Aféitame suavemente (con terror)

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Siren of Silk and Bloom

The night the tide forgot itself, the sea laid out a runway—glossy, blue, and just a smidge dramatic—so I could make an entrance. I am Lyris, the mermaid who sews gossip into lace and turns rumors into roses. My tail is stitched in secret languages: peony for “yes, but make it interesting,” carnation for “tell me more,” and rose for “you’ll never recover from this compliment.” Waves combed themselves smooth as I glided into the cove, hair perfumed with salt, moon, and just a trace of “don’t even think about it.” The surface mirrored me back like a perfectly polished vanity: coral-lip smile, shoulder-bare confidence, sleeves of white lace that whispered, we were born to flirt with the horizon. Fishermen’s lanterns dotted the cliffs like nosy fireflies. Somewhere a gull choked on a seashell trying to act casual. I posed on a velvet-blue sandbar and the water sighed; it does that sometimes, dramatic thing. From the reeds, a trio of otters held up a sign made of driftwood: “Welcome Back, Lyris.” The font was… earnest. I blew them a kiss and they fainted in unison. It’s a whole thing when I come home—shell paparazzi, kelp press, and the jellyfish who insist on flashing when I pass. You should know that my embroidery is not simple decoration. Every bloom was bargained for at the Meridian Market, a midnight bazaar where sea-witches sell small miracles by the spool. A rose means I once kept a sailor’s secret. A cluster of forget-me-nots means I failed gloriously at not falling for anyone that week. The lace at my shoulders? That’s a covenant with the wind. It agrees to flirt with my hair, not my balance. In return, I promise to be unforgettable enough to justify a gentle breeze in a storm warning. People say mermaids sing. I don’t “sing” so much as negotiate in major key. Tonight, I crooned a warm-up scale and the moon shifted two inches to my good side. Photogenic lighting is a basic right for ocean goddesses and I will not be taking questions. My voice rolled through the cove like velvet poured from a high shelf, carrying a chorus of luxury wall art fantasies, floral mermaid tail illusions, and romantic ocean fantasy promises that make sailors vow to buy better frames for their memories. That’s when he arrived—Orin, a surface-dweller with tidewater eyes and the posture of someone who forgot he was gorgeous. He paddled a creaky rowboat like it was a first date and he’d brought the wrong flowers. His boat wore a crooked name in chipped paint: Maybe. As in, “maybe fate, maybe foolish, maybe worth it.” I admired the honesty. He looked at me the way mortals look at summer—like it’s obviously temporary, which is why you must savor it reckless and barefoot. “Evening,” he said, because men at the edge of myth lose vocabulary faster than oars. I answered with a smile embroidered in underwater beauty and coastal home décor temptation. “Evening,” I echoed, and his boat bumped a sandbar, blushing in wood. He apologized to the boat. Gentle men make me weak for a minute and a half; ruthless men make me bored in ten seconds. He was the first sort, all clumsy reverence and quiet chaos, like he’d rehearsed a hundred goodbyes and just found the wrong hello. Orin produced a bouquet of land flowers wrapped in a map, then immediately tried to rescue the map from the tide. I took the flowers and let the sea decide the route. “It’s fine,” I said. “The ocean already knows where we’re going.” (Reader, it didn’t. The ocean is a maximalist improviser.) The map swirled away, pointing everywhere at once, as if to say: plot twists ahead. We talked like people do when the air feels carbonated. He sketched boats for a living, the sort that become real if you believe hard enough and also know how to use a hammer. I stitched stories into fabric, the sort that become real if you wear them to breakfast and refuse to apologize. He asked about my tail, the garden of it—how the blossoms stayed so vivid beneath the waves. “Because beauty is a rumor I keep re-starting,” I said. “And because I water them with other people’s underestimates.” A wind came up, tidy and flattering, bringing the spice of night-blooming plankton. The sleeves of my lace trailed on the surface, sketching white calligraphy. Orin stared, the good kind of staring, the museum gaze that says this matters. “You look like you could rewrite weather,” he said. “I prefer to annotate it,” I replied. “Footnotes with better lighting.” He laughed the embarrassed laugh of a man who has just met someone who keeps a chandelier in her personality. As conversation warmed, he revealed the secret of the rowboat: he’d built it from his old front porch. “Hard to leave a home,” he shrugged, “so I brought the part that faced the sunsets.” Oh, the poetry of it. My heart did a pirouette in its seashell. Not love—please, I’m not irresponsible before Part II—but definite interest with sparkly accessories. The kind that makes you wonder what his coffee order is and whether he can dance or at least apologize artfully for not dancing. He reached over the gunwale, fingers an inch from the lace cuff at my wrist. “May I?” he asked, as if the sea had taught him consent. (It had. The sea slaps the careless.) I let him touch the edge of a rose at my hip. It pulsed warm—roses believe in drama—and then bloomed half a shade deeper. His breath caught. “You enchant fabric,” he whispered. “Fabric enchants me,” I said. “I just return the favor in kind words and better silhouettes.” A far wave curled its finger, beckoning. The otters, revived from earlier swooning, started to hum the background music from a romance nobody had financed yet. The jellyfish dimmed their scandalous little lanterns to “mood.” I smiled at Orin, at the rowboat named Maybe, at the night that felt like a soft open. “Come back tomorrow,” I said. “Bring the part of yourself you kept safe too long.” He nodded as if he’d been waiting to hear exactly that. He pushed off the sandbar, the boat swiveling toward the passage, then hesitated. “What should I call you?” he asked. I pretended to think, though the answer was sewn into every seam I wore. “Call me the rumor you want to keep,” I said. “But if you need syllables, Lyris works.” He mouthed it—Lyris—as the tide carried him away, and I felt the name stitch itself brighter across my tail in small secret threads. When he vanished behind the rocks, the sea pressed against my ankles, excited. “Calm,” I told it, “we are not rushing a plot because you like a meet-cute.” The water fizzed anyway. I sprawled on the blue sandbar, chin propped on lace, gaze on the moon. Tomorrow would need new flowers, maybe something wild, a little unhinged. Unexpected beauty is my favorite kind—preferably the sort that walks back at dawn with paint on his hands and a question between his teeth. And that, darling reader, is how I scheduled trouble under starlight—carefully, seductively, with excellent wardrobe, and room for upgrades. The Trouble with ‘Maybe’ Morning, in my part of the sea, is a soft gold conspiracy. The sun creeps in like it’s late for something delicious, scattering light across the water in perfect little spotlight puddles. I was already awake, lounging on my favorite rock (strategically angled for optimal hip line), sewing a particularly sassy patch of marigolds onto my tail. Marigolds say, “I dare you” in flower-language. They’re useful. From beyond the reef, I heard it—the awkward thunk-thunk of oars hitting the water slightly out of sync. Orin was back. Earlier than expected, which meant he’d either missed me terribly or been chased out of bed by something less poetic, like a crab invasion. When he rounded the kelp grove, I nearly choked on my own smirk. He’d upgraded the Maybe. The boat now sported a strip of deep teal paint along the hull, and a tiny mast with a square of white canvas. On it, in careful brush strokes, was a single blooming rose. “You redecorated,” I called. “You inspired me,” he said, a little breathless, as though speaking to me required extra oxygen. “Also, my neighbor’s kid is a graffiti artist and owed me a favor.” I traced the rose on the sail with my eyes. “You know that flower means ‘I accept your challenge,’ right?” His grin was half-crooked, half-daring. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Orin brought breakfast—bread so fresh it steamed in the morning air, a jar of honey the color of late summer, and a flask of something he refused to name until I’d tried it. I took a sip and almost fell backward off my rock. Coffee. Real, strong, land-grown coffee, kissed with cinnamon and something darker, almost sinful. “You’re bribing me,” I accused. “Absolutely,” he said, handing me the bread like it was an apology. We ate in companionable chaos, crumbs feeding the fish, honey streaking my wrist where he licked it away before thinking about it too hard. His face flushed warm; mine didn’t, because blushing is something I outsource to the roses on my tail. They bloomed in a quiet, knowing way, just enough to make him blink twice. The tide was especially nosy that morning, carrying every word away to spread among the coral. I told Orin about the midnight market, about trading my voice once for a bolt of silver-thread lace (and how I stole it back the next day with a song and a little misdirection). He told me about the porch wood in his boat, the cat who’d once claimed it as her throne, and the way she’d follow him down to the dock every evening like she was checking for mermaids. “I think she suspected,” I said. “Oh, she absolutely knew,” he replied. “She’d give me this look when I came back empty-handed, like I’d failed at errands.” I imagined the cat—a tiny, whiskered chaperone with no patience for my kind of trouble—and found myself oddly charmed. Halfway through a story about a storm that had stolen his favorite hat, Orin reached into the boat and pulled out something swaddled in cloth. He handed it to me with that same uncertain reverence from the night before. I unwrapped it to find a small, hand-carved box, each side inlaid with intricate designs—waves, roses, and a single lace pattern that almost perfectly matched my sleeves. “It’s not magic,” he said quickly, “but it’s solid cedar, and I thought—well, you might like somewhere to keep… whatever it is mermaids keep.” I ran my fingers over the carvings, the grain warm under my touch. “You have no idea how dangerous it is to give me something this pretty,” I said. “I’ll keep you just for the matching accessories.” The otters returned, swimming in lazy loops, carrying a garland of seaweed and shells between them like they were auditioning for a wedding I hadn’t approved. “Not yet,” I told them firmly. Orin looked between us. “Do I want to know what that was about?” “No,” I said, smiling in a way that promised an answer in the most unhelpful possible timeframe. We drifted toward the outer reef, the water turning that impossible turquoise that makes humans consider moving underwater until they remember taxes. Orin told me he wanted to see the coral gardens, the ones lit from within by bioluminescent plankton at night. “You’ll need a guide,” I said. “And hazard pay.” “What’s the hazard?” he asked. “Me,” I said simply. His grin was worth the line. By midday, we’d anchored near the gardens. The coral rose in spirals and domes, painted in colors the land wouldn’t dare invent. Schools of fish moved like gossip—fast, bright, and impossible to catch. I slipped into the water without ceremony, letting the current press against the lace, turning it into a second set of waves. Orin followed, far less graceful but infinitely more endearing. We swam through arches of coral and into wide, blue plazas where the light fell in sheets. I showed him the jellyfish that blinked like lanterns, the shrimp that polished coral as if auditioning for housekeeper roles, the anemones that opened like gossiping mouths. He listened like every word might be a secret worth keeping, which is the fastest way to my attention. At one point, I swam ahead and hid behind a fan of purple coral. When he caught up, I popped out, wrapping my lace sleeves lightly around his wrist. He startled, laughed, and pulled me closer in a way that didn’t pretend it wasn’t intentional. His pulse thrummed under my touch, a rhythm I could’ve matched if I cared to. (I did. A little.) When we surfaced, the boat had drifted closer. The rose on the sail caught the afternoon light, and for a moment I could see the entire arc of the day ahead—coffee in the mornings, trouble at noon, and nights that never quite ended. Dangerous thoughts, even for me. “Stay,” he said suddenly, as if the word had escaped before he could wrestle it down. I tilted my head. “Stay where?” “In the boat. On the porch. Wherever the sunset happens.” He said it like a plea disguised as an invitation, and I felt the tug of it deep, somewhere between the roses and the marigolds. “I’m not the staying kind,” I reminded him. “I’m the return-and-redecorate kind.” He smiled, slow. “Then just make sure you keep coming back. I can repaint forever.” The sky began to gold itself into evening, and we let the tide pull us homeward. The otters trailed behind, humming again. The jellyfish stayed dim, perhaps out of respect, or maybe they were simply tired of being accused of mood lighting. Back at the sandbar, Orin helped me out of the water—not because I needed help, but because his hands looked good against the lace. I didn’t stop him. Before he left, he tucked a folded scrap of paper into my cedar box. “For later,” he said, and rowed away without another word. I didn’t open it until the moon was up. It was a sketch of me—tail blooming with roses, lace catching the light, head tilted back in laughter. Across the bottom, in careful letters, he’d written: Rumor Worth Keeping. Reader, I kept it. And maybe the man, too. But that’s getting ahead of myself. The Forecast Called for Chaos Two days passed before Orin reappeared. Which was fine. I am not a woman—mermaid—goddess—whatever—who checks the horizon like a lovesick gull. I had embroidery to finish, secrets to trade, and a particularly judgmental crab to avoid (don’t ask). But still… every time I surfaced, my eyes drifted toward the reef. You know. Accidentally. When he did arrive, it was not in the Maybe. No. This time, Orin showed up steering an absurd raft built from old wine barrels, driftwood, and what appeared to be the remains of someone’s patio furniture. Flying proudly above it: the rose sail. “Why?” I called. “Because,” he shouted back, “the boat is drying from a paint job, and the neighbor’s cat stole the oars.” I couldn’t argue. The raft had personality. He clambered onto my sandbar with the grace of a man who knows exactly how many ways he could fall and has accepted them all. In his arms was a wooden crate sloshing with seawater. Inside: three bottles of champagne and a bundle wrapped in oilcloth. “What’s the occasion?” I asked. “Surviving the week,” he said. “And… delivering this.” He unwrapped the bundle to reveal a dress. Not just any dress—my lace, my flowers, my tail translated into silk and stitched embroidery. Land-wearable mermaid. It was breathtaking, and I do not say that lightly. “You made this?” I asked. “I bribed someone with champagne,” he admitted. “But the design is mine.” I ran my hands over the fabric, each petal familiar, each swirl of thread like an inside joke between us. “Orin,” I said, “you’ve just guaranteed yourself three more chapters of trouble.” We opened the champagne right there, sea foam hissing at the corks like it was jealous. Otters arrived within minutes, demanding tiny cups. One jellyfish hovered close, clearly angling for a toast. We drank, laughed, and somehow ended up in the water, the crate bobbing beside us like an eager extra. “You’re a terrible influence,” he said, watching me swim lazy circles around him. “I’m your favorite bad decision,” I corrected. As twilight deepened, the sky turned scandalous—pink bleeding into violet, clouds lounging like they owned the place. Orin suggested we row the raft to the cliffside pools where warm springs bubbled up through the rock. “Romantic,” I noted. “And suspiciously convenient.” “It’s only suspicious if you don’t enjoy it,” he countered. The pools were steaming, rimmed in black stone polished smooth by centuries of tide and whispers. I slipped into one, the warmth curling around me like a lover’s arm. Orin followed, wincing at the heat before sinking in with a satisfied sigh. “This,” he said, “is better than coffee.” “Nothing’s better than coffee,” I replied. “But this is… a close second.” We talked about absurd things—whether whales gossip, which stars look the most smug, how many roses I could possibly embroider before running out of scandal. I told him about the time I’d convinced a prince to declare war on boredom (he lost). He told me about his failed attempt to build a floating bakery (he ran out of flour and patience simultaneously). Somewhere between the second and third bottle, a rainstorm wandered in from the east. Not a violent one—just a curtain of warm drops turning the surface of the pool into liquid sequins. The world blurred, soft and golden. Orin reached up to push wet hair from my face, and I let him. “You look like you belong to every myth I’ve ever heard,” he said. “Wrong,” I told him. “They belong to me.” And then, because it felt inevitable, we kissed. It wasn’t polite, or practiced, or even remotely subtle—it was the kind of kiss that rewrites afternoons, the kind you’ll still taste in the middle of some dull Tuesday years later. The rain applauded. The jellyfish, the little voyeur, pulsed brighter. When we finally surfaced for air, both figuratively and literally, Orin grinned that troublemaker’s grin. “You’re staying tonight,” he said—not asked, but said. “Am I?” I asked, one eyebrow lifting. “You are,” he insisted, “because I need someone to help me finish this champagne, and because the raft is absolutely going to sink on the way back in the dark.” Reader, the raft did sink. Slowly. Spectacularly. We laughed until we nearly swallowed the bay. By the time we made it back to the sandbar, the moon was high, the roses on my tail were fully awake, and Orin was wearing half of the lace dress like a scarf. We collapsed on the warm sand, damp, barefoot, unapologetic. “Tomorrow?” he asked, eyes half-closed. “Tomorrow,” I agreed. And that was how the Maybe became a certainty, how a rumor turned into a habit, and how I, Lyris—the Siren of Silk and Bloom—found myself adding a new flower to my tail. A lily. For beginnings. For unexpected beauty. For the sheer audacity of saying yes. The sea hummed approval, the moon angled for my good side, and somewhere, the neighbor’s cat plotted her next theft. Life, as they say, was good.     If you’ve fallen for Lyris as much as Orin did (though hopefully without the raft sinking), you can bring a piece of her world home. Imagine her embroidered tail and lace-sleeved elegance gracing your walls as a Framed Print, or shimmering in your space as a luminous Acrylic Print. For moments when you want to send a little ocean magic, she’s ready as an enchanting Greeting Card, carrying whispers of coastal romance through the post. Need a touch of siren energy in your everyday? Jot down your own stories, sketches, or scandalous sea gossip in a Spiral Notebook featuring her elegant portrait. Or, if you prefer your ocean goddess under the sun, take her along on your next getaway as a luxurious, oversized Beach Towel—perfect for wrapping yourself in silk-and-bloom style while plotting your next adventure. Whether framed on your wall, sent through the mail, scribbled with dreams, or stretched across warm sand, Siren of Silk and Bloom is ready to turn your everyday into something unforgettable.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Riders of the Chromatic Veil

Arrival Beneath the Veil The first time the veil split open, it was barely a whisper. It came on the seventh moonless night in a row — a night so unnaturally dark that even the wolves had stopped howling, as if the sky itself had forgotten how to breathe. When it happened, the villagers of Hollowvale didn’t hear thunder, though the clouds swirled like a storm. They didn’t see lightning, though the air crackled as if under siege. Instead, they heard hoofbeats. Five of them. Each distinct. Each deliberate. Each beating out a rhythm like a death sentence, growing louder across the fields of ash and bone-dry soil. No one left their homes. Not even to peek. The elders remembered. And the elders were afraid. The sky tore open, just beyond the edge of the withering woods, where nothing had grown in two harvests. There, framed by a horizon stitched in smoke and sorrow, five riders emerged in perfect formation. They rode tall on horses that didn’t blink, didn’t snort, didn’t move — as if carved from living stone and shadow. The horses’ coats shimmered with impossible color: obsidian, ivory, ember, sea-glass teal, and wine-dark red. Their riders were cloaked in the same hues, each faceless beneath draping hoods that whispered as they moved, though no wind blew. And then… they stopped. Just outside the hamlet. Watching. Waiting. Dripping color like oil onto the soil, which hissed and burned where the hues fell. It was Judgment Eve. No one said the name out loud, but they all felt it, like a memory you don't own yet know is yours. The Riders had come before. Centuries ago. Always in fives. Always during years when the earth dried up and the crows fattened. And always, they came to choose. What they chose, no one remembered. Only that when they left, the world was not the same. This time, something was different. This time, one of the riders moved. He—if it was a he—was draped in crimson. As he dismounted, the color bled from his robes onto the ground like a gash across reality. His boots made no sound. His hand held no weapon, but his presence was violence itself. He stepped forward, and time slowed. The clouds above shifted violently, as if turning away in shame. A door creaked open in one of the homes. A child peeked out. The crimson rider turned his head. Slowly. Intentionally. And smiled. No one saw his mouth, but everyone felt it. That grin curled around the spine of the village and licked its way up the back of every neck. That was when the screaming started. That was when people began clawing at their doors, begging the gods, any gods, even the wrong ones, to hide them from the smile that wasn’t meant for mortals. The crimson rider raised his hand and pointed at the church steeple. The bell tower cracked in half, and the iron bell plummeted to the ground, burying itself in earth like a tombstone. Then, as silently as he came, the rider returned to his horse. And the five turned as one — fading slowly into the mist that gathered behind them, like ink dispersing in water. When morning came, the sky was clear. Birds chirped like idiots. Children played again. The veil was gone. But the church was still broken. The burn marks still bled through the ground where color had dripped. And the child who had opened the door? She was gone. No trace. Not a footprint. Not a scream. Not even dust. Only a single crimson feather, humming with heat, lay in her place. Signs in the Ash and Blood on the Wind The crimson feather never cooled. It was kept in a jar, sealed by seven rings of salt and watched over by the village's last Seer, a woman with only one eye and no shadow. Her name was Grendyl, and she spoke in riddles unless you asked the right question. That morning, as she held the humming glass in her trembling hands, her one eye leaked black tears. She didn’t speak. She only nodded once and muttered, “The Choosing has begun.” Over the following days, things decayed — not just in flesh, but in spirit. Cattle refused to eat. Fruit on the trees soured in the night. The blacksmith’s wife woke screaming and clawing at her arms, convinced beetles were nesting in her skin. No one could convince her otherwise — even as the physician tried to restrain her, even as she bit through her own wrist. She died staring at the ceiling, smiling and whispering, “The veil is thin, the veil is thin, the veil is thin...” Three more vanished that week. Always just after sunset. Always without sound or struggle. First a hunter, then a pair of newlyweds whose cabin was found untouched except for a ring of ash surrounding their bed and a smear of indigo paint on the pillow. The villagers met under torchlight in the remains of the church. Their voices were hushed, thick with suspicion and fear. They argued over leaving, over hiding, over arming themselves. But Grendyl arrived with the feather in her hand and slammed it down onto the altar. “You can’t run from color,” she hissed. “Not once the Riders have marked you. They don’t want your prayers. They don’t want your weapons. They want your truth.” Silence. Then, a young man — Jerro, the miller’s son — stood. “Then let’s give them mine,” he said. “Let them take me. I have nothing left.” Everyone watched in stunned silence as he walked out of the church, toward the field where the riders first appeared. Grendyl didn’t stop him. She only whispered, “Foolish boy. It doesn’t work like that.” The next morning, Jerro’s body was found in the wheat. At least, what was left of it. He had been split perfectly down the center — vertically — as if dissected by a scalpel wielded by God Himself. One half remained in the field. The other half was nailed to the door of the town’s apothecary. In place of blood, his veins held paint. Thick, radiant, glittering paint in shades no one had names for. His heart was missing. But in its place was a note, burned into the wood behind him: “Your truth was not enough.” That night, the teal rider returned. He stepped out of the mist just past midnight, his horse breathing steam that coiled into serpent shapes. The air turned viscous around him. Every lamp in the village went out. Dreams dissolved into nightmares — and everyone who had ever lied in their sleep woke up choking on their own tongues. One man burst into flames. Another aged fifty years overnight. The village dog began speaking backwards, uttering the names of the dead as it limped through the square, tail between its legs. The teal rider did not approach a home this time. He walked to the old schoolhouse and placed a single hand on its door. The building shuddered like a living thing. Screams erupted from inside — dozens of them, though the building had been abandoned for decades. The door crumbled into smoke. The screams stopped. And the teal rider, without another gesture, melted back into the mist. Grendyl now refused to speak, except in one-word answers. Her right hand began to peel, revealing ink beneath her skin. Lines. Symbols. A language only the dead understood. She began scratching them into the floorboards, muttering “the cycle returns,” over and over, like a prayer for no one. By the end of the week, Hollowvale had lost 17 souls. Not all were killed. Some simply wandered into the woods and didn’t come back. Others were found staring into the river, mouths wide open, no eyes in their sockets — just glistening marbles of swirling paint, still wet. Then came the ivory rider. He was different. Slower. He didn’t burn. He froze. His presence drained color from the world. Flowers wilted into gray powder as he passed. Wood cracked. Windows iced over. And people who looked directly at him were stricken with a shivering silence they never recovered from. Whole families stood in their yards, unmoving, unmoving, unmoving — until they crumbled into dust like frost-swept statues kissed by wind. Only Grendyl seemed unaffected. She sat in the square, scribbling furiously, humming a dirge with no melody. The feather now hovered in front of her, pulsing to the beat of the Riders' hooves no matter how far away they seemed. She was counting something. Not days. Not deaths. She was counting lies. Because that was what the Riders were feeding on. The lies we told ourselves. The ones about safety. About gods. About who we were before the veil first cracked. Before the Riders returned to remind us of the truths we buried too deep. Hollowvale was not innocent. It was chosen. And someone among them had summoned the Veil. Not by prayer. Not by magic. But by secret. Someone had made a pact. And the Riders had come to collect. The Pact, The Price, and The Pale Horizon The truth did not come gently. It broke open like a coffin kicked from the inside. It bled into Hollowvale one final night — when the sky above the woods caught fire and the last two Riders emerged. The Obsidian and the Amber. They came together this time. They did not stop at the field. They did not observe. They entered Hollowvale. Doors unlatched on their own. Walls wept varnish. Every reflective surface — from puddles to mirrors — showed not the present, but memories. Traumas. Sins. A woman dropped to her knees when she saw her reflection confess to a murder no one knew had happened. A child screamed as his own face mouthed the words: “I let it drown.” Even the dogs howled with human voices. The Riders walked through it all in silence. Their horses glided rather than trotted. The Obsidian one cast no shadow, and the Amber’s hooves rang like bells at a funeral procession. And between them, drifting like a piece of scorched cloth on invisible threads, came the Veil. It was not a metaphor. It was real. A tattered swath of something not quite fabric, not quite light — darker than night but brighter than death. It pulsed like a heartbeat, and it hummed with the weight of a thousand unspoken oaths. And when it reached the square, it stopped above Grendyl. She looked up for the first time in days, her lips cracked and dry, eyes ringed with ink. The floating feather hovered above her heart. The lines on her arms now connected into a map — a map of Hollowvale’s secrets, burned into her skin from within. She laughed. Not the laugh of someone who won — but the desperate, broken laugh of someone who thought they had time. “It wasn’t supposed to be me,” she said. The Obsidian rider spoke. A single word, and the ground rippled with it. “Lie.” The Amber rider raised a hand. The Veil descended. It touched Grendyl’s head like a crown. She arched backward with a scream so raw it flayed the crows from the sky. Her memories poured into the Veil. One by one. We saw them. Grendyl as a girl, whispering curses into the bones of a drowned priest. Grendyl in a midnight ritual with a circle of robed villagers, naming names, promising favors. Grendyl bleeding into the soil beneath the chapel, making a pact with something that had no face but many mouths. Grendyl holding a red stone, chanting, as she summoned the Riders to burn away her guilt… by making others pay her price. The Veil hissed. Not in anger. In understanding. It wrapped her completely. Her body vanished. Her screams did not. They still haven’t. And then — the Riders turned to the village. The rest of it. Not to destroy. But to choose. Every man, woman, and child was paralyzed in place. Not by magic. But by truth. When the Riders looked at you, you remembered everything you ever hid. And you felt it. In your bones. In your breath. Like you were being rewritten. Each Rider passed through the crowd. They placed hands on foreheads, over hearts, on trembling hands. They weren’t killing. They were collecting. Some people dropped where they stood — their bodies intact, but their eyes blank. Whatever made them human had been extracted. Others wept and fell to their knees in forgiveness for crimes they hadn’t admitted even to themselves. A few — very few — were untouched. Not pure, but honest. Honest in their fear, in their regret, in their weakness. The Veil spared them. The Riders bowed to them. And then the sky opened one final time. The colors that spilled out weren’t colors we know. They were emotions made visible — grief in hues that tasted like metal, joy that echoed like music. The five Riders rode back into the wound in the sky, and the Veil followed, dragging behind them like a river being sucked back into the earth. Before the breach sealed, the Obsidian rider turned once more… and dropped something into the dirt. A mirror. It still lies in the center of Hollowvale. Untouched. Because no one wants to see themselves the way the Riders saw them. The survivors rebuilt. Slowly. Quietly. With fewer lies. But they never removed the mirror. They planted nothing near it. No children are born near it. And every night, a candle is lit beside it. Not to keep anything out. But to make sure they remember what they let in. Years later, a traveler asked a blind old man sitting near the mirror, “What were they, really? Spirits? Gods?” The old man didn’t answer at first. He reached into his cloak and held up a feather — crimson, still warm to the touch. “They were our truth,” he said. “And that’s the scariest thing that’s ever come through the dark.”     If the Riders have ridden into your imagination and refused to leave, you can now bring a piece of that ominous energy into your own world. “Riders of the Chromatic Veil” is available as a hauntingly vivid wood print or as a brilliantly reflective metal print, perfect for framing your darker side in the most striking way possible. Prefer something more tactile? Challenge your sanity with the 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle — and piece together the mystery yourself. Or carry the shadows with you everywhere in a stylish, soul-stirring tote bag. Let the story live beyond the screen. Own the Veil. Touch the myth. Dare to frame your truth.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Petals & Pavement

The Night the City Sprouted Heels I was three blocks deep into a rain-polished evening, the kind that makes every taxi light bokeh look like a gold coin thrown into a wish well, when I nearly tripped over the boot. Not just any boot—a floral high heel stiletto with the posture of a debutante and the attitude of a street poet. The leather shimmered with hand-painted wildflowers—daisies, cosmos, a few tiny asters sneaking along the seams like gossip—while a real bouquet spilled out of the ankle, fresh and dewy, as if the shoe had been photosynthesizing compliments all day. It stood alone on the rain-slicked pavement at the corner of 47th and Maybe, where the city keeps its secrets and takes its smoke breaks. Now, I know what you’re thinking: boot as vase, vase as boot—urban chic style or prank by an art student with too much time and not enough roommates. But the city has rules, and rule number one is that things left abandoned are never truly alone. There was a hum to it, a little sugar buzz in the air, like a cappuccino that learned to flirt. I leaned in, because I’m nosy and also because the bouquet smelled like a lingerie store determined to change your life. The heel cast a long, elegant shadow, a needle stitching darkness to light, and I realized the boot wasn’t wet. Everything around it gleamed with puddle-sheen, but the boot was dry, as if the storm had signed a non-disclosure agreement. “Careful,” said a voice, the kind that could sell you a candle and a confession. I spun around to find a woman in a velvet blazer and combat eyeliner, holding a pastry box like it contained the Ark of the Covenant. “If it chooses you, your life gets… greener.” “Greener?” I asked, already bargaining with myself about how many plants one person can kill before the house plants unionize. She nodded toward the shoe. “It’s the Bloomwalker. An urban legend, technically. Shows up when someone’s about to quit—love, art, sobriety, hope, the gym—whatever. You slide your foot in, and it slides a little courage into you. But it’s picky. It only likes people who are at least forty-nine percent chaos and fifty-one percent tenderness.” “That’s oddly specific.” “Like a dating app, but for redemption,” she said. “I put a cream puff in this box and heard it whisper. Not the cream puff, the boot. The puff’s more of a moaner.” She winked, very adult, very feminine city fashion, and disappeared into the blur of city night lights like a magic trick with good lighting. I stared at the heel. It stared back, the lace holes like patient little eyes. Traffic growled. Steam rose from a grate like the city exhaling. Somewhere, someone laughed the kind of laugh that makes you want to share a cigarette and a mortgage. I felt that familiar ache—the one that shows up when your art is two likes short of a heartbeat and your rent is three zeroes over your self-esteem. The kind of ache you can either drink about or write about. I choose both, usually in that order, but tonight the boot felt like a dare. “Listen,” I told it, because I talk to objects when they look expensive. “If I put you on, you’re not going to turn me into a pumpkin, right? I didn’t dress pumpkin chic.” The boot didn’t answer. Instead, a single petal drifted from the bouquet and landed on my shoe—my own very average, non-famous sneaker. The petal stuck like a kiss you didn’t plan on but definitely needed. Then another fell. Then the bouquet rustled, a floral whisper that sounded suspiciously like, Well? Here’s the thing about fashion art photography: it lies just enough to tell the truth. You capture a floral stiletto art piece on a wet street and suddenly everyone believes in romance again, or at least in good ankle support. So I did what any sensible adult with questionable impulse control would do: I slipped off my sneaker, held my breath like I was crossing a truth minefield, and eased my foot into the Bloomwalker. Warmth. Not like a heater—more like stepping into a story already in progress. The leather hugged my foot with the affection of a bartender who knows your order and your therapist’s first name. The heel lifted me three moral inches above my usual perspective, and the world rearranged itself slightly—as if the city had been tilted and I was now standing where the brave people stand. The bouquet shivered, then straightened, and everything sharpened: neon became neoner, raindrops became glass confetti, and my heart learned a new beat that sounded suspiciously like tap dance. A cab rolled by. The driver looked out and saluted, not in a creepy way, more in a “respect your shoe game” way. A passerby paused, eyebrows high enough to qualify for penthouse living. “Is that a heel with flowers in it?” he asked. “It’s a botanical couture situation,” I said, trying to stand like elegance had never ghosted me. “Also, possibly magic.” He nodded, as one does in a city where feral pigeons have LinkedIns. “Good for you.” Then he wandered off, probably to file a report with the Department of Wild Yet Tasteful Sightings. I took a step. The heel clicked, and I swear the sound had taste: bitter chocolate with a citrus finish. Another step. The puddles reflected me as a taller, shinier myth. My mind, usually a noisy laundromat of second thoughts, fell quiet. In the hush, I heard the Bloomwalker’s voice—soft, sly, conspiratorial, like a grandmother who used to run numbers. Say what you came to say. “I’m tired,” I confessed. “Of almost. Of waiting rooms. Of putting ‘artist’ in tiny letters on tax forms. Of loving people who only text when their flight is delayed.” Then don’t be tired. Be tender. “Tender gets bruised,” I said. Tough gets lonely. That landed. I felt a prickle at the corners of my eyes, the kind that says, “Careful, you’re about to cry in HD.” The bouquet bopped my cheek, gentle and bossy. I laughed, a little wetly, which for the record is the sexiest and least convenient laugh. My phone buzzed—a notification from the universe (or my ex; same energy). Without looking, I slipped it back into my pocket. The city was speaking, and I was finally wearing the right ears. The Bloomwalker guided me—no, escorted me—down the block toward a bodega that sells oranges, lottery tickets, and salvation in blue glass bottles. “Nice shoe,” said the clerk, who has seen enough to retire from surprise. “Want the usual?” “Actually,” I said, feeling ridiculous and radiant, “I’ll take the unusual.” I pointed to a tiny disposable camera and a notebook with a velvet cover. If I was going to be a storyteller with heels, I wanted receipts. Outside, I snapped the first photo: heel, puddle, city street photography reflections curling around me like approving cats. A gust of wind lifted the bouquet, and for a second the flowers formed a crown. I wore it. The world clapped politely—streetlight, stoplight, a neon sign that promised OPEN LATE like a vow not to give up on anyone. In the distance, faint but clear, a saxophone reminded the night to arch its back. That’s when the woman in velvet returned, minus the pastry box and plus a smirk. “So,” she said, “what’s the plan, Bloomwalker?” “I’m going to make something. Something whimsical, a little mysterious, definitely inspiring. Maybe even a fine art poster if my printer sobers up.” She looked me over like a tailor measuring for destiny. “Good. Because the legend doesn’t end with the shoe. It’s a relay. You wear it until it tells you who gets it next. Then you pass it on.” “Like a torch?” “More like a flirtation,” she said. “But with better arch support.” The bouquet rustled again, that same Well? I felt the heel tug my center of gravity forward, an elegant nudge toward whatever came next. The city held its breath. A bus hissed. Somewhere above us a window opened, and laughter spilled out like champagne from a bottle you don’t own but will definitely drink from. “All right,” I told the night. “Let’s walk.” And we did—me, the heel, the flowers, the rumor—down the avenue where hearts go to recommit and strangers become footnotes. Each click of the stiletto wrote a new sentence on the street: floral pattern high heels, urban elegance, feminine street style, artistic footwear, colorful floral art. The kind of keywords the city’s search bar loves. Three blocks later, the Bloomwalker stopped. Not stumbled—stopped—in front of a mural I’d never noticed: a pair of hands releasing a bouquet into a sky the exact color of forgiveness. The heel pulsed once, twice, like a heartbeat checking its schedule. I knew—bone-deep, soul-bright—that Part II of this story was waiting behind that mural, or inside it, or maybe twenty minutes and one confession to the left. But first, a pause. Magic is potent. You sip it. You don’t chug. The Mural, the Map, and the Man Who Spoke in Colors The mural wasn’t just a mural. It was… humming. Not audibly, mind you—this wasn’t a Disney situation with chipper paintbrushes and anthropomorphic scaffolding—but something in it vibrated. The bouquet in the Bloomwalker tilted forward like it was bowing, and I swear the daisies exchanged glances. I stepped closer, raindrops creating a hush around me as if the whole street had been put on ‘do not disturb.’ The hands in the mural were wide, palms up, releasing flowers into an endless blue. But here’s the thing—up close, the petals weren’t just painted. They were maps. Tiny, microscopic city maps painted in fractal detail, so intricate you’d need a jeweler’s loupe and two shots of espresso to see them properly. And the blue sky? Not one color. Dozens of shades, each one slightly warmer or cooler depending on where you stood. It gave the sensation that the mural was breathing. I reached out—because self-control is for people with better hobbies—and my fingertip tingled when it touched the paint. For a moment, the cold wall was gone, replaced by the warmth of skin. The mural’s hand was holding mine. It squeezed. A small laugh bubbled up from somewhere in my chest, because this was exactly the kind of moment that makes you question every cynic you’ve ever dated. “Found it, did you?” The voice came from behind me. I turned to find an older man in a paint-spattered coat, his hair a kind of white that streetlights couldn’t decide whether to turn gold or silver. His eyes were mismatched—one brown, one the green of a bottle you’d keep whiskey in for emergencies. “Took you long enough.” “Sorry,” I said automatically, then realized I had no idea what I was apologizing for. “Do I… know you?” He tapped his temple. “Not here. But the Bloomwalker remembers you.” “Great,” I said, “because the rest of my footwear treats me like I’m disposable.” He grinned. “Shoes are never just shoes. These are maps, too. The right pair will walk you into the truth you’ve been avoiding. The wrong pair…” He trailed off, and I swear the air got two degrees colder. “…will keep you looping in circles until you forget you ever meant to leave.” The Bloomwalker pulsed again against my foot, an impatient little ahem. The man noticed. “She’s ready to show you.” He pulled a small tin from his pocket, the kind you’d expect to contain mints but which, naturally, contained something far stranger: dozens of tiny squares of fabric, each painted with one perfect brushstroke. No pattern, no recognizable image—just swatches of color so rich they looked edible. “Every place worth visiting,” he said, “has a color. The Bloomwalker knows which one you need. Press your heel to the wall.” Now, I’ve done questionable things in questionable alleys before, but pressing an enchanted floral stiletto into public art was a new category of life choice. Still, curiosity and recklessness are cousins in my family, so I did as told. The heel clicked softly against the mural, and a faint circle of light spread outward. The bouquet trembled, dropping a single cosmos petal that landed at the man’s feet. He picked it up like it was legal tender. “Ah,” he said, smiling without teeth. “Color number twenty-three.” He rummaged through the tin, found a swatch of color that could only be described as sunset-through-a-glass-of-rosé, and pressed it into my palm. The warmth from it seeped straight into my bloodstream. “Follow it,” he said. “That’s your next street.” “It’s… a color,” I said. “How am I supposed to follow a color?” “With your eyes closed, of course. Eyes open, you’ll just get distracted by billboards and regret. Eyes closed, the Bloomwalker will steer.” I considered this. I also considered the fact that I’d had two glasses of wine earlier and was, therefore, slightly more agreeable to impossible instructions. “And what’s at the end of the street?” He shrugged. “Depends. Could be a door. Could be a kiss. Could be the thing you thought you lost when you were seventeen. The Bloomwalker doesn’t work on just anyone, you know. She picks people who’ll actually do something with what they find.” Something in me—probably the stubborn part that still believes in happy endings with bad beginnings—straightened up. “All right,” I said. “Let’s walk.” I closed my eyes. The first few steps were hesitant, my brain yelling things like pothole and open manhole cover in capital letters. But the Bloomwalker moved with certainty, guiding me with subtle shifts in weight, steering me left at one corner, right at another. The sound of the heel on wet pavement became hypnotic—click, pause, click—like a metronome counting out courage. With my eyes shut, the city felt different. Smells sharpened: the metallic tang of the rain, the sweet-sour perfume of a bakery at closing time, the ghost of cigarette smoke trailing from a doorway I passed. Somewhere, a busker played a saxophone so mournful it made the lampposts sigh. I felt the color pulling me onward, the warmth in my palm intensifying with each step. We stopped. I opened my eyes. I was in front of a shop I’d never seen before, though the street was familiar. No sign, no name—just a narrow glass door and a window filled with objects that shouldn’t have existed outside of dreams: a goldfish swimming in what looked like liquid silver; a chessboard where the pieces were tiny, breathing birds; a stack of books that rearranged their titles every few seconds, as if they were indecisive about the story they wanted to tell. The door opened before I touched it. A woman with hair the color of spilled ink stepped out, wearing a suit so sharp it could slice through small talk. “We’ve been expecting you,” she said, as if that were the most normal thing in the world. “The Bloomwalker’s last wearer left something for you.” She held out a box the size of a shoebox, but heavier. Inside, nestled in velvet, was a camera—old, but not dusty—and a single undeveloped photograph. The photo showed… me. Standing in this very spot, wearing the Bloomwalker, bouquet bright and defiant. But the me in the photo was smiling like she already knew the punchline to a joke I hadn’t heard yet. “How—?” I started. “The Bloomwalker records its journeys,” she said. “Not for vanity. For continuity. What you do with it next will decide whether it ends here or keeps walking.” Behind her, the shop seemed to shift, like it was rearranging itself to make room for me—or to hide something from me. My pulse matched the rhythm of the heel’s click. I had the distinct, unshakable feeling that if I stepped inside, I wouldn’t come out the same. “Do I have a choice?” I asked. She smiled like the city does when it’s about to hand you a miracle wrapped in bad timing. “Of course you do. But you’ve already taken the first step.” The bouquet in the heel brushed my knee again, that same persistent Well? I looked at the photo in my hand, then at the open door. The warmth of the color swatch in my palm was almost hot now, buzzing like it wanted to leap free. I took a deep breath, tasting rain, risk, and the faint sweetness of something blooming. Then I stepped inside. The Shop That Sold the Impossible The door shut behind me with the soft certainty of a secret locking itself away. The air inside was warm but not stuffy, scented faintly of jasmine, cedar, and something that smelled like lightning right before it hits. The floor was a patchwork of rugs from every era—Persian, Navajo, IKEA circa 1998—stitched together like they’d been rescued from doomed living rooms. Shelves curved along the walls, heavy with objects that radiated personality: a typewriter with fresh ink on the ribbon, a teacup constantly refilling itself, a silver locket humming low like a bee in a hurry. The woman in the sharp suit walked ahead without looking back. “Everything in here has been carried in by the Bloomwalker’s chosen,” she said, her voice smooth enough to butter a whole loaf. “Each item is a map, a memory, or a mistake worth keeping.” “And you… collect them?” I asked, brushing fingers over a book that shivered under my touch. “We keep them safe until they’re needed again,” she replied. “Sometimes they’re tools. Sometimes warnings. Sometimes… debts.” The bouquet in the heel twitched like a cat seeing something in the corner. I followed its gaze to a display case at the back. Inside sat another heel—sleeker, black leather, no flowers, just a faint glimmer along its surface like a constellation trapped under the material. The sight of it made my pulse trip. There was… recognition. Or déjà vu’s more persistent cousin. “That one,” I said, pointing. Her expression shifted almost imperceptibly. “That one is for after.” “After what?” “After you decide whether to keep walking.” I wanted to ask what that meant, but the shop had other ideas. The rug under my feet rippled like water, and suddenly I was standing in front of a counter piled high with envelopes, each one addressed in handwriting that ranged from precise calligraphy to the chaotic scrawl of someone writing mid-chase. The top envelope had my name on it. I opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper, covered in my own handwriting—though it wasn’t anything I remembered writing. It read: “If you’re reading this, it means you said yes. Not to the shoe, not to the walk—those were inevitable. You said yes to the part where you stop apologizing for the weight of your own colors. The city will test you. People will try to make you grayscale. Don’t let them. When you’re ready, find the next pair of eyes that are still awake in the middle of the day and hand the Bloomwalker to them. They’ll know what to do. Oh—and take the camera everywhere. You’re going to want proof.” I stared at it, my chest tightening in the way it does when you realize the advice you need is coming from the version of yourself you keep trying to outrun. The woman was watching me with a patience that made me think she’d stand there until the building turned to dust. “So,” she said at last, “will you keep it?” I looked down at the Bloomwalker. The leather gleamed softly, the flowers swaying even though there was no breeze. My reflection in the polished toe didn’t look like me—it looked like the woman in the photograph. The one who knew the punchline already. “I’ll keep it,” I said. “For now.” “Good,” she said, and in that instant, every object in the shop exhaled. A stack of papers shuffled themselves neatly. The goldfish swam a triumphant lap. Somewhere in the rafters, something laughed quietly—low and warm. She handed me a small key. “For the camera. It unlocks the second shutter. Use it only when you’re ready to take a picture of something you can’t explain.” “And when will that be?” “Sooner than you think.” I left the shop without remembering opening the door. One second I was inside; the next I was back on the wet street, the mural behind me quiet and still. In my hand, the velvet-covered notebook from earlier. In my foot, the Bloomwalker’s steady pulse, like it was keeping time for both of us. I walked for blocks, snapping photos without thinking too hard about why—puddles catching neon like they were fishing for compliments, strangers with eyes like entire libraries, graffiti that seemed to change words as I passed. Every click of the heel was a beat in a song the city and I were writing together. When I stopped, it was in front of a bus stop where a young woman sat alone, head bent over a sketchbook. Her clothes were threadbare but her pen moved with a precision that made the air feel sharper. She looked up, and our eyes met. Awake. That was the only word for it. The Bloomwalker tightened slightly, just once, and I knew. Not tonight. Not yet. But soon, she’d be the one. I’d know when. Until then, the legend would keep walking—with me, through me, despite me. I turned toward home, the heel singing its quiet, confident song. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled in approval. The bouquet leaned forward as if eager for the next street. And I kept walking, petals scattering behind me like breadcrumbs for anyone brave—or foolish—enough to follow.     Bring the legend home. If “Petals & Pavement” spoke to you—the shimmer of rain-slick streets, the wild defiance of flowers blooming in the unlikeliest places—why not let that magic live on your walls? Our Framed Prints turn the Bloomwalker’s midnight strut into a centerpiece worthy of any room, while the Acrylic Prints capture the crisp vibrancy of city lights and wet pavement in luminous, modern style. For a touch of rustic charm, the Wood Prints blend the piece’s urban elegance with natural warmth, making each detail feel intimate and tactile. Or, go bold with a flowing Tapestry—a statement piece that transforms any wall into a window to this mysterious, inspiring city night. Whichever you choose, you’re not just buying art—you’re adopting a chapter of the Bloomwalker’s story.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

The Agave Whisperer

The Barrel-Bottom Prophet It was said in the whisperiest of taverns — between shots of regret and beers of poor decisions — that somewhere deep in the groves of Tuscagave, there lived a gnome who could speak to tequila. Not about tequila. To it. And worse still... it whispered back. His name was Bartó the Brash, and legend had it he was born in a bootleg still, cradled in blue agave husks, and teethed on fermented lime peels. The midwife had slapped his ass, and he belched a perfect margarita mist. His mother passed out from pride. Or mezcal. Or both. Bartó lived alone, if you didn’t count the raccoons (whom he called his “spirit consultants”) and the near-empty bottle of Tequila Yore N. Abort he carried like a talisman. He claimed the bottle contained the voice of an ancient agave god named Chuchululululul — or “Chu” for short — who had chosen him as the last Tequilamancer, a sacred order long disbanded due to liver failure and questionable pants choices. “I don’t drink to forget,” Bartó would slur at passing squirrels, “I drink to remember what the hell I’m meant to be doing.” Then he’d usually pass out face-first into a cactus and have visions of the future, or at least hallucinate himself into a screaming match with a talking gecko wearing a fedora. But fate — that wobbly barstool of destiny — was about to spin beneath him. On a morning dripping in sun and hangover dew, Bartó squinted into the olive grove horizon and saw it: a caravan of bureaucrats in beige capes, clipboards clenched like holy relics. The Department of Magical Overreach and Beverage Regulation (DMOBR) had arrived — and they were pissed. “Unauthorized intoximancy! Public incantation while under the influence! Summoning of unlicensed limes!” barked the lead official, a sour-faced elf named Sandra with a severe bob and the moral flexibility of a corkscrew. “You, sir, are a fermenting menace!” “Oh please,” Bartó scoffed, adjusting his mossy, sagging hat. “I’ve fermented things that would make your clipboard cry.” Sandra raised a pen. “By the authority of subsection 3B of the Intoxicating Enchantments Code, I hereby revoke your right to whisper to any agave-derived spirit for a period not less than—” CRACK! Lightning struck a nearby clay jug. A sizzling bolt carved the words “BITE ME” into the side of an olive tree. Chu, the bottle god, was awake. “OH SH*T,” Bartó grinned. “He’s back.” The tequila began to glow. The raccoons began to chant. The olives rolled uphill. Somewhere, a mariachi band formed out of thin air. And just like that, our story — soaked in alcohol, mischief, and prophecy — had begun. The Rise of the Drunken Oracle As the tequila bottle pulsed with a holy light that smelled vaguely of lime zest and bad decisions, the air around Bartó the Brash thickened like a triple-distilled vision quest. The gnome stood — or rather, teetered confidently — on the barrel like a demented squirrel messiah, arms raised high, eyes crossed but determined. “Chu has spoken,” he announced, “and he says you’re all a bunch of cork-sniffing, oak-aged fun vampires.” Sandra, lead pencil-pusher of DMOBR, adjusted her clipboard with bureaucratic menace. “That bottle is unauthorized and unregistered. Its mouthpiece—you—are in direct violation of thirteen beverage communion laws, four forbidden fermentation rites, and one very specific restraining order involving a sacred cactus.” “That cactus liked it,” Bartó muttered under his breath, then belched out a tiny lightning bolt. A nearby stone frog sculpture twitched and winked. The raccoons began circling in a loose formation resembling a pentagram made entirely of bad intentions and spilled mezcal. Their eyes glowed with a dangerous mix of mysticism and dumpster trauma. One was wearing a tiny cape made from a bar mat that said "Lick, Sip, Regret." From the tequila bottle came the rumbling voice of Chu — ancient, boozy, and oddly flirtatious. “THE AGAVE AWAKENS. THE TIME OF DISTILLED PROPHECY IS NIGH. BRING ME TACOS.” Bartó gasped. “It’s the Prophecy of the Blistered Tongue!” Sandra rolled her eyes so hard they almost filed a complaint. “There is no such prophecy. That was debunked in a 2007 memo titled ‘Delirium-Driven Distillery Delusions.’” “Delusions?! You bureaucratic bottle cap!” Bartó roared. “I have seen visions in the foam of my beer, heard sermons in the slosh of a margarita! I AM THE AGAVE WHISPERER!” He chugged from the bottle like a man possessed by both the divine and several questionable life choices. The sky dimmed. Olive trees trembled. Somewhere in the distance, a goat screamed in what might have been Latin. BOOM! A wave of golden vapor exploded from the bottle and blasted across the grove. Everyone within a fifty-foot radius was hit with a sudden wave of intoxicated clairvoyance. One elf dropped to his knees sobbing about his childhood toothbrush. Another began giggling and drawing phallic doodles in the dirt with his wand. Sandra’s clipboard snapped in half. “This… this is unauthorized revelatory broadcasting!” “This,” Bartó grinned, “is happy hour at the end of the f*cking world.” And with that, he flung the bottle skyward. It hovered. Hovered! Swirling with magical carbonation, it began to rotate, casting symbols in the air — ancient agave runes, each one glowing and dripping with tequila logic. The runes formed into a flaming piñata goat, which promptly exploded into glitter and regret confetti. The raccoons began to chant in tongues. Literal tongues. They had stolen some from a taco truck. “We are the Chosen Few!” Bartó shouted. “We are the Drunk, the Damned, the Slightly Sticky! Rise, my festive minions! The world must be unbuttoned!” At this, the caravan of DMOBR agents began to panic. Their enchanted clipboards were now possessed by spirits (both bureaucratic and alcoholic), their regulation sashes turned into salsa-scented snakes, and several of them had started twerking involuntarily to an invisible mariachi band echoing through the hills. Sandra screamed. “Code Vermouth! I repeat, Code Vermouth!” Bartó, now somehow riding a summoned barrel like a tequila-powered chariot, pointed at her dramatically. “You wanna regulate joy? License laughter? Tax my farts? Over my pickled body!” Chu’s voice thundered once more. “ONE AMONG YOU SHALL SQUEEZE THE SACRED LIME. THEY SHALL UNCORK THE FINAL FIESTA.” A hush fell. Even the raccoons stopped licking their toes. Everyone stared at Bartó. His eyes sparkled. His beard blew dramatically in the wind. He dropped the tequila bottle into the crook of his arm like a baby made of danger. “I must find the Sacred Lime,” he whispered. “Only it can complete the Rite of the Salty Rim.” “That’s not a real thing,” Sandra snapped. “It is now,” Bartó said, then mounted his raccoon-pulled barrel chariot and disappeared into the grove at full squeaky wheel speed, laughing like a gremlin who just farted in a cathedral. The DMOBR team was left in stunned silence. Sandra stared at the bottle, now lying innocently in the dirt, leaking a faint trail of glowing liquid that spelled the word “WHEEEE” in cursive. The prophecy had begun. And Bartó the Brash? He was off to save the world — armed with only a bottle, some cursed citrus, and the unwavering belief that destiny was best pursued while hammered. The Sacred Lime & the End of the Pour Deep in the sunburnt olive groves of Tuscagave, under skies marbled with hangover clouds and divine indecision, Bartó the Brash thundered through the underbrush on his raccoon-powered barrel-chariot of destiny. His eyes were bloodshot with purpose. His beard? Windswept. His bottle? Glowing like a disco ball in a frat house bathroom. “THE SACRED LIME!” he cried, yanking hard on the reins (which were actually shoelaces tied to raccoon tails). “It calls to me!” “SQUEEEEE!” squealed the lead raccoon, who had been mainlining moonshine since breakfast and was now entirely committed to whatever this mission was. He tore through a grove of enchanted citrus trees, where oranges screamed motivational quotes and grapefruits sobbed about their father issues. But there, on a mossy pedestal carved from a petrified margarita glass, pulsed the Sacred Lime — the one foretold in soggy bar napkin prophecies and whispered about in inebriated dreams. It was perfect. Glossy. Green. Slightly smug. And guarded by a beast of legend: a giant horned badger with a salt-rimmed collar and a body carved from hardened party fouls. It reeked of expired guacamole and regret. Its name was only spoken in the lost language of Jell-O shots. “BEHOLD!” Bartó yelled, drawing forth his corkscrew wand. “I demand tequila-based trial by combat!” The badger hissed like a shaken can of LaCroix and lunged. Bartó countered with a savage swirl of his tequila bottle, spraying a hypnotic mist that hit the beast right in the dignity. It staggered, disoriented, and tripped over a lime wedge from 1983. “Chug, raccoons, chug!” Bartó bellowed. The raccoons formed a circle, chanting and doing something that looked suspiciously like a conga line of doom. He seized the Sacred Lime and held it aloft. The heavens parted. Trumpets farted a triumphant tune. Somewhere, a mariachi band combusted into pure joy. Chu’s voice echoed once more from the tequila bottle: “YOU HAVE THE LIME. NOW UNCORK THE FINAL FIESTA.” “Oh, we’re about to fiesta so hard the gods will need aspirin,” Bartó whispered with a drunken reverence only achievable at blood-alcohol levels considered biologically implausible. He rolled back into town like a legend carved from leftover nachos, raccoons flanking him like intoxicated bodyguards. The villagers of Tuscagave were already halfway through their annual Tax-Free Liquor Festival and thus barely blinked at the sight of their drunken savior astride a squeaky wheel of destiny. Sandra, DMOBR’s fun-hating elf enforcer, awaited him at the gates, looking slightly more frazzled and extremely more sticky than last we saw her. “You’ve violated more ordinances than the Great Whiskey Riots of 1824,” she spat. “What say you in your defense, gnome?” “I say this,” Bartó declared. He raised the Sacred Lime in one hand, the tequila bottle in the other. “Let the world know: regulation without celebration is just constipation in a cocktail glass.” He squeezed the lime into the bottle. Time stopped. Reality hiccupped. A geyser of fluorescent tequila shot into the air like a golden volcano of freedom. It rained down on Tuscagave like divine margarita mist. People screamed. People stripped. One man achieved enlightenment while motorboating a vat of salsa. The olive trees danced. The raccoons ascended. Sandra’s clipboard melted into a poem about forgiveness and nachos. The Final Fiesta had begun. And what a fiesta it was. For seven days and six blurry nights, the world paused for celebration. Debts were forgiven, enemies made out in alleyways, and the moon was replaced with a glowing disco lime. Bartó became both messiah and cautionary tale, immortalized in limericks, bar songs, and a regrettable tattoo on someone’s buttock in a village far away. When the fog of booze and prophecy finally cleared, the town was different. Happier. Wilder. Sticky. Bartó the Brash? He vanished into the hills, bottle in hand, raccoons in tow. His final words to Sandra (who, by then, had retired from DMOBR to open a margarita spa for burned-out auditors) were simple: “If the lime fits… squeeze it.” And from that day forward, bartenders in every realm would raise their glasses to the sky and whisper a toast to the Agave Whisperer — gnome, oracle, and sacred party goblin. May your salt be fine, your lime be sacred, and your hangovers blessed with purpose. Fin.     Take Bartó home with you! Immortalize the legendary Agave Whisperer on something equally bold and occasionally questionable. Whether you're sipping inspiration or summoning chaos, we've bottled his mischievous magic into a wood print worthy of a cantina wall, or a sleek acrylic print that glows with prophecy and poor decisions. Need something for your wild journeys? Sling the tote bag over your shoulder and smuggle sacred limes like a true believer. Prefer your revelations in doodle form? The spiral notebook is perfect for recording drunken prophecies and raccoon conspiracy theories. And if you just want to slap Bartó’s face somewhere totally inappropriate, there’s always the sticker. Go ahead — join the cult of Chu. Tequila not included… but strongly encouraged.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

How to Lose a Dragon in 10 Hugs

The Hug Heard 'Round the Forest There once lived a gnome named Brambletug who had two core beliefs: that all creatures secretly longed for his affection, and that personal space was a myth perpetuated by introverts and elves. He wore a hat the color of fermented cherries, a smile that bordered on litigation, and had the emotional intelligence of a wet rock. One fine morning — the kind where the sun peeks through the trees just enough to blind you and a squirrel poops on your head for luck — Brambletug set out to do something noble. “Today,” he declared to absolutely no one, “I shall befriend a dragon.” He even brought a friendship starter pack: a pinecone (gift-wrapped in moss), a cinnamon-scented hug, and three wildly outdated knock-knock jokes. Meanwhile, not far from where Brambletug was rehearsing his icebreakers, lurked a dragon. Not a fire-breathing, village-burning sort of dragon. No, this one was more... emotionally scorched. His name was Krivven, and he had the perpetual expression of someone who just discovered oat milk in their coffee after asking for cream. He had scales the color of swamp envy, horns that curved like a passive-aggressive eyebrow, and the aura of a grumpy librarian who was denied tenure. Krivven wasn’t *technically* evil — just very, very tired. He’d moved to the quiet forest glade after centuries of babysitting unstable sorcerers and being summoned by teenagers with bad Latin and worse tattoos. All he wanted now was to sulk in peace and maybe binge-watch the sun setting through the trees. Alone. Unhugged. So when Brambletug crept into his clearing, arms wide and teeth bared in what was legally considered a smile, Krivven knew — with a deep, resigned exhale — that his day had just gone to hell. “GREETINGS!” Brambletug hollered, as if the dragon were hard of hearing or hard of tolerating nonsense. “My name is Brambletug Bartholomew Bramblewhack the Third, and you, sir, are my destined bestie.” Krivven blinked. Once. Slowly. In a tone that could curdle sap, he responded, “No.” “A classic!” Brambletug giggled. “You're funny! That’s good. Friendships should be built on humor. Also: hugging. Prepare yourself.” Before Krivven could retract into his sulky little safe space (read: three perfectly arranged rocks and a Do Not Disturb sign carved into a tree), Brambletug lunged like a caffeinated chipmunk on a sugar bender and latched onto his scaly midsection. And there it was — the first hug. Krivven’s soul sighed. Birds scattered. Somewhere, a butterfly died out of secondhand embarrassment. “You smell like toasted anxiety,” Brambletug whispered, delighted. “We’re going to be *so* good for each other.” Krivven began counting backward from ten. And then forward. And then in Elvish. None of it helped. Of Singed Moss and Questionable Boundaries Krivven, to his credit, didn’t immediately immolate Brambletug. It was a close call — his nostrils flared, a single puff of smoke leaked out, and he did momentarily imagine the gnome roasting like a festive meatball — but ultimately, he decided against it. Not out of mercy, mind you. He simply didn’t want to get gnome stench in his nostril vents. Again. “You are... still here,” the dragon said, half observation, half prayer for this to be a hallucination caused by expired toadstools. “Of course I’m still here! Hugging is not a one-time event. It’s a lifestyle,” Brambletug chirped, still firmly attached to Krivven’s side like a burr with daddy issues. Krivven sighed and attempted to peel the gnome off. Unfortunately, Brambletug had the cling strength of a raccoon on Adderall. “We are not friends,” Krivven growled. “Oh Krivvy,” the gnome said with a wink so aggressive it should’ve come with a warning label, “that’s just your trauma talking.” The dragon’s left eye twitched. “My what?” “Don’t worry,” Brambletug said, patting Krivven’s chest like he was a wounded house cat, “I read a scroll once about emotional baggage. I’m basically your life coach now.” It was around this time Krivven made a mental list of potential witnesses, legal consequences, and whether gnome meat counted as poultry. The math didn’t add up in his favor. Yet. Over the next three days, Brambletug launched a full-scale, unsolicited friendship offensive. He moved into Krivven’s territory with all the subtlety of a bard in heat. First came the *"snack bonding."* Brambletug brought marshmallows, mushrooms, and something he called “squirrel crack”—a suspiciously crunchy trail mix that made Krivven mildly paranoid. The gnome insisted they roast things together “like real adventuring bros.” “I do not eat marshmallows,” Krivven said, as Brambletug jammed one onto the tip of his horn like a skewered confection of shame. “Not yet you don’t!” the gnome chirped. “But give it time. You’ll be licking caramel off your claws and asking for seconds, Krivvy-doodle.” “Never call me that again.” “Okay, Krivster.” Krivven's eye twitched again. Harder. The marshmallow did, against his better instincts, catch fire — spectacularly. Brambletug squealed with glee and shouted, “YES! CHARRED OUTSIDE, GOOEY SOUL. Just like you!” Krivven, too stunned to reply, simply watched as Brambletug proceeded to eat the flaming lump directly from his claw, singing his tongue and squealing, “PAIN IS JUST SPICY FRIENDSHIP.” Then came the *"trust-building games,"* which included: falling backward off a log while expecting Krivven to catch him (“It builds vulnerability!”), shadow puppets in the firelight (“Look, it’s you... being sad!”), and a roleplaying exercise where Brambletug played a “sad forest orphan” and Krivven was expected to “adopt him emotionally.” Krivven, staring blankly, responded, “I am this close to developing a new hobby that involves gnome launch velocity and trebuchets.” “Awwwwww! You’re thinking of crafts! That’s progress!” One night, Brambletug declared they needed a **Friendship Manifesto**, and tried to tattoo it on a tree using Krivven’s claw while the dragon was asleep. Krivven woke to find the word “CUDDLEPACT” etched into bark and Brambletug humming what suspiciously sounded like a duet. From both parts. “Are you... singing with yourself?” “No, I’m harmonizing with your inner child,” Brambletug said, deadpan. Krivven reconsidered his moral stance on gnome-flicking. Hard. Despite all this, something bizarre began to happen. A shift. A crack — not in Krivven’s emotional carapace (that thing was still fortified like a dwarven panic room), but in his routine. He was... less bored. More annoyed, yes. But that was technically a form of engagement. And every now and then — between the monologues, the unsolicited riddles, and the horrifying “hug sneak attacks” — Brambletug would say something... almost profound. Like the time they watched a snail cross the path for 45 minutes and Brambletug said, “You know, we’re all just goo-filled meat tubes pretending we have direction.” Or when he sat on Krivven’s tail and whispered, “Everyone wants to be a dragon, but no one wants to be misunderstood.” It was annoying. It was invasive. It was kind of true. And now, Krivven couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just *maybe*, this annoying, clingy, wildly codependent fuzzball... wasn’t trying to change him. Just... annoy him into healing. Which was worse, really. And then, on the fourth day, Brambletug said the most horrifying thing yet: “I’ve planned a group picnic. For your social skills.” Krivven froze. “A what.” “I invited some unicorns, a banshee, two dryads, and a sentient puddle named Dave. It’s going to be adorable.” The dragon began to quake. “There will be snacks,” Brambletug added, “and a group activity called ‘Affirmation Volleyball.’” Krivven’s left eye twitched so hard it dislocated a horn ridge. Somewhere in the forest, birds paused in terror. Somewhere else, Dave the puddle prepared emotionally for volleyball. The Picnic of the Damned (and Slightly Moist) Krivven tried to flee. Not metaphorically. Literally. He spread his wings, launched six feet into the air, and was immediately tackled mid-lift-off by a gnome clutching a wicker basket full of “snack bonding opportunities.” “WE HAVE TO MAKE AN ENTRANCE TOGETHER,” Brambletug yelled, riding him like a therapy gremlin. “LIKE A POWER COUPLE. YOU'RE THE GRUMPY ONE, I’M THE CHAOTIC OPTIMIST. IT’S OUR BRAND!” “This is a hostage situation,” Krivven muttered as they crash-landed beside a checkered blanket and a crowd of creatures who looked like they deeply regretted RSVPing ‘yes’ to the tiny scroll that had been left under their respective mossy doorsteps. The picnic was a fever dream. A banshee in a sunhat handed out herbal tea and screamed compliments at everyone. The dryads brought “root-based tapas” and spent twenty minutes arguing about whether hummus had ethical implications. Dave the sentient puddle kept trying to infiltrate the fruit bowl and flirted openly with Krivven’s tail. Unicorns — plural — stood off to the side, quietly judging everything with the passive-aggressive elegance of wine moms at a PTA meeting. One wore horn glitter. Another smoked something suspicious and kept muttering about “manifesting stable energy.” “This,” Krivven hissed, “is social terrorism.” “This,” Brambletug corrected, “is growth.” The nightmare crescendoed with **Affirmation Volleyball**, a team sport in which you could only spike the ball after shouting a compliment at someone across the field. If the compliment was “lazy,” the ball turned to custard. (That was Dave’s rule. Don’t ask.) Krivven was cornered, emotionally and literally, as Brambletug served him a volleyball and screamed, “YOUR EMOTIONAL WALLS ARE JUST A SIGN OF VULNERABILITY MASKED AS STRENGTH!” The ball hit Krivven in the snout. No custard. Which meant the compliment was, by this game’s logic, valid. He stared down at it, then at Brambletug, who beamed like the world’s most self-satisfied anxiety demon. And for one fleeting moment — just a flicker — Krivven... almost smiled. Not a full smile, of course. It was more of a muscle spasm. But it terrified the unicorns and made Dave do a sexy ripple. Progress! The picnic eventually dissolved into chaos. The banshee got wine drunk and started singing breakup ballads from the cliffside. One of the dryads turned into a shrub and refused to leave. The unicorns gentrified the nearest field. Dave split into three smaller puddles and declared himself a commune. Amidst it all, Brambletug sat next to Krivven, gnawing contentedly on a cookie shaped like a dragon butt. “So... what did we learn today?” he asked, crumbs flaking down his tunic like snow from a cursed bakery. Krivven exhaled — not a sigh, not smoke, just... air. “I learned that hugs are a form of magical assault,” he said flatly. “And?” “...That sometimes being annoyed is better than being alone.” “BOOM!” Brambletug shouted, launching himself into Krivven’s lap. “THAT, MY SCALY DUDE, IS CHARACTER ARC.” Krivven did not incinerate him. Instead, with a noise that was not a growl but could pass for one at parties, he muttered, “You may continue... existing. In my vicinity.” Brambletug gasped. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me! Quick! Someone write it on a mug!” And from that day on — against every law of nature and common sense — the gnome and the dragon became companions. Not friends. Not exactly. But... tolerable cohabitants with joint custody of a cursed picnic blanket and a banshee who now slept on their porch. Every few days, Brambletug would initiate a new hug, call it “installment number whatever,” and Krivven would groan and accept it with all the grace of a barbed-wire hug vest. He’d never admit it, but by the tenth hug — the one with the extra sparkles and a sarcastic unicorn DJ playing Enya — Krivven actually leaned in for half a second. Not long. Just enough. And Brambletug, bless his deranged heart, whispered, “See? Told you I’d wear you down.” Krivven rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable.” “And yet... hugged.” The moral of the story? If you ever find yourself emotionally constipated in a forest, just wait. A gnome will show up eventually. Probably uninvited. Definitely holding marshmallows. And absolutely ready to violate your boundaries into emotional progress.     Need a daily reminder that unsolicited gnome affection is the purest form of emotional growth? Bring Brambletug and Krivven’s chaotic friendship to your own world with beautifully crafted collectibles from the Unfocussed shop. Whether you're decorating your lair, scribbling questionable poetry, or just want to send a passive-aggressive greeting to your favorite introvert, we've got you covered: Metal Print: Give your walls the grumpy, glossy dragon energy they never knew they needed. Framed Print: Because every magical forest disaster deserves a place of honor in your home gallery. Greeting Card: Perfect for birthdays, breakups, and emotionally unavailable cryptids. Spiral Notebook: Jot down your trauma, sketch your inner gnome, or track your personal hug quota. Shop the full lineup now and carry a little enchanted chaos wherever you go. Brambletug approved. Krivven… tolerated.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

The Sweet Decay

The Hive Beneath The smell hit her first—sweet, but wrong. It clung to the air like the scent of a dying flower dipped in syrup and left to rot in the sun. Tamsin had only meant to cut through the woods behind the property, the way she’d done for years as a shortcut home. But something was different today. The trail was quieter, the birds silent, the wind... still. Then the buzzing began. She stopped dead. A low hum, subtle at first, like the prelude to tinnitus. It deepened as she moved forward, until it seemed to vibrate against her skin, crawling down her spine and curling around her bones. And then she saw it—a strange hollow where a tree had once stood. Within that shallow bowl of earth sat something both unnatural and impossible: a human skull, cracked but intact, embedded in a sprawling amber lattice of honeycomb. Bees swarmed it, but not angrily. Not defensively. No—this was reverence. They moved like monks tending to a reliquary, their tiny bodies glinting with golden flecks of syrup. The honey ran slow and thick from the eye sockets and jaw, dripping in obscene slowness into the moss below. And the skull... it wasn’t empty. Behind the honeycomb veil, something blinked. Tamsin staggered back, heart slamming against her ribs like a bird in a cage. She told herself it was a trick of the light. Reflex. Nerves. But even as she turned to run, the image clung to her memory—those bees crawling across teeth still stained with the suggestion of breath, that slow, weeping ooze, and the thing behind the bone, watching her with the patience of something that had waited too long to be found. She made it home in a daze, locking every door and window, as if that could keep it out. But that night, her bedroom was filled with the hum again. Not in her ears—inside her skull. Something small moved beneath her scalp, just above the temple. She scratched at it feverishly until her fingers came away sticky with blood and... something else. Amber. Still warm. And from the darkness outside, in the direction of the woods, came the sound of wings. A Garden of Bone and Honey The morning sun never rose. Or at least, not for Tamsin. She awoke in what she thought was her bed, until she noticed the texture of the sheets — waxy and warm, slightly pliable, as though made from layers of cured beeswax rather than cotton. The hum was louder now, like a thousand tiny violins tuned just off-key. Her tongue tasted of honey and metal. Her eyes fluttered open to find the room no longer her own. The walls had bloomed. Every surface — ceiling, floor, window panes — had sprouted honeycomb. Some dry and pale, like bone turned brittle with time. Others alive with movement and golden with fresh flow. Bees wandered calmly across the contours of furniture now half-consumed by the hive, their fuzzy bodies pulsing with a purpose Tamsin didn’t understand but could feel deep in her marrow. Her dresser was gone. Her nightstand had turned into a pillar of dripping resin. Even the air smelled different — like a fever dream soaked in clover and decay. She stood, or tried to. The floor shifted under her bare feet, slightly sticky, slightly alive. It pulsed once, in rhythm with the buzz in her skull. Her head ached, not with pain but pressure — the sensation of something growing inside. Pushing outward. Thinking thoughts that were not hers. Remembering things she had not lived. She stumbled to the mirror that was no longer glass but now a glossy sheet of translucent wax. And behind it — a figure. Not her reflection. It watched her through a hole bored into the wax, eye dark and sunken, half-covered in a crust of dripping gold. The same skull. The one from the woods. The one that blinked. Its honeycomb mask quivered, a slow exhale of breath that should have been impossible. She turned, gasping — but the room was empty. When she looked back, the wax was just wax. No hole. No watcher. But the hum had grown louder, furious, insistent. It rattled her bones like a tuning fork and made her teeth ache. She dropped to her knees, clutching her head, and screamed — but the sound that came out was wrong. It wasn’t her voice. It was low and ancient and echoing, as if her vocal cords had become a windpipe for something else to speak through. And it spoke a name. A name she did not know. A name she suddenly understood. Melitodes. In that moment, it all came rushing in — memories not her own, harvested like nectar from some ancient, forbidden source. A story encoded in sugar and death, whispered through centuries of bee dances and bone dust. He had once been a man, they told her. A scholar obsessed with the metaphysical properties of bees. Melitodes believed that bees were not mere insects, but celestial archivists, storing the essence of human souls in their hives. That honey was not just food — it was memory. The oldest, purest record of life and death. And that with the right body, the right vessel… those memories could be reborn. He fed himself to them willingly. Buried his flesh in pollen. Let the hive build its cathedral within his skull. Over decades they consumed him, honored him, protected his consciousness in their waxen labyrinth. Until the hive became him, and he became it. And now, they had chosen Tamsin. The hum in her head became speech — not in words, but in ideas so large and alien they scraped against her sanity. They didn’t want her to die. No. That would be far too crude. They wanted her to transform. To join. To let them carve out a place behind her eyes where Melitodes could grow anew. She would not be lost. She would be layered. Grafted. Part of the greater mind. She tried to run, but the room had no exits now — only tunnels, twisting and warm, pulsing with golden light and the soft, soundless footfalls of bees that no longer looked quite like bees. Some had too many legs. Some had human eyes. Some whispered with the lips of her mother. She ran into the tunnels anyway, slipping on honey-slick walls, tearing her nails against sharp wax ridges, deeper and deeper, past combs the size of coffins. She passed one that held a fetus curled tight in sugar amber. Another with a skeletal man locked in a silent scream, golden strings stretched from his open mouth to a cluster of pupae pulsating with breath. They were making something. No — many somethings. She reached a chamber — vast and cathedral-like, echoing with hums that cracked the air. And in the center was the skull. His skull. Melitodes. But larger now. Alive. Bee-things crawling in and out of his mouth. Honey bleeding from the sockets like tears. And a throne of bone beneath him, shaped from a thousand other skulls, each smiling, each still dripping. “You came back,” it said, but not with words. It was a feeling in her spine. A kiss on the inner wall of her brain. “You always come back.” Tamsin collapsed, limbs folding wrong, twitching, trying to scream — but instead she felt her jaw open and something emerge. A bee. Then another. Dozens. They poured from her mouth and eyes, sticky with new memory, their wings slicing air in patterns only the dead could read. She was no longer just Tamsin. She was hive. She was host. She was the garden of bone and honey, tended with eternal care. The Archivist of Amber She drifted in pieces. There was no “Tamsin” anymore, not entirely. She was scattered — a humming awareness spread across thousands of wingbeats. She saw through many eyes now: through the compound gaze of drones moving through honey-lit halls, through the faceted shimmer of queens breathing in waxen birthing thrones, and through the slow, eternal stare of the Skull, who watched everything with patient rot. Time was different here. It pulsed in cycles of brood and decay, of wax built and eaten, of memories harvested like nectar from the dreaming skulls of trespassers. The hive had grown vast, an inverted cathedral beneath the woods, deeper than bones, older than religion. Those who wandered in rarely wandered out. They became part of the archive. Preserved. Rewritten. Filed away inside thick golden cells like footnotes in a grotesque scripture. There was a logic to it, once you stopped resisting. The hive was not cruel — it was sacred. A library of lives. A preservatory of truths too brittle for time. Melitodes had been its first archivist. Tamsin was its latest. Each one selected, reshaped, their thoughts softened and rewired with waxen filaments. Their memories stored in drops of translucent syrup, each one glistening with echoes of laughter, screams, betrayal, birth. All of it trapped forever, protected behind layers of bone and sting. She sat upon the Throne of Recollection now — not alone, but layered in the consciousness of those before. A girl once. A queen now. A buzzing intelligence wrapped in meat and memory. The drones obeyed. The queens sang to her through their mandibles. The larvae pulsed in rhythm to her thoughts. And in the world above, the forest began to change. It started subtly. Trees wept sap from their bark — but it wasn’t sap. It was honey. Sweet and unnatural. Birds stopped singing. Instead, they buzzed. People who walked the trails began to lose time. To wake with small punctures in their skin. To find strange phrases scrawled in honey on their bedroom walls: “Archive Accepts.” There was an incident — a man found in a park, face contorted in ecstasy, or agony. Hard to tell. His mouth stuffed with wax. Bees flew from his throat when they tried to resuscitate him. The footage was buried, deemed a hoax. But the hive knew. It watched. It remembered. Eventually, it began to reach further. Bees with human eyes landed on playgrounds. Honey with teeth was found in jars that no one remembered buying. Choirs of whispering wings began to murmur in city streets, telling ancient truths beneath the buzz of streetlamps. People dreamed of the skull — always the skull — staring through honeycomb veils, and always the message: “Join us. Be remembered.” Then came the pilgrims. Drawn by instinct, by dreams, by something older than language. They came barefoot through the forest, covered in stings and sweat. They came with offerings: teeth in jars, melted candles, skulls of roadkill animals painted in gold. The hive welcomed them. Wrapped them in warmth and buzz. Dripped memory into their mouths like holy wine. And they gave themselves freely — not in sacrifice, but in archive. By then, Tamsin had become something else entirely. She no longer resembled the girl who once ran through the woods. Her form now was that of a living reliquary: ribs hollowed into combs, heart beating in slow pulses of syrup, eyes leaking honey with each blink. Her voice, when she used it, echoed like bees inside a bell. She rarely spoke aloud — most things could be said with scent and sting. Her tongue had become a map of lives. She tasted thoughts. She whispered truths into drones who carried them to the flowers, the trees, the roots beneath every house built too close to nature. And still the hive grew. As it must. Because death, too, must be remembered. One day, a child wandered too close. A girl with freckles and a jar, chasing butterflies. She stumbled upon the edge of the hive — an old, blackened tree where no birds sang. Inside its cracked bark, she saw something shimmer. Something golden. Something calling her name. She reached inside. And the honey touched her skin like breath. The hum began again. Somewhere below, the Skull turned slowly toward her. It had waited. And it was patient. The archive would have another chapter. And it would be sweet.     Long after the last drone settles, the archive endures — eternal, golden, and just beneath the surface of everything we thought we understood. And now, for those drawn to the strange beauty of entropy, you can take a fragment of that forgotten hive home with you. “The Sweet Decay” is now available in select artifact forms: Metal Print — sleek, sharp, and disturbingly elegant, like a shrine to the hive itself. Framed Print — a relic preserved in glass and wood, perfect for dark libraries or haunted hallways. Tote Bag — carry your secrets, bones, or groceries with style and subtle menace. Spiral Notebook — record your dreams, your decay, or the hum of something ancient beneath your thoughts. Each piece is a vessel — a keepsake from the hive beneath. Disturbingly beautiful. Unforgettably strange. Just the way the archive intended.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Sass Meets Scales

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

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Fluffageddon

The Awakening of Whiskerstein It began at precisely 6:42 AM in the quiet cul-de-sac of Puddlebrush Lane, a place so mundane it made toast look exotic. The sun had the nerve to rise, the neighborhood birds were chirping like caffeinated alarm clocks, and somewhere deep in the bowels of a split-level home with too many throw pillows, the beast stirred. Her name was Whiskerstein. Half Maine Coon, half demonized dust mop, and 100% chaos. She was not merely a cat — she was a deity of floof, a warrior of bed-hogging, a destroyer of unattended rotisserie chickens. And this morning, her fluff was fully activated. Whiskerstein’s human, Beverly, had made the grave mistake of switching to decaf. A betrayal of sacred trust. Whiskerstein had known something was off ever since the household energy dropped from mild anxiety to dead-inside-zen. The yells at the morning news became sighs. The power walks slowed. The houseplants were no longer being threatened with plastic surgery. “This ends today,” Whiskerstein muttered, though to the untrained ear it sounded like a half-yawn and a sneeze. Her fur bristled like she’d just stuck her paw in a socket. In truth, she'd only just stretched, but when you're 17 pounds of untamed tangerine fluff, even mild movement creates seismic events. She launched from the bookshelf — knocking over a framed photo of Beverly’s ex-husband and an ironic cross-stitch that read “Namaste, B*tch” — and galloped into the kitchen like a lion late for brunch. Beverly was there, already dressed in a questionable paisley robe and bunny slippers that had seen too much. She stood before the Keurig like a woman confronting the consequences of her life choices. Whiskerstein took one look at the green-labeled pod in her hand and hissed with righteous vengeance. DECAF. Again. For the third. Damn. Day. “Meow?” Beverly said, clueless as ever, popping the abomination into the machine. The soft *chhh-chhh* sound of the Keurig vomiting out defeat filled the room. Whiskerstein leapt onto the counter, tail flared, eyes wide, and delivered the ancient feline war cry that had once frightened Viking warriors and burned entire basil gardens to the ground. “MRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAOOOOOOWWWWWWRRRR!!!” It was not a meow. It was a threat. A battle hymn. An espresso-summoning roar of legend. Beverly flinched, sending half a teaspoon of sadness-water sloshing onto the counter. “Jesus, Whiskers! What is your damage?” But the damage had already been done. The summoning had begun. Something stirred in the pantry. Something forbidden. Something caffeinated. From the shadows behind the emergency Pop-Tarts emerged a glow... the glint of a sealed glass jar. A forgotten relic from the Before Times. A thing of power, sealed for its own protection... and everyone else's. Dark Roast. Whole Bean. Italian. Imported. Aged like vengeance. Smooth as sin. And smelling faintly of a mafia confession. Whiskerstein narrowed her eyes. “It begins.” The Sacred Brew and the Legend of the Steamed Milk Saboteur The pantry door creaked open with the slow, dramatic flair of a horror movie climax — or possibly a budget home renovation show. Beverly blinked twice. Her decaf trembled in its novelty mug (“It’s Called Self-Care, Sharon”), as if the universe itself knew it was about to become irrelevant. Whiskerstein moved like a feline possessed, tail whipping with the kind of drama that would get her cast on Real Housewives of Purrlandia. She leapt from the counter, landed with a thunderous floof on the kitchen floor, and strutted into the pantry like she owned a yacht and your retirement plan. Her mission? Retrieve the bean. The bean of destiny. But as every coffee warrior knows, the path to high-octane salvation is never easy. First came the security system: a toddler gate left behind by Beverly’s granddaughter six Christmases ago, still firmly wedged between pantry walls because no adult had the patience to remove it. Whiskerstein stared at it, insulted. “This,” she thought, “is beneath me.” One dainty leap later, the beast was inside. Amongst the crinkling of snack bags and dusty corn syrup horrors of yesteryear, the jar stood like an idol on the top shelf. Whiskerstein climbed with silent ferocity, knocking aside a bag of ancient quinoa and a single rogue Peeps marshmallow that had turned to concrete and gained sentience. She reached the jar. The Holy Bean. With one calculated paw-swipe, it crashed to the floor like divine intervention. Beverly screamed. Somewhere in a distant galaxy, a hipster barista felt a disturbance in the crema. “WHISKERSTEIN, I SWEAR TO—” Beverly sputtered, catching her robe on a drawer handle as she dove for the wreckage. The jar didn’t break. It bounced. Because Beverly bought expensive crap that never worked when you needed it, but somehow survived everything else. The scent hit them both at once. That rich, dark, oily aroma — like sin, smoke, and an Italian grandmother’s side-eye all rolled into one. Beverly froze. Her pupils dilated. Her mouth twitched into a crooked grin. “...Is that... Lavazza?” Whiskerstein didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. They had both remembered what it was like. Before the decaf. Before the depression. Before that shady holistic guru on TikTok convinced Bev to do a ‘caffeine cleanse’ that was really just a low-grade personality lobotomy. “Oh baby, mama’s back,” Beverly whispered, snatching the beans with a hunger that bordered on the erotic. Thus began the ritual. She dusted off the French press like a weapon pulled from storage in a cheesy action movie montage. She measured the grind by feel alone, eyes wide with glee. She boiled water in her electric kettle like it was 1997 and she still had dreams. Whiskerstein perched on the counter, tail curled like a sinister mustache, observing with approval. But her joy was short-lived. Because the moment Beverly reached for the milk, things took a turn. “Oat milk?” Bev said aloud, puzzled. “Who the hell bought oat mi—” A cold wind blew through the kitchen. The lights flickered. Somewhere in the distance, a sinister hiss echoed through the air vents. Whiskerstein’s ears flattened. Her claws extended. The Steamed Milk Saboteur was near. Whiskerstein leapt into action just as a figure materialized at the end of the hallway — shadowy, thin, with yoga pants and an aura of smugness. Beverly’s neighbor, Kendra. Self-proclaimed life coach. Oat milk evangelist. Personal trainer to the morally exhausted. “Oh! Hey, Bev!” she chirped, letting herself in with the spare key hidden inside the fake rock everyone knew wasn’t real. “I just came by to see if you still had the sustainable bamboo pour-over I lent you during Mercury retrograde!” Whiskerstein snarled. Beverly blinked. “Kendra, what the hell are you doing in my kitchen? And why do you smell like patchouli and gym regret?” “You’re welcome for the oat milk,” Kendra said, placing a hand over her heart as if she'd just blessed a newborn. “It’s anti-inflammatory and energetically aligned with the waning moon.” Whiskerstein, who had once violently mauled a ficus for lesser offenses, sprang from the counter, knocking the oat milk out of Kendra’s hands and into the sink with one glorious, slow-motion arc. A splash. A scream. A moment of triumph. “I don’t drink plant milk, Kendra!” Beverly bellowed. “And I don’t need your chakra-aligned barista witchcraft!” Whiskerstein landed triumphantly on the Keurig, which groaned under her weight before promptly short-circuiting and hissing out its final breath like a dying Roomba. Sparks flew. Kendra screamed again. Somewhere outside, a squirrel dropped its acorn and ran for cover. The coffee was ready. Beverly poured the dark nectar into her “World’s Okayest Aunt” mug, ignoring the shattered oat milk, the fried Keurig, and the spiritually wounded Kendra curled up next to the fridge clutching her kombucha. She took a sip. A long, indulgent, chest-warming sip. Her eyes closed. The kitchen fell silent. Then Beverly opened her eyes and said, with holy conviction: “I’m going to HomeGoods, and I’m buying throw pillows I don’t need and talking shit to the cashier. I’m back, baby.” Whiskerstein purred, the low rumble of ancient satisfaction. But deep down, she knew this was just the beginning. Operation Beanstorm — The Final Brewdown Two hours later, the whole block was vibrating with fresh-roasted chaos. Beverly — once a soft-spoken cardigan connoisseur with a fondness for lukewarm regrets — had become a caffeinated hurricane in orthopedic sandals. With the power of full-caf coursing through her veins, she was no longer just “the lady who feeds squirrels Doritos.” She was Beverly Prime, First of Her Name, Destroyer of Decaf, Queen of Passive-Aggressive Bake Sales, and Mother of Feral Cats Who Do Not Pay Rent. And behind every queen stands a queenmaker: Whiskerstein. Now seated atop a reclaimed wood wine rack like a furry gargoyle of judgment, she surveyed her kingdom through narrowed eyes and twitching whiskers. The house pulsed with new energy. The “Live, Laugh, Love” sign had been replaced with a neon pink wall decal that simply read, “Die Mad About It.” The thermostat had been bumped to 75 because Whiskerstein demanded it. And somewhere in the background, a playlist titled Espresso Yourself, B*tch blared Lizzo remixes loud enough to piss off three homeowners associations. But just as Beverly prepared to post her triumphant coffee-fueled rant on Facebook (“Tag someone who needs a real drink”), the doorbell rang. Three times. Sharp. Repetitive. Ominous. Whiskerstein froze mid-groom, one paw still raised like a furry little fist. Her ears twitched. Beverly paused mid-mug lift. The air thickened with espresso-scented tension. “Not now,” Beverly whispered. “Not when the crema is perfect.” She padded toward the door, coffee in hand, bathrobe trailing behind like a cape of bad decisions. She opened it slowly — and was greeted by a squadron of concerned neighborhood women in color-coordinated athleisure, carrying clipboards, tote bags, and an overwhelming air of condescension. The HOA. “Good morning, Beverly,” chirped Judith, the neighborhood’s Supreme Gatekeeper of Petty. Her eyebrows were plucked so high they practically formed quotation marks. “We heard… noises. And smells. Is everything… okay?” Behind her stood Debbie (weaponized Tupperware and zero joy), Carol (certified herb judge at the county fair), and Linda (who had once called the cops on a flamingo lawn ornament because it was “too tropical”). “You’re gonna need to be more specific,” Beverly said flatly, sipping her brew without breaking eye contact. Whiskerstein silently appeared behind her, like a furry death omen in slow motion, tail flicking with disdain. Judith sniffed. “There have been... complaints.” “About what? My new playlist? My cat’s spiritual journey? Or the fact that I exist outside the vacuum of your beige expectations?” Debbie stepped forward. “We noticed the destruction of your Keurig, and someone — Kendra — reported what she called ‘a hostile oat milk incident.’ We are concerned for your wellbeing and the moral energy of the block.” Beverly chuckled darkly. “The Keurig was a casualty of war. Oat milk was the first shot fired.” “You seem… unwell,” Judith offered. “There’s a chakra retreat coming up. It’s goat-led.” Whiskerstein made a noise so guttural it could only be translated as, “Touch my human again and your chakras are going to need dental work.” Beverly straightened her spine. “Listen carefully, Judy Juice Cleanse. I’ve spent the last five years nodding politely at your seasonal wreaths, pretending to give a crap about your zucchini bread, and pretending I don’t know that your husband Gary buys his weed from your son's drama teacher. But no more. I am caffeinated, motivated, and no longer medicated.” She took a long sip. “So unless you have something useful to contribute — like real sugar, sarcasm, or a second cup — you may kindly take your coordinated oppression and go doorbell ding-dong someone else’s sanity.” Judith gasped. Carol dropped her essential oil sample. Linda clutched her pearls — not metaphorically, but literally. The HOA turned as one, murmuring furiously, and disappeared down the walkway like a parade of wounded mallards. Whiskerstein meowed once. It echoed with finality. Inside, Beverly spun on her heel, mug raised high. “Come, my furry overlord,” she declared. “The coffee flows. The cowards retreat. And there’s an espresso martini recipe on Pinterest that requires... experimenting.” They returned to the kitchen in glory. But something in the air had shifted. The battle was won. The bean reclaimed. The fluff triumphant. And so Whiskerstein, Hero of the Brew, curled atop the microwave and drifted into a victorious nap. Her paws twitched. Her tail flicked. In her dreams, she flew above a field of decaf drinkers, raining down truth bombs and fur. The legend of Fluffageddon would live on — told in whispers, in baristas' nightmares, in the faint, lingering scent of burnt oat milk and broken expectations. And every time someone says, “I’ll just have tea,” a chill runs through the air... and somewhere, a certain ginger cat prepares for battle once more. The End.     If you're still trembling from the sheer force of Whiskerstein's caffeine-fueled reign of terror, fear not — you can now wrap yourself in the aftermath. Bring home a piece of the pandemonium with the Fluffageddon Throw Pillow — perfect for dramatic sighing and passive-aggressive lounging. Or maybe you’d prefer to hide from your HOA beneath the comforting rebellion of the Fleece Blanket, saturated in attitude and cat hair (metaphorically). Need to carry your sass to the streets? Grab the Fluffageddon Tote Bag, roomy enough for your coffee beans, sarcasm, and zero f*cks. Sending a warning to your decaf-loving friends? We’ve got you covered with an epic greeting card that'll make them rethink their beverage choices. And of course, the pièce de résistance: an archival canvas print worthy of hanging in the halls of caffeinated royalty. Honor the fluff. Worship the bean. Hang the legend. #FluffageddonLives

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Squish Squad

The Sacred Order of the Squish In a rose-covered corner of a sleepy village nestled somewhere between the Land of Milk and Belly Laughs, there lived a baby named Pippa. She was a pint-sized tyrant of cuteness, armed with a rosebud mouth, violently kissable cheeks, and an unexplainable mastery of facial squishery. Birds chirped when she giggled. Grown men cried when she pouted. And grandmothers fainted dead away when she made her “pucker face,” a maneuver so powerful it had once derailed a church service and temporarily shut down the town’s entire Wi-Fi grid. Pippa lived with her human parents, an exceptionally lazy cat named Dave, and most importantly, Sir Butterbean—a roly-poly English bulldog puppy with more wrinkles than a laundry pile and the emotional range of a wet sponge. He snored like a chainsaw dipped in pudding and loved two things above all: belly rubs and pretending to be emotionally unavailable. Naturally, Pippa had declared him her soulmate. Every morning, after their breakfast of mashed bananas (Pippa) and mashed couch cushions (Butterbean), the two would toddle and waddle their way to the back garden—an explosion of rose petals, moss, and suspiciously judgmental gnomes. Here, on their well-worn mossy patch, they enacted their ancient morning ritual: the **Kiss of the Squish.** Now this was no ordinary peck. No dainty smooch. This was a full-lipped, squish-powered, squinty-eyed smacker that could startle birds mid-flight. Pippa would close her eyes, push her cheeks forward like two freshly risen buns, and lunge toward Butterbean’s jowly face with the might of a thousand grandmas armed with lipstick. Butterbean, who had long since resigned himself to his fate, would close his eyes like a saint accepting martyrdom and brace for impact. Their cheeks would meet with a noise somewhere between a squelch and an angel sigh. The world would pause. Gnomes would salute. Somewhere, a rainbow would burp itself into existence. And thus, the Order of the Squish would be reaffirmed for another day. But what neither Pippa nor Butterbean knew was that something far bigger than mashed banana and smooshed affection was brewing in their sleepy cottage garden. Something that involved an enchanted pacifier, a squirrel cult, and a retired garden hose named Gerald. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. For now, let us return to the garden. The roses blushed in full bloom. The air was thick with love, mischief, and the distant whiff of diaper ointment. And deep within the soft folds of Pippa’s giggle and Butterbean’s belly, the greatest adventure of their tiny lives was just beginning... The Secret Smooch Society Later that afternoon, as the sun hung low and lazy like a golden yolk on the edge of a nap, the air in the garden shifted. The wind fluffed Pippa’s curls just so, and Butterbean—mid-snore, upside down with his tongue lolling out and one paw twitching from a dream of chasing his own tail—snorted awake. His eyes opened slowly, like rusted garage doors. He blinked twice. Something was off. The roses were whispering again. He turned to Pippa, who was sitting in a mossy tuft wearing nothing but her floral diaper cover and a serious expression. She was chewing on a wooden spoon she had somehow smuggled out of the kitchen in her onesie’s buttflap pocket. That’s when it happened. Out from behind the hydrangeas shuffled an assembly of creatures so ridiculous, so wonderfully absurd, that even the garden gnomes narrowed their ceramic eyes in curiosity. There was a one-eyed squirrel in a satin cape. A rooster wearing sunglasses and cowboy boots. A raccoon who appeared to be carrying a clipboard and a great deal of emotional baggage. And leading the charge was Gerald—the retired garden hose—dragging his rubbery body through the gravel like a washed-up sea serpent on a mission. “It is time,” said the raccoon gravely, holding up the clipboard. “The prophecy is fulfilled. The Chosen Squish has awakened.” “Bwoof?” Butterbean grunted, blinking with the intensity of someone who had just eaten a dandelion and was questioning every life choice. Gerald reared his hosey length into the air like a makeshift cobra and hissed, “Silence, Squish-Bearer! She must complete the Trials before the Equinox of Giggletide. Or the garden shall be lost to... The Nibblers.” “Nope,” whispered the raccoon, flipping the clipboard, “wrong script. That’s from the Dandelion Cult. Sorry, Gerald.” Gerald sagged in a wave of apologetic hose, then composed himself. “Still. Trials. Destiny. That part’s legit.” Before Butterbean could crawl back into the sweet arms of his nap, Pippa stood. Or at least wobbled with conviction. Her tiny face lit up like a toaster oven. She babbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Adventure banana,” and stuck her spoon into the air like a sword forged from kitchen drawer chaos. She was in. They were whisked away (well, escorted at the pace of a sleep-deprived raccoon with a limp and a hose with no limbs) through the garden’s hidden glade—past the Judgmental Ferns, beneath the Great Swing of Yore, and into the Hollow of Whispering Worms. There, they were met by a grand circle of beasts who had sworn allegiance to the ancient laws of squish, slobber, and snack-sharing. They called themselves… The Secret Smooch Society. “You, Chosen One,” boomed a hamster in ceremonial feathers, “have passed the First Trial—The Unprovoked Kiss of Maximum Cheek Compression. Now you must complete the Second: The Test of Toy Sacrifice.” Pippa paused. Her face turned serious. She reached into her saggy diaper pouch (where most babies keep lint and secrets), and pulled out her most sacred treasure: the squeaky rubber duck named Colonel Nibbleton. Butterbean gasped. The raccoon wept. Even Gerald let out a low whistle that smelled faintly of mildew and prophecy. Without hesitation, Pippa plopped Colonel Nibbleton into the ceremonial puddle (which was, to be fair, just a birdbath the raccoon had peed in earlier). The Council nodded solemnly. “She is worthy,” intoned the rooster, who then did an uncalled-for dance move no one could explain. “Bring forth the Pacifier of Truth!” From the depths of the moss came a glowing object of pure baby legend: a pacifier so perfectly round, so ridiculously glittery, that even Pippa squinted with awe. Butterbean tried to eat it. Twice. He was gently but firmly sat on by a marmot named Linda until he stopped. The pacifier floated in mid-air. Gerald coiled himself into a ceremonial spiral. And then, as if pulled by the gravity of destiny (or possibly the smell of peanut butter from someone’s pants), Pippa reached up and popped the Pacifier of Truth into her mouth. The world blurred. Light twisted. Somewhere, a harmonica began playing itself. Pippa’s eyes widened with baby wisdom far beyond her eighteen and a half months. And then she said her first full sentence: “We are all just squishy miracles looking for a lap.” Silence. Reverence. Then someone farted. Probably the rooster. The Secret Smooch Society erupted into cheer. Toasts were made with acorn cider. The gnomes performed an interpretive dance involving finger puppets and interpretive sobbing. Pippa was crowned with a garland of daisy snacks. Butterbean peed on Gerald, who accepted the blessing in dignified silence. That night, under a sky smeared with stars and baby giggles, the Chosen Squish and her Jowly Guardian were honored in a ceremony involving three cupcakes, a tambourine, and something called “The Ceremony of the Holy Tummy Raspberry.” But trouble was brewing. In the shadows beyond the garden, behind the compost bin and beneath the swing set of broken dreams, a pair of glowing eyes blinked. A dark whisper carried on the breeze: “The Squish is rising... We must stop it before it softens the world.” And thus, the true battle for the future of squish had begun... Rise of the Anti-Squish The dawn broke slow and buttery over the garden, golden rays stretching like lazy kittens across the moss and dew-kissed petals. Pippa, still crowned with her floral garland and a single Cheerio stuck to her cheek, awoke in her royal highchair to find Butterbean at her feet, doing that dreamy sideways snore only bulldogs do when they've eaten too much pudding and have emotionally given up on gravity. The celebrations of the night before had ended in hiccups, several poorly timed nap-crashes, and one incident involving a cupcake, a sprinkler, and the concept of dignity. But today, there would be no parades. No interpretive dances by worm troupes. No recitations from the Chipmunk Bard Collective. No, today… they had a mission. A prophecy had been squealed. A threat had emerged. And it all started with a suspicious giggle echoing from the far side of the compost bin. Meet: Taffyta Von Smoogle. A rival baby influencer with 4.6 million followers on Totstagram, a personal stroller valet, and a jawline so sharp it had allegedly once sliced a teething ring in half. Taffyta wore designer overalls, metallic pacifiers, and sported a birthmark shaped like the Chanel logo. Her parents called her “a prodigy.” Her nanny called her “an emotional sugar bomb with legs.” Taffyta hated squish. “Squish is... common,” she sneered to her army of identically dressed ducklings—her so-called “Taffy Duck Force.” They were less ducks and more highly trained peeping operatives with tiny aviator glasses and questionable morals. “Real power,” she continued, adjusting her satin bib, “is in angles. Edges. Untouchable aesthetic. Not... slobber-based affection.” She had heard of Pippa’s coronation. She had heard of the ancient pacifier. And she knew: if this Squish Movement continued, there would be no space left in the influencer market for her brand of ice-cold, baby-couture chic. The world would be full of open arms and squishy bellies. There would be hugs. On camera. She shuddered. “Unforgivable.” Meanwhile, back at the Council, Pippa sat in deep consultation with Gerald, Butterbean, and Linda the marmot. The raccoon, suffering from a cider hangover and unresolved abandonment issues, had opted to nap under a rake. They were drawing up battle plans in crayon. The operation was to be named: Smooch Storm: Operation Lipplosion. “We strike at naptime,” said Linda, tapping a juice box for emphasis. “That’s when the ducklings’ focus drops. We’ll need distractions, decoys, and at least three banana peels.” Butterbean, wearing a colander helmet and a bib that read “Cheek First, Ask Questions Later,” nodded solemnly. Pippa narrowed her eyes, slapped mashed peas onto a parchment like a wax seal, and gurgled her official approval. As the sun reached its apex, the squad moved. They emerged from the tulips like legends—Pippa in full ceremonial footie pajamas, Butterbean in a stroller mounted with squeaky toys and snacks, and Gerald dragging an entire wheelbarrow of emotional support plushies. They marched to the Other Side—the uncharted land of Taffyta’s domain—past the forbidden sandbox, over the Bridge of Abandoned Sippy Cups, and through the Dunes of Forgotten Teething Toys. Taffyta met them at the center of the cul-de-sac, surrounded by her ducklings, arms crossed and face full of smug. “Well, well,” she smirked. “If it isn’t the Duchess of Drool and her furry sidekick. What’s the matter? Lost your blankie of justice?” Pippa didn’t flinch. She stepped forward. The air changed. The roses from the other garden leaned in. Even the sidewalk ants paused their buffet of fallen graham cracker to watch. Slowly, gracefully, powerfully… she opened her arms. “Huh?” said Taffyta. Pippa stepped closer. Eyes wide. Smiling. Soft. Her fingers spread like petals. Butterbean let out a proud fart of solidarity. “Hug?” Pippa asked. For a moment, Taffyta faltered. Her ducklings gasped. Gerald squeaked in anticipation. And the entire world held its breath. “You… you can’t just—” she sputtered. “You can’t hug your way out of—” But Pippa could. And she did. With the force of a thousand unspoken lullabies and the cozy warmth of a blanket straight from the dryer, she enveloped Taffyta in a squish so pure it nearly rewired the ducklings’ entire understanding of strategic philosophy. At first, Taffyta resisted. She puffed. She scowled. But then… her stiff baby limbs softened. Her lips trembled. Her face cracked. And out popped a hiccup so loud and heartfelt it triggered spontaneous emotional vulnerability in a passing goldfish. “It’s... nice,” she whispered. And just like that, the squish prevailed. In the days that followed, the two baby empires merged. Taffyta opened a line of limited edition cuddle cloaks. The ducklings became certified emotional support fluff. The pacifier was returned to its velvet-lined shrine beneath the hydrangeas. And Pippa and Butterbean resumed their sacred morning ritual, now with twice the audience, three extra cupcakes, and a deeply apologetic raccoon who was working on himself. The garden, once divided, now bloomed in full harmony. The Judgmental Ferns gave standing ovations. The gnomes wept openly. And every morning, the world paused for one blessed moment to witness the most powerful magic of all: A kiss, a squish, and the unspoken promise that love will always find the chubbiest cheeks. And thus, the Squish Squad reigned in peace. Until, of course, the arrival of the Sibling Horde. But that’s a story for another bottle of juice...     Bring the Squish Home If the Squish Squad stole your heart (and let’s face it, they did), you can keep the magic going with cozy, cuddly, and display-worthy goodies from shop.unfocussed.com. Whether you're decorating a nursery, curling up for storytime, or just need a daily reminder that hugs > everything, we’ve got you covered: Wood Print – A rustic, ready-to-hang tribute to Pippa and Butterbean’s legendary smooch, perfect for warm-toned interiors and squish-friendly spaces. Throw Pillow – Hug it, squeeze it, nap on it. Butterbean would absolutely approve of this snuggle-ready accent. Fleece Blanket – Wrap yourself in this soft masterpiece and channel the spirit of The Secret Smooch Society. Bonus: great for napping through duckling invasions. Framed Print – Elevate your wall game with a museum-quality print of this heartwarming scene, framed and fabulous for squish appreciation year-round. Explore the full collection and let a little bit of baby-and-bulldog joy into your home. Long live the Squish!

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

The Rosewing Vanguard

The Fall and the Flame They called her Hessa the Silent, not because she didn’t speak—gods no, she swore like a sky-sailor drunk on phoenix blood—but because when she struck, there was no warning. No clink of armor. No battle cry. No dumb heroic monologue. Just a cold wind, a flick of silver hair, and then someone’s spleen went flying into a lake somewhere. The Vanguard weren’t meant to survive the Purge. The Empire made sure of it. One by one, the dragonriders were hunted down, their mounts burned alive mid-air, their bones fed to wolves, and their legacies erased from every map and bard's ballad. That was a decade ago. And yet, here she was—grizzled, scowling, riding a goddamn rose-colored dragon like a war goddess dipped in glitter and fire. They tried to break her. They bound her wrists in shadowsteel and dumped her body in the Screaming Trenches for the worms to clean. But Hessa doesn’t stay buried. Not when there’s vengeance to serve on a flaming platter. Not when she’s the last rider of Rosewing, the only living dragon born from dusk itself, whose wings turned skies pink and whose breath scorched lies out of men like confession candles. She found the beast again on the 10th night of the Blood Gale, half-starved and chained beneath the ruins of an old observatory. His eyes were dull. His wings clipped. His pride had been flayed from him like bark from a cursed tree. Hessa didn’t speak. She just held up the old saddle—torn, scorched, and still slick with the blood of her sisters—and whispered, “You up for another round?” Rosewing blinked. Then he roared. Now, they fly over the smoking wreck of Fort Cravane, painting the sky in streaks of rage and redemption. The soldiers on the ground barely know where to look—at the impossible dragon with flaming fuchsia wings, or the leather-clad hellcat astride him, sword in one hand, middle finger in the other. She wasn’t here for mercy. She was here to remind the Empire that some fires don’t go out. They just wait for a gale strong enough to spread the damn blaze. And Hessa? She was the gale, the match, and the whole bloody firestorm wrapped in a corset of spikes and broken promises. “Run,” she growled to the battalion commander as Rosewing hovered over the smoking keep. “Tell your emperor I’m bringing every scream back. With interest.” And then? She dropped. Like a meteor. Like judgment with boobs and a blade. And the world caught fire. Again. Ashes and Ascension The crater left by her landing would be visible from orbit, if the empire had gotten their magic spy mirrors working before she fed the engineers to the wolves. The impact wasn’t just physical—it was mythic. Fort Cravane wasn’t some wooden outpost run by bored teenagers. It was a stone beast, a juggernaut carved into the bones of the mountain itself. It had stood unbreached for a hundred years. Emperors were crowned there. War councils forged genocides there. Bastards were legitimized in its brothel-halls by drunk nobles and even drunker scribes. And now? It was rubble. Smoking, blood-soaked rubble with a single pink-scaled dragon coiled atop it like a crown forged in madness and sass. Hessa didn’t just burn the fort. She erased it. Every banner torn, every relic shattered, every smug face either melted or begging for death like it was a warm blanket. She didn’t even get off Rosewing’s back for the first half hour—just strafed the courtyard like a pissed-off comet, cackling and spitting insults while her dragon turned war machines into molten modern art. Then came the real fun. See, Hessa had a list. A long one. Names she carved into the inside of her left gauntlet with a bone stylus dipped in witchblood. Each one was a reason she hadn’t slit her own throat during those ten years in exile. Each one had laughed while her kin burned, each one had signed the warrant, cast the spell, sealed the fate. And each one, like delicious, screaming destiny, had been summoned to Cravane for a war meeting. The gods must have known. Or maybe they just had a sick sense of humor. Because Hessa was coming for every name, and she was coming with style. She dismounted in the courtyard—Rosewing spinning lazily in the air above her like a bored death angel—and stalked across the shattered marble, her boots crunching on bones and brass. Her armor wasn’t polished. It was jagged, blackened, and smeared with enough blood to make the floor slippery. Her left pauldron still had a jawbone stuck to it. She left it there. Statement piece. General Vaeldor was the first. Big man. Voice like thunder. Beard like a brick wall that grew its own testosterone. He raised his axe and gave the dumbest speech of his dumb life: “I do not fear a broken woman on a stolen beast.” “And I don’t fear a sausage with arms,” she replied, kicking him in the groin so hard his ancestors felt it. Then she stabbed him through the mouth while he was still vomiting up vowels. Two minutes later, she’d impaled three more officers on a flagpole and shoved their corpses into a ceremonial brazier to keep her sword warm. Flames danced, blood steamed. It smelled like justice and burnt chicken. Rosewing dropped from the sky to snatch an archer off a tower like a child grabbing a snack. Bones crunched. Screams followed. Then silence. Hessa liked the silence. It gave her time to monologue. Which she did, frequently, and with profanity that could etch glass. “I’m not here to win,” she shouted, addressing the survivors hiding behind what used to be a tower wall. “I’m here to balance the books. You arrogant little piss-stains thought you could kill the Vanguard and stuff the story in a vault? Nah. You made it juicy. You made it a revenge song. And now I’m here to play the chorus—LOUD.” Someone tried to cast a banishment rune. She threw a throwing knife through his eye mid-sentence and didn’t break stride. Another tried to run. Rosewing spat a burst of flame shaped like a screaming banshee and turned the deserter into ash-flavored dust. The sky darkened. Stormclouds rolled in like they were trying to get a better view. By sundown, the fort was gone. Literally. There was nothing left but a field of smoking debris, a few blood-slick stones, and a single saddle sitting upright on a hilltop. Rosewing perched behind her like a goddamn monument, wings half-unfurled, tail wrapped in a spiral that glowed faintly from the still-burning embers in his veins. Hessa stood before the last survivor—a boy, maybe fifteen, holding a broken pike and a face full of piss and tears. She crouched before him, eye to eye. “Go home,” she whispered. “Tell them what you saw. Tell them the Vanguard flies again. And if they ever dare raise another army…” She leaned in, smile razor-sharp. “Tell them pink will be the last color they ever see.” The boy ran. Good. She wanted fear to spread faster than fire. Later, as she and Rosewing flew east toward the mountain strongholds, the wind carving new stories into the air around them, Hessa leaned back in the saddle, breathing deep. Her muscles ached. Her armor reeked. Her soul thrummed like a lute string strung too tight. But it was done. The first name crossed off. Forty-two to go. “That’s right, sweetheart,” she muttered to the stars. “We’re just getting started.” The Screaming Skies They called it The Rift—the tear in the earth that bled skyfire and swallowed armies. Stretching fifty miles across the Wastes like the gods had clawed the planet in half during a drunken brawl, it was said to be impassable. Suicidal. A graveyard of heroes and the last hope of fools. Which, of course, made it perfect for Hessa. She didn’t slow. Didn’t plan. Just gritted her teeth and kicked Rosewing into a dive so steep her eyelashes caught fire. The dragon responded like he’d been waiting for this all his life—wings slicing air, jaws open in a grin made of flame and defiance. Below, the Rift cracked wider, as if the land itself was screaming “OH NO SHE DIDN’T.” Oh, but she did. She’d crossed the Wastes to end this. To burn the root, not the branches. Her goal? The floating citadel of High Thorne—home of the Arken Lords, final architects of the Purge, and smug bastards with magic glass floors and an unearned superiority complex. You couldn’t reach them by land. You couldn’t breach the shield walls. Unless, of course, you were riding a rose-scaled dragon made of ancient war magic and spite with wings strong enough to tear holes in reality. Rosewing pierced the cloud barrier like a needle dipped in vengeance. Thunder rolled behind them. Magic sigils cracked as they passed. Dozens of skyward ballistae fired, but she danced between the bolts like the wind owed her money. One caught her pauldron. She didn’t flinch. Just bit the shaft off with her teeth and spit it at the tower. Then came the Sky Guard—aerial knights on winged drakes, thirty strong, gleaming with enchantments and entitlement. They fanned out like birds of prey, blades glowing, spells primed. One shouted, “By order of the High Council—” “Eat my order,” Hessa barked, slamming Rosewing into a barrel roll that sent three of them tumbling into each other like enchanted bowling pins. She stood in the saddle, sword in one hand, firebomb in the other, screaming a war chant so raw it probably made three ancestors resurrect just to clutch their pearls. “Let’s fucking dance, sky boys!” They fought through the air like demons on holiday. Rosewing twisted, snapped, spun into dives so sudden the horizon screamed. Hessa disarmed a mage mid-incantation, then headbutted him so hard he exploded into feathers. She caught a flaming spear with her bare hand, screamed “THANKS!” and hurled it into the citadel gates like she was mailing back someone’s bad decisions. Drakes shrieked. Blood fell like crimson rain. Magic collided with dragonflame and lit the clouds on fire. You could see it from every village within a hundred miles—an inferno in the sky, with a silhouette of a woman standing atop a god, unkillable and pissed off. The gates of High Thorne cracked. Then split. Then detonated. Hessa stepped into the throne room like she owned the floor. Because now, she did. Ash coated her hair like a crown. Her armor was half-melted. One eyebrow was gone. Her sword hummed with the deaths of men who hadn’t shut up when they should’ve. At the far end sat the three Lords—robed in silks, gaudy with enchanted rings, surrounded by trembling bodyguards and illusions that flickered like bad lies. “We can negotiate,” one started, face twitching. “Negotiate these,” she said, and hurled a blade into his chest so hard it pinned him to the back wall. The others went for spells. Rosewing crashed through the stained-glass ceiling like a pink war deity from someone’s trauma nightmare and screamed fire into the room, melting every protection circle in a heartbeat. Hessa walked through the blaze like a bad memory given form, killing everything that moved and most things that didn’t. When she reached the second Lord, she whispered something so foul into his ear that his soul left his body before the knife did. The last one she saved for last—Lord Vaedric, High Chancellor of the Purge, too cowardly to even stand. “You remember my sister?” she asked, sliding onto the throne. “Red hair, big heart, tried to talk peace while you gut-punched her with shadowsteel?” He nodded. Cried. Snot. Begged. Hessa rolled her eyes. “You know what her final words were?” He shook his head. “They were ‘Tell that bastard I’ll see him in hell.’ So.” She leaned forward. “Get going.” One twist of her wrist. One gurgle. Done. And just like that, the Purge was over. Later, after the fires died and the dust settled, Hessa and Rosewing sat atop the highest spire, watching dawn break over a quieter world. She wasn’t a hero. Heroes get statues. She preferred nightmares. She preferred stories. “You think it sticks?” she asked her dragon. Rosewing growled something deep and thoughtful, then sneezed a puff of glittery embers into the air. She laughed. “Yeah. Me too.” And then they flew. Into legend. Into infamy. Into every campfire tale and drunk bard song from here to the dead coast. Because the Rosewing Vanguard wasn’t a dream. She was the end of one empire—and the birth of something so much louder. The sky still hasn't healed.     Epilogue: Embers Never Sleep In a tavern carved from the ribs of a long-dead titan, a bard plucks strings too old to remember their own tuning. The room hushes. Drinks still. A fire pops. “They say she vanished,” the bard begins, voice raspy with ash and rumors. “Rider and beast. One moment setting skies on fire, the next—gone. Like they’d burned so bright, the world couldn’t hold them anymore.” A drunk near the hearth snorts. “Bullshit. No one survives the Rift.” The bard just smiles. “Then explain the pink scales they found last month in a crater outside Blackwind. Still warm. Still humming.” At a distant table, a woman with platinum hair and a half-melted pauldron sips quietly from a chipped mug. She says nothing. Just watches the flames. Her dragon sleeps in the valley beyond, curled like a storm waiting to remember itself. She doesn’t need the songs. She doesn’t need the statues. She needs only this: wind, silence, and the promise of one last flight, should the world dare ask her again. Because embers? They don’t die. They wait.     Bring the Legend Home If the tale of The Rosewing Vanguard lit something fierce inside you—don’t let it fade. Capture the fire, the fury, and the flight with exclusive merchandise inspired by the story. Let our metal print turn your wall into a battleground of light and legend, or test your wits and your patience with this epic jigsaw puzzle forged from the heat of fantasy skies. Want to send some fire by mail? Our greeting cards carry the saga one envelope at a time, and stickers slap the legend onto any surface that dares. And when the cold creeps in? Wrap yourself in dragon-warmed dreams with a luxuriously soft fleece blanket that feels like Rosewing’s wings wrapped around your soul. Because some stories belong in your hands—not just your head.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

The Laughing Grovekeeper

There are two types of gnomes in the deepwood wilds: the silent, mysterious kind who guard ancient secrets and never speak above a whisper… and then there’s Bimble. Bimble was, by most measurements, a disaster of a gnome. His hat was perpetually askew, like it had fought a raven and lost. His boots were tied with spaghetti vines (which, yes, eventually molded and had to be replaced with slightly more practical slugs), and his beard looked like it had been combed with a squirrel in heat. But what truly set him apart was his laugh—a high-pitched, rusty-kettle wheeze that could startle owls off branches and make fairies reconsider immortality. He lived atop a mushroom throne so large and suspiciously squishy that it probably had its own zip code. The cap was dotted with tiny, bioluminescent freckles—because of course it was—and the stem occasionally sighed under his weight, which was concerning, because fungi aren’t known to breathe. To the untrained eye, Bimble’s job title might have been something lofty like “Steward of the Grove” or “Elder Guardian of Mossy Things.” But in truth, his primary responsibilities included the following: Laughing at nothing in particular Terrifying squirrels into paying “mushroom taxes” And licking rocks to “see what decade they taste like” Still, the forest tolerated Bimble. Mostly because no one else wanted the job. Ever since the Great Leaf Pile Incident of '08 (don’t ask), the grove had struggled to recruit competent leadership. Bimble, with his complete lack of dignity and a knack for repelling centaurs with his natural musk, had been reluctantly voted in by a council of depressed badgers and one stoned fox. And honestly? It kind of worked. Every morning, he sat on his mushroom throne, sipping lukewarm pine-needle tea from a chipped acorn cap and cackling like a lunatic at the sunrise. Occasionally, he’d shout unsolicited advice at passing deer (“Stop dating does who don’t text back, Greg!”) or wave at trees that definitely weren’t waving back. Yet, somehow, the forest thrived under his watch. The moss grew thicker, the mushrooms puffier, and the vibes? Immaculate. Creatures came from miles around just to bask in his chaotic neutrality. He wasn’t good. He wasn’t evil. He was just... vibing. Until one day, he wasn’t. Because on the fourth Tuesday of Springleak, something stomped into his grove that wasn’t supposed to exist anymore. Something that hadn’t been seen since the War of the Wandering Toenails. Something large. Something loud. Something wearing a name tag that read: “Hi, I’m Dennis.” Bimble squinted into the foliage, his smile slowly spreading into the kind of grin that made fungi wilt out of fear. “Well, piss on a possum. It’s finally happening,” he said. And with that, the Laughing Grovekeeper rose—creaking like a haunted accordion—and adjusted his hat with all the regal grace of a raccoon unhinging a trash can lid. The grove held its breath. The mushroom trembled. The squirrels armed themselves with acorns sharpened into tiny shivs. Whatever Dennis was, Bimble was about to meet it. Possibly fight it. Possibly flirt with it. Possibly offer it tea made of moss and sarcasm. And thus began the weirdest week the forest had ever known. Dennis, Destroyer of Vibes Dennis was, and this is putting it gently, a lot. He crashed into the grove like a drunken minotaur at a yoga retreat. Birds evacuated. Moss curled up like it didn’t want to be perceived. Even the notoriously unbothered toads let out little amphibian swear words and flopped off into the underbrush. He was seven feet of horned fury, with arms like tree trunks and the emotional intelligence of a toaster oven. His armor clanked like a marching band falling down a well, and his breath smelled like someone had boiled onions in regret. And yet, somehow, his name tag still gleamed with a wholesome cheerfulness that just screamed, “I’m here for the icebreaker games and free granola bars!” Bimble didn’t move. He just sipped his tea, still grinning like the world’s oldest toddler who just found scissors. The mushroom squelched softly beneath him. It hated confrontation. “Dennis,” Bimble said, dragging the name out like it owed him money. “I thought you got banished to the Realm of Extremely Moist Things.” Dennis shrugged, sending a cascade of rust flakes from his shoulder plates into a nearby fern that immediately turned brown and died of sheer inconvenience. “They let me out early. Said I’d been ‘reflective.’” Bimble snorted. “Reflective? You tried to teach a pack of nymphs how to do CrossFit using actual centaur corpses.” “Character building,” Dennis replied, flexing a bicep. It made a sound like a creaking drawbridge and an old sandwich being stepped on at the same time. “But I’m not here for the past. I’ve found purpose.” “Oh no,” Bimble said. “You’re not selling essential oils again, are you?” “No,” Dennis said with alarming solemnity. “I’m building a wellness retreat.” A squirrel gasped audibly from a nearby tree. Somewhere, a pixie dropped her latte. Bimble’s left eye twitched. “A wellness retreat,” the Grovekeeper repeated slowly, like he was tasting a new kind of poison. “In my grove.” “Oh, not just in the grove,” Dennis said, pulling out a scroll so long it unrolled across half a clearing and landed in a puddle of salamanders. “We’re gonna rebrand the whole forest. It’s gonna be called… Tranquil Pines™.” Bimble made a noise somewhere between a gag and a bark. “This isn’t Aspen, Dennis. You can’t just gentrify a biome.” “There’ll be juice cleanses, crystal balancing, and meditation circles led by raccoons,” Dennis said dreamily. “Also, a goat that screams motivational quotes.” “That’s Brenda,” Bimble muttered. “She already lives here. And she screams because she hates you.” Dennis knelt dramatically, nearly flattening a mushroom colony. “Bimble, I’m offering you a chance to be part of something bigger. Picture it: branded robes. Organic pinecone foot soaks. Gnome-themed retreats with hashtags. You could be the Mindfulness Wizard.” “I once stuck my finger in a beehive to find out if honey could ferment,” Bimble replied. “I’m not qualified for inner peace.” “All the better,” Dennis beamed. “People love authenticity.” The mushroom let out a despairing gurgle as Bimble stood up slowly, dusted off his tunic (which accomplished nothing except releasing a cloud of glitter spores), and exhaled through his nose like a dragon who just found out the princess eloped with a blacksmith. “Alright, Dennis,” he said. “You can have one trial event. One. No tiki torches. No vibe consultants. No spiritual tax forms.” Dennis squealed like a man twice his size and half his sanity. “YES! You won’t regret this, Bimbobuddy.” “Don’t call me that,” Bimble said, already regretting this. “You won’t regret this, Lord Vibe-A-Lot,” Dennis tried again. “I swear on my spores, Dennis…” — One week later — The grove was chaos. Absolute, glorious chaos. There were 47 self-proclaimed influencers, all arguing over who had exclusive rights to film near the ancient wishing stump. A group of elves was stuck in a group therapy circle, sobbing over how nobody respected their leaf arrangement skills. Three bears had started a kombucha stand, and one raccoon had declared himself “The Guru of Trash,” charging six acorns per enlightened dumpster dive. Bimble, meanwhile, sat on his mushroom throne wearing sunglasses carved from smoked quartz and a shirt that read “Namaste Outta My Grove.” He was surrounded by candles made of scented wax and bad decisions, while a lizard in a crop top played ambient didgeridoo next to him. “This,” he muttered to himself, sipping something green and suspiciously chunky, “is why we don’t say yes to Dennis.” Just then, a goat trotted by screaming “YOU’RE ENOUGH, BITCH!” and somersaulted into a moss pile. “Alright,” Bimble said, standing up and cracking his knuckles. “It’s time to end the retreat.” “With fire?” asked a chipmunk assistant who had been documenting the whole thing for his upcoming memoir, ‘Nuts and Nonsense: My Time Under Bimble.’ “No,” Bimble said with a grin, “with performance art.” The grove would never be the same. The Great De-influencing Bimble’s performance art piece was called “The Untethering of the Grove’s Colon.” And no, it wasn’t metaphorical. At precisely dawn-o-clock, Bimble rose atop his mushroom throne—which he had dramatically dragged to the center of Dennis’s crystal-tent-studded “serenity glade”—and clanged two ladles together like a possessed dinner bell. This immediately startled five “forest wellness coaches” into dropping their sage bundles into a communal smoothie vat, which began smoking ominously. “LADIES, LICHES, AND PEOPLE WHO HAVE NOT POOPED SINCE STARTING THIS DETOX,” he bellowed, “welcome to your final lesson in gnome-led spiritual reclamation.” Someone in tie-dye raised a hand and asked if there would be gluten-free seating. Bimble stared into the middle distance and didn’t blink for a full thirty seconds. “You’ve colonized my glade,” he said finally, “with your hollow laughter, your ring lights, your whispery-voiced content reels about ‘staying grounded.’ You’re standing on literal ground. How much more grounded do you want to be, Fern?” “It’s Fernë,” she corrected, because of course it was. Bimble ignored her. “You took a wild, chaotic, fart-scented miracle of a forest and tried to brand it. You named a wasps’ nest ‘The Self-Care Pod.’ You’re microdosing pine needles and calling it ‘nectar ascension.’ And you’ve turned my goat Brenda into a cult leader.” Brenda, nearby, stomped dramatically on a vintage yoga mat and screamed “SURRENDER TO THE CRUMBLE!” A dozen acolytes collapsed into grateful sobs. “So,” Bimble continued, “as Grovekeeper, I have one last gift for you. It’s called: Reality.” He snapped his fingers. From the underbrush, a hundred forest critters poured out—squirrels, opossums, an owl wearing a monocle, and something that may have once been a porcupine but now identified as a ‘sentient pincushion named Carl.’ They weren’t violent. Not at first. They simply began un-decorating. Lamps were chewed. Tents were deflated. Sound bowls were rolled down hills and into a creek. A raccoon found a ring light and wore it like a hula hoop of shame. The kombucha bears were tranquilized with valerian root and tucked gently into hammocks. Bimble approached Dennis, who had climbed onto a meditation swing that was now hanging from a birch tree by a single desperate rope. “Dennis,” Bimble said, arms folded, beard billowing in the gentle breeze of justified fury, “you took something sacred and turned it into… into influencer brunch.” Dennis looked up, dazed, and sniffed. “But the hashtags were trending…” “No one trends in the deepwoods, Dennis. Out here, the only algorithm is survival. The only filter is dirt. And the only juice cleanse is getting chased by a boar until you puke berries.” There was a long pause. A wind rustled the leaves. Somewhere in the distance, Brenda screamed “EGO IS A WEED, AND I AM THE FLAME.” “I don’t understand nature anymore,” Dennis whispered. “You never did,” Bimble replied gently, patting his metal-clad shoulder. “Now go. Tell your people. Let the woods heal.” And with that, Dennis was given a backpack filled with granola, a canteen of mushroom tea, and a firm slap on the behind from a very aggressive chipmunk named Larry. He was last seen stumbling out of the forest muttering something about chakra parasites and losing followers in real time. The grove took weeks to recover. Brenda stepped down from her goat cult, citing exhaustion and a newfound passion for interpretive screaming in private. The influencers scattered back to their podcasts and patchouli farms. The mushroom throne grew back its natural glisten. Even the air smelled less of sandalwood disappointment. Bimble returned to his duties with a little more grey in his beard and a renewed appreciation for silence. The animals resumed their non-taxed existence. Moss thrived. And the sun once again rose each day to the sound of gnome laughter echoing through the trees—not hollow, not recorded, not hashtagged. Just real. One day, a small sign appeared at the entrance to the grove. It read: “Welcome to the Grove. No Wi-Fi. No smoothies. No bullshit.” Below it, scrawled in crayon, someone had added: “But yes to Brenda, if you bring snacks.” And thus, the Laughing Grovekeeper remained. Slightly weirder. Slightly wiser. And forever, delightfully, unfollowable.     Love Bimble’s vibes? Carry a little Grovekeeper mischief into your world! From a poster that immortalizes his chaotic smirk, to a tapestry that'll make your walls 73% weirder (in the best way), we’ve got you covered. Snuggle up with a fleece blanket woven with woodland nonsense, or take notes on your own gnome encounters in this handy spiral notebook. Each item is a little wink from the woods, guaranteed to confuse at least one guest per week.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Whispers of the Pearl Dragon

Moss, Mirth, and Misinformation “You know it’s rude to drool on royalty.” The voice was lilting and sharp, like laughter carried by a cold stream. The dragon, roughly the size of a large ferret, blinked one opalescent eye open. It did not move its head, because said head was currently being used as a pillow by a pale, pointy-eared girl with morning breath and an aggressive snore. “Pearlinth, did you hear me?” The voice continued. “You’re being used as a sleep accessory. Again. And you promised me after the Leaf Festival that you’d develop boundaries.” “Shhhh,” Pearlinth whispered back—telepathically, of course, because dragons of his stature rarely spoke aloud, especially when their jaws were pinned beneath the cheek of an unconscious elf. “I am nurturing her. This is what we do in the Sacred Order of Subtle Kindness. We are pillows. We are warmth. We are soft dragon-shaped comfort talismans.” “You are enabling her naps,” the voice replied. It belonged to Lendra, a willow wisp with far too much time and not enough daylight. She circled lazily over the mossy clearing, trailing bioluminescent sass like confetti. She had once worked in fae HR, so she took boundaries very seriously. “She’s been through a lot,” Pearlinth added, twitching one pearl-scaled wing slightly. “Last week she tripped into a goblin’s kombucha vat trying to rescue a snail with anxiety. Then the week before, she singlehandedly prevented a forest fire by confiscating a fire-breathing possum’s smoking pipe. That kind of courage requires rest.” Lendra rolled her glow. “Compassion is great. But you’re not a therapeutic mattress. You’re a dragon! You sparkle in seven spectrums. You once gave Queen Elarial a glitter sneeze that caused a mild panic in two villages.” “Yes,” Pearlinth sighed. “It was glorious.” Underneath him, the elf stirred. She had the telltale signs of a Dream Level Six: fluttering fingers, lips pressed into a faint smirk, and one foot slightly twitching as if arguing with a raccoon in REM sleep. Her name was Elza, and she was either a softhearted healer or a well-meaning menace, depending on the day and the proximity of magical livestock. Elza mumbled something that sounded like “Nnnnngh. Stupid cheese wizard. Put the goat back.” Pearlinth grinned. It was a subtle dragon grin, the kind that only showed if you’d known him through three mushroom cycles and at least one emotional molting. He liked Elza. She didn’t try to ride him. She gave excellent ear scritches. And she once taught him how to roll over for moonbeam cookies, which he still did, privately, when no one was looking. “You love her,” Lendra accused. “Of course I do,” Pearlinth said. “She named me after a gem and a musical note. She thinks I’m a baby, even though I’m 184 years old. She once tried to knit me a sweater, which I accidentally incinerated with excitement. She cried, and I wept a little molten sadness on a toadstool.” “You are the squishiest dragon alive,” Lendra huffed, though her glow dimmed with affection. “And proud,” Pearlinth replied, puffing out his glittery pearl chest just enough to lift Elza’s head by half an inch. Elza stirred again, brow furrowed. Her eyes fluttered open. “Pearlie,” she muttered groggily, “was I dreaming, or did the mushrooms invite me to a poetry reading again?” “Definitely dreaming,” Pearlinth lied lovingly. She yawned, stretched, and patted his head. “Good. Their last haiku night ended in sap fire.” And with that, she rolled onto her back and resumed snoring gently into a patch of glowmoss, muttering something about “sassy ferns” and “emotional crumpets.” Pearlinth curled protectively around her again, resting his cheek against hers, listening to her breath as if it were the music of the forest itself. In the trees above, Lendra hovered silently, the ghost of a smile playing through her flickering light. Even she had to admit: there was something sacred about a dragon who knew when to be a sanctuary. The Emotional Support Lint Ball and the Jelly-Faced Oracle By midday, Elza was awake, semi-conscious, and wrestling a piece of dried apricot that had somehow fused itself to her hair. Her movements were not elegant. They were more… interpretive dance performed by someone being chased by bees in their mind. “Ugh, this moss is moister than a gossiping pixie,” she groaned, yanking at the stubborn fruit clump while Pearlinth looked on with a mixture of concern and bemusement. “Technically, I am not allowed to judge your grooming rituals,” Pearlinth said, tail twitching thoughtfully, “but I do believe the apricot has achieved sentience.” Elza stopped mid-tug. “Then it has my condolences. We’re both stuck in this disaster spiral together.” It had been That Kind of Week. The kind that begins with a stolen scrying mirror and ends with a petition from the woodland raccoons demanding universal basic nut income. Elza, being the region’s only registered Emotimancer, was responsible for “diffusing magical tensions,” “restoring psychological balance,” and “not letting magical ferrets unionize again.” “Today,” she declared, standing with the grace of a collapsing beanbag chair, “we’re doing something non-productive. Something selfish. Something that does not involve accidental possession, emotionally confused oaks, or helping warlocks recover from breakups.” “Like brunch?” Pearlinth offered helpfully. “Brunch with wine,” she confirmed. And so the duo made their way toward Glimroot Hollow, a charming village so aggressively wholesome it had annual pie fights to release passive-aggressive energy. Pearlinth disguised himself using the ancient art of ‘hiding under a suspiciously large blanket’ while Elza draped a string of enchanted crystals around her neck to “look like a tourist” and deflect responsibility. They barely made it three feet into town before the whispering started. “Is that the Emotion Witch?” “The one who made my cousin’s spleen stop holding grudges?” “No no, the other one. The one who accidentally gave an entire wedding party the ability to feel shame.” “Oh her. Love her.” Elza smiled through gritted teeth, whispered, “I am a people person,” and kept walking. Inside The Jelly-Faced Oracle—a local tavern that looked like a candle shop collided with a forest rave—they finally found a quiet corner booth behind a curtain of beads that smelled faintly of elderflower and drama. “Isn’t it wild how your body knows when it’s time to crash?” Elza said, slumping into the booth with the dramatics of a bard mid-opera. “Like, my spine knew this moss cushion was my soulmate. Pearlie, tell it to never leave me.” “I believe that moss cushion is also in a committed relationship with a taxidermied owl and a teacup,” Pearlinth replied, having curled around her feet like a sentient foot warmer with pearls and low-level attitude. Before Elza could reply, a small voice interjected: “Ahem.” They looked up to see a gnome waiter with a spiral mustache, wearing a vest embroidered with the words “Freakishly Good Empath”. “Welcome to the Jelly-Faced Oracle. Would you like to order something joyful, something indulgent, or something existential?” “I’d like to feel like I’m making bad choices, but in a charming way,” Elza replied without pause. “Say no more. One ‘Poor Decision Porridge’ and a Flight of Regret Wines.” “Perfect,” Elza sighed, “with a side of Toasted Self-Loathing, lightly buttered.” As their order was conjured into existence via emotional resonance kitchen magic (which, honestly, should be a TED Talk), Pearlinth dozed under the table, his tail periodically knocking into Elza’s boots like a lazy metronome. Elza leaned back and closed her eyes. She hadn’t realized how long it had been since she allowed herself stillness. Not the kind forced by collapse, but the kind invited by kindness. She thought of Pearlinth’s quiet loyalty. His willingness to be her anchor without asking for anything in return. The way his pearl scales reflected her own messy heart—shimmering, cracked in places, but whole nonetheless. “You okay down there?” she asked gently, nudging his side with her foot. He answered without opening his eyes. “I will always be where you need me. Even if you need me to remind you that the raccoon uprising wasn’t your fault.” Elza snorted. “They formed a marching band, Pearlie. With tiny hats.” “They were inspired by your leadership,” he mumbled proudly. And just like that, something inside her softened. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a lump of lint she’d been meaning to discard. “You know what this is?” she said with mock seriousness. “This is my Official Emotional Support Lint Ball. I’m naming it… Gary.” Pearlinth opened one eye. “Gary is wise.” “Gary gets me,” she said, balancing it atop her wine glass. “Gary doesn’t expect me to fix the ecosystem or heal emotionally constipated centaurs. Gary just... vibes.” “Gary and I are now in a committed triad,” Pearlinth declared. The waiter returned just in time to witness Elza toasting to lint-based emotional regulation. “To Gary,” she declared. “And to every underpaid magical familiar and overworked woodland therapist who ever just needed a damn nap.” As they clinked glasses, something shimmered quietly in the folds of the moment. Not magic, exactly. Just something sacred and unhurried: a dragon's soft sigh beneath the table, the rustle of moss in a booth built for weirdos, and the glow of ridiculous hope lighting up a small, messy heart. And somewhere outside, the wind carried whispers. Not of destiny. Not of doom. But of two unlikely souls who gave each other permission to fall apart, nap hard, and rise sassier than ever before. The Ceremony of Snacks and the Pearl Pact It was dusk when they returned to the glade, their laughter trailing behind them like fireflies. Elza, emboldened by three glasses of Regret Wine and a surprising number of existential hash browns, had declared that today would not end in a fizzle. No, today would be legendary. Or at least... moderately memorable with decent lighting. “Pearlie,” she slurred with determination, “I’ve been thinking.” “Oh no,” Pearlinth muttered from her shoulder. “That never ends quietly.” She plopped dramatically onto the moss and spread her arms like a stage magician mid-mood swing. “We should have a ceremony. Like a real one. With symbols. And snacks. And... sparkles. Something to mark this… this sacred codependence we have.” Pearlinth blinked. “You want to formalize our emotional entanglement?” “Yes. With carbs and candles.” “I accept.” Thus began the hastily assembled and dubiously spiritual **Ceremony of the Pearl Pact.** Lendra, summoned against her will by the scent of pastry crumbs and the promise of mild chaos, hovered nearby in judgmental participation. “Are there bylaws for this union of sass and mutual emotional damage?” she asked, glowing skeptically. “Nope!” Elza grinned. “But there’s cheese.” They built a sacred circle using mismatched rocks, half a stale baguette, and one of Elza’s boots (the left one, because it had fewer emotional issues). Pearlinth fetched glitterberry leaves from the nearby bramble and arranged them into a shape that was either a heart or a very tired hedgehog. Symbols are open to interpretation in rituals fueled by vibe alone. “I, Elza of the Uncombed Hair and Questionable Judgement,” she intoned, holding a toasted marshmallow aloft like a holy relic, “do solemnly swear to continue dragging you into minor peril, unsolicited therapy sessions, and emotionally-charged bake-offs.” “I, Pearlinth of the Gleaming Chest and Soft Tummy,” he replied, voice echoing in her mind with the gravity of someone who once swallowed a gemstone for attention, “do swear to protect, support, and occasionally insult you into growth.” “With snacks,” she added. “With snacks,” he confirmed. They touched the marshmallow to his snout in what might be the first recorded dragon-to-graham offering, and in that moment, the moss beneath them shimmered faintly. The air pulsed—not with ancient magic, but with the undeniable resonance of two beings saying: I see you. I choose you. You are my safe place, even when everything else burns down around us. And then, of course, came the parade. Because nothing in the glade stays private for long. Word had spread that Elza was “doing some kind of unlicensed ritual with snacks and possibly swearing eternal loyalty to a lizard,” and the forest responded like only enchanted ecosystems can. First came the squirrels with flags. Then the toads in tiny cloaks. The raccoons showed up late with instruments they clearly didn’t know how to play. A gaggle of dryads arrived to provide ambiance, harmonizing over a beatbox mushroom named Ted. Someone set off sparkler spores. Someone else fired a potato cannon out of pure enthusiasm. Lendra, despite herself, glowed so brightly she resembled divine disco. Elza looked around at the utter chaos she’d conjured—not with magic, but with connection—and started to cry. Happy tears, the kind that sneak up behind you and slap you with the weight of being loved exactly as you are. Pearlinth curled around her again, warm and steady. “You’re leaking,” he observed gently. “Shut up and hold me,” she whispered. And he did. As the celebration roared on, something deep in the soil stirred. Not a threat. Not danger. But recognition. The land knew loyalty when it saw it. And somewhere in the glade’s memory—etched not in stone or scroll, but in the pollen and laughter of beings who dared to be weird and wonderful together—this day rooted itself like a seed of legend. They would talk about the Pearl Pact, of course. They’d turn it into songs, poorly drawn scrolls, and probably some kind of pudding-based reenactment. But none of it would match the truth: That the strongest magic isn’t cast. It’s chosen. Repeatedly. In the small, ridiculous, glowing moments that say—you don’t have to carry it alone. I’ve got you. Snacks and all. And thus concludes the tale of a dragon who became a pillow, a girl who turned lint into emotional currency, and a friendship as absurd as it was unshakably real. Long live the Pearl Pact.     If the tale of Elza and Pearlinth stirred something soft and sparkly in your soul, you can carry a piece of their bond with you. Whether you’re decorating your sanctuary with the Whispers of the Pearl Dragon tapestry, sipping tea while pondering existential lint with the framed fine art print, bonding over puzzles in true Pearl Pact fashion with this enchanted jigsaw, or taking Elza’s sass and Pearlie’s snuggly loyalty with you on the go in a sturdy tote bag—you’ll always have a little magic by your side. Celebrate friendship, fantasy, and emotional chaos with art that whispers back. Available now on shop.unfocussed.com.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

The Rooster’s Bloom

The Blooming Begins Once upon a time (and probably three chardonnays deep), in the sleepy village of Cluckminster, lived a rooster unlike any other. His name was Bartholomew Featherfax the Third, but most just called him Bart. He wasn’t your average morning-screamer. No. Bart was a vibe, an icon, a strut incarnate. He crowed not at dawn, but when he was good and ready — preferably after a nice stretch, a moment of affirmations, and two sips of lukewarm espresso with goat milk foam. But what truly made Bart different — aside from his deep baritone voice and suspiciously tight thighs — was his plumage. Where other roosters sported rugged reds or moody blacks, Bart had… flora. Petals. Fronds. Tiny spiraling succulents growing where feathers should be. His tail alone looked like a small, highly curated Etsy boutique, and his neck shimmered like the inside of a dream wrapped in a kaleidoscope wrapped in a cheeky Pinterest board. Of course, this was not the norm in Cluckminster, where most poultry preferred their feathers basic, their beaks unmoisturized, and their ambitions low. Bart, however, bloomed loudly. And unapologetically. “Are those flowers growing out of your butt?” hissed Gertrude the Hen one morning as Bart passed the grain trough, hips swaying like a disco ball in slow motion. “Excuse me, Gertrude,” he clucked, tossing a begonia over his shoulder, “they’re fractal-integrated botanicals. And they are thriving, unlike your brittle dry comb.” The hens gasped. The ducks pretended not to listen, but everyone knew ducks were messy. Even the barn cat, who’d spent most of the week high on catnip behind the hay bales, peeked out and whispered, “Daaaaamn.” That very day, Bart strutted up to the barn roof (as one does), stood against the inky dawn sky, fluffed his botanical majesty, and let out a crow so powerfully fabulous that nearby sunflowers did a little shimmy. This was not just a wake-up call. It was a declaration. An arrival. A blooming of epic proportions. Unfortunately, it also alerted the Council of Poultry Aesthetics — an outdated, cranky bunch of feathered fossils who preferred conformity, beige feathers, and strictly one type of squawk per gender. And thus began the official filing of **Complaint #37B: Unauthorized Blooming While Male**. The Petal Trials of Bartholomew Featherfax the Third The Council of Poultry Aesthetics convened in their musty little coop-turned-office behind the barn. Their motto, carved in dust on a crooked plaque, read: "Neutral tones. Modest combs. No flair, no fun, no feathers undone." Each member was older than hay, balder than truth, and more wrinkled than a two-week-old raisin in a sauna. At the head of the table sat Lord Pecksley, a rooster so uptight his tail feathers had fused into a single, clenched curl. “This Bartholomew menace,” he wheezed, adjusting his monocle (yes, monocle), “must be... pruned.” “He’s flaunting,” clucked Madam Prunella, chief hen of etiquette. “With petals. In broad daylight. Children can see them. Succulents, even! Euphorbia vulgaris right on his neck!” “And that spiral bloom near his vent?” whispered the Vice Chair, scandalized. “Nature doesn’t spiral there.” “Well,” Pecksley snapped, slamming a talon down, “nature clearly needs a stern reminder of boundaries!” The council voted unanimously: Bart was to appear before the Barn Court in three days’ time to account for his botanical 'indecency'. Meanwhile, the barnyard was losing its mind. On one side, Bart’s fans. The Bloomers. They were a colorful coalition of hens with glittery combs, ducklings with attitude, a wildly dramatic peacock from three towns over, and at least one suspiciously muscular squirrel who just wanted to vibe. They marched with signs like “”, “Fractal is Functional,” and “Botany Is Not A Crime.” Someone even wrote a spoken-word piece about photosynthesis and liberation. It was weird. And beautiful. On the other side? The Cluckservatives. Stern hens in neutral shawls. Roosters who'd never moisturized. A pair of judgmental pigeons from accounting. They accused Bart of ‘distracting the flock,’ ‘unsettling the egg count,’ and ‘making the chicks ask too many damn questions.’ In the middle of it all? Bart. Fabulous. Furious. And frankly, exhausted. He’d never asked to be a symbol. He just wanted to bloom. Was that so much? Still, the pressure was mounting. The council began clipping the petals of other hens who dared to accessorize. Feathers were being inspected. Seeds confiscated. The goose who painted her beak was publicly peck-shamed. Dandelion crowns were outlawed. They even tried to dye Bart’s tail beige with expired oat milk. (He slapped it away with a calendula plume and muttered “Try again, you bland bastards.”) By the time the trial began, Bart arrived in full regalia. He’d spent the night cultivating a rare orchid at the tip of each tail plume. A crown of golden chrysanthemum spirals framed his head. His wattles sparkled with bioluminescent dew drops. His beak was polished. His claws were French-tipped. And his eye — oh, his eye — was a smoldering blaze of “I will burn your coop with my vibe.” “Bart Featherfax,” boomed Lord Pecksley, standing beneath a flickering barn bulb that made him look like an undercooked chicken nugget, “you stand accused of aesthetic anarchy, defiance of rooster norms, and inciting unauthorized botanical awakening. How do you plead?” Bart stepped forward. Slowly. Every movement caused a ripple of floral shimmer to cascade across his body like spring gossip on a breeze. He cleared his throat. Held the entire barn’s breath in his claws. Then, with a voice smooth as silken molasses draped over a jazz solo, he replied: “I plead flourished.” Gasps. Screeches. A hen fainted. Someone dropped a corn cob. “You say I incite awakening?” he continued, strutting a slow spiral around the haybale podium. “Good. Because we’ve been asleep far too long. For generations, you told us our feathers were only worth something if they matched someone else’s mold. That we had to peck in place. That color was chaos. That bloom was bad. But I am not your beige fantasy.” He spun, flared his wings. Petals shimmered. Fractals unfurled. The damn flowers sang. (No one knows how. It just happened.) “I’m not here to conform. I’m here to photosynthesize and stir sh*t up.” The Bloomers exploded in applause. The peacock sobbed. The squirrel threw glitter. Even a few Cluckservatives began loosening their comb wraps. Lord Pecksley’s monocle popped off. “Order! ORDER I SAY!” he clucked, shaking his beak violently. “This isn’t over, Featherfax! This is a war on standardization!” Bart winked. “Then call me your flamboyant revolution.” And as the barn doors creaked open behind him, letting in the morning light — Bart strutted out, feathers in full bloom, tail spirals catching the sun like fire-wheels of rebellion. The hens followed. The ducks quacked in rhythm. The squirrel raised a tiny flowered fist. But just beyond the barnyard fence... something else stirred. Something bigger. Something ancient. Something with feathers... and vines. The Bloom Beyond the Fence The fence behind the barn had always been a mystery — a line never crossed, a story never told. Chickens said it led to the Overgrowth. The elders whispered it was where the Wild Roosters roamed. Roosters who refused to be plucked, preened, or pigeonholed. Roosters whose feathers had evolved into forests. Roosters who didn’t crow… but howled. And now, as Bart stood blinking into the early dawn light, fresh from revolution and still radiating orchid-based defiance, he saw them. First, the trees parted. Not like they’d been pushed, but like they’d politely stepped aside. Then out came a shape — tall, plumed, and radiant. A rooster, yes, but... more. Part phoenix, part rainforest. His tail coiled like galaxies. His beak glinted like obsidian wrapped in mango nectar. His chest bore markings older than shade. His eyes held starlight and dirt. He smelled like rebellion steeped in rosemary. He approached Bart and spoke in a voice that didn’t echo — it rooted. “You bloomed loud, little brother.” “I didn’t know I had a family out there,” Bart whispered, petals trembling. “You bloomed. That’s enough.” Behind the Forest Rooster came others — a parade of legendary bloomers. A hen whose feathers were literal roses. A duck with floating lily pads for wings. A turkey with bioluminescent mushroom gills. A quail that glowed with internal fire. A peacock that bent light itself. Bart blinked. “Is this heaven?” “It’s better,” the Forest Rooster grinned. “It’s real. And it’s ours. Come walk with us.” But Bart looked back. Behind him, the barnyard was in chaos and color. The Bloomers were holding their ground. The Cluckservatives had begun to fray at the combs. A small group of chicks were painting each other’s beaks with elderberry juice and shouting things like “Pollinate your power!” and “Be your own bouquet!” He turned back. “I can’t leave them.” The Forest Rooster nodded. “Then we’ll come with you.” And that’s how the Bloom War began. Oh, don’t worry, it wasn’t violent. It was worse. It was artistic. They began with the barn. They painted it in gradients so bold even the sheep looked up. They threw a full moon rave in the coop. They taught the chicks geometry via sunflowers. They brought jazz. Poetry. Mushroom farming. Avian glitter drag shows. One night, a nightingale beatboxed the entire first act of *Hamlet*. It was confusing and transcendent. The Cluckservatives fought back the only way they knew how: bureaucracy. They issued cease-and-decrow orders. They tried to form a Ministry of Modesty. They attempted to regulate petal diameter. Someone even invented a Bloom Tax. But the movement couldn’t be stopped. Not when the very soil had begun to shift. The coop’s walls started growing vines. The old troughs overflowed with marigolds. The roosts sprouted lavender stems that hummed lullabies at night. Nature had chosen a side. And at the center of it all was Bart — no longer just a rooster, but a revolution in feathers. He stood daily in the sun, petals wide, comb glowing with dew, and told stories to the chicks about the time he turned shame into shade, judgment into jasmine, and hate into horticulture. He never wore the same feathers twice. He always smiled when the council glared. He kissed his reflection good morning. He was everything they'd told him not to be — and then some. Years later, long after Lord Pecksley was seen retiring bitterly into a worm commune and the barn had become a museum-slash-nightclub-slash-botanical sanctuary, an elder chick asked Bart: “Why flowers?” He smiled, rustling with heliotrope and sass. “Because feathers fly,” he said. “But blooms? Blooms stay. They root. They multiply. They shake the ground and perfume the air. And you can’t pluck a bloom without spreading seeds.” The chick blinked. “So... you’re saying we’re all just walking flower bombs?” Bart winked. “Exactly. Now go explode somewhere fabulous.” And so they did.     🌺 Take a Piece of the Bloom Home If Bart strutted into your heart like he did into history, now you can let his blooming brilliance brighten your everyday life. Bring The Rooster’s Bloom into your space with our Framed Print — a stunning, gallery-ready tribute to floral rebellion and fearless expression. Carry his sass wherever you go with the eco-chic Tote Bag, perfect for farmers markets, libraries, or storming the gates of boring fashion. Send blooming wisdom to your favorite humans with a vibrant Greeting Card, ideal for birthdays, affirmations, or unapologetic declarations of fabulousness. And for a sleek modern touch? The Metal Print brings Bart’s fractal feathers to life in full radiant glory — durable, bold, and entirely unbothered by bland walls. Whether you're here for the laughter, the layers, or the lush, rebellious artistry — let Bart remind you: it’s always the season to bloom exactly as you are.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Grinfinity Purradox

The Cat, the Cult, and the Missing Underpants In the acid-laced dreamscape of Kaleidowood, nestled between the Caffeine Mountains and the River of Poor Decisions, lived a feline who wasn’t quite... sane. Or real. Or housebroken. Locals called it Grinfinity — a name spoken only after three espresso shots and a silent prayer to the God of Hangovers. Grinfinity wasn’t born. He coalesced. Formed from the collective subconscious of every drunk art major who ever said “I could totally design an NFT of a cat that eats the multiverse.” He was 70% fractal mischief, 20% day-glow fluff, and 10% weaponized smile. And that smile? It had molars. Not like “oh how cute, kitty has teeth,” but “oh god it bit the mayor and he still can't eat pudding right.” By day, he posed as a mystical guru in the backyard of a defunct yoga studio, purring cryptic nonsense to wide-eyed influencers and failed DJs. By night, he attended underground raves where he sold micro-doses of existential dread packed in jellybean form. His third favorite hobby was rearranging people’s sock drawers into mandalas and then watching their slow mental decline. But on the fateful Thursday that kicked off the Purradox, Grinfinity had other plans: he wanted the Moon's underpants. "What?" you ask. "The Moon wears underpants?" Of course it does. Why do you think it hides behind clouds during full moons? Modesty. Lunar modesty. But the Moon’s underpants weren’t just any cosmic skivvies — no, these were handwoven from the silky regret of 1990s boybands and reinforced with the sighs of every raccoon who ever found an empty trash bin. They were the comfiest, most powerful underpants in the known reality cluster. Legend said that whoever wore them gained the ability to lick their own ego clean, summon a never-ending brunch, and annoy telemarketers with mind bullets. Grinfinity didn’t care about that. He just wanted to steal them and leave them hanging on a church steeple in Wisconsin. For the vibes. Thus began a journey through wormholes, drive-thrus, and a surprisingly aggressive nudist colony called “Freeballonia.” But first, he needed a crew. And like any true antihero, he started with the worst idea possible: Craigslist. The first to answer was Darla Doomleg, a retired roller derby champ turned erotic taxidermist. She had a bat tattooed on each butt cheek and a pet stoat named Greg. Then came Phil “No Pants” McGravy, a man banned from seventeen diners and one time accidentally married an inflatable couch. And rounding out the chaos was Kevin, a sentient pile of glitter with a vape addiction and daddy issues. “We're going to steal lunar underwear,” Grinfinity announced, tail coiling like a Salvador Dalí signature. “And if we’re lucky, fart in them before the universe resets.” No one blinked. Kevin did release a small puff of lavender mist, but that was just how he showed excitement. They climbed into Darla’s hover-Winnebago, gassed up on fermented Snapple and sheer spite, and rocketed toward their fate. Grinfinity sat at the helm, purring like a tattoo gun stuck on “regret,” eyes glowing like traffic lights at a rave. The first destination? The Great Cosmic Sock Drawer — a sub-dimensional vault rumored to contain every lost sock, sense of dignity, and good decision ever made while drunk. It was also, according to Reddit, the portal to the Moon's laundry chute. They had no idea what horrors awaited. But Grinfinity didn’t care. He had his claws sharpened, his grin dialed to “menace,” and his butt parked squarely in destiny’s cupholder. The Great Sock Drawer and the Trouble with Sentient Panties Inside the yawning, sock-scented maw of the Great Cosmic Sock Drawer, time hiccuped. Reality folded like origami made by a drunk uncle at a family BBQ, and gravity was having a petty argument with inertia. Grinfinity and his crew stumbled out of the hover-Winnebago, blinking at the fuzzy chaos sprawling before them. The landscape was pure chaos. Left socks lounged in velvet hammocks, drinking hot cocoa and sighing about their missing partners. Right socks marched in military formations, demanding justice, a Netflix series, and warm feet. Thongs floated overhead like smug butterflies, occasionally dive-bombing crew members with snarky insults. A massive athletic sock the size of a cathedral sobbed gently into a vat of Axe body spray. “I feel like I licked a lava lamp,” muttered Phil No Pants, who was currently wearing a kilt made of caution tape and chewing on a glowstick for courage. “What is this place?” “The psychic fallout zone of every laundry day gone wrong,” Darla Doomleg whispered, clutching Greg the stoat, who had gone full feral and was now gnawing at the space-time continuum like it owed him money. “We need to find the Laundry Chute of Ascension.” Kevin the Glitter Pile was vibrating, leaving behind little trails of sparkly nonsense and purring to himself in Morse code. “This place smells like wet shame and cinnamon gum,” he murmured. “I feel alive.” Grinfinity prowled ahead, his paws leaving imprints of color that shifted when no one was looking. Every step was an insult to geometry. His grin widened with each twitching sock and floating brassiere they passed. He was in his element — chaos, laundry, and low-stakes cosmic thievery. All his nine lives had been leading to this moment. Suddenly, a booming voice erupted from the horizon like a burp from a god who’d eaten too much cheese. “WHO SEEKS THE PANTIES OF THE MOON?” Everyone froze. Even Greg. Even Darla’s left butt cheek clenched in alarm. Out of a storm cloud made entirely of mismatched dryer lint emerged a being of impossible fluff and profound sass: the Panty Warden of the 7th Cycle. It had the body of a sentient laundry basket, legs made of coat hangers, and eyes that screamed "I once had hopes, but then I taught middle school." “State your purpose or be ye sorted by the eternal spin cycle!” it roared. Phil stepped forward, holding a novelty-sized pair of edible underpants as a peace offering. “We’re here to borrow the Moon’s undies and maybe cause some low-level metaphysical vandalism. No biggie.” The Panty Warden blinked slowly. “Do you even understand the power you seek? Those briefs control tides, menstrual cycles, and cheese production in Wisconsin. They're woven from lunar wool and blessed by the Pope's weird cousin.” “That’s exactly why we need them,” Grinfinity replied, his eyes glowing like radioactive olives. “Also, I made a bet with a comet that I could graffiti Saturn’s rings while wearing them.” The Warden sighed, releasing a cloud of fabric softener that smelled like unresolved childhood trauma. “Very well. But first, you must pass... the Trials of the Tumble.” And just like that, the ground fell away. The crew screamed, some out of fear, others out of habit. They plummeted through a vortex of laundry-themed horrors: a tunnel of moist towels, a field of biting sock puppets quoting Nietzsche, and a karaoke pit where rogue lingerie sang ABBA songs at weaponized volume. Trial One: The Washer of Regret. The team was trapped inside a swirling cylinder of bad exes, awkward conversations, and that one time you texted “you too” when the barista said “enjoy your drink.” Grinfinity just floated through, humming “Toxic” by Britney Spears and occasionally hissing at ghosts. Darla punched her way out with brass-knuckled sass. Kevin just melted into a puddle of self-love and re-emerged fabulous and more glittery than ever. Trial Two: The Bleach Zone. Everything turned white. The crew was assaulted by unsolicited opinions, yoga moms in Uggs, and the endless loop of someone explaining NFTs. Phil nearly broke until he remembered he’d once peed in an influencer’s smoothie. That gave him strength. Trial Three: Ironing Board of Destiny. A smooth-talking ironing board challenged them to a game of philosophical beer pong. The questions were abstract (“Can socks dream of matching feet?”), the answers more so. Grinfinity aced it with riddles that sounded like pickup lines from a sentient thesaurus. He seduced the board into submission. Finally, they emerged in the heart of the Drawer — the Spin Temple, a massive coliseum of cotton and ego. Suspended in the center, guarded by a choir of floating sentient boxer briefs, hovered the prize: the Lunar Underpants. They were magnificent. High-waisted. Laced with constellations. The tag simply read “Handwash Only: Violates 17 Natural Laws if Machine Dried.” “I’m gonna sniff them,” Kevin whispered reverently. “You’re not gonna sniff them,” Darla snapped. “I might sniff them,” Grinfinity admitted, already climbing the scaffolding with the grace of a deranged ballet dancer. As he reached for the waistband, a ripple shot through space — a psychic fart of destiny. The Moon felt it. Back on the lunar surface, the Moon blinked. It had been binge-watching telenovelas and eating emotional ice cream, unaware its favorite underpants were under siege. It rose slowly. The air crackled. Somewhere, a celestial gong sounded. The Moon. Was. Coming. Underwearageddon, Glitter Redemption, and the Grinning End of All Things The Moon was pissed. Like, full-on “I came home to find my favorite snack gone and someone used my toothbrush as a butt-scrubber” kind of pissed. It tore across the cosmos like a cosmic Karen in a minivan made of passive-aggressive Yelp reviews, headed directly for the Great Cosmic Sock Drawer. As it moved, it plucked meteors from space like curlers and rolled them into its hair. Lightning cracked across its craters. It snarled in Spanish. Meanwhile, deep within the Spin Temple, Grinfinity clutched the legendary Lunar Underpants like a man possessed — or more accurately, like a cat who had just found the warmest, most forbidden nap spot in the multiverse. “They’re... so soft,” he purred, eyes rolling back as celestial cotton caressed his furry cheeks. “This must be what angels wear when they go clubbing.” Darla Doomleg stood guard, wielding a feather boa turned plasma whip. “We’ve got maybe thirty seconds until the Moon shows up and rage-bounces us into another dimension.” Kevin, now three times larger and pulsing with high-voltage glam energy, was covered in psychic sequins and vibrating with existential anxiety. “I don’t think I’m ready to fight a planetary body, guys. I barely survived brunch with my ex last week.” Phil No Pants was applying glow-in-the-dark war paint using a bottle of expired ranch dressing. “You guys worry too much. What’s the Moon gonna do, moon us?” Then the ceiling exploded in a tidal wave of lunar fury. The Moon descended like a glittery judgment god, wreathed in flames and expletives. “WHO. TOUCHED. MY. UNDIES.” “It was consensual!” Grinfinity shouted, hiding the underpants in a pocket dimension shaped like a suspiciously moist gym sock. “Also, we’re technically insured.” The Moon blinked, then launched a crater-sized moonbeam directly at them. Chaos erupted. Battle of the Briefs had begun. Sock armies rose from beneath the temple, unified by their mutual hatred of foot sweat and abandonment. They charged the Moon’s shoelace golems, who whipped through the air with deadly accuracy. Lingerie drones buzzed above, firing taser-thongs at anything that moved. One particularly aggressive sports bra suplexed a cardigan into next week. Phil No Pants rode into the fray on a flaming flip-flop, swinging twin pool noodles like nunchucks and screaming, “I AM THE TIDE POD WARRIOR!” Darla leapt into the air, roundhouse-kicking a pair of sentient long johns into a spinning dryer vortex, then delivered a passionate monologue about consent and the importance of label-reading during laundry. The socks paused, inspired. One wept quietly. Kevin, meanwhile, had achieved a glitter-based transcendence. He floated above the battlefield, shimmering like a rave god, whispering affirmations and raining down healing sparkles. Enemies froze mid-punch to marvel at his radiant thighs. A bra snapped itself back on in respect. But the Moon would not be swayed. It summoned a tidal wave of moonlight, collapsing the fabric of the drawer. Grinfinity had one shot — one chance to save them all and pants the Moon at the same time. He reached into the quantum sock-pocket, pulled out the Lunar Underpants, and slipped them on with the slow-motion power of a shampoo commercial meets an exorcism. Light flared. Somewhere, a llama learned to play bass guitar. Reality hiccuped. “You cannot wear those,” the Moon roared. “They are mine!” “Correction,” Grinfinity said, stepping forward with a pelvic thrust that echoed through the void. “They were yours. Now they’re riding this fuzzy thunder-thicc tail and fueling chaos like grandma’s chili on cheat day.” He activated the Underpant Protocol: an ancient power encoded in the waistband. Threads of truth and bad decisions spiraled outward, rewriting physics with every purr. The Moon staggered, blinking in slow-motion as its own gravitational ego was pulled into a swirling vortex of shame and self-reflection. “Is this what I’ve become?” the Moon whispered. “A petty ball of overreactive glow?” Kevin floated up beside it. “We all lose our shine sometimes. What matters is whether you sparkle again… on your own terms.” The Moon sobbed. One giant, shimmering tear fell from the sky and splashed onto Earth, instantly birthing a pop-up spa in Cleveland. No one questioned it. It had a four-star rating by noon. In that moment, Grinfinity forgave the Moon. Or maybe just got distracted by a floating meatball. Either way, peace was restored. The Spin Temple faded into a soft fog of dryer sheets and awkward goodbyes. The sock armies disbanded. The sentient panties returned to their cloud nests. The Moon returned home, slightly wiser, moderately humbler, and down one pair of godly underwear. Back on Earth, Grinfinity opened a fusion brunch parlor called Purradox & Eggs. Darla launched a wildly successful line of tactical corsets. Phil became the host of a reality show called “Naked and Mildly Confused.” Kevin published a memoir titled “Glitter and Guts: My Journey Through Sockspace.” And the underpants? Still worn by Grinfinity, usually on Wednesdays, always backwards, occasionally while skateboarding down gravity wells just to flip off the laws of thermodynamics. He never stopped grinning.     Still grinning? Good — because now you can bring a piece of the madness home. Whether you want to display Grinfinity’s legendary smirk above your fireplace, send dangerously whimsical greetings to frenemies, or spend a questionable weekend assembling his fur one psychedelic piece at a time, we've got you covered. Own the purradox in glorious form: Framed Print: Class up your chaos — Grinfinity belongs in a frame, not in your sock drawer. Canvas Print: Vibrant, bold, and as misbehaved as your last birthday party. Tapestry: Cover your wall in color-drenched cat chaos (or your ex’s taste in décor). Jigsaw Puzzle: Lose your sanity piece by piece — just like Grinfinity intended. Greeting Card: Because nothing says “I’m thinking of you” like a cosmic cat who may have destroyed space-time for fun. Get weird. Get wonderful. Get Grinfinity.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Sunlit Shenanigans

There are fae who tend gardens. There are fae who weave dreams. And then there’s Fennella Bramblebite—whose main contributions to the Seelie realm are chaotic giggling fits, midair moonings, and an alarming number of forest-wide “misunderstandings” that always, mysteriously, involve flaming fruit and nudity. Fennella, with her wild braid-forest of red hair and a nose as freckled as a speckled toadstool, was not your average sylvan enchantress. While most fae flitted about with dewdrop tiaras and flowery poetry, Fennella spent her mornings teaching mushrooms to curse and her afternoons impersonating royalty in stolen acorn hats. Which is exactly how she came to adopt a dragon. “Adopt” may be too generous a word. Technically, she’d accidentally lured him out of his egg with a sausage roll, mistaken him for a very aggressive garden lizard, and then named him Sizzlethump before he even had the chance to incinerate her left eyebrow. He was small—about the size of a corgi with wings—and always smelled faintly of smoke and cinnamon. His scales shimmered with flickers of ember and sunset, and his favorite pastimes included torching laundry lines and pretending to be a neck scarf. But today… today was special. Fennella had planned a picnic. Not just any picnic, mind you, but a nude sunbathing-and-honeycake extravaganza in the Grove of Slightly Disreputable Nymphs. She had even invited the squirrel militia—though they still hadn’t forgiven her for the “cursed nuts incident of spring.” “Now behave,” she hissed at Sizzlethump as she unrolled the enchanted gingham cloth that hissed when touched by ants. “No flaming the butter. No eating the spoons. And for the love of moonbeams, do not pretend the elderberry wine is bathwater again.” The dragon, in response, licked her ear, snorted a smoke ring in the shape of a rude gesture, and settled across her shoulder like a smug, fire-breathing mink. They were five bites into the honeycakes (and three questionable licks into something that might have been a toad pie) when Fennella felt it—a presence. Something looming. Watching. Judging. It was Ainsleif. “Oh gnatballs,” she muttered, eyes narrowing. Ainsleif of the Mosscloaks. The Most Uptight of the Forest Stewards. His hair was combed. His wings were folded correctly. He looked like the inside of a rulebook. And worst of all, he had paperwork. Rolled parchment. In triplicate. “Fennella Bramblebite,” he intoned, as if invoking an ancient curse. “You are hereby summoned to appear before the Council of Leaf and Spore on charges of spontaneous combustion, suspicious pastry distribution, and inappropriate use of glimmerweed in public spaces.” Fennella stood, arms akimbo, wearing only a necklace made of candy thorns and a questionable grin. Sizzlethump burped something that made a nearby fern catch fire. “Is that today?” she asked innocently. “Oopsie blossom.” And thus, with a flap of wings and the smell of smoldering scones, the fairy and her dragon friend were off to stand trial… for crimes they almost definitely committed, possibly while tipsy, and absolutely without regrets. Fennella arrived at the Council of Leaf and Spore the same way she did everything in life: fashionably late, dubiously clothed, and covered in confectioner’s sugar. The great mushroom hall—a sacred, ancient seat of forest governance—stood in utter silence as she crash-landed through the upper window, having been flung by a catapult built entirely from discarded spiderwebs, cattail reeds, and the shattered dreams of serious people. “NAILED IT!” she hollered, still upside down, legs tangled in a vine chandelier. “Do I get extra points for entrance flair or just the concussion?” The crowd of fae elders and woodland officials didn’t even blink. They’d seen worse. Once, a brownie attorney combusted just from sitting in the same seat Fennella now wiggled into. But today… today they were bracing themselves for a verbal hurricane with dragon side-effects. Sizzlethump waddled in behind her, dragging a suitcase that had burst open somewhere in flight, leaving a breadcrumb trail of burnt marshmallows, dragon socks, two left shoes, and something that might have been an enchanted fart in a jar (still bubbling ominously). High Elder Thistledown—a weepy-eyed creature shaped vaguely like a sentient celery stalk—sighed deeply, his leafy robes rustling with despair. “Fennella,” he said gravely, “this is your seventeenth appearance before the council in three moon cycles.” “Eighteen,” she corrected brightly. “You forgot the time I was sleep-haunting a bakery. That one hardly counts—I was unconscious and horny for strudel.” “Your crimes,” continued Thistledown, ignoring her, “include, but are not limited to: weaponizing bee song, unlicensed dream vending, impersonating a tree for sexual gain, and summoning a phantasmal raccoon in the shape of your ex-boyfriend.” “He started it,” she muttered. “Said my feet smelled like goblin tears.” Sizzlethump, now perched on the ceremonial scroll pedestal, belched a flame that turned the parchment to crisps, then sneezed on a nearby gavel, melting it into a very decorative puddle. “AND,” Thistledown said, voice rising, “allowing your dragon to exhale a message across the sky that said, quote: ‘LICK MY GLITTERS, COUNCIL NERDS.’” Fennella snorted. “That was supposed to say ‘LOVE AND LOLLIPOPS.’ He’s still learning calligraphy.”     Enter: The Prosecutor. To the surprise of everyone (and the dismay of some), the prosecutor was Gnimbel Fungusfist, a gnome so small he needed a soapbox to be seen above the podium—and so bitter he’d once banned music in a five-mile radius after hearing a harp he didn’t like. “The defendant,” Gnimbel rasped, eyes narrowed beneath tiny spectacles, “has repeatedly violated Article 27 of the Mischief Ordinance. She has no respect for magical regulation, personal space, or basic hygiene. I present as evidence... this underwear.” He held up a suspiciously scorched pair of bloomers with a daisy stitched on the butt. Fennella clapped. “My missing Tuesday pair! You glorious little fungus! I’ve missed you!” The courtroom gasped. One dryad fainted. An owl barrister choked on his gavel. But Fennella wasn’t done. “I move to countersue the entire council,” she declared, climbing on the table, “for crimes against fashion, joy, and possessing the tightest fairy holes known to civilization.” “You mean loopholes?” Thistledown asked, eyes wide with horror. “I do not,” she replied solemnly. At that moment, Sizzlethump unleashed a sneezing fit so powerful he scorched the banners, singed the warden’s beard, and accidentally set loose the captive whispers held in the Evidence Urn. Dozens of scandalous secrets began fluttering through the air like invisible bats, shrieking things like “Thistledown fakes his leaf shine!” and “Gnimbel uses toe extensions!” The courtroom dissolved into chaos. Fairies shrieked. Gremlins brawled. Someone summoned a squid. It was not clear why. And in the midst of it all, Fennella and her dragon grinned at each other like two pyromaniacs who’d just discovered a fresh box of matches. They bolted for the exit, laughter trailing behind them like smoke. But before leaving, Fennella turned, dramatically flinging a pouch of cinnamon glitter over her shoulder. “See you next equinox, nerdlings!” she cackled. “Don’t forget to moisturize your roots!” With that, the pair shot into the sky, Sizzlethump belching little heart-shaped fireballs while Fennella shrieked with delight and a lack of underpants. They didn’t know where they were going. But chaos, snacks, and probably another misdemeanor awaited. Three hours after being chased from the Council in a cloud of weaponized gossip and molted scroll ash, Fennella and Sizzlethump found themselves in a cave made entirely of jellybeans and regret. “This,” she said, peering around with hands on hips and nose twitching, “was not the portal I was aiming for.” The jellybean cave groaned ominously. From the ceiling dripped slow, thick droplets of butterscotch sap. A mushroom nearby whistled the theme to a soap opera. Something in the corner burped in iambic pentameter. “Ten out of ten. Would trespass again,” she whispered, and gave Sizzlethump a piece of peppermint bark she’d smuggled in her bra. They wandered for what felt like hours through the sticky surrealist sugar hellscape, dodging licorice spiders and sentient mints, before finally emerging into the moonstruck valley of Glimmerloch—a place so magical that unicorns came there to get high and forget their responsibilities. “You know,” Fennella murmured as she flopped onto a grassy knoll, Sizzlethump curling up beside her, “I think they’ll be after us for a while this time.” The dragon gave a tiny snort, eyes half-closed, and let out a rumble that vibrated the moss beneath them. It sounded like “worth it.”     The Council, however, was not so easily done. Three days later, Fennella’s hiding place was discovered—not by a battalion of armored pixies or an elite tracker warg, but by Bartholomew. Bartholomew was a faerie rat. And not a noble rat or a rat of legend. No, this was the type of rat who sold his mother for a half-stale biscuit and who wore a monocle made from a bent bottlecap. “Council wants ya,” he wheezed, waddling through a carpet of forget-me-nots like a walrus through whipped cream. “Big deal. They’re talkin’ banishment. Like, full-fling outta the Queendom.” Fennella blinked. “They wouldn’t. I’m a cornerstone of the cultural ecosystem. I once singlehandedly rebooted winter solstice fashion with edible earmuffs.” Bartholomew scratched himself with a twig and said, “Yeah, but yer dragon melted the Moon Buns’ fertility altar. You kinda toasted a sacred womb rock.” “Okay, in our defense,” she said slowly, “Sizzlethump thought it was a spicy egg.” Sizzlethump, overhearing, offered a hiccup of remorse that smelled strongly of roasted thyme and mild guilt. His wings drooped. Fennella ruffled his horn. “Don’t let them guilt you, nugget. You’re the best mistake I’ve ever kidnapped.” Bartholomew wheezed. “There’s a loophole. But it’s dumb. Really dumb.” Fennella lit up like a torchbug on espresso. “My favorite kind of plan. Hit me.” “You do the Trial of Shenanigan’s Bluff,” he muttered. “It’s... sort of a performance thing? Public trial by satire. If you can entertain the spirits of the Elder Mischief, they’ll pardon you. If you fail, they trap your soul in a punch bowl.” “Been there,” she said brightly. “I survived it and came out with a new eyebrow and a boyfriend.” “The punch bowl?” “No, the trial.”     And so it was set. The Trial of Shenanigan’s Bluff took place at midnight under a sky so full of stars it looked like a bejeweled bedsheet shaken by a drunk deity. The audience consisted of dryads, disgruntled town gnomes, one spectral hedgehog, three flamingos in drag, and the entire squirrel militia—still wearing tiny helmets and carrying grudge nuts. The Elders of Mischief appeared, rising from mists made of giggles and fermented tea. They were ancient prankster spirits, their bodies swirled from smoke and old rumors, their eyes glinting like jack-o’-lanterns full of dirty jokes. “We are here to judge,” they thundered in unison. “Amuse us, or perish in the bowl of eternal mediocrity.” Fennella stepped forward, wings flared, dress covered in potion-stained ribbons and gumdrop armor. “Oh beloved prankpappies,” she began, “you want a show? I’ll give you a bloody cabaret.” And she did. She reenacted the Great Glimmerpants Explosion of ’86 using only interpretive dance and marmots. She recited scandalous haikus about High Elder Thistledown’s love life. She got a nymph to fake faint, a squirrel to fake propose, and Sizzlethump to perform a fire-breathing tap dance on stilts while wearing tiny lederhosen. By the time it ended, the audience was weeping from laughter, the Elders were floating upside down from glee, and the punch bowl was full of wine instead of souls. “You,” the lead spirit gasped, trying not to laugh-snort, “are absolutely unfit for banishment.” “Thank you,” Fennella said, curtsying so deeply her skirt revealed a birthmark shaped like a rude fairy. “Instead,” the spirit continued, “we appoint you as our new Emissary of Wild Mischief. You will spread absurdity, ignite joy, and keep the Realm weird.” Fennella gasped. “You want me... to make everything worse... professionally?” “Yes.” “AND I GET TO KEEP THE DRAGON?” “Yes!” She screamed. Sizzlethump belched glitter flames. The squirrel militia passed out from overstimulation.     Epilogue Fennella Bramblebite is now a semi-official agent of gleeful chaos. Her crimes are now considered “cultural enrichment.” Her dragon has his own fan club. And her name is whispered in reverent awe by pranksters, tricksters, and midnight troublemakers in every corner of the Fae Queendom. Sometimes, when the moon is right and the air smells faintly of burnt toast and sarcasm, you can see her fly by—hair streaming behind her, dragon clinging to her shoulder, both of them laughing like fools who know that mischief is sacred and friendship is the weirdest kind of magic.     Want to bring a little wild mischief into your world? You can own a piece of “Sunlit Shenanigans” and keep the chaos close at hand—or at least on your wall, your tote, or even your cozy nap blanket. Whether you’re a fae of impeccable taste or a dragon hoarder of fine things, this whimsical artwork is now available in a variety of forms: Wood Print – Rustic charm for your mischief sanctuary Framed Print – For those who prefer their chaos elegantly contained Tote Bag – Carry your dragon snacks and questionable potions in style Fleece Blanket – For warm snuggles after a long day of magical misdemeanors Spiral Notebook – Jot down your best pranks and potion recipes Click, claim, and channel your inner Bramblebite—no Council approval required.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

How to Tame Your Dragon’s Dental Hygiene

The Gums of War In the majestic realm of Gingivaria—a place tragically overlooked by most fantasy cartographers—dragons weren’t known for their hoards or fiery wrath. No, they were known for their halitosis. The kind that could melt faces faster than their actual flame breath. The kind that left a streak of singed eyebrows in its wake. The kind that made even trolls retch and cry, “Dear gods, is that anchovy?” Enter Fizzwhistle Junebug, a winged dental hygienist with a vengeance. She was petite, sparkly, and meaner than a tax audit. Her wings shimmered in irritated gold whenever someone said, “Fairy dust solves everything.” Her toothbrush? An industrial-grade wand forged in the Molars of Mount Munch. Her mission? To tame the worst dental case in all seven realms: Greg. Greg the dragon had many titles: Scourge of Skincare, Flamey the Flatulent, Baron of the Bicuspid Apocalypse. But most knew him simply as The Breath of Doom. Villagers no longer brought sacrifices—they brought mints. Bards refused to sing of his deeds until they invented rhymes for “decay” and “oral swamp.” Greg didn’t mind. He was perfectly content gnawing on boulders and basking in the solitude of people running in the opposite direction. Until Fizzwhistle flew into his cave one dewy Tuesday morning with a clipboard and a peppermint aura. “Gregory?” she chirped, somehow sounding both chipper and ready to commit murder. “I’m with the Enchanted Oral Order. You’ve been reported… seven hundred and sixty-two times for olfactory assault. It’s time.” Greg blinked. One eye. Then the other. He was halfway through a mouthful of charcoal briquettes. “Time for what?” he rumbled, a cloud of greenish horror seeping from his mouth like a fog of forgotten sins. Fizzwhistle donned aviator goggles, clicked a button on her wand, and extended it into a dual-action, enchanted toothbrush-flossing lance. “Time,” she said, “for your first cleaning.” The scream that followed echoed through five valleys, startled a herd of centaurs into a synchronized can-can, and permanently curled the leaves of the Whimpering Woods. The Plaqueening Greg did not come quietly. He howled. He thrashed. He gnawed the air like a feral toddler teething on thunder. And yet, despite all this prehistoric drama, Fizzwhistle Junebug hovered with the dead-eyed calm of someone who’s flossed the teeth of mountain trolls while they snored. She waited, mid-air, wings buzzing faintly, wand-brush at the ready, sipping from a travel-sized espresso chalice that read: “Don’t Make Me Use The Mint.” “Done?” she asked after the third cave stalactite crumbled from Greg’s banshee roar. “No.” Greg grunted, curling his massive tail protectively around his snout. “You can’t make me. I have rights. I’m a majestic, ancient being. I’m on several tapestries.” “You’re also a public health crisis,” she replied. “Open wide, Sir Fumebreath.” “Why does it smell like burning cucumbers when I burp?” “That’s your tonsils waving a white flag.” Greg sighed, smoke curling out of his nostrils. Somewhere in the back of his prehistoric brain, the tiniest speck of shame flickered. Not that he’d ever admit it. Dragons don’t do shame. They do rage, naps, and existential ennui. But as Fizzwhistle cracked her knuckles and activated the sonic floss attachment, Greg realized that maybe—just maybe—he was not okay. “Okay, ground rules,” he growled. “No touching the uvula. That thing’s sensitive.” Fizzwhistle rolled her eyes. “Please. I’ve flossed krakens. Your uvula’s a powder puff.” And so it began. The Great Cleaning. First came the rinse: a cauldron of enchanted water infused with mint, moonlight, and a hint of cinnamon broom. Greg sputtered and foamed like a broken cappuccino machine. He belched a bubble that floated away, popped midair, and turned a squirrel into a barista. Then came the scaling. Fizzwhistle zipped between his teeth, lance vibrating, scraping decades of fossilized meat goo from his molars. Out came a knight’s helmet, two ox bones, a whole wheel of ghost cheese (still screaming), and what appeared to be the skeletal remains of a bard holding a tiny lute. Greg blinked. “So that’s where Harold went.” Fizzwhistle didn’t stop. She whirred. She buffed. She flossed with the fury of someone who had been left on read one too many times. And all the while, Greg sat there, his tongue dangling out like a defeated dog’s, whimpering. “Do you enjoy this?” he mumbled, half-choking on a minty glob of magical foam. “Immensely,” she grinned, wiping sweat from her brow with a disinfected lavender towel. Midway through quadrant three (left bicuspid zone), Greg coughed up a toothpick the size of a javelin and murmured, “This feels… oddly intimate.” Fizzwhistle paused. Hovered. Cocked her head sideways. “You ever had anyone care enough to scrape out your tartar, Greg?” “…no.” “Well, congrats. This is either love or professional stubbornness. Possibly both.” He blinked slowly. “Do you do tail scales too?” “That’s extra,” she deadpanned. Time slipped sideways. Light filtered in from the edge of the cave mouth in a hazy, post-cleanse glow. Greg’s teeth sparkled like cursed sapphires. His gums—formerly a toxic swamp of regret and regret sandwiches—now shone with the healthy blush of a creature who had finally seen a toothbrush. Fizzwhistle dropped into a seated hover, wand cooling in its holster. “Well. That’s done.” “I feel… light,” Greg said, opening his mouth and exhaling. A flock of nearby birds did not fall dead from the sky. Flowers did not immediately wither. A nearby tree actually perked up. “I feel like I could go to a brunch.” “Don’t push it,” she muttered. Greg sat in stunned silence, sniffing at his own breath like a dog discovering peanut butter. “I’m minty.” “You’re welcome.” Fizzwhistle tucked her gear back into her satchel, now clinking with extracted plaque crystals and some extra treasure she “accidentally” picked up from the hoard. Greg didn’t notice. He was too busy smiling—an act that, for the first time, did not cause a thunderclap or spontaneous nosebleeds in nearby villagers. “Hey, Fizz?” he said, his voice awkward and rumbly. “Would you maybe… come back? Like next week? Just to, you know, check the molars?” Fizzwhistle smirked. “We’ll see. Depends if you floss.” Greg's face fell. “What’s floss?” A Mint Condition Relationship The following week, Greg flossed using a pine tree and a suspiciously bendy wizard. It wasn’t effective, but the effort was there. Fizzwhistle returned, reluctantly impressed. She arrived with a toolbox of enchanted dental gear and the wary eyes of a woman who wasn’t sure whether this was a follow-up cleaning or an accidental date. “I even rinsed,” Greg offered proudly, mistaking a bucket of rainwater for mouthwash. He’d added crushed snowberries for flavor. He gagged. But he did it. Fizzwhistle raised an eyebrow. “You used the berries that scream when picked?” “It seemed festive.” “They’re also mildly hallucinogenic. Don’t eat your own tail for the next hour.” Despite the chaos, something had shifted. Greg didn’t flinch when she hovered near his canines. He even smiled—without weaponizing it. Birds didn’t scatter. Trees didn’t ignite. The world stayed mostly intact, which in Greg’s case was emotional growth. After his third appointment (he was now on a plan), Greg did something unthinkable. He made tea. He boiled water with his breath, steeped herbs from the Whispering Glade, and served it in a tea set he accidentally stole from a gnome wedding two centuries ago. Fizzwhistle, suspicious but curious, accepted. She even sipped. It wasn’t terrible. “I’ve never hosted tea before,” Greg admitted, fidgeting with his tail. “Usually I just incinerate guests.” “This is slightly more charming,” she said. “Also less murdery.” They sipped. They chatted. Topics ranged from dental horror stories to Greg’s brief but dramatic stint as a backup dancer in the Goblin Opera. She laughed. He blushed. Somewhere, a unicorn sneezed glitter and nobody knew why. The visits became routine. Weekly cleanings turned into bi-weekly brunches. Greg started brushing daily with a house-sized bristle brush mounted to a siege tower. Fizzwhistle installed a flossing polearm near the stalactites. She even left behind a magically singing toothbrush named Cheryl who kept yelling, “SCRUB THOSE MOLARS, YOU FILTHY KING!” every morning at sunrise. It was oddly romantic. Not in a “let’s hold hands under moonlight” kind of way, but in the “I scrape barnacles off your gums because I respect you” kind of way. Which, in Gingivaria, was basically a proposal. One day, as they flew together over the Sparkling Ridge (Fizzwhistle clinging to Greg’s neck spike with a picnic basket strapped to her back), he asked, “Do you think it’s weird?” “What? The fact that I clean your teeth with a glowing spear and also bring you croissants?” “That… and maybe the feelings part.” Fizzwhistle looked ahead, past the shimmering clouds and the distant spires of Gingivaria’s Capital of Canker, and said, “Greg, I’ve cleaned between your molars. There is no going back from that level of emotional intimacy.” Greg rumbled a soft laugh that only incinerated a small shrub. Progress. They landed on a cliff edge, laid out their brunch, and watched a pair of thunderbirds dance across the horizon. Greg delicately munched on a charcoal scone (recipe courtesy of Cheryl the toothbrush). Fizzwhistle nibbled a cloudberry tart and sipped a flask of wine that sang Gregorian chants in the key of gingivitis. “So…” Greg said, tail twitching nervously. “I was thinking of adding a second toothbrush tower. For guests. You know. If you ever wanted to… stay?” Fizzwhistle choked slightly on her tart. “Are you asking me to move in?” “Well. Only if you want to. And maybe if we survive your mom’s reaction. And if Cheryl doesn’t object. She’s gotten… territorial.” Fizzwhistle stared at him. This ancient, terrifying, plaque-producing beast with a now-brilliant smile and a secret weakness for honey tea. She wiped tart crumbs from her lip, adjusted her wing cuff, and said: “I’d be delighted, Greg. On one condition.” “Anything.” “You floss. With actual floss. Not wizards.” Greg grumbled but nodded. “Deal. Can we still use gnomes as mouthwash?” “Only if they volunteer.” And so they lived—mintily, sassily, and ever after—in a dragon’s lair turned open-plan dental spa. Word spread. Creatures from all corners of the land flocked to Gingivaria not to battle a beast, but to book an appointment. Fizzwhistle opened a boutique. Greg became the poster child for reformed dragon breath. Their love was weird. Their brunches legendary. Their plaque? Nonexistent. Because in the end, even the most fearsome monsters deserve someone who cares enough to clean their teeth, love their bad habits, and gently whisper, “You missed a spot, babe.”     Want to bring a little mythical mischief into your home? This magical moment between Greg and Fizzwhistle is available as a print, puzzle, tumbler, and more. Explore "How to Tame Your Dragon’s Dental Hygiene" in glorious detail through high-quality merchandise and fine art prints at Unfocussed Archive. Add a touch of enchanted chaos to your walls—or your morning coffee routine.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Tea With a Twist of Madness

Welcome to the Unhinged Hour The teacup trembled in his hand, but not from age or tremor. Oh no, that wasn’t his style. This was deliberate—an invitation. A shivering clink of porcelain against porcelain, timed to the second, meant to drive anyone listening just a little more bonkers. He grinned, blood dribbling neatly from the corner of his mouth like raspberry jam from a cracked scone. “Darling, do come in,” he purred. “We’re just one scone short of a psychotic episode.” Her name was Maple. Not that it mattered. He had already renamed her in his head: Spoonette. She had the precise amount of judgmental eyebrow and unseasoned curiosity that made her the perfect guest. Human enough to ask why the sandwiches were whispering. Dull enough to eat them anyway. The Mad Hatter—though he preferred 'Sir Hatsalot the Unbalanced'—flourished one gangly arm toward a seat upholstered in mismatched socks. “Sit, sit! The tea won’t murder itself.” Maple hesitated. The chair burped. She sat anyway. “Now then,” he said, plopping down across from her with the elegance of a flung marionette. “Tell me what brings you to the edge of reason, across the river of sanity, and into my dribble-stained garden of demented delight?” He poured from a teapot shaped like a screaming frog, red liquid splashing into her cup with the viscosity of regret. “And before you ask—yes, it is tea. Technically. Spiritually.” Maple opened her mouth. Closed it. Decided nodding was safer. He sipped theatrically, smearing crimson across his chin. His teeth gleamed like porcelain gravestones. “Oh, she’s clever,” he whispered to the cup. “Did you see how she didn’t ask? That's respect. Or fear. Either way, delicious.” The garden around them writhed with creeping vines, disembodied hats bouncing around like caffeinated rabbits. A chandelier swung lazily from nothing above, draped in spoons and moth wings. Something giggled from behind the sugar bowl. Possibly the sugar bowl. But the Hatter kept his eyes on her. “You seem nice,” he said, leaning in. “I like that. Nice people scream better.” She reached for a biscuit. It hissed. She ate it anyway. He laughed—sharp, short, and uncomfortably sexual. “I knew I liked you. I’ve always admired a woman who snacks through trauma.” The teacup rattled again. Louder this time. Maple finally spoke. “Is it... bleeding?” “Not yet,” the Hatter chirped. “But give it a minute. I steeped it with unresolved daddy issues and beetroot.” From a corner of the table, a doily sighed. Somewhere behind her, the Cheshire Cat blinked into half-existence, rolled its eyes, and blinked right back out. And so the Unhinged Hour began—one guest, one hatter, and one pot of something suspiciously coagulated. Just the way he liked it. The Tart of Knowing Things The Hatter leaned forward until his hat nearly grazed the burning candle stuck to the top of a mummified hedgehog centerpiece. “Now that you’ve tasted trauma with a side of biscuit,” he grinned, “let’s move on to the amuse-bouche of revelation.” He produced a small tart from beneath his sleeve. It was glistening, dark, and trembling slightly, as though it regretted existing. “This,” he said, holding it out like a sacrament, “is the Tart of Knowing Things. Eat it, and you’ll understand absolutely everything... for five to seven minutes.” Maple squinted at it. “What kind of things?” “All the things. The cosmic things. The unsettling things. The stuff you think about at 3:17 AM when your ceiling fan sounds like it's trying to confess to murder.” She looked down at the tart. It twitched. She looked back up. “Will I still be me afterward?” He shrugged. “Hard to say. That depends entirely on how much of ‘you’ is made of denial.” Against every instinct her childhood therapist had installed, she took the tart and popped it into her mouth. The moment it hit her tongue, the world bloomed sideways. Colors became smells, time hiccupped, and the table started reciting slam poetry about abandonment issues. Her mind opened like a back-alley curtain, and behind it stood a naked version of herself, dramatically weeping into a croissant. And then—clarity. She knew. She knew the Hatter’s real name was Harold. She knew the spoon collection was organized by trauma category. She knew the tea was not tea. And, most importantly, she knew that the chandelier overhead was sentient and judging her for that time she kissed Greg behind the frozen peas in college. Bastard Greg. She came to with a scream that was mostly vowels. The Hatter applauded, setting off a chain reaction of polite clapping from the hats on the table. “Well done!” he shouted. “Most guests only scream in German.” Maple slammed her teacup down. “You drugged me!” He scoffed. “I enhanced you. You’re welcome.” She looked down. Her legs had grown tiny shoes and were dancing independently beneath the table. The Hatter took a long, luxurious slurp of his not-tea. “Now that you’ve been spiritually exfoliated,” he said, “you’re ready for the riddle segment.” “There's a riddle segment?” He stood, dramatically sweeping his arms. “Of course! Every good tea party includes riddles, emotionally compromised guests, and light necromancy.” He cleared his throat and began: “What has twelve eyes, three opinions, and one regret named Carl?” Maple blinked. “Is it you?” The Hatter grinned. “Nope! It’s my mother. But close enough. Partial credit. You win a whisper.” Before she could decline, he leaned across the table and whispered something so outrageous, so wildly profane, so cosmically bizarre, that one of her eyelashes burst into flames. The candle-laden hedgehog clapped its little paws in approval. “That was not consensual whispering,” she mumbled, patting out the smolder. “Neither was this table setting,” he quipped, gesturing toward a bowl of lemons that were actively fighting amongst themselves. Just then, a faint bell chimed in the distance. The Hatter froze, mid-lick of his cup’s rim. “Ah,” he murmured. “The Twelfth Teacup is arriving. She’s never late. She’s just fashionably apocalyptic.” Maple, still high on existential pastry, tried to steady her breathing. “Who’s the Twelfth Teacup?” His expression turned solemn, for exactly three seconds. Then he burst into giggles. “You’ll see. She’s a delight. If delight were a grenade inside a Victoria’s Secret bag.” And with that, he stood, bowed with the elegance of someone who learned manners from a pirate, and beckoned her toward a doorway that hadn’t been there a moment ago—arched in teacups and glowing faintly with menace. “Come,” he said. “Let’s ruin what’s left of your dignity together.” She stood. Her chair sighed in disappointment. The chandelier coughed. Maple followed him through the arch, the walls pulsing like they were breathing, and the faint sounds of croquet played with screaming hedgehogs echoing ahead. She did not know what lay beyond, only that it smelled like cinnamon, regret, and something aggressively floral. But she knew one thing for sure: if she survived this tea party, she was definitely leaving a bad Yelp review. The Rise of the Twelfth Teacup The corridor curved like a serpent on meth, pulsating with floral wallpaper that blinked in sync with Maple’s mild anxiety attack. The Hatter skipped ahead, humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like “Stayin’ Alive” played backward. With each step, the air grew thicker, syrupy—like breathing through raspberry jam laced with sass. Lights flickered overhead, not from faulty wiring, but from personal spite. “Nearly there,” the Hatter chirped. “The Twelfth Teacup loves making an entrance. She once showed up inside a flamingo.” “Alive?” Maple asked. “Debatable.” The door at the end of the hallway was made of what appeared to be interlaced cat tails. Actual tails. They twitched as they opened themselves with a dramatic yawn, revealing a vast, shadowy ballroom where gravity was more of a suggestion. Chandeliers spun like confused ballerinas. A tea fountain gurgled blood-orange Earl Grey from a gargoyle’s mouth. A harp played itself in the corner and had very strong opinions about polyamory. And there, rising from a mound of stale biscotti like a chaos phoenix, stood the Twelfth Teacup. She was radiant in the way a solar flare is radiant—beautiful, terrifying, and likely to burn off your eyebrows. Her dress was stitched from mismatched pocket watches and scandalous secrets. Her lipstick was unapologetically venomous. Her eyes? Two twin galaxies contemplating homicide. “You brought a mortal?” she hissed, her voice both sultry and echoing like an emotional Yelp review. “She ate the Tart of Knowing Things,” said the Hatter, bowing so deeply he vanished entirely for a moment. “She’s earned her chaos badge.” Maple curtsied. Badly. A teaspoon exploded nearby in protest. “Very well,” the Teacup purred. “Let the Ceremony commence.” Two skeletal flamingos clattered into the room carrying trays: one with teacups, one with weapons. The Hatter raised an eyebrow. “Dealer’s choice, love.” Maple looked back and forth. “...Is it always like this?” “Only on days that end in ‘why.’” She grabbed a teacup. The Hatter grabbed a chainsaw. The Twelfth Teacup sighed and pulled out a live crab wearing a monocle. “To the table,” she declared, floating there like an angry bar mitzvah balloon. The Grand Table was absurdly long and hovered six inches off the ground. As they took their seats, chairs sprouted legs and adjusted themselves with judgmental groans. Maple found herself between the Hatter and a sentient pile of hair named Carl. Carl winked. She politely ignored him. “The rules are simple,” the Teacup explained. “We pour. We sip. We confess our most forbidden truths. And then we wrestle, spiritually or otherwise.” Maple blinked. “Is this... strip confession tea wrestling?” “It’s tradition,” the Hatter whispered, already barefoot and halfway into a feather boa. One by one, they poured steaming liquid into their cups. Maple’s smelled like licorice and broken promises. The Hatter’s hissed when touched. Carl’s cup filled itself with what could only be described as hot existential dread. They drank. All at once. And then, like a switch was flipped in her psyche, Maple stood up and confessed. Loudly. To everything. She’d never tipped a street musician, not once. She lied about liking goat cheese. She once pretended to be a cat for two weeks in college to avoid finals. Meowed in class. Got an A. The Hatter followed: “I once spooned a banshee, purely for warmth. She howled my name for hours. We still send each other dead roses.” The Twelfth Teacup rose like a vengeful sorceress. “I created Boy Bands just to distract humanity from my dark machinations. You’re welcome for the bops.” It escalated quickly. Carl accused the harp of ghosting him on a third date. The chandelier sobbed in Latin. The tea fountain began to spray wine. Someone somewhere shouted “YOLO!” and tried to wrestle a ghost in formalwear. Suddenly the walls collapsed outward, revealing a carnival tent under a sky made of swirling wallpaper and judgment. The tent was on fire, but politely so. “This,” the Hatter said, spinning in delight, “is the end of the party! The madness crescendo! The tea-nal reckoning!” Maple’s cup exploded. She laughed. Honest, guttural, ridiculous laughter. Something inside her cracked open—not painfully, but joyfully. A part of her that had been sipping tepid normality for years finally slurped the insanity it had secretly craved. “What happens now?” she asked. The Twelfth Teacup floated by, fixing her with a grin. “Now you decide—go back to your normal life... or stay, and host the next tea war.” Maple glanced at the Hatter. He had painted his knees and was slow-dancing with a lampshade. She smiled. “Pass the tart. I’m staying.” And with that, the ballroom erupted into applause, the hats flung themselves in the air like tiny woolen fireworks, and the Hatter took her hand, twirled her into the spotlight, and declared, “Ladies and gentlemen, and others delightfully undefined—meet your new Mistress of the Absurd!” The music swelled. The tea poured. The madness danced. And Maple, once mundane and spoonless, became legend in a world that ran on nonsense, steeped in sin, and served with a cinnamon rim. — Fin. (Or... To Be Reboiled.)     Love the madness? Steep yourself in it—literally. If this unhinged journey into velvet chaos and tea-fueled delirium left you smiling like a dangerously overdressed maniac, why not take a little slice of that madness home? Wrap yourself in cozy lunacy with our fleece blanket, perfect for late-night tart-fueled revelations. Or bring that slightly-judgmental-whimsy into your daily routine with a shower curtain that definitely sees more than it lets on. Need a little wall madness? The acrylic print is sharper than the Hatter’s tongue, and the tapestry turns any boring wall into a portal to stylish derangement. Because tea parties come and go, but absurdity is forever.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Blush of the Bog

The Puddle Prowler There are fairies. There are elves. There are even goblins with decent posture and good credit scores. But what most people don’t know is that deep within the boggy armpit of the forgotten wetland known as the Muckfluff Fen, lives a creature so uniquely chaotic, so blindingly delightful, that no single species would dare claim her. Her name—best whispered with reverence or shouted while mildly drunk—is Tangleberry Fernwick the Third. No one really knows what happened to the First and Second Tangleberries, but if Tangleberry the Third is any indication, they probably giggled themselves into mushrooms and floated off into the breeze. Our Tangleberry was born on a Tuesday, during a solar burp, under a sky that thought it was ocean. Her hair exploded into the world in a glorious mess of hot pink and electric blue, defying gravity and taste. Her first words were, “Well, this is unfortunate,” after which she attempted to sue the midwife for using scratchy moss towels. She lost the case, but gained the town’s grudging respect. Now fully grown—if you could call knee-height and eternally barefoot “grown”—Tangleberry was the Fen’s most prolific troublemaker and unsolicited therapist. She’d hold counseling sessions for cranky frogs and moody mushrooms on a flat lily pad she insisted was “her stage.” Her specialty? Helping creatures embrace their weird. Tangleberry considered herself a Certified Goblet of Glittery Truths (a title she gave herself and embroidered on a vest made of snail shells). She sat most mornings on her favorite rock, right in the middle of the bog’s most photogenic pond. It wasn’t photogenic to anyone else, but to her, the slightly slimy lily pads, buzzing dragonflies, and the scent of fermenting cattails were a sensory buffet of pure euphoria. Chin resting in palms, freckles glowing like fallen stars, she would smile at her reflection and say, “Damn, you are a natural disaster in the best way possible.” Today, however, was different. The pond had grown suspiciously quiet. Even Barry, the emotionally constipated bullfrog who practiced slam poetry on Wednesdays, was missing. Tangleberry’s toe twitched. Something was afoot. “I swear by my braid bead,” she muttered, tightening the little brass ring that bound her hot-pink side braid, “if the Fae Council is trying to ‘intervene’ again, I’m throwing glitter in their soup.” She hopped off her rock, landing in a dramatic crouch that absolutely no one saw. A shame, really, because it was majestic and slightly moist. Wading through lily pads and soggy reeds, she began her journey to investigate the Disappearance of Normal Weirdness—a quest that would ultimately challenge everything she believed about bog politics, amphibian fashion, and whether one could truly love a mushroom named Harold. The Mushroom, the Muck, and the Middle-Fingered Moon Harold, it turned out, was not only missing—he’d been kidnapped. Or at least, that’s what Tangleberry concluded when she reached his favorite sulking stump and found only a slimy note pinned to a toadstool with a very rude stick. “Gone 2 the Crust. Smell ya.” “The Crust?” Tangleberry gasped. “Oh, no no. Not the moss crust. Nobody voluntarily goes there. It's full of soggy purists and compost snobs who alphabetize their pebbles. Ugh.” Harold, her best friend, confidant, and occasional hat, was a fluffed-up, mood-swingy mushroom who once wrote an angry letter to a rainbow for being too mainstream. He wore a monocle (despite having no eyes) and took pride in being “a fungal of principle.” His favorite activities included passive-aggressive haiku, sitting with aggressive stillness, and doing nothing while making everyone feel inferior about it. Tangleberry squinted at the faint footprints in the muck. Definitely Harold’s. And they were headed straight for the edge of the Crust—the driest, most regulated zone of the entire bog. The Crust was governed by the BCB: the Bureau of Clean Behavior. Founded by elder swamp elves who thought spontaneity was “unflattering,” the BCB was famous for three things: banning glitter, assigning mandatory moods, and outlawing any footwear not beige. Tangleberry cracked her knuckles. “This means war,” she declared, shaking swamp water off her oversized ears like a very cute dog after a scandal. She plucked her sassiest reed flute from her moss-sack, grabbed her mood ring (which always pointed to “delightfully unstable”), and stomped toward the Crust with all the righteous fury of a toddler denied juice. Halfway there, she was intercepted by a sentient fog named Clive. “Password,” Clive whispered ominously, curling around her ankles like a clingy sock. “Eat moss, Clive,” she snapped. “Correct.” He drifted aside with a dramatic sigh. “You’re lucky I like you, Fernwick.” “Everybody likes me. I’m like fungus for the soul.” She strutted past him, humming a little swamp anthem she’d composed entirely from frog belches and newt squeaks. The BCB’s checkpoint loomed ahead: a damp arch made of well-behaved twigs, manned by an elf wearing the expression of someone who hated fun and regularly chewed gravel for breakfast. His name tag read “Gilbert, Compliance Elf (Level 7).” “State your business,” he intoned, eyes squinting at her braid and glimmer-stained cheeks. “Looking for a mushroom. Goes by Harold. Smells like regret and old socks. Might be under the impression he belongs in Beige Town.” Gilbert frowned. “All unauthorized flora must be registered. You’ll need Form 37-M. In triplicate.” “I’ve got a better idea,” she chirped, stepping close enough to boop his nose. “How about I distract you with some whimsical nonsense while I dramatically sneak in and unleash a one-person revolution?” Gilbert blinked. “I—what?” But it was too late. Tangleberry backflipped (not gracefully, but with wild conviction) through the checkpoint, kicking over a stack of rules and accidentally slapping a ferret intern with her braid. Chaos bloomed in her wake like enthusiastic mold. The Crust was worse than she imagined. Uniform cottages arranged in suspiciously straight rows, organized lily pad schedules, laughter that had to be pre-approved, and not a single sparkle in sight. The residents—pale, beige-clad elves with no visible sense of irony—gawked as she danced down the main road in socks with visible toes. It was the closest the town had come to rioting in centuries. Finally, in the middle of a mossy plaza called “Appropriate Gathering Circle B,” she found him. Harold. Sitting in a clay pot. Wearing a bowtie. “Tangles?” he blinked. “You came.” “Of course I came! You left without your rage journal! You know you get cranky without it.” “I was... tired. Of being weird. Of not being ‘functional fungus.’ They said I could be cultivated here. Respected. Grown with purpose.” She knelt beside him, placing a hand over his cap. “Babe. You’re the least functional thing I’ve ever met. And that’s why you’re perfect.” Silence hung heavy. And then, a slow grin spread across Harold’s frilled lips. “Let’s burn it all down?” “With jazz hands.” Ten minutes later, the Crust was a confetti-drenched war zone of renegade reeds and unleashed pond sprites. Tangleberry had stolen Gilbert’s clipboard and was using it as a limbo stick. Harold sang interpretive dirges while juggling rocks. Clive returned, dramatically announcing himself with foghorn impressions. By sundown, the Crust had cracked. A dozen uptight elves joined in, rediscovering their inner nonsense. One confessed he’d always wanted to paint angry ducks. Another invented a dance called “The Moist Wobble.” And Harold? He wore a tutu made from crinkled bureaucratic memos and declared himself “Queen of the Peat.” Tangleberry watched the moon rise, slouching comfortably on her reclaimed pond rock. “Not bad for a day’s work,” she mumbled. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll start a revolution in the Gassy Reeds District.” The moon winked back. Literally. And then flipped her off in jest. She grinned. Because in the bog, love was muddy, rules were optional, and weird was sacred. Of Glitter Bombs and Grandmother’s Teeth In the weeks following the Glitter Uprising of the Crust, the bog had become a very different place. What was once a patchwork of quarrelsome fens and mossy jurisdictions now pulsed with eccentricity. The BCB was disbanded (after a dramatic bake-off lost to a feral raccoon), Harold’s tutu was added to the Bog Museum of Disobedient Fashion, and Tangleberry Fernwick the Third became a reluctant folk hero, much to her horror and delight. “I didn’t do it to be famous,” she said, sprawled in a hammock made from otter whiskers and shredded bylaws. “I did it for the vibes.” “You’ve become a symbol,” Harold replied, sipping tea from a thimble while wearing a sash that read PEAT ICON. “There are murals. Muralssssss.” “Oh gods.” Tangleberry groaned and rolled out of the hammock. “You know what this means, right?” Harold nodded solemnly. “Your grandmother’s coming.” Now. Most folks hear “grandmother” and think of doilies, sugar cookies, or judgmental knitting. But in the swamp, things were... more intense. Granny Fenfen Fernwick—first of her name, last of her patience—was the oldest creature in the bog. Not “old” like bent and wrinkly. “Old” like the universe tripped and dropped a galaxy and it became her. She lived in a twisted willow tree that allegedly predated gravity. Her house was guarded by sentient bark lice and a bear who wrote limericks. Her teeth were removable, glowing, and extremely aggressive when insulted. And worst of all—she was proud. Tangleberry could already hear it: “Oh, look at you, little goblet. Starting revolutions. Causing chaos. That’s my girl. But your ears are uneven and your sarcasm is too moist.” The visit was scheduled for Slurpday (the fourth day of the week, named after a local weather pattern), and the entire bog was in a frenzy. Creatures scrubbed mushrooms. Frogs rehearsed synchronized burping. A choir of newts tuned their tails. Harold re-laced his bowtie and dabbed lavender oil on his cap. Tangleberry just sat on her rock and tried to fake her own abduction. At precisely fourteen sploshes past noon, the air went still. A hush fell. Even the breeze dared not exhale. Then came the shriek of warped reality and the faint clatter of ancestral bones. Granny Fernwick had arrived, riding a floating recliner made of blackberries and arrogance. Her hair was a storm cloud held together with spells and defiance. Her robes billowed with secrets. Her eyes gleamed like lightning in a bottle that didn’t ask permission to be opened. “Where’s my little bog fart?” she bellowed, causing two mushrooms to faint and a salamander to combust out of sheer respect. Tangleberry stepped forward, biting her lip. “Hi Granny.” Granny raised one eyebrow, which caused a nearby toad to lay an egg. “You’ve grown. And by grown I mean sideways. Why is your hair doing jazz hands?” “Because it knows it’s iconic.” “Fair.” Granny hovered ominously. “I’ve heard tales, you know. Saw your face in the moss news. You’ve turned the Crust into a circus, corrupted a mushroom, and convinced a fog to unionize.” “Clive negotiated paid lunch breaks.” “Good. I always liked Clive. Moist but sensible.” The two Fernwicks stared at each other, measuring their mischief. Finally, Granny reached into her robe and pulled out a tin box. “Well then. Time you had this.” Tangleberry blinked. “What is it?” “Your inheritance.” Inside the box was a single item: an ancient glitter bomb, humming with suppressed fabulousness. Crafted during the Time of Too Much Magic, it had been outlawed by six governments and one very offended mole. Legend said it could turn a room into a disco orgy of uncontrolled authenticity. “It’s... beautiful.” “Use it wisely,” Granny intoned, narrowing her stormy eyes. “Or recklessly. Honestly, whatever. Just promise me one thing.” “Anything.” “Never let them tame you.” With that, Granny snapped her fingers, turned into a burst of mossy cackling, and vanished into a fold in the weather. Silence. Harold leaned close. “I peed a little.” “Me too.” From that moment forward, everything changed. Tangleberry began traveling the bog, spreading the Gospel of Glitter. Not a cult. Definitely not a cult. More like a very enthusiastic book club with questionable ethics and regular dance battles. She carried the bomb in a pouch tied to her tail and told its story to every weirdo she met. She taught swamp gnomes how to rebel with confetti. She kissed a tree spirit and didn’t call him back. She ate a moonbeam on a dare and got indigestion for a week. She helped Harold launch a poetry magazine written entirely in mold spores. And she wore her uniqueness like armor made of swamp sass and joy. On her 143rd birthday, the pond she once sat beside was renamed “Tangle’s Blush.” A tourist spot. A sacred silly place. Where frogs wore hats and everyone was just a little bit extra. And in the dead of night, if you sat still enough, you might hear the pop of a distant glitter bomb, a shriek of laughter, and the faint, fond whisper of an ancient swamp witch saying: “That’s my girl.”     Take the magic home! Whether you're a lifelong bog-dweller or just someone who dreams in glitter and lily pads, you can now bring the weird and wonderful world of Tangleberry Fernwick into your everyday life. Adorn your walls with a framed print of “Blush of the Bog,” send enchantment through the mail with a whimsical greeting card, or make a splash at the nearest swamp (or beach) with the boldest towel this side of the fen. Carry your sass in style with a roomy tote bag, or go full swamp-chic with a stunning metal print that practically cackles with mischief. All products feature the original artwork by Bill and Linda Tiepelman, exclusively at shop.unfocussed.com.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Sassy Shroom Shenanigans

Tongue Wars and the Forest Code of Sass In the deepest thicket of the Glibbergrove, where mushrooms grew big enough to get parking tickets and squirrels wore monocles unironically, there perched a gnome with absolutely no chill. His name? Grimbold Butterbuttons. His vibe? Absolute chaos in wool socks. Grimbold wasn't your average gnome. While the others busied themselves polishing snail shells or whittling toothbrushes from elder twigs, Grimbold had an entire *reputation* for being the forest’s number one instigator. He made faces at butterflies. He photobombed the Council of Owls. Once, he’d even replaced the Queen Badger’s royal tea with flat root beer just to watch her snort. So naturally, it made perfect sense that Grimbold had a pet dragon. A tiny pet dragon. One that barely came up to his belt buckle but acted like she ruled the canopy. Her name was Zilch, short for Zilcharia Flameyfangs the Third, but no one called her that unless they wanted to get singed eyebrows. That morning, the two of them were doing what they did best—being complete little shits. "Bet you can't hold that face for longer than me," Grimbold snorted, sticking out his tongue like a drunken goose and widening his eyes so far they looked like boiled turnips. Zilch, wings flaring, narrowed her gold-slitted eyes. "I INVENTED this face," she rasped, then mimicked him with such perfect deranged accuracy that even the birds stopped mid-tweet. The two locked in a battle of absurdity atop a giant red-capped mushroom—their usual morning perch-slash-stage. Tongues out. Eyes bugged. Nostrils flaring like melodramatic llamas. It was a face-off of epic immaturity, and they were both thriving. "You’re creasing your eyebrows wrong!" Zilch barked. "You’re blinking too much, cheater!" Grimbold fired back. A fat beetle waddled by with a judgmental glance, muttering, "Honestly, I preferred the mime duel last week." But they didn’t care. These two lived for this kind of nonsense. Where others saw an ancient, mysterious forest full of magic and mystery, they saw a playground. A sass-ground, if you will. And so began their day of shenanigans, with their sacred forest motto etched in mushroom spores and glitter glue: “Mock first. Ask questions never.” Only they didn’t realize that today’s game of tongue wars would unlock an accidental spell, open an interdimensional portal, and quite possibly awaken a mushroom warlord who’d once been banned for excessive pettiness. But hey—that’s a problem for later. The Portal of Pfft and the Rise of Lord Sporesnort Grimbold Butterbuttons’ tongue was still proudly extended when it happened. A *wet* sound split the air, somewhere between a cosmic zipper and a squirrel flatulating through a didgeridoo. Zilch’s pupils dilated to the size of acorns. “Grim,” she croaked, “did you just... open a thing?” The gnome didn’t answer. Mostly because his face was frozen mid-snarl, one eye twitching and tongue still glued to his chin like a sweaty stamp. Behind them, the mushroom shivered. Not metaphorically. Like, the actual mushroom. It quivered with a noise that sounded like giggling algae. And from its spore-speckled surface, a jagged tear opened in the air, like reality had been cut with blunt safety scissors. From within, a purple light pulsed like an angry disco ball. "...Oh," said Grimbold finally, blinking. "Oopsie-tootsie." Zilch smacked her forehead with a tiny claw. "You broke space again! That’s the third time this week! Do you even read the warnings in the moss tomes?" "No one reads the moss tomes," Grimbold said, shrugging. "They smell like foot soup." With a moist belch of spores and questionable glitter, something began to emerge from the portal. First came a cloud of lavender steam, then a large floppy hat. Then—very slowly—a pair of glowing green eyes, slitted like a grumpy cat that hadn’t had its brunch pâté. “I AM THE MIGHTY LORD SPORESNORT,” boomed a voice that somehow smelled like truffle oil and unwashed gym socks. “HE WHO WAS BANISHED FOR EXCESSIVE PETTINESS. HE WHO ONCE CURSED AN ENTIRE KINGDOM WITH ITCHY NIPPLES OVER A GRAMMAR MISTAKE.” Zilch gave Grimbold the longest side-eye in the history of side-eyes. "Did you just summon the ancient fungal sass-demon of legend?" "To be fair," Grimbold muttered, "I was aiming for a fart with echo." Out stepped Lord Sporesnort in full regalia—moss robes, mycelium boots, and a walking staff shaped like a passive-aggressive spatula. His beard was made entirely of mold. And not the cool, forest-sorcerer kind. The fuzzy fridge kind. He radiated judgment and lingering disappointment. "BEHOLD MY REVENGE!" Sporesnort roared. "I SHALL COVER THIS FOREST IN SPORE-MODED MISCHIEF. ALL SHALL BE IRRITATED BY THE SLIGHTEST INCONVENIENCES!" With a dramatic swirl, he cast his first spell: “Itchicus Everlasting!” Suddenly, a thousand woodland creatures began scratching themselves uncontrollably. Squirrels tumbled from branches in mid-itch. A badger ran by shrieking about chafing. Even the bees looked uncomfortable. "Okay, no. This won’t do," said Zilch, cracking her knuckles with tiny thunderclaps. "This is our forest. We annoy the locals. You don’t get to roll in with your ancient mushroom face and out-sass us." "Hear hear!" shouted Grimbold, standing proudly with one foot on a suspicious mushroom that squelched like an angry pudding. "We may be chaotic, bratty, and tragically underqualified for any real leadership, but this is our turf, you decomposing jockstrap." Lord Sporesnort laughed—an echoing wheeze that smelled of old salad. “Very well, tiny fools. Then I challenge you... to the TRIAL OF THE TRIPLE-TIERED TONGUE!” A hush fell across the glade. Somewhere, a duck dropped its sandwich. "Uh, is that a real thing?" Zilch whispered. "It is now," Sporesnort grinned, raising three slimy mushroom caps into the air. "You must perform the ultimate display of synchronized facial sass—a three-round tongue duel. Lose, and I take over Glibbergrove. Win, and I shall return to the Sporeshade Realms to wallow in my own tragic flamboyance." "You're on," said Grimbold, his face twitching with a growing smirk. "But if we win, you also have to admit that your cloak makes your butt look wide." "I—FINE," Sporesnort spat, turning slightly to cover his rear fungus flare. And thus the stage was set. Creatures gathered. Leaves rustled with gossip. A beetle vendor set up a stand selling roasted aphids on sticks and “I ♥ Sporesnort” foam fingers. Even the wind paused to see what the hell was about to happen. Grimbold and Zilch, side by side on their mushroom stage, cracked their necks, stretched their cheeks, and waggled their tongues. A hush fell. Sporesnort’s fungal beard trembled in anticipation. "Let the tongue games begin!" shouted a squirrel with a referee whistle. The Final Tongue-Off and the Scandal of the Sassy Underwear The crowd leaned in. A snail fell off its mushroom seat in suspense. Somewhere in the distance, a fungus chime rang out one somber, reverberating note. The *Trial of the Triple-Tiered Tongue* had officially begun. Round One was a classic: The Eyeball Stretch & Tongue Combo. Lord Sporesnort made the first move, his eyes bugging out like a pair of grapefruit on springs as he whipped out his tongue with such velocity it created a mild sonic pop. The crowd gasped. A field mouse fainted. “BEHOLD!” he roared, his voice echoing through the mushroom caps. “THIS IS THE ANCIENT FORM KNOWN AS ‘GORGON’S SURPRISE’!” Zilch narrowed her eyes. “That’s just ‘Monday Morning Face’ in dragon preschool.” She casually blew a tiny flame to toast a passing marshmallow on a stick, then locked eyes with Grimbold. They nodded. The duo launched into their countermove: synchronized bug-eyes, nostril flares, and tongues waggling side to side like possessed metronomes. It was elegant. It was chaotic. A raccoon dropped its pipe and screamed, “SWEET GRUBS, I’VE SEEN THE TRUTH!” “ROUND ONE: TIED,” announced the squirrel referee, his whistle now glowing from sheer stress.     Round Two: The Sass Spiral For this, the goal was to layer expressions with insult-level flair. Bonus points for eyebrow choreography. Lord Sporesnort twisted his fungal lips into a smug, upturned frown and performed what could only be described as a sassy interpretive dance using only his eyebrows. He finished by flipping his cloak, revealing fungus-embroidered briefs with the words “BITTER BUT CUTE” stitched across the rear in glowing mycelium thread. The crowd lost their collective minds. The beetle vendor passed out. A hedgehog screamed and launched into a bush. “I call that,” Sporesnort said smugly, “the Sporeshake 9000.” Grimbold stepped forward slowly. Too slowly. Suspense dripped off him like condensation off a cold goblet of forest grog. Then he struck. He wiggled his ears. He furrowed one brow. His tongue spiraled into a perfect helix, and he puffed out his cheeks until he looked like an emotionally unstable turnip. Then, with a slow, dramatic flourish, he turned around and revealed a patch sewn into the seat of his corduroy trousers. It read, in shimmering gold thread: “YOU JUST GOT GNOMED.” The forest exploded. Not literally, but close enough. Owls fainted. Mushrooms combusted from joy. A badger couple started a slow chant. “Gnome’d! Gnome’d! Gnome’d!” Zilch, not to be outdone, reared back and made the universal hand-and-claw gesture for *“Your fungus ain’t funky, babe.”* Her tail flicked with weaponized sass. The moment was perfect. "ROUND TWO: ADVANTAGE — GNOME & DRAGON!" the referee squeaked, tears running down his cheeks as he blew the whistle like it was possessed.     Final Round: Wildcard Mayhem Sporesnort snarled, spores puffing from his ears. “Fine. No more cute. No more coy. I invoke... the SACRED MUSHUNDERWEAR TECHNIQUE!” He ripped open his robes to reveal undergarments enchanted with wriggling fungal runes and vines that wove his sass into the very fabric of the universe. “This,” he bellowed, “is FUNGIFLEX™ — powered by enchanted stretch and interdimensional attitude.” The forest fell into a hush of pure, horrified admiration. Grimbold simply looked at Zilch and smirked. “We break reality now?” “Break it so hard it apologizes,” she growled. The gnome clambered atop the dragon’s back. Zilch flared her wings, eyes burning gold. Together they launched into the air with a mighty WHEEEEEEE and a burst of glitter confetti summoned from a leftover prank spell. As they twirled through the sky, they performed their final move: a dual loop-de-loop followed by simultaneous tongue-wagging, face-contorting, and butt-shaking. From Grimbold’s trousers, a secret pocket opened, revealing a banner that read, in flashing enchanted letters: “GNOME SWEAT DON’T QUIT.” They landed with a thump, Zilch belching sparkles. The crowd was in chaos. Tears. Screaming. An impromptu interpretive dance broke out. The forest was on the brink of a vibe collapse. “FINE!” Sporesnort yelled, voice cracking. “YOU WIN! I’LL GO! BUT YOU... YOU SHALL RUE THIS DAY. I’LL BE BACK. WITH MORE UNDERWEAR.” He swirled into his own portal of shame and unresolved mushroom trauma, leaving behind only the faint scent of garlic and regret. Zilch and Grimbold collapsed atop their favorite mushroom. The glade shimmered under the setting sun. Birds chirped again. The badger couple kissed. Someone started roasting victory marshmallows. "Well," said Grimbold, licking his thumb and smearing moss off his cheek. "That was... probably the third weirdest Tuesday we’ve had." "Easily," Zilch agreed, biting into a celebratory beetle snack. "Next time we prank a warlord, can we avoid the fungal lingerie?" "No promises." And so, with tongues dry and reputations elevated to mythical status, the gnome and the dragon resumed their sacred morning ritual: laughing at absolutely everything and being gloriously, unapologetically weird together. The end. Probably.     Want to bring the sass home? Whether you're a certified mischief-maker or just deeply appreciate the sacred art of tongue-based warfare, you can now take a piece of Grimbold and Zilch’s legendary moment into your own lair. Frame the chaos with a gallery-quality print, wrap yourself in their ridiculousness with this fleece blanket, or go full forest-chic with a wood print that'll make even Lord Sporesnort jealous. Send cheeky greetings with a whimsical card, or slap some mushroom-powered attitude onto your stuff with this top-tier Sassy Shroom Shenanigans sticker. Because let’s be honest—your life could use more dragons and fewer boring walls.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Teatime Tides

The Steepening There was a mermaid in Margot’s teacup. Now, you may think that’s the kind of sentence best reserved for children’s books or individuals who lick glue recreationally, but Margot had, in fact, just brewed a rather ordinary chamomile. And she was quite certain the tea did not include mythical beings on the ingredient list—unless Whole Foods had finally cracked and gone full goblin-core. The mermaid, for her part, looked mildly irritated but otherwise fabulous. She had a tail like sequin-infused sapphire syrup, hair that swirled like coffee cream in slow motion, and an attitude that read “Instagram influencer who’s too good for your land-based nonsense.” Perched beside her was a smug little seahorse, bobbing with the lazy swish of her fishtail like he was waiting to be knighted. “Ahem,” Margot said, peering into the cup. “Why are you in my tea?” “Why aren’t you?” the mermaid replied, stretching languidly in the lemon-honey swirl. Her voice had that bubbly champagne pop to it—too sparkly to be mad at, but fizzy enough to stir unease. Margot blinked. She was dressed in three-day-old yoga pants, had half a Pop-Tart in her hair, and was aggressively not caffeinated. Either this was a nervous breakdown or the world had decided to finally acknowledge her main character energy. “This isn’t a metaphor, is it? You’re not here to teach me self-love through marine metaphysics?” she asked, tapping the rim of the cup. The teacup responded with a dignified ping, like a crystal goblet being slightly insulted. “Oh please,” scoffed the mermaid. “Do I look like a self-help allegory? I’m on a lunch break. This is my spa cup. You’re the one who summoned me by pouring the water clockwise over that expired loose-leaf blend. Honestly, who still uses loose-leaf without a strainer? It’s chaos in here.” Margot leaned closer. “So you’re like… a unionized teacup mermaid? You have breaks?” “We all have breaks,” the mermaid said primly, adjusting her sea-shell bikini top like it had a grudge. “You think the tide takes itself out? You people are so self-absorbed.” The seahorse burped. Margot could’ve sworn it sounded like, “Amen.” At that moment, a butterfly flitted past and landed delicately on the cup’s rim, blinking its wings as if it, too, was trying to process the situation. “Okay,” Margot said finally, sitting down at her cluttered table. “Talk to me. Are there rules? Do I owe you rent? Am I secretly a siren queen or is this just the chamomile kicking in?” The mermaid’s smile curled like a tidepool secret. “Oh honey. This is only the steeping stage. Things get truly weird after the second sip.” Margot stared at the cup. The tea shimmered. The seahorse winked. Against all better judgment—and with a flair only chaos could summon—Margot took another sip. And the room, quite politely, wobbled sideways. Deep Brew Margot was falling, but not in the dramatic, flailing-into-a-void kind of way. No, this was more like being slowly poured into a velvet-glazed dream funnel lined with glitter and scented vaguely of sea salt and bergamot. One second, she was upright in her very real kitchen. The next? She was shoulder-deep in something warm and viscous and vaguely peach-colored, like time had decided to host a bubble bath. “Ope—watch the cascade, you’re creasing the ambiance,” said the mermaid, who was now full-sized and reclining like a smug goddess on a floating slice of citrus the size of a life raft. Margot flailed until she was upright and sputtering. “Am I IN the tea?” “Technically, yes. But spiritually? You’re in the interdimensional spa realm of Steepacia. Welcome. We host Wednesdays.” The space around her was absurd in a way only dreams or luxury catalogs dared to be. Opalescent tea leaves floated lazily like jellyfish through the golden infusion. Delicate teaspoons flitted like hummingbirds, and somewhere in the distance, a harp made entirely of kelp played something that sounded suspiciously like Enya trying jazz. “I knew it,” Margot muttered, eyeing her floating reflection. “I wore my regret pants today. Of course I end up in an existential tea dimension wearing regret pants.” The mermaid let out a melodic giggle and tossed her damp hair like she was auditioning for a shampoo ad in Atlantis. “Relax, landling. This place responds to your emotional temperature. Here—have a mental mimosa.” With a delicate flick of her tail, she conjured a sparkling glass that hovered just within reach. Margot took a sip. It tasted like nostalgia, orgasms, and brunch. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but she was significantly less anxious. “Okay,” she said, voice calmer but still riding the WTF rollercoaster. “So... is this a one-way trip? Do I need to kiss a kelp wizard to get out, or...” “Gods, no,” said a new voice, sharp and vaguely crustacean. A small crab wearing reading glasses and a necktie clicked into view, holding a clipboard. “She’s a first-brew. Probably temporary. Emotional instability triggered by caffeine deficit. I give her six hours, max.” “Hey,” Margot frowned, “I’ll have you know I’m emotionally stable enough to hold down a job, keep a houseplant alive, and only cry in the car like, once a week.” “Textbook.” The crab sighed and scribbled something. “Please report to the Fennel Sauna for processing.” “Ignore him,” the mermaid whispered. “He’s just bitter because he used to be a dishwasher in the real world and now manages leaf temperature therapy. Anyway, since you’re here, might as well enjoy the amenities.” And that’s how Margot found herself half-submerged in an oolong hot tub beside a unicorn-shaped kettle, being offered cucumber eye patches by a chorus of aquatic mice who hummed barbershop harmonies while exfoliating her aura with matcha seafoam. “I feel like Gwyneth Paltrow’s subconscious,” she murmured, wrapped in a hibiscus robe and watching the mermaid gently braid a rainbow koi into her hair like it was no big deal. “Enjoy it. This place has moods. It picks up on your vibes and… manifests accordingly.” Margot stared across the tea-washed horizon, where clouds shaped like biscotti lazily rumbled past a sun made of glazed lemon. “That sounds like foreshadowing,” she muttered. It was. Because that’s when the seahorse returned—only now it was wearing a tiny pirate hat and riding what appeared to be a jellyfish named Greg. “Emergency in the Rooibos Reefs! The Earl Grey Golem has awakened!” “Oh not again,” groaned the mermaid, who now had a slightly glittery sword tucked behind her ear like a hairpin. Margot raised her hand cautiously. “Quick question. Is this one of those moments where I learn I have hidden powers? Or do I just die creatively and serve as a plot device in someone else’s journey?” “Neither,” the mermaid said, diving gracefully off her citrus raft and summoning a war-squid from thin air. “You’re with me. You’re the emotional ballast.” “The what now?!” But it was too late. She was already astride the seahorse—who smelled faintly of cinnamon gum and teenage rebellion—and flying through the infusional ether like a caffeinated fever dream. Around her, storm clouds of bergamot thundered softly, and beneath them rose the ominous silhouette of the Earl Grey Golem: eight feet of antique porcelain fury, monocle glinting, moustache made of twisted tea leaves. Margot, full of mimosa courage and absolutely none of the necessary life skills, reached into her pocket. Miraculously, she pulled out a tiny teabag. It pulsed with lavender light. “Is that the Sacred Sachet?” the mermaid gasped from her perch on a spiraling honey drizzle vortex. “I dunno,” Margot said, eyes wide. “I think it came from a free sample pack. But it feels... emotionally charged.” “Then throw it. Right at his steeper!” Margot hurled the sachet with the flailing confidence of someone who once got a participation ribbon in elementary school dodgeball. It hit the Golem’s chest with a poof of fragrant steam—and the world paused. The golem blinked, looked down, sniffed, and sighed. A deep, contented sigh. Then he turned into a moderately sized antique teapot and gently plunked into the seafoam. The mermaid stared. The seahorse hiccupped. Greg the jellyfish applauded with one limp tentacle. “What… what just happened?” Margot whispered. “You soothed him. He was overstimulated. Poor guy only wanted a nap and some affirmation,” the mermaid said gently. “You’re very good at this.” “I… am?” “Yes. Emotional ballast. You stabilize the madness. Or at least repackage it in a way the rest of us can process.” Margot blinked, cheeks flushed. “So… like a therapist?” “Or a writer.” That hit a bit too hard. Just then, the sky above them shimmered, and the voice of the crab came booming from nowhere: “Time’s up! She’s beginning to stir in the waking realm.” Margot grabbed the mermaid’s hand instinctively. “Wait—what if I want to stay?” The mermaid smiled, that same sideways, salty grin. “You can’t stay. But you can visit. Anytime you need a break. Just brew clockwise. And never forget to stir with intention.” And with a final warm pulse of honey and lavender, the world turned inside out… The Stirring Margot woke up snort-sneezing on her couch, cheeks squashed against the faux velvet cushion like a crime scene. The tea cup—now completely ordinary, mildly lukewarm, and devoid of any mythical spa creatures—sat smugly on the coffee table, as if it hadn’t just been the portal to an emotionally complex teacup multiverse. She blinked. Sniffed. Peered inside. Nothing. Not a fin. Not a flicker. Not even a suspicious bubble. Just a faint whiff of bergamot and something like glitter trauma. “Okay,” she said to no one, rubbing her temples. “So either I hallucinated a high-budget sea fantasy on a Tuesday, or I just main-charactered my way into another dimension through expired loose-leaf.” She looked around. Her apartment was still her apartment—mildly chaotic, aggressively scented like dry shampoo and panic, and just cozy enough to pass for “intentional.” Her half-eaten Pop-Tart sat on the floor like it, too, had experienced an existential moment. And somewhere in the corner, her cat was making intense eye contact with the radiator, which wasn’t new. Margot leaned over the teacup. “Hey, uh… I don’t know if this is like Beetlejuice rules, but... steepacia, steepacia, steepacia?” Nothing. But the spoon did shimmer slightly. Just once. Almost like a wink. For the rest of the morning, she wandered around in a daze, accidentally brushing her teeth with sunscreen and emailing her boss something that included the phrase “crab-based time therapy.” She couldn’t stop thinking about it. The koi braid. The rogue seahorse. The terrifyingly relatable Golem who just wanted a nap. And most of all… the mermaid. That sassy, sarcastic, glittery-scaled miracle of emotional support and mild snark. The way she smiled like she knew all your secrets and had ranked them from least to most cringey—but in a nice way. Margot sighed, long and dramatic, like she was auditioning for a sad coffee commercial. She didn’t even realize how long she’d been staring out the window until her neighbor Todd waved from across the street. She waved back without looking, accidentally knocking over a jar of expired honey. It oozed onto the counter in a slow, poetic sort of way. Margot stared at it. She was pretty sure it was judging her. Later that evening, she stood in the kitchen holding a new tea blend she’d bought out of pure spite. It had a watercolor label featuring a fox in a bowler hat and promised things like “clarity,” “inner sparkle,” and “tasteful epiphanies.” Margot didn’t trust it. But she brewed it anyway. This time, she poured slowly. Clockwise. Very deliberately. She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. She watched the leaves swirl and settle. The color shifted to a familiar peachy hue. She whispered, “Steepacia?” The water glimmered. Nothing happened for a long moment. Then, just as she leaned back in disappointment, something tiny bobbed to the surface. A seahorse. Wearing sunglasses. It gave her a curt nod, did a dramatic backflip, and vanished again. Margot gasped, almost dropped the cup—and then laughed. A big, ridiculous, snorty laugh that echoed through her apartment and startled the cat into knocking over an entire shelf of scented candles. It felt good. A laugh soaked in bubble bath memories and kelp-harp music. A laugh that said, “Yeah, I’m probably not okay, but who is? At least I’ve got interdimensional sea friends now.” That night, she dreamt of spa mimosas, citrus islands, and mermaid sarcasm so sharp it could slice through imposter syndrome like a butter knife through warm brie. She woke up refreshed in the only way someone can be after confronting their own existential nonsense via magical beverage. From then on, Margot kept a shelf of strange teas—anything with mysterious names or packaging that seemed a little too quirky to be legal. She learned to pour slowly. To stir with care. And every now and then, when she really needed it, the tea would shimmer. Sometimes she’d see the mermaid again—lounging in her cup like royalty with a minor hangover, tossing sass like it was seafoam. They’d chat. Or fight. Or sit in silence, sipping cucumber kelp lattes from mugs made of rainbow clamshells. It didn’t matter. Because what mattered was this: Somewhere between loose-leaf lunacy and self-discovery, Margot had found the weird, magical truth of herself. Emotional ballast. Chaos whisperer. Lady of the Leaves. And she never drank bagged tea again.     Take a Little Magic Home with You If “Teatime Tides” made you giggle-snort, crave mermaid mimosas, or consider emotionally bonding with your teacup, you might just need a little piece of this dreamy nonsense in your real life. Bring the charm and sparkle of Margot’s interdimensional adventure into your world with our curated collection of metal prints, acrylic gallery panels, or even a cheeky tote bag to carry your tea and secrets in style. Feeling puzzly? Get hands-on with the full tea-venture in our jigsaw puzzle. Or for the serial sippers and daydream doodlers, grab a sticker and slap some whimsy on your laptop, journal, or next questionable decision. Every item is brewed with care, sass, and just a hint of lavender magic. Because let’s face it—you deserve more sparkle in your tea breaks.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

The Unicorn Keeper

Deep in the Thistlewhack Woodlands, just past the grumbling bogs and that one suspiciously carnivorous mushroom grove, lived a girl named Marnie Pickleleaf. Now, Marnie wasn’t your usual woodland creature—no sir. She was a certified, broom-carrying, opinion-having fairy-child with a mouth too big for her wingspan and an unfortunate allergy to fairy dust. Which was, frankly, ironic. But the real kicker? Marnie had recently been promoted to Unicorn Keeper, Third Class (Provisional, Non-Salaried). The unicorn in question was named Gloompuddle. He was majestic in that "oh he’s been in the mead again" sort of way—ivory white, shimmering hooves, a spiraled horn so pristine it looked like it had never been used to skewer a single goblin (false; it had). Gloompuddle came with a floral garland, a chronic case of dramatic sighing, and what Marnie referred to as “emotional flatulence” — not dangerous, just deeply inconvenient during polite conversation. Now, one does not become a Unicorn Keeper on purpose. Marnie had tripped over a binding circle at precisely the wrong moment while chasing a rebellious broom, muttered a few creative curses, and accidentally formed an eternal pact. Gloompuddle, overhearing the spell, had dramatically swiveled his head and declared, “At last, someone who sees the torment in my soul!” It was downhill from there. Their bond was sealed with a headbutt, a sprinkle of rose petals, and a 48-page care manual that immediately self-destructed. Marnie had many questions—none of them answered. Instead, she received a rope lead made of cloud-thread, which the unicorn immediately tried to eat. And so their companionship began. Every morning, Marnie swept the golden leaves off Gloompuddle’s path with her enchanted (and slightly sarcastic) broom named Cheryl. Cheryl disapproved of the unicorn and once muttered, “Oh look, Mr. Glitterbutt needs walking again,” but she complied. Mostly. Gloompuddle, on the other hoof, had opinions. Many. He disliked wet leaves, dry leaves, leaves that rustled, squirrels with attitude, and anything that wasn't chilled elderberry mousse. He also had a habit of stepping dramatically onto hilltops and shouting, “I am the axis upon which fate turns!” followed by an awkward tumble when his hoof caught a pinecone. Still, something curious began to bloom in the crisp autumn air. A shared rhythm. A silly little dance between a cranky unicorn and a determined girl. Gloompuddle would roll his eyes and follow her broom-sweep trail. Marnie would scowl and stuff his mane full of forest flowers, muttering about freeloading equines with no concept of personal space. But they never left each other's side. On the eleventh day of their accidental bond, Gloompuddle sneezed glitter all over her face. Marnie, furious, chased him three miles with a pail. It was the first time either of them laughed in years. That evening, with the forest painted in gold and cider-scented wind curling through the trees, Marnie looked up at him. “Maybe you’re not the worst unicorn I’ve been soulbound to,” she muttered. Gloompuddle blinked. “You’ve had others?” “Only in my dreams,” she said, scratching his neck. “But you’d hate them. They were punctual.” And for the first time, Gloompuddle didn’t sigh. He simply stood there—quiet, still—and let her fingers rest between the knots of his mane. The kind of silence that meant something sacred. Or possibly gas. By their third week together, Marnie had taken to wearing a permanent scowl and a necklace made of dried apple cores and glitter—both byproducts of her daily unicorn wrangling. Gloompuddle, meanwhile, had developed a fondness for performing interpretive dances in the glade at sunset. These involved a lot of stomping, whinnying, and slow-motion tail flicks that sent entire families of field mice into therapy. It had become clear that their bond wasn’t just emotional—it was logistical. Marnie couldn’t go more than twenty paces without being yanked off her feet by the cloud-thread rope, which had the spiritual elasticity of a caffeine-addicted slingshot. Meanwhile, Gloompuddle couldn’t eat anything without Marnie reading the ingredients aloud like a suspicious mother with a gluten allergy. They were stuck with each other like gum to the underside of destiny’s sandal. One cool, mist-hugged morning, Marnie discovered the true horror of her new role: seasonal molting. Gloompuddle’s coat, once pristine and glowing with unicorny elegance, began shedding in massive floofs. Entire foxes could've been assembled from the tufts blowing across the field. Marnie tried sweeping it up, but Cheryl—the broom—refused. "Not my job," Cheryl said flatly. "I don’t do dander. I am a flooring specialist, not your mythical livestock stylist." Left with no choice, Marnie fashioned the fluff into various accessories: a scarf, a dramatic monocle moustache, even a questionable pair of earmuffs she sold at the local Goblin Flea Market (no goblins were pleased). Gloompuddle, vain as he was, spent hours grooming himself with a discarded fork he found by the wishing well, claiming it gave him “volume.” And then came The Great Snorting Festival. Every year, in a deeply underwhelming part of the woods known as Flatulence Hollow, creatures from across the realms gathered for a grand contest involving feats of nasal flair. Gloompuddle, hearing about the event from a gossiping badger, insisted they attend. “My nostrils are sonnets made flesh,” he proclaimed, striking a pose so dramatic a nearby oak tree fainted. Marnie reluctantly agreed, mostly because the prize was a year’s supply of enchanted oats and a coupon for one free de-worming. Upon arrival, they were greeted by a banner that read: “LET THE SNORTING BEGIN” and a centaur DJ named Blasterhoof. The crowd roared. A troll juggled hedgehogs. A kobold sneezed and caused a minor landslide. It was chaos. When Gloompuddle’s turn came, he stepped onto the mossy stage with the gravity of a war general. The hush was palpable. He inhaled. He paused. He aimed both nostrils toward the moon and SNORTED with such ferocity that several small birds un-birthed themselves and a druid’s wig flew off. The judges gasped. A nymph fainted. Someone’s goat proposed marriage to a chair. They won, naturally. Gloompuddle was given a golden tissue and a crown made entirely of sneeze-blown dandelions. Marnie held up the prize bag and grinned. “Now that’s some fine oat money,” she whispered. Gloompuddle nuzzled her cheek and promptly sneezed directly into her hair. It glittered. She sighed. Cheryl wheezed from laughter. On the way back to their glen, Marnie felt something strange. Contentment? Possibly gas. But also… pride? She looked up at Gloompuddle, who was humming a tune from a musical he wrote in his head called “Horned and Fabulous.” She laughed. He side-eyed her and said, “You know you love me.” “I tolerate you professionally,” she replied. “At great psychic cost.” Yet as the crisp twilight settled in, and the fireflies painted lazy constellations in the air, she felt that weird, quiet magic that only comes when life has spun out of control in just the right way. The kind of chaos that feels like home. They reached the glade. Gloompuddle did one last interpretive tail twirl. Cheryl muttered something about unionizing. And Marnie? She looked up at the sky, stretched her arms wide, and yelled into the wind, “I am the Keeper of the Uncontainable! Also I smell like sneeze glitter and regret!” The wind didn’t answer. But the unicorn beside her snorted approvingly, and that, somehow, was enough. It was sometime between the Harvest Moon and the Night of Unsolicited Goblin Poetry that things began to shift between Marnie and Gloompuddle. Subtly at first. Like the moment she stopped complaining when he trampled the herb garden (again) and instead calmly replanted the thyme with a muttered “we never liked it anyway.” Or the time Gloompuddle started using his horn not to theatrically skewer tree bark in protest of his oats, but to delicately hold open Cheryl’s instruction manual so Marnie could finally read the chapter titled: “Handling Magical Beasts Without Losing Your Mind or Your Eyebrows.” Their rhythm wasn’t perfect. It never would be. He still had opinions about atmospheric pressure and how it should “respect his mane,” and she still hadn’t figured out how to bathe a unicorn without getting waterboarded by his tail. But something gentle bloomed between them—an accidental symphony of shared chaos. And then came the Flying Potato Crisis. It began, as most catastrophes do, with a bet. A gnome in a pub challenged Marnie to launch a potato “as far as a pixie's resentment." She accepted, obviously. Gloompuddle, offended at not being consulted first, added a magical twist: he charged the potato with unstable unicorn magic—normally used only in extreme rituals or soap-making. When launched from Cheryl’s broomstick-catapult, the potato tore across the sky, split the clouds, and hit a passing wyvern named Jeff square in the unmentionables. Jeff was not pleased. He declared a Writ of Winged Vengeance and descended on Thistlewhack with the fury of a thousand passive-aggressive dinner guests. “I will turn your glade into mulch!” he roared, flames licking his fangs. Villagers screamed. Pixies fainted. An elf tried to sue someone preemptively. But Marnie didn’t run. Neither did Gloompuddle. Instead, they stood side by side—one with a broom, the other with a horn, both slightly damp from the morning dew and their mutual emotional avoidance. “Remember that headbutt spell that bonded us?” Marnie asked, raising an eyebrow. “The one involving eternal soul-tethering and seasonal glitter rash?” “Yeah. Let’s do it again. But angrier.” And so they did. Gloompuddle lowered his horn. Marnie lifted her broom. Cheryl shrieked something about liability insurance. Together, they charged the wyvern, who paused—just for a moment—too confused by the sight of a girl and a unicorn screaming battle cries like “FELT HATS ARE A LIE” and “GOBLINS CAN’T COUNT.” The impact was spectacular. Gloompuddle’s horn released a blast of incandescent energy shaped like an angry badger. Marnie leapt midair and clocked Jeff in the snout with Cheryl. The wyvern tumbled backward into a marsh, where a trio of offended frogs immediately sued him for pond trespass. Victory, as it turns out, smells like singed mane and triumphant sweat. The next day, the village threw a party in their honor. There were cider fountains, reluctant bagpipes, and one very enthusiastic interpretive dance from Gloompuddle that ended with him wearing a flowerpot like a helmet. Marnie even got a plaque that read: “For Services to Unreasonable Heroism.” She hung it in their glade, right next to the place where Gloompuddle kept his emergency drama tiara. Later that evening, as the stars rolled out like spilled sugar across the velvet sky, Marnie sat on a mossy log, sipping lukewarm cider and watching Gloompuddle chase a confused moonbeam. Cheryl, exhausted and possibly drunk on proximity to nonsense, snoozed nearby. “You ever think about... the whole forever thing?” she asked, half to herself. Gloompuddle slowed his trot and trotted over. “You mean our unbreakable soul pact sealed by ancient forest magic and extreme glitter exposure?” “Yeah. That one.” He blinked, flicked his tail, and said, “Only every day. But I think I like it now. Even the sneezing.” Marnie snorted. “You only say that because I stopped braiding your tail like a court jester.” “I liked the bells.” They sat in silence, watching fireflies drift past like wandering punctuation marks. Then, slowly, Gloompuddle lowered his head, touching his horn to her forehead—just as he had on the very first day. “Unicorn Keeper,” he said softly. “You’ve kept more than you know.” And just like that, the air shimmered. Not with magic, not with prophecy—but with something quieter. Friendship forged in foolishness. Love made not from longing, but loyalty. A keeper, and the kept. Companions who never asked for each other, but found a kind of forever in the ridiculous, anyway. “Want to go launch another potato?” she whispered, smiling. “Only if we aim for someone named Carl.” And off they went into the moon-touched night: a girl, a unicorn, and a broom with a mild hangover—ready for whatever dumb, dazzling thing came next.     If this ridiculous and heartfelt adventure between Marnie and Gloompuddle tickled your funny bone—or warmed that cozy corner of your heart where unicorn glitter and emotional potato warfare live—bring the magic home. Our official The Unicorn Keeper collection is now available at shop.unfocussed.com, featuring high-quality fantasy artwork by Bill and Linda Tiepelman. Wrap yourself in autumnal whimsy with a fleece blanket as soft as unicorn fluff, or send someone a little enchanted nonsense with a greeting card worthy of magical correspondence. Decorate your space with a fantasy poster print that captures the glowing gold of Thistlewhack’s enchanted forest, or go rustic with a textured wood print perfect for any magical nook. Whether you're a lifelong fantasy fan, a secret unicorn believer, or someone who just appreciates emotionally dramatic equines, The Unicorn Keeper collection is a whimsical tribute to the joy of unlikely friendship. Explore the full line and let a little magic into your space.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Love Beneath the Morning Glory

The Bloom Boom Affair It began on a wet Tuesday. Not the dramatic, lightning-splitting, thunder-belching kind of wet. No. This was the gentle kind of wet that makes flowers open shyly, moss turn smug, and frogs feel just a little sexier than usual. It was precisely the kind of afternoon where moist was no longer a punchline—it was a lifestyle. Our scene opens on a mossy stump that locals call “The Velvet Throne.” Perched atop it were two frogs—no ordinary amphibians, mind you. These were tree frogs, jewel-toned and glistening like jade marbles dunked in desire. One was named Julio, and the other, Blossom. She had the kind of stare that made crickets rethink their life choices, and he had thighs that could crush a lily pad with the power of poetry. They weren’t always lovers. They started as polite neighbors who’d once locked eyes over a shared raindrop, both sipping from opposite ends like an amphibian Lady and the Tramp. Things escalated when Blossom—ever the unconventional romantic—built Julio a miniature umbrella out of magnolia petals and twine. He swooned so hard he nearly fell into the mud. She made him soup. They began “meeting for dew” under a canopy of morning glory petals, and like any sensible frog, they started avoiding eye contact in public just to keep the village gossip juicy. Now here they were—huddled beneath the curved embrace of a fresh bloom as a light drizzle tap-tapped overhead. The flower’s funnel acted as nature’s love motel, complete with ambient lighting, floral scent, and a gentle hum from a confused bee stuck in the next bloom over. "So," Blossom croaked with a sly smirk, adjusting her daisy tiara just so. "You gonna kiss me, or are we just here to exchange pollen and disappointment?" Julio's throat puffed out like a plush balloon. “I was waiting for the rain to set the mood.” “Honey,” she drawled, leaning in, “this whole forest is setting the mood.” She wasn’t wrong. Even the fireflies were flickering suggestively. A distant owl hooted the opening bars of a Marvin Gaye song. Somewhere, a mushroom shivered with anticipation. He finally leaned closer. “Blossom… if you were a rain droplet, I’d let you fall on my tongue first.” She blinked. “Julio… that’s the dumbest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” “But did it work?” She grinned, bit her bottom lip, and whispered, “It really, really did.” Outside the bloom, the drizzle turned to a light rain. Inside, a romance unfurled—slow, sticky, and slightly steamy. But of course, you know this is only the beginning… Tongues, Tea, and Trouble on the Throne They say love is patient, love is kind. But in the bog behind Bramblebrush Hollow, love is wet, weird, and just a little bit wicked. Under the soft arch of their morning glory hideaway, Blossom and Julio had moved from shy glances to full-on knee-touching. In frog terms, that’s practically third base. And on this particular day, Julio wasn’t playing defense. “You ever think,” he murmured, tracing a dewy fingertip along the curve of Blossom’s spine, “that we were destined to meet under this very bloom? Like the universe croaked us into existence just for this moment?” Blossom snorted, spraying a mist of pollen out of her nostrils. “Julio, you romantic dirt waffle. That was either the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard or an allergic reaction to fate.” He gave a low, amused ribbit. “I’m serious. The flower, the rain, us. It’s poetic.” “Poetic?” she grinned. “Julio, our first date ended with you mistaking a glowworm for a mint and projectile vomiting off a mushroom ledge. I had to bathe you in rainwater and ego-salve for half the night.” “And yet,” he said, with that glimmer in his pupils, “you came back for more.” She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. “Don’t flatter yourself, pond prince. You owe me three fireflies, a thistle massage, and emotional restitution for that time you told my mother I burp like a duck.” “Your mom laughed.” “She laughed because she thought you were a joke.” The bickering had that soft-lipped, comfortable cadence only lovers and siblings could master—a blend of fondness, venom, and shared inside jokes delivered with the finesse of verbal judo. But beneath the sass, under that veil of floral flirtation, something else simmered: want. Real, gooey, hopelessly swamp-scented want. The rain thickened. So did the air between them. Julio leaned in, this time not for drama but for truth. “You scare me, Blossom.” She tilted her head. “Because I’m hot? Or because I’m a highly emotional frog with complex needs and a running tab at the aphid bar?” “Yes.” They paused. A beetle flew past. A snail honked (or something vaguely honk-adjacent). The forest didn’t care about their romantic tension. But oh, it was watching. Julio reached for her hand. “Look. All jokes aside, I think I could stay under this flower with you forever. Like… retire here. Grow mold together. Raise tiny tadpoles and name them after lesser-known Greek deities.” Blossom blinked. “Did you just propose... cohabitation?” “Maybe.” “Julio, we’ve only been snogging for eight sun cycles.” “That’s like, five frog years.” She cocked a brow. “Don’t bring pseudo-science into our romance.” “I’m just saying… I like the idea of forever with you.” Blossom softened. She hated when he got like this—earnest, sweet, dreamy-eyed like he’d swallowed a poetry book and half a cloud. And she especially hated how much it made her heart go bloop. “Okay,” she said finally. “But if we’re doing this, I have rules.” Julio sat up straighter. “Name them.” “One,” she said, holding up a delicate finger, “no tongue fights before dusk. I have a schedule.” “Reasonable.” “Two. You clean the flower. Daily. Pollen is not an aesthetic, it’s an allergen.” “Done.” “Three. If you ever flirt with that flat-faced toad from Lilypatch again, I will roast you alive and serve you to a stork.” Julio blinked. “Understood.” “And four—no surprise mating songs. If you’re gonna sing, I want choreography and backup crickets.” “I’ll call the band.” They sealed it with a kiss. It was not dainty. It was sticky and weird and made a nearby caterpillar gasp. But it was theirs. Just as they began to settle into the newfound bliss of shared expectations and dangerously implied commitment, a new sound split the air: a squelch, followed by a high-pitched titter and the unmistakable voice of Velma—Blossom’s rival, frenemy, and occasional mycological consultant. “Ohhhhhh no,” Blossom whispered, panic rising faster than sap in spring. Julio peeked out of the bloom. “She’s bringing her entourage.” “The Giggling Tadpoles?” “All six.” Velma emerged with the kind of strut that only came from eating your ex’s best friend and posting about it on MudTok. She wore a shimmering fern frond as a cape and had a smug glow like she’d just seduced someone’s boyfriend—and maybe she had. “WELL WELL WEEEELL,” Velma chirped, clearly having rehearsed that line all morning. “If it isn’t Miss Morning Glory herself, playing house with Loverboy Julio on the Velvet Throne.” Blossom didn’t blink. “Velma. How’s that rash?” Julio winced. The Giggling Tadpoles gasped in unison. Velma hissed, “That was seasonal and you know it.” “Seasonal like your mood swings?” Blossom asked sweetly. The rain slowed, but the tension crackled like static in the moss. Velma grinned, dangerously wide. “Just dropping by to tell you there’s a little change coming to the Hollow. Some new blood. Some French blood.” Julio gulped. “You don’t mean—” Velma nodded. “That’s right, cherubs. A new frog in town. He wears a beret. He speaks in syllables you can taste. And rumor has it…” she leaned in, “he’s looking for a muse.” All eyes turned to Blossom. “Well, mon dieu,” she said. “Guess things are about to get sticky.” Berets, Betrayals, and the Bloom of Truth By the time the French frog arrived, the Hollow had already spiraled into scandal. Word had spread like fungal rot on a damp log: a mysterious, velvet-voiced stranger from “La Mare des Poètes” (translation: ‘Pond of the Poets,’ though some locals insisted it was just a fancy mud puddle) had sashayed into Bramblebrush Hollow looking for his “inspiration.” His name? Jean-Luc Tadreau. His resume? Former lily model, amateur haikuist, full-time homewrecker. Jean-Luc was tall, lean, and glistened like a freshly buttered baguette. His beret perched jauntily between his eyes, and his voice was so smooth it made slime trails look rough by comparison. And when he crooned? Lawd. Even the rocks blushed. Blossom was not impressed. “He smells like fermented lavender and pretension,” she muttered, perched beside Julio under the morning glory, sipping nectar straight from a flower straw. “He bowed to me and kissed his own hand,” Julio grumbled. “Then winked at a mushroom.” “That’s not charisma, that’s a fungal kink.” But the Hollow didn’t care. Velma had gone full PR blitz—posting dreamy sketches of Jean-Luc on bark scrolls, hyping up his “one-night-only interpretive dance tribute to love and amphibian freedom.” The Giggling Tadpoles had formed a fan club. Frogs lined up around the swamp to hear him whisper sweet nothings about existential rain and sensual algae. And worst of all? He was actively pursuing Blossom. It started with sonnets. Then escalated to interpretive staring contests. Then… the scandal. A public gift—a golden beetle wrapped in lotus petals delivered during morning dew hour, in front of Julio. “What the actual frog,” Julio had croaked, staring at the sparkling beetle like it was a live grenade with wings. “That’s our spot. OUR BLOOM!” Blossom held up her webbed hands. “I didn’t invite him. The beetle was… unsolicited.” “So was my existential crisis, but here we are!” The bloom wilted. Figuratively and literally. Blossom felt caught. Sure, Julio was loud, emotional, and once mistook a pinecone for a rival. But he was hers. Jean-Luc? He was every wrong decision wrapped in pheromones and poetry. A walking red flag that spoke in riddles and probably exfoliated. So she made a choice. She decided to destroy Jean-Luc the only way she knew how—publicly, dramatically, and with questionable ethics. The next evening, under the largest lily pad in the Hollow, Jean-Luc hosted a “soirée of the senses.” There was aphid wine. A glowworm strobe show. Someone set up a bubble machine. He was mid-monologue—something about the aching sweetness of forbidden love—when Blossom slinked into view wearing her daisy crown, a sly smile, and a glint of theatrical vengeance in her eye. “Jean-Luc,” she purred. “Sing me something. Something... real.” He did. A crooning ballad about moons and longing and the sorrow of amphibian monogamy. Frogs swooned. A snail wept into his leaf napkin. When he finished, Blossom stepped forward and kissed him. Full on. Wet. No tongue. But full. The crowd erupted in gasps. Julio, lurking nearby, dropped his nectar cup. Velma screamed “YESSSS!” in a way that scared two newts into fleeing the state. Then Blossom turned, grinned at Jean-Luc, and slapped him across the cheek with a wet leaf. “That was for calling me your muse,” she snapped. “I’m not a canvas. I’m the whole damn gallery.” And with that, she turned on her heel and marched straight to Julio. He stared at her. “You kissed him.” “I know.” “You slapped him.” “Also true.” “You walked off like a queen.” “That’s just my gait, babe.” Julio crossed his arms. “Explain yourself.” “He needed to be publicly humbled. You needed to be reminded I’m completely, tragically into you. Also, you owe me a dance.” “A dance?” “Yup. Under our bloom. Right now.” She grabbed him by the webbing and pulled him beneath their favorite morning glory. The petals shimmered in the moonlight, heavy with rain and forgiveness. Music swelled—probably imagined, or possibly a cricket band with great acoustics. Julio wrapped his arms around her. “You’re insane.” “Thank you.” They swayed. Slowly. Goofily. Beautifully. Two frogs in love, ignoring the gossip, the chaos, the fungal influencers and pretentious poets. Just them, under their bloom. Wet. Weird. And exactly where they were meant to be. Outside, the Hollow returned to normal. Velma swore vengeance. Jean-Luc vanished into the mist, whispering something about a mysterious turtle named Solange. The Giggling Tadpoles rebranded as a jam band. But none of it mattered. Because love, real love, isn’t about drama or grand gestures. It’s about knowing who makes your heart croak loudest in the rain.     Take a piece of Bramblebrush Hollow home... Whether you want to wrap yourself in romance with this lush beach towel, hang a splash of whimsy in your den with a canvas print or tapestry, or simply send frog-loving friends a sweet reminder of soggy love with a greeting card, the magic of Julio and Blossom awaits. Bring home the bloom, the sass, and the sweet, sticky kiss of love beneath the morning glory.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Between Pencils and Planets

Froggert Van Toad and the Infinite Sketchpad By all accounts, Froggert Van Toad had lived a rather normal life for a frog who’d recently transcended dimensional boundaries via a raincloud. Not that he planned it. Froggert was, if anything, chronically unplanned. His days were normally spent slurping existential lattes on lily pads and sketching esoteric doodles that no one appreciated—least of all his cousin, Keith, who insisted Froggert get a "real job," like fly herding or insurance fraud. But Froggert was an artist. A philosopher. A fishless fisherman. And above all, an amphibian of radical optimism. So when a glowing planetary orb began weeping over his sketchbook one day—dripping cosmic tears onto his to-do list (which only said “nap” and “invent a new blue”)—Froggert didn’t flinch. He grabbed his favorite pencil, a stubby orange No. 3 with bite marks and delusions of grandeur, and dove right into the puddle. And that’s how he ended up here: fishing in a pond no bigger than a coaster, surrounded by office supplies, under a cloud that cried moonlight. He sat in his rolled-up shorts, water tickling his knees, casting his line into a miniature ecosystem populated by suspiciously judgmental goldfish. They blinked at him in passive-aggressive synchrony, as if to say, “You brought a reel into a metaphor?” But Froggert was unfazed. He’d seen worse critiques. That one time he submitted a sketch of a melancholy snail to the Prestigious Amphibian Arts Guild, they mailed back a single word: “why.” (Not “why?” Just “why.”) Now, he was determined. This wasn’t just a pond. This was the blank canvas between realities. The moist studio of the gods. The aquatic cradle of art itself. And Froggert would fish inspiration from it—hook, line, and overthinker’s spiral. Behind him, a stubby army of orange pencils stood like battalions of judgmental monks, whispering things like “perspective lines” and “remember shadows, idiot.” He ignored them. Froggert had more pressing concerns. Namely, what exactly was nibbling his bait… and whether or not it was the ghost of Van Gogh’s hamster, or just another manifestation of his imposter syndrome. The line tugged. His eyes widened. “Oh, it’s happening,” he muttered, gripping the reel like a frog possessed. “Either I’m about to catch the next great concept or a very angry cosmic metaphor.” From above, the cloud rumbled. Drops fell like glimmering commas, as if punctuation were raining directly onto his artistic block. Froggert smiled. “Come to papa,” he crooned to the void, “You’re either my muse or a fish with a graduate degree in chaos.” And then he pulled. The Fish, The Muse, and the Accidentally Erotic Eraser With a grunt that sounded suspiciously like a French exhale, Froggert tugged his line and reeled in... absolutely nothing. Nothing, but in a very specific way. It wasn't the absence of a fish that worried him. It was the *presence* of the absence. The line came back empty, yet shimmering—dripping with symbols that hadn't been invented yet, glowing in hues only visible after a double espresso and a full-on existential crisis. He blinked. Once. Twice. The air wobbled. Somewhere between the cloud and the pencils, a tiny trumpet made of watercolor sound blasted a four-note jingle he instinctively knew was titled “Bold Decision #6.” The pond rippled, and the goldfish formed the shape of a face. Her face. His muse. She emerged like a dream filtered through a Salvador Dalí colander—part fish, part frog, part celestial librarian. She had lips like an unspoken poem and gills that blushed when she noticed Froggert’s stare. In one delicate webbed hand, she held a scroll labeled “Plot Device”, and in the other, an iridescent eraser that radiated the sultry aura of forbidden grammar corrections. “Hello, Froggert,” she said, her voice a cross between jazz and a warning label. “I see you’ve been fishing again.” Froggert stood, wobbling slightly in the pond, pants soaked, posture heroic in the way that only extremely damp frogs can manage. “Muse,” he said breathlessly, adjusting his beret, which hadn’t been there moments ago. “You’ve returned. I feared you’d left me. You’ve been gone since the Great Sketchbook Fire of ’22.” “I had to,” she said. “You were still shading with a single light source like an amateur. And your metaphors? They were becoming… squishy.” He gasped, wounded. “Squishy?! That’s harsh coming from a woman who once used a walrus to symbolize late-stage capitalism.” She smiled coyly. “And it worked, didn’t it?” The goldfish nodded in unison like backup dancers with tenure. The Muse floated closer, and the pond deepened beneath her like the gravity of deadlines. She reached out with her eraser and touched Froggert lightly on the snout. His nose itched with the forgotten scent of acrylics and ambition. Around them, the pencils began to chant rhythmically, “DRAW, DRAW, DRAW,” like a cult of overly caffeinated art students. “You’ve been blocked,” she whispered. “Creatively. Emotionally. Aquatically.” “I know,” he croaked. “Ever since my last series—‘Anxious Gnomes in Business Casual’—got shredded in the gallery’s Yelp reviews, I haven’t been able to finish a single canvas. I just sit on my log, sip lukewarm inspiration, and yell at birds.” She laughed. The water giggled in sympathy. “You’ve forgotten why you create. It’s not about applause or reviews. It’s about process. Mystery. That delicious panic of not knowing what the hell you’re drawing until it stares back and says, ‘You missed a spot.’” Froggert blinked. “So… you’re saying I need to stop worrying about being brilliant and just make beautiful, weird nonsense?” She nodded. “Exactly. Now here—take this.” She handed him the eraser. As it touched his hand, the world shivered. Not violently. More like a flirty shimmy from a cosmic belly dancer. Instantly, Froggert was filled with memories—unfinished sketches, forgotten ideas, that one time he tried to animate spaghetti into a romantic lead. All of it. But now, he saw the value. The humor. The joy in the mess. “But wait,” he said, looking up, realization dawning like a sunrise painted by someone with access to very expensive light filters. “Why now? Why come back to me today?” Her expression softened. “Because, Froggert... the moon cried. And the moon only cries when a real artist is close to remembering who they are.” And then, just like that, she vanished—dissolving into the pond like watercolor in warm tea. The goldfish scattered, the cloud hiccupped, and the pencils screamed with fresh enthusiasm, now shouting, “EDIT! EDIT! EDIT!” Froggert stood alone, soaked and inspired, holding the sacred eraser and the line still shimmering with raw potential. He looked down at his feet, then at the sky, then at the empty canvas that had suddenly appeared on the grass beside him. He squinted at the canvas. It squinted back. “Okay,” he muttered. “Let’s make something… ridiculous.” The Exhibition at the Edge of the Desk Three days later, Froggert Van Toad had become a legend. Not in the mainstream sense. He hadn’t gone viral, nor been featured in any reputable galleries, nor even accepted into the local toad-based co-op (which had very strict “no dimension-hopping” bylaws). But in the hidden circles of interdimensional art critics, caffeine-fueled stationery supplies, and emotionally available goldfish, Froggert had ascended. It began with a single stroke—a chaotic, daring, slightly smudged line across the canvas. Then another. Then a furious explosion of colors that defied any wheel ever taught in art school. Froggert wasn’t just painting—he was exorcising doubt, romanticizing absurdity, and interrogating the myth of clean edges. The pond became his studio. The pencils? His choir. The cloud? A misty muse of background lighting. Each day, Froggert woke with dew on his snout, inspiration in his chest, and a dangerously erotic eraser tucked into his tiny toolbelt. He painted frogs as astronauts, bananas as philosophers, and fish as unfulfilled middle managers. He painted dreams that had no name and breakfast items with disturbing emotional baggage. One afternoon, he created a six-foot tall self-portrait made entirely of regret and glitter glue. The Muse reappeared briefly just to weep softly, fan herself with a palette, and disappear into the wallpaper. And then it happened. The cloud, in a particularly dramatic lightning-sneeze, unveiled a cosmic scroll: a gallery invitation addressed to “Froggert Van Toad, Artisan of Madness.” The location? The Edge of the Desk. The ultimate exhibition space—where the clutter ended and the void began. A place feared by dust bunnies and respected by rogue paperclips. Only the bravest creatives dared show their work there, teetering on the boundary of purpose and oblivion. Froggert accepted. Opening night was electric. The crowd—a curated mash of sapient staplers, depressed ink cartridges, origami swans with MFA degrees, and a talking cactus named Jim—gathered with baited breath and literal bait (there were snacks). A paper lantern orchestra hummed ambient jazz. Someone spilled chai on a crayon that immediately broke up with its label and swore off monogamy. Froggert arrived dressed in a dramatically flared bathrobe and mismatched galoshes. He held a martini made of melted snowflakes and bravado. Behind him stood his masterpieces, now elevated by string, glitter tape, and invisible emotional scaffolding. The crowd gasped. They gurgled. One staple fainted. A pair of thumbtacks whispered something scandalous and applauded with their pointy heads. And then the Muse returned. Not as a whisper or a ripple—but as a full-bodied hallucination wearing sequins, eyeliner, and the unmistakable aura of a metaphor that got tenure. She approached Froggert, eyes glinting with admiration and a hint of unfinished business. “You did it,” she said. “You turned doubt into spectacle.” Froggert croaked softly. “I had help. And also, possibly a mild head injury.” “It suits you.” They stood in silence for a moment, staring at the final piece: a chaotic, iridescent pondscape titled “Hope Wears Galoshes.” “So,” Froggert ventured, twirling the eraser in his fingers, “you gonna vanish again or…?” She smirked. “Only if you forget what this is really about.” “Art?” “No,” she said, leaning in close, her voice like soft thunder. “Permission.” Froggert nodded slowly, like a philosopher in slow motion or a frog too proud to admit he just got goosebumps. The cloud wept in joy. The pond burbled in applause. A rogue mechanical pencil proposed marriage to a sentient paintbrush. The Edge of the Desk shimmered with possibility, just as a nearby drawer yawned open and revealed an entire dimension of unsorted inspiration waiting for its day in the sun. Froggert took the Muse’s hand. “Let’s get weird,” he said. And they vanished into the puddle, giggling. The End… and also, just the beginning.     Bring Froggert's universe home with you! If you’ve laughed, lingered, or just slightly fallen in love with the world of Froggert Van Toad, why not invite a piece of his whimsical pondscape into your own space? From galaxy-kissed metal prints to dreamy canvas artwork, every detail of “Between Pencils and Planets” is ready to leap from the page and onto your wall. Feeling cozy? Drift into inspiration with our luxurious art tapestries or dry off from your next muse-induced pond dive with our irresistibly soft beach towels. Want to send a little creative chaos to someone special? Share the story with a printed greeting card that says, “I believe in amphibians, and you.” Explore all available formats at shop.unfocussed.com and let the muse move you.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

A Moment Between Waves

The Ledge Between Two Worlds Beneath a sea that never stayed still and a sky that never quite forgot her name, there lay a ledge — weathered by tide, forgotten by time — where the mermaid came to sit. She wasn’t one of those syrupy songbirds from surface myths, the kind sailors scribbled into rum-soaked journals. No. This one was real, and when she moved, the water adjusted its entire attitude to accommodate her elegance. She called herself Mirielle, but only when she felt like talking. Which wasn’t often. And certainly not to sea gulls, dolphins, or washed-up poets. Her voice was not meant for crowds or conquests. It was the kind of voice used once, echoed forever, and then put away like velvet you only dare touch with clean hands. She sat now in that between-time just after the sun lost its bite but before it surrendered to the moon — her tail curled over the stone’s edge, scales twinkling in metallic defiance of twilight. Her bralette, made of seagrass embroidery and pearls that had never been owned, shimmered like something stolen from a queen's dream. And that hair... gods help you if you tried to describe it. Not gold, not blonde, not light — just sunlight caught in a net, cascading like slow honey and smelling faintly of brine and lavender. Every evening, she came here to not quite think. To not quite remember. It was dangerous, you see, for a siren to remember too much. The sea takes as easily as it gives, and nostalgia is a luxury for those who don’t bleed salt. Still, tonight felt different. The air buzzed faintly with knowing. Not prophecy — she hated prophecy, too dramatic. No, this was the hum of a whisper trying to happen. The kind of magic that only showed up when you weren’t trying to impress it. A flirtatious breeze teased the edge of her ear, and she rolled her eyes at it with mock offense. “Charming,” she muttered, brushing back a loose curl. “You must be new here.” The sea rippled in answer — not quite applause, not quite warning. Behind her, the first star blinked open. Below her, something stirred. And for the first time in a century, Mirielle did not immediately look away. The Something Below It wasn’t often that Mirielle let herself feel curious. Curiosity was a luxury of things with feet and clocks and furniture. The sea — her mother, cradle, and sometimes jailor — didn’t lend itself to the kind of questions that got satisfying answers. Ask it where something went, and it would burble. Ask it why, and it would rise into a storm. Ask it for love, and it would give you pearls shaped like regrets. But that ripple below her… that stirring. It wasn’t typical. And she knew typical. She’d made a very intentional study of it over the past few decades, lounging on this same slab of stone and watching the surface world through half-lidded lashes. Mermaids weren’t known for their patience — not the old blood like hers — but Mirielle had a particular fondness for ignoring expectations. It was her second-favorite pastime, right behind grooming barnacles off her tail with a gold comb stolen from a pirate who’d called her “little lady.” (He didn’t need it after that.) She leaned forward now, chest lifting as her weight shifted, and her hair followed like a faithful silk banner. The sea below remained hush-hush, coy as ever, but the tension in the water tickled her skin with electricity. Something was waiting. Not watching — no, that was too simple. This was the type of presence that rearranged molecules by being. Not predatory, not friendly. Just… significant. And then she heard it. Not with ears, not exactly. It was a vibration that filtered through the marrow. A soundless sound, like a memory of music that had never been played. Her breath hitched, and she sat upright, tail curling with a flick of uncertainty. For a creature so used to control — of currents, of moods, of men — this little hiccup of vulnerability felt oddly thrilling. She didn’t dive. Not right away. She stood instead. Her upper body graceful and languid, her tail flaring out like a crescent moon dipped in abalone and stardust. The ledge was narrow, and the moment more so. If she moved, it would pass. If she hesitated, it would deepen. “Well,” she said, adjusting one of her earrings — an unnecessary gesture, but fashion demanded presence. “If you’re going to lurk dramatically, at least offer a girl a drink.” Something below chuckled. Not a voice. A chuckle. It rose up through the kelp beds like a bubble of mirth and mischief. Mirielle's brow arched, and she allowed a smile to slip, sharp as a tidepool oyster. "Ah. One of those." She rolled her shoulders, releasing sea dust in glimmers that caught the dying light. "I should’ve worn the sapphires." The chuckle became motion. A spiral in the water. A glimmer of gold... no, copper... no, something elemental. It coiled upward with the intention of being seen. Mirielle held her ground, tail sweeping behind her like a royal train. Her fingers twitched slightly — not from fear, but from the forgotten excitement of newness. This wasn’t a passing dolphin with too much flirt. This wasn’t an overly enchanted kelpie with boundary issues. This was Other. And he was surfacing. As the head broke the surface, she blinked — not in surprise, but in appraisal. Her kind didn’t gasp. Gasping was for damsels and fools. But what rose before her was... let’s say… “aesthetically inconvenient.” He wasn’t beautiful in the way mortals write sonnets about. Not the sharp-cheeked, velvet-voiced prince of tired legends. No, this one was carved from storm wood and low thunder. Hair like burnt kelp twisted into a crown of sea-glass. Skin dark like basalt, dappled with phosphorescent scars that whispered history. And eyes — oh gods — eyes like green lightning stalled mid-storm. He didn't speak. Not yet. Just looked. And Mirielle felt a part of herself stretch in recognition — the old part, the part that predated languages, the part that had once sung ships into ruin and then wept when no one remembered the song. Finally, he broke the surface fully, his tail only hinted at — long, shadow-dark, edged with fins so fine they might’ve been memories. He bowed, not deeply, but with that maddening, impossible kind of charm that you’d slap if it weren’t so magnetic. "Evening," he said, his voice rough like coral but warm, as if apology and desire were sipping wine together behind his teeth. "Do you always rehearse your wit aloud, or was I just lucky tonight?" Mirielle smirked, tilting her head as her curls floated with studied grace. "You think this is wit?" she said. "Darling, I’m still in warm-up mode. Stick around, and I might actually flirt." His grin was all tide and trouble. "Good," he said. "I have nowhere else to be. You?" Mirielle turned back toward the ledge, then to the sea, then to him. Her tail flicked, iridescent and electric. She could’ve swum away. She often did. But tonight? No. Tonight the waves were still, and the moment held its breath. She slipped into the water like a secret too delicious to keep. Tides That Speak in Silence The sea, when it chooses, can become a cathedral. And on this night, as two currents merged beneath the moonlight, it became a sanctuary for things unspoken. Mirielle slipped beneath the surface with the ease of ritual, of muscle memory, of a soul too familiar with solitude to ever truly sink. Beside her, the stranger matched her glide — a little too well. No awkward splash. No giddy swirl. Just the elegant presence of something old that remembered how to move like music. They didn’t speak at first. Not with words. But their bodies wrote stories in ripples — dancing through pockets of warmer water, flirting in eddies that spun slow and sensuous. The reef below caught glimmers of their passing, the coral sighing as if it had waited long for such a ballet. And above them, the waves forgot to crest. The ocean held its hush. It was Mirielle who broke the quiet, eventually. With her, silence was never passive — it was curated. And she was done curating. “So,” she said, circling him like a cat considering a nap in your lap. “Are you cursed, enchanted, running from a prophecy, or just tragically misunderstood?” He smiled, slow and deliberate. “Option five.” “There isn’t an option five.” “There is now.” He flicked his tail, and she felt the tug of his current brush hers. “I’m just here. That’s all. Just… here.” Mirielle narrowed her eyes. “People don’t just ‘be’ here. This reef? It’s... personal.” “Maybe I’m personal too,” he said, his voice smooth as pearl, with an undertow that tugged at her in ways she didn’t like admitting. “Or maybe you’ve been waiting for me.” She scoffed — a delicate, musical scoff, but a scoff nonetheless. “I don’t wait. I haunt.” And that made him laugh — a proper, belly-deep laugh that made a school of neon fish scatter in shock. “Gods. You’re worse than they said.” That caught her off-guard. “Who’s they?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he swam deeper, into a trench where the light shimmered like champagne through a blown-glass flute. She followed — irritated, intrigued. The trench opened into a cave-mouth she’d never seen before, its walls slick with black coral and humming with old magic. Not the kind that shimmered. The kind that pulsed. “They,” he said at last, “are the ones who remember the names even when the surface forgets the songs. They said there was a woman here — a mermaid, yes — but more than that. A keeper of stories too painful to write down. A girl made of silence and skin and sunlight who never asks for anything... but always knows when you owe her.” Mirielle stilled. The water grew still with her. “And what do you think?” she asked. He turned slowly in the blue-dark of the cave. Glints of gold dust swirled around him like the echo of a sunbeam. “I think,” he said, “that maybe I’m here to give something. And maybe you’re finally ready to take it.” Her laugh was quieter now. “Bold of you. Assuming I want anything from anyone.” “No,” he said. “Not anyone. Just me.” She swam closer, not realizing she was doing it. She could smell him now — like petrichor and brine and something ancient. Her hand rose, and so did his. Fingers met. No sparks. No lightning. Just the warmth of shared loneliness. “You’re late,” she said. “I’m not,” he said, leaning in with a smile that made even the shadows lean closer. “You were just early.” And when they kissed — because of course they kissed — the ocean turned inward to listen. It wasn’t a desperate, tangled kiss of stories needing endings. No, this was slow. Whimsical. Soft around the edges like a melody hummed through seagrass. It wasn’t a promise. It was a beginning. A yes that didn’t need to be said out loud. Later, they floated in the shallows, tails draped like tapestries. His arm rested behind her head as if he’d always meant to place it there. She traced lazy circles in the water with a single fin. “You know,” she said, voice like velvet dipped in sarcasm, “this doesn’t mean I’m going to stop being difficult.” “Oh, I’m counting on it,” he replied, eyes half-lidded in bliss. “I hate easy.” A silence passed — not the awkward kind. The full kind. The kind that stretched itself out like a well-fed cat and soaked in the moonlight. She looked at him. “Stay.” He didn’t answer with words. He just didn’t leave.     Bring a Moment of Magic Into Your World Inspired by the serene beauty and mysterious grace of our story, A Moment Between Waves is now available as a selection of high-quality photographic art products from Unfocussed.com. Whether you’re gifting a fellow dreamer or treating yourself to something enchanting, these items are designed to bring the magic home. Wall Tapestry – Let your walls breathe with oceanic elegance. This tapestry turns any room into a storybook shoreline. Greeting Card – Share a message wrapped in myth. Perfect for birthdays, soul notes, or “just because” enchantments. Framed Art Print – Showcase the story’s essence with a stunning, gallery-quality print that brings ethereal charm to any wall. Beach Towel – Make your next shore visit a siren's dream with this lush, full-color towel that’s as practical as it is poetic. Explore the full A Moment Between Waves collection and let the magic drift into your everyday.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

The Fiery Pout

The Temper of Twigsnap Hollow It was the first crisp day of autumn in Twigsnap Hollow, and that meant three things: the leaves were aflame with color, the squirrels were drunk on fermented acorns, and Fizzlewick the Tiny Brat Dragon was in a full-blown sulk. Perched on his usual spot—the fifth knotted limb of the great Maplebeard tree—Fizzlewick glared at the world with a righteous fury only a baby dragon with a mild superiority complex and short legs could possess. His wings were twitching. His tail, coiled like a sassy pretzel, flicked aggressively every third second. And most notably, his arms were folded so tight that his little talons squeaked against his own scales. This, dear reader, was a *statement pose*. “I said cinnamon bark muffins, not ginger root scones,” he muttered to absolutely no one except a leaf that had the audacity to fall in his direction. He scorched it with a tiny puff of smoke and grinned. That would teach nature to be insolent. You see, Fizzlewick had what the woodland creatures called “Main Character Energy,” though he firmly believed he was simply “the only one here with taste.” Ever since he’d hatched in the hollow two years ago during a thunderstorm (on purpose, according to him), he'd carved out a reputation as both the littlest dragon and the biggest handful east of the Glowroot Ridge. He ran a tight emotional schedule: tantrum at dawn, sulk at midday, petty vengeance by sundown. It was exhausting being a misunderstood genius with adorable rage issues. Today, however, his drama had a very specific catalyst. Mapleberry the chipmunk—who he had allowed into his inner circle of trusted snack couriers—had dared to bring him a honeycrust tart with the wrong kind of drizzle. Fizzlewick had exploded, not with fire (he was saving that for the pinecone uprising), but with loud, sputtering, bratty declarations of betrayal that had sent poor Mapleberry scrambling back to the bake burrow in tears. “She knows I have standards,” Fizzlewick huffed. “I’m a legend, not a lunchbox.” And so he remained in brooding solitude, radiating autumnal menace and cuteness like some angry seasonal candle. The trees rustled. The squirrels avoided eye contact. Even the wind detoured politely around him. But from the forest floor below, someone was watching—someone who had neither fear of dragons nor respect for his pout. Someone who walked on two paws and wore socks with sandals. Yes, trouble was coming. The kind with snacks, opinions, and absolutely no sense of personal boundaries. Sock-Sandaled Chaos and the Pact of Leaf & Flame The interloper arrived with all the subtlety of a moose in a tambourine shop. She was human—probably—a squat, smirking woman with wild silver hair tied up in what could only be described as a bun held together by twigs, buttons, and vibes. She wore a cardigan that appeared to have been hand-knitted from the tears of disappointed grandmothers, and socks pulled halfway up her shins, tucked neatly into Birkenstocks so offensively functional they could have ended wars. Across her back was slung a lumpy satchel that jingled with an untrustworthy rhythm. She exuded the kind of unbothered energy that made forest gods nervous. Fizzlewick squinted down at her from his branch. “Nope,” he whispered. “No thank you. Not today, forest cryptid.” But the woman waved cheerfully and started climbing the base of Maplebeard like a sentient barnacle. “Helloooooo, little spicy meatball!” she called out, voice sing-song and dangerously whimsical. “Heard there was a temper tantrum brewing in the upper limbs!” “It’s a tactical emotional stance,” Fizzlewick hissed. “Not a tantrum.” “Aww, look at you, puffed up like a hot toddy with feelings.” She grinned, finally reaching the branch just below his. “Name’s Aunt Gloam. I’m what the enchanted folks call an ‘Interventionist Crone.’ Retired. Mostly.” Fizzlewick blinked. “I don’t allow people in my sulking sector. Did you not see the sign?” She gestured vaguely toward a nailed-up twig that read “NO.” in smudged ash. “Oh, I saw it. I assumed it was metaphorical.” “It was CHARCOAL. That makes it *art*.” Unbothered, Aunt Gloam settled on the branch like it was a beanbag chair and began unpacking her satchel. Out came a tin of candied spider legs, a tattered zine titled “So You Think You’re a Familiar?”, a mysterious jawbone, and a tiny, hand-woven hammock. Then finally, a squat jar of what looked like homemade fudge. Fizzlewick’s nostrils flared involuntarily. “Ohhhh no. That’s trap fudge. You can’t bribe me.” “Darlin’, I wouldn’t dream of it.” She unscrewed the lid. The aroma hit him like a poetic slap: cinnamon, nutmeg, brown butter, a hint of mischief. “It’s simply here. Unattended. Vulnerable to dragon decisions.” He inched closer. Then stopped. “...Is it the chewy kind?” “Only a monster makes crumbly fudge.” He eyed her suspiciously. “You’re crafty.” “I’m *crone-aged*. We transcend craft.” They sat in silence for a long moment, only the sound of falling leaves and one distant woodland creature doing karaoke in a fern patch. Fizzlewick unfurled one wing slightly—barely. He reached out a talon and nudged the fudge. It jiggled. He jiggled back. There was a brief, silent duel of wills... and then he took a bite. “...Ugh. It’s stupid how good this is.” “Mmm-hmm.” Aunt Gloam grinned, leaning back like she’d won a card game against fate. Fizzlewick chewed thoughtfully, then wiped a crumb from his chin with great drama. “Fine. You can stay. Temporarily. But I have some conditions.” “Naturally.” She conjured a notepad out of a leaf and what might’ve been pure sarcasm. “List away.” “No talking during my dramatic poses.” “No suggesting herbal remedies for my ‘mood spirals.’” “Absolutely no calling me ‘cutie’ unless you want third-degree singe.” “You will refer to me as either Your Crispness or Sir Emberpants.” “You must honor the sacred Ritual of the Snuggle Nest when I get sleepy.” “Deal,” she said without hesitation. “Wait, really?” “Kid, I’ve dealt with warlocks who burst into tears over improperly steeped tea. You’re adorable with teeth. I’ll manage.” For the first time all day, Fizzlewick’s pout softened. Just a smidge. He kicked one foot idly. “I guess you’re not the worst cryptid I’ve met.” “High praise from a grumble-lizard.” They sat together until the sky turned a dusky violet and the fireflies came out, blinking like gossiping stars. Fizzlewick rested his chin on his claws and let out a soft puff of smoke. “Still mad about the drizzle, though.” “We’ll burn their recipe book together,” Aunt Gloam said, patting his head gently. “After a nap.” “It’s a vengeance nap.” “The best kind.” The leaves above them rustled in approval. Somewhere in the forest, a squirrel dropped its nuts in horror and ran. The brat dragon had made an ally. Which meant, of course, the chaos was just beginning. The Marshmallow Accord & The Rise of Emberpants It began, as many woodland uprisings do, with a pastry scandal. Word had spread—faster than Aunt Gloam could finish weaving her mood-cozy—that Fizzlewick had taken a “mortal ally” into his inner branch. The squirrels were alarmed. The chipmunks were insulted. The badger ambassador, who hadn’t been consulted in over a decade, declared it a “reckless alliance with unpredictable cardigan-based consequences.” The acorn council convened. And in true rodent fashion, their resolution was unanimous: Fizzlewick had become soft. He, of course, did not take this well. “SOFT?!” he bellowed from the treetop, fire curling from his nostrils in dramatic little wisps. “I am fire incarnate! I literally toasted a pinecone into ash this morning because it looked smug!” “It did look smug,” Aunt Gloam confirmed, sipping her blackberry tea from a mug shaped like a cauldron. “But perception is nine-tenths of squirrel law.” “Then it’s time,” he said, flexing his tiny claws with purpose, “for a display of brat force diplomacy.” He flew in a series of tight loops (okay, he wobbled twice, but pulled it off with a spin) and landed in the center of the Hollow’s clearing, arms crossed, tail coiled like a cobra with sass. Surrounding him were dozens of woodland creatures, mostly armed with snacks, pamphlets, or biting side-eye. “You have forgotten,” he began, pacing with high drama, “who rules these crispy-leaved lands.” “No one rules anything,” said a chipmunk. “It’s a forest.” “SILENCE, NUT MINION.” He turned in place, letting the orange light catch his scales just so. “I am Sir Emberpants the Bratflamed, Guardian of the Fifth Limb, Keeper of the Morning Sulk, and Defender of Snack Standards. You dare accuse me of softness?” “You accepted fudge from a biped,” a squirrel jeered. “That’s basically treason.” “It was emotionally complex fudge and I stand by my choices.” “You made her a friendship nest!” someone yelled. “It was a strategic cuddle fort and don’t pretend you wouldn’t nap in it!” The crowd was growing restless. The badger rolled out a scroll titled The Grievance of the Leaves. A group of outraged blue jays began chanting something that sounded suspiciously like “Down with brat-boy.” Tensions rose. Tails twitched. Somewhere in the trees, a war ferret played ominous panpipe music. And then— “ENOUGH!” Aunt Gloam bellowed, tossing a handful of glowing pink orbs into the air. They exploded in slow-motion sparkles that rained down with the smell of toasted sugar. The crowd froze. Literally. Mid-blink, mid-scowl, mid-grumble. Stuck in a glamour field woven from magic and old-lady spite. She walked to Fizzlewick’s side, arms folded in perfect synchronicity with his. “Let’s be clear,” she said, her voice now echoing slightly as if through a very judgmental cave. “This dragon is a menace, a diva, a tactical napper, and occasionally insufferable. But he’s also yours. And he has never let this forest down—except that one time with the hot cider incident, which we do not discuss.” “That cauldron betrayed me,” Fizzlewick muttered. “So you will not cast him out over fudge and companionship. You’ll do what all dramatic enchanted ecosystems do: you’ll throw a festival and pretend none of this ever happened.” “With marshmallows,” Fizzlewick added, perking up. “Roasted on my snout.” “And s’mores.” “And you all have to say sorry with snacks.” “And the chipmunks have to do the apology dance,” he added, eyes gleaming. There was a long silence as the glamour lifted and time resumed. A breeze blew dramatically through the clearing. The squirrels conferred. The badger sighed. The war ferret put his panpipes away. “Fine,” the chipmunk said through gritted teeth. “But we get to bring cider.” “Deal,” Fizzlewick said. “But if it’s the wrong kind of drizzle again, I will incinerate every pie crust within a ten-tree radius.” And so, under the glowing leaves of a forest just ridiculous enough to function, the first ever **Festival of Emberpants** was declared. Creatures danced. Cider flowed. Fizzlewick roasted marshmallows with suspicious delight, occasionally charring one just enough to assert dominance. The chipmunks did their apology dance, and Aunt Gloam taught a class on “Emotional Boundaries and Other Delusions.” Later, curled in his nest beside the crone, Fizzlewick let out a long, satisfied sigh. “You know,” he said, licking a sticky paw, “being emotionally compromised tastes like marshmallows.” “That’s growth, sweetheart,” Gloam said, tucking him in with a wing-sized nap shawl. “It’s still vengeance nap time tomorrow though.” “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” And thus, balance was restored. Snacks were respected. Brats were celebrated. And somewhere far beyond the Hollow, a new tale was already stirring... probably about a baby basilisk with commitment issues. But that’s another story entirely.     Love Fizzlewick as much as he loves properly drizzled snacks? Bring a bit of his fiery charm home with you! Whether you're looking to warm up your space with an enchanted forest tapestry, sip tea beside his smolder on a sleek acrylic print, or strut your brat energy with a tote bag worthy of a dragon tantrum, we’ve got you covered. Take Fizzlewick on the go with a spiral notebook for plotting snack-based vengeance, or decorate your favorite things with a high-quality vinyl sticker featuring everyone’s favorite moody flame nugget. Add a little pout to your life—he insists.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Whiskers at the Witching Window

The Familiar's Complaint “If one more squirrel insults me from the holly bush, I swear to Bast I’ll torch the tree.” The orange tabby was muttering again. His name—though few dared use it aloud—was Bartholomew R.J. Whiskerstein, Esquire. He was the third Familiar to serve at No. 13 Embercurl Lane, a mystical townhouse wedged between dimensions, where the mail arrived only when Mercury was in retrograde and the curtains had a mind of their own. Bartholomew’s ears twitched as he sat perched on the ledge of the violet-paned window. Beneath him bloomed a plush carpet of enchanted lavender that hissed faintly if plucked without permission. Behind him, thick velvet curtains danced without breeze—tracing glowing sigils in the air like lazy lightning bugs scribbling curses in cursive. Inside the townhouse, chaos hummed in that pleasant, distant way only mild sorcery can. There was the sound of a teapot making demands. A stack of grimoire pages trying to unionize. And, somewhere in the study, the soft weeping of a sentient lamp contemplating its existence. Bartholomew ignored all of this. Because Bartholomew had a job. A highly specific job. A job that came with perks (a bottomless dish of roasted chicken hearts) and perils (being regularly used as a scrying lens by a witch who still hadn’t mastered “consent”). He was the Official Perimeter Watcher, Guardian of Thresholds, and—unofficially—the only housemate with the balls to tell Madam Zephira that her black lace corsets were clashing with her aura again. Tonight, however, the swirls in the stucco glowed brighter than usual. Their fractal curls pulsed like molten gold veins across the obsidian walls, marking the hour as not quite midnight and definitely up to something. And Bartholomew, with his one crooked whisker and eyes the color of guilty marmalade, knew the signs. Someone was coming. And not the kind who wore boots or knocked politely or brought salmon. Someone uninvited. With a tail twitch of annoyance and a small sneeze into the lavender blooms (they smelled amazing but were absolute bastards to his sinuses), Bartholomew straightened his spine, narrowed his gaze, and did what any respectable magical creature would do in his position. He farted dramatically, just to establish dominance. The wall beside him hissed in response. “Oh please,” he purred into the growing glow. “If you’re here to devour souls, at least bring a snack.” Zephira, Doomscrolling, and the Visitor from the Slant Madam Zephira Marrowvale was elbow-deep in her spellbook, though not for anything productive. She was doomscrolling. To be fair, the grimoire had recently updated its interface, and now it mimicked the layout of a social media feed—an unfortunate side effect of Zephira’s habit of whispering her thoughts to her mirror while the Wi-Fi was unstable. As such, instead of recipes for lunar elixirs or hexes for passive-aggressive neighbors, the leather-bound tome now served up endless gossip from disembodied witches across the astral plane. “Ugh,” Zephira groaned. “Another thirst trap from Hagatha Moonbroom. That’s the third this week. No one needs to see that much thigh from a lich.” Bartholomew, having returned from his window post only to find his warning hisses entirely ignored, slunk into the main room, tail held at a judgmental tilt. “You do realize,” he said with that slow, deliberate tone cats use when they know you’re not paying attention, “that there’s a potential rift forming in the wall?” Zephira didn’t look up. “Is it the laundry wall or the library wall?” “The front wall.” “Oh.” She blinked. “That’s... more important, isn’t it?” “Only if you enjoy the concept of interior dimensions staying on the inside,” Bartholomew replied, now licking one paw in a manner that suggested this was all terribly beneath him. With a sigh and a dramatic flourish, Zephira stood up, her long coat rustling like parchment paper dipped in attitude. The air around her shimmered with leftover magic: sparkles, ash, and the faint smell of peppermint schnapps. She stomped toward the window where Bartholomew had resumed his watch, this time sitting like a disappointed statue made entirely of orange velvet. Outside, the night was beginning to change. Not just darken—but change. The swirling glow around the window had thickened, threads of molten amber knotting and curving like someone had spilled calligraphy ink into firelight and pressed it to the walls of reality. Then—something knocked. Or maybe it burped. Or maybe the universe coughed up a hairball. Either way, the sound was wrong. “That’s not good,” Zephira whispered, suddenly sober. “That’s... from the Slant.” Bartholomew’s ears flattened. The Slant was a bad neighborhood between planes. It was where lost socks went. Where contracts rewrote themselves. Where things that weren’t supposed to feel shame hung out just to enjoy the sensation. No one invited guests from the Slant. Mostly because if you could invite them, it meant you were already partly one of them. The knock-burp-hiccup came again. “Do you think it’s after you or me?” Zephira asked, half-hoping it would be Bartholomew. He was, after all, technically immortal and less emotionally fragile. “Neither,” he said, fur bristling. “It’s here for the window.” “Why the hell would anyone come for a window?” “Because,” Bartholomew said, leaping down into a stretch that made every vertebrae in his body crackle like a haunted fireplace, “this particular window is a passage. A junction between realms. A former portal to the Celestial DMV. You really should keep better notes.” Zephira’s mouth fell open. “I thought this window had weird feng shui.” Before either of them could speak again, the glass began to bend inward—not break, not shatter—bend, like it was made of smoke or jelly or poorly explained plot devices. The lavender beneath the sill rustled and puffed in protest, releasing sparkles and spores that smelled strongly of sassafras and minor regret. From the swirling gold, a face emerged. Not a full face. Just... parts. An eye here, a suggestion of a grin there. And—strangest of all—a monocle made of static electricity. It was a face both beautiful and terrible, like a Greek god who also did your taxes and wasn’t happy about your deductions. “HOUSE OCCUPANTS,” the entity intoned, its voice vibrating the curtains into curls. Bartholomew leapt back onto the sill and squared his shoulders. “What in the unholy name of wet kibble do you want?” The face pulsed, amused. “I AM THE INSPECTOR OF INTERPLANE THRESHOLDS. THIS UNIT—” “This house, darling,” Zephira corrected, arms crossed. “—THIS UNIT IS IN VIOLATION OF CODE 776-B: UNSANCTIONED ENCHANTMENT OF ARCHITECTURAL OPENINGS.” Zephira raised an eyebrow. “So you’re telling me I have a... magical zoning issue?” Bartholomew hissed. “He’s here to repo the window.” The entity blinked. “YES.” For a moment, no one spoke. Then Zephira reached down, plucked Bartholomew off the sill, and cradled him like a particularly judgmental baguette. “Listen here, Spectral Bureaucrat,” she said, raising her chin, “this window is original to the house. Hand-framed by a sentient carpenter who charged us in riddles. It’s mine. Mine!” The inspector swirled ominously, then paused. “HAVE YOU FILED FORM 13-WHISKER?” Zephira blinked. “...There’s a form?” Bartholomew groaned. “Of course there’s a form.” The face began to phase back into the wall. “I SHALL RETURN AT MOONRISE TO SEIZE THE STRUCTURAL COMPONENT UNLESS PROPER PAPERWORK IS PRODUCED. PREFERABLY WITH A NOTARY’S SIGIL AND A RUNE OF COMPLIANCE.” Then—poof. Gone. Only a light sprinkle of bureaucracy sparkles remained in the air, which smelled like cinnamon and mild passive aggression. Zephira looked down at Bartholomew. “Well... now what?” “Now?” he said, wriggling out of her arms. “Now we commit minor fraud and probably summon your cousin from the Ministry of Misfiled Souls.” “Ugh. Thistle? She still owes me twenty moons and a jar of pickled griffin toes.” “Then I suggest you bring snacks,” Bartholomew said, already walking away. “And don’t wear the lace. It makes your aura look bloated.” Loopholes, Lavender, and Larceny The clock struck something. Probably not midnight, because this particular clock refused to engage with time in a linear fashion. It preferred vibes. Tonight, it struck “tense-but-optimistic,” which was either promising or deeply concerning. Bartholomew was back at the window, tail twitching like a metronome set to sarcasm. The lavender beneath him had sprouted extra blossoms during the argument with the inspector, clearly energized by the conflict. They whispered quietly to themselves about how juicy everything was getting. Inside the house, Zephira was hunched over a cluttered desk, surrounded by scrolls, spell-stamped forms, and at least two empty wine bottles (one real, one conjured). She’d summoned her cousin Thistle for help, which was like hiring a tax attorney who specialized in interpretive dance. “You don’t file the 13-Whisker form,” Thistle was explaining, twirling a quill that occasionally bit her fingers. “You embed it into a sub-layer of your home’s aura, with a notarized dream. Honestly, Zeph, everyone knows that.” “Everyone?” Zephira asked, face planted in a stack of parchment. “You mean everyone who majored in Arcane Bureaucracy and enjoys licking stamps made of beetle shells?” Thistle shrugged, looking very pleased with herself in a cardigan made of disappointment and sequins. “I got mine done during a blackout after a cursed fondue party. You’ve had years.” Bartholomew, overhearing this, let out a sound that was somewhere between a meow and a groan. “You two do realize the Inspector’s coming back tonight, right? I’m not in the mood to explain to the dimensional authorities why a ginger tabby is living inside a legally extradimensional portal with noncompliant trim.” Zephira stood up, eyes glowing faintly with a mix of hope and sleep deprivation. “We have one chance. If we can disguise the window’s threshold signature—just until the next lunar quarter—we can delay the repossession. Thistle, get the dreamcatcher chalk. Bart, start projecting non-threatening thoughtforms. I need plausible deniability on the astral field.” “Excuse you,” Bartholomew sniffed. “I’ve been projecting non-threatening thoughtforms since I was neutered.” The house groaned in agreement, shifting its weight as spells realigned themselves. The curtains flattened. The furniture arranged itself into Feng Shui legal compliance. The dishes washed themselves in a frenzy of sudsy paranoia. Just as the finishing rune was inscribed around the window frame—using chalk blessed by three caffeine-addled dreamwalkers and one heavily sedated owl—the wall glowed again. He was back. The Inspector oozed into existence like molasses with a law degree. “OCCUPANTS,” it bellowed, less intense this time. “I RETURN FOR—” “Hold it,” Zephira interrupted, stepping forward like a woman who had absolutely not just spilled gin on an ancient document of exemption. “Please review Form 13-WHISKER, Subsection D, filed under the Implied Entanglement Clause, certified via mnemonic binding and signed by my Familiar’s third eyelash.” She held up a glittering sigil embossed into a strip of lavender parchment that reeked of legitimacy. Mostly because it was actually a forged wedding license from a dryad and a toaster, re-enchanted by Thistle with mild deception runes and a scent of “forest confidence.” The Inspector pulsed. Blinked. Spun slowly. “THIS... DOES APPEAR TO BE... ACCEPTABLE.” “Then kindly sod off into your dimension’s nearest cubicle farm,” Bartholomew purred, eyes half-lidded. “Before we file a Form 99-B for harassment under Rule of Familiar Dignity.” The Inspector paused. “THOSE STILL EXIST?” “They do if you’ve got a cousin in the Ministry,” Thistle said sweetly, batting her eyes and sipping something from a mug that steamed in Morse code. The glow faded. The swirling tendrils dimmed. The monocle flickered, sighed, and finally vanished like a disappointed dad at a community theatre recital. The Inspector was gone. Zephira slumped against the wall, lavender chalk crumbling in her fist. “We did it.” “We barely did it,” Bartholomew corrected, stretching luxuriously. “You owe me an entire week of scrying-free naps and the good sardines.” “Done,” Zephira said, kissing his furry forehead. “And no corsets for at least a lunar cycle.” “Blessed be,” Thistle whispered, throwing a little confetti made of shredded legal scrolls into the air. Outside, the window returned to its quiet glow. The lavender purred. The swirls of gold settled into elegant curves again—less frantic now, more decorative. Like they were proud of themselves. Like they, too, were in on the joke. Bartholomew returned to his perch, curling up with a satisfied grunt. He blinked once at the stars. “Let ‘em try,” he muttered. “This house is defended by sarcasm and sleep deprivation. We’ll never be conquered.” And as the first rays of false dawn peeked through the enchanted sky, the cat on the sill slept—dreaming, no doubt, of squirrels who finally shut their damn mouths.     Take a Little Magic Home If you felt the curl of mystery or heard the whisper of lavender while reading Whiskers at the Witching Window, you’re not alone. Now you can bring a piece of Bartholomew’s world into your own with a selection of enchanted keepsakes featuring this very scene. Cozy up with the fleece blanket for a nap worthy of a Familiar, or rest your dreams beneath the swirling gold with our duvet cover. Need a bit of sass on the go? The tote bag has your back—whether you're transporting spell ingredients or snacks. And for those seeking a bold statement of aesthetic rebellion, the framed art print is a portal unto itself, ready to hang in any room that dares to flirt with the arcane. Each item is available exclusively at shop.unfocussed.com, where fantasy meets home decor in purring, glowing, ginger-furred defiance.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Stormcaller of the Moonspire

The Roar Before Thunder The villagers of Draumheim had long whispered of the being that lived beyond the reach of men. Above the black pine forests and across the Glacier Pass, beyond the howling winds and shifting skies, there stood a jagged peak crowned in eternal snow. Children called it Moonspire. Hunters dared not name it at all. For they knew — or rather, their bones remembered — the legend of the Stormcaller. It was said to be born of three mothers: one a lioness who roared lightning into being, one a dragoness with wings woven of gold and memory, and one a stag spirit who vanished with the last sunrise of the First Age. From them came the creature now seen only when the sky cracked open — a luminous beast of fur and fang, crowned with antlers that summoned storms, its wings humming with forgotten runes. It was older than the kingdom. Perhaps older than gods. Once every blood moon, the sky turned electric. The high winds curled like serpents around the Moonspire, and on that night, the Stormcaller would rise from the cloudline and sit upon the edge of the world. Watching. Waiting. And when it roared, the mountain cracked below it. But the old magic was breaking. South of the peaks, at the edge of the Ebon Empire, the high king's obsession with conquest had birthed something unnatural. A sorcerer-general known as Ashkhar the Hollow had unearthed an artifact of fire — a crystal that could swallow storms. Bound by ambition, Ashkhar sought to control the sky itself, to enslave lightning, to render the gods obsolete. His warlocks warned him of the Moonspire. Of the creature. Of its oath to protect the balance between man and the storm. Ashkhar listened. And then, in the way of all power-drunk men, he laughed. Now, with the War of Aether near and a crystal engine spinning in the heart of the empire’s dreadnoughts, the veil between worlds began to thin. Lightning no longer danced freely. Storms seemed to cower, stuttering on the horizon like wounded beasts. Crops dried. Forests moaned. Something ancient was being strangled. And far above, at the highest reaches of Moonspire, the Stormcaller stirred for the first time in an age. Its claws raked ice from stone. Electricity hissed along its antlers. Its wings unfurled with the slow, dreadful grace of a forgotten god stretching after a long, cold dream. The runes along its veins shimmered orange, flickering with warning — not to man, but to the sky itself. The Stormcaller had seen empires rise and fall. But this time… they had dared to silence the storm. And for that, there would be reckoning. Skyfire and Bone The Stormcaller did not descend immediately. It crouched at the edge of the Moonspire for three days and three nights, unmoving, staring across a world that had forgotten how to listen to thunder. Its breath fogged the sky. Its claws etched glowing sigils into the ancient ice. Somewhere in the black silence of its chest, the heart of a tempest began to drum — slow, steady, ancient. The gods of the high air trembled, their slumbering domains rustling like leaves in warning. On the fourth morning, the sky split. The dreadnoughts came first — seven black leviathans of steel and spellglass, sailing on sorcery above the Ebon Empire’s northern frontier. Carried beneath them were the Skyspike Engines: weaponized lightning cages fueled by the storm-swallowing crystal Ashkhar had awakened from the Undervault. These machines could rip open a thunderhead and devour it whole. What once danced freely in the clouds now choked inside brass cylinders, bleeding magic into infernal turbines. Ashkhar, armored in obsidian and crowned with fire, stood upon the prow of the lead dreadnought. His voice, amplified by rune-binders, echoed across the peaks. “Show yourself, spirit. Bow, and you may yet serve the empire.” Far above, the Stormcaller blinked — a slow, amber glow behind the frost of its lashes. Bow? It did not know the word. It leapt. The descent was a scream through frozen air. Wings spread wide, the runes across them burning bright blue as the beast tore the wind in half. It didn’t need a battlecry. The very act of its flight was declaration. The mountain howled in its absence. They met above the lowlands. The first dreadnought had barely time to blink its crimson eyes before a bolt of raw, divine lightning struck through its core like a harpoon from the stars. The vessel cracked open mid-air, vomiting flame, metal, and men into the clouds. Ashkhar snarled and raised the crystal, sending out a wave of inverse light — a pressure that peeled magic from the sky like skin from bone. The Stormcaller reeled, its antlers dimming for a heartbeat, the spell-fire chewing at the edges of its wings. The beast crashed into a cloudbank, vanishing for a breath. But the storm is not a single bolt. The storm is fury with memory. It rose again, claws bristling with sparks. It dove straight into the second dreadnought, not with spell or lightning — but with tooth and rage. Its fangs tore through the hull like parchment. The men inside never screamed. They were ash before breath. The ship collapsed inward, folding like a dying star, consumed by the fury of the old world awakened. Yet Ashkhar had prepared for this. He called forth the Hollow Choir — a dozen spectral assassins bound by ritual and silence. Cloaked in the skins of fallen angels, they danced through the air like wraiths. Their blades, carved from sorrow and powered by siphoned divinity, sliced toward the Stormcaller from all sides. The beast roared. Not in pain. In challenge. The sky answered. Clouds above exploded with light. A curtain of silver and blue fire descended from the heavens, obliterating three of the Hollow Choir in an instant. The rest weaved through it, screeching their soulless fury. One reached the Stormcaller’s flank, drove a blade deep into its shoulder — and was incinerated mid-thrust, consumed by a ward etched in solar fire long before the Empire had a name. Still, the blade stuck. Blood, like molten starlight, spilled across the clouds. The Stormcaller faltered mid-flight. The dreadnoughts circled like vultures. From within the lead vessel, Ashkhar screamed words not meant for mortal mouths. The crystal blazed red, and the sky inverted — color drained, sound warped, and the very gravity of the world bent inward. “Now,” he growled, “you will fall.” The Stormcaller’s body convulsed in mid-air. Its wings folded inward as if crushed by the weight of the command. The runes flickered. Lightning halted in its veins. And then — A sound. Not a roar. Not a thunderclap. Something deeper. A drumbeat. From deep within the belly of the world, a pulse of rhythm older than language surged up through the mountains and into the beast. A low, ancient beat — the drum of the First Storm. It called not just to the Stormcaller, but to the very fabric of the sky. Storms that had hidden in shame surged from the far corners of the world. Winds screamed. Oceans twisted. Fire fell sideways. The balance had been betrayed. Now it would be avenged. The Stormcaller opened its eyes. They glowed not amber — but white. Endless. Starfire wrapped around its horns. The rune-wings expanded. And then it spoke, not in words but in weather. In will. In fury. The sky broke open. One dreadnought shattered like glass, ejected into another, both swallowed by a vortex of violet flame. The remaining Hollow Choir evaporated, the god-blood that sustained them boiling in a single heartbeat. Ashkhar screamed and turned the crystal’s core inward, desperate to contain the surging power — but it was too late. The artifact could not devour what the sky had reclaimed. It shattered. So did he. The explosion lit the night like a false sun. When it cleared, there was no empire left in the sky — only falling sparks, and the Stormcaller, silhouetted against a world put right. Blood still fell from its shoulder, staining the snow clouds beneath. It did not land. It did not rest. It simply turned — and flew back toward the Moonspire, the runes along its wings pulsing in slow, silent fury. The balance had not been restored. But it had been defended. The Sky Remembers For seven nights after the fall of the Empire’s skyfleet, the world held its breath. The moons spun uneasily. Forests fell silent. The rivers reversed their flow for a day and a half, as if the world’s blood was unsure which way to pump. Even the deepfolk — those blind creatures that whispered through stone and lived where magma dreamed — closed their ancient eyes and waited. For none could say what would happen when a creature like the Stormcaller roared not in threat... but in judgment. Yet there was no second strike. The Stormcaller did not return to finish the world. It did not descend into kingdoms or strike down rulers or write its law in lightning across the sky. Instead, it returned to Moonspire and vanished into a cloudbank. There were no footprints. No den. Only silence. And a faint scent of ozone on the winds that spiraled endlessly around the peak. But the changes had already taken root. Without Ashkhar’s crystal matrix, the Storm Engines sputtered and died. Across the continents, empires that had grown drunk on skyfire technology found themselves crippled. Airships plummeted. Warfronts dissolved. Borders unraveled like tired seams. The tide of conquest receded, not in flames, but in confusion — as if the earth had nudged mankind back into the mud from which it had risen. In Draumheim, the villagers awoke to skies that breathed again. Thunder rolled softly over the hills, no longer weaponized, no longer caged. Rain returned — real rain, not the manufactured drizzle of cloudcutters. Fields bloomed with a ferocity unseen in generations. Wolves returned to the high forest. Bears sang strange songs in their sleep. And then came the stories. At first, they trickled in like rumors. A shepherd near the foothills who claimed the lightning had spoken to her in dreams. A child who drew the creature with perfect accuracy, despite having never left his village. A blind widow who stood for three days under the open sky and whispered, “He’s watching still.” The monks of the Windway Abbey, once scholars of astral mapping and weather prophecy, claimed the constellations had shifted. That a new star now blinked above Moonspire — faint, blue, and rhythmic, like a heartbeat. The Order of the Chain — what remained of Ashkhar’s loyalists — attempted a final, desperate ritual to bind what they called “The Skygod.” They brought twelve crystal blades, nine bound scribes, and a library’s worth of forgotten names. They reached the summit on the winter solstice. None returned. Only a single rune remained, scorched into the peak beside the last campfire. It read: "You may climb the mountain. But the sky does not kneel." And so the Stormcaller became myth again. Bards told a thousand versions — some called it vengeance, others mercy. Some claimed the beast was dead, that the blood it lost in the battle was its last. Others said it had merely gone to sleep again, dreaming of the world that once danced with storms rather than enslaving them. A few — madmen and poets — whispered it was never a creature at all, but the will of the sky given flesh only when needed. Years passed. Then decades. The world changed, subtly. Architects stopped building towers that scraped the clouds. Kings stopped calling themselves gods. Sailors left offerings on their masts for fair winds, and children learned to mimic thunder when scared — not to frighten monsters away, but to ask for protection. And every now and then — when the moon hung low and stormclouds gathered over the mountains — someone would claim to see a silhouette perched on the edge of the world. Wings etched in rune-light. Antlers humming with power. Eyes like molten dusk. Just watching. For the Stormcaller did not destroy the world of men. It reminded them. That the sky is not a resource. It is not a frontier. It is not a thing to be broken and bottled and bought. It is alive. And it remembers.     Bring the Stormcaller Home If the legend of the Stormcaller stirred something in your bones — that quiet thrill of awe, power, and wonder — you can now bring its presence into your space. This epic image is available as a museum-quality canvas print, an enchanting tapestry for your sacred wall, a cozy fleece blanket to weather your own winter nights, or a bold throw pillow for your throne. Each item features the electrifying detail and mythical majesty of “Stormcaller of the Moonspire,” making it more than art — it’s a reminder that some storms should never be silenced.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

The Laughing Muse

The Scandalous Rebirth of Seraphina Muse Long before she became a muse, Seraphina was a minor chaos deity assigned to the Bureau of Spontaneous Laughter. Her job involved distributing ill-timed giggles during funeral services, awkward wedding toasts, and tense elevator rides. She did her best, really — but she had a knack for going just a smidge overboard. One time, she made a monk snort so hard during a vow of silence that he ruptured a sacred scroll. That earned her a demotion... and, to be fair, a cult following in the underworld’s meme forums. Eventually, the Department of Divine Vibes had no choice but to put her on “Creative Probation.” She had one last shot at redemption: to live a mortal life as an artist’s muse and inspire something truly beautiful—without triggering any mass nudity incidents or disco plague outbreaks. No pressure. Seraphina was flung into the mortal plane with nothing but her laugh (which sparkled like champagne and slightly echoed with goat noises) and a kaleidoscopic wrap dress made of cosmic threads. She arrived mid-spin in a sunflower field during golden hour, startling a painter named Emil who was trying to sketch a very serious still life of a dead pineapple. “Oh sweet cosmos,” Emil gasped, dropping his sketchbook and sanity simultaneously. “Are you... real?” Seraphina winked. “Define ‘real,’ darling.” And thus began the Great Artistic Reawakening of Emil Brandt, formerly known as the most tragically constipated artist in his district. His oils had dried, his palette knives had dulled, and his soul had the texture of plain toast. But with Seraphina’s arrival? Suddenly he was painting like a caffeinated octopus on a sugar high. Portraits, abstracts, living walls of swirling emotion—and one entire mural of her left eyebrow, because, as he put it, “the arch contains multitudes.” But while Emil painted, Seraphina... watched. Observed. Laughed. Flirted with moonbeams. Made his cat speak French. And deep within, something strange began to blossom. For the first time in her chaotic existence, Seraphina felt something that wasn’t just amusement or the mischievous urge to switch everyone’s underpants inside out telepathically. She felt... invested. Because as it turned out, being a muse wasn’t about being admired—it was about awakening. Stirring something bold and brave and impossibly beautiful in someone else. And maybe—just maybe—that was the kind of magic worth sticking around for. ...Or maybe it was just the coffee. Mortals had truly perfected that drug. The Gallery of Mostly Accidental Genius The next few months were a kaleidoscopic montage of late-night paint flinging, whispered provocations, and ill-advised energy drinks brewed with starlight and a hint of peppermint chaos. Emil’s flat—once the epitome of existential beige—was now a jungle of canvases, spilled pigment, laughing plants, and at least two sentient paintbrushes who insisted on unionizing. And Seraphina? She was thriving. More mortal by the day, in the best of ways—she had learned how to make pancakes (badly), flirt with delivery drones (successfully), and binge-watch supernatural soap operas (obsessively). But most importantly, she'd learned how to fall in love—not just with Emil, though that was happening at a pace that would make even Aphrodite raise a perfectly plucked brow—but with inspiration itself. Not the grand, thundering muse-y kind either, but the gentle, awkward, totally unphotogenic moments like watching Emil try to paint while sneezing, or the way he swore at his canvas like it owed him money. It all crescendoed into the event neither of them saw coming: The Annual Neo-Romantic Art Gala. The invitation came in an envelope made of recycled rumors and sealed with glitter-glue vengeance. Emil was to be the featured artist—an anonymous patron had submitted his work and paid the entrance fee in gold teeth and espresso loyalty cards. At first, Emil protested, because he was Emil and full of artistic angst and unresolved drama with a loaf of sourdough in his fridge. But Seraphina put her cosmic foot down. “You're going. I'm going. And you're going to wear the good boots. No, not those. The ones that say ‘I paint heartbreak and can salsa.’” When they arrived at the gala, the room went still. Or rather, it tried to. One woman fainted into a vat of guava wine. Someone dropped their monocle into a shrimp cocktail. The staff dog, Gregory, sat up straighter and gave Seraphina a gentlemanly nod. Because Seraphina, in her element, wearing a gown made entirely of stitched moonlight and dangerously high expectations, was not simply a muse—she was a movement. Her dress shimmered with her every mood—flaring rose-gold with flirtation, stormy violet when bored, and once, dramatically, deep chartreuse when she spotted her ex-colleague and long-time nemesis: Thalia of the Whispering Moods. Thalia. Oh, Thalia. Muse of Serious Poetry, Dramatic Sighs, and the occasional overpriced candle line. She swept through the crowd in a gown made of broken promises and seasonal depression, clutching a wine glass that somehow always stayed full and only drank tears of misunderstood poets. “Seraphina,” Thalia purred. “How... quaint. You’ve chosen to dabble in human creativity. Again.” “Thalia,” Seraphina replied with the poise of someone who once seduced a time vortex into running late. “Still collecting sad boys like Pokémon cards, I see.” The tension could have sliced a croissant. But there was no time for muse-on-muse drama, because Emil’s collection had just been unveiled—and it was spectacular. Giant canvases pulsed with color and motion. Portraits that breathed, abstracts that whispered, and one disturbingly seductive painting of a croissant mid-fall that earned three offers and a marriage proposal. The centerpiece? A breathtaking portrait of Seraphina, caught mid-laughter, wrapped in swirls of color and light like she’d been caught dancing with the northern lights. The room fell to hush. Thalia, looking suddenly less smug, narrowed her eyes. “That’s not mortal talent,” she hissed. “You’ve cheated.” “He found his own inspiration,” Seraphina replied, letting her dress shift into a blaze of sunbeam yellow and pride. “All I did was stop laughing long enough to watch him find it.” Thalia tried to protest, but at that moment, the painting of Seraphina laughed. Not metaphorically. Literally. It laughed—out loud. A rich, rolling laugh that echoed through the gallery and triggered spontaneous interpretive dance in at least seven attendees. The spell was broken. Or made. It didn’t matter. The magic had worked. Emil was swarmed with press, collectors, and at least one cult recruiter. But he only had eyes for her. Later, under a quiet archway far from the clamor and champagne-fueled art critics, he asked her the question that had been quietly blooming between brushstrokes and shared pancakes for weeks. “What happens now, Seraphina?” She smiled, and her dress turned the soft pink of post-laughter intimacy. “Now?” she said, her voice a curl of perfume and mischief. “Now we make something even more dangerous than art...” “What’s that?” he whispered, a little dazed. “A life.” And for the first time in her long, bizarre, glitterbomb existence, Seraphina Muse didn’t just feel inspired. She felt home. The Echoes That Linger After the Laugh It should’ve ended in bliss. In brunches and paint-streaked kisses. In happily ever afters and montages scored with whimsical cello. But this is a story about a Muse—and muses don’t retire to suburbia with a Pinterest board and a joint savings account. One morning, while Emil slept tangled in a blanket that Seraphina swore had developed a mild crush on him, the sky above their little art-filled flat cracked like a dropped wine glass. A rift opened in the clouds, raining shimmering letters onto the rooftop garden. Each letter landed with a dramatic flair that screamed “divine bureaucracy”. It was a summons. Seraphina Muse. Return Immediately. Probation Ended. Evaluation Pending. Dress Code: Formal. No Glitter. “No glitter?!” she cried, clutching the paper like it had personally insulted her aura. She tried to ignore it. Pretended it was junk mail. Threw it into a planter. But the letter kept reappearing—on mirrors, inside fruit, once inside Emil’s left boot. Eventually, the celestial HR department sent a messenger: a flaming pigeon named Brian who only spoke in passive-aggressive haikus. Seraphina had a choice. Return, and be judged. Stay, and... fade. Slowly. Beautifully. Tragically. Like a soap bubble in a cathedral. Muses could live among mortals, yes—but not indefinitely. They were creatures of divine purpose, and their magic, left untended, would eventually burn itself out, like a candle trying to light its own wax. So she did what any chaotic cosmic being would do. She made a spreadsheet of pros and cons. Then burned it. Then cried in the bathtub with her dress wrapped around her like a security blanket that occasionally hummed old show tunes. She didn’t tell Emil. She couldn’t. What would she say? “Hey, babe, this has been great, but I might get audited by Olympus and vanish into metaphysical paperwork”? No. Instead, she painted with him. Danced with him. Loved him like she was trying to tattoo her laughter into his memory. And then, on a Tuesday that smelled like citrus and unfinished conversations, she left. No note. Just a single, strange gift left on the easel: a loaf of sourdough, perfectly toasted, with a swirl of paint across its crust that shimmered like a galaxy. Inside, carved in burnt crumbs, was a single message: “Paint me free.”     What followed was Emil’s “Mystery Phase.” His art exploded into surreal masterpieces—suns made of sighs, women laughing out of waterfalls, dreamscapes where cosmic dresses unraveled into stars. He never spoke publicly of Seraphina, though collectors begged. He simply painted. And in every gallery, every café, every street corner where his work appeared, someone would inevitably start to laugh. Quietly at first, then uncontrollably. And always—always—with joy. Back in the celestial realm, Seraphina faced her trial. It was held in a court made entirely of forgotten poetry and awkward hugs. The Council of Muses peered down at her with faces like thunderstorms wearing too much perfume. “You disobeyed,” Thalia snapped. “You interfered. You formed... attachments.” “Damn right I did,” Seraphina said, standing in a blazer made of midnight and confidence. “And I inspired more in one mortal’s mess of a heart than your entire department did last century.” The courtroom gasped. Somewhere, a metaphor fainted. “Then prove your worth,” the council boomed. “One final act. Inspire something eternal.” She smiled. She laughed. And she reached into her pocket, pulled out a tiny vial of swirling color—paint Emil had once spilled in a moment of distracted love—and flung it across the sky. The stars shifted. A new constellation bloomed—chaotic, lovely, slightly unbalanced. It formed the shape of a laughing woman, hair swirling, eyes ablaze. A muse, eternal not because she was divine, but because someone down below had refused to forget her.     Years later, Emil—old now, glorious in silver and age spots—taught art in a sunlit studio above a bakery. His students knew little about his past, save for the giggling portraits and one rule he insisted upon: “Paint what makes your soul laugh,” he’d say. “And if something magical ever kisses your life... don’t try to keep it. Just honor it.” One night, he looked up at the stars. Saw her shape there. Smiled through tears. And swore, for the briefest moment, he heard her whisper, “Nice boots.” She had always loved those damn boots.     Bring “The Laughing Muse” into your world... If this tale stirred your soul or sparked a mischievous smile, let the magic live on. Our gallery-quality canvas print turns any room into a sanctuary of creativity. Carry a little enchantment wherever you go with the vibrant tote bag, perfect for books, brushes, or secrets. Wrap yourself in inspiration with our luxurious wall tapestry, a statement piece that brings life to any space. And for moments when laughter needs to travel, the greeting card is your muse-in-a-envelope—perfect for sharing magic with others. Each piece is printed with care, bursting with color, story, and joy—just like Seraphina herself. Explore the full collection and let your walls whisper a little muse-worthy mischief.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Don't Make Me Puff

In the deepest corner of the Mistwillow Woods — somewhere between the Glade of Passive-Aggressive Mushrooms and the Barking Fern Grove — sat a dragon. Not just any dragon. He was small, like... "fits-in-your-knapsack-but-will-burn-your-hair-off-if-you-zip-it" small. His name? Snortles the Indignant. Perched with great ceremony on a tree branch that had survived five tantrums and at least one accidental flamethrower moment, Snortles squinted at the forest floor below. His wings, no bigger than a pair of angry toast slices, twitched in irritation. A dandelion seed had floated into his line of sight — and worse — into his personal airspace. "Rude," he grumbled, swiping at it with one stubby claw like a diva brushing off a paparazzi fly. "I did not approve your flight path." The dandelion puff bobbed innocently, completely unaware of the fiery fury it had just flirted with. Snortles glared harder, puffing out his cheeks like a kettle about to go full Wagner. But instead of smoke or flame, he let out an itty-bitty sneeze that sent the puff sailing away in dramatic, slow-motion style. His tail thudded against the branch. "Ugh. Weak sneeze. That was supposed to be my villain origin story." From below, a squirrel cackled. “Nice puff, scale-butt.” Snortles froze. Slowly, dangerously, his snout turned to the offending rodent, eyes narrowed like a toddler denied a snack. “Say that again, nut hoarder. I dare you.” But the squirrel was already gone, leaving only the sound of bouncing acorns and smugness in its wake. “You mock me now,” Snortles muttered, hopping down from the branch with all the grace of a disgruntled potato, “but soon, the skies shall tremble beneath my wings! The forest shall whisper my name in reverent fear! The chipmunks will write ballads about my rage!” He tripped over a moss tuft mid-monologue. “Ow.” He glared at the ground like it owed him money. “I’m fine. I meant to do that. It was a dominance roll.” And thus began the terribly important, poorly planned rise of Snortles the Indignant, Bringer of Mild Inconvenience and Unapologetic Pouting. Snortles the Indignant stomped through the moss-laden underbrush with the tenacity of a toddler who had just been told “no” for the first time. He kicked a pinecone. It didn’t go far. The pinecone bounced once, rolled into a spiderweb, and was instantly wrapped in silken judgment. Even the arachnids had more presence than him today. “This forest,” he declared to no one in particular, “is a conspiracy of allergens and underestimation.” Somewhere in the canopy above, a blue jay chuckled — a throaty, smug little cackle. Snortles glanced upward and hissed. The bird immediately dropped a poop on a toadstool nearby, purely out of spiteful amusement. “I see,” Snortles muttered. “A hostile ecosystem. You’ll all regret this when I’m Supreme Wing Commander of Charred Woodland Affairs.” He marched on. That is, until he accidentally walked head-first into the backside of a badger named Truffle. Truffle was not just any badger — he was the unofficial therapist of the forest, self-appointed and almost entirely unqualified. “Snortles!” Truffle exclaimed, turning with a gentle smile and a slightly burnt nose. “Still trying to declare war on nature?” “I’m not declaring war,” Snortles said dramatically. “I’m issuing a series of unreciprocated ultimatums.” Truffle patted the small dragon’s head. “That’s adorable, dear. Want a hug?” Snortles recoiled as if he’d been offered a bath. “Absolutely not. My fury does not accept cuddles.” “Oh no,” Truffle sighed. “You’re at Stage Three.” “Stage Three of what?” Snortles asked suspiciously. “The Five Stages of Miniature Dragon Angst,” Truffle explained. “Stage One is huffing. Stage Two is pouting. Stage Three is wandering the forest making monologues to small animals who honestly just want to poop in peace.” “I am NOT angsting,” Snortles snapped, though his tail was curled in the universal symbol of Petulant Rebellion. “I am building a legacy.” Just then, a very old toad wearing spectacles and a monocle (yes, both) slurped out from under a fern. He gazed at Snortles with all the benevolent patience of a wizard who has seen too many prophecies ruined by tiny protagonists. “Young Snortles,” the toad croaked, “the Council of the Slightly Magical Beasts has convened and decided to offer you guidance.” Snortles brightened instantly. “Finally! A council! Excellent. How many legions do I get?” “None,” said the toad. “We’re giving you an internship.” Snortles blinked. “An... intern-ship?” “Yes. You’ll assist Madame Thistle in the Dandelion Archives. She’s looking for a seasonal flame source to warm her tea kettle. You’ll also be sweeping spores off scrolls and gently threatening beetles that chew on ancient paper.” “That is NOT conquest!” Snortles shouted, wings flapping wildly in betrayal. “No,” the toad said serenely. “It’s character development.” Truffle handed Snortles a tiny broom. “It’s a magical learning opportunity!” Snortles glared. He turned to the toad. “Fine. But I’m only doing this to infiltrate the system and incite revolution from within.” The toad nodded. “Very good, young incendiary. Be sure to file your timesheet weekly.” And that’s how Snortles, Devourer of Dreams (self-titled), became the part-time intern of an elderly dryad who alphabetized wind-sent whispers and drank a suspicious amount of chamomile tea. The job was boring. The kettle only needed a puff or two of flame a day. The scrolls, while ancient, were mostly filled with passive-aggressive notes about gnome drama and one rather explicit ballad about mushroom courtship. Snortles read all of it. He also practiced glaring at teacups and lighting only the correct corners of letters on fire. It wasn’t war. It wasn’t glory. It was... tolerable. Kind of. In a “this is beneath me and yet I’m very good at it” sort of way. And while no one admitted it aloud, Snortles was... dare we say... thriving. One afternoon, Madame Thistle looked over her glasses at him and said, “You’ve improved. You almost look responsible.” Snortles looked horrified. “Take it back.” “Oh, absolutely not,” she said. “You’re a brat, but you’re a useful one. I might even recommend you to the Council for field work.” “Field work?” he echoed, suspicious. “Yes,” she said. “We’ve had reports of... disturbances. Something’s moving in the northern grove. Something bigger. Perhaps you’re ready.” Snortles’s wings twitched. His nostrils flared. His spines bristled like a porcupine with ambition. “Finally,” he whispered. “An actual chance to be important.” He left that night, tail high, confidence higher. The dandelion puffs bobbed along in the moonlight as he passed through the forest once more. This time, they did not mock. This time, they looked... worried. Something was coming. And it might actually be worse than Snortles. Snortles the Indignant stomped through the dew-drenched northern grove, heart ablaze with purpose, claws flexing like he’d rehearsed this moment for months — which, in fairness, he had. Mostly in front of a puddle he insisted was a scrying pool. He imagined the forest would dim around him. He expected ominous rustling. He was ready for a showdown. Instead, he tripped on a toad. “Excuse me,” the toad croaked, completely unfazed. “You stepped on my existential crisis.” Snortles gave him a withering glance. “I’m here to investigate a terrible threat to the forest. I do not have time for philosophical amphibians.” “Suit yourself,” the toad muttered, sliding back into the moss. “But you’re headed right into it.” “Good,” Snortles growled. “It’s time someone witnessed my glory.” And then... he saw it. Rising between the trees was a shape — bulbous, furry, and massive. It pulsed with some kind of unnatural static, like a thousand socks rubbed on a thousand carpets. Snortles narrowed his eyes, brain desperately flipping through his mental field guide. It was... a rabbit. No, not just a rabbit. This was Brog the Boundless, a magical hare of enormous size and questionable hygiene, cursed decades ago by a bored wizard with a thing for overcompensating familiars. Brog’s long ears twitched like antennae scanning for sass, and his eyes sparkled with a kind of feral boredom that spelled danger. Snortles stepped forward. “I am Snortles the Indignant, Forest Intern of the Archives and Unofficial Bringer of Minor Chaos. I’ve come to—” “BROG HUNGRY,” bellowed the hare, lurching forward and devouring an entire tree stump like a carrot stick. Snortles took an involuntary step back. “Oh,” he said. “You’re... that kind of threat.” Brog bounded forward, slobber trailing, eyes locked on Snortles with unhinged snack-seeking focus. Somewhere in the distance, a group of dryads screamed and fled into the underbrush. The ferns curled in terror. A mushroom spontaneously combusted. It was go time. Snortles flared his wings, lifted his chin, and bellowed, “I HAVE ONE VERY SPECIFIC SKILL!” He puffed. A burst of flame roared from his nostrils — well, a polite gout really, more flambé than inferno — but it was enough. Brog reared back, stunned, his whiskers singed just so. The big rabbit blinked. Then hiccuped. Then sat down, very abruptly, like someone had unplugged him. “Was it... the spice?” Brog mumbled. Snortles stood in silence, chest heaving, wings twitching. He’d done it. He’d brattled the beast. He hadn’t burned down the forest (only two shrubs). He hadn’t fainted. He had... puffed. The next morning, the Council of Slightly Magical Beasts convened on a mossy log, grumpy and half-caffeinated. The toad in spectacles nodded solemnly. “Snortles,” he said, “you have successfully completed your probationary field assignment. You are hereby promoted to... Assistant Junior Forest Custodian Third Class.” Snortles frowned. “That sounds made up.” “Oh, it is,” said the toad. “But it comes with a badge.” Snortles looked at the tiny golden acorn pin and grinned. “Do I get to assign tasks to others?” “No.” “Can I file a complaint about that?” “Also no.” “Can I puff at anyone who disagrees with me?” The toad paused. “We... strongly discourage that.” “So that’s a ‘maybe,’” Snortles said smugly, pinning the badge to his chest scale. And so the legend of Snortles grew — slowly, unevenly, full of accidental victories and overly dramatic tantrums. But the forest changed that day. Because somewhere out there was a dragon so small he could fit in your hat, but so full of fire, sass, and wildly mismanaged ambition... that even Brog the Boundless had learned to walk the long way around his mossy log. The dandelions still danced in the breeze. But none of them dared puff in Snortles’s direction anymore. He had puffed once — and that was enough.     Love this bratty little firecracker? You can bring Snortles the Indignant home (with minimal singeing) as a framed art print for your lair, a bold wood print that screams “tiny dragon, big attitude,” or a gloriously sassy tapestry perfect for walls in need of whimsical menace. Want to warn your friends you’re one puff away from chaos? Send them a greeting card that says it all — with wings, scales, and a side-eye that won’t quit. Each piece captures the hyper-realistic textures, rich fantasy tones, and cheeky charm of our favorite pocket-sized pyro. Perfect for lovers of bratty dragons, whimsical fantasy creatures, and magical mischief-makers.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Flame-Bird and Fang-Face

The Fire-Bird and the Fang-Fool Deep in the Whisperwood, where trees mutter rumors about squirrels and moss throws shade like a drag queen at brunch, lived a dragon named Fang-Face — though that wasn't his real name. His birth name was Terrexalonious the Third, but it didn’t exactly roll off the tongue mid-scream, so “Fang-Face” stuck. He was enormous, scaly, and charming in a "forgot-to-brush-his-fangs-for-five-centuries" kind of way. His eyes bulged with the constant manic energy of someone who’d consumed way too many enchanted espresso beans — which he absolutely had. Fang-Face had one obsession: jokes. Practical, mystical, elemental, existential — the type that’d make a philosopher cry into their goblet of fermented thought. The problem? The forest folk didn’t get him. His punchlines landed like soggy mushrooms on a wedding cake. No one laughed, not even the trees — and those things loved low-hanging fruit. Then came the phoenix. She burst into Fang-Face’s glade in a fiery swoop of sass and song, burning a rude shape into the moss as she landed. Her name was Blazette. Full name? Blazette Featherflame the Incorrigible. And incorrigible she was. She had talons sharp enough to slice through passive aggression and a beak that never shut up. Her feathers shimmered like molten sarcasm, and her laugh could peel bark off a pine at twenty paces. She was, as she put it, “too hot for these basic birch bitches.” Their first meeting went exactly as you'd expect two egos with no brakes to go. “Nice teeth,” Blazette smirked, hopping up onto a log. “Did your orthodontist have a vendetta against symmetry?” “Nice wings,” Fang-Face grinned. “You always this flammable, or is it just when you're talking?” They stared at each other. Tension crackled in the air like overcooked bacon. And then — chaos. Matching cackles erupted across the glade, echoing through the trees and terrifying a nearby deer into spontaneous leg yoga. It was love at first insult. From that day forward, the dragon and the phoenix became inseparable — mostly because nobody else could stand them. They filled the forest with mischief, misquotes, and midair roasting sessions (both literal and figurative). But something was coming. Something even more chaotic. Something with feathers, scales… and a grudge. And it all started with a stolen acorn. Or was it an enchanted egg? Honestly, both were shaped suspiciously alike, and Fang-Face had stopped labeling his snack stash centuries ago. Talons, Teeth, and a Terrible Idea Let’s rewind to the incident that flapped this whole mess into motion. It was a Tuesday. Not that weekdays mattered in Whisperwood — time was more of a loose suggestion there — but Tuesday had a vibe. A “let’s do something stupid and blame it on the cosmic alignment” kind of vibe. Fang-Face had just finished etching a caricature of a squirrel into a boulder using nothing but heat vision and mild resentment, when Blazette crash-landed through a vine-draped canopy carrying what appeared to be a large, glowing nut. “I stole an acorn,” she declared triumphantly, wings slightly smoking. “That’s... a Fabergé egg,” Fang-Face said, peering at it through the smoke. “I’m 90% sure it’s humming in Morse code.” “It was guarded by three talking mushrooms, a raccoon in a kimono, and something that kept chanting ‘do not disturb the egg of Moltkar.’ What do you think that means?” Fang-Face shrugged. “Probably nothing important. Forest’s always having an identity crisis.” He poked it with a claw. The egg hiccuped and glowed brighter. A faint whisper curled into the air: “Return me or perish.” “Ooooh,” Blazette grinned, “it talks! I call dibs!” They tucked the egg behind a boulder next to Fang-Face’s lava lamp collection and immediately forgot about it. That is, until night fell. That’s when the sky turned pink. Not a gentle cotton-candy pink. We’re talking retina-singeing, gum-chewed-by-a-unicorn pink. Trees began to sway rhythmically, like they were at a rave no one had been invited to. Somewhere in the distance, a kazoo played a single ominous note. “Did you hear that?” Blazette whispered, feathers twitching. “Yup,” Fang-Face nodded. “Either the egg’s waking up, or the forest’s been possessed by sentient interpretive dance.” They returned to the egg. Except it wasn’t an egg anymore. It had hatched. Kind of. Because what now sat in its place wasn’t a chick or a dragonling or even a mildly cursed puffball. It was… a goose. An extremely angry, six-foot-tall, glowing, telepathic goose wearing a tiara made of stars. “I AM MOLTINA, QUEEN OF THE REALM-BRINGER, DESTROYER OF PEACE, MOTHER OF MIGRATION!” the goose thundered, telepathically of course, because her beak never moved — it was too regal for articulation. Fang-Face blinked. “You’re adorable.” Blazette whispered, “I think we made a celestial oopsie.” “You dare call me adorable?!” Moltina flared, and the ground under them cracked like a cookie in a tantrum. “Ma’am,” Blazette said, stepping forward with her most diplomatic head tilt, “I’d like to formally apologize for stealing your… cosmic nesting space. I assumed it was a snack. You know. Because acorn-sized. And glowing. And snarky.” Moltina narrowed her eyes. “Your apology has been logged. For future mockery.” Now, Fang-Face was many things: dangerous, flamboyant, emotionally unavailable — but he was also clever in the way only someone with access to ancient scrolls and an unnecessary amount of free time could be. He started plotting. “Okay, Blazey,” he whispered later that night, as Moltina constructed a throne of enchanted pinecones, “what if we… adopted her?” “What?” “Hear me out. We raise her. Mold her. Channel that cosmic rage into interpretive dance or amateur pottery. She’ll never destroy the world if she’s emotionally codependent on us!” Blazette rubbed her temple. “That is the single most irresponsible idea I’ve ever heard, and I once tried to light a marshmallow with a spell from the Forbidden Tome of Flammable Regret.” “So that’s a yes?” She paused. “I mean... she is kind of fluffy.” And so it began. The rearing of Moltina. Queen of Cosmic Judgment. Now self-appointed “baby goose of mild chaos.” They taught her everything a young omnipotent avian needed to know: how to toast mushrooms without igniting their social anxiety, how to sass a unicorn into therapy, how to sing folk ballads about moss in three languages (one of them being interpretive sneezing). At first, things were actually... kind of adorable. Whisperwood warmed up to the trio. Mice threw them festivals. Badgers knit them passive-aggressive scarves. A dryad opened a juice bar in their honor. But of course, it didn’t last. Because you can't raise a storm without getting a little wet. And Moltina? She was a monsoon with opinions. And when a celestial goose decides it's time for a coronation... well, darling, you'd better have confetti. Or at least body armor. Coronation, Catastrophe, and Cosmic Clarity The forest had seen many strange things. A weeping willow that gossiped about everyone’s love life. A hedgehog cult that worshipped a vending machine. Even that one time a thundercloud got drunk on fermented pollen and ranted for three days about its divorce. But nothing — nothing — had prepared it for Moltina’s coronation. It began at dawn, as most dramatic events do, because golden lighting flatters everyone. The invitation had gone out in dreams, sung directly into the subconscious minds of all sentient life within a five-mile radius. The message? Simple: “Attend, or regret your vibe for eternity.” Fang-Face and Blazette had tried — tried — to keep it low-key. Some bunting, a reasonable amount of glitter explosions, just a few enchanted butterflies with tiaras. But Moltina had “a vision,” and unfortunately, that vision involved seven hundred floating crystal orbs, a choir of operatic possums, and a light show so intense it gave a willow tree anxiety-induced vertigo. “Why are the badgers spinning in synchronized circles?” Blazette whispered from her perch on the ceremonial perch-perch (don’t ask). “Did they rehearse this?” “I think they’re possessed,” Fang-Face muttered. “But politely.” Then the drums began. No one had brought drums. No one owned drums. And yet, somewhere in the heavens, rhythm had taken root. A path of glowing mushrooms unfurled across the clearing, forming a runway. And strutting down that runway, wings flared and tiara ablaze, came Moltina — her feathered form radiant, her eyes filled with unknowable power and the smugness of a goose that knew she was a main character. “Citizens of the Rooted Realms,” she projected directly into their minds, “today we gather to honor me. For I have grown beyond chickhood. I have eaten enlightenment and pooped stardust. I am ready to rule.” There was a beat of stunned silence. Then, someone sneezed confetti. Fang-Face, who had prepared a speech (against everyone’s better judgment), stepped forward. “We are honored, Your Quackiness,” he began. “Your radiant fluff has brought joy, confusion, and occasional structural damage to us all. May your reign be long, chaotic, and mildly threatening.” “Amen,” said Blazette, already sipping from a mug labeled “This is Fire Whiskey, Fight Me.” But, just as Moltina was about to ascend her throne — which was a floating platform made entirely out of recycled soap operas and gold leaf — something crackled in the distance. A ripple tore across the sky. The pink turned to violet. Time stuttered, like a hiccup in reality’s matrix. And into the glade stepped... another goose. This one was taller. Sleeker. Wearing a scarf that somehow screamed “I'm with HR.” “Oh hell,” Blazette groaned. “It’s the Bureau.” “The what-now?” Fang-Face asked, already flexing in case violence was needed. “The Celestial Avian Bureau of Order and Oopsies,” the new goose intoned, her voice a cold breeze across their minds. “I am Regulatory Agent Plumbella. I am here to investigate the unlawful hatching of Moltina, unauthorized coronation proceedings, and disturbance of multi-planar harmony.” “Unlawful hatching?!” Moltina squawked. “I AM THE FLAME OF ASCENSION! THE DESTINY-GOOSE OF LEGENDS!” “You were supposed to remain in cosmic stasis until the next galactic solstice,” Plumbella replied flatly. “Instead, you were poached out of your egg by a manic phoenix and a drama-lizard with caffeine issues.” Fang-Face raised a claw. “Objection. I’m more of a flamboyant chaos reptile, thank you.” “Doesn’t matter. The egg was sacred. The prophecy was clear: you were to bring balance to the celestial grid, not bedazzle the trees and start a jazz cult.” “It’s not a cult,” Moltina hissed. “It’s an enthusiasm-based goose movement!” “You summoned a cloud shaped like your own face that cries glitter,” Plumbella deadpanned. “That cloud has feelings!” Things escalated quickly. There was a dance-off. A very intense magical trivia round. At one point, Moltina and Plumbella battled in interpretive combat, using choreographed honks and feather-daggers woven from sarcastic wind. The forest held its breath. The frogs took bets. And then, right in the middle of a particularly dramatic goose pirouette, Fang-Face stomped a claw. “ENOUGH!” he bellowed. “Look, she may be premature, overpowered, and a bit of a tyrannical sparklebomb, but she’s ours. She chose us. We raised her. We taught her to swear in ten elemental dialects. Isn’t that what parenting’s about?” Blazette stepped up. “She’s part of this forest now. Whether she rules or throws cosmic tantrums in a tutu, she belongs here. Among her weird-ass family.” Plumbella paused. She looked around at the expectant faces — the badgers, the frogs, the possum choir now weeping softly into their velvet hoods — and she sighed. “Fine. One probationary cycle,” she said. “But if she summons another sky-llama, we’re having a very formal chat.” “Deal!” Moltina shouted, before hugging everyone at once in a burst of radiance and feathers. And so, the forest was saved. Or doomed. Or — more likely — somewhere deliciously in between. Fang-Face, Blazette, and Moltina went on to become the most infamous trio in Whisperwood. They hosted interdimensional comedy festivals. They co-authored a bestselling book on goose-based diplomacy. And once, they even got arrested for impersonating a prophecy. But that, dear reader, is another story.     Take the Mischief Home: If you’ve fallen in love with the feathered sass of Blazette, the fangy charm of Terrexalonious (a.k.a. Fang-Face), or the celestial chaos of Moltina, you can bring their legendary nonsense into your world — no forest residency required. Adorn your realm with the epic tale frozen in vivid detail, whether as a magical tapestry for your wall of wonders, a framed print that even Plumbella might approve of, or a canvas masterpiece worthy of its own coronation. And for the mischief-minded puzzle lover, dare to piece together the cosmic hilarity with this premium jigsaw puzzle — because even chaos can come in 500 tiny pieces. Available now at shop.unfocussed.com

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Fluff & Flutter

A Noseful of Chaos In the land of Flitterwhump, where dandelions danced to jazz and tea kettles gossiped at dusk, there lived a kitten named Toodles. Yes, Toodles. Don’t judge. Her full name was “Lady Toodlewump Fluffington III,” but after one too many hairballs during her cotillion, the name sort of... stuck. And frankly, if you’re a silver-dappled feline with glacial blue eyes and a tail so fluffy it required its own postcode, you learn to own your weirdness. Toodles had one rule: never trust anything with wings and an agenda. This was a rule born from a childhood incident involving a hummingbird, three spoiled sardines, and an accidental eyebrow singe. But today, that rule would be tested. Mercilessly. It started innocently enough. Toodles had just finished her daily glamour stretch—a high-arched back extension so glorious it once made a potted plant faint—and was in the process of delicately judging the neighborhood from the windowsill. That’s when it happened. A Monarch butterfly, drunk on pollen and audacity, landed square on her nose. The room froze. Somewhere, a spoon dropped. In the distance, a squirrel gasped. Toodles went cross-eyed, which, unfortunately, made her look like an emotionally unstable plush toy. She blinked. The butterfly blinked. (It didn’t, but Toodles swore it did, and frankly, her perception was the only one that mattered.) “Excuse me,” she meowed with impeccable diction, “you are trespassing on sacred fluff. That nose was blessed by a hedgehog monk in the village of Sniffenshire.” The butterfly remained perched, wings fluttering like it had gossip to share and nowhere to be. Toodles panicked. She tried a gentle paw swat. The butterfly dodged and landed on her tail. Toodles spun around like a caffeinated ballerina and promptly toppled into her succulent collection, which screamed dramatically, because everything in Flitterwhump was over-the-top and plant life was no exception. By the time she emerged—covered in potting soil, bits of lavender, and one particularly aggressive cactus spike—the butterfly had returned to her nose. Again. “Oh it’s war now, wing goblin,” she muttered. “Toodles does not negotiate with chaos.” And that, dear reader, was how it began. A tale of flirtation, frustration, and a cat with too much pride to admit she was completely outwitted by an airborne postage stamp with legs. The Fluffening Escalates Toodles was not the sort of cat who tolerated defeat. She once spent three consecutive Tuesdays attempting to outstare a portrait of her great-aunt Darlene just because the mustache had been painted slightly askew. (She won, of course. The portrait fell off the wall and was last seen sobbing in a thrift store.) So, you can imagine the psychological unraveling when this butterfly—this winged noodle of deceit—refused to acknowledge Toodles' sovereign nasal domain. Now, in Flitterwhump, cats had options. They could petition the Council of Mildly Concerned Hedgehogs. They could hire a disgraced owl private investigator. They could even bribe a family of voles to create a series of decoy butterflies using glitter and misplaced ambition. Toodles chose vengeance by theater. The next morning, she prepared her stage: a velvet chaise lounge (stolen from a gnome divorcée), a tin of anchovy pâté (lightly truffled), and her dramatic flower crown fashioned from geraniums, rosemary, and one incredibly passive-aggressive dahlia. She posed on the chaise as if she were contemplating the futility of existence—or at least how dramatic she could look while holding in a sneeze. The butterfly returned right on cue. A diva always knows her spotlight. “Welcome back,” Toodles purred, tail twitching with restrained lunacy. “I see you’ve accepted my invitation to our duel of the fates.” Instead of engaging in mortal combat, the butterfly… danced. Not just any dance. It performed an aerial ballet so majestic, so fluid, it made the clouds pause to weep softly in applause. It looped around Toodles’ whiskers, spiraled through sunbeams like they were champagne bubbles, and ended with a dainty curtsy atop her left eyebrow. Toodles hated how impressed she was. “Fine,” she hissed, leaping up and flopping back down in an act of protest. “You’ve bested me in grace. But can you juggle?” She tossed three chestnuts into the air with her back paw. They landed on her head. The butterfly landed on one of them, smug as a librarian with a secret. “Ugh. Your face is like a warm breeze wrapped in smug marmalade,” she grumbled. “Are you even real?!” The butterfly flapped once, twice—and then, like all mystic creatures with a sense of timing more dramatic than a Regency widow, it spoke. Not with words. With vibes. With the tickle of truth behind the ears. With the knowing twinkle of a being that had seen interdimensional ferrets and survived. “I am Zephoria,” it seemed to hum through the pollen-swirled air. “Spirit of transformation, mistress of brief landings, and destroyer of personal space.” Toodles blinked. “Destroyer of—? You’re a space invader with a cute butt, that’s what you are.” Zephoria gave a wing shrug. “And yet here you are, talking to me instead of knocking me into your litter box.” “Only because I respect your audacity,” Toodles admitted, finally surrendering to the seductive power of nonsense. “And also because if I move again, I’ll sneeze out a whole tulip.” The butterfly chuckled, which sounded like tiny tambourines being tickled. “Perhaps,” Zephoria offered, “you’ve spent so long chasing away the unexpected, you’ve forgotten how to dance with it.” Toodles rolled her eyes so hard it triggered a minor windstorm. “Oh don’t start with the magical metaphors. Next thing I know, you’ll tell me I’m secretly a time-traveling cloud or some philosophical pastry.” Zephoria tilted her wings just so. “You’re not. But your tail might be.” The two stared at each other in absurd, slightly unhinged harmony. That evening, Toodles didn’t hiss at the bees. She didn’t growl at the moon. She did, however, invite Zephoria to perch on her head like a ludicrous fascinator, and together they paraded through the town square as if it were a runway covered in gossip and rhinestones. And thus began the great Flitterwhump Butterfly Incident of the Year—an event that would be whispered about by teacups and sung by slightly inebriated garden gnomes for generations to come. But that, dear reader, is the sugar-frosted cherry on the next ridiculous chapter. The Ballad of Toodles and the Winged Menace It all spiraled—no, pirouetted—out of control on the third day. By then, Zephoria the butterfly had become something of a local celebrity. Toodles, to her horror and reluctant pride, was now referred to in neighborhood gossip as “The Cat of Graceful Chaos.” Children threw her air kisses from balconies. The local ducks asked for autographs. One particularly ambitious squirrel began selling tiny velvet capes claiming they were “Toodles-Approved™.” (They were not.) “It’s like living inside a fairy tale,” Toodles complained, sprawled across a pouf made of retired sock puppets. “But one written by a raccoon who drinks glitter and screams about taxes.” Zephoria, meanwhile, was running a support group for underappreciated airborne insects in the garden gazebo. She held sessions twice daily under the title Wing Therapy: Finding Your Flap in a Rigid World. The ladybugs adored her. The bees were hesitant. The moths just kept trying to eat the pamphlets. But as the saying goes in Flitterwhump, “Fame’s a fickle ferret with frosting for morals.” Things got weird. And that’s saying something, considering this was a realm where hedgehogs had dental plans and most mirrors could quote Oscar Wilde. It began when a rival butterfly named Chadwick appeared. Chadwick was everything Zephoria wasn’t: muscular, broody, and annoyingly fond of leather vests. He flapped with menace. He hummed with mystery. He insisted on introducing himself with, “The name’s Chadwick. Just Chadwick. Like moonlight... but darker.” “What in the name of scented compost is that?” Toodles asked as Chadwick arrived on a Harley snail. “Did a romance novel fall into a vat of protein powder?” Zephoria, to her credit, tried diplomacy. “Welcome, Chadwick. Would you like to join our mindfulness circle and unpack your unresolved chrysalis trauma?” Chadwick scoffed. “Nah. I came to challenge you. And your floofy mount.” Toodles fluffed herself indignantly. “Excuse me?! I am not a mount. I am a legend. I have whiskers insured by the Ministry of Feline Drama.” “Exactly,” Chadwick said with a smirk. “Which makes this the perfect battlefield.” And just like that, the Flitterwhump Annual Wing-Off was declared. (There hadn’t been one before, but bureaucracy was very fast in this part of the world when drama was involved.) The rules? Simple. Two butterflies. One feline runway. A series of increasingly absurd challenges judged by a panel of semi-retired flamingos and one very cranky tortoise named Gary. Challenge One: The Loop-de-Flap. Chadwick went first, swooping through seven garden hoops while quoting existential poetry. Zephoria responded by spelling out the phrase “Consent is sexy” with her flight path. Toodles applauded. Challenge Two: The Wind Tunnel Waltz. Chadwick powered through, wings slicing the air like avocado toast through a millennial brunch. Zephoria pirouetted softly and dropped flower petals behind her like a slightly judgmental wedding fairy. Challenge Three: The Nose Stand. This one was personal. The butterflies had to perch on Toodles’ nose without tickling her into sneezing, flinching, or sass-shouting. Chadwick landed, puffed his thorax, and struck a pose. Toodles, unimpressed, let out a tiny fart. Chadwick fled in disgrace. Zephoria landed gracefully, offered a wink, and whispered, “Still not over that cactus, are we?” The crowd went feral. Gnomes threw tiny roses. A teacup sobbed. Someone passed out from delight. Gary the tortoise blinked for the first time in a decade. Victory was Zephoria’s. Toodles preened in the limelight, pretending she hadn’t just sneezed a tulip stem out her left nostril. But just when you thought the fluffstorm had passed, Zephoria turned to Toodles and said something that shattered the nonsense bubble entirely. “I’m leaving.” Toodles froze mid-paw-lick. “Come again?” “My work here is done,” Zephoria said gently. “You don’t need me to dance chaos into your world anymore. You’re doing it just fine on your own.” Toodles blinked. Her ears tilted in emotional confusion. “But who will keep me humble? Who will perch on my tail and make me question the nature of reality while insulting my eyeliner?” Zephoria flapped closer, brushing her wings against Toodles' cheek. “You have an entire world to flirt with, fuss at, and occasionally sit on. You’ll be fine. And besides, I heard there’s a philosophical bat colony up north in need of someone with wing charisma and a borderline unhinged moral compass.” And just like that, she flapped away—trailing sparkles, gossip, and a final note: "Toodles, you glorious fluffstorm, never let your nose be ruled by reason." Toodles stared into the sky long after Zephoria vanished into the clouds. Then, with dramatic purpose, she flopped backward into a bed of daisies, farted just a little, and whispered: “I was born to be confusing.” And the daisies nodded.     ✨ Take a Little Fluff & Flutter Home If the tale of Toodles and Zephoria tickled your whiskers, why not invite a piece of their whimsical world into yours? Whether you’re lounging like a fluff queen, sending giggles in the mail, or redecorating your magical lair, we’ve got you covered—literally. Wrap yourself in storytelling with this vibrant tapestry, or bring nature’s sass into your spa day with our ultra-charming bath towel. For those who like their art grounded and grainy, the wood print version offers a tactile, storybook feel with just a hint of nose-tickling nostalgia. And don’t forget the greeting card—perfect for sending fluttery vibes, random cat wisdom, or declarations of aesthetic superiority to your favorite fellow weirdos. Snag one, snag them all. Zephoria would approve (and Toodles would pretend she doesn’t care—but she absolutely does).

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Curly Mischief and Meadow Gifts

The Petal Hustler of Dandelion Hollow In the sprightly green blush of early spring, the meadows of Dandelion Hollow woke up with a sneeze. Literally. One sneeze from the old alder tree at the top of the hill and *poof*—pollen snowed like fairy dandruff. Somewhere between the sneeze and the startled squirrels, a child-sized blur zigzagged across the hillside, leaving muddy footprints and unplucked tulips in her wake. This was Pip. Pip of the curls. Pip of the boots. Pip of the Very Slightly Illegal Dandelion Exchange Program. At four-and-three-quarters years old (she insisted on the three-quarters), Pip had mastered the art of charm warfare. She could weaponize a smile, ambush with dimples, and dismantle even the crankiest witch with a single curly ringlet bounce. Her main hustle? Wildflower procurement. "Gifted" daisies for trade, usually swapped for cookies, buttons, or dangerously sharp sticks. Pip believed sharp sticks were currency. The goblins on the north edge agreed. The fairies did not. She called them “sparkle snobs” and refused to share her jam. On this particular morning, Pip was armed with a linen dress full of mischief, a turquoise pendant she “found” (read: liberated from a crow), and two freshly picked daisies still dripping with dew. The pendant made her look suspiciously magical. The daisies made her look innocent. Combined? A con artist in alpaca boots. She stomped up to the hollow’s main path where a row of sleepy forest dwellers were waiting for the Monday morning barter queue to open. With wide eyes and a grin soaked in sunshine and chaos, Pip clutched her flowers, looked up at the tall toadstool clerk, and said with syrupy sweetness: “One daisy for a marmalade scone. Two daisies, and I forget you snore like a walrus in heat.” The queue blinked. Then someone clapped. Then someone else shouted, “You’ve been out-haggled by a toddler!” And thus began Pip’s most glorious morning of spring—where she would trade, sass, dance, and flower-hustle her way to local legend status… until she accidentally triggered a minor war with the bees. Pip v. The Buzzed & Slightly Stingy Collective After her floral hustle had thoroughly disrupted Monday commerce and earned her three scones, a rusty button, and an owl feather she immediately stuck up her nose, Pip wandered deeper into the thicket. The sun filtered through new leaves like lemony lace, and the whole hollow smelled like damp moss and possibilities. But something was off. The bees were watching. Now, to be fair, bees always watched Pip. She had history. Last spring she “borrowed” a hexagon-shaped honeycomb chunk to use as a tambourine. A week later, she orchestrated a "pollination parade" using stolen petals, ten confused ants, and a kazoo. Her defense had been: “It was for educational enrichment.” The bees had not found this enriching. So when Pip marched into the clover patch with her hands full of daisies and her ego inflated like a squirrel on kombucha, the local hive—formally known as the Buzzed & Slightly Stingy Collective—activated Code Gold. Which is to say, they sent their smallest, angriest lawyer-bee to intercept. “MISS PIP!” came a shrill voice from above. She looked up, one eye squinting against the sun. “Oh poop. It’s Barry.” Barry the barrister bee wore a monocle, a vest that had clearly seen better threads, and a scowl that could ferment apple juice. He hovered menacingly in front of her, buzzing like a mosquito with a diploma. “You stand accused,” Barry bellowed, “of unlawful daisy decapitation, reckless dew redistribution, and intent to barter pollinator property without permit!” Pip blinked slowly. “I also licked a toad this morning. Should I add that to the list?” Barry’s wings vibrated at legal-speed fury. “You will present yourself before the Hive Court immediately or suffer pollen-based sentencing!” “What does that mean?” “It means WE SMOTHER YOUR ARMPITS IN SUNFLOWER SEEDS UNTIL THE BIRDS FIND YOU.” So Pip went quietly. Mostly because she was curious about Hive Court snacks.     The Trial Held inside a hollowed-out acorn with dramatically oversized leaves arranged like judge’s benches, Hive Court was a cross between a legal proceeding and a group therapy session hosted by a tulip. Fairies hovered in press boxes. A hedgehog in spectacles was sketching rapidly on moss. Barry stood proudly at the front, buzzing with self-importance. Pip sat on a milk cap stool with her boots dangling and her mouth full of acorn brittle. When asked to state her name for the record, she replied, “Princess Daisy Snugglebutt, Duchess of Whimsy, Queen of Slight Chaos, and part-time snack thief.” The courtroom rustled. One juror—a frog named Clarence—snorted. Barry launched into his opening argument, full of “intent to pilfer nectar assets” and “botanical exploitation by minor woodland elementals.” He dramatically waved a wilting daisy as Exhibit A, which unfortunately sneezed on him. Pip’s defense? Equally dramatic: “Ladies and gentlebugs! I do not deny I picked daisies. I do not deny I made deals. But I ask you—who among us hasn’t bartered a flower for a snack or manipulated an emotionally unstable gnome for a pouch of glitter dust? Am I a menace? Possibly. But I’m YOUR menace. And I smell like jam.” Thunderous applause. One juror fainted. Barry wept into his monocle. The Queen Bee herself—Her Most Syrupy Majesty, Bzzzzelda—was wheeled in on a petal chariot. She asked only one question: “Did you at least say thank you to the flowers?” Pip paused. Her eyes grew wide. She whispered, “I… forgot.” The courtroom gasped. “THEN THE SENTENCE IS…” Bzzzzelda buzzed, drawing out the pause like an overripe banana peel, “...Community Service!” Pip clapped. “Oh good. I thought you were gonna put me in a thistle!” Barry fainted. The Queen’s wings flicked. “You will be assigned to the Pollination Encouragement Task Force. Your job is to inspire plants. Make them feel... wanted.” Pip tilted her head. “Like... emotional pollination?” “Yes. And it starts tomorrow. Wear something inspiring.” Pip’s mind was already racing. A tutu. A flower crown. Possibly stilts. She was going to be the Beyoncé of bee-themed botany in no time. But first—there was one more daisy left to trade. And maybe, just maybe, a certain grumpy gnome owed her a lollipop and an apology for calling her “a shrieking fuzzball with flower kleptomania.” Petal to the Metal The next morning, Pip emerged from her moss-curtain doorway looking like a fever dream had made a pact with spring fashion and lost control halfway through. She wore a tutu fashioned from stolen daffodil petals (no longer attached to the daffodils), a sash made from thistle fluff, and a towering floral crown that made her look like a tiny, unstable maypole. At her feet were boots smeared with yesterday’s jam, and in her hands? A ukelele she didn’t know how to play and a motivational sign that read: “GROW, YA LAZY BLOOMS!” “Pollination Encouragement Task Force, Day One,” she declared. “Let the pep-talkening commence.”     The Pep Parade Pip’s first stop was the daisy patch. She marched straight in and struck a powerful pose, arms wide, crown wobbling like an unlicensed circus act. “You! Yes, you! You chlorophyll-challenged cuties! You got this! You’re the Beyoncé of blooming! Photosynthesize like you MEAN it!” The daisies swayed gently in what may have been a breeze or might have been pure confusion. Then came the tulips. She leaned in, whispered, “You’re fabulous. Don’t let the daffodils gaslight you. You were early bloomers before it was cool.” The roses got a full interpretive dance titled ‘Unfurling the Inner You’, which involved a lot of spinning, yelling compliments, and accidentally kicking over a hedgehog tea stand. The violets blushed so hard they went magenta. The buttercups tried to stage a walkout but Pip convinced them to stay with a rousing monologue about resilience and root strength. By noon, she had cheered, chanted, sung (badly), rapped (worse), and pantomimed pollination using two dandelion heads and a worm named Gus. Gus gave a surprisingly heartfelt performance and later received a leaf medal for bravery. The bees followed her at a distance like confused lifeguards at a nudist beach. Barry, still nursing his monocle trauma, took notes while muttering, “Technically effective… legally insane…” The Incident with the Foxglove It was all going so well—until the foxglove. You see, foxgloves are dramatic. They’re the theater kids of the plant world: gorgeous, toxic, and extremely likely to break into Shakespeare if left unsupervised. Pip strutted up, struck her best “floral influencer” pose, and shouted: “Y’all are fierce. You’re long, you’re loud, and you’re LETHAL. Slay, queens!” And the foxgloves did what foxgloves do best. They burst into a spontaneous flash mob of spoken-word poetry about existential dread and pollen oppression. One of them fainted. Another one quoted Sylvia Plath. Barry the bee had to be restrained from legal action due to ‘emotional endangerment by metaphor.’ Pip just clapped. “Ten outta ten. Would bloom again.”     The Blossoming By late afternoon, something strange started happening. The entire glade shimmered with growth. The bees were buzzing in actual harmony. The snapdragons were smiling. The violets had stopped blushing and were now giggling. Even the old grumpy stump that hadn’t sprouted in thirty years had pushed up a rogue crocus in what could only be described as a “mild flirtation with vitality.” Her Majesty Bzzzzelda arrived with a buzzing entourage and a tiny scroll. “We, the Collective, officially pardon Pip of all prior offenses on the grounds that she is… annoyingly effective.” Pip bowed. “I accept your forgiveness. I also accept tips in the form of honey and shiny rocks.” As the sun set over Dandelion Hollow, Pip returned home with a daisy crown askew, a smear of moss on her chin, and a grin that could power a village. She had no intention of stopping. She had a mission now. Tomorrow she would start “Operation: Root Awakening” for the grumpy cabbage patch. Because in the end, Pip didn’t just cheer for flowers. She believed in them. And whether it was a daisy with dreams or a depressed daffodil in a mid-season crisis, she would be there with boots on, petals in hand, and absolutely zero chill. Spring would never be the same. Bring Pip Home with You If Pip stole your heart (and possibly your snacks), why not let her bring a little chaos and charm into your world? "Curly Mischief and Meadow Gifts" is now available as a delightful canvas print for your gallery wall, a cozy fleece blanket to curl up with during story time, a whimsical tapestry for your enchanted nook, or even a framed print worthy of Hive Court itself: framed print. Adopt a little wildflower magic, boost your wall’s attitude, and let Pip bloom where you hang her. She's got curls, she's got daisies, and she absolutely demands to be fabulous in your living room.    

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Watcher of the Fractal Rift

The Contract of Bones and Bubbles Every few centuries, the ocean forgets how to lie. When that happens, it sends something ancient to the surface—just briefly—to remind the world that monsters don’t need to be evil. They only need to be patient. The Watcher of the Fractal Rift wasn’t born. It was exhaled, like a sigh from the deep tectonic lips of the world. Its flesh—scaled like volcanic armor, its claws—weathered into brutal honesty, and its shell—a massive, barnacled library of forgotten crimes. Its name wasn’t always the Watcher. For a time, it went by “The Beast With the Bureaucracy Fetish,” thanks to an unfortunate entanglement with a drowned city-state that thought forming a council to worship it might win them favor. Spoiler: it didn’t. Somewhere beneath the Mariana Slouch (a rift deeper than the Trench but too lazy to hold record-breaking status), the Watcher stirred again. The reef above it had begun to burn—not with fire, but with ideas. Human divers had found it. Not it directly, of course. Just a heat shimmer, a few bubbles that tasted like crushed secrets, and a fossilized merman with what appeared to be a “Live, Laugh, Lurk” tattoo on his pelvis. The Watcher was not pleased. Ancient beings don’t do well with exposure. The internet had not been kind. An AI-enhanced sonar scan labeled the Watcher as a “turtle-dragon-muppet hybrid with trust issues.” This had 4.2 million views on TikTok, and one influencer named “DrenchedMami88” had already announced her intention to ride it for likes. So the Watcher ascended. Not because it wanted to destroy humanity. Oh no. It had done that before, in a previous geological epoch, and frankly it was exhausting. No, this time, it wanted to file a complaint. A proper one. In triplicate. It rose through curtains of crimson coral and electric-blue fractals—its claws slicing the water with righteous bureaucracy. Along the way, it accidentally devoured three jellyfish cults and one sentient coral opera troupe. It didn’t mean to. They just... floated wrong. At 800 meters below the surface, the Watcher paused. A pair of human eyes stared back at it through a reinforced diving helmet. “Whoa,” the diver breathed. “It’s like... an angry grandpa made of reef and trauma.” The Watcher blinked. Slowly. Then it did something no one expected: it signed. Underwater hand gestures. Fluid movements that spoke of decades in therapy and one particularly traumatizing internship with Poseidon’s legal department. The Watcher gestured: You have 48 hours to vacate my mythos. The diver, understandably, peed a little. What followed was the beginning of a new era—one of haunted negotiations, bureaucratic hauntings, and the slow unravelling of everything humanity thought it knew about sea life, cosmic justice, and the real reason lobsters scream when boiled (hint: it's not the heat—it's the paperwork). But the story doesn’t end here. No, this was merely the handshake. The opening clause. The preamble to a contract none of us remember signing... Of Pelicans, Paperwork, and the Rage of Coral The thing about negotiating with ancient, eldritch sea turtles is that your first instinct—run, scream, upload—is always wrong. And also, counterproductive. The Watcher of the Fractal Rift did not forget. It didn’t forgive. But most terrifyingly, it followed up. Three days after the initial encounter, an intern at the Pacific Geological Survey office named Jasmine received a waterproof scroll via certified orca courier. It was etched in bioluminescent squid ink and wrapped in tendrils of passive-aggressive kelp. The heading read: FORM 1089-R: Request for Mythological Non-Disclosure Rectification Jasmine did not have clearance for this form. She also did not have emotional stability, an exoskeleton, or even caffeine, since someone named Ken had “borrowed” the communal cold brew again. What she did have was an instinct for escalation, so she slid it into the “Probably Not Our Problem” tray, which triggered a proximity alert at Oceanic Legal, Level 9: Myth Management & Deep Rifts Division. Meanwhile, beneath the waves, the Watcher waited. And watched. And mentally composed a withering Yelp review for Earth’s hospitality. But patience was beginning to calcify into something worse—hope. Hope that maybe, this time, the surface dwellers would get it right. That they’d stop poking holes in myths and calling it “content.” That they’d respect the sanctity of coral courts and the rift’s living laws. Hope, unfortunately, has a taste. Like betrayal steeped in lemon brine. And just as it was about to sink back into dormant rage, the Watcher was visited by The Ghost of a Pelican That Regrets Everything™. “Gerald,” the Watcher intoned, without turning its head. The pelican’s ghost swirled into view, translucent, bloated with guilt and vintage anchovies. “You’re mad,” Gerald wheezed, his beak flickering like an existential screensaver. “You encouraged the cult,” the Watcher rumbled. “They were offering snacks!” Gerald snapped. “How was I to know the ‘Salted Flesh of the Shell Warden’ was a metaphor?” The Watcher exhaled. Bubbles spiraled upward like regret in champagne. “What do you want, Gerald?” “To help,” the ghost replied. “To stop another ocean-wide panic. You remember the Mackerel Schism.” The Watcher remembered. Thousands of fish flipping political allegiance mid-current. Anchovy uprisings. Swordfish rhetoric. It had been exhausting. “They need a representative,” Gerald said. “Someone who can mediate between your grievances and their... ridiculous TikTok dances.” “They’ll send a fool,” the Watcher murmured. “They always do.” And he was right. Enter: Trevor. Middle management. Human Resources liaison for the Department of Subaquatic Compliance and Public Mythos Transparency. His LinkedIn bio included “proficient in spreadsheets” and “once survived an awkward dolphin encounter.” Trevor was flown in by helicopter, strapped into a neoprene suit that cost more than his car, and dropped with great optimism into the abyss. He arrived at the designated meeting rift—glowing, thrumming, lined with fractal coral that hissed passive insults like, “Nice haircut, corporate drone” and “Your ancestors evolved gills for this?” The Watcher emerged from the shadows like the memory of a tax audit. Slowly. Impossibly large. Its presence made Trevor’s kidneys contract in primal reverence. “Oh sweet bureaucracy,” Trevor gasped, flailing. “You’re real. You’re... glistening.” “You are the emissary?” the Watcher asked, voice rolling like tectonic plates muttering about job security. Trevor fumbled for his laminated ID. “Trevor Benson, Myth Liaison Specialist. I brought... the folder.” The Watcher blinked. Slowly. Folders were a good sign. Or at least less offensive than harpoons or YouTube channels. “Then we begin,” the Watcher said. “With the First Clause: Reckoning.” Trevor opened the folder and promptly passed out. Because the First Clause was alive. It slithered from the page, ink forming spectral tentacles of obligation. It whispered tax codes and grandmotherly disappointment. It made a small child in Argentina sneeze out of season. It was, in every sense, a haunted memo. Gerald reappeared. “It’s... going well, I think.” The reef shook. The coral screamed. Every polyp within five leagues screamed a single word in unison: “DENIED!” Trevor woke up vomiting seawater and generational shame. He flailed again. “Wait! I—I brought amendments! Suggested revisions! A four-point plan with interdepartmental synergy!” That last part stopped everything. The coral quieted. Gerald hiccupped. Even the Watcher tilted its colossal head. “Did you say... synergy?” “Yes!” Trevor gasped. “And a diversity initiative. We’re prepared to rename invasive species in accordance with rift heritage.” The Watcher studied this small, trembling fool. This oddly sincere little mammal with corporate printouts and too much cologne. It considered annihilation. Then considered... precedent. “You have until the next lunar bloom to present terms the Rift can respect,” the Watcher intoned. “Fail, and the sea will rise—not in anger, but compliance.” Trevor nodded, shaking like a wet Chihuahua in a thunderstorm. “Understood. May I—uh—return to my boat?” “The trench provides,” the Watcher said cryptically, and the reef unceremoniously spat Trevor upward like a regretful burp. Gerald hovered beside the Watcher. “You’re going soft.” “No,” the Watcher replied. “I’m going legal.” And somewhere far above, a jellyfish influencer posted a new reel titled #TurtleDaddyReturns, tagging a location she did not understand and a fate she could not avoid. Because the sea was awake now. The Watcher was listening. And the coral? Oh, it was taking notes. The Final Clause and the Surface That Forgot For exactly one lunar bloom—twenty-eight tidal contractions, four hundred reef seizures, and an unsettling number of dolphins unionizing—Trevor scrambled to prepare. Back on the surface, he worked from a borrowed fishing boat converted into a makeshift office. He installed a printer powered by guilt and solar panels, dictated amendments via kelp-wrapped microphone, and coordinated a team of myth compliance specialists via seagull courier (less reliable than email, but far more dramatic). He didn't sleep. He barely ate. He only cried once—when the AI-generated proposal for clause simplification autocorrected “Watcher of the Fractal Rift” to “Turt Daddy Vibes.” Meanwhile, the sea waited. And dreamed. Down where light becomes myth and temperature becomes threat, the Watcher stirred among the fractals of living law. The coral—pulsing in slow, vengeful Morse—compiled lists of violations committed by the surface: improper myth disposal, cultural reef appropriation, unauthorized whale-meme production, disrespectful kelp harvesting. The reef was done being ornamental. It had grown teeth—metaphorical and otherwise. Worse, the Archive Octopus had risen. This ancient, ink-stained cephalopod lived nestled inside a spiral of petrified myth. It remembered everything—every lie whispered into a shell, every deity demoted to a children’s cartoon, every coral poem turned into stock footage. It now served as archivist and arbitrator for the Watcher’s case. It also wore bifocals and passive-aggressive pearls. “I have reviewed the brief,” the Octopus said, her voice slick with disdain. “Trevor has submitted 422 pages of ‘amended clauses,’ a playlist, and—bafflingly—a scented bath bomb called ‘Tranquili-sea.’” The Watcher frowned. “I liked the bath bomb.” “That is not relevant,” the Octopus hissed. “What is relevant is that this mortal’s proposal includes a clause recognizing reef consciousness, reparations in the form of sustainable story licensing, and a quarterly performance review for humanity’s myth behavior.” The coral began to murmur. Not scream. Not roar. Just whisper—dangerously—like a gossip with a grudge and all the receipts. “Let him speak,” the Watcher finally said. Trevor, visibly moist with stress, descended in a personal submersible that resembled a soup can with ambition. He wore a suit. It was crumpled. His tie had fish on it. He cleared his throat and held up a waterproof binder labeled “Initiative: Operation LoreHarmony.” “Esteemed... entities,” he began, voice trembling like a squid at a sushi festival. “We recognize that humanity has—uh—extracted, sensationalized, and memeified your existence. We’ve commodified myth and flattened magic into marketing. For that, we offer... structure.” The Watcher blinked, slow and tectonic. Trevor flipped the binder open. “Item one: annual symposiums on myth integrity, hosted jointly by surface and rift. Item two: revenue-sharing agreements for merchandising rights. Item three: restoration of previously redacted legends through official platforms—Wikipedia, folklore podcasts, late-night cable documentaries. Item four: a warning label system for any human fiction featuring underwater beings.” The reef hissed. The coral spat bubbles. The Archive Octopus adjusted her pearls. “And finally,” Trevor said, voice cracking, “item five: the establishment of a Department of Mythos Relations—a permanent council of surface-dwellers and sentient sea creatures to govern the boundaries between truth and tourism.” Silence. Then: “He forgot the ceremonial reef snack,” Gerald whispered in horror. But the Watcher raised one massive, clawed flipper. “Enough.” Its voice made the sea still. Even the currents knelt. “You come not with fear, or weapons, or false reverence. But with paperwork, performance metrics, and olive oil-stained ambition. I see in you the flaws of your species... but also its ridiculous hope.” The Watcher swam forward, massive eyes glowing with ancient light. “Very well.” It extended one claw. Trevor stared. Hesitated. Then reached out and shook it. The Contract was sealed. Not in blood. Not in fire. But in mutual disillusionment and complicated policy. Which, in ancient mythic terms, is far more binding. The Archive Octopus sighed. “Fine. I’ll draft the final copy in triplicate. Anyone got a pen that doesn’t scream when used on wet vellum?” And so the Council of LoreHarmony was born. The Watcher returned to its rift—not in anger, but in exhausted hope. The reef quieted. Gerald ascended to the Upper Pelican Plane, where regret is optional and fish are always consenting. And Trevor? Well, he became head of Mythos HR, writing memos like: “Reminder: If you see a kelp construct whispering your childhood fears, please file a Form 2-B before engaging.” But the sea... it remembers. Every story. Every insult. Every unpaid mythological debt. So tell your tales wisely, surface-walker. Because deep below, a red eye still glows. A contract still waits. And the coral? It’s still taking notes.     Bring the Rift Home If you're ready to take a piece of mythic madness into your space, our Watcher of the Fractal Rift collection is now available on select products. Whether you want to wrap yourself in oceanic lore, stare into the abyss over morning coffee, or simply confuse your guests with a fractal turtle guardian—they’re all here, waiting. Tapestry – Drape a legend across your wall, doorway, or altar to interdimensional bureaucracy. Framed Print – For the office, dungeon, or aquarium lobby that craves quiet intimidation. Acrylic Print – As vivid and reflective as the Watcher’s own armored hide. Jigsaw Puzzle – Piece together the abyss, one mildly cursed shard at a time. Weekender Tote – Because even reef gods need luggage. Shop the myth. Display the Watcher. Disturb your guests.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

A Glimmer in the Grove

The World’s Most Inconvenient Miracle The dragon was not supposed to exist. At least, that’s what they told Elira back in the Overgrown Library, between musty sips of mildew-scented tea and “you wouldn’t understand, dear” looks from mages with more beard than bones. Dragons were extinct, extinct, extinct. Full stop. Period. End of majestic epoch. It had been centuries since a flame-blooded egg so much as twitched, much less hatched. Which is why Elira was fully unprepared to discover one sitting in her breakfast bowl. Yes, the egg had looked odd—like a glittering gob of moonlight dipped in raspberry jam—but she’d been hungover and ravenous and assumed the innkeeper was just very into poultry aesthetics. It wasn’t until her spoon clinked against the shell and the entire thing wobbled, chirped, and hatched with a dramatic “ta-da” puff of flower-scented smoke that Elira finally dropped her spoon and screamed like someone who had found a lizard in their latte. The creature that emerged was absurd. A sassy marshmallow with legs. Its body was covered in soft, iridescent scales that shimmered from cream to plum to fuchsia depending on how dramatically it tilted its head. Which it did often, and always with the bored grace of a woodland diva who knows you’re not paying enough attention to its tragic cuteness. “Oh, no. Nope. Absolutely not,” Elira said, backing away from the table. “Whatever this is, I didn’t sign up for it.” The dragon blinked its disproportionately large eyes—glittering oceans with lashes so thick they could swat away existential crises—and made a pitiful squeak. Then it flopped dramatically into her toast and made a show of dying from neglect. “You manipulative little mushroom,” Elira muttered, scooping it off her plate before it soaked up all the jam. “You’re lucky I’m emotionally starved and weirdly susceptible to cute things.” That was Day One. By Day Two, it had claimed her satchel, named itself “Pip,” and emotionally blackmailed half the village into feeding it strawberries dipped in honey and affection. On Day Three, it started glowing. Literally. “You can’t just glimmer like that!” she hissed, trying to shove Pip under her cloak as they passed through the Moonpetal Market. “This is supposed to be low-profile. Incognito.” Pip, nestled in her hood, blinked up with the deadpan stare of a creature who had already filed a complaint with the universe about how loud her boots were. Then he glimmered harder, brighter, practically sending sunbeams out of his nose. “You little spotlight, I swear—” “Oh my gods!” cried a woman at a jewelry stall. “Is that a dracling?” Pip chirped smugly. Elira ran. The next time they hid out, it was in an overgrown grove so thick with pink foliage and lazily swirling pollen, it looked like a perfume ad for woodland nymphs. It was there—deep in the heart of that glimmering bower—that Pip curled up beside a mushroom, sighed like a toddler who’d just manipulated their parent into a pony, and gave her the look. “What?” she asked, arms crossed. “I’m not adopting you. You’re just tagging along because the alternative is being dissected by weird scholars.” Pip pressed a paw to his heart and fake-wept. A nearby butterfly passed out from emotional exposure. Elira groaned. “Fine. But no peeing on my boots, no catching fire indoors, and absolutely no singing.” He winked. And thus began the most gloriously inconvenient relationship of her life. Puberty and Pyromancy Are Basically the Same Thing Life with Pip was an exercise in boundaries, all of which he ignored with the reckless abandon of a toddler on espresso. By the second week, Elira had learned several painful truths: dragons molt (disgustingly), they hoard shiny things (including, unfortunately, live bees), and they cry in a pitch so high it makes your brain do origami. He also bit things when startled—including her left butt cheek once, which was not how she envisioned her noble destiny unfolding. But she couldn’t deny it: there was something kind of... magical about him. Not in the expected “oh wow he breathes fire” way, but in the “he knows when I’m crying even if I’m three trees away and hiding it like a champ” way. In the “he brings me moss hearts on bad days” way. In the “I woke up from a nightmare and he was already glaring at the darkness like he could bite it into submission” way. Which made it really hard to be rational about what came next. Puberty. Or, as she came to know it: the Fourteen Days of Magical Hellscapes. It started with a sneeze. A tiny one. Adorable, really. Pip had been napping in her cloak, curled like a cinnamon roll with wings, when he woke up, sniffled, and sneezed—unleashing a full-blown shockwave that incinerated her bedroll, two nearby bushes, and one perfectly innocent songbird that had been mid-aria. It reappeared ten minutes later, singed but melodically committed, and flipped him the feather. “We’re going to die,” Elira said calmly, ash in her eyebrows. Over the next week, Pip did the following: Set fire to their soup. From inside his mouth. While trying to taste it. Flew for the first time. Into a tree. Which he then tried to sue for assault. Discovered that tail flicks could be weaponized emotionally and physically. Shrieked for four hours straight after she called him “my spark nugget” in front of a handsome potion courier. But worst of all—the horror—was when he started talking. Not in words at first. Just humming noises and emotional squeaks. Then came gestures. Dramatic head flops. Pointed sighs. And then... words. “Elri. Elriya. You... you... potato queen,” he said on day twelve, puffing his chest with pride. “Excuse me?” “You smell like... thunder cheese. But heart good.” “Well, thank you for that emotionally confusing statement.” “I bite people who look at you too long. Is love?” “Oh gods.” “I love Elriya. But also love sticks. And cheese. And murder.” “You are a confusing little gremlin,” she whispered, half-laughing, half-crying as he curled into her lap. That night, she couldn't sleep. Not from fear or Pip-induced anxiety (for once), but because something had shifted. There was a connection between them now—more than instinct, more than survival. Pip had tangled his little dragon soul into hers, and the damn thing fit. It terrified her. She’d spent years alone on purpose. Being needed, being wanted—those were foreign currencies, expensive and risky. But this pink, glowing, emotionally manipulative salamander with opinions about soup was cracking her open like a fire-blossom seed in summer. So she ran. At dawn, with Pip asleep under her scarf, Elira scribbled a note on a leaf with a coal nub and snuck off. She didn’t go far—just to the edge of the grove, just enough to breathe without feeling the soft weight of his trust on her ribs. By noon, she’d cried twice, punched a tree, and eaten half a loaf of resentment bread. She missed him like she’d grown an extra limb that screamed when he wasn’t nearby. She returned just after sunset. Pip was gone. Her scarf lay in the grass like a surrendered flag. Next to it, three moss hearts and a single, tiny note scrawled in charcoal on a flat stone. Elriya go. Pip not chase. Pip wait. If love... come back. She sat down so fast her knees cracked. The stone burned in her palm. It was the most mature thing he’d ever done. She found him the next morning. He’d nested in the crook of a willow tree, surrounded by shiny twigs, abandoned buttons, and the broken dreams of seventeen butterflies who couldn’t emotionally handle his brooding energy. “You’re such a little drama beast,” she whispered, scooping him up. He just snuggled under her chin and whispered, “Thunder cheese,” with tearful sincerity. “Yeah,” she sighed, stroking his wing. “I missed you too.” Later that night, as they curled in the soft glow of the grove’s pulsing flowers, Elira realized something. She didn’t care that he was a dragon. Or a magical miracle. Or a flammable cryptid toddler with abandonment issues and a superiority complex. He was hers. And she was his. And that was enough to start a legend. Of Forest Gods and Flaming Feelings The thing no one tells you about raising a magical creature is that eventually… someone comes to collect. They arrived with cloaks of starlight and egos the size of royal dining halls. The Conclave of Eldritch Preservation—an aggressively titled group of magic academics with too many vowels in their names—descended upon the grove with scrolls, sigils, and smugness. “We sensed a breach,” intoned a particularly sparkly wizard who smelled like patchouli and judgment. “A draconic resurgence. It is our sworn duty to protect and contain such phenomena.” Elira folded her arms. “Funny. Because Pip doesn’t seem like a phenomenon to me. More like a sassy, stubborn, pants-biting family member with an overdeveloped sense of justice and an underdeveloped understanding of doors.” Pip, hiding behind her legs, peeked out and burped up a fire-spark shaped like a middle finger. It hovered, wobbled, and winked out with a defiant pop. “He is dangerous,” the wizard snarled. “So is heartbreak,” Elira replied. “And you don’t see me locking that in a tower.” They weren’t interested in nuance. They brought binding chains, glowing cages, and a spell orb shaped like a smug pearl. Pip hissed when they approached, his wings flaring into delicate arcs of light. Elira stood between them, sword out, magic crackling up her arms like static betrayal. “I will not give him up,” she growled. “You will not survive this,” the lead wizard said. “You clearly haven’t seen me before coffee.” Then Pip exploded. Not literally. More like... metaphysically. One second, he was a slightly-too-round sparkle-lizard with a tendency to knock over soup pots. The next, he became light. Not glowing. Not shimmering. Full-on, celestial, punch-you-in-the-eyes light. The grove pulsed. Leaves lifted in slow-motion spirals. The trees bent in reverence. Even the smug wizards backed the hell up as Pip—now floating three feet off the ground with his wings made of starlight fractals and his eyes aglow with a thousand firefly dawns—spoke. “I am not yours to collect,” he said. “I was born of flame and choice. She chose me.” “She is unqualified,” a mage blurted, clutching his scroll like a security blanket. “She fed me when I was too small to bite. She loved me when I was inconvenient. She stayed. That makes her everything.” Elira, for once in her entire life, was speechless. Pip landed softly beside her and nudged her shin with his now-radiantly adorable snout. “Elriya mine. I bite those who try to change that.” “Damn right,” she whispered, eyes wet. “You brilliant, flaming little emotional grenade.” The Conclave left. Whether by fear, awe, or simple exhaustion from being out-sassed by a dragon the size of a decorative pillow, they retreated with a promise to “monitor from afar” and “file an incident report.” Pip peed on their sigil stone for good measure. In the weeks that followed, something inside Elira changed. Not in the sparkly, Disney-montage way. She still cursed too much, had zero patience, and over-salted her stew. But she was... open. Softer in strange places. Sometimes she caught herself humming when Pip slept on her chest. Sometimes she didn’t flinch when people got too close. And Pip grew. Slowly, but surely. Wings stronger. Spines sharper. Vocabulary increasingly weird. “You are best friend,” he told her one night under a sky littered with moons. “And noodle mind. But heart-massive.” “Thanks?” He licked her nose. “I stay. Always. Even when old. Even when fire big. Even when you scream at soup for not being soup enough.” She buried her face in his side and laughed until she sobbed. Because he meant it. Because somehow, in a world that tried so hard to be cold, she’d found something incandescent. Not perfect. Not polished. Just... pure. And in the heart of the grove, surrounded by blossoms and moonbeams and an emotionally unstable dragon who would maul anyone who disrespected her boots, Elira finally allowed herself to believe: Love, real love—the bratty, explosive, thunder-cheese kind—might just be the oldest kind of magic.     Bring Pip Home: If this spark-scaled mischief-maker stole your heart too, you're not alone. You can keep a piece of "A Glimmer in the Grove" close—whether it’s by adding a touch of magic to your walls or sending someone a dragon-blessed greeting. Explore the acrylic print for a brilliant, glass-like display of our sassy hatchling, or choose a framed print to elevate your space with fantasy and warmth. For a touch of whimsy in everyday life, there's a greeting card perfect for dragon-loving friends—or even a bath towel that makes post-shower snuggles feel a little more legendary. Pip insists he looks best in high-resolution.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Echoes in Bark and Bone

The Tree That Dreamed of Flesh Long before the sky was called the sky, before even names had names, there stood a tree upon the spine of the world. Its roots burrowed into the bones of the mountains and drank from aquifers of memory. No one planted it. No one dared cut it. It was older than the seasons and wiser than the moon, and it dreamt in slow circles, age by age, century by century. One day — or perhaps it was a thousand years stitched into the shape of a moment — the tree dreamed of becoming a woman. Not just any woman, but one who remembered what the earth forgot. She would wear bark like skin, breathe wind like prayer, and carry the rustle of autumn in her voice. And so the dream unfurled into waking. She emerged from the trunk like mist from moss, her face carved from the wood itself, her hair woven from silvered root-fibers and sky-strands. She did not walk — she creaked. With every motion, her joints echoed with old wisdoms: the groan of shifting tectonics, the sigh of forgotten rain. She called herself no name, but the ravens took to calling her Myah’tah — the Woman Between Rings — and so that was what she became. The people, the few who dared to remain near the mountain spine, knew her as a story told in ash and fire. Children left offerings at her trails: feathers dipped in ochre, tiny flutes made of bone, strands of hair tied to pine needles. Not in fear — but reverence. For she was said to walk into the dreams of the dying and whisper what lies on the other side, leaving the scent of cedar and the taste of soil on the tongue of the awakened. One winter, a time when the wind gnawed like hunger and even the stars seemed brittle with cold, she was seen weeping beneath the oldest maple. Not loud. Not broken. Just a single tear that soaked into the frozen earth. That spring, a grove of fire-colored trees erupted from the spot — as if grief could be made beautiful. And from then on, whenever someone passed from the village, a new tree would grow in that grove, each with a bark that bore a faint imprint of a face. Quiet reminders that no soul ever truly vanished — only changed shape, and sang differently. But the mountain remembers everything. And mountains grow jealous of those who carry stories deeper than their stone hearts. As the world below became louder and greedier, the Woman Between Rings began to crack. Splinters appeared in her thoughts. The trees above her crown began to argue among themselves in the voice of dry leaves and snapping twigs. Something was unraveling, and the earth trembled in its knowing. And so it was that the legend of Myah’tah, the tree that dreamed of flesh, began to take root in the hearts of those willing to listen — before she would be forced to choose: remain and rot... or journey into the deepest grove, where even memory cannot follow. The Grove Where Memory Ends The path to the Grove Where Memory Ends was not marked on any map, nor did it welcome travelers who walked in flesh alone. It was a place that recoiled from language, where names turned to wind and footsteps vanished into moss. Only those who had nothing left to forget — or everything left to remember — could find it. And even then, the grove had to want you. Myah’tah’s feet cracked the earth with each step as she walked. Roots recoiled, unsure whether to yield to her or embrace her. She had been part-tree, part-woman, part-myth for so long that even the crows grew quiet as she passed beneath the bleeding canopy of autumn fire. Leaves rained in spirals, whispering in a tongue older than stone. The mountain watched, but dared not speak. It had lost its dominion over her. The stories she carried were too deep now — buried in her marrow like old seeds waiting to bloom in bone. By twilight, the grove found her. Not in welcome, but recognition. It had been waiting. The Grove Where Memory Ends was not a single place but a convergence: of forgotten dreams, unborn futures, and everything the world had tried to silence. Trees twisted in slow agony, bark splitting to reveal glimpses of lost souls—eyes peering from rings of age, mouths stretched open in silent song. Time did not pass here; it paused to listen. At the heart of the grove stood the Memory Tree, blackened with sorrow but vibrant with an eerie luminescence that pulsed like a heartbeat. Its trunk was etched with the glyphs of a thousand languages, none spoken aloud in centuries. And at its base was a hollow, gaping like a mouth awaiting confession. Myah’tah did not hesitate. She removed the feathers from her hair, untied the sinew cords that bound her braids, and laid them before the hollow like relics. Each feather whispered as it touched the soil, telling a story of a child once comforted, a village once warned, a death once honored. They were more than decorations. They were her memories, woven in ritual and rain. She stepped forward. The bark of her legs cracked, flaked, and fell away in dark spirals. Her skin no longer obeyed the form of a woman; it stretched and rippled like sap boiling beneath the surface. Her fingers grew long and rootlike. Her mouth receded. And when she touched the hollow with what remained of her hand, the grove exhaled. All at once, she saw it — not with eyes, but with the marrow of what she had been: The first fire, lit by trembling hands in a cave painted with blood and ochre, watched over by a woman who sang to the smoke so it would rise straight. The wailing of mothers whose sons were lost in battle, their laments turned into wind that now howled through the canyons at night. The ceremony where a child was turned away for hearing the trees speak too clearly — and the silent rage that grew into wildflowers at her feet. And a time that never happened — where no forest burned, no tribe scattered, no names were stolen — a world preserved in a single breath held between the beats of her bark-carved chest. Myah’tah wept. But her tears were not water. They were amber — fossilized moments she had carried longer than she knew. One by one, they fell and sank into the roots of the Memory Tree. And as they were absorbed, the tree began to change. Slowly, agonizingly, it twisted and thickened, cracking open like a chrysalis. From its center emerged a sapling — young, pulsing, tender — but bearing Myah’tah’s eyes. She stepped back — or tried to. But her legs had rooted. Her voice was now only wind. Her hands stretched toward the sky and split into branches. And then, stillness. The Woman Between Rings was no longer a woman. She had become the story itself. Seasons passed. People returned to the mountain. They built altars. They carved totems. They came not to worship — but to remember. Children with second sight swore the leaves on her branches whispered dreams in their sleep. Lovers came to ask the tree if their bond would last, and the leaves would either tremble or fall. No one cut the tree. No one even touched it. They simply sat, breathed, and listened. Because now, the tree held every story the mountain tried to erase. Every name that was renamed. Every woman who refused to be quiet. Every soul who chose memory over survival. And on rare nights — those whispering-edge-of-autumn nights when the moon bled red — an old voice would rise from the leaves, half bark, half breath, and ask a question that would lodge in the listener’s chest for the rest of their life: “Will you remember… or will you vanish?” The Voice That Grew From Ash Time lost its grip in the grove. The people who came did not age while near the tree, or perhaps they did in ways that didn’t show on their skin. Children returned home with silver streaks in their hair and dreams too large for language. Elders who had long forgotten their own names would sit beneath Myah’tah’s branches and, with trembling fingers, recall lullabies from lifetimes ago. No one knew how long she had stood rooted — a century, perhaps more. But she was no longer called a legend. She was simply called the Tree-Who-Knows. Then came the fires. They didn’t start in the mountains. They started in the veins of men. Men in steel machines who spoke in graphs and numbers and progress. Men who looked at the land and saw contracts instead of stories. They came not to pray, but to pave. Not to listen, but to map. The groves were “untapped.” The earth was “underutilized.” Even the bones of the mountains were “mineral-rich.” And so, the digging began. It started with trees falling outside the sacred perimeter — “just to make room,” they said. But the grove shuddered. Birds vanished. The soil turned to silence. Then they came for the trees near the Memory Grove itself. Old-growth forests, gnarled with age and soul, were flattened in weeks. But they could not touch the Tree-Who-Knows. Not yet. It was the one anomaly — marked on their maps as “unremovable.” Chainsaws dulled. Bulldozers stalled. Drones malfunctioned overhead. Still, they persisted. One day, a new crew was brought in. One without belief, without reverence, and armed with fire. The first flame licked the edge of the Grove Where Memory Ends at dusk. By midnight, the sky itself seemed to scream. And that was when the voice returned. It did not come from Myah’tah’s branches, nor from the hollow beneath her roots. It came from the sapling that had once grown from her sorrow — now a towering second tree, standing close, too close, too proud for its years. It had been quiet until then, a witness. But as flames encroached and smoke coiled through the canopy, it shuddered — and spoke. The voice was not a sound, but a pressure. A thrum in the bone. A knowing in the gut. It called to the dreamers, to the sensitive, to the mad and the mothers. And they came. From nearby villages and far-off cities, from reservations and forests and places so lost to time that they were only remembered in breath, they came. Not as an army — but as a memory. They brought water and song, ash and offerings. They formed a ring around the grove and did not speak. Instead, they hummed. A hum older than language. A vibration that stirred the ground and made even the machines hesitate. And in the middle of that hum, Myah’tah awakened. Her bark split — not in pain, but in rebirth. From her trunk flowed sap like blood, amber-rich and thick with symbols. Her branches rose higher than before, splitting clouds. Her face reformed — the same as it once was, but now illuminated from within, as if firelight and moonlight had made love in her core. She was no longer bound by the laws of nature or story. She was legend manifest — memory given form. She was not just the Tree-Who-Knows. She was the Tree-Who-Remembers-Everything. And with her awakening came change. The fires halted — not by rain, but by will. Flames curled backward, smoke bent away. The men in machines felt their hearts seize — not from fear, but recognition. Each one saw, just for a second, the face of someone they had lost: a grandmother, a sister, a lover, a self. And they turned away, unable to face what they had tried to erase. In the days that followed, the mountain grew again. Not in size, but in soul. Trees once fallen re-rooted themselves. Flowers bloomed in colors no eye had seen in centuries. Animals returned — even the ones spoken of only in legend. The grove became a pilgrimage site, not for religion, but for remembering. Artists, healers, warriors, and wanderers all came to sit, not at the foot of Myah’tah, but among her roots — for she now stretched across miles. Her branches braided with other trees, whispering through entire ecosystems. And the sapling — now a tree of its own — had birthed a seed. A child was born beneath the canopy during the first spring after the fire. A girl, quiet as dusk, with bark along her back and silver in her hair. Her eyes held galaxies, and when she laughed, the birds followed her voice. She did not speak until the age of five, when she placed her hand on the Tree-Who-Remembers and whispered: “I remember being you.” She would go on to plant forests with her footsteps, to restore languages with her breath, and to teach the world that memory was not a thing kept in books — but in bark, in bone, in breath. Her name was never given. Like Myah’tah, she became a story, not a statue. A feeling, not a figure. And though her flesh was young, her soul was old — old as the first fire. Old as the dream of a tree who once longed to become a woman. And thus, the circle closed. Not in silence. But in song. A song that echoes still — in forests, in whispers, in the lines of your own palm — if you dare to listen. Because some legends do not end. They grow.     Bring the legend home. If the story of Echoes in Bark and Bone stirred something ancient in you — if it whispered truths you’ve always known but never spoken — you can carry that spirit into your own space. This evocative artwork is available as a Canvas Print for sacred walls, a Wood Print etched in natural grain, a Fleece Blanket for dream-wrapped nights, or a woven Tapestry that hums softly with ancestral echoes. Each piece is more than decor — it’s a portal. A branch in your own home that leads back to the grove, to memory, to her. Let it root in your space, and listen closely. The tree still speaks.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Heaven's Apex Predator

The Silence Before the Storm There were no birds in the sky. No insects sang in the dunes. No wind to stir the silence. Only heat—searing, smothering, ancient—and the occasional hiss of sand sliding against stone. Travelers had long since stopped crossing the Valley of Halem. Maps showed it, yes, but only as a blank patch, its name scrawled in fading ink and surrounded by whispered tales. The elders called it “The Scar.” Merchants called it cursed. And the wise? They simply avoided it altogether. But tonight, silence shattered. It began with a low, guttural sound—part roar, part celestial tremor. Then came the thudding, rhythmic and primal. Pawbeats, enormous ones. The sand rippled with every step, casting tremors outward like shockwaves through water. And from the dunes, she emerged. At first glance, the creature could be mistaken for a hallucination born of heatstroke: a Bengal tiger, vast and muscled, striped in flame and shadow. But it was the wings that undid reality. They stretched impossibly wide from her shoulders, feathers dipped in ash, tinged with crimson at the tips like burnt offerings. When she moved, they shimmered as though cut from the edge of a dying star. This was not nature’s work. This was something... forgotten. Buried in myth. Worshipped—and feared. Her name was whispered by the few who dared: Atharai. She was not born of the wild. Nor was she created by the divine. Atharai was the wrath of both. A relic from the forgotten wars between gods and beasts. A judge of the wicked. An executioner of the arrogant. And tonight, her silence was broken for the first time in over a thousand years. At the edge of the salt-washed cliffs, a lone figure stood watching her descent—a tall man cloaked in indigo silk, dust coating his boots. His face was mostly shadow beneath a hood, but his stance was too relaxed for fear. In his left hand, he held a staff carved from a blackened rib bone. In his right, a faded medallion etched with the symbol of a broken wing. He had come to summon her. “She remembers me,” he whispered. “Or she will.” The tiger’s roar split the sky, and the clouds above bled red light like torn parchment. Atharai spread her wings wide and launched herself into the air, sand exploding beneath her like the aftermath of a god’s fury. She didn’t hunt for food. She hunted for memory. For vengeance. And she had just caught a scent. Somewhere far to the north, where the wind still whispered and people still laughed around fire pits, a hidden sect stirred. Their scribes watched the storm in the southern sky and began lighting candles not for protection, but apology. But they were far too late. Because the heavens’ apex predator had awoken. Blood in the Sky The old stories had warned them. They were etched into canyon walls, whispered in forbidden tongues, sung by widows in cracked voices over bone flutes. “When the wings of flame return,” the songs said, “the unrepentant will burn beneath them.” But centuries dull even the sharpest truth, and the people of the North had forgotten the feeling of prey trembling beneath the gaze of a sky predator. Until now. Northward she flew, faster than any storm, wings slicing through the stratosphere. Her shadow painted rivers black and cracked glass in mountain temples. The air screamed in her wake. Animals fled from their dens, and crops withered as she passed—not from malice, but from proximity to something that did not belong to this world. Atharai wasn’t evil. She was balance. Brutal, primal, absolute. Below her, in a monastery carved into the face of a black cliff, the Hierophants of the Unfeathered Order assembled in tight circles, clutching glyphs to their chest and chanting the old refrains. They’d once made a pact—long forgotten by the masses but etched into the veins of every initiate. Their ancestors had taken her wings. Not entirely. Just one. A symbolic act of dominance. A mistake. What they hadn’t realized was that she let them. Atharai had never truly slept. Not fully. Her body slumbered beneath the sands, her feathers rotting into relics scattered in private vaults and royal chambers. But her mind—her rage—remained tethered to the old wound, pulsing in the ruins beneath Halem like a second heartbeat. She remembered the betrayal. She remembered the man with the obsidian staff who led the ritual. The one whose descendants now chanted above stone altars as if they were safe behind prayer. But Atharai didn’t believe in prayers. Back in the high northern cliffs, in a place known as Rymek’s Spine, the wind shifted violently. Three acolytes stood outside the Temple of Flame's End, tasked with watching the skies. Their faces turned upward in curiosity, then horror. One tried to run. One dropped to his knees. The third merely stared as the clouds ruptured and a figure streaked from the heavens like a comet dipped in terror. Atharai didn’t descend gently. She landed like a reckoning. The stone plaza cracked beneath her, sending fissures racing toward the temple. Her wings folded with the slow grace of vengeance incarnate. The three acolytes never screamed. There was no time. One swipe—three bodies. No blood, no carnage. Just... silence again. She hated the sound of fear. It reeked of weakness, and she had no room for it in her purge. Inside the temple, alarm bells rang as Initiate-Captains scrambled to arm the defenses: fire-dancers, glass-bow archers, the elite Bonecallers. One by one, they took position. The grand hall echoed with footfalls and fire chants. And still, the High Priest hadn't risen from his slumber. His chamber was sealed, locked behind five blood-signed wards. No one dared disturb him—until the black staff tapped three times on his door. The hooded man had returned. The one who’d summoned her. The one who should’ve been dead generations ago. “She is here,” he said, quietly, placing the medallion on the floor. “And she remembers.” The old priest didn’t speak. His eyes, rheumy with time, fell on the sigil and widened. His body moved slowly, reverently, as he reached beneath his bed and drew out a feather. It was scorched and nearly crumbled at the touch, but still pulsed faintly—alive. Not a relic. A bond. “You’re one of them,” the priest croaked, voice heavy with betrayal. “But... that bloodline was severed.” The man gave a tight smile. “Not severed. Hidden. She found me. She knows what must be done.” Outside, the first wave of defenders engaged Atharai. They didn't last long. Glass arrows bounced off her fur like raindrops on steel. Flame-dancers conjured infernos that she absorbed into her feathers with a roar that made the earth quake. And when the Bonecallers chanted their names of power—summoning beasts from shadow realms—Atharai simply opened her mouth and unleashed a roar imbued with ancient syllables that unmade spells mid-air. One of the Bonecallers turned to stone. Another turned to ash. The third simply vanished, leaving only his robes behind. She moved like a storm given spine. Every step cracked marble. Every wingbeat summoned a whirlwind. And at the eye of this unholy hurricane, Atharai’s face remained calm. Focused. She wasn’t here to massacre. She was here to deliver justice. Every name etched into her bones would be called. Every descendant marked by that ancient betrayal would face her judgment. No excuses. No forgiveness. In the priest’s chamber, the man knelt and whispered something into the feather. It glowed once—softly—then flared with impossible light. The priest gasped, clutching his chest, but it was too late. The old bond was remade. The feather cracked and dissolved into ash that drifted upward, seeking its mistress. And far below the northern ridge, Atharai paused mid-step. Her head tilted. Her wings lifted slowly, catching that final whisper of truth. Someone had remembered her—not just feared her, not worshipped her, but truly remembered. The pact wasn’t just betrayal. It was sacrifice. Pain. Love. Her eyes narrowed. Somewhere deep within her, a memory not of fury, but of something older, flickered once—and was gone. But it was enough to change the course of the sky. With a roar that cracked the heavens, Atharai turned from the blood-soaked temple and launched into the wind. Northward again. Beyond the spires. Beyond the ridge. Toward the Black Fortress. Toward the man who had carried her whisper. Toward something worse than vengeance. Toward the truth. The Pact of Ash and Flame The Black Fortress had no windows. No balconies. No courtyards. It had no need for sky. It was built by the descendants of the Betrayers to keep the air out—to lock the heavens away. And yet now, every corridor, every stairwell, every vaulted chamber trembled beneath a rhythm they could not ignore. Wings. The guards had barricaded the lower halls. Layers of steel, sorcery, and blessed stone reinforced every passage. In the upper chamber, seated on a throne of fused bone and obsidian, sat Veyrn the Quiet—last of the true-blooded line of the First Severance. His skin was pale and stretched, as though time had tried and failed to decay him. His voice was never raised, his hands never stained. He commanded through silence, through fear, through inherited legacy. To his people, he was sacred. To Atharai, he was a beacon. She came down from the sky like a god denied, splitting the fortress’s spire in two with a single dive. Rubble exploded outward. The wards flared, sputtered, and died. The guards below, brave in armor but soft in soul, lasted less than a breath. She didn't even strike them—just landed. The force alone killed them. And then, she walked. Each step burned her clawmarks into the black stone. Her wings dragged sparks. Her eyes no longer burned with rage—they burned with focus, with unrelenting memory. At the end of the hall, the man with the staff stood waiting again, hood thrown back, revealing a face that shimmered with both age and youth. Lines carved by time, but eyes that remembered the stars from before they had names. “You came,” he said simply. She didn’t answer. Tigers don’t answer. Gods don’t explain. Instead, she stopped. Close enough for the heat of her breath to melt frost from the walls. He stepped forward and held out the medallion. It was cracked now, humming with energy it had no right to contain. Inside it: the pact. The original contract. The betrayal, bound in bone and sealed in blood and fire. He did not hand it to her. He crushed it in his palm. “I was wrong,” he said. “We all were.” Behind them, the doors to the throne room opened—slow, defiant. Inside, Veyrn stood from his throne. He wore no armor. No crown. Just robes of black silk and a blade across his back that had never drawn blood. He looked at Atharai not with fear, but with knowing. As if this moment had stalked him since birth. As if, on some level, he welcomed it. “She’ll kill you,” said the man with the staff, his voice low. Veyrn gave a thin smile. “She has already killed me. I’ve simply been dying slowly ever since.” Atharai moved forward, each step measured like the toll of a war drum. Her gaze did not waver. Her wings flared wide, casting massive shadows against the chamber walls. Veyrn reached back and slowly drew the blade—a long, thin relic etched with the names of the original Betrayers. As he did, the markings began to glow. They did not light in defense. They lit in recognition. “Then come, Tiger of Heaven,” he said softly. “Let it end.” The battle that followed would never be written. There were no witnesses. No scribes. Only the crack of steel on claw, the roar of the wind through shattered stone, and the scream of a soul unraveling under the weight of ancestral debt. Veyrn fought not like a warrior, but like a man resigned. He didn’t try to win. He tried to be worthy of his end. When it was over, he lay broken beneath the bones of his own throne. His blade embedded in the ground beside him, scorched black. Atharai stood over him, panting—not from exhaustion, but restraint. Her chest heaved. Blood matted her fur. One wing hung low, torn at the edge. She could have finished him with a blink. But instead, she spoke. Not with words. With memory. A flood of images and voices and blood and ash and feathers and fire—all channeled into Veyrn’s mind as she lowered her head. He saw it all. The theft of her wing. The lies told to justify it. The temples built on her pain. And beneath it all... the forgotten truth: She was never meant to be hunted. She was meant to guide. The pact had not been an imprisonment—it had been a covenant. A balance between power and protection. Between sky and soil. The Betrayers had twisted it for their own glory. Veyrn wept. Not for himself. For what his line had cost the world. “I can’t fix it,” he whispered. Her answer was final: You won’t. She turned, walking slowly through the wreckage. The man with the staff followed. He was silent now, reverent. The wind swirled around them, lifting ash into a dance. From the sky above, streaks of red light fell like dying comets—her feathers returning. Every one of them carried names, histories, memories. She would wear them all. As she spread her wings to take flight, the man asked one last question: “Will you hunt again?” Atharai paused. Then tilted her head back, eyes on the stars. Only if they forget. With a final beat of her wings, she soared into the heavens—not as a monster, not as a goddess—but as a warning. A myth reborn in flame and truth. And far below, where the fires of the Black Fortress still smoldered, the world began to remember her name. Atharai. Heaven’s Apex Predator. Winged Judge of Flame. She was no longer hunting vengeance. Now... she hunted balance.     Bring Atharai’s legend to life in your own space. Whether you were captivated by her searing vengeance, divine wings, or the storm she left behind, you can now own a piece of this mythic journey. Explore our hand-selected merchandise featuring Heaven’s Apex Predator in stunning detail: Wall Tapestry – Let Atharai stretch her wings across your walls in commanding fashion. Acrylic Print – Vivid, glassy textures give her celestial fury an ultra-realistic finish. Framed Art Print – A gallery-worthy display of mythic justice and flame-winged intensity. Carry-All Pouch – Unleash a bit of divine wildness into your everyday essentials. Greeting Card – Send a message that roars with mystery and meaning. Every item is crafted with rich color and fine detail, perfect for fantasy lovers, art collectors, and seekers of the fierce and untamed. Claim your relic of the skyborn judge today.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Whispers of the Luminara Bloom

It started, as all ridiculous forest tales do, with a flutter, a sparkle, and someone complaining about pollen. “I swear to every sap-sticky deity in this woods, if one more cherry blossom gets in my beak, I’m burning down spring.” The bird in question, of course, was not your average robin or titmouse (though let’s be honest, titmice are already a bit extra). No, this was a creature of scandalous magnificence—twelve tail feathers of iridescent absurdity, each curling like a salon blowout in a shampoo commercial. She was known in local whispers as Velverina of the Bloom, and she hated being whispered about almost as much as she hated being photographed before her feathers had settled. Which is to say: she hated everything about living in a magical forest. Every year, when the sun returned with its golden glow and the cherry trees released their petal-dust clouds of romance and allergic reactions, the forest would buzz with gossip: “Will she sing this year?” “Did she finally kill that squirrel who called her a pigeon?” “Is she dating the glowbug prince again?” To all of this, Velverina rolled her eyes (which sparkled like black diamonds) and sighed the sigh of a woman who had seen too many mating dances and not enough good lattes. But this spring was different. For starters, the mossy branch she always used as her personal chaise lounge had been overrun by a group of juvenile frogs who had declared it “Frogtopia” and were now holding drum circles every morning at dawn. Secondly, the golden lights that gave her feathers their ethereal shimmer had been acting up—flickering like a broken disco ball at a fae rave. And finally, and perhaps most annoyingly, a new creature had arrived in the forest. He called himself Jasper, wore a waistcoat made of dew-drenched fern, and claimed to be a “wandering bard and emotional support hedgehog.” “You look like a peacock exploded during a glitter sale,” he said the first time he saw her. Velverina blinked slowly, her tail curling protectively around her like a feathered force field. “And you look like a bad idea wrapped in moss, dear.” It was love at first insult. Well, not love exactly. More like... tolerated bemusement. And in a forest full of overly affectionate dryads and aggressively matchmaking squirrels, that was as close to passion as it got. The gossip vines (yes, actual vines who spread rumors via pollen bursts) began swirling the news. Jasper had made it his mission to “unlock Velverina’s song”—the mythical melody she had allegedly sung a hundred springs ago that caused the cherry trees to bloom in full synchronized ecstasy. She insisted it was just a nasty case of spring allergies and someone with a lute who misunderstood a sneeze, but the legend had stuck. And so, under boughs of dripping moss and beside blossoms too pink to be taken seriously, Jasper and Velverina began their reluctant courtship. It involved poetry (bad), interpretive dance (worse), and stolen moments of sarcasm under the starlight. But somewhere between a pollen brawl with the frogs and Jasper’s attempt to woo her with a lute solo that sounded like a squirrel in a blender, Velverina’s tail began to sparkle just a little brighter. And somewhere deep in the forest, something ancient stirred. “Oh no,” Velverina muttered. “The prophecy’s trying to happen again.” The Blossoming Ridiculosity Velverina woke the next morning to a flurry of suspiciously coordinated flower petals spiraling through the air like overzealous backup dancers. A tulip landed squarely on her beak. She bit it in half and spat it onto a passing ant. The ant saluted. “This again?” she muttered, tail feathers puffing into defensive spirals. “The forest is clearly trying to set the mood. I hate it when nature meddles.” “Ah, but meddling is the forest’s love language,” purred a voice from below. It was Jasper, seated under her branch with a mug of dandelion espresso and wearing a leafy cravat so flamboyant it probably had its own moon cycle. “Also, I brought coffee. You strike me as someone who loathes mornings and believes brunch is a human conspiracy.” Velverina blinked down at him. The coffee was steaming, the sun was rising like it had something to prove, and the frogs were croaking “Bohemian Rhapsody” in three-part harmony. She hated how well he was starting to know her. “Don’t you have a lute to break or a squirrel to offend?” “Both are scheduled for later. For now, I thought we might chat. About your song.” She flared one tail feather lazily. “Again with the song? Jasper, darling, if I had a coin for every bard who came sniffing around looking for my ‘mythic melody,’ I could afford a silk hammock and a full-time peacock to fan me.” “You already have twelve tail feathers that function as a personal entourage.” “True. But they’re unionized now and they only swish on Tuesdays.” Jasper gave her the look of a man who was either about to compose a sonnet or burn down a gazebo for love. She couldn’t decide which and frankly didn’t want to know. That was the trouble with bards. Too many feelings. Not enough realism. But later that afternoon, as the dew warmed to golden mist and pollen sparkled like fairy glitter in the sun, Velverina found herself humming. Not on purpose, obviously. It was more of a nasal protest buzz. Still, it had rhythm. And unfortunately, the trees heard it. The cherry blossoms gasped. The gossip vines quivered. Somewhere, a unicorn sneezed so hard it did a backflip. “It’s happening!” a daffodil shrieked before fainting dramatically into a puddle. Within hours, the entire forest had transformed into what could only be described as an unsolicited romantic flash mob. Butterflies lined up in choreographed formations. Bees started braiding petals into crowns. Someone—probably the glowbug prince—had rigged up mood lighting and ambient harp sounds. “Make it stop,” Velverina whispered, half-horrified, half-flattered. “This is a nightmare wrapped in florals.” “I think it’s rather charming,” said Jasper, lounging on a moss pouf that hadn’t existed two seconds ago. “Though I’m fairly sure that acorn just winked at me.” “That’s Gary. He’s a creep.” But the true chaos was yet to come. Because someone had summoned the Elders. Not ancient wise owls. Not mystical deer. No, the Elders were three retired dryads with passive-aggressive energy and wildly inappropriate tea parties. Their names were Frondalina, Barksy, and Myrtle, and they hadn’t agreed on anything in four centuries except their shared disappointment in everything younger than them. “You haven’t sung in over a hundred years,” snapped Frondalina, adjusting her moss wig. “I don’t sing on command. I’m not a bard’s jukebox,” Velverina replied, crossing her wings with maximum sass. Barksy tapped her walking stick made of centuries-old sassafras. “The Bloom is wilting. The prophecy needs renewing. The Song must rise.” “What prophecy?” Jasper asked, sitting up like a hedgehog who’d accidentally joined a cult. “Oh, just some ancient nonsense about how the song of the Bloombringer”—here they all gestured vaguely at Velverina—“is the only thing that can rejuvenate the cycle of spring, balance the pollen tides, and prevent the squirrels from overthrowing the seasonal order.” “So... totally normal, then.” “Oh yes. And also, if she doesn’t sing, the moon might fall into a ditch. We’re fuzzy on that part.” Velverina squawked. “This is exactly why I stopped singing. Every time I hit a high note, someone grows a sentient cabbage or starts worshipping a toad. It’s too much pressure.” “Then don’t sing for the prophecy,” Jasper said quietly, approaching with the kind of gaze that could melt icicles and blush roses. “Sing because you want to. Sing because... maybe I’m worth a note.” Her feathers glowed a deep pink, as if mortified by their own sentimentality. “Don’t make this romantic. I hate romantic.” “You do not. You just hate being seen.” That silenced her. Not because he was wrong, but because he wasn’t supposed to know that. And before she could hurl an insult or a petal or an emergency pine cone, a wind swept through the forest. The kind of wind that means magic’s about to get weird. All eyes turned to her. The squirrels stood on two legs. The bees harmonized. The trees leaned in. “Oh damn it all,” Velverina muttered. “Fine. But if a tree grows legs again, I’m moving to the coast.” She opened her beak. And the first note curled into the air like the scent of a thousand blossoms waking up all at once. It was not sweet. It was not gentle. It was not some dainty lullaby for woodland folk to clutch their pearls over. It was... pure Velverina. Sassy. Bold. A little rude. Like jazz, if jazz had hips and a vendetta. It made the frogs faint, the mushrooms dance, and somewhere a mole proposed marriage to a daffodil. Jasper just stared, slack-jawed, as the song reached its peak—and the entire forest bloomed in a single, thunderous burst of petals, light, and unrepentant fabulousness. She finished, tucked a tail feather back into place, and looked directly at him. “You owe me coffee for life.” “Done,” he breathed. “And possibly a temple.” But before she could roll her eyes or dramatically swoon (she was still deciding which), a faint rumble echoed through the trees. “What now?” she sighed. “Don’t tell me I woke up something else.” The Elders stared into the trees. The squirrels dove for cover. And from the depths of the grove, something enormous—glittery, floral, and just a tad vindictive—was beginning to rise. Jasper turned pale. “Oh no.” Velverina’s tail curled tighter. “Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.” “I think,” Frondalina whispered, “you just reawakened the Bloom Titan.” Velverina slapped her wing to her forehead. “I hate spring.” Rise of the Bloom Titan There are certain things in life no one prepares you for. Like finding out your song just resurrected an ancient floral demigod the size of a cottage. Or discovering your potential soulmate owns three hundred tiny hats and wears them based on emotional state. Or facing the end of spring via a thirty-foot rage-blossom with hydrangea fists and a carnation crown of doom. Velverina had faced many challenges: drunk fireflies, jealous peacocks, an attempted coup by a trio of nihilist badgers. But this? This was new. The Bloom Titan had fully risen. It stood on two tangled root-legs, vines spiraling from its arms like whips, its face a blooming medley of rose and hibiscus with one unsettling tulip for a nose. Each step it took caused a burst of spores and dramatic musical stings—like a soap opera made entirely of pollen and existential dread. “IT IS SPRINGTIME,” it boomed, voice like thunder and breath like over-fertilized compost. “AND I AM AWAKENED!” “Well that’s just peachy,” Velverina muttered. “Anyone got a net, a garden hose, or a napalm sprinkler system?” “I have a kazoo,” Jasper offered, holding it up meekly. “It’s in B minor?” “Of course it is.” The Bloom Titan stomped forward. Birds fled. Flowers wilted in reverence. Somewhere, a possum fainted with flair. “You must complete the Song!” Myrtle cried, holding her teacup like a weapon. “It’s the only thing that’ll calm the Titan!” “The last time I finished that song, three clouds got pregnant and a maple tree ascended into sainthood,” Velverina snapped. “That song is not a toy!” “What if I accompany you?” Jasper asked softly. “Balance it out. You sing fire, I play foolery. Yin, yang. Feather, fur.” Velverina stared at him. He looked ridiculous. His cravat was on sideways, he had moss in his beard, and he was holding that kazoo like it might summon a miracle. And damn it, she kind of adored him for it. “Fine,” she said. “But if this turns into a forest-wide musical, I’m hexing everyone’s eyebrows.” With a dramatic hop (because of course), she flew into the air, tail spiraling like a firework of glam rock dreams. Jasper scuttled up a mushroom to his full height, kazoo poised like a flute in a Renaissance painting painted by a squirrel on mushrooms. The Titan raised its arms. “I HUNGER FOR—” Note one: piercing, pink, unapologetic. The air shifted. Petals froze mid-fall. Even the drama-crickets stopped fiddling. Jasper joined in with a kazoo note so spectacularly off-key it looped back into being charming. Velverina’s feathers shimmered like starlight on strawberry jam. She poured her soul into the melody—sass and sorrow, glitter and gloom. It wasn’t beautiful. It was honest. The Titan paused. Its vine-fists curled. The tulip-nose twitched. Then… It sniffled. A single daisy rolled down its cheek. “That… that was the most sincere seasonal expression I’ve ever heard.” Velverina blinked. “Did we just serenade a kaiju into emotional vulnerability?” “Apparently,” Jasper whispered. “I think he’s about to cry again.” The Bloom Titan knelt. “I have been angry for centuries… No one ever sang for me. Only at me.” “We all feel unappreciated sometimes,” Velverina said, now thoroughly done with this nonsense. “I cope with sarcasm and expensive tail oil. You went full Godzilla.” The Titan sniffed again. “Would you… hug me?” “Absolutely not.” “Reasonable.” It slowly curled itself into a giant flower-petal cocoon and, with a yawn that could mulch a bush, promptly went back to sleep. A final swirl of pollen shot skyward like confetti from the universe’s most dramatic cannon. The forest was silent. Then, applause. Wild, weird applause. Mushrooms clapping with caps. Vines waving like concert fans. A squirrel fainted again. Even the grumpy frogs were croaking in harmony. Jasper lowered his kazoo. “We did it.” Velverina landed, feathers still shimmering with residual drama. “I saved spring. Again. And I didn’t even get a croissant.” “I could be your croissant.” She blinked. “Was that a pick-up line or are you having a sugar crash?” “Little of both.” Velverina snorted. “You’re ridiculous.” “And yet.” They stood there, surrounded by glowing flowers, blushing trees, and a sense that maybe, just maybe, spring was safe again—if only because no one wanted to risk waking that Titan twice. “You know,” Jasper said, “you’re kind of amazing.” She smirked, tail feathers fluffing. “Tell me something I don’t know.” And as the sun dipped below the treetops and the gossip vines released a final burst of perfume, Velverina leaned in close and whispered something scandalous in his ear. He blushed so hard his spikes turned pink. Somewhere deep in the trees, the Bloom Titan smiled in its sleep. Spring had returned—with sparkle, sass, and a tail full of trouble.     Bring Velverina Home: If you found yourself rooting for our glitter-tailed diva and her kazoo-slinging hedgehog companion, you can carry a bit of that springtime sass with you year-round. Adorn your walls with a lush tapestry that blooms brighter than the Bloom Titan himself, or add a dash of ethereal glam to your space with an acrylic print that practically sings. Feeling portable? Sling Velverina over your shoulder with our gorgeous tote bag, or let her glam up your gallery wall in a framed fine art print. After all, spring deserves a little drama—and Velverina delivers it in full bloom.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Ash and Bloom

The Barbecue Incident Every 500 years, the Phoenix of the Verdant Flame rises from the ashes to restore balance, inspire mortals, and—let's be honest—get attention. Not in the noble, “bless your crops and heal your wounds” kind of way. No. This Phoenix was a flaming, moss-covered diva with a lava-chiseled beak and opinions sharp enough to pop your emotional support bubble. Her name was Fernessa the Combustible, and on the morning of her latest resurrection, she was not having it. The usual dramatic emergence from a pyre? Cancelled. Too cliché. This time, she clawed her way out of a bonfire barbecue pit behind a craft mead brewery in Oregon, covered in singed brisket and unprocessed trauma. Her first words as she shook off the cinders and flammable coleslaw? “WHO THE HELL PUT KALE IN A POTATO SALAD?” People screamed. Not because of the fire-breathing resurrection bird—which, frankly, looked like a crossover between a volcano and an enchanted chia pet—but because Steve, the pitmaster, had just been roasted both figuratively and literally. Fernessa lit into him like a Yelp reviewer with a grudge, feathers blazing, tail smoldering in every direction like a Fourth of July fireworks accident sponsored by Mother Nature and the Ghost of Anthony Bourdain. But this was no ordinary tantrum. You see, when Fernessa rose, the world felt it. Trees whispered. Rivers reversed. A gnome in Idaho got a spontaneous mohawk. The Earth knew that an Elemental Balance had shifted—and she had plans. Big, mossy, inferno-chic plans. She wasn’t just here to yell at hipsters and burn questionable appetizers. She was here to fix the damn planet. One dramatic entrance at a time. Still smoldering, she stomped out of the backyard in a blaze of glittering steam and sarcasm, trailing smoke, moss spores, and the faint scent of charred gluten-free burger bun. As she passed through a compost pile, ferns burst into bloom behind her. Someone tried to get it on TikTok but their phone caught fire mid-upload. Nature, apparently, doesn’t do influencers. She flapped once. Leaves fluttered. Ash spiraled. The ground vibrated like a bass drop at a woodland rave. Fernessa took off into the skies—half dragon goddess, half salad bar on fire—with only one mission in mind: to reclaim the forgotten shrines, rekindle ancient roots, and possibly punch a fossil fuel executive right in the soul. It was time for the world to burn. And bloom. At the same time. Like a majestic, unbothered phoenix doing yoga in a volcano while shouting affirmations at your houseplants. Reforest, Rebirth, Repeat (With Extra Sass) Fernessa the Combustible had been airborne for three whole minutes before she realized: her left wing was shedding embers like a discount sparkler, her tail was caught on a hanging bird feeder from an RV park, and she was still trailing kale. Literal kale. Like the goddamn leaves had unionized and hitched a ride to glory. “Perfect,” she muttered, incinerating a drone that buzzed a little too close. “I’m reborn for ten minutes and already the surveillance state is up my cloaca.” She soared on, flames licking the sky, moss blooming across her belly in complex fractals, like someone let Bob Ross decorate a flamethrower. Below, forests perked up. Saplings whispered. A squirrel near Bend, Oregon, achieved enlightenment just by seeing her tail feathers and now runs a small mushroom cult. Her destination? The ruined Temple of the First Ember, now tragically converted into an AirBnB that specialized in goat yoga and “shamanic reiki.” The stone slabs still glowed faintly with ancient fire, but someone had installed fairy lights and called it a “Zen patio.” Fernessa landed in a flurry of ash and passive-aggressive menace, singeing a pile of artisanal bathrobes and causing three influencers to instantly poop their aura stones. “Listen up, hummus worshippers,” she bellowed, voice vibrating with molten clarity. “This sacred ground is CLOSED for spiritual renovation. Your chakras can find somewhere else to overcompensate.” One woman, who looked like a sentient kombucha ad, whispered, “Is she like, part of the immersive package?” Fernessa vaporized a healing crystal the size of a small dog. No one asked follow-ups. With a few wingbeats and some vigorous, slightly inappropriate tail-whipping, she cleared the area of beige people and driftwood mandalas. Alone once more, she spread her wings and began the ritual of ReRooting—calling forth every ember, spore, and whisper of memory stored in the earth’s crust. Roots curled toward her. Stone cracked. Fire roared. Somewhere deep beneath the temple, a forgotten tectonic plate burped with approval. She wasn’t just a phoenix, damn it. She was a systems reboot. She was the Control-Alt-Delete of eco-spiritual justice, the blazing middle finger to centuries of greenwashing and emotional vision boards. And she was only getting started. But the planet? Oh, she remembered Fernessa. Gaia was already sending her signs: wildfire foxes with glowing tails began appearing in national parks. Tulips bloomed in asphalt. An endangered snail in New Zealand laid an egg in the shape of a thumbs-up. Everything organic was acting weirder, more theatrical, like they knew Mom was home and she was done putting up with everyone’s capitalist bullcrap. Fernessa carved her way across the sky like a comet with opinions, heading next for her old flame—literally. Ignatius the Scorched, last seen yelling at a thunderbird over jurisdictional rights somewhere near Yellowstone. If anyone knew how to help her rebuild the mythic order and torch the mediocrity from humanity’s soul, it was her ex-boyfriend. He was a jackass, sure, but he was good at logistics. She found him where she expected: shirtless, covered in volcanic ash, yelling at a geyser like it owed him rent. Still sexy. Still insufferable. “Oh look,” he sneered, not turning around. “The sentient bonfire returns. Did you finally decide to stop moping about the rainforest and grow your fireballs back?” “I swear by every fern in my tail, if you make one joke about compost sex, I will incinerate your ego so hard you’ll respawn as a sea cucumber,” she snapped. He turned, grinning. Gods help her, he still had that lava-muscled smirk that made tectonic plates shift. But Fernessa wasn’t here for nostalgia. She was here for war. “I need allies,” she said flatly. “We’re reforming the Circle of Regrowth. It’s time we made the world believe again. Not in crystals. Not in gluten-free moon rituals. In fire. In rot. In the honest, terrifying magic of cycles. Burn it. Bury it. Grow it again.” Ignatius nodded, jaw tight. “You’ve changed.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s called photosynthesis. Try it.” By nightfall, word had spread. The Circle was reforming. The Great Serpent shed her skin early. The Water Spirits canceled their quarterly pity orgy to attend. Even the Stone Giants cracked open a few cold ones (literally—lava beer, not bad). Nature was waking up like a hangry goddess with unfinished business and a target list labeled “People Who Think Trees Are Optional.” And Fernessa? She was ready to remind the world that rebirth isn’t a spa treatment—it’s a blazing, filthy, complicated thing that smells like moss and fury and tastes like ash and wild honey. Moss to Ashes, Bitch The newly reformed Circle of Regrowth was a hot mess—and not the cute kind. No, this was the kind of mythic reunion that smelled like charred bark, ancient swamp breath, and egos fermenting in elemental tension. Fernessa stood at the center of the Grove of Reckoning, which someone had once bulldozed to build a golf course. Now it had been reclaimed by roots, steam, vines, and at least one pansexual ent who smelled like sandalwood and opinions. Around her stood the old gang: Ignatius the Scorched (shirtless, again, obviously), Dame Muddletree of the Sludgebourne Bogs, Vortexia Queen of Cyclones (currently swirling her own emotional storm), and of course, Greg—the earthworm demigod whose only line was “I wiggle for justice.” The meeting opened with a lot of posturing, thunderclaps, glowing runes, and deeply passive-aggressive announcements from a fungus spirit who’d been ghosted during the last cycle. Fernessa didn’t have time for it. She was already sketching war maps in soot, moss, and ash across the sacred floor. Her plan was outrageous, poetic, possibly illegal, and exactly what the planet needed. “We’re hitting all five Extraction Nexus Sites,” she declared. “The deep-frack scars. The tar-slick wastelands. The lithium-fucked crystal wounds. We burn the surface lies. Then we bury their bones in bloom.” “That sounds like terrorism,” whispered a sentient vine with commitment issues. “No,” Fernessa snapped. “It’s restoration with flair.” The Circle roared in approval, except for Greg, who just wiggled solemnly. Even he felt the fire now. Phase One: Burn the Lies They struck fast and strange. Fernessa dive-bombed a corporate skyscraper shaped like a giant “E” for “Energy,” leaving it covered in flame-shaped ivy that spelled out “Nature Says No.” Ignatius caused a geyser eruption in the middle of a televised shareholder meeting. Muddletree swallowed an offshore rig in sentient bog bubbles that burped the words “Suck My Swamp.” Vortexia? Oh, she just cyclone-launched 17 million straws into low Earth orbit and turned a plastic island into a sea turtle spa. It wasn’t destruction. It was performance art with an eco-terrorist kink. They left no blood—only ash, moss, and the haunted realization that maybe, just maybe, people should stop screwing the Earth like it’s a disposable prom date. Phase Two: Bury the Bullshit They didn’t just raze the old. They replanted, resurrected, regrew. Forests pulsed up from the roots like botanical revenge. Bees with glowing wings began pollinating ancient seeds Fernessa dug out from beneath fossil highways. Coral reefs started forming messages in bioluminescent Morse code that translated roughly to: “Y’all really messed it up. But thanks for the kelp.” And then came the final ritual. The Ash Reignition. The last time this had happened, Atlantis had exploded into a series of spa resorts and myths. This time, it would be streamed live (accidentally, by a park ranger named Dana with surprisingly good Wi-Fi). Fernessa rose from the Grove of Reckoning once more—wings alight, feathers shedding sparks, vines wrapping around her legs like green garters of vengeance. Above her, a storm brewed not from weather but from memory, grief, and about a thousand years of pent-up Earth rage waiting to turn into joy. She sang. It wasn’t human music. It was the sound of bark splitting open with spring. The hush of an old glacier exhaling. The scream of a seed cracking in fire to find life. It broke everything and healed it simultaneously. The song lit the skies on fire, then rained molten petals, dew-soaked ash, and inspiration down on every corner of the wounded planet. People felt it. Oh, they didn’t all understand it—some thought it was a Wi-Fi outage mixed with mushrooms—but they felt it. Politicians woke up sobbing. Billionaires had sudden inexplicable urges to garden shirtless and donate land back to indigenous communities. An oil CEO quit his job mid-press conference and opened a fern sanctuary. (He still sucked, but… small steps.) Meanwhile, Fernessa landed on the peak of a redwood taller than any building and watched the moon rise, smoky and full, reflected in her eye like a quiet, glowing exclamation mark. Behind her, the Circle had scattered, their missions complete, their revenge fermented into healing like compost turned gold. Ignatius landed beside her, wings twitching. “So,” he said. “What now?” Fernessa stared into the distance. “Now? We nap. And when I wake up in five hundred years, I better not find another gluten-free fondue yoga cult on sacred moss.” He snorted. “You’ve changed.” She rolled her eyes, nestled into the crook of a mossy branch, and muttered, “It’s called evolution. Deal with it.” As her glow dimmed and steam curled around the cradle of the ancient tree, the world breathed easier. The phoenix had risen—not just to burn, but to bloom. And somewhere deep in the soil, Greg the Worm whispered, “Wiggle complete.”     Feeling the fire? Ready to bring a little Fernessa flair into your own sacred space (or, let’s be honest, cover that weird patch on your wall)? Good news, mortal: you can now bask in the glory of Ash and Bloom without spontaneously combusting. Snag the tapestry and turn any room into a shrine of mossy defiance, grab a framed print to whisper to your soul every morning, or collapse into the firebird’s leafy embrace with this glorious throw pillow. Need to carry your existential rage and compostable snacks? The tote bag has you covered. Embrace the cycle. Burn bright. Bloom hard.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Canción de cuna en una gota de hoja

Es un hecho poco conocido —omitido escrupulosamente en la mayoría de los cuentos de hadas por su desorden y su alarmante humedad— que las hadas no nacen en el sentido tradicional. Se infusionan. Sí, se infusionan. Como el té o las malas decisiones. Exactamente a las 4:42 a. m., antes de que el primer petirrojo siquiera piense en toser un piar, el rocío se acumula en la punta de una hoja con forma de corazón en lo profundo del bosque de Slumbrook Hollow. Si la temperatura es lo suficientemente fría como para que una araña use calcetines, pero lo suficientemente cálida como para que una ardilla pueda rascarse perezosamente sin tiritar, comienza la gestación. ¿La receta? Sencilla: una gota de luz de luna que no dio en el blanco, dos chispazos de risa de un niño dormido, una pizca de chismes del bosque (normalmente sobre mapaches con comportamientos inapropiados) y una brizna de hierba que ha sido besada por un rayo al menos una vez. Remueve suavemente con la brisa de un deseo olvidado, y voilá: tienes el comienzo de un hada. Ahora bien, estas no son hadas como te las imaginas. No aparecen revoloteando con tiaras y un propósito. No, la primera etapa del desarrollo de las hadas es un descaro embrionario en una bolsa gelatinosa de humor . Son principalmente alas, actitud y siestas. Su primer instinto al "despertar" es suspirar dramáticamente y darse la vuelta, lo que a menudo hace que toda la gota de rocío se incline peligrosamente, provocando el pánico en todos excepto en el hada, que murmura "Cinco minutos más" y se desmaya de inmediato. El hada en cuestión esta mañana en particular se llamaba **Plink**. No porque alguien le hubiera puesto nombre, sino porque ese era el sonido que hacía su gota de rocío al formarse, y el bosque se toma las convenciones de nombres al pie de la letra. Plink ya era una diva, sus alas brillaban con la sutil arrogancia de quien sabe que nació brillante. Se acurrucó en su hamaca de hojas líquidas, con sus pequeñas manos bajo una barbilla que jamás había conocido el toque de la responsabilidad. Sin embargo, fuera de la gota de rocío, reinaba el caos. Una patrulla de escarabajos estaba de ronda matutina y había avistado el vivero de Plink colgando precariamente de una ramita atacada por un arrendajo azul particularmente agresivo. El bosque tenía reglas: prohibido el paso de arrendajos antes del amanecer, no aletear ruidosamente y, por supuesto, no defecar cerca de los viveros. Por desgracia, el arrendajo azul tenía fama de infringirlas todas. Entra Sir Grumblethorpe , un caballero topo retirado con armadura de tweed, con un monóculo que no mejoraba tanto su visión como su autoestima. Se había encargado de asegurar la supervivencia de Plink. «Ningún hada se va a desquiciar bajo mi vigilancia», declaró, golpeando el suelo con su bastón de bellota, que era principalmente ceremonial y estaba parcialmente podrido. Lo que nadie se había dado cuenta aún —ni siquiera Plink en su feliz sueño gelatinoso— era que hoy era el último día viable de rocío de la temporada. Si no eclosionaba antes del anochecer, la gota se evaporaría y se convertiría en un recuerdo, perdiéndose en el reino de las cosas casi hechas, como las dietas y los políticos honestos. ¿Pero ahora mismo? Ahora mismo, Plink babeaba un poco, con un ala agitándose suavemente contra la curva interior de la caída, soñando con confituras, pavor existencial y una picazón en el pie que aún no sabía cómo rascar. ¿Y el arrendajo azul? Ah, estaba dando vueltas. Sir Grumblethorpe se ajustó el monóculo con el aire dramático de alguien que se consideraba muy importante y, francamente, no iba a dejar que algo tan insignificante como la escama le impidiera actuar como tal. Al fin y al cabo, hacía falta un valor inmenso para ser un diecinueveavo del tamaño de la amenaza y aun así gritar órdenes como si fueras el dueño del arbusto. "¡Puestos de batalla!", declaró, aunque no se supo qué significaba eso en un bosque que jamás había visto una batalla. Un ciempiés pasó corriendo con dos lápices y un corcho de vino como armadura, gritando: "¡¿Dónde está el fuego?!", y tropezó con un caracol que llevaba dormido casi toda la década. Mientras tanto, Plink soñó que era la Reina del Reino de la Mermelada, cabalgando sobre una abeja hacia una batalla contra una horda de migajas de desayuno. No tenía ni idea de que su hoja caída era ahora el centro de atención de un consejo de emergencia multiespecie que se reunía bajo ella, en un tocón musgoso. —Seamos racionales —dijo el profesor Thistlehump, una comadreja con gafas tan gruesas que podrían quemar hormigas en invierno—. Si le preguntamos al arrendajo con educación... "¿Quieres negociar con un pedo volador con plumas?", espetó Madame Spritzy, una cantante de ópera de colibríes deshonrada convertida en chillona táctica. "Esto es guerra , cariño. Guerra con plumas, guano y una fatalidad de ojos brillantes". Sir Grumblethorpe asintió. O mejor dicho, no se mostró en desacuerdo lo suficientemente rápido, lo cual casi lo justifica. "Necesitamos apoyo aéreo", murmuró, acariciándose la barbilla pensativo. "Spritzy, ¿aún puedes volar el Patrón de Pánico Alegre?" —Por favor —se burló, ahuecando las plumas—. Lo inventé yo. Mira el cielo. Sobre ellos, el arrendajo azul, llamado **Kevin** (porque, claro, se llamaba Kevin), inició su descenso final. Kevin tenía una mente simple, compuesta principalmente de objetos brillantes, comida y la creencia de que gritar lo más fuerte posible era una forma de comunicación. Vio el destello de la gota de rocío y graznó con lo que solo podría describirse como alegría o rabia, o quizás ambas a la vez. Spritzy se lanzó como un fuego artificial con cafeína. Zigzagueó salvajemente, chillando un aria de "Piratas del Estanque: El Musical" con un tono que hizo estallar a varios gusanos de solo estrés. Kevin se agitó en el aire, confundido y ligeramente excitado, luego retrocedió con una gracia sorprendente para alguien que una vez se comió una rana por diversión. Mientras tanto, en lo profundo de la gota de rocío, Plink finalmente se despertó. Sus sueños se habían convertido en suaves empujoncitos, en despertares del reino de la vigilia. Sus alas translúcidas comenzaron a vibrar como señales de radio sintonizando la frecuencia de la realidad. El calor del día comenzaba a acariciar la base de la gota de rocío, y en algún lugar, el instinto comenzó a susurrar: Eclosiona ahora. O no. Tú decides. Pero eclosiona ahora si prefieres no ser vapor. Pero Plink estaba aturdida. Y, siendo sinceros, si nunca has intentado despertar de un sueño donde te cantaban malvaviscos, no sabes lo difícil que es dejarlo. Se dio la vuelta, pegó la cara a la gota de rocío y murmuró algo que sonó sospechosamente a: «Shhh. Cinco eternidades más». Sir Grumblethorpe dio un pisotón. "¡No sale del cascarón! ¡¿Por qué no sale del cascarón?!" Miró hacia la copa del árbol, donde Kevin había encontrado un envoltorio brillante de chicle y se distrajo un momento. El consejo de emergencia se reunió presa del pánico. —¡Necesitamos algo poderoso! ¡Algo simbólico! —susurró Madame Spritzy mientras irrumpía en la reunión. “Tengo un kazoo viejo”, ofreció una ardilla que nunca había sido invitada a ningún evento antes y que estaba emocionada de ser incluida. —¡Úsalo! —ladró Grumblethorpe—. ¡Despiértala! ¡Toca la Canción del Primer Vuelo! —¡Nadie sabe la melodía! —gritó Thistlehump. —Bueno, entonces —dijo Grumblethorpe con gravedad—, improvisaremos. Y así lo hicieron. El kazoo aulló. El bosque se estremeció. Incluso Kevin se detuvo a medio aletear, con el pico abierto, sin saber si estaba siendo atacado o presenciando arte interpretativo. Dentro de la gota de rocío, Plink se estremeció violentamente. Abrió los ojos de golpe. El aire tembló. Sus alas estallaron en luz, reflejando el sol como una bola de discoteca hecha de sueños y travesuras. La gota de rocío brilló, vibró y, con un sonido como el de una burbuja riéndose, estalló. Y allí estaba, flotando. Diminuta, mojada, parpadeando, y con aspecto de no estar nada impresionada por estar despierta. "Son todos muy ruidosos", dijo con el desdén que solo un hada recién nacida podría mostrar mientras gotea una sustancia celestial. Kevin intentó una última zambullida, pero inmediatamente un tejón furioso lo golpeó en la cara con una honda. Se retiró al cielo con un graznido de derrota y una de las plumas de Madame Spritzy se le pegó a la cola. Abajo, el bosque contenía la respiración. Plink miró a su alrededor. Lentamente, levantó una ceja. "Entonces... ¿dónde está mi almuerzo de bienvenida?" Sir Grumblethorpe cayó de rodillas. "¡Habla!" "No", corrigió Plink encogiéndose de hombros, "soy descarada". Y ese fue el primer momento en que alguien en Slumbrook Hollow se dio cuenta del tipo de hada que iba a ser. ¿Siguiente? Escuela de vuelo. Posiblemente sabotaje. Y definitivamente, brunch. Si esperas una historia con un desarrollo rápido de los personajes, misiones nobles y un cierre emocional ordenado, lamento informarte: Plink no era ese tipo de hada. La primera hora de su existencia consciente la pasó intentando comerse los pétalos de una margarita, intentando seducir a un abejorro (“Llámame cuando termines de polinizar”) y anunciando, en voz alta, que nunca haría tareas domésticas a menos que estas involucraran salidas dramáticas o una guerra basada en brillantina. Aun así, a pesar de todo su descaro y su brillo húmedo, Plink, de una forma profundamente peculiar, albergaba esperanza. No la clase de esperanza apacible y pasiva. No, su esperanza tenía dientes . Gruñía. Se pavoneaba. Exigía un almuerzo antes que diplomacia. El tipo de esperanza que decía: «El mundo probablemente sea terrible, pero me veré fabulosa mientras sobrevivo». Madame Spritzy tomó su ala inferior (literalmente), comenzando un curso intensivo de vuelo sin licencia y muy irregular. "Aletea como si tus enemigos te estuvieran mirando", gritó, dando vueltas alrededor de Plink, quien giró en el aire, descendió en espiral y se estrelló en un parche de musgo con la gracia de un arándano caído. —¡Dijiste que nací para volar! —jadeó Plink, escupiendo un escarabajo. Dije que naciste en una gota. El resto depende de ti. La escuela de vuelo continuó durante tres días caóticos, durante los cuales Plink rompió dos ramas, se lanzó en picado contra un hongo y, sin querer, inventó un nuevo tipo de gesto de maldición aérea. Sus alas se fortalecieron. Su sarcasmo se agudizó. Para la cuarta mañana, podía flotar en el aire el tiempo suficiente para hacer una mueca de desprecio convincente, lo cual se consideraba un requisito de graduación. Pero el bosque estaba cambiando. El rocío menguaba. El clima se volvía más cálido. El nacimiento de Plink había sido la última gota de la temporada, lo que significaba que no era solo la última hada de la primavera. Era la única hada de este ciclo de floración. El último pequeño milagro antes de la larga y seca estación que se avecinaba. Sin presión. Naturalmente, al enterarse, su primera reacción fue caer dramáticamente sobre un hongo y gritar: "¿Por qué yooooo ?", lo que sobresaltó a un erizo hasta desmayarlo. Pero tras varios sermones exasperados del profesor Thistlehump y una charla motivacional con mucha cafeína de Sir Grumblethorpe con la frase "legado de linaje luminoso", cedió. Más o menos. Plink decidió convertirse en el tipo de hada que no esperaba al destino. Crearía a su propia especie. No con un estilo de laboratorio espeluznante, sino con una especie de hada madrina que se encuentra con un contratista. Susurraría magia en vainas. Embotellaría sueños y los guardaría en bellotas. Arrancaría risas de amantes a la luz de la luna y las guardaría en piñas. No necesitaba ser la última. Podría ser la primera de la siguiente ola. “Voy a enseñar a las ardillas a hacer bombas de esperanza”, anunció una mañana, inexplicablemente vestida con una capa de musgo y mucha actitud. “¿Bombas de esperanza?”, preguntó Grumblethorpe, ajustándose el monóculo. Pequeños hechizos envueltos en bayas. Si muerdes uno, te dan cinco segundos de optimismo desmesurado. Como pensar que tu ex fue una buena idea. O que puedes volver a ponerte tus leggings de antes del invierno. Y así empezó: la extraña campaña de travesuras, magia y perturbación emocional de Plink. Zumbaba de hoja en hoja, susurrando rarezas al mundo. Los hongos solitarios se despertaban riendo. Las flores marchitas se animaban y pedían música para bailar. Incluso Kevin, el arrendajo azul, empezó a llevar ramitas brillantes a otras aves, ya no para bombardear a las crías en picado, sino para (torpemente) cuidarlas. El bosque se adaptó a su caos. Se volvió más brillante en algunos lugares. Más extraño en otros. Por donde Plink había pasado, siempre se notaba. Una hoja podía brillar sin motivo. Un charco podía zumbar. Un árbol podía contar un chiste sin sentido, pero que te hacía reír de todos modos. ¿Y Plink? Bueno, creció. No más grande, seguía siendo del tamaño de un hipo. Pero más profunda. Más sabia. Y, de alguna manera, más Plink que nunca. Un crepúsculo, muchas estaciones después, una pequeña gota de rocío se formó en una hoja nueva. En su interior, acurrucada en un sueño plácido, un hada batía sus alas nuevas. Alrededor del desnivel, el bosque volvió a contener la respiración, esperando, preguntándose. Desde arriba, un rayo de luz traviesa rodeó la rama. Plink miró hacia abajo, sonrió y susurró: «Lo tienes todo, trasero brillante». Luego se alejó hacia las estrellas, dejando atrás un único eco de risa, una mota de brillo y un mundo cambiado para siempre por una fuerte y brillante gota de esperanza. Lleva la magia a casa. Si el cuento de Plink despertó tu imaginación o te hizo reír mientras tomabas té, puedes llevar un poco de ese encanto a tu propio espacio. "Canción de cuna en una gota de hoja" está disponible como impresión en lienzo , impresión en metal , impresión acrílica e incluso como un tapiz de ensueño para convertir tu pared en una ventana a Slumbrook Hollow. Perfecto para amantes de la decoración fantástica, fanáticos de los cuentos de hadas y para cualquiera que crea que un poco de brillo y valentía puede cambiar el mundo.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Pequeños rugidos y brasas ascendentes

De anillos de humo y amistades impulsadas por el descaro Érase una vez, un mediodía de euforia, en medio de un prado perdido que olía sospechosamente a margaritas tostadas y arrepentimiento, una cría de fénix se estrelló de bruces contra un cardo. Chisporroteó como un malvavisco el 4 de julio y soltó un chillido capaz de desplumar a un buitre. "¡Malditas galletas de ceniza!", chilló, agitando sus alas medio horneadas y sacudiéndose lo que parecía polen quemado. No estaba viviendo un momento de renacimiento glamuroso. Estaba viviendo una muda existencial en público. De detrás de un arbusto que claramente había visto mejores opciones de jardinería, se oyó una risita. Un dragón bebé —rechoncho, cubierto de hollín y ya apestando a decisiones cuestionables— salió rodando, agarrándose la barriga escamosa. "¿Olvidó la diosa del fuego las instrucciones de aterrizaje otra vez, Hot Stuff?", eructó, soltando una pequeña bocanada de humo con forma de dedo corazón. Su nombre era Gorp. Abreviatura de Gorpelthrax el Devorador, lo cual era divertidísimo considerando que intimidaba tanto como un pedo en la iglesia. —¡Qué bien! Una lagartija con acné y sin alas. Dime, Gorp, ¿todas las dragoncitas de tu nido huelen a carne quemada y a vergüenza? —espetó el fénix, cuyo nombre, por razones que se negó a explicar, era Charlene. Solo Charlene. Afirmó que era exótico. Como cítricos. O colonia de gasolinera. Charlene se levantó, hizo una sacudida dramática que esparció brasas por todas partes (y amenazó levemente a una mariposa), y se pavoneó con la arrogancia temblorosa de una diva mediocre. "Si quisiera burlas no solicitadas, visitaría a mi tía Salmora. Es una salamandra con dos ex y un rencor". Gorp sonrió. "Eres vivaz. Me gusta eso en un amigo inflamable". Los dos se miraron con mutuo disgusto y un afecto incipiente; esa energía confusa, de «no sé si quiero pelear contigo o trenzarte el pelo», que solo los inadaptados mágicos pueden reunir. Y mientras la cálida brisa de verano soplaba por el prado, trayendo el aroma a hierba quemada y al destino, comenzaron a surgir los primeros vestigios de una extraña y salvaje amistad. —Entonces —dijo Charlene, mientras se esponjaba las plumas de la cola—, ¿te la pasas en los campos de flores echando humo y juzgando a los pájaros de fuego? —No —respondió Gorp, sacándose una mariquita de la lengua—. Normalmente cazo ardillas y les hago daño emocional a las ranas. Este es solo mi lugar para almorzar. Charlene sonrió con suficiencia. «Fabuloso. Convirtámoslo en nuestra sala de guerra». Y con eso, el fénix y el dragón se dejaron caer entre las flores, ya planeando cualquier disparate que vendría después, completamente inconscientes de que acababan de apuntarse a una semana de queso robado, mapaches robando pantalones y esa orgía de centauros de la que preferían no hablar. Todavía. El robo del queso, el culto del centauro y los pantalones que no eran La mañana siguiente llegó con la gracia de un sátiro con resaca intentando hacer yoga. El sol se desvanecía en el cielo como mermelada demasiado madura, y las plumas de Charlene estaban extremadamente encrespadas, posiblemente por el rocío, pero más probablemente por sueños que involucraban un caldero cantor y un gnomo coqueto con una barba que no se le caía. "Necesitamos una misión", declaró, estirando las alas y prendiendo fuego sin querer a un saltamontes que pasaba. Gorp, masticando una piña medio derretida, levantó los ojos desde su posición supina sobre un semillero de menta. Necesitamos un brunch. Preferiblemente con queso. Quizás pantalones. Charlene parpadeó. "¿Qué tiene que ver el queso con los pantalones, por el hongo del pie de Merlín?" —Todo —dijo Gorp, demasiado serio—. Todo. Y así empezó: una misión forjada en el disparate, alimentada por antojos de lactosa y la incapacidad mutua de decir no al caos. Según el buitre local —Steve, que trabajaba como columnista de chismes por su cuenta—, encontrarían el mejor queso a este lado de las montañas de fuego en las bodegas abandonadas de un antiguo monasterio de centauros convertido en un spa nudista. Obviamente. "Se llama Saddlehorn", había susurrado Steve con los ojos brillantes. "Pero no hagas preguntas. Tráeme una rueda de gouda añejado y quedamos en paz". "¿Quieres que robemos un culto de monjes centauros del queso?" preguntó Charlene, ligeramente ofendida por no haberlo pensado antes. “Ya no son monjes”, aclaró Steve. “Ahora solo cantan afirmaciones y se untan aceite en los muslos. Ha evolucionado”. Su viaje a Saddlehorn tomó aproximadamente cuatro descansos para tirarse pedos, dos desvíos causados ​​por el miedo paralizante de Charlene a los erizos ("¡Son solo piñas con ojos, Gorp!") y un momento incómodo que involucró a un hongo maldito que susurraba consejos fiscales. Para cuando llegaron al spa, el prado que tenían detrás parecía pisoteado por un monstruo atiborrado de cafeína y con problemas de compromiso. Charlene estaba lista para la sangre. Gorp, para el queso. Ninguno de los dos estaba listo para lo que les aguardaba tras el seto. Saddlehorn no era... lo que esperaban. Imaginen una extensa finca de madera pulida, suaves cascadas y vapor con aroma a lavanda. Imaginen también: treinta y siete centauros sin camisa practicando yoga sincronizado mientras susurran "Soy suficiente" en un unísono inquietante. Gorp intentó inhalar su propia cabeza, avergonzado. —Oh, dioses, están calientes —susurró, con la voz quebrada como una tortilla en mal estado. Charlene, por otro lado, nunca había estado más excitada, ni más confundida. "Concéntrate", susurró. "Estamos aquí por el gouda, no por los glúteos". Se colaron entre un cesto de taparrabos lleno de ropa sucia —Charlene prendió fuego a uno sin querer y atribuyó la culpa a la "energía térmica ambiental"— y se deslizaron (bueno, se contonearon) hasta el sótano. El olor los impactó primero: penetrante, añejo, ligeramente sensual. Hileras y filas de ruedas de queso encantadas brillaban suavemente en la penumbra, irradiando la energía de la mantequilla. —Dulce madre de los milagros derretidos —suspiró Gorp—. Podríamos construir una vida aquí. Pero el destino, como siempre, es un bastardo con la sonrisa burlona. Justo cuando Charlene se metía una rueda de gouda en las plumas de la cola, un fuerte relincho se oyó tras ellos. Allí estaba el hermano Chadwick del Círculo del Muslo Interno: el jefe de los aceites, el guardián del queso y, posiblemente, un Sagitario. "¿Quién se atreve a profanar el sagrado santuario de la lechería?", tronó, flexionándose en cámara lenta para lograr un efecto dramático. —Hola, sí, hola —dijo Charlene, sonriendo con la seguridad de quien ya ha prendido fuego a todas las rutas de escape—. Soy Brenda y este es mi lagarto de apoyo emocional. Estamos en una peregrinación de quesos. El hermano Chadwick parpadeó. "¿Brenda?" —Sí. Brenda la Eterna. Portadora de la Llama Feta. Hubo un silencio tenso. Entonces —bendito sea el universo idiota— Gorp eructó humo en forma de cuña de queso. Eso fue suficiente. “¡Ellos son los elegidos!” gritó alguien. En los siguientes 48 minutos, Charlene y Gorp fueron coronados sacerdotes honorarios de la lactosa, sometidos a una incómoda ceremonia de masajes y se les permitió irse con una rueda de queso ceremonial del destino (triplemente añejada, ahumada con ceniza de saúco y maldecida a gritar la palabra "BUTTERFACE" una vez a la semana). Mientras regresaban a su prado —Charlene con una cola llena de cuajada de contrabando, Gorp lamiendo lo que podía o no ser sudor de cabra de sus garras— coincidieron en que había sido su mejor almuerzo hasta el momento. —Formamos un equipo muy bueno —murmuró Charlene. —Sí —dijo Gorp, abrazando el queso—. Eres el mejor peligro de incendio que he conocido. Y en algún lugar a lo lejos, Steve el busardo lloró lágrimas de alegría... y colesterol. De la política de los mapaches, las tormentas de fuego y la cosa salvaje llamada amistad De vuelta en el prado, las cosas se habían vuelto... complicadas. El regreso de Charlene y Gorp de su cursi viaje espiritual no había pasado desapercibido. Se corrió la voz, como suele ocurrir en círculos mágicos, y en cuestión de días su prado se había convertido en un lugar de peregrinación para cualquier loco del bosque mediocre con un hueso que bendecir o un hongo en el dedo del pie que curar. Había druidas meditando en el charco de gases favorito de Gorp. Faunos componiendo baladas para laúd sobre «El Gouda y la Gloria». Al menos un unicornio intentó soplar la cola de Charlene para obtener «vibraciones de combustión sagrada». —Tenemos que irnos —dijo Charlene con un tic en el ojo mientras echaba a un bardo de su nido por tercera vez esa mañana. —Necesitamos gobernar —respondió Gorp, ahora completamente reclinado en una hamaca hecha de pelo de elfo y sueños, con una corona de margaritas y cortezas de queso—. Ya somos leyendas. Como Pie Grande, pero más atractivos. Charlene entrecerró los ojos. «Ni siquiera llevas pantalones, Gorp». “Las leyendas no necesitan pantalones”. Pero antes de que Charlene pudiera prenderle fuego por duodécima vez esa semana, un crujido entre la maleza interrumpió su discusión. De repente, apareció una delegación de mapaches: seis hombres, cada uno con pequeños monóculos, y el que iba delante blandía un pergamino hecho de corteza de abedul y una expresión de pasividad agresiva. “Saludos, Pájaro de Fuego y Flatulento”, dijo el mapache líder, con voz como la grava mojada. “Representamos al Consejo local de la Soberanía de los Contenedores. Han alterado el equilibrio ecológico y político de la pradera, y estamos aquí para presentar una queja formal”. Charlene parpadeó. Gorp se tiró un pedo nervioso. —Tu imprudente robo de queso —continuó el mapache— ha creado un mercado negro de lácteos. Los hurones se están amotinando. Los erizos están acaparando gouda. Y la economía de los duendes se ha derrumbado por completo. Exigimos reparaciones. Charlene se volvió lentamente hacia Gorp. "¿Vendiste queso en el mercado negro?" —Define vender —dijo Gorp, sudando—. Define negro. Define mercado. Lo que siguió fue un montaje caótico, posiblemente con música de banjo y gritos a la luz de la luna. Los mapaches declararon la ley marcial. Charlene incineró una rueda de brie en protesta. Gorp invocó accidentalmente a un elemental del queso llamado Craig, quien solo hablaba con juegos de palabras y tenía opiniones violentas sobre la pureza del cheddar. El clímax llegó cuando Charlene, acorralada por los mapaches, lanzó un grito tan potente que incendió medio cielo. Con las plumas encendidas, se elevó por los aires —su primer vuelo real desde el accidente en la pradera— y se lanzó como un cometa contra la horda, dispersando roedores y pergaminos llameantes por todas partes. Gorp, al verla explotar de rabia, belleza y posiblemente hormonas, hizo lo lógico. Rugió. Un rugido de verdad. No una combinación de estornudo y pedo. Un rugido profundo, ancestral, nacido de un dragón, que retumbaba en las entrañas, que partió un árbol, asustó a una mofeta hasta que fue a terapia y resonó por las colinas como una declaración de guerra alimentada por el descaro. La batalla fue corta, apestosa y ligeramente erótica. Cuando el polvo se disipó, el prado era un desastre, Craig, el Elemental del Queso, se había convertido en fondue, y los mapaches velaban en silencio sus monóculos caídos. Charlene y Gorp se desplomaron entre los escombros, cubiertos de hollín, plumas y al menos tres tipos de gouda. "Eso", jadeó Gorp, "fue la cosa más sexy que he visto en mi vida". Charlene se rió tanto que escupió fuego. «Por fin rugiste». —Sí. Para ti. Hubo una larga pausa. A lo lejos, una ardilla confundida intentó subirse a una piña. La vida volvía a la normalidad. "Eres el peor amigo que he tenido", dijo Charlene. —Lo mismo —respondió Gorp sonriendo. Yacieron en silencio, observando cómo las estrellas se desvanecían en el cielo. Sin queso. Sin sectas. Solo fuego y amistad. Y tal vez, solo tal vez, el comienzo de algo aún más tonto. —Entonces… —dijo Charlene finalmente—, ¿qué sigue? Gorp se encogió de hombros. "¿Quieres ir a robarle la bañera a un mago?" Charlene sonrió. "Claro que sí." ¡Dale un toque de caos, encanto y mitos inspirados en el queso a tu mundo! Inmortaliza la legendaria saga de Charlene y Gorp con impresionantes piezas de arte coleccionables como esta lámina metálica que brilla con un brillo arrollador, o una lámina acrílica que resalta cada pluma y llama. ¿Te animas? Intenta armar su épico robo de queso en este rompecabezas : un regalo perfecto para quienes disfrutan de los desastres míticos y las rebeliones de mapaches. O crea el ambiente perfecto para tu propio prado mágico con un tapiz artístico digno de un spa de culto a los centauros. Aprobado por Gorp. Bendecido por Charlene. Posiblemente encantado. Probablemente inflamable.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Pequeño pero molesto

La situación del tocón En medio del Pinar Bramador, justo después del sauce gruñón que maldecía a los pájaros y ante la roca musgosa que sospechosamente se parecía a tu ex, se alzaba un tocón de árbol. No un tocón cualquiera: este ardía con mucha personalidad. Quemado por los bordes por un hechizo fallido (o acertado, según a qué bruja le preguntaras), y rodeado de hojas otoñales crujientes y rizadas, se había convertido en una especie de atracción local. No por el tocón en sí, claro está. A nadie le importaba un tocón, ni siquiera uno ligeramente chamuscado. Lo que atrajo a los curiosos, a los boquiabiertos y a los dibujantes no tan sutiles fue el bebé dragón agazapado justo encima. Del tamaño aproximado de un corgi, pero mucho más crítico, era una nube brillante de escamas color zafiro, cola puntiaguda y mirada de reojo. Su nombre —y no se atrevan a reírse— era Crispin T. Blort. La "T" significaba "Terror", aunque algunos afirmaban que significaba "Tiramisu" por un error de nombre relacionado con un postre y una cerveza. Sea como sea, la cuestión es que Crispin, sin lugar a dudas, lo había superado. Estaba harto de los elfos que no paraban de pasarse a darle palmaditas en la nariz. De los bardos medianos que escribían odas sobre sus adorables bolas de fuego. Y, sobre todo, de los influencers viajeros que lo envolvían en coronas de flores para sus TikToks de "Forest Core". ¡Era un DRAGÓN , no un bolso encantado! "Si me vuelves a tocar, te flambo las rótulas", advirtió una mañana, con una voz que, de alguna manera, sonaba adorable y profundamente amenazante. Una ardilla se quedó paralizada en pleno robo de bellotas y se desmayó de pura intimidación. O quizás por los vapores: Crispin había asado una tortilla de champiñones antes y, bueno, digamos que huevos más azufre es igual a atmósfera . A pesar de su tamaño, Crispin sabía que estaba destinado a la grandeza. Tenía sueños. Ambiciones. Un plan quinquenal que incluía tesoros, dominio y un asistente personal que no temiera a las garras. Pero por ahora, estaba atrapado defendiendo un tocón de árbol en medio de la nada de turistas bienintencionados y ardillas encantadas. Una mañana particularmente fresca, mientras las hojas se lanzaban en picado sincronizadas desde sus ramas, Crispin se despertó con el sonido de una risita. No de la inocente. No, era la inconfundible risita de alguien a punto de hacer algo completamente estúpido. Lentamente, con los ojos aún entrecerrados por el desdén, giró la cabeza hacia el ruido. Dos gnomos. Uno con una taza de purpurina. El otro con... ¿era un tutú? Los ojos de Crispin brillaron un poco más. Movió la cola. Su sonrisa burlona se extendió por su rostro como la de un gremlin chismoso. "Oh", ronroneó, crujiendo los nudillos (¿garras? ¿garras?), "¿ De verdad quieres hacer esto hoy?". Y ese, querido lector, fue el último momento de paz que Pinewood conocería durante mucho, mucho tiempo. Gnomos, brillo y alarde gratuito "Espera, ¿está sonriendo?", susurró el gnomo más pequeño, Fizzlestump, que sostenía la brillantina. Su amigo, Thimblewhack, se aferraba al tutú rosa como si fuera el Santo Grial de la humillación. Habían venido preparados. Habían ensayado sus diálogos. Incluso habían traído barras de avena encantadas como ofrendas de paz. Lo que no habían previsto era que el pequeño dragón en el tocón, a pesar de su adorable tamaño, sonreiría con sorna como un crupier de blackjack de Las Vegas a punto de arruinarles el dinero del alquiler. —Vamos —dijo Crispin, estirándose lánguidamente, abriendo las alas lo justo para que una lluvia de hojas secas les cayera en cascada a los gnomos—. Pónganme el tutú. ¡Haganlo! Te reto dos veces, Fizzle-lo-que-sea. Fizzlestump parpadeó. "¿Cómo supo mi nombre?" —Lo sé todo —ronroneó Crispin—. Como que todavía duermes con un osito de peluche llamado «Coronel Snugglenuts» y que tu prima intentó casarse con un nabo el solsticio de verano pasado. Thimblewhac dejó caer el tutú. —Que quede claro —continuó Crispin, levantándose lentamente, mientras el humo se le escapaba por la nariz como el incienso más atrevido del mundo—. No se le da brillo a un dragón. A menos que quieras tirarte chispas el resto de tu vida y oler a arrepentimiento mezclado con champú de flor de saúco. "Pero es para caridad", chilló Fizzlestump. —Soy una organización benéfica —espetó Crispin—. Soy lo suficientemente caritativo como para no incinerar tu colección de zapatos, que supongo que consiste solo en zuecos ortopédicos y una bota de cuero sospechosamente sexy. Con un solo aleteo, más por efecto dramático que por necesidad, Crispin saltó del tocón y aterrizó entre los dos gnomos. Chillaron al unísono, abrazándose como protagonistas de una comedia romántica de mala calidad. —Déjame enseñarte algo —dijo Crispin, arrastrando una garra por la tierra como si fuera a explicarles la estrategia de batalla a un par de remolachas conscientes—. Este es mi dominio. ¿Este tocón? Mío. ¿Ese trozo de musgo que huele raro cuando llueve? También mío. ¿Y ese árbol de ahí, el que tiene forma de dedo corazón? Sí. Le puse ese nombre por mi estado de ánimo. Fizzlestump y Thimblewhack, ambos temblando como ensalada de hojas en un túnel de viento, asintieron rápidamente. —Bueno. Mi filosofía es muy simple —continuó Crispin, dando vueltas lentamente a su alrededor como un tiburón azul peludo con una ética cuestionable—. Tú me haces brillar, yo te hago luz de gas. Tú me haces tutú, yo quemo tu jardín de topiarias. Tú me llamas "abrazos", y yo envío una carta contundente al Departamento de Control de Hexadecimales con todo tu historial de navegación. Fizzlestump se desplomó. Thimblewhak se ensució un poco; apenas se notó, en realidad. "PERO", dijo Crispin, ahora con una actitud dramática, como un actor esperando aplausos, "estoy dispuesto a perdonar. Creo en las segundas oportunidades. Creo en la redención. Y creo —profunda y sinceramente— en el servicio comunitario ". —Oh, gracias a las estrellas —jadeó Thimblewhac. “Esto es lo que va a pasar”, dijo Crispin, golpeando las garras como el metrónomo más atrevido del mundo. “Ustedes dos irán a la plaza del pueblo. Reunirán a la gente. Y presentarán una danza interpretativa titulada 'La Audacia del Gnomo' . Habrá utilería. Habrá purpurina. Y habrá acompañamiento musical a cargo de mi nuevo amigo, Gary, la Zarigüeya Gritona”. Gary, que había llegado durante el drama, soltó un grito espeluznante que sonó como una banshee intentando cantar disco. Los gnomos gimieron. —Y si te niegas —añadió Crispin con una sonrisa tan amplia que haría temblar el alma—, estornudaré directamente en tu vello facial. Que, como todos sabemos, está ligado mágicamente a tu reputación. Fizzlestump comenzó a llorar suavemente. —Buena charla —dijo Crispin, dándoles unas palmaditas suaves a cada uno con el cariño sarcástico que normalmente se reserva para las reuniones pasivo-agresivas de recursos humanos—. Ahora, váyanse. Tienen que prepararse con mucha energía. Mientras los gnomos se escabullían en una nube de vergüenza y brillo, Crispin se dejó caer sobre su muñón, con la cola enroscándose con satisfacción alrededor de sus garras. El bosque volvió a quedar en silencio; incluso el viento se detuvo, indeciso entre reír o hacer una reverencia. Desde las ramas, un viejo y sabio búho meneó la cabeza. «Vas a empezar una guerra, ¿sabes?». Crispin ni siquiera levantó la vista. "Bien. Traeré los malvaviscos". Y en algún lugar, en lo profundo del follaje encantado, la antigua magia de Pinewood se agitó... sintiendo que una tormenta, o al menos un espectáculo de talentos realmente dramático, estaba en camino. Humo, destellos y el despertar presumido La actuación de los gnomos impactó a Pinewood como un meteoro de glam rock. Los aldeanos se reunieron en la plaza esperando un festival de la cosecha, solo para ser recibidos por dos gnomos temblorosos con pantalones de cuero con lentejuelas, interpretando lo que solo podría describirse como un sueño febril, coreografiado por una banshee con TDAH y obsesionada con la purpurina. Gary, la Zarigüeya Gritona, ofreció una experiencia sonora que desafió el lenguaje humano y posiblemente varias ordenanzas sonoras. El momento culminante del espectáculo, aparte del momento en que Fizzlestump fue catapultado desde un cañón de hongos de papel maché, fue el solo de Thimblewhack, interpretando un contoneo titulado "No deberíamos habernos burlado del dragón". Los aldeanos estaban demasiado desconcertados como para interrumpir. Varios se desmayaron. Un viejo centauro lo declaró una experiencia religiosa y renunció a los pantalones para siempre. Crispin, observando desde lo alto de un charco mágico de adivinación en su guarida de tocones, se secó el rabillo del ojo con una hoja. «Arte», susurró. «Esto es lo que pasa cuando la venganza mezquina se encuentra con el jazz interpretativo». Y aunque la mayoría pensaba que el asunto se olvidaría en dos semanas, Pinewood tenía otros planes. La actuación despertó algo. No un mal ancestral literal —que seguía sellado bajo la taberna, roncando suavemente—, sino una onda expansiva cultural. Los aldeanos se sintieron inspirados. Se programaron competencias de baile entre especies. La venta de purpurina se disparó. El alcalde declaró todos los jueves a partir de entonces como el "Día de la Justicia Dramática". El lema del pueblo se actualizó a: "No tejemos dragones, los abrazamos". Por primera vez en generaciones, Pinewood no era solo un rincón tranquilo en los confines del reino. Era el lugar. Moderno. Impregnado de una alegría caótica. El tipo de pueblo donde gnomos, duendes y gremlins podían coexistir en una rareza colectiva. Crispin no solo inició un movimiento: incineró el reglamento y lo reemplazó con brillo, descaro y una revolución en pequeños bocados. Claro, no todos estaban entusiasmados. La Liga de Pureza del Bosque (fundada por una dríade cascarrabias que creía que el musgo era un rasgo de personalidad) intentó organizar una protesta. Terminó mal cuando Crispin retó a su líder a una batalla de rap y soltó versos tan encendidos que una piña se incendió a mitad de la rima. Mientras tanto, Crispin descubrió que su fama tenía sus ventajas. Las ofertas le llegaban a raudales. La realeza pedía clases de fuego. Los artistas le pedían pintar su "pose más enfadada". Alguien le envió una tumbona dorada. No sabía qué hacer con ella, así que la quemó. Para ambientar. Pero incluso con su creciente notoriedad, Crispin se mantuvo fiel a su postura. "No me voy", le dijo a un periodista del Enchanted Times , mientras saboreaba un capuchino con malvaviscos. "Esta es la zona cero del snarkquake. Además, mi cola se ve increíble con esta luz". Había creado una clientela. Cultivado una buena onda. Influyó en un pueblo y posiblemente en un pequeño semidiós que ahora insistía en llevar capas deslumbrantes. Su leyenda, como sus alas, seguía creciendo. Un anochecer, mientras los dragones comenzaban a susurrar sobre él en voz baja (principalmente "¿Cómo es que ese lagarto engreído recibe más correo de fans que el Gran Wyrm de Nork?"), Crispin yacía acurrucado sobre su muñón, con la cola moviéndose y los ojos brillando en la puesta de sol fundida. “Lo hice bien”, murmuró. Un erizo pasó con un ramo de flores y una carta de admiración de un club de fans llamado "Scalies for Sass". La aceptó con un gesto de la cabeza y de inmediato le prendió fuego. Para marcar. Y justo cuando empezaba a quedarse dormido, una brisa trajo palabras lejanas a través del bosque: “...¿Es ese el dragón que hizo bailar a los gnomos y golpeó a un unicornio en los sentimientos?” Crispin sonrió. No una sonrisa cualquiera. La sonrisa. Esa sonrisa petulante, maleducada y brillante que había dado pie a mil rutinas de baile torpes y al menos tres recitales de poesía. —Sí —susurró al viento, que brillaba tenuemente en la bruma del anochecer—. Lo soy. Y en algún lugar, entre los remolinos dorados del crepúsculo, nació una nueva leyenda: la del pequeño dragón en el tocón que conquistó un pueblo entero, con una sonrisa sarcástica a la vez. Trae a Crispin a casa (sin quemarte) Si te has enamorado de la genialidad y el sarcasmo de Crispin, no tienes que viajar al Bosque de Pinos para volver a verlo. Ya sea que quieras una dosis diaria de descaro en tu pared, tu sofá o incluso en tu papelería, hemos capturado su pose más icónica —cola enroscada, ojos brillantes, actitud al 110%— en una colección de regalos y láminas "Pequeño pero molesto" . Impresión en lienzo: Deja que la gloriosa taza escamosa de Crispin sea el centro de atención en tu pared. Perfecta para espacios que necesitan un toque de fuego o mucha personalidad. Consigue el lienzo aquí . Impresión enmarcada: Hazlo oficial. Enmarca esa sonrisa y deja que el mundo sepa que tu decoración tiene un toque especial. Enmarca tu fuego aquí . Tarjeta de felicitación: ¿Conoces a alguien que necesite un poco de energía de dragón? Envíale un mensaje descarado en formato estampable. Envíale una sonrisa aquí . Cuaderno espiral: Planea tu venganza, dibuja dragones sarcásticos o simplemente escribe tu lista de la compra como un experto. Consigue el tuyo aquí . Manta de vellón: Envuélvete en travesuras y suavidad con esta manta increíblemente suave que presenta al gremlin infernal favorito de todos. ¡Acurrúcate con el descaro aquí ! Crispin no muerde mucho. ¿Pero sus productos? Son impactantes. 🔥

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

El ataque de la gorra venenosa

El hongo con vistas Comenzó, como suele ocurrir con la mayoría de los cuentos ridículos, con una mentira ronroneante y una atrevida sentadilla sobre un hongo del tamaño de un taburete. Tabitha Nueve Vidas —mitad gata, mitad mujer, pura descaro— se posó con aire de suficiencia en su matamoscas favorito como si fuera su trono real. Su pelaje rayado brillaba en la húmeda luz del atardecer, agitando la cola con felina superioridad como si dijera: «Sí, soy absurdamente hermosa y posiblemente letal. Acéptalo». El bosque que la rodeaba rebosaba secretos. Literales: algunos árboles tenían bocas. Pero eso no venía al caso. El verdadero peligro era mucho menos botánico y mucho más... bípedo. Un nuevo jugador había entrado en el bosque. Un humano. Alto, confundido, irritantemente guapo, que olía a problemas de autoestima y a colonia carísima. Tabitha lo había estado observando durante tres días. Desde las copas de los árboles, bajo los helechos, a través de charcos ilusorios, lo de siempre. Él aún no lo sabía, pero ya estaba condenado. No porque el bosque fuera a devorarlo (aunque, para ser justos, algunas partes sí lo mordieron), sino porque ella había decidido que él era su próximo enigma. —No estás listo para mí —murmuró con un ronroneo, enroscando las garras alrededor del sombrero del hongo como si fuera un redoble de tambor—. Pero claro, ¿quién lo está? Se agachó aún más, con los ojos brillando en la penumbra como lunas gemelas al acecho. Movió las orejas. Ya estaba cerca. Crujiendo hojas con la sutileza de un niño pequeño con zapatos de claqué. Los humanos eran criaturas gloriosamente poco sigilosas. Como si un sándwich de jamón intentara unirse a una secta ninja. Aun así, este tenía curiosidad. Les había hecho preguntas a los árboles. Había intentado acariciar un arbusto espinoso (que se había echado a perder). Y anoche, miró directamente a una culebra y le dijo: "Oye, ¿hablas?". Ay, cariño. Tabitha no se había reído tanto desde que la Reina Dríade intentó coquetear con un espantapájaros. Casi se cae de un pino. Lo cual, para una mujer gato, fue profundamente vergonzoso. Pero también valió la pena. Ahora era el momento de intensificar las cosas. Se lamió el dorso de la pata (más que nada por efecto), ajustó sus atributos y susurró un hechizo con un ligero olor a canela y arrepentimiento. Un remolino dorado brilló alrededor de sus garras. El cebo estaba listo. Porque esta noche, no solo observaba. Iba a contactar. O, mejor dicho, iba a jugar con su presa como un puntero láser sobre metanfetamina. ¿Y si el pobre chico sobrevivía? Quizás, solo quizás, se ganaría el derecho a saber su verdadero nombre. Pero probablemente no. Se abalanzó sobre el hongo, aterrizando con un sonido apenas sonoro. Su silueta desapareció entre las zarzas en sombras, con la cola curvada como un signo de interrogación tras ella. La caza había comenzado oficialmente. Migas de pan, cebo y el niño que debería haber regresado Wesley Crane no estaba teniendo una buena semana. Primero, lo dejaron por mensaje (con un emoji de por medio: un cactus, curiosamente), luego su GPS lo llevó a un campamento que no existía, y ahora estaba irremediablemente perdido en un bosque que definitivamente no debería existir. Así no. Los árboles eran demasiado altos. La niebla era demasiado cálida. Y habría jurado que el musgo tenía pulso. "Esto está bien", murmuró, pasando por encima de un hongo que brillaba sospechosamente e intentando sonar seguro, lo que lo hacía parecer aún más un becario corporativo fingiendo saber usar Excel. "Perfecto. Solo una ruta de senderismo muy inmersiva. No pasa nada. Esa ardilla probablemente no llevaba una daga". Mientras tanto, Tabitha observaba desde las altas ramas de un tejo torcido, que se extendía lánguidamente como la sombra rayada del juicio. Había acariciado la idea de dejar que el bosque se lo tragara —como había hecho con tantos poetas decepcionantes y terraplanistas—, pero había algo en este hombre-niño en particular que la divertía. La forma en que se estremecía ante las hojas. La forma en que maldecía en voz baja, como quien cree que las palabrotas deberían racionarse. La forma en que murmuraba disculpas a los árboles como si fueran sensibles. Era, en una palabra, delicioso . "Veamos qué tal te va con las migas de pan", susurró, y señaló con los dedos el sendero. Al instante, un camino de hongos floreció en una espiral perfecta, brillando tenuemente y liberando la cantidad justa de esporas alucinógenas para hacerle brillar la vista. Hizo una pausa, parpadeó dos veces y luego rió. "Genial. Hongos bioluminiscentes. Nada amenazantes". Él pisó el camino. Tabitha sonrió. "Bien hecho." Se adentró más y más, serpenteando por el bosque, lleno de ilusiones. El aire se volvió más denso, más soñador. Pasó junto a una fuente de piedra que cantaba melodías de Broadway. Una taza de té flotante le ofreció miel. Un gran caracol con monóculo siseó: «No confíes en los helechos». Wesley, pobrecito, le dio las gracias con sinceridad y lo saludó. Para cuando llegó al claro, estaba medio alucinando y completamente encantado. Ante él se alzaba un claro de setas de sombrero rojo, todas silenciosas, todas observando. ¿Y en el centro? La seta más grande y audaz de todas. Vacío. Como un trono sin reina. “Me siento como si me estuvieran engañando”, dijo en voz alta. —Oh, sí que lo eres —dijo la voz. Suave como la crema, afilada como garras. Wesley se dio la vuelta y allí estaba ella. Tabitha emergió de entre los árboles con la gracia despreocupada de quien sin duda te ha estado acechando y está cien por cien orgullosa de ello. Su pelaje brillaba con un crepúsculo de puntas doradas, sus orejas se movían con petulante superioridad. Y esos ojos... portales gemelos de travesuras cósmicas. Se detuvo lo suficientemente cerca como para resultar inquietante, golpeándose el muslo con un dedo con garra con un toque teatral. —Entonces —ronroneó—, ¿siempre sigues a los hongos brillantes hasta claros misteriosos, o hoy es un día especial? —Eh —dijo Wesley, cuyo cerebro acababa de estrellarse contra un charco de hormonas y terror—. Yo... bueno... los hongos... ——Obedecías a un rastro de migas de pan de hongos como un personaje secundario de Disney. —Lo rodeó, lenta y mesurada—. Atrevido. Estúpido. Probablemente reprimido. Pero atrevido. Wesley intentó no girar la cabeza cuando ella pasó detrás de él, con la cola enroscada hacia su hombro. "¿Qué eres?", logró decir. Hizo una pausa. "Ay, cariño. Si tuviera un hongo por cada hombre que me ha preguntado eso..." Movió una garra y una pequeña nube de esporas se elevó en el aire. "Pero imaginemos que eres nuevo y virgen. Empecemos con los nombres. Puedes llamarme Tabitha". "¿Es ese tu verdadero nombre?" Ella entrecerró los ojos. "¿Acabas de preguntarle a una depredadora del bosque que cambia de forma su nombre de gobierno?" Wesley se arrepintió inmediatamente de sus decisiones de vida. "Mira", dijo, levantando las manos, "creo que me equivoqué de camino. No quiero... o sea, no quiero problemas. Solo quiero salir de aquí y quizás pedir un Uber". —Cariño —dijo Tabitha, acercándose—, te adentraste en un bosque encantado con GPS, AirPods y ansiedad. No te equivocaste. Fuiste elegida. “¿Elegidos para qué?” Ella se inclinó, su nariz casi rozó la de él. Su voz se convirtió en un susurro: «Ese es el misterio». Y entonces se fue. Desapareció. No desapareció como "corrió al bosque", sino como un puf, un chasquido, un drama rodeado de humo. Solo quedó una tenue huella de polvo dorado donde había estado. Wesley se quedó solo en el claro, con el corazón latiendo en los oídos, preguntándose si lo habría imaginado todo. Detrás de él, los hongos rieron suavemente. No con bocas —eso sería ridículo—, sino con esporas. Esporas invisibles y burlonas. Se sentó en el borde del trono de hongos y suspiró. En algún lugar, un búho ululó los primeros acordes de "Careless Whisper". Esta noche se estaba poniendo rara. Y estaba lejos de terminar. La garra y el contrato Wesley no durmió esa noche. No por miedo —aunque el árbol que susurraba suavemente "snacc" en su dirección no ayudaba—, sino porque no podía quitársela de encima. La silueta felina. El sarcasmo aterciopelado. La forma en que lo había mirado, como un bibliotecario aburrido hojeando una novela romántica mal archivada. No era amor. Demonios, ni siquiera era lujuria. Era peor. Fue curiosidad . Tenía la clara sensación de que lo habían catalogado. Pesado. Posiblemente lamido. Y que el bosque solo esperaba a ver qué hacía a continuación. Las esporas flotaban como luciérnagas perezosas. En algún lugar cercano, un par de hongos bailaban lento al ritmo del swing jazz. Había intentado caminar en línea recta durante una hora. ¿El resultado? Terminó exactamente donde empezó: en el trono de hongos. Y hacía calor. Eso era lo peor. La recordaba. —De acuerdo —murmuró al musgo—. Me rindo. Forest 1, Wesley 0. “Técnicamente, soy el jugador más valioso del bosque”, ronroneó una voz familiar, “pero acepto el cumplido”. Ahora estaba recostada en una rama baja, boca abajo, con la cola balanceándose perezosamente y el escote sin complejos. La imagen del caos en reposo. Él no gritó. Había pasado la fase de los gritos hacía horas y ahora estaba sumido en una resignación impasible. "Estás jugando conmigo", dijo. "Claro", dijo alegremente, dando una voltereta y aterrizando a cuatro patas como un pecado en movimiento. "Pero me meto con todo el mundo. El truco está en saber por qué ". Frunció el ceño. «Dijiste que me habían elegido». —Lo hice. Y lo eres. Elegida para tomar una decisión. —Volvió a rodearlo, pero ahora más despacio. Menos depredadora, más... performativa—. No eres la primera en tropezar aquí. La mayoría no pasa de los hongos. Tú sí. Eso dice mucho. “¿Que soy crédulo?” Que eres curioso. La gente curiosa es peligrosa. O destruyen sistemas o mueren espectacularmente en el intento. “¿Y si sólo quiero volver a casa?” Se detuvo. Inclinó la cabeza. "Entonces te acompañaré hasta el límite del bosque yo misma". "¿En realidad?" —No —dijo rotundamente—. Este bosque se traga las señales de GPS y vomita metáforas. No te irás hasta que escuches la oferta. “¿Y ahora qué?” Dio una palmada con sus garras. Saltaron chispas. Un rollo de corteza y musgo dorado apareció en el aire y se abrió con un chasquido audible. La tinta brilló. —Un deseo —dijo—. El bosque manda. Llegaste al trono. Conociste al guardián. Soy yo, por cierto, por si aún te estás poniendo al día. Así que tienes un deseo. Wesley miró el pergamino. «Hay letra pequeña». Claro que hay letra pequeña. ¿Qué te crees que es esto, Disneylandia? "¿Cuál es el truco?" —Bueno, podrías desear dinero. Pero el bosque no entiende de impuestos. Podrías desear amor, pero probablemente vendrá en forma de un kelpie peligrosamente codependiente. O —dijo, estirándose perezosamente—, podrías desear lo que realmente quieres. “¿Y eso qué es?” Ella estaba detrás de él, con la barbilla apoyada en su hombro. «Aventura. Misterio. Algo real en un mundo donde todo parece haber pasado por un filtro de contenido y te lo han vendido en un anuncio». Se giró. Sostuvo su mirada. "¿Eso es lo que esto significa para ti? ¿Un trabajo?" Parpadeó. Por primera vez, su máscara se quebró, solo un poquito. «Para eso estoy hecha». “Eso suena solitario.” Gruñó por lo bajo. "No me trates como un humano, Wes. Te vomitaré en los zapatos". Solo digo... que quizás no tengas que estar sola en este bosque. Quizás quieras que alguien te elija por una vez. Silencio. Luego: «Dilo otra vez y te aparearé con un zorro parlante para siempre». "No dijiste que no." Ella lo miró fijamente. Entrecerró los ojos. "Pide tu deseo". Extendió la mano y tocó el pergamino. Su voz era firme. «Quiero saber la verdad sobre este bosque... y sobre ti». El pergamino estalló en llamas. Los árboles se inclinaron. El viento contuvo la respiración. Tabitha no se movió. Sus pupilas se encogieron hasta convertirse en rendijas. "Tú... idiota. Podrías haber tenido oro. Inmortalidad. Tríos con dríades. ¿Y me elegiste a mí ?" Se encogió de hombros. "Eres más interesante". Ella se abalanzó. No como antes. No era un depredador atacando; era algo más parecido a la gravedad. Aterrizó sobre él, con las garras desenvainadas, pero con cuidado, con el aliento caliente en su mejilla. —No sabes lo que has hecho —susurró—. Te has atado al bosque. A mí. "Me arriesgaré." "Ahora eres mío, Wes." "Lo supuse." Y cuando el bosque estalló en luz dorada y risas, los árboles danzaron, los hongos silbaron y el camino finalmente se reveló, Tabitha lo besó con un ronroneo y un gruñido. El bosque lo había elegido de nuevo. Si ya tienes un vínculo emocional con Tabitha y te mueres de ganas de llevarte un trocito de su mundo a casa, estás de suerte. "El Salto del Gorro Venenoso" está disponible como lienzo con calidad de galería o como pieza de pared enmarcada para llevar ese descaro del bosque a tu guarida. ¿Te apetece acurrucarte con un misterio ronroneante? Hay una manta de lana supersuave que te envolverá en la magia del bosque. ¿Prefieres algo interactivo? Prueba la versión rompecabezas , porque nada representa un "ritual de unión caótico" como 500 trocitos de gato y hongo. O bien, anota tus propias aventuras traviesas en la edición de cuaderno espiral , perfecta para hechizos, secretos o reflexiones sorprendentemente profundas sobre caracoles parlantes.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Ribbit en flor

El problema de la floración Floberto no era una rana cualquiera. Para empezar, odiaba el barro. Lo despreciaba por completo. Decía que chapoteaba entre sus dedos de una forma que le parecía "indecorosa". Prefería las cosas limpias, coloridas y con una fragancia espectacular. Mientras las demás ranas parloteaban alegremente bajo los nenúfares, Floberto soñaba con cosas más finas, como pétalos de rosa, champán de lluvia y, solo una vez, con la serenata de un cuarteto de jazz durante una tormenta. Sus sueños eran motivo constante de burla entre sus compañeros de estanque. "No hablarás en serio, Floberto", siseó Grelch, una vieja rana gruñona con un croar como el de una rueda pinchada. "¿Rosas? ¡Tienen espinas , idiota!". Pero a Floberto no le importó. Estaba decidido a encontrar una flor que combinara con su... ambiente. Así que, una mañana empapada de rocío, saltó del borde del estanque y se adentró en el Gran Jardín del Más Allá. La leyenda decía que estaba gobernado por una monarca llamada Maribelle la Gata, quien una vez se comió una ardilla simplemente por parecer demasiado nerviosa. Floberto, con el arrogancia de una rana que hidrata, no se dejó intimidar. Pasaron las horas, y saltó entre campos de nomeolvides, se agachó bajo las hortensias y por poco se convirtió en el avistamiento accidental de una abeja dentro de un tulipán. Estaba a punto de rendirse, a medio salto, cuando lo olió. Ese perfume ... Especiado, cítrico, el tipo de olor que decía: «Sí, cariño, soy un poco excesivo». Allí estaba, brillando bajo el sol de la mañana como una llamada real. Una rosa. Pero no una rosa cualquiera. Esta era enorme , con pétalos como terciopelo bañados por el atardecer, desplegándose en cálidas espirales de ámbar, oro y un toque de amenaza. Parecía peligrosa y fabulosa. Justo como a Floberto le gustaban sus perspectivas románticas. Sin dudarlo, saltó al centro, acurrucándose entre los exuberantes pliegues de la flor. Y así, desapareció. Desde fuera, era imposible verlo. Era como si la rosa lo hubiera absorbido por completo en un acto de coqueteo floral. Desde dentro, Floberto sonrió. «Por fin», canturreó, «un trono digno de mis muslos». Por desgracia, lo que no sabía era que esta rosa no era solo una flor. Estaba encantada. Y no con un encanto dulce, al estilo Disney. Más bien, «maldecida por un horticultor coqueto y con problemas de confianza». En el momento en que Floberto acomodó su trasero en un pétalo particularmente grueso, la rosa se estremeció. Las enredaderas se curvaron hacia adentro. El polen brilló como purpurina atrapada en un hechizo. Y con un último eructo de energía mágica, Floberto la Rana se fusionó con la flor de una manera que ningún terapeuta anfibio jamás podría explicar. Parpadeó. Sus piernas seguían allí. Sus rasgos de rana, intactos. Pero también los pétalos, ahora parte de él: envueltos sobre sus hombros como una capa, floreciendo en su espalda como alas y enroscándose alrededor de su cabeza como un sombrero vanguardista hecho por un florista trastornado con sueños parisinos. —De acuerdo —dijo al cielo—. Esto no es un problema. Es una marca. En algún lugar entre los setos, una ardilla que observaba todo dejó caer su bellota y susurró: "¿Qué demonios...?" Coronado de descaro, empapado de destino Ahora bien, algunas ranas podrían entrar en pánico al encontrarse fusionadas con una flor encantada. Algunas podrían gritar, saltar descontroladamente en una nube de polen o lanzarse a croar frenéticamente mientras exigen una audiencia con el mago más cercano. Pero Floberto no. ¡Oh, no! Se ajustó el collar de pétalos, sacudió los hombros con aire de suficiencia para comprobar el movimiento de su nuevo volante floral y declaró: «¡Soy oficialmente despampanante!». Después de un breve momento de autoadmiración y dos más solo por seguridad, Floberto hizo lo que cualquier quimera de rana-flor con respeto y un don para lo dramático haría: adoptó una pose y esperó a que lo descubrieran. Lo cual, como quiso el destino y la política del jardín, no tomó mucho tiempo. Entra: Maribelle la gata . Ahora bien, Maribelle no era la típica felina de jardín. No estaba allí para que le acariciaran la panza ni para que le dispararan. No, era la autoproclamada Reina del Jardín: una elegante gata atigrada gris ahumado con ojos dorados y una afición por arrancarles la cabeza a los gnomos de jardín. La leyenda decía que una vez se enfrentó a un halcón y ganó con solo un bostezo sarcástico y un zarpazo en la cara. Maribelle no mandaba en el jardín. Lo cuidaba . Lo editaba. Todo lo que no encajaba con su estética era orinado o enterrado. Entonces, cuando llegaron a sus oídos nerviosos susurros de que algo “extraño y colorido” estaba floreciendo en la zona oeste sin su permiso, se acercó con la amenaza lenta y deliberada de alguien a quien nunca le habían dicho “no”. Llegó entre un crujido de hojas y desprecio, con la cola en alto y las pupilas entrecerradas como rendijas sentenciosas. Al ver a Floberto —encaramado en su glorioso trono de rosas, todo ojos, pétalos y petulante autosatisfacción—, se detuvo. Parpadeó. Se sentó de golpe. "¿Qué demonios eres, orgánico y compostable?", preguntó ella lentamente. Floberto, tranquilo y radiante, ladeó la cabeza. «Soy la evolución, cariño». Maribelle resopló. «Pareces un bufé de ensaladas con una crisis de identidad». “Cumplido aceptado.” El gato movió la cola. «No deberías estar aquí. Este es mi jardín. Me gustan las plantas. Duermo la siesta bajo los helechos y de vez en cuando mato ratones bajo la luz de la luna. Eres... un caos». Floberto le dirigió un lento parpadeo que rivalizaba con el de cualquier felino. «Soy arte. Soy naturaleza. Soy drama ». "Eres una rana en una flor." “Soy un ícono floral y exijo reconocimiento”. Maribelle estornudó en su dirección y luego empezó a lamerse la pata agresivamente, como si quisiera borrar de su mente el concepto mismo de su presencia. «Los pulgones van a sindicalizarse por esto». Pero mientras lo lamía y lo miraba de reojo, algo extraño empezó a suceder. Las abejas revoloteaban cerca de Floberto, pero no picaban. El viento soplaba suavemente a su alrededor. Incluso los tulipanes, normalmente presumidos, se inclinaban ligeramente en su dirección. Todo el jardín, al parecer, le prestaba atención. —Esto no es solo un encantamiento —murmuró Maribelle—. Es una disrupción social . Caminaba lentamente en círculo alrededor de la rosa de Floberto, con la cola moviéndose como una señal de wifi en una tormenta. «Has fusionado planta y animal. Has desdibujado la binariedad ecosistémica. Has creado algo… inquietantemente elegante». Floberto graznó con timidez. «Gracias. No es fácil ser innovador y a la vez húmedo». Y ahí fue cuando ocurrió. El cambio. El primer momento real de transformación, no solo de cuerpo, sino de estatus. Una oruga, anteriormente conocida en el jardín por su severa ansiedad y negativa a mudar, trepó temblorosamente por un tallo de margarita y chilló: "Me gusta". Entonces un colibrí pasó rápidamente, se detuvo en el aire y murmuró: "Estás enfermo, amigo". Y entonces, entonces , un diente de león se hinchó y susurró en la brisa: “Ícono”. Maribelle se quedó atónita. Por primera vez desde que se declaró reina (tras un dramático enfrentamiento con una desbrozadora), algo había cambiado en la estructura de poder del jardín. Floberto no solo se había insertado en su reino, sino que había comenzado a redefinirlo. —Bien —gruñó—. ¿Quieres reconocimiento? Lo tendrás. Mañana celebramos la Asamblea del Jardín. Y si las criaturas votan por mantener tu elegante ranita aquí... lo permitiré. Pero si no, si prefieren el orden a la locura envuelta en pétalos, te patearé de vuelta al barro, por muy bien vestida que estés. Floberto sonrió con sorna, sin ningún tipo de amenaza. «Muy bien. Prepararé mi discurso. Y mis hombros. Necesitan brillo». Esa noche, Floberto no durmió. En parte porque la rosa le hacía cosquillas al inhalar demasiado, pero sobre todo porque estaba planeando. Su discurso tendría que ser contundente. Transformador. Necesitaba hablarle al alma de cada hierba subestimada, de cada lombriz de tierra olvidada, de cada polilla que alguna vez quiso ser mariposa pero temía el juicio de las dalias. Se convertiría en el símbolo de la floración donde tú , sin duda, no estabas plantado. Y si para ello tenía que usar una capa de flores y coquetear con una reina gata gruñona, que así fuera. "Que el jardín intente contenerme", susurró, recortando su silueta dramática contra la rosa iluminada por la luna. "Que florezcan conmigo... o se queden en el montón de compost de la irrelevancia". La asamblea de Bloom y Doom La mañana llegó no con el canto de los pájaros, sino con murmullos. El susurro del polen. El zumbido de las abejas. Un nervioso susurro de hojas que decía: «Algo está pasando, y quizá necesitemos algo para picar». Maribelle había convocado a todos los seres vivos del jardín, excepto al topo, que se negaba a salir sin un abogado. Desde los majestuosos narcisos hasta las hormigas, confundidas existencialmente, todos acudieron a la Gran Asamblea del Jardín, celebrada (de forma un tanto inoportuna) bajo el enrejado de frambuesas, conocido por su iluminación irregular y sus demandas por espinas. Maribelle se encaramó sobre una roca con forma de falo accidental y se dirigió a la multitud con toda la cansada condescendencia de un monarca al que le habían pedido que presentara un concurso de talentos contra su voluntad. “Criaturas del jardín”, bostezó, “nos reunimos hoy para determinar si este... accidente floral anfibio se queda entre nosotros o es expulsado por crímenes contra la continuidad estética”. Floberto se aclaró la garganta —o, más precisamente, graznó con confianza— y saltó a un podio de dalias que alguien había erigido disimuladamente con cordel y optimismo. Sus pétalos brillaron. Sus ojos brillaron con húmeda convicción. Y, como si la naturaleza misma estuviera avalando su vibra, una mariposa solitaria se posó en su hombro de pétalos como una gota de micrófono biodegradable. “Compañeros fotosintetizadores y polinizadores”, comenzó, “no vengo a dividir este jardín, sino a florecer con intenciones temerarias ”. Se escucharon jadeos. Un diente de león se desmayó. En algún lugar del fondo, un escarabajo del pino aplaudió y al instante se sintió cohibido. —Verás —continuó, dando saltos lentos y majestuosos—, nos han dicho que debemos ser plantas o animales. Debemos elegir entre tierra o rocío. Patas u hojas. Pero ¿y si te dijera que podemos ser ambas cosas ? Que podríamos saltar y relajarnos bajo el sol. Que podríamos bromear mientras olemos de maravilla. La multitud estaba absorta. Incluso los pepinillos, normalmente desinteresados ​​en cualquier tema político, se inclinaron hacia adelante. No nací en una rosa. Me convertí en una. Por elección propia. Por accidente. Por encanto. ¿Quién sabe? Pero al hacerlo, me convertí en algo más que la suma de mi baba. Desde el estrado, Maribelle entrecerró los ojos. "¿Es esto... poesía performática?" “Es un manifiesto ”, susurró una mariposa monarca, que una vez fue a un taller en Brooklyn y no paraba de hablar de ello. Floberto abrió los pétalos y respiró hondo. «Hay criaturas aquí que nunca han sabido lo que significa sentirse visto . Los pulgones que bailan ballet en secreto. La babosa que escribe novelas románticas bajo seudónimo. El gusano con un miedo paralizante a los túneles. Estoy aquí para ellos ». “Y además”, añadió, “porque me veo fabuloso y no puedes dejar de mirarme ”. Un coro de chillidos agudos surgió de un grupo de hongos adolescentes. Una ardilla se agarró el pecho. Una mariquita susurró: "¿Es posible... estar metido en esto?". Entonces, desde atrás, se escuchó una voz lenta, pegajosa y de una sinceridad devastadora. Era Gregory el Caracol , famoso por sus cuestionables poemas de amor y su caligrafía basada en senderos. “Me hizo sentir… polinizada… en mi alma.” La multitud se desató en el caos. Las enredaderas se retorcían de emoción. Las abejas chocaron las cinco accidentalmente en el aire. Un topo emergió , pero solo para declarar: «Soy bisexual y esta rana me hace creer en la reencarnación». Maribelle siseó pidiendo silencio, pero ya era demasiado tarde. Una revolución había comenzado. No de espadas ni de garras, sino de identidad . De glamour . De autoexpresión sin complejos mediante la mutación botánica. Y así se hizo. Por una votación aplastante (tres larvas se abstuvieron alegando “confusión”), a Florto no solo se le permitió quedarse, sino que fue coronado como el primer Embajador de la Extrañeza Floral y las Vibras Sin Complicidades . Maribelle, con toda la gracia que pudo, se acercó a él. «Bien jugado», murmuró, lamiéndose una pata y ajustándose suavemente un pétalo. «Sigues siendo insoportable, pero eres... efectivo». Floberto hizo una reverencia. «Gracias, majestad. Soy como el moho: imposible de ignorar, y a veces poético». Y así, el jardín cambió. Solo un poco. Lo justo. Nuevas flores empezaron a brotar con formas extrañas. La oruga finalmente se transformó en una mariposa con un rayo bisexual en las alas. La babosa publicó su novela bajo el nombre de "Velvet Wiggle". Y Maribelle, aunque nunca lo admitiría, empezó a dormir bajo el rosal donde vivía Floberto, lo suficientemente cerca como para oír sus afirmaciones nocturnas. Estoy húmeda. Soy magnífica. Soy suficiente. Y a la luz de la luna, el jardín susurró: "Croco". ¿Te encanta la fabulosa belleza floral de Floberto? Lleva la gracia y el esplendor de "Ribbit in Bloom" a tu mundo con una variedad de productos de arte diseñados para florecer en tu pared o en tu mesa de centro. Ya sea que te entusiasme una lámina enmarcada que llame la atención, una elegante lámina metálica con carácter o una lujosa lámina acrílica que brille con dramatismo, Florberto lo tiene todo. Si prefieres una experiencia más interactiva, prueba el rompecabezas (es como una terapia con ranas). O envía una sonrisa por correo con una atrevida tarjeta de felicitación . Florezcas como florezcas, florece con valentía.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Torbellino de alas y maravillas

El niño salvaje de Snapdragon Row Había un alboroto en el jardín otra vez. No el típico —el karaoke de abejorros, los círculos de cotilleos de tulipanes o el ocasional duelo de ardillas—, no, esto era una tormenta de brillo y caos. Y en el ojo del huracán de tonos pastel se arremolinaba una mancha de rizos rosa fucsia, botas pesadas y una actitud indiferente a la hora de dormir, las reglas o los calcetines con la goma adecuada. ¿Su nombre? Pippa Petalwhip . Edad: seis ciclos y tres cuartos de hadas. Estado: completamente desatendido. Su cabello tenía esa especie de pelusilla fucsia eléctrica que desafiaba peines, lazos y las mismas leyes de la resistencia al viento. Llevaba una corona de flores como una amenaza real. Sus alas no eran tanto delicadas como expresivas: se agitaban con agitación cuando la regañaban, se expandían dramáticamente durante las rabietas y, de vez en cuando, golpeaba las rosas del vecino solo por su presunción. Pippa era, como decía su abuela apretando los dientes, «un lío de problemas con purpurina para adornar». Vivía en el Distrito de los Jardines de Wigglyglade, un acogedor rincón tras una hilera de hortensias, entre el viejo gnomo de jardín con el problema de la taza y un macizo de dientes de león muy críticos. Allí, Pippa gobernaba con furia y un corazón lleno de disparates. En este día particularmente soleado y lluvioso, se había autoproclamado "Reina de las Flores Tempestuosas" y organizaba un desfile floral. Era la única participante. Marchaba sola. Tocaba su mirlitón como un cuerno de batalla, sus alas brillaban a la luz, lanzando polen como confeti. Las peonías intentaban erguirse y mostrarse dignas, pero temblaban ligeramente con cada pisada de sus botas. "¡Abran paso a la Majestad!", bramó, casi tropezando con una oruga somnolienta. Su mono —rosa, con bolsillos y remendado con un bordado cuestionable— ondeaba con cada pirueta. Un calcetín había desaparecido a media mañana y se creía perdido en manos de la mafia de los erizos. El que le quedaba se había dado por vencido y se le había enrollado hasta la mitad del tobillo, aferrándose con uñas y dientes. ¿Y sus botas? ¡Oh, eran armas de enorme ternura, con un ruido metálico y pesado como una banda de música traviesa con problemas de ritmo! Pippa tenía una misión hoy. Se rumoreaba que una hada anciana (de unos treinta años) había escondido una vara mágica cerca del campo de ruibarbos. Una vara, en el lenguaje de las hadas, era un objeto sagrado capaz de provocar risas interminables, flatulencias impredecibles y la capacidad de convertir babosas en macarrones. Obviamente, había que encontrarla de inmediato. Armada con una bellota lupa, un tenedor de jardín llamado Stabby y dos malvaviscos para "negociaciones de emergencia", Pippa comenzó su búsqueda. Sus alas zumbaban de anticipación, sus botas pisaban con determinación, y las margaritas susurraban entre sí en suspenso nervioso. "Oh, no", suspiró una. "Se está metiendo en la zona de los tulipanes. Son... delicados". De hecho, los tulipanes eran notoriamente estirados. Formaban filas ordenadas, votaban sobre los arreglos de pétalos y celebraban reuniones de la asociación de propietarios sobre el ruido de los colibríes. Mientras Pippa saltaba entre ellos con la gracia de una bala de cañón en tutú, un jadeo de asombro resonó entre los tallos. —¡SEÑORITA PETALWHIP! —chilló Madame Tulipia, la flor principal—. ¡Esto es un barrio, no un hipódromo para vándalos de la purpurina! Pippa sonrió con la alegría impenitente de una niña que sabía muy bien que tenía inmunidad diplomática por ser escandalosamente adorable. "Estoy en una misión real", declaró. "¡Por decreto mío!" —Oh, dulces retoños —gimió la lavanda—. ¡Otra vez tiene un decreto! Pero nada pudo detenerla: ni las reglas, ni los tulipanes, ni siquiera el pequeño enjambre de mosquitos furiosos que la confundieron con un food truck de flores. Con un giro, un ulular y un sonido de kazoo que sobresaltó a un caracol que pasaba y lo hizo dar una voltereta hacia atrás, Pippa desapareció entre la hierba alta, en busca de magia, caos y, posiblemente, un bocadillo. No tenía mapa, ni plan, ni la menor idea de lo que hacía. Pero tenía sus botas. Y su corona. Y un corazón lleno de asombro. Y eso, querido lector, fue suficiente. De palos de golf, señores gusanos ondulantes y la insoportable formalidad de los tulipanes Pippa Petalwhip se adentraba ya en las tierras salvajes de la frontera del jardín, más allá de la república de la albahaca pulcramente podada y mucho más allá del peaje de caracoles (que se había saltado, prometiendo «pagar con publicidad»). Su misión de encontrar el mítico palo de palo la había llevado a territorios solo trazados en mapas de crayón y susurrados por hongos risueños con motivos cuestionables. El primer obstáculo real apareció poco después de un pequeño desvío por las Huecas Musgosas, donde confundió un erizo dormido con un puf de guijarros y fue expulsada a la fuerza por su indignado meneito de trasero. Pippa se sacudió el polvo, se sacó una abrojo de las bragas y se dirigió directamente al Subterráneo de las Lombrices. Hay que decir que los gusanos no estaban preparados para ella. —No puedes irrumpir así como así —farfulló un nervioso gusano diplomático con un monóculo hecho con un anillo de gota de rocío—. ¡Esta es una reunión a puerta cerrada del consejo de los Señores del Gusano! —Soy de la realeza —explicó Pippa con la mayor sinceridad—. Mira mi corona. Fue tejida por abejas y arrepentimiento. "Está hecho de margaritas y un Fruit Loop", murmuró otro gusano. Sin inmutarse, Pippa se dejó caer, con las botas por delante, sobre una piedra musgosa y empezó a desenvolver un palito de queso. «Mira, solo estoy de paso. Estoy buscando el legendario Palito de Giggleglen. Se supone que está cerca del ruibarbo. O quizás en la pila de compost. Las indicaciones eran vagas. Además, estoy un poco perdida». Los gusanos intercambiaron miradas blanditas. "¿Te refieres al antiguo palo de pedos?" susurró uno con reverencia. —¡Canta! —jadeó otro—. ¡Y brilla! ¡Y una vez hizo que un mapache se riera hasta caerse en un tocón! "¿Hace chistes de pedos?" Pippa se iluminó como un cohete con coletas. "Tengo que tenerlo." —Hay pruebas —entonó el gusano, enroscándose dramáticamente en la forma de un pergamino—. Pruebas de corazón, coraje y etiqueta de excavación. Pippa entrecerró los ojos. «Puedo recitar la Rima Sagrada de los Reinos del Jardín», ofreció. “Puedes continuar”, dijo el gusano, sin estar completamente seguro de si eso era real o no. Y así cantó, con pleno dramatismo: “La albahaca es mandona, el tomillo siempre llega tarde, Chismes sobre dientes de león y debates sobre lechuga. Los gusanos son ondulados y los tulipanes están tensos. ¡Pero tengo botas rosas y estoy listo para luchar! Hubo un momento de silencio atónito, seguido de un aplauso lento y suave. "En serio", susurró el gusano, "esa bofetada". Y con eso, la guiaron hacia el túnel secreto, custodiado por un ciempiés solitario y muy cansado que la dejó pasar con un encogimiento de hombros y una caja de jugo. Siguió adelante, murmurando para sí misma: «Apuesto a que soy la única hada de este lado de la pila de compost con credibilidad callejera y un mirlitón». Mientras tanto, en Tuliptown, la asociación de flores del barrio estaba en plena crisis. Madame Tulipia caminaba en espirales furiosas, con los pétalos marchitándose por el estrés. —Tenemos que enviar una delegación —dijo con desdén—. ¡Esa niña es un peligro! ¡Una amenaza vivaz ! Los narcisos asintieron sabiamente, las violetas lloraron de terror y un girasol soltero y solitario sugirió: "¿O podríamos simplemente... dejarla en paz?" —Estás soltera —espetó Tulipia—, tu opinión no es válida. Y así fue como formaron un comité, como hacen todas las pesadillas burocráticas, y enviaron un grupo de exploración de tres dragones ligeramente reacios a seguir el rastro de brillantina y migas de kazoo. Mientras tanto, Pippa emergió en los Desechos de Compost, una región temida por todos por su ambiente penetrante y sus cáscaras de plátano rebeldes. Olía a pavor existencial y cáscaras de patata. Pero allí, brillando tenuemente bajo un higo a medio comer y una cuchara sospechosamente limpia, yacía el objeto de su búsqueda: El palo de golf. Era magnífico. Una varita retorcida de roble y sasafrás, tallada con glifos en una escritura antigua y sospechosamente infantil. El mango estaba envuelto en cinta brillante. Zumbaba con alegría contenida y magia cuestionable. —¡Escucha! —susurró Pippa, chupándose un dedo y levantándolo—. Los vientos del capricho son verdaderos. Ella extendió la mano, dramática como un unicornio de telenovela, y agarró el Whoopstick. Se tiró un pedo. Fuerte. La onda sonora resultante derribó a un cuervo de un árbol, volteó a un escarabajo (sin causarle daño) e hizo que Pippa resoplara tan fuerte que tropezó con su propia bota. " ¡¡¡SIIIIII!!! ", aulló de alegría, agitándola sobre su cabeza como si invocara a los dioses de las travesuras y las flatulencias. Fue entonces cuando los dragones la encontraron, de pie sobre un montón de abono, coronada de flores, con un kazoo entre los dientes y blandiendo un místico palo de pedos como una guerrera de la alegría. —¡Dios mío! —murmuró uno—. Lo ha activado. Los demás corrieron. ¿Pero Pippa? Dio vueltas, rió y los inundó con una nube de chispeante grito con aroma a frambuesa. "¡EL TORBELLINO HA VENIDO!", gritó. "¡TEMAN A MÍ Y A MI IRA FLORAL!" Y así comenzó el Gran Levantamiento de la Risa en el Jardín de las 11:15 AM, liderado por una pequeña y caótica hada con cabello sin cepillar, botas poco prácticas y la pura audacia de la maravilla. Rebeliones de brillo, diplomacia de kazoo y la destrucción del Bloom ordenado Tras la adquisición del Whoopstick por parte de Pippa, el jardín se tambaleó. Mientras salía del montón de compost pisando fuerte, dando vueltas y haciendo kazoos, como una victoriosa guerrera caprichosa, el jardín se tambaleó. Las bocas de dragón se retiraron con relatos de horror: "¡Se tiró un pedo en pentámetro yámbico!", gritó una. "¡Tenía purpurina! ¡ Me brillantina en los oídos! ", sollozó otra. Madame Tulipia ya estaba redactando una lista de sanciones: prohibición del néctar, una patrulla de peonías a prueba y, posiblemente, incluso un pergamino de cese y desistimiento escrito con tinta perfumada. Pero a Pippa no le importó. Tenía una misión, una aún más grande . El Whoopstick vibraba con travesuras y potencial caótico, y sus botas prácticamente vibraban de anticipación. Los susurros del viento hablaban de un lugar prohibido desde hacía tiempo, temido desde hacía tiempo, que esperaba con ansias la visita de alguien sin control de impulsos. El Consejo de las Plantas Perennes. Ubicado en las profundidades del Viejo Roble, el Consejo estaba formado por flores antiguas: majestuosos crisantemos, sabios lirios antiguos y una rosa con un monóculo tan ajustado que tenía una hendidura permanente en su pétalo. Eran el orden gobernante del jardín, y Pippa tenía... bueno, digamos una relación "complicada" con ellos. Creían en la tranquilidad. En la pulcritud. En los horarios estacionales. Y, sobre todo, creían firmemente que los mirlitones no eran instrumentos diplomáticos. Pippa planeó cambiar eso. Llegó con todo su atuendo: una corona de flores ahora mejorada con dos envoltorios de chicles y una concha de caracol, un overol remendado con cinta adhesiva, alas ya esponjadas y mejillas manchadas de pintura de diente de león como galones de guerra. En una mano sostenía el Whoopstick; en la otra, un sándwich de mermelada que llevaba queriendo comer desde el día anterior. —Vengo —declaró, sobresaltando a todo el consejo de hongos al entrar—, ¡a establecer un nuevo Acuerdo de Hadas! —Señorita —tronó el élder Rosemont con la paciencia afligida de un tulipán esperando en atención al cliente—, este es un lugar de orden. No está en la agenda. —Entonces estoy reescribiendo la agenda —canturreó Pippa—. Con mi brillante varita de la perdición. Jadeos. Desmayos. Tuvieron que resucitar un clavel con olor a musgo. "¿Qué propones exactamente?" suspiró la anciana Lily, casi esperando que la respuesta involucrara brillantina, calcetines o danza interpretativa. "Exijo una Enmienda de la Alegría", dijo Pippa, con los brazos en jarras y la bota firmemente plantada en un podio de setas. "Cláusula uno: Todas las hadas tienen permitido al menos un solo de kazoo fuerte al día. Cláusula dos: Se construirán toboganes de compost en cada sector. Cláusula tres: Ninguna flor podrá quejarse de gases de polen sin documentación médica". Se hizo el silencio. Luego, murmullos. Entonces, desde atrás, una vieja margarita temblorosa se aclaró la garganta y dijo: «La verdad... no es la peor propuesta que hemos escuchado esta temporada». Se convocó la votación. Pippa hizo una campaña agresiva ofreciendo sobornos con jugos y chistes de toc-toc. Los Snapdragons, antes sus perseguidores, ahora sus discípulos convencidos, votaron a favor tras poder probar la función de "ruido grosero" del Whoopstick. Pasó. Con pompa, solemnidad y un flash mob sorpresa de kazoos (organizado a través de la red de susurros de hongos), se ratificó la Enmienda de la Alegría. Pippa fue declarada Embajadora de la Fantasía y se le otorgó una banda ceremonial hecha completamente con cintas de cumpleaños recicladas y pelusa sospechosamente brillante. Pero el mayor honor llegó cuando la anciana Crisantemo, conocida por ser tan vieja que recordaba cuando las hadas aún nacían de las piñas, se acercó y sonrió suavemente. —Me recuerdas —dijo— a lo que una vez fue este jardín. Ruidoso. Brillante. Increíblemente alegre. Gracias, pequeño torbellino. Pippa sollozó. «De nada. También puede que me haya sentado en tu taza de té. No me arrepiento de nada». Pasaron las semanas. El jardín cambió. Se desataron fiestas de baile espontáneas entre los guisantes. Las abejas formaron una sinfonía de kazoos. Incluso los tulipanes, aunque nunca lo admitirían, empezaron a añadir un toque de brillo a las puntas de sus pétalos. Pippa no gobernaba con mano de hierro, sino con un mirlitón manchado de gelatina, debilidad por las carreras de babosas y un completo desprecio por la hora de dormir. Sus aventuras eran catalogadas en pergaminos de pétalos y contadas a la luz de las luciérnagas. Niños, insectos y, ocasionalmente, pájaros despistados se reunían para escuchar historias del día que domó el viento con un palo de golf, o de la vez que cabalgó sobre un sapo errante por el distrito de la albahaca. Todavía pisoteaba las peonías. Todavía asustaba a las margaritas. Todavía hacía que los tulipanes se aferraran a sus perlas. Pero ahora, sonreían mientras regañaban. Ofrecían limonada con sus quejas. Y cuando el jardín estaba especialmente tranquilo, justo antes de que el sol besara el borde de las caléndulas, se podía oír un único sonido que resonaba en el claro: Una nota de kazoo larga, orgullosa y espeluznante. El himno de la Reina Bloomchild. El sonido de la maravilla. El Torbellino continúa vivo. ¡Lleva la magia de "Torbellino de Alas y Maravilla" a casa! Ya seas un soñador, un hada del caos de corazón o simplemente alguien que conoce el poder de un solo de kazoo en el momento justo, puedes capturar el mundo encantado de Pippa con vibrantes detalles. Acurrúcate con esta manta de lana para la hora del cuento, o convierte tu espacio en un mágico mundo de fantasía con un tapiz de pared de ensueño o un colorido lienzo . Para quienes disfrutan de los desafíos, el rompecabezas da vida a cada pétalo, bota y destello de travesura . ¡Explora la línea completa de fabulosos artículos de hadas en Unfocussed y da la bienvenida a un pequeño torbellino a tu mundo!

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

La niña que escuchaba a los búhos

El silencio entre las alas En un bosque inexplorado por los cartógrafos y el paso del tiempo, vivía una niña que nunca hablaba. No siempre había permanecido en silencio, pero el mundo se había vuelto tan ruidoso que sus palabras se ahogaban entre el suspiro del viento y las grietas en la voz de su madre. Su nombre, si es que lo recordaba, estaba enterrado profundamente bajo capas de musgo y recuerdos. Cada mañana, se levantaba con el rocío. Sus pies descalzos besaban la tierra mientras vagaba bajo imponentes árboles, sus rizos cobrizos recogiendo hojas y susurros. No pertenecía a nadie. Ni al pueblo que una vez la consideró demasiado extraña, demasiado solemne. Ni a la pareja que la había abandonado en ese pueblo como un abrigo olvidado. Pertenecía solo a la quietud del bosque y a los búhos que vigilaban en el dosel. La primera lechuza llegó a ella el día que dejó de llorar. Estaba agazapada junto a un arroyo helado, demasiado cansada para lamentarse, demasiado aturdida para preocuparse, cuando oyó un aleteo. Una lechuza común aterrizó silenciosamente junto a ella, con sus ojos ámbar sin pestañear. No arrulló ni ladeó la cabeza como en los cuentos. Simplemente estaba allí, como si la hubiera convocado el dolor mismo. La niña, por razones que no pudo identificar, extendió la muñeca, y la lechuza trepó como si siempre hubiera pertenecido allí. Crecieron juntos, la niña y el búho. Nunca se nombraron. Él le trajo la quietud que anhelaba, y ella ofreció calor a las noches en que el bosque aullaba. Los aldeanos susurraban sobre ella. «Bruja», decían. «Niña maldita». Uno afirmaba que se convertía en búho a la luz de la luna, pero nadie se atrevió a acercarse lo suficiente para demostrarlo. Con el tiempo, los chismes se volvieron rancios y se desvanecieron como el sendero hacia el bosque. Pasaron los años, marcados solo por los anillos de crecimiento de los árboles y las nuevas hebras plateadas en las plumas del búho. La niña, ya casi adulta, hablaba solo con miradas y gestos. Pero al búho le entregó todas sus palabras, hasta la última que jamás se había atrevido a decir en voz alta. Él escuchó. Los búhos son buenos en eso: escuchar sin interrumpir, juzgar ni corregir. El tipo de escucha que la mayoría de la gente olvida practicar al crecer. Fue en la víspera de la noche más larga, mientras la escarcha se aferraba a las últimas hojas temblorosas, que el búho empezó a flaquear. Sus alas ya no lo elevaban tanto. Sus ojos perdieron el fuego. Y la niña —ya no una niña, sino algo más suave y fuerte— comprendió que tendría que prepararse para su partida. Pero ¿cómo prepararse para perder a la única criatura que realmente te escuchó? Le construyó un nido cerca del borde del claro, forrado con su abrigo y retazos de lana que deshizo de sus faldas. Le dio bayas, calentó su frágil cuerpo con el suyo y le leyó en voz alta las historias que una vez garabateó en la corteza de los árboles. Por primera vez en años, su voz regresó: áspera, insegura, pero real. Y el búho parpadeó lentamente, con la cabeza hundida bajo su barbilla, como diciendo: «Sigue hablando. Incluso cuando me haya ido». En la mañana del solsticio, no se despertó. La niña no lloró. En cambio, se sentó con él durante horas, hasta que la niebla se disipó y la luz se abrió paso suavemente entre los árboles. Y cuando por fin se puso de pie, acunando su cuerpo contra su pecho, el bosque se sintió más pequeño. O tal vez simplemente había crecido. Ella comenzó a caminar, sus botas agitando los helechos congelados, hacia un lugar al que nunca se había atrevido a ir antes: el borde del bosque. El lenguaje de la ceniza y la pluma No lo enterró. No podía. La idea le parecía errónea, definitiva de una forma para la que su alma no estaba preparada. Así que quemó salvia y resina de pino en un círculo de piedras lisas y lo depositó en el centro. Al encender la llama, no crepitó ni rugió. Susurró. Susurró como el susurro de unas alas en la niebla matutina, como una despedida que sonaba sospechosamente a «ya conoces el camino». Cuando el humo se elevó, no lo vio alejarse. Se dio la vuelta y caminó. No había rastro, solo instinto. Pasó junto al árbol al que una vez llamó «Madre» por sus brazos doblados. Pasó junto a la piedra sobre la que había sangrado una vez, durante una rabieta que nunca se perdonó del todo. Pasó junto al manantial donde había imaginado ahogarse, antes de que el búho se posara a su lado y lo cambiara todo sin decir nada. Apareció en el límite del bosque al tercer día, descalza y sin pestañear. Ante ella se extendía un campo de trigo muerto, doblado y amarillento por la escarcha. Un solitario camino de tierra lo atravesaba como una cicatriz. El pueblo se veía a lo lejos, solo humo de leña y tejados pálidos. Dudó, no por miedo, sino porque su corazón se había acostumbrado tanto al silencio que no sabía cómo latir de nuevo entre el ruido. La primera persona que conoció fue un niño. No un niño como los niños; este era todo callos y dientes manchados de humo, llevaba una gorra que ya no le quedaba bien y una camisa que probablemente nunca le había quedado. Estaba apilando leña junto al camino. Ella no dijo nada. Él levantó la vista. Sus ojos se abrieron como platos, como si hubiera visto un fantasma. —Eres la chica búho —dijo, y ella se estremeció. Ella asintió. Él ladeó la cabeza y entrecerró los ojos como si intentara verla bien por primera vez. «Dijeron que comías ardillas crudas. Que te brillaban los ojos por la noche». Lo dijo como si lo creyera a medias, como si lo deseara a medias. —Escuché —dijo. Su voz la sobresaltó incluso a ella. Quebró como hielo al derretirse. Parpadeó. "¿Qué?" Ella dio un paso adelante. "Eso es todo. Escuché". Abrió la boca para preguntar más, pero ella siguió caminando. No estaba lista para ser examinada como una reliquia. Todavía no. Pero las palabras ya habían sido pronunciadas, y algo en su interior se aflojó: un nudo que había tardado demasiado en desatarse. Se quedó en las afueras del pueblo ese invierno, en una choza que antes había albergado abejas y ahora albergaba aire fresco y efluvios de miel. La arregló con cordel, hueso, corteza y un ritmo que resonaba en su columna. La gente le traía cosas, casi siempre en silencio: trozos de pan, abrigos andrajosos, hierbas. Nadie le pedía nada a cambio. Simplemente... los dejaban. Y ella los tomaba. Era un trueque de presencia. Ella lo entendía. Los niños fueron los primeros en acercarse. Preguntaron por el búho. Ella no les contó cuentos de hadas. Les contó la verdad: que había sido callado, viejo y tierno, y que una vez la vio llorar durante tres días seguidos sin pestañear. Que a veces el amor no parece consuelo. Parece quedarse . No siempre entendían, pero escuchaban con los ojos abiertos, como si su voz contuviera algo que valiera la pena conservar. Luego llegaron las madres. Mujeres con moretones invisibles. Mujeres cansadas del eco de sus propias cocinas. Llegaron fingiendo ser "solo unas transeúntes" y se marcharon con lágrimas que las sorprendieron. Trajeron tarros de sopa, guantes cosidos a mano y lavanda seca. Una le regaló un viejo libro de cantos de pájaros. Otra, una pluma de búho que encontró incrustada en el marco de su puerta. Cada regalo era menos generosidad y más reconocimiento. Ya no la llamaban bruja. La llamaban «la niña de las plumas» o «la viuda del búho». Nombres suavizados por el dolor y el mito. La primavera llegó con una violencia que la dolió. Los brotes se abrieron como secretos guardados durante demasiado tiempo. El aire olía a disculpa. Plantó semillas fuera de la choza. No porque necesitara comida, sino porque extrañaba ver crecer algo. Un día, llegó un extraño, mayor, cargado de años y humo de leña. Se llamaba Tam. Había sido carpintero. Ahora tallaba cosas que no necesitaba, solo para recordar la sensación de crear algo de la nada. Le preguntó si podía arreglar la bisagra de su puerta. Ella asintió. Volvió al día siguiente y reemplazó todo el marco. No hablaron mucho, pero su presencia la reconfortaba. Le recordaba al búho, no en apariencia, sino en su forma . Ocupaba el espacio con delicadeza. Fue Tam quien finalmente preguntó: "¿Lo amabas?" Ella parpadeó. "¿El búho?" Sonrió como si ya supiera la respuesta. "Sí." Bajó la mirada hacia sus manos. Estaban cubiertas de tierra, resina de pino y pequeñas cicatrices de semillas afiladas. «Sí», dijo. «Pero no como la gente quiere a la gente. Él fue... el primer lugar donde me sentí reconocida». Tam asintió. "Eso cuenta". Ella lo miró fijamente y luego hizo algo que no había hecho en años. Le tocó el hombro. "Escúchame tú también". Apartó la mirada. «Antes hablaba demasiado. Ahora lo sé mejor». Esa noche, se sentó afuera y contempló la luna, y por primera vez en mucho tiempo, no sintió que le faltara algo vital. La lechuza se había ido. ¿Pero la escucha? Eso permanecía. En Tam. En los niños. En las mujeres destrozadas que le traían té de ortiga y sollozaban sin pedir permiso. Entonces se dio cuenta de que lo que el búho le había enseñado no era solo a estar quieta. Era a estar presente . A presenciar. Y a veces, presenciar era el mejor regalo que se podía ofrecer. A veces, bastaba para salvar una vida. El viento mecía los árboles esa noche de una forma que casi sonaba como alas. Ella no levantó la vista. Ella simplemente dijo: “Gracias”. Y se fue a dormir por primera vez sin soñar con su peso en su muñeca. Los que se quedaron callados Los años pasaron, como suelen pasar los años, sigilosamente, como zorros en la niebla. El bosque no la recuperó, aunque esperó pacientemente a sus espaldas. Envió pájaros de visita. Envió hongos extraños en primavera. Pero ella se había arraigado en algo nuevo: no en personas ni en muros, sino en la observación . El pequeño acto de observar se había convertido en su ministerio. Y con el tiempo, llegaron otros que también necesitaban ser observados. No llegaron con bombos y platillos. Nunca lo hacen. Un hombre que no había hablado desde la guerra apareció un día con las botas agrietadas y la mirada perdida. Una niña que temblaba si alguien le tocaba las mangas trajo bayas en una bolsa de papel. Una madre cuyas manos temblaban tanto que ya no podía coser solo trajo su silencio, y fue suficiente. La chica —ahora una mujer, aunque ningún calendario le había indicado cuándo se produjo el cambio— les abrió su espacio. No como una sacerdotisa. No como una sanadora. Simplemente como alguien que alguna vez se había sentado en el frío el tiempo suficiente para apreciar la compañía que no hacía demasiadas preguntas. Construyeron bancos juntos con postes viejos de cercas. Cultivaron hierbas que no se vendían en los mercados, pero que eran buenas para el desamor, la digestión y la memoria. Aprendieron a dejar espacio en las conversaciones para el aliento, para el miedo, para historias sin un hilo conductor definido. No lo llamaban terapia. Lo llamaban "sentarse". A veces, "mirar el viento". Cada noche, encendía una vela en su ventana. No para llamar, sino para decir: «Alguien sigue aquí». Algunas noches, nadie venía. Otras, alguien sí. Una viuda que nunca se había vuelto a casar. Un pastorcillo que veía fantasmas. Un leñador que no sabía leer, pero que tallaba búhos de cada rama caída. Nunca les enseñó a hablar. Les enseñó a escuchar . Y poco a poco, al ritmo del musgo y la luz de la luna, aprendieron a escucharse de nuevo. No fue un trabajo rápido. La sanación nunca lo es. No es un fuego artificial, sino una vela: una llama lenta que parpadea, titubea y se niega a ser apresurada. Un día, se encontró enseñándole a un niño a quedarse quieto. El niño tenía demasiadas preguntas y aún más tics. No lo silenció. Simplemente se sentó a su lado y pronunció el nombre del búho, el que nunca antes había pronunciado. —Kess —dijo ella suavemente, como una oración, como una ofrenda. El niño hizo una pausa. "¿Qué significa eso?" Ella sonrió. «Todo lo que no dije. Todo lo que él ya sabía». La niña parpadeó, insegura. Pero no volvieron a preguntar. Escucharon. Y la mujer supo entonces que el trabajo del búho —su trabajo— no había terminado. Solo había cambiado de forma. Le habían crecido patas. Había aprendido a caminar sobre tierra nueva. Años después, mucho después de que su cabello se tornara plateado y sus dedos se doblaran como raíces, volvió a sentarse bajo el árbol al que una vez llamó «Madre». Se había vuelto hueco en la base, pero fuerte por arriba. Una metáfora perfecta, pensó. Puedes perder tu esencia y aun así seguir buscando la luz. Los aldeanos aún susurraban sobre ella, pero ahora con reverencia. «Ella es la que escucha», decían. «Vayan con ella si el ruido se hace demasiado fuerte». Su nombre no estaba grabado en ningún libro. Ningún altar llevaba su imagen. Pero en el silencio entre el viento y el agua, en los ojos de la gente silenciosa que una vez se sintió rota, ella era conocida. Un otoño, cuando las hojas caían más rápido de lo que podía contarlas, despertó y supo que era hora. No de morir. Sino de regresar. Dejó una nota. No con tinta, sino en piedras a lo largo del camino. Una hilera de plumas en el umbral. Una vela solitaria titilando a la luz del día. Las señales fueron suficientes. Encontraron su abrigo doblado en el banco. Sus botas, ordenadamente una junto a la otra. Su bastón, apoyado en el árbol, como esperando a que alguien más lo necesitara. ¿Pero ella? Se había ido. Sin lucha. Sin tormenta. Solo ausencia, de esas que se sienten como una presencia desviada. Y aunque nadie los vio, quienes sabían observar juraron haber visto un cárabo volando en círculos sobre los árboles. No volaba solo. Algunas almas encuentran el camino de regreso a casa no mediante el ruido sino mediante el silencio. Y el bosque escuchó. Lleva su historia a casa Si la quietud de su viaje te conmovió, puedes llevar contigo un trocito de ella. Hemos transformado "La Niña que Escuchaba a los Búhos" en una colección de hermosos productos de alta calidad que honran la serena fuerza de su historia. Deja que la historia continúe en tu espacio, ya sea en tu pared, en tus manos o envuelta suavemente sobre tus hombros. ✨ Impresión acrílica: una exhibición impactante y luminosa de la imagen con gran detalle. 🌲 Impresión en madera: para un acabado natural y rústico tan atemporal como el cuento 🧩 Rompecabezas: reconstruye su viaje, un momento tranquilo a la vez 🦉 Manta polar: envuélvete en calidez, historia y serenidad. Todo disponible ahora en shop.unfocussed.com .

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Jardín de la Devoción

En un pequeño pueblo rodeado de enredaderas, justo después del último hongo a la izquierda, enclavado entre "¿Qué demonios fue eso?" y "¿Me acaba de guiñar el ojo ese arbusto?", vivían una pareja de gnomos sospechosamente adorables. Bernabé y Destello. Si sus nombres suenan a cuento de hadas, les aseguro que no lo es. Estos dos eran famosos por convertir los almuerzos de los anillos de hadas en peleas de mimosas sin fin, y una vez los expulsaron del spa de hadas local por "uso inapropiado de purpurina". Pero aun así, estaban loca, mágica y molestamente enamorados. Ahora bien, Glimmer tenía ojos como el aguardiente de arándanos y un don para cultivar flores que hacían llorar a los demás gnomos en sus pilas de compost. Barnaby, en cambio, tenía una barba tan magnífica que tenía su propio código postal y esa clase de sonrisa burlona que podía causar problemas en un monasterio. Llevaba su sombrero rojo puntiagudo ladeado lo justo para sugerir que quizá supiera dónde estaban enterrados los cuerpos. (Adelanto: probablemente solo era una plaga de topos). Todas las noches, como un reloj, se paseaban por el jardín, de la mano, hasta «su banco». No el de los rábanos (demasiado húmedo). Ni el del seto de trolls (ni hablar). El rodeado de faroles con forma de corazón, flanqueado por hongos venenosos sospechosamente simétricos, y a menudo cubierto de pétalos de flores sospechosamente no autóctonas. Juraban que no lo habían montado por estética. (¡Claro que sí!). Esa noche en particular, Glimmer llevaba un vestido azul zafiro con suficiente encaje como para asfixiar a un hada. El ala de su sombrero rebosaba de peonías frescas, dalias y una flor artificial que se había metido a escondidas solo para fastidiar a Barnaby. Él aún no se había dado cuenta. Su sombrero, mientras tanto, había sido mejorado con enredaderas que formaban "Bestia Sexy" si inclinabas la cabeza correctamente y entrecerrabas los ojos. El amor estaba en plena floración, y también sus egos. —Sabes —murmuró Barnaby mientras se dejaban caer en el banco—, algún día seremos leyendas. Los gnomos cantarán baladas sobre lo increíblemente atractivos y humildes que éramos. —Mmm —ronroneó Glimmer, apoyando la mano en la de él—. Sobre todo la parte humilde. "Ese es el espíritu", sonrió. "Dirán: 'Ah, sí, Bernabé el Valiente, Destello el Glorioso; esos dos causaron más escándalo que una ardilla en un campo de girasoles'". Glimmer rió entre dientes, dándole un codazo con la rodilla. "Solo porque insististe en ese incidente de bañarte desnudo en el bebedero para pájaros. Todavía tenemos prohibida la entrada al santuario de pinzones". "Valió totalmente la pena", susurró Barnaby, besándole la mano con el aire exagerado de quien claramente ha practicado frente a un espejo. "¿Causaremos un poco más de travesuras esta noche, mi pétalo del caos?" —Oh, claro —susurró Glimmer—. Pero primero, sentémonos aquí y parezcamos estar devastados por el amor mientras las luciérnagas se inventan ideas. Y así lo hicieron, dos delincuentes de jardín, fabulosamente vestidos, bañados por la cálida luz de la devoción y un suave narcisismo, planeando cualquier caos que viniera después con un brillo en los ojos y calcetines a juego. (Una primera vez, por cierto. Finalmente etiquetó su cajón). El gnomo con los pantalones dorados A la mañana siguiente, el apacible silencio del Jardín de la Devoción fue interrumpido por un sonido profano: Barnaby intentaba una danza interpretativa al ritmo chirriante de las campanas de viento encantadas de Glimmer. Con lo que él afirmaba eran "pantalones de yoga ceremoniales", pero que claramente eran leggings de lamé dorado tres tallas más ajustados, se contoneó, giró y casi se lesionó un tendón de la corva bajo el sauce llorón. "Estoy canalizando antiguos espíritus de la tierra", jadeó, con un movimiento pélvico. —Estás simulando una demanda —respondió Glimmer con sequedad, bebiendo té de zarzamora y fingiendo no disfrutar del espectáculo. Pero sí que lo disfrutaba. Ay, sí que lo disfrutaba. Más tarde ese mismo día, Glimmer recibió la visita de su mejor amiga, Prunella, una bruja de jardín agresivamente brusca, cuyas opiniones eran tan agudas como sus tijeras de podar. "Cariño", dijo Prunella, observando la barba brillante de Barnaby desde el otro lado del jardín. "¿Está... mudando? ¿O simplemente está mudando tus hortensias a propósito?" "Es performance", dijo Glimmer con seriedad. "Está en su fase expresiva". Mmm. Sí. Muy expresivo. Creo que tus begonias acaban de solicitar una orden de alejamiento. Los tres terminaron sentados bajo el Árbol de la Linterna del Corazón, el mismo bajo el cual Barnaby le propuso matrimonio durante una lluvia de meteoritos que resultó ser un experimento fallido con una rueda de queso hecha por gnomos. Glimmer recordaba bien esa noche, sobre todo la ricotta en llamas que caía del cielo, y Barnaby declaró que era «una señal de los Dioses de la Leche». —Entonces —dijo Prunella, mirándolos de reojo—, supongo que ustedes dos siguen siendo desagradables y enamorados. —Inexplicablemente —confirmó Barnaby, lamiéndose el azúcar de los dedos—. Hemos decidido renovar nuestros votos. Glimmer parpadeó. "¿Lo hemos hecho?" —Sí —dijo Barnaby con orgullo—. Aquí mismo, en el jardín. Al atardecer. Con música en vivo y quizás un malabarista de fuego que me debe un favor de aquella vez con el circo de las orugas. —Eso lo acabas de inventar —dijo Glimmer. ¿Lo hice? ¿O es el destino? “Es una indigestión, querida.” Aun así, se sintió encantada. De nuevo. A pesar de los pantalones dorados. A pesar de la renovación de votos no solicitada. A pesar de que él seguía ordenando el estante de especias por color, no por nombre, porque «la canela debe sentirse especial». La planificación comenzó de inmediato. Se garabatearon las invitaciones en hojas de nenúfar prensadas. Se pulieron las linternas hasta que los sapos pudieron ver sus reflejos y cuestionaron sus decisiones vitales. Incluso reclutaron a los murciélagos del jardín para que llevaran minipergaminos, lo cual fracasó cuando la mitad se comió el papel y se durmió boca abajo en el perchero de Glimmer. Prunella se ofreció a oficiar ("Tengo una toga y una rabia sin resolver; estoy cualificada"), mientras que las hadas trillizas del callejón, conocidas colectivamente como Las Debs Diente de León, se ofrecieron a cantar coros. El problema surgió cuando Barnaby insistió en escribir sus votos en haiku. Lo cual habría estado bien si no hubiera exigido que un espíritu del viento los susurrara dramáticamente en medio de la ceremonia. "¿Quieres que invoque un elemental literal para tus vibraciones poéticas?" preguntó Glimmer, levantando una ceja. —Solo si no es mucha molestia —dijo, extendiendo una flor silvestre como ofrenda de paz—. Lavaré los platos durante una semana. Un mes. Y reorganizas el cajón de los calcetines que convertiste en un rincón para picar. "Hecho." Al acercarse el atardecer, el jardín resplandecía: suaves tonos rosas y naranjas se filtraban por cada grieta de las hojas, las luciérnagas realizaban un espectáculo de luces coordinado (probablemente sobornadas) y el aroma a pétalos azucarados impregnaba el aire. Glimmer caminaba descalza por el pasillo de las setas, con el pelo cubierto de flores y el vestido flotando en la brisa como un hechizo de seda. Barnaby esperaba con su mejor chaleco, con aspecto de ser una mezcla entre un coqueto victoriano y una manzana de caramelo sensible. Llevaba la barba cepillada a la perfección, e incluso alguien le había tejido pequeñas luces centelleantes. Probablemente obra suya. Probablemente brillantina otra vez. Prunella se aclaró la garganta. «Nos reunimos en este jardín extremadamente caótico y excesivamente fragante para presenciar la saga de Glimmer y Barnaby, dos seres tan trágicamente codependientes y tan apasionadamente enamorados que el universo simplemente se rindió y comenzó a apoyarlos». —Juro —empezó Barnaby— que siempre compartiré mi última frambuesa, aunque digas que no tienes hambre, y luego te la comas entera al instante. Juro bailar como si nadie me juzgara, aunque sí lo hagas. Y juro fastidiarte para siempre, a propósito, porque te hace sonreír cuando finges que no. Glimmer rió y se secó una lágrima. "Juro que te haré creer que tu 'yoga de gnomos' cuenta como cardio. Juro que nunca le diré a nadie que lloraste durante ese documental de ardillas. Y juro que creceré contigo, salvaje, estúpida y hermosamente, en este jardín y en cada desastre ridículo que hagamos juntos". No había ni un solo ojo seco en el jardín, sobre todo porque el nivel de polen era insoportable, pero también porque algo en esos dos hacía aflorar la ternura de todos, incluso del loco musgoso que vivía tras el estanque de caracoles. Se besaron bajo los brillantes faroles en forma de corazón, rodeados de risas, pétalos y una tenue explosión de fondo de un gnomo de fuegos artificiales sin supervisión que malinterpretó el horario. Pero nada pudo arruinarlo. Ni siquiera Prunella, quien invocó accidentalmente a un elemental de viento que derribó la torre de champán y le susurró algo profundamente inapropiado al oído a Glimmer. (Nunca le contó a Barnaby lo que decía, pero sonrió con picardía durante días). Musgo, travesuras y caos matrimonial Tres días después de la renovación de votos (oficialmente no oficial, parcialmente elemental), Barnaby y Glimmer despertaron y encontraron su jardín en la portada de The Gnomestead Gazette . Bueno, técnicamente era la segunda página (la portada estaba reservada para un escándalo que involucraba a un erizo rebelde y una red de contrabando de miel), pero allí estaban: a todo color, en medio de un beso, en medio del resplandor de una linterna, en medio del caos mágico. El subtítulo decía: «LA GNOMINACIÓN FLORECE EN EL DISTRITO DE COMPOSTA DE EXCURSIÓN DE UNICORNIO». Glimmer aspiró jugo de naranja por la nariz. "Al menos me dieron mi lado bueno". Barnaby sonrió radiante. «Y usaron la toma donde mi barba parece una profecía azotada por el viento. ¡Glorioso!» La cobertura, lamentablemente, llamó la atención. El tipo de atención que implica turistas de jardín boquiabiertos, vecinos curiosos con portapapeles y tres pretendientes distintos que aparecieron con monóculos y le preguntaron a Glimmer si quería "mejorar". Uno trajo un cisne. Un cisne de verdad . Lo mordió y le defecó en el sombrero. Glimmer lo llamó Terrence y lo mantuvo como un caos de apoyo emocional. Mientras tanto, Bernabé se convirtió repentinamente en objeto de adoración para un culto de aspirantes a discípulos con barba, quienes acamparon cerca del rosal y comenzaron a meditar sobre «El Camino del Folículo». Uno talló un busto de Bernabé completamente de jabón artesanal. Olía a lavanda y a delirios. "Esto se está saliendo de control", dijo Glimmer una tarde mientras dos influencers de hongos se transmitían en vivo bailando frente a las begonias. "Nos están etiquetando en sus rituales, Barns". “¿Tal vez deberíamos monetizarlo?”, sugirió, medio en broma. “Si un hongo más entra en mi zona de té, iniciaré una guerra”. Pero no eran solo los fans. Era el jardín mismo. Verán, en su desmedida muestra de afecto y su pompa, adornada con luces de hadas, Glimmer y Barnaby habían despertado accidentalmente algo viejo. Algo frondoso. Algo intratable. El Padre Musgo. Un trozo de musgo semiconsciente y ultramaduro, escondido en lo profundo de un rincón olvidado del jardín, bajo el bebedero abandonado para pájaros, entre las dos raíces nudosas con forma de Elvis. Había dormido durante décadas, absorbiendo susurros dispersos, besos robados y una discusión particularmente jugosa sobre a quién le tocaba recoger la comida de los gnomos. Pero ahora, animado por fuegos artificiales, votos emotivos y un elemental del viento con un don para la teatralidad, había despertado. Y estaba... melancólico. Al principio, las señales eran sutiles. Hojas que se movían nerviosamente sin que nadie las viera. Cantidades inusuales de purpurina encontradas en nidos de pájaros. Esculturas topiarias misteriosamente desordenadas formando formas vagamente pasivo-agresivas. ("¿Eso es un dedo medio?" "No, cariño. Es un tulipán. Con opiniones"). Entonces vinieron los sueños. Barnaby empezó a murmurar en un dialecto del musgo. Glimmer se despertaba una y otra vez con el sombrero lleno de líquenes y extraños sonetos vagamente amenazantes garabateados con tinta de compost junto a la cama. Prunella, como era de esperar, estaba encantada. —Has despertado una sensibilidad ancestral —dijo con regocijo—. ¿Sabes lo raro que es? Es como el abuelo cascarrabias de la tierra. Gruñón, verde y lleno de podredumbre emocional. —¿Eso es admiración? —preguntó Glimmer, sirviendo vino. —Sí, claro. Me lo follaría si no fuera alérgico. Para apaciguar al Padre Musgo, organizaron un festival. (Porque, naturalmente, una fiesta aún más grande era la única opción lógica). Lo llamaron la "Gala del Liquen y el Amor". Se animó a los invitados a usar ropa formal de musgo: túnicas, corsés de hojas y pajaritas de diente de león. Barnaby llevaba una capa hecha completamente de tomillo rastrero y petulancia. Glimmer tenía un vestido tejido con seda de araña y pelusa de diente de león que brillaba cuando maldecía en voz baja. El entretenimiento estuvo a cargo de una banda de gnomos de jazz, un sátiro sumamente ofendido que pensó que se trataba de una orgía de máscaras (no lo era), y Terrence el Cisne, quien ahora tenía su propia base de fans y lo sabía perfectamente. Llevaba un monóculo. Nadie sabía dónde lo había conseguido. Cerca de la medianoche, el silencio se apoderó del jardín. El Padre Musgo apareció; no caminaba, no se deslizaba, sino simplemente... existía. Una antigua mancha verde de pelusa del tamaño de un pequeño sofá de dos plazas, que latía con magia y juicio. Los miró a todos con una extraña decepción. "¿QUIÉN ME PONE MAL HUMOR?", retumbó su voz. Las flores se marchitaron. El té se cuajó. Prunella se desmayó. —Eh, ¿hola? —preguntó Barnaby—. ¿Trajimos algo para picar? Hubo silencio. Un silencio largo y musgoso. Entonces... el Padre Musgo asintió . “SNACKS... ACEPTABLES.” La fiesta se reanudó. Corría más vino. Prunella coqueteaba descaradamente con el duende de la tormenta que controlaba a la multitud. Glimmer y Barnaby volvieron a bailar bajo los faroles, girando entre la luz y la risa, rodeados de caos, belleza y la familia de inadaptados completamente trastornados que, de alguna manera, habían reunido. Más tarde esa noche, mientras se dejaban caer de nuevo en su banco favorito, Barnaby suspiró satisfecho. "¿Sabes? Creo que esto es lo más raro que hemos hecho en nuestra vida". —Mmm —dijo Glimmer, acurrucándose a su lado—. Siempre lo dices. Pero sí. Sí, lo es. ¿Crees que algún día nos estableceremos? ¿Viviremos una vida tranquila? ¿Jardinería? ¿Siestas? ¿Horneamos cosas que no exploten? —No —dijo Glimmer—. Somos pésimos en lo normal. Pero somos excelentes en lo espectacularmente extraño. Cierto. Y espectacularmente enamorado. Ella sonrió. "No te pongas sentimental conmigo ahora". Demasiado tarde. Es el musgo. Y bajo el resplandor crepuscular de luces en forma de corazón y luciérnagas danzantes, se besaron una vez más. Su jardín latía con magia, travesuras y devoción que podía derretir a la bruja más fría. El Padre Musgo ronroneó. Terrence el Cisne mordió a alguien en la distancia. Y la noche floreció, eternamente extraña y perfectamente suya. Trae un pequeño Jardín de Devoción a tu propio mundo... Si esta historia te calentó el corazón y te dolió un poco más las mejillas de tanto sonreír, no estás solo. El peculiar romance entre Glimmer y Barnaby perdura como el aroma de la madreselva y el escándalo. Ahora, puedes dejar que esa fantasía florezca dondequiera que estés. Desde escenas iluminadas por el amor hasta un descaro y encanto dignos de un gnomo, Jardín de la Devoción está disponible como lámina enmarcada para tu pared de galería, como una acogedora manta de lana para acurrucarte mientras planeas travesuras, o incluso como un cojín decorativo que anima amablemente a tus invitados a ser un poco más originales. También hay una edición completa de tapiz si tu espacio necesita un toque de jardín dramático, y sí, también hay un rompecabezas para quienes quieran armar la magia de cada rincón travieso. Impresión enmarcada | Tapiz | Rompecabezas | Cojín decorativo | Manta polar Celebra el amor que crece salvajemente y la risa que resuena en los jardines mágicos. Y recuerda: todo buen jardín necesita un poco de caos, mucho corazón y quizás solo una pequeña mancha de musgo con un toque crítico.

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

Pálido mensajero del vacío

Hay nombres que no se pronuncian en voz alta en la aldea del Valle de Vareth; nombres tan antiguos que no se pueden rastrear en ninguna lengua escrita, solo susurrados en voz baja y enterrados bajo piedras. Nombres como Keth-Avûn, el Encuadernador del Vacío. Nombres como Eslarei, la Maldición Emplumada. Este último solo se pronunció una vez en la memoria de quien se atrevió a permanecer en ese lugar: la noche en que regresó el cuervo blanco. El pedestal seguía en pie en la colina, desgastado por la lluvia y el liquen, pero sin desmoronarse, aunque nadie recordaba quién lo talló. En su base, las runas hacía tiempo que habían perdido su significado para la gente común, grabadas en un lenguaje que se alimentaba de silencio y sangre. Y en el solsticio de invierno, cuando la luna estaba en su punto más bajo y el viento traía olor a médula quemada, el cuervo regresaba; sus plumas eran blancas como el hueso, salvo por las brillantes vetas rojas que parecían emanar de su propio cuerpo. Eril Dane, el hijo huérfano del boticario, jamás había creído en esas historias. Pragmático, criado con tinturas y la amarga corteza de la razón, se burlaba de los cuentos de «mensajeros del vacío» y «marcas del alma». Pero cuando el cuervo se posó al anochecer, impregnando el aire helado con su aroma a hierro y podredumbre, sintió un temblor en la médula de sus huesos. No era solo miedo, era reconocimiento. Su madre había desaparecido cuando él tenía ocho años, adentrándose en la niebla con un libro encuadernado en cuero y una cicatriz bajo el cuello que nunca antes había notado. Ese mismo sello, el grabado tras el cuervo con una etérea luz roja, ahora ardía en su memoria; lo había dibujado una vez, por instinto, en la tierra. El sacerdote del pueblo lo golpeó por ello. La cicatriz en los nudillos de Eril aún brillaba con el frío. Esa noche, subió la colina. El cuervo blanco no huyó. Sus ojos, negros como fosas de ceniza y bordeados de sangre, lo miraban como un juez demasiado cansado para tener piedad. Eril se arrodilló. El sigilo resplandeció tras el ave, pintándolo con espirales de luz destructora, y una voz —más pensamiento que sonido— le presionó la cabeza: «Hay que recordar para poder arrepentirse». Cayó en un sueño más profundo que el sueño. Allí, vagó por una ciudad en ruinas de torres de hueso y ríos rojos, cada edificio con forma de rostros llorosos. El cuervo lo seguía, ahora una criatura de inmenso tamaño y sombra, derramando gotas de memoria y sangre por igual. En el reflejo de un río manchado de sangre, se vio a sí mismo, no como un niño, sino como un hombre con túnicas bordadas con runas y culpa. Y el cuervo en su hombro. Cuando despertó, habían pasado horas. La colina estaba vacía. Pero recién grabada en el pedestal de piedra, bajo los viejos símbolos, había una nueva palabra: Eril. La aldea no lo entendería. Le temerían. Pero ahora lo sabía: el cuervo no había regresado para vengarse. Había venido por un heredero. En el Valle de Vareth no se hacían preguntas. Así sobrevivió la aldea. Pero a medida que pasaban los días y la nieve se ennegrecía con ceniza, empezaron a notar cambios que no podían ignorar. El ganado nacía con dientes. Los pozos susurraban secretos al ser dibujados al anochecer. Los niños dejaron de soñar, o peor aún, empezaron a hablar del mismo sueño: una torre de plumas y llamas donde un hombre con túnica gritaba, con la boca llena de pájaros. Eril Dane ya casi no salía de la bodega de la botica. La tienda, antes soleada, estaba cerrada, con las hierbas marchitándose contra los cristales. Nadie lo vio comer. Nadie lo vio envejecer. Lo que sí vieron —lo que los aterrorizaba más de lo que se atrevían a admitir— fue el cuervo. Siempre el cuervo. Posado en la veleta torcida sobre la botica. Observando. Esperando. Creciendo. Sus plumas ya no eran tan blancas. Empezaban a humear en los bordes, y las puntas se curvaban en la sombra. Y de su cuerpo emanaba un suave resplandor rojo, como un latido. Nadie volvió a acercarse a la colina. Ni después de que los perros dejaran de ladrar, ni después de que el último sacerdote entrara descalzo en el bosque, llorando, y no regresara. Eril escribía, siempre escribía. Páginas y páginas llenas de símbolos indescifrables, arañados con plumas afiladas, manchados con algo más oscuro que la tinta. Hablaba con el cuervo, aunque ningún labio se movía. Y por la noche, sus sueños se agrietaban como huevos podridos, derramando verdades que olían a estrellas ardientes y gritos enterrados hace mucho tiempo. Vio la primera Vinculación, cuando los antiguos desollaron el cielo y encadenaron el Hambre entre mundos. Vio el Sello Emplumado, tallado con los huesos de dioses extintos y ofrecido como pacto para mantener el Vacío dormido. Vio la traición. La arrogancia. El olvido. Y vio a su madre… sonriendo, con la boca cosida con sellos, los ojos quemados por el conocimiento que se había tragado por completo. Se había adentrado en la niebla para alimentar la Vinculación. Su carne, su memoria, su nombre, ofrecidos libremente, para mantener el mundo unido por otra generación. Pero había fracasado. Algo había cambiado. Un glifo desalineado. Una promesa rota. Y el precio ahora sería pagado en su totalidad... por su linaje. El cuervo no era un mensajero. Era un libro de contabilidad. Había regresado no para advertir, sino para cobrar . Cuando Eril emergió, en la noche de luna negra, no estaba solo. Su sombra era errónea: demasiado alta, con forma de plumas en una tormenta, ondeando como si estuviera atrapada en un viento eterno. Sus ojos brillaban ligeramente rojos, no desde dentro, sino como si algo tras ellos los observara. Observando. Juzgando. Los aldeanos se reunieron a distancia, acosados ​​por el miedo, por el asombro, por el peso de algo que terminaba. Él no habló. Levantó la mano, y el cuervo extendió sus alas. Desde el pedestal tras ellos, el sigilo brilló una vez más; esta vez no con luz, sino en la ausencia. Un agujero perfecto en la realidad. Una herida que jamás sanaría. El aire lloraba sangre. Los árboles se inclinaban como si estuvieran de luto. Y uno a uno, los nombres de cada alma que alguna vez susurró el nombre de Eslarei resonaron en la hondonada... y se desvanecieron. Borrados. Devorados. Eril Dane se convirtió en algo más que un hombre esa noche. Se convirtió en el último sigilo. El Vínculo Viviente. El Que Recuerda. Su nombre nunca volvería a pronunciarse en el Valle de Vareth, porque la aldea ya no existía. El mapa se consumió por completo. Los caminos se desviaron. Las estrellas se negaron a alinearse sobre su antiguo lugar de descanso. Pero en ciertos grimorios prohibidos —páginas escritas con sangre de pluma y selladas con cera sin aliento— aún se menciona un ave pálida que anuncia el Vacío. Un cuervo, coronado con runas, que se posa solo una vez cada mil años en la piedra donde muere la memoria. Y cuando lo hace, no viene por profecía. Viene a alimentarse. Epílogo Pasaron los siglos. El mundo giraba, olvidadizo como siempre. Los bosques reclamaban la tierra. El polvo sepultaba la verdad. Y aun así, el pedestal permanecía intacto, intacto, invisible. La llamaban la "Piedra Ciega" en los nuevos mapas, aunque ninguno de los que la pasaron recordaba por qué la evitaron, solo que su corazón se sentía más pesado a medida que se acercaban. Incluso las imágenes satelitales se desdibujaban, como si algo antiguo se filtrara a través del código y la lente para mantenerse sagrado, velado. Sin embargo, de vez en cuando, los viajeros avistan un pájaro blanco: solitario, silencioso, observando desde un árbol retorcido o una piedra desmoronada, con plumas demasiado pálidas para la naturaleza, ojos demasiado oscuros para la paz. No vuela. Simplemente espera. Y para los pocos que se atreven a dibujar su forma o a relatar su avistamiento, les siguen sueños extraños. Sueños de torres hechas de bocas, de un hombre con una corona sangrante, de un nombre grabado con ceniza en el interior de sus párpados. A veces se despiertan con plumas en las manos. A veces, no se despiertan en absoluto. Y en un rincón olvidado del mundo, donde los pájaros no cantan y el viento gime en lenguas antiguas, las runas del pedestal titilan débilmente, como un latido bajo una piedra. Una sola palabra aún arde en él: “Eril.” Si esta historia perdura en tus huesos y susurra en tus sueños, ahora puedes traer la leyenda a casa. Deja que el cuervo vele por tu espacio, proteja tu descanso o ensombrezca tus pensamientos con estas evocadoras piezas. Cubre tus paredes con el mito con un tapiz con runas , o invoca la elegancia del vacío con una impresión metálica digna de reverencia arcana . Sumérgete en una comodidad evocadora con un cojín de felpa , o deja que la tradición olvidada guarde tus sueños bajo una funda nórdica tejida con susurros . Y si deambulas, lleva su presagio contigo en una bolsa de tela grabada en la sombra .

Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman

El guardián de mi amor

La cerradura, la llave y el gnomo que sabía demasiado La boda fue exactamente a las 4:04 p. m. Porque los gnomos no son conocidos por ser puntuales, pero sí por su simetría. Y según los ancianos, nada fija el amor como un par de números reflejados. Así que eran las 4:04, en un claro tan rebosante de flores y perfume de hadas que hasta los hongos estaban un poco achispados. Allí estaba, con su encaje y su actitud desafiante: Lunella Fernwhistle, la tercera hija del clan Fernwhistle, conocida en los jardines por sus cautivadores arreglos florales y su tendencia a añadir algo de sabor al compost. Su cabello era una tempestad de rizos plateados, envuelto en una corona de gardenias recién cortadas y caos. ¿Su ramo? Forjado a mano con flores recién liberadas y lo que no se hubieran comido los caracoles esa mañana. Olía a madreselva, misterio y tal vez un toque de licor casero. A propósito. ¿Y él? Bueno. Bolliver Thatchroot era el partido más inesperado de todo el bosque. No porque no fuera guapo —con su aspecto corpulento y huesudo—, sino porque Bolliver había sido un soltero empedernido con llave de todo : la despensa, la bodega, el alijo de cerveza de emergencia del ayuntamiento, incluso la bóveda del diario de la vieja Ma Muddlefoot (no preguntes). Si cerraba, Bolliver la abría. Y si no cerraba, la arreglaba enseguida. Era cerrajero, embaucador y un blando, todo en un bulto de barba y cuadros escoceses, amante de las galletas. Pero ese día, en ese momento, Bolliver sostenía solo una llave —ligeramente grande, inequívocamente simbólica— y la abrazaba con sus pequeños dedos como si fuera el objeto más frágil y preciado que jamás había conocido. Colgaba de un anillo de plata en su cinturón, reflejando la luz del sol mientras se inclinaba para besar a Lunella con un beso tan suave que las abejas se sonrojaron y las ardillas apartaron la mirada cortésmente. La multitud suspiró. En algún lugar, un flautista falló una nota. Un pétalo cayó a cámara lenta. Y el oficiante, un sapo cascarrabias pero querido llamado Sir Splotsworth, se secó una lágrima de su mejilla verrugosa y graznó: «Adelante, tortolitos. Algunos tenemos renacuajos que encontrar en casa». Pero Lunella no lo oyó. Solo oía el latido de su propio corazón, el susurro del viento entre las dedaleras y el pequeño y chillón "¡eep!" que Bolliver siempre emitía cuando estaba a punto de hacer algo atrevido. Y, en efecto, atrevido era. El beso, aunque breve, llegó con un susurro. "¿Esta llave? No es solo para la puerta de nuestra cabaña", murmuró. "Es para ti. Para todos. Incluso las partes de compost y vino". Lunella sonrió. «Entonces será mejor que estés preparado para una vida de fermentaciones extrañas y jardinería descalza a medianoche, mi amor». Los pétalos llovieron como aplausos. La multitud estalló en aplausos y zapateos. Bolliver hizo una reverencia dramática y, sin querer, dejó caer el llavero en la ponchera. Burbujeó. Brilló. Podría haber seguido una pequeña explosión. A nadie le importó. El beso había sido perfecto. La novia estaba radiante. Y el novio... bueno, todavía olía vagamente a óxido y frambuesas, lo que a Lunella le pareció alarmantemente excitante. La boda puede haber terminado, pero las verdaderas travesuras apenas estaban comenzando... La cabaña, las maldiciones y la inesperada disposición de los muebles La cabaña era heredada de la tía abuela de Bolliver, Twibbin, quien supuestamente había salido con un erizo. Estaba en la curva del arroyo Sweetroot, a poca distancia del círculo de tejido local (que también servía de fábrica de rumores del pueblo), y estaba cubierta de hiedra trepadora, campanillas de viento caducadas y una veleta sorprendentemente testaruda con forma de ganso. Graznaba «lluvia» todos los días, sin importar el pronóstico. Bolliver cruzó el umbral con Lunella en brazos, como era tradición, pero calculó mal la altura del marco de la puerta y se golpeó la cabeza a ambos. Rieron, frotándose la frente al entrar, ante una escena de encantador caos: sillas con forma de hongo, un sillón que eructaba al sentarse y una lámpara de araña hecha completamente de cucharillas derretidas y saliva de duendecillo. Lunella arrugó la nariz y abrió todas las ventanas al instante. "Aquí huele a tres décadas de soltero y malas decisiones". "Así es como sabes que está en casa", dijo Bolliver radiante, abriendo ya los armarios con su llave maestra. Dentro: dos frascos de nabos encurtidos (etiquetados como "snack de emergencia - 1998"), una bola de naftalina que parecía un bollo de canela, y algo que podría haber sido queso, pero que ahora tenía patas. Lunella suspiró. «Tendremos que bendecir todo este espacio con salvia. Quizás con fuego». Pero antes de que comenzara la descontaminación, notó algo peculiar. El llavero de Bolliver, ahora libre de la efervescencia del ponche, brillaba suavemente. No agresivamente. Más bien como un zumbido amistoso. Un zumbido que decía: *"Oye, abro cosas raras. ¿Quieres saber qué?"* "¿Por qué hace eso tu llave?", preguntó, rozando el metal con los dedos. Cálido. Hormigueante. Ligeramente excitante. Bolliver parpadeó. «Ah. Eso. Podría ser la clave de la luna de miel». “¿Y ahora qué?” Es una antigua reliquia de la familia Thatchroot. La leyenda dice que si se usa en la puerta correcta, abre una cámara secreta de deleite conyugal. Llena de almohadas de seda, iluminación romántica y... muebles ajustables. —Arqueó las cejas—. Pero aún no hemos encontrado la puerta. Desafío aceptado. Durante las siguientes tres horas, Lunella y Bolliver recorrieron la cabaña como locos, revisando cada rincón. ¿Detrás del armario? No. ¿Debajo de la alfombra? Solo polvo y un gusano que los miraba fijamente como si hubieran interrumpido algo íntimo. ¿La chimenea? No, a menos que la "ducha de hollín caliente" les excitara. Incluso revisaron el retrete, aunque eso provocó un pequeño incidente de plomería y un mapache muy confundido. Finalmente, se encontraron ante el último lugar intacto: el armario del ático. Antiguo, ligeramente deformado, y exudando aroma a cedro y sospecha. La llave vibró en la mano de Bolliver como un cachorrito aturdido. Lunella, sin inmutarse, abrió la puerta de golpe con un gesto florido... Y desapareció. —¡¿LUNELLA?! —gritó Bolliver, lanzándose tras ella. La puerta se cerró de golpe. La veleta con forma de ganso gritó "¡LLUVIA!" y el viento rió como un alma en pena chismosa. No se adentraron en un trastero, sino en una auténtica cámara encantada de sensuales disparates. La iluminación era tenue y favorecedora. La música —una especie de cruce entre arpas y banjo lento— flotaba en el aire. Faroles con forma de corazón flotaban perezosamente en el aire. ¿Y los muebles? Ah, los muebles. Afelpados, aterciopelados, cubiertos con bordados vagamente románticos como «Kiss Me Again» y «Nice Beard». Una silla tenía un posavasos y un sugerente brillo en su tallado. Otra se reclinó con un suspiro dramático y sacó una trufa de chocolate de su cajón. Lunella se sentó, probando el rebote de un sofá particularmente provocativo. "Vale. Lo admito. Esto es... impresionante". Bolliver se deslizó junto a ella; la llave ahora brillaba como una vela presumida. «Te lo dije. El Guardián de Mi Amor no solo abre puertas. Abre experiencias». Puso los ojos en blanco con tanta fuerza que casi se salieron de su órbita. "Por favor, dime que no lo ensayaste". —Un poco. —Se inclinó—. Pero sobre todo sabía que algún día, en algún lugar, encontraría al que encajara la cerradura. —Eres un cabrón sentimental —susurró Lunella antes de tirarlo al suelo, contra el terciopelo. La habitación se cerró con suavidad. Las linternas se atenuaron. Afuera, la veleta sonó en señal de celebración. En algún lugar, a lo lejos, el círculo de tejido del pueblo se detuvo en medio de sus chismes, todos presentiendo de repente que algo picante se estaba gestando en el ático de Thatchroot. Y tenían razón. Pero ahí no termina la historia. ¡Ay, no! Porque si bien Bolliver era muy bueno abriendo puertas, resulta que Lunella tenía sus propios secretos, y no todos eran de esos que se ríen de la "dulce y picante". Digamos que la suite de luna de miel no permanecería privada por mucho tiempo... Secretos, escándalos y el gran deslumbramiento de los gnomos A la mañana siguiente, Lunella despertó envuelta en una maraña de terciopelo, extremidades y un cojín bordado con la frase "Thatchroot It to Me". Parpadeó. La suite encantada seguía ronroneando a su alrededor. Bolliver roncaba a su lado como una suave sirena de niebla, con una mano aún protectora alrededor de su tintineante llavero, y la otra sobre su cadera desnuda como si reclamara territorio. Lo cual, para ser justos, en cierto modo lo hacía. Ella sonrió, le alborotó la barba solo para hacerlo gruñir en sueños y se levantó en silencio para investigar. La puerta tras ellos había desaparecido. De nuevo. Típico comportamiento de una suite de luna de miel. Pero lo que le preocupaba no era la puerta que desaparecía, sino el tenue sonido de voces ... y el olor a bollos. Voces. Plural. Scones. Inconfundible. Se puso su bata (que al parecer estaba hecha de plumas de colibrí y un ligero sarcasmo) y bajó de puntillas por la escalera encantada que había aparecido donde antes había un armario de escobas. Al abrir la última puerta, la recibió lo último que cualquier recién casado quiere ver al día siguiente de un mágico encuentro amoroso: Todo el vecindario de Fernwhistle-Figpocket de pie en su cocina. Y cada uno de ellos sosteniendo un pastelito. "¡Sorpresa!", exclamaron a coro. Una masa de pastel salió volando por la sala, emocionada. “¿Qué… cómo… por qué…?” tartamudeó Lunella. —Bueno —dijo la señora Wimpletush, una general chismosa de alto rango y la única gnoma conocida con alergia a la brillantina—, ya ​​olíamos la luna de miel. “¿El qué ?” —Cariño, activaste la cámara del deleite conyugal. Esa cosa no se ha abierto desde 1743. Salió un boletín informativo al respecto. Es básicamente una leyenda de gnomos. —Se ajustó las gafas—. Y, bueno, los marcadores de olor explotan como fuegos artificiales. Hicieron que mis begonias se sonrojaran. Lunella gimió. "¿Así que entraste en nuestra casa?" “¡Trajimos muffins!” Antes de que pudiera replicar, Bolliver apareció en lo alto de la escalera, gloriosamente desaliñado, vestido solo con sus pantalones a cuadros y lleno de confianza. «Ah», dijo. «Parece que mi reputación me ha precedido una vez más». Bajó las escaleras con aires de alguien que había visto muchas cosas y las había disfrutado al máximo. La multitud se apartó respetuosamente. Incluso la veleta con forma de ganso que había afuera asintió brevemente. La Sra. Wimpletush resopló. "Así que... los rumores son ciertos. La llave ha regresado." —La llave ha estado ocupada —murmuró Lunella, sacando un panecillo de la bandeja de alguien y comiéndolo con rencor. Pero los muffins fueron solo el principio. Durante los siguientes días, la cabaña se convirtió en el centro de atención del municipio. Los visitantes acudían con la excusa de traer "piedras de bendición" y "mermelada de zanahoria", pero sobre todo querían echar un vistazo a los recién casados ​​y su infame cámara de amor. A Lunella no le importaba la atención (le encantaba el espectáculo), pero se puso límites cuando dos gnomos solteronas entrometidas de Upper Fernclump intentaron sobornar a Bolliver para que les hiciera una visita guiada. —Para nada —espetó Lunella, cerrando la puerta con una pala—. Este es nuestro mágico ático sexual. No una atracción de jardín. Bolliver, por una vez, pareció avergonzado. «Ofrecieron veinte bellotas de oro». “¡No puedes vender nuestra experiencia en la suite de luna de miel!” “¿Pero qué pasa si ofrezco actualizaciones?” Lunella le dio una bofetada con una bolsita de lavanda y entró furiosa al jardín. La situación estuvo tensa durante unas horas. Le trajo bollitos de disculpa. Ella respondió con una limpieza pasivo-agresiva. Finalmente, dejó una nota pegada a la llave: «Solo quiero abrir puertas si estás detrás de ellas. Lo siento». Además, enceré la lámpara de araña con forma de cuchara. Esa cosa fue una pesadilla. Ella lo perdonó. Sobre todo porque nadie enceraba cubiertos malditos como Bolliver. Pasaron las semanas. Los chismes se apagaron. La señora Wimpletush se distrajo con un nuevo escándalo relacionado con un calabacín gigante de alguien. La habitación de luna de miel volvió a la hibernación. Los muebles se sumieron en gemidos ocasionales y suspiros dramáticos, como suele ocurrir con los muebles. La llave, ahora desgastada por las aventuras, ocupaba un lugar de honor junto a las tazas de té y la tetera que no dejaba de cantar canciones marineras. Lunella y Bolliver se casaron como siempre: con descaro, dulzura y un toque de caos. Bailaron descalzos en jardines iluminados por la luna. Elaboraron vino de hongos con efectos secundarios sospechosos. Organizaron fiestas donde los muebles ofrecían consejos de pareja no solicitados. Y una vez, incluso dejaron que la veleta de ganso oficiara una ceremonia de renovación de votos para dos caracoles. Fue hermoso. Húmedo, pero hermoso. Y cada noche, justo antes de acostarse, Bolliver hacía sonar el llavero y guiñaba un ojo. “Sigues siendo el guardián de mi amor”, decía. "Por supuesto que lo eres", sonreía Lunella, arrastrándolo por el cinturón hacia arriba. Y así vivieron felices, traviesos, románticos y completamente para siempre, recordándole a todos en Fernwhistle-Figpocket que el amor no solo abre puertas... también ocasionalmente hace explotar poncheras, rompe umbrales mágicos y huele un poco a salvia quemada y pecado. Lleva un poco de travesura y magia a casa… Si la historia de amor de Bolliver y Lunella te hizo reír, desmayar o reconsiderar seriamente el potencial romántico de los muebles de ático, no dejes que la magia se detenga aquí. Puedes capturar su momento mágico en tu propio reino con un lienzo que rebosa de romance caprichoso, o envolverte en sus travesuras con un tapiz suave y vibrante, digno de la mismísima suite de luna de miel. Para abrazos acogedores, está el encantador cojín decorativo , o comparte un poco de gnomismo con una adorable tarjeta de felicitación : perfecta para bodas, aniversarios o para enviar mensajes de amor un poco inapropiados. Y si te sientes atrevido (o un poco caótico), pon a prueba tu paciencia y devoción con un rompecabezas mágico que incluye el beso de ensueño de la pareja y el llavero del destino. Ya seas fan de los muebles de terciopelo o de la veleta sarcástica, esta colección tiene algo para todos los gustos. Porque, seamos sinceros, un amor como este merece un lugar en tu pared, tu sofá y tu mesa de centro.