by Bill Tiepelman
The Split-Pawed Snorticorn
The Cursed Cupcake Incident In the heart of the Bewildering Wood — a place where reality tended to forget its pants — there lived a kitten named Fizzle. But not just any kitten. Fizzle was a chimera: half tabby, half cream puff, with a unicorn horn that glowed when he sneezed and tiny bat wings that flapped angrily when someone stole his snacks. Which, to be fair, was often. Because Fizzle had a very punchable face — adorable, yes, but the kind that just screamed “I licked your donut.” Fizzle had no idea how he came to be the universe’s most bizarre mashup of cuteness and chaos. Some say he was cursed by a bored forest witch who got ghosted by a dating app algorithm. Others claim he was the result of a late-night tequila-fueled spell gone wrong involving two cats, one gremlin, and a drunken unicorn. All Fizzle knew was this: his life was a relentless carousel of unwanted attention, absurd quests, and inexplicable cupcake-related incidents. Case in point: on the morning our tale begins, Fizzle awoke to find a cursed red velvet cupcake sitting neatly on a mossy log outside his mossier tree stump. It pulsed ominously. It sparkled obscenely. It smelled like cinnamon, regret, and demonic frosting. “Oh no,” Fizzle muttered, his voice that of a surprisingly deep British butler trapped in a kitten’s body. “Not again.” Last time he ignored a cursed pastry, his wings turned into rubber chickens and his meow summoned tax auditors. But if he ate it? Well, he'd probably be turned into a moon or something equally inconvenient. The cupcake gave a seductive little shimmy. Fizzle gave it the finger. (Figuratively. He didn’t technically have fingers. But the glare did the job.) Just then, a scroll burst into flame mid-air and dropped onto his head. It read: “Oh Glorious Split-Pawed Snorticorn! You have been chosen to embark upon a sacred journey. Save the village of Gloomsnort from its existential dread. You will be compensated in baked goods.” “Nope,” Fizzle said, tossing the scroll into a puddle. It promptly turned into a swarm of motivational bees that buzzed things like “You’ve got this!” and “Believe in your tail!” and “Live. Laugh. Loot.” Fizzle sighed. He flexed his stubby wings, snorted a spark from his horn, and turned dramatically toward the east — which, in this part of the forest, was whatever direction your sarcasm pointed. “Fine,” he muttered, rolling his eyes so hard they almost dislocated. “Let’s go save a bunch of sad peasants from whatever emo nonsense they’ve gotten themselves into this week.” Thus began the legend of the most reluctant, snarky, and snack-obsessed hero the realm had never asked for — but was probably going to get anyway. Gloomsnort’s Emotional Support Goblins By the time Fizzle reached the outskirts of Gloomsnort — a town famous for its moaning fog, emotionally repressed turnips, and aggressively mediocre poetry scene — he already regretted everything. His fur had frizzed from a sudden cloud of passive-aggressive lightning. His horn had been used by a flock of caffeine-addicted sprites as a stirring stick. And worst of all, he’d run out of his emergency cheese crackers. The town gate — which was really more of a fence that had given up on itself — creaked as Fizzle nudged it open. A sentry goblin slumped in a folding chair, wearing a vest labeled “Security-ish” and eating a pickle with deep, philosophical sadness. “Name?” the goblin asked without enthusiasm. “Fizzle,” the kitten replied, brushing soot off his wings. “Chimera. Snorticorn. Destroyer of mild inconveniences. Possibly your last hope, depending on the budget.” The goblin blinked slowly. “That sounds made up.” “So does your mustache,” Fizzle deadpanned. “Let me in.” He was waved through without another word, mostly because nobody in Gloomsnort had the energy to argue with a creature whose horn was currently sparking with repressed rage and low blood sugar. The town square looked like a failed pop-up therapy festival. Banners hung limply with slogans like “Feelings Are Fine (Sometimes)” and “Hug Yourself Before You Mug Yourself.” A trio of goblin buskers was attempting an interpretive dance about the dangers of unprocessed grief while juggling meat pies. No one was watching. Except for a one-eyed newt with a monocle. The newt was weeping. “This place needs a mood swing and a disco ball,” Fizzle muttered. From the shadows emerged a cloaked figure with the vibe of someone who definitely journaled with scented ink. She introduced herself as Sage Crumpet, High Priestess of the Cult of Complex Emotions and Chief Warden of the Town’s Existential Crisis Inventory. “We’re so glad you came,” she said, eyes full of haunted sparkle. “Our entire village has lost its will to brunch. The espresso machines only weep now.” “Tragic,” Fizzle said flatly. “And what, precisely, am I expected to do about it?” She handed him a soggy parchment. It read: “Find the source of the malaise. Neutralize it. Optional: hug it out.” Fizzle sighed and popped his neck. “Let’s start with the usual suspects. Cursed artifacts? Undead therapists? Rogue poets with God complexes?” “We suspect… it’s the fountain,” Crumpet whispered. “The town’s emotional support fountain?” Fizzle asked. “Yes. It’s… begun to give advice.” Now, advising fountains weren’t new in this realm. The Elven city of Faelaqua had one that whispered self-care tips and passive-aggressive reminders to moisturize. But Gloomsnort’s fountain was reportedly speaking in ALL CAPS and demanding tribute in the form of scented candles and cryptic performance art. When Fizzle approached the fountain — which looked suspiciously like a repurposed birdbath covered in motivational moss — it began vibrating ominously. “I AM THE FONT OF INNER TURMOIL,” it bellowed. “BRING ME THE UNRESOLVED DREAMS OF YOUR CHILDHOOD OR BE FOREVER INFLUENCED BY DISCOUNT WELLNESS PODCASTS.” “Oh great,” Fizzle muttered, “a sentient Tumblr post with delusions of grandeur.” The fountain burbled menacingly. “SNORTICORN. I KNOW YOUR SHAME. YOU ONCE TRIED TO CAST A SPELL BY YELLING ‘FIREBALL’ AT A CANDLE.” “That’s called experimenting,” Fizzle snapped. “And it mostly worked. The curtain never fully recovered, but—” “SILENCE! YOU MUST FACE THE FORBIDDEN SPIRIT OF YOUR OWN REPRESSED WHIMSY. OR I WILL FLOOD THIS VILLAGE WITH PUMPKIN SPICE TEARS.” Before Fizzle could argue, the air cracked like a therapy bill, and from the fountain rose a swirling mist that took the shape of… a lizard. A very tall, muscular, improbably oiled lizard with sparkly eyes, a leather vest, and the voice of a late-night jazz DJ. “Well, hello there,” the lizard purred. “You must be my inner trauma.” “I sincerely hope not,” Fizzle said, backing up a pawstep. “I’m Lurvio,” the lizard said, stretching in slow motion. “I’m your unresolved ambition to be taken seriously while also being adorable and mildly unhinged.” “You’re a lot,” Fizzle said. “Like, too much lizard and not enough metaphor.” “Let’s tango,” Lurvio said, summoning a glowing banjo and an audience of giggling will-o’-the-wisps. And so, naturally, they danced. Because that’s how these things go. Fizzle found himself locked in an increasingly absurd ritual known as the “Twirling of Suppressed Self-Realization,” which involved tap-dancing around literal baggage while the townsfolk clapped off-beat and Crumpet wept into a tissue shaped like her father’s disapproval. As the final banjo chord faded into existential moaning, Lurvio bowed and dissolved into sparkles, yelling, “LIVE YOUR TRUTH, YOU FLUFFY ICON!” The fountain stopped vibrating. The town sighed in relief. Somewhere, a turnip wrote a sonnet and smiled. “Did… did I just fix your town by emotionally breakdancing with my lizard shadow self?” Fizzle asked, panting. “Yes,” Crumpet sniffled. “You have healed our emotional fountain. We are, once again, brunch-capable.” Fizzle collapsed into a pile of dramatic sighs and muttered, “I better get a freaking cupcake for this.” The Rise and Mildly Inconvenient Fall of the Snorticorn The morning after the Lizard of Suppressed Whimsy exploded into sparkles, Gloomsnort awoke to something even more unsettling than emotional healing: hope. Villagers danced half-heartedly near the now-chill fountain, sipping herbal tea and debating whether their therapy goats could now be replaced with gratitude journals. Street vendors sold knockoff plushies labeled “Fizzle Plushicorns,” complete with detachable wings and tiny embroidered frowns. A bard had already written a ballad titled “The Horny Half-Cat Who Saved Our Souls.” Fizzle hated everything. He’d tried sneaking out before breakfast, but the moment he stepped out of his tavern room (decorated entirely in his likeness, which was as traumatic as it was poorly lit), he was mobbed by townsfolk demanding inspirational quotes, hair clippings, and in one case, advice on long-distance dating a banshee. “I’m not a guru, I’m a goblin piñata with better marketing,” he growled, snapping at someone trying to polish his horn. “The Snorticorn speaks in riddles!” someone gasped. “Write that down!” “It wasn’t a riddle, Brenda. It was sarcasm.” Just as he reached peak fluff-fueled meltdown, Sage Crumpet appeared with an official-looking scroll and a look of spiritual constipation. “There’s… been a development,” she said ominously. “The Council of Unwarranted Revelations has decreed that you are to be enshrined in the Eternal Temple of Tricky Destiny.” “That sounds made up.” “Oh it is. But it’s also very real. That’s how cults work.” Fizzle was herded (gently, and with far too many flower garlands) to the ceremonial Glimmer Dome — a converted hay barn full of twinkle lights, confetti cannons, and a suspicious number of motivational cats painted on the walls. A robed council stood at the center. One of them was a hedgehog. Nobody explained that. “We have seen the glitter in the goat’s entrails,” intoned the lead seer, who may or may not have been high on nutmeg. “You are the Snorticorn of Legend. You must now ascend to your final form.” “What in the caramel-dipped hells does that mean?” Fizzle snapped. “It means,” said Crumpet gently, “that you’re about to be sacrificed to fulfill the Prophecy of Snackrifice.” “Excuse me??” “You see,” she continued, “ancient texts foretold that a fluffy, grumpy creature with great sass and uneven fur would bring emotional balance — but only by being dunked in the Sacred Fondue of Final Realization.” Fizzle’s wings snapped to full mast. “YOU WANT TO MELT ME IN CHEESE?” “Only a little,” said Crumpet. “Symbolically. Maybe. We’re not really sure what counts as a ‘dunk.’ The texts are vague and partially written in glitter glue.” It was then, as he was eyeing the hot cauldron bubbling ominously with gouda, that Fizzle remembered who he was: a sarcastic, deeply tired chimera kitten who had survived cursed pastries, emotional fountains, and sexy metaphor lizards. And by all the snacks in the sacred pantry — he wasn’t about to become brunch. “NOPE,” he yelled, puffing up like a stress puffball and launching himself into the air with a surprisingly majestic flap of his bat wings. “I AM RETIRING FROM PROPHECIES. I’M GOING BACK TO MY TREE STUMP, AND I’M TAKING THE CEREMONIAL CROISSANTS WITH ME!” The crowd gasped. The seers tripped over their robes. The fondue splashed. And somewhere in the confusion, Fizzle set off a confetti cannon with his horn and disappeared in a puff of glitter and sass. He wasn’t seen again for several weeks — not until a traveling raccoon bard spotted him lounging in a hammock woven from old scrolls, sipping coconut milk out of a skull cup, and muttering into a notebook labeled “New Prophecy Ideas: Less Fondue.” Gloomsnort slowly recovered from its hero-loss trauma. The plushie market crashed. The emotional support fountain eventually retired and opened a podcast. But now and then, when the fog rolls just right and someone lights a cinnamon candle of questionable origin, you might hear a faint voice on the wind whisper: “Live. Laugh. Snort.” And somewhere, Fizzle rolls his eyes and flips the sky the bird. Take the Snorticorn Home (Without the Fondue Risk) If you laughed, sighed, or questioned reality while following Fizzle’s gloriously unhinged journey, you can now summon a piece of that chaotic charm into your own realm. Canvas prints and framed prints are available to bring mystical snark to your walls, while our delightfully impractical hero also graces greeting cards for those brave enough to send feelings in the mail. Want to scribble sarcastic wisdom like Fizzle himself? Grab a spiral notebook. Or declare your allegiance to weirdly heroic fluffballs with a sticker worthy of laptops, water bottles, or forbidden grimoire covers. Bring the magic home — because every space deserves a little snort-powered sass.
