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by Bill Tiepelman

Flourish in Flight

The Accidental Pilgrimage of Marvin Snork Marvin Snork was not what you'd call a man of purpose. He was a forty-two-year-old semi-retired snack cake delivery driver who lived with a turtle named Gerald and collected expired condiment packets “just in case.” Marvin’s greatest ambition to date had been fitting three microwaved hot dogs into a single tortilla wrap. He called it “The Meat Tube of Triumph,” and it had gotten a modest four likes on an obscure Reddit thread. Then one Tuesday morning, while rifling through his overstuffed drawer of underused camping gear (read: two broken compasses and an emergency poncho from 1998), Marvin found something unexpected: a glitter-covered fanny pack that was most certainly not his. It shimmered like unicorn vomit and smelled vaguely of tequila and regret. Inside the fanny pack was a handwritten note on pink stationery that read: “If you’ve found this, congratulations. You’re the new Keeper of the Quest. Don’t screw it up. Start walking east until something weird happens.”— Love, Destiny (probably) Marvin blinked. He reread it. He sniffed the fanny pack again. Nope. Still tequila. Still regret. Still glittery doom. He wasn’t sure if this was a prank from his cousin Rhonda (a known menace with a label maker) or some elaborate street art project. But one thing Marvin did know, deep in the microwaved burrito of his soul, was that he hadn’t been on an adventure in years. Or ever. So, naturally, Marvin put on the fanny pack, stuffed it with a six-pack of cheese sticks, and walked out his front door wearing mismatched socks and flip-flops. Gerald the turtle watched him leave with what might have been quiet disapproval, or maybe just gas. It was hard to tell with turtles. He walked east, because that’s what the note said. After about four blocks and one inconvenient pigeon incident (RIP to the clean shirt), Marvin encountered his first sign of “something weird.” A man in a trench coat was standing on the corner, aggressively playing the harmonica while holding a sign that read, “ASK ME ABOUT THE BEES.” “Bees?” Marvin asked, genuinely curious and already sweating. “NOT YET,” the man shouted, then threw a banana peel at Marvin’s feet and ran into traffic. Marvin stared after him for a full minute, then looked down. The banana peel was painted gold and smelled like cinnamon. That’s when Marvin knew: this was no ordinary Tuesday. This was a capital-A Adventure. A Quest. Possibly a mild concussion, but he was leaning toward Quest. With a newfound sense of purpose and a fanny pack that sparkled like a glitter bomb at a rave, Marvin marched forward into whatever madness the world had cooked up next. And that, dear reader, is where things started to get truly, spectacularly unhinged... The Enlightenment of Marvin and the Cult of the Flaming Marshmallow Marvin wandered for three days with nothing but the fanny pack, his dwindling cheese stick supply, and a growing rash from what he later discovered was “artisanal glitter” made of ground-up disco balls and lies. He’d crossed through two small towns, one Renaissance fair he mistook for a time portal, and an abandoned gas station that turned out to be a functioning kombucha bar run by a woman named Starfruit who kept calling him “Brother Snack Vibes.” But nothing compared to the moment he stumbled—sweaty, slightly fermented, and hallucinating about talking squirrels—into the foothills of what appeared to be a sacred gathering. The sign out front read: “WELCOME SEEKERS TO THE SACRED FLAME OF CARAMELIZED WISDOM.” A man in a neon pink robe greeted him. “Name and purpose?” he asked. “Marvin Snork. Uh. Cheese stick enthusiast. Keeper of the Quest, maybe?” The man gasped and dropped to one knee. “The Snork has returned!” he bellowed. Behind him, a group of twenty-five robed individuals began chanting and tossing vegan marshmallows into a bonfire with dramatic flair. One person screamed, “RELEASE THE STICKY TRUTH!” and slapped themselves with a spatula. It was a lot. Turns out, Marvin had unwittingly wandered into a secret society known as the Order of the Flaming Marshmallow—a cult, but like, the fun kind. No Kool-Aid. Just fire, snacks, questionable theology, and a general distrust of pants. Over the next week, Marvin was pampered like a marshmallow god. They gave him ceremonial flip-flops. They massaged his calves with coconut oil and murmured “blessed be thy calves” with unnerving sincerity. They asked him for wisdom, and he offered such gems as: “Never trust a man who hoards condiment packets… unless you are that man.” “If the cheese stick breaks, eat both halves. That’s balance.” “Happiness is a tortilla that doesn’t rip.” These sayings were immediately added to the cult’s sacred scrolls (printed on eco-friendly hemp paper, naturally), and Marvin was declared “The Snack Prophet.” There was even talk of building a statue in his likeness using expired granola bars and hot glue. But one moonlit night, Marvin sat alone by the ceremonial fire, staring at his glitter-smeared fanny pack, which now hummed gently with either cosmic energy or trapped bees (the jury was still out). A robe-clad initiate approached quietly and sat beside him. “You’ve brought us great wisdom,” she said. “But… what are you seeking?” Marvin, sticky, sunburned, slightly gassy, and spiritually overwhelmed, finally admitted: “I honestly don’t know. I just found a weird note and kept walking because… well… my life wasn’t doing much else. And now people are bowing and chanting while I try to poop behind a bush with no judgment. It’s kind of amazing. But also—I dunno. I miss my turtle.” The woman nodded solemnly. “That’s real. Also, we have indoor plumbing. Why are you pooping in the bush?” And that’s when Marvin realized something profound: He wasn’t on a quest for meaning. He was just a middle-aged man who needed to feel something different. Maybe the Quest wasn’t about where you were going, but about giving yourself permission to go absolutely nowhere—just… more enthusiastically. So he stood up, took one last marshmallow shot (yes, that’s a thing), hugged every single cult member goodbye (awkwardly long), and headed west this time. Back to Gerald. Back to the quiet life. With a slightly used fanny pack, a story no one would believe, and a strange urge to start his own line of tortilla-based philosophies called “Wraps of Wisdom.” And as Marvin disappeared into the golden horizon, someone whispered, “The Snack Prophet has ascended.” Someone else replied, “He left his flip-flops.” Take the Magic Home If Marvin’s accidental pilgrimage inspired you to embrace the weird, the colorful, and the occasionally caffeinated, bring a bit of that same chaotic beauty into your world with Flourish in Flight by Bill and Linda Tiepelman — a vivid celebration of color, motion, and unapologetic flair. Transform your space with a brilliant tapestry that radiates pure hummingbird energy. Hang the magic on your wall with a gallery-quality canvas print. Get cozy with chaos using a throw pillow that’s equal parts comfort and conversation starter. Carry your weird wherever you go with a stylish tote bag that says “I may be lost, but I’m fabulous.” Start your day like a Snack Prophet with a coffee mug that holds more than just caffeine — it holds possibility (and maybe glitter). Marvin found his journey by accident. You can find yours on purpose — one beautiful object at a time.

by Bill Tiepelman

A Hummingbird's Holiday

It was a frosty December morning, and the world had donned its sparkly winter attire. The sun hung low in the sky, its feeble light glinting off snow-dusted branches and icy red berries. On one such branch sat a rather extraordinary hummingbird named Percival Featherbottom III, or Percy for short. Percy wasn’t your average hummingbird. For one, he was wearing a Santa hat. But more importantly, Percy was on a mission—a mission to save Christmas. “Right, let’s see,” Percy muttered, adjusting the tiny Santa hat perched atop his shimmering head. “The list says I need precisely five of the reddest berries from the Frosted Bramble to complete the potion.” He peered down at the berries surrounding him, each one glistening like a jewel in the winter sunlight. “Hmm. Too pink. Too round. Too… suspiciously sticky.” He hopped from branch to branch with the grace of a gymnast and the paranoia of a caffeinated squirrel. The potion, as Percy explained to a bewildered robin the day before, was for a rather peculiar problem. The Great Snow Goose, an ancient guardian of winter magic, had caught a terrible cold. Without the goose’s annual honk of enchantment, the snow wouldn’t sparkle, the trees wouldn’t glisten, and—horror of horrors—Santa’s sleigh wouldn’t fly. “Imagine!” Percy had exclaimed dramatically. “A grounded sleigh. The children’s faces! The absolute scandal!” And so, Percy had taken it upon himself to find the ingredients for the Potion of Glittering Renewal, a magical concoction said to cure even the frostiest of winter ailments. The recipe had been handed down by the wise (and slightly inebriated) owls of the Northern Pine, who assured Percy it would work. Probably. The Bumbling Beasts of Bramblewood As Percy selected his third berry—“Ah, perfectly crimson!”—a rustling noise behind him made him freeze. He turned slowly, heart hammering, to find two squirrels glaring at him from a neighboring branch. “And what,” said the larger of the two, a grizzled squirrel with a chunk missing from his left ear, “do you think you’re doing with our berries?” “Your berries?” Percy said, feigning shock. “These aren’t your berries! These are communal berries! Forest property! Public fruit!” The smaller squirrel, a jittery creature with a twitchy tail, narrowed his eyes. “We saw them first. Fork ‘em over, bird.” Percy puffed out his chest. “Listen here, rodent, I am on a quest of the utmost importance. Christmas itself hangs in the balance! Surely you wouldn’t—” Before he could finish, the squirrels launched themselves at Percy like furry cannonballs. What ensued was a chase that would go down in Bramblewood history as “The Great Berry Heist.” Percy darted through branches and around trunks, the Santa hat wobbling perilously on his head. The squirrels followed with surprising agility, screeching war cries like tiny woodland warriors. “Give us the berries!” they shouted. “For the glory of the stash!” The Goose, the Hat, and the Glitter Bomb Eventually, Percy managed to lose the squirrels by diving into a snowbank and burrowing until he was completely hidden. When the coast was clear, he emerged, shaking off snow like a very indignant ornament. “Ruffians,” he muttered, clutching his berries tightly. “The youth these days have no respect for noble causes.” By the time Percy reached the Great Snow Goose’s lair—a cozy cave adorned with icicles and smelling faintly of cinnamon—the sun was beginning to set. The Goose, a massive bird with feathers as white as freshly fallen snow, lay curled on a nest of pine needles, her beak drooping. “You’re late,” she croaked, her voice like the rasp of old parchment. “Traffic,” Percy said, plopping the berries into a tiny cauldron he’d brought along. “Now, let’s see…” He added a dash of powdered frost, a sprinkle of stardust, and a single drop of moonlight (siphoned painstakingly the night before from a particularly cooperative lunar moth). As he stirred, the potion began to glow, emitting a soft, tinkling sound like the laughter of distant elves. “Drink up,” Percy said, handing the cauldron to the Goose. She eyed it suspiciously. “If this explodes, bird, you’ll be spending Christmas as a popsicle.” “Charming,” Percy said with a winning smile. “Now drink, before the magic wears off.” The Goose took a cautious sip, then another. Suddenly, her feathers fluffed, her eyes brightened, and she let out a magnificent honk that echoed through the forest. Snowflakes began to shimmer, the air sparkled with unseen magic, and somewhere, a choir of chipmunks broke into an impromptu rendition of “Jingle Bells.” A Toast to Tiny Heroes By the time Percy returned to his branch, he was exhausted but triumphant. The Great Snow Goose was healed, the potion was a success, and Christmas was saved. As he settled down to roost, he noticed the two squirrels from earlier watching him from a distance. They hesitated, then approached, holding out a small cluster of berries. “For… your quest,” said the grizzled squirrel awkwardly. Percy blinked, touched. “Thank you, friends,” he said, taking the berries. “Though, between us, I think I’ve had enough excitement for one holiday.” And as the first stars appeared in the winter sky, Percy dozed off, his Santa hat slightly askew, dreaming of a world where even the tiniest of creatures could make a difference. Because, as Percy liked to say, “Sometimes, it’s the smallest wings that carry the biggest magic.” Get "A Hummingbird's Holiday" for Your Home Bring the magic of Percy’s festive adventure into your home with stunning products featuring A Hummingbird’s Holiday: Tapestries Canvas Prints Puzzles Greeting Cards Click the links above to explore these beautiful keepsakes and add a touch of whimsical holiday cheer to your decor!

by Bill Tiepelman

Riding the Rainbow Hummingbird

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

by Bill Tiepelman

Nectar's Whisper: A Dance of Colors

In the heart of the Enchanted Garden, where the air hummed with the whispers of nectar and the dreams of flowers bloomed into existence, there lived a tiny hummingbird named Lumin. Her feathers were a living tapestry of colors, a radiant shimmer that danced with the light of the realm. This garden was a sanctuary, a hidden crevice of the world where the forgotten colors found refuge, where flowers with fractal petals unfurled their spirals to the sky, each a small universe unto themselves. The origins of the Enchanted Garden were as mystical as the hues that dappled its flora. It was whispered among the twisting vines and ancient trees that the garden sprung forth from the tears of the sky, shed during a celestial eclipse when the universe itself felt the pangs of loneliness. These tears seeped into the earth, giving birth to a well of light deep within the heart of the garden. From this well, the first guardians drank, their feathers and petals suffused with a brilliance no shadow could touch. Lumin, the descendant of these original guardians, now bore the responsibility of protecting this source of wonder. Her days were spent weaving through the blooming spirals, her wings beating in a rhythm that was the heartbeat of the magical domain. Each creature and plant played its part in the symphony of existence, from the wise old flower that unfurled its petals to reveal prophetic patterns, to the mischievous butterfly whose wings carried the dust of dreams. But peace is often a prelude to perturbation. One dawn, as the first light caressed the dew-laden spirals, a rare silence befell the garden. The shadow crept over the land, a darkness that was not simply the absence of light, but a void that sought to consume the colors Lumin and her ancestors had safeguarded for eons. The shadow was not of this world; it was born from the other side of the eclipse, from the loneliness that had once wept for companionship. It envied the light, the colors, the life of the garden. The flowers whispered anxieties with their shivering stems, and the creatures of the garden huddled in the dwindling patches of warmth. Lumin knew what she had to do. Her heart fluttered with the weight of her lineage, her ancestors’ voices a chorus urging her on. Summoning the light within her iridescent feathers, she soared higher and higher, her body becoming a prism that refracted the pure sunlight into a myriad of colors. The confrontation was a spectacle of light against darkness, an explosion of rainbows against the consuming void. The shadow recoiled, for it could not withstand the beauty and vibrancy of Lumin's essence. As the colors rained down, the flowers rejoiced, their fractal petals opening wider than ever before, and the shadow dissipated, leaving the garden brighter than before. In the aftermath, the garden was changed. New colors bloomed in the wake of the shadow's retreat, colors that had no name, for they were born of courage and resilience. The creatures and plants, once spectators, now became storytellers, sharing the tale of Lumin's bravery. The hummingbird herself had become more than a guardian; she was a symbol of life's resilience, of the enduring splendor of nature's palette. Lumin, perched upon a newly sprouted bloom, reflected upon the events. The shadow had been a part of the garden's history now, a reminder that even in a world brimming with magic, darkness could take root. But as long as there were guardians like Lumin, as long as the well of light flowed, the Enchanted Garden would thrive. And so the Enchanted Garden blossomed in an array of fantastical life, each creature and plant singing their part in the grand chorus of existence, with Lumin, the hummingbird whose light whispered nectar's sweet song, at the center of it all.