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Captured Tales

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Laughter in the Dark

by Bill Tiepelman

Laughter in the Dark

The Lantern-Bearer Appears Everyone in the village of Mirewood knew the rules about the forest. The elders taught them in school, the barkeep scrawled them on the back of ale-stained napkins, and old Grandmother Bipple would shout them at anyone walking too close to the edge of the trees. They were simple rules, easy enough to remember, though most ignored them until it was too late: Never whistle after dark. (It attracts unwanted attention.) Never follow the sound of laughter in the woods. (It is not your friends.) If you see a lantern swaying where no lantern should be—run. Of course, travelers passing through rarely knew these rules. And travelers, being what they are, tended to scoff at local superstition, right until the superstition waddled out of the bushes and introduced itself with a smile wide enough to make their teeth ache. That superstition had a name—or at least several variations of one. Some called him Grimble. Others called him Snagtooth. A few claimed his name was Darryl, but those people had been drinking heavily, and possibly had a habit of naming everything Darryl. Whatever his name, the truth remained: he was a lantern-bearer. Not a guide. Not a helper. Certainly not a friend. A lantern-bearer, and if you saw the light, you were already in trouble. The night our story begins was moonless, the sky clotted with heavy clouds, and the woods darker than the inside of a cow’s belly. A group of weary merchants, their donkeys sagging under bags of turnips, onions, and exactly one barrel of something suspiciously sloshy, were making their way down the Old Hollow Road. Their boots squelched in the mud, their tempers were thin, and their conversation had dwindled to muttered complaints about turnip prices. They didn’t notice it at first. A faint glow, like the last ember of a dying fire, bobbing between the trees. Perhaps it could have been a will-o’-the-wisp, perhaps moonlight glinting off wet bark—but then came the sound. The laugh. Oh, the laugh. It began as a hiccup, as though someone had swallowed a kazoo. Then it rose into a cackle that rattled the leaves, wheezed through the undergrowth, and echoed through the travelers’ bones until their spines tightened like violin strings. It was a laugh that said, Yes, I know exactly where you’re going. And no, you won’t like it when you get there. One of the donkeys brayed nervously. The youngest merchant whispered, “Did you hear that?” The oldest merchant pretended he hadn’t. Denial, after all, was cheaper than therapy. And then— He appeared. A squat figure, not more than four feet tall but twice as broad, stepping out of the trees as though the forest itself had coughed him up. His leather vest looked as though it had been stitched together by someone with poor eyesight and no sense of proportion. His boots sagged, patched so many times they had become more patch than boot. His gloves creaked with grime, and his belt buckle was bent in the shape of something that might once have been a circle. But the merchants weren’t staring at his outfit. They were staring at his face. At the pointed ears sticking out like dagger handles. At the eyes, round and bulging, that glistened with lunatic cheer. At the nose—red, bulbous, the sort of nose that spoke of centuries of bad life choices. And, of course, the mouth. That enormous, horrifying, magnificent mouth that stretched almost ear to ear and revealed a collection of teeth that looked like they had been borrowed from several different species and arranged without a clear plan. He grinned. The lantern in his hand swayed, casting a flicker of golden light that danced across the merchants’ pale, horrified faces. “HA! HA! HA! YOU’RE LOST, AREN’T YA?” The laugh that followed could not possibly have come from a creature of his size. It was thunderous, ridiculous, echoing through the trees like a drunk choir of demons trying to sing sea shanties. One of the donkeys sat down in protest. Another began chewing its reins. The merchants clutched their turnips for moral support. No one moved. The woods seemed to hold its breath. And then, in a voice far too chipper for the situation, the lantern-bearer said: “Don’t worry. I know a shortcut.” The Shortcut Now, in most tales, when a grinning goblin-like stranger pops out of the forest at midnight and offers you a shortcut, the sensible thing to do is refuse, bow politely, and run in the opposite direction until your shoes catch fire. Unfortunately, merchants are not known for their sense of adventure—or their sense of caution. They are, however, known for their greed and impatience. The youngest merchant cleared his throat nervously. “A shortcut, you say?” The lantern-bearer’s grin widened, which seemed medically impossible. “Oh aye. The quickest way to the village. Quick as a hiccup, quicker than a sneeze, quicker than a goose falling down a well.” “Goose falling down a—what?” the eldest merchant asked, eyebrows furrowing like angry caterpillars. The creature blinked at him, expression utterly serious, then threw back his head and howled with laughter so violent his hat nearly flew off. The woods joined in, the echoes clattering through the branches until it sounded as if the forest itself was giggling. That was the trouble with him: once he started laughing, everything laughed. The trees creaked in mirth. The wind wheezed. Even the donkeys let out startled, undignified hee-haws that sounded suspiciously like chuckles. The merchants shivered, because there is nothing more sinister than a donkey laughing at you. Still, the idea of shaving two days off their journey was too tempting. The merchants exchanged glances. Their boots were muddy, their tempers sour, and the barrel of suspiciously sloshy liquid was already half-empty. A shortcut would mean warmth, ale, and safety sooner. Surely, they reasoned, a creature with such excellent comedic timing couldn’t possibly be dangerous. “Lead on, good sir,” the youngest merchant said bravely, though his voice cracked in three different places. “Sir?” The lantern-bearer clutched his chest as if mortally wounded. “Do I look like a sir to you? My dear boy, I’m a professional!” “A professional…what?” the eldest merchant asked suspiciously. “A professional guide of lost things!” the creature bellowed, flourishing the lantern dramatically. “Lost sheep! Lost coins! Lost socks! Lost sense of direction! I find it all. Except virginity. That one tends to stay lost.” The merchants coughed uncomfortably. One donkey snorted. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed in disapproval.     And so, against the advice of every folktale ever written, the merchants followed the Lantern-Bearer off the main road. His lantern bobbed ahead of them like a firefly on caffeine, dipping and swaying, sometimes vanishing completely before popping up again with a sudden shout of “BOO!” that made the donkeys fart in terror. The path he led them on was no path at all. It twisted through undergrowth that snagged their clothes, across streams that soaked their boots, and under branches that seemed to duck too late on purpose. Each time they stumbled, each time they cursed, each time they tripped over a log that hadn’t been there a moment before—the Lantern-Bearer laughed. Loud, long, and wheezing, like a broken organ grinder trying to play itself to death. After what felt like hours, the merchants were panting, muddy, and less certain about their life choices. “Are you sure this is shorter?” one muttered. “Shorter than what?” the guide asked innocently, eyes gleaming. “Than the road!” “Oh aye,” he said, beaming. “Shorter than the road. Also shorter than eternity, shorter than a giraffe, shorter than—” he leaned in close, his nose nearly brushing the merchant’s cheek—“shorter than your patience.” He threw back his head and erupted into another gale of laughter. The sound was so loud and so infectious that the merchants found themselves chuckling nervously, then giggling, then outright cackling, though they couldn’t for the life of them explain why. Their laughter tangled with his, until the forest was a roaring carnival of giggles, howls, guffaws, and snorts. It went on and on, until they felt drunk on mirth, lightheaded and dizzy, stumbling through the dark with tears streaming down their cheeks. And then, just as abruptly, the laughter stopped. Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. The kind of silence that pressed on your ears until you heard your own blood sloshing about like soup in a kettle. The merchants blinked, panting, and realized the lantern-bearer was no longer ahead of them. He was behind them. Grinning. Still. Always grinning. “Now,” he whispered, his voice sharp as a knife scraping bone. “Here we are.” The merchants looked around. They weren’t on a road. They weren’t anywhere near a village. They stood in a clearing ringed by trees with trunks warped and twisted into strange shapes. Knots in the bark seemed to watch them, faces frozen mid-laugh. Roots curled across the ground like skeletal fingers. And in the center of it all was a stone well, old and moss-eaten, its mouth blacker than the night sky. The Lantern-Bearer raised his light. His grin somehow grew wider. “The shortcut,” he declared proudly, “to exactly where you never wanted to be.” And then he laughed again. Louder than ever. The kind of laugh that promised Part Three of this story was going to get much, much worse. The Well of Echoes The clearing held its breath. The merchants stood huddled together, clutching their onions like holy relics, staring at the mossy stone well in the center. The air smelled damp and earthy, with a faint tang of iron, like the forest had been chewing on old nails. Somewhere far above, a crow cawed once, then thought better of it. Silence returned. “Well,” said the eldest merchant, forcing a laugh that sounded more like a hiccup, “thank you for your… services, friend. We’ll just, ah, be on our way now.” The Lantern-Bearer’s eyes bulged wider. His grin twitched. He leaned forward, lantern swinging, until the glow carved strange shadows across his face. “On your way? But you’ve only just arrived. Don’t you want to see what’s inside?” He jabbed a stubby finger toward the well. The moss shivered. The stones groaned as if they remembered something unpleasant. The youngest merchant squeaked. “Inside? No, no, we don’t—no time, really—” “INSIDE!” bellowed the Lantern-Bearer, and his laughter followed, booming, crashing, echoing off the trees until the roots quivered in glee. The merchants covered their ears, but it was no use. His laughter slid into their skulls, rattled around in their brains, and leaked out their noses like smoke. They couldn’t escape it. They couldn’t even think over it. The donkeys brayed in panic, tugging against their reins. One of them backed up, tripped over a root, and landed directly on the barrel of sloshy liquid. The barrel cracked, spilling a stream of something pungent that hissed as it hit the ground. The forest floor slurped it up hungrily, and the trees gave a collective shudder of delight. “Oh, that’s just lovely,” the Lantern-Bearer sighed dreamily, sniffing the fumes. “Reminds me of my childhood. Nothing like a good solvent to bring out the nostalgia.”     The eldest merchant, summoning what little courage remained in his wrinkled bones, stepped forward. “Look here, you little imp. We’ve had enough of your games. We demand—” He didn’t get to finish. The Lantern-Bearer’s lantern flared bright, dazzling white, so bright that the merchants staggered back, shielding their eyes. The clearing seemed to warp. The well stretched taller, wider, its stones groaning, until it loomed like a hungry mouth. From deep within, something shifted. Something giggled. Something very large, very old, and very awake. “You hear it?” whispered the Lantern-Bearer, suddenly quiet, reverent, almost tender. “That’s the Well of Echoes. It collects every laugh ever lost in the woods. Giggles from children who wandered too far. Chuckles from hunters who never came back. Even one or two cackles from priests who really should’ve known better.” The merchants shivered. The sound rose from the well—layered, overlapping laughter, hundreds of voices tangled together, some shrill, some guttural, some hysterical, some sobbing even as they laughed. It wasn’t just noise. It was hungry. The youngest merchant dropped his onion bag. The bulbs rolled across the clearing, tumbling toward the lip of the well. One onion tipped over the edge and fell. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the laughter in the well swallowed it whole with a satisfied burp. “Well,” said the Lantern-Bearer, beaming proudly, “that’s dinner sorted.”     Panic set in. The merchants bolted for the trees, stumbling and shrieking. But no matter which way they ran, the clearing stretched with them. The well remained at the center. The trees curved back, folding the world like a cruel carnival tent. They were trapped inside a joke, and the punchline was coming fast. The Lantern-Bearer danced in circles, swinging his lantern, kicking his stubby legs, howling with mirth. His eyes glittered. His teeth gleamed. His voice rang out like a gleeful executioner. “Don’t you see? You’re part of it now! You came for a shortcut, and you’ll never leave! You’ll laugh, and laugh, and laugh, until there’s nothing left but echoes!” One by one, the merchants began to laugh. First a nervous chuckle. Then a wheeze. Then helpless, roaring hysteria. Their bodies doubled over, their faces twisted, tears streaming. They clutched their sides, unable to breathe, unable to stop. Their laughter tangled with the voices in the well, pulled downward, dragged into the hungry dark until their own echoes joined the eternal chorus. Even the donkeys giggled. A terrible, braying, soul-curdling laughter that would have been funny if it weren’t so horribly wrong. Their reins snapped as they bucked and rolled, their laughter tumbling down into the well, swallowed whole.     At last, silence fell again. The clearing was empty. Only the Lantern-Bearer remained, standing by the mossy stones, lantern glowing faintly gold. He hummed a little tune, tapping his foot, as if nothing strange had happened at all. “Well,” he said cheerfully, glancing around, “that was fun.” He adjusted his hat, burped, and wiped a tear from his bulging eye. “But I do hope the next lot brings better snacks. Onions, really? Pah.” He turned and waddled back into the forest, lantern bobbing. His laughter trailed behind him like smoke, curling through the trees, drifting down the Old Hollow Road toward the next group of travelers who thought superstition was just silly old stories. And the well waited. Always waiting. Hungry for the next laugh in the dark.     Bring the Lantern-Bearer Home (If You Dare) If the tale of Laughter in the Dark tickled your funny bone (or chilled it), you can invite the mischievous Lantern-Bearer into your own world. His eerie grin and glowing lantern live on in a series of high-quality art products—perfect for lovers of spooky whimsy and gothic humor. 🖼️ Framed Prints – Bring his unsettling charm to your walls in a beautifully crafted frame. ✨ Metal Prints – Make his lantern glow even brighter with bold, modern metal finishes. 💌 Greeting Cards – Send a little spooky cheer (and maybe a cackle or two) through the mail. 🔖 Stickers – Add a pop of creepy whimsy to your laptop, journal, or favorite potion bottle. Whichever form you choose, you’ll carry a piece of the Lantern-Bearer’s strange magic with you. Just… be careful when the lights go out. His laugh has a way of finding you.

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Acorn Express Airways

by Bill Tiepelman

Acorn Express Airways

Boarding & Questionable Safety Briefing Sprig Thistlewick, professional optimist and part-time mushroom taxidermist, had finally decided to launch his airline. Not a metaphorical airline. A literal one. His plan was simple: slap a hat on, grab a squirrel, and call it an enterprise. No paperwork, no infrastructure, just raw courage and a complete misunderstanding of physics. Now, to be fair, most gnomes lacked Sprig’s flair for disastrous entrepreneurship. The last time he tried to “modernize” gnome society, he had invented self-heating trousers. Unfortunately, they had worked too well, turning every family dinner into a small bonfire. The squirrels still referred to it as “the Winter of Screams.” And yet here he was, standing in the middle of a mossy runway—a fallen log painted with suspicious white stripes—preparing to launch his greatest venture yet: Acorn Express Airways, offering daily flights to “wherever the squirrel feels like going.” Helix, his squirrel pilot, had not signed a contract. In fact, Helix hadn’t even signed up. He was recruited at acorn-point (which is like gunpoint, but more adorable), bribed with promises of unlimited hazelnuts and a health insurance plan Sprig had scribbled on a leaf. The terms read: “If you die, you don’t have to pay premiums.” Helix considered this generous. The passengers—well, passenger—was also Sprig himself. “Every great airline begins with one brave traveler,” he announced, saluting the trees. “And also, technically, one brave mammal who doesn’t know what’s happening.” Mushrooms leaned out of the underbrush to watch. A pair of hedgehogs sold popcorn. Somewhere, a frog was taking bets. The entire forest knew this flight was a disaster waiting to happen, and they’d canceled their evening plans to spectate. Sprig climbed aboard Helix with all the dignity of a drunk librarian mounting a roller skate. His boots flopped, his beard snagged, his hat got caught on a twig and flung backward like a parachute that gave up halfway through deployment. “Preflight checklist!” he bellowed, gripping Helix’s fur like he was about to wrestle a particularly hairy pillow. “Tail: flamboyant. Whiskers: symmetrical. Nuts: accounted for.” Helix gave him a look. That look squirrels give when they’re not sure whether you’re about to feed them or ruin their entire bloodline. Sprig translated it generously as, “Permission granted.” With a solemn nod, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a rolled-up fern leaf. He cleared his throat and recited the safety briefing he’d written at 3 a.m. while delirious on dandelion wine: “In the unlikely event of a water landing, please scream loudly and hope a duck feels charitable.” “Acorns may drop from overhead compartments. These are for eating, not flotation.” “Please keep your arms and dignity inside the ride at all times.” “If you are seated next to an emergency exit, congratulations, you are also the emergency exit.” Helix twitched his whiskers and launched. Straight up. No runway, no build-up, just boom—vertical takeoff like a caffeinated rocket. Sprig’s scream ricocheted through the branches, equal parts thrill and bowel-loosening terror. Below, the fox ground crew waved fern fronds in professional arcs, guiding their ascent with the exaggerated confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea what air traffic control was. A badger in a neon vest blew a whistle. No one asked why. Through the canopy they burst, slicing through golden beams of morning light. Birds scattered. Leaves tore free. One owl muttered, “Unbelievable,” and went back to sleep. Sprig’s hat flapped behind him like a flag of questionable sovereignty. “Altitude: dramatic!” he shouted. “Dignity: postponed!” The forest below stretched into a dizzying swirl of fantasy woodland art, whimsical forest scene, and enchanted nature waiting to be marketed on Etsy. They whipped past a hawk who gave them the side-eye usually reserved for people who clap when the plane lands. A pair of sparrows debated filing a noise complaint. Helix ignored them all, laser-focused on the thrill of speed and the occasional possibility of spontaneous combustion. Then Sprig saw it: hanging impossibly in midair was a floating brass door, polished to a glow, stamped with an ornate sign: Gate A-Corn. Suspended by nothing, radiating authority, humming with magic, the doorway shimmered with the promise of destinations unknown. Sprig pointed dramatically. “There! First stop on the Acorn Express! Aim true, Helix, and mind the turbulence of existential dread!” Helix tightened his grip on physics, ignored several laws of aerodynamics, and arrowed straight toward the door. The air around them trembled, and Sprig’s grin stretched into the kind of manic expression only found on cult leaders and people who’ve had six espressos on an empty stomach. The adventure had begun, and neither gravity, reason, nor common sense was invited along for the ride.   The Turbulence of Utter Nonsense The brass door grew larger, looming like a bureaucratic nightmare in the middle of open sky. Helix, panting with the ferocity of a squirrel who’d once bitten into a chili pepper by mistake, powered forward. Sprig tightened his grip, shouting into the wind like a prophet who’d just discovered caffeine. “Gate A-Corn, our destiny!” he cried. “Or possibly our obituary headline!” The door creaked open midair. Not swung, not slid—creaked, as though it had hinges in the clouds themselves. From within, light spilled: golden, shimmering, and suspiciously judgmental. A sign above flickered in runes that translated, unhelpfully, to: “Now Boarding Group All.” Sprig adjusted his hat, which had migrated halfway down his back, and yelled at Helix, “This is it! Remember your training!” Helix, who had received no training beyond the words “don’t die,” chirped in squirrel profanity and barreled through. They shot into a void of impossible architecture. Corridors twisted like licorice sticks designed by an angry mathematician. Floors melted into ceilings, which politely excused themselves and became walls. A tannoy voice announced, “Welcome to Acorn Express Airways. Please abandon logic in the overhead compartment.” Sprig saluted. “Already did!” They weren’t alone. Passengers—other gnomes, pixies, at least one surprisingly well-dressed frog—floated in midair, clutching boarding passes made of bark. A centipede in a waistcoat offered complimentary peanuts (which were actually acorns, but the branding department insisted on calling them peanuts). “Can I get you a beverage, sir?” the centipede asked in a customer-service tone that implied violence. Sprig grinned. “Do you have dandelion wine?” “We have water that has looked at wine.” “Close enough.” Helix landed with a clumsy skid on what appeared to be carpeting woven from moss and gossip. A flight attendant—a raven in a bowtie—flapped forward, glaring. “Sir, your mount must be placed in an overhead compartment or under the seat in front of you.” Sprig snorted. “Do you see a seat in front of me?” The raven checked. The seats were currently in rebellion, galloping off toward the emergency exit while singing sea shanties. “Point taken,” the raven said, and handed him a complimentary sick bag labeled ‘Soul Leakage Only’. The tannoy boomed again: “This is your captain speaking. Captain Probability. Our cruising altitude will be approximately yes, and our estimated arrival time is don’t ask. Please enjoy your flight, and remember: if you feel turbulence, it’s probably emotional.” And turbulence there was. The corridor-airplane hybrid jolted violently, tossing passengers like dice in a cosmic gambling hall. A pixie lost her hat, which immediately filed for divorce. A goblin’s lunch turned into a live chicken mid-bite. Helix dug his claws into the moss carpet while Sprig flailed with the elegance of a man fighting off bees at a funeral. “Brace positions!” the tannoy announced. “Or just improvise. Honestly, no one cares.” The turbulence escalated into full chaos. Luggage compartments began spewing secrets: a suitcase burst open, releasing 47 unpaid parking tickets and a raccoon with diplomatic immunity. Another compartment exploded in confetti and existential dread. Sprig clung to Helix, shouting over the din, “THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I EXPECTED!” which, frankly, made it worse. The gnome’s laughter blended with screams, creating a symphony of woodland absurdity that might’ve impressed Wagner if Wagner had been drunk and concussed. Then came the in-flight entertainment. A giant screen unfolded from thin air, flickering on to reveal a propaganda film: “Why Flying Squirrel Airlines Are the Future.” The narrator’s voice boomed with ominous cheer: “Tired of walking? Of course you are! Introducing high-speed, fur-lined, moderately rabid travel. Our pilots are trained in climbing trees and ignoring consequences. Book now, and you’ll receive a free hat you didn’t want.” Helix stared at the screen, tail twitching furiously. Sprig patted his neck. “Don’t take it personally, lad. You’re the pioneer. The Wright Brother. The… Wright Brother’s pet squirrel.” Helix squeaked indignantly, clearly offended at being demoted to sidekick status in his own narrative. But before Sprig could placate him with a bribe of candied pinecones, the tannoy blared once more: “Attention passengers: we are now entering the Anomalous Weather Zone. Please ensure your limbs are securely attached, and for the love of moss, don’t make eye contact with the sky.” The plane shook like a blender filled with bad decisions. Out the windows (which appeared and disappeared depending on mood), the sky warped into colors usually reserved for lava lamps and regrettable tattoos. Raindrops fell upward. Thunder clapped in Morse code, spelling out rude words. A lightning bolt high-fived another lightning bolt, then turned to wink at Sprig. “Friendly lot,” he muttered, before being slapped across the face by a passing cumulonimbus. The gnome realized this was no ordinary turbulence. This was orchestrated chaos. He sniffed the air. Yes—mischief. Sabotage. Possibly sabotage fueled by mushrooms, but sabotage nonetheless. Somewhere in this nightmare-aircraft, someone wanted them grounded. Literally. Sprig stood, wobbling like a marionette drunk on vinegar. “Helix!” he shouted over the madness. “Plot a course to the cockpit! Someone’s playing games with our lives, and it’s not even us this time!” Helix squeaked in agreement, lunged forward, and tore down the twisting corridor-airplane hybrid like a streak of vengeful fur. Gnomes, frogs, pixies, and at least one confused insurance salesman scattered out of the way. The journey to the cockpit was perilous. They dodged a stampede of seats still singing sea shanties, leapt over a snack cart staffed by an angry beetle demanding exact change, and sprinted through a cabin section where gravity had simply quit its job and gone home. Sprig clung on with the grim determination of a man who knew that heroism and idiocy were separated only by who wrote the history books. His beard streamed behind him like an untrustworthy flag. His heart pounded. The tannoy whispered seductively, “Please don’t die. It’s tacky.” Finally, at the end of a corridor that looped back on itself three times before giving up, they saw it: the cockpit door. Polished brass. Massive. Glowing faintly with the promise of answers. Sprig jabbed a finger toward it. “There, Helix! Destiny! Or perhaps indigestion!” The squirrel squealed, launched himself into a final sprint, and leapt for the handle. And that’s when the door began to laugh.   Cockpit of Chaos & the Final Boarding Call The cockpit door did not just laugh. It guffawed, a deep, rattling belly-laugh that shook the very air around it, as though someone had installed an entire comedy club into its hinges. Sprig froze mid-leap, dangling from Helix’s back like an accessory no one ordered. “Doors don’t laugh,” he muttered. “That’s page one of ‘How to Identify Things That Are Doors.’” Helix squeaked nervously, his tail puffing up like a feather duster in a thunderstorm. The brass rippled, and the handle twisted into a sneering smile. “You’ve come this far,” the door said, voice dripping with smugness. “But no gnome, squirrel, or tragically overdressed woodland creature has ever passed through me. I am the Cockpit Door, Guardian of Captain Probability, Keeper of the Flight Manifest, Judge of Carry-On Liquids!” Sprig puffed up his chest. “Listen here, you smug slab of hinges, I’ve faced trousers that spontaneously combusted and survived the aftertaste of mushroom brandy. I am not afraid of a talking door.” Helix, meanwhile, was quietly gnawing on the corner of the carpeting in stress. The door chuckled again. “To enter, you must answer my riddles three!” Sprig groaned. “Of course. Always three. Never two, never four, always three. Fine. Give me your worst, you squeaky furniture.” Riddle One: “What flies without wings, roars without a throat, and terrifies squirrels at picnics?” Sprig squinted. “That’s easy. Wind. Or my Aunt Maple after three cups of pine needle tea. But mostly wind.” The door shuddered. “Correct. Though your Aunt Maple is terrifying.” Riddle Two: “What is heavier than guilt, faster than gossip, and more unpredictable than your tax returns?” “Obviously time,” Sprig replied. “Or possibly Helix after eating fermented berries. But I’ll stick with time.” The door rattled angrily. “Correct again. But your tax returns remain suspicious.” Riddle Three: “What is both destination and journey, filled with laughter and terror, and only possible when logic takes a day off?” Sprig grinned, his eyes sparkling with manic triumph. “Flight. Specifically, Acorn Express Airways.” The door howled, cracked, and finally swung open with theatrical reluctance. “Ugh. Fine. Go on then. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when the captain gets weird.”     Inside, the cockpit defied comprehension. Buttons grew like mushrooms across every surface. Levers hung from the ceiling, dripping with condensation. The control panel was clearly designed by someone who had once seen an accordion and thought, “Yes, but angrier.” At the center sat Captain Probability, a massive owl wearing aviator goggles and a captain’s hat two sizes too small. His feathers gleamed like spilled ink. His eyes were orbs of mathematics gone rogue. “Ah,” Captain Probability hooted, voice a strange mix of dignified scholar and used-car salesman. “Welcome to my office. You’ve braved turbulence, riddles, and seating arrangements that defy Geneva Conventions. But why are you here? To fly? To question? To snack?” Sprig cleared his throat. “We’re here because the weather tried to eat us, the tannoy keeps flirting with me, and my squirrel has developed PTSD from peanuts.” Helix squeaked agreement, twitching his whiskers like an overstimulated antenna. “We demand answers!” Captain Probability leaned forward, his beak clicking ominously. “The truth is this: Acorn Express Airways is no mere airline. It is a crucible, a test of those who dare to reject the tyranny of logic. Each passenger is chosen, plucked from their quiet woodland lives, and hurled into chaos to see if they will laugh, cry, or order overpriced snacks.” “So it’s a cult,” Sprig said flatly. “Great. Knew it.” “Not a cult,” the owl corrected. “An adventure subscription service. Auto-renews every full moon. No refunds.” The cockpit lurched violently. Outside, the Anomalous Weather Zone roared with renewed fury. Clouds twisted into monstrous faces. Lightning spelled out, “HA HA NO.” The tannoy blared: “Brace yourselves! Or don’t. Honestly, mortality rates are included in the brochure.” Sprig gritted his teeth. “Helix, we’re taking over this flight.” The squirrel squealed, appalled but loyal, and scampered toward the controls. Captain Probability flared his wings. “You dare?” he bellowed. “Do you think you can outfly chaos itself?” “No,” Sprig said, grinning wildly. “But I can ride a squirrel into absolute nonsense, and that’s practically the same thing.”     Chaos erupted. Helix leapt onto the console, paws slamming random buttons with all the subtlety of a drunk orchestra conductor. Sirens wailed. Panels lit up with messages like ‘You Shouldn’t Press That’ and ‘Congratulations, You’ve Opened the Wormhole’. The floor tilted violently, sending Sprig skidding toward a lever labeled “Do Not Pull Unless You’re Feeling Spicy.” Naturally, he pulled it. The plane screamed, reality hiccupped, and suddenly they were no longer in sky or storm—they were in a tunnel of pure absurdity. Colors exploded. Acorns rained sideways. A choir of chipmunks sang “O Fortuna” while juggling flaming pinecones. Captain Probability flailed, hooting in outrage. “You’ll destroy everything!” Sprig whooped with joy, clinging to Helix as the squirrel steered them through collapsing geometry. “DESTROY? NO, MY FEATHERED FRIEND! THIS IS INNOVATION!” He slammed another button. The tannoy moaned sensually. The moss carpeting grew legs and began tap-dancing. Somewhere, a vending machine achieved enlightenment. At the end of the tunnel, a blinding light awaited. Not gentle, hopeful light. Blinding, obnoxious, migraine-inducing light, the kind that suggests a divine being really needs to adjust their dimmer switch. Sprig pointed. “That’s our exit, Helix! Take us home!” Helix gathered every ounce of rodent strength, tail blazing like a comet, and hurled them forward. Captain Probability lunged after them, screeching, “No passenger escapes probability!” But Sprig turned, hat askew, beard wild, and shouted back the most heroic nonsense ever uttered by a gnome: “MAYBE IS FOR COWARDS!”     They burst through the light— —and crash-landed on the forest floor with all the grace of a piano falling down stairs. Birds scattered. Trees groaned. A mushroom fainted dramatically. Sprig staggered to his feet, brushing moss from his beard, while Helix flopped onto his back, chest heaving. Silence reigned for a long moment. Then Sprig grinned, wide and maniacal. “Well, Helix, we’ve done it. We’ve survived the maiden voyage of Acorn Express Airways. I declare it a success!” He raised a triumphant fist, only to immediately collapse on his face. Helix chattered weakly, rolling his eyes. Behind them, the sky shimmered. The brass door flickered, laughed once more, and disappeared into nothing. The forest returned to normal—or at least as normal as a forest gets when one gnome and one squirrel have committed interdimensional hijinks. Sprig groaned, pushed himself upright, and looked at Helix. “Same time tomorrow?” The squirrel slapped him in the face with his tail. And thus ended the first and very possibly last official flight of Acorn Express Airways, an airline that operated for exactly forty-seven minutes, carried exactly one idiot and one reluctant squirrel, and somehow managed to change the fate of woodland absurdity forever.     Bring the Adventure Home If Sprig and Helix’s madcap maiden voyage made you laugh, gasp, or quietly worry about the state of gnome aviation safety, you can keep the magic alive with beautiful products featuring Acorn Express Airways. Perfect for adding whimsy to your space, gifting to a fellow daydreamer, or carrying a little absurd humor into everyday life. Framed Print — Elevate your walls with a polished, ready-to-hang piece that captures the soaring absurdity of Sprig and Helix’s adventure. Canvas Print — Bring texture and depth to your home with this gallery-style print, the perfect centerpiece for a whimsical space. Jigsaw Puzzle — Relive the chaos piece by piece, whether as a solo challenge or with friends who also enjoy gnomish nonsense. Greeting Card — Share a laugh and a touch of woodland magic with someone who could use a smile (or a squirrel-powered airline ticket). Weekender Tote Bag — Whether you’re packing for adventure or just grocery day, this bag lets you carry the absurd whimsy of the Acorn Express with you. Each product is crafted with care and high-quality printing, ensuring that the spirit of Acorn Express Airways shines bright—whether on your wall, your table, or over your shoulder. Because some journeys deserve to be remembered… even the ones powered by squirrels.

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