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Warden Gnomes of the Mystic Grove

by Bill Tiepelman

Warden Gnomes of the Mystic Grove

A tale of adventure, mystery, and three grumpy, battle-hardened gnomes who are really just trying to mind their own business. Part One: A Fool’s Errand “You hear that?” Gorrim, the tallest (by an impressive half-inch) of the Warden Gnomes, tilted his head toward the distant crunch of twigs underfoot. He narrowed his eyes beneath his heavy, rune-stitched hat, gripping the pommel of his sword. “Someone’s coming.” “Oh, fantastic,” huffed Baelin, the most cantankerous of the three. “Another dimwit thinking they can plunder our forest for ‘hidden treasures’ or some other nonsense.” He adjusted his ornate battle axe and leaned against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak. “I say we scare ‘em off. Let’s go full ‘ominous guardian’ routine. Maybe some spooky chanting.” “We did that last time,” Ollo, the youngest (a mere 312 years old), pointed out. “They just screamed and ran in circles until they fell into the bog.” Baelin grinned. “Exactly.” Gorrim sighed, rubbing his temples. “Let’s at least see what kind of idiot we’re dealing with before we start traumatizing them.” The three gnomes peered through the underbrush as a figure stumbled into view—a lanky, wide-eyed human man dressed in what could only be described as ‘fashionably impractical adventuring gear.’ His boots were too clean, his tunic too crisp, and his belt held far too many shiny trinkets for someone who had actually faced any real danger. “Oh, sweet mushroom spirits, he’s a noble,” Ollo muttered. “You can smell the entitlement from here.” “Good evening, fair woodland creatures!” the man announced with an exaggerated flourish. “I am Lord Percival Ravenshade, intrepid explorer, seeker of lost relics, and—” “—and first-place winner of ‘Who’s Most Likely to Get Eaten by a Bear,’” Baelin cut in. Percival blinked. “I—what?” “State your business, long-legs,” Gorrim said, his voice edged with patience that was rapidly wearing thin. “This is protected land.” Percival puffed up his chest. “Ah! But I seek something of great importance! The fabled Gem of Eldertree, said to be hidden within this very forest! Surely, noble gnome-folk such as yourselves would be delighted to assist a humble scholar such as myself!” The gnomes exchanged a look. “Oh, this is gonna be fun,” Ollo murmured. Baelin scratched his beard. “You mean the Gem of Eldertree?” “Yes!” Percival’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “The very same Gem of Eldertree that’s guarded by a bloodthirsty, soul-devouring, absolutely massive spirit-beast?” Percival’s confidence wavered. “…Yes?” Gorrim nodded solemnly. “The one that’s cursed to drive treasure hunters insane with whispering voices until they wander into a nest of venomous shadow-vipers?” Percival hesitated. “…Possibly?” Ollo leaned in conspiratorially. “The same gem that once turned a man’s entire skeleton inside out just for touching it?” Percival gulped. “That one?” Baelin grinned. “Yep.” The nobleman took a deep breath, then squared his shoulders. “No matter the danger, I shall face it with honor! Besides, legends say a trio of wise gnomes knows the way to the gem.” “Hah! Wise gnomes.” Ollo snorted. “Good one.” Gorrim crossed his arms. “And if we do know the way, what makes you think we’d help you?” “Gold!” Percival said brightly, jingling a pouch. “Plenty of it! And fame! Your names will be sung in the halls of kings!” “Oh yes, because that worked out so well for the last guy who came through here,” Baelin muttered. Gorrim sighed deeply. “Against my better judgment… I say we take him.” Baelin stared. “You what?” Ollo clapped his hands together. “Ohhh, this is going to be hilarious.” Gorrim smirked. “We take him… and make sure he fully appreciates the horrors of this forest before we even get close to the gem.” Baelin’s face broke into a wicked grin. “Oh, I like it.” Percival, oblivious, beamed. “Wonderful! Lead the way, my good gnomes!” “Oh, we will,” Ollo muttered as they began their trek into the dark heart of the Mystic Grove. “We most certainly will.”     The Scenic Route to Certain Doom Percival strutted confidently behind the three gnomes, his boots crunching against the damp forest floor. The deeper they went into the Mystic Grove, the darker and more twisted the trees became, their branches curling overhead like skeletal fingers. A faint, eerie whispering echoed through the air—though whether it was the wind or something far more sinister was up for debate. “You know,” Baelin mused, nudging Ollo, “I give him twenty minutes before he cries.” “Ten,” Ollo countered. “Did you see how he flinched when that squirrel sneezed?” Gorrim, ever the responsible one, ignored them. “Alright, Percival. If you really want the Gem of Eldertree, there are some… shall we say… precautionary measures we need to take.” Percival, ever eager, nodded. “Ah, of course! Some kind of magical rite? Perhaps a test of my courage?” Baelin grinned. “Oh, it’s a test all right. First, we need to check if you’re… resistant to the Wailing Mushrooms of Despair.” Percival blinked. “The what now?” “Very dangerous,” Ollo said gravely. “If you hear their cries, you could be overwhelmed with such unbearable existential dread that you forget how to breathe.” Percival paled. “That’s a thing that happens?” Baelin nodded solemnly. “Tragic, really. Just last month, a guy collapsed on the spot. One moment, determined explorer. Next moment, curled up in a fetal position sobbing about how time is a meaningless construct.” Percival looked around nervously. “H-how do I know if I’m… resistant?” Ollo shrugged. “Oh, we’ll know.” They led him to a cluster of large, pulsing fungi with bioluminescent blue caps. Gorrim gave one a light poke, and it released a long, eerie wail that sounded suspiciously like an elderly man muttering, “What’s the point of it all?” Percival yelped and took several steps back. “By the gods! That’s unnatural!” “Hmm.” Ollo stroked his beard. “He didn’t immediately collapse into an existential crisis. That’s promising.” Baelin leaned in. “Think we should tell him they’re just regular mushrooms and the wailing sound is Gorrim throwing his voice?” “Not yet,” Ollo whispered back. “Let’s see how much more we can get away with.” Gorrim cleared his throat. “Alright, Percival. You’ve passed the first test. But the path ahead is dangerous.” Percival straightened up, puffing out his chest again. “I’m ready for anything!” Baelin smirked. “Good. Because the next part of the journey involves the Bridge of Certain Peril.” “Certain… peril?” Percival repeated warily. “Oh, yes,” Ollo said, nodding seriously. “A rickety, ancient bridge stretched across a bottomless chasm. So old, so fragile, that even a slight gust of wind could send a man plummeting into the abyss below.” Percival’s confidence wavered. “I… see.” Moments later, they arrived at said bridge. It was, in reality, a very sturdy, well-maintained stone bridge. The kind you could probably drive a fully armored war elephant across without so much as a wobble. But Percival didn’t need to know that. “There it is,” Baelin said, making his voice tremble just enough to sell the drama. “The most treacherous bridge in all the land.” Percival took one look at it and visibly paled. “It looks… uh… sturdier than I expected.” “That’s what it wants you to think,” Ollo said darkly. “It’s the cursed winds you have to worry about.” “Cursed winds?!” “Oh, yes,” Gorrim said with a straight face. “Unpredictable. Invisible. The moment you least expect it—whoosh! Gone.” Percival gulped. “Right. Yes. Of course.” Taking a deep breath, he stepped cautiously onto the bridge. Baelin, grinning like a madman, subtly cupped his hands and let out a low, ominous whoooooosh. Percival let out a shriek and flung himself flat against the stone, gripping it as if he might be flung into the abyss at any moment. Ollo wiped a tear from his eye. “I’m going to miss him when the forest eats him.” Gorrim sighed. “Alright, enough. Let’s get him to the ruins before he has a heart attack.” Percival, still visibly shaken, scrambled to his feet and hurried to the other side of the bridge, panting heavily. “H-ha! I conquered the Bridge of Certain Peril! That wasn’t so bad!” Baelin slapped him on the back. “Atta boy! Now just one last thing before we reach the temple.” Percival hesitated. “I swear, if it’s another test—” “Oh, no test,” Ollo assured him. “We just need to wake up the guardian.” “The… guardian?” “Yeah,” Baelin said, waving a hand dismissively. “The spirit-beast of Eldertree. Giant, angry, breathes fire, maybe eats souls? Honestly, it’s been a while.” Percival went rigid. “You weren’t… joking about that?” Gorrim smirked. “Oh no. That part’s real.” The trees ahead trembled. A deep, guttural growl echoed through the forest. Baelin grinned. “Welp. You first, brave adventurer.” Percival turned slowly toward them, his expression caught somewhere between utter horror and regret. “Oh,” Ollo whispered. “He’s definitely gonna cry.” To be continued… maybe.     Bring the Magic Home! Love the world of the Warden Gnomes? Now you can bring a piece of their mischievous, mystical adventure into your own space! Whether you want to decorate your walls, challenge yourself with a puzzle, or send a whimsical greeting, we’ve got you covered. ✨ Tapestry – Transform your space with enchanting artwork that captures the magic of the Mystic Grove. 🖼️ Canvas Print – A high-quality piece to add an air of fantasy to any room. 🧩 Puzzle – Test your wits and patience just like our dear Percival. 💌 Greeting Card – Send a message with a touch of fantasy and mischief. Click the links above to grab your favorite magical keepsake and support the artistic adventures of the Warden Gnomes!

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Lost in a World Too Big

by Bill Tiepelman

Lost in a World Too Big

The first thing Fizzlebop noticed upon hatching was that the world was entirely too loud, too bright, and too full of things that did not immediately cater to his needs. A terrible injustice, really. He blinked his enormous blue eyes, stretching his stubby wings with an exasperated sigh. The nest was empty. His siblings had hatched before him, leaving behind only cracked eggshells and a lingering warmth. How typical. They never waited for him. "Ugh," he muttered, dragging his tiny tail across the soft moss. "Abandoned at birth. Tragic." Fizzlebop attempted to stand, only to topple forward, his little claws scrabbling against the ground. "Oh yes, very majestic. Future ruler of the skies, right here," he grumbled, rolling onto his back. "Might as well leave me here to perish." The sky above him was a swirl of pastels, stars twinkling like they had something to be smug about. "Don't just sit there looking all mysterious," he huffed at them. "Help me!" The stars, as expected, did not assist. With a great effort, he managed to sit upright, his wings flaring dramatically for balance. He squinted into the distance, where flickering firelight suggested the rest of his nestmates were already feasting with their mother. "Of course they started without me," he muttered. "Because why wouldn't they?" Then, just to test if life was truly out to get him, Fizzlebop attempted to take a single confident step forward. His foot met a particularly devious rock, and he promptly face-planted. "Oh, I see how it is," he growled, flopping onto his side. "Fine. I'll just stay here. Alone. Forever. Probably get eaten by something big and toothy." Something rustled nearby. Fizzlebop froze. Slowly, carefully, he turned his head—only to come face to face with a fox. A very hungry-looking fox. The fox tilted its head, clearly confused by the sight of a baby dragon glaring up at it with an expression of profound irritation. Fizzlebop narrowed his eyes. "Listen here, overgrown rodent," he said, voice full of bratty confidence. "I am a dragon. A creature of legend. A force of nature." He puffed up his chest. "I will breathe fire upon you." Silence. The fox remained unimpressed. Fizzlebop inhaled deeply, ready to unleash his terrifying flame… and promptly sneezed. A pathetic little spark fizzled into the air. The fox blinked. Fizzlebop blinked. Then, with a sigh, he flopped onto his back and groaned. "Fine. Just eat me and get it over with." Instead of attacking, the fox sniffed him once, let out an unimpressed huff, and trotted away. "Yeah, that's right," Fizzlebop called after it. "Run, coward!" He lay there for a moment longer before muttering, "I didn't want to be eaten anyway." Then, grumbling to himself, he got back onto his feet and stomped toward the firelight, ready to make a dramatic entrance and demand his rightful place at the feast. Because if he was going to suffer in this unfair world, the least he could do was make everyone else suffer with him.     Fizzlebop marched—well, wobbled—toward the glow of the firelight, muttering under his breath about betrayal, neglect, and the sheer injustice of being the last to hatch. His tiny claws crunched against the frost-covered ground, his tail flicking dramatically with each exaggerated step. “Oh yes, just leave the baby behind,” he grumbled. “Forget about poor, defenseless Fizzlebop. Not like I could have been eaten or anything.” He paused and shuddered. “By a fox. A fox, of all things.” The campfire flickered ahead, surrounded by his siblings, who were rolling around in a pile of meat scraps like the uncultured beasts they were. Their mother, a great silver dragon with molten gold eyes, lay nearby, preening her wings, looking—for lack of a better word—smug. Fizzlebop narrowed his eyes. They had noticed his absence. They just hadn’t cared. Well. That would not stand. He inhaled deeply, summoning every ounce of injustice and rage within his tiny frame, and let out a battle cry: “HOW DARE YOU.” The entire nest froze. His siblings blinked at him, meat dangling from their stupid little jaws. His mother arched an elegant brow. Fizzlebop stomped forward. “Do you have ANY idea what I have been through?” he demanded, wings flaring. “Do you know the STRUGGLES I have faced?” Silence. Fizzlebop did not care. He was going to tell them anyway. “First of all, I was abandoned,” he declared. “Cast out, left to suffer, forced to hatch in solitude like some tragic hero in a forgotten legend.” He placed a claw against his chest, looking to the heavens. “And then! As if that weren’t bad enough—” His mother exhaled loudly through her nose. “Fizzlebop, you hatched twenty minutes late.” Fizzlebop gasped. “Twenty minutes? Oh, I see. So I should just be grateful that my own family left me to perish in the cruel, unfeeling wilds?!” His mother stared at him. His siblings stared at him. One of them, a chubby dragon named Soot, licked his eyeball. Fizzlebop groaned. “You absolute buffoons.” He marched straight to the pile of meat, sat his tiny, frostbitten rear down, and grabbed the largest scrap he could find. “You’re all terrible, and I hate you,” he declared before stuffing his face. His mother sighed and stretched her wings. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” Fizzlebop waved a dismissive claw. “Yes, yes, I’m adorable, I’m a delight, I’m a gift to this family.” He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “But also, you should all suffer for your crimes.” His mother huffed a plume of smoke, which he chose to interpret as deep shame and regret. His belly now full, Fizzlebop curled into the warm pile of his siblings, who accepted his presence with the kind of easygoing obliviousness only dragons (and very stupid people) could manage. And as he drifted off to sleep, his mother’s tail curling around them for warmth, Fizzlebop allowed himself a tiny, satisfied smirk. For all his righteous suffering… being part of a family wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Probably.     Take Fizzlebop Home! Love Fizzlebop’s adorable mischief? Bring this tiny dragon into your life with stunning prints and merchandise! Whether you want to add some whimsical charm to your home or carry a piece of dragon-sized attitude with you, we’ve got you covered: 🖼️ Acrylic Prints – For a sleek, high-gloss way to showcase Fizzlebop’s expressive pout. 🎭 Tapestries – Transform any space into a fantasy realm with a larger-than-life baby dragon. 👜 Tote Bags – Carry your essentials in style, and let everyone know you're as dramatic as Fizzlebop. 💌 Greeting Cards – Send a message with maximum sarcasm and cuteness. Get yours now and let Fizzlebop bring his bratty charm into your world! 🔥🐉

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Fur, Wings, and Midnight Stars

by Bill Tiepelman

Fur, Wings, and Midnight Stars

It wasn’t your typical night. No, it was one of those nights where everything felt just a little… off. The kind where the moon looked like it was hanging a little too low in the sky, the stars twinkled with an extra bit of sass, and the air smelled faintly of something suspiciously floral. As if the world had decided to add a hint of cherry blossom perfume, just to throw everyone off. Hanging from a thin branch, Bob, a bat with what he liked to call "above-average fur," swung upside down, wondering how his life had come to this exact point. Cherry blossoms? Really? How cliché. He’d been aiming for mysterious and edgy, not some kind of romantic backdrop for a Hallmark movie. Yet here he was, blending into an Instagram post waiting to happen, all fluffy and cute. Yuck. “Look at me,” he muttered sarcastically, squinting at the petals gently falling around him. “I’m a walking Pinterest board.” He flicked his wings dramatically, sending a couple of cherry blossoms fluttering to the ground like they had personally offended him. The moon, in its usual overly dramatic fashion, glowed as brightly as it could, determined to outshine everything else in the sky. “Oh, look at me,” the moon seemed to say. “I’m so big and round and full of myself.” Typical moon behavior. Bob rolled his eyes—at least as much as a bat could roll its eyes while hanging upside down. “Could you tone it down a bit?” Bob called out to the moon. “Some of us are trying to be mysterious over here.” The moon, of course, didn’t respond. It never did. Always too busy being the center of attention. Stars, on the other hand, twinkled mischievously in the background, as if they were in on some cosmic joke Bob hadn’t been invited to. “Oh yeah, sure, laugh it up,” Bob mumbled. “You’ve got one job. Blink. Real impressive. Meanwhile, I’m out here doing acrobatics, defying gravity, and hanging by my freakin’ toes. But sure, let's all focus on the big shiny ball in the sky.” At that moment, a particularly bold cherry blossom floated down and had the audacity to land directly on Bob’s head. He sighed heavily. “Perfect. Just perfect. This is exactly what I needed. A flower crown. I look like the poster bat for a hipster festival. Someone hand me a tiny latte so I can complete the look.” Bob had been hanging around this tree for a few hours now, waiting for something exciting to happen. And by exciting, he meant anything that wasn’t him accidentally falling asleep and almost plummeting to the ground. It wasn’t his fault, though. The nocturnal life could get... repetitive. You'd think a creature of the night would have some epic adventures—maybe an underground rave, or a thrilling chase with a vampire—but no. Mostly it was just endless nights of hanging out (literally) and listening to the wind rustle through the branches. “Why did I choose this tree again?” he asked himself. “Oh right, because the last one had that squirrel problem. Ugh, don’t even get me started on squirrels. One time I blinked, and they’d stolen my entire stash of perfectly good berries. And for what? To bury them? In what world does that make sense? Do they even remember where they put them? Spoiler alert: no.” Suddenly, a second bat—Vera—swooped in and landed gracefully next to Bob. She hung there, looking effortlessly cool, her sleek wings catching the moonlight in just the right way. Bob hated it when she did that. “You look... cozy,” Vera said, eyeing Bob’s accidental flower crown with a smirk. “Oh yeah, I’m living the dream,” Bob replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just me, my petals, and an overly enthusiastic moon.” He flapped his wings lazily. “Life doesn’t get better than this.” Vera chuckled, her amusement only adding to Bob’s misery. “You’re such a drama bat,” she teased. “It’s kind of adorable, in a ‘tragically misunderstood artist’ kind of way.” “Please,” Bob scoffed. “I’m not misunderstood. I understand myself perfectly. I’m just not sure why I bother.” They hung in silence for a while, watching the stars flicker and the wind carry the scent of cherry blossoms through the air. Every now and then, Bob would let out an exasperated sigh, as if the weight of the entire night sky rested on his little bat shoulders. “You know,” Vera said after a while, “you could always just... fly somewhere else. If the cherry blossoms bother you that much.” “Fly where? Every tree around here is basically a scene from a botanical calendar. There’s no escaping the pretty.” “Or you could embrace it,” Vera suggested, clearly trying to be the voice of reason. “It’s not so bad. You’ve got a prime spot, great view of the moon—” “Ugh, don’t mention the moon,” Bob interrupted, glaring at the big glowing ball in the sky. “It’s like a giant nightlight that won’t turn off. Ever.” “Or,” Vera continued, ignoring him, “you could stop being so grumpy about everything. Maybe try... I don’t know... enjoying yourself?” Bob snorted. “Enjoy myself? In this economy?” Vera sighed, but there was a fondness in her eyes as she watched Bob fume over the petals that continued to rain down. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?” “Yeah, well, someone’s got to be the voice of reason in this overly-optimistic world.” Bob shook the cherry blossom crown off his head. “Besides, I hear being miserable is very in this season.” “Oh yeah?” Vera raised an eyebrow. “And where did you hear that?” “The stars,” Bob said with a wink. “They’re gossipers, you know.” Vera laughed, and for a brief moment, Bob let a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Maybe tonight wasn’t so bad after all. Even if he did feel like a decorative ornament hanging in some picturesque scene. “Alright,” Bob sighed. “Maybe I’ll stick around a little longer. But if one more petal lands on my head, I’m burning this tree down.” “Good luck with that,” Vera replied, her voice dripping with amusement. “Let me know how that goes.” And so, with the stars giggling overhead, and the moon continuing to shine like the overachiever it was, Bob the bat decided to endure the night—flower crowns and all. After all, someone had to keep things grounded while the rest of the world floated away in its ridiculous beauty. Besides, the view wasn’t half bad.    Enjoyed the whimsical charm of "Fur, Wings, and Midnight Stars"? Now, you can bring a piece of Bob's night into your home! Whether you want to snuggle up with a cozy throw pillow or transform your space with a stunning tapestry, we’ve got you covered: Throw Pillow – Add a touch of moonlit whimsy to your couch with this fluffy bat-inspired pillow. Duvet Cover – Drift into dreams with this charming nocturnal scene wrapped around your bed. Tote Bag – Carry a piece of the night with you wherever you go, perfect for the quirky bat lover. Tapestry – Turn your wall into a dreamy, moonlit canvas with this beautiful piece. Explore the full collection and embrace the magic of "Fur, Wings, and Midnight Stars" today!

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The Floral Jester's Solitude

by Bill Tiepelman

The Floral Jester's Solitude

Once upon a time—because everything always seems to start with “Once upon a time” and I’m not about to break tradition—there was a clown. And not the fun kind either. No balloons, no honking noses, just one seriously depressed jester sitting in a chair that looked like it was stolen from a 1950s grandmother’s house. You know, the kind with way too many flowers and that questionable smell of lavender and... regret. The clown, whose name was probably something ridiculous like “Bingo” or “Sparkles,” sat there for days. Or maybe it was years. It’s hard to tell when your only companions are flowers that smell better than you and shoes that are two sizes too big. He wasn’t quite sure how he ended up in this floral prison, but he had a feeling it involved one too many tequila shots and a dare gone horribly wrong. Clowns, after all, weren’t known for their life choices. As Sparkles (we’re just going to call him that) slumped deeper into the overstuffed armchair—like a sad sack of potatoes in a velvet tracksuit—he sighed. Not a cute little sigh either. It was more like the kind of sound you make when you realize your credit card bill is due, and you’ve been buying “self-care” items from online influencers for three weeks straight. Yup, Sparkles was tired. And not just “I need a nap” tired—no, he was bone-weary, soul-crushing, existential-crisis tired. The kind that comes from a life of painted smiles and pratfalls, all while your internal monologue is screaming “Why do I even bother?” The flowers didn’t help. They were too bright, too cheerful, like those people who always tell you to “look on the bright side.” If Sparkles had a dollar for every time someone said that to him, he wouldn’t be sitting in this hideous chair. He’d be in a mansion somewhere, probably still miserable, but at least he’d have good Wi-Fi. He looked at the petals around him, blooming with obnoxious, vibrant joy, and wondered if they were mocking him. If flowers could laugh, these ones would sound like a bad laugh track from a 90s sitcom. “Oh look at you, Sparkles,” they seemed to whisper, “sitting there all mopey while we’re out here thriving. Pathetic.” But it wasn’t his fault. He tried, okay? He tried the whole 'happy clown' thing, but it turns out there’s only so much glitter and red nose-wearing a person can do before the crushing weight of absurdity sets in. And now? Well, now he was just a weird guy with face paint, sitting alone in a chair that screamed “I’ve given up” louder than his last relationship did. The flowers weren’t the only weird thing though. There was a strange smell. It wasn't coming from him—though let's be honest, he wasn't exactly fresh. No, this smell was more... floral? But also kind of like old socks? The kind you find in the bottom of your gym bag that have been there since the last time you actually exercised—which was, let’s face it, 2017. Sparkles wrinkled his nose and glanced around. Maybe it was the chair? Had the chair always smelled like that? It had definitely seen some things. He was pretty sure if it could talk, it would tell stories that would make him blush. And he was a clown. Blushing was practically part of the uniform. One of the flowers—a particularly smug-looking rose—swayed gently as if to say, “What, you thought this was going to get better? Honey, you’re a clown in a floral chair. Just embrace the weirdness.” And honestly, that was solid advice. Sparkles took a deep breath, or at least as deep as you can when you’re wearing pants made of satin that squeak every time you move. He decided then and there to stop caring. If the flowers wanted to mock him, fine. If his shoes were too big, whatever. If he was sitting in what looked like the living room of a retired circus performer who had an unhealthy obsession with floral patterns, so be it. He was Sparkles, dammit, and if this was his life now, he was going to make the most of it. He reached down, grabbing one of the overgrown dahlias next to him. “Hey,” he muttered to it, “you’re coming with me.” The flower didn’t resist (because, let’s be real, it was a flower). He placed it in the pocket of his garish jacket, giving himself a little flair. If he was going to be a sad clown in a ridiculous chair, at least he could accessorize. And that was that. Sparkles, now with a newfound sense of defiant apathy, sat back, crossed his oversized feet, and stared off into the middle distance, waiting for whatever came next. Probably more flowers. Or maybe a nap. Either way, he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. The chair had claimed him, and honestly, he was okay with that. After all, it wasn’t the worst thing that had happened to him. That honor went to the time he tried to juggle chainsaws at a bachelorette party. But that’s a story for another day.     The Ballad of Sparkles the Clown Oh Sparkles the clown, in his floral despair, Sits slumped in a chair that smells worse than the air. His shoes are too big, his life’s a sad joke, And his satin pants squeak every time that he spoke. “What the hell happened? Where did it go wrong?” He wonders while tugging his pant leg along. Was it the booze? The tequila? The shots? Or that one time with chainsaws? (He forgets lots). “The flowers are smug,” Sparkles whispers with spite, “They mock me, they taunt me, with colors so bright.” Those roses, those dahlias, those blooms full of cheer, He glared at them all with a cynical sneer. “Oh sure, you look happy, so plump and so lush,” But you don’t know crap about being a mush!” He pulled at his ruffles, adjusted his nose, And mumbled some insults at the damned happy rose. His hair was like cotton, his smile was a mess, But Sparkles the clown was done caring, I guess. He’d given up hope, tossed it all to the wind, And sat there like laundry no one bothered to spin. “Screw it,” he said, with a chuckle and snort, “I’m a clown in a chair. What more can I court?” He crossed his fat feet, leaned back with a shrug, And whispered, “Life’s short. Let’s all just say... 'bug!'” So Sparkles stayed put, in his floral cocoon, A clown in the corner, humming some tune. If you find him someday, don’t ask him what’s wrong— He’s busy not caring. (And the flowers? Still strong.)     Feeling inspired by Sparkles' floral-infused existential crisis? Or maybe you just need something to brighten up your home that screams “I’ve given up, but make it fashion”? Either way, you can bring a bit of that quirky clown energy into your life. Check out throw pillows that will cushion your own self-loathing, or grab a fleece blanket to wrap yourself in while you ponder your poor life choices. If you’re more of the artsy type (and let’s face it, aren’t we all pretending to be?), hang a wood print of Sparkles on your wall and let him judge you from the corner of the room. And for those who really want to take the clown on the go, there’s even a stylish tote bag—because nothing says 'I'm over it' like carrying your groceries with a sad clown by your side. Shop now and embrace the weirdness!

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