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.
