funny fantasy

by Bill Tiepelman

Fae of the Laughing Leaves

A Cautionary Tale of Bad Decisions and Worse Ideas The Acorn Incident Deep in the Greenwood — where even the moss rolls its eyes at tourists — lived a fairy known far and wide (and sometimes regrettably) as the Fae of the Laughing Leaves. Her real name was unpronounceable to mortals, involving at least two eyebrow movements and a sneeze, so everyone just called her "Giggles." Giggles was a vision of chaotic charm: green hair like she'd lost a bet with a hedge, shimmering wings that flashed colors you couldn't describe without making hand gestures, and a smile that usually meant someone’s afternoon was about to get a lot more complicated. Her favorite hobby? Mild emotional sabotage. One glorious, overcaffeinated afternoon, Giggles decided it was time to shake up the sleepy old forest. (Mostly because the last prank — involving a love potion and an extremely amorous squirrel — had worn off, and frankly, the place was getting boring.) Her plan was simple: enchant a handful of acorns to explode in clouds of glitter every time someone said the word "leaf." Hilarious, right? Except, well... fairies aren't known for measuring things carefully. By sunset, every single living thing in the woods — trees, foxes, tourists, confused mushrooms — was sneezing sparkles and muttering dark threats about "that green-haired menace." Giggles, naturally, thought it was the best day ever. She even hosted an unofficial awards ceremony for "Most Ridiculous Sneezing Fit." (First place went to a centaur who sneezed so hard he accidentally proposed to a birch tree.) But the chaos had consequences. See, when you meddle with nature in the Greenwood, the trees notice. Especially the Elder Tree, a towering ancient being with bark thicker than most egos and the patience of a caffeinated cat. And when the Elder Tree gets cranky? Let's just say... bad things happen to mischievous fairies. Under the full moon’s watchful eye, the forest grew ominously quiet. The Elder Tree stirred, shaking centuries of dust off its gnarled branches, and in a voice like two mountains arguing over property lines, it called out: "FAE OF THE LAUGHING LEAVES... STEP FORTH." Giggles, perched upside-down in a nearby branch, casually picked a piece of glitter from her eyebrow. "Or what?" she mumbled, already plotting an exit strategy involving smoke bombs and feigned emotional vulnerability. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath. The stage was set. The mischievous Fae was about to face the consequences of her most ridiculous stunt yet... or at least, she would if she didn't wriggle out of it like usual. Bark, Bite, and Questionable Negotiations As the Elder Tree's thunderous voice echoed through the clearing, the fae of the Laughing Leaves — known colloquially (and affectionately?) as Giggles — performed the time-honored fairy tradition of acting like she hadn’t heard a damn thing. She plucked a leaf from her hair (which immediately exploded into a puff of glitter — residual side effects, no big deal) and gave the Elder Tree her best innocent stare. This was difficult, considering her left eyebrow had a mind of its own and kept twitching like it was plotting its own mischief. "Oh no," she chirped, fluttering down dramatically, "whatever could you mean, Great and... uh..." she glanced up, noting the distinct smell of ancient, grumpy authority, "extremely dignified Wooden One?" The Elder Tree, not easily impressed by theatrics (or anything, really — it once ignored a flash mob of singing satyrs), leaned forward with a groan of creaking bark. A root the size of a horse flexed dangerously near her foot. Giggles wisely hovered a few inches above ground — she'd seen what happened to the last fairy who thought she could outrun a cranky oak. (Spoiler: he lives permanently as a decorative knot now.) "YOU HAVE DISTURBED THE BALANCE," rumbled the Tree, small twigs snapping with the force of his scowl. Giggles twirled in the air, arms thrown wide like a magician revealing his latest trick — or an idiot about to get sued. "Disturbed? Nooo, no no no! I prefer to think of it as... flavor enhancement!" The Elder Tree was unimpressed. "THE FOREST IS SNEEZING, FAIRY." "Seasonal allergies!" she sang, somersaulting midair. "Very trendy this time of year." The root flexed again, closer this time. Bark crumbled. Giggles stopped mid-spin. Right. Not the time to be cute. (Well, cuter.) Seeing negotiations were going poorly, she switched tactics: flattery. "Listen, Big Bark Daddy," she purred, fluttering dangerously close to what might technically be considered the Tree’s "face" area, "you're looking exceptionally... photosynthetic tonight. Are you exfoliating? You're absolutely glowing." Somewhere in the dark canopy, an owl audibly gagged. The Elder Tree took a very slow, deliberate breath — which involved several centuries of accumulated moss shifting grumpily down his sides — and said, "A PRICE MUST BE PAID." Giggles froze. Not because she was scared (okay, maybe 12% scared), but because "A Price Must Be Paid" was ancient forest code for, "You're about to have a very bad time." Still, she was a professional. She adjusted her leafy dress (which was hanging a bit too rakishly off one shoulder, scandalizing a family of modest violets nearby) and asked, "What kind of price? Gold? Glitter? My Spotify playlist of tragic ballads from brokenhearted gnomes?" The Elder Tree was silent for a long, heavy moment. Then, in a voice so low it vibrated small rocks out of the dirt: "YOU SHALL... ATTEND... THE ANNUAL FOREST SINGLES’ DANCE... AS THE GUEST OF HONOR." Giggles gasped. Not the Singles' Dance. Anything but the Singles' Dance. It was less a "dance" and more a "desperate meat market of mythical proportions" where lonely dryads, nervous trolls, and socially awkward elves tried — and mostly failed — to flirt. Last year, the dance had ended with three fights, two accidental engagements, and a very confused badger who woke up married to a water sprite. "That's cruel and unusual punishment," she whined. "JUSTICE," the Elder Tree boomed. "Also highly ineffective! I don't even date unless it's a full moon and Mercury’s in retrograde and someone else is paying!" But the decree was final. Giggles, wings drooping in theatrical despair, accepted her fate. Invitations went out. Decorations were hung. The enchanted forest buzzed with gossip louder than a caffeinated pixie convention. On the night of the dance, she arrived wearing a gown spun from spider silk and moonbeams, trailing a suspicious cloud of pheromones she'd "accidentally" brewed a little too strong. (If she was going to suffer, everyone was.) She flirted outrageously with a bashful centaur who nearly dropped his punch bowl. She twirled scandalously close to a bashful dryad who blushed until her leaves caught fire. She winked at a cluster of shy gnomes, causing two of them to faint into the snack table. And when a seven-foot-tall troll with surprisingly delicate hands asked if she'd like to "dance real close-like," she smiled sweetly, leaned in, and whispered: "Only if you can handle glitter, big guy." Seconds later, the poor troll was covered head to toe in sparkling chaos. The dance dissolved into panicked giggling, a minor food fight, and, somehow, a spontaneous conga line led by a drunk faun. Giggles, laughing so hard she nearly fell out of the air, wiped a glittery tear from her eye. The Elder Tree watched from a distance, his face unreadable... but if one listened very carefully, one might have heard the faintest, very reluctant chuckle ripple through his ancient roots. Because in the Greenwood, you didn't really win against the Fae of the Laughing Leaves. You just survived her... and maybe, if you were lucky, you got a little fabulous doing it.     Bring a Little Mischief Home! If you fell under the spell of Giggles (don't worry, it happens to the best of us), you can snag a piece of the magic for yourself! Whether you want to drape her sass over your couch, strut into town with her on your tote, or surprise your friends with the world’s most chaotic greeting card, we’ve got you covered. Literally. Tapestry — Wrap yourself in pure mischievous vibes. Framed Print — For walls that need more sass and sparkle. Tote Bag — Carry chaos wherever you go (responsibly, probably). Greeting Card — Send some fairy mischief through the mail. Beach Towel — Soak up the sun (and scandal) with Giggles. Warning: Owning a piece of the Fae of the Laughing Leaves may cause spontaneous giggles, side-eyes, and a suspicious increase in glitter sightings. Proceed with delight.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Fluff of Wrath

A Feathered Menace is Born The villagers of Ember Hollow had many things to fear—rogue spells, mischievous sprites, the occasional fire-breathing goat (long story)—but nothing prepared them for the wrath of a particularly tiny, exceptionally furious ball of fluff. It began, as most catastrophes do, with an innocent mistake. Old Maeryn, the town’s eccentric herbalist, had discovered a peculiar egg nestled in the roots of a charred oak. Thinking it abandoned, she took it home, set it by the fire, and promptly forgot about it. That is, until it hatched. And oh, what a hatching it was. With a crack, a snap, and an explosion of embers, out popped a creature so ridiculously adorable it should have been illegal. But instead of soft peeps and wobbling steps, this fiery fledgling locked eyes with Maeryn, fluffed up its smoking feathers, and let out a shriek of pure, unfiltered rage. “What… in the blazes… are YOU?” Maeryn muttered, brushing soot from her apron. The chick’s eyes burned—literally—like twin molten suns, its expression that of a tiny overlord who had just discovered his empire was made of peasants. With an indignant chirp, it stomped forward, radiating a heat that singed Maeryn’s hem. She grabbed a wooden spoon and pointed it at the chick like a sword. “Now listen here, you little fire hazard,” she scolded. “I saved you, so you’d best drop the attitude.” The chick did not drop the attitude. If anything, it doubled down. It flared its wings (adorably useless), puffed out its chest (somehow even fluffier), and narrowed its smoldering eyes with all the menace of a pint-sized warlord. Then it sneezed. And set the curtains on fire. “Oh, fantastic.” Maeryn groaned as she grabbed a bucket. The fire was quickly extinguished, but the chick remained, unbothered, glaring at her with the silent fury of an emperor insulted by an unworthy subject. With a sigh, Maeryn folded her arms and stared back. “I suppose you need a name, don’t you?” she mused. “How about Ember?” The chick’s feathers flared brighter. It did not look impressed. “Ignis?” The chick let out a disgusted chirp. “Oh, for the love of—FINE. You tell me then.” The chick blinked. Its beak curled in the tiniest, most mischievous smirk. Then, with slow, deliberate menace, it hopped onto a wooden spoon, balanced itself like a feathered king upon his throne, and stared deep into Maeryn’s soul. “Blaze.” Maeryn’s jaw dropped. “Did you just—did you actually just name yourself? By the stars, what are you?” Blaze said nothing. He simply fluffed up, smirked again, and hopped off the spoon as if to say, You’ll find out soon enough. And that was the moment Maeryn realized she had made a terrible mistake. The Reign of Blaze It didn’t take long for the villagers to realize something was… different about Maeryn’s new ‘pet.’ For one, Blaze had opinions. Strong ones. And he expressed them with fire. The baker learned this the hard way when he refused to give Blaze an extra pastry. A perfectly golden croissant was exchanged for a pile of ashes. The town’s blacksmith, a burly man with the patience of a saint, tried to “train” Blaze into behaving. Blaze responded by perching on his anvil and making every single horseshoe he forged mysteriously melt into puddles. And poor old Thom, who dared to call Blaze ‘cute,’ found himself inexplicably locked in his outhouse for three whole days. “That chick is pure chaos.” Thom declared once freed. Maeryn, now sporting singed eyebrows and an ever-present air of exhaustion, could only nod. “I’d give him away, but I think he’d just set my house on fire in revenge.” Meanwhile, Blaze was busy asserting his dominance. He had claimed a spot on the village fountain, where he would sit, fluffing and glaring, as if he were the self-appointed king of Ember Hollow. Passersby would cautiously nod in greeting, lest they incur his wrath. The mayor, in a last-ditch effort to regain control, even tried offering Blaze an “Official Town Mascot” title. Blaze listened. Considered. Then set the mayor’s hat on fire. Things only escalated from there. It started small—chamber pots mysteriously heating up, porridge bowls boiling over before anyone touched them. Then, Blaze discovered revenge. A woman who shooed him out of her garden woke up to find every vegetable in it roasted. A man who laughed at Blaze’s size found his boots melted to the cobblestone. By the time the villagers realized they were living under a tiny, flame-feathered tyrant, it was too late. Blaze had taken full control. “We have to do something!” one of the council members whispered at a secret meeting. “Like what?” another hissed. “He’s unstoppable! He sneezes, and half the town needs repairs!” “Then we outsmart him,” Maeryn declared. “He’s got power, but he’s also got an ego bigger than his body. We just have to make him think it’s his idea to leave.” And so, the next morning, the town gathered at the square, where Blaze sat atop his usual perch, peering down at them like an unimpressed deity. Maeryn stepped forward, clearing her throat. “Oh great and powerful Blaze,” she began, barely suppressing her sarcasm, “we have an honor to bestow upon you.” Blaze blinked, intrigued. “You, our glorious overlord, have clearly outgrown this humble village,” she continued. “Your power is too grand, your presence too mighty. It is time you take your rightful place in the Royal Palace.” Blaze tilted his head. Palace? “Yes, yes!” one of the council members jumped in. “A legendary place where great beings such as yourself are worshipped and given endless food.” Blaze ruffled his feathers, considering this. Worship? Endless food? A palace? He let out a smug little chirp. “We shall escort you there in glorious procession,” Maeryn said dramatically. “Immediately.” With that, they placed Blaze onto a velvet pillow, carried him to the grandest carriage in town, and—with a final chorus of exaggerated praises—sent him off to a castle many miles away, where he would definitely be someone else’s problem. The villagers watched as the carriage disappeared over the hills. Then, in unison, they exhaled. “Do you think he’ll actually make it to the palace?” Thom asked. Maeryn shook her head. “Oh, absolutely not. But that’s a future problem.” And with that, Ember Hollow was free. For now.     Bring the Wrath Home! 🔥 Blaze may have left Ember Hollow, but his fiery spirit lives on! Want to add some smoldering attitude to your space? Check out The Fluff of Wrath collection and take home this mischievous little tyrant in style: 🔥 Tapestry – Let Blaze loom over your kingdom (or living room) like the tiny overlord he is. 🔥 Canvas Print – Perfect for anyone who appreciates a side of attitude with their décor. 🔥 Tote Bag – Carry a little chaos with you wherever you go. Warning: May intimidate lesser bags. 🔥 Round Beach Towel – Because nothing says “don’t mess with me” like sunbathing with a furious fireball. 🔥 Throw Pillow – Soft, sassy, and slightly menacing. Just like Blaze. Get yours now and channel your inner firebird! 🔥🐤

by Bill Tiepelman

Guardian of the Golden Clover

Deep in the heart of the Emerald Glade, nestled between the Wobbly Hills and the River of Regrettable Decisions, lived Fergus O’Twinkleboots, the self-proclaimed Guardian of the Golden Clover. No one had asked him to be the guardian. No one particularly wanted him to be the guardian. But Fergus had appointed himself to the position, made himself a badge out of melted gold coins, and spent most of his days drinking, yelling at passersby, and setting up ridiculously impractical security measures. Fergus was a rare breed—a gnome-leprechaun hybrid, possessing both the fiery stubbornness of gnomes and the chaotic mischief of leprechauns. He was about two feet tall, with a beard so curly it could double as a bird’s nest, eyes that sparkled like freshly poured whiskey, and a green coat that was covered in so much gold embroidery, it looked like a dragon had sneezed on him. His hat was an architectural masterpiece—so curled and floppy that it required structural support (provided by a network of enchanted twigs). A Guardian’s Responsibilities (or Lack Thereof) The Golden Clover was no ordinary plant. It was said to be the luckiest of all clovers, granting limitless fortune to whoever touched it. Naturally, this meant that Fergus had exactly three responsibilities: Keep the Golden Clover safe. Make sure nobody stole it. Drink enough ale to forget about responsibilities one and two. He excelled at the third one. To deter thieves, Fergus had set up a variety of highly sophisticated booby traps, including: A set of enchanted bagpipes that played off-key sea shanties when stepped on. A squad of attack squirrels trained in aerial acrobatics (though they mostly just stole his snacks). A badger named Nigel who could scream at such a high frequency that people momentarily forgot their own names. A fake map labeled “Secret Shortcut to the Clover” that actually led adventurers into the Pit of Existential Dread, where a magical voice would whisper, “Why do you even want luck? Isn’t happiness the true goal?” Needless to say, the traps were effective. For years, Fergus remained undefeated. The Great Heist (And The Even Greater Hangover) One fateful night, Fergus found himself in his favorite drinking establishment, The Tipsy Goblin, engaged in an intense drinking competition against a particularly shady-looking elf named Darius the Dubiously Employed. “Ye think ye can outdrink me?” Fergus slurred, slamming down his 12th mug of clover ale. Darius smirked. “I don’t think, Fergus. I know.” This was, of course, a blatant lie. Nobody could outdrink Fergus O’Twinkleboots. However, Darius had a plan: get Fergus so spectacularly drunk that he passed out, allowing Darius’ team of thieves to steal the Golden Clover. It was, as plans went, quite solid. It also backfired spectacularly. The Heist Begins At precisely 2:43 AM, Darius’ crew tiptoed into the glade, confident that their leader had successfully incapacitated the Guardian. They were wrong. Fergus, despite his intoxicated state, had muscle memory. The moment his enchanted “Thief-Detection Alarm” (Nigel the Badger) let out an ear-piercing screech, Fergus reacted. With the grace of a drunken ballerina, he leapt out of bed, donned his hat (upside down, but still), and pressed the hidden button beneath his left boot, activating The Oh No Ye Don’t Mechanism. What followed was a series of escalating disasters: A trapdoor opened beneath the thieves, dumping them into the “Pit of Mild Inconvenience,” where they were immediately tangled in enchanted laundry lines. The attack squirrels (who had been bribed with walnuts earlier) betrayed Fergus and stole his cheese collection instead. The bagpipes began blaring an off-key rendition of “Danny Boy,” causing one thief to voluntarily surrender out of sheer emotional distress. Finally, the Final Defense System was activated—a giant boot on a spring, which launched the remaining thieves directly into the River of Regrettable Decisions. By the time Fergus had stumbled to the clearing, the only sign of the attempted robbery was a single abandoned shoe and the distant sound of a thief cursing as he floated downstream. “HA! That’s what ye GET, ye gobdaws!” Fergus shouted, swaying slightly. Then he promptly passed out in a bush. The Aftermath When Fergus awoke the next morning, head pounding like a drum at a goblin wedding, he found himself surrounded by several concerned villagers. “Fergus… did ye fight off an entire gang of thieves while drunk?” one asked. Fergus groaned. “Aye. But don’t worry. I took care of ‘em.” “How?” Fergus grinned, pointing a thumb at Nigel, who was now wearing one of the thieves’ hats. “With me secret weapon.” From that day forward, Fergus became a local legend. His exploits were sung in taverns, his traps became the stuff of adventurers' nightmares, and Nigel the Badger was promoted to Chief of Security, a title he took very seriously. And as for Fergus? Well, he went right back to drinking, yelling at tourists, and perfecting his latest trap: The Catapult of Shame, which launched particularly persistent thieves directly into their childhood homes. After all, a Guardian’s work is never done.     Love the mischievous magic of Fergus O’Twinkleboots? You can own a piece of his legendary tale! This whimsical artwork, Guardian of the Golden Clover, is available for prints, downloads, and licensing in our Image Archive. Click below to explore: View & Purchase the Artwork