by Bill Tiepelman
Sunlit Shenanigans
There are fae who tend gardens. There are fae who weave dreams. And then there’s Fennella Bramblebite—whose main contributions to the Seelie realm are chaotic giggling fits, midair moonings, and an alarming number of forest-wide “misunderstandings” that always, mysteriously, involve flaming fruit and nudity. Fennella, with her wild braid-forest of red hair and a nose as freckled as a speckled toadstool, was not your average sylvan enchantress. While most fae flitted about with dewdrop tiaras and flowery poetry, Fennella spent her mornings teaching mushrooms to curse and her afternoons impersonating royalty in stolen acorn hats. Which is exactly how she came to adopt a dragon. “Adopt” may be too generous a word. Technically, she’d accidentally lured him out of his egg with a sausage roll, mistaken him for a very aggressive garden lizard, and then named him Sizzlethump before he even had the chance to incinerate her left eyebrow. He was small—about the size of a corgi with wings—and always smelled faintly of smoke and cinnamon. His scales shimmered with flickers of ember and sunset, and his favorite pastimes included torching laundry lines and pretending to be a neck scarf. But today… today was special. Fennella had planned a picnic. Not just any picnic, mind you, but a nude sunbathing-and-honeycake extravaganza in the Grove of Slightly Disreputable Nymphs. She had even invited the squirrel militia—though they still hadn’t forgiven her for the “cursed nuts incident of spring.” “Now behave,” she hissed at Sizzlethump as she unrolled the enchanted gingham cloth that hissed when touched by ants. “No flaming the butter. No eating the spoons. And for the love of moonbeams, do not pretend the elderberry wine is bathwater again.” The dragon, in response, licked her ear, snorted a smoke ring in the shape of a rude gesture, and settled across her shoulder like a smug, fire-breathing mink. They were five bites into the honeycakes (and three questionable licks into something that might have been a toad pie) when Fennella felt it—a presence. Something looming. Watching. Judging. It was Ainsleif. “Oh gnatballs,” she muttered, eyes narrowing. Ainsleif of the Mosscloaks. The Most Uptight of the Forest Stewards. His hair was combed. His wings were folded correctly. He looked like the inside of a rulebook. And worst of all, he had paperwork. Rolled parchment. In triplicate. “Fennella Bramblebite,” he intoned, as if invoking an ancient curse. “You are hereby summoned to appear before the Council of Leaf and Spore on charges of spontaneous combustion, suspicious pastry distribution, and inappropriate use of glimmerweed in public spaces.” Fennella stood, arms akimbo, wearing only a necklace made of candy thorns and a questionable grin. Sizzlethump burped something that made a nearby fern catch fire. “Is that today?” she asked innocently. “Oopsie blossom.” And thus, with a flap of wings and the smell of smoldering scones, the fairy and her dragon friend were off to stand trial… for crimes they almost definitely committed, possibly while tipsy, and absolutely without regrets. Fennella arrived at the Council of Leaf and Spore the same way she did everything in life: fashionably late, dubiously clothed, and covered in confectioner’s sugar. The great mushroom hall—a sacred, ancient seat of forest governance—stood in utter silence as she crash-landed through the upper window, having been flung by a catapult built entirely from discarded spiderwebs, cattail reeds, and the shattered dreams of serious people. “NAILED IT!” she hollered, still upside down, legs tangled in a vine chandelier. “Do I get extra points for entrance flair or just the concussion?” The crowd of fae elders and woodland officials didn’t even blink. They’d seen worse. Once, a brownie attorney combusted just from sitting in the same seat Fennella now wiggled into. But today… today they were bracing themselves for a verbal hurricane with dragon side-effects. Sizzlethump waddled in behind her, dragging a suitcase that had burst open somewhere in flight, leaving a breadcrumb trail of burnt marshmallows, dragon socks, two left shoes, and something that might have been an enchanted fart in a jar (still bubbling ominously). High Elder Thistledown—a weepy-eyed creature shaped vaguely like a sentient celery stalk—sighed deeply, his leafy robes rustling with despair. “Fennella,” he said gravely, “this is your seventeenth appearance before the council in three moon cycles.” “Eighteen,” she corrected brightly. “You forgot the time I was sleep-haunting a bakery. That one hardly counts—I was unconscious and horny for strudel.” “Your crimes,” continued Thistledown, ignoring her, “include, but are not limited to: weaponizing bee song, unlicensed dream vending, impersonating a tree for sexual gain, and summoning a phantasmal raccoon in the shape of your ex-boyfriend.” “He started it,” she muttered. “Said my feet smelled like goblin tears.” Sizzlethump, now perched on the ceremonial scroll pedestal, belched a flame that turned the parchment to crisps, then sneezed on a nearby gavel, melting it into a very decorative puddle. “AND,” Thistledown said, voice rising, “allowing your dragon to exhale a message across the sky that said, quote: ‘LICK MY GLITTERS, COUNCIL NERDS.’” Fennella snorted. “That was supposed to say ‘LOVE AND LOLLIPOPS.’ He’s still learning calligraphy.” Enter: The Prosecutor. To the surprise of everyone (and the dismay of some), the prosecutor was Gnimbel Fungusfist, a gnome so small he needed a soapbox to be seen above the podium—and so bitter he’d once banned music in a five-mile radius after hearing a harp he didn’t like. “The defendant,” Gnimbel rasped, eyes narrowed beneath tiny spectacles, “has repeatedly violated Article 27 of the Mischief Ordinance. She has no respect for magical regulation, personal space, or basic hygiene. I present as evidence... this underwear.” He held up a suspiciously scorched pair of bloomers with a daisy stitched on the butt. Fennella clapped. “My missing Tuesday pair! You glorious little fungus! I’ve missed you!” The courtroom gasped. One dryad fainted. An owl barrister choked on his gavel. But Fennella wasn’t done. “I move to countersue the entire council,” she declared, climbing on the table, “for crimes against fashion, joy, and possessing the tightest fairy holes known to civilization.” “You mean loopholes?” Thistledown asked, eyes wide with horror. “I do not,” she replied solemnly. At that moment, Sizzlethump unleashed a sneezing fit so powerful he scorched the banners, singed the warden’s beard, and accidentally set loose the captive whispers held in the Evidence Urn. Dozens of scandalous secrets began fluttering through the air like invisible bats, shrieking things like “Thistledown fakes his leaf shine!” and “Gnimbel uses toe extensions!” The courtroom dissolved into chaos. Fairies shrieked. Gremlins brawled. Someone summoned a squid. It was not clear why. And in the midst of it all, Fennella and her dragon grinned at each other like two pyromaniacs who’d just discovered a fresh box of matches. They bolted for the exit, laughter trailing behind them like smoke. But before leaving, Fennella turned, dramatically flinging a pouch of cinnamon glitter over her shoulder. “See you next equinox, nerdlings!” she cackled. “Don’t forget to moisturize your roots!” With that, the pair shot into the sky, Sizzlethump belching little heart-shaped fireballs while Fennella shrieked with delight and a lack of underpants. They didn’t know where they were going. But chaos, snacks, and probably another misdemeanor awaited. Three hours after being chased from the Council in a cloud of weaponized gossip and molted scroll ash, Fennella and Sizzlethump found themselves in a cave made entirely of jellybeans and regret. “This,” she said, peering around with hands on hips and nose twitching, “was not the portal I was aiming for.” The jellybean cave groaned ominously. From the ceiling dripped slow, thick droplets of butterscotch sap. A mushroom nearby whistled the theme to a soap opera. Something in the corner burped in iambic pentameter. “Ten out of ten. Would trespass again,” she whispered, and gave Sizzlethump a piece of peppermint bark she’d smuggled in her bra. They wandered for what felt like hours through the sticky surrealist sugar hellscape, dodging licorice spiders and sentient mints, before finally emerging into the moonstruck valley of Glimmerloch—a place so magical that unicorns came there to get high and forget their responsibilities. “You know,” Fennella murmured as she flopped onto a grassy knoll, Sizzlethump curling up beside her, “I think they’ll be after us for a while this time.” The dragon gave a tiny snort, eyes half-closed, and let out a rumble that vibrated the moss beneath them. It sounded like “worth it.” The Council, however, was not so easily done. Three days later, Fennella’s hiding place was discovered—not by a battalion of armored pixies or an elite tracker warg, but by Bartholomew. Bartholomew was a faerie rat. And not a noble rat or a rat of legend. No, this was the type of rat who sold his mother for a half-stale biscuit and who wore a monocle made from a bent bottlecap. “Council wants ya,” he wheezed, waddling through a carpet of forget-me-nots like a walrus through whipped cream. “Big deal. They’re talkin’ banishment. Like, full-fling outta the Queendom.” Fennella blinked. “They wouldn’t. I’m a cornerstone of the cultural ecosystem. I once singlehandedly rebooted winter solstice fashion with edible earmuffs.” Bartholomew scratched himself with a twig and said, “Yeah, but yer dragon melted the Moon Buns’ fertility altar. You kinda toasted a sacred womb rock.” “Okay, in our defense,” she said slowly, “Sizzlethump thought it was a spicy egg.” Sizzlethump, overhearing, offered a hiccup of remorse that smelled strongly of roasted thyme and mild guilt. His wings drooped. Fennella ruffled his horn. “Don’t let them guilt you, nugget. You’re the best mistake I’ve ever kidnapped.” Bartholomew wheezed. “There’s a loophole. But it’s dumb. Really dumb.” Fennella lit up like a torchbug on espresso. “My favorite kind of plan. Hit me.” “You do the Trial of Shenanigan’s Bluff,” he muttered. “It’s... sort of a performance thing? Public trial by satire. If you can entertain the spirits of the Elder Mischief, they’ll pardon you. If you fail, they trap your soul in a punch bowl.” “Been there,” she said brightly. “I survived it and came out with a new eyebrow and a boyfriend.” “The punch bowl?” “No, the trial.” And so it was set. The Trial of Shenanigan’s Bluff took place at midnight under a sky so full of stars it looked like a bejeweled bedsheet shaken by a drunk deity. The audience consisted of dryads, disgruntled town gnomes, one spectral hedgehog, three flamingos in drag, and the entire squirrel militia—still wearing tiny helmets and carrying grudge nuts. The Elders of Mischief appeared, rising from mists made of giggles and fermented tea. They were ancient prankster spirits, their bodies swirled from smoke and old rumors, their eyes glinting like jack-o’-lanterns full of dirty jokes. “We are here to judge,” they thundered in unison. “Amuse us, or perish in the bowl of eternal mediocrity.” Fennella stepped forward, wings flared, dress covered in potion-stained ribbons and gumdrop armor. “Oh beloved prankpappies,” she began, “you want a show? I’ll give you a bloody cabaret.” And she did. She reenacted the Great Glimmerpants Explosion of ’86 using only interpretive dance and marmots. She recited scandalous haikus about High Elder Thistledown’s love life. She got a nymph to fake faint, a squirrel to fake propose, and Sizzlethump to perform a fire-breathing tap dance on stilts while wearing tiny lederhosen. By the time it ended, the audience was weeping from laughter, the Elders were floating upside down from glee, and the punch bowl was full of wine instead of souls. “You,” the lead spirit gasped, trying not to laugh-snort, “are absolutely unfit for banishment.” “Thank you,” Fennella said, curtsying so deeply her skirt revealed a birthmark shaped like a rude fairy. “Instead,” the spirit continued, “we appoint you as our new Emissary of Wild Mischief. You will spread absurdity, ignite joy, and keep the Realm weird.” Fennella gasped. “You want me... to make everything worse... professionally?” “Yes.” “AND I GET TO KEEP THE DRAGON?” “Yes!” She screamed. Sizzlethump belched glitter flames. The squirrel militia passed out from overstimulation. Epilogue Fennella Bramblebite is now a semi-official agent of gleeful chaos. Her crimes are now considered “cultural enrichment.” Her dragon has his own fan club. And her name is whispered in reverent awe by pranksters, tricksters, and midnight troublemakers in every corner of the Fae Queendom. Sometimes, when the moon is right and the air smells faintly of burnt toast and sarcasm, you can see her fly by—hair streaming behind her, dragon clinging to her shoulder, both of them laughing like fools who know that mischief is sacred and friendship is the weirdest kind of magic. Want to bring a little wild mischief into your world? You can own a piece of “Sunlit Shenanigans” and keep the chaos close at hand—or at least on your wall, your tote, or even your cozy nap blanket. Whether you’re a fae of impeccable taste or a dragon hoarder of fine things, this whimsical artwork is now available in a variety of forms: Wood Print – Rustic charm for your mischief sanctuary Framed Print – For those who prefer their chaos elegantly contained Tote Bag – Carry your dragon snacks and questionable potions in style Fleece Blanket – For warm snuggles after a long day of magical misdemeanors Spiral Notebook – Jot down your best pranks and potion recipes Click, claim, and channel your inner Bramblebite—no Council approval required.
