whimsical gnome

by Bill Tiepelman

Florals and Folklore

The Bloomfather Spring had officially sprung in the hamlet of Mossbottom, and the pollen was drunk on its own power. Birds were tweeting unsolicited advice, bees were aggressively speed-dating every flower, and squirrels were shaking their fuzzy behinds at anyone who looked remotely annoyed by joy. And right in the thick of this blossoming madness stood the one gnome to rule them all—Magnus Bloomwhiff, known in underground gardening circles as The Bloomfather. Magnus was not your average garden gnome. For one thing, he refused to wear red hats, calling them “flamboyant clichés.” Instead, he sported a knitted mustard beanie he’d allegedly stolen off a confused hipster in Portland during a tulip festival gone rogue. His beard? Braided like a Norse saga with tiny sprigs of lavender and rogue glitter, the kind that haunts your home until Yule. Today was The Day. The Equinox Bloom-Off. A sacred, slightly drunken tradition where every forest-dwelling creature with a green thumb, paw, or tentacle brought their best bouquet to the Great Mossy Stump of Judgment. Magnus, never one to half-ass his florals, had been preparing for this since late February, when most of the other gnomes were still curled up in cinnamon-scented hibernation blankets binge-watching cryptid soap operas. “You’re overdoing it again,” muttered his cousin Fizzle, a gnome whose default expression was a judgmental squint and who believed basil was “too spicy.” “You can’t overdo spring, Fizzle,” Magnus replied, cradling his creation with the tender awe of a midwife catching a glowing unicorn placenta. “You can only rise to meet her, like a brave soldier charging a field made entirely of seasonal allergies and bees who want to date you.” The bouquet was glorious. Not just tulips—no no, that would be predictable. Magnus’s bouquet was an **experience**: orange tulips kissed with gold shimmer powder, purple freesia twisted into a spiral of seduction, daffodils that literally giggled when touched, and something suspiciously magical that sparkled when nobody was looking directly at it. By the time he waddled to the stump, the competition was already in full bloom. Fern fairies in leaf-sequined leggings glared at each other over pansy arrangements like they were prepping for a dance battle. A badger in a cravat presented a bouquet arranged in the shape of Queen Barkliza III. Someone had even entered with a carnivorous display titled “Spring Eats Back.” Magnus stepped up. The crowd went hushed. Even the aggressively horny bees stopped mid-thrust. He held the bouquet aloft like a garden-born Excalibur and cried out in his famously scandalous voice, “Behold! The Bloomination!” Gasps. Applause. A spontaneous haiku composed by a chipmunk with a lute. It was going swimmingly—until the bouquet let out a sneeze and a puff of glitter-fused pollen exploded in every direction, sending fairies into allergic fits and temporarily turning the badger’s cravat into a tulip-themed parasol. “Oops,” Magnus whispered. “Might’ve used too much ent-pollen.” “You idiot!” hissed Fizzle, now sparkling against his will. “You weaponized your florals!” But it was too late. The Bloomfather’s bouquet was... evolving. And the forest, so fond of order and pollen-permitted debauchery, was about to get a serious makeover. The Petalpocalypse The air shimmered with an unnatural hue—somewhere between rose gold and “whoops.” Magnus Bloomwhiff, still clutching his mutinous bouquet, stared in dumbstruck awe as the ent-pollen supercharged his flowers into what could only be described as sentient botanical theater. The tulips grew mouths. Beautiful ones, pouty and smirking, whispering garden secrets in French-accented nonsense. The freesia began reciting Shakespeare. Backwards. The daffodils? Now had legs. Several pairs. And they were tapping. “Sweet seed of Sunroot,” Fizzle moaned, hiding under a compostable umbrella. “They’re forming... a chorus line.” Magnus, on the other hand, was gleeful. “I KNEW spring would break into song eventually.” It was around that time the Mossbottom Bloom-Off devolved from lighthearted competition into a full-scale Petalpocalypse. Pollen clouds mushroomed into the sky. Vines shot from the bouquet like gossip from a pixie’s lips, entangling judges, contestants, and a few poor squirrels trying to discreetly pee behind a fern. The enchanted bouquet levitated, spinning slowly like a diva making a slow-motion entrance on a reality show. The crowd panicked. Fairies screamed and flew into each other. A wood sprite hyperventilated into a toadstool. Someone accused the bouquet of being an agent of the Spring Rebellion—a radical underground movement demanding longer mating seasons and petal-based universal income. “This is exactly how the Blossom Riots of ’09 started,” groaned an elderly mushroom. But Magnus, ever the showman, climbed on top of the Great Mossy Stump with all the calm of a gnome who once dated a dryad with anger issues and had nothing left to fear. “Everyone, relax!” he boomed. “This is simply a manifestation of spring’s wild, fertile chaos. We asked her to bloom. Well—she did. Now let her speak!” The bouquet, now spinning in place and glittering with pollen like a botanical disco ball, spoke in a collective whispery harmony: “Prepare yourselves for the Age of Bloom. All shall petal, none shall prune.” “A talking bouquet?” a goblin scoffed. “Next thing you know, my begonias’ll be unionizing.” But they did. Not just his. Every plant in a 300-yard radius perked up, shimmied like they’d heard gossip, and began to dance. Moss waved. Ivy wrapped itself into cursive and started spelling dirty limericks. Even the lichen had opinions now, and most of them were sarcastic. Somewhere in the chaos, Magnus and Fizzle were pulled into an impromptu conga line led by a tap-dancing trillium named Bev. “We should probably fix this,” Fizzle grumbled, ducking a flirtatious fern’s advance. “Or lean in,” Magnus said, eyes alight. “We could broker peace between plant and gnome. Be the bridge! The bloom whisperers! The chlorophyll diplomats!” “You just want to be king of the dancing flowers.” “Not king. Emperor.” After three hours of conga-ing, pollen burlesque, and one awkward group marriage between a pinecone, a pansy, and a confused raccoon, the bouquet began to wilt—its power fading with the setting sun. With a sigh and a glittery puff, the magical chaos ebbed away. Flowers returned to their usual non-verbal selves. Moss returned to being soft and judgmental. Even the tap-dancing daffodils bowed and politely ceased existing, as if they knew their time was done. Magnus stood on the stump, shirtless (when had that happened?), chest heaving, beard full of blossoms and two confused ladybugs. The crowd—bedraggled, bewildered, and blinking glitter out of their eyelashes—stared in silence. And then, thunderous applause. Confetti. A badger sobbing into a bouquet of crocuses. A fairy fainted and fell directly into the punch bowl, where she remained sipping through a straw for the rest of the evening. Magnus, still high on the intoxicating mix of pollen and approval, turned to the crowd. “Spring is not a season, my friends. It is a state of chaotic, blooming, feral glory. And I, Magnus Bloomwhiff, am her ambassador!” The mayor of Mossbottom, an ancient hedgehog in a monocle, grudgingly handed Magnus a sash reading “Bloom-Off Grand Champion and Reluctant Floral Messiah.” Fizzle, sipping something suspiciously fizzy, raised an eyebrow. “So what now?” Magnus smirked. “Now we rest. We bloom again tomorrow.” And with that, he strutted home barefoot through a field of daisies that somehow parted in reverence, leaving behind sparkles, scandal, and a legend that would live on in the petals of every mischievous bloom for generations to come. And somewhere in the background, the tulip bouquet quietly giggled… plotting.     If the chaotic charm of Magnus Bloomwhiff and his legendary bouquet made you giggle, grin, or crave a tap-dancing daffodil of your own, don’t worry—you can now bring that springtime sass to your own home. “Florals and Folklore” is available in a variety of enchanting formats. Adorn your walls with a Framed Art Print or a sleek Metal Print, perfect for capturing every glitter-dusted wrinkle in glorious detail. Take Magnus on the go with a vibrant Tote Bag that screams “chaotic garden energy,” or send some spring mischief in the mail with a collectible Greeting Card. Each item is infused with that same playful magic—minus the allergy-triggering ent-pollen, we promise.

by Bill Tiepelman

Floral Mischief and Bearded Smiles

Thistlewhump the Gnome was not your average garden variety gnome. While others spent their days polishing mushrooms or napping behind tulip stems, Thistlewhump was a known floral deviant—a collector of rare petals, hoarder of pollen sparkle, and self-declared Minister of Mischief in the Bloomborough Hollow. Spring had just cracked open its golden shell, and Thistlewhump was already knee-deep in his seasonal rituals: rearranging the faerie ring alphabetically, filling birds’ nests with glitter, and most controversially, “borrowing” blooms from Mrs. Mumbletoes’ garden. It wasn’t theft if you left a button in return, right? On the morning in question, sunlight filtered through the forest like melted butter over toast, and Thistlewhump stood atop his wobble-legged stool, eyeing a fresh patch of purplebells with the intensity of a pastry chef inspecting an éclair. Basket in one hand, beard flowing like spun cloud, he plucked the flowers with theatrical flair. “This one shall be named Petunia von Sassypants,” he declared, twirling a violet petal between his fingers, “and this... Sir Bloomalot.” Behind him, a potted explosion of wildflowers shimmered as if snickering in delight, the fae whispers swirling in the warm air. Thistlewhump leaned in to sniff a bloom and immediately sneezed glitter. “That’s what I get for sweet-talking a sneezeweed,” he muttered, wiping fairy dust from his nose with a mushroom cap. But there was something different in the air that day—not just the usual scent of chlorophyll and mischief. No, something—or someone—was watching him. Hidden behind the larger-than-life bouquet was a shadow. A giggle. Possibly the rustle of a wing or the hiccup of a pixie with hayfever. Thistlewhump narrowed his eyes. “If that’s you again, Spriggle, I swear on my beard trimmer—” He paused. The flowers behind him trembled. His stool creaked. A petal fell. And from somewhere within the blossoms came a whisper: "Not Spriggle. Worse."     Thistlewhump froze mid-pose, one foot on his stool and the other dangling dramatically in midair like he was auditioning for a woodland ballet he never rehearsed. His nose twitched. His beard fluffed out in defensive formation. He turned slowly, theatrically, as gnomes are prone to do when drama calls. “Worse?” he echoed, eyes darting through the explosion of pinks and purples behind him. “Don’t tell me the Hydrangea Council finally traced my root-snipping incident…” But it wasn’t the Hydrangeas. Out of the petals burst a small figure—two inches tall, armed with a daffodil stem like a fencing foil and glitter streaming from her ears. “Daisy Flitterbottom!” Thistlewhump groaned. “You absolute menace!” “You stole my sparklebush cuttings,” Daisy accused, mid-air, wings vibrating like a caffeine-soaked hummingbird. “And you repotted them. In a clay mug. With no drainage.” Thistlewhump held up his basket as a peace offering, though it only contained three slightly crushed blossoms and a lint-covered gumdrop. “I was... experimenting,” he offered. “It was for science. Art. Interpretive horticulture.” Daisy wasn’t convinced. She dive-bombed his hat, knocking loose a cluster of sequins. “You called that art? It looked like a mossy sock with commitment issues!” What followed can only be described as an aggressively polite garden brawl. Thistlewhump flailed with a trowel he named “Daisy Negotiator,” while Daisy zigzagged like an angry firefly, knocking over his flowerpot in mid-hover. Petals flew. Glitter exploded. A passing bee did a U-turn in existential confusion. Eventually, both collapsed—Thistlewhump into a pile of overturned violets, and Daisy into a half-eaten macaroon someone had left on the railing. They panted, sweaty and pollen-covered, staring at the sky as though it owed them both an apology. “Truce?” Daisy mumbled through crumbs. “Only if you promise not to weaponize peonies again,” Thistlewhump wheezed. “I’m still finding petals in my underpants from last time.” She giggled. He grinned. The flowers slowly stopped trembling, and a single blue bloom stretched lazily toward the sun as if clapping with a petal. And as the sun dipped low and the bokeh haze of springtime glowed gold around them, Thistlewhump sat back on his stool (now slightly broken), sipped a warm chamomile from an acorn cup, and declared with a smile, “Ah, yes. Just another peaceful day in Bloomborough.” Somewhere nearby, a peony shuddered.     🌼 Garden Giggle Rhyme 🌼 In a garden where the posies pout,And bees wear boots to buzz about,Lives a gnome with a beard so wide,He sweeps the tulips when he slides. He steals your blooms, he swaps your socks,He talks to snails, he pranks the rocks.He brews his tea with petals bold,And sniffs the sun like it’s pure gold. So if you see your daisies grinning,Or catch your rosebush gently spinning—Don’t panic, dear, it’s just old Thump,The gnome who gardens with a bump. He’ll leave you laughs, some glitter, cheer,And possibly... a flowered rear.     🌷 Take the Mischief Home 🌷 If Thistlewhump and his flower-fueled chaos stole your heart (and maybe your socks), bring a bit of that blooming whimsy into your world! Whether you’re dressing up your space, lounging in comfort, or toting garden goodies, Floral Mischief and Bearded Smiles is available in a variety of delightful products: 🧵 Whimsical Wall Tapestry – Hang the gnome magic on your wall and let the floral laughter bloom. 🛋️ Throw Pillow – Perfect for garden naps and accidental glitter naps. 🛏️ Duvet Cover – Sleep like a gnome, dream like a petal. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry blooms, mischief, and snacks wherever you wander. 🏖️ Round Beach Towel – Because nothing says spring mischief like lounging in circular style. Each item features the richly detailed artwork of Bill and Linda Tiepelman, bringing joy, charm, and just a pinch of gnome-fueled madness to your everyday life.

by Bill Tiepelman

Tiny Rebel in a Big World

Once upon a time, in a desert much too big for his boots, there was a gnome who went by the name of Grog Thistlebeard. Grog wasn’t your average garden-variety gnome, happy to stand guard over tulips and wave at butterflies. Oh no—Grog had a leather jacket, a custom-painted motorcycle, and a serious thirst for adventure. One evening, as the sun sank behind the rolling desert dunes, casting the sky in hues of fiery orange and purple, Grog adjusted his belt, gave his mustache a final twirl, and revved up his ride—a gleaming motorcycle he lovingly called "Rustbucket." It was anything but rusty, but Grog thought the name gave it character. His mission? To ride from the sandy flats of Cactusville all the way to a mystical place known only as the Big Rock. No one was entirely sure what the Big Rock was, but Grog had heard whispers that it was actually a gigantic cheese wheel left behind by an ancient clan of desert mice. The Road Less Graveled Grog kicked his bike into gear and shot off across the desert, his beard streaming like a wild banner behind him. The desert critters—lizards, jackrabbits, and tumbleweeds—watched in awe as the tiny gnome rocketed past. He had barely hit top speed when he encountered his first obstacle: a cactus. Not just any cactus—this one was big, mean, and had a scowl on its face (or so Grog imagined). “Oi! Watch the spikes, mate!” Grog yelled as he swerved around the prickly beast. “Almost took my beard clean off!” The cactus didn’t respond (as cactuses generally don’t), but it stood as a silent reminder that the desert was full of surprises. As he sped off, Grog muttered, “This whole 'wide open spaces' thing is a bit overrated if you ask me.” A Gnome, a Hawk, and a Borrowed Hat About an hour into his journey, Grog noticed a shadow circling overhead. It was a hawk, and it didn’t look friendly. The bird, seemingly intrigued by Grog’s shiny ride and crimson hat, began to swoop lower and lower. “Back off, featherbrain!” Grog shouted, waving his fist at the sky. But the hawk wasn’t deterred. With a screech, it made a dive straight for him. In a heroic act of self-preservation, Grog took off his hat and threw it as a decoy. The hawk snatched the hat and soared off, leaving Grog safe but slightly miffed. “Great. Now I’ll be the only gnome in the land without a proper pointy hat,” he grumbled, vowing to retrieve it on the way back. “Or find an even pointier one. A rebel doesn’t follow fashion rules anyway.” The Mystery of the Big Rock As dusk settled over the desert, Grog spotted a shape on the horizon. It was the Big Rock—or, as the rumors had it, the Big Cheese. With newfound excitement, he pushed Rustbucket to its limits, the bike rattling and roaring across the sand. Finally, he skidded to a halt in front of his destination. There, standing magnificently against the twilight sky, was the Big Rock. And Grog had to admit, it did indeed look somewhat…cheesy. “Could it be?” he whispered to himself, licking his lips in hopeful anticipation. Clambering off his bike, Grog strode up to the massive boulder, pulled out his trusty knife, and gave it a tentative scratch-and-sniff. His nose wrinkled in disappointment. “Just a rock, not even a whiff of cheddar,” he sighed. “Blasted desert legends. I should’ve known.” Return of the Pointy Hat As he prepared for the long ride home, Grog’s keen eyes caught sight of a glint of red on a nearby cactus branch. There it was—his hat! The hawk had evidently decided it wasn’t as delicious as it looked and had dropped it en route. Grinning, Grog retrieved the hat, dusted it off, and plopped it back on his head. “Ah, much better,” he said, striking a victorious pose. “Now, let’s ride home and tell the gang about how I faced down hawks, cacti, and the legendary Big Rock.” Back to the Garden (With a Few Tall Tales) By the time Grog rolled back into Cactusville, the desert was bathed in moonlight, and his fellow garden gnomes had gathered to hear his story. Grog took a deep breath and began weaving a tale of peril, adventure, and bravery that grew more exaggerated with every word. “...and that’s when the hawk swooped down, eyes like fiery coals, talons as sharp as dragon’s teeth, and I wrestled it barehanded right out of the sky!” he boasted. His audience gasped in awe, even though most of them suspected that Grog’s stories were about as real as the Big Cheese. But that didn’t matter. Grog Thistlebeard was a tiny rebel in a big world, and every adventure—whether real or slightly embellished—was another badge of honor. As he finished his tale, Grog tipped his hat and took a bow, feeling every bit the hero he believed himself to be. The End (Or, as Grog would say, “Just the Beginning”)    Bring Grog’s Adventure Home If you’re inspired by Grog Thistlebeard’s epic journey and want to keep his adventurous spirit close by, check out our exclusive products featuring the artwork "Tiny Rebel in a Big World" by Bill and Linda Tiepelman. Perfect for anyone with a taste for adventure and a love for whimsical art, these pieces bring Grog’s daring escapades right into your home: Throw Pillow - Add a dash of rebel spirit to your sofa with this cozy and colorful pillow. Tapestry - Transform any wall into a statement of adventure with this stunning tapestry. Canvas Print - Bring Grog’s desert journey to life with a high-quality canvas print, perfect for any space in need of a little boldness. Puzzle - Piece together the gnome’s adventure with this fun and challenging puzzle, great for fans of both fantasy and games. Let Grog’s courage and charm remind you every day that life is one big adventure—just waiting to be explored.

by Bill Tiepelman

Cheeky Forest Dwellers

Interview with the Cheeky Forest Dwellers Welcome to a very special (and chaotic) interview with two of the forest’s most infamous troublemakers. We sat down with the delightful duo, Hank and Gertie, to hear about life, love, and why they refuse to act their age. Warning: this interview contains snark, sass, and mushroom-infused moonshine. Interview Highlights Interviewer: So, Hank and Gertie, thanks for sitting down with us today! You two are quite the pair. How long have you been… uh, “together”? Hank: Together? Ha! She’s been stuck with me since the Summer of ’834. Just sorta latched on like a barnacle on a troll's backside. Gertie: Oh, please. If I’m a barnacle, then you’re the sea slug I’m stuck on. He wooed me with a wilted dandelion bouquet and the promise of free mushroom stew. Real charmer, this one. --- Interviewer: Wow, quite the romantic beginning! So, what’s kept you two together for… checks notes… over a thousand years? Gertie: It’s simple. I keep him around ‘cause he knows how to build a good fire and he’s got a high tolerance for my cooking. And because he’s too slow to run away. Hank: And I stick with her ‘cause she laughs at all my jokes, even the bad ones. Plus, she’s handy with a slingshot when the squirrels get cheeky. Gertie: True. Nothing says romance like warding off a squirrel invasion together. They don’t tell you that in fairy tales. --- Interviewer: Speaking of squirrels… you two have a bit of a reputation in the forest. Care to comment on all the mischief? Hank: Mischief? Us? Look, if we’re not keeping things lively, the place would be dull as dirt. Someone’s gotta keep these mushrooms on their toes. Gertie: Exactly. Life’s short, even for us gnomes. Might as well spend it playing tricks, throwing pine cones, and generally causing a ruckus. Keeps us young. Hank: Besides, we’re practically celebrities ‘round here. The pixies tell legends about us! "The Great Gnome Fart Fiasco of ’976”—ever heard of it? Gertie: *rolls eyes* Let’s not get into that one. We nearly got banished for a year after that stunt. --- Interviewer: I can’t believe I’m asking this, but any relationship advice for the young gnomes out there? Gertie: Sure. Find someone who doesn’t mind that you snore like a bear or that your idea of a bath is wading through a mud puddle once a month. Hank: And someone who can handle your… “unique talents.” Like her mushroom casserole. Tastes like dirt, but you won’t hear me complainin’—mostly because she’d whack me with her ladle. Gertie: That’s the spirit. Just remember, kids, love is all about tolerance. And sometimes a good dose of blindfolds and nose plugs. --- Interviewer: One last question—what’s the secret to staying so… lively? Hank: Easy! A nip of mossy moonshine every morning and a solid diet of insults. Keeps the blood pumpin’ and the heart rate high. Gertie: And don’t take life too seriously. If you can’t laugh at yourself, find someone else to laugh at. Like Hank here. He’s got a face only a blind troll could love. Hank: And she’s got a laugh that could wake the dead. But that’s love, ain’t it? Gertie: *grins* I guess so. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got a mushroom hunt to get to. And a few squirrels who could use a good scare. With that, the Cheeky Forest Dwellers stomped off, arm in arm, leaving behind only the faint scent of mushroom stew and an echo of mischievous laughter. --- The Secret to Cheeky Love For all their crassness, Hank and Gertie’s long-lived love reminds us that a little snark, a lot of laughs, and a mutual appreciation for mischief may just be the recipe for happily-ever-after… in gnome years, anyway. The (Unlikely) Tale of How Hank and Gertie Met Long before they were the most infamous pranksters of the forest, Hank and Gertie were just two solitary gnomes with reputations for causing trouble in their own unique ways. Here’s the (mostly true) tale of how these two stubborn souls first crossed paths… The Festival of the Fungi It was during the annual Festival of the Fungi—a legendary event held in the deepest part of the enchanted forest. Gnomes, pixies, and critters from all over gathered to celebrate the wonders of wild mushrooms. There was food, music, mushroom-flavored moonshine, and, of course, plenty of mischief. Hank, already a well-known menace, was in his element. He’d spent the whole evening challenging other gnomes to drinking contests and trying to steal hats off the heads of every passing pixie. With his long beard and his wild laugh echoing through the forest, he was hard to miss. Gertie, meanwhile, had come for the mushrooms. She wasn’t interested in festivities or flirtations—she was there on a mission. She had a particular fondness for the rare Glowcap Shroom, which only appeared once a century. Unfortunately for her, the Glowcap patch was surrounded by rowdy gnomes, with none other than Hank smack in the middle, drunkenly challenging anyone who crossed his path. The (Not So) Meet-Cute Gertie rolled her eyes and waded through the chaos, determined to reach her prized mushrooms. Just as she stretched her hand toward a perfect Glowcap, Hank lurched forward and stepped on it, squashing the shroom under his big muddy boot. Gertie: Hey! You big oaf! That was the rarest shroom in the forest! Hank: *looks down, grinning* Whoops. Didn’t see it there. Maybe if you got a pair o’ spectacles, you’d find a shroom without trippin’ over your own feet. Gertie: Tripping over my own feet? I’ve half a mind to wallop you with my basket! Hank: Go ahead, sweetheart. Bet you couldn’t knock over a feather if you tried. And that was all it took. In an instant, Gertie had grabbed her basket, wound up, and whacked Hank squarely across the beard. The slap echoed through the forest, stopping the music and drawing the attention of every gnome, pixie, and squirrel nearby. Hank: *laughing* Feisty one, aren’t ya? I think I like you! Gertie: *glaring* Well, I don’t like you! And I’d like you even less if you keep squashing mushrooms under your clumsy feet. A Prank War Begins Hank, being the foolhardy gnome he was, saw this as a challenge. For the rest of the festival, he followed Gertie around, pulling every prank he could think of. He’d hide her basket, replace her mushroom samples with rocks, and even sprinkle itching powder on her hat. Gertie, far from backing down, retaliated in kind. She “accidentally” spilled mushroom stew on his boots, planted stinkweed in his path, and once even put a toad in his bedroll. By the end of the festival, both of them were exhausted, filthy, and still arguing. But there was something neither of them could ignore—beneath all the insults and pranks, they’d started to enjoy each other’s company. Somewhere between the mushroom stew mishap and the toad incident, a strange, grudging respect had blossomed. A Strange Proposal As the Festival of the Fungi wound down, Hank turned to Gertie, grinning his signature, lopsided grin. Hank: Tell ya what, Gertie. How ‘bout we keep this going? I could use a lady with a mean swing and a taste for mischief. Gertie: *scoffs* Only if you promise not to squash any more Glowcaps under those big, clumsy feet of yours. Hank: Deal. Long as you promise not to hit me with that basket again. Hard enough being a gnome without a concussion. And just like that, they struck a deal—a partnership in chaos, a truce between pranksters, and, perhaps, the beginning of something resembling love. They’d argue, prank, and torment each other for centuries to come, bound together by a shared love of mischief and a mutual refusal to act their age. And that’s how Hank and Gertie, the Cheeky Forest Dwellers, met—over a squashed Glowcap and a mutual willingness to annoy each other for the rest of their very long lives. Bring the Cheeky Forest Dwellers Home! If you’ve fallen for the mischievous charm of Hank and Gertie, why not invite a little of their cheeky spirit into your own space? Our Cheeky Forest Dwellers Collection captures all the humor, sass, and rustic whimsy of this unforgettable duo. Perfect for anyone who loves a good laugh and a touch of woodland magic! Tapestry – Add a bold touch of gnome mischief to any wall with our vibrant tapestry, perfect for bringing a slice of enchanted forest into your home. Framed Print – Capture Hank and Gertie’s timeless snark in a beautifully framed print, ideal for those who appreciate a bit of character in their decor Jigsaw Puzzle – Piece together the charm of this dynamic duo with a puzzle that’s as fun and quirky as they are. A perfect gift for gnome lovers and puzzle enthusiasts alike! Tote Bag – Carry a bit of cheeky charm wherever you go with this sturdy tote, featuring Hank and Gertie’s unforgettable expressions. Embrace the magic, humor, and pure cheekiness of the forest’s most famous gnome couple! Check out the full collection here.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Enchanted Duo in Plaid

The Enchanted Duo in Plaid: A Gnome’s Tale In the depths of the forest where the leaves whispered secrets and the wind tasted like honey mead, lived Gornick the Gnome, an eccentric figure known for his extravagant plaid hats and quirky antics. But Gornick wasn’t just any woodland gnome; he was the self-proclaimed "Master of Mischief" in the Hidden Valley of Outlandish Oddities, where magic and absurdity coexisted in a strange, whimsical harmony. One evening, as Gornick sat by his moss-covered toadstool, a puff of smoke erupted from his hat—his largest plaid hat yet. This was no ordinary hat. No, this one had "spells gone wrong" woven into its very fabric. Adorned with dried lavender, pinecones, and suspiciously crunchy berries, it was more of a magical misfire waiting to happen than a fashion statement. But Gornick didn't mind. In fact, he welcomed chaos with open, stubby arms. Sitting atop his lap was Lilith, his tiny witch companion, a doll-sized magical being with a knack for sarcasm and a heart as dark as a cauldron full of bat soup. She wasn’t just his companion; she was his little devil on the shoulder, whispering wicked ideas in his ear like, “Turn those squirrels into sock puppets!” or “Let’s hex the mushrooms to sing bawdy tavern songs at midnight.” One evening, Gornick had grown bored with his usual tricks—floating fireflies, making the river flow backwards for a laugh—so he decided it was time for a bit of real fun. "Hey Lilith," he said, scratching his scraggly beard, "How about we spice things up tonight? I’ve got just the spell." Lilith rolled her tiny, beady eyes, sitting cross-legged on his knee. "If this is like the last time when you ‘accidentally’ set your pants on fire, count me out. My hair still smells like burnt gnome." "That was not my fault!" Gornick protested. "The incantation book was in gnome-ish, and I’m more fluent in... well, whatever this is." He wiggled his fingers, causing a puff of glittery smoke to erupt from under his fingernails. "Besides, this one’s foolproof. We’re going to summon the Great Spirits of the Forest. It'll be a riot!" Lilith looked skeptical, which was her natural expression. "Foolproof, you say? Your last spell turned half the forest into tap-dancing frogs." "Fine," Gornick admitted. "That was a little froggy mishap, but this is different! Trust me, this spell will make us kings of the woodland!" He opened his ancient spellbook, which, truth be told, looked more like a gnomey shopping catalog from several centuries ago, with sections torn out and replaced with random doodles of mustaches. He chanted the incantation, his voice rising to a crescendo: "By the shadows of the twilight tree, by the dew on the midnight pea—oh spirits of the forest, come unto me!" Suddenly, the air grew thick with the scent of pine and something… else. A foul odor, like overcooked cabbage. The ground trembled, and with a great whooshing noise, a figure emerged from the mist. But it wasn’t the majestic, ethereal forest spirit Gornick had hoped for. Instead, it was a squat, greasy creature that looked suspiciously like… a disgruntled hedgehog? The spirit was dressed in a tattered bathrobe, holding a cup of what smelled like day-old coffee. His eyes glowed with the rage of someone who had been awoken from a deep nap. "Who the hell are you?" the hedgehog grumbled. "I—uh, we… summoned you?" Gornick stammered. "Aren't you the Great Spirit of the Forest?" The hedgehog scoffed. "Great Spirit? I’m Frank. And this better be good, because I was in the middle of something important." He sipped his coffee with an expression that said he clearly wasn't buying any of Gornick's nonsense. Lilith snorted, "Well, looks like your foolproof spell just summoned Frank, the slightly cranky hedgehog." Gornick’s face turned a shade of beetroot. "Okay, okay, I admit this is not what I expected. But I can fix this!" He flipped furiously through his spellbook. "Aha! Here we go. This should give us something... bigger!" With a wave of his hand and a chant that sounded suspiciously like someone gargling rocks, Gornick cast another spell. This time, the ground split open, and from the fissure, out crawled a… giant turnip with eyes. It blinked slowly, then looked at Frank. "This… is my cousin," Frank said flatly. "Turny. You’ve summoned a turnip." The enormous vegetable let out a low groan, then belched, filling the air with the smell of compost and rotting leaves. Gornick waved his hands frantically. "Wait, wait, I can fix this!" Lilith was laughing hysterically at this point, nearly falling off Gornick’s lap. "Oh, please don’t. This is the best entertainment I’ve had in centuries!" As Gornick tried to conjure another spell, Turny the turnip had already started wreaking havoc, flattening trees with its massive root-like arms, while Frank the hedgehog looked on in complete disinterest. "I’m gonna need more coffee," Frank muttered before strolling off into the woods, completely unbothered by the chaos. Gornick finally gave up, tossing the spellbook aside. "Well, this is a fine mess," he sighed, watching as Turny knocked over an ancient oak tree with a loud thud. Lilith, wiping away tears of laughter, patted his arm. "You know what, Gornick? Never change. Life with you is like living in a bizarre fever dream." "Yeah, well, at least it's never boring," Gornick grinned. And so, as the turnip rampaged through the forest and Frank disappeared into the mist, Gornick and Lilith sat together, watching the absurdity unfold, content in their strange, magical world where nothing ever went quite as planned—and that’s exactly how they liked it.     If you enjoyed this whimsical tale and the enchanting image of Gornick the Gnome and Lilith, you can bring the magic home! Prints, merchandise, digital downloads, and licensing for the artwork are available at our gallery here. Explore a wide range of options to add a touch of woodland magic to your collection!

by Bill Tiepelman

A Gnome’s Day Off

There comes a time in every gnome’s life when he just needs to sit back, crack open a cold one, and say, “Screw it.” That’s where this little guy is today—tired of the endless nonsense of magical quests, potion brewing, and dealing with the fairy community’s constant drama (seriously, those winged little monsters never stop bickering). He’s been working overtime lately, mostly trying to fix the forest's plumbing after a particularly feisty group of trolls got into the enchanted springs and turned the water into root beer. Did you know trolls can down gallons of fizzy sugar water in minutes? Now you do. And it’s a real problem when your magical water source bubbles like it’s permanently on a sugar high. But today, no more of that. Today, our gnome friend is calling it quits. He’s swapped his staff for a Corona and his magical map for a dingy, old cooler he found in the back of a wizard's yard sale (don’t ask, it’s a long story that involves a drunken sorcerer and a very unfortunate rabbit). Look at him. Perched there in his ripped jeans, his hat so massive you could fit a family of squirrels under it. He’s the very picture of “don’t give a flying broomstick.” That beard? Pure wisdom. Or maybe just an excellent beer filter. And that cooler? That’s not just any cooler. It’s seen things. Dark, sticky, inexplicable things. But most importantly, it’s keeping his beer ice-cold, and that’s all that matters today. He stares out at the cracked wall in front of him, the perfect metaphor for his soul right now: a little broken, a little rugged, but still holding it together with a bit of duct tape and the occasional prayer to the gods of “just get me through the day.” A Magical Hangover? You might be wondering, “What’s a gnome doing with a Corona anyway? Shouldn’t he be drinking some mystical brew from the heart of the forest?” Nah. Our gnome’s not about that life anymore. He tried that once, and let’s just say the hangover from fairy mead is the kind of thing that makes you rethink all your life choices. Nothing like waking up in a unicorn’s stable, wearing nothing but a leaf crown and no memory of how you got there. That’s when he switched to the basics. Corona. None of that fancy enchanted crap that messes with your head. Just a regular beer for a regular day off. Simple. No frills. No magical hallucinations. And definitely no waking up under a bridge being yelled at by a troll who thinks you stole his favorite rock. Relaxation Level: Maximum So here he is, on the floor, leaning against the wall, a relaxed and slightly buzzed gnome, trying his best to forget about the absurdity of his life for a few hours. It’s not that he hates his job. I mean, who wouldn’t love turning invisible, speaking to animals, or using a wand to make pancakes float directly into your mouth? But even a wizard needs to chill out sometimes. And what better way to unwind than with a cold beer and the knowledge that somewhere, some fairy is probably losing their wings in a prank gone wrong, and it’s not your problem today. The wizard council can handle it. Or not. Whatever. Today, that’s their mess. As he takes another sip, he smiles—or at least we think he does. It’s hard to tell with all that beard. But one thing’s for sure: this gnome has mastered the art of magical laziness. Some say it’s a skill. Others call it a lifestyle choice. Our gnome just calls it “Tuesday.” The Aftermath Will he get back to his duties tomorrow? Probably. Will he face another nonsensical quest that involves saving the enchanted woods from some ridiculous creature no one’s ever heard of? Absolutely. But right now, none of that matters. All that matters is this moment, this beer, and the fact that he’s not dealing with a single enchanted animal, talking mushroom, or overly emotional sprite. As the last bit of Corona slides down his throat, he lets out a contented sigh. The world can wait. After all, even magical beings deserve a break from the chaos. And if anyone asks where he is, just tell them the truth: The gnome’s taking a damn day off.     If you’re loving the vibe of this gnome’s well-deserved day off, you can bring him into your own home—or better yet, your own break room. This image is available on prints, art downloads, and for licensing. Just head over to our gallery to get your hands on a little slice of magical relaxation. After all, who wouldn’t want to kick back with a gnome that knows how to enjoy a cold one?