rabbit

by Bill Tiepelman

Snowveil Hare of the Frozen Court

The Hare Who Refused to Be Ordinary On the coldest night of the year, when the aurora stretched across the sky like spilled paint and everyone with common sense was indoors hoarding soup, the Frozen Court gathered in the Valley of Unreasonable Sparkle. The snow there never simply “fell.” It pirouetted. It glowed. It attempted, on more than one occasion, to unionize. Every ruler of the North was present. The Ice Stag with his cathedral-sized antlers, the Glacial Owls with their disapproving expressions, the Polar Bear Matron wearing a cloak of storm clouds, and a flock of snow sprites who communicated exclusively in giggles and glitter. Even the northern wind had attended, appearing as a tall, translucent figure who looked like they spent far too much time in perfume commercials. At the center of it all, sitting on a smooth rise of snow that glowed from within, was a throne carved from a single block of ice. It was both magnificent and deeply uncomfortable, which is how you knew it was a throne. And atop that throne, in a halo of swirling frost, sat the most improbable monarch the realm had ever had: the Snowveil Hare of the Frozen Court. Snowveil was not what anyone expected from a winter ruler. For starters, they were small. Not metaphorically small, either. Physically. A hare. A very fluffy hare with long legs, luminous sapphire eyes, and antlers that looked like moonlight had grown tired of being intangible and decided to crystallize into something with sharp edges and opinions. The antlers glimmered with frost fractal patterns, delicate branches sparkling as though each was lit by its own tiny aurora. Snowveil’s coat was etched with swirls of ice-lace, filigree crawling over fur like an artist had been allowed to go absolutely feral with a frostbrush. Every time Snowveil moved, the patterns shifted, catching the light and throwing fragments of cold fire into the air. The Frozen Court had elected Snowveil for a simple reason: no one could intimidate enemies and charm tourists quite like a hyper-realistic magical hare with crystalline antlers. The marketing potential alone was obscene. There were already plans for seasonal tapestries, enamel pins, and collectible prints in the Hall of Excessively On-Brand Merchandise. But that night, the Court wasn’t thinking about merchandising strategies or limited-edition aurora posters. They were thinking about the problem. The problem in question came in the form of a messenger wisp, who spun into existence over the court like a terrified snowflake that had read too much bad news. It trembled in the cold air, its tiny face pale blue and worried. “Your Frosted Majesty,” the wisp squeaked, bowing so low it nearly folded itself inside out, “we have an issue in the Southern Melt.” The Southern Melt was not a place anyone enjoyed saying out loud, mostly because it sounded like a seasonal dessert special. It was the liminal region where the eternal winter of the North grudgingly shook hands with the warmer lands beyond. The snow there had a habit of melting, refreezing, sulking, and writing anonymous complaints in the slush. Snowveil’s whiskers twitched. “What kind of issue?” they asked, voice soft but edged with the crispness of subzero air. The wisp hesitated. “The snow,” it said, “is… refusing to fall.” The Court erupted into panicked murmurs. The Glacial Owls fluffed up indignantly. The Ice Stag stomped a hoof, causing an avalanche somewhere unfortunate. The Polar Bear Matron let out a shocked huff that formed a new iceberg off the northern coast. “Refusing?” Snowveil repeated, one elegant ear flicking. “Snow is not allowed to refuse. That’s literally its whole job. It goes up, it freezes, it falls. That’s the brand.” The wisp nodded miserably. “It says it’s on strike, Your Majesty. Something about ‘unreasonable working conditions, lack of respect, and human tourists who keep calling it ‘so aesthetic’ instead of appreciating its complex crystalline geometry.’” Snowveil pinched the bridge of their nose with an invisible paw of pure exasperation. The antlers glittered in sympathy. “Of course it does,” they muttered. “The last time we let a cloud read anything about labor rights, it staged a blizzard walkout.” The Wind leaned closer, cape of translucent air whispering. “If the snow stops falling in the Southern Melt, the line between winter and spring will blur,” it warned. “Rivers will swell early. Flowers will bloom too soon. Mortals will start posting ‘Is this climate change or vibes?’ on their little glowing rectangles. It will be chaos.” Snowveil wasn’t afraid of chaos; they were the sort of creature who could turn a snowstorm into a fashion statement. But they were concerned about balance. The winter realms relied on subtle rhythms: snowfall patterns, frost crystal maps, aurora schedules, the weekly migration of overly dramatic ravens. If the snow decided to rebel, everything else would wobble. The Ice Stag cleared his throat, antlers chiming like distant bells. “We could send the Storm Wolves,” he suggested. “A little intimidation might persuade the flakes to fall in line.” Snowveil’s blue eyes narrowed. “We are not threatening the weather into compliance,” they said. “Every time we do that, some mortal writes a myth where the gods are jerks and the moral is ‘Never trust atmospheric deities.’ Our PR team still hasn’t recovered from the Great Hailstone Incident.” There were solemn nods. The Great Hailstone Incident was still whispered about in the Hall of Reputational Damage. Somebody had tried to speed-run an entire winter in one week. It had not gone well. Snowveil hopped down from the ice throne in a flurry of glittering frost, landing so softly the snow barely noticed. They paced slowly, hooves—no, paws, but dignified ones—leaving faint trails of glowing patterns behind them. Each step wrote a secret sigil in the snow, the language of ice and intention. “Snow is not the enemy,” Snowveil said at last. “It’s an artist. It likes to be admired. It likes to be taken seriously. And lately it’s been treated like nothing more than a filter for mortal photographs and a hazard for poorly chosen footwear.” The Polar Bear Matron rumbled thoughtfully. “Humans do enjoy sliding around shrieking as if walking on frozen water is a deeply surprising concept.” “Exactly,” Snowveil said. “If I were a snowflake, I’d be offended too. Imagine spending hours crystallizing yourself into a unique six-armed masterpiece, just to get stomped by someone in discount boots and then compressed into sludge.” The Court winced collectively. “So,” Snowveil continued, “we’re going to negotiate.” The Glacial Owls blinked. “Negotiate,” one repeated slowly, as though tasting the word like a questionable berry. “With precipitation.” Snowveil’s whiskers twitched again, this time in amusement. “Yes. With precipitation. The snow wants respect? We’ll see what that means. And if we can’t come to an agreement, then we’ll find the real reason behind this strike. Snow doesn’t just stop falling unless something bigger is meddling.” The suggestion settled over the Court like a thin new layer of frost—chilly but stabilizing. They all knew what Snowveil wasn’t saying: storms didn’t organize themselves. If there was a labor movement among the clouds, something—or someone—had stirred it. A faint shiver slid through the air. Snowveil felt it, the way a hare feels the shadow of a hawk long before it sees the wings. It was subtle, like a ripple in the pattern of the cold, a small wrongness humming under the usual song of the North. That was the twist, Snowveil realized. The snow’s rebellion wasn’t the problem. It was the symptom. They turned to the wisp. “You’ll guide me to the Southern Melt,” Snowveil said. “We leave at once.” There was a murmur of protest—about the hour, the temperature, the ongoing agenda items concerning icicle zoning regulations—but Snowveil flicked one antler and the complaints froze solid, glittering briefly before shattering. “This realm,” Snowveil said calmly, “is balanced on patterns most mortals never see. Frost fractals, snowdrift rhythms, the way ice sings under starlight. If those patterns start misbehaving, we don’t sit here and fill out complaint forms. We go out there and fix it.” The Wind gave an appreciative bow, snow swirling in elegant spirals. “Very dramatic,” it said. “Nine out of ten. I would have added a cape swirl.” Snowveil’s fur rippled in a way that absolutely counted as a cape swirl. “Happy now?” they asked dryly. And so the Court parted to open a path of glowing frost. Snowveil stepped forward, antlers haloed in pale light, eyes reflecting all the strange, beautiful cold of the North. The wisp bobbed nervously at their side, already regretting every life choice that had led it to be the courier of bad meteorological news. As Snowveil crossed the boundary of the valley, the sky brightened with a fresh wave of aurora. Greens and violets rippled across the dark, dancing above the hare like a royal banner. Snowveil didn’t look back, but if they had, they would have seen the Frozen Court watching in tense silence, each member aware that something old and patient was stirring beneath the snow. Because far to the south, just beyond the edge of winter, someone else was tired of being ignored by the world. And unlike the snow, they weren’t planning a strike. They were planning a takeover. Snowveil didn’t know the details yet. But as a faint tremor shivered through the eternal ice, the hare’s antlers rang like distant glass bells, and they had the unsettling sensation that the season itself had just winked at them. “Wonderful,” Snowveil muttered under their breath. “It’s going to be one of those winters.” Negotiating With Weather (And Other Terrible Ideas) The journey to the Southern Melt began with the sort of dramatic flourish Snowveil generally tried to avoid before their morning tea. The wisp led the way, jittering like a lantern flame in a nervous sneeze, while Snowveil bounded through drifts of glittering snow that behaved as though they were in a perfume ad—swirling, shimmering, and showing off for absolutely no reason. The first sign something was wrong came when they reached the River of Respectable Ice, which had recently rebranded itself from the River of Slightly Cranky Ice after a successful therapy arc. Normally, it was frozen solid—quiet, reliable, and pleasantly self-important. Now? A chunk near the southern bank had melted into a suspiciously warm puddle, bubbling as though being boiled by a kettle operated by an unlicensed pyromancer. Snowveil leaned down, antlers casting shimmering reflections on the surface. “This isn’t normal.” The wisp nodded vigorously. “This happened when the snow declared its strike. The Melt's expanding faster than it should, and the air keeps getting… hotter.” Snowveil raised a furry brow. “Hotter? In the North? Without a signed permission slip from the Winter Council? Bold.” The puddle suddenly belched steam, which coalesced into a tiny, irritable heat sprite. It looked up at Snowveil with the expression of someone who had eaten a ghost pepper and immediately regretted all life choices leading to that moment. “Look,” the sprite rasped, hands on nonexistent hips, “we’re doing our best, okay? There’s interference. Someone’s cranking up the temperature without filling out one single Seasonal Adjustment Form. I swear, it’s like mortals think weather just happens by accident.” Snowveil cleared their throat. “Do you know who’s causing it?” The sprite squinted. “Something big. Something fiery. Something with an ego large enough to require its own postal code.” Snowveil winced. “Oh no. Not… him.” The sprite shuddered. “Yep.” Snowveil muttered a string of ancient frost-words that sounded suspiciously like someone cursing into a scarf. “The Sun Prince?" The wisp gasped. “He wouldn’t dare!” “Oh, he absolutely would,” Snowveil said. “He once tried to annex the twilight hours because he wanted to ‘expand his brand.’ The man radiates confidence and secondhand embarrassment.” But there was no time to stand there and make fun of a nuclear star’s self-esteem issues. The snow had unionized. The Melt was creeping north. There was a solid chance someone would attempt to turn the Frozen Court into a spa resort “for warmth enthusiasts.” Snowveil marched southward, antlers glowing faintly with frost energy. Along the way they encountered several troubling anomalies: A patch of daisies blooming aggressively out of season, attempting to start a selfie trend. A flock of robins arguing heatedly with a confused snowdrift about territory law. A snowman lying on its side like a Victorian damsel, dramatically claiming it was “melting from emotional distress.” And then—there it was. The Southern Melt in full rebellion mode. Snow wasn’t falling. It was floating upward in tiny groups, holding tiny picket signs made of ice chips. Every single snowflake was shouting at once, which sounded like a thousand faint jingles mixed with the subtle auditory equivalent of passive-aggressive emails. Snowveil took a deep breath. “Here we go.” They hopped onto a mound of slush like a politician climbing onto a podium moments before regretting everything. “Attention, snow!” Snowveil called, antlers ringing like crystalline bells. “We are here to listen to your grievances.” A representative flake drifted forward, swirling itself into a larger, more dramatic configuration that vaguely resembled a snowflake with managerial responsibilities. It floated eye-level with Snowveil. “We demand respect,” it chirped. “And hazard pay.” Snowveil blinked slowly. “Hazard pay?” “Yes!” the snowflake huffed. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is falling through the atmosphere? We’re basically yeeted from the sky at terminal velocity! And what for? To be shoveled, stomped, salted, and photographed with filters that completely misrepresent our crystalline geometry!” Snowveil rubbed their forehead. “Okay. I understand. But refusing to fall is destabilizing the winter cycle. We need you.” The snowflake crossed its little flake-arms. “We’re not doing a single elegant descent until our demands are acknowledged.” Snowveil’s voice softened. “What if I promised to speak to the Court? To advocate for better conditions, better appreciation, and maybe a mandatory course on how to photograph snow without flattening it into white mush?” The snowflake’s edges softened. “That… could be negotiated.” Snowveil nodded. “Good. Because something far bigger is threatening the winter realms. You aren’t striking alone. Something’s heating the North from the inside out.” A hush fell over the strike line. The snowflake trembled. “You mean—” “Yes,” Snowveil said grimly. “The Sun Prince.” The snowflakes erupted into outraged jingling. “That radiant himbo!” one shouted. “He’s always trying to steamroll winter! Literally!” “Precisely.” Snowveil shook frost from their whiskers. “We need unity, not rebellion. Winter won’t stand a chance if he unleashes one of his ‘seasonal rebrand’ schemes. The last time he tried to warm up the North, we ended up with the Great Slush Flood of Year 401. The otters still don’t speak to us." The snowflake hovered thoughtfully. “What do you need from us?” Snowveil looked up, antlers glittering with incoming determination. “Your help. Not as precipitation. As witnesses. Scouts. The Sun Prince won’t expect resistance from those he ignores. We need you to find where he’s concentrating heat. Where he’s planning his move.” The snowflakes conferred among themselves in soft crystalline chimes. Finally, the leader drifted forward. “We accept. On one condition.” Snowveil braced internally. “Name it.” The flake pointed one of its tiny arms at Snowveil. “If we save winter, we want recognition. Official titles. An annual parade. And—this is non-negotiable—a public apology from the Sun Prince for melting our brethren without proper documentation.” Snowveil nodded. “Done. Winterwide proclamation, parade funding, and a strongly worded letter dipped in frost for dramatic effect.” The snowflake twinkled smugly. “We’ll begin surveillance immediately.” The flakes scattered into the air like a burst of silent fireworks, streaking southward on cold winds. Snowveil exhaled in relief. One disaster stabilized. A larger one incoming. The wisp drifted beside them, trembling. “What now?” Snowveil stared toward the horizon where heat shimmered like a mirage. “Now? We go meet the Sun Prince.” The wisp squeaked. “Isn’t he… dangerous?” “Oh, absolutely,” Snowveil said. “He’s hotter than the gossip about two yetis caught canoodling behind the Icefall Tavern. But he’s also vain. And dramatic. And deeply susceptible to emotional manipulation.” The wisp blinked. “Manipulation?” Snowveil smirked. “Yes. You’d be amazed what you can accomplish with a strategic compliment about the luminosity of his solar flares.” The wisp groaned. “We’re doomed.” As they continued south, heat shimmered stronger, rising in waves that made the snow beneath them whimper anxiously. Something truly immense was interfering with the season—bigger and bolder than any prior tantrum the Sun Prince had thrown. But the final confirmation didn’t come until the clouds themselves parted in a sudden, dramatic flourish… and a colossal golden figure stepped forward, radiating smugness and SPF 500 energy. The Sun Prince, crown blazing like a supernova, looked down at Snowveil with a smile that suggested he practiced it in reflective surfaces. “Well, well,” he purred. “If it isn’t winter’s cutest little monarch.” He winked. “Don’t melt on me.” Snowveil’s eye twitched. “Fantastic,” they whispered. “It’s going to be one of those negotiations.” The Hare, the Himbo Sun Prince, and the Great Winter Rebrand Attempt The Sun Prince stood before Snowveil like a bronzed monument to questionable decisions, basking in his own radiance with the confidence of someone who believed sunscreen was a personality trait. Heat shimmered around him in waves so intense that several nearby icicles fainted dramatically and had to be revived with sassy pep talks from a passing frost sprite. Snowveil squared their tiny but ferociously majestic shoulders. Their crystalline antlers glinted defiantly, each delicate branch giving off the distinct impression that it would absolutely be used as a weapon if negotiations failed. “Sun Prince,” Snowveil began coolly, tone sharp enough to shave ice sculptures. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?” He flashed a smile bright enough to cause mild retinal trauma. “Just warming things up, darling. Your winter has been a liiittle too... wintery this year. I thought I'd give the land some razzle-dazzle.” He wiggled his fingers, and a plume of steam spiraled upward as if agreeing with him. Snowveil stared at him. Blinked once. Slowly. “You are destabilizing the entire seasonal structure of the Northern Realms.” He shrugged. “I like to think of it as… rebranding.” He leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. “Picture it: ‘Hot Winter™: A Sunny Take on Snow.’” Snowveil made a strangled noise that could have frozen a lesser being on the spot. “You cannot trademark winter.” The Sun Prince gave a devastatingly smug wink. “Watch me.” Behind Snowveil, the wisp made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a dying squeal. The hare pressed a paw to their forehead, antlers buzzing with frost energy. “Why,” Snowveil hissed, “would you do this? What are you possibly gaining from melting my domain?” The Sun Prince sighed dramatically, wind machines of pure solar flare powering up behind him. “Fine. You want the truth? I’m bored.” Snowveil arched a brow. “Bored.” “YES bored!” he burst out. “Mortals worship me all summer long—sunbathing, sunflowers, that whole solar-powered happiness aesthetic. But winter comes? And suddenly it’s all cocoa and blankets and ‘oh look how elegant the frost is’ and ‘the moonlight is so atmospheric’ and ‘let’s light candles and pretend the sun doesn’t exist.’” He stomped a foot, causing the ground to steam aggressively. “It’s rude.” Snowveil inhaled deeply. “So you heated half of my kingdom because you felt… underappreciated.” “Yes,” he said without shame. “Also, one mortal called me ‘mid’ in a poem last month, and I haven’t recovered.” Snowveil’s eye twitched with the force of an avalanche. But then—something shifted. Behind the heat shimmer on the horizon, a familiar glittering cloud approached, moving with purposeful, icy grace. Snowflakes. Thousands of them, sparkling like a rebellious militia with excellent posture. The snowflake leader hovered forward, tiny arms crossed in indignation. “Excuse us,” it chimed pointedly, “but are YOU the reason half of us melted before we even fell? Because some of us were masterpieces, thank you very much.” The Sun Prince recoiled. “Are you talking to me?” The snowflake jabbed a tiny icy arm right at his solar-plexus region. “Oh, we are more than talking. We are FILING A FORMAL COMPLAINT.” Several snowflakes behind it chanted “COMPLAINT! COMPLAINT!” like an extremely chilly protest group. The Sun Prince sputtered. “I—I didn’t melt you on purpose!” “Oh REALLY?” the snowflake hissed. “Because we have eyewitness accounts of unauthorized heat waves, unscheduled solar bursts, and at least one snowman who claims you looked at him funny and he liquefied out of fear.” Snowveil cleared their throat. “Prince. Apologize.” He stared at Snowveil as though they had asked him to dim. “I’m sorry—you want me to apologize to the weather?” “Yes,” Snowveil said firmly. “It’s that or we file a complaint with the Equinox Council. And you know how they get.” The Sun Prince blanched. “Not the Equinox Council. They make everything so… bureaucratic.” Snowveil nodded solemnly. “Mm-hmm. You’d be stuck filling out sunbeam allocation forms until next solstice.” The Prince shuddered in horror. “Fine! FINE. I apologize to the snow for melting—” A snowflake coughed loudly. He rolled his eyes. “—for melting you… without authorization. And for… uh… calling winter ‘emotionally clingy.’” The snowflakes squealed triumphantly and immediately began drafting parade blueprints. Satisfied, Snowveil stepped forward. “Now. You’re going to turn the heat down. Gradually. We don’t want steamstorms again. And after that, you’re going to sit with your feelings like a responsible celestial entity instead of committing meteorological arson every time someone forgets your fan club.” The Sun Prince sighed. “You’re surprisingly stern for someone so fluffy.” Snowveil smiled sweetly. “I will end you.” He believed them. A slow, controlled coolness spread through the land. Frost reformed. Snowflakes fell with dramatic flair. The river sighed in relief and refroze in the shape of a polite bow. The Melt retreated, muttering apologies as it went. By the time the Frozen Court gathered to greet their returning monarch, winter had returned to its elegant, orderly, and mildly judgmental self. The Court erupted in cheers. The Polar Bear Matron shed proud tears (which froze midair and had to be chiseled off). The Ice Stag bowed deeply. The Glacial Owls attempted applause but produced only very dignified wing flaps. Snowveil climbed the icy throne once more, fur glittering with victorious frost. “Winter,” they proclaimed, “is restored. And our realm stands strong—because even rebellious snowflakes have their place in the pattern.” The snowflake leader drifted up beside them. “We expect that parade by mid-month.” Snowveil sighed. “Yes, yes. I’ll inform the auroras to prep their choreography.” The auroras overhead brightened in smug acknowledgment. As celebrations erupted around them, Snowveil glanced southward. The Sun Prince was already retreating, muttering something about updating his fan club newsletter and exfoliating his solar layers. Snowveil shook their head with fond exasperation. “Drama,” they murmured. “Pure, incandescent drama.” But peace had returned. Balance was restored. And winter, once again, would sparkle with elegance, mystery, and just a hint of absurdity—exactly as it should.     Bring the Snowveil Hare of the Frozen Court into your own winter realm. Whether you're looking to elevate your décor, wrap yourself in enchanted warmth, or send a bit of frosted magic to someone special, this piece shines across multiple premium formats. Each product below transforms Snowveil’s crystalline elegance into a tangible keepsake—perfect for collectors, fantasy lovers, and anyone who lives for winter’s spellbinding charm. Explore the full collection:• Framed Print: A gallery-worthy display capturing every icy fractal and luminous detail.Shop Framed Print• Metal Print: Vibrant, reflective, and impossibly crisp—Snowveil practically glows from within.Shop Metal Print• Acrylic Print: Depth, clarity, and a glass-like finish that gives Snowveil dimensional presence.Shop Acrylic Print• Fleece Blanket: Wrap yourself in winter magic with a soft, luxurious blanket featuring Snowveil’s regal glow.Shop Fleece Blanket• Bath Towel: Add a touch of frosted elegance to your bathroom décor—yes, even your towels can be majestic.Shop Bath Towel• Greeting Card: Send winter magic to friends and family with a card that sparkles with charm and mischief.Shop Greeting Card Surround yourself with the enchanting energy of Snowveil—and let the Frozen Court’s most fashionable monarch bring a little winter wonder into your space.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Rabbit with Wings of Wonder

On the edge of a forest so old that even the oaks had started to forget their own names, lived a rabbit named Wren, who was, by all accounts, quite normal—except, of course, for her wings. They weren’t real wings, exactly. Not feathery, flapping things, anyway. No, Wren’s ears had somehow taken on the shape and color of butterfly wings, complete with swirls of indigo, emerald, and ruby, each vibrant pattern seeming to dance whenever she so much as twitched. Her mother had always told her to be careful with her ears, lest she attract curious foxes or hungry owls, but Wren never listened. She liked to hop to the edge of the forest each day, where the humans lived, just to see what they were up to. One day, as Wren was watching a group of humans gather in the meadow, she overheard a snippet of conversation that piqued her curiosity. “The Great Gardenia Flower Festival is tonight,” a young human with a mop of red curls said excitedly. “I hear they’ll even be giving out prizes!” Wren’s ears perked up (or, at least, her ear-wings perked up in a rather flamboyant fluttering display). A festival, she thought, eyes wide. With prizes! She’d never been to a human festival before, but if there were prizes involved, she was all in. In a flurry of excitement, Wren bounded back to her forest friends—a squirrel named Grimble, a wise-cracking crow named Speckle, and a hedgehog called Ivy. “I’m going to the humans’ festival!” she declared with a flair. Grimble, who was nibbling on a nut, paused mid-chew and stared at her. “You’re going where?” “To the festival! There are prizes, Grimble! Imagine all the treasures I could win!” Speckle cawed a laugh. “Do you even know what a ‘prize’ is, Wren? What if it’s a net? Or one of those boxes that goes ‘wham!’?” Wren huffed. “You just don’t understand. Humans love a good show, and I’ve got the most show-stopping ears this forest has ever seen.” “But what will you do?” Ivy piped up, peeking out from behind a mushroom. “Humans are bound to notice a rabbit with butterfly ears.” Wren pondered this for a moment, then grinned. “Then I’ll simply become a butterfly!” Grimble muttered something about “rabbits with butterfly delusions,” but Wren was already bounding off, planning her entrance to the festival. That Evening… When the sun dipped behind the trees and lanterns began to twinkle across the meadow, Wren hopped into action—quite literally. She had draped herself in trailing vines and wildflowers, and with a sprig of lavender tucked behind her ear, she looked about as close to a butterfly as a rabbit possibly could. Speckle, who’d begrudgingly agreed to accompany her, perched on her head, hoping to lend some air of credibility to the whole spectacle. As they approached the festival grounds, they saw booths lit by candlelight, humans twirling in dances, and long tables piled high with sweets, cakes, and puddings of every imaginable flavor. “Oh, this is fantastic,” Wren whispered, wide-eyed. They slipped through the shadows and crept closer to the main stage, where humans were gathering for what looked like some sort of contest. A voice boomed over the crowd, announcing, “Next up, our beloved ‘Most Magnificent Creature’ competition! Prepare to witness marvels!” Wren’s ears shot up in excitement, nearly knocking Speckle off his perch. “This is my moment!” she whispered, gathering her courage. She took a breath, hopped onto the stage, and struck her best “magnificent creature” pose. The humans gasped. Then they began to applaud, whispering things like, “Oh, it’s some sort of…forest spirit?” and “A rabbit fairy?” Someone handed her a tiny flower crown, and she adjusted it proudly on her head. As the competition continued, Wren put on a full performance, twirling her ear-wings dramatically, twitching her nose with expert timing, and even doing a little rabbit jig. She winked at the humans, delighted as they clapped and cheered. For a moment, she forgot she was supposed to be a butterfly entirely and simply basked in the glory of the moment. When the contest ended, the announcer awarded Wren the title of “Most Astonishing Forest Spirit,” which she accepted with a gracious bow, doing her best impression of a sophisticated butterfly curtsey. A Surprise After the Show As Wren was nibbling on a celebratory cookie she’d swiped from a dessert table, she heard a voice behind her. “A rabbit with butterfly wings?” it said, full of curiosity and just a hint of suspicion. She turned to see a young human woman dressed in a long, dark cloak. “Are you real?” the woman asked. Wren straightened up, putting on her most mysterious smile. “I am as real as any magic you believe in.” The woman’s eyes sparkled. “I like that answer.” She crouched down to get a closer look at Wren’s ears. “Would you… like to come back with me? I run an enchanted garden. I think you’d fit right in.” Wren tilted her head. “An enchanted garden, you say? Will there be more prizes?” The woman chuckled. “No prizes, but there’s a feast every night, and you’d have all the dandelion greens you could ever want.” Wren’s ears wiggled with interest. “I’m listening…” Grimble, Speckle, and Ivy had found her by now, overhearing the conversation. Speckle muttered, “What about us, then? You going to leave us for a dandelion buffet?” Wren looked back at her friends and then up at the woman. “Only if you all come with me,” she declared with a flourish. And so, in a surprising twist of events, Wren and her little gang of misfit forest creatures went to live in the enchanted garden, where they spent their days as the “official keepers of wonder.” Wren became something of a local legend among the humans, who would come to the garden, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious rabbit with butterfly wings. She would occasionally perform for visitors, twirling and prancing with the same flair she had at the festival. And every so often, when the moon was high and the night was still, she’d gather Grimble, Speckle, and Ivy, and together, they’d put on their own little show just for fun, a celebration of the quirks that made them unique—and the magic they’d created together. In the end, Wren did get her prize after all. Not the sort you can hang on a wall, but something better—a life filled with friendship, laughter, and all the dandelion greens she could ever want. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of magic, too.    Bring the Magic Home If Wren’s whimsical world captured your heart, you can bring a touch of this enchanting tale into your own space. Our exclusive "The Rabbit with Wings of Wonder" collection offers a variety of beautiful products featuring this captivating artwork. From cozy tapestries to intricate puzzles, each item celebrates the magic of Wren and her butterfly wings, perfect for dreamers and nature lovers alike. Tapestry - Transform your space with a stunning tapestry that brings Wren’s world to life on your walls. Puzzle - Lose yourself in this whimsical image as you piece together Wren’s story, one detail at a time. Greeting Card - Share a bit of magic with friends and loved ones with this charming greeting card, perfect for any occasion. Framed Print - Hang Wren’s tale on your wall with a high-quality framed print, a timeless addition to your art collection. Each piece is crafted to add a touch of whimsy to your life, making it easy to keep a little bit of Wren’s wonder with you every day.

by Bill Tiepelman

Blossom-Eared Sentinel of the Enchanted Garden

Once in a time of whispered myths and vibrant life, there existed an enchanted glade known to the world as Floraison, a hidden sanctuary where the grandest tales of nature unfolded. In this realm, where flowers sang and the trees kept ancient secrets, there lived a sentinel—a rabbit of such grace and poise that even the morning dew paused to admire her. Her name was Liora, the Blossom-Eared Sentinel of the Enchanted Garden. She wore a crown of wildflowers, each chosen by the meadow’s whispering winds. Her fur, a tapestry of earth's warmth, was the canvas upon which the seasons painted their hues. And her eyes, orbs of liquid amber, reflected the very soul of Floraison. The story of Liora was not one of simple frolics in the grass or idle hours spent beneath the dappled light of the sun. No, she was the keeper of balance, the guardian at the gate where the world of man touched the delicate edges of magic. It was her song that called forth the spring, her breath that whispered to the seeds beneath the soil, urging them to wake. One eve, under a sky embroidered with silver threads of starlight, a murmur shook the tendrils of the night—a murmur of something amiss. Liora’s ears, ever attuned to the heartbeat of the glade, perked with alertness. A shadow had crept into Floraison, a shadow that did not dance with the light but swallowed it whole. The sentinel knew the delicate magic of her home was in peril. The shadow was a void, an absence of color and life, seeping slowly into the soil of her sacred meadow. The flowers wilted in its wake, their songs turning into faint whimpers. Liora set forth, her resolve as steadfast as the ancient oaks. She traversed the meadow, past the babbling brooks and the sleeping stones, to the heart of Floraison, where the Great Bloom stood. It was the source of all life in the glade, a flower so pure that no shadow could touch it. But touch it, the shadow had. A single petal, tainted with a darkness that crept over its surface like a whisper of doom. Liora, with a gentle touch, caressed the ailing petal, her thoughts a melody of love and protection. From her crown, she plucked a single bloom—a flower of radiant light—and placed it upon the Great Bloom. Magic swirled in the air, a dance of colors, of life and love reborn. The tainted petal shed its darkness, falling away to be replaced by new growth. The shadow recoiled, repelled by the resurgence of light, and fled into the nothingness from whence it came. Liora, with a heart as boundless as the skies above, had restored balance to Floraison. Her tale was one of quiet bravery, of a love so deep it could stir the slumbering seeds, mend the weeping sky, and cast away the darkest of shadows with but a whisper of light. As dawn kissed the horizon, painting the world anew, Liora took her place once more at the gates of Floraison. She was the silent watcher, the guardian of all that was wild and free, the Blossom-Eared Sentinel whose story wove through the tapestry of nature itself, timeless and eternal. As the dawn's gentle light graced the petals and leaves of Floraison, restoring warmth and color to the glade, Liora resumed her watchful post. Her story, a testament to courage and care, resonated through the garden and beyond, inspiring all who heard it. Now, you too can carry a piece of Liora's world into your own. Adorn your desk with the grace of the Blossom-Eared Sentinel of the Enchanted Garden mouse pad, or let the tranquility of Floraison bloom on your wall with the exquisite Blossom-Eared Sentinel of the Enchanted Garden poster. Embrace the enchantment and become a keeper of the tale, as the sentinel’s legacy lives on in your space, a silent guardian of your serenity and inspiration.   Step into the serenity of the "Blossom-Eared Sentinel of the Enchanted Garden", a cross-stitch pattern that weaves the essence of nature's guardians into a tapestry of tranquility. The sentinel rabbit, a creature of great beauty and wisdom, serves as the custodian of a hidden grove bursting with floral splendor. Its ears, crowned with a delicate assemblage of spring blooms, rise proudly against a vibrant tableau of garden life. With every thread, you capture the subtlety of the rabbit's fur, each strand a whisper of the untold stories held within the forest's embrace. The sentinel's gaze pierces through the canvas, imbued with the ancient knowledge of the natural world, inviting you to lose yourself in a thicket where the air is perfumed with the fresh scent of myriad flowers and the soft flutter of butterfly wings provides a gentle rhythm to the day. This Blossom-Eared Sentinel of the Enchanted Garden cross-stitch pattern is a sanctuary in stitches, a visual retreat for those who yearn for a sliver of peace amidst the cacophony of daily life. It is an ideal acquisition for collectors who seek the profound beauty in the ballet of flora and fauna, portrayed with a fidelity that acts as a bridge from our world to the realm of the enchanted. Invite the "Blossom-Eared Sentinel" into your home, let it stand guard over your sanctuary, infusing your surroundings with the calming essence of an undisturbed paradise.