sassy fairy

by Bill Tiepelman

Sass Meets Scales

How Not to Kidnap a Dragon It all started on a perfectly average Tuesday—which in Twizzlethorn Wood meant mushroom hail, upside-down rain, and a raccoon wearing a monocle selling bootleg love potions out of a canoe. The forest was, as usual, minding its own business. Unfortunately, Calliope Thistlewhip was not. Calliope was a fairy, though not one of those syrupy types who weep glitter and tend flowers with a song. No, she was more the "accidentally-on-purpose" type. She once caused a diplomatic incident between the pixies and the mole folk by replacing a peace treaty with a drawing of a very explicit toad. Her wings shimmered gold, her smirk had been legally declared a menace, and she had a plan. A very bad one. "I need a dragon," she announced to no one in particular, hands on hips, standing atop a tree stump like it owed her rent. From a nearby bramble, a squirrel peeked out and immediately retreated. Even they knew not to get involved. The target of her latest scheme? A surly, fire-breathing recluse named Barnaby, who spent his days avoiding social interaction and his nights sighing heavily while staring at lakes. Dragons weren’t rare in Twizzlethorn, but dragons with boundaries were. And Barnaby had them—firm ones, wrapped in sarcasm and dragon-scale therapy journals. Calliope's approach to boundaries was simple: break them like a piñata and hope for candy. With a lasso made of sugared vine and a face full of audacity, she set out to find her new unwilling bestie. “You look like you hate everything,” Calliope beamed as she emerged from behind a tree, already mid-stride toward Barnaby, who was sitting in the mud next to a boulder, sipping melancholia like it was tea. “I was hoping that would ward off strangers,” he replied without looking up. “Clearly, not strong enough.” “Perfect! You’re gonna be my plus-one for the Fairy Queen’s ‘Fire and Fizz’ party this weekend. It's BYOB. And I don’t mean bottle.” She winked. “No,” Barnaby said flatly. Calliope tilted her head. “You say that like it’s an option.” It wasn’t, as it turned out. She hugged him like a glittered barnacle, ignoring the growl vibrating his ribcage. One might assume she had a death wish. One would be wrong. Calliope simply had the unshakeable belief that everyone secretly adored her. Including dragons. Especially dragons. Even if their eyebrows were stuck in a permanent state of ‘judging you.’ “I have anxiety and a very specific skincare routine that doesn’t allow for fairy entanglement,” Barnaby mumbled, mostly into his claw. “You have texture, darling,” she cooed, clinging tighter. “You’ll be the belle of the volcano.” He exhaled. Smoke drifted lazily out of his nose like the sigh of someone who knew exactly how bad things were about to get—and how entirely powerless he was to stop it. Thus began the unholy alliance of sparkle and sulk. Of cheek and scale. Of one fairy who knew no shame and one dragon who no longer had the energy to resist it. Somewhere deep in Twizzlethorn, a butterfly flapped its wings and whispered, “What the actual hell?” The Volcano Gala Disaster (And Other Socially Traumatic Events) In the days that followed, Barnaby the dragon endured what can only be described as a glitter-based hostage situation. Calliope had turned his peaceful lair—previously decorated with ash, moss, and deeply repressed feelings—into something resembling a bedazzled disaster zone. Gold tulle hung from stalactites. Fairy lights—actual shrieking fairies trapped in jars—blazed like disco strobes. His lava pool now featured floating candles and confetti. The ambiance was… deeply upsetting. “You’ve desecrated my sacred brooding zone,” Barnaby groaned, staring at a pink velvet pillow that had somehow ended up embroidered with the words ‘Slay, Don’t Spray’. “You mean improved it,” Calliope chirped, strutting past in a sequined robe and gladiator sandals. “You are now ready for society, darling.” “I hate society.” “Which is exactly why you’ll be the most interesting guest at the Queen’s Gala. Everyone loves a moody icon. You’re practically trending already.” Barnaby attempted to crawl under a boulder and fake his own death, but Calliope had already bedazzled it with hot glue and rhinestones. “Please let me die with dignity,” he mumbled. “Dignity is for people who didn’t agree to be my plus-one.” “I never agreed.” She didn’t hear him over the sound of a marching band made entirely of beetles playing a triumphant entrance tune. The day of the gala arrived like a punch to the face. The Fairy Queen’s infamous Fire and Fizz Volcano Gala was a high-pressure, low-sanity affair where creatures from every corner of the magical realm gathered to sip sparkling nettle wine, judge each other’s plumage, and start emotionally devastating rumors in the punch line. Calliope arrived on Barnaby’s back like a warlord of sass. She wore a golden jumpsuit that defied physics and eyebrows that could slice glass. Barnaby had been brushed, buffed, and begrudgingly sprinkled with “volcanic shimmer dust,” which he later discovered was just crushed mica and lies. “Smile,” she hissed through clenched teeth as they made their entrance. “I am,” he replied, deadpan. “On the inside. Very deep inside. So deep it’s imaginary.” The room went silent as they descended the obsidian steps. Elves paused mid-gossip. Satyrs spilled wine. One particularly sensitive unicorn fainted directly into a cheese fountain. Calliope held her head high. “Behold! The last emotionally available dragon in the entire kingdom!” Barnaby muttered, “I’m not emotionally available. I’m emotionally on airplane mode.” The Fairy Queen, a six-foot-tall hummingbird in a dress made entirely of spider silk and compliments she didn’t mean, fluttered over. “Darling Calliope. And… whatever this is. I assume it breathes fire and hates itself?” “Accurate,” Barnaby said, blinking slowly. “Perfect. Do stay away from the tapestry room; the last dragon set it on fire with his trauma.” The night devolved quickly. First, Barnaby was cornered by a gnome with a podcast. “What’s it like being exploited as a metaphor for untamed masculinity in children’s literature?” Then someone tried to ride him like a party pony. There was glitter in places glitter should never be. Calliope, meanwhile, was in her element—crashing conversations, starting rumors (“Did you know that elf is 412 and still lives with his goblin mom?”), and turning every social slight into a dramatic one-act play. But it wasn’t until Barnaby overheard a dryad whisper, “Is he her pet, or her plus-one? Unclear,” that he hit his limit. “I am not her pet,” he roared, accidentally singeing the punch table. “And I have a name! Barnaby Thistlebane the Seventeenth! Slayer of Existential Dread and Collector of Rejected Tea Mugs!” The room went still. Calliope blinked. “Well. Someone finally found his roar. Took you long enough.” Barnaby narrowed his eyes. “You did this on purpose.” She smirked. “Of course. Nothing gets a dragon’s scales flaring like a little public humiliation.” He looked around at the stunned party guests. “I feel... weirdly alive. Also slightly aroused. Is that normal?” “For a Tuesday? Absolutely.” And just like that, something shifted. Not in the air—there were still rumors hanging like mist—but in Barnaby. Somewhere between the dryad shade and the third attempted selfie, he stopped caring quite so much about what everyone thought. He was a dragon. He was weird. And maybe, just maybe, he had fun tonight. Though he’d never admit that out loud, obviously. As they exited the volcano—Calliope riding sidesaddle, sipping leftover punch from a stolen goblet—she leaned against his neck. “You know,” she said, “you make a halfway decent social monster.” “And you make a better parasite than most.” She grinned. “We’re gonna be best friends forever.” He didn’t disagree. But he did quietly burp up a fireball that scorched the Queen’s rose garden. And it felt amazing. The Accidental Rodeo and the Weaponized Hug Three days after the Volcano Gala incident (officially dubbed "The Event That Singed Lady Brambleton's Eyebrows"), Calliope and Barnaby were fugitives. Not serious fugitives, mind you. Just the whimsical kind. The kind who are banned from royal gardens, three reputable taverns, and one very particular cheese emporium where Barnaby may or may not have sat on the gouda wheel. He claimed it was a tactical retreat. Calliope claimed she was proud of him. Both were true. But trouble, as always, was Calliope’s favorite breakfast cereal. So naturally, she dragged Barnaby to the Twizzlethorn Midnight Rodeo of Unlicensed Creatures, an underground fairy event so illegal it was technically held inside the stomach of a sentient tree. You had to whisper the password—“moist glitter pickles”—into a fungus and then backflip into a hollow knot while swearing on a legally questionable wombat. “Why are we here?” Barnaby asked, hovering reluctantly near the tree’s gaping maw. “To compete, obviously,” Calliope grinned, tightening her ponytail like she was about to punch fate in the face. “There’s a cash prize, bragging rights, and a cursed toaster oven up for grabs.” “...You had me at toaster oven.” Inside, the scene was chaos dipped in glitter and fried in outlaw vibes. Glowshrooms lit the arena. Banshees sold snacks. Pixies in leather rode miniature manticores into walls while betting on which organ would rupture first. It was beautiful. Calliope signed them up for the main event: Wrangle and Ride the Wild Emotion Beast. “That’s not a real event,” Barnaby said, as a goblin stapled a number to his tail. “It is now.” What followed was a tornado of feelings, sparkles, and mild brain injury. Barnaby was forced to lasso a literal manifestation of fear—which looked like a cloud of black licorice with teeth—while Calliope rode rage, a squealing, flaming piglet with hooves made of passive-aggression. They failed spectacularly. Calliope was ejected into a cotton candy stand. Barnaby crashed through a wall of enchanted beanbags. The crowd went bananas. Later, bruised and inexplicably covered in peanut butter, they sat on a log behind the arena while fairy paramedics offered unhelpful brochures like “So You Got Emotionally Gored!” and “Glitter Rash and You.” Calliope leaned her chin on her knees, still smiling through split lip gloss. “That was the most fun I’ve had since I swapped the Queen’s shampoo with truth serum.” Barnaby didn’t reply. Not right away. “You ever think…” he started, then trailed off, staring into the middle distance like a dragon with unresolved poetry. Calliope turned to him. “What? Think what?” He took a breath. “Maybe I don’t hate everything. Just most things. Except you. And maybe rodeo snacks. And when people stop pretending they're not a complete mess.” She blinked. “Well damn, Thistlebane. That’s dangerously close to a real feeling. You okay?” “No. I think I’ve been emotionally compromised.” Calliope smirked, then softly, dramatically, like she was starring in a musical only she could hear, opened her arms. “Bring it in, big guy.” He hesitated. Then sighed. Then, with the reluctant grace of a creature born to nap alone in dark caves, Barnaby leaned in for what became known (and feared) as the Weaponized Hug. It lasted approximately six seconds. At second four, someone exploded in the background. At second five, Barnaby let out a tiny, happy growl. And at second six, Calliope whispered, “See? You love me.” He pulled back. “I tolerate you with less resistance than most.” “Same thing.” They stood up, brushed off the dirt, and limped toward the cursed toaster oven prize they did not technically win, but no one felt like stopping them from stealing. The crowd parted. Someone slow clapped. Somewhere, a unicorn wept into a corn dog. Back at Barnaby’s lair—still half bedazzled, still home—Calliope sprawled across a beanbag and declared, “We should write a book. ‘How to Befriend a Dragon Without Dying or Getting Sued.’” “No one would believe it,” Barnaby said, curling his tail around a mug that read, “World’s Least Enthusiastic Snuggle Beast.” “That’s the beauty of it.” And so, in the land of Twizzlethorn, where logic curled up and died ages ago, a fairy and a dragon built something inexplicable: a friendship forged in sass, sarcasm, rodeo trauma, and absolutely no personal boundaries. It was loud. It was messy. It was surprisingly healing. And for reasons no one could explain, it actually worked.     Want to take the chaos home? Celebrate the delightfully dysfunctional duo of Calliope and Barnaby with framed art prints worthy of your sassiest wall, or snag a metal print that radiates fairy mischief and dragon moodiness. Need a portable dose of snark? Grab a spiral notebook for your own terrible ideas, or a sticker to slap on whatever needs more attitude. It’s not just art—it’s emotional support glitter, scaled and ready for adventure.

by Bill Tiepelman

Whirlwind of Wings and Wonder

The Feral Bloomchild of Snapdragon Row There was a ruckus in the garden again. Not the usual kind—the bumblebee karaoke, the tulip gossip circles, or the occasional dueling squirrels—no, this was a glitterstorm of chaos. And at the eye of the pastel-hued hurricane twirled a blur of hot-pink curls, stompy boots, and an attitude that didn’t care for bedtime, rules, or socks with proper elastic. Her name? Pippa Petalwhip. Age: six-and-three-quarters fairy cycles. Status: wildly unsupervised. Her hair had the kind of electric fuchsia fluff that defied combs, bows, and the very laws of wind resistance. She wore a flower crown like a royal threat. Her wings were not so much delicate as they were expressive—flapping in agitation when scolded, flaring dramatically during tantrums, and occasionally slapping the neighbor’s roses just because they were smug. Pippa was, as her grandmother said through gritted teeth, “a whole basket of trouble with glitter for garnish.” She lived in the Wigglyglade Garden District—a cozy realm behind a row of hydrangeas, between the old garden gnome with the mug problem and a clump of very judgy dandelions. There, Pippa ruled with pink boots of fury and a heart full of nonsense. On this particularly sun-sloshed day, she had declared herself “Queen of the Blustery Blossoms” and was organizing a floral parade. She was the only participant. She marched alone. She blew her kazoo like a battle horn, her wings shimmering in the light, flinging pollen like confetti. The peonies tried to stand upright and dignified but quivered slightly with every stomp of her boots. “Make way for Majesty!” she bellowed, nearly tripping over a drowsy caterpillar. Her overalls—pink, pocketed, and patched with questionable embroidery—billowed with each pirouette. A single sock had vanished mid-morning and was presumed lost to the hedgehog mafia. The remaining one had given up trying to stay up and bunched halfway around her ankle, clinging for dear life. And her boots? Oh, they were weapons of mass adorableness, clomping and clunking like a mischievous marching band with rhythm issues. Pippa was on a mission today. Rumor had it that an elder fairy (ancient, probably thirty or so) had once hidden a magical whoopstick somewhere near the rhubarb patch. A whoopstick, in fairy terms, was a sacred item capable of producing endless giggles, unpredictable flatulence spells, and the ability to turn slugs into macarons. Obviously, it needed to be found immediately. Armed with a magnifying acorn, a garden fork named Stabby, and two marshmallows for “emergency negotiations,” Pippa began her quest. Her wings hummed with anticipation, her boots stomped with determination, and the daisies whispered to each other in nervous suspense. “Oh no,” one sighed. “She’s going into the tulip zone. They’re… delicate.” Indeed, the tulips were notoriously uptight. They formed neat lines, voted on petal arrangements, and held HOA meetings about hummingbird noise. As Pippa bounded through them with all the grace of a cannonball in a tutu, a shocked gasp echoed through the stems. “MISS PETALWHIP!” shrieked Madame Tulipia, the head bloom. “This is a neighborhood, not a racetrack for glitter hooligans!” Pippa grinned with the unrepentant joy of a girl who knew very well she had diplomatic immunity due to being outrageously adorable. “I’m on a royal mission,” she declared. “By decree of me!” “Oh sweet saplings,” groaned the lavender. “She’s got a decree again.” But nothing could stop her—not rules, not tulips, not even the tiny swarm of angry gnats that mistook her for a floral food truck. With a twirl, a hoot, and a kazoo blast that startled a passing snail into a backflip, Pippa disappeared into the tall grass, off to chase magic, mayhem, and possibly a snack. She had no map, no plan, and absolutely no idea what she was doing. But she had her boots. And her crown. And a heart full of thunderous wonder. And that, dear reader, was enough. Of Whoopsticks, Wiggly Wormlords, and the Unbearable Formality of Tulips Pippa Petalwhip was now deep into the wilds of the garden borderland, beyond the neatly trimmed basil republic and far past the snail toll-booth (which she had skipped, promising to “pay with exposure”). Her mission to find the mythical whoopstick had taken her into territories charted only in crayon maps and whispered about by giggling mushrooms with questionable motives. The first true obstacle appeared not long after a minor detour through the Mossy Hollows, where she’d mistaken a sleeping hedgehog for a pebble beanbag and was forcibly ejected by its indignant butt-wiggle. Pippa brushed herself off, extracted a burr from her underpants, and marched straight into the Earthworm Underground. The worms, it must be said, were not ready for her. “You can’t just barge in,” sputtered a flustered diplomat-worm wearing a monocle fashioned from a dewdrop ring. “This is a closed council meeting of the Wormlords!” “I’m royalty,” Pippa explained with the utmost sincerity. “Behold my crown. It was woven by bees and regret.” “It’s made of daisies and a Fruit Loop,” muttered another worm. Unbothered, Pippa plopped herself down—boots first—on a mossy stone and began unwrapping a cheese stick. “Look, I’m just passing through. I’m hunting the legendary Whoopstick of Giggleglen. Supposed to be somewhere near the rhubarb. Or possibly the compost pile. Directions were vague. Also, I'm slightly lost.” The worms exchanged squishy glances. “You mean the ancient fart-stick?” whispered one, reverently. “It sings!” gasped another. “And glows! And once caused a raccoon to laugh itself into a tree stump!” “It does fart jokes?” Pippa lit up like a bottle rocket in pigtails. “I must have it.” “There are trials,” intoned the headworm, dramatically coiling himself into the shape of a scroll. “Tests of heart, courage, and burrowing etiquette.” Pippa narrowed her eyes. “I can recite the Sacred Rhyme of the Garden Realms,” she offered. “You may proceed,” said the worm, not entirely sure if that was a real thing or not. And so she chanted, with full dramatic flair: “Basil is bossy, thyme’s always late,Dandelions gossip and lettuce debates.The worms are squiggly and tulips uptight—But I’ve got pink boots and I’m ready to fight!” There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by slow, squishy clapping. “Honestly,” the worm whispered, “that kind of slapped.” And with that, they pointed her toward the secret tunnel, guarded by a single very tired centipede who let her through with a shrug and a juice box. Onward she traveled, muttering to herself, “I bet I’m the only fairy on this side of the compost pile with street cred and a kazoo.”     Meanwhile, back in Tuliptown, the floral neighborhood association was having a full-blown meltdown. Madame Tulipia paced in furious spirals, her petals wilting with stress. “We must send a delegation,” she sniffed. “That child is a hazard. A—perky menace!” The daffodils nodded sagely, the violets wept in terror, and a lone bachelor sunflower suggested, “Or we could just... let her be?” “You’re single,” Tulipia snapped, “your opinion is invalid.” And so it was that they formed a committee, as all bureaucratic nightmares do, and dispatched a scouting party of three slightly reluctant snapdragons to follow the trail of glitter and kazoo crumbs.     Pippa, meanwhile, emerged into the Compost Wastes—a region feared by all for its pungent ambiance and rogue banana peels. It smelled like existential dread and potato peels. But there, shimmering faintly beneath a half-eaten fig and a suspiciously clean spoon, lay the object of her quest: The Whoopstick. It was magnificent. A twisted wand of oak and sassafras, carved with glyphs in an ancient and suspiciously childish script. The handle was wrapped in glitter tape. It hummed with suppressed glee and questionable magic. “Hark!” Pippa whispered, licking a finger and holding it to the air. “The winds of whimsy blow true.” She reached out, dramatic as a soap opera unicorn, and grasped the Whoopstick. It farted. Loudly. The resulting soundwave knocked a crow out of a tree, turned a beetle inside out (harmlessly), and made Pippa snort so hard she tripped over her own boot. “YEEEEESSSS!!!” she howled in glee, waving it above her head like she was summoning the gods of mischief and flatulence. That was when the snapdragons found her, standing atop a mound of compost, crowned in flowers, kazoo between her teeth, and brandishing a mystical fartstick like a warrior of joy. “Oh gods,” one muttered. “She’s activated it.” The others ran. But Pippa? She twirled, laughed, and blasted them with a cloud of sparkling raspberry-scented whoop. “THE WHIRLWIND IS RISEN!” she cried. “FEAR ME AND MY FLORAL WRATH!” And thus began the Great Garden Giggle Uprising of the 11:15 AM Timeslot, led by a tiny, chaotic fairy with unbrushed hair, impractical boots, and the sheer audacity of wonder. Glitter Rebellions, Kazoo Diplomacy, and the Unmaking of the Orderly Bloom The aftermath of Pippa’s acquisition of the Whoopstick was nothing short of botanical pandemonium. As she stomped, twirled, and kazooed her way out of the compost heap like a victorious warlord of whimsy, the garden reeled. The snapdragons retreated with tales of horror: “She farted in iambic pentameter!” one cried. “There was glitter! Glitter in my ears!” sobbed another. Madame Tulipia was already composing a list of sanctions: no nectar privileges, a probationary peony patrol, and possibly even a cease-and-desist scroll written in scented ink. But Pippa did not care. She had a mission now—an even grander one. The Whoopstick pulsed with mischief and chaotic potential, and her boots were practically vibrating with anticipation. The whispers of the wind spoke of a place long forbidden, long feared, long overdue for a visit from someone with zero impulse control: The Council of Perennials. Located deep beneath the Old Oak Grove, the Council was made up of ancient blooms—stately chrysanthemums, wise old lilies, and a rose with a monocle so tight it had a permanent dent in its petal. They were the garden’s ruling order, and Pippa had... well, let’s call it a “complicated” relationship with them. They believed in quiet. In neatness. In seasonal timetables. And above all else, they believed strongly that kazoos were not instruments of diplomacy. Pippa planned to change that.     She arrived in full regalia: flower crown now upgraded with two gum wrappers and a snail shell, overalls patched with duct tape art, wings pre-fluffed, and cheeks smeared in dandelion paint like war stripes. In one hand she held the Whoopstick; in the other, a jam sandwich she had been meaning to eat since yesterday. “I come,” she declared, startling the entire mushroom council on the way in, “to establish a new Fairy Accord!” “Young lady,” boomed Elder Rosemont with the pained patience of a tulip on hold with customer service, “this is a place of order. You are not on the agenda.” “Then I’m rewriting the agenda,” Pippa chirped. “With my sparkly wand of doom.” Gasps. Actual fainting. A carnation had to be resuscitated with smelling moss. “What exactly do you propose?” Elder Lily sighed, half-expecting the answer to involve glitter, socks, or interpretive dance. “I demand a Joy Amendment,” Pippa said, arms akimbo, boot firmly planted on a toadstool podium. “Clause One: All fairies are permitted at least one loud kazoo solo per day. Clause Two: Compost slides will be built in every sector. Clause Three: No flower may complain about pollen farts without medical documentation.” There was silence. Then muttering. Then, from the back, a shaky old daisy cleared its throat and said, “Honestly… it’s not the worst proposal we’ve heard this season.” The vote was called. Pippa campaigned aggressively by offering bribes of juice boxes and knock-knock jokes. The Snapdragons, once her pursuers, now her converted disciples, voted in favor after being allowed to test-drive the Whoopstick’s “rude noise” setting. It passed. With pomp, circumstance, and a surprise kazoo flash mob (organized via mushroom whisper network), the Joy Amendment was ratified. Pippa was declared Ambassador of Whimsy and granted a ceremonial sash made entirely of recycled birthday ribbons and suspiciously glittery lint. But the greatest honor came when Elder Chrysanthemum, known for being so old she remembered when fairies were still hatched from pinecones, approached and smiled gently. “You remind me,” she said, “of what this garden once was. Loud. Bright. Stupidly joyful. Thank you, little whirlwind.” Pippa sniffled. “You’re welcome. Also I may have sat on your teacup. I regret nothing.”    Weeks passed. The garden changed. Spontaneous dance parties broke out among the snap peas. Bees formed a kazoo symphony. Even the tulips, though they would never admit it, began adding a touch of glitter to their petal tips. Pippa ruled not with an iron fist, but with a jelly-stained kazoo, a soft spot for slug races, and a complete disregard for bedtime. Her adventures were catalogued in petal-scrolls and told by firefly light. Children, bugs, and occasionally confused birds gathered to hear tales of the day she tamed the wind with a whoopstick, or the time she rode a rogue toad through the basil district. She still stomped through the peonies. Still scared the daisies. Still made the tulips clutch their pearls. But now, they smiled while scolding. They offered lemonade with their complaints. And when the garden was especially quiet—just before the sun kissed the edge of the marigolds—one might hear a single sound echoing through the glade: A long, proud, farting kazoo note. The anthem of the Bloomchild Queen. The sound of wonder. The Whirlwind lives on.     Bring the magic of “Whirlwind of Wings and Wonder” home with you! Whether you're a daydreamer, a chaos fairy at heart, or just someone who knows the power of a properly timed kazoo solo, you can capture Pippa's enchanted world in vibrant detail. Cozy up with this fleece blanket for storytime snuggles, or turn your space into a whimsical wonderland with a dreamy wall tapestry or colorful canvas print. For those who love a joyful challenge, the jigsaw puzzle brings every petal, boot, and twinkle of mischief to life. Explore the full line of fairy-fabulous goodies at Unfocussed and invite a little whirlwind into your world!

by Bill Tiepelman

Hope in Hooded Silence

Hooded, Not Humbled The fairy in question had a name, of course. But like all good woodland mysteries, she preferred it whispered. Call her "Hope" and she'll raise one sculpted brow; call her “The Hooded Sass Bringer” and she might offer you a smirk and a daisy chain laced with sarcasm. Hope did not flit. She did not twinkle. She strutted — slowly, like every blade of grass owed her an apology. Her wings were less “delicate flutter” and more “diamond-tipped declarations of sovereignty,” and that hoodie? Not a fashion statement — a full-blown rebellion. While other fairies wore translucent petals and glittery corsets, Hope wore pink with the energy of someone who could light up the woods, but chose passive-aggressive shade instead. She wasn’t brooding. No, no. She was strategizing. Perched on a mossy rock with a flower crown thrown haphazardly behind her, she looked like she'd just broken up with the Spring Equinox via scroll-text, and Spring was still sending her emotional saplings. She’d tried being “the sweet one” once — watered everyone’s mushrooms, whispered encouragement into lily buds, and kissed frogs just in case one was an investment banker. But one too many woodland creatures had mistaken her kindness for open scheduling. And one too many pixies had touched her snacks without asking. So now she sat there, radiant in her own right, booted feet crossed like an off-duty goddess, wings aglow with mild contempt, and a bouquet of not today. The mandala glowing faintly behind her? A passive ward spell. Repels toxic exes, clingy tree spirits, and any forest creature who utters “you should smile more.” “You know what’s magical?” she muttered to a nosy squirrel who’d just popped up behind her log perch. “A woman with boundaries and decent foot support.” The squirrel blinked. She blinked back. The squirrel slowly placed a pine nut near her boot and backed away like he’d just dropped tribute at the altar of a slightly unstable but very hot goddess. He wasn’t wrong. Hope leaned back, letting the petals brush her ankles, finally allowing herself a smile. Small. Private. Enough to wrinkle her nose. Let the forest wonder. Let them gossip. She’d be here — glowing, grounded, and full of silent middle fingers in floral wrapping paper. This wasn’t exile. This was a vibe. The Cauldron, the Brat, and the Bad Ideas By the second week of her self-imposed, flower-adorned solitude, Hope had achieved something few woodland fairies ever dared attempt: functional unbotheredness. She had turned down two gnome serenades, three butterfly interpretive dances, and an invitation to a dryad’s wine-fueled interpretive drum circle (she considered that one, briefly, until she remembered the dryad played everything in 11/4 time and cried during crescendos). And then came him. He had the audacity to approach at golden hour — shirtless, of course — wearing what could only be described as a magically-forged vest of regret, mismatched leather pants, and the chaotic confidence of a half-drunk forest alchemist with mommy issues. He smelled faintly of thyme, poor impulse control, and something... carbonated? "Hooded One,” he began, bowing with enough dramatic flair to cause a squirrel fainting incident, “I bring you a potion.” She raised her eyes but not her head. “Unless it’s a potion that turns unsolicited visitors into moss, I suggest you try your luck on someone with lower standards and less visible sarcasm.” He grinned, and it was the worst kind of grin — the “I know I’m handsome and terrible” grin. Hope’s wings fluttered involuntarily. Damn them. Traitors. She crossed her legs tighter, mostly out of principle. “It’s a drink of confidence,” he explained. “Liquid gall. Forbidden nectar. Tastes like peach bellini and poor decisions.” Hope blinked. “So… brunch in a bottle?” He extended the tiny vial. “One sip and you’ll find yourself doing something impulsive. Something liberating.” She studied the vial. It glowed faintly. It sparkled. It also had a tiny handwritten label that read: Not legally responsible for what happens next. Hope took it without breaking eye contact. “If I end up flirting with a centaur poet again, I’m pouring this on your loins.” “Fair,” he said, sitting beside her like someone who’d already imagined three possible endings to this moment, all rated at least PG-13. With a deep breath and a vibe check that came back with a raised brow, she drank it. Instant warmth. Not fire — more like a slow cinnamon roll melting between the ribs. She blinked. Her hoodie felt extra pink. Her boots felt flirtier. The breeze was suddenly full of consensual suggestions. She turned toward the alchemist, her smile now dangerously recreational. “So,” she said, leaning in, “if I wanted to host an impromptu moonlit tea rave in the glade and declare myself Supreme Petal Overlord of the East Grove, would that be frowned upon or…?” “Celebrated,” he replied, already reaching into his satchel for glowing teacups and questionable dried herbs. Two hours later, the glade was pulsing with softly enchanted beats (provided by a rhythmically talented badger), and Hope was sitting on a tree stump throne wearing a crown made of dandelion fluff and sass. Her wings shimmered like disco ball prophecies, her hoodie was cropped for mobility, and her drink sparkled with both danger and elderberry. She’d created an open mic policy for frogs (limited to haikus), banned unsolicited touching of her wings, and instituted a formal decree that declared every Tuesday “Flirt With A Stranger, But Emotionally Distance At Midnight” Day. Morale had never been higher. Hope giggled into her teacup. “Honestly,” she whispered to no one in particular, “this was inevitable. I was never made for quietude. I was made for glamorously restrained chaos with wildflower highlights.” The alchemist — now shirtless again and inexplicably juggling glowing pinecones — caught her gaze and winked. She rolled her eyes, but smiled anyway. He’d probably turn out to be a beautiful disaster, but she had potions for that. And boundaries. And boots that could walk away from even the hottest trainwrecks with dignity and minimal scuffing. Tonight, the glade belonged to the Hooded One. The Brat Queen. The Soft Menace. And they would remember her. Even if they couldn’t quite explain why all their dreams now featured pink hoodies and just the right amount of danger. Wing It Like You Mean It Morning broke over the glade like a nosy bard with no boundaries and a lute he wouldn’t stop strumming. Hope awoke tangled in a circle of warm grass, a corset half-loosened, a pinecone tucked under her hip, and one lone shoe missing. Her crown was gone — possibly stolen by a jealous fox or awarded to a shrub during a midnight poetry slam. She stretched. Every joint popped with the smug satisfaction of a night well misbehaved. Her wings unfurled with the kind of sensual crackle usually reserved for old vinyl and new flirtations. She was sore in places she didn't know had nerves. Her hair smelled like wild thyme, toasted lavender, and definitely someone else's beard oil. “You’re awake,” came a voice. Of course it was him — the potion alchemist, leaning against a tree like a rom-com antagonist in denial about his arc. Hope shielded her eyes with one hand. “If you’re going to ask what last night meant, please remember I don’t believe in linear emotional timelines or post-party cuddles.” He laughed, which she both hated and kind of liked. “No, no. I just came to return your shoe.” He held it out — but it had glitter. Her glitter. From her stash. She squinted. “Did you accessorize my boot with enchanted sparkle dust?” He gave a helpless shrug. “You told me to ‘bedazzle your stompers or get out of the realm.’ So I… did.” Hope took the boot and inspected it. Not bad, actually. The man had decent placement. She might not hex him after all. “Look,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck like someone who’d definitely written at least one emotional ballad about her overnight, “I’m not asking for anything. I just wanted to say… you were magnificent.” Hope raised a brow. “I know.” He opened his mouth, then thought better of it. Smart. Growth. After he left (and she checked to make sure he hadn’t absconded with any of her hair ties), she sat quietly under a blooming willow. The party had ended. The guests had either flown off, slithered home, or passed out with dreamy smiles. And yet, she felt charged. Not just magically — existentially. See, the truth was: Hope had always been a little too much for polite fairy society. She didn’t curtsy. She didn’t suppress her opinions. She didn’t believe that softness and strength were opposites. She flirted like it was a sport and retreated like a strategist. She could drop-kick an expectation in heels and plant wildflowers in the fallout. And somewhere between rejecting emotionally unavailable treefolk and sipping cursed moon cordial, she had stopped apologizing for it. But the glade had noticed. Oh yes, the ecosystem had adapted. Pixies were suddenly re-negotiating their labor unions. Sprites were seeking self-actualization via interpretive yoga. Even the elder toadstools whispered among themselves, wondering if they should try something bold. Like teal. Hope stood, brushing leaves off her thighs and reaffixing her hoodie like armor. She would leave this meadow soon, not out of boredom, but ambition. Somewhere out there were other glades, other misfits, other girls in oversized outerwear who hadn’t yet discovered the power of a good boundary and a better comeback. She'd be their whisper. Their legend. Their mildly inappropriate bedtime story. The fairy who said, “No, I don’t want to join your coven unless you offer snacks and healthcare.” With a final smirk, she pulled the hood up, twitched her wings, and took to the sky in a lazy spiral — not fleeing, just rising. Below her, the wildflowers tilted, as if waving goodbye with flamboyant approval. The forest would remember her. The forest needed her. Because in a world of endless sparkles, sometimes the real magic… …is a brat with boundaries, boots, and a dangerously empowering pink hoodie.     ✨ Take Hope Home ✨ If Hope’s hooded sass and winged wonder stole your heart (or made you snort your tea), you can bring her bratty brilliance into your own sacred space. Whether you want to wrap yourself in her fleece-powered confidence, hang her metal gaze above your desk, or drift into dreams beneath her canvas calm — we’ve got you covered. 🌸 Tapestry – Let her attitude drape your wall in pure fairy defiance 🪞 Metal Print – High-def wings, zero apologies 🖼️ Canvas Print – For dreamy spaces that need fairy flair and silent smirks 🧶 Fleece Blanket – Get cozy with attitude (and wings) Hope in Hooded Silence isn’t just a story — it’s a statement. Claim your piece of the glade today.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Devilish Sprite of Emberglow Forest

Deep in the tanglewood shadows of Emberglow Forest, where sunlight filtered like liquid gold and nothing that grinned could be trusted, lived a sprite named Virla. She wasn’t your grandmother’s kind of faerie. No twinkly dust, no squeaky voice. This one had horns. And hips. And a smile that suggested she'd stolen your socks, your secrets, and your last decent bottle of elderflower wine—all before breakfast. She dressed in leaves stitched tighter than gossip in a village square and wings that shimmered like blood-orange flames every time she fluttered past a squirrel mid-nap. The other woodland creatures had learned two things: don't accept her cookies, and never, ever ask for a favor unless you wanted your eyebrows relocated or your love life suddenly redirected toward a disgruntled badger. Now, Virla had a hobby. Not the respectable kind, like moss arranging or berry fermenting. No, she dabbled in... well, chaos. Small-scale mayhem. Think glitter bombs in bird nests, enchanted whoopee cushions made from skunk fur, or swapping the moonflowers with gigglepetals—a flower so cursed with ticklishness, even the bees got the giggles. But on the particular Tuesday our story begins, Virla was bored. Dangerous, truly biblical-level bored. She hadn’t tricked a sentient being in three whole days. Her last prank, a pixie makeover spell that left a troll prince looking like a porcelain doll with pouty lips, had run its course. The forest was getting wise. Time to expand her turf. And wouldn't you know it, fate—possibly drunk and definitely underdressed—delivered her a treat. A man. A mortal man. In a crisp button-down, lost in the woods with a camera, a journal, and the swagger of someone who believed trail mix was survival food. “A biologist,” she whispered to herself, peeking from behind a fern with her wicked grin in full bloom. “Delicious.” She slinked down from her mossy perch with the elegance of a cat who knew it looked good and the confidence of someone who had once convinced a bear he was allergic to honey. Her wings pulsed gently behind her as she stepped into a shaft of dappled light, making sure the sun hit her cheekbones just right. She cleared her throat—daintily, devilishly. “Lost, are we?” she purred, letting her voice curl around the air like smoke. “Or just pretending to be helpless for attention?” The man blinked, jaw slack. “What the… are you cosplaying out here or—wait. Wait. Are those wings? And horns?” Virla’s grin widened. “And attitude. Don’t forget the attitude, darling.” He fumbled for his camera. “This is incredible. A hallucination, probably. I haven’t eaten since noon. Did that granola bar have mushrooms in it?” “Darling, if I were a hallucination, I’d come with fewer clothes and worse decisions.” She stepped closer, eyes narrowing with interest. “But lucky you, I’m very real. And I haven’t had a good prank since Beltane.” She leaned in, close enough that her breath brushed his ear. “Tell me, forest boy... are you easily enchanted?” He stammered something unintelligible. She giggled—a sound that made flowers bloom out of season and squirrels faint from blushing too hard. “Excellent,” she said. “Let’s ruin your life in the most delightful way possible.” And with that, the game began. The man, whose name—he eventually confessed—was Theo, was precisely the sort of earnest, over-educated wanderer Virla adored to torment. He kept saying things like, “This isn’t scientifically possible,” while she made his shoelaces vanish and his socks begin debating one another in fluent squirrel. Virla called it a meet-cute. Theo called it neurological collapse. Tomato, tomahto. On their first “date”—a term Virla delighted in because it made him visibly uncomfortable—she took him to a mushroom circle that giggled when stepped on and tried to eat your toes if you insulted their spores. Theo tried to take samples. The mushrooms tried to take his boots. Virla nearly cried from laughter. “I thought fairies were supposed to be helpful,” Theo grunted as he wrestled a particularly clingy fungus off his ankle. “That’s like saying cats are supposed to fetch,” she replied, floating upside down and licking honey off a pinecone. “Helpful is boring. I’m whimsical. With an edge.” Over the next week—if you can call that stretch of twisted, time-bending chaos a “week”—Theo learned several things: Never accept tea from a sprite unless you want to meow for three hours straight. Forest nymphs gossip worse than old barmaids with crystal balls. Virla had an addiction to glitter. And revenge. But mostly glitter. One morning, Theo awoke to find a crown of beetles braided into his hair. They chanted his name like a sports team warming up. Virla just leaned against a tree, wings aglow, picking her teeth with a pine needle. “Adorable, aren’t they?” she cooed. “They’re emotionally co-dependent. You’re their god now.” “I’m going to need therapy,” he muttered. “Probably. But you’ll be adorable while unraveling.” And then came the accident. Or, as Virla later put it: “The gloriously unintentional consequences of my perfectly intentional mischief.” You see, she’d enchanted a stream to flow in reverse just to confuse a cranky water sprite. She didn’t mean for Theo to fall into it. Nor did she expect the ripple of enchanted logic to reset part of his biology. When he climbed out, sputtering and wet, he looked... different. Taller. Sharper. More fae than man. His ears had curled, his irises shimmered like frost under starlight, and he suddenly understood everything the mushrooms were saying. “Virla,” he growled, wiping river moss from his face. “What the hell did you do to me?” She blinked, momentarily caught off-guard. “I was going to ask if you wanted breakfast, but this is so much better.” He grabbed a reflection from the water—because yes, in Emberglow, reflections are mobile and gossipy—and studied his new features. “You turned me into a fae?” She shrugged, smile playing on her lips. “Technically, the stream did. I just… encouraged the possibility.” “Why?” “Because you’re fun.” He stared. “You ruined my life.” “I improved it. You now have better cheekbones and an immune system that can handle eating glowing berries. Honestly, you’re welcome.” Theo looked like he was going to protest. But then he sighed, dropped onto a mossy log, and muttered, “Fine. What now? Do I have to steal babies or dance in circles under the moon or something?” Virla sat beside him. Her wing brushed his shoulder. “Only if you want to. You’ve got options. Trick a prince. Woo a dryad. Make a frog orchestra. Live a little. You're not shackled to mortal mediocrity anymore.” He considered. Then, slowly, he smiled. “Okay. But if I’m going to live like a fae, I want a new name.” Virla grinned so wide it nearly cracked the forest in half. “Darling, I was hoping you’d say that. Let’s call you… Fey-o.” He groaned. “No.” “Fayoncé?” “Virla.” “Fine. We’ll workshop it.” And so, the Devilish Sprite of Emberglow Forest gained a partner—not in crime, exactly, but in mischief. Together, they became legends whispered among the brambles, the reasons travelers found their boots singing or their pants inexplicably braided. And Theo? He never got back to his research. But he did learn to levitate goats.     Bring Virla Home: If you’ve fallen under the spell of Virla and her devilish charm, you don’t have to wander into enchanted woods to keep her mischief nearby. Capture her fiery wings and wicked grin on beautifully crafted products from our Emberglow Collection. Metal Prints – Sleek, vibrant, and gallery-ready, perfect for making a bold statement in your space. Canvas Prints – Add fantasy to your walls with rich texture and color that brings her forest magic to life. Throw Pillows – Add a splash of fae sass to your couch, reading nook, or secret lair. Tote Bags – Carry chaos with you in style—Virla-approved mischief capacity included. Each piece is a slice of the story, designed to turn your everyday life into something just a bit more enchanted… and unpredictable.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Faerie and Her Dragonette

Wings, Whispers, and Way Too Much Sparkle “If you set one more fern on fire, I swear by the Moonroot Blossoms I will ground you until the next equinox.” “I didn't mean to, Poppy!” the dragonette squeaked, smoke curling from his nostrils. “It looked flammable. It was practically asking for it.” Poppy Leafwhistle, faerie of the Deepwood Glade and part-time chaos manager, pinched the bridge of her nose — a move she’d adopted from mortals because rubbing your temples is apparently not enough when you're bonded to a fire-prone winged gremlin with scale polish and an attitude. She’d rescued the dragonette — now called Fizzletuft — from a rogue spell circle in the north fen. Why? Because he had eyes like sunrise, a whimper like a teacup, and the emotional stability of a wet squirrel. Obviously. “Fizz,” she sighed, “we talked about the sparkle restraint protocols. You can’t go around flaring your tail every time a leaf rustles. This isn’t drama class. This is the forest.” Fizzletuft huffed, his wings fluttering with a rainbow shimmer that could blind a bard. “Well maybe the forest shouldn’t be so flammable. That’s not my fault.” The Trouble with Moonberries They were on a mission. A *simple* one, Poppy had thought. Find the Moonberry Grove. Harvest two berries. Don’t let Fizz eat them, explode them, or name them “Sir Wiggleberry” and try to teach them interpretive dance. So far, they had located zero berries, three suspiciously enchanted mushrooms (one of which proposed to Poppy), and a vine that had tried to spank Fizzletuft into next Tuesday. “I hate this place,” Fizz whined, perching dramatically on a mossy rock like a sad opera singer with abandonment issues. “You hate everything that isn’t about you,” Poppy replied, ducking under a willow branch. “You hated breakfast because the jam wasn’t ‘emotionally tart’ enough.” “I have a delicate palate!” “You ate a rock yesterday!” “It looked seasoned!” Poppy paused, exhaled, and counted to ten in three different elemental languages. The Mist Came Suddenly Just as the sun speared through the canopy in a shaft of perfect golden light, the forest changed. The air thickened. The birds stopped chirping. Even the leaves held their breath. “Fizz…” Poppy whispered, her voice dipping into seriousness — a rare tone in their partnership. “Yup. I feel it. Very mysterious. Definitely spooky. Possibly cursed. A hundred percent into it.” From the mist rose a shape — tall, robed, shimmering with the same light Poppy’s wings cast. It wasn’t malevolent. Just… ancient. Familiar, somehow. And oddly floral. “You seek the Grove,” it said, voice like wind through old chimes. “Yes,” Poppy replied, stepping forward. “We need the berries. For the ritual.” “Then you must prove your bond.” Fizzletuft perked up. “Oooh! Like a trust fall? Or interpretive dance? I have wings, I can pirouette!” The figure paused. “...No. You must enter the Trial of Two.” Poppy groaned. “Please tell me it’s not the one with the mushroom maze and the accidental emotional telepathy.” Fizz squealed. “We’re gonna get in each other’s heads? FINALLY. I’ve always wondered what it’s like inside your brain. Is it full of sarcasm and leaf facts?” She turned to him slowly. “Fizz. You have five seconds to run before I turn your tail into a windchime.” He didn’t run. He launched straight upward, cackling, sparkles trailing behind him like a magical sneeze. The Trial of Two (And the Sparkle Apocalypse) The moment they crossed the veil into the Trial Grove, the world blinked. One second, Poppy was side-eyeing Fizzletuft’s attempt to rebrand himself as “Lord Wingpop the Dazzling,” and the next — She was floating. Or... falling? Hard to tell. There was mist, and colors, and an unsettling number of tiny whispering voices saying things like “oof, this one’s emotionally constipated” and “he hides his trauma under glitter.” When her feet hit the ground again — mossy, fragrant, humming slightly — she was alone. “Fizz?” No answer. “This isn’t funny!” Still nothing, until— “I CAN HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS!” Fizzletuft’s voice echoed in her skull like an overexcited squirrel with a megaphone. “This is amazing! You think in leaf metaphors! Also, you’re low-key afraid of centipedes! WE HAVE TO UNPACK THAT!” “Fizz. Focus. Trial. Sacred place. Prove our bond. Stop narrating my anxieties.” “Okay okay okay. But wait — wait. Is that... is that a DRAGON SIZED VERSION OF ME?!” The Mirrorbeast Poppy turned, heart thudding. Standing before her — impossibly elegant, coiled in winged menace and sass — was a full-grown dragonette. Rainbow-scaled. Eyes glowing. And smirking in the exact same smug way Fizzletuft did when he was about to destroy a teacup on purpose. The Mirrorbeast. “To pass,” it boomed, “you must face your fears. Each other’s. Together.” Poppy didn’t like the way it said “together.” “Oh boy,” Fizz whispered in her brain. “I just remembered something. From before we met.” “What is it?” “I don’t... I don’t know if I hatched. I mean, I did. But not... normally. There was fire. A big explosion. Screaming. Possibly a sorcerer with a toupee. And I’ve always wondered if I was... created. Not born.” She paused. “Fizz.” “I know, I know. I act like I don’t care. But I do. What if I’m not real?” She stepped closer to the Mirrorbeast. “You’re as real as it gets, you over-glittered fire noodle.” The beast growled. “And your fear, faerie?” Poppy swallowed. “That I’m too much. Too sharp. That no one will ever choose to stay.” Silence fell. Then, out of nowhere, Fizzletuft crashed through a shrub, covered in vines, eyes wide. “I CHOSE YOU.” “Fizz—” “NOPE. I CHOSE YOU. You rescued me when I was all panic and fire and tail fluff. You scolded me like a mom and cheered for me like a friend. I may be made of magic and chaos, but I’d still choose you. Every day. Even if your cooking tastes like compost pudding.” The Mirrorbeast stared. And then... chuckled. It shimmered, cracked, and burst into stardust. The Trial was over. “You have passed,” said the grove, now gently glowing. “Bond: true. Chaos: accepted. Love: weird, but real.” The Grove’s Gift They found the Moonberries — soft-glowing, silver-veined, blooming from a tree that seemed to sigh when touched. Fizzletuft only licked one. Once. Regretted it immediately. Called it “spicy sadness with a minty afterburn.” On the way home, they were quiet. Not awkward quiet. The good kind. The “we’ve seen each other’s soul clutter and still want to hang out” kind. Back in the glade, Poppy lit a lantern and leaned back against the mossy stump they both called home base. Fizzletuft curled around her shoulders like a warm, glittering scarf. “I still think we should’ve performed that interpretive dance.” “We did, Fizz.” She smiled, eyes twinkling. “We just used feelings instead of jazz hands.” He let out a contented puff of smoke. “Gross.” “I know.”     Adopt the Sass. Sparkle Your Space. If you’ve fallen for the leafy sass of Poppy and the firecracker mischief of Fizzletuft, you can now bring their story home (without setting anything on fire... probably). “The Faerie and Her Dragonette” is now available in a collection of magical merchandise that’s as vivid, cheeky, and sparkly as the duo themselves: Tapestry – Hang this vibrant fae-and-flame duo in your space and let the adventure begin with every glance. Puzzle – Piece together the magic, the mystery, and maybe some glitter tantrums. It's the perfect dragon-approved challenge. Greeting Card – Send a message as bold and sparkly as your favorite faerie fire duo. For magical birthdays, sassy thank-yous, or just saying “hey, you're fabulous.” Sticker – Slap a bit of Poppy & Fizz on your journal, laptop, or cauldron. Mischief included. Glitter optional (but encouraged). Cross-Stitch Pattern – Stitch your own enchanted moment. Perfect for crafters, faerie fans, and anyone needing an excuse to hoard sparkly thread. Claim your piece of Deepwood Glade — because some stories deserve to live on your wall, your shelf, and definitely your heart. 🧚‍♀️🐉

by Bill Tiepelman

Velvet Torque: The Rebel Fairy

The Midnight Kickstart It was quarter past midnight when the ground trembled under the neon-stained clouds of Feyridge. Somewhere between the scent of lavender oil and motor grease, a rumble echoed through the twisting alleys of the Clockwork Quarter. And at its center—revving the engine of a skull-studded motorcycle that glowed like it had secrets—was her. Velvet Torque. No one called her by her birth name anymore, mostly because nobody remembered it. She’d long since traded faerie dust and lullabies for horsepower and brass knuckles wrapped in satin. Her wings? Six-foot blades of iridescent artistry, sharper than half the swords in the Royal Guard’s arsenal. Her bunny ears? Absolutely real. A remnant of an ill-advised love affair with a shape-shifting rabbit prince. Don’t ask. Seriously—don’t. Tonight was not about exes or regrets. Tonight was about payback. She zipped up her corset, tucked a tiny dagger into her garter, and took one last pull on a glitter-infused cigarillo that smelled like cotton candy and vengeance. “Let’s ride, bitches,” she whispered to her bike, which hummed in response like a good familiar should. Her motorcycle, SugarSkull, wasn’t just sentient—it was gossipy. And petty. But it was loyal, and that was enough. Velvet’s mission? Crash the Grand Mechanist’s annual Gala of Gears and expose his not-so-little secret: he’d been siphoning magic from the Fae Forest to fuel his precious automaton army. Not cool. Also? He’d banned cupcakes from the city under some obscure ‘combustible icing’ ordinance. That was the final straw. With a booted foot in glitter-laced leather, she kicked SugarSkull into gear. Fire belched from the twin exhaust pipes shaped like fanged cherubs. The bike roared like a thunder god with a hangover as Velvet launched herself down the cobbled roads, wings flaring behind her like stained-glass war banners. As she tore past the bakeries and brothels of Gear Alley, patrons raised their glasses. “Go get him, Velvet!” someone shouted. Another yelled, “You still owe me ten gold for that tequila-fueled llama bet!” She winked. “Put it on my tab, darling.” Halfway through the city, a mechanical pigeon dive-bombed her with a royal summons. She swatted it mid-air. “Nice try, Tinker King,” she growled. “But I RSVP’d with a chainsaw.” By the time she reached the copper drawbridge to the palace gates, the guards had already pissed themselves. One of them dropped his halberd and fled. The other started reciting his resignation letter in haiku. Velvet revved her bike, licked a candy skull lollipop, and pulled out a compact mirror that doubled as a fireball grenade launcher. “You boys might wanna duck.” The Gala was about to get interesting… The Gala Gets Gutted The palace courtyard was glittering with mechanical peacocks and clockwork flamingos, all preening under the golden glow of suspended aether-lanterns. Guests in gear-studded gowns and velvet waistcoats sipped shimmering cocktails and exchanged pleasantries like this was just another Tuesday in the realm of the obscenely rich. That is, until SugarSkull launched itself through the ballroom’s stained-glass skylight like an angry comet driven by sass and spite. Velvet landed in the middle of a chocolate fondue fountain and immediately lit a firework cigar, sending rainbow sparks into a chandelier made entirely of enchanted hummingbirds. “Ladies, lords, and what-the-fork-ever that is,” she announced, pointing to a guest with three monocles and a nose-ring the size of a wagon wheel, “your gala has officially been canceled.” The crowd gasped. One duchess fainted. A goblin threw his shrimp cocktail at her. Velvet caught it mid-air, licked it, and tossed it over her shoulder. “Tastes like colonialism,” she muttered. The Grand Mechanist, a tower of steam-powered smugness in a top hat rigged with its own weather system, stepped forward with an oily sneer. “Ah, the infamous Velvet Torque,” he drawled. “To what do we owe this delightfully disruptive honor? Another petty vendetta, perhaps?” “Petty?” she scoffed. “You banned cupcakes, Barnaby.” “That’s Lord Barnaby—” “Nope,” Velvet snapped, pulling a scroll from her cleavage and unfolding it with theatrical flair. “By royal decree of Queen Shyla the Slightly Unhinged, and by order of the Underground Order of Sugar-Infused Justice, I am hereby authorized to deliver a magical audit, a sugar strike, and a vibe check.” Gasps again. Somewhere, a monocle popped dramatically. Velvet smirked. Lord Barnaby’s automaton guards surged forward—towering brass monsters with drills for hands and no sense of humor. Velvet cracked her knuckles. “Darling,” she purred to her reflection in a butter-slicked serving tray, “try not to completely demolish the architecture.” What followed was chaos married to choreography. Velvet spun through the ballroom like a disco banshee. Her wings sliced through gears and gearsmen alike, shedding glitter like weaponized confetti. She rode SugarSkull straight up a support beam, launched into the air, and hurled a molotov teacup right into Barnaby’s smug little weather hat, setting off a mini thunderstorm above his powdered wig. “That’s for the forest,” she hissed. “And that’s for banning sprinkles, you greasy goblin.” Within minutes, the gala had become a war zone of melted cheese wheels, collapsing candelabras, and confused nobles trying to crawl out of their own hoop skirts. Velvet landed beside a demolished hors d'oeuvres table, grabbed a stuffed mushroom, and stuffed it in her mouth while launching a smoke bomb shaped like a corsage. She strolled casually through the haze, collecting enchanted gears and whispering sweet threats to trembling guests. “Tell your friends. The Fey don’t forget. And we don’t forgive unsalted scones.” By the time Velvet reached the throne room, Lord Barnaby was hiding behind a statue of his mother. “You’ll never make it out!” he barked. “I’ll activate the failsafe! I’ll—” She held up a crystal cupcake. “This? This is the failsafe.” With a bite, the enchantment detonated—disabling every piece of machinery in the palace, turning the Mechanist’s army into a pile of sad scrap metal. Velvet sauntered up to him, her heels clicking like a countdown. “Now, say it,” she demanded. He gulped. “...Cupcakes are...magic.” “Damn right,” she grinned. “Now get out of my kingdom, Barnaby. And take your kale cookies with you.” With the palace now a glorious mess of frosting and revolution, Velvet mounted SugarSkull once more. The courtyard had filled with rebels, bakers, and winged misfits ready to take back their sugar-soaked city. Someone handed her a martini. Someone else handed her a puppy. She accepted both. “Where to next, boss?” SugarSkull asked, its dashboard lighting up like a rave. “Wherever the patriarchy still thinks pink can’t punch,” Velvet purred, revving the engine. “Let’s paint the world with glitter and gasoline.” With a trail of magic fire and the scent of spiced cupcakes behind her, Velvet Torque rode into legend, laughter echoing across the clouds. She was wild. She was whimsical. She was the moment. And damn, did she look good doing it.     💫 Bring Velvet Torque Home If this wild ride through steampunk mischief, magical rebellion, and unapologetic glam spoke to your inner troublemaker, we’ve got just the thing. “Velvet Torque: The Rebel Fairy” is available now as a selection of stunning, high-quality art products that bring her sass and sparkle right into your space: 🖼️ Wood Print – The perfect statement piece for any rebel's lair. 🧵 Tapestry – Bring bold, whimsical energy to your walls. 🛋️ Throw Pillow – Add a pop of power (and pink) to your space. 🧩 Puzzle – Piece together every bit of magic and mischief. 💌 Greeting Card – Send rebellious fairy vibes with flair. Power. Glitter. Wings. Now available in your living room.

by Bill Tiepelman

Dancing with the Breeze

Dancing with the Breeze: A Fairy’s Guide to Chaos and Confidence In the heart of the Meadow of Improbable Wonders, where wildflowers whispered secrets and dragonflies gossiped like suburban moms, lived a fairy named Calla. And Calla? Well, Calla was a *lot*. Not in a *causing-the-downfall-of-a-kingdom* way—though, let’s be honest, she’d probably be excellent at that, too. No, Calla was simply a walking, flying, glittering embodiment of “extra.” She didn’t just exist. She *thrived.* Loudly. And sometimes at the expense of other people’s patience. “It’s not my fault,” she would say, tossing her golden curls. “I was born fabulous. Some of us are just built different.” Most fairies in the Meadow had sensible jobs—pollinating flowers, controlling the weather, guiding lost travelers. Calla, on the other hand, had a self-assigned role: *Chief Enthusiasm Officer of General Nonsense.* Which is why, on this particularly sunny morning, she was standing on a toadstool, dramatically monologuing to a crowd of deeply uninterested insects. The Art of Waking Up Fabulous Let’s get one thing straight—Calla was *not* a morning person. In fact, she considered mornings to be a personal attack. They arrived uninvited, they were unnecessarily bright, and worst of all—they required her to function. She had perfected a strict wake-up routine: Groan dramatically and refuse to move for at least fifteen minutes. Knock over her jar of stardust (every. single. morning.). Complain loudly that life was unfair and that she needed a personal assistant. Finally drag herself out of bed and look in the mirror. Admire herself. More admiration. Okay, *one more minute* of admiration. Start the day. Today was no different. She stretched luxuriously, let out a satisfied sigh, and blinked blearily at the world. “Another day of being perfect. Exhausting, honestly.” After throwing on her *signature* fairy outfit—a tiny cropped top, shredded green shorts (courtesy of an unfortunate incident with a hedgehog), and a sprinkling of moon-dust highlighter—she fluttered out of her tree-hollow home, ready to cause *just a little* chaos. The Wind Selection Process Calla had one simple mission today: Find the *perfect* breeze and dance with it. Not just *any* wind would do. No, no, no. This was an art form. A science. A spiritual experience. The breeze had to be just right—strong enough to lift her, soft enough to keep her floating, and ideally infused with just a little magic. She tested the Morning Dew Drift—too damp. Nobody likes soggy wings. The Midday Gust of Disappointment—too aggressive. Almost yeeted her into a tree. The Afternoon Swirl of Indecision—too unpredictable. It nearly carried her into an awkward conversation with Harold the socially anxious squirrel. Finally, just as she was about to give up, the Sunset Whisper arrived. Warm, golden, playful. “Oh yes,” she purred. “This is the one.” Flying, Flailing, and Unexpected Lessons With a running start, Calla leapt into the air and let the wind carry her. She twirled, flipped, let herself get lost in the rhythm of the sky. The world blurred in streaks of green and gold, and for a few perfect moments, she was weightless. Then, because life is rude, she lost control. One second she was soaring. The next, she was spiraling, heading directly for the *one* obstacle in an otherwise open field—Finn. Now, Finn was a fellow fairy, known mostly for his ability to sigh like an old man trapped in a young body. He was a realist, a planner, a problem-solver. He was also, unfortunately, standing exactly where Calla was about to crash. “MOVE!” she yelled. Finn looked up, blinked, and said, “Oh, no.” And then she collided with him, sending them both tumbling into a cluster of wildflowers. Debriefing the Disaster “Calla,” Finn wheezed from beneath her. “Why?” She rolled off him dramatically. “Oh, please. That was at least 70% your fault.” Finn sat up, picking daisies out of his hair. “How, exactly?” “Standing. In my way. Not moving. Existing too solidly.” Finn sighed the sigh of someone who had made poor life choices by knowing her. “So,” he said, “what was today’s lesson? Aside from the fact that you need to work on your landings.” Calla stretched her arms, smiling at the setting sun. “Life is like a breeze. Sometimes you fly, sometimes you crash, but the important thing is—you go for it.” Finn considered this. “Huh. Not bad.” “Obviously.” She flipped her hair. “Now, come on. Let’s go throw rocks into the pond dramatically.” Finn groaned, but followed. Because Calla? Calla made life interesting.     Take the Magic Home Want to bring a little fairy mischief and whimsy into your life? Whether you’re looking to add a touch of enchantment to your walls, snuggle up with cozy magic, or carry a piece of the fairy realm with you—these handpicked products are the perfect way to capture the spirit of Calla’s adventures. ✨ Canvas Print: Elevate your space with the stunning "Dancing with the Breeze" Canvas Print. Let Calla’s carefree energy inspire you daily. 🧚 Throw Pillow: Add a sprinkle of fairy dust to your home with this magical Throw Pillow, perfect for daydreaming and dramatic sighing. 🌙 Fleece Blanket: Wrap yourself in cozy fairy magic with the ultra-soft Fleece Blanket. Ideal for chilly nights or plotting your next mischief. 👜 Tote Bag: Carry a little fairy sass wherever you go with this enchanting Tote Bag. Perfect for magical errands and spontaneous adventures. Life is short—surround yourself with things that make you smile. And remember, when the breeze is right, always dance. 🧚✨

by Bill Tiepelman

Daisy Days and Ladybug Portraits

The Fairy with the Lens As the golden sun dipped low, painting the fields in amber hues, Trixie the fairy perched herself atop a daisy, armed with her prized possession—a custom-built fairy-sized camera. For centuries, Trixie had been the unofficial documentarian of the Enchanted Glen, capturing its quirks, secrets, and scandals with all the sass and flair of a paparazzo in a celebrity jungle. Today, her mission was simple: capture the elusive “Ladybug Queen” in all her six-legged glory. “Stay still, you speckled diva,” Trixie muttered, adjusting her focus on the ladybug poised delicately on the daisy petal in front of her. “I don’t have all day, and neither does my hair mousse.” Her golden curls sparkled in the sunlight, held together by an impressive concoction of enchanted pollen and pixie glue, a formula that Trixie claimed was “rainproof, windproof, and gossip-proof.” The Ladybug Queen, as regal as ever, didn’t flinch. “Are you done yet? Some of us have actual kingdoms to run,” she said, her antennae twitching in mild annoyance. Trixie smirked. “Oh, relax, your majesty. You can’t rush art. And let’s not pretend you’re not enjoying this—your glossy red shell practically screams ‘Instagram influencer.’” The Unexpected Turn Just as Trixie was about to snap the perfect shot, a gust of wind knocked her camera askew, sending her tumbling onto the flower’s pistil. She landed with a puff of pollen, coughing dramatically. “Seriously? I risk breaking my wings for this? I should’ve gone into potion sales like my mother wanted.” Before the Ladybug Queen could respond with a quip, the ground beneath the daisy began to rumble. The two of them exchanged glances, their bickering momentarily forgotten. “Uh, was that... thunder?” Trixie asked, her wings fluttering nervously. “Thunder? On a sunny day? Don’t be ridiculous,” the ladybug replied, but her voice betrayed a hint of unease. The rumble grew louder, accompanied by the sound of... squelching? Trixie peered over the edge of the daisy, her eyes widening. “Oh, no. Not him. Anyone but him.” Enter the Earthworm A gigantic earthworm emerged from the soil below, its slimy body glistening in the sunlight. “TRIXIEEE!” it bellowed in a deep, gurgling voice. “Long time no see!” “Oh, sweet nectar, kill me now,” Trixie groaned. “Barry, what do you want?” Barry the earthworm was infamous throughout the Glen for his unrelenting crush on Trixie, his complete lack of personal boundaries, and his overly enthusiastic karaoke performances. “I was just passing by and thought I’d say hi! Also, do you happen to have that glitter-pollen mix I love? You know, the one that makes my segments sparkle?” The Ladybug Queen, who had been watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement, finally interjected. “And who, pray tell, is this... charmer?” Trixie rolled her eyes. “Barry. The worm who doesn’t understand that ‘no’ is a complete sentence.” Barry beamed, completely missing the sarcasm. “It’s so good to see you, Trixie! Hey, I wrote a poem about you. Want to hear it?” “I’d rather gargle slug slime,” Trixie shot back, adjusting her camera strap and preparing to make a quick exit. But before she could take off, Barry began reciting, his booming voice causing petals to tremble: “Oh, Trixie, with wings so fair, Your beauty makes worms stop and stare! From your curls to your glare so snappy, You make this worm… extremely happy!” The Ladybug Queen burst out laughing. “I have to admit, that was... terrible, but entertaining.” The Grand Escape Deciding she had endured enough humiliation for one day, Trixie spread her iridescent wings and prepared to take flight. “Well, Barry, as much as I’d love to stay and listen to your... heartfelt poetry, I have a photo to take and a life to live. Byeee!” She zipped into the air, leaving the daisy, the ladybug, and the lovesick worm behind. The Ladybug Queen called after her, “Don’t forget to send me the proofs! I’ll need approval before you publish anything!” Trixie didn’t stop until she reached the safety of her favorite oak tree. As she perched on a branch to catch her breath, she muttered to herself, “Just another day in the Glen. Maybe I should go into potion sales.” She glanced at her camera and smiled. “But then again, where’s the fun in that?” The Moral of the Story Some days are filled with adventure, unexpected reunions, and questionable poetry. But if you’re Trixie the fairy, you learn to take it all in stride—with a sharp wit, a good dose of sass, and a camera to capture the chaos.     Bring the Magic Home If Trixie’s whimsical adventure made you smile, why not bring a touch of her enchanted world into your own? Celebrate the charm of "Daisy Days and Ladybug Portraits" with exclusive products from our collection: Tapestry: Add a stunning, wide-format tapestry of this magical moment to your wall for instant whimsical vibes. Canvas Print: Perfect for capturing the glow of the scene in timeless style, ready to hang and brighten any room. Puzzle: Piece together the magic with a delightful puzzle featuring the fairy, ladybug, and golden daisy. Throw Pillow: Bring softness and charm to your space with a cozy pillow inspired by Trixie’s world. Explore these and more at shop.unfocussed.com and let a little fairy magic into your life!

by Bill Tiepelman

Tiny Whispers in a Dandelion Field

In a sun-dappled meadow where dandelions danced, the tiniest ruler you’d ever meet lounged against a bloom twice her size. Her name was Tully, and she was not your average faerie. No, Tully had sass—a kind of “kick your ankle if you annoy me” attitude, wrapped in lace and woodland whimsy. Her hair, silver and shining like threads of moonlight, flowed down her back, and atop her head sat a green knitted hat, bedecked with wildflowers and clumsy ladybugs who never quite understood the concept of personal space. “Oi, Frank!” Tully barked at one particularly persistent ladybug trying to climb into her ear. “You’ve got the whole damn meadow. Why is it always me?” The ladybug, of course, said nothing—being a bug and all—but it paused long enough for Tully to flick it gently with one slender finger. It tumbled onto a dandelion puff below, where it landed with an indignant huff, or so she imagined. Tully smirked and stretched out, propping herself up on one elbow. “All hail Queen Tully,” she said to no one in particular. “Ruler of the Dandelions, Master of Sass, and Annoyer of All Things Tiny.” The Business of Whimsy Tully’s meadow was no ordinary patch of grass—it was alive with secrets. The dandelions whispered to the wind, carrying gossip from root to root, while clover leaves plotted the overthrow of taller flowers. “The daisies are getting uppity,” Tully said one afternoon to a tuft of grass. “I saw one turn its head to follow the sun like it owns the place. Bloody show-offs.” The grass offered no opinion, of course, but it rippled with wind-driven laughter. Life as a meadow faerie wasn’t all sunshine and ladybugs. There were thorns to avoid, bees that got too friendly, and the occasional giant human stomping through like they owned the place. Tully despised humans. Well… most humans. There was one who visited sometimes—a woman with paint-stained hands and a notebook full of scribbles. She’d sit in the meadow’s edge, daydreaming, humming softly to herself. Tully would watch her from the safety of a dandelion stalk, arms crossed, chewing on a blade of grass. “She’s alright, I s’pose,” Tully muttered one day, her cheeks turning a faint pink. “For a giant.” The ladybugs knew better than to comment. The Trouble with Wishes One particularly blustery afternoon, Tully was orchestrating her favorite hobby—dandelion wish sabotage. Humans blew on dandelion puffs, thinking their wishes floated up to the stars. Tully, being the mischievous sprite she was, intercepted most of those wishes for quality control. “What’ve we got today?” she said, snatching a stray seed mid-air. She pressed it to her ear as if listening. “A pony? For heaven’s sake. That’s not original.” She let the seed go with a sigh. “Rejected.” Another seed floated past, and she caught it deftly. This time she heard, “I wish for true love.” “Ugh. Humans are so predictable,” she groaned. “Why not wish for something cool? Like a pet dragon or endless cheese?” Still, Tully tucked the seed into her hat. “Fine. This one gets approved. I’m not heartless.” The Intruder Just as she was settling in to mock more wishes, a shadow passed overhead. Tully froze. Shadows were bad news in a faerie meadow. Shadows meant giants. And this giant was stomping through her field, dandelions snapping underfoot like twigs. “OH, COME ON!” Tully shot up, fists on her hips, shouting at the oblivious intruder. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LONG IT TAKES TO GROW THOSE?” Of course, the human couldn’t hear her—she was too busy plucking flowers. Tully narrowed her emerald eyes, grabbed her trusty twig staff, and marched straight up to the human’s boot. “Oi, tall one!” she bellowed. “STOP YANKING MY FLOWERS!” The human, of course, still didn’t hear. But in a moment of perfect irony, the woman dropped to her knees, her eyes scanning the dandelions as if she were searching for something. Tully froze. The human’s gaze lingered dangerously close to her. For one wild second, Tully thought she’d been seen. “You don’t see me. You don’t see me,” she whispered like a chant. The human’s eyes moved past her, and Tully exhaled in relief, flopping backward onto a dandelion puff. The seeds exploded around her in a flurry, catching the light in little floating stars. Tully grinned, holding up a single seed. “” The Queen at Rest As the sun dipped low and the meadow turned gold, Tully reclined on her favorite dandelion, her hat pulled low over her eyes. The ladybugs clambered around her like devoted subjects, and the dandelions hummed soft lullabies in the breeze. “It’s a hard life, ruling this meadow,” Tully said with a sleepy yawn. “But someone’s got to do it.” And so she dozed off, queen of the dandelions, champion of wishes, and sassiest faerie you’d never see. The meadow sighed around her, peaceful once again, until tomorrow—when the ladybugs would need scolding, the humans would need mocking, and the whispers of dandelion seeds would need judging. After all, someone had to keep the magic in line.    Bring Tully's Magic Home Let the whimsical charm of "Tiny Whispers in a Dandelion Field" add a touch of magic to your space! Whether you’re looking to adorn your walls, cozy up with a pillow, or carry a bit of enchantment wherever you go, Tully has you covered. Canvas Print – A stunning addition to your walls, perfect for dreamers and nature lovers. Tapestry – Turn any room into a meadow of magic with this captivating wall decor. Throw Pillow – Snuggle up with Tully’s sass and let the dandelions whisk you off to sleep. Tote Bag – Carry a bit of faerie charm on all your adventures. Discover the full collection and let Tully’s tiny whispers bring a smile to your day!

by Bill Tiepelman

Peppermint Mischief in the Snow

It wasn’t every day that Cinnamon—a self-proclaimed "badass winter fairy"—found herself stuck in the middle of nowhere with a motorcycle she had absolutely no idea how to operate. Sure, she had wings, but flying through a snowstorm? Absolutely not. Snowflakes made her wings sticky, and sticky wings were so last season. So, there she sat, cross-legged in the snow, glaring at the hulking machine like it had personally insulted her choice of striped stockings. “This is your fault,” Cinnamon hissed, pointing an accusatory finger at the silent motorcycle. “If you weren’t so heavy, I could’ve just magicked you back to the forest. But nooo, you have to weigh as much as a troll’s backside.” To her chagrin, the motorcycle did not respond. Not that she expected it to, but in a world where pixies threw shade on social media and gnomes ran underground coffee shops, you’d think a bike could at least muster a sarcastic beep. The nerve. The Trouble Begins The trouble had started earlier that day when Cinnamon, in an act of defiance against her overbearing fairy godmother, decided she was “done” with traditional fairy life. “No more glitter dust and flower arranging for me,” she’d announced to her bemused squirrel neighbors. “I’m gonna live dangerously. I’m gonna ride a motorcycle.” What she didn’t know was that riding a motorcycle involved more than just sitting on it and looking fabulous. The guy who sold it to her—an actual troll with a suspicious number of missing teeth—hadn't bothered explaining little details like starting the engine or shifting gears. He was too busy laughing as he counted the gold coins she’d “borrowed” from her godmother’s stash. “I’ll figure it out,” she’d muttered. Famous last words. A Fairy's First Ride Fast forward to now, and Cinnamon was stranded on the side of a snowy path, her wings too cold to flutter, her stockings soggy, and her attitude in full sass mode. “Maybe I should’ve stuck to riding ladybugs,” she grumbled, kicking the bike’s tire. It was as effective as scolding a dragon for breathing fire. Just as she was contemplating setting the motorcycle on fire (purely for warmth, of course), a tall figure emerged from the swirling snow. Cinnamon squinted. Was that…a human? A handsome one, at that. He wore a leather jacket, carried a toolbox, and had the kind of rugged stubble that practically screamed “I fix things and break hearts.” “Need help?” he asked, his deep voice carrying a hint of amusement as he took in the sight of a candy-striped fairy sitting in the snow next to a motorcycle twice her size. Cinnamon straightened up, brushing snow off her tutu. “Depends. Do you know how to fix this thing?” She gestured at the bike, trying to look both annoyed and adorable—a combination she had perfected over years of charming woodland creatures into doing her chores. “I might,” he said, kneeling to examine the bike. “But I gotta ask—what’s a fairy doing with a Harley?” “First of all,” Cinnamon said, hands on her hips, “it’s not a Harley. It’s a… um…” She paused, realizing she had no idea what brand it was. “It’s a very expensive bike, thank you very much. And second, I’m reinventing myself. Fairies can have a rock-and-roll phase too, you know.” The man chuckled, pulling a wrench from his toolbox. “Fair enough. I’m Jake, by the way.” “Cinnamon,” she replied, adding with a smirk, “but you can call me ‘Your Highness.’” Reparations and Revelations As Jake worked on the bike, Cinnamon hovered nearby, offering “helpful” advice like, “Don’t scratch the paint,” and “Is that the thingamajig that makes it go vroom?” Jake, to his credit, took it all in stride, though his smirk grew wider with each passing minute. “Alright, Your Highness,” he said finally, standing up and wiping his hands on a rag. “You’re good to go.” Cinnamon clapped her hands in delight. “Finally! I knew I could fix it—well, with a little assistance, of course.” Jake raised an eyebrow but said nothing, stepping back as Cinnamon climbed onto the bike. She revved the engine, and to her surprise, it roared to life. For a moment, she basked in the glory of her newfound biker persona. She was Cinnamon the Rebel, destroyer of stereotypes, queen of the open road. And then she accidentally hit the gas. The bike shot forward, skidding on the icy path, and Cinnamon let out a very un-queenly shriek. Jake dove out of the way as the bike swerved wildly, coming to a halt only when it hit a conveniently placed snowbank. Cinnamon tumbled off, landing in a puff of snow with all the grace of a drunken pixie. The Moral of the Misadventure Jake walked over, trying and failing to hide his laughter. “You okay, Your Highness?” Cinnamon sat up, spitting out snow and glaring at the bike. “Stupid machine. This is why fairies don’t drive.” Despite the chaos, she couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for motorcycles, but she had to admit—her first (and probably last) ride was one heck of an adventure. Plus, she’d met a cute human who knew how to fix stuff. Not a bad day, all things considered. “Come on,” Jake said, offering her a hand. “Let’s get you and your bike back to town.” “Fine,” Cinnamon said, taking his hand and dusting herself off. “But for the record, I let you help me.” Jake smirked. “Of course, Your Highness.” And with that, the fairy and the mechanic trudged off through the snow, leaving behind a trail of glitter, sarcasm, and just a little bit of peppermint mischief.    Shop the Scene Bring a touch of whimsical winter magic to your world with products inspired by "Peppermint Mischief in the Snow". Whether you're looking to cozy up your space, solve a frosty puzzle, or add some sassy flair to your everyday items, we've got you covered! Shop Tapestry: Add a magical winter vibe to your walls. Shop Canvas Prints: Perfect for making any space feel enchanted. Shop Puzzles: Piece together the sass and snow. Shop Spiral Notebooks: Perfect for jotting down your own mischief and adventures. Get your piece of fairy mischief and make your surroundings as magical as Cinnamon herself!

by Bill Tiepelman

Winter Enchantment on a Green Machine

Let me tell you something: being a fairy isn’t all glitter and wishes. Sometimes, you need to blow off steam. And what better way to do that than stealing—erm, borrowing—an enchanted Harley from the Winter King himself? That’s exactly what Frostina Sparklebottom did on one particularly snowy evening. But let’s rewind a bit, shall we? Frostina wasn’t your typical fairy. While her peers were out frolicking in flower meadows and sprinkling pixie dust on lost hikers, she was in her log cabin, sipping spiked hot cocoa and debating whether she should finally learn to snowboard. “Why sprinkle magic when I can be magic?” she always said, usually while adjusting the rhinestones on her thigh-high boots. One frosty evening, after a few too many shots of peppermint schnapps, Frostina decided she was tired of being underestimated. “I’m done with this ‘sweet and dainty’ fairy crap!” she declared to her pet squirrel, Nutmeg, who didn’t seem particularly invested in her self-revelation. “I’m going to ride into town on the baddest machine Winterland has ever seen!” The only problem? Frostina didn’t own a motorcycle. But she knew who did: the Winter King. He had a gleaming green beast of a bike parked outside his ice palace. Sure, he was the ruler of all things cold and sparkly, but Frostina had something he didn’t—audacity. Lots of it. With a flick of her glitter-dusted wings, she zipped through the frosty forest, her teal outfit catching the moonlight. “He won’t even miss it,” she muttered, brushing snow off her lace-up boots. She reached the bike, gave it a once-over, and cackled. “Oh, baby, you and I are going to make history tonight.” Did she know how to ride a motorcycle? Absolutely not. But that wasn’t about to stop her. Fairies are great at improvising, and Frostina was no exception. With a flutter of her wings, she hovered over the bike and inspected it like a Pinterest mom pretending she knew how to install a backsplash. “How hard can it be?” she mumbled, pressing random buttons. A low growl rumbled as the engine roared to life. “Hell yeah! Mama’s got a new ride!” She sped off into the snowy night, her glittering wings leaving a trail of sparkles in her wake. The roar of the bike echoed through the forest, scaring off reindeer and a few elves on their late-night coffee runs. The cold wind whipped against her face, but Frostina didn’t care. She felt alive—invincible even. That is, until she accidentally swerved into the town square. The townsfolk, who were in the middle of their annual Snowball Festival, stopped mid-throw to stare at the fairy zooming past. “Is that Frostina Sparklebottom?” someone gasped. “What is she wearing?!” another shouted. Frostina, ever the drama queen, slowed down just enough to strike a pose. “It’s called style, Karen!” she hollered, flipping her silver hair as she zipped past. Of course, word of her little joyride reached the Winter King faster than Frostina could say, “Oops.” The icy monarch himself appeared on the horizon, riding a snowstorm like a pissed-off weather god. “FROSTINA!” his voice boomed, shaking icicles loose from the rooftops. “Oh, chill out, Frosty!” she shouted back, skidding to a stop in front of him. “It’s just a little spin! Besides, you never use the damn thing!” The Winter King, unimpressed by her sass, crossed his arms. “That’s not the point! You can’t just steal my bike, terrorize the townsfolk, and call it ‘a spin.’” Frostina smirked, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Terrorize? Please. I’m giving them a show. You should be thanking me for spicing up this snowy hellscape you call a kingdom.” The king pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Return the bike. Now.” “Fine,” Frostina groaned, dramatically rolling her eyes. “But only because it’s almost out of gas.” She dismounted and patted the bike’s seat. “Thanks for the memories, babe. You were too good for him anyway.” The Winter King muttered something about needing a vacation as Frostina flounced away, wings sparkling under the moonlight. “You’re welcome for the entertainment!” she called over her shoulder. “Next time, I’m taking the sleigh!” That night, Frostina returned to her cabin feeling triumphant. Sure, she might have annoyed the Winter King and scared a few elves, but who cared? Life was short, and fairies who played it safe never made history. As she kicked off her boots and poured herself another mug of schnapps-laden cocoa, she raised a toast to herself. “Here’s to being fabulous, fearless, and unapologetically Frostina,” she declared. And with that, the sassiest fairy in Winterland settled in for a well-earned nap, dreaming of her next wild adventure.    Bring the Magic Home If Frostina's daring escapades and enchanting style inspire you, why not bring a piece of her winter magic into your life? Explore stunning products featuring Winter Enchantment on a Green Machine, available now: Tapestries to add a whimsical touch to your space. Canvas Prints for a bold and artistic centerpiece. Puzzles to piece together Frostina's sassy charm. Greeting Cards for sharing the magic with friends and loved ones. Each product is designed to capture the brash, bold, and whimsical essence of Frostina’s unforgettable adventure. Shop now and let the enchantment ride into your home!

by Bill Tiepelman

Midnight Wings in the Snow

The first snow of the year had fallen overnight, blanketing the enchanted forest in a sparkling layer of frosty magic. It was the kind of scene that poets rave about, children dream of, and Instagram influencers desperately chase. But for Lumina, the self-proclaimed queen of sass and sparkle, it was less enchanting and more of a cold, slushy nightmare. “Oh, for pixie’s sake!” she huffed, adjusting her delicate lace gloves and glaring at the snowflakes that clung stubbornly to her translucent wings. “I get it, winter. You’re fabulous. But did you really have to ruin my morning like this?” It wasn’t that Lumina hated snow. She could appreciate a good glittery aesthetic. But snow days were always a hassle. Her usual dramatic strut through the woods was now a slippery shuffle, and the chill biting at her thighs through her short green skirt was making her rethink every fashion choice she’d ever made. “Why don’t fairies get a ‘snow day’ clause in the magical contract?” she muttered, her breath puffing in the crisp air. “Where’s the union rep for this nonsense?” The Struggle is Real As she trudged along the icy forest path, her violet eyes narrowed at the frozen chaos around her. The pond where she normally admired her reflection was iced over. No glimmering surface to wink at herself? Rude. The trees, heavy with snow, sagged like they’d spent the whole night at an enchanted rave. And worst of all, her favorite mushrooms—her perch for mid-day gossip sessions—were buried under the white menace. “Honestly,” Lumina groaned, brushing snow off her shoulders. “If winter’s going to show up uninvited, the least it could do is cater.” She imagined a fairy-sized cocoa cart with marshmallows and spiked cream, perhaps served by shirtless wood sprites. Now that would make the cold worthwhile. Instead, all she had was a soggy forest, frozen toes, and a growing grudge against Mother Nature. “Do I look like the kind of fairy who enjoys hypothermia?” she called out to no one in particular. A bird overhead chirped in response, but she shooed it away. “Save it, chirpy. I’m not in the mood.” Magic Misfires Deciding that enough was enough, Lumina stopped in a clearing and planted her hands on her hips. “Alright, snow. You think you’re cute? Let’s see how you handle some fairy magic.” She raised her hands, summoning all the glittery energy she could muster. Her plan? Melt the snow with a fiery display of magical sass. But as her wings fluttered and her fingers glowed, a gust of icy wind swirled through the clearing. The spell fizzled, and instead of melting the snow, she ended up with a face full of frost. “Oh, COME ON!” Lumina shrieked, wiping the icy glitter from her cheeks. “I’m a fairy, not a snow cone!” She stomped her foot, which immediately sunk ankle-deep into the slush. “Perfect. Just perfect.” A Frosty Visitor As Lumina was about to give up and retreat to her mushroom house for the rest of the winter, she heard a soft chuckle behind her. Turning sharply, she saw a tall figure emerging from the snowy woods. It was Jack Frost himself, the ultimate winter bad boy, with his icy blue hair and a smirk that could melt glaciers—or at least annoy Lumina to no end. “Having a rough morning, are we?” Jack asked, leaning casually against a tree that instantly frosted over at his touch. “Don’t start with me, Frosty,” Lumina snapped. “Your whole winter wonderland thing is cute and all, but I’m not in the mood.” Jack laughed, his frosty breath swirling in the air. “You know, most fairies adore the snow. They dance, they sparkle, they—” “Freeze their tiny butts off?” Lumina interrupted, crossing her arms. “Sorry, Jack, but not all of us are built for sub-zero strutting.” He grinned, clearly amused. “Tell you what, princess. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll whip up a little magic to keep you warm, but you owe me a favor come spring.” Lumina raised a skeptical brow. “What kind of favor?” “Oh, nothing too big,” Jack said with a wink. “Just a tiny sprinkle of your glitter magic when I need it. Deal?” She hesitated, eyeing him suspiciously. But the cold was starting to creep into her very soul—or at least her fashionable lace gloves—and she decided to take the gamble. “Fine. But if this ‘magic’ of yours ruins my aesthetic, we’re going to have words.” The Glittery Finale Jack snapped his fingers, and a swirl of warm, sparkling air enveloped Lumina. Instantly, she felt the chill fade, replaced by a cozy glow that left her wings shimmering even more brilliantly than before. She did a quick twirl, admiring the effect. “Not bad, Frost,” she admitted grudgingly. “You might just be useful after all.” “I aim to please,” Jack said with a mock bow. “Enjoy your snow day, princess.” As he disappeared into the woods, Lumina felt a smile tug at her lips. Maybe winter wasn’t so bad after all—at least, not when you had a little extra sparkle to keep things fabulous. With her wings aglow and her sass fully restored, she set off through the snowy forest, ready to conquer the day with style. Because even on the coldest of mornings, Lumina knew one thing for sure: if you couldn’t beat the snow, you might as well slay in it.    Bring "Midnight Wings in the Snow" Into Your World If Lumina’s frosty adventure brought a little sparkle to your day, why not bring her magic home? Explore these beautiful products inspired by the whimsical charm of "Midnight Wings in the Snow": Framed Print: Add a touch of elegance to your home with this enchanting winter scene beautifully framed for any space. Tapestry: Transform your walls with the magical allure of this winter fairy in a stunning tapestry. Puzzle: Relive the frosty charm piece by piece with a delightful puzzle featuring Lumina in her snowy wonderland. Greeting Card: Share the magic with loved ones using this beautiful card, perfect for any occasion. Browse these and more at shop.unfocussed.com, and let the magic of "Midnight Wings in the Snow" enchant your life!