curly haired elf

by Bill Tiepelman

The Raindrop Rider

The Elf Who Wouldn’t Stay Dry Once upon a drizzle, in a forest where the ferns gossiped louder than drunk pixies and the moss had an opinion about everything, there lived a tiny elf named Pipwick. Pipwick was not what you’d call a “model elf.” He wasn’t elegant, or noble, or particularly good at remembering to wear pants. Instead, Pipwick was an enthusiastic disaster wrapped in pointy ears and impulsive decisions. His hobbies included heckling beetles, inventing swear words for mud, and laughing so hard at his own jokes that he sometimes passed out in tree hollows. He was, in short, chaos with freckles. Now, most elves carried themselves with grace and dignity, especially when it came to inclement weather. They wore cloaks woven from moonlight and spider silk. They danced delicately between raindrops like ballerinas who’d studied choreography with the clouds. Pipwick, however, believed that umbrellas, hoods, and anything resembling “common sense” were a conspiracy invented by elves who filed their toenails and paid taxes on time. He refused to stay dry. In fact, he insisted on getting wetter than strictly necessary. If rain was nature’s way of telling you to slow down, Pipwick’s response was to sprint shirtless through puddles while hollering like a deranged warlord. So it wasn’t surprising that on one particularly gloomy afternoon, as the heavens ripped open with sheets of silver water, Pipwick sprinted into a meadow of daisies, screaming at the sky: “IS THAT ALL YOU’VE GOT? I’VE SEEN SPITIER SHOWERS FROM SNEEZING GNOMES!” The daisies, who were trying very hard to look dignified despite being thrashed by the storm, groaned collectively. “Oh no,” sighed one particularly tall bloom. “He’s climbing us again.” And sure enough, Pipwick threw himself onto a daisy stem like a cowboy mounting a very confused horse. He wrapped his stubby fingers around it, his little rump squishing against the wet petals, and screamed with joy: “YEEHAW! THE RAINDROP EXPRESS HAS NO BRAKES!” Immediately, the storm turned his blue romper into a second skin, clinging tighter than an overeager ex who “just wants closure.” His platinum-blond hair stood in jagged spikes, as if a hedgehog had exploded on his head. Water streamed down his pointed ears and dripped from his button nose, but instead of looking miserable like a normal creature, Pipwick looked like he was auditioning for the role of “Tiny Idiot Hero” in some forgotten epic ballad. “Look at me!” Pipwick shouted, one leg kicking out as the daisy swayed dangerously. “I am the Raindrop Rider, champion of wet socks and lord of splashy chaos! Tremble, ye woodland creatures, for I bring NO TOWELS!” From the safety of her hollow log, a squirrel peeked out, rolled her eyes, and muttered, “Honestly, if I had a nut for every time that fool nearly drowned himself in drizzle, I’d own half this forest.” A family of mushrooms huddled together at the base of an oak, whispering nervously. “Do you think he’ll fall again?” asked one. “Last time he did, we smelled wet elf for weeks.” “If he falls,” grumbled a badger nearby, “I hope he falls into the river and floats downstream to plague some other woodland.” Pipwick, of course, ignored the critics. He was far too busy shrieking with delight as the daisy bent precariously under his weight. Every gust of wind sent him rocking back and forth like the world’s tiniest carnival ride. Every raindrop that smacked him in the face was met with triumphant giggles. He tilted his head back, opened his mouth, and began biting at the rain like he could chew the weather into submission. “Mmm, tastes like cloud juice!” he shouted to no one in particular. The storm intensified, lightning flashing briefly across the sky. Most creatures shivered or scampered for cover, but Pipwick only threw both arms into the air. “YES! STRIKE ME DOWN, O MIGHTY SKY! I DARE YOU! I’M TOO FABULOUS TO FRY!” Somewhere in the distance, thunder answered with a long, rumbling growl. The trees groaned. The daisies begged him quietly to get off. But Pipwick only clung tighter, grinning wide, his whole body vibrating with the thrill of the storm. If he had known what was about to happen, perhaps he would’ve hopped down, dried off, and behaved like a rational elf. But Pipwick was not rational. Pipwick was the Raindrop Rider. And his greatest adventure was only just beginning… Trouble Rides the Raindrops The storm raged harder, and Pipwick, naturally, got louder. That was his law: the wetter the weather, the bigger the performance. He clung to the daisy stem like a rodeo star and began narrating his own adventure as though the forest were an audience that had paid good coin to see him embarrass himself. “Behold!” he shouted over the crash of thunder. “I, Pipwick the Raindrop Rider, conqueror of drizzle, master of mud, kisser of questionable frogs, do hereby tame this wild flower beast in the name of…” He paused dramatically, trying to think of something important-sounding. “…in the name of… snacks!” Lightning split the sky. The squirrels all groaned in unison. Somewhere in the distance, a fox muttered, “Oh, saints preserve us, he’s monologuing again.” The daisy bent so far it was practically horizontal, and Pipwick whooped with delight. “Fly, my noble steed!” he cried, patting the stem. “Take me to glory! Take me to—OH BLOODY MOSS!” A particularly heavy raindrop, fat as a marble, smacked him right between the eyes. He flailed, slipped, and for one terrifying second, the entire forest got to enjoy the sight of a shrieking elf somersaulting through the air like a badly-thrown acorn. “NOT LIKE THIS! NOT IN BLUE!” he screamed. By sheer dumb luck—and possibly because the daisy pitied him—he landed back on the stem, legs wrapped around it, hair plastered to his forehead. He clutched the flower like it was a life raft and burst out laughing. “Ha! Did you see that? Perfect dismount! Ten out of ten! Judges, what say you?” A nearby crow cawed. To Pipwick, that absolutely meant, “Two out of ten.” “Rude!” Pipwick snapped back, flicking water at the crow. “Your nest looks like an unfluffed pillow, by the way!” The crow squawked indignantly and flapped off, leaving Pipwick alone with his daisy rollercoaster ride. The rain kept hammering down, washing mud into little rivers that streamed across the meadow. And that was when Pipwick’s eyes widened, and his grin turned dangerous. Mischief was about to happen. You could practically smell it, like burnt toast and bad decisions. “Ooooh,” he whispered to himself, glancing at the puddles forming below. “Rafting season.” Before the daisies could protest, Pipwick slid down the stem, landing with a splat in the mud. He staggered to his feet, his blue romper now so soaked it made squishy noises with every step. Undeterred, he began yanking leaves off nearby plants, shouting, “I REQUIRE VESSELS! The Raindrop Rider must RIDE!” “You can’t be serious,” muttered a fern. “I’m always serious when it involves speed and potential concussions!” Pipwick replied, gathering soggy petals and fashioning them into what could only generously be called a boat. It looked less like a seaworthy craft and more like something a toddler would build and then immediately regret. Nevertheless, Pipwick placed it in the rushing puddle, hopped aboard, and declared, “TO VICTORY!” The makeshift raft lurched forward. The puddle-stream carried him through the meadow, bouncing over pebbles and sticks like a drunk rollercoaster. Pipwick flung his arms wide, water spraying into his face, and screamed with joy, “YES! YES! WET SPEED IS THE BEST SPEED!” Forest creatures gathered along the banks to watch, because let’s be honest—entertainment was scarce, and Pipwick was basically free theatre. The squirrels placed bets on how many times he’d fall in. A hedgehog pulled out a quill and started keeping score. Even the badger, who claimed to be sick of Pipwick’s antics, muttered, “Well… I’ll give him this much. The boy’s committed.” The raft hit a rock, sending Pipwick flying several feet into the air. He landed face-first in the mud with a splat that echoed like a custard pie hitting a wall. He peeled his face out of the muck, spit out something that may have been a worm, and shouted triumphantly, “DID YOU SEE THAT LANDING?!” “You landed on your face,” a vole squeaked helpfully from the sidelines. “Exactly!” Pipwick grinned, mud dripping from his teeth. “I call that move ‘The Faceplant of Destiny!’” Back onto the raft he scrambled, laughing so hard he nearly fell off again. The stream carried him onward, twisting through the meadow like a miniature river of chaos. And with each new jolt, each new splash, Pipwick’s joy grew wilder. He wasn’t just riding rain anymore—he was waging war against dignity itself. And dignity was losing. The ride grew faster, the puddle-river widening as it carved a muddy channel through the grass. Pipwick’s raft began to spin. “LEFT! NO, RIGHT! NO, STRAIGHT! NO, AAAAHH!” he yelled, spinning so violently he resembled a very dizzy turnip. He clung to his soggy raft with one hand and shook a fist at the storm with the other. “IS THAT ALL YOU’VE GOT, SKY? I’VE HAD STRONGER SHOWERS FROM A DRIPPING LEAF!” The storm, apparently insulted, answered with a tremendous crack of thunder. The ground trembled. The puddle-river surged forward, carrying Pipwick straight toward a steep drop where the meadow sloped down into the forest proper. The crowd of creatures gasped in unison. “He’s not going to make it!” shrieked a rabbit. “He never makes it!” corrected a weasel. Pipwick, meanwhile, was cackling like a madman. His hair plastered to his forehead, his romper clinging like blue paint, he leaned into the storm and screamed, “BRING ME YOUR WORST! I AM THE RAINDROP RIDER! AND I AM—OH SWEET MOSS, THAT’S A DROP—” And then his raft went over the edge. The last thing anyone heard as he vanished into the depths of the forest below was his delighted shriek: “WHEEEEEEEE!” The Legend of the Soggy Fool Pipwick’s leafy raft plunged off the meadow’s edge, spinning violently as the rain-fed stream hurled him into the tangled undergrowth below. He shrieked like a kettle left on the fire, arms flailing, mouth wide open to catch raindrops like they were free samples at a market stall. For one glorious, terrifying moment, he was airborne—hair streaming back, eyes bugging with wild delight—before crashing into a new channel of water that carried him deeper into the forest. “WOOOOO! YES! THIS IS WHAT I WAS BORN FOR!” he bellowed, despite swallowing at least half a pint of mud-water. His raft disintegrated almost instantly, but Pipwick simply latched onto a passing log, legs dangling behind him as the torrent rushed forward. Above him, forest creatures lined the slope, following the chaos like spectators at a traveling circus. A chorus of squirrels scurried along the branches, narrating the disaster in squeaky unison. “He’s spinning left! No, right! No—oh, ooooh, face-first into the brambles! That’s going to sting later!” “Somebody should stop him,” sighed an owl, blinking solemnly from her perch. “He’s going to break his neck.” “Pfft,” replied a hedgehog. “That elf is too stupid to break. He’ll bounce.” The storm didn’t let up. Sheets of water sluiced down the canopy, turning every root and stone into a hazard. Pipwick, of course, treated each new obstacle as if it were part of an elaborate amusement park ride built for his own entertainment. A root snagged his log, sending him flying sideways into a patch of nettles. He emerged seconds later, red and itchy but beaming like a maniac. “YES! TEN MORE POINTS FOR STYLE!” The current spat him out into a larger clearing where the water had pooled into a broad, swirling basin. Here, his log began spinning lazily in circles. Pipwick, dizzy but determined, rose to his feet with arms flung wide. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF THE FOREST! BEHOLD, THE RAINDROP RIDER IN HIS FINALE PERFORMANCE: THE DEATH-SPIN OF DOOM!” “More like the dizziness of doom,” muttered a vole from the sidelines, chewing on a wet leaf. “He’s gonna hurl.” Sure enough, Pipwick staggered, turned greenish, and leaned over to vomit spectacularly into the water. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, raised his arms again, and shouted, “IT’S PART OF THE SHOW! YOU PAID FOR THE WHOLE PERFORMANCE, DIDN’T YOU?!” The basin overflowed suddenly, sending the water rushing onward in a violent surge. Pipwick’s log shot forward, careening between trees and bouncing over rocks. He ducked under low branches, dodged snapping brambles, and once shouted, “OW! MY LEFT BUTTOCK IS SACRIFICED TO THE CAUSE!” after colliding with a sharp stick. But still, he grinned. Still, he cackled. Nothing—not mud, not bruises, not the strong likelihood of tetanus—could dull his joy. At one particularly sharp bend, his log tipped, and Pipwick was flung bodily into the current. He tumbled head over heels, somersaulting through frothing water until he finally managed to cling to an enormous toadstool growing on the bank. He hung there panting, mud streaming off his face, ears twitching wildly. And then, because Pipwick was Pipwick, he started laughing again. “I’M ALIVE! STILL WET! STILL FABULOUS!” The toadstool groaned. “Honestly, could you not?” But Pipwick was already hauling himself upright, wobbling on the mushroom like a circus performer. His romper sagged with water, squelching horribly. His hair stuck to his face like kelp. He smelled like damp moss, frog spit, and regret. And yet, he struck a pose like a victorious champion, fists on hips, chin raised dramatically. “Citizens of the forest!” he proclaimed, ignoring that most of said citizens were either laughing at him or hoping he’d finally drown. “This day shall be remembered as the day Pipwick the Raindrop Rider tamed the storm! The skies themselves tried to throw me down, but lo! I remain standing! Bruised! Moist! Possibly concussed! But victorious!” “You were screaming the whole way down,” pointed out a rabbit. “Screaming with joy!” Pipwick shot back. “And also mild terror! But mostly joy!” Thunder cracked again, and the rain continued to pelt down. Pipwick lifted his tiny fists and shouted, “You’ll never beat me, sky! I am your soggy nemesis! I am the rider of raindrops, the breaker of dignity, the champion of stupid ideas!” And with that, he slipped on the mushroom, tumbled into the mud face-first, and lay there giggling hysterically as worms slithered indignantly out of his hair. He didn’t even bother getting up. Why would he? He had lived his dream. He had taken a storm, wrestled it into absurdity, and turned it into a comedy act. He was Pipwick the Raindrop Rider, and he was exactly where he wanted to be: covered in mud, soaking wet, and cackling like an idiot while the whole forest watched in disbelief. Some called him a fool. Some called him a menace. But everyone, whether they admitted it or not, would be talking about the Raindrop Rider for seasons to come. And Pipwick? He’d be back on the daisies the next time the clouds gathered, ready to shriek, spin, fall, and laugh all over again. Because that’s what fools do. And sometimes, the world needs its fools just as much as it needs its heroes.     Bring the Raindrop Rider Home If Pipwick’s soggy adventure made you laugh as hard as the forest critters did, you can carry his joy into your own world. “The Raindrop Rider” is available as a framed print to brighten your walls, or as a striking metal print for bold, modern decor. Share his mischievous grin with friends through a whimsical greeting card, or keep his playful spirit close in a spiral notebook for your own outrageous ideas. And for those who want Pipwick’s cheer wherever the sun shines, there’s even a beach towel—because nothing says summer fun like drying off with the forest’s most infamous wet fool.

by Bill Tiepelman

Curly Mischief and Meadow Gifts

The Petal Hustler of Dandelion Hollow In the sprightly green blush of early spring, the meadows of Dandelion Hollow woke up with a sneeze. Literally. One sneeze from the old alder tree at the top of the hill and *poof*—pollen snowed like fairy dandruff. Somewhere between the sneeze and the startled squirrels, a child-sized blur zigzagged across the hillside, leaving muddy footprints and unplucked tulips in her wake. This was Pip. Pip of the curls. Pip of the boots. Pip of the Very Slightly Illegal Dandelion Exchange Program. At four-and-three-quarters years old (she insisted on the three-quarters), Pip had mastered the art of charm warfare. She could weaponize a smile, ambush with dimples, and dismantle even the crankiest witch with a single curly ringlet bounce. Her main hustle? Wildflower procurement. "Gifted" daisies for trade, usually swapped for cookies, buttons, or dangerously sharp sticks. Pip believed sharp sticks were currency. The goblins on the north edge agreed. The fairies did not. She called them “sparkle snobs” and refused to share her jam. On this particular morning, Pip was armed with a linen dress full of mischief, a turquoise pendant she “found” (read: liberated from a crow), and two freshly picked daisies still dripping with dew. The pendant made her look suspiciously magical. The daisies made her look innocent. Combined? A con artist in alpaca boots. She stomped up to the hollow’s main path where a row of sleepy forest dwellers were waiting for the Monday morning barter queue to open. With wide eyes and a grin soaked in sunshine and chaos, Pip clutched her flowers, looked up at the tall toadstool clerk, and said with syrupy sweetness: “One daisy for a marmalade scone. Two daisies, and I forget you snore like a walrus in heat.” The queue blinked. Then someone clapped. Then someone else shouted, “You’ve been out-haggled by a toddler!” And thus began Pip’s most glorious morning of spring—where she would trade, sass, dance, and flower-hustle her way to local legend status… until she accidentally triggered a minor war with the bees. Pip v. The Buzzed & Slightly Stingy Collective After her floral hustle had thoroughly disrupted Monday commerce and earned her three scones, a rusty button, and an owl feather she immediately stuck up her nose, Pip wandered deeper into the thicket. The sun filtered through new leaves like lemony lace, and the whole hollow smelled like damp moss and possibilities. But something was off. The bees were watching. Now, to be fair, bees always watched Pip. She had history. Last spring she “borrowed” a hexagon-shaped honeycomb chunk to use as a tambourine. A week later, she orchestrated a "pollination parade" using stolen petals, ten confused ants, and a kazoo. Her defense had been: “It was for educational enrichment.” The bees had not found this enriching. So when Pip marched into the clover patch with her hands full of daisies and her ego inflated like a squirrel on kombucha, the local hive—formally known as the Buzzed & Slightly Stingy Collective—activated Code Gold. Which is to say, they sent their smallest, angriest lawyer-bee to intercept. “MISS PIP!” came a shrill voice from above. She looked up, one eye squinting against the sun. “Oh poop. It’s Barry.” Barry the barrister bee wore a monocle, a vest that had clearly seen better threads, and a scowl that could ferment apple juice. He hovered menacingly in front of her, buzzing like a mosquito with a diploma. “You stand accused,” Barry bellowed, “of unlawful daisy decapitation, reckless dew redistribution, and intent to barter pollinator property without permit!” Pip blinked slowly. “I also licked a toad this morning. Should I add that to the list?” Barry’s wings vibrated at legal-speed fury. “You will present yourself before the Hive Court immediately or suffer pollen-based sentencing!” “What does that mean?” “It means WE SMOTHER YOUR ARMPITS IN SUNFLOWER SEEDS UNTIL THE BIRDS FIND YOU.” So Pip went quietly. Mostly because she was curious about Hive Court snacks.     The Trial Held inside a hollowed-out acorn with dramatically oversized leaves arranged like judge’s benches, Hive Court was a cross between a legal proceeding and a group therapy session hosted by a tulip. Fairies hovered in press boxes. A hedgehog in spectacles was sketching rapidly on moss. Barry stood proudly at the front, buzzing with self-importance. Pip sat on a milk cap stool with her boots dangling and her mouth full of acorn brittle. When asked to state her name for the record, she replied, “Princess Daisy Snugglebutt, Duchess of Whimsy, Queen of Slight Chaos, and part-time snack thief.” The courtroom rustled. One juror—a frog named Clarence—snorted. Barry launched into his opening argument, full of “intent to pilfer nectar assets” and “botanical exploitation by minor woodland elementals.” He dramatically waved a wilting daisy as Exhibit A, which unfortunately sneezed on him. Pip’s defense? Equally dramatic: “Ladies and gentlebugs! I do not deny I picked daisies. I do not deny I made deals. But I ask you—who among us hasn’t bartered a flower for a snack or manipulated an emotionally unstable gnome for a pouch of glitter dust? Am I a menace? Possibly. But I’m YOUR menace. And I smell like jam.” Thunderous applause. One juror fainted. Barry wept into his monocle. The Queen Bee herself—Her Most Syrupy Majesty, Bzzzzelda—was wheeled in on a petal chariot. She asked only one question: “Did you at least say thank you to the flowers?” Pip paused. Her eyes grew wide. She whispered, “I… forgot.” The courtroom gasped. “THEN THE SENTENCE IS…” Bzzzzelda buzzed, drawing out the pause like an overripe banana peel, “...Community Service!” Pip clapped. “Oh good. I thought you were gonna put me in a thistle!” Barry fainted. The Queen’s wings flicked. “You will be assigned to the Pollination Encouragement Task Force. Your job is to inspire plants. Make them feel... wanted.” Pip tilted her head. “Like... emotional pollination?” “Yes. And it starts tomorrow. Wear something inspiring.” Pip’s mind was already racing. A tutu. A flower crown. Possibly stilts. She was going to be the Beyoncé of bee-themed botany in no time. But first—there was one more daisy left to trade. And maybe, just maybe, a certain grumpy gnome owed her a lollipop and an apology for calling her “a shrieking fuzzball with flower kleptomania.” Petal to the Metal The next morning, Pip emerged from her moss-curtain doorway looking like a fever dream had made a pact with spring fashion and lost control halfway through. She wore a tutu fashioned from stolen daffodil petals (no longer attached to the daffodils), a sash made from thistle fluff, and a towering floral crown that made her look like a tiny, unstable maypole. At her feet were boots smeared with yesterday’s jam, and in her hands? A ukelele she didn’t know how to play and a motivational sign that read: “GROW, YA LAZY BLOOMS!” “Pollination Encouragement Task Force, Day One,” she declared. “Let the pep-talkening commence.”     The Pep Parade Pip’s first stop was the daisy patch. She marched straight in and struck a powerful pose, arms wide, crown wobbling like an unlicensed circus act. “You! Yes, you! You chlorophyll-challenged cuties! You got this! You’re the Beyoncé of blooming! Photosynthesize like you MEAN it!” The daisies swayed gently in what may have been a breeze or might have been pure confusion. Then came the tulips. She leaned in, whispered, “You’re fabulous. Don’t let the daffodils gaslight you. You were early bloomers before it was cool.” The roses got a full interpretive dance titled ‘Unfurling the Inner You’, which involved a lot of spinning, yelling compliments, and accidentally kicking over a hedgehog tea stand. The violets blushed so hard they went magenta. The buttercups tried to stage a walkout but Pip convinced them to stay with a rousing monologue about resilience and root strength. By noon, she had cheered, chanted, sung (badly), rapped (worse), and pantomimed pollination using two dandelion heads and a worm named Gus. Gus gave a surprisingly heartfelt performance and later received a leaf medal for bravery. The bees followed her at a distance like confused lifeguards at a nudist beach. Barry, still nursing his monocle trauma, took notes while muttering, “Technically effective… legally insane…” The Incident with the Foxglove It was all going so well—until the foxglove. You see, foxgloves are dramatic. They’re the theater kids of the plant world: gorgeous, toxic, and extremely likely to break into Shakespeare if left unsupervised. Pip strutted up, struck her best “floral influencer” pose, and shouted: “Y’all are fierce. You’re long, you’re loud, and you’re LETHAL. Slay, queens!” And the foxgloves did what foxgloves do best. They burst into a spontaneous flash mob of spoken-word poetry about existential dread and pollen oppression. One of them fainted. Another one quoted Sylvia Plath. Barry the bee had to be restrained from legal action due to ‘emotional endangerment by metaphor.’ Pip just clapped. “Ten outta ten. Would bloom again.”     The Blossoming By late afternoon, something strange started happening. The entire glade shimmered with growth. The bees were buzzing in actual harmony. The snapdragons were smiling. The violets had stopped blushing and were now giggling. Even the old grumpy stump that hadn’t sprouted in thirty years had pushed up a rogue crocus in what could only be described as a “mild flirtation with vitality.” Her Majesty Bzzzzelda arrived with a buzzing entourage and a tiny scroll. “We, the Collective, officially pardon Pip of all prior offenses on the grounds that she is… annoyingly effective.” Pip bowed. “I accept your forgiveness. I also accept tips in the form of honey and shiny rocks.” As the sun set over Dandelion Hollow, Pip returned home with a daisy crown askew, a smear of moss on her chin, and a grin that could power a village. She had no intention of stopping. She had a mission now. Tomorrow she would start “Operation: Root Awakening” for the grumpy cabbage patch. Because in the end, Pip didn’t just cheer for flowers. She believed in them. And whether it was a daisy with dreams or a depressed daffodil in a mid-season crisis, she would be there with boots on, petals in hand, and absolutely zero chill. Spring would never be the same. Bring Pip Home with You If Pip stole your heart (and possibly your snacks), why not let her bring a little chaos and charm into your world? "Curly Mischief and Meadow Gifts" is now available as a delightful canvas print for your gallery wall, a cozy fleece blanket to curl up with during story time, a whimsical tapestry for your enchanted nook, or even a framed print worthy of Hive Court itself: framed print. Adopt a little wildflower magic, boost your wall’s attitude, and let Pip bloom where you hang her. She's got curls, she's got daisies, and she absolutely demands to be fabulous in your living room.