by Bill Tiepelman
The Kiss That Creates Worlds
The Birth of the Ocean Dream The hotel smelled faintly of salt and old paint. Not the comforting kind of paint, the one that reminds you of fresh renovations and clean slates, but the pungent, vaguely toxic odor of something applied badly decades ago. The wallpaper peeled in damp curls, the carpet swelled underfoot as though the floorboards beneath were breathing, and the woman at the reception desk never actually blinked. Still, it was cheap, and the storm outside was not. He dragged his suitcase through the lobby like a guilty secret, paintbrushes poking from the pocket of his coat like contraband. She followed, her heels tapping against the warped tiles, her white dress far too elegant for a seaside dive that probably doubled as a cockroach commune. The storm rumbled beyond the glass doors, thunder growling like an old drunk in the back corner of a bar. “I booked us the ocean-view room,” he said. She raised an eyebrow at the dripping chandelier. “Lovely. Maybe the ceiling will collapse and we can watch the storm from bed.” The receptionist slid the key across the counter without looking up. It was a brass key, heavy and old, stamped with the number 13. Her nails were painted the color of old blood, chipped at the edges. “Enjoy your stay,” she said, though her tone implied they probably wouldn’t. The hallway upstairs was a tunnel of mildew and bad decisions. Carpets squelched under their shoes. A radiator hissed even though it hadn’t worked in years. At the end of the corridor, the door to Room 13 groaned when the key slid into the lock, as though it resented being opened at all. The room was worse. Curtains stained with salt, sheets patterned with mysterious constellations of bleach, a mirror so warped it seemed to show strangers instead of reflections. But the view—oh, the view. The ocean stretched wild and black beyond the glass, frothing waves heaving against the horizon, the storm sky like bruised velvet lit with veins of lightning. “Romantic,” she deadpanned, throwing herself across the sagging mattress. He smiled. “Romantic enough.” They’d been fighting before the trip. About what, neither could quite remember now—money, art, sex, the usual suspects. But standing there, storm roaring outside, he felt a pull toward her that words couldn’t touch. His fingers tightened on the paintbrush he hadn’t meant to bring. It was stupid, really, carting a tool of creation into a place where everything seemed to be falling apart. She sat up, eyes narrowed. “You’re holding that like a weapon.” “Maybe it is.” Before she could roll her eyes, he crossed the room and kissed her. The storm bent around them. It was subtle at first: a hitch in the rhythm of the waves, a flicker of lightning that froze mid-strike. Then the air hummed, low and dangerous, and the walls of the hotel rippled like wet canvas. He could feel the kiss spilling outward, not just heat and breath, but color. Reds leaked from their mouths, blues spiraled from her fingertips, gold poured from his brush hand. The room filled with it, choking, radiant, impossible. She pulled back, gasping. “What the hell—” “Don’t stop,” he whispered. His voice shook, but not with fear. With awe. So she didn’t. And the world came undone. The bedspread unraveled into ribbons of light. The wallpaper curled outward and floated away, disintegrating into glowing dust. Through the window, the storm collapsed into fractals: perfect spirals blooming and folding into themselves, an infinite geometry masquerading as ocean. “Are we…” she panted between kisses, “…breaking physics?” He smirked. “No. We’re redecorating.” The hotel groaned, a long, unhappy sound, like the building itself disapproved. The lightbulb overhead shattered, raining sparks that transformed into fireflies midair. His paintbrush trembled in his hand, then burst like a flare, spewing pigment that tasted of cinnamon and champagne, that stuck to their skin in shimmering stains. Outside, the sea rose higher. The waves weren’t water anymore—they were patterns, fractal swirls folding endlessly, curling like fingerprints too massive to comprehend. The storm clouds above bled lavender and gold, dripping paint instead of rain. And still, they kissed. Until she tore away with a laugh, stumbling back. Her dress flickered between silk and mist, each thread unraveling into streaks of light. “Okay,” she gasped. “This is insane. We’re—God, look at us—we’re coming apart.” He looked at his own hands. His veins pulsed with color, paint bleeding through his skin like cracks in porcelain. He flexed his fingers, and the walls obeyed, bending like wet plaster. “Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, fuck. We’re not just painting the world.” She stared at him, eyes wide, her hair catching the glow like a halo. “What then?” “We’re painting ourselves out of it.” They collapsed together on the bed, laughing like lunatics, drunk on power and fear and lust. Every touch sparked more impossible phenomena: the sheets melted into rivers of watercolor, the ceiling opened to a sky that pulsed with new constellations, the storm outside howled like a living thing. Between kisses, she muttered, “You know, some couples just… go on vacation.” “Boring couples,” he replied. “We’re artists.” The room shook violently, as if disagreeing. The walls rippled outward, stretching, tearing, until the ocean itself bled into the floorboards. Fractal water spilled across the carpet, flooding the room in patterns that curled around their ankles like affectionate serpents. And in the middle of it all, a knock at the door. They froze. The knock came again, louder. Then a folded note slid under the door, damp at the edges. She picked it up, squinting in the kaleidoscope light. Dear Guests, it read in spidery handwriting. Management politely requests that you refrain from reality-warping activities after midnight. Some of us are trying to sleep. Sincerely, The Hotel Staff. She snorted, nearly choking on laughter. “Oh my God. They know.” He grinned, paint dripping from his teeth. “Then let’s give them something worth complaining about.” And he kissed her again. The ocean roared approval. The walls shattered into canvases of living fire. The ceiling fell upward into galaxies of liquid light. And somewhere, deep beneath the fractal waves, something stirred. Something waiting. The Fractured Horizon The next morning began with the sound of waves knocking politely on the window. Not crashing. Not pounding. Knocking. As though the ocean had developed knuckles sometime after midnight and wanted a word. He rolled over, groggy, the paintbrush still clutched in his fist like a child’s teddy bear. She lay beside him, hair tangled across the pillow, her dress—or what was left of it—draped over the radiator like a surrendered flag. The room was humid with salt and something more dangerous, a faint electric tang that clung to their skin. “Tell me that was a dream,” she muttered without opening her eyes. “If it was, it’s one hell of a recurring one,” he said. He gestured to the wall, which was no longer wallpaper but a mural of spirals stretching infinitely inward. The carpet had given up pretending to be carpet and was now a slow tide of fractal foam, curling like lace at the bedposts. She sat up, rubbed her face, and groaned. “Jesus Christ. We broke the room.” He smirked. “We renovated the room.” Outside, the sea was still shifting, spirals blooming in every wave. Entire patches of water folded in on themselves, repeating like mirrors held face-to-face. It wasn’t just an ocean anymore—it was an equation written in liquid, and the math was very, very wrong. The knock came again. The same slow, deliberate tap-tap-tap. He dragged himself to the window, pulled aside the curtains—now melted into ribbons of watercolor—and peered down. On the shore, standing knee-deep in foam, were… themselves. Copies. Doubles. Two figures kissing passionately in the surf, their bodies flickering like film reels stuck between frames. Every time their mouths met, another spiral erupted from the ocean. Dozens of fractal selves lined the horizon, some laughing, some crying, some shouting at each other, some tangled in embraces too private for polite company. “Oh shit,” he whispered. “We’ve gone viral.” She joined him at the window, squinting at the army of reflections. “Those are us. Those are literally us.” “Don’t be so critical,” he said. “Some of them are pulling it off better than we did.” One of the reflections waved, then mouthed something too far away to hear. Another hurled a rock at the window. It hit with a splash instead of a thud, dissolving into droplets that crawled upward across the glass like insects. She stepped back. “Okay, no. This is too much. We’ve officially crossed into nightmare territory.” He shook his head. “Nightmares don’t leave notes.” As if summoned, another envelope slid under the door. Damp edges, spidery handwriting. She bent to pick it up, heart hammering. The paper pulsed faintly, like something alive. Dear Guests, it read. Your reality distortion has been noted. Please confine your anomalies to designated areas: the lounge, the basement, or the roof. Unauthorized spawning of duplicates on the beachfront will incur a cleaning fee. – Management. She laughed, the sound high and brittle. “They’re charging us for this?” He frowned at the note. “Wait. Did they say basement?” The hotel basement was not on the map by the elevator. In fact, the elevator didn’t even have a “B” button. But when he pressed the paintbrush against the panel, another floor revealed itself, glowing faintly in gold. She gave him a look—half warning, half curiosity—and together they descended. The doors opened onto a hallway made entirely of water. Walls sloshed with tides, doors swam in and out of existence, and the floor bent like a pier in heavy surf. The air smelled briny, thick with electricity, as though lightning had struck just seconds before. They walked carefully, her heels clicking on something that might once have been marble, his brush tapping nervously against his thigh. “This feels like the part of the dream where we die,” she muttered. “Correction,” he said. “This feels like the part of the dream where we find treasure. Or a minibar.” At the end of the corridor, a set of double doors swung open on their own. Inside was the hotel lounge—or something pretending to be one. Tables floated lazily on the surface of an endless pool. Guests sat in chairs that rocked gently on the waves, sipping cocktails that shimmered in colors not found on earth. A piano played itself in the corner, keys striking notes that spiraled upward and looped back down like liquid staircases. Behind the bar, a man who looked suspiciously like him—but older, sadder, eyes hollow—was polishing glasses that weren’t there. “Welcome,” the bartender said without smiling. “You’ve made a mess.” She stiffened. “What the hell is this?” “This,” the bartender said, gesturing to the pool, “is what happens when you kiss too hard.” They sat—awkwardly—at the bar. The bartender poured them drinks that tasted like memories: her glass fizzed with the sweetness of their first kiss in college, his burned with the bitterness of every fight they’d ever had. Neither could finish. “Who are you?” he asked finally. The bartender smirked. “You, of course. Or one version of you. Every kiss you’ve given her spawned another. Every choice you didn’t make, every word you swallowed back—it all painted itself into being. We’re the runoff. The duplicates. The fractals.” “Bullshit,” she said. “You’re not him. He doesn’t brood like a sad waiter.” The bartender’s smirk cracked, just for a second. “Not anymore, maybe.” From the pool rose another figure—a copy of her this time, dripping with seawater, eyes wild. She screamed, lunged, and tried to claw at the real woman’s face before dissolving into foam. Ripples spread outward, birthing more shapes, more near-twins with distorted features, laughter warped into sobs. “They’re unstable,” the bartender warned. “They want your place. And they’ll take it, unless you go deeper. To the source.” “The source of what?” he asked. The bartender leaned close, whispering like it was a curse. “The kiss.” The lounge began to sink. Tables tipped. Guests—if they were ever guests at all—slipped screaming into the black water, their bodies splitting into spirals as they drowned. The piano kept playing as it sank beneath the surface, keys bubbling with unfinished chords. She grabbed his hand, eyes wide. “We need to get out.” The bartender chuckled bitterly. “Out? Oh no. You don’t get out. Not until you finish what you started.” The water rose higher, fractals glowing beneath the surface like bioluminescent traps. His brush vibrated in his grip, pulling him toward the pool. He realized—terrifyingly—that it wanted to paint again. That it had to. “No,” he muttered. “Not here. Not now.” But the floor gave way. The bar crumbled, the ceiling dissolved into mist, and suddenly they were falling, tumbling, plunging into the fractal sea below. The last thing he saw before the water closed over them was another note pinned to the bar by a broken glass: Basement fees will be added to your bill. – Management. The Infinite Embrace The water swallowed them whole. Down, down, down they sank, through spirals of foam that pulsed like arteries. Every breath tasted of salt and color, every heartbeat echoed a rhythm not entirely their own. The fractal sea was not water as the world knew it—it was recursion made liquid, equations turned tidal. The deeper they fell, the more the ocean folded back on itself, repeating their descent a thousand ways in a thousand versions of them. She tried to scream, but the sound came out as a burst of violet bubbles that rearranged themselves into words before dissolving: where are we going. He tightened his grip on the paintbrush and mouthed back, bubbles spilling from his lips: to the source. They landed—if such a thing could be said—on a platform of light. Beneath them spiraled a vortex so vast it dwarfed mountains, a churning whirlpool of every kiss they’d ever shared. Thousands of selves flickered across its surface: their first kiss outside the library, their drunken kiss in the back of a cab, their angry kiss after a fight, their desperate kiss after too many days apart. Each moment looped endlessly, feeding into the storm of love and creation below. She staggered forward, knees weak. “Holy shit. This is… this is us. All of us.” He nodded, though his jaw was tight. “And it’s out of control.” The vortex shuddered, and from its surface rose their duplicates—thousands this time, fractal selves pulling free like strands of seaweed. Some looked perfect, exact copies. Others were grotesque distortions: too many eyes, too many teeth, mouths locked in silent screams. The copies swarmed upward, climbing the platform like ants. The air buzzed with whispers: we are you we are you we are you. She stumbled back, clutching his arm. “What do they want?” “Our place,” he said grimly. “They want to stop being echoes.” The first duplicate lunged. He swung the brush instinctively, and paint flared outward in a whip of molten gold, slicing the figure in half. It dissolved into spirals, vanishing with a hiss. But more climbed up, dozens, hundreds. The platform shook under their weight. “We can’t fight them all,” she cried. “There are too many.” “Then we don’t fight,” he said. His voice broke, raw and terrified, but sure. “We finish.” “Finish what?” He turned to her, eyes glowing with the same impossible colors as the sea. “The kiss. All of them. Every version. We don’t just make the world—we become it.” She stared at him, horrified. “That’ll kill us.” “No,” he said softly. “It’ll end us. There’s a difference.” The duplicates swarmed closer, their whispers building into a roar. She felt the pull of them, the longing in their eyes, the desperate hunger to be real. And she knew he was right. They couldn’t outrun infinity. They could only surrender to it. She took his face in her hands, paint smearing across his cheeks. “If this is it,” she whispered, “then kiss me like you mean it.” He laughed, even here, even now. “I always do.” And then they kissed. The world cracked open. The platform exploded into light. The vortex surged upward, swallowing them, swallowing everything. Their bodies dissolved into streaks of color, paint and flesh indistinguishable, their laughter echoing even as their mouths ceased to exist. Every duplicate screamed—not in rage, but in release—as they merged back into the spiral, reclaimed by the original fire. For a moment, there was nothing but color. Reds that tasted like wine, blues that rang like cathedral bells, golds that burned the tongue with sugar and smoke. Fractals bloomed endlessly, each spiral birthing another, each kiss feeding the next, a chain reaction of intimacy rewriting the laws of reality. She felt herself stretch across eternity, her body no longer a body but a pattern, an emotion, a force. He was there too, everywhere, their essences tangled, inseparable. They weren’t two lovers anymore. They were the kiss itself. The beginning. The origin point. The heartbeat at the center of every storm. When the light finally dimmed, the sea was calm. The hotel stood on the shore, though it looked different now—cleaner, taller, its windows glowing with warmth. Guests wandered in and out, laughing, drinking, their eyes shining with strange new colors. The receptionist at the front desk finally blinked, once, as if satisfied. Everywhere, the ocean was filled with spirals. Tiny fractal blooms unfurled in the waves, glowing softly in the moonlight. Locals would later say they were just tricks of the tide. But those who stayed in Room 13 knew better. They said that if you listened closely at night, you could hear them—two voices laughing, arguing, whispering, kissing—woven into the sound of the surf. Legends spread. Lovers traveled from all over the world to stay at the seaside hotel, hoping to catch a glimpse of the myth. Some claimed they saw the couple’s silhouettes in the foam. Others swore that when they kissed on the balcony, the stars above shifted slightly, as though aligning to watch. And the hotel—no longer shabby, no longer forgotten—became a place of pilgrimage. Not for the beds, not for the bar, but for the story whispered in every room: that once, two lovers had kissed so hard they created a world, and that world had never quite stopped dreaming of them. Somewhere, deep beneath the calm water, the spirals continued to bloom. Patterns within patterns, kisses within kisses. And at the very center, inseparable, eternal, they remained. The kiss that had created worlds. Bring “The Kiss That Creates Worlds” Into Your World Love doesn’t just exist on the canvas — now it can live in your space, your style, and your story. Inspired by Bill and Linda Tiepelman’s The Kiss That Creates Worlds, each piece captures the same fusion of passion, surrealism, and dreamlike motion that defines the art itself. Explore our curated collection below and make this moment of creation your own: Framed Print – Elevate your space with museum-quality framing that accentuates every glowing detail of this surreal embrace. Acrylic Print – Experience luminous depth and clarity; colors appear suspended in air, much like the lovers themselves. Tote Bag – Carry creation with you. A durable, artful bag that turns errands into acts of expression. Beach Towel – Dry off in divine design. 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