by Bill Tiepelman
The Peacock of a Thousand Sunsets
Spring had arrived in the Enchanted Glade, and with it came the annual Festival of Flourish, a spectacle of nature’s grandest show-offs. Flowers bloomed in synchronized bursts of color, trees shook off their winter moods like sassy models on a runway, and birds trilled complex symphonies composed over months of gossip and questionable life choices. And at the heart of it all—preening, posing, and absolutely reveling in the chaos—was Percival the Peacock. Percival wasn’t just any peacock. He was the peacock. The kind of bird that made sunsets jealous. His feathers shimmered in shades of molten gold, iridescent greens, and the sort of blues that could make the ocean question its self-worth. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace, knowing full well that every step left an emotional scar on those who could never be him. “Darlings, darlings,” he cooed, flicking his tail just enough to catch the light. “Do try to keep up. I can’t be expected to carry this entire festival on my back—though, let’s be honest, I do.” The rabbits, who had been nervously nibbling on flower stems nearby, exchanged glances. “Here we go again,” whispered one. Every year, Percival treated the Festival of Flourish as his personal fashion show, and every year, the woodland creatures were caught somewhere between admiration and the deep, soul-crushing exhaustion that comes from dealing with divas. Even the bees—hardened workers that they were—took extra long breaks when Percival was around, unable to endure his dramatic monologues about wing-to-tail coordination and “the struggle of being this radiant.” “Excuse me,” came a voice, cutting through the crowd’s collective weariness. It belonged to Beatrice, a rather no-nonsense sparrow who had exactly zero patience for theatrics. “Ah, Beatrice,” Percival purred, turning ever so slightly to offer her his most devastating profile. “To what do I owe this delightful interruption?” Beatrice landed in front of him, wings folded. “You are aware that the Festival of Flourish is not a one-bird show, yes?” Percival gasped. The kind of gasp that required a deep inhale, a strategic wing placement, and just the right tilt of the beak to convey a mixture of offense and allure. “How dare you? I am the embodiment of spring! The very essence of renewal! The—” “You are a peacock with a superiority complex,” Beatrice interrupted. “And the festival committee is putting you on a performance schedule this year, so you don’t hijack the entire event.” The silence that followed was deafening. Even the flowers seemed to stop blooming for a second, unsure of how to process the sheer scandal of it all. Percival’s eye twitched. “A schedule?” he echoed. “You mean… regulations? On me? How dare you place limits on art?” Beatrice did not blink. “Yes. You’ll have a designated time slot—fifteen minutes, tops.” Percival staggered backward as if she’d slapped him with a particularly wet fern. “Fifteen minutes? That’s barely enough time for my opening strut!” “Then walk faster.” The festival crowd murmured, eyes darting between the two birds like they were witnessing the avian equivalent of a reality TV showdown. Beatrice remained unfazed. She had spent years navigating bureaucracy in the Festival Committee, and she was not about to be emotionally blackmailed by a bird with trust issues and an elaborate feather care routine. “You have three options,” she continued. “One, you follow the schedule. Two, you don’t perform, and we give your slot to Nigel the Nightingale—” “Ugh,” Percival shuddered. “Nigel’s ballads are a crime against sound.” “Or three,” Beatrice continued, ignoring him, “you can cause a scene, in which case, we have an incident, and I call for an emergency committee meeting, and trust me, Percival, I am not above paperwork.” Percival groaned, dramatically flopping onto a mossy branch, his tail feathers pooling around him like a spilled sunset. “Fine,” he huffed. “But just know, this is an attack on free expression, and I shall require emotional support worms to recover.” Beatrice smirked. “I’ll get right on that.” With the terms begrudgingly accepted, the festival preparations resumed, but not without the lingering knowledge that this was far from over. Percival had agreed to the terms, yes—but whether he would stick to them? That was an entirely different story. The Grand Finale (and the Slightly Illegal Pyrotechnics) The day of the Festival of Flourish arrived, and the Enchanted Glade buzzed with excitement. Butterflies flitted like confetti, the air smelled of fresh blooms and questionable herbal teas, and woodland creatures bustled around in their finest seasonal accessories. Even the usually grumpy hedgehogs had made an effort, wearing tiny flower crowns that made them look like dangerously adorable rolling bouquets. And then, of course, there was Percival. Perched on a mossy archway at the center of the festival grounds, he sat in a dramatic repose, awaiting his moment. His feathers had been fluffed, glossed, and preened to near-mythical levels of perfection. A single cherry blossom was delicately placed behind his crest—a final touch, inspired. Every angle, every shimmer, every molecule of his being was calculated for maximum visual devastation. His time slot was scheduled. He had agreed to the terms. And yet… “I simply refuse to be bound by mortal limitations,” Percival whispered to himself, eyes scanning the festival stage. The crowd had gathered for his grand performance. Beatrice, ever the festival enforcer, perched nearby, suspiciously eyeing him with the weary exhaustion of someone who knew she was about to regret allowing him to exist freely. As the announcer stepped forward, a soft hush fell over the crowd. “And now,” the chipmunk host declared, “for his—ahem—scheduled performance, please welcome Percival the Peacock!” Thunderous applause erupted. Somewhere in the distance, a squirrel fainted. Probably. With the grace of a creature who absolutely understood the assignment, Percival spread his dazzling tail, stepping forward in slow, deliberate elegance. The golden glow of the late afternoon sun hit his feathers just right, sending shimmering waves of color across the audience. Gasps of admiration rippled through the crowd. But just as Percival reached the center of the stage, something… shifted. The energy in the air changed. Beatrice’s feathers ruffled. She knew this feeling. It was the unmistakable sensation of being played. “Oh no.” Too late. Percival, the absolute menace of the avian world, had somehow—somehow—coordinated an unauthorized, unhinged, and possibly illegal pyrotechnic display. With a flick of his tail, tiny enchanted fireflies burst into the air, forming a glowing halo around him. A sudden gust of wind, no doubt orchestrated by a complicit owl, sent flower petals swirling in a dramatic cyclone of beauty. And then—because Percival never did anything halfway—he unfurled his full plumage, shaking his tail feathers with such force that tiny bursts of golden pollen exploded into the air, catching the light in a way that made it look like a literal divine intervention. The crowd lost their minds. Screaming, clapping, possibly fainting. Beatrice’s beak twitched. “You absolute menace.” Percival executed a flawless spin, his tail feathers sweeping in an arc of shimmering gold. He smirked. “Oh, Beatrice, darling. You cannot regulate destiny.” “DESTINY IS NOT SUPPOSED TO INVOLVE EXPLOSIONS,” Beatrice screeched, as a particularly excitable firefly nearly singed a dandelion. Percival ignored her. He was in the zone. He launched into his closing act—a dramatic, slow-motion strut toward the edge of the stage, pausing just long enough for the final burst of sunset light to hit him in exactly the right way. The applause? Deafening. The festival committee? Speechless. Beatrice? Trying to legally process what had just occurred. “You do realize,” she said, rubbing her temples, “that this was a gross misuse of festival resources.” Percival turned, utterly unbothered. “Correction: it was inspired use of festival resources.” She exhaled sharply, knowing she had lost this round. The festival-goers erupted in cheers, chanting his name. Beatrice begrudgingly admitted that, despite the chaos, it had been… well… stunning. A scandal, sure. But a beautiful one. Percival stepped off the stage and leaned in. “Now, about those emotional support worms?” Beatrice sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.” As the festival continued, it became clear that Percival had, once again, cemented himself as the icon of spring. Love him, hate him, fine him for unauthorized magic—one thing was undeniable: Spring had officially begun. Bring Home the Magic of Percival If you fell in love with the dazzling spectacle of The Peacock of a Thousand Sunsets, why not bring a piece of that enchantment into your own space? Whether you're looking to add a touch of whimsy to your walls, cozy up with an artistic tapestry, or even challenge yourself with a beautiful puzzle, we’ve got you covered! ✨ Tapestry – Transform any room with the vibrant elegance of Percival’s legendary plumage. 🖼️ Framed Print – A stunning centerpiece for your home, capturing all the magic of spring. 🧩 Jigsaw Puzzle – Piece together the beauty of this flamboyant feathered icon. 💌 Greeting Card – Send a bit of avian attitude and charm to someone special. 👜 Weekender Tote Bag – Carry a bit of drama and elegance wherever you go. 🏖️ Round Beach Towel – Because even your beach days deserve a touch of fabulous. Don’t miss out—shop now and let Percival’s radiance shine in your life! 💛✨
