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by Bill Tiepelman

Petals & Pavement

The Night the City Sprouted Heels I was three blocks deep into a rain-polished evening, the kind that makes every taxi light bokeh look like a gold coin thrown into a wish well, when I nearly tripped over the boot. Not just any boot—a floral high heel stiletto with the posture of a debutante and the attitude of a street poet. The leather shimmered with hand-painted wildflowers—daisies, cosmos, a few tiny asters sneaking along the seams like gossip—while a real bouquet spilled out of the ankle, fresh and dewy, as if the shoe had been photosynthesizing compliments all day. It stood alone on the rain-slicked pavement at the corner of 47th and Maybe, where the city keeps its secrets and takes its smoke breaks. Now, I know what you’re thinking: boot as vase, vase as boot—urban chic style or prank by an art student with too much time and not enough roommates. But the city has rules, and rule number one is that things left abandoned are never truly alone. There was a hum to it, a little sugar buzz in the air, like a cappuccino that learned to flirt. I leaned in, because I’m nosy and also because the bouquet smelled like a lingerie store determined to change your life. The heel cast a long, elegant shadow, a needle stitching darkness to light, and I realized the boot wasn’t wet. Everything around it gleamed with puddle-sheen, but the boot was dry, as if the storm had signed a non-disclosure agreement. “Careful,” said a voice, the kind that could sell you a candle and a confession. I spun around to find a woman in a velvet blazer and combat eyeliner, holding a pastry box like it contained the Ark of the Covenant. “If it chooses you, your life gets… greener.” “Greener?” I asked, already bargaining with myself about how many plants one person can kill before the house plants unionize. She nodded toward the shoe. “It’s the Bloomwalker. An urban legend, technically. Shows up when someone’s about to quit—love, art, sobriety, hope, the gym—whatever. You slide your foot in, and it slides a little courage into you. But it’s picky. It only likes people who are at least forty-nine percent chaos and fifty-one percent tenderness.” “That’s oddly specific.” “Like a dating app, but for redemption,” she said. “I put a cream puff in this box and heard it whisper. Not the cream puff, the boot. The puff’s more of a moaner.” She winked, very adult, very feminine city fashion, and disappeared into the blur of city night lights like a magic trick with good lighting. I stared at the heel. It stared back, the lace holes like patient little eyes. Traffic growled. Steam rose from a grate like the city exhaling. Somewhere, someone laughed the kind of laugh that makes you want to share a cigarette and a mortgage. I felt that familiar ache—the one that shows up when your art is two likes short of a heartbeat and your rent is three zeroes over your self-esteem. The kind of ache you can either drink about or write about. I choose both, usually in that order, but tonight the boot felt like a dare. “Listen,” I told it, because I talk to objects when they look expensive. “If I put you on, you’re not going to turn me into a pumpkin, right? I didn’t dress pumpkin chic.” The boot didn’t answer. Instead, a single petal drifted from the bouquet and landed on my shoe—my own very average, non-famous sneaker. The petal stuck like a kiss you didn’t plan on but definitely needed. Then another fell. Then the bouquet rustled, a floral whisper that sounded suspiciously like, Well? Here’s the thing about fashion art photography: it lies just enough to tell the truth. You capture a floral stiletto art piece on a wet street and suddenly everyone believes in romance again, or at least in good ankle support. So I did what any sensible adult with questionable impulse control would do: I slipped off my sneaker, held my breath like I was crossing a truth minefield, and eased my foot into the Bloomwalker. Warmth. Not like a heater—more like stepping into a story already in progress. The leather hugged my foot with the affection of a bartender who knows your order and your therapist’s first name. The heel lifted me three moral inches above my usual perspective, and the world rearranged itself slightly—as if the city had been tilted and I was now standing where the brave people stand. The bouquet shivered, then straightened, and everything sharpened: neon became neoner, raindrops became glass confetti, and my heart learned a new beat that sounded suspiciously like tap dance. A cab rolled by. The driver looked out and saluted, not in a creepy way, more in a “respect your shoe game” way. A passerby paused, eyebrows high enough to qualify for penthouse living. “Is that a heel with flowers in it?” he asked. “It’s a botanical couture situation,” I said, trying to stand like elegance had never ghosted me. “Also, possibly magic.” He nodded, as one does in a city where feral pigeons have LinkedIns. “Good for you.” Then he wandered off, probably to file a report with the Department of Wild Yet Tasteful Sightings. I took a step. The heel clicked, and I swear the sound had taste: bitter chocolate with a citrus finish. Another step. The puddles reflected me as a taller, shinier myth. My mind, usually a noisy laundromat of second thoughts, fell quiet. In the hush, I heard the Bloomwalker’s voice—soft, sly, conspiratorial, like a grandmother who used to run numbers. Say what you came to say. “I’m tired,” I confessed. “Of almost. Of waiting rooms. Of putting ‘artist’ in tiny letters on tax forms. Of loving people who only text when their flight is delayed.” Then don’t be tired. Be tender. “Tender gets bruised,” I said. Tough gets lonely. That landed. I felt a prickle at the corners of my eyes, the kind that says, “Careful, you’re about to cry in HD.” The bouquet bopped my cheek, gentle and bossy. I laughed, a little wetly, which for the record is the sexiest and least convenient laugh. My phone buzzed—a notification from the universe (or my ex; same energy). Without looking, I slipped it back into my pocket. The city was speaking, and I was finally wearing the right ears. The Bloomwalker guided me—no, escorted me—down the block toward a bodega that sells oranges, lottery tickets, and salvation in blue glass bottles. “Nice shoe,” said the clerk, who has seen enough to retire from surprise. “Want the usual?” “Actually,” I said, feeling ridiculous and radiant, “I’ll take the unusual.” I pointed to a tiny disposable camera and a notebook with a velvet cover. If I was going to be a storyteller with heels, I wanted receipts. Outside, I snapped the first photo: heel, puddle, city street photography reflections curling around me like approving cats. A gust of wind lifted the bouquet, and for a second the flowers formed a crown. I wore it. The world clapped politely—streetlight, stoplight, a neon sign that promised OPEN LATE like a vow not to give up on anyone. In the distance, faint but clear, a saxophone reminded the night to arch its back. That’s when the woman in velvet returned, minus the pastry box and plus a smirk. “So,” she said, “what’s the plan, Bloomwalker?” “I’m going to make something. Something whimsical, a little mysterious, definitely inspiring. Maybe even a fine art poster if my printer sobers up.” She looked me over like a tailor measuring for destiny. “Good. Because the legend doesn’t end with the shoe. It’s a relay. You wear it until it tells you who gets it next. Then you pass it on.” “Like a torch?” “More like a flirtation,” she said. “But with better arch support.” The bouquet rustled again, that same Well? I felt the heel tug my center of gravity forward, an elegant nudge toward whatever came next. The city held its breath. A bus hissed. Somewhere above us a window opened, and laughter spilled out like champagne from a bottle you don’t own but will definitely drink from. “All right,” I told the night. “Let’s walk.” And we did—me, the heel, the flowers, the rumor—down the avenue where hearts go to recommit and strangers become footnotes. Each click of the stiletto wrote a new sentence on the street: floral pattern high heels, urban elegance, feminine street style, artistic footwear, colorful floral art. The kind of keywords the city’s search bar loves. Three blocks later, the Bloomwalker stopped. Not stumbled—stopped—in front of a mural I’d never noticed: a pair of hands releasing a bouquet into a sky the exact color of forgiveness. The heel pulsed once, twice, like a heartbeat checking its schedule. I knew—bone-deep, soul-bright—that Part II of this story was waiting behind that mural, or inside it, or maybe twenty minutes and one confession to the left. But first, a pause. Magic is potent. You sip it. You don’t chug. The Mural, the Map, and the Man Who Spoke in Colors The mural wasn’t just a mural. It was… humming. Not audibly, mind you—this wasn’t a Disney situation with chipper paintbrushes and anthropomorphic scaffolding—but something in it vibrated. The bouquet in the Bloomwalker tilted forward like it was bowing, and I swear the daisies exchanged glances. I stepped closer, raindrops creating a hush around me as if the whole street had been put on ‘do not disturb.’ The hands in the mural were wide, palms up, releasing flowers into an endless blue. But here’s the thing—up close, the petals weren’t just painted. They were maps. Tiny, microscopic city maps painted in fractal detail, so intricate you’d need a jeweler’s loupe and two shots of espresso to see them properly. And the blue sky? Not one color. Dozens of shades, each one slightly warmer or cooler depending on where you stood. It gave the sensation that the mural was breathing. I reached out—because self-control is for people with better hobbies—and my fingertip tingled when it touched the paint. For a moment, the cold wall was gone, replaced by the warmth of skin. The mural’s hand was holding mine. It squeezed. A small laugh bubbled up from somewhere in my chest, because this was exactly the kind of moment that makes you question every cynic you’ve ever dated. “Found it, did you?” The voice came from behind me. I turned to find an older man in a paint-spattered coat, his hair a kind of white that streetlights couldn’t decide whether to turn gold or silver. His eyes were mismatched—one brown, one the green of a bottle you’d keep whiskey in for emergencies. “Took you long enough.” “Sorry,” I said automatically, then realized I had no idea what I was apologizing for. “Do I… know you?” He tapped his temple. “Not here. But the Bloomwalker remembers you.” “Great,” I said, “because the rest of my footwear treats me like I’m disposable.” He grinned. “Shoes are never just shoes. These are maps, too. The right pair will walk you into the truth you’ve been avoiding. The wrong pair…” He trailed off, and I swear the air got two degrees colder. “…will keep you looping in circles until you forget you ever meant to leave.” The Bloomwalker pulsed again against my foot, an impatient little ahem. The man noticed. “She’s ready to show you.” He pulled a small tin from his pocket, the kind you’d expect to contain mints but which, naturally, contained something far stranger: dozens of tiny squares of fabric, each painted with one perfect brushstroke. No pattern, no recognizable image—just swatches of color so rich they looked edible. “Every place worth visiting,” he said, “has a color. The Bloomwalker knows which one you need. Press your heel to the wall.” Now, I’ve done questionable things in questionable alleys before, but pressing an enchanted floral stiletto into public art was a new category of life choice. Still, curiosity and recklessness are cousins in my family, so I did as told. The heel clicked softly against the mural, and a faint circle of light spread outward. The bouquet trembled, dropping a single cosmos petal that landed at the man’s feet. He picked it up like it was legal tender. “Ah,” he said, smiling without teeth. “Color number twenty-three.” He rummaged through the tin, found a swatch of color that could only be described as sunset-through-a-glass-of-rosé, and pressed it into my palm. The warmth from it seeped straight into my bloodstream. “Follow it,” he said. “That’s your next street.” “It’s… a color,” I said. “How am I supposed to follow a color?” “With your eyes closed, of course. Eyes open, you’ll just get distracted by billboards and regret. Eyes closed, the Bloomwalker will steer.” I considered this. I also considered the fact that I’d had two glasses of wine earlier and was, therefore, slightly more agreeable to impossible instructions. “And what’s at the end of the street?” He shrugged. “Depends. Could be a door. Could be a kiss. Could be the thing you thought you lost when you were seventeen. The Bloomwalker doesn’t work on just anyone, you know. She picks people who’ll actually do something with what they find.” Something in me—probably the stubborn part that still believes in happy endings with bad beginnings—straightened up. “All right,” I said. “Let’s walk.” I closed my eyes. The first few steps were hesitant, my brain yelling things like pothole and open manhole cover in capital letters. But the Bloomwalker moved with certainty, guiding me with subtle shifts in weight, steering me left at one corner, right at another. The sound of the heel on wet pavement became hypnotic—click, pause, click—like a metronome counting out courage. With my eyes shut, the city felt different. Smells sharpened: the metallic tang of the rain, the sweet-sour perfume of a bakery at closing time, the ghost of cigarette smoke trailing from a doorway I passed. Somewhere, a busker played a saxophone so mournful it made the lampposts sigh. I felt the color pulling me onward, the warmth in my palm intensifying with each step. We stopped. I opened my eyes. I was in front of a shop I’d never seen before, though the street was familiar. No sign, no name—just a narrow glass door and a window filled with objects that shouldn’t have existed outside of dreams: a goldfish swimming in what looked like liquid silver; a chessboard where the pieces were tiny, breathing birds; a stack of books that rearranged their titles every few seconds, as if they were indecisive about the story they wanted to tell. The door opened before I touched it. A woman with hair the color of spilled ink stepped out, wearing a suit so sharp it could slice through small talk. “We’ve been expecting you,” she said, as if that were the most normal thing in the world. “The Bloomwalker’s last wearer left something for you.” She held out a box the size of a shoebox, but heavier. Inside, nestled in velvet, was a camera—old, but not dusty—and a single undeveloped photograph. The photo showed… me. Standing in this very spot, wearing the Bloomwalker, bouquet bright and defiant. But the me in the photo was smiling like she already knew the punchline to a joke I hadn’t heard yet. “How—?” I started. “The Bloomwalker records its journeys,” she said. “Not for vanity. For continuity. What you do with it next will decide whether it ends here or keeps walking.” Behind her, the shop seemed to shift, like it was rearranging itself to make room for me—or to hide something from me. My pulse matched the rhythm of the heel’s click. I had the distinct, unshakable feeling that if I stepped inside, I wouldn’t come out the same. “Do I have a choice?” I asked. She smiled like the city does when it’s about to hand you a miracle wrapped in bad timing. “Of course you do. But you’ve already taken the first step.” The bouquet in the heel brushed my knee again, that same persistent Well? I looked at the photo in my hand, then at the open door. The warmth of the color swatch in my palm was almost hot now, buzzing like it wanted to leap free. I took a deep breath, tasting rain, risk, and the faint sweetness of something blooming. Then I stepped inside. The Shop That Sold the Impossible The door shut behind me with the soft certainty of a secret locking itself away. The air inside was warm but not stuffy, scented faintly of jasmine, cedar, and something that smelled like lightning right before it hits. The floor was a patchwork of rugs from every era—Persian, Navajo, IKEA circa 1998—stitched together like they’d been rescued from doomed living rooms. Shelves curved along the walls, heavy with objects that radiated personality: a typewriter with fresh ink on the ribbon, a teacup constantly refilling itself, a silver locket humming low like a bee in a hurry. The woman in the sharp suit walked ahead without looking back. “Everything in here has been carried in by the Bloomwalker’s chosen,” she said, her voice smooth enough to butter a whole loaf. “Each item is a map, a memory, or a mistake worth keeping.” “And you… collect them?” I asked, brushing fingers over a book that shivered under my touch. “We keep them safe until they’re needed again,” she replied. “Sometimes they’re tools. Sometimes warnings. Sometimes… debts.” The bouquet in the heel twitched like a cat seeing something in the corner. I followed its gaze to a display case at the back. Inside sat another heel—sleeker, black leather, no flowers, just a faint glimmer along its surface like a constellation trapped under the material. The sight of it made my pulse trip. There was… recognition. Or déjà vu’s more persistent cousin. “That one,” I said, pointing. Her expression shifted almost imperceptibly. “That one is for after.” “After what?” “After you decide whether to keep walking.” I wanted to ask what that meant, but the shop had other ideas. The rug under my feet rippled like water, and suddenly I was standing in front of a counter piled high with envelopes, each one addressed in handwriting that ranged from precise calligraphy to the chaotic scrawl of someone writing mid-chase. The top envelope had my name on it. I opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper, covered in my own handwriting—though it wasn’t anything I remembered writing. It read: “If you’re reading this, it means you said yes. Not to the shoe, not to the walk—those were inevitable. You said yes to the part where you stop apologizing for the weight of your own colors. The city will test you. People will try to make you grayscale. Don’t let them. When you’re ready, find the next pair of eyes that are still awake in the middle of the day and hand the Bloomwalker to them. They’ll know what to do. Oh—and take the camera everywhere. You’re going to want proof.” I stared at it, my chest tightening in the way it does when you realize the advice you need is coming from the version of yourself you keep trying to outrun. The woman was watching me with a patience that made me think she’d stand there until the building turned to dust. “So,” she said at last, “will you keep it?” I looked down at the Bloomwalker. The leather gleamed softly, the flowers swaying even though there was no breeze. My reflection in the polished toe didn’t look like me—it looked like the woman in the photograph. The one who knew the punchline already. “I’ll keep it,” I said. “For now.” “Good,” she said, and in that instant, every object in the shop exhaled. A stack of papers shuffled themselves neatly. The goldfish swam a triumphant lap. Somewhere in the rafters, something laughed quietly—low and warm. She handed me a small key. “For the camera. It unlocks the second shutter. Use it only when you’re ready to take a picture of something you can’t explain.” “And when will that be?” “Sooner than you think.” I left the shop without remembering opening the door. One second I was inside; the next I was back on the wet street, the mural behind me quiet and still. In my hand, the velvet-covered notebook from earlier. In my foot, the Bloomwalker’s steady pulse, like it was keeping time for both of us. I walked for blocks, snapping photos without thinking too hard about why—puddles catching neon like they were fishing for compliments, strangers with eyes like entire libraries, graffiti that seemed to change words as I passed. Every click of the heel was a beat in a song the city and I were writing together. When I stopped, it was in front of a bus stop where a young woman sat alone, head bent over a sketchbook. Her clothes were threadbare but her pen moved with a precision that made the air feel sharper. She looked up, and our eyes met. Awake. That was the only word for it. The Bloomwalker tightened slightly, just once, and I knew. Not tonight. Not yet. But soon, she’d be the one. I’d know when. Until then, the legend would keep walking—with me, through me, despite me. I turned toward home, the heel singing its quiet, confident song. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled in approval. The bouquet leaned forward as if eager for the next street. And I kept walking, petals scattering behind me like breadcrumbs for anyone brave—or foolish—enough to follow. Bring the legend home. If “Petals & Pavement” spoke to you—the shimmer of rain-slick streets, the wild defiance of flowers blooming in the unlikeliest places—why not let that magic live on your walls? Our Framed Prints turn the Bloomwalker’s midnight strut into a centerpiece worthy of any room, while the Acrylic Prints capture the crisp vibrancy of city lights and wet pavement in luminous, modern style. For a touch of rustic charm, the Wood Prints blend the piece’s urban elegance with natural warmth, making each detail feel intimate and tactile. Or, go bold with a flowing Tapestry—a statement piece that transforms any wall into a window to this mysterious, inspiring city night. Whichever you choose, you’re not just buying art—you’re adopting a chapter of the Bloomwalker’s story.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Agave Whisperer

The Barrel-Bottom Prophet It was said in the whisperiest of taverns — between shots of regret and beers of poor decisions — that somewhere deep in the groves of Tuscagave, there lived a gnome who could speak to tequila. Not about tequila. To it. And worse still... it whispered back. His name was Bartó the Brash, and legend had it he was born in a bootleg still, cradled in blue agave husks, and teethed on fermented lime peels. The midwife had slapped his ass, and he belched a perfect margarita mist. His mother passed out from pride. Or mezcal. Or both. Bartó lived alone, if you didn’t count the raccoons (whom he called his “spirit consultants”) and the near-empty bottle of Tequila Yore N. Abort he carried like a talisman. He claimed the bottle contained the voice of an ancient agave god named Chuchululululul — or “Chu” for short — who had chosen him as the last Tequilamancer, a sacred order long disbanded due to liver failure and questionable pants choices. “I don’t drink to forget,” Bartó would slur at passing squirrels, “I drink to remember what the hell I’m meant to be doing.” Then he’d usually pass out face-first into a cactus and have visions of the future, or at least hallucinate himself into a screaming match with a talking gecko wearing a fedora. But fate — that wobbly barstool of destiny — was about to spin beneath him. On a morning dripping in sun and hangover dew, Bartó squinted into the olive grove horizon and saw it: a caravan of bureaucrats in beige capes, clipboards clenched like holy relics. The Department of Magical Overreach and Beverage Regulation (DMOBR) had arrived — and they were pissed. “Unauthorized intoximancy! Public incantation while under the influence! Summoning of unlicensed limes!” barked the lead official, a sour-faced elf named Sandra with a severe bob and the moral flexibility of a corkscrew. “You, sir, are a fermenting menace!” “Oh please,” Bartó scoffed, adjusting his mossy, sagging hat. “I’ve fermented things that would make your clipboard cry.” Sandra raised a pen. “By the authority of subsection 3B of the Intoxicating Enchantments Code, I hereby revoke your right to whisper to any agave-derived spirit for a period not less than—” CRACK! Lightning struck a nearby clay jug. A sizzling bolt carved the words “BITE ME” into the side of an olive tree. Chu, the bottle god, was awake. “OH SH*T,” Bartó grinned. “He’s back.” The tequila began to glow. The raccoons began to chant. The olives rolled uphill. Somewhere, a mariachi band formed out of thin air. And just like that, our story — soaked in alcohol, mischief, and prophecy — had begun. The Rise of the Drunken Oracle As the tequila bottle pulsed with a holy light that smelled vaguely of lime zest and bad decisions, the air around Bartó the Brash thickened like a triple-distilled vision quest. The gnome stood — or rather, teetered confidently — on the barrel like a demented squirrel messiah, arms raised high, eyes crossed but determined. “Chu has spoken,” he announced, “and he says you’re all a bunch of cork-sniffing, oak-aged fun vampires.” Sandra, lead pencil-pusher of DMOBR, adjusted her clipboard with bureaucratic menace. “That bottle is unauthorized and unregistered. Its mouthpiece—you—are in direct violation of thirteen beverage communion laws, four forbidden fermentation rites, and one very specific restraining order involving a sacred cactus.” “That cactus liked it,” Bartó muttered under his breath, then belched out a tiny lightning bolt. A nearby stone frog sculpture twitched and winked. The raccoons began circling in a loose formation resembling a pentagram made entirely of bad intentions and spilled mezcal. Their eyes glowed with a dangerous mix of mysticism and dumpster trauma. One was wearing a tiny cape made from a bar mat that said "Lick, Sip, Regret." From the tequila bottle came the rumbling voice of Chu — ancient, boozy, and oddly flirtatious. “THE AGAVE AWAKENS. THE TIME OF DISTILLED PROPHECY IS NIGH. BRING ME TACOS.” Bartó gasped. “It’s the Prophecy of the Blistered Tongue!” Sandra rolled her eyes so hard they almost filed a complaint. “There is no such prophecy. That was debunked in a 2007 memo titled ‘Delirium-Driven Distillery Delusions.’” “Delusions?! You bureaucratic bottle cap!” Bartó roared. “I have seen visions in the foam of my beer, heard sermons in the slosh of a margarita! I AM THE AGAVE WHISPERER!” He chugged from the bottle like a man possessed by both the divine and several questionable life choices. The sky dimmed. Olive trees trembled. Somewhere in the distance, a goat screamed in what might have been Latin. BOOM! A wave of golden vapor exploded from the bottle and blasted across the grove. Everyone within a fifty-foot radius was hit with a sudden wave of intoxicated clairvoyance. One elf dropped to his knees sobbing about his childhood toothbrush. Another began giggling and drawing phallic doodles in the dirt with his wand. Sandra’s clipboard snapped in half. “This… this is unauthorized revelatory broadcasting!” “This,” Bartó grinned, “is happy hour at the end of the f*cking world.” And with that, he flung the bottle skyward. It hovered. Hovered! Swirling with magical carbonation, it began to rotate, casting symbols in the air — ancient agave runes, each one glowing and dripping with tequila logic. The runes formed into a flaming piñata goat, which promptly exploded into glitter and regret confetti. The raccoons began to chant in tongues. Literal tongues. They had stolen some from a taco truck. “We are the Chosen Few!” Bartó shouted. “We are the Drunk, the Damned, the Slightly Sticky! Rise, my festive minions! The world must be unbuttoned!” At this, the caravan of DMOBR agents began to panic. Their enchanted clipboards were now possessed by spirits (both bureaucratic and alcoholic), their regulation sashes turned into salsa-scented snakes, and several of them had started twerking involuntarily to an invisible mariachi band echoing through the hills. Sandra screamed. “Code Vermouth! I repeat, Code Vermouth!” Bartó, now somehow riding a summoned barrel like a tequila-powered chariot, pointed at her dramatically. “You wanna regulate joy? License laughter? Tax my farts? Over my pickled body!” Chu’s voice thundered once more. “ONE AMONG YOU SHALL SQUEEZE THE SACRED LIME. THEY SHALL UNCORK THE FINAL FIESTA.” A hush fell. Even the raccoons stopped licking their toes. Everyone stared at Bartó. His eyes sparkled. His beard blew dramatically in the wind. He dropped the tequila bottle into the crook of his arm like a baby made of danger. “I must find the Sacred Lime,” he whispered. “Only it can complete the Rite of the Salty Rim.” “That’s not a real thing,” Sandra snapped. “It is now,” Bartó said, then mounted his raccoon-pulled barrel chariot and disappeared into the grove at full squeaky wheel speed, laughing like a gremlin who just farted in a cathedral. The DMOBR team was left in stunned silence. Sandra stared at the bottle, now lying innocently in the dirt, leaking a faint trail of glowing liquid that spelled the word “WHEEEE” in cursive. The prophecy had begun. And Bartó the Brash? He was off to save the world — armed with only a bottle, some cursed citrus, and the unwavering belief that destiny was best pursued while hammered. The Sacred Lime & the End of the Pour Deep in the sunburnt olive groves of Tuscagave, under skies marbled with hangover clouds and divine indecision, Bartó the Brash thundered through the underbrush on his raccoon-powered barrel-chariot of destiny. His eyes were bloodshot with purpose. His beard? Windswept. His bottle? Glowing like a disco ball in a frat house bathroom. “THE SACRED LIME!” he cried, yanking hard on the reins (which were actually shoelaces tied to raccoon tails). “It calls to me!” “SQUEEEEE!” squealed the lead raccoon, who had been mainlining moonshine since breakfast and was now entirely committed to whatever this mission was. He tore through a grove of enchanted citrus trees, where oranges screamed motivational quotes and grapefruits sobbed about their father issues. But there, on a mossy pedestal carved from a petrified margarita glass, pulsed the Sacred Lime — the one foretold in soggy bar napkin prophecies and whispered about in inebriated dreams. It was perfect. Glossy. Green. Slightly smug. And guarded by a beast of legend: a giant horned badger with a salt-rimmed collar and a body carved from hardened party fouls. It reeked of expired guacamole and regret. Its name was only spoken in the lost language of Jell-O shots. “BEHOLD!” Bartó yelled, drawing forth his corkscrew wand. “I demand tequila-based trial by combat!” The badger hissed like a shaken can of LaCroix and lunged. Bartó countered with a savage swirl of his tequila bottle, spraying a hypnotic mist that hit the beast right in the dignity. It staggered, disoriented, and tripped over a lime wedge from 1983. “Chug, raccoons, chug!” Bartó bellowed. The raccoons formed a circle, chanting and doing something that looked suspiciously like a conga line of doom. He seized the Sacred Lime and held it aloft. The heavens parted. Trumpets farted a triumphant tune. Somewhere, a mariachi band combusted into pure joy. Chu’s voice echoed once more from the tequila bottle: “YOU HAVE THE LIME. NOW UNCORK THE FINAL FIESTA.” “Oh, we’re about to fiesta so hard the gods will need aspirin,” Bartó whispered with a drunken reverence only achievable at blood-alcohol levels considered biologically implausible. He rolled back into town like a legend carved from leftover nachos, raccoons flanking him like intoxicated bodyguards. The villagers of Tuscagave were already halfway through their annual Tax-Free Liquor Festival and thus barely blinked at the sight of their drunken savior astride a squeaky wheel of destiny. Sandra, DMOBR’s fun-hating elf enforcer, awaited him at the gates, looking slightly more frazzled and extremely more sticky than last we saw her. “You’ve violated more ordinances than the Great Whiskey Riots of 1824,” she spat. “What say you in your defense, gnome?” “I say this,” Bartó declared. He raised the Sacred Lime in one hand, the tequila bottle in the other. “Let the world know: regulation without celebration is just constipation in a cocktail glass.” He squeezed the lime into the bottle. Time stopped. Reality hiccupped. A geyser of fluorescent tequila shot into the air like a golden volcano of freedom. It rained down on Tuscagave like divine margarita mist. People screamed. People stripped. One man achieved enlightenment while motorboating a vat of salsa. The olive trees danced. The raccoons ascended. Sandra’s clipboard melted into a poem about forgiveness and nachos. The Final Fiesta had begun. And what a fiesta it was. For seven days and six blurry nights, the world paused for celebration. Debts were forgiven, enemies made out in alleyways, and the moon was replaced with a glowing disco lime. Bartó became both messiah and cautionary tale, immortalized in limericks, bar songs, and a regrettable tattoo on someone’s buttock in a village far away. When the fog of booze and prophecy finally cleared, the town was different. Happier. Wilder. Sticky. Bartó the Brash? He vanished into the hills, bottle in hand, raccoons in tow. His final words to Sandra (who, by then, had retired from DMOBR to open a margarita spa for burned-out auditors) were simple: “If the lime fits… squeeze it.” And from that day forward, bartenders in every realm would raise their glasses to the sky and whisper a toast to the Agave Whisperer — gnome, oracle, and sacred party goblin. May your salt be fine, your lime be sacred, and your hangovers blessed with purpose. Fin. Take Bartó home with you! Immortalize the legendary Agave Whisperer on something equally bold and occasionally questionable. Whether you're sipping inspiration or summoning chaos, we've bottled his mischievous magic into a wood print worthy of a cantina wall, or a sleek acrylic print that glows with prophecy and poor decisions. Need something for your wild journeys? Sling the tote bag over your shoulder and smuggle sacred limes like a true believer. Prefer your revelations in doodle form? The spiral notebook is perfect for recording drunken prophecies and raccoon conspiracy theories. And if you just want to slap Bartó’s face somewhere totally inappropriate, there’s always the sticker. Go ahead — join the cult of Chu. Tequila not included… but strongly encouraged.

by Bill Tiepelman

How to Lose a Dragon in 10 Hugs

The Hug Heard 'Round the Forest There once lived a gnome named Brambletug who had two core beliefs: that all creatures secretly longed for his affection, and that personal space was a myth perpetuated by introverts and elves. He wore a hat the color of fermented cherries, a smile that bordered on litigation, and had the emotional intelligence of a wet rock. One fine morning — the kind where the sun peeks through the trees just enough to blind you and a squirrel poops on your head for luck — Brambletug set out to do something noble. “Today,” he declared to absolutely no one, “I shall befriend a dragon.” He even brought a friendship starter pack: a pinecone (gift-wrapped in moss), a cinnamon-scented hug, and three wildly outdated knock-knock jokes. Meanwhile, not far from where Brambletug was rehearsing his icebreakers, lurked a dragon. Not a fire-breathing, village-burning sort of dragon. No, this one was more... emotionally scorched. His name was Krivven, and he had the perpetual expression of someone who just discovered oat milk in their coffee after asking for cream. He had scales the color of swamp envy, horns that curved like a passive-aggressive eyebrow, and the aura of a grumpy librarian who was denied tenure. Krivven wasn’t *technically* evil — just very, very tired. He’d moved to the quiet forest glade after centuries of babysitting unstable sorcerers and being summoned by teenagers with bad Latin and worse tattoos. All he wanted now was to sulk in peace and maybe binge-watch the sun setting through the trees. Alone. Unhugged. So when Brambletug crept into his clearing, arms wide and teeth bared in what was legally considered a smile, Krivven knew — with a deep, resigned exhale — that his day had just gone to hell. “GREETINGS!” Brambletug hollered, as if the dragon were hard of hearing or hard of tolerating nonsense. “My name is Brambletug Bartholomew Bramblewhack the Third, and you, sir, are my destined bestie.” Krivven blinked. Once. Slowly. In a tone that could curdle sap, he responded, “No.” “A classic!” Brambletug giggled. “You're funny! That’s good. Friendships should be built on humor. Also: hugging. Prepare yourself.” Before Krivven could retract into his sulky little safe space (read: three perfectly arranged rocks and a Do Not Disturb sign carved into a tree), Brambletug lunged like a caffeinated chipmunk on a sugar bender and latched onto his scaly midsection. And there it was — the first hug. Krivven’s soul sighed. Birds scattered. Somewhere, a butterfly died out of secondhand embarrassment. “You smell like toasted anxiety,” Brambletug whispered, delighted. “We’re going to be *so* good for each other.” Krivven began counting backward from ten. And then forward. And then in Elvish. None of it helped. Of Singed Moss and Questionable Boundaries Krivven, to his credit, didn’t immediately immolate Brambletug. It was a close call — his nostrils flared, a single puff of smoke leaked out, and he did momentarily imagine the gnome roasting like a festive meatball — but ultimately, he decided against it. Not out of mercy, mind you. He simply didn’t want to get gnome stench in his nostril vents. Again. “You are... still here,” the dragon said, half observation, half prayer for this to be a hallucination caused by expired toadstools. “Of course I’m still here! Hugging is not a one-time event. It’s a lifestyle,” Brambletug chirped, still firmly attached to Krivven’s side like a burr with daddy issues. Krivven sighed and attempted to peel the gnome off. Unfortunately, Brambletug had the cling strength of a raccoon on Adderall. “We are not friends,” Krivven growled. “Oh Krivvy,” the gnome said with a wink so aggressive it should’ve come with a warning label, “that’s just your trauma talking.” The dragon’s left eye twitched. “My what?” “Don’t worry,” Brambletug said, patting Krivven’s chest like he was a wounded house cat, “I read a scroll once about emotional baggage. I’m basically your life coach now.” It was around this time Krivven made a mental list of potential witnesses, legal consequences, and whether gnome meat counted as poultry. The math didn’t add up in his favor. Yet. Over the next three days, Brambletug launched a full-scale, unsolicited friendship offensive. He moved into Krivven’s territory with all the subtlety of a bard in heat. First came the *"snack bonding."* Brambletug brought marshmallows, mushrooms, and something he called “squirrel crack”—a suspiciously crunchy trail mix that made Krivven mildly paranoid. The gnome insisted they roast things together “like real adventuring bros.” “I do not eat marshmallows,” Krivven said, as Brambletug jammed one onto the tip of his horn like a skewered confection of shame. “Not yet you don’t!” the gnome chirped. “But give it time. You’ll be licking caramel off your claws and asking for seconds, Krivvy-doodle.” “Never call me that again.” “Okay, Krivster.” Krivven's eye twitched again. Harder. The marshmallow did, against his better instincts, catch fire — spectacularly. Brambletug squealed with glee and shouted, “YES! CHARRED OUTSIDE, GOOEY SOUL. Just like you!” Krivven, too stunned to reply, simply watched as Brambletug proceeded to eat the flaming lump directly from his claw, singing his tongue and squealing, “PAIN IS JUST SPICY FRIENDSHIP.” Then came the *"trust-building games,"* which included: falling backward off a log while expecting Krivven to catch him (“It builds vulnerability!”), shadow puppets in the firelight (“Look, it’s you... being sad!”), and a roleplaying exercise where Brambletug played a “sad forest orphan” and Krivven was expected to “adopt him emotionally.” Krivven, staring blankly, responded, “I am this close to developing a new hobby that involves gnome launch velocity and trebuchets.” “Awwwwww! You’re thinking of crafts! That’s progress!” One night, Brambletug declared they needed a **Friendship Manifesto**, and tried to tattoo it on a tree using Krivven’s claw while the dragon was asleep. Krivven woke to find the word “CUDDLEPACT” etched into bark and Brambletug humming what suspiciously sounded like a duet. From both parts. “Are you... singing with yourself?” “No, I’m harmonizing with your inner child,” Brambletug said, deadpan. Krivven reconsidered his moral stance on gnome-flicking. Hard. Despite all this, something bizarre began to happen. A shift. A crack — not in Krivven’s emotional carapace (that thing was still fortified like a dwarven panic room), but in his routine. He was... less bored. More annoyed, yes. But that was technically a form of engagement. And every now and then — between the monologues, the unsolicited riddles, and the horrifying “hug sneak attacks” — Brambletug would say something... almost profound. Like the time they watched a snail cross the path for 45 minutes and Brambletug said, “You know, we’re all just goo-filled meat tubes pretending we have direction.” Or when he sat on Krivven’s tail and whispered, “Everyone wants to be a dragon, but no one wants to be misunderstood.” It was annoying. It was invasive. It was kind of true. And now, Krivven couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just *maybe*, this annoying, clingy, wildly codependent fuzzball... wasn’t trying to change him. Just... annoy him into healing. Which was worse, really. And then, on the fourth day, Brambletug said the most horrifying thing yet: “I’ve planned a group picnic. For your social skills.” Krivven froze. “A what.” “I invited some unicorns, a banshee, two dryads, and a sentient puddle named Dave. It’s going to be adorable.” The dragon began to quake. “There will be snacks,” Brambletug added, “and a group activity called ‘Affirmation Volleyball.’” Krivven’s left eye twitched so hard it dislocated a horn ridge. Somewhere in the forest, birds paused in terror. Somewhere else, Dave the puddle prepared emotionally for volleyball. The Picnic of the Damned (and Slightly Moist) Krivven tried to flee. Not metaphorically. Literally. He spread his wings, launched six feet into the air, and was immediately tackled mid-lift-off by a gnome clutching a wicker basket full of “snack bonding opportunities.” “WE HAVE TO MAKE AN ENTRANCE TOGETHER,” Brambletug yelled, riding him like a therapy gremlin. “LIKE A POWER COUPLE. YOU'RE THE GRUMPY ONE, I’M THE CHAOTIC OPTIMIST. IT’S OUR BRAND!” “This is a hostage situation,” Krivven muttered as they crash-landed beside a checkered blanket and a crowd of creatures who looked like they deeply regretted RSVPing ‘yes’ to the tiny scroll that had been left under their respective mossy doorsteps. The picnic was a fever dream. A banshee in a sunhat handed out herbal tea and screamed compliments at everyone. The dryads brought “root-based tapas” and spent twenty minutes arguing about whether hummus had ethical implications. Dave the sentient puddle kept trying to infiltrate the fruit bowl and flirted openly with Krivven’s tail. Unicorns — plural — stood off to the side, quietly judging everything with the passive-aggressive elegance of wine moms at a PTA meeting. One wore horn glitter. Another smoked something suspicious and kept muttering about “manifesting stable energy.” “This,” Krivven hissed, “is social terrorism.” “This,” Brambletug corrected, “is growth.” The nightmare crescendoed with **Affirmation Volleyball**, a team sport in which you could only spike the ball after shouting a compliment at someone across the field. If the compliment was “lazy,” the ball turned to custard. (That was Dave’s rule. Don’t ask.) Krivven was cornered, emotionally and literally, as Brambletug served him a volleyball and screamed, “YOUR EMOTIONAL WALLS ARE JUST A SIGN OF VULNERABILITY MASKED AS STRENGTH!” The ball hit Krivven in the snout. No custard. Which meant the compliment was, by this game’s logic, valid. He stared down at it, then at Brambletug, who beamed like the world’s most self-satisfied anxiety demon. And for one fleeting moment — just a flicker — Krivven... almost smiled. Not a full smile, of course. It was more of a muscle spasm. But it terrified the unicorns and made Dave do a sexy ripple. Progress! The picnic eventually dissolved into chaos. The banshee got wine drunk and started singing breakup ballads from the cliffside. One of the dryads turned into a shrub and refused to leave. The unicorns gentrified the nearest field. Dave split into three smaller puddles and declared himself a commune. Amidst it all, Brambletug sat next to Krivven, gnawing contentedly on a cookie shaped like a dragon butt. “So... what did we learn today?” he asked, crumbs flaking down his tunic like snow from a cursed bakery. Krivven exhaled — not a sigh, not smoke, just... air. “I learned that hugs are a form of magical assault,” he said flatly. “And?” “...That sometimes being annoyed is better than being alone.” “BOOM!” Brambletug shouted, launching himself into Krivven’s lap. “THAT, MY SCALY DUDE, IS CHARACTER ARC.” Krivven did not incinerate him. Instead, with a noise that was not a growl but could pass for one at parties, he muttered, “You may continue... existing. In my vicinity.” Brambletug gasped. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me! Quick! Someone write it on a mug!” And from that day on — against every law of nature and common sense — the gnome and the dragon became companions. Not friends. Not exactly. But... tolerable cohabitants with joint custody of a cursed picnic blanket and a banshee who now slept on their porch. Every few days, Brambletug would initiate a new hug, call it “installment number whatever,” and Krivven would groan and accept it with all the grace of a barbed-wire hug vest. He’d never admit it, but by the tenth hug — the one with the extra sparkles and a sarcastic unicorn DJ playing Enya — Krivven actually leaned in for half a second. Not long. Just enough. And Brambletug, bless his deranged heart, whispered, “See? Told you I’d wear you down.” Krivven rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable.” “And yet... hugged.” The moral of the story? If you ever find yourself emotionally constipated in a forest, just wait. A gnome will show up eventually. Probably uninvited. Definitely holding marshmallows. And absolutely ready to violate your boundaries into emotional progress. Need a daily reminder that unsolicited gnome affection is the purest form of emotional growth? Bring Brambletug and Krivven’s chaotic friendship to your own world with beautifully crafted collectibles from the Unfocussed shop. Whether you're decorating your lair, scribbling questionable poetry, or just want to send a passive-aggressive greeting to your favorite introvert, we've got you covered: Metal Print: Give your walls the grumpy, glossy dragon energy they never knew they needed. Framed Print: Because every magical forest disaster deserves a place of honor in your home gallery. Greeting Card: Perfect for birthdays, breakups, and emotionally unavailable cryptids. Spiral Notebook: Jot down your trauma, sketch your inner gnome, or track your personal hug quota. Shop the full lineup now and carry a little enchanted chaos wherever you go. Brambletug approved. Krivven… tolerated.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Sweet Decay

The Hive Beneath The smell hit her first—sweet, but wrong. It clung to the air like the scent of a dying flower dipped in syrup and left to rot in the sun. Tamsin had only meant to cut through the woods behind the property, the way she’d done for years as a shortcut home. But something was different today. The trail was quieter, the birds silent, the wind... still. Then the buzzing began. She stopped dead. A low hum, subtle at first, like the prelude to tinnitus. It deepened as she moved forward, until it seemed to vibrate against her skin, crawling down her spine and curling around her bones. And then she saw it—a strange hollow where a tree had once stood. Within that shallow bowl of earth sat something both unnatural and impossible: a human skull, cracked but intact, embedded in a sprawling amber lattice of honeycomb. Bees swarmed it, but not angrily. Not defensively. No—this was reverence. They moved like monks tending to a reliquary, their tiny bodies glinting with golden flecks of syrup. The honey ran slow and thick from the eye sockets and jaw, dripping in obscene slowness into the moss below. And the skull... it wasn’t empty. Behind the honeycomb veil, something blinked. Tamsin staggered back, heart slamming against her ribs like a bird in a cage. She told herself it was a trick of the light. Reflex. Nerves. But even as she turned to run, the image clung to her memory—those bees crawling across teeth still stained with the suggestion of breath, that slow, weeping ooze, and the thing behind the bone, watching her with the patience of something that had waited too long to be found. She made it home in a daze, locking every door and window, as if that could keep it out. But that night, her bedroom was filled with the hum again. Not in her ears—inside her skull. Something small moved beneath her scalp, just above the temple. She scratched at it feverishly until her fingers came away sticky with blood and... something else. Amber. Still warm. And from the darkness outside, in the direction of the woods, came the sound of wings. A Garden of Bone and Honey The morning sun never rose. Or at least, not for Tamsin. She awoke in what she thought was her bed, until she noticed the texture of the sheets — waxy and warm, slightly pliable, as though made from layers of cured beeswax rather than cotton. The hum was louder now, like a thousand tiny violins tuned just off-key. Her tongue tasted of honey and metal. Her eyes fluttered open to find the room no longer her own. The walls had bloomed. Every surface — ceiling, floor, window panes — had sprouted honeycomb. Some dry and pale, like bone turned brittle with time. Others alive with movement and golden with fresh flow. Bees wandered calmly across the contours of furniture now half-consumed by the hive, their fuzzy bodies pulsing with a purpose Tamsin didn’t understand but could feel deep in her marrow. Her dresser was gone. Her nightstand had turned into a pillar of dripping resin. Even the air smelled different — like a fever dream soaked in clover and decay. She stood, or tried to. The floor shifted under her bare feet, slightly sticky, slightly alive. It pulsed once, in rhythm with the buzz in her skull. Her head ached, not with pain but pressure — the sensation of something growing inside. Pushing outward. Thinking thoughts that were not hers. Remembering things she had not lived. She stumbled to the mirror that was no longer glass but now a glossy sheet of translucent wax. And behind it — a figure. Not her reflection. It watched her through a hole bored into the wax, eye dark and sunken, half-covered in a crust of dripping gold. The same skull. The one from the woods. The one that blinked. Its honeycomb mask quivered, a slow exhale of breath that should have been impossible. She turned, gasping — but the room was empty. When she looked back, the wax was just wax. No hole. No watcher. But the hum had grown louder, furious, insistent. It rattled her bones like a tuning fork and made her teeth ache. She dropped to her knees, clutching her head, and screamed — but the sound that came out was wrong. It wasn’t her voice. It was low and ancient and echoing, as if her vocal cords had become a windpipe for something else to speak through. And it spoke a name. A name she did not know. A name she suddenly understood. Melitodes. In that moment, it all came rushing in — memories not her own, harvested like nectar from some ancient, forbidden source. A story encoded in sugar and death, whispered through centuries of bee dances and bone dust. He had once been a man, they told her. A scholar obsessed with the metaphysical properties of bees. Melitodes believed that bees were not mere insects, but celestial archivists, storing the essence of human souls in their hives. That honey was not just food — it was memory. The oldest, purest record of life and death. And that with the right body, the right vessel… those memories could be reborn. He fed himself to them willingly. Buried his flesh in pollen. Let the hive build its cathedral within his skull. Over decades they consumed him, honored him, protected his consciousness in their waxen labyrinth. Until the hive became him, and he became it. And now, they had chosen Tamsin. The hum in her head became speech — not in words, but in ideas so large and alien they scraped against her sanity. They didn’t want her to die. No. That would be far too crude. They wanted her to transform. To join. To let them carve out a place behind her eyes where Melitodes could grow anew. She would not be lost. She would be layered. Grafted. Part of the greater mind. She tried to run, but the room had no exits now — only tunnels, twisting and warm, pulsing with golden light and the soft, soundless footfalls of bees that no longer looked quite like bees. Some had too many legs. Some had human eyes. Some whispered with the lips of her mother. She ran into the tunnels anyway, slipping on honey-slick walls, tearing her nails against sharp wax ridges, deeper and deeper, past combs the size of coffins. She passed one that held a fetus curled tight in sugar amber. Another with a skeletal man locked in a silent scream, golden strings stretched from his open mouth to a cluster of pupae pulsating with breath. They were making something. No — many somethings. She reached a chamber — vast and cathedral-like, echoing with hums that cracked the air. And in the center was the skull. His skull. Melitodes. But larger now. Alive. Bee-things crawling in and out of his mouth. Honey bleeding from the sockets like tears. And a throne of bone beneath him, shaped from a thousand other skulls, each smiling, each still dripping. “You came back,” it said, but not with words. It was a feeling in her spine. A kiss on the inner wall of her brain. “You always come back.” Tamsin collapsed, limbs folding wrong, twitching, trying to scream — but instead she felt her jaw open and something emerge. A bee. Then another. Dozens. They poured from her mouth and eyes, sticky with new memory, their wings slicing air in patterns only the dead could read. She was no longer just Tamsin. She was hive. She was host. She was the garden of bone and honey, tended with eternal care. The Archivist of Amber She drifted in pieces. There was no “Tamsin” anymore, not entirely. She was scattered — a humming awareness spread across thousands of wingbeats. She saw through many eyes now: through the compound gaze of drones moving through honey-lit halls, through the faceted shimmer of queens breathing in waxen birthing thrones, and through the slow, eternal stare of the Skull, who watched everything with patient rot. Time was different here. It pulsed in cycles of brood and decay, of wax built and eaten, of memories harvested like nectar from the dreaming skulls of trespassers. The hive had grown vast, an inverted cathedral beneath the woods, deeper than bones, older than religion. Those who wandered in rarely wandered out. They became part of the archive. Preserved. Rewritten. Filed away inside thick golden cells like footnotes in a grotesque scripture. There was a logic to it, once you stopped resisting. The hive was not cruel — it was sacred. A library of lives. A preservatory of truths too brittle for time. Melitodes had been its first archivist. Tamsin was its latest. Each one selected, reshaped, their thoughts softened and rewired with waxen filaments. Their memories stored in drops of translucent syrup, each one glistening with echoes of laughter, screams, betrayal, birth. All of it trapped forever, protected behind layers of bone and sting. She sat upon the Throne of Recollection now — not alone, but layered in the consciousness of those before. A girl once. A queen now. A buzzing intelligence wrapped in meat and memory. The drones obeyed. The queens sang to her through their mandibles. The larvae pulsed in rhythm to her thoughts. And in the world above, the forest began to change. It started subtly. Trees wept sap from their bark — but it wasn’t sap. It was honey. Sweet and unnatural. Birds stopped singing. Instead, they buzzed. People who walked the trails began to lose time. To wake with small punctures in their skin. To find strange phrases scrawled in honey on their bedroom walls: “Archive Accepts.” There was an incident — a man found in a park, face contorted in ecstasy, or agony. Hard to tell. His mouth stuffed with wax. Bees flew from his throat when they tried to resuscitate him. The footage was buried, deemed a hoax. But the hive knew. It watched. It remembered. Eventually, it began to reach further. Bees with human eyes landed on playgrounds. Honey with teeth was found in jars that no one remembered buying. Choirs of whispering wings began to murmur in city streets, telling ancient truths beneath the buzz of streetlamps. People dreamed of the skull — always the skull — staring through honeycomb veils, and always the message: “Join us. Be remembered.” Then came the pilgrims. Drawn by instinct, by dreams, by something older than language. They came barefoot through the forest, covered in stings and sweat. They came with offerings: teeth in jars, melted candles, skulls of roadkill animals painted in gold. The hive welcomed them. Wrapped them in warmth and buzz. Dripped memory into their mouths like holy wine. And they gave themselves freely — not in sacrifice, but in archive. By then, Tamsin had become something else entirely. She no longer resembled the girl who once ran through the woods. Her form now was that of a living reliquary: ribs hollowed into combs, heart beating in slow pulses of syrup, eyes leaking honey with each blink. Her voice, when she used it, echoed like bees inside a bell. She rarely spoke aloud — most things could be said with scent and sting. Her tongue had become a map of lives. She tasted thoughts. She whispered truths into drones who carried them to the flowers, the trees, the roots beneath every house built too close to nature. And still the hive grew. As it must. Because death, too, must be remembered. One day, a child wandered too close. A girl with freckles and a jar, chasing butterflies. She stumbled upon the edge of the hive — an old, blackened tree where no birds sang. Inside its cracked bark, she saw something shimmer. Something golden. Something calling her name. She reached inside. And the honey touched her skin like breath. The hum began again. Somewhere below, the Skull turned slowly toward her. It had waited. And it was patient. The archive would have another chapter. And it would be sweet. Long after the last drone settles, the archive endures — eternal, golden, and just beneath the surface of everything we thought we understood. And now, for those drawn to the strange beauty of entropy, you can take a fragment of that forgotten hive home with you. “The Sweet Decay” is now available in select artifact forms: Metal Print — sleek, sharp, and disturbingly elegant, like a shrine to the hive itself. Framed Print — a relic preserved in glass and wood, perfect for dark libraries or haunted hallways. Tote Bag — carry your secrets, bones, or groceries with style and subtle menace. Spiral Notebook — record your dreams, your decay, or the hum of something ancient beneath your thoughts. Each piece is a vessel — a keepsake from the hive beneath. Disturbingly beautiful. Unforgettably strange. Just the way the archive intended.

by Bill Tiepelman

Sass Meets Scales

How Not to Kidnap a Dragon It all started on a perfectly average Tuesday—which in Twizzlethorn Wood meant mushroom hail, upside-down rain, and a raccoon wearing a monocle selling bootleg love potions out of a canoe. The forest was, as usual, minding its own business. Unfortunately, Calliope Thistlewhip was not. Calliope was a fairy, though not one of those syrupy types who weep glitter and tend flowers with a song. No, she was more the "accidentally-on-purpose" type. She once caused a diplomatic incident between the pixies and the mole folk by replacing a peace treaty with a drawing of a very explicit toad. Her wings shimmered gold, her smirk had been legally declared a menace, and she had a plan. A very bad one. "I need a dragon," she announced to no one in particular, hands on hips, standing atop a tree stump like it owed her rent. From a nearby bramble, a squirrel peeked out and immediately retreated. Even they knew not to get involved. The target of her latest scheme? A surly, fire-breathing recluse named Barnaby, who spent his days avoiding social interaction and his nights sighing heavily while staring at lakes. Dragons weren’t rare in Twizzlethorn, but dragons with boundaries were. And Barnaby had them—firm ones, wrapped in sarcasm and dragon-scale therapy journals. Calliope's approach to boundaries was simple: break them like a piñata and hope for candy. With a lasso made of sugared vine and a face full of audacity, she set out to find her new unwilling bestie. “You look like you hate everything,” Calliope beamed as she emerged from behind a tree, already mid-stride toward Barnaby, who was sitting in the mud next to a boulder, sipping melancholia like it was tea. “I was hoping that would ward off strangers,” he replied without looking up. “Clearly, not strong enough.” “Perfect! You’re gonna be my plus-one for the Fairy Queen’s ‘Fire and Fizz’ party this weekend. It's BYOB. And I don’t mean bottle.” She winked. “No,” Barnaby said flatly. Calliope tilted her head. “You say that like it’s an option.” It wasn’t, as it turned out. She hugged him like a glittered barnacle, ignoring the growl vibrating his ribcage. One might assume she had a death wish. One would be wrong. Calliope simply had the unshakeable belief that everyone secretly adored her. Including dragons. Especially dragons. Even if their eyebrows were stuck in a permanent state of ‘judging you.’ “I have anxiety and a very specific skincare routine that doesn’t allow for fairy entanglement,” Barnaby mumbled, mostly into his claw. “You have texture, darling,” she cooed, clinging tighter. “You’ll be the belle of the volcano.” He exhaled. Smoke drifted lazily out of his nose like the sigh of someone who knew exactly how bad things were about to get—and how entirely powerless he was to stop it. Thus began the unholy alliance of sparkle and sulk. Of cheek and scale. Of one fairy who knew no shame and one dragon who no longer had the energy to resist it. Somewhere deep in Twizzlethorn, a butterfly flapped its wings and whispered, “What the actual hell?” The Volcano Gala Disaster (And Other Socially Traumatic Events) In the days that followed, Barnaby the dragon endured what can only be described as a glitter-based hostage situation. Calliope had turned his peaceful lair—previously decorated with ash, moss, and deeply repressed feelings—into something resembling a bedazzled disaster zone. Gold tulle hung from stalactites. Fairy lights—actual shrieking fairies trapped in jars—blazed like disco strobes. His lava pool now featured floating candles and confetti. The ambiance was… deeply upsetting. “You’ve desecrated my sacred brooding zone,” Barnaby groaned, staring at a pink velvet pillow that had somehow ended up embroidered with the words ‘Slay, Don’t Spray’. “You mean improved it,” Calliope chirped, strutting past in a sequined robe and gladiator sandals. “You are now ready for society, darling.” “I hate society.” “Which is exactly why you’ll be the most interesting guest at the Queen’s Gala. Everyone loves a moody icon. You’re practically trending already.” Barnaby attempted to crawl under a boulder and fake his own death, but Calliope had already bedazzled it with hot glue and rhinestones. “Please let me die with dignity,” he mumbled. “Dignity is for people who didn’t agree to be my plus-one.” “I never agreed.” She didn’t hear him over the sound of a marching band made entirely of beetles playing a triumphant entrance tune. The day of the gala arrived like a punch to the face. The Fairy Queen’s infamous Fire and Fizz Volcano Gala was a high-pressure, low-sanity affair where creatures from every corner of the magical realm gathered to sip sparkling nettle wine, judge each other’s plumage, and start emotionally devastating rumors in the punch line. Calliope arrived on Barnaby’s back like a warlord of sass. She wore a golden jumpsuit that defied physics and eyebrows that could slice glass. Barnaby had been brushed, buffed, and begrudgingly sprinkled with “volcanic shimmer dust,” which he later discovered was just crushed mica and lies. “Smile,” she hissed through clenched teeth as they made their entrance. “I am,” he replied, deadpan. “On the inside. Very deep inside. So deep it’s imaginary.” The room went silent as they descended the obsidian steps. Elves paused mid-gossip. Satyrs spilled wine. One particularly sensitive unicorn fainted directly into a cheese fountain. Calliope held her head high. “Behold! The last emotionally available dragon in the entire kingdom!” Barnaby muttered, “I’m not emotionally available. I’m emotionally on airplane mode.” The Fairy Queen, a six-foot-tall hummingbird in a dress made entirely of spider silk and compliments she didn’t mean, fluttered over. “Darling Calliope. And… whatever this is. I assume it breathes fire and hates itself?” “Accurate,” Barnaby said, blinking slowly. “Perfect. Do stay away from the tapestry room; the last dragon set it on fire with his trauma.” The night devolved quickly. First, Barnaby was cornered by a gnome with a podcast. “What’s it like being exploited as a metaphor for untamed masculinity in children’s literature?” Then someone tried to ride him like a party pony. There was glitter in places glitter should never be. Calliope, meanwhile, was in her element—crashing conversations, starting rumors (“Did you know that elf is 412 and still lives with his goblin mom?”), and turning every social slight into a dramatic one-act play. But it wasn’t until Barnaby overheard a dryad whisper, “Is he her pet, or her plus-one? Unclear,” that he hit his limit. “I am not her pet,” he roared, accidentally singeing the punch table. “And I have a name! Barnaby Thistlebane the Seventeenth! Slayer of Existential Dread and Collector of Rejected Tea Mugs!” The room went still. Calliope blinked. “Well. Someone finally found his roar. Took you long enough.” Barnaby narrowed his eyes. “You did this on purpose.” She smirked. “Of course. Nothing gets a dragon’s scales flaring like a little public humiliation.” He looked around at the stunned party guests. “I feel... weirdly alive. Also slightly aroused. Is that normal?” “For a Tuesday? Absolutely.” And just like that, something shifted. Not in the air—there were still rumors hanging like mist—but in Barnaby. Somewhere between the dryad shade and the third attempted selfie, he stopped caring quite so much about what everyone thought. He was a dragon. He was weird. And maybe, just maybe, he had fun tonight. Though he’d never admit that out loud, obviously. As they exited the volcano—Calliope riding sidesaddle, sipping leftover punch from a stolen goblet—she leaned against his neck. “You know,” she said, “you make a halfway decent social monster.” “And you make a better parasite than most.” She grinned. “We’re gonna be best friends forever.” He didn’t disagree. But he did quietly burp up a fireball that scorched the Queen’s rose garden. And it felt amazing. The Accidental Rodeo and the Weaponized Hug Three days after the Volcano Gala incident (officially dubbed "The Event That Singed Lady Brambleton's Eyebrows"), Calliope and Barnaby were fugitives. Not serious fugitives, mind you. Just the whimsical kind. The kind who are banned from royal gardens, three reputable taverns, and one very particular cheese emporium where Barnaby may or may not have sat on the gouda wheel. He claimed it was a tactical retreat. Calliope claimed she was proud of him. Both were true. But trouble, as always, was Calliope’s favorite breakfast cereal. So naturally, she dragged Barnaby to the Twizzlethorn Midnight Rodeo of Unlicensed Creatures, an underground fairy event so illegal it was technically held inside the stomach of a sentient tree. You had to whisper the password—“moist glitter pickles”—into a fungus and then backflip into a hollow knot while swearing on a legally questionable wombat. “Why are we here?” Barnaby asked, hovering reluctantly near the tree’s gaping maw. “To compete, obviously,” Calliope grinned, tightening her ponytail like she was about to punch fate in the face. “There’s a cash prize, bragging rights, and a cursed toaster oven up for grabs.” “...You had me at toaster oven.” Inside, the scene was chaos dipped in glitter and fried in outlaw vibes. Glowshrooms lit the arena. Banshees sold snacks. Pixies in leather rode miniature manticores into walls while betting on which organ would rupture first. It was beautiful. Calliope signed them up for the main event: Wrangle and Ride the Wild Emotion Beast. “That’s not a real event,” Barnaby said, as a goblin stapled a number to his tail. “It is now.” What followed was a tornado of feelings, sparkles, and mild brain injury. Barnaby was forced to lasso a literal manifestation of fear—which looked like a cloud of black licorice with teeth—while Calliope rode rage, a squealing, flaming piglet with hooves made of passive-aggression. They failed spectacularly. Calliope was ejected into a cotton candy stand. Barnaby crashed through a wall of enchanted beanbags. The crowd went bananas. Later, bruised and inexplicably covered in peanut butter, they sat on a log behind the arena while fairy paramedics offered unhelpful brochures like “So You Got Emotionally Gored!” and “Glitter Rash and You.” Calliope leaned her chin on her knees, still smiling through split lip gloss. “That was the most fun I’ve had since I swapped the Queen’s shampoo with truth serum.” Barnaby didn’t reply. Not right away. “You ever think…” he started, then trailed off, staring into the middle distance like a dragon with unresolved poetry. Calliope turned to him. “What? Think what?” He took a breath. “Maybe I don’t hate everything. Just most things. Except you. And maybe rodeo snacks. And when people stop pretending they're not a complete mess.” She blinked. “Well damn, Thistlebane. That’s dangerously close to a real feeling. You okay?” “No. I think I’ve been emotionally compromised.” Calliope smirked, then softly, dramatically, like she was starring in a musical only she could hear, opened her arms. “Bring it in, big guy.” He hesitated. Then sighed. Then, with the reluctant grace of a creature born to nap alone in dark caves, Barnaby leaned in for what became known (and feared) as the Weaponized Hug. It lasted approximately six seconds. At second four, someone exploded in the background. At second five, Barnaby let out a tiny, happy growl. And at second six, Calliope whispered, “See? You love me.” He pulled back. “I tolerate you with less resistance than most.” “Same thing.” They stood up, brushed off the dirt, and limped toward the cursed toaster oven prize they did not technically win, but no one felt like stopping them from stealing. The crowd parted. Someone slow clapped. Somewhere, a unicorn wept into a corn dog. Back at Barnaby’s lair—still half bedazzled, still home—Calliope sprawled across a beanbag and declared, “We should write a book. ‘How to Befriend a Dragon Without Dying or Getting Sued.’” “No one would believe it,” Barnaby said, curling his tail around a mug that read, “World’s Least Enthusiastic Snuggle Beast.” “That’s the beauty of it.” And so, in the land of Twizzlethorn, where logic curled up and died ages ago, a fairy and a dragon built something inexplicable: a friendship forged in sass, sarcasm, rodeo trauma, and absolutely no personal boundaries. It was loud. It was messy. It was surprisingly healing. And for reasons no one could explain, it actually worked. Want to take the chaos home? Celebrate the delightfully dysfunctional duo of Calliope and Barnaby with framed art prints worthy of your sassiest wall, or snag a metal print that radiates fairy mischief and dragon moodiness. Need a portable dose of snark? Grab a spiral notebook for your own terrible ideas, or a sticker to slap on whatever needs more attitude. It’s not just art—it’s emotional support glitter, scaled and ready for adventure.

by Bill Tiepelman

Fluffageddon

The Awakening of Whiskerstein It began at precisely 6:42 AM in the quiet cul-de-sac of Puddlebrush Lane, a place so mundane it made toast look exotic. The sun had the nerve to rise, the neighborhood birds were chirping like caffeinated alarm clocks, and somewhere deep in the bowels of a split-level home with too many throw pillows, the beast stirred. Her name was Whiskerstein. Half Maine Coon, half demonized dust mop, and 100% chaos. She was not merely a cat — she was a deity of floof, a warrior of bed-hogging, a destroyer of unattended rotisserie chickens. And this morning, her fluff was fully activated. Whiskerstein’s human, Beverly, had made the grave mistake of switching to decaf. A betrayal of sacred trust. Whiskerstein had known something was off ever since the household energy dropped from mild anxiety to dead-inside-zen. The yells at the morning news became sighs. The power walks slowed. The houseplants were no longer being threatened with plastic surgery. “This ends today,” Whiskerstein muttered, though to the untrained ear it sounded like a half-yawn and a sneeze. Her fur bristled like she’d just stuck her paw in a socket. In truth, she'd only just stretched, but when you're 17 pounds of untamed tangerine fluff, even mild movement creates seismic events. She launched from the bookshelf — knocking over a framed photo of Beverly’s ex-husband and an ironic cross-stitch that read “Namaste, B*tch” — and galloped into the kitchen like a lion late for brunch. Beverly was there, already dressed in a questionable paisley robe and bunny slippers that had seen too much. She stood before the Keurig like a woman confronting the consequences of her life choices. Whiskerstein took one look at the green-labeled pod in her hand and hissed with righteous vengeance. DECAF. Again. For the third. Damn. Day. “Meow?” Beverly said, clueless as ever, popping the abomination into the machine. The soft *chhh-chhh* sound of the Keurig vomiting out defeat filled the room. Whiskerstein leapt onto the counter, tail flared, eyes wide, and delivered the ancient feline war cry that had once frightened Viking warriors and burned entire basil gardens to the ground. “MRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAOOOOOOWWWWWWRRRR!!!” It was not a meow. It was a threat. A battle hymn. An espresso-summoning roar of legend. Beverly flinched, sending half a teaspoon of sadness-water sloshing onto the counter. “Jesus, Whiskers! What is your damage?” But the damage had already been done. The summoning had begun. Something stirred in the pantry. Something forbidden. Something caffeinated. From the shadows behind the emergency Pop-Tarts emerged a glow... the glint of a sealed glass jar. A forgotten relic from the Before Times. A thing of power, sealed for its own protection... and everyone else's. Dark Roast. Whole Bean. Italian. Imported. Aged like vengeance. Smooth as sin. And smelling faintly of a mafia confession. Whiskerstein narrowed her eyes. “It begins.” The Sacred Brew and the Legend of the Steamed Milk Saboteur The pantry door creaked open with the slow, dramatic flair of a horror movie climax — or possibly a budget home renovation show. Beverly blinked twice. Her decaf trembled in its novelty mug (“It’s Called Self-Care, Sharon”), as if the universe itself knew it was about to become irrelevant. Whiskerstein moved like a feline possessed, tail whipping with the kind of drama that would get her cast on Real Housewives of Purrlandia. She leapt from the counter, landed with a thunderous floof on the kitchen floor, and strutted into the pantry like she owned a yacht and your retirement plan. Her mission? Retrieve the bean. The bean of destiny. But as every coffee warrior knows, the path to high-octane salvation is never easy. First came the security system: a toddler gate left behind by Beverly’s granddaughter six Christmases ago, still firmly wedged between pantry walls because no adult had the patience to remove it. Whiskerstein stared at it, insulted. “This,” she thought, “is beneath me.” One dainty leap later, the beast was inside. Amongst the crinkling of snack bags and dusty corn syrup horrors of yesteryear, the jar stood like an idol on the top shelf. Whiskerstein climbed with silent ferocity, knocking aside a bag of ancient quinoa and a single rogue Peeps marshmallow that had turned to concrete and gained sentience. She reached the jar. The Holy Bean. With one calculated paw-swipe, it crashed to the floor like divine intervention. Beverly screamed. Somewhere in a distant galaxy, a hipster barista felt a disturbance in the crema. “WHISKERSTEIN, I SWEAR TO—” Beverly sputtered, catching her robe on a drawer handle as she dove for the wreckage. The jar didn’t break. It bounced. Because Beverly bought expensive crap that never worked when you needed it, but somehow survived everything else. The scent hit them both at once. That rich, dark, oily aroma — like sin, smoke, and an Italian grandmother’s side-eye all rolled into one. Beverly froze. Her pupils dilated. Her mouth twitched into a crooked grin. “...Is that... Lavazza?” Whiskerstein didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. They had both remembered what it was like. Before the decaf. Before the depression. Before that shady holistic guru on TikTok convinced Bev to do a ‘caffeine cleanse’ that was really just a low-grade personality lobotomy. “Oh baby, mama’s back,” Beverly whispered, snatching the beans with a hunger that bordered on the erotic. Thus began the ritual. She dusted off the French press like a weapon pulled from storage in a cheesy action movie montage. She measured the grind by feel alone, eyes wide with glee. She boiled water in her electric kettle like it was 1997 and she still had dreams. Whiskerstein perched on the counter, tail curled like a sinister mustache, observing with approval. But her joy was short-lived. Because the moment Beverly reached for the milk, things took a turn. “Oat milk?” Bev said aloud, puzzled. “Who the hell bought oat mi—” A cold wind blew through the kitchen. The lights flickered. Somewhere in the distance, a sinister hiss echoed through the air vents. Whiskerstein’s ears flattened. Her claws extended. The Steamed Milk Saboteur was near. Whiskerstein leapt into action just as a figure materialized at the end of the hallway — shadowy, thin, with yoga pants and an aura of smugness. Beverly’s neighbor, Kendra. Self-proclaimed life coach. Oat milk evangelist. Personal trainer to the morally exhausted. “Oh! Hey, Bev!” she chirped, letting herself in with the spare key hidden inside the fake rock everyone knew wasn’t real. “I just came by to see if you still had the sustainable bamboo pour-over I lent you during Mercury retrograde!” Whiskerstein snarled. Beverly blinked. “Kendra, what the hell are you doing in my kitchen? And why do you smell like patchouli and gym regret?” “You’re welcome for the oat milk,” Kendra said, placing a hand over her heart as if she'd just blessed a newborn. “It’s anti-inflammatory and energetically aligned with the waning moon.” Whiskerstein, who had once violently mauled a ficus for lesser offenses, sprang from the counter, knocking the oat milk out of Kendra’s hands and into the sink with one glorious, slow-motion arc. A splash. A scream. A moment of triumph. “I don’t drink plant milk, Kendra!” Beverly bellowed. “And I don’t need your chakra-aligned barista witchcraft!” Whiskerstein landed triumphantly on the Keurig, which groaned under her weight before promptly short-circuiting and hissing out its final breath like a dying Roomba. Sparks flew. Kendra screamed again. Somewhere outside, a squirrel dropped its acorn and ran for cover. The coffee was ready. Beverly poured the dark nectar into her “World’s Okayest Aunt” mug, ignoring the shattered oat milk, the fried Keurig, and the spiritually wounded Kendra curled up next to the fridge clutching her kombucha. She took a sip. A long, indulgent, chest-warming sip. Her eyes closed. The kitchen fell silent. Then Beverly opened her eyes and said, with holy conviction: “I’m going to HomeGoods, and I’m buying throw pillows I don’t need and talking shit to the cashier. I’m back, baby.” Whiskerstein purred, the low rumble of ancient satisfaction. But deep down, she knew this was just the beginning. Operation Beanstorm — The Final Brewdown Two hours later, the whole block was vibrating with fresh-roasted chaos. Beverly — once a soft-spoken cardigan connoisseur with a fondness for lukewarm regrets — had become a caffeinated hurricane in orthopedic sandals. With the power of full-caf coursing through her veins, she was no longer just “the lady who feeds squirrels Doritos.” She was Beverly Prime, First of Her Name, Destroyer of Decaf, Queen of Passive-Aggressive Bake Sales, and Mother of Feral Cats Who Do Not Pay Rent. And behind every queen stands a queenmaker: Whiskerstein. Now seated atop a reclaimed wood wine rack like a furry gargoyle of judgment, she surveyed her kingdom through narrowed eyes and twitching whiskers. The house pulsed with new energy. The “Live, Laugh, Love” sign had been replaced with a neon pink wall decal that simply read, “Die Mad About It.” The thermostat had been bumped to 75 because Whiskerstein demanded it. And somewhere in the background, a playlist titled Espresso Yourself, B*tch blared Lizzo remixes loud enough to piss off three homeowners associations. But just as Beverly prepared to post her triumphant coffee-fueled rant on Facebook (“Tag someone who needs a real drink”), the doorbell rang. Three times. Sharp. Repetitive. Ominous. Whiskerstein froze mid-groom, one paw still raised like a furry little fist. Her ears twitched. Beverly paused mid-mug lift. The air thickened with espresso-scented tension. “Not now,” Beverly whispered. “Not when the crema is perfect.” She padded toward the door, coffee in hand, bathrobe trailing behind like a cape of bad decisions. She opened it slowly — and was greeted by a squadron of concerned neighborhood women in color-coordinated athleisure, carrying clipboards, tote bags, and an overwhelming air of condescension. The HOA. “Good morning, Beverly,” chirped Judith, the neighborhood’s Supreme Gatekeeper of Petty. Her eyebrows were plucked so high they practically formed quotation marks. “We heard… noises. And smells. Is everything… okay?” Behind her stood Debbie (weaponized Tupperware and zero joy), Carol (certified herb judge at the county fair), and Linda (who had once called the cops on a flamingo lawn ornament because it was “too tropical”). “You’re gonna need to be more specific,” Beverly said flatly, sipping her brew without breaking eye contact. Whiskerstein silently appeared behind her, like a furry death omen in slow motion, tail flicking with disdain. Judith sniffed. “There have been... complaints.” “About what? My new playlist? My cat’s spiritual journey? Or the fact that I exist outside the vacuum of your beige expectations?” Debbie stepped forward. “We noticed the destruction of your Keurig, and someone — Kendra — reported what she called ‘a hostile oat milk incident.’ We are concerned for your wellbeing and the moral energy of the block.” Beverly chuckled darkly. “The Keurig was a casualty of war. Oat milk was the first shot fired.” “You seem… unwell,” Judith offered. “There’s a chakra retreat coming up. It’s goat-led.” Whiskerstein made a noise so guttural it could only be translated as, “Touch my human again and your chakras are going to need dental work.” Beverly straightened her spine. “Listen carefully, Judy Juice Cleanse. I’ve spent the last five years nodding politely at your seasonal wreaths, pretending to give a crap about your zucchini bread, and pretending I don’t know that your husband Gary buys his weed from your son's drama teacher. But no more. I am caffeinated, motivated, and no longer medicated.” She took a long sip. “So unless you have something useful to contribute — like real sugar, sarcasm, or a second cup — you may kindly take your coordinated oppression and go doorbell ding-dong someone else’s sanity.” Judith gasped. Carol dropped her essential oil sample. Linda clutched her pearls — not metaphorically, but literally. The HOA turned as one, murmuring furiously, and disappeared down the walkway like a parade of wounded mallards. Whiskerstein meowed once. It echoed with finality. Inside, Beverly spun on her heel, mug raised high. “Come, my furry overlord,” she declared. “The coffee flows. The cowards retreat. And there’s an espresso martini recipe on Pinterest that requires... experimenting.” They returned to the kitchen in glory. But something in the air had shifted. The battle was won. The bean reclaimed. The fluff triumphant. And so Whiskerstein, Hero of the Brew, curled atop the microwave and drifted into a victorious nap. Her paws twitched. Her tail flicked. In her dreams, she flew above a field of decaf drinkers, raining down truth bombs and fur. The legend of Fluffageddon would live on — told in whispers, in baristas' nightmares, in the faint, lingering scent of burnt oat milk and broken expectations. And every time someone says, “I’ll just have tea,” a chill runs through the air... and somewhere, a certain ginger cat prepares for battle once more. The End. If you're still trembling from the sheer force of Whiskerstein's caffeine-fueled reign of terror, fear not — you can now wrap yourself in the aftermath. Bring home a piece of the pandemonium with the Fluffageddon Throw Pillow — perfect for dramatic sighing and passive-aggressive lounging. Or maybe you’d prefer to hide from your HOA beneath the comforting rebellion of the Fleece Blanket, saturated in attitude and cat hair (metaphorically). Need to carry your sass to the streets? Grab the Fluffageddon Tote Bag, roomy enough for your coffee beans, sarcasm, and zero f*cks. Sending a warning to your decaf-loving friends? We’ve got you covered with an epic greeting card that'll make them rethink their beverage choices. And of course, the pièce de résistance: an archival canvas print worthy of hanging in the halls of caffeinated royalty. Honor the fluff. Worship the bean. Hang the legend. #FluffageddonLives

by Bill Tiepelman

Squish Squad

The Sacred Order of the Squish In a rose-covered corner of a sleepy village nestled somewhere between the Land of Milk and Belly Laughs, there lived a baby named Pippa. She was a pint-sized tyrant of cuteness, armed with a rosebud mouth, violently kissable cheeks, and an unexplainable mastery of facial squishery. Birds chirped when she giggled. Grown men cried when she pouted. And grandmothers fainted dead away when she made her “pucker face,” a maneuver so powerful it had once derailed a church service and temporarily shut down the town’s entire Wi-Fi grid. Pippa lived with her human parents, an exceptionally lazy cat named Dave, and most importantly, Sir Butterbean—a roly-poly English bulldog puppy with more wrinkles than a laundry pile and the emotional range of a wet sponge. He snored like a chainsaw dipped in pudding and loved two things above all: belly rubs and pretending to be emotionally unavailable. Naturally, Pippa had declared him her soulmate. Every morning, after their breakfast of mashed bananas (Pippa) and mashed couch cushions (Butterbean), the two would toddle and waddle their way to the back garden—an explosion of rose petals, moss, and suspiciously judgmental gnomes. Here, on their well-worn mossy patch, they enacted their ancient morning ritual: the **Kiss of the Squish.** Now this was no ordinary peck. No dainty smooch. This was a full-lipped, squish-powered, squinty-eyed smacker that could startle birds mid-flight. Pippa would close her eyes, push her cheeks forward like two freshly risen buns, and lunge toward Butterbean’s jowly face with the might of a thousand grandmas armed with lipstick. Butterbean, who had long since resigned himself to his fate, would close his eyes like a saint accepting martyrdom and brace for impact. Their cheeks would meet with a noise somewhere between a squelch and an angel sigh. The world would pause. Gnomes would salute. Somewhere, a rainbow would burp itself into existence. And thus, the Order of the Squish would be reaffirmed for another day. But what neither Pippa nor Butterbean knew was that something far bigger than mashed banana and smooshed affection was brewing in their sleepy cottage garden. Something that involved an enchanted pacifier, a squirrel cult, and a retired garden hose named Gerald. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. For now, let us return to the garden. The roses blushed in full bloom. The air was thick with love, mischief, and the distant whiff of diaper ointment. And deep within the soft folds of Pippa’s giggle and Butterbean’s belly, the greatest adventure of their tiny lives was just beginning... The Secret Smooch Society Later that afternoon, as the sun hung low and lazy like a golden yolk on the edge of a nap, the air in the garden shifted. The wind fluffed Pippa’s curls just so, and Butterbean—mid-snore, upside down with his tongue lolling out and one paw twitching from a dream of chasing his own tail—snorted awake. His eyes opened slowly, like rusted garage doors. He blinked twice. Something was off. The roses were whispering again. He turned to Pippa, who was sitting in a mossy tuft wearing nothing but her floral diaper cover and a serious expression. She was chewing on a wooden spoon she had somehow smuggled out of the kitchen in her onesie’s buttflap pocket. That’s when it happened. Out from behind the hydrangeas shuffled an assembly of creatures so ridiculous, so wonderfully absurd, that even the garden gnomes narrowed their ceramic eyes in curiosity. There was a one-eyed squirrel in a satin cape. A rooster wearing sunglasses and cowboy boots. A raccoon who appeared to be carrying a clipboard and a great deal of emotional baggage. And leading the charge was Gerald—the retired garden hose—dragging his rubbery body through the gravel like a washed-up sea serpent on a mission. “It is time,” said the raccoon gravely, holding up the clipboard. “The prophecy is fulfilled. The Chosen Squish has awakened.” “Bwoof?” Butterbean grunted, blinking with the intensity of someone who had just eaten a dandelion and was questioning every life choice. Gerald reared his hosey length into the air like a makeshift cobra and hissed, “Silence, Squish-Bearer! She must complete the Trials before the Equinox of Giggletide. Or the garden shall be lost to... The Nibblers.” “Nope,” whispered the raccoon, flipping the clipboard, “wrong script. That’s from the Dandelion Cult. Sorry, Gerald.” Gerald sagged in a wave of apologetic hose, then composed himself. “Still. Trials. Destiny. That part’s legit.” Before Butterbean could crawl back into the sweet arms of his nap, Pippa stood. Or at least wobbled with conviction. Her tiny face lit up like a toaster oven. She babbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Adventure banana,” and stuck her spoon into the air like a sword forged from kitchen drawer chaos. She was in. They were whisked away (well, escorted at the pace of a sleep-deprived raccoon with a limp and a hose with no limbs) through the garden’s hidden glade—past the Judgmental Ferns, beneath the Great Swing of Yore, and into the Hollow of Whispering Worms. There, they were met by a grand circle of beasts who had sworn allegiance to the ancient laws of squish, slobber, and snack-sharing. They called themselves… The Secret Smooch Society. “You, Chosen One,” boomed a hamster in ceremonial feathers, “have passed the First Trial—The Unprovoked Kiss of Maximum Cheek Compression. Now you must complete the Second: The Test of Toy Sacrifice.” Pippa paused. Her face turned serious. She reached into her saggy diaper pouch (where most babies keep lint and secrets), and pulled out her most sacred treasure: the squeaky rubber duck named Colonel Nibbleton. Butterbean gasped. The raccoon wept. Even Gerald let out a low whistle that smelled faintly of mildew and prophecy. Without hesitation, Pippa plopped Colonel Nibbleton into the ceremonial puddle (which was, to be fair, just a birdbath the raccoon had peed in earlier). The Council nodded solemnly. “She is worthy,” intoned the rooster, who then did an uncalled-for dance move no one could explain. “Bring forth the Pacifier of Truth!” From the depths of the moss came a glowing object of pure baby legend: a pacifier so perfectly round, so ridiculously glittery, that even Pippa squinted with awe. Butterbean tried to eat it. Twice. He was gently but firmly sat on by a marmot named Linda until he stopped. The pacifier floated in mid-air. Gerald coiled himself into a ceremonial spiral. And then, as if pulled by the gravity of destiny (or possibly the smell of peanut butter from someone’s pants), Pippa reached up and popped the Pacifier of Truth into her mouth. The world blurred. Light twisted. Somewhere, a harmonica began playing itself. Pippa’s eyes widened with baby wisdom far beyond her eighteen and a half months. And then she said her first full sentence: “We are all just squishy miracles looking for a lap.” Silence. Reverence. Then someone farted. Probably the rooster. The Secret Smooch Society erupted into cheer. Toasts were made with acorn cider. The gnomes performed an interpretive dance involving finger puppets and interpretive sobbing. Pippa was crowned with a garland of daisy snacks. Butterbean peed on Gerald, who accepted the blessing in dignified silence. That night, under a sky smeared with stars and baby giggles, the Chosen Squish and her Jowly Guardian were honored in a ceremony involving three cupcakes, a tambourine, and something called “The Ceremony of the Holy Tummy Raspberry.” But trouble was brewing. In the shadows beyond the garden, behind the compost bin and beneath the swing set of broken dreams, a pair of glowing eyes blinked. A dark whisper carried on the breeze: “The Squish is rising... We must stop it before it softens the world.” And thus, the true battle for the future of squish had begun... Rise of the Anti-Squish The dawn broke slow and buttery over the garden, golden rays stretching like lazy kittens across the moss and dew-kissed petals. Pippa, still crowned with her floral garland and a single Cheerio stuck to her cheek, awoke in her royal highchair to find Butterbean at her feet, doing that dreamy sideways snore only bulldogs do when they've eaten too much pudding and have emotionally given up on gravity. The celebrations of the night before had ended in hiccups, several poorly timed nap-crashes, and one incident involving a cupcake, a sprinkler, and the concept of dignity. But today, there would be no parades. No interpretive dances by worm troupes. No recitations from the Chipmunk Bard Collective. No, today… they had a mission. A prophecy had been squealed. A threat had emerged. And it all started with a suspicious giggle echoing from the far side of the compost bin. Meet: Taffyta Von Smoogle. A rival baby influencer with 4.6 million followers on Totstagram, a personal stroller valet, and a jawline so sharp it had allegedly once sliced a teething ring in half. Taffyta wore designer overalls, metallic pacifiers, and sported a birthmark shaped like the Chanel logo. Her parents called her “a prodigy.” Her nanny called her “an emotional sugar bomb with legs.” Taffyta hated squish. “Squish is... common,” she sneered to her army of identically dressed ducklings—her so-called “Taffy Duck Force.” They were less ducks and more highly trained peeping operatives with tiny aviator glasses and questionable morals. “Real power,” she continued, adjusting her satin bib, “is in angles. Edges. Untouchable aesthetic. Not... slobber-based affection.” She had heard of Pippa’s coronation. She had heard of the ancient pacifier. And she knew: if this Squish Movement continued, there would be no space left in the influencer market for her brand of ice-cold, baby-couture chic. The world would be full of open arms and squishy bellies. There would be hugs. On camera. She shuddered. “Unforgivable.” Meanwhile, back at the Council, Pippa sat in deep consultation with Gerald, Butterbean, and Linda the marmot. The raccoon, suffering from a cider hangover and unresolved abandonment issues, had opted to nap under a rake. They were drawing up battle plans in crayon. The operation was to be named: Smooch Storm: Operation Lipplosion. “We strike at naptime,” said Linda, tapping a juice box for emphasis. “That’s when the ducklings’ focus drops. We’ll need distractions, decoys, and at least three banana peels.” Butterbean, wearing a colander helmet and a bib that read “Cheek First, Ask Questions Later,” nodded solemnly. Pippa narrowed her eyes, slapped mashed peas onto a parchment like a wax seal, and gurgled her official approval. As the sun reached its apex, the squad moved. They emerged from the tulips like legends—Pippa in full ceremonial footie pajamas, Butterbean in a stroller mounted with squeaky toys and snacks, and Gerald dragging an entire wheelbarrow of emotional support plushies. They marched to the Other Side—the uncharted land of Taffyta’s domain—past the forbidden sandbox, over the Bridge of Abandoned Sippy Cups, and through the Dunes of Forgotten Teething Toys. Taffyta met them at the center of the cul-de-sac, surrounded by her ducklings, arms crossed and face full of smug. “Well, well,” she smirked. “If it isn’t the Duchess of Drool and her furry sidekick. What’s the matter? Lost your blankie of justice?” Pippa didn’t flinch. She stepped forward. The air changed. The roses from the other garden leaned in. Even the sidewalk ants paused their buffet of fallen graham cracker to watch. Slowly, gracefully, powerfully… she opened her arms. “Huh?” said Taffyta. Pippa stepped closer. Eyes wide. Smiling. Soft. Her fingers spread like petals. Butterbean let out a proud fart of solidarity. “Hug?” Pippa asked. For a moment, Taffyta faltered. Her ducklings gasped. Gerald squeaked in anticipation. And the entire world held its breath. “You… you can’t just—” she sputtered. “You can’t hug your way out of—” But Pippa could. And she did. With the force of a thousand unspoken lullabies and the cozy warmth of a blanket straight from the dryer, she enveloped Taffyta in a squish so pure it nearly rewired the ducklings’ entire understanding of strategic philosophy. At first, Taffyta resisted. She puffed. She scowled. But then… her stiff baby limbs softened. Her lips trembled. Her face cracked. And out popped a hiccup so loud and heartfelt it triggered spontaneous emotional vulnerability in a passing goldfish. “It’s... nice,” she whispered. And just like that, the squish prevailed. In the days that followed, the two baby empires merged. Taffyta opened a line of limited edition cuddle cloaks. The ducklings became certified emotional support fluff. The pacifier was returned to its velvet-lined shrine beneath the hydrangeas. And Pippa and Butterbean resumed their sacred morning ritual, now with twice the audience, three extra cupcakes, and a deeply apologetic raccoon who was working on himself. The garden, once divided, now bloomed in full harmony. The Judgmental Ferns gave standing ovations. The gnomes wept openly. And every morning, the world paused for one blessed moment to witness the most powerful magic of all: A kiss, a squish, and the unspoken promise that love will always find the chubbiest cheeks. And thus, the Squish Squad reigned in peace. Until, of course, the arrival of the Sibling Horde. But that’s a story for another bottle of juice... Bring the Squish Home If the Squish Squad stole your heart (and let’s face it, they did), you can keep the magic going with cozy, cuddly, and display-worthy goodies from shop.unfocussed.com. Whether you're decorating a nursery, curling up for storytime, or just need a daily reminder that hugs > everything, we’ve got you covered: Wood Print – A rustic, ready-to-hang tribute to Pippa and Butterbean’s legendary smooch, perfect for warm-toned interiors and squish-friendly spaces. Throw Pillow – Hug it, squeeze it, nap on it. Butterbean would absolutely approve of this snuggle-ready accent. Fleece Blanket – Wrap yourself in this soft masterpiece and channel the spirit of The Secret Smooch Society. Bonus: great for napping through duckling invasions. Framed Print – Elevate your wall game with a museum-quality print of this heartwarming scene, framed and fabulous for squish appreciation year-round. Explore the full collection and let a little bit of baby-and-bulldog joy into your home. Long live the Squish!

by Bill Tiepelman

The Rosewing Vanguard

The Fall and the Flame They called her Hessa the Silent, not because she didn’t speak—gods no, she swore like a sky-sailor drunk on phoenix blood—but because when she struck, there was no warning. No clink of armor. No battle cry. No dumb heroic monologue. Just a cold wind, a flick of silver hair, and then someone’s spleen went flying into a lake somewhere. The Vanguard weren’t meant to survive the Purge. The Empire made sure of it. One by one, the dragonriders were hunted down, their mounts burned alive mid-air, their bones fed to wolves, and their legacies erased from every map and bard's ballad. That was a decade ago. And yet, here she was—grizzled, scowling, riding a goddamn rose-colored dragon like a war goddess dipped in glitter and fire. They tried to break her. They bound her wrists in shadowsteel and dumped her body in the Screaming Trenches for the worms to clean. But Hessa doesn’t stay buried. Not when there’s vengeance to serve on a flaming platter. Not when she’s the last rider of Rosewing, the only living dragon born from dusk itself, whose wings turned skies pink and whose breath scorched lies out of men like confession candles. She found the beast again on the 10th night of the Blood Gale, half-starved and chained beneath the ruins of an old observatory. His eyes were dull. His wings clipped. His pride had been flayed from him like bark from a cursed tree. Hessa didn’t speak. She just held up the old saddle—torn, scorched, and still slick with the blood of her sisters—and whispered, “You up for another round?” Rosewing blinked. Then he roared. Now, they fly over the smoking wreck of Fort Cravane, painting the sky in streaks of rage and redemption. The soldiers on the ground barely know where to look—at the impossible dragon with flaming fuchsia wings, or the leather-clad hellcat astride him, sword in one hand, middle finger in the other. She wasn’t here for mercy. She was here to remind the Empire that some fires don’t go out. They just wait for a gale strong enough to spread the damn blaze. And Hessa? She was the gale, the match, and the whole bloody firestorm wrapped in a corset of spikes and broken promises. “Run,” she growled to the battalion commander as Rosewing hovered over the smoking keep. “Tell your emperor I’m bringing every scream back. With interest.” And then? She dropped. Like a meteor. Like judgment with boobs and a blade. And the world caught fire. Again. Ashes and Ascension The crater left by her landing would be visible from orbit, if the empire had gotten their magic spy mirrors working before she fed the engineers to the wolves. The impact wasn’t just physical—it was mythic. Fort Cravane wasn’t some wooden outpost run by bored teenagers. It was a stone beast, a juggernaut carved into the bones of the mountain itself. It had stood unbreached for a hundred years. Emperors were crowned there. War councils forged genocides there. Bastards were legitimized in its brothel-halls by drunk nobles and even drunker scribes. And now? It was rubble. Smoking, blood-soaked rubble with a single pink-scaled dragon coiled atop it like a crown forged in madness and sass. Hessa didn’t just burn the fort. She erased it. Every banner torn, every relic shattered, every smug face either melted or begging for death like it was a warm blanket. She didn’t even get off Rosewing’s back for the first half hour—just strafed the courtyard like a pissed-off comet, cackling and spitting insults while her dragon turned war machines into molten modern art. Then came the real fun. See, Hessa had a list. A long one. Names she carved into the inside of her left gauntlet with a bone stylus dipped in witchblood. Each one was a reason she hadn’t slit her own throat during those ten years in exile. Each one had laughed while her kin burned, each one had signed the warrant, cast the spell, sealed the fate. And each one, like delicious, screaming destiny, had been summoned to Cravane for a war meeting. The gods must have known. Or maybe they just had a sick sense of humor. Because Hessa was coming for every name, and she was coming with style. She dismounted in the courtyard—Rosewing spinning lazily in the air above her like a bored death angel—and stalked across the shattered marble, her boots crunching on bones and brass. Her armor wasn’t polished. It was jagged, blackened, and smeared with enough blood to make the floor slippery. Her left pauldron still had a jawbone stuck to it. She left it there. Statement piece. General Vaeldor was the first. Big man. Voice like thunder. Beard like a brick wall that grew its own testosterone. He raised his axe and gave the dumbest speech of his dumb life: “I do not fear a broken woman on a stolen beast.” “And I don’t fear a sausage with arms,” she replied, kicking him in the groin so hard his ancestors felt it. Then she stabbed him through the mouth while he was still vomiting up vowels. Two minutes later, she’d impaled three more officers on a flagpole and shoved their corpses into a ceremonial brazier to keep her sword warm. Flames danced, blood steamed. It smelled like justice and burnt chicken. Rosewing dropped from the sky to snatch an archer off a tower like a child grabbing a snack. Bones crunched. Screams followed. Then silence. Hessa liked the silence. It gave her time to monologue. Which she did, frequently, and with profanity that could etch glass. “I’m not here to win,” she shouted, addressing the survivors hiding behind what used to be a tower wall. “I’m here to balance the books. You arrogant little piss-stains thought you could kill the Vanguard and stuff the story in a vault? Nah. You made it juicy. You made it a revenge song. And now I’m here to play the chorus—LOUD.” Someone tried to cast a banishment rune. She threw a throwing knife through his eye mid-sentence and didn’t break stride. Another tried to run. Rosewing spat a burst of flame shaped like a screaming banshee and turned the deserter into ash-flavored dust. The sky darkened. Stormclouds rolled in like they were trying to get a better view. By sundown, the fort was gone. Literally. There was nothing left but a field of smoking debris, a few blood-slick stones, and a single saddle sitting upright on a hilltop. Rosewing perched behind her like a goddamn monument, wings half-unfurled, tail wrapped in a spiral that glowed faintly from the still-burning embers in his veins. Hessa stood before the last survivor—a boy, maybe fifteen, holding a broken pike and a face full of piss and tears. She crouched before him, eye to eye. “Go home,” she whispered. “Tell them what you saw. Tell them the Vanguard flies again. And if they ever dare raise another army…” She leaned in, smile razor-sharp. “Tell them pink will be the last color they ever see.” The boy ran. Good. She wanted fear to spread faster than fire. Later, as she and Rosewing flew east toward the mountain strongholds, the wind carving new stories into the air around them, Hessa leaned back in the saddle, breathing deep. Her muscles ached. Her armor reeked. Her soul thrummed like a lute string strung too tight. But it was done. The first name crossed off. Forty-two to go. “That’s right, sweetheart,” she muttered to the stars. “We’re just getting started.” The Screaming Skies They called it The Rift—the tear in the earth that bled skyfire and swallowed armies. Stretching fifty miles across the Wastes like the gods had clawed the planet in half during a drunken brawl, it was said to be impassable. Suicidal. A graveyard of heroes and the last hope of fools. Which, of course, made it perfect for Hessa. She didn’t slow. Didn’t plan. Just gritted her teeth and kicked Rosewing into a dive so steep her eyelashes caught fire. The dragon responded like he’d been waiting for this all his life—wings slicing air, jaws open in a grin made of flame and defiance. Below, the Rift cracked wider, as if the land itself was screaming “OH NO SHE DIDN’T.” Oh, but she did. She’d crossed the Wastes to end this. To burn the root, not the branches. Her goal? The floating citadel of High Thorne—home of the Arken Lords, final architects of the Purge, and smug bastards with magic glass floors and an unearned superiority complex. You couldn’t reach them by land. You couldn’t breach the shield walls. Unless, of course, you were riding a rose-scaled dragon made of ancient war magic and spite with wings strong enough to tear holes in reality. Rosewing pierced the cloud barrier like a needle dipped in vengeance. Thunder rolled behind them. Magic sigils cracked as they passed. Dozens of skyward ballistae fired, but she danced between the bolts like the wind owed her money. One caught her pauldron. She didn’t flinch. Just bit the shaft off with her teeth and spit it at the tower. Then came the Sky Guard—aerial knights on winged drakes, thirty strong, gleaming with enchantments and entitlement. They fanned out like birds of prey, blades glowing, spells primed. One shouted, “By order of the High Council—” “Eat my order,” Hessa barked, slamming Rosewing into a barrel roll that sent three of them tumbling into each other like enchanted bowling pins. She stood in the saddle, sword in one hand, firebomb in the other, screaming a war chant so raw it probably made three ancestors resurrect just to clutch their pearls. “Let’s fucking dance, sky boys!” They fought through the air like demons on holiday. Rosewing twisted, snapped, spun into dives so sudden the horizon screamed. Hessa disarmed a mage mid-incantation, then headbutted him so hard he exploded into feathers. She caught a flaming spear with her bare hand, screamed “THANKS!” and hurled it into the citadel gates like she was mailing back someone’s bad decisions. Drakes shrieked. Blood fell like crimson rain. Magic collided with dragonflame and lit the clouds on fire. You could see it from every village within a hundred miles—an inferno in the sky, with a silhouette of a woman standing atop a god, unkillable and pissed off. The gates of High Thorne cracked. Then split. Then detonated. Hessa stepped into the throne room like she owned the floor. Because now, she did. Ash coated her hair like a crown. Her armor was half-melted. One eyebrow was gone. Her sword hummed with the deaths of men who hadn’t shut up when they should’ve. At the far end sat the three Lords—robed in silks, gaudy with enchanted rings, surrounded by trembling bodyguards and illusions that flickered like bad lies. “We can negotiate,” one started, face twitching. “Negotiate these,” she said, and hurled a blade into his chest so hard it pinned him to the back wall. The others went for spells. Rosewing crashed through the stained-glass ceiling like a pink war deity from someone’s trauma nightmare and screamed fire into the room, melting every protection circle in a heartbeat. Hessa walked through the blaze like a bad memory given form, killing everything that moved and most things that didn’t. When she reached the second Lord, she whispered something so foul into his ear that his soul left his body before the knife did. The last one she saved for last—Lord Vaedric, High Chancellor of the Purge, too cowardly to even stand. “You remember my sister?” she asked, sliding onto the throne. “Red hair, big heart, tried to talk peace while you gut-punched her with shadowsteel?” He nodded. Cried. Snot. Begged. Hessa rolled her eyes. “You know what her final words were?” He shook his head. “They were ‘Tell that bastard I’ll see him in hell.’ So.” She leaned forward. “Get going.” One twist of her wrist. One gurgle. Done. And just like that, the Purge was over. Later, after the fires died and the dust settled, Hessa and Rosewing sat atop the highest spire, watching dawn break over a quieter world. She wasn’t a hero. Heroes get statues. She preferred nightmares. She preferred stories. “You think it sticks?” she asked her dragon. Rosewing growled something deep and thoughtful, then sneezed a puff of glittery embers into the air. She laughed. “Yeah. Me too.” And then they flew. Into legend. Into infamy. Into every campfire tale and drunk bard song from here to the dead coast. Because the Rosewing Vanguard wasn’t a dream. She was the end of one empire—and the birth of something so much louder. The sky still hasn't healed. Epilogue: Embers Never Sleep In a tavern carved from the ribs of a long-dead titan, a bard plucks strings too old to remember their own tuning. The room hushes. Drinks still. A fire pops. “They say she vanished,” the bard begins, voice raspy with ash and rumors. “Rider and beast. One moment setting skies on fire, the next—gone. Like they’d burned so bright, the world couldn’t hold them anymore.” A drunk near the hearth snorts. “Bullshit. No one survives the Rift.” The bard just smiles. “Then explain the pink scales they found last month in a crater outside Blackwind. Still warm. Still humming.” At a distant table, a woman with platinum hair and a half-melted pauldron sips quietly from a chipped mug. She says nothing. Just watches the flames. Her dragon sleeps in the valley beyond, curled like a storm waiting to remember itself. She doesn’t need the songs. She doesn’t need the statues. She needs only this: wind, silence, and the promise of one last flight, should the world dare ask her again. Because embers? They don’t die. They wait. Bring the Legend Home If the tale of The Rosewing Vanguard lit something fierce inside you—don’t let it fade. Capture the fire, the fury, and the flight with exclusive merchandise inspired by the story. Let our metal print turn your wall into a battleground of light and legend, or test your wits and your patience with this epic jigsaw puzzle forged from the heat of fantasy skies. Want to send some fire by mail? Our greeting cards carry the saga one envelope at a time, and stickers slap the legend onto any surface that dares. And when the cold creeps in? Wrap yourself in dragon-warmed dreams with a luxuriously soft fleece blanket that feels like Rosewing’s wings wrapped around your soul. Because some stories belong in your hands—not just your head.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Laughing Grovekeeper

There are two types of gnomes in the deepwood wilds: the silent, mysterious kind who guard ancient secrets and never speak above a whisper… and then there’s Bimble. Bimble was, by most measurements, a disaster of a gnome. His hat was perpetually askew, like it had fought a raven and lost. His boots were tied with spaghetti vines (which, yes, eventually molded and had to be replaced with slightly more practical slugs), and his beard looked like it had been combed with a squirrel in heat. But what truly set him apart was his laugh—a high-pitched, rusty-kettle wheeze that could startle owls off branches and make fairies reconsider immortality. He lived atop a mushroom throne so large and suspiciously squishy that it probably had its own zip code. The cap was dotted with tiny, bioluminescent freckles—because of course it was—and the stem occasionally sighed under his weight, which was concerning, because fungi aren’t known to breathe. To the untrained eye, Bimble’s job title might have been something lofty like “Steward of the Grove” or “Elder Guardian of Mossy Things.” But in truth, his primary responsibilities included the following: Laughing at nothing in particular Terrifying squirrels into paying “mushroom taxes” And licking rocks to “see what decade they taste like” Still, the forest tolerated Bimble. Mostly because no one else wanted the job. Ever since the Great Leaf Pile Incident of '08 (don’t ask), the grove had struggled to recruit competent leadership. Bimble, with his complete lack of dignity and a knack for repelling centaurs with his natural musk, had been reluctantly voted in by a council of depressed badgers and one stoned fox. And honestly? It kind of worked. Every morning, he sat on his mushroom throne, sipping lukewarm pine-needle tea from a chipped acorn cap and cackling like a lunatic at the sunrise. Occasionally, he’d shout unsolicited advice at passing deer (“Stop dating does who don’t text back, Greg!”) or wave at trees that definitely weren’t waving back. Yet, somehow, the forest thrived under his watch. The moss grew thicker, the mushrooms puffier, and the vibes? Immaculate. Creatures came from miles around just to bask in his chaotic neutrality. He wasn’t good. He wasn’t evil. He was just... vibing. Until one day, he wasn’t. Because on the fourth Tuesday of Springleak, something stomped into his grove that wasn’t supposed to exist anymore. Something that hadn’t been seen since the War of the Wandering Toenails. Something large. Something loud. Something wearing a name tag that read: “Hi, I’m Dennis.” Bimble squinted into the foliage, his smile slowly spreading into the kind of grin that made fungi wilt out of fear. “Well, piss on a possum. It’s finally happening,” he said. And with that, the Laughing Grovekeeper rose—creaking like a haunted accordion—and adjusted his hat with all the regal grace of a raccoon unhinging a trash can lid. The grove held its breath. The mushroom trembled. The squirrels armed themselves with acorns sharpened into tiny shivs. Whatever Dennis was, Bimble was about to meet it. Possibly fight it. Possibly flirt with it. Possibly offer it tea made of moss and sarcasm. And thus began the weirdest week the forest had ever known. Dennis, Destroyer of Vibes Dennis was, and this is putting it gently, a lot. He crashed into the grove like a drunken minotaur at a yoga retreat. Birds evacuated. Moss curled up like it didn’t want to be perceived. Even the notoriously unbothered toads let out little amphibian swear words and flopped off into the underbrush. He was seven feet of horned fury, with arms like tree trunks and the emotional intelligence of a toaster oven. His armor clanked like a marching band falling down a well, and his breath smelled like someone had boiled onions in regret. And yet, somehow, his name tag still gleamed with a wholesome cheerfulness that just screamed, “I’m here for the icebreaker games and free granola bars!” Bimble didn’t move. He just sipped his tea, still grinning like the world’s oldest toddler who just found scissors. The mushroom squelched softly beneath him. It hated confrontation. “Dennis,” Bimble said, dragging the name out like it owed him money. “I thought you got banished to the Realm of Extremely Moist Things.” Dennis shrugged, sending a cascade of rust flakes from his shoulder plates into a nearby fern that immediately turned brown and died of sheer inconvenience. “They let me out early. Said I’d been ‘reflective.’” Bimble snorted. “Reflective? You tried to teach a pack of nymphs how to do CrossFit using actual centaur corpses.” “Character building,” Dennis replied, flexing a bicep. It made a sound like a creaking drawbridge and an old sandwich being stepped on at the same time. “But I’m not here for the past. I’ve found purpose.” “Oh no,” Bimble said. “You’re not selling essential oils again, are you?” “No,” Dennis said with alarming solemnity. “I’m building a wellness retreat.” A squirrel gasped audibly from a nearby tree. Somewhere, a pixie dropped her latte. Bimble’s left eye twitched. “A wellness retreat,” the Grovekeeper repeated slowly, like he was tasting a new kind of poison. “In my grove.” “Oh, not just in the grove,” Dennis said, pulling out a scroll so long it unrolled across half a clearing and landed in a puddle of salamanders. “We’re gonna rebrand the whole forest. It’s gonna be called… Tranquil Pines™.” Bimble made a noise somewhere between a gag and a bark. “This isn’t Aspen, Dennis. You can’t just gentrify a biome.” “There’ll be juice cleanses, crystal balancing, and meditation circles led by raccoons,” Dennis said dreamily. “Also, a goat that screams motivational quotes.” “That’s Brenda,” Bimble muttered. “She already lives here. And she screams because she hates you.” Dennis knelt dramatically, nearly flattening a mushroom colony. “Bimble, I’m offering you a chance to be part of something bigger. Picture it: branded robes. Organic pinecone foot soaks. Gnome-themed retreats with hashtags. You could be the Mindfulness Wizard.” “I once stuck my finger in a beehive to find out if honey could ferment,” Bimble replied. “I’m not qualified for inner peace.” “All the better,” Dennis beamed. “People love authenticity.” The mushroom let out a despairing gurgle as Bimble stood up slowly, dusted off his tunic (which accomplished nothing except releasing a cloud of glitter spores), and exhaled through his nose like a dragon who just found out the princess eloped with a blacksmith. “Alright, Dennis,” he said. “You can have one trial event. One. No tiki torches. No vibe consultants. No spiritual tax forms.” Dennis squealed like a man twice his size and half his sanity. “YES! You won’t regret this, Bimbobuddy.” “Don’t call me that,” Bimble said, already regretting this. “You won’t regret this, Lord Vibe-A-Lot,” Dennis tried again. “I swear on my spores, Dennis…” — One week later — The grove was chaos. Absolute, glorious chaos. There were 47 self-proclaimed influencers, all arguing over who had exclusive rights to film near the ancient wishing stump. A group of elves was stuck in a group therapy circle, sobbing over how nobody respected their leaf arrangement skills. Three bears had started a kombucha stand, and one raccoon had declared himself “The Guru of Trash,” charging six acorns per enlightened dumpster dive. Bimble, meanwhile, sat on his mushroom throne wearing sunglasses carved from smoked quartz and a shirt that read “Namaste Outta My Grove.” He was surrounded by candles made of scented wax and bad decisions, while a lizard in a crop top played ambient didgeridoo next to him. “This,” he muttered to himself, sipping something green and suspiciously chunky, “is why we don’t say yes to Dennis.” Just then, a goat trotted by screaming “YOU’RE ENOUGH, BITCH!” and somersaulted into a moss pile. “Alright,” Bimble said, standing up and cracking his knuckles. “It’s time to end the retreat.” “With fire?” asked a chipmunk assistant who had been documenting the whole thing for his upcoming memoir, ‘Nuts and Nonsense: My Time Under Bimble.’ “No,” Bimble said with a grin, “with performance art.” The grove would never be the same. The Great De-influencing Bimble’s performance art piece was called “The Untethering of the Grove’s Colon.” And no, it wasn’t metaphorical. At precisely dawn-o-clock, Bimble rose atop his mushroom throne—which he had dramatically dragged to the center of Dennis’s crystal-tent-studded “serenity glade”—and clanged two ladles together like a possessed dinner bell. This immediately startled five “forest wellness coaches” into dropping their sage bundles into a communal smoothie vat, which began smoking ominously. “LADIES, LICHES, AND PEOPLE WHO HAVE NOT POOPED SINCE STARTING THIS DETOX,” he bellowed, “welcome to your final lesson in gnome-led spiritual reclamation.” Someone in tie-dye raised a hand and asked if there would be gluten-free seating. Bimble stared into the middle distance and didn’t blink for a full thirty seconds. “You’ve colonized my glade,” he said finally, “with your hollow laughter, your ring lights, your whispery-voiced content reels about ‘staying grounded.’ You’re standing on literal ground. How much more grounded do you want to be, Fern?” “It’s Fernë,” she corrected, because of course it was. Bimble ignored her. “You took a wild, chaotic, fart-scented miracle of a forest and tried to brand it. You named a wasps’ nest ‘The Self-Care Pod.’ You’re microdosing pine needles and calling it ‘nectar ascension.’ And you’ve turned my goat Brenda into a cult leader.” Brenda, nearby, stomped dramatically on a vintage yoga mat and screamed “SURRENDER TO THE CRUMBLE!” A dozen acolytes collapsed into grateful sobs. “So,” Bimble continued, “as Grovekeeper, I have one last gift for you. It’s called: Reality.” He snapped his fingers. From the underbrush, a hundred forest critters poured out—squirrels, opossums, an owl wearing a monocle, and something that may have once been a porcupine but now identified as a ‘sentient pincushion named Carl.’ They weren’t violent. Not at first. They simply began un-decorating. Lamps were chewed. Tents were deflated. Sound bowls were rolled down hills and into a creek. A raccoon found a ring light and wore it like a hula hoop of shame. The kombucha bears were tranquilized with valerian root and tucked gently into hammocks. Bimble approached Dennis, who had climbed onto a meditation swing that was now hanging from a birch tree by a single desperate rope. “Dennis,” Bimble said, arms folded, beard billowing in the gentle breeze of justified fury, “you took something sacred and turned it into… into influencer brunch.” Dennis looked up, dazed, and sniffed. “But the hashtags were trending…” “No one trends in the deepwoods, Dennis. Out here, the only algorithm is survival. The only filter is dirt. And the only juice cleanse is getting chased by a boar until you puke berries.” There was a long pause. A wind rustled the leaves. Somewhere in the distance, Brenda screamed “EGO IS A WEED, AND I AM THE FLAME.” “I don’t understand nature anymore,” Dennis whispered. “You never did,” Bimble replied gently, patting his metal-clad shoulder. “Now go. Tell your people. Let the woods heal.” And with that, Dennis was given a backpack filled with granola, a canteen of mushroom tea, and a firm slap on the behind from a very aggressive chipmunk named Larry. He was last seen stumbling out of the forest muttering something about chakra parasites and losing followers in real time. The grove took weeks to recover. Brenda stepped down from her goat cult, citing exhaustion and a newfound passion for interpretive screaming in private. The influencers scattered back to their podcasts and patchouli farms. The mushroom throne grew back its natural glisten. Even the air smelled less of sandalwood disappointment. Bimble returned to his duties with a little more grey in his beard and a renewed appreciation for silence. The animals resumed their non-taxed existence. Moss thrived. And the sun once again rose each day to the sound of gnome laughter echoing through the trees—not hollow, not recorded, not hashtagged. Just real. One day, a small sign appeared at the entrance to the grove. It read: “Welcome to the Grove. No Wi-Fi. No smoothies. No bullshit.” Below it, scrawled in crayon, someone had added: “But yes to Brenda, if you bring snacks.” And thus, the Laughing Grovekeeper remained. Slightly weirder. Slightly wiser. And forever, delightfully, unfollowable. Love Bimble’s vibes? Carry a little Grovekeeper mischief into your world! From a poster that immortalizes his chaotic smirk, to a tapestry that'll make your walls 73% weirder (in the best way), we’ve got you covered. Snuggle up with a fleece blanket woven with woodland nonsense, or take notes on your own gnome encounters in this handy spiral notebook. Each item is a little wink from the woods, guaranteed to confuse at least one guest per week.

by Bill Tiepelman

Whispers of the Pearl Dragon

Moss, Mirth, and Misinformation “You know it’s rude to drool on royalty.” The voice was lilting and sharp, like laughter carried by a cold stream. The dragon, roughly the size of a large ferret, blinked one opalescent eye open. It did not move its head, because said head was currently being used as a pillow by a pale, pointy-eared girl with morning breath and an aggressive snore. “Pearlinth, did you hear me?” The voice continued. “You’re being used as a sleep accessory. Again. And you promised me after the Leaf Festival that you’d develop boundaries.” “Shhhh,” Pearlinth whispered back—telepathically, of course, because dragons of his stature rarely spoke aloud, especially when their jaws were pinned beneath the cheek of an unconscious elf. “I am nurturing her. This is what we do in the Sacred Order of Subtle Kindness. We are pillows. We are warmth. We are soft dragon-shaped comfort talismans.” “You are enabling her naps,” the voice replied. It belonged to Lendra, a willow wisp with far too much time and not enough daylight. She circled lazily over the mossy clearing, trailing bioluminescent sass like confetti. She had once worked in fae HR, so she took boundaries very seriously. “She’s been through a lot,” Pearlinth added, twitching one pearl-scaled wing slightly. “Last week she tripped into a goblin’s kombucha vat trying to rescue a snail with anxiety. Then the week before, she singlehandedly prevented a forest fire by confiscating a fire-breathing possum’s smoking pipe. That kind of courage requires rest.” Lendra rolled her glow. “Compassion is great. But you’re not a therapeutic mattress. You’re a dragon! You sparkle in seven spectrums. You once gave Queen Elarial a glitter sneeze that caused a mild panic in two villages.” “Yes,” Pearlinth sighed. “It was glorious.” Underneath him, the elf stirred. She had the telltale signs of a Dream Level Six: fluttering fingers, lips pressed into a faint smirk, and one foot slightly twitching as if arguing with a raccoon in REM sleep. Her name was Elza, and she was either a softhearted healer or a well-meaning menace, depending on the day and the proximity of magical livestock. Elza mumbled something that sounded like “Nnnnngh. Stupid cheese wizard. Put the goat back.” Pearlinth grinned. It was a subtle dragon grin, the kind that only showed if you’d known him through three mushroom cycles and at least one emotional molting. He liked Elza. She didn’t try to ride him. She gave excellent ear scritches. And she once taught him how to roll over for moonbeam cookies, which he still did, privately, when no one was looking. “You love her,” Lendra accused. “Of course I do,” Pearlinth said. “She named me after a gem and a musical note. She thinks I’m a baby, even though I’m 184 years old. She once tried to knit me a sweater, which I accidentally incinerated with excitement. She cried, and I wept a little molten sadness on a toadstool.” “You are the squishiest dragon alive,” Lendra huffed, though her glow dimmed with affection. “And proud,” Pearlinth replied, puffing out his glittery pearl chest just enough to lift Elza’s head by half an inch. Elza stirred again, brow furrowed. Her eyes fluttered open. “Pearlie,” she muttered groggily, “was I dreaming, or did the mushrooms invite me to a poetry reading again?” “Definitely dreaming,” Pearlinth lied lovingly. She yawned, stretched, and patted his head. “Good. Their last haiku night ended in sap fire.” And with that, she rolled onto her back and resumed snoring gently into a patch of glowmoss, muttering something about “sassy ferns” and “emotional crumpets.” Pearlinth curled protectively around her again, resting his cheek against hers, listening to her breath as if it were the music of the forest itself. In the trees above, Lendra hovered silently, the ghost of a smile playing through her flickering light. Even she had to admit: there was something sacred about a dragon who knew when to be a sanctuary. The Emotional Support Lint Ball and the Jelly-Faced Oracle By midday, Elza was awake, semi-conscious, and wrestling a piece of dried apricot that had somehow fused itself to her hair. Her movements were not elegant. They were more… interpretive dance performed by someone being chased by bees in their mind. “Ugh, this moss is moister than a gossiping pixie,” she groaned, yanking at the stubborn fruit clump while Pearlinth looked on with a mixture of concern and bemusement. “Technically, I am not allowed to judge your grooming rituals,” Pearlinth said, tail twitching thoughtfully, “but I do believe the apricot has achieved sentience.” Elza stopped mid-tug. “Then it has my condolences. We’re both stuck in this disaster spiral together.” It had been That Kind of Week. The kind that begins with a stolen scrying mirror and ends with a petition from the woodland raccoons demanding universal basic nut income. Elza, being the region’s only registered Emotimancer, was responsible for “diffusing magical tensions,” “restoring psychological balance,” and “not letting magical ferrets unionize again.” “Today,” she declared, standing with the grace of a collapsing beanbag chair, “we’re doing something non-productive. Something selfish. Something that does not involve accidental possession, emotionally confused oaks, or helping warlocks recover from breakups.” “Like brunch?” Pearlinth offered helpfully. “Brunch with wine,” she confirmed. And so the duo made their way toward Glimroot Hollow, a charming village so aggressively wholesome it had annual pie fights to release passive-aggressive energy. Pearlinth disguised himself using the ancient art of ‘hiding under a suspiciously large blanket’ while Elza draped a string of enchanted crystals around her neck to “look like a tourist” and deflect responsibility. They barely made it three feet into town before the whispering started. “Is that the Emotion Witch?” “The one who made my cousin’s spleen stop holding grudges?” “No no, the other one. The one who accidentally gave an entire wedding party the ability to feel shame.” “Oh her. Love her.” Elza smiled through gritted teeth, whispered, “I am a people person,” and kept walking. Inside The Jelly-Faced Oracle—a local tavern that looked like a candle shop collided with a forest rave—they finally found a quiet corner booth behind a curtain of beads that smelled faintly of elderflower and drama. “Isn’t it wild how your body knows when it’s time to crash?” Elza said, slumping into the booth with the dramatics of a bard mid-opera. “Like, my spine knew this moss cushion was my soulmate. Pearlie, tell it to never leave me.” “I believe that moss cushion is also in a committed relationship with a taxidermied owl and a teacup,” Pearlinth replied, having curled around her feet like a sentient foot warmer with pearls and low-level attitude. Before Elza could reply, a small voice interjected: “Ahem.” They looked up to see a gnome waiter with a spiral mustache, wearing a vest embroidered with the words “Freakishly Good Empath”. “Welcome to the Jelly-Faced Oracle. Would you like to order something joyful, something indulgent, or something existential?” “I’d like to feel like I’m making bad choices, but in a charming way,” Elza replied without pause. “Say no more. One ‘Poor Decision Porridge’ and a Flight of Regret Wines.” “Perfect,” Elza sighed, “with a side of Toasted Self-Loathing, lightly buttered.” As their order was conjured into existence via emotional resonance kitchen magic (which, honestly, should be a TED Talk), Pearlinth dozed under the table, his tail periodically knocking into Elza’s boots like a lazy metronome. Elza leaned back and closed her eyes. She hadn’t realized how long it had been since she allowed herself stillness. Not the kind forced by collapse, but the kind invited by kindness. She thought of Pearlinth’s quiet loyalty. His willingness to be her anchor without asking for anything in return. The way his pearl scales reflected her own messy heart—shimmering, cracked in places, but whole nonetheless. “You okay down there?” she asked gently, nudging his side with her foot. He answered without opening his eyes. “I will always be where you need me. Even if you need me to remind you that the raccoon uprising wasn’t your fault.” Elza snorted. “They formed a marching band, Pearlie. With tiny hats.” “They were inspired by your leadership,” he mumbled proudly. And just like that, something inside her softened. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a lump of lint she’d been meaning to discard. “You know what this is?” she said with mock seriousness. “This is my Official Emotional Support Lint Ball. I’m naming it… Gary.” Pearlinth opened one eye. “Gary is wise.” “Gary gets me,” she said, balancing it atop her wine glass. “Gary doesn’t expect me to fix the ecosystem or heal emotionally constipated centaurs. Gary just... vibes.” “Gary and I are now in a committed triad,” Pearlinth declared. The waiter returned just in time to witness Elza toasting to lint-based emotional regulation. “To Gary,” she declared. “And to every underpaid magical familiar and overworked woodland therapist who ever just needed a damn nap.” As they clinked glasses, something shimmered quietly in the folds of the moment. Not magic, exactly. Just something sacred and unhurried: a dragon's soft sigh beneath the table, the rustle of moss in a booth built for weirdos, and the glow of ridiculous hope lighting up a small, messy heart. And somewhere outside, the wind carried whispers. Not of destiny. Not of doom. But of two unlikely souls who gave each other permission to fall apart, nap hard, and rise sassier than ever before. The Ceremony of Snacks and the Pearl Pact It was dusk when they returned to the glade, their laughter trailing behind them like fireflies. Elza, emboldened by three glasses of Regret Wine and a surprising number of existential hash browns, had declared that today would not end in a fizzle. No, today would be legendary. Or at least... moderately memorable with decent lighting. “Pearlie,” she slurred with determination, “I’ve been thinking.” “Oh no,” Pearlinth muttered from her shoulder. “That never ends quietly.” She plopped dramatically onto the moss and spread her arms like a stage magician mid-mood swing. “We should have a ceremony. Like a real one. With symbols. And snacks. And... sparkles. Something to mark this… this sacred codependence we have.” Pearlinth blinked. “You want to formalize our emotional entanglement?” “Yes. With carbs and candles.” “I accept.” Thus began the hastily assembled and dubiously spiritual **Ceremony of the Pearl Pact.** Lendra, summoned against her will by the scent of pastry crumbs and the promise of mild chaos, hovered nearby in judgmental participation. “Are there bylaws for this union of sass and mutual emotional damage?” she asked, glowing skeptically. “Nope!” Elza grinned. “But there’s cheese.” They built a sacred circle using mismatched rocks, half a stale baguette, and one of Elza’s boots (the left one, because it had fewer emotional issues). Pearlinth fetched glitterberry leaves from the nearby bramble and arranged them into a shape that was either a heart or a very tired hedgehog. Symbols are open to interpretation in rituals fueled by vibe alone. “I, Elza of the Uncombed Hair and Questionable Judgement,” she intoned, holding a toasted marshmallow aloft like a holy relic, “do solemnly swear to continue dragging you into minor peril, unsolicited therapy sessions, and emotionally-charged bake-offs.” “I, Pearlinth of the Gleaming Chest and Soft Tummy,” he replied, voice echoing in her mind with the gravity of someone who once swallowed a gemstone for attention, “do swear to protect, support, and occasionally insult you into growth.” “With snacks,” she added. “With snacks,” he confirmed. They touched the marshmallow to his snout in what might be the first recorded dragon-to-graham offering, and in that moment, the moss beneath them shimmered faintly. The air pulsed—not with ancient magic, but with the undeniable resonance of two beings saying: I see you. I choose you. You are my safe place, even when everything else burns down around us. And then, of course, came the parade. Because nothing in the glade stays private for long. Word had spread that Elza was “doing some kind of unlicensed ritual with snacks and possibly swearing eternal loyalty to a lizard,” and the forest responded like only enchanted ecosystems can. First came the squirrels with flags. Then the toads in tiny cloaks. The raccoons showed up late with instruments they clearly didn’t know how to play. A gaggle of dryads arrived to provide ambiance, harmonizing over a beatbox mushroom named Ted. Someone set off sparkler spores. Someone else fired a potato cannon out of pure enthusiasm. Lendra, despite herself, glowed so brightly she resembled divine disco. Elza looked around at the utter chaos she’d conjured—not with magic, but with connection—and started to cry. Happy tears, the kind that sneak up behind you and slap you with the weight of being loved exactly as you are. Pearlinth curled around her again, warm and steady. “You’re leaking,” he observed gently. “Shut up and hold me,” she whispered. And he did. As the celebration roared on, something deep in the soil stirred. Not a threat. Not danger. But recognition. The land knew loyalty when it saw it. And somewhere in the glade’s memory—etched not in stone or scroll, but in the pollen and laughter of beings who dared to be weird and wonderful together—this day rooted itself like a seed of legend. They would talk about the Pearl Pact, of course. They’d turn it into songs, poorly drawn scrolls, and probably some kind of pudding-based reenactment. But none of it would match the truth: That the strongest magic isn’t cast. It’s chosen. Repeatedly. In the small, ridiculous, glowing moments that say—you don’t have to carry it alone. I’ve got you. Snacks and all. And thus concludes the tale of a dragon who became a pillow, a girl who turned lint into emotional currency, and a friendship as absurd as it was unshakably real. Long live the Pearl Pact. If the tale of Elza and Pearlinth stirred something soft and sparkly in your soul, you can carry a piece of their bond with you. Whether you’re decorating your sanctuary with the Whispers of the Pearl Dragon tapestry, sipping tea while pondering existential lint with the framed fine art print, bonding over puzzles in true Pearl Pact fashion with this enchanted jigsaw, or taking Elza’s sass and Pearlie’s snuggly loyalty with you on the go in a sturdy tote bag—you’ll always have a little magic by your side. Celebrate friendship, fantasy, and emotional chaos with art that whispers back. Available now on shop.unfocussed.com.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Rooster’s Bloom

The Blooming Begins Once upon a time (and probably three chardonnays deep), in the sleepy village of Cluckminster, lived a rooster unlike any other. His name was Bartholomew Featherfax the Third, but most just called him Bart. He wasn’t your average morning-screamer. No. Bart was a vibe, an icon, a strut incarnate. He crowed not at dawn, but when he was good and ready — preferably after a nice stretch, a moment of affirmations, and two sips of lukewarm espresso with goat milk foam. But what truly made Bart different — aside from his deep baritone voice and suspiciously tight thighs — was his plumage. Where other roosters sported rugged reds or moody blacks, Bart had… flora. Petals. Fronds. Tiny spiraling succulents growing where feathers should be. His tail alone looked like a small, highly curated Etsy boutique, and his neck shimmered like the inside of a dream wrapped in a kaleidoscope wrapped in a cheeky Pinterest board. Of course, this was not the norm in Cluckminster, where most poultry preferred their feathers basic, their beaks unmoisturized, and their ambitions low. Bart, however, bloomed loudly. And unapologetically. “Are those flowers growing out of your butt?” hissed Gertrude the Hen one morning as Bart passed the grain trough, hips swaying like a disco ball in slow motion. “Excuse me, Gertrude,” he clucked, tossing a begonia over his shoulder, “they’re fractal-integrated botanicals. And they are thriving, unlike your brittle dry comb.” The hens gasped. The ducks pretended not to listen, but everyone knew ducks were messy. Even the barn cat, who’d spent most of the week high on catnip behind the hay bales, peeked out and whispered, “Daaaaamn.” That very day, Bart strutted up to the barn roof (as one does), stood against the inky dawn sky, fluffed his botanical majesty, and let out a crow so powerfully fabulous that nearby sunflowers did a little shimmy. This was not just a wake-up call. It was a declaration. An arrival. A blooming of epic proportions. Unfortunately, it also alerted the Council of Poultry Aesthetics — an outdated, cranky bunch of feathered fossils who preferred conformity, beige feathers, and strictly one type of squawk per gender. And thus began the official filing of **Complaint #37B: Unauthorized Blooming While Male**. The Petal Trials of Bartholomew Featherfax the Third The Council of Poultry Aesthetics convened in their musty little coop-turned-office behind the barn. Their motto, carved in dust on a crooked plaque, read: "Neutral tones. Modest combs. No flair, no fun, no feathers undone." Each member was older than hay, balder than truth, and more wrinkled than a two-week-old raisin in a sauna. At the head of the table sat Lord Pecksley, a rooster so uptight his tail feathers had fused into a single, clenched curl. “This Bartholomew menace,” he wheezed, adjusting his monocle (yes, monocle), “must be... pruned.” “He’s flaunting,” clucked Madam Prunella, chief hen of etiquette. “With petals. In broad daylight. Children can see them. Succulents, even! Euphorbia vulgaris right on his neck!” “And that spiral bloom near his vent?” whispered the Vice Chair, scandalized. “Nature doesn’t spiral there.” “Well,” Pecksley snapped, slamming a talon down, “nature clearly needs a stern reminder of boundaries!” The council voted unanimously: Bart was to appear before the Barn Court in three days’ time to account for his botanical 'indecency'. Meanwhile, the barnyard was losing its mind. On one side, Bart’s fans. The Bloomers. They were a colorful coalition of hens with glittery combs, ducklings with attitude, a wildly dramatic peacock from three towns over, and at least one suspiciously muscular squirrel who just wanted to vibe. They marched with signs like “”, “Fractal is Functional,” and “Botany Is Not A Crime.” Someone even wrote a spoken-word piece about photosynthesis and liberation. It was weird. And beautiful. On the other side? The Cluckservatives. Stern hens in neutral shawls. Roosters who'd never moisturized. A pair of judgmental pigeons from accounting. They accused Bart of ‘distracting the flock,’ ‘unsettling the egg count,’ and ‘making the chicks ask too many damn questions.’ In the middle of it all? Bart. Fabulous. Furious. And frankly, exhausted. He’d never asked to be a symbol. He just wanted to bloom. Was that so much? Still, the pressure was mounting. The council began clipping the petals of other hens who dared to accessorize. Feathers were being inspected. Seeds confiscated. The goose who painted her beak was publicly peck-shamed. Dandelion crowns were outlawed. They even tried to dye Bart’s tail beige with expired oat milk. (He slapped it away with a calendula plume and muttered “Try again, you bland bastards.”) By the time the trial began, Bart arrived in full regalia. He’d spent the night cultivating a rare orchid at the tip of each tail plume. A crown of golden chrysanthemum spirals framed his head. His wattles sparkled with bioluminescent dew drops. His beak was polished. His claws were French-tipped. And his eye — oh, his eye — was a smoldering blaze of “I will burn your coop with my vibe.” “Bart Featherfax,” boomed Lord Pecksley, standing beneath a flickering barn bulb that made him look like an undercooked chicken nugget, “you stand accused of aesthetic anarchy, defiance of rooster norms, and inciting unauthorized botanical awakening. How do you plead?” Bart stepped forward. Slowly. Every movement caused a ripple of floral shimmer to cascade across his body like spring gossip on a breeze. He cleared his throat. Held the entire barn’s breath in his claws. Then, with a voice smooth as silken molasses draped over a jazz solo, he replied: “I plead flourished.” Gasps. Screeches. A hen fainted. Someone dropped a corn cob. “You say I incite awakening?” he continued, strutting a slow spiral around the haybale podium. “Good. Because we’ve been asleep far too long. For generations, you told us our feathers were only worth something if they matched someone else’s mold. That we had to peck in place. That color was chaos. That bloom was bad. But I am not your beige fantasy.” He spun, flared his wings. Petals shimmered. Fractals unfurled. The damn flowers sang. (No one knows how. It just happened.) “I’m not here to conform. I’m here to photosynthesize and stir sh*t up.” The Bloomers exploded in applause. The peacock sobbed. The squirrel threw glitter. Even a few Cluckservatives began loosening their comb wraps. Lord Pecksley’s monocle popped off. “Order! ORDER I SAY!” he clucked, shaking his beak violently. “This isn’t over, Featherfax! This is a war on standardization!” Bart winked. “Then call me your flamboyant revolution.” And as the barn doors creaked open behind him, letting in the morning light — Bart strutted out, feathers in full bloom, tail spirals catching the sun like fire-wheels of rebellion. The hens followed. The ducks quacked in rhythm. The squirrel raised a tiny flowered fist. But just beyond the barnyard fence... something else stirred. Something bigger. Something ancient. Something with feathers... and vines. The Bloom Beyond the Fence The fence behind the barn had always been a mystery — a line never crossed, a story never told. Chickens said it led to the Overgrowth. The elders whispered it was where the Wild Roosters roamed. Roosters who refused to be plucked, preened, or pigeonholed. Roosters whose feathers had evolved into forests. Roosters who didn’t crow… but howled. And now, as Bart stood blinking into the early dawn light, fresh from revolution and still radiating orchid-based defiance, he saw them. First, the trees parted. Not like they’d been pushed, but like they’d politely stepped aside. Then out came a shape — tall, plumed, and radiant. A rooster, yes, but... more. Part phoenix, part rainforest. His tail coiled like galaxies. His beak glinted like obsidian wrapped in mango nectar. His chest bore markings older than shade. His eyes held starlight and dirt. He smelled like rebellion steeped in rosemary. He approached Bart and spoke in a voice that didn’t echo — it rooted. “You bloomed loud, little brother.” “I didn’t know I had a family out there,” Bart whispered, petals trembling. “You bloomed. That’s enough.” Behind the Forest Rooster came others — a parade of legendary bloomers. A hen whose feathers were literal roses. A duck with floating lily pads for wings. A turkey with bioluminescent mushroom gills. A quail that glowed with internal fire. A peacock that bent light itself. Bart blinked. “Is this heaven?” “It’s better,” the Forest Rooster grinned. “It’s real. And it’s ours. Come walk with us.” But Bart looked back. Behind him, the barnyard was in chaos and color. The Bloomers were holding their ground. The Cluckservatives had begun to fray at the combs. A small group of chicks were painting each other’s beaks with elderberry juice and shouting things like “Pollinate your power!” and “Be your own bouquet!” He turned back. “I can’t leave them.” The Forest Rooster nodded. “Then we’ll come with you.” And that’s how the Bloom War began. Oh, don’t worry, it wasn’t violent. It was worse. It was artistic. They began with the barn. They painted it in gradients so bold even the sheep looked up. They threw a full moon rave in the coop. They taught the chicks geometry via sunflowers. They brought jazz. Poetry. Mushroom farming. Avian glitter drag shows. One night, a nightingale beatboxed the entire first act of *Hamlet*. It was confusing and transcendent. The Cluckservatives fought back the only way they knew how: bureaucracy. They issued cease-and-decrow orders. They tried to form a Ministry of Modesty. They attempted to regulate petal diameter. Someone even invented a Bloom Tax. But the movement couldn’t be stopped. Not when the very soil had begun to shift. The coop’s walls started growing vines. The old troughs overflowed with marigolds. The roosts sprouted lavender stems that hummed lullabies at night. Nature had chosen a side. And at the center of it all was Bart — no longer just a rooster, but a revolution in feathers. He stood daily in the sun, petals wide, comb glowing with dew, and told stories to the chicks about the time he turned shame into shade, judgment into jasmine, and hate into horticulture. He never wore the same feathers twice. He always smiled when the council glared. He kissed his reflection good morning. He was everything they'd told him not to be — and then some. Years later, long after Lord Pecksley was seen retiring bitterly into a worm commune and the barn had become a museum-slash-nightclub-slash-botanical sanctuary, an elder chick asked Bart: “Why flowers?” He smiled, rustling with heliotrope and sass. “Because feathers fly,” he said. “But blooms? Blooms stay. They root. They multiply. They shake the ground and perfume the air. And you can’t pluck a bloom without spreading seeds.” The chick blinked. “So... you’re saying we’re all just walking flower bombs?” Bart winked. “Exactly. Now go explode somewhere fabulous.” And so they did. 🌺 Take a Piece of the Bloom Home If Bart strutted into your heart like he did into history, now you can let his blooming brilliance brighten your everyday life. Bring The Rooster’s Bloom into your space with our Framed Print — a stunning, gallery-ready tribute to floral rebellion and fearless expression. Carry his sass wherever you go with the eco-chic Tote Bag, perfect for farmers markets, libraries, or storming the gates of boring fashion. Send blooming wisdom to your favorite humans with a vibrant Greeting Card, ideal for birthdays, affirmations, or unapologetic declarations of fabulousness. And for a sleek modern touch? The Metal Print brings Bart’s fractal feathers to life in full radiant glory — durable, bold, and entirely unbothered by bland walls. Whether you're here for the laughter, the layers, or the lush, rebellious artistry — let Bart remind you: it’s always the season to bloom exactly as you are.

by Bill Tiepelman

Grinfinity Purradox

The Cat, the Cult, and the Missing Underpants In the acid-laced dreamscape of Kaleidowood, nestled between the Caffeine Mountains and the River of Poor Decisions, lived a feline who wasn’t quite... sane. Or real. Or housebroken. Locals called it Grinfinity — a name spoken only after three espresso shots and a silent prayer to the God of Hangovers. Grinfinity wasn’t born. He coalesced. Formed from the collective subconscious of every drunk art major who ever said “I could totally design an NFT of a cat that eats the multiverse.” He was 70% fractal mischief, 20% day-glow fluff, and 10% weaponized smile. And that smile? It had molars. Not like “oh how cute, kitty has teeth,” but “oh god it bit the mayor and he still can't eat pudding right.” By day, he posed as a mystical guru in the backyard of a defunct yoga studio, purring cryptic nonsense to wide-eyed influencers and failed DJs. By night, he attended underground raves where he sold micro-doses of existential dread packed in jellybean form. His third favorite hobby was rearranging people’s sock drawers into mandalas and then watching their slow mental decline. But on the fateful Thursday that kicked off the Purradox, Grinfinity had other plans: he wanted the Moon's underpants. "What?" you ask. "The Moon wears underpants?" Of course it does. Why do you think it hides behind clouds during full moons? Modesty. Lunar modesty. But the Moon’s underpants weren’t just any cosmic skivvies — no, these were handwoven from the silky regret of 1990s boybands and reinforced with the sighs of every raccoon who ever found an empty trash bin. They were the comfiest, most powerful underpants in the known reality cluster. Legend said that whoever wore them gained the ability to lick their own ego clean, summon a never-ending brunch, and annoy telemarketers with mind bullets. Grinfinity didn’t care about that. He just wanted to steal them and leave them hanging on a church steeple in Wisconsin. For the vibes. Thus began a journey through wormholes, drive-thrus, and a surprisingly aggressive nudist colony called “Freeballonia.” But first, he needed a crew. And like any true antihero, he started with the worst idea possible: Craigslist. The first to answer was Darla Doomleg, a retired roller derby champ turned erotic taxidermist. She had a bat tattooed on each butt cheek and a pet stoat named Greg. Then came Phil “No Pants” McGravy, a man banned from seventeen diners and one time accidentally married an inflatable couch. And rounding out the chaos was Kevin, a sentient pile of glitter with a vape addiction and daddy issues. “We're going to steal lunar underwear,” Grinfinity announced, tail coiling like a Salvador Dalí signature. “And if we’re lucky, fart in them before the universe resets.” No one blinked. Kevin did release a small puff of lavender mist, but that was just how he showed excitement. They climbed into Darla’s hover-Winnebago, gassed up on fermented Snapple and sheer spite, and rocketed toward their fate. Grinfinity sat at the helm, purring like a tattoo gun stuck on “regret,” eyes glowing like traffic lights at a rave. The first destination? The Great Cosmic Sock Drawer — a sub-dimensional vault rumored to contain every lost sock, sense of dignity, and good decision ever made while drunk. It was also, according to Reddit, the portal to the Moon's laundry chute. They had no idea what horrors awaited. But Grinfinity didn’t care. He had his claws sharpened, his grin dialed to “menace,” and his butt parked squarely in destiny’s cupholder. The Great Sock Drawer and the Trouble with Sentient Panties Inside the yawning, sock-scented maw of the Great Cosmic Sock Drawer, time hiccuped. Reality folded like origami made by a drunk uncle at a family BBQ, and gravity was having a petty argument with inertia. Grinfinity and his crew stumbled out of the hover-Winnebago, blinking at the fuzzy chaos sprawling before them. The landscape was pure chaos. Left socks lounged in velvet hammocks, drinking hot cocoa and sighing about their missing partners. Right socks marched in military formations, demanding justice, a Netflix series, and warm feet. Thongs floated overhead like smug butterflies, occasionally dive-bombing crew members with snarky insults. A massive athletic sock the size of a cathedral sobbed gently into a vat of Axe body spray. “I feel like I licked a lava lamp,” muttered Phil No Pants, who was currently wearing a kilt made of caution tape and chewing on a glowstick for courage. “What is this place?” “The psychic fallout zone of every laundry day gone wrong,” Darla Doomleg whispered, clutching Greg the stoat, who had gone full feral and was now gnawing at the space-time continuum like it owed him money. “We need to find the Laundry Chute of Ascension.” Kevin the Glitter Pile was vibrating, leaving behind little trails of sparkly nonsense and purring to himself in Morse code. “This place smells like wet shame and cinnamon gum,” he murmured. “I feel alive.” Grinfinity prowled ahead, his paws leaving imprints of color that shifted when no one was looking. Every step was an insult to geometry. His grin widened with each twitching sock and floating brassiere they passed. He was in his element — chaos, laundry, and low-stakes cosmic thievery. All his nine lives had been leading to this moment. Suddenly, a booming voice erupted from the horizon like a burp from a god who’d eaten too much cheese. “WHO SEEKS THE PANTIES OF THE MOON?” Everyone froze. Even Greg. Even Darla’s left butt cheek clenched in alarm. Out of a storm cloud made entirely of mismatched dryer lint emerged a being of impossible fluff and profound sass: the Panty Warden of the 7th Cycle. It had the body of a sentient laundry basket, legs made of coat hangers, and eyes that screamed "I once had hopes, but then I taught middle school." “State your purpose or be ye sorted by the eternal spin cycle!” it roared. Phil stepped forward, holding a novelty-sized pair of edible underpants as a peace offering. “We’re here to borrow the Moon’s undies and maybe cause some low-level metaphysical vandalism. No biggie.” The Panty Warden blinked slowly. “Do you even understand the power you seek? Those briefs control tides, menstrual cycles, and cheese production in Wisconsin. They're woven from lunar wool and blessed by the Pope's weird cousin.” “That’s exactly why we need them,” Grinfinity replied, his eyes glowing like radioactive olives. “Also, I made a bet with a comet that I could graffiti Saturn’s rings while wearing them.” The Warden sighed, releasing a cloud of fabric softener that smelled like unresolved childhood trauma. “Very well. But first, you must pass... the Trials of the Tumble.” And just like that, the ground fell away. The crew screamed, some out of fear, others out of habit. They plummeted through a vortex of laundry-themed horrors: a tunnel of moist towels, a field of biting sock puppets quoting Nietzsche, and a karaoke pit where rogue lingerie sang ABBA songs at weaponized volume. Trial One: The Washer of Regret. The team was trapped inside a swirling cylinder of bad exes, awkward conversations, and that one time you texted “you too” when the barista said “enjoy your drink.” Grinfinity just floated through, humming “Toxic” by Britney Spears and occasionally hissing at ghosts. Darla punched her way out with brass-knuckled sass. Kevin just melted into a puddle of self-love and re-emerged fabulous and more glittery than ever. Trial Two: The Bleach Zone. Everything turned white. The crew was assaulted by unsolicited opinions, yoga moms in Uggs, and the endless loop of someone explaining NFTs. Phil nearly broke until he remembered he’d once peed in an influencer’s smoothie. That gave him strength. Trial Three: Ironing Board of Destiny. A smooth-talking ironing board challenged them to a game of philosophical beer pong. The questions were abstract (“Can socks dream of matching feet?”), the answers more so. Grinfinity aced it with riddles that sounded like pickup lines from a sentient thesaurus. He seduced the board into submission. Finally, they emerged in the heart of the Drawer — the Spin Temple, a massive coliseum of cotton and ego. Suspended in the center, guarded by a choir of floating sentient boxer briefs, hovered the prize: the Lunar Underpants. They were magnificent. High-waisted. Laced with constellations. The tag simply read “Handwash Only: Violates 17 Natural Laws if Machine Dried.” “I’m gonna sniff them,” Kevin whispered reverently. “You’re not gonna sniff them,” Darla snapped. “I might sniff them,” Grinfinity admitted, already climbing the scaffolding with the grace of a deranged ballet dancer. As he reached for the waistband, a ripple shot through space — a psychic fart of destiny. The Moon felt it. Back on the lunar surface, the Moon blinked. It had been binge-watching telenovelas and eating emotional ice cream, unaware its favorite underpants were under siege. It rose slowly. The air crackled. Somewhere, a celestial gong sounded. The Moon. Was. Coming. Underwearageddon, Glitter Redemption, and the Grinning End of All Things The Moon was pissed. Like, full-on “I came home to find my favorite snack gone and someone used my toothbrush as a butt-scrubber” kind of pissed. It tore across the cosmos like a cosmic Karen in a minivan made of passive-aggressive Yelp reviews, headed directly for the Great Cosmic Sock Drawer. As it moved, it plucked meteors from space like curlers and rolled them into its hair. Lightning cracked across its craters. It snarled in Spanish. Meanwhile, deep within the Spin Temple, Grinfinity clutched the legendary Lunar Underpants like a man possessed — or more accurately, like a cat who had just found the warmest, most forbidden nap spot in the multiverse. “They’re... so soft,” he purred, eyes rolling back as celestial cotton caressed his furry cheeks. “This must be what angels wear when they go clubbing.” Darla Doomleg stood guard, wielding a feather boa turned plasma whip. “We’ve got maybe thirty seconds until the Moon shows up and rage-bounces us into another dimension.” Kevin, now three times larger and pulsing with high-voltage glam energy, was covered in psychic sequins and vibrating with existential anxiety. “I don’t think I’m ready to fight a planetary body, guys. I barely survived brunch with my ex last week.” Phil No Pants was applying glow-in-the-dark war paint using a bottle of expired ranch dressing. “You guys worry too much. What’s the Moon gonna do, moon us?” Then the ceiling exploded in a tidal wave of lunar fury. The Moon descended like a glittery judgment god, wreathed in flames and expletives. “WHO. TOUCHED. MY. UNDIES.” “It was consensual!” Grinfinity shouted, hiding the underpants in a pocket dimension shaped like a suspiciously moist gym sock. “Also, we’re technically insured.” The Moon blinked, then launched a crater-sized moonbeam directly at them. Chaos erupted. Battle of the Briefs had begun. Sock armies rose from beneath the temple, unified by their mutual hatred of foot sweat and abandonment. They charged the Moon’s shoelace golems, who whipped through the air with deadly accuracy. Lingerie drones buzzed above, firing taser-thongs at anything that moved. One particularly aggressive sports bra suplexed a cardigan into next week. Phil No Pants rode into the fray on a flaming flip-flop, swinging twin pool noodles like nunchucks and screaming, “I AM THE TIDE POD WARRIOR!” Darla leapt into the air, roundhouse-kicking a pair of sentient long johns into a spinning dryer vortex, then delivered a passionate monologue about consent and the importance of label-reading during laundry. The socks paused, inspired. One wept quietly. Kevin, meanwhile, had achieved a glitter-based transcendence. He floated above the battlefield, shimmering like a rave god, whispering affirmations and raining down healing sparkles. Enemies froze mid-punch to marvel at his radiant thighs. A bra snapped itself back on in respect. But the Moon would not be swayed. It summoned a tidal wave of moonlight, collapsing the fabric of the drawer. Grinfinity had one shot — one chance to save them all and pants the Moon at the same time. He reached into the quantum sock-pocket, pulled out the Lunar Underpants, and slipped them on with the slow-motion power of a shampoo commercial meets an exorcism. Light flared. Somewhere, a llama learned to play bass guitar. Reality hiccuped. “You cannot wear those,” the Moon roared. “They are mine!” “Correction,” Grinfinity said, stepping forward with a pelvic thrust that echoed through the void. “They were yours. Now they’re riding this fuzzy thunder-thicc tail and fueling chaos like grandma’s chili on cheat day.” He activated the Underpant Protocol: an ancient power encoded in the waistband. Threads of truth and bad decisions spiraled outward, rewriting physics with every purr. The Moon staggered, blinking in slow-motion as its own gravitational ego was pulled into a swirling vortex of shame and self-reflection. “Is this what I’ve become?” the Moon whispered. “A petty ball of overreactive glow?” Kevin floated up beside it. “We all lose our shine sometimes. What matters is whether you sparkle again… on your own terms.” The Moon sobbed. One giant, shimmering tear fell from the sky and splashed onto Earth, instantly birthing a pop-up spa in Cleveland. No one questioned it. It had a four-star rating by noon. In that moment, Grinfinity forgave the Moon. Or maybe just got distracted by a floating meatball. Either way, peace was restored. The Spin Temple faded into a soft fog of dryer sheets and awkward goodbyes. The sock armies disbanded. The sentient panties returned to their cloud nests. The Moon returned home, slightly wiser, moderately humbler, and down one pair of godly underwear. Back on Earth, Grinfinity opened a fusion brunch parlor called Purradox & Eggs. Darla launched a wildly successful line of tactical corsets. Phil became the host of a reality show called “Naked and Mildly Confused.” Kevin published a memoir titled “Glitter and Guts: My Journey Through Sockspace.” And the underpants? Still worn by Grinfinity, usually on Wednesdays, always backwards, occasionally while skateboarding down gravity wells just to flip off the laws of thermodynamics. He never stopped grinning. Still grinning? Good — because now you can bring a piece of the madness home. Whether you want to display Grinfinity’s legendary smirk above your fireplace, send dangerously whimsical greetings to frenemies, or spend a questionable weekend assembling his fur one psychedelic piece at a time, we've got you covered. Own the purradox in glorious form: Framed Print: Class up your chaos — Grinfinity belongs in a frame, not in your sock drawer. Canvas Print: Vibrant, bold, and as misbehaved as your last birthday party. Tapestry: Cover your wall in color-drenched cat chaos (or your ex’s taste in décor). Jigsaw Puzzle: Lose your sanity piece by piece — just like Grinfinity intended. Greeting Card: Because nothing says “I’m thinking of you” like a cosmic cat who may have destroyed space-time for fun. Get weird. Get wonderful. Get Grinfinity.

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.

by Bill Tiepelman

How to Tame Your Dragon’s Dental Hygiene

The Gums of War In the majestic realm of Gingivaria—a place tragically overlooked by most fantasy cartographers—dragons weren’t known for their hoards or fiery wrath. No, they were known for their halitosis. The kind that could melt faces faster than their actual flame breath. The kind that left a streak of singed eyebrows in its wake. The kind that made even trolls retch and cry, “Dear gods, is that anchovy?” Enter Fizzwhistle Junebug, a winged dental hygienist with a vengeance. She was petite, sparkly, and meaner than a tax audit. Her wings shimmered in irritated gold whenever someone said, “Fairy dust solves everything.” Her toothbrush? An industrial-grade wand forged in the Molars of Mount Munch. Her mission? To tame the worst dental case in all seven realms: Greg. Greg the dragon had many titles: Scourge of Skincare, Flamey the Flatulent, Baron of the Bicuspid Apocalypse. But most knew him simply as The Breath of Doom. Villagers no longer brought sacrifices—they brought mints. Bards refused to sing of his deeds until they invented rhymes for “decay” and “oral swamp.” Greg didn’t mind. He was perfectly content gnawing on boulders and basking in the solitude of people running in the opposite direction. Until Fizzwhistle flew into his cave one dewy Tuesday morning with a clipboard and a peppermint aura. “Gregory?” she chirped, somehow sounding both chipper and ready to commit murder. “I’m with the Enchanted Oral Order. You’ve been reported… seven hundred and sixty-two times for olfactory assault. It’s time.” Greg blinked. One eye. Then the other. He was halfway through a mouthful of charcoal briquettes. “Time for what?” he rumbled, a cloud of greenish horror seeping from his mouth like a fog of forgotten sins. Fizzwhistle donned aviator goggles, clicked a button on her wand, and extended it into a dual-action, enchanted toothbrush-flossing lance. “Time,” she said, “for your first cleaning.” The scream that followed echoed through five valleys, startled a herd of centaurs into a synchronized can-can, and permanently curled the leaves of the Whimpering Woods. The Plaqueening Greg did not come quietly. He howled. He thrashed. He gnawed the air like a feral toddler teething on thunder. And yet, despite all this prehistoric drama, Fizzwhistle Junebug hovered with the dead-eyed calm of someone who’s flossed the teeth of mountain trolls while they snored. She waited, mid-air, wings buzzing faintly, wand-brush at the ready, sipping from a travel-sized espresso chalice that read: “Don’t Make Me Use The Mint.” “Done?” she asked after the third cave stalactite crumbled from Greg’s banshee roar. “No.” Greg grunted, curling his massive tail protectively around his snout. “You can’t make me. I have rights. I’m a majestic, ancient being. I’m on several tapestries.” “You’re also a public health crisis,” she replied. “Open wide, Sir Fumebreath.” “Why does it smell like burning cucumbers when I burp?” “That’s your tonsils waving a white flag.” Greg sighed, smoke curling out of his nostrils. Somewhere in the back of his prehistoric brain, the tiniest speck of shame flickered. Not that he’d ever admit it. Dragons don’t do shame. They do rage, naps, and existential ennui. But as Fizzwhistle cracked her knuckles and activated the sonic floss attachment, Greg realized that maybe—just maybe—he was not okay. “Okay, ground rules,” he growled. “No touching the uvula. That thing’s sensitive.” Fizzwhistle rolled her eyes. “Please. I’ve flossed krakens. Your uvula’s a powder puff.” And so it began. The Great Cleaning. First came the rinse: a cauldron of enchanted water infused with mint, moonlight, and a hint of cinnamon broom. Greg sputtered and foamed like a broken cappuccino machine. He belched a bubble that floated away, popped midair, and turned a squirrel into a barista. Then came the scaling. Fizzwhistle zipped between his teeth, lance vibrating, scraping decades of fossilized meat goo from his molars. Out came a knight’s helmet, two ox bones, a whole wheel of ghost cheese (still screaming), and what appeared to be the skeletal remains of a bard holding a tiny lute. Greg blinked. “So that’s where Harold went.” Fizzwhistle didn’t stop. She whirred. She buffed. She flossed with the fury of someone who had been left on read one too many times. And all the while, Greg sat there, his tongue dangling out like a defeated dog’s, whimpering. “Do you enjoy this?” he mumbled, half-choking on a minty glob of magical foam. “Immensely,” she grinned, wiping sweat from her brow with a disinfected lavender towel. Midway through quadrant three (left bicuspid zone), Greg coughed up a toothpick the size of a javelin and murmured, “This feels… oddly intimate.” Fizzwhistle paused. Hovered. Cocked her head sideways. “You ever had anyone care enough to scrape out your tartar, Greg?” “…no.” “Well, congrats. This is either love or professional stubbornness. Possibly both.” He blinked slowly. “Do you do tail scales too?” “That’s extra,” she deadpanned. Time slipped sideways. Light filtered in from the edge of the cave mouth in a hazy, post-cleanse glow. Greg’s teeth sparkled like cursed sapphires. His gums—formerly a toxic swamp of regret and regret sandwiches—now shone with the healthy blush of a creature who had finally seen a toothbrush. Fizzwhistle dropped into a seated hover, wand cooling in its holster. “Well. That’s done.” “I feel… light,” Greg said, opening his mouth and exhaling. A flock of nearby birds did not fall dead from the sky. Flowers did not immediately wither. A nearby tree actually perked up. “I feel like I could go to a brunch.” “Don’t push it,” she muttered. Greg sat in stunned silence, sniffing at his own breath like a dog discovering peanut butter. “I’m minty.” “You’re welcome.” Fizzwhistle tucked her gear back into her satchel, now clinking with extracted plaque crystals and some extra treasure she “accidentally” picked up from the hoard. Greg didn’t notice. He was too busy smiling—an act that, for the first time, did not cause a thunderclap or spontaneous nosebleeds in nearby villagers. “Hey, Fizz?” he said, his voice awkward and rumbly. “Would you maybe… come back? Like next week? Just to, you know, check the molars?” Fizzwhistle smirked. “We’ll see. Depends if you floss.” Greg's face fell. “What’s floss?” A Mint Condition Relationship The following week, Greg flossed using a pine tree and a suspiciously bendy wizard. It wasn’t effective, but the effort was there. Fizzwhistle returned, reluctantly impressed. She arrived with a toolbox of enchanted dental gear and the wary eyes of a woman who wasn’t sure whether this was a follow-up cleaning or an accidental date. “I even rinsed,” Greg offered proudly, mistaking a bucket of rainwater for mouthwash. He’d added crushed snowberries for flavor. He gagged. But he did it. Fizzwhistle raised an eyebrow. “You used the berries that scream when picked?” “It seemed festive.” “They’re also mildly hallucinogenic. Don’t eat your own tail for the next hour.” Despite the chaos, something had shifted. Greg didn’t flinch when she hovered near his canines. He even smiled—without weaponizing it. Birds didn’t scatter. Trees didn’t ignite. The world stayed mostly intact, which in Greg’s case was emotional growth. After his third appointment (he was now on a plan), Greg did something unthinkable. He made tea. He boiled water with his breath, steeped herbs from the Whispering Glade, and served it in a tea set he accidentally stole from a gnome wedding two centuries ago. Fizzwhistle, suspicious but curious, accepted. She even sipped. It wasn’t terrible. “I’ve never hosted tea before,” Greg admitted, fidgeting with his tail. “Usually I just incinerate guests.” “This is slightly more charming,” she said. “Also less murdery.” They sipped. They chatted. Topics ranged from dental horror stories to Greg’s brief but dramatic stint as a backup dancer in the Goblin Opera. She laughed. He blushed. Somewhere, a unicorn sneezed glitter and nobody knew why. The visits became routine. Weekly cleanings turned into bi-weekly brunches. Greg started brushing daily with a house-sized bristle brush mounted to a siege tower. Fizzwhistle installed a flossing polearm near the stalactites. She even left behind a magically singing toothbrush named Cheryl who kept yelling, “SCRUB THOSE MOLARS, YOU FILTHY KING!” every morning at sunrise. It was oddly romantic. Not in a “let’s hold hands under moonlight” kind of way, but in the “I scrape barnacles off your gums because I respect you” kind of way. Which, in Gingivaria, was basically a proposal. One day, as they flew together over the Sparkling Ridge (Fizzwhistle clinging to Greg’s neck spike with a picnic basket strapped to her back), he asked, “Do you think it’s weird?” “What? The fact that I clean your teeth with a glowing spear and also bring you croissants?” “That… and maybe the feelings part.” Fizzwhistle looked ahead, past the shimmering clouds and the distant spires of Gingivaria’s Capital of Canker, and said, “Greg, I’ve cleaned between your molars. There is no going back from that level of emotional intimacy.” Greg rumbled a soft laugh that only incinerated a small shrub. Progress. They landed on a cliff edge, laid out their brunch, and watched a pair of thunderbirds dance across the horizon. Greg delicately munched on a charcoal scone (recipe courtesy of Cheryl the toothbrush). Fizzwhistle nibbled a cloudberry tart and sipped a flask of wine that sang Gregorian chants in the key of gingivitis. “So…” Greg said, tail twitching nervously. “I was thinking of adding a second toothbrush tower. For guests. You know. If you ever wanted to… stay?” Fizzwhistle choked slightly on her tart. “Are you asking me to move in?” “Well. Only if you want to. And maybe if we survive your mom’s reaction. And if Cheryl doesn’t object. She’s gotten… territorial.” Fizzwhistle stared at him. This ancient, terrifying, plaque-producing beast with a now-brilliant smile and a secret weakness for honey tea. She wiped tart crumbs from her lip, adjusted her wing cuff, and said: “I’d be delighted, Greg. On one condition.” “Anything.” “You floss. With actual floss. Not wizards.” Greg grumbled but nodded. “Deal. Can we still use gnomes as mouthwash?” “Only if they volunteer.” And so they lived—mintily, sassily, and ever after—in a dragon’s lair turned open-plan dental spa. Word spread. Creatures from all corners of the land flocked to Gingivaria not to battle a beast, but to book an appointment. Fizzwhistle opened a boutique. Greg became the poster child for reformed dragon breath. Their love was weird. Their brunches legendary. Their plaque? Nonexistent. Because in the end, even the most fearsome monsters deserve someone who cares enough to clean their teeth, love their bad habits, and gently whisper, “You missed a spot, babe.” Want to bring a little mythical mischief into your home? This magical moment between Greg and Fizzwhistle is available as a print, puzzle, tumbler, and more. Explore "How to Tame Your Dragon’s Dental Hygiene" in glorious detail through high-quality merchandise and fine art prints at Unfocussed Archive. Add a touch of enchanted chaos to your walls—or your morning coffee routine.

by Bill Tiepelman

Tea With a Twist of Madness

Welcome to the Unhinged Hour The teacup trembled in his hand, but not from age or tremor. Oh no, that wasn’t his style. This was deliberate—an invitation. A shivering clink of porcelain against porcelain, timed to the second, meant to drive anyone listening just a little more bonkers. He grinned, blood dribbling neatly from the corner of his mouth like raspberry jam from a cracked scone. “Darling, do come in,” he purred. “We’re just one scone short of a psychotic episode.” Her name was Maple. Not that it mattered. He had already renamed her in his head: Spoonette. She had the precise amount of judgmental eyebrow and unseasoned curiosity that made her the perfect guest. Human enough to ask why the sandwiches were whispering. Dull enough to eat them anyway. The Mad Hatter—though he preferred 'Sir Hatsalot the Unbalanced'—flourished one gangly arm toward a seat upholstered in mismatched socks. “Sit, sit! The tea won’t murder itself.” Maple hesitated. The chair burped. She sat anyway. “Now then,” he said, plopping down across from her with the elegance of a flung marionette. “Tell me what brings you to the edge of reason, across the river of sanity, and into my dribble-stained garden of demented delight?” He poured from a teapot shaped like a screaming frog, red liquid splashing into her cup with the viscosity of regret. “And before you ask—yes, it is tea. Technically. Spiritually.” Maple opened her mouth. Closed it. Decided nodding was safer. He sipped theatrically, smearing crimson across his chin. His teeth gleamed like porcelain gravestones. “Oh, she’s clever,” he whispered to the cup. “Did you see how she didn’t ask? That's respect. Or fear. Either way, delicious.” The garden around them writhed with creeping vines, disembodied hats bouncing around like caffeinated rabbits. A chandelier swung lazily from nothing above, draped in spoons and moth wings. Something giggled from behind the sugar bowl. Possibly the sugar bowl. But the Hatter kept his eyes on her. “You seem nice,” he said, leaning in. “I like that. Nice people scream better.” She reached for a biscuit. It hissed. She ate it anyway. He laughed—sharp, short, and uncomfortably sexual. “I knew I liked you. I’ve always admired a woman who snacks through trauma.” The teacup rattled again. Louder this time. Maple finally spoke. “Is it... bleeding?” “Not yet,” the Hatter chirped. “But give it a minute. I steeped it with unresolved daddy issues and beetroot.” From a corner of the table, a doily sighed. Somewhere behind her, the Cheshire Cat blinked into half-existence, rolled its eyes, and blinked right back out. And so the Unhinged Hour began—one guest, one hatter, and one pot of something suspiciously coagulated. Just the way he liked it. The Tart of Knowing Things The Hatter leaned forward until his hat nearly grazed the burning candle stuck to the top of a mummified hedgehog centerpiece. “Now that you’ve tasted trauma with a side of biscuit,” he grinned, “let’s move on to the amuse-bouche of revelation.” He produced a small tart from beneath his sleeve. It was glistening, dark, and trembling slightly, as though it regretted existing. “This,” he said, holding it out like a sacrament, “is the Tart of Knowing Things. Eat it, and you’ll understand absolutely everything... for five to seven minutes.” Maple squinted at it. “What kind of things?” “All the things. The cosmic things. The unsettling things. The stuff you think about at 3:17 AM when your ceiling fan sounds like it's trying to confess to murder.” She looked down at the tart. It twitched. She looked back up. “Will I still be me afterward?” He shrugged. “Hard to say. That depends entirely on how much of ‘you’ is made of denial.” Against every instinct her childhood therapist had installed, she took the tart and popped it into her mouth. The moment it hit her tongue, the world bloomed sideways. Colors became smells, time hiccupped, and the table started reciting slam poetry about abandonment issues. Her mind opened like a back-alley curtain, and behind it stood a naked version of herself, dramatically weeping into a croissant. And then—clarity. She knew. She knew the Hatter’s real name was Harold. She knew the spoon collection was organized by trauma category. She knew the tea was not tea. And, most importantly, she knew that the chandelier overhead was sentient and judging her for that time she kissed Greg behind the frozen peas in college. Bastard Greg. She came to with a scream that was mostly vowels. The Hatter applauded, setting off a chain reaction of polite clapping from the hats on the table. “Well done!” he shouted. “Most guests only scream in German.” Maple slammed her teacup down. “You drugged me!” He scoffed. “I enhanced you. You’re welcome.” She looked down. Her legs had grown tiny shoes and were dancing independently beneath the table. The Hatter took a long, luxurious slurp of his not-tea. “Now that you’ve been spiritually exfoliated,” he said, “you’re ready for the riddle segment.” “There's a riddle segment?” He stood, dramatically sweeping his arms. “Of course! Every good tea party includes riddles, emotionally compromised guests, and light necromancy.” He cleared his throat and began: “What has twelve eyes, three opinions, and one regret named Carl?” Maple blinked. “Is it you?” The Hatter grinned. “Nope! It’s my mother. But close enough. Partial credit. You win a whisper.” Before she could decline, he leaned across the table and whispered something so outrageous, so wildly profane, so cosmically bizarre, that one of her eyelashes burst into flames. The candle-laden hedgehog clapped its little paws in approval. “That was not consensual whispering,” she mumbled, patting out the smolder. “Neither was this table setting,” he quipped, gesturing toward a bowl of lemons that were actively fighting amongst themselves. Just then, a faint bell chimed in the distance. The Hatter froze, mid-lick of his cup’s rim. “Ah,” he murmured. “The Twelfth Teacup is arriving. She’s never late. She’s just fashionably apocalyptic.” Maple, still high on existential pastry, tried to steady her breathing. “Who’s the Twelfth Teacup?” His expression turned solemn, for exactly three seconds. Then he burst into giggles. “You’ll see. She’s a delight. If delight were a grenade inside a Victoria’s Secret bag.” And with that, he stood, bowed with the elegance of someone who learned manners from a pirate, and beckoned her toward a doorway that hadn’t been there a moment ago—arched in teacups and glowing faintly with menace. “Come,” he said. “Let’s ruin what’s left of your dignity together.” She stood. Her chair sighed in disappointment. The chandelier coughed. Maple followed him through the arch, the walls pulsing like they were breathing, and the faint sounds of croquet played with screaming hedgehogs echoing ahead. She did not know what lay beyond, only that it smelled like cinnamon, regret, and something aggressively floral. But she knew one thing for sure: if she survived this tea party, she was definitely leaving a bad Yelp review. The Rise of the Twelfth Teacup The corridor curved like a serpent on meth, pulsating with floral wallpaper that blinked in sync with Maple’s mild anxiety attack. The Hatter skipped ahead, humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like “Stayin’ Alive” played backward. With each step, the air grew thicker, syrupy—like breathing through raspberry jam laced with sass. Lights flickered overhead, not from faulty wiring, but from personal spite. “Nearly there,” the Hatter chirped. “The Twelfth Teacup loves making an entrance. She once showed up inside a flamingo.” “Alive?” Maple asked. “Debatable.” The door at the end of the hallway was made of what appeared to be interlaced cat tails. Actual tails. They twitched as they opened themselves with a dramatic yawn, revealing a vast, shadowy ballroom where gravity was more of a suggestion. Chandeliers spun like confused ballerinas. A tea fountain gurgled blood-orange Earl Grey from a gargoyle’s mouth. A harp played itself in the corner and had very strong opinions about polyamory. And there, rising from a mound of stale biscotti like a chaos phoenix, stood the Twelfth Teacup. She was radiant in the way a solar flare is radiant—beautiful, terrifying, and likely to burn off your eyebrows. Her dress was stitched from mismatched pocket watches and scandalous secrets. Her lipstick was unapologetically venomous. Her eyes? Two twin galaxies contemplating homicide. “You brought a mortal?” she hissed, her voice both sultry and echoing like an emotional Yelp review. “She ate the Tart of Knowing Things,” said the Hatter, bowing so deeply he vanished entirely for a moment. “She’s earned her chaos badge.” Maple curtsied. Badly. A teaspoon exploded nearby in protest. “Very well,” the Teacup purred. “Let the Ceremony commence.” Two skeletal flamingos clattered into the room carrying trays: one with teacups, one with weapons. The Hatter raised an eyebrow. “Dealer’s choice, love.” Maple looked back and forth. “...Is it always like this?” “Only on days that end in ‘why.’” She grabbed a teacup. The Hatter grabbed a chainsaw. The Twelfth Teacup sighed and pulled out a live crab wearing a monocle. “To the table,” she declared, floating there like an angry bar mitzvah balloon. The Grand Table was absurdly long and hovered six inches off the ground. As they took their seats, chairs sprouted legs and adjusted themselves with judgmental groans. Maple found herself between the Hatter and a sentient pile of hair named Carl. Carl winked. She politely ignored him. “The rules are simple,” the Teacup explained. “We pour. We sip. We confess our most forbidden truths. And then we wrestle, spiritually or otherwise.” Maple blinked. “Is this... strip confession tea wrestling?” “It’s tradition,” the Hatter whispered, already barefoot and halfway into a feather boa. One by one, they poured steaming liquid into their cups. Maple’s smelled like licorice and broken promises. The Hatter’s hissed when touched. Carl’s cup filled itself with what could only be described as hot existential dread. They drank. All at once. And then, like a switch was flipped in her psyche, Maple stood up and confessed. Loudly. To everything. She’d never tipped a street musician, not once. She lied about liking goat cheese. She once pretended to be a cat for two weeks in college to avoid finals. Meowed in class. Got an A. The Hatter followed: “I once spooned a banshee, purely for warmth. She howled my name for hours. We still send each other dead roses.” The Twelfth Teacup rose like a vengeful sorceress. “I created Boy Bands just to distract humanity from my dark machinations. You’re welcome for the bops.” It escalated quickly. Carl accused the harp of ghosting him on a third date. The chandelier sobbed in Latin. The tea fountain began to spray wine. Someone somewhere shouted “YOLO!” and tried to wrestle a ghost in formalwear. Suddenly the walls collapsed outward, revealing a carnival tent under a sky made of swirling wallpaper and judgment. The tent was on fire, but politely so. “This,” the Hatter said, spinning in delight, “is the end of the party! The madness crescendo! The tea-nal reckoning!” Maple’s cup exploded. She laughed. Honest, guttural, ridiculous laughter. Something inside her cracked open—not painfully, but joyfully. A part of her that had been sipping tepid normality for years finally slurped the insanity it had secretly craved. “What happens now?” she asked. The Twelfth Teacup floated by, fixing her with a grin. “Now you decide—go back to your normal life... or stay, and host the next tea war.” Maple glanced at the Hatter. He had painted his knees and was slow-dancing with a lampshade. She smiled. “Pass the tart. I’m staying.” And with that, the ballroom erupted into applause, the hats flung themselves in the air like tiny woolen fireworks, and the Hatter took her hand, twirled her into the spotlight, and declared, “Ladies and gentlemen, and others delightfully undefined—meet your new Mistress of the Absurd!” The music swelled. The tea poured. The madness danced. And Maple, once mundane and spoonless, became legend in a world that ran on nonsense, steeped in sin, and served with a cinnamon rim. — Fin. (Or... To Be Reboiled.) Love the madness? Steep yourself in it—literally. If this unhinged journey into velvet chaos and tea-fueled delirium left you smiling like a dangerously overdressed maniac, why not take a little slice of that madness home? Wrap yourself in cozy lunacy with our fleece blanket, perfect for late-night tart-fueled revelations. Or bring that slightly-judgmental-whimsy into your daily routine with a shower curtain that definitely sees more than it lets on. Need a little wall madness? The acrylic print is sharper than the Hatter’s tongue, and the tapestry turns any boring wall into a portal to stylish derangement. Because tea parties come and go, but absurdity is forever.

by Bill Tiepelman

Blush of the Bog

The Puddle Prowler There are fairies. There are elves. There are even goblins with decent posture and good credit scores. But what most people don’t know is that deep within the boggy armpit of the forgotten wetland known as the Muckfluff Fen, lives a creature so uniquely chaotic, so blindingly delightful, that no single species would dare claim her. Her name—best whispered with reverence or shouted while mildly drunk—is Tangleberry Fernwick the Third. No one really knows what happened to the First and Second Tangleberries, but if Tangleberry the Third is any indication, they probably giggled themselves into mushrooms and floated off into the breeze. Our Tangleberry was born on a Tuesday, during a solar burp, under a sky that thought it was ocean. Her hair exploded into the world in a glorious mess of hot pink and electric blue, defying gravity and taste. Her first words were, “Well, this is unfortunate,” after which she attempted to sue the midwife for using scratchy moss towels. She lost the case, but gained the town’s grudging respect. Now fully grown—if you could call knee-height and eternally barefoot “grown”—Tangleberry was the Fen’s most prolific troublemaker and unsolicited therapist. She’d hold counseling sessions for cranky frogs and moody mushrooms on a flat lily pad she insisted was “her stage.” Her specialty? Helping creatures embrace their weird. Tangleberry considered herself a Certified Goblet of Glittery Truths (a title she gave herself and embroidered on a vest made of snail shells). She sat most mornings on her favorite rock, right in the middle of the bog’s most photogenic pond. It wasn’t photogenic to anyone else, but to her, the slightly slimy lily pads, buzzing dragonflies, and the scent of fermenting cattails were a sensory buffet of pure euphoria. Chin resting in palms, freckles glowing like fallen stars, she would smile at her reflection and say, “Damn, you are a natural disaster in the best way possible.” Today, however, was different. The pond had grown suspiciously quiet. Even Barry, the emotionally constipated bullfrog who practiced slam poetry on Wednesdays, was missing. Tangleberry’s toe twitched. Something was afoot. “I swear by my braid bead,” she muttered, tightening the little brass ring that bound her hot-pink side braid, “if the Fae Council is trying to ‘intervene’ again, I’m throwing glitter in their soup.” She hopped off her rock, landing in a dramatic crouch that absolutely no one saw. A shame, really, because it was majestic and slightly moist. Wading through lily pads and soggy reeds, she began her journey to investigate the Disappearance of Normal Weirdness—a quest that would ultimately challenge everything she believed about bog politics, amphibian fashion, and whether one could truly love a mushroom named Harold. The Mushroom, the Muck, and the Middle-Fingered Moon Harold, it turned out, was not only missing—he’d been kidnapped. Or at least, that’s what Tangleberry concluded when she reached his favorite sulking stump and found only a slimy note pinned to a toadstool with a very rude stick. “Gone 2 the Crust. Smell ya.” “The Crust?” Tangleberry gasped. “Oh, no no. Not the moss crust. Nobody voluntarily goes there. It's full of soggy purists and compost snobs who alphabetize their pebbles. Ugh.” Harold, her best friend, confidant, and occasional hat, was a fluffed-up, mood-swingy mushroom who once wrote an angry letter to a rainbow for being too mainstream. He wore a monocle (despite having no eyes) and took pride in being “a fungal of principle.” His favorite activities included passive-aggressive haiku, sitting with aggressive stillness, and doing nothing while making everyone feel inferior about it. Tangleberry squinted at the faint footprints in the muck. Definitely Harold’s. And they were headed straight for the edge of the Crust—the driest, most regulated zone of the entire bog. The Crust was governed by the BCB: the Bureau of Clean Behavior. Founded by elder swamp elves who thought spontaneity was “unflattering,” the BCB was famous for three things: banning glitter, assigning mandatory moods, and outlawing any footwear not beige. Tangleberry cracked her knuckles. “This means war,” she declared, shaking swamp water off her oversized ears like a very cute dog after a scandal. She plucked her sassiest reed flute from her moss-sack, grabbed her mood ring (which always pointed to “delightfully unstable”), and stomped toward the Crust with all the righteous fury of a toddler denied juice. Halfway there, she was intercepted by a sentient fog named Clive. “Password,” Clive whispered ominously, curling around her ankles like a clingy sock. “Eat moss, Clive,” she snapped. “Correct.” He drifted aside with a dramatic sigh. “You’re lucky I like you, Fernwick.” “Everybody likes me. I’m like fungus for the soul.” She strutted past him, humming a little swamp anthem she’d composed entirely from frog belches and newt squeaks. The BCB’s checkpoint loomed ahead: a damp arch made of well-behaved twigs, manned by an elf wearing the expression of someone who hated fun and regularly chewed gravel for breakfast. His name tag read “Gilbert, Compliance Elf (Level 7).” “State your business,” he intoned, eyes squinting at her braid and glimmer-stained cheeks. “Looking for a mushroom. Goes by Harold. Smells like regret and old socks. Might be under the impression he belongs in Beige Town.” Gilbert frowned. “All unauthorized flora must be registered. You’ll need Form 37-M. In triplicate.” “I’ve got a better idea,” she chirped, stepping close enough to boop his nose. “How about I distract you with some whimsical nonsense while I dramatically sneak in and unleash a one-person revolution?” Gilbert blinked. “I—what?” But it was too late. Tangleberry backflipped (not gracefully, but with wild conviction) through the checkpoint, kicking over a stack of rules and accidentally slapping a ferret intern with her braid. Chaos bloomed in her wake like enthusiastic mold. The Crust was worse than she imagined. Uniform cottages arranged in suspiciously straight rows, organized lily pad schedules, laughter that had to be pre-approved, and not a single sparkle in sight. The residents—pale, beige-clad elves with no visible sense of irony—gawked as she danced down the main road in socks with visible toes. It was the closest the town had come to rioting in centuries. Finally, in the middle of a mossy plaza called “Appropriate Gathering Circle B,” she found him. Harold. Sitting in a clay pot. Wearing a bowtie. “Tangles?” he blinked. “You came.” “Of course I came! You left without your rage journal! You know you get cranky without it.” “I was... tired. Of being weird. Of not being ‘functional fungus.’ They said I could be cultivated here. Respected. Grown with purpose.” She knelt beside him, placing a hand over his cap. “Babe. You’re the least functional thing I’ve ever met. And that’s why you’re perfect.” Silence hung heavy. And then, a slow grin spread across Harold’s frilled lips. “Let’s burn it all down?” “With jazz hands.” Ten minutes later, the Crust was a confetti-drenched war zone of renegade reeds and unleashed pond sprites. Tangleberry had stolen Gilbert’s clipboard and was using it as a limbo stick. Harold sang interpretive dirges while juggling rocks. Clive returned, dramatically announcing himself with foghorn impressions. By sundown, the Crust had cracked. A dozen uptight elves joined in, rediscovering their inner nonsense. One confessed he’d always wanted to paint angry ducks. Another invented a dance called “The Moist Wobble.” And Harold? He wore a tutu made from crinkled bureaucratic memos and declared himself “Queen of the Peat.” Tangleberry watched the moon rise, slouching comfortably on her reclaimed pond rock. “Not bad for a day’s work,” she mumbled. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll start a revolution in the Gassy Reeds District.” The moon winked back. Literally. And then flipped her off in jest. She grinned. Because in the bog, love was muddy, rules were optional, and weird was sacred. Of Glitter Bombs and Grandmother’s Teeth In the weeks following the Glitter Uprising of the Crust, the bog had become a very different place. What was once a patchwork of quarrelsome fens and mossy jurisdictions now pulsed with eccentricity. The BCB was disbanded (after a dramatic bake-off lost to a feral raccoon), Harold’s tutu was added to the Bog Museum of Disobedient Fashion, and Tangleberry Fernwick the Third became a reluctant folk hero, much to her horror and delight. “I didn’t do it to be famous,” she said, sprawled in a hammock made from otter whiskers and shredded bylaws. “I did it for the vibes.” “You’ve become a symbol,” Harold replied, sipping tea from a thimble while wearing a sash that read PEAT ICON. “There are murals. Muralssssss.” “Oh gods.” Tangleberry groaned and rolled out of the hammock. “You know what this means, right?” Harold nodded solemnly. “Your grandmother’s coming.” Now. Most folks hear “grandmother” and think of doilies, sugar cookies, or judgmental knitting. But in the swamp, things were... more intense. Granny Fenfen Fernwick—first of her name, last of her patience—was the oldest creature in the bog. Not “old” like bent and wrinkly. “Old” like the universe tripped and dropped a galaxy and it became her. She lived in a twisted willow tree that allegedly predated gravity. Her house was guarded by sentient bark lice and a bear who wrote limericks. Her teeth were removable, glowing, and extremely aggressive when insulted. And worst of all—she was proud. Tangleberry could already hear it: “Oh, look at you, little goblet. Starting revolutions. Causing chaos. That’s my girl. But your ears are uneven and your sarcasm is too moist.” The visit was scheduled for Slurpday (the fourth day of the week, named after a local weather pattern), and the entire bog was in a frenzy. Creatures scrubbed mushrooms. Frogs rehearsed synchronized burping. A choir of newts tuned their tails. Harold re-laced his bowtie and dabbed lavender oil on his cap. Tangleberry just sat on her rock and tried to fake her own abduction. At precisely fourteen sploshes past noon, the air went still. A hush fell. Even the breeze dared not exhale. Then came the shriek of warped reality and the faint clatter of ancestral bones. Granny Fernwick had arrived, riding a floating recliner made of blackberries and arrogance. Her hair was a storm cloud held together with spells and defiance. Her robes billowed with secrets. Her eyes gleamed like lightning in a bottle that didn’t ask permission to be opened. “Where’s my little bog fart?” she bellowed, causing two mushrooms to faint and a salamander to combust out of sheer respect. Tangleberry stepped forward, biting her lip. “Hi Granny.” Granny raised one eyebrow, which caused a nearby toad to lay an egg. “You’ve grown. And by grown I mean sideways. Why is your hair doing jazz hands?” “Because it knows it’s iconic.” “Fair.” Granny hovered ominously. “I’ve heard tales, you know. Saw your face in the moss news. You’ve turned the Crust into a circus, corrupted a mushroom, and convinced a fog to unionize.” “Clive negotiated paid lunch breaks.” “Good. I always liked Clive. Moist but sensible.” The two Fernwicks stared at each other, measuring their mischief. Finally, Granny reached into her robe and pulled out a tin box. “Well then. Time you had this.” Tangleberry blinked. “What is it?” “Your inheritance.” Inside the box was a single item: an ancient glitter bomb, humming with suppressed fabulousness. Crafted during the Time of Too Much Magic, it had been outlawed by six governments and one very offended mole. Legend said it could turn a room into a disco orgy of uncontrolled authenticity. “It’s... beautiful.” “Use it wisely,” Granny intoned, narrowing her stormy eyes. “Or recklessly. Honestly, whatever. Just promise me one thing.” “Anything.” “Never let them tame you.” With that, Granny snapped her fingers, turned into a burst of mossy cackling, and vanished into a fold in the weather. Silence. Harold leaned close. “I peed a little.” “Me too.” From that moment forward, everything changed. Tangleberry began traveling the bog, spreading the Gospel of Glitter. Not a cult. Definitely not a cult. More like a very enthusiastic book club with questionable ethics and regular dance battles. She carried the bomb in a pouch tied to her tail and told its story to every weirdo she met. She taught swamp gnomes how to rebel with confetti. She kissed a tree spirit and didn’t call him back. She ate a moonbeam on a dare and got indigestion for a week. She helped Harold launch a poetry magazine written entirely in mold spores. And she wore her uniqueness like armor made of swamp sass and joy. On her 143rd birthday, the pond she once sat beside was renamed “Tangle’s Blush.” A tourist spot. A sacred silly place. Where frogs wore hats and everyone was just a little bit extra. And in the dead of night, if you sat still enough, you might hear the pop of a distant glitter bomb, a shriek of laughter, and the faint, fond whisper of an ancient swamp witch saying: “That’s my girl.” Take the magic home! Whether you're a lifelong bog-dweller or just someone who dreams in glitter and lily pads, you can now bring the weird and wonderful world of Tangleberry Fernwick into your everyday life. Adorn your walls with a framed print of “Blush of the Bog,” send enchantment through the mail with a whimsical greeting card, or make a splash at the nearest swamp (or beach) with the boldest towel this side of the fen. Carry your sass in style with a roomy tote bag, or go full swamp-chic with a stunning metal print that practically cackles with mischief. All products feature the original artwork by Bill and Linda Tiepelman, exclusively at shop.unfocussed.com.

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

Teatime Tides

The Steepening There was a mermaid in Margot’s teacup. Now, you may think that’s the kind of sentence best reserved for children’s books or individuals who lick glue recreationally, but Margot had, in fact, just brewed a rather ordinary chamomile. And she was quite certain the tea did not include mythical beings on the ingredient list—unless Whole Foods had finally cracked and gone full goblin-core. The mermaid, for her part, looked mildly irritated but otherwise fabulous. She had a tail like sequin-infused sapphire syrup, hair that swirled like coffee cream in slow motion, and an attitude that read “Instagram influencer who’s too good for your land-based nonsense.” Perched beside her was a smug little seahorse, bobbing with the lazy swish of her fishtail like he was waiting to be knighted. “Ahem,” Margot said, peering into the cup. “Why are you in my tea?” “Why aren’t you?” the mermaid replied, stretching languidly in the lemon-honey swirl. Her voice had that bubbly champagne pop to it—too sparkly to be mad at, but fizzy enough to stir unease. Margot blinked. She was dressed in three-day-old yoga pants, had half a Pop-Tart in her hair, and was aggressively not caffeinated. Either this was a nervous breakdown or the world had decided to finally acknowledge her main character energy. “This isn’t a metaphor, is it? You’re not here to teach me self-love through marine metaphysics?” she asked, tapping the rim of the cup. The teacup responded with a dignified ping, like a crystal goblet being slightly insulted. “Oh please,” scoffed the mermaid. “Do I look like a self-help allegory? I’m on a lunch break. This is my spa cup. You’re the one who summoned me by pouring the water clockwise over that expired loose-leaf blend. Honestly, who still uses loose-leaf without a strainer? It’s chaos in here.” Margot leaned closer. “So you’re like… a unionized teacup mermaid? You have breaks?” “We all have breaks,” the mermaid said primly, adjusting her sea-shell bikini top like it had a grudge. “You think the tide takes itself out? You people are so self-absorbed.” The seahorse burped. Margot could’ve sworn it sounded like, “Amen.” At that moment, a butterfly flitted past and landed delicately on the cup’s rim, blinking its wings as if it, too, was trying to process the situation. “Okay,” Margot said finally, sitting down at her cluttered table. “Talk to me. Are there rules? Do I owe you rent? Am I secretly a siren queen or is this just the chamomile kicking in?” The mermaid’s smile curled like a tidepool secret. “Oh honey. This is only the steeping stage. Things get truly weird after the second sip.” Margot stared at the cup. The tea shimmered. The seahorse winked. Against all better judgment—and with a flair only chaos could summon—Margot took another sip. And the room, quite politely, wobbled sideways. Deep Brew Margot was falling, but not in the dramatic, flailing-into-a-void kind of way. No, this was more like being slowly poured into a velvet-glazed dream funnel lined with glitter and scented vaguely of sea salt and bergamot. One second, she was upright in her very real kitchen. The next? She was shoulder-deep in something warm and viscous and vaguely peach-colored, like time had decided to host a bubble bath. “Ope—watch the cascade, you’re creasing the ambiance,” said the mermaid, who was now full-sized and reclining like a smug goddess on a floating slice of citrus the size of a life raft. Margot flailed until she was upright and sputtering. “Am I IN the tea?” “Technically, yes. But spiritually? You’re in the interdimensional spa realm of Steepacia. Welcome. We host Wednesdays.” The space around her was absurd in a way only dreams or luxury catalogs dared to be. Opalescent tea leaves floated lazily like jellyfish through the golden infusion. Delicate teaspoons flitted like hummingbirds, and somewhere in the distance, a harp made entirely of kelp played something that sounded suspiciously like Enya trying jazz. “I knew it,” Margot muttered, eyeing her floating reflection. “I wore my regret pants today. Of course I end up in an existential tea dimension wearing regret pants.” The mermaid let out a melodic giggle and tossed her damp hair like she was auditioning for a shampoo ad in Atlantis. “Relax, landling. This place responds to your emotional temperature. Here—have a mental mimosa.” With a delicate flick of her tail, she conjured a sparkling glass that hovered just within reach. Margot took a sip. It tasted like nostalgia, orgasms, and brunch. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but she was significantly less anxious. “Okay,” she said, voice calmer but still riding the WTF rollercoaster. “So... is this a one-way trip? Do I need to kiss a kelp wizard to get out, or...” “Gods, no,” said a new voice, sharp and vaguely crustacean. A small crab wearing reading glasses and a necktie clicked into view, holding a clipboard. “She’s a first-brew. Probably temporary. Emotional instability triggered by caffeine deficit. I give her six hours, max.” “Hey,” Margot frowned, “I’ll have you know I’m emotionally stable enough to hold down a job, keep a houseplant alive, and only cry in the car like, once a week.” “Textbook.” The crab sighed and scribbled something. “Please report to the Fennel Sauna for processing.” “Ignore him,” the mermaid whispered. “He’s just bitter because he used to be a dishwasher in the real world and now manages leaf temperature therapy. Anyway, since you’re here, might as well enjoy the amenities.” And that’s how Margot found herself half-submerged in an oolong hot tub beside a unicorn-shaped kettle, being offered cucumber eye patches by a chorus of aquatic mice who hummed barbershop harmonies while exfoliating her aura with matcha seafoam. “I feel like Gwyneth Paltrow’s subconscious,” she murmured, wrapped in a hibiscus robe and watching the mermaid gently braid a rainbow koi into her hair like it was no big deal. “Enjoy it. This place has moods. It picks up on your vibes and… manifests accordingly.” Margot stared across the tea-washed horizon, where clouds shaped like biscotti lazily rumbled past a sun made of glazed lemon. “That sounds like foreshadowing,” she muttered. It was. Because that’s when the seahorse returned—only now it was wearing a tiny pirate hat and riding what appeared to be a jellyfish named Greg. “Emergency in the Rooibos Reefs! The Earl Grey Golem has awakened!” “Oh not again,” groaned the mermaid, who now had a slightly glittery sword tucked behind her ear like a hairpin. Margot raised her hand cautiously. “Quick question. Is this one of those moments where I learn I have hidden powers? Or do I just die creatively and serve as a plot device in someone else’s journey?” “Neither,” the mermaid said, diving gracefully off her citrus raft and summoning a war-squid from thin air. “You’re with me. You’re the emotional ballast.” “The what now?!” But it was too late. She was already astride the seahorse—who smelled faintly of cinnamon gum and teenage rebellion—and flying through the infusional ether like a caffeinated fever dream. Around her, storm clouds of bergamot thundered softly, and beneath them rose the ominous silhouette of the Earl Grey Golem: eight feet of antique porcelain fury, monocle glinting, moustache made of twisted tea leaves. Margot, full of mimosa courage and absolutely none of the necessary life skills, reached into her pocket. Miraculously, she pulled out a tiny teabag. It pulsed with lavender light. “Is that the Sacred Sachet?” the mermaid gasped from her perch on a spiraling honey drizzle vortex. “I dunno,” Margot said, eyes wide. “I think it came from a free sample pack. But it feels... emotionally charged.” “Then throw it. Right at his steeper!” Margot hurled the sachet with the flailing confidence of someone who once got a participation ribbon in elementary school dodgeball. It hit the Golem’s chest with a poof of fragrant steam—and the world paused. The golem blinked, looked down, sniffed, and sighed. A deep, contented sigh. Then he turned into a moderately sized antique teapot and gently plunked into the seafoam. The mermaid stared. The seahorse hiccupped. Greg the jellyfish applauded with one limp tentacle. “What… what just happened?” Margot whispered. “You soothed him. He was overstimulated. Poor guy only wanted a nap and some affirmation,” the mermaid said gently. “You’re very good at this.” “I… am?” “Yes. Emotional ballast. You stabilize the madness. Or at least repackage it in a way the rest of us can process.” Margot blinked, cheeks flushed. “So… like a therapist?” “Or a writer.” That hit a bit too hard. Just then, the sky above them shimmered, and the voice of the crab came booming from nowhere: “Time’s up! She’s beginning to stir in the waking realm.” Margot grabbed the mermaid’s hand instinctively. “Wait—what if I want to stay?” The mermaid smiled, that same sideways, salty grin. “You can’t stay. But you can visit. Anytime you need a break. Just brew clockwise. And never forget to stir with intention.” And with a final warm pulse of honey and lavender, the world turned inside out… The Stirring Margot woke up snort-sneezing on her couch, cheeks squashed against the faux velvet cushion like a crime scene. The tea cup—now completely ordinary, mildly lukewarm, and devoid of any mythical spa creatures—sat smugly on the coffee table, as if it hadn’t just been the portal to an emotionally complex teacup multiverse. She blinked. Sniffed. Peered inside. Nothing. Not a fin. Not a flicker. Not even a suspicious bubble. Just a faint whiff of bergamot and something like glitter trauma. “Okay,” she said to no one, rubbing her temples. “So either I hallucinated a high-budget sea fantasy on a Tuesday, or I just main-charactered my way into another dimension through expired loose-leaf.” She looked around. Her apartment was still her apartment—mildly chaotic, aggressively scented like dry shampoo and panic, and just cozy enough to pass for “intentional.” Her half-eaten Pop-Tart sat on the floor like it, too, had experienced an existential moment. And somewhere in the corner, her cat was making intense eye contact with the radiator, which wasn’t new. Margot leaned over the teacup. “Hey, uh… I don’t know if this is like Beetlejuice rules, but... steepacia, steepacia, steepacia?” Nothing. But the spoon did shimmer slightly. Just once. Almost like a wink. For the rest of the morning, she wandered around in a daze, accidentally brushing her teeth with sunscreen and emailing her boss something that included the phrase “crab-based time therapy.” She couldn’t stop thinking about it. The koi braid. The rogue seahorse. The terrifyingly relatable Golem who just wanted a nap. And most of all… the mermaid. That sassy, sarcastic, glittery-scaled miracle of emotional support and mild snark. The way she smiled like she knew all your secrets and had ranked them from least to most cringey—but in a nice way. Margot sighed, long and dramatic, like she was auditioning for a sad coffee commercial. She didn’t even realize how long she’d been staring out the window until her neighbor Todd waved from across the street. She waved back without looking, accidentally knocking over a jar of expired honey. It oozed onto the counter in a slow, poetic sort of way. Margot stared at it. She was pretty sure it was judging her. Later that evening, she stood in the kitchen holding a new tea blend she’d bought out of pure spite. It had a watercolor label featuring a fox in a bowler hat and promised things like “clarity,” “inner sparkle,” and “tasteful epiphanies.” Margot didn’t trust it. But she brewed it anyway. This time, she poured slowly. Clockwise. Very deliberately. She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. She watched the leaves swirl and settle. The color shifted to a familiar peachy hue. She whispered, “Steepacia?” The water glimmered. Nothing happened for a long moment. Then, just as she leaned back in disappointment, something tiny bobbed to the surface. A seahorse. Wearing sunglasses. It gave her a curt nod, did a dramatic backflip, and vanished again. Margot gasped, almost dropped the cup—and then laughed. A big, ridiculous, snorty laugh that echoed through her apartment and startled the cat into knocking over an entire shelf of scented candles. It felt good. A laugh soaked in bubble bath memories and kelp-harp music. A laugh that said, “Yeah, I’m probably not okay, but who is? At least I’ve got interdimensional sea friends now.” That night, she dreamt of spa mimosas, citrus islands, and mermaid sarcasm so sharp it could slice through imposter syndrome like a butter knife through warm brie. She woke up refreshed in the only way someone can be after confronting their own existential nonsense via magical beverage. From then on, Margot kept a shelf of strange teas—anything with mysterious names or packaging that seemed a little too quirky to be legal. She learned to pour slowly. To stir with care. And every now and then, when she really needed it, the tea would shimmer. Sometimes she’d see the mermaid again—lounging in her cup like royalty with a minor hangover, tossing sass like it was seafoam. They’d chat. Or fight. Or sit in silence, sipping cucumber kelp lattes from mugs made of rainbow clamshells. It didn’t matter. Because what mattered was this: Somewhere between loose-leaf lunacy and self-discovery, Margot had found the weird, magical truth of herself. Emotional ballast. Chaos whisperer. Lady of the Leaves. And she never drank bagged tea again. Take a Little Magic Home with You If “Teatime Tides” made you giggle-snort, crave mermaid mimosas, or consider emotionally bonding with your teacup, you might just need a little piece of this dreamy nonsense in your real life. Bring the charm and sparkle of Margot’s interdimensional adventure into your world with our curated collection of metal prints, acrylic gallery panels, or even a cheeky tote bag to carry your tea and secrets in style. Feeling puzzly? Get hands-on with the full tea-venture in our jigsaw puzzle. Or for the serial sippers and daydream doodlers, grab a sticker and slap some whimsy on your laptop, journal, or next questionable decision. Every item is brewed with care, sass, and just a hint of lavender magic. Because let’s face it—you deserve more sparkle in your tea breaks.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Unicorn Keeper

Deep in the Thistlewhack Woodlands, just past the grumbling bogs and that one suspiciously carnivorous mushroom grove, lived a girl named Marnie Pickleleaf. Now, Marnie wasn’t your usual woodland creature—no sir. She was a certified, broom-carrying, opinion-having fairy-child with a mouth too big for her wingspan and an unfortunate allergy to fairy dust. Which was, frankly, ironic. But the real kicker? Marnie had recently been promoted to Unicorn Keeper, Third Class (Provisional, Non-Salaried). The unicorn in question was named Gloompuddle. He was majestic in that "oh he’s been in the mead again" sort of way—ivory white, shimmering hooves, a spiraled horn so pristine it looked like it had never been used to skewer a single goblin (false; it had). Gloompuddle came with a floral garland, a chronic case of dramatic sighing, and what Marnie referred to as “emotional flatulence” — not dangerous, just deeply inconvenient during polite conversation. Now, one does not become a Unicorn Keeper on purpose. Marnie had tripped over a binding circle at precisely the wrong moment while chasing a rebellious broom, muttered a few creative curses, and accidentally formed an eternal pact. Gloompuddle, overhearing the spell, had dramatically swiveled his head and declared, “At last, someone who sees the torment in my soul!” It was downhill from there. Their bond was sealed with a headbutt, a sprinkle of rose petals, and a 48-page care manual that immediately self-destructed. Marnie had many questions—none of them answered. Instead, she received a rope lead made of cloud-thread, which the unicorn immediately tried to eat. And so their companionship began. Every morning, Marnie swept the golden leaves off Gloompuddle’s path with her enchanted (and slightly sarcastic) broom named Cheryl. Cheryl disapproved of the unicorn and once muttered, “Oh look, Mr. Glitterbutt needs walking again,” but she complied. Mostly. Gloompuddle, on the other hoof, had opinions. Many. He disliked wet leaves, dry leaves, leaves that rustled, squirrels with attitude, and anything that wasn't chilled elderberry mousse. He also had a habit of stepping dramatically onto hilltops and shouting, “I am the axis upon which fate turns!” followed by an awkward tumble when his hoof caught a pinecone. Still, something curious began to bloom in the crisp autumn air. A shared rhythm. A silly little dance between a cranky unicorn and a determined girl. Gloompuddle would roll his eyes and follow her broom-sweep trail. Marnie would scowl and stuff his mane full of forest flowers, muttering about freeloading equines with no concept of personal space. But they never left each other's side. On the eleventh day of their accidental bond, Gloompuddle sneezed glitter all over her face. Marnie, furious, chased him three miles with a pail. It was the first time either of them laughed in years. That evening, with the forest painted in gold and cider-scented wind curling through the trees, Marnie looked up at him. “Maybe you’re not the worst unicorn I’ve been soulbound to,” she muttered. Gloompuddle blinked. “You’ve had others?” “Only in my dreams,” she said, scratching his neck. “But you’d hate them. They were punctual.” And for the first time, Gloompuddle didn’t sigh. He simply stood there—quiet, still—and let her fingers rest between the knots of his mane. The kind of silence that meant something sacred. Or possibly gas. By their third week together, Marnie had taken to wearing a permanent scowl and a necklace made of dried apple cores and glitter—both byproducts of her daily unicorn wrangling. Gloompuddle, meanwhile, had developed a fondness for performing interpretive dances in the glade at sunset. These involved a lot of stomping, whinnying, and slow-motion tail flicks that sent entire families of field mice into therapy. It had become clear that their bond wasn’t just emotional—it was logistical. Marnie couldn’t go more than twenty paces without being yanked off her feet by the cloud-thread rope, which had the spiritual elasticity of a caffeine-addicted slingshot. Meanwhile, Gloompuddle couldn’t eat anything without Marnie reading the ingredients aloud like a suspicious mother with a gluten allergy. They were stuck with each other like gum to the underside of destiny’s sandal. One cool, mist-hugged morning, Marnie discovered the true horror of her new role: seasonal molting. Gloompuddle’s coat, once pristine and glowing with unicorny elegance, began shedding in massive floofs. Entire foxes could've been assembled from the tufts blowing across the field. Marnie tried sweeping it up, but Cheryl—the broom—refused. "Not my job," Cheryl said flatly. "I don’t do dander. I am a flooring specialist, not your mythical livestock stylist." Left with no choice, Marnie fashioned the fluff into various accessories: a scarf, a dramatic monocle moustache, even a questionable pair of earmuffs she sold at the local Goblin Flea Market (no goblins were pleased). Gloompuddle, vain as he was, spent hours grooming himself with a discarded fork he found by the wishing well, claiming it gave him “volume.” And then came The Great Snorting Festival. Every year, in a deeply underwhelming part of the woods known as Flatulence Hollow, creatures from across the realms gathered for a grand contest involving feats of nasal flair. Gloompuddle, hearing about the event from a gossiping badger, insisted they attend. “My nostrils are sonnets made flesh,” he proclaimed, striking a pose so dramatic a nearby oak tree fainted. Marnie reluctantly agreed, mostly because the prize was a year’s supply of enchanted oats and a coupon for one free de-worming. Upon arrival, they were greeted by a banner that read: “LET THE SNORTING BEGIN” and a centaur DJ named Blasterhoof. The crowd roared. A troll juggled hedgehogs. A kobold sneezed and caused a minor landslide. It was chaos. When Gloompuddle’s turn came, he stepped onto the mossy stage with the gravity of a war general. The hush was palpable. He inhaled. He paused. He aimed both nostrils toward the moon and SNORTED with such ferocity that several small birds un-birthed themselves and a druid’s wig flew off. The judges gasped. A nymph fainted. Someone’s goat proposed marriage to a chair. They won, naturally. Gloompuddle was given a golden tissue and a crown made entirely of sneeze-blown dandelions. Marnie held up the prize bag and grinned. “Now that’s some fine oat money,” she whispered. Gloompuddle nuzzled her cheek and promptly sneezed directly into her hair. It glittered. She sighed. Cheryl wheezed from laughter. On the way back to their glen, Marnie felt something strange. Contentment? Possibly gas. But also… pride? She looked up at Gloompuddle, who was humming a tune from a musical he wrote in his head called “Horned and Fabulous.” She laughed. He side-eyed her and said, “You know you love me.” “I tolerate you professionally,” she replied. “At great psychic cost.” Yet as the crisp twilight settled in, and the fireflies painted lazy constellations in the air, she felt that weird, quiet magic that only comes when life has spun out of control in just the right way. The kind of chaos that feels like home. They reached the glade. Gloompuddle did one last interpretive tail twirl. Cheryl muttered something about unionizing. And Marnie? She looked up at the sky, stretched her arms wide, and yelled into the wind, “I am the Keeper of the Uncontainable! Also I smell like sneeze glitter and regret!” The wind didn’t answer. But the unicorn beside her snorted approvingly, and that, somehow, was enough. It was sometime between the Harvest Moon and the Night of Unsolicited Goblin Poetry that things began to shift between Marnie and Gloompuddle. Subtly at first. Like the moment she stopped complaining when he trampled the herb garden (again) and instead calmly replanted the thyme with a muttered “we never liked it anyway.” Or the time Gloompuddle started using his horn not to theatrically skewer tree bark in protest of his oats, but to delicately hold open Cheryl’s instruction manual so Marnie could finally read the chapter titled: “Handling Magical Beasts Without Losing Your Mind or Your Eyebrows.” Their rhythm wasn’t perfect. It never would be. He still had opinions about atmospheric pressure and how it should “respect his mane,” and she still hadn’t figured out how to bathe a unicorn without getting waterboarded by his tail. But something gentle bloomed between them—an accidental symphony of shared chaos. And then came the Flying Potato Crisis. It began, as most catastrophes do, with a bet. A gnome in a pub challenged Marnie to launch a potato “as far as a pixie's resentment." She accepted, obviously. Gloompuddle, offended at not being consulted first, added a magical twist: he charged the potato with unstable unicorn magic—normally used only in extreme rituals or soap-making. When launched from Cheryl’s broomstick-catapult, the potato tore across the sky, split the clouds, and hit a passing wyvern named Jeff square in the unmentionables. Jeff was not pleased. He declared a Writ of Winged Vengeance and descended on Thistlewhack with the fury of a thousand passive-aggressive dinner guests. “I will turn your glade into mulch!” he roared, flames licking his fangs. Villagers screamed. Pixies fainted. An elf tried to sue someone preemptively. But Marnie didn’t run. Neither did Gloompuddle. Instead, they stood side by side—one with a broom, the other with a horn, both slightly damp from the morning dew and their mutual emotional avoidance. “Remember that headbutt spell that bonded us?” Marnie asked, raising an eyebrow. “The one involving eternal soul-tethering and seasonal glitter rash?” “Yeah. Let’s do it again. But angrier.” And so they did. Gloompuddle lowered his horn. Marnie lifted her broom. Cheryl shrieked something about liability insurance. Together, they charged the wyvern, who paused—just for a moment—too confused by the sight of a girl and a unicorn screaming battle cries like “FELT HATS ARE A LIE” and “GOBLINS CAN’T COUNT.” The impact was spectacular. Gloompuddle’s horn released a blast of incandescent energy shaped like an angry badger. Marnie leapt midair and clocked Jeff in the snout with Cheryl. The wyvern tumbled backward into a marsh, where a trio of offended frogs immediately sued him for pond trespass. Victory, as it turns out, smells like singed mane and triumphant sweat. The next day, the village threw a party in their honor. There were cider fountains, reluctant bagpipes, and one very enthusiastic interpretive dance from Gloompuddle that ended with him wearing a flowerpot like a helmet. Marnie even got a plaque that read: “For Services to Unreasonable Heroism.” She hung it in their glade, right next to the place where Gloompuddle kept his emergency drama tiara. Later that evening, as the stars rolled out like spilled sugar across the velvet sky, Marnie sat on a mossy log, sipping lukewarm cider and watching Gloompuddle chase a confused moonbeam. Cheryl, exhausted and possibly drunk on proximity to nonsense, snoozed nearby. “You ever think about... the whole forever thing?” she asked, half to herself. Gloompuddle slowed his trot and trotted over. “You mean our unbreakable soul pact sealed by ancient forest magic and extreme glitter exposure?” “Yeah. That one.” He blinked, flicked his tail, and said, “Only every day. But I think I like it now. Even the sneezing.” Marnie snorted. “You only say that because I stopped braiding your tail like a court jester.” “I liked the bells.” They sat in silence, watching fireflies drift past like wandering punctuation marks. Then, slowly, Gloompuddle lowered his head, touching his horn to her forehead—just as he had on the very first day. “Unicorn Keeper,” he said softly. “You’ve kept more than you know.” And just like that, the air shimmered. Not with magic, not with prophecy—but with something quieter. Friendship forged in foolishness. Love made not from longing, but loyalty. A keeper, and the kept. Companions who never asked for each other, but found a kind of forever in the ridiculous, anyway. “Want to go launch another potato?” she whispered, smiling. “Only if we aim for someone named Carl.” And off they went into the moon-touched night: a girl, a unicorn, and a broom with a mild hangover—ready for whatever dumb, dazzling thing came next. If this ridiculous and heartfelt adventure between Marnie and Gloompuddle tickled your funny bone—or warmed that cozy corner of your heart where unicorn glitter and emotional potato warfare live—bring the magic home. Our official The Unicorn Keeper collection is now available at shop.unfocussed.com, featuring high-quality fantasy artwork by Bill and Linda Tiepelman. Wrap yourself in autumnal whimsy with a fleece blanket as soft as unicorn fluff, or send someone a little enchanted nonsense with a greeting card worthy of magical correspondence. Decorate your space with a fantasy poster print that captures the glowing gold of Thistlewhack’s enchanted forest, or go rustic with a textured wood print perfect for any magical nook. Whether you're a lifelong fantasy fan, a secret unicorn believer, or someone who just appreciates emotionally dramatic equines, The Unicorn Keeper collection is a whimsical tribute to the joy of unlikely friendship. Explore the full line and let a little magic into your space.

by Bill Tiepelman

Love Beneath the Morning Glory

The Bloom Boom Affair It began on a wet Tuesday. Not the dramatic, lightning-splitting, thunder-belching kind of wet. No. This was the gentle kind of wet that makes flowers open shyly, moss turn smug, and frogs feel just a little sexier than usual. It was precisely the kind of afternoon where moist was no longer a punchline—it was a lifestyle. Our scene opens on a mossy stump that locals call “The Velvet Throne.” Perched atop it were two frogs—no ordinary amphibians, mind you. These were tree frogs, jewel-toned and glistening like jade marbles dunked in desire. One was named Julio, and the other, Blossom. She had the kind of stare that made crickets rethink their life choices, and he had thighs that could crush a lily pad with the power of poetry. They weren’t always lovers. They started as polite neighbors who’d once locked eyes over a shared raindrop, both sipping from opposite ends like an amphibian Lady and the Tramp. Things escalated when Blossom—ever the unconventional romantic—built Julio a miniature umbrella out of magnolia petals and twine. He swooned so hard he nearly fell into the mud. She made him soup. They began “meeting for dew” under a canopy of morning glory petals, and like any sensible frog, they started avoiding eye contact in public just to keep the village gossip juicy. Now here they were—huddled beneath the curved embrace of a fresh bloom as a light drizzle tap-tapped overhead. The flower’s funnel acted as nature’s love motel, complete with ambient lighting, floral scent, and a gentle hum from a confused bee stuck in the next bloom over. "So," Blossom croaked with a sly smirk, adjusting her daisy tiara just so. "You gonna kiss me, or are we just here to exchange pollen and disappointment?" Julio's throat puffed out like a plush balloon. “I was waiting for the rain to set the mood.” “Honey,” she drawled, leaning in, “this whole forest is setting the mood.” She wasn’t wrong. Even the fireflies were flickering suggestively. A distant owl hooted the opening bars of a Marvin Gaye song. Somewhere, a mushroom shivered with anticipation. He finally leaned closer. “Blossom… if you were a rain droplet, I’d let you fall on my tongue first.” She blinked. “Julio… that’s the dumbest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” “But did it work?” She grinned, bit her bottom lip, and whispered, “It really, really did.” Outside the bloom, the drizzle turned to a light rain. Inside, a romance unfurled—slow, sticky, and slightly steamy. But of course, you know this is only the beginning… Tongues, Tea, and Trouble on the Throne They say love is patient, love is kind. But in the bog behind Bramblebrush Hollow, love is wet, weird, and just a little bit wicked. Under the soft arch of their morning glory hideaway, Blossom and Julio had moved from shy glances to full-on knee-touching. In frog terms, that’s practically third base. And on this particular day, Julio wasn’t playing defense. “You ever think,” he murmured, tracing a dewy fingertip along the curve of Blossom’s spine, “that we were destined to meet under this very bloom? Like the universe croaked us into existence just for this moment?” Blossom snorted, spraying a mist of pollen out of her nostrils. “Julio, you romantic dirt waffle. That was either the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard or an allergic reaction to fate.” He gave a low, amused ribbit. “I’m serious. The flower, the rain, us. It’s poetic.” “Poetic?” she grinned. “Julio, our first date ended with you mistaking a glowworm for a mint and projectile vomiting off a mushroom ledge. I had to bathe you in rainwater and ego-salve for half the night.” “And yet,” he said, with that glimmer in his pupils, “you came back for more.” She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. “Don’t flatter yourself, pond prince. You owe me three fireflies, a thistle massage, and emotional restitution for that time you told my mother I burp like a duck.” “Your mom laughed.” “She laughed because she thought you were a joke.” The bickering had that soft-lipped, comfortable cadence only lovers and siblings could master—a blend of fondness, venom, and shared inside jokes delivered with the finesse of verbal judo. But beneath the sass, under that veil of floral flirtation, something else simmered: want. Real, gooey, hopelessly swamp-scented want. The rain thickened. So did the air between them. Julio leaned in, this time not for drama but for truth. “You scare me, Blossom.” She tilted her head. “Because I’m hot? Or because I’m a highly emotional frog with complex needs and a running tab at the aphid bar?” “Yes.” They paused. A beetle flew past. A snail honked (or something vaguely honk-adjacent). The forest didn’t care about their romantic tension. But oh, it was watching. Julio reached for her hand. “Look. All jokes aside, I think I could stay under this flower with you forever. Like… retire here. Grow mold together. Raise tiny tadpoles and name them after lesser-known Greek deities.” Blossom blinked. “Did you just propose... cohabitation?” “Maybe.” “Julio, we’ve only been snogging for eight sun cycles.” “That’s like, five frog years.” She cocked a brow. “Don’t bring pseudo-science into our romance.” “I’m just saying… I like the idea of forever with you.” Blossom softened. She hated when he got like this—earnest, sweet, dreamy-eyed like he’d swallowed a poetry book and half a cloud. And she especially hated how much it made her heart go bloop. “Okay,” she said finally. “But if we’re doing this, I have rules.” Julio sat up straighter. “Name them.” “One,” she said, holding up a delicate finger, “no tongue fights before dusk. I have a schedule.” “Reasonable.” “Two. You clean the flower. Daily. Pollen is not an aesthetic, it’s an allergen.” “Done.” “Three. If you ever flirt with that flat-faced toad from Lilypatch again, I will roast you alive and serve you to a stork.” Julio blinked. “Understood.” “And four—no surprise mating songs. If you’re gonna sing, I want choreography and backup crickets.” “I’ll call the band.” They sealed it with a kiss. It was not dainty. It was sticky and weird and made a nearby caterpillar gasp. But it was theirs. Just as they began to settle into the newfound bliss of shared expectations and dangerously implied commitment, a new sound split the air: a squelch, followed by a high-pitched titter and the unmistakable voice of Velma—Blossom’s rival, frenemy, and occasional mycological consultant. “Ohhhhhh no,” Blossom whispered, panic rising faster than sap in spring. Julio peeked out of the bloom. “She’s bringing her entourage.” “The Giggling Tadpoles?” “All six.” Velma emerged with the kind of strut that only came from eating your ex’s best friend and posting about it on MudTok. She wore a shimmering fern frond as a cape and had a smug glow like she’d just seduced someone’s boyfriend—and maybe she had. “WELL WELL WEEEELL,” Velma chirped, clearly having rehearsed that line all morning. “If it isn’t Miss Morning Glory herself, playing house with Loverboy Julio on the Velvet Throne.” Blossom didn’t blink. “Velma. How’s that rash?” Julio winced. The Giggling Tadpoles gasped in unison. Velma hissed, “That was seasonal and you know it.” “Seasonal like your mood swings?” Blossom asked sweetly. The rain slowed, but the tension crackled like static in the moss. Velma grinned, dangerously wide. “Just dropping by to tell you there’s a little change coming to the Hollow. Some new blood. Some French blood.” Julio gulped. “You don’t mean—” Velma nodded. “That’s right, cherubs. A new frog in town. He wears a beret. He speaks in syllables you can taste. And rumor has it…” she leaned in, “he’s looking for a muse.” All eyes turned to Blossom. “Well, mon dieu,” she said. “Guess things are about to get sticky.” Berets, Betrayals, and the Bloom of Truth By the time the French frog arrived, the Hollow had already spiraled into scandal. Word had spread like fungal rot on a damp log: a mysterious, velvet-voiced stranger from “La Mare des Poètes” (translation: ‘Pond of the Poets,’ though some locals insisted it was just a fancy mud puddle) had sashayed into Bramblebrush Hollow looking for his “inspiration.” His name? Jean-Luc Tadreau. His resume? Former lily model, amateur haikuist, full-time homewrecker. Jean-Luc was tall, lean, and glistened like a freshly buttered baguette. His beret perched jauntily between his eyes, and his voice was so smooth it made slime trails look rough by comparison. And when he crooned? Lawd. Even the rocks blushed. Blossom was not impressed. “He smells like fermented lavender and pretension,” she muttered, perched beside Julio under the morning glory, sipping nectar straight from a flower straw. “He bowed to me and kissed his own hand,” Julio grumbled. “Then winked at a mushroom.” “That’s not charisma, that’s a fungal kink.” But the Hollow didn’t care. Velma had gone full PR blitz—posting dreamy sketches of Jean-Luc on bark scrolls, hyping up his “one-night-only interpretive dance tribute to love and amphibian freedom.” The Giggling Tadpoles had formed a fan club. Frogs lined up around the swamp to hear him whisper sweet nothings about existential rain and sensual algae. And worst of all? He was actively pursuing Blossom. It started with sonnets. Then escalated to interpretive staring contests. Then… the scandal. A public gift—a golden beetle wrapped in lotus petals delivered during morning dew hour, in front of Julio. “What the actual frog,” Julio had croaked, staring at the sparkling beetle like it was a live grenade with wings. “That’s our spot. OUR BLOOM!” Blossom held up her webbed hands. “I didn’t invite him. The beetle was… unsolicited.” “So was my existential crisis, but here we are!” The bloom wilted. Figuratively and literally. Blossom felt caught. Sure, Julio was loud, emotional, and once mistook a pinecone for a rival. But he was hers. Jean-Luc? He was every wrong decision wrapped in pheromones and poetry. A walking red flag that spoke in riddles and probably exfoliated. So she made a choice. She decided to destroy Jean-Luc the only way she knew how—publicly, dramatically, and with questionable ethics. The next evening, under the largest lily pad in the Hollow, Jean-Luc hosted a “soirée of the senses.” There was aphid wine. A glowworm strobe show. Someone set up a bubble machine. He was mid-monologue—something about the aching sweetness of forbidden love—when Blossom slinked into view wearing her daisy crown, a sly smile, and a glint of theatrical vengeance in her eye. “Jean-Luc,” she purred. “Sing me something. Something... real.” He did. A crooning ballad about moons and longing and the sorrow of amphibian monogamy. Frogs swooned. A snail wept into his leaf napkin. When he finished, Blossom stepped forward and kissed him. Full on. Wet. No tongue. But full. The crowd erupted in gasps. Julio, lurking nearby, dropped his nectar cup. Velma screamed “YESSSS!” in a way that scared two newts into fleeing the state. Then Blossom turned, grinned at Jean-Luc, and slapped him across the cheek with a wet leaf. “That was for calling me your muse,” she snapped. “I’m not a canvas. I’m the whole damn gallery.” And with that, she turned on her heel and marched straight to Julio. He stared at her. “You kissed him.” “I know.” “You slapped him.” “Also true.” “You walked off like a queen.” “That’s just my gait, babe.” Julio crossed his arms. “Explain yourself.” “He needed to be publicly humbled. You needed to be reminded I’m completely, tragically into you. Also, you owe me a dance.” “A dance?” “Yup. Under our bloom. Right now.” She grabbed him by the webbing and pulled him beneath their favorite morning glory. The petals shimmered in the moonlight, heavy with rain and forgiveness. Music swelled—probably imagined, or possibly a cricket band with great acoustics. Julio wrapped his arms around her. “You’re insane.” “Thank you.” They swayed. Slowly. Goofily. Beautifully. Two frogs in love, ignoring the gossip, the chaos, the fungal influencers and pretentious poets. Just them, under their bloom. Wet. Weird. And exactly where they were meant to be. Outside, the Hollow returned to normal. Velma swore vengeance. Jean-Luc vanished into the mist, whispering something about a mysterious turtle named Solange. The Giggling Tadpoles rebranded as a jam band. But none of it mattered. Because love, real love, isn’t about drama or grand gestures. It’s about knowing who makes your heart croak loudest in the rain. Take a piece of Bramblebrush Hollow home... Whether you want to wrap yourself in romance with this lush beach towel, hang a splash of whimsy in your den with a canvas print or tapestry, or simply send frog-loving friends a sweet reminder of soggy love with a greeting card, the magic of Julio and Blossom awaits. Bring home the bloom, the sass, and the sweet, sticky kiss of love beneath the morning glory.

by Bill Tiepelman

Between Pencils and Planets

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

by Bill Tiepelman

A Moment Between Waves

The Ledge Between Two Worlds Beneath a sea that never stayed still and a sky that never quite forgot her name, there lay a ledge — weathered by tide, forgotten by time — where the mermaid came to sit. She wasn’t one of those syrupy songbirds from surface myths, the kind sailors scribbled into rum-soaked journals. No. This one was real, and when she moved, the water adjusted its entire attitude to accommodate her elegance. She called herself Mirielle, but only when she felt like talking. Which wasn’t often. And certainly not to sea gulls, dolphins, or washed-up poets. Her voice was not meant for crowds or conquests. It was the kind of voice used once, echoed forever, and then put away like velvet you only dare touch with clean hands. She sat now in that between-time just after the sun lost its bite but before it surrendered to the moon — her tail curled over the stone’s edge, scales twinkling in metallic defiance of twilight. Her bralette, made of seagrass embroidery and pearls that had never been owned, shimmered like something stolen from a queen's dream. And that hair... gods help you if you tried to describe it. Not gold, not blonde, not light — just sunlight caught in a net, cascading like slow honey and smelling faintly of brine and lavender. Every evening, she came here to not quite think. To not quite remember. It was dangerous, you see, for a siren to remember too much. The sea takes as easily as it gives, and nostalgia is a luxury for those who don’t bleed salt. Still, tonight felt different. The air buzzed faintly with knowing. Not prophecy — she hated prophecy, too dramatic. No, this was the hum of a whisper trying to happen. The kind of magic that only showed up when you weren’t trying to impress it. A flirtatious breeze teased the edge of her ear, and she rolled her eyes at it with mock offense. “Charming,” she muttered, brushing back a loose curl. “You must be new here.” The sea rippled in answer — not quite applause, not quite warning. Behind her, the first star blinked open. Below her, something stirred. And for the first time in a century, Mirielle did not immediately look away. The Something Below It wasn’t often that Mirielle let herself feel curious. Curiosity was a luxury of things with feet and clocks and furniture. The sea — her mother, cradle, and sometimes jailor — didn’t lend itself to the kind of questions that got satisfying answers. Ask it where something went, and it would burble. Ask it why, and it would rise into a storm. Ask it for love, and it would give you pearls shaped like regrets. But that ripple below her… that stirring. It wasn’t typical. And she knew typical. She’d made a very intentional study of it over the past few decades, lounging on this same slab of stone and watching the surface world through half-lidded lashes. Mermaids weren’t known for their patience — not the old blood like hers — but Mirielle had a particular fondness for ignoring expectations. It was her second-favorite pastime, right behind grooming barnacles off her tail with a gold comb stolen from a pirate who’d called her “little lady.” (He didn’t need it after that.) She leaned forward now, chest lifting as her weight shifted, and her hair followed like a faithful silk banner. The sea below remained hush-hush, coy as ever, but the tension in the water tickled her skin with electricity. Something was waiting. Not watching — no, that was too simple. This was the type of presence that rearranged molecules by being. Not predatory, not friendly. Just… significant. And then she heard it. Not with ears, not exactly. It was a vibration that filtered through the marrow. A soundless sound, like a memory of music that had never been played. Her breath hitched, and she sat upright, tail curling with a flick of uncertainty. For a creature so used to control — of currents, of moods, of men — this little hiccup of vulnerability felt oddly thrilling. She didn’t dive. Not right away. She stood instead. Her upper body graceful and languid, her tail flaring out like a crescent moon dipped in abalone and stardust. The ledge was narrow, and the moment more so. If she moved, it would pass. If she hesitated, it would deepen. “Well,” she said, adjusting one of her earrings — an unnecessary gesture, but fashion demanded presence. “If you’re going to lurk dramatically, at least offer a girl a drink.” Something below chuckled. Not a voice. A chuckle. It rose up through the kelp beds like a bubble of mirth and mischief. Mirielle's brow arched, and she allowed a smile to slip, sharp as a tidepool oyster. "Ah. One of those." She rolled her shoulders, releasing sea dust in glimmers that caught the dying light. "I should’ve worn the sapphires." The chuckle became motion. A spiral in the water. A glimmer of gold... no, copper... no, something elemental. It coiled upward with the intention of being seen. Mirielle held her ground, tail sweeping behind her like a royal train. Her fingers twitched slightly — not from fear, but from the forgotten excitement of newness. This wasn’t a passing dolphin with too much flirt. This wasn’t an overly enchanted kelpie with boundary issues. This was Other. And he was surfacing. As the head broke the surface, she blinked — not in surprise, but in appraisal. Her kind didn’t gasp. Gasping was for damsels and fools. But what rose before her was... let’s say… “aesthetically inconvenient.” He wasn’t beautiful in the way mortals write sonnets about. Not the sharp-cheeked, velvet-voiced prince of tired legends. No, this one was carved from storm wood and low thunder. Hair like burnt kelp twisted into a crown of sea-glass. Skin dark like basalt, dappled with phosphorescent scars that whispered history. And eyes — oh gods — eyes like green lightning stalled mid-storm. He didn't speak. Not yet. Just looked. And Mirielle felt a part of herself stretch in recognition — the old part, the part that predated languages, the part that had once sung ships into ruin and then wept when no one remembered the song. Finally, he broke the surface fully, his tail only hinted at — long, shadow-dark, edged with fins so fine they might’ve been memories. He bowed, not deeply, but with that maddening, impossible kind of charm that you’d slap if it weren’t so magnetic. "Evening," he said, his voice rough like coral but warm, as if apology and desire were sipping wine together behind his teeth. "Do you always rehearse your wit aloud, or was I just lucky tonight?" Mirielle smirked, tilting her head as her curls floated with studied grace. "You think this is wit?" she said. "Darling, I’m still in warm-up mode. Stick around, and I might actually flirt." His grin was all tide and trouble. "Good," he said. "I have nowhere else to be. You?" Mirielle turned back toward the ledge, then to the sea, then to him. Her tail flicked, iridescent and electric. She could’ve swum away. She often did. But tonight? No. Tonight the waves were still, and the moment held its breath. She slipped into the water like a secret too delicious to keep. Tides That Speak in Silence The sea, when it chooses, can become a cathedral. And on this night, as two currents merged beneath the moonlight, it became a sanctuary for things unspoken. Mirielle slipped beneath the surface with the ease of ritual, of muscle memory, of a soul too familiar with solitude to ever truly sink. Beside her, the stranger matched her glide — a little too well. No awkward splash. No giddy swirl. Just the elegant presence of something old that remembered how to move like music. They didn’t speak at first. Not with words. But their bodies wrote stories in ripples — dancing through pockets of warmer water, flirting in eddies that spun slow and sensuous. The reef below caught glimmers of their passing, the coral sighing as if it had waited long for such a ballet. And above them, the waves forgot to crest. The ocean held its hush. It was Mirielle who broke the quiet, eventually. With her, silence was never passive — it was curated. And she was done curating. “So,” she said, circling him like a cat considering a nap in your lap. “Are you cursed, enchanted, running from a prophecy, or just tragically misunderstood?” He smiled, slow and deliberate. “Option five.” “There isn’t an option five.” “There is now.” He flicked his tail, and she felt the tug of his current brush hers. “I’m just here. That’s all. Just… here.” Mirielle narrowed her eyes. “People don’t just ‘be’ here. This reef? It’s... personal.” “Maybe I’m personal too,” he said, his voice smooth as pearl, with an undertow that tugged at her in ways she didn’t like admitting. “Or maybe you’ve been waiting for me.” She scoffed — a delicate, musical scoff, but a scoff nonetheless. “I don’t wait. I haunt.” And that made him laugh — a proper, belly-deep laugh that made a school of neon fish scatter in shock. “Gods. You’re worse than they said.” That caught her off-guard. “Who’s they?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he swam deeper, into a trench where the light shimmered like champagne through a blown-glass flute. She followed — irritated, intrigued. The trench opened into a cave-mouth she’d never seen before, its walls slick with black coral and humming with old magic. Not the kind that shimmered. The kind that pulsed. “They,” he said at last, “are the ones who remember the names even when the surface forgets the songs. They said there was a woman here — a mermaid, yes — but more than that. A keeper of stories too painful to write down. A girl made of silence and skin and sunlight who never asks for anything... but always knows when you owe her.” Mirielle stilled. The water grew still with her. “And what do you think?” she asked. He turned slowly in the blue-dark of the cave. Glints of gold dust swirled around him like the echo of a sunbeam. “I think,” he said, “that maybe I’m here to give something. And maybe you’re finally ready to take it.” Her laugh was quieter now. “Bold of you. Assuming I want anything from anyone.” “No,” he said. “Not anyone. Just me.” She swam closer, not realizing she was doing it. She could smell him now — like petrichor and brine and something ancient. Her hand rose, and so did his. Fingers met. No sparks. No lightning. Just the warmth of shared loneliness. “You’re late,” she said. “I’m not,” he said, leaning in with a smile that made even the shadows lean closer. “You were just early.” And when they kissed — because of course they kissed — the ocean turned inward to listen. It wasn’t a desperate, tangled kiss of stories needing endings. No, this was slow. Whimsical. Soft around the edges like a melody hummed through seagrass. It wasn’t a promise. It was a beginning. A yes that didn’t need to be said out loud. Later, they floated in the shallows, tails draped like tapestries. His arm rested behind her head as if he’d always meant to place it there. She traced lazy circles in the water with a single fin. “You know,” she said, voice like velvet dipped in sarcasm, “this doesn’t mean I’m going to stop being difficult.” “Oh, I’m counting on it,” he replied, eyes half-lidded in bliss. “I hate easy.” A silence passed — not the awkward kind. The full kind. The kind that stretched itself out like a well-fed cat and soaked in the moonlight. She looked at him. “Stay.” He didn’t answer with words. He just didn’t leave. Bring a Moment of Magic Into Your World Inspired by the serene beauty and mysterious grace of our story, A Moment Between Waves is now available as a selection of high-quality photographic art products from Unfocussed.com. Whether you’re gifting a fellow dreamer or treating yourself to something enchanting, these items are designed to bring the magic home. Wall Tapestry – Let your walls breathe with oceanic elegance. This tapestry turns any room into a storybook shoreline. Greeting Card – Share a message wrapped in myth. Perfect for birthdays, soul notes, or “just because” enchantments. Framed Art Print – Showcase the story’s essence with a stunning, gallery-quality print that brings ethereal charm to any wall. Beach Towel – Make your next shore visit a siren's dream with this lush, full-color towel that’s as practical as it is poetic. Explore the full A Moment Between Waves collection and let the magic drift into your everyday.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Fiery Pout

The Temper of Twigsnap Hollow It was the first crisp day of autumn in Twigsnap Hollow, and that meant three things: the leaves were aflame with color, the squirrels were drunk on fermented acorns, and Fizzlewick the Tiny Brat Dragon was in a full-blown sulk. Perched on his usual spot—the fifth knotted limb of the great Maplebeard tree—Fizzlewick glared at the world with a righteous fury only a baby dragon with a mild superiority complex and short legs could possess. His wings were twitching. His tail, coiled like a sassy pretzel, flicked aggressively every third second. And most notably, his arms were folded so tight that his little talons squeaked against his own scales. This, dear reader, was a *statement pose*. “I said cinnamon bark muffins, not ginger root scones,” he muttered to absolutely no one except a leaf that had the audacity to fall in his direction. He scorched it with a tiny puff of smoke and grinned. That would teach nature to be insolent. You see, Fizzlewick had what the woodland creatures called “Main Character Energy,” though he firmly believed he was simply “the only one here with taste.” Ever since he’d hatched in the hollow two years ago during a thunderstorm (on purpose, according to him), he'd carved out a reputation as both the littlest dragon and the biggest handful east of the Glowroot Ridge. He ran a tight emotional schedule: tantrum at dawn, sulk at midday, petty vengeance by sundown. It was exhausting being a misunderstood genius with adorable rage issues. Today, however, his drama had a very specific catalyst. Mapleberry the chipmunk—who he had allowed into his inner circle of trusted snack couriers—had dared to bring him a honeycrust tart with the wrong kind of drizzle. Fizzlewick had exploded, not with fire (he was saving that for the pinecone uprising), but with loud, sputtering, bratty declarations of betrayal that had sent poor Mapleberry scrambling back to the bake burrow in tears. “She knows I have standards,” Fizzlewick huffed. “I’m a legend, not a lunchbox.” And so he remained in brooding solitude, radiating autumnal menace and cuteness like some angry seasonal candle. The trees rustled. The squirrels avoided eye contact. Even the wind detoured politely around him. But from the forest floor below, someone was watching—someone who had neither fear of dragons nor respect for his pout. Someone who walked on two paws and wore socks with sandals. Yes, trouble was coming. The kind with snacks, opinions, and absolutely no sense of personal boundaries. Sock-Sandaled Chaos and the Pact of Leaf & Flame The interloper arrived with all the subtlety of a moose in a tambourine shop. She was human—probably—a squat, smirking woman with wild silver hair tied up in what could only be described as a bun held together by twigs, buttons, and vibes. She wore a cardigan that appeared to have been hand-knitted from the tears of disappointed grandmothers, and socks pulled halfway up her shins, tucked neatly into Birkenstocks so offensively functional they could have ended wars. Across her back was slung a lumpy satchel that jingled with an untrustworthy rhythm. She exuded the kind of unbothered energy that made forest gods nervous. Fizzlewick squinted down at her from his branch. “Nope,” he whispered. “No thank you. Not today, forest cryptid.” But the woman waved cheerfully and started climbing the base of Maplebeard like a sentient barnacle. “Helloooooo, little spicy meatball!” she called out, voice sing-song and dangerously whimsical. “Heard there was a temper tantrum brewing in the upper limbs!” “It’s a tactical emotional stance,” Fizzlewick hissed. “Not a tantrum.” “Aww, look at you, puffed up like a hot toddy with feelings.” She grinned, finally reaching the branch just below his. “Name’s Aunt Gloam. I’m what the enchanted folks call an ‘Interventionist Crone.’ Retired. Mostly.” Fizzlewick blinked. “I don’t allow people in my sulking sector. Did you not see the sign?” She gestured vaguely toward a nailed-up twig that read “NO.” in smudged ash. “Oh, I saw it. I assumed it was metaphorical.” “It was CHARCOAL. That makes it *art*.” Unbothered, Aunt Gloam settled on the branch like it was a beanbag chair and began unpacking her satchel. Out came a tin of candied spider legs, a tattered zine titled “So You Think You’re a Familiar?”, a mysterious jawbone, and a tiny, hand-woven hammock. Then finally, a squat jar of what looked like homemade fudge. Fizzlewick’s nostrils flared involuntarily. “Ohhhh no. That’s trap fudge. You can’t bribe me.” “Darlin’, I wouldn’t dream of it.” She unscrewed the lid. The aroma hit him like a poetic slap: cinnamon, nutmeg, brown butter, a hint of mischief. “It’s simply here. Unattended. Vulnerable to dragon decisions.” He inched closer. Then stopped. “...Is it the chewy kind?” “Only a monster makes crumbly fudge.” He eyed her suspiciously. “You’re crafty.” “I’m *crone-aged*. We transcend craft.” They sat in silence for a long moment, only the sound of falling leaves and one distant woodland creature doing karaoke in a fern patch. Fizzlewick unfurled one wing slightly—barely. He reached out a talon and nudged the fudge. It jiggled. He jiggled back. There was a brief, silent duel of wills... and then he took a bite. “...Ugh. It’s stupid how good this is.” “Mmm-hmm.” Aunt Gloam grinned, leaning back like she’d won a card game against fate. Fizzlewick chewed thoughtfully, then wiped a crumb from his chin with great drama. “Fine. You can stay. Temporarily. But I have some conditions.” “Naturally.” She conjured a notepad out of a leaf and what might’ve been pure sarcasm. “List away.” “No talking during my dramatic poses.” “No suggesting herbal remedies for my ‘mood spirals.’” “Absolutely no calling me ‘cutie’ unless you want third-degree singe.” “You will refer to me as either Your Crispness or Sir Emberpants.” “You must honor the sacred Ritual of the Snuggle Nest when I get sleepy.” “Deal,” she said without hesitation. “Wait, really?” “Kid, I’ve dealt with warlocks who burst into tears over improperly steeped tea. You’re adorable with teeth. I’ll manage.” For the first time all day, Fizzlewick’s pout softened. Just a smidge. He kicked one foot idly. “I guess you’re not the worst cryptid I’ve met.” “High praise from a grumble-lizard.” They sat together until the sky turned a dusky violet and the fireflies came out, blinking like gossiping stars. Fizzlewick rested his chin on his claws and let out a soft puff of smoke. “Still mad about the drizzle, though.” “We’ll burn their recipe book together,” Aunt Gloam said, patting his head gently. “After a nap.” “It’s a vengeance nap.” “The best kind.” The leaves above them rustled in approval. Somewhere in the forest, a squirrel dropped its nuts in horror and ran. The brat dragon had made an ally. Which meant, of course, the chaos was just beginning. The Marshmallow Accord & The Rise of Emberpants It began, as many woodland uprisings do, with a pastry scandal. Word had spread—faster than Aunt Gloam could finish weaving her mood-cozy—that Fizzlewick had taken a “mortal ally” into his inner branch. The squirrels were alarmed. The chipmunks were insulted. The badger ambassador, who hadn’t been consulted in over a decade, declared it a “reckless alliance with unpredictable cardigan-based consequences.” The acorn council convened. And in true rodent fashion, their resolution was unanimous: Fizzlewick had become soft. He, of course, did not take this well. “SOFT?!” he bellowed from the treetop, fire curling from his nostrils in dramatic little wisps. “I am fire incarnate! I literally toasted a pinecone into ash this morning because it looked smug!” “It did look smug,” Aunt Gloam confirmed, sipping her blackberry tea from a mug shaped like a cauldron. “But perception is nine-tenths of squirrel law.” “Then it’s time,” he said, flexing his tiny claws with purpose, “for a display of brat force diplomacy.” He flew in a series of tight loops (okay, he wobbled twice, but pulled it off with a spin) and landed in the center of the Hollow’s clearing, arms crossed, tail coiled like a cobra with sass. Surrounding him were dozens of woodland creatures, mostly armed with snacks, pamphlets, or biting side-eye. “You have forgotten,” he began, pacing with high drama, “who rules these crispy-leaved lands.” “No one rules anything,” said a chipmunk. “It’s a forest.” “SILENCE, NUT MINION.” He turned in place, letting the orange light catch his scales just so. “I am Sir Emberpants the Bratflamed, Guardian of the Fifth Limb, Keeper of the Morning Sulk, and Defender of Snack Standards. You dare accuse me of softness?” “You accepted fudge from a biped,” a squirrel jeered. “That’s basically treason.” “It was emotionally complex fudge and I stand by my choices.” “You made her a friendship nest!” someone yelled. “It was a strategic cuddle fort and don’t pretend you wouldn’t nap in it!” The crowd was growing restless. The badger rolled out a scroll titled The Grievance of the Leaves. A group of outraged blue jays began chanting something that sounded suspiciously like “Down with brat-boy.” Tensions rose. Tails twitched. Somewhere in the trees, a war ferret played ominous panpipe music. And then— “ENOUGH!” Aunt Gloam bellowed, tossing a handful of glowing pink orbs into the air. They exploded in slow-motion sparkles that rained down with the smell of toasted sugar. The crowd froze. Literally. Mid-blink, mid-scowl, mid-grumble. Stuck in a glamour field woven from magic and old-lady spite. She walked to Fizzlewick’s side, arms folded in perfect synchronicity with his. “Let’s be clear,” she said, her voice now echoing slightly as if through a very judgmental cave. “This dragon is a menace, a diva, a tactical napper, and occasionally insufferable. But he’s also yours. And he has never let this forest down—except that one time with the hot cider incident, which we do not discuss.” “That cauldron betrayed me,” Fizzlewick muttered. “So you will not cast him out over fudge and companionship. You’ll do what all dramatic enchanted ecosystems do: you’ll throw a festival and pretend none of this ever happened.” “With marshmallows,” Fizzlewick added, perking up. “Roasted on my snout.” “And s’mores.” “And you all have to say sorry with snacks.” “And the chipmunks have to do the apology dance,” he added, eyes gleaming. There was a long silence as the glamour lifted and time resumed. A breeze blew dramatically through the clearing. The squirrels conferred. The badger sighed. The war ferret put his panpipes away. “Fine,” the chipmunk said through gritted teeth. “But we get to bring cider.” “Deal,” Fizzlewick said. “But if it’s the wrong kind of drizzle again, I will incinerate every pie crust within a ten-tree radius.” And so, under the glowing leaves of a forest just ridiculous enough to function, the first ever **Festival of Emberpants** was declared. Creatures danced. Cider flowed. Fizzlewick roasted marshmallows with suspicious delight, occasionally charring one just enough to assert dominance. The chipmunks did their apology dance, and Aunt Gloam taught a class on “Emotional Boundaries and Other Delusions.” Later, curled in his nest beside the crone, Fizzlewick let out a long, satisfied sigh. “You know,” he said, licking a sticky paw, “being emotionally compromised tastes like marshmallows.” “That’s growth, sweetheart,” Gloam said, tucking him in with a wing-sized nap shawl. “It’s still vengeance nap time tomorrow though.” “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” And thus, balance was restored. Snacks were respected. Brats were celebrated. And somewhere far beyond the Hollow, a new tale was already stirring... probably about a baby basilisk with commitment issues. But that’s another story entirely. Love Fizzlewick as much as he loves properly drizzled snacks? Bring a bit of his fiery charm home with you! Whether you're looking to warm up your space with an enchanted forest tapestry, sip tea beside his smolder on a sleek acrylic print, or strut your brat energy with a tote bag worthy of a dragon tantrum, we’ve got you covered. Take Fizzlewick on the go with a spiral notebook for plotting snack-based vengeance, or decorate your favorite things with a high-quality vinyl sticker featuring everyone’s favorite moody flame nugget. Add a little pout to your life—he insists.

by Bill Tiepelman

Whiskers at the Witching Window

The Familiar's Complaint “If one more squirrel insults me from the holly bush, I swear to Bast I’ll torch the tree.” The orange tabby was muttering again. His name—though few dared use it aloud—was Bartholomew R.J. Whiskerstein, Esquire. He was the third Familiar to serve at No. 13 Embercurl Lane, a mystical townhouse wedged between dimensions, where the mail arrived only when Mercury was in retrograde and the curtains had a mind of their own. Bartholomew’s ears twitched as he sat perched on the ledge of the violet-paned window. Beneath him bloomed a plush carpet of enchanted lavender that hissed faintly if plucked without permission. Behind him, thick velvet curtains danced without breeze—tracing glowing sigils in the air like lazy lightning bugs scribbling curses in cursive. Inside the townhouse, chaos hummed in that pleasant, distant way only mild sorcery can. There was the sound of a teapot making demands. A stack of grimoire pages trying to unionize. And, somewhere in the study, the soft weeping of a sentient lamp contemplating its existence. Bartholomew ignored all of this. Because Bartholomew had a job. A highly specific job. A job that came with perks (a bottomless dish of roasted chicken hearts) and perils (being regularly used as a scrying lens by a witch who still hadn’t mastered “consent”). He was the Official Perimeter Watcher, Guardian of Thresholds, and—unofficially—the only housemate with the balls to tell Madam Zephira that her black lace corsets were clashing with her aura again. Tonight, however, the swirls in the stucco glowed brighter than usual. Their fractal curls pulsed like molten gold veins across the obsidian walls, marking the hour as not quite midnight and definitely up to something. And Bartholomew, with his one crooked whisker and eyes the color of guilty marmalade, knew the signs. Someone was coming. And not the kind who wore boots or knocked politely or brought salmon. Someone uninvited. With a tail twitch of annoyance and a small sneeze into the lavender blooms (they smelled amazing but were absolute bastards to his sinuses), Bartholomew straightened his spine, narrowed his gaze, and did what any respectable magical creature would do in his position. He farted dramatically, just to establish dominance. The wall beside him hissed in response. “Oh please,” he purred into the growing glow. “If you’re here to devour souls, at least bring a snack.” Zephira, Doomscrolling, and the Visitor from the Slant Madam Zephira Marrowvale was elbow-deep in her spellbook, though not for anything productive. She was doomscrolling. To be fair, the grimoire had recently updated its interface, and now it mimicked the layout of a social media feed—an unfortunate side effect of Zephira’s habit of whispering her thoughts to her mirror while the Wi-Fi was unstable. As such, instead of recipes for lunar elixirs or hexes for passive-aggressive neighbors, the leather-bound tome now served up endless gossip from disembodied witches across the astral plane. “Ugh,” Zephira groaned. “Another thirst trap from Hagatha Moonbroom. That’s the third this week. No one needs to see that much thigh from a lich.” Bartholomew, having returned from his window post only to find his warning hisses entirely ignored, slunk into the main room, tail held at a judgmental tilt. “You do realize,” he said with that slow, deliberate tone cats use when they know you’re not paying attention, “that there’s a potential rift forming in the wall?” Zephira didn’t look up. “Is it the laundry wall or the library wall?” “The front wall.” “Oh.” She blinked. “That’s... more important, isn’t it?” “Only if you enjoy the concept of interior dimensions staying on the inside,” Bartholomew replied, now licking one paw in a manner that suggested this was all terribly beneath him. With a sigh and a dramatic flourish, Zephira stood up, her long coat rustling like parchment paper dipped in attitude. The air around her shimmered with leftover magic: sparkles, ash, and the faint smell of peppermint schnapps. She stomped toward the window where Bartholomew had resumed his watch, this time sitting like a disappointed statue made entirely of orange velvet. Outside, the night was beginning to change. Not just darken—but change. The swirling glow around the window had thickened, threads of molten amber knotting and curving like someone had spilled calligraphy ink into firelight and pressed it to the walls of reality. Then—something knocked. Or maybe it burped. Or maybe the universe coughed up a hairball. Either way, the sound was wrong. “That’s not good,” Zephira whispered, suddenly sober. “That’s... from the Slant.” Bartholomew’s ears flattened. The Slant was a bad neighborhood between planes. It was where lost socks went. Where contracts rewrote themselves. Where things that weren’t supposed to feel shame hung out just to enjoy the sensation. No one invited guests from the Slant. Mostly because if you could invite them, it meant you were already partly one of them. The knock-burp-hiccup came again. “Do you think it’s after you or me?” Zephira asked, half-hoping it would be Bartholomew. He was, after all, technically immortal and less emotionally fragile. “Neither,” he said, fur bristling. “It’s here for the window.” “Why the hell would anyone come for a window?” “Because,” Bartholomew said, leaping down into a stretch that made every vertebrae in his body crackle like a haunted fireplace, “this particular window is a passage. A junction between realms. A former portal to the Celestial DMV. You really should keep better notes.” Zephira’s mouth fell open. “I thought this window had weird feng shui.” Before either of them could speak again, the glass began to bend inward—not break, not shatter—bend, like it was made of smoke or jelly or poorly explained plot devices. The lavender beneath the sill rustled and puffed in protest, releasing sparkles and spores that smelled strongly of sassafras and minor regret. From the swirling gold, a face emerged. Not a full face. Just... parts. An eye here, a suggestion of a grin there. And—strangest of all—a monocle made of static electricity. It was a face both beautiful and terrible, like a Greek god who also did your taxes and wasn’t happy about your deductions. “HOUSE OCCUPANTS,” the entity intoned, its voice vibrating the curtains into curls. Bartholomew leapt back onto the sill and squared his shoulders. “What in the unholy name of wet kibble do you want?” The face pulsed, amused. “I AM THE INSPECTOR OF INTERPLANE THRESHOLDS. THIS UNIT—” “This house, darling,” Zephira corrected, arms crossed. “—THIS UNIT IS IN VIOLATION OF CODE 776-B: UNSANCTIONED ENCHANTMENT OF ARCHITECTURAL OPENINGS.” Zephira raised an eyebrow. “So you’re telling me I have a... magical zoning issue?” Bartholomew hissed. “He’s here to repo the window.” The entity blinked. “YES.” For a moment, no one spoke. Then Zephira reached down, plucked Bartholomew off the sill, and cradled him like a particularly judgmental baguette. “Listen here, Spectral Bureaucrat,” she said, raising her chin, “this window is original to the house. Hand-framed by a sentient carpenter who charged us in riddles. It’s mine. Mine!” The inspector swirled ominously, then paused. “HAVE YOU FILED FORM 13-WHISKER?” Zephira blinked. “...There’s a form?” Bartholomew groaned. “Of course there’s a form.” The face began to phase back into the wall. “I SHALL RETURN AT MOONRISE TO SEIZE THE STRUCTURAL COMPONENT UNLESS PROPER PAPERWORK IS PRODUCED. PREFERABLY WITH A NOTARY’S SIGIL AND A RUNE OF COMPLIANCE.” Then—poof. Gone. Only a light sprinkle of bureaucracy sparkles remained in the air, which smelled like cinnamon and mild passive aggression. Zephira looked down at Bartholomew. “Well... now what?” “Now?” he said, wriggling out of her arms. “Now we commit minor fraud and probably summon your cousin from the Ministry of Misfiled Souls.” “Ugh. Thistle? She still owes me twenty moons and a jar of pickled griffin toes.” “Then I suggest you bring snacks,” Bartholomew said, already walking away. “And don’t wear the lace. It makes your aura look bloated.” Loopholes, Lavender, and Larceny The clock struck something. Probably not midnight, because this particular clock refused to engage with time in a linear fashion. It preferred vibes. Tonight, it struck “tense-but-optimistic,” which was either promising or deeply concerning. Bartholomew was back at the window, tail twitching like a metronome set to sarcasm. The lavender beneath him had sprouted extra blossoms during the argument with the inspector, clearly energized by the conflict. They whispered quietly to themselves about how juicy everything was getting. Inside the house, Zephira was hunched over a cluttered desk, surrounded by scrolls, spell-stamped forms, and at least two empty wine bottles (one real, one conjured). She’d summoned her cousin Thistle for help, which was like hiring a tax attorney who specialized in interpretive dance. “You don’t file the 13-Whisker form,” Thistle was explaining, twirling a quill that occasionally bit her fingers. “You embed it into a sub-layer of your home’s aura, with a notarized dream. Honestly, Zeph, everyone knows that.” “Everyone?” Zephira asked, face planted in a stack of parchment. “You mean everyone who majored in Arcane Bureaucracy and enjoys licking stamps made of beetle shells?” Thistle shrugged, looking very pleased with herself in a cardigan made of disappointment and sequins. “I got mine done during a blackout after a cursed fondue party. You’ve had years.” Bartholomew, overhearing this, let out a sound that was somewhere between a meow and a groan. “You two do realize the Inspector’s coming back tonight, right? I’m not in the mood to explain to the dimensional authorities why a ginger tabby is living inside a legally extradimensional portal with noncompliant trim.” Zephira stood up, eyes glowing faintly with a mix of hope and sleep deprivation. “We have one chance. If we can disguise the window’s threshold signature—just until the next lunar quarter—we can delay the repossession. Thistle, get the dreamcatcher chalk. Bart, start projecting non-threatening thoughtforms. I need plausible deniability on the astral field.” “Excuse you,” Bartholomew sniffed. “I’ve been projecting non-threatening thoughtforms since I was neutered.” The house groaned in agreement, shifting its weight as spells realigned themselves. The curtains flattened. The furniture arranged itself into Feng Shui legal compliance. The dishes washed themselves in a frenzy of sudsy paranoia. Just as the finishing rune was inscribed around the window frame—using chalk blessed by three caffeine-addled dreamwalkers and one heavily sedated owl—the wall glowed again. He was back. The Inspector oozed into existence like molasses with a law degree. “OCCUPANTS,” it bellowed, less intense this time. “I RETURN FOR—” “Hold it,” Zephira interrupted, stepping forward like a woman who had absolutely not just spilled gin on an ancient document of exemption. “Please review Form 13-WHISKER, Subsection D, filed under the Implied Entanglement Clause, certified via mnemonic binding and signed by my Familiar’s third eyelash.” She held up a glittering sigil embossed into a strip of lavender parchment that reeked of legitimacy. Mostly because it was actually a forged wedding license from a dryad and a toaster, re-enchanted by Thistle with mild deception runes and a scent of “forest confidence.” The Inspector pulsed. Blinked. Spun slowly. “THIS... DOES APPEAR TO BE... ACCEPTABLE.” “Then kindly sod off into your dimension’s nearest cubicle farm,” Bartholomew purred, eyes half-lidded. “Before we file a Form 99-B for harassment under Rule of Familiar Dignity.” The Inspector paused. “THOSE STILL EXIST?” “They do if you’ve got a cousin in the Ministry,” Thistle said sweetly, batting her eyes and sipping something from a mug that steamed in Morse code. The glow faded. The swirling tendrils dimmed. The monocle flickered, sighed, and finally vanished like a disappointed dad at a community theatre recital. The Inspector was gone. Zephira slumped against the wall, lavender chalk crumbling in her fist. “We did it.” “We barely did it,” Bartholomew corrected, stretching luxuriously. “You owe me an entire week of scrying-free naps and the good sardines.” “Done,” Zephira said, kissing his furry forehead. “And no corsets for at least a lunar cycle.” “Blessed be,” Thistle whispered, throwing a little confetti made of shredded legal scrolls into the air. Outside, the window returned to its quiet glow. The lavender purred. The swirls of gold settled into elegant curves again—less frantic now, more decorative. Like they were proud of themselves. Like they, too, were in on the joke. Bartholomew returned to his perch, curling up with a satisfied grunt. He blinked once at the stars. “Let ‘em try,” he muttered. “This house is defended by sarcasm and sleep deprivation. We’ll never be conquered.” And as the first rays of false dawn peeked through the enchanted sky, the cat on the sill slept—dreaming, no doubt, of squirrels who finally shut their damn mouths. Take a Little Magic Home If you felt the curl of mystery or heard the whisper of lavender while reading Whiskers at the Witching Window, you’re not alone. Now you can bring a piece of Bartholomew’s world into your own with a selection of enchanted keepsakes featuring this very scene. Cozy up with the fleece blanket for a nap worthy of a Familiar, or rest your dreams beneath the swirling gold with our duvet cover. Need a bit of sass on the go? The tote bag has your back—whether you're transporting spell ingredients or snacks. And for those seeking a bold statement of aesthetic rebellion, the framed art print is a portal unto itself, ready to hang in any room that dares to flirt with the arcane. Each item is available exclusively at shop.unfocussed.com, where fantasy meets home decor in purring, glowing, ginger-furred defiance.