romantic fantasy

by Bill Tiepelman

The Elder of the Enchanted Path

In the heart of the Verdant Woodlands—just past the babbling creek that sounds suspiciously like it's gossiping—stood a moss-covered stump known only to a few as the “Proposal Post.” It was not used for mail, mind you. It was used for moments. Grand, clumsy, blush-colored moments. And it was here that the Elder of the Enchanted Path, a gnome named Thistlewhip Fernwhistle (though friends just called him “Thish”), had decided to make his move. Thish was old. Not old as in creaky or cranky, but old as in "once dated a dryad who turned into a willow mid-conversation." He’d seen thirty-three thousand springs, or so he claimed—though most suspected it was closer to seven hundred. Either way, age hadn't dulled his sense of style. He wore a robe that shimmered faintly like beetle wings, boots made from repurposed pinecone scales, and a floppy hat stitched with kiss-marks collected over centuries. No one knew how he got them. No one asked. Springtime always made him... itchy. Not in a hay-fever kind of way, but in a soul-thirsty, heart-tingly kind of way. The kind that makes one write poetry on mushroom caps or serenade chipmunks who didn't ask for it. And this year, the itch had a name: Briarrose O’Bloom. Briarrose was the head florist of the forest—a dryad with curls like cherry blossoms and a laugh that sounded like rain on tulip petals. She ran “Petal Provocateur,” a scandalously delightful flower cart where the bouquets were arranged to match your deepest, possibly even your naughtiest, desires. She once made a tulip arrangement so evocative that a centaur fell in love with himself. Thish had admired her from afar (well, from behind a tree… regularly), but today was the day he would step into the light. Today he would declare his affection—with a bouquet of his own making. He had spent the last three days crafting it. Not just picking flowers—no, this was an event. He had bartered for moon-drenched daisies, stolen a honeysuckle kiss from a sleeping bee, and convinced a peony to open two weeks early by reciting scandalous limericks. At last, the bouquet was done. Full of pinks, purples, blushes and scents that could render even the grumpiest toad euphoric, it was bound with a ribbon made from spider-silk and a whisper of thyme. He stepped out onto the mossy trail, bouquet in hand, heart doing cartwheels. Ahead, the cart glowed beneath hanging lanterns, and there she was—Briarrose—flirting with a hedgehog in a bowtie (he was a loyal customer). She laughed, tossing her curls, and Thish forgot how legs worked for a second. He approached. Slowly. Carefully. Like one might approach a wild unicorn or a particularly judgmental goose. “Ahem,” he said, in a voice that was far too high for his body and startled a nearby mushroom into fainting. Briarrose turned. Her eyes—violet and wise—softened. “Oh, Elder Thish. What a surprise.” “It’s… a spring gift. A bouquet. I made it. For you,” he said, offering it with a trembling hand and a hopeful smile. “And also, if possible… a proposal.” She blinked. “A proposal?” “For a walk!” he added quickly, cheeks blooming with embarrassment. “A walk. Through the woods. Together. No... wedlock unless mutually discussed in twenty years.” She laughed. Not cruelly. Not mockingly. But like bells dancing in the wind. “Thish Fernwhistle,” she said, taking the bouquet and breathing it in. “This might be the most ridiculous, romantic thing I’ve seen all season.” Then she leaned in, kissed his cheek, and whispered: “Pick me up at dusk. Wear something scandalous.” And just like that, spring came alive. Dusk in the Verdant Woodlands was a sensual thing. The sky flushed lavender, tree branches stretched like lazy lovers, and the air smelled of sap, honeysuckle, and just the faintest hint of cedar smoke and temptation. Thish, true to his word, had dressed scandalously. Well, for a gnome. His robe had been swapped for a vest stitched from foxglove petals, his boots polished until the pinecone scales gleamed, and beneath his famous hat he’d tucked a sprig of lavender “just in case things got steamy.” Briarrose had outdone herself. She wore a gown made entirely of woven vine and blooming jasmine that shifted with her every breath. Butterflies seemed to orbit her like moons. A glowbug landed on her shoulder and promptly fainted. “You look like trouble,” she said with a grin, offering her arm. “You look like a good reason to misbehave,” Thish replied, taking it. They walked. Past willows humming lullabies. Past frogs playing banjo. Past a couple of raccoons necking behind a toadstool and pretending not to notice. The mood was thick with pollen and possibility. Eventually, they reached a clearing lit by floating lanterns. In the middle stood a picnic blanket so elaborate it might have violated several zoning laws. There was elderberry wine. Sugarroot pastries. Chocolate truffles shaped like acorns. Even a bowl of “Consent Cookies”—each one labeled with messages like “Kiss?”, “Flirt?”, “Get Weird?” and “More Wine First?” “You planned this?” Briarrose asked, raising a brow. “I panicked earlier and overcompensated,” Thish admitted. “There’s also a backup string quartet of badgers if things go awkward.” “That’s... kind of perfect.” They sat. They sipped. They nibbled on everything but the cookies—those required mutual cookie signals. The conversation meandered through poetry, pollination, failed love spells, and one deeply embarrassing story involving a unicorn and a very poorly labeled bottle of rosewater. And then—just when the air was perfectly still, when the last rays of sun kissed the tree branches—Briarrose leaned in. “You know,” she said softly, her eyes gleaming, “I’ve been arranging bouquets for half the forest. All kinds. Lust, longing, revenge-flirtations, awkward apologies. But no one’s ever made one for me like yours.” Thish blinked. “Oh. Well. I suppose—” She placed a single finger on his lips. “Shhh. Less talking.” Then she kissed him. Long and slow. The kind of kiss that made the wind pause, the fireflies turn up their glow, and at least three nearby squirrels applaud. When they finally pulled back, both were flushed and slightly breathless. “So…” Thish grinned. “Do I get a second date? Or at least a sensual bouquet review?” She giggled. “You’re already trending in the fern networks.” And under the soft twilight, two hearts—older than most, sillier than many—bloomed like springtime had written them into a love story all its own.     Epilogue: The Bloom Continues Spring turned to summer, and the forest, well—it talked. Not gossip, exactly. More like gleeful speculation. A fox claimed she’d seen Thish and Briarrose dancing barefoot beneath a raincloud. A squirrel swore he spotted them picnicking nude in a tulip field (highly unconfirmed). And a particularly smug robin reported hearing giggles echoing from inside a hollow tree. All we know for certain is this: the “Proposal Post” now had a permanent bouquet atop it, refreshed every full moon by unseen hands. Briarrose’s flower cart began offering a new line called “Thistlewhips”—chaotic little bundles of love, passion, and one wildcard bloom that may or may not inspire spontaneous foot rubs. And Thish? He wrote a collection of romantic haikus titled “Petals and Puns”, available only in bark-scroll editions, and only if you asked the badger librarian very, very nicely. They never married—because they didn’t need to. Love, in their part of the world, wasn’t something to bind. It was something to bloom, gently and wildly, year after year. And every spring, if you walk the Enchanted Path just after dusk, you might find two figures laughing beneath the lanterns—sharing cookies, kisses, and the occasional mischievous wink at the moon. May you too find someone who brings you flowers you didn’t know you needed… and kisses you like they were written in the bark of your bones.     🌿 Explore the Artwork This story was inspired by the original artwork "Elder of the Enchanted Path", available exclusively through our image archive. Bring home a bit of woodland whimsy with fine art prints, digital downloads, and licensing options. ➡️ View the artwork in the Unfocussed Archive

by Bill Tiepelman

Lavender Fields Forever

The lavender fields stretched out endlessly, a sea of purple and lilac under the golden sunset. It was a place that had once been alive with laughter and love, but now stood as a hauntingly beautiful memory. Here, the air was thick with the scent of flowers and something else—something older, something like remembrance. In the center of it all stood a figure. She was not alive, yet not quite gone, either. She had become a skeleton of herself, dressed in a gown that sparkled faintly under the fading sunlight, woven from the same colors that surrounded her. Her bones, bleached by time, were delicate and elegant, laced in a gown made of lilac and lavender lace that clung to her frame as though it had always been a part of her. In life, her name had been Evelina. A woman of laughter and fierce love, she had once danced in this field with flowers in her hair and sunlight on her skin. She had loved deeply, lived fully, and given her heart to someone who had held it like a treasure, as if knowing that she was a gift he could never hold forever. Her lover had known that their time was fleeting, and perhaps it was that knowledge that had made their love burn as brightly as it did. Together, they had woven memories into the lavender fields until the day she left this world, leaving him to walk the fields alone. But Evelina’s spirit had never truly left. She had lingered, bound to the beauty of the fields, tied to the place where her heart had once known happiness. And so she returned each evening, stepping out of the twilight, her body a spectral skeleton draped in the dress she had worn on her last day. Her hands traced the petals of the lavender as if remembering the touch of her lover’s hands, the way they had moved together as if they were one. The Visit Every year, on the same day, he came. Gray hair now lined with silver, his hands gnarled with age, he returned to the fields they had once danced through together. He could no longer dance as he once did, but he would sit, folding himself carefully to the earth, and watch the sunset as if waiting for something—someone. And she would come, as she always did. To him, she appeared not as a skeleton, but as the woman she had always been: her eyes bright with laughter, her dress flowing in the gentle breeze, her spirit vibrant and alive. He could see her only as he had loved her—whole, radiant, eternal. He could not see the bones that now bore her, could not feel the chill in the air as she passed by him. To him, she was a memory of life, of a love that had never died. Each year they would share a moment. She would come to him in the lavender fields, her hand resting near his, never touching but close enough that he could feel her presence. She would watch him, her heart echoing with the same fierce love she had once felt in life. And for that brief time, it was as if they were together once again, bound by a love that defied time, age, and death itself. The Last Goodbye One evening, as the sun began to set and cast a warm glow over the fields, he arrived, though he was weaker this time, his steps slow and careful. She could feel the heaviness in his spirit, a quiet resignation that hung in the air. This time was different. She knew, in the way that one does when they have known someone for a lifetime, that this would be the last time they met here. He settled himself onto the ground and closed his eyes, breathing in the lavender-scented air as if taking in the memory of her one last time. And for the first time, she allowed herself to sit beside him, reaching out her hand. This time, she could feel it—the warmth of his hand, the faint beat of his pulse. He opened his eyes and looked at her, seeing her as he always had. They sat in silence, his hand resting in hers, the boundary between life and death thinning in the final rays of the setting sun. “Evelina,” he whispered, his voice soft and full of longing. “I’m here,” she replied, her voice like the rustle of the wind through the lavender. “I’ve always been here.” A tear slipped down his cheek, and he smiled, the kind of smile that held the weight of all the years, all the love, all the loss. “I know,” he said. “I’ve felt you. Always.” The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a final glow across the fields, and as it did, she felt herself begin to fade, to become part of the earth and sky, of the lavender that stretched endlessly around them. And as he closed his eyes for the last time, he felt himself falling into her arms, finally crossing the veil that had kept them apart for so long. In the fields, under the light of the stars, their spirits danced together once more, entwined in an eternal embrace. And even now, when the sun sets over the lavender, some say they can see them—two figures, moving gracefully, dancing forever in the endless twilight of the fields. Lavender fields forever, their love remains.     Bring Lavender Fields Forever Into Your Space Capture the haunting beauty of Lavender Fields Forever with our exclusive collection, featuring prints and decor that bring the enchanting, eternal twilight of the lavender fields into your home. Each piece celebrates the delicate balance between life, memory, and love beyond time, perfect for those who find beauty in the unexpected. Lavender Fields Forever Tapestry - Drape your walls with this stunning tapestry, inviting the poetic and ethereal presence of the lavender fields into your space. Lavender Fields Forever Canvas Print - Add depth and elegance to your decor with a canvas print that captures every exquisite detail of this hauntingly beautiful artwork. 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