frog

by Bill Tiepelman

Between Pencils and Planets

Froggert Van Toad and the Infinite Sketchpad By all accounts, Froggert Van Toad had lived a rather normal life for a frog who’d recently transcended dimensional boundaries via a raincloud. Not that he planned it. Froggert was, if anything, chronically unplanned. His days were normally spent slurping existential lattes on lily pads and sketching esoteric doodles that no one appreciated—least of all his cousin, Keith, who insisted Froggert get a "real job," like fly herding or insurance fraud. But Froggert was an artist. A philosopher. A fishless fisherman. And above all, an amphibian of radical optimism. So when a glowing planetary orb began weeping over his sketchbook one day—dripping cosmic tears onto his to-do list (which only said “nap” and “invent a new blue”)—Froggert didn’t flinch. He grabbed his favorite pencil, a stubby orange No. 3 with bite marks and delusions of grandeur, and dove right into the puddle. And that’s how he ended up here: fishing in a pond no bigger than a coaster, surrounded by office supplies, under a cloud that cried moonlight. He sat in his rolled-up shorts, water tickling his knees, casting his line into a miniature ecosystem populated by suspiciously judgmental goldfish. They blinked at him in passive-aggressive synchrony, as if to say, “You brought a reel into a metaphor?” But Froggert was unfazed. He’d seen worse critiques. That one time he submitted a sketch of a melancholy snail to the Prestigious Amphibian Arts Guild, they mailed back a single word: “why.” (Not “why?” Just “why.”) Now, he was determined. This wasn’t just a pond. This was the blank canvas between realities. The moist studio of the gods. The aquatic cradle of art itself. And Froggert would fish inspiration from it—hook, line, and overthinker’s spiral. Behind him, a stubby army of orange pencils stood like battalions of judgmental monks, whispering things like “perspective lines” and “remember shadows, idiot.” He ignored them. Froggert had more pressing concerns. Namely, what exactly was nibbling his bait… and whether or not it was the ghost of Van Gogh’s hamster, or just another manifestation of his imposter syndrome. The line tugged. His eyes widened. “Oh, it’s happening,” he muttered, gripping the reel like a frog possessed. “Either I’m about to catch the next great concept or a very angry cosmic metaphor.” From above, the cloud rumbled. Drops fell like glimmering commas, as if punctuation were raining directly onto his artistic block. Froggert smiled. “Come to papa,” he crooned to the void, “You’re either my muse or a fish with a graduate degree in chaos.” And then he pulled. The Fish, The Muse, and the Accidentally Erotic Eraser With a grunt that sounded suspiciously like a French exhale, Froggert tugged his line and reeled in... absolutely nothing. Nothing, but in a very specific way. It wasn't the absence of a fish that worried him. It was the *presence* of the absence. The line came back empty, yet shimmering—dripping with symbols that hadn't been invented yet, glowing in hues only visible after a double espresso and a full-on existential crisis. He blinked. Once. Twice. The air wobbled. Somewhere between the cloud and the pencils, a tiny trumpet made of watercolor sound blasted a four-note jingle he instinctively knew was titled “Bold Decision #6.” The pond rippled, and the goldfish formed the shape of a face. Her face. His muse. She emerged like a dream filtered through a Salvador Dalí colander—part fish, part frog, part celestial librarian. She had lips like an unspoken poem and gills that blushed when she noticed Froggert’s stare. In one delicate webbed hand, she held a scroll labeled “Plot Device”, and in the other, an iridescent eraser that radiated the sultry aura of forbidden grammar corrections. “Hello, Froggert,” she said, her voice a cross between jazz and a warning label. “I see you’ve been fishing again.” Froggert stood, wobbling slightly in the pond, pants soaked, posture heroic in the way that only extremely damp frogs can manage. “Muse,” he said breathlessly, adjusting his beret, which hadn’t been there moments ago. “You’ve returned. I feared you’d left me. You’ve been gone since the Great Sketchbook Fire of ’22.” “I had to,” she said. “You were still shading with a single light source like an amateur. And your metaphors? They were becoming… squishy.” He gasped, wounded. “Squishy?! That’s harsh coming from a woman who once used a walrus to symbolize late-stage capitalism.” She smiled coyly. “And it worked, didn’t it?” The goldfish nodded in unison like backup dancers with tenure. The Muse floated closer, and the pond deepened beneath her like the gravity of deadlines. She reached out with her eraser and touched Froggert lightly on the snout. His nose itched with the forgotten scent of acrylics and ambition. Around them, the pencils began to chant rhythmically, “DRAW, DRAW, DRAW,” like a cult of overly caffeinated art students. “You’ve been blocked,” she whispered. “Creatively. Emotionally. Aquatically.” “I know,” he croaked. “Ever since my last series—‘Anxious Gnomes in Business Casual’—got shredded in the gallery’s Yelp reviews, I haven’t been able to finish a single canvas. I just sit on my log, sip lukewarm inspiration, and yell at birds.” She laughed. The water giggled in sympathy. “You’ve forgotten why you create. It’s not about applause or reviews. It’s about process. Mystery. That delicious panic of not knowing what the hell you’re drawing until it stares back and says, ‘You missed a spot.’” Froggert blinked. “So… you’re saying I need to stop worrying about being brilliant and just make beautiful, weird nonsense?” She nodded. “Exactly. Now here—take this.” She handed him the eraser. As it touched his hand, the world shivered. Not violently. More like a flirty shimmy from a cosmic belly dancer. Instantly, Froggert was filled with memories—unfinished sketches, forgotten ideas, that one time he tried to animate spaghetti into a romantic lead. All of it. But now, he saw the value. The humor. The joy in the mess. “But wait,” he said, looking up, realization dawning like a sunrise painted by someone with access to very expensive light filters. “Why now? Why come back to me today?” Her expression softened. “Because, Froggert... the moon cried. And the moon only cries when a real artist is close to remembering who they are.” And then, just like that, she vanished—dissolving into the pond like watercolor in warm tea. The goldfish scattered, the cloud hiccupped, and the pencils screamed with fresh enthusiasm, now shouting, “EDIT! EDIT! EDIT!” Froggert stood alone, soaked and inspired, holding the sacred eraser and the line still shimmering with raw potential. He looked down at his feet, then at the sky, then at the empty canvas that had suddenly appeared on the grass beside him. He squinted at the canvas. It squinted back. “Okay,” he muttered. “Let’s make something… ridiculous.” The Exhibition at the Edge of the Desk Three days later, Froggert Van Toad had become a legend. Not in the mainstream sense. He hadn’t gone viral, nor been featured in any reputable galleries, nor even accepted into the local toad-based co-op (which had very strict “no dimension-hopping” bylaws). But in the hidden circles of interdimensional art critics, caffeine-fueled stationery supplies, and emotionally available goldfish, Froggert had ascended. It began with a single stroke—a chaotic, daring, slightly smudged line across the canvas. Then another. Then a furious explosion of colors that defied any wheel ever taught in art school. Froggert wasn’t just painting—he was exorcising doubt, romanticizing absurdity, and interrogating the myth of clean edges. The pond became his studio. The pencils? His choir. The cloud? A misty muse of background lighting. Each day, Froggert woke with dew on his snout, inspiration in his chest, and a dangerously erotic eraser tucked into his tiny toolbelt. He painted frogs as astronauts, bananas as philosophers, and fish as unfulfilled middle managers. He painted dreams that had no name and breakfast items with disturbing emotional baggage. One afternoon, he created a six-foot tall self-portrait made entirely of regret and glitter glue. The Muse reappeared briefly just to weep softly, fan herself with a palette, and disappear into the wallpaper. And then it happened. The cloud, in a particularly dramatic lightning-sneeze, unveiled a cosmic scroll: a gallery invitation addressed to “Froggert Van Toad, Artisan of Madness.” The location? The Edge of the Desk. The ultimate exhibition space—where the clutter ended and the void began. A place feared by dust bunnies and respected by rogue paperclips. Only the bravest creatives dared show their work there, teetering on the boundary of purpose and oblivion. Froggert accepted. Opening night was electric. The crowd—a curated mash of sapient staplers, depressed ink cartridges, origami swans with MFA degrees, and a talking cactus named Jim—gathered with baited breath and literal bait (there were snacks). A paper lantern orchestra hummed ambient jazz. Someone spilled chai on a crayon that immediately broke up with its label and swore off monogamy. Froggert arrived dressed in a dramatically flared bathrobe and mismatched galoshes. He held a martini made of melted snowflakes and bravado. Behind him stood his masterpieces, now elevated by string, glitter tape, and invisible emotional scaffolding. The crowd gasped. They gurgled. One staple fainted. A pair of thumbtacks whispered something scandalous and applauded with their pointy heads. And then the Muse returned. Not as a whisper or a ripple—but as a full-bodied hallucination wearing sequins, eyeliner, and the unmistakable aura of a metaphor that got tenure. She approached Froggert, eyes glinting with admiration and a hint of unfinished business. “You did it,” she said. “You turned doubt into spectacle.” Froggert croaked softly. “I had help. And also, possibly a mild head injury.” “It suits you.” They stood in silence for a moment, staring at the final piece: a chaotic, iridescent pondscape titled “Hope Wears Galoshes.” “So,” Froggert ventured, twirling the eraser in his fingers, “you gonna vanish again or…?” She smirked. “Only if you forget what this is really about.” “Art?” “No,” she said, leaning in close, her voice like soft thunder. “Permission.” Froggert nodded slowly, like a philosopher in slow motion or a frog too proud to admit he just got goosebumps. The cloud wept in joy. The pond burbled in applause. A rogue mechanical pencil proposed marriage to a sentient paintbrush. The Edge of the Desk shimmered with possibility, just as a nearby drawer yawned open and revealed an entire dimension of unsorted inspiration waiting for its day in the sun. Froggert took the Muse’s hand. “Let’s get weird,” he said. And they vanished into the puddle, giggling. The End… and also, just the beginning.     Bring Froggert's universe home with you! If you’ve laughed, lingered, or just slightly fallen in love with the world of Froggert Van Toad, why not invite a piece of his whimsical pondscape into your own space? From galaxy-kissed metal prints to dreamy canvas artwork, every detail of “Between Pencils and Planets” is ready to leap from the page and onto your wall. Feeling cozy? Drift into inspiration with our luxurious art tapestries or dry off from your next muse-induced pond dive with our irresistibly soft beach towels. Want to send a little creative chaos to someone special? Share the story with a printed greeting card that says, “I believe in amphibians, and you.” Explore all available formats at shop.unfocussed.com and let the muse move you.

by Bill Tiepelman

Ribbit in Bloom

The Blooming Problem Floberto was not your average frog. For starters, he hated mud. Absolutely despised it. Said it squelched between his toes in a way that felt “improper.” He preferred things clean, colorful, and dramatically fragrant. While the other frogs were happily ribbiting under lily pads, Floberto dreamed of finer things—like rose petals, rainwater champagne, and just once, being serenaded by a jazz quartet during a thunderstorm. His dreams were a constant source of eye-rolls among his pondmates. “You can’t be serious, Floberto,” hissed Grelch, a grumpy old bullfrog with a croak like a flat tire. “Roses? They have thorns, you idiot.” But Floberto didn’t care. He was determined to find a bloom that matched his... ambiance. So one dew-drenched morning, he leapt from the pond’s edge and set off into the Great Garden Beyond. Legends said it was ruled by a monarch named Maribelle the Cat, who once ate a squirrel simply for looking too nervous. Floberto, with all the swagger of a frog who moisturized, was undeterred. Hours passed, and he hopped past fields of forget-me-nots, ducked under hydrangeas, and narrowly avoided becoming a bee’s accidental booty call inside a tulip. He was about to give up, mid-hop, when he smelled it. That perfume. Spicy, citrusy, the kind of smell that said, “Yes, darling, I am a bit much.” It was there—gleaming in the morning sun like a royal summons. A rose. But not just any rose. This one was massive, with petals like velvet dipped in sunset, unfurling in warm spirals of amber, gold, and just a hint of menace. She looked dangerous and fabulous. Just like Floberto liked his romantic prospects. Without hesitation, he leapt into the center, nestling himself deep in the bloom’s luxurious folds. And just like that, he vanished. From the outside, you couldn’t see him at all. It was as though the rose had swallowed him whole in an act of floral flirtation. From inside, Floberto grinned. “Finally,” he crooned, “a throne worthy of my thighs.” Unfortunately, what he didn’t know was that this rose wasn’t just a flower. It was enchanted. And not in a sweet, Disney sort of way. More like “cursed by a flirtatious horticulturist with trust issues.” The moment Floberto adjusted his bottom on a particularly plump petal, the rose shuddered. Vines curled inward. Pollen shimmered like glitter caught in a spell. And with a final burp of magical energy, Floberto the Frog was fused with the flower in a way that no amphibian therapist would ever be trained to explain. He blinked. His legs were still there. His froggy features, intact. But so were the petals, now a part of him—wrapped over his shoulders like a cape, blooming out of his back like wings, and curling around his head like a fashion-forward bonnet made by a deranged florist with dreams of Paris. “Okay,” he said to the sky. “This is not a problem. This is branding.” Somewhere in the hedges, a squirrel watching the whole thing dropped its acorn and whispered, “What the actual frog...” Crowned in Sass, Drenched in Destiny Now, some frogs might panic when they find themselves fused with an enchanted flower. Some might scream, hop uncontrollably in a flurry of pollen, or launch into frantic ribbits while demanding an audience with the nearest wizard. Not Floberto. Oh no. He adjusted his petal-collar, gave his shoulders a smug little shake to test the bounce of his newly acquired floral frill, and declared, “I am officially stunning.” After a brief moment of self-admiration and two more just for safety, Floberto did what any self-respecting frog-flower chimera with a flair for the dramatic would do: he struck a pose and waited to be discovered. Which, as fate and garden politics would have it, didn’t take long. Enter: Maribelle the Cat. Now, Maribelle wasn’t your average backyard feline. She wasn’t here for belly rubs and laser dots. No, she was the self-appointed Queen of the Garden—a sleek, smoky-gray tabby with golden eyes and a penchant for biting the heads off garden gnomes. Legend said she once held an entire standoff with a hawk and won with nothing but a sarcastic yawn and a claw swipe to the face. Maribelle didn’t rule the garden. She curated it. She edited it. Anything that didn’t suit her aesthetic was peed on or buried. So when whispers reached her twitchy ears that something “weird and colorful” was blooming in the west patch without her permission, she padded over with the slow, deliberate menace of someone who had never once been told ‘no.’ She arrived in a rustle of leaves and contempt, her tail high, her pupils narrowed like judgmental slits. When she saw Floberto—perched in his glorious rose-throne, all eyes and petals and smug self-satisfaction—she stopped. Blinked. Sat down with a thud. “What in the organic, compostable hell are you?” she drawled. Floberto, unbothered and blooming, tilted his head. “I am evolution, darling.” Maribelle sniffed. “You look like a salad bar with an identity crisis.” “Compliment accepted.” The cat’s tail flicked. “You’re not supposed to be here. This is my garden. I approve the flora. I nap beneath the ferns and occasionally murder voles under the moonlight. You’re... chaos.” Floberto gave her a slow blink that rivaled any feline. “I am art. I am nature. I am the drama.” “You’re a frog in a flower.” “I am a floral icon and I demand recognition.” Maribelle sneezed in his direction, then began licking her paw aggressively, as if washing away the very concept of his presence. “The aphids are going to unionize over this.” But as she licked and side-eyed him, something peculiar began to happen. Bees hovered near Floberto but didn’t sting. The winds shifted softly around him. Even the usually snobby tulips bent ever so slightly in his direction. The entire garden, it seemed, was paying attention. “This isn’t just enchantment,” Maribelle muttered. “This is social disruption.” She paced in a slow circle around Floberto’s rose, tail twitching like a WiFi signal in a thunderstorm. “You’ve fused plant and animal. You’ve blurred the ecosystemic binary. You’ve created something… unsettlingly stylish.” Floberto let out a demure croak. “Thank you. It’s not easy to be groundbreaking and moist at the same time.” And that’s when it happened. The change. The first true moment of transformation—not just of body, but of status. A caterpillar, previously known in the garden for his severe anxiety and refusal to molt, climbed shakily up a daisy stalk and squeaked out, “I like it.” Then a hummingbird zipped by, paused mid-air, and murmured, “Sick drip, my guy.” And then—then—a dandelion puffed itself up and whispered on the breeze: “Icon.” Maribelle stood stunned. For the first time since she’d declared herself queen (following a particularly dramatic standoff with a weed whacker), something had shifted in the power structure of the garden. Floberto hadn’t just inserted himself into her kingdom—he had begun to redefine it. “Fine,” she growled. “You want recognition? You’ll get it. Tomorrow, we hold the Garden Assembly. And if the creatures vote to keep your fancy froggy behind here... I’ll allow it. But if they don’t—if they choose order over petal-draped madness—I’ll personally punt you back into the mud, no matter how dewy your couture is.” Floberto smirked, utterly unthreatened. “Very well. I shall prepare my speech. And my shoulders. They require shimmer.” That night, Floberto didn’t sleep. Partially because the rose tickled when he inhaled too deeply, but mostly because he was planning. His speech would need to be powerful. Transformational. He needed to speak to the soul of every underappreciated weed, every overlooked earthworm, every moth who ever wanted to be a butterfly but feared the judgment of dahlias. He would become the symbol of blooming where you were defiantly not planted. And if he had to wear a floral cape and flirt with a cranky cat queen to do it, so be it. “Let the garden try to contain me,” he whispered, striking a dramatic silhouette against the moonlit rose. “Let them bloom with me... or get left in the compost pile of irrelevance.” The Assembly of Bloom and Doom Morning arrived not with birdsong, but with murmurs. Whispered pollen gossip. The buzz of gossiping bees. A nervous rustling of leaves that said, “Something is happening, and we might need snacks.” Maribelle had summoned every living thing in the garden—excluding the mole, who refused to surface without a lawyer. From the regal daffodils to the existentially confused ants, all came to the Great Garden Assembly, held (somewhat inconveniently) beneath the raspberry trellis, which was known for its uneven lighting and thorn-related lawsuits. Maribelle perched atop a rock shaped like an accidental phallus and addressed the crowd with all the weary condescension of a monarch who had been asked to host a talent show against her will. “Creatures of the garden,” she yawned, “we are gathered today to determine whether this... amphibious flower accident stays among us, or is expelled for crimes against aesthetic continuity.” Floberto cleared his throat—or, more precisely, croaked with confidence—and leapt onto a dahlia podium someone had sneakily erected with twine and optimism. His petals gleamed. His eyes shone with wet conviction. And, as if nature itself were cosigning his vibe, a single butterfly landed on his petal-shoulder like a biodegradable mic drop. “Fellow photosynthesizers and pollinators,” he began, “I come not to divide this garden, but to bloom with reckless intent.” Gasps rippled. A dandelion fainted. Somewhere in the back, a pine beetle clapped and immediately felt self-conscious. “You see,” he continued, pacing in slow, regal hops, “we have been told we must be either plant or animal. We must choose dirt or dew. Legs or leaves. But what if I told you that we could be both? That we could leap and lounge in sunlight. That we could ribbit while smelling fantastic.” The crowd was rapt. Even the cucumbers, normally disinterested in political anything, leaned forward. “I was not born into a rose. I became one. By choice. By accident. By enchantment. Who knows? But in doing so, I became more than the sum of my slime.” From the dais, Maribelle squinted. “Is this... performance poetry?” “It’s a manifesto,” hissed a monarch butterfly, who once went to a workshop in Brooklyn and wouldn’t shut up about it. Floberto flared his petals and took a deep breath. “There are creatures here who’ve never known what it means to feel seen. The aphids who dance ballet in secret. The slug who writes romance novels under a pseudonym. The worm with a crippling fear of tunnels. I am here for them.” “And also,” he added, “because I look fabulous and you can’t stop looking at me.” A chorus of high-pitched squeals erupted from a cluster of teenage mushrooms. A squirrel clutched his chest. A ladybug whispered, “Is it possible to be... into this?” Then, from the back, came a voice—slow, sticky, and devastatingly sincere. It was Gregory the Snail, infamous for his questionable love poems and trail-based calligraphy. “He made me feel... pollenated... in my soul.” The crowd broke into chaos. Vines writhed with excitement. Bees accidentally high-fived in midair. A mole did surface—but only to declare, “I’m bisexual and this frog makes me believe in reincarnation.” Maribelle hissed for silence, but it was too late. A revolution had begun. Not of swords, nor claws—but of identity. Of glamour. Of unapologetic self-expression by way of botanical mutation. And so it was done. By a landslide vote—three grubs abstained, citing “confusion”—Floberto was not only permitted to stay, but was crowned the first-ever Ambassador of Floral Weirdness and Unapologetic Vibes. Maribelle, with all the grace she could muster, approached him. “Well played,” she muttered, licking one paw and gently adjusting a petal. “You’re still unbearable, but you’re... effective.” Floberto bowed. “Thank you, your majesty. I’m like mildew—impossible to ignore, and occasionally poetic.” And so, the garden changed. Just a little. Just enough. New blooms began to sprout in strange shapes. The caterpillar finally molted and became a butterfly with bisexual lighting on his wings. The slug published his novel under the name “Velvet Wiggle.” And Maribelle, although she’d never admit it, began sleeping under the rosebush where Floberto lived—just close enough to hear his nightly affirmations. “I am moist. I am magnificent. I am enough.” And in the moonlight, the garden whispered back... “Ribbit.”     Feeling enchanted by Floberto’s floral fabulousness? Bring the sass and splendor of “Ribbit in Bloom” into your world with a variety of fine art products designed to bloom on your wall—or your coffee table. Whether you're vibing with a framed print that turns heads, a sleek metal print with attitude, or a luxe acrylic print that sparkles with drama—Floberto’s got you covered. For those who prefer a more interactive experience, try the jigsaw puzzle (it's like frog-fueled therapy). Or send a smirk by mail with a sassy greeting card. However you bloom, bloom boldly.

by Bill Tiepelman

Luminescent Leap

It all started on a Thursday night—one of those quiet evenings where nothing in particular was meant to happen. That was until Gary, your average desk-jockey, found himself witnessing the most bizarre, almost psychedelic experience of his life. Gary, who prided himself on being an overly rational guy, was about to have his reality flipped like a pancake at a Denny’s breakfast special. He was sipping his lukewarm beer, avoiding his neighbor’s attempt to lure him into another rant about backyard fences, when something bright caught his eye. At first, he thought his vision was messing with him—too much screen time maybe, or that expired hummus from earlier. But no, this was real. It was glowing, and it was hopping straight for him. Enter: the frog. The Glowing Frog's Grand Entrance This wasn’t just any frog. No, this amphibian looked like it had crawled out of a rave held inside a lava lamp. Its skin glowed in neon swirls, like someone had painted it with UV-reactive body paint and let it loose at a club. Red eyes like disco balls locked onto Gary’s dumbfounded face. "What... the actual hell?" Gary muttered to himself. The frog just sat there, unbothered, pulsating with colors that would make even the most seasoned EDM festival-goer jealous. Gary knelt down, feeling oddly drawn to this little rave creature. "Alright, buddy, what's your deal?" he asked, as if this frog was about to launch into a TED talk about bio-luminescence. Instead, the frog blinked once and then—without warning—leapt straight onto his chest. The Unlikely Bond Now, most people would scream, flail, and possibly call Animal Control. But Gary, in his typical "this can't be real" denial mode, just stood there, stiff as a board, while the frog clung to his shirt like a decorative brooch from another dimension. Moments passed. Gary started to relax, his pulse syncing up with the frog’s rhythmic glow. This was weird, but maybe it wasn’t the worst thing to happen to him all week. After all, his car had been towed on Monday, his boss had given him the stink-eye for a typo in an email, and now... this frog. Glowing frog. Hugging his shirt. It was almost... peaceful. That peace, however, was short-lived. Without any warning, the frog did what frogs do best—it leapt. But this wasn’t just any jump. No, this was a leap with a capital L. One second, it was perched on Gary’s chest, and the next, it launched skyward with the speed of a caffeinated kangaroo, disappearing into the inky black night. The Aftermath and Existential Crisis Gary just stood there, gaping at the spot where the frog had vanished into the sky. He looked down at his shirt, half expecting some magical residue, but no—just his old, slightly stained hoodie. The beer, which had somehow remained in his hand, was now warm and flat. His neighbor was still yammering about fences in the background, completely oblivious to the inter-dimensional party that had just occurred on Gary’s torso. For a moment, he considered whether the whole thing had been a weird daydream. Maybe he was losing it. Maybe that hummus really was that expired. But then Gary felt it—a faint tingling on his chest, right where the frog had sat. It wasn't just tingling, it was glowing. Slowly, a soft neon glow began to pulse from his skin. He stared down, mouth agape. "Well, shit," he said with a mix of awe and panic. The New Normal From that night forward, Gary was never quite the same. He tried going back to work, pretending that the frog incident hadn’t happened. But there was no ignoring the glow. Every time he got stressed, his skin would light up like a human glow stick. His co-workers noticed. His boss noticed. Even the guy at the coffee shop started asking him if he’d been to Burning Man recently. Gary had two choices: embrace the weirdness or check himself into the nearest psychiatric facility. After a couple of awkward work meetings where his glowing cheeks had distracted everyone, Gary decided to lean into the absurdity. Why not, right? Life was already strange enough. Maybe being a glowing human wasn’t the worst thing. At least now he could finally ignore his neighbor’s fence rants under the excuse of "I’ve got to go charge my skin" or something equally ridiculous. One day, he found himself walking through the park at night, and there it was. The frog. Just chilling under a tree, glowing as if it had never left. Gary paused and stared at it. The frog stared back. There was an unspoken understanding between them now, a mutual respect. Without a word, Gary sat down beside it. The frog hopped onto his lap, glowing in time with the night sky. And for once, Gary didn’t feel like a guy with a weird frog problem. He felt... at peace. Glowing, but at peace. Maybe this was just his life now. Who knew? He’d certainly stop eating expired hummus though.     If you're captivated by the intricate, glowing design of the luminescent frog and want to bring it into your space, you can explore prints, products, downloads, and licensing options at Unfocussed Photography & Art Archive. From vibrant wall art to customizable products, this psychedelic creation is available in multiple formats to suit your creative needs. For cross-stitch enthusiasts looking for a unique, vibrant project, the Luminescent Leap Cross Stitch Pattern is a perfect choice. This downloadable pattern features 120 DMC colors and measures 400 x 340 stitches, designed to challenge and reward advanced stitchers with its detailed, glowing design. Add this bold and colorful piece to your collection today!  

by Bill Tiepelman

A Dance with Destiny: Predator vs. Prey

In the depths of the Whispering Woods, where the shadows danced with the light, a chameleon named Verdant roamed with the stealth of a whispered secret. Verdant was not your ordinary forest dweller; he was a creature of cunning and wit, draped in a cloak of shifting hues that mirrored his ever-changing thoughts. One crisp morning, as the fog clung to the underbrush like a shroud, Verdant stumbled upon an ancient clearing, known to the creatures of the forest as the Arena of Fates. Legends whispered of a mystical force within the clearing that could grant any creature a single wish—if they survived its trial. As Verdant’s eyes adjusted to the eerie light filtering through the fog, he spotted a butterfly, unlike any he had ever seen. This butterfly, named Prism, boasted wings that were a tapestry of colors so vivid they seemed to pulse with life. Prism, too, had heard the legends and, tired of fleeing the shadows of predators, sought the promise of eternal safety the Arena could offer. The two exchanged wary glances, each recognizing the other’s intentions. "A dance with destiny, then?" Verdant's tongue flickered in amusement, his voice a blend of charm and challenge. Prism fluttered her wings in agreement, the air humming with the tension of their unspoken pact. But the Arena was no place for mere shows of bravery. As they prepared to face the trial, the ground beneath them stirred. From the earth arose the Guardian of the Arena, a spectral entity, twisted and gnarled like the ancient trees surrounding them. With eyes that burned like coal and a voice that rattled the dead leaves, it spoke, "To earn your wish, you must survive until the moon's zenith, but only one of you may claim the prize. Choose now if you wish to face each other or face me." Verdant and Prism, bound by necessity yet divided by their desires, knew the night would be long. With a nod that sealed their temporary truce, they turned to face the Guardian, their hearts pounding in unison against the unknown horrors that awaited them in the darkening wood. The Dance of Destiny As the moon carved its path across the starless sky, Verdant and Prism maneuvered through the Whispering Woods, their every step shadowed by the malevolent gaze of the Guardian. The forest, alive with whispers and mocking laughter, seemed to conspire against them, branches reaching out like twisted fingers to snag at Prism's delicate wings or impede Verdant's stealthy progress. The night deepened, and with it, the challenges escalated. Phantom creatures, spectral visions of the forest’s deadliest predators, emerged from the fog. Each encounter was a test of nerve and agility—Verdant's camouflage blending him into the nightmare, while Prism's dazzling wings illuminated their path with a surreal glow, casting eerie shadows that danced mockingly around them. As they neared the heart of the Arena, the Guardian's voice boomed through the trees, "The zenith approaches, and so does your moment of truth. Will it be betrayal or sacrifice?" Verdant and Prism, their bodies weary and spirits tested, shared a glance that spoke of mutual respect born of shared peril. The tension between survival and sacrifice hung heavy in the air. In a twist that neither could have predicted, Verdant, with a wry smile, flicked his tongue in a gesture that was both a farewell and a feint. "Run, Prism, and claim your wish. I've had my fill of chasing shadows." With a sudden burst of color, Prism darted toward the clearing as Verdant turned to face the oncoming horde of phantoms, his body morphing into the colors of battle. The moon reached its zenith as Prism, her wings beating like the heart of the forest, touched down in the center of the Arena. The Guardian, observing the chameleon's sacrifice, granted her the wish of an aura so mesmerizing, no predator would ever dare strike at her beauty again. Back in the forest, Verdant fought valiantly, a smile playing on his lips as he disappeared among the phantoms, his legend forever woven into the tales of the Whispering Woods—tales of a chameleon who danced with destiny to give a butterfly her dream.    Explore Our "A Dance with Destiny" Collection Delve into the dramatic interplay of nature with our exclusive "A Dance with Destiny: Predator vs. Prey" collection. Each product captures the essence of this breathtaking moment between a chameleon and a butterfly, offering a unique way to bring a piece of this story into your home or wardrobe. Artistic Posters Enhance your wall decor with our high-quality posters. Each poster reflects the vivid imagery and dynamic tension of the original scene, perfect for any room that needs a touch of drama and natural beauty. 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