cute fantasy gnomes

por Bill Tiepelman

Garden of Devotion

In a tiny, vine-wrapped village just past the last mushroom on the left, nestled somewhere between “What the heck was that?” and “Did that bush just wink at me?”, lived a rather suspiciously adorable pair of gnomes. Barnaby and Glimmer. If their names sound like the start of a children’s fable, I assure you—this is not that. These two were infamous for turning fairy-ring brunches into bottomless mimosa brawls and once got banned from the local pixie spa for "inappropriate glitter usage." But even still, they were madly, magically, annoyingly in love. Now, Glimmer had eyes like blueberry moonshine and a knack for growing flowers that made other gnomes weep softly into their compost piles. Barnaby, on the other hand, had a beard so magnificent it had its own zip code and the kind of smirk that could stir up trouble in a monastery. He wore his pointy red hat tilted just far enough to suggest he might know where the bodies were buried. (Spoiler: it was just a mole infestation. Probably.) Every evening, like clockwork, they’d waddle through the garden, hand in hand, to “their bench.” Not the one by the radishes (too damp). Not the one near the troll hedge (don’t ask). The one surrounded by heart-shaped lanterns, flanked by suspiciously symmetrical toadstools, and often covered in suspiciously non-native flower petals. They swore they didn’t stage it for aesthetic. (They absolutely did.) On this particular evening, Glimmer wore a sapphire-blue dress with enough lace to suffocate a fairy. Her hat brim overflowed with fresh peonies, dahlias, and one fake flower she snuck in just to mess with Barnaby. He hadn’t noticed yet. His hat, meanwhile, had been upgraded with climbing vines that spelled “Sexy Beast” if you tilted your head just right and squinted. Love was in full bloom, and so were their egos. “You know,” Barnaby murmured as they plopped down on the bench, “one day we’ll be legends. Gnomekind will sing ballads about how stunningly attractive and humble we were.” “Mmm,” Glimmer purred, resting her hand in his. “Especially the humble part.” “That’s the spirit,” he grinned. “They’ll say, ‘Ah yes, Barnaby the Bold, Glimmer the Glorious—those two caused more scandal than a squirrel in a sunflower patch.’” Glimmer chuckled, nudging him with her knee. “Only because you insisted on that skinny-dipping incident in the birdbath. We’re still banned from the finch sanctuary.” “Totally worth it,” Barnaby whispered, kissing her hand with the exaggerated flair of someone who had clearly practiced in front of a mirror. “Shall we cause a little more mischief tonight, my petal of chaos?” “Oh, absolutely,” Glimmer whispered back. “But first, let’s sit here and look devastatingly in love while the fireflies get ideas.” And so they did, two fabulously overdressed garden delinquents, bathed in the warm glow of devotion and mild narcissism, plotting whatever mayhem came next with a twinkle in their eyes and matching socks. (A first, by the way. She finally labeled his drawer.) The Gnome with the Golden Pants The very next morning, the peaceful hush of the Garden of Devotion was shattered by an unholy sound: Barnaby attempting interpretive dance to the squeaky rhythms of Glimmer’s enchanted wind chimes. Wearing what he claimed were “ceremonial yoga britches,” but were clearly gold lamé leggings three sizes too tight, he wiggled, gyrated, and nearly pulled a hamstring beneath the weeping willow. “I am channeling ancient earth spirits,” he gasped, mid-pelvic-thrust. “You’re channeling a lawsuit,” Glimmer replied flatly, sipping dewberry tea and pretending not to enjoy the show. But she was. Oh, she was. Later that day, Glimmer received a visit from her best friend, Prunella—an aggressively blunt garden witch whose opinions were as sharp as her pruning shears. “Darling,” Prunella said, eyeing Barnaby’s glitter-infused beard from across the yard. “Is he... moulting? Or just molting all over your hydrangeas on purpose?” “It’s performance art,” Glimmer deadpanned. “He’s in his expressive phase.” “Mmm. Yes. Very expressive. I think your begonias just filed a restraining order.” The three of them ended up sitting beneath the Heart Lantern Tree, the same one Barnaby proposed under during a meteor shower that turned out to be an exploding gnome-made cheese wheel experiment gone wrong. Glimmer remembered that night well—mostly the flaming ricotta falling from the sky, and Barnaby declaring it “a sign from the Dairy Gods.” “So,” Prunella said, glancing between them, “you two are still disgusting and in love, I assume?” “Inexplicably,” Barnaby confirmed, licking sugar from his fingers. “We’ve decided to renew our vows.” Glimmer blinked. “We have?” “Yes,” Barnaby said proudly. “Right here in the garden. At sunset. With live music and possibly a fire juggler who owes me a favor from that time with the caterpillar circus.” “You made that up just now,” Glimmer said. “Did I? Or is it fate?” “It’s indigestion, dear.” Still, she found herself charmed. Again. Despite the gold pants. Despite the unrequested vow renewal. Despite the fact he still alphabetized the spice shelf by color, not name, because “cinnamon should feel special.” The planning began immediately. Invitations were scribbled on pressed lily pads. Lanterns were polished until the toads could see their reflections and questioned their life choices. Even the garden bats were recruited to carry mini scrolls, which backfired when half of them ate the paper and fell asleep upside down on Glimmer’s hat rack. Prunella volunteered to officiate (“I’ve got a robe and unresolved rage—I’m qualified”), while the fairy triplets down the lane, known collectively as The Dandelion Debs, offered to sing backup. The trouble came when Barnaby insisted on writing his vows in haiku. Which would have been fine if he didn’t also demand they be whispered dramatically by a wind spirit mid-ceremony. “You want me to summon a literal elemental for your poetic vibes?” Glimmer asked, raising an eyebrow. “Only if it’s not too much trouble,” he said, holding out a single wildflower like a peace offering. “I’ll do the dishes for a week.” “A month. And you reorganize the sock drawer you turned into a snack cavern.” “Done.” As sunset approached, the garden was glowing—soft pinks and oranges filtering through every leafy crevice, fireflies doing a coordinated light show (probably bribed), and the scent of sugared petals heavy in the air. Glimmer walked down the mushroom aisle barefoot, her hair filled with blossoms, her dress catching the breeze like a silk spell. Barnaby waited in his best vest, looking like a cross between a Victorian flirt and a sentient candy apple. His beard had been brushed to shocking perfection, and someone had even woven in tiny twinkling lights. Probably his doing. Probably glitter again. Prunella cleared her throat. “We gather in this extremely chaotic and overly fragrant garden to witness the ongoing saga of Glimmer and Barnaby—two beings so tragically codependent and ferociously in love that the universe simply gave up and started rooting for them.” “I vow,” Barnaby began, “to always share my last raspberry, even if you say you’re not hungry, and then immediately eat the entire thing. I vow to dance like nobody’s judging, even when you very much are. And I vow to annoy you forever, on purpose, because it makes you smile when you pretend it doesn’t.” Glimmer laughed and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I vow to let you think your ‘gnome yoga’ counts as cardio. I vow to never tell anyone that you cried during that squirrel documentary. And I vow to grow with you, wildly, stupidly, beautifully, in this garden and every ridiculous mess we make together.” There wasn’t a dry eye in the garden—mostly because the pollen count was obnoxious, but also because something about those two brought out the softest parts of everyone, even the mossy crank that lived behind the snail pond. They kissed beneath the glowing heart lanterns, surrounded by laughter, petals, and one faint explosion in the background from an unsupervised firework gnome who misread the schedule. But nothing could ruin it. Not even Prunella accidentally summoning a wind elemental that knocked over the champagne tower and whispered something deeply inappropriate in Glimmer’s ear. (She never told Barnaby what it said, but she smiled wickedly for days.) Moss, Mischief, and Matrimonial Mayhem Three days after the “unofficially official, partially elemental” vow renewal, Barnaby and Glimmer woke up to find their garden on the front page of The Gnomestead Gazette. Well, technically it was page two—the front page was reserved for a scandal involving a rogue hedgehog and a honey-smuggling ring—but there they were: full-color, mid-kiss, mid-lantern glow, mid-magic-chaos. The caption read: “GNOMANCE BLOOMS IN UNICORN-DUNG COMPOST DISTRICT.” Glimmer snorted orange juice through her nose. “At least they got my good side.” Barnaby beamed. “And they used the shot where my beard looks like a windswept prophecy. Glorious.” The coverage, unfortunately, brought attention. The kind of attention that involves gawking garden tourists, nosy neighbor gnomes with clipboards, and three separate suitors who showed up in monocles asking Glimmer if she’d “like to upgrade.” One brought a swan. A real swan. It bit him and pooped on his hat. Glimmer named the swan Terrence and kept him as emotional support chaos. Meanwhile, Barnaby found himself the sudden object of adoration for a cult of aspiring beard disciples who pitched tents near the rose patch and began meditating on ‘the Path of the Follicle.’ One carved a bust of Barnaby entirely out of artisanal soap. It smelled like lavender and delusions. “This is getting out of hand,” Glimmer said one afternoon as two mushroom influencers livestreamed themselves doing interpretive dance in front of the begonias. “They’re tagging us in their rituals, Barns.” “Maybe we should monetize?” he offered, only half-joking. “One more mushroom dances into my tea zone and I’m starting a war.” But it wasn’t just the fans. It was the garden itself. You see, in their reckless display of affection and fairy-light-laced pageantry, Glimmer and Barnaby had accidentally awakened something old. Something leafy. Something ornery. The Mossfather. A semi-sentient, ultra-mature patch of moss tucked deep in the forgotten corner of the garden—under the abandoned birdbath, between the two gnarled roots shaped like Elvis. It had slumbered for decades, absorbing stray whispers, stolen kisses, and one particularly juicy argument about whose turn it was to pick up gnome groceries. But now, roused by fireworks, emotional vows, and a wind elemental with a flair for theatrics, it had Awakened. And it was...moody. At first, the signs were subtle. Leaves twitching when no one watched. Unusual amounts of glitter found in bird nests. Mysteriously shuffled topiary sculptures forming vaguely passive-aggressive shapes. (“Is that a middle finger?” “No, dear. It’s a tulip. With opinions.”) Then came the dreams. Barnaby began sleep-mumbling in moss dialect. Glimmer kept waking up with her hat full of lichen and strange, vaguely threatening sonnets scrawled in compost ink beside the bed. Prunella, naturally, was delighted. “You’ve awakened an ancient sentience,” she said gleefully. “Do you know how rare that is? He’s like the cantankerous grandpa of the land. Grumpy, green, and full of emotional rot.” “Is that admiration?” Glimmer asked, pouring wine. “Oh yes. I’d shag it if I wasn’t allergic.” To appease the Mossfather, they organized a festival. (Because naturally, throwing an even bigger party was the only logical choice.) They called it the “Lichen & Love Gala.” Guests were encouraged to wear moss formalwear—robes, leafy corsets, dandelion bowties. Barnaby wore a cape made entirely of creeping thyme and smugness. Glimmer had a dress spun from spider silk and dandelion fluff that shimmered when she cursed under her breath. Entertainment was provided by a band of jazz gnomes, one extremely offended satyr who thought this was a masquerade orgy (it was not), and Terrence the Swan, who now had a fanbase of his own and absolutely knew it. He wore a monocle. No one knew where he got it. Near midnight, a hush fell over the garden. The Mossfather appeared—not walking, not gliding, but simply...being. An ancient green patch of fuzz the size of a small loveseat, pulsing with magic and judgment. He regarded them all with eldritch disappointment. “WHO DISTURBS MY SULK?” his voice boomed. Flowers wilted. Tea curdled. Prunella swooned. “Uh, hi?” Barnaby offered. “We brought snacks?” There was silence. A long, mossy silence. Then... the Mossfather nodded. “SNACKS... ACCEPTABLE.” The party resumed. More wine flowed. Prunella flirted shamelessly with the storm sprite working crowd control. Glimmer and Barnaby danced beneath the lanterns again, spinning through light and laughter, surrounded by chaos, beauty, and the utterly deranged family of misfits they had somehow assembled. Later that night, as they collapsed back onto their favorite bench, Barnaby sighed contentedly. “You know, I think this might be the weirdest thing we’ve ever done.” “Mmm,” Glimmer said, curling into his side. “You say that every time. But yes. Yes, it is.” “You think we’ll ever settle down? Live a quiet life? Garden. Nap. Bake things that don’t explode?” “No,” Glimmer said. “We’re terrible at normal. But we’re excellent at spectacularly odd.” “True. And spectacularly in love.” She smiled. “Don’t get mushy on me now.” “Too late. It’s the moss.” And beneath the twilight glow of heart-shaped lights and dancing fireflies, they kissed once more. Their garden pulsed with magic, mischief, and devotion that could melt the iciest root-witch. The Mossfather purred. Terrence the Swan bit someone in the distance. And the night bloomed on, forever strange and perfectly theirs.     Bring a little Garden of Devotion into your own world... If this story left your heart a little warmer and your cheeks a little more sore from smiling, you’re not alone. Glimmer and Barnaby’s perfectly peculiar romance has a way of lingering like the scent of honeysuckle and scandal. Now, you can keep that whimsy blooming wherever you are. From glowing love-lit scenes to gnome-level sass and enchantment, Garden of Devotion is available as a framed print for your gallery wall, a cozy fleece blanket to snuggle under during mischief plotting, or even a throw pillow that politely encourages your guests to be just a little weirder. There’s also a full tapestry edition if your space needs a dramatic garden flair—and yes, there’s a puzzle too, for those who want to piece the magic together one mischievous corner at a time. Framed Print | Tapestry | Jigsaw Puzzle | Throw Pillow | Fleece Blanket Celebrate the love that grows wild and the laughter that echoes through magic gardens. And remember—every good garden needs a little chaos, a lot of heart, and maybe just one slightly judgmental moss patch.

por Bill Tiepelman

The Keeper of My Love

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

por Bill Tiepelman

Soaked in Sunshine and Mischief

It was the kind of rain that made the world smell alive — damp earth, crushed leaves, and that heady perfume of mushrooms fermenting secrets into the soil. Most creatures ran for cover. But not Marlow and Trixie. They were gnomes, after all. And gnomes were either born with good sense or born with absolutely none at all — depending on whether you asked the village elders or the village bartenders. Today, barefoot in the thick puddled glade, Marlow and Trixie were every definition of joyful stupidity. "C'mon, lovebug, before your knickers rust shut!" Marlow hooted, his tie-dye shirt sagging and clinging to his potbelly like a soggy rainbow. He grabbed Trixie's mud-slicked hand and spun her with a flourish that nearly toppled them both into the deepest puddle. Water splashed high, drenching them anew. "Ha! Says the man whose beard is growing mold!" Trixie giggled, the flowers in her crown shedding petals like confetti. Her blue hair, heavy with rain, stuck to her cheeks in sticky strands, framing a grin mischievous enough to make a nun blush. Their giddy shrieks echoed through the clearing as they stomped and spun, feet splashing puddles the size of small ponds. Every step flung mud higher until they looked less like gnomes and more like muddy garden ornaments — the kind even grandmothers would hesitate to put out front. Above them, giant mushrooms sagged under the weight of water, dribbling fat droplets that hit Marlow squarely in the bald spot, causing Trixie to nearly choke with laughter. Somewhere nearby, a disgruntled frog croaked his annoyance before diving headfirst into a puddle with the dramatic flair of a soap opera actor. "Rain's got nuthin' on us!" Marlow bellowed, flexing what he still proudly referred to as his 'love muscles'—mostly held together these days by stubbornness and beer. Trixie twirled, dress plastered to her, delightfully scandalous in the way only forest creatures with very liberal views on clothing considered normal. She struck a pose like a fashion model, one hip popped and arms thrown to the sky, shouting, "Make it rain, baby! Make it raunchy!" Marlow doubled over with laughter, nearly falling into a puddle himself. "You keep flouncing like that and the entire woodland's gonna think it's gnome mating season!" At that, Trixie gave him a wink that could have powered a lighthouse and sauntered close enough for him to smell the rain in her hair. She tugged him by his soggy collar, their noses almost touching. "Maybe," she whispered, the innuendo dripping thicker than the rain, "that's exactly what I had in mind." Before he could answer — likely something very ungentlemanly and very amusing — the ground beneath them squelched ominously. With a wild, cartoonish yelp, the pair slid backwards, arms flailing, and landed with a monumental SPLAT in the biggest puddle of the meadow. They lay there blinking up at the grey, drizzling sky, rain pattering against their faces, laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep inside the muddy mess they'd become. "Best. Date. Ever." Trixie sighed dreamily, smacking her mud-smeared hand into Marlow’s equally ruined shirt in a sloppy pat-pat-pat. "You ain't seen nothin' yet, sugar sprout," Marlow crooned, waggling his thick eyebrows, which now sported their own tiny puddles. Above them, the clouds swirled and the mist thickened, hinting that their soggy adventure was far from over — and the mischief was only just beginning. The puddle squelched around them as they finally peeled themselves apart, each trying unsuccessfully to look dignified while dripping from eyebrows to toes. Marlow pushed himself up on one elbow, squinting dramatically like some swashbuckling hero — if swashbuckling heroes wore rain-soaked tie-dye and smelled faintly of wet mushrooms. "You know what this calls for?" he said, giving Trixie a grin so wide it could have fit a third gnome between his teeth. "An emergency pint?" she guessed, trying and failing to wring out her dress. Water sprayed from the hem like a poorly-behaved hosepipe, soaking his boots, not that they could get any wetter. "Close." He wagged a thick finger at her. "Emergency puddle sliding contest." Trixie's eyes lit up like a tavern sign at happy hour. "You're on, you muddy rascal." Without another word, she hurled herself belly-first onto the slick grass and shot forward with a whoop that startled a flock of birds out of the canopy. Marlow, never one to back down from a challenge — or from an opportunity to impress a lady with absolutely no sense of shame — launched after her, arms flailing and belly jiggling. They skidded across the clearing in glorious, muddy chaos, colliding with a startled hedgehog who, after an indignant squeak, decided he'd seen worse and waddled off muttering under his breath about "bloody gnomes and their bloody love games." When they finally came to a soggy, breathless stop at the base of a large mushroom, Marlow was half on top of Trixie, and Trixie was laughing so hard her flower crown slid down over one eye. He pushed it back up gently, his rough thumb smearing a line of mud across her cheek. "You are," he panted, "the most beautiful mud-covered nymph I've ever had the pleasure of nearly drowning beside." "Flatterer," she teased, poking him in the ribs. "Careful, Marlow, keep sweet-talking me like that and you might just get lucky." He leaned closer, water dripping from the end of his nose. "Lucky like... another puddle race?" "Lucky like..." She arched an eyebrow and smirked, "…getting to help me out of these wet clothes before they chafe all my best bits." Marlow blinked. Somewhere deep inside, he could swear a choir of drunk angels started singing. Either that or he was about to pass out from excitement. "Help?" he croaked, voice an octave higher than normal. "Help," she confirmed, sliding her hand into his, a wicked sparkle in her rain-speckled eyes. "But first, you have to catch me!" With a squeal and a splash, she darted up, her bare feet kicking up sprays of water as she raced toward the deeper woods. Marlow, fueled by adrenaline, romance, and about eight too many pints of ale stored in reserve, staggered upright and lumbered after her like a lovesick buffalo. The chase was a glorious mess. Trixie weaving through trees, laughing breathlessly, Marlow crashing after her, getting clotheslined by low branches and slipping on treacherous patches of moss. "You're fast for a little squirt!" he gasped, nearly tripping over a root the size of his pride. "You're slow for a big show-off!" she shouted over her shoulder, throwing him a saucy wink that nearly sent him face-first into a patch of suspiciously grinning mushrooms. Finally, she paused by a tiny brook, water sparkling like liquid jewels, and waited, arms crossed, dress clinging to every wicked curve like nature's most scandalous painting. "You made it," she said mockingly, as Marlow staggered up, wheezing like an accordion in distress. "Told... ya... still got it..." he puffed, chest heaving, beard dripping. Trixie stepped forward slowly, seductively, tracing a line down his muddy shirt with one finger. "Good," she whispered. "Because you're gonna need it." In one swift, daring motion, she grabbed the hem of her soaked dress and yanked it over her head, tossing it onto a nearby branch where it dripped raindrops like applause. Beneath, she wore... absolutely nothing but a devilish grin and a whole lotta rain-kissed skin. Marlow's brain short-circuited. Somewhere deep inside, his inner voice — the sensible one that usually suggested things like "Maybe don't drink the questionable mushroom wine" — muttered, "We’re doomed," and quietly packed a suitcase to leave. But his heart (and frankly, several other parts of him) cheered loudly. With a growl that made nearby squirrels avert their eyes and one particularly bold beetle offer a slow clap, he yanked off his shirt and charged into the brook, scooping Trixie into his arms with a splash that soaked them both anew. They tumbled into the shallow water, kissing fiercely, laughing between kisses, the rain coming harder now as if the sky itself was rooting for them. Somewhere in the forest, the frogs struck up a ribbiting chorus. The trees leaned in close, the mushrooms positively beamed, and even the grumpy hedgehog paused to shake his head and mutter, "Well, I suppose it's about bloody time." Long after the rain stopped, after the last drop clung stubbornly to leaf and blade, Marlow and Trixie stayed tangled together, soaked in mischief, soaked in sunshine, and soaked most of all — in love. The End. (Or the beginning, depending on who you ask.)     Bring a little "Sunshine and Mischief" into your world! If you loved Marlow and Trixie's wild rain dance as much as we did, why not take a piece of their story home? Our vibrant tapestry lets you drape that joyful energy across your walls, while a stunning metal print adds bold, glossy magic to any room. Feeling a little mischievous on the go? Grab our colorful tote bag — perfect for puddle-hopping or shopping misadventures! Want to send a smile? Our charming greeting card lets you share a little mischief by mail. And for those extra-sunny days (or surprise rainstorms), wrap yourself up in joy with our soft, playful beach towel. However you celebrate, let Marlow and Trixie remind you: life's better when you're soaked in sunshine — and a little bit of mischief.

por Bill Tiepelman

Grin and Gnome It

The Mushy Affair In the heart of the Blushblossom Grove, where the mushrooms grew as tall as gossip and twice as colorful, lived a gnome couple whose love was as loud as a frog orgy in springtime. Bucklebeard “Buck” Mossbottom, the jolliest mischief-maker in the glade, had a laugh so powerful it once caused a fairy to drop her pants mid-flight. And then there was Petalina “Pet” Thistlewhip, the sharpest tongue east of Toadstool Bend and proud owner of the only apron in the forest banned for ‘excessive sass’ by the Gnome Gardeners Guild. Now, Buck and Pet were not your dainty, storybook gnomes who spent their days knitting socks or watching moss grow. No, these two were infamous for their woodland hijinks, nightly howls of laughter, and the strange but oddly sensual way they buttered each other’s mushrooms. Every morning, Pet would pick him a daisy the size of his butt and wink like a wench in a bard’s bawdy tune. Buck, in return, would swing by her mushroom workshop with a bouquet of dew-drenched fern fronds and a smirk that practically screamed, “I brought pollens and I know how to use them.” One foggy spring morning, Buck stomped into their mushroom-stump kitchen, cheeks already flushed like he'd been caught with his pants tangled in honeysuckle. "Pet, love of my life, wrinkle in my suspenders," he boomed, "today, I’m takin’ you out! A real date! No toad races. No spore-counting competitions. I made us reservations at Fung du Licious." Pet arched an eyebrow so high it nearly poked a squirrel. “You mean that scandalous place where they serve soup in snail shells and their waiters wear nothing but rose petals and a confident grin?” “Exactly! We deserve it. I want wine. I want weird. I want you and me in candlelight, whispering dirty mushroom jokes ‘til the waiter begs us to leave.” Pet giggled, her eyes gleaming with devious delight. “You’re lucky I shaved my legs with a pinecone yesterday. Let me get my corset — the itchy one with the embroidered raccoon scandal." That night, the gnome couple turned heads all the way down the mosswalk. Buck wore his best checkered shirt, with buttons so shiny even the fireflies got jealous. Pet strutted beside him in a skirt that practically yodeled with flirtation and a flower crown so aggressive it nearly declared war on a wasp hive. As they entered Fung du Licious, holding hands and smirks, the entire forest seemed to hold its breath. They were seated under a glowing fungus chandelier, served glowing beetle juice cocktails, and serenaded by a quartet of horned newts with suspiciously sensual saxophones. Every dish that came out got more suggestive — the ‘Stuffed Moaning Morels’ nearly led to an indecent groping incident, and Buck’s attempt to describe the ‘Saucy Root Pile’ earned them a stern glance from a dainty hedgehog couple in the corner. But it was during dessert — a steamy tart named “The Creamy Puff Puff of Lust” — that Pet looked at Buck and said, “Darling, let’s go home. I need to jump your spores so hard we’ll fertilize the next zip code.” And Buck, wiping pudding off his beard, whispered back with all the subtlety of a thunderclap, “Grin and gnome it, baby.” They didn’t even finish their second puff puff. Pet flung some coins at the petal-clad waiter, who winked and handed them a complimentary bottle of dewberry wine, whispering, “For what comes next... hydrate." They burst out into the night air, giddy and slightly sticky, making a mad dash through the glowing shrooms, tripping on moss, and tearing petals out of their own crowns like love-drunk forest lunatics. But just as they reached their stump home, something unexpected was waiting on their doorstep… Sporeplay & Shenanigans Standing on their mossy front porch, slightly wine-soaked and whispering innuendos about puff pastry and sap-sticky nibbles, Buck and Pet froze. Because sitting atop their doormat was not a raccoon, a rogue snail, or even that judgmental owl from down the lane — no, this was something far more terrifying. A basket. “It’s not ticking,” Pet said warily, poking it with a spoon she kept in her corset for emergencies both romantic and violent. “It’s not farting either,” Buck added. “So it’s not my Uncle Sput.” Pet untied the gingham bow with the same grace and caution she used when undressing Buck — which is to say, she ripped it off like it owed her money. Inside lay a note and a large, squirming puff of fluff with two oversized ears and a tail that twitched like it had opinions. “Congratulations! It’s a Fuzzle!” They stared at the creature. The creature sneezed, and a cloud of sparkles hit Buck square in the beard, coating him in a fine dusting of glitter and pheromones. “A… Fuzzle?” Pet blinked. “Who the hell drops off a semi-sentient emotional support beast when we’re two drinks away from a night of rumpy-pumpy?” “It’s blinking in Morse code,” Buck said. “I think it’s judging our life choices.” “It’s about to watch us make more.” They carried the Fuzzle inside and dropped it into the cuddle-cushion pit, where it promptly fell asleep snoring like a hedgehog in a harmonica. Buck locked the door. Pet unpinned her crown with the flair of a gnome ready to sin. They locked eyes. They held hands. They grinned… And then the Fuzzle exploded. Not violently, but dramatically — a puff of spores erupted from its fuzzy little body, filling the air with a scent like cinnamon, vanilla, and poorly suppressed kinks. Buck staggered. Pet swayed. The room went pink. The candles flickered into little hearts. Their reflection in the mirror suddenly wore matching lingerie. “Buck…” Pet whispered, her voice suddenly several octaves lower and suggestively damp. “What… the... glittery shroom is happening?” “I think the Fuzzle is a Lustspore Familiar,” he gasped. “Those things were banned after the Great Groin Fire of ‘62!” They collapsed into the mushroom-mattress in a tangle of limbs, laughter, and pheromone-fueled silliness. Pet’s corset somehow snapped itself off. Buck’s pants disintegrated into a fine powder, possibly due to age or spellwork — no one cared. The next hour was a blur of kisses, tickles, giggles, and one moment involving whipped honey, a ladle, and the phrase “CALL ME FUNGUS DADDY.” Later, sweaty and exhausted, they lay side by side as the Fuzzle purred between them, now glowing faintly and wearing Buck’s sock like a cape. “That was… something,” Pet sighed, running fingers through her flower-tangled hair. “I saw colors I don’t have names for,” Buck wheezed. “Also, you bit my thigh. I liked it.” “I know.” They dozed off in a pile of warm limbs and snoring spores, tangled in love and mischief and the kind of magic only found deep in enchanted woods — the kind of love story that never makes it into bedtime books but is whispered by naughty pixies behind toadstools for generations. By morning, the Fuzzle had redecorated. Their living room was now a heart-shaped mushroom lounge. Everything smelled like wine and unspoken secrets. Buck woke up with a raccoon curled around his foot and no idea how it got there. Pet, now wrapped in a throw blanket made of moss and bad decisions, sipped dewberry tea and smiled. “Well, my darling,” she said, “we grinned. We gnomed it. And next time, we check the basket before dinner.” Buck raised his mug, sloshing tea all over a fern. “To mushroom madness, Fuzzle-fueled fornication, and loving you ‘til my beard turns to bramble.” And the Fuzzle, still glowing, farted a love heart into the air. THE END (until they get a second Fuzzle…)     Bring the giggles home! If Buck and Pet made you laugh, blush, or crave a puff-puff tart of your own, why not capture their enchanted chaos for yourself? From the heart of the whimsical woods to your cozy corner, “Giggling in Gnomeland” is now available on a curated selection of charming gifts and home decor. Snuggle up with a Throw Pillow bursting with fairy-tale feels, take your mischief on the go with a Tote Bag, or pen your own saucy gnome tales in a Spiral Notebook. For those who want a magical visual punch, hang a Canvas Print or a sleek Metal Print and let the laughter of the forest light up your space. Whether you’re a woodland romantic or a mischievous soul, these treasures are for anyone who believes love should always come with a grin… and maybe a Fuzzle.

por Bill Tiepelman

Striped Socks & Secret Smiles

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

por Bill Tiepelman

Flirtation Under the Fungi

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

por Bill Tiepelman

The Ale and the Argument

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

por Bill Tiepelman

The Eggcellent Trio

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