Enchanted Forest

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

by Bill Tiepelman

Floral Mischief and Bearded Smiles

Thistlewhump the Gnome was not your average garden variety gnome. While others spent their days polishing mushrooms or napping behind tulip stems, Thistlewhump was a known floral deviant—a collector of rare petals, hoarder of pollen sparkle, and self-declared Minister of Mischief in the Bloomborough Hollow. Spring had just cracked open its golden shell, and Thistlewhump was already knee-deep in his seasonal rituals: rearranging the faerie ring alphabetically, filling birds’ nests with glitter, and most controversially, “borrowing” blooms from Mrs. Mumbletoes’ garden. It wasn’t theft if you left a button in return, right? On the morning in question, sunlight filtered through the forest like melted butter over toast, and Thistlewhump stood atop his wobble-legged stool, eyeing a fresh patch of purplebells with the intensity of a pastry chef inspecting an éclair. Basket in one hand, beard flowing like spun cloud, he plucked the flowers with theatrical flair. “This one shall be named Petunia von Sassypants,” he declared, twirling a violet petal between his fingers, “and this... Sir Bloomalot.” Behind him, a potted explosion of wildflowers shimmered as if snickering in delight, the fae whispers swirling in the warm air. Thistlewhump leaned in to sniff a bloom and immediately sneezed glitter. “That’s what I get for sweet-talking a sneezeweed,” he muttered, wiping fairy dust from his nose with a mushroom cap. But there was something different in the air that day—not just the usual scent of chlorophyll and mischief. No, something—or someone—was watching him. Hidden behind the larger-than-life bouquet was a shadow. A giggle. Possibly the rustle of a wing or the hiccup of a pixie with hayfever. Thistlewhump narrowed his eyes. “If that’s you again, Spriggle, I swear on my beard trimmer—” He paused. The flowers behind him trembled. His stool creaked. A petal fell. And from somewhere within the blossoms came a whisper: "Not Spriggle. Worse."     Thistlewhump froze mid-pose, one foot on his stool and the other dangling dramatically in midair like he was auditioning for a woodland ballet he never rehearsed. His nose twitched. His beard fluffed out in defensive formation. He turned slowly, theatrically, as gnomes are prone to do when drama calls. “Worse?” he echoed, eyes darting through the explosion of pinks and purples behind him. “Don’t tell me the Hydrangea Council finally traced my root-snipping incident…” But it wasn’t the Hydrangeas. Out of the petals burst a small figure—two inches tall, armed with a daffodil stem like a fencing foil and glitter streaming from her ears. “Daisy Flitterbottom!” Thistlewhump groaned. “You absolute menace!” “You stole my sparklebush cuttings,” Daisy accused, mid-air, wings vibrating like a caffeine-soaked hummingbird. “And you repotted them. In a clay mug. With no drainage.” Thistlewhump held up his basket as a peace offering, though it only contained three slightly crushed blossoms and a lint-covered gumdrop. “I was... experimenting,” he offered. “It was for science. Art. Interpretive horticulture.” Daisy wasn’t convinced. She dive-bombed his hat, knocking loose a cluster of sequins. “You called that art? It looked like a mossy sock with commitment issues!” What followed can only be described as an aggressively polite garden brawl. Thistlewhump flailed with a trowel he named “Daisy Negotiator,” while Daisy zigzagged like an angry firefly, knocking over his flowerpot in mid-hover. Petals flew. Glitter exploded. A passing bee did a U-turn in existential confusion. Eventually, both collapsed—Thistlewhump into a pile of overturned violets, and Daisy into a half-eaten macaroon someone had left on the railing. They panted, sweaty and pollen-covered, staring at the sky as though it owed them both an apology. “Truce?” Daisy mumbled through crumbs. “Only if you promise not to weaponize peonies again,” Thistlewhump wheezed. “I’m still finding petals in my underpants from last time.” She giggled. He grinned. The flowers slowly stopped trembling, and a single blue bloom stretched lazily toward the sun as if clapping with a petal. And as the sun dipped low and the bokeh haze of springtime glowed gold around them, Thistlewhump sat back on his stool (now slightly broken), sipped a warm chamomile from an acorn cup, and declared with a smile, “Ah, yes. Just another peaceful day in Bloomborough.” Somewhere nearby, a peony shuddered.     🌼 Garden Giggle Rhyme 🌼 In a garden where the posies pout,And bees wear boots to buzz about,Lives a gnome with a beard so wide,He sweeps the tulips when he slides. He steals your blooms, he swaps your socks,He talks to snails, he pranks the rocks.He brews his tea with petals bold,And sniffs the sun like it’s pure gold. So if you see your daisies grinning,Or catch your rosebush gently spinning—Don’t panic, dear, it’s just old Thump,The gnome who gardens with a bump. He’ll leave you laughs, some glitter, cheer,And possibly... a flowered rear.     🌷 Take the Mischief Home 🌷 If Thistlewhump and his flower-fueled chaos stole your heart (and maybe your socks), bring a bit of that blooming whimsy into your world! Whether you’re dressing up your space, lounging in comfort, or toting garden goodies, Floral Mischief and Bearded Smiles is available in a variety of delightful products: 🧵 Whimsical Wall Tapestry – Hang the gnome magic on your wall and let the floral laughter bloom. 🛋️ Throw Pillow – Perfect for garden naps and accidental glitter naps. 🛏️ Duvet Cover – Sleep like a gnome, dream like a petal. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry blooms, mischief, and snacks wherever you wander. 🏖️ Round Beach Towel – Because nothing says spring mischief like lounging in circular style. Each item features the richly detailed artwork of Bill and Linda Tiepelman, bringing joy, charm, and just a pinch of gnome-fueled madness to your everyday life.

by Bill Tiepelman

Grumpy Rain Sprite

A Sprite's Soggy Misery It had been a perfectly pleasant morning in the enchanted forest—until, of course, the sky decided to have a breakdown. One moment, the birds were singing, the mushrooms were gossiping, and the sun was doing its usual “Look at me, I’m glorious” routine. The next? A torrential downpour turned the world into a damp, sloshing nightmare. And no one was more annoyed than Thistle, the resident rain sprite with a temperament as stormy as the weather. She sat in a growing puddle, wings sagging under the weight of a thousand raindrops, her favorite moss dress clinging to her like a soggy tea bag. Her silver hair, normally a wild halo of untamed curls, was now a limp, rain-drenched disaster. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, hugging her arms tightly against her chest. “Absolutely ridiculous.” She yanked her massive leaf-umbrella lower over her head, scowling as another rivulet of water dripped off the edge and splattered onto her nose. The universe clearly had a vendetta against her today. Probably because of that whole "convincing the fireflies to unionize" incident last week. The elders had warned her about the consequences of mischief, but seriously, who even enforces karma these days? A rustling sound made her glance up, her pointed ears twitching. Emerging from behind a cluster of mushrooms was a familiar figure—Twig, the local mischief-maker and general pain in her leafy backside. Of course, he would show up now, probably just to mock her. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, his wings twitching with amusement. “If it isn’t Queen Soggy of Puddleland. Shall I fetch you a throne made of mud, or are you still holding court in your personal swamp?” Thistle fixed him with a withering glare. “If you value your wings, Twig, you will remove yourself from my miserable presence before I hex you into a slug.” Twig gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “A slug! Oh no! Whatever shall I do? It’s not like it’s already so wet I’d probably thrive as a slimy, wriggling creature.” He smirked, then plucked a dripping mushroom from the ground. “But honestly, Thistle, why the tragic act? You’re a rain sprite. This is literally your element.” “I control rain, I don’t enjoy being waterboarded by it,” she snapped. “There’s a difference.” “Ah, so it’s the ‘do as I say, not as I do’ approach. Very powerful leadership strategy.” Twig leaned on her leaf umbrella, making it droop dangerously close to collapsing entirely. “But hey, if you hate it so much, why not stop the rain?” Thistle let out a long, slow breath, resisting the urge to throttle him. “Because,” she gritted out, “that would require effort. And right now, I am choosing to marinate in my suffering like a dignified and tragic figure.” “Uh-huh. Super dignified,” Twig said, tilting his head at the way her damp dress clung to her legs. “You look like a particularly upset swamp rat.” Thistle reached out and shoved him into the nearest puddle. “That was uncalled for!” he sputtered, sitting up, now as drenched as she was. “You know what else is uncalled for? This entire rainstorm!” she barked, throwing her hands up, sending a gust of wind through the trees. “I had plans today, Twig. Plans. I was going to nap in a sunbeam, bother some butterflies, maybe even steal a honey drop from the pixie hive. And instead? Instead, I am here. In this puddle. Soaking. Suffering.” “Truly tragic,” Twig said, flopping backward into the puddle dramatically. “Someone should write a song about your struggle.” Thistle growled. She was going to kill him. Or, at the very least, strongly inconvenience him. A Sprite’s Revenge is Best Served Soggy Thistle took a deep breath, inhaling the damp, earthy scent of the rain-soaked forest. She needed to calm down. Committing sprite-on-sprite violence would only get her in trouble with the elders again, and honestly, their lectures were worse than Twig’s face. Twig, still sprawled in the puddle like some kind of lazy river nymph, smirked up at her. “You know, if you stopped sulking long enough, you might realize something.” Thistle narrowed her eyes. “Oh, this should be good. Enlighten me, oh wise and irritating one.” “You love chaos, right?” He flicked some water at her, and she barely resisted the urge to fry him with a well-aimed lightning bolt. “So why not embrace the storm? Make everyone else just as miserable as you?” Her scowl twitched. “Go on…” He sat up, grinning now, sensing he had her attention. “Think about it. The dryads just put up their new moss tapestries—imagine the heartbreak when they find them soggy and ruined.” He gestured wildly. “The mushroom folk? I hear they just finished harvesting their prized sun-dried spores. And the pixies? Ha! They’ve been preening their wings all week for the Solstice Ball. One extra gust of wind and—” Thistle’s face split into a wicked grin. “—frizz city.” “Exactly.” Twig leaned in conspiratorially. “You have the power to turn a minor inconvenience into a full-blown disaster. You could make this the most memorable storm of the decade.” Thistle tapped her fingers against her arm, considering. The elders would frown upon it. Then again, the elders frowned upon pretty much everything she did, and honestly, at this point, she was just collecting their disapproval like rare artifacts. Slowly, a plan began to form. She stood, shaking the rain from her wings with an air of purpose. “Alright, Twig. You’ve convinced me. But if we’re doing this, we’re going all in.” His grin widened. “Oh, I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Thistle cracked her knuckles. The sky rumbled in response. The first thing she did was kick up the wind—not enough to be dangerous, but just enough to make all the well-groomed pixies regret their life choices. Delicate curls frizzed instantly. Dresses caught in the wind, wings flapped uselessly, and the air was filled with high-pitched shrieks of horror. Next, she turned her attention to the dryads. Oh, their moss tapestries had been beautiful. Key word: had. Now? Now they were nothing more than damp, sagging clumps of regret. “This is delightful,” Twig sighed happily, watching a group of mushroom folk scramble to cover their precious spores. “I haven’t had this much fun since I convinced the fireflies that blinking in Morse code was a revolutionary act.” Thistle let the rain surge for one last dramatic flourish, sending a final gust of wind to scatter the pixies like irate confetti. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, she stopped it. The rain ceased. The wind died. The forest was left in a state of soggy, chaotic despair. And in the middle of it all, Thistle stood, looking very pleased with herself. “Well,” she said, stretching lazily. “That was satisfying.” Twig clapped her on the back. “You, my dear, are a menace. And I respect that.” She smirked. “I do try.” From somewhere deep in the forest, a furious elder’s voice rang out. “THISTLE!” Twig winced. “Oof. That’s got some real ‘disappointed parent’ energy.” Thistle sighed dramatically. “Ugh. Consequences. So tedious.” “Run?” Twig suggested. “Run,” she agreed. And with that, the two sprites vanished into the drenched, chaotic forest, cackling like the absolute menaces they were. Bring Thistle’s Mischief Home! Love the sass, the storm, and the sheer chaotic energy of our favorite rain sprite? Now you can capture her brooding brilliance in a variety of stunning formats! Whether you want to add a touch of whimsical rebellion to your walls, solve a puzzle as tricky as Thistle herself, or jot down your own mischievous plans, we’ve got you covered. ✨ Tapestry – Let Thistle reign over your space with fabric as dramatic as her attitude. 🖼️ Canvas Print – Museum-quality snark for your walls. 🧩 Jigsaw Puzzle – Because piecing together chaos is surprisingly therapeutic. 💌 Greeting Card – Share the moody magic with your fellow mischief-makers. 📓 Spiral Notebook – Perfect for plotting pranks, poetry, or your next escape plan. Don’t just admire Thistle—invite her into your world. She promises to bring charm, attitude, and possibly a little rain.    

by Bill Tiepelman

High & Fungi

The Chillest Cap in the Forest The forest was alive with the sounds of rustling leaves, chirping crickets, and the occasional giggle of a mischievous fairy. Deep within the mossy undergrowth, nestled between the roots of an ancient oak, sat a mushroom unlike any other. His cap was lopsided, his red spots slightly faded, and his wooden-textured skin bore the wisdom of countless seasons. His name? Shlomo the Shroom. And if there was one thing Shlomo knew how to do better than any other fungi in the woods, it was to chill. “Brooo,” he exhaled, though mushrooms don’t technically breathe. “The air is like… so thick with vibes today, man.” A tiny glowing fairy, named Zibbit, fluttered down onto his cap, casually reclining like it was the comfiest beanbag in the world. “Shlomo, you’ve literally been sitting in the same spot for, like, a hundred years.” Shlomo squinted his oversized, half-lidded eyes. “Exactly. You think enlightenment just grows on trees?” He chuckled to himself. “Well, actually, it kinda does, but you know what I mean.” Zibbit rolled onto her back, stretching her tiny arms. “You ever get tired of just… doing nothing?” Shlomo wobbled slightly. “Oh, my sweet, sweet, naïve little winged homie. Nothing is everything. You gotta just be, man. Like, let the wind carry your worries, let the earth hold your past, and let the morning dew… like… I dunno, moisturize you or whatever.” Zibbit stared. “That might be the dumbest but most profound thing I’ve ever heard.” Just then, a rustling in the bushes made them both pause. Out of the shadows emerged a frantic-looking squirrel, eyes wide, tail twitching like it had just been struck by lightning. “GUYS!” the squirrel screeched. “THE OWLS! THEY KNOW!” Shlomo blinked slowly. “Know what, my hyperactive acorn-munching amigo?” The squirrel darted back and forth like it had overdosed on espresso. “I— I don’t know! BUT THEY KNOW!” Zibbit sat up. “Wait… what are we talking about?” The squirrel grabbed its own face, hyperventilating. “THE OWLS KNOW, MAN! ABOUT— ABOUT THE THING! THE SECRET! THE BIG, HUGE—” Shlomo let out a long, slow sigh. “Dude. Relax. Take a breath. Let the cosmic currents, like… un-knot your little tail, bro.” The squirrel stopped. He looked at Shlomo. Then at Zibbit. Then back at Shlomo. “Oh. Yeah. Good call.” He took a deep breath. Then another. Then, with sudden clarity, he whispered, “Wait… what were we talking about?” Shlomo grinned. “My dude. Exactly.” The Cosmic Revelation The squirrel, now in a state of deep existential confusion, flopped onto the forest floor, staring at the sky. “Whoa… I feel… kinda better. Maybe I just needed to slow down.” Shlomo nodded sagely, his cap wobbling slightly. “That’s the thing, little buddy. You rush around, chase acorns, worry about owls, and next thing you know, you forget to just exist, ya know?” Zibbit, still lounging on Shlomo’s cap, flicked a tiny spark of fairy dust into the air. “You’re really just making all of this up as you go, aren’t you?” Shlomo grinned. “Absolutely. And yet… doesn’t it make perfect sense?” The squirrel, now reclining in the moss, let out a relaxed sigh. “Damn. Maybe I have been overthinking things. Like… what if the owls don’t actually know anything?” Shlomo’s eyes widened slightly. “Whoa. What if, like… nobody knows anything?” A hush fell over the forest. Zibbit sat up. “Wait. Hold on. That’s actually kind of deep.” Shlomo’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What if… reality is just, like… one big dream, man? Like, some enormous being is just tripping HARD right now, and we’re all part of its hallucination?” The squirrel gasped. “And when it wakes up…” “…POOF,” Shlomo said, wiggling his little wooden fingers for dramatic effect. “Gone. Just… spores in the wind.” Zibbit shuddered. “Dude, I was just here for the vibes. Now you’ve got me questioning the nature of my existence.” Shlomo exhaled—again, despite not having lungs. “Hey, don’t stress it, little winged wonder. Even if we’re all just part of some cosmic fever dream, it’s a pretty damn nice dream, yeah?” The squirrel nodded slowly. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right. I mean, I get free acorns. I got trees. I got my little twitchy tail. Life’s good.” Zibbit flopped back onto Shlomo’s cap, wings twitching. “You know what? Screw it. If reality is just a hallucination, I’m at least gonna enjoy it.” Shlomo grinned. “Now you’re getting it.” The trio sat in comfortable silence, watching the forest sway gently in the golden light. Birds chirped. Leaves rustled. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. The squirrel bolted upright. “Wait—THE OWLS KNOW! WE FORGOT!” Shlomo chuckled, eyes half-lidded once more. “Did we, though?” The squirrel blinked. Thought for a moment. Then let out a slow exhale. “Damn. Good point.” And just like that, the great owl conspiracy was forgotten forever. Probably.     Take the Chill Vibes Home Love Shlomo’s laid-back wisdom? Now you can bring his mellow energy into your space with exclusive “High & Fungi” merch! Whether you're decorating your home, solving a puzzle, or carrying your essentials in style, we've got something for every fungi fan. 🌿 Tapestry – Perfect for transforming your space into a chill zone. 🎨 Canvas Print – Let Shlomo’s wisdom hang on your walls. 🧩 Puzzle – A trippy way to relax, one piece at a time. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry your essentials with mushroom-level chill. Get yours today and embrace the ultimate fungi philosophy—sit back, vibe, and let the world flow, man. 🍄✨

by Bill Tiepelman

A Trio of Springtime Mischief

The Great Bloom Heist Spring had arrived in the Enchanted Grove, and with it came the annual Cherry Blossom Festival—a time when the air smelled like honeyed petals, and even the grumpiest trolls cracked a smile (albeit begrudgingly). The festival was a sacred event, marked by a grand ceremony where the first bloom of the season was plucked and turned into the legendary Nectar of Eternal Delight, a potion so potent that one sip could make a banshee giggle. At the heart of this festival stood three very particular gnomes: Pip, Poppy, and Gus. They were known throughout the Grove not for their wisdom or generosity, but for their unrivaled talent in causing mayhem. Where there was trouble, there was a gnome-shaped footprint leading to it. “This year, we’re going to be legendary,” Pip declared, adjusting his oversized, rose-colored hat adorned with embroidered daisies. “We’re going to steal the First Bloom!” Poppy, the mastermind of the group, twirled her white beard thoughtfully. “The Blossom Keepers will be watching the tree all night. We’ll need a flawless plan.” Gus, who was currently stuffing his face with honeyed acorn pastries, raised a sticky finger. “What if we... bribe them?” Pip sighed. “Gus, we do not have enough pastries to bribe an entire guild of Keepers.” Poppy grinned. “But what if we make them think they’re needed elsewhere?” That was all it took. With a gleam in their eyes, the gnomes set their plan in motion. The Plan (Which Was Definitely Not Foolproof) At midnight, the Cherry Blossom tree stood tall and resplendent, its petals glowing faintly under the moonlight. The Blossom Keepers, clad in their ceremonial robes (which honestly looked suspiciously like oversized pajamas), stood at attention. No squirrel, fairy, or gnome would get past them. Or so they thought. Phase One: Distraction. Gus, wearing an absurdly large cloak that made him look like a sentient pile of fabric, waddled up to the Keepers. “I have urgent news!” he gasped dramatically. The eldest Keeper peered down. “What news, little one?” “The Moon Moths are revolting! They’re demanding better working conditions and have threatened to, uh, boycott the night sky!” The Keepers blinked. “That... doesn’t sound real.” “Oh, it’s VERY real,” Gus continued, summoning every ounce of fake sincerity he could muster. “Just imagine—no shimmering wings, no graceful moonlit dances. Just an empty sky, like a sad, forgotten soup bowl.” The Keepers exchanged nervous glances. They couldn’t risk a celestial labor strike. With a hurried nod, they rushed off to investigate, leaving the sacred First Bloom unguarded. Phase Two: The Heist With the Keepers gone, Pip and Poppy sprang into action. Pip climbed onto Poppy’s shoulders, teetering dangerously as he reached for the blossom. “Almost... got it...” Just as his fingers brushed the delicate petals, a gust of wind sent him toppling off Poppy’s shoulders and straight into the tree, where he clung like an oversized, panicked squirrel. Poppy, trying to be helpful, grabbed a stick and poked at him. “Just let go, Pip. I’ll catch you.” “That is an unbelievable lie, Poppy.” “Fair enough. Just—” Before she could finish, Pip lost his grip. With a dramatic yelp, he plummeted, bounced off a lower branch, and landed with a soft poof into Gus’s fluffy hat. They sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then Poppy grinned and held up the First Bloom, which had fallen neatly into her hands. “Would you look at that?” Victory! But just as they were about to celebrate, a shadow loomed over them. It was the Head Keeper. And he did not look pleased. “Well, well, well,” the Keeper said, arms crossed. “If it isn’t the Blossom Bandits.” Pip swallowed hard. “We prefer ‘Mischievous Floral Enthusiasts.’” The Keeper narrowed his eyes. “Do you have any idea what kind of punishment is in store for thieves like you?” Silence. Then Gus, ever the opportunist, cleared his throat. “Would you, uh, accept a bribe?” The Keeper raised an eyebrow. “Go on.” Gus pulled a slightly smushed acorn pastry from his pocket and held it out with a hopeful grin. And that was when the real trouble began. The Trouble with Bribes The Head Keeper eyed the smushed acorn pastry in Gus’s outstretched hand. The gnome trio held their breath. For a moment, it seemed like the Keeper might accept the bribe. His fingers twitched. His nostrils flared ever so slightly, catching the scent of honeyed nuts. But then, with a sigh, he crossed his arms. “I’m allergic to acorns,” he said flatly. Gus gasped in horror. “But they’re a superfood!” “For you, perhaps,” the Keeper said. “For me, they’re a death sentence. Now—” He snatched the First Bloom from Poppy’s hands. “You three are in a world of trouble.” The Trial of the Gnomes By dawn, Pip, Poppy, and Gus found themselves standing before the Grand Council of the Enchanted Grove—a collection of elders who looked very wise but also, conveniently, quite sleepy. Apparently, holding a trial at sunrise wasn’t an especially popular idea. “Gnomes Pip, Poppy, and Gus,” droned the eldest Council member, a wrinkled elf named Elder Thimblewick. “You have been charged with grand floral larceny, Keeper deception, and—” he squinted at the scroll in his hands, “—‘reckless tree climbing without a permit.’ How do you plead?” Pip glanced at his friends, then puffed up his chest. “Not guilty, on account of technicality.” Thimblewick frowned. “What technicality?” “The First Bloom fell into Poppy’s hands. Gravity did the real stealing.” The Council murmured amongst themselves. It was, admittedly, a solid point. The Head Keeper, still seething, stepped forward. “I demand justice! They plotted this crime! They tricked the Keepers and endangered the sacred blossom!” Gus cleared his throat. “To be fair, you abandoned your post because of a made-up moth strike. That’s on you.” “Silence!” the Keeper snapped. The Council exchanged glances. Finally, Elder Thimblewick sighed. “This is a mess. But a crime was committed. A punishment is required.” The Unusual Punishment The gnomes braced themselves. Banishment? Hard labor? Were they about to be sentenced to a life of unpaid squirrel-wrangling? Thimblewick cleared his throat. “For your crimes against the Enchanted Grove, your punishment is thus: You must personally assist in the Cherry Blossom Festival preparations.” The gnomes stared. “That’s it?” Pip asked. “You want us to—what—hang banners and sprinkle flower petals?” “Among other things,” Thimblewick said. “You will also oversee the nectar-making process and act as official greeters for every guest.” Poppy groaned. “Ugh. That means smiling, doesn’t it?” Thimblewick nodded. “Oh yes. And wearing matching festive gnome tunics.” At this, Gus let out a horrified gasp. “You mean—uniforms?” “Precisely,” the elder said with a smirk. “Pink ones. With ruffles.” The gnomes shuddered. The Worst Day of Their Lives Thus began the worst—and most humiliating—day in Pip, Poppy, and Gus’s mischievous little lives. First, they were forced into the most frilly, lace-covered, pastel-pink tunics imaginable. Gus nearly fainted. Poppy cursed under her breath. Pip, always the optimist, tried to convince himself they were wearing “intimidation garments.” They were not. Then came the endless festival preparations. They spent the morning filling nectar jugs, which was dull enough—until Gus accidentally fell into a vat of the sacred liquid and had to be fished out with a broom. By noon, they were tasked with handing out floral garlands to visitors. This part should have been easy, except that Pip got carried away and turned it into a competitive sport, aggressively throwing garlands at unsuspecting guests. “YOU GET A WREATH! YOU GET A WREATH!” Pip shouted, pelting a confused centaur in the face with a ring of daisies. By evening, they were utterly exhausted. They slumped against a cherry tree, their once-vibrant tunics now covered in flower petals, spilled nectar, and Gus’s dignity. “I can’t believe we got caught,” Poppy groaned. “We had such a solid plan.” Pip sighed. “Maybe we should retire from crime.” They sat in silence for a long moment. Then Gus snorted. “Nah.” They burst into laughter. Mischief, after all, was in their blood. As the festival continued around them, the three gnomes made a silent pact: Next year, they wouldn’t just steal the First Bloom. They’d steal the whole tree. But for now? They’d suffer through the ruffled tunics, hand out garlands, and bide their time. The gnome way.     Bring the Magic Home Love the mischievous charm of Pip, Poppy, and Gus? Now you can bring their whimsical world into your home! Whether you want to cozy up with a stunning tapestry, add a touch of enchantment with a canvas print, or challenge yourself with a delightful puzzle, there's a perfect way to keep the gnome mischief alive. Looking for a charming gift? Send a magical message with a beautiful greeting card featuring this playful trio! Embrace the whimsy—shop the collection today!

by Bill Tiepelman

The Grumpy Guardian of the Glade

Deep in the heart of the Eldermoss Forest, where the trees whispered gossip about the birds and the mushrooms glowed suspiciously at night, there existed a tiny, winged creature with the disposition of a tax auditor during finals week. His name was Cragglethump, though most simply called him ‘that pissed-off fairy’ or, if they were particularly unlucky, ‘Agh, my face!’ Cragglethump had been the self-appointed (read: forcibly assigned by a drunken fairy council) Guardian of the Glade for over five centuries. His job? Ensure that no human, beast, or idiot goblin came trampling through, disrupting the delicate magic of the land. He did this mostly through a mixture of terrifying glares, creative insults, and, when necessary, strategic nut-punches. A Rude Awakening On this particularly fine morning, Cragglethump sat hunched on his favorite moss-covered branch, arms crossed, wings twitching in irritation. He had been rudely awoken by something truly horrific—a bard. Not just any bard, but a lute-wielding, hair-too-perfect, teeth-too-white, likely-to-have-chlamydia bard. The kind that sang ballads about love and heroism while knowing full well he had run from the last fight he was in. He was strumming away at his lute like he was trying to seduce a particularly lonely oak tree. Cragglethump narrowed his eyes and let out a low growl. “Oh, for the love of fungus-ridden troll bollocks.” The bard, blissfully unaware of his imminent demise, continued to butcher a song about some lost princess or whatever. Cragglethump sighed, cracked his knuckles, and stood. Fairy Diplomacy (aka Violence) With the grace of an elderly alley cat, Cragglethump launched himself off the branch and dive-bombed straight for the bard’s stupid face. The moment of impact was exquisite—a perfect combination of tiny fairy foot to nasal bridge. The bard shrieked and flailed, his lute slipping from his fingers and landing with a tragic *twang* against a rock. “GODS ABOVE, WHAT THE—” “YOU!” Cragglethump roared, flitting up to hover directly in front of the bard’s very confused and rapidly swelling nose. “Do you have any idea what time it is? What the hell do you think you’re doing polluting my glade with your noise pollution?” “I—I was just—” “No. No, no, no. You were NOT ‘just.’ You were warbling like a dying squirrel and expecting someone to be impressed. Spoiler alert: No one is impressed.” The bard’s lower lip trembled. “That’s a bit harsh.” Cragglethump smirked. “Oh, sweet summer twat, I haven’t even gotten started.” With that, he plucked a small handful of dust from his tattered sleeve, muttered an incantation under his breath, and blew it straight into the bard’s face. Instantly, the young man’s hair turned a spectacular shade of bright green, his teeth lengthened into miniature tusks, and a mysterious but persistent farting noise began emanating from his boots. The bard screamed. “What did you DO?!” “Cursed you.” Cragglethump dusted his hands off and turned away. “Enjoy your new look, dipshit. Now get out before I do something permanent.” As the bard ran wailing from the forest, Cragglethump landed back on his branch with a satisfied sigh. “Another successful morning,” he muttered. But his satisfaction was short-lived. Because that’s when the unicorn arrived.     The Unicorn from Hell Cragglethump had seen some shit in his time—goblins trying to cook with rocks, witches attempting to seduce trees, even an elf trying to smoke an entire beehive (long story). But nothing had prepared him for this. Standing in the middle of his glade was a unicorn. And not the graceful, shimmering, poetic kind. No, this one had the dead-eyed stare of a creature who had seen things. Things that had changed it. Its once-pristine white coat was covered in what looked suspiciously like bloodstains. Its horn, instead of a delicate spiral of magic, was cracked and jagged like it had been used as a prison shiv. It chewed on what appeared to be an old boot, its jaw working methodically as it stared Cragglethump down. “…The fuck?” Cragglethump whispered. Regret in Equine Form The unicorn spat out the boot and took a step forward. “Yo,” it said. Cragglethump’s brain short-circuited. “Unicorns don’t talk.” “Yeah? And fairies don’t look like my grandpa’s angry hemorrhoid, but here we are.” Cragglethump’s eye twitched. “Excuse me?” “Name’s Stabsy,” the unicorn said, rolling its massive shoulders. “Been on the run. Shit went south in the Enchanted Plains.” “Define ‘shit,’” Cragglethump said slowly. “Well.” Stabsy licked his teeth. “Turns out, if you gore a prince, people tend to take offense.” Cragglethump groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “What. The. Actual. Hell.” The Absolute Worst Idea Stabsy clomped forward until he was nose-to-nose with Cragglethump. “Look, you seem like a guy who gets things done. I need a place to lay low. You got a nice setup here.” Cragglethump opened his mouth to say absolutely not, but Stabsy cut him off. “Also, I may have pissed off a warlock, and there’s a small but nonzero chance they’re tracking me.” “Of course there is.” Cragglethump rubbed his temples. “And what, pray tell, did you do to this warlock?” “You ever play blackjack?” Cragglethump stared at him. Stabsy grinned. “Turns out, warlocks really don’t like losing.” Before Cragglethump could start screaming, the first fireball hit.     It is a universally acknowledged truth that if you curse a bard, they will absolutely, without a doubt, try to get revenge in the most dramatic and inconvenient way possible. Cragglethump should have known. He did know. And yet, when the first note of an all-too-familiar lute twanged through the trees, he still nearly choked on the acorn he’d been chewing. “Oh, for the love of—” He spun around, wings twitching furiously. There, standing at the edge of the glade, was the bard he had cursed earlier that morning. His once luscious brown locks were still an aggressive shade of green, his tusked teeth gave him the aesthetic of a failed orc cosplayer, and his eyes burned with the kind of melodramatic vengeance only a bard could summon. He had changed clothes, though. Which was a shame, because his new outfit was worse. “YOU!” the bard bellowed, pointing dramatically at Cragglethump. Cragglethump sighed, rubbing his temples. “What, dipshit?” “I, Alaric the Harmonious, have returned to reclaim my honor!” Stabsy the Unicorn, still lounging nearby and gnawing on a suspiciously human-looking bone, glanced up. “You look like an enchanted swamp farted you out, bud.” Alaric ignored him, instead launching into what was clearly a rehearsed monologue. “You thought you could humiliate me? Curse me?! Reduce me to some… some grotesque green-haired monster?!” “To be fair,” Cragglethump interjected, “you look like that one elf nobody invites to parties because he keeps talking about his beard-care routine.” Alaric’s eye twitched. “I have come to take my revenge.” The Power of Passive-Aggressive Music The bard reached into his bag and pulled out his lute. Cragglethump tensed, preparing for an attack, but instead of a fireball or some nonsense, the bard just started… playing. Badly. It wasn’t just out of tune—it was aggressively, maliciously out of tune. A truly diabolical combination of sour notes and over-exaggerated strumming. And worst of all, he was singing. “Ohhh, in the woods there is a beast, Whose old ass hair has never been greased, He curses bards and smells like mold, And probably has a shriveled-up—” “HEY!” Cragglethump barked. “You little shit.” Alaric smirked, strumming harder. “Ohhh, his wings are weak, his heart is small, And I bet he’s got no balls at all!” Cragglethump’s wings flared in pure rage. “I swear on my ancestors, if you don’t shut up—” But then, something truly horrifying happened. The plants started wilting. Leaves drooped. Mushrooms let out tiny, pitiful sighs before shriveling into dust. A rabbit hopped by, took one whiff of the melody, and immediately keeled over. “Oh, shit,” Cragglethump muttered. Stabsy took a step back. “That’s not normal.” Bardic Black Magic Alaric’s smirk widened. “Oh, did I forget to mention?” He plucked a particularly heinous chord. “I made a deal with a hag.” Cragglethump groaned. “Of course you did.” “Turns out, my curse wasn’t just cosmetic.” Alaric leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “The hag gave me a little bonus. Now, whenever I play, magic dies.” Silence settled over the glade. Then Stabsy burst out laughing. “HA! You made a deal with a hag over a bad haircut? That’s peak bard energy.” “Laugh all you want,” Alaric said. “But if I keep playing? This whole glade is going to be nothing but dirt.” Cragglethump clenched his fists. “You little shitweasel.” “Beg me for mercy,” Alaric said, smug. Cragglethump narrowed his eyes. “I’ll do you one better.” He grabbed a handful of dust from his sleeve and, with a flick of his wrist, blew it straight into Alaric’s face. The bard staggered back, coughing. “What the hell did you—” Then he froze. The Curse Upgrade Alaric’s eyes went wide. His face paled. Then, slowly, his lips began to tremble. Cragglethump grinned. “Enjoy your new curse, dumbass.” Alaric opened his mouth to scream—but no sound came out. His lips moved, but his voice was gone. Gone. The bard let out a silent wail, his hands clutching at his throat. He looked at Cragglethump with pure, unfiltered horror. “Oh, what’s that?” Cragglethump said, all fake concern. “You got something to say? A song, perhaps? A little ballad?” Alaric made a series of frantic, inaudible noises. “Oh, you poor thing.” Cragglethump smirked. “Must be awful. A bard with no voice? Tragic.” Alaric let out another silent scream and took off running. Stabsy shook his head, chuckling. “Damn. Remind me to never piss you off.” Cragglethump sighed, stretching his arms. “Well, that’s enough bullshit for one day.” Unfortunately, fate had other plans. Because that’s when the warlock arrived.     The Absolutely Stupid Final Chapter There was something deeply, cosmically unfair about the fact that Cragglethump couldn’t get through a single godsdamned day without some new brand of magical bullshit showing up to ruin his life. First, the bard. Then, the sociopathic unicorn. And now? A warlock. And not just any warlock. This one looked like he’d crawled straight out of a bad fantasy novel. Robes too long, dramatic staff, glowing eyes, and an aura that screamed, Yes, I have sacrificed something alive today. The warlock stood at the edge of the glade, silhouetted by the eerie blue glow of his own sinister magic. He raised a single hand. “WHO,” he boomed, “HAS HARB—” “Hold that thought,” Cragglethump interrupted. “I need a drink.” The Best Worst Idea Ever The warlock blinked. “What?” “You heard me.” Cragglethump dusted himself off, fluttering to a nearby stump. “Look, I don’t know what this is about, but I already wasted most of my patience dealing with a bard’s revenge arc and a unicorn with murder issues. So before you monologue, I propose an alternative: a drinking contest.” There was a long, stunned silence. Stabsy’s ears perked up. “Oh, hell yes.” The warlock scowled. “I am here to avenge my honor! That thing—” he jabbed a finger at Stabsy “—cheated me out of a fortune, and I—” “Blah, blah, blah,” Cragglethump interrupted, yawning. “Drinking contest or shut the hell up.” The warlock frowned. “That’s not how vengeance works.” “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were a coward.” Stabsy gasped dramatically. “Ohhhhh shit, he called you a bitch.” The warlock’s eye twitched. “I accept,” he growled. Rules Are for Losers Within minutes, a crude wooden table was set up in the middle of the glade, covered in an alarming variety of alcoholic substances. Fairy mead. Dwarven stout. Goblin moonshine (which was technically illegal, but Cragglethump had connections). Cragglethump, Stabsy, and the warlock all took their seats. “Rules are simple,” Cragglethump said, pouring the first round. “We drink until someone passes out, vomits, or admits defeat.” “I should warn you,” the warlock said, gripping his tankard. “I have imbibed the elixirs of the darkest realms.” “Yeah, yeah,” Cragglethump muttered. “Less talking, more drinking.” Round One: Fairy Mead The first round went down smooth. Fairy mead was deceptively strong, but Cragglethump was built different. Stabsy barely reacted. The warlock took his with a slight grimace. “This is... sweet,” he muttered. Cragglethump snorted. “Yeah, well, enjoy it while you can.” Round Two: Dwarven Stout By the second round, things started getting fuzzy. Dwarven stout had the unique property of making everything seem both hilarious and imminently dangerous. Stabsy was now laughing uncontrollably at a nearby rock. The warlock looked oddly thoughtful. “You know,” he slurred, “I came here to incinerate you all, but I’m feeling kinda... warm.” “That’s the stout,” Cragglethump said. “And also the early stages of bad decision-making.” Round Three: Goblin Moonshine This was where things got serious. Goblin moonshine was not meant for civilized consumption. It was technically closer to weaponized alchemy than a drink. Cragglethump took his shot like a champion. Stabsy gagged, then hiccupped so hard he momentarily teleported. The warlock, meanwhile, turned an unsettling shade of green. “This is... ungodly.” Cragglethump grinned. “You tapping out, big guy?” The warlock narrowed his eyes. “Never.” Round Four: ??? At this point, no one knew what they were drinking. Some ancient, unlabeled bottle had appeared, and no one was sober enough to question it. Cragglethump took a swig. So did Stabsy. The warlock followed suit. Then everything went to shit. The Aftermath The next morning, Cragglethump woke up sprawled on his back, wings twitching, head pounding. There were scorch marks in the grass. The table was missing. Stabsy was asleep in a tree. The warlock lay face-down in the dirt, snoring softly. Cragglethump groaned. “What... the fuck happened?” Stabsy rolled over. “I think we bonded.” The warlock stirred, slowly sitting up. His robes were singed, and he was missing a boot. “I... no longer remember why I was angry.” Cragglethump smirked. “See? Drinking contest. Solves everything.” The warlock blinked at him, then sighed. “You know what? Fine. The unicorn lives. But I’m taking a nap first.” Cragglethump stretched. “Good talk.” And with that, he flopped back onto the moss, vowing to never deal with another idiot ever again. (Spoiler: He absolutely would.)     Bring the Grumpy Guardian Home Loved this ridiculous tale of magical misadventures? Why not bring a little of that cranky fairy energy into your own home? The Grumpy Guardian of the Glade is available on a variety of products, so you can enjoy his grumpy little face wherever you go! Wood Print – Perfect for adding a touch of fantasy (and attitude) to your walls. Tote Bag – Carry your essentials with a side of grump. Throw Pillow – Because even the crankiest fairy deserves a soft place to rest. Fleece Blanket – Stay cozy while channeling your inner tiny, winged menace. Check out the full collection at Unfocussed Shop and bring a piece of the Glade to your world!

by Bill Tiepelman

Melodies of the Woodland Mystic

Deep in the heart of the Everwhimsy Forest, where the trees whispered riddles and the mushrooms hummed in harmony, lived a peculiar fellow known as Bartholomew Bumblesnuff. He wasn’t a wizard, though his beard often housed stray fireflies that made him look the part. Nor was he an elf, though his fingers danced on the strings of his guitar like they knew secrets the wind had forgotten. Bartholomew was, quite simply, a mystic. Not the kind that charged absurd fees for vague prophecies, but the sort who understood that the universe was best unraveled through music, tea, and the occasional well-placed “hmm.” The Troubled Mushroom Council One evening, as he was composing a new song about the philosophical implications of buttered toast, a frantic delegation of sentient mushrooms appeared. These were no ordinary fungi; they were the esteemed Mushroom Council of Sporeston, known for their solemn debates on subjects such as “What Even Is Time?” and “Should We Outlaw the Word ‘Moist’?” “Oh wise and melodic one!” cried Chairman Portobello, adjusting his tiny spectacles. “We have a crisis most dire!” “Is it existential?” Bartholomew asked, taking a contemplative sip of his chamomile tea. “It is worse,” the mushroom trembled. “The Toad of Many Problems has returned!” The Toad of Many Problems The Toad of Many Problems was a well-known local menace. He had an extraordinary ability to complain about absolutely everything, at all times, without stopping for breath. He once ranted for three days about a single missing sock. Bartholomew nodded. “What, uh… what seems to be his problem now?” “He says,” Chairman Portobello gulped, “that the moon is looking at him funny.” Bartholomew strummed a few thoughtful chords. “Mmm. A tricky one.” Negotiating with a Toad The next day, Bartholomew strolled to the Toad of Many Problems’ favorite complaining spot, a mossy rock beside the babbling brook (which he had previously accused of “gossiping”). “Oh, hello,” the toad huffed. “Let me tell you. The moon? Completely judging me. Just up there. Looming.” Bartholomew nodded sagely. “Have you considered that the moon is just… existing?” The toad blinked. “What, like, without a motive?!” “Mmm,” hummed Bartholomew. He plucked his guitar, sending a lazy ripple through the air. “You know, everything just is, my warty friend. The moon shines, the river flows, you complain. It’s all very natural.” The toad frowned. “Are you saying I’m part of the great cosmic balance?” “Without you, who would point out the things others ignore? The moon needs you, my friend. Otherwise, it would have no one to keep it humble.” The toad gasped. “You’re right. I provide a service!” “Mmm,” Bartholomew hummed again. The Song That Saved the Forest That night, under a sky freckled with stars, Bartholomew composed a song inspired by the toad’s plight. It was a melody of acceptance, a ballad of embracing the weirdness of existence. As he strummed, the fireflies blinked in rhythm, the trees swayed approvingly, and the mushrooms sighed with deep fungal satisfaction. The Toad of Many Problems, sitting proudly on his mossy rock, nodded along. “You know,” he murmured, “maybe the moon and I can coexist after all.” And so, for the first time in centuries, the Everwhimsy Forest experienced a rare and beautiful thing: peace. At least until the toad discovered that someone had rearranged his pebbles. But that, dear reader, is another story.     Looking for a piece of whimsical magic to add to your space? "Melodies of the Woodland Mystic" is available for prints, downloads, and licensing in our Image Archive. Bring the charm of this musical sage into your home or creative projects! 👉 View in the Archive 🎶✨

by Bill Tiepelman

Warden Gnomes of the Mystic Grove

A tale of adventure, mystery, and three grumpy, battle-hardened gnomes who are really just trying to mind their own business. Part One: A Fool’s Errand “You hear that?” Gorrim, the tallest (by an impressive half-inch) of the Warden Gnomes, tilted his head toward the distant crunch of twigs underfoot. He narrowed his eyes beneath his heavy, rune-stitched hat, gripping the pommel of his sword. “Someone’s coming.” “Oh, fantastic,” huffed Baelin, the most cantankerous of the three. “Another dimwit thinking they can plunder our forest for ‘hidden treasures’ or some other nonsense.” He adjusted his ornate battle axe and leaned against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak. “I say we scare ‘em off. Let’s go full ‘ominous guardian’ routine. Maybe some spooky chanting.” “We did that last time,” Ollo, the youngest (a mere 312 years old), pointed out. “They just screamed and ran in circles until they fell into the bog.” Baelin grinned. “Exactly.” Gorrim sighed, rubbing his temples. “Let’s at least see what kind of idiot we’re dealing with before we start traumatizing them.” The three gnomes peered through the underbrush as a figure stumbled into view—a lanky, wide-eyed human man dressed in what could only be described as ‘fashionably impractical adventuring gear.’ His boots were too clean, his tunic too crisp, and his belt held far too many shiny trinkets for someone who had actually faced any real danger. “Oh, sweet mushroom spirits, he’s a noble,” Ollo muttered. “You can smell the entitlement from here.” “Good evening, fair woodland creatures!” the man announced with an exaggerated flourish. “I am Lord Percival Ravenshade, intrepid explorer, seeker of lost relics, and—” “—and first-place winner of ‘Who’s Most Likely to Get Eaten by a Bear,’” Baelin cut in. Percival blinked. “I—what?” “State your business, long-legs,” Gorrim said, his voice edged with patience that was rapidly wearing thin. “This is protected land.” Percival puffed up his chest. “Ah! But I seek something of great importance! The fabled Gem of Eldertree, said to be hidden within this very forest! Surely, noble gnome-folk such as yourselves would be delighted to assist a humble scholar such as myself!” The gnomes exchanged a look. “Oh, this is gonna be fun,” Ollo murmured. Baelin scratched his beard. “You mean the Gem of Eldertree?” “Yes!” Percival’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “The very same Gem of Eldertree that’s guarded by a bloodthirsty, soul-devouring, absolutely massive spirit-beast?” Percival’s confidence wavered. “…Yes?” Gorrim nodded solemnly. “The one that’s cursed to drive treasure hunters insane with whispering voices until they wander into a nest of venomous shadow-vipers?” Percival hesitated. “…Possibly?” Ollo leaned in conspiratorially. “The same gem that once turned a man’s entire skeleton inside out just for touching it?” Percival gulped. “That one?” Baelin grinned. “Yep.” The nobleman took a deep breath, then squared his shoulders. “No matter the danger, I shall face it with honor! Besides, legends say a trio of wise gnomes knows the way to the gem.” “Hah! Wise gnomes.” Ollo snorted. “Good one.” Gorrim crossed his arms. “And if we do know the way, what makes you think we’d help you?” “Gold!” Percival said brightly, jingling a pouch. “Plenty of it! And fame! Your names will be sung in the halls of kings!” “Oh yes, because that worked out so well for the last guy who came through here,” Baelin muttered. Gorrim sighed deeply. “Against my better judgment… I say we take him.” Baelin stared. “You what?” Ollo clapped his hands together. “Ohhh, this is going to be hilarious.” Gorrim smirked. “We take him… and make sure he fully appreciates the horrors of this forest before we even get close to the gem.” Baelin’s face broke into a wicked grin. “Oh, I like it.” Percival, oblivious, beamed. “Wonderful! Lead the way, my good gnomes!” “Oh, we will,” Ollo muttered as they began their trek into the dark heart of the Mystic Grove. “We most certainly will.”     The Scenic Route to Certain Doom Percival strutted confidently behind the three gnomes, his boots crunching against the damp forest floor. The deeper they went into the Mystic Grove, the darker and more twisted the trees became, their branches curling overhead like skeletal fingers. A faint, eerie whispering echoed through the air—though whether it was the wind or something far more sinister was up for debate. “You know,” Baelin mused, nudging Ollo, “I give him twenty minutes before he cries.” “Ten,” Ollo countered. “Did you see how he flinched when that squirrel sneezed?” Gorrim, ever the responsible one, ignored them. “Alright, Percival. If you really want the Gem of Eldertree, there are some… shall we say… precautionary measures we need to take.” Percival, ever eager, nodded. “Ah, of course! Some kind of magical rite? Perhaps a test of my courage?” Baelin grinned. “Oh, it’s a test all right. First, we need to check if you’re… resistant to the Wailing Mushrooms of Despair.” Percival blinked. “The what now?” “Very dangerous,” Ollo said gravely. “If you hear their cries, you could be overwhelmed with such unbearable existential dread that you forget how to breathe.” Percival paled. “That’s a thing that happens?” Baelin nodded solemnly. “Tragic, really. Just last month, a guy collapsed on the spot. One moment, determined explorer. Next moment, curled up in a fetal position sobbing about how time is a meaningless construct.” Percival looked around nervously. “H-how do I know if I’m… resistant?” Ollo shrugged. “Oh, we’ll know.” They led him to a cluster of large, pulsing fungi with bioluminescent blue caps. Gorrim gave one a light poke, and it released a long, eerie wail that sounded suspiciously like an elderly man muttering, “What’s the point of it all?” Percival yelped and took several steps back. “By the gods! That’s unnatural!” “Hmm.” Ollo stroked his beard. “He didn’t immediately collapse into an existential crisis. That’s promising.” Baelin leaned in. “Think we should tell him they’re just regular mushrooms and the wailing sound is Gorrim throwing his voice?” “Not yet,” Ollo whispered back. “Let’s see how much more we can get away with.” Gorrim cleared his throat. “Alright, Percival. You’ve passed the first test. But the path ahead is dangerous.” Percival straightened up, puffing out his chest again. “I’m ready for anything!” Baelin smirked. “Good. Because the next part of the journey involves the Bridge of Certain Peril.” “Certain… peril?” Percival repeated warily. “Oh, yes,” Ollo said, nodding seriously. “A rickety, ancient bridge stretched across a bottomless chasm. So old, so fragile, that even a slight gust of wind could send a man plummeting into the abyss below.” Percival’s confidence wavered. “I… see.” Moments later, they arrived at said bridge. It was, in reality, a very sturdy, well-maintained stone bridge. The kind you could probably drive a fully armored war elephant across without so much as a wobble. But Percival didn’t need to know that. “There it is,” Baelin said, making his voice tremble just enough to sell the drama. “The most treacherous bridge in all the land.” Percival took one look at it and visibly paled. “It looks… uh… sturdier than I expected.” “That’s what it wants you to think,” Ollo said darkly. “It’s the cursed winds you have to worry about.” “Cursed winds?!” “Oh, yes,” Gorrim said with a straight face. “Unpredictable. Invisible. The moment you least expect it—whoosh! Gone.” Percival gulped. “Right. Yes. Of course.” Taking a deep breath, he stepped cautiously onto the bridge. Baelin, grinning like a madman, subtly cupped his hands and let out a low, ominous whoooooosh. Percival let out a shriek and flung himself flat against the stone, gripping it as if he might be flung into the abyss at any moment. Ollo wiped a tear from his eye. “I’m going to miss him when the forest eats him.” Gorrim sighed. “Alright, enough. Let’s get him to the ruins before he has a heart attack.” Percival, still visibly shaken, scrambled to his feet and hurried to the other side of the bridge, panting heavily. “H-ha! I conquered the Bridge of Certain Peril! That wasn’t so bad!” Baelin slapped him on the back. “Atta boy! Now just one last thing before we reach the temple.” Percival hesitated. “I swear, if it’s another test—” “Oh, no test,” Ollo assured him. “We just need to wake up the guardian.” “The… guardian?” “Yeah,” Baelin said, waving a hand dismissively. “The spirit-beast of Eldertree. Giant, angry, breathes fire, maybe eats souls? Honestly, it’s been a while.” Percival went rigid. “You weren’t… joking about that?” Gorrim smirked. “Oh no. That part’s real.” The trees ahead trembled. A deep, guttural growl echoed through the forest. Baelin grinned. “Welp. You first, brave adventurer.” Percival turned slowly toward them, his expression caught somewhere between utter horror and regret. “Oh,” Ollo whispered. “He’s definitely gonna cry.” To be continued… maybe.     Bring the Magic Home! Love the world of the Warden Gnomes? Now you can bring a piece of their mischievous, mystical adventure into your own space! Whether you want to decorate your walls, challenge yourself with a puzzle, or send a whimsical greeting, we’ve got you covered. ✨ Tapestry – Transform your space with enchanting artwork that captures the magic of the Mystic Grove. 🖼️ Canvas Print – A high-quality piece to add an air of fantasy to any room. 🧩 Puzzle – Test your wits and patience just like our dear Percival. 💌 Greeting Card – Send a message with a touch of fantasy and mischief. Click the links above to grab your favorite magical keepsake and support the artistic adventures of the Warden Gnomes!

by Bill Tiepelman

Gilded Dreams in Twilight Woods

The first rule of being a fairy queen? Don’t eat the glowing mushrooms. The second rule? Absolutely don’t stare into the abyss of a bioluminescent mushroom’s soul unless you enjoy existential crises at inconvenient times. Yet here she was, Queen Lysaria of the Gilded Vale, kneeling before one such mystical fungus, contemplating her life choices. The thing pulsed softly, casting golden light over her intricate tattoos—arcane markings that looked regal but mostly just reminded her of that one time she got blackout drunk and let an overenthusiastic warlock “enhance” her aesthetic. “Ugh. You again.” She exhaled dramatically, addressing the tiny golden skull nestled in the moss beside her. “What are you even doing here, Morty? You’re dead. Move on.” The skull, unsurprisingly, remained silent. Typical. A Queen’s Responsibilities (And Other Nonsense) Ruling an enchanted forest was exhausting. Sure, the job came with perks—glowing wings, an uncanny ability to manipulate moonlight, a harem of aggressively devoted satyrs—but it also came with an absurd amount of administrative work. Who knew fae taxes were a thing? Who was even paying them? No one had currency! Just trinkets, riddles, and the occasional stolen pocket watch. Last week, she spent two hours settling a border dispute between a family of talking foxes and a clan of sentient mushrooms. The foxes wanted to build a den. The mushrooms claimed ancestral land rights. Ancestral land rights. They were mushrooms. “Honestly,” Lysaria muttered to the mushroom she was now addressing like an unpaid therapist, “if one more tree spirit petitions me about ‘excessive owl hooting’ at night, I’m going to personally train every owl in the kingdom to recite poetry at full volume.” The mushroom twinkled in response. Rude. The Curse of Eternal Beauty It wasn’t that Lysaria hated being queen. It was that she hated work. And expectations. And—most tragically of all—being stunningly beautiful but still legally obligated to attend council meetings. Centuries of immortality had kept her looking like an elven supermodel, which was fantastic for seduction purposes but absolutely wretched when it came to avoiding responsibility. Everyone just assumed that because she was stunning, she had her life together. Hilarious. She adjusted the delicate golden crown atop her head—half out of habit, half to make sure it was still there, because losing a royal headpiece in a magical forest was a logistical nightmare. “What do I even want?” she pondered aloud, mostly to irritate the silent skull. “I mean, besides unlimited wine, zero responsibilities, and a sentient bathtub that whispers compliments?” The wind rustled in what she could only assume was judgment. A Plan (Or Close Enough) Suddenly, an idea. A stunningly reckless idea. “You know what?” She stood, brushing moss off her impossibly well-fitted gown. “I’m taking a sabbatical. A well-earned break from royal nonsense.” The mushroom flickered disapprovingly. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. What’s the worst that could happen?” The wind whispered again. The fireflies dimmed. The very air seemed to shudder. Somewhere in the distance, a tree spirit screamed. Queen Lysaria grinned. This was going to be fun. Adventures in Irresponsibility The plan was simple: disappear for a while. Let the kingdom figure itself out. If the trees started warring with the river spirits again, they’d just have to deal with it. Not her problem. She’d go incognito—maybe dye her hair, swap the crown for an edgy hooded cloak, and pretend to be a mysterious wanderer. Maybe she'd con some humans into buying enchanted trinkets for exorbitant prices. Maybe she’d find a nice fae tavern and get irresponsibly drunk on moonberry wine. The possibilities were endless. Just as she was about to turn and leave, a deep, unmistakable sigh came from the skull. Lysaria froze. “Morty,” she said slowly. “Did you just sigh?” The skull remained silent. She crouched down, narrowing her eyes. “I swear on my own ethereal beauty, if you’ve been sentient this whole time and just letting me rant to you like a lunatic—” The skull rattled. Ever so slightly. “Oh, you little—” Before she could finish her (no doubt eloquent and biting) insult, a bright golden light erupted from the mushroom beside her, forcing her to stumble back. “Oh, fantastic,” she muttered, shielding her eyes. “What now? Is it divine intervention? Have the gods decided I’m too gorgeous to be left unsupervised?” The light pulsed, and suddenly, the entire forest exhaled. The trees whispered. The leaves trembled. The skull? It laughed. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” Lysaria turned sharply as the golden glow coalesced into a shape. A figure. A tall, familiar, obnoxiously smug figure. Standing before her, wrapped in shimmering gold light, was Morty. Mortimer the Eternal. A once-great, now-mostly-dead trickster god. And he was grinning. “Miss me?” he asked, voice dripping with amusement. Lysaria closed her eyes, exhaled slowly, and considered all of her life choices. “This,” she said, pointing at him, “is exactly why I need a vacation.” Morty laughed again, stepping forward. “Oh, my dear Queen. If you’re looking for an escape, I have just the adventure for you.” Lysaria narrowed her eyes. She should say no. She should say no. Instead, she sighed dramatically and dusted off her gown. “Fine,” she muttered. “But if this involves paperwork, I’m setting you on fire.” Morty just smirked. “You always were my favorite.” And with that, the forest exhaled again—this time, pulling them both into darkness.     Rule #3: Never Trust a Trickster God In hindsight, Queen Lysaria should have known better. She should have turned around, walked straight back to her unnecessarily extravagant throne, and resumed pretending to care about border disputes between talking foxes and melodramatic mushrooms. But no. She had to be curious. Now, she was plummeting through a swirling void of golden light and bad decisions, with Mortimer the Eternal—former god, current pain in her ass—floating beside her like he was enjoying a leisurely swim. “You could have at least warned me,” she grumbled, trying to ignore the fact that gravity had seemingly taken a sabbatical. Morty smirked. “Where’s the fun in that?” Before she could launch into a well-deserved tirade, the golden vortex spat them out like a drunk tavern patron ejecting bad whiskey. Lysaria landed with a distinct lack of grace, her gown gathering an unreasonable amount of dust as she skidded to a halt on what she hoped was solid ground. Morty, the bastard, landed on his feet. “I hate you,” she informed him, brushing dirt off her regal gown. “That’s what makes this friendship so magical.” He winked. Welcome to the Absurdity Lysaria took a moment to examine her surroundings. They were no longer in the enchanted woods of her kingdom. Instead, they stood in what could only be described as a marketplace designed by someone who had read about capitalism once and misunderstood it entirely. Everywhere she looked, fae creatures bartered and haggled, exchanging everything from enchanted relics to what appeared to be… sentient vegetables? A goblin in an aggressively loud vest was trying to convince a very skeptical elf that his mushrooms would “absolutely not” cause hallucinations (they would). A mermaid, inexplicably in a floating bathtub, was selling bottled siren songs. And off to the side, a shady-looking sprite was peddling cursed jewelry with the energy of a back-alley salesman. “Where are we?” Lysaria asked, rubbing her temples. Morty spread his arms grandly. “Welcome to the Black Market of Bad Ideas. The finest collection of cursed, enchanted, and mildly illegal goods this side of the Veil.” “…You brought me to a black market?” “Correction: I brought you to the black market.” Lysaria exhaled slowly. “Why?” Morty grinned. “Because I need your help stealing something.” And This is Where It Gets Worse Lysaria blinked. “No.” “Hear me out—” “Absolutely not.” Morty sighed, looking far too amused for someone being rejected. “You haven’t even heard what it is yet.” “Let me guess: something dangerous?” “That depends on your definition of danger.” “Something illegal?” “More… morally flexible.” Lysaria pinched the bridge of her nose. “Morty, I swear on my stupidly perfect cheekbones, if this involves running from the Night Guards again, I will hex you so hard your skeleton forgets it had skin.” Morty chuckled, patting her shoulder. “Relax, Queenie. We’re just going to borrow something.” “From who?” Morty’s smirk widened. “The Fae Bank.” Lysaria stared at him. Then she turned around as if walking away from this conversation would make it disappear. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope.” The Heist of the Century (Probably) Unfortunately, Morty was not deterred by strong language or well-placed glares. Instead, he kept pace beside her, talking like a particularly persuasive con artist. “Think about it,” he said, voice dripping with charm. “A fae bank run by ancient bureaucrats. Magical vaults filled with untold treasures. The thrill of the heist.” “The thrill of getting arrested,” Lysaria corrected. “You act like that’s a bad thing.” She turned to him, hands on her hips. “Morty, the last time we did something even remotely illegal, we were chased by a werewolf tax collector for three days.” Morty grinned. “Ah, Geoff. Good guy. Terrible at card games.” Lysaria sighed, rubbing her temples. “Fine. What, exactly, are we ‘borrowing’?” Morty leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial. “The Golden Feather of Fate.” She blinked. “The what now?” “Legendary artifact. Controls luck, fate, and probability. Currently locked in the most secure vault in the market. Untouched. Unstealable.” His grin sharpened. “I want it.” Lysaria crossed her arms. “And what, exactly, do I get out of this?” Morty’s smile turned dangerous. “An adventure. A story worth telling. And, oh yeah—freedom from that whole ‘queenly responsibility’ thing you keep whining about.” Lysaria stared at him. Considered her options. On one hand, this was deeply stupid. On the other hand… She exhaled. “Fine. But if this goes sideways, I’m blaming you.” Morty winked. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”     The Plan (Which Is Not a Plan at All) “Alright, let’s go over this one more time.” Lysaria sat across from Morty in a dimly lit, extremely questionable tavern tucked in the back alleys of the Black Market of Bad Ideas. The clientele consisted of shadowy figures, morally ambiguous wizards, and at least one sentient cloak that was aggressively flirting with the bartender. Morty, unfazed by their surroundings, leaned in with his usual smirk. “Simple. We break into the Fae Bank, avoid the Night Guards, get past the arcane security, steal the Golden Feather of Fate, and casually stroll out as if nothing happened.” Lysaria sipped her wine. “That’s not a plan. That’s a list of things that will absolutely get us killed.” “Details.” She sighed, rubbing her temples. “Fine. Do we at least have disguises?” Morty gestured to a pile of suspiciously obtained clothing. Lysaria frowned. “Why do these look like they belong to medieval accountants?” “Because no one questions accountants.” “…That’s terrifyingly accurate.” Breaking and Entering (Emphasis on Breaking) Step one: infiltrate the Fae Bank. Easy. Step two: don’t get caught. Slightly harder. Step three: avoid magical security. Borderline impossible. They made it through the front doors without incident—Lysaria in a gray robe, Morty looking suspiciously comfortable in his bureaucratic disguise. The bank itself was a grand, towering structure made entirely of enchanted marble, gold filigree, and pure unbridled bureaucracy. Elves, dwarves, and goblins bustled about, filing paperwork, exchanging magical currency, and arguing over obscure financial spells. “I hate it here,” Lysaria muttered. Morty patted her shoulder. “That’s the spirit.” The Vault and Its Many, Many Problems After some creative bribery (read: giving a disgruntled elf clerk a cursed amulet that made his enemies stub their toes forever), they gained access to the restricted floors. “Alright,” Morty whispered as they approached the main vault. “Here’s where it gets tricky.” Lysaria stared at the absurd number of security measures. The door alone was guarded by enchanted chains, shimmering runes, and at least three spectral accountants floating nearby, ready to audit anyone who tried to enter. She turned to Morty. “Please tell me you actually have a way past this.” Morty grinned. “Oh, absolutely.” Then he pulled out a piece of paper and slapped it on the vault. Lysaria blinked. “What… is that?” “A strongly worded letter.” “…You’re joking.” The runes flickered. The chains rattled. The spectral accountants hesitated. Then, slowly, the vault door swung open. Lysaria’s jaw dropped. “What the—” Morty winked. “Nothing in this world is more powerful than bureaucratic confusion.” “You are deeply disturbing.” “And yet, you’re still here.” The Golden Feather of Fate (and Immediate Regrets) The vault was massive. Piles of treasure sparkled in the dim light, enchanted artifacts hummed with power, and ancient relics floated ominously in protective fields. And there, at the center of it all, sat the Golden Feather of Fate, pulsing softly with golden energy. “Well,” Morty said, cracking his knuckles. “That was surprisingly easy.” That was, of course, the exact moment everything went to hell. The Problem With Divine Artifacts The moment Lysaria reached for the feather, the entire room shook. Alarms blared. The runes on the walls turned a violent shade of NOPE. The air itself thickened with ancient, vengeful magic. Then, from the depths of the vault, a voice boomed: “WHO DARES STEAL FROM THE HOUSE OF FATE?” “…Ah.” Morty clapped his hands together. “So, minor issue.” Lysaria glared at him. “Define minor.” The shadows swirled. A gigantic, multi-eyed celestial being materialized, wings stretching across the vault, its eyes glowing with the knowledge of all existence. “Ah, shit,” Lysaria muttered. The entity turned its many eyes toward them. Judging. “Okay,” Morty said, backing up. “So, technically, this was all Lysaria’s idea—” “Excuse me?!” The celestial being roared, shaking the entire bank. Morty grabbed the feather. “Time to go!” The Great Escape (a.k.a. Running for Their Lives) They sprinted out of the vault, alarms ringing, magical defenses activating. Behind them, the celestial guardian gave chase, displeased. Guards were mobilizing. Spectral accountants were writing reports aggressively. A dwarf was yelling about interest rates. “This is the worst plan we’ve ever had!” Lysaria shouted. Morty grinned, leaping over a table. “Disagree! Top five, maybe.” They burst through the front doors, the entire city now aware of the heist. “Plan?” Lysaria gasped as they ran. Morty held up the feather, its magic swirling wildly. “Oh, I got one.” Then, with a flick of his wrist, he snapped the feather in half. Reality itself exploded.     How to Break Reality in Three Easy Steps Step one: Steal the Golden Feather of Fate. Step two: Realize that was a terrible idea. Step three: Snap it in half and watch existence have a meltdown. Lysaria had exactly 0.3 seconds to process what Morty had done before the world detonated around them. The sky cracked like shattered glass. The air folded in on itself, warping into impossible colors. The celestial guardian let out a noise that could only be described as a divine entity’s version of a very displeased sigh. And then— Darkness. Welcome to the Aftermath When Lysaria opened her eyes, she was lying on her back, staring up at a sky that was… wrong. The stars were in places they shouldn’t be. The moon had three extra faces, all of which were frowning in disappointment. And somewhere in the distance, reality itself hiccupped. “Oh, fantastic,” she muttered. “We broke the universe.” Morty sat up beside her, stretching like this was just another casual Tuesday. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” “Because it is a bad thing, you absolute goblin.” She groaned, rolling onto her side, and took stock of their situation. They were in what looked like an endless void of golden mist, floating islands, and *way too many clocks* suspended in midair, ticking out of sync. “Where the hell are we?” she asked. Before Morty could answer, a booming voice echoed around them. “YOU HAVE MEDDLED WITH FATE.” Lysaria froze. “Oh, I hate that.” In a burst of celestial light, the **Guardian of Fate** materialized before them, all shimmering wings, shifting eyes, and the unmistakable energy of something that has run out of patience. Morty gave his best innocent smile. “Hello again.” “YOU HAVE CAUSED IRREVERSIBLE DAMAGE TO THE THREADS OF DESTINY.” Lysaria sighed, waving a hand. “Oh, come on. Irreversible? That seems dramatic.” The guardian’s many, many eyes glowed. “THE MOON HAS THREE EXTRA FACES.” “…Okay, that one’s on us.” The Consequences of Being a Disaster “So,” Lysaria said, dusting herself off. “What happens now? Do we get vaporized? Banished? Forced to do community service in the Realm of Endless Boredom?” The guardian’s wings flared. “FATE CANNOT BE UNDONE. BUT IT CAN BE—” It hesitated. Squinted at them. Then, very slowly, exhaled. “…RECALIBRATED.” Morty leaned in. “Oh. That doesn’t sound so bad.” The celestial being turned its full, unfathomable gaze upon him. “YOU ARE BEING REASSIGNED.” New Job, Who Dis? Lysaria frowned. “Reassigned? To what?” The air shimmered. “NEW ROLES HAVE BEEN SELECTED.” Morty, for the first time in his **mischief-filled** life, looked genuinely concerned. “Hold on, I don’t—” There was a flash of light. And suddenly— Queen Lysaria, Goddess of Minor Inconveniences Lysaria opened her eyes to find herself seated on an **actual** throne made of what appeared to be lost socks, tangled necklaces, and every quill in the world that had ever run out of ink at a crucial moment. She frowned. “What is this?” The celestial voice boomed. “YOU ARE NOW THE GODDESS OF MINOR INCONVENIENCES.” “…You absolute bastards.” A divine scroll materialized in her hands. She glanced at it. All shoes will now mysteriously contain a single grain of sand. All cloaks will get caught on door handles at least once per week. All enchanted mirrors will now give slightly delayed responses, just to be annoying. All fae bureaucrats will find their paperwork mysteriously misfiled. “…Actually, I’m okay with this.” Mortimer the Eternal, Lord of… Paperwork From across the divine plane, a **muffled scream of rage** echoed. Lysaria turned to see Morty standing in front of an **endless** wall of filing cabinets. He spun, horrified. “What is this?” The guardian’s voice rumbled. “YOU ARE NOW THE OFFICIAL **FAE RECORD-KEEPER.**” Morty paled. “No. No, no, no, no—” Paperwork materialized in his hands. He dropped it. It reappeared. “THIS ISN’T FUNNY.” Lysaria smirked. “It’s a little funny.” And So, A New Chapter Begins And just like that, Queen Lysaria—former fae ruler, reluctant adventurer, and professional disaster—became an actual deity. And Morty? Morty was **damned to paperwork for eternity.** “You’ll pay for this,” he muttered as he tried to escape an **onslaught of forms** that literally chased him through the divine halls. Lysaria just sipped her divine wine, watching from her very comfortable throne. “Oh, Morty,” she said, stretching lazily. “I already have.”     Gilded Dreams in Twilight Woods is now available in our Image Archive for prints, downloads, and licensing. Own a piece of this mystical, dark fantasy world and bring a touch of enchantment to your space. ➡ View & Purchase Here

by Bill Tiepelman

Aurora of the Elven Soul

The forest always hummed at twilight, but tonight it was downright chatty. Aurora Mossglow, the self-proclaimed "semi-retired Keeper of Mystical Stuff," perched on an ancient tree stump, poking at the glow on her arms. "Well, that's new," she muttered, watching the tattoos she didn’t remember getting pulse with light. "I swear if this is because I ate that glowing mushroom last week, I’m suing nature." She leaned back, her pointed ears twitching as the forest whispered in the language of rustling leaves and creaking branches. Something was coming, and it was big. Aurora wasn’t one for dramatics (she’d tell you this five minutes before dramatically storming out of an argument), but the combination of glowing skin, a halo she hadn’t ordered, and a forest full of nervous energy was enough to make her rethink her plans for a quiet retirement. "All right, forest," she said, standing up and dusting off her vibrant orange robes, embroidered with intricate designs that seemed to shimmer when she moved. "What’s the deal? Is this about that squirrel I yelled at last week? Because he started it." The Visitor Before the trees could answer (and they absolutely could answer if they felt like it), a shadow loomed in the distance. It was tall, lumbering, and had the distinct aura of someone who had just woken up and wasn’t happy about it. Aurora squinted. "Oh great, it’s you." The shadow resolved itself into a hulking troll with moss for hair and an expression that could curdle milk. His name was Grumbor, and he had been Aurora’s neighbor-slash-nemesis for years. "I see you’re glowing," he grunted. "What’d you do this time?" "First of all, rude," Aurora said, pointing a glowing finger at him. "Second, I don’t know! It’s not like I woke up this morning and thought, ‘Hey, you know what would make me look even cooler? Random bioluminescence.’" Grumbor scratched his mossy scalp. "Maybe you’re chosen or something." "Chosen for what?" Aurora demanded. "A light-up dance troupe? The annual Forest Glow Parade? If there’s a prophecy involved, I’m going to lose it." The Revelation Grumbor shrugged, which for him involved a lot of moss shaking loose. "Could be the prophecy. You know, the one about the 'Radiant Soul of the Forest' or whatever." Aurora groaned. "I thought we agreed to stop listening to prophecies after the last one turned out to be about a particularly shiny toad." "This one’s different," Grumbor said, pulling a scroll out of somewhere she didn’t want to think about. He unrolled it with a flourish. "See? ‘When the tattoos glow and the forest hums, the Chosen One shall arise to…’ Uh, wait, it’s smudged here. Something about saving the world. Or maybe baking bread. Hard to tell." "Fantastic," Aurora said, rolling her eyes. "So now I’m the Chosen One because the forest decided to turn me into a glow stick." The Journey Before she could complain further, the ground shook, and a deep voice boomed, "Aurora Mossglow, Keeper of Mystical Stuff, step forward." "Oh, come on," Aurora muttered. But she stepped forward anyway, because ignoring a disembodied voice in the forest usually didn’t end well. The voice continued, "You have been chosen to undertake a great quest. The fate of the realms depends on you." "Of course it does," Aurora said. "Because the realms always depend on someone who’s just trying to mind their own business." "Do you accept?" the voice asked. "Do I have a choice?" Aurora shot back. "No," the voice admitted. Grumbor patted her on the shoulder, leaving a smudge of moss. "Good luck. You’ll need it." "Thanks for the vote of confidence," Aurora said, adjusting her robe. "Well, if I’m going on a quest, I might as well look fabulous doing it." The Conclusion And so, Aurora set off into the glowing twilight, her tattoos lighting the way and her sarcasm sharper than ever. She didn’t know what the quest would entail, but she was pretty sure it would involve danger, absurdity, and at least one moment where she’d have to dramatically shout, "I told you so!" The forest sighed as she disappeared into the trees, already preparing itself for whatever chaos she was about to unleash. One thing was certain: the realms had no idea what they were in for.     Bring the Magic Home Inspired by Aurora’s glowing adventure? Now you can bring a piece of her radiant charm into your world. Whether you're a fan of her bold style or the mystical atmosphere of her forest, we've got something special for you. Check out these exclusive products: Tapestry – Transform any space into an enchanted realm with this stunning, wide-format wall tapestry featuring Aurora’s ethereal glow. Canvas Print – Add a touch of magic to your decor with a high-quality canvas print of Aurora’s luminous presence. Puzzle – Piece together the magic with a fun and captivating puzzle featuring the vibrant details of Aurora’s world. Throw Pillow – Bring a touch of whimsy and comfort to your space with a soft, eye-catching pillow showcasing Aurora’s intricate design. Visit our shop to explore these and more magical creations inspired by "Aurora of the Elven Soul."

by Bill Tiepelman

Mystical Eyes of the Celestial Butterfly

The night was heavy with the scent of blooming jasmine, the kind of fragrance that clings to the soul and invites it to wander. Selene walked through the forest, her lantern casting flickers of golden light on the ancient trees around her. She had heard the rumors—whispers carried by drunken lips in shadowy taverns. Somewhere deep in this forgotten wood lived a creature of impossible beauty, a being that walked the line between the mortal and the divine. They called it the Celestial Butterfly. Selene didn’t believe in fairy tales. Not at first. Her life had been shaped by practicality, the sharp edges of survival, and the cold certainty of loss. But something had shifted the night she’d first dreamed of the butterfly. In her dream, it had appeared to her, wings like flower petals painted with starlight, its luminous green eyes locking her in place. When she awoke, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the creature wasn’t merely a figment of her imagination. It was a call. The forest grew darker as she pressed on, the lantern’s flame barely enough to hold the shadows at bay. There was no path to follow, only instinct and a faint hum in the air that seemed to guide her. The sound wasn’t natural—it was too delicate, too deliberate. It vibrated just below her consciousness, tugging her deeper into the woods like an unseen hand. Hours passed. Or perhaps it was minutes. Time felt strange here, stretched thin and malleable. When Selene finally stumbled into the clearing, she gasped, clutching the lantern as if it could shield her from the sight before her. The Guardian Revealed The butterfly wasn’t a creature bound by nature’s laws. It was an amalgamation of everything beautiful and terrible in the world, its massive wings shimmering with colors that seemed to shift with each breath Selene took. Jewels—no, not jewels, but something more alive—adorned its wings, refracting light into cascading rainbows that danced across the clearing. The creature’s body was delicate, almost skeletal, but its eyes burned with a brightness that pinned Selene to the spot. “You’ve come,” the butterfly spoke, though its mouth did not move. The voice echoed within Selene’s mind, rich and resonant, layered with centuries of knowledge and sorrow. “Why?” She opened her mouth to answer, but no sound emerged. Her reason for seeking the creature suddenly felt small, insignificant. What could she say? That she was searching for meaning? For some assurance that her life hadn’t been reduced to a series of empty nights and hollow days? That she longed for something, anything, to make her believe in wonder again? The butterfly tilted its head, its gaze softening. “You carry the weight of a question you have not yet dared to ask,” it said. “But beware. Answers are rarely as comforting as the questions that birth them.” A Glimpse of Eternity Before Selene could respond, the butterfly unfurled its wings, and the world shifted. The clearing around her dissolved, replaced by a kaleidoscope of shifting colors and shapes. It was as if she were falling through the fabric of reality itself, each layer peeling back to reveal another beneath it. She saw glimpses of things she couldn’t understand: vast oceans glittering with stars, cities built from light and shadow, and faces—so many faces—each one marked by joy, sorrow, or longing. In the midst of it all, she saw herself. Not as she was, but as she could be. Stronger. Braver. Whole. But the vision was fleeting, and when it faded, she was left with an ache in her chest she couldn’t explain. The butterfly’s voice returned, softer now, almost tender. “You see? The truth of the world is not a single story but many, woven together in ways that defy comprehension. To understand it fully is to risk unraveling yourself. Do you still wish to know?” Selene hesitated. The enormity of what she had seen threatened to crush her, but there was a part of her—small, defiant—that burned with curiosity. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice trembling but firm. “I want to know.” The Price of Knowing The butterfly regarded her for a long moment before nodding. “Very well. But knowledge comes with a price, and you must be willing to pay it.” “What is the price?” Selene asked, though a part of her already knew the answer. “Your certainty,” the butterfly replied. “Once you see the world as it truly is, you will never again find comfort in simplicity. Every decision, every choice, will carry the weight of infinite possibilities. Are you prepared for that?” Selene’s heart pounded in her chest. The life she had known—mundane and predictable as it was—suddenly felt like a prison. If the price of freedom was uncertainty, she would pay it gladly. “I am,” she said. The butterfly’s wings began to shimmer, and Selene felt a warmth spreading through her, starting at her chest and radiating outward. It wasn’t painful, but it was intense, a sensation that left her breathless and trembling. When it was over, the butterfly was gone, and Selene was alone in the clearing. Aftermath The forest was silent as she made her way back, but the world around her felt different—brighter, more alive. Colors seemed richer, sounds more vibrant. And though she couldn’t explain it, she felt lighter, as if some unseen burden had been lifted from her shoulders. In the days that followed, Selene found herself drawn to the smallest details: the way sunlight filtered through the trees, the delicate veins of a flower petal, the laughter of strangers passing by. She didn’t have all the answers—perhaps she never would—but she had something better. She had wonder. And in the quiet moments, when the world fell still, she could feel the butterfly’s gaze upon her, a reminder that the boundaries of reality were far more fragile than she’d ever imagined.     Explore 'Mystical Eyes of the Celestial Butterfly' Merchandise Immerse yourself further into the enchanting world of the Celestial Butterfly with our exclusive range of products, each featuring the mesmerizing artwork by Bill and Linda Tiepelman. 1. Tapestry Adorn your living space with this vibrant tapestry, showcasing the intricate details and vivid colors of the Celestial Butterfly. Perfect for adding a touch of fantasy to any room. 2. Canvas Print Elevate your art collection with a high-quality canvas print that captures the ethereal beauty of the butterfly's mystical eyes, bringing depth and intrigue to your decor. 3. Jigsaw Puzzle Challenge yourself with a captivating jigsaw puzzle featuring the Celestial Butterfly, offering hours of entertainment and a stunning image upon completion. 4. Spiral Notebook Keep your thoughts and dreams in a beautifully designed spiral notebook, adorned with the enchanting artwork, inspiring creativity with every use. Discover these and more at our online store, and let the Mystical Eyes of the Celestial Butterfly bring a touch of magic into your everyday life.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Little Dragon of Heartfire

In a lush jungle where the air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers and the gossip of chatty parrots, there existed a dragon named Ember. Now, Ember wasn’t your average dragon. For starters, she was barely the size of a house cat, and her flames wouldn’t scorch a marshmallow. But what Ember lacked in size and firepower, she more than made up for in personality. She was feisty, fabulous, and, let’s just say, a little too invested in everyone else’s love life. Ember was no ordinary jungle inhabitant—she was Cupid’s subcontractor. Yes, that Cupid. The chubby baby with the bow? Turns out he had been phoning it in for centuries, and Ember, with her glittery wings and neon-red heart necklace, was the one actually keeping the romance industry afloat. "Love doesn’t just happen," Ember would say, usually while eavesdropping on someone’s awkward first date. "It needs a little… zhuzh." One year, as Valentine’s Day approached, Ember was busier than ever. The jungle was in chaos. Toucans were squabbling over whose turn it was to bring home the heart-shaped berries, a pair of jaguars were in a cold war over some misplaced grooming duties, and the sloths were taking “slow burn” romance far too literally. It was, in a word, exhausting. But Ember, with her unparalleled work ethic and a sparkling sense of humor, was ready to work her magic. First stop: the toucans. Perched on a vine, Ember listened to their melodramatic exchange. “You never appreciate me!” squawked the female. “I literally built you a nest!” screeched the male. Rolling her enormous dragon eyes, Ember muttered, “This is why I drink… nectar.” With a snap of her tail, she conjured a cascade of glowing heart-shaped flowers to rain down over their nest. The toucans froze, stunned into silence. “There. Romance. Now shut up and enjoy it,” Ember barked before zipping off, leaving a trail of glitter in her wake. Her next project involved a pair of sloths who were locked in a decade-long “will they/won’t they” situation. “Honestly, you two are the Ross and Rachel of this jungle,” Ember groaned, her claws clicking against her scales as she watched them exchange their usual slow-motion glances. “This calls for drastic measures.” She puffed a stream of glittery smoke that swirled around the two. Suddenly, the male sloth blinked, stretched out a claw, and plucked a hibiscus flower for his lady love. The female gasped—a slow, dramatic gasp, of course—and accepted it. Ember wiped a tear from her eye. “Finally. I was about to file for early retirement,” she quipped. But the pièce de résistance of Ember’s Valentine’s escapades came when she stumbled upon Greg, the most hopeless romantic she had ever met. Greg was a botanist with a terrible habit of writing poems so cringe-worthy that even the jungle vines recoiled. His latest masterpiece was dedicated to Melissa, the woman of his dreams, who had no idea he existed. “Greg,” Ember said, landing on his desk with a flourish. “We need to talk.” Startled, Greg blinked at the tiny dragon, unsure whether he’d been working too hard or if the jungle fumes were finally getting to him. Ember, never one to waste time, grabbed his notebook and began editing his latest poem. “This? This sounds like you’re auditioning for a role as a stalker. We’re aiming for charming, not terrifying.” With a flick of her tail, she added just the right touch of romance—some metaphors about moonlight, a hint of vulnerability, and, of course, a playful line about Melissa’s laugh. When Melissa received the newly polished note, her cheeks flushed pinker than the orchids Greg had sent along with it. Within hours, Greg had a date, and Ember had a smug look on her face. “Another day, another heart saved from mediocrity,” she declared as she flew off, leaving Greg to marvel at his sudden luck. Of course, not everything went smoothly. Ember had a knack for being a little too honest. Like the time she told a pair of flamingos their synchronized courting dance was “less romantic and more ‘awkward middle school talent show.’” Or when she interrupted a tree frog’s mating call to suggest he “try a lower pitch unless he wanted to sound like a squeaky door hinge.” But despite her sass, Ember had a 100% success rate. After all, her motto was simple: "Love is messy, ridiculous, and absolutely worth it—kind of like me." As the sun set on Valentine’s Day, Ember perched on a mossy rock, watching the jungle hum with newfound romance. The toucans were cuddling, the sloths were holding hands (slowly), and Greg was nervously planning his second date. Ember stretched her glittery wings and sighed, content. “Cupid can take all the credit,” she said with a sly smile. “But let’s be honest—without me, love would be doomed.” And so, the legend of the Little Dragon of Heartfire lived on. Some say if you ever feel a sudden burst of warmth and catch the faint scent of glittery smoke, it’s Ember, making sure love remains a little wild, a little wonderful, and just the right amount of chaotic.     Bring "The Little Dragon of Heartfire" into Your Home If Ember’s fiery charm and sassy antics have captured your heart, you can bring her magic into your home! Celebrate the whimsy and wonder of this Valentine's Day legend with stunning, high-quality merchandise: Tapestry: Transform your space with this enchanting piece of wall art, featuring the radiant hues and intricate details of Ember in her magical jungle. Canvas Print: A perfect centerpiece for any room, this canvas captures every shimmering scale and heart-shaped glow of Ember’s world. Throw Pillow: Add a touch of sass and comfort to your decor with Ember’s vibrant image printed on a soft, cozy pillow. Pouch: Keep your essentials organized with this portable and practical pouch adorned with Ember’s playful spirit. Explore the full collection and let Ember light up your home, one spark at a time! Click here to shop now and celebrate the season of love with a little dragon magic.

by Bill Tiepelman

Nestled in a Rainbow's Embrace

The storm had passed hours ago, but the forest still trembled in its wake. Thick mist curled around the ancient oaks, and the air carried the earthy scent of rain-soaked moss. Elara pulled her hood tighter, the crimson fabric a vivid slash against the muted greens and browns. The map in her hand was nearly illegible now, its ink smeared by relentless rain. Yet, she pressed on. She had no choice. “A heart of fire sleeps beneath the rainbow,” the old woman had whispered, her voice crackling like dry leaves. It wasn’t a metaphor, Elara knew. Not in this land of whispered myths and forbidden paths. What lay ahead could save her brother—or doom them both. She stepped cautiously over gnarled roots, her boots sinking into the damp earth. The forest was unnaturally quiet. No bird calls, no rustling leaves, only the faint trickle of water dripping from branches. And then she saw it—a faint shimmer in the distance, colors swirling like oil on water. Her pulse quickened. “The rainbow’s cradle,” she murmured, her breath fogging in the cool air. The map was forgotten, crumpled in her fist as she pressed forward. The light grew stronger, pulsating with an almost hypnotic rhythm. It wasn’t just a rainbow. It was alive. The Dragon’s Nest Elara emerged into a clearing, and her breath caught. The rainbow wasn’t in the sky. It lay pooled on the ground, its iridescent light casting an ethereal glow. At its center was a woven nest, intricate and impossibly delicate. And in the nest, nestled among the swirling hues, was a creature she had only read about in legends. The dragonling was no larger than a housecat, its scales a luminous pink that shimmered with every rise and fall of its tiny chest. Wings, translucent and veined like a butterfly’s, were folded neatly against its sides. It slept, oblivious to her presence, its tail curled around itself in a perfect spiral. Elara’s heart raced. This was it—the Heart of Fire. But it wasn’t a gemstone or a treasure. It was a living, breathing creature. She felt a pang of guilt as she reached for the small glass vial tucked into her belt. The tincture inside would sedate the dragonling long enough for her to carry it out of the forest. Long enough to barter it for the cure her brother so desperately needed. As she uncorked the vial, a low growl rumbled through the clearing. Elara froze. The air grew heavy, charged with an unseen energy. Slowly, she turned. The Guardian Awakens It emerged from the shadows like a nightmare made flesh. The mother dragon was massive, her scales a darker, fiercer pink that bordered on crimson. Her eyes, molten gold, locked onto Elara with a terrifying intensity. Smoke curled from her nostrils, and her claws sank into the earth as she advanced. “Easy,” Elara whispered, her voice trembling. She dropped the vial and raised her hands, the universal gesture of surrender. “I don’t want to hurt it. I just—” The dragon roared, a sound that shook the trees and sent birds fleeing from their hidden perches. Elara staggered back, her ears ringing. The mother’s wings unfurled, blotting out the shimmering light of the rainbow. She was trapped. Elara’s mind raced. She couldn’t fight a dragon, and running was pointless. Her hand brushed against the small pouch at her waist. Inside was a single vial of dragonbane extract, potent enough to fell even a creature of this size. But to use it would mean killing the mother. And without her, the baby wouldn’t survive. A Desperate Gamble “Please,” Elara said, her voice cracking. She dropped to her knees, forcing herself to meet the dragon’s gaze. “I don’t want to harm you or your child. But my brother is dying. He needs the Heart of Fire. I need it.” The dragon’s golden eyes flickered, her growl softening into a low rumble. For a moment, Elara thought she saw something—understanding, perhaps? Or was it her imagination? Before she could react, the dragon moved. In one swift motion, she reached into the nest with her massive claws and plucked a single scale from the sleeping dragonling. The baby stirred but didn’t wake, its tiny snout twitching as it curled deeper into the rainbow’s warmth. The mother dragon extended the scale toward Elara, her gaze unwavering. Elara hesitated, then reached out with trembling hands. The scale was warm, pulsing faintly with an inner light. It was enough. It had to be. The Price of Mercy As she stood, clutching the scale to her chest, the dragon huffed, a sound almost like approval. The rainbow’s light began to fade, the clearing growing dim. Elara backed away slowly, her eyes never leaving the mother dragon until the forest swallowed her once more. She ran. Through the trees, over roots and rocks, until her lungs burned and her legs threatened to give out. When she finally reached the edge of the forest, the first rays of dawn were breaking over the horizon. In her hand, the scale glowed faintly, a beacon of hope. Her brother would live. But as she glanced back at the dark, silent forest, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had left a part of herself behind, nestled in a rainbow’s embrace.    Bring the Magic Home Inspired by the enchanting tale of “Nestled in a Rainbow’s Embrace”? Now, you can bring this magical moment into your everyday life with stunning products featuring this artwork: Tapestry - Adorn your walls with the vibrant hues of the rainbow and the gentle serenity of the sleeping dragon. Canvas Print - A timeless piece for any space, bringing the magic of the rainbow’s cradle to life. Puzzle - Immerse yourself in the intricate details as you piece together this mythical scene. Tote Bag - Carry a touch of fantasy with you wherever you go. Let the magic of this story and artwork inspire you every day. Explore the full collection here.

by Bill Tiepelman

Twinkle Scales and Holiday Tales

Snow had blanketed the forest in a thick, sparkling cover, the kind of snow that made you question every life decision leading up to a trek through it. In the middle of this wintry scene stood Marla, bundled in layers of wool and bad choices, staring at the most unexpected sight she had encountered all year: a tiny dragon, glittering like a Pinterest project gone wrong, sitting under a Christmas tree. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Marla muttered, tugging her scarf tighter against the biting wind. She had signed up for a peaceful winter hike, not whatever this magical nonsense was. The dragon, no larger than a house cat, looked up from its task of adorning the tree with ornaments. Its scales shimmered in hues of emerald, sapphire, and gold, reflecting the candlelight like an overachieving disco ball. With a dramatic flick of its tail, it placed a final ornament—a suspiciously gaudy one that looked like it belonged in the clearance bin—on a frosted branch and gave Marla a slow blink. That was when she noticed the tiny antlers on its head, as if someone had tried to cross a dragon with a reindeer. “Oh great, a magical creature with holiday cheer,” Marla said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just what I needed to make this hike even weirder.” The dragon tilted its head and chirped—a sound somewhere between a kitten's meow and a squeaky door hinge. Then it picked up a crimson ornament, waddled toward her on its tiny clawed feet, and dropped the bauble at her boots. It looked up expectantly, wings fluttering slightly, as if to say, “Well? Are you going to help or just stand there being all grumpy?” Marla sighed. She wasn’t exactly known for her love of the holidays. Every December, she battled through the chaos of last-minute gift shopping, office parties that could only be endured with copious amounts of spiked eggnog, and her family’s annual “passive-aggressive charades” night. But this… this was something else entirely. And as much as she wanted to turn around and head back to the safety of her Netflix queue, the dragon’s big, watery eyes made her hesitate. “Fine,” she said, bending down to pick up the ornament. “But if this turns into some kind of weird Hallmark movie moment, I’m out.” The dragon chirped again, clearly pleased, and scampered back to the tree. Marla followed, grumbling under her breath about how her therapist was going to have a field day with this story. As she hung the ornament on an empty branch, she noticed the tree wasn’t just decorated with the usual tinsel and baubles. Among the branches were tiny golden scrolls, clusters of mistletoe that shimmered as if dusted with real stardust, and candles that burned without melting. It was, frankly, absurd. “You’ve really committed to this theme, huh?” Marla said, glancing at the dragon. “What’s next, a tiny Santa suit?” The dragon huffed, a puff of glittering smoke escaping its nostrils, and went back to rummaging through a pile of ornaments that had mysteriously appeared out of nowhere. It pulled out a miniature star, which Marla suspected was made of actual gold, and handed it to her. She placed it on the tree’s highest branch, earning a delighted trill from her new festive companion. “So, what’s the deal?” she asked, crossing her arms. “Are you some kind of Christmas mascot? An elf’s side hustle? Or am I hallucinating because I skipped breakfast?” The dragon didn’t answer, obviously, but it did do a little twirl that sent a flurry of snowflakes into the air. Marla couldn’t help but chuckle. “Alright, fine. I guess you’re kind of cute, in a ‘magical chaos’ sort of way.” As they continued decorating, Marla felt her initial irritation melting away. There was something oddly therapeutic about hanging ornaments with a glittery dragon who had no concept of personal space but an undeniable enthusiasm for holiday aesthetics. By the time they finished, the tree looked like it belonged in a fantasy novel—or at least on the cover of a very expensive holiday card. “Okay,” Marla said, stepping back to admire their work. “Not bad for an impromptu partnership. But don’t expect me to—” Her words were cut off by the sound of jingling bells. She turned to see the dragon holding a string of tiny sleigh bells in its mouth, looking entirely too pleased with itself. Before she could protest, it launched into a clumsy but enthusiastic dance, shaking the bells and twirling around the tree. Marla laughed, a genuine, belly-deep laugh that she hadn’t experienced in months. “Alright, alright, you win,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. “I’ll admit it—this is kind of fun.” As the sun dipped below the horizon, the tree began to glow softly, its ornaments casting a warm, magical light across the snowy clearing. Marla sat down next to the dragon, who curled up at her side with a contented chirp. For the first time in a long time, she felt a sense of peace—and maybe even a little holiday spirit. “You know,” she said, stroking the dragon’s shimmering scales, “I might actually survive Christmas this year. But if you tell anyone I got all sentimental over a magical dragon, I’ll deny it. Got it?” The dragon snorted, sending another puff of glittering smoke into the air, and closed its eyes. Marla leaned back, watching the stars emerge one by one in the winter sky, and let herself smile. Maybe, just maybe, this holiday season wouldn’t be so bad after all.     Bring the Magic Home If you fell in love with this whimsical tale, why not bring a touch of the magic into your own home? "Twinkle Scales and Holiday Tales" is now available as a variety of stunning products to suit any space or occasion. Choose from the following options: Tapestries – Perfect for transforming any wall into a festive winter wonderland. Canvas Prints – Add an elegant touch to your décor with this magical scene. Puzzles – Bring some holiday cheer to family game night with this enchanting dragon design. Greeting Cards – Send a touch of whimsy and warmth to your loved ones this season. Explore these and more at our shop and celebrate the magic of the season in style!

by Bill Tiepelman

Golden Glow of Fairy Lights

Deep in the heart of the Whispering Forest, where the trees hummed melodies older than the stars and the streams giggled at their own jokes, lived a fairy named Marigold. Unlike her peers, who busied themselves with serious fairy duties like flower bloom synchronization or dew droplet alignment, Marigold was a rebel—or, as she liked to call herself, an "enthusiastic freelancer." Marigold's favorite pastime wasn’t dancing on mushrooms or teaching fireflies how to form constellations, but rather playing pranks on unsuspecting wanderers who dared to stray into her magical domain. She once convinced a lost hunter that his boots were carnivorous, leading to a wild chase involving a very confused squirrel and a pair of airborne socks. Another time, she enchanted a bard’s lute to play nothing but the fairy version of elevator music, which, admittedly, wasn’t too far from its usual repertoire. The Rose of Radiance One particularly golden evening, as the sun dipped low and the forest bathed in its amber glow, Marigold was perched on her favorite mossy branch, twirling a radiant rose in her tiny hands. This wasn’t just any rose—it was the Rose of Radiance, a magical artifact that could grant its holder one wish, provided they could make the fairy laugh. The rose was a family heirloom, passed down from her grandmother, who had used it to summon the first-ever magical hammock, still regarded as one of the fairy world's greatest inventions. Marigold sighed. “How boring it is to sit around waiting for mortals to stumble into my forest. I mean, who even gets lost anymore? Everyone has those infernal maps on their glowing rectangles. What’s it called? Goo—Goo-something.” She tapped her tiny chin, trying to recall the name. Just as she was about to enchant a nearby spider into weaving her a hammock of her own, the unmistakable sound of heavy boots crunching through underbrush caught her ear. With a mischievous grin, she adjusted her flower-adorned dress, made sure her wings shimmered in just the right way, and poised herself for what she called “maximum whimsical impact.” The Lost Adventurer A man burst through the foliage, his face a mixture of determination and exhaustion. He was tall, with a scruffy beard and a suit of armor that looked like it had seen one too many dragon burps. In his hand, he carried a sword that shimmered faintly with a dull magical aura, though it was clear it hadn’t been polished in years. His name, as Marigold would later learn, was Sir Roderick the Resolute—but he preferred “Roddy” because he thought it made him sound approachable. “Ah-ha!” Roddy exclaimed, pointing his sword at Marigold. “A fairy! Finally, my quest for the Rose of Radiance ends here. Hand it over, and I shall spare your life.” Marigold burst out laughing, nearly falling off her branch. “Spare my life? Oh, sweet acorns, that’s adorable! Do you know how many humans have tried to ‘spare my life’? You’re the first one I’ve met who said it while wearing mismatched gauntlets.” Roddy looked down at his hands and frowned. “They’re… not mismatched! One’s just slightly older than the other.” “And they’re both from completely different sets,” Marigold pointed out. “Let me guess, you inherited one from your great-grandfather and the other from a bargain bin at Ye Olde Armor Mart?” Roddy’s face turned red. “That’s beside the point! I’ve come for the Rose, and I’ll not leave without it.” “Ah, the Rose of Radiance,” Marigold said, her tone dripping with mock seriousness. “To claim it, you must make me laugh. And I warn you, mortal—I have exceedingly high standards for comedy.” The Contest of Wits Roddy sheathed his sword, rubbed his chin, and began pacing. “Very well, fairy. Prepare yourself for a jest so clever, so refined, that it will leave you rolling on the ground.” He cleared his throat dramatically. “Why don’t skeletons fight each other?” Marigold raised an eyebrow. “Why?” “Because they don’t have the guts!” Silence. A cricket chirped somewhere in the distance, only to be shushed by its companion. “That was your big joke?” Marigold asked, her wings twitching. “I’ve heard better punchlines from frogs trying to croak serenades.” Roddy groaned. “All right, give me another chance. Um, let’s see…” He snapped his fingers. “What do you call a knight who’s afraid to fight?” “What?” “Sir Render!” Marigold blinked. Then she giggled. Then she laughed so hard that the branch she was sitting on shook. “Okay, okay, that was actually funny. Not hilarious, but I’ll give you points for creativity.” “Does that mean I get the Rose?” Roddy asked, his eyes lighting up with hope. Marigold fluttered down from the branch, holding the radiant flower in her tiny hands. “You’ve amused me, Sir Mismatched Gauntlets. The Rose is yours—but only because I’m in a generous mood. Use it wisely, and don’t do anything silly, like wish for infinite bacon or a lifetime supply of socks.” Roddy accepted the Rose with a bow. “Thank you, fairy. I shall use this wish to restore my homeland to its former glory!” “Oh, how noble,” Marigold said, rolling her eyes. “Humans and their noble quests. Well, off you go, then. And if you ever get tired of being resolute, come back—I could use a new partner in crime.” As Roddy disappeared into the forest, Marigold returned to her branch, chuckling to herself. She might have given away the Rose, but she’d gained a story worth telling—and in the end, wasn’t that the real treasure? The Moral of the Story And so, the Whispering Forest remained as enchanting and unpredictable as ever, with Marigold at its heart, ready to enchant, prank, and charm anyone brave—or foolish—enough to enter. The moral of this tale? Never underestimate the power of a good joke—or a mischievous fairy with too much free time.    Bring the Magic Home Transform your space with the enchanting "Golden Glow of Fairy Lights" collection. This whimsical artwork is now available on high-quality products to bring a touch of magic into your everyday life: Tapestries: Add a fairy-tale glow to your walls with this enchanting design. Canvas Prints: Elevate your decor with a timeless, gallery-quality canvas. Fleece Blankets: Cozy up with a soft, coral fleece blanket that captures the magic of the forest. Tote Bags: Carry the charm of the Whispering Forest with you wherever you go. Explore the full collection and bring the enchantment of "Golden Glow of Fairy Lights" to your home today!

by Bill Tiepelman

Riding the Rainbow Hummingbird

Deep in the heart of the Enchanted Forest, where the sunlight filtered through the dense canopy like golden syrup and the air was thick with the hum of unseen magic, a certain gnome named Grimble Fizzwhistle was up to no good. Again. “Hold still, you sparkling chicken!” Grimble hollered, clutching at the reins of his highly questionable steed, a giant, iridescent hummingbird named Zuzu. Zuzu, for her part, was not thrilled to have a gnome-sized jockey attempting to direct her aerial maneuvers. She buzzed furiously, her wings a glittering blur, threatening to eject Grimble from her feathery back. “I swear, Zuzu,” Grimble muttered under his breath, “if you dump me in another patch of those stinging nettles, I’ll—well, I’ll…probably just cry again.” Despite his grumbling, Grimble held on tight, his tiny hands gripping the braided spider-silk reins with surprising tenacity. The Plan (Or Lack Thereof) Grimble was on a mission. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. The truth was, he had very little idea where he was going or why. All he knew was that he had made a slightly drunken wager with his old frenemy, Tibbles Nockbottom, at the Giggling Toadstool Tavern the night before. Tibbles had bet him a month’s worth of honey-mead that Grimble couldn’t find the mythical Golden Nectar—a legendary elixir said to grant the drinker eternal youth and an impeccable singing voice. Grimble had, naturally, accepted the challenge without hesitation. Mostly because he was already three pints in and thought eternal youth sounded like a great way to avoid paying his back taxes. Now, as he soared above the forest, clutching Zuzu’s reins and trying not to look down at the dizzying drop below, he was starting to question his life choices. “All right, Zuzu,” he said, patting her neck with a trembling hand. “Let’s just find this Golden Nectar quickly, and then we can both go home and pretend none of this ever happened. Deal?” Zuzu chirped in response, which Grimble chose to interpret as a begrudging agreement. In reality, Zuzu was plotting the fastest route to the nearest patch of wild orchids, where she could throw Grimble off and snack on some nectar in peace. Enter the Feathered Bandits Just as Grimble was beginning to feel slightly more secure in the saddle, a screeching caw shattered the tranquility of the forest. He looked up to see a gang of magpies swooping toward them, their beady eyes glinting with malice. The leader, a particularly large and scruffy specimen with a missing tail feather, squawked loudly. “Oi! Fancy bird you got there, gnome! Hand her over, and we might let you keep your hat!” “Over my dead body!” Grimble yelled, shaking a tiny fist. “This hat cost me a week’s worth of turnip farming!” The magpies didn’t look impressed. They dove toward him en masse, their wings flapping like a thousand pieces of angry parchment. Zuzu, sensing trouble, let out an indignant chirp and banked hard to the left, narrowly avoiding the dive-bombing birds. Grimble clung on for dear life, his hat flying off in the process. “Not the hat!” he screamed, watching it flutter down into the forest below. “That was my lucky hat!” “Looks like you’re out of luck, short stuff!” the magpie leader cackled, snatching the hat mid-air. “Now scram, or we’ll pluck you bald!” Zuzu, clearly offended by the magpies’ lack of decorum, decided to take matters into her own wings. With a sudden burst of speed, she shot straight up into the sky, leaving the magpies floundering in her wake. Grimble let out a whoop of exhilaration—and then promptly swallowed a bug. “Blasted forest,” he coughed. “Why is everything here out to get me?” The Golden Nectar (Sort Of) After what felt like hours of frantic flying and several near-death experiences, Zuzu finally brought them to a halt in a secluded glade. At the center of the glade stood a single, ancient tree with shimmering golden leaves. At its base was a pool of honey-like liquid that sparkled in the sunlight. “The Golden Nectar!” Grimble exclaimed, sliding off Zuzu’s back and sprinting toward the pool. He dropped to his knees and scooped up a handful of the liquid, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “Tibbles is going to eat his stupid hat when he sees this!” He raised the nectar to his lips—but before he could take a sip, a deep, rumbling voice echoed through the glade. “Who dares disturb my sacred pool?” Grimble froze. Slowly, he turned to see a massive, grumpy-looking toad sitting on a nearby rock. The toad’s eyes glowed with an otherworldly light, and his warty skin shimmered with flecks of gold. “Uh…hello there,” Grimble said, hiding the handful of nectar behind his back. “Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?” “Leave,” the toad intoned, “or face my wrath.” “Right, right, of course,” Grimble said, inching backward. “No need for wrath. I’ll just, uh, be on my way…” Before the toad could respond, Zuzu swooped down, grabbed Grimble by the back of his tunic, and hauled him into the air. “Hey!” Grimble protested. “I wasn’t done groveling yet!” The Aftermath By the time they returned to the Giggling Toadstool Tavern, Grimble was exhausted, hatless, and completely nectar-less. Tibbles took one look at him and burst out laughing. “Well, well, well,” he said, clinking his mug of mead against Grimble’s empty one. “Looks like someone owes me a month’s worth of drinks!” Grimble groaned. “Next time,” he muttered, “I’m betting on something sensible. Like a snail race.” But as he glanced at Zuzu, who was perched on the bar and happily sipping a thimbleful of nectar, he couldn’t help but smile. After all, it wasn’t every day you got to ride a rainbow hummingbird.    Bring the Magic Home If Grimble’s mischievous adventure and Zuzu’s dazzling wings brought a little wonder to your day, why not make it a permanent part of your space? Explore our collection of high-quality prints featuring this magical moment: Canvas Prints: Perfect for bringing warmth and whimsy to your walls. Metal Prints: For a sleek, modern display of vibrant color and detail. Acrylic Prints: A glossy finish to make Zuzu’s iridescence truly pop. Tapestries: Add a cozy, magical touch to any room. Start your collection today and let Grimble and Zuzu’s tale inspire your own adventures!

by Bill Tiepelman

Chilling Adventures with the Ice Dragon

Winter had arrived in the Enchanted North, blanketing the forest in sparkling frost and transforming even the grumpiest of gnomes into rosy-cheeked enthusiasts. Well, almost every gnome. Gusbert Frostwhisker, known locally as the “Blizzard Buffoon,” wasn’t interested in sledding, snowball fights, or sipping mulled cider by the fire. No, Gusbert had a reputation to uphold—a reputation for outrageous pranks and harebrained schemes. “This year,” Gusbert announced to no one in particular as he stood in his snow-dusted yard, “I’m going to pull off the ultimate winter trick. Something so magnificent, so ridiculous, they’ll never call me ‘Buffoon’ again!” At that moment, an enormous, crystalline shadow passed overhead. Gusbert looked up to see the Ice Dragon—a magnificent creature of glittering scales and frost-tipped wings—soaring through the pale winter sky. A wicked grin spread across his bearded face. “Perfect,” he whispered. “That dragon’s just the partner I need.” The Plan Gusbert didn’t have much in the way of charm, but he did have a knack for convincing creatures to join his schemes (usually with promises of snacks). Armed with a bag of frozen berries and his best persuasive smile, Gusbert trekked to Frostpeak Ridge, where the Ice Dragon made its lair. He found the great beast lounging on a glacier, munching on icicles. “Greetings, oh frosty one!” Gusbert began, bowing dramatically. The dragon blinked, shards of ice glinting in its brilliant blue eyes. “I come bearing a proposal! A partnership, if you will. Together, we shall unleash the greatest winter prank this forest has ever seen!” The dragon tilted its head, unimpressed. Gusbert held up the bag of berries and shook it enticingly. “There’s more where this came from,” he said. “Think about it—snowball chaos, frosted-over squirrel dens, maybe even a mid-air snowflake sculpting contest! The possibilities are endless!” The dragon snorted, sending a small flurry of snow into Gusbert’s face, but eventually extended a glittering claw. Gusbert shook it eagerly. “Excellent choice, my icy comrade. Now, let’s get to work!” The Execution Gusbert’s first target was the ever-annoying Jinglebell Foxes, who prided themselves on their perfectly synchronized caroling. Perched on the dragon’s back, Gusbert flew over their snowy den and unleashed his secret weapon: enchanted snowballs that, upon impact, made the recipient uncontrollably hiccup jingle sounds. By the time the foxes managed to regroup, their caroling sounded like a choir of malfunctioning music boxes. “Hic-jingle! Hic-jingle! Hic-jingle all the way!” one of them howled, to Gusbert’s delight. The next stop was the Winter Stag Parade, a dignified event where the local deer adorned themselves with holly and tinsel. Gusbert swooped in on the Ice Dragon and sprinkled the parade route with enchanted frost that caused the antlers to glow neon pink. The dignified stags were less than amused, but the spectators roared with laughter. “Oh, this is too good!” Gusbert cackled, steering the dragon toward their grand finale: the Gnome Elder Council’s annual snow sculpture competition. The council was infamous for taking their sculptures far too seriously, with their leader, Grimpus, once declaring a carrot nose on a snowman “an artistic abomination.” The Grand Finale Hovering over the competition, Gusbert surveyed the scene. Grimpus and his fellow elders were painstakingly crafting an elaborate ice castle. “Time to spice things up,” Gusbert said, tossing a handful of enchanted snowflakes over the sculpture. Moments later, the castle erupted into a cacophony of glitter and ice, transforming into a gigantic, frosty replica of Grimpus’ grumpy face. The crowd burst into applause, but Grimpus was less impressed. “Who dares tamper with my masterpiece?!” he bellowed, shaking his fist at the sky. Gusbert waved cheerfully as the Ice Dragon executed a graceful barrel roll, scattering more glitter over the competition. Unfortunately for Gusbert, Grimpus had a keen eye. “It’s that blasted Frostwhisker!” he roared. “Get him!” The Escape “Time to go!” Gusbert shouted, urging the dragon into a steep dive. The pair zipped through the snowy forest, pursued by an angry mob of foxes, deer, and gnomes wielding snowshoes. The Ice Dragon, however, was having the time of its life. With each powerful beat of its wings, it sent waves of glittering frost cascading over the pursuers, slowing them down just enough for Gusbert to escape. When they finally landed back at Frostpeak Ridge, Gusbert slid off the dragon’s back and collapsed into the snow, laughing uncontrollably. “Did you see their faces?” he wheezed. “Priceless!” The dragon let out a rumbling purr of agreement before curling up on its glacier. Gusbert tossed it the rest of the frozen berries as a thank-you. “You’re a true artist, my frosty friend,” he said. “Same time next year?” The dragon snorted softly, which Gusbert chose to interpret as a resounding yes. As he trudged back to his cottage, Gusbert couldn’t wait to start planning his next big prank. After all, winter was long—and the Enchanted North needed someone to keep things interesting.     Bring the Winter Magic Home Love Gusbert and the Ice Dragon's frosty mischief? Capture the magic and whimsy of their chilling adventures with our exclusive collection of stunning products: Tapestries: Add a touch of frosty charm to your walls with this enchanting design. Canvas Prints: Perfect for showcasing the magical winter ride in vibrant detail. Puzzles: Piece together the icy brilliance with a playful and dazzling puzzle. Greeting Cards: Share the frosty magic with loved ones through these delightful cards. Start your collection today and let Gusbert and his glittering dragon bring the spirit of winter wonder into your life!

by Bill Tiepelman

The Gnome and the Snail Express

The Enchanted Forest wasn’t known for its speed. Most of its residents were content to amble along mossy trails, admire glowing mushrooms, and take the occasional nap in a patch of sunlight. But none were slower—or more determined—than Gnorman the Gnome’s latest companion: an enormous snail named Whiskers. “This is it, Whiskers,” Gnorman said, adjusting his bright red hat as he perched on the snail’s glistening shell. “Our chance to make history! We’re going to win the Great Forest Derby and prove that slow and steady doesn’t just win races—it humiliates smug rabbits along the way!” Whiskers made no response, as he was preoccupied with nibbling on a particularly juicy patch of moss. Gnorman took this as a sign of agreement. “That’s the spirit!” he said, giving the snail’s shell a confident pat. “Now, let’s talk strategy.” The Great Forest Derby The Derby was an annual event, notorious for attracting all kinds of eccentric competitors. There were the squirrels, who cheated by launching themselves from tree to tree. There was a team of field mice with a cart pulled by a very confused hedgehog. And, of course, there was Gnorman’s arch-nemesis, Thistle the Hare, whose cocky grin and perfect teeth made Gnorman’s beard bristle with irritation. “What’s that, Gnorman?” Thistle called as he hopped over. “Trading in your boots for a snail? I’d tell you to try and keep up, but… well, we both know that’s not happening.” “Laugh it up, carrot-breath,” Gnorman snapped. “This snail is a precision-engineered racing machine. We’re going to wipe the mossy floor with you!” Thistle snorted. “I’ll save you a spot at the finish line—about three hours after I get there.” With that, the hare bounded away, leaving Gnorman seething. “Don’t listen to him, Whiskers,” he muttered. “We’ve got this in the bag. Probably.” The Race Begins The starting line was a chaotic mess of creatures, all jostling for position. Gnorman tightened his grip on the reins he’d fashioned out of vine and gave Whiskers an encouraging nod. “All right, buddy. Nice and steady. Let’s show these amateurs how it’s done.” The whistle blew, and the racers exploded into motion—or, in Whiskers’ case, a leisurely slide forward. Squirrels darted ahead. Mice squeaked commands to their hedgehog. Thistle the Hare was already a blur in the distance. Gnorman, however, remained calm. “Patience, Whiskers,” he said. “Let them tire themselves out. We’ll make our move when it counts.” By the time they reached the first checkpoint, Whiskers had managed to overtake a tortoise (who had paused for a snack) and a beetle (whose enthusiasm had been derailed by an ill-timed nap). Gnorman was feeling smug—until he noticed a familiar figure lounging on a rock up ahead. “What took you so long?” Thistle called, tossing a carrot in the air and catching it in his mouth. “Did you stop for sightseeing? Oh wait—you’re riding a snail. That’s sightseeing.” “Keep laughing, fuzzball,” Gnorman muttered under his breath. “You won’t be so smug when Whiskers and I pull off the upset of the century.” The Prank At the halfway point, Gnorman decided it was time for a little mischief. Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out a pouch of pixie dust he’d “borrowed” from a friendly sprite. “This ought to spice things up,” he said, sprinkling the glittering powder along Whiskers’ trail. Moments later, chaos erupted. The hedgehog pulling the mice’s cart sneezed violently, sending the cart careening off the trail. A flock of sparrows, mesmerized by the sparkling dust, began dive-bombing Thistle, who flailed wildly in an attempt to fend them off. “What the—?!” Thistle shouted as a particularly bold sparrow made off with his carrot. “Who’s responsible for this madness?!” Gnorman tried to look innocent, though his uncontrollable giggling didn’t help. “Just a bit of friendly competition!” he called out, clutching Whiskers’ reins as the snail glided serenely past the chaos. “You’re welcome!” The Final Stretch By the time they reached the final leg of the race, Thistle had recovered and was closing in fast. Gnorman could see the finish line up ahead, but Whiskers was beginning to slow down. “Come on, buddy,” he urged. “Just a little farther! Think of the glory! Think of the… uh… extra moss I’ll bring you if we win!” Whiskers perked up at the mention of moss and surged forward with surprising speed. Gnorman whooped as they crossed the finish line just ahead of Thistle, who skidded to a halt in disbelief. “What?! No!” the hare yelled. “That’s impossible! You cheated!” “Cheating?” Gnorman said, feigning outrage. “That’s a serious accusation, Thistle. I’ll have you know this victory was entirely due to Whiskers’ superior athleticism and my expert coaching.” The crowd erupted in applause and laughter as Gnorman accepted his prize: a golden acorn trophy and a year’s worth of bragging rights. “Slow and steady wins the race,” he said with a wink, holding the trophy aloft. “And never underestimate a gnome with a good sense of humor—and a big bag of pixie dust.” Whiskers, now happily munching on a fresh patch of moss, seemed entirely uninterested in the glory. But Gnorman didn’t mind. He had a trophy, a story for the ages, and the satisfaction of wiping the smug grin off Thistle’s face. Life in the Enchanted Forest didn’t get much better than that.     Bring the Whimsy Home Love Gnorman and Whiskers’ hilarious journey? Bring their delightful adventure into your home with these magical products, inspired by the whimsical world of the Enchanted Forest: Tapestries: Add a touch of fantasy to your walls with this vibrant and enchanting design. Canvas Prints: Perfect for bringing Gnorman and Whiskers’ adventure to life in your favorite space. Puzzles: Piece together the fun with a playful and charming puzzle featuring this whimsical duo. Tote Bags: Take the magic on the go with a stylish tote bag perfect for daily adventures. Start your collection today and let Gnorman and Whiskers bring a bit of mischief and magic to your life!

by Bill Tiepelman

Frog Rodeo: Gnome Style

In the heart of the Enchanted Forest, where mushrooms glowed like tiny disco balls and the rivers gurgled with laughter, a gnome named Blimble Puddleflap was preparing for his greatest—and most ridiculous—feat yet: a frog rodeo. Blimble wasn’t known for his practicality or restraint. No, his reputation was built on an endless string of outrageous stunts and pranks that left the forest’s inhabitants either chuckling or plotting revenge. Today’s prank, however, was destined to become legendary. The Plan It all started in the Giggling Lily Tavern the night before, when Blimble overheard a particularly smug chipmunk boasting about his "record-setting" acorn collection. "I could ride a frog across the stream and still gather more acorns than you!" the chipmunk had declared. Blimble, fueled by three mushroom ales and an overabundance of confidence, had leapt onto the table and shouted, "Ride a frog? I’ll ride one so fast it’ll look like a green lightning bolt streaking through the forest!" By morning, the entire forest had heard about Blimble’s bold claim. To back out now would be social suicide. Fortunately, Blimble had a plan. Unfortunately, it was a terrible one. "All right, Ribsy," Blimble said, addressing the enormous, lime-green frog he’d “borrowed” from a lily pad in Tadpole Cove. Ribsy, whose idea of excitement involved sitting very still and occasionally catching a bug, was less than thrilled about the arrangement. “We’re going to make history!” Blimble continued, oblivious to Ribsy’s expression of froggy dread. “I’ll ride you like the wind, and you’ll become the fastest frog this forest has ever seen!” The Ride Begins The clearing by the stream was packed with forest creatures, all eager to witness Blimble’s latest shenanigan. Rabbits, squirrels, and even a few skeptical hedgehogs gathered at the water’s edge. The chipmunk from the tavern was front and center, munching on an acorn and smirking. "This should be good," he muttered. “Ladies and gentle-creatures!” Blimble announced, standing on Ribsy’s back like a pint-sized circus performer. “Prepare to witness the grandest, most daring frog rodeo in history!” Before anyone could respond, Ribsy let out a startled croak as Blimble tugged on the makeshift reins (woven from spider silk, because of course). The frog launched forward with a panicked leap, sending a spray of water across the cheering crowd. “Yeehaw!” Blimble hollered, throwing his arms in the air. “Look at us go, Ribsy! We’re unstoppable!” “Ribbit,” Ribsy croaked, which roughly translated to, “Please let this nightmare end.” The Chaos Unfolds As Ribsy bounded toward the stream, Blimble’s showmanship quickly devolved into chaos. A miscalculated leap sent them careening into a patch of glowing mushrooms, which exploded into a cloud of glittery spores. The crowd erupted in laughter as Blimble emerged from the sparkling haze, clinging to Ribsy’s back with one hand and waving a tiny cowboy hat with the other. “Still going strong!” Blimble shouted, though his grip was slipping and Ribsy looked ready to file a restraining order. Things took a turn for the worse when a dragonfly, apparently offended by the disturbance, decided to join the fray. It swooped down and began dive-bombing Blimble, who swatted at it wildly. “Back off, you oversized mosquito!” he yelled, inadvertently letting go of the reins. Now completely out of control, Ribsy veered toward the stream and leapt with all the grace of a cannonball. They landed in the water with a colossal splash, soaking the front row of spectators and dislodging a nearby family of ducks. Blimble resurfaced moments later, sputtering and still clinging to Ribsy, whose expression now read as “utter resignation.” The Aftermath By the time Ribsy paddled to the far side of the stream, the crowd was in stitches. Even the smug chipmunk was laughing so hard he dropped his acorn. Blimble, dripping wet and covered in glittery mushroom spores, climbed off Ribsy and took a dramatic bow. “Thank you, thank you!” he said, ignoring the fact that Ribsy was already hopping away as fast as his froggy legs could carry him. “And that, my friends, is how you ride a frog like a champion!” The chipmunk approached, still chuckling. “I’ll admit, Puddleflap, that was…impressive. Ridiculous, but impressive.” Blimble grinned. “Ridiculous is my middle name! Well, technically it’s ‘Ezekiel,’ but you get the idea.” The crowd dispersed, still laughing and chattering about the spectacle. Blimble, now alone by the stream, looked around for Ribsy, only to realize the frog had vanished. “Eh, can’t blame him,” Blimble said with a shrug. “I’d probably hop away too.” As he wrung out his hat and started the soggy walk back to his mushroom cottage, Blimble couldn’t help but smile. Sure, he was wet, exhausted, and slightly traumatized by the dragonfly, but he’d done it. He’d turned a ridiculous boast into an even more ridiculous reality—and had the glittery mushroom spores to prove it. “Next time,” he muttered to himself, “I’m riding a squirrel.”    Bring the Fun Home Love the hilarity of Blimble and Ribsy’s wild ride? Bring their whimsical adventure into your life with our exclusive collection of high-quality products featuring this unforgettable scene: Tapestries: Transform your space with the vibrant energy of this whimsical artwork. Wood Prints: Add a rustic touch to your decor while showcasing Blimble’s froggy antics. Puzzles: Relive the fun piece by piece with a challenging and delightful puzzle. Greeting Cards: Share a laugh with friends and family with these charming cards. Start your collection today and let Blimble and Ribsy bring a splash of humor and magic to your life!

by Bill Tiepelman

Streamside Shenanigans with the Gnome and Frog

Deep in the heart of the Goldenwood Forest, where the mushrooms glowed like lanterns and butterflies flitted with wings dusted in starlight, a gnome named Gimble Tinklestump was busy planning his next great prank. Known far and wide among the forest folk as the “Giggling Menace,” Gimble had a reputation for creating chaos—and today, his target was none other than Old Tadwick, the grumpiest toad this side of the babbling brook. Perched atop his trusty steed—a massive, lime-green frog named Blep—Gimble adjusted his red hat and grinned. “All right, Blep,” he said, patting the frog’s broad, slippery head. “Let’s give Tadwick something to croak about!” Blep let out a deep, resonant “RIBBIT” and leapt forward, bounding through the forest with the grace of a wet potato. Gimble, clutching the frog’s reins, laughed maniacally as they approached the stream where Old Tadwick held court. The toad, infamous for his booming voice and no-nonsense attitude, was sunbathing on a mossy rock, his warty face set in a permanent scowl. The Setup Gimble and Blep stopped a few paces away, hiding behind a clump of oversized mushrooms. “All right, here’s the plan,” Gimble whispered, leaning down to Blep. “We’re going to convince Tadwick that the forest council voted to make me the new ‘Stream Keeper.’ He’ll lose his warts when he hears that!” Blep blinked slowly, which Gimble interpreted as enthusiastic agreement. Pulling a makeshift “crown” out of his satchel (it was actually a very battered teacup), Gimble hopped off Blep’s back and placed it on his head at a jaunty angle. He then stepped into the clearing with an exaggerated bow. “Greetings, Tadwick the Mighty!” he called out, his voice dripping with mock reverence. Tadwick cracked one beady eye open. “What do you want, Tinklestump?” he growled. “And why are you wearing a teacup?” “Ah, I see you’ve noticed my regal headwear!” Gimble said, puffing out his chest. “I come bearing important news, old friend. The council has decided that I, Gimble Tinklestump, shall be the new Stream Keeper!” Tadwick snorted. “The Stream Keeper? You? Don’t make me laugh.” “It’s true!” Gimble insisted. “As Stream Keeper, it’s my duty to enforce all forest laws. And, uh…” He quickly improvised, “To collect taxes. Yes, taxes! Starting with you, Tadwick.” The Prank Unfolds Tadwick’s eyes narrowed. “Taxes? What nonsense are you spouting now?” “Oh, it’s not nonsense,” Gimble said, trying to keep a straight face. “Blep, bring forth the ‘Official Tax Ledger.’” From behind the mushrooms, Blep hopped into view carrying a large leaf in his mouth. Gimble had scrawled a series of illegible scribbles on it in berry juice, which he now brandished triumphantly. “Behold! The taxes you owe are listed right here. Let’s see… Ah yes, one dozen crickets, three dragonfly wings, and a bottle of swamp juice.” Tadwick sat up straighter, his warty brow furrowing. “This is absurd! I don’t owe you anything!” “Defiance of the Stream Keeper is a serious offense,” Gimble said gravely. “I could have you banished to the Mud Flats!” At this, Blep let out an enormous croak, which Gimble had trained him to do on cue. The sound was so loud it made the nearby butterflies scatter in panic. Tadwick flinched but quickly regained his composure. “You’re bluffing,” he said. “You’re always bluffing, Tinklestump.” “Am I?” Gimble asked, raising an eyebrow. He turned to Blep and said, “Plan B.” Without hesitation, Blep lunged forward, snatched Tadwick’s mossy rock with his sticky tongue, and yanked it into the stream. The sudden splash sent water cascading over Tadwick, drenching him from head to toe. “MY ROCK!” Tadwick bellowed, flailing in the shallow water. “You little pest! Give it back!” “Stream Keeper rules, I’m afraid!” Gimble called out, doubling over with laughter. “All rocks are property of the council now!” The Great Escape Realizing that an enraged Tadwick was now charging toward them, Gimble scrambled back onto Blep’s back. “Time to go!” he shouted, and Blep launched into the air with a mighty leap, clearing the stream in one bound. Tadwick skidded to a halt at the water’s edge, shaking his fist. “You’ll pay for this, Tinklestump!” the toad roared. “Just you wait!” “Add it to my tab!” Gimble yelled over his shoulder, tears of laughter streaming down his face. “And don’t forget to pay your taxes!” As Blep carried him deeper into the forest, Gimble couldn’t stop chuckling. Sure, Tadwick would probably try to retaliate in some hilariously ineffective way, but that was half the fun. For Gimble, life was all about finding the next laugh—and with Blep by his side, the possibilities were endless. “Good work today, Blep,” he said, patting the frog’s head. “Tomorrow, we prank the squirrels.” Blep croaked in agreement, and together, they disappeared into the glowing depths of the Goldenwood, leaving behind a very wet and very grumpy toad.    Bring the Whimsy Home Enjoyed Gimble and Blep's mischievous adventure? Let their antics brighten up your day with stunning products that showcase their hilarious escapade. Check out these magical options: Tapestries: Add a whimsical touch to your walls with this vibrant design. Puzzles: Piece together the laughter with a puzzle that captures the scene's playful spirit. Framed Prints: Perfect for framing Gimble and Blep’s hilarious adventure in your favorite space. Tote Bags: Take the fun wherever you go with a stylish and practical tote. Choose your favorite and let Gimble and Blep’s shenanigans become a part of your daily adventures!

by Bill Tiepelman

The Dual Seasons of the Fox

In a remote corner of the world, where the sun and moon danced upon the border of two seasons, a fox of extraordinary origin wandered the forest. It was said to be no ordinary creature, but a being whispered of in myths—a guardian of balance, an emissary of both fire and frost. Those who claimed to have seen it spoke of a strange beauty: one half of its fur burned with the vivid colors of autumn, while the other shimmered like freshly fallen snow, as if the creature itself embodied the eternal struggle between warmth and cold. The Forest's Divided Soul The forest it called home was unlike any other. On one side, amber leaves fell endlessly, carpeting the ground in a fiery quilt of red and gold. The air here smelled of earth and smoke, where the crisp crunch of footsteps announced your presence. Yet cross a mere few steps, and the landscape transformed. Frost clung to skeletal branches, and the ground was hard with ice. Snowflakes drifted gently through the stillness, and the bitter bite of winter claimed the senses. Legends told that the fox was born at the exact moment the seasons clashed—the fleeting instant when autumn dies and winter takes its first breath. The world had shuddered at that boundary, and from its heartbeat, the fox emerged. Both sides of the forest revered the creature, calling it the Equinox Keeper, a spirit sent to ensure that neither season overtook the other. But reverence soon gave way to greed. For where balance lies, so does power. The Betrayal of the Seasons Not all who sought the fox admired it. Stories spread that to capture the creature was to hold dominion over nature itself. Farmers whispered that its blood could summon eternal spring or endless harvest, while warlords dreamed of harnessing storms or droughts to cripple their enemies. And so, hunters came, their traps laced with iron teeth and their hearts hardened with ambition. But the fox was elusive, slipping between shadows and frost, never lingering long enough to be seen clearly. Until one fateful night. A hunter named Kaelen, bitter and weathered from years of chasing the creature, devised a trap unlike any other. He understood the fox's nature, its bond to the seasons. He placed his trap at the forest's heart—where the autumn leaves met winter’s snow—and waited in silence. Hours stretched into eternity, the forest breathing around him, until at last, the creature appeared. It moved with a strange, ethereal grace, its fiery and icy halves shimmering in the moonlight. Kaelen held his breath as the fox approached the bait. Just as it stepped onto the concealed snare, its golden eyes met his. In that instant, he felt something stir deep within him—a wave of sorrow so profound it almost brought him to his knees. But the hunter’s resolve hardened. With a sharp clang, the trap snapped shut. The Curse of Greed Kaelen approached the captured fox, triumphant, but as he neared, he noticed something strange. The fox did not struggle or snarl. Instead, it gazed at him with a calm, knowing expression. Its voice, soft as falling snow, filled his mind. “You do not understand what you have done,” it said, the sound carrying the weight of centuries. “The balance I maintain is fragile. Without me, the seasons will rage unchecked, consuming one another until nothing remains.” Kaelen hesitated, the fox’s words gnawing at the edges of his greed. But he had spent too many years chasing this prize to turn back now. He carried the creature to a distant village, intent on selling it to the highest bidder. Yet as days passed, strange things began to happen. The forest behind him withered and died, its autumn warmth giving way to an unrelenting winter. The frost spread further each day, creeping into the surrounding lands. Villages were swallowed by snowdrifts, their people fleeing the icy grasp of an endless winter. Kaelen began to dream of the fox, its golden eyes haunting him with unspoken judgment. “Release me,” it whispered in his sleep, over and over, until the sound became unbearable. The hunter's triumph soured into a festering guilt. He realized too late that his greed had set in motion a catastrophe he could not control. The Redemption Desperate to undo his mistake, Kaelen returned to the forest with the fox. But the land was no longer the same. The vibrant autumn glades had been devoured by frost, their fiery leaves now brittle and lifeless. Snow and ice blanketed the ground where warmth had once reigned. The fox, though weakened, raised its head as if sensing the change. “The balance must be restored,” it said, its voice faint but resolute. “But it will come at a cost.” Kaelen knelt before the creature, tears freezing on his cheeks. “What must I do?” The fox fixed him with its golden eyes, a flicker of sorrow in their depths. “To mend the world, a life must be given. The choice is yours.” Without hesitation, Kaelen nodded. He knew the price for his greed could only be paid with his own life. The fox stepped forward, its fiery and frosty halves blending into a radiant glow. As it touched him, Kaelen felt a warmth spread through his chest, followed by an icy calm. His vision dimmed, and the last thing he saw was the fox standing tall, whole and unbroken, as the forest began to heal. The Legacy of the Equinox Keeper The fox roams the forest still, its fiery and frosty fur a reminder of the fragile balance it protects. Some say that on the night of the equinox, when the seasons meet, you can hear its haunting cry—a sound both mournful and beautiful, echoing through the trees. It serves as a warning, a tale passed down through generations: nature’s balance is not a thing to be owned, but a force to be respected. And if you ever find yourself walking through a forest where autumn meets winter, tread carefully. You may catch a glimpse of the Equinox Keeper, watching, waiting, ensuring that the world remains whole.    The Legacy of the Equinox Keeper The fox roams the forest still, its fiery and frosty fur a reminder of the fragile balance it protects... Own the Dual Seasons of the Fox Bring the enchantment of this legend into your own space with beautiful products inspired by the story. Whether you're looking to transform your home with a tapestry, a unique wood print, or a cozy throw pillow, we have something for every admirer of nature’s duality. Browse these exclusive items: Tapestry - Transform your walls with the striking image of the fox embodying the seasons. Wood Print - Add a rustic touch to your decor with this unique wood-mounted artwork. Throw Pillow - Perfect for creating a cozy corner while celebrating the beauty of nature. Puzzle - Immerse yourself in the details of this magnificent artwork with a challenging puzzle. Discover these and more at our online store.

by Bill Tiepelman

Tranquil Toadstool Tavern

Deep in the heart of the Old Widdershins Woods, where the cell service was nonexistent, and the mushrooms grew big enough to warrant their own zip code, there was a spot few humans had ever laid eyes on. It was neither a pub nor a picnic area but something far more mysterious and slightly questionable: the Tranquil Toadstool Tavern. Its bartender? A gnome named Garvin, though his friends called him "Garvin the Gnarly" due to his propensity for dispensing unsolicited advice with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Garvin didn’t much care for adventurers, and he really didn’t care for tourists who stumbled into the forest in search of “authentic gnome experiences.” He’d seen enough neon-t-shirted hikers poking at moss with selfie sticks to develop a permanent eye twitch. So, on the rare day a human stumbled upon his spot, Garvin usually hid in the bushes. But today, he was exhausted. A Sip of Solitude Wearing his favorite moss-lined hat (which doubled as camouflage for napping), Garvin settled onto his favorite mushroom stool, grabbed his Corona Extra, and sighed. Finally, he was alone. No bothersome trolls hawking “enchanted rock carvings.” No elves with their lute-playing and glitter-shedding. Just him, his beer, and the comforting smell of damp forest floor. “Here’s to peace and quiet,” he muttered, tipping his Corona in a toast to absolutely no one. The bottle was almost as tall as his torso, and it took both hands to keep it steady. But he didn’t mind—it was a small price to pay for tranquility. Enter the Unwanted Company Just as he took his first, refreshing swig, a loud rustling erupted from the undergrowth. He spat out a mouthful of beer. “Oh, for the love of fungus. Can’t a gnome get a moment to himself?” A squirrel the size of a large house cat—furry, overfed, and glaring—sauntered over, sniffing the air. It was Poppy, the unofficial tavern pest and a bit of a freeloader. She always knew when Garvin cracked open a beer, and she had the audacity to judge him for it. “Isn’t it a little early for that?” she chittered, nose twitching with disapproval. “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Garvin shot back, rolling his eyes. “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be hoarding acorns or whatever it is you oversized rodents do?” “First of all, I’m a squirrel, not a rodent,” Poppy said, standing on her hind legs, looking indignant. “Second, I have a reputation to uphold. Can’t have the local humans thinking all forest creatures are lazy drunkards.” “You’re lecturing me on reputations?” Garvin scoffed, gesturing to Poppy’s expanding waistline. “Anyway, this is my break. Just me, my beer, and absolutely no small talk.” “You’re doing an excellent job at it,” she retorted, before scurrying off in a huff. The Arrival of the Toadstool Regulars As Garvin raised his bottle again, the usual cast of woodland misfits ambled into view. First, there was Cedric, the fox who considered himself a sommelier, though his idea of “fine wine” was any liquid that didn’t outright poison him. Then came Elowen, the owl who had convinced herself she was a poet despite her only two topics of expertise being night and rodents. “What’s that, Garv? Corona again?” Cedric asked with a smirk, sniffing the air. “I’d have thought a worldly gnome like you would go for something more refined.” “It’s a classic!” Garvin grumbled. “Not all of us are born with taste buds that can detect notes of oak and pretentiousness.” “You could at least squeeze a lime in it, dear,” Elowen cooed, perched on a low branch, feathers rustling with amusement. “A little citrus, a little panache, you know?” “Lime? This is beer, not some alchemist’s elixir!” Garvin grunted, taking another sip. “Besides, I don’t see either of you bringing anything to share.” They both looked at each other, slightly embarrassed. Cedric muttered something about a “wine shortage” while Elowen claimed she was “saving her inspiration” for a reading that night. The Buzzkill Bunny Just as Garvin thought his suffering was complete, yet another figure appeared: Bernie the Rabbit. A self-appointed health coach, Bernie’s entire personality could be summed up in two words: unsolicited advice. “Garvin!” Bernie hopped over, looking mortified at the beer. “You know alcohol isn’t good for you, right? It dehydrates and ages you.” Garvin stared at the bottle, then looked at Bernie, raising an eyebrow. “Bernie, I’m a hundred and fifty-seven years old and have been drinking since before you were a dust bunny. I think I’ll be fine.” Bernie frowned, twitching his nose with exaggerated concern. “Maybe switch to kombucha? I hear it’s all the rage with forest influencers.” Garvin gave him a withering look. “Let me make this clear, carrot-muncher: I’m not switching to kombucha. If I wanted to drink fermented swamp water, I’d visit the bog witch.” “Suit yourself,” Bernie shrugged, hopping away with an air of judgment so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. A Moment of (Finally) Peace At last, the critters dispersed, leaving Garvin alone once more. He took a final, savoring sip, enjoying the earthy quiet that enveloped him. The soft glow of the sun filtered through the leaves, casting an almost magical light over the forest floor. “Ahhh,” he sighed, content. “There’s nothing quite like a cold one and some quiet.” Then, from somewhere in the forest, he heard an unmistakable rustle, followed by a voice shouting, “Hey! I think I see a gnome! Quick, get the camera!” Garvin’s eyes widened as he pulled his hat low over his face, muttering, “Nope. I’m done. Forest’s closed. Everyone go home.” And with one swift motion, he slipped behind the largest toadstool, blending seamlessly into the mossy undergrowth, determined to preserve his peace—even if it meant playing hide-and-seek with every selfie-stick wielding intruder until winter. Some days, being a gnome wasn’t easy. But Garvin wouldn’t trade his little corner of the woods for all the kombucha in the kingdom.    Bring a Bit of Gnome Magic Home If Garvin's woodland sanctuary speaks to your heart, why not bring a little "Tranquil Toadstool Tavern" magic into your own space? We’ve got a cozy collection of products featuring this whimsical scene, perfect for gnome lovers and forest dreamers alike: Tranquil Toadstool Tavern Tapestry - Transform any wall into a gnome’s retreat with this vibrant tapestry that brings the forest right to your home. Tranquil Toadstool Tavern Puzzle - Piece together this cozy scene, one mushroom and mossy detail at a time. Tranquil Toadstool Tavern Wood Print - Add a rustic touch to your decor with this print on wood, perfect for any nature-inspired space. Tranquil Toadstool Tavern Beach Towel - Bring a bit of the forest with you to the beach or poolside! And for true gnome aficionados, don’t miss our brand new 2025 "My Gnomies" Calendar. It's packed with charming gnome scenes to keep you company all year long. After all, Garvin may need his peace and quiet, but your walls could use a bit of that gnome magic!

by Bill Tiepelman

The Rabbit with Wings of Wonder

On the edge of a forest so old that even the oaks had started to forget their own names, lived a rabbit named Wren, who was, by all accounts, quite normal—except, of course, for her wings. They weren’t real wings, exactly. Not feathery, flapping things, anyway. No, Wren’s ears had somehow taken on the shape and color of butterfly wings, complete with swirls of indigo, emerald, and ruby, each vibrant pattern seeming to dance whenever she so much as twitched. Her mother had always told her to be careful with her ears, lest she attract curious foxes or hungry owls, but Wren never listened. She liked to hop to the edge of the forest each day, where the humans lived, just to see what they were up to. One day, as Wren was watching a group of humans gather in the meadow, she overheard a snippet of conversation that piqued her curiosity. “The Great Gardenia Flower Festival is tonight,” a young human with a mop of red curls said excitedly. “I hear they’ll even be giving out prizes!” Wren’s ears perked up (or, at least, her ear-wings perked up in a rather flamboyant fluttering display). A festival, she thought, eyes wide. With prizes! She’d never been to a human festival before, but if there were prizes involved, she was all in. In a flurry of excitement, Wren bounded back to her forest friends—a squirrel named Grimble, a wise-cracking crow named Speckle, and a hedgehog called Ivy. “I’m going to the humans’ festival!” she declared with a flair. Grimble, who was nibbling on a nut, paused mid-chew and stared at her. “You’re going where?” “To the festival! There are prizes, Grimble! Imagine all the treasures I could win!” Speckle cawed a laugh. “Do you even know what a ‘prize’ is, Wren? What if it’s a net? Or one of those boxes that goes ‘wham!’?” Wren huffed. “You just don’t understand. Humans love a good show, and I’ve got the most show-stopping ears this forest has ever seen.” “But what will you do?” Ivy piped up, peeking out from behind a mushroom. “Humans are bound to notice a rabbit with butterfly ears.” Wren pondered this for a moment, then grinned. “Then I’ll simply become a butterfly!” Grimble muttered something about “rabbits with butterfly delusions,” but Wren was already bounding off, planning her entrance to the festival. That Evening… When the sun dipped behind the trees and lanterns began to twinkle across the meadow, Wren hopped into action—quite literally. She had draped herself in trailing vines and wildflowers, and with a sprig of lavender tucked behind her ear, she looked about as close to a butterfly as a rabbit possibly could. Speckle, who’d begrudgingly agreed to accompany her, perched on her head, hoping to lend some air of credibility to the whole spectacle. As they approached the festival grounds, they saw booths lit by candlelight, humans twirling in dances, and long tables piled high with sweets, cakes, and puddings of every imaginable flavor. “Oh, this is fantastic,” Wren whispered, wide-eyed. They slipped through the shadows and crept closer to the main stage, where humans were gathering for what looked like some sort of contest. A voice boomed over the crowd, announcing, “Next up, our beloved ‘Most Magnificent Creature’ competition! Prepare to witness marvels!” Wren’s ears shot up in excitement, nearly knocking Speckle off his perch. “This is my moment!” she whispered, gathering her courage. She took a breath, hopped onto the stage, and struck her best “magnificent creature” pose. The humans gasped. Then they began to applaud, whispering things like, “Oh, it’s some sort of…forest spirit?” and “A rabbit fairy?” Someone handed her a tiny flower crown, and she adjusted it proudly on her head. As the competition continued, Wren put on a full performance, twirling her ear-wings dramatically, twitching her nose with expert timing, and even doing a little rabbit jig. She winked at the humans, delighted as they clapped and cheered. For a moment, she forgot she was supposed to be a butterfly entirely and simply basked in the glory of the moment. When the contest ended, the announcer awarded Wren the title of “Most Astonishing Forest Spirit,” which she accepted with a gracious bow, doing her best impression of a sophisticated butterfly curtsey. A Surprise After the Show As Wren was nibbling on a celebratory cookie she’d swiped from a dessert table, she heard a voice behind her. “A rabbit with butterfly wings?” it said, full of curiosity and just a hint of suspicion. She turned to see a young human woman dressed in a long, dark cloak. “Are you real?” the woman asked. Wren straightened up, putting on her most mysterious smile. “I am as real as any magic you believe in.” The woman’s eyes sparkled. “I like that answer.” She crouched down to get a closer look at Wren’s ears. “Would you… like to come back with me? I run an enchanted garden. I think you’d fit right in.” Wren tilted her head. “An enchanted garden, you say? Will there be more prizes?” The woman chuckled. “No prizes, but there’s a feast every night, and you’d have all the dandelion greens you could ever want.” Wren’s ears wiggled with interest. “I’m listening…” Grimble, Speckle, and Ivy had found her by now, overhearing the conversation. Speckle muttered, “What about us, then? You going to leave us for a dandelion buffet?” Wren looked back at her friends and then up at the woman. “Only if you all come with me,” she declared with a flourish. And so, in a surprising twist of events, Wren and her little gang of misfit forest creatures went to live in the enchanted garden, where they spent their days as the “official keepers of wonder.” Wren became something of a local legend among the humans, who would come to the garden, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious rabbit with butterfly wings. She would occasionally perform for visitors, twirling and prancing with the same flair she had at the festival. And every so often, when the moon was high and the night was still, she’d gather Grimble, Speckle, and Ivy, and together, they’d put on their own little show just for fun, a celebration of the quirks that made them unique—and the magic they’d created together. In the end, Wren did get her prize after all. Not the sort you can hang on a wall, but something better—a life filled with friendship, laughter, and all the dandelion greens she could ever want. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of magic, too.    Bring the Magic Home If Wren’s whimsical world captured your heart, you can bring a touch of this enchanting tale into your own space. Our exclusive "The Rabbit with Wings of Wonder" collection offers a variety of beautiful products featuring this captivating artwork. From cozy tapestries to intricate puzzles, each item celebrates the magic of Wren and her butterfly wings, perfect for dreamers and nature lovers alike. Tapestry - Transform your space with a stunning tapestry that brings Wren’s world to life on your walls. Puzzle - Lose yourself in this whimsical image as you piece together Wren’s story, one detail at a time. Greeting Card - Share a bit of magic with friends and loved ones with this charming greeting card, perfect for any occasion. Framed Print - Hang Wren’s tale on your wall with a high-quality framed print, a timeless addition to your art collection. Each piece is crafted to add a touch of whimsy to your life, making it easy to keep a little bit of Wren’s wonder with you every day.

by Bill Tiepelman

Beard, Boots, and Baby Dragon

Deep in the heart of the Widdershins Woods, where even the bravest adventurers dared not tread (mostly because the gnomes had lousy hygiene), lived a bearded gnome named Grimble Stumbletoe. Grimble was infamous for two things: his crass sense of humor and his inexplicably loyal companion, a pint-sized dragon named Sizzle. Together, they were the stuff of tavern tales, mostly told by those who’d had one too many and enjoyed a good laugh at Grimble's questionable antics. The Introduction of Sizzle Now, Sizzle wasn’t your average dragon. He was barely the size of a large cat and looked more like someone had stuck wings on a grumpy lizard. When Grimble first found him, curled up under a toadstool in the early hours of the morning, the gnome’s first words were, “Well, aren’t you an ugly little bugger?” To which Sizzle responded by promptly setting his beard on fire. “Ah, he’s got spirit,” Grimble cackled as he smothered the flames with a slap of his grubby hand. “I like ya already, you little menace.” And thus began the start of a beautiful, if somewhat volatile, friendship. Grimble’s Daily Routines (Or Lack Thereof) Each morning, Grimble would saunter out of his hollowed-out tree, scratch his beard, and take a deep, satisfied breath of the forest air. “Ah, smell that, Sizzle! Smells like freedom. And possibly a dead raccoon.” He’d then look down at Sizzle, who would nod with a solemn understanding, as if to say, “I too, smell the raccoon, Grimble.” For breakfast, Grimble favored a diet of mushrooms, stale bread, and whatever he could scrounge from the woodland creatures, who were less than willing to share. “Oi, squirrel, that’s mine!” he’d yell, occasionally hurling a pebble at a furry thief. Sizzle, meanwhile, would practice his fire-spitting skills, toasting bugs and once nearly incinerating Grimble’s hat. “Careful there, you fire-breathing gecko!” Grimble would say, shaking his finger. “You char my favorite hat again, and it’s roasted squirrel for dinner.” Encounters in the Forest One fine afternoon, as they strolled through a particularly dense patch of undergrowth, they encountered a lost adventurer—a young man in shiny armor, looking as fresh as a daisy and about as clueless as one, too. “Excuse me, sir,” the young man stammered, “have you seen the path to the Great Elven Temple?” Grimble eyed him with a wry grin, then leaned in close, a bit too close for comfort. “Elven Temple? Oh sure, it’s right over that hill. Just mind the goblin nests, the troll dung, and the occasional trap set by yours truly.” He winked. “Might take a while, though. So, unless you fancy an evening spent picking rocks out of yer backside, I’d suggest you turn around.” “I-I’ll keep that in mind,” the adventurer replied, pale and visibly unnerved as he backed away. Once he was out of earshot, Grimble chuckled, “Bloody do-gooders. Always thinkin’ they’re about to save the world or some such nonsense.” Sizzle let out a growl that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Evening Shenanigans As dusk fell, Grimble and Sizzle would set up camp. Grimble, who prided himself on being “one with nature” (mostly because he was too lazy to build a proper shelter), would lie back on a patch of moss and settle in for the night, regaling Sizzle with tales of his “glorious past.” “I once held off an entire pack of wolves with nothing but a pointy stick!” he boasted, making grand gestures. “Mind you, they were about as big as yer average rabbit, but wolves is wolves, right?” Sizzle, unimpressed, would snort a little puff of flame. He had a habit of turning his head as if rolling his eyes, which only encouraged Grimble to embellish further. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. And anyway, you’re no saint, ya little fire-bellied troublemaker. Remember last week when you burnt down old Miss Frumpel’s toadstool cottage?” Sizzle looked away, feigning innocence, while Grimble chuckled. “Aye, she deserved it though, always waggin’ her finger at me, tellin’ me to ‘watch my language.’ If I wanted a lecture, I’d talk to the damn owls!” Grimble’s “Heroic” Deeds One night, a commotion arose from the nearby grove. There was shouting, the clash of metal, and the unmistakable thud of something heavy crashing into a tree. “Adventure calls, Sizzle!” Grimble whispered with an overly dramatic flair, pulling his rusted dagger from his belt. “Let’s see if there’s a few coins to be made out of this mess.” They slunk through the underbrush until they found the source: a band of goblins arguing over a pile of glittering loot. “Oi!” Grimble yelled, striding out from the bushes. “Didn’t yer mothers teach ya not to make such a racket?” The goblins froze, staring at the odd pair. Grimble’s unimpressive stature and Sizzle’s miniature size made for a ridiculous sight, but Grimble was undeterred. “Now, I’ll be takin’ that shiny stuff there, and if ya make it easy, I won’t set my dragon on ya. He’s a vicious beast, see?” At that, Sizzle let out a tiny roar, barely a squeak, which only made Grimble snicker. The goblins, however, weren’t amused. With a series of hisses and snarls, they lunged. The Grand Battle (Sort Of) It was pure chaos. Goblins shrieked, Sizzle spat tiny spurts of flame, and Grimble dodged like a drunken acrobat, yelling insults at anyone who came near. “You call that a swing, you sorry excuse for a potato!” he bellowed, ducking under a goblin’s club. “My gran fights better than you, and she’s been dead three decades!” In the end, Sizzle managed to ignite a few well-placed bushes, which startled the goblins into fleeing. Grimble, panting and looking far more triumphant than he had any right to, picked up a shiny coin and spat on it to polish it. “Aye, well fought, Sizzle,” he said with a nod. “They’ll be singin’ tales of this day for sure. ‘Grimble the Bold and his Mighty Dragon,’ they’ll call it!” Sizzle tilted his head, clearly skeptical, but Grimble ignored him, pocketing a handful of the goblins’ abandoned loot with a gleeful grin. The Journey Continues The next morning, Grimble and Sizzle set off once more, as they always did, with no particular destination in mind. “So, Sizzle,” Grimble mused, “what d’you reckon we’ll find today? Perhaps a damsel in distress? Or maybe some rich fool wanderin’ through the woods, just beggin’ to lose his purse?” Sizzle gave him a sideways glance, a puff of smoke rising from his nostrils as if to say, “Or maybe you’ll just get us into more trouble.” Grimble chuckled, ruffling the little dragon’s scales. “Ah, trouble’s what keeps life interestin’, eh?” With a skip and a swagger, he strolled off into the forest, the laughter of a grumpy old gnome and the tiny roars of his loyal dragon echoing through the woods. And so they wandered on, the crassest, funniest, most mismatched duo in all of Widdershins Woods, much to the terror—and amusement—of everyone they met.    Bring Grimble and Sizzle Home If Grimble's antics and Sizzle's fiery spirit brought a smile to your face, why not bring a piece of their adventure home? This delightfully mischievous duo is available on a range of high-quality products that will add a dash of whimsical charm to any space. Check out these Beard, Boots, and Baby Dragon products, perfect for fantasy lovers and humor enthusiasts alike: Jigsaw Puzzle - Get lost in Grimble’s world piece by piece. Tapestry - Transform your wall into the heart of Widdershins Woods with this vibrant tapestry. Canvas Print - Perfect for any room that could use a bit of fantasy flair. Throw Pillow - Cozy up with Grimble and Sizzle’s hilarious companionship. Whether you’re a fan of gnomish humor or just love the idea of a dragon the size of a cat, these products let you bring a little bit of Widdershins Woods into your everyday life. Because, after all, who couldn't use a bit more magic and mischief?