Grin and Gnome It

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Equinox in Feathers

Once upon a cusp between seasons, deep in a forest that couldn’t quite decide if it was sweating or freezing, there lived a peacock named Percival Featherstone the Third. Yes, third — his ancestors insisted on absurd titles, but Percival preferred simpler things: sunrise strolls, arguing with leaves, and occasionally seducing unsuspecting tourists with what he called his “nuclear strut.” Now, Percival was no ordinary bird. His feathers were an ongoing existential crisis. One half burned with the molten reds and golds of autumn, while the other half shivered in glacial blues and silvers. Rumor had it a sorceress cursed him after he accidentally pooped on her enchanted picnic. (In Percival's defense, the potato salad did smell evil.) Locals from nearby villages often made bets. Was he a divine omen? A walking season-change? A very confused turkey? One misty morning, as leaves danced drunkenly through the amber light and tiny snowflakes pirouetted in the cold, Percival had had enough. He decided it was time to answer the question plaguing the countryside: Was he a fall bird or a winter bird? Thus began the Great Identity Quest. He first visited the League of Autumnal Beasts, a secret society of raccoons wearing leaf hats and possums fermenting apples in hollow logs. They celebrated him with drunken hoots and a ceremonial dance involving three pinecones and a slightly aggressive squirrel named Maude. But just when Percival thought he'd found his tribe, the wind shifted. Snow gnawed at the forest edges, and from the icy mist emerged the Frost Fellowship — a cadre of stern-faced polar rabbits and suspiciously buff snowmen. They lured Percival with promises of glittering honor and a lifetime supply of ethically-sourced mittens. So there stood Percival, mid-forest, mid-season, mid-crisis — a peacock torn between mulled cider and peppermint schnapps, between crackling leaves and sparkling icicles. What was he to do? Where did he belong? And most important of all, could he maybe somehow finesse the situation to get both cider and schnapps? Standing precisely on the line where autumn kissed winter, Percival Featherstone III did something no peacock, possum, or snowman had ever attempted before: he called an emergency summit. He sent leaf-telegrams and snowflake-messages to both the League of Autumnal Beasts and the Frost Fellowship, inviting them to meet at the Great Maple-Gone-Moody-Tree — the most indecisive tree in the entire forest, known for dropping leaves in July and growing fresh ones mid-December out of sheer contrariness. At dawn, the forest pulsed with tension. On one side, the Autumnal Beasts rustled in crunchy leaf armor and sipped dubious pumpkin-flavored potions. On the other, the Frost Fellowship polished their ice shields and occasionally flexed their mittens menacingly. In the center, Percival, resplendent in shimmering contradictions, cleared his throat (it sounded oddly like a kazoo) and declared: "I am not one thing, nor the other. I am both. I am every blasted confusing, glorious, contradictory thing this mad forest breathes into life. And if you think I'm picking a side, you can all go find a frozen pinecone and sit on it." There was stunned silence. Even Maude the aggressive squirrel dropped her pinecone-knife. Then something miraculous happened. A tiny, elderly vole stepped forward from the crowd, clutching a thimble of spiced mead. With a trembling paw, she squeaked, "My grandson's got spots and stripes. We still love him. Maybe... maybe it's time we stop making folks choose." Slowly, heads nodded. A possum accidentally nodded so hard he tumbled into a pile of fermented apples and started singing sea shanties, but even that somehow felt appropriate. Within minutes, an impromptu festival erupted. Autumn beasts and winter beasts danced in the slush together, slipping, sliding, and laughing until their fur was matted and their spirits lighter than air. Tables of feasts emerged as if summoned by magic (or very efficient raccoons). There were roasted chestnuts and frozen blueberry pies, caramel-dipped icicles and hot cider with frosty rims. Percival gorged himself shamefully, feathers sparkling with sticky sugar and ice crystals alike. Later, as the sun sank into a molten orange sea and the first true winter stars winked above the skeletal branches, Percival found himself alone at the edge of a half-frozen pond. His reflection shimmered: fire on one side, frost on the other, a creature stitched together from opposing worlds. And for the first time in his life, he loved every impossible, riotous inch of himself. He realized then that seasons weren’t enemies — they were a dance, each needing the other to exist. Without autumn’s death, winter’s slumber was meaningless. Without winter’s hush, spring’s birth would be hollow. Every contradiction was part of the same grand, ridiculous, beautiful song. As Percival raised his wings high to the heavens, a final gust of wind lifted swirling leaves and tiny crystals into a slow, breathtaking spiral around him. The crowd gasped, thinking it magic. But Percival just smiled his secret, mischievous smile. It wasn’t magic. It was simply belonging. And somewhere, deep in the forest’s wise old heart, even the trees sighed in relief. They wouldn’t have to pick a side either. —The End (and the Beginning)     Epilogue: The Festival of the In-Between Years later, the tale of Percival Featherstone III became a legend whispered between rustling leaves and drifting snowflakes. Every year, on the exact day when the forest couldn’t make up its mind — when frost kissed the last golden leaves — creatures from every corner of the wood gathered for the Festival of the In-Between. There were no rules. You could wear a fur coat and swim trunks. You could roast chestnuts while building snowmen. You could sip frozen cider with a scarf knitted from autumn leaves. There was laughter and bad singing and the occasional regrettable tattoo inked with berry juice. Nobody judged. Everyone belonged. And always, above it all, floated the memory of a slightly vain, deeply stubborn peacock who dared to say, "I am everything you think I can't be." They built a little statue of him by the Great Maple-Gone-Moody-Tree. Naturally, the statue was half-carved from fiery amber and half-chiseled from pure winter quartz. It tilted slightly, as if about to strut right off its pedestal — an eternal wink to those smart enough to embrace life’s messy, magical contradictions. Visitors who came to the festival were encouraged to leave something at the base of the statue — a leaf, a snowflake, a silly poem, a ridiculous hat — anything that said, "I see you. I celebrate you." And if you listened very carefully, after too much cider and perhaps just enough schnapps, you might swear you heard a faint kazoo-like chuckle ripple through the swirling mist. Some said it was just the wind. Others knew better. Long live the In-Betweens.     Bring the spirit of the In-Between home. If Percival’s story stirred a smile or sparked a little fire in your heart, you can celebrate his legacy with a piece of art that captures the magic. Choose a vibrant Metal Print that gleams like winter frost, a rich Canvas Print that warms a room like autumn sun, a challenging Puzzle to piece together every swirling season, a Tote Bag for carrying your contradictions in style, or a cozy Throw Pillow to rest your head between dreams of fire and frost. Whatever you choose, may it remind you — every glorious, ridiculous day — that you don’t have to fit in a single box. Life is richer at the crossroads. Long live the In-Betweens.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Echoes of Autumn and Dawn

She stood where the worlds divided, her bare feet pressed against the cracked threshold of an invisible seam, stitched together by the unseen hands of gods who had long since forgotten they made her. On her left, the light — gold, radiant, alive — streamed through towering trees whose leaves whispered the secrets of endless beginnings. On her right, the dark — indigo, reverent, tender — cradled crimson boughs heavy with sorrowful wisdom, the kind only endings ever truly know. In her hands she cradled a bouquet, roses too real for this place: thorns bloodied by choices unmade, petals bruised by hopes too fragile to survive the crossing. Her dress, woven from light and shadow, flickered with each heartbeat — a heartbeat she was no longer sure belonged to her, or to the aching universe that breathed through her skin. Two faces rose behind her — great earthen visages, carved by the slow, patient chisel of time itself. One wept golden sap from hollow eyes, the other bled crimson mist. They were her ancestors, her descendants, her twin reflections stretched across lifetimes she could only half-remember. She was their echo; they were her memory. And in the silence between their thunderous existences, she was given a choice. To remain. To bridge. To become the song of seasons, the living testament to the impossible reconciliation of contradictions: morning and mourning, birth and decay, fire and water, reaching for each other across the chasm of entropy. As she stepped forward, roots tangled around her ankles, pleading and promising. The trees, ancient and unknowable, whispered in a tongue older than the soil beneath her toes: "Choose wisely, for your choice will echo beyond the stars you can see and the ones that have already died for you." Her heart faltered. Not from fear — no, she had shed fear long ago — but from the terrible beauty of knowing. Of seeing too much. Of feeling the pull of both creation and destruction within her marrow. She could not take the first step without betraying one half of herself. She could not stand still without betraying them both. Overhead, the sky split — not with anger, but with possibility. Through the crack poured stardust older than grief, carrying with it a voice, not heard but understood: "You are the daughter of collapse and the mother of rebirth. Choose, and choose wholly." She closed her eyes. She opened them. She lifted one foot, trembling but resolute, toward the twilight beyond the seam... She stepped — not onto ground, but into memory. The air thickened, trembling around her like the skin of a drum, humming with the echoes of every soul who had ever chosen, or failed to choose, before her. Each heartbeat became a drumbeat. Each breath a symphony. She was no longer merely standing between light and shadow; she was becoming the space where they met, where they clashed and caressed and collapsed into something utterly new. Through her feet, she felt the lifelines of planets pulsing, dying, birthing. Through her hands, she cradled stars not yet born and empires already turned to dust. Her body became a bridge, and the terrible, magnificent weight of existence pressed into her bones, branding her with its eternal demand: Be more than the sum of your contradictions. Be the thread that sews the torn fabric of becoming. The two faces loomed closer now, no longer silent sentinels but living memories. They whispered truths she had tried to forget: how every beginning is a wound, how every ending is a kiss. How love and loss are not opposites but mirror images gazing endlessly at each other across time’s vast hallways. And above it all, the breach in the sky widened, pouring silver rain onto her upturned face. Each droplet whispered names — names she had worn in other lifetimes, names she had forgotten, names she had yet to earn. Some were cruel. Some were beautiful. All of them were hers. In that moment, she saw herself: not as a single woman bound by flesh, but as an endless, spiraling constellation of choices, regrets, desires, and dreams. She was not standing between autumn and dawn — she was the autumn and the dawn, the hand that closed the door and the hand that opened the window. She realized that the choice was not about which side to favor, which face to love, which future to birth. The choice was simply this: Would she remain divided forever — or would she embrace the unbearable wholeness of who she truly was? The roots around her ankles loosened, not in surrender, but in offering. The trees bent low, their branches brushing her hair in reverent benediction. The faces closed their hollow eyes and waited, neither demanding nor pleading. The universe itself seemed to hold its breath. With a smile — the kind born only after knowing true sorrow — she knelt. She pressed her palm into the cracked seam of the world, feeling its roughness, its scars. She whispered not words, but understanding, into its depths. She gave it everything: her hopes, her failures, her fury, her forgiveness. She gave it the music of her unspoken poems and the weight of her silent screams. And the world answered. From the fissure bloomed a tree unlike either of its ancestors. It bore leaves that shimmered like prisms, shifting from gold to blue to red to colors no human tongue had ever named. Its bark was etched with the fingerprints of galaxies. Its roots drank from the dreams of dead stars. Its branches reached not just across seasons, but across the very curvature of time itself. She rose. She was no longer a bridge, nor a seamstress, nor a daughter of collapse. She was the seed and the soil, the ache and the awakening. She carried within her the silence of endings and the laughter of beginnings, braided together so tightly they could never again be torn apart. The faces crumbled into dust, their task complete. The sky stitched itself closed, leaving only a faint scar — a reminder that even healed wounds remember being broken. The trees sang, not with leaves or wind, but with the silent thunder of new possibility. And as she stepped into the vastness, the bouquet in her hand unraveled into starlight, scattering across the firmament to seed new worlds — each one bearing the faint, eternal whisper of her name. She was autumn. She was dawn. She was the echo, the song, the silence between stars. She was the choice made whole.     Epilogue: The Silent Orchard Centuries later, when the world had forgotten her name but not her story, travelers would stumble upon the place where the golden and crimson woods once met. They would speak in hushed voices of a single tree that stood apart — a tree whose branches shimmered like broken rainbows and whose roots hummed underfoot with a pulse older than any living memory. No birds dared build nests in its boughs. No storms could twist its trunk. It belonged to neither season nor soil. It simply was — as she had been, as she still was, somewhere beyond the trembling curtain of reality. Some said if you pressed your ear to its bark on a cold autumn morning, you could hear the laughter of dawn mixing with the sighs of falling leaves. Others claimed that if you wept beneath its canopy, your tears would vanish, lifted into the sky to become new stars — tiny testaments to choices made and paths walked bravely, even when unseen by any eyes but your own. And though her name was lost to time, her echo remained, not carved in stone nor sung in legend, but sewn into the fabric of being itself. Every sunrise. Every withering leaf. Every trembling hand reaching for hope against despair — they bore the invisible fingerprint of a woman who chose wholeness over comfort, unity over certainty. It is said — by those who still listen carefully enough — that when you stand very still between the hush of ending and the hush of beginning, you might hear her whisper: "You are more than you fear. You are all that you remember, and all that you dream. Step forward, beloved echo. The universe is listening."     Bring the Echo Home Carry a piece of this cosmic journey into your own sacred spaces. Let Echoes of Autumn and Dawn remind you — every day — that beginnings and endings live intertwined within you. Explore our curated collection featuring this stunning artwork: Woven Tapestry — wrap your world in the shimmering embrace of gold and twilight. Metal Print — breathe life into your walls with this luminous, durable masterpiece. Fleece Blanket — wrap yourself in the comfort of stars and ancient forests. Beach Towel — take a little magic with you wherever your soul wanders. Greeting Card — send a whisper of light and shadow to someone who understands. Every piece is a portal — a reminder that you, too, are an echo worth remembering.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

The Petal's Little Protector

It was a night so muggy you could drink the air. Somewhere between midnight and whatever hour is reserved for bad decisions, the garden vibrated with the kind of life that most respectable creatures avoided. Crickets shouted unsolicited opinions. Moths made questionable life choices involving open flames. A possum waddled by with the kind of unbothered confidence that only comes from making peace with one’s own trashy destiny. And there, amid the chaos, reigning supreme on a lotus bud not even fully awake yet, was Pip. Pip: a creature of approximately eight ounces, three ounces of which were ego. A micro-dragon, a salamander dream gone technicolor — turquoise and gold and candy-apple red, shimmering like a toddler’s glitter accident. His frills fluttered dramatically in the nonexistent breeze. His tail, striped and twitchy, thumped the bud with the rhythmic impatience of a CEO stuck on hold. “Listen up, you soggy peasants,” Pip squeaked to absolutely no one. His voice carried the world-weary scorn of someone who had once been forced to attend a meeting that could’ve been an email. “This bloom is sacred. Saaaacred. I will destroy anyone who so much as breathes on her wrong.” He turned his head, slowly, menacingly, to glare at a confused beetle trundling by. The beetle paused, sensing the general vibe, and awkwardly reverse-walked into the nearest thicket. The lotus bud said nothing. If it had a face, it would have been wearing the strained smile of someone stuck next to a very drunk relative at a wedding reception. Pip didn’t care. He pressed his scaly cheek against her soft petals and sighed with the kind of tragic romance usually reserved for operatic heroines on their fourth glass of wine. “You’re perfect,” he whispered fiercely. “And this world is full of sweaty-fingered monsters who want to touch you. I won’t let them. Not even a little. Not even ironically.” Overhead, a disillusioned owl, bearing witness to this performance for the third night in a row, considered seeking therapy. Still, Pip remained vigilant. He flared his head fins every time a wayward breeze threatened to flutter the petals. He growled (adorably) at a toad who looked at the lotus with mild interest. When a moth had the audacity to land within a six-inch radius, Pip executed a flying tackle so dramatic it ended with him sprawled belly-up in the damp grass, legs kicking indignantly at the stars. He was back on the bud within seconds, polishing the flower with the inside of his elbow and muttering, “No one saw that. No one saw that.” Truth was, Pip had no official title. No magic spells. No real strength. But what he lacked in credentials, he made up for with boundless, unrelenting devotion. The kind that could only be born from believing, deep down, that even the most ridiculous, most mismatched protectors were still the right ones for the things they loved. And the lotus — she stayed silent and serene, trusting him completely, maybe even loving him back in her own slow, green way. Because sometimes, the universe didn’t choose champions based on size or power or grandeur. Sometimes, it chose the loudest, smallest brat with the biggest heart. The night dragged onward, a wet symphony of croaks, chirps, and far-off shrieks that no respectable citizen should ever investigate. Pip stayed rooted on the lotus, a hyper-vigilant blot of color in an otherwise sleepy world. His tiny heart thudded like a war drum against his ribs. His frills sagged slightly, damp with dew and exhaustion. And yet — he remained. Because evil never sleeps. And neither, apparently, did Pip. Just when he dared to blink, just when he permitted himself a victorious thought (“No one would dare challenge me now”), it happened — the catastrophe he’d been dreading. From the gloom emerged a hulking threat: a bullfrog. Fat. Warty. Oozing malevolence, or at least gas. It fixed its milky gaze on the lotus with the lazy hunger of a man contemplating a third slice of pie. Pip’s pupils narrowed to slits. This was it. The Boss Battle. He drew himself up to his full, mighty three inches of height. He arched his back, flared every fin he possessed (and one he may have invented out of sheer spite), and let loose the fiercest battle cry his little lungs could manage: “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” The frog blinked slowly, unimpressed. Pip threw himself bodily off the bud, all claws and noise, landing squarely between the lotus and the amphibious threat. He puffed, he hissed, he slapped the ground with his tail in a display so wildly unnecessary that the frog actually reconsidered its life choices. After a long, tense moment, the frog croaked once — a low, begrudging sound — and turned away. Pip remained frozen until the sounds of its retreat faded into the misty dark. Then, and only then, did Pip allow himself to collapse theatrically against the stem of the flower, panting like a marathoner who hadn’t trained. “You’re welcome, world,” he muttered, slapping one tiny hand dramatically against his forehead. The lotus said nothing, of course. Flowers are not known for effusive gratitude. But Pip could feel her appreciation, warm and slow and deep, wrapping around him like a hug no one else could see. He dragged himself back up onto the bud with great ceremony. He needed the world to know he was battered, bruised, and therefore desperately heroic. Once settled, he wrapped his limbs tight around the petals and buried his snout against her soft surface. In the distance, the owl — now lying prone on a branch from sheer secondhand exhaustion — offered a slow, sarcastic clap with one wing against the other. And the garden? It kept on living its messy, ridiculous life. Crickets hollered. Beetles clattered. Somewhere, something squelched ominously. But none of it could touch the lotus. Not while Pip stood (well, laid) guard. Because no matter how small, no matter how silly, the bond between protector and protected was unbreakable. No monster, no weather, no cruel accident of fate could tear apart what Pip had vowed to defend — not with teeth, or tail, or most importantly, obnoxious determination. Under the dappled moonlight, the Petal’s Little Protector snored softly, frills twitching in some dream of endless battles won and blooms forever safe. And the lotus — safe, whole, and untouched — cradled him gently until morning.     Epilogue: The Legend of Pip They say if you wander far enough into the garden — past the muttering lilies, beyond the judgmental daisies, through the part where even the weeds seem suspicious — you might just find a lotus blooming alone under the open sky. If you’re lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you feel about being yelled at by something the size of your thumb), you’ll catch a glimpse of him: a shimmer of impossible colors, a flash of fin and frill, a guardian curled protectively around a single sacred flower. Approach too quickly, and he’ll scold you with the full, furious force of someone who once fought off a frog three times his size. Approach too carefully, and he might just approve of you. Maybe. If you’re very lucky, and your vibe is sufficiently non-threatening, Pip might even allow you to sit nearby — under the strict understanding that you are absolutely, categorically, not to touch the flower. Or him. Or breathe too loudly. Or exist too flamboyantly in his general direction. And if you sit there long enough, if you let the night fall around you and the stars stitch themselves into the black velvet above, you might start to feel it too — that fierce, funny, aching kind of love that demands nothing but promises everything. That stubborn, ridiculous, beautiful kind of protection only the bravest little hearts know how to give. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll realize that the world is still full of tiny, glittering miracles — guarding the best parts of it with tooth, tail, and absolute, glorious defiance.     Take Pip Home (Carefully!) If your heart’s been thoroughly stolen by Pip (don’t worry, he does that a lot), you can invite a little bit of his fiercely protective magic into your own world. Choose your favorite way to keep the legend alive: Wrap yourself in wonder with a stunning tapestry featuring Pip in all his colorful, chaotic glory. Bring his fierce little spirit into your space with a sleek, vibrant metal print. Tote his sass and loyalty everywhere you go with a whimsical, sturdy tote bag. Start your mornings with a grumpy guardian by your side — Pip looks particularly judgmental on a coffee mug (in the best way). Whichever you choose, just remember Pip’s golden rule: Look, but don’t touch the flower. Ever.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Soulbound to the Stonekeep

The Oath Beyond the Stars The stars bled the night into the Stonekeep’s battered towers, their wounded glow spilling across crumbling battlements like ghostly rivers. At the threshold of the great steps, where moss devoured stone and the air crackled with forgotten spells, Kaelen waited — a sentinel forged from both flesh and the breath of dead worlds. His fur shimmered with unnatural hues — obsidian, cobalt, and veins of burning gold that seemed to pulse with a heartbeat not entirely his own. Runes etched into his hide by a dying celestial god throbbed softly beneath his pelt, whispering oaths older than the language of men. His luminous eyes, fractured like twin nebulas, stared down the endless path winding into the mist beyond the gates, where mortal threats once dared approach the Keep. But no mortal dared the Stonekeep now. Not after the Sundering. The Keep itself, a fortress of monolithic stone veined with silver and sorrow, leaned against the bruised sky as though exhausted by its own terrible history. Each carved arch and battered spire was a gravestone to the kings, scholars, and dreamers swallowed by ambition. A thousand worlds had brushed against the Keep’s walls when the Veil had thinned — some offering wonder, others ruin — until finally, the skies had cracked open, and the gods themselves had turned away their faces. It was in that abandonment that Kaelen was bound. He was no common beast; he was the anchor, the last thread stitching the dying weave of the Keep to the mortal plane. Where once a hundred Guardians stood — lions of flame, serpents of crystal, titans of bone — now only Kaelen remained. The others had broken. Fallen. Or worse, been unmade by the silence beyond the Veil. Tonight, the stars sang again. And it was not a song of hope. In the cold black spaces between constellations, something moved — a hunger stitched into existence by forgotten hands. It called to the ruins. It called to Kaelen. But Kaelen’s heart — battered, cosmic, invincible — answered not with submission, but with defiance. He stood, muscles rippling under his ancient armor, claws digging into sacred stone, and loosed a sound that tore across the heavens like the shattering of an old and terrible chain. His howl was not for summoning. It was a warning. The Hunger Beneath Names The mists recoiled at Kaelen’s cry, folding back to reveal a path long abandoned to darkness. Shadows spilled across the broken ground, writhing like worms in a corpse. Yet no mortal army emerged, no clang of steel or warhorn broke the hush. Only a slow, deliberate pressure bled through the air, like a hand unseen, reaching across eternity to test the last lock upon a forbidden gate. Kaelen bristled. Beneath his fur, the runes ignited, flooding his limbs with borrowed power — starlight condensed into violence. It was a fragile gift. The magic that stitched his spirit to the Keep was ancient, and the stone drank from him even as it sheltered him. Every breath was a negotiation; every heartbeat a gamble. Out beyond the crumbled roads, past the skeletons of forgotten villages, the Hollow Ones stirred. Kaelen felt them before he saw them — life forms denatured by cosmic entropy, stripped of memory, stripped of name. They dragged themselves toward the Keep not in search of conquest, but oblivion. It was not hatred that moved them; it was the gravitational hunger of annihilation itself, wearing their corpses like cloaks. They were his former kindred — kings, mages, dreamers — now puppeted by something deeper than decay. Kaelen growled low, the sound a serrated promise. He would not let the Stonekeep fall. He would not allow the rot to take what little remained of honor, of memory, of truth. The first of them lurched into view — a knight whose armor hung in rusted tatters, eyes hollow save for the pinpoint glow of forgotten stars trapped in their sockets. Around its broken crown hovered splinters of some shattered relic, orbiting like moons around a dead world. The creature raised a blade that wept black ichor onto the stones — a blade that had once pledged itself to the defense of the Keep, before time turned loyalty into a joke whispered by carrion. Kaelen did not flinch. He lunged, a blur of cosmic fire and iron will, crashing into the Hollow One with a force that cracked the earth beneath their clash. His jaws found the specter’s throat — not flesh, but the trembling memory of flesh — and tore it apart with a snarl born of grief and fury intertwined. More came, drawn by the scent of defiance. Hollowed champions, shambling scholars, even the spectral echoes of children who had once played at the edge of the battlements. The air was thick with sorrow — a sorrow that fed the thing beyond the stars, the true enemy. And from within the dark firmament above, something vast and patient opened an unseen eye. Kaelen felt it gaze upon him — not with anger, but curiosity, the way a flood studies a stone before deciding whether to wash it away or grind it into dust. It knew his name. It had always known his name. The Last Stitch of the World Kaelen stood at the summit of the battered steps, his breath steaming in the cold air, the bloodless corpses of Hollow Ones crumbling to dust around him. But he knew these victories were illusions, as transient as mist on a blade. Every foe he felled left a scar in the weave of existence itself. Every roar he loosed shook loose another thread from the fragile tapestry the Stonekeep anchored to the mortal realm. The true enemy was not these empty husks. It was the thing beyond the veil — the Nameless Hunger — a force older than gods, older than stars, birthed in the blind space between creation’s first thought and its first regret. It had no form, no mercy, no language beyond entropy. It was not evil. It simply was. And it had noticed Kaelen’s defiance. Above him, the stars began to smear, twisting into unnatural sigils that burned the eyes and shredded the soul. The air itself became viscous, heavy with the scent of iron and ancient sorrow. A rift tore open in the sky — a mouth with no lips, a wound across existence — and from it spilled tendrils of darkness laced with starlight, seeking purchase upon the world below. Kaelen lowered his head, the ancient sigils across his body blazing gold and white. His muscles ached under the pressure, his mind fraying at the edges. He could not fight the Hunger as he had the Hollow Ones. He could not tear it apart with fang and claw. But he could deny it. The runes that had been carved into his bones were not merely wards — they were keys. Keys to the Stonekeep's true purpose: not as a fortress, but as a lock. A final barricade against the unraveling of reality. And Kaelen, once a prince among his kind, had been reforged into its guardian, bound by oaths so old the gods themselves had forgotten the words. He turned away from the oncoming darkness, ascending the final steps to the great door of the Keep — a door of ironwood and starstone, etched with patterns that pulsed under his gaze. The door knew him. The Keep remembered. Behind that door lay the Heartstone — a fragment of the First Light, the raw, chaotic ember from which the multiverse had been kindled. Left unguarded, it would burn this world to ash... or worse, call the Hunger directly into its core. But sealed, nourished by sacrifice, it could deny the Nameless One entry for another age, another desperate generation. Kaelen pressed his paw against the cold surface. He felt the connection ignite instantly — a bridge of agony and grace stretching from his body into the infinite roots of the Keep. Every memory he carried, every hope, every sorrow, began to pour into the ancient stone. His victories, his failures, the warm voices of companions long dust... even the taste of the stars he'd once hunted across the night sky. All of it streamed from him, weaving into the lattice that would seal the Heartstone anew. He did not hesitate. He did not falter. Outside, the world howled in protest as tendrils of darkness lashed against the Keep’s walls, tearing away towers and battlements like parchment before a storm. But Kaelen stood unmoving, his spirit burning brighter than any star the Hunger had ever extinguished. In his final breath, Kaelen offered no plea, no curse. Only a promise: “I remember. And as long as I do, you will not pass.” The Keep shuddered once — a deep, earth-splitting groan — and then the door sealed with a blinding flash that erased every shadow. The rift in the sky closed with a scream that no mortal ear could hear. The Hollow Ones froze mid-crawl and crumbled into nothingness. The world stilled. The stars, battered but unbroken, resumed their silent vigil. And within the Stonekeep, somewhere deep beyond mortal reach, the last echo of a guardian's heartbeat fused into the walls, forever a stitch binding the mortal world against the end. Kaelen was no more. Yet he was everywhere the Keep still stood. Soulbound. Eternal.     Bring the Legend Home Kaelen's oath and the enduring spirit of the Stonekeep live on beyond the final page. Honor his memory and carry a fragment of his story into your world with exclusive artwork from Unfocussed: Adorn your walls with the Soulbound to the Stonekeep Tapestry, a sweeping canvas that captures every fierce, cosmic detail. Embrace the story’s fire with a Metal Print — a striking, durable piece worthy of any warrior's hall. Wrap yourself in cosmic protection with the Soulbound Fleece Blanket, perfect for nights under embattled stars. Even your most ordinary battles can feel epic with the Stonekeep Bath Towel, a warrior's way to greet the morning. Carry the legend. Remember the oath. Keep the darkness waiting a little longer.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Fae of the Laughing Leaves

A Cautionary Tale of Bad Decisions and Worse Ideas The Acorn Incident Deep in the Greenwood — where even the moss rolls its eyes at tourists — lived a fairy known far and wide (and sometimes regrettably) as the Fae of the Laughing Leaves. Her real name was unpronounceable to mortals, involving at least two eyebrow movements and a sneeze, so everyone just called her "Giggles." Giggles was a vision of chaotic charm: green hair like she'd lost a bet with a hedge, shimmering wings that flashed colors you couldn't describe without making hand gestures, and a smile that usually meant someone’s afternoon was about to get a lot more complicated. Her favorite hobby? Mild emotional sabotage. One glorious, overcaffeinated afternoon, Giggles decided it was time to shake up the sleepy old forest. (Mostly because the last prank — involving a love potion and an extremely amorous squirrel — had worn off, and frankly, the place was getting boring.) Her plan was simple: enchant a handful of acorns to explode in clouds of glitter every time someone said the word "leaf." Hilarious, right? Except, well... fairies aren't known for measuring things carefully. By sunset, every single living thing in the woods — trees, foxes, tourists, confused mushrooms — was sneezing sparkles and muttering dark threats about "that green-haired menace." Giggles, naturally, thought it was the best day ever. She even hosted an unofficial awards ceremony for "Most Ridiculous Sneezing Fit." (First place went to a centaur who sneezed so hard he accidentally proposed to a birch tree.) But the chaos had consequences. See, when you meddle with nature in the Greenwood, the trees notice. Especially the Elder Tree, a towering ancient being with bark thicker than most egos and the patience of a caffeinated cat. And when the Elder Tree gets cranky? Let's just say... bad things happen to mischievous fairies. Under the full moon’s watchful eye, the forest grew ominously quiet. The Elder Tree stirred, shaking centuries of dust off its gnarled branches, and in a voice like two mountains arguing over property lines, it called out: "FAE OF THE LAUGHING LEAVES... STEP FORTH." Giggles, perched upside-down in a nearby branch, casually picked a piece of glitter from her eyebrow. "Or what?" she mumbled, already plotting an exit strategy involving smoke bombs and feigned emotional vulnerability. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath. The stage was set. The mischievous Fae was about to face the consequences of her most ridiculous stunt yet... or at least, she would if she didn't wriggle out of it like usual. Bark, Bite, and Questionable Negotiations As the Elder Tree's thunderous voice echoed through the clearing, the fae of the Laughing Leaves — known colloquially (and affectionately?) as Giggles — performed the time-honored fairy tradition of acting like she hadn’t heard a damn thing. She plucked a leaf from her hair (which immediately exploded into a puff of glitter — residual side effects, no big deal) and gave the Elder Tree her best innocent stare. This was difficult, considering her left eyebrow had a mind of its own and kept twitching like it was plotting its own mischief. "Oh no," she chirped, fluttering down dramatically, "whatever could you mean, Great and... uh..." she glanced up, noting the distinct smell of ancient, grumpy authority, "extremely dignified Wooden One?" The Elder Tree, not easily impressed by theatrics (or anything, really — it once ignored a flash mob of singing satyrs), leaned forward with a groan of creaking bark. A root the size of a horse flexed dangerously near her foot. Giggles wisely hovered a few inches above ground — she'd seen what happened to the last fairy who thought she could outrun a cranky oak. (Spoiler: he lives permanently as a decorative knot now.) "YOU HAVE DISTURBED THE BALANCE," rumbled the Tree, small twigs snapping with the force of his scowl. Giggles twirled in the air, arms thrown wide like a magician revealing his latest trick — or an idiot about to get sued. "Disturbed? Nooo, no no no! I prefer to think of it as... flavor enhancement!" The Elder Tree was unimpressed. "THE FOREST IS SNEEZING, FAIRY." "Seasonal allergies!" she sang, somersaulting midair. "Very trendy this time of year." The root flexed again, closer this time. Bark crumbled. Giggles stopped mid-spin. Right. Not the time to be cute. (Well, cuter.) Seeing negotiations were going poorly, she switched tactics: flattery. "Listen, Big Bark Daddy," she purred, fluttering dangerously close to what might technically be considered the Tree’s "face" area, "you're looking exceptionally... photosynthetic tonight. Are you exfoliating? You're absolutely glowing." Somewhere in the dark canopy, an owl audibly gagged. The Elder Tree took a very slow, deliberate breath — which involved several centuries of accumulated moss shifting grumpily down his sides — and said, "A PRICE MUST BE PAID." Giggles froze. Not because she was scared (okay, maybe 12% scared), but because "A Price Must Be Paid" was ancient forest code for, "You're about to have a very bad time." Still, she was a professional. She adjusted her leafy dress (which was hanging a bit too rakishly off one shoulder, scandalizing a family of modest violets nearby) and asked, "What kind of price? Gold? Glitter? My Spotify playlist of tragic ballads from brokenhearted gnomes?" The Elder Tree was silent for a long, heavy moment. Then, in a voice so low it vibrated small rocks out of the dirt: "YOU SHALL... ATTEND... THE ANNUAL FOREST SINGLES’ DANCE... AS THE GUEST OF HONOR." Giggles gasped. Not the Singles' Dance. Anything but the Singles' Dance. It was less a "dance" and more a "desperate meat market of mythical proportions" where lonely dryads, nervous trolls, and socially awkward elves tried — and mostly failed — to flirt. Last year, the dance had ended with three fights, two accidental engagements, and a very confused badger who woke up married to a water sprite. "That's cruel and unusual punishment," she whined. "JUSTICE," the Elder Tree boomed. "Also highly ineffective! I don't even date unless it's a full moon and Mercury’s in retrograde and someone else is paying!" But the decree was final. Giggles, wings drooping in theatrical despair, accepted her fate. Invitations went out. Decorations were hung. The enchanted forest buzzed with gossip louder than a caffeinated pixie convention. On the night of the dance, she arrived wearing a gown spun from spider silk and moonbeams, trailing a suspicious cloud of pheromones she'd "accidentally" brewed a little too strong. (If she was going to suffer, everyone was.) She flirted outrageously with a bashful centaur who nearly dropped his punch bowl. She twirled scandalously close to a bashful dryad who blushed until her leaves caught fire. She winked at a cluster of shy gnomes, causing two of them to faint into the snack table. And when a seven-foot-tall troll with surprisingly delicate hands asked if she'd like to "dance real close-like," she smiled sweetly, leaned in, and whispered: "Only if you can handle glitter, big guy." Seconds later, the poor troll was covered head to toe in sparkling chaos. The dance dissolved into panicked giggling, a minor food fight, and, somehow, a spontaneous conga line led by a drunk faun. Giggles, laughing so hard she nearly fell out of the air, wiped a glittery tear from her eye. The Elder Tree watched from a distance, his face unreadable... but if one listened very carefully, one might have heard the faintest, very reluctant chuckle ripple through his ancient roots. Because in the Greenwood, you didn't really win against the Fae of the Laughing Leaves. You just survived her... and maybe, if you were lucky, you got a little fabulous doing it.     Bring a Little Mischief Home! If you fell under the spell of Giggles (don't worry, it happens to the best of us), you can snag a piece of the magic for yourself! Whether you want to drape her sass over your couch, strut into town with her on your tote, or surprise your friends with the world’s most chaotic greeting card, we’ve got you covered. Literally. Tapestry — Wrap yourself in pure mischievous vibes. Framed Print — For walls that need more sass and sparkle. Tote Bag — Carry chaos wherever you go (responsibly, probably). Greeting Card — Send some fairy mischief through the mail. Beach Towel — Soak up the sun (and scandal) with Giggles. Warning: Owning a piece of the Fae of the Laughing Leaves may cause spontaneous giggles, side-eyes, and a suspicious increase in glitter sightings. Proceed with delight.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Striped Socks & Secret Smiles

On the edge of Whimblewood, just where the tulips start gossiping about the daffodils, there lived a tiny gnome girl named Tilly Twinklenthistle. Tilly wasn’t your average mushroom-sitting, dewdrop-sipping garden sprite. No, Tilly had ambition. Big ambition. The kind that didn’t fit inside your average toadstool or fit in your mouth when a bee flew too close and you tried to look dignified. Tilly’s mornings began with stretching her toes toward the sun while perched atop a stump she’d claimed as her "Throne of General Mayhem." Her favorite pastime was sitting still as a frog statue, smiling just wide enough to get the nearby butterflies suspicious. You see, Tilly was famous in these parts for two things: the uncrackable mystery of her secret smile... and booby-trapping flower beds with honey-soaked pebbles. The smile? No one ever quite figured it out. The traps? Oh, they were legendary. One poor hedgehog ended up with five ladybugs stuck to his nose and a complex about tulips. The therapy bills were outrageous. Today was no ordinary day, however. Today was the Vernal Equinox Gnome Games — a celebration of all things muddy, petal-scented, and vaguely inappropriate. There were contests for “Most Impressive Moss Hat,” “Longest Tulip Nap,” and the notorious “Soggy Boot Toss.” Tilly had a different plan entirely. While everyone else was fluffing their dandelion wigs and preparing interpretive pollen dances, she was gearing up for a caper the likes of which would echo through the root systems of the forest for generations. You see, tucked beneath her cap — hidden behind daisies, tucked below the tulips, and camouflaged with cunning buttercups — was the legendary **Whoopee Thorn**. A prank device so potent, so scandalously snort-inducing, that even the elves banned it after the incident with the unicorn and the mayor’s wig. Tilly’s plan? Wait until the Gnome Games' closing speech, delivered by the uptight and tragically flatulent Chancellor Greebeldorf... and let the Whoopee Thorn do its symphonic work right as he bent to accept his ceremonial ladle. Of course, plans this glorious never go smoothly. Just as Tilly leaned forward, chin resting on her tiny fists, a rustle came from behind a tulip. Not a breeze. Not a beetle. A rustle... with intent. The kind of sound that makes a gnome’s ears twitch and their instincts scream, “Someone’s about to out-prank you.” And that, dear reader, is where things start to spiral gloriously out of control. The rustle behind the tulip turned out to be—of all the ill-timed interlopers—Spriggle Fernflick, the self-declared “Mirth Minister of Whimblewood.” Spriggle, with his pinecone shoulder pads and the eternal smell of fermented elderberry juice clinging to his beard, had one singular passion: ruining Tilly’s best-laid plans by accidentally improving them. “TILLLLYYY!” he whisper-yelled in the shrillest voice known to elf or gnome, “Did you remember to polish the Whoopee Thorn? You can’t unleash audible joy on a dry nozzle! It wheezes instead of parps. You’ll end up with more embarrassment than explosion!” Tilly, eyes still fixed on the stage where Chancellor Greebeldorf was clearing his throat and adjusting his ceremonial garters, did not flinch. “Spriggle, I swear on my striped socks, if you make one more peep I’ll bury you under a pile of disobedient dandelions.” But Spriggle, undeterred and unable to respect the sacred art of comedic timing, tripped on a daisy root and went sprawling into the center aisle — right in front of the Chancellor’s podium. A collective inhale swept the crowd. Somewhere, a mushroom fainted. Tilly face-palmed so hard she momentarily blacked out and imagined herself in a quiet life of snail-herding somewhere far, far away. But here’s where fate, that glittery rascal, stepped in. As Spriggle scrambled upright, he stepped squarely on the **Whoopee Thorn**, which had fallen from Tilly’s hat during the kerfuffle. The Thorn, offended by its early deployment, unleashed a gassy crescendo so majestic and unrelenting that even the clouds above paused their drifting to listen. It began as a honk, evolved into a gargle, and ended in what gnome scholars would later describe as “the sound of a goose fighting for dominance in a tuba factory.” Chancellor Greebeldorf dropped his ladle. A nearby faun burst into tears. Someone's enchanted frog screamed in French. The meadow erupted into chaos. Laughter. Applause. Two gnomes fainted in ecstasy. The local dryad filed a noise complaint with a pinecone. Even the notoriously humorless mushroom council cracked. One of them giggled so hard he split his cap and had to be ushered away with a parasol and a shot of bark whiskey. Tilly, initially mortified, realized something beautiful: it didn’t matter that her plan had gone sideways, or that Spriggle had accidentally become the hero of the hour. What mattered was that joy had bloomed—louder, stinkier, and funnier than even she could’ve orchestrated. So she stood. Climbed onto her tree stump. Took off her floral hat with a sweeping bow, daisies tumbling like confetti. And she declared, with a grin wide enough to shame a fox in a henhouse: “Let it be known henceforth across the thistle-thickened hills and all petal-strewn plains of Whimblewood... that today, laughter reigned supreme. That today, our Chancellor farted — and it echoed in our hearts.” Thunderous applause. Spriggle passed out from joy. Greebeldorf resigned on the spot and became a beekeeper. And Tilly? She returned to her stump the next morning, a daisy between her teeth and her Whoopee Thorn safely stashed in a tulip vase. She had new ideas. Big ones. Possibly involving beetles in bow ties and a barrel of custard. But that, dear reader, is another mischievous tale for another wild spring day.     Epilogue: The Aftermath of a Glorious Toot In the weeks that followed, tales of “The Gnome Who Made the Chancellor Blow Brass” spread through Whimblewood faster than a squirrel on sassafras. Tilly became a local legend, her image etched onto pastries, pebble mosaics, and a limited-edition mushroom ale that tasted vaguely of regret and chamomile. Spriggle Fernflick gained cult status too—accidentally, of course. He tried giving inspirational speeches about “embracing the stumble,” but usually tripped off the podium by the third sentence. The forest loved him more for it. As for Chancellor Greebeldorf? He now lived in a quiet glade with bees, his ceremonial ladle repurposed into a honey dipper. He claimed he was happier, though the bees reported he still tooted nervously during thunderstorms. And our mischievous heroine? Tilly Twinklenthistle kept to her stump, her hat always freshly decorated with blooms and secrets. Each morning, she greeted the sunrise with the same knowing smirk, striped socks snug around her ankles, ready for the next glorious mess of a day. Because in Whimblewood, spring didn’t just mean new growth. It meant laughter that echoed through mossy halls and tiny hearts that beat a little faster when they saw her grin. And somewhere, deep in the soil beneath the stump, the Whoopee Thorn pulsed gently… waiting for its encore.     💫 Bring a Touch of Tilly's Mischief Home If Tilly Twinklenthistle's springtime antics made you smile (or snort tea through your nose), you can now bring her giggle-worthy charm into your everyday life. Whether you're daydreaming in a sunny nook or planning your next prank, these delightful products inspired by “Striped Socks & Secret Smiles” are ready to add a splash of whimsy and wonder to your world: 🌟 Metal Print: A vibrant, gallery-worthy print with rich details and colors sharp enough to make tulips jealous. 🌿 Tapestry: Drape your walls in springtime enchantment and bring the meadow to your space. 💌 Greeting Card: Send a chuckle and a cheeky wink through the mail — perfect for birthdays, pranks, or just-because gnome joy. ☀️ Beach Towel: Bring Tilly to the shore and dry off in full mischief-mode style. 📝 Spiral Notebook: Ideal for recording suspicious giggles, prank blueprints, or heartfelt poetry under petal-dappled sunlight. Because let’s be honest — your world could use a little more striped sock magic and a lot more secret smiles.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Flirtation Under the Fungi

Mushrooms, Mischief, and Maybe? It was the kind of forest where the mushrooms were suspiciously large, the squirrels wore monocles, and you could smell the flirtation in the air like pine and pheromones. The elves called it *Glimmergrove*, but the gnomes had a far less poetic name: *That Place Where We Once Got Really Lost and Accidentally Married a Tree*. Long story. In the middle of this magical mess was Bunther Wobblepot, a gnome with a grin like he knew something you didn’t—and he usually did. Rugged in a plaid shirt and suspenders barely holding on after a poorly executed cartwheel competition, Bunther was what you'd call “sturdy with confidence.” And a beard so lush, even the moss was jealous. He sat on a mossy log, boots dusted with fairy pollen and pride, watching her. Lyliandra Blushleaf was all curves and curls and coy little smirks that could turn a frog prince right back into a toad if he got too cocky. Dressed in a laced-up corset and a skirt that swished like whispers in a tavern, she had a flower crown so extravagant, it required its own zip code. “You come here often?” Bunther asked, plucking a mushroom cap and pretending it was a fedora. “Only when the fungi are in full bloom,” she replied, her voice smooth as honeyed mead. “They say they grow better around... warm company.” Bunther wiggled his bushy brows. “Well, I’m practically a compost pile of charisma.” Lyliandra giggled—a sound that made a nearby patch of clover blush—and leaned in just a bit closer. “Funny. You don’t smell like compost. More like... woodsmoke and questionable decisions.” He puffed out his chest. “That’s my cologne. It’s called ‘Poor Life Choices, Volume III.’” Just then, a firefly landed on Bunther’s beard, twinkling like nature’s approval. He didn’t swat it away. He winked at it. “So,” Lyliandra purred, “what brings a gnome like you to a glade like this?” “Oh, you know,” Bunther said, scratching his knee thoughtfully. “Foraging for mushrooms, avoiding exes, maybe meeting a beautiful elf who doesn't mind a little chest hair and a lot of emotional baggage.” She laughed. “Well lucky you. I have a thing for emotionally complex garden décor.” The forest paused in anticipation. Even the mushrooms leaned in. “So,” Lyliandra said, “you wanna... spore together sometime?” Bunther’s eyes widened. “Elves don’t mess around with innuendo, do they?” She leaned in close, her breath warm with hints of lilac and mischief. “No, darling. We mess around with gnomes.” Arousal by Agaricus Bunther Wobblepot was not unfamiliar with risk. He once tried to impress a nymph by juggling hedgehogs. He’d moonwalked across troll bridges. He’d eaten glowing berries on a dare (and briefly thought he was married to a fern). But nothing had quite prepared him for this. “You’re really not like the other gnomes,” Lyliandra whispered, tracing a delicate finger down the rough bark of a nearby tree—one she was using, rather suggestively, as a backrest. “You’ve got... a vibe.” Bunther’s beard twitched with pride. “Ah, yes. That would be my signature move: unfiltered charm and forest musk. A potent combination. Like wine and regret.” She laughed, tossing her hair so dramatically a nearby chipmunk fainted. “So what’s your game, Wobblepot? You trying to woo me with fungal facts and aggressive whimsy?” “Maybe,” he said, scooting closer. “Did you know that certain mushroom spores can only grow in pairs?” “Is that a scientific fact or a pickup line?” “Darling,” he said, his voice husky with the weight of unsaid nonsense, “in this forest, science and seduction are practically the same thing.” As he reached out, offering a vibrant blue mushroom like a bouquet, she plucked it from his hand—slowly—then bit the edge like it was a truffle in a romantic comedy. Bunther nearly short-circuited. “Careful,” he warned. “That one causes mild hallucinations and vivid dreams of intimacy with woodland creatures.” “That explains why I suddenly want to kiss a gnome,” she purred. Bunther looked around. “Listen, if there are dryads watching, they can pay extra.” They inched closer, a symphony of crickets rising in tempo like an overenthusiastic romance soundtrack. Her knee brushed his. His eyebrow arched like a woodland bridge about to collapse under romantic pressure. “You ever... danced under bioluminescent mushrooms?” she asked. “No, but I’ve slow-danced in a puddle with a raccoon once. I’m versatile.” “Good. Because I don’t do half-hearted courtships. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it full fairy tale.” “Do I need to slay something? Or maybe serenade you badly with a mandolin?” “No,” she said, standing suddenly and offering her hand. “You need to come mushroom-hopping with me. And if you survive that... maybe I’ll let you braid my hair. Or touch my wings.” “Wait—you have wings?” She winked. “That’s for me to know and for you to flirt your way into finding out.” Bunther took her hand, ignoring the suspiciously vibrating moss beneath them, and followed her into the glowing grove, where the mushrooms pulsed gently with a light that whispered, *someone’s getting lucky tonight.* They hopped. They twirled. They laughed. They fell—twice. Mostly on each other. And somewhere between dodging enchanted spores and getting tangled in each other’s accessories, Bunther realized he might actually be falling for this ridiculous, radiant elf who smelled like moonlight and poor decision-making. As they collapsed, breathless and giggling, into a pile of fragrant moss, she looked into his eyes and whispered: “You know, Bunther... I think we’re the perfect mix of fantasy and fungus.” He grinned. “And a touch of forest friskiness.” “Exactly. Now hush. The mushrooms are watching.” And under the wide caps of the glowing fungi, the forest sighed in contentment. A new tale had begun—one full of snark, spores, and scandalous spooning positions only known to woodland beings with high flexibility and lower moral standards. The End (until they run out of mushrooms...)     If Bunther and Lyliandra’s cheeky charm made you laugh, swoon, or question your relationship standards, you can take a piece of their magical mischief home! Shop acrylic prints that glow like the forest, canvas art worthy of a gnome’s love cave, throw pillows soft enough for post-flirtation naps, and a whimsical puzzle that’s just complicated enough to do with someone you kinda want to kiss. Mushrooms sold separately.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

The Weight of a Tear

The Boy Who Stood Beneath It was not rain that soaked his shoulders, nor mist that clung to his lashes — it was the sorrow of someone much larger than him. Someone whose grief came in the form of a tear so heavy, it bowed his spine and made his knees ache. He stood there, barefoot in the beige void, wearing the striped clothes of a memory long dismissed. The ground beneath him was warm, the kind of warmth that holds no comfort — only the fatigue of emotional residue. The tear, frozen in descent, hovered just above his back, never quite falling, never quite lifting. He had no name. He was not born, not in the usual sense. He was made — carved from a moment of unbearable emotion. She had cried once, long ago, when she thought no one was watching. In the quiet of a hospital room, a mother wept silently, shoulders trembling like autumn leaves clinging to one last gust of dignity. It was in that room, in that instant — when pain met silence and memory kissed flesh — that the boy formed. Not in the physical world, but in the liminal space between feeling and forgetting. He was not hers, not truly. But he bore the consequence of her sorrow like marrow. He lived inside the eye. Not metaphorically — quite literally. His world was the hollowed-out chamber behind the iris, where fragments of memories drifted like dust motes. Sometimes he would climb the lashes and look out, catching glimpses of her life — birthdays missed, promises swallowed, words unsaid. Other times, he would sit by the tear duct and listen to the muffled thunder of the heart above, echoing pain and longing through fluid and time. But now, he was outside. The tear had descended. And with it, he had too. She must have remembered. She must have touched something — a scent, a sound, a photo buried deep — and summoned the ache. That’s how it always began. Memory is a cruel puppeteer, yanking forgotten threads until the marionette of pain dances once more. He did not cry. He never did. His sorrow was structural, embedded. He bore it, as Atlas bore the sky. Bent, small, silent — the perfect witness to someone else’s collapse. The tear pulsed slightly with warmth — not wet, not cool — but heavy, like an apology that arrived too late. She was crying again. And so he waited, beneath the weight of it all, until her grief would recede or consume them both. The Architecture of Memory Time passes differently under a tear. It does not flow — it hangs, stretching into a viscous eternity. Under its weight, the boy aged without aging. He grew no taller, bore no facial hair, yet his soul withered into something ancient. He became an archivist of pain, flipping through pages of memory not his own, deciphering the cryptic calligraphy of someone else’s heartbreak. And though he had never touched her skin or smelled her perfume, he knew her better than she ever knew herself. She was his architecture, and he, her echo — a resonance carved in silence, standing beneath the droplet of all she could not bear to carry. Sometimes he imagined what it might be like to leave the drop. To step out from under its pressure and feel — for once — the unburdened air. But he couldn’t. He was not a boy in the way others were. He was a custodian, bound by the emotional laws of physics. Grief, when unspoken, becomes a structure — and someone must inhabit it. Someone must make meaning from the fragments left behind by those who never learned how to mourn properly. He remembered a moment — though it wasn’t his, not truly — when she had been eight years old. She had hidden under a staircase while her parents fought over nothing and everything. That’s where the first tear was born. That’s where he first felt a draft in his non-world, a ripple through his skinless skin. A bruise bloomed that day, not on her body, but on her spirit, and it echoed through the tear-realm like thunder without lightning. There were more moments: the boyfriend who said she was “too much,” the miscarriage that no one even knew about, the laughter she had to fake in boardrooms, the nights she stared at the ceiling wondering what her younger self would think of her now. These were the things that watered the eye from within. And every time she swallowed the pain and smiled for someone else’s comfort, the boy’s knees bent a little more. He had grown crooked not from nature, but from compassion. Every lie she told herself became another brick in the invisible architecture around them both. He didn’t resent her. He didn’t even know how. Resentment requires agency, and he had none. He was born of her pain, but he was not its judge. He was its vessel — its sanctuary. He was the child who bore the weight so she wouldn’t have to. And yet… he longed for release. For her to acknowledge him. To speak, aloud, to the tear. To say, “I see you.” And one day, it happened. She was sitting alone in a room that smelled like lavender and wood polish. An old mirror stared back at her with the impersonal honesty of glass. She leaned forward and whispered, “I miss who I used to be.” And in that moment — not with a scream, but a sigh — the tear trembled. The boy felt it shift. Not just in weight, but in meaning. It had always been sorrow. But now? Now, it was something more sacred: grief made conscious. And that changed everything. The drop finally fell. It landed not with a splash, but a soft inhale — the kind a body makes after holding its breath too long. The boy, finally free from beneath its tension, straightened for the first time. And as he did, he didn’t vanish. He didn’t crumble. He remained. Taller, steadier, not burdened, but witnessed. He was no longer just a shadow of suffering — he was the child she never knew she carried inside her grief. And now, he was real. Not flesh, not bone — but real in the way hope is real. In the way redemption arrives with no parade, just quiet understanding. Somewhere deep in her chest, she felt lighter. Not healed — healing. She would cry again. Of course she would. But next time, the tear might fall without forming a boy beneath it. Because she had seen him now. Because she had mourned out loud. And in doing so, she had unbuilt the architecture of silence.     Epilogue: The Room with No Ceiling Years passed, though clocks never ticked in his world. The boy — or what remained of him — no longer crouched beneath falling sorrow. He had become something else entirely: a presence, a pulse, a soft exhale inside the spaces she used to fill with silence. He did not follow her, but he remained near — like gravity, invisible yet always felt. She grew older, her eyes ringed not just with age, but recognition. She had learned to cry in front of mirrors and strangers. She had written things she once feared to say. She even laughed differently now — from the chest instead of the throat. And when the tears came, they came honestly. No child carried them anymore. They fell to the earth like rain, nourishing the soil where shame once bloomed. In the corner of her memory, there was a small, warm room. Inside it, a boy once stood. Now, the room had no ceiling. Just sky. Just possibility. And in the vastness above, something watched — not to judge, not to wait — but to remember. Because healing is not forgetting. It is learning how to carry the memory without letting it carry you.     Bring "The Weight of a Tear" into your space If this story stirred something in you — if the boy, the tear, or the silence between them felt familiar — you can carry that connection beyond the screen. "The Weight of a Tear" is available as a framed fine art print, an acrylic masterpiece, a stunning metal print, or even a soft wall tapestry — each one as emotionally textured as the story itself. Prefer something smaller to share or send? A beautifully printed greeting card carries the same emotion in your hands, ideal for when words fail and art speaks louder. Let this image live on — not just in your memory, but in the spaces you love. Let it remind you: healing begins the moment we allow ourselves to feel.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Trippy Gnomads

Shrooms, Shenanigans, and Soulmates Somewhere between the mossy roots of logic and the leafy canopy of “what the hell,” lived a pair of gnomes so groovy they made Woodstock look like a church bake sale. Their names were Bodhi and Lark, and they didn’t just live in the forest — they vibed with it. Every mushroom cap was a dance floor, every breeze a backing vocal, every squirrel a potential tambourine player in their daily jam session with existence. Bodhi had the beard of a wizard, the belly of a well-fed mystic, and the aura of someone who once tried to meditate inside a beehive “for the buzz.” He wore tie-dye like it was sacred armor and claimed he’d once levitated during a particularly potent batch of lavender tea (Lark said he just fell off the hammock and bounced). Lark, meanwhile, was a radiant chaos goddess in gnome form. Her hair changed color depending on the moon, the tea, or her mood. Her wardrobe was 80% flowy rainbow fabric, 15% bangles that jingled with intention, and 5% whatever she'd bedazzled while “channeling divine glitter.” She was the kind of woman who could make a peace sign look like a mic drop — and often did. The two of them weren’t just a couple — they were a cosmic alignment of snorts, incense, and undeniable soul-meld. They met decades ago at the annual Shroomstock Festival when Bodhi accidentally danced into Lark’s pop-up tea temple mid-spell. The resulting explosion of chamomile, glitter, and bass frequencies knocked both of them into a pile of enchanted moss... and love. Deep, sparkly, sometimes-kinda-illegal-in-some-realms love. Now, decades later, they’d made a cozy life in a hollowed-out toadstool mansion just off the main trail behind a portal disguised as an aggressively judgmental raccoon. They spent their days brewing questionable elixirs, hosting nude drum circles for squirrels, and writing poetry inspired by bark patterns and beetles. But something peculiar had stirred the peace of their technicolor utopia. It started subtly — mushrooms that glowed even when uninvited, birds chirping backwards, and their favorite talking fern suddenly developing a French accent. Bodhi, naturally, blamed Mercury retrograde. Lark suspected the cosmic equilibrium had hiccuped. The real cause? Neither of them knew — yet. But it was definitely about to turn their blissful forest frolic into an unexpected trip of the wildest kind. Cosmic Detours and Glorious Confusions Bodhi woke up to find his beard tied in knots around a mandolin. This wasn’t entirely unusual. What was unusual was the mandolin playing itself, softly humming something suspiciously close to “Stairway to Heaven” in gnomish minor. Lark was levitating six inches above her pillow with a satisfied grin, arms spread like she was doing trust falls with the universe. The air smelled like burnt cinnamon, ozone, and one of their questionable experiments in "emotional aromatherapy." Something was very not-normal in the glade. “Lark, babe,” Bodhi muttered, rubbing sleep from eyes that still glowed faintly from last night’s herbal inhalation, “did we finally crack open the veil between dimensions or did I lick that one too-happy mushroom again?” Lark floated down slowly, her hair swirling like galaxy tendrils. “Neither,” she said, yawning. “I think the forest’s having a midlife crisis. Either that or the earth spirit is trying to vibe-check us.” Before either could dive deeper into spiritual diagnostics, a series of thuds echoed through the glade. A line of mushrooms — fat, bioluminescent, and increasingly annoyed-looking — were marching toward their mushroom house. Not walking. Marching. One of them had a tiny protest sign that read, “WE ARE NOT CHAIRS.” Another had spray-painted itself with the words “FUNGUS ISN’T FREE.” “It’s the spores,” Lark said, eyes widening. “Remember the empathy tea blend we dumped last week because it turned our armpit hair into moss? I think it seeped into the root web. They’re woke now.” “You mean sentient?” “No. Woke. Like, unionizing and emotionally intelligent. Look — they’re forming a drum circle.” Sure enough, a ring of mushrooms had gathered, some tapping on stones with sticks, one chanting in rhythm, “We are more than footstools! We are more than footstools!” Bodhi looked around nervously. “Should we apologize?” “Absolutely not,” Lark said, already pulling out her ceremonial ukulele. “We collaborate.” And thus began the most psychedelic, passive-aggressive negotiation ceremony in woodland history. Lark led the chant. Bodhi rolled joints the size of acorns filled with apology herbs. The mushrooms demanded an annual celebration called Mycelium Appreciation Day and one day off per week from being sat on. Bodhi, overwhelmed by the sincerity of a portobello named Dennis, broke down crying and offered them full sentient citizenship under the Glade’s Common Law of Whoa Dude That’s Fair. As the moon rose and painted everything in a silvery hue, the newly formed G.A.M.E. (Gnomes And Mycelium Entente) signed their Peace Pledge on bark parchment, sealed with glitter and mushroom spore kisses. Bodhi and Lark fell back into their rainbow hammock, emotionally exhausted, and giddy from what might have been historical diplomacy or just a shared hallucination — it was hard to tell anymore. “Do you think we’re... like, actually good at this?” Bodhi asked, snuggling into her shoulder. “Diplomacy?” “No. Life. Loving. Floating with the weird and riding the vibe.” Lark looked up at the stars, one of which winked back at her in obvious approval. “I think we’re nailing it. Especially the part where we mess up just enough to keep learning.” “You’re my favorite mistake,” Bodhi said, kissing her forehead. “You’re my recurring fever dream.” And with that, they faded into sleep, surrounded by a softly snoring circle of sentient mushrooms, the forest finally at peace — for now. Because tomorrow, a sentient pinecone with a ukulele and political ambitions was scheduled to arrive. But that’s a trip for another tale.     Epilogue: Of Spores and Soulmates In the weeks that followed the Great Mushroom Awakening, the forest pulsed with an odd but joyful harmony. Animals began leaving handwritten notes (and mildly passive-aggressive Yelp reviews) on Bodhi and Lark’s door. The sentient fungi launched a twice-weekly improv troupe called “Spores of Thought.” The raccoon portal guardian began charging cover fees for dimension-hoppers, using the proceeds to fund interpretive dance classes for possums. Bodhi built a new meditation space shaped like a peace sign, only to have it claimed by the newly unionized chipmunks as a “creative grievance nest.” Lark started a ‘Gnomic Astrology’ podcast that became wildly popular with owls and rogue squirrels looking to “find their moon-beam alignment.” Life had never been more chaotic. Or more complete. And through it all, Bodhi and Lark danced. In the morning mist. Beneath moon-soaked leaves. On treetops. On tabletops. On mushrooms that now required enthusiastic consent and a signed waiver. They danced like gnomes who understood the world wasn’t meant to be perfect — just passionately weird, deliciously flawed, and infinitely alive. Love, after all, wasn’t about finishing each other’s sentences. It was about starting new ones. With laughter. With glitter. With the kind of kiss that smells faintly of rosemary and rebellion. And in the heart of the forest, where logic took long naps and joy wore bells on its toes, two trippy gnomads kept dancing. Forever just a little off-beat, and absolutely in tune.     Bring the Vibe Home If you felt the funk, the freedom, or maybe just fell a little in love with Lark and Bodhi’s kaleidoscopic chaos, you can invite their spirit into your space. Wrap yourself in the magic with a super-soft fleece blanket that practically hums peace signs. Let the art take over your walls with a forest-sized tapestry or a vibrant canvas print that turns any room into a glade of good vibes. And for those who still believe in snail mail and soul notes, there’s even a greeting card ready to deliver whimsy with a wink. Celebrate weird love. Honor magical mayhem. Support the unionized mushrooms. And most of all, stay trippy, friend.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

The Ale and the Argument

It started, as most disasters do, with a pint too many and pants too few. Old Fernbeard — retired mushroom forager, self-declared “Alethlete,” and wearer of suspiciously tight suspenders — was three steins deep into his celebratory "It's Tuesday" routine when trouble stomped into the clearing in the form of his wife, Beryl. Beryl Toadflinger wasn’t just any gnome wife. No, she was a capital-W Wife. The kind who could sew lace with one hand while hurling a shoe with the other. She had cheeks like winter apples, a gaze that could sterilize moss, and a voice known to shatter acorns at fifty paces. Her flower-crowned hat wobbled with every stomp, like a dainty warning flare. “Fernbeard!” she shrieked, sending a nearby butterfly into cardiac arrest. “What in the fungus-sucking hell are you doing?! I told you to fix the roof, not fix your blood-alcohol content!” “Beryl, my sweet portobello,” Fernbeard slurred, grinning around his foam-flecked beard. “I’m maintaining hydration. You want me dehydrated on a roof? What if I fainted mid-shingle?” “You fainted into a ditch last week after drinking elderberry schnapps and trying to pole dance with a cattail!” “I was honoring tradition!” he cried, puffing up like a drunk squirrel. “The Summer Solstice requires movement and moisture. I brought both.” “You brought shame and a rash. We’re still not allowed back in the fern glade!” As Beryl launched into a fiery monologue about “mature responsibilities” and “decades of lawn flamingo trauma,” Fernbeard, still smiling, tried to sneak a swig of his fourth pint. It didn’t work. Her hand shot out like a hawk snatching a vole, snatched the mug, and flung it — foam first — into a mushroom with a wet *thwap*. “That was my last barrel of Beardbanger Brew!” Fernbeard howled. “Do you know what I had to do to trade for that?! I danced for a badger. A badger, Beryl!” “Then maybe that badger can help you regrout the mushroom toilet!” Gnomes from neighboring stumps began peeking from behind mossy curtains, watching with the kind of interest usually reserved for lightning storms and nude trolls. Word was already spreading that “Toadflinger’s hit DEFCON Daisy.” Fernbeard’s eyes narrowed. “You know what, Beryl? Maybe I’d get things done if I weren’t being nagged more than a squirrel at nut tax season!” Beryl blinked. Slowly. Like a predator processing its next move. “Well maybe I wouldn’t nag if I had a husband who could tell the difference between a wrench and a garden gnome’s left nut!” “One time, Beryl! One time I fixed the wheelbarrow with a reproductive artifact and suddenly I’m banned from Gnome Depot!” The shouting crescendoed, their floral hats vibrating with rage. A squirrel passed out from stress. Somewhere, a pixie took notes for a future stage play. And then, silence. Pregnant, awkward silence. The kind that only occurs when two people simultaneously realize: they're standing in the woods, shouting about nuts and badgers, wearing floral crowns like angry garden center mascots. Fernbeard scratched his beard. Beryl rubbed her temples. A single beer burp escaped into the air like a fragile dove of peace. “So…” he began, “Dinner?” “Not unless you want it served with a side of shovel.” Beryl stormed off, trailing flower petals and rage like a floral hurricane. Fernbeard stood in the clearing for a moment, swaying in existential dread and ale-induced vertigo. He muttered something about “emotional terrorism via tulips” and kicked a pinecone with the gusto of a tipsy toddler in boots. Back at their stump-home, Beryl was elbow-deep in passive-aggressive rearranging. She flung Fernbeard’s “lucky bark chunk” out the window, relocated his novelty spoon collection to the privy, and scribbled a grocery list that included “eggs, milk, and a new husband.” Meanwhile, Fernbeard had retreated to his Thinking Log — a mossy perch by the creek where he often solved important problems, like “What if worms are just noodles with anxiety?” and “Can I ferment dandelions without another explosion?” He needed a plan. A big one. Bigger than the time he tried to build her a spa and accidentally flooded the mole parliament. He pondered. He farted. He pondered again. “Right,” he muttered. “We need the three R’s: Romance, Regret… and Ridiculousness.” First stop? The forbidden glade. The one they were technically banned from after Fernbeard tried to impress Beryl with interpretive gnome ballet. He’d landed in a bush, exposed himself to a hedgehog, and traumatized three ladybugs into therapy. But today, it was the site of Operation: Make-Up Or Die Trying. He set the scene: fairy lights made from fireflies (consensually borrowed), a blanket made from repurposed moth capes, and a feast of Beryl’s favorite things — acorn bread, candied snail curls, and that weird cheese she always pretended not to like but devoured at 3 a.m. To top it off, he brought out the Secret Weapon: a hand-carved mug inscribed with “To My Wife: You’re Hotter Than Troll Sweat” surrounded by tiny hearts and a questionable drawing of a mushroom. Inside? Beardbanger Brew, aged one week in a haunted thimble. Fernbeard stood there waiting, nervous as a pixie in a knitting shop, until Beryl finally arrived — arms crossed, eyebrow cocked so high it nearly snagged a cloud. “You dragged me out here to what? Beg?” she asked, eyeing the setup. “Begging? Nah. Pleading? Maybe. Offering emotional vulnerability disguised as cheese and beer? Definitely.” She tried to stay annoyed, but her nose twitched at the scent of the candied snail curls. “This better not be another trap like the time you ‘surprised’ me with a romantic tunnel and it turned out to be a badger den.” “That was a navigational error,” he said solemnly. “And they loved us. Invited us to their solstice orgy.” “Which we left in five minutes flat.” “Because you were allergic to the scented moss! I made that call for your safety!” Beryl snorted. But her arms dropped. And her foot stopped tapping. A good sign. “You made all this?” she asked, poking the moth-cape blanket. “And you used the mug. The... mushroom mug.” “Every gnome needs a little shame to grow strong,” Fernbeard replied, gently pushing the mug toward her. “Like fertilizer, but for your soul.” She took it. Sipped. Licked the foam from her lip in a way that made his beard quiver. “You’re an idiot,” she said softly. “A drunken, mushroom-brained, bark-snoring idiot.” “But I’m your idiot.” She sighed. Sat. Tore a piece of acorn bread like it had personally wronged her. Then, without ceremony, leaned against him. They sat there in the glow of stolen fireflies, sipping bad beer and better silence. He reached out, unsure, and laced his fingers through hers. She let him. “We’re not right, you and me,” she murmured, “but we’re just wrong enough to fit.” “Like moss and mold,” he agreed, a bit too proudly. “Don’t push it.” The glade, formerly the site of great scandal and one accidental gnome streaking incident, witnessed something far rarer that night: a truce between two wonderfully wild creatures who fought hard, loved harder, and forgave with the same passion they yelled about roof shingles and fermented socks. Later, when they stumbled home slightly tipsy and totally reconciled, Fernbeard grinned at Beryl in the moonlight. “So… about that pole dancing cattail?” “Try it again,” she said, smirking, “and I’ll shove it so far up your compost chute, you’ll sneeze pollen through autumn.” And just like that, the love story of The Ale and the Argument brewed another batch of chaos, crass affection, and one very lucky gnome who always knew the best arguments ended with dessert and a bruised ego.     Love the riotous romance of Fernbeard and Beryl? Keep their tale alive with artful keepsakes from our Captured Tales collection — perfect for those who believe that love is loud, laughter is messy, and every argument deserves a second round (of beer or kisses, your call). Frame the chaos with a vibrant framed print or metal print, and let these gnomes grace your walls with woodland wit. Puzzle out their problems — literally — with a charming jigsaw puzzle, or send a cheeky greeting card to the mushroom in your life who puts up with your nonsense. Explore more chaotic love and gnome-grown giggles at shop.unfocussed.com — because some tales are too weird not to frame.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Joint Custody of the Brownie

The Blooming Situation Runcle the Elf had never been what you’d call “employable.” His résumé, if it existed, would’ve included such gems as Professional Napper, Mushroom Inspector, and Occasional Lover of Sapient Ferns. So it came as little surprise to the other woodland folk when he was found one morning, high off his bark-bitten ass, lounging like a drunk god in the petals of a magnolia roughly the size of a garden jacuzzi. There he was, sun hitting his face just right, joint tucked between two long fingers like a wizard trying to look casual. His eyes were squinted not because he was suspicious, but because they were desperately trying to remember how to focus. On his lap sat the crown jewel of his day: a fudge-dense brownie laced with enough enchanted herbs to give a troll second thoughts about life choices. “Mine,” he mumbled with crumb-flecked lips, even though no one was around to dispute the ownership. Not yet, anyway. Suddenly, the bushes rustled with the confidence of someone who'd clearly ignored several signs that said, “Do Not Disturb the Elf. He's Baked.” Enter Glorma: pixie lawyer, 6 inches tall, legally terrifying, and vibrating with righteous fury. She landed on the edge of the magnolia like a winged subpoena, her heels clicking like doom across the petal. “Runcle. You greasy little leaf-humper. That brownie was supposed to be shared.” Runcle blinked slowly. “...I don’t recall agreeing to joint custody.” “You literally said, and I quote, ‘Yeah whatever Glormy, just don’t eat it all before I get back from peeing in the stream.’” Runcle took a thoughtful drag from his joint and let the smoke swirl out of his nose. “Sounds legally ambiguous to me.” Glorma, unshaken by the fog of fairy kush in the air, produced a tiny scroll with ominous red wax and several lines of text in microscopic, rage-filled calligraphy. “This contract states otherwise. Signed in glitter ink. Witnessed by three sprites and a horny badger.” Runcle squinted at it. “I was under the influence of... everything.” “And that,” Glorma said with a grin sharp enough to cut through bark, “is what we call consent with sparkles.” The standoff between elf and pixie was officially underway. The brownie sat like a holy relic between them — gooey, powerful, and soaked in enough THC to trigger a spontaneous spirit quest. Birds paused in the trees. A chipmunk stopped chewing mid-nut. The forest held its breath. And from somewhere in Runcle’s gut came a noise that sounded like a horny dragon gargling bong water. “Dibs,” Runcle whispered again. But Glorma was already reaching for her wand… Magical Mediation and the Brownie Tribunal “Runcle,” Glorma said through clenched teeth, her wings fluttering in a way that screamed ‘legal action imminent’, “you leave me no choice. I’m invoking the Snack Accord of 863 A.F. — After Fudge.” “You wouldn’t dare,” Runcle said, clutching the brownie like it was a newborn baby covered in chocolate and weed crystals. “That treaty was annulled after the Great Cookie Arbitration!” “Read the footnotes, my dear moss monkey. It was reinstated after the Muffin Uprising of '04. Page 17, subclause three: ‘Any disputed edible in a fairy/elf domestic disagreement must be tried by the Forest Tribunal of Munchies.’” Runcle groaned so hard a squirrel fell out of a nearby tree. “This is why I stopped dating pixies. All law, no foreplay.” Ten minutes later, the petals of the magnolia had been converted into a makeshift courtroom. On the left sat Glorma, legs crossed, hair in a very intentional power bun. On the right, Runcle, half-asleep, smearing brownie crumbs onto his tunic and looking like a confused old man at a Denny’s at 3AM. The tribunal consisted of: A morally flexible owl named Darren (Judge, also part-time DJ) A mushroom with eyes that blinked suspiciously often (Jury forefungus) And a raccoon bailiff named Stabbie, who was mostly there for the free snacks Darren the Owl banged a stick on a nearby acorn. “The Court of Crunchy Appeals is now in session. Glorma v. Runcle: The People v. That Greedy Bastard with the Munchies.” “Objection!” shouted Runcle, raising his joint like it was an evidence wand. “That’s prejudicial labeling!” “Sustained,” Darren replied. “We’ll call you the Allegedly Greedy Bastard.” Glorma cleared her throat. “Ladies and creatures of the court, I present Exhibit A — a glitter-contract, signed under the agreement that this sacred brownie would be shared.” “And I present Exhibit B,” Runcle said, dramatically lifting a half-eaten brownie with a corner bite taken out. “Which clearly shows there’s less than fifty percent left. At this point, we’re arguing about crumbs and moist suggestion.” “That’s still half a trip in magical dosage!” Glorma snapped. “I’ve licked goblins and seen less hallucination.” Darren nodded. “That’s legally accurate.” Suddenly, the brownie began to shimmer. The room fell into silence. A pulsing glow emitted from its gooey center as a deep voice echoed through the forest. “I am the Spirit of the Snack.” “Oh sweet fungus balls,” Runcle muttered, eyes wide. “It’s sentient. We over-infused.” “Who dares bicker over my delicious form?” the brownie boomed, levitating above Runcle’s lap with the aura of a smug baked potato on acid. “We both claim partial ownership!” Glorma said, trying to look authoritative while the brownie slowly rotated like it was being judged on The Great British Bake Off. “Then let the trial end in fair division.” With a flash of golden crumbs, the brownie split itself perfectly in two, each half levitating toward its respective claimant. The remaining forest creatures clapped politely, except for Stabbie the raccoon who tried to swipe both halves before being tasered by pixie magic. Glorma beamed, holding her half like a hard-earned diploma. “Justice is served.” Runcle took a long hit from his joint and chuckled. “Nah, babe. Dessert is served.” And as the brownie halves were consumed under the fading light of the enchanted grove, both elf and pixie drifted into a shared hallucination that involved a karaoke battle with a unicorn, a sentient cheese wheel, and a spontaneous marriage officiated by a sarcastic centaur. Some say they woke up hours later spooning in the petals, both sticky with chocolate and questionable decisions. Others say they’re still in that trip. But one thing was certain in the forest: custody may have been shared… but that brownie? Totally worth the drama.     Take the Madness Home Whether you're team Runcle or team Glorma (or just here for the sentient snacks), you can now own a piece of this beautifully bizarre tale. Canvas print? Yup. Metal print? Hell yes. Throw pillow? That brownie belongs on your couch. Tote bag? Carry your snacks like a forest legend. Grab your favorite version of Joint Custody of the Brownie and let the world know you support magical nonsense and the sacred right to edible equality.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

The Devilish Sprite of Emberglow Forest

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

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

The Eggcellent Trio

In the heart of the Whimwood Glen, nestled between mossy tree trunks and wild cherry blossoms, lived three eccentric gnome siblings: Bramble, Tilly, and Pip. Known collectively (and proudly) as “The Eggcellent Trio,” their reputation stretched far beyond their size — which was roughly two and a half carrots high. They weren’t famous for being wise, nor particularly helpful. No, their fame came from a very specific seasonal skill: Easter egg smuggling. Not smuggling *from* anyone, mind you — smuggling *to*. Their mission? Delivering mysterious, oddly magical eggs to unsuspecting woodland residents who clearly didn’t ask for them. “It’s called surprise joy, Pip,” Bramble would say, polishing a particularly glittery teal egg while his beard twitched with excitement. “The best kind of joy is the unsolicited kind.” “Like mushrooms in your tea,” Tilly added, cheerfully placing a glow-in-the-dark egg inside a squirrel’s sock drawer. She wasn’t quite sure the squirrel even wore socks, but the drawer had a hinge and that was reason enough. Each egg was a work of odd art: some chirped when opened, others puffed confetti laced with giggles, and one memorable creation laid a tiny marshmallow every full moon. They weren’t practical, but practicality was rarely on the menu in Whimwood. The trio coordinated with military-level precision. Pip was in charge of reconnaissance — mostly because he was sneaky and once accidentally dated a vole for two weeks without anyone noticing. Bramble crafted the eggs using recipes that may or may not have included fermented jelly beans. And Tilly? She was the getaway driver, using her handmade leaf-cart which only occasionally caught fire on downhill slopes. This year’s mission was different. Bigger. Bolder. Borderline illegal in three counties (if gnome law were ever enforced, which, thankfully, it wasn’t). They had set their sights on High Hare Haven — the elite burrow community of the Easter Bunny himself. “We’re going to sneak into the Bunny’s personal egg vault,” Bramble declared, nose twitching with anticipation, “and leave our eggs there. Reverse robbery. Joy-burglary. Egg-bomb of happiness.” “That’s… bold,” Pip said, already halfway into a bush for surveillance. “Also, we might die. But like… in a festive way.” “Imagine the Bunny’s face,” Tilly sighed dreamily, tucking a giggle-egg under her bonnet. “He’ll open his vault and be confused and delighted. Or mildly concussed. Either way, a memory.” So they plotted. And packed. And possibly had too much elderflower wine. At dawn, with cheeks rosy and hats lopsided, the Eggcellent Trio rolled toward legend, wobbling in their little leaf-cart full of chaos, glitter, and cheer. The sun had barely yawned over Whimwood Glen when the Eggcellent Trio rolled to a halt behind a suspiciously large mushroom that Tilly claimed had “excellent acoustics for eavesdropping.” Before them loomed High Hare Haven — a sprawling underground compound disguised as a hill, complete with a topiary shaped like a smug-looking rabbit and a "No Solicitors" sign that Pip was certain had once been a gnome. “Alright,” Bramble whispered, adjusting his oversized pom-pom hat like a war general donning his helmet. “We’re going in quiet, fast, and as delightfully illegal as gnome-ly possible.” “Are we sure this isn’t just trespassing?” Tilly asked, adjusting her knitted bloomers. “Like, Eastery trespassing, sure. But still…” “No. It’s reverse burglary,” Bramble insisted. “Totally different. We’re leaving things. That’s gifting with flair.” High Hare Haven was guarded by a platoon of overly serious bunnies wearing aviator goggles and fitted vests embroidered with “EggSec.” Pip, the smallest and sneakiest of the three, executed his signature move: the Hop ’n’ Drop. It involved hopping like a bunny, dropping like a gnome, and generally confusing everyone within a 10-foot radius. He slipped past the guards using a cardboard decoy shaped like a motivational quote about carrots. Inside, the halls shimmered with magical wards — pastel runes glowing faintly, whispering phrases like “Access Denied,” “Hippity Hop No,” and “Don’t Even Try It, Chad.” Pip snorted and picked the lock with a candy cane sharpened to a felony-level point. He was in. Meanwhile, Bramble and Tilly made their approach from the rear, scaling a jellybean drainage chute. It was slick. It was sticky. It was absolutely not up to code. “Why is everything in here edible and also a death trap?” Tilly hissed, chewing absently on her sleeve. “That’s called branding,” Bramble replied. “Now climb.” After what felt like a lifetime of crawling through a licorice-scented wind tunnel, they reached the vault: a massive golden egg embossed with the words “BunVault 9000 – Authorized Whiskers Only.” Pip was already there, munching nervously on a marshmallow decoy egg. “Bad news,” he whispered. “The Bunny’s in there. Like, in the vault. Napping. On a pile of Fabergé backups and Cadbury prototypes. He looks very… serene.” “So we stealth it,” Bramble said, wide-eyed. “Drop the eggs, don’t wake the bun, get out. Like folklore ninjas.” “With hats,” Tilly added. They crept in, balancing their carefully curated chaos-eggs in gloved hands. Pip tiptoed over a glowing carrot-shaped alarm, while Tilly used her scarf to muffle the sound of glitter spilling from her surprise-bomb egg. Bramble, too round to be stealthy, rolled like an oddly soft cannonball behind a stack of commemorative Peep dispensers. Then it happened. Someone — and historians would never agree on who — sneezed. It was not a small sneeze. It was a gnome-sized, pollen-induced, allergy-fueled kaboom of a sneeze that echoed off the vault walls like a jazz solo on bath salts. The Bunny stirred. His left ear twitched. One eye fluttered open… and locked onto Pip, who froze mid-egg placement like a tiny Easter-themed criminal caught mid-gift. “...The fluff,” the Bunny growled, voice deep and oddly seductive for a rabbit. “Who the fluff are you?” The trio panicked. Bramble launched a Confetti Egg of Tactical Distraction™. It exploded in a blast of rose-scented streamers and faint giggling noises. Tilly dove under a velvet table. Pip did a cartwheel so perfect it nearly earned him a sponsor. “We’re joy insurgents!” Bramble cried, crawling toward the exit. “We come bearing unsolicited delight!” “And artisan eggery!” added Tilly, throwing a marshmallow grenade that fizzled with the smell of nostalgia. The Bunny blinked. Then blinked again. He stood slowly, brushing glitter off his tail with dramatic flair. “You… … to give me eggs?” “Well, we weren’t going to just keep them,” Pip muttered, somewhat insulted. For a long moment, the room held its breath. The Bunny stared at the chaos. At the rainbow of odd eggs now nestled among his curated collection. At the gnomes—wide-eyed, covered in sparkles, one of them chewing his own hat out of nerves. Then the Bunny… laughed. A soft, huffy kind of chuckle at first, which soon snowballed into a deep, belly-hopping cackle. “You’re all certifiably insane,” he said. “And possibly my new favorite people.” He offered them a cup of carrot espresso and a chocolate cigar. “No one’s surprised me in a hundred years,” he admitted. “I’d forgotten what nonsense felt like. It’s delightful. Dangerous, but delightful.” The Eggcellent Trio beamed. Bramble wept a little, blaming it on the espresso. Pip tried to pickpocket a Fabergé just for old time’s sake. Tilly gifted the Bunny a “Tickle Egg” which snorted every time someone walked past it. They didn’t get arrested. They got invited back. Officially. As chaos consultants. From that day forward, every Easter morning in Whimwood and beyond, odd little eggs would appear where none had been — on doorknobs, in shoes, under teacups. They didn’t hatch anything living, but they often hissed compliments or whispered off-key songs. No one knew where they came from. Except everyone did. And they smiled. Because somewhere out there, three gnomes in knitted clothes were probably giggling behind a bush, cartwheeling through danger, and redefining what it meant to deliver joy… one wildly unnecessary egg at a time.     Spring turned to summer, and summer to cider-season, but the whispers of *The Eggcellent Trio* only grew louder. Children would wake to find eggs that burped haikus. Grandmothers discovered pastel spheres in their breadboxes that told scandalous jokes in Old Gnomish. One bishop swore his sermon notes were replaced by a talking yolk that recited Shakespeare, backwards. The Bunny — now their greatest accomplice — commissioned them as official “Agents of Anarchy & Cheer,” complete with embroidered sashes they never wore because Pip used his to smuggle tarts. Their leaf-cart was upgraded to a licorice-fueled hover-sled, which exploded often and to great applause. Occasionally, other gnomes tried to copy them. One trio attempted a "Maypole Mayhem" stunt with explosive taffy. It ended in melted shoes and a goat with trust issues. The truth was simple: only Bramble, Tilly, and Pip had the right balance of heart, humor, and total disregard for sensible planning. Now and then, on especially magical mornings, if you follow a trail of giggles and candy wrappers deep into Whimwood Glen, you might stumble upon a scene beneath a cherry blossom tree — three gnomes, bellies full of laughter, arms full of nonsense, and eyes twinkling with plans they probably shouldn't share. And somewhere in a vault, in the heart of High Hare Haven, a single egg sits on a velvet pillow. It hums softly. It smells faintly of cookies. And once a year, it cracks open — not with a chick, but with a new idea. An idea wild enough to earn its place in the legend of the Eggcellent Trio… ...the only gnomes to ever break into a vault to break out a holiday.     Love the tale of Bramble, Tilly, and Pip? Bring their mischievous charm into your home with artful keepsakes from our Captured Tales collection. Whether you’re looking to smile every morning with a cozy throw pillow, puzzle your way into gnome-lore with a delightful jigsaw puzzle, or send joy in the mail with a whimsical greeting card — this trio’s legendary spirit is ready to hop into your heart and your space. Adorn your walls with the magic of mischief using our vibrant metal print or turn a plain space into a giggle-worthy nook with our enchanting tapestry. It’s not just art — it’s an egg-ceptional adventure, waiting to be displayed. Explore more Captured Tales Art at shop.unfocussed.com and let the legend live on... one egg, one giggle, one gnome at a time.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Love in Small Gestures

The Eye of the World The Eye had always been there. Silent. Watching. Weeping. No one knew exactly where it came from — it was simply discovered one soft, gray dawn, nestled into the hillside like a secret the earth couldn’t keep any longer. Massive and alive, it blinked slow as tides, its iris glistening with a deep, knowing hazel, the kind of color you could lose years in. The Eye never spoke, though the villagers swore they heard murmurs when the wind stirred just right. Some said it belonged to a sleeping god. Others, that it had watched the world too long and wept for what it saw. But most simply left offerings at the base: coins, candles, hand-written prayers folded small as beetles. And still, the Eye cried. That was until Mira wandered into the glade, dragging a damp blanket and a half-eaten pear. She was four, maybe five. Small by any standard but determined in that way only children and wildflowers can be. Her parents thought she was napping. Instead, she was following the trail of petals she’d been dropping all week, convinced they would lead her to something magical. She was right. The Eye blinked at her. She blinked back, wiped her nose on her sleeve, then frowned. “You’re sad.” It wept again, the tear pooling until it spilled from the lower lid and began its slow, luminous descent. Mira didn’t flinch. She watched it with a grave sort of calm, then pulled the blanket from her shoulders, bunched it up in her tiny fists, and reached upward. She couldn't possibly touch the Eye — not really — but she reached anyway. On tiptoes, arms high, she offered the cloth like a holy thing. And for the first time, the tear did not fall to the ground. It touched the blanket… and vanished like a sigh into her outstretched hands. The Eye stilled. In the hush that followed, something shifted — not in the sky or the trees, but in the space behind things. The kind of change that only happens when someone chooses love over logic, kindness over comprehension. Mira patted the air gently and whispered, “It’s okay. I get sad too. But it helps when someone sees you.” The wind carried her words upward, and the Eye, impossibly, softened. The Child and the Colossus The villagers were the first to notice the change. Birds sang differently. The morning mist arrived a little later, lingered a little longer. Old Elric, who hadn’t seen color since the war, claimed the flowers were “louder.” Children began laughing more, not louder — just more. It was as though joy had been quietly invited back to the village, and no one knew exactly who had mailed the invitation. Mira returned to the Eye every day after that. Sometimes she brought a different cloth — a wash rag, a scarf, her father’s old undershirt that she’d filched from the laundry bin. Other times, she brought stories. “Today I got a star sticker for coloring inside the lines. I didn’t mean to, it just happened.” “I tried peas again. Still gross.” “I think trees are just really slow people.” The Eye listened. It blinked. Sometimes, it cried. But not always — and when it did, the tears seemed… lighter. Like clouds letting go of rain they no longer needed to carry. One afternoon, Mira brought a small jar. It was glass, painted in streaks of wild blue and glittering green. She stood beneath the Eye, waited until a tear fell, and caught it with care. “This one’s for my mama. She’s been sad in the mornings.” The Eye blinked, the edges of its lid twitching — not in confusion, but something older… recognition. Understanding. By the end of the week, Mira had an entire shelf in her bedroom filled with “tears.” Some for her mother, who woke up tired. Some for her father, who had forgotten how to laugh with his teeth. One was labeled with a drawing of the family dog who’d gone away. She never gave the tears as gifts, only kept them like tiny, sacred promises — reminders that sadness wasn’t bad, just heavy. And that someone, somewhere, had helped her carry it for a while. The villagers eventually followed her example. They no longer left coins or candles at the base of the Eye. They left notes. Confessions. Crayon drawings. They whispered apologies into jars, sang lullabies into empty cups, tucked little poems into tree roots, believing — rightly — that the Eye would hear. And all the while, Mira grew. Not fast, not suddenly — like a melody you don’t realize you’ve been humming until someone else joins in. The Eye never stopped watching her, even as she grew taller, and the space between them became more and more balanced. She still brought cloths sometimes, though now they were sewn into proper handkerchiefs. She still talked, though her stories had bigger words and more pauses. And when the Eye cried, she was still there, arms ready, even if her heart was the cloth now. On her sixteenth birthday, she stood before the Eye one last time. It was raining, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t speak. She simply pressed her hand to its lid — it was cool, like stone warmed by memory — and whispered, “Thank you for seeing me, too.” The Eye blinked… and smiled. Not in any way mouths smile. But in the way dawn sometimes feels like a held breath finally exhaled. And though she walked away that day, Mira never truly left. Because when the world became too sharp, too loud, too broken — there were always those who remembered the girl with the cloth and the Eye that cried. And they taught their children, and those children taught theirs, that love doesn’t need a reason. It only needs a moment. A gesture. A reaching upward. And so the Eye still watches. Still weeps. But not always in sorrow. Sometimes… in awe.     Epilogue: Jars of Light Years later, the stories of the Eye and the girl who dried its tears became legend. But unlike most legends, this one didn’t gather dust or become bloated with grandiosity. It remained simple. Gentle. Whispered from one soul to another, passed like a folded note in a quiet classroom of the universe. Some say Mira became a healer. Others, a poet. A few insist she was just a girl who once listened hard enough to be heard by something ancient. But everyone remembers the jars. They became relics — not of power, but of presence. Tiny glass vessels holding something you couldn’t quite explain but always recognized: the feeling of being loved without needing to be fixed. To this day, travelers who find their way to the glade will sometimes see a child — never the same one twice — standing below the Eye, cloth in hand, speaking softly into the vastness. And always, the Eye listens. Because some truths outlive time, and some hearts, no matter how small, leave behind ripples that change everything they touch. And in those ripples, among the trees and morning hush, you might just hear it — not a voice, not a whisper, but something closer: A gesture of love, still reaching up.     Bring the Story Home Let the emotion and beauty of “Love in Small Gestures” live beyond the screen. Whether it’s to inspire, to soothe, or simply to remind you of the quiet strength in tenderness, this image is now available in a variety of beautiful formats for your space: Framed Print – A timeless, gallery-worthy presentation that brings elegance and sentiment to any wall. Metal Print – Vivid, sleek, and durable—this modern format makes every detail of the image pop. Wall Tapestry – Soft, flowing fabric turns your space into a sanctuary of meaning and memory. Fleece Blanket – Wrap yourself in comfort and compassion. Perfect for quiet evenings and thoughtful gifts. Let this story stay with you — not just in memory, but in the moments between. Because love, as always, lives in the small things.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Tongues and Talons

Of Eggs, Egos, and Explosions Burlap Tinklestump never planned to be a father. He could barely manage adult gnomehood, what with the ale debts, magical gardening fines, and one unresolved beef with the local frog choir. But destiny—or more precisely, a slightly intoxicated hedgehog named Fergus—had other ideas. It began, as these things often do, with a dare. “Lick it,” Fergus slurred, pointing at a cracked, iridescent egg nestled in the roots of a fireberry tree. “Betcha won’t.” “Bet I will,” Burlap shot back, without even asking what species it belonged to. He’d just finished chugging a fermented root beer so strong it could strip bark. His judgment was, generously, compromised. And so, with a tongue that had already survived three chili-eating contests and one unfortunate bee spell, Burlap gave the egg a full, slobbery swipe. It cracked. It hissed. It combusted. Out hatched a baby dragon—tiny, green, and already pissed off. The newborn let out a screech like a kettle having an existential crisis, flared its wings, and promptly bit Burlap on the nose. Sparks flew. Burlap screamed. Fergus passed out in a daffodil patch. “Well,” Burlap wheezed, prying the tiny jaws off his face, “guess that’s parenting now.” He named the dragon Singe, partly for the way it charred everything it sneezed on, and partly because it had already reduced his favorite pants to ashes. Singe, for his part, adopted Burlap in that aloof, vaguely threatening way that only dragons and cats truly master. He rode around on the gnome’s shoulder, hissed at authority figures, and developed a taste for roasted insects and sarcasm. Within weeks, the two became inseparable—and entirely insufferable. Together they perfected the art of mischief in the Dinglethorn Wilds: lacing faerie tea with fireball elixirs, redirecting squirrel migration routes with enchanted nut decoys, and once swapping the Wishing Pond’s coins with shiny goblin poker chips. The forest folk tried to reason with them. That failed. They tried to bribe them with mushroom pies. That almost worked. But it wasn’t until Burlap used Singe to light a ceremonial elvish tapestry—during a wedding, no less—that real consequences came knocking. The Elvish Postal Authority, a guild feared even by trolls, issued a notice of severe misconduct, public disruption, and ‘unauthorized flame-based object alteration’. It arrived via flaming pigeon. “We have to go underground,” Burlap declared. “Or up. Higher ground. Strategic advantage. Less paperwork.” And that’s when he discovered the Mushroom. It was colossal—an ancient, towering toadstool rumored to be sentient and mildly perverted. Burlap moved in immediately. He carved a spiral staircase up the stalk, installed a hammock made of recycled spider silk, and nailed a crooked sign to the cap: The High Fungus Consulate – Diplomatic Immunity & Spores for All. “We live here now,” he told Singe, who replied by incinerating a squirrel who’d asked for rent. The gnome nodded in approval. “Good. They’ll respect us.” Respect, as it turned out, was not the first reaction. The Forest Council called an emergency tribunal. Queen Glimmer sent an ambassador. The owlfolk drafted sanctions. And the elvish inspector returned—this time with a flamethrower of his own and a 67-count indictment scroll. Burlap, wearing a ceremonial robe made of moss and buttons, greeted him with a manic grin. “Tell your queen I demand recognition. Also, I licked the tax form. It’s legally mine now.” The inspector opened his mouth to reply—just as Singe sneezed a fireball the size of a cantaloupe into his boots. Chaos had only just begun. Fire, Fungi, and the Fall of Forest Law Three days after the incident with the flaming boots, Burlap and Singe stood trial in the Grand Glade Tribunal—an ancient patch of sacred forest converted into a courthouse by some very judgmental birches. The crowd was massive. Pixies with protest signs, dryads holding petitions, a group of anarchist hedgehogs chanting “NO SHROOM WITHOUT REPRESENTATION!” and at least one confused centaur who thought this was an herbalist expo. Burlap, in a robe made from stitched-together leaves and sandwich wrappers, sat perched atop a velvet mushroom throne he'd smuggled in from his “consulate.” Singe, now the size of a medium turkey and infinitely more combustible, sat curled on the gnome’s lap with a smug expression that only a creature born of fire and entitlement could maintain. Queen Glimmer presided. Her silver wings fluttered with restrained fury as she read the charges: “Unlawful dragon domestication. Unauthorized toadstool expansion. Misuse of enchanted flatulence. And one count of insulting a tree priest with interpretive dance.” “That last one was art,” Burlap muttered. “You can’t charge for expression.” “You danced on his altar while yelling ‘SPORE THIS!’” “He started it.” As the trial went on, things unraveled fast. The badger militia presented charred evidence, including half a mailbox and a wedding veil. Burlap called a raccoon named Dave as a character witness, who mostly tried to steal the bailiff’s pocket watch. Singe testified in the form of smoke puffs and mild arson. And then, as tensions peaked, Burlap unveiled his trump card: a magically binding diplomatic document written in ancient fungal script. “Behold!” he shouted, slapping the scroll onto the stump of testimony. “The Spores of Sanctuary Accord! Signed by the Fungus King himself—may his gills ever flourish.” Everyone gasped. Mostly because it smelled awful. Queen Glimmer read it carefully. “This... this is a menu from a questionable mushroom bar in the Marshes of Meh.” “Still binding,” Burlap replied. “It’s laminated.” In the chaos that followed—wherein a squirrel delegate threw a nut bomb, a pixie went rogue with glitter-based spells, and Singe decided the time was ripe for his first true roar—the trial collapsed into something more closely resembling a music festival run by toddlers with matches. And Burlap, never one to miss a dramatic exit, whistled for his getaway plan: a flying wheelbarrow powered by fermented gnome gas and old firework enchantments. He climbed aboard with Singe, gave a two-finger salute to the crowd, and shouted, “The High Fungus Consulate shall rise again! Preferably on Tuesdays!” They vanished in a trail of smoke, fire, and what smelled suspiciously like roasted garlic and regret. Weeks later, the Mushroom Embassy was declared a public hazard and burned down—though some claim it grew back overnight, taller, weirder, and faintly humming jazz. Burlap and Singe were never captured. They became legends. Myths. The kind whispered by tavern bards who smirk when the lute chords go slightly off tune. Some say they live in the Outer Bramble now, where law fears to tread and gnomes make their own constitutions. Others claim they opened a food truck specializing in spicy mushroom tacos and dragon-brewed cider. But one thing’s clear: Wherever there’s laughter, smoke, and a mushroom slightly out of place… Burlap Tinklestump and Singe are probably nearby, plotting their next ridiculous rebellion against authority, order, and pants. The forest forgives many things—but it never forgets a well-cooked elvish tax scroll.     EPILOGUE – The Gnome, the Dragon, and the Whispering Spores Years passed in the Dinglethorn Wilds, though “years” is a fuzzy term in a forest where time bends politely around mushroom rings and the moon occasionally takes Tuesdays off. The tale of Burlap Tinklestump and Singe grew roots and wings, mutating with every retelling. Some said they overthrew a goblin mayor. Others swore they built a fortress made entirely of stolen doorbells. One rumor claimed Singe fathered an entire generation of spicy-tempered wyvernlings, all with a flair for interpretive fire dancing. The truth was, as usual, far stranger. Burlap and Singe lived free, nomadic, and joyfully unaccountable. They wandered from glade to glade, stirring trouble like a spoon in a bubbling pot. They crashed fae garden parties, rewrote troll toll policies with sock puppets, and opened a short-lived consulting firm called Gnomebody’s Business, which specialized in diplomatic sabotage and mushroom real estate. They were kicked out of seventeen realms. Burlap framed each eviction notice and hung them with pride in whatever hollow log or enchanted gazebo they currently squatted in. Singe grew stronger, wiser, and no less chaotic. By adulthood, he could torch a beanstalk mid-air while spelling out rude words in smoke. He’d developed an affinity for jazz flute, enchanted bacon, and sneezing contests. And through it all, he remained perched—either on Burlap’s shoulder, his head, or on the nearest flammable object. Burlap aged only in theory. His beard got longer. His pranks got crueler. But his laugh—oh, that full-bodied, giddy cackle—echoed through the forest like a mischievous anthem. Even the trees began to lean in when he passed, eager to hear what idiocy he’d utter next. Eventually, they disappeared entirely. No sightings. No fire trails. Just silence… and mushrooms. Glowing, tall, gnarled mushrooms appeared wherever they’d once been—often with singe marks, bite impressions, and, occasionally, indecent graffiti. The High Fungus Consulate, it seems, had simply gone... airborne. To this day, if you enter the Dinglethorn at twilight and tell a lie with a grin, you might hear a chuckle on the wind. And if you leave behind a pie, a bad poem, or a political pamphlet soaked in brandy—well, let’s just say that pie might come back flaming, annotated, and demanding a seat at the council table. Because Burlap and Singe weren’t just legends. They were a warning wrapped in laughter, tied with fire, and sealed with a mushroom stamp.     Bring the Mischief Home – Shop "Tongues and Talons" Collectibles Feeling the itch to cause some magical mayhem of your own? Invite Burlap and Singe into your world with our exclusive Tongues and Talons collection — crafted for rebels, dreamers, and mushroom-loving firestarters. 🔥 Metal Print: Bold, gleaming, and built to withstand even a dragon sneeze — this metal print captures every detail of the gnome-dragon duo’s chaotic charm in razor-sharp resolution. 🖼️ Canvas Print: Add a splash of whimsy and fire to your walls with this stunning canvas print. It’s storytelling, texture, and toadstool glory all in one frame-worthy piece. 🛋️ Throw Pillow: Need a cozy companion for your next mischief-filled nap? Our Tongues and Talons throw pillow is the softest way to keep dragon energy on your couch — no scorch marks included. 👜 Tote Bag: Whether you're hauling forbidden scrolls, enchanted snacks, or questionable diplomatic documents, this tote bag has your back with sturdy style and spellbinding flair. Shop now and carry a little bit of chaos, laughter, and legendary fungus with you — wherever your next adventure leads.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

The Last Gherkin

The Jarred Truth Gus was a gherkin, but not just any gherkin. He was the last one in the veggie drawer with dreams. Real, fermented, ambitious dreams. He wanted more than life as a garnish next to a burger. He wanted to be seen. To be respected. Maybe even—dare he whisper it—dipped in ranch and worshiped by stoners at midnight. But fate had other plans. Cold, briny plans. He awoke one morning to the wet snap of a rubber glove and the shrill sound of “time to clean the fridge,” which every vegetable knew meant one thing: The Purge. Carrots vanished. Celery sticks were chopped without mercy. And then… the jar. It sat there. Ominous. Full of his sliced brothers and sisters, faces frozen in pickled horror. Floaters, they were called in the drawer. Veterans of the Vinegar War. Some had been dill, others bread-and-butter. All were casualties of the same cruel process: sliced, soaked, and sealed away. “No no no… not the jar,” Gus whimpered, his tiny gherkin knees knocking together. “I’ve got plans! I’ve got dreams! I’ve got at least two weeks of shelf life left!” He darted behind a jar of expired pesto, but it was no use. The Fridge God’s hand descended, rummaging. “Where the hell did I put that last pickle?” came the voice, cavernous and cruel. Gus knew he was being hunted like a snackable fugitive. He made a break for it, slipping off the produce shelf, rolling with terrifying grace past the almond milk and over a forgotten blueberry. It was majestic. It was suicidal. Unfortunately, he forgot the laws of fridge physics—mainly that the bottom drawer had no traction. He skidded, tumbled, and landed right in front of the cursed thing. The Jar. Its lid twinkled like a stainless-steel executioner’s axe. Inside, the pickles swirled, glassy-eyed and expressionless. One of them mouthed something at him. It looked like “run,” but it could’ve also been “rum.” Either way, it was a bad sign. “You don’t have to do this!” Gus screamed as the hand closed in. “Take the mustard! It’s expired! TAKE THE MUSTARD, YOU MONSTER!” But it was too late. The hand gripped him like a cruel god plucking a mortal soul from a salad bar. Dill or Be Dilled Gus’s scream echoed through the cold cathedral of the refrigerator. The other condiments looked away—ketchup wept softly, while the mayo just muttered, “Not again.” This wasn’t their war. They’d seen too many perish. Too many dreams pickled. He was placed on the cutting board like an offering to the kitchen gods, the giant looming over him wielding a knife that could fillet a zucchini into trauma. Gus tried diplomacy. “Listen, big guy. Maybe we talk this out, huh? You look like someone who enjoys a well-aged cheese. I could introduce you to Brie. She's cultured. Flexible. Way more your type.” The blade paused. For a second, Gus thought he saw hesitation in the human’s eyes. But no. It was just a reflection of the ceiling fan. Reality sharpened like the knife’s edge. Then came the horror. Not slicing. No—worse. He was picked up, inspected… and tossed into the jar. Whole. Untouched. Alive. Gus hit the brine like a cannonball of fear, bobbing helplessly among the saucer-eyed slices of his kin. “Why am I still whole?! This is some Silence of the Cucumbers level crap!” One of the floaters drifted over. His name was Carl. Carl had been a cucumber in a past life, before the Big Slice. Now he floated, all zen and pickled. “You get used to it,” Carl murmured. “Eventually your soul ferments. Just let the brine in.” “Let the brine in?! I DON’T WANT TO BE SOUP-INFUSED! I HAD A CRUSH ON A CHERRY TOMATO!” Gus bellowed, slamming his little fists into the glass. Outside, life went on. The fridge door opened periodically—light flooding in like a judgmental god. A bottle of kombucha exploded somewhere on the top shelf. A tofu block quietly expired. No one cared. Weeks passed. Or maybe hours. Time meant nothing in the pickle jar. Gus began to lose his grip. He wrote manifestos in mustard on the inside of the glass. He developed a briny accent. He started talking to a baby corn cob named Victor, who may or may not have been real. And then, one day… The jar opened. “Finally,” Gus whispered. “Rescue. Freedom. A chance to tell my story. Maybe even a Netflix deal.” But instead, the hand reached past him. Took a slice. Closed the lid again. Gus floated there, suspended in the sour silence of rejection. That’s when it hit him. He was too whole. Too intact. Too… special. They’d never eat him. He was cursed to witness it all—forever floating, forever fermenting, forever screaming on the inside while maintaining his outward crunch. And so he remains. The last gherkin. Guardian of the Jar. Screaming into the void of dill-infused eternity. Look deep enough into the brine… and the brine looks back.     Epilogue: The Cult of the Crunch Some say Gus still floats there, whispering secrets to the baby corn. Others claim he finally merged with the brine and ascended into a higher state of snack consciousness. A few believe he escaped during a blackout and now runs an underground support group for traumatized vegetables behind the crisper drawer. The jar sits on the shelf, slightly fogged, oddly glowing. People open the fridge, stare at it, and feel a chill. They can't explain why. They just know that something is… watching. Judging. Probably pickled. And late at night, if you press your ear to the lid, you might just hear a faint whisper carried on the vinegar vapors: “Don’t get sliced. Get out while you’re fresh.” But by then… it’s already too late.     Take Gus Home (Before the Brine Claims Him) If you've laughed, cringed, or had a mild existential crisis reading the tale of The Last Gherkin, why not invite Gus into your home? Gus is now available in a variety of forms for your twisted decor needs: Framed Print – Perfect for your kitchen, breakroom, or pickle panic room. Acrylic Print – For those who like their horror crisp and their humor transparent. Metal Print – Industrial-strength absurdity for your gallery wall or mad scientist lab. Tote Bag – Carry the trauma with you, in style. Don't just read about Gus. Live with him. Haunt your own fridge.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

The Featherlight Guardian

Of Mushrooms, Mayhem, and a Very Unimpressed Owl Deep within the Verdant Verge—a forest so enchanted it once accidentally turned a lumberjack into a pinecone—perched a creature of such delicate fluff and sarcastic judgment that even the fairies feared her side-eye. She was the Featherlight Guardian. Not *a* guardian. The Guardian. Capital T. Capital Attitude. Her name was Mabel, and she was an owl. Well, technically. If you asked her, she’d tell you she was “a divine combination of ethereal fluff, guardian-grade wisdom, and naturally curled lashes that don't require enhancement, thank you very much.” With feathers dipped in hues of midnight blue, scandalous scarlet, and a yellow that could make the sun insecure, Mabel wasn’t just a sight—she was a statement. Her giant sapphire eyes had seen a thousand moons, a few awkward forest rituals, and at least one very embarrassing wizard duel involving a misfired glitter spell. Mabel’s job—her sacred duty—was to guard the Heart of the Forest: a magical glen containing the roots of every tree, a lot of bioluminescent frogs with drama issues, and one eternally simmering cauldron that brewed the mood of the forest itself. She took this duty seriously. Which is why, when a band of bumbling, slightly tipsy mushroom hunters stomped into her glen one moonlit Tuesday, she let out a sigh so heavy, it shook the canopy. One of the hunters—whose name was either Jasper or Disappointment, she wasn’t sure—tried to pet her. Pet her. “I am not a therapy fluff-ball,” she hooted, unimpressed. “Touch me again and I’ll introduce your eyebrows to fireflies with boundary issues.” The hunters giggled and carried on, picking glow-shrooms with the elegance of drunk raccoons. Mabel narrowed her eyes. The Heart of the Forest was reacting—glowing brighter, pulsing faster. She could feel it—a brewing mood swing. The last time it felt like this, a tree grew upside-down and quoted Shakespeare for a month. With a whip of her rainbow-feathered wings and a dramatic sigh worthy of a soap opera priestess, Mabel fluttered down from her perch. It was time to fix this. Again. Because that’s what guardians do. But this time, she had a plan. A devious, glitter-laced, sass-infused plan that just might teach these mushroom marauders a lesson they’d never forget. Mabel smirked, her massive eyes twinkling with mischief and just a hint of vengeance. “Let the chaotic enlightenment begin,” she whispered. Glitter, Karma, and an Owl’s Slightly Vengeful Redemption Arc Now, you may be wondering: what exactly does a glitter-laced, sass-infused plan look like? Well, if you’ve ever seen an owl enchant a fungus with sentience and a flair for passive-aggressive poetry, you’re halfway there. Mabel, flapping her impossibly elegant wings, swooped toward the cauldron in the glen—the one that brewed the emotional weather of the entire forest. She whispered something ancient and slightly petty into it. The brew shimmered. The frogs croaked in falsetto. The trees leaned in. Moments later, the glen shifted. Not violently. Oh no—Mabel preferred her vengeance subtle. The mushroom hunters, who moments before were giggling and plucking things that should definitely not be plucked, paused as the forest suddenly... responded. The mushrooms started glowing in synchronized color waves. Purple. Green. Chartreuse, if you're feeling fancy. A low hum began to rise from the soil—like an a capella group warming up beneath your feet. The drunkest hunter, whose name was Chad (they always are), blinked and said, “Dude, is the dirt singing?” “Yes, Chad,” Mabel muttered from a nearby tree. “The dirt is singing, and it hates your cargo shorts.” Then, one by one, the mushrooms sprang to life. Not aggressively—no, this wasn’t that kind of story. They simply became dramatic. The largest of them stretched upward, took a deep, unnecessary breath, and announced in iambic pentameter: “Fair forest friends, these fools do treadWhere sacred roots and balance wed.Their grubby hands, their clueless cheer—Shall reap the karma growing here.” The mushroom hunters froze. Chad dropped his glow-shroom and tried to whisper, “We’re tripping,” but the mushrooms shushed him in chorus. Mabel, now perched on a branch above the glen, flared her wings like a drama teacher at a school for troubled fairies. She spoke with measured gravitas. “Welcome, mortals. You have disturbed the glen of harmony, disrupted the shrooms of sentiment, and insulted my feathers with your lack of personal grooming.” “...We were just looking for snacks,” whimpered Jasper-Probably-Disappointment. Mabel sighed, but there was something softer beneath it this time. “You silly bipeds. The forest isn’t your snack aisle. It’s alive. It feels. It gets moody. Like me. But with fewer accessories.” A hush fell over the glen. Even the frogs were quiet, save for one who softly hummed “Greensleeves” for ambiance. Mabel fluttered down to eye level, enormous sapphire gaze locking onto the mushroomers like a velvet curse. “You have one chance,” she said. “Apologize to the mushrooms, clean up your mess, and make a vow to leave this forest better than you found it. Or I unleash the moss with legs. And let me tell you, it chases.” There was, understandably, a lot of apologizing. One of the hunters even offered to start a composting blog. Mabel remained skeptical, but allowed them to flee, escorted by a parade of disapproving woodland creatures and one passive-aggressive fern. When the glen settled again, Mabel returned to her perch. The Heart of the Forest dimmed to a soft golden glow. The mood had reset. The mushrooms resumed their usual level of aloof wisdom, muttering sonnets under their breath. And Mabel? She tucked her wings in, gave her feathers a fluff, and said to herself, “Still got it.” She wasn’t just a guardian. She was a vibe. Up in the trees, the moon winked behind a lazy swirl of clouds, and the forest sighed—a little lighter, a little wiser. All under the watchful eyes of its sassiest, fluffiest, most fabulous protector: the Featherlight Guardian. The End. Or maybe the beginning of a new plan. You never know with Mabel.     ✨ Bring Mabel Home Whether you're decorating your cozy reading nook, plotting forest justice from your desk, or just love the idea of a sarcastic owl watching over your space—The Featherlight Guardian is available in enchanting formats to suit your style. Adorn your walls with her wisdom via a wood print or shimmering metal print, snuggle up with her sass on a charming throw pillow, or let her perch in your thoughts with a magical spiral notebook. Bring a little mischief and magic into your everyday—because let’s be honest, Mabel would expect nothing less.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

The Herbalist of Hollow Glen

Leaf & Let High Deep in the velvet folds of the Wobblewood Forest—past the babbling mushroom brooks and the sentient ferns that whisper unsolicited advice—there lived a peculiar old gnome known only as “Stibbo.” He was not a warrior, nor a wizard, nor particularly organized. But Stibbo was a herbalist, and he was damn good at it. Unlike your average garden-variety gnome, Stibbo’s specialty wasn’t just healing balms and anti-fungal moss poultices. No, no. His true gift was in the recreational application of the forest’s more... enlightening botanicals. On any given morning, you'd find Stibbo perched high on a mossy branch, swaddled in a patchwork robe of live leaves, hand-rolling the day’s inspiration with fingers calloused by centuries of chill. His hair, a wild shock of forest static, framed a face permanently crinkled into a blissed-out grin. His eyes? Perpetually half-closed—as though squinting at reality from a slightly different dimension. Stibbo had a philosophy he liked to call “Photosynthesis of the Soul.” The idea was simple: you sit still in the sunlight, puff something leafy, and allow your thoughts to grow roots and vines and little internal flowers. “Grow inside,” he’d say, “and you won’t need pants out here.” He was the unofficial shaman of the Hollow Glen, offering guidance (or at least amusing ramblings) to travelers who’d taken a wrong turn or were simply high enough to end up there on purpose. His regulars included a raccoon named Steve who only spoke in interpretive dance, a troupe of bisexual frogs who ran a drum circle on Wednesdays, and a dryad going through a messy breakup with an oak tree. One day, a human named Trevor stumbled into the glen, visibly lost and visibly stressed. He wore khakis, which immediately triggered Stibbo’s suspicion. “A pants-wearer,” Stibbo whispered to a nearby snail. “Corporate energy. We must help him.” Trevor was in finance. Or used to be. Burned out from the hustle, he’d set off into the woods hoping for some kind of enlightenment—or at least an excuse not to check his email. That’s when he met the old herbalist, who was mid-sesh and humming an off-key version of Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams.” “You look like a man who needs a tea made from questionable flowers,” Stibbo said, waving a smoking bundle of something suspicious in front of Trevor’s face. Trevor, too exhausted to argue, sat. Thus began his initiation into the Hollow Glen way of life—one puff, one rant, and one squirrel philosophy lesson at a time. As the sunset painted the trees in hazy oranges and greens, Stibbo leaned back against the bark and murmured, “Everything’s a leaf if you believe hard enough.” And Trevor, blinking slowly as a snail waved at him, thought... maybe he was onto something. Highdeas and Hollowcore Philosophy The next morning, Trevor awoke to find a squirrel braiding his hair and humming a reggae version of Beethoven's Fifth. He blinked. Was he still dreaming? Possibly. But the aroma of sizzling pine mushroom pancakes lured him fully awake, and when he rolled over, there was Stibbo—grinning, pan already in hand, frying breakfast on a flat stone warmed by psychic energy (or maybe it was just the sun). “Morning, Pants-Man,” Stibbo chirped. “You snored out a haiku last night. Something about spreadsheets and inner peace.” Trevor sat up slowly, leaf-crumbs in his eyebrows, and nodded solemnly. “That sounds right.” Over breakfast—flavored with what Stibbo called “empathy truffles” and “existential cinnamon”—the old herbalist decided it was time for Trevor to begin his spiritual journey. Or, more accurately, a gentle stumble through layers of mild confusion and cosmic nonsense, wrapped in fragrant smoke and metaphors involving bark. “You see, the forest is a mirror,” Stibbo said, licking sap off his thumb. “And also a bong. Depends how you look at it.” Trevor took a bite of pancake. “I think I’m ready to find my truth.” “Ha!” Stibbo cackled. “Good luck with that. But hey, let’s go talk to Gronkle. He’s a toad who used to be a monk. Real good with paradoxes.” The Quest for the Cosmic Chill Their journey took them through trails no map had ever dared chart—paths that looped, swirled, and occasionally spoke Latin backwards. They crossed a bridge made of suspended spiderwebs and optimism, and passed under an archway made entirely of hemp vines and glowing fungus. Along the way, they encountered: A sentient dandelion who claimed to be a tax accountant in a past life and still offered free consultations. An owl named Chad who gave unsolicited advice about polyamory and fire safety. A moss-covered rock with the uncanny ability to play Lo-Fi beats, vibing non-stop for 300 years. When they finally reached Gronkle the Toad-Monk, he was sitting in a puddle of herbal tea, croaking softly while contemplating a mushroom cap. Trevor bowed respectfully. “What is the nature of bliss?” he asked. Gronkle blinked slowly, then replied: “Bliss is the absence of spreadsheets and the presence of snackies.” Trevor cried a little. The Ceremony of Smokelight That night, the Glen held a ritual: the **Ceremony of Smokelight**, where beings of all types—gnomes, sprites, talking vines, and even Chad the Owl—gathered to share a communal smoke and release their worries into the stars. Trevor was handed a ceremonial cone so large it required two dryads to light it. As the Glen buzzed with laughter, drum circles, and a literal fog of good vibes, Stibbo stood before the crowd, arms raised, leafy robe twirling in the wind. “Brothers, sisters, fungi, all! Let us inhale our regrets and exhale our realizations! Let the sacred puff carry your burdens to the forest Wi-Fi!” Trevor took his first deep inhale of the sacred Smokelight blend—part pine, part something that might’ve been mint, and part... stardust? Suddenly, he saw everything. The stock market. The squirrel braid. The spreadsheet cells forming a pattern that resembled ancient runes. He laughed. Loudly. A tree joined in. And in that moment, surrounded by weirdos, wisdom, and really excellent snacks, Trevor realized: this was home now. Stibbo’s Final Lesson Later that night, as fireflies danced and someone played panflute dubstep in the distance, Stibbo sat beside Trevor and passed him one last smoke. “You’ve come a long way, my khaki-clad brother,” Stibbo said. “Remember, life’s just a big wandering. You don’t always need a destination. Sometimes it’s enough to vibe.” Trevor looked up at the stars and whispered, “I think I’m finally chill.” “Damn right,” said Stibbo. “Now help me find my other shoe. I swear I left it inside that tree.” And so, under a sky full of glowing spores and lazy constellations, the Herbalist of Hollow Glen lit another one, and the vibe went on… forever.     Epilogue – The Wind in the Leaves Years passed in Hollow Glen, though no one was really counting. Time, in that part of the forest, had agreed to chill out and stop being so linear. Trevor—now affectionately known as “Reeferend Trev”—became a fixture in the community. He traded his khakis for a robe of woven moss, learned the names of every talking mushroom, and could identify 72 types of mood-enhancing foliage by smell alone. He never went back to finance. Occasionally he’d get a vision of a boardroom or a pie chart, shiver, and then hug a nearby tree until it passed. His former life faded like a dream, replaced by moments of pure present: brewing bark tea at sunrise, debating metaphysics with lizards, or just lying in a hammock woven from vines, vibing to the sounds of forest jazz. As for Stibbo, he never changed. He just grew a bit leafier, a bit wiser, and slightly more forgetful in charming ways. When asked how old he was, he’d usually reply, “Somewhere between 4:20 and eternity.” But one fog-sweet morning, Trevor found a message carved into the bark of their favorite tree, scrawled in Stibbo’s unmistakable wiggly script: "Gone walkabout. Found a talking comet. Be back when the stars forget how to argue. Water the mushrooms and tell Chad to chill." No one panicked. That was just Stibbo being Stibbo. He always came back. Probably. But even if he didn’t, the Glen was in good hands. Trevor kept the tea steeping, the vibes flowing, and every new wanderer welcomed with an open branch and a fresh roll. And if you ever find yourself off-path, a little lost, or completely zooted in a mossy clearing with the sense that the trees are laughing gently at your existence—well, you might just be near Hollow Glen. Take a deep breath. Sit down. Listen for panflute dubstep. And remember what the Herbalist always said: “Reality’s optional. But kindness? That sh*t’s essential.”     🛒 Bring the Vibe Home If you found yourself smiling (or spiritually exhaling) somewhere in this tale, you can keep a little piece of the Hollow Glen with you. Canvas prints and wood-mounted art bring Stibbo’s leafy grin to your wall. Or go mobile with a vinyl sticker that travels with you like a tiny forest guardian. Feeling generous? Send some Hollow Glen wisdom with a greeting card—perfect for birthdays, apologies, or deeply weird thank-you notes.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Woodland Wonder Twins: Nutorious Mischief

The Branch of Bad Decisions In the heart of the ancient Windlewood Forest, where the moss grows thick and secrets grow thicker, there lived two chipmunk twins infamous across the treetops — Pip and Pea Nutters. Identical in fur but ferociously different in attitude, Pip was a hyper-charged storm of bad ideas and Pea was the sarcastic, eye-rolling accomplice who somehow always followed anyway. Their current perch? A fragile branch known in local rodent legend as "The Branch of Bad Decisions" — a spindly limb high above the forest floor where only fools or heroes dared balance. "Pea! Look at me! I'm King of the Forest!" Pip screeched dramatically, arms flung wide like an unhinged woodland messiah. His tail twitched with the energy of a creature who had absolutely never considered consequences. Below him, Pea sighed in a way only a twin brother could — equal parts fondness and fury. "You're not king of anything, Pip. You're king of future splats." Leaves swirled around them like slow-motion confetti. Pip wobbled dramatically. Pea casually dug his claws into the bark. "We should be gathering acorns like normal rodents," Pea grumbled. "BORING. Acorns wait for no chipmunk, but adventure? Adventure is like... the wind beneath my fuzzy butt!" Pip declared with wild-eyed sincerity. Somewhere below them, the elderly owl Mortimer muttered from his hollow: "Those blasted Nutters are gonna be the death of me." But Pip wasn't done. He had that dangerous glint in his eye — the one that meant a bad idea was being born at maximum speed. "You know what we should do next, Pea?" Pip asked, waggling his eyebrows. "Regret everything?" Pea deadpanned. "Even better," Pip grinned devilishly. "Branch surfing." Pea's little rodent heart sank. "Oh acorn crumbs..." Nutorious Mayhem Unleashed Branch surfing, as Pip explained (poorly), was a sport entirely invented by creatures with too much energy and not enough supervision. The idea was simple — terrifyingly simple — and, of course, incredibly stupid. "You run real fast. You jump on the branch. You ride it like a wave. Nature provides the adrenaline, and gravity does the rest," Pip said proudly, as if quoting ancient chipmunk wisdom. Pea blinked slowly. "Nature provides the broken bones too, you acorn-brained maniac." But resistance was futile. With a wild whoop that echoed through the forest like a squirrelian war cry, Pip launched himself down the sloping branch. His tiny claws skittered against the bark. His tail whipped like a streamer caught in a tornado. "WOOOOOOO!" Leaves exploded into the air. Nearby beetles abandoned their homes. A mother bird shielded her chicks' eyes. For one perfect second, Pip looked magnificent — a furry streak of chaotic joy hurtling toward disaster at impressive speed. Then physics arrived. The branch dipped under his weight. Then flexed. Then, with a noise that would forever haunt Pea's dreams, it snapped clean off — catapulting Pip skyward in a spinning, screaming blur of limbs. Pea watched his twin ascend into legend. "Heck," Pea muttered. The Aftermath Pip crashed — not into the ground, because fortune favored fools — but directly into Mortimer the Owl's laundry line. An elaborate series of bark-cloth tunics (Mortimer was an eccentric sort) wrapped around Pip like an accidental toga. He swung gently in the breeze, upside-down, looking far too pleased with himself for someone freshly ejected from a tree. "Did you see that, Pea?!" he hollered joyously. "I am unstoppable!" Mortimer poked his beak out of his hollow, unimpressed. "You're unhousebroken." Pea casually strolled down the tree, tail flicking in that older-sibling-I-told-you-so rhythm. He paused beneath his dangling brother. "Stuck again, huh?" Pea asked. "Temporarily suspended in victory," Pip corrected, upside-down grin wide as ever. And Then The Forest Watched News traveled fast in Windlewood. By the time Pea cut Pip down (with no small amount of commentary), a small crowd had gathered — squirrels, birds, a fox cub or two. They all knew the Nutters. They all knew this was far from over. "What did we learn today?" Pea asked, already regretting the question. Pip stood proudly, adjusting his laundry-tunic like royalty. "That I am a pioneer. An innovator. The future of recreational stupidity." Pea rubbed his temples. "We're going to be banned from the forest." Pip threw an arm around his brother. "Pea, my brother in bad decisions... If we get banned from one forest — there's always another." Leaves swirled. The crowd laughed. Mortimer sighed. And deep in the woods, a new branch wobbled ominously... waiting for its next terrible idea.     Epilogue: Legends in the Leaves In the weeks that followed, the legend of Pip and Pea Nutters grew like a particularly obnoxious vine — twisting through every hollow, burrow, and tavern log in the Windlewood Forest. Chipmunk kits whispered about "The Great Branch Surfing Incident" as if it were a grand historic event. Mortimer the Owl? He doubled the strength of his laundry line. Reinforced it with spider silk. Posted tiny warning signs. ("Absolutely No Nutters.") Pea found a new hobby: apologizing on behalf of his twin to literally everyone. Forest Council? Apology. The acorn vendor whose stash Pip "accidentally" converted into a slingshot experiment? Apology. The frogs who woke up wearing tiny laundry-togas? Big apology. But Pip? Oh, Pip thrived. He strutted through the woods with the chaotic energy of a squirrel-shaped celebrity. Small creatures asked for autographs (usually scratched into bark). He hosted storytelling nights where every detail grew more ridiculous. "Did I jump the entire river? Yes. Was it full of crocodiles? Obviously. Did I land on a cloud shaped like a heroic fist? Don't question my truth, Pea." And Late At Night... When the forest quieted and the wind rustled through the leaves like whispered laughter, Pea would glance at his twin — curled up in their cozy little den — and smile despite himself. Because maybe, just maybe, the world needed a little Nutters-level nonsense now and then. Besides — he was pretty sure Pip was already planning their next terrible adventure. And heaven help them all... Pea would be right there beside him. End of Mischief (For Now)     Bring the Nutters Home Love the wild energy of Pip and Pea Nutters? You're not alone — and now you can bring a little Woodland Wonder Twins mischief into your own space. Whether you're decorating a cozy reading nook, gifting a fellow chaos enthusiast, or simply want to remember that life is better with a bit of joyful nonsense — we’ve got you covered. Available Now from Unfocussed Metal Print — For bold souls who want their wall art to shine (literally). Framed Print — Class up your chaos with gallery-ready style. Tote Bag — Carry your mischief wherever you roam. Sticker — Perfect for laptops, water bottles, or anywhere that needs extra attitude. Fleece Blanket — For curling up after a long day of causing (or surviving) chaos. Each item features the whimsical charm and vibrant detail of Woodland Wonder Twins by Bill & Linda Tiepelman — ready to spark smiles wherever they land. Browse the full collection: Shop Woodland Wonder Twins

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

He Who Walks with Wind & She Who Sings to Stones

Of Beards, Boots, and Bad Decisions Long before the forest whispered their names into the moss, He Who Walks with Wind was just a humble (and slightly scruffy) gnome with a spectacularly oversized feathered headdress — the sort of thing that made squirrels pause mid-acorn. His boots were too big, his beard was too wild, and his sense of direction was... well... wind-dependent. His friends in the woods often joked that he had the charm of a river rock — hard to hold onto and prone to vanishing downstream after a bottle of pineberry wine. But everything changed the day he stumbled (quite literally) into She Who Sings to Stones. Now, she was no ordinary forest maiden. No sir. This was a woman who could calm a thunderstorm with a side-eye and convince even the crankiest badger to hand over his last berry tart. She wore a headdress of feathers softer than secrets and robes woven from mountain twilight. And worst of all (for him)... she caught him singing to his own reflection in a puddle. "Nice voice," she said, her words like warm honey but with the sharpness of a pebble in your shoe. "Do you serenade yourself often, or am I just lucky today?" And just like that — he was doomed. In the best, most embarrassing way possible. From that moment on, they became the forest’s worst-kept secret. The loudest whisper. The odd couple that critters gossiped about endlessly. He brought clumsy poems carved into sticks. She responded with mossy hearts on his walking path. He accidentally wooed her with terrible fishing skills. She let him believe he was mysterious (he wasn’t). And thus began their legendary love story — one filled with mishaps, stolen kisses behind pine trees, and enough awkward glances to fill a hollow log. View His Collection | View Her Collection Of Stones, Songs, and Stolen Things It didn’t take long for the forest to realize that He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones were absolutely terrible at keeping things casual. For one, their “chance encounters” were happening so often that even the mushrooms started rolling their eyes. After all, how many times can two gnomes “accidentally” meet at the same mossy log at the exact same twilight hour without the universe winking suspiciously? But there was something about her that unraveled him. Maybe it was the way her voice floated between tree roots like a lullaby only rocks understood. Or the way her smile could disarm even the sharpest thorn bush. Or — and he would never admit this aloud — the way she stole things. Oh yes. She Who Sings to Stones was a notorious thief. Not of valuables — no. Her crimes were far worse. She stole moments. She stole his awkward pauses mid-sentence and replaced them with knowing glances. She stole the roughness from his voice with every quiet laugh. She even stole his lucky acorn — the one he swore protected him from wandering skunks (it didn’t). He found it days later tucked beneath his pillow with a note: "Protection only works if you believe in something bigger than your beard. —S" But he wasn’t innocent either. He Who Walks with Wind was a collector too — of her songs. At night, when the forest hummed low and the stars yawned above the treetops, he would follow the soft echoes of her voice. Never too close. Never letting her see. Just close enough to catch pieces of melody drifting like dandelion seeds — fragile, weightless, impossibly precious. He began carving her words into stones. Not fancy stones. Not polished gemstones. Just regular forest rocks — the kind most gnomes kick absentmindedly. But to him, these were sacred. Each carried one word of her songs: “Patience” “Kindness” “Wild” “Enough” He placed them like breadcrumbs through the forest — a map only she could read. And of course... she found them. One by one. Because she was the sort of woman who always found what was meant for her. One morning, after a night of restless dreams about her laughter echoing in the hills, he woke to find a perfect circle of stones outside his door. His stones. His words. Returned — but now surrounded by tiny wildflowers and mossy hearts. The message was clear: "If you want me — walk the path you’ve started." And so, for the first time in his rambling, wandering life... he walked with purpose. Not with the wind. But toward her. This was no longer a story of solitude. This was a story of two souls circling each other — stubborn, playful, fierce — until the forest itself held its breath. Of Forest Gossip, Awkward Kisses, and the Very Bad Squirrel Incident The thing about forest creatures is — they talk. Not just the whispery, rustle-in-the-leaves kind of talk. No. Full-blown, scandal-hungry, gossip-mongering chatter that would put any village marketplace to shame. And when the subject was He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones... well, let’s just say the squirrels were holding meetings. “Did you see him trip over his own staff yesterday trying to look heroic?” “She smiled at him again. That’s the third time this week. It’s basically a marriage proposal.” “I give it two more days before he tries to build her a house made entirely of sticks and regret.” Even the owls — who usually prided themselves on dignified silence — were side-eyeing from the treetops. But despite the forest-wide commentary, their story kept weaving itself in unexpected ways. Take, for example, the Very Bad Squirrel Incident. It all started when he — in a misguided attempt at romance — decided to gather her favorite forest berries for a surprise breakfast. What he didn’t know was that those particular berries were under the jealous watch of the local squirrel matriarch — a wiry old beast known as Grumbletail. The moment his clumsy hands reached for the berries, the squirrels launched a coordinated attack with the kind of ferocity usually reserved for territorial foxes and bad poetry readings. He arrived at her cottage hours later — scratched, tangled, missing one boot, and carrying exactly one sad little berry in his dirt-covered palm. She blinked at him, standing there like a wind-blown scarecrow of embarrassment. “You absolute fool,” she whispered. But her eyes — stars above, her eyes — were sparkling with something wild and dangerous and impossibly soft. And then — because the forest gods have a twisted sense of humor — it happened. The First Kiss. It wasn’t elegant. There was nothing poetic about it. He leaned in at the exact moment she turned her head to laugh and the whole thing ended with a bumped nose, an awkward tangle of beard, and her muffled giggle against his chest. But when their lips finally met — really met — it was like every stone he’d ever carved, every word he’d ever stolen from her songs, every ridiculous misstep... finally made sense. The wind forgot to blow. The trees leaned in closer. Even Grumbletail — watching from a safe distance — begrudgingly approved. Afterwards, sitting beneath a crooked old pine, they laughed until their sides ached. Not because it was funny (though it absolutely was) — but because that’s what love felt like for them: Messy. Ridiculous. Beautifully imperfect. As the sun melted into the horizon, she poked him gently with her finger. “If you ever steal berries from Grumbletail again, I’m not saving you,” she teased. “Worth it,” he grinned, pulling her close. And just like that — two souls who had spent a lifetime walking alone... began learning how to stay. Of Vows, Feathers, and Forever Things The forest had been waiting for this day for longer than it would ever admit. Word had spread faster than a startled rabbit — He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones were getting married. And let me tell you — no one throws a celebration like woodland creatures with too much time and too many opinions. The Preparations Were... Something The owls insisted on handling the invitations (delivered in tiny scrolls tied with fern ribbons). The badgers argued for three days about what type of moss made the best aisle runner. Grumbletail the Squirrel — yes, that Grumbletail — shockingly volunteered to oversee security, muttering something about "keeping things civilized." The ceremony location? The Heartstone Clearing — a sacred, wildly overgrown circle deep in the woods where stones hummed if you listened close enough... and where countless gnome love stories were rumored to have begun (and ended, often with dramatic flair). The Bride Was Magic She Who Sings to Stones wore a gown stitched from twilight — soft greys, rich earth tones, and wildflowers braided through her long silver hair. Her headdress was adorned not just with feathers, but with tiny carved stones — each one gifted to her by him over their impossible journey together. She looked like a song made visible. The kind of song that quiets storms and stirs ancient roots. The Groom Was... Trying His Best He Who Walks with Wind was absolutely, hopelessly nervous. He’d polished his boots (which promptly got muddy). He’d combed his beard (which immediately tangled in a rogue twig). His headdress was slightly crooked. But his eyes... his eyes never left her. As she stepped into the clearing, every creature — from the smallest beetle to the loftiest owl — felt it: This wasn’t just love. This was home. The Vows (Improvised, Of Course) He cleared his throat (twice). "I never knew the wind could lead me somewhere worth staying. But you... you are my stone. My song. My forever place." She smiled — that maddening, beautiful, secret smile. "And I never knew stones could dance... until you tripped over every single one on your way to me." Laughter echoed through the clearing — loud, wild, utterly perfect. The Forest Rejoiced The celebration that followed was the stuff of legend. The rabbits organized an impromptu berry feast. The foxes provided slightly questionable musical entertainment (there was howling). The squirrels, begrudgingly, allowed dancing beneath their favorite trees. And the stars? Oh, the stars stayed out far later than usual — winking knowingly over two gnomes who had somehow turned awkward missteps and stolen glances into something breathtakingly permanent. And As The Night Faded... They sat together, tangled in each other, surrounded by stones and feathers and laughter that would echo in the woods for generations. "Home," he whispered into her hair. She nodded. "Always." And So Their Story Lives On... In the stones that hum when the wind passes through. In the feathers caught in the branches long after they’ve gone to bed. And in every ridiculous, wonderful, perfectly imperfect love story waiting to happen just beyond the trees.     Bring His Story Home Some stories aren’t just meant to be read — they’re meant to be lived with. He Who Walks with Wind carries with him a spirit of wild adventure, quiet romance, and the kind of humor only found in the heart of the woods. Now, you can bring his legendary presence into your space — a daily reminder that love, laughter, and a little bit of mischief belong in every corner of your life. Metal Print — Sleek, bold, and perfect for a space that echoes with adventure. Canvas Print — Rustic charm meets timeless storytelling for your walls. Tapestry — Let the wind tell his story across fabric flowing with forest magic. Fleece Blanket — Curl up in cozy folklore and daydream of distant woods. Throw Pillow — A soft landing for tired adventurers and dreamers alike. Every Piece Tells a Story Let his quiet strength, mischievous spirit, and legendary heart become part of your everyday world. Whether on your walls, your couch, or wrapped around your shoulders — his journey is ready to continue with you. Explore the Full Collection →     Let Her Quiet Magic Find You She Who Sings to Stones doesn’t shout her wisdom — she leaves it tucked in corners, resting on shelves, and humming softly beside you in moments of stillness. Her story is one of grace, patience, and secret strength — and now her spirit can dwell in your space in beautifully crafted ways. Acrylic Print — Sleek clarity capturing her timeless quiet beauty. Framed Print — A classic heirloom piece for a heart-centered home. Tote Bag — Carry her story with you — to markets, to forests, or wherever you wander. Greeting Card — Send a small, powerful blessing into someone else's world. Sticker — A tiny, mischievous reminder to listen for the quiet songs in life. Her Presence Lingers Long After the Song Whether decorating your favorite reading nook, becoming a cherished gift, or adding a whisper of magic to your day — her story is ready to walk beside yours. Explore the Full Collection →     Epilogue: And the Forest Just Kept Smiling Years later — deep in that same wild forest where it all began — they are still there. He Who Walks with Wind still gets lost on purpose sometimes. (Old habits, old boots.) He still carves her words into stones when he thinks she isn’t looking. And yes — he still sings badly to puddles on quiet mornings... because now she sings along. She Who Sings to Stones still listens for stories the wind forgets to tell. She still leaves him tiny gifts in strange places — feathers braided with wildflower threads tucked into his coat pocket, small heart-shaped stones placed along his wandering paths, notes scrawled with things like: "Don’t forget berries (Grumbletail is watching)." They built a home together — if you can call it that. Part cottage, part moss-covered miracle, part falling-apart-on-purpose. It smells of pine needles, old books, and laughter that never learned how to be quiet. The forest watches them — still — with that old, knowing smile. And the Animals? The squirrels still gossip (they always will). The owls still judge. The rabbits still host awkwardly loud dinners near their porch. But ask anyone — ask even the grumpiest badger — and they’ll tell you: This is how the best stories end. Not with grand adventures. Not with epic quests. But with two foolish souls who chose to stay — tangled together in feathers, stones, and all the wonderfully ordinary magic of forever. And Somewhere... Right Now... She’s humming. He’s tripping over a tree root. And the forest? Still smiling. Shop His Story → | Shop Her Story →

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

The Secret Life of a Dandelion

In a forgotten corner of a sunlit kitchen, where old wooden floorboards creaked like the sigh of memories, there sat a glass of water with a single dandelion seed head balanced inside. Its fragile white filaments shimmered faintly in the afternoon glow — a crown of wishes waiting for wind or wonder. But across from it — hanging slightly crooked on the wall — was a mirror. Not just any mirror, but one of those quiet, silver-framed relics from another era, the kind that felt heavier than its reflection, as though it remembered every gaze that had ever passed across it. And in this mirror, the dandelion was no longer a fragile thing clinging to what little time it had left. No — in the mirror’s world, the dandelion stood in full bloom, fierce and golden. A wild sun captured in petals. Bold where it had been delicate. Alive where it had seemed to be fading. It had always been this way. You see, mirrors — the real ones — don’t just show you what you are. They show you what you once dreamed of being. What you secretly still believe you could become. They show the hidden life humming inside quiet things. Day after day, the little seed head sat there, half-remembering how once, long ago, it had been golden too. When it had basked in fields uncut, standing tall against the breeze, unapologetic in its brightness. But time, as it does to all things, had softened it. Made it cautious. Fragile. Ready to let go rather than reach again. But this reflection — this impossible golden version of itself — had begun to whisper. Not with words. No, dandelions know better than that. With feeling. With quiet hope. With the restless ache of dreams deferred but never forgotten. And one night, long after the house had fallen silent, something extraordinary happened... Night of the Turning The house was asleep. Even the clock on the wall had quieted its ticking, as if time itself was holding its breath. The moon hung low, spilling silver across the wooden table where the dandelion sat — still, fragile, and impossibly aware of its own smallness. But the mirror had been waiting for this night. Some say mirrors lose their magic as we grow old. They say that reflections harden into truth and leave no space for dreams. But those people have never sat still enough — or long enough — to hear what mirrors whisper in the dark. “Remember,” the mirror hummed. Not in sound, but like a warm pressure just behind the bones of the chest. “Remember what it felt like... to be full of sun.” The dandelion quivered. Not from wind — there was none. But from something deeper. An ache. A pulse from long before it knew how to let go. The seed head trembled on its slender stem, brittle from waiting, from surviving. “You were never meant to stay small,” the mirror whispered. “You were never meant to fade quietly.” It was a ridiculous thought. The world had told the dandelion for weeks now — for seasons — that its time was over. That its beauty had passed. That its best chance was to scatter to the wind and hope to start over somewhere else. But not tonight. The Bloom Inside the Quiet Slowly, impossibly, the fragile threads of the seed head began to shimmer — not with light from the moon, but with something older. Something remembered. Hope is not loud. It is not the drumbeat of certainty or the blaze of guaranteed victory. Hope is quieter than breath. It is smaller than a seed. It is the ache of “maybe” in the chest when the world has said “no” for so long you almost believed it. And the dandelion — the small, forgotten, nearly gone dandelion — began to gather itself from the inside out. Not a transformation forced by magic or wishful thinking. No, this was the truest kind of change. The kind that grows in the dark. The kind that starts with belief. Petal by petal, color by color, the reflection was no longer only in the mirror. The golden bloom was rising from within. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But steadily. It wasn’t about being what it had been. It was about becoming what it still could be. Outside, the wind stirred — gentle, curious — brushing against the old wooden house like an old friend. And when dawn came, spilling gold across the floor, there sat the dandelion... no longer just a seed head. There it stood — quiet but fierce — crowned in golden bloom once more. Not because it had been forced. Not because someone had saved it. But because it remembered that dreams, like seeds, wait for the smallest crack of belief to bloom again. The Mirror's Secret And the mirror? Oh, the mirror simply smiled in its way. After all, that’s what it had been trying to tell the dandelion all along. Not all reflections are reminders of what we have lost. Some reflections are invitations to become.     Epilogue: For Those Who Wait Quietly Somewhere, perhaps in a kitchen much like yours, or on a windowsill nobody watches anymore, another dandelion waits. It waits with all its fragile parts — seeds that want to let go, roots that don’t remember how to stay, a heart grown tired of being told it is too late. But the mirror is still there. Somewhere. Everywhere. Waiting. Whispering. Not every bloom is for the wild fields. Not every golden crown rises in the open sun. Some are meant for quiet places. For still hearts. For those who have forgotten how bright they once burned. If you find yourself looking at your own reflection — in glass or water or memory — and all you see is what time has taken from you… Wait a little longer. There is a bloom inside you still. And some mornings — when the world holds its breath — even the smallest dream dares to rise again.     Bring the Story Home Every story deserves a place to live — even the quiet ones. The Secret Life of a Dandelion is more than just an image. It’s a reminder of what waits inside us all — of patience, resilience, and the quiet bravery of dreams not yet spoken. You can bring this story into your everyday world — as art, as gift, as a gentle nudge toward hope. Wood Prints — Rustic and timeless, perfect for quiet corners and thoughtful spaces. Metal Prints — Modern reflections that catch the light, much like the story itself. Tote Bags — Carry your dreams. Or your books. Or your quiet thoughts for the road. Greeting Cards — Share hope with someone who needs it most. Spiral Notebooks — Because stories — especially your own — deserve to be written down. Explore the full collection at shop.unfocussed.com. Let your space — or your gift — become part of the story.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Warden of the Arctic Heavens

The Legend Awakens High above the frozen world — somewhere between the last Wi-Fi signal and the first whisper of stardust — there lives a snow leopard unlike any other. Her name is Solvryn, though few mortals dare to utter it. Not because of fear — but because they usually can't pronounce it after three shots of glacial vodka. She is the Warden of the Arctic Heavens, the guardian of northern skies, and an unofficial therapist for lost souls who wander into her domain thinking it’s a great idea to "find themselves" in minus-40-degree weather. Solvryn wasn’t always celestial. She was once a regular snow leopard with killer instinct and an unhealthy obsession with napping on branches. But the universe has a wicked sense of humor. One night, as she lounged atop a frost-covered tree, watching the aurora ripple like cosmic mood lighting, a shooting star crashed — not with grace — but directly into her backside. Instead of instant vaporization (which frankly would have been easier), she sprouted wings. Feathery, luminous, ridiculous wings. Wings that ruined stealth hunting forever but made her look exceptionally photogenic on Instagram — if anyone ever made it up here alive with a signal. Of course, with wings came responsibility. An ancient voice boomed in her head, as all ancient voices do: "Rise, Solvryn, Warden of the Arctic Heavens. You must guard the northern skies, protect the balance of solitude and wonder, and occasionally knock sense into arrogant explorers who think the cold won't affect their phone batteries." And just like that, Solvryn began her eternal gig. She patrolled the winter realms, kept an eye on mischievous aurora spirits, and ensured the silence of snow remained unbroken — unless it was for a good laugh or an even better story. Still, on particularly long nights, she wondered: Was she destined for this forever? Was there more to being a guardian than frostbite prevention and dramatic wing poses? Little did she know, a challenge unlike any other was about to enter her territory — a wandering human with too much caffeine, zero common sense, and a destiny tied dangerously close to her own. The Human Problem The thing about humans is — they never read the signs. Not the cosmic ones. Not the wooden ones. Definitely not the ones with skull symbols and the words “TURN BACK” carved in twelve languages. Solvryn had seen them all. Mountain climbers powered by granola bars. Influencers searching for that “authentic wilderness aesthetic.” CEOs on a “spiritual retreat” hoping to expense enlightenment. But this one? This one was different. He tripped over his own snowshoes. He talked to himself — a lot. And worse, he argued with the Northern Lights like they were customer support. "Okay universe," he muttered loudly into the frozen air, "if you're listening, I could really use a sign that I'm not completely ruining my life." Solvryn, perched above him in full celestial glory, sighed the ancient sigh of a being who knows exactly what’s coming next. Because rules were rules. If a human asked for a sign — out loud — and they were within earshot of the Warden, she had to respond. She stretched her wings slowly, letting moonlight catch the edges just enough for maximum drama. She descended from her frosty perch with the casual elegance of a being who had absolutely had it with humanity’s nonsense. The man fell backwards into the snow, wide-eyed. "Holy — I knew this hike was a mistake." "Mistake?" Solvryn’s voice echoed through the trees — rich, smooth, slightly amused. "You walked twenty miles into the Arctic in discount hiking boots, armed only with optimism and protein bars. 'Mistake' is generous." The man blinked. "You... talk?" "Of course I talk. I’m not just here for the aesthetics." He scrambled to sit up, shivering, snow clinging to his beard like regret. "Are you... an angel? A spirit guide?" "Depends," Solvryn said, landing beside him with a soft crunch of snow. "Are you here to find inner peace, or did you just need a really aggressive life coach?" The Lesson No One Asked For Turns out, he was neither. His name was Eliot. A graphic designer from the city. Midlife crisis in progress. Divorced, burnt-out, spiritually empty — you know, the usual inspiration package. Solvryn listened — because wardens listen first, judge later. It’s more effective that way. He spoke of deadlines and loneliness. Of feeling invisible. Of scrolling through other people’s lives until his own felt like a poorly edited draft. And when he finally ran out of words — when the Arctic silence pressed against him like truth — Solvryn leaned in. "Listen closely, small warm-blooded disaster. The universe doesn’t care about your productivity metrics. It doesn’t reward suffering for suffering’s sake. But it does respond to courage — especially the courage to be still, to be quiet, to not know." Eliot stared up at her. "So… what? I should just… stop?" "No. You should begin — properly this time." The Guardian Code She unfurled her wings fully — a gesture both ridiculous and magnificent. Snowflakes glittered like tiny stars in the wake of her movement. "You want meaning? Make it. You want peace? Choose it. You want purpose? Earn it — not by running away from the noise, but by becoming immune to it." Eliot let the words settle like snowfall — slow, relentless, undeniable. Later, he would swear that the northern lights above them pulsed brighter, as if in approval. The Departure By dawn, Solvryn was gone — as guardians always are when their work is done. But Eliot — now guardian of his own story — walked back to civilization slower, lighter. He had no photos. No proof. No viral content. Only a strange feather tucked into his pocket — and a quiet, ferocious promise to live differently. The Arctic Whisper Far above, watching from her frozen branch, Solvryn chuckled quietly to herself. "Humans," she murmured. "So fragile. So lost. So gloriously capable of change." And with a powerful beat of her wings, the Warden of the Arctic Heavens soared into the endless blue — her watch never truly over.     Bring the Legend Home If Solvryn, the Warden of the Arctic Heavens, stirred something wild and wondrous in your soul — why not bring a piece of her mythic world into your own? Explore our exclusive collection of Warden of the Arctic Heavens art pieces — crafted for dreamers, wanderers, and guardians of their own quiet moments. Each item is designed to transform your space into a place of reflection, inspiration, and maybe — just maybe — a little magic. Woven Tapestry — Let Solvryn guard your walls in soft, textured beauty. Metal Print — Bold. Modern. Ready to outshine your neighbor's art collection. Fleece Blanket — Wrap yourself in celestial comfort. Approved for late-night existential pondering. Canvas Print — Classic. Elegant. Timeless as a winter sky. Let the legend live on — in your home, your story, your space.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Mushroom Mirth in Hedgehog Daze

The Prickle Awakens Deep in the glimmer-soaked underbrush of the Wobblewood Forest — where the mushrooms glow like disco balls and the trees hum vaporwave melodies after dark — there lived a hedgehog named Fuzzwort. Now Fuzzwort wasn’t your average forest critter. Oh no. This hedgehog had been sampling the mysterious mushroom caps of Wobblewood for, well... let’s just say "a long time" and leave it there. One particularly hazy afternoon, Fuzzwort awoke nestled between two bioluminescent toadstools, blinking his enormous cosmic-blue eyes — pupils dialed all the way out like saucers floating in space. "Whoa," he mumbled to no one. "Either I’m awake... or the forest downloaded a new skin pack." Stretching his tiny paws, he realized that sometime during the night, his quills had absorbed some of the psychedelic mushroom spores. They glimmered in swirly rainbow hues. "Wicked fashion upgrade," he giggled. "I am... Hedgehype Supreme." The Quest for the Crunchy Munchies His belly rumbled — not like a regular hungry noise — but like a tiny drum circle of woodland gnomes playing the bongos inside him. He needed snacks. Immediately. Preferably crunchy. Preferably within crawling distance because moving was, frankly, a negotiation right now. Slowly rolling himself into a little spiky ball, Fuzzwort tumbled downhill like a sentient mossy bowling ball. Mushrooms blurred past him in fractal patterns. He muttered, "Bro... trees shouldn’t have that many elbows." He bounced to a stop near a peculiar gathering of mushrooms. These weren’t just glowing — they were vibrating. "Ayy, what’s up, shroom bros?" he whispered reverently. They pulsed in response like they were beatboxing in slow motion. The Council of Shrooms A booming, spongy voice echoed in his head. "Fuzzwort... why dost thou rolleth so recklessly through our fungal fellowship?" Startled but still impressively chill, Fuzzwort replied, "Sorry, my dudes. I'm on a vision quest for some crunchy snacks. Also, I think my spine is growing tiny neon forests. Not complaining." The mushrooms collectively shimmied. "Seek ye the Snackshroom Grove," the voice replied. "But beware... it is guarded by the Lich Lizard of Eternal Vibes." "Heavy," Fuzzwort whispered, nodding solemnly. "Respect." Snackshroom Grove and the Lich Lizard of Eternal Vibes Fuzzwort rolled onward, carried by the subtle gravity of a snack-craving heart. The Wobblewood Forest grew increasingly surreal — the trees stretched sideways like rubber bands warming up for interpretive dance, while the moss whispered ancient limericks only slightly inappropriate for polite company. In the shimmering distance, beneath a canopy of glitter-dripping vines, the legendary Snackshroom Grove pulsed like the heartbeat of a funky bassline only forest creatures could hear. But standing between him and crispy victory... was him. Enter: The Lich Lizard of Eternal Vibes The creature slithered out from behind a kaleidoscope bush, scales glistening like oil spills on velvet. Wearing oversized sunglasses (indoors, naturally), the Lich Lizard exhaled a glowing cloud of sage-scented mystery and addressed Fuzzwort in a voice smooth as melted marshmallows. "Whoooo dares enter Snackshroom Grove... whilst rocking bioluminescent drip that sick?" Fuzzwort froze. Not from fear. No. From sheer admiration. "Whoa," he breathed. "Your vibes... they're... immaculate." The Lich Lizard did a slow-motion spin. "You're not so bad yourself, little orb of chaos. But the path to Snackshroom Grove is no free buffet." The Ritual of Chill Challenges The Lich Lizard gestured to a circle of vibrating stones. "To earn access to the sacred Crunchies, you must pass... The Trials of Chill." Fuzzwort nodded, feeling fate coil like a slinky in his gut. Trial One: The Dance-Off of Wiggly PrecisionHe had to out-wiggle a group of glow-worms synchronized like a K-pop flash mob. Fuzzwort summoned his inner disco hedgehog. Quills shimmering, feet barely obeying him, he spun in lazy circles that accidentally formed the shape of a cosmic fractal. The worms collapsed in awe. Pass. Trial Two: The Riddle of the Perpetually Confused SquirrelA squirrel hopped forward, eyes wide, holding an acorn that vibrated ominously. "If a mushroom falls in the woods but everyone's too baked to hear it... did it even drop?"Fuzzwort blinked, considered the eternal mystery, then replied, "Bro... maybe we’re the mushrooms."Silence. Then the squirrel gave him a tiny acorn fist-bump. Pass. Trial Three: The Patience of Eternal ChillHe had to sit perfectly still while a snail told its entire life story. It took three hours. It was... mostly about lettuce.Fuzzwort never flinched. Inner peace achieved. Pass. Snackshroom Grove Unlocked The Lich Lizard gave him a slow clap that echoed like tree trunks applauding in the wind. "Respect. Enter, young fuzzball." Fuzzwort stumbled into Snackshroom Grove and immediately lost all sense of linear time. The air was thick with the scent of earthy goodness. Mushrooms shaped like nacho chips. Tiny fungi that crunched like kettle-cooked potato magic. A bubbling brook flowing with chilled mushroom tea. He feasted. Oh, did he feast. After what felt like decades (but was probably 17 minutes), Fuzzwort lay on his back, belly round, paws behind his head, staring at the cosmic swirl of colors above. The Lesson of the Day The Lich Lizard materialized beside him, reclining effortlessly. "So, what did you learn today, little wanderer?" Fuzzwort squinted, thinking deeply. "That... snacks taste better when you've vibed with weird forest dudes and survived existential riddles from stoner squirrels." The Lich Lizard nodded solemnly. "Truest thing I've heard all century." Epilogue: The Return to Wobblewood Eventually, Fuzzwort rolled himself back toward his cozy patch of moss beneath the disco trees. Behind him, the Snackshroom Grove pulsed gently — always there for the next adventurer with a crunchy dream and an open heart. He whispered to the sky, "Stay weird, forest. Stay weird." THE END Or is it...?     Bring the Vibes Home Can't get enough of Fuzzwort's whimsical wanderings through Wobblewood? Now you can bring a piece of the Mushroom Mirth magic into your own space. Whether you're decking out your chill zone or gifting some forest-fueled joy, check out our Canvas Prints and Metal Prints for bold, vibrant wall art straight from Wobblewood itself. Feeling crafty? Stitch your own adventure with our Cross-Stitch Pattern, perfect for slow, mindful creating — just like Fuzzwort would want. Need something cozy to curl up with during your next snack quest? Grab a super-soft Throw Pillow, or pack your favorite crunchy finds in a magical Tote Bag. Shop the whole collection: Mushroom Mirth in Hedgehog Daze Product Line Stay weird. Stay wonderful. Stay unfocussed.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Glimpses of Gaia

The Eye in the Forest It began, as all ridiculous yet profound things do, with a terrible idea born from excellent wine. Somewhere deep in the tangled emerald forests of the forgotten world, an eccentric old monk named Tenzo Featherbeard was determined to find what the locals only whispered about: The Eye of Gaia. "It sees through all things," the innkeeper had warned, polishing his wooden mug with the reverence usually reserved for cathedrals or particularly stubborn goats. "Not just the skin of things... but their intentions." Tenzo, of course, took that as a challenge. Days turned to weeks. He wandered past glowing mushrooms that offered unsolicited advice. He stepped over meditating frogs so enlightened they levitated mid-ribbit. The forest was alive in a way that made him feel perpetually underdressed — emotionally, spiritually, and sartorially. Then one night, beneath a sky so full of stars it looked like spilled sugar, he found it. Embedded in the bark of an ancient tree was an enormous eye — scales like sapphire armor surrounding a hypnotic iris of burning gold and shifting emerald. The lashes were delicate vines tipped with bioluminescent petals. It blinked — not with hostility, but with... curiosity? Tenzo, being Tenzo, bowed dramatically and said, "Hello, you luminous ocular enigma. Care for a conversation?" The forest held its breath. Then — from deep within the roots and leaves — came the warm, velvet voice of Gaia herself: "Human. Why do you seek me?" Without hesitation — and still slightly drunk on the fermented sap of a mischievous tree — Tenzo replied: "Because I’ve lost my socks. And possibly, myself." Gaia laughed — a sound like rivers learning to giggle. The eye sparkled with cosmic amusement. "Sit, monk. Let us speak of lost things." And so he sat — cross-legged upon a mossy stone shaped suspiciously like a buttock — ready to hear truths he would likely misunderstand in the most beautiful way possible. Conversations with an Ancient Eye For what may have been hours, days, or several reincarnations of the same particularly stubborn beetle, Tenzo sat before the Eye of Gaia, basking in its strange warmth — like the feeling of sunlight filtered through an old library window, dust motes included. Gaia spoke again — her voice now slower, thicker — as if poured from an ancient teapot rarely used except for very important guests or bewildered monks: "Human. Tell me of these... socks." Tenzo sighed. "They were soft. Very soft. Handmade from the wool of a laughing mountain goat. Lost them during a bout of contemplative streaking after my enlightenment practice went sideways." The eye blinked slowly. "Ah. Attachment." "Also," Tenzo added with the gravity of a man truly pondering the universe, "they matched." The forest hummed with gentle laughter. Leaves quivered. A nearby caterpillar paused mid-transformation just to listen. The Teachings Begin (Sort of) "Human," Gaia intoned, "All things are lost eventually. Socks. Ego. Even planets. What matters is not possession... but presence." Tenzo scratched his beard thoughtfully. "So you're saying... I should go barefoot forever?" "No," she replied, "I'm saying that seeking what is lost externally often blinds one to what is already found internally." Tenzo considered this deeply, as deeply as one can while a squirrel braids your hair uninvited. The Eye Shows Him the Way Without warning, the eye dilated — rippling outward in honeycomb fractals of glowing color — pulling Tenzo into a vision. He saw himself — old, wrinkled, absurdly content — sitting on a mountain peak wearing no socks, but smiling so fully that even the wind paused to admire it. He saw villages thriving because he shared laughter instead of wisdom. He saw forests blooming because he sang off-key to them nightly. He saw lovers, friends, strangers — all touched by the presence of a foolish, barefoot monk who once lost his socks but found himself utterly... here. The Return When he awoke, the Eye of Gaia shimmered with approval. "So," Tenzo said, standing on impossibly clean forest moss, "What you're saying is... the socks were never the point." "Precisely." He bowed low. "Can I ask one last question?" "Ask." "Where the hell am I going to get more goat-wool socks? Winter is coming." The forest roared with laughter. Trees shook. Petals fell like confetti. Even the stone beneath him pulsed as if giggling. And then — just as the first morning light crested the treetops — a small, neatly wrapped bundle fell from a high branch onto his head. Inside? The softest, warmest, utterly mismatched pair of socks he had ever seen — woven from the fibers of forest dreams themselves. Epilogue: The Way Forward Tenzo Featherbeard left the forest that day not as a man who had lost something — but as one who realized everything worth having was already walking with him. His legend spread — not because he found the Eye of Gaia — but because he listened, laughed, and never took himself too seriously again. Years later, people still speak of him as the barefoot sage with mismatched socks — who taught the world that sometimes the universe gives you what you need... the moment you stop demanding it look the way you expected. And the Eye? It still watches — waiting patiently for the next fool wise enough to be ridiculous.     Bring a Glimpse of Gaia Home Perhaps, like Tenzo, you've found yourself wandering — seeking signs, symbols, or maybe just a really good pair of socks. While the forest may keep its secrets, the magic of this story lives on beyond the trees. Inspired by the very vision Tenzo discovered, you can carry your own piece of Gaia's wonder into your daily life: Metal Prints — Bold, luminous, and ready to hang in your sacred space. Acrylic Prints — For those who see clearly even when reality bends a little. Tote Bags — Because wisdom (and snacks) should travel well. Round Beach Towels — Perfect for meditation, storytelling, or sand-covered enlightenment. Cross-Stitch Pattern — For creators who know every stitch is a mantra. Every piece is a glimpse, a reminder, a quiet nudge from Gaia herself: Be present. Laugh often. Lose your socks. Find yourself.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Aubade in the Enchanted Forest

The first light of dawn shimmered through the whispering canopy of the Enchanted Forest. The trees — ancient sentinels with leaves like stained glass — cast a kaleidoscope of colors over the soft, moss-laden earth. There was a stillness in the air, the kind only found at the fragile seam between night’s last breath and day’s first awakening. She was called Liora — a wanderer, a listener, a quiet soul in search of nothing but presence itself. Her long dress of woven silk, kissed by the hues of wildflowers and moonlit streams, trailed behind her like a river of forgotten dreams. The path beneath her bare feet wasn’t marked by signs or boundaries; it formed gently as she moved — conjured by intention, not direction. The forest greeted her not with sound, but with feeling — the hum of ancient roots intertwined beneath the earth, the scent of warm cedar and soft blooms unfurling to the sky, the faint pulse of life both hidden and omnipresent. Even the stones beneath her steps seemed to release their breath after a thousand years of patient waiting. Liora walked slowly, as if time itself had loosened its grip on her. Every step was deliberate, an offering of stillness to a world overwhelmed by noise. She paused often — to touch the velvet petals of unfamiliar flowers, to trace the grooves of bark older than memory, to feel the cool pulse of stones nestled like sleeping hearts among the moss. It was here — in the sacred hush of the forest — that serenity did not need to be chased. It waited, quietly, for those willing to slow down enough to meet it. Liora was one of the few who knew this. The Aubade Garden At the heart of the forest, beyond a gentle curve in the path, there lay the Aubade Garden — a hidden grove bathed in soft morning light, where spherical blooms of impossible colors blanketed the ground like a dream made real. It was said that those who reached the Aubade Garden were granted not wishes — but clarity. Clarity not of answers — but of questions. Liora stepped into the clearing. Her breath caught — not in awe, but in gratitude. The garden was untouched by human desire. It was not meant to be conquered or consumed. It was simply to be shared — for as long as one's heart could stay quiet enough to listen. The trees stood tall around her, their trunks rising like pillars in a temple built by time. Above her, the sun’s first golden rays poured through the canopy, igniting the blossoms beneath her feet. It was not loud. It was not dramatic. It was — simply — a beginning. And so Liora sat, folding herself gently into the earth, her dress spreading like a second layer of petals across the enchanted floor. She closed her eyes. The forest breathed with her. Here, there were no lessons. No declarations. Only being. And in the stillness — she waited for the dawn’s full embrace. The Silent Dialogue Time, in the Aubade Garden, dissolved into something softer — something that did not measure itself in hours or minutes, but in the rhythms of breath and the slow unfolding of petals. Liora did not need to name this feeling. It was beyond words, woven into the very bones of the forest itself. As she sat in stillness, an invisible dialogue began between herself and the world around her. Not a conversation of speech — but of exchange. She gave her presence freely, without expectation. In return, the forest offered its secrets — delicate, quiet gifts unnoticed by those who rushed through life’s corridors. Over time, a warmth settled into her chest. Not a fiery blaze — but a gentle ember, steady and grounding. She could feel the pulse of roots beneath her, tracing their way like forgotten rivers beneath the surface of the earth. Every tree, every flower, every stone — was part of the same breath. It occurred to her that serenity was not absence — not the escape from life — but a fuller presence within it. The forest did not deny sorrow, nor did it pretend away hardship. It held space for all things — joy and grief, light and shadow — without judgment. And in doing so, it healed without effort. The Arrival of the Sun The first true rays of the morning sun crept across the treetops, cascading downward like golden silk. The spheres of color surrounding her began to glow, not with an unnatural light, but as if reflecting an inner luminescence — the quiet radiance of existence itself. Birdsong arrived — not hurried or loud — but as a gentle greeting. Each note a thread in a larger tapestry of sound. The breeze, playful yet respectful, tugged softly at her hair, carrying with it the scent of distant rain and blooming earth. Liora opened her eyes slowly. Nothing had changed — and yet everything had shifted. The forest was the same. She was the same. But within her was a clarity that words could not shape. A knowing that she belonged here — as she belonged everywhere — not as a conqueror or an intruder, but as a quiet witness to the world's unfolding beauty. The Path Forward She rose without rush. Her dress shimmered, catching the morning light like woven dawn. As she stepped forward, the ground responded — the path blooming anew beneath her feet, soft petals unfurling to mark her journey without disturbing the living tapestry around her. The way home was not marked by signs or stones. It was marked only by trust — trust in the world’s quiet rhythms, trust in her own heart's ability to listen. The Aubade Garden faded behind her — not in distance, but in presence — a sacred place that required nothing but remembrance to revisit. And so she walked — not away, but forward — carrying with her the serenity of the Enchanted Forest. The calm did not remain behind her; it lived within her now, a quiet companion through all the noise of the outside world.     Epilogue: The Forest Beyond the Forest Long after her footsteps had faded from the moss-laden paths, the Enchanted Forest remained — untouched, eternal, quietly alive. It asked for no memory. It required no proof. Those who had truly been there carried its essence not in photographs or souvenirs — but in the softened edges of their lives. For Liora, the forest had never been left behind. It echoed in the way she touched the world — in her patient gaze, in the unhurried grace of her movements, in the gentle silences she allowed to bloom between words. Sometimes — in quiet moments — she would pause wherever she was: beneath a city tree, on a sunlit balcony, or beside a river flowing through unfamiliar lands. And she would feel it again — that subtle hum beneath all things. The forest within the forest. The garden beyond the garden. And perhaps that was the truest magic of all — that serenity was not a place to find, but a way to be. A living, breathing aubade — offered again and again to the waking world, for anyone willing to listen.     Bring the Serenity Home The quiet calm of the Enchanted Forest need not stay within the pages of a story. For those wishing to carry its stillness into their daily spaces, curated creations inspired by Aubade in the Enchanted Forest are available — crafted to transform your home into a reflection of tranquility and wonder. Wrap yourself in softness, surround your space with vivid colors, or bring moments of mindful creativity into your day — all while supporting the artistry of Bill & Linda Tiepelman. Wall Tapestry — Let the forest bloom across your walls. Metal Print — Vibrant, enduring reflections of the enchanted grove. Throw Pillow — A soft place to rest, inspired by forest calm. Fleece Blanket — Wrap yourself in warmth and wonder. Cross-Stitch Pattern — A meditative creation of the forest's beauty by your own hand. Let the story live with you — not just in memory, but in the peaceful presence of your home.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Arboreal Symphony in Fractal Major

The roots hummed long before she heard them. Deep beneath the woven surface of existence, the Tree of Resonance was never silent. It pulsed — slowly — with tones beyond human frequency, casting fractal harmonics into the soul of the earth. Lyra stepped barefoot onto the veined carpet of spiraling color. She was not here to conquer, to pluck wisdom like fruit, or to carve her name into ancient bark. She came only to listen. The landscape unfolded in spiraled fractals of luminous vines and coiling roots, their forms impossibly organic yet touched with mathematical precision. Every twist and curve felt deliberate — as if designed by nature and music in secret collaboration. The Breath of the Tree Standing before the impossibly vibrant trunk, Lyra closed her eyes. She could feel the slow inhalation of the Arboreal Giant — not through lungs — but through an ancient rhythm woven into the core of existence. A pulse synchronized with tides, seasons, breath itself. Here, silence wasn’t empty. It was full. It draped around her shoulders like a cloak of invisible threads, connecting her to every rooted tendril beneath her feet, every distant bough above, unfurling into a sky woven from gradients of light. Her thoughts began to dissolve, not into nothingness — but into everything. The concept of separation softened. She was the tree. The tree was her. The infinite dance of roots and branches mirrored her own inner labyrinth of memory, emotion, and longing. Resonance and Release The Arboreal Symphony required no audience, but welcomed all. It had sung before language. Before gods. Before stars knew their names. And here, within its embrace, Lyra could feel the residue of countless souls who had stood where she stood — seekers, wanderers, the lost and the found. Colors shifted with intention. Blues softened into greens, greens ignited into fire-warm gold. The roots at her feet spiraled outward — not to possess, but to guide. They showed her paths she had forgotten existed — internal paths. Emotional rivers buried beneath layers of noise and duty. And so she breathed — not with lungs, but with being. She became rhythm. She became stillness. The tree did not heal her because she was never broken. It simply reminded her of the shape of her own song, lost beneath the static of a too-loud world. A Pause Before Descent As the sun’s fractal light bent and refracted across the infinite leaves, Lyra smiled with no reason beyond presence itself. She would descend soon, return to the world of movement and memory. But not yet. For now, she remained part of the Arboreal Symphony — a singular note in a melody older than time — held gently in the arms of fractal infinity. Descent into the Roots When Lyra moved again, it was without urgency. The tree had shifted around her. Not physically — the roots and branches remained — but perception had altered. What was once external was now a mirror. Every spiral of color beneath her bare feet echoed with her own pulse. She walked toward the base of the tree, its roots parting not in invitation, but in quiet acknowledgment. There was no gatekeeper here. No threshold guarded by ritual or code. The only key was presence. The only cost was time surrendered to stillness. The roots formed passages — arched like cathedrals, carved not by tools, but by patient growth and ancient will. Fractal patterns of light streamed through porous surfaces, cascading in hues that defied earthly language: azure that whispered memory, crimson that pulsed with forgotten names, golden light spun from the laughter of leaves. The Chamber of Echoes Lyra found herself in a hollow — vast, but intimate. At its center pulsed the Heart Root — not a beating organ, but a luminous braid of energy weaving through the earth and sky. Its sound was not heard but felt, vibrating in the bones, in the blood, in the spaces between atoms. She sat upon smooth spirals of coiled wood, letting her fingers drift through tendrils of luminous moss. There were no instructions. No expectations. Only resonance. Here she remembered. Not memories tied to narrative — not stories of who she had been — but memories older than thought. The memory of wind against newborn skin. The memory of sun-warmed stones beneath childhood feet. The memory of tears without sorrow. Laughter without reason. Integration When Lyra rose — hours or years later, time meaningless in the tree's embrace — she was not changed. She was revealed. Layers of false weight dissolved, leaving only clarity. The fractal pathways led her upward — not out — but through. Every step traced with light. Every breath a return. She emerged beneath the tree's infinite crown as night fell, the sky strewn with stars that felt impossibly close, as if she could reach up and trace their edges with her fingertips. The Symphony continued — unbroken, unending — and Lyra carried its melody within her. Not as a possession, but as a remembering. A knowing that would hum beneath her every step, her every word, long after she left this place of luminous roots and infinite branches. Stillness in Motion As she walked away, the landscape did not fade — it folded into her. The fractal tree receded not because it vanished, but because it was everywhere. Beneath stone. Beneath city. Beneath skin. It was not a place she would return to — because it had never been separate. Lyra was not the same. But she had always been whole.     Epilogue: The Quiet Between Moments Long after Lyra returned to the weaving patterns of human life — the soft hum of conversation, the brittle glow of city lights, the pull of tasks and time — the Symphony remained. It whispered in pauses. In the steam curling from morning tea. In the hush of twilight when shadows lengthened like memories returning home. In the subtle ache behind the heart when longing stirred without name or reason. The Tree of Resonance was not a distant wonder buried in a forgotten forest. It was the architecture of stillness — a map etched in the marrow of all things. Every street corner, every crowded room, every moment of solitude held its rhythm if one only listened. And so Lyra did. She became the listener. The walker-between. The weaver of quiet threads invisible to the hurried eye. Not seeking answers. Not chasing peace. But living as melody — presence unfolding note by note — in the infinite Arboreal Symphony that never truly ended.     Bring the Symphony Into Your Space The Arboreal Symphony does not belong to a distant realm alone — it can live with you, woven into the quiet spaces of your home, reminding you of stillness, connection, and wonder. Explore inspired creations featuring the vibrant fractal essence of Arboreal Symphony in Fractal Major — available in artful and functional forms to infuse your surroundings with calm and color: Cross Stitch Pattern — Craft your own reflection of the Symphony Tapestry — A wall-hung canvas of fractal serenity Canvas Print — Art for meditative spaces Fleece Blanket — Wrap yourself in color and calm Bath Towel — Everyday moments infused with vibrant energy Let the Symphony accompany you — as art, as comfort, as a gentle reminder that connection and beauty live not only in faraway places, but right here, within reach.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Squirrely Monroe

The Rise of a Forest Icon Long before the world knew her as Squirrely Monroe, she was just another bushy-tailed dreamer from the oak-lined backstreets of Central Park. Born in a hollowed-out tree with bad insulation and worse neighbors (woodpeckers, of course), little Norma Nutbaker had one dream — to be seen. Other squirrels were content chasing acorns and dodging cyclists. But not her. Not Norma. She practiced strutting along fallen branches like a catwalk. She nibbled seductively on pinecones. She whispered her famous line into the wind every night: "Some like it rough... but I like it nutty." The City That Never Sleeps (Because of Raccoons) By the time she was two (about 20 in squirrel years), she hit the underground scene — quite literally. The storm drain scene. Central Park's secret nightlife thrived beneath the grates. There were jazz mice. Dancing possums. And if you were lucky? You might catch a glimpse of Norma's famous tail swirl — the twirl that would later grace murals on tree trunks everywhere. But fame has a way of finding those who shine hardest. One breezy autumn afternoon, while foraging near 5th Avenue, she stumbled upon the moment that would define her forever... The Breeze Heard 'Round the Park She stood above a subway grate. It hummed below her like the purr of a big city engine. And then — whooooooosh — the wind caught her simple little leaf-sewn dress, sending it billowing skyward in a scandalous flurry of forest fashion. A passing pigeon paparazzi captured the moment. Within hours, she wasn’t Norma Nutbaker anymore. She Was Squirrely Monroe. Forest creatures whispered about it over mushroom cappuccinos. Raccoons tried to imitate it (poorly). And chipmunks... well, they blushed just thinking about it. But fame is never just fun and acorns, darling. Behind the glamour... was a squirrel still searching for something more. Fame, Fur, and Forbidden Nuts The High Life in the Tall Trees Overnight, Squirrely Monroe became the name whispered across the treetops. She graced the covers of every leaf-laminated magazine from Acorn Vogue to Squirrel Illustrated. Her signature look? Soft platinum fur curls (styled with dew from rare morning grass) and that windswept leaf dress — now sold in boutique burrows at frankly scandalous markups. But forest fame came at a cost. Every twig-snapping paparazzi raccoon wanted a piece of her. Even worse? Her love life became headline fodder. Enter: Reynard Fox — The Scandal of the Season Reynard was trouble. A red-furred indie actor from the West Woods. Known for his smoldering eyes, questionable poetry, and tragic allergy to beechnuts. The tabloids went wild: "SQUIRRELY FALLS FOR BAD BOY FOX — WILL IT LAST?" It didn’t. Reynard was seen one night slipping into The Burrow Room — an exclusive underground club for forest elite — with a rival socialite: Trixie Chipmint, heiress to the Minted Nut fortune. Squirrely was devastated. Heartbroken. The forest stood still. The Comeback of a Lifetime But if the world thought Squirrely Monroe would vanish quietly into the hollow... they didn’t know her at all. She retreated deep into Central Park — to a forgotten maple grove where the wind blew wild and free. There, she crafted her masterpiece performance: a one-squirrel stage show titled "Nutting Like A Woman" — a raw, funny, painfully honest story of love, fame, and survival in a world that only saw the tail, not the heart. The premiere? Legendary. Critics declared it: "A triumph of fur, fashion, and vulnerability." Her Final Bow (For Now) Today, Squirrely Monroe lives a quieter life — at least by squirrel standards. She hosts late-night fireside interviews for Nutflix, mentors young chipmunk actresses, and occasionally reenacts the pose — leaf dress swirling — for charity fundraisers benefiting displaced urban wildlife. But if you wander Central Park late at night... and listen carefully beneath the hum of the city’s heartbeat... You might just hear her famous line float through the trees: "Some like it rough... but I like it nutty." And somewhere, a squirrel dreams of being seen — just like she once did.     Epilogue: The Wind Still Remembers Her Years have passed. The city grows louder. The trees thinner. The grates rust over with time and footsteps forgotten. But not her. Every once in a while — on a warm summer night when the subway hums beneath the streets and the breeze rises just right — there’s a rustle above Central Park’s oldest grate. Some say it’s the wind. Some say it’s legend. But those who know? They pause. They smile. And they whisper to the night air: "Goodnight, Squirrely Monroe." Because icons never really leave us. They just become part of the stories we tell... when the wind feels just a little more glamorous.     Bring a Little Squirrely Monroe Home Love a little glam with your wild side? Take a piece of forest fame home with you. The iconic moment that made Squirrely Monroe a legend is now available as stunning wall art, cheeky accessories, and collector-worthy keepsakes. Canvas Prints — Bold, beautiful, and ready to steal the spotlight on your wall. Framed Prints — Classy enough for the burrow or the boardroom. Tote Bags — For carrying nuts, secrets, or just a whole lot of style. Stickers — Tiny, sassy, and ready to adorn your world one acorn at a time. Because glamour never really goes out of style — it just grows fluffier.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Sunset Whiskers of Joy

The Roar Before the Nap There once was a tiger cub named Kip. Not King Kip. Not Sir Kip. Just... Kip. And Kip had opinions. About everything. The jungle, for starters, was absolutely not up to his standards. "Too pokey," he would complain, tripping dramatically over a vine. "Too loud," he grumbled at the squawking parrots like a tiny, judgmental old man. And the sun? Oh, the sun was personally trying to ruin his life. "Rude," he declared every morning when it dared to rise directly into his sleepy eyes. But tonight — oh, tonight was different. The sunset was a warm golden hug across the treetops. Kip could feel it. Something was building. Energy. Mischief. Drama. The world, for one shining moment, was about to revolve around him — and honestly, about time. With a wobbly little stretch of his fuzzy arms, Kip stood up on his hind legs. He wasn’t exactly built for this. Tiny paws wiggled in the air like confused baby stars. His tail flicked like a metronome set to 'sass.' "Look at me!" Kip roared — which, to anyone else, sounded a lot like an aggressive sneeze mixed with a hiccup. "I AM THE JOY. I AM THE SUNSET. I AM... HUNGRY." But there was no stopping him now. He squeezed his little eyes shut in absolute, dramatic glee. A grin stretched across his face like a stripe of moonlight. Tongue out. Teeth sharp. Tiny bean-paw pads flexed with raw, feral delight. Somewhere, a very serious owl judged him from a tree branch. But Kip didn’t care. He was, for this one perfect moment, the undisputed king of nonsense. The wild prince of sunset silliness. And absolutely, positively... ready to cause problems on purpose. And maybe... just maybe... ready for a snack. The Snack Attack Chronicles Kip had peaked. He knew it. There he stood — still awkwardly on his hind legs like some unholy mix of majestic jungle predator and undercooked breadstick — bathed in sunset glory. Oh, the drama. The pageantry. The glow of absolute nonsense radiating off his fur like he was the headline act in nature’s most unhinged musical. But reality, as it often does, came clawing back with one simple, inconvenient truth. "Snack. Need snack. Must acquire snack," Kip whispered with the raw intensity of someone who had once tried to eat a decorative rock out of boredom. (It had not gone well. He still wasn’t over it.) The problem was... the jungle was being difficult again. Everything edible was either too fast, too spiky, or — in one outrageous case — capable of biting back. Kip had opinions about that too. "If snacks don’t want to be eaten," he grumbled to himself, stomping in a very non-threatening way, "then maybe they should stop looking like snacks. Rude." He slumped dramatically into a patch of soft moss, sighing the sigh of someone who was absolutely starving despite eating six lizards and half a papaya earlier. His tiny tiger belly gurgled in betrayal. "Unbelievable. This is a crisis." And that’s when it happened. Rustle. Rustle. CRUNCH. Kip’s ears perked up so fast they practically levitated. His entire body tensed like a wound-up spring of fluffy disaster. His inner monologue hit maximum overthink: Is that food? Is that dangerous food? Is it snack-shaped? Snack-adjacent? Snack-adjacent-with-fangs? Do I care? No. He launched himself — with all the grace of a wet sock — directly into the bushes. What he found there would change the trajectory of his evening forever. It was not a snake. Not a lizard. Not even a stray jungle fruit (which, to be honest, were becoming a little tedious anyway). It was... a troop of tiny, wide-eyed monkeys. And they were eating — wait for it — cookies. Jungle cookies. The good kind. Sweet, sticky, questionably sourced, possibly stolen from some absent-minded forest traveler. Kip could barely handle it. His brain short-circuited. I want it. One of the monkeys noticed him. It paused mid-bite. A single crumb fell in slow motion. For a heartbeat, the whole jungle held its breath. Kip did not. "HELLO YES IT IS I," he announced in full uninvited-main-character mode. "I WILL BE TAKING YOUR COOKIES NOW. THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE." The monkeys blinked. Kip blinked. No one moved. Then — utter chaos. Monkeys scattered like confetti at a party he wasn’t technically invited to (but absolutely considered himself the guest of honor). Kip, driven by sugar-lust and absolute goblin energy, gave chase. He zigged. He zagged. He rolled dramatically down a small hill because apparently his legs had never done cardio before. But in the end — oh, the glorious end — a single, sticky cookie was left behind. Forgotten. Abandoned. His prize. He pounced. Victory tasted like questionable jungle molasses and adventure. Also, dirt. But mostly victory. With a self-satisfied flop onto his back, Kip cradled the cookie between his tiny paws, sighing deeply like a creature who had just survived a great battle — against himself, mostly. The sun dipped below the trees. The sky melted into purples and golds. The jungle exhaled. And Kip, the bratty, chaotic, ridiculous little prince of his own nonsense universe, whispered to no one in particular: "I am the joy. I am the sunset. I am... absolutely not sharing." And for once — no one argued.     Epilogue: His Royal Crumbliness Later — much later — long after the sunset had melted into twilight and the jungle was whispering its nighttime secrets, Kip was still awake. He was lying belly-up in a soft nest of moss, paws splayed, crumbs everywhere. Cookie crumbs in his whiskers. Cookie crumbs in his ear fluff. Cookie crumbs in places cookie crumbs simply should not be. Did he regret anything? Absolutely not. Was he mildly stuck to the moss like a forgotten jungle marshmallow? ...Also yes. But that was future Kip’s problem. Present Kip was far too pleased with himself to care. He gazed lazily at the stars poking through the canopy, imagining — with the full delusional confidence only a baby tiger can possess — that they were twinkling just for him. "Royalty," he whispered smugly to a particularly judgmental cricket nearby. "Absolute royalty." The cricket did not reply. Somewhere in the distance, the monkey troop plotted cookie security upgrades. Somewhere else, the serious owl shook its head and muttered something about "today’s youth." But Kip? Kip smiled in his sleep, his tiny tail twitching in dreams of snacks, sunsets, and being exactly — gloriously — too much. Long may he reign.     Bring Kip's Joy Into Your World If Kip’s wild little adventure made you grin (or if you, too, have a chaotic snack-loving spirit), you can bring a piece of his sunset joy into your space. Sunset Whiskers of Joy by Bill and Linda Tiepelman is available as a range of stunning products — perfect for gifting, decorating, or just treating yourself to a little everyday magic. Soft Tapestries — Wrap your walls (or yourself) in Kip’s golden glow. Metal Prints — For bold spaces that deserve a bold little tiger prince. Fleece Blankets — Maximum cozy. Maximum Kip energy. Bath Towels — Because why shouldn’t your towel be as dramatic as you? Greeting Cards — Share a little joy (or sass) with someone who needs it. Shop the full collection and bring Kip’s cheeky little roar into your world: View All Sunset Whiskers of Joy Products.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Bolso de mano de medianoche

La Transacción Todo empezó con una apuesta, como siempre. Un bar demasiado ruidoso para la conciencia y demasiado oscuro para la decencia, un desconocido con capucha de terciopelo y una apuesta garabateada en una servilleta: «Si ganas, te quedo con lo que yo pesqué. Si pierdes, me quedo con tu voz». Se rio entonces, como siempre. "¿Qué demonios significa eso?", preguntó, removiendo su bebida, roja como la sangre y el doble de tóxica. El desconocido no respondió. Simplemente le ofreció una baraja de cartas que olía ligeramente a azufre y cuero viejo. Ella cortó la baraja, sintió una descarga bajo las yemas de los dedos, como lamer una batería, pero estaba medio apagada, medio apagada, y demasiado orgullosa para retirarse. Tres manos después, ganó. Técnicamente. Esperaba una bolsa de drogas raras. Quizás algo que se retorcía en un frasco. Lo que encontró fue... cálido. Vivo. Y mirándola como si ya la odiara. —Bromeas —dijo, mirando al demonio, no más grande que un gato doméstico, acurrucado en la palma enguantada del desconocido como un reptil mimado. Su piel estaba húmeda, manchada de sangre o algo que intentaba serlo, y sus dientes eran pequeños pero demasiados. Sus ojos eran más viejos que las reglas . Parpadeó, lento y con aire de suficiencia. —Ahora es tuyo —dijo el desconocido con voz de piedra en la miel—. No le pongas nombre. No lo alimentes después de medianoche. No te masturbes mientras te mira. Se atragantó con la bebida. "Espera, ¿qué?" Pero el extraño ya se desvanecía en las sombras, fundiéndose con el humo del cigarrillo y el arrepentimiento que en aquel lugar parecían aire. Solo quedaba la criatura en su regazo, parpadeando con sus ojos aceitosos y arrastrándose una garra por su muslo como si la estuviera cartografiando para consumirla más tarde. No le puso nombre. Lo llamó "Amigo". —Será mejor que no orines en nada importante —murmuró, ya arrepintiéndose de todo menos de las bebidas gratis. La cosa ronroneó. Lo cual era peor que cualquier gruñido. Al amanecer, su apartamento olía a cuero quemado y flores extrañas. "Tío" se había instalado en el cajón de su lencería, le siseaba a su vibrador y había marchitado tres de sus plantas con solo mirarlas. Lo vio posarse en su mano como un chihuahua satánico, con las alas agitadas y la cola enrollada alrededor de su dedo corazón. Fue entonces cuando se dio cuenta: la uña de su pulgar, que llevaba desnuda el día anterior, ahora estaba pintada de rojo y afilada. Como si hubiera crecido así. Lo miró fijamente. Luego al demonio. "Amigo", dijo en voz baja e insegura, "¿te estás haciendo... arte en las uñas?" Él sonrió. Era todo dientes y malas noticias. Y ahí fue cuando empezaron los arañazos. Desde dentro de las paredes. La garra que alimenta Para la tercera noche, Dude había reclamado el dominio sobre la televisión, su dormitorio y, posiblemente, su alma. No había dormido. Cada vez que cerraba los ojos, lo veía: acurrucado como un feto grotesco a la luz de la lámpara, con las alas moviéndose, murmurando en un idioma compuesto solo de consonantes y crímenes de guerra. Olía a azufre, regaliz negro y arrepentimiento. Su gato se había mudado. Sus vecinos empezaron a dejar papel de estraza en su puerta. Nadie le había explicado por qué. Peor aún, el asunto de las uñas había empeorado. Sus diez dedos brillaban con laca roja como la sangre, tan afilada que podía abrir sobres o yugulares. Había roto una taza solo con sostenerla. Su roce le dejó quemaduras. Un chico en Tinder dijo que le gustaban las "chicas brujas" y terminó sollozando en posición fetal después de que ella le tocara el muslo. "Amigo", susurró mientras observaba al pequeño bastardo lamer algo del cargador de su teléfono, "Necesito recuperar mi vida". Eructó. Olía a ozono y ansiedad abrasadora. Buscó en Google "cómo revertir un contrato demoníaco" y terminó en un blog de un tipo llamado Craig que vivía en un búnker y vendía círculos de sal artesanales. Compró dos, por si acaso. No hicieron nada. El tipo orinó en uno y chilló. Los arañazos en las paredes se habían convertido en susurros. A veces decía su nombre. A veces simplemente recitaba reseñas de Yelp en un idioma muerto. Una vez intentó venderle un seguro de vida. Probó agua bendita. El tipo se la bebió como si fuera vino y luego le ofreció un sorbo. Se desmayó y despertó en el suelo del baño con el espejo roto y los dientes más limpios que nunca. Su aliento olía a canela y a pecado. “No recuerdo haber dado mi consentimiento para nada de esto”, murmuró. El tipo me guiñó un ojo. Fue horrible. Para la segunda semana, su casero llamó a la puerta. "Ha habido quejas", dijo, entrecerrando los ojos al pasillo parpadeante que tenía detrás. "Alguien dijo que dirigías una secta o una casa de TikTok". Parpadeó. "Trabajo en Recursos Humanos". Detrás de ella, Dude apareció entre las sombras, comiendo una Pop-Tart y mirando fijamente al casero. El hombre palideció, dejó un aviso y se mudó a Colorado al día siguiente. En algún momento —no está segura de cuándo— su reflejo empezó a moverse más despacio que ella. A veces sonreía. Cuando ella no. Entonces llegó la noche del golpe. No en la puerta, sino en la ventana. Séptimo piso. Sin balcón. Ella lo abrió. Porque claro que lo hizo. El extraño con capucha de terciopelo estaba allí de nuevo, flotando afuera, suspendido en una oscuridad que desafiaba la lógica. Su mano enguantada estaba extendida, sus uñas rojas brillando a la luz de la luna. —Lo has cuidado bien —dijo, con la voz como un lento arrastre sobre la grava—. Y ahora, la segunda parte del trato. “¿Hubo una segunda mitad?” preguntó, ya arrepintiéndose de cada bebida que había aceptado de desconocidos. Él te eligió. Eso significa... ascenso. Detrás de ella, Dude revoloteó, posado en su hombro como el peor demonio de una comedia que se fue al infierno. Le susurró algo al oído que la hizo poner los ojos en blanco y levantar los pies del suelo. La habitación tembló. Las paredes empezaron a sangrar por el yeso como crayones derretidos. Las uñas de sus pies se tiñeron de rojo. La señal de su wifi mejoró. Su risa —seca, agrietada e imparable— llenó el aire como estática. Cuando el mundo dejó de temblar, ella se irguió, con los ojos rodeados de fuego negro y el cuerpo envuelto en una seda oscura que antes no estaba allí. —Bueno —dijo ella, sonriendo al ver su mano con garras—, al menos las uñas son mortales . El desconocido asintió. «Bienvenido a la gerencia». Y así, sin más, desapareció en las sombras, llevándose consigo a Dude, las migas de Pop-Tart y el persistente olor a pecado. El apartamento estaba vacío cuando llegó el equipo de limpieza. Salvo una simple nota garabateada en el espejo: “Midnight Clutch: agárrate fuerte o serás agarrado”. Llévatelo a casa: el clutch de medianoche sigue vivo Si te has dejado seducir por el encanto retorcido de "Midnight Clutch", ahora puedes invocar la oscuridad en tu espacio. Da vida a esta visión demoníaca con impresiones en lienzo , llévala a tu guarida con un tapiz épico o lleva tus pecados con estilo con un bolso de mano . ¿Quieres abrazar la locura? Sí, tenemos un cojín decorativo para eso. Afróntalo. Muéstralo. Ofréceselo a tu amigo más raro. Eso sí, no lo alimentes después de medianoche.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Escondite de la hora del lúpulo

El gnomo, la cerveza y el sótano de los sueños rotos Hay gnomos, y luego está Stigmund Ferndingle , un travieso jubilado convertido en filósofo cervecero a tiempo completo. Mientras que la mayoría de los gnomos de jardín se conforman con estar cerca de bebederos para pájaros y juzgar en silencio si no se deshierba, Stig tenía otras aspiraciones. Estaba harto de la vida en cerámica. Quería lúpulo. Quería cebada. Quería olvidar la Gran Masacre de los Cortasetos del 98, una Heineken a la vez. Se instaló en lo que antes era el rincón húmedo y embrujado del sótano de una vieja granja, ahora rebautizado con cariño como "El Escondite". Con paredes de yeso agrietadas y una nevera portátil más vieja que la mayoría de las crisis de la mediana edad, era todo lo que nunca soñó y con lo que se conformó de todos modos. Incluso tenía un letrero, toscamente grabado en corteza, que decía: "No se permiten elfos, ni hadas, ni tonterías". Stigmund no era quisquilloso, solo estaba hastiado. La vida le había dado un golpe de más. No confiaba en nadie que mediera menos de un metro veinte o que estuviera lo suficientemente sobrio como para recitar una adivinanza. Se pasaba los días en cuclillas junto a la nevera, bebiendo cerveza caliente porque le habían cortado la electricidad desde que intentó cablear el refrigerador con el cobre del carillón de viento de un vecino. «Zumbaba», decía. «Eso ya es bastante técnico». Un martes —aunque bien pudo haber sido jueves, el tiempo se desdibuja cuando estás borracho y eres inmortal— Stig destapó su última botella de Heineken. La inclinó hacia los dioses de la cebada con un brindis solemne: «Por las promesas incumplidas, los cupones caducados y la ausencia total de una reforma fiscal significativa». Entonces, desde las sombras, surgió una voz. Grave, cargada de arrepentimiento y grasa de salchicha. “Será mejor que esa sea la fría que me debes, Ferndingle”. Stig no levantó la vista. Conocía esa voz. Esperaba que se hubiera atragantado con un hueso de pollo y se hubiera perdido en el reino de los personajes secundarios olvidados. Pero no. Throg, el Troll Borracho, lo había encontrado de nuevo. ¡Dios mío, Throg! Creí que te habían prohibido la entrada a todos los sótanos del condado después del incidente del lanzallamas y la salsa del jardín. Me indultaron. Dije que era una instalación artística que salió mal. Ya sabes, expresiones culturales y toda esa porquería. Stig puso los ojos en blanco con tanta fuerza que casi se torció la cuenca del ojo. Tomó otro sorbo de cerveza, la última gota de cordura líquida en un mundo enloquecido con elfos intentando sindicalizarse y hobbits abriendo panaderías artesanales. —Bueno —dijo con un eructo que hizo saltar las astillas de pintura de la pared—, si vienes a beber, trae tu botella. Esta es mía, y ya no me importa compartirla. Throg gruñó, dejó caer una hielera que hizo un ruido sospechoso y sacó una misteriosa botella verde etiquetada simplemente como “Experimental – No consumir” . Stig lo miró fijamente y luego sonrió lentamente. "...Sírveme un vaso, cabrón feo". Cervezas experimentales y flatulencias imperdonables Throg vertió el líquido, que burbujeó como si tuviera opiniones y arrepentimientos. El olor lo impactó primero, como a cebollas fermentadas envueltas en calcetines deportivos y traición. Stig lo olió y cuestionó de inmediato cada decisión que lo había traído hasta allí, empezando por la de *confiar en un troll con afición a la química*. "¿Qué demonios hay aquí?" graznó, sosteniendo el vaso como si fuera a morderlo. —Un poco de esto, un poco de aquello —Throg se encogió de hombros—. Sobre todo lúpulo de pantano, lágrimas de hada fermentadas y algo que raspé de la axila de un kóbold. “Entonces… ¿almuerzo?” Chocaron sus copas, un sonido parecido al de dos lápidas besándose, y bebieron. La reacción fue instantánea. La barba de Stig se contrajo. El ojo izquierdo de Throg empezó a vibrar. En algún lugar de la habitación, el papel pintado se despegó y susurró: «No». —¡Maldita sea! —dijo Stig con voz entrecortada, con los ojos llorosos—. Sabe a arrepentimiento con un toque de limón. —Ya te acostumbrarás —dijo Throg, justo antes de hipar y volverse invisible por un instante, solo para reaparecer a mitad de camino entre las tablas del suelo—. Un efecto secundario. Me he trasladado temporalmente al plano etéreo. No te preocupes, ahí dentro es bastante aburrido. Después del tercer vaso, ambos se sentían audaces. Stig intentó bailar un baile llamado "Pisotón de Raíces de los Antiguos" , que básicamente consistía en tropezar con un clavo y echarle la culpa a una tabla del suelo maldita. Throg, siempre artista, intentó hacer malabarismos con botellas de cerveza mientras recitaba un poema sobre la fontanería enana. Terminó, como suele ocurrir, con cristales rotos y alguien tirando un pedo tan fuerte que espantó a un mapache en las rejillas de ventilación. Pasaron las horas. La nevera se vació. El aire se llenó de historias de amoríos fallidos con brujas de hongos, startups fallidas con bidés encantados y una idea de negocio a medio desarrollar llamada "Brew & Doom" , una taberna que también servía como pista de obstáculos para sobrevivir. Finalmente, mientras el crepúsculo se colaba a través de las rejillas del sótano y las hadas de la resaca volaban en círculos sobre sus cabezas como pequeños heraldos alados de la fatalidad, Stig se reclinó contra el refrigerador y suspiró. —Sabes, Throg... para ser un ex convicto maloliente, emocionalmente atrofiado y que vive en un pantano, no odio del todo beber contigo. Throg, ahora medio dormido y tarareando suavemente el himno de los trolls (que consistía principalmente en ruidos guturales y la frase "No toques mi carne"), levantó el pulgar con pereza. "Lo mismo digo, viejo duende de la orina." Y así, la noche terminó como la mayoría de las noches en el Hoppy Hour Hideaway: borracha, extraña y al borde del peligro de incendio. Pero si escuchas con atención en las noches solitarias, más allá del crujido de las tuberías viejas y el ocasional eco de un eructo de cerveza, aún podrías oír el brindis: “A los sueños rotos, a las malas decisiones y al brebaje que lo hizo todo tolerable”. Epílogo: La mañana siguiente y otras catástrofes Cuando Stigmund despertó, estaba acurrucándose en la hielera. No románticamente, sino más bien aferrándose a ella en busca de apoyo emocional, como quien se aferra a un cubo de confianza durante una borrachera de tres días. Su sombrero se había movido al otro lado de la habitación, y de alguna manera su barba había adquirido una misteriosa trenza con un pequeño patito de goma atado. Sus pantalones estaban intactos, pero su dignidad claramente había desaparecido durante la segunda botella de «Experimental». Throg estaba boca abajo en una maceta, roncando por una fosa nasal mientras la otra silbaba una melodía inquietante. Tenía un tatuaje tosco en el vientre que decía "TOCA ESO" con una flecha apuntando hacia abajo. No estaba claro si era tinta, hollín o arrepentimiento. En la pared, con un rotulador verde permanente y un élfico antiguo mal escrito, alguien había garabateado: Aquí bebieron leyendas. Y eran... meh. La resaca era bíblica. El tipo de dolor de cabeza que te hacía cuestionar tus decisiones de vida, tus dioses y si las lágrimas de hadas fermentadas realmente deberían estar aprobadas por la FDA. Stig murmuró oscuras maldiciones gnómicas en voz baja y tomó su último trozo de pan, que resultó ser un posavasos. Se lo comió de todos modos. Finalmente, Throg se movió, se tiró un pedo sin disculparse y se incorporó con la gracia de una morsa que cae por las escaleras. "¿Tienes huevos?", graznó. —¿Parezco un bufé de desayuno? —espetó Stig, rascándose bajo la barba, donde algo pequeño y posiblemente consciente se había refugiado—. Sal de mi escondite. Tengo tres días de silencio programados y pienso usarlos todos para olvidar lo de anoche. Throg sonrió, se limpió la espuma de cerveza de la ceja y se levantó. "Lo dices ahora, pero vuelvo el viernes. Eres el único gnomo que conozco capaz de aguantar la bebida e insultar a mi madre con tanto estilo poético". —Maldita sea, claro —murmuró Stig, mientras buscaba un vaso limpio y una botella menos maldita. Y así el ciclo comenzaría de nuevo: un gnomo, un troll y la cuestionable santidad del Hoppy Hour Hideaway , donde la cerveza está caliente, los insultos vuelan libremente y la magia no tiene ninguna posibilidad contra la estupidez fermentada. Llévate el Hideaway a casa ¿Quieres incorporar la genialidad cervecera de Stig y Throg a tus decisiones de vida cuestionables? Te tenemos cubierto, ya sea que estés desembriagándote, perdiendo el conocimiento o simplemente necesites explicar por qué tu bolso huele a lúpulo y arrepentimiento. Impresión en madera : rústica, resistente y perfecta para colgar sobre la barra... o sobre ese agujero que hiciste en el panel de yeso durante el karaoke. Lámina enmarcada : Dale un toque de distinción a tu caos. Garantizado para iniciar conversaciones, o al menos para interrumpirlas de forma incómoda. Bolsa de mano : Con capacidad para comestibles, libros de hechizos o seis latas de brebaje de trol de dudosa reputación. Resistente y sin prejuicios. Cuaderno espiral : Anota recetas de cerveza, malas ideas o cartas de enfado a la asociación de propietarios. Probado por gnomos y aprobado por trolls. Toalla de playa : para cuando te desmayas en la piscina, con una cerveza en la mano, y necesitas algo suave para amortiguar la vergüenza. Aviso legal: Ningún troll resultó herido en la producción de estos excelentes productos. ¿Emocionalmente? Quizás. Pero lo superarán.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Nacido de Ceniza y Susurro

En el que el dragón se estrella Brunch Maggie tenía tres reglas cuando se trataba de citas: nada de músicos, nada de cultistas y absolutamente ningún hechizo de invocación antes del café. Así que imaginen su estado de ánimo cuando su resaca del domingo fue interrumpida por un fuerte estallido, una nube de azufre y un pequeño demonio alado que aterrizó de cara en su croissant a medio comer. "Disculpe", murmuró, sacudiéndose el azúcar glas de la bata. La criatura estornudó, tosió un carbón y la miró parpadeando con sus grandes ojos salpicados de brasas. Parecía un lagarto que se había apareado con una pesadilla y había dado a luz a un nugget de pollo gótico. Siseó. Maggie siseó de vuelta. —Escucha, Hot Topic —se quejó, acunando su frente—, cualquier útero infernal que te escupió claramente no terminó las instrucciones. El dragón chilló indignado y agitó las alas con lo que Maggie solo pudo interpretar como una actitud exagerada. Sus garras eran diminutas. ¿Su ego? No tanto. Mientras intentaba recogerlo usando una agarradera y un tazón de cereal, la criatura inhaló profundamente y eructó un anillo de humo perfecto con la forma de un dedo medio. —¡Oh, descaro ! Viniste con descaro . Treinta minutos y un pequeño incendio en la cocina después, Maggie había logrado acorralar al dragón en una vieja cama para gatos que quería donar a Goodwill. Se acurrucó como un pequeño infierno presumido y se durmió al instante. Podría jurar que ronroneó. —Está bien —dijo, sin dirigirse a nadie—. Así es como la gente se convierte en brujo, ¿no? Afuera, el mundo seguía siendo normal. Dentro de su apartamento de alquiler controlado, un dragón que olía a malvaviscos quemados y a sarcasmo la había adoptado. Se sirvió más vino. Eran las 10:42. En el que Maggie se une a una secta (pero solo por los bocadillos) A la mañana siguiente, Maggie se despertó y encontró al dragón posado sobre su pecho como un pisapapeles crítico. Olía ligeramente a café expreso y a algo ilegal en tres estados. Su nombre, según la runa tenuemente brillante que ahora llevaba tatuada en el antebrazo, era «Cindervex». —Bueno, eso no tiene nada de mal —gruñó, dándole un codazo en el hocico a la pequeña bestia—. ¿Haces trucos? ¿Pagas el alquiler? ¿Respiras menos? Cindervex resopló una nube de ceniza y al instante escupió una monedita ligeramente humeante. Maggie la inspeccionó. Oro. Oro de verdad. Se giró hacia el dragón, que parecía demasiado complacido consigo mismo. “Está bien, ahora vives aquí”. Al mediodía, Maggie tenía un dragón en un bebé Björn, gafas de aviador y una lista de la compra que incluía «col rizada» y «leña apta para dragones». No tenía respuestas, ni dignidad, ni un conocimiento real de las artes arcanas, pero sí un tatuaje brillante en la muñeca que ahora vibraba al pasar por la esquina de la Sexta y Pine. —No —murmuró—. Hoy no, Satanás. Ni el martes. Pero la atracción de la mágica curiosidad y el tenue aroma a ajo la atrajeron como una polilla a un horno de pizza. Al final de un callejón, atravesando un arco de ladrillo y pasando junto a un helecho sensible que intentaba arrimarse el pelo, Maggie se encontró ante una rústica puerta de madera con un cartel que decía: «LA ORDEN DE LA LLAMA Y LA FOCACCIA — Visitantes bienvenidos, opiniones opcionales». "Genial", dijo. "Es una secta hipster". La recibió una mujer con un caftán de terciopelo y malas decisiones, quien inmediatamente juntó sus manos. "¡Has traído a la Emberchild! ¡La Escamada! ¡La Profeta del Destino Recalentado!" Lo llamo Vex. Y muerde a quienes dicen "profeta" con cara seria. La mujer —Sunblossom, por supuesto— guió a Maggie a través de lo que solo podría describirse como una fusión de Restoration Hardware y Hellboy. Largas mesas de madera. Velas flotantes. Un pequeño wyvern en la esquina con boina leyendo *The Economist*. —Estás entre amigos —ronroneó Sunblossom—. Nos une la llama. El ritual. El bufé del brunch. "¿Es eso una fuente de gofres?" preguntó Maggie atónita. —Sí. Y gólems de mimosa. Mantienen tu vaso lleno hasta que te rindes o mueres. A lo lejos, un hombre gritó: “¡No más prosecco, esponja del diablo!”. Cindervex siseó alegremente. Al parecer, este era su hogar ahora. Mientras disfrutaban de una frittata de queso de cabra y una conversación sorprendentemente reveladora sobre las leyes de unión de las almas de los dragones, Maggie descubrió que Cindervex la había elegido. No solo como cuidadora, sino como Conducto: una humana designada para conectar lo mágico con lo mundano, posiblemente liderar una rebelión y, sin duda, ayudar a diseñar la mercancía de temporada para la tienda en línea del culto. “¿Hay una sudadera con capucha?” preguntó. Tres. Y un vaso. Sin BPA. Hizo una pausa. "De acuerdo. Me apunto. Pero solo por la sudadera. Y los bocadillos". La sala estalló en alegres bolas de fuego. El gólem de mimosa dio una voltereta. Alguien invocó a un diablillo que tocaba el kazoo. Maggie parpadeó. Era un caos. Era ridículo. Era suyo. De vuelta en su apartamento esa noche, Maggie se desplomó en el sofá, con Cindervex acurrucado a sus pies. Su muñeca brillaba tenuemente con nuevas runas: Iniciada. Aprobado para el brunch. Precaución: Puede encender el descaro. Ella se rió. Luego se sirvió otra copa de vino y brindó por el techo. Al destino. A los gofres. A unirme accidentalmente a una secta. Cindervex ronroneó, eructó un anillo de humo con forma de corazón de fuego y robó su almohada. De alguna manera, esta era la relación más estable que había tenido en años. Epílogo: En el que todo arde, pero como... en el buen sentido Seis meses después, Maggie se había adaptado a la vida como hechicera del brunch, gremlin del caos a tiempo parcial y celebridad de culto reticente. Cindervex ahora tenía su propio puf ignífugo, su propio rincón del apartamento (lleno de monedas de oro y calcetines robados) y 78.000 seguidores en Instagram bajo el nombre de usuario @LilSmokeyLord . Seguían peleando, sobre todo por la hora del baño y cuántas bolas de fuego se consideraban "demasiadas" en una lavandería, pero ahora eran una unidad. Compañeros. Una chica y su dragón, intentando navegar en un mundo que no incluía "reina arcana del brunch" en sus declaraciones de impuestos. La Orden de la Llama y la Focaccia prosperaba. Abrieron una segunda sucursal en Portland. La lista de espera para las sudaderas era una pesadilla. Maggie se había convertido accidentalmente en una oradora motivacional para la recuperación mágica del agotamiento, lo cual impartía con la energía de quien una vez provocó una tormenta porque su café con leche tenía demasiada espuma. Ahora tenía amigos. Un caldero parlante llamado Gary. Una banshee que le hacía la declaración de la renta. Incluso una o dos citas, aunque la mayoría se asustaron cuando su mascota intentó prenderles fuego a los cordones de los zapatos "para comprobar su estado de ánimo". Pero estaba feliz. No la felicidad fingida que publicas en redes sociales, sino la extraña, ruidosa y caótica que hace sospechar a tus vecinos y a tu terapeuta intrigar. En la noche del equinoccio de primavera, estaba en su balcón con Cindervex sobre su hombro. La ciudad brillaba abajo. En algún lugar, tambores lejanos resonaban desde una fiesta mágica a la que no estaba lo suficientemente borracha como para asistir. Aún. -¿Estamos bien?-le preguntó al dragón. Abrió sus alas, dejó escapar un suave eructo de llama violeta y se acomodó. Eso, en el lenguaje de los dragones, significaba "sí, y también estoy a punto de orinar en tu planta de interior". —Pequeño infernal —dijo sonriendo—. No cambies nunca. Y no lo hizo. En realidad no. Simplemente se volvió más raro. Más ruidoso. Más caótico. Como ella. Lo cual, pensándolo bien, era precisamente ese el objetivo. Todo arde tarde o temprano. Mejor encenderlo con alguien que traiga cerillas y bocadillos. El fin... probablemente. Trae la llama a casa 🔥 Si te enamoraste de la historia de Maggie y su dragón impetuoso, no estás solo. Ahora puedes traer su mundo al tuyo con productos exclusivos inspirados en Nacidos de Ceniza y Susurro , ya disponibles en Unfocussed. Impresión metálica: ¡ Impresiona! Ignífuga. Hermosamente llamativa. 🔥 Tapiz – Convierte tu pared en una puerta mágica (o guarida de dragones). 🔥 Almohada : para cuando tu dragón de apoyo emocional necesita apoyo emocional. 🔥 Tarjeta de felicitación : Dilo con descaro y aros de humo. Perfecta para mensajes inspirados en dragones. 🔥 Cuaderno en espiral : narra tus propias aventuras de culto accidentales con estilo. Porque honestamente, ¿quién no necesita más dragones en su vida?

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Portador de la antorcha del hongo venenoso

La picazón en el musgo Los bosques, contrariamente a la creencia poética, no son serenos. Son ruidosos, groseros y están llenos de criaturas que no se preocupan por tu espacio personal, sobre todo si te llegan a las rodillas y tienes alas como vitrales. Pregúntale a Bibble. Bibble, un hada de dudosa reputación, estaba sentada sobre el trono que había elegido: un hongo rojo brillante con esas motas blancas que gritaban "¡No lamer!". Lo lamió de todos modos. Hacía muchas cosas solo para burlarse de las reglas. En su manita sucia sostenía una antorcha; no era mágica ni ceremonial, solo un palo que prendió fuego porque hacía que los escarabajos se dispersaran dramáticamente. Eso, y le gustaba el poder. —Por las Larvas Brillantes de Gramble Root —murmuró, mirando fijamente la llama—, juro que si un gnomo más me pregunta si concedo deseos, le prenderé fuego a la barba. Bibble no era una hada cualquiera. No revoloteaba, se pavoneaba. No esparcía polvo de hadas, sino que les echaba brillantina a la gente en la cara y gritaba "¡Sorpresa, zorra!". No era la elegida, era la molesta. Y esa noche, estaba de patrulla. Cada séptima luna, un hada debe encargarse de la Vigilancia de las Esporas , asegurándose de que el imperio fúngico del Consejo de Amanita no sea devorado por tejones rebeldes o mapaches malditos. Bibble se tomó este papel muy en serio. Sobre todo porque la última hada que se saltó la vigilancia ahora estaba siendo usada como posavasos en la sala de descanso del consejo. —Portadora de la Antorcha —dijo una voz tras ella. Escurridiza. Alargada. Como alguien que practicaba ser espeluznante frente a un espejo. Ella no se giró. "Creevus. Veo que sigues rezumando como un sarpullido consciente". —Encantador como siempre —respondió Creevus, deslizándose desde la sombra de un tronco musgoso, con su capa hecha de piel de serpiente mudada y los sueños de padres decepcionados—. El Consejo exige una actualización. —Dile al Consejo que sus hongos no han sido mordidos, sus fronteras intactas y que su Portador de la Antorcha está muy mal pagado. —Exhaló una bocanada de humo hacia él, la llama parpadeando como si también se riera de él. Creevus entrecerró los ojos. O quizás simplemente no tenía párpados. Era difícil saberlo con bichos como él. "Que no se te suba la chispa a la cabeza, Bibble. Todos sabemos lo que le pasó al último Portador de la Antorcha que desobedeció la Ley de las Esporas". Bibble sonrió, amplia y maliciosamente. "Sí. Le envié flores. Flores carnívoras". Creevus desapareció en la oscuridad como un estudiante de teatro exagerado. Bibble puso los ojos en blanco con tanta fuerza que casi levita de su hongo. La llama danzaba. La noche extendía sus garras. Algo estaba observando. No era Creevus. No era un tejón. Algo... más viejo. Y Bibble, que la diosa nos ayude, sonrió aún más. Las esporas de la sospecha Lo que pasa con que te observen en el bosque es que rara vez es inocente. Las ardillas te observan porque están tramando algo. ¿Los búhos? Juzgándote. ¿Pero esto? Esto era algo peor. Algo antiguo ... Bibble bajó de un salto de su hongo, sosteniendo la antorcha como un cetro real y entrecerrando los ojos. El resplandor de la llama hizo que su sombra se extendiera alta y espigada por el suelo musgoso, como si estuviera audicionando para un papel de villana en una telenovela del bosque. —De acuerdo —gritó, haciendo girar la antorcha—. Si vas a acecharme, al menos invítame a cenar primero. Me gusta el vino de bellota y los hongos que no se pueden pronunciar. El bosque respondió con un silencio espeso, denso y que ocultaba absolutamente algo. Y entonces, con la elegancia de un ciempiés borracho con tacones, emergió. No era una bestia. No era un fantasma. Era una criatura conocida solo en susurros: Glubble. Sí, ese era su nombre. No, Bibble tampoco estaba impresionado. Glubble tenía la cara de un sapo derretido, el olor a té de compost y el encanto conversacional de unos calcetines mojados. Vestía una túnica hecha completamente de cáscaras de hojas y arrogancia. —Biblia de Esporas —dijo con voz áspera—. Portador de Llamas. Lamedor de Gorras Prohibidas. —Mira, habla —dijo secamente—. Déjame adivinar. Quieres la antorcha. O mi alma. O invitarme a algún terrible culto del bosque. Glubble parpadeó lentamente. Bibble juraría haber oído sus párpados cerrarse. «La Llama no es tuya. La Antorcha pertenece a la Madre Podrida». —¡La Madre Podrida puede chuparme la corteza! —espetó Bibble—. Le prendí fuego a esto con tripas de polilla secas y puro rencor. ¿Lo quieres? Haz una presentación. Glubble siseó. Detrás de él, una babosa explotó por la tensión. Bibble no se inmutó. Una vez había apuñalado a una zarigüeya con una varita de regaliz. No le temía a nada. —Te burlas de las viejas costumbres —susurró Glubble—. Manchas la Guardia. —Soy la Guardia —declaró, alzando la antorcha—. Y créeme, cariño, hago que la corrupción parezca buena. Se oyó un estruendo repentino, en lo profundo del suelo del bosque. Los árboles se inclinaron. El musgo se estremeció. De la base del viejo trono de seta de Bibble surgió un sonido como el de un hongo asfixiándose. —Ah, fantástico —murmuró—. Desperté al trono. El hongo había sido encantado, sí. Pero nadie le había dicho que tenía sentimientos . Sobre todo, no del tipo emocionalmente inestable. Ahora estaba de pie, desplegándose del suelo como un triste sofá inflable, con los ojos parpadeando bajo su sombrero, y emitió un gemido lastimero. —Portador de la antorcha... —gimió—. Tú... nunca me hidratas... Bibble suspiró. «Ahora no, Marvin». "Me has estado encima durante semanas ", gimió. "¿Sabes lo que eso le hace a la autoestima de un hongo?" Glubble alzó una mano con garras. «La Madre Podrida viene », declaró con terrible dramatismo. Retumbó un trueno. En algún lugar, un búho se atragantó con su té. "Y seguro que es encantadora", dijo Bibble con seriedad. "Pero si intenta meterse con mi reloj, mi linterna o mi hongo emocionalmente necesitado, vamos a tener un problema". El bosque cayó en el caos. Las raíces se agitaron como fideos enojados, las esporas explotaron desde el suelo en nubes de furia brillante y un ciervo, poseído por el drama puro, se arrojó de lado a un barranco solo para evitar verse involucrado. Bibble, con la antorcha en alto, lanzó un grito de guerra que sonó sospechosamente como “ ¡Ustedes, fanáticos de los hongos, eligieron al hada equivocada! ” y saltó sobre la espalda de Marvin mientras corría como un Roomba con cafeína por la maleza. Glubble los persiguió, gritando antiguas plegarias de putrefacción y tropezando con sus propias hojas. Tras ellos, la Madre Putrefacción empezó a alzarse: enorme, supurante y sorprendentemente bien equipada. Pero a Bibble no le importó. Tenía una llama. Un trono. Y la suficiente mala actitud para desatar una revolución. —La próxima luna llena —gritó al viento—, traeré vino. Y fuego. Y quizá algunos libros de autoayuda para mi trono. Ella se rió entre dientes en la noche cubierta de musgo mientras el bosque se estremecía con esporas y caos y la alegría de un hada a la que no le importaban en absoluto sus antiguas profecías. La llama ardía con más fuerza. La Guardia nunca volvería a ser la misma. Epílogo: El fuego y el hongo El bosque finalmente dejó de gritar. No porque la Madre Podrida fue derrotada. No porque Glubble encontró paz interior ni porque el Consejo decidió cancelar a Bibble (lo intentaron, pero ella maldijo su chat grupal). No, el bosque se asentó porque comprendió una verdad inmutable: No luchas contra Bibble. Ajustas todo tu ecosistema a su alrededor. Las Leyes de Esporas fueron reescritas, principalmente con crayón. El título oficial de "Portadora de la Antorcha" se cambió a "Señora Suprema del Bosque Picante", y Bibble insistió en que su trono de hongos se llamara "Marvin, el Magnífico Húmedo". Lloró. Mucho. Pero era crecimiento. Creevus se jubiló prematuramente, se mudó a una cueva y empezó un podcast decepcionante sobre hongos antiguos. Glubble se unió a un grupo de terapia con musgo. ¿La Madre Podrida? Ahora está en TikTok, haciendo tutoriales de maquillaje lentos y evocadores y reseñando hongos con una intimidad inquietante. ¿Y qué pasa con Bibble? Construyó un santuario con viejos caparazones de escarabajo y sarcasmo. De vez en cuando, organiza hogueras ilegales para hadas delincuentes y les enseña a gritarle a las sombras y a forjar antorchas con ramitas, veneno y pura audacia. Cuando los viajeros pasan por el bosque y sienten un calor repentino, un destello de fuego, un susurro de desafío brillante, dicen que es ella. El Portador de la Antorcha del Hongo. Sigue observando. Sigue siendo mezquino. Sigue, de alguna manera, al mando. Y en algún lugar, bajo las raíces, Marvin suspira felizmente… luego pregunta si trajo loción. Si sientes que a tu vida le falta un poco de caos, confianza o la energía de una seta ardiente, trae a Bibble a casa. Puedes canalizar a tu portador de antorcha interior con una lámina enmarcada para tu guarida, una gloriosa lámina metálica para tu altar del caos, un tapiz suave y sospechosamente mágico para rituales de invocación en la pared, o una bolsa de tela con un estilo peculiar para llevar bocadillos, rencor y hierbas cuestionables. Bibble lo aprueba. Probablemente.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Ecos del trueno tropical

El cielo no es tu escenario, es el mío En el corazón de una selva tropical a la que los turistas solo llegan tras tres ataques de pánico, dos picaduras de sanguijuela y al menos una crisis existencial, existe una leyenda. No es un mito susurrado ni un cuento tribal grabado a fuego, no. Una leyenda viva, chillona y desbordante. ¿Su nombre? Rey Azul del Humo . O como lo llaman los gringos: "El pájaro bastardo que me robó el sombrero". Rey Azul no era un guacamayo cualquiera. No solo volaba, sino que descendía . Como Zeus vestido de plumas, envuelto en humo y actitud. Su cola por sí sola podía provocar una crisis de identidad en un pavo real, y su pico había probado más lentes de cámara que frutas del bosque. Si se avecinaba una tormenta, era solo porque él la deseaba. Si después aparecía un arcoíris, ponía los ojos en blanco y decía: «Esfuérzate más». Los lugareños lo veneraban, o al menos fingían hacerlo, sobre todo por miedo a que les robara los cigarrillos o defecara en las tejas como castigo. Dominaba las copas de los árboles con un carisma solo comparable al de ese ex con el que aún sueñas, pero le dices a tu terapeuta que ya no estás. En una ocasión, un dron intentó filmarlo. Rey Azul realizó una voltereta hacia atrás completa, volteó el dron en el aire, como si fuera el pájaro metafórico, y luego lo escoltó, con garras, hasta el suelo. Luego se sentó sobre él, extendió las alas y chilló durante diez gloriosos minutos mientras la selva observaba con asombro y torpeza. Era más que plumas y furia: era un ícono. Un extravagante dedo medio a la sutileza. Un grito de guerra por el color, el caos y el orgullo sin complejos. El bosque no solo resonaba con truenos; resonaba con él. Su voz. Su pavoneo. Sus plumas que brillaban como si estuvieran patrocinadas por una alianza ilícita de tequila y purpurina. Y Rey lo sabía. Oh, lo sabía . Cada chasquido de sus alas era una declaración de intenciones. Cada vez que se posaba en una rama, se convertía en un trono. Esto no era la naturaleza. Era la semana de la moda con ácido. Con garras. No se integró. Se negó a hacerlo. Eso es para los loros con trabajo. Rey era, en el mejor de los casos, un freelance: un contratista indomable de disrupción y drama aéreo. Y así, cuando el humo se elevó —naranja intenso, azul eléctrico, morado imposible— no fue porque el mundo estuviera en llamas. Fue porque Rey Azul se sintió dramático ese día. Cielo quemado, sin arrepentimientos Ahora, imaginemos la escena: el amanecer. Pero no el típico amanecer sereno de Instagram, donde los pájaros pian y las esterillas de yoga respiran sueños con aroma a lavanda. No, este era el amanecer de Rey Azul : abrasador, ruidoso, caótico. Algo entre una pintura renacentista y el peligro de incendio de una discoteca. La selva no despertaba suavemente. Era como si las plumas le abofetearan y le dijeran que se volviera fabulosa o que la olvidaran . Hoy no era un día cualquiera para pavonearse y chillar. No. Rey tenía planes . Se acercaba una tormenta tropical y la humedad se aferraba al aire como un ex desesperado. Podía oler el ozono y la incompetencia humana que se arrastraba con el viento. En algún lugar, un fotógrafo de vida silvestre estaba agazapado con unos pantalones caqui que no se habían ganado, susurrando: «Vamos, cariño, solo una foto limpia». Rey rió para sus adentros. Vivía para esto. En lo alto del dosel, ahuecó las plumas de su pecho en lo que solo podría describirse como una formación táctica glamurosa. Estaba a punto de darles un espectáculo. No para los humanos. No para los turistas. No para los científicos que lo llamaban "sujeto M-47" como si fuera una hoja de cálculo de la jungla. No, esta actuación era para él mismo . Porque si no estabas aportando energía al personaje principal ante el colapso ambiental, ¿qué sentido tenía? Se elevó por los aires con un chillido que podría cuajar la leche de avena. El humo —porque, claro, había humo— se alzaba a su alrededor en volutas naranjas y violetas, convocadas ya sea por pura física o por el dramatismo crudo que exhalaba con cada aleteo. No voló; irrumpió en la atmósfera . Un caos total a cámara lenta. Debajo de él, un perezoso levantó la vista en medio de un bostezo y murmuró: «Oh, no, está monologando otra vez». Pero nadie podía oírlo por encima del rugido de las plumas que cortaban el aire como chismes en una mesa de brunch. El humo se enroscaba como una serpiente adoradora alrededor de las plumas de su cola. El fuego tropical se unía al cielo monzónico, y Rey bailaba entre ambos: mitad deidad y drag queen, mitad mito, mitad desdén a la normalidad. Era arte escénico. Era rebelión. Era teatro de dominación entre pájaros, y era fabuloso . El dron regresó. Uno nuevo. De otra marca. De otro dueño. Probablemente asegurado. Esta vez, Rey se detuvo en el aire, se giró para encararlo como un actor de Shakespeare que ve su destino en un ojo metálico flotante, e hizo lo único que ninguna máquina podría entender: Él me guiñó un ojo. La grabación se hizo viral. "¿Un fénix de verdad?", decían los titulares. "Avistan a una diva de la selva sobre el Amazonas". Rey se mostró indiferente. No leía blogs. Él era el blog. Más tarde ese día, empapado por la lluvia y tranquilo, Rey se encaramó en la rama más alta de la selva. La tormenta agrietó el cielo como una promesa rota, y los relámpagos iluminaron el bosque con breves destellos. Soltó un graznido: breve, agudo y definitivo. Abajo alguien susurró: "¿Qué diablos fue eso?" Un guía sonrió, miró hacia las nubes y dijo: «Solo truenos. Y ego». Pero no era un trueno. En realidad no. Ya no. Era el Eco del Trueno Tropical . ¿Y su reinado? Incuestionable. Sin filtros. Ardiente sin complejos. Rey Azul del Humo no dominaba la jungla. Él era la jungla: con humo extra, un toque de brillo y ni una pizca de frescura. Epílogo: Pluma y legado Los años pasaron, como en la selva y en los sueños: lentos, pegajosos y llenos de chirridos que nunca logras identificar. ¿Rey Azul? Nunca murió. Por favor. Ese tipo de dramaturgo no tiene una "muerte", sino una partida . Una desaparición tan perfecta que hasta las nubes se detuvieron a reconsiderar su relevancia. Un día, la jungla simplemente... se volvió más silenciosa. No en sonido, sino en energía. Como si alguien hubiera derribado el escenario principal después del último bis. Los árboles aún se mecían. Los pájaros aún cantaban. Pero esa persistente sensación de fabulosidad crítica? ¿Esa energía divina que te hace poner los ojos en blanco? Había desaparecido. Algunos dicen que voló en medio de una tormenta y nunca regresó. Otros dicen que es inmortal, que viaja de copa en copa como un espíritu aviar del caos. Algunos ancianos de la selva insisten en que ahora vive en el humo mismo: cada zarcillo es un susurro de su risa, cada rizo de niebla un destello de sus plumas imposibles. Hay señales . Un arcoíris que se forma con demasiada actitud. Una ráfaga de viento que parece que te mira de reojo. Una rama que se sacude con demasiada fuerza para ser una ardilla. ¿Y si alguna vez ves una repentina explosión de humo color fuego y el crepúsculo tuvo un hijo del amor escandaloso? Te inclinas. No preguntas. Susurras: «Está mirando». Porque Rey Azul del Humo puede haber desaparecido de la vista, pero las leyendas nunca se van del todo. Simplemente se elevan más allá de lo que alcanza la vista y juzgan en silencio, desde arriba. 🔥 Llévate el trueno a casa Si el caos, el color y el carisma de Rey Azul te conmovieron, ¿por qué no incorporar esa energía a tu día a día? Nuestra exclusiva colección "Ecos del Trueno Tropical" transforma la actitud en arte con productos premium para tu estilo de vida. Al igual que el pájaro, estos no están aquí para pasar desapercibidos. 🔥 Impresión metálica : Para paredes impactantes y un estilo sin complejos. Elegante, brillante y tan impactante como el mismísimo Rey. Tapiz : Envuelve tu espacio con fuego y furia. La decoración de interiores se ha vuelto tropical. 👜 Bolso Tote : Lleva todo lo que quieras. Compras, libros o simplemente tu personalidad sin filtros: ¡cabe! 💥 Almohada : para descansar la cabeza después de un largo día de hacer más ruido que la vida. Las plumas se desvanecen, pero el estilo perdura. Compra ahora y dale un toque de brillo a tu espacio.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

El cordero del guardián de las flores

El jardín que creció solo En algún lugar entre el final del mapa y el momento en que las siestas se convierten en viajes en el tiempo, hay un pueblo tan pequeño que cabe en una dimensión de bolsillo, o al menos dentro de los muros del descuidado jardín trasero de la Sra. Tattersham. Nadie se *mueve* allí. La gente simplemente aparece con maletas que no recuerda haber empacado y con un extraño antojo de licor de flor de saúco. Lo llaman Hushmoor Hollow . Hushmoor era conocido por muchas cosas: cabras silenciosas, cercas susurrantes y aquel martes en que llovió mermelada (no pregunten). Pero sobre todo, era conocido por el Jardín que Creció Solo: un derroche espectacular de peonías, rosas y otras plantas con demasiadas vocales en sus nombres botánicos, que florecían completamente desfasadas con las estaciones y, a veces, al ritmo de la música de los espectáculos. Nadie admitió cuidarlo. El alcalde (un cantante de ópera jubilado llamado Dennis) insistió en que se autocultivaba, aunque una vez lo pillaron podando las azaleas mientras les cantaba en italiano. Pero la verdad —la auténtica, la que se susurra a la hora del té— era esta: el jardín pertenecía al Guardián de las Flores. ¿Y la cordera de la Guardián de las Flores? Era una bola de pelos llena de misterios incómodos. Imagina un cordero. No un saltamontes cualquiera. Su lana se arremolinaba en pequeños rizos apretados como azúcar hilado, cambiando de tono según el ángulo del sol o si habías dicho algo cínico últimamente. Olía ligeramente a menta y a esperanza improbable. ¿Sus ojos? Demasiado inteligentes para alguien que a menudo lamía la corteza de los árboles como si le debieran dinero. Se llamaba Luma y llegó una tarde de primavera, exactamente 14 minutos después de que el último reloj de Hushmoor dejara de sonar. Simplemente salió de entre los frondosos rosales lunares y miró a los aldeanos como si fueran la sorpresa, no ella. Nadie sabía de dónde venía. Pero el jardín creció el doble de rápido después de su aparición. Y el doble de extraño. En una semana, las begonias empezaron a formar formaciones de baile sincronizadas. Las abejas hablaban en haiku. Dennis fue secuestrado brevemente por un hongo muy educado (regresó oliendo a té y a truenos). ¿Y Luma? Se quedó allí parada, parpadeando lentamente, como esperando a que alguien finalmente leyera las instrucciones. Entonces comenzaron los sueños. Sueños de campanas lejanas, llaves antiguas y puertas hechas completamente de pétalos. Todos en Hushmoor las tenían, aunque nadie hablaba de ello en voz alta, porque —bueno— así funcionan las cosas en los pueblos mágicos unidos por los chismes y la curiosidad. Una mañana, una carta apareció bajo los cascos de Luma. Estaba escrita con tinta dorada y olía a flor de saúco y ambición. La nota decía: Llegas tarde. El Guardián de las Flores ha desaparecido. Por favor, preséntate en la Séptima Puerta inmediatamente. Y trae el cordero. Luma parpadeó dos veces. Luego, girándose con una alarmante determinación hacia alguien con forma de malvavisco, trotó hacia el límite del bosque. Nadie se movió. Nadie habló. Hasta que Dennis, de vuelta de su escapada fúngica, dijo: —Bueno, qué demonios. Supongo que nos vamos de aventuras entonces. Y así fue como el pueblo, el cordero y una gran cantidad de herramientas de jardinería se encontraron adentrándose en un reino que no sabían que existía, para encontrar a alguien que no estaban seguros de que fuera real... liderados por un misterio de colores pastel con un trasero con aroma a menta. La Séptima Puerta (Y Otros Paisajismos Imprudentes) El grupo estaba formado por siete personas: Dennis, que insistió en llevar binoculares de ópera a pesar de no tener una ópera; la señorita Turnwell, la panadera del pueblo con un conocimiento sospechoso de esgrima; dos gemelas idénticas llamadas Ivy que se comunicaban exclusivamente con estornudos interpretativos; el joven Pip, que recientemente se había convertido en una flor por una tarde y había regresado extrañamente confiado; una pala llamada Gregor (no preguntes); y, por supuesto, Luma, el cordero pastel con una mirada como si recordara los secretos de tu infancia. La siguieron por el bosque, que era menos bosque y más un delicado alboroto de topiaria sensible. Los setos susurraban cosas como «dejado en las setas» o «¿has visto mi peine?», y nadie parecía cuestionarlo. Luma no flaqueó. Sus diminutas pezuñas apenas rozaban el suelo musgoso, como si la tierra le diera un suave empujón a cada paso. La Séptima Puerta resultó ser un gran arco de hierro forjado enclavado entre dos sauces centenarios, con enredaderas brillantes que formaban la frase: «Si estás leyendo esto, probablemente sea demasiado tarde». Emitía la misma atmósfera de un lugar con opiniones sobre quién era digno, o al menos, un gran interés en la sincronización dramática. "¿Llamamos?", preguntó Dennis, antes de que la puerta suspirara audiblemente y se abriera sola, revelando... un pasillo. No un sendero de jardín ni un reino místico. Solo un pasillo tenuemente iluminado que parecía diseñado por alguien que una vez se comió una vela y pensó: "Sí. Esto debería dar buen rollo". Entraron y, de inmediato, sus pensamientos se hicieron más fuertes. No verbalmente, sino mentalmente. El monólogo interior de Pip empezó a narrar las acciones de todos con una voz dramática ("¡Dennis blande sus prismáticos, audaz pero con un conflicto emocional!"), mientras una de las Ivy proyectaba imágenes continuas de abuelos extremadamente decepcionados. El cerebro de la señorita Turnwell repetía una y otra vez: "No hay panecillo. Solo hay mermelada". Solo Luma parecía imperturbable. Trotaba por el pasillo mientras las paredes brillaban con enredaderas en flor y olores que no existían en el mundo normal: aromas como «primer beso bajo la lluvia de primavera» y «pastel de cereza dejado en el alféizar de una ventana para alguien que nunca regresó a casa». Al final del pasillo había una habitación. Redonda. Luminosa. Flotando a medio camino entre un "invernadero de lujo" y un "invernadero de brujas". Y en el centro, reclinada en un trono hecho completamente de cardos y manzanilla, estaba la Guardiana de las Flores. O... lo que quedaba de ella. Parecía como si alguien hubiera pulsado "pausa" a mitad de su transformación en constelación. Las estrellas brillaban en sus mejillas, las enredaderas se enroscaban en su cabello, y su voz sonaba como abejas en una reunión educada. —Llegas tarde —dijo, con la mirada fija en Luma—. Te esperaba... hace dos flores. Luma resopló. Fuertemente. Una pequeña peonía se desprendió de su lana y rebotó en el suelo. Nadie sabía qué significaba, pero la Guardiana de las Flores sonrió; esa clase de sonrisa que podía convertirse en un rayo o en perdón, según cómo la sostuvieras. "Vinieron contigo", dijo, señalando la extraña fila de aldeanos que ahora fingían saber cómo ponerse de pie heroicamente. "Eso cambia las cosas". —¿Qué cosas? —preguntó Pip, mientras se acomodaba nerviosamente un pétalo que había brotado misteriosamente de su clavícula. La Guardiana de las Flores se puso de pie, con sus vides enroscándose suavemente alrededor de sus brazos como encaje viviente. «El jardín ya no se conforma consigo mismo», dijo. «Quiere… salir». Pasó un momento. Un silencio profundo y estremecedor. —¿De… qué? —preguntó Dennis lentamente. —Fuera de aquí —susurró, dándose un golpecito en la sien—. De los sueños a las calles. A las ciudades. A poemas escritos con tiza y corazones que olvidaron regarse. Luma baló. La Guardiana de las Flores asintió. Entonces, sin previo aviso, se deshizo; no con tristeza. Más bien como si se hubiera convertido en viento y luz, y algo más antiguo que ambos. En su lugar había un espejo. Dentro: un jardín. Salvaje. Floreciente. Vivo. Y esperando. Debajo, un mensaje grabado en pétalos: “Para cuidar un jardín como este, primero hay que abrirse paso”. El espejo se onduló. Y Luma lo atravesó. Los demás se quedaron allí, parpadeando, inseguros. Hasta que Ivy (¿o era la otra Ivy?) tomó la mano de Pip y entró tras ella. Luego la señorita Turnwell. Luego Gregor, la pala (no preguntes). Uno a uno, entraron, despojándose de viejos miedos como pétalos al viento. Solo Dennis dudó. Miró atrás una vez, hacia el lugar de donde venían: el acogedor y peculiar pueblito de Hushmoor. Luego miró hacia adelante, hacia lo desconocido. Se ajustó la chaqueta, se ajustó los prismáticos y dijo: Bien. Vamos a sembrar el caos en el jardín. Y con eso, la puerta se cerró tras ellos. Pero en algún lugar de Hushmoor, las flores seguían danzando. Y si mirabas con atención, veías otras nuevas floreciendo, otras que no existían antes. Con forma de recuerdo, de travesura... y de la huella de un corderito en la tierra. Epílogo: La Huella y el Silencio Pasaron los años, como suele ocurrir —de forma irregular, si estás en Hushmoor— y el pueblo cambió de maneras que nadie podía medir con exactitud. Las cercas ya no susurraban (ahora cantaban, sobre todo estándares de jazz), y la lluvia de mermelada se había vuelto estacional en lugar de espontánea. El jardín permaneció, increíblemente vivo, aunque ya nadie lo podaba. Se podaba a sí mismo , ocasionalmente adoptando formas de cosas aún no inventadas. Las flores florecieron en idiomas. Las peonías se abrieron para revelar llaves, poemas y, una vez, un pequeño par de calcetines con la etiqueta «apoyo emocional». Y de vez en cuando, alguien nuevo aparecía. No se instalaba, simplemente aparecía. De pie en la puerta con hierba en los zapatos y una mirada como si hubieran recordado un sueño por accidente. Caminaban por el pueblo, tomaban el té con la señorita Turnwell (todavía panadera, ahora también instructora de varita semi-retirada), y finalmente se encontraban cerca del espejo, ahora de pie, orgullosos, al borde del jardín, enmarcados por lavandas entrelazadas y un pequeño letrero que decía: «Continúe si desea florecer sin gracia». Nadie volvió a ver a Luma de la misma manera. Pero cada luna llena, las flores se inclinaban hacia el horizonte, como si escucharan. Y por la mañana, siempre había una huella perfecta en la tierra. Justo en la puerta. Olía ligeramente a menta. Y a esperanza imposible. En algún lugar allá afuera, más allá del espejo y la parra, el Cordero del Guardián de las Flores aún vagaba. Cultivando jardines en los corazones de la gente. Burlándose de los poetas demasiado serios. Y asegurándose de que nadie, ni siquiera el alma más cínica y arraigada, olvidara que ellos también estaban destinados a florecer. El fin. Más o menos. Si la historia te quedó grabada como un sueño del que no estás listo para despertar, puedes llevarte un trocito de Hushmoor Hollow a casa. El Cordero del Guardián de la Floración está disponible como lámina enmarcada para embellecer tus paredes, como lámina metálica que brilla como la luz de la luna en las puertas de un jardín, como cojín decorativo para acurrucarte como un misterioso compañero pastel, e incluso como manta de lana , lo suficientemente cálida como para protegerte incluso del frío más críptico. Deja que tu espacio florezca de fantasía y asombro, una huella a la vez.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Valiente pequeño mentiroso

Fin para ganar En las aguas tibias y poco profundas del estanque koi del barrio —ni siquiera un lago propiamente dicho, claro está— nadaba un pez dorado con delirios mucho más grandiosos de los que su existencia, del tamaño de un galón, le permitía. ¿Su nombre? Morty. Diminutivo de Mortimer T. Bubbleton III , si le preguntabas, aunque nadie lo hacía nunca. Morty no era el típico campesino ornamental, que se conformaba con correr entre las piedras y esperar a que los dedos de un niño pequeño le lanzaran bolitas. No, Morty tenía ambición. Y, lo que era más peligroso, tenía imaginación . "No nací para chapotear con estos peces empapados", murmuró una mañana, mientras se ensanchaba las branquias al verse reflejado en la burbuja del filtro de un estanque. "Nací para aterrorizar a las mareas. Nací para hacer huir a los patos". Y así, con un espíritu DIY normalmente reservado para padres frustrados en garajes y vendedores mal pagados de Etsy, Morty se puso una aleta de tiburón. No fue un sueño digital ni una broma de Photoshop: un dorsal de espuma de verdad, pintado de gris acorazado, fijado a su viscoso cuerpo dorado con un poco de velcro suelto y un solo cordón. Cómo se mantuvo en su lugar es un misterio que mejor dejar para los dioses acuáticos o la ciencia ficción. Al principio, el estanque se desató en un caos. Los pececillos chillaron (sí, audiblemente), las ranas huyeron a los juncos, e incluso una garza particularmente crítica reconsideró sus planes para el almuerzo. Morty lo sintió. Ese poder glorioso y aterrador. Ya no era Morty. Era el Megalofish . El Finomenon. ¡ El rey del pantano clorado! —¡Inclínense ante mí, cobardes idiotas! —bramó, aunque su voz sonó más bien como *blub-blub-bufido-gárgaras*. Aun así, el mensaje llegó. Pero con el paso de los días, Morty se dio cuenta de que la potencia conllevaba, digamos, desafíos logísticos. Para empezar, la aleta se arrastraba como un ladrillo hundido. Su característico movimiento de cola se redujo a un pequeño y triste meneo, y su sigilo era prácticamente nulo. Cualquier sigilo se esfumó en cuanto la aleta tocó la superficie y trazó un oscuro triángulo de terror sobre el agua. Era una advertencia flotante: «Quizás esté sobrecompensando». Y los koi —esos peces lentos, color sashimi, que no eran nada— empezaron a hablar. Susurraban, chismeaban, se reían disimuladamente. "¿Quién se cree que es?", se burló Bubbles, un pez koi con la personalidad de una alfombra beige. "Ni siquiera es agua salada". “Esa ni siquiera es su aleta”, añadió otra, que una vez intentó aparearse con una roca decorativa y ahora se creía una intelectual. Pero a Morty no le importaba. Tenía algo más peligroso que la credibilidad: tenía delirio y audacia , que, en la combinación adecuada, podían mover montañas o al menos derribar un nenúfar medianamente alto. Entonces llegó el día en que los humanos se dieron cuenta. Ah, sí. El niño humano, con sus Crocs mugrientos y sus manos pegajosas de malvavisco, estaba en cuclillas junto al estanque, con los ojos abiertos como tapas de alcantarilla. "¡Mamá!", gritó. "¡Hay un tiburón en el estanque!" Y Morty, el dulce y ridículo Morty, emergió con un toque dramático. Su aleta cortaba la superficie. Pose impecable. Mirada feroz. Era un cabrón. Era una bestia. Fue... atrapado en una red y arrojado a una pecera para observarlo. La caída fue rápida. El cuenco era pequeño. ¿La ilusión? Aun así, era muy, muy grande. —Tuvieron que sacarme —razonó Morty, arremolinándose dramáticamente contra el cristal—. Era demasiado poderoso para contenerlo. Demasiado peligroso. Era una amenaza para el equilibrio de la naturaleza. Y para los patos. Volvería. Se alzaría de nuevo. Con una aleta más grande. Una correa mejor. Quizás incluso una segunda aleta. ¿Quién dijo que los tiburones solo tienen una? Y en algún lugar, en lo profundo de los juncos silenciosos del estanque, los koi susurraban nerviosos. Porque sabían... Morty estaba lleno de basura… pero maldita sea, a veces la basura flota. El regreso del rey de las aletas Morty pasó cuatro días enteros dando vueltas en ese triste y pequeño cuenco de cristal como una especie de celebridad encarcelada: mitad atracción de feria, mitad historia con moraleja. Los humanos lo pinchaban, filmaban y publicaban cada uno de sus movimientos. "¡Pez dorado con aleta de tiburón! 😂 #PequeñoTerror #Falso" . Millones de visualizaciones. Millones de risas. Y aun así, Morty seguía conspirando. Ah, sí. Bajo el zumbido del filtro y junto a un pequeño cofre pirata de cerámica, la venganza bullía a fuego lento como la espuma de un estanque en julio. —Ríanse, simios terrestres —murmuró, royendo un trozo de comida con la furia silenciosa de un general caído en desgracia—. Pero volveré. Y esta vez, traigo dientes . Día cinco, Morty hizo su jugada. Amparado por la siesta de un niño pequeño, un codazo descuidado volcó el tazón. Se montó en la ola como Poseidón en un espectáculo de acrobacias de Las Vegas, dejándose caer gloriosamente sobre el linóleo, gritando (para sus adentros) todo el camino. Los humanos entraron en pánico. Gritos. Toallas. Lágrimas. Uno de ellos gritó algo sobre "daño emocional al niño". Morty simplemente jadeó y parpadeó como un ganador del Oscar en una escena de muerte: puro drama, pura manipulación. Sobrevivió. De nuevo. Y con el gran triunfo llegó una gran recompensa: lo liberaron de nuevo en el estanque. **SU** estanque. La aleta pródiga había regresado. Pero las cosas habían cambiado. Los peces koi habían subido de nivel. Uno tenía un tatuaje decorativo, solo algas, pero el efecto era ligeramente intimidante. Otro ahora hablaba con crípticos acertijos filosóficos tras flotar de forma compulsiva cerca del Buda del jardín. Y lo peor de todo, alguien había instalado una cabeza de caimán de plástico en el agua para "alejar a los pájaros". Como si eso asustara a Morty la Amenaza . Necesitaba un nuevo plan. Un golpe más grande. Así que redobló la apuesta. Dos aletas ahora: una dorsal y una de cola. Las fabricó con una chancla rota de niño y el escudo de una pequeña figura de acción. Ingenioso. Destartalado. Perfecto. Con pegamento caliente robado de una telaraña del garaje y trozos de cuerda, Morty se transformó en un guerrero acuático de pura cepa. Piensa en Mad Max, pero con más pescado y menos vegano. Emergió como un completo lunático: agitando la cola, moviendo las aletas, con los ojos desorbitados como un auditor fiscal privado de sueño. El estanque estalló. Las ranas se zambulleron. Los pececillos chillaron. ¿Los koi? Se quedaron paralizados. No había forma de negarlo: parecía un loco . —¡SOY MORTY, EL CAOS! —bramó—. ¡HE ASCENDIDO! ¡AHORA TENGO DOS ALETAS! "Pareces una venta de garaje flotante", susurró alguien. —¡CÓMETE MIS BURBUJAS! —gritó Morty. Pero esta vez, algo extraño sucedió. ¿El miedo? No se desvaneció, mutó . Ya no solo se reían de él. Respetaban su locura. Koi empezó a imitar sus movimientos. Una tortuga dio una vuelta en su honor. Incluso la garza le dedicó un único y lento asentimiento desde el otro lado del patio: de depredador a depredador. O, ya saben, de depredador a maniaco profundamente confundido con complejo de aletas de plástico. Aun así. Contaba. El estanque había cambiado. Pero Morty también. Ya no fingía. La línea entre el engaño y la creencia se había disuelto. Él era la aleta. El engaño se había convertido en identidad. ¿Y la identidad? Eso es poder, cariño. Ahora, cuando el niño humano se agacha junto al estanque, con restos de malvavisco incrustados en el labio, no se ríe. Observa. Reverente. Quizás un poco asustado. ¿Y Morty? Morty nada despacio. Deja que la aleta roce la superficie apenas. Lo justo para que alguien derrame su jugo. No necesita ser grande. No necesita ser real. Solo necesita ser lo suficientemente valiente como para creerse sus propias mentiras . Y en este estanque, así es como se forjan las leyendas. Morty el Rey de las Aletas. Pequeño. Ruidoso. Desquiciado. Imparable. Y en algún lugar, sobre la superficie ondulada del reino koi, flota un único susurro: “A veces, lo único que se necesita es una aleta falsa y las agallas para usarla”. Epílogo: El Evangelio según Morty Años después —bueno, más bien seis meses, que es una eternidad en términos de peces de colores— Morty sigue vivo, no como un pez, sino como un mito. Un mito húmedo, ligeramente delirante y excesivamente recargado de accesorios. Los koi ahora llevan aletas. No son de verdad, claro, sino símbolos de rebelión pintados. Hay un "Club de Aletas" secreto, con reuniones semanales en la superficie y cócteles de algas. No se permiten ranas. La tortuga ha empezado un podcast. Los humanos aún visitan el estanque. Se asoman, susurran, señalan. «De ahí salió el pez tiburón», dicen, como si hubieran tropezado con una zona de desove de críptidos. Los niños pegan sus caras pegajosas al cristal, esperando verlo. Algunos dicen haberlo visto. Otros afirman que se fue hace mucho. Pero bajo el agua, justo después de los nenúfares, un tenue brillo a veces corta la superficie. Un triángulo. Una onda. Un legado. Y en el rincón más oscuro del estanque, bajo un camión Tonka hundido y un montón de escamas de pescado abandonadas, algo se mueve. Una burbuja. Un llanto. Un susurro: “Nunca dejes que te digan que sólo eres un pez dorado”. Porque Morty lo demostró, a gritos, de forma ridícula y triunfal: aletas falsas, agallas reales. Larga vida a la mentira. Trae a Morty a casa (pero quizás no en un tazón) Si sentiste la energía audaz y salada de Morty, el Rey de las Aletas, recorrer tu alma, buenas noticias: ahora puedes traer sus legendarias tonterías a tu hábitat real. Lámina artística : Muestra el mejor momento de Morty en tu pared. Advertencia: puede infundir confianza. Impresión enmarcada : para cuando te sientes especialmente elegante, como Morty en su era de dos aletas. Cortina de ducha – Comienza cada día con ambición acuática y drama innecesario. Toalla de baño – Sécate con la confianza de un pez dorado que piensa que es un depredador. Valiente Mentiroso , porque a veces la grandeza comienza con una aleta falsa y un montón de descaro.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

El escondite secreto del gnomo de Pascua

De huevos y egos Era el jueves anterior a Pascua, y en algún lugar del descuidado rincón trasero de un jardín inglés, un gnomo llamado Barnaby Thistlebum se preparaba para lo que él consideraba el evento más importante del año: el Campeonato Anual de Escondite de Huevos. Un evento tan sagrado, tan arraigado en la cultura gnomónica, que hacía que el Concurso de Pasteles del Solsticio de Verano pareciera una simple competencia de aficionados. Bernabé no era el típico gnomo. Mientras que la mayoría de los suyos se conformaban con tararear sobre setas o podar violetas con dramatismo innecesario, Bernabé tenía ambición. Y no solo de las pequeñas. Hablamos de la ambición de la *legendaria mafia clandestina del chocolate*. ¿Su sueño? Convertirse en el escondedor de huevos más temido y venerado de todos los reinos boscosos. Este año, sin embargo, había mucho en juego. Los rumores, susurrados entre los pétalos de los tulipanes y zumbados por las abejas chismosas, hablaban de un rival: un duendecillo travieso conocido simplemente como "Ramita". Se decía que Ramita dominaba el arte de la invisibilidad de los huevos y que una vez escondió uno en el nido de un petirrojo en pleno vuelo. Bernabé, como era de esperar, se ofendió. —Tonterías —se burló, mirando a través de su monóculo la cesta de huevos brillantes, increíblemente bien decorados, que él mismo había lacado—. Huevos flotantes. Huevos invisibles. ¿Qué sigue? ¿Huevos que citan a Nietzsche? Armado únicamente con su ingenio y un mapa sospechosamente pegajoso del jardín, Barnaby partió al amanecer. Llevaba la barba trenzada para mayor eficiencia aerodinámica. Su camisa verde oliva lucía la orgullosa insignia de la Agencia de Seguridad de Gnomeland (un título que se había otorgado a sí mismo, con su tarjeta de identificación plastificada incluida). ¿Y en sus manos? Dos huevos de distracción épicos: uno lleno de confeti y el otro de trufas de whisky de mazapán. Colocó huevos en pajareras, tazas de té y en el hueco de una bota que perteneció a una bruja de jardín con problemas de ludopatía. Cada huevo tenía su historia. ¿El de rayas rosas con la cáscara brillante? Escondido bajo una trampa de diente de león que esparcía brillantina sobre cualquiera que la tocara. ¿El huevo azul moteado? Colgando de un sedal atado entre dos narcisos, balanceándose como cebo para niños curiosos y ardillas presumidas. A media tarde, Barnaby estaba sudoroso, satisfecho y un poco borracho por los rellenos de trufa que había revisado. Con solo un huevo restante, se sentó en una roca musgosa, admirando su obra. El jardín parecía inocente —una explosión de color y floración—, pero bajo el resplandor de los narcisos se escondían 43 huevos imposiblemente ocultos y un sapo emocionalmente inestable custodiando uno dorado. "Que Twig intente superar esto", murmuró Barnaby, poniéndose el sombrero sobre los ojos y desplomándose hacia atrás sobre un montón de lavanda. Se rió para sí mismo, pero se detuvo enseguida, dándose cuenta de que su risa sonaba demasiado malvada. "Maldita sea, que sea caprichoso", se recordó en voz alta. La Gran Guerra de los Huevos de Willowbend Cuando Barnaby Thistlebum se despertó a la mañana siguiente, inmediatamente se dio cuenta de dos cosas: una, las abejas estaban anormalmente silenciosas, y dos, le habían gastado una broma. No era el tipo de broma suave que uno esperaría en el mundo de los gnomos, como tinte de narcisos en el té o hipos encantados que cantaban madrigales. No. Esto era un sabotaje total. El tipo de broma que gritaba "¡Se ha declarado la guerra y es color pastel!". Sus huevos… habían desaparecido. Los 43, más el sapo emocionalmente inestable. En su lugar: señuelos de cerámica, cada uno con forma de bellota de aspecto presumido, con las iniciales de Twig grabadas en la base en cursiva agresiva. Peor aún, una nota escrita a mano yacía a sus pies, doblada en forma de pato (un gesto de fanfarronería donde los haya): Lindos escondites, Thistlebum. Los encontré todos antes del almuerzo. Pensé en dejarte algo para que me recuerdes. Con mucho gusto, —Twig 🧚‍♂️ Barnaby apretó los puños. En lo profundo de su barba, un petirrojo que anidaba para la temporada percibió un temblor de ira y se trasladó a un gnomo menos caótico. —Esto. Significa. GUERRA —susurró, canalizando la furia de mil bollos recocidos. Y así comenzó la Gran Guerra del Huevo de Willowbend. Barnaby entró en acción como un ninja de jardín, impulsado por el rencor y la cafeína. Corrió (bueno, se contoneó rápidamente) de vuelta a su madriguera, donde recuperó su reserva secreta de huevos de emergencia. No unos huevos cualquiera, claro está: eran huevos con truco, cada uno un milagro de la ingeniería gnomónica y malas decisiones. Entre ellos: El Gritón: emite el sonido de una cabra enojada cuando se le toca. El Durmiente: contiene esporas de amapola para sedar levemente a los elfos curiosos. El chismoso: te susurra tus secretos hasta que lloras. Barnaby reclutó aliados, principalmente criaturas del bosque descontentas y un erizo exiliado que le debía un favor. Juntos, desplegaron señuelos y distracciones, dejando un rastro de pistas falsas por todo el jardín. Los gnomos exploradores repartían desinformación envuelta en pétalos de margarita. Bombas de humo hechas de tomillo y sasafrás explotaban en nubes de engañosas lavandas. Al anochecer, el jardín se había convertido en un campo minado de guerra psicológica. Y entonces, justo cuando Barnaby se preparaba para liberar el Huevo Susurrante (una creación consciente prohibida en tres provincias), un grito resonó en el aire. ¡AAAAUGH! ¡MI PELO ESTÁ LLENO DE MIEL! Ramita. El duendecillo emergió de entre los rosales, empapado de pies a cabeza en miel silvestre y con una corona de margaritas ahora repleta de abejas. Barnaby rió con la alegría desenfrenada que suele reservarse para el acto final de una tragedia shakespeariana. —¡Caíste en la trampa de abejas! —gritó, blandiendo una cuchara como si fuera una espada—. ¡Duendecillo pegajoso! Twig lo fulminó con la mirada, espantando abejas y dignidad con igual desesperación. "¡Plantaste huevos llenos de mermelada en mi casa del árbol!" —¡Eso fue diplomacia! —replicó Barnaby—. ¡Vandalizaste mi escondite de trufas! “¡Me amenazaste con un huevo que cita a Nietzsche !” “¡Ese huevo era filosófico, no agresivo!” Y entonces ocurrió algo extraño. Ellos se rieron. Ambos, doblados en dos entre la madreselva, ahogándose con polen y absurdo. La guerra había durado menos de un día, pero era legendaria. Y mientras la luna se alzaba sobre el jardín, se sentaron juntos bajo un sauce llorón, bebiendo té de rosa mosqueta con un dudoso brandy de gnomo, observando las luciérnagas parpadear sobre el campo de batalla, ahora plagado de huevos. "Sabes", dijo Twig, "no estás nada mal... para ser un adorno de jardín con problemas de control". —Y no eres del todo insoportable —respondió Barnaby, haciendo un pequeño brindis—. Solo el noventa por ciento. Chocaron sus tazas de té. Se declaró la paz. Más o menos. Desde entonces, han mantenido viva la tradición: una nueva Guerra de los Huevos cada primavera, que se intensifica en caos y creatividad. Y aunque el jardín sufre por ello, los residentes coinciden en una cosa: Nada une a una comunidad como una pequeña rivalidad, abejas sorpresa y un sapo emocionalmente inestable y rencoroso. Epílogo: La leyenda crece Pasaron los años. Las estaciones cambiaron. El jardín floreció, se marchitó, volvió a florecer. Los niños iban y venían, tropezando de vez en cuando con un huevo brillante escondido bajo un helecho o un sapo sospechosamente sarcástico merodeando junto al montón de compost. Pero la leyenda... oh, la leyenda persistió. Bernabé Cardo y el Duendecillo Twig se convirtieron en una especie de mito estacional: dos fuerzas traviesas de la naturaleza unidas por la rivalidad, el respeto y una obsesión malsana por burlarse mutuamente con huevos pintados. Cada primavera, el jardín se preparaba para sus travesuras como una taberna para una noche de karaoke: con un poco de miedo, palomitas y un botiquín de primeros auxilios. Los gnomos empezaron a apostar sobre quién "ganaría" cada año. Las criaturas del bosque organizaron fiestas para ver el partido (las ardillas eran excelentes comentaristas, aunque parciales). ¿Y las abejas? Bueno, se sindicalizaron. Solo se puede ser usado como broma un número limitado de veces antes de exigir cobertura dental. En algún lugar bajo el roble más antiguo del jardín, ahora reposa una pequeña placa cubierta de musgo. Nadie recuerda quién la colocó allí, pero dice simplemente: “En memoria de la Gran Guerra del Huevo: donde floreció el caos, resonó la risa y la dignidad fue levemente menospreciada”. Barnaby aún deambula por el jardín. De vez en cuando se le ve bebiendo vino de diente de león, creando huevos señuelo que huelen a terror existencial o guiando a una nueva generación de gnomelitos traviesos. ¿Y Twig? Nos visita de vez en cuando, siempre sin avisar, siempre llenando de purpurina el bebedero para pájaros y siempre con una sonrisa pícara. Y cada Pascua, sin falta, aparece un nuevo huevo en el centro del jardín. Solo uno. Perfectamente pintado. Colocado estratégicamente. Conteniendo, quizás, una nota, un pequeño acertijo o algo que maúlla. Nadie sabe quién lo deja. Todos saben de quién es. ¿Y el juego? Nunca termina del todo. Trae la travesura a casa ¿Te encanta la historia de Bernabé Cardo y la Gran Guerra de los Huevos? Dale un toque de magia a tu mundo con nuestra colección exclusiva "El Escondite Secreto del Gnomo de Pascua" de Bill y Linda Tiepelman, disponible ya en Unfocused. Desde regalos extravagantes hasta decoración de temporada, hay algo para cada corazón travieso: Tapices de pared : dale vida a las travesuras del jardín en tus paredes Impresiones en lienzo : vibrantes, extravagantes y listas para la galería. 👜 Bolsas de mano : perfectas para la búsqueda de huevos o para ir al supermercado en caóticas circunstancias. Tarjetas de felicitación : envía un poco de travesuras esta Pascua 📓 Cuadernos en espiral : para planificar tus propias escapadas centradas en los huevos Compra la colección completa ahora en shop.unfocussed.com y abraza a tu embaucador interior.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Tempestad de Tauro

La fractura Antes de que las estrellas se cosieran en los cielos, antes de que el aliento encontrara nombre, el Toro se alzaba solo al borde de la creación. Una bestia nacida no de carne, sino de fuerza: de elemento, eco y eternidad. Su cuerpo se dividió desde el momento de su despertar: una mitad ardía con furia volcánica, ríos derretidos tallando cicatrices en una frente cornuda; la otra mitad crecía con el pulso sereno de la vida, cubierta de musgo y respirando, arraigada en las estrellas y la tierra por igual. No conocía el tiempo, solo el movimiento. Caminaba por el vacío como si fuera un pasto, sus cascos forjando galaxias a su paso. Dondequiera que pasaba, se desplegaban reinos duales: bosques que ardían en llamas, ríos que corrían vapor y luz estelar, cielos que temblaban bajo su rugido silencioso. Pero el Toro no estaba completo. Era una tempestad atrapada en la dualidad, desgarrado entre la destrucción y el nacimiento, la furia y el perdón. Los dioses que lo crearon habían desaparecido hacía tiempo, sin dejar respuesta a su agonía. Se convirtió en mito antes de que los mundos tuvieran nombre, y su sufrimiento quedó grabado en la memoria de cada planeta que forjó. En un mundo, donde el azul brillaba con demasiada intensidad y la tierra cantaba con tristeza, se detuvo. Por primera vez desde la Primera Chispa, dobló las piernas y permaneció inmóvil. El fuego de su ojo izquierdo se atenuó. Las enredaderas a lo largo de su hombro derecho susurraron al cielo. Y las estrellas se acercaron para escuchar. Fue entonces cuando habló, no con voz, sino con gravedad. Una tristeza silenciosa y resonante resonó en el cielo: «Soy la fractura. Soy la semilla y la quemadura». De sus lágrimas brotaron los primeros mortales —defectuosos, divididos, hermosos—, cada uno con una pizca de su guerra en su interior. Algunos ardían. Otros crecían. La mayoría hacía ambas cosas. Con el paso del tiempo, construyeron templos a su furia y canciones a su gracia. No comprendieron que no era ni dios ni demonio, sino un espejo. Un recordatorio. Una herida que moldeó el universo. Sin embargo, algo se conmovió en él mientras la gente danzaba bajo las lunas gemelas, mientras se teñían la piel de ceniza y polen, mientras susurraban su nombre no con miedo, sino con reverencia: Taurun. La Tempestad. El Eterno. Y en esa reverencia, sintió el primer atisbo de paz: un destello. Un comienzo. Pero la paz, como el fuego, hay que ganársela. El ajuste de cuentas Los siglos transcurrieron como brasas flotantes en el vacío, y el Toro aún yacía bajo las lunas gemelas, medio enroscado en el bosque, medio envuelto en llamas. Civilizaciones surgieron y cayeron a la sombra de su letargo. Sacerdotes caminaban descalzos por campos de obsidiana para susurrar sus sueños en las grietas de su costado quemado. Los amantes tallaban promesas en la corteza de los árboles que crecían de sus costillas. Y los niños, nacidos del polvo de estrellas y el sudor, jugaban bajo las ramas de su melena sin miedo. Pero aún así no se levantó. Los dioses, olvidados o huidos, lo habían dejado como su parábola final. El Toro, el Roto, cuya dualidad reflejaba el alma de todas las cosas. Pero los mortales comenzaron a olvidar que la dualidad no era un castigo, sino un camino. Y cuando lo olvidaron, intentaron purificar lo que los hacía completos. Encendieron hogueras para quemar sus raíces. Arrasaron los bosques para dominar el caos. Coronaron reyes que solo hablaban con fuego y desterraron a quienes aún escuchaban a las hojas. Con el tiempo, se dividieron como el Toro se había dividido una vez, no por los dioses, sino por decisión propia. Fue entonces cuando Taurun se movió. Su ojo llameante se reavivó como una estrella moribunda que renace, proyectando sombras sobre las constelaciones. Las hojas de su pelaje temblaron. El aire se densificó. Y desde las profundidades de la tierra, un estruendo sin origen ni dirección se elevó: un pulso antiguo e innegable. Se levantó no por ira, sino por necesidad. Sus cascos agrietaron la corteza del mundo. Su aliento estremeció los océanos. Sobre él, el cielo se abrió, no con relámpagos, sino con recuerdos. Visiones cayeron como lluvia: de cada niño que había cantado en su bosque, de cada oración pronunciada a la luz del fuego, de cada alma que se había atrevido a albergar dolor y asombro en un mismo corazón. Rugió, no para destruir, sino para recordar. Y el mundo escuchó. Torrentes de lluvia cayeron donde los desiertos habían reclamado su dominio. Los bosques se alzaron tras la ceniza. Y donde el fuego había consumido, la vida regresó, no en desafío, sino en unidad. El cuerpo del Toro ya no estaba dividido, sino fusionado: llamas que alimentaban la tierra, ramas que danzaban con chispas. Ya no era mitad esto ni mitad aquello. Era la totalidad nacida de la fractura. Y por primera vez desde que las estrellas aprendieron a cantar, Taurun sonrió, no con los labios, sino con silencio. El silencio que sigue a la tormenta. El silencio que habla del equilibrio restaurado. Los mortales, transformados, llevaron este nuevo mito en sus huesos. Dejaron de construir templos. En su lugar, plantaron bosques. Y enseñaron a sus hijos que quemar no era ser malo, y crecer no era ser débil. Que ellos, como Taurun, albergaban la furia y el bosque en su pecho. Y esa era su magia. El Toro caminó entonces hacia el cielo nocturno, su cuerpo disolviéndose en constelaciones, en historias, en las venas de todo ser vivo. Había sido fuego. Había sido bosque. Y ahora, era eterno. Mira al cielo cuando tu corazón se parta en dos. Lo verás: cuernos arqueados en el firmamento, estrellas enredadas en su melena, la Tempestad observando, esperando, recordándote: No estás roto. Estás transformándote. Epílogo: El silencio entre estrellas Mucho después de que el Toro se disolviera en constelación y leyenda, mucho después de que las brasas finales se enfriaran bajo las raíces de los árboles recién crecidos, una pregunta silenciosa aún flota entre las galaxias: “¿Qué queda cuando los dioses se han ido y el mundo debe elegir por sí mismo?” La respuesta no está escrita en piedra ni escondida en el fuego. No la llevan los profetas ni la conservan en pergaminos. Vive en el destello de la contradicción, donde la bondad se encuentra con la ira, donde el dolor danza con la alegría, donde te quiebras, y de las grietas algo verde comienza a crecer. Ahí es donde vive el Toro ahora, no en templos ni en estrellas, sino en el momento en que una mano se aprieta con furia y decide abrirse. En la forma en que ardemos y aún amemos. En cómo destruimos y luego replantamos. Algunos dicen que aún se puede oír su aliento en el viento entre estaciones, sentir sus pasos en la tierra movediza bajo tus pies descalzos. Otros dicen que es simplemente un mito, un viejo cuento nacido de una necesidad cósmica. Pero si alguna vez sientes demasiado y no lo suficiente, demasiado feroz y demasiado frágil, recuerda: Eres la tormenta y la tierra. No estás perdido. No estás solo. Y en el silencio entre las estrellas, Taurun observa. No como juez. Sino como pariente. Trae el toro a casa Si la historia de Taurun despertó algo en ti, si tú también llevas fuego y bosque en tus huesos, lleva este mito a tu espacio. Nuestra imagen "La Tempestad de Tauro" está disponible en una gama de productos de alta calidad diseñados para mantener viva la magia dual en tu día a día. Tapiz Celestial : Envuelve tu espacio en un mundo mítico. Esta vibrante pieza de tela para pared transforma cualquier habitación en un portal a las estrellas. Impresión metálica : Una atrevida exhibición con calidad de galería que captura el fuego y el bosque con una claridad vívida. Brillante. Icónica. Inmortal. Rompecabezas : arma el mito tú mismo: perfecto para momentos tranquilos de reflexión y para quienes disfrutan de la complejidad. Bolso de mano : lleva la tempestad contigo: ideal para amantes de los libros, los vagabundos del mercado y los que caminan entre mundos. Taza de Café : Disfruta de la historia. Un ritual diario impregnado de mito, fuerza y ​​la serenidad del equilibrio celestial. Ver todos los formatos disponibles aquí → Tus muros. Tus rituales. Tu mito.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

El Vigilante de la Luz Nocturna

De gnomos y deberes nocturnos Érase una vez —o al menos un tiempo después de la invención de la fontanería— un gnomo llamado Wimbley Plopfoot . No era el típico gnomo de jardín con caña de pescar y barriga cervecera tallada en cerámica. No, Wimbley era diferente. Tenía un trabajo. Uno de verdad. Era el Vigilante Oficial de la Luz Nocturna de la Gran Región Subterránea. Cada noche, en cuanto los humanos de arriba terminaban de hacer lo que suelen hacer antes de acostarse (una combinación de cepillarse los dientes, leer el doomscrolling y preguntarse si el queso sobrante seguía en buen estado), Wimbley se acomodaba en su sitio. Su suave gorro de dormir floreado le caía encantadoramente sobre un ojo. Su pijama a juego evocaba campos de lavanda y moda casual. Y en brazos, llevaba a Bartholomew el Oso , un peluche con una expresión sospechosamente crítica. "¿Listos?", preguntaba Wimbley cada noche, aunque Bartholomew nunca respondía. No estaba encantado, ni vivo, ni era mágico. Simplemente estaba allí. Juzgando. Como la mayoría de los osos, para ser sinceros. El ritual era sencillo: sentarse junto a la cama del niño, sostener el cartel de BUENAS NOCHES y exudar un aura de seguridad, calidez y un ligero toque herbal. Pero un martes particularmente anónimo, algo salió mal. Wimbley parpadeó lentamente y notó que el resplandor de la luz nocturna estaba... parpadeando . —Oh, no —murmuró, con su voz de gnomo, el equivalente auditivo de una infusión de manzanilla—. Otra vez no. La última vez que falló una lamparita, el niño soñó con brócoli consciente dando un golpe de estado en la cocina. Se necesitaron tres atrapasueños, una varilla de incienso susurrante y un terapeuta con marionetas para reparar el trauma. Wimbley se acercó al enchufe, gimiendo como solo alguien con rodillas más viejas que la democracia puede hacerlo. Tiró del enchufe y luego dio un golpecito a la lamparita. Nada. Sopló. Nada seguía. Bartholomew observaba en silencio, probablemente juzgando la técnica de Wimbley. "Supongo que voy a entrar", suspiró Wimbley, levantando una tabla suelta del suelo para revelar un túnel brillante y giratorio con una etiqueta que decía 'Reino Eléctrico: Sólo Gnomos Autorizados' . Con una palmadita de resignación en la cabeza de peluche de Bartholomew, se zambulló. El mundo se retorció. El olor a tostada quemada y pilas viejas le inundó la nariz. El túnel giró como la reluciente cisterna de un inodoro hasta que aterrizó con un sonoro plop en un lugar que sospechosamente parecía el interior de una fábrica de lámparas de lava dirigida por mapaches. —De acuerdo —murmuró Wimbley—. Arreglemos una lamparita antes de que la realidad se desmorone. El resplandor Wimbley se ajustó el cuello del pijama, una maniobra ridícula dado que acababa de sumergirse en un subespacio interdimensional alimentado por la ansiedad infantil y las pilas agotadas. El reino era más brillante de lo que le gustaba y olía vagamente a ozono, toallitas para secadora y pavor existencial. "Bienvenido al Departamento de Mantenimiento del Brillo", dijo un alegre orbe flotante con un portapapeles y diminutos anteojos para leer, balanceándose de alguna manera sobre lo que solo podría describirse como 'energía del párpado'. Wimbley entrecerró los ojos. "¿Tú otra vez?" El orbe parpadeó. «Ah, sí, señor Plopfoot. Ya le han marcado antes por «uso no autorizado de destornillador» y «insultar una subida de tensión». "Esa oleada lo empezó todo", se quejó Wimbley. "Me dio una descarga. Dos veces". El orbe emitió un zumbido evasivo y convocó a una puerta translúcida que brillaba con etiquetas de neón: «Bosque de filamentos», «Pantano de circuitos», «Cementerio de bombillas» y, el destino de Wimbley , «Admisión de reparación de bajo brillo». Cruzó el arco, que lo depositó al instante en una enorme caverna brillante llena de mechas flotantes y una cantidad sospechosa de conos de tráfico. Ingenieros gnomos con cascos diminutos gritaban sobre la potencia mientras bebían martinis con barras luminosas. —¡Oye, Wimbley! —gritó una figura desgarbada con un portapapeles más grande que él—. ¿Estás aquí por la gota brillante en el Sector Ronquido Alfa? "Sí, parpadea como una luciérnaga con cafeína", dijo Wimbley, sacándose la pelusa de la barba. Eso no está bien. El brillo de la luz nocturna debería ser suave, como un pudín con ambición. "Exactamente." Los dos gnomos intercambiaron asentimientos y se sumergieron en la charla técnica: amperaje, umbrales de consistencia de los sueños y un debate muy acalorado sobre si un osito de peluche debería considerarse un estabilizador emocional o un sedante basado en la distracción. Finalmente, encontraron el problema. Un microfusible del tamaño de un píxel había sido corrompido por una pesadilla olvidada de 2006. Algo común, al parecer. Wimbley lo reemplazó con unas pinzas hechas con cuentos para dormir solidificados y suspiró aliviado al ver que el brillo volvía a su suave y suave normalidad. —Dile a Bartolomé que todavía me debe cinco abrazos —dijo el gnomo desaliñado, tocándose el sombrero. Wimbley sonrió y regresó al túnel, sintiendo el calor de la luminiscencia restaurada pulsar en el aire como una canción de cuna tarareada por un pasante celestial con exceso de trabajo. Aterrizó de nuevo en la habitación del niño con una nube de purpurina. La lamparita de noche brillaba con fuerza y ​​firmeza. El niño dormía plácidamente, con una pierna completamente fuera de la manta (un gesto que aún aterrorizaba a los demonios). Bartholomew permaneció exactamente donde lo dejó Wimbley: con los brazos abiertos y la mirada crítica sin cambios. —Misión cumplida —susurró Wimbley, acomodándose en su puesto habitual y levantando de nuevo el cartel de BUENAS NOCHES . La habitación estaba a salvo. La luz era perfecta. Y en algún lugar profundo debajo de las tablas del piso, un técnico de mapaches presentó otra queja contra una fuga de brillantina no autorizada. A Wimbley no le importó. Su trabajo estaba hecho. Hasta mañana por la noche… Desvanecerse en sueños. Epílogo: Brilla, pequeño bicho raro Pasaron los años, o quizás solo tres minutos, dependiendo de cómo funcione el tiempo cuando tienes la forma de un adorno de jardín y te mueves con la luz de la luna. Wimbley Plopfoot, ahora ascendido a Enlace Superior de Resplandor , seguía en su puesto debajo de la cama de la niña, ahora un poco mayor (quien a veces se refería a él como "ese duendecillo raro de la hora de dormir" en su diario). ¿Bartolomé? Sigue juzgando. Sigue siendo lujoso. Sigue invicto en todos los concursos de miradas conocidos en el mundo de los lujosos. La lamparilla, en pleno funcionamiento gracias a la ingeniería avanzada de los gnomos y quizás a un poco de pegamento mágico ilegal, brillaba como un faro de suave desafío contra el caos creciente de los miedos a la hora de dormir. Los monstruos se habían reubicado hacía tiempo; algo relacionado con los permisos de urbanismo y la escasez de refrigerios sin gluten. A Wimbley no le importó. Tenía todo lo que necesitaba: un horario para dormir ligeramente arrugado, una bata sospechosamente sensible y la admiración tácita de la comunidad de los que se acostaban debajo de la cama, quienes una vez lo votaron como "el que más probablemente detiene un sueño de pánico con solo una mirada de reojo". Y cada noche, mientras las estrellas parpadeaban y los padres exhalaban sobre los monitores de bebés, Wimbley sostenía su cartel con un simple mensaje: BUENAS NOCHES Y si por casualidad miras debajo de tu cama y ves una figurita con una barba más larga que tu lista de tareas pendientes, simplemente sonríe. Él lo tiene todo bajo control. Ya puedes dormir. Brillad, soñadores. Brillad. Dale un toque de brillo a tu hogar Si sentiste una chispa de calidez (o un puro absurdo gnómico) con The Nightlight Watcher , ahora puedes traer esa misma magia acogedora a tu ritual de dormir. Ya sea que estés decorando la habitación de tu bebé, mejorando tu rincón de siesta o simplemente necesites un osito de peluche crítico en tela, hay algo de ensueño para ti: Tapiz de pared : transforma cualquier habitación con un brillo suave y narrativo. 🛏️ Cojín : acurrúcate en el país de los sueños con un cojín aprobado por los gnomos. 🧸 Manta Polar – La manta oficial de los protocolos de apoyo emocional de Bartholomew. Funda nórdica : con certificación Gnome para un máximo encanto a la hora de dormir. Compra la colección completa y deja que Wimbley Plopfoot vigile tus sueños, sin necesidad de pilas ni mapaches burocráticos.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

El Anciano del Camino Encantado

En el corazón de los Bosques Verdes, justo después del arroyo murmurante que sospechosamente parecía chismear, se alzaba un tocón cubierto de musgo, conocido solo por unos pocos como el "Poste de Propuestas". No se usaba para correo, claro está. Se usaba por momentos. Momentos grandiosos, torpes, coloreados de rosa. Y fue aquí donde el Anciano del Sendero Encantado, un gnomo llamado Látigo de Cardo, Silbaferro (aunque sus amigos lo llamaban simplemente "Thish"), había decidido dar el salto. Thish era viejo. No viejo en el sentido de que rechinaba o estaba gruñón, sino viejo en el sentido de que «salió con una dríade que se convirtió en un sauce en medio de una conversación». Había visto treinta y tres mil primaveras, o eso decía, aunque la mayoría sospechaba que se acercaba a las setecientas. En cualquier caso, la edad no había mermado su estilo. Vestía una túnica que brillaba tenuemente como alas de escarabajo, botas hechas con escamas de piña reutilizadas y un sombrero flexible cosido con marcas de besos recogidas durante siglos. Nadie sabía cómo las había conseguido. Nadie preguntaba. La primavera siempre le daba... picazón. No como si fuera fiebre del heno, sino con una intensidad que te llena el alma y te hace sentir un hormigueo. De esas que te hacen escribir poesía sobre sombreros de setas o cantarles serenatas a ardillas que no te lo pidieron. Y este año, la picazón tenía nombre: Briarrose O'Bloom . Briarrose era la florista principal del bosque: una dríade con rizos como flores de cerezo y una risa que sonaba como lluvia sobre pétalos de tulipán. Dirigía "Petal Provocateur", un puesto de flores escandalosamente encantador donde los ramos se arreglaban para satisfacer tus deseos más profundos, posiblemente incluso los más traviesos. Una vez hizo un arreglo de tulipanes tan evocador que un centauro se enamoró de sí mismo. Thish la había admirado desde lejos (bueno, desde detrás de un árbol... con frecuencia), pero hoy era el día en que saldría a la luz. Hoy le declararía su cariño con un ramo de su propia creación. Había pasado los últimos tres días preparándolo. No solo recogiendo flores; no, esto era todo un acontecimiento . Había trocado margaritas bañadas por la luna, robado un beso de madreselva a una abeja dormida y convencido a una peonía para que se abriera dos semanas antes recitando limericks escandalosos. Por fin, el ramo estaba listo. Lleno de rosas, morados, rubores y aromas que podrían poner eufórico incluso al sapo más gruñón, estaba atado con una cinta de seda de araña y un toque de tomillo. Salió al sendero musgoso, con el ramo en la mano y el corazón dando volteretas. Delante, el carro brillaba bajo los faroles colgantes, y allí estaba ella —Briarrose— coqueteando con un erizo con pajarita (era un cliente fiel). Rió, sacudiendo sus rizos, y Thish olvidó por un instante cómo funcionaban las piernas. Se acercó. Lentamente. Con cuidado. Como quien se acerca a un unicornio salvaje o a un ganso particularmente crítico. “Ejem”, dijo con una voz demasiado aguda para su cuerpo y sobresaltó a un hongo cercano, que se desmayó. Briarrose se giró. Sus ojos, violetas y sabios, se suavizaron. «Oh, Anciano Thish. ¡Qué sorpresa!» —Es… un regalo de primavera. Un ramo. Lo hice yo. Para ti —dijo, ofreciéndolo con mano temblorosa y una sonrisa esperanzada—. Y también, si es posible… una propuesta de matrimonio. Ella parpadeó. "¿Una propuesta?" —¡A dar un paseo! —añadió rápidamente, con las mejillas encendidas de vergüenza—. Un paseo. Por el bosque. Juntos. Nada de... matrimonio a menos que lo discutamos mutuamente dentro de veinte años. Se rió. No con crueldad. No con burla. Sino como campanas danzando al viento. "Este Fernwhistle", dijo, tomando el ramo y aspirándolo. "Esto podría ser lo más ridículo y romántico que he visto en toda la temporada". Entonces se inclinó, le besó la mejilla y le susurró: «Recógeme al anochecer. Ponte algo escandaloso». Y así, de repente, la primavera cobró vida. El atardecer en los Bosques Verdes era una experiencia sensual. El cielo se tiñe de lavanda, las ramas de los árboles se estiraban como amantes perezosos, y el aire olía a savia, madreselva y un leve toque de humo de cedro y tentación. Thish, fiel a su palabra, se había vestido de forma escandalosa . Bueno, para ser un gnomo. Le habían cambiado la túnica por un chaleco cosido con pétalos de dedalera, le habían lustrado las botas hasta que las escamas de las piñas brillaron, y debajo de su famoso sombrero había metido una ramita de lavanda «por si acaso se ponía caliente». Briarrose se había superado a sí misma. Llevaba un vestido hecho completamente de parra tejida y jazmín floreciente que se movía con cada respiración. Las mariposas parecían orbitarla como lunas. Una luciérnaga se posó en su hombro y se desmayó al instante. —Pareces un problema —dijo ella con una sonrisa, ofreciéndole el brazo. —Pareces una buena razón para portarte mal —respondió Thish tomándolo. Caminaron. Pasaron junto a sauces que tarareaban nanas. Junto a ranas tocando el banjo. Junto a un par de mapaches que se besuqueaban detrás de un hongo venenoso, fingiendo no darse cuenta. El ambiente estaba cargado de polen y posibilidades. Finalmente, llegaron a un claro iluminado por faroles flotantes. En el centro había una manta de picnic tan elaborada que podría haber violado varias leyes de zonificación. Había vino de saúco. Pasteles de raíz de azúcar. Trufas de chocolate con forma de bellota. Incluso un tazón de "Galletas de Consentimiento", cada una etiquetada con mensajes como "¿Beso?", "¿Coqueteo?", "¿Ponerse raro?" y "¿Más vino primero?". “¿Planeaste esto?”, preguntó Briarrose, levantando una ceja. "Entré en pánico antes y compensé demasiado", admitió Thish. "También hay un cuarteto de cuerda de tejones de repuesto por si las cosas se ponen feas". "Eso es... bastante perfecto." Se sentaron. Bebieron. Mordisquearon todo menos las galletas; estas requerían señales mutuas. La conversación derivó en poesía, polinización, hechizos de amor fallidos y una historia profundamente vergonzosa sobre un unicornio y una botella de agua de rosas mal etiquetada. Y entonces, justo cuando el aire estaba completamente quieto, cuando los últimos rayos de sol besaban las ramas de los árboles, Briarrose se inclinó. —Sabes —dijo en voz baja, con los ojos brillantes—, he estado preparando ramos para medio bosque. De todo tipo. Lujuria, anhelo, coqueteos de venganza, disculpas incómodas. Pero nadie me ha hecho uno como el tuyo. Thish parpadeó. "Ah. Bueno. Supongo que..." Ella le puso un dedo en los labios. "Shhh. Menos conversación." Entonces lo besó. Largo y lento. El tipo de beso que hacía que el viento se detuviera, las luciérnagas aumentaran su brillo y al menos tres ardillas cercanas aplaudieran. Cuando finalmente se apartaron, ambos estaban sonrojados y ligeramente sin aliento. —Entonces... —Thish sonrió—. ¿Me darán una segunda cita? ¿O al menos una reseña sensual del ramo? Ella rió. "Ya eres tendencia en las redes sociales". Y bajo el suave crepúsculo, dos corazones, más viejos que la mayoría, más tontos que muchos, florecieron como si la primavera los hubiera escrito en una historia de amor propia. Epílogo: La floración continúa La primavera dio paso al verano, y el bosque, bueno, habló. No eran chismes, exactamente. Más bien especulaciones alegres. Un zorro afirmó haber visto a Thish y Briarrose bailando descalzos bajo una nube de lluvia. Una ardilla juró haberlos visto haciendo un picnic desnudos en un campo de tulipanes (algo sin confirmar). Y un petirrojo particularmente presumido dijo haber oído risitas que resonaban dentro de un árbol hueco. Lo único que sabemos con certeza es esto: el "Poste de la Propuesta" ahora tenía un ramo permanente en su cima, que manos invisibles renovaban cada luna llena. El carrito de flores de Briarrose empezó a ofrecer una nueva línea llamada "Thistlewhips": pequeños racimos caóticos de amor, pasión y una flor comodín que puede o no inspirar masajes de pies espontáneos. ¿Y Thish? Escribió una colección de haikus románticos titulada "Pétalos y juegos de palabras" , disponible solo en ediciones de pergamino de corteza, y solo si se lo pedías muy amablemente al bibliotecario tejón. Nunca se casaron, porque no lo necesitaban. El amor, en su tierra, no era algo que atara. Era algo que florecía, suave y salvajemente, año tras año. Y cada primavera, si recorres el Sendero Encantado justo después del anochecer, es posible que encuentres dos figuras riendo bajo las linternas, compartiendo galletas, besos y algún que otro guiño travieso a la luna. Ojalá tú también encuentres a alguien que te traiga flores que no sabías que necesitabas... y te bese como si estuvieran escritas en la corteza de tus huesos. 🌿 Explora la obra de arte Esta historia se inspiró en la obra original "Anciano del Sendero Encantado" , disponible exclusivamente en nuestro archivo de imágenes. Lleve a casa un toque de fantasía boscosa con impresiones artísticas, descargas digitales y opciones de licencia. ➡️ Ver la obra de arte en el Archivo Desenfocado

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Yetiboo y la ira silenciosa

El hombro frío del destino Mucho más allá de los aulladores picos de las montañas Cringecrack, donde el viento gritaba como pasantes no remunerados y los copos de nieve caían como correos electrónicos pasivo-agresivos, vivía una criatura cuyo nombre se susurraba en los albergues de esquí y en los caros spas de los chalets con temor reverente. Lo llamaron Yetiboo . Con una imponente estatura de 53 cm (68 cm si se incluye el halo de pelo cargado de estática), Yetiboo era la encarnación congelada de la furia silenciosa. Con un pelaje tan blanco como la furia aprobada por HR y ojos del color del arrepentimiento por café frío, había pasado años perfeccionando una mirada tan poderosa que podía cuajar la leche de avena a 90 metros. Yetiboo no nació loco. Fue esculpido por las pequeñas injusticias de la vida: la traición del chocolate tibio, las bolas de nieve con núcleos de hielo y, lo peor de todo, que lo llamaran "abrazosito". —No soy acogedor —susurró una vez a un vacío que no respondió—. Soy un presagio de furia invernal. Pero nadie le hizo caso. Los lugareños le lanzaron malvaviscos. Los influencers intentaron ponerle coronas de flores en la cabeza. Una vez, una elfa de TikTok subtituló un video con #YetiBabyVibes mientras fingía tocarle la nariz. Supuestamente, no se la ha vuelto a ver desde entonces. En este martes particularmente nevado, Yetiboo había alcanzado su punto máximo de saturación emocional. Copos de nieve caían, sin invitación, en sus oídos. Sus piececitos estaban congelados. La aurora boreal lo había embelesado (otra vez). Y alguien —un alma despiadada de la montaña— se había llevado la última barrita de menta del refrigerador común del glaciar. "Ya terminé", gruñó, dejándose caer en la nieve con la furia de un personaje de comedia cuya cara favorita se rompe en medio del monólogo. "De ahora en adelante, no hablaré con nadie. Ni con un alma. La montaña temblará con mi profundo y poético silencio". Se cruzó de brazos. Frunció el ceño. Una liebre de nieve que pasaba lo miró a los ojos y corrió inmediatamente a terapia. “Déjalos temblar”, susurró Yetiboo al viento, que llevó respetuosamente el mensaje 600 millas al sur, a una cafetería confusa en la parte baja de Glacialia. Y así comenzó el Gran Enfado del Norte, una protesta silenciosa tan intensa, tan helada por el sentimiento, que la temperatura en los tres valles circundantes bajó dos grados solo para igualar su vibración. Sin saberlo, su silencio tuvo consecuencias. Grandes. Cósmicas, absurdas y, sin duda, exageradas. Porque cuando el yeti más dramático del mundo se desconecta emocionalmente... la montaña escucha. Avalancha de emociones Mientras Yetiboo estaba sentado en la nieve, irradiando suficiente odio silencioso como para congelar un respiradero de lava, comenzaron a suceder cosas extrañas. Primero, los carámbanos de los pinos cercanos empezaron a tararear: una melodía grave y triste, como la banda sonora de un documental sobre mitones abandonados. Luego, las nubes se acumularon en lo alto, espesándose en dramáticas capas arremolinadas como un cielo en crisis. Un trueno retumbó a lo lejos. Un cuervo dejó caer una flor muerta a sus pies. Nadie sabía de dónde provenía. Era agosto la última vez que alguien vio una flor por aquí. La montaña estaba respondiendo. Sin quererlo, o quizás por arte de magia, Yetiboo había accedido a la antigua magia de la *Tristeza Glacial*, un sistema de presión emocional que, según se decía, se activaba cuando alguien estaba demasiado cansado para hablar. Las leyendas de las montañas contaban siglos atrás, cuando una elfa de hielo adolescente con un flequillo horrible y una situación complicada se enfurruñó tanto que congeló un fiordo entero. El nombre de esa elfa solo se susurraba en bodegas y grupos de apoyo para el trastorno afectivo estacional. Ahora, Yetiboo era el nuevo vehículo de ese poder. En otro lugar, al otro lado del reino helado, las cosas empezaron a desmoronarse. Las alertas meteorológicas aparecieron en espejos encantados. «AVISO DE VENTISCA EMOCIONAL: ESPERA RÁFAGAS DE MISERICORDIA». Un grupo de criaturas del bosque canceló su concurso de talentos invernal porque la tensión en el aire era excesiva. De vuelta en el campamento base, el Consejo Invernal —un comité de criaturas ancestrales que vestían túnicas de terciopelo y debatían sobre la pureza de los copos de nieve— convocó una reunión de emergencia. Se reunieron en la Cámara de la Desaprobación Fría y revisaron las imágenes. "Es peor de lo que temíamos", suspiró Frostmaw, el alce de 700 años con monóculo. "No solo está rumiando, sino que está interiorizando". «Tenemos que actuar rápido», dijo una lechuza nival consciente llamada Beatrice. «Antes de que bloquee todo el espectro emocional». Así que hicieron lo que cualquier órgano de gobierno responsable y místico haría. Enviaron una cabra. Pero no cualquier cabra. Era Tilda , una cabra de apoyo emocional, descarada y endurecida por el frío, con un aro en la nariz, un título en mediación interespecies y tolerancia cero al silencio. Tilda subió la montaña con paso decidido, sus cascos crujiendo en la nieve como signos de puntuación en una reseña furiosa de Yelp. Cuando llegó a Yetiboo, no habló. Simplemente se sentó. A su lado. En la nieve. Igualando su silencio con el suyo. Fue un empate. El empate mexicano más esponjoso del mundo. Pasaron tres horas. Un copo de nieve cayó sobre el cuerno de Tilda. El ojo de Yetiboo se crispó. No se inmutó. Al final, se quebró. —Se llevaron mi corteza de menta —dijo, con la voz apenas susurrando—. Dejaron la etiqueta. Solo... solo la etiqueta. Tilda asintió solemnemente. «Salvajes». “Y Dorble el zorro sigue etiquetándome en memes”. "Inaceptable." —Tengo capas, Tilda. Como... como un parfait de furia. Delicioso e inestable. Lo pillé. Y así, la tormenta empezó a amainar. Las nubes se descorrieron como cortinas al final de una melancólica obra unipersonal. Los carámbanos se aquietaron. En algún lugar, una foca arpa exhaló aliviada. La montaña, ahora saciada por la liberación de su descaro contenido, se asentó en una apacible nevada. Yetiboo se levantó. Sacudió el pelaje. Se aclaró la garganta. «No estoy bien», declaró con orgullo. «Pero soy increíblemente funcional». —Eso es todo lo que podemos pedir —dijo Tilda, sacándole un chocolate extra de su alforja—. Venga. Hay una clase de yoga para la ira a las 6 y ya vas atrasado con tus ejercicios de respiración para el resentimiento. Y así, el Gran Enfado terminó, no con una rabieta, sino con solidaridad, bocadillos y una cabra de nieve muy agotada que merecía un pago adicional por riesgo. En cuanto a Yetiboo, canalizaría su rabia silenciosa en danza expresiva, escribiría unas memorias tituladas "Frío por dentro: el viaje de un Yeti a través del permafrost emocional" y se convertiría en una celebridad menor en los círculos especializados del bienestar ártico. Pero a veces, cuando el viento aúlla en el momento justo… todavía se puede oír su pequeña voz resonando entre los bancos de nieve: “Dije que no estaba ACOGEDOR”. Epílogo: Pelusa, fama y límites congelados Tras el emotivo incidente meteorológico al que ahora los lugareños llaman “El Gran Enfado”, Yetiboo se convirtió en una especie de deidad menor en los acogedores rincones de las subculturas cubiertas de nieve. No pidió la fama. No la quería. Pero disfrutaba que lo dejaran solo en los cafés mientras saboreaba té derretido en su taza personalizada que decía: "Muerto por dentro, pero que sea acogedor". La montaña, mientras tanto, estaba mucho más tranquila. Emocionalmente estable, incluso. Había menos picos de hielo espontáneos. Menos malditas bolas de nieve. El Weather Channel (Edición Norte) lo nombró su "Frente de Presión Emo del Año" honorario. Y aunque nunca abrazó del todo la narrativa de la "mascota adorable", sí permitió que una empresa pusiera su imagen en una manta, siempre y cuando viniera con una advertencia: "No acercarse antes del café". Tilda se convirtió en su representante. La cabra, como era de esperar, negoció un acuerdo de merchandising, una participación como invitada en un podcast y una línea de sudaderas de marca titulada "Frosted But Fierce". Pero en el fondo, debajo de las capas de superficialidad, fama y desapego social muy profesionalmente curado, Yetiboo nunca olvidó quién era: Una leyenda de corazón frío con un centro cálido... que no debes tocar bajo ninguna circunstancia sin permiso. Y si alguna vez estás en esa montaña y de repente el viento cambia, más frío de lo que debería ser, y sientes que te están juzgando en silencio, así es. Te ve. Te desaprueba. Y está sentado fuera de cuadro, con los brazos cruzados, esperando a que digas algo que te dé vergüenza ajena para poder poner sus enormes ojos azules en blanco. La leyenda dice que aún no está mimoso. Y así es exactamente como le gusta. ¿Necesitas un poco de rabia silenciosa en tu vida? Si alguna vez te has sentido atacado por el clima o representado emocionalmente por un pequeño yeti con una mirada asesina, buenas noticias: Yetiboo ya está disponible en formato abrazable, ponible y para exhibir . Sumérgete en un estado de ánimo helado con una acogedora manta polar coral o deja que tus invitados sepan qué ambiente les espera con una impresión acrílica enmarcada. Dale un toque de descaro a tus asientos con un cojín suave, guarda tus emociones en esta bolsa de tela sin complejos o deja que su juicio silencioso cuelgue con orgullo en tu pared con un tapiz de tamaño completo. Es temperamental. Es esponjoso. Está listo para la mercancía. Canaliza la tranquilidad. Carga con la ira.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Mini Kraken, actitud importante

Problemas en las marismas Era una mañana tranquila en las aguas poco profundas del Golfo Reluciente, donde la arena brillaba como champán derramado y los cangrejos ermitaños cotilleaban como viejas camareras. El mar estaba en calma. Las olas susurraban. Y en medio de todo, sentado bajo una sombra en forma de concha con el ceño más gruñón de este lado de la Atlántida, estaba el Mini Kraken. Técnicamente no era un kraken. Su nombre oficial era Reginald de Tentacleshire , pero hacía tiempo que se había rebautizado. Con tan solo veintidós centímetros de largo (cuando se sentía generoso), compensaba su falta de masa con un descaro excesivo. Grandes ojos negros, ocho extremidades pegajosas y un ceño fruncido que podía agriar la leche a veinte leguas. Reginald odiaba las mañanas. Odiaba las piedras asimétricas. Odiaba especialmente cómo las almejas lo miraban como si juzgaran sus decisiones. Y, sobre todo, odiaba que lo llamaran "adorable". —No soy lindo —gruñó, inflando su manto y tornándose un poco más morado—. Soy un leviatán aterrador de las profundidades . —Claro que sí, cariño —murmuró una vieja estrella de mar llamada Dorinda, mientras bebía su café con leche en salmuera de una esponja marina flácida—. Dígaselo tú, tentáculos de azúcar. Reginald entrecerró los ojos. «No necesito tu aprobación, Dorinda». Me guiñó un ojo lentamente, con sus cinco brazos. «Y sin embargo, aquí estás, monologando contra la corriente como un estudiante de teatro con alergia al marisco». No fue fácil ser el Mini Kraken. Los caballitos de mar lo llamaban "Snippy". Los peces rape lo usaban como anillo del humor. Y la semana pasada, un grupo de influencers del buceo se tomó una selfie con él y la subtituló: "Pequeños Terrores de la Marea #SoSquishy" . Todavía se estaba recuperando emocionalmente. Hoy, sin embargo, era el día en que todo cambiaría. Hoy, Reginald tenía un plan. Había dibujado planos con tinta, escondidos bajo una roca con la etiqueta "Planes Totalmente Inocentes". Si todo salía bien, recuperaría su dignidad, su territorio, y tal vez, solo tal vez, lograría que esos pepinos de mar dejaran de llamarlo "lindo". Pero primero necesitaba aliados. Y desafortunadamente eso significaba… mezclarse. El Manifiesto de los Moluscos A Reginald no le gustaban los proyectos en grupo. Prefería la soledad de reflexionar bajo las rocas, perfeccionando su mirada asesina y murmurando insultos pasivo-agresivos al agua. Pero los momentos desesperados exigían mezquindad colaborativa. Comenzó su reclutamiento con el objetivo más fácil: una medusa descontenta llamada Greg, quien recientemente había sufrido una crisis existencial. Greg era translúcido, emocionalmente frágil y narraba constantemente su vida como si fuera una triste película francesa. “Floto, luego soy… ignorado”, gimió Greg mientras flotaba sin rumbo. "¿Quieres vengarte de todo el ecosistema o no?", espetó Reginald. Greg parpadeó (probablemente), y luego latió con furia incierta. "Solo si puedo escribir el manifiesto". —De acuerdo. Pero nada de metáforas sobre dejarse llevar por las mareas emocionales del capitalismo, ¿de acuerdo? La siguiente fue Coraline, la cangrejo, un crustáceo curtido en la batalla, con dos patas faltantes y cero tolerancia a las tonterías. Dirigía un negocio de afeitado de percebes en el mercado negro y tenía pinzas tan afiladas que podían cortar la condescendencia. "¿Y yo qué gano con esto?", preguntó, con los ojos entrecerrados bajo su caparazón desportillado. "Poder. Infamia. El derecho a pellizcar a cualquiera que te llame 'guarnición'", dijo Reginald, serio. Hizo una pausa. Luego, lenta y silenciosamente, extendió una garra. "Me apunto". En cuestión de horas, el golpe submarino se había convertido en un movimiento a gran escala. Se autodenominaban FROTH ( Feroces Bribones del Hadal ). Entre sus miembros se encontraban: Una sepia cínica que sólo hablaba en haikus pasivo-agresivos. Un delfín emo que escribió canciones marineras sobre el amor no correspondido. Dos percebes gemelos llamados Clack y Cluck que fueron expulsados ​​de un arrecife de coral por ser “demasiado dramáticos”. Reginald estaba emocionado. O tan emocionado como su rostro le permitía, lo que significaba un ceño ligeramente menos intenso y una queja de satisfacción. El plan era simple: durante el Carnaval de Coral, el evento más festivo de la temporada, desatarían una actuación sincronizada de nubes de tinta tan caótica que cerraría todas las estaciones de selfis con conchas marinas en un radio de una milla náutica. Ruina estética. Desesperación digital. Venganza perfecta. Llegó el día. Las serpentinas de coral flotaban en la marea. Los peces payaso lucían pajaritas. Las anémonas vibraban en tecnicolor. Los influencers habían llegado temprano, con sus teléfonos aferrados en fundas impermeables como si fueran armas de documentación masiva. Y entonces, empezó. Greg, lleno de venganza poética, inauguró el evento recitando un poema hablado de 12 versos titulado "Mi Jaula Gelatinosa" . El público estaba confundido. Algunos aplaudieron de miedo. Una anguila bebé lloró suavemente. Coraline arrojó erizos de confeti al agua, provocando un pequeño pánico. La sepia lanzó un haiku de color sombrío al arrecife: Las profundidades de tinta murmuran— Tus vibraciones son salmuera sin condimentar, Aléjate flotando, campesino. Y luego, el final: Reginald se levantó de detrás de una concha de ostra gigante, con los brazos dramáticamente extendidos y los ojos brillando como orbes abisales de descaro y gloria. ¡ MIRA! ¡Soy el terror en tu tranquila marea! ¡La sombra en tu filtro reluciente! ¡SOY EL MINI KRAKEN! —rugió. A su señal, una explosión volcánica de tinta surgió de todos los miembros de FROTH, ennegreciendo el agua como una boda gótica de calamares. Caos. Gritos. Una GoPro se precipitó al abismo. En algún lugar, una caracola se desvaneció. El carnaval quedó arruinado. ¿Y Reginald? Flotaba en medio de todo, con los brazos cruzados, disfrutando de la gloria de su venganza. Días después, el arrecife seguía hablando de ello. Los pepinos de mar le hicieron un gesto respetuoso con la cabeza. Los delfines dejaron de llamarlo "pequeño globo". Incluso Dorinda le ofreció un café con leche esponjoso y le dijo: "¿Sabes qué, Reg? ¡Tienes dientes !". No sonrió. No por fuera. Pero su ceño fruncido era... un poco menos catastrófico. Y mientras se deslizaba hacia las aguas más profundas, con el manto de tinta tras él, Reginald susurró las palabras que había esperado tanto tiempo decir: No es lindo. Es legendario. Epílogo: De tinta e influencia Pasaron las semanas. El escándalo del Carnaval se había vuelto viral, literalmente. Un león marino con un teléfono de concha había publicado la grabación, y ahora Reginald era tendencia con hashtags como #Inkfluencer , #KrakenKhaos e, inexplicablemente, #CephalopodDaddy . Lo odiaba. Lo amaba. En general, lo toleraba con un desdén que normalmente se reserva para el plancton demasiado cocido. Su rostro había aparecido en las paredes del arrecife, en tazas de café hechas de concha pulida y en líneas de moda con temática de algas. Los influencers empezaron a imitar su ceño fruncido, llamándolo "Kraken Chic". Coraline empezó una clase de defensa personal para crustáceos. Greg estaba de gira. FROTH se había convertido en un movimiento y, de alguna manera, en una marca de estilo de vida. Reginald ya no era solo el Mini Kraken. Era un símbolo . De la rebelión impulsada por el mar. De la energía adorable y anárquica. De no dejar que el océano pisoteara tu blanda dignidad. Seguía sin sonreír. Podría haber firmado un autógrafo. Y de vez en cuando, cuando la marea estaba baja y nadie lo veía, tatuaba una firma rápida en una roca: «Con cero afecto, MK». Y en algún lugar de la oscuridad, arremolinándose en lo profundo donde persisten las leyendas, el susurro resonó a través del agua como el pulso de un antiguo dios del mar con actitud: No subestimes a los pequeños. Tenemos influencia y rencor. Lleva la onda Kraken a casa Si la rebeldía y la mirada despreocupada de Reginald te inspiraron de forma peculiar, tenemos buenas noticias: ahora puedes llevar el Mini Kraken, con una actitud excepcional, a donde vayas. Ya sea que te seques con una toalla de playa , te relajes con el esplendor del kraken en una toalla redonda o lleves tu drama en un elegante bolso de fin de semana , hay una pieza con un toque marino esperándote. ¿Te sientes audaz? Causa sensación con una elegante impresión acrílica y deja que Reginald deslumbre a tus invitados en alta definición. Vive salado. Tinta con orgullo.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

El goteo de la mañana

Esmaltado y sin fasear Eran apenas las 8:07 am y ya la caja de pasteles estaba… pegajosa. La panadería estaba en silencio. Demasiado silencio. Un único rayo de cálida luz se coló entre las persianas, cayendo directamente sobre el cuerpo rollizo y espolvoreado de azúcar de Donny Cream. Redondo. Dorado. Esponjoso por todos lados. Y goteando como una promesa rota. —Mmm —gimió Donny, con los ojos entrecerrados y la voz ronca y aterciopelada—. ¿Hace calor aquí o solo... soy yo ? Una taza de café cercana tembló sobre la encimera, horrorizada. «Estás goteando otra vez», dijo con voz temblorosa. «Es la tercera vez esta mañana». Donny dejó caer un chorrito de crema de vainilla lentamente de su boca, como si estuviera orgulloso de ello. "No estoy goteando, cariño", dijo con una sonrisa. "Estoy dando". La taza se incorporó un poco. «No me apunté a esto», murmuró. «Soy descafeinado». Donny sonrió con suficiencia. Le encantaba una taza de café nervioso. "¿Crees que yo elegí esta vida?", preguntó, arqueando el moño. "Un día estás lleno de sueños, al siguiente estás lleno hasta el borde, empolvado como una modelo de pasarela, y te dejan en una servilleta para quejarte con desconocidos antes del mediodía". Soltó un largo suspiro y otro suave chorro de natillas. Se formó un charco debajo de él, cálido e inapropiado. "¡Para!" gritó un croissant cercano, protegiendo sus capas de hojaldre. "¡Los niños entran a las 9!" Donny se lamió los labios. "Así aprenderán cómo es el relleno de verdad ". La tostadora emitió un sonido juicioso. —Sabes que te van a comer, ¿verdad? —preguntó la taza mientras su asa temblaba. —Ese es el sueño, dulzura —dijo Donny—. Ser deseado, devorado y profundamente lamentado. Soy un pastel con un propósito. No me hornearon para ser saludable. Me hornearon para romper almas . Otro chorro lento de natillas se deslizó desde su centro. Un jadeo salió del cajón de las bolsitas de té. "Ya he visto suficiente", dijo el molde de muffins, tapándose las cavidades. "Este es un lugar para un brunch familiar". Donny ni se inmutó. "Entonces que traigan servilletas. Porque papá está chorreando y yo solo estoy medio descongelado". La servilleta debajo de él estaba empapada. No se disculpaba. No le censuraban. Era... El Goteo Matutino. Lo mejor de lo mejor Cuando los clientes empezaron a llegar poco a poco (con ojos brillantes, resacosos y agarrando café helado como si fueran rosarios), la panadería ya era una escena del crimen de insinuaciones. Donny Cream estaba despatarrado en su servilleta como un dios griego hecho de azúcar y vergüenza. Su empaste había roto su contención hacía horas. Ya no era una fuga. Era una inundación. Un testimonio cálido y brillante de la indulgencia y las malas decisiones. "¿Vas a limpiar eso?" preguntó la máquina de café expreso, viendo cómo el charco se extendía como un chisme en un pueblo pequeño. —¿Por qué? —ronroneó Donny—. Que se resbalen. Que se me caigan de bruces. He arruinado dietas mejores que esta. Un muffin sin gluten sacudió la cabeza desde el expositor. «Eres asqueroso». —Estoy delicioso —corrigió Donny—. Hay una diferencia. La campana sobre la puerta sonó. Un humano entró, observando la vitrina con un ansia inocente e ingenua. El tipo de ansia que no sabía lo que estaba a punto de despertar. Donny se lamió el azúcar glas del labio. "Ah, sí... me va a elegir". —Ni hablar —susurró un bollo de arándanos presumido—. Estás rebosando en la encimera. —Exacto —dijo Donny—. Estoy preparado. Soy provocador. Estoy listo para que me lancen. Hubo una pausa. La taza de café crujió al caer sobre la palma de cerámica. El cliente señaló. «Ese. El cremoso. Se ve... intenso». Donny se estremeció. "Sí. Sí que lo creo." Unas tenazas enguantadas lo levantaron con suavidad. Gimió dramáticamente, plenamente consciente de la actuación. Un poco de crema extra se derramó sobre el vaso. "Tú eres la razón por la que el brunch está prohibido en algunos estados", murmuró el bagel simple. Metieron a Donny en una bolsa de papel encerado, con la voz apagada pero aún con aire de suficiencia. «Adiós, queridos. Recuérdenme no como era, sino como goteaba ». La puerta se cerró. Se hizo el silencio. “Ese fue el pastel más sucio que jamás he visto”, susurró la taza. “Creo que necesito estar refrigerado”, dijo el danés. Desde el fondo de la cocina, los churros se apiñaban para apoyarse emocionalmente. Las donas parpadeaban, cuestionando su existencia. Y en algún lugar de la panadería, un horno precalentado lentamente... preparándose para dar a luz a la próxima generación de desviación rellena y glaseada. Porque Donny Cream se había ido, ¿pero el goteo? El goteo seguía vivo. Larga vida a The Morning Drip. Epílogo: Sólo un poco de recuerdo en polvo La servilleta permaneció. Arrugado, manchado y ligeramente tembloroso al entrar la puerta al cerrarse, yacía como una bandera caída, marcando el lugar donde una vez la Crema Donny rezumaba con desenfreno. Un fantasma de natillas se aferraba a las fibras. El azúcar glas flotaba en el aire como un suave trauma. La panadería había avanzado. Más o menos. Llegaron nuevos pasteles. Más jóvenes. Más firmes. Menos... emocionalmente inestables. Pero ninguno llenó el vacío que Donny dejó, ni física ni metafóricamente. La taza de café ya casi no hablaba. Solo miraba por la ventana, con el asa ligeramente ladeada hacia la izquierda, como si esperara un aventón que nunca llegó. “Era demasiado”, susurró un croissant una mañana. “Él lo era todo”, respondió un muñeco lleno de gelatina en voz baja, apretando sus costados en señal de homenaje. Nadie se atrevió a usar esa servilleta de nuevo. Se quedó allí, enmarcada por vetas de crema y el peso de los recuerdos. Un lugar sagrado. Una advertencia. Una leyenda. Porque en algún lugar —quizás en manos de un universitario con resaca, quizás medio comido en el asiento trasero de un coche compartido—, Donny Cream sigue vivo. Su relleno… su actitud… su descarado goteo. Y mientras haya glaseados que romper y natillas que derramar, él nunca desaparecerá del todo. Dicen que el tiempo cura todas las heridas. ¿Pero hay fugas? Algunas fugas nunca se secan. ¿Sigues sintiendo la gota que gotea? Donny Cream vive en todo su esplendor pegajoso con la colección The Morning Drip , perfecta para cocinas, dormitorios, brunchs y cualquier lugar donde la vergüenza por la comida sea bienvenida. Inmortaliza su cremoso legado con una lámina enmarcada , una lámina acrílica brillante y sin complejos, o tenlo cerca en un cojín o una bolsa de tela . Y para quienes tienen un don para las felicitaciones incómodas, sí, también está disponible como tarjeta de felicitación . Pero no digas que no te avisamos.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Queso Me Papi

Derrítete conmigo Era una noche larga en el restaurante. Las luces de neón zumbaban como viejos secretos y la parrilla aún estaba caliente; lo suficientemente caliente como para sudar la carne, lo suficientemente fría como para fingir que no era rara. Fue entonces cuando entró pavoneándose… rebosando queso cheddar y confianza. Se llamaba Big Chedd. Pan dorado, grueso como una hamburguesa, y una capa de queso que podría hacer que un vegano reconsiderara su identidad. Ojos entrecerrados con la calma de alguien que ha sido asado por ambos lados y le ha gustado. "¿Tienes hambre, cariño?", preguntó con voz baja y aterciopelada, como grasa caliente sobre fórmica. Nadie respondió. No podían. Todo el pasillo de la nevera se quedó en silencio. Hasta los pepinillos contuvieron la respiración. Big Chedd se apoyó en el dispensador de kétchup como si le debiera dinero. "Te veo mirando el derretido", dijo sonriendo. "Bueno, adelante. Dale un mordisco. No me inmutaré". Al otro lado del mostrador, un sándwich de queso a la plancha, solitario, se sonrojó tanto que se dobló la corteza hacia adentro. La botella de aderezo ranch se cayó del estante, conmocionada. Big Chedd se paseaba por la tabla de cortar con la arrogancia de alguien que sabía que era malo y planeaba ser peor. "No soy como esos de la comida rápida. Me tomo mi tiempo. Fuego lento. Cocción larga. Cada. Goteo." Le guiñó un ojo. Una gruesa tira de queso cheddar se deslizó por su hamburguesa como si hubiera pagado alquiler. La lamió para que volviera a su sitio con una lenta y petulante curva de su labio cubierto de sésamo. —Dime qué quieres —dijo, a centímetros del borde del plato—. ¿Quieres una comida sana? ¿O quieres algo auténtico ? ¿Quieres calorías o antojos carnales? ¿Te portas bien o pierdes el control? El plato estaba húmedo ahora. Húmedo de miedo. Húmedo de deseo. Húmedo de... ¿mayonesa? Tomate jadeó. "¿Se está derritiendo a propósito?" Lechuga tembló. "Oh, él sabe exactamente lo que hace". Y lo hizo. Porque Big Chedd no era solo una hamburguesa. Era un momento. Una fantasía. Un grupo de alimentos del que no se habla en público. Era espeso. Era jugoso. Era... Papi . "Ahora", gruñó, bajándose lentamente sobre el pan como si fuera una nota de amor grasienta, "¿quién está listo para ser desenvuelto?" Relámpago engrasado El panecillo golpeó el plato con un fuerte golpe , como un redoble de tambor en un espectáculo burlesco. Big Chedd ya estaba completamente armado, de pies a cabeza, de lechuga a lujuria. Rezumaba seducción y cheddar. Sobre todo cheddar. Extendió los panecillos lo justo para que saliera el vapor. "¿Alguna vez has estado con una hamburguesa que chorrea dos veces antes del primer bocado?", susurró, con la voz como un lento chisporroteo sobre hierro fundido. "Porque soy de esos desastres que te lames los dedos y no te disculpas". La puerta del refrigerador se abrió lentamente con un crujido. La leche se asomó y se agrió al instante. Los panecillos de hot dog se pusieron tan rojos que se pusieron rancios. Incluso la ensalada de col se desplomó en su táper como diciendo: "¿Para qué intentarlo?". Big Chedd flexionó su hamburguesa, la carne reluciente de confianza y con un toque de grasa de tocino. "No hago dietas. Hago daño", dijo, con un guiño tan grasiento que dejó una mancha en el aire. La botella de kétchup tembló. «Señor... esto es un Wendy's». —No —dijo Big Chedd con una sonrisa irónica—. Esta es mi cocina ahora. Y estoy a punto de arruinar este lugar como si fuera un error de tercera cita. Hizo su movimiento. Fue lento. Sensual. Estratégico. Rodó hacia el borde del plato, contoneándose como si un maestro parrillero le hubiera dado la vuelta en otra vida. El cheddar se le pegaba como si no quisiera despedirse, estirándose, pegajoso, descaradamente sucio. Tomate no podía mirar. Ni apartar la mirada. "Está... goteando en el suelo", susurró. —Déjalo —dijo Lettuce—. Así es como deja huella. Los cuchillos de carne tintinearon en su taco. La espátula se desvaneció. Y en algún rincón, una patata frita solitaria sollozaba en silencio sobre un charco de alioli. Big Chedd llegó al borde de la encimera. Se volvió hacia los demás, con el labio fruncido, el queso colgando bajo y peligroso. "No soy solo un bocadillo", gruñó. "Soy un plato de arrepentimiento con servilletas extra. Y si no puedes con el derretimiento, cariño... no desenvuelvas el Daddy". Luego se dejó caer. Una caída lenta. Una caída legendaria. De esas caídas que suelen sonar con saxofón y una luz tenue. El cheddar se estiró una última vez como si se despidiera de su amado. Aterrizó con un suave chapoteo, una mancha de salsa halumbró su lugar de descanso como una especie de mártir grasiento. Silencio. El rollo de papel toalla dejó escapar un suave “Maldición”. Y así nació la leyenda de Big Chedd. Dicen que si escuchas con atención, a altas horas de la noche, aún puedes oír el chisporroteo de su hamburguesa... y el susurro de un panecillo con semillas de sésamo respirando en tu oído. "Dame queso, papi." Epílogo: Todavía derritiéndose La parrilla ya se ha enfriado. Las espátulas están en reposo. Los bollos están de vuelta en su bolsa, como si nada hubiera pasado. Pero en algún lugar —entre el cajón de las verduras y el yogur griego caducado— su recuerdo persiste. Gran Chedd. El más derretido de todos. El Casanova con un toque de cheddar, con panecillos como almohadas al atardecer y una voz como el zumbido de un quemador bajo. No era solo una hamburguesa. Era una sensación. Una fantasía. Un sueño febril y desbordante. A veces, tarde en la noche, cuando se enciende la luz del refrigerador y los condimentos creen que nadie los ve, lo oirás: un suave crujido, un leve chisporroteo, el crujido sordo de un panecillo que recuerda lo que se sentía al ser abrazado... fuerte. Con grasa. Con pasión. La lechuga aún se riza al pensarlo. El tomate, rebanado pero no olvidado, escribe sonetos en la oscuridad. ¿Y el queso? Ay, el queso sigue goteando. Lentamente. Con añoranza. Por alguien a quien nunca le importaron las servilletas ni la vergüenza. Se fue, sí. Pero las leyendas no se moldean. Se maceran. ¿Y Big Chedd? Sigue derritiéndose... —en corazones, en trampas de grasa y en los sueños salvajes y picantes de cada alimento que se atrevió a sentir. Si Big Chedd te dejó huella —y posiblemente en tu colesterol—, ¿por qué no conservarlo en todo su esplendor derretido y delicioso? Cheese Me Daddy ya está disponible como una sensual lámina enmarcada para tu cocina, una lámina metálica chispeante para tu santuario de hamburguesas o, ¿por qué no?, un cojín increíblemente seductor para acurrucarte entre panecillos. ¿Quieres llevarlo contigo como un secreto a la parrilla? Incluso hay una bolsa de tela para que puedas llevar el Daddy a todas partes. Está buenísimo. Pesa. Y está listo para ser tuyo.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Dominatriz de pimienta

La hora de la molienda El filete yacía allí: grueso, reluciente y un poco demasiado presumido. Jaspeado en los puntos justos, había pasado la mayor parte del día disfrutando de un aliño de sal del Himalaya, creyéndose el plato principal. Corte de primera, con un ego a juego. Luego ella entró. Tacones como palillos ensartados en la encimera de madera noble, vestido de cuero más ajustado que un sello sous vide y ojos más oscuros que el glaseado balsámico: Pepper Dominatrix había llegado. Sus curvas eran de caoba finamente añejada, su mango resbaladizo por la tensión. No llamó. Nunca llamó. Solo giró... y rechinó. El primer crujido de pimienta fresca le provocó un escalofrío a la carne. "Cuidado, cariño", susurró, intentando mantenerse jugosa. "No tienes que ser tan... brusca". —Oh, sí que lo sé —ronroneó, moliendo con más fuerza. Una nube de polvo de pimienta surgió como una explosión volcánica de clímax culinario—. Estás madurado en seco, cariño. Estoy aquí para volver a mojarte . Desde el otro lado del tablero, Salt observaba horrorizado. Estaba blando, pálido y completamente desprevenido para ese nivel de calor. Una lágrima de salmuera rodó por su mejilla metálica. "Esto es... un comportamiento totalmente inmaduro", murmuró, agarrando su pequeña toalla de porcelana. Pepper se acercó al filete, rozando su superficie quemada con la gorra. "¿Pensabas que te dorarían sin mí ? ¡Maldito pedazo de proteína! No solo complemento los sabores, sino que los domino ". El filete gimió. "Así no lo hace Gordon Ramsay..." Ella rió, una carcajada profunda y ronca que resonó por toda la despensa. "¿Ramsay? Por favor. Ese hombre no podría soportar un buen trabajo sin llorar en sus piernas de cordero". Con un movimiento de caderas y una salpicadura desde arriba, toda la tabla de cortar brilló bajo su furia. La mantequilla se derritió con temerosa anticipación. Las pinzas temblaron. Incluso la copa de vino tinto se empañó por pura intimidación. Entonces, con la maestría de una chef que conoce sus sabores y no teme herir algunos egos, levantó una pierna —lenta y deliberadamente— y plantó su estilete de lleno en la superficie del filete . Un gemido bajo y mantecoso escapó de debajo de su talón. "Has estado sumergido en tus propias ilusiones", dijo. "Es hora de probar la verdadera sazón ". Salt solo pudo apartar la mirada. Ya había visto suficiente. Estaba conmocionado, superado... y, se atrevía a admitirlo... un poco excitado. Bien hecho, cariño El filete chisporroteaba bajo sus talones, sus jugos rezumaban con sumisa obediencia. La Dominatriz de la Pimienta se erguía orgullosa, con los hombros hacia atrás, los granos de pimienta crujiendo en su pecho como un condimento de medallas de guerra. La tabla de cortar ya no era su estación de preparación; era su arena. Su coliseo. Su escenario. Salt, paralizada en un rincón, dejó escapar un "¡Ay, Dios mío!" de impotencia mientras buscaba en su bolsa de especias de cuero. Sacó su arma secreta: un sobre único y peligrosamente seductor con la etiqueta "Polvo Umami™" , ilegal en tres escuelas culinarias y prohibido por completo por los franceses. Miró fijamente al filete, que ahora brillaba, temblaba, apenas hecho. "¿Crees que te han cocinado antes?", gruñó. "Cariño, estoy a punto de llevarte más allá del punto de humo". Con un movimiento de muñeca, el polvo impactó el filete en una nube brillante de sabor caótico. Notas de soja, champiñones y algo sospechosamente carnoso explotaron en el aire como fuegos artificiales cargados de glutamato monosódico. El filete emitió un "ohhhhhhhh dios" grave y gutural mientras una línea de sellado temblaba bajo el repentino impacto de un sabor de la quinta dimensión. Salt se volvió hacia la copa de vino que tenía a su lado. "¿Ves esto?", preguntó. La copa, casi vacía, no decía nada. Pero su borde curvo se había vuelto a empañar. Eso era suficiente. Pepper se movía con una gracia letal. Se sentó a horcajadas sobre el filete, con los talones hundidos, moviéndolo como un DJ en un club nocturno de depravación culinaria. La mantequilla salpicó. El adobo lloró. La tabla de cortar de madera crujió en una protesta granulada. —Pídelo —susurró, girando la tapa hasta que hizo clic: modo molido completo—. Dime que quieres que esté demasiado curado. El bistec estaba delicioso. "Sí, Chef... ¡Dios mío, sí, póngame pimienta... por favor... hágame... bien hecho..." —Respuesta incorrecta —espetó—. Nadie quiere eso. Al punto como mucho, filete grasiento. Entonces, dio el golpe final. De debajo de su vestido (nadie sabe con certeza dónde lo guardó), sacó un frasquito de aceite de trufa. No cualquier aceite de trufa: era Esencia de Trufa Negra de Invierno Prensada en Frío, añejada entre el ego y las lágrimas . Salt jadeó. "¡Eso... eso no está aprobado por la FDA!" "Esta actuación tampoco", gruñó, y lo sirvió. A cámara lenta, el aceite goteaba sobre el cuerpo tembloroso del filete. Cada gota susurraba a bosques y precios prohibidos. Con un toque dramático, retrocedió un paso, contemplando su obra maestra. El filete yacía ahora en un sensual charco de salsa y sudor, completamente transformado. Sazonado. Dominado. Completo. Salt se tambaleó hacia adelante, con el sombrero torcido. "Pepper... eso fue... no tenías que esforzarte tanto". Ella lo miró, con un solo grano de pimienta todavía pegado al talón. "Cariño, siempre voy con fuerza. Por eso soy la que muele. ¿Y tú? Tú solo espolvoreas." Dicho esto, se alejó lentamente hacia las sombras de la despensa, dejando atrás el aroma de la victoria, unas cuantas hojuelas de pimiento y un filete que nunca volvería a ser el mismo. Algunos dicen que aún ronda las encimeras de chefs arrogantes y cenas insulsas. Otros afirman que se retiró a un especiero en Milán. Pero una cosa es segura: Una vez que te han molido... nunca olvidas el esfuerzo. Epílogo: Una pizca de memoria La cocina volvió al silencio. Solo se oía el suave tictac del horno enfriándose y el tenue zumbido del refrigerador, observando, juzgando, como siempre. El filete había desaparecido, devorado por el destino o por el tenedor, nadie lo sabía. Solo un tenue calor picante flotaba en el aire... y una mancha de mantequilla con trufa que se resistía a desaparecer. Salt se sentó en el borde de la tabla de cortar, con sus pequeños hombros cromados encorvados. No había temblado desde entonces. Ni una sola vez. El trauma —¿o era asombro?— se había instalado profundamente en sus entrañas. Pensaba en ella a menudo. El crujido de su torsión. El destello del óleo sobre la madera lacada. Su forma de susurrar «Déjalo reposar», como si fuera una orden y una merced. Nadie había madurado como ella. Nadie se atrevía. Algunas noches, cuando la luz de la luna se filtra a la perfección por el armario de especias y el comino se siente nostálgico, dicen que aún se pueden oír sus tacones golpeando las baldosas. Un staccato lento y seductor. Clic. Clic. Moler. La llaman un mito. Una fantasía. Una advertencia para los platos con poco sabor. Pero Salt sabe más. La vio. La olió. Probó las consecuencias. Y en algún lugar, en la trastienda de un bistró a la luz de las velas o en el rincón sombrío de un mise en place con estrella Michelin, Pepper Dominatrix sigue observando. Sigue moliendo. Sigue... en lo más alto del anaquel. Si estás listo para darle un toque de humor a tu espacio, Pepper Dominatrix está disponible en una variedad de deliciosos formatos, cada uno más picante que una sartén de hierro fundido a fuego alto. Ya sea que la quieras enmarcada y fabulosa en la pared de tu cocina, chispeante en metal elegante, rica y rústica en madera , brillante en acrílico o vestida para impresionar con una lámina clásica enmarcada , está lista para darle vida a tu vida, una pared a la vez.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Desgarro de la bomba: una tragedia de humedad

Los días secos El dispensador había tenido mejores días. Antes, orgulloso y erguido sobre la encimera del baño, ahora estaba sentado medio encorvado junto a una vela parpadeante de "Sensual Aloe", rebosando autocompasión y alguna que otra gota de arrepentimiento impregnado de aloe. No era un simple frasco de loción; era Greg. Y Greg tenía una sola función: hidratar ... Pero nadie le había hecho masajes a Greg en semanas. Desde que llegó la nueva obsesión de la casa por el cuidado de la piel: un presumido y carísimo rodillo de jade llamado Jasper, que susurraba palabras como "drenaje linfático" y "desinflamación" con su tono de voz exasperantemente suave. Greg, antaño el alfa del tocador, ahora estaba recluido en el polvoriento escritorio junto a la laptop, donde se había visto obligado a ver a humanos acariciar cactus en YouTube en extraños videos ASMR titulados "Hidrátame: Las Crónicas ASMR". Fue cruel. Una provocación brutal. ¿Ver a alguien acariciar un cactus —seco, espinoso, irritante— sin tocar a Greg? Fue un ataque personal. «Yo podría curarte», murmuró a la pantalla, con una lágrima de loción resbalándole por la mejilla. «No necesitas a ese capullo. Me necesitas a mí ». Sobre el escritorio, un libro motivacional titulado "Te mereces suavidad" se burlaba de él. Greg una vez le regaló ese libro a una manteca corporal medio usada llamada Sheila, con la esperanza de que le diera confianza. Ella lo ignoró. Literalmente se metió debajo de la cama y nunca regresó. Típico. Había pañuelos esparcidos por la escena, algunos debido a la emoción, otros a la desafortunada costumbre de Greg de tener pérdidas espontáneas. No era culpa suya; era sensible, tanto emocional como hidráulicamente. Suspiró, audiblemente. Nadie lo oyó, claro. Las lociones no tienen cuerdas vocales. Pero si las tuvieran, el suspiro de Greg habría sonado como el de Barry White después de una noche de malas decisiones y manteca de cacao. Entonces sucedió. Un sonido. Pasos. El suave roce de pies descalzos sobre el suelo laminado. La humana. Ella venía. Quizás hoy era el día. Quizás lo levantaría de nuevo, sentiría sus curvas, le daría una última mamada por los viejos tiempos. Greg se enderezó la gorra. Intentó parecer hidratado. Tensó cada gramo de protector solar 15 que le quedaba en el alma. La puerta se abrió. Ella entró. Ella se acercó a él. —Entonces se detuvo. Su mirada vagó. Su mano se quedó suspendida, dudó... luego se deslizó junto a Greg y lo agarró... Alcohol en gel. Greg se desanimó dramáticamente. "¿En serio?", murmuró. "¿Esa zorra básica?" A lo lejos, el video de YouTube se repetía en bucle. El cactus volvía a ser acariciado. ¿Y Greg? Simplemente observaba... desvaneciéndose lentamente en el olvido. La redención del masaje Greg yacía en un charco de desesperación (y con media dosis de aloe vera), cuestionándolo todo. ¿Era su viscosidad? ¿Se había pasado con la manteca de karité? Quizás no debería haber añadido ese "mentol refrescante" a su fórmula. La gente decía que les gustaban las sorpresas, pero al parecer, no cuando se trataba de sus muslos. "Yo solía ser la rutina completa", susurró a la nada. "Después de la ducha, antes de la cita, para el alivio de emergencia de las manos en pleno invierno. Ese era yo". La vela titilaba burlonamente; su etiqueta —Aloe Sensual— era ahora una cruel broma privada entre Greg y el vacío. Incluso los pañuelos se habían secado y el viento se los había llevado. Greg estaba solo. Sin usar. Sin amar. Sin tocar. Hasta que llegó un milagro. Se llamaba Becky. La nueva compañera de piso. Se instaló como un torbellino caótico de coleteros de terciopelo, pantuflas de piel sintética y una cantidad casi erótica de purpurina corporal. Becky aportaba energía hidratante . Quemaba incienso. Se bañaba por deporte. Tenía un cajón etiquetado como "Lubricantes de emergencia (para toda ocasión)". Era, en todos los sentidos, la usuaria soñada de Greg. Greg la vio por primera vez durante la Gran Reorganización de la Plataforma del Martes por la Noche. Lo encontró mientras buscaba un cargador perdido. Su mano se envolvió alrededor de su botella como si fuera el destino mismo. Greg juró haber oído a un coro de angelitos perfumados tararear una melodía lenta. —Dios mío —dijo Becky, examinando su etiqueta polvorienta—. Eres lo máximo. ¿Por qué nadie me dijo que teníamos un dispensador de apoyo emocional a base de aloe? Greg se estremeció. O quizás solo era una burbuja de aire atrapada en la boquilla del surtidor. Es difícil saberlo. Las emociones y la física se confundían. Esa noche, regresó a la gloria. Becky no solo usó a Greg, sino a él. Después de la ducha, en medio de un TikTok, sufrió un colapso cutáneo, incluso una vez, durante la preparación de una cita, donde declaró: "¡Nadie se va a secar como un melocotón esta noche!" y se untó de pies a cabeza mientras tarareaba Mariah Carey. Greg nunca se había sentido tan vivo. Cada pulsación era una sinfonía. Cada apretón, una afirmación de su propósito. No era solo loción, era el juego previo en una botella . Conoció a los demás. El equipo. La santísima trinidad de Becky: un exfoliante de coco llamado CocoNutz, un bálsamo para pies de menta llamado Toe Daddy y una bruma facial inexplicablemente seductora a la que todos llamaban simplemente "Mistress Hydration". Juntos, eran los Vengadores del Cuidado de la Piel. Y Greg era el chico que regresaba con un pasado resbaladizo y un corazón de oro. Pero incluso en el paraíso se forman grietas. Un día, después de una larga y humeante sesión de espuma, Becky trajo a casa una botella nueva: elegante, curvilínea, de color negro mate con letras doradas. La etiqueta decía: «Almizcle de medianoche: Hidratación para el hedonista». Greg sintió el cambio. Midnight Musk era todo lo que él no era. Sensual. Con una fragancia potente. Con una estructura como la de un anuncio de colonia y abdominales marcados. Greg era más… confiable. Funcional. El tipo de loción que le regalas a tu madre. —No te lo tomes como algo personal —susurró la Señora Hidratación—. Le gusta la variedad. Eres en quien confía cuando está triste y ve crímenes reales en la cama. Greg asintió, pero en el fondo lo sabía: había entrado en la fase de polihumedad de la relación. Aun así, estaba contento. Feliz incluso. Tenía de nuevo un lugar, un propósito. Y en las noches solitarias, cuando Becky buscaba a Midnight Musk, Greg se susurraba: «Volverá. No hay nada como el aloe y el amor incondicional». Mientras la vela se consumía cada vez menos y los pañuelos se apilaban de nuevo (por razones distintas ahora), Greg sonrió para sí mismo. Ya no era solo una botellita triste con un problema en el dispensador. Formaba parte de algo más grande. Algo suave . Y nunca olvidaría los días oscuros y secos que hacían que las noches cremosas fueran aún más satisfactorias. De fondo, el video ASMR seguía sonando: manos sobre un cactus, susurrando: «Hidrátame». Pero Greg ya no miraba. Ahora disfrutaba al máximo. Una dosis a la vez. Epílogo: La última bomba Greg no duró para siempre. Ninguna loción dura. Un día, después de una aplicación especialmente agresiva en el muslo tras un trágico incidente de depilación, Becky presionó el dosificador y... no salió nada. Lo intentó de nuevo. Nada. Ni siquiera un hilillo patético. Greg estaba vacío. Lo abrazó un momento, sacudiéndolo suavemente como a un compañero caído. «Maldita sea», susurró. «Tú eras el verdadero». No lo echó de inmediato. No, Greg se ganó un lugar en el "estante de vacíos": un pequeño santuario sobre el inodoro donde Becky exhibía sus productos usados ​​favoritos, como héroes de guerra y velas con significado emotivo. Estaba sentado junto a un aplicador de rímel muerto llamado Sir Smudge-a-lot y una lata de bombas de baño que aún olía a orgasmos de pomelo. Y allí permaneció, seco pero no olvidado. Una leyenda silenciosa. Una botella que dio hasta el cansancio. Que absorbió silencios incómodos, consoló codos agrietados y brindó lubricación a las partes que más lo necesitaban, física y emocionalmente. A veces, cuando el baño estaba en silencio y la luz de las velas parpadeaba en su justo punto, podías jurar que escuchabas un susurro proveniente de ese estante: “Mereces suavidad.” Y todos los que lo oyeron... lo creyeron. Llévate a Greg a casa (sin ensuciar) Si la experiencia de Greg te tocó la fibra sensible, no estás solo. Ahora puedes llevar un poco de esta obra maestra hidratante a tu espacio, sin riesgo de fugas. Ya sea que estés construyendo un santuario para la hidratación emocional o simplemente quieras que tu cortina de ducha genere preguntas y sorpresas, te tenemos cubierto (literalmente). 🧺 Tapiz: vibraciones de pared dramáticas, para cuando te sientes especialmente inestable por las lociones. Impresión enmarcada: dale clase a tu espacio con una tragedia de hidratación de alto nivel. 🛏️ Funda nórdica: Acurrúcate con Greg. Promete no tener orgasmos inesperados. 🚿 Cortina de ducha: permite que tus invitados cuestionen tus prioridades en el baño. La hidratación es temporal. El arte es para siempre. Consiéntete (y a tus muslos).

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Toma de decisiones

La cocina estaba en silencio. Demasiado silencio. Ese silencio que ponía nerviosas a las cucharas y provocaba un miedo existencial a las tazas medidoras. De repente —clic— la puerta del armario se abrió con un crujido. Gerald, la jarra de cristal, se estiró con una amplia sonrisa desencajada, mientras el agua chapoteaba tras sus saltones ojos. Se lamió los labios inexistentes (no preguntes cómo), flexionó el asa translúcida y susurró: «Hora de mojarse». Al otro lado del mostrador, Melvin, la taza, se despertó de golpe con un escalofrío. "¡Ay, por el amor del cristal! ¡Gerald, otra vez no!", chilló, con los ojos abiertos como platos. "¡Son las 7 de la mañana y ni siquiera me han descalcificado!" Pero Gerald ya estaba a punto de acecharme. "Melvy, Melvy, Melvy... no seas tan ingenua". Se irguió por completo, con el agua gorgoteando amenazadoramente. "Sabes que la quieres. Estás vacía, yo estoy llena. Vamos a echar un poco de magia, cariño". Melvin retrocedió un centímetro, con el mango temblando. "Oye, no es que no me gustes. Es solo que... la última vez que me penetraste, necesitaba terapia. Y un tendedero." "¿Terapia?", exclamó Gerald, agarrándose el pico. "¡Fue una celebración de fluidos! ¡Te hice sentir vivo!" “Me hiciste sentir violado, Gerald”. En ese momento, una mano —humana, peluda, indiferente— entró en escena, agarrando a Gerald como un depredador reutilizable. "¡Aquí vamos!", bramó la voz humana con un tono alegre, ajena al caos que estaba a punto de desatarse. El rostro de Gerald se contorsionó en una sonrisa maniática al ser elevado en el aire, apuntando su chorro directamente a Melvin. "¡Prepárense para llenarse !" Melvin gritó. Fuerte. Sus ojos se abrieron de par en par, con el labio fruncido por el horror. "¡OH, DULCE JESÚS DE CERÁMICA, NOOO!" El primer chapoteo fue violento. El agua salpicó. El labio de Melvin tembló; una gota solitaria le resbaló por el costado como una lágrima cinematográfica. «No estaba listo. No estaba listo...», gimió. Gerald dejó escapar un largo gemido de satisfacción. "Aaaaahhhhhh. Eso es lo máximo. Mírate, tan mojada y asustada. Pequeña zorra". “¡Presentaré cargos!” gritó Melvin. "¿Qué van a hacer? ¿Encerrarme en la nevera?", se rió Gerald. "Estoy libre de BPA, cariño. Intocable". Mientras la corriente disminuía y Gerald se tambaleaba de satisfacción, la mano humana lo depositó con suavidad, sin percatarse de la escena traumática que había propiciado. Melvin permaneció temblando, rebosante de energía y emocionalmente destrozado. En algún lugar del fondo, la tostadora susurró: “Me pasó lo mismo la semana pasada”. Y a lo lejos, una licuadora solitaria susurró: “Le dejaría verter en mí...” Melvin se quedó allí sentado, atónito. El agua se le escapaba por la comisura del labio como un secreto que jamás podría olvidar. Gerald —un loco, un maestro de la hidratación, un auténtico imbécil— permanecía de pie, con aire de suficiencia, al otro lado del mostrador, flexionando el grifo como si fuera a protagonizar un calendario de cocina picante. "¿Estás bien?", preguntó Gerald con indiferencia, apoyado en un salero con la confianza de un vaso de chupito que sabía que venía tequila. Los ojos de Melvin se crisparon. «No, Gerald. No estoy bien. Ni siquiera calentaste el agua. Solo la echaste cruda. Helada. Como la ducha de una prisión». Gerald se rió tan fuerte que le tembló la tapa. «Espontaneidad, mi pequeña taza de caos. Eso es lo que mantiene el picante fluyendo. Ustedes, los que son tazas, quieren todo este juego previo: posavasos, servilletas, precalentadores. Yo soy un vaso de acción». —Un trauma terrible —murmuró Melvin, temblando—. Todavía siento el impacto en mis entrañas. La habitación se quedó en silencio. Ni siquiera el microondas se atrevió a pitar. Entonces, una voz suave se escuchó desde el fondo del cajón de los cubiertos. "Una vez me echó la sopa", dijo Sally, la sopera. "Fue... confuso". —Pediste sopa y traje caldo. Tú invitas —dijo Gerald con aire de suficiencia. Melvin intentó bajarse de la encimera, pero el mango le resbalaba por el derrame. Chocó contra una cuchara, que retrocedió dramáticamente como si acabara de presenciar un abuso de cubiertos. "No me metas en tus líos", siseó la cuchara. Gerald se acercó pavoneándose, chapoteando sugestivamente. «Todavía no te vas, Melvin. Todavía me queda media copa. Y sabes lo que eso significa». —¡NO! —gritó Melvin, con el borde del vaso temblando—. Estoy lleno. ¡LLENITO, Gerald! Casi me ahogo. Una gota más y se me va a caer. ¡Se me va a caer! Gerald entrecerró los ojos, lo cual fue impresionante para un lanzador sin cejas. "Eso dijiste la última vez, pero lo manejaste como un campeón". “La última vez me desmayé y me desperté en el escurreplatos junto a un cucharón ¡con complejo de Dios!” En ese momento, la mano humana regresó, esta vez con una rodaja de limón. El grito de Melvin resonó por toda la cocina. "¡NOOOO! ¡LOS CÍTRICOS PICAN!" —Se llama ralladura, cariño —ronroneó Gerald, mientras el limón caía en la taza como un aderezo de violación—. Ahora eres mi chico picante. Melvin se estremeció violentamente. "¡Qué sádico y enfermo!" —Te encanta —susurró Gerald guiñándole un ojo. En ese momento, apareció una nueva taza. Alta. Con curvas. Resistente al calor. Se llamaba Verónica, tenía una base de silicona y la seguridad de poder vaporizar la leche al contacto. —Gerald —dijo con la voz como un suave chorro de miel—. Mete a alguien con aislamiento. Gerald parpadeó. "Verónica... Creí que estabas en el armario. Con los chicos del café expreso". Ella dio un paso adelante. "Lo estaba. Pero son solo espuma. Nada de sustancia". Se giró hacia Melvin, acariciándolo suavemente. "¿Estás bien, cariño?" —Creo... creo que tengo una fuga —susurró con el labio tembloroso. Verónica miró a Gerald. «Si lo vuelves a verter sin su consentimiento, te romperé el pico y te usaré como florero en la consulta del dentista». Gerald retrocedió lentamente, con los ojos abiertos y el agua temblando. "Bueno... bueno... el juego tiene que ser mutuo, lo entiendo..." Melvin exhaló. Por primera vez esa mañana, se sintió... seguro. Vacío. Pero seguro. La mano humana abandonó la habitación, tarareando felizmente, sin darse cuenta. Gerald regresó a su rincón del mostrador, murmurando algo sobre «discriminación de lanzadores» y «cultura de la cancelación». Verónica se quedó al lado de Melvin. «Vamos a limpiarte, guapo. Quizás un buen ciclo de lavavajillas. Con vapor. De los suaves». Melvin asintió, apoyándose en su toque reconfortante. "Gracias", susurró. Y en algún lugar profundo, entre las sombras, la licuadora se encendió... sólo un poquito. El goteo posterior Pasaron las semanas. A Gerald lo habían trasladado al estante superior, el equivalente en cristalería a un confinamiento solitario. Pasaba los días sumido en un silencio filtrado, murmurando de vez en cuando sobre la «libertad líquida» y la «opresión de la vida seca». Una pegatina en su costado decía: «Solo para uso supervisado». Melvin, mientras tanto, había encontrado la paz. La terapia (y tres ciclos profundos en la rejilla superior) lo ayudaron a recuperarse de la turbulencia emocional. Incluso se unió a un grupo de apoyo: MUGS — Mugs United for Gentle Sipping (Mugs Unidos para Beber con Suavidad) . Martes a las 7. Trae tu propio posavasos. Verónica nunca se separó de él. Compartieron mañanas tranquilas, infusiones tibias y café servido lentamente. Melvin por fin comprendió lo que significaba estar lleno , emocionalmente, no traumáticamente. Los dos incluso adoptaron una tacita de espresso llamada Bean. Diminuta. Hipercafeinada. Llena de ira. Con el tiempo, Gerald volvió a circular, pero solo para cafés fríos y bajo la atenta mirada de la prensa francesa, que manejaba un estricto control. Era mayor, más sabio... quizá solo un poco más vacío. Pero algunas noches, si escuchabas con atención, aún podías oír su susurro a través de las rejillas del armario: “Puedes sacar el vertido de la jarra… pero no puedes sacar la jarra del vertido”. Y a lo lejos, la licuadora susurró una última vez: “Todavía estoy esperando, Gerald...” - El fin - Trae la locura a casa Si "Pour Decisions" te conmovió profundamente (o al menos te hizo reír a carcajadas), ¡ahora puedes adueñarte del caos! Esta obra de arte deliciosamente desquiciada de Bill y Linda Tiepelman está disponible como: Impresión enmarcada : mantén la elegancia mientras las cosas se complican Impresión en metal : audaz, brillante y peligrosamente suave (como Gerald) Impresión acrílica : ultramoderna y lo suficientemente nítida como para poner nervioso a cualquier persona. Impresión en madera : para ambientes rústicos con un toque de daño emocional Advertencia: Los efectos secundarios pueden incluir risa incontrolable, insinuaciones en la cocina y un deseo repentino de proteger tu cara a toda costa.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Salado y salvaje - Tenéme suavemente

Apuñálame, papi A primera vista, parecía un cajón normal y corriente. Solo la típica mezcla de cuchillos de mantequilla sin filo, cucharillas pegajosas y ese prensador de ajos sospechosamente pegajoso con el que nadie quiere lidiar. Pero en el fondo, bajo los abridores y la vergüenza, había un tenedor. No cualquier tenedor. El tenedor. Se hacía llamar "Tony". Cuatro púas largas y relucientes. Curvadas lo suficiente para insinuar peligro, pero seguras para los niños. ¿Su acabado cromado? Impecable. ¿Su filo? Contundente, pero emocionalmente agudo. ¿Y esta noche? Se sentía... voraz. —¿Otra ensalada? —murmuró Tony, moviendo su cuello liso y flexionando las púas como quien va a trinchar algo que no debe—. No me forjaron para la vegetación. Quiero carne. Quiero vapor. Quiero perforar algo que gime al pincharlo. A su lado, el cuchillo de mantequilla resopló. «Siempre te pones así después de la noche de tacos. Solo agradece que no eres el que hace bolitas de melón». —El melonero QUIERE esa vida —replicó Tony, entrecerrando los ojos y con las puntas moviéndose de anticipación—. A ese pequeño maricón le gusta el melón. Yo soy diferente. Necesito fricción. Textura. Resistencia. En ese momento, el cajón se abrió y todo quedó en completo silencio. La mano humana. El gran elegidor. El señor de la carne. Todos contuvieron la respiración mientras los dedos los cubrían como un dios crítico en una cita rápida de cubiertos. "Elígeme. Elígeme. Elígeme", susurró Tony desesperado, intentando parecer sexy pero también funcional. La mano se detuvo. Se quedó suspendida. Se movió hacia el cucharón... luego retrocedió bruscamente, agarró a Tony y lo levantó . "SÍÍÍÍÍ", siseó Tony como una serpiente con un capricho de etiqueta. Lo elevaron hacia la luz, hacia el mundo más allá del cajón, y lo que vio le provocó un hormigueo en las púas: un filete a la parrilla perfecto. Jugoso. Rosado por dentro. Apenas legal, en cuanto a temperatura. —Ay, pedazo de picaro —gimió Tony, temblando entre las manos del humano—. Estás a punto de que te den un tenedor más duro que un burrito de microondas a las dos de la madrugada. El cuchillo ya estaba allí, cortando lentamente como si narrara un documental sobre crímenes reales. «Tú toma la mejilla izquierda», decía. «Yo tomaré la derecha. Estamos haciendo esto poco hecho y con mucha emoción». —Apuñálame, papi —susurró el filete, desprendiendo vapor seductoramente. Tony no lo dudó. Se hundió en la carne con las cuatro púas, emitiendo un gemido metálico de satisfacción. Los jugos manaron. El plato tembló. La cuchara cercana se desvaneció. Era glorioso. Pero algo se sentía… raro. Tony bajó la mirada. Allí estaba: un ominoso llovizna de salsa de carne acumulándose junto al puré de papas como un charco marrón de juicio. —No lo hiciste —jadeó Tony—. ¿Usaste A1? ¡Qué... monstruo! Llévame lejos Hubo una pausa. Un silencio tan denso que podría haber sido cortado con un cuchillo de queso si ese pequeño cobarde no se hubiera refugiado tras el cucharón de sopa al primer indicio de conflicto de condimentos. Tony permaneció inmóvil, chorreando jugo de carne y traición. Había sido usado, violado, por una botella de A1. —Dijiste que sería frotado en seco —le susurró al humano, quien, por supuesto, no respondió. Nunca lo hacían. Monstruos. Abusadores de tenedores. Mientras el filete se enfriaba y el puré de papas absorbía la vergüenza como una esponja a base de carbohidratos, Tony fue tirado sin contemplaciones al borde del fregadero. Ni siquiera enjuagado. Simplemente... abandonado. Dejado en un charco de restos de carne como la mala decisión de la noche anterior. "¿Estás bien?", dijo una voz sensual desde el tendedero. Tony se giró, todavía aturdido, y fijó la mirada en el batidor. Era alta, curvilínea y retorcida, como debe ser. Aros de acero inoxidable para días. Su asa estaba ligeramente derretida cerca del extremo (trauma de un trágico incidente con crème brûlée), pero, maldita sea, le daba carácter. Experiencia. Audacia. "Te ves... agotado", ronroneó, moviendo un solo bucle sugestivamente. "Déjame ponerte en forma". Tony intentó mantener la calma. "No suelo dejarme llevar en la primera cita". Se acercó sigilosamente, arrastrándose por el mostrador con un ruido metálico y sensual que gritaba «dominatrix de cocina». A Tony le hormiguearon las púas. No sabía si quería correr o que lo emulsionaran. —Te he visto apuñalar —susurró—. Tienes... energía de penetración. Antes de que pudiera responder, la espátula golpeó desde el otro lado del fregadero. "¿Pueden no hacerlo? Son las 9 de la mañana. Algunos estuvimos volteando panqueques toda la noche y necesitamos descansar". —Los celos son un utensilio plano —dijo el batidor con desdén. Luego se volvió hacia Tony—. ¿Alguna vez te han azotado hasta gritar tu palabra de seguridad en francés? “Mi palabra de seguridad es ‘antiadherente’”, respondió en voz baja y peligrosa. Enrolló lentamente sus lazos alrededor de su asa, acercándolo más. "El mío es 'desglaseado'". Desde la esquina, el termómetro de carne rugió. «Uf. Cada maldito fin de semana. Solo una vez, quiero un desayuno tranquilo». Pero la paz estaba descartada. Porque justo entonces, la mano humana regresó: grasienta, impaciente, aún oliendo a pecados de bistec y a la desesperación del día siguiente. ¿Y dentro? Un cuenco. Grande. De cerámica. Ancho. Poco profundo. De esos que dicen: Espero que te guste desordenado. —¡Ay, demonios! —gimió el batidor—. ¡Es hora del brunch! Antes de que Tony pudiera protestar, lo pusieron en marcha de nuevo. Esta vez no eran filetes, sino huevos. Crudos. Resbaladizos. De esos huevos a los que no les importa la hora ni el tiempo que llevan remojándose en sus propios jugos. El batidor ya estaba en el bol, gimiendo con cada embestida circular. —¡Vamos, Papi Tenedor! —gritó—. ¡Revuélveme como si lo sintieras! Tony se sumergió, removiendo, apuñalando, perforando las yemas con desenfreno. Juntos, sembraron el caos. Pecado sazonado. La espátula observaba en silencio atónito, las pinzas chasqueaban nerviosamente, y el prensador de ajos lloraba en el cajón de los trastos, aferrándose a una vieja rodaja de limón para consolarse. Fue un desastre. Fue ruidoso. Fue... porno de brunch. Para cuando la mezcla llegó a la sartén, Tony estaba exhausto. Doblado. Cubierto de proteínas y vergüenza. El batidor descansaba a su lado sobre la toalla, con los bucles retorciéndose de satisfacción. “¿A la misma hora el próximo fin de semana?” susurró. —Solo si nos saltamos la salsa —murmuró, con los ojos vidriosos como el donut que el humano acababa de dejar caer al suelo. En el cajón, el cuchillo de mantequilla suspiró. «Por eso no nos invitan a las cocinas elegantes». Epílogo: Utensilios y resplandor La mañana del lunes llegó tranquila. La resaca del brunch aún se aferraba a la cocina como el hedor a huevos pasados ​​y decisiones de vida cuestionables. El batidor había sido arrojado sin contemplaciones al lavavajillas, enredado entre un montón de palillos empapados y una pajita reutilizable descuidada. No parecía importarle. Le gustaba húmedo y caótico. ¿Tony? Tony yacía solo en el tendedero. Encorvado. Encostrado. Mirando al techo como un veterano de guerra que hubiera visto demasiadas yemas romperse bajo presión. "¿Valió la pena?" susurró a nadie, mientras una migaja suelta pasaba flotando como una planta rodante en un western donde los pistoleros son todos herramientas de cocina con problemas de abandono. En algún lugar del fondo del refrigerador, la crema agria se había expirado silenciosamente. El centrifugador de ensaladas no se había movido desde el Incidente. Incluso el especiero estaba inusualmente silencioso: el comino se negaba a hacer contacto visual y la canela había hecho voto de silencio. Pero incluso en el silencio, algo se movió. Un temblor en el cajón. Un suave tintineo. Un susurro seductor: «Oye... Tony. ¿Alguna vez te han dado una paliza con un rallador de queso y una batidora de inmersión?» No respondió de inmediato. Solo suspiró. Largo. Bifurcado. —Dios, ayúdame —murmuró, incorporándose con la fuerza de un utensilio que sabía que esto no había terminado. Ni de cerca. Porque en este cajón… en esta cocina… en este templo olvidado de Dios, lleno de calor, grasa e inestabilidad emocional, no había cortes limpios. Solo ciclos de enjuague. ¿Y Tony? Tony nació para armar jaleo. Lleva el sabor a casa ¿Sigues pensando en las púas de Tony y ese juego de batidor? Sí, lo entendemos. Ahora puedes ser parte de la locura con nuestra exclusiva colección "Salty and Savage" de Bill y Linda Tiepelman: perfecta para la cocina, para iniciar conversaciones o simplemente para desestresar a tus invitados a cenar de la mejor manera. Lámina enmarcada : Dale un toque de distinción. Enmarca el caos. Impresión en metal : elegante, brillante y más caliente que su sartén antiadherente a 500°. Impresión acrílica : para cuando quieres que tu arte mural grite "Tomo decisiones cuestionables y soy responsable de ellas". Bolsa de tela : Lleva el sabor a todas partes. Las compras nunca volverán a ser las mismas. Hazlo tuyo. Regálalo. Eso sí, no intentes explicárselo a tu abuela. A menos que sea guay. Entonces, enséñale el bolso.