gnome

by Bill Tiepelman

Sassy Shroom Shenanigans

Tongue Wars and the Forest Code of Sass In the deepest thicket of the Glibbergrove, where mushrooms grew big enough to get parking tickets and squirrels wore monocles unironically, there perched a gnome with absolutely no chill. His name? Grimbold Butterbuttons. His vibe? Absolute chaos in wool socks. Grimbold wasn't your average gnome. While the others busied themselves polishing snail shells or whittling toothbrushes from elder twigs, Grimbold had an entire *reputation* for being the forest’s number one instigator. He made faces at butterflies. He photobombed the Council of Owls. Once, he’d even replaced the Queen Badger’s royal tea with flat root beer just to watch her snort. So naturally, it made perfect sense that Grimbold had a pet dragon. A tiny pet dragon. One that barely came up to his belt buckle but acted like she ruled the canopy. Her name was Zilch, short for Zilcharia Flameyfangs the Third, but no one called her that unless they wanted to get singed eyebrows. That morning, the two of them were doing what they did best—being complete little shits. "Bet you can't hold that face for longer than me," Grimbold snorted, sticking out his tongue like a drunken goose and widening his eyes so far they looked like boiled turnips. Zilch, wings flaring, narrowed her gold-slitted eyes. "I INVENTED this face," she rasped, then mimicked him with such perfect deranged accuracy that even the birds stopped mid-tweet. The two locked in a battle of absurdity atop a giant red-capped mushroom—their usual morning perch-slash-stage. Tongues out. Eyes bugged. Nostrils flaring like melodramatic llamas. It was a face-off of epic immaturity, and they were both thriving. "You’re creasing your eyebrows wrong!" Zilch barked. "You’re blinking too much, cheater!" Grimbold fired back. A fat beetle waddled by with a judgmental glance, muttering, "Honestly, I preferred the mime duel last week." But they didn’t care. These two lived for this kind of nonsense. Where others saw an ancient, mysterious forest full of magic and mystery, they saw a playground. A sass-ground, if you will. And so began their day of shenanigans, with their sacred forest motto etched in mushroom spores and glitter glue: “Mock first. Ask questions never.” Only they didn’t realize that today’s game of tongue wars would unlock an accidental spell, open an interdimensional portal, and quite possibly awaken a mushroom warlord who’d once been banned for excessive pettiness. But hey—that’s a problem for later. The Portal of Pfft and the Rise of Lord Sporesnort Grimbold Butterbuttons’ tongue was still proudly extended when it happened. A *wet* sound split the air, somewhere between a cosmic zipper and a squirrel flatulating through a didgeridoo. Zilch’s pupils dilated to the size of acorns. “Grim,” she croaked, “did you just... open a thing?” The gnome didn’t answer. Mostly because his face was frozen mid-snarl, one eye twitching and tongue still glued to his chin like a sweaty stamp. Behind them, the mushroom shivered. Not metaphorically. Like, the actual mushroom. It quivered with a noise that sounded like giggling algae. And from its spore-speckled surface, a jagged tear opened in the air, like reality had been cut with blunt safety scissors. From within, a purple light pulsed like an angry disco ball. "...Oh," said Grimbold finally, blinking. "Oopsie-tootsie." Zilch smacked her forehead with a tiny claw. "You broke space again! That’s the third time this week! Do you even read the warnings in the moss tomes?" "No one reads the moss tomes," Grimbold said, shrugging. "They smell like foot soup." With a moist belch of spores and questionable glitter, something began to emerge from the portal. First came a cloud of lavender steam, then a large floppy hat. Then—very slowly—a pair of glowing green eyes, slitted like a grumpy cat that hadn’t had its brunch pâté. “I AM THE MIGHTY LORD SPORESNORT,” boomed a voice that somehow smelled like truffle oil and unwashed gym socks. “HE WHO WAS BANISHED FOR EXCESSIVE PETTINESS. HE WHO ONCE CURSED AN ENTIRE KINGDOM WITH ITCHY NIPPLES OVER A GRAMMAR MISTAKE.” Zilch gave Grimbold the longest side-eye in the history of side-eyes. "Did you just summon the ancient fungal sass-demon of legend?" "To be fair," Grimbold muttered, "I was aiming for a fart with echo." Out stepped Lord Sporesnort in full regalia—moss robes, mycelium boots, and a walking staff shaped like a passive-aggressive spatula. His beard was made entirely of mold. And not the cool, forest-sorcerer kind. The fuzzy fridge kind. He radiated judgment and lingering disappointment. "BEHOLD MY REVENGE!" Sporesnort roared. "I SHALL COVER THIS FOREST IN SPORE-MODED MISCHIEF. ALL SHALL BE IRRITATED BY THE SLIGHTEST INCONVENIENCES!" With a dramatic swirl, he cast his first spell: “Itchicus Everlasting!” Suddenly, a thousand woodland creatures began scratching themselves uncontrollably. Squirrels tumbled from branches in mid-itch. A badger ran by shrieking about chafing. Even the bees looked uncomfortable. "Okay, no. This won’t do," said Zilch, cracking her knuckles with tiny thunderclaps. "This is our forest. We annoy the locals. You don’t get to roll in with your ancient mushroom face and out-sass us." "Hear hear!" shouted Grimbold, standing proudly with one foot on a suspicious mushroom that squelched like an angry pudding. "We may be chaotic, bratty, and tragically underqualified for any real leadership, but this is our turf, you decomposing jockstrap." Lord Sporesnort laughed—an echoing wheeze that smelled of old salad. “Very well, tiny fools. Then I challenge you... to the TRIAL OF THE TRIPLE-TIERED TONGUE!” A hush fell across the glade. Somewhere, a duck dropped its sandwich. "Uh, is that a real thing?" Zilch whispered. "It is now," Sporesnort grinned, raising three slimy mushroom caps into the air. "You must perform the ultimate display of synchronized facial sass—a three-round tongue duel. Lose, and I take over Glibbergrove. Win, and I shall return to the Sporeshade Realms to wallow in my own tragic flamboyance." "You're on," said Grimbold, his face twitching with a growing smirk. "But if we win, you also have to admit that your cloak makes your butt look wide." "I—FINE," Sporesnort spat, turning slightly to cover his rear fungus flare. And thus the stage was set. Creatures gathered. Leaves rustled with gossip. A beetle vendor set up a stand selling roasted aphids on sticks and “I ♥ Sporesnort” foam fingers. Even the wind paused to see what the hell was about to happen. Grimbold and Zilch, side by side on their mushroom stage, cracked their necks, stretched their cheeks, and waggled their tongues. A hush fell. Sporesnort’s fungal beard trembled in anticipation. "Let the tongue games begin!" shouted a squirrel with a referee whistle. The Final Tongue-Off and the Scandal of the Sassy Underwear The crowd leaned in. A snail fell off its mushroom seat in suspense. Somewhere in the distance, a fungus chime rang out one somber, reverberating note. The *Trial of the Triple-Tiered Tongue* had officially begun. Round One was a classic: The Eyeball Stretch & Tongue Combo. Lord Sporesnort made the first move, his eyes bugging out like a pair of grapefruit on springs as he whipped out his tongue with such velocity it created a mild sonic pop. The crowd gasped. A field mouse fainted. “BEHOLD!” he roared, his voice echoing through the mushroom caps. “THIS IS THE ANCIENT FORM KNOWN AS ‘GORGON’S SURPRISE’!” Zilch narrowed her eyes. “That’s just ‘Monday Morning Face’ in dragon preschool.” She casually blew a tiny flame to toast a passing marshmallow on a stick, then locked eyes with Grimbold. They nodded. The duo launched into their countermove: synchronized bug-eyes, nostril flares, and tongues waggling side to side like possessed metronomes. It was elegant. It was chaotic. A raccoon dropped its pipe and screamed, “SWEET GRUBS, I’VE SEEN THE TRUTH!” “ROUND ONE: TIED,” announced the squirrel referee, his whistle now glowing from sheer stress.     Round Two: The Sass Spiral For this, the goal was to layer expressions with insult-level flair. Bonus points for eyebrow choreography. Lord Sporesnort twisted his fungal lips into a smug, upturned frown and performed what could only be described as a sassy interpretive dance using only his eyebrows. He finished by flipping his cloak, revealing fungus-embroidered briefs with the words “BITTER BUT CUTE” stitched across the rear in glowing mycelium thread. The crowd lost their collective minds. The beetle vendor passed out. A hedgehog screamed and launched into a bush. “I call that,” Sporesnort said smugly, “the Sporeshake 9000.” Grimbold stepped forward slowly. Too slowly. Suspense dripped off him like condensation off a cold goblet of forest grog. Then he struck. He wiggled his ears. He furrowed one brow. His tongue spiraled into a perfect helix, and he puffed out his cheeks until he looked like an emotionally unstable turnip. Then, with a slow, dramatic flourish, he turned around and revealed a patch sewn into the seat of his corduroy trousers. It read, in shimmering gold thread: “YOU JUST GOT GNOMED.” The forest exploded. Not literally, but close enough. Owls fainted. Mushrooms combusted from joy. A badger couple started a slow chant. “Gnome’d! Gnome’d! Gnome’d!” Zilch, not to be outdone, reared back and made the universal hand-and-claw gesture for *“Your fungus ain’t funky, babe.”* Her tail flicked with weaponized sass. The moment was perfect. "ROUND TWO: ADVANTAGE — GNOME & DRAGON!" the referee squeaked, tears running down his cheeks as he blew the whistle like it was possessed.     Final Round: Wildcard Mayhem Sporesnort snarled, spores puffing from his ears. “Fine. No more cute. No more coy. I invoke... the SACRED MUSHUNDERWEAR TECHNIQUE!” He ripped open his robes to reveal undergarments enchanted with wriggling fungal runes and vines that wove his sass into the very fabric of the universe. “This,” he bellowed, “is FUNGIFLEX™ — powered by enchanted stretch and interdimensional attitude.” The forest fell into a hush of pure, horrified admiration. Grimbold simply looked at Zilch and smirked. “We break reality now?” “Break it so hard it apologizes,” she growled. The gnome clambered atop the dragon’s back. Zilch flared her wings, eyes burning gold. Together they launched into the air with a mighty WHEEEEEEE and a burst of glitter confetti summoned from a leftover prank spell. As they twirled through the sky, they performed their final move: a dual loop-de-loop followed by simultaneous tongue-wagging, face-contorting, and butt-shaking. From Grimbold’s trousers, a secret pocket opened, revealing a banner that read, in flashing enchanted letters: “GNOME SWEAT DON’T QUIT.” They landed with a thump, Zilch belching sparkles. The crowd was in chaos. Tears. Screaming. An impromptu interpretive dance broke out. The forest was on the brink of a vibe collapse. “FINE!” Sporesnort yelled, voice cracking. “YOU WIN! I’LL GO! BUT YOU... YOU SHALL RUE THIS DAY. I’LL BE BACK. WITH MORE UNDERWEAR.” He swirled into his own portal of shame and unresolved mushroom trauma, leaving behind only the faint scent of garlic and regret. Zilch and Grimbold collapsed atop their favorite mushroom. The glade shimmered under the setting sun. Birds chirped again. The badger couple kissed. Someone started roasting victory marshmallows. "Well," said Grimbold, licking his thumb and smearing moss off his cheek. "That was... probably the third weirdest Tuesday we’ve had." "Easily," Zilch agreed, biting into a celebratory beetle snack. "Next time we prank a warlord, can we avoid the fungal lingerie?" "No promises." And so, with tongues dry and reputations elevated to mythical status, the gnome and the dragon resumed their sacred morning ritual: laughing at absolutely everything and being gloriously, unapologetically weird together. The end. Probably.     Want to bring the sass home? Whether you're a certified mischief-maker or just deeply appreciate the sacred art of tongue-based warfare, you can now take a piece of Grimbold and Zilch’s legendary moment into your own lair. Frame the chaos with a gallery-quality print, wrap yourself in their ridiculousness with this fleece blanket, or go full forest-chic with a wood print that'll make even Lord Sporesnort jealous. Send cheeky greetings with a whimsical card, or slap some mushroom-powered attitude onto your stuff with this top-tier Sassy Shroom Shenanigans sticker. Because let’s be honest—your life could use more dragons and fewer boring walls.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Keeper of My Love

The Lock, the Key, and the Gnome Who Knew Too Much The wedding was at exactly 4:04 PM. Because gnomes are not known for being punctual, but they are known for symmetry. And according to the elders, nothing locks love in place like a pair of mirrored numbers. So 4:04 it was, in a glade so dripping with blossoms and fairy perfume that even the mushrooms were a bit tipsy. She stood there in lace and defiance—Lunella Fernwhistle, third daughter of the Fernwhistle clan, known across the gardens for her spellbinding florals and her tendency to spike the compost punch. Her hair was a tempest of silver ringlets, wrapped in a crown of fresh-cut gardenia and chaos. Her bouquet? Hand-forged from freshly liberated blooms and whatever hadn’t been eaten by snails that morning. She smelled like honeysuckle, mystery, and maybe a dash of moonshine. On purpose. And he? Well. Bolliver Thatchroot was the most unlikely catch in all the grove. Not because he wasn’t handsome—in a rotund, knobby-kneed sort of way—but because Bolliver had once been a confirmed bachelor with a key to everything: the pantry, the wine cellar, the council’s emergency beer cache, even old Ma Muddlefoot’s diary vault (don’t ask). If it locked, Bolliver had opened it. And if it didn’t lock, he fixed that immediately. He was a locksmith, a trickster, and a soft-touch all rolled into one biscuit-loving bundle of beard and plaid. But on this day, in this moment, Bolliver held just one key—slightly oversized, unmistakably symbolic—and wrapped his tiny fingers around it like it was the most fragile, precious thing he’d ever known. It swung from a silver ring at his belt, catching the filtered sunlight as he leaned in to meet Lunella’s lips with a kiss so gentle, the bees blushed and the squirrels politely looked away. The crowd sighed. Somewhere, a flute player missed a note. A petal fell in slow motion. And the officiant, a cranky but beloved toad named Sir Splotsworth, wiped a tear from his warted cheek and croaked, “Get on with it, lovebirds. Some of us have tadpoles to get home to.” But Lunella didn’t hear him. She only heard the beat of her own heart, the rustle of wind through the foxgloves, and the little squeaky “eep!” that Bolliver always made when he was about to do something bold. And sure enough, bold he was. The kiss, though brief, came with a whisper. “This key? It’s not just for our cottage door,” he murmured. “It’s for you. All of you. Even the compost-wine parts.” Lunella smiled. “Then you’d best be ready for a lifetime of weird fermentations and midnight barefoot gardening, my love.” The petals rained down like applause. The crowd erupted in claps and root-stomps. Bolliver gave a dramatic bow, then accidentally dropped the keyring into the punch bowl. It fizzed. It glowed. A small explosion might have followed. No one cared. The kiss had been perfect. The bride was glowing. And the groom—well, he still smelled vaguely of rust and raspberries, which Lunella found alarmingly arousing. The wedding may have ended, but the real mischief was only just beginning... The Cottage, the Curses, and the Unexpected Furniture Arrangement The cottage was a hand-me-down from Bolliver’s great-aunt Twibbin, who had allegedly once dated a hedgehog. It sat at the bend of Sweetroot Creek, just out of earshot from the local knitting circle (which doubled as the town’s rumor mill), and was covered in climbing ivy, expired wind chimes, and one surprisingly opinionated weather vane shaped like a goose. It squawked “rain” every day, regardless of the forecast. Bolliver carried Lunella over the threshold, as was tradition, but misjudged the height of the doorframe and bonked both their heads in the process. They laughed, rubbing their foreheads while stepping inside to a scene of charming chaos: toadstool chairs, an armchair that burped when sat on, and a chandelier made entirely of melted teaspoons and stubborn pixie spit. Lunella wrinkled her nose and immediately opened every window. “Smells like three decades of bachelor stew and bad decisions in here.” “That’s how you know it’s home,” Bolliver beamed, already unlocking the cabinets with his master key. Inside: two jars of pickled turnips (labelled “emergency snack – 1998”), one mothball masquerading as a cinnamon bun, and something that might have once been cheese but now had its own legs. Lunella sighed. “We’re going to have to bless this entire space with sage. Possibly fire.” But before the decontamination began, she noticed something peculiar. Bolliver’s keyring—now free of punch bowl fizz—was glowing softly. Not aggressively. More like a friendly hum. A hum that said, *“Hey, I open weird stuff. Wanna find out what?”* “Why is your key doing that?” she asked, her fingers brushing the metal. Warm. Tingly. Slightly arousing. Bolliver blinked. “Oh. That. Might be the honeymoon key.” “The what now?” “It’s an ancient Thatchroot family heirloom. Legend says if you use it on the right door, it opens a secret chamber of marital delight. Full of silken pillows, romantic lighting, and... adjustable furniture.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “But we haven’t found the door yet.” Challenge. Accepted. Over the next three hours, Lunella and Bolliver ran amok through the cottage, testing every nook and cranny. Behind the armoire? Nope. Under the rug? Just dust and a worm that glared at them like they'd interrupted something intimate. The fireplace? Not unless “hot soot shower” was a turn-on. Even the outhouse got tested—though that led to a mild plumbing incident and one deeply confused raccoon. Finally, they stood before the last untouched place: the closet in the attic. Ancient, slightly warped, and oozing the scent of cedar and suspicion. The key vibrated in Bolliver’s hand like a giddy puppy. Lunella, undeterred, yanked the door open with a flourish— And vanished. “LUNELLA?!” Bolliver shouted, diving in after her. The door slammed. The goose-shaped weather vane outside screamed “RAIN!” and the wind laughed like a gossiping banshee. They tumbled not into a storage space, but into a full-blown enchanted chamber of sensual nonsense. The lighting was dim and flattering. Music—somehow a cross between harps and slow banjo—drifted through the air. Heart-shaped lanterns floated lazily overhead. And the furniture? Oh, the furniture. Plush, velvety, covered in vaguely romantic embroidery like “Kiss Me Again” and “Nice Beard.” One chair had a cupholder and a suggestive glint in its carving. Another reclined with a dramatic sigh and released a chocolate truffle from its drawer. Lunella sat, testing the bounce of a particularly provocative settee. “Okay. I admit. This is... impressive.” Bolliver slid beside her, the key now glowing like a smug candle. “Told you. The Keeper of My Love doesn’t just hold doors. He opens experiences.” She rolled her eyes so hard they nearly left orbit. “Please tell me you didn’t rehearse that.” “A little.” He leaned in. “But mostly I just knew that someday, somewhere, I’d find the one who fit the lock.” “You sappy bastard,” Lunella whispered, before tackling him into the velvet. The room sealed itself gently. The lanterns dimmed. Outside, the weather vane honked in celebration. Somewhere, far off, the town’s knitting circle paused mid-gossip, all of them suddenly sensing that something saucy was unfolding in the Thatchroot attic. And they were right. But that’s not where the story ends. Oh no. Because while Bolliver was very good at unlocking doors, it turns out Lunella had some secrets of her own—and not all of them were the “sugar and spice” kind. Let’s just say the honeymoon suite wouldn’t stay private for long... Secrets, Scandals, and the Great Gnome Glare-Off The next morning, Lunella awoke in a tangle of velvet and limbs and a cushion embroidered with “Thatchroot It to Me.” She blinked. The enchanted suite was still purring contentedly around her. Bolliver snored beside her like a gentle foghorn, one hand still wrapped protectively around his jangly keyring, the other flopped across her bare hip like he was claiming territory. Which, to be fair, he kind of was. She smiled, mussed his beard just to make him grumble in his sleep, and quietly rose to investigate. The door behind them had vanished. Again. Typical honeymoon suite behavior. But what concerned her wasn’t the disappearing door — it was the faint sound of voices... and the smell of scones. Voices. Plural. Scones. Unmistakable. She scrambled into her dressing robe (which was apparently made of hummingbird feathers and light sarcasm) and tiptoed down the enchanted stairwell that had appeared where a broom closet used to be. As she opened the final door, she was greeted with the last thing any newlywed wants to see the day after magical lovemaking: The entire Fernwhistle-Figpocket neighborhood standing in her kitchen. And every one of them holding a baked good. “Surprise!” they chorused. A pie crust flung itself across the room in excitement. “Wha—how—why—” Lunella stammered. “Well,” said Mrs. Wimpletush, a high-ranking gossip general and the only known gnome with glitter allergies, “we smelled the honeymoon.” “The what?” “Dear, you activated the chamber of marital delight. That thing hasn’t been opened since 1743. There was a newsletter about it. It's basically gnome legend.” She adjusted her spectacles. “And, well, the scent markers go off like fireworks. Made my begonias blush.” Lunella groaned. “So you broke into our home?” “We brought muffins!” Before she could retort, Bolliver appeared at the top of the stairwell, gloriously rumpled, wearing only his plaid trousers and confidence. “Ah,” he said. “It appears my reputation has once again preceded me.” He strutted down the stairs with the air of a man who’d seen some things and enjoyed every last one of them. The crowd parted respectfully. Even the goose-shaped weather vane outside briefly nodded. Mrs. Wimpletush sniffed. “So. The rumors are true. The key has returned.” “The key’s been busy,” Lunella muttered, yanking a muffin from someone’s tray and eating it spitefully. But the muffins were just the beginning. Over the next few days, the cottage became the talk of the township. Visitors came by under the guise of bringing “blessing stones” and “carrot jam,” but mostly they wanted a peek at the newlyweds and their infamous love chamber. Lunella didn’t mind the attention — she thrived on spectacle — but she drew the line when two nosy spinster gnomes from Upper Fernclump tried to bribe Bolliver for a tour. “Absolutely not,” Lunella snapped, barring the door with a shovel. “This is our magical sex attic. Not a garden attraction.” Bolliver, for once, looked sheepish. “They offered twenty gold acorns.” “You can’t sell our honeymoon suite experience!” “But what if I offer upgrades?” Lunella slapped him with a lavender sachet and stormed into the garden. Things were tense for a few hours. He brought her apology scones. She responded with passive-aggressive weeding. Eventually, he left a note attached to the key: I only want to open doors if you’re behind them. Sorry. Also, I waxed the spoon chandelier. That thing was a nightmare. She forgave him. Mostly because no one waxed cursed cutlery like Bolliver. Weeks passed. The gossip waned. Mrs. Wimpletush got distracted by a new scandal involving someone’s dragon-sized zucchini. The honeymoon chamber returned to hibernation. The furniture settled into occasional moaning and dramatic sighs, as furniture does. The key, now worn smooth from adventures, lived in a place of honor beside the teacups and the misbehaving teapot that wouldn’t stop singing sea shanties. Lunella and Bolliver settled into marriage like they did everything else: with sass, sweetness, and a hint of chaos. They danced barefoot in moonlit gardens. They brewed mushroom wine with suspicious side effects. They hosted parties where furniture gave unsolicited relationship advice. And once, they even let the goose weather vane officiate a vow renewal ceremony for two snails. It was beautiful. Wet, but beautiful. And every night, just before bed, Bolliver would jangle the keyring and wink. “Still the keeper of my love,” he’d say. “Damn right you are,” Lunella would smirk, dragging him upstairs by the belt loop. And so they lived happily, mischievously, romantically, and thoroughly ever after—reminding everyone in Fernwhistle-Figpocket that love doesn’t just unlock doors… it also occasionally explodes punch bowls, breaks magical thresholds, and smells just a little like burnt sage and sin.     Bring a little mischief and magic home… If Bolliver and Lunella’s love story made you laugh, swoon, or seriously reconsider the romantic potential of attic furniture — don’t let the magic stop here. You can capture their enchanted moment in your own realm with a canvas print that glows with whimsical romance, or wrap yourself up in their mischief with a soft and vibrant tapestry worthy of the honeymoon suite itself. For cozy cuddles, there’s the charming throw pillow, or spread a little gnome-ance far and wide with an adorable greeting card — perfect for weddings, anniversaries, or mildly inappropriate love notes. And if you’re feeling bold (or mildly chaotic), test your patience and devotion with a magical puzzle featuring the duo’s dreamy kiss and keyring of destiny. Whether you're team velvet-furniture or team sarcastic goose weather vane, there's a little something for everyone in this collection. Because let’s be honest — love like this deserves a place on your wall, your couch, and your coffee table.

by Bill Tiepelman

Last Call at Gnome O’Clock

The Pint-Sized Provocateur There are taverns, and then there’s The Pickled Toadstool, a place so off-the-grid not even Google Maps could find it. Buried beneath a crooked willow stump at the far edge of Hooten Hollow, this snug little den of wooden stools, sticky floors, and questionable liqueurs was a well-kept secret among woodland folk. It had only two rules: no goblins on Thursdays, and if Old Finn the gnome is drinking tequila—just let him. Old Finn wasn’t just a regular. He was the reason the barkeep kept lime wedges in stock and the wallpaper perpetually smelled of salt and bad decisions. Clad in a lopsided red cap and a waistcoat that hadn't seen a button in decades, Finn was a legend, a cautionary tale, and a frequent health violation all rolled into one. He wasn't technically old—gnomes lived forever if they stayed away from lawnmowers—but he sure drank like he had nothing left to prove. On the night in question, Finn stumbled into The Pickled Toadstool with a swagger only the irreparably inebriated could pull off. He kicked open the acorn-hinged door, paused dramatically under the threshold like some kind of pointy-shoed gunslinger, and belched a wordless threat into the room. A hush fell. Even the pixies stopped mid-flutter. "I want," he said, pointing a stubby, gnarled finger at nobody in particular, "your finest bottle of whatever makes me forget the mating call of the red-breasted swamp goose." Jilly the bar-maiden, a flirty mushroom sprite with an eyebrow ring and zero patience, rolled her eyes and reached beneath the bar. Out came a bottle of Murkwood Gold—gnome-grade tequila, aged three months in a chipmunk skull and rumored to be illegal in three realms. She didn’t even bother pouring. She just handed it over like it was a loaded weapon. Finn grinned, popped the cork with his teeth, and took a swig so violent it made the tavern’s only decorative fern faint. He thumped his shot glass on the table (though he'd brought his own from a previous bar fight), sliced a lime with a blade he kept in his boot, and shouted, “TO BAD DECISIONS AND IRRITABLE BOWELS!” The cheer that followed shook the roots of the tree overhead. A hedgehog slurred something about streaking, a satyr passed out before he could object, and someone (no one ever admits who) summoned a conga line that trampled an entire chess game in progress. Chaos bloomed like a moldy turnip—and Finn was at the center, drunker than a troll at Oktoberfest, eyes twinkling like a raccoon who just found an unlocked dumpster. But as the night pressed on, the tequila ran low, the music got weirder, and Finn started asking existential questions no one was prepared to answer, like “Have you ever seen a squirrel cry?” and “What’s the moral weight of drinking pickle brine for money?” And that’s when things took a turn… Tequila Revelations and Mushroom Revelry Now, let’s be clear about something: when a gnome starts philosophizing with a half-empty bottle of Murkwood Gold and a lime wedge clutched in one hand like it’s an emotional support citrus, it’s time to either run or record the whole damn thing for folklore. But none of the drunken degenerates in The Pickled Toadstool had the good sense—or sobriety—for either. So instead, they leaned in. Finn had planted himself atop the bar like a prophet of the porcelain throne, beard stained with tequila dribbles, one boot missing, the other mysteriously containing a goldfish. He pointed to a confused possum wearing a monocle—Sir Slinksworth, who was mostly there for the free peanuts—and bellowed, “YOU. If mushrooms can talk, why don’t they ever text back?” Sir Slinksworth blinked once, adjusted his monocle, and slowly backed away into a broom closet, where he’d remain for the rest of the evening pretending to be a coat rack. Finn’s gaze swept the bar. He grabbed a nearby spoon and raised it like a conductor’s wand. “Ladies. Gentlefolk. Illegally sapient fungi. It’s time... for stories.” A cricket played a dramatic sting on a nearby leaf. Someone farted. And with that, the bar fell silent again as Finn leaned into his legend. “Once,” he began, wobbling slightly, “I kissed a troll under a bridge. She was beautiful in a ‘will definitely murder me’ kind of way. Hair like seaweed and breath like fermented cabbage. Mmm. I was young. I was stupid. I was... unemployed.” Jilly, wiping down the counter with something that might have once been a towel, muttered, “You’re still unemployed.” “Technically,” he countered, “I’m a freelance beverage tester and spiritual consultant.” “Spiritual consultant?” “I consult the spirits. They say, ‘drink more.’” The tavern erupted in cackles. A pixie fell off her stool and knocked over a bowl of glowing slugnuts. A squirrel danced on the bar with two acorns strategically placed where no acorns should be. The conga line had long since devolved into interpretive crawling, and a raccoon was vomiting behind a potted plant named Carl. But then came the lime. No one knows who started it. Some say it was Old Gertie, the barkeep’s pet newt. Others blame the twins—two bipedal weasels named Fizz and Gnarle who’d been banned from three fairy communes for “excessive nibbling.” But what’s certain is this: the lime fight began with one innocent toss... and escalated into full-blown citrus warfare. Finn took a lime square to the forehead and didn't flinch. Instead, he popped it in his mouth and spat the rind out like a watermelon seed, hitting a unicorn in the ear. That unicorn had rage issues. Chaos leveled up. Glass shattered. Someone pulled out a kazoo. The tavern’s chandelier—actually just a tangled wad of spider silk and glowworms—collapsed onto a group of druids who were too busy singing Fleetwood Mac backwards to notice. The air turned thick with lime pulp and salt spray. Finn was hoisted onto the shoulders of two inebriated field mice and declared, by popular vote, the “Minister of Bad Timing.” He waved regally. “I accept this non-consensual nomination with grace and the promise of moderate destruction!” And so, Minister Finn presided over what became known in local legend as The Great Lime Rebellion of Hooten Hollow. By midnight, the bar was a war zone. By 2 a.m., it had become an impromptu poetry slam featuring a drunken centaur who rhymed everything with “butt.” By 3:30, the entire establishment had run out of tequila, salt, limes, and patience. That’s when Jilly rang the bell. A single clang that cut through the noise like a knife through overripe brie. “Last call, you creatures of chaos. Finish your drinks, kiss someone questionable, and get the hell out before I start turning people into decorative mushrooms.” Everyone groaned. Someone actually wept. Finn, still wobbling, now wearing a pirate hat that was definitely a lettuce leaf, raised his shot glass for one final toast. “To terrible choices!” he shouted. “To memories we won’t remember and regrets we’ll enthusiastically repeat!” And with that, the entire bar echoed him back with drunken reverence: “TO GNOME O’CLOCK!” Outside, dawn was beginning to pink the sky. The first birds chirped sweet songs of impending hangovers. The revelers stumbled out, glitter-covered, grass-stained, and partially pantsless—but deeply, sincerely content. Except Finn. Finn wasn’t done yet. He had one more idea. One more terrible, beautiful, lime-soaked idea. And it involved a wheelbarrow, a jug of honey, and the mayor’s prized goose... The Goose, the Glory, and the Gnome Morning dew shimmered on the blades of grass like the universe itself was hungover. A foggy mist rolled across Hooten Hollow, disturbed only by the faint wobble of a single squeaky wheel. That wheel belonged to a rusted, slightly bloodstained wheelbarrow, careening down a slope with all the grace of a goat in roller skates. And at its helm? You guessed it—Finn the gnome, grinning like a maniac who had absolutely no business operating farm equipment. The honey jug was strapped to his chest with twine. The mayor’s goose—Lady Featherstone the Third—was tucked under his arm like an indignant accordion. And the plan? Well, “plan” is a generous word. It was more of a tequila-induced vision involving revenge, animal pageantry, and a deeply misguided attempt to start a new religion centered around fermented agave and poultry-based wisdom. Let’s rewind five minutes. After being ceremoniously ejected from The Pickled Toadstool via slingshot (an annual tradition), Finn had landed squarely in a hedge and muttered something about “divine enlightenment via waterfowl.” He emerged covered in burrs, wild-eyed, and on a mission. That mission, as far as anyone could tell, involved honey-glazing the mayor’s prized goose and declaring her the reincarnation of a forgotten gnome goddess named Quacklarella. Now, Lady Featherstone was not your average goose. She was a biter. A seasoned one. Rumor had it she once chased a dwarf through three provinces for insulting her plumage. She’d survived two magical floods, a karaoke night gone wrong, and a brief stint as an underground fight club champion. She was not, in any realm, fit for religious exploitation. But Finn, drunk on ego and corn liquor he found behind a log, disagreed. He slathered the goose in honey, placed a crown made of cocktail umbrellas on her head, and stood atop a stump to deliver his sermon. “Fellow forest beings!” he declared to a bewildered audience of chipmunks and two hungover dryads. “Behold your sticky savior! Quacklarella demands respect, snacks, and exactly two minutes of synchronized honking in her honor!” The goose, now furious and glistening like a honey-glazed ham, honked once—an unholy, vengeful sound that triggered several squirrels into fight-or-flight responses. Then she snapped her beak shut around Finn’s beard and yanked. What followed was chaos, pure and sweet like the honey still clinging to his socks. The wheelbarrow overturned. Finn tumbled into a patch of stinging nettles. The goose ran off flapping into the sunrise, trailing cocktail umbrellas and gnome curses. The townsfolk woke to find feathers everywhere, the town bell ringing (no one knew how), and a pamphlet nailed to the mayor’s door entitled “Ten Spiritual Lessons from a Goose Who Knew Too Much.” It was mostly blank except for a drawing of a martini glass and a deeply unsettling haiku about egg salad. Later that day, Finn was found passed out in the town fountain wearing nothing but a monocle and a boot filled with mashed peas. He was smiling. When asked what the hell had happened, he opened one eye and whispered, “Revolution… tastes like poultry and shame.” Then he belched, rolled over, and began humming a slow, melodic version of “Livin’ on a Prayer.” That week, the mayor passed a motion banning both goose coronations and gnome-led sermons within town limits. Finn was put on probation, which meant nothing, as he hadn’t followed rules since the invention of pickled turnips. Still, to this day, when the moon is full and the lime trees bloom, whispers travel through Hooten Hollow. They say you can hear the flapping of honey-soaked wings and the faint sound of a shot glass being slammed on ancient oak. And if you’re very quiet... you might just catch a glimpse of a bearded figure staggering through the woods, muttering about limes and lost royalty. Because some legends wear crowns. Others ride noble steeds. And some? Some wear a lettuce hat and rule the night... one bad decision at a time.     Bring the legend home: If Finn’s tequila-fueled chaos made you snort, giggle, or question your life choices, you're in good company. Commemorate this tipsy tale with exclusive merch from our Last Call at Gnome O’Clock collection. Whether you're into crisp metal prints, cozy wood prints, a cheeky greeting card to send to your drinking buddy, or a spiral notebook for your own questionable ideas—this collection captures every ounce of forest-fueled mischief and lime-soaked nonsense. Warning: may inspire spontaneous conga lines and unsolicited sermons.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Howling Hat of Hooten Hollow

The Hat That Bit Back By the time Glumbella Fernwhistle turned ninety-seven-and-a-half, she’d stopped pretending her hat wasn’t alive. It gurgled when she yawned, belched when she ate lentils, and once slapped a squirrel clean out of a tree for looking at her mushrooms the wrong way. And not metaphorical mushrooms, mind you—actual fungi sprouting from the side of her floppy, overgrown headpiece. She called it Carl. Carl the Hat. Carl did not approve of sobriety, shame, or squirrels. This suited Glumbella just fine. She lived in a cobbled mushroom cottage on the edge of Hooten Hollow, a place so full of mischief that the trees had mood swings and the moss had opinions. Glumbella was the kind of gnome you didn’t visit unless you brought both a bottle and an apology—for what, you weren’t always sure. She had a cackle like a goat in therapy and a tongue so frequently stuck out it had developed a tan. But what really made Glumbella infamous was the night she made the moon blush. It started, as most regrettable triumphs do, with a dare. Her neighbor, Tildy Grizzleblum—renowned inventor of the self-stirring gravy cauldron—bet Glumbella ten copper buttons she couldn’t seduce the moon. Glumbella, three elderberry wines in and barefoot, had climbed to the top of Flasher’s Bluff, bared one spectacularly unfiltered grin, and shouted, “OI! MOON! You big glowing tease! Show us yer craters!” The moon, previously considered emotionally distant, turned pink for the first time in recorded history. Tildy never paid up. Claimed the blush was atmospheric disturbance. Glumbella hexed her gravy to taste like regret for a week. It was the talk of the Hollow until the time Glumbella accidentally married a toad. But that’s a whole other issue involving a cursed wedding veil and a case of mistaken identity during mating season. Still, nothing in her long, outrageously inappropriate life prepared her for the arrival of HIM. A forest path, a suspicious breeze, and one very disheveled male gnome with eyes like drunken chestnuts. She could smell trouble. And a hint of old socks. Her favorite combination. “You lost, sweetcheeks?” she asked, lips curled, Carl twitching with interest. He didn’t blink. Just grinned with a mouth full of crooked charm and said, “Only if you say no.” And just like that, the Hollow was no longer the weirdest thing in Glumbella’s life. He was. Spells, Sass, and One Regrettable Pickle He called himself Bramble. No last name. Just Bramble. Which was, of course, either suspicious or sexy. Possibly both. Glumbella squinted at him the way one examines mold on cheese—trying to decide if it added flavor or would cause hallucinations. Carl the Hat drooped slightly in what might’ve been approval. Or gas. No one could ever tell with Carl. “So,” Glumbella said, leaning against a crooked fencepost with all the grace of a drunk poetry critic, “you show up here with those boots—muddy, charming, criminally well-worn—and that beard that’s clearly never met a comb, and expect me not to ask where you’re hiding your motives?” Bramble chuckled, a low, gravel-smooth sound that tickled her mossy instincts. “I’m just a wanderer,” he said, “looking for trouble.” “You found it,” she grinned. “And she bites.” They traded words like potions—some bubbling with innuendo, others fizzing with sarcasm. The gnomes of Hooten Hollow weren’t known for subtlety, but even Glumbella’s porch toad stopped sunbathing to observe the sparks flying. Within the hour, Bramble had accepted an invitation into her kitchen, where the mugs were mismatched, the wine was elderberry and defiant, and every single piece of furniture had at least one embarrassing story attached to it. “That chair over there,” she said, pointing with a ladle, “once hosted an orgy of pixies during a midsummer moon rave. Still smells like glitter and fermented rose hips.” Bramble sat in it without hesitation. “Now I’m even more comfortable.” Carl let out a low hum. The hat was always a little jealous. It had once hexed a suitor’s beard into a nest for furious hummingbirds. But Carl… Carl liked Bramble. Not trust, not yet. But interest. Carl only drooled on things he wanted to keep. Bramble got drooled on. A lot. As the wine flowed, the conversation turned slippery. Spells were swapped like dirty jokes. Glumbella showed off her prized collection of cursed socks—each one stolen from mysterious laundry disappearances across dimensions. Bramble, in turn, revealed a tattoo on his hip that could whisper insults in seventeen languages. “Say something in Gobbledygroan,” she purred. “It just called you a ‘shimmer-skulled minx with wild cabbage energy.’” She nearly choked on her wine. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me this decade.” Their evening escalated into potion pong (she won), a one-on-one broom jousting match (she also won, but he looked great falling), and a heated debate over whether moonlight was better for hexes or skinny-dipping (jury's still out). At some point, Bramble dared her to let Carl cast a spell unsupervised. “Are you mad?” she cried. “Carl once tried to turn a goose into a loaf of bread and ended up with a squawking baguette that still haunts my pantry.” “I live dangerously,” Bramble grinned. “And you’re obviously into chaos.” “Well,” she said, standing dramatically and knocking over a bottle of sparkle tonic, “I suppose it’s not a proper Tuesday until something catches fire or someone gets kissed.” And that was how Bramble ended up stuck to the ceiling. Carl, in a rare mood of cooperation, had tried to conjure a “romantic levitation spell.” It worked. Too well. Bramble hovered upside down, flailing, one sock falling off while Glumbella roared with laughter and took notes on a napkin titled “future foreplay ideas.” “How long does this last?” Bramble asked from above, spinning slowly. “Oh, I’d guess until the hat gets bored or until you compliment my knees,” she smirked. He eyed her legs. “Sturdy as a spellbound oak and twice as enchanting.” With a dramatic “fwoomp,” he fell directly into her arms. She dropped him, naturally, because she was built for insults and wine, not bridal carries. They landed in a heap of limbs, lace, and one rather smug hat who casually slithered off Glumbella’s head to claim the wine bottle for itself. “Carl’s gone rogue,” she muttered. “Does this mean the date’s going well?” Bramble asked, breathless. “Sweetcheeks,” she said, brushing leaf confetti from his beard, “if this were going badly, you’d already be a frog wearing a tutu and begging for flies.” And just like that, a new kind of trouble rooted itself in Hooten Hollow—a mischievous, magnetic, absolutely inadvisable connection between a gnome witch with no filter and a rogue wanderer who smiled like he knew how to start fires with compliments. Toads began gossiping. The trees leaned closer. Carl sharpened his brim. The Hangover, The Hex, and The Honeymoon (Not Necessarily In That Order) The next morning smelled like regret, roasted acorns, and singed beard hair. Bramble awoke dangling upside-down in a hammock made entirely of enchanted laundry, his left eyebrow missing and his right one twitching in Morse code. Carl was perched beside him with an empty flask and a threatening gleam in his brim. “Good morning, you rakish woodland degenerate,” Glumbella chirped from the garden, dressed in a scandalously mossy robe and wielding a trowel like a sword. “You shrieked in your sleep. Either you were dreaming of tax audits or you’re allergic to flirtation.” “I dreamed I was a zucchini,” he groaned. “Being judged. By squirrels.” She cackled so hard a tomato blushed. “Then we’re progressing nicely.” The Hollow was in full gossip bloom. Gnomelings whispered of a courtship forged in chaos. The Elder Council sent Glumbella a strongly worded scroll urging “discretion, decency, and pants.” She framed it above her loo. Bramble, now semi-resident and fully shirtless 60% of the time, fit into the ecosystem like a charming virus. Plants leaned toward him. Crickets composed sonnets about his butt. Carl hissed when they kissed, but only out of habit. And then came the Pickle Incident. It started with a potion. Always does. Glumbella had been experimenting with a “Love Me, Loathe Me, Lick Me” elixir—allegedly a mild flirtation enhancer. She left it on the kitchen shelf labeled Not For Bramble, which of course ensured that Bramble would absolutely drink it by accident while trying to pickle beets. The result? He fell desperately, dramatically in love with a jar of fermented cucumbers. “She understands me,” he declared, cradling the jar, eyes misty. “She’s complex. Salty. A little spicy.” Glumbella responded with a hex so potent it briefly turned him into a sentient sandwich. He still has nightmares about mayonnaise therapy. Once the elixir wore off (with the help of two sarcastic fairies, one slap from Carl, and a kiss so aggressive it startled a flock of crows), Bramble regained his senses. He apologized by crafting her a love letter out of enchanted leaves that screamed compliments when read aloud. The neighbors complained. Glumbella cried once—silently, while pouring wine into her boots. Eventually, the Hollow began to accept the duo as a necessary evil. Like seasonal flooding or emotionally unstable hedgehogs. The town bakery started selling “Carl Crust” sourdough. The local tavern offered a cocktail called the “Witch’s Whiplash”—two parts elderberry brandy, one part seductive regret. Tourists wandered into the woods hoping to see the infamous hat-witch and her dangerously handsome consort. Most of them got lost. One married a tree. It happens. But Glumbella and Bramble? They simply… thrived. Like fungus in a damp drawer. They didn’t marry in any traditional sense. There were no doves or rings or solemn declarations. Instead, one foggy morning, Glumbella woke to find Bramble had carved their initials into the moon using a stolen weather spell and a goat with anxiety issues. The moon blinked twice. Carl sang a sea shanty. And that was that. They celebrated by getting drunk in a treehouse, racing leaf-boats in the river, and aggressively ignoring the concept of monogamy for six months straight. It was perfect. Some say their laughter still echoes through the Hollow. Others claim Carl runs a poker game on Wednesdays and cheats with his brim. One thing’s for certain: if you ever find yourself lost in Hooten Hollow and stumble upon a wild-haired witch with a wicked grin and a man beside her who looks like he just kissed a tornado, you’ve found them. Don’t stare. Don’t judge. And absolutely do not touch the hat. It bites.     Bring the Magic Home If Glumbella’s sass, Bramble’s charm, and Carl’s unpredictable brim made you laugh, blush, or consider abandoning your career for a life of enchanted chaos—why not invite their mischief into your space? Explore a range of beautifully printed keepsakes inspired by The Howling Hat of Hooten Hollow—each crafted with care to bring a touch of forest whimsy and gnomish delight into your everyday world: Tapestry – Transform any room with this richly detailed woven tapestry featuring Glumbella in all her wild glory. Wood Print – Add rustic charm to your walls with this vibrant artwork printed on smooth wood grain—just like Carl would want (assuming he approved). Framed Print – A classic option for lovers of fantasy art and chaotic gnome energy—framed, ready to hang, and guaranteed to make guests ask questions. Fleece Blanket – Cozy up with a blanket that captures the warmth, whimsy, and low-key seduction of a magical night in Hooten Hollow. Greeting Card – Send a giggle, a wink, or a mild hex in the mail with a card featuring this unforgettable scene. Each item is perfect for fans of whimsical fantasy, mischievous storytelling, and the kind of art that feels alive (possibly sentient, definitely opinionated). Find your favorite at shop.unfocussed.com and let the spirit of Hooten Hollow haunt your heart—and maybe your guest room.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Woodland Wisecracker

The Bark Behind the Giggle Deep in the rustling bowels of Elderbark Woods—where the ferns gossip louder than the crows and the mushrooms have cliques—there lives a gnome with a laugh like a strangled squirrel and a tongue quicker than a squirrel on mead. His name? No one really knows. Most call him “That Damned Gnome” or, more respectfully, The Woodland Wisecracker. He’s ancient in gnome years, which is already saying something, because gnomes start sprouting gray whiskers before they’re out of diapers. But this one’s been around long enough to prank a dryad’s sacred tree, live to tell about it, and then prank it again just because he didn’t like the sap tone she used when she caught him the first time. His hat is a collage of past indiscretions—berries he stole from witch-purses, mushrooms “borrowed” from faerie circles, and a tuft of dire squirrel tail he claims was won in a poker game (no one believes him, especially not the squirrels). His days are a tapestry of mischief. Today, he had rigged a family of tree frogs to croak in unison every time someone passed the old cedar latrine. Yesterday, he spelled the badger’s burrow to smell like elderflower perfume—an incident still being litigated in the unofficial woodland court of “WTF Did You Just Do, Gary?” But it wasn’t always like this. The Wisecracker had once been a promising woodland historian, with impeccable footnotes and a genuine fondness for moss classification. That was until the Great Incident—a scholarly disagreement over whether blue moss was just green moss with sass. It ended with a symposium ruined by glitterbombs, an angry dryad boycott, and one furious troll with sparkles in places no troll should sparkle. Since then, the Wisecracker had chosen a more... recreational route through life. He lived in a hollowed-out stump stacked with scrolls, frog jokes, and an ever-replenishing jar of fermented beet liquor. Nobody knew where it came from. It was just there. Like his opinions. Loud. Uninvited. And usually followed by a prank involving slippery root polish or magically animated underpants. It was on a bright, dew-fresh morning—one of those disgustingly poetic ones that inspires woodland critters to hum showtunes—that the Wisecracker decided it was time to raise the stakes. The forest had gotten too cozy. Too polite. Even the weasels were organizing book clubs. “Unacceptable,” he muttered to his toadstool seat, scratching his chin with a twig he’d sharpened purely for dramatic effect. “If they want wholesome... I’ll give them wholesome. With a side of explosive berry jam.” And so began the Grand Forest Prank War of the Season—a campaign destined to scandalize nymphs, enrage beetles, and firmly cement the Wisecracker’s legacy as the most unrepentant little bastard the woodland had ever loved to hate. Of Pranks, Pheromones, and Poorly Timed Potion Eruptions The Wisecracker, being a gnome of refined nonsense, knew the key to a truly memorable prank wasn’t mere humiliation—it was poetic humiliation. There had to be timing. Artistry. A dramatic arc. Ideally, pantslessness. And so, the first phase of the Grand Forest Prank War of the Season began at dawn... with a basket of enchanted berries and a pheromone spell so potent it could make a rock pine for a cuddle. He left the basket at the foot of the Council Glade, where forestfolk gathered for their weekly “Mediation and Mutual Squeaking” circle. Inside were berries infused with giggleleaf oil, tickle spores, and just a pinch of something he called “pixie pheroblaster”—a substance banned in at least seven counties and one very traumatized fairy convent. By noon, the glade had descended into full chaos. An elderly squirrel began slow-dancing with a pinecone. Two wood nymphs started a vigorous debate on the ethics of licking tree sap straight from the bark—with full demonstration. And one unfortunate owl began hooting at its own reflection in a puddle, proclaiming it “the only bird who understands me.” When the Council tried to investigate, they found nothing but a calling card left under the basket: a crude drawing of a gnome mooning a pine tree with “KISS THIS, TREE-HUGGERS” written in aggressive mushroom ink. “It’s him again,” groaned Elder Wyrmbark, a centuries-old talking stump with the patience of a Buddhist snail and the libido of a very lonely log. “The Wisecracker’s struck again.” As expected, the forest community was split. Half declared war. The other half requested recipe tips. Meanwhile, the gnome himself was busy working on Phase Two: Operation Hot-Buns. This involved rerouting the fae hot spring using a system of enchanted hoses (which he had borrowed—permanently—from a disgraced water elemental with intimacy issues). By midafternoon, the pixies’ annual Full Moon Tan-athon was a steamy, bubbling geyser of screeches and rapidly evaporating modesty. “They were this close to inventing bikini lines,” he whispered proudly to a nearby beetle, who stared back with the thousand-yard gaze of someone who’d seen things no beetle should. But not every scheme went perfectly. Take, for instance, the romantic detour. You see, the Wisecracker had a complicated relationship with one Miss Bramblevine—a half-sprite, half-briar bush enchantress who had once kissed him, slapped him, then enchanted his eyebrows to grow in reverse. He still hadn’t forgiven her. Or stopped writing letters he never sent. One evening, he found her in a clearing, muttering incantations and plucking suspiciously romantic-sounding harp chords. She was conjuring a love aura for woodland speed dating. Naturally, he couldn’t let this travesty of intimacy unfold un-messed-with. He approached her with his usual charm—wearing nothing but a smile, a leaf thong, and one boot (the other was being used by a family of hedgehogs for tax reasons). “Fancy seeing you here,” he winked, leaning seductively against a log that immediately crumbled. “Care to sample a little homemade ‘gnomebrew’? It’s got notes of regret and wild raspberry.” “Still trying to seduce the entire underbrush with your fermented nonsense?” she smirked, but took the flask. She sniffed, gagged, and downed it in one swig. “Still tastes like broken promises and bat piss.” “You always said I was consistent.” There was a moment. A dangerous, sparkling, “should-we-or-should-we-not-do-this-again” kind of moment. Then her hair caught fire. Gently. Softly. Because the gnome had, regrettably, spiced the batch with firefern for “zest.” “DID YOU JUST—” “I panicked! It was supposed to be seductive! Do NOT explode the frogs again!” It was too late. Her rage spell detonated the decorative frog choir he’d hidden in the nearby bush. The explosion scattered musical amphibians across the glade. One of them croaked the opening bars of a Barry White song before going silent forever. The Wisecracker fled, his one boot flapping, hair full of harp strings, heart beating to the tempo of his own mischief. He’d have to lay low—maybe in the badger tunnels. Maybe in Bramblevine’s heart. Maybe both. He liked it complicated. And yet, the forest was now alive with energy. Pranks were spreading like spores in springtime. Hedgehog street art. Raccoon rap battles. A mysterious new trend where squirrels wore tiny mustaches and conducted acorn inspections. The Wisecracker’s influence was seeping through the roots themselves. It wasn’t just about giggles anymore. It was an uprising. A forest-wide movement of snark and subversion. And at the center of it all, the little gnome with the too-wide grin, a dangerously overstocked arsenal of practical jokes, and absolutely no sense of when to stop. He climbed atop his mossy throne that night, arms wide to the stars, and bellowed into the canopy: “LET THE THIRD PHASE COMMENCE!” Somewhere in the dark, an owl pooped itself. A frog sang again. And the trees braced themselves for what came next. Mayhem, Moss, and the Moonlit Tribunal of Shenanigans The forest had reached critical silliness. The squirrels had unionized. The frogs had formed a jazz trio. A fox began charging admission to watch a raccoon and a badger fight in interpretive dance. Everywhere, everywhere, the Wisecracker’s influence oozed like glittery tree sap—mischief, whimsy, chaos, and just a splash of low-grade arson. It was time. Not for another prank. No. This was beyond mischief. This was legacy. This... was The Final Gag. But first, he needed a diversion. And so he called upon his most loyal allies: the Truffle Dancers—a group of rotund, semi-retired badgers who owed him a favor from that one time he helped hide their mushroom moonshine still from the ranger fauns. “I need you to stage a performance,” he said, adjusting his ceremonial prank hat (a regular hat, but covered in feathers, jam stains, and live beetles trained to spell rude words). “Interpretive?” asked Bunt, the lead badger, already oiling his hip joints with pine resin. “Explosive,” said the gnome. “There will be glitter. There will be jazz. There may be screams.” By twilight, the clearing behind the Elderbark Grove was filled with an audience of questionable sobriety and wildly varying consent levels. Bramblevine was there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, already holding a small fireball in one hand and a healing salve in the other. Duality. The performance began. Fog. Dramatic torchlight. Bunt spinning like an angry cinnamon roll. The badgers twerked. A ferret wept. Somewhere, a crow squawked the Wilhelm scream. But just as the grand finale began—with a chorus of frogs launching bottle rockets from their mouths—everything froze. A thunderclap echoed across the forest. The glade went dead silent. Even the beetles spelling out “FLAPSACK” paused mid-A. From the sky descended a giant pair of moss-covered sandals, attached to the spectral form of Grandfather Spriggan, the ancient forest spirit and reluctant enforcer of natural order (and, regrettably, trousers). “ENOUGH,” the spirit bellowed, voice like thunder wrapped in nettles. “THE BALANCE HAS BEEN UNPRANKED.” The forest tribunal convened on the spot. Spectators transformed into a jury of woodland peers: a stork, three indignant squirrels, one disapproving mole with bifocals, and a toad who seemed entirely too into the drama. The charge? Crimes against quietude, reckless charm, unauthorized enchantment of raccoon tail accessories, and the willful violation of Article 7B of the Woodland Code: “Thou shalt not install fart noises in sacred glens.” The Wisecracker stood accused. Shirtless. Glorious. Holding a bottle of homemade sparkling bogwater and still slightly singed from a previous glitter incident. “How do you plead?” asked the Grandfather, his sandals creaking ominously. “I plead... absolutely fabulous,” the gnome said, performing a pirouette and releasing a smoke bomb shaped like a duck. The duck quacked. Dramatically. Gasps echoed through the clearing. Somewhere, a pinecone fainted. The tribunal descended into chaos. The jury broke into argument. The squirrels wanted exile. The mole demanded public shaming. The toad proposed something involving marmalade and a haunted bidet. Bramblevine watched it all with a look that blended admiration and homicidal irritation. But then... silence. The Grandfather raised one hand. “Let the accused make a final statement.” The Wisecracker took the stand—a stump with a suspiciously familiar frog perched on it—and cleared his throat. “Friends. Foes. Sap-suckers of all types. I do not deny my pranks. I embrace them. I curate them. This forest was growing dull. The squirrels were starting to quote Plato. The moss had formed a jazz quartet called 'Soft & Moist.' We were becoming... tasteful.” He shuddered. So did the jazz moss. “Yes, I spiced your spring festivals with nude raccoons and enchanted whistles. Yes, I bewitched an entire weasel choir to sing bawdy limericks in front of the Sacred Hollow. But I did it because I love this forest. And because I’m just the right kind of emotionally stunted chaos goblin to think it’s funny.” A pause. A silence thicker than badger gravy. Then... the toad applauded. Slowly. Then maniacally. The crowd followed. A frog exploded in joy (literally—he was part balloon). Even Grandfather Spriggan cracked what might have been a mossy smirk. “Very well,” the old spirit said. “Your punishment... is to continue.” “...Wait, what?” said the gnome. “You are hereby appointed the Official Prank Warden of Elderbark Woods. You will balance mischief with magic. Bring chaos where there is order. And order where there is too much bean stew. You shall report directly to me—and to Bramblevine, because someone has to keep you from dying in a frog-related accident.” “I accept,” the gnome said, straightening his beetle-feather hat with surprising gravity. Then he turned to Bramblevine. “So... drinks?” She rolled her eyes. “One. But if your flask smells like regret again, I’m setting your left nipple on fire.” “Deal.” And so it was that the Woodland Wisecracker ascended—not to glory, but to legend. A gnome of gags, a prophet of prankery, a messiah of magical mischief whose deeds would echo through the roots and leaves for ages. The frogs would sing songs. The beetles would spell tributes. And somewhere, in the warm belly of the woods, a badger would shake its hips... just for him. Long live the Wisecracker.     Bring the mischief home! If the antics of the Woodland Wisecracker made you snort, chuckle, or question the life choices of certain amphibians, you can now immortalize his chaos in your own realm. Whether you’re decorating a den worthy of enchanted badgers or searching for the perfect gift for that lovable troublemaker in your life, we’ve got you covered: Adorn your walls with a vibrant tapestry that captures his gnomey glory in full chaotic bloom, or go bold with a glossy metal print or dazzling acrylic display worthy of a tribunal hall. For cozy nights of mischief planning (or regretful introspection), wrap yourself in our luxuriously soft fleece blanket. And don’t forget to send someone a laugh (or a gentle warning) with our delightfully irreverent greeting card featuring the Wisecracker himself. Claim a piece of the prankster’s legacy—and let your decor cackle with character.

by Bill Tiepelman

Florals and Folklore

The Bloomfather Spring had officially sprung in the hamlet of Mossbottom, and the pollen was drunk on its own power. Birds were tweeting unsolicited advice, bees were aggressively speed-dating every flower, and squirrels were shaking their fuzzy behinds at anyone who looked remotely annoyed by joy. And right in the thick of this blossoming madness stood the one gnome to rule them all—Magnus Bloomwhiff, known in underground gardening circles as The Bloomfather. Magnus was not your average garden gnome. For one thing, he refused to wear red hats, calling them “flamboyant clichés.” Instead, he sported a knitted mustard beanie he’d allegedly stolen off a confused hipster in Portland during a tulip festival gone rogue. His beard? Braided like a Norse saga with tiny sprigs of lavender and rogue glitter, the kind that haunts your home until Yule. Today was The Day. The Equinox Bloom-Off. A sacred, slightly drunken tradition where every forest-dwelling creature with a green thumb, paw, or tentacle brought their best bouquet to the Great Mossy Stump of Judgment. Magnus, never one to half-ass his florals, had been preparing for this since late February, when most of the other gnomes were still curled up in cinnamon-scented hibernation blankets binge-watching cryptid soap operas. “You’re overdoing it again,” muttered his cousin Fizzle, a gnome whose default expression was a judgmental squint and who believed basil was “too spicy.” “You can’t overdo spring, Fizzle,” Magnus replied, cradling his creation with the tender awe of a midwife catching a glowing unicorn placenta. “You can only rise to meet her, like a brave soldier charging a field made entirely of seasonal allergies and bees who want to date you.” The bouquet was glorious. Not just tulips—no no, that would be predictable. Magnus’s bouquet was an **experience**: orange tulips kissed with gold shimmer powder, purple freesia twisted into a spiral of seduction, daffodils that literally giggled when touched, and something suspiciously magical that sparkled when nobody was looking directly at it. By the time he waddled to the stump, the competition was already in full bloom. Fern fairies in leaf-sequined leggings glared at each other over pansy arrangements like they were prepping for a dance battle. A badger in a cravat presented a bouquet arranged in the shape of Queen Barkliza III. Someone had even entered with a carnivorous display titled “Spring Eats Back.” Magnus stepped up. The crowd went hushed. Even the aggressively horny bees stopped mid-thrust. He held the bouquet aloft like a garden-born Excalibur and cried out in his famously scandalous voice, “Behold! The Bloomination!” Gasps. Applause. A spontaneous haiku composed by a chipmunk with a lute. It was going swimmingly—until the bouquet let out a sneeze and a puff of glitter-fused pollen exploded in every direction, sending fairies into allergic fits and temporarily turning the badger’s cravat into a tulip-themed parasol. “Oops,” Magnus whispered. “Might’ve used too much ent-pollen.” “You idiot!” hissed Fizzle, now sparkling against his will. “You weaponized your florals!” But it was too late. The Bloomfather’s bouquet was... evolving. And the forest, so fond of order and pollen-permitted debauchery, was about to get a serious makeover. The Petalpocalypse The air shimmered with an unnatural hue—somewhere between rose gold and “whoops.” Magnus Bloomwhiff, still clutching his mutinous bouquet, stared in dumbstruck awe as the ent-pollen supercharged his flowers into what could only be described as sentient botanical theater. The tulips grew mouths. Beautiful ones, pouty and smirking, whispering garden secrets in French-accented nonsense. The freesia began reciting Shakespeare. Backwards. The daffodils? Now had legs. Several pairs. And they were tapping. “Sweet seed of Sunroot,” Fizzle moaned, hiding under a compostable umbrella. “They’re forming... a chorus line.” Magnus, on the other hand, was gleeful. “I KNEW spring would break into song eventually.” It was around that time the Mossbottom Bloom-Off devolved from lighthearted competition into a full-scale Petalpocalypse. Pollen clouds mushroomed into the sky. Vines shot from the bouquet like gossip from a pixie’s lips, entangling judges, contestants, and a few poor squirrels trying to discreetly pee behind a fern. The enchanted bouquet levitated, spinning slowly like a diva making a slow-motion entrance on a reality show. The crowd panicked. Fairies screamed and flew into each other. A wood sprite hyperventilated into a toadstool. Someone accused the bouquet of being an agent of the Spring Rebellion—a radical underground movement demanding longer mating seasons and petal-based universal income. “This is exactly how the Blossom Riots of ’09 started,” groaned an elderly mushroom. But Magnus, ever the showman, climbed on top of the Great Mossy Stump with all the calm of a gnome who once dated a dryad with anger issues and had nothing left to fear. “Everyone, relax!” he boomed. “This is simply a manifestation of spring’s wild, fertile chaos. We asked her to bloom. Well—she did. Now let her speak!” The bouquet, now spinning in place and glittering with pollen like a botanical disco ball, spoke in a collective whispery harmony: “Prepare yourselves for the Age of Bloom. All shall petal, none shall prune.” “A talking bouquet?” a goblin scoffed. “Next thing you know, my begonias’ll be unionizing.” But they did. Not just his. Every plant in a 300-yard radius perked up, shimmied like they’d heard gossip, and began to dance. Moss waved. Ivy wrapped itself into cursive and started spelling dirty limericks. Even the lichen had opinions now, and most of them were sarcastic. Somewhere in the chaos, Magnus and Fizzle were pulled into an impromptu conga line led by a tap-dancing trillium named Bev. “We should probably fix this,” Fizzle grumbled, ducking a flirtatious fern’s advance. “Or lean in,” Magnus said, eyes alight. “We could broker peace between plant and gnome. Be the bridge! The bloom whisperers! The chlorophyll diplomats!” “You just want to be king of the dancing flowers.” “Not king. Emperor.” After three hours of conga-ing, pollen burlesque, and one awkward group marriage between a pinecone, a pansy, and a confused raccoon, the bouquet began to wilt—its power fading with the setting sun. With a sigh and a glittery puff, the magical chaos ebbed away. Flowers returned to their usual non-verbal selves. Moss returned to being soft and judgmental. Even the tap-dancing daffodils bowed and politely ceased existing, as if they knew their time was done. Magnus stood on the stump, shirtless (when had that happened?), chest heaving, beard full of blossoms and two confused ladybugs. The crowd—bedraggled, bewildered, and blinking glitter out of their eyelashes—stared in silence. And then, thunderous applause. Confetti. A badger sobbing into a bouquet of crocuses. A fairy fainted and fell directly into the punch bowl, where she remained sipping through a straw for the rest of the evening. Magnus, still high on the intoxicating mix of pollen and approval, turned to the crowd. “Spring is not a season, my friends. It is a state of chaotic, blooming, feral glory. And I, Magnus Bloomwhiff, am her ambassador!” The mayor of Mossbottom, an ancient hedgehog in a monocle, grudgingly handed Magnus a sash reading “Bloom-Off Grand Champion and Reluctant Floral Messiah.” Fizzle, sipping something suspiciously fizzy, raised an eyebrow. “So what now?” Magnus smirked. “Now we rest. We bloom again tomorrow.” And with that, he strutted home barefoot through a field of daisies that somehow parted in reverence, leaving behind sparkles, scandal, and a legend that would live on in the petals of every mischievous bloom for generations to come. And somewhere in the background, the tulip bouquet quietly giggled… plotting.     If the chaotic charm of Magnus Bloomwhiff and his legendary bouquet made you giggle, grin, or crave a tap-dancing daffodil of your own, don’t worry—you can now bring that springtime sass to your own home. “Florals and Folklore” is available in a variety of enchanting formats. Adorn your walls with a Framed Art Print or a sleek Metal Print, perfect for capturing every glitter-dusted wrinkle in glorious detail. Take Magnus on the go with a vibrant Tote Bag that screams “chaotic garden energy,” or send some spring mischief in the mail with a collectible Greeting Card. Each item is infused with that same playful magic—minus the allergy-triggering ent-pollen, we promise.

by Bill Tiepelman

Corona and Companions

The Suds Before the Storm It all began on a Tuesday, which was problematic, because Mortimer the Gnome had promised himself he’d stay sober at least until Wednesday. But Tuesday had other plans. Specifically, the kind of plans that involved a case of Corona, a slightly moldy wedge of lime, and a lab puppy named Tater Tot with the attention span of a goldfish on caffeine. Mortimer had once been a proud garden gnome. You know the type — stoic, cheerful, always pointing at invisible butterflies. But those days were long gone, buried under layers of mulch and emotional trauma from one too many weed whacker incidents. After faking his own lawn-mower-related death and fleeing suburbia, he now lived behind a condemned Taco Bell, which he called “La Casita de Chillin’.” “#CHILLIN’” read the tank top he hadn’t washed since Cinco de Mayo 2011. The hashtag had faded, but the attitude had fermented like the warm bottle he now cradled like a newborn. Next to him sat his ride-or-die, Tater Tot, the golden retriever pup with a passion for limes and absolutely no sense of personal boundaries. “You bring daddy another lime, you little citrus gremlin?” Mortimer slurred with affection, sloshing beer onto his lap for the fifth time. Tater Tot dropped the wedge in his lap like a proud sommelier. Mortimer, of course, missed his mouth entirely and shoved the lime dramatically into his left nostril. It was that kind of day. Somewhere between the sixth bottle and a very confused conversation with a spider named Cheryl, Mortimer began outlining his master plan to create the world’s first Gnome-Pup Influencer Duo. “We’ll call it Gnome & Tots,” he hiccuped. “Merch. TikToks. An NFT of your butt. We’ll be legends, Tater.” Tater Tot blinked. Then burped. The room smelled of lime zest and regret. But before Mortimer could draft a business plan on the back of a stale tortilla, a shadow darkened the cracked stucco wall behind him. A tall figure loomed, carrying something that sloshed ominously. Mortimer’s bloodshot eyes squinted upward. “Well, well,” said the voice, laced with menace and mild nasal congestion. “If it isn’t the lawn gnome who stiffed me three beer runs ago.” Mortimer's mustache twitched. “Clarence?” Clarence. The garden flamingo Mortimer once left at a truck stop in Yuma. Back. Angry. With a handle of tequila and vengeance in his tiny plastic heart. The lime slipped from Mortimer’s nose and landed with a plop in his bottle. “Tater,” he whispered, rising slowly, “fetch me… the emergency sombrero.” Flamingo Vengeance and the Lime Wars of ’25 Tater Tot leapt into action, skidding across the sticky floor like a four-legged Roomba with a mission. From behind a half-eaten churro and an empty salsa jar, he retrieved Mortimer’s prized Emergency Sombrero — a battered, oversized hat covered in glitter, nacho cheese stains, and three rusted bottle openers sewn onto the brim like medals of war. “Good boy,” Mortimer wheezed, slapping the sombrero onto his head with the dramatic flair of a man who'd seen too many telenovelas and too few therapy sessions. Clarence took a step forward. His hot pink plastic legs creaked with rage. “You left me, Morty. In the Arizona sun. Melting. Watching truckers eat gas station burritos and contemplate their ex-wives.” “You said you needed space!” Mortimer protested, using the lime in his Corona like a stress ball. “I said I needed sunscreen!” Before the confrontation could devolve into sobbing and flamingo-on-gnome violence, a bottle rolled across the floor — unopened, full, cold. The room fell silent. Clarence blinked. “Is that... is that a chilled Modelo?” “It’s yours if you sit your feathery ass down and chill the hell out,” Mortimer said, voice gravelly and noble, like a drunk Clint Eastwood doing a beer commercial. Clarence hesitated. His beady eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, he tucked his tequila bottle under his wing and flopped his flamingo self onto the cushion of a crusty beanbag chair, sighing like a diva finally given her spotlight. Tater Tot, now donning a mini-sombrero of his own (don’t ask where he got it), pranced over and flopped beside him. Peace was restored. But not for long. Three raccoons burst in through the broken window like tiny furry ninjas, all wearing bandanas and reeking of fermented fruit. “Where’s the tequila, Clarence?” the leader squeaked, claws twitching. “We’re out of lime!” another raccoon wailed, noticing the dog with the last wedge. Tater growled softly, tucking his citrus treasure beneath his paw like a dragon guarding a hoard. “No one’s takin’ my pup’s lime!” Mortimer bellowed, rising unsteadily and brandishing a broken flip-flop like a katana. The room erupted. Raccoons shrieked. Clarence screamed. Tater barked like a drunk pirate. The beanbag chair exploded under the stress of flamingo weight. A wrestling match broke out involving three shot glasses, two beers, and someone yelling “AY CARAMBA!” from the alley. After 18 minutes of chaos and two calls to the local churro stand for backup, the brawl ended with everyone passed out in a tangled heap. Mortimer lay snoring on top of Clarence, Tater Tot curled up on a pile of limes like a citrus-scented loaf of bread. One raccoon was using a Corona bottle as a pillow, another wore Mortimer’s tank top as a cape. The third was inexplicably cuddling a garden gnome figurine and whispering “Forgive me, Papa.” The sun rose gently the next day over “La Casita de Chillin’.” Birds chirped. A mariachi ringtone echoed from under a pile of tacos. Mortimer stirred, blinking one crusty eye. “Tater,” he rasped. “Did we… win?” Tater burped in response, the unmistakable scent of lime zest and low-stakes victory wafting through the room. Clarence opened one eye. “I think I peed in your beer.” Mortimer considered this for a long moment, then shrugged. “Adds character.” And thus, the legend of the Great Lime Wars of ‘25 was born. They never did become influencers. But they did get banned from three liquor stores and somehow ended up on a T-shirt sold exclusively at gas stations in New Mexico. As for the sombrero? It now sits atop a barbed-wire fence, flapping nobly in the breeze, watching over drunkards, dogs, and vengeance-seeking flamingos everywhere. #Chillin', forevermore.     If the lime-loving chaos of "Corona and Companions" made you snort-laugh, cry tequila tears, or just deeply relate to a gnome in a crusty tank top, you can snag a piece of this legendary mess for yourself. Whether you're decking out your bar with a metal print, puzzling through your poor life choices with a hilarious jigsaw puzzle, or just need a sticker to slap on your cooler that says “I, too, once fought off lime-thirsty raccoons,” we’ve got you covered. Send gnome-themed greetings to your weirdest friend with a greeting card, or class up your bathroom (questionably) with a rustic wood print. Mortimer would be proud. Tater Tot would wag. And Clarence? He'd demand royalties.

by Bill Tiepelman

Soaked in Sunshine and Mischief

It was the kind of rain that made the world smell alive — damp earth, crushed leaves, and that heady perfume of mushrooms fermenting secrets into the soil. Most creatures ran for cover. But not Marlow and Trixie. They were gnomes, after all. And gnomes were either born with good sense or born with absolutely none at all — depending on whether you asked the village elders or the village bartenders. Today, barefoot in the thick puddled glade, Marlow and Trixie were every definition of joyful stupidity. "C'mon, lovebug, before your knickers rust shut!" Marlow hooted, his tie-dye shirt sagging and clinging to his potbelly like a soggy rainbow. He grabbed Trixie's mud-slicked hand and spun her with a flourish that nearly toppled them both into the deepest puddle. Water splashed high, drenching them anew. "Ha! Says the man whose beard is growing mold!" Trixie giggled, the flowers in her crown shedding petals like confetti. Her blue hair, heavy with rain, stuck to her cheeks in sticky strands, framing a grin mischievous enough to make a nun blush. Their giddy shrieks echoed through the clearing as they stomped and spun, feet splashing puddles the size of small ponds. Every step flung mud higher until they looked less like gnomes and more like muddy garden ornaments — the kind even grandmothers would hesitate to put out front. Above them, giant mushrooms sagged under the weight of water, dribbling fat droplets that hit Marlow squarely in the bald spot, causing Trixie to nearly choke with laughter. Somewhere nearby, a disgruntled frog croaked his annoyance before diving headfirst into a puddle with the dramatic flair of a soap opera actor. "Rain's got nuthin' on us!" Marlow bellowed, flexing what he still proudly referred to as his 'love muscles'—mostly held together these days by stubbornness and beer. Trixie twirled, dress plastered to her, delightfully scandalous in the way only forest creatures with very liberal views on clothing considered normal. She struck a pose like a fashion model, one hip popped and arms thrown to the sky, shouting, "Make it rain, baby! Make it raunchy!" Marlow doubled over with laughter, nearly falling into a puddle himself. "You keep flouncing like that and the entire woodland's gonna think it's gnome mating season!" At that, Trixie gave him a wink that could have powered a lighthouse and sauntered close enough for him to smell the rain in her hair. She tugged him by his soggy collar, their noses almost touching. "Maybe," she whispered, the innuendo dripping thicker than the rain, "that's exactly what I had in mind." Before he could answer — likely something very ungentlemanly and very amusing — the ground beneath them squelched ominously. With a wild, cartoonish yelp, the pair slid backwards, arms flailing, and landed with a monumental SPLAT in the biggest puddle of the meadow. They lay there blinking up at the grey, drizzling sky, rain pattering against their faces, laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep inside the muddy mess they'd become. "Best. Date. Ever." Trixie sighed dreamily, smacking her mud-smeared hand into Marlow’s equally ruined shirt in a sloppy pat-pat-pat. "You ain't seen nothin' yet, sugar sprout," Marlow crooned, waggling his thick eyebrows, which now sported their own tiny puddles. Above them, the clouds swirled and the mist thickened, hinting that their soggy adventure was far from over — and the mischief was only just beginning. The puddle squelched around them as they finally peeled themselves apart, each trying unsuccessfully to look dignified while dripping from eyebrows to toes. Marlow pushed himself up on one elbow, squinting dramatically like some swashbuckling hero — if swashbuckling heroes wore rain-soaked tie-dye and smelled faintly of wet mushrooms. "You know what this calls for?" he said, giving Trixie a grin so wide it could have fit a third gnome between his teeth. "An emergency pint?" she guessed, trying and failing to wring out her dress. Water sprayed from the hem like a poorly-behaved hosepipe, soaking his boots, not that they could get any wetter. "Close." He wagged a thick finger at her. "Emergency puddle sliding contest." Trixie's eyes lit up like a tavern sign at happy hour. "You're on, you muddy rascal." Without another word, she hurled herself belly-first onto the slick grass and shot forward with a whoop that startled a flock of birds out of the canopy. Marlow, never one to back down from a challenge — or from an opportunity to impress a lady with absolutely no sense of shame — launched after her, arms flailing and belly jiggling. They skidded across the clearing in glorious, muddy chaos, colliding with a startled hedgehog who, after an indignant squeak, decided he'd seen worse and waddled off muttering under his breath about "bloody gnomes and their bloody love games." When they finally came to a soggy, breathless stop at the base of a large mushroom, Marlow was half on top of Trixie, and Trixie was laughing so hard her flower crown slid down over one eye. He pushed it back up gently, his rough thumb smearing a line of mud across her cheek. "You are," he panted, "the most beautiful mud-covered nymph I've ever had the pleasure of nearly drowning beside." "Flatterer," she teased, poking him in the ribs. "Careful, Marlow, keep sweet-talking me like that and you might just get lucky." He leaned closer, water dripping from the end of his nose. "Lucky like... another puddle race?" "Lucky like..." She arched an eyebrow and smirked, "…getting to help me out of these wet clothes before they chafe all my best bits." Marlow blinked. Somewhere deep inside, he could swear a choir of drunk angels started singing. Either that or he was about to pass out from excitement. "Help?" he croaked, voice an octave higher than normal. "Help," she confirmed, sliding her hand into his, a wicked sparkle in her rain-speckled eyes. "But first, you have to catch me!" With a squeal and a splash, she darted up, her bare feet kicking up sprays of water as she raced toward the deeper woods. Marlow, fueled by adrenaline, romance, and about eight too many pints of ale stored in reserve, staggered upright and lumbered after her like a lovesick buffalo. The chase was a glorious mess. Trixie weaving through trees, laughing breathlessly, Marlow crashing after her, getting clotheslined by low branches and slipping on treacherous patches of moss. "You're fast for a little squirt!" he gasped, nearly tripping over a root the size of his pride. "You're slow for a big show-off!" she shouted over her shoulder, throwing him a saucy wink that nearly sent him face-first into a patch of suspiciously grinning mushrooms. Finally, she paused by a tiny brook, water sparkling like liquid jewels, and waited, arms crossed, dress clinging to every wicked curve like nature's most scandalous painting. "You made it," she said mockingly, as Marlow staggered up, wheezing like an accordion in distress. "Told... ya... still got it..." he puffed, chest heaving, beard dripping. Trixie stepped forward slowly, seductively, tracing a line down his muddy shirt with one finger. "Good," she whispered. "Because you're gonna need it." In one swift, daring motion, she grabbed the hem of her soaked dress and yanked it over her head, tossing it onto a nearby branch where it dripped raindrops like applause. Beneath, she wore... absolutely nothing but a devilish grin and a whole lotta rain-kissed skin. Marlow's brain short-circuited. Somewhere deep inside, his inner voice — the sensible one that usually suggested things like "Maybe don't drink the questionable mushroom wine" — muttered, "We’re doomed," and quietly packed a suitcase to leave. But his heart (and frankly, several other parts of him) cheered loudly. With a growl that made nearby squirrels avert their eyes and one particularly bold beetle offer a slow clap, he yanked off his shirt and charged into the brook, scooping Trixie into his arms with a splash that soaked them both anew. They tumbled into the shallow water, kissing fiercely, laughing between kisses, the rain coming harder now as if the sky itself was rooting for them. Somewhere in the forest, the frogs struck up a ribbiting chorus. The trees leaned in close, the mushrooms positively beamed, and even the grumpy hedgehog paused to shake his head and mutter, "Well, I suppose it's about bloody time." Long after the rain stopped, after the last drop clung stubbornly to leaf and blade, Marlow and Trixie stayed tangled together, soaked in mischief, soaked in sunshine, and soaked most of all — in love. The End. (Or the beginning, depending on who you ask.)     Bring a little "Sunshine and Mischief" into your world! If you loved Marlow and Trixie's wild rain dance as much as we did, why not take a piece of their story home? Our vibrant tapestry lets you drape that joyful energy across your walls, while a stunning metal print adds bold, glossy magic to any room. Feeling a little mischievous on the go? Grab our colorful tote bag — perfect for puddle-hopping or shopping misadventures! Want to send a smile? Our charming greeting card lets you share a little mischief by mail. And for those extra-sunny days (or surprise rainstorms), wrap yourself up in joy with our soft, playful beach towel. However you celebrate, let Marlow and Trixie remind you: life's better when you're soaked in sunshine — and a little bit of mischief.

by Bill Tiepelman

Grin and Gnome It

The Mushy Affair In the heart of the Blushblossom Grove, where the mushrooms grew as tall as gossip and twice as colorful, lived a gnome couple whose love was as loud as a frog orgy in springtime. Bucklebeard “Buck” Mossbottom, the jolliest mischief-maker in the glade, had a laugh so powerful it once caused a fairy to drop her pants mid-flight. And then there was Petalina “Pet” Thistlewhip, the sharpest tongue east of Toadstool Bend and proud owner of the only apron in the forest banned for ‘excessive sass’ by the Gnome Gardeners Guild. Now, Buck and Pet were not your dainty, storybook gnomes who spent their days knitting socks or watching moss grow. No, these two were infamous for their woodland hijinks, nightly howls of laughter, and the strange but oddly sensual way they buttered each other’s mushrooms. Every morning, Pet would pick him a daisy the size of his butt and wink like a wench in a bard’s bawdy tune. Buck, in return, would swing by her mushroom workshop with a bouquet of dew-drenched fern fronds and a smirk that practically screamed, “I brought pollens and I know how to use them.” One foggy spring morning, Buck stomped into their mushroom-stump kitchen, cheeks already flushed like he'd been caught with his pants tangled in honeysuckle. "Pet, love of my life, wrinkle in my suspenders," he boomed, "today, I’m takin’ you out! A real date! No toad races. No spore-counting competitions. I made us reservations at Fung du Licious." Pet arched an eyebrow so high it nearly poked a squirrel. “You mean that scandalous place where they serve soup in snail shells and their waiters wear nothing but rose petals and a confident grin?” “Exactly! We deserve it. I want wine. I want weird. I want you and me in candlelight, whispering dirty mushroom jokes ‘til the waiter begs us to leave.” Pet giggled, her eyes gleaming with devious delight. “You’re lucky I shaved my legs with a pinecone yesterday. Let me get my corset — the itchy one with the embroidered raccoon scandal." That night, the gnome couple turned heads all the way down the mosswalk. Buck wore his best checkered shirt, with buttons so shiny even the fireflies got jealous. Pet strutted beside him in a skirt that practically yodeled with flirtation and a flower crown so aggressive it nearly declared war on a wasp hive. As they entered Fung du Licious, holding hands and smirks, the entire forest seemed to hold its breath. They were seated under a glowing fungus chandelier, served glowing beetle juice cocktails, and serenaded by a quartet of horned newts with suspiciously sensual saxophones. Every dish that came out got more suggestive — the ‘Stuffed Moaning Morels’ nearly led to an indecent groping incident, and Buck’s attempt to describe the ‘Saucy Root Pile’ earned them a stern glance from a dainty hedgehog couple in the corner. But it was during dessert — a steamy tart named “The Creamy Puff Puff of Lust” — that Pet looked at Buck and said, “Darling, let’s go home. I need to jump your spores so hard we’ll fertilize the next zip code.” And Buck, wiping pudding off his beard, whispered back with all the subtlety of a thunderclap, “Grin and gnome it, baby.” They didn’t even finish their second puff puff. Pet flung some coins at the petal-clad waiter, who winked and handed them a complimentary bottle of dewberry wine, whispering, “For what comes next... hydrate." They burst out into the night air, giddy and slightly sticky, making a mad dash through the glowing shrooms, tripping on moss, and tearing petals out of their own crowns like love-drunk forest lunatics. But just as they reached their stump home, something unexpected was waiting on their doorstep… Sporeplay & Shenanigans Standing on their mossy front porch, slightly wine-soaked and whispering innuendos about puff pastry and sap-sticky nibbles, Buck and Pet froze. Because sitting atop their doormat was not a raccoon, a rogue snail, or even that judgmental owl from down the lane — no, this was something far more terrifying. A basket. “It’s not ticking,” Pet said warily, poking it with a spoon she kept in her corset for emergencies both romantic and violent. “It’s not farting either,” Buck added. “So it’s not my Uncle Sput.” Pet untied the gingham bow with the same grace and caution she used when undressing Buck — which is to say, she ripped it off like it owed her money. Inside lay a note and a large, squirming puff of fluff with two oversized ears and a tail that twitched like it had opinions. “Congratulations! It’s a Fuzzle!” They stared at the creature. The creature sneezed, and a cloud of sparkles hit Buck square in the beard, coating him in a fine dusting of glitter and pheromones. “A… Fuzzle?” Pet blinked. “Who the hell drops off a semi-sentient emotional support beast when we’re two drinks away from a night of rumpy-pumpy?” “It’s blinking in Morse code,” Buck said. “I think it’s judging our life choices.” “It’s about to watch us make more.” They carried the Fuzzle inside and dropped it into the cuddle-cushion pit, where it promptly fell asleep snoring like a hedgehog in a harmonica. Buck locked the door. Pet unpinned her crown with the flair of a gnome ready to sin. They locked eyes. They held hands. They grinned… And then the Fuzzle exploded. Not violently, but dramatically — a puff of spores erupted from its fuzzy little body, filling the air with a scent like cinnamon, vanilla, and poorly suppressed kinks. Buck staggered. Pet swayed. The room went pink. The candles flickered into little hearts. Their reflection in the mirror suddenly wore matching lingerie. “Buck…” Pet whispered, her voice suddenly several octaves lower and suggestively damp. “What… the... glittery shroom is happening?” “I think the Fuzzle is a Lustspore Familiar,” he gasped. “Those things were banned after the Great Groin Fire of ‘62!” They collapsed into the mushroom-mattress in a tangle of limbs, laughter, and pheromone-fueled silliness. Pet’s corset somehow snapped itself off. Buck’s pants disintegrated into a fine powder, possibly due to age or spellwork — no one cared. The next hour was a blur of kisses, tickles, giggles, and one moment involving whipped honey, a ladle, and the phrase “CALL ME FUNGUS DADDY.” Later, sweaty and exhausted, they lay side by side as the Fuzzle purred between them, now glowing faintly and wearing Buck’s sock like a cape. “That was… something,” Pet sighed, running fingers through her flower-tangled hair. “I saw colors I don’t have names for,” Buck wheezed. “Also, you bit my thigh. I liked it.” “I know.” They dozed off in a pile of warm limbs and snoring spores, tangled in love and mischief and the kind of magic only found deep in enchanted woods — the kind of love story that never makes it into bedtime books but is whispered by naughty pixies behind toadstools for generations. By morning, the Fuzzle had redecorated. Their living room was now a heart-shaped mushroom lounge. Everything smelled like wine and unspoken secrets. Buck woke up with a raccoon curled around his foot and no idea how it got there. Pet, now wrapped in a throw blanket made of moss and bad decisions, sipped dewberry tea and smiled. “Well, my darling,” she said, “we grinned. We gnomed it. And next time, we check the basket before dinner.” Buck raised his mug, sloshing tea all over a fern. “To mushroom madness, Fuzzle-fueled fornication, and loving you ‘til my beard turns to bramble.” And the Fuzzle, still glowing, farted a love heart into the air. THE END (until they get a second Fuzzle…)     Bring the giggles home! If Buck and Pet made you laugh, blush, or crave a puff-puff tart of your own, why not capture their enchanted chaos for yourself? From the heart of the whimsical woods to your cozy corner, “Giggling in Gnomeland” is now available on a curated selection of charming gifts and home decor. Snuggle up with a Throw Pillow bursting with fairy-tale feels, take your mischief on the go with a Tote Bag, or pen your own saucy gnome tales in a Spiral Notebook. For those who want a magical visual punch, hang a Canvas Print or a sleek Metal Print and let the laughter of the forest light up your space. Whether you’re a woodland romantic or a mischievous soul, these treasures are for anyone who believes love should always come with a grin… and maybe a Fuzzle.

by Bill Tiepelman

Striped Socks & Secret Smiles

On the edge of Whimblewood, just where the tulips start gossiping about the daffodils, there lived a tiny gnome girl named Tilly Twinklenthistle. Tilly wasn’t your average mushroom-sitting, dewdrop-sipping garden sprite. No, Tilly had ambition. Big ambition. The kind that didn’t fit inside your average toadstool or fit in your mouth when a bee flew too close and you tried to look dignified. Tilly’s mornings began with stretching her toes toward the sun while perched atop a stump she’d claimed as her "Throne of General Mayhem." Her favorite pastime was sitting still as a frog statue, smiling just wide enough to get the nearby butterflies suspicious. You see, Tilly was famous in these parts for two things: the uncrackable mystery of her secret smile... and booby-trapping flower beds with honey-soaked pebbles. The smile? No one ever quite figured it out. The traps? Oh, they were legendary. One poor hedgehog ended up with five ladybugs stuck to his nose and a complex about tulips. The therapy bills were outrageous. Today was no ordinary day, however. Today was the Vernal Equinox Gnome Games — a celebration of all things muddy, petal-scented, and vaguely inappropriate. There were contests for “Most Impressive Moss Hat,” “Longest Tulip Nap,” and the notorious “Soggy Boot Toss.” Tilly had a different plan entirely. While everyone else was fluffing their dandelion wigs and preparing interpretive pollen dances, she was gearing up for a caper the likes of which would echo through the root systems of the forest for generations. You see, tucked beneath her cap — hidden behind daisies, tucked below the tulips, and camouflaged with cunning buttercups — was the legendary **Whoopee Thorn**. A prank device so potent, so scandalously snort-inducing, that even the elves banned it after the incident with the unicorn and the mayor’s wig. Tilly’s plan? Wait until the Gnome Games' closing speech, delivered by the uptight and tragically flatulent Chancellor Greebeldorf... and let the Whoopee Thorn do its symphonic work right as he bent to accept his ceremonial ladle. Of course, plans this glorious never go smoothly. Just as Tilly leaned forward, chin resting on her tiny fists, a rustle came from behind a tulip. Not a breeze. Not a beetle. A rustle... with intent. The kind of sound that makes a gnome’s ears twitch and their instincts scream, “Someone’s about to out-prank you.” And that, dear reader, is where things start to spiral gloriously out of control. The rustle behind the tulip turned out to be—of all the ill-timed interlopers—Spriggle Fernflick, the self-declared “Mirth Minister of Whimblewood.” Spriggle, with his pinecone shoulder pads and the eternal smell of fermented elderberry juice clinging to his beard, had one singular passion: ruining Tilly’s best-laid plans by accidentally improving them. “TILLLLYYY!” he whisper-yelled in the shrillest voice known to elf or gnome, “Did you remember to polish the Whoopee Thorn? You can’t unleash audible joy on a dry nozzle! It wheezes instead of parps. You’ll end up with more embarrassment than explosion!” Tilly, eyes still fixed on the stage where Chancellor Greebeldorf was clearing his throat and adjusting his ceremonial garters, did not flinch. “Spriggle, I swear on my striped socks, if you make one more peep I’ll bury you under a pile of disobedient dandelions.” But Spriggle, undeterred and unable to respect the sacred art of comedic timing, tripped on a daisy root and went sprawling into the center aisle — right in front of the Chancellor’s podium. A collective inhale swept the crowd. Somewhere, a mushroom fainted. Tilly face-palmed so hard she momentarily blacked out and imagined herself in a quiet life of snail-herding somewhere far, far away. But here’s where fate, that glittery rascal, stepped in. As Spriggle scrambled upright, he stepped squarely on the **Whoopee Thorn**, which had fallen from Tilly’s hat during the kerfuffle. The Thorn, offended by its early deployment, unleashed a gassy crescendo so majestic and unrelenting that even the clouds above paused their drifting to listen. It began as a honk, evolved into a gargle, and ended in what gnome scholars would later describe as “the sound of a goose fighting for dominance in a tuba factory.” Chancellor Greebeldorf dropped his ladle. A nearby faun burst into tears. Someone's enchanted frog screamed in French. The meadow erupted into chaos. Laughter. Applause. Two gnomes fainted in ecstasy. The local dryad filed a noise complaint with a pinecone. Even the notoriously humorless mushroom council cracked. One of them giggled so hard he split his cap and had to be ushered away with a parasol and a shot of bark whiskey. Tilly, initially mortified, realized something beautiful: it didn’t matter that her plan had gone sideways, or that Spriggle had accidentally become the hero of the hour. What mattered was that joy had bloomed—louder, stinkier, and funnier than even she could’ve orchestrated. So she stood. Climbed onto her tree stump. Took off her floral hat with a sweeping bow, daisies tumbling like confetti. And she declared, with a grin wide enough to shame a fox in a henhouse: “Let it be known henceforth across the thistle-thickened hills and all petal-strewn plains of Whimblewood... that today, laughter reigned supreme. That today, our Chancellor farted — and it echoed in our hearts.” Thunderous applause. Spriggle passed out from joy. Greebeldorf resigned on the spot and became a beekeeper. And Tilly? She returned to her stump the next morning, a daisy between her teeth and her Whoopee Thorn safely stashed in a tulip vase. She had new ideas. Big ones. Possibly involving beetles in bow ties and a barrel of custard. But that, dear reader, is another mischievous tale for another wild spring day.     Epilogue: The Aftermath of a Glorious Toot In the weeks that followed, tales of “The Gnome Who Made the Chancellor Blow Brass” spread through Whimblewood faster than a squirrel on sassafras. Tilly became a local legend, her image etched onto pastries, pebble mosaics, and a limited-edition mushroom ale that tasted vaguely of regret and chamomile. Spriggle Fernflick gained cult status too—accidentally, of course. He tried giving inspirational speeches about “embracing the stumble,” but usually tripped off the podium by the third sentence. The forest loved him more for it. As for Chancellor Greebeldorf? He now lived in a quiet glade with bees, his ceremonial ladle repurposed into a honey dipper. He claimed he was happier, though the bees reported he still tooted nervously during thunderstorms. And our mischievous heroine? Tilly Twinklenthistle kept to her stump, her hat always freshly decorated with blooms and secrets. Each morning, she greeted the sunrise with the same knowing smirk, striped socks snug around her ankles, ready for the next glorious mess of a day. Because in Whimblewood, spring didn’t just mean new growth. It meant laughter that echoed through mossy halls and tiny hearts that beat a little faster when they saw her grin. And somewhere, deep in the soil beneath the stump, the Whoopee Thorn pulsed gently… waiting for its encore.     💫 Bring a Touch of Tilly's Mischief Home If Tilly Twinklenthistle's springtime antics made you smile (or snort tea through your nose), you can now bring her giggle-worthy charm into your everyday life. Whether you're daydreaming in a sunny nook or planning your next prank, these delightful products inspired by “Striped Socks & Secret Smiles” are ready to add a splash of whimsy and wonder to your world: 🌟 Metal Print: A vibrant, gallery-worthy print with rich details and colors sharp enough to make tulips jealous. 🌿 Tapestry: Drape your walls in springtime enchantment and bring the meadow to your space. 💌 Greeting Card: Send a chuckle and a cheeky wink through the mail — perfect for birthdays, pranks, or just-because gnome joy. ☀️ Beach Towel: Bring Tilly to the shore and dry off in full mischief-mode style. 📝 Spiral Notebook: Ideal for recording suspicious giggles, prank blueprints, or heartfelt poetry under petal-dappled sunlight. Because let’s be honest — your world could use a little more striped sock magic and a lot more secret smiles.

by Bill Tiepelman

Flirtation Under the Fungi

Mushrooms, Mischief, and Maybe? It was the kind of forest where the mushrooms were suspiciously large, the squirrels wore monocles, and you could smell the flirtation in the air like pine and pheromones. The elves called it *Glimmergrove*, but the gnomes had a far less poetic name: *That Place Where We Once Got Really Lost and Accidentally Married a Tree*. Long story. In the middle of this magical mess was Bunther Wobblepot, a gnome with a grin like he knew something you didn’t—and he usually did. Rugged in a plaid shirt and suspenders barely holding on after a poorly executed cartwheel competition, Bunther was what you'd call “sturdy with confidence.” And a beard so lush, even the moss was jealous. He sat on a mossy log, boots dusted with fairy pollen and pride, watching her. Lyliandra Blushleaf was all curves and curls and coy little smirks that could turn a frog prince right back into a toad if he got too cocky. Dressed in a laced-up corset and a skirt that swished like whispers in a tavern, she had a flower crown so extravagant, it required its own zip code. “You come here often?” Bunther asked, plucking a mushroom cap and pretending it was a fedora. “Only when the fungi are in full bloom,” she replied, her voice smooth as honeyed mead. “They say they grow better around... warm company.” Bunther wiggled his bushy brows. “Well, I’m practically a compost pile of charisma.” Lyliandra giggled—a sound that made a nearby patch of clover blush—and leaned in just a bit closer. “Funny. You don’t smell like compost. More like... woodsmoke and questionable decisions.” He puffed out his chest. “That’s my cologne. It’s called ‘Poor Life Choices, Volume III.’” Just then, a firefly landed on Bunther’s beard, twinkling like nature’s approval. He didn’t swat it away. He winked at it. “So,” Lyliandra purred, “what brings a gnome like you to a glade like this?” “Oh, you know,” Bunther said, scratching his knee thoughtfully. “Foraging for mushrooms, avoiding exes, maybe meeting a beautiful elf who doesn't mind a little chest hair and a lot of emotional baggage.” She laughed. “Well lucky you. I have a thing for emotionally complex garden décor.” The forest paused in anticipation. Even the mushrooms leaned in. “So,” Lyliandra said, “you wanna... spore together sometime?” Bunther’s eyes widened. “Elves don’t mess around with innuendo, do they?” She leaned in close, her breath warm with hints of lilac and mischief. “No, darling. We mess around with gnomes.” Arousal by Agaricus Bunther Wobblepot was not unfamiliar with risk. He once tried to impress a nymph by juggling hedgehogs. He’d moonwalked across troll bridges. He’d eaten glowing berries on a dare (and briefly thought he was married to a fern). But nothing had quite prepared him for this. “You’re really not like the other gnomes,” Lyliandra whispered, tracing a delicate finger down the rough bark of a nearby tree—one she was using, rather suggestively, as a backrest. “You’ve got... a vibe.” Bunther’s beard twitched with pride. “Ah, yes. That would be my signature move: unfiltered charm and forest musk. A potent combination. Like wine and regret.” She laughed, tossing her hair so dramatically a nearby chipmunk fainted. “So what’s your game, Wobblepot? You trying to woo me with fungal facts and aggressive whimsy?” “Maybe,” he said, scooting closer. “Did you know that certain mushroom spores can only grow in pairs?” “Is that a scientific fact or a pickup line?” “Darling,” he said, his voice husky with the weight of unsaid nonsense, “in this forest, science and seduction are practically the same thing.” As he reached out, offering a vibrant blue mushroom like a bouquet, she plucked it from his hand—slowly—then bit the edge like it was a truffle in a romantic comedy. Bunther nearly short-circuited. “Careful,” he warned. “That one causes mild hallucinations and vivid dreams of intimacy with woodland creatures.” “That explains why I suddenly want to kiss a gnome,” she purred. Bunther looked around. “Listen, if there are dryads watching, they can pay extra.” They inched closer, a symphony of crickets rising in tempo like an overenthusiastic romance soundtrack. Her knee brushed his. His eyebrow arched like a woodland bridge about to collapse under romantic pressure. “You ever... danced under bioluminescent mushrooms?” she asked. “No, but I’ve slow-danced in a puddle with a raccoon once. I’m versatile.” “Good. Because I don’t do half-hearted courtships. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it full fairy tale.” “Do I need to slay something? Or maybe serenade you badly with a mandolin?” “No,” she said, standing suddenly and offering her hand. “You need to come mushroom-hopping with me. And if you survive that... maybe I’ll let you braid my hair. Or touch my wings.” “Wait—you have wings?” She winked. “That’s for me to know and for you to flirt your way into finding out.” Bunther took her hand, ignoring the suspiciously vibrating moss beneath them, and followed her into the glowing grove, where the mushrooms pulsed gently with a light that whispered, *someone’s getting lucky tonight.* They hopped. They twirled. They laughed. They fell—twice. Mostly on each other. And somewhere between dodging enchanted spores and getting tangled in each other’s accessories, Bunther realized he might actually be falling for this ridiculous, radiant elf who smelled like moonlight and poor decision-making. As they collapsed, breathless and giggling, into a pile of fragrant moss, she looked into his eyes and whispered: “You know, Bunther... I think we’re the perfect mix of fantasy and fungus.” He grinned. “And a touch of forest friskiness.” “Exactly. Now hush. The mushrooms are watching.” And under the wide caps of the glowing fungi, the forest sighed in contentment. A new tale had begun—one full of snark, spores, and scandalous spooning positions only known to woodland beings with high flexibility and lower moral standards. The End (until they run out of mushrooms...)     If Bunther and Lyliandra’s cheeky charm made you laugh, swoon, or question your relationship standards, you can take a piece of their magical mischief home! Shop acrylic prints that glow like the forest, canvas art worthy of a gnome’s love cave, throw pillows soft enough for post-flirtation naps, and a whimsical puzzle that’s just complicated enough to do with someone you kinda want to kiss. Mushrooms sold separately.

by Bill Tiepelman

Trippy Gnomads

Shrooms, Shenanigans, and Soulmates Somewhere between the mossy roots of logic and the leafy canopy of “what the hell,” lived a pair of gnomes so groovy they made Woodstock look like a church bake sale. Their names were Bodhi and Lark, and they didn’t just live in the forest — they vibed with it. Every mushroom cap was a dance floor, every breeze a backing vocal, every squirrel a potential tambourine player in their daily jam session with existence. Bodhi had the beard of a wizard, the belly of a well-fed mystic, and the aura of someone who once tried to meditate inside a beehive “for the buzz.” He wore tie-dye like it was sacred armor and claimed he’d once levitated during a particularly potent batch of lavender tea (Lark said he just fell off the hammock and bounced). Lark, meanwhile, was a radiant chaos goddess in gnome form. Her hair changed color depending on the moon, the tea, or her mood. Her wardrobe was 80% flowy rainbow fabric, 15% bangles that jingled with intention, and 5% whatever she'd bedazzled while “channeling divine glitter.” She was the kind of woman who could make a peace sign look like a mic drop — and often did. The two of them weren’t just a couple — they were a cosmic alignment of snorts, incense, and undeniable soul-meld. They met decades ago at the annual Shroomstock Festival when Bodhi accidentally danced into Lark’s pop-up tea temple mid-spell. The resulting explosion of chamomile, glitter, and bass frequencies knocked both of them into a pile of enchanted moss... and love. Deep, sparkly, sometimes-kinda-illegal-in-some-realms love. Now, decades later, they’d made a cozy life in a hollowed-out toadstool mansion just off the main trail behind a portal disguised as an aggressively judgmental raccoon. They spent their days brewing questionable elixirs, hosting nude drum circles for squirrels, and writing poetry inspired by bark patterns and beetles. But something peculiar had stirred the peace of their technicolor utopia. It started subtly — mushrooms that glowed even when uninvited, birds chirping backwards, and their favorite talking fern suddenly developing a French accent. Bodhi, naturally, blamed Mercury retrograde. Lark suspected the cosmic equilibrium had hiccuped. The real cause? Neither of them knew — yet. But it was definitely about to turn their blissful forest frolic into an unexpected trip of the wildest kind. Cosmic Detours and Glorious Confusions Bodhi woke up to find his beard tied in knots around a mandolin. This wasn’t entirely unusual. What was unusual was the mandolin playing itself, softly humming something suspiciously close to “Stairway to Heaven” in gnomish minor. Lark was levitating six inches above her pillow with a satisfied grin, arms spread like she was doing trust falls with the universe. The air smelled like burnt cinnamon, ozone, and one of their questionable experiments in "emotional aromatherapy." Something was very not-normal in the glade. “Lark, babe,” Bodhi muttered, rubbing sleep from eyes that still glowed faintly from last night’s herbal inhalation, “did we finally crack open the veil between dimensions or did I lick that one too-happy mushroom again?” Lark floated down slowly, her hair swirling like galaxy tendrils. “Neither,” she said, yawning. “I think the forest’s having a midlife crisis. Either that or the earth spirit is trying to vibe-check us.” Before either could dive deeper into spiritual diagnostics, a series of thuds echoed through the glade. A line of mushrooms — fat, bioluminescent, and increasingly annoyed-looking — were marching toward their mushroom house. Not walking. Marching. One of them had a tiny protest sign that read, “WE ARE NOT CHAIRS.” Another had spray-painted itself with the words “FUNGUS ISN’T FREE.” “It’s the spores,” Lark said, eyes widening. “Remember the empathy tea blend we dumped last week because it turned our armpit hair into moss? I think it seeped into the root web. They’re woke now.” “You mean sentient?” “No. Woke. Like, unionizing and emotionally intelligent. Look — they’re forming a drum circle.” Sure enough, a ring of mushrooms had gathered, some tapping on stones with sticks, one chanting in rhythm, “We are more than footstools! We are more than footstools!” Bodhi looked around nervously. “Should we apologize?” “Absolutely not,” Lark said, already pulling out her ceremonial ukulele. “We collaborate.” And thus began the most psychedelic, passive-aggressive negotiation ceremony in woodland history. Lark led the chant. Bodhi rolled joints the size of acorns filled with apology herbs. The mushrooms demanded an annual celebration called Mycelium Appreciation Day and one day off per week from being sat on. Bodhi, overwhelmed by the sincerity of a portobello named Dennis, broke down crying and offered them full sentient citizenship under the Glade’s Common Law of Whoa Dude That’s Fair. As the moon rose and painted everything in a silvery hue, the newly formed G.A.M.E. (Gnomes And Mycelium Entente) signed their Peace Pledge on bark parchment, sealed with glitter and mushroom spore kisses. Bodhi and Lark fell back into their rainbow hammock, emotionally exhausted, and giddy from what might have been historical diplomacy or just a shared hallucination — it was hard to tell anymore. “Do you think we’re... like, actually good at this?” Bodhi asked, snuggling into her shoulder. “Diplomacy?” “No. Life. Loving. Floating with the weird and riding the vibe.” Lark looked up at the stars, one of which winked back at her in obvious approval. “I think we’re nailing it. Especially the part where we mess up just enough to keep learning.” “You’re my favorite mistake,” Bodhi said, kissing her forehead. “You’re my recurring fever dream.” And with that, they faded into sleep, surrounded by a softly snoring circle of sentient mushrooms, the forest finally at peace — for now. Because tomorrow, a sentient pinecone with a ukulele and political ambitions was scheduled to arrive. But that’s a trip for another tale.     Epilogue: Of Spores and Soulmates In the weeks that followed the Great Mushroom Awakening, the forest pulsed with an odd but joyful harmony. Animals began leaving handwritten notes (and mildly passive-aggressive Yelp reviews) on Bodhi and Lark’s door. The sentient fungi launched a twice-weekly improv troupe called “Spores of Thought.” The raccoon portal guardian began charging cover fees for dimension-hoppers, using the proceeds to fund interpretive dance classes for possums. Bodhi built a new meditation space shaped like a peace sign, only to have it claimed by the newly unionized chipmunks as a “creative grievance nest.” Lark started a ‘Gnomic Astrology’ podcast that became wildly popular with owls and rogue squirrels looking to “find their moon-beam alignment.” Life had never been more chaotic. Or more complete. And through it all, Bodhi and Lark danced. In the morning mist. Beneath moon-soaked leaves. On treetops. On tabletops. On mushrooms that now required enthusiastic consent and a signed waiver. They danced like gnomes who understood the world wasn’t meant to be perfect — just passionately weird, deliciously flawed, and infinitely alive. Love, after all, wasn’t about finishing each other’s sentences. It was about starting new ones. With laughter. With glitter. With the kind of kiss that smells faintly of rosemary and rebellion. And in the heart of the forest, where logic took long naps and joy wore bells on its toes, two trippy gnomads kept dancing. Forever just a little off-beat, and absolutely in tune.     Bring the Vibe Home If you felt the funk, the freedom, or maybe just fell a little in love with Lark and Bodhi’s kaleidoscopic chaos, you can invite their spirit into your space. Wrap yourself in the magic with a super-soft fleece blanket that practically hums peace signs. Let the art take over your walls with a forest-sized tapestry or a vibrant canvas print that turns any room into a glade of good vibes. And for those who still believe in snail mail and soul notes, there’s even a greeting card ready to deliver whimsy with a wink. Celebrate weird love. Honor magical mayhem. Support the unionized mushrooms. And most of all, stay trippy, friend.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Ale and the Argument

It started, as most disasters do, with a pint too many and pants too few. Old Fernbeard — retired mushroom forager, self-declared “Alethlete,” and wearer of suspiciously tight suspenders — was three steins deep into his celebratory "It's Tuesday" routine when trouble stomped into the clearing in the form of his wife, Beryl. Beryl Toadflinger wasn’t just any gnome wife. No, she was a capital-W Wife. The kind who could sew lace with one hand while hurling a shoe with the other. She had cheeks like winter apples, a gaze that could sterilize moss, and a voice known to shatter acorns at fifty paces. Her flower-crowned hat wobbled with every stomp, like a dainty warning flare. “Fernbeard!” she shrieked, sending a nearby butterfly into cardiac arrest. “What in the fungus-sucking hell are you doing?! I told you to fix the roof, not fix your blood-alcohol content!” “Beryl, my sweet portobello,” Fernbeard slurred, grinning around his foam-flecked beard. “I’m maintaining hydration. You want me dehydrated on a roof? What if I fainted mid-shingle?” “You fainted into a ditch last week after drinking elderberry schnapps and trying to pole dance with a cattail!” “I was honoring tradition!” he cried, puffing up like a drunk squirrel. “The Summer Solstice requires movement and moisture. I brought both.” “You brought shame and a rash. We’re still not allowed back in the fern glade!” As Beryl launched into a fiery monologue about “mature responsibilities” and “decades of lawn flamingo trauma,” Fernbeard, still smiling, tried to sneak a swig of his fourth pint. It didn’t work. Her hand shot out like a hawk snatching a vole, snatched the mug, and flung it — foam first — into a mushroom with a wet *thwap*. “That was my last barrel of Beardbanger Brew!” Fernbeard howled. “Do you know what I had to do to trade for that?! I danced for a badger. A badger, Beryl!” “Then maybe that badger can help you regrout the mushroom toilet!” Gnomes from neighboring stumps began peeking from behind mossy curtains, watching with the kind of interest usually reserved for lightning storms and nude trolls. Word was already spreading that “Toadflinger’s hit DEFCON Daisy.” Fernbeard’s eyes narrowed. “You know what, Beryl? Maybe I’d get things done if I weren’t being nagged more than a squirrel at nut tax season!” Beryl blinked. Slowly. Like a predator processing its next move. “Well maybe I wouldn’t nag if I had a husband who could tell the difference between a wrench and a garden gnome’s left nut!” “One time, Beryl! One time I fixed the wheelbarrow with a reproductive artifact and suddenly I’m banned from Gnome Depot!” The shouting crescendoed, their floral hats vibrating with rage. A squirrel passed out from stress. Somewhere, a pixie took notes for a future stage play. And then, silence. Pregnant, awkward silence. The kind that only occurs when two people simultaneously realize: they're standing in the woods, shouting about nuts and badgers, wearing floral crowns like angry garden center mascots. Fernbeard scratched his beard. Beryl rubbed her temples. A single beer burp escaped into the air like a fragile dove of peace. “So…” he began, “Dinner?” “Not unless you want it served with a side of shovel.” Beryl stormed off, trailing flower petals and rage like a floral hurricane. Fernbeard stood in the clearing for a moment, swaying in existential dread and ale-induced vertigo. He muttered something about “emotional terrorism via tulips” and kicked a pinecone with the gusto of a tipsy toddler in boots. Back at their stump-home, Beryl was elbow-deep in passive-aggressive rearranging. She flung Fernbeard’s “lucky bark chunk” out the window, relocated his novelty spoon collection to the privy, and scribbled a grocery list that included “eggs, milk, and a new husband.” Meanwhile, Fernbeard had retreated to his Thinking Log — a mossy perch by the creek where he often solved important problems, like “What if worms are just noodles with anxiety?” and “Can I ferment dandelions without another explosion?” He needed a plan. A big one. Bigger than the time he tried to build her a spa and accidentally flooded the mole parliament. He pondered. He farted. He pondered again. “Right,” he muttered. “We need the three R’s: Romance, Regret… and Ridiculousness.” First stop? The forbidden glade. The one they were technically banned from after Fernbeard tried to impress Beryl with interpretive gnome ballet. He’d landed in a bush, exposed himself to a hedgehog, and traumatized three ladybugs into therapy. But today, it was the site of Operation: Make-Up Or Die Trying. He set the scene: fairy lights made from fireflies (consensually borrowed), a blanket made from repurposed moth capes, and a feast of Beryl’s favorite things — acorn bread, candied snail curls, and that weird cheese she always pretended not to like but devoured at 3 a.m. To top it off, he brought out the Secret Weapon: a hand-carved mug inscribed with “To My Wife: You’re Hotter Than Troll Sweat” surrounded by tiny hearts and a questionable drawing of a mushroom. Inside? Beardbanger Brew, aged one week in a haunted thimble. Fernbeard stood there waiting, nervous as a pixie in a knitting shop, until Beryl finally arrived — arms crossed, eyebrow cocked so high it nearly snagged a cloud. “You dragged me out here to what? Beg?” she asked, eyeing the setup. “Begging? Nah. Pleading? Maybe. Offering emotional vulnerability disguised as cheese and beer? Definitely.” She tried to stay annoyed, but her nose twitched at the scent of the candied snail curls. “This better not be another trap like the time you ‘surprised’ me with a romantic tunnel and it turned out to be a badger den.” “That was a navigational error,” he said solemnly. “And they loved us. Invited us to their solstice orgy.” “Which we left in five minutes flat.” “Because you were allergic to the scented moss! I made that call for your safety!” Beryl snorted. But her arms dropped. And her foot stopped tapping. A good sign. “You made all this?” she asked, poking the moth-cape blanket. “And you used the mug. The... mushroom mug.” “Every gnome needs a little shame to grow strong,” Fernbeard replied, gently pushing the mug toward her. “Like fertilizer, but for your soul.” She took it. Sipped. Licked the foam from her lip in a way that made his beard quiver. “You’re an idiot,” she said softly. “A drunken, mushroom-brained, bark-snoring idiot.” “But I’m your idiot.” She sighed. Sat. Tore a piece of acorn bread like it had personally wronged her. Then, without ceremony, leaned against him. They sat there in the glow of stolen fireflies, sipping bad beer and better silence. He reached out, unsure, and laced his fingers through hers. She let him. “We’re not right, you and me,” she murmured, “but we’re just wrong enough to fit.” “Like moss and mold,” he agreed, a bit too proudly. “Don’t push it.” The glade, formerly the site of great scandal and one accidental gnome streaking incident, witnessed something far rarer that night: a truce between two wonderfully wild creatures who fought hard, loved harder, and forgave with the same passion they yelled about roof shingles and fermented socks. Later, when they stumbled home slightly tipsy and totally reconciled, Fernbeard grinned at Beryl in the moonlight. “So… about that pole dancing cattail?” “Try it again,” she said, smirking, “and I’ll shove it so far up your compost chute, you’ll sneeze pollen through autumn.” And just like that, the love story of The Ale and the Argument brewed another batch of chaos, crass affection, and one very lucky gnome who always knew the best arguments ended with dessert and a bruised ego.     Love the riotous romance of Fernbeard and Beryl? Keep their tale alive with artful keepsakes from our Captured Tales collection — perfect for those who believe that love is loud, laughter is messy, and every argument deserves a second round (of beer or kisses, your call). Frame the chaos with a vibrant framed print or metal print, and let these gnomes grace your walls with woodland wit. Puzzle out their problems — literally — with a charming jigsaw puzzle, or send a cheeky greeting card to the mushroom in your life who puts up with your nonsense. Explore more chaotic love and gnome-grown giggles at shop.unfocussed.com — because some tales are too weird not to frame.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Eggcellent Trio

In the heart of the Whimwood Glen, nestled between mossy tree trunks and wild cherry blossoms, lived three eccentric gnome siblings: Bramble, Tilly, and Pip. Known collectively (and proudly) as “The Eggcellent Trio,” their reputation stretched far beyond their size — which was roughly two and a half carrots high. They weren’t famous for being wise, nor particularly helpful. No, their fame came from a very specific seasonal skill: Easter egg smuggling. Not smuggling *from* anyone, mind you — smuggling *to*. Their mission? Delivering mysterious, oddly magical eggs to unsuspecting woodland residents who clearly didn’t ask for them. “It’s called surprise joy, Pip,” Bramble would say, polishing a particularly glittery teal egg while his beard twitched with excitement. “The best kind of joy is the unsolicited kind.” “Like mushrooms in your tea,” Tilly added, cheerfully placing a glow-in-the-dark egg inside a squirrel’s sock drawer. She wasn’t quite sure the squirrel even wore socks, but the drawer had a hinge and that was reason enough. Each egg was a work of odd art: some chirped when opened, others puffed confetti laced with giggles, and one memorable creation laid a tiny marshmallow every full moon. They weren’t practical, but practicality was rarely on the menu in Whimwood. The trio coordinated with military-level precision. Pip was in charge of reconnaissance — mostly because he was sneaky and once accidentally dated a vole for two weeks without anyone noticing. Bramble crafted the eggs using recipes that may or may not have included fermented jelly beans. And Tilly? She was the getaway driver, using her handmade leaf-cart which only occasionally caught fire on downhill slopes. This year’s mission was different. Bigger. Bolder. Borderline illegal in three counties (if gnome law were ever enforced, which, thankfully, it wasn’t). They had set their sights on High Hare Haven — the elite burrow community of the Easter Bunny himself. “We’re going to sneak into the Bunny’s personal egg vault,” Bramble declared, nose twitching with anticipation, “and leave our eggs there. Reverse robbery. Joy-burglary. Egg-bomb of happiness.” “That’s… bold,” Pip said, already halfway into a bush for surveillance. “Also, we might die. But like… in a festive way.” “Imagine the Bunny’s face,” Tilly sighed dreamily, tucking a giggle-egg under her bonnet. “He’ll open his vault and be confused and delighted. Or mildly concussed. Either way, a memory.” So they plotted. And packed. And possibly had too much elderflower wine. At dawn, with cheeks rosy and hats lopsided, the Eggcellent Trio rolled toward legend, wobbling in their little leaf-cart full of chaos, glitter, and cheer. The sun had barely yawned over Whimwood Glen when the Eggcellent Trio rolled to a halt behind a suspiciously large mushroom that Tilly claimed had “excellent acoustics for eavesdropping.” Before them loomed High Hare Haven — a sprawling underground compound disguised as a hill, complete with a topiary shaped like a smug-looking rabbit and a "No Solicitors" sign that Pip was certain had once been a gnome. “Alright,” Bramble whispered, adjusting his oversized pom-pom hat like a war general donning his helmet. “We’re going in quiet, fast, and as delightfully illegal as gnome-ly possible.” “Are we sure this isn’t just trespassing?” Tilly asked, adjusting her knitted bloomers. “Like, Eastery trespassing, sure. But still…” “No. It’s reverse burglary,” Bramble insisted. “Totally different. We’re leaving things. That’s gifting with flair.” High Hare Haven was guarded by a platoon of overly serious bunnies wearing aviator goggles and fitted vests embroidered with “EggSec.” Pip, the smallest and sneakiest of the three, executed his signature move: the Hop ’n’ Drop. It involved hopping like a bunny, dropping like a gnome, and generally confusing everyone within a 10-foot radius. He slipped past the guards using a cardboard decoy shaped like a motivational quote about carrots. Inside, the halls shimmered with magical wards — pastel runes glowing faintly, whispering phrases like “Access Denied,” “Hippity Hop No,” and “Don’t Even Try It, Chad.” Pip snorted and picked the lock with a candy cane sharpened to a felony-level point. He was in. Meanwhile, Bramble and Tilly made their approach from the rear, scaling a jellybean drainage chute. It was slick. It was sticky. It was absolutely not up to code. “Why is everything in here edible and also a death trap?” Tilly hissed, chewing absently on her sleeve. “That’s called branding,” Bramble replied. “Now climb.” After what felt like a lifetime of crawling through a licorice-scented wind tunnel, they reached the vault: a massive golden egg embossed with the words “BunVault 9000 – Authorized Whiskers Only.” Pip was already there, munching nervously on a marshmallow decoy egg. “Bad news,” he whispered. “The Bunny’s in there. Like, in the vault. Napping. On a pile of Fabergé backups and Cadbury prototypes. He looks very… serene.” “So we stealth it,” Bramble said, wide-eyed. “Drop the eggs, don’t wake the bun, get out. Like folklore ninjas.” “With hats,” Tilly added. They crept in, balancing their carefully curated chaos-eggs in gloved hands. Pip tiptoed over a glowing carrot-shaped alarm, while Tilly used her scarf to muffle the sound of glitter spilling from her surprise-bomb egg. Bramble, too round to be stealthy, rolled like an oddly soft cannonball behind a stack of commemorative Peep dispensers. Then it happened. Someone — and historians would never agree on who — sneezed. It was not a small sneeze. It was a gnome-sized, pollen-induced, allergy-fueled kaboom of a sneeze that echoed off the vault walls like a jazz solo on bath salts. The Bunny stirred. His left ear twitched. One eye fluttered open… and locked onto Pip, who froze mid-egg placement like a tiny Easter-themed criminal caught mid-gift. “...The fluff,” the Bunny growled, voice deep and oddly seductive for a rabbit. “Who the fluff are you?” The trio panicked. Bramble launched a Confetti Egg of Tactical Distraction™. It exploded in a blast of rose-scented streamers and faint giggling noises. Tilly dove under a velvet table. Pip did a cartwheel so perfect it nearly earned him a sponsor. “We’re joy insurgents!” Bramble cried, crawling toward the exit. “We come bearing unsolicited delight!” “And artisan eggery!” added Tilly, throwing a marshmallow grenade that fizzled with the smell of nostalgia. The Bunny blinked. Then blinked again. He stood slowly, brushing glitter off his tail with dramatic flair. “You… … to give me eggs?” “Well, we weren’t going to just keep them,” Pip muttered, somewhat insulted. For a long moment, the room held its breath. The Bunny stared at the chaos. At the rainbow of odd eggs now nestled among his curated collection. At the gnomes—wide-eyed, covered in sparkles, one of them chewing his own hat out of nerves. Then the Bunny… laughed. A soft, huffy kind of chuckle at first, which soon snowballed into a deep, belly-hopping cackle. “You’re all certifiably insane,” he said. “And possibly my new favorite people.” He offered them a cup of carrot espresso and a chocolate cigar. “No one’s surprised me in a hundred years,” he admitted. “I’d forgotten what nonsense felt like. It’s delightful. Dangerous, but delightful.” The Eggcellent Trio beamed. Bramble wept a little, blaming it on the espresso. Pip tried to pickpocket a Fabergé just for old time’s sake. Tilly gifted the Bunny a “Tickle Egg” which snorted every time someone walked past it. They didn’t get arrested. They got invited back. Officially. As chaos consultants. From that day forward, every Easter morning in Whimwood and beyond, odd little eggs would appear where none had been — on doorknobs, in shoes, under teacups. They didn’t hatch anything living, but they often hissed compliments or whispered off-key songs. No one knew where they came from. Except everyone did. And they smiled. Because somewhere out there, three gnomes in knitted clothes were probably giggling behind a bush, cartwheeling through danger, and redefining what it meant to deliver joy… one wildly unnecessary egg at a time.     Spring turned to summer, and summer to cider-season, but the whispers of *The Eggcellent Trio* only grew louder. Children would wake to find eggs that burped haikus. Grandmothers discovered pastel spheres in their breadboxes that told scandalous jokes in Old Gnomish. One bishop swore his sermon notes were replaced by a talking yolk that recited Shakespeare, backwards. The Bunny — now their greatest accomplice — commissioned them as official “Agents of Anarchy & Cheer,” complete with embroidered sashes they never wore because Pip used his to smuggle tarts. Their leaf-cart was upgraded to a licorice-fueled hover-sled, which exploded often and to great applause. Occasionally, other gnomes tried to copy them. One trio attempted a "Maypole Mayhem" stunt with explosive taffy. It ended in melted shoes and a goat with trust issues. The truth was simple: only Bramble, Tilly, and Pip had the right balance of heart, humor, and total disregard for sensible planning. Now and then, on especially magical mornings, if you follow a trail of giggles and candy wrappers deep into Whimwood Glen, you might stumble upon a scene beneath a cherry blossom tree — three gnomes, bellies full of laughter, arms full of nonsense, and eyes twinkling with plans they probably shouldn't share. And somewhere in a vault, in the heart of High Hare Haven, a single egg sits on a velvet pillow. It hums softly. It smells faintly of cookies. And once a year, it cracks open — not with a chick, but with a new idea. An idea wild enough to earn its place in the legend of the Eggcellent Trio… ...the only gnomes to ever break into a vault to break out a holiday.     Love the tale of Bramble, Tilly, and Pip? Bring their mischievous charm into your home with artful keepsakes from our Captured Tales collection. Whether you’re looking to smile every morning with a cozy throw pillow, puzzle your way into gnome-lore with a delightful jigsaw puzzle, or send joy in the mail with a whimsical greeting card — this trio’s legendary spirit is ready to hop into your heart and your space. Adorn your walls with the magic of mischief using our vibrant metal print or turn a plain space into a giggle-worthy nook with our enchanting tapestry. It’s not just art — it’s an egg-ceptional adventure, waiting to be displayed. Explore more Captured Tales Art at shop.unfocussed.com and let the legend live on... one egg, one giggle, one gnome at a time.

by Bill Tiepelman

Tongues and Talons

Of Eggs, Egos, and Explosions Burlap Tinklestump never planned to be a father. He could barely manage adult gnomehood, what with the ale debts, magical gardening fines, and one unresolved beef with the local frog choir. But destiny—or more precisely, a slightly intoxicated hedgehog named Fergus—had other ideas. It began, as these things often do, with a dare. “Lick it,” Fergus slurred, pointing at a cracked, iridescent egg nestled in the roots of a fireberry tree. “Betcha won’t.” “Bet I will,” Burlap shot back, without even asking what species it belonged to. He’d just finished chugging a fermented root beer so strong it could strip bark. His judgment was, generously, compromised. And so, with a tongue that had already survived three chili-eating contests and one unfortunate bee spell, Burlap gave the egg a full, slobbery swipe. It cracked. It hissed. It combusted. Out hatched a baby dragon—tiny, green, and already pissed off. The newborn let out a screech like a kettle having an existential crisis, flared its wings, and promptly bit Burlap on the nose. Sparks flew. Burlap screamed. Fergus passed out in a daffodil patch. “Well,” Burlap wheezed, prying the tiny jaws off his face, “guess that’s parenting now.” He named the dragon Singe, partly for the way it charred everything it sneezed on, and partly because it had already reduced his favorite pants to ashes. Singe, for his part, adopted Burlap in that aloof, vaguely threatening way that only dragons and cats truly master. He rode around on the gnome’s shoulder, hissed at authority figures, and developed a taste for roasted insects and sarcasm. Within weeks, the two became inseparable—and entirely insufferable. Together they perfected the art of mischief in the Dinglethorn Wilds: lacing faerie tea with fireball elixirs, redirecting squirrel migration routes with enchanted nut decoys, and once swapping the Wishing Pond’s coins with shiny goblin poker chips. The forest folk tried to reason with them. That failed. They tried to bribe them with mushroom pies. That almost worked. But it wasn’t until Burlap used Singe to light a ceremonial elvish tapestry—during a wedding, no less—that real consequences came knocking. The Elvish Postal Authority, a guild feared even by trolls, issued a notice of severe misconduct, public disruption, and ‘unauthorized flame-based object alteration’. It arrived via flaming pigeon. “We have to go underground,” Burlap declared. “Or up. Higher ground. Strategic advantage. Less paperwork.” And that’s when he discovered the Mushroom. It was colossal—an ancient, towering toadstool rumored to be sentient and mildly perverted. Burlap moved in immediately. He carved a spiral staircase up the stalk, installed a hammock made of recycled spider silk, and nailed a crooked sign to the cap: The High Fungus Consulate – Diplomatic Immunity & Spores for All. “We live here now,” he told Singe, who replied by incinerating a squirrel who’d asked for rent. The gnome nodded in approval. “Good. They’ll respect us.” Respect, as it turned out, was not the first reaction. The Forest Council called an emergency tribunal. Queen Glimmer sent an ambassador. The owlfolk drafted sanctions. And the elvish inspector returned—this time with a flamethrower of his own and a 67-count indictment scroll. Burlap, wearing a ceremonial robe made of moss and buttons, greeted him with a manic grin. “Tell your queen I demand recognition. Also, I licked the tax form. It’s legally mine now.” The inspector opened his mouth to reply—just as Singe sneezed a fireball the size of a cantaloupe into his boots. Chaos had only just begun. Fire, Fungi, and the Fall of Forest Law Three days after the incident with the flaming boots, Burlap and Singe stood trial in the Grand Glade Tribunal—an ancient patch of sacred forest converted into a courthouse by some very judgmental birches. The crowd was massive. Pixies with protest signs, dryads holding petitions, a group of anarchist hedgehogs chanting “NO SHROOM WITHOUT REPRESENTATION!” and at least one confused centaur who thought this was an herbalist expo. Burlap, in a robe made from stitched-together leaves and sandwich wrappers, sat perched atop a velvet mushroom throne he'd smuggled in from his “consulate.” Singe, now the size of a medium turkey and infinitely more combustible, sat curled on the gnome’s lap with a smug expression that only a creature born of fire and entitlement could maintain. Queen Glimmer presided. Her silver wings fluttered with restrained fury as she read the charges: “Unlawful dragon domestication. Unauthorized toadstool expansion. Misuse of enchanted flatulence. And one count of insulting a tree priest with interpretive dance.” “That last one was art,” Burlap muttered. “You can’t charge for expression.” “You danced on his altar while yelling ‘SPORE THIS!’” “He started it.” As the trial went on, things unraveled fast. The badger militia presented charred evidence, including half a mailbox and a wedding veil. Burlap called a raccoon named Dave as a character witness, who mostly tried to steal the bailiff’s pocket watch. Singe testified in the form of smoke puffs and mild arson. And then, as tensions peaked, Burlap unveiled his trump card: a magically binding diplomatic document written in ancient fungal script. “Behold!” he shouted, slapping the scroll onto the stump of testimony. “The Spores of Sanctuary Accord! Signed by the Fungus King himself—may his gills ever flourish.” Everyone gasped. Mostly because it smelled awful. Queen Glimmer read it carefully. “This... this is a menu from a questionable mushroom bar in the Marshes of Meh.” “Still binding,” Burlap replied. “It’s laminated.” In the chaos that followed—wherein a squirrel delegate threw a nut bomb, a pixie went rogue with glitter-based spells, and Singe decided the time was ripe for his first true roar—the trial collapsed into something more closely resembling a music festival run by toddlers with matches. And Burlap, never one to miss a dramatic exit, whistled for his getaway plan: a flying wheelbarrow powered by fermented gnome gas and old firework enchantments. He climbed aboard with Singe, gave a two-finger salute to the crowd, and shouted, “The High Fungus Consulate shall rise again! Preferably on Tuesdays!” They vanished in a trail of smoke, fire, and what smelled suspiciously like roasted garlic and regret. Weeks later, the Mushroom Embassy was declared a public hazard and burned down—though some claim it grew back overnight, taller, weirder, and faintly humming jazz. Burlap and Singe were never captured. They became legends. Myths. The kind whispered by tavern bards who smirk when the lute chords go slightly off tune. Some say they live in the Outer Bramble now, where law fears to tread and gnomes make their own constitutions. Others claim they opened a food truck specializing in spicy mushroom tacos and dragon-brewed cider. But one thing’s clear: Wherever there’s laughter, smoke, and a mushroom slightly out of place… Burlap Tinklestump and Singe are probably nearby, plotting their next ridiculous rebellion against authority, order, and pants. The forest forgives many things—but it never forgets a well-cooked elvish tax scroll.     EPILOGUE – The Gnome, the Dragon, and the Whispering Spores Years passed in the Dinglethorn Wilds, though “years” is a fuzzy term in a forest where time bends politely around mushroom rings and the moon occasionally takes Tuesdays off. The tale of Burlap Tinklestump and Singe grew roots and wings, mutating with every retelling. Some said they overthrew a goblin mayor. Others swore they built a fortress made entirely of stolen doorbells. One rumor claimed Singe fathered an entire generation of spicy-tempered wyvernlings, all with a flair for interpretive fire dancing. The truth was, as usual, far stranger. Burlap and Singe lived free, nomadic, and joyfully unaccountable. They wandered from glade to glade, stirring trouble like a spoon in a bubbling pot. They crashed fae garden parties, rewrote troll toll policies with sock puppets, and opened a short-lived consulting firm called Gnomebody’s Business, which specialized in diplomatic sabotage and mushroom real estate. They were kicked out of seventeen realms. Burlap framed each eviction notice and hung them with pride in whatever hollow log or enchanted gazebo they currently squatted in. Singe grew stronger, wiser, and no less chaotic. By adulthood, he could torch a beanstalk mid-air while spelling out rude words in smoke. He’d developed an affinity for jazz flute, enchanted bacon, and sneezing contests. And through it all, he remained perched—either on Burlap’s shoulder, his head, or on the nearest flammable object. Burlap aged only in theory. His beard got longer. His pranks got crueler. But his laugh—oh, that full-bodied, giddy cackle—echoed through the forest like a mischievous anthem. Even the trees began to lean in when he passed, eager to hear what idiocy he’d utter next. Eventually, they disappeared entirely. No sightings. No fire trails. Just silence… and mushrooms. Glowing, tall, gnarled mushrooms appeared wherever they’d once been—often with singe marks, bite impressions, and, occasionally, indecent graffiti. The High Fungus Consulate, it seems, had simply gone... airborne. To this day, if you enter the Dinglethorn at twilight and tell a lie with a grin, you might hear a chuckle on the wind. And if you leave behind a pie, a bad poem, or a political pamphlet soaked in brandy—well, let’s just say that pie might come back flaming, annotated, and demanding a seat at the council table. Because Burlap and Singe weren’t just legends. They were a warning wrapped in laughter, tied with fire, and sealed with a mushroom stamp.     Bring the Mischief Home – Shop "Tongues and Talons" Collectibles Feeling the itch to cause some magical mayhem of your own? Invite Burlap and Singe into your world with our exclusive Tongues and Talons collection — crafted for rebels, dreamers, and mushroom-loving firestarters. 🔥 Metal Print: Bold, gleaming, and built to withstand even a dragon sneeze — this metal print captures every detail of the gnome-dragon duo’s chaotic charm in razor-sharp resolution. 🖼️ Canvas Print: Add a splash of whimsy and fire to your walls with this stunning canvas print. It’s storytelling, texture, and toadstool glory all in one frame-worthy piece. 🛋️ Throw Pillow: Need a cozy companion for your next mischief-filled nap? Our Tongues and Talons throw pillow is the softest way to keep dragon energy on your couch — no scorch marks included. 👜 Tote Bag: Whether you're hauling forbidden scrolls, enchanted snacks, or questionable diplomatic documents, this tote bag has your back with sturdy style and spellbinding flair. Shop now and carry a little bit of chaos, laughter, and legendary fungus with you — wherever your next adventure leads.

by Bill Tiepelman

He Who Walks with Wind & She Who Sings to Stones

Of Beards, Boots, and Bad Decisions Long before the forest whispered their names into the moss, He Who Walks with Wind was just a humble (and slightly scruffy) gnome with a spectacularly oversized feathered headdress — the sort of thing that made squirrels pause mid-acorn. His boots were too big, his beard was too wild, and his sense of direction was... well... wind-dependent. His friends in the woods often joked that he had the charm of a river rock — hard to hold onto and prone to vanishing downstream after a bottle of pineberry wine. But everything changed the day he stumbled (quite literally) into She Who Sings to Stones. Now, she was no ordinary forest maiden. No sir. This was a woman who could calm a thunderstorm with a side-eye and convince even the crankiest badger to hand over his last berry tart. She wore a headdress of feathers softer than secrets and robes woven from mountain twilight. And worst of all (for him)... she caught him singing to his own reflection in a puddle. "Nice voice," she said, her words like warm honey but with the sharpness of a pebble in your shoe. "Do you serenade yourself often, or am I just lucky today?" And just like that — he was doomed. In the best, most embarrassing way possible. From that moment on, they became the forest’s worst-kept secret. The loudest whisper. The odd couple that critters gossiped about endlessly. He brought clumsy poems carved into sticks. She responded with mossy hearts on his walking path. He accidentally wooed her with terrible fishing skills. She let him believe he was mysterious (he wasn’t). And thus began their legendary love story — one filled with mishaps, stolen kisses behind pine trees, and enough awkward glances to fill a hollow log. View His Collection | View Her Collection Of Stones, Songs, and Stolen Things It didn’t take long for the forest to realize that He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones were absolutely terrible at keeping things casual. For one, their “chance encounters” were happening so often that even the mushrooms started rolling their eyes. After all, how many times can two gnomes “accidentally” meet at the same mossy log at the exact same twilight hour without the universe winking suspiciously? But there was something about her that unraveled him. Maybe it was the way her voice floated between tree roots like a lullaby only rocks understood. Or the way her smile could disarm even the sharpest thorn bush. Or — and he would never admit this aloud — the way she stole things. Oh yes. She Who Sings to Stones was a notorious thief. Not of valuables — no. Her crimes were far worse. She stole moments. She stole his awkward pauses mid-sentence and replaced them with knowing glances. She stole the roughness from his voice with every quiet laugh. She even stole his lucky acorn — the one he swore protected him from wandering skunks (it didn’t). He found it days later tucked beneath his pillow with a note: "Protection only works if you believe in something bigger than your beard. —S" But he wasn’t innocent either. He Who Walks with Wind was a collector too — of her songs. At night, when the forest hummed low and the stars yawned above the treetops, he would follow the soft echoes of her voice. Never too close. Never letting her see. Just close enough to catch pieces of melody drifting like dandelion seeds — fragile, weightless, impossibly precious. He began carving her words into stones. Not fancy stones. Not polished gemstones. Just regular forest rocks — the kind most gnomes kick absentmindedly. But to him, these were sacred. Each carried one word of her songs: “Patience” “Kindness” “Wild” “Enough” He placed them like breadcrumbs through the forest — a map only she could read. And of course... she found them. One by one. Because she was the sort of woman who always found what was meant for her. One morning, after a night of restless dreams about her laughter echoing in the hills, he woke to find a perfect circle of stones outside his door. His stones. His words. Returned — but now surrounded by tiny wildflowers and mossy hearts. The message was clear: "If you want me — walk the path you’ve started." And so, for the first time in his rambling, wandering life... he walked with purpose. Not with the wind. But toward her. This was no longer a story of solitude. This was a story of two souls circling each other — stubborn, playful, fierce — until the forest itself held its breath. Of Forest Gossip, Awkward Kisses, and the Very Bad Squirrel Incident The thing about forest creatures is — they talk. Not just the whispery, rustle-in-the-leaves kind of talk. No. Full-blown, scandal-hungry, gossip-mongering chatter that would put any village marketplace to shame. And when the subject was He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones... well, let’s just say the squirrels were holding meetings. “Did you see him trip over his own staff yesterday trying to look heroic?” “She smiled at him again. That’s the third time this week. It’s basically a marriage proposal.” “I give it two more days before he tries to build her a house made entirely of sticks and regret.” Even the owls — who usually prided themselves on dignified silence — were side-eyeing from the treetops. But despite the forest-wide commentary, their story kept weaving itself in unexpected ways. Take, for example, the Very Bad Squirrel Incident. It all started when he — in a misguided attempt at romance — decided to gather her favorite forest berries for a surprise breakfast. What he didn’t know was that those particular berries were under the jealous watch of the local squirrel matriarch — a wiry old beast known as Grumbletail. The moment his clumsy hands reached for the berries, the squirrels launched a coordinated attack with the kind of ferocity usually reserved for territorial foxes and bad poetry readings. He arrived at her cottage hours later — scratched, tangled, missing one boot, and carrying exactly one sad little berry in his dirt-covered palm. She blinked at him, standing there like a wind-blown scarecrow of embarrassment. “You absolute fool,” she whispered. But her eyes — stars above, her eyes — were sparkling with something wild and dangerous and impossibly soft. And then — because the forest gods have a twisted sense of humor — it happened. The First Kiss. It wasn’t elegant. There was nothing poetic about it. He leaned in at the exact moment she turned her head to laugh and the whole thing ended with a bumped nose, an awkward tangle of beard, and her muffled giggle against his chest. But when their lips finally met — really met — it was like every stone he’d ever carved, every word he’d ever stolen from her songs, every ridiculous misstep... finally made sense. The wind forgot to blow. The trees leaned in closer. Even Grumbletail — watching from a safe distance — begrudgingly approved. Afterwards, sitting beneath a crooked old pine, they laughed until their sides ached. Not because it was funny (though it absolutely was) — but because that’s what love felt like for them: Messy. Ridiculous. Beautifully imperfect. As the sun melted into the horizon, she poked him gently with her finger. “If you ever steal berries from Grumbletail again, I’m not saving you,” she teased. “Worth it,” he grinned, pulling her close. And just like that — two souls who had spent a lifetime walking alone... began learning how to stay. Of Vows, Feathers, and Forever Things The forest had been waiting for this day for longer than it would ever admit. Word had spread faster than a startled rabbit — He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones were getting married. And let me tell you — no one throws a celebration like woodland creatures with too much time and too many opinions. The Preparations Were... Something The owls insisted on handling the invitations (delivered in tiny scrolls tied with fern ribbons). The badgers argued for three days about what type of moss made the best aisle runner. Grumbletail the Squirrel — yes, that Grumbletail — shockingly volunteered to oversee security, muttering something about "keeping things civilized." The ceremony location? The Heartstone Clearing — a sacred, wildly overgrown circle deep in the woods where stones hummed if you listened close enough... and where countless gnome love stories were rumored to have begun (and ended, often with dramatic flair). The Bride Was Magic She Who Sings to Stones wore a gown stitched from twilight — soft greys, rich earth tones, and wildflowers braided through her long silver hair. Her headdress was adorned not just with feathers, but with tiny carved stones — each one gifted to her by him over their impossible journey together. She looked like a song made visible. The kind of song that quiets storms and stirs ancient roots. The Groom Was... Trying His Best He Who Walks with Wind was absolutely, hopelessly nervous. He’d polished his boots (which promptly got muddy). He’d combed his beard (which immediately tangled in a rogue twig). His headdress was slightly crooked. But his eyes... his eyes never left her. As she stepped into the clearing, every creature — from the smallest beetle to the loftiest owl — felt it: This wasn’t just love. This was home. The Vows (Improvised, Of Course) He cleared his throat (twice). "I never knew the wind could lead me somewhere worth staying. But you... you are my stone. My song. My forever place." She smiled — that maddening, beautiful, secret smile. "And I never knew stones could dance... until you tripped over every single one on your way to me." Laughter echoed through the clearing — loud, wild, utterly perfect. The Forest Rejoiced The celebration that followed was the stuff of legend. The rabbits organized an impromptu berry feast. The foxes provided slightly questionable musical entertainment (there was howling). The squirrels, begrudgingly, allowed dancing beneath their favorite trees. And the stars? Oh, the stars stayed out far later than usual — winking knowingly over two gnomes who had somehow turned awkward missteps and stolen glances into something breathtakingly permanent. And As The Night Faded... They sat together, tangled in each other, surrounded by stones and feathers and laughter that would echo in the woods for generations. "Home," he whispered into her hair. She nodded. "Always." And So Their Story Lives On... In the stones that hum when the wind passes through. In the feathers caught in the branches long after they’ve gone to bed. And in every ridiculous, wonderful, perfectly imperfect love story waiting to happen just beyond the trees.     Bring His Story Home Some stories aren’t just meant to be read — they’re meant to be lived with. He Who Walks with Wind carries with him a spirit of wild adventure, quiet romance, and the kind of humor only found in the heart of the woods. Now, you can bring his legendary presence into your space — a daily reminder that love, laughter, and a little bit of mischief belong in every corner of your life. Metal Print — Sleek, bold, and perfect for a space that echoes with adventure. Canvas Print — Rustic charm meets timeless storytelling for your walls. Tapestry — Let the wind tell his story across fabric flowing with forest magic. Fleece Blanket — Curl up in cozy folklore and daydream of distant woods. Throw Pillow — A soft landing for tired adventurers and dreamers alike. Every Piece Tells a Story Let his quiet strength, mischievous spirit, and legendary heart become part of your everyday world. Whether on your walls, your couch, or wrapped around your shoulders — his journey is ready to continue with you. Explore the Full Collection →     Let Her Quiet Magic Find You She Who Sings to Stones doesn’t shout her wisdom — she leaves it tucked in corners, resting on shelves, and humming softly beside you in moments of stillness. Her story is one of grace, patience, and secret strength — and now her spirit can dwell in your space in beautifully crafted ways. Acrylic Print — Sleek clarity capturing her timeless quiet beauty. Framed Print — A classic heirloom piece for a heart-centered home. Tote Bag — Carry her story with you — to markets, to forests, or wherever you wander. Greeting Card — Send a small, powerful blessing into someone else's world. Sticker — A tiny, mischievous reminder to listen for the quiet songs in life. Her Presence Lingers Long After the Song Whether decorating your favorite reading nook, becoming a cherished gift, or adding a whisper of magic to your day — her story is ready to walk beside yours. Explore the Full Collection →     Epilogue: And the Forest Just Kept Smiling Years later — deep in that same wild forest where it all began — they are still there. He Who Walks with Wind still gets lost on purpose sometimes. (Old habits, old boots.) He still carves her words into stones when he thinks she isn’t looking. And yes — he still sings badly to puddles on quiet mornings... because now she sings along. She Who Sings to Stones still listens for stories the wind forgets to tell. She still leaves him tiny gifts in strange places — feathers braided with wildflower threads tucked into his coat pocket, small heart-shaped stones placed along his wandering paths, notes scrawled with things like: "Don’t forget berries (Grumbletail is watching)." They built a home together — if you can call it that. Part cottage, part moss-covered miracle, part falling-apart-on-purpose. It smells of pine needles, old books, and laughter that never learned how to be quiet. The forest watches them — still — with that old, knowing smile. And the Animals? The squirrels still gossip (they always will). The owls still judge. The rabbits still host awkwardly loud dinners near their porch. But ask anyone — ask even the grumpiest badger — and they’ll tell you: This is how the best stories end. Not with grand adventures. Not with epic quests. But with two foolish souls who chose to stay — tangled together in feathers, stones, and all the wonderfully ordinary magic of forever. And Somewhere... Right Now... She’s humming. He’s tripping over a tree root. And the forest? Still smiling. Shop His Story → | Shop Her Story →

by Bill Tiepelman

Hoppy Hour Hideaway

The Gnome, the Beer, and the Basement of Broken Dreams There are gnomes, and then there's Stigmund Ferndingle—a retired mischief-maker turned full-time beer philosopher. While most garden gnomes settle for standing around birdbaths and silently judging your lack of weeding, Stig had different aspirations. He was done with the ceramic life. He wanted hops. He wanted barley. He wanted to forget the Great Hedge Trimmer Massacre of ’98, one Heineken at a time. He set up shop in what used to be the damp, haunted corner of an old farmhouse basement—now lovingly renamed “The Hideaway.” With cracked plaster walls and a cooler older than most midlife crises, it was everything he never dreamed of and settled for anyway. He even had a sign, crudely etched in bark, that read: "No Elves, No Fairies, No Bullshit." Stigmund wasn’t picky, just jaded. Life had smacked him with one too many acorns. He didn’t trust anyone under four feet tall or sober enough to recite a riddle. His days were spent squatting by the cooler, sipping warm beer because the electricity had been shut off ever since he tried to wire the fridge using copper from a neighbor’s wind chime. “It hummed,” he’d say. “That’s technical enough.” One Tuesday—though it could’ve been a Thursday, time’s a blur when you're drunk and immortal—Stig cracked open his last bottle of Heineken. He tilted it toward the gods of barley with a solemn toast: “To broken promises, expired coupons, and the complete absence of meaningful tax reform.” Then, from the shadows, came a voice. Gravelly, thick with regret and sausage grease. “That better be the cold one you owe me, Ferndingle.” Stig didn’t look up. He knew that voice. He’d hoped it had choked on a chicken bone and floated off into the realm of forgotten side characters. But no. Throg the Drunken Troll had found him again. “Jesus, Throg. I thought you were banned from every basement in the county after the 'Incident with the Flamethrower and the Garden Salsa.'” “I got a pardon. Said it was an art installation gone wrong. You know, cultural expression and all that crap.” Stig rolled his eyes so hard he nearly sprained a socket. He took another sip of his beer, the last precious drop of liquid sanity in a world gone mad with elves trying to unionize and hobbits opening artisanal bakeries. “Well,” he said with a burp that rattled the paint chips off the wall, “if you’re here to drink, bring your own bottle. This one’s mine, and I’m too old to share or care.” Throg grunted, dropped a cooler that clanked suspiciously, and pulled out a mysterious green bottle labeled simply “Experimental – Do Not Consume”. Stig stared at it, then slowly grinned. “...Pour me a glass, you ugly bastard.” Experimental Brews and Unforgivable Flatulence Throg poured the liquid, which fizzed like it had opinions and regrets. The smell hit first—like fermented onions wrapped in gym socks and betrayal. Stig took a whiff and immediately questioned every decision that led him here, starting with the one where he *trusted a troll with a chemistry hobby.* “What the hell’s in this?” he croaked, holding the glass like it might bite. “Bit of this, bit of that,” Throg shrugged. “Mostly swamp hops, fermented fairy tears, and something I scraped off the underside of a kobold’s armpit.” “So... brunch?” They clinked glasses, a sound not unlike two gravestones making out, and drank. The reaction was instantaneous. Stig’s beard twitched. Throg’s left eye started vibrating. Somewhere in the room, the wallpaper peeled itself off and whispered, “Nope.” “Hot DAMN,” Stig choked, eyes watering. “That tastes like regret with a lemon twist.” “You’ll get used to it,” said Throg, just before he hiccuped and briefly turned invisible, only to reappear halfway through the floorboards. “Side effect. Temporarily phased into the ethereal plane. Don’t worry, it’s mostly boring in there.” After the third glass, they were both feeling bold. Stig attempted to do a dance called the “Root Stomp of the Ancients”, which mostly involved him tripping over a nail and blaming it on a cursed floorboard. Throg, ever the artist, tried to juggle beer bottles while reciting a poem about dwarven plumbing. It ended, as these things often do, in shattered glass and someone farting loud enough to scare off a raccoon in the vents. Hours passed. The cooler emptied. The air filled with tales of failed love affairs with mushroom witches, unsuccessful startups involving enchanted bidets, and a half-formed business idea called “Brew & Doom”—a tavern that doubled as a survival obstacle course. Eventually, as twilight crept through the basement grates and the hangover fairies circled overhead like tiny, winged harbingers of doom, Stig leaned back against the cooler and sighed. “You know, Throg... for a smelly, emotionally-stunted, swamp-dwelling ex-con—I don’t entirely hate drinking with you.” Throg, now half-asleep and softly humming the troll anthem (which was mostly guttural noises and the phrase “Don’t Touch My Meat”), gave a lazy thumbs-up. “Right back atcha, ya old piss goblin.” And thus, the night ended like most nights in the Hoppy Hour Hideaway—boozy, weird, and just shy of a fire hazard. But if you listen closely on lonely nights, past the creak of old pipes and the occasional beer burp echo, you might still hear the toast: “To broken dreams, bad decisions, and the brew that made it all tolerable.”     Epilogue: The Morning After and Other Catastrophes When Stigmund awoke, he was spooning the cooler. Not romantically—more like clinging to it for emotional support as one might do with a trusted bucket during a three-day ale bender. His hat had migrated halfway across the room, and somehow his beard had acquired a mysterious braid with a tiny rubber duck tied into it. His pants were intact, but his dignity had clearly fled during the second bottle of “Experimental.” Throg was upside down in a flowerpot, snoring through one nostril while the other whistled a haunting tune. There was a crude tattoo on his belly that read “TAP THAT” with an arrow pointing downward. Whether it was ink, soot, or regret was unclear. On the wall, in green Sharpie and misspelled Old Elvish, someone had scrawled: “Here Drank Legends. And They Were... Meh.” The hangover was biblical. The kind of headache that made you question your life choices, your gods, and whether fermented fairy tears should really be FDA-approved. Stig muttered dark gnomish curses under his breath and reached for his last piece of bread, which turned out to be a coaster. He ate it anyway. Eventually, Throg stirred, farted without apology, and sat up with the grace of a walrus falling down stairs. “You got any eggs?” he croaked. “Do I look like a breakfast buffet?” Stig snapped, scratching under his beard where something small and possibly sentient had taken refuge. “Get out of my hideaway. I’ve got three days of silence scheduled and I intend to use all of them to forget last night.” Throg grinned, wiped beer foam from his eyebrow, and stood. “You say that now, but I’ll be back Friday. You’re the only gnome I know who can hold their booze and insult my mother with such poetic flair.” “Damn right,” Stig muttered, already rooting around for a clean glass and a less cursed bottle. And so the cycle would begin again—one gnome, one troll, and the questionable sanctity of the Hoppy Hour Hideaway, where the beer is warm, the insults fly freely, and magic doesn’t stand a damn chance against fermented stupidity.     Take the Hideaway Home Want to bring the beer-soaked brilliance of Stig and Throg into your own questionable life choices? We've got you covered—whether you're sobering up, blacking out, or just need to explain why your tote bag smells like hops and regret. Wood Print – Rustic, sturdy, and perfect for hanging above your bar... or over that hole you punched in the drywall during karaoke. Framed Print – Add a touch of class to your chaos. Guaranteed to start conversations, or at least halt them awkwardly. Tote Bag – Holds groceries, spellbooks, or six cans of questionable troll brew. Durable and judgment-free. Spiral Notebook – Jot down beer recipes, bad ideas, or angry letters to the HOA. Gnome-tested, troll-approved. Beach Towel – For when you pass out poolside, beer in hand, and need something soft to cushion the shame. Disclaimer: No actual trolls were harmed in the production of these fine goods. Emotionally? Maybe. But they’ll get over it.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Easter Gnome's Secret Stash

Of Eggs and Egos It was the Thursday before Easter, and somewhere in the overgrown back corner of an English cottage garden, a gnome named Barnaby Thistlebum was preparing for what he considered to be the most important event of the year: the Annual Egg Hiding Championship. An event so sacred, so deeply rooted in gnome culture, that it made the Summer Solstice Pie Bake-Off look like amateur hour. Barnaby wasn't your typical gnome. While most of his kin were content with humming over mushrooms or pruning violets with unnecessary drama, Barnaby had ambition. And not just the small kind. We’re talking *legendary underground chocolate mafia* levels of ambition. His dream? To become the most feared and revered egg-hider in all the woodland realms. This year, however, the stakes were high. Rumors whispered through tulip petals and buzzed by gossipy bees told of a challenger—a mischievous sprite known only as “Twig.” Twig, it was said, had mastered the art of egg invisibility and once hid an egg inside a robin’s nest mid-flight. Barnaby, naturally, took offense to this. “Nonsense,” he scoffed, peering through his monocle at the basket of glittering, impossibly well-decorated eggs he’d lacquered himself. “Floating eggs. Invisible eggs. What’s next, eggs that quote Nietzsche?” Armed with nothing but his own ingenuity and a suspiciously sticky map of the garden, Barnaby set out at dawn. His beard was braided for aerodynamic efficiency. His olive shirt bore the proud badge of the Gnomeland Security Agency (a title he awarded himself, complete with laminated ID card). And in his hands? Two eggs of epic misdirection—one filled with confetti and the other with marzipan whiskey truffles. He placed eggs in birdhouses, teacups, and the hollow of a boot once owned by a garden witch with a gambling problem. Every egg had its story. The pink-striped one with the glitter shell? Hidden beneath a dandelion trap that would sneeze glitter on any who disturbed it. The blue speckled egg? Dangling from a fishing line rigged between two daffodils, swaying like bait for curious children and cocky squirrels. By mid-afternoon, Barnaby was sweaty, smug, and just a little bit drunk on the truffle fillings he'd “quality checked.” With only one egg left, he sat on a mossy rock, admiring his handiwork. The garden looked innocent enough—an explosion of color and bloom—but beneath the daffodil dazzle lurked 43 impossibly hidden eggs and one emotionally unstable toad guarding a golden one. “Let Twig try to top this,” Barnaby muttered, pulling his hat over his eyes and collapsing backward into a pile of lavender. He laughed to himself, then quickly stopped, realizing his laughter sounded just a bit too villainous. “Damn it, keep it whimsical,” he reminded himself aloud. The Great Egg War of Willowbend When Barnaby Thistlebum awoke the next morning, he was immediately aware of two things: one, the bees were unnaturally quiet, and two, he’d been pranked. It wasn’t the type of gentle prank one might expect in the gnome world—like daffodil dye in your tea or enchanted hiccups that sang madrigals. No. This was full-on sabotage. The kind of prank that screamed “war has been declared and it’s pastel-colored.” His eggs… were gone. All 43 of them, plus the emotionally unstable toad. In their place: ceramic decoys, each one shaped like a smug-looking acorn with Twig’s initials carved on the bottom in aggressive cursive. Even worse, a hand-written note lay at his feet, folded into the shape of a duck (a show-off move if there ever was one): “Nice hiding spots, Thistlebum. I found them all before brunch. Thought I’d leave you something to remember me by. Hoppily yours, —Twig 🧚‍♂️” Barnaby’s fists clenched. Somewhere deep in his beard, a robin nesting for the season sensed a tremor of rage and relocated to a less chaotic gnome. “This. Means. WAR,” he hissed, channeling the fury of a thousand overcooked scones. And so began the Great Egg War of Willowbend. Barnaby sprang into action like a garden ninja fueled by spite and caffeine. He sprinted (okay, briskly waddled) back to his burrow, where he retrieved his secret stash of emergency eggs. Not just any eggs, mind you—these were trick eggs, each one a miracle of gnome engineering and bad decisions. Among them: The Screamer: emits the sound of an angry goat when touched. The Sleeper: contains poppy spores to mildly sedate nosy elves. The Gossip: whispers your secrets back at you until you cry. Barnaby recruited allies—mostly disgruntled woodland creatures and one exiled hedgehog who owed him a favor. Together, they deployed decoys and diversions, leaving a trail of false clues across the garden. Gnome scouts delivered misinformation wrapped in daisy petals. Smoke bombs made of thyme and sassafras exploded into clouds of lavender deception. By twilight, the garden had become a minefield of psychological warfare. And then, just as Barnaby prepared to unleash The Whispering Egg (a sentient creation banned in three provinces), a shriek cut through the air. “AAAAUGH! MY HAIR IS FULL OF HONEY!” Twig. The sprite emerged from the rosebushes, soaked head to toe in wild honey and wearing a daisy chain crown now swarming with bees. Barnaby cackled with the kind of unhinged joy usually reserved for the final act of a Shakespearean tragedy. “You fell for the Bee Trap!” he shouted, brandishing a spoon like a sword. “You sticky little goblin!” Twig glared, swatting bees and dignity with equal desperation. “You planted eggs full of jam in my treehouse!” “That was diplomacy!” Barnaby countered. “You vandalized my truffle stash!” “You threatened me with an egg that quotes Nietzsche!” “That egg was philosophical, not aggressive!” And then, something strange happened. They laughed. Both of them, doubled over in the honeysuckle, choking on pollen and absurdity. The war had lasted less than a day, but it was legendary. And as the moon rose over the garden, they sat together beneath a weeping willow, sipping rosehip tea spiked with questionable gnome brandy, watching fireflies blink over the now egg-littered battlefield. “You know,” Twig said, “you’re not half bad… for a lawn ornament with control issues.” “And you’re not completely insufferable,” Barnaby replied, raising a tiny toast. “Just ninety percent.” They clinked teacups. Peace was declared. Sort of. Every year since, they’ve kept the tradition alive—a new Egg War each spring, escalating in chaos and creativity. And though the garden suffers for it, the residents agree on one thing: Nothing brings a community together like petty rivalry, surprise bees, and an emotionally unstable toad with a grudge.     Epilogue: The Legend Grows Years passed. Seasons turned. The garden bloomed, withered, bloomed again. Children came and went, occasionally stumbling across a glittery egg tucked beneath a fern or a suspiciously sarcastic toad loitering by the compost heap. But the legend… oh, the legend remained. Barnaby Thistlebum and Twig the Sprite became something of a seasonal myth—two mischievous forces of nature bound by rivalry, respect, and an unhealthy obsession with outwitting one another via painted eggs. Each spring, the garden braced for their antics like a tavern bracing for karaoke night: with mild dread, popcorn, and a first-aid kit. The gnomes began betting on who would “win” each year. The woodland creatures organized viewing parties (squirrels made excellent commentators, albeit biased). And the bees? Well, they unionized. You can only be used as a prank so many times before demanding dental coverage. Somewhere beneath the oldest oak in the garden, there now rests a small, moss-covered plaque. No one remembers who placed it there, but it reads simply: “In memory of the Great Egg War: Where chaos bloomed, laughter echoed, and dignity was lightly poached.” Barnaby still roams the garden. Occasionally seen sipping dandelion wine, crafting decoy eggs that smell like existential dread, or mentoring a new generation of prank-happy gnomelings. Twig? She visits now and then—always unannounced, always glitter-bombing the bird bath, and always with a wicked grin. And every Easter, without fail, a new egg appears in the center of the garden. Just one. Perfectly painted. Strategically placed. Containing, perhaps, a note, a tiny riddle, or something that meows. No one knows who leaves it. Everyone knows who it’s from. And the game? It’s never really over.     Bring the Mischief Home Love the tale of Barnaby Thistlebum and the Great Egg War? Bring a piece of the magic into your world with our exclusive “The Easter Gnome’s Secret Stash” collection by Bill and Linda Tiepelman—available now on Unfocussed. From quirky gifts to seasonal décor, there’s something for every mischievous heart: 🧵 Wall Tapestries – Bring the garden mischief to life on your walls 🖼️ Canvas Prints – Vibrant, whimsical, and gallery-ready 👜 Tote Bags – Perfect for egg hunts or chaotic grocery runs 💌 Greeting Cards – Send a little mischief this Easter 📓 Spiral Notebooks – For planning your own egg-centric escapades Shop the full collection now at shop.unfocussed.com and embrace your inner trickster.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Nightlight Watcher

Of Gnomes and Nocturnal Duties Once upon a time—or at least some time after the invention of indoor plumbing—there lived a gnome named Wimbley Plopfoot. He wasn't your average garden-variety gnome with a fishing rod and a beer gut carved into ceramic. No, Wimbley was different. He had a job. A real one. He was the Official Nightlight Watcher of the Greater Underbed Region. Each night, as soon as the humans upstairs had done whatever it is humans do before bed (some combination of teeth brushing, doomscrolling, and wondering if that leftover cheese was still good), Wimbley would shuffle into place. His soft floral nightcap drooped charmingly over one eye. His matching pajamas whispered of lavender fields and accidental fashion. And in his arms, he carried Bartholomew the Bear, a stuffed animal with a suspiciously judgmental expression. "Ready?" Wimbley would ask each night, though Bartholomew never replied. He wasn’t enchanted or alive or magical. He was just there. Judging. Like most bears, to be honest. The ritual was simple: sit beside the child’s bed, hold the sign that said GOOD NIGHT, and exude an aura of safety, warmth, and vaguely herbal overtones. But on one particularly unremarkable Tuesday, something went wrong. Wimbley blinked slowly and noticed the glow from the nightlight was... flickering. "Oh no," he muttered, his gnomish voice the auditory equivalent of chamomile tea. "Not again." The last time a nightlight malfunctioned, the kid dreamt of sentient broccoli staging a coup in the kitchen. It took three dreamcatchers, a whispering incense stick, and a sock puppet therapist to undo the trauma. Wimbley waddled over to the outlet, groaning like only someone with knees older than democracy can groan. He tugged on the plug, then tapped the nightlight. Nothing. He blew on it. Still nothing. Bartholomew watched silently, probably judging Wimbley’s technique. "Guess I’m going in," Wimbley sighed, lifting up a loose floorboard to reveal a swirling, glittery tunnel labeled ‘Electrical Realm: Authorized Gnomes Only’. With a resigned pat to Bartholomew’s plush head, he dove in. The world twisted. The smell of burnt toast and old batteries filled his nostrils. The tunnel spun like a glittery toilet flush until he landed with a loud plop in a place that looked suspiciously like the inside of a lava lamp factory run by raccoons. “Alright,” Wimbley muttered. “Let’s fix a nightlight before reality unravels.” The Glowening Wimbley adjusted his pajama collar—a ridiculous move given that he had just nose-dived into an interdimensional subspace powered by toddler anxieties and expired batteries. The realm was brighter than he liked and smelled vaguely of ozone, dryer sheets, and existential dread. “Welcome to the Department of Glow Maintenance,” said a chipper, floating orb with a clipboard and tiny reading glasses balanced somehow on what could only be described as ‘eyelid energy.’ Wimbley squinted. “You again?” The orb blinked. “Ah, yes, Mister Plopfoot. You’ve been flagged before for ‘unauthorized screwdriver use’ and ‘insulting a power surge.’” “That surge started it,” Wimbley grumbled. “It zapped me. Twice.” The orb made a noncommittal whirring sound and summoned a translucent doorway that shimmered with neon labels: “Filament Forest,” “Circuit Swamp,” “Lightbulb Graveyard,” and—Wimbley’s destination—“Low-Glow Repair Intake.” He stepped through the archway, which instantly deposited him in a massive glowing cavern filled with floating fuses and a suspicious number of traffic cones. Gnome engineers in tiny hardhats shouted about wattage while sipping glow-stick martinis. “Oi, Wimbley!” called a scraggly figure with a clipboard larger than himself. “Yer here about the shimmer drop in Sector Snore-Alpha?” “Yes, it’s flickering like a caffeinated firefly,” Wimbley said, brushing lint off his beard. “That’s not right. Nightlight shimmer should be smooth—like pudding with ambition.” “Exactly.” The two gnomes exchanged nods and dove into the technical talk: amperage, dream-consistency thresholds, and a very heated debate about whether a teddy bear should count as an emotional stabilizer or a distraction-based sedative. Finally, they found the issue. A single pixel-sized microfuse had been corrupted by a forgotten nightmare from 2006. A common occurrence, apparently. Wimbley replaced it using a tweezers made from solidified bedtime stories and sighed in relief as the glow returned to buttery-soft normalcy. “Tell Bartholomew he still owes me five hugs,” said the scraggly gnome, tipping his hat. Wimbley smiled and stepped back into the tunnel, feeling the warmth of restored luminescence pulse through the air like a lullaby hummed by an overworked celestial intern. He landed back in the child’s bedroom with a puff of glitter. The nightlight glowed strong and steady. The child slept peacefully, one leg somehow entirely out of the blanket (a move that still terrified demons). Bartholomew remained exactly where Wimbley left him—arms open, judgmental gaze unchanged. “Mission complete,” Wimbley whispered, settling into his usual post and lifting the GOOD NIGHT sign once more. The room was safe. The glow was perfect. And somewhere deep beneath the floorboards, a raccoon technician filed another complaint against unauthorized glitter leakage. Wimbley didn't care. His job was done. Until tomorrow night… Fade to dreams.     Epilogue: Glow On, You Little Weirdo Years passed—or maybe just three minutes, depending on how time works when you’re shaped like a novelty lawn ornament and run on ambient moonlight. Wimbley Plopfoot, now promoted to Senior Glow Liaison, still kept his post beneath the bed of the now slightly older child (who occasionally referred to him as “that weird bedtime elf” in her diary). Bartholomew? Still judging. Still plush. Still undefeated in every staring contest known to plushdom. The nightlight, fully operational thanks to advanced gnome engineering and perhaps a little illegal wizard glue, shone on like a beacon of soft defiance against the creeping chaos of bedtime fears. Monsters had long since relocated—something about zoning permits and gluten-free snack shortages. Wimbley didn’t mind. He had everything he needed: a slightly crinkled bedtime schedule, a suspiciously sentient robe, and the unspoken admiration of the underbed community, who once voted him “Most Likely to Stop a Panic Dream with Only a Side-Eye.” And every night, as the stars blinked on and parents exhaled over baby monitors, Wimbley held up his sign with one simple message: GOOD NIGHT And if you happened to peek beneath your bed and see a tiny figure with a beard longer than your to-do list—just smile. He’s got this. You can sleep now. Glow on, dreamers. Glow on.     Bring a Little Glow Home If you felt a spark of warmth (or sheer gnomish absurdity) from The Nightlight Watcher, you can now bring that same cozy magic into your real-life bedtime ritual. Whether you're decorating a nursery, leveling up your nap nook, or just need a judgmental teddy on fabric—there’s a dreamy little something for you: 🧵 Wall Tapestry – Transform any room with a soft, storytelling glow. 🛏️ Throw Pillow – Snuggle into dreamland with a gnome-approved cushion. 🧸 Fleece Blanket – The official blanket of Bartholomew’s emotional support protocols. 🌙 Duvet Cover – Gnome-certified for maximum bedtime enchantment. Shop the full collection and let Wimbley Plopfoot stand guard over your dreams—no batteries or bureaucratic raccoons required.

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

The Quilted Egg Keeper

Of Eggs, Ego, and Exile Deep in the buttercream-scented meadows of Spring Hollow, far beyond the reach of grocery store egg dye kits and mass-produced chocolate bunnies, there lived a gnome named Gnorbert. Not just any gnome — *the* Gnorbert. The Quilted Egg Keeper. The legend, the myth, the mildly intoxicated seasonal icon whose job it was to guard the most sacred artifact of Easter: The First Egg. Capital F. Capital E. No pressure. His egg — more Fabergé than farm-fresh — was stitched together from enchanted scraps of long-forgotten springtime festivals. Panels of floral velvet, sunbeam-woven silk, and even one suspicious square that may have been repurposed from Mrs. Springlebottom’s old curtain set. It shimmered in the sunlight like a Lisa Frank fever dream, and it was Gnorbert’s pride and joy. That, and his hat. Oh gods, the hat. Spiraled like a unicorn’s horn and dyed in hues not even Crayola had the nerve to name, it loomed over him like a rainbow tornado. Gnorbert insisted it was necessary “to maintain the mystical equilibrium of seasonal joy,” but everyone in the Hollow knew it was just to hide the fact he hadn’t washed his hair since the Great Tulip Debacle of 2017. Every year, just as the last winter icicle packed its snowy bags and slinked back into the shadows, Gnorbert emerged from his quilted abode like a deranged jack-in-the-box, ready to coordinate the Great Egg Launch. It was part ceremony, part fashion show, and entirely unnecessary — but Spring Hollow wouldn’t have it any other way. This year, however, there was… tension. The kind of tension that smells like scorched marshmallow peeps and passive aggression. “You forgot to paint the anti-rot runes again, Gnorbert,” hissed Petalwick the Bunny Cleric, ears twitching with disapproval. “I did no such thing,” Gnorbert replied, elbow-deep in a mug of mead-laced carrot cider. “They’re invisible. That’s why they’re effective.” “They’re not invisible. You used invisible ink. That’s not how magic works, you glitter-soaked garden gnome.” Gnorbert blinked. “You say that like it’s an insult.” Petalwick sighed the sigh of someone who once saw a squirrel outwit a spell circle and still hasn’t recovered. “If this egg cracks before the ceremonial sunrise roll, we’ll have seven years of ugly crocus blooms and emotionally unavailable ducks.” “Better than last year’s pandemic of pastel moths and unseasoned deviled eggs,” Gnorbert muttered. “That was your spell, wasn’t it?” “That was your recipe book.” The two stared each other down while a trio of flower fairies took bets behind a daffodil. Gnorbert, still smug, patted his precious quilted egg, which gave a suspicious squish. His confidence faltered. Just a bit. “...That’s probably just the humidity,” he said. The egg squelched again. This, Gnorbert thought, might be a problem. Crack Me Up and Call It Spring The egg was sweating. Not metaphorically — no, Gnorbert had long since moved past poetic delusions and into the cold, damp reality of egg sweat. It glistened along the velvet petals like nervous dew on prom night. Gnorbert tried to casually rotate the egg, hoping maybe the wet patch was just—what? Condensation? Condemnation? “Petalwick,” he hissed through a forced smile, “did you... happen to cast a fertility amplification charm near the egg this year?” “Only in your general direction, as a curse,” Petalwick replied without missing a beat. “Why?” Gnorbert swallowed. “Because I think... it’s hatching.” A moment passed. The air thickened like expired marshmallow fluff. “It’s not that kind of egg,” Petalwick whispered, slowly backing away like a bunny who’d just realized the grass it was nibbling might actually be someone's vintage crochet centerpiece. But oh, it was exactly that kind of egg now. A faint chirping sound echoed from within — the kind of chirp that said, “Hi, I’m sentient, I’m confused, and I’m probably about to imprint on the first unstable gnome I see.” “YOU PUT A PHOENIX SPARK IN THE QUILT!” Petalwick shrieked. “I THOUGHT IT WAS A SPARKLY BUTTON!” Gnorbert bellowed back, arms flailing with glitter and denial. The egg began to glow. Vibrate. Hum like a sentient kazoo. And then, with the dramatic flair only an Easter phoenix chick could muster, it burst from the patchwork casing in a slow-motion explosion of lace, flower petals, and existential horror. The chick was... fabulous. Like Elton John had been reincarnated as a sentient marshmallow peep. Feathers of gold, eyes like disco balls, and an aura that screamed “I have arrived and I demand brunch.” “You magnificent disaster,” Petalwick muttered, shielding his eyes from the chick’s aggressive fabulousness. “I didn’t mean to incubate god,” Gnorbert whispered, which honestly, wasn’t the weirdest thing anyone had said that week. The chick locked eyes with Gnorbert. A bond was formed. A terrible, sparkly bond of destiny and regret. “You’re my mommy now,” the chick chirped, voice dripping with mischief and diva energy. “Of course I am,” Gnorbert said, deadpan, already regretting everything that led him to this moment. “Because the universe has a sense of humor, and apparently, I’m the punchline.” And so, Spring Hollow got a new tradition: the Great Hatching. Every year, gnomes from across the land came to witness the rebirth of the sparkly phoenix chick, who had somehow unionized the bunnies, taken over the flower scheduling committee, and demanded that all egg hunts include at least one drag performance and a cheese platter. Gnorbert? He stayed close to the egg. Mostly because he had to. The chick, now known as Glitterflame the Rejuvenator, had separation anxiety and a mean left peck. But also, deep down, Gnorbert kind of liked being the accidental godparent of Easter’s weirdest mascot. He even washed his hair. Once. And on quiet nights, when the chick was asleep and the air smelled faintly of jellybeans and slightly scorched dignity, Gnorbert would sip his carrot cider and murmur to no one in particular, “It was a good egg. Until it wasn’t.” And the flowers nodded, and the hat twitched, and the patchwork shimmered in the moonlight, waiting — always — for next spring’s chaos to begin again. Fin.     Bring Gnorbert Home If you're now emotionally entangled with a fabulous Easter chick and a mildly unhinged gnome, you're not alone. Luckily, you don’t have to wait until next spring to relive the chaos. The Quilted Egg Keeper is available in all its patchwork glory across a magical collection of merch that even Glitterflame approves of (after much dramatic flapping). ✨ Transform your walls with the Tapestry 🖼️ Give your gallery wall a gnome-sized glow-up with the Framed Print 🛋️ Cuddle chaos with a Throw Pillow that’s 100% eggplosion-proof 💌 Send joy (and maybe a warning) with a Greeting Card 🥚 Stick some seasonal sass anywhere with the official Sticker Shop now and celebrate the season with a little extra sparkle, sass, and stitchwork. Gnorbert would want you to. Glitterflame demands it.

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

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 🎶✨