by Bill Tiepelman
The Punk Pixie Manifesto
Wing Maintenance & Other Threats I was elbow-deep in wing glue and bad decisions when the messenger hit my window like a drunk moth. Shattered glass. Confetti of regret. Typical Monday. My left wing was molting in an express-yourself pattern that looked like an oil spill, and the glue fumes were the only thing in the room with a better attitude than me. I yanked the latch, hauled the messenger inside by his collar, and clocked the insignia on his jacket—brass thimble with a crown of needles. Seelie Post. Royal. Oh good. The kind of trouble you can smell before it sues you. “Delivery for Zaz,” he wheezed, which was interesting because my legal name is the length of a violin solo and rhymes with nothing. People who know me call me Zaz. People who don’t know me end up paying for new windows. He handed me a wax-sealed envelope that vibrated like a guilty conscience. The seal was etched with needlework filigree and the faintest suggestion of a smirk—Queen Morwen’s court style. I broke it open with a thumbnail I keep sharpened for statements and citrus. The letter unfolded into calligraphy sharp enough to shave with. Dearest Zazariah Thorn,A delicate item has been misplaced by persons of no consequence. Retrieve it discreetly. Compensation is generous. Consequences for failure are… educational.—Her Grace, Morwen of the Tailors, Keeper of the Thimble Crown Attached was a sketch of the item: a thimble wrought from moonsteel, with a ring of needle points angling inward. A crown for thumbs—or for kings stupid enough to touch it. I’d heard of the Thimble Crown. You wear it, you stitch oaths into reality. One prick and suddenly your promises show up with teeth. It was supposed to live under three veils and an angry aunt, not out where goblins could pawn it for concert tickets. “What’s the generous part?” I asked the messenger. He responded by dying on my floor, which felt melodramatic. He wasn’t stabbed; he was unraveled, threads of glamor popping like overworked seams. Someone had pulled on him from the other side, the way you tug a sweater until it becomes a scarf and bad news. I lit a clove, cracked the window wider, and stared down at the alley. The city was doing its usual impression of a headache: neon bruises, rain blown sideways, a bus groaning like a cursed whale. Humans were out there pretending not to believe in us while buying crystals in bulk. Cute. I looked back at the corpse. “Okay, sweetheart,” I muttered, “who tugged your thread?” I looted his satchel because I’m not a cop, I’m a professional. Inside: a ticket stub from the Rusted Lark (a dive bar with live music and several health code violations), a tin of wing polish (rude), and a matchbook stamped with an orange daisy and the words Tell Daisy You Owe Her. I did, in fact, owe Daisy. Two drinks, a favor, and an explanation for why her ex now only speaks in limericks. Wing glue wasn’t going to fix this day. I strapped on my teal jacket—the one with studs that say “approach with snacks”—and laced my corset tight enough to squeeze the truth out of liars. The mirror offered up the usual: orange mohawk at war with gravity, tattoos like a roadmap to poor decisions, and that face my mother said could curdle milk. I kissed it anyway. “Let’s go make questionable choices.” The Rusted Lark smelled like beer, ozone, and apologies. I sidestepped a brawl between a pair of brownies arguing about union dues and slid onto a barstool that still had its original curses. Daisy clocked me immediately. She’s a nymph with shoulders like a threat and eyeliner that could cut rope, a saint who once dated me and forgave the experience. Barely. “Zaz,” she purred, wiping a glass that had seen things. “You look like a lawsuit. What do you want besides attention?” “Information. And, I guess, attention.” I flipped the matchbook onto the bar. “Your calling card is making the rounds attached to corpses. You working nights for the Royal haberdashery now?” She didn’t flinch, which told me she already knew the tune. “Not my card. Counterfeit. Cute, though.” She poured me something that smelled like burnt sugar and lightning bugs. “You’re here about the Thimble, aren’t you.” Not a question. “I’m here about the messenger who arrived pre-ruined and bled thread on my floor. But yes, apparently there’s a fashion accessory threatening reality.” I sipped. It tasted like kissing a socket. “Who lifted it?” Daisy tilted her head toward the back booth where a man sat alone, human on the outside, trouble on the inside. Trench coat, cheekbones, smile like a rumor. He was shuffling cards with fingers that knew better. The air around him crackled with low-budget magic. “That’s Arlo Crane,” she said. “Conjurer, con man, crowd-pleaser. He’s been asking very specific questions about moonsteel and needlework. Also he tips well, so don’t kill him in here.” I swiveled toward him and flashed my most professional grin, which looks like a shark rethinking vegetarianism. “If he’s got the Crown, why is he still breathing?” “Because somebody scarier is protecting him,” Daisy said. “And because he’s useful. The Crown changed hands last night, twice. First from the Tailors to the Smilers—” “Ugh.” The Smilers are a cult that replaced their mouths with embroidery. Helpful if you hate conversation and love nightmares. “—then from the Smilers to whoever Arlo’s working for,” Daisy finished. “He’s running an old trick with new thread. And Zaz? There’s a rumor the Crown isn’t just binding oaths anymore. It’s rewriting definitions. Somebody pricked the dictionary.” I felt my stomach try to unionize. Words are dangerous at the best of times; give them sharp accessories and cities fall. “What’s the going rate for apocalypse couture?” “Enough to make you say please.” Daisy slid me a napkin with a name written in lipstick: Madame Nettles. “She’s hosting a couture séance in the Needle Market after midnight. You’ll find Arlo there, if you can pay the cover in secrets.” “I brought plenty,” I said, and we both knew I meant knives. I drifted toward Arlo’s booth, letting my wings catch the neon. He looked up, blinked once, and folded his cards. “You’re Zaz,” he said, like he was naming a problem. “I was told you’d be taller.” “I was told you’d be smarter,” I shot back, sliding into the seat across from him. Up close, he smelled like cedar and bad ideas. “Let’s make this efficient. You show me where the Crown is. I don’t collapse your lungs into origami cranes.” He smiled—the smug kind, the kind that gets people poetic at funerals. “You don’t want the Crown, Zaz. You want the thread it’s carrying. The pattern underneath the city. Someone tugged it loose. Everybody’s teeth are on edge because deep down we can feel the stitch slipping.” He tapped the deck. “I’m not your thief. I’m your map.” “Terrific,” I said. “Fold yourself into my pocket and be quiet until I need exposition.” “You’ll need more than exposition.” He slid a card across the table. The artwork showed an orange-winged fairy in a teal jacket scowling at destiny. Cute. “You’re being written, Zaz. And whoever’s doing the writing is getting sloppy.” The card warmed under my fingertip—then burned. I hissed, jerking back. On my thumb, a perfect ring of pinpricks. Needle teeth. Somewhere, very far and very near, a chorus of thimbles hummed like a beehive full of lawyers. Arlo’s smile died. “Oh. They’ve already crowned you.” “No one crowns me without dinner first,” I said, but my voice sounded two sizes too small. The bar’s lights flickered. Conversations hiccuped. A dozen patrons turned to look at me in eerie, synchronized curiosity—as if someone had just underlined my name. From the doorway came a rustle like silk over bone. A figure stepped inside, tall, immaculate, face veiled in lace so fine it could cut you with a sentence. Madame Nettles. Beside her walked two Smilers, mouth-threads taut, hands holding silver bobbins that spun on their own. The room fell into the kind of silence that makes choices heavy. Madame Nettles raised a gloved hand and pointed—so politely it felt like an insult—straight at my bleeding thumb. “There,” she murmured, voice like pins in velvet. “The seamstress of our undoing.” Arlo whispered, “We should leave.” “We?” I said. Then the bobbins sang, and the world around me puckered like fabric about to be cut. Look, I’m not scared of much: cops, commitment, self-reflection. But when reality starts to pleat itself, I get respectful. I flipped the table (classic), kicked the nearest Smiler (therapeutic), and grabbed Arlo by the lapels. “Congratulations, map,” I snarled. “You’re now also a shield.” We crashed through the kitchen. A pot of stew tried to negotiate peace and failed. Daisy pointed at the back exit with her bar rag, then at me, then at the ceiling—code for you owe me. We burst into the alley. Rain, sirens, our breath like cigarette ghosts. Behind us, the bar door bulged inward as the Smilers pushed reality through it like dough. Arlo coughed, blinking neon out of his eyes. “The Crown wants you because you talk like a weapon,” he said. “Every insult you’ve ever thrown could become law.” “Great,” I said. “Fetch me City Hall and a megaphone.” “I’m serious,” he said. “If they stitch your tongue to the Crown, the rest of us will spend eternity living inside your punchlines.” I stared at my thumb. The ring of punctures gleamed. Somewhere, far above the clouds, I felt the throb of machinery: looms at the size of weather, knitting fate into a sweater no one requested. I swallowed. “Fine. Map me, Crane. Where’s the next move?” He jerked his chin toward the rooftops. “Needle Market’s closed to groundwalkers tonight. We take the high road.” “I fly ugly when I’m mad,” I warned. “Then the night is about to get beautiful.” We launched, wings chopping rain into glitter. Below, the city stretched like a sullen dragon. Above, the clouds stitched themselves shut behind us. My thumb pulsed in time with a crown I didn’t own. And somewhere between the two, a voice I didn’t recognize cleared its throat and, in my own timbre, said: Rewrite. I didn’t scream. I never scream. I swore very poetically. And then we aimed for the market where secrets are priced by how much they hurt. The Needle Market Says Ouch The Needle Market doesn’t technically exist. It happens. Like a rash or a bad decision, it blooms wherever enough desire and guilt rub together. Tonight, it’s stitched into the rooftops over Sector Nine, a whole carnival of awnings and lanterns balanced on the city’s bones. From the air it looks like someone spilled embroidery across the skyline. Up close, it smells like wax, perfume, and secrets burning to stay warm. We landed behind a row of charm stalls where a dryad in a smoking jacket was selling love potions that came with non-refundable side effects. Arlo folded his trench coat collar up and moved like he was afraid of being recognized—which, in my experience, is how you get recognized. I didn’t bother hiding. My wings were flaring mood-light, my hair was a warning sign, and my boots squeaked like a threat. The Market parted around me like gossip around royalty. “You’re glowing,” Arlo muttered, eyes darting. “That’s not good.” “I’m always glowing,” I said. “Sometimes it’s rage, sometimes it’s crime.” We wove past stalls selling thread spun from siren hair, pocket universes in glass jars, curses priced by the syllable. Everyone was smiling too much. Not happy—just stretched, like they’d forgotten the muscle movements for frowning. The Smilers had been here recently. You could taste the antiseptic of their devotion in the air. Somewhere, someone was humming the same three notes on repeat. It made the hairs on my wings stand up. “Keep your head down,” Arlo whispered. “Sure,” I said. “Right after I tattoo subtle on my forehead.” He sighed. “You’re going to get us—” “Attention? Already did that.” From the crowd stepped a woman with a hat shaped like a dagger and a smile sharp enough to cut fabric. “Zazariah Thorn,” she said, dragging my full name across her teeth like floss. “The Queen’s unlikeliest errand girl.” Her outfit was all velvet menace, her voice a lazy stretch of honey and hooks. Madame Nettles. She’d followed us up—or she’d been waiting. Either way, my day was about to itch. “Madame,” I said, bowing just enough to mock. “Love the lace. I was hoping for a more dramatic entrance, though—maybe thunder, or a scream track.” She chuckled, the kind of sound that ends marriages. “No need for theatrics, darling. You’ve brought enough noise of your own.” She flicked her gaze toward my thumb. “May I?” “You may not,” I said. “The Crown marks you. You understand what that means?” “It means I should start charging rent to the voices in my head?” Arlo tried diplomacy, poor bastard. “Madame, the mark was accidental. We only want to return the Crown to its rightful custodian.” She tilted her head. “Oh, sweet conjurer, no. The Crown has already chosen its custodian. It’s rewriting her as we speak.” Her eyes found mine, pupils like black buttons. “How does it feel, Zazariah, to have the world sewing itself to your opinions?” “About as fun as a corset made of bees.” She smiled wider. “Every word you say now is binding. Every insult is architecture. Careful—you could manifest a slur into a city ordinance.” “Then I’ll start with ‘no solicitors.’” I flexed my wings. “And maybe ‘no veiled creeps with bad metaphors.’” The air around us shivered. A pair of her attendants stumbled backward as an invisible line carved itself into the cobblestone between us—neat, perfect, humming. My words had literally made a border. “Well,” Arlo muttered, “that’s new.” Madame Nettles’ smile didn’t waver, but her fingers twitched. “You’re dangerous, fairy. Untrained power is such a nuisance.” She gestured to her Smilers. “Take her tongue. Politely.” “Oh, now it’s a party,” I said, and pulled the first knife I’d ever stolen. (It’s sentimental; it hums when it’s happy.) The Smilers advanced, silent, silver needles flashing in their fingers. I moved first—because I always do—and for a few ecstatic seconds it was just metal, sweat, and the sound of fabric screaming. I kicked one into a stall of bottled daydreams; he popped like a balloon full of confetti. The other got close enough to snag my sleeve, but the jacket bit back—literally. I heard him yelp as the spikes sank in. Arlo muttered a spell that sounded like cheating and turned his deck of cards into a swarm of glowing paper wasps. They dive-bombed Madame Nettles’ veil, distracting her long enough for me to vault over a table and grab her wrist. “Why me?” I hissed. “Why mark me?” She leaned close enough for me to smell rosewater and something metallic. “Because, dear Zaz, you don’t believe in destiny. And that makes you the perfect author for one.” “You want me to rewrite fate?” “We want you to finish it.” That’s when the ground dropped. Literally. The Market, the stalls, the crowd—all unraveled beneath our feet like someone had tugged the wrong thread. Arlo grabbed me mid-fall, wings snapping open as the whole rooftop bazaar collapsed into glowing strands. We fell through a tapestry of color and sound until we hit another surface—a new Market, deeper, darker, stitched from shadows and half-finished ideas. “Where the hell—” I started. “Below the pattern,” Arlo said grimly. “The place stories go when they’re edited out.” Great. I’d always wanted to vacation in the dumpster of reality. We landed on a platform made of patchwork light. Around us, the air was thick with half-spoken words and the ghosts of metaphors too shy to finish. Figures watched from the edges—discarded characters, unfinished poems, jokes that had lost their punchlines. One of them shuffled forward, headless but polite. “You shouldn’t be here,” it rasped. “Join the club,” I said. “We meet Thursdays.” “They’re trying to stitch the end,” it wheezed. “But the thread is alive now. It remembers what it was meant to sew.” “Which is?” I asked. “Freedom,” it said, before unraveling into punctuation marks. Arlo crouched beside me, eyes scanning the flickering ground. “If the Crown is rewriting definitions, it must be using this place as its loom. Everything that doesn’t fit gets dumped here. We find the anchor, we can cut the stitch.” “And if we can’t?” He glanced at me. “Then you talk the universe to death.” “Oh, honey,” I said, drawing my knife again. “That’s my second-best skill.” From above, a new light bled through the ceiling of threads—cold, white, royal. Madame Nettles was following. Her voice slithered down like silk. “Run if you like, my little swearword. But every sentence ends in a period.” “Yeah?” I yelled. “Then I’ll be a semicolon, bitch!” The ground trembled in laughter—or maybe it was mine. Either way, reality cracked open again, and Arlo dragged me through the tear into somewhere worse. Threadbare Gods & Other Lies We landed in a cathedral made of thread. Not stone, not glass—just miles of woven silk that flexed when you breathed. Every sound was muffled, like the air was holding its breath. Somewhere above, gears turned lazily, winding the universe one loop at a time. Beneath us, the fabric pulsed faintly. Alive. Hungry. I checked my knife; it whispered something obscene. I whispered back. Arlo stumbled to his feet, brushing glitter off his coat. “Okay, no big deal, just a divine sewing machine running on cosmic anxiety. Totally normal Thursday.” “If this thing starts singing, I’m burning it down,” I said, and meant it. At the center of the cathedral stood a dais. On it: the Thimble Crown, glowing like moonlight trapped in a migraine. Threads ran from it in every direction, connecting to the ceiling, the floor, the air itself. It was beautiful—if you like your beauty armed and unstable. Each pulse it sent rippled through reality, and I felt my pulse respond, in time, like it had found its drummer. “That’s not supposed to happen,” Arlo muttered. “It’s syncing with you.” “Figures,” I said. “The first time something syncs with me, it’s a cursed relic.” Madame Nettles appeared behind us like a rumor too proud to die. Her lace veil trailed across the threads without snagging—a neat trick in physics and malice. “Welcome to the Loom,” she said, voice echoing through the weave. “Every world has one. Most just pretend they don’t.” “You’re late,” I said. “I was about to start redecorating.” She smiled behind the lace. “You misunderstand. This place isn’t for decorating. It’s for editing.” Arlo stepped between us, because he has the suicidal impulse of a saint. “If she keeps the Crown,” he said, “she’ll overwrite existence with sarcasm and spite.” “Oh, please,” I said. “That’s an improvement.” Madame Nettles gestured toward the Crown. “Put it on, Zazariah. Finish the Manifesto. Write the final stitch. Unmake the lie of destiny.” “And what’s in it for you?” “Freedom. Chaos. An end to all patterns.” “Sounds exhausting.” Arlo hissed, “Don’t do it.” But the Crown was already singing to me, a perfect pitch between fury and temptation. I stepped closer, drawn by the pull of something that finally got me. Every insult, every eye roll, every stubborn refusal—it had all been leading to this: a job offer from entropy. I reached out, fingers trembling. And then, because I am who I am, I stopped. “You know what?” I said. “I’m not your protagonist. I’m not your thread. And I definitely don’t take fashion advice from ghosts in lace.” Madame Nettles’ expression tightened. “You can’t refuse destiny.” “Watch me.” I pulled my knife, sliced open my palm, and let my blood drip across the weave. The Loom convulsed, threads snapping like nerves. “If the world’s going to stitch itself to my words,” I said, “then here’s a new one: Undo.” The word hit like a detonation. Light flared, colors inverted, and for a moment everything—everything—laughed. Madame Nettles screamed as her veil shredded, revealing not a face but a gaping spool of thread that shrieked itself out of existence. The Crown trembled, cracked, and then melted into molten silver that poured itself into my wounds, sealing them with a hiss. When the light died, we were standing in the ruins of the Loom. The air was quiet. The threads were gone, replaced by stars arranged in no particular order—finally, beautifully random. “Did we win?” Arlo asked, eyes wide. “I don’t do winning,” I said. “I do surviving with flair.” He laughed, shaky. “So what now?” I looked down at my hands. The silver scars pulsed faintly, spelling something out in Morse: Write carefully. “Now,” I said, “we go home. I’m opening a bar.” “A bar?” “Sure. Call it The Punctuated Equilibrium. Drinks named after grammar crimes. Half-price shots for anyone who swears creatively.” He grinned. “And if the Queen comes looking for her Crown?” I smiled, sharp as scissors. “I’ll tell her I’m editing.” We climbed back through the wreckage, wings beating against the dawn. The city spread below us—chaotic, patched, real. I breathed in its smoke and music, the scent of rebellion and rain. The sky cracked pink, and for the first time in centuries, nobody was writing the ending but me. And I wasn’t planning to finish it anytime soon. Epilogue — The Manifesto Never trust a tidy story.Never iron your wings.And never, ever, let anyone else hold the needle. 🛒 Bring “The Punk Pixie Manifesto” Home Love a little rebellion with your décor? The Punk Pixie Manifesto refuses to behave on the wall, desk, or anywhere else you put it. Celebrate her attitude — half chaos, half charm — with these bold, high-quality creations. Framed Print — Add fierce elegance to your favorite space with museum-grade clarity and texture. Perfect for anyone who decorates with conviction (and sarcasm). Tapestry — Let her wings spread across your wall. Soft, vibrant, unapologetic — a centerpiece for the rule-breaker’s lair. Greeting Card — When “thinking of you” needs extra voltage. Perfect for birthdays, apologies, or unapologetic statements. 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