Captured Tales

by Bill Tiepelman

The Keeper of My Love

The Lock, the Key, and the Gnome Who Knew Too Much The wedding was at exactly 4:04 PM. Because gnomes are not known for being punctual, but they are known for symmetry. And according to the elders, nothing locks love in place like a pair of mirrored numbers. So 4:04 it was, in a glade so dripping with blossoms and fairy perfume that even the mushrooms were a bit tipsy. She stood there in lace and defiance—Lunella Fernwhistle, third daughter of the Fernwhistle clan, known across the gardens for her spellbinding florals and her tendency to spike the compost punch. Her hair was a tempest of silver ringlets, wrapped in a crown of fresh-cut gardenia and chaos. Her bouquet? Hand-forged from freshly liberated blooms and whatever hadn’t been eaten by snails that morning. She smelled like honeysuckle, mystery, and maybe a dash of moonshine. On purpose. And he? Well. Bolliver Thatchroot was the most unlikely catch in all the grove. Not because he wasn’t handsome—in a rotund, knobby-kneed sort of way—but because Bolliver had once been a confirmed bachelor with a key to everything: the pantry, the wine cellar, the council’s emergency beer cache, even old Ma Muddlefoot’s diary vault (don’t ask). If it locked, Bolliver had opened it. And if it didn’t lock, he fixed that immediately. He was a locksmith, a trickster, and a soft-touch all rolled into one biscuit-loving bundle of beard and plaid. But on this day, in this moment, Bolliver held just one key—slightly oversized, unmistakably symbolic—and wrapped his tiny fingers around it like it was the most fragile, precious thing he’d ever known. It swung from a silver ring at his belt, catching the filtered sunlight as he leaned in to meet Lunella’s lips with a kiss so gentle, the bees blushed and the squirrels politely looked away. The crowd sighed. Somewhere, a flute player missed a note. A petal fell in slow motion. And the officiant, a cranky but beloved toad named Sir Splotsworth, wiped a tear from his warted cheek and croaked, “Get on with it, lovebirds. Some of us have tadpoles to get home to.” But Lunella didn’t hear him. She only heard the beat of her own heart, the rustle of wind through the foxgloves, and the little squeaky “eep!” that Bolliver always made when he was about to do something bold. And sure enough, bold he was. The kiss, though brief, came with a whisper. “This key? It’s not just for our cottage door,” he murmured. “It’s for you. All of you. Even the compost-wine parts.” Lunella smiled. “Then you’d best be ready for a lifetime of weird fermentations and midnight barefoot gardening, my love.” The petals rained down like applause. The crowd erupted in claps and root-stomps. Bolliver gave a dramatic bow, then accidentally dropped the keyring into the punch bowl. It fizzed. It glowed. A small explosion might have followed. No one cared. The kiss had been perfect. The bride was glowing. And the groom—well, he still smelled vaguely of rust and raspberries, which Lunella found alarmingly arousing. The wedding may have ended, but the real mischief was only just beginning... The Cottage, the Curses, and the Unexpected Furniture Arrangement The cottage was a hand-me-down from Bolliver’s great-aunt Twibbin, who had allegedly once dated a hedgehog. It sat at the bend of Sweetroot Creek, just out of earshot from the local knitting circle (which doubled as the town’s rumor mill), and was covered in climbing ivy, expired wind chimes, and one surprisingly opinionated weather vane shaped like a goose. It squawked “rain” every day, regardless of the forecast. Bolliver carried Lunella over the threshold, as was tradition, but misjudged the height of the doorframe and bonked both their heads in the process. They laughed, rubbing their foreheads while stepping inside to a scene of charming chaos: toadstool chairs, an armchair that burped when sat on, and a chandelier made entirely of melted teaspoons and stubborn pixie spit. Lunella wrinkled her nose and immediately opened every window. “Smells like three decades of bachelor stew and bad decisions in here.” “That’s how you know it’s home,” Bolliver beamed, already unlocking the cabinets with his master key. Inside: two jars of pickled turnips (labelled “emergency snack – 1998”), one mothball masquerading as a cinnamon bun, and something that might have once been cheese but now had its own legs. Lunella sighed. “We’re going to have to bless this entire space with sage. Possibly fire.” But before the decontamination began, she noticed something peculiar. Bolliver’s keyring—now free of punch bowl fizz—was glowing softly. Not aggressively. More like a friendly hum. A hum that said, *“Hey, I open weird stuff. Wanna find out what?”* “Why is your key doing that?” she asked, her fingers brushing the metal. Warm. Tingly. Slightly arousing. Bolliver blinked. “Oh. That. Might be the honeymoon key.” “The what now?” “It’s an ancient Thatchroot family heirloom. Legend says if you use it on the right door, it opens a secret chamber of marital delight. Full of silken pillows, romantic lighting, and... adjustable furniture.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “But we haven’t found the door yet.” Challenge. Accepted. Over the next three hours, Lunella and Bolliver ran amok through the cottage, testing every nook and cranny. Behind the armoire? Nope. Under the rug? Just dust and a worm that glared at them like they'd interrupted something intimate. The fireplace? Not unless “hot soot shower” was a turn-on. Even the outhouse got tested—though that led to a mild plumbing incident and one deeply confused raccoon. Finally, they stood before the last untouched place: the closet in the attic. Ancient, slightly warped, and oozing the scent of cedar and suspicion. The key vibrated in Bolliver’s hand like a giddy puppy. Lunella, undeterred, yanked the door open with a flourish— And vanished. “LUNELLA?!” Bolliver shouted, diving in after her. The door slammed. The goose-shaped weather vane outside screamed “RAIN!” and the wind laughed like a gossiping banshee. They tumbled not into a storage space, but into a full-blown enchanted chamber of sensual nonsense. The lighting was dim and flattering. Music—somehow a cross between harps and slow banjo—drifted through the air. Heart-shaped lanterns floated lazily overhead. And the furniture? Oh, the furniture. Plush, velvety, covered in vaguely romantic embroidery like “Kiss Me Again” and “Nice Beard.” One chair had a cupholder and a suggestive glint in its carving. Another reclined with a dramatic sigh and released a chocolate truffle from its drawer. Lunella sat, testing the bounce of a particularly provocative settee. “Okay. I admit. This is... impressive.” Bolliver slid beside her, the key now glowing like a smug candle. “Told you. The Keeper of My Love doesn’t just hold doors. He opens experiences.” She rolled her eyes so hard they nearly left orbit. “Please tell me you didn’t rehearse that.” “A little.” He leaned in. “But mostly I just knew that someday, somewhere, I’d find the one who fit the lock.” “You sappy bastard,” Lunella whispered, before tackling him into the velvet. The room sealed itself gently. The lanterns dimmed. Outside, the weather vane honked in celebration. Somewhere, far off, the town’s knitting circle paused mid-gossip, all of them suddenly sensing that something saucy was unfolding in the Thatchroot attic. And they were right. But that’s not where the story ends. Oh no. Because while Bolliver was very good at unlocking doors, it turns out Lunella had some secrets of her own—and not all of them were the “sugar and spice” kind. Let’s just say the honeymoon suite wouldn’t stay private for long... Secrets, Scandals, and the Great Gnome Glare-Off The next morning, Lunella awoke in a tangle of velvet and limbs and a cushion embroidered with “Thatchroot It to Me.” She blinked. The enchanted suite was still purring contentedly around her. Bolliver snored beside her like a gentle foghorn, one hand still wrapped protectively around his jangly keyring, the other flopped across her bare hip like he was claiming territory. Which, to be fair, he kind of was. She smiled, mussed his beard just to make him grumble in his sleep, and quietly rose to investigate. The door behind them had vanished. Again. Typical honeymoon suite behavior. But what concerned her wasn’t the disappearing door — it was the faint sound of voices... and the smell of scones. Voices. Plural. Scones. Unmistakable. She scrambled into her dressing robe (which was apparently made of hummingbird feathers and light sarcasm) and tiptoed down the enchanted stairwell that had appeared where a broom closet used to be. As she opened the final door, she was greeted with the last thing any newlywed wants to see the day after magical lovemaking: The entire Fernwhistle-Figpocket neighborhood standing in her kitchen. And every one of them holding a baked good. “Surprise!” they chorused. A pie crust flung itself across the room in excitement. “Wha—how—why—” Lunella stammered. “Well,” said Mrs. Wimpletush, a high-ranking gossip general and the only known gnome with glitter allergies, “we smelled the honeymoon.” “The what?” “Dear, you activated the chamber of marital delight. That thing hasn’t been opened since 1743. There was a newsletter about it. It's basically gnome legend.” She adjusted her spectacles. “And, well, the scent markers go off like fireworks. Made my begonias blush.” Lunella groaned. “So you broke into our home?” “We brought muffins!” Before she could retort, Bolliver appeared at the top of the stairwell, gloriously rumpled, wearing only his plaid trousers and confidence. “Ah,” he said. “It appears my reputation has once again preceded me.” He strutted down the stairs with the air of a man who’d seen some things and enjoyed every last one of them. The crowd parted respectfully. Even the goose-shaped weather vane outside briefly nodded. Mrs. Wimpletush sniffed. “So. The rumors are true. The key has returned.” “The key’s been busy,” Lunella muttered, yanking a muffin from someone’s tray and eating it spitefully. But the muffins were just the beginning. Over the next few days, the cottage became the talk of the township. Visitors came by under the guise of bringing “blessing stones” and “carrot jam,” but mostly they wanted a peek at the newlyweds and their infamous love chamber. Lunella didn’t mind the attention — she thrived on spectacle — but she drew the line when two nosy spinster gnomes from Upper Fernclump tried to bribe Bolliver for a tour. “Absolutely not,” Lunella snapped, barring the door with a shovel. “This is our magical sex attic. Not a garden attraction.” Bolliver, for once, looked sheepish. “They offered twenty gold acorns.” “You can’t sell our honeymoon suite experience!” “But what if I offer upgrades?” Lunella slapped him with a lavender sachet and stormed into the garden. Things were tense for a few hours. He brought her apology scones. She responded with passive-aggressive weeding. Eventually, he left a note attached to the key: I only want to open doors if you’re behind them. Sorry. Also, I waxed the spoon chandelier. That thing was a nightmare. She forgave him. Mostly because no one waxed cursed cutlery like Bolliver. Weeks passed. The gossip waned. Mrs. Wimpletush got distracted by a new scandal involving someone’s dragon-sized zucchini. The honeymoon chamber returned to hibernation. The furniture settled into occasional moaning and dramatic sighs, as furniture does. The key, now worn smooth from adventures, lived in a place of honor beside the teacups and the misbehaving teapot that wouldn’t stop singing sea shanties. Lunella and Bolliver settled into marriage like they did everything else: with sass, sweetness, and a hint of chaos. They danced barefoot in moonlit gardens. They brewed mushroom wine with suspicious side effects. They hosted parties where furniture gave unsolicited relationship advice. And once, they even let the goose weather vane officiate a vow renewal ceremony for two snails. It was beautiful. Wet, but beautiful. And every night, just before bed, Bolliver would jangle the keyring and wink. “Still the keeper of my love,” he’d say. “Damn right you are,” Lunella would smirk, dragging him upstairs by the belt loop. And so they lived happily, mischievously, romantically, and thoroughly ever after—reminding everyone in Fernwhistle-Figpocket that love doesn’t just unlock doors… it also occasionally explodes punch bowls, breaks magical thresholds, and smells just a little like burnt sage and sin.     Bring a little mischief and magic home… If Bolliver and Lunella’s love story made you laugh, swoon, or seriously reconsider the romantic potential of attic furniture — don’t let the magic stop here. You can capture their enchanted moment in your own realm with a canvas print that glows with whimsical romance, or wrap yourself up in their mischief with a soft and vibrant tapestry worthy of the honeymoon suite itself. For cozy cuddles, there’s the charming throw pillow, or spread a little gnome-ance far and wide with an adorable greeting card — perfect for weddings, anniversaries, or mildly inappropriate love notes. And if you’re feeling bold (or mildly chaotic), test your patience and devotion with a magical puzzle featuring the duo’s dreamy kiss and keyring of destiny. Whether you're team velvet-furniture or team sarcastic goose weather vane, there's a little something for everyone in this collection. Because let’s be honest — love like this deserves a place on your wall, your couch, and your coffee table.

by Bill Tiepelman

Queen of the Forsaken Soil

The Screaming Soil The land was wrong. Not just haunted, not just cursed. It screamed. Beneath the brittle roots of leafless trees, under stones older than kings, deep in the marrow of the earth — the soil itself whispered names. Names no one should know. It begged. It threatened. It told filthy stories that’d peel the teeth from your skull if you listened too long. That’s why no one came here willingly. Except for bastard lunatics. And Pym. Pym was a rat-catcher, formally. Informally, he was a drunk, a gravedigger’s assistant, a mediocre pickpocket, and an ex-squire who once farted during a bishop’s funeral mass and had never recovered socially. Life hadn’t handed Pym much in the way of dignity. But he had nimble fingers and a talent for pretending he didn’t notice corpses moving. He’d been sent to the Forsaken Soil by a mistake. A cartographer’s one-eyed apprentice had miswritten “blessed woodlands” on a parchment that actually meant “do not enter unless you’re tired of your skin.” Pym, ever optimistic and three tankards deep, had taken the job for a silver half-drake and a warm handjob behind the alehouse. That was twelve hours ago. And now he stood ankle-deep in muck that bled when you stepped wrong, staring at what was unmistakably a throne of skulls, and a woman — if you could call that towering hell-beast a woman — perched on it like a spider in mourning. The sky was dead gray. The trees had no leaves. The wind sounded like it sobbed through broken flutes. And the queen... She wore the darkness like a perfume. Her horns curled like old knives. Her red skin gleamed like lacquered sin. A black raven perched on her arm, pecking at a silver chain wound tight around her wrist. She snarled with the kind of authority that didn’t ask for your attention, it seized it by the throat, bit down, and whispered “mine.” “Well,” Pym muttered, already regretting everything from his childhood onward, “looks like I’ve stumbled into a royal arse-whooping.” The Queen rose. Slowly. Deliberately. As if gravity was her plaything. Her eyes, bright with fury and ancient boredom, locked on his. Her lips parted. And when she spoke, her voice cracked the air like frost cracking a tombstone. “You dare trespass,” she said, “with piss on your boots and hangover breath in your mouth?” Pym blinked. “Technically, milady, it's not my piss.” Silence. Even the raven tilted its head like it wasn’t sure whether to laugh or disembowel him. She stepped forward, the skulls beneath her throne crunching like dry cereal. “Then whose piss is it?” “...Would you believe me if I said divine intervention?” There are many ways to die in the Forsaken Soil. Slowly, screaming, clawing your own eyes out. Quickly, with your heart ripped through your back. But Pym, the idiot, did what no one in five hundred years had done: He made the Queen of the Forsaken Soil laugh. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. It was the kind of laugh that made your spleen try to leave your body through your spine. But it was a laugh. And when she was done, when her jagged grin had split her face nearly in half, she said, “Fine. I’ll give you a task.” Pym sighed. “Can it be fetching ale? I’m quite good at that.” “No,” she said. “I want you to find my heart.” “Not much for poetry, are you?” “I buried it six centuries ago in the belly of a demon. Find it, bring it to me, and I might let you leave with your genitals still attached.” Pym scratched his stubble. “Seems fair.” And with that, the Queen turned and vanished into mist. The raven stayed, watching him. Judging him. Probably considering whether he could survive on rat-catcher meat alone. “Well, bird,” Pym said, adjusting his crotch. “Looks like we’re going heart hunting.” The Demon’s Belly and the House that Hated Floors Pym had one rule in life, and it was: Don’t follow talking birds. Unfortunately, the Queen hadn’t exactly given him options. The raven squawked once, flapped its wings, and began drifting down a trail of gnarled, bone-colored trees that arched over like a vertebrae-choked tunnel. The soil beneath his feet pulsed occasionally, as if it was dreaming something ugly. Which it probably was. The whole landscape felt like the inside of a colon that belonged to a failed god. The raven didn’t talk. But it sure did judge. Every time Pym stumbled, it turned its head slowly like a disappointed librarian. Every time he muttered something sarcastic, it cawed just once — sharp and short, like it was filing his name under “Future Disembowelment.” After two hours of walking through fog so thick it made his teeth ache, Pym saw the demon. To be fair, the demon might’ve once been a castle. Or a mountain. Or a cathedral. Now it was all three, and none. It pulsed like a living organ, with windows for eyes and doors that opened and closed like mouths mid-scream. From its roof jutted towers shaped like broken fingers, and down its sides oozed viscous, dark ichor that smelled like regret, onions, and betrayal. “Queen really knows how to bury a heart,” Pym muttered. The entrance wasn’t guarded, unless you counted the wall of teeth that snapped shut every thirty seconds like a metronome for the damned. The raven landed on a crooked fencepost and cawed twice. Translation: Well, you going in or what, dickhead? Pym waited until the jaw-wall opened, dashed through, and immediately regretted everything. The inside of the demon’s belly was worse. The floors weren’t floors. They were slick, pulsing membranes that squelched under his boots. The halls shifted. Sometimes they were too narrow, other times they yawned open into cathedral-sized spaces with ceilings made of writhing worms. Portraits blinked. Doors screamed when you touched them. And worst of all, the building hated gravity. Halfway down one hallway, he fell up. He landed on the ceiling, only for it to turn into a staircase that folded inside itself like origami having a panic attack. He cursed. Loudly. The place responded with a wet belch and a wall that tried to lick him. “I’ve been in brothels cleaner than this,” he grunted. Eventually, he found the heart. Or what was left of it. It floated in a chamber the size of a cathedral nave, encased in glass, suspended in thick yellow-green fluid. It pulsed slowly, like it was remembering how to beat. Black veins curled through it, and arcane runes lit the air around it like angry fireflies. Surrounding the heart was a circle of iron obelisks, and kneeling at each was a creature that could best be described as "priest-shaped fungus with opinions." The raven landed beside him, somehow unfazed. Pym sighed. “Well. This is either the world’s creepiest baptism or a Monday in the Queen’s calendar.” He crept in, careful not to step on the writhing red roots that wormed out from the obelisks and into the walls. The moment he touched the glass, one of the kneeling things moaned and lifted its face. It had no eyes. No mouth. Just a lot of weeping holes and a very wet sound when it moved. “Ah. The welcoming committee.” Things escalated quickly. The fungus-priests rose, shaking off bits of sacred slime. They hissed. One reached for a curved knife made of screaming bone. Pym pulled a dagger from his belt — which, to be fair, was mostly ceremonial and mostly used to slice cheese — and launched himself into the dumbest fight of his life. He stabbed one in the kneecap. It squealed like a pig made of fungus and exploded into spores. Another lunged; Pym dodged and accidentally tripped on a root, landing face-first in something that definitely wasn’t carpet. He scrambled, slashed, bit, headbutted. Eventually, he stood panting, covered in goo, with three dead not-quite-monks around him, and the raven staring like it was reconsidering their entire partnership. “Don’t judge me,” he wheezed. “I was trained for rats, not demonic clergy.” He grabbed the heart. The runes screamed. The tower trembled. Outside, the demon-castle let out a sound like someone stepping on a bag of organs. The fluid in the tank began to boil. The heart beat faster — it was alive now, angry and wet and pulsing with foul heat. “Time to leave,” Pym muttered, sprinting as the floor melted and the ceiling turned into a nest of teeth. It was a blur. He ran, ducked, swore, possibly soiled himself (again — still not his fault), and finally burst out the demon’s jaw-door just as it collapsed behind him in a roaring wave of broken architecture and bile. He collapsed in the mud, still holding the jarred, steaming heart in his hands like a sacred turd. The raven landed beside him, gave a single approving caw, and nodded toward the mist. The Queen waited. Of course she did. And Pym had no idea what the hell she was going to do with this disgusting chunk of ancient rage — or what she might do with him for being stupid enough to actually succeed. But hell, he wasn’t going to back out now. “Let’s go see royalty,” he muttered, and followed the bird into the fog. The Heartless Queen and the Bastard Crown The fog thickened as Pym walked. It clung to him like a wet, pervy uncle. With every step, the heart pulsed hotter in his arms, leaking small drips of ancient, boiling ichor onto his shirt. His nipples would never be the same. Behind him, the demon-castle collapsed into a gurgling sinkhole, still belching out the occasional hymn of despair, which Pym found oddly catchy. The raven circled ahead like a drunken prophet, finally guiding him back to the clearing — back to her. The Queen of the Forsaken Soil stood exactly where he’d left her, though now the throne of skulls had multiplied. Twice the bones. Triple the menace. A second raven perched on her shoulder, this one older, balder, and somehow more disappointed-looking. “You return,” she said, eyeing him with a gaze that could make stone weep blood. “And intact.” Pym coughed, wiped some demon-slime off his chin, and held up the jar like an idiot displaying a meat prize at a butcher’s convention. “Found your heart. It was inside a giant screaming building full of religious mushrooms and bad taste.” She did not laugh this time. Instead, she descended the skull steps with a grace that made gravity blush. The mist curled away from her. The ground whispered, She walks, she walks, she walks. The two ravens flanked her like feathery shadows. When she reached him, she extended a single clawed hand. Pym hesitated, just a little. Because in that moment, the heart twitched. Not like a dying thing. Like a watching thing. Like it knew this wasn’t just a delivery. Like it wanted to be held a little longer. “...You’re not going to eat it, are you?” The Queen raised a brow. “Would it matter?” He thought about it. “Kind of, yeah. I'm emotionally fragile and squeamish after that last fungus orgy.” She grinned. “I’ll show you what I do with it.” She took the jar and — in one impossibly smooth motion — crushed it in her palm. Glass and fluid hissed, and the heart dropped onto her other hand like it had been waiting. She raised it above her head. The sky groaned. The skulls howled. A bolt of black lightning struck the earth a few feet away and opened a screaming pit full of wailing, naked lawyers (probably). Then she shoved the heart into her own chest. No wound. No incision. Just pure magic. The flesh parted like old curtains and drank the organ in. She roared — not in pain, but in power. Her skin lit from within, brighter than fire, redder than vengeance. The wind shrieked. Trees caught fire. Ravens exploded into feathers and reformed into skeletal versions of themselves. She levitated a few inches off the ground and spoke with a voice made of iron, shadow, and sarcasm. “I AM WHOLE.” “That’s... great,” Pym said, trying not to pee himself again. “So, we good? You’re healed, I get to leave with all my fingers?” She floated gently back to the ground, her form changed. Taller. More monstrous. More regal. She was still beautiful, but in the way a thunderstorm is beautiful right before it drops a tornado on your house. “You did not merely return my heart,” she said. “You touched it. Carried it. Gave it warmth. You breathed over it. That makes you...” She stepped forward, and placed one clawed hand on his chest. “...a consort.” “I’m sorry, a what now?” She snapped her fingers. Chains of mist wrapped around his limbs. A crown of bone and blood appeared in her other hand. She held it over his head with amused menace. “Kneel, rat-catcher.” “I think this is moving a bit fast—” “Kneel and rule beside me, or die with your balls in a jar. Your choice.” Pym, being an adaptable man and not particularly attached to his testicles, dropped to one knee. The crown dropped onto his greasy hair. It hissed, bit, then settled. He felt nothing at first. Then too much. Power, yes — but also history. Centuries of war, sorrow, rage, betrayal, and very poor architectural decisions. “Ow,” he said, as his spine cracked into regal posture. “That tickles. And burns.” The Queen leaned in, her lips at his ear. “You’ll get used to it. Or you’ll rot trying.” The mist lifted. The Forsaken Soil shifted. It accepted him. Skulls arranged themselves into a new throne beside hers. The dead whispered gossip. The trees bowed. The ravens nested in his hair. One of them pooped gently on his shoulder in approval. And just like that, Pym the rat-catcher became King of the Damned. Consort to a furious, heart-reborn goddess. Keeper of the Fog. Heir to nothing, master of everything that should not exist. He sat beside her, newly majestic, already itching from the crown and wondering if kings got bar tabs. He leaned over to her. “So,” he whispered, “now that we’re co-ruling, does this mean we share a bathroom or...?” The Queen did not answer. But she did smile. And far below them, in the screaming soil, something new began to stir.     Claim Your Throne (or at least your wall)If the Queen has haunted your imagination like she did poor Pym’s underwear, why not bring her home in all her dark, cinematic glory? This powerful image — Queen of the Forsaken Soil — is now available as a tapestry fit for a cursed throne room, a canvas print soaked in gothic dread, a metal print sharp enough to summon demons, or an acrylic print smooth enough to lure a raven. Want something more interactive? Dare to assemble the Queen piece by piece with this dark fantasy jigsaw puzzle — perfect for rainy nights and mild psychological unraveling. Long live the Queen… preferably on your wall.

by Bill Tiepelman

Leaf Me Be, I'm Fabulous!

Once upon a mossy morning in the grand, gossip-ridden undergrowth of the Lower Fern District, there lived a fuzzy, flamboyant caterpillar named Dandy. Not just any caterpillar—no, no—Dandy was born with what some might call an excessive flair for dramatics, a love for bold floral accessories, and a level of sass rarely found in creatures with six stubby legs and a thorax. Dandy had the kind of fuzzy lime fur that shimmered in the sun like a disco ball at a beetle’s birthday rave. His emerald eyes were glossy with the kind of innocence you see in soap commercials, framed by lashes long enough to require wind clearance. He wore rosy cheeks with the pride of a woodland debutante. But most importantly, Dandy carried a Gerbera daisy like a diva clutches her pearls: dramatically, unapologetically, and always color-coordinated. “You there!” Dandy called out one breezy morning to a sleepy slug passing by. “Tell me honestly—does this flower say ‘earthy enchantress’ or more ‘floral vengeance’?” The slug blinked (or maybe just slimed), unsure if it was being propositioned, insulted, or recruited into a flash mob. Dandy didn’t wait for a response. He posed with his flower, tilted his antennae just so, and gave a fierce pout that could curdle milk. “It says I’m FABULOUS, that’s what it says,” Dandy answered himself with a wink so powerful it disoriented a nearby fruit fly. Dandy wasn’t merely confident—he was a walking, wiggling embodiment of insect empowerment. He’d once faced down a bird with nothing but biting sarcasm and a glitter-bombed pinecone. When other caterpillars were fretting about metamorphosis and identity crises, Dandy had already customized his dream chrysalis with satin lining and optional skylight. “I’m not evolving,” he told anyone who would listen, “I’m curating my next form.” But even a bug like Dandy, dripping in confidence and flower pollen, wasn’t immune to trouble. Trouble, in this case, came slinking into the glade wearing a dusty mandible and a smirk. “Well, well, if it isn’t Princess Petal-Pants,” sneered Flick, the neighborhood mantis and walking midlife crisis. “What’s next, sparkles in your frass?” Dandy turned slowly. “Oh honey,” he purred, fluttering his lashes. “I’d explain it to you, but I left my bilingual mantis-to-basic guide in my other leaf clutch. Now do scurry along—I don’t cater to bugs who can’t spell ‘fabulous’ without biting off their own heads.” And just like that, Dandy sashayed deeper into the glade, flower high, self-worth higher, leaving Flick gasping in a cloud of daisy-scented dust and ego bruises. But little did Dandy know, his next great challenge wasn’t rude bugs or fashion critiques... it was survival, transformation, and a possibly illegal underground caterpillar pageant. The Wiggle Awakens Later that afternoon, Dandy found himself reclining luxuriously on a patch of moss that was softer than a spider’s whisper and greener than envy at a leaf-rolling competition. He adjusted the daisy between his stubby paws and stared dramatically into the canopy above, as if expecting applause to rain from the sky. “Why must I be so devastatingly magnetic?” he sighed, one antenna flopping for added effect. But somewhere in the distance, the winds of fate rustled—not gently, not romantically—but with the chaotic force of a squirrel with unresolved trauma. Through the leaves came a buzzing whisper: “They’re back. The Silk Circle returns tonight.” Dandy gasped. His eyes grew to dinner-plate diameter. “The Silk Circle?!” The Silk Circle was the stuff of buggy legend. An underground, invite-only society of caterpillars dedicated to glamour, transformation, and unbridled self-expression. They met deep in the underbrush inside a secret club known only as “The Chrysalis Cabana.” It was said to be carved into the underside of a rotting log and lit entirely by firefly butts—classy ones, obviously, the kind that pulse to disco beats. “I haven’t been to the Cabana since…” Dandy trailed off, one leg dramatically clutching his forehead. “Since The Incident.” The Incident, of course, referred to the time Dandy’s interpretive dance number to *Flight of the Bumblebee* ended with an accidental collision with the punch bowl, a scandalous slip on a banana peel, and a very public declaration of love to an unsuspecting ladybug who was, unfortunately, already married to a stag beetle with anger issues. But tonight, the Silk Circle was reawakening. Word had it that Madame Mothra—the Circle’s legendary founder and high priestess of glitter glue—was returning from her final metamorphosis tour in the West Ferns. And rumor had it she was looking for her successor. “This is it,” Dandy whispered. “My moment. My destiny. My runway.” With a series of confident wiggles, pirouettes, and what may have been a jazz paw, he tucked his daisy into his imaginary belt and began his journey toward the Cabana. He passed judgmental pillbugs, flirted with a handsome aphid, and narrowly dodged an overzealous robin by playing dead in the most over-the-top faint ever attempted by an invertebrate. After dusk, Dandy reached the log. A stern caterpillar bouncer with a monocle and a thorn tattoo on his thorax raised a brow. “Name?” “Dandy,” he said, striking a pose that involved all twelve of his body segments. “Tell Madame I’m back. And I brought attitude, sparkle, and interpretive jazz wings.” The bouncer didn’t flinch. “Password?” Dandy leaned forward. “Unfurl the fabulous.” The mossy door creaked open to reveal a surreal dreamscape. The Cabana was alive with glitter, pheromones, and questionable decisions. Disco spores floated through the air. Ladybugs served nectar shots on thimble trays. A praying mantis DJ spun bops that hadn’t charted in years but still slapped. And there—at the center of it all—Madame Mothra. She was majestic, an icon, a legend. Her wings shimmered like moonlight trapped in velvet. Her voice, when she spoke, was like a lullaby laced with cinnamon and power. “My sweetlings,” she cooed. “Tonight we crown the next High Flap of the Circle.” The crowd erupted. Someone fainted. Someone else molted. Dandy’s heart fluttered somewhere between excitement and sheer terror. Was he ready? Could he reclaim his sparkle? Did his antenna look flat? Contestants were called to the mossy stage. There was Crispin the couture caterpillar in rhinestone armor, Boopsy the interpretive poet who only spoke in silk trails, and Glimmer, a dangerously seductive inchworm with backup dancers and fog machine access. Then came Dandy. Spotlight. Silence. He stepped forward and whispered, “This one’s for every bug that’s ever been told their glitter was ‘too much.’” He dropped the daisy. And danced. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t subtle. But it was raw, wriggly joy. He incorporated wiggles, flips, an air violin solo, and a final pose that spelled the word “FAB” with his body in cursive. There were tears. There were gasps. A millipede started slow clapping with 612 legs. As the music faded, Madame Mothra glided over. “You,” she said. “Are ridiculous.” Beat. Tension. Then— “But so am I. And that, my dear… is fabulous.” Confetti burst from fungal pods. A chorus of bugs broke into song. The daisy was returned to Dandy with a tiny tiara glued to the center. He’d done it. He was the new High Flap. The Cabana chanted his name. Slugs wept. The mantis DJ dropped a remix of Beyoncé’s "Irreplaceable" made entirely with leaf sounds. And Dandy, through all the glitter and pheromones, knew one thing deep in his gut: it wasn’t just about glamour. It was about showing up exactly as you are, with petals, sass, and all your weird, squirmy magic—and making the whole forest say, “Leaf me be... they’re fabulous.” Chrysalis, Interrupted The morning after his glitter-drenched coronation, Dandy awoke in a leaf hammock with a slight glitter hangover, antennae tangled, and a daisy stuck to his face. He blinked slowly. “Did I... twerk at a stag beetle?” Yes. Yes, he had. But regrets were for bugs with boring destinies, and Dandy had no time for remorse. The forest buzzed with news. His coronation had broken Silk Circle records: most audience members fainting, most accidental pollen inhalation, and the first dance battle to cause a spontaneous mushroom bloom. His inbox (a hollowed acorn) was stuffed with invitation scrolls: brunch with elder snails, modeling offers from bark beetles, even a spiritual retreat hosted by bees who only spoke in haikus. Yet amid all the fame and fanfare, Dandy knew something bigger was coming. Not just figuratively. Literally. His skin itched in that way that only meant one thing: the Chrysalis Call. The ultimate glow-up. The moment every caterpillar feared, fantasized about, and secretly Googled late at night on borrowed squirrel tablets: metamorphosis. He stood before the Mirror Dewdrop™ (a product placement courtesy of Mossfluence marketing) and stared at his reflection. “Am I ready to give up this fuzzy fabulousness?” he whispered. “Will I still be... me?” He did what he always did when faced with existential dread: he struck a fierce pose, adjusted his flower, and gave himself a pep talk. “You are DANDY. You’re not becoming something new—you’re becoming extra. If anything, the world better prepare for an airborne sass attack.” With that, he picked a shady branch draped in silk vines and climbed up, twirling for dramatic effect even now. He wrapped himself in shimmering thread—yes, sequined silk, don’t @ him—and formed the most breathtaking chrysalis the forest had ever seen. It looked like a jewel, like a disco ball had a love child with an opal. Bugs came by just to gawk. Moths wrote sonnets. A chipmunk tried to steal it. Typical. Inside, things were... confusing. It turns out turning into goo is a very personal journey. Thoughts floated like bubbles in champagne: his dreams, his fears, that one time he got stuck in a tulip and had to be rescued by an aggressively helpful beetle named Carl. He felt himself dissolving and reforming, but not into something different. Into something more Dandy than ever before. And then... Light. Cracks. The sound of a dramatic string section somewhere in the ether. His chrysalis shattered in a slow-motion explosion of silk confetti, and Dandy emerged. Wings. WINGS. Glorious, iridescent masterpieces that shimmered like someone spilled unicorn glitter into moonlight. His body, still fuzzy, still fierce. His antennae now curved like stylish punctuation marks. He fluttered upward with an accidental loop-de-loop that knocked over a pinecone. “Oops,” he giggled, “still adjusting to fabulous flight.” The forest gasped. Bugs gathered. Madame Mothra wept. “Look at you,” she choked out, dabbing her compound eyes with a pressed petal. “You’re an inspiration. A work of art. A flight risk for traditional gender roles.” And Dandy knew—he hadn’t changed. He’d blossomed. He was still dramatic, still dashing, still dangerously good at passive-aggressive compliments. But now he could be all of that from the air. He spent the day making glitter trails across the sky. He delivered pep talks to anxious inchworms. He hosted an aerial drag brunch using his wings as stage curtains. He became the legend the forest didn’t know it needed, but now couldn’t imagine life without. And that daisy? Still tucked behind one ear, now with a custom wing holster for wind safety. Style must never be compromised. One evening, as twilight dipped the leaves in lavender and the crickets broke into their nightly jazz jam, Dandy fluttered onto a branch beside a nervous young caterpillar with big eyes and a broken flower. “I’m not like the others,” the little one whispered. “I don’t want to be just a butterfly. I want to be me—loud and weird and... and sparkly.” Dandy smiled and leaned in close. “Sweetling, don’t you know? You were never meant to blend in. You were born to blind them with brilliance.” He winked, twirled midair, and shouted into the night, “Leaf me be—I’M FABULOUS!” The forest roared in applause. Somewhere, a firefly fainted. And above it all, Dandy soared, a daisy-wielding reminder that transformation isn’t about becoming someone else. It’s about unleashing the magnificent ridiculousness you were always meant to be.     Want to bring a little Dandy energy into your own world? Whether you need a daily reminder to stay bold, weird, and wondrous—or just love bugs with serious main character energy—you can now celebrate Dandy’s daisy-fueled fabulousness with art that flutters straight into your home. From gleaming metal prints and elegant framed editions to a throw pillow that wiggles with charm and a tote bag perfect for petal transport, Dandy’s got your back—and your walls. Because darling, fabulous is a lifestyle.

by Bill Tiepelman

My Dragon Bestie

How to Accidentally Befriend a Fire Hazard Everyone knows toddlers have a knack for chaos. Sticky fingers, permanent marker tattoos on the dog, mysterious stains that science has yet to classify — it’s all part of their magic. But no one warned Ellie and Mark that their son Max, age two and a half and already proficient in diplomacy by fruit snack barter, would bring home a dragon. “It’s probably a lizard,” Mark had muttered when Max toddled in from the backyard cradling something green and suspiciously scaly. “A big, weird-eyed lizard. Like, emotionally unstable gecko weird.” But lizards, as a rule, do not belch smoke rings the size of frisbees when they burp. Nor do they respond to the name “Snuggleflame,” which Max insisted upon with the determined fury of a child who’s missed his nap. And certainly no lizard has ever attempted to toast a grilled cheese with its nostrils. The dragon — because that’s what it undeniably was — stood about knee-high with chunky feet, chubby cheeks, and the sort of wings that looked decorative until they weren’t. Its expression was equal parts devilish and delighted, like it knew a thousand secrets and none of them involved nap time. Max and Snuggleflame became inseparable within hours. They shared snacks (Max’s), secrets (mostly babbled gibberish), and bath time (a questionable decision). At night, the dragon curled around Max’s toddler bed like a living plush toy, radiating warmth and purring like a chainsaw on Xanax. Of course, Ellie and Mark tried to be rational about it. “It’s probably a metaphor,” Ellie suggested, sipping wine and watching their child cuddle a creature capable of combustion. “Like an emotional support hallucination. Freud would have loved this.” “Freud didn’t live in a ranch house with flammable drapes,” Mark replied, ducking as Snuggleflame sneezed a puff of glittery soot toward the ceiling fan. They called Animal Control. Animal Control politely suggested Animal Exorcism. They called the pediatrician. The pediatrician offered a therapist. The therapist asked if the dragon was billing under Max’s name or as a dependent. So they gave up. Because the dragon wasn’t going anywhere. And to be honest, after Snuggleflame roasted the neighbor’s leaf pile into the most efficient compost bin the HOA had ever seen, things got easier. Even the dog had stopped hiding in the washing machine. Mostly. But then, just as life started to feel bizarrely normal — Max drawing crayon murals of "Dragonopolis", Ellie fireproofing the furniture, Mark learning to say “Don't flame that” like it was a regular household rule — something changed. Snuggleflame’s eyes got wider. His wings got stretchier. And one morning, with a sound somewhere between a kazoo and a wind tunnel, he looked at Max, belched out a compass, and said — in perfect toddler-accented English — “We has to go home now.” Max blinked. “You mean my room?” The dragon grinned, fanged and wild. “Nope. Dragonland.” Ellie dropped her coffee mug. Mark cursed so hard the baby monitor censored him. Max? He simply smiled, eyes shining with the unshakable faith of a child whose best friend just turned into a mythical Uber. And that, dear reader, is how a suburban family accidentally agreed to a magical relocation clause… led by a dragon and a preschooler in Velcro shoes. To be continued in Part Two: “The TSA Does Not Approve of Dragons” The TSA Does Not Approve of Dragons Ellie hadn’t flown since Max was born. She remembered airports as stressful, overpriced food courts with occasional opportunities to be strip-searched by someone named Doug. But nothing — and I mean nothing — prepares you for trying to check a fire-breathing emotional support lizard through security. “Is that… an animal?” the TSA agent asked, in the same tone one might use for discovering a ferret operating a forklift. Her badge read “Karen B.” and her emotional aura screamed “no nonsense, no dragons, not today.” “He’s more of a plus-one,” Ellie said. “He breathes fire, but he doesn’t vape, if that helps.” Snuggleflame, for his part, was wearing Max’s old hoodie and a pair of aviator sunglasses. It did not help. He also carried a satchel with snacks, three crayons, a plastic tiara, and a glowing orb that had started whispering in Latin sometime around the baggage check. “He’s house-trained,” Max chimed in, proudly. “He only toasts things on purpose now.” Mark, who had been silently calculating how many times they could be banned from federal airspace before it counted as a felony, handed over the dragon’s ‘passport.’ It was a laminated construction paper booklet titled OFFISHUL DRAGON ID with a crayon drawing of Snuggleflame smiling next to a stick figure family and the helpful note: I AINT MEAN. Somehow, whether by charm, chaos, or sheer clerical burnout, they got through. There were compromises. Snuggleflame had to ride in cargo. The orb was confiscated by a guy who swore it tried to "reveal his destiny." Max cried for ten minutes until Snuggleflame sent smoke signals through the air vents spelling “I OK.” They landed in Iceland. “Why Iceland?” Mark asked for the fifth time, rubbing his temples with the slow desperation of a man whose toddler had commandeered an ancient being and a boarding gate. “Because it’s the place where the veil between worlds is thinnest,” Ellie replied, reading from a brochure she found in the airport titled Dragons, Gnomes, and You: A Practical Guide to Fae-Proofing Your Backyard. “Also,” Max piped up, “Snuggleflame said the portal smells like marshmallows here.” That, apparently, was that. They checked into a small hostel in a village so picturesque it made Hallmark movies feel insecure. The townspeople were polite in the way that implied they’d seen weirder. No one even blinked when Snuggleflame roasted a whole salmon with a hiccup or when Max used a stick to draw magical glyphs in the frost. The dragon led them into the wilderness at dawn. The terrain was a rugged postcard of mossy hills, icy streams, and a sky that looked like a Nordic mood ring. They hiked for hours — Max carried by turns on Mark’s shoulders or floating slightly above ground courtesy of Snuggleflame’s "hover hugs." Finally, they reached it: a clearing with a stone arch carved with symbols that pulsed faintly. A ring of mushrooms marked the threshold. The air buzzed with a scent that was part cinnamon toast, part ozone, and part “you’re about to make a decision that rewires your life forever.” Snuggleflame turned solemn. “Once we go through… you might never come back. Not the same way. You sure, little buddy?” Max, without hesitation, said, “Only if Mommy and Daddy come too.” Ellie and Mark looked at each other. She shrugged. “You know what? Normal was overrated.” “My office just assigned me to a committee about optimizing spreadsheet color-coding. Let’s roll,” Mark said. With a deep, echoing whoosh, Snuggleflame reared up and breathed a ribbon of blue fire into the arch. The stones glowed. The mushrooms danced. The veil between worlds sighed like an overworked barista and opened. The family stepped through together, hand in claw in hand. They landed in Dragonland. Not a metaphor. Not a theme park. A place where the skies shimmered like soap bubbles on steroids and the trees had opinions. Everything sparkled — aggressively so. It was like Lisa Frank had binge-watched Game of Thrones while microdosing peyote and then built a kingdom. The inhabitants greeted Max as though he were royalty. Turns out, he kind of was. Through a series of absolutely legitimate dream-based contracts, prophecy pancakes, and interpretive dance rituals, Max had been appointed "The Snuggle-Chosen." A hero foretold to bring emotional maturity and sticker-based communication to an otherwise flame-obsessed society. Snuggleflame became a full-sized dragon within days. He was magnificent — sleek, winged, capable of lifting minivans, and still perfectly willing to let Max ride on his back wearing nothing but dinosaur pajamas and a bike helmet. Ellie opened a fireproof preschool. Mark started a podcast called "Corporate Survival for the Newly Magical." They built a cottage next to a talking creek that offered life advice in the form of passive-aggressive haikus. Things were weird. They were also perfect. And no one — not a single soul — ever said, “You’re being childish,” because in Dragonland, the childish ran the place. To be continued in Part Three: “Civic Responsibility and the Ethical Use of Dragon Farts” Civic Responsibility and the Ethical Use of Dragon Farts Life in Dragonland was never boring. In fact, it was never even quiet. Between Snuggleflame’s daily aerial dance routines (featuring synchronized spark sneezes) and the enchanted jellybean geyser behind the house, “peaceful” was something they left behind at the airport. Still, the family had settled into something resembling a routine. Max, now the de facto ambassador of Human-Toddler Relations, spent his mornings finger-painting treaties and leading compassion exercises for the dragon hatchlings. His leadership style could best be described as “chaotic benevolence with juice breaks.” Ellie ran a successful daycare for magical creatures with behavioral issues. The tagline: “We Hug First, Ask Questions Later.” She had mastered the art of calming down a tantruming gnome with a glow stick and learned exactly how many glitter-bombs it took to distract a tantrum-prone unicorn with boundary issues (three and a half). Mark, meanwhile, had been elected to the Dragonland Council under the “reluctantly competent human” clause. His campaign platform included phrases like “Let’s stop setting fire to the mail” and “Fiscal responsibility: it’s not just for wizards.” Against all odds, it worked. He now chaired the Committee on Ethical Flame Use, where he spent most of his time writing policy to prevent dragons from using their farts as tactical weather devices. “We had a drought last month,” Mark muttered at the kitchen table one morning, scribbling on a parchment. “And instead of summoning rain, Glork farted a cloud the size of Cleveland into existence. It snowed pickles, Ellie. For twelve hours.” “They were delicious, though,” Max chirped, chewing one casually like it was a normal Tuesday. Then came The Incident. One sunny morning, Max and Snuggleflame were doing their usual stunt flights over the Glitter Dunes when Max accidentally dropped his lunch — a peanut butter sandwich enchanted with a happiness charm. The sandwich fell directly onto the ceremonial altar of the Grumblebeards, a cranky race of lava goblins with sensitive noses and no sense of humor. They declared war. On whom, exactly, was unclear — the child, the sandwich, the very concept of joy — but war was declared nonetheless. The Dragonland Council convened an emergency summit. Mark put on his “serious” robe (which featured fewer bedazzled stars than the casual one), Ellie brought her crisis glitter, and Max… brought Snuggleflame. “We’ll negotiate,” said Mark. “We’ll dazzle them,” said Ellie. “We’ll weaponize cuteness,” said Max, his eyes practically sparkling with tactical whimsy. And so they did. After three hours of increasingly confusing diplomacy, several emotional monologues about peanut allergies, and a full toddler-led puppet show reenacting “How Sandwiches Are Made With Love,” the Grumblebeards agreed to a ceasefire… if Snuggleflame could fart a cloud shaped like their ancestral totem: a slightly melting lava cat named Shlorp. Snuggleflame, after three helpings of spicy moonberries and a dramatic tail stretch, delivered. The resulting cloud was magnificent. It purred. It glowed. It made fart sounds in four-part harmony. The Grumblebeards wept openly and handed over a peace contract written in crayon. Dragonland was saved. Max was promoted to Supreme Hugmaster of the Inter-Mythical Council. Ellie received the Glitterheart Medal for Emotional Conflict Resolution. Mark was finally allowed to install smoke detectors without being called a “buzzkill.” Years passed. Max grew. So did Snuggleflame — who now sported a monocle, a saddle, and an unshakeable fondness for dad jokes. They became living legends, flying between dimensions, solving magical disputes, spreading laughter, and occasionally dropping enchanted sandwiches onto unsuspecting picnic-goers. But every year, on the anniversary of The Incident, they returned home to that very same stone arch in Iceland. They’d share stories, toast marshmallows on Snuggleflame’s backdraft, and watch the skies together, wondering who else might need a little more magic… or a cuddle-powered ceasefire. And for anyone who asks if it really happened — the dragons, the portals, the diplomacy powered by hugs — Max has just one answer: “You ever seen a toddler lie about a dragon bestie with that much confidence? Didn’t think so.” The End. (Or maybe just the beginning.)     Take a Piece of Dragonland Home 🐉 If “My Dragon Bestie” made your inner child do a little happy dance (or snort-laugh into your coffee), you can bring that magical mischief into your real world! Whether you want to cozy up with a fleece blanket that’s as warm as Snuggleflame’s belly, or add some whimsical fire-breathing flair to your space with a metal print or framed wall art, we’ve got you covered. Send a smile (and maybe a giggle-snort) with a greeting card, or go big and bold with a storytelling centerpiece like our vibrant tapestry. Every item features the high-detail, whimsical world of “My Dragon Bestie” — a perfect way to bring fantasy, fun, and fireproof friendship into your home or to share with the dragon-lover in your life.

by Bill Tiepelman

Cradle of Copper Veins

There are stories the trees tell long after the last leaf has fallen. Stories whispered not in words, but in sighs of wind and flickers of gold that dance between branches. And if you know how to listen — really listen — you’ll hear the tale of a fairy named Cress, who came into this world nestled in a leaf so grand it rivaled the sails of a galleon, glowing with the luster of hammered copper. Cress wasn’t born like other fairies. No flick of a wand, no moonbeam ceremony. One morning, just as autumn was stretching its fingers into the roots of the woods, a sleepy breeze tumbled through the Great Hollow, and there she was — curled up in the crook of a leaf like a blessing too delicate for noise. Her hair was spun sunlight, her wings etched from morning frost, and her face was the kind that could convince even the crankiest mushroom to smile. The elder fairies didn’t quite know what to make of her. "Too quiet," muttered Bramble Fernthistle, adjusting his acorn monocle. "No sparkle. No twinkle. Probably defective." But Cress just smiled in her sleep, utterly unmoved by fairy bureaucracy. Her leaf cradle had fallen from the ancient maple, a tree known to whisper to stars. And so, some believed she wasn’t born at all — but sent. By whom? Theories abounded. The stars? The wind? A goddess with a sense of humor and a flair for the dramatic? Only one thing was certain: Cress had a vibe. A powerful, soul-hugging, peace-tinted kind of vibe. The kind that made squirrels pause mid-acorn. That made spiders crochet doilies instead of webs. That made the morning dew linger just a little longer to kiss her forehead. And then, the dream started spreading. At first, only forest creatures felt it — a lightness in their paws, a softness in their heartbeats. Then, the trees began to hum lullabies without wind. Next came the clouds, lowering just enough to catch a glimpse of her as they passed. Even the grumpy badger near the western brook was spotted knitting something that might’ve been a scarf. He’d deny it to his dying breath, of course. But the yarn was pink and had glitter in it. “She’s... changing us,” said Maplewish, the oldest of the grove. “With sleep. And silence. And possibly drool.” But it was more than that. It was presence. This tiny, dreaming fairy, in her copper-leaf cradle, radiated such gentle purpose that even time slowed down to admire her. She didn’t ask. She didn’t preach. She simply *was.* And in her being, the forest remembered who it was supposed to be. And then, one morning, she woke up. Cress’s first breath was soft — like the exhale of a songbird in a dream. Her eyes fluttered open beneath the dappled amber light of morning, and the entire forest held its breath. Even the breeze paused, unsure if it was appropriate to move now that she was looking. Her gaze didn’t scan the canopy or jump to the curious throngs of forest watchers perched atop mushrooms, owls, and the backs of patient deer. Instead, she stared with hypnotized wonder at the edge of her copper-veined leaf, her tiny fingers tracing its ridges like they were the edges of a secret map. “She’s... awake,” gasped Thistlemop, a woodsprite with anxiety issues and a flair for the dramatic. He immediately fainted into a puff of glitter, which was honestly not that uncommon for him. “Bless the bark, what do we do now?” someone whispered. “Do we clap? Bow? Offer her the ceremonial acorn?” But Cress didn’t ask for pomp or parades. She sat up slowly, yawned a yawn so wide it made a nearby chipmunk pass out from cuteness, and blinked at the world as if seeing it for the first time and deciding it might be worth forgiving. She had the kind of aura that turned bee stings into butterflies. No one knew why. Maybe it was her silence — the way she listened before speaking. Or maybe it was how she giggled at dandelion seeds like they were stand-up comedians. Either way, by noon that day, the Council of Elders had declared a full fairy holiday. They called it “Cressmas.” It had very little structure, involved a lot of spontaneous naps, and a cake made of dew and wild honey. And from that moment on, the Forest changed. Animals that had held grudges for decades forgave each other. A squirrel and a raven opened a bookstore. Moss began growing in intricate, artful spirals instead of the usual blob formations. Even the mushrooms glowed brighter, murmuring little psalms in their sleep. And the fairies? The fairies, once obsessed with sparkle quotas and wing inspections, stopped fussing long enough to notice the way the stars blinked a little slower over Cress’s leaf. She didn’t speak for several moons. She didn’t have to. Her expressions spoke entire novels. Her laughter unknotted years of forest tension. And when she finally did speak, it was to the old willow who asked her what she dreamed about. “Warmth,” she said. “And something that hasn’t happened yet.” That night, an aurora bloomed in colors the sky had forgotten it owned. From then on, Cress became the pulse of the woods. Not a ruler — heavens no. She didn’t even like chairs. But a presence. A rhythm. When she was near, you remembered what joy tasted like. You remembered to breathe slower. You forgave the ants for being obnoxious, and you let the raindrops roll down your nose without wiping them off in irritation. And the thing was, she *grew.* Not in size (fairy babies are notoriously stubborn about that), but in essence. Her eyes became galaxies of green and gold. Her wings shimmered with patterns that matched the phases of the moon. Her laughter caused flowers to bloom off-season. She once smiled at a frog so warmly that it developed complex emotions and started writing poetry. But as Cress’s magic deepened, so did her knowing. She began to wander. Always with kindness. Always with her leaf, which had curled into the shape of a gentle sled. She visited every root, every rock, every burrow and blossom. Creatures she’d never seen leaned forward when she passed. Foxes bowed. Owls wept. Even the grumpy badger made her a mug with her name on it. It said “Little One, Big Deal.” He denied it was sentimental, of course. Said it was a tax write-off. Eventually, Cress arrived at the edge of the forest, where the tall grass met the world beyond. She tilted her head. The wind tousled her hair in question. She didn’t speak. She simply stepped beyond the wild bramble, dragging her copper cradle behind her — into the Great Beyond where the forest’s hum couldn’t quite reach. “Where’s she going?” asked a curious beetle. “Everywhere,” said Maplewish, wiping a tear of sap from his cheek. “She’s what happens when the forest remembers its heart. But hearts don’t stay still, do they?” They didn’t. And neither did she. From the cities with sirens to deserts that hummed at dusk, Cress wandered. People never remembered her clearly — only that they had wept without knowing why, or danced without knowing how. Coffee tasted sweeter. Tempers felt slower. Strangers gave each other snacks. Dogs stopped barking at mailmen. And all across the land, wherever she had passed, autumn leaves curled slightly into cradles, waiting for someone else — someone gentle, and wild, and quietly powerful — to remember who they were. The years passed, as they tend to do — sneaky little things, fluttering past like moths in the dusk. Cress walked through them all barefoot and curious, never in a hurry, never quite belonging to time. Wherever she wandered, something happened — not big, explosive somethings. No fireworks. No thunder. Just... small shifts. Quiet revolutions. In the sleepy town of Mirebell, a cobbler began leaving one extra shoe outside his shop every morning. He said it was for "the tired." He didn't specify who. He didn’t need to. In the mountains of Nareth, where the winds carved stone like gossiping grandmothers, wild goats stopped headbutting each other for dominance and started organizing cliffside yoga. In the farmlands of Brindlehusk, a young boy whose heart had grown too heavy from loss woke up one morning to find an amber-colored leaf cradling a single pearlescent tear on his pillow. It was dry. And so, for the first time in months, were his cheeks. And in all these places, there were whispers of a girl — a child, or a woman, or a spirit, no one could quite agree — whose presence made you want to call your grandmother and tell her you loved her, even if she was already dead. Especially if she was already dead. “She’s made of lullabies,” someone once said. “No,” said another. “She’s made of the silence between lullabies.” One autumn, in a city made of steel and cracked pavement, Cress found herself standing beside a woman in a power suit who looked like she'd forgotten how to cry. They waited for the same bus. The woman had earbuds in and an expression like a snapped pencil. But Cress — wearing a crown of dandelions and a sweater knitted from something very much like moonlight — just stood beside her, gently humming a note that made a nearby pigeon forget how to scowl. When the woman looked over, Cress met her eyes with that look. That look that says: I see you, and you don’t owe the world another performance. And something broke, gently. The woman sat down on the curb and sobbed into her coffee. It tasted better after. And still, Cress moved on. Always on. Her copper-veined leaf, now worn and glossy like an heirloom spoon, trailed behind her like a promise — rustling with stories not yet told. She never sought fame, though her legend grew. She never stayed long, though some swore they still saw her in the corners of their favorite memories. Eventually — and inevitably — she returned to the forest. Not because she had to. Not because the wind whispered her name or the mushrooms staged a union strike in protest of her absence (although they had considered it). She returned because love always circles back, like rivers, like stories, like the moon to its favorite phase. By now, the forest had changed. Grown taller, more knotted in places, but also softer. The grumpy badger had opened a therapy burrow. The bookstore run by the squirrel and raven had a poetry section curated by frogs. And the trees — oh, the trees — they leaned in, their branches trembling with reverence as Cress stepped once more into the amber light beneath their boughs. She looked older. Not old. Just... fuller. More galaxy than girl now. Her wings shimmered with memories. Her eyes held galaxies she hadn’t been born with. She no longer slept in the cradle of copper veins. But she carried it still, curled gently over her shoulder like a shawl woven from goodbye and gratitude. “You came back,” gasped Maplewish, now stooped and silvered with lichen. “I was always here,” she said, and kissed his bark. And then, one morning — golden, as if the sun had remembered how to fall in love — Cress walked into the center of the grove and lay down upon her leaf. Not to sleep, this time. But to root. The leaf curled up around her like it had been waiting centuries for this moment. The wind cradled her name and let it echo one last time. The animals watched, not with sorrow, but reverence. Something bigger than grief bloomed in their bellies — a feeling like finishing a perfect book and hugging it to your chest. And where she lay, a tree grew. It wasn’t like any other tree. Its trunk shimmered like burnished bronze, its leaves whisper-thin and luminous, curling like parchment in the wind. Flowers bloomed on its branches year-round — forget-me-nots, wild violets, even the occasional curious mushroom. Its roots hummed lullabies. And at its base, nestled in moss, was the copper-veined leaf, forever cradling a memory, forever becoming. They say if you sit beneath it long enough, you’ll remember a part of yourself you forgot how to love. You’ll find yourself weeping without knowing why. You’ll leave lighter than you came. And just sometimes, when the light hits right and your heart is quiet enough — you’ll see her. Not as a ghost. Not as a fairy. Not even as a girl. But as a feeling. As hope. As the whisper between songs. And when you rise to go, you’ll carry her with you — like warmth. Like wonder. Like home.     If the magic of Cress still lingers in your chest — if her warmth, her quiet wonder, and her copper-veined cradle whispered something to your soul — you’re not alone. And you don’t have to leave her behind. Her spirit now lives on in a collection of inspired creations, ready to bring a little forest magic into your own sacred space. Adorn your walls with the story’s essence through a canvas print or a dreamy, flowing tapestry that lets the golden hues of autumn cradle your room. Curl up with her comfort woven into a throw pillow or wrap yourself in wonder beneath a duvet cover that feels like a forest lullaby. For a touch of magic on the move, carry the story with you in a lovely tote bag, perfect for dreamers and wanderers alike. However you choose to keep her near, may her presence remind you to slow down, breathe deep, and believe in the quiet strength of softness.

by Bill Tiepelman

Twilight Tickle Sprite

In the hush of the Golden Glade — that rare patch of forest where twilight always lingers just a little too long and the frogs sound like they've had a few too many dandelion brews — there lived a sprite named Luma. Luma was, for lack of a better phrase, a professional instigator. Not malicious, mind you. Just the sort of trickster who braided squirrel tails together when they napped too close, whispered "your fly is down" to passing satyrs (who didn’t wear trousers to begin with), and left trails of glittery snail slime across picnic blankets. She considered it her sacred duty to keep the forest fun. “Spring isn’t spring unless someone’s giggling too hard to breathe,” she often declared, which was a bold claim for someone three apples tall with moss in her hair and daisies tangled in her wings. On the Vernal Sneeze — the very first day of spring when pollen explodes off trees like confetti from a cannon — Luma was especially energized. She’d spent the winter plotting new nonsense, her tiny journal full of plans like “frog choir remix” and “unicorn armpit tickle ambush.” Her latest goal? Cause 100 genuine belly laughs before moonrise. She wore her “mirth crown” (woven from ivy and heavily bedazzled with stolen beetle shells) and her favorite purple petal gown, which rustled like sarcastic applause every time she moved. By midday, she’d already made the mushroom council spit tea through their pores with a pop-up puppet show about toadstool taxes. She’d gotten three grumpy hedgehogs to do the can-can with a clever bit of reverse psychology involving jam. Even the melancholy oak — who hadn’t smiled since the acorn tax scandal of 1802 — had rustled its leaves in what some called laughter and others called mild wind. Either way, it counted. Then came the most delicious opportunity of all: a wandering bard. Human. Handsome in a hopeless way, like he got dressed in the dark with only a lute and too much confidence. Luma perched on a lilypad, wings fluttering with anticipation. “Ooooh, this’ll be good,” she muttered, cracking her knuckles. “Time to make a mortal blush so hard he turns into a beetroot.” She launched into action, throwing her voice like a spring breeze. “Hey bard boy,” she cooed. “Bet you can’t rhyme ‘thistle’ with ‘booty whistle.’” The bard stopped mid-stanza. “Who goes there?” Luma grinned. Her eyes sparkled like wet petals in sunbeam soup. This was going to be fun. Lutes, Loot, and Loopholes The bard’s name, as it turned out, was Sondrin Merriwag — a name far too dashing for someone whose boots squeaked when he walked and who carried a satchel full of old cheese and soggy poetry scrolls. He was journeying through the Golden Glade “in search of inspiration,” which was bard-code for “please someone give me a plot.” Luma found this absolutely delicious. She flitted into view dramatically, perching on a thick moss-covered branch like a vaudeville queen about to start a roast. “Inspiration? Sweetie, your doublets have more drama than your lyrics. That last song rhymed ‘longing’ with ‘belonging’ — are you trying to seduce a goose?” Sondrin blinked. “You’re… a fairy?” “Technically a sprite. We’re less sparkles, more snark.” She gave him an exaggerated curtsy, which, in her petal-skirted state, looked like a blooming flower doing jazz hands. “I’m Luma. Mischief artisan. Whimsy technician. Certified giggle dealer. And you, sir, have the confused expression of a man who’s just realized his pants are on backwards.” He looked down. They weren’t. But for a horrifying second, he wasn’t sure. “You come into my glade,” Luma continued, circling him slowly like a cat with gossip, “with that lute tuned like a drunken badger’s mandolin and lyrics that make the bluebells wilt. You need help. Desperately. And lucky for you, I’m feeling generous. Spring does that to me — hormones and pollen and the urge to humiliate strangers.” Sondrin frowned. “I don't need help, I need—” “—an audience that doesn’t wish for earplugs? Agreed.” Luma clapped her hands, summoning a choir of frogs who immediately began croaking something suspiciously like “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Sondrin stared. “Did they just harmonize ‘Galileo’?” “They’re unionized now. It’s a whole thing.” Within moments, Luma had fully hijacked his “inspirational journey.” She stuffed his lute case with chirping crickets (“percussive backup”), replaced his belt buckle with a beetle (“name’s Gary, he’s clingy”), and enchanted his boots to break into spontaneous Morris dancing every time he stepped on a daffodil. Which was often, given his tendency to monologue through flower patches. “Stop that!” he yelled, as his legs began doing a high-kick jig of their own accord. “Can’t,” Luma said, sipping nectar from a thimble. “Spring contract. Any mortal who sings off-key within 300 feet of a fairy glade gets cursed with rhythmic footwear. It’s in the bylaws.” “There are bylaws?” “Oh darling,” she said with a sly grin. “There’s a bureaucracy.” Still, Sondrin didn’t leave. Perhaps it was pride. Perhaps it was the fact that his boots now only walked toward Luma regardless of his intent. Perhaps he was starting to enjoy the chaos — or her grin — more than he wanted to admit. She had a laugh like a windchime and eyes that made moss seem fashionable. And, whether she was pranking him or perched on a daisy doing air guitar with a twig, she radiated something he hadn’t felt in years: joy. Wild, irreverent, uncontrollable joy. By nightfall, they were seated together in a crocus field. Luma lounged in a tulip chair, licking honey off her fingers. Sondrin, defeated and somehow enchanted, was strumming a revised tune on his lute. It rhymed “glade” with “played” and featured a cheeky line about beetles in one’s underthings. “Better,” Luma said. “Still basic. But it’s got more butt.” He blinked. “More what?” “Soul, darling. Sass. A good song needs cheek. Yours used to sound like you were apologizing to the wind.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “But now you’ve been glitterbombed by Spring. You’ve tasted chaos. You’ve felt the twitch of a flower-given wedgie. There’s no going back.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re mad.” “Oh, absolutely. But admit it — this is more fun than serenading a goat in a tavern.” He blushed. “How did you—” “YouTube. Long story.” The glade glowed faintly as fireflies began their nightly rave. A hedgehog in sunglasses dropped the beat. Somewhere, a squirrel DJ spun tiny records made from walnut halves. And under the pink haze of moonrise, Luma flopped backwards into the grass, humming tunelessly and utterly pleased with herself. Sondrin stared up at the stars and sighed. “What now?” Luma sat up, eyes wide and wicked. “Oh honey,” she purred. “Now it’s time for the Tickle Trials.” “I’m sorry, the what?” But she was already gone, trailing giggles and petal dust as she vanished into the trees. The Tickle Trials (And Other Inconvenient Truths) Sondrin awoke to find his face painted like a butterfly, his eyebrows braided, and his lute replaced with a particularly smug-looking squirrel clutching a kazoo. He blinked twice, coughed up a glitter petal, and sat up to a scene of absolute woodland anarchy. The Golden Glade had been transformed overnight. Ivy vines had been woven into grand spectator stands. Glowworms hung from branches like fairy lights. A large patch of moss had been raked into a makeshift arena, with tiny mushrooms forming a boundary and a slug with a whistle serving as referee. Dozens of forest creatures — badgers in bonnets, frogs with monocles, raccoons in sequined vests — sat cheering and eating suspiciously crunchy snacks. And in the center, twirling dramatically like a chaos ballerina in a flower tutu, was Luma. “Welcome, traveler of tune and tragically misplaced rhymes,” she bellowed, voice amplified by a magically modified snail shell. “You have entered the Spring Court. Today, you face the final challenge of your artistic redemption: THE TICKLE TRIALS.” Sondrin blinked. “That’s not a real thing.” “It is now,” she said brightly. “Tradition starts somewhere, love.” “And if I refuse?” “Then your boots will tap dance you off a cliff while singing ‘It’s Raining Men’ in falsetto.” He gulped. “Right. Proceed.” Trial One was dubbed “Guffaw Gauntlet.” Sondrin was blindfolded with a daisy chain and subjected to thirty seconds of being poked by invisible feather sprites while a choir of giggling chipmunks recited his worst lyrics back to him in mocking falsetto. He howled. He squealed. He begged for mercy and got hit with a pie made of whipped dandelions instead. The crowd roared with approval. Trial Two was “Snort and Sprint” — an obstacle course where he had to balance a wobbly pudding on his head while answering trivia questions about fairy culture (“What is the official color of Spring Mischief Bureaucracy?” “Chartreuse Confusion!”) while being tickled by sentient vines and relentlessly heckled by a goose named Kevin. He fell. A lot. At one point the pudding yelled encouragement, which didn’t help. By the time he stumbled into the arena for the third and final trial, he was covered in flower jam, had half a beetle in his sock, and was laughing so hard he couldn’t form sentences. Trial Three was simple: make Luma laugh. “You think you can break me?” she teased, arms crossed, eyes gleaming like stormclouds about to misbehave. “I invented the giggle loop.” Sondrin straightened. He brushed pollen out of his hair, shook glitter from his boots, and picked up his lute (the real one, returned now and mysteriously cleaner than ever). He strummed a chord. “Ahem,” he began. “This one’s called ‘The Ballad of the Booty Beetle.’” The audience went still. The snail referee raised one slimy brow. Sondrin sang. It was absurd. Rhymes like “mandible scandal” and “wiggle giggle scandal” cascaded through the glade. His lute solos were punctuated by kazoo bursts from the backup squirrel. The chorus involved choreographed toe-wiggling. He threw in a high note that startled an owl into premature molting. And Luma? She laughed. She laughed so hard she snorted dandelion dust. She laughed until her wings drooped. She laughed until she had to sit on a mushroom, tears streaming down her cheeks. She laughed like someone remembering every joy all at once. And when the song ended, she clapped wildly, jumped to her feet, and tackled him in a hug that smelled like honey and mischief. “You did it!” she crowed. “You broke the trials. You made a whole glade snort.” “You made me desperate,” he wheezed, holding her like a man both victorious and thoroughly humiliated. “Your glade is terrifying.” “Isn’t it divine?” They flopped back into the grass as the Spring Court erupted in celebration. A frog DJ dropped the beat. The raccoons popped tiny confetti poppers. Someone brought out thimble-sized cakes that tasted suspiciously like tequila. “So what now?” Sondrin asked, one eyebrow arched. “Do I get knighted with a butter knife? Receive a medal shaped like a flower butt?” Luma rolled over to face him, eyes soft now. “Now you stay, if you want. Play songs that make fairies cackle. Write ballads about bee politics and gnome divorce. Make weird music that makes trees dance. Or don’t. You’re free.” He looked at her — the sprite with petals in her hair and mischief in her blood — and smiled. “I’ll stay. But only if I get a title.” “Oh, absolutely,” she said. “Henceforth, you shall be known as… Sir Gigglenote, Bard of Butt Rhymes and Occasional Dignity.” And so he stayed. And the glade was never quieter again. And every spring, when the pollen danced and the snails rallied and the daffodils yodeled jazz, the Twilight Tickle Sprite and her ridiculous bard filled the woods with chaos, kisses, and the kind of laughter that made squirrels fall out of trees in delight. Fin.     ✨ Bring Luma Home — Mischief Included ✨ If you fell in love with the chaotic charm of Luma and her giggle-fueled glade, you can bring a sprinkle of her spring magic into your world. Whether you're feathering your fairy nest or gifting a bit of enchanted sass to someone who needs a smile, we've got you covered: Framed Print – Add forest sparkle and sprite vibes to your wall. Warning: may cause spontaneous snickering. Tapestry – Drape your world in whimsy. Perfect for treehouses, reading nooks, or unexpected bard ambushes. Throw Pillow – Hug a fairy. Literally. Ideal for mid-prank naps or pollen season lounging. Fleece Blanket – Wrap yourself in cozy enchantment. May induce dreams of musical raccoons and glittery jam. Greeting Card – Send someone a sprite-sized dose of delight. Bonus: no pollen inside (probably). Because sometimes, what your life really needs… is a fairy with boundary issues and a wardrobe made of petals.

by Bill Tiepelman

Tails from the Train Station

Barkley Gets the Boot Barkley W. Barkington was not your average Yorkie. He wasn’t bred for handbags, and he sure as hell didn’t take orders. No, Barkley was born with wanderlust in his whiskers and mischief stitched into his teeny-tiny underpants. If you ever doubted a ten-pound dog could sneak past five border patrols and seduce an entire bachelorette party, you clearly hadn’t met Barkley. He’d been on the move since the “Incident at the Groomer’s” — an unfortunate misunderstanding involving a shampoo bottle, an unlocked gate, and a schnauzer named Judy with a tattoo on her butt that said “Sniff Here.” Barkley didn’t do regrets. He did trains. Specifically, he did train stations, because that’s where you found the best stories, the worst coffee, and people so distracted they’d never notice a Yorkie lifting a ham sandwich out of their carry-on. Today’s platform of chaos was Station 7½ — a place that only appeared to those down on their luck or desperately in need of a second chance. Barkley fit both categories. With his brass pocket watch ticking against his chest and a coat that smelled of wet leaves and French cigars, he perched atop his battered suitcase like a prince on exile. Not sad, no — defiant. Stylishly defiant. “You can’t be here,” said a squat man in a transit vest, kicking at the suitcase. Barkley raised a brow (just one, he practiced it in the mirror), adjusted his beret, and farted in protest. The kind of fart that said, ‘Sir, I have eaten international cheeses and outlived three landlords. Back off.’ The man walked away muttering, possibly swearing. Barkley wasn’t sure. He was too busy eyeing a mysterious figure approaching with a trench coat two sizes too big and a limp that screamed “I have stories and probable warrants.” Barkley’s ears twitched. This was how it always started — with someone strange, something risky, and the faint scent of pickled onions and forbidden freedom. He sniffed the air. Opportunity was approaching, probably drunk, possibly cursed, and definitely about to change his life. The Limping Stranger and the Loaf of Destiny The man with the trench coat didn’t walk so much as stagger with attitude. His limp was real — you could tell by the way he winced every third step — but the rest of his swagger was pure showmanship. Barkley narrowed his eyes. That coat was filled with secrets. Possibly snacks. Definitely both. “You waiting for Train 23?” the man asked, his voice gravel dipped in gin and regret. Barkley, of course, didn’t answer. He was a Yorkie. But he didn’t need to speak — his thousand-yard stare into the fogged horizon said everything: I’ve seen things. I’ve peed on statues older than your lineage. Talk wisely, mortal. “Thought so,” the man nodded, dropping his duffel bag to the ground. It hit with a clunk. A suspiciously metallic clunk. Barkley side-eyed the bag. That was either a very small submarine sandwich press or the kind of device that got you banned from three countries and one pet expo. Either way, Barkley was intrigued. The man sat beside him on the bench, breathing heavily like he’d just walked through a mile of existential crisis. “Name’s Vince,” he said, not looking up. “I used to be somebody. I sold bread. Big bread. Loaves so good they got banned in Utah.” Barkley’s ears perked. Bread. Now we were speaking his language. “They said my sourdough was too sensual. Can you believe that? Said the crumb had a ‘forbidden vibe.’” Vince snorted. “That’s when I knew I had to leave. A man can’t thrive in a world that fears moistness.” Barkley nodded solemnly. Moistness was a misunderstood frontier. As Vince rambled about yeast activism and his brief stint hiding in a vegan co-op under the alias “Brent,” Barkley’s eyes locked onto the real prize — a crusty corner of a still-warm loaf poking out from Vince’s bag like a siren calling to sea-weary canines. He licked his lips and tried to play it cool. “You know what your eyes say?” Vince whispered suddenly, turning to him with terrifying clarity. “They say you’ve been kicked out of better places than this. They say you’re just like me.” Barkley gave the faintest wag of his tail. Not confirmation. Not denial. Just… an acknowledgement. The same way monks acknowledge enlightenment. Or raccoons acknowledge trash bins. “You know what I think?” Vince continued. “I think Train 23 doesn’t exist. I think this whole station’s a metaphor. For life. For the fact that sometimes, even the smallest creature in a big coat deserves a damn ride.” Barkley had to admit, he was starting to vibe with this delusional bread philosopher. Maybe it was the way Vince saw right through the fluff. Or maybe it was the warm baguette air escaping from his duffel like a Parisian fart whispering promises of carbohydrates and mild euphoria. Then it happened — the moment Barkley’s life swerved off course like a pug on roller skates. A woman appeared on the platform. Not just any woman. She had an umbrella, a velvet cape, and the energy of someone who carried loose change in antique lockets. Her hair defied gravity. Her voice defied gender. She was glorious. “Vince,” she growled. “You brought the dog.” “He brought himself,” Vince shrugged. “You know how these things go.” “He’s wearing boots,” she hissed. “You can’t just recruit a dog because he has footwear.” “I didn’t recruit him. He’s freelance.” Barkley stood and gave a long, deliberate stretch. This was his moment. He let one boot squeak dramatically on the bench. Then he jumped down, sauntered to the woman’s feet, and very deliberately peed on her umbrella. She stared down at him. Then she laughed — a long, slow laugh that smelled like licorice and bad decisions. “You’ve got moxie, mutt,” she said. “Alright. He’s in.” “In what?” Barkley thought, ears twitching. That’s when he saw it: a small brass coin slipped into his suitcase by Vince, etched with the number 23 and a paw print surrounded by a compass. Not a train number. A mission. The woman snapped her fingers. A portal opened. Not some CGI puff of glitter — a full-on dimensional tear in space that smelled faintly of cinnamon and bureaucratic despair. Vince picked up his duffel. The woman opened a suitcase that barked back. Barkley adjusted his scarf. He had no idea where they were going. But wherever it was, it beat the hell out of sitting on cold benches and wondering if destiny forgot your stop. With one last heroic bark (that sounded suspiciously like a muffled belch), Barkley leapt into the portal, boots first, eyes wide, tail high. Goodbye, platform 7½. Hello, chaos. The Con of Corgistan The transition through the portal was less of a floaty-windy magic moment and more like getting licked aggressively by time itself. Barkley’s boots hit solid ground with a squelch. Not snow. Not mud. Something else. Something... frothy? Barkley looked down and groaned. Espresso foam. He was standing in a street made of coffee. Literally. The buildings were porcelain cups stacked to skyscraper height. Lampposts were bendy silver spoons. A café sign swung lazily overhead, declaring in bold gold script: Welcome to Corgistan: Land of Short Legs and Long Memories. “Where the hell are we?” Barkley barked, but of course nobody answered. Except Vince, who popped in behind him with a flatbread in one hand and a grenade-sized coffee bean in the other. “Corgistan,” Vince said, as if this was obvious. “Ruled by the most corrupt line of royal canines since Queen Lady Piddleton II declared martial law over chew toys.” Barkley blinked. “You're making that up.” “Probably,” Vince shrugged. “But here's the thing: they need us. Their espresso reserves are tainted. Someone’s slipped decaf into the royal supply. You know what happens to a corgi monarch without caffeine?” “Nap riots?” “Exactly.” That’s when she appeared again — the mysterious woman with the velvet cape and a tendency to materialize during plot pivots. This time, she was astride a scooter powered entirely by drama and passive-aggressive huffing. “Mission brief,” she said, flinging a scroll that unrolled with dramatic length and a confetti cannon burst at the end. “You’re to infiltrate the palace as an ambassador of the Free Paw Society. Seduce the Baroness. Bribe the steward. Steal the Sacred Bean.” “You want me to seduce a corgi?” Barkley asked, aghast. “Baroness isn't a corgi,” she clarified. “She’s a Dalmatian with abandonment issues and a fondness for monocles. Barkley, this is literally in your wheelhouse.” “This feels morally grey.” “You're wearing a trench coat and bandana, love. You are morally grey.” Within hours, Barkley was bathed, buffed, and stuffed into a double-breasted diplomatic uniform that made him look like a tiny general who moonlighted as a cabaret singer. He didn’t walk into the palace — he pranced. He gave just enough pomp to pass as official but not enough to look constipated. The Baroness was waiting. Spot-covered, slightly drunk, and swaddled in velvet and disapproval. Her monocle glinted like a villain origin story. “You’re shorter than I expected,” she sniffed. “Compensated by charm and a really nice watch,” Barkley replied smoothly, giving her the full-fluff head tilt. It worked. She barked out a laugh — the kind that sounded like therapy and tequila. Over the next two hours, Barkley worked his magic. He complimented her taxidermy art. He pretended to care about royal spreadsheets. He listened with wide, soulful eyes as she recounted the time she fell in love with a pug named Stefano who left her for a pastry chef. “He was flaky,” she whispered, voice thick with pain and metaphor. Then, at the peak of emotional vulnerability, as she clutched her goblet of triple-shot tiramisu liqueur, Barkley slipped away. Down the hall. Through the pantry. Past a guard playing Sudoku with a ferret. Into the vault. There it sat. The Sacred Bean. It pulsed gently with caffeine and political intrigue. Barkley reached for it, paws trembling. “Halt!” Shit. The steward. A pit bull in formal robes. He looked like someone who once bit a priest and blamed it on allergies. Barkley did what any professional would do. He farted. Not a cute fart. No. This was an event. A long, slow honk of fermented cheese and travel stress, followed by a look of utter innocence. The pit bull froze. He blinked. Barkley swore he saw a tear form. The dog turned and fled. Barkley grabbed the bean and ran. He burst out of the palace, cape flying behind him (he’d found it in the hallway and decided it completed the look). Vince was waiting at the exit, holding what appeared to be a hoverboard made from baguettes and espresso motors. “You got it?” Vince grinned. Barkley held up the bean. “No decaf for the masses!” “To revolution!” Vince shouted. They rode off across the sky, yelling insults at the royals and leaving a trail of croissant crumbs in their wake. The Sacred Bean glowed brighter in Barkley’s paw, signaling change — and possibly indigestion. Back on the train platform that only appeared to those in need, a new bench waited. A new suitcase. A new story to begin. But for now, Barkley and Vince flew into the dusk, fueled by chaos, caffeine, and the undeniable truth that freedom sometimes comes wearing boots and a beret. And yes, Barkley peed on a Corgistan flag on the way out. Because legends aren't born. They're brewed.     Inspired by Barkley’s daring leaps across platforms, portals, and pastry-filled revolutions? Bring home a piece of the legend with our exclusive "Tails from the Train Station" collection. Whether you want to hang the adventure on your wall, send it to a friend, scribble down your own escapades, or just stick a little mischief wherever it fits — we’ve got you covered. 🧵 Tapestry – Bring Barkley’s world into your own lair 🌲 Wood Print – Rustic charm with rebel energy ✉️ Greeting Card – Send someone a tale they won’t forget 📓 Spiral Notebook – Jot down your own espresso-fueled missions 🐾 Sticker – Tiny Barkley, infinite mischief Available now on shop.unfocussed.com — because legends like Barkley deserve to travel with you.

by Bill Tiepelman

Stillness Under the Sporelight

The Girl Who Didn't Blink It is said—by unreliable drunks and slightly more reliable dryads—that if you wander too far into the gloom-glow of the Bristleback Woods, you might stumble upon a girl who doesn’t blink. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t giggle at your forest selfies or ask where you’re from. She just stands there, under a mushroom so large it could double as the Sistine Chapel of the Mycology Realm, radiating both stillness and a low-key vibe of “touch my spores and die.” Her name, if she has one, is Elspa of the Cap, though no one’s ever heard her say it out loud. Her silver hair falls in gravity-defying sheets like she’s perpetually caught mid-turn in a shampoo commercial. Her eyes are the kind of sharp that slice through pretense, and her cloak? A living fabric of moss and firefly-thread, stitched together by whispering mycelium monks who worship the god of decay (who, fun fact, is also the god of excellent cheese). Now, Elspa isn’t just loitering there for aesthetics. She’s a Protector. Capital P. Assigned to the Eastern Sporeshield—a literal and metaphysical barrier between the mortal world and That Which Seeps. It’s a thankless gig. Her shift is eternal. Her dental plan is nonexistent. And if she had a dime for every time a wandering bard tried to “charm the mushroom maiden,” she could afford a lakeside vacation and a decent exfoliant. But this evening, something is... off. The spores are flickering in odd rhythms, the ground hums with unsettled anticipation, and a group of lost humans—three influencers and one guy named Darren who just wanted to pee—have stepped too far into the border glow. Elspa watches. Still. Silent. Serene. Then she sighs the kind of sigh that could age wine. “Great,” she mutters to no one in particular. “Darren’s about to pee on an ancient Root Node and summon a shadow lichen. Again.” And thus, her vigil—eternal and itchy in places no cloak should itch—enters a new, ridiculous chapter. Lichen, Influencers, and the Ancient Sass If Elspa had a silver for every idiot who tried to commune with the forest by urinating on it, she could build a sky-bridge to the upper canopy, install a clawfoot bath, and retire in a hammock spun from cloud silks. But alas, Elspa of the Cap does not operate in silver. She operates in responsibility, rolled eyes, and ancient fungal contracts etched in rootblood. So when Darren—poor, nasal-voiced, cargo-shorted Darren—unzipped next to a glowing root and muttered, “Hope this isn't poison ivy,” the ground didn’t just hum. It thrummed. Like a cello string plucked by a god with regrets. The Root Node pulsed once, angrily, and released a puff of glimmering black spores into Darren’s face. He blinked. Coughed. Then burped a sound that was unmistakably in iambic pentameter. “Uhh... Darren?” called one of the influencers—Saylor Skye, 28K followers, known for her bioluminescent makeup tutorials and recent controversial opinion that moss is overrated. Darren turned slowly. His eyes glowed with fungal intelligence. His skin had begun to crust over with the papery, rippling texture of creeping shadow lichen. He took a breath, and out came the kind of voice that usually requires two vocal cords and an angry wind deity. “THE SPORE SEES ALL. THE ROOT REMEMBERS. YOU HAVE DISRESPECTED THE CORDYCEPTIC ORDER. WE HUNGER FOR RECKLESS URINATION.” “Okay, so that’s new,” Saylor muttered, already positioning her ring light. “This could be amazing content.” Elspa of the Cap, meanwhile, was already five paces closer, her cloak rustling like gossip between old leaves. She did not run. She never runs. Running is for deer, scammers, and emotionally unavailable men. Instead, she glided, slow and deliberate, until she stood squarely between the possessed Darren and the viral thirst trap crew. She raised a single hand, fingers curled into a sigil known only to Protectors and three heavily intoxicated badgers who once wandered into a secret fungal monastery. The forest quieted. The glow dimmed. Even the lichen paused—briefly confused, as if realizing it had possessed the most aggressively average man in existence. “You,” Elspa said, her voice flat as a moss mat, “have less intelligence than a damp toadstool with commitment issues.” Darren twitched. “THE ROOT—” “No,” Elspa cut in, and the air around her tightened, like the woods themselves were holding their breath. “You don’t get to use Root Speech while wearing Crocs. I will literally banish you to the mulch plane where the beige lichens go to die of boredom.” The Root Lichen hesitated. Possession is a finicky thing. It depends greatly on the drama and dignity of the host. Darren, gods bless him, was leaking anxiety and ham sandwich energy. Not ideal for ancient fungal vengeance. “Let him go,” Elspa ordered, placing her palm gently on Darren’s forehead. A soft pulse of light radiated from her fingers, warm and wet like forest breath. The spores recoiled, hissing like steamed leeches. With a gasp and a burp that smelled alarmingly like button mushrooms, Darren collapsed into the leaf litter, blinking up at Elspa with the awe of a man who’d just seen God, and She had judged his soul and his choice of footwear. Saylor, never one to waste a moment, whispered, “Girl, that was badass. Are you like... a woodland dominatrix or something? You need a handle. What about, like, ‘Mushroom Queen’ or—” “I am a Sporelady of the Eastern Sporeshield, sworn to stillness, guardian of the hidden pact, and dispenser of ancient sass,” Elspa replied coolly. “But yes. Sure. ‘Mushroom Queen’ works.” At this point, the forest had resumed its usual whispering hum of bird-thoughts and moss-logic, but something deeper had stirred. Elspa could feel it. The Root wasn’t just reacting to Darren’s disrespect. Something below—far below—had opened one curious eye. A vast consciousness, old and rot-bound, roused from fungal dreaming. And that... was not great. “Okay, folks,” Elspa said, hands on her hips. “Time to go. Walk exactly where I walk. If you step on a fungus circle or try to pet the singing bark, I will personally feed you to the Sporeshogs.” “What's a Sporeshog?” asked one influencer with rhinestone eyebrows. “A hungry regret with tusks. Now move.” And so, under the watchful hush of the ancient forest, Elspa led them deeper—not out, not yet—but to an old place. A locked place. Because something had awakened beneath the spores, and it remembered her name. The girl who didn’t blink was about to do something she hadn’t done in four centuries: Break a rule. The Pact, the Bloom, and the Girl Who Finally Blinked Beneath the forest, where roots speak in silence and lichen stores secrets in the curve of their growth rings, the door waited. Not a door in the human sense—no hinges, no knob, no angry HOA notices nailed to its frame—but a swelling of bark and memory where all stories end and some begin again. Elspa hadn’t approached it in three hundred and ninety-two years, not since she’d last sealed it with her blood, her oath, and a very sarcastic haiku. Now she stood before it again, the influencers clustered behind her like decorative mushrooms—colorful, vaguely toxic, and very confused. “You sure this is the way out?” asked Saylor, nervously checking her live stream. Only four viewers remained. One of them was her ex. “No,” Elspa said. “This is the way in.” With a flick of her wrist, her cloak unfurled like wings. The mycelium that threaded through it responded, humming in a low, sticky vibration. Elspa knelt and pressed her palm to the door. The forest’s breath hitched. “Hey, Root Dad,” she whispered. The earth groaned in a language older than rot. Something enormous and thoughtful pressed its presence upward, like a whale surfacing through soil. “Elspa.” It wasn’t a voice. It was a knowing. A feeling that settled into your bones like damp regret. “You let a Darren pee on me,” the Root murmured, vaguely wounded. “I was on break,” she lied. “Had a mushroom smoothie. Terrible idea. Got distracted.” “You are unraveling.” And she was. She could feel it. The Protector’s stillness fraying at the edges. The sarcasm was a symptom. The sass, a defense. After centuries of anchoring the Eastern Sporeshield, her spirit had begun to stir in inconvenient directions—toward action, toward change. Dangerous things, both. “I want out,” she said quietly. “I want to blink.” The Root paused for several geological seconds. Then: “You would give up stillness for movement? Spore for spark?” “I would give up stillness to stop feeling like furniture with back pain.” Behind her, Darren groaned and rolled over. One of the influencers had found cell service and was watching conspiracy theories about mushroom-based cults on YouTube. Elspa didn’t turn around. She didn’t need to. She was watching them all, in the way that only something still can truly watch—deep, unblinking, patient. “I’ll train another,” she said. “Someone younger. Maybe a squirrel. Maybe a girl who doesn’t speak in hashtags. Someone who isn’t tired.” The Root was silent. Then, finally, it cracked. A thin seam opened along the bark, revealing a soft, amber light from within—a warm glow like a memory you almost forgot, waiting to be held. “Then you may pass,” the Root said. “But you must leave the Cloak.” That stopped her. The Cloak was not just fabric—it was every vow, every buried pain, every flicker of fungal wisdom stitched into shape. Without it, she would be... only Elspa. No longer Protector. Just a woman. With a really overdue nap ahead of her. She shrugged it off. It fell to the ground with a whisper that shook sap from the trees. Elspa stepped into the amber light. It smelled like petrichor, fresh mushrooms, and the breath of something that had never stopped loving her, not once, in four hundred years. The influencers watched, mouths open, thumbs frozen over “record.” Saylor whispered, “She didn’t even grab her cloak. That’s so raw.” Then the Root Door closed, and she was gone. — They never saw her again. Well, not as she had been. The new Protector appeared the next spring: a young woman with wild hair, a suspiciously intelligent squirrel assistant, and the Cloak reborn in softer threads. She didn’t speak much, but when she did, her sarcasm could fell a grown troll. And somewhere far away, in a small cottage grown from a ring of mushrooms under a sunset that never quite ended, Elspa blinked. She laughed. She learned to burn food again. She made very bad wine and worse friends. And when she smiled, it always looked just a little like the forest was smiling with her. Because sometimes, even protectors deserve to be protected. Even the still must someday dance. And the sporelight, for once, did not fade.     If Elspa’s quiet rebellion, her sacred sarcasm, and the glow of the sporelight linger in your thoughts—why not bring a little of that stillness home? From enchanted canvas prints that breathe life into your walls, to metal prints that shimmer like bioluminescent bark, you can take a piece of the Eastern Sporeshield with you. Curl up with a plush throw pillow inspired by her legendary cloak, or carry forest magic wherever you wander with a charming tote bag straight from Elspa’s dream cottage. Let her story settle into your space—and maybe, just maybe, you’ll feel the forest watching back.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Split-Pawed Snorticorn

The Cursed Cupcake Incident In the heart of the Bewildering Wood — a place where reality tended to forget its pants — there lived a kitten named Fizzle. But not just any kitten. Fizzle was a chimera: half tabby, half cream puff, with a unicorn horn that glowed when he sneezed and tiny bat wings that flapped angrily when someone stole his snacks. Which, to be fair, was often. Because Fizzle had a very punchable face — adorable, yes, but the kind that just screamed “I licked your donut.” Fizzle had no idea how he came to be the universe’s most bizarre mashup of cuteness and chaos. Some say he was cursed by a bored forest witch who got ghosted by a dating app algorithm. Others claim he was the result of a late-night tequila-fueled spell gone wrong involving two cats, one gremlin, and a drunken unicorn. All Fizzle knew was this: his life was a relentless carousel of unwanted attention, absurd quests, and inexplicable cupcake-related incidents. Case in point: on the morning our tale begins, Fizzle awoke to find a cursed red velvet cupcake sitting neatly on a mossy log outside his mossier tree stump. It pulsed ominously. It sparkled obscenely. It smelled like cinnamon, regret, and demonic frosting. “Oh no,” Fizzle muttered, his voice that of a surprisingly deep British butler trapped in a kitten’s body. “Not again.” Last time he ignored a cursed pastry, his wings turned into rubber chickens and his meow summoned tax auditors. But if he ate it? Well, he'd probably be turned into a moon or something equally inconvenient. The cupcake gave a seductive little shimmy. Fizzle gave it the finger. (Figuratively. He didn’t technically have fingers. But the glare did the job.) Just then, a scroll burst into flame mid-air and dropped onto his head. It read: “Oh Glorious Split-Pawed Snorticorn! You have been chosen to embark upon a sacred journey. Save the village of Gloomsnort from its existential dread. You will be compensated in baked goods.” “Nope,” Fizzle said, tossing the scroll into a puddle. It promptly turned into a swarm of motivational bees that buzzed things like “You’ve got this!” and “Believe in your tail!” and “Live. Laugh. Loot.” Fizzle sighed. He flexed his stubby wings, snorted a spark from his horn, and turned dramatically toward the east — which, in this part of the forest, was whatever direction your sarcasm pointed. “Fine,” he muttered, rolling his eyes so hard they almost dislocated. “Let’s go save a bunch of sad peasants from whatever emo nonsense they’ve gotten themselves into this week.” Thus began the legend of the most reluctant, snarky, and snack-obsessed hero the realm had never asked for — but was probably going to get anyway. Gloomsnort’s Emotional Support Goblins By the time Fizzle reached the outskirts of Gloomsnort — a town famous for its moaning fog, emotionally repressed turnips, and aggressively mediocre poetry scene — he already regretted everything. His fur had frizzed from a sudden cloud of passive-aggressive lightning. His horn had been used by a flock of caffeine-addicted sprites as a stirring stick. And worst of all, he’d run out of his emergency cheese crackers. The town gate — which was really more of a fence that had given up on itself — creaked as Fizzle nudged it open. A sentry goblin slumped in a folding chair, wearing a vest labeled “Security-ish” and eating a pickle with deep, philosophical sadness. “Name?” the goblin asked without enthusiasm. “Fizzle,” the kitten replied, brushing soot off his wings. “Chimera. Snorticorn. Destroyer of mild inconveniences. Possibly your last hope, depending on the budget.” The goblin blinked slowly. “That sounds made up.” “So does your mustache,” Fizzle deadpanned. “Let me in.” He was waved through without another word, mostly because nobody in Gloomsnort had the energy to argue with a creature whose horn was currently sparking with repressed rage and low blood sugar. The town square looked like a failed pop-up therapy festival. Banners hung limply with slogans like “Feelings Are Fine (Sometimes)” and “Hug Yourself Before You Mug Yourself.” A trio of goblin buskers was attempting an interpretive dance about the dangers of unprocessed grief while juggling meat pies. No one was watching. Except for a one-eyed newt with a monocle. The newt was weeping. “This place needs a mood swing and a disco ball,” Fizzle muttered. From the shadows emerged a cloaked figure with the vibe of someone who definitely journaled with scented ink. She introduced herself as Sage Crumpet, High Priestess of the Cult of Complex Emotions and Chief Warden of the Town’s Existential Crisis Inventory. “We’re so glad you came,” she said, eyes full of haunted sparkle. “Our entire village has lost its will to brunch. The espresso machines only weep now.” “Tragic,” Fizzle said flatly. “And what, precisely, am I expected to do about it?” She handed him a soggy parchment. It read: “Find the source of the malaise. Neutralize it. Optional: hug it out.” Fizzle sighed and popped his neck. “Let’s start with the usual suspects. Cursed artifacts? Undead therapists? Rogue poets with God complexes?” “We suspect… it’s the fountain,” Crumpet whispered. “The town’s emotional support fountain?” Fizzle asked. “Yes. It’s… begun to give advice.” Now, advising fountains weren’t new in this realm. The Elven city of Faelaqua had one that whispered self-care tips and passive-aggressive reminders to moisturize. But Gloomsnort’s fountain was reportedly speaking in ALL CAPS and demanding tribute in the form of scented candles and cryptic performance art. When Fizzle approached the fountain — which looked suspiciously like a repurposed birdbath covered in motivational moss — it began vibrating ominously. “I AM THE FONT OF INNER TURMOIL,” it bellowed. “BRING ME THE UNRESOLVED DREAMS OF YOUR CHILDHOOD OR BE FOREVER INFLUENCED BY DISCOUNT WELLNESS PODCASTS.” “Oh great,” Fizzle muttered, “a sentient Tumblr post with delusions of grandeur.” The fountain burbled menacingly. “SNORTICORN. I KNOW YOUR SHAME. YOU ONCE TRIED TO CAST A SPELL BY YELLING ‘FIREBALL’ AT A CANDLE.” “That’s called experimenting,” Fizzle snapped. “And it mostly worked. The curtain never fully recovered, but—” “SILENCE! YOU MUST FACE THE FORBIDDEN SPIRIT OF YOUR OWN REPRESSED WHIMSY. OR I WILL FLOOD THIS VILLAGE WITH PUMPKIN SPICE TEARS.” Before Fizzle could argue, the air cracked like a therapy bill, and from the fountain rose a swirling mist that took the shape of… a lizard. A very tall, muscular, improbably oiled lizard with sparkly eyes, a leather vest, and the voice of a late-night jazz DJ. “Well, hello there,” the lizard purred. “You must be my inner trauma.” “I sincerely hope not,” Fizzle said, backing up a pawstep. “I’m Lurvio,” the lizard said, stretching in slow motion. “I’m your unresolved ambition to be taken seriously while also being adorable and mildly unhinged.” “You’re a lot,” Fizzle said. “Like, too much lizard and not enough metaphor.” “Let’s tango,” Lurvio said, summoning a glowing banjo and an audience of giggling will-o’-the-wisps. And so, naturally, they danced. Because that’s how these things go. Fizzle found himself locked in an increasingly absurd ritual known as the “Twirling of Suppressed Self-Realization,” which involved tap-dancing around literal baggage while the townsfolk clapped off-beat and Crumpet wept into a tissue shaped like her father’s disapproval. As the final banjo chord faded into existential moaning, Lurvio bowed and dissolved into sparkles, yelling, “LIVE YOUR TRUTH, YOU FLUFFY ICON!” The fountain stopped vibrating. The town sighed in relief. Somewhere, a turnip wrote a sonnet and smiled. “Did… did I just fix your town by emotionally breakdancing with my lizard shadow self?” Fizzle asked, panting. “Yes,” Crumpet sniffled. “You have healed our emotional fountain. We are, once again, brunch-capable.” Fizzle collapsed into a pile of dramatic sighs and muttered, “I better get a freaking cupcake for this.” The Rise and Mildly Inconvenient Fall of the Snorticorn The morning after the Lizard of Suppressed Whimsy exploded into sparkles, Gloomsnort awoke to something even more unsettling than emotional healing: hope. Villagers danced half-heartedly near the now-chill fountain, sipping herbal tea and debating whether their therapy goats could now be replaced with gratitude journals. Street vendors sold knockoff plushies labeled “Fizzle Plushicorns,” complete with detachable wings and tiny embroidered frowns. A bard had already written a ballad titled “The Horny Half-Cat Who Saved Our Souls.” Fizzle hated everything. He’d tried sneaking out before breakfast, but the moment he stepped out of his tavern room (decorated entirely in his likeness, which was as traumatic as it was poorly lit), he was mobbed by townsfolk demanding inspirational quotes, hair clippings, and in one case, advice on long-distance dating a banshee. “I’m not a guru, I’m a goblin piñata with better marketing,” he growled, snapping at someone trying to polish his horn. “The Snorticorn speaks in riddles!” someone gasped. “Write that down!” “It wasn’t a riddle, Brenda. It was sarcasm.” Just as he reached peak fluff-fueled meltdown, Sage Crumpet appeared with an official-looking scroll and a look of spiritual constipation. “There’s… been a development,” she said ominously. “The Council of Unwarranted Revelations has decreed that you are to be enshrined in the Eternal Temple of Tricky Destiny.” “That sounds made up.” “Oh it is. But it’s also very real. That’s how cults work.” Fizzle was herded (gently, and with far too many flower garlands) to the ceremonial Glimmer Dome — a converted hay barn full of twinkle lights, confetti cannons, and a suspicious number of motivational cats painted on the walls. A robed council stood at the center. One of them was a hedgehog. Nobody explained that. “We have seen the glitter in the goat’s entrails,” intoned the lead seer, who may or may not have been high on nutmeg. “You are the Snorticorn of Legend. You must now ascend to your final form.” “What in the caramel-dipped hells does that mean?” Fizzle snapped. “It means,” said Crumpet gently, “that you’re about to be sacrificed to fulfill the Prophecy of Snackrifice.” “Excuse me??” “You see,” she continued, “ancient texts foretold that a fluffy, grumpy creature with great sass and uneven fur would bring emotional balance — but only by being dunked in the Sacred Fondue of Final Realization.” Fizzle’s wings snapped to full mast. “YOU WANT TO MELT ME IN CHEESE?” “Only a little,” said Crumpet. “Symbolically. Maybe. We’re not really sure what counts as a ‘dunk.’ The texts are vague and partially written in glitter glue.” It was then, as he was eyeing the hot cauldron bubbling ominously with gouda, that Fizzle remembered who he was: a sarcastic, deeply tired chimera kitten who had survived cursed pastries, emotional fountains, and sexy metaphor lizards. And by all the snacks in the sacred pantry — he wasn’t about to become brunch. “NOPE,” he yelled, puffing up like a stress puffball and launching himself into the air with a surprisingly majestic flap of his bat wings. “I AM RETIRING FROM PROPHECIES. I’M GOING BACK TO MY TREE STUMP, AND I’M TAKING THE CEREMONIAL CROISSANTS WITH ME!” The crowd gasped. The seers tripped over their robes. The fondue splashed. And somewhere in the confusion, Fizzle set off a confetti cannon with his horn and disappeared in a puff of glitter and sass. He wasn’t seen again for several weeks — not until a traveling raccoon bard spotted him lounging in a hammock woven from old scrolls, sipping coconut milk out of a skull cup, and muttering into a notebook labeled “New Prophecy Ideas: Less Fondue.” Gloomsnort slowly recovered from its hero-loss trauma. The plushie market crashed. The emotional support fountain eventually retired and opened a podcast. But now and then, when the fog rolls just right and someone lights a cinnamon candle of questionable origin, you might hear a faint voice on the wind whisper: “Live. Laugh. Snort.” And somewhere, Fizzle rolls his eyes and flips the sky the bird.     Take the Snorticorn Home (Without the Fondue Risk) If you laughed, sighed, or questioned reality while following Fizzle’s gloriously unhinged journey, you can now summon a piece of that chaotic charm into your own realm. Canvas prints and framed prints are available to bring mystical snark to your walls, while our delightfully impractical hero also graces greeting cards for those brave enough to send feelings in the mail. Want to scribble sarcastic wisdom like Fizzle himself? Grab a spiral notebook. Or declare your allegiance to weirdly heroic fluffballs with a sticker worthy of laptops, water bottles, or forbidden grimoire covers. Bring the magic home — because every space deserves a little snort-powered sass.

by Bill Tiepelman

Wizard of the Four Realms

Embers of the Pact In the lands before clocks, before kings, before carpets that flew or taxes that didn't, there lived a wizard known only as Calvax. Not a wizard — the wizard. Calvax the Boundless. Calvax the Irredeemable. Calvax, He Who Made the Elements Cry “Uncle.” Titles were easy to collect when you lived long enough to slap thunder across the face and drain a volcano like a fine scotch. He wasn’t born so much as assembled — carved by the roots of elder trees, tempered by the hiss of midwinter geysers, and given breath by a gust stolen from the lungs of a dying hurricane. No mother, no father, just the Four: Earth, Water, Fire, Air. They each took a piece of themselves and jammed them into the wrinkled hide of an old man-shaped golem, hoping he’d be wise, maybe helpful. Instead, they got a cranky old bastard with a god complex and a flair for sarcasm. He spent centuries pretending to protect the Realms. Planting forests here, flooding tyrants there, occasionally setting noblemen ablaze "by accident" when they strutted too close. But that was before the humans — oh, the humans — turned him into a bedtime story. They called him a myth, a fable, a “cautionary tale.” Imagine being cosmically handcrafted by nature itself only to be reduced to the narrative equivalent of a PSA about staying in school. That might’ve been the end of it. Calvax, still grumpy but dormant. Until one day, he stirred. Not because of duty. Not because the elements called him. No, he woke up because some arrogant little prince with too much cologne and not enough brain matter decided to dynamite a sacred grove… for a golf course. It wasn’t even a good one. Nine holes. Artificial turf. A margarita drone. Calvax stood at the edge of the smoldering grove, face cracked with fresh rage. Lava veins pulsed under one cheek, rain hissed down his beard, and moss reanimated across his temple like a slow curse. He hadn't looked this alive in 200 years. “Guess who's back, back again?” he muttered, voice gravel and thunder. “Tell your friends.” The elements whispered in his bones: **Vengeance. Fire. Reclamation. Snark.** He smiled, the kind of smile that made birds drop dead mid-air and made gods feel a little nervous. Because when Calvax gets mad, continents shift. And when he gets even? Oh honey, they rename maps. The Vile Vineyard of Varron Dax There are few things in life more dangerous than an immortal wizard with time on his hands. Especially one with a grudge. Calvax didn’t just want to punish the idiot prince who torched the sacred grove — he wanted to annihilate his legacy, humiliate his bloodline, and make his ancestors spin in their graves fast enough to generate clean energy. The target of his elemental vendetta was Prince Varron Dax, heir to the wine-bloated, scandal-riddled House Daxleford. A walking ego with a six-pack sculpted by court mages, teeth too perfect to be real, and a jawline that had ruined more peace treaties than plague. His offenses were many — wars for profit, deforestation for “aesthetic hunting grounds,” and the worst offense of all: he once tried to rebrand the moon. Called it “The Dax Pearl” and had it trademarked. He was an icon of mediocrity propped up by wealth, vanity, and an inner circle that doubled as a harem, a weapons cartel, and a PR agency. He lived in a palace made of white quartz and glass imported from shattered temples. A man who believed elemental shrines were just old rocks in need of explosives and a Pinterest board. So Calvax didn’t send a lightning bolt or erupt a volcano under his villa. That would be too fast. Too clean. No, he brewed something petty. Vile. Deliciously drawn-out. The kind of revenge that requires charts, enchanted ink, and a sarcasm-fueled ritual on a Tuesday. It began with the Vineyard Curse. Prince Varron’s favorite pastime was his exclusive “Apocalypse Rosé,” a wine harvested only once every lunar eclipse, made from grapes grown in the ash of sacred forest groves — including the one he’d destroyed. His private label had a six-year waiting list and came with a certificate of divine smugness. So Calvax hexed the soil under it. Not to kill the vines. No — to make them sentient. And moody. The vines woke screaming at sunrise. They wrapped around workers’ ankles, whipped at butlers, and demanded rights. Some started quoting existential philosophers. Others whispered gossip they shouldn’t know. One was overheard telling a noblewoman that her husband was cheating and had a wart “shaped like betrayal.” Within days, the vineyard was overrun with emotionally unstable flora, wailing about abandonment and wine exploitation. A rare breed of grape attempted to unionize. Bottles began to ferment into vinegar overnight. The most expensive casks turned to gelatinous goo with notes of regret and elderflower. Naturally, Prince Varron called in mages. Twelve of them. Expensive ones with silk robes and hollow morals. Calvax laughed. Then he sent them dreams — dreams of drowning in barrels of rosé, being strangled by grapevines whispering their childhood insecurities. By week’s end, three renounced magic. Two joined a monastery. One tried to marry a potted plant. But Calvax wasn’t finished. Oh, no. The vineyard was just Act One in his slow-motion destruction of House Daxleford. Next came The Wailing Well. Hidden under the palace’s west wing, it once whispered ancient truths to those who dared lean in. Varron, of course, had it converted into a cocktail well. Magic-infused rum. Sigh. So Calvax tweaked it. Now, anyone who drank from it would speak only in their darkest regrets for twenty-four hours. Court meetings turned into confessions. Daxleford guards admitted to stealing pants off dead enemies. Nobles sobbed over failed affairs, bribes, and unresolved issues with their childhood ponies. At a banquet, Varron himself took a shot of “Haunted Hibiscus” and, to the horror of every ambassador present, blurted out that he had forged his entire military record and once cried when he broke a nail during a duel he didn’t show up to. Foreign dignitaries left in disgust. Treaties were annulled. A wedding between Varron’s cousin and the Frost King’s son was called off due to "unrelenting douchebaggery." Then came the dreams. Not just for the prince. For everyone. At night, the skies over Daxleford turned cloudy with faces — elemental, glowing, sneering. Each peasant and noble alike saw visions of Calvax’s return: the bearded wrath of Earth, Water, Fire, and Air, laughing with wild-eyed delight. People began fleeing the kingdom in droves. Carts were loaded, palaces abandoned. Even the rats packed up and left letters of resignation. Still, Prince Varron remained. Or rather, hid. In his panic chamber. Surrounded by velvet and perfumed walls. Waiting. Hoping this was all a bad trip brought on by too much spiced mead and not enough moral fiber. But Calvax was just getting started. Revenge wasn't a moment. It was an arc. And the next chapter was not just about humiliation. It was about ruin. The Crown of Cinders The final blow was not a scream or a fireball. It wasn’t even a flood or a landslide — though Calvax toyed with all those options during a particularly satisfying bath in molten basalt. No, the fall of Prince Varron Dax came on the wings of a whisper. A name. Spoken softly. Carried on the wind like gossip with fangs. “He knows.” No one knew who said it first. Perhaps a maid. Perhaps a goat. Perhaps the breeze itself, now loyal to the ancient wizard who once seduced a thunderstorm into loyalty and made a hurricane blush. But once those words spread, the court unravelled like a badly tied corset at an orgy. He knows. He knows what you did. Where you hid it. Who you paid. Who you slept with. Who you had executed on a dare. He knows. And he’s coming. Not for justice. Not for peace. But for entertainment. Calvax was no longer just a wizard. He was inevitability with a beard. The prince’s inner circle fell first — not by sword or spell, but by fear-induced dumbassery. The Minister of Coin set the treasury on fire to “hide the evidence.” The Royal General shaved her head, put on a robe, and fled to live with the badgers. The High Priest tried to exorcise himself. Twice. One noble tried to bribe Calvax with enchanted silk sheets. Calvax turned him into a perfectly folded napkin that weeps during dinner. Even the prince’s famed pleasure dome — a rotating carousel of glass and moonlight — simply shattered under the weight of anxiety and unpaid elemental debts. Apparently the air spirits don’t take late fees lightly. And where was Varron Dax, during this crumbling, flaming, totally-earned disaster? Cowering. Beneath the palace. In the Chamber of Forgotten Bones. Wrapped in mink and mead-stained shame. He hadn’t shaved in weeks. His jawline, once insured by seven different kingdoms, was now hidden behind the tragic fuzz of existential dread. He whispered to himself in the dark: “He’s just a myth. A scary story. A bedtime tale for peasants and druids.” Then the stones began to weep. Real tears. Granite sobbing, ancient marble moaning. And through the cracks in the chamber ceiling, a vine pushed through — not green, but blackened with fury and wet with ancient memory. Calvax entered the chamber without opening a door. The air folded around him like it owed him money. His robes moved as if stitched by weather itself — lightning hemming the cuffs, rainwater rolling off the folds, embers dancing across the seams. His eyes gleamed — one burning coal, the other a drop of ocean so cold it ached to look at. Varron stood. Or tried. His knees, having been raised on velvet and cowardice, gave out. “You… you can’t,” Varron stammered, pointing a ring-clad finger. “You’re not real. I outlawed you. I made a decree. You’re obsolete!” Calvax snorted. “You also decreed that water could be flammable and that pigs could vote. How’d that work out?” “You’re a relic,” Varron spat, grasping for any kind of leverage. “No one believes in you anymore.” Calvax stepped forward. The air chilled. Flames in the prince’s panic-lanterns died mid-flicker. Even the stone bones embedded in the walls turned to look. “I don’t require belief,” Calvax said. “I require consequences.” With one wave of his hand, the ground trembled, then bloomed — not with roses, but with the ghosts of trees. The sacred grove returned, if only in spirit, growing through the cracks, roots of memory twisting around marble columns, wrapping the prince in vines of remorse and poetic justice. “You destroyed what you didn’t understand,” Calvax whispered. “You mocked what you couldn’t master. And now… you face the only thing left: me.” Varron opened his mouth to scream — but no sound came. His voice, Calvax decided, would be put to better use elsewhere. When the people of Daxleford returned months later, the palace was gone. In its place stood a massive tree — towering, ancient, and humming with elemental power. From one gnarled branch, a face-shaped knot wept mead. And in the wind, sometimes, you could hear a voice mutter: “I should’ve just planted a stupid orchard.” Calvax? He vanished. Or perhaps he simply moved on. Legends said he wandered north, where the ice moans and the auroras whisper dirty jokes. Others say he became the mountain itself. But one thing is certain: if you hear the trees laugh, if the wind chuckles, if your wine tastes a little judgmental — he’s watching. And if you’re very, very lucky… he’s only amused.     Bring the Magic Home Feeling a strange urge to hex your living room? Want to carry a little elemental vengeance to the farmer’s market? Or maybe you just want to wrap yourself in the smoldering wrath of an ancient wizard while binge-watching morally questionable TV? You're in luck. The legendary artwork behind Wizard of the Four Realms is available in enchanted object form — no arcane training required. Whether you're a lover of fantasy art, a chaos gremlin with good taste, or someone just tired of blank walls and boring blankets, there’s something here for you: 🔥 Metal Print – Give your space a bold, elemental glow with a high-gloss finish that practically radiates power. 🌊 Acrylic Print – Crystal-clear depth and mesmerizing vibrance — as if Calvax himself enchanted your walls. 🌿 Tote Bag – Carry the power of all four realms with you, whether you’re grocery shopping or cursing exes from afar. 🌬️ Fleece Blanket – Cozy up with elemental fury. Warning: may provoke dreams of vengeance and excellent snark. Honor the grove. Hug the magic. Decorate with wrath. Shop the full collection now and turn your realm into something truly unforgettable.

by Bill Tiepelman

Madame Mugwort’s Morning Ritual

The Brew Before the Boom Madame Mugwort did not tolerate interruptions before her first cup. Not from the crows, not from the spirits in the attic, and especially not from the overly chipper nymph next door who thought singing to her begonias at sunrise was an acceptable life choice. “If I wanted a warbling root sprite to assault my morning, I'd have adopted a satyr,” Mugwort muttered, yanking the curtains shut with a gnarled hand that glowed faintly with anti-joy warding charms. The kettle, of course, was already screeching — not in the mundane whistling sense, but in the proper banshee-on-fire kind of way. It was enchanted to alert the undead neighbors to mind their own grave plots. Mugwort shuffled toward it, her patchwork slippers whispering secrets to the floor as she passed. With the steam of something possibly caffeinated and vaguely alive curling from the spout, she poured the boiling brew into a carved mug etched with wards, glyphs, and the occasional passive-aggressive sigil. “For Clarity and Calm,” read the bottom — a lie so bold it shimmered slightly in the morning sun. She took a sip. Then another. The room exhaled. Somewhere, a distant thunderclap retreated sheepishly. Her left eyebrow — once raised with perpetual suspicion — slowly lowered to its resting state of "I’m still watching you, but I’ll allow it." As the potion settled into her bones, Mugwort peered out over her wooden sill, where the fog rolled in like a hangover made of mist. The birds didn’t chirp. They knew better. One particularly bold bluejay gave a brief squawk, then exploded into glitter — she’d warned them about the perimeter rune. Natural selection was tough but effective in the Wyrdwood. She pulled her shawl tighter, the tartan fabric absorbing the morning's strange energies like a cozy sponge of ancestral sass. Each thread was stitched with a lesson. “Don’t trust a druid who can’t cook,” read one. “Wolves lie. Owls eavesdrop. Fae flirt to steal your soul. And never date a man who insists on being called ‘Sorcerer Supreme’ — he probably still lives with his mother.” Today, she thought, would be the day. The omen-teabags had all dissolved into phallic shapes. The mirror had winked at her twice. And the squirrel council outside had left three acorns stacked in the unmistakable shape of a middle finger. Yes. Today was the day she’d been avoiding for 147 years, 2 months, and an inconvenient Tuesday: she would face her past. Or at least open the damn letter still sealed in that cursed green envelope on the mantel. The one that hummed quietly. The one that occasionally belched sparks. But first, another sip. Because even when destiny is scratching at your front door wearing a trench coat and nothing else, you do not — do not — deal with it until the mug is empty. She took a deep breath, adjusted her headscarf with a flourish that made a moth faint in admiration, and muttered: “Alright, destiny. You cheeky bastard. Let’s dance. Just… gimme five more minutes.” The Envelope of Unresolved Shenanigans Five minutes turned into twenty-two. Not that time flowed normally in Mugwort’s cottage. The grandfather clock was sentient, petty, and entirely unreliable — having fallen in love with a coatrack in 1893, it refused to chime until she reunited them. Mugwort, of course, refused on principle. The coatrack had splinters and bad taste in hats. She sat in her creaky rocking chair, the mug now empty save for a sentient tea leaf clinging to the rim like a drunk sailor. The glow in her eyes dimmed slightly as she stared at the envelope — forest green, wax-sealed with a thorny insignia, and pulsing like a guilty heartbeat. She sighed with all the weight of a woman who’s lived through five pandemics, three invasions, and an unfortunate summer fling with a shapeshifter who never quite learned boundaries. “If this damn letter contains another prophecy about the end of the world, I swear I’ll burn down the oracle’s hot tub,” she muttered, lifting the envelope with the caution usually reserved for dragons, cursed cheese, or fan mail. Her fingers trembled slightly. Not from fear — from irritation. “Let it be known,” she said aloud to the furniture, “that if this turns out to be from my ex, I will personally hex every pair of his underwear into sentient, clingy vines.” The wax melted with a hiss as she tapped it with her thumbnail. The letter unfolded itself — of course it did — revealing ink that shimmered between gold and blood red, depending on how guilty you felt reading it. Mugwort’s eyes narrowed as the words appeared in dramatic, over-performed cursive: “Dearest Elmira Mugwort, the Time Has Come.” “Oh, piss off,” she grunted. “It’s always come. When was the last time someone wrote me saying ‘Never mind, the Time is taking a nap’?” The letter continued, oblivious to her contempt: “A great unraveling approaches. You must travel to the Forgotten Marsh, seek the Tower of Neveragain, and retrieve the Cup of Eternal…” She stopped reading. Her eye twitched. “Nope.” She flung the parchment across the room. It burst into harmless blue flames, dissolved into ash, and reassembled itself midair back in her lap like a desperate ex with access to your cloud backups. “You must go,” it insisted in a new font — sassier this time, Comic Sans with divine authority. She took a deep, world-weary breath. “I knew this day would come. I just hoped it would arrive after I’d reincarnated as a pampered house cat with excellent posture.” Dragging herself from the chair with exaggerated drama, she retrieved her travel sack — a patchwork leather thing that smelled of licorice, old books, and poor decisions. She opened her herb drawer, which promptly scolded her. “You haven’t replenished your migraine bark in a month,” it said in her mother’s voice. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you using parsley instead of wyrmroot in the stew last Thursday.” “Wyrmroot gives me gas,” Mugwort snapped. She shoved in a vial of dream-dust, three goblin crackers, and a sarcastic spoon that whispered unsolicited advice. Her staff — gnarled, beautiful, and slightly passive-aggressive — leaned against the wall humming show tunes. She grabbed it. It sighed. “Don’t start,” she warned. “We’re doing this because some mystical postal system insists on dragging me into destiny one more damn time.” As she prepared to leave, the fireplace rumbled. A face appeared in the flames — haughty cheekbones, smoky eyes, and the unmistakable expression of someone who’d attended too many secret council meetings. “Elmira,” it said. “Flamefax, if you’re about to tell me I’m ‘the only one who can stop this,’ I will slap your manifestation with a frozen fish.” He blinked. “Well, technically it’s you and a band of—” “NOPE. We are not assembling a ragtag crew of misfits again. The last one ended with a stolen goat, a possessed ukulele, and a restraining order from the Merfolk Guild.” “They lifted that, didn’t they?” “Only on alternating Tuesdays during waning moons.” The fireface sighed. “Look, Mugwort, you don’t have to do this alone. The prophecy says—” “The prophecy can kiss my tartan arse.” She blew out the flame with a single puff. It gave a mournful little wheeze and vanished. Mugwort stood there, arms crossed, lips pursed, considering the absurdity of yet another magical quest at her age. “You’d think I’d earned my magical menopause and could finally be left alone to ferment gin and judge people’s chakras,” she grumbled. But a flicker of something stirred inside her — not obligation, not even curiosity. Just the faintest itch of unfinished business. The kind that gets under your nails and whispers, you’re not done yet, old girl. She stared at the morning sun now breaking through the trees — not golden, but coppery like a coin flipped too many times. A decision made. A door opening. Or at least creaking on its hinges, demanding WD-40 and a little courage. “Fine,” she said aloud, cinching her robe, tightening her headscarf, and adjusting a satchel now wriggling with half-sentient luggage. “But I swear, if I see one more Chosen One with a dramatic haircut and no impulse control, I will turn them into a newt with IBS.” With that, Madame Mugwort stepped out of her crooked door, onto the winding path of destiny, with a snarky smirk, a glowing staff, and a mug full of now-cold tea in hand. Because if she was going to face fate, she’d do it the same way she did everything: On her own terms — and fashionably late. The Curse, the Cup, and the Cataclysmic Conclusion The road to the Forgotten Marsh was less a road and more a disrespectful suggestion carved by lightning, spite, and budget cuts. Mugwort’s boots squelched with every step, each one producing a squish that sounded vaguely like moaning frogs reconsidering their life choices. “This,” she muttered, swatting at a mosquito the size of a grapefruit, “is why I don’t take prophecies seriously. If the gods wanted me in a swamp, they could’ve sent wine and a raft.” Her staff, always eager to antagonize, lit up with a dramatic flash to illuminate a twisted sign nailed to a skeletal tree. “WARNING: Here There Be Mild Inconvenience.” Beneath that, in smaller text: Also Death. But Mugwort wasn’t fazed. She’d faced worse in her prime. She’d unseated the King of Spiders with a ladle, divorced a god for bad foot hygiene, and once banished a plague demon by insulting its eyebrows until it gave up on existence. Still, the Tower of Neveragain loomed ahead, rising like an unsolicited group text — tall, ominous, and impossible to ignore. Its stones wept moss and curses. Lightning forked around its top like celestial jazz hands. And perched at the entrance, guarding it with the enthusiasm of a cat watching a dripping tap, was a sphinx with half a crossword puzzle and an attitude problem. “Answer my riddle and—” it began. “Nope,” Mugwort interrupted, flipping a coin at it. “That’s not how—” “You’re lonely. You're underpaid. You're tired of your own riddles. Take the coin, buy yourself a pastry, and let me pass.” The sphinx blinked. Sniffed the coin. Licked it. Shrugged. “Screw it. Go ahead.” Inside, the tower spiraled upward in that ancient way designed by architects who hate knees. Mugwort climbed, wheezing curses at every other stair. The walls whispered forgotten secrets, mostly in passive-aggressive haikus. One read: Power lies aboveBut so does a rotting smellSeriously — yuck At the top, upon a pedestal pulsing with dramatic, overcompensating light, rested the Cup of Eternal ___________. That’s right. The name was missing. The blank shimmered, waiting for someone to define it — a cup shaped by intent, by need, by the drinker’s own desire. And Mugwort knew that was trouble. “This,” she said, eyeing it, “is exactly how Brenda ended up summoning her ex’s lower half attached to her new fiancé.” The room vibrated as a figure stepped out from the shadows. Tall, cloaked, and with a grin that could curdle goat milk: *Thistlebone the Unrelenting*, her former classmate and lifelong magical pain-in-the-arse. “Elmira,” he said smoothly, “you’re late.” “You’re still wearing eyeliner like it’s 1479,” she shot back. He sneered. “I’ve come for the cup.” “Oh, good. Then we can fight like in the old days. You monologue, I sass, something explodes. Shall we begin?” They circled. Staffs crackled. Potions boiled. Insults flew with deadly accuracy. He summoned fire. She summoned sarcasm. He cast illusions. She dispelled them with a look that said, “Boy, I raised better spells in my armpit.” Then he made a fatal mistake — he tried to call her “dear.” The air thickened. The mug, still clipped to her belt, hissed like a kettle before war. She raised it high, whispered an old word — one only spoken during funerals or tax season — and flung its contents straight at his face. He screamed. “WHAT WAS THAT?” “My third cup of Monday morning tea. Brewed in vengeance. Infused with truths. Boiled in regret.” He began shrinking. Hair falling out. Robes deflating. Until all that was left was a grumpy little newt with eyeliner. She scooped him up, dropped him in a glass jar, and slapped on a sticker that read: *“Do Not Feed the Narcissist.”* Now alone, she approached the cup again. It pulsed. The blank shimmered once more: “Cup of Eternal __________?” She stared. Thought. Sighed. Then chuckled. “Oh hell, why not.” She spoke a single word: “Peace.” The cup glowed. Warm. Gentle. The kind of glow that reminded her of soft blankets, fresh bread, and an afternoon where nothing and no one needed her to save the world or babysit destiny. She picked it up. No thunder. No burst of energy. Just a warmth that slid through her bones like a memory of laughter from someone long gone. Descending the tower was easier. Funny how clarity weighed less than dread. The swamp, too, seemed to part for her return — or perhaps it just feared another mug-splashing incident. The sphinx was gone, a trail of frosting leading into the trees. Back home, the fireplace was warm, the chair forgiving, and the tea freshly enchanted. She placed the cup on her mantel, beside a photo of her younger self — smirking, wild-eyed, and holding a goblin in a headlock. She raised her mug in salute. “Still got it, old girl.” The window creaked open. A breeze fluttered through. Somewhere, a raven dropped a scroll labeled “URGENT: Next Prophecy!” She caught it. Used it to light a candle. Sipped her tea. And smiled — because she finally understood: peace wasn't something you waited for. It was something you claimed. Even if you had to hex a bastard or two along the way.     Bring a Bit of Mugwort’s Magic Into Your Realm If you’ve fallen under the spell of Madame Mugwort and her gloriously grumpy rituals, you can now bring a piece of her enchanted world into your own. Whether you’re curling up under a fleece blanket steeped in witchy wisdom, propping your back with a throw pillow charmed with snark and plaid, or sipping tea while gazing at a canvas print or metal print that radiates mystical sass — you’ll find something to suit your vibe. You can even send a bit of her sarcasm to a friend with a greeting card worthy of the weird and wonderful. Each item is crafted to capture the depth, humor, and hearth-warmed charm of this legendary morning moment — perfect for witches, wise women, and chaotic good souls everywhere.

by Bill Tiepelman

Last Call at Gnome O’Clock

The Pint-Sized Provocateur There are taverns, and then there’s The Pickled Toadstool, a place so off-the-grid not even Google Maps could find it. Buried beneath a crooked willow stump at the far edge of Hooten Hollow, this snug little den of wooden stools, sticky floors, and questionable liqueurs was a well-kept secret among woodland folk. It had only two rules: no goblins on Thursdays, and if Old Finn the gnome is drinking tequila—just let him. Old Finn wasn’t just a regular. He was the reason the barkeep kept lime wedges in stock and the wallpaper perpetually smelled of salt and bad decisions. Clad in a lopsided red cap and a waistcoat that hadn't seen a button in decades, Finn was a legend, a cautionary tale, and a frequent health violation all rolled into one. He wasn't technically old—gnomes lived forever if they stayed away from lawnmowers—but he sure drank like he had nothing left to prove. On the night in question, Finn stumbled into The Pickled Toadstool with a swagger only the irreparably inebriated could pull off. He kicked open the acorn-hinged door, paused dramatically under the threshold like some kind of pointy-shoed gunslinger, and belched a wordless threat into the room. A hush fell. Even the pixies stopped mid-flutter. "I want," he said, pointing a stubby, gnarled finger at nobody in particular, "your finest bottle of whatever makes me forget the mating call of the red-breasted swamp goose." Jilly the bar-maiden, a flirty mushroom sprite with an eyebrow ring and zero patience, rolled her eyes and reached beneath the bar. Out came a bottle of Murkwood Gold—gnome-grade tequila, aged three months in a chipmunk skull and rumored to be illegal in three realms. She didn’t even bother pouring. She just handed it over like it was a loaded weapon. Finn grinned, popped the cork with his teeth, and took a swig so violent it made the tavern’s only decorative fern faint. He thumped his shot glass on the table (though he'd brought his own from a previous bar fight), sliced a lime with a blade he kept in his boot, and shouted, “TO BAD DECISIONS AND IRRITABLE BOWELS!” The cheer that followed shook the roots of the tree overhead. A hedgehog slurred something about streaking, a satyr passed out before he could object, and someone (no one ever admits who) summoned a conga line that trampled an entire chess game in progress. Chaos bloomed like a moldy turnip—and Finn was at the center, drunker than a troll at Oktoberfest, eyes twinkling like a raccoon who just found an unlocked dumpster. But as the night pressed on, the tequila ran low, the music got weirder, and Finn started asking existential questions no one was prepared to answer, like “Have you ever seen a squirrel cry?” and “What’s the moral weight of drinking pickle brine for money?” And that’s when things took a turn… Tequila Revelations and Mushroom Revelry Now, let’s be clear about something: when a gnome starts philosophizing with a half-empty bottle of Murkwood Gold and a lime wedge clutched in one hand like it’s an emotional support citrus, it’s time to either run or record the whole damn thing for folklore. But none of the drunken degenerates in The Pickled Toadstool had the good sense—or sobriety—for either. So instead, they leaned in. Finn had planted himself atop the bar like a prophet of the porcelain throne, beard stained with tequila dribbles, one boot missing, the other mysteriously containing a goldfish. He pointed to a confused possum wearing a monocle—Sir Slinksworth, who was mostly there for the free peanuts—and bellowed, “YOU. If mushrooms can talk, why don’t they ever text back?” Sir Slinksworth blinked once, adjusted his monocle, and slowly backed away into a broom closet, where he’d remain for the rest of the evening pretending to be a coat rack. Finn’s gaze swept the bar. He grabbed a nearby spoon and raised it like a conductor’s wand. “Ladies. Gentlefolk. Illegally sapient fungi. It’s time... for stories.” A cricket played a dramatic sting on a nearby leaf. Someone farted. And with that, the bar fell silent again as Finn leaned into his legend. “Once,” he began, wobbling slightly, “I kissed a troll under a bridge. She was beautiful in a ‘will definitely murder me’ kind of way. Hair like seaweed and breath like fermented cabbage. Mmm. I was young. I was stupid. I was... unemployed.” Jilly, wiping down the counter with something that might have once been a towel, muttered, “You’re still unemployed.” “Technically,” he countered, “I’m a freelance beverage tester and spiritual consultant.” “Spiritual consultant?” “I consult the spirits. They say, ‘drink more.’” The tavern erupted in cackles. A pixie fell off her stool and knocked over a bowl of glowing slugnuts. A squirrel danced on the bar with two acorns strategically placed where no acorns should be. The conga line had long since devolved into interpretive crawling, and a raccoon was vomiting behind a potted plant named Carl. But then came the lime. No one knows who started it. Some say it was Old Gertie, the barkeep’s pet newt. Others blame the twins—two bipedal weasels named Fizz and Gnarle who’d been banned from three fairy communes for “excessive nibbling.” But what’s certain is this: the lime fight began with one innocent toss... and escalated into full-blown citrus warfare. Finn took a lime square to the forehead and didn't flinch. Instead, he popped it in his mouth and spat the rind out like a watermelon seed, hitting a unicorn in the ear. That unicorn had rage issues. Chaos leveled up. Glass shattered. Someone pulled out a kazoo. The tavern’s chandelier—actually just a tangled wad of spider silk and glowworms—collapsed onto a group of druids who were too busy singing Fleetwood Mac backwards to notice. The air turned thick with lime pulp and salt spray. Finn was hoisted onto the shoulders of two inebriated field mice and declared, by popular vote, the “Minister of Bad Timing.” He waved regally. “I accept this non-consensual nomination with grace and the promise of moderate destruction!” And so, Minister Finn presided over what became known in local legend as The Great Lime Rebellion of Hooten Hollow. By midnight, the bar was a war zone. By 2 a.m., it had become an impromptu poetry slam featuring a drunken centaur who rhymed everything with “butt.” By 3:30, the entire establishment had run out of tequila, salt, limes, and patience. That’s when Jilly rang the bell. A single clang that cut through the noise like a knife through overripe brie. “Last call, you creatures of chaos. Finish your drinks, kiss someone questionable, and get the hell out before I start turning people into decorative mushrooms.” Everyone groaned. Someone actually wept. Finn, still wobbling, now wearing a pirate hat that was definitely a lettuce leaf, raised his shot glass for one final toast. “To terrible choices!” he shouted. “To memories we won’t remember and regrets we’ll enthusiastically repeat!” And with that, the entire bar echoed him back with drunken reverence: “TO GNOME O’CLOCK!” Outside, dawn was beginning to pink the sky. The first birds chirped sweet songs of impending hangovers. The revelers stumbled out, glitter-covered, grass-stained, and partially pantsless—but deeply, sincerely content. Except Finn. Finn wasn’t done yet. He had one more idea. One more terrible, beautiful, lime-soaked idea. And it involved a wheelbarrow, a jug of honey, and the mayor’s prized goose... The Goose, the Glory, and the Gnome Morning dew shimmered on the blades of grass like the universe itself was hungover. A foggy mist rolled across Hooten Hollow, disturbed only by the faint wobble of a single squeaky wheel. That wheel belonged to a rusted, slightly bloodstained wheelbarrow, careening down a slope with all the grace of a goat in roller skates. And at its helm? You guessed it—Finn the gnome, grinning like a maniac who had absolutely no business operating farm equipment. The honey jug was strapped to his chest with twine. The mayor’s goose—Lady Featherstone the Third—was tucked under his arm like an indignant accordion. And the plan? Well, “plan” is a generous word. It was more of a tequila-induced vision involving revenge, animal pageantry, and a deeply misguided attempt to start a new religion centered around fermented agave and poultry-based wisdom. Let’s rewind five minutes. After being ceremoniously ejected from The Pickled Toadstool via slingshot (an annual tradition), Finn had landed squarely in a hedge and muttered something about “divine enlightenment via waterfowl.” He emerged covered in burrs, wild-eyed, and on a mission. That mission, as far as anyone could tell, involved honey-glazing the mayor’s prized goose and declaring her the reincarnation of a forgotten gnome goddess named Quacklarella. Now, Lady Featherstone was not your average goose. She was a biter. A seasoned one. Rumor had it she once chased a dwarf through three provinces for insulting her plumage. She’d survived two magical floods, a karaoke night gone wrong, and a brief stint as an underground fight club champion. She was not, in any realm, fit for religious exploitation. But Finn, drunk on ego and corn liquor he found behind a log, disagreed. He slathered the goose in honey, placed a crown made of cocktail umbrellas on her head, and stood atop a stump to deliver his sermon. “Fellow forest beings!” he declared to a bewildered audience of chipmunks and two hungover dryads. “Behold your sticky savior! Quacklarella demands respect, snacks, and exactly two minutes of synchronized honking in her honor!” The goose, now furious and glistening like a honey-glazed ham, honked once—an unholy, vengeful sound that triggered several squirrels into fight-or-flight responses. Then she snapped her beak shut around Finn’s beard and yanked. What followed was chaos, pure and sweet like the honey still clinging to his socks. The wheelbarrow overturned. Finn tumbled into a patch of stinging nettles. The goose ran off flapping into the sunrise, trailing cocktail umbrellas and gnome curses. The townsfolk woke to find feathers everywhere, the town bell ringing (no one knew how), and a pamphlet nailed to the mayor’s door entitled “Ten Spiritual Lessons from a Goose Who Knew Too Much.” It was mostly blank except for a drawing of a martini glass and a deeply unsettling haiku about egg salad. Later that day, Finn was found passed out in the town fountain wearing nothing but a monocle and a boot filled with mashed peas. He was smiling. When asked what the hell had happened, he opened one eye and whispered, “Revolution… tastes like poultry and shame.” Then he belched, rolled over, and began humming a slow, melodic version of “Livin’ on a Prayer.” That week, the mayor passed a motion banning both goose coronations and gnome-led sermons within town limits. Finn was put on probation, which meant nothing, as he hadn’t followed rules since the invention of pickled turnips. Still, to this day, when the moon is full and the lime trees bloom, whispers travel through Hooten Hollow. They say you can hear the flapping of honey-soaked wings and the faint sound of a shot glass being slammed on ancient oak. And if you’re very quiet... you might just catch a glimpse of a bearded figure staggering through the woods, muttering about limes and lost royalty. Because some legends wear crowns. Others ride noble steeds. And some? Some wear a lettuce hat and rule the night... one bad decision at a time.     Bring the legend home: If Finn’s tequila-fueled chaos made you snort, giggle, or question your life choices, you're in good company. Commemorate this tipsy tale with exclusive merch from our Last Call at Gnome O’Clock collection. Whether you're into crisp metal prints, cozy wood prints, a cheeky greeting card to send to your drinking buddy, or a spiral notebook for your own questionable ideas—this collection captures every ounce of forest-fueled mischief and lime-soaked nonsense. Warning: may inspire spontaneous conga lines and unsolicited sermons.

by Bill Tiepelman

Cranky Wings & Cabernet Things

The Root of All Sass The forest hadn’t always been this irritating. Once upon a century or three ago, it was a quiet, dewy glade where deer pranced, squirrels politely asked to borrow acorns, and the mushrooms didn’t have delusions of poetry. Then came the influencers. The elf-folk with their glittery yoga mats. The centaur DJs thumping trance beats into the soil. And worst of all—gentrification by unicorns. Just because they crap rainbows doesn’t mean they belong on every enchanted hillside selling kombucha out of crystal flasks. She had had it. Her name was Fernetta D'Vine—though the locals just called her “That Wine Bitch in the Thicket.” And she was fine with that. Titles were for royalty and real estate agents. Fernetta was far more interested in her own domains: the mossy log she ruled from, her deep collection of fermented potions, and the daily ritual of glaring disapprovingly at every twit who dared prance past her glade without a permit—or pants. Today was a Tuesday. And Tuesdays were for Cabernet and contempt. Fernetta adjusted her wings with a groan. The years had left them creaky, like an old screen door that screamed when you opened it at 2 a.m. to sneak out for questionable decisions. Her dress, a glorious tangle of ivy and attitude, brushed the ground with a stately rustle as she lifted her goblet—no stemless nonsense here, thank you—and took a sip of what she called “Bitch Blood Vintage 436.” “Mm,” she muttered, eyes narrowing like a hawk spotting a tourist. “Tastes like regret and someone else's poor planning.” Just then, a chirpy little sprite buzzed into view, high on pollen and bad decisions. She wore a sunflower bra and had glitter in places that clearly hadn't been cleaned in days. “Hi Auntie Fernetta!” she squealed. “Guess what? I’m starting an herbal side hustle and wanted to gift you my new line of detox beetle-water enemas!” Fernetta blinked slowly. “Child, the only thing I detox is joy,” she said. “And if you flutter one wing closer with that fermented insect filth, I will personally shove that potion up your nectar hole and call it aromatherapy.” The sprite’s smile faltered. “Okayyy…well…namast-eeeeee!” she buzzed, zooming off to terrorize a willow tree. Fernetta took another sip, savoring the silence. It tasted like power. And maybe a little like last week’s berries soaked in disappointment, but still—power. “Fairies these days,” she muttered. “All glitter, no grit. No wonder the gnomes have gone into hiding. Hell, I’d hide too if my neighbors were lighting sage to align their chakra while farting through recycled leaves.” Just then, the rustling of bushes drew her attention. She slowly turned her head and muttered, “Oh look. Another woodland dumbass. If it’s one more damn bard looking for ‘inspiration,’ I swear by the crust in my wings I’ll hex his lute so it plays only Nickelback covers.” And from the underbrush stepped someone... unexpected. A man. Human. Middle-aged. Balding. Slightly confused and definitely in the wrong fairytale. He blinked. She blinked. A crow cawed. Somewhere in the distance, a mushroom wilted from secondhand embarrassment. “...Well,” Fernetta drawled, slowly standing. “This should be good.” Man Meat and Mossy Mayhem He stood there, mouth slightly ajar, looking like a half-baked biscuit who’d wandered into a renaissance faire after taking the wrong turn at a Cracker Barrel. Fernetta sized him up like a wolf eyeing a microwaved ham. He was wearing cargo shorts, a “World’s Best Dad” T-shirt that had clearly surrendered to time and coffee stains, and a confused expression that suggested he thought this was the line for the gift shop. In one hand he held a phone, blinking red with 3% battery. In the other, a laminated trail map. Upside down. “Oh,” she sighed, swirling her cabernet. “You’re one of those. Lost, divorced, definitely on your third midlife crisis. Lemme guess—you signed up for a ‘healing hike’ with your yoga instructor-slash-girlfriend named Amethyst and got ditched at the crystal cairn?” He blinked. “Uh… is this part of the nature tour?” She took one long, slow sip. “Oh sweetheart. This is the of your dignity tour.” He stepped forward. “Look, I’m just trying to get back to the parking lot, okay? My phone’s dead, and I haven’t had coffee in six hours. Also, I may have accidentally eaten a mushroom that was… glowy.” Fernetta chuckled, low and wicked, like a storm cloud amused at the idea of a picnic. “Well then. Congratulations, dumbass. You just licked the universe’s glitter cannon. That was a dreamcap. The next three hours are going to feel like you're being spiritually exfoliated by a raccoon wearing a therapist’s pants.” He swayed slightly. “I think I saw a talking chipmunk that said I was a disappointment to my ancestors.” “Well,” she said, slapping a mosquito off her shoulder with the grace of a drunk ballerina, “at least your hallucinations are honest.” She turned away, refilling her wine from a nearby stump that was—improbably—tapped like a keg. “So what’s your name, forest trespasser?” “Uh. Brent.” “Of course it is,” she muttered. “Every lost man who stumbles into my part of the woods is either named Brent, Chad, or Gary. You boys just roll off the production line with a six-pack of poor decisions and one good college memory you won’t shut up about.” He frowned. “Look, lady—fairy—whatever. I’m not trying to cause trouble. I just need to find the exit. If you could point me to the trailhead, I’d be—” “Oh, honey,” she interrupted, “the only head you’re getting is the one from the hallucination beaver who thinks you’re his ex-wife. You’re in my glade now. And we don’t just offer directions. We offer... lessons.” Brent paled. “Like... riddles?” “No. Like unsolicited life advice wrapped in sarcasm and aged in shame,” she said, raising her glass. “Now sit your crusty behind on that toadstool and brace yourself for an aggressive fairy intervention.” He hesitated. The toadstool made a suspicious farting noise as he lowered himself onto it. “What… kind of intervention?” Fernetta cracked her knuckles and summoned a cloud of wine vapor and attitude. “We’re gonna unpack your issues like a suitcase at a nudist colony. First of all: why the hell do you still wear socks with sandals?” “I—” “Don’t answer. I already know. It’s because you fear vulnerability. And fashion.” Brent blinked. “This feels… deeply personal.” “Welcome to the glade,” she smirked. “Now, tell me: who hurt you? Was it your ex-wife? Your daddy? A failed podcast about cryptocurrency?” “I… I don’t know anymore.” “That’s step one, Brent,” she said, standing tall, her wings shimmering with drunken menace. “Admit that you’re not lost in the woods. You are the woods. Dense. Confused. Filled with raccoons stealing your lunch.” Somewhere in the distance, a tree spontaneously caught fire out of sheer secondhand embarrassment. Brent looked like he was about to cry. Or pee. Or both. “And while we’re at it,” Fernetta snapped, “when did you stop doing things that made you happy? When did you trade wonder for spreadsheets and excitement for microwave burritos? Huh? You had magic once. I can smell it under your armpits, right between the regret and Axe body spray.” Brent whimpered. “Can I go now?” “No,” she said firmly. “Not until you’ve purged all the bro energy from your soul. Now repeat after me: I am not a productivity robot.” “…I am not a productivity robot.” “I deserve joy, even if that joy is weird and sparkly.” “…even if that joy is weird and sparkly.” “I will stop asking to ‘circle back’ during Zoom calls unless I’m literally chasing my own tail.” “…That one’s… hard.” “Try harder. You’re almost healed.” And just like that, the glade shimmered. The trees sighed. A chorus of frogs sang the opening bars of a Lizzo song. Brent’s third eye blinked open just long enough to witness a vision of himself as a disco lizard dancing on a tax return. He passed out cold. Fernetta poured the rest of her wine into the moss and said, “Another one converted. Praise Dionysus.” She sat back on her log, exhaled deeply, and added, “And that’s why you never ignore a fairy with wine and unresolved emotional bandwidth.” Hangover of the Fey Brent awoke face-down in moss, his cheek pressed lovingly against what may or may not have been a mushroom with opinions. The sun filtered through the treetops like judgmental fingers poking a sleeping shame sandwich. His head throbbed with the kind of ancient drumbeat usually reserved for tribal exorcisms and EDM festivals in abandoned warehouses. He groaned. The moss squelched back. Everything hurt—including some existential parts of him that had been long dormant, like hope, ambition, and the idea of ordering something other than chicken tenders at restaurants. Somewhere behind him, a teacup-sized voice chirped, “He lives! The human rises!” He rolled over to see a hedgehog. A talking hedgehog. Wearing a monocle. Smoking what was clearly a cinnamon stick fashioned into a pipe. “What fresh hell…” he muttered. “Oh, you’re awake,” came Fernetta’s voice, laced with her usual brand of sarcasm and sage-like disdain. “For a minute I thought you’d gone fully feral and joined the bark nymphs. Which, by the way, never do. They’ll braid your chest hair into dreamcatchers and call it a vibe.” Brent blinked. “I had… dreams.” “Hallucinations,” corrected the hedgehog, who offered him a shot glass of something that smelled like peppermint and regret. “Drink this. It’ll balance your aura and possibly reset your digestive tract. No promises.” Brent drank it. He instantly regretted it. His tongue recoiled, his toes curled, and he sneezed his deepest shame into a nearby fern. “Perfect,” said Fernetta, clapping. “You’ve completed the cleanse.” “Cleanse?” “The Spiritual Audit, darling,” she said, fluttering down from a branch like a disillusioned angel of sarcasm. “You’ve been assessed, emotionally undressed, and gently smacked with the stick of self-awareness.” Brent looked down at himself. He was wearing a crown made of twigs, a tunic fashioned from moss and squirrel fur, and a necklace of... teeth? “What the hell happened?” Fernetta smirked, taking another languid sip from her ever-present wine glass. “You got fairy drunk, emotionally baptized in pond water, told a fox your deepest fears, slow-danced with a sentient daffodil, and yelled ‘I AM THE STORM’ while peeing on a rune stone. Honestly, I’ve seen worse Tuesdays.” The hedgehog nodded solemnly. “You also tried to start a commune for divorced dads called ‘Dadbodonia.’ It lasted fourteen minutes and ended in a heated debate about chili recipes.” Brent groaned into his hands. “I was just trying to go on a hike.” “No one just hikes into my glade,” Fernetta said, poking him with her wine glass. “You were summoned. This place finds you when you’re on the brink. Teetering on the edge of becoming a motivational meme. I saved you from dad jokes and sports metaphors for feelings.” Brent looked around. The forest suddenly felt different. The light warmer. The colors sharper. The air thick with mischief and mossy wisdom. “So… what now?” “Now you leave,” Fernetta said, “but you leave better. Slightly less of a tool. Maybe even worthy of brunch conversation. Go forth into the world, Brent. And remember what you’ve learned.” “Which was…?” “Stop dimming your weird. Stop apologizing for being tired. Stop saying ‘let’s touch base’ unless you mean physically, with someone hot. And never—ever—bring boxed wine into a sacred grove again or I’ll hex your plumbing.” The hedgehog saluted. “May your midlife crisis be mystical.” Brent, still blinking in disbelief, took a few tentative steps. A squirrel waved him goodbye. A pinecone winked. A raccoon dropped a single acorn at his feet in symbolic solidarity. He turned once more to look at Fernetta. She raised her glass. “Now go. And if you get lost again, make it interesting.” And with that, Brent stumbled out of the glade and back into the world, smelling of moss, magic, and a hint of Cabernet. Somewhere deep inside, something had changed. Maybe not enough to make him wise. But enough to make him weird. And that, in fairy terms, was progress. Back in her glade, Fernetta sighed, stretched, and settled back on her mossy throne. “Well,” she muttered, sipping again. “Guess I’ll do mushrooms for dinner. Hope they don’t talk back this time.” And somewhere in the trees, the forest whispered, laughed, and poured another round.     🍷 Feeling personally attacked by Fernetta's sass? Well, now you can hang her grumpy face on your wall like a badge of chaotic enlightenment. Click here to see the full image in our Fantasy Characters Archive and grab your very own print, framed masterpiece, or license-worthy download. Perfect for wine witches, forest freaks, or anyone whose soul runs on sarcasm and Cabernet. Because let’s be honest—you either know a Fernetta… or you are one.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Howling Hat of Hooten Hollow

The Hat That Bit Back By the time Glumbella Fernwhistle turned ninety-seven-and-a-half, she’d stopped pretending her hat wasn’t alive. It gurgled when she yawned, belched when she ate lentils, and once slapped a squirrel clean out of a tree for looking at her mushrooms the wrong way. And not metaphorical mushrooms, mind you—actual fungi sprouting from the side of her floppy, overgrown headpiece. She called it Carl. Carl the Hat. Carl did not approve of sobriety, shame, or squirrels. This suited Glumbella just fine. She lived in a cobbled mushroom cottage on the edge of Hooten Hollow, a place so full of mischief that the trees had mood swings and the moss had opinions. Glumbella was the kind of gnome you didn’t visit unless you brought both a bottle and an apology—for what, you weren’t always sure. She had a cackle like a goat in therapy and a tongue so frequently stuck out it had developed a tan. But what really made Glumbella infamous was the night she made the moon blush. It started, as most regrettable triumphs do, with a dare. Her neighbor, Tildy Grizzleblum—renowned inventor of the self-stirring gravy cauldron—bet Glumbella ten copper buttons she couldn’t seduce the moon. Glumbella, three elderberry wines in and barefoot, had climbed to the top of Flasher’s Bluff, bared one spectacularly unfiltered grin, and shouted, “OI! MOON! You big glowing tease! Show us yer craters!” The moon, previously considered emotionally distant, turned pink for the first time in recorded history. Tildy never paid up. Claimed the blush was atmospheric disturbance. Glumbella hexed her gravy to taste like regret for a week. It was the talk of the Hollow until the time Glumbella accidentally married a toad. But that’s a whole other issue involving a cursed wedding veil and a case of mistaken identity during mating season. Still, nothing in her long, outrageously inappropriate life prepared her for the arrival of HIM. A forest path, a suspicious breeze, and one very disheveled male gnome with eyes like drunken chestnuts. She could smell trouble. And a hint of old socks. Her favorite combination. “You lost, sweetcheeks?” she asked, lips curled, Carl twitching with interest. He didn’t blink. Just grinned with a mouth full of crooked charm and said, “Only if you say no.” And just like that, the Hollow was no longer the weirdest thing in Glumbella’s life. He was. Spells, Sass, and One Regrettable Pickle He called himself Bramble. No last name. Just Bramble. Which was, of course, either suspicious or sexy. Possibly both. Glumbella squinted at him the way one examines mold on cheese—trying to decide if it added flavor or would cause hallucinations. Carl the Hat drooped slightly in what might’ve been approval. Or gas. No one could ever tell with Carl. “So,” Glumbella said, leaning against a crooked fencepost with all the grace of a drunk poetry critic, “you show up here with those boots—muddy, charming, criminally well-worn—and that beard that’s clearly never met a comb, and expect me not to ask where you’re hiding your motives?” Bramble chuckled, a low, gravel-smooth sound that tickled her mossy instincts. “I’m just a wanderer,” he said, “looking for trouble.” “You found it,” she grinned. “And she bites.” They traded words like potions—some bubbling with innuendo, others fizzing with sarcasm. The gnomes of Hooten Hollow weren’t known for subtlety, but even Glumbella’s porch toad stopped sunbathing to observe the sparks flying. Within the hour, Bramble had accepted an invitation into her kitchen, where the mugs were mismatched, the wine was elderberry and defiant, and every single piece of furniture had at least one embarrassing story attached to it. “That chair over there,” she said, pointing with a ladle, “once hosted an orgy of pixies during a midsummer moon rave. Still smells like glitter and fermented rose hips.” Bramble sat in it without hesitation. “Now I’m even more comfortable.” Carl let out a low hum. The hat was always a little jealous. It had once hexed a suitor’s beard into a nest for furious hummingbirds. But Carl… Carl liked Bramble. Not trust, not yet. But interest. Carl only drooled on things he wanted to keep. Bramble got drooled on. A lot. As the wine flowed, the conversation turned slippery. Spells were swapped like dirty jokes. Glumbella showed off her prized collection of cursed socks—each one stolen from mysterious laundry disappearances across dimensions. Bramble, in turn, revealed a tattoo on his hip that could whisper insults in seventeen languages. “Say something in Gobbledygroan,” she purred. “It just called you a ‘shimmer-skulled minx with wild cabbage energy.’” She nearly choked on her wine. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me this decade.” Their evening escalated into potion pong (she won), a one-on-one broom jousting match (she also won, but he looked great falling), and a heated debate over whether moonlight was better for hexes or skinny-dipping (jury's still out). At some point, Bramble dared her to let Carl cast a spell unsupervised. “Are you mad?” she cried. “Carl once tried to turn a goose into a loaf of bread and ended up with a squawking baguette that still haunts my pantry.” “I live dangerously,” Bramble grinned. “And you’re obviously into chaos.” “Well,” she said, standing dramatically and knocking over a bottle of sparkle tonic, “I suppose it’s not a proper Tuesday until something catches fire or someone gets kissed.” And that was how Bramble ended up stuck to the ceiling. Carl, in a rare mood of cooperation, had tried to conjure a “romantic levitation spell.” It worked. Too well. Bramble hovered upside down, flailing, one sock falling off while Glumbella roared with laughter and took notes on a napkin titled “future foreplay ideas.” “How long does this last?” Bramble asked from above, spinning slowly. “Oh, I’d guess until the hat gets bored or until you compliment my knees,” she smirked. He eyed her legs. “Sturdy as a spellbound oak and twice as enchanting.” With a dramatic “fwoomp,” he fell directly into her arms. She dropped him, naturally, because she was built for insults and wine, not bridal carries. They landed in a heap of limbs, lace, and one rather smug hat who casually slithered off Glumbella’s head to claim the wine bottle for itself. “Carl’s gone rogue,” she muttered. “Does this mean the date’s going well?” Bramble asked, breathless. “Sweetcheeks,” she said, brushing leaf confetti from his beard, “if this were going badly, you’d already be a frog wearing a tutu and begging for flies.” And just like that, a new kind of trouble rooted itself in Hooten Hollow—a mischievous, magnetic, absolutely inadvisable connection between a gnome witch with no filter and a rogue wanderer who smiled like he knew how to start fires with compliments. Toads began gossiping. The trees leaned closer. Carl sharpened his brim. The Hangover, The Hex, and The Honeymoon (Not Necessarily In That Order) The next morning smelled like regret, roasted acorns, and singed beard hair. Bramble awoke dangling upside-down in a hammock made entirely of enchanted laundry, his left eyebrow missing and his right one twitching in Morse code. Carl was perched beside him with an empty flask and a threatening gleam in his brim. “Good morning, you rakish woodland degenerate,” Glumbella chirped from the garden, dressed in a scandalously mossy robe and wielding a trowel like a sword. “You shrieked in your sleep. Either you were dreaming of tax audits or you’re allergic to flirtation.” “I dreamed I was a zucchini,” he groaned. “Being judged. By squirrels.” She cackled so hard a tomato blushed. “Then we’re progressing nicely.” The Hollow was in full gossip bloom. Gnomelings whispered of a courtship forged in chaos. The Elder Council sent Glumbella a strongly worded scroll urging “discretion, decency, and pants.” She framed it above her loo. Bramble, now semi-resident and fully shirtless 60% of the time, fit into the ecosystem like a charming virus. Plants leaned toward him. Crickets composed sonnets about his butt. Carl hissed when they kissed, but only out of habit. And then came the Pickle Incident. It started with a potion. Always does. Glumbella had been experimenting with a “Love Me, Loathe Me, Lick Me” elixir—allegedly a mild flirtation enhancer. She left it on the kitchen shelf labeled Not For Bramble, which of course ensured that Bramble would absolutely drink it by accident while trying to pickle beets. The result? He fell desperately, dramatically in love with a jar of fermented cucumbers. “She understands me,” he declared, cradling the jar, eyes misty. “She’s complex. Salty. A little spicy.” Glumbella responded with a hex so potent it briefly turned him into a sentient sandwich. He still has nightmares about mayonnaise therapy. Once the elixir wore off (with the help of two sarcastic fairies, one slap from Carl, and a kiss so aggressive it startled a flock of crows), Bramble regained his senses. He apologized by crafting her a love letter out of enchanted leaves that screamed compliments when read aloud. The neighbors complained. Glumbella cried once—silently, while pouring wine into her boots. Eventually, the Hollow began to accept the duo as a necessary evil. Like seasonal flooding or emotionally unstable hedgehogs. The town bakery started selling “Carl Crust” sourdough. The local tavern offered a cocktail called the “Witch’s Whiplash”—two parts elderberry brandy, one part seductive regret. Tourists wandered into the woods hoping to see the infamous hat-witch and her dangerously handsome consort. Most of them got lost. One married a tree. It happens. But Glumbella and Bramble? They simply… thrived. Like fungus in a damp drawer. They didn’t marry in any traditional sense. There were no doves or rings or solemn declarations. Instead, one foggy morning, Glumbella woke to find Bramble had carved their initials into the moon using a stolen weather spell and a goat with anxiety issues. The moon blinked twice. Carl sang a sea shanty. And that was that. They celebrated by getting drunk in a treehouse, racing leaf-boats in the river, and aggressively ignoring the concept of monogamy for six months straight. It was perfect. Some say their laughter still echoes through the Hollow. Others claim Carl runs a poker game on Wednesdays and cheats with his brim. One thing’s for certain: if you ever find yourself lost in Hooten Hollow and stumble upon a wild-haired witch with a wicked grin and a man beside her who looks like he just kissed a tornado, you’ve found them. Don’t stare. Don’t judge. And absolutely do not touch the hat. It bites.     Bring the Magic Home If Glumbella’s sass, Bramble’s charm, and Carl’s unpredictable brim made you laugh, blush, or consider abandoning your career for a life of enchanted chaos—why not invite their mischief into your space? Explore a range of beautifully printed keepsakes inspired by The Howling Hat of Hooten Hollow—each crafted with care to bring a touch of forest whimsy and gnomish delight into your everyday world: Tapestry – Transform any room with this richly detailed woven tapestry featuring Glumbella in all her wild glory. Wood Print – Add rustic charm to your walls with this vibrant artwork printed on smooth wood grain—just like Carl would want (assuming he approved). Framed Print – A classic option for lovers of fantasy art and chaotic gnome energy—framed, ready to hang, and guaranteed to make guests ask questions. Fleece Blanket – Cozy up with a blanket that captures the warmth, whimsy, and low-key seduction of a magical night in Hooten Hollow. Greeting Card – Send a giggle, a wink, or a mild hex in the mail with a card featuring this unforgettable scene. Each item is perfect for fans of whimsical fantasy, mischievous storytelling, and the kind of art that feels alive (possibly sentient, definitely opinionated). Find your favorite at shop.unfocussed.com and let the spirit of Hooten Hollow haunt your heart—and maybe your guest room.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Woodland Wisecracker

The Bark Behind the Giggle Deep in the rustling bowels of Elderbark Woods—where the ferns gossip louder than the crows and the mushrooms have cliques—there lives a gnome with a laugh like a strangled squirrel and a tongue quicker than a squirrel on mead. His name? No one really knows. Most call him “That Damned Gnome” or, more respectfully, The Woodland Wisecracker. He’s ancient in gnome years, which is already saying something, because gnomes start sprouting gray whiskers before they’re out of diapers. But this one’s been around long enough to prank a dryad’s sacred tree, live to tell about it, and then prank it again just because he didn’t like the sap tone she used when she caught him the first time. His hat is a collage of past indiscretions—berries he stole from witch-purses, mushrooms “borrowed” from faerie circles, and a tuft of dire squirrel tail he claims was won in a poker game (no one believes him, especially not the squirrels). His days are a tapestry of mischief. Today, he had rigged a family of tree frogs to croak in unison every time someone passed the old cedar latrine. Yesterday, he spelled the badger’s burrow to smell like elderflower perfume—an incident still being litigated in the unofficial woodland court of “WTF Did You Just Do, Gary?” But it wasn’t always like this. The Wisecracker had once been a promising woodland historian, with impeccable footnotes and a genuine fondness for moss classification. That was until the Great Incident—a scholarly disagreement over whether blue moss was just green moss with sass. It ended with a symposium ruined by glitterbombs, an angry dryad boycott, and one furious troll with sparkles in places no troll should sparkle. Since then, the Wisecracker had chosen a more... recreational route through life. He lived in a hollowed-out stump stacked with scrolls, frog jokes, and an ever-replenishing jar of fermented beet liquor. Nobody knew where it came from. It was just there. Like his opinions. Loud. Uninvited. And usually followed by a prank involving slippery root polish or magically animated underpants. It was on a bright, dew-fresh morning—one of those disgustingly poetic ones that inspires woodland critters to hum showtunes—that the Wisecracker decided it was time to raise the stakes. The forest had gotten too cozy. Too polite. Even the weasels were organizing book clubs. “Unacceptable,” he muttered to his toadstool seat, scratching his chin with a twig he’d sharpened purely for dramatic effect. “If they want wholesome... I’ll give them wholesome. With a side of explosive berry jam.” And so began the Grand Forest Prank War of the Season—a campaign destined to scandalize nymphs, enrage beetles, and firmly cement the Wisecracker’s legacy as the most unrepentant little bastard the woodland had ever loved to hate. Of Pranks, Pheromones, and Poorly Timed Potion Eruptions The Wisecracker, being a gnome of refined nonsense, knew the key to a truly memorable prank wasn’t mere humiliation—it was poetic humiliation. There had to be timing. Artistry. A dramatic arc. Ideally, pantslessness. And so, the first phase of the Grand Forest Prank War of the Season began at dawn... with a basket of enchanted berries and a pheromone spell so potent it could make a rock pine for a cuddle. He left the basket at the foot of the Council Glade, where forestfolk gathered for their weekly “Mediation and Mutual Squeaking” circle. Inside were berries infused with giggleleaf oil, tickle spores, and just a pinch of something he called “pixie pheroblaster”—a substance banned in at least seven counties and one very traumatized fairy convent. By noon, the glade had descended into full chaos. An elderly squirrel began slow-dancing with a pinecone. Two wood nymphs started a vigorous debate on the ethics of licking tree sap straight from the bark—with full demonstration. And one unfortunate owl began hooting at its own reflection in a puddle, proclaiming it “the only bird who understands me.” When the Council tried to investigate, they found nothing but a calling card left under the basket: a crude drawing of a gnome mooning a pine tree with “KISS THIS, TREE-HUGGERS” written in aggressive mushroom ink. “It’s him again,” groaned Elder Wyrmbark, a centuries-old talking stump with the patience of a Buddhist snail and the libido of a very lonely log. “The Wisecracker’s struck again.” As expected, the forest community was split. Half declared war. The other half requested recipe tips. Meanwhile, the gnome himself was busy working on Phase Two: Operation Hot-Buns. This involved rerouting the fae hot spring using a system of enchanted hoses (which he had borrowed—permanently—from a disgraced water elemental with intimacy issues). By midafternoon, the pixies’ annual Full Moon Tan-athon was a steamy, bubbling geyser of screeches and rapidly evaporating modesty. “They were this close to inventing bikini lines,” he whispered proudly to a nearby beetle, who stared back with the thousand-yard gaze of someone who’d seen things no beetle should. But not every scheme went perfectly. Take, for instance, the romantic detour. You see, the Wisecracker had a complicated relationship with one Miss Bramblevine—a half-sprite, half-briar bush enchantress who had once kissed him, slapped him, then enchanted his eyebrows to grow in reverse. He still hadn’t forgiven her. Or stopped writing letters he never sent. One evening, he found her in a clearing, muttering incantations and plucking suspiciously romantic-sounding harp chords. She was conjuring a love aura for woodland speed dating. Naturally, he couldn’t let this travesty of intimacy unfold un-messed-with. He approached her with his usual charm—wearing nothing but a smile, a leaf thong, and one boot (the other was being used by a family of hedgehogs for tax reasons). “Fancy seeing you here,” he winked, leaning seductively against a log that immediately crumbled. “Care to sample a little homemade ‘gnomebrew’? It’s got notes of regret and wild raspberry.” “Still trying to seduce the entire underbrush with your fermented nonsense?” she smirked, but took the flask. She sniffed, gagged, and downed it in one swig. “Still tastes like broken promises and bat piss.” “You always said I was consistent.” There was a moment. A dangerous, sparkling, “should-we-or-should-we-not-do-this-again” kind of moment. Then her hair caught fire. Gently. Softly. Because the gnome had, regrettably, spiced the batch with firefern for “zest.” “DID YOU JUST—” “I panicked! It was supposed to be seductive! Do NOT explode the frogs again!” It was too late. Her rage spell detonated the decorative frog choir he’d hidden in the nearby bush. The explosion scattered musical amphibians across the glade. One of them croaked the opening bars of a Barry White song before going silent forever. The Wisecracker fled, his one boot flapping, hair full of harp strings, heart beating to the tempo of his own mischief. He’d have to lay low—maybe in the badger tunnels. Maybe in Bramblevine’s heart. Maybe both. He liked it complicated. And yet, the forest was now alive with energy. Pranks were spreading like spores in springtime. Hedgehog street art. Raccoon rap battles. A mysterious new trend where squirrels wore tiny mustaches and conducted acorn inspections. The Wisecracker’s influence was seeping through the roots themselves. It wasn’t just about giggles anymore. It was an uprising. A forest-wide movement of snark and subversion. And at the center of it all, the little gnome with the too-wide grin, a dangerously overstocked arsenal of practical jokes, and absolutely no sense of when to stop. He climbed atop his mossy throne that night, arms wide to the stars, and bellowed into the canopy: “LET THE THIRD PHASE COMMENCE!” Somewhere in the dark, an owl pooped itself. A frog sang again. And the trees braced themselves for what came next. Mayhem, Moss, and the Moonlit Tribunal of Shenanigans The forest had reached critical silliness. The squirrels had unionized. The frogs had formed a jazz trio. A fox began charging admission to watch a raccoon and a badger fight in interpretive dance. Everywhere, everywhere, the Wisecracker’s influence oozed like glittery tree sap—mischief, whimsy, chaos, and just a splash of low-grade arson. It was time. Not for another prank. No. This was beyond mischief. This was legacy. This... was The Final Gag. But first, he needed a diversion. And so he called upon his most loyal allies: the Truffle Dancers—a group of rotund, semi-retired badgers who owed him a favor from that one time he helped hide their mushroom moonshine still from the ranger fauns. “I need you to stage a performance,” he said, adjusting his ceremonial prank hat (a regular hat, but covered in feathers, jam stains, and live beetles trained to spell rude words). “Interpretive?” asked Bunt, the lead badger, already oiling his hip joints with pine resin. “Explosive,” said the gnome. “There will be glitter. There will be jazz. There may be screams.” By twilight, the clearing behind the Elderbark Grove was filled with an audience of questionable sobriety and wildly varying consent levels. Bramblevine was there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, already holding a small fireball in one hand and a healing salve in the other. Duality. The performance began. Fog. Dramatic torchlight. Bunt spinning like an angry cinnamon roll. The badgers twerked. A ferret wept. Somewhere, a crow squawked the Wilhelm scream. But just as the grand finale began—with a chorus of frogs launching bottle rockets from their mouths—everything froze. A thunderclap echoed across the forest. The glade went dead silent. Even the beetles spelling out “FLAPSACK” paused mid-A. From the sky descended a giant pair of moss-covered sandals, attached to the spectral form of Grandfather Spriggan, the ancient forest spirit and reluctant enforcer of natural order (and, regrettably, trousers). “ENOUGH,” the spirit bellowed, voice like thunder wrapped in nettles. “THE BALANCE HAS BEEN UNPRANKED.” The forest tribunal convened on the spot. Spectators transformed into a jury of woodland peers: a stork, three indignant squirrels, one disapproving mole with bifocals, and a toad who seemed entirely too into the drama. The charge? Crimes against quietude, reckless charm, unauthorized enchantment of raccoon tail accessories, and the willful violation of Article 7B of the Woodland Code: “Thou shalt not install fart noises in sacred glens.” The Wisecracker stood accused. Shirtless. Glorious. Holding a bottle of homemade sparkling bogwater and still slightly singed from a previous glitter incident. “How do you plead?” asked the Grandfather, his sandals creaking ominously. “I plead... absolutely fabulous,” the gnome said, performing a pirouette and releasing a smoke bomb shaped like a duck. The duck quacked. Dramatically. Gasps echoed through the clearing. Somewhere, a pinecone fainted. The tribunal descended into chaos. The jury broke into argument. The squirrels wanted exile. The mole demanded public shaming. The toad proposed something involving marmalade and a haunted bidet. Bramblevine watched it all with a look that blended admiration and homicidal irritation. But then... silence. The Grandfather raised one hand. “Let the accused make a final statement.” The Wisecracker took the stand—a stump with a suspiciously familiar frog perched on it—and cleared his throat. “Friends. Foes. Sap-suckers of all types. I do not deny my pranks. I embrace them. I curate them. This forest was growing dull. The squirrels were starting to quote Plato. The moss had formed a jazz quartet called 'Soft & Moist.' We were becoming... tasteful.” He shuddered. So did the jazz moss. “Yes, I spiced your spring festivals with nude raccoons and enchanted whistles. Yes, I bewitched an entire weasel choir to sing bawdy limericks in front of the Sacred Hollow. But I did it because I love this forest. And because I’m just the right kind of emotionally stunted chaos goblin to think it’s funny.” A pause. A silence thicker than badger gravy. Then... the toad applauded. Slowly. Then maniacally. The crowd followed. A frog exploded in joy (literally—he was part balloon). Even Grandfather Spriggan cracked what might have been a mossy smirk. “Very well,” the old spirit said. “Your punishment... is to continue.” “...Wait, what?” said the gnome. “You are hereby appointed the Official Prank Warden of Elderbark Woods. You will balance mischief with magic. Bring chaos where there is order. And order where there is too much bean stew. You shall report directly to me—and to Bramblevine, because someone has to keep you from dying in a frog-related accident.” “I accept,” the gnome said, straightening his beetle-feather hat with surprising gravity. Then he turned to Bramblevine. “So... drinks?” She rolled her eyes. “One. But if your flask smells like regret again, I’m setting your left nipple on fire.” “Deal.” And so it was that the Woodland Wisecracker ascended—not to glory, but to legend. A gnome of gags, a prophet of prankery, a messiah of magical mischief whose deeds would echo through the roots and leaves for ages. The frogs would sing songs. The beetles would spell tributes. And somewhere, in the warm belly of the woods, a badger would shake its hips... just for him. Long live the Wisecracker.     Bring the mischief home! If the antics of the Woodland Wisecracker made you snort, chuckle, or question the life choices of certain amphibians, you can now immortalize his chaos in your own realm. Whether you’re decorating a den worthy of enchanted badgers or searching for the perfect gift for that lovable troublemaker in your life, we’ve got you covered: Adorn your walls with a vibrant tapestry that captures his gnomey glory in full chaotic bloom, or go bold with a glossy metal print or dazzling acrylic display worthy of a tribunal hall. For cozy nights of mischief planning (or regretful introspection), wrap yourself in our luxuriously soft fleece blanket. And don’t forget to send someone a laugh (or a gentle warning) with our delightfully irreverent greeting card featuring the Wisecracker himself. Claim a piece of the prankster’s legacy—and let your decor cackle with character.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Turquoise Troublemaker

Crimes of Leaf and Laughter There was a place, nestled deep in the forest’s golden curls, where the laws of logic melted faster than a caramel gnome in a hot spring. And at the center of that leaf-spackled lunacy lived a creature both loved and loathed by woodland society: The Turquoise Troublemaker. They never gave their real name. Some said it was unpronounceable. Others claimed it was legally redacted. But most just called them “Turq,” usually while groaning or scrubbing glitter out of unspeakable places. Turq was not your standard forest cryptid. No, this one had taste. Style. A mustard-yellow hoodie permanently zipped just below the horns, sneakers that had clearly been stolen from a tourist, and a smirk that promised both charm and chaos with equal intensity. They didn't walk through the woods so much as *swagger*, tail flicking behind them like punctuation to an ongoing roast session. On this particular fall morning, Turq was crouched on their usual log—the one that allegedly belonged to an ancient dryad who’d gotten tired of the drama and moved to coastal Italy. Surrounding them was a semi-circle of horrified, mildly confused, and fully bewitched woodland animals. Because Turq was teaching a workshop. “Today’s topic,” Turq announced, sipping something steamy from a chipped mug shaped like a screaming acorn, “is Advanced Pranking for Emotional Clarity and Power Reclamation. Or, in simpler terms, how to ruin someone’s day with style.” A squirrel raised its paw. “Is this therapy?” “Yes. But with less crying and more confetti.” Turq spun on their heel and slapped down a chart that read: ‘SARCASM AS A TOOL FOR COMMUNITY BUILDING’. Underneath were bullet points, all glittered, none legible. “Now,” Turq continued, “imagine your local bird is annoying. Chirping too loud. Smug about flight. What do you do?” A badger grunted. “Eat them?” “This isn’t medieval TikTok,” Turq snapped. “No eating. We prank. We humble. We redirect the vibe.” “You make everything sound like an Instagram caption,” muttered a hedgehog with trauma bangs. “That’s because I am an aesthetic,” Turq replied, fluffing their hoodie with flourish. “Anyway, last week I convinced Chadwick the human that moss was a currency. He gave me twenty bucks for a patch. I’m rich in both lichen and lies.” The crowd murmured. Chadwick, ever the over-curious nature blogger, had become the unofficial victim of Turq’s seasonal chaos. From “accidentally” swapping his eco-toothpaste with edible glitter, to replacing his trail mix with enchanted jumping beans, Turq considered Chadwick both their muse and their moral playground. “But today,” Turq whispered, crouching low with dramatic eyebrow arches, “we go bigger.” They unrolled a parchment so wide it bonked a possum in the face. On it was a sprawling map labeled: ‘OPERATION AUTUMNCLAP’. “We’re going to stage a full-blown fall festival pop-up and gaslight Chadwick into thinking it’s an ancient forest rite. We’ll wear leaf crowns. We’ll chant nonsense. We’ll sell him acorn ‘smoothies’ that are 70% bark.” “Why?” the hedgehog asked, halfway into a resigned sigh. “Because,” Turq said, eyes gleaming, “he put pumpkin spice in the forest stream. There are frogs hallucinating romance novels. Someone has to restore balance.” It was decided. Operation AutumnClap would commence at dusk. But just as Turq began instructing the squirrels on acorn smoothie ratios (less pulp, more crunch), a sound echoed from the trees. It was faint at first—like the groan of an overdramatic pine tree—but it grew louder. And deeper. Like thunder laced with attitude. “What in the photoshopped fungus was that?” Turq muttered. “That,” said the hedgehog, now clutching a leaf like a prayer flag, “is the Custodian.” The animals scattered like unpaid interns. Turq stood alone, clutching their mug like a sacred relic. “The Custodian? I thought that was just a myth. A tale invented by the elder chipmunks to make us compost properly.” But it wasn’t a myth. Because from between two great oaks, dragging a rake made from bone and bark, came a creature as tall as a sapling and twice as cranky. Draped in robes of rotting leaves, crowned with fungi, and radiating a very intense “I'm not mad, I'm disappointed” energy—The Custodian had returned. “Who disturbed the leaf order?” the Custodian boomed. Turq smiled. “Hi. That would be me. Turquoise. Mischief. Local menace and part-time emotional support cryptid. Do you need a hug, or…?” The Custodian growled. Turq winked. And then, quite suddenly, the ground split with a gust of compost-scented magic, launching both creature and cryptid into an accidental duel that would later be known (and wildly exaggerated) as: The Great Leaf Fight of Merribark Glen. The Great Leaf Fight of Merribark Glen The Custodian of Leaves was not built for nuance. It was built for rules. Sacred rakes. Standardized crunch levels. Color-coded leaf rot timelines. And here was Turq, the unofficial chaos mascot of Merribark, standing in defiance with a smirk, a hoodie, and what appeared to be a double-shot of pumpkin fog chai. “You have violated the Ordinance of Autumnal Order,” the Custodian thundered, pointing its rake like an accusation dipped in mold. “You danced on sacred mulch. You organized an unregistered seasonal gathering. And—worst of all—you scattered candy corn like cursed runes.” “Those weren’t runes,” Turq chirped. “They were forest snacks. And you’re welcome.” The Custodian narrowed its compost-crusted eyes. The forest held its breath. Somewhere, a squirrel dropped a nut in suspense. Then it happened. With a roar that shook pinecones off their branches, the Custodian summoned the full wrath of the forest bureaucracy. Forms flew. Vines twisted into red tape. Acorns arranged themselves into alphabetical grievance piles. A furious gust of enchanted leaflets exploded into the air, each stamped with angry oak sigils and the haunting phrase: “MANDATORY COMPOST COMPLIANCE.” “Oh no,” Turq whispered, ducking behind their log. “He’s going full Autumn Audit.” Animals scattered in every direction. Twiggy the hedgehog fake-fainted behind a fern. A raccoon tried to claim diplomatic immunity by wearing a monocle and yelling, “I’m Switzerland!” Turq, meanwhile, launched a counter-attack the only way they knew how—vibes-first. They struck a dramatic pose atop the log, hoodie billowing, sneakers glinting in the firefly glow, and shouted: “This is not anarchy! This is festivity with flair!” And with that, they hurled a bag of enchanted glitter directly into the Custodian’s face. It exploded in a shower of sparkle and defiance. The Custodian gasped as fuchsia powder coated its leaf-robes and the words “FALL VIBES ONLY” appeared across its chest in shimmering script. “You dare bedazzle me?” it bellowed. “You were asking for it,” Turq said, adjusting their horns like sunglasses. “You walk like an October tax return.” The ground shook again, but this time from below. From deep under Merribark, the mycelium networks flared to life—glowing with bioluminescent confusion. The Fungi Council had awakened. Griselda the Mushroom Queen emerged slowly from the moss, chewing a mushroom cigar and squinting through the forest mess. “What’s all this noisy bullshroom?” she rasped. “Leaf fascism,” Turq explained helpfully. “Ugh,” Griselda groaned. “Again? Didn’t we sort that out in the Great Rake-Off of ’04?” “Apparently not,” said Turq, dodging a flying leaf citation that whistled past their ear like bureaucratic death. Griselda squinted at the Custodian. “You. Twig brain. You woke me up for decorum violations?” The Custodian, puffed up and half-covered in glitter, tried to retort, but Griselda raised a gnarled finger. “Shut it. Everyone’s got sap in their socks these days. You know what the forest needs?” “A gnome boycott?” Turq guessed. “An equinox rave,” she said, grinning slowly. “We blast the spores. Burn the bylaws. Drink fermented leaf tea until the moss sings.” “That sounds… unregulated,” the Custodian said, visibly sweating compost. “Exactly,” said Griselda. “Sometimes nature needs chaos to breathe.” Turq high-fived her so hard a squirrel fell out of a tree. “I’m calling it: Fungtoberfest.” The forest crowd, emboldened by rebellion and fermented sap shots, rallied. Lights flickered. Mushrooms pulsed with rhythm. The raccoons formed a drumline. Chadwick, drawn by the scent of spectacle and forbidden cider, stumbled into the clearing with his camera already filming. “What… what is this?” he whispered, stunned. “It’s Merribark, darling,” Turq said, throwing an arm around him. “And this is what happens when you mess with seasonal aesthetics without consulting your local trickster.” As night swallowed the last of the golden sky, the forest transformed. What began as a duel ended in a wild, stomping, glitter-covered celebration of chaos, community, and the complete deconstruction of leafy hierarchy. The Custodian, reluctantly sipping leaf tea through a straw, even tapped its foot once. Maybe twice. And Turq? Turq stood on their log, hoodie flecked with dirt and pride, watching the chaos swirl with gleaming eyes. This was more than mischief. This was meaningful nonsense. This was forest magic, unfiltered and absurd. “To the troublemakers,” they toasted, raising their mug to the moon. “May we never be organized.” The moon winked back.     Need more mischief in your life? If *The Turquoise Troublemaker* made you cackle, conspire, or crave glitter warfare, why not invite a little Merribark mayhem into your home? From high-impact wall art to snuggly sass vessels, this vibrant troublemaker is now available in magically merchified formats—designed to delight woodland rebels and cozy chaos agents alike. Wood Print: Add a rustic, enchanted edge to your wall with a textured wood finish perfect for mischief-friendly décor. Framed Print: Polished, professional, and just smug enough to remind you who’s in charge—this troublemaker is gallery ready. Acrylic Print: Bold, glossy, and dripping with magical realism. Perfect for spaces that need a little more sass-per-inch. Tote Bag: Because every forest trickster needs a carry-all for snacks, glitter bombs, and emotional support acorns. Fleece Blanket: Soft, cozy, and just chaotic enough to keep you warm while plotting your next seasonal rebellion. Find the full collection at shop.unfocussed.com and let the sass spill into your space. Because rule-breaking looks great in high resolution.

by Bill Tiepelman

Winged Wonder in Thought

The Thinking Tree and the Moron with a GoPro Deep in the uncharted underbrush of Not-Quite-Wales-but-Might-As-Well-Be, where GPS signals go to die and the mushrooms whisper dirty secrets to the moss, there lived a creature so majestically weird that it made cryptid hunters weep into their beard oil. She was known — by drunk hikers, questionable druids, and mushroom enthusiasts alike — as Fizzlewitch the Winged Wonder. Fizzlewitch wasn’t born so much as she happened. Legend has it she materialized during an especially chaotic Beltane afterparty, in a sacred glade already three shandies deep in leyline interference. A raver named Clarity, wearing little more than glitter and spiritual indecision, dry-humped a fog machine beneath the waxing moon, and in the sudden blast of overcharged mist and someone shouting “Is that the moon or my third eye?”, there she was: perched on a tree branch, fully formed, judging everyone within a twenty-meter radius. She was eight feet of scaled enigma — iridescent, shimmering, and entirely too aware of her own mystique. Her body was humanoid in the way that a Picasso sketch of a mermaid might be considered accurate. Her skin, if you dared to call it that, shifted in shades of teal, bronze, and cosmic disappointment. Wings like stained-glass windows gone feral shimmered with colors that hadn’t been invented yet. Her face held the expression of someone who’d seen your browser history and was politely choosing not to comment. She sat, always, in the same spot — the branch of a twisted old birch tree ringed with pink daisy-like blooms that smelled vaguely like antique bookstores and regret. No one ever saw her land there. She was just… there. Pondering. Judging. Staring off into the middle distance like a philosophy major trapped in an eternal thesis defense. Locals dubbed the spot “The Thinking Tree,” and while none would dare approach it more closely than a respectful 27 feet (based on the radius of one unlucky bloke’s nosebleed), they’d gather nearby for rituals, awkward poetry readings, and sometimes just to sit and bask in her ambient superiority. Many theories surrounded Fizzlewitch. Some said she was a banshee with a business degree. Others believed she was the physical manifestation of a repressed scream. One man insisted — loudly and repeatedly — that she was his ex-girlfriend Debra in reincarnated lizard form, finally reaching her final phase of withholding eye contact. And always, without fail, came the warning: Don’t squeeze the daisies. This was a very specific prohibition. It wasn’t a metaphor. It wasn’t spiritual. It was literal: do not touch the damn flowers. Because those flowers? They were connected to her in ways no one understood — floral nerve endings of a fae beast too old and too whimsical to explain herself to anyone who didn’t at least meditate before coffee. And then, as these tales tend to go, along came someone stupid enough to ignore every single piece of whispered advice, folk wisdom, and laminated signage nailed to a nearby tree stump. Enter: Trevor. Trevor was a sentient affliction in human skin. A man-child fueled by beef jerky, vape juice, and the unearned confidence of someone who once mistook a wasp’s nest for “crunchy trail granola.” He’d recently gotten into “adventure spirituality,” which mostly involved doing unsupervised psychedelics while trying to seduce Instagram followers with shirtless selfies and half-remembered Alan Watts quotes. Armed with a GoPro, a Bluetooth speaker blasting trap remixes of Enya, and a sack of stale trail mix he’d called “shaman kibble,” Trevor set out to find and film the infamous Winged Wonder — all for his 14 TikTok followers, two of which were bots and one of which was his ex’s cousin who watched out of spite. “She just needs a little coaxing,” Trevor muttered, filming his boots as he stumbled through the underbrush. “A gentle squeeze of her environment, you know? Show her I respect her space by lightly fondling the botanical foreground.” As he arrived, he saw her — oh yes, Fizzlewitch was there, perched in her usual pose: one leg tucked, the other dangling, tail flicking lazily through the air like a velvet whip of disdain. She looked down at Trevor with the same expression a cat gives a Roomba. Silent. Patient. Amused. Until... He reached for the daisy. Now, dear reader, I know what you’re thinking: Surely he hesitated. Surely he paused at the edge of legend and said, “Perhaps this isn’t wise.” He did not. Trevor, in his tank top of questionable slogans and with the brain cells of an overheated toaster, squeezed the flower. And that’s when the air changed. That’s when the moss flinched. That’s when the birds, even the imaginary ones, took off screaming. That’s when Fizzlewitch the Winged Wonder finally moved. Trevor’s Consequences and the Great Floral Reckoning Time slowed the second Trevor’s grubby man-paw crunched down on the petal. It wasn't just a squeeze — it was a full-fisted grip like he was juicing the poor bloom for content. The moment he did it, the air pressure dropped like your dignity at a family karaoke night. The birds fell silent, the wind stopped breathing, and even the ferns recoiled like they’d just heard their parents arguing through the wall. Fizzlewitch’s expression didn’t change right away. That was the scariest part. For a full seven seconds, she held her usual face: calm, pensive, slightly constipated with ancient knowledge. And then — as if activated by some deeply buried kill command — she blinked once, slowly, and all hell broke gloriously loose. The branch she sat on creaked like a sentient seesaw fed up with millennia of this crap. Her wings unfolded in one fluid motion, stretching outward in a visual equivalent of a full-body eye-roll. Light refracted off her wing patterns, sending prismatic daggers of color slicing through the clearing. Trevor dropped his phone, fumbled to grab it, and accidentally hit “Live.” Thousands would watch the footage in stunned silence later, mostly to witness the precise moment a mystical fae-lizard-queen launched herself from her perch and punted a man halfway into a symbolic rebirth. “WHO THE HELL SQUEEZES A GODDAMN SENTIENT DAISY?” she bellowed, in a voice that sounded like thunder taught elocution lessons by RuPaul. The shockwave knocked Trevor into a gorse bush. He squealed like a wet ferret being baptized. The flowers around the tree vibrated violently, releasing a pollen cloud that smelled like lavender and bad decisions. Fizzlewitch descended upon him with wings flared and tail lashing behind her like a cosmic middle finger. “I—I didn’t mean anything! I was—content! I was gonna tag you!” Trevor sputtered, shielding his face with his vape pen like it was blessed by TikTok’s algorithm gods. “You wanted content?” she snarled, floating just above him. “I’ll give you content.” What happened next is still debated by folklorists, botanists, and one very traumatized squirrel. Some say the tree uprooted itself and gave Trevor the spanking of a lifetime. Others insist he was pulled into a secret dimension inside a daisy petal where he was forced to confront every awkward moment from puberty to the present in vivid, scented flashbacks. What we know for certain is this: Trevor lost his man bun in the first ten seconds. It left his skull like a frightened bird. His cargo shorts disintegrated upon contact with a summoned gust of dignity. He screamed. Oh gods, he screamed. But not in pain — in cringe. The raw emotional cringe of every bad decision made manifest in one awful, flower-wreathed reckoning. The daisies multiplied. One became hundreds, then thousands, sprouting from the soil like sentient guilt. Each one bore a tiny judgmental face. One looked just like his ex. One looked like his tax auditor. One looked like himself if he’d never dropped out of community college to start a podcast about energy drinks and conspiracy theories. Fizzlewitch circled him slowly, her tail sketching sigils into the air. She wasn’t angry now — no, she was methodical. Pitying. Like a guidance counselor for eldritch mistakes. “Trevor,” she said, voice dripping with honeyed mockery. “You wanted to be seen. You wanted attention. So now… you shall be known.” Trevor tried to crawl away. A vine slapped his ankle with the limp-wristed judgment of an exasperated gay uncle. He flopped onto his back, blinking pollen out of his eyes, and saw her descending again — not to strike, but to tap his forehead once with the tip of her claw. “There,” she whispered. “It is done.” And then she was gone. Poof. Vanished. One moment floating, radiant, pissed off in 4K — the next, nothing but petals and the low, humming laughter of the woods. Trevor lay in the dirt for what he would later describe as “an indeterminate eternity.” When he finally stumbled out of the forest, barefoot, shirtless, and emotionally exfoliated, he was a changed man. He never posted the footage. He deleted his account, burned his GoPro in a backyard sage fire, and opened a small ethical kombucha bar called “Fae-ferment.” He grows his own herbs now. He wears soft linen. He refers to himself as a “recovered influencer.” No one speaks of the incident. Except when they do. Loudly. Over beer. With laughter and impersonations and dramatic re-enactments at local fairs. And to this day, every so often, a daisy blooms on his patio that smells like judgment and glitter. The Legend Grows Legs and Gets a Podcast What happened to Trevor could’ve — in a just, boring world — faded into obscurity like a TikTok trend involving soup or questionable dancing. But this world, unfortunately for Trevor, is neither just nor boring. Especially when it comes to forest beings with flair for spectacle and a deeply passive-aggressive relationship with botany. It began innocently enough. A Reddit thread popped up in r/WeirdNature titled “Saw a sexy butterfly-lizard fairy scream a man into emotional nudity?” Within hours, it had 40k upvotes, 200 speculative illustrations, and an argument in the comments section that somehow turned into a debate about proper composting practices. Two weeks later, an amateur folklorist named Tilda NoPants (née Stevenson, but she rebranded after Burning Man) recorded a podcast episode titled “Wings of Wrath: The Thinking Tree Incident”. It shot to number one in three spiritual sub-genres: Alternative Lore, Cryptid Erotica, and Garden-Based Deities. Trevor, meanwhile, became a recluse celebrity. He was invited onto every woo-woo YouTube channel within a 500-mile radius. The BBC approached him for a docuseries. He declined. “She still visits me in dreams,” he said, twitching slightly, “and smells like bergamot and condescension.” And indeed… she did. Fizzlewitch, contrary to Trevor’s spiritual meltdown, was doing just fine. She’d moved a few branches down the tree, redecorated her perch with quartz, and occasionally rearranged the clouds above to spell things like “TOUCH THE DAISIES AGAIN, KEVIN. I DARE YOU.” She wasn’t vengeful. Not exactly. Just… invested in her branding. Some say she grew more powerful with every retelling. That every exaggeration online — every meme, every AI-generated drawing with too many fingers — fed her like cosmic likes. She became stronger, sassier, and slightly more symmetrical. Her wings grew additional hues visible only to those who had been humiliated publicly and survived. She even began appearing in other forests under different pseudonyms: The Pensive Pollen Queen in New Zealand, The Moisture Sprite of Portland, The Avian-Assed Oracle in Vermont. There were sightings. Witnesses. Merch. Eventually, someone launched a crypto-based eco-startup claiming to “protect the Thinking Tree” with NFTs of animated daisies that whispered affirmations. It lasted twelve days. All the digital daisies turned into pictures of Trevor sobbing on a moss-covered rock. Local governments tried to fence off the glade. The fences uprooted themselves and formed a small jazz band. A pagan-themed theme park tried to recreate the tree with papier-mâché. Fizzlewitch sneezed on the model and it burst into flames. The theme park is now a petting zoo and no one talks about the “emotional arson” incident. As for the original site of the event? Well, it’s still there. Wild. Unmapped. Strangely temperate year-round. Sometimes you’ll find a single daisy, bigger than the rest, with a faint shimmer on its petals and a low thrumming beneath your feet — like a heartbeat or a very patient bass drop. They say if you sit under the Thinking Tree and close your eyes, you can feel her gaze. It’s not unkind. Just... knowing. Watching. Like a cosmic older sister who’s seen too much and has a therapist on speed dial. She’s not angry — not unless you’re stupid. Or try to monetize her likeness without permission. And if you ever, ever get the idea to squeeze a daisy? Well. Just hope you packed clean underwear, a backup identity, and a working knowledge of interpretive dance. You’re gonna need it. Thus concludes the tale of the Winged Wonder in Thought. May your forest walks be contemplative, your flowers unmolested, and your cryptid encounters appropriately humbling.     If this utterly unhinged fae tale made you laugh, wince, or nervously re-evaluate your relationship with plants, you can now bring home the legend. From art prints worthy of your walls to a spiral notebook perfect for jotting down your own cryptid run-ins, Fizzlewitch has officially gone merch. There’s even a tapestry to hang in your sacred shame corner and a sticker to slap on your water bottle as a reminder not to squeeze strange foliage. And for those who like their legends with extra gloss, the acrylic print version adds that extra pop of cryptid fabulous. Explore the full line and immortalize the only daisy-related trauma worth commemorating.

by Bill Tiepelman

Campfire Regrets

Marshwin T. Mallow had always been warned about the fire. "Keep your fluff three feet from the flame," his mother used to say. “Any closer and you’ll be a crème brûlée with abandonment issues.” But Marshwin, ever the thrill-seeker, was born to tempt fate — or at least tempt thermodynamics. And on one fateful, smoky, stick-snapping evening in Sizzlewood Forest, he made the worst decision of his gelatinous little life: he sat too damn close to the campfire. To be fair, the fire had *looked* romantic — all flickery and seductive like a Tinder date that promised s’mores but delivered STDs. The kind of fire that whispered, “Come hither, baby. Let me kiss your sugary dome.” Marshwin, puffy with pride and three shots of pine needle gin deep, took the bait. He dragged his stubby bottom across the dirt, wedging himself cozily between a mossy log and a pile of broken dreams (read: crunchy acorns and one suspiciously melted gummy bear). “Just gonna toast the buns a bit,” he mumbled to himself, adjusting his polka-dotted neckerchief — the one he wore for occasions when he wanted to look hot. Literal hot. Not fashion hot. Although if you asked him after two more gin shots, he’d tell you it was both. Five seconds in and the sweat was real. Not from panic — from the marshmallow equivalent of an armpit. His edges began to bulge. A thin veil of smoke rose from his scalp like a bad idea. His eyes widened, and a tiny, pained fart escaped from what could generously be called a "marshhole." “Aw hell,” he whispered, feeling his top begin to caramelize. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.” From across the firepit, his best friend Graham — a honey-wheat cracker with a crippling fear of heat — waved frantically. “GET OUTTA THERE, YOU STICKY IDIOT!” But Marshwin was already stuck. His gooey thighs had bonded with the bark beneath him. His lower fluff had begun to blister in places that weren’t covered in the marshmallow anatomy manual. And worst of all, his once-proud sheen was now a patchy, blistered wreck, like a melted bar of soap trying to cosplay as a glazed donut. In the woods behind him, a chorus of toasted nuts and charred licorice whispered legends of others who had dared flirt with combustion. “He’s the chosen goo,” one hissed. “The one they’ll call ‘The Half-Baked.’” As the campfire cracked louder — and Marshwin’s pride cracked louder still — something inside him snapped. Was it the sugar bonds? His sense of dignity? Or simply the feeling returning to his left mallow cheek? He didn’t know. But he was about to find out. And it involved a very awkward escape plan, a twig that looked suspiciously like a grappling hook, and the kind of groan that only comes from burning your metaphorical balls on literal firewood. Marshwin's internal monologue had long since turned into a full-blown mental meltdown, not unlike the slow-roasting calamity bubbling under his epidermis. As his upper puff smoldered like a busted ceiling tile at a vape convention, he began muttering a half-drunk survival mantra under his breath: “Stay calm. Don’t panic. You’re not stuck. You’re simply... aggressively adhered to bark with third-degree fluff trauma.” His left arm — let’s call it what it was, a stubby goo-nub with the flexibility of a licorice whip — wobbled toward the twig he’d spotted earlier. It looked kind of like a grappling hook if you squinted, spun three times, and were suffering heatstroke. Still, it was something. And Marshwin wasn’t about to die crispy. Not tonight. Not like this. Not with his marshhole exposed to the open air like a disgraced fondue fountain. He lunged. Or rather, he *attempted* to lunge. What actually happened was a pitiful shimmy, like a sentient marshmallow trying to twerk its way out of trauma. The singed bark clung to his undercarriage with the loyalty of a bad ex — refusing to let go and full of splinters. “GRAHAAAAAAAM!” he bellowed, his voice cracking like a stale wafer. “I need backup!” From behind a rock, Graham peeked out, trembling like a cracker at a vegan cheese convention. “Dude, I don’t *have* arms. I’m two flat planks held together by crippling anxiety and cinnamon dust!” “Then THROW SOMETHING! Chuck me a mushroom! A sock! YOUR DIGNITY!” Marshwin screamed. Instead, Graham hurled a pinecone. It struck Marshwin squarely in the face, bouncing off with a loud thwok and smearing sap across his toasted cheek like war paint. “NAILED IT!” Graham shouted, clearly unqualified for first aid or friendship. Meanwhile, things were escalating. A small squirrel had appeared, sniffing around the clearing like it had just stumbled upon the world’s most confused dessert. It stared at Marshwin, tilting its head. “Don’t even THINK about it, nut nugget,” Marshwin hissed. “I may be roasted, but I bite back.” Somewhere in the background, a disheveled raccoon with a headband and a hotdog skewer muttered, “You got any chocolate? We could complete the trifecta...” “BACK OFF, BANDIT CAT!” Marshwin shrieked, flailing wildly now. In a burst of desperation and molten shame, he yanked himself upward — bark and bits of moss ripping from beneath his scorched ass like a marshmallow molting into adulthood. The twig grapple caught a branch. For one glorious second, he was airborne. Gliding through the forest like a marshmallowy Tarzan of the Trees, screaming, “I REGRET EVERYTHING AND NOTHING!” He soared. He glistened. He briefly passed out from sugar loss and existential horror. And then — *WHAM.* He faceplanted into a muddy creek with all the grace of a microwaved jellyfish. Sputtering, smoking, and newly soaked, Marshwin crawled to the bank, trailing charred fluff and pondweed from his dignity-parts. Behind him, the forest was quiet. The fire crackled on in the distance, smug as hell. Graham finally caught up, panting and breathless. “You made it. Holy crap. You smell like burnt hope and sticky trauma.” “I’m a changed puff,” Marshwin wheezed, steam rising from every orifice. “No more fire. No more neckerchief flair. No more butt-scorching bravado.” He rolled onto his back, looking at the stars. “From now on... I live a cool life. Like, refrigerator-chilled... popsicle-monk... no-spark lifestyle. I'm going full Zen Snack.” “You’ll last a week,” Graham said flatly. “Probably less,” Marshwin sighed. “But damn if I didn’t look hot while nearly dying.” Next: A mysterious traveler offers Marshwin a new purpose... and maybe a pair of pants. The next morning arrived like a hangover in a nun’s confessional — silent, judgy, and full of regrets. Marshwin T. Mallow lay motionless on a flat rock, steam gently hissing from his pores. His once-pristine fluff now resembled a half-sucked pillow mint that had been dropped in gravel and dunked in regret. Every inch of him ached. Even the bits that didn’t technically exist on the marshmallow anatomy chart. Like his sense of pride. And whatever was left of his marsh-nuts. “I feel like a microwaved napkin,” he muttered. “You smell like a failed crème brûlée that cheated on its diet,” Graham chimed in, chewing thoughtfully on a stick he’d mistaken for an oat bar. “Honestly, I’m proud of you. You finally outran both the fire and your own overconfidence. That’s growth. Or combustion. Hard to tell with you.” Marshwin tried to flip him off but could only manage a floppy wiggle of his semi-melted hand nub. “Shut up and go find me a loofah. I’ve got bark in crevices I didn’t know I had.” That’s when the shadow appeared — long, ominous, and shaped like an overfed marshmallow in a trench coat. From the trees stepped a figure none of them had ever seen, though they instantly felt like he’d been lurking in the back of their cookbook all along. He was tall. Puffy. Lightly dusted in cocoa powder like he was born of a barista’s fever dream. He wore a crooked toffee monocle and walked with a graham cracker cane. His name was whispered only once, but that was enough: “S’morris,” Graham whispered. “The Charred One. The legendary snack who survived triple-roast s’moregery and a camping trip with teenagers...” “Shut your crumbs,” S’morris growled, voice smooth like marshmallow jazz. “I heard there was a little puff who got singed but didn’t melt. A sweetling who thought he could tango with fire and not end up a puddle on a cracker. That you, Toastboy?” Marshwin sat up slowly, the scorched bark fused to his backside cracking like cheap ceramics. “What’s it to you, Sugarpimp?” S’morris smiled. “I like your attitude. Arrogant. Roasted. Gooey in all the wrong places. You’ve got what it takes. Ever heard of the Toasted Order?” “Is that some kind of cult?” Marshwin asked. “Because I already drank enough pine gin last night to hallucinate a squirrel with a knife.” “No,” S’morris said. “It’s a support group. For the singed. The caramelized. The ones who’ve flown too close to the flame, got their asses burnt, and came out... seasoned.” Marshwin blinked. “You want me to join a gang of emotionally scarred snack foods?” “We meet Thursdays,” S’morris added. “We swap stories. Trade SPF tricks. Learn how to walk again without leaving streaks. Sometimes we fight raccoons. Mostly for sport.” Marshwin looked down at his crispy hands. Then at Graham. Then at the firepit in the distance, where smoke still danced like the ghost of his roasted past. “Fine,” he said, “But only if you’ve got pants. I’m tired of moss rash.” S’morris pulled a pair of custom-tailored s’more-shorts from inside his coat — woven from licorice strands, lined with powdered sugar, and tastefully embroidered with the words “Too Sweet to Die.” “Welcome to the Order, Toastboy.” Over the next several weeks, Marshwin trained with the Order of the Toasted. He mastered the ancient ways of the Sear-Slip. He learned to extinguish himself in three seconds or less. He even achieved Marshmallow Inner Peace (M.I.P.), which involved deep breathing and controlled melting. They traveled the woods. Preached fire safety to reckless teens. Set squirrel traps made of peanut butter and sarcasm. And every night, around a controlled, regulated firepit with a perimeter of gravel and safety signage, Marshwin would share his story — of ego, combustion, escape... and sticky redemption. One day, he returned to that same log where it all began. The bark still bore his butt-mark — a fossil of fluff and shame. Marshwin smiled, placed a graham cracker flower at the site, and whispered, “Thanks for the trauma. You taught me how to live cool.” Then he farted softly and walked into the sunset, his sugar-pants rustling in the breeze.     Bring the Roast Home 🔥 Marshwin’s tragicomic tale of toasty survival is now immortalized in art — perfect for those who like their décor equal parts whimsical and well-done. Framed Prints bring the full, singed glory of Marshwin’s meltdown to your walls, while the sleek Metal Prints add an extra layer of fireproof flair. Prefer your humor on natural textures? The Wood Prints give rustic charm to this campfire catastrophe. Challenge yourself (or your friends) to piece together every glorious bit of Marshwin’s gooey trauma with a delightfully ridiculous Jigsaw Puzzle, or carry his legacy with you into the wild with our versatile Tote Bag — ideal for snacks, regret, and emergency marshmallow repellant. Because nothing says “I’ve got great taste” like celebrating the life of a mildly traumatized, partially caramelized marshmallow legend.

by Bill Tiepelman

Seasons of the Hunter

The Amber Eye of Thal They said the forest was split by an ancient curse — one that stitched time along a crooked seam. On the left side of the path, the world still bled with the warmth of fall; brittle leaves crunched underfoot, burnt-orange maples clawed at the dying light, and the air was spiced with rot and memory. To the right, winter had already carved its claim. Icy breath lingered like ghosts between silver pines, the snow as clean and silent as the grave. Between them, it walked. The tiger. But not just a tiger — Thal, the Ember-Eyed, the Relic, the Whispering Death. His paws made no sound, though the earth shivered in his wake. Every step was deliberate, ancient. He wasn’t just walking through seasons; he was walking through them — the gods, the hunters, the fools who once tried to bind him in chains made of prophecy and ego. Spoiler: it didn’t go well for them. Thal’s gaze glinted gold, not from the sun (which had the sense to keep its distance), but from something deeper. A memory, perhaps, or a thousand of them stacked like bones beneath his ribs. To look into his eyes was to feel time laugh at your mortality. From the frost-cloaked evergreens, a shape stirred. A man, wrapped in wolf pelts, stepped from the shadows with the arrogance of someone who hadn’t yet been educated by regret. He bore a spear longer than himself, etched with sigils that sizzled faintly against the cold air. A hunter, no doubt. Thal did not slow. “You walk toward death,” the man called, raising the spear. “Return to your side of the forest, beast. You do not belong here.” Thal paused. The leaves rustled. The snow sighed. And the tiger—yes, the one with paws like thunder and a heart older than most mountains—smirked. At least, that’s what the wind whispered. They always say that. With a motion so smooth it might’ve been a thought, Thal lunged—not at the man, but at the air between them, cleaving space itself. And in that breath, everything shifted. Trees tilted. The spear turned to ash. The hunter screamed. Not in pain—yet—but in the realization that he’d just become part of the story. And worse, not the hero. Thal padded forward as if nothing had happened, leaving behind a smear of melted snow and a man on his knees, sobbing into the scent of burning bark. The tiger’s eyes flicked to the horizon. Something bigger stirred. He could feel it waking. Not a hunter. Not prey. Something else. And it had his scent in its throat already. So much for a quiet stroll between seasons. The Cold God’s Hunger Deep beneath the roots of the winter side, where frost had gnawed away the bones of civilizations, something shifted. Not the innocent stirrings of woodland life, but a pull, as if gravity itself was reconsidering its allegiance. The Cold God was waking. And Thal could feel its hunger like static between his fangs. He’d met it once. Just once. Back when gods still bled the same color as their believers and thrones were built from the skulls of saints. Back then, it had worn the face of a child — a little boy made of rime and sorrow, who whispered promises to dying kings. Thal hadn’t liked the child. He’d left claw marks on its palace walls and teeth in its priests. And still, the thing had smiled. But that was another forest. Another age. Another Thal, before the centuries had taught him the delight of patience. Before sarcasm became his only shield against the divine absurdity of this world. Now, as he stalked the treacherous line between autumn’s decline and winter’s dominion, the forest around him began to convulse with quiet betrayal. Crows stopped mid-caw. The wind folded its wings. Time dared not breathe too loudly. The path ahead curved unnaturally, bending like a ribcage trying to cage him in. Oh, how they tried. “Still alive, Thal?” croaked a voice like a dying fire under wet wood. It came from above—a broken pine twisted in the shape of a woman, her bark bleeding sap that steamed as it touched snow. Thal glanced up. “Sylfa. Still rooted in bad decisions, I see.” The dryad cackled, a sound like snapped kindling. “The Cold God wants your pelt, old friend.” “He can want all he likes. So can the moon.” “He dreams of you. Of fire. Of endings.” “Then he dreams wrong.” The tree-woman’s laughter shivered into the branches above, triggering an avalanche somewhere unseen. Thal didn’t stop. He never stopped. That was the first rule of survival for a creature like him. Movement wasn’t just instinct; it was ritual. Keep walking, keep breathing, keep mocking the gods until they were too tired or too confused to smite you properly. Still, he could feel the Cold God now. It was no longer a whisper beneath the ground, but a presence bulging at the seams of reality. It was not frost. It was not wind. It was something much worse: the absence of all that had ever meant warmth. It devoured memory, ambition, even pain — leaving behind numb obedience. Its faithful called it mercy. Thal called it cowardice wrapped in holy frostbite. And it had just stepped onto the path behind him. Not walked. Not emerged. Just… was. A figure ten feet tall, draped in robes of shifting snow, face hidden beneath a jagged mask of antlers and glass. Wherever it stepped, autumn died. Even Thal’s breath came slower, his body tensing as his primal bones remembered the cost of overconfidence. The trees bent toward it. Time hiccuped again. “Tiger,” it said in a voice that didn’t echo because sound refused to linger around it. “Oh good,” Thal replied. “It talks. That’ll make this one-sided conversation slightly less boring.” “You have crossed the line.” “I invented the line,” Thal growled, circling. “You’re just squatting on it like some frostbitten beggar in need of relevance.” The Cold God lifted one hand. The spear that had turned to ash earlier reformed in its grip — sleek, elegant, and made from a single shard of frozen time. Behind it, the dryad gasped and turned to ice with a sharp, pitiful crack. No cackle this time. Just silence and regret. Thal didn’t flinch. Didn’t run. He crouched. Muscles like coiled storms surged beneath striped fur. There was no preamble, no warning roar, no cinematic leap into destiny. He simply moved. The impact was apocalyptic. The forest howled. Snow exploded. The spear clanged against his flank with a sound that shattered the air into crystals. Thal’s claws found purchase — not in flesh, but in memory — digging into the Cold God’s form and tearing away the illusion of invincibility. For a heartbeat, the mask cracked. Beneath it: eyes like dying stars. They both recoiled. And in that pause, something even worse happened: the forest began to change. The line between seasons widened, split open like a wound. From it, a third force emerged — not cold, not heat, but void. An absence so complete it made winter look warm. Thal landed, eyes darting. He hadn’t expected a third player. He hated plot twists. “What in the Nine Groaning Hells is that?” he muttered, ears flattening. The Cold God didn’t answer. It just backed away, robes folding into the snow as if hiding was an acceptable response now. And maybe it was. Because the thing emerging wasn’t a god. Wasn’t mortal. Wasn’t even real in the way forests or tigers or sarcastic inner monologues were. It looked like Thal. But it wasn’t him. Not anymore. The Echo in the Skin The creature was a parody of Thal—same shape, same stripes, same gold-flecked eyes—but every detail felt… off. Its coat didn’t shimmer, it absorbed light. Its paws left no tracks, not because it was weightless, but because the earth refused to acknowledge its presence. It looked like a tiger, but it moved like a shadow trying to remember what it once was. Thal lowered his head, not in submission but in concentration. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Somewhere in the frozen branches above, birds fell dead from sheer proximity to the thing’s presence. “You’re late,” Thal growled, voice low and bitter. “I was hoping to die before I had to meet myself.” The Echo tilted its head, mirroring the gesture with uncanny timing. Its eyes, his eyes, burned back with nothing but silent amusement… and a hunger that made the Cold God look like a bedtime story. “What is it?” croaked the Cold God, still recoiling, more shadow now than shape. “A mistake,” Thal said flatly. “A leftover from an old spell. From a war they tried to erase. My soul was split once—by force, by fire, by idiots who thought balance required duplicity. They carved out everything I was willing to burn to survive… and stitched it into that.” The Echo moved forward—graceful, mocking, patient. Around it, the seam of seasons collapsed. Autumn withered. Winter turned to slush. The path disappeared under layers of reality folding like wet paper. Thal dug in, claws scraping frost and fallen bark, trying to anchor himself in a world that no longer knew what “real” meant. The Cold God was gone. Coward. Figures. He always was an idea more than a god anyway—powerful, sure, but only in the way regret is powerful. It lingers, but it never wins. Thal lunged. But the Echo didn’t resist. It welcomed him. Their bodies collided not with violence but fusion—a scream of memory unspooling, identities clashing like tectonic plates. Thal roared. Not in pain. In defiance. The forest split wide. Trees bent into rings. The sky cracked open. He was drowning in himself and biting his way out at the same time. Every kill. Every legend. Every lie told around campfires about the Ember-Eyed Tiger. They bled through him like wildfire through dry grass. For a heartbeat, he was both—the myth and the monster. Then the moment tipped. He remembered. Not the battles. Not the hunger. Not even the gods. He remembered why he had survived. Why he had walked across centuries of war and peace and stupidity. Not for vengeance. Not for power. But for choice. He was the one creature left that the world could not predict. That choice—every deliberate footstep between the seasons—was his defiance, his rebellion against becoming another cog in the divine machine. And he would not give it up to some soul-born echo stitched together by cowards with altars and delusions. With a roar that cracked glaciers, Thal sank his teeth into the Echo’s throat—and ripped. Not flesh. Not blood. Possibility. The thing unraveled, screaming in a hundred tongues before silence took it like sleep. And then, stillness. Thal stood alone. The forest lay quiet, like a child pretending not to breathe under a blanket. The seasons had returned to their border—autumn rich and warm, winter cold and watching. He stepped forward. Just one pace. But it was enough. The world exhaled. Behind him, the void hissed and closed. No more echoes. No more gods. No more destiny clawing at his back like ticks. He had walked between the seasons and come out whole. Mostly. “Still got it,” Thal muttered, licking a drop of starlight from his paw. “Someone tell the gods I’m not done being inconvenient.” And with that, he disappeared into the blaze of fallen leaves, leaving pawprints that would never freeze… and a story too strange for the Cold God to ever retell.     Bring the myth home with you. If Thal's journey through time and shadow stirred something primal in your soul, honor the legend with one of our exquisite woven wall tapestries, or channel the tiger’s dual-season power in your daily life with a stunning wood print or plush fleece blanket. Want a bit of beastly boldness in your bath routine? Try our ultra-vivid bath towel that roars with wild style. Each piece immortalizes the intensity and mystery of Thal’s legend, making it more than decor—it’s a declaration.

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

The Ember-Eyed Wanderer

Of Hoodies and Horns The forest of Merribark was not on any map, mostly because the cartographers who found it never made it out again—distracted by the intoxicating scent of maple-sugar moss and the unsolicited life advice given by the ferns. Some claimed the trees whispered gossip about local wildlife. Others said the squirrels held tiny séances and debated philosophy. But none of these eccentricities compared to the real enigma of Merribark: the ember-eyed creature in the hoodie. He had no name—or rather, he had so many that he simply shrugged when asked. The owls called him "Snugglehorn." The chipmunks used “The Fuzzy Prophet.” The humans, few and flustered as they were, referred to him only as "Oh My God What Is That—It’s So Cute—AAAAAH." He just went with “Wanderer,” which sounded mysterious and chic. Our Wanderer had the vibe of a creature that drank oat milk lattes, listened to forest lo-fi, and probably had an Etsy shop for enchanted pinecones. With plush white fur, oversized ears blushing with warmth, and twin antelope-like horns peeking through a shaggy mop of fluff, he was the kind of creature you'd want to cuddle, unless you disliked unsolicited sarcasm from woodland beings. Today, like many other days, he sat cross-legged on his favorite log wearing his mustard-toned hoodie—too big, slightly frayed, and enchanted to always smell like cinnamon rolls. Leaves drifted lazily down around him, performing aerial ballet. He watched them fall with an expression that suggested deep contemplation, though in truth, he was just wondering if it was too early for second breakfast. “You’re philosophizing again, aren’t you?” came a voice from the ferns, brittle and judgmental. It was Twiggy, a very sharp-tongued hedgehog with bangs and a dramatic sigh. She emerged with all the flair of a diva suffering a wardrobe malfunction, dragging a mini handbag made from acorn caps and sass. “Only about bread, darling,” said Wanderer, blinking his glowing eyes slowly. “Why do we bake it, slice it, and then toast it? Isn’t that emotional whiplash for the wheat?” “You need a hobby. Or a boyfriend,” Twiggy sniffed. “Or a therapist. Or all three. Probably in that order.” “You’re just upset because the mushroom you married turned out to be a toadstool in disguise.” “We do not speak of Reginald the Deceiver,” she hissed. “Besides, he was too spongy anyway.” Just then, a frantic bluebird dive-bombed through the clearing, panting in short, tweet-sized bursts. “HE’S COMING! THE TWO-LEGGED GIANT!” The entire forest paused mid-wind-blow. Leaves froze in midair. Even the judgmental ferns stiffened their fronds. Wanderer, meanwhile, adjusted his hoodie like a fashion influencer preparing for a live stream. “Oh yes, the one with the camera and the tragic man-bun,” he said. “Chadwick.” “He brings gluten,” whispered a squirrel reverently from the shadows. “He steps on fungi,” muttered a mushroom bitterly. Wanderer sighed, stood up, and brushed his tiny paws off on his hoodie. “Well, let’s not be rude. We’ll give him a proper Merribark welcome. Someone fetch the sarcasm wreath and the ‘You Tried’ banner.” By the time Chadwick stumbled into the clearing—half-mulched by brambles, holding his DSLR like it was an ancient relic—the forest scene had been curated to Pinterest-worthy perfection. Wanderer perched regally on his log, leaves spiraling behind him like nature’s confetti, eyes glowing like warm bourbon lit by fairy light. Chadwick gasped. “You’re… real.” Wanderer tilted his head. “Define ‘real.’ Existentially? Metaphysically? Or just tax-deductible?” Chadwick began clicking frantically. “This is going viral. I’m going to call you ‘Forest Catfox!’” “That’s offensive,” Twiggy growled from a branch. “He’s a Forest Dramaturge.” “I’m more of an Emotional Support Goblin,” Wanderer said with a shrug. “But I’ll let it slide for a croissant.” Chadwick, dazed and elated, kept snapping photos, unaware that the squirrels had already started rummaging through his backpack, assessing the value of his granola bars in acorn currency. And that’s when the whisper started, soft and eerie: a voice among the trees, unmistakably annoyed. It wasn’t Chadwick. It wasn’t Twiggy. And it definitely wasn’t one of the squirrels (though they could be dramatic). It was something older. Wilder. Grumpier. And mildly damp-smelling. The forest shivered. The leaves dropped like dead gossip. And Wanderer… Wanderer stood up straighter. Adjusted his hoodie. And whispered, “Oh fungus muffins. She’s awake.” The Slumbering Grump and the Granola Apocalypse The forest of Merribark was not accustomed to drama. Sure, there were the occasional turf disputes between badgers and raccoons (usually over who left peanut butter on the communal hammock). And yes, the annual “Mushroom Masquerade” sometimes ended with a few intoxicated toadstools face-down in the duck pond. But *this* was different. Because She had awakened. Deep beneath the glade, where roots knotted like secret handshakes and the earth hummed with unsent emails from Mother Nature, something ancient stirred: Grumple Griselda, the disgruntled fungus queen, was no longer dormant. She was awake, crusty, and she was hungry. “You didn’t tell me you lived over a spore mat,” Chadwick whispered, eyes wide behind his ironically large glasses. “Technically, I rent it. On a very flexible mycelium sublease,” Wanderer replied, cracking his knuckles like a woodland chiropractor. “But semantics aside—yes. We are standing on the grumpy fungal womb of doom. And you brought peanut butter trail mix. Excellent.” “That wasn’t me!” Chadwick hissed. “That was the influencer I dated last week! I’m more of a keto sunflower seed guy!” “Oh, you’re that guy,” Twiggy said, hopping down with a sniff. “The one who won’t shut up about gut biome and 'intermittent enlightenment.'” “Wanderer,” a voice rumbled from the soil itself. “Is that a human I smell?” “You smell that?” Wanderer muttered. “That’s ancient mold resentment mixed with existential dread and body lotion called ‘Forest Seduction.’” The ground trembled. From a slowly splitting mound of moss and dirt rose a towering column of sentient mushroom—hulking, multicolored, and wildly over-accessorized in damp velvet and beetle-shell jewelry. Griselda, Her Sponginess, emerged like an angry sourdough starter granted mobility. “YOU.” Her voice sloshed across the clearing like gravy rage. “You let another one in. Another two-leg. With hair gel!” “Chadwick, do not—do not—try to negotiate,” Wanderer warned. But Chadwick had already stepped forward, pulling out a bag of gluten-free trail mix like an offering to a snacky goddess. “It’s vegan?” Griselda blinked. Then blinked again. Then released a sound that could only be described as a mycological snort. “You think you can bribe me with roasted chickpeas? CHILD, I was fermenting before your ancestors even knew how to boil an egg!” “That’s true,” Twiggy piped up. “She’s older than regret.” “And just as clingy,” Wanderer added. “But she also really loves interpretive dance. Maybe we distract her.” “With dance?” Chadwick gasped. “With interpretive existential dread dance,” Twiggy clarified. “Big difference.” And so it began. In the center of the forest clearing, the most awkward flashmob in magical history unfolded. Squirrels somersaulted with nut-cluster precision. Frogs leapt in chaotic jazz sequences. Twiggy twirled like an angry pretzel, while Chadwick—bless his soft-shelled soul—attempted a combination of tai chi and a mid-2000s boy band routine. Wanderer, meanwhile, simply stood still, eyes glowing brighter than before, hoodie rippling in the wind like he was in an emotionally complicated shampoo commercial. Griselda narrowed her eyes. “What is this?” she demanded, swaying. “A ritual?” “A vibe,” Wanderer replied smoothly. “A forest reclaiming its narrative through kinetic vulnerability and granola-averse choreography.” Griselda paused. Blinked again. “...It’s working. My rage… it’s slowing…” “Careful,” Twiggy hissed. “She’s entering her sentimental fermentation phase.” “This is when she’s most dangerous,” Wanderer added. “If she starts quoting ancient mushroom poetry, we’re doomed.” “Let the moss beneath us bear witness,” Griselda began, her voice softening into a tragic, echoing croon, “to the cycle of growth and rot… for even the firmest fungi… must one day… split…” Chadwick burst into tears. “That’s so beautiful.” “He’s been emotionally compromised,” said a badger wearing monocles. “Time to engage Protocol Nutshake.” Before anyone could ask what that was, a chipmunk rocketed out of the underbrush riding a red squirrel bareback and wielding two pinecone maracas. The scene dissolved into joyful chaos as woodland creatures celebrated the near-aversion of disaster through interpretive art and accidental snack diplomacy. Griselda, touched by the bizarre communal ritual, slowly receded into her fungal dormancy. “Fine,” she grumbled. “You may keep your camera monkey. But I expect seasonal tributes. And at least one heartfelt ballad about the tragedy of mold.” “I’ll have Chadwick write an indie folk song,” Wanderer promised. “It’ll have banjo. And melancholy.” “Better have accordion,” Griselda muttered, sinking back into the dirt. “Or I will rise again…” By nightfall, the forest had returned to a semi-chaotic peace. The squirrels were tipsy on fermented berries. Chadwick had 347 blurry photos and one accidental selfie with Griselda. Twiggy had started selling tiny bottles of forest-scented oil labeled “Spores & Sass.” And Wanderer? He returned to his log, hoodie fluffed, sipping tea brewed from leaves that giggled when plucked. “So,” Twiggy asked, curling beside him. “Think he’ll come back?” “Probably,” Wanderer said with a sly smile. “Humans love mystery. And granola. And I am, if nothing else… extremely photogenic.” The stars blinked awake above Merribark, as soft laughter echoed through the trees and the forest whispered secrets to itself. And somewhere, far below, a mushroom queen dreamt of accordions. The End.     Bring the magic home: If “The Ember-Eyed Wanderer” stole your heart, whispered to your inner mischief, or made you cackle into your tea, you can now bring a piece of Merribark Forest into your world. From soft furnishings to gallery-worthy wall art, this enchanting scene is available in a variety of charming formats to suit every adventurer’s den. Tapestry: Perfect for creating a cozy reading nook or dreamy bedroom vibe, this fabric art brings the wanderer’s forest glow into any space. Canvas Print: Museum-quality texture with a rustic touch—ideal for showcasing this whimsical scene in your home gallery. Metal Print: Bold, luminous, and modern—this sleek print makes the glowing eyes and autumn tones pop with spellbinding clarity. Throw Pillow: Soft enough for squirrel naps and stylish enough for enchanted living rooms. Cozy up with forest flair! Fleece Blanket: Wrap yourself in woodland whimsy—ideal for chilly evenings, tea rituals, or pretending you're napping in a magical glade. Explore the full collection at shop.unfocussed.com and let the ember-eyed mischief-maker spark stories in your space.

by Bill Tiepelman

Born of Flame, Breathed by Ocean

The Split of Aeralune There was a time when the world breathed as one. Before the forests divided themselves from the desert, before thunder argued with flame, and before memory was fractured by the weight of regret—there was Aeralune. She was not born, not exactly. She was the moment fire kissed water for the first time and chose not to consume it. A balance so perfect, so impossibly unstable, that even the stars wept to witness it. Her left eye glowed like the final ember in a dying world. Her right shimmered with the stillness of abyssal trenches. Her skin, cracked and charred on one side, pulsed with molten life; the other, cool and wet, bore the scent of moss and monsoon. She stood not at the edge of two realms, but within the very fracture of them—fire and water fused, harmony incarnate. Aeralune’s existence was not peace, but tension—an eternal negotiation. The flames within her whispered of rebirth through destruction, a cycle of cleansing that required no mercy. The water urged patience, the kind that shaped canyons and nurtured life in silence. And between them, her soul bent, like a tree leaning toward both sun and rain. Neither master, neither servant. Yet something stirred. For centuries she wandered the lands, silent and unknowable, her footprints leaving steam or frost depending on which foot fell first. The tribes called her names: Caldera Mother. Stormbride. The Veiled Mercy. Some built temples of obsidian and salt in her image. Others feared her as an omen, believing her gaze foretold ruin. But few ever saw her truly—until the day she stepped into the realm of Thalen, a land fractured like herself. Thalen was dying—not from war or famine, but from forgetting. Rivers refused to flow. The sun burned longer, harsher, and the moon wept blue. The land had lost the memory of connection; its people divided into elemental cults that worshiped extremes. The Pyrelords, fire-drenched and fevered, scorched the western cliffs to cleanse what they deemed impure. The Tidebinders, secretive and cold, carved underwater sanctuaries, drowning out what they called noise. Each blamed the other for imbalance. Neither saw the world collapsing beneath them both. They would never have summoned Aeralune. But the world had. Her arrival was not heralded. No comet tore through the sky. No prophet’s tongue burned with warning. She simply was, stepping from the mist one twilight, half-lit by lava’s glow, half-drenched in seafoam dew. She came to the broken altar of the Great Crossing—the last place where Pyrelord and Tidebinder had ever stood as one, centuries past. There, she placed both hands on the stone, and the ground shuddered like it remembered something ancient and vital. But she was not alone. From the shadowed highlands came a figure cloaked in smoke and ash. Vaelen of the Pyrelords—scarred, driven, cruel in the name of purpose. He came seeking conquest, but what he found shook his flame-forged certainty. And from the deep forests, where water carved its will into root and stone, emerged Kaelith of the Tidebinders—quiet, calculating, burdened by too much knowing and not enough feeling. She, too, approached with wary silence. The three stood at the broken altar. No words passed, but the tension was alive. Steam curled at Aeralune’s feet. The ground beneath cracked and healed in the same breath. Something unseen awakened, as if watching from beneath the world’s skin. And then Aeralune spoke—only three words, each weighted like mountains forged in myth: “We are fractured.” What followed was not prophecy, nor war. It was something far more dangerous. Conversation. Ash, Salt, and the Shape of Forgiveness The words hung between them, heavy as a collapsing star: We are fractured. Kaelith flinched, as though those three syllables echoed through her bones. Vaelen narrowed his eyes, heat radiating off his skin in shimmering waves. Neither spoke immediately. In Thalen, silence was either reverence or threat—and here, it was both. Aeralune stood between them, still and vast, her breath stirring steam and fog, her presence pressing against the air like a storm that hadn’t yet chosen its direction. “The fracture is survival,” Vaelen growled first, his voice ember-dry. “We separated because unity made us weak. It diluted the fire. I will not return to smoke and shadows to appease a myth.” Kaelith’s gaze remained fixed on Aeralune. “Survival built in separation is merely death delayed. We preserve water in vessels. We do not become the vessel.” But Aeralune said nothing. Not yet. Instead, she stepped to the altar once more, placing a single fingertip—molten red—on the cold stone. Then the other hand—cool and slick with dew—joined it. The slab cracked. Not broken, but open. Beneath it, a hidden chamber revealed itself in a soft groan of earth and memory. There lay a scroll. No words inked its surface. It was woven from elements themselves—firethread and kelpvine, obsidian dust and glacier silk. The true script of Thalen: feeling, not language. Memory, not record. “You were not divided,” Aeralune said, finally. “You were broken. And you chose to remain so.” The scroll was ancient. And alive. Touching it unleashed visions—not of prophecy, but of remembrance. Kaelith and Vaelen both saw their ancestors—not heroes in battle, but companions around fire and stream, lovers beneath stars where fireflies danced between dew and smoke. They saw water cooling volcanic soil to make it fertile. They saw steam healing wounds. They saw children of both elements born under twilight skies, eyes glowing with both fury and calm. And then they saw what split them: fear. One spark, one flood too many. One voice rising louder than the rest. Pride carved into stone, then worshipped as truth. They had not divided because of difference—but because of the terror that true unity demanded surrender. Not of strength, but of certainty. “We forgot each other,” Kaelith whispered, tears threading down her cheek like rivers etching a canyon. Vaelen’s fists were clenched. “No. We remembered only what we hated.” That was the key. The rot. Memory, twisted by resentment, had been passed down like a weapon—reframed, sanctified, retold until connection itself was branded heresy. Unity wasn’t destroyed in one blow. It had been eroded, like cliffs, by unspoken grief. “So then,” Aeralune said, her voice now the sound of lava meeting rain, “will you choose to remember rightly?” Kaelith stepped forward. She extended her hand, palm up, toward Vaelen. It trembled—not from fear, but from the weight of history. A hand soaked in generations of drowned silence, offering the most dangerous gift one could give: vulnerability. Vaelen looked at it. At her. At the woman with seafoam in her veins and guilt in her gaze. Then down at his own hands—scarred, calloused, the kind that knew fire as both forge and furnace. Slowly, he uncurled them. “We cannot go back,” he said. “But perhaps we can go forward broken—together.” He placed his hand in hers. And the world exhaled. From the fractured altar, a bloom of light erupted—not harsh or divine, but warm and wild. It rippled across Thalen, breathing into stone, river, flame, and tree. Where the rivers had choked dry, they now shimmered. The cliffs that had blackened with heat softened into fertile crimson soil. Storms that once only destroyed now danced across the sky, seeding both chaos and hope. Aeralune did not smile. But her eyes flickered with something ancient and rare. “The world does not need peace,” she said. “It needs intimacy. Tension embraced, not erased. Union, not fusion.” She turned from them. Her purpose fulfilled, perhaps. Or just beginning. Her body began to dissolve—not as death, but as gift. Each flake of her—cracked ember, salted moss, wind-woven dew—became the breath of Thalen itself. The volcanoes still rumbled. The oceans still crashed. But between them now was a new song—a rhythm of opposition choosing collaboration over conquest. Years later, storytellers would speak of the Split Goddess, the One Who Held Contradiction. And children of fire and tide would grow up believing not in sides, but in spectrum. Not in conquest, but in communion. And somewhere, far beneath root and stone, that woven scroll still pulsed—reminding the world that even the most broken things can remember how to be whole, if they dare to speak across the fracture.     Bring the Myth to Life in Your Space If *Born of Flame, Breathed by Ocean* stirred something in you—a memory of unity, a yearning for balance, or a fascination with elemental beauty—you can carry that feeling beyond the page. We've transformed this powerful image into vivid, high-quality art products designed to bring story and atmosphere into your everyday life. Metal Print: Sleek and radiant, this option captures the elemental tension in razor-sharp detail with a modern, floating effect perfect for bold interiors. Acrylic Print: A stunning depth effect that enhances the contrast between fire and water, perfect for creating a gallery-quality focal point in your home or office. Throw Pillow: Add an evocative touch to your living space with this cozy yet dramatic textile—where myth meets comfort. Tote Bag: Carry the story with you wherever you go. Durable, vibrant, and symbolic—a perfect blend of art and utility. Each product is crafted to preserve the soul of the story and the intensity of the image. Let this elemental fusion accompany you in your world, reminding you daily: true power lies in the connection between opposites.

by Bill Tiepelman

Terror on the Tile Wall

Panic in Ply Town Rolland Q. Plyworth III had lived a cushy, well-rolled life up until this exact moment. He was proud of his smooth finish, triple-ply pedigree, and his strategic placement on the prime real estate that was the polished chrome dispenser in Stall Two. He'd heard horror stories from the bidet crowd—rumors about rough wipes, careless tears, and the dreaded "backdoor blizzard" incident of 2017. But Rolland? He thought he was above it all. Then he walked in. At first, Rolland didn't panic. Sure, the human was humming a weird polka tune, pants already around his ankles like a flag of defeat. But Rolland had seen plenty of cheeks come and go. This was standard issue. Nothing to worry about. Until he saw the hand. It wasn’t just dirty. It was apocalyptic. A crime scene in five fingers. Caked in the brown shame of a thousand tacos past their prime. The kind of mess you don’t wipe—you just burn it down and start a new life in Idaho. “Oh sweet Charmin’s ghost,” Rolland muttered as his arms sprung from his soft sides, reaching out to protest. “Not me! I’m embossed! I have a quilted legacy!” The hand got closer. It reached for the tail end of Rolland’s perfectly perforated sheet. His heart—if he had one—would’ve exploded like a hot burrito in a microwave. “Stop! Use the paper towels! Use your sleeve! Use... your dignity!” Rolland shrieked, trying to unspool himself off the holder like a hostage escaping bondage. Too late. A single square was torn free, gripped by the filth-riddled claws of the man who had clearly just committed war crimes in porcelain. And then—horror—Rolland was made to hold it. His tiny paper hand gripping the dirty square like a traitor handing over state secrets. His fibers trembled. His embossing began to curl with trauma. “You monster,” he whispered, his googly eyes widening. “I’m not even flushable.” But the man didn’t hear. The man never heard. They never do. They just wipe and leave. No thank you. No apology. No therapy voucher. As the hand drew the square toward the unspeakable, Rolland knew this was only the beginning of his nightmare. And if he didn’t do something drastic... he’d be next. The Great Escape and the Porcelain Underground It’s said that in moments of mortal terror, your life flashes before your eyes. For Rolland Q. Plyworth III, it was a slideshow of packaging. The proud day he left the factory. The first time he was stocked on the top shelf—front-facing, labels aligned. The time a small dog tried to chew on his outer layer and got scared off by his screaming face. Simpler times. But now? Now he was about to be complicit in the kind of fecal felony that gets you blacklisted from every guest bathroom from here to Biscayne Bay. His mind raced. He was a roll of few options. But if he could just... twist his core... leverage the spring of the holder... maybe—maybe—he could dismount. “FOR PLYDOM!” he howled, spinning like a majestic soft grenade and flinging himself off the metal spindle with all the grace of a suicidal croissant. He hit the tiled wall, bounced off the sink, and landed with a panicked flop behind the toilet brush caddy. The human stared at the empty holder. “What the—” he grunted, cheeks clenched, reaching under the sink in desperation. “WHERE’S THE BACKUP ROLL?!” Rolland peeked from behind the plunger, gasping for breath he didn’t need. “There is... no backup... you crusty-handed barbarian.” Suddenly, from the shadows of the baseboard heating vent, came a whisper. “Pssst. New guy. You alright?” Rolland turned to see a square of paper towel, folded into a vaguely humanoid shape with duct tape shoes. One corner was burnt. One side had coffee stains that looked... deliberate. “Who... who are you?” Rolland asked, still trembling. “Name’s Bev. Bev Napkin. We’ve been watching you from the vents. You’ve got guts, roll-boy. Most of your kind go limp and get flushed. But you? You’ve got fiber.” Rolland blinked. “Is this the afterlife? Is this where all the partially used napkins go?” Bev laughed, a harsh papery rasp. “Nah, sweetheart. This is the Underground. And you just joined the resistance.” Bev led him down through a vent tunnel, past tissues with eye patches, floss with battle scars, even a bar of soap that refused to speak of what it had seen in Gym Locker 9. They emerged into a hollow behind the baseboards—a sanctuary of the discarded and the defiant. A haven for the hygienically traumatized. “We call it ‘Plymoria’,” Bev explained, spreading her crumpled hands. “And we fight for justice. For dignity. For one-ply, two-ply, and moist towelette alike.” Rolland stared in awe. “But... what can I do?” Bev grinned. “You know the layout. You’ve seen the enemy. You’ve touched their hands.” He shuddered. “More like... their sins.” “Then you’re perfect for our mission,” she said. “Operation: Wipe Back.” From that day forward, Rolland trained with the Paper Platoon. He learned to roll silently across linoleum. He mastered distraction techniques (mostly involving fake poop and creaky cabinet doors). He even bonded with a grizzled loofah named Carl, who’d done two tours in the bachelor dorm showers. The next time that filthy human entered the bathroom, things were different. As he reached again—confident, unrepentant—he felt the snap of a tripwire made of floss. The thud of a plunger falling on his foot. The squirt of hand soap in the eye. He stumbled, slipped, and fell backward into the tub with a dramatic flail worthy of a daytime soap opera. “WE DON’T WIPE IN FEAR ANYMORE!” Rolland yelled, rappelling from the shower rod with a grappling hook made of hair ties and courage. “WHO SAID THAT?!” the man screamed, now face-down in a puddle of his own arrogance. Bev appeared beside Rolland, her crumpled napkin form backlit by the glowing nightlight shaped like a seashell. “Justice,” she said, flicking a Q-tip like a ninja star. And thus, the Porcelain Underground made their mark. They didn’t stop all the messes. But they did stop the worst of them. And they reminded every person entering that room that toilet paper was not just a tool—it was a soul. A sentient square with dreams. And boundaries. And Rolland? He wasn’t just a roll anymore. He was a revolutionary. A soft-spun soldier of sanitary salvation. Long live the resistance. Long live the Ply.     Bring the Bathroom Battle Home! If you laughed, gasped, or nervously checked your own toilet paper holder—why not commemorate the madness? "Terror on the Tile Wall" is now available as a series of gloriously absurd, conversation-starting products. Whether you're decorating your guest bathroom or just want to weird out your in-laws, we've got you covered (with more dignity than that guy's hand). Framed Print – Classy enough for your hallway, disturbing enough to keep the kids out of your bathroom. Metal Print – Because nothing says “modern chic” like a terrified toilet roll immortalized in aluminum. Acrylic Print – Vibrant, glossy, and deeply unsettling—perfect for contemporary bathrooms or as a housewarming gift for people you want to confuse. Shower Curtain – Give your morning routine a sense of urgency with Rolland’s face screaming at you while you lather. Make your walls weird, your shower scenes surreal, and your bathroom proudly unhinged with this one-of-a-kind image. Go on, wipe responsibly—shop hilariously.

by Bill Tiepelman

Corona and Companions

The Suds Before the Storm It all began on a Tuesday, which was problematic, because Mortimer the Gnome had promised himself he’d stay sober at least until Wednesday. But Tuesday had other plans. Specifically, the kind of plans that involved a case of Corona, a slightly moldy wedge of lime, and a lab puppy named Tater Tot with the attention span of a goldfish on caffeine. Mortimer had once been a proud garden gnome. You know the type — stoic, cheerful, always pointing at invisible butterflies. But those days were long gone, buried under layers of mulch and emotional trauma from one too many weed whacker incidents. After faking his own lawn-mower-related death and fleeing suburbia, he now lived behind a condemned Taco Bell, which he called “La Casita de Chillin’.” “#CHILLIN’” read the tank top he hadn’t washed since Cinco de Mayo 2011. The hashtag had faded, but the attitude had fermented like the warm bottle he now cradled like a newborn. Next to him sat his ride-or-die, Tater Tot, the golden retriever pup with a passion for limes and absolutely no sense of personal boundaries. “You bring daddy another lime, you little citrus gremlin?” Mortimer slurred with affection, sloshing beer onto his lap for the fifth time. Tater Tot dropped the wedge in his lap like a proud sommelier. Mortimer, of course, missed his mouth entirely and shoved the lime dramatically into his left nostril. It was that kind of day. Somewhere between the sixth bottle and a very confused conversation with a spider named Cheryl, Mortimer began outlining his master plan to create the world’s first Gnome-Pup Influencer Duo. “We’ll call it Gnome & Tots,” he hiccuped. “Merch. TikToks. An NFT of your butt. We’ll be legends, Tater.” Tater Tot blinked. Then burped. The room smelled of lime zest and regret. But before Mortimer could draft a business plan on the back of a stale tortilla, a shadow darkened the cracked stucco wall behind him. A tall figure loomed, carrying something that sloshed ominously. Mortimer’s bloodshot eyes squinted upward. “Well, well,” said the voice, laced with menace and mild nasal congestion. “If it isn’t the lawn gnome who stiffed me three beer runs ago.” Mortimer's mustache twitched. “Clarence?” Clarence. The garden flamingo Mortimer once left at a truck stop in Yuma. Back. Angry. With a handle of tequila and vengeance in his tiny plastic heart. The lime slipped from Mortimer’s nose and landed with a plop in his bottle. “Tater,” he whispered, rising slowly, “fetch me… the emergency sombrero.” Flamingo Vengeance and the Lime Wars of ’25 Tater Tot leapt into action, skidding across the sticky floor like a four-legged Roomba with a mission. From behind a half-eaten churro and an empty salsa jar, he retrieved Mortimer’s prized Emergency Sombrero — a battered, oversized hat covered in glitter, nacho cheese stains, and three rusted bottle openers sewn onto the brim like medals of war. “Good boy,” Mortimer wheezed, slapping the sombrero onto his head with the dramatic flair of a man who'd seen too many telenovelas and too few therapy sessions. Clarence took a step forward. His hot pink plastic legs creaked with rage. “You left me, Morty. In the Arizona sun. Melting. Watching truckers eat gas station burritos and contemplate their ex-wives.” “You said you needed space!” Mortimer protested, using the lime in his Corona like a stress ball. “I said I needed sunscreen!” Before the confrontation could devolve into sobbing and flamingo-on-gnome violence, a bottle rolled across the floor — unopened, full, cold. The room fell silent. Clarence blinked. “Is that... is that a chilled Modelo?” “It’s yours if you sit your feathery ass down and chill the hell out,” Mortimer said, voice gravelly and noble, like a drunk Clint Eastwood doing a beer commercial. Clarence hesitated. His beady eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, he tucked his tequila bottle under his wing and flopped his flamingo self onto the cushion of a crusty beanbag chair, sighing like a diva finally given her spotlight. Tater Tot, now donning a mini-sombrero of his own (don’t ask where he got it), pranced over and flopped beside him. Peace was restored. But not for long. Three raccoons burst in through the broken window like tiny furry ninjas, all wearing bandanas and reeking of fermented fruit. “Where’s the tequila, Clarence?” the leader squeaked, claws twitching. “We’re out of lime!” another raccoon wailed, noticing the dog with the last wedge. Tater growled softly, tucking his citrus treasure beneath his paw like a dragon guarding a hoard. “No one’s takin’ my pup’s lime!” Mortimer bellowed, rising unsteadily and brandishing a broken flip-flop like a katana. The room erupted. Raccoons shrieked. Clarence screamed. Tater barked like a drunk pirate. The beanbag chair exploded under the stress of flamingo weight. A wrestling match broke out involving three shot glasses, two beers, and someone yelling “AY CARAMBA!” from the alley. After 18 minutes of chaos and two calls to the local churro stand for backup, the brawl ended with everyone passed out in a tangled heap. Mortimer lay snoring on top of Clarence, Tater Tot curled up on a pile of limes like a citrus-scented loaf of bread. One raccoon was using a Corona bottle as a pillow, another wore Mortimer’s tank top as a cape. The third was inexplicably cuddling a garden gnome figurine and whispering “Forgive me, Papa.” The sun rose gently the next day over “La Casita de Chillin’.” Birds chirped. A mariachi ringtone echoed from under a pile of tacos. Mortimer stirred, blinking one crusty eye. “Tater,” he rasped. “Did we… win?” Tater burped in response, the unmistakable scent of lime zest and low-stakes victory wafting through the room. Clarence opened one eye. “I think I peed in your beer.” Mortimer considered this for a long moment, then shrugged. “Adds character.” And thus, the legend of the Great Lime Wars of ‘25 was born. They never did become influencers. But they did get banned from three liquor stores and somehow ended up on a T-shirt sold exclusively at gas stations in New Mexico. As for the sombrero? It now sits atop a barbed-wire fence, flapping nobly in the breeze, watching over drunkards, dogs, and vengeance-seeking flamingos everywhere. #Chillin', forevermore.     If the lime-loving chaos of "Corona and Companions" made you snort-laugh, cry tequila tears, or just deeply relate to a gnome in a crusty tank top, you can snag a piece of this legendary mess for yourself. Whether you're decking out your bar with a metal print, puzzling through your poor life choices with a hilarious jigsaw puzzle, or just need a sticker to slap on your cooler that says “I, too, once fought off lime-thirsty raccoons,” we’ve got you covered. Send gnome-themed greetings to your weirdest friend with a greeting card, or class up your bathroom (questionably) with a rustic wood print. Mortimer would be proud. Tater Tot would wag. And Clarence? He'd demand royalties.