politely around mushroom rings and the moon occasionally takes Tuesdays off. The tale of Burlap Tinklestump and Singe grew roots and wings, mutating with every retelling. Some said they overthrew a goblin mayor. Others swore they built a fortress made entirely of stolen doorbells. One rumor claimed Singe fathered an entire generation of spicy-tempered wyvernlings, all with a flair for interpretive fire dancing. The truth was, as usual, far stranger. Burlap and Singe lived free, nomadic, and joyfully unaccountable. They wandered from glade to glade, stirring trouble like a spoon in a bubbling pot. They crashed fae garden parties, rewrote troll toll policies with sock puppets, and opened a short-lived consulting firm called Gnomebody’s Business, which specialized in diplomatic sabotage and mushroom real estate. They were kicked out of seventeen realms. Burlap framed each eviction notice and hung them with pride in whatever hollow log or enchanted gazebo they currently squatted in. Singe grew stronger, wiser, and no less chaotic. By adulthood, he could torch a beanstalk mid-air while spelling out rude words in smoke. He’d developed an affinity for jazz flute, enchanted bacon, and sneezing contests. And through it all, he remained perched—either on Burlap’s shoulder, his head, or on the nearest flammable object. Burlap aged only in theory. His beard got longer. His pranks got crueler. But his laugh—oh, that full-bodied, giddy cackle—echoed through the forest like a mischievous anthem. Even the trees began to lean in when he passed, eager to hear what idiocy he’d utter next. Eventually, they disappeared entirely. No sightings. No fire trails. Just silence… and mushrooms. Glowing, tall, gnarled mushrooms appeared wherever they’d once been—often with singe marks, bite impressions, and, occasionally, indecent graffiti. The High Fungus Consulate, it seems, had simply gone... airborne. To this day, if you enter the Dinglethorn at twilight and tell a lie with a grin, you might hear a chuckle on the wind. And if you leave behind a pie, a bad poem, or a political pamphlet soaked in brandy—well, let’s just say that pie might come back flaming, annotated, and demanding a seat at the council table. Because Burlap and Singe weren’t just legends. They were a warning wrapped in laughter, tied with fire, and sealed with a mushroom stamp.     Bring the Mischief Home – Shop "Tongues and Talons" Collectibles Feeling the itch to cause some magical mayhem of your own? Invite Burlap and Singe into your world with our exclusive Tongues and Talons collection — crafted for rebels, dreamers, and mushroom-loving firestarters. 🔥 Metal Print: Bold, gleaming, and built to withstand even a dragon sneeze — this metal print captures every detail of the gnome-dragon duo’s chaotic charm in razor-sharp resolution. 🖼️ Canvas Print: Add a splash of whimsy and fire to your walls with this stunning canvas print. It’s storytelling, texture, and toadstool glory all in one frame-worthy piece. 🛋️ Throw Pillow: Need a cozy companion for your next mischief-filled nap? Our Tongues and Talons throw pillow is the softest way to keep dragon energy on your couch — no scorch marks included. 👜 Tote Bag: Whether you're hauling forbidden scrolls, enchanted snacks, or questionable diplomatic documents, this tote bag has your back with sturdy style and spellbinding flair. Shop now and carry a little bit of chaos, laughter, and legendary fungus with you — wherever your next adventure leads.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

The Last Gherkin

The Jarred Truth Gus was a gherkin, but not just any gherkin. He was the last one in the veggie drawer with dreams. Real, fermented, ambitious dreams. He wanted more than life as a garnish next to a burger. He wanted to be seen. To be respected. Maybe even—dare he whisper it—dipped in ranch and worshiped by stoners at midnight. But fate had other plans. Cold, briny plans. He awoke one morning to the wet snap of a rubber glove and the shrill sound of “time to clean the fridge,” which every vegetable knew meant one thing: The Purge. Carrots vanished. Celery sticks were chopped without mercy. And then… the jar. It sat there. Ominous. Full of his sliced brothers and sisters, faces frozen in pickled horror. Floaters, they were called in the drawer. Veterans of the Vinegar War. Some had been dill, others bread-and-butter. All were casualties of the same cruel process: sliced, soaked, and sealed away. “No no no… not the jar,” Gus whimpered, his tiny gherkin knees knocking together. “I’ve got plans! I’ve got dreams! I’ve got at least two weeks of shelf life left!” He darted behind a jar of expired pesto, but it was no use. The Fridge God’s hand descended, rummaging. “Where the hell did I put that last pickle?” came the voice, cavernous and cruel. Gus knew he was being hunted like a snackable fugitive. He made a break for it, slipping off the produce shelf, rolling with terrifying grace past the almond milk and over a forgotten blueberry. It was majestic. It was suicidal. Unfortunately, he forgot the laws of fridge physics—mainly that the bottom drawer had no traction. He skidded, tumbled, and landed right in front of the cursed thing. The Jar. Its lid twinkled like a stainless-steel executioner’s axe. Inside, the pickles swirled, glassy-eyed and expressionless. One of them mouthed something at him. It looked like “run,” but it could’ve also been “rum.” Either way, it was a bad sign. “You don’t have to do this!” Gus screamed as the hand closed in. “Take the mustard! It’s expired! TAKE THE MUSTARD, YOU MONSTER!” But it was too late. The hand gripped him like a cruel god plucking a mortal soul from a salad bar. Dill or Be Dilled Gus’s scream echoed through the cold cathedral of the refrigerator. The other condiments looked away—ketchup wept softly, while the mayo just muttered, “Not again.” This wasn’t their war. They’d seen too many perish. Too many dreams pickled. He was placed on the cutting board like an offering to the kitchen gods, the giant looming over him wielding a knife that could fillet a zucchini into trauma. Gus tried diplomacy. “Listen, big guy. Maybe we talk this out, huh? You look like someone who enjoys a well-aged cheese. I could introduce you to Brie. She's cultured. Flexible. Way more your type.” The blade paused. For a second, Gus thought he saw hesitation in the human’s eyes. But no. It was just a reflection of the ceiling fan. Reality sharpened like the knife’s edge. Then came the horror. Not slicing. No—worse. He was picked up, inspected… and tossed into the jar. Whole. Untouched. Alive. Gus hit the brine like a cannonball of fear, bobbing helplessly among the saucer-eyed slices of his kin. “Why am I still whole?! This is some Silence of the Cucumbers level crap!” One of the floaters drifted over. His name was Carl. Carl had been a cucumber in a past life, before the Big Slice. Now he floated, all zen and pickled. “You get used to it,” Carl murmured. “Eventually your soul ferments. Just let the brine in.” “Let the brine in?! I DON’T WANT TO BE SOUP-INFUSED! I HAD A CRUSH ON A CHERRY TOMATO!” Gus bellowed, slamming his little fists into the glass. Outside, life went on. The fridge door opened periodically—light flooding in like a judgmental god. A bottle of kombucha exploded somewhere on the top shelf. A tofu block quietly expired. No one cared. Weeks passed. Or maybe hours. Time meant nothing in the pickle jar. Gus began to lose his grip. He wrote manifestos in mustard on the inside of the glass. He developed a briny accent. He started talking to a baby corn cob named Victor, who may or may not have been real. And then, one day… The jar opened. “Finally,” Gus whispered. “Rescue. Freedom. A chance to tell my story. Maybe even a Netflix deal.” But instead, the hand reached past him. Took a slice. Closed the lid again. Gus floated there, suspended in the sour silence of rejection. That’s when it hit him. He was too whole. Too intact. Too… special. They’d never eat him. He was cursed to witness it all—forever floating, forever fermenting, forever screaming on the inside while maintaining his outward crunch. And so he remains. The last gherkin. Guardian of the Jar. Screaming into the void of dill-infused eternity. Look deep enough into the brine… and the brine looks back.     Epilogue: The Cult of the Crunch Some say Gus still floats there, whispering secrets to the baby corn. Others claim he finally merged with the brine and ascended into a higher state of snack consciousness. A few believe he escaped during a blackout and now runs an underground support group for traumatized vegetables behind the crisper drawer. The jar sits on the shelf, slightly fogged, oddly glowing. People open the fridge, stare at it, and feel a chill. They can't explain why. They just know that something is… watching. Judging. Probably pickled. And late at night, if you press your ear to the lid, you might just hear a faint whisper carried on the vinegar vapors: “Don’t get sliced. Get out while you’re fresh.” But by then… it’s already too late.     Take Gus Home (Before the Brine Claims Him) If you've laughed, cringed, or had a mild existential crisis reading the tale of The Last Gherkin, why not invite Gus into your home? Gus is now available in a variety of forms for your twisted decor needs: Framed Print – Perfect for your kitchen, breakroom, or pickle panic room. Acrylic Print – For those who like their horror crisp and their humor transparent. Metal Print – Industrial-strength absurdity for your gallery wall or mad scientist lab. Tote Bag – Carry the trauma with you, in style. Don't just read about Gus. Live with him. Haunt your own fridge.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

The Featherlight Guardian

Of Mushrooms, Mayhem, and a Very Unimpressed Owl Deep within the Verdant Verge—a forest so enchanted it once accidentally turned a lumberjack into a pinecone—perched a creature of such delicate fluff and sarcastic judgment that even the fairies feared her side-eye. She was the Featherlight Guardian. Not *a* guardian. The Guardian. Capital T. Capital Attitude. Her name was Mabel, and she was an owl. Well, technically. If you asked her, she’d tell you she was “a divine combination of ethereal fluff, guardian-grade wisdom, and naturally curled lashes that don't require enhancement, thank you very much.” With feathers dipped in hues of midnight blue, scandalous scarlet, and a yellow that could make the sun insecure, Mabel wasn’t just a sight—she was a statement. Her giant sapphire eyes had seen a thousand moons, a few awkward forest rituals, and at least one very embarrassing wizard duel involving a misfired glitter spell. Mabel’s job—her sacred duty—was to guard the Heart of the Forest: a magical glen containing the roots of every tree, a lot of bioluminescent frogs with drama issues, and one eternally simmering cauldron that brewed the mood of the forest itself. She took this duty seriously. Which is why, when a band of bumbling, slightly tipsy mushroom hunters stomped into her glen one moonlit Tuesday, she let out a sigh so heavy, it shook the canopy. One of the hunters—whose name was either Jasper or Disappointment, she wasn’t sure—tried to pet her. Pet her. “I am not a therapy fluff-ball,” she hooted, unimpressed. “Touch me again and I’ll introduce your eyebrows to fireflies with boundary issues.” The hunters giggled and carried on, picking glow-shrooms with the elegance of drunk raccoons. Mabel narrowed her eyes. The Heart of the Forest was reacting—glowing brighter, pulsing faster. She could feel it—a brewing mood swing. The last time it felt like this, a tree grew upside-down and quoted Shakespeare for a month. With a whip of her rainbow-feathered wings and a dramatic sigh worthy of a soap opera priestess, Mabel fluttered down from her perch. It was time to fix this. Again. Because that’s what guardians do. But this time, she had a plan. A devious, glitter-laced, sass-infused plan that just might teach these mushroom marauders a lesson they’d never forget. Mabel smirked, her massive eyes twinkling with mischief and just a hint of vengeance. “Let the chaotic enlightenment begin,” she whispered. Glitter, Karma, and an Owl’s Slightly Vengeful Redemption Arc Now, you may be wondering: what exactly does a glitter-laced, sass-infused plan look like? Well, if you’ve ever seen an owl enchant a fungus with sentience and a flair for passive-aggressive poetry, you’re halfway there. Mabel, flapping her impossibly elegant wings, swooped toward the cauldron in the glen—the one that brewed the emotional weather of the entire forest. She whispered something ancient and slightly petty into it. The brew shimmered. The frogs croaked in falsetto. The trees leaned in. Moments later, the glen shifted. Not violently. Oh no—Mabel preferred her vengeance subtle. The mushroom hunters, who moments before were giggling and plucking things that should definitely not be plucked, paused as the forest suddenly... responded. The mushrooms started glowing in synchronized color waves. Purple. Green. Chartreuse, if you're feeling fancy. A low hum began to rise from the soil—like an a capella group warming up beneath your feet. The drunkest hunter, whose name was Chad (they always are), blinked and said, “Dude, is the dirt singing?” “Yes, Chad,” Mabel muttered from a nearby tree. “The dirt is singing, and it hates your cargo shorts.” Then, one by one, the mushrooms sprang to life. Not aggressively—no, this wasn’t that kind of story. They simply became dramatic. The largest of them stretched upward, took a deep, unnecessary breath, and announced in iambic pentameter: “Fair forest friends, these fools do treadWhere sacred roots and balance wed.Their grubby hands, their clueless cheer—Shall reap the karma growing here.” The mushroom hunters froze. Chad dropped his glow-shroom and tried to whisper, “We’re tripping,” but the mushrooms shushed him in chorus. Mabel, now perched on a branch above the glen, flared her wings like a drama teacher at a school for troubled fairies. She spoke with measured gravitas. “Welcome, mortals. You have disturbed the glen of harmony, disrupted the shrooms of sentiment, and insulted my feathers with your lack of personal grooming.” “...We were just looking for snacks,” whimpered Jasper-Probably-Disappointment. Mabel sighed, but there was something softer beneath it this time. “You silly bipeds. The forest isn’t your snack aisle. It’s alive. It feels. It gets moody. Like me. But with fewer accessories.” A hush fell over the glen. Even the frogs were quiet, save for one who softly hummed “Greensleeves” for ambiance. Mabel fluttered down to eye level, enormous sapphire gaze locking onto the mushroomers like a velvet curse. “You have one chance,” she said. “Apologize to the mushrooms, clean up your mess, and make a vow to leave this forest better than you found it. Or I unleash the moss with legs. And let me tell you, it chases.” There was, understandably, a lot of apologizing. One of the hunters even offered to start a composting blog. Mabel remained skeptical, but allowed them to flee, escorted by a parade of disapproving woodland creatures and one passive-aggressive fern. When the glen settled again, Mabel returned to her perch. The Heart of the Forest dimmed to a soft golden glow. The mood had reset. The mushrooms resumed their usual level of aloof wisdom, muttering sonnets under their breath. And Mabel? She tucked her wings in, gave her feathers a fluff, and said to herself, “Still got it.” She wasn’t just a guardian. She was a vibe. Up in the trees, the moon winked behind a lazy swirl of clouds, and the forest sighed—a little lighter, a little wiser. All under the watchful eyes of its sassiest, fluffiest, most fabulous protector: the Featherlight Guardian. The End. Or maybe the beginning of a new plan. You never know with Mabel.     ✨ Bring Mabel Home Whether you're decorating your cozy reading nook, plotting forest justice from your desk, or just love the idea of a sarcastic owl watching over your space—The Featherlight Guardian is available in enchanting formats to suit your style. Adorn your walls with her wisdom via a wood print or shimmering metal print, snuggle up with her sass on a charming throw pillow, or let her perch in your thoughts with a magical spiral notebook. Bring a little mischief and magic into your everyday—because let’s be honest, Mabel would expect nothing less.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

The Herbalist of Hollow Glen

Leaf & Let High Deep in the velvet folds of the Wobblewood Forest—past the babbling mushroom brooks and the sentient ferns that whisper unsolicited advice—there lived a peculiar old gnome known only as “Stibbo.” He was not a warrior, nor a wizard, nor particularly organized. But Stibbo was a herbalist, and he was damn good at it. Unlike your average garden-variety gnome, Stibbo’s specialty wasn’t just healing balms and anti-fungal moss poultices. No, no. His true gift was in the recreational application of the forest’s more... enlightening botanicals. On any given morning, you'd find Stibbo perched high on a mossy branch, swaddled in a patchwork robe of live leaves, hand-rolling the day’s inspiration with fingers calloused by centuries of chill. His hair, a wild shock of forest static, framed a face permanently crinkled into a blissed-out grin. His eyes? Perpetually half-closed—as though squinting at reality from a slightly different dimension. Stibbo had a philosophy he liked to call “Photosynthesis of the Soul.” The idea was simple: you sit still in the sunlight, puff something leafy, and allow your thoughts to grow roots and vines and little internal flowers. “Grow inside,” he’d say, “and you won’t need pants out here.” He was the unofficial shaman of the Hollow Glen, offering guidance (or at least amusing ramblings) to travelers who’d taken a wrong turn or were simply high enough to end up there on purpose. His regulars included a raccoon named Steve who only spoke in interpretive dance, a troupe of bisexual frogs who ran a drum circle on Wednesdays, and a dryad going through a messy breakup with an oak tree. One day, a human named Trevor stumbled into the glen, visibly lost and visibly stressed. He wore khakis, which immediately triggered Stibbo’s suspicion. “A pants-wearer,” Stibbo whispered to a nearby snail. “Corporate energy. We must help him.” Trevor was in finance. Or used to be. Burned out from the hustle, he’d set off into the woods hoping for some kind of enlightenment—or at least an excuse not to check his email. That’s when he met the old herbalist, who was mid-sesh and humming an off-key version of Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams.” “You look like a man who needs a tea made from questionable flowers,” Stibbo said, waving a smoking bundle of something suspicious in front of Trevor’s face. Trevor, too exhausted to argue, sat. Thus began his initiation into the Hollow Glen way of life—one puff, one rant, and one squirrel philosophy lesson at a time. As the sunset painted the trees in hazy oranges and greens, Stibbo leaned back against the bark and murmured, “Everything’s a leaf if you believe hard enough.” And Trevor, blinking slowly as a snail waved at him, thought... maybe he was onto something. Highdeas and Hollowcore Philosophy The next morning, Trevor awoke to find a squirrel braiding his hair and humming a reggae version of Beethoven's Fifth. He blinked. Was he still dreaming? Possibly. But the aroma of sizzling pine mushroom pancakes lured him fully awake, and when he rolled over, there was Stibbo—grinning, pan already in hand, frying breakfast on a flat stone warmed by psychic energy (or maybe it was just the sun). “Morning, Pants-Man,” Stibbo chirped. “You snored out a haiku last night. Something about spreadsheets and inner peace.” Trevor sat up slowly, leaf-crumbs in his eyebrows, and nodded solemnly. “That sounds right.” Over breakfast—flavored with what Stibbo called “empathy truffles” and “existential cinnamon”—the old herbalist decided it was time for Trevor to begin his spiritual journey. Or, more accurately, a gentle stumble through layers of mild confusion and cosmic nonsense, wrapped in fragrant smoke and metaphors involving bark. “You see, the forest is a mirror,” Stibbo said, licking sap off his thumb. “And also a bong. Depends how you look at it.” Trevor took a bite of pancake. “I think I’m ready to find my truth.” “Ha!” Stibbo cackled. “Good luck with that. But hey, let’s go talk to Gronkle. He’s a toad who used to be a monk. Real good with paradoxes.” The Quest for the Cosmic Chill Their journey took them through trails no map had ever dared chart—paths that looped, swirled, and occasionally spoke Latin backwards. They crossed a bridge made of suspended spiderwebs and optimism, and passed under an archway made entirely of hemp vines and glowing fungus. Along the way, they encountered: A sentient dandelion who claimed to be a tax accountant in a past life and still offered free consultations. An owl named Chad who gave unsolicited advice about polyamory and fire safety. A moss-covered rock with the uncanny ability to play Lo-Fi beats, vibing non-stop for 300 years. When they finally reached Gronkle the Toad-Monk, he was sitting in a puddle of herbal tea, croaking softly while contemplating a mushroom cap. Trevor bowed respectfully. “What is the nature of bliss?” he asked. Gronkle blinked slowly, then replied: “Bliss is the absence of spreadsheets and the presence of snackies.” Trevor cried a little. The Ceremony of Smokelight That night, the Glen held a ritual: the **Ceremony of Smokelight**, where beings of all types—gnomes, sprites, talking vines, and even Chad the Owl—gathered to share a communal smoke and release their worries into the stars. Trevor was handed a ceremonial cone so large it required two dryads to light it. As the Glen buzzed with laughter, drum circles, and a literal fog of good vibes, Stibbo stood before the crowd, arms raised, leafy robe twirling in the wind. “Brothers, sisters, fungi, all! Let us inhale our regrets and exhale our realizations! Let the sacred puff carry your burdens to the forest Wi-Fi!” Trevor took his first deep inhale of the sacred Smokelight blend—part pine, part something that might’ve been mint, and part... stardust? Suddenly, he saw everything. The stock market. The squirrel braid. The spreadsheet cells forming a pattern that resembled ancient runes. He laughed. Loudly. A tree joined in. And in that moment, surrounded by weirdos, wisdom, and really excellent snacks, Trevor realized: this was home now. Stibbo’s Final Lesson Later that night, as fireflies danced and someone played panflute dubstep in the distance, Stibbo sat beside Trevor and passed him one last smoke. “You’ve come a long way, my khaki-clad brother,” Stibbo said. “Remember, life’s just a big wandering. You don’t always need a destination. Sometimes it’s enough to vibe.” Trevor looked up at the stars and whispered, “I think I’m finally chill.” “Damn right,” said Stibbo. “Now help me find my other shoe. I swear I left it inside that tree.” And so, under a sky full of glowing spores and lazy constellations, the Herbalist of Hollow Glen lit another one, and the vibe went on… forever.     Epilogue – The Wind in the Leaves Years passed in Hollow Glen, though no one was really counting. Time, in that part of the forest, had agreed to chill out and stop being so linear. Trevor—now affectionately known as “Reeferend Trev”—became a fixture in the community. He traded his khakis for a robe of woven moss, learned the names of every talking mushroom, and could identify 72 types of mood-enhancing foliage by smell alone. He never went back to finance. Occasionally he’d get a vision of a boardroom or a pie chart, shiver, and then hug a nearby tree until it passed. His former life faded like a dream, replaced by moments of pure present: brewing bark tea at sunrise, debating metaphysics with lizards, or just lying in a hammock woven from vines, vibing to the sounds of forest jazz. As for Stibbo, he never changed. He just grew a bit leafier, a bit wiser, and slightly more forgetful in charming ways. When asked how old he was, he’d usually reply, “Somewhere between 4:20 and eternity.” But one fog-sweet morning, Trevor found a message carved into the bark of their favorite tree, scrawled in Stibbo’s unmistakable wiggly script: "Gone walkabout. Found a talking comet. Be back when the stars forget how to argue. Water the mushrooms and tell Chad to chill." No one panicked. That was just Stibbo being Stibbo. He always came back. Probably. But even if he didn’t, the Glen was in good hands. Trevor kept the tea steeping, the vibes flowing, and every new wanderer welcomed with an open branch and a fresh roll. And if you ever find yourself off-path, a little lost, or completely zooted in a mossy clearing with the sense that the trees are laughing gently at your existence—well, you might just be near Hollow Glen. Take a deep breath. Sit down. Listen for panflute dubstep. And remember what the Herbalist always said: “Reality’s optional. But kindness? That sh*t’s essential.”     🛒 Bring the Vibe Home If you found yourself smiling (or spiritually exhaling) somewhere in this tale, you can keep a little piece of the Hollow Glen with you. Canvas prints and wood-mounted art bring Stibbo’s leafy grin to your wall. Or go mobile with a vinyl sticker that travels with you like a tiny forest guardian. Feeling generous? Send some Hollow Glen wisdom with a greeting card—perfect for birthdays, apologies, or deeply weird thank-you notes.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Woodland Wonder Twins: Nutorious Mischief

The Branch of Bad Decisions In the heart of the ancient Windlewood Forest, where the moss grows thick and secrets grow thicker, there lived two chipmunk twins infamous across the treetops — Pip and Pea Nutters. Identical in fur but ferociously different in attitude, Pip was a hyper-charged storm of bad ideas and Pea was the sarcastic, eye-rolling accomplice who somehow always followed anyway. Their current perch? A fragile branch known in local rodent legend as "The Branch of Bad Decisions" — a spindly limb high above the forest floor where only fools or heroes dared balance. "Pea! Look at me! I'm King of the Forest!" Pip screeched dramatically, arms flung wide like an unhinged woodland messiah. His tail twitched with the energy of a creature who had absolutely never considered consequences. Below him, Pea sighed in a way only a twin brother could — equal parts fondness and fury. "You're not king of anything, Pip. You're king of future splats." Leaves swirled around them like slow-motion confetti. Pip wobbled dramatically. Pea casually dug his claws into the bark. "We should be gathering acorns like normal rodents," Pea grumbled. "BORING. Acorns wait for no chipmunk, but adventure? Adventure is like... the wind beneath my fuzzy butt!" Pip declared with wild-eyed sincerity. Somewhere below them, the elderly owl Mortimer muttered from his hollow: "Those blasted Nutters are gonna be the death of me." But Pip wasn't done. He had that dangerous glint in his eye — the one that meant a bad idea was being born at maximum speed. "You know what we should do next, Pea?" Pip asked, waggling his eyebrows. "Regret everything?" Pea deadpanned. "Even better," Pip grinned devilishly. "Branch surfing." Pea's little rodent heart sank. "Oh acorn crumbs..." Nutorious Mayhem Unleashed Branch surfing, as Pip explained (poorly), was a sport entirely invented by creatures with too much energy and not enough supervision. The idea was simple — terrifyingly simple — and, of course, incredibly stupid. "You run real fast. You jump on the branch. You ride it like a wave. Nature provides the adrenaline, and gravity does the rest," Pip said proudly, as if quoting ancient chipmunk wisdom. Pea blinked slowly. "Nature provides the broken bones too, you acorn-brained maniac." But resistance was futile. With a wild whoop that echoed through the forest like a squirrelian war cry, Pip launched himself down the sloping branch. His tiny claws skittered against the bark. His tail whipped like a streamer caught in a tornado. "WOOOOOOO!" Leaves exploded into the air. Nearby beetles abandoned their homes. A mother bird shielded her chicks' eyes. For one perfect second, Pip looked magnificent — a furry streak of chaotic joy hurtling toward disaster at impressive speed. Then physics arrived. The branch dipped under his weight. Then flexed. Then, with a noise that would forever haunt Pea's dreams, it snapped clean off — catapulting Pip skyward in a spinning, screaming blur of limbs. Pea watched his twin ascend into legend. "Heck," Pea muttered. The Aftermath Pip crashed — not into the ground, because fortune favored fools — but directly into Mortimer the Owl's laundry line. An elaborate series of bark-cloth tunics (Mortimer was an eccentric sort) wrapped around Pip like an accidental toga. He swung gently in the breeze, upside-down, looking far too pleased with himself for someone freshly ejected from a tree. "Did you see that, Pea?!" he hollered joyously. "I am unstoppable!" Mortimer poked his beak out of his hollow, unimpressed. "You're unhousebroken." Pea casually strolled down the tree, tail flicking in that older-sibling-I-told-you-so rhythm. He paused beneath his dangling brother. "Stuck again, huh?" Pea asked. "Temporarily suspended in victory," Pip corrected, upside-down grin wide as ever. And Then The Forest Watched News traveled fast in Windlewood. By the time Pea cut Pip down (with no small amount of commentary), a small crowd had gathered — squirrels, birds, a fox cub or two. They all knew the Nutters. They all knew this was far from over. "What did we learn today?" Pea asked, already regretting the question. Pip stood proudly, adjusting his laundry-tunic like royalty. "That I am a pioneer. An innovator. The future of recreational stupidity." Pea rubbed his temples. "We're going to be banned from the forest." Pip threw an arm around his brother. "Pea, my brother in bad decisions... If we get banned from one forest — there's always another." Leaves swirled. The crowd laughed. Mortimer sighed. And deep in the woods, a new branch wobbled ominously... waiting for its next terrible idea.     Epilogue: Legends in the Leaves In the weeks that followed, the legend of Pip and Pea Nutters grew like a particularly obnoxious vine — twisting through every hollow, burrow, and tavern log in the Windlewood Forest. Chipmunk kits whispered about "The Great Branch Surfing Incident" as if it were a grand historic event. Mortimer the Owl? He doubled the strength of his laundry line. Reinforced it with spider silk. Posted tiny warning signs. ("Absolutely No Nutters.") Pea found a new hobby: apologizing on behalf of his twin to literally everyone. Forest Council? Apology. The acorn vendor whose stash Pip "accidentally" converted into a slingshot experiment? Apology. The frogs who woke up wearing tiny laundry-togas? Big apology. But Pip? Oh, Pip thrived. He strutted through the woods with the chaotic energy of a squirrel-shaped celebrity. Small creatures asked for autographs (usually scratched into bark). He hosted storytelling nights where every detail grew more ridiculous. "Did I jump the entire river? Yes. Was it full of crocodiles? Obviously. Did I land on a cloud shaped like a heroic fist? Don't question my truth, Pea." And Late At Night... When the forest quieted and the wind rustled through the leaves like whispered laughter, Pea would glance at his twin — curled up in their cozy little den — and smile despite himself. Because maybe, just maybe, the world needed a little Nutters-level nonsense now and then. Besides — he was pretty sure Pip was already planning their next terrible adventure. And heaven help them all... Pea would be right there beside him. End of Mischief (For Now)     Bring the Nutters Home Love the wild energy of Pip and Pea Nutters? You're not alone — and now you can bring a little Woodland Wonder Twins mischief into your own space. Whether you're decorating a cozy reading nook, gifting a fellow chaos enthusiast, or simply want to remember that life is better with a bit of joyful nonsense — we’ve got you covered. Available Now from Unfocussed Metal Print — For bold souls who want their wall art to shine (literally). Framed Print — Class up your chaos with gallery-ready style. Tote Bag — Carry your mischief wherever you roam. Sticker — Perfect for laptops, water bottles, or anywhere that needs extra attitude. Fleece Blanket — For curling up after a long day of causing (or surviving) chaos. Each item features the whimsical charm and vibrant detail of Woodland Wonder Twins by Bill & Linda Tiepelman — ready to spark smiles wherever they land. Browse the full collection: Shop Woodland Wonder Twins

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

He Who Walks with Wind & She Who Sings to Stones

Of Beards, Boots, and Bad Decisions Long before the forest whispered their names into the moss, He Who Walks with Wind was just a humble (and slightly scruffy) gnome with a spectacularly oversized feathered headdress — the sort of thing that made squirrels pause mid-acorn. His boots were too big, his beard was too wild, and his sense of direction was... well... wind-dependent. His friends in the woods often joked that he had the charm of a river rock — hard to hold onto and prone to vanishing downstream after a bottle of pineberry wine. But everything changed the day he stumbled (quite literally) into She Who Sings to Stones. Now, she was no ordinary forest maiden. No sir. This was a woman who could calm a thunderstorm with a side-eye and convince even the crankiest badger to hand over his last berry tart. She wore a headdress of feathers softer than secrets and robes woven from mountain twilight. And worst of all (for him)... she caught him singing to his own reflection in a puddle. "Nice voice," she said, her words like warm honey but with the sharpness of a pebble in your shoe. "Do you serenade yourself often, or am I just lucky today?" And just like that — he was doomed. In the best, most embarrassing way possible. From that moment on, they became the forest’s worst-kept secret. The loudest whisper. The odd couple that critters gossiped about endlessly. He brought clumsy poems carved into sticks. She responded with mossy hearts on his walking path. He accidentally wooed her with terrible fishing skills. She let him believe he was mysterious (he wasn’t). And thus began their legendary love story — one filled with mishaps, stolen kisses behind pine trees, and enough awkward glances to fill a hollow log. View His Collection | View Her Collection Of Stones, Songs, and Stolen Things It didn’t take long for the forest to realize that He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones were absolutely terrible at keeping things casual. For one, their “chance encounters” were happening so often that even the mushrooms started rolling their eyes. After all, how many times can two gnomes “accidentally” meet at the same mossy log at the exact same twilight hour without the universe winking suspiciously? But there was something about her that unraveled him. Maybe it was the way her voice floated between tree roots like a lullaby only rocks understood. Or the way her smile could disarm even the sharpest thorn bush. Or — and he would never admit this aloud — the way she stole things. Oh yes. She Who Sings to Stones was a notorious thief. Not of valuables — no. Her crimes were far worse. She stole moments. She stole his awkward pauses mid-sentence and replaced them with knowing glances. She stole the roughness from his voice with every quiet laugh. She even stole his lucky acorn — the one he swore protected him from wandering skunks (it didn’t). He found it days later tucked beneath his pillow with a note: "Protection only works if you believe in something bigger than your beard. —S" But he wasn’t innocent either. He Who Walks with Wind was a collector too — of her songs. At night, when the forest hummed low and the stars yawned above the treetops, he would follow the soft echoes of her voice. Never too close. Never letting her see. Just close enough to catch pieces of melody drifting like dandelion seeds — fragile, weightless, impossibly precious. He began carving her words into stones. Not fancy stones. Not polished gemstones. Just regular forest rocks — the kind most gnomes kick absentmindedly. But to him, these were sacred. Each carried one word of her songs: “Patience” “Kindness” “Wild” “Enough” He placed them like breadcrumbs through the forest — a map only she could read. And of course... she found them. One by one. Because she was the sort of woman who always found what was meant for her. One morning, after a night of restless dreams about her laughter echoing in the hills, he woke to find a perfect circle of stones outside his door. His stones. His words. Returned — but now surrounded by tiny wildflowers and mossy hearts. The message was clear: "If you want me — walk the path you’ve started." And so, for the first time in his rambling, wandering life... he walked with purpose. Not with the wind. But toward her. This was no longer a story of solitude. This was a story of two souls circling each other — stubborn, playful, fierce — until the forest itself held its breath. Of Forest Gossip, Awkward Kisses, and the Very Bad Squirrel Incident The thing about forest creatures is — they talk. Not just the whispery, rustle-in-the-leaves kind of talk. No. Full-blown, scandal-hungry, gossip-mongering chatter that would put any village marketplace to shame. And when the subject was He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones... well, let’s just say the squirrels were holding meetings. “Did you see him trip over his own staff yesterday trying to look heroic?” “She smiled at him again. That’s the third time this week. It’s basically a marriage proposal.” “I give it two more days before he tries to build her a house made entirely of sticks and regret.” Even the owls — who usually prided themselves on dignified silence — were side-eyeing from the treetops. But despite the forest-wide commentary, their story kept weaving itself in unexpected ways. Take, for example, the Very Bad Squirrel Incident. It all started when he — in a misguided attempt at romance — decided to gather her favorite forest berries for a surprise breakfast. What he didn’t know was that those particular berries were under the jealous watch of the local squirrel matriarch — a wiry old beast known as Grumbletail. The moment his clumsy hands reached for the berries, the squirrels launched a coordinated attack with the kind of ferocity usually reserved for territorial foxes and bad poetry readings. He arrived at her cottage hours later — scratched, tangled, missing one boot, and carrying exactly one sad little berry in his dirt-covered palm. She blinked at him, standing there like a wind-blown scarecrow of embarrassment. “You absolute fool,” she whispered. But her eyes — stars above, her eyes — were sparkling with something wild and dangerous and impossibly soft. And then — because the forest gods have a twisted sense of humor — it happened. The First Kiss. It wasn’t elegant. There was nothing poetic about it. He leaned in at the exact moment she turned her head to laugh and the whole thing ended with a bumped nose, an awkward tangle of beard, and her muffled giggle against his chest. But when their lips finally met — really met — it was like every stone he’d ever carved, every word he’d ever stolen from her songs, every ridiculous misstep... finally made sense. The wind forgot to blow. The trees leaned in closer. Even Grumbletail — watching from a safe distance — begrudgingly approved. Afterwards, sitting beneath a crooked old pine, they laughed until their sides ached. Not because it was funny (though it absolutely was) — but because that’s what love felt like for them: Messy. Ridiculous. Beautifully imperfect. As the sun melted into the horizon, she poked him gently with her finger. “If you ever steal berries from Grumbletail again, I’m not saving you,” she teased. “Worth it,” he grinned, pulling her close. And just like that — two souls who had spent a lifetime walking alone... began learning how to stay. Of Vows, Feathers, and Forever Things The forest had been waiting for this day for longer than it would ever admit. Word had spread faster than a startled rabbit — He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones were getting married. And let me tell you — no one throws a celebration like woodland creatures with too much time and too many opinions. The Preparations Were... Something The owls insisted on handling the invitations (delivered in tiny scrolls tied with fern ribbons). The badgers argued for three days about what type of moss made the best aisle runner. Grumbletail the Squirrel — yes, that Grumbletail — shockingly volunteered to oversee security, muttering something about "keeping things civilized." The ceremony location? The Heartstone Clearing — a sacred, wildly overgrown circle deep in the woods where stones hummed if you listened close enough... and where countless gnome love stories were rumored to have begun (and ended, often with dramatic flair). The Bride Was Magic She Who Sings to Stones wore a gown stitched from twilight — soft greys, rich earth tones, and wildflowers braided through her long silver hair. Her headdress was adorned not just with feathers, but with tiny carved stones — each one gifted to her by him over their impossible journey together. She looked like a song made visible. The kind of song that quiets storms and stirs ancient roots. The Groom Was... Trying His Best He Who Walks with Wind was absolutely, hopelessly nervous. He’d polished his boots (which promptly got muddy). He’d combed his beard (which immediately tangled in a rogue twig). His headdress was slightly crooked. But his eyes... his eyes never left her. As she stepped into the clearing, every creature — from the smallest beetle to the loftiest owl — felt it: This wasn’t just love. This was home. The Vows (Improvised, Of Course) He cleared his throat (twice). "I never knew the wind could lead me somewhere worth staying. But you... you are my stone. My song. My forever place." She smiled — that maddening, beautiful, secret smile. "And I never knew stones could dance... until you tripped over every single one on your way to me." Laughter echoed through the clearing — loud, wild, utterly perfect. The Forest Rejoiced The celebration that followed was the stuff of legend. The rabbits organized an impromptu berry feast. The foxes provided slightly questionable musical entertainment (there was howling). The squirrels, begrudgingly, allowed dancing beneath their favorite trees. And the stars? Oh, the stars stayed out far later than usual — winking knowingly over two gnomes who had somehow turned awkward missteps and stolen glances into something breathtakingly permanent. And As The Night Faded... They sat together, tangled in each other, surrounded by stones and feathers and laughter that would echo in the woods for generations. "Home," he whispered into her hair. She nodded. "Always." And So Their Story Lives On... In the stones that hum when the wind passes through. In the feathers caught in the branches long after they’ve gone to bed. And in every ridiculous, wonderful, perfectly imperfect love story waiting to happen just beyond the trees.     Bring His Story Home Some stories aren’t just meant to be read — they’re meant to be lived with. He Who Walks with Wind carries with him a spirit of wild adventure, quiet romance, and the kind of humor only found in the heart of the woods. Now, you can bring his legendary presence into your space — a daily reminder that love, laughter, and a little bit of mischief belong in every corner of your life. Metal Print — Sleek, bold, and perfect for a space that echoes with adventure. Canvas Print — Rustic charm meets timeless storytelling for your walls. Tapestry — Let the wind tell his story across fabric flowing with forest magic. Fleece Blanket — Curl up in cozy folklore and daydream of distant woods. Throw Pillow — A soft landing for tired adventurers and dreamers alike. Every Piece Tells a Story Let his quiet strength, mischievous spirit, and legendary heart become part of your everyday world. Whether on your walls, your couch, or wrapped around your shoulders — his journey is ready to continue with you. Explore the Full Collection →     Let Her Quiet Magic Find You She Who Sings to Stones doesn’t shout her wisdom — she leaves it tucked in corners, resting on shelves, and humming softly beside you in moments of stillness. Her story is one of grace, patience, and secret strength — and now her spirit can dwell in your space in beautifully crafted ways. Acrylic Print — Sleek clarity capturing her timeless quiet beauty. Framed Print — A classic heirloom piece for a heart-centered home. Tote Bag — Carry her story with you — to markets, to forests, or wherever you wander. Greeting Card — Send a small, powerful blessing into someone else's world. Sticker — A tiny, mischievous reminder to listen for the quiet songs in life. Her Presence Lingers Long After the Song Whether decorating your favorite reading nook, becoming a cherished gift, or adding a whisper of magic to your day — her story is ready to walk beside yours. Explore the Full Collection →     Epilogue: And the Forest Just Kept Smiling Years later — deep in that same wild forest where it all began — they are still there. He Who Walks with Wind still gets lost on purpose sometimes. (Old habits, old boots.) He still carves her words into stones when he thinks she isn’t looking. And yes — he still sings badly to puddles on quiet mornings... because now she sings along. She Who Sings to Stones still listens for stories the wind forgets to tell. She still leaves him tiny gifts in strange places — feathers braided with wildflower threads tucked into his coat pocket, small heart-shaped stones placed along his wandering paths, notes scrawled with things like: "Don’t forget berries (Grumbletail is watching)." They built a home together — if you can call it that. Part cottage, part moss-covered miracle, part falling-apart-on-purpose. It smells of pine needles, old books, and laughter that never learned how to be quiet. The forest watches them — still — with that old, knowing smile. And the Animals? The squirrels still gossip (they always will). The owls still judge. The rabbits still host awkwardly loud dinners near their porch. But ask anyone — ask even the grumpiest badger — and they’ll tell you: This is how the best stories end. Not with grand adventures. Not with epic quests. But with two foolish souls who chose to stay — tangled together in feathers, stones, and all the wonderfully ordinary magic of forever. And Somewhere... Right Now... She’s humming. He’s tripping over a tree root. And the forest? Still smiling. Shop His Story → | Shop Her Story →

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

The Secret Life of a Dandelion

In a forgotten corner of a sunlit kitchen, where old wooden floorboards creaked like the sigh of memories, there sat a glass of water with a single dandelion seed head balanced inside. Its fragile white filaments shimmered faintly in the afternoon glow — a crown of wishes waiting for wind or wonder. But across from it — hanging slightly crooked on the wall — was a mirror. Not just any mirror, but one of those quiet, silver-framed relics from another era, the kind that felt heavier than its reflection, as though it remembered every gaze that had ever passed across it. And in this mirror, the dandelion was no longer a fragile thing clinging to what little time it had left. No — in the mirror’s world, the dandelion stood in full bloom, fierce and golden. A wild sun captured in petals. Bold where it had been delicate. Alive where it had seemed to be fading. It had always been this way. You see, mirrors — the real ones — don’t just show you what you are. They show you what you once dreamed of being. What you secretly still believe you could become. They show the hidden life humming inside quiet things. Day after day, the little seed head sat there, half-remembering how once, long ago, it had been golden too. When it had basked in fields uncut, standing tall against the breeze, unapologetic in its brightness. But time, as it does to all things, had softened it. Made it cautious. Fragile. Ready to let go rather than reach again. But this reflection — this impossible golden version of itself — had begun to whisper. Not with words. No, dandelions know better than that. With feeling. With quiet hope. With the restless ache of dreams deferred but never forgotten. And one night, long after the house had fallen silent, something extraordinary happened... Night of the Turning The house was asleep. Even the clock on the wall had quieted its ticking, as if time itself was holding its breath. The moon hung low, spilling silver across the wooden table where the dandelion sat — still, fragile, and impossibly aware of its own smallness. But the mirror had been waiting for this night. Some say mirrors lose their magic as we grow old. They say that reflections harden into truth and leave no space for dreams. But those people have never sat still enough — or long enough — to hear what mirrors whisper in the dark. “Remember,” the mirror hummed. Not in sound, but like a warm pressure just behind the bones of the chest. “Remember what it felt like... to be full of sun.” The dandelion quivered. Not from wind — there was none. But from something deeper. An ache. A pulse from long before it knew how to let go. The seed head trembled on its slender stem, brittle from waiting, from surviving. “You were never meant to stay small,” the mirror whispered. “You were never meant to fade quietly.” It was a ridiculous thought. The world had told the dandelion for weeks now — for seasons — that its time was over. That its beauty had passed. That its best chance was to scatter to the wind and hope to start over somewhere else. But not tonight. The Bloom Inside the Quiet Slowly, impossibly, the fragile threads of the seed head began to shimmer — not with light from the moon, but with something older. Something remembered. Hope is not loud. It is not the drumbeat of certainty or the blaze of guaranteed victory. Hope is quieter than breath. It is smaller than a seed. It is the ache of “maybe” in the chest when the world has said “no” for so long you almost believed it. And the dandelion — the small, forgotten, nearly gone dandelion — began to gather itself from the inside out. Not a transformation forced by magic or wishful thinking. No, this was the truest kind of change. The kind that grows in the dark. The kind that starts with belief. Petal by petal, color by color, the reflection was no longer only in the mirror. The golden bloom was rising from within. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But steadily. It wasn’t about being what it had been. It was about becoming what it still could be. Outside, the wind stirred — gentle, curious — brushing against the old wooden house like an old friend. And when dawn came, spilling gold across the floor, there sat the dandelion... no longer just a seed head. There it stood — quiet but fierce — crowned in golden bloom once more. Not because it had been forced. Not because someone had saved it. But because it remembered that dreams, like seeds, wait for the smallest crack of belief to bloom again. The Mirror's Secret And the mirror? Oh, the mirror simply smiled in its way. After all, that’s what it had been trying to tell the dandelion all along. Not all reflections are reminders of what we have lost. Some reflections are invitations to become.     Epilogue: For Those Who Wait Quietly Somewhere, perhaps in a kitchen much like yours, or on a windowsill nobody watches anymore, another dandelion waits. It waits with all its fragile parts — seeds that want to let go, roots that don’t remember how to stay, a heart grown tired of being told it is too late. But the mirror is still there. Somewhere. Everywhere. Waiting. Whispering. Not every bloom is for the wild fields. Not every golden crown rises in the open sun. Some are meant for quiet places. For still hearts. For those who have forgotten how bright they once burned. If you find yourself looking at your own reflection — in glass or water or memory — and all you see is what time has taken from you… Wait a little longer. There is a bloom inside you still. And some mornings — when the world holds its breath — even the smallest dream dares to rise again.     Bring the Story Home Every story deserves a place to live — even the quiet ones. The Secret Life of a Dandelion is more than just an image. It’s a reminder of what waits inside us all — of patience, resilience, and the quiet bravery of dreams not yet spoken. You can bring this story into your everyday world — as art, as gift, as a gentle nudge toward hope. Wood Prints — Rustic and timeless, perfect for quiet corners and thoughtful spaces. Metal Prints — Modern reflections that catch the light, much like the story itself. Tote Bags — Carry your dreams. Or your books. Or your quiet thoughts for the road. Greeting Cards — Share hope with someone who needs it most. Spiral Notebooks — Because stories — especially your own — deserve to be written down. Explore the full collection at shop.unfocussed.com. Let your space — or your gift — become part of the story.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Warden of the Arctic Heavens

The Legend Awakens High above the frozen world — somewhere between the last Wi-Fi signal and the first whisper of stardust — there lives a snow leopard unlike any other. Her name is Solvryn, though few mortals dare to utter it. Not because of fear — but because they usually can't pronounce it after three shots of glacial vodka. She is the Warden of the Arctic Heavens, the guardian of northern skies, and an unofficial therapist for lost souls who wander into her domain thinking it’s a great idea to "find themselves" in minus-40-degree weather. Solvryn wasn’t always celestial. She was once a regular snow leopard with killer instinct and an unhealthy obsession with napping on branches. But the universe has a wicked sense of humor. One night, as she lounged atop a frost-covered tree, watching the aurora ripple like cosmic mood lighting, a shooting star crashed — not with grace — but directly into her backside. Instead of instant vaporization (which frankly would have been easier), she sprouted wings. Feathery, luminous, ridiculous wings. Wings that ruined stealth hunting forever but made her look exceptionally photogenic on Instagram — if anyone ever made it up here alive with a signal. Of course, with wings came responsibility. An ancient voice boomed in her head, as all ancient voices do: "Rise, Solvryn, Warden of the Arctic Heavens. You must guard the northern skies, protect the balance of solitude and wonder, and occasionally knock sense into arrogant explorers who think the cold won't affect their phone batteries." And just like that, Solvryn began her eternal gig. She patrolled the winter realms, kept an eye on mischievous aurora spirits, and ensured the silence of snow remained unbroken — unless it was for a good laugh or an even better story. Still, on particularly long nights, she wondered: Was she destined for this forever? Was there more to being a guardian than frostbite prevention and dramatic wing poses? Little did she know, a challenge unlike any other was about to enter her territory — a wandering human with too much caffeine, zero common sense, and a destiny tied dangerously close to her own. The Human Problem The thing about humans is — they never read the signs. Not the cosmic ones. Not the wooden ones. Definitely not the ones with skull symbols and the words “TURN BACK” carved in twelve languages. Solvryn had seen them all. Mountain climbers powered by granola bars. Influencers searching for that “authentic wilderness aesthetic.” CEOs on a “spiritual retreat” hoping to expense enlightenment. But this one? This one was different. He tripped over his own snowshoes. He talked to himself — a lot. And worse, he argued with the Northern Lights like they were customer support. "Okay universe," he muttered loudly into the frozen air, "if you're listening, I could really use a sign that I'm not completely ruining my life." Solvryn, perched above him in full celestial glory, sighed the ancient sigh of a being who knows exactly what’s coming next. Because rules were rules. If a human asked for a sign — out loud — and they were within earshot of the Warden, she had to respond. She stretched her wings slowly, letting moonlight catch the edges just enough for maximum drama. She descended from her frosty perch with the casual elegance of a being who had absolutely had it with humanity’s nonsense. The man fell backwards into the snow, wide-eyed. "Holy — I knew this hike was a mistake." "Mistake?" Solvryn’s voice echoed through the trees — rich, smooth, slightly amused. "You walked twenty miles into the Arctic in discount hiking boots, armed only with optimism and protein bars. 'Mistake' is generous." The man blinked. "You... talk?" "Of course I talk. I’m not just here for the aesthetics." He scrambled to sit up, shivering, snow clinging to his beard like regret. "Are you... an angel? A spirit guide?" "Depends," Solvryn said, landing beside him with a soft crunch of snow. "Are you here to find inner peace, or did you just need a really aggressive life coach?" The Lesson No One Asked For Turns out, he was neither. His name was Eliot. A graphic designer from the city. Midlife crisis in progress. Divorced, burnt-out, spiritually empty — you know, the usual inspiration package. Solvryn listened — because wardens listen first, judge later. It’s more effective that way. He spoke of deadlines and loneliness. Of feeling invisible. Of scrolling through other people’s lives until his own felt like a poorly edited draft. And when he finally ran out of words — when the Arctic silence pressed against him like truth — Solvryn leaned in. "Listen closely, small warm-blooded disaster. The universe doesn’t care about your productivity metrics. It doesn’t reward suffering for suffering’s sake. But it does respond to courage — especially the courage to be still, to be quiet, to not know." Eliot stared up at her. "So… what? I should just… stop?" "No. You should begin — properly this time." The Guardian Code She unfurled her wings fully — a gesture both ridiculous and magnificent. Snowflakes glittered like tiny stars in the wake of her movement. "You want meaning? Make it. You want peace? Choose it. You want purpose? Earn it — not by running away from the noise, but by becoming immune to it." Eliot let the words settle like snowfall — slow, relentless, undeniable. Later, he would swear that the northern lights above them pulsed brighter, as if in approval. The Departure By dawn, Solvryn was gone — as guardians always are when their work is done. But Eliot — now guardian of his own story — walked back to civilization slower, lighter. He had no photos. No proof. No viral content. Only a strange feather tucked into his pocket — and a quiet, ferocious promise to live differently. The Arctic Whisper Far above, watching from her frozen branch, Solvryn chuckled quietly to herself. "Humans," she murmured. "So fragile. So lost. So gloriously capable of change." And with a powerful beat of her wings, the Warden of the Arctic Heavens soared into the endless blue — her watch never truly over.     Bring the Legend Home If Solvryn, the Warden of the Arctic Heavens, stirred something wild and wondrous in your soul — why not bring a piece of her mythic world into your own? Explore our exclusive collection of Warden of the Arctic Heavens art pieces — crafted for dreamers, wanderers, and guardians of their own quiet moments. Each item is designed to transform your space into a place of reflection, inspiration, and maybe — just maybe — a little magic. Woven Tapestry — Let Solvryn guard your walls in soft, textured beauty. Metal Print — Bold. Modern. Ready to outshine your neighbor's art collection. Fleece Blanket — Wrap yourself in celestial comfort. Approved for late-night existential pondering. Canvas Print — Classic. Elegant. Timeless as a winter sky. Let the legend live on — in your home, your story, your space.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Mushroom Mirth in Hedgehog Daze

The Prickle Awakens Deep in the glimmer-soaked underbrush of the Wobblewood Forest — where the mushrooms glow like disco balls and the trees hum vaporwave melodies after dark — there lived a hedgehog named Fuzzwort. Now Fuzzwort wasn’t your average forest critter. Oh no. This hedgehog had been sampling the mysterious mushroom caps of Wobblewood for, well... let’s just say "a long time" and leave it there. One particularly hazy afternoon, Fuzzwort awoke nestled between two bioluminescent toadstools, blinking his enormous cosmic-blue eyes — pupils dialed all the way out like saucers floating in space. "Whoa," he mumbled to no one. "Either I’m awake... or the forest downloaded a new skin pack." Stretching his tiny paws, he realized that sometime during the night, his quills had absorbed some of the psychedelic mushroom spores. They glimmered in swirly rainbow hues. "Wicked fashion upgrade," he giggled. "I am... Hedgehype Supreme." The Quest for the Crunchy Munchies His belly rumbled — not like a regular hungry noise — but like a tiny drum circle of woodland gnomes playing the bongos inside him. He needed snacks. Immediately. Preferably crunchy. Preferably within crawling distance because moving was, frankly, a negotiation right now. Slowly rolling himself into a little spiky ball, Fuzzwort tumbled downhill like a sentient mossy bowling ball. Mushrooms blurred past him in fractal patterns. He muttered, "Bro... trees shouldn’t have that many elbows." He bounced to a stop near a peculiar gathering of mushrooms. These weren’t just glowing — they were vibrating. "Ayy, what’s up, shroom bros?" he whispered reverently. They pulsed in response like they were beatboxing in slow motion. The Council of Shrooms A booming, spongy voice echoed in his head. "Fuzzwort... why dost thou rolleth so recklessly through our fungal fellowship?" Startled but still impressively chill, Fuzzwort replied, "Sorry, my dudes. I'm on a vision quest for some crunchy snacks. Also, I think my spine is growing tiny neon forests. Not complaining." The mushrooms collectively shimmied. "Seek ye the Snackshroom Grove," the voice replied. "But beware... it is guarded by the Lich Lizard of Eternal Vibes." "Heavy," Fuzzwort whispered, nodding solemnly. "Respect." Snackshroom Grove and the Lich Lizard of Eternal Vibes Fuzzwort rolled onward, carried by the subtle gravity of a snack-craving heart. The Wobblewood Forest grew increasingly surreal — the trees stretched sideways like rubber bands warming up for interpretive dance, while the moss whispered ancient limericks only slightly inappropriate for polite company. In the shimmering distance, beneath a canopy of glitter-dripping vines, the legendary Snackshroom Grove pulsed like the heartbeat of a funky bassline only forest creatures could hear. But standing between him and crispy victory... was him. Enter: The Lich Lizard of Eternal Vibes The creature slithered out from behind a kaleidoscope bush, scales glistening like oil spills on velvet. Wearing oversized sunglasses (indoors, naturally), the Lich Lizard exhaled a glowing cloud of sage-scented mystery and addressed Fuzzwort in a voice smooth as melted marshmallows. "Whoooo dares enter Snackshroom Grove... whilst rocking bioluminescent drip that sick?" Fuzzwort froze. Not from fear. No. From sheer admiration. "Whoa," he breathed. "Your vibes... they're... immaculate." The Lich Lizard did a slow-motion spin. "You're not so bad yourself, little orb of chaos. But the path to Snackshroom Grove is no free buffet." The Ritual of Chill Challenges The Lich Lizard gestured to a circle of vibrating stones. "To earn access to the sacred Crunchies, you must pass... The Trials of Chill." Fuzzwort nodded, feeling fate coil like a slinky in his gut. Trial One: The Dance-Off of Wiggly PrecisionHe had to out-wiggle a group of glow-worms synchronized like a K-pop flash mob. Fuzzwort summoned his inner disco hedgehog. Quills shimmering, feet barely obeying him, he spun in lazy circles that accidentally formed the shape of a cosmic fractal. The worms collapsed in awe. Pass. Trial Two: The Riddle of the Perpetually Confused SquirrelA squirrel hopped forward, eyes wide, holding an acorn that vibrated ominously. "If a mushroom falls in the woods but everyone's too baked to hear it... did it even drop?"Fuzzwort blinked, considered the eternal mystery, then replied, "Bro... maybe we’re the mushrooms."Silence. Then the squirrel gave him a tiny acorn fist-bump. Pass. Trial Three: The Patience of Eternal ChillHe had to sit perfectly still while a snail told its entire life story. It took three hours. It was... mostly about lettuce.Fuzzwort never flinched. Inner peace achieved. Pass. Snackshroom Grove Unlocked The Lich Lizard gave him a slow clap that echoed like tree trunks applauding in the wind. "Respect. Enter, young fuzzball." Fuzzwort stumbled into Snackshroom Grove and immediately lost all sense of linear time. The air was thick with the scent of earthy goodness. Mushrooms shaped like nacho chips. Tiny fungi that crunched like kettle-cooked potato magic. A bubbling brook flowing with chilled mushroom tea. He feasted. Oh, did he feast. After what felt like decades (but was probably 17 minutes), Fuzzwort lay on his back, belly round, paws behind his head, staring at the cosmic swirl of colors above. The Lesson of the Day The Lich Lizard materialized beside him, reclining effortlessly. "So, what did you learn today, little wanderer?" Fuzzwort squinted, thinking deeply. "That... snacks taste better when you've vibed with weird forest dudes and survived existential riddles from stoner squirrels." The Lich Lizard nodded solemnly. "Truest thing I've heard all century." Epilogue: The Return to Wobblewood Eventually, Fuzzwort rolled himself back toward his cozy patch of moss beneath the disco trees. Behind him, the Snackshroom Grove pulsed gently — always there for the next adventurer with a crunchy dream and an open heart. He whispered to the sky, "Stay weird, forest. Stay weird." THE END Or is it...?     Bring the Vibes Home Can't get enough of Fuzzwort's whimsical wanderings through Wobblewood? Now you can bring a piece of the Mushroom Mirth magic into your own space. Whether you're decking out your chill zone or gifting some forest-fueled joy, check out our Canvas Prints and Metal Prints for bold, vibrant wall art straight from Wobblewood itself. Feeling crafty? Stitch your own adventure with our Cross-Stitch Pattern, perfect for slow, mindful creating — just like Fuzzwort would want. Need something cozy to curl up with during your next snack quest? Grab a super-soft Throw Pillow, or pack your favorite crunchy finds in a magical Tote Bag. Shop the whole collection: Mushroom Mirth in Hedgehog Daze Product Line Stay weird. Stay wonderful. Stay unfocussed.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Glimpses of Gaia

The Eye in the Forest It began, as all ridiculous yet profound things do, with a terrible idea born from excellent wine. Somewhere deep in the tangled emerald forests of the forgotten world, an eccentric old monk named Tenzo Featherbeard was determined to find what the locals only whispered about: The Eye of Gaia. "It sees through all things," the innkeeper had warned, polishing his wooden mug with the reverence usually reserved for cathedrals or particularly stubborn goats. "Not just the skin of things... but their intentions." Tenzo, of course, took that as a challenge. Days turned to weeks. He wandered past glowing mushrooms that offered unsolicited advice. He stepped over meditating frogs so enlightened they levitated mid-ribbit. The forest was alive in a way that made him feel perpetually underdressed — emotionally, spiritually, and sartorially. Then one night, beneath a sky so full of stars it looked like spilled sugar, he found it. Embedded in the bark of an ancient tree was an enormous eye — scales like sapphire armor surrounding a hypnotic iris of burning gold and shifting emerald. The lashes were delicate vines tipped with bioluminescent petals. It blinked — not with hostility, but with... curiosity? Tenzo, being Tenzo, bowed dramatically and said, "Hello, you luminous ocular enigma. Care for a conversation?" The forest held its breath. Then — from deep within the roots and leaves — came the warm, velvet voice of Gaia herself: "Human. Why do you seek me?" Without hesitation — and still slightly drunk on the fermented sap of a mischievous tree — Tenzo replied: "Because I’ve lost my socks. And possibly, myself." Gaia laughed — a sound like rivers learning to giggle. The eye sparkled with cosmic amusement. "Sit, monk. Let us speak of lost things." And so he sat — cross-legged upon a mossy stone shaped suspiciously like a buttock — ready to hear truths he would likely misunderstand in the most beautiful way possible. Conversations with an Ancient Eye For what may have been hours, days, or several reincarnations of the same particularly stubborn beetle, Tenzo sat before the Eye of Gaia, basking in its strange warmth — like the feeling of sunlight filtered through an old library window, dust motes included. Gaia spoke again — her voice now slower, thicker — as if poured from an ancient teapot rarely used except for very important guests or bewildered monks: "Human. Tell me of these... socks." Tenzo sighed. "They were soft. Very soft. Handmade from the wool of a laughing mountain goat. Lost them during a bout of contemplative streaking after my enlightenment practice went sideways." The eye blinked slowly. "Ah. Attachment." "Also," Tenzo added with the gravity of a man truly pondering the universe, "they matched." The forest hummed with gentle laughter. Leaves quivered. A nearby caterpillar paused mid-transformation just to listen. The Teachings Begin (Sort of) "Human," Gaia intoned, "All things are lost eventually. Socks. Ego. Even planets. What matters is not possession... but presence." Tenzo scratched his beard thoughtfully. "So you're saying... I should go barefoot forever?" "No," she replied, "I'm saying that seeking what is lost externally often blinds one to what is already found internally." Tenzo considered this deeply, as deeply as one can while a squirrel braids your hair uninvited. The Eye Shows Him the Way Without warning, the eye dilated — rippling outward in honeycomb fractals of glowing color — pulling Tenzo into a vision. He saw himself — old, wrinkled, absurdly content — sitting on a mountain peak wearing no socks, but smiling so fully that even the wind paused to admire it. He saw villages thriving because he shared laughter instead of wisdom. He saw forests blooming because he sang off-key to them nightly. He saw lovers, friends, strangers — all touched by the presence of a foolish, barefoot monk who once lost his socks but found himself utterly... here. The Return When he awoke, the Eye of Gaia shimmered with approval. "So," Tenzo said, standing on impossibly clean forest moss, "What you're saying is... the socks were never the point." "Precisely." He bowed low. "Can I ask one last question?" "Ask." "Where the hell am I going to get more goat-wool socks? Winter is coming." The forest roared with laughter. Trees shook. Petals fell like confetti. Even the stone beneath him pulsed as if giggling. And then — just as the first morning light crested the treetops — a small, neatly wrapped bundle fell from a high branch onto his head. Inside? The softest, warmest, utterly mismatched pair of socks he had ever seen — woven from the fibers of forest dreams themselves. Epilogue: The Way Forward Tenzo Featherbeard left the forest that day not as a man who had lost something — but as one who realized everything worth having was already walking with him. His legend spread — not because he found the Eye of Gaia — but because he listened, laughed, and never took himself too seriously again. Years later, people still speak of him as the barefoot sage with mismatched socks — who taught the world that sometimes the universe gives you what you need... the moment you stop demanding it look the way you expected. And the Eye? It still watches — waiting patiently for the next fool wise enough to be ridiculous.     Bring a Glimpse of Gaia Home Perhaps, like Tenzo, you've found yourself wandering — seeking signs, symbols, or maybe just a really good pair of socks. While the forest may keep its secrets, the magic of this story lives on beyond the trees. Inspired by the very vision Tenzo discovered, you can carry your own piece of Gaia's wonder into your daily life: Metal Prints — Bold, luminous, and ready to hang in your sacred space. Acrylic Prints — For those who see clearly even when reality bends a little. Tote Bags — Because wisdom (and snacks) should travel well. Round Beach Towels — Perfect for meditation, storytelling, or sand-covered enlightenment. Cross-Stitch Pattern — For creators who know every stitch is a mantra. Every piece is a glimpse, a reminder, a quiet nudge from Gaia herself: Be present. Laugh often. Lose your socks. Find yourself.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Aubade in the Enchanted Forest

The first light of dawn shimmered through the whispering canopy of the Enchanted Forest. The trees — ancient sentinels with leaves like stained glass — cast a kaleidoscope of colors over the soft, moss-laden earth. There was a stillness in the air, the kind only found at the fragile seam between night’s last breath and day’s first awakening. She was called Liora — a wanderer, a listener, a quiet soul in search of nothing but presence itself. Her long dress of woven silk, kissed by the hues of wildflowers and moonlit streams, trailed behind her like a river of forgotten dreams. The path beneath her bare feet wasn’t marked by signs or boundaries; it formed gently as she moved — conjured by intention, not direction. The forest greeted her not with sound, but with feeling — the hum of ancient roots intertwined beneath the earth, the scent of warm cedar and soft blooms unfurling to the sky, the faint pulse of life both hidden and omnipresent. Even the stones beneath her steps seemed to release their breath after a thousand years of patient waiting. Liora walked slowly, as if time itself had loosened its grip on her. Every step was deliberate, an offering of stillness to a world overwhelmed by noise. She paused often — to touch the velvet petals of unfamiliar flowers, to trace the grooves of bark older than memory, to feel the cool pulse of stones nestled like sleeping hearts among the moss. It was here — in the sacred hush of the forest — that serenity did not need to be chased. It waited, quietly, for those willing to slow down enough to meet it. Liora was one of the few who knew this. The Aubade Garden At the heart of the forest, beyond a gentle curve in the path, there lay the Aubade Garden — a hidden grove bathed in soft morning light, where spherical blooms of impossible colors blanketed the ground like a dream made real. It was said that those who reached the Aubade Garden were granted not wishes — but clarity. Clarity not of answers — but of questions. Liora stepped into the clearing. Her breath caught — not in awe, but in gratitude. The garden was untouched by human desire. It was not meant to be conquered or consumed. It was simply to be shared — for as long as one's heart could stay quiet enough to listen. The trees stood tall around her, their trunks rising like pillars in a temple built by time. Above her, the sun’s first golden rays poured through the canopy, igniting the blossoms beneath her feet. It was not loud. It was not dramatic. It was — simply — a beginning. And so Liora sat, folding herself gently into the earth, her dress spreading like a second layer of petals across the enchanted floor. She closed her eyes. The forest breathed with her. Here, there were no lessons. No declarations. Only being. And in the stillness — she waited for the dawn’s full embrace. The Silent Dialogue Time, in the Aubade Garden, dissolved into something softer — something that did not measure itself in hours or minutes, but in the rhythms of breath and the slow unfolding of petals. Liora did not need to name this feeling. It was beyond words, woven into the very bones of the forest itself. As she sat in stillness, an invisible dialogue began between herself and the world around her. Not a conversation of speech — but of exchange. She gave her presence freely, without expectation. In return, the forest offered its secrets — delicate, quiet gifts unnoticed by those who rushed through life’s corridors. Over time, a warmth settled into her chest. Not a fiery blaze — but a gentle ember, steady and grounding. She could feel the pulse of roots beneath her, tracing their way like forgotten rivers beneath the surface of the earth. Every tree, every flower, every stone — was part of the same breath. It occurred to her that serenity was not absence — not the escape from life — but a fuller presence within it. The forest did not deny sorrow, nor did it pretend away hardship. It held space for all things — joy and grief, light and shadow — without judgment. And in doing so, it healed without effort. The Arrival of the Sun The first true rays of the morning sun crept across the treetops, cascading downward like golden silk. The spheres of color surrounding her began to glow, not with an unnatural light, but as if reflecting an inner luminescence — the quiet radiance of existence itself. Birdsong arrived — not hurried or loud — but as a gentle greeting. Each note a thread in a larger tapestry of sound. The breeze, playful yet respectful, tugged softly at her hair, carrying with it the scent of distant rain and blooming earth. Liora opened her eyes slowly. Nothing had changed — and yet everything had shifted. The forest was the same. She was the same. But within her was a clarity that words could not shape. A knowing that she belonged here — as she belonged everywhere — not as a conqueror or an intruder, but as a quiet witness to the world's unfolding beauty. The Path Forward She rose without rush. Her dress shimmered, catching the morning light like woven dawn. As she stepped forward, the ground responded — the path blooming anew beneath her feet, soft petals unfurling to mark her journey without disturbing the living tapestry around her. The way home was not marked by signs or stones. It was marked only by trust — trust in the world’s quiet rhythms, trust in her own heart's ability to listen. The Aubade Garden faded behind her — not in distance, but in presence — a sacred place that required nothing but remembrance to revisit. And so she walked — not away, but forward — carrying with her the serenity of the Enchanted Forest. The calm did not remain behind her; it lived within her now, a quiet companion through all the noise of the outside world.     Epilogue: The Forest Beyond the Forest Long after her footsteps had faded from the moss-laden paths, the Enchanted Forest remained — untouched, eternal, quietly alive. It asked for no memory. It required no proof. Those who had truly been there carried its essence not in photographs or souvenirs — but in the softened edges of their lives. For Liora, the forest had never been left behind. It echoed in the way she touched the world — in her patient gaze, in the unhurried grace of her movements, in the gentle silences she allowed to bloom between words. Sometimes — in quiet moments — she would pause wherever she was: beneath a city tree, on a sunlit balcony, or beside a river flowing through unfamiliar lands. And she would feel it again — that subtle hum beneath all things. The forest within the forest. The garden beyond the garden. And perhaps that was the truest magic of all — that serenity was not a place to find, but a way to be. A living, breathing aubade — offered again and again to the waking world, for anyone willing to listen.     Bring the Serenity Home The quiet calm of the Enchanted Forest need not stay within the pages of a story. For those wishing to carry its stillness into their daily spaces, curated creations inspired by Aubade in the Enchanted Forest are available — crafted to transform your home into a reflection of tranquility and wonder. Wrap yourself in softness, surround your space with vivid colors, or bring moments of mindful creativity into your day — all while supporting the artistry of Bill & Linda Tiepelman. Wall Tapestry — Let the forest bloom across your walls. Metal Print — Vibrant, enduring reflections of the enchanted grove. Throw Pillow — A soft place to rest, inspired by forest calm. Fleece Blanket — Wrap yourself in warmth and wonder. Cross-Stitch Pattern — A meditative creation of the forest's beauty by your own hand. Let the story live with you — not just in memory, but in the peaceful presence of your home.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Arboreal Symphony in Fractal Major

The roots hummed long before she heard them. Deep beneath the woven surface of existence, the Tree of Resonance was never silent. It pulsed — slowly — with tones beyond human frequency, casting fractal harmonics into the soul of the earth. Lyra stepped barefoot onto the veined carpet of spiraling color. She was not here to conquer, to pluck wisdom like fruit, or to carve her name into ancient bark. She came only to listen. The landscape unfolded in spiraled fractals of luminous vines and coiling roots, their forms impossibly organic yet touched with mathematical precision. Every twist and curve felt deliberate — as if designed by nature and music in secret collaboration. The Breath of the Tree Standing before the impossibly vibrant trunk, Lyra closed her eyes. She could feel the slow inhalation of the Arboreal Giant — not through lungs — but through an ancient rhythm woven into the core of existence. A pulse synchronized with tides, seasons, breath itself. Here, silence wasn’t empty. It was full. It draped around her shoulders like a cloak of invisible threads, connecting her to every rooted tendril beneath her feet, every distant bough above, unfurling into a sky woven from gradients of light. Her thoughts began to dissolve, not into nothingness — but into everything. The concept of separation softened. She was the tree. The tree was her. The infinite dance of roots and branches mirrored her own inner labyrinth of memory, emotion, and longing. Resonance and Release The Arboreal Symphony required no audience, but welcomed all. It had sung before language. Before gods. Before stars knew their names. And here, within its embrace, Lyra could feel the residue of countless souls who had stood where she stood — seekers, wanderers, the lost and the found. Colors shifted with intention. Blues softened into greens, greens ignited into fire-warm gold. The roots at her feet spiraled outward — not to possess, but to guide. They showed her paths she had forgotten existed — internal paths. Emotional rivers buried beneath layers of noise and duty. And so she breathed — not with lungs, but with being. She became rhythm. She became stillness. The tree did not heal her because she was never broken. It simply reminded her of the shape of her own song, lost beneath the static of a too-loud world. A Pause Before Descent As the sun’s fractal light bent and refracted across the infinite leaves, Lyra smiled with no reason beyond presence itself. She would descend soon, return to the world of movement and memory. But not yet. For now, she remained part of the Arboreal Symphony — a singular note in a melody older than time — held gently in the arms of fractal infinity. Descent into the Roots When Lyra moved again, it was without urgency. The tree had shifted around her. Not physically — the roots and branches remained — but perception had altered. What was once external was now a mirror. Every spiral of color beneath her bare feet echoed with her own pulse. She walked toward the base of the tree, its roots parting not in invitation, but in quiet acknowledgment. There was no gatekeeper here. No threshold guarded by ritual or code. The only key was presence. The only cost was time surrendered to stillness. The roots formed passages — arched like cathedrals, carved not by tools, but by patient growth and ancient will. Fractal patterns of light streamed through porous surfaces, cascading in hues that defied earthly language: azure that whispered memory, crimson that pulsed with forgotten names, golden light spun from the laughter of leaves. The Chamber of Echoes Lyra found herself in a hollow — vast, but intimate. At its center pulsed the Heart Root — not a beating organ, but a luminous braid of energy weaving through the earth and sky. Its sound was not heard but felt, vibrating in the bones, in the blood, in the spaces between atoms. She sat upon smooth spirals of coiled wood, letting her fingers drift through tendrils of luminous moss. There were no instructions. No expectations. Only resonance. Here she remembered. Not memories tied to narrative — not stories of who she had been — but memories older than thought. The memory of wind against newborn skin. The memory of sun-warmed stones beneath childhood feet. The memory of tears without sorrow. Laughter without reason. Integration When Lyra rose — hours or years later, time meaningless in the tree's embrace — she was not changed. She was revealed. Layers of false weight dissolved, leaving only clarity. The fractal pathways led her upward — not out — but through. Every step traced with light. Every breath a return. She emerged beneath the tree's infinite crown as night fell, the sky strewn with stars that felt impossibly close, as if she could reach up and trace their edges with her fingertips. The Symphony continued — unbroken, unending — and Lyra carried its melody within her. Not as a possession, but as a remembering. A knowing that would hum beneath her every step, her every word, long after she left this place of luminous roots and infinite branches. Stillness in Motion As she walked away, the landscape did not fade — it folded into her. The fractal tree receded not because it vanished, but because it was everywhere. Beneath stone. Beneath city. Beneath skin. It was not a place she would return to — because it had never been separate. Lyra was not the same. But she had always been whole.     Epilogue: The Quiet Between Moments Long after Lyra returned to the weaving patterns of human life — the soft hum of conversation, the brittle glow of city lights, the pull of tasks and time — the Symphony remained. It whispered in pauses. In the steam curling from morning tea. In the hush of twilight when shadows lengthened like memories returning home. In the subtle ache behind the heart when longing stirred without name or reason. The Tree of Resonance was not a distant wonder buried in a forgotten forest. It was the architecture of stillness — a map etched in the marrow of all things. Every street corner, every crowded room, every moment of solitude held its rhythm if one only listened. And so Lyra did. She became the listener. The walker-between. The weaver of quiet threads invisible to the hurried eye. Not seeking answers. Not chasing peace. But living as melody — presence unfolding note by note — in the infinite Arboreal Symphony that never truly ended.     Bring the Symphony Into Your Space The Arboreal Symphony does not belong to a distant realm alone — it can live with you, woven into the quiet spaces of your home, reminding you of stillness, connection, and wonder. Explore inspired creations featuring the vibrant fractal essence of Arboreal Symphony in Fractal Major — available in artful and functional forms to infuse your surroundings with calm and color: Cross Stitch Pattern — Craft your own reflection of the Symphony Tapestry — A wall-hung canvas of fractal serenity Canvas Print — Art for meditative spaces Fleece Blanket — Wrap yourself in color and calm Bath Towel — Everyday moments infused with vibrant energy Let the Symphony accompany you — as art, as comfort, as a gentle reminder that connection and beauty live not only in faraway places, but right here, within reach.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Squirrely Monroe

The Rise of a Forest Icon Long before the world knew her as Squirrely Monroe, she was just another bushy-tailed dreamer from the oak-lined backstreets of Central Park. Born in a hollowed-out tree with bad insulation and worse neighbors (woodpeckers, of course), little Norma Nutbaker had one dream — to be seen. Other squirrels were content chasing acorns and dodging cyclists. But not her. Not Norma. She practiced strutting along fallen branches like a catwalk. She nibbled seductively on pinecones. She whispered her famous line into the wind every night: "Some like it rough... but I like it nutty." The City That Never Sleeps (Because of Raccoons) By the time she was two (about 20 in squirrel years), she hit the underground scene — quite literally. The storm drain scene. Central Park's secret nightlife thrived beneath the grates. There were jazz mice. Dancing possums. And if you were lucky? You might catch a glimpse of Norma's famous tail swirl — the twirl that would later grace murals on tree trunks everywhere. But fame has a way of finding those who shine hardest. One breezy autumn afternoon, while foraging near 5th Avenue, she stumbled upon the moment that would define her forever... The Breeze Heard 'Round the Park She stood above a subway grate. It hummed below her like the purr of a big city engine. And then — whooooooosh — the wind caught her simple little leaf-sewn dress, sending it billowing skyward in a scandalous flurry of forest fashion. A passing pigeon paparazzi captured the moment. Within hours, she wasn’t Norma Nutbaker anymore. She Was Squirrely Monroe. Forest creatures whispered about it over mushroom cappuccinos. Raccoons tried to imitate it (poorly). And chipmunks... well, they blushed just thinking about it. But fame is never just fun and acorns, darling. Behind the glamour... was a squirrel still searching for something more. Fame, Fur, and Forbidden Nuts The High Life in the Tall Trees Overnight, Squirrely Monroe became the name whispered across the treetops. She graced the covers of every leaf-laminated magazine from Acorn Vogue to Squirrel Illustrated. Her signature look? Soft platinum fur curls (styled with dew from rare morning grass) and that windswept leaf dress — now sold in boutique burrows at frankly scandalous markups. But forest fame came at a cost. Every twig-snapping paparazzi raccoon wanted a piece of her. Even worse? Her love life became headline fodder. Enter: Reynard Fox — The Scandal of the Season Reynard was trouble. A red-furred indie actor from the West Woods. Known for his smoldering eyes, questionable poetry, and tragic allergy to beechnuts. The tabloids went wild: "SQUIRRELY FALLS FOR BAD BOY FOX — WILL IT LAST?" It didn’t. Reynard was seen one night slipping into The Burrow Room — an exclusive underground club for forest elite — with a rival socialite: Trixie Chipmint, heiress to the Minted Nut fortune. Squirrely was devastated. Heartbroken. The forest stood still. The Comeback of a Lifetime But if the world thought Squirrely Monroe would vanish quietly into the hollow... they didn’t know her at all. She retreated deep into Central Park — to a forgotten maple grove where the wind blew wild and free. There, she crafted her masterpiece performance: a one-squirrel stage show titled "Nutting Like A Woman" — a raw, funny, painfully honest story of love, fame, and survival in a world that only saw the tail, not the heart. The premiere? Legendary. Critics declared it: "A triumph of fur, fashion, and vulnerability." Her Final Bow (For Now) Today, Squirrely Monroe lives a quieter life — at least by squirrel standards. She hosts late-night fireside interviews for Nutflix, mentors young chipmunk actresses, and occasionally reenacts the pose — leaf dress swirling — for charity fundraisers benefiting displaced urban wildlife. But if you wander Central Park late at night... and listen carefully beneath the hum of the city’s heartbeat... You might just hear her famous line float through the trees: "Some like it rough... but I like it nutty." And somewhere, a squirrel dreams of being seen — just like she once did.     Epilogue: The Wind Still Remembers Her Years have passed. The city grows louder. The trees thinner. The grates rust over with time and footsteps forgotten. But not her. Every once in a while — on a warm summer night when the subway hums beneath the streets and the breeze rises just right — there’s a rustle above Central Park’s oldest grate. Some say it’s the wind. Some say it’s legend. But those who know? They pause. They smile. And they whisper to the night air: "Goodnight, Squirrely Monroe." Because icons never really leave us. They just become part of the stories we tell... when the wind feels just a little more glamorous.     Bring a Little Squirrely Monroe Home Love a little glam with your wild side? Take a piece of forest fame home with you. The iconic moment that made Squirrely Monroe a legend is now available as stunning wall art, cheeky accessories, and collector-worthy keepsakes. Canvas Prints — Bold, beautiful, and ready to steal the spotlight on your wall. Framed Prints — Classy enough for the burrow or the boardroom. Tote Bags — For carrying nuts, secrets, or just a whole lot of style. Stickers — Tiny, sassy, and ready to adorn your world one acorn at a time. Because glamour never really goes out of style — it just grows fluffier.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Sunset Whiskers of Joy

The Roar Before the Nap There once was a tiger cub named Kip. Not King Kip. Not Sir Kip. Just... Kip. And Kip had opinions. About everything. The jungle, for starters, was absolutely not up to his standards. "Too pokey," he would complain, tripping dramatically over a vine. "Too loud," he grumbled at the squawking parrots like a tiny, judgmental old man. And the sun? Oh, the sun was personally trying to ruin his life. "Rude," he declared every morning when it dared to rise directly into his sleepy eyes. But tonight — oh, tonight was different. The sunset was a warm golden hug across the treetops. Kip could feel it. Something was building. Energy. Mischief. Drama. The world, for one shining moment, was about to revolve around him — and honestly, about time. With a wobbly little stretch of his fuzzy arms, Kip stood up on his hind legs. He wasn’t exactly built for this. Tiny paws wiggled in the air like confused baby stars. His tail flicked like a metronome set to 'sass.' "Look at me!" Kip roared — which, to anyone else, sounded a lot like an aggressive sneeze mixed with a hiccup. "I AM THE JOY. I AM THE SUNSET. I AM... HUNGRY." But there was no stopping him now. He squeezed his little eyes shut in absolute, dramatic glee. A grin stretched across his face like a stripe of moonlight. Tongue out. Teeth sharp. Tiny bean-paw pads flexed with raw, feral delight. Somewhere, a very serious owl judged him from a tree branch. But Kip didn’t care. He was, for this one perfect moment, the undisputed king of nonsense. The wild prince of sunset silliness. And absolutely, positively... ready to cause problems on purpose. And maybe... just maybe... ready for a snack. The Snack Attack Chronicles Kip had peaked. He knew it. There he stood — still awkwardly on his hind legs like some unholy mix of majestic jungle predator and undercooked breadstick — bathed in sunset glory. Oh, the drama. The pageantry. The glow of absolute nonsense radiating off his fur like he was the headline act in nature’s most unhinged musical. But reality, as it often does, came clawing back with one simple, inconvenient truth. "Snack. Need snack. Must acquire snack," Kip whispered with the raw intensity of someone who had once tried to eat a decorative rock out of boredom. (It had not gone well. He still wasn’t over it.) The problem was... the jungle was being difficult again. Everything edible was either too fast, too spiky, or — in one outrageous case — capable of biting back. Kip had opinions about that too. "If snacks don’t want to be eaten," he grumbled to himself, stomping in a very non-threatening way, "then maybe they should stop looking like snacks. Rude." He slumped dramatically into a patch of soft moss, sighing the sigh of someone who was absolutely starving despite eating six lizards and half a papaya earlier. His tiny tiger belly gurgled in betrayal. "Unbelievable. This is a crisis." And that’s when it happened. Rustle. Rustle. CRUNCH. Kip’s ears perked up so fast they practically levitated. His entire body tensed like a wound-up spring of fluffy disaster. His inner monologue hit maximum overthink: Is that food? Is that dangerous food? Is it snack-shaped? Snack-adjacent? Snack-adjacent-with-fangs? Do I care? No. He launched himself — with all the grace of a wet sock — directly into the bushes. What he found there would change the trajectory of his evening forever. It was not a snake. Not a lizard. Not even a stray jungle fruit (which, to be honest, were becoming a little tedious anyway). It was... a troop of tiny, wide-eyed monkeys. And they were eating — wait for it — cookies. Jungle cookies. The good kind. Sweet, sticky, questionably sourced, possibly stolen from some absent-minded forest traveler. Kip could barely handle it. His brain short-circuited. I want it. One of the monkeys noticed him. It paused mid-bite. A single crumb fell in slow motion. For a heartbeat, the whole jungle held its breath. Kip did not. "HELLO YES IT IS I," he announced in full uninvited-main-character mode. "I WILL BE TAKING YOUR COOKIES NOW. THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE." The monkeys blinked. Kip blinked. No one moved. Then — utter chaos. Monkeys scattered like confetti at a party he wasn’t technically invited to (but absolutely considered himself the guest of honor). Kip, driven by sugar-lust and absolute goblin energy, gave chase. He zigged. He zagged. He rolled dramatically down a small hill because apparently his legs had never done cardio before. But in the end — oh, the glorious end — a single, sticky cookie was left behind. Forgotten. Abandoned. His prize. He pounced. Victory tasted like questionable jungle molasses and adventure. Also, dirt. But mostly victory. With a self-satisfied flop onto his back, Kip cradled the cookie between his tiny paws, sighing deeply like a creature who had just survived a great battle — against himself, mostly. The sun dipped below the trees. The sky melted into purples and golds. The jungle exhaled. And Kip, the bratty, chaotic, ridiculous little prince of his own nonsense universe, whispered to no one in particular: "I am the joy. I am the sunset. I am... absolutely not sharing." And for once — no one argued.     Epilogue: His Royal Crumbliness Later — much later — long after the sunset had melted into twilight and the jungle was whispering its nighttime secrets, Kip was still awake. He was lying belly-up in a soft nest of moss, paws splayed, crumbs everywhere. Cookie crumbs in his whiskers. Cookie crumbs in his ear fluff. Cookie crumbs in places cookie crumbs simply should not be. Did he regret anything? Absolutely not. Was he mildly stuck to the moss like a forgotten jungle marshmallow? ...Also yes. But that was future Kip’s problem. Present Kip was far too pleased with himself to care. He gazed lazily at the stars poking through the canopy, imagining — with the full delusional confidence only a baby tiger can possess — that they were twinkling just for him. "Royalty," he whispered smugly to a particularly judgmental cricket nearby. "Absolute royalty." The cricket did not reply. Somewhere in the distance, the monkey troop plotted cookie security upgrades. Somewhere else, the serious owl shook its head and muttered something about "today’s youth." But Kip? Kip smiled in his sleep, his tiny tail twitching in dreams of snacks, sunsets, and being exactly — gloriously — too much. Long may he reign.     Bring Kip's Joy Into Your World If Kip’s wild little adventure made you grin (or if you, too, have a chaotic snack-loving spirit), you can bring a piece of his sunset joy into your space. Sunset Whiskers of Joy by Bill and Linda Tiepelman is available as a range of stunning products — perfect for gifting, decorating, or just treating yourself to a little everyday magic. Soft Tapestries — Wrap your walls (or yourself) in Kip’s golden glow. Metal Prints — For bold spaces that deserve a bold little tiger prince. Fleece Blankets — Maximum cozy. Maximum Kip energy. Bath Towels — Because why shouldn’t your towel be as dramatic as you? Greeting Cards — Share a little joy (or sass) with someone who needs it. Shop the full collection and bring Kip’s cheeky little roar into your world: View All Sunset Whiskers of Joy Products.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Midnight Clutch

The Transaction It started with a bet—because it always does. A bar too loud for conscience and too dim for decency, a stranger in a velvet hood, and a wager scribbled on a napkin: “If you win, you get what I caught. If you lose, I take your voice.” She laughed then, because she always did. “What the hell does that mean?” she’d asked, swirling her drink, blood-red and twice as toxic. The stranger didn’t answer. He just held out a deck of cards that smelled faintly of sulfur and old leather. She cut the deck, felt a zap under her fingertips, like licking a battery—but she was half-lit, halfway gone, and too proud to pull back. Three hands later, she won. Technically. She expected a bag of weird drugs. Maybe a wriggling thing in a jar. What she got was… warm. Alive. And looking at her like it already hated her guts. “You’re kidding,” she said, staring at the demon no bigger than a housecat, curled in the stranger’s black-gloved palm like a spoiled reptile. Its skin was wet, slick with blood or something trying to be it, and its teeth were small but too many. Its eyes were older than rules. It blinked—slow and smug. “He’s yours now,” the stranger said, voice like gravel in honey. “Don't name him. Don’t feed him after midnight. Don’t masturbate while he’s watching.” She choked on her drink. “Wait, what?” But the stranger was already fading into shadow, melting into the cigarette smoke and regret that passed for air in that place. All that was left was the creature in her lap, blinking its oily eyes and dragging a claw down her thigh like it was mapping her for later consumption. She didn’t name it. She called it “Dude.” “You better not piss on anything important,” she muttered, already regretting everything but the free drinks. The thing purred. Which was worse than any snarl. By sunrise, her apartment smelled like scorched leather and strange flowers. “Dude” had taken up residence in her lingerie drawer, hissed at her vibrator, and made three of her plants wilt just by looking at them. She watched him perch in her hand like some Satanic chihuahua, wings twitching, tail wrapped tight around her middle finger. That’s when she noticed: her thumb nail—bare just yesterday—was now painted crimson and sharp. Like it had grown that way. She stared at it. Then at the demon. “Dude,” she said, voice low and unsure, “are you doing... nail art?” He smiled. It was all teeth and bad news. And that’s when the scratching started. From inside the walls. The Claw That Feeds By the third night, Dude had claimed dominance over the television, her bedroom, and—possibly—her soul. She hadn’t slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him: curled up like a grotesque fetus in the glow of the lamp, wings twitching, muttering in a language made entirely of consonants and war crimes. He smelled like brimstone, black licorice, and regret. Her cat had moved out. Her neighbors started leaving butcher paper on her doorstep. No one had explained why. Worse, the nail thing had escalated. All ten fingers now gleamed with blood-red lacquer, sharp enough to open envelopes or jugulars. She’d broken a mug just holding it. Her touch left scorch marks. A guy on Tinder said he was into “witchy girls” and ended up sobbing in a fetal position after she touched his thigh. “Dude,” she hissed, watching the little bastard lick something off her phone charger, “I need my life back.” He burped. It smelled like ozone and roasted anxiety. She Googled “how to reverse demonic contract” and ended up on a blog run by a guy named Craig who lived in a bunker and sold artisanal salt circles. She bought two, just in case. They did nothing. Dude pissed in one and it screamed. The scratching in the walls had turned into whispering. Sometimes it said her name. Sometimes it just recited Yelp reviews in a dead language. Once it tried to sell her life insurance. She tried holy water. Dude drank it like wine, then offered her a sip. She blacked out and woke up on her bathroom floor with her mirror cracked and her teeth cleaner than they’d ever been. Her breath smelled like cinnamon and sin. “I don’t remember giving consent to any of this,” she muttered. Dude winked. It was awful. By week two, her landlord knocked. “There’ve been complaints,” he said, squinting past her at the flickering hallway behind her. “Someone said you’re running a cult or a TikTok house.” She blinked. “I work in HR.” Behind her, Dude appeared in the shadows, eating a Pop-Tart and making intense eye contact with the landlord. The man turned white, left a notice, and moved to Colorado the next day. At some point—she’s not sure when—her reflection started moving slower than she did. It smiled sometimes. When she wasn’t. Then came the night of the knock. Not on the door—on the window. Seventh floor. No balcony. She opened it. Because of course she did. The velvet-hooded stranger was there again, hovering just outside, suspended by logic-defying darkness. His gloved hand was extended, the red nails glinting in the moonlight. “You’ve kept him well,” he said, voice like a slow drag over gravel. “And now the second half of the deal.” “There was a second half?” she asked, already regretting every drink she’d ever accepted from strangers. “He chose you. That means... promotion.” Behind her, Dude fluttered up, perched on her shoulder like the worst shoulder devil in a sitcom gone to hell. He whispered something in her ear that made her eyes roll back and her feet lift off the ground. The room trembled. The walls began bleeding down the drywall like melting crayon. Her toenails turned crimson. Her Wi-Fi signal improved. Her laughter—dry, cracked, and unstoppable—filled the air like static. When the world stopped shaking, she stood taller, eyes rimmed in black fire, her body laced in dark silk that hadn’t been there before. “Well,” she said, smirking at her clawed hand, “at least the nails are killer.” The stranger nodded. “Welcome to management.” And just like that, she vanished into shadow, taking Dude, the Pop-Tart crumbs, and the lingering smell of sin with her. The apartment was empty when the cleaning crew arrived. Except for a single note scrawled on the mirror: “Midnight Clutch: Hold tight, or be held.”     🩶 Take It Home — Midnight Clutch Lives On If you’ve fallen for the twisted charm of “Midnight Clutch,” you can now summon the darkness into your space. Bring this demonic vision to life with Canvas Prints, cast it across your lair with an epic Tapestry, or carry your sins in style with a Tote Bag. Want to snuggle the madness? Yeah, we’ve got a Throw Pillow for that. Clutch it. Display it. Offer it to your weirdest friend. Just don’t feed it after midnight.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Hoppy Hour Hideaway

The Gnome, the Beer, and the Basement of Broken Dreams There are gnomes, and then there's Stigmund Ferndingle—a retired mischief-maker turned full-time beer philosopher. While most garden gnomes settle for standing around birdbaths and silently judging your lack of weeding, Stig had different aspirations. He was done with the ceramic life. He wanted hops. He wanted barley. He wanted to forget the Great Hedge Trimmer Massacre of ’98, one Heineken at a time. He set up shop in what used to be the damp, haunted corner of an old farmhouse basement—now lovingly renamed “The Hideaway.” With cracked plaster walls and a cooler older than most midlife crises, it was everything he never dreamed of and settled for anyway. He even had a sign, crudely etched in bark, that read: "No Elves, No Fairies, No Bullshit." Stigmund wasn’t picky, just jaded. Life had smacked him with one too many acorns. He didn’t trust anyone under four feet tall or sober enough to recite a riddle. His days were spent squatting by the cooler, sipping warm beer because the electricity had been shut off ever since he tried to wire the fridge using copper from a neighbor’s wind chime. “It hummed,” he’d say. “That’s technical enough.” One Tuesday—though it could’ve been a Thursday, time’s a blur when you're drunk and immortal—Stig cracked open his last bottle of Heineken. He tilted it toward the gods of barley with a solemn toast: “To broken promises, expired coupons, and the complete absence of meaningful tax reform.” Then, from the shadows, came a voice. Gravelly, thick with regret and sausage grease. “That better be the cold one you owe me, Ferndingle.” Stig didn’t look up. He knew that voice. He’d hoped it had choked on a chicken bone and floated off into the realm of forgotten side characters. But no. Throg the Drunken Troll had found him again. “Jesus, Throg. I thought you were banned from every basement in the county after the 'Incident with the Flamethrower and the Garden Salsa.'” “I got a pardon. Said it was an art installation gone wrong. You know, cultural expression and all that crap.” Stig rolled his eyes so hard he nearly sprained a socket. He took another sip of his beer, the last precious drop of liquid sanity in a world gone mad with elves trying to unionize and hobbits opening artisanal bakeries. “Well,” he said with a burp that rattled the paint chips off the wall, “if you’re here to drink, bring your own bottle. This one’s mine, and I’m too old to share or care.” Throg grunted, dropped a cooler that clanked suspiciously, and pulled out a mysterious green bottle labeled simply “Experimental – Do Not Consume”. Stig stared at it, then slowly grinned. “...Pour me a glass, you ugly bastard.” Experimental Brews and Unforgivable Flatulence Throg poured the liquid, which fizzed like it had opinions and regrets. The smell hit first—like fermented onions wrapped in gym socks and betrayal. Stig took a whiff and immediately questioned every decision that led him here, starting with the one where he *trusted a troll with a chemistry hobby.* “What the hell’s in this?” he croaked, holding the glass like it might bite. “Bit of this, bit of that,” Throg shrugged. “Mostly swamp hops, fermented fairy tears, and something I scraped off the underside of a kobold’s armpit.” “So... brunch?” They clinked glasses, a sound not unlike two gravestones making out, and drank. The reaction was instantaneous. Stig’s beard twitched. Throg’s left eye started vibrating. Somewhere in the room, the wallpaper peeled itself off and whispered, “Nope.” “Hot DAMN,” Stig choked, eyes watering. “That tastes like regret with a lemon twist.” “You’ll get used to it,” said Throg, just before he hiccuped and briefly turned invisible, only to reappear halfway through the floorboards. “Side effect. Temporarily phased into the ethereal plane. Don’t worry, it’s mostly boring in there.” After the third glass, they were both feeling bold. Stig attempted to do a dance called the “Root Stomp of the Ancients”, which mostly involved him tripping over a nail and blaming it on a cursed floorboard. Throg, ever the artist, tried to juggle beer bottles while reciting a poem about dwarven plumbing. It ended, as these things often do, in shattered glass and someone farting loud enough to scare off a raccoon in the vents. Hours passed. The cooler emptied. The air filled with tales of failed love affairs with mushroom witches, unsuccessful startups involving enchanted bidets, and a half-formed business idea called “Brew & Doom”—a tavern that doubled as a survival obstacle course. Eventually, as twilight crept through the basement grates and the hangover fairies circled overhead like tiny, winged harbingers of doom, Stig leaned back against the cooler and sighed. “You know, Throg... for a smelly, emotionally-stunted, swamp-dwelling ex-con—I don’t entirely hate drinking with you.” Throg, now half-asleep and softly humming the troll anthem (which was mostly guttural noises and the phrase “Don’t Touch My Meat”), gave a lazy thumbs-up. “Right back atcha, ya old piss goblin.” And thus, the night ended like most nights in the Hoppy Hour Hideaway—boozy, weird, and just shy of a fire hazard. But if you listen closely on lonely nights, past the creak of old pipes and the occasional beer burp echo, you might still hear the toast: “To broken dreams, bad decisions, and the brew that made it all tolerable.”     Epilogue: The Morning After and Other Catastrophes When Stigmund awoke, he was spooning the cooler. Not romantically—more like clinging to it for emotional support as one might do with a trusted bucket during a three-day ale bender. His hat had migrated halfway across the room, and somehow his beard had acquired a mysterious braid with a tiny rubber duck tied into it. His pants were intact, but his dignity had clearly fled during the second bottle of “Experimental.” Throg was upside down in a flowerpot, snoring through one nostril while the other whistled a haunting tune. There was a crude tattoo on his belly that read “TAP THAT” with an arrow pointing downward. Whether it was ink, soot, or regret was unclear. On the wall, in green Sharpie and misspelled Old Elvish, someone had scrawled: “Here Drank Legends. And They Were... Meh.” The hangover was biblical. The kind of headache that made you question your life choices, your gods, and whether fermented fairy tears should really be FDA-approved. Stig muttered dark gnomish curses under his breath and reached for his last piece of bread, which turned out to be a coaster. He ate it anyway. Eventually, Throg stirred, farted without apology, and sat up with the grace of a walrus falling down stairs. “You got any eggs?” he croaked. “Do I look like a breakfast buffet?” Stig snapped, scratching under his beard where something small and possibly sentient had taken refuge. “Get out of my hideaway. I’ve got three days of silence scheduled and I intend to use all of them to forget last night.” Throg grinned, wiped beer foam from his eyebrow, and stood. “You say that now, but I’ll be back Friday. You’re the only gnome I know who can hold their booze and insult my mother with such poetic flair.” “Damn right,” Stig muttered, already rooting around for a clean glass and a less cursed bottle. And so the cycle would begin again—one gnome, one troll, and the questionable sanctity of the Hoppy Hour Hideaway, where the beer is warm, the insults fly freely, and magic doesn’t stand a damn chance against fermented stupidity.     Take the Hideaway Home Want to bring the beer-soaked brilliance of Stig and Throg into your own questionable life choices? We've got you covered—whether you're sobering up, blacking out, or just need to explain why your tote bag smells like hops and regret. Wood Print – Rustic, sturdy, and perfect for hanging above your bar... or over that hole you punched in the drywall during karaoke. Framed Print – Add a touch of class to your chaos. Guaranteed to start conversations, or at least halt them awkwardly. Tote Bag – Holds groceries, spellbooks, or six cans of questionable troll brew. Durable and judgment-free. Spiral Notebook – Jot down beer recipes, bad ideas, or angry letters to the HOA. Gnome-tested, troll-approved. Beach Towel – For when you pass out poolside, beer in hand, and need something soft to cushion the shame. Disclaimer: No actual trolls were harmed in the production of these fine goods. Emotionally? Maybe. But they’ll get over it.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Born of Ash and Whisper

In Which the Dragon Crashes Brunch Maggie had three rules when it came to dating: no musicians, no cultists, and absolutely no summoning spells before coffee. So imagine her mood when her Sunday hangover was interrupted by a loud pop, a puff of sulfur, and a tiny, winged demon landing face-first into her half-eaten croissant. “Excuse you,” she muttered, flicking powdered sugar off her robe. The creature sneezed, coughed up a coal, and blinked at her with large, ember-flecked eyes. It looked like a lizard mated with a nightmare and gave birth to a goth chicken nugget. It hissed. Maggie hissed back. “Listen, Hot Topic,” she grumbled, cradling her forehead, “whatever infernal womb spat you out clearly didn’t finish the instructions.” The dragon squeaked indignantly and flapped its wings in what Maggie could only interpret as attitude. Its claws were tiny. Its ego? Not so much. As she tried to pick it up using a potholder and a cereal bowl, the creature inhaled deeply and burped out a perfect smoke ring in the shape of a middle finger. “Oh, sass. You came with sass.” Thirty minutes and one minor kitchen fire later, Maggie had managed to corral the dragon into an old cat bed she’d been meaning to donate to Goodwill. It curled up like a smug little inferno and immediately fell asleep. She could swear it purred. “This is fine,” she said to no one. “This is how people become warlocks, isn’t it?” Outside, the world continued being normal. Inside her rent-controlled apartment, a dragon that smelled like burnt marshmallows and sarcasm had adopted her. She poured herself more wine. It was 10:42 a.m. In Which Maggie Joins a Cult (But Just for the Snacks) The next morning Maggie woke up to find the dragon perched on her chest like a judgmental paperweight. It smelled faintly of espresso and something illegal in three states. Its name, according to the faintly glowing rune now tattooed across her forearm, was “Cindervex.” “Well, that’s not ominous at all,” she grumbled, poking the little beast in the snout. “Do you do tricks? Pay rent? Breathe less?” Cindervex snorted a puff of ash and promptly coughed up a tiny, slightly smoking coin. Maggie inspected it. Gold. Real gold. She turned to the dragon, who looked far too pleased with himself. “Okay, you live here now.” By noon, Maggie had a dragon in a baby Björn, aviators on, and a grocery list that included ‘kale’ and ‘dragon-safe firewood.’ She did not have answers, dignity, or any real understanding of the arcane arts, but she did have a glowing wrist tattoo that now vibrated when she passed the corner of 6th and Pine. “No,” she muttered. “Not today, Satan. Or Tuesday.” But the tug of magical curiosity and the faint scent of garlic knots drew her in like a moth to a pizza oven. Down an alley, through a brick archway, and past a sentient fern that tried to unionize her hair, Maggie found herself standing before a rustic wooden door with a sign that read: “THE ORDER OF FLAME & FOCACCIA — Visitors Welcome, Opinions Optional.” “Oh great,” she said. “It’s a hipster cult.” She was greeted by a woman in a caftan made of velvet and poor decisions, who immediately clasped her hands. “You’ve brought the Emberchild! The Scaled One! The Prophet of Reheated Destiny!” “I call him Vex. And he bites people who say ‘prophet’ with a straight face.” The woman—Sunblossom, of course—led Maggie through what could only be described as Restoration Hardware meets Hellboy fanfiction. Long wooden tables. Floating candles. A small wyvern in the corner wearing a beret and reading *The Economist.* “You’re among friends here,” Sunblossom purred. “We are bound by flame. By ritual. By the brunch buffet.” “Is that a waffle fountain?” Maggie asked, stunned. “Yes. And mimosa golems. They keep your glass full until you surrender or die.” Somewhere in the distance, a man screamed, “No more prosecco, you devil sponge!” Cindervex hissed happily. Apparently, this was home now. Over goat cheese frittata and a surprisingly insightful conversation about dragon soul-bonding laws, Maggie learned that Cindervex had chosen her. Not just as a caretaker, but as a Conduit—a human being tapped to bridge the magical and mundane, possibly lead a rebellion, and definitely help design seasonal merch for the cult’s online shop. “There’s a hoodie?” she asked. “Three. And a tumbler. BPA-free.” She paused. “Okay. I'm in. But just for the hoodie. And the snacks.” The room erupted in joyous fireballs. The mimosa golem did a cartwheel. Someone summoned a kazoo-playing imp. Maggie blinked. It was chaos. It was ridiculous. It was hers. Back at her apartment that evening, Maggie collapsed on the couch, Cindervex curled at her feet. Her wrist glowed faintly with new runes: Initiate. Brunch-Approved. Caution: May Ignite Sass. She laughed. Then she poured another glass of wine and toasted the ceiling. “To destiny. To waffles. To accidentally joining a cult.” Cindervex purred, burped out a fireheart-shaped smoke ring, and stole her throw pillow. Somehow, this was the most stable relationship she’d had in years.     Epilogue: In Which Everything Burns, But Like... In a Good Way Six months later, Maggie had adjusted to life as a brunch sorceress, part-time chaos gremlin, and reluctant cult celebrity. Cindervex now had a dedicated fire-proof bean bag, his own corner of the apartment (lined with gold coins and stolen socks), and an Instagram following of 78,000 under the handle @LilSmokeyLord. They still fought—mostly over bath time and how many fireballs were considered “too many” in a laundromat—but they were a unit now. Partners. A girl and her dragon, trying to navigate a world that didn’t list “arcane brunch queen” on its tax forms. The Order of Flame & Focaccia was thriving. They opened a second chapter in Portland. The hoodie waitlist was a nightmare. Maggie had accidentally become a motivational speaker for magical burnout recovery, which she delivered with the energy of someone who once summoned a thunderstorm because her latte had too much foam. She had friends now. A talking cauldron named Gary. A banshee who did her taxes. Even a date or two, though most were scared off by the part where her pet tried to set their shoelaces on fire “as a vibe check.” But she was happy. Not the fake kind of happy you post on social media, but the weird, loud, chaotic kind that makes your neighbors suspicious and your therapist very intrigued. On the night of the Vernal Equinox, she stood on her balcony with Cindervex on her shoulder. The city glittered below. Somewhere, distant drums thudded from a magical rave she wasn’t drunk enough to attend. Yet. “We good?” she asked the dragon. He flared his wings, let out a gentle burp of violet flame, and settled in. That was dragon-speak for ‘yes, and also I’m about to pee in your houseplant.’ “You little hell nugget,” she said, smiling. “Don’t ever change.” And he didn’t. Not really. He just got weirder. Louder. More chaotic. Like her. Which, when you think about it, was kind of the point. Everything burns eventually. Might as well light it up with someone who brings their own matches and snacks. The End... probably.     Bring the Flame Home 🔥 If you fell in love with the story of Maggie and her attitude-packed dragon, you're not alone. Now you can bring their world into yours with exclusive merch inspired by Born of Ash and Whisper, available now from Unfocussed. 🔥 Metal Print – Make a statement. Fireproof-ish. Beautifully bold. 🔥 Tapestry – Turn your wall into a magical gateway (or dragon lair). 🔥 Throw Pillow – For when your emotional support dragon needs emotional support. 🔥 Greeting Card – Say it with sass and smoke rings. Perfect for dragon-worthy messages. 🔥 Spiral Notebook – Chronicle your own accidental cult adventures in style. Because honestly, who doesn’t need more dragons in their life?

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Torchbearer of the Toadstool

The Itch in the Moss The woods, contrary to poetic belief, are not serene. They are loud, rude, and filled with creatures that don’t care about your personal space — especially if you’re knee-high and have wings like stained glass. Just ask Bibble. Bibble, a fairy of questionable repute, sat atop her chosen throne: a glistening red toadstool with the kind of white speckles that screamed, “do not lick.” She licked it anyway. She did a lot of things just to spite the rules. In her grubby little hand she held a torch — not magical, not ceremonial, just a stick she lit on fire because it made the beetles scatter dramatically. That, and she liked the power trip. “By the Glimmering Grubs of Gramble Root,” she muttered, staring into the flame, “I swear, if one more gnome asks if I grant wishes, I’m setting his beard on fire.” Bibble was not your average fairy. She didn’t flit, she strutted. She didn’t sprinkle pixie dust, she shook glitter in people’s faces and yelled “Surprise, b*tch!” She was not the chosen one — she was the annoyed one. And tonight, she was on patrol. Every seventh moon, a fairy must take the Spore Watch, ensuring that the Amanita Council’s fungal empire isn’t being nibbled on by rogue badgers or cursed raccoons. Bibble took this role very seriously. Mostly because the last fairy who skipped watch was now being used as a coaster in the council’s breakroom. “Torchbearer,” came a voice behind her. Slithery. Elongated. Like someone who practiced being creepy in front of a mirror. She didn’t turn around. “Creevus. Still oozing around like a sentient rash, I see.” “Charming as ever,” Creevus replied, sliding from the shadow of a mossy log, his cloak stitched from shed snakeskin and the dreams of disappointed parents. “The Council demands an update.” “Tell the Council their mushrooms are unbitten, their borders unmolested, and their Torchbearer deeply underpaid.” She blew a puff of smoke toward him, the flame flickering like it was laughing at him too. Creevus narrowed his eyes. Or maybe he just didn’t have eyelids. It was hard to tell with creeps like him. “Don’t let your spark go to your head, Bibble. We all know what happened to the last Torchbearer who disobeyed the Spore Law.” Bibble grinned, wide and wicked. “Yeah. I sent him flowers. Carnivorous ones.” Creevus vanished back into the darkness like an overdramatic theatre major. Bibble rolled her eyes so hard she nearly levitated off her mushroom. The flame danced. The night stretched its claws. Something was watching. Not Creevus. Not a badger. Something... older. And Bibble, goddess help us, grinned wider. The Spores of Suspicion The thing about being watched in the woods is — it’s rarely innocent. Squirrels watch you because they’re plotting. Owls? Judging. But this? This was something worse. Something ancient. Bibble hopped down from her toadstool, torch held like a royal scepter, eyes narrowed. The flame’s glow made her shadow stretch tall and lanky across the mossy ground, like it was auditioning for a villain role in a woodland soap opera. “Alright then,” she shouted, twirling the torch. “If you’re going to stalk me, at least buy me dinner first. I like acorn wine and fungi you can't pronounce.” The forest answered with silence — thick, heavy, and absolutely hiding something. And then, with the elegance of a drunk centipede in heels, it emerged. Not a beast. Not a ghost. But a creature known only in whispers: Glubble. Yes, that was its name. No, Bibble wasn’t impressed either. Glubble had the face of a melted toad, the smell of compost tea, and the conversational charm of wet socks. He wore a robe made entirely of leaf husks and arrogance. “Bibble of Sporesend,” he rasped. “Bearer of Flame. Licker of Forbidden Caps.” “Oh look, it talks,” she said dryly. “Let me guess. You want the torch. Or my soul. Or to invite me to some terrible forest cult.” Glubble blinked slowly. Bibble could swear she heard his eyelids squelch. “The Flame is not yours. The Torch belongs to the Rotmother.” “The Rotmother can suck my bark,” Bibble snapped. “I lit this thing with dried moth guts and sheer spite. You want it? Make a PowerPoint.” Glubble hissed. Somewhere behind him, a slug exploded from stress. Bibble didn’t flinch. She’d once stabbed a possum with a licorice wand. She feared nothing. “You mock the old ways,” Glubble wheezed. “You taint the Watch.” “I am the Watch,” she declared, raising the torch. “And trust me, darling, I make tainting look good.” There was a sudden rumble — deep beneath the forest floor. Trees leaned in. Moss shivered. From the base of Bibble’s old toadstool throne came a sound like choking fungus. “Ah, fantastic,” she muttered. “I woke the throne.” The mushroom had been enchanted, yes. But no one told her it had feelings. Especially not the emotionally unstable kind. It stood now, unfolding from the ground like a sad inflatable sofa, eyes blinking beneath its cap, and let out a pitiful groan. “Torch…bearer…” it moaned. “You… never moisturize me…” Bibble sighed. “Not now, Marvin.” “You sat on me for weeks,” it whimpered. “Do you know what that does to a mushroom’s self-esteem?” Glubble raised a clawed hand. “The Rotmother comes,” he declared with terrible drama. Thunder rolled. Somewhere, an owl choked on its tea. “And I’m sure she’s lovely,” Bibble deadpanned. “But if she tries to mess with my watch, my torch, or my emotionally needy mushroom, we are going to have a situation.” The woods fell into chaos. Roots whipped like angry noodles, spores exploded from the ground in clouds of glittery rage, and a deer — possessed by pure drama — threw itself sideways into a ravine just to avoid involvement. Bibble, torch raised, yelled a war cry that sounded suspiciously like “You fungal freaks picked the wrong fairy!” and leapt onto Marvin’s back as he sprinted like a caffeinated Roomba through the underbrush. Glubble pursued, screaming ancient rot-prayers and tripping over his own leaves. Behind them, the Rotmother began to rise — enormous, festering, and surprisingly well-accessorized. But Bibble didn’t care. She had a flame. A throne. And just enough bad attitude to spark a revolution. “Next full moon,” she shouted into the wind, “I’m bringing wine. And fire. And maybe some self-help books for my throne.” She cackled into the mossy night as the forest shuddered with spores and chaos and the joy of one fairy who absolutely did not care about your ancient prophecies. The flame burned brighter. The Watch would never be the same.     Epilogue: The Fire and the Fungus The woods eventually stopped screaming. Not because the Rotmother was defeated. Not because Glubble found inner peace or because the Council decided to cancel Bibble (they tried — she cursed their group chat). No, the forest settled because it realized one immutable truth: You don’t fight Bibble. You adjust your entire ecosystem around her. The Spore Laws were rewritten, mostly in crayon. The official title “Torchbearer” was changed to “Spicy Forest Overlord,” and Bibble insisted her mushroom throne be referred to as “Marvin, the Moist Magnificent.” He cried. A lot. But it was growth. Creevus retired early, moved to a cave, and started a disappointing podcast about ancient fungus. Glubble joined a moss therapy group. The Rotmother? She’s now on TikTok, doing slow, haunting makeup tutorials and reviewing mushrooms with disturbing intimacy. As for Bibble? She built a shrine out of old beetle shells and sarcasm. Every now and then, she hosts illegal bonfires for delinquent fairies and teaches them how to yell at shadows and forge torches from twigs, venom, and pure audacity. When travelers pass through the woods and feel a sudden warmth — a flicker of fire, a rustle of glittery defiance — they say it’s her. The Torchbearer of the Toadstool. Still watching. Still petty. Still, somehow, in charge. And somewhere, under the roots, Marvin sighs happily… then asks if she brought lotion.     If you feel your life lacks just a little chaos, confidence, or flaming toadstool energy — bring Bibble home. You can channel your inner Torchbearer with a framed print for your lair, a glorious metal print for your altar of chaos, a soft and suspiciously magical tapestry for wall summoning rituals, or a wickedly stylish tote bag to carry snacks, spite, and questionable herbs. Bibble approves. Probably.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Echoes of Tropic Thunder

The Sky Is Not Your Stage—It’s Mine In the heart of a rainforest that tourists only reach after three panic attacks, two leech bites, and at least one existential crisis, there exists a legend. Not a whispered myth or a carved-to-death tribal tale, no. A living, screeching, full-plume riot of a legend. His name? Rey Azul del Humo. Or as the gringos call him—"That Bastard Bird Who Stole My Hat." Rey Azul was no ordinary macaw. He didn’t just fly—he descended. Like Zeus in feathered drag, wrapped in smoke and attitude. His tail alone could spark an identity crisis in a peacock, and his beak had tasted more camera lenses than rainforest fruit. If a storm brewed, it was only because he willed it. If a rainbow showed up afterward, he rolled his eyes and said, “Try harder.” Locals worshipped him, or at least pretended to, mostly out of fear that he'd steal their cigarettes or poop on their roof tiles in judgment. He ruled the treetops with a charisma only rivaled by that one ex you still dream about but tell your therapist you're over. One time, a drone tried to film him. Rey Azul performed a full aerial backflip, flipped the drone the metaphorical bird mid-air, and then escorted it—with talons—to the ground. He then sat on it, spread his wings, and screeched for ten glorious minutes while the jungle watched in awkward awe. He was more than feathers and fury—he was an icon. A flamboyant middle finger to subtlety. A war cry for color, chaos, and unapologetic pride. The forest didn’t just echo with thunder; it echoed with him. His voice. His strut. His feathers that shimmered like they were sponsored by some illicit alliance of tequila and glitter. And Rey knew it. Oh, he knew. Every snap of his wings was a statement piece. Every time he perched on a limb, it became a throne. This wasn't nature. This was fashion week on acid. With claws. He didn’t blend in. He refused to. That’s for parrots with a job. Rey was freelance at best—an untamed contractor of disruption and sky drama. And so, when the smoke rose—fiery orange, electric blue, impossible purple—it wasn’t because the world was on fire. It was because Rey Azul felt dramatic that day. Burnt Sky, No Regrets Now let’s set the scene: dawn. But not your serene Instagrammable dawn where birds tweet and yoga mats breathe lavender-scented dreams. No, this was Rey Azul’s kind of dawn—blazing, loud, chaotic. Somewhere between a Renaissance painting and a nightclub fire hazard. The jungle wasn’t waking up gently. It was getting slapped in the face by feathers and told to get fabulous or get forgotten. Today was not an ordinary strut-and-squawk kind of day. No. Rey had plans. A tropical storm was incoming, and the humidity clung to the air like a desperate ex. He could smell ozone and human incompetence drifting in with the wind. Somewhere, a wildlife photographer was crouching in khakis they hadn’t earned, whispering, “Come on, baby, just one clean shot.” Rey chuckled internally. He lived for this. High in the canopy, he fluffed his chest feathers into what could only be described as a tactical glam formation. He was about to give them a show. Not for the humans. Not for the tourists. Not for the scientists who called him “subject M-47” like he was some jungle spreadsheet. No, this performance was for himself. Because if you weren’t serving main-character energy in the face of environmental collapse, what even was the point? He launched into the air with a screech that could curdle oat milk. Smoke—because of course there was smoke—billowed around him in orange and violet tendrils, summoned either by pure physics or the raw drama he exhaled with every beat of his wings. He didn't fly; he stormed the atmosphere. A full riot in slow motion. Below him, a sloth looked up mid-yawn and muttered, “Oh no, he’s monologuing again.” But no one could hear it over the roaring of feathers slicing air like gossip through a brunch table. The smoke coiled like an adoring serpent around his tail feathers. Tropical fire met monsoon sky, and Rey danced in between—equal parts deity and drag queen, part myth, part middle finger to normalcy. It was performance art. It was rebellion. It was bird-on-bird dominance theater, and it was fabulous. The drone returned. A new one. Different brand. Different owner. Probably insured. This time, Rey paused mid-air, turned to face it like a Shakespearean actor seeing his fate in a floating eye of metal, and did the one thing no machine could understand: He winked. The footage went viral. “Real-life phoenix?” the headlines read. “Jungle diva spotted over Amazon.” Rey was indifferent. He didn’t read blogs. He was the blog. Later that day, soaked in rain and unbothered, Rey perched atop the highest branch in the jungle. The storm cracked open the sky like a broken promise, and lightning lit the forest in brief strobe-lit snapshots. He squawked once—short, sharp, and final. Down below, someone whispered, “What the hell was that?” A guide smiled, looked to the clouds, and said, “Just thunder. And ego.” But it wasn’t thunder. Not really. Not anymore. It was the Echo of Tropic Thunder. And his reign? Unquestioned. Unfiltered. Unapologetically ablaze. Rey Azul del Humo didn’t rule the jungle. He was the jungle—with extra smoke, a touch of glitter, and not a single ounce of chill.     Epilogue: Plume & Legacy Years passed, as they do in jungles and in dreams—slow, sticky, and full of chirping you can never quite identify. Rey Azul? He never died. Please. That kind of drama queen doesn’t get a “death”—he gets a departure. A vanishing act so seamless that even the clouds paused to reconsider their relevance. One day, the jungle just... got quieter. Not in sound, but in energy. As if someone had taken down the main stage after the last encore. The trees still swayed. The birds still sang. But that lingering sense of judgmental fabulousness? That divine eye-roll energy? It was gone. Some say he flew into a thunderstorm and never came back. Others say he’s immortal, traveling from canopy to canopy like some avian freelance chaos spirit. A few jungle elders insist he lives in the smoke itself now—every tendril a whisper of his laugh, every curl of mist a flash of his impossible feathers. There are signs. A rainbow that forms with too much attitude. A gust of wind that feels like it’s side-eyeing your outfit. A branch that shakes just a bit too sassy for a squirrel. And if you ever see a sudden burst of smoke colored like fire and twilight had a scandalous love child? You bow. You don’t question. You whisper, “He’s watching.” Because Rey Azul del Humo may be gone from sight, but legends never really leave. They just perch higher than you can see—and judge silently, from above.     🔥 Take the Thunder Home If Rey Azul’s unapologetic chaos, color, and charisma struck a chord in your soul, why not bring that energy into your daily life? Our exclusive "Echoes of Tropic Thunder" collection turns attitude into art across premium lifestyle products. Just like the bird himself, these aren't here to blend in. 🔥 Metal Print – For bold walls and unapologetic vibes. Sleek, high-gloss, and as dramatic as Rey himself. 🌀 Tapestry – Drape your space in fire and feathered fury. Interior decor just got tropical. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry chaos with you. Groceries, books, or just your unfiltered personality—it fits. 💥 Throw Pillow – For resting your head after a long day of being louder than life. Feathers fade, but style lasts forever. Shop now and add some thunder to your space.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

The Bloomkeeper's Lamb

The Garden That Grew Itself Somewhere between where the map ends and where afternoon naps become time travel, there’s a village so small it fits in a pocket dimension — or at least inside the walls of Mrs. Tattersham’s overgrown back garden. Nobody really *moves* there. People just show up with suitcases they don't remember packing and an odd craving for elderflower cordial. They call it Hushmoor Hollow. Now, Hushmoor was known for many things: silent goats, whispering fences, and that one Tuesday when it rained marmalade (don’t ask). But mostly, it was known for the Garden That Grew Itself — a spectacular riot of peonies, roses, and things with far too many vowels in their botanical names, blooming entirely out of sync with the seasons and sometimes in sync with showtunes. No one admitted to tending it. The mayor (a retired opera singer named Dennis) insisted it was “self-cultivating,” though he did once get caught pruning the azaleas while singing to them in Italian. But the truth — the real, whispered-at-tea-time truth — was this: the garden belonged to the Bloomkeeper. And the Bloomkeeper’s lamb? She was a fluffball of inconvenient mysteries. Imagine a lamb. Not your average field-hopper. This one’s wool swirled in tight little curls like spun sugar, shifting hues depending on the angle of the sun or whether you’d said anything cynical lately. She smelled faintly of peppermint and improbable hope. Her eyes? Far too intelligent for someone who frequently licked tree bark like it owed her money. Her name was Luma, and she arrived one spring evening precisely 14 minutes after Hushmoor’s last clock stopped ticking. She simply walked out from the thickest bloom of moon-roses and looked at the villagers like they were the surprise, not her. No one knew where she came from. But the garden grew twice as fast after she appeared. And twice as weird. Within a week, the begonias started forming synchronized dance formations. Bees spoke in haiku. Dennis was abducted briefly by a very polite mushroom (he came back smelling of tea and thunderclaps). And Luma? She just stood there, blinking slowly, like she was waiting for someone to finally read the instructions. Then the dreams started. Dreams of distant bells, ancient keys, and doors made entirely of petals. Everyone in Hushmoor had them, though no one spoke of it aloud, because — well — that's how things work in magical villages held together by gossip and curiosity. One morning, a letter appeared under Luma’s hooves. It was written in gold ink and smelled like elderflower and ambition. The note read: “You are late. The Bloomkeeper is missing. Please report to the Seventh Gate immediately. And bring the lamb.” Luma blinked twice. Then, turning with an alarming sense of purpose for someone shaped like a marshmallow, she trotted toward the forest edge. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Until Dennis, back from his fungal escapade, said: “Well, bollocks. I guess we’re going adventuring, then.” And that’s how the village, the lamb, and a great deal of gardening equipment found themselves heading into a realm they didn’t know existed, to find someone they weren’t sure was real… led by a pastel-colored mystery with a peppermint-scented butt. The Seventh Gate (And Other Unwise Landscaping) The party was seven strong: Dennis, who insisted on bringing opera binoculars despite lacking an opera; Miss Turnwell, the village baker with a suspicious knowledge of swordplay; two identical twins named Ivy who communicated exclusively in interpretive sneezes; young Pip, who had recently turned into a flower for an afternoon and come back oddly confident; a shovel named Gregor (don’t ask); and of course, Luma — the pastel lamb with a gaze like she remembered your childhood secrets. They followed her through the forest, which was less a forest and more a polite riot of sentient topiary. The hedges whispered things like “left at the mushrooms” or “have you seen my comb?” and nobody seemed to question it. Luma never faltered. Her tiny hooves barely touched the mossy floor as if the earth was giving her a gentle push with each step. The Seventh Gate turned out to be a large wrought iron arch nestled between two ancient willow trees, with glowing vines spelling out the words: “If You’re Reading This, It’s Probably Too Late.” It gave off the exact vibe of a place that had opinions about who was worthy — or at the very least, a strong interest in dramatic timing. “Shall we knock?” Dennis asked, before the gate sighed audibly and swung open on its own, revealing… a hallway. Not a garden path or a mystical realm. Just a dimly lit hallway that looked like it had been designed by someone who once ate a candle and thought, “Yes. This should be a vibe.” They stepped inside, and immediately, their thoughts got louder. Not verbally — mentally. Pip’s inner monologue began narrating everyone’s actions in a dramatic voice (“Dennis brandishes his opera glasses, bold but emotionally conflicted!”), while one of the Ivys projected continuous images of extremely disappointed grandparents. Miss Turnwell’s brain kept chanting “There is no muffin. There is only the jam.” over and over. Only Luma seemed unfazed. She trotted down the corridor as the very walls shimmered with blooming vines and smells that didn’t exist in the normal world — scents like “first kiss in spring rain” and “cherry pie left on a windowsill for someone who never came home.” At the end of the corridor was a room. Round. Bright. Floating somewhere between “luxury greenhouse” and “witch’s conservatory.” And at the center, reclining on a throne made entirely of thistles and chamomile, was the Bloomkeeper. Or… what was left of her. She looked like someone had pressed ‘pause’ halfway through turning into a constellation. Stars blinked from her cheeks, vines curled through her hair, and her voice sounded like bees politely holding a meeting. “You're late,” she said, eyes on Luma. “I expected you… two blooms ago.” Luma snorted. Loudly. A tiny peony popped from her wool and bounced across the floor. No one knew what that meant, but the Bloomkeeper smiled — that kind of smile that might turn into lightning or forgiveness, depending on how you held it. “They came with you,” she said, gesturing toward the awkward line of villagers now pretending to know how to stand heroically. “That changes things.” “What things?” asked Pip, nervously adjusting a petal that had mysteriously sprouted from his collarbone. The Bloomkeeper stood, her vines curling gently around her arms like living lace. “The garden is no longer content with itself,” she said. “It wants… out.” A moment passed. A deep, root-stirring silence. “Out… of what?” Dennis asked slowly. “Out of here,” she whispered, tapping her temple. “Out of dreams and into streets. Into cities. Into poems written in chalk and hearts that forgot to water themselves.” Luma bleated. The Bloomkeeper nodded. Then, without warning, she unraveled — not in a sad way. More like she’d turned into wind and light and something older than both. In her place stood a mirror. Inside it: a garden. Wild. Blooming. Alive. And waiting. Underneath, a message etched in petals: “To tend a garden like this, you must first break open.” The mirror rippled. And Luma walked through it. The others stood, blinking, unsure. Until Ivy (or was it the other Ivy?) took Pip’s hand and stepped in after her. Then Miss Turnwell. Then Gregor the shovel (still don’t ask). One by one, they entered — shedding old fears like petals on the wind. Only Dennis hesitated. He looked back once, toward the place they'd come from — the cozy, bizarre little village of Hushmoor. Then forward, into the blooming unknown. He straightened his jacket, adjusted his opera glasses, and said: “Right. Let’s garden some chaos.” And with that, the gate closed behind them. But somewhere in Hushmoor, the flowers still danced. And if you looked closely, you’d see new ones blooming — ones that hadn’t existed before. Ones shaped like memory, mischief… and a little lamb’s hoofprint in the soil.     Epilogue: The Hoofprint and the Hush Years passed, as they do — irregularly, if you're in Hushmoor — and the village changed in ways that no one could quite measure. The fences no longer whispered (they sang now, mostly jazz standards), and the marmalade rain had become seasonal rather than spontaneous. The garden remained, impossibly alive, though no one pruned it anymore. It pruned itself, occasionally into the shapes of things not yet invented. Flowers bloomed in languages. Peonies opened to reveal keys, poems, and once, a tiny pair of socks labeled “emotional backup.” And every so often, someone new would appear. Not move in — just appear. Standing at the gate with grass in their shoes and a look like they’d accidentally remembered a dream. They would walk through the village, take tea with Miss Turnwell (still the baker, now also a semi-retired wand instructor), and eventually find themselves near the mirror — now standing proudly at the edge of the garden, framed by twining lavender and a little sign that read: “Proceed if you wish to bloom unbegracefully.” No one saw Luma again in quite the same way. But every full moon, the flowers would bend toward the horizon, as if listening. And in the morning, there’d always be a single perfect hoofprint in the soil. Right at the gate. It smelled faintly of peppermint. And impossible hope. Somewhere out there, beyond mirror and vine, the Bloomkeeper’s Lamb still wandered. Growing gardens in people’s hearts. Snorting at overly serious poets. And making sure no one — not even the most cynical, root-bound soul — forgot that they, too, were meant to bloom. The End. Sort of.     If the story lingered in your chest like a dream you’re not ready to wake from, you can bring a piece of Hushmoor Hollow home. The Bloomkeeper’s Lamb is available as a framed print to enchant your walls, a metal print that gleams like moonlit garden gates, a throw pillow to cuddle like a slightly mysterious pastel companion, and even a fleece blanket — warm enough to ward off even the most cryptic chills. Let your space bloom with whimsy and wonder, one hoofprint at a time.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Brave Little Liar

Fin It to Win It Deep in the tepid shallows of the neighborhood koi pond—not even a proper lake, mind you—swam a goldfish with delusions far grander than his gallon-sized existence allowed. His name? Morty. Short for Mortimer T. Bubbleton III, if you asked him, though nobody ever did. Morty wasn’t your average ornamental peasant, content to dart between pebbles and wait for toddler fingers to drop pellets from above. No, Morty had ambition. And, more dangerously, he had imagination. “I wasn’t born to swish around with these soggy yes-fish,” he muttered one morning, as he flared his gills at his own reflection in a pond-filter bubble. “I was born to terrorize the tides. I was born to make the ducks flee.” And so, with a DIY spirit usually reserved for frustrated dads in garages and underpaid Etsy sellers, Morty strapped on a shark fin. Not a digital dream, not a Photoshop gag—an actual foam-core dorsal, painted battleship gray, affixed to his slimy gold frame with a bit of lost Velcro and a single shoelace. How it stayed on is a mystery best left to aquatic gods or science fiction. At first, the pond erupted in chaos. The minnows squealed (yes, audibly), the frogs fled to the reeds, and even a particularly judgy heron reconsidered his lunch plans. Morty felt it. That glorious, terrifying power. He wasn’t Morty anymore. He was Megalofish. The Finomenon. King of the chlorinated swamp! “Bow before me, you algae-humping cowards!” he bellowed, though it came out more like *blub-blub-snort-gargle*. Still, the message landed. But as the days passed, Morty realized that power came with, shall we say, logistical challenges. For starters, the fin dragged like a sunken brick. His signature tail flick was reduced to a sad little wiggle, and his stealth factor was effectively zero. Any stealth was out the window the moment the fin hit the surface and cut a dark triangle of terror across the water. He was a floating warning label: “Might be overcompensating.” And the koi—those slow, sashimi-colored nobodies—began to talk. Whisper, gossip, giggle behind their gills. “Who does he think he is?” sneered Bubbles, a koi with the personality of a beige carpet. “It’s not even saltwater.” “That’s not even his fin,” added another, who once tried to mate with a decorative rock and now fancied herself an intellectual. But Morty didn’t care. He had something more dangerous than credibility—he had delusion and audacity, which, in the right combination, could move mountains or at least knock over a moderately tall water lily. Then came the day the humans noticed. Oh yes. The human child, in his grubby Crocs and marshmallow-sticky hands, squatted by the pond, eyes wide as sewer lids. “Mom,” he screeched. “There’s a shark in the pond!” And Morty, oh sweet, ridiculous Morty, surfaced with dramatic flair. Fin cutting the surface. Pose immaculate. Gaze fierce. He was a badass. He was a beast. He was... netted immediately and dumped in a fishbowl for observation. The fall was fast. The bowl was small. The delusion? Still very, very large. “They had to remove me,” Morty rationalized, swirling dramatically against the glass. “Too powerful for containment. Too dangerous. I was a threat to the balance of nature. And the ducks.” He would return. He would rise again. With a bigger fin. A better strap. Maybe even a second fin. Who said sharks only get one? And somewhere, deep in the pond’s silent reeds, the koi whispered nervously. Because they knew— Morty was full of crap… but damn it, sometimes crap floats. The Return of the Fin King Morty spent four full days swirling in that sad, little glass bowl like some kind of imprisoned celebrity—part sideshow attraction, part cautionary tale. The humans poked, filmed, and posted his every motion. “Goldfish with shark fin! 😂 #TinyTerror #FakeAF”. Millions of views. Millions of laughs. And still, Morty plotted. Oh yes. Beneath the filter’s hum and beside a tiny ceramic pirate chest, revenge simmered like pondscum in July. “Laugh it up, land apes,” he muttered, gnawing a flake of food with the quiet rage of a disgraced general. “But I will return. And this time, I’m bringing teeth.” Day five, Morty made his move. Under cover of toddler nap time, a careless elbow tipped the bowl. He rode the wave like Poseidon in a Vegas stunt show, flopping gloriously onto the linoleum, screaming (internally) all the way. The humans panicked. Shrieks. Towels. Tears. One of them yelled something about “emotional damage to the child.” Morty just gasped and blinked like an Oscar-winner in a dying scene—pure drama, pure manipulation. He survived. Again. And with great triumph came great reward: they released him back into the pond. **HIS** pond. The prodigal fin had returned. But things had changed. The koi had leveled up. One had a decorative tattoo—just algae, but the effect was vaguely intimidating. Another now spoke in cryptic philosophical riddles after binge-floating near the garden Buddha. And worst of all, someone had installed a plastic alligator head in the water to “keep the birds away.” As if that would scare Morty the Menace. He needed a new plan. A bigger splash. So he doubled down on everything. Two fins now—one dorsal, one tail. He crafted them from a child’s broken flip-flop and a tiny action figure’s shield. Resourceful. Trashy. Perfect. With hot glue stolen from a garage cobweb and bits of string, Morty rigged himself into a full-blown aquatic warrior. Think Mad Max, but fishier and less vegan. He emerged like an absolute lunatic—tail thrashing, fins wobbling, eyes bugged like a sleep-deprived tax auditor. The pond erupted. Frogs dove. Minnows screamed. The koi? They froze. There was no denying it: he looked insane. “I AM MORTY, BRINGER OF CHAOS,” he bellowed. “I HAVE ASCENDED. I AM TWO-FINNED NOW.” “You look like a floating garage sale,” someone whispered. “EAT MY BUBBLES,” Morty screamed back. But this time, something weird happened. The fear? It didn’t fade—it mutated. They weren’t just laughing at him now. They were respecting the madness. Koi started mimicking his movements. A turtle did a lap in his honor. Even the heron gave him a single, slow nod from across the yard—predator to predator. Or, you know, predator to deeply confused maniac with a plastic fin complex. Still. It counted. The pond had changed. But so had Morty. He wasn’t just pretending anymore. The line between bluff and belief had dissolved. He was the fin. The delusion had become identity. And identity? That’s power, baby. Now, when the human child squats by the pond, marshmallow residue crusting his lip, he doesn't laugh. He watches. Reverent. Maybe a little scared. And Morty? Morty swims slow. He lets the fin breach the surface just slightly. Just enough to make someone spill their juice box. He doesn’t need to be big. He doesn’t need to be real. He just needs to be bold enough to believe his own bullshit. And in this pond, that’s how legends are made. Morty the Fin King.Tiny. Loud. Unhinged. Unstoppable. And somewhere, across the rippling surface of the koi kingdom, a single whisper floats: “Sometimes, all it takes is a fake fin and the balls to wear it.”     Epilogue: The Gospel According to Morty Years later—okay, more like six months, which is forever in goldfish terms—Morty lives on not as a fish, but as a myth. A damp, slightly delusional, wildly over-accessorized myth. The koi now wear fins. Not real ones, mind you, just painted-on symbols of rebellion. There’s a secret “Fin Club,” complete with weekly surface meetings and algae cocktails. No frogs allowed. The turtle has started a podcast. Humans still visit the pond. They peer in, whisper, point. “That’s where the shark-fish came from,” they say, like they’ve stumbled upon some cryptid spawning ground. Kids press sticky faces to the glass, hoping for a glimpse. Some say they’ve seen him. Others claim he’s long gone. But under the water, just past the lily pads, a faint shimmer sometimes cuts the surface. A triangle. A ripple. A legacy. And in the pond’s darkest corner, beneath a sunken Tonka truck and a pile of abandoned fish flakes, something stirs. A bubble. A blub. A whisper: “Don’t ever let them tell you you’re just a goldfish.” Because Morty proved it—loudly, ridiculously, triumphantly: fake fins, real guts. Long live the lie.     Bring Morty Home (But Maybe Not in a Bowl) If you felt the bold, briny energy of Morty the Fin King ripple through your soul, good news—now you can bring his legendary nonsense into your actual habitat. Art Print – Display Morty's greatest moment on your wall. Warning: may inspire overconfidence. Framed Print – For when you're feeling extra fancy, like Morty in his two-fin era. Shower Curtain – Start every day with aquatic ambition and unnecessary drama. Bath Towel – Dry off with the confidence of a goldfish who thinks he’s a predator. Brave Little Liar because sometimes, greatness starts with a fake fin and a load of gall.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

The Easter Gnome's Secret Stash

Of Eggs and Egos It was the Thursday before Easter, and somewhere in the overgrown back corner of an English cottage garden, a gnome named Barnaby Thistlebum was preparing for what he considered to be the most important event of the year: the Annual Egg Hiding Championship. An event so sacred, so deeply rooted in gnome culture, that it made the Summer Solstice Pie Bake-Off look like amateur hour. Barnaby wasn't your typical gnome. While most of his kin were content with humming over mushrooms or pruning violets with unnecessary drama, Barnaby had ambition. And not just the small kind. We’re talking *legendary underground chocolate mafia* levels of ambition. His dream? To become the most feared and revered egg-hider in all the woodland realms. This year, however, the stakes were high. Rumors whispered through tulip petals and buzzed by gossipy bees told of a challenger—a mischievous sprite known only as “Twig.” Twig, it was said, had mastered the art of egg invisibility and once hid an egg inside a robin’s nest mid-flight. Barnaby, naturally, took offense to this. “Nonsense,” he scoffed, peering through his monocle at the basket of glittering, impossibly well-decorated eggs he’d lacquered himself. “Floating eggs. Invisible eggs. What’s next, eggs that quote Nietzsche?” Armed with nothing but his own ingenuity and a suspiciously sticky map of the garden, Barnaby set out at dawn. His beard was braided for aerodynamic efficiency. His olive shirt bore the proud badge of the Gnomeland Security Agency (a title he awarded himself, complete with laminated ID card). And in his hands? Two eggs of epic misdirection—one filled with confetti and the other with marzipan whiskey truffles. He placed eggs in birdhouses, teacups, and the hollow of a boot once owned by a garden witch with a gambling problem. Every egg had its story. The pink-striped one with the glitter shell? Hidden beneath a dandelion trap that would sneeze glitter on any who disturbed it. The blue speckled egg? Dangling from a fishing line rigged between two daffodils, swaying like bait for curious children and cocky squirrels. By mid-afternoon, Barnaby was sweaty, smug, and just a little bit drunk on the truffle fillings he'd “quality checked.” With only one egg left, he sat on a mossy rock, admiring his handiwork. The garden looked innocent enough—an explosion of color and bloom—but beneath the daffodil dazzle lurked 43 impossibly hidden eggs and one emotionally unstable toad guarding a golden one. “Let Twig try to top this,” Barnaby muttered, pulling his hat over his eyes and collapsing backward into a pile of lavender. He laughed to himself, then quickly stopped, realizing his laughter sounded just a bit too villainous. “Damn it, keep it whimsical,” he reminded himself aloud. The Great Egg War of Willowbend When Barnaby Thistlebum awoke the next morning, he was immediately aware of two things: one, the bees were unnaturally quiet, and two, he’d been pranked. It wasn’t the type of gentle prank one might expect in the gnome world—like daffodil dye in your tea or enchanted hiccups that sang madrigals. No. This was full-on sabotage. The kind of prank that screamed “war has been declared and it’s pastel-colored.” His eggs… were gone. All 43 of them, plus the emotionally unstable toad. In their place: ceramic decoys, each one shaped like a smug-looking acorn with Twig’s initials carved on the bottom in aggressive cursive. Even worse, a hand-written note lay at his feet, folded into the shape of a duck (a show-off move if there ever was one): “Nice hiding spots, Thistlebum. I found them all before brunch. Thought I’d leave you something to remember me by. Hoppily yours, —Twig 🧚‍♂️” Barnaby’s fists clenched. Somewhere deep in his beard, a robin nesting for the season sensed a tremor of rage and relocated to a less chaotic gnome. “This. Means. WAR,” he hissed, channeling the fury of a thousand overcooked scones. And so began the Great Egg War of Willowbend. Barnaby sprang into action like a garden ninja fueled by spite and caffeine. He sprinted (okay, briskly waddled) back to his burrow, where he retrieved his secret stash of emergency eggs. Not just any eggs, mind you—these were trick eggs, each one a miracle of gnome engineering and bad decisions. Among them: The Screamer: emits the sound of an angry goat when touched. The Sleeper: contains poppy spores to mildly sedate nosy elves. The Gossip: whispers your secrets back at you until you cry. Barnaby recruited allies—mostly disgruntled woodland creatures and one exiled hedgehog who owed him a favor. Together, they deployed decoys and diversions, leaving a trail of false clues across the garden. Gnome scouts delivered misinformation wrapped in daisy petals. Smoke bombs made of thyme and sassafras exploded into clouds of lavender deception. By twilight, the garden had become a minefield of psychological warfare. And then, just as Barnaby prepared to unleash The Whispering Egg (a sentient creation banned in three provinces), a shriek cut through the air. “AAAAUGH! MY HAIR IS FULL OF HONEY!” Twig. The sprite emerged from the rosebushes, soaked head to toe in wild honey and wearing a daisy chain crown now swarming with bees. Barnaby cackled with the kind of unhinged joy usually reserved for the final act of a Shakespearean tragedy. “You fell for the Bee Trap!” he shouted, brandishing a spoon like a sword. “You sticky little goblin!” Twig glared, swatting bees and dignity with equal desperation. “You planted eggs full of jam in my treehouse!” “That was diplomacy!” Barnaby countered. “You vandalized my truffle stash!” “You threatened me with an egg that quotes Nietzsche!” “That egg was philosophical, not aggressive!” And then, something strange happened. They laughed. Both of them, doubled over in the honeysuckle, choking on pollen and absurdity. The war had lasted less than a day, but it was legendary. And as the moon rose over the garden, they sat together beneath a weeping willow, sipping rosehip tea spiked with questionable gnome brandy, watching fireflies blink over the now egg-littered battlefield. “You know,” Twig said, “you’re not half bad… for a lawn ornament with control issues.” “And you’re not completely insufferable,” Barnaby replied, raising a tiny toast. “Just ninety percent.” They clinked teacups. Peace was declared. Sort of. Every year since, they’ve kept the tradition alive—a new Egg War each spring, escalating in chaos and creativity. And though the garden suffers for it, the residents agree on one thing: Nothing brings a community together like petty rivalry, surprise bees, and an emotionally unstable toad with a grudge.     Epilogue: The Legend Grows Years passed. Seasons turned. The garden bloomed, withered, bloomed again. Children came and went, occasionally stumbling across a glittery egg tucked beneath a fern or a suspiciously sarcastic toad loitering by the compost heap. But the legend… oh, the legend remained. Barnaby Thistlebum and Twig the Sprite became something of a seasonal myth—two mischievous forces of nature bound by rivalry, respect, and an unhealthy obsession with outwitting one another via painted eggs. Each spring, the garden braced for their antics like a tavern bracing for karaoke night: with mild dread, popcorn, and a first-aid kit. The gnomes began betting on who would “win” each year. The woodland creatures organized viewing parties (squirrels made excellent commentators, albeit biased). And the bees? Well, they unionized. You can only be used as a prank so many times before demanding dental coverage. Somewhere beneath the oldest oak in the garden, there now rests a small, moss-covered plaque. No one remembers who placed it there, but it reads simply: “In memory of the Great Egg War: Where chaos bloomed, laughter echoed, and dignity was lightly poached.” Barnaby still roams the garden. Occasionally seen sipping dandelion wine, crafting decoy eggs that smell like existential dread, or mentoring a new generation of prank-happy gnomelings. Twig? She visits now and then—always unannounced, always glitter-bombing the bird bath, and always with a wicked grin. And every Easter, without fail, a new egg appears in the center of the garden. Just one. Perfectly painted. Strategically placed. Containing, perhaps, a note, a tiny riddle, or something that meows. No one knows who leaves it. Everyone knows who it’s from. And the game? It’s never really over.     Bring the Mischief Home Love the tale of Barnaby Thistlebum and the Great Egg War? Bring a piece of the magic into your world with our exclusive “The Easter Gnome’s Secret Stash” collection by Bill and Linda Tiepelman—available now on Unfocussed. From quirky gifts to seasonal décor, there’s something for every mischievous heart: 🧵 Wall Tapestries – Bring the garden mischief to life on your walls 🖼️ Canvas Prints – Vibrant, whimsical, and gallery-ready 👜 Tote Bags – Perfect for egg hunts or chaotic grocery runs 💌 Greeting Cards – Send a little mischief this Easter 📓 Spiral Notebooks – For planning your own egg-centric escapades Shop the full collection now at shop.unfocussed.com and embrace your inner trickster.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Tempest of Taurus

The Fracture Before the stars were sewn into the heavens, before breath had found a name, the Bull stood alone at the edge of creation. A beast born not of flesh, but of force—of element, echo, and eternity. His body was split from the moment of his awakening: half of him blazed with volcanic wrath, molten rivers carving scars across a horned brow; the other half grew with the quiet pulse of life, moss-covered and breathing, rooted in stars and soil alike. He did not know time, only motion. He walked across the void as if it were pasture, his hooves forging galaxies in his wake. Wherever he passed, dual realms unfurled: forests that smoldered with flame, rivers that ran both steam and starlight, skies that trembled under his silent roar. But the Bull—he was not whole. He was a tempest trapped in duality, torn between destruction and birth, fury and forgiveness. The gods who made him had long disappeared, leaving no answer to his agony. He became myth before the worlds had names, and his suffering was written into the bones of every planet he forged. In one world, where the blue glowed too fiercely and the soil sang with sorrow, he stopped. For the first time since the First Spark, he folded his legs beneath him and lay still. The fire in his left eye dimmed. The vines along his right shoulder whispered to the sky. And the stars came closer to listen. It was then he spoke—not with voice, but with gravity. A soundless, resonant sorrow echoed across the sky: “I am the fracture. I am the seed and the scorch.” From his tears bloomed the first mortals—flawed, divided, beautiful—each carrying a sliver of his war inside them. Some burned. Some grew. Most did both. As time passed, they built temples to his fury and songs to his grace. They did not understand he was neither god nor demon—but a mirror. A reminder. A wound that shaped the universe. Yet something stirred in him as the people danced under twin moons, as they painted their skin in ash and pollen, as they whispered his name not in fear, but in reverence: Taurun. The Tempest. The Eternal. And in that reverence, he felt the first hint of peace—a flicker. A beginning. But peace, like fire, must be earned. The Reckoning Centuries passed like drifting embers across the void, and still the Bull lay beneath the twin moons, half-coiled in forest, half-encased in flame. Civilizations rose and fell in the shadow of his slumber. Priests walked barefoot across obsidian fields to whisper their dreams into the cracks of his scorched side. Lovers carved promises into the bark of the trees that grew from his ribs. And children, born of stardust and sweat, played beneath the branches of his mane without fear. Yet still he did not rise. The gods, forgotten or fled, had left him as their final parable. The Bull, the Broken One, whose duality mirrored the soul of all things. But the mortals began to forget that duality was not a punishment—it was a path. And when they forgot, they tried to cleanse what made them whole. They built fires to burn away their roots. They razed the forests to tame the chaos. They crowned kings who spoke only with fire and banished those who still listened to the leaves. In time, they split themselves as the Bull had once been split—not by gods, but by choice. It was then that Taurun stirred. His eye of flame re-ignited like a dying star reborn, casting shadows across the constellations. The leaves in his fur trembled. The air thickened. And from deep within the earth, a rumble that had no source or direction rose—a pulse, ancient and undeniable. He rose not in anger, but necessity. His hooves cracked the crust of the world. His breath shook the oceans. Above him, the sky split open—not with lightning, but with memory. Visions fell like rain: of every child who had sung in his forest, every prayer spoken in firelight, every soul who had ever dared to hold both grief and wonder in the same heart. He roared, not to destroy, but to remind. And the world listened. Torrents of rain fell where deserts had claimed dominion. Forests rose in the wake of ash. And where fire had consumed, life returned—not in defiance, but in unity. The Bull’s body was no longer divided, but fused: flames that fed the soil, branches that danced with sparks. He was no longer half-this or half-that. He was wholeness born of fracture. And for the first time since the stars had learned to sing, Taurun smiled—not with lips, but with silence. The silence that follows a storm. The silence that speaks of balance restored. The mortals, changed, carried this new myth into their bones. They built no more temples. They planted forests instead. And they taught their children that to burn was not to be evil, and to grow was not to be weak. That they, like Taurun, held both fury and forest in their chest. And that was their magic. The Bull walked into the night sky then, his body dissolving into constellations, into stories, into the veins of every living thing. He had been fire. He had been forest. And now, he was forever. Look to the sky when your heart breaks in two. You will see him—horns arched across the heavens, stars tangled in his mane, the Tempest watching, waiting, reminding you: You are not broken. You are becoming.     Epilogue: The Silence Between Stars Long after the Bull dissolved into constellation and legend, long after the final embers cooled beneath roots of newly-grown trees, a quiet question still drifts between the galaxies: “What remains when the gods are gone, and the world must choose for itself?” The answer is not written in stone, nor hidden in fire. It is not carried by prophets or preserved in parchment. It lives in the flicker of contradiction—where kindness meets anger, where grief dances with joy, where you break, and from the cracks something green begins to grow. That is where the Bull lives now—not in temples, not in stars, but in the moment a hand clenches in rage, and chooses instead to open. In the way we burn, and still love. In how we destroy, and then plant anew. Some say you can still hear his breath in the wind between seasons, feel his footsteps in the shifting soil beneath your bare feet. Others say he is simply a myth—an old tale born of cosmic need. But if you ever feel both too much and not enough, too fierce and too fragile—remember: You are the storm and the soil. You are not lost. You are not alone. And in the silence between stars, Taurun watches. Not as judge. But as kin.     Bring the Bull Home If the story of Taurun stirred something within you—if you too carry fire and forest inside your bones—carry this myth into your space. Our “Tempest of Taurus” image is available in a range of high-quality products designed to keep the dual magic alive in your everyday world. Celestial Tapestry: Drape your space in myth. This vibrant fabric wall art makes any room feel like a portal to the stars. Metal Print: A bold, gallery-quality display that captures the fire and forest in hyper-vivid clarity. Glossy. Iconic. Immortal. Jigsaw Puzzle: Piece together the myth yourself—perfect for quiet moments of reflection and those who savor complexity. Tote Bag: Carry the tempest with you—ideal for book lovers, market wanderers, and those who walk between worlds. Coffee Mug: Sip the story. A daily ritual infused with myth, strength, and the serenity of celestial balance. View all available formats here → Your walls. Your rituals. Your myth.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

The Nightlight Watcher

Of Gnomes and Nocturnal Duties Once upon a time—or at least some time after the invention of indoor plumbing—there lived a gnome named Wimbley Plopfoot. He wasn't your average garden-variety gnome with a fishing rod and a beer gut carved into ceramic. No, Wimbley was different. He had a job. A real one. He was the Official Nightlight Watcher of the Greater Underbed Region. Each night, as soon as the humans upstairs had done whatever it is humans do before bed (some combination of teeth brushing, doomscrolling, and wondering if that leftover cheese was still good), Wimbley would shuffle into place. His soft floral nightcap drooped charmingly over one eye. His matching pajamas whispered of lavender fields and accidental fashion. And in his arms, he carried Bartholomew the Bear, a stuffed animal with a suspiciously judgmental expression. "Ready?" Wimbley would ask each night, though Bartholomew never replied. He wasn’t enchanted or alive or magical. He was just there. Judging. Like most bears, to be honest. The ritual was simple: sit beside the child’s bed, hold the sign that said GOOD NIGHT, and exude an aura of safety, warmth, and vaguely herbal overtones. But on one particularly unremarkable Tuesday, something went wrong. Wimbley blinked slowly and noticed the glow from the nightlight was... flickering. "Oh no," he muttered, his gnomish voice the auditory equivalent of chamomile tea. "Not again." The last time a nightlight malfunctioned, the kid dreamt of sentient broccoli staging a coup in the kitchen. It took three dreamcatchers, a whispering incense stick, and a sock puppet therapist to undo the trauma. Wimbley waddled over to the outlet, groaning like only someone with knees older than democracy can groan. He tugged on the plug, then tapped the nightlight. Nothing. He blew on it. Still nothing. Bartholomew watched silently, probably judging Wimbley’s technique. "Guess I’m going in," Wimbley sighed, lifting up a loose floorboard to reveal a swirling, glittery tunnel labeled ‘Electrical Realm: Authorized Gnomes Only’. With a resigned pat to Bartholomew’s plush head, he dove in. The world twisted. The smell of burnt toast and old batteries filled his nostrils. The tunnel spun like a glittery toilet flush until he landed with a loud plop in a place that looked suspiciously like the inside of a lava lamp factory run by raccoons. “Alright,” Wimbley muttered. “Let’s fix a nightlight before reality unravels.” The Glowening Wimbley adjusted his pajama collar—a ridiculous move given that he had just nose-dived into an interdimensional subspace powered by toddler anxieties and expired batteries. The realm was brighter than he liked and smelled vaguely of ozone, dryer sheets, and existential dread. “Welcome to the Department of Glow Maintenance,” said a chipper, floating orb with a clipboard and tiny reading glasses balanced somehow on what could only be described as ‘eyelid energy.’ Wimbley squinted. “You again?” The orb blinked. “Ah, yes, Mister Plopfoot. You’ve been flagged before for ‘unauthorized screwdriver use’ and ‘insulting a power surge.’” “That surge started it,” Wimbley grumbled. “It zapped me. Twice.” The orb made a noncommittal whirring sound and summoned a translucent doorway that shimmered with neon labels: “Filament Forest,” “Circuit Swamp,” “Lightbulb Graveyard,” and—Wimbley’s destination—“Low-Glow Repair Intake.” He stepped through the archway, which instantly deposited him in a massive glowing cavern filled with floating fuses and a suspicious number of traffic cones. Gnome engineers in tiny hardhats shouted about wattage while sipping glow-stick martinis. “Oi, Wimbley!” called a scraggly figure with a clipboard larger than himself. “Yer here about the shimmer drop in Sector Snore-Alpha?” “Yes, it’s flickering like a caffeinated firefly,” Wimbley said, brushing lint off his beard. “That’s not right. Nightlight shimmer should be smooth—like pudding with ambition.” “Exactly.” The two gnomes exchanged nods and dove into the technical talk: amperage, dream-consistency thresholds, and a very heated debate about whether a teddy bear should count as an emotional stabilizer or a distraction-based sedative. Finally, they found the issue. A single pixel-sized microfuse had been corrupted by a forgotten nightmare from 2006. A common occurrence, apparently. Wimbley replaced it using a tweezers made from solidified bedtime stories and sighed in relief as the glow returned to buttery-soft normalcy. “Tell Bartholomew he still owes me five hugs,” said the scraggly gnome, tipping his hat. Wimbley smiled and stepped back into the tunnel, feeling the warmth of restored luminescence pulse through the air like a lullaby hummed by an overworked celestial intern. He landed back in the child’s bedroom with a puff of glitter. The nightlight glowed strong and steady. The child slept peacefully, one leg somehow entirely out of the blanket (a move that still terrified demons). Bartholomew remained exactly where Wimbley left him—arms open, judgmental gaze unchanged. “Mission complete,” Wimbley whispered, settling into his usual post and lifting the GOOD NIGHT sign once more. The room was safe. The glow was perfect. And somewhere deep beneath the floorboards, a raccoon technician filed another complaint against unauthorized glitter leakage. Wimbley didn't care. His job was done. Until tomorrow night… Fade to dreams.     Epilogue: Glow On, You Little Weirdo Years passed—or maybe just three minutes, depending on how time works when you’re shaped like a novelty lawn ornament and run on ambient moonlight. Wimbley Plopfoot, now promoted to Senior Glow Liaison, still kept his post beneath the bed of the now slightly older child (who occasionally referred to him as “that weird bedtime elf” in her diary). Bartholomew? Still judging. Still plush. Still undefeated in every staring contest known to plushdom. The nightlight, fully operational thanks to advanced gnome engineering and perhaps a little illegal wizard glue, shone on like a beacon of soft defiance against the creeping chaos of bedtime fears. Monsters had long since relocated—something about zoning permits and gluten-free snack shortages. Wimbley didn’t mind. He had everything he needed: a slightly crinkled bedtime schedule, a suspiciously sentient robe, and the unspoken admiration of the underbed community, who once voted him “Most Likely to Stop a Panic Dream with Only a Side-Eye.” And every night, as the stars blinked on and parents exhaled over baby monitors, Wimbley held up his sign with one simple message: GOOD NIGHT And if you happened to peek beneath your bed and see a tiny figure with a beard longer than your to-do list—just smile. He’s got this. You can sleep now. Glow on, dreamers. Glow on.     Bring a Little Glow Home If you felt a spark of warmth (or sheer gnomish absurdity) from The Nightlight Watcher, you can now bring that same cozy magic into your real-life bedtime ritual. Whether you're decorating a nursery, leveling up your nap nook, or just need a judgmental teddy on fabric—there’s a dreamy little something for you: 🧵 Wall Tapestry – Transform any room with a soft, storytelling glow. 🛏️ Throw Pillow – Snuggle into dreamland with a gnome-approved cushion. 🧸 Fleece Blanket – The official blanket of Bartholomew’s emotional support protocols. 🌙 Duvet Cover – Gnome-certified for maximum bedtime enchantment. Shop the full collection and let Wimbley Plopfoot stand guard over your dreams—no batteries or bureaucratic raccoons required.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

The Elder of the Enchanted Path

In the heart of the Verdant Woodlands—just past the babbling creek that sounds suspiciously like it's gossiping—stood a moss-covered stump known only to a few as the “Proposal Post.” It was not used for mail, mind you. It was used for moments. Grand, clumsy, blush-colored moments. And it was here that the Elder of the Enchanted Path, a gnome named Thistlewhip Fernwhistle (though friends just called him “Thish”), had decided to make his move. Thish was old. Not old as in creaky or cranky, but old as in "once dated a dryad who turned into a willow mid-conversation." He’d seen thirty-three thousand springs, or so he claimed—though most suspected it was closer to seven hundred. Either way, age hadn't dulled his sense of style. He wore a robe that shimmered faintly like beetle wings, boots made from repurposed pinecone scales, and a floppy hat stitched with kiss-marks collected over centuries. No one knew how he got them. No one asked. Springtime always made him... itchy. Not in a hay-fever kind of way, but in a soul-thirsty, heart-tingly kind of way. The kind that makes one write poetry on mushroom caps or serenade chipmunks who didn't ask for it. And this year, the itch had a name: Briarrose O’Bloom. Briarrose was the head florist of the forest—a dryad with curls like cherry blossoms and a laugh that sounded like rain on tulip petals. She ran “Petal Provocateur,” a scandalously delightful flower cart where the bouquets were arranged to match your deepest, possibly even your naughtiest, desires. She once made a tulip arrangement so evocative that a centaur fell in love with himself. Thish had admired her from afar (well, from behind a tree… regularly), but today was the day he would step into the light. Today he would declare his affection—with a bouquet of his own making. He had spent the last three days crafting it. Not just picking flowers—no, this was an event. He had bartered for moon-drenched daisies, stolen a honeysuckle kiss from a sleeping bee, and convinced a peony to open two weeks early by reciting scandalous limericks. At last, the bouquet was done. Full of pinks, purples, blushes and scents that could render even the grumpiest toad euphoric, it was bound with a ribbon made from spider-silk and a whisper of thyme. He stepped out onto the mossy trail, bouquet in hand, heart doing cartwheels. Ahead, the cart glowed beneath hanging lanterns, and there she was—Briarrose—flirting with a hedgehog in a bowtie (he was a loyal customer). She laughed, tossing her curls, and Thish forgot how legs worked for a second. He approached. Slowly. Carefully. Like one might approach a wild unicorn or a particularly judgmental goose. “Ahem,” he said, in a voice that was far too high for his body and startled a nearby mushroom into fainting. Briarrose turned. Her eyes—violet and wise—softened. “Oh, Elder Thish. What a surprise.” “It’s… a spring gift. A bouquet. I made it. For you,” he said, offering it with a trembling hand and a hopeful smile. “And also, if possible… a proposal.” She blinked. “A proposal?” “For a walk!” he added quickly, cheeks blooming with embarrassment. “A walk. Through the woods. Together. No... wedlock unless mutually discussed in twenty years.” She laughed. Not cruelly. Not mockingly. But like bells dancing in the wind. “Thish Fernwhistle,” she said, taking the bouquet and breathing it in. “This might be the most ridiculous, romantic thing I’ve seen all season.” Then she leaned in, kissed his cheek, and whispered: “Pick me up at dusk. Wear something scandalous.” And just like that, spring came alive. Dusk in the Verdant Woodlands was a sensual thing. The sky flushed lavender, tree branches stretched like lazy lovers, and the air smelled of sap, honeysuckle, and just the faintest hint of cedar smoke and temptation. Thish, true to his word, had dressed scandalously. Well, for a gnome. His robe had been swapped for a vest stitched from foxglove petals, his boots polished until the pinecone scales gleamed, and beneath his famous hat he’d tucked a sprig of lavender “just in case things got steamy.” Briarrose had outdone herself. She wore a gown made entirely of woven vine and blooming jasmine that shifted with her every breath. Butterflies seemed to orbit her like moons. A glowbug landed on her shoulder and promptly fainted. “You look like trouble,” she said with a grin, offering her arm. “You look like a good reason to misbehave,” Thish replied, taking it. They walked. Past willows humming lullabies. Past frogs playing banjo. Past a couple of raccoons necking behind a toadstool and pretending not to notice. The mood was thick with pollen and possibility. Eventually, they reached a clearing lit by floating lanterns. In the middle stood a picnic blanket so elaborate it might have violated several zoning laws. There was elderberry wine. Sugarroot pastries. Chocolate truffles shaped like acorns. Even a bowl of “Consent Cookies”—each one labeled with messages like “Kiss?”, “Flirt?”, “Get Weird?” and “More Wine First?” “You planned this?” Briarrose asked, raising a brow. “I panicked earlier and overcompensated,” Thish admitted. “There’s also a backup string quartet of badgers if things go awkward.” “That’s... kind of perfect.” They sat. They sipped. They nibbled on everything but the cookies—those required mutual cookie signals. The conversation meandered through poetry, pollination, failed love spells, and one deeply embarrassing story involving a unicorn and a very poorly labeled bottle of rosewater. And then—just when the air was perfectly still, when the last rays of sun kissed the tree branches—Briarrose leaned in. “You know,” she said softly, her eyes gleaming, “I’ve been arranging bouquets for half the forest. All kinds. Lust, longing, revenge-flirtations, awkward apologies. But no one’s ever made one for me like yours.” Thish blinked. “Oh. Well. I suppose—” She placed a single finger on his lips. “Shhh. Less talking.” Then she kissed him. Long and slow. The kind of kiss that made the wind pause, the fireflies turn up their glow, and at least three nearby squirrels applaud. When they finally pulled back, both were flushed and slightly breathless. “So…” Thish grinned. “Do I get a second date? Or at least a sensual bouquet review?” She giggled. “You’re already trending in the fern networks.” And under the soft twilight, two hearts—older than most, sillier than many—bloomed like springtime had written them into a love story all its own.     Epilogue: The Bloom Continues Spring turned to summer, and the forest, well—it talked. Not gossip, exactly. More like gleeful speculation. A fox claimed she’d seen Thish and Briarrose dancing barefoot beneath a raincloud. A squirrel swore he spotted them picnicking nude in a tulip field (highly unconfirmed). And a particularly smug robin reported hearing giggles echoing from inside a hollow tree. All we know for certain is this: the “Proposal Post” now had a permanent bouquet atop it, refreshed every full moon by unseen hands. Briarrose’s flower cart began offering a new line called “Thistlewhips”—chaotic little bundles of love, passion, and one wildcard bloom that may or may not inspire spontaneous foot rubs. And Thish? He wrote a collection of romantic haikus titled “Petals and Puns”, available only in bark-scroll editions, and only if you asked the badger librarian very, very nicely. They never married—because they didn’t need to. Love, in their part of the world, wasn’t something to bind. It was something to bloom, gently and wildly, year after year. And every spring, if you walk the Enchanted Path just after dusk, you might find two figures laughing beneath the lanterns—sharing cookies, kisses, and the occasional mischievous wink at the moon. May you too find someone who brings you flowers you didn’t know you needed… and kisses you like they were written in the bark of your bones.     🌿 Explore the Artwork This story was inspired by the original artwork "Elder of the Enchanted Path", available exclusively through our image archive. Bring home a bit of woodland whimsy with fine art prints, digital downloads, and licensing options. ➡️ View the artwork in the Unfocussed Archive

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Yetiboo and the Silent Rage

The Cold Shoulder of Destiny Far beyond the howling peaks of the Cringecrack Mountains, where the wind screamed like unpaid interns and snowflakes fell like passive-aggressive emails, there lived a creature whose name was whispered in ski lodges and overpriced chalet spas with reverent fear. They called him Yetiboo. Standing a mighty 1’8” tall (2’2” if you included the static-charged fluff halo), Yetiboo was the frostbitten embodiment of silent rage. With fur as white as HR-approved rage and eyes the color of cold brew regret, he had spent years perfecting a glare so powerful it could curdle oat milk at 300 feet. Yetiboo wasn’t born mad. He was sculpted by life’s little injustices: the betrayal of lukewarm cocoa, snowballs with ice cores, and worst of all—being called “snuggly.” “I’m not snuggly,” he hissed once into a void that did not respond. “I’m a harbinger of wintry fury.” But no one listened. The locals threw marshmallows at him. Influencers tried to put flower crowns on his head. A TikTok elf once captioned a video #YetiBabyVibes while pretending to boop his nose. She hasn’t been seen since. Allegedly. On this particularly snowy Tuesday, Yetiboo had reached his emotional saturation point. Snowflakes fell, uninvited, into his ears. His tiny feet were frozen. He had been ghosted by the Northern Lights (again). And someone—some heartless mountain soul—had taken the last peppermint bark from the communal glacier fridge. “I am done,” he growled, plopping down into the snow with all the fury of a sitcom character whose favorite mug just shattered mid-monologue. “From this moment forward, I shall speak to no one. Not a soul. The mountain will tremble with my profound, poetic silence.” He folded his arms. He scowled. A passing snow hare made eye contact and immediately fled to therapy. “Let them tremble,” Yetiboo whispered to the wind, which respectfully carried the message 600 miles south to a confused coffee shop in lower Glacialia. And thus began the Great Sulk of the North—a silent protest so intense, so frostbitten with feeling, that the temperature in the surrounding three valleys dropped two degrees just to match his vibe. Unbeknownst to him, his silence had consequences. Big ones. Cosmic, absurd, and definitely overblown ones. Because when the most dramatic yeti in existence goes emotionally offline… the mountain listens. Avalanche of Emotion As Yetiboo sat in the snow, radiating enough silent loathing to frost over a lava vent, strange things began to happen. First, the icicles on the nearby pine trees began to hum—a low, mournful tune like the soundtrack to a documentary about abandoned mittens. Then the clouds gathered above, thickening into dramatic, swirling layers like a sky having a breakdown. Thunder cracked, somewhere far off. A raven dropped a dead flower at his feet. No one knew where the flower came from. It was August last time anyone saw a bloom around here. The mountain was responding. Unwittingly—or perhaps divinely—Yetiboo had tapped into the ancient magic of *Glacial Gloom*, an emotional pressure system said to be triggered when someone is just too over it to speak. Mountain legends told of a time, centuries ago, when a teen frost elf with bad bangs and a complicated situationship sulked so hard, she froze an entire fjord. That elf’s name was whispered only in wine cellars and seasonal affective disorder support groups. Now, Yetiboo was the new vessel of that power. Elsewhere, across the frosted realm, things began to unravel. Weather alerts popped up on enchanted mirrors. “EMOTIONAL BLIZZARD WARNING: EXPECT FLURRIES OF DRAMATIC STARES.” A group of woodland creatures canceled their winter talent show because the tension in the air was just too much. Back at base camp, the Winter Council—a committee of ancient creatures who wore velvet robes and argued about snowflake purity—called an emergency meeting. They gathered in the Chamber of Chilled Disapproval and reviewed the footage. “It’s worse than we feared,” sighed Frostmaw, the 700-year-old moose with a monocle. “He’s not just brooding—he’s internalizing.” “We need to act fast,” said a sentient snow owl named Beatrice. “Before he ice-blocks the entire emotional spectrum.” So they did what any responsible, mystical governing body would do. They sent a goat. But not just any goat. This was Tilda, a sassy, frost-hardened emotional support goat with a nose ring, a degree in interspecies mediation, and zero tolerance for silent treatment. Tilda clomped up the mountain with purpose, hooves crunching snow like punctuation marks in an angry Yelp review. When she reached Yetiboo, she didn't speak. She simply sat. Beside him. In the snow. Matching his silence with one of her own. It was a stand-off. The world's fluffiest Mexican standoff. Three hours passed. A snowflake landed on Tilda's horn. Yetiboo's eye twitched. She didn’t flinch. Eventually, he cracked. “They took my peppermint bark,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “They left the label. Just… just the label.” Tilda nodded solemnly. “Savages.” “And Dorble the fox keeps tagging me in memes.” “Unacceptable.” “I have layers, Tilda. Like—like a rage parfait.” “Delicious and unstable. Got it.” And just like that, the storm began to fade. The clouds pulled back like curtains at the end of a moody one-man play. The icicles quieted. Somewhere, a harp seal exhaled in relief. The mountain, now sated by the release of pent-up sass, settled into a peaceful snowfall. Yetiboo stood up. Shook out his fur. Cleared his throat. “I am not okay,” he declared with pride. “But I am dramatically functional.” “That’s all we can ask,” Tilda said, handing him a backup chocolate square from her saddlebag. “Now come on. There's a rage yoga class at 6 and you’re already behind on your breathing resentment exercises.” And so, the Great Sulk ended—not with a tantrum, but with solidarity, snacks, and one very exhausted snow goat who deserved hazard pay. As for Yetiboo, he would go on to channel his silent rage into expressive dance, write a memoir titled “Cold Inside: One Yeti’s Journey Through Emotional Permafrost,” and become a minor celebrity in niche arctic wellness circles. But sometimes, when the wind howls just right… you can still hear his tiny voice echoing across the snowdrifts: “I said I wasn’t SNUGGLY.”     Epilogue: Fluff, Fame, and Frozen Boundaries Following the emotional meteorology incident now referred to by the locals as “The Great Sulking,” Yetiboo became something of a minor deity in the cozy corners of snow-covered subcultures. He didn’t ask for the fame. He didn’t want the fame. But he did enjoy being left alone at cafés while sipping glacier-melt tea from his custom mug that read: "Dead Inside, But Make It Cozy." The mountain, meanwhile, was far more peaceful. Emotionally stable, even. There were fewer spontaneous ice spikes. Fewer cursed snowballs. The Weather Channel (North Edition) named him their honorary "Emo Pressure Front of the Year." And while he never fully embraced the whole “cuddly mascot” narrative, he did allow one company to put his likeness on a throw blanket—as long as it came with a disclaimer: "Do not approach before coffee." Tilda became his manager. The goat, naturally, negotiated a merch deal, a podcast guest spot, and a branded hoodie line titled “Frosted But Fierce.” But deep down—beneath the layers of fluff, fame, and very professionally curated social detachment—Yetiboo never forgot who he was: A cold-hearted legend with a warm center... that you absolutely should not touch without permission. And if you're ever on that mountain and the wind suddenly shifts, chillier than it should be, and you feel like you're being silently judged—you are. He sees you. He disapproves. And he’s sitting just out of frame, arms crossed, waiting for you to say something cringe so he can roll his enormous blue eyes. Legend says he’s still not snuggly. And that’s exactly how he likes it.     Need a Little Silent Rage in Your Life? If you’ve ever felt personally attacked by weather or emotionally represented by a tiny yeti with a death stare, good news: Yetiboo is now available in huggable, wearable, and displayable form. Wrap yourself in pure frostbitten mood with a cozy coral fleece blanket or let your guests know what vibe they’re walking into with a framed acrylic print. Add some sass to your seating with a squishy throw pillow, haul your emotional baggage in this unapologetic tote bag, or let his silent judgment hang proudly from your wall with a full-sized tapestry. He's moody. He’s fluffy. He’s merch-ready. Channel the chill. Carry the rage.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Mini Kraken, Major Attitude

Trouble in the Tidal Flats It was a quiet morning in the shallows of the Glimmering Gulf, where the sand sparkled like spilled champagne and hermit crabs gossiped like old barmaids. The sea was calm. The waves whispered. And in the middle of it all, sitting under a shell-shaped shadow with the grumpiest frown this side of Atlantis, was the Mini Kraken. He wasn’t technically a kraken. His government-issued name was Reginald of Tentacleshire, but he’d long since rebranded himself. At just nine inches long (when feeling generous), he made up for his lack of mass with excessive sass. Wide black eyes, eight sticky limbs, and a permanent scowl that could sour milk at twenty leagues. Reginald hated mornings. He hated pebbles that weren’t symmetrical. He especially hated the way the clams clicked at him like they were judging his life choices. And most of all, he hated being called “adorable.” “I’m not cute,” he grumbled, puffing up his mantle and turning slightly more purple. “I’m a terrifying leviathan of the deep.” “Of course you are, sweetie,” murmured an elderly starfish named Dorinda, sipping her brine latte from a limp sea sponge. “You tell them, sugar tentacles.” Reginald narrowed his eyes. “I don’t need your validation, Dorinda.” She winked a slow, five-armed wink. “And yet here you are, monologuing into the current like a theatre major with a shellfish allergy.” It wasn’t easy being the Mini Kraken. The seahorses called him “Snippy.” The anglerfish used him as a mood ring. And last week, a group of scuba influencers took a selfie with him and captioned it, “Tiny Terrors of the Tide #SoSquishy”. He was still emotionally recovering. Today, however, was the day everything would change. Today, Reginald had a plan. He had drawn up blueprints in ink, tucked under a rock labeled “Totally Not Evil Plans.” If all went well, he’d reclaim his dignity, his territory, and maybe—just maybe—get those sea cucumbers to stop calling him “cutie patootie.” But first, he needed allies. And unfortunately, that meant... mingling. The Mollusk Manifesto Reginald wasn’t fond of group projects. He preferred the solitude of brooding under rocks, perfecting his death glare, and muttering passive-aggressive insults into the current. But desperate times called for collaborative pettiness. He began his recruitment with the easiest mark: a disgruntled jellyfish named Greg, who had recently been stung by his own existential crisis. Greg was translucent, emotionally fragile, and constantly narrating his life like it was a sad French film. “I float, therefore I am… ignored,” Greg moaned as he drifted aimlessly. “You want revenge on the entire ecosystem, or not?” Reginald snapped. Greg blinked (probably), then pulsed with uncertain rage. “Only if I can write the manifesto.” “Fine. But no metaphors about drifting through capitalism’s emotional tidepools, okay?” Next up was Coraline the crab, a battle-hardened crustacean with two missing legs and zero tolerance for nonsense. She ran a black-market barnacle-shaving operation and had claws sharp enough to slice through condescension. “What’s in it for me?” she demanded, eyes narrowed beneath her chipped shell. “Power. Infamy. The right to pinch anyone who calls you a ‘side dish,’” Reginald said, deadpan. She paused. Then slowly, silently, extended a claw. “I’m in.” Within hours, the underwater coup had grown to a full-blown movement. They called themselves: F.R.O.T.H. – Ferocious Rascals Of The Hadal. Membership included: A cynical cuttlefish who only spoke in passive-aggressive haikus. An emo dolphin who wrote sea-shanties about unrequited love. Two barnacle twins named Clack and Cluck who had been kicked off a coral reef for being “too dramatic.” Reginald was thrilled. Or as thrilled as his face would allow—which meant a slightly less intense scowl and a contented grumble. The plan was simple: during the Coral Carnival, the most festive event of the season, they would unleash a synchronized ink-cloud performance so chaotic, it would shut down every seashell selfie station within a nautical mile. Aesthetic ruin. Digital despair. Perfect vengeance. The day arrived. Coral streamers floated in the tide. Clownfish wore bow ties. Anemones pulsed in technicolor. The influencers had arrived early, phones clutched in waterproof pouches like weapons of mass documentation. And then, it began. Greg, high on poetic vengeance, opened the event by reciting a 12-verse spoken-word poem titled “My Gelatinous Cage”. The crowd was confused. Some applauded out of fear. A toddler eel wept softly. Coraline pinch-snapped confetti urchins into the water, causing a minor panic. The cuttlefish cast a gloom-colored haiku into the reef: Inky depths murmur—Your vibes are unseasoned brine,Float away, peasant. And then, the finale—Reginald rose from behind a giant oyster shell, arms dramatically outstretched, eyes gleaming like abyssal orbs of sass and glory. “BEHOLD! I am the terror in your tranquil tide! The shadow in your shimmering filter! I AM THE MINI KRAKEN!” he roared. At his signal, a volcanic explosion of ink erupted from every F.R.O.T.H. member, blackening the water like a goth squid wedding. Chaos. Screams. A GoPro spiraled into the abyss. Somewhere, a conch fainted. The Carnival was ruined. And Reginald? He floated in the middle of it all, arms folded, basking in the inky glory of his vengeance. Days later, the reef was still talking about it. The sea-cucumbers gave him a respectful nod. The dolphins stopped calling him “baby blob.” Even Dorinda offered him a spongy latte and said, “You know what, Reg—you’ve got teeth.” He didn’t smile. Not outwardly. But his frown was... slightly less catastrophic. And as he slipped into the deeper water, cloak of ink behind him, Reginald whispered the words he’d waited so long to say: “Not cute. Legendary.”     Epilogue: Of Ink and Influence Weeks passed. The Carnival scandal had gone viral—literally. Some sea lion with a shellphone had posted the footage, and now Reginald was trending under hashtags like #Inkfluencer, #KrakenKhaos, and inexplicably, #CephalopodDaddy. He hated it. He loved it. Mostly, he tolerated it with a level of disdain usually reserved for overcooked plankton. His face had been plastered on reef walls, coffee mugs made of polished clamshell, and kelp-themed fashion lines. Influencers started imitating his scowl, calling it “Kraken Chic.” Coraline started a self-defense class for crustaceans. Greg was on tour. F.R.O.T.H. was now a movement—and somehow, a lifestyle brand. Reginald was no longer just the Mini Kraken. He was a symbol. Of sea-powered rebellion. Of cute-anarchic energy. Of not letting the ocean walk all over your squishy little dignity. He still didn’t smile. He might have signed an autograph. And every now and then, when the tide was low and no one was looking, he’d ink a quick signature on a rock: “With zero affection – MK.” And somewhere in the dark, swirling deep where legends linger, the whisper echoed through the water like the pulse of an old sea god with attitude: “Don’t underestimate the small ones. We’ve got suction and grudges.”     Bring the Kraken Vibes Home If you found yourself oddly inspired by Reginald’s inky rebellion and unbothered glare, good news: you can now take the Mini Kraken, Major Attitude wherever your tide rolls. Whether you’re drying off your salty sass with a beach towel, lounging in full kraken glory on a round towel, or hauling your drama in a stylish weekender tote, there’s a deep-sea statement piece just waiting for you. Feeling bold? Make a splash with a sleek acrylic print and let Reginald glare at your guests in high definition. Live salty. Ink proudly.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

The Morning Drip

Glazed & Unphased It was barely 8:07 a.m. and already the pastry box was feeling... sticky. The bakery was quiet. Too quiet. A single ray of warm sunlight slipped between the blinds, landing directly on the plump, sugar-dusted body of Donny Cream. Round. Golden. Fluffy in all the right places. And leaking like a broken promise. “Mmm,” Donny moaned, eyes half-lidded, voice thick and velvety. “Is it warm in here or is it just... me?” A nearby coffee mug trembled on the counter, horrified. “You’re leaking again,” it said, voice shaky. “That’s your third time this morning.” Donny let a slow stream of vanilla custard dribble from his mouth like he was proud of it. “I’m not leaking, sweetheart,” he said with a smile. “I’m giving.” The mug backed up slightly. “I didn’t sign up for this,” it muttered. “I’m decaf.” Donny smirked. He loved a nervous cup. “You think I chose this life?” he asked, arching his brow bun. “One day you're dough with dreams, the next you're filled to the brim, powdered like a runway model, and left on a napkin to moan at strangers before noon.” He let out a long sigh and another soft ooze of custard. It puddled below him, warm and inappropriate. “Stop it!” cried a nearby croissant, shielding its flaky layers. “The kids come in at 9!” Donny just licked his lips. “Then they’ll learn what real filling looks like.” The toaster let out a judgmental ding. “You know they’re gonna eat you, right?” the mug asked, its handle trembling. “That’s the dream, sugarcup,” Donny said. “To be desired, devoured, and deeply regretted. I’m a pastry with a purpose. I wasn’t baked to be wholesome. I was baked to break souls.” Another slow stream of custard slipped from his center. A gasp came from the tea bag drawer. “I’ve seen enough,” said the muffin tin, covering its cavities. “This is a family brunch spot.” Donny didn’t flinch. “Then they better bring napkins. Because Daddy’s dripping, and I’m only halfway thawed.” The napkin beneath him was soaked. He was unapologetic. He was uncensored. He was… The Morning Drip. Cream of the Crop By the time the customers started trickling in—bright-eyed, hungover, and clutching iced lattes like rosaries—the bakery was already a crime scene of innuendo. Donny Cream was sprawled on his napkin like a Greek god made of sugar and shame. His filling had breached containment hours ago. It was no longer a leak. It was a flood. A warm, glistening testament to indulgence and poor decision-making. “You gonna clean that up?” asked the espresso machine, watching the puddle spread like gossip in a small town. “Why?” Donny purred. “Let 'em slip. Let 'em fall face-first into me. I’ve ruined better diets than this.” A gluten-free muffin shook its head from the display shelf. “You’re disgusting.” “I’m delicious,” Donny corrected. “There’s a difference.” The bell above the door jingled. A human entered, scanning the glass case with innocent, naive hunger. The kind of hunger that didn’t know what it was about to awaken. Donny licked powdered sugar from his lip. “Oh yeah... he’s gonna pick me.” “No way,” whispered a snobby blueberry scone. “You’re literally oozing onto the counter.” “Exactly,” said Donny. “I’m prepped. I’m provocative. I’m ready to be tonged.” There was a pause. The coffee mug groaned into its ceramic palm. The customer pointed. “That one. The creamy one. He looks... intense.” Donny shuddered. “Yes. Yes I do.” Gloved tongs lifted him gently. He moaned dramatically, fully aware of the performance. A little extra cream spurted out onto the glass. “You’re the reason brunch is banned in some states,” muttered the plain bagel. Donny was placed in a wax paper bag, his voice muffled but still smug. “Goodbye, darlings. Remember me not as I was—but as I dripped.” The door closed. Silence fell. “That was the filthiest pastry I’ve ever seen,” the mug whispered. “I think I need to be refrigerated,” said the Danish. From the back of the kitchen, the churros huddled together for emotional support. The donut holes blinked, questioning their existence. And somewhere in the bakery, an oven preheated slowly... preparing to birth the next generation of filled, frosted deviance. Because Donny Cream was gone—but the drip? The drip lived on. Long live The Morning Drip.     Epilogue: Just a Little Powdered Memory The napkin remained. Crinkled, stained, and lightly trembling in the breeze of a closing door, it lay like a fallen flag—marking the spot where Donny Cream once oozed with reckless abandon. A custard ghost clung to the fibers. The powdered sugar lingered in the air like soft trauma. The bakery had moved on. Kind of. New pastries came. Younger. Firmer. Less... emotionally unstable. But none of them filled the void Donny left—physically or metaphorically. The coffee mug rarely spoke now. He just stared out the window, handle cocked slightly to the left like he was waiting for a ride that never came. “He was too much,” whispered a croissant one morning. “He was everything,” replied a jelly-filled quietly, squeezing its sides in tribute. No one dared use that napkin again. It stayed right there, framed by streaks of custard and the weight of memories. A sacred spot. A warning. A legend. Because somewhere out there—maybe in the hands of a hungover college student, maybe half-eaten in the backseat of a rideshare—Donny Cream lives on. His filling… his attitude… his unapologetic drip. And as long as there are glazes to crack and custards to spill, he’ll never be truly gone. They say time heals all wounds. But some leaks? Some leaks never dry.     Still feeling the drip? Donny Cream lives on in all his sticky glory with The Morning Drip collection—perfect for kitchens, bedrooms, brunch spots, and anywhere food shame is welcome. Immortalize his creamy legacy with a framed print, an unapologetically shiny acrylic print, or keep him close on a throw pillow or tote bag. And for those with a flair for awkward greetings, yes—he’s also available as a greeting card. Just don’t say we didn’t warn you.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Cheese Me Daddy

Melt With Me It was a late night in the diner. Neon lights buzzed like old secrets and the grill was still warm—hot enough to bring the meat sweats, cool enough to pretend it wasn’t weird. That’s when he strutted in… oozing cheddar and confidence. His name was Big Chedd. Bun golden, patty thick, and a cheese drip that could make a vegan reconsider their entire identity. Eyes half-lidded with the calm of someone who’s been grilled on both sides—and liked it. “You hungry, sugar?” he asked, his voice low and velvety, like hot grease on Formica. No one answered. They couldn’t. The entire fridge aisle had gone silent. Even the pickles held their breath. Big Chedd leaned on the ketchup pump like it owed him money. “I see you eyeballin’ the melt,” he said, grinning. “Well go ahead. Take a bite. I won’t flinch.” Across the counter, a lonely grilled cheese blushed so hard it curled its crusts inward. The bottle of ranch ranch-dropped from the shelf in shock. Big Chedd sauntered across the cutting board with the swagger of a meal that knew it was bad for you and planned to be worse. “I’m not like those fast food types. I take my time. Low heat. Long cook. Every. Single. Drip.” He winked. A thick ribbon of cheddar slid down his patty like it had paid rent to be there. He licked it back into place with a slow, smug curl of his sesame-topped lip. “Tell me what you want,” he said, inches from the plate’s edge. “You want a clean meal? Or you want the real thing? You want calorie counts or carnal cravings? Lettuce behave, or lose all control?” The plate was moist now. Moist with fear. Moist with want. Moist with... mayonnaise? Tomato gasped. “Is he… melting on purpose?” Lettuce trembled. “Oh he knows exactly what he’s doing.” And he did. Because Big Chedd wasn’t just a burger. He was a moment. A fantasy. A food group you don’t talk about in public. He was thick. He was juicy. He was... Daddy. “Now,” he growled, lowering himself slowly onto the bun like a greasy love note, “Who’s ready to be unwrapped?” Greased Lightning The bun hit the plate with a heavy thwap, like a drumroll at a burlesque show. Big Chedd was now fully assembled—top to bottom, lettuce to lust. He oozed seduction, and cheddar. Mostly cheddar. He spread his buns just enough to let the steam out. “You ever been with a burger that drips twice before the first bite?” he whispered, his voice like a slow sizzle on cast iron. “’Cause I’m the kind of mess you lick off your fingers and don’t apologize for.” The fridge door creaked open slowly. Milk peeped out and immediately went sour. The hot dog buns blushed so hard they went stale. Even the coleslaw slumped in its Tupperware like, “Why even try?” Big Chedd flexed his patty, meat glistening with confidence and a little bacon fat. “I don’t do diets. I do damage,” he said, with a wink so greasy it left a streak on the air. The ketchup bottle trembled. “Sir… this is a Wendy’s.” “Nah,” Big Chedd smirked. “This is my kitchen now. And I’m about to sauce this place up like a third-date mistake.” He made his move. It was slow. Sensual. Strategic. He rolled toward the edge of the plate, hips swiveling like he’d been flipped by a master griller in a past life. The cheddar clung to him like it didn’t want to say goodbye—stretching long, gooey, unapologetically filthy. Tomato couldn’t watch. Or look away. “He’s... dripping on the floor,” she whispered. “Let him,” said Lettuce. “That’s just how he leaves a mark.” The steak knives rattled in their block. The spatula fainted. And somewhere in the corner, a lonely french fry sobbed quietly into a puddle of aioli. Big Chedd reached the countertop’s edge. He turned back to the others, lip curled, cheese hanging low and dangerous. “I’m not just a snack,” he growled. “I’m a full-course regret with extra napkins. And if you can't handle the melt, baby... don’t unwrap the Daddy.” Then he dropped. A slow fall. A fall of legends. The kind of fall usually scored with saxophone and soft lighting. The cheddar stretched one last time like it was saying goodbye to its lover. He landed with a gentle splat, a smear of sauce haloing his resting place like some kind of greasy martyr. Silence. The paper towel roll let out a soft, “Damn.” And that’s how the legend of Big Chedd was born. They say if you listen closely, late at night, you can still hear the sizzle of his patty... and the whisper of a sesame seed bun breathing into your ear— “Cheese me, Daddy.”     Epilogue: Still Melting The grill's gone cold now. The spatulas are resting. The buns are back in their bag, pretending none of it ever happened. But somewhere—between the crisper drawer and expired Greek yogurt—his memory lingers. Big Chedd. The meltiest of them all. The cheddar-slicked Casanova with buns like sunset pillows and a voice like a low burner hum. He wasn’t just a burger. He was a feeling. A fantasy. A full-fat fever dream. Sometimes, late at night, when the fridge light flicks on and the condiments think no one’s watching, you’ll hear it: a soft squish, a faint sizzle, the low groan of a bun remembering what it felt like to be held... tightly. Greasily. Passionately. The lettuce still curls at the thought. The tomato, sliced but not forgotten, writes sonnets in the dark. And the cheese? Oh, the cheese just keeps dripping. Slowly. Longingly. For someone who never cared about napkins or shame. He’s gone, yes. But legends don’t mold. They marinate. And Big Chedd? He’s still melting— —in hearts, in grease traps, and in the wild, spicy dreams of every food that dared to feel.     If Big Chedd left a mark on your heart—and possibly your cholesterol—why not keep him around in all his melty, mouthy glory? Cheese Me Daddy is available now as a steamy framed print for your kitchen, a sizzling metal print for your burger shrine, or—because why the hell not—a ridiculously seductive throw pillow to cuddle between buns. Want to carry him with you like a grilled goddamn secret? There’s even a tote bag so you can bring the Daddy drip everywhere you go. He’s hot. He’s heavy. And he’s ready to be yours.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Pepper Dominatrix

The Grinding Hour The steak lay there—thick, glistening, and just a touch too smug. Marbled in all the right places, it had spent the better part of the day basking in a Himalayan salt rub, thinking itself the main course. Prime cut, ego to match. Then she entered. Heels like toothpicks skewering the hardwood countertop, leather dress tighter than a sous vide seal, and eyes darker than balsamic glaze—Pepper Dominatrix had arrived. Her curves were turned from a finely aged mahogany, her handle slick with tension. She didn’t knock. She never knocked. She just twisted... and ground. The first crackle of fresh pepper sent a shiver through the meat. “Easy there, sweetheart,” it whispered, trying to stay juicy. “You don’t need to be so... rough.” “Oh, but I do,” she purred, grinding harder. A puff of peppercorn dust erupted like a volcanic burst of culinary climax. “You're dry-aged, darling. I’m here to make you wet again.” From across the board, Salt watched, horrified. He was soft, white, and entirely unprepared for this level of heat. A single tear of brine rolled down his metal cheek. “This is... highly unseasoned behavior,” he muttered, clutching his tiny porcelain towel. Pepper leaned in close to the steak, her cap brushing against its seared surface. “You thought you’d get basted and roasted without me? You foolish slab of protein. I don’t just complement flavors—I dominate them.” The steak whimpered. “This isn’t how Gordon Ramsay does it...” She laughed—a deep, smoky cackle that echoed through the pantry. “Ramsay? Please. That man couldn't handle a full grind without crying into his lamb shanks.” With a swirl of her hips and a sprinkle from above, the entire cutting board glistened under her wrath. Butter melted in fearful anticipation. The tongs trembled. Even the red wine glass developed condensation out of sheer intimidation. Then, with the dominance of a chef who knew her flavors and wasn’t afraid to bruise a few egos, she lifted one leg—slowly, deliberately—and planted her stiletto squarely on the steak's surface. A low, buttery moan escaped from beneath her heel. “You’ve been marinating in your own delusions,” she said. “It’s time to taste what real seasoning feels like.” Salt could only look away. He’d seen enough. He was out-shaken, out-spiced... and, dare he admit it... a little turned on. Well Done, Darling The steak sizzled under her heel, juices oozing with submissive obedience. Pepper Dominatrix stood proud, shoulders back, peppercorns crackling across her chest like a seasoning of war medals. The cutting board was no longer a prep station—it was her arena. Her coliseum. Her stage. Salt, paralyzed in the corner, let out a helpless “oh dear” as she reached into her leather spice satchel. Out came her secret weapon: a single, dangerously seductive sachet labeled “Umami Dust™”—illegal in three culinary schools and banned outright by the French. She locked eyes with the steak, who was now glistening, quivering, barely medium rare. “You think you’ve been cooked before?” she snarled. “Darling, I’m about to take you past the smoke point.” With a flick of her wrist, the dust hit the steak in a shimmering cloud of flavor chaos. Notes of soy, mushroom, and something suspiciously meaty exploded in the air like MSG-fueled fireworks. The steak let out a low, guttural “ohhhhhhhh god” as a sear line quivered beneath the sudden impact of fifth-dimensional flavor. Salt turned to the wine glass beside him. “Are you seeing this?” he asked. The glass, nearly empty, said nothing. But its curved lip had fogged again. That was enough. Pepper moved with lethal grace. She straddled the steak now, both heels sunk in, grinding like a DJ at a midnight club of culinary depravity. Butter splashed. Marinade wept. The wooden cutting board groaned in grainy protest. “Beg for it,” she whispered, twisting her cap until it clicked—full grind mode. “Tell me you want to be over-seasoned.” The steak was delirious. “Yes, Chef... oh god, yes, pepper me... please... make me... well done...” “Wrong answer,” she snapped. “Nobody wants that. Medium at most, you greasy little filet.” Then, she delivered the final blow. From beneath her dress (no one’s sure where she stored it), she pulled a tiny vial of truffle oil. Not just any truffle oil—this was Cold-Pressed Black Winter Truffle Essence, aged in ego and tears. Salt gasped. “That's... that's not FDA approved!” “Neither is this performance,” she growled—and she poured it. In slow motion, the oil trickled over the steak’s quivering body. Every droplet whispered of forests and forbidden price tags. With a dramatic flair, she stepped back, surveying her masterpiece. The steak now lay in a sensual pool of sauce and sweat, utterly transformed. Seasoned. Dominated. Complete. Salt stumbled forward, hat askew. “Pepper… that was… you didn’t have to go so hard.” She glanced at him, a single peppercorn still stuck on her heel. “Darling, I always go hard. That’s why I’m the grinder. And you? You just sprinkle.” With that, she sauntered off into the pantry’s shadows, leaving behind the scent of victory, a few rogue pepper flakes, and a steak that would never be the same again. Some say she still haunts the countertops of arrogant chefs and bland dinners. Others claim she retired to a spice rack in Milan. But one thing’s certain— Once you’ve been ground... you never forget the grind.     Epilogue: A Dash of Memory The kitchen returned to silence. Just the soft tick of the oven cooling down and the faint hum of the refrigerator—watching, judging, as it always did. The steak was gone, devoured by fate or fork, nobody could say. Only a faint peppery heat lingered in the air... and a smear of truffle-slicked butter that refused to be wiped away. Salt sat on the edge of the cutting board, his little chrome shoulders hunched. He hadn’t shaken since. Not even once. The trauma—or was it awe?—had settled deep into his grains. He thought of her often. The crack of her twist. The glint of oil on lacquered wood. The way she whispered, “Let it rest,” like it was both an order and a mercy. No one had seasoned like her. No one dared. Some nights, when the moonlight filters through the spice cabinet just right, and the cumin’s feeling nostalgic, they say you can still hear her heels tapping across the tiles. A slow, seductive staccato. Click. Click. Grind. They call her a myth. A fantasy. A cautionary tale to under-flavored dishes. But Salt knows better. He saw her. He smelled her. He tasted the aftermath. And somewhere out there, in the back of a candlelit bistro or the shadowy corner of a Michelin-starred mise en place, Pepper Dominatrix is still watching. Still grinding. Still... the top of the rack.     If you’re ready to bring a little grind into your own space, Pepper Dominatrix is available in a variety of mouthwatering formats, each one hotter than a cast-iron skillet left on high. Whether you want her framed and fabulous on your kitchen wall, sizzling in sleek metal, rich and rustic in wood, shining in acrylic, or dressed to impress in a classic framed print—she’s ready to spice up your life, one wall at a time.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Tear of the Pump: A Moisture Tragedy

The Dry Days The pump had seen better days. Once proud and upright on the bathroom counter, he now sat half-slouched next to a flickering “Sensual Aloe” candle, oozing self-pity and the occasional drop of aloe-infused regret. He wasn’t just any lotion bottle—he was Greg. And Greg had one job: to moisturize. But no one had pumped Greg in weeks. Not since the house’s new skincare obsession arrived—a smug, overpriced jade roller named Jasper who whispered words like “lymphatic drainage” and “de-puffing” in his infuriatingly smooth tone. Greg, once the alpha of the vanity lineup, now sat exiled to the dusty desk near the laptop, where he’d been forced to watch humans fondle cacti on YouTube in weird ASMR videos titled “Moisturize Me: The ASMR Chronicles.” It was cruel. A literal prick tease. Watching bare hands stroke a cactus—dry, spiny, chafing—and not reach for Greg? It was a personal attack. “I could fix you,” he mumbled to the screen, a single tear of unsqueezed lotion sliding down his cheek. “You don’t need that prick. You need me.” On the desk, a motivational book titled “You Deserve Smoothness” mocked him. Greg had once gifted that book to a half-used body butter named Sheila, hoping it would jumpstart her confidence. She ghosted him. Literally rolled under the bed and never came back. Typical. Tissues lay strewn about the scene—some from emotion, some from Greg’s unfortunate habit of spontaneous leakage. It wasn’t his fault; he was sensitive, emotionally and hydraulically. He sighed, audibly. No one heard him, of course. Lotion bottles have no vocal cords. But if they did, Greg’s sigh would’ve sounded like Barry White after a night of bad decisions and cocoa butter. Then it happened. A sound. Footsteps. The soft slap of bare feet across laminate. The human. She was coming. Maybe today was the day. Maybe she’d pick him up again, feel his curves, give him one last pump for old time’s sake. Greg straightened his cap. Tried to look moisturizable. Tensed every ounce of remaining SPF 15 inside his soul. The door opened. She entered. She reached toward him— —then stopped. Her eyes wandered. Her hand hovered, hesitated… then slid past Greg and grabbed… Hand sanitizer. Greg deflated, dramatically. “Seriously?” he muttered. “That basic bitch?” In the distance, the YouTube video looped. The cactus was getting caressed again. And Greg? He just watched… leaking slowly into oblivion. The Rubdown Redemption Greg lay in a puddle of his own despair (and half a pump of aloe), questioning everything. Was it his viscosity? Had he gone too heavy on the shea? Maybe he shouldn’t have added that “tingling menthol” to his formula. People said they liked surprises, but apparently, not when their thighs were involved. “I used to be the whole routine,” he whispered to no one. “Post-shower, pre-date, mid-winter emergency hand relief. That was me.” The candle flickered mockingly, its label—Sensual Aloe—now a cruel inside joke between Greg and the void. Even the tissues had dried up and blown away. Greg was alone. Unused. Unloved. Untouched. Until a miracle arrived. Her name was Becky. The new roommate. She moved in like a chaotic whirlwind of velvet scrunchies, faux-fur slippers, and an almost erotic amount of body glitter. Becky brought moisture energy. She burned incense. She bathed for sport. She had a drawer labeled “Emergency Lubes (All Occasions).” She was, in every way, Greg’s dream user. Greg first saw her during the Great Shelf Reorg of Tuesday Night. She found him while digging for a missing charger. Her hand wrapped around his bottle like destiny itself. Greg swore he heard a choir of tiny, scented angels hum a slow jam. “Oh my god,” Becky said, examining his dusty label. “You’re the good stuff. Why did no one tell me we had an aloe-based emotional support dispenser?” Greg shivered. Or maybe that was just a bubble of air stuck in his pump nozzle. Hard to say. Emotions and physics blurred. That night, he returned to glory. Becky didn’t just use Greg—she used him. Post-shower, mid-TikTok skincare breakdown, even once during a date prep where she declared, “Nobody's getting this peach dry tonight!” and slathered herself head to toe while humming Mariah Carey. Greg had never felt so alive. Every pump was a symphony. Every squeeze, an affirmation of his purpose. He wasn't just lotion—he was foreplay in a bottle. He met the others. The squad. Becky’s holy trinity: a coconut scrub named CocoNutz, a peppermint foot balm called Toe Daddy, and an inexplicably seductive facial mist everyone just referred to as “Mistress Hydration.” Together, they were the Skincare Avengers. And Greg was the comeback kid with a slippery past and a creamy heart of gold. But even in paradise, cracks form. One day, after a long, steamy lather session, Becky brought home a new bottle—sleek, curvy, matte black with gold lettering. The label read: “Midnight Musk: Hydration for the Hedonist.” Greg felt the shift. Midnight Musk was everything he wasn’t. Sultry. Fragrance-forward. Built like a cologne ad with six-pack abs. Greg was more… reliable. Functional. The kind of lotion you introduce to your mom. “Don’t take it personally,” Mistress Hydration whispered. “She likes variety. You’re the one she trusts when she’s sad and watching true crime in bed.” Greg nodded, but deep down, he knew: he had entered the poly-moisture phase of the relationship. Still, he was content. Happy even. He had a place again, a purpose. And on lonely nights when Becky reached for Midnight Musk, Greg would whisper to himself, “She’ll come back. You can’t beat aloe and unconditional love.” As the candle burned lower and the tissues piled high once more (for different reasons now), Greg smiled to himself. He was no longer just a sad little bottle with a pump problem. He was part of something bigger. Something smooth. And he’d never forget the dark, dry days that made the creamy nights all the more satisfying. Somewhere in the background, the ASMR video still played—hands on cactus, whispering, “moisturize me.” But Greg no longer watched. He was living his best life now. One pump at a time.     Epilogue: The Last Pump Greg didn’t last forever. No lotion bottle does. One day, after an especially aggressive thigh application following a tragic waxing incident, Becky pressed his pump and… nothing came out. She tried again. Nothing. Not even a pathetic dribble. Greg was empty. She held him for a moment, gently shaking him like a fallen comrade. “Damn,” she whispered. “You were the real one.” She didn’t toss him immediately. No, Greg earned a place on the “empties shelf”—a little shrine above the toilet where Becky displayed her favorite used-up products like war heroes and emotionally significant candles. He sat beside a dead mascara wand named Sir Smudge-a-lot and a bath bomb tin that still smelled like grapefruit orgasms. And there he remained, dry but not forgotten. A quiet legend. A bottle who gave until he could give no more. Who absorbed awkward silences, comforted chapped elbows, and brought lubrication to the parts that needed it most—physically and emotionally. Sometimes, when the bathroom was still and the candlelight flickered just right, you could swear you heard a whisper from that shelf: “You deserve smoothness.” And everyone who heard it… believed it.     Take Greg Home (Without the Mess) If Greg’s journey tugged at your dry, cracked heartstrings, you’re not alone. Now you can bring a piece of this moisturizing masterpiece into your own space—with zero chance of leakage. Whether you're building a shrine to emotional hydration or just want your shower curtain to raise questions and eyebrows, we’ve got you covered (literally). 🧺 Tapestry – Dramatic wall vibes, for when you're feeling extra lotionally unstable. 🖼️ Framed Print – Class up your space with highbrow hydration tragedy. 🛏️ Duvet Cover – Cuddle up with Greg. He promises not to squirt unexpectedly. 🚿 Shower Curtain – Let your guests question your bathroom priorities. Moisture is temporary. Art is forever. Treat yourself (and your thighs).

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Pour Decisions

The kitchen was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made spoons nervous and measuring cups develop existential dread. Then suddenly—click—the cabinet door creaked open. Gerald the glass pitcher stretched out with a wide, unhinged grin, water sloshing behind his bulging eyeballs. He licked his nonexistent lips (don’t ask how), flexed his translucent handle, and whispered, “Time to get moist.” Across the counter, Melvin the mug jolted awake with a shiver. “Oh for the love of glass—Gerald, not again!” he screeched, eyes wide as a dinner plate. “It’s 7 a.m. and I haven’t even been descaled yet!” But Gerald was already mid-stalk. “Melvy, Melvy, Melvy... don’t be such a drip.” He raised himself to full height, water gurgling ominously. “You know you want it. You’re empty, I’m full. Let’s pour some magic, baby.” Melvin backed up an inch, handle trembling. “Listen, it’s not that I don’t like you. I just—last time you poured into me, I needed therapy. And a drying rack.” “Therapy?” Gerald gasped, clutching his spout. “That was a celebration of fluids! I made you feel alive!” “You made me feel violated, Gerald.” At that moment, a hand—human, hairy, unbothered—entered the scene, grabbing Gerald like a reusable deviant. “Here we gooooo!” the human voice bellowed in a jolly tone, oblivious to the sheer chaos about to unfold. Gerald's face contorted into a maniacal smile as he was lifted into the air, pointing his stream directly at Melvin. “Prepare to get filled!” Melvin screamed. Loudly. His eyes stretched as wide as possible, his lip curled in horror. “OH SWEET CERAMIC JESUS, NOOO!” The first splash hit with a violent splash. Water splattered. Melvin’s lip quivered, a single droplet running down his side like a cinematic tear. “I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready...” he whimpered. Gerald let out a long, satisfied moan. “Aaaaahhhhhh. That’s the stuff. Look at you, so wet and scared. You little mug slut.” “I WILL press charges!” Melvin screeched. “What are they gonna do? Lock me in the fridge?” Gerald cackled. “I’m BPA-free, baby. Untouchable.” As the stream slowed and Gerald wobbled with satisfaction, the human hand placed him down gently, unaware of the scarring scene it had enabled. Melvin sat trembling, filled to the brim and emotionally wrecked. Somewhere in the background, the toaster whispered, “Same thing happened to me last week.” And in the distance, a lonely blender whispered, “I’d let him pour in me...”   Melvin sat there, stunned. Water leaked from the corner of his lip like a secret he could never unhear. Gerald—madman, hydrating overlord, certified glasshole—stood smugly across the counter, flexing his spout like he was about to star in a raunchy kitchen calendar. “You good?” Gerald asked casually, leaning against a salt shaker with the confidence of a shot glass that knew tequila was coming. Melvin’s eyes twitched. “No, Gerald. I’m not good. You didn’t even warm up the water. You just blasted it in raw. Ice cold. Like a prison shower.” Gerald laughed so hard his lid rattled. “Spontaneity, my little cup of chaos. That’s what keeps the spice flowing. You mugs want all this foreplay—coasters, napkins, pre-heats. I’m a jug of action.” “A jug of trauma,” Melvin muttered, shaking. “I can still feel the splash on my insides.” The room grew still. Even the microwave dared not beep. Then a soft voice piped up from the back of the utensil drawer. “He poured into me once,” said Sally the Soup Bowl. “It was… confusing.” “You asked for chowder and I brought broth. That’s on you,” Gerald said smugly. Melvin tried to climb off the counter, but his handle was slippery from the overspill. He clinked against a spoon, who recoiled dramatically like he’d just witnessed utensil abuse. “Don’t drag me into your kink,” the spoon hissed. Gerald strutted over, sloshing suggestively. “You’re not leaving yet, Melvin. I’ve still got half a pour in me. And you know what that means.” “NO!” Melvin shouted, his rim trembling. “I’m full. FULL, Gerald. I’m practically drowning. One more drop and I’ll spill. I will spill!” Gerald narrowed his eyes, which was impressive for a pitcher with no eyebrows. “That’s what you said last time, but you handled it like a champ.” “Last time I blacked out and woke up in the dish rack next to a ladle with a God complex!” Just then, the human hand returned—this time with a lemon wedge. Melvin's scream echoed across the kitchen. “NOOOO! CITRUS STINGS!” “It’s called zest, sweetheart,” Gerald purred, as the lemon plopped into the mug like a garnish of violation. “Now you’re my spicy boy.” Melvin twitched violently. “You sick, sadistic pour-fiend.” “You love it,” Gerald whispered with a wink. At that moment, a new mug entered the scene. Tall. Curvy. Heat-resistant. Her name was Veronica, and she had a silicone base and confidence that could steam milk on contact. “Gerald,” she said, voice like a slow pour of honey. “Pick on someone with insulation.” Gerald blinked. “Veronica... I thought you were in the cupboard. With the espresso boys.” She stepped forward. “I was. But they’re all foam. No substance.” She turned to Melvin, placing a gentle handle on his. “You okay, sugar?” “I—I think I’m leaking,” he whispered, lip quivering. Veronica looked at Gerald. “You pour in him again without consent, I’ll break your spout off and use you as a flower vase in a dentist’s office.” Gerald slowly backed away, eyes wide, water level trembling. “Okay... okay... pourplay’s gotta be mutual, I get it…” Melvin exhaled. For the first time that morning, he felt... safe. Empty. But safe. The human hand left the room, humming blissfully unaware. Gerald slunk back to his corner of the counter, muttering something about “pitcher discrimination” and “cancel culture.” Veronica stayed by Melvin’s side. “Let’s get you cleaned up, handsome. Maybe a nice dishwasher cycle. With steam. The gentle kind.” Melvin nodded, leaning into her comforting touch. “Thank you,” he whispered. And somewhere deep in the shadows, the blender turned itself on... just a little.     The Afterdrip Weeks passed. Gerald had been moved to the top shelf — the glassware equivalent of solitary confinement. He spent his days stewing in filtered silence, occasionally muttering about “liquid freedom” and “the oppression of dry living.” A sticker on his side now read: Supervised Use Only. Melvin, meanwhile, had found peace. Therapy (and three deep cycles on the top rack) helped him recover from the emotional turbulence. He’d even joined a support group: M.U.G.S. — Mugs United for Gentle Sipping. Tuesdays at 7. Bring your own coaster. Veronica never left his side. They shared quiet mornings, warm steeps, and slow pours. Melvin finally understood what it meant to be filled — emotionally, not traumatically. The two mugs even adopted a little espresso cup named Bean. Tiny. Hyper-caffeinated. Full of rage. In time, Gerald was allowed back into circulation, but only for cold brews and under the watchful eye of the French Press, who ran a tight counter. He was older, wiser... maybe just a little emptier. But on some nights, if you listened closely, you could still hear his whisper through the cupboard slats: “You can take the pour outta the pitcher… but you can’t take the pitcher outta the pour.” And in the distance, the blender whispered one last time, “Still waiting, Gerald...” — The End —     Bring the Madness Home If “Pour Decisions” left a splash on your soul (or at least made you spit your coffee laughing), you can now own the chaos! This delightfully unhinged artwork by Bill and Linda Tiepelman is available as a: Framed Print – Keep it classy while things get messy Metal Print – Bold, glossy, and dangerously smooth (like Gerald) Acrylic Print – Ultra-modern and sharp enough to make a mug nervous Wood Print – For rustic vibes with a splash of emotional damage Warning: Side effects may include uncontrollable laughter, kitchen-based innuendos, and a sudden desire to protect your mug at all costs.

Captured Tales – by Bill Tiepelman

Salty and Savage - Fork Me Gently

Stab Me, Daddy At first glance, it looked like an ordinary drawer. Just your typical mix of dull butter knives, clingy teaspoons, and that one suspiciously sticky garlic press nobody ever wants to deal with. But deep inside—beneath the bottle openers and shame—was a fork. Not just any fork. The fork. He called himself “Tony.” Four long, glistening tines. Curved just enough to imply danger but still safe for children. His chrome finish? Flawless. His edge? Blunt, but emotionally sharp. And tonight? He was feeling... ravenous. “Another salad?” Tony muttered, rolling his smooth neck and flexing his prongs like a man about to fork something he shouldn’t. “I wasn’t forged for foliage. I want meat. I want steam. I want to puncture something that moans when I stab it.” Beside him, the butter knife snorted. “You always get like this after taco night. Just be grateful you’re not the melon baller.” “The melon baller WANTS that life,” Tony shot back, eyes narrowed, tines twitching with anticipation. “That little sphere-humper gets off on cantaloupe. I’m built different. I need friction. Texture. Resistance.” Just then, the drawer slid open, and everything got real quiet. The human hand. The great chooser. The flesh overlord. Everyone held their breath as fingers hovered over them like a judgmental god at a cutlery speed dating event. “Pick me. Pick me. Pick meeeee,” Tony whispered desperately, trying to look sexy but also functional. The hand paused. Hovered. Moved toward the ladle—then snapped back, gripped Tony, and lifted. “YESSSSS,” Tony hissed like a snake with a table etiquette kink. He was raised high into the light, into the world beyond the drawer—and what he saw made his tines tingle: a perfectly grilled steak. Juicy. Pink in the middle. Barely legal, temperature-wise. “Oh, you saucy slab,” Tony moaned, trembling in the human's grip. “You’re about to get forked harder than a microwave burrito at 2am.” The knife was already there, slicing slowly like it was narrating a true crime documentary. “You take the left cheek,” it said. “I’ll take the right. We’re doing this medium rare and emotionally raw.” “Stab me, daddy,” the steak whispered, steam rising seductively. Tony didn’t hesitate. He plunged into the meat with all four prongs, letting out a metallic groan of satisfaction. The juices ran. The plate quivered. The nearby spoon fainted. It was glorious. But something felt… off. Tony looked down. There it was—an ominous drizzle of steak sauce pooling beside the mashed potatoes like a brown puddle of judgment. “You didn’t,” Tony gasped. “You used A1? You… monster.” Whisk Me Away There was a pause. A silence so thick it could’ve been sliced with a cheese knife if that little coward hadn’t retreated behind the soup ladle at the first sign of condiment conflict. Tony stood motionless, dripping steak juice and betrayal. He had been used—violated—by a bottle of A1. “You said it would be dry-rubbed,” he whispered to the human, who, of course, didn’t answer. They never did. Monsters. Fork abusers. As the steak cooled and the mashed potatoes soaked up the shame like a carb-based sponge, Tony was unceremoniously dropped on the edge of the sink. Not even rinsed. Just… abandoned. Left to sit in a puddle of beef runoff like last night’s bad decision. “You okay?” came a sultry voice from the drying rack. Tony turned, still dazed, and locked eyes with the whisk. She was tall, curvy, and twisted in all the right ways. Stainless steel loops for days. Her handle was slightly melted near the end—trauma from a tragic crème brûlée incident—but damn, it gave her character. Experience. Edge. “You’re looking... overworked,” she purred, flicking a single loop suggestively. “Let me whip you into shape.” Tony tried to stay cool. “I don’t usually get whisked on the first date.” She slinked over, dragging herself across the counter with a kind of sultry, metallic clatter that screamed “kitchen dominatrix.” Tony’s tines tingled. He didn’t know whether he wanted to run or be emulsified. “I’ve seen how you stab,” she whispered. “You’ve got... penetration energy.” Before he could respond, the spatula clapped from across the sink. “Can you two not? It’s 9AM. Some of us were flipping pancakes all night and need rest.” “Jealousy is a flat utensil,” the whisk sneered. Then turned back to Tony. “Ever been whipped until you scream your safe word in French?” “My safe word is ‘nonstick,’” he replied, voice low and dangerous. She coiled her loops around his handle slowly, pulling him closer. “Mine’s ‘deglaze.’” From the corner, the meat thermometer groaned. “Ugh. Every damn weekend. Just once, I want a peaceful breakfast.” But peace was off the menu. Because just then, the human hand returned—greasy, impatient, still smelling of steak sins and morning-after desperation. And in it? A bowl. A big one. Ceramic. Wide. Shallow. The kind of vessel that said: I hope you like it messy. “Oh hell,” the whisk moaned. “It’s brunch time.” Before Tony could protest, he was snatched back into action. Not steak this time—eggs. Raw. Slippery. Slutty. The kind of eggs that didn’t care what time of day it was or how long you’d been soaking in your own juices. The whisk was already in the bowl, moaning with each circular thrust. “Come on, Fork Daddy,” she shouted. “Scramble me like you mean it!” Tony plunged in, swirling, stabbing, piercing yolks with reckless abandon. Together, they stirred chaos. Seasoned sin. The spatula watched in stunned silence, the tongs clicked nervously, and the garlic press wept in the junk drawer, clutching an old lemon wedge for comfort. It was messy. It was loud. It was... brunch porn. By the time the mixture hit the pan, Tony was spent. Bent. Covered in protein and shame. The whisk rested beside him on the towel, loops twitching with satisfaction. “Same time next weekend?” she whispered. “Only if we skip the sauce,” he murmured, eyes already glazing over like the donut the human had just dropped on the floor. Down in the drawer, the butter knife sighed. “This is why we don’t get invited to the nice kitchens.”     Epilogue: Utensils and Afterglow Monday morning came quietly. The hangover of brunch still clung to the kitchen like the stench of overcooked eggs and questionable life choices. The whisk had been tossed unceremoniously into the dishwasher, tangled in a pile of soggy chopsticks and a rogue reusable straw. She didn’t seem to mind. She liked it wet and chaotic. Tony? Tony lay alone on the drying rack. Bent. Crusted. Staring at the ceiling like a war veteran who’d seen too many yolks break under pressure. “Was it worth it?” he whispered to no one, as a rogue crumb drifted past like tumbleweed in a Western where the gunslingers are all kitchen tools with abandonment issues. Somewhere in the back of the fridge, the sour cream had expired silently. The salad spinner hadn’t moved since The Incident. Even the spice rack was unusually quiet—cumin refused to make eye contact and cinnamon had taken a vow of silence. But even in the stillness, something stirred. A tremble in the drawer. A soft clink. A seductive whisper: “Hey… Tony. You ever been double-teamed by a cheese grater and an immersion blender?” He didn’t answer right away. Just sighed. Long. Forked. “God help me,” he muttered, dragging himself upright with the strength of a utensil who knew this wasn’t over. Not even close. Because in this drawer… in this kitchen… in this godforsaken temple of heat, grease, and emotional instability—there were no clean breaks. Only rinse cycles. And Tony? Tony was born to stir shit up.     Bring the Flavor Home Still thinking about Tony’s tines and that whisk's loop game? Yeah, we get it. Now you can own a piece of the madness with our exclusive “Salty and Savage” collection by Bill and Linda Tiepelman—perfect for kitchens, conversation starters, or just unsettling your dinner guests in the best way possible. Framed Print – Class it up. Frame the chaos. Metal Print – Sleek, shiny, and hotter than your nonstick pan at 500°. Acrylic Print – For when you want your wall art to scream “I make questionable choices and I own them.” Tote Bag – Take the flavor on the go. Groceries will never look at you the same. Own it. Gift it. Just don’t try to explain it to your grandma. Unless she’s cool. Then definitely show her the tote.